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By sundown, Fudan's party had penetrated from the catacombs into the central cathedral. Their progress had been quick but not reckless, for they had paced themselves between each section, ambushing bands of patrolling Trolls while digging for treasure. In between the battles, the party recuperated just long enough to keep up the momentum. Through each engagement, Petra took notes on how her cousin's unique physiology excelled against numerous foes rich in vitality. With her Chakram, Void Bolts, Seekers and the occasional Dark Tentacle, the Troll's regenerative qualities had been rendered null even as they fed Gwen's vital stores. "This should impress the proctors and deter detractors," Petra observed. "Well done, cousin." "We're not out of the Troll lair yet." Gwen replied with undisguised smugness. "Say that after we defeat the Arch-Hag and the chieftain." Near the catacomb's centre, where the 'Hanan Pacha' awaited the party's plundering, the team's progress grounded to a halt. "Hold up! My Gwen-senses are tingling," Fudan's vice-captain relayed an insensible Gwenism. "If we punch through this door right now, I am going to be in a world of hurt." It was a curious prediction. Gwen's bargain Divination lacked the capacity for foresight. Instead, her Gwen-tingles had been interpreted by Mayuree into five tiers. ONE implied, "this might hurt real bad," while FIVE represented, "I may die if I stand still and do nothing." Usually, Gwen's portents were ineffectual, as they only activated seconds prior to becoming mangled in exotic and exciting ways. As for their present predicament, the sorceress had made the call a second before Lulu Stone Shaped through a dormant gate. "My apologies. I should have been using Scry and Arcane Eye." Petra produced a spell cube. "The fault is mine. Our risk level has been too low, and I've let my guard down." Petra's remorse was well-founded, for the party had so far garnered considerable success, recovering no less than three golden idols placed in inert wards where the tunnels met. Two of the relics had been defaced, with the 'head' of Amaru removed. The third, uncovered when Lulan Shaped into a gateway, was a crude carving involving Inti riding a Cloud Puma. What was disconcerting, however, was that someone had indeed looted the place long before Fudan and Cuzco had arrived. At a prior shrine they had uncovered, the golden murals had been scraped clean. When Petra performed forensics on the damage, she noted that magic-tools such as the Stone Cutter's Cunning Blade had been used to remove the Glyphs wholesale. "No, the responsibility lies with me." Tei shook his head. "The constant battle has dulled my senses too. As Captain, I should have been the one to intervene, not Gwen." "How about we see if there's anything in there first?" Rene felt for Tei, who had been dragged along by Gwen's infectious enthusiasm. "Arooo?" Astro looked at Buck. "Woaroough?" Buck wagged its tail. Ariel whined from its pocket dimension, comforting the alphas. Presently, the party had reached the end of a section marked by tight tunnels opening into a larger chamber. At the end of the room, hewn from bedrock, laid the door Fudan had almost tunnelled through. "Arcane Eye!" Petra crushed her nephrite cube, freeing Mayuree's favourite spell. "Give me a second to get adjusted. Double-vision is disorientating when you're not a Diviner." After a minute fiddling with the spell's mechanics, Petra sent the eye through the wall. "HOLY—" The Russian held her lips. "What is it?" "St Peter…" Petra murmured. "We found the temple's centre." Silently, the rest of the team waited while Petra's invisible eye made the rounds. When she finished, the spell fizzled. "Thank 'Inti' that the door is immobile," Petra said as she conjured a rough map using her crystals. "I wonder how the Trolls got in? Here's what we're up against…" The final cavern was enormous, easily the size of an international duelling field and just as high. The cavern was roughly oval, with a sharp decline in where Fudan's party now situated, rising to almost fifty meters near its zenith. What was strange was that there was natural light refracting from above. Furthermore, there was a tiered mechanism akin to a reverse pyramid, in the midst of which a triangular crystal-cap dispensed a moon-like radiance. In a way, it reminded Fudan of the Geofront under Shanghai. For Fudan's amateur historians, it made sense that the home of Mama Killa, the Moon-mother, should possess a "moon" lit sanctum. "I don't think its moonlight," Petra corrected the party's hypotheses. "The illumination was reddish." "What else could it be?" Gwen asked. "Something wrong with the light Glyphs? Fungi on the lens? Rusty scum water?" Petra shrugged as she added more details to her model. "Don't know, but the Trolls are transfixed by this thing. There's something to the colour, I think. Also, they're brewing something foul." "Dinner? Even Trolls gotta eat." "The centre of the chamber holds a six-tier ziggurat." Petra pointed to the cavern's centre, where she constructed a pyramidal hill. There are Troll structures all over the place. Atop here is where I saw the Chieftain and the Arch-Hag. There's a bubbling cauldron, though for now, they're much more interested in the pink light." Tei counted Petra's crude figurines. "Thirty Warriors..." He grimaced. "And a Hag, an Arch Hag, the Chieftain, and four Shamans. TWO Brutalisers- plus a hot pot full of Mao knows what." "I'll re-conjure the pack." Gwen immediately set about her work. "I feel Cali is about ready as well. Can we wait?" "We'll wait as long as you need," Tei stated affirmatively. "There's no rush. Is Inti out of contact?" Gwen checked her Message bangle. "I sense no signals other than our own." "How about we collapse the cavern?" Rene butted in. "Why fight the Trolls when we can pick up the loot later?" "I don't think Cuzco would like their religious site destroyed," Gwen intruded. "We'd be worse than the Trolls— hell, we'd be worse than the Spaniards. Also, what if the relics inside are delicate? I mean, a crystal skull isn't out of the question." "Why a Crystal Skull?" Gwen stopped herself from saying "Aliens" because not even Harrison Ford could save the fourth instalment from the critics. "How about Cloud Kill? We have plenty of pyrite bars." Petra flashed her ring. "The cloud shifts and may be moved, making it unpredictable," Tei shook his head. "The cavern is also too spacious for Rene to use Magma Wall, AND there's Shamans as well as Warriors, not to mention their leader. If just one of them knows how to manipulate the Cloud Kill with wind spells, we'll be caught up in it." "How about the alternative? My Void dogs are immune to the effects of my Void cloud," Gwen offered another possibility. "And to my knowledge, the Void mass remains stationary. I can make a 'ring' around us if we want to keep the melee away." Tei gave the strategy some thought. "How about Void Swarm? Or Conjure Elemental?" "If I can sustain my magic, it could work." Gwen crossed her arms and hugged her chest. "Do Hags know how to Banish?" "They shouldn't." Petra shook her head. "However, you'll be stationary while maintaining the swarm. If the Trolls start hammering you with projectiles, not even Tei can shield you. Moreover, what happens if we're cursed?" Their vice-captain pursed her lips. The "Curse" had been terrifying. If only she possessed Sobel's all-consuming egg, Gwen lamented her lack of dedicated Void Spells. Sobel's magic possessed both an ironclad defence and a self-sustaining offence. "Maelstrom?" Rene recalled their opening act. "The big one. Can't Gwen do two at once with Ariel?" "Doubt the cavern can take it," Tei refuted the possibility. "How about this? Rene and I control the Warriors, Lulu goes after the Shamans. Gwen, you and Petra attempt to silence the Hags. One of you can open with a disabling spell, say an Ariel-fed Flash Bang..." "Brutaliser first or Hag first?" "Hags. I'll stun them with Hold Monster," Petra suggested. "Once we liquidate the curses, our chances improve. Most of us can fight the brutes head-on, but if we're blinded, we're sitting ducks. Get Cali to Consume them while they're held— its Naga form has multiple heads, right?" "What abilities does the Arch-Hag possess?" "More Curses?" Rene shivered. "And other new tricks." Petra wasn't one to take their enemies lightly. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "Then I'll keep it quick," Gwen replied. Closing her eyes, she focused on her Conjuration Sigil. "Gogo, are you there?" Crickets. "Where's he gone?" she fumed. "He must be out of range. Maybe I can D-D out and get him real quick." "Never mind Golos. It's too cramped to fly in there," Petra advised. Turning her intelligent eyes, she then affected a strange smile. "How about your one-eyed Shoggoth? It's now or never. If you're keen, I can draw the Mandala." "There's no Divination signal for us to beg for permission," Gwen suppressed a smirk. "So, we wait for Cali?" Lulan wetted her lips as she gazed at the mass of crystalline figures milling about in Petra's diorama, already planning the best routes. "That or wait for Inti to pop in and start the fight," Rene snorted. "What the hell happened to those guys, anyway? We haven't seen or heard from them since early afternoon. Maybe they all died?" "Woa!" Gwen shirked back from their crow-mouthed Magma Mage. "Knock on wood!" Unfortunately, the temple was wholly wrought in stone. "INTI! Cover me, Tupaq needs help!" "CLOAK OF RADIANCE!" Inti set the Soul Eater aflame even as its wings grazed his forearm, threatening to turn the wound necrotic before the prince's Faith expelled the Negative Energy. "Inti above!" Cuzco's captain grunted, suppressing the livid agony tearing at his flesh. Divergent from the searing pain of steel or fire, a Necrotic strike froze the blood and jarred the liver, engendering a simultaneous fever of the nervous system. The Blood Harpy retreated. "Mark of the Sun!" Inti's hands were a blur, firing a second spell even as he fought down both nausea and fatigue. "KREEEAAAGH!" A brand appeared on the Soul Eater's torso. Before it could take a step further, the Glyph erupted, gouging a deep gash into the creature's abdomen, exposing its innards. _Splotch!_ Bundles of intestines and festering organs, freed from the constraint of the Harpy's profaned form, polluted the sacred stones of Mama Killa's abode. Inti was dismayed. The Troll Slave had perished in two blows. Comparatively, the well-fed Harpy made for a hardy combatant. Glaring at Kusi with hatred filled eyes, the unbound slave chose to retreat. "After it!" Musi twirled her daggers, then launched herself, transformed into a humanoid puma. "Sister, I'll recover its head for you! Your match hasn't ended! Fudan hasn't bested us yet!" "Musi! Careful!" Kusi called out, though she knew there was no holding back her sister. When her precious relics flamed amazement with consumptive smoke and cinder, Kusi's heart had suddenly seized. After that, her Undead dolls had turned. That was when Tupaq took a blow meant for herself. "Is Tupaq going to be alright?" The corner of Inti's eyes twitched. "Mallqu?" "I… I am alright," a bloodless Tupaq gurgled from the floor, coughing blood from his corrupted lungs. "G-give me time to rest… More healing!" "Remain silent and keep your Bear-form active." the unfazed Mallqu activated a flesh-stitching incantation. "Sir Tupaq, my recommendation is that you return to Cuzco." "No! I FIGHT… cough!" Tupaq's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "Tupaq, calm yourself. You're not going to die yet," Inti placed a hand on Tupaq's head so that he could circulate a gentle stream of Faith energy from his depleted relics. "By the sun, we shall persevere, brother." At his lord's assurance, the giant's breath finally returned to a gentle cadence. "I'll need some time to fix Sir Tupaq." Mallqu looked to where the Harpy had fled. "But first, I need Musi. She needs to cut away the necrotic tissue with her Flesh Borers so that I can regrow…" "Searing Ray!" Tupaq's wound cauterised at once, cleansed of the embedded necrotic energy. "Musi!" Inti's voice grew hoarse. Left alive, the Soul Eater would continue to be a menace, but his Faith Magic countered the servants of the Shaur. For now, it was the health of his best friend that concerned him. _CRASH!_ Instead, what answered him was a clattering din, followed by an explosion of animal noises. "Huacas' bloo—" Inti held back a curse. Losing his cool wouldn't help. Different to Fudan's Gate of the Moon, the Gate of the Sun lead to the upper sanctum of Mama Killa's abode. When they had passed the Chamber of Radiance earlier, Inti saw that the abandoned sanctum had been left unmolested. Though the place was ankle-deep in moss and fungi, Cuzco's prince knew that there should exist a network of crystals marked with ancient Glyphs below the vegetation. There, the moonlight collected by the temple's exterior could be refracted into the 'underworld', illuminating the inverse sanctum. "Kusi, you stay here with Tupaq and Mallqu." Inti materialised a mana injector. "I'll retrieve her." Pshht! His reserves reached just half. Unfazed, Inti injected another, then drunk a potion of Heroism to dispel his mental and physical fatigue. In the alchemical aftermath, the prince of Cuzco now brimmed with power, though his future injections now suffered from radically reduced efficacy. Kusi nodded, then produced her last totem, this one possessing the face of an old Shaman of her tribe. With it, she could conjure souls friendly to her bloodline to defend the wounded. "Lord Inti, I know you're upset, but please understand what has happened isn't my fault." Kusi gazed up at the glowing form of her future husband. "As Musi said, there was an intruder, more than likely— it was Fudan..." Before she could finish, Inti Blinked. When Inti opened his eyes once more, he wished he hadn't. In the Sanctum of the Sun, the cold air of the exterior had mingled with the odour of panicking, frothing, maddened Magical Beasts rioting against the walls in general mayhem. From what he could see, the fauna of the forest had broken through the central structure's crystalline pinnacle, a magically warded segment at the ziggurat's apex. "Inti! Help me!" In one corner, Musi was fighting for her life, buried under tooth and nail. In another corner, the Soul Eater scythed through the tide of screeching minions, turning itself crimson from head to toe. From what Inti could see, the Essence provided by the dying beasts had elevated its power to the next tier. "KREEEE!" The Blood Slave howled at Inti. The creature's face had also regenerated, once again assuming the striking visage it once possessed in life. However, despite its restored beauty, the avian's glare remained full of madness, its eyes twin pools of depthless darkness. Crimson swirls of stolen Essence suffused the Soul Eater as it deeply drank the draught of life. Above the combatants, a blood-red moon glowered, turning Amazonia's emerald sea incarnadine. The prince's heart seized. A Blood Moon? If so, then understandably, that was why the monsters were crazed. But a Blood Moon was something his father, not to mention Uncle Amaru, should have predicted if not outright prophesied. A dozen hypothesises raced through Inti's becalmed mind. The prince lacked the acumen of the Inca Sapa and the wisdom of the Tower Master, but even he knew that higher forces were now in play. If so— particularly so— the proctors would not intervene. A slow calm circulated through Inti's mana conduits. He had to survive. If he could drag his team back to Cuzco, things could be salvaged. The weight of his kingdom, the crushing responsibility of Tawantinsuyu, now threatened to overthrow Inti, son of the Sun. His father was right, he should have left Tica with a child before he ventured into Amazonia. Bathed in the Blood Moon, Inti wondered if the IIUC even mattered. Dead heroes led no nations just as barren thrones engendered no dynasties. "Inti!" Musi's cries grew desperate. Inti began to chant; there was no rush. The agony would teach Musi the importance of following orders. "RADIANT BLESSING!" Inti invoked his unique magic. Instantly, the chamber flooded with his latent energies, searing the rampaging tide of flailing fauna, charring the Soul Eater's feathers and Musi's fur. Around and above them, the moss, the vegetation and the smothering mould burned away at once, utterly incinerated by the spell's orange light. "ARRRRGH!" Musi howled. "KREEAAA!" The Harpy withered. _CRUNNG!_ _CLANG! CLANG!_ _PING! P-PING! PI-P-PING!_ The floor began to turn. To Inti's complete surprise, the Sanctum of the Sun came to life as its murals were bathed in a blood-pink effulgence. Ancient Glyphs long starved of moonlight, thirsty for the magical power of radiance, fired up one by one, fuelled by ancient mandalas no longer dormant. Inti's eyes widened when the floor began to shake. Slotted stone long at rest suddenly split and cracked, bringing the temple's ancient designs to life. "By Viracocha!" The prince was in awe as long-forgotten puzzle-pieces clicked into place; both physically and in the recess of his mind. "This... this is the Rite of Dusk and Dawn!" The proctors stared slack-jawed at the glowing projection. "So that's how the damned things work…" Auberon felt suddenly enlightened. On one screen, from a bird's eye view, the examiners observed the protruding temple's slow and ponderous movements as the pyramidal cap lowered itself. "What of our Void sorceress?" Their eyes shifted to Fudan's vid-cast. The students from Shanghai were being tossed about like peanuts in a can, bouncing against the jittering walls of their tunnel. Dogs and Mages flew and flung as "Amaru turned in his sleep". Abruptly and without warning, the stone door which they had failed to breach activated, exposing the team to an equally shocked brigade of Trolls. Before either party could act, from the cavern's zenith, a platform descended. The ponderous mass moved with an agonising shudder before it dislodged entirely, crashing into the Trolls below. Before the tribe could react, a flood of Magical Beasts in the form of hooting simians, screeching harpies, venomous lizards, mucus coated frogs, anacondas and quill-studded hogs fell into the cavern. Some went splat, falling instantly to their deaths, others more resistant to rapid descents survived to fight like drunks on Takanakuy. With a shudder, the ziggurat the Trolls had been using as their base likewise elevated, erecting itself so rapidly that the toppled cauldron sent a great splash of sacrificial gumbo cascading down the sides. On the lower slopes, rolling boulders the size of cars mowed through demi-humans and animals without mercy. Cuzco's Melee Mage, Musi, fell with the Beast Tide, though expectantly, she landed on all fours, just like a cat. "THERE!" a proctor denounced the vision now coming into view. The Soul Slave, now fully regenerated, took to flight, harvesting Essence from the falling and the dying. "There's Inti!" another proctor marvelled. "Wow." A line of radiance obliterated a hundred lesser creatures, carving a path of molten stone through the monsters, clearing a space around Musi. Auberon gently set down his tea. If Inti could open these temples up, then Inti needed to live for all their sakes. "An unexpected escalation," the Baron of Shenfield drily observed. Ignoring his earlier treaty for inaction, he gave the order. "Call Cuzco and ask if they forfeit. Tell the Inca Sapa we have a situation, and that he'll need to commit his best Mage Flights if he wants his temples back." Hardin Smith swallowed a mouthful of cocoa leaves when the temple began to shift. Safely hidden against the underside of a great tree, he had been calmly observing the decline of Inti's party when the prince accidentally unravelled a persistent mystery of the relic-temples. Hardin was impressed by the prince's luck. So much lore had been squandered by the Spanish Inquisition. Losses like the reading of Quipu, the code language of the Empire's administrators, had left the temples' puzzles indecipherable. At least until now. That Mama Killa's sanctum possessed magical mechanisms was a fact Hardin knew - for how else could the vaults be sealed or opened? But what Hardin had not anticipated was the serendipitous convergence of the Blood Moon, Inti's bloodline element and the Rite of Dusk and Dawn. If indeed Inti was key to the lost temples, then the prince was worth his weight in mithril. If Inti's blood, his element, his faith or whatever mix of physiologies Inti possessed were capable of opening the old vaults, then Dark Water would have infinite uses for the young man, Amaru be damned. BUT— Hardin sighed wistfully. That was wishful thinking. It wasn't as though any one Mage currently present could pull the prince from danger. By what means could anyone concurrently battle the Trolls, the Beasts and the Undead now thrown into this churning soup of carnage? "Here lies Inti, Prince of Cuzco," Hardin lamented the loss. "Sweet dreams, scion of the Sun."

Gwen was mid-meditation when the tunnel began to shake like the interior of a maraca. "Rene!" Tei instantly erected his Dust Tendrils "Lulan!" "No, wait!" Petra hindered the Magma Mage's Stone Shape. Rene's pause was enough to prove her earlier theory, for though the stones shifted, the tunnel did not collapse. Still holding her breath, Gwen marvelled at her cousin. "Bloody good call, Pats." "Earthquake?" Tei furrowed his brows. "Amaru must be 'turning' on the regular if their temples are built to withstand it." "How long do you think this—" The ground jolted. _KE-KE-KE-KAKAKA—!_ The door to the cathedral-cavern slid opened, drowning out all conversation, making a din akin to jousting angle-grinders. A multitude of gaping mouths, human and demi-human, huffed at one another from across the open space. "Duleakum ushhuth guntrudeum!" a booming voice erupted where the Chieftain held court. A cauldron of Almudj knew what bubbled atop the raised dais, filling the cavern with a putrid stink. "Formation C!" Tei bellowed from behind. But before either side could move, the cavern shifted yet again. The ceiling structure, which had been glowing intensely with crimson moonlight, began to lower, dropping as an inverted pyramid. _Ka-Kak-Kakaka—KAK!_ A cacophonic crunch of overstressed stone heralded the catastrophic failure of the capstone portion, crashing directly atop the Troll Chieftain and the Arch-Hag's brew. With a great _"Clang!"_ the cauldron tumbled from the Incan pulpit, forming a foul tide. Hopping mad, the Arch-Hag and her sister dodged the falling debris, rolling and tumbling down the platform's incline. Besides the Trollic witches, it was every Troll for itself. The Chieftain, a tremendously armoured brute with a hawk's nose and forelimbs long enough to drag the floor, fled for cover. His stunned minions were then caught between debris and a hard place, cold-pressed into Troll mince. "What the hell is going on?!" Gwen commanded her dogs to form a perimeter just outside the gate. "Tei—" "SKRII! KEKEKEE—!" "Hiss—SA!" "KAAAK! KYAA" "JIIII! Ook! Ook!" A menagerie of Magical Beasts poured through the ceiling into the sanctum's interior, hanging, tumbling, flying and falling over the sides of the half-broken inverse-pyramid. Those lacking flight or too enraged to realise their predicament fell onto the Troll structures below. The lucky ones landed on the incline, slowing their fall. The unlucky few impaled themselves or were suddenly face-to-face with angry Trolls. "Look there—!" Gwen caught sight of Cuzco's Undead Harpy descending with the waterfall of roving, snarling, clawing shapes. "AEEEEeeee—" She then saw Musi, covered from chin to shin in wounds, dropping with the Beast Tide. Above the twin spectacles, she caught sight of a glowing Inti, holding back the waterfall. "I-It's a Beast Tide!" Rene burst out. "It has to be! There's no other explanation for the red moonlight and this many creatures converging on us!" "Rene, calm yourself." Petra's eyes narrowed. "If this is a Tide, why weren't we told? There's no way the Tower knew nothing." "Maybe its a part of the test?" Tei attempted a hypothesis. "Or politics." Petra had seen how the game was played. "Either way, it's going to take until morning to kill all of this." Lulan wetted her lips. "These are all CCs, right?" "We should retreat." "No, we fight." "It may not be our fight." Petra frowned. "Tei, what do you think?" "Hold up," Gwen checked her teammate's enthusiasm for the time being. Now was not the time for in-fighting. Now was time to squeeze out a win. Tapping into her Conjuration Sigil, she called for her Planar Ally. "GOLOS! What the hell is going on out there?!" "..." Crickets. "Idiot!" Gwen ground her teeth. Once they got back, she would have to rip her Wyvern a new one. "Can't we go back through the tunnel?" Rene's voice grew uncertain, more so when the stream of incoming creatures included among their number everything from poisonous vermin to giant snakes. There was even a Displacer Jaguar. "Mass Aid!" Petra buffed the party. If they didn't make it through their present crisis, there would be no use for the cubes anyway. "Resist Elements!" "No. We'll be trapped both ways," Tei refuted Rene's caution. "We need to push our way out." Lulan materialised her blades, then measured the distance with her eyes. "I can take the Hags if I can get some height." "!" Gwen sensed a familiar tingle of danger. "Tei! INCOMING!" "TOMB SHIELD!" Buck dived in front of Gwen just in time, catching a spear in the chest. The missile travelled clean through the Void hound's body, splintering as it struck Tei's barrier a split-second later. The sneak attack had come from the anarchic melee. With Fudan's limited field of view, it was impossible to make out what was going on. Even so, at least one troop of Trolls had chosen Fudan for its enemies. The Blood Harpy, conversely and to their surprise, wailed upon the lycanthropic Musi. Up above, Inti spluttering like a flickering bulb, sending a blast below to clear the lesser beasts crowding Musi. "!" Gwen's Divination Sigil had been pinging non-stop, but this one struck a four on the Mayuree meter. "Tei, with me! Everyone else, SCATTER!" Gwen made the call. "Dimension Door!" A split-second later, necrotic energies engulfed the space where the team had stood, sizzling the granite with foetid black bile. "The Hags are going to be trouble," Gwen remarked after teleporting herself and their captain to higher ground. When she reappeared, a burst of tenebrous ink from her offensive Dimension Door cleared their landing area of all hostiles. As for survivors, they fell instantly to her faithful hounds. "Tei, can you set up a safe zone?" "It won't be safe until the casters are silenced." Tei surveyed the battlefield. "We need the Hags removed. Shall we ask Inti to join us?" Gwen nodded, affirming her captain's command. "Ariel! Clear a space!" She materialised then transformed her Kirin. With a "EE EE!" a resplendent Ariel unleashed its latent Dragon-fear, abjuring all lesser creatures within a radius of a dozen meters. Those caught within the sorceress and Ariel's consolidated aura either fled, froze, or fainted. "Gwen!" Petra appeared a second later, utilising one of Gwen's Dimension Doors. With a touch, she buffed both Tei and Gwen with Mage Armour harvested from Anita. "Where's the other two?" "There!" Gwen's eyes were sharper than most. "I see them!" Lulan's armour was already in tatters after deflecting half-a-dozen javelins. However, the Troll's interceptions proved no deterrent to the iron-clad battle-maiden as she Misty Stepped into the air to launch her blades against the hated Hags. _THUNK!_ _THUNK!_ _THUNK_ _P-PANG!_ Across the cavern, a Brutaliser ate her Panzerschrecks, taking two in the chest and one in an outstretched hand, deflecting the final two with its shield, making a mess of beasts caught in the projectiles' path. Rene meanwhile, had transformed herself into a living battering ram, charging forward like a horizontal meteor, smashing through beasts and Trolls alike, hissing jets of sulphur as she carved out a trail of magma and lava. "Musi! Retreat!" Inti's voice boomed across the cavern's interior. A flash of radiance briefly turned the chamber bright as noonday. Inti rained down a volley of radiance, pummelling the Harpy to keep her from Musi. "Inti! Where's the rest of your team?" Gwen's Message questioned why Cuzco was sans its other members. "Also, why's the damn Harpy attacking your teammate?" "Someone interfered with Kusi's magic," Inti's voice came across colder than Elemental Ice. "As for the others… They've returned to Cuzco." "Strewth." Gwen's shock was genuine. "Sorry mate, I hope they're safe." "I hope they're safe as well," Inti Messaged back, not at all the voice of a man surrounded by raging fauna. "What are your plans?" "Help us with the Hags. We'll get out together." "Agreed," Inti replied. "In return, please help Musi. She cannot defeat the Blood Slave." "Yeah, no kidding." Gwen watched her opponent fighting in her Puma form, bounding from wall to wall to dodge the Blood Harpy's wing scythes. Whenever Musi passed the Harpy's side, a flurry of feathers filled the air, followed by an arc of dark blood. The Harpy, however, paid its injury no mind. Swinging its wings, it appeared fully committed to slicing Musi in half so that it could feast on the Transmuter's entrails. Thus far, a dozen exchanges had transpired, matting her fur with corrupted blood. Were it not for her transformation, Gwen would've guessed that the girl's current complexion was paler than printing paper. "Will do. Tell her not to resist my Dimension Door." To make good on his promise, Inti marked the two Hags with beams of light. When the Hags responded, one with a curse and the other with the black blood of ruin, Inti erected a unique variant of Shield of Faith, negating both effects. "Gwen," Tei's voice came from behind, "Wards are done. Waiting on you." "I need to bring their cat back before she runs out of lives. Pats?" "No problem. I got restorations and heals by the dozen." "Alright!" Gwen turned to her dogs. "Everyone, on me!" "AROOOOO!" "GUUUARRGH!" Wolf howls filled the cavern, momentarily drowning out the mayhem. From the ceiling, new monsters cascaded inward ceaselessly, threatening to drown the chamber if the flow couldn't be checked. Even now, the Trolls fought the Mages; the simians fought the avians; the avians strafed the beasts; while lesser fauna fought each other and everything else, including the undead Harpy in their midst. Meanwhile, the Harpy hunted Musi, harvesting Essence and vitality from creatures dying by the score. Behind the crumbled ziggurat, the Hags fought Inti, and finally, Inti fought the Hags, simultaneously keeping the Soul Slave pinned and the Tide at bay. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Gwen felt her fingers tingle. In a moment, sans Cuzco, she would fight them all. A year ago, such a prospect would have seemed absurd, but now, not only did she feel confident, she knew exactly how she could do it. Even in the worst-case scenario, she had contingencies in place to ensure she emerged as the king of the hill. "Shaa!" Caliban stirred in her Pocket Dimension, prodding its owner, demanding to be born. Gwen took a deep breath, fighting both vertigo and nausea. If tonight she succeeded, Fudan was off to round two. If she failed, then she would be finding out exactly how much she owed Gunther. "Astro! Buck! Ariel!" she commanded her minions, concurrently imparting a silent command to Caliban. "Chow time!" "Track the three from Cuzco," Auberon commanded. "And find the Wyvern." Auberon had lived through two Beast Tides. His first baptism, like many Magisters his age, was the awakening of the Black Dragon. He had been a young man then, fresh out of Eton and a year into his studies at Oxford. As an inheriting Lord, he had joined the front even before the Queen dipped her quill and called for conscription. In those days, Mages and NoMs fought without the support of Towers and Shielding Stations, leaving few veterans to tell the tale. The second instance had been in Tripoli. Auberon had served a stint as the city's Paladin, defending the colony against the Mermen of the Mediterranean Sea. The defence he mounted had been successful, and for his efforts, Auberon received a medal and an Order commendation from her Majesty. Half an hour into the "Beast Tide", Auberon relaxed. From the way the beasts were reacting, he recognised that it wasn't a true Tide. If Magical Beasts attacked one another in a Beast Tide, they wouldn't be half as troublesome. Considering the circumstances then, the chief proctor congratulated himself on making the right call even with incomplete information. Just now, his suspicion of politicians playing silly buggers was further affirmed by Lucy, whose region-wide Divination pointed to the presence of man-portable Resonators. What mattered then, was the recovery of Inti, Cuzco's key to future archaeological endeavours— that and the completion of the IIUC match. "Sir," a proctor interrupted. "I believe subject Golos is using obfuscation magic. I am reading enormous Illusion spikes on the spectrometer." "Impossible," Auberon snorted. "The brute can't even use Lightning Evocations." "I believe subject Golos may be using expendable items, Sir." Auberon knitted his brows. Why did Gwen Song make everything so complicated? "What's the rule for conjured Allies using unregistered items?" The proctors looked at one another, searching for answers. "Do Planar Allies come equipped?" another raised a curious point. The others shrugged. "Find out what Golos used and log it for CC deductions." Auberon's brows twitched. "What's it doing now?" "Er...he has wandered out of range just now," the first proctor apologised. "Sorry, sir." The Baron of Shenfield groaned. "Sir— Cuzco reports they have received the contestant Kusi, Tupaq and Mallqu. The Sapa has also ordered a mobilisation of his eastern garrison. The Master of the Tower has committed two rapid-response flights. They should be here within half-an-hour. The king's forces will take longer." "Half-an-hour?!" Auberon snorted. "Bleeding colonials… alright. That's fine. Thank them for their prompt response." The proctors' minds returned to the grand melee. Fudan's grave keeper had by now set up a sizeable force barrier, reinforcing his wards with Fudas and additional layers of Abjuration. Rene, who had made a one-woman charge into the Beast Tide now aided the Abjurer by creating a two-metre moat of flowing lava. As for Petra, the Russian Enchantress, she delighted the proctors by simultaneously maintaining a Wall of Water, Crystal and Lightning, forming a concentric ring of death around the Pillars. "Turtling up during a Beast Tide?" one proctor observed. "Are they fools? How long do they think their mana will last? Retaining one's mobility is the first lesson taught in tactics." "A curious tactic indeed. Miss Pritchard, are our contestants aware that Inti's father has summoned his Mage Flights?" "No, sir." "And yet they're preparing a final defence?" Auberon cocked his chin. "Where's our Void Sorceress?" "She's fighting the Soul Slave, sir." A proctor manipulated the central vid-caster. "My word, that's Kilroy's Dimension Door, isn't it?" A British Magister adjusted his spectrometric lens. "AND her creatures trigger the secondary effect? What's the girl's VMI?" "Just over three hundred." One of the proctors cited from memory. "That's more than mine," a Magus-proctor sulked. "Lord Shultz did vouch for the girl," Auberon reminded them before exploding with a "Golly— Well done!" On the screen, Gwen Song materialised with her dogs, instantly paralysing the Soul Slave with ten consecutive blasts from her Dimension Door. The joint lightning strike wasn't fatal, but it was enough to clear the space between Musi and the Harpy. "Lightning Bolt!" Impressively, between the sorceress and the Kirin above, three bolts crisscrossed with the Blood Harpy as the locus. Where the spells conjoined, the scarlet-winged cadaver transformed into a being of pure plasma. "KREEE!" the Soul Eater keened, pulling at the Mages' Astral Souls, hoping to stun the sorceresses. Its targets, however, were long gone. What was left was only a pack of Void Hounds, hungrily eyeing the half-cooked hen in their midst. Beings without souls and possessed only of insatiable appetites, "Buck" and his pack boxed in the wary Soul Eater, leering at its Essence-rich flesh. "KREEEEAAA!" With a grand sweep of its wings, the Soul Eater drove the deerhounds back, taking to the air. _TISSS!_ A timely divine punishment from Inti sent the Harpy reeling back to earth. Snarling with sadistic delight, the Void dogs closed in, tearing at the Harpy's throat, its limbs, its arms and wings. "KREEEEAAA!" the creature keened. Though each bite could only damage a portion of the Blood Slave's reinforced flesh, what was taken no longer regenerated. In seconds, the seemingly unstoppable Soul Eater became buried under a roving mass of undulating dogs. "Horrible…" A female proctor wrung her hands. "My God! She's going for the Hags!" After depositing the half-drained Musi within the safe zone set up by her team, Fudan's sorceress reappeared amidst the Troll camp, right behind the Arch-Hag and her minions. Auberon found it impressive that the teleport had been timed with Inti's Radiant Blast. With the lightning sorceress' arrival, the area instantly electrified, stunning all but the gigantic Brutalisers. A second invocation issued from the girl's petal-lips, enveloping her foes with twin sets of Chain Lightning. Auberon's mood rose and fell. The assault should have been enough, but the Hags were cunning beings who had survived for centuries in a region where might makes right. Even as the livid plasma seared their infected skin, the curse of Kernunno, the dark God of the Deep Woods, left the Hags' pestilent tongues to bewitch Fudan's sorceress. Against all their expectations, the Hags had been neither stunned nor beaten. They had instead been waiting for an opportunity. The Brutalisers moved in. _THUNK!_ _THUNK! CLANG!_ _THUNK! CLANG!_ Missiles from across the room sank into the Troll bodyguards' bodies. _TSSS!_ _TSSSTH!_ Beams of sunlight struck the apathetic hulks, failing to overcome their resistance. "Arrrgh!" Fudan's sorceress fell onto one knee, guarded by an agitated Kirin. Her complexion grew instantly pale, indicating that at least one curse had caught the sorceress unaware. In one exchange, from an avatar of lightning and destruction, Gwen Song had transformed into a mewling, defenceless young woman. "Poor lass." A proctor winced when the sorceress' eyes rolled back. "Too hasty, that's inexperience for you—" A semi-dome Void Shield sprang into place. The girl wasn't out of commission yet. "What? How is she—" "SHUT UP!" Auberon snapped. "Keep the instruments attuned! What's she saying?" The Eye of Providence attempted and failed to penetrate the Void barrier, though it was capable of picking up the subtle vibrations on its surface. "Turn up the volume." Auberon furrowed his brows. "…vee… ve…" "What is that?" A Proctor found the glyph to clarify sonic projections. "I think it's a ritual of sorts." The chant grew clearer. "Evee…Evee Evee Evee EVEE…" The proctors fell silent, not only because of the nonsensical mantra but also because of the planar tear that had just appeared atop Gwen Song's Void Shield. Soundlessly, the slit opened; an all-consuming eye staring into the Material Realm. "SHAA! SHAA!" came a horrid screech that rocked the barracks, splitting their ears, announcing the arrival of imminent oblivion. Inti wished Tica was here with him. Whenever he felt down or that the burden of the kingdom was too much, her soft voice and wise advice comforted him. Now that she was away, he began to realise just how much he missed and needed his better half. "RADIANT STRIKE!" Inti gestured with his right while his left hand dextrously completed the necessary incantations. When the Rite of Dusk and Dawn activated, the prince of Cuzco had received the collated Faith the temple had gathered within its mystical circuits. His only regret was that after so long, the Rite's energies were long exhausted. The disaster thus far had been one serendipitous event after another. If Cuzco hadn't been ambushed; if Kusi hadn't lost control of her Undead; if it weren't the full moon; then he would have never activated the Temple of Mama Killa. Just as well, when his companions had been overwhelmed, what Inti felt wasn't regret, but relief. Relief that he was alone. Relief that he was no longer responsible for their safety. Relief that his decisions were finally his own. "Solar Blast!" Inti carefully portioned his mana, using just enough to keep the Hags stunned and on the defensive. When Gwen made good on her word to rescue Musi, Inti extended his artillery support, hammering down the Undead slave so that her aberrant dogs succeeded in their monstrous labour. Soon, the Soul Eater perished. Inti felt a moment of exhilaration. Was it strange that he preferred working with Fudan? There was great satisfaction when objective, action, and skill fitted like a well-cut puzzle. From his vantage, Gwen's Dimension Doors were easy to follow, for her lightning novas made her whereabouts self-evident. When furthermore the sorceress unleashed a torrent of lightning to encircle the Hags, Inti matched her spell for spell. "ARRRGH!" the girl unexpectedly reeled, falling to the floor. A curse! Inti swore. Lacking the ability to read magic, he could only predict the Hags' actions based on their body language. In that regard, the creatures' low cunning had deceived them all. He must save her! An urgent desire flashed through Inti's mind, though before he could move, a cynical voice interceded. Guiltily, Inti wondered if the Void Sorceress's loss meant that his team could still win in the competition. After all, between Kusi and himself, they had subjugated almost a thousand Harpies. Below, a Void Shield sprang up where the girl had stood. She didn't need his help. Paying no heed to Inti's dilemma, a slit opened mid-air, filling the cavern with an aura of vertigo. Soundlessly, the Void vomited forth a fiend more terrible than Amaru itself. Inti shuddered, realising that he would never want to be the girl's enemy, not now, not ever, not so long as her sweet body drew breath. The proctors fell into a dumb silence. A faceless head emerged, bullet-shaped and armoured in transparent obsidian, beneath which a writhing mass of tentacles was just visible. Soon, a second phallic appendage emerged. Then a third. And a fourth. A fifth. The violence in the cavern slowed as all eyes fell upon the emerging beast. Even partially emerged, the fiend's aura was enough to drain the choler from the frenzied combatants. "SHAA!" The final head emerged, totalling six as it made a sound like the tearing silk. A bulbous, elongated body followed; legless so that the faceless Naga resembled a fat slug, its semi-transparent torso filled with alien, irrelevant organs. It's rear followed after what seemed an eternity, stretching the creature twenty meters from tip to tail. "SHAA! SHAA!" The leading head split open, revealing a dozen lamprey-lipped tentacles, tasting the air for prey. "SHAA! SHAA! SHAA! SHAA!" The others quickly followed, their faces splitting from bullet-head to neck-shaft so that when it once again began to slither, the Void Naga resembled a roving, ravenous mass of malicious mouths. The first Troll to make a move was a Brutaliser. Hoisting its shield and club, it charged the mass of tentacles, diving into a sea of lamprey-lips. _SQUELCH_! The massive Troll succeeded in penetrating the Naga-slug's armour, crushing the smooth obsidian as it barrelled into Caliban's side. Two hundred kilometres from the site of the fiend's manifestation, Auberon felt a chill. "Gulelush! Gulelush gloguth! Glogother!" the seemingly indestructible Troll howled, its body language suddenly terrified. Where the Troll had made a man-sized wound in Caliban's flank, two dozen thigh-thick intestines came to life. With a sick sibilance of squirming and slithering, the tentacles enveloped the howling brute, resembling a mass of pallid worms. Back in the proctor's barracks, the reticence was punctuated only by the whining emitted by Divi-engines. The Brutaliser's skin was dense, its armour formed of hardened hide, but even so, the Troll possessed many orifices that did not enjoy the protection of its ritually enhanced body. Behind the first, the second Brutaliser dropped its shield. From its expression, the proctors witnessed that a hysterical madness had snapped its sanity. "Ulubag!" the giant turned from the writhing mass of hunger, then fled toward some distant corner, crushing fellow Trolls and Wildland fauna alike. _TSSS_! The prince of Cuzco took the opportunity to strike the Hags again, stunning them even as Caliban approached. By now, Gwen's dogs appeared to have recovered as well. The Lightning hounds guarded their mistress while the Void hounds, having finished the Soul Eater, closed in from all sides. Auberon checked the secondary projection centred on Fudan's Ace. Despite the spectacle, her biometrics indicated a semi-conscious delirium. He frowned. If the girl was senseless, how was she controlling her Familiars? Meanwhile, the bare-breasted Hags shrugged off the spells wearing away at their blood-caked hides, even now smoking with Inti's holy fire and Gwen's punishing lightning. The Arch-Hag muttered, then raised both hands in the air. A visible source of vitality suffused the Hag's body as she drained the life from her fleeing bodyguard. Her wounds instantly healed, as did that of her companion. Like an epidemic, the vital energy spread from Troll to Troll, dispensing her blessing to her followers, restoring and reinvigorating her kin. Not far, the Troll Chieftain tore away a massive green-iron blade embedded in its navel. Now invigorated, it caught its Sword Mage assailant by surprise, walloping her across the torso. Though the Chieftain broke its club in the process, the riposte was enough to send Lulan across the room to crater the granite. "ULOAR!" The Chieftain's bulk doubled. The bark armour it wore seemed to grow as well, enveloping the Troll leader's body. "Glogzag dol-in, dol-ilrag ushhesuth guntruders! Guoum Kernunno!" "ULOAR!" The surviving Warriors, their bodies wet with gore, raised their weapons. "Kernunno! Kernunno! Kernunno!" The Warband had been riled up. "Sir…" a young Magus chose this moment to carefully raise an arm, unsure if this was the best time to speak. "What is it?" Auberon spoke without moving his eyes. "Lord Lucas…" the Magus gulped. "Her Wyvern's back, but it's not alone."

The curse was proving to be most potent. Caught in its power, she was sans sight, sans taste, sans smell and sans touch. She couldn't even orientate herself, tell which way was up. "Evee Evee Evee EVEE!" But— she could hear herself think, and that was the important thing. Compared to her previous affliction, the Arch-Hag's spell was perfect, for it made Gwen face a prospect she loathed more than any other, her overactive imagination. "Just know that curses, illusions and Enchantments aren't all-powerful," she recalled Petra's advice. "You can skirt around them through discipline and distraction. The first thing they teach in mental domination is how to resist total incapacitation." Discipline wasn't her forte, but presently, she had distractions plenty. _Evee..._ she calmed herself. _El-Vee-Ya._ With a silent word, she activated a Void variant of Gunther's Shield. Then, calmly absorbing the dogged vitality of the Soul Eater, she let loose Caliban. Her feverish mind cooled. Her mana conduits grew hot and cold. Despite the induced sensory oblivion of the curse, her empathic links activated. "Evee..." After that, she connected Link Sight via Ariel. A wide-angle vista of her present surroundings came into focus. She couldn't see, but she was no longer senseless. Ariel provided sight through its sky-blue orbs, while Caliban's mass of feelers gave her more tactile sense than was proper for a mortal woman. A few seconds later, the hallucination ramped up its intensity. As anticipated, Elvia's angelic face appeared, begging for release from torturous agony. Taking Petra's advice, she instead channelled her misery into happy thoughts. _Evee awaits in London!_ Gwen told herself. _All I have to do is WIN._ Her sanity thus preserved, she set to work. First, the guards had to go. The elemental resistance of the Hags was outrageous, while their guards deterred physical attacks. "Cali! Get rid of the Brutalisers!" As if on command, one of her targets chose suicide by Caliban. "Consume!" The Brutalisers screamed for sweet death. Caliban burped. The other brute, smarter than the average Troll, turned and fled. Ariel took to the air, broadening her view of the battle. Seeing herself shielded in a vitality-fed Void egg, Gwen wondered whether she resembled a budget-Sobel. From the sky, she could also see the Hags empowering the horde of Trolls, riling up the crowd to rail against Caliban. _THUNK!_ _WHAM!_ _PLAT!_ Thrown weapons crunched against Caliban's body, making holes the size of sewer covers. A few may have struck her egg, for she felt her vitality fluctuate. Anticipating the payoff from the Brutaliser, however, Gwen welcomed the abuse, hoping that she could dispense enough to keep herself on her feet. "SHAA!" Caliban slithered toward the topless Hags. The Hag hollered, quickly retreating. The rest of the Trolls converged on her lumbering fiend. _Thwack!_ _THUNK!_ Her semi-dome rippled like an obsidian pudding, consuming both metal and wood, dropping her vitality just a smidgen. "Caliban!" "SHAAA!" _A buffet!_ Her fiend seemed to be saying. Still, she should first stun the Hags. "Ariel! Barbanginy!" Sparks flew, her Kirin lit up the room. An incandescent Lighting Sphere blossomed where the two Hags retreated toward the Chieftain, catching all three within the plasma ball's expanding circumference. With Ariel-VR as her point of view, Gwen marvelled at the sight of her lightning-nova rolling over the Beast Tide in a text-book display of wide-area bombardment. "ASTRO! BUCK!" Her packs spread out, keeping the Trolls penned as Caliban shot forward like a fat pilum, propelled by its Golos-sized body. Rearing, her Naga's necks distended, suddenly doubling or tripling in length so that its tentacle shower descended from above. _TSSSTH!_ A beam of radiance made the Hag stumble. The Troll witch screamed just once before it was consumed, despairing as her black blood harmlessly slid from Caliban's carapace. The second faired a little longer, for the Troll Chieftain had reached its side. _PANG!_ _PANG!_ _PUNG!_ _TSSS!_ Three heart-seekers from Lulan, now freed from her melee against the trolls, knocked the Chieftain aside, the first catching the giant in the thigh, then the second in its shield and the third against the side of its armoured head. As a follow-up, a Radiant Glyph turned the Chieftain's bark-helmet red-hot, filling the air with the stink of sizzling flesh. Caught off-balance, the Chieftain stumbled just enough so that Caliban's trajectory remained true. Its lamprey-tongues descended from above, swallowing the Arch-Hag in a shower of pink-tentacles, drowning the maleficient caster in a torrent of corrosive, void-tinged goo. Caliban's remaining heads turned to face the Chieftain. The Troll leader visibly gulped. Gwen wondered if Trolls could sweat, for the Chieftain was drenched enough to slip from its armour and make a run for it. "SHAA! SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban's happy heads hissed in tandem as two gravid bulbs, kicking amidst futile bouts of necrotic energy, travelled down its serpentine necks toward its torso. Even armoured, Gwen could see that the Chieftain fought an intense inner-battle. _Ah, the problem with sapience,_ Gwen empathised with the beast. Cognisance brought all kinds of troubles, like hopeless despair. If the Chieftain had been a mindless beast; if it could rage against Caliban until its blood ran dry, then she may very well suffer a pyrrhic victory. But now, the Troll's leader feared its indomitable foe, not only impacting the morale of its clanmates but dooming them to become Void fodder. Caliban swallowed its prey. Evee's crying face faded. Gwen's soul returned to her body. Within the recess of her Void Shield, there was no exterior source of light. What little illumination she possessed came from the Ioun Stones and the concentric rings of electricity shed by her cobalt irises. "Shaa!" Caliban's belly rumbled. "EE!" "Grruuugn!" "Woof, Woof!" Her menagerie welcomed the return of their mistress. A Wyvern was missing, but that was an absence she would address in time. Gingerly, aided by her barrier, Gwen rose from the cold granite floor. "Cali, everyone, good work," she commended her minions. "Let's finish up." She had at best a few minutes before the combined assault from a Brutaliser and two Essence-infused Hags saturated her physical and Astral Body. One was a substitute for Nephres, three would surely blow her top. "Tei. Keep everyone behind the barrier. When my Swarm starts, you're going to be swarmed." "Will do," Tei's voice returned from her Message bangle. "Welcome back, Vice-Captain." "Thanks, Cap. Pats, I may need a modesty barrier if my shield fails." "Got it covered," Petra replied. "Lulu, are you alright?" Gwen had seen Lulan's incapacitation through her Ariel Vision. "Nothing's broken." Lulan's raspy voice was like sandpaper. "Leave the Chieftain to me. I want its head." "Alright, take care," Gwen relayed Lulu's desire to Caliban. "Inti." She then switched channels. "I am going to use Void Swarm to finish things, how's it looking on your end?" "The Hags are dealt with?" Inti's tone quickly regained its usual calm. "Thank the sun for that. The Beast Tide is stemming, as far as I can see. I'll be able to manage my end from here." "Good work and great news." Gwen thanked her lucky stars. "Looks like we're almost home free." "Indeed." The prince wasn't very good at hiding his emotions. "Thank you for staying with us. Miss Song, had you not been here, we would have been wiped out and disgraced, in our own country, no less." "No worries, bud," Gwen chuckled. "It was the right thing to do." "Gwen," Inti's reply was rich with gratitude. "You are a better person than I." "Aww, chin up." Gwen hung the call, then prepared herself. As of now, she could sense the latent vitality in Caliban's engorged body. In the next minute, when the South China sea flooded her Tonglv, she wouldn't want to be without a proverbial release valve. "Okay, I am starting." Her hands made the necessary somatic gestures taught to her by Henry and improved by Petra's Master. Her lips dextrously formulated the incantations, biting each arcane syllable with precision. Opening her conduits and allowing the flood of Void-tinged mana to course through her body, she willed into place the tiny portals that connected the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void and the material world. "Shaa—Shaa—aa—Shaa…" "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban exalted as its brethren joined the fray. Through Ariel, Gwen watched her performance. Below, in an enclosed cavern boiling over with beasts and demi-humans, a dark egg of Void gave birth to an endless multitude of slithering lampreys, migrating from the spherical locus in an all-consuming, ever-hungry tide. As though shifting schools of baitfish, the Magical Creatures trapped within the cavern fled the advancing swarm of slithering mouths. Trolls scrambled past anacondas and hogs to climb at the walls. Lesser creatures sought out higher ground, seeking to escape the glistening, slimy, insatiable shoal. Fudan's Mages kept at their posts, drinking mana potions, burning Fudas and spell cubes as wave upon waves of desperate things crashed against their barrier. Monsters and animals numberless and many-limbed, snarling with fury or mad with terror, fell into the lava moat, got caught between the Walls of Fire and Water, or tangled themselves in Dust Tendrils. While Caliban stood guard, understanding that further action on its part would only complicate its mistress' plans, Gwen's hounds pursued the Chieftain, directing its escape so that it fled toward the tunnel from which Fudan had arrived. And at its destination, an iron-clad maiden awaited with her dancing swords, bruised and battered but undefeated, thirsty for its green blood. Gwen rejoiced, expending her influx of vitality. It was a moment worthy of exaltation, for she did not doubt that after a public display such as this, she would have proven to the world her control over the Void. "!" Her Divination tinged, registering a five on the Mayuree meter. A bone-chilling cold held her hostage. Gwen wanted to act but was held in place by her channelling of the Void Swarm. "CALAMITY!" Gwen's Conjuration Sigil pulsed. "CALAMITY!" Golos' bark was worse than an air siren. "HELP!" If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Outside the shadowy silhouette of the temple, Hardin Smith dumbly recorded the proceeding, numbed by the events. With a record of Inti's survival in hand, he was safe from demotion. Any superior who wasn't an idiot could see that the Void Sorceress and her six-prong slug was a solid alibi. Potentially, the unedited, uncut, first-hand account may even earn Hardin a reward, assuming the data reached the right hands. Hardin wasn't a vain man, nor was he one to be hung on failure. Shit happened, and it should come as no surprise when it hit the fan in a place like Amazonia; especially when a bona fide Void sorceress was involved. After all, it wasn't as though Hardin hadn't performed to his usual standard. He had scouted the region for Amaru, recovered relics for his clients and even secured a second temple. Then, he had planted Resonators, disabled the Necromancer's monsters, and triggered a faux Beast Tide - all the while remaining undetected. If there was another operator in Dark Water who could perform better, Hardin was happy to apprentice under the man or woman for a year. Hardin sighed; either way, with the Troll-eater rampaging below, he was done. It was time to leave. "KAAK! KA-KAAA!" "KAA!" "KAA-KAAK!" "CALAMITY! LETOCOLO!!" A trio of crow-cries, interceded by what sounded like Draconic, drew his goggles toward the sky. Hardin's jaws dropped as the spectacle above unfolded. A Thunder Wyvern— Fudan's Wyvern, was rapidly descending from the moonlit sky in the manner of a silvery-dark comet. The silvery "tail" of the comet consisted of the Wyvern itself, its wings folded and its clubbed tail whipping the wind. The black "head" portion of the comet was, to Hardin's renewed capacity for surprise, one of those human-faced birds from the Wall of Wood the locals called "the Ancients". While falling with style, the Guardian's distended jaws latched around the Wyvern's breast, a terrible choice for the fact that the armour there was the thickest. Despite a lame wing flapping at the joint, the bird's hand-claws scraped at the Wyvern's belly, making a mess of the lizard's undersides. Hardin counted the seconds it took for the duo to strike the top of the temple, where a hole had prior been made by the Beast Tide. _CRASH!_ The top-most portion collapsed from the collision, falling through the Sanctum of the Sun into the Moon Sanctum's midst. "KAAK!" "KAA-KAA!!" Turning in a gyre, the second Ancient swooped in, sleek as a bolt. The third was intercepted by a blast of sunlight, sending it crashing into the interior. Hardin's heart fluttered with hope. Was this Inti's Blessing or what? Adjusting his Scrying device, Hardin charged up his optic camouflage, then detached from the tree, transforming into a wisp of wind as he made for the entrance. Right now, Cuzco's idiot prince was helping Fudan fight the big birds! Glyphs glowed, then faded from view. Hardin's suit whirled into action, activating a suite of enchantments designed for obfuscation. He had one chance, one strike— then no matter the result, he was home free. Inti counted the monsters by his side, most of which, by his standards, where harmless critters forming the bottom half of Amazonia's food chain. Having promised Gwen that he would stem the tide, he had kept up Radiant Blast until the stench of smoking flesh smothered the sanctum. "KAAK!" "KAA! KAA!" Came the sound of strange cries from above. Harpies? Inti wondered, or overlarge crows or condors, both of which were common in the Andes. "CALAMITY! LETOCOLO!!" The voice that boomed against the temple was familiar to Inti. He could make out the first nonsensical word, but what was the other? "Let go?" His confusion lasted a second, for the mounting repression from Golo's Dragon-fear told Inti the drake was rapidly descending toward the temple. Inti readied a Blink. _CRASH!_ The ancient, inter-slotted stonework that held the temple's uppermost tier exploded, showering the combatants below with yet more crushing debris. Among the chaos was Golos, a blaze of lightning, while held in its claws was the strangest bird Inti had ever seen. "Kaak!" The avian coughed up lungfuls of blood, painting Golos half-way crimson. From what Inti could make out, the aberrant bird had a human face on a condor's body. Grotesquely, its feet were human hands tipped with scimitar-like claws. A thunderous fulmination engendered, then the two struck the chaotic pool of combat below, landing not far from where Gwen had constructed a dark egg of sorts, splashing into a river of obsidian lampreys. "LOREAT!" Golos barked, blasting the thing in the face with a breath of pure plasma, causing one of its eyes to boil in its socket. Exultant, Golos caught the creature in its jaws, then with a great tug, ripped out its oesophagus— tubes, vessels, ligaments and all. "OPSOLA! Si tepoha authot coi!" Golos howled, blasting stabs of lighting all over. "ROAR!" Below its claws, a river of eels washed over Golos' still-quivering prey. "KAA—KAAK!" A dark shadow descended, reminding Inti of his promise to Gwen— that he would hinder the tide of creatures coming in so that she could finish up below. Two birds were excessive, but one wasn't an impossible task. "Sol Strike!" Inti waited for the last beast to dive before he directed a spell to turn its trajectory. Unlike the first two, this one was smaller and possessed a feminine profile, appearing as the weakest of the three. "KAAA!" Inti's aim stayed true, for his Radiant magic had little if no travel time, always landing precisely where its caster aimed. "Come! Foul beast!" Inti rose into the air, engaging his faith-empowered flight. "By the Sun, let me be your opponent." "Kaak!" His challenger emerged from the rubble, its face a mask of unadulterated fury. Like its larger counterpart, the gentler specimen was an ugly thing, possessed of sharp and angular features that resembled a Hag's. From the side, the fiend's hooked nose appeared cruel like that of a beak, while its snarling lips revealed rows of dagger-teeth yellow with tartar. "Radiant Bolt!" Inti opened with his quickest skill to gauge the bird's resistance. As a general rule, higher-tier creatures possessed various forms of quasi-immunity, some more explicit than others. Radiance, for instance, worked well against Negative beings like the Undead, as well as Water and Ice Elementals. Against variations of Earth, however, as well as things wrought of fire, his firepower waned. The bird retaliated, but not before its face broke out in boils. “KEEEEEAAAAAAAAK—!!!” Inti hadn't anticipated a sonic-attack. As the sound struck, the interior of the sanctum resonated with the creature's wails, catching him unaware and off-balance. "Shield of Faith!" Inti instantly erected a semi-rigid barrier imbued with golden strands of faith-infused mana. He quickly recovered even as visible cracks spread from the base of his wall. Like a stalking raptor, the bird lowered its head and began to charge. Inti fortified his conduits with a surge of mana, taking advantage of the hyper-clarity conveyed by the Potion of Heroism. While the potion was active, he wouldn't panic, and all feelings of fear and danger dulled. The prince of Cuzco waited until he could smell the bird's foulness before Blinking behind his assailant. "Radiant Strike!" A sizzling array of dancing lights toasted its crow-black feathers. When the spell ceased, the prince was dismayed to find that the beast remained unscathed. "Just the face, huh?" Inti muttered to himself, readying a follow-up. Sure enough, the creature turned, leading another attack with its head. Unfazed, Inti kited the thing around the spacious room, watching it kick and trip over the corpses filling the sanctum, wondering how Fudan was fairing with their alpha-specimen. "That Wyvern is the most counter-productive Ally I have ever seen," Auberon critiqued sullenly. "It's inefficiency is such that I want to deduct CCs from Fudan for the simple fact of possessing such a useless thing." "It just slew one of the dragon-eating birds, Auberon," a Magister pointed out. "That's plenty impressive to me." "It LED the Dragon-eaters to Fudan's party!" Auberon ground his teeth. "It brought THREE enemies that are at least its match, into an IIUC match, while its owner was incapacitated and may very well still be incapacitated! The match was almost over! Finished!" "Inti appears to be doing well." A Magus' fingers danced across the instruments. "Maybe the birds are not that strong?" "Lord knows how strong they are." Auberon watched the screen with a complicated expression. "They haven't existed in Europe since forever." "The Chinese say that the last one perished in a stew." "A what?" Auberon turned to the cheeky Magus. "A stew, sir." The Magus sweated. "In popular legend, the Yellow Emperor cooked the last Big Bird in a big pot, then he and his dragon-allies ate it. That would have been at least two-and-a-half thousand years ago. Maybe when this is all over, we can cook one ourselves." "And follow the footsteps of Meister Darwin," another Magister joked. "Sir Darwin never catalogued a single Magical Creature without tasting it first." A few of the proctors laughed to break the tension. Initially, with the Beast Tide receding, the atmosphere had relaxed— but then Golos had arrived, bringing its crow-black omen. Auberon grunted. "Lucy, what's the ETA on Cuzco's Mages?" "Ten minutes, sir. They passed Amazonia's teleportation circle a few minutes ago." "How many?" "Two Flights, Ten military Mages, one Magister." "Which one?" "Magister Orccosupa, he is the Security Chief overseeing Lima." Auberon nodded. It wasn't anyone he knew personally. "The Sapa's forces are another thirty-minutes out. There's four flights, Twenty Mages, one Magister. Magistrate Huaman Yupanqui leads them." "Tica's father?" Inti raised a brow. "Yessir." "And what of Amaru Paullu-Yupanqui?" Auberon asked after the Tower Master. "He says he is tending to the wounded students." "SIR!" The Magus overseeing Inti projected his screen without permission. "It's happening again! The intruder is here!" Overhead, the vid-cast showed Inti tussling with a female bird-thing. Having sustained significant injuries to its face, it was hopping mad as it fought the prince of Cuzco. "There!" the Magus pointed to the screen where the spectrometry for Illusion shot to tier 6. In the next moment, Inti fired off a spell that connected with the wall, fumbling the spell entirely. Not one to miss an opportunity, the dragon-eater caught the prince by the right arm, grabbing Inti by the shoulder. Inti blinked, looking surprised, then screamed blue murder as blunt, yellow incisors cut into his flesh. "BLOODY HELL!" Auberon swore. Inti was done. The boy's ring would soon activate. "FIND THAT SIGNAL!" The chief proctor looked to the diagnostic screen, then paused when the familiar burst of quicksilver failed to materialise. "Why isn't his Contingency activating?" Auberon knitted his brows as Inti howled, fastened between the monster's sadistic lips as it tossed him like a lettuce leaf. With evident cunning, the bird rotated its head like that of an owl, severing Inti's arm. "Jesus! What the hell is happening?" Inti slammed against the wall, sending a cascade of tiles to descend upon his mangled body. In the bird's mouth, the Contingency Ring activated. "It sent back the arm?" Auberon spluttered. "THE FUCKING ARM?!" A Magister winced. "Poor bugger. I rather liked the boy." "His vitals are falling fast!" The Magus in charge of Inti hammered on the reading. "Sir! Can we help—" Auberon shut the Magus with a gesture, his mind furiously filtering the potential outcomes. There was a play here, one only the chief proctor could make. Follow the competition's rules? Or to act in the Mageocracy's best interest? A wrong move meant Auberon would lose his accreditation, but with the right outcome, even an out-and-out violation was lauded as wisdom. Auberon glanced at the other screens, watching Fudan's Mages. Golos had brought the birds, meaning its owner was to blame. "Magus Evans, patch me to Fudan's sorceress." "Done." Though it would count against neutrality, Auberon persisted in hijacking the Panopticon Glyph inscribed upon the contestant's Astral Souls. "Gwen Song," the chief proctor spoke quickly and calmly, leaving the choice to the girl. "Inti is on the upper level and near death. You've got ten seconds until he's bird feed." "Wha—" came the confused reply. Auberon closed the circuit. Any more interference would bring the competition's vigour into question. "Sir." The Magus staring at Inti's fading vitals retrieved a Long-Range Message device from beside the Divi-Engine. "Cuzco's Tower Master wants to know why Inti's arm just teleported into his medical bay." Golos landed with his prey in a pool of Gwen's lampreys, sending two dozen of her fattest specimens back into the Void. Gwen winced, but that was fine. She had resources to burn and countless worms to spawn. When the vitality had knotted her innards, filling her with nauseating pleasure, she had instantly popped out some five-hundred eels. The Hags weren't anything to scoff at either, generating at least a thousand between the two. Now, she waited for the lampreys to feast, self-multiplying as the temple cleared. Her mind, in spite of eye-rolling waves of orgiastic pleasure, had retained control— until the moment she recognised what Golos had caught. _A Da-Peng?!_ Within the recess of her Void egg, Gwen rioted. Ten thousand llamas danced across the foothills of her dopamine-mad brain, blowing on Peruvian pan-flutes. "GOLOS! YOU DRACONIC-TARD!" she sprayed her Ally from crown to tail. "For fuck's sake, why are you doing this?! We're almost done! Some of us are fucking OoM! And you bring us a bloody Da-Peng?" The Wyvern responded by maiming the screeching Da-Peng in a fantastic display of ultraviolence, making such a show of the kill that she wondered if an announcement-banner with "When Dragons Ruled the Earth!" was about to flutter from the ceiling amidst a sudden fanfare of trumpets. Gurgling blood, the Da-Peng expired. Gwen felt an unmentionable part of her anatomy unclench. Refocusing her mind, she willed the black river toward the fallen Da-peng, ensuring that its vitality didn't go to waste. Grudgingly she acknowledged that at least the Wyvern wiped its arse. "KAAK!" As if in mockery, the silhouetted shape of a condor blotted out the scarlet moonlight. Still borrowing Ariel's eyes, she saw a second Da-Peng enter the fray, bigger and meaner than the first, its expression leaving no doubt as to its inclination for violence. Surveying the interior, the bird turned its attention toward the hissing Caliban. "Golos, you piece of shit!" Gwen's ire re-ignited, she was so upset that her breathing grew ragged. "You flying turd!" "Kaa! KA—!" A third Da-Peng attempted entry, only to be intercepted by a blast of radiance to the face. "Inti, you beauty!" Gwen exalted, wishing she could summon Inti as a Planar Ally for five grand a pop. "Be careful!" "Gwen, leave the Swarm and get back here!" Tei grew paranoid. They had all seen what the Da-Peng could do from their last bout. No matter the rigidity of her Void Shield, a good squeeze may very well turn her into Gwen-pâté. "We'll use the same tactic!" Petra's voice followed. "Get it within twenty meters of us, and we'll disable it with Bilby. Lulu should be done with the Chieftain soon!" "WOOF! WOOF!" Her hounds bayed at the flying beast, knowing they were out-matched. "KAAA—AAAK!" Perhaps it was the vitality Caliban possessed, or its draconic-essence, or its serpentine form, or the fact that six heads were screaming "Shaa-Shaa!" the Da-Peng descended on her Familiar. "Cali! Consume!" Gwen concurrently willed the swarm to move toward the Da-Peng. If they could keep it pinned and immobile, her lampreys may also suffice. About ten meters from Caliban's coiled body, the Da-Peng suddenly changed trajectories. Instead of diving into Caliban, it swooped upwards. Caliban followed, its serpentine necks swimming upwards to catch its ascending prey. "KAK!" A burst of mana blew from the Da-Peng's wings. Within the space of a few meters, the buffeting gale turned into a mass of scything feathers. "SHAA!" Caliban reeled, torn open by a thousand cuts. In the blink of an eye, the bird's assault de-gloved Caliban's exterior armour. "CALI!?" Gwen was in shock, both from the vitality her pet demanded to repair itself and the fact that her Familiar had been pushed back by a single ability. "Shit! Dodge!" Caliban turned its bleeding body even as the Da-Peng wheeled around to strike at its side. In its Naga form, Caliban's agility couldn't hope to match an Elemental beast of Air. "KAAA!" The Big Bird made its first pass, its fingered claws grasping at Caliban's pliant, sluggish body. "SHAA!" Caliban didn't feel pain, but it's master did, vividly so when linked through their empathic bond. In one strike, the Da-Peng had snatched up a portion of Caliban's flesh, crushing two fistfuls of writhing flesh. After it passed, Caliban's sleek form became unmistakably mangled, bleeding grey goo and vomiting the odd tentacle, appearing as though an obscene fountain. "EE! EE!" Ariel demanded to be let loose, but Gwen held her Kirin back. "We're going to Tei's!" she recalled Petra's advise. "Cali! Use your—" _DING!_ A Message spell of the highest tier played itself against her ears. "Auberon?" "Gwen Song." The chief proctor's voice came across without emotion. "Inti is on the upper level and near death. You've got ten seconds until he's bird feed." Gwen spluttered. "Wha—" The Message died. The Da-Peng circled, returning to 'finish' Caliban. "Gwen! Get back in here!" Her teammates' voices hollered in her ear. "It's coming!" Gwen dispelled her Void Shield. Her Essence-infused eyes searched the sanctum above. A Da-peng stalked within, cackling cruelly at an unseen victim. Now, she had a choice to make, and a split-second with which to make it.

"Dimension Door!" Gwen made the call. Under less urgent circumstances, she would have given the matter some pause, consulted her teammates, reached a consensus, but now she could only go with her gut feelings. Auberon's invitation was akin to putting Inti in front of a freight train, and either she pulled him out of the way, or she could wait to wipe his blood from her face. Though Golos brought the Da-Peng, she was the one arrogant enough to utilise Golos in the match, even knowing the Wyvern was slow in the head. Likewise, whatever Auberon's intentions, she sensed no reason for malice, least of all under the Eye of Providence. "HOLY SHIT!" Her eyes widened when she materialised to find the prince looking like a torn-up ragdoll. An inch away from Inti, a female-faced Da-Peng prodded at his lolling head with a blistered tongue, lapping up the prince's royal blood. Her hands blurred. _BUNG!_ _BUNG!_ _BUNG!_ A series of Flashbangs went off an inch from the Da-Peng's head, reinforced by a screeching Ariel, jarring its brain with shockwaves of light and sound. "Dimension Door!" The Da-Peng reeled; while the bird shook its head confusedly, Gwen picked up Inti's still-warm body, an arm under his limp legs and another around his mangled shoulder. "KAAA!" Sensing Gwen's presence through the vibrations in the air, her foe lashed out in all directions with both wings. Before she could duck, the equivalent of a steel bar took her across the posterior. Agony ripped through Gwen's lumbar as her ribs squeaked. To her miscalculation, the Da-Peng wasn't stunned, but now the same couldn't be said of herself. Inti shuddered as they struck the murals on the wall. From the prince's mangled stump, fresh gouts of arterial blood poured over her hands. "Shield!" Gwen erected her barrier a split-second before a massive hand-foot performed a follow-up strike. Even with the reinforcement from her new Ioun Stone, her double-glazed barrier proved insufficient, turning instantly opaque. Sensing the force push against her body, she knelt over Inti to avoid crushing his limp body. "!" Her Divination Sigil fired needlessly as Gunther's lauded signature-shield shattered. The Da-Peng continued its offensive, aiming for a length of her leg. Foul phlegm splattered across her Shen-tei armour as its female-face darted forward with a prehensile tongue poised like a putrid spear. Dizzy from the blow, Gwen could rely only on her reflex. Fuelled by both Essence and adrenaline, she dodged the bite, lifting her leg so that she appeared to perform a ballet-split— then dropped her heel with an axe-kick. This time, it was the Da-Peng who miscalculated. Her boot heel connected with the avian's nose, deforming the soft-cartilage and smashing the appendage back into its skull. With a violent snap, the creature locked its jaws. "KA—!" A fountain of foul iron expelled from the bird's battered face, painting Gwen from head to crotch. A split-second later, a severed tongue slapped her across the thighs. "EE!" Ariel swiped at the howling bird-beast. "Tei, Pats! Get ready!" Gwen pushed past the revulsion, then with Inti gore-clad and cradled in her arms, she activated her Dimension Door, taking the prince and her Familiar below. Hardin slinked from the sanctum, his passage subtler than a water ghost pissing in the murk. A consummate professional, he had stayed until the moment the Prince lost his arm, waiting until the Da-Peng was toying with its prey to make his escape. In his opinion, it was a shame that Inti had to die, especially considering that the Radiant bloodline could potentially access un-looted temples. But, as Mister Price might say, "Better no one wins than the company not receiving its due." Unconsciously, he tapped his Storage Ring. This time, his task had been a long and arduous one. Thankfully, when Hardin returned to civilisation, it would be in the company of fine wine and finer women. Hastening his descent, the former marine dove freely into the forest's depth, fading into the emerald sea. "Cyka Blyat!" Petra almost dropped her spell cube when Gwen re-materialised a second later, bloodier than the Countess of Bathory. "Not mine." Their sorceress promptly deposited Inti so that he laid flat on the floor against the barrier's interior. "Pats, he needs help." "Wocao!" Rene erupted with sympathy. "Poor bastard!" "Gwen, I can't heal him like this. We need to take care of the—" "CALAMITY! HELP ME!" interrupted the familiar cry of her Wyvern. Gwen's Planar Troublemaker was now duelling the biggest Da-Peng of the lot, and from the looks of their aerial joust, he was losing badly. "HOLD ON!" Gwen hollered back without sympathy. "I am saving a life here!" "IT'S TEARING ME APART!" "TOO BAD! WIPE YOUR ARSE!" "… we need a clean wound, else the flesh-stitch isn't going to take." Petra coldly ignored the shouting match between master and monster. "The highest heal I've got cubed is Mend Flesh at tier 5 and Greater Restoration. That's Eunae's limit." "Where's Lulu?" Gwen looked for their Sword Mage. "Still fighting the Chieftain in the tunnel." Rene pointed to their prior entrance. "I don't think we should distract her." "I need a clean-cut." Petra drew a line over where Inti's shoulder began. Presently, the ligaments were a mess, for the girls could see Inti's scapula buried in the mutilated flesh, while the knobbly end of the humerus hung by a tendon. As for Inti himself, the man was knocking on Ukhu Pacha's door. "I'll do it." Gwen raised her hand, created the thinnest Chakram she could muster, then severed the mangled portion of Inti's right shoulder. Now, they must rely on the prowess of Petra's spell cubes. "Mend Flesh!" "Restoration!" "Cure Wounds" "Aid!" Not missing a beat, Petra activated four restoratives in the blink of an eye. It was brute-triage; for usually, a specialist utilised the spells through targeted applications. _CRASH!_ The second Da-Peng burst through the ceiling, angry as anything. "EE! EE!" her Kirin yelped, demanding to go toe to toe with the bird. When its master had been assaulted, it couldn't do anything at all. "Ariel, settle down!" Gwen reigned in her creature. Though Ariel could arguably do some damage, she had no desire to see her Familiar crushed and broken then sent back into its pocket dimension for twenty-four hours. "Caliban!" Gwen called out to her sturdier Familiar. "Keep it busy— WOA!" Golos slid into the barrier wall, cascading fire, water and razor-sharp crystals from his resistant body. The Da-Peng was likewise resistant to Petra's wards, for the Mineral Mage lacked the affinity of the spells' original casters. "Help me! Leave the mortal!" her Ally barked, reeling from the Da-Peng's assault. As a whirling tornado of teeth, nail and feathers, the duo crashed against Tei's wall, taking out a pillar before Golos managed to wrestle the bird away. Hearing Golos' laments, Gwen's anger abated. Her last command was telling Golos to wipe his arse, an order he took to heart. But the fight wasn't equally matched. Already, splotches of upturned flesh on Golos' silvery body indicated places where the Big Bird had "plucked" some scales. Conversely, Golos was having a great deal of trouble penetrating the Da-Peng's armour-like feathers. Nonetheless, Gwen remained preoccupied with her human company. "Is he breathing?" Petra stood unsteadily, fighting the spell fatigue. Gwen placed a hand against Inti's nostrils, then rested her head against his heart. Now stripped of his body armour and ceremonial costume, the prince was bare-chest and crudely Prestidigitated. After the healing spells ran their course, his shoulder had knitted into a smooth, fleshy stump. Beside Inti lay Musi, unconscious for an entirely different reason. Once restored and out of danger, Petra felt no obligation to cure the girl of her Negative Drain. "No." Gwen breathed out, her breathing growing ragged as dread set in. "I don't think more healing is going to help." Petra pointed to the scabs and the polyps forming on Inti's flesh-stump. "Any more and he is going to need a whole other type of healing." "Rene, help me with the barrier," Tei commanded. "Petra, Gwen. We've done all we can. Focus on the bird." Caliban taunted the second Da-Peng with cries of "Shaa!" and "Shaa!" insulting its whore mother. "Gwen?" Petra paused when she realised Gwen wasn't moving. "Pats, I have to perform CPR." Gwen placed a hand on Inti's chest. "I can revive him." "You mean…" Petra knew her cousin well enough not to argue. "What you performed back in Burma?" Gwen nodded, her lips forming into that familiar, stubborn pout. "Then do it!" Tei's tone strained. "There's no time to waste." _CRASH! CRACK!_ Their captain's conjecture was correct. Golos and the Da-Peng were bouncing from wall to wall, shaking room-sized sheets of shale and granite from the cavern and making a general mess of the Moon Sanctum. Caliban enticed the female Da-Peng by menacing it with its six serpent heads, pilfering vitality from the Void Swarm even as the Wildland tide thinned. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. Gwen wasted no time. She divested herself of the cumbersome Mage Armour, likewise stripping off the gloves of her armoured suit. Kneeling beside the unconscious prince, she pinched Inti's nose, pulled back his head, then delivered two lungfuls of air. Concurrently, she conjured Almudj's Essence on her tongue, then ran a current of electricity through her hands. "Wake up, you Son of a Sun!" She pounded on his chest with her draconic-enhanced strength. "Your country needs you! Tica needs you!" Her next breath brimmed with emerald-green Essence. As Inti's chest inflated, she could feel the renewal filling his bruised organs, sense the nodes of electricity firing away in Inti's bosom as his body jump-started. "Okay!" Gwen brimmed with confidence. It was working. Again, their faces met, her pink-petals enveloping Inti's pasty lips, injecting a concoction of oxygen and Essence. Against her cheek, his mouth twitched; underneath her palm, his diaphragm rose and fell. "COUGH!" Gwen withdrew as Inti violently expelled blocks of congealed blood all over his chest. Jelled, yellow bile followed, indicating that without her assistance, the prince would have died all over again. "Wha— where— Gwen?" The resuscitated prince looked about him, confused by the sudden change of scenery. "The monstrous bird, is it dead?" As if heeding Inti's call, the bird proved itself very much alive. "KAAK! KAA! KAA!!!" Petra's crystalline wall shattered. Tei's lost the pillar he had just replaced. Inti's awakening had attracted its undivided attention. _CRASH!_ _"KAAK!"_ Her Wyvern fell from the ceiling, falling into a bed of squirming lampreys. "CALAMITY!" Golos' cry now lacked its prior vigour. Visibly, the princeling of Huangshan was injured from neck to its shin, even the membranes of his webbed wings were wet with gore. Above the Wyvern, the Da-Peng lorded over its battered prey with an expression of pure sadism, toying with its defeated foe. "BUCK! ASTRO!" There was no helping it now; sacrificing her dogs was a strategic necessity. Currently, her lampreys had the critters and the surviving Trolls well under control, meaning the deerhounds' utility was diminished. As such, rather than waiting for the Void Hound's slow rate of return or having her mana trickled away by Astro's pack, it was better to put them to use. Gritting her teeth, Gwen ordered her dogs to menace the Big Birds. With one pack defending Golos and the other Tei's pillars, they could hopefully buy her the time needed for what came next. "Aroooo!" "Gurrgn!" Her hounds were happy to obey. "EE EE!" Ariel promised to conserve her faithful canine companions. "SHAA!" Caliban had waited patiently for its mistress to finish her task. It had sensed her turmoil, and now it demanded from her more life than she currently possessed. "Pats, how many heals do you have left?" "Not enough. We'll have to use supplements." It was an assessment to which Gwen concurred. In the next moment, she materialised a red wooden box inscribed with ancient Chinese glyphs. Exuding Dragon-fear, she slid back the lid to reveal a quivering root-vegetable. According to Ayxin, five-hundred years of Huangshan's earthly Essence was stowed in the thing. If taken in excess, she could very well explode from the eruption of vitality. "Kii? Kii-kii?" The Spiritual Ginseng, awakened from its long slumber, gazed up at Gwen with its faceless mien. It attempted to move, but her dragon-fear held it in place. "Kii?" "Sorry," Gwen apologised. Then, with a mote of Void wrapped around her finger, she removed its right-most root. "KII?! KIIIII?!" The ginseng bellowed, betrayed by its owner. The box slid shut with a " _Click!"_ activating the sealing Glyph. With a deft hand, Gwen then popped the still-wiggling leg into a porcelain jug housing her favourite rice wine. This way, Ayxin had explained, the mellowed vitality could be absorbed without mangling her mewling mortal organs. "I am going to transform Cali, when I do, feed me the heals." Gwen turned to face the birds outside the barrier. Golos was just about done to death. Tei could hold out for a few minutes more. Rene wasn't OoM but lacked the means to fight high-tier monsters. Petra was also at her limit. Apart from herself, their second-best damage dealer was Lulan. "Lulu? Are you done? We could use some support here." "Almost!" Lulan's laboured voice came across in huffs. "One minute— No, half a minute!" "C— GWEN!" Golos howled, ripping enthused lampreys from his armour. "It's coming back!" "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban urged its mistress to hurry. "Allow me to help." Inti attempted to stand. "Sun's Blessing!" A woeful spurt of Positive Energy suffused Gwen's back. "Should have saved it for yourself." Gwen maternally patted the young man's head before facing the two Da-Pengs, one menacing her Wyvern and the other Fudan's pillar-barrier. "Cali..." Gwen swirled the vitality-infused alcohol, then drank from the draught until the bottle was dry, transforming her pale complexion a vivid scarlet. Thus infused, her eyes grew misty and alluring even as she exhaled the command for their foes' oblivion. "...BIG BIRD FORM!" In her mind, she fought down the vision of an eight-foot-two canary with the ability to skate, dance, swim, sing, write poetry and ride unicycles. Instead, she called upon her Lovecraftian lore. Caliban's Naga-slug body began to bulge. "Cure Wounds!" Petra burned her remaining restoratives. "SHAAA!" Caliban pulled into the air, tearing through its membranes in the shape of a fist punching through darkly-dyed silk. Rapidly, Caliban's avian form took shape, expanding to encompass a pair of wings a dozen-meters across. Finally, a flying form! Gwen exalted as fire and ice seized her body, with Petra's warmth roasting her insides even as Negative Energy ravaged her conduits. Fighting the sensation, she broke out in a terrific sweat, realising that Caliban's new form took a toll far exceeding her one-woman body. The male Da-Peng reacted instantly, increasing its velocity as it swooped at Golos. The grounded Wyvern responded by whipping its tail around to meet his descending assailant. _CRANG!_ Golos possessed the advantage of reach; at the cost of a dozen tail spines, the Da-Peng was forced to land. "WOOF! GRRRRR!" Gwen's hounds closed in, latching onto the Da-Peng for dear life. Their fangs, however, proved insufficient in penetrating the bird's defences. "KAAA!" The bird lifted into the air. The dogs were flung aside easily, one crashing into the wall, while two were caught as they fell. The lightning hound perished instantly, while the void hound clung on for dear life, biting and snarling while the Da-Peng wrung out its vitality like water from a rag. Cackling with glee, the Big Bird righted itself, opening its mouth to mount a sonic-attack. "KREEAAAAAA!" The air in front of its human face distorted as though asphalt on a summer's day. "ROAR!" Golos' dragon-breath proved futile, his line of lightning may as well be lukewarm water from a garden hose. "Caliban, hurry!" Gwen willed more of her life into her Familiar, turning her complexion ashen. _PING!_ _KRUNG!_ _CLANG!_ _PTHUK!_ Four Panzerschreck struck the Da-Peng alpha, three deflected by its hyper-dense feathers, while the last lodged in an old wound. Howling, the Da-Peng hopped through the air, attempting to shake loose the missile. "Lulu! Get in here, quick!" Tei called out. Their Abjurer's stamina was waning. Since the battle's unexpected beginning, he had successfully defended their position against Trolls, the Tide, and now the Da-Peng, all without ley-lines or mandalas. The newly emergent Lulan was covered in welts, cuts and bruises, her tattered armour hanging only by virtue of its limited self-mending property. Gwen winced. Though Lulu suppressed the Iron Heart, the drawbacks of a female using pure 'Yang' energy remained. "DANCE OF IRON!" Lulan shouted, conjuring five slabs of green-iron to her side, her eyes brimming with battle lust. "Monster! I'll be your opponent!" "KAAK!" The male Da-Peng shrieked. "KEEE!" The female Da-Peng ignored the dog pack harassing its passage. Instead, it spiralled upwards amidst a bell-beat of wings, crushing a dog in one claw. Lulan launched her swords to no avail, for the Da-Peng knew her blades were dangerous. With subtle shifts of its trajectory, it deflected Lulan's missiles, all the while accelerating with supernatural haste. "Caliban!" Gwen huffed, her vibrant voice rising to a crescendo. "Start with the fat one!" Auberon and the proctors lurched from one miracle to another. Thanks to Burma, they had been inoculated against the possibility that Gwen could bring the newly dead back to life through assisted breathing and chest compressions. In truth, Magus Evan had recorded Inti's vitals as hopeless even before Gwen's arrival. Already, a few proctors sighed sympathetically at the loss of so great a future Mage, lamenting the loss of human potential. A few minutes later, Inti returned, ushering both jubilations from Auberon's peers as well as sullen silence from those who whispered accusations. Of course, CPR wasn't Necromancy, Auberon was sure of that, as sure as the silent spectrometer. Seeing it performed, however, was no less unsettling. With Inti saved, only two monsters remained. Golos, the incompetent Planar Ally, proved no match for the largest of what Fudan called the Da-Peng, a term another proctor translated as Big Bird. Moments later, the female Da-Peng joined the fray, pushing Fudan against the wall, forcing Gwen to sacrifice her dogs. In all honesty, the team had performed well and truly beyond their expected capacity. Now, it was a matter of endurance. If Fudan could hold out for just five more minutes, then two Mage flights would soon be bearing down on the Da-Peng. But expecting Gwen Song to stay put was an impossible thing, for the girl then produced a Sapient Plant Spirit. "The reading on that thing is off the charts!" the Magister in charge of Gwen Song's biometrics hammered at her Glyphs, bewildered by the numbers. A few of the proctors stood from their seats. Flora Sprites weren't common cabbage. They only occurred in Black and Purple Zones where the ley-lines were thick, and in most cases, they were either eaten by the local monsters or reared by supreme creatures capable of levelling cities. "KII!" the Sprite screamed blue murder. "What the bollocks?" another proctor paled. "Is she… eating it?" "Barbarian!" a second wailed indignantly. "If the Elves find out…" a particularly well-connected Magister scoffed. "My word, she's mixing a cocktail!" "Did she register the Sprite?" Auberon turned to Lucy. "Yessir, its logged as 'five-hundred-year-old Chinese herb for restoring vitality'…" "…" the proctors had no words; since Gwen wasn't using the Sprite as a Spirit, the girl was in the right. "Sir." Gwen Song's presiding proctor frowned at the spectrometric disco playing across his projection. "Her biometrics are a mess." "To be expected, I suppose." Auberon focused on the screen. "Looks like our Naga slug is about to become a butterfly." "SHAA! SHAA!" Gwen's Familiar did not disappoint. When its tenebrous body finally broke free of the Naga-shell, it measured just under ten meters from faceless tip to tentacled tail. At first glance, the creature appeared as the Void facsimile of a Wyvern, for its faceless head conjoined a distended neck and powerful shoulders with arms forming into a pair of wings. From the waist, however, the similarities ended. Where Golos sported powerful hind-legs, Caliban's avian form took on the lower half of the Da-Peng. Sensuously, the fiendish avian's underside sported a pair of six-fingered female hands, pink and flawless with nails of ivory, reminding the proctor of Caliban's owner. Finally, from behind the Void Fiend's rear, plumage consisting of a dozen tendrils tasted the air, forming the "tail" of Caliban's new anatomy. "SHAA!" The male Da-Peng met its bizarre doppelgänger in combat. Wings clashed, raining grey goo and fluttering feathers below, indicating that Caliban had replicated a portion of the Da-Peng's unique physique. "What an abomination!" A proctor gagged when Caliban's hand-limbs flexed. It was the strangest sight, for the Da-Peng possessed the hands of a man, while Gwen's creature was visually a female one. With the two jostling for dominance, their hands met, forming a disembodied spectacle of two lovers with their fingers entwined. This way joined and dancing through the air; the Da-Peng gnawed at Caliban's neck, leaving dark welts of upturned tissue. "Consume!" came a command from its mistress below. Caliban's faceless head, similar to its obsidian serpent form, peeled back to reveal an interior full of tongues, beside which rows of lamprey teeth formed an unending spiral leading into the Void fiend's maw. "SHAA!" Obeying its mistress' command, her creature tongue-kissed the Da-Peng opposite so that its peel-back face enveloped its opponent's head. The proctors shuddered. On another vid-caster, concurrent to Caliban, Fudan's Sword Mage engaged in close combat. With Sweeps and Strikes, Lulan Li kept the creature at bay even as it snatched at her swords, bending, breaking and crushing her green-iron implements. As they fought, the proctor noted that Lulan Li wasn't just fighting blindly, but slowly leading the creature toward Fudan's wall. Launching and throwing enough blades to equip an army, the battered Sword Mage from Huashan grew slick with sweat until finally, the duo was close enough for the trap to be sprung. "Bilby's Hands!" both Petra and Gwen activated the last big spell they could muster. Sensing imminent danger, the Da-Peng attempted to retreat, only to cop a sword to the face, parting its cheeks and missing its remaining eye by an inch. The bird kicked, taking the Sword Mage in the abdomen with a claw-tipped finger, shattering Lulan's Crystalline Mage Armour. Lulan Li faltered, flying back, vomiting blood as she skittered toward the pillar barrier. Thankfully, before she connected with the many-layered walls, a selfless Rene Blinked into place to catch the Sword Mage before she fell into the channel of lava. The distraction was enough for the Hands to manifest. With a great clap, Bilby's supercharged Mage Hands slammed the Da-Peng against the granite floor, with both hands pressing it against the ancient stonework so that it couldn't gain purchase to free itself. "Shaa… shaa… shaa…" The lamprey swarm approached, having near-eradicated all creatures from the faux Beast Tide. Up above, the leading Da-Peng panicked, beating its wings even as Caliban's deep-throated kiss turned to slow digestion. The struggle continued for a dozen more seconds, their hands below clasped in anguished passion as Caliban's tentacled tails sought out other weaknesses. Finally, the Da-Peng's wings fell limp. With its meal still attached, Caliban circled the chamber as though parading its kill, then spiralled downwards to land with a thump, displacing a dozen lampreys. Not far, Golos groaned, too exhausted to move. "My God, it's over!" A proctor sat back in his chair. "By George! They did it! Incredible!" Auberon exhaled, hoping that there would be no more complications. "CALI, WAIT! SPIT IT OUT!" came a resounding cry from Gwen Song, filling the proctors' barracks with her husky voice. "Gogo! If you want to avert my wrath, eat those Big Birds! I want Cores! I want ALL of their Cores!"

"Inti's bowels!" Magister Sulca Palla-Orccosupa of Lima surveyed the blasted landscape. "By the sun, has Amazonia fallen into Uku Pacha?" The emerald sea that had smothered the Inca's old city now appeared uprooted, exposing the Temple of Mama Killa in the manner of a burst military ration. As for the temple structure itself, one side appeared as though buffeted by tornadoes, while Inti's sun fire baked the other side glass-smooth. On the central ziggurat itself, the capstone had collapsed into the interior, leaving behind what appeared to be an abstract, geometric volcano. Sulca calmed himself. "Squad One, Squad Two. Assume breach formation. Shaya and Parwa will take point. Alca, what do you see?" "…" The Diviner took a moment to finish his inspection of the sanctum's interior. His eyes widened several times; then the man appeared as though he forgot to breathe. "Sir… I think we're too late." "TOO LATE?!" Sulca snapped. "What of Lord Inti?" "I mean, we missed the battle," the Diviner apologised. The Chief Magistrate of Lima furrowed his brows. Unconsciously, his hand moved for the Message device at his collar. DING! As if in ambush, a Message bloomed beside the Magister's ear. "… I see. Very well, Lord Magister." Sulca confirmed the new situation twice before turning to his men. "It would appear the team from Fudan has kept the situation under control. Prince Inti has lost an arm, but his life is in no danger. During the match, his Contingency Ring had a malfunction. We are to secure the prince and establish a Teleportation Circle." "Inti, injured?!" The team was aghast at the news. "Lord Inti's crippled!" "Blasphemy!" "Was it Fudan? Did they bring this upon Lord Inti?" "Shut it!" Sulca's tone suppressed the sudden antagonism. "Cuzco's team entered the Winged Puma's cave, but couldn't quell the mother's anger. You will all show the utmost respect when we get down there. The Void Sorceress saved Master Inti's life." The Mages fell into a self-conscious silence. "Team 1 leads, Team 2 follows, keep your eyes peeled." In formation, the Mages of Lima entered the sanctum. "Apas below!" Sulca was the first to swear. Even with Alca's warning, he wondered if their present location was indeed Uku Pacha, the underworld, and that they had all flown into Amaru's belly. Behind Sulca, his team likewise let loose with cries of horror and disbelief. Sumi, their healer, threw up in her mouth. Sulca fought back the sudden sensation of vertigo. He wasn't a bumpkin by any means. Heir to a noble family, he had studied abroad in England and North America and gained his accreditation through UC Berkeley. Of all the Magisters in Lima, he was the most experienced and well-travelled. Not that it helped him now. As the Mage Flight cleared the broken levels leading from one sanctum to the next, bypassing the unveiled structure of the Inca's glorious past, the reality of the combat that had transpired came into view. First, there was the "Swarm". Pooled below was a small lake of writhing eels, or what looked like eels, squirming about the floors of the temple, looking for prey that no longer existed. Singularly, the creatures would not have frightened Sulca nor his men, but there appeared to be countless multitudes of them, each with whiskers about their eyeless heads tasting the air even as their glistening bodies squirmed. Notably, there was a Kirin, one Sulca had anticipated from the report. Then, there was a Wyvern, also expected, though now the Wyvern was covered from horn to tail in wounds. Presently, the magnificent brute appeared to be ferreting the carcass of an Ancient Bird from the Wall of the Woods. When the creature's draconian head emerged to regard the newly arrived Mages, its snout steamed with coagulated bits of entrails. "Got the Core yet?" a girl beside the Wyvern peevishly demanded of the creature. To Sulca's surprise, the Wyvern politely nodded. Usually, the Magister would have noted the infamous Void sorceress right away, but now his eyes were drawn to the strangest creature he had ever seen seated beside her. It was the "Caliban". At first, the creature appeared entirely lacklustre. It sat on its hands, demure as anything, jet black and silent like a dark blob. But when Sulca's eyes focused on the thing once more; he began to notice its uncanny physique, such as the fact that it sat on a pair of hands. Human hands. Sulca blinked, wondering if his sanity was suffering from the excessive stimuli. When he circulated mana through his eyes, he further noticed that not only were the creature's feet human hands; they were female. That, and they were six-fingered. The Mage flight stopped just above the competitors. "Greetings, contestants. I am Sulca Palla-Orccosupa, Overseer and Magistrate of Lima," Sulca introduced himself. "I come on behalf of Magister Amaru Paullu-Yupanqui, Master of the Cuzco Tower." Presently, the Void Sorceress and a young man with a dour look approached. "Greetings, Magister. I am Tei Bai, Captain of Fudan's IIUC team. Here is Gwen Song, my Vice-Captain, and these are our teammates. We thank you for your timely assistance, may I ask why you are here?" Sulca blinked. Why was he here? "I am here to relieve Master Inti…" he replied uncertainly. "Cuzco National offered for forfeited when the danger had escalated beyond what the Sapa was willing to accept." The girl and her captain regarded one another. "I wasn't just in danger, Magister," came the voice of Inti from behind Fudan's contestants as he pulled back his head shawl. "I was dead." "Master Inti!" the Mage flight rapidly alighted, making sure they were well away from the slithering pool of obsidian bodies below. "And Miss Song here brought me back to life." "Resuscitated, actually," the sorceress called Gwen quickly interjected. "It was nothing. Just a heart massage and a chest defib." "I owe her a great debt," Inti stated without an ounce of doubt. From the prince's expression, Sulca understood his future Sapa's inference that the Tawantinsuyu owed the girl a debt of gratitude. Sulca's eyes then noticed that under the shawl covering Inti's right shoulder, the sleeve was empty. Like the missing arm, the Military Mage's mind went AWOL for a split-second before his brain caught up to Inti's claim. "By his grace, we salute our Lord's protector!" Sulca crossed both hands against his chest to make the sign of the condor, a gesture of admiration and respect. "Hail! Saviour of our Sun!" "Whoa… no no no, it was nothing!" the girl grew flustered. "Inti was of great help to us, and we were fighting as a team when it happened. It was something I would have done for anyone of us." "That's of no import." Inti slid a hand over to his empty sleeve. "Where's Uncle Amaru? I would very much like to know why my Ring alone failed when all of my peers could return to Cuzco without incident. That and why we knew nothing about the Blood Moon." Sulca's face grew flushed; he could almost taste the bitterness in Inti's words. Falling to one knee, he placed once hand upon his heart, and the other toward his future Sapa in a gesture of supplication. Behind him, the two Mage Flights likewise offered their loyalties without reserve. "I shall investigate the matter personally, my prince." Sulca dipped his head against the cold granite. "I shall find the culprit so that they may suffer your judgement." DING! Another Message blossomed beside Sulca. "… I understand." The Magister looked up his future sovereign. "My Prince, Master Yupanqui requests that we establish a Teleportation Circle for himself and the proctors. You and Miss Musi should proceed to the infirmary immediately. Your father will await you there." As Inti's gaze rolled over his body, Sulca began to sweat. Even wounded, the aura exuding from a man at the apex of millions of faithful followers was palpable. "... I shall await the answer to all this." Inti turned, returning to where he had been meditating beside the still-senseless body of Musi. Sulca relaxed. "Pukyu, help Sayaya with the Teleportation Circle," Sulca commanded his team. "Killara, Nina, set up a perimeter." As one, his Mage Flights moved to execute their duties. "Magister, do we wait here?" The Void sorceress raised a hand impertinently, interrupting Sulca's troubled thoughts. "Is this it?" "Why do you ask?" Sulca challenged the girl, only to realise that up close, he had to look up toward her chin. "Well." The girl smiled attractively, pointing to the ziggurat. "I don't think we've lo— searched that place for treasure yet…" Perhaps it was a coincidence, or mayhap that was the plan, but the curious fact was that Tica's father, Magistrate Huaman Yupanqui, flew in precisely when the Teleportation Circle was connected. After that, the proctors sent a delegation including Auberon, his assistant and a few presiding Magisters through the newly established teleporter. Within the span of a few minutes, a total number of forty-odd Mages gathered in the underground ruins of the Sanctum of the Moon, making the once open space incredibly crowded. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "My boy!" Tica's father hugged Inti without regard for ceremony, squeezing the young man until his face turned the hue of ripe papaya. "Tica is going to be mad at all of us. I can tell you that! Those birds, where in Uku Pacha did they even come from?" Cuzco's Tower Master, whose appearance Gwen recognised from their first day in Cuzco, patiently awaited his turn. When finally Huaman allowed the boy to go, his uncle swooped in like a condor to curry the prince's favour. "Inti, your arm!" Amaru placed one hand on Inti's shoulder and the other on his stump. "A shame, such a shame! Don't you worry, nephew, Uncle Amaru will remedy your arm. As for the moon and the ring— I will have an answer for you, and the Sapa. If there are culprits, we'll find them, I promise." "Thank you, uncles." Inti bowed. "Presently, I am beyond fatigued. May we soon be on our way? I wish to see Tica." Amaru expression grew rigid while Huaman, his brother, broke into an obscene laugh. "That's the spirit! Are we to expect a grandchild soon? Another title to my name, eh? Royal in-law? Hahaha..." "I will do my best." Inti's eyes lingered on his uncles as he spoke. "I promised her that we would, after the competition. Thanks to this incident, I am starting to see the need to ensure that our royal line is well provisioned." "Absolutely." Huaman turned to Amaru, then slapped his younger sibling across the back. "Get Inti healed up, brother! That boy is going to need all his vigour. Maybe get them to add in a little more Positive Energy, eh?" Amaru's facial muscles twitched as he grinned. His attempt to smile was equivalent to squeezing blood from a rock. Inti turned to Gwen and her captain. "Thank you again, Gwen. Mr Bai, Miss Li, Miss Mui, Miss Kutsenova, Cuzco is in your debt. You are forever friends of our nation, so long as I live." Gwen and the other members of Fudan bowed. The implication there was busier than a Quipu knot, but it wasn't their business. Walken had been very explicit about that. Do not get involved in the political transactions of the locals. "Have a safe trip home, Inti." Gwen raised her head. The dynamic between the suspicious royal nephew, the uncle named after a snake, and the seemingly uncaring, grandchild-crazy father-in-law was awkwardness personified. "Don't run into any Da-Peng on the way." By the dozen, the Incans filed into the Teleportation Circle, leaving one Flight and another from the local garrison. When finally their hosts had all but gone, the proctors approached Fudan. "Congratulations on winning." Auberon nodded approvingly. "Also congratulations on showing the world why we should fear Void Magic." "Wait— What?" Gwen spluttered. She had been practising spell safety the whole competition! Her Void-related performance was entirely OSHA compliant. "No one was hurt!" Beside the girl, Tei and Rene exchanged a look. "It was a jest," Auberon tsked, much to his assistant's disapproval. "Give me a second to formalise the match's result. Miss Pritchard, are you ready to transcribe?" "Yessir." Auberon cleared his throat. "On this day, September the 30th of 2004, in the vicinity of Amazonia, province of Cuzco— I, Auberon Lucas, Chief Proctor, by the authority invested in my judgement, declare Fudan University, Shanghai as the WINNER of the September round!" "Congratulations!" "Well done! "Good work, Fudan." "Thank you for saving our Prince!" The remaining proctors applauded, as did many of the locals from Cuzco. Fudan returned the well-wishes with bows. Tei in particular not only bowed toward the proctors but respectfully fell to one knee to thank his ancestors. Realising their future broadcast, Rene followed. Lulan looked as though she wanted to do the same, but refrained when her knees refused to yield. As for Gwen and Petra, the two stood awkwardly, watching the Void Swarm below. "How long is 'that' going to last?" Petra asked. "That's right!" Gwen suddenly slapped her forehead. Causing the rest of them to jump. "Sir, we haven't gotten a chance to loot the place." The proctors performed a double-take. "I mean, there's likely relics buried somewhere." She pointed to the remaining ziggurat. "You repelled a Beast Tide," Auberon huffed, his brows knitting and his hypertension rising. "And exterminated four creatures that are each a match for your Wyvern. You saved Inti, the prince of this nation, and earned the gratitude of the land's people. You recovered the temple, in a manner of speaking, by wiping out the Arch-Hag, and all of its minions. There's not a single troll left in this complex. You realise that, right?" "Sir…" Lucy coughed. "We detected at least a dozen on the way. They're in the catacombs still." "Those are CCs!" Gwen pointed out. "Also, there's no 'I' in "Team". Look, that's not the point. Our POINTS are the point. If we 'win', does that mean the match is over? If so, isn't that unfair for us?" "You—!" Auberon pinched his brows. "There is a maximum allotment of points you can carry over to the next round. It was a rule put in place to prevent contestants from abusing certain mechanics of the competition to garner CCs, such as purging a Hive-type Dungeon but keeping the Queen alive as a CC-generator. With your achievements, I dare say that Fudan will have struck that limit." "How much?" Gwen battered her long lashes, her glimmering hazel orbs inferring that if the amount wasn't sufficient, she would command Lulu to dig up the lower sanctum immediately. Auberon held up five fingers. "5000 CCs," the proctor declared. "Fudan will be judged on its merits and demerits, with a secret tally as back up, but 5000 is the upper limit for round one. Note that last year, the average for the first round was in the mid-2000s, with the top scorer, Stanford, earning 4640 CCs." "That's five hundred for each of us." Gwen gulped. If she took Richard's part-timing into account, 500 CCs equated two to three high-risk requests or up to ten mundane errands. In ten days, they made enough to purchase five mid-tier Signature Spells from the Tower. "We can be satisfied with that." "I would say so, yes." Auberon breathed out. "Well done with the Void Magic, lass. A true eye-opener. The Mageocracy will have your back when you need us; I can promise you that." "As will Berlin," another proctor added quickly. "That's good to know, Sirs." Gwen bowed her head. "Kilroy sure dug up a little monster," the chief proctor chuckled. "So, when do these things disappear?" "Soon, I hope." Gwen squirmed underneath the proctor's eyes. "They took in a lot of vitality." "You can't banish them? Do they have IFF?" "Ah haha..." All Gwen could do was simper. It took the party another three hours to finally step into the Teleportation Circle. While they waited, Fudan's vice-captain made sure Lulan was well covered, her dogs unsummoned, and her Familiars packed away. After helping Petra with her biometric-recordings, it was time to rake her Wyvern over the coals. "... then the Da-Peng approached," Golos indignantly explained when she accused him of gross incompetence leading to the grievous injury of a prince and the near-wipe of their party. "I used Ryxi's Fuda and snuck upon them. Three birds they were, two males and a female. I managed to ambush one and drag it down into the temple. Did you see me? It was GLORIOUS, I tell you, killing a Da-Peng in direct combat, like in the ancient days! Wait till father hears about my deeds, ha!" "Just how close were these birds?" Golos snorted. "Close enough to strike." "And just because they're within fifty kilometres of us, you think they're going to dive into a fucking Troll temple for no reason and attack us? Where the hell did you go before that?" Golos grew irritable. "Well?" "When the moon turned, I thought it would affect Phelara and her tribe." "And?" "I went patrolling." "To Phelara, of course." "Then I ran into the Da-Peng." "Gogo. After you killed the first Hag," Gwen protested. "We were down there for almost twelve hours. You were gone for more than TWELVE hours! I know how fast you can fly. What were you doing?" Golos looked at her dumbly, in his human form, his thick wyvern skull made him all the more vexatious in her eyes. "My absence wasn't for long," the Wyvern countered. "A nap, at most." "HOLD UP. Holy shit." Gwen pulled out her Message Device. "Gogo, what is this." "A Human Magical Device." "No, this—" Gwen pointed to the twenty-four-hour clock. "Time Device." "What time does it say?" Golos obliged by reading the time. "Do you have a watch?" Golos blinked at her. "How do you tell the time?" The Wyvern snorted. "The likes of us need so such thing to keep track of the lives of mortals. We Dragons live forever." Gwen slapped her forehead. Was this her fault? Was this a work-place cultural dispute? She could no longer tell. She now knew that Golos told the time by using his gut feelings, meaning he had no idea that time dilated when one was bored or having fun. While he was doing circles in the air, the passing of the first hour must have felt like days for the easily bored Wyvern. Meanwhile, when he found Phelara again and pounded her tribe into the local lumber, time must have passed so quickly that he hardly noticed. Assuming less than an hour for travel, Golos must have run into the Da-Peng on the way back from the westerly direction. More than likely, the Da-Peng were seeking out Phelara and her tribe— that or they were following Golos' stench, looking for a meal. Either way, she partly held the blame. "Are you going back to them now?" Gwen changed the topic. "Yes, will Mistress be joining me?" Golos grinned wolfishly, his nostrils scenting her essence infused torso. "Sure, and Cali can give you a massage with its new hands," she returned the taunt with a retaliatory smirk. Golos averted his eyes, submitting to her tyranny. "You may go to your birds, but not before I get my Cores." She pointed to Golos' stomach. "Metabolise now if you're in a rush. Dig the Cores out and clean them. I'm sick of taking care of your shit, Gogo. I am going to train you when we get back. Else, I am going straight to Ruxin and getting a refund." Golos' scales bristled, ever the combative mass of congealed pride and arrogance. With her Wyvern puffed up, Gwen couldn't help noticing that her hound-brained mutt had grown visibly larger after taking on four Da-Peng and eating at least two-dozen Trolls plus a Hag. It was a testament to the potency of his Draconian blood, for what other beings on earth could grow stronger by merely sleeping, eating, and fornicating? If Dragons were as numerous as humans, they would have ruled the multi-verse by now. In the days to follow, while Fudan arranged their return so that they could finally enjoy a long-desired period of rest and relaxation, Cuzco was in an uproar. With the injured prince recovered and the news of Cuzco National's forfeiture came many muddling conspiracies. Be it the sabotage of Inti's Contingency Ring, rumours of factional politics were at play, or that foreign interference was involved, gossip lit up the Suyus. Amidst the turmoil, the Inca Sapa presided over a three-day-long Rite of the Ever Burning Sun, purging Inti's body of impurities and calling upon the faith of the people to restore his son, their Sun and the nation's future Sapa. As for Fudan, a full review presided over by Eric Walken followed with equal parts praise and scaldings, with each of the contestants writing up reflection and reviews of their performance highlighting their lacks and their plans to address those shortcomings. When Fudan's IIUC contestants and the trope of proctors finally graced the decks of a Moller–Maersk ocean freighter in Lima, they received a send-off attended to by a full-bodied Inti, his appearance whole and restored. Dressed in ceremonial shawls and painted from neck to chiselled abdomen in gold, the prince made the young women blush and the men awkward as he blessed the ship, its crew and its passengers with good health. Once the festive matters concluded and the media was ushered from the dock, Inti approached with Tica in-arm, followed by Tupaq. Collectively, Fudan bowed before the prince. To their surprise, Inti returned the bow, eliciting some discomfort from the watching multitude of Lima and Cuzco's nobility. "First things first." Inti stepped back. "I tried to dissuade them, but they insisted." The gentle giant Tupaq stepped toward were Gwen now stood in her shoulderless sundress, falling to one knee. Even kneeling, the giant's head reached her chest, a testament to the Inca's abnormal size. "Thank you, Miss Gwen, for returning Inti to us. Had our prince perished, my only recourse is to continue to guard him in the underworld." Tupaq crossed both arms over his heart. "The House of Huamancuri is forever in your debt." "Thank you, Tupaq." Gwen forced the giant to stand before giving the man a big hug about the shoulder. "You did well in protecting your prince. As I said, I didn't do this for a reward. Inti deserved to live. Your country will do well with such a kind and generous future Sapa." The next to approach was Tica. She bowed. "Oh, come on, don't stand on so much ceremony." "Humph, you overthink." Tica came close enough for the two to embrace, then began to undo her shawl. "This is for you." The atmosphere grew suddenly heavy, there was an audible sound of heavy breathing from the crowd, though Gwen had no idea why. The priestess's shawl was a beautiful thing with geometric lines that mimicked the colours of the Amazonian macaw. More impressively, one side was sunburst yellow with bold red patterns and elaborate rainbow Inti-motifs in gold thread. The flip-side, impossibly, was mid-night blue, with motifs of the moon and Mama Killa. Demurely, Gwen lowered her head so that the diminutive Tica could wrap the gift around her shoulders. "With this, we're equals," Tica declared, holding Gwen's hand. "Sisters it is." Gwen felt a great sense of accomplishment. When she looked up to see Inti, however, the prince was wide-eyed and sweating profusely. "Is Inti alright?" Gwen pointed a thumb at the prince. "He looks about ready to crap a ton of gold." "As he should be." Tica laughed. "You've received my approbation to become a wife-sister. I'll be Queen, of course, but you'll enjoy a position second only to me." To their audience's delight, the Void sorceress' pale complexion grew instantly dawn-tinted, drawing both mirth and adoration. "I am afraid I must…" "Take some time to dwell on it." Tica kissed her on the forehead, leaving a lip-print to mark the sorceress. "Thank you, Gwen. I owe you a great deal. I wish to say my offer is a joke, but you may take up the mantle anytime you feel a desire to return to Cuzco. One point you must take heed is that you wouldn't want to wait too long. I prefer our children to be of a similar age." "C-Children!" To the observers, it would appear that the Void Sorceress had fallen under the effect of a mortifying Enchantment spell. Like a woman swivelling the wheel to avoid an on-coming semi, she changed the subject. "So er… any idea why Inti's Contingency Ring failed?" The priestess leaned in for a whisper, her plump petal-lips almost nibbling her "sister-wife's" ear. "...Jesus, how are you going to..." Gwen gulped. Tica tittered. "Worry not, dear ñaña. Inti and I have come to an understanding. I only hope that one day, Tawantinsuyu may call upon you for your continued friendship— and your aid."

Though the contestant's return journey to Hawaii would take many days, no such delay plagued the delivery of data crystals. From Cuzco, caches soon graced the desks of New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Washington. Before Fudan had even crossed the South Pacific, Magisters in London, in Berlin, in Paris and Rome lit up their lumen-casters to peruse the reports of Kilroy's hidden apprentice. For some time now, news of the girl had rippled the surface. This time, the results were potent enough to break the meniscus. Unlike in Burma, the Baron of Shenfield himself sat as umpire, officiating the data as reliable and unaltered. Chief to the crystal of the girl's struggle in Peru was her ability to channel the Void without seemingly degrading her psyche. Her command over the Void creature known as Caliban likewise tickled the fancy of many a Tower Magister. When the sorceress transformed her serpent into a many-headed Naga, the optics were magnificent! When she conjured a Void Swarm of impossible proportions to consume the Beast Tide, the scene was spectacular! As for the Terror Bird polymorphy that consumed the Dragon-Eater, those in the know possessed no adequate words to describe their feelings. Calls for her biometrics flooded into Pudong. Seven Schools and a VMI over 300. And the girl was just eighteen. And the girl was from a Frontier. And the girl had Awakened in the wild, a creature of chance and chaos. And also, the memo returned: the girl was sister-in-craft to Gunther Shultz, Master of Sydney. Cambridge. Trinity Ln. The Old Schools. Unknown to most, a dubious event engendered the founding of Cambridge University— the murder of Mages by NoMs. It all began when two Oxford Scholars caused the death of a young NoM Woman in the township of Oxford. As the tale tells it, the scholars deemed themselves beyond reproach, refusing to explain their circumstances to the townsfolk. Tensions then escalated, and when the mob attempted to arrest them, they defended themselves with sorcery, or what passed for Spellcraft in the 12th century. They failed. And before the ecclesiastical authorities could intervene, the townsfolk mutilated the scholars, looted their robes, then hung the naked Mages from Oxford's gates. In the ensuing chaos, over a thousand sorcerers, wizards and warlocks chose exodus, ultimately forming the beginnings of the University of Cambridge. To further fortify their preservation, the scholars eventually succeeded in requesting a Bull from the Pope stating that no Mage may be judged solely in the court of mortal men. Such was the origin of Oxbridge, a conjunction whose combined authority held the reigns of Spellcraft as taught in the post-industrial world. Between Oxford and Cambridge, the two institutions had begotten the Tower System, disseminated the Imperial Spell-Metric and indoctrinated the Mage world with Sigils. Of the two, Cambridge consisted of thirty-one constituent colleges pertaining to seven Schools of Magic: Evocation, Transmutation, Conjuration, Abjuration, Divination, Enchantment and Illusion. The university's Arcanum Press likewise remained the world's principal source of new spells, responsible for the official organisation of the sanctioned Spell List. At the zenith of Cambridge's administrators sat the vice-chancellor, second only to the ceremonial chancellory held by the Duke of Edinburgh. And yet, here in the ancient and vaulted office of the vice-chancellory, Alfred Tomberry Crawford Butterfield was mopping buckets from his brow. "Get the girl here, Butters. I am serious. When have I ever asked you for anything?" The sombre voice of Justine Maxwell Loftus, Marchioness of Ely, echoed from the vaulted ceiling, un-dampened by the row upon rows of ledges lining the walls. "You realise, Maxi, there's a bollock load of politics involved? You're not requesting for the relocation of a prized cabbage. She's a Void sorceress, stuck in China, and she's a sister to von Shultz! Why I could—" Alfred paused. He could see that the Lady of Ely did not like his tone at all. As his senior and a mentor-cum-colleague, a displeased Lady Loftus was a force akin to the deep currents found in the Plane of Water. Prim and precise to a fault, her presence quailed school boys and nobility alike. _"Excuses,_ Butters? Find some of those strings you're so unwittingly boasting about all the time. Isn't that why you hoard them? For pulling?" Alfred realised he had to pick his words carefully. The unofficial title of the Marchioness was "Lady Grey", not for the unfortunate cousin to Elizabeth, first of her name, but for her ability to cut a man down to size with nothing but her steel-grey eyes. "Maxi, you're making this hard for me," the vice-chancellor pleaded. "We can appeal through the official channels, but it will take time." "Alfred Butterfield." The Marchioness turned upon Aldred those dreaded orbs and her pencil-thin lips. Suddenly, Alfred felt as though he was six and the governess had just found him conjuring a fistful of squirming slugs. "I want her for Peterhouse, and that's final. I never did say goodbye to Henry, and I want to do this for old times sake. I have zero sympathies for your methods, nor your cost. If you refuse on such flimsy grounds such as 'impossibility', I can find another Vice-Chancellor to do my bidding, do you understand?" Alfred groaned. "Maxi..." "On that front, it is Lady Loftus to you, Butters. Don't mistake yourself for your brother." "Six-months?" Alfred tested the cracking ice. "You have three." "At least until the end of the IIUC, surely?" "You think your task will be easier once the world witnesses the next round?" Lady Loftus scoffed. "Make the call, Butters." "I'll… work on it." Alfred loathed making the promise because he dared not fail. His word may not be worth much in the eyes of the old families, but he couldn't shame the prestige of the vice-chancellory. He too had watched the lumen-cast, and he agreed with Lady Loftus that the girl's elemental aptitude put London Imperial's Void candidate to shame. But to drag such a sorceress from Fudan, he would have to offer the Chinese something equal in return. _Fudan!_ Alfred's pride revolted. _A low-tier university in a self-secluded nation knee-deep in the Undead!_ For Cambridge to offer a third-string University a Meisterhood, even one offering the "Applied Theory of Void Magic", was a wildly unbalanced exchange. Their reputation would dive, and with it, his career as vice-chancellor. If anything, Alfred had no desire to be known as the first officeholder not to complete his tenure since Magister Hartfield insulted the High Elves. But then again, this was Lady Grey breathing down his neck. If the request had merely originated from a Marchioness, Alfred could have parried the demand, but who was Lady Grey? A shadow member of the House of Lords! The Marchioness of not just anywhere, but Ely! The progenitor of Cambridge's Peterhouse! The owner of the lands stretching from Milton to Littleport! How was Cambridge to expand its facilities if the Marchioness were to refuse her leaseholds? What if he received an official censure from Peterhouse itself? Cambridge had no official centre of power. It was a place ruled by prestige, and few Houses held the history and influence of Peterhouse. Already, Alfred could imagine what his successor would say— "Butters did a good job as an administrator, but he was too green behind the ears. What's in a Meistership? Who would say no to a request from Lady Grey? That's the new blood for you; always slow on the uptake." Alfred Butterfield forced himself to meet the Lady's eyes. "You have three months." The Lady's tone softened, granting him a reprieve. "But if someone else nabs my sorceress..." Alfred had to stop himself nodding by reflex. The door shut. The lights dimmed. Air once again began to flow. The vice-chancellor sat in the gloom, stewing in the scent of old ledgers. Ding! A Message globe bloomed over the archaic device on his table. The crimson hue indicated it was a call he could not refuse to take. "Yes?" Alfred answered. "Milly, who is it?" "Sir, I have Lord Ravenport on the line." "Patch him through." "Doing that now, sir." "BUTTERS!" erupted a jovial voice that made his skin crawl. "How are you, old chap? We've missed your presence of late. A busy month?" Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "Haha, you know how it is, milord." "Oh, I do." A polite chuckle followed the curt courtesy. For some reason, Alfred felt as though something licked his cheek. "Now, we're both busy men, so let's not waste each other's time. Have you seen the IIUC crystals from Cuzco?" Alfred Butterfield, Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, watched the goosebumps form on the back his hand, then felt them as they crawled up his arm. Beside his ear, Lord Ravenport's cheerful voice continued to toll. "... you have? Good. Now. Butters. You of all people should be aware of our Faction's patronage of Oxbridge, yes? As a new boy to the old boy's club, I have a small task for you..." Early October. Eric Walken was a happy man. It had been a fortnight of victories. Fudan had not only returned from their overseas foray unscathed; they had returned with the maximum allotment of CCs possible for an early round. Of course, he couldn't reveal his delight in front of the contestants. In his unremitting evaluation, he had rebuked Gwen for her thoughtless escalation while keeping his hypertension plainly visible to discourage the girl's risk-taking. Even with Auberon playing the diplomat, he spittle-sprayed her with criticism, especially when she almost lost a leg while saving Inti. Still, to repel a Beast Tide! Even a manufactured one was a glorious feat! On vid-cast especially, the scene was a sight to behold. When the girl withdrew into her Void Egg and released the lampreys en-mass, Walken could only shudder as he relived Sobel's assault on the Tower. Was that a strategy inherent to Void Mages? He wondered, but soon realised he was her source of inspiration. In their conversations, he had spoken endlessly of Sobel, and it was from his anecdote that the girl drew her mimicry. If so, should he invest in Signature Void spells for the girl? If an opportunity arose, they could pioneer some relatively singular magics that may increase her efficacy by leaps and bounds. Fudan lacked the talent, but his old alumni in London would surely be interested in a sorceress of such talent and limitless potential. The only problem Walken could see was that the girl came with significant baggage. But that could wait until the IIUC passed. Meanwhile, the rest of Fudan's contestants received their dues, especially following the national broadcast. Of her teammates, it was the Sword Mage who was a clear standout. Thanks to the Naga Core, Lulan Li had become a broadcast darling. During the vid-cast, a full five-minute emphasis had been placed on the girl's single-duel with the Troll Chieftain, completely uncensored as she shaved the creature down to the stumps. As an ex-Clanner and an ethnic Han, she struck all the right notes. In Central's view, the girl was living proof that China's ancient martial-magic had its place on the modern battlefield. According to the news, Lulan was now "Elder Li of the Outer Sect", having been awarded a non-sensical title by Huashang to keep face without reneging on her "ex-communication". As for the elder who had stricken Lulan from the roster; Gwen said the man was now fencing bokchoi in the countryside. New offers of support followed. Notably, a missive arrived from Moscow Tower, transferred from Yekaterinburg, the contents to which Walken wasn't privy. Bai received a commendation, hand-delivered by the Secretariat of Shandong province. Richard's parents were given the fast-track treatment to immigrate from Sydney to Shanghai, and Eunae came home to strongly-worded praises from the Seoul urging her continued performance. Other fortunes flooded in. For the House of M, who Gwen had put in place as the team's financial sponsor. Messages and requests from corporations flooded in, the most poignant of which was an official apology from the makers of the Shen-tei armour, CCL Heavy Industries, promising better models for the next round. As for Walken himself, he had received countless congratulations from his old contacts. Though the gestures appeared mundane, they were supremely important to a disgraced Magister like himself. For Walken, having old "friends" contact him of their own volition signalled his rebounding influence. He wouldn't be gaining a position anytime soon, Walken wasn't delusional, but at least he would no longer be left out in the cold. Until the Dean's worrisome Message arrived, therefore, Walken had felt on top of the world. When it did, a bucket of cold water poured over the Magister's back, dousing the ember of ambition. Like his rebellious daughters, trouble seldom travelled alone, and in the case of belligerent news, it arrived as a party. Incredibly, Auckland University had defeated Tokyo in an enormous upset, repeating what Fudan had done to Kyoto and knocking Japan out of the IIUC entirely. According to the Dean's report, the match had taken place in Waitomo, in a hive-type Dungeon two hours flight from Auckland. In a straight-laced race of damage and pacing, Auckland had outperformed Tokyo University by closing the Dungeon on the fifth day, denying their opponents a come-back. The next piece of news was that the Sorcerous Academy of Pretoria, or "Tuks" for those in the know, had defeated Nanyang Spellcraft in a competition which had been neck-and-neck from the get-go. Theirs had been the hunting-gathering of rare specimens and minerals in the archipelago of Indo-China, a contest from which Tuks emerged the victor. Concurrently, the Dean's message also noted that in North America, the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy had defeated London Imperial. Likewise, Cairo had defeated Golden Sun in Meso-America despite their home ground in New Tenochtitlan. Finally, Ludwig Maximilian emerged the victor in Eastern Europe against Stanford. The emerging groups for round two, therefore, were Auckland, Fudan and Pretoria in group 2, while group 1 involved MIT, Cairo and Ludwig Maximilian. Of Fudan's two opponents, Walken preferred NSU, whose history dated only four decades. Comparatively, Tuks, named after the original Afrikaans acronym— Transvaalse Universiteitskollege, was a far older institution with ties to London's Imperial College. In regards to the results, his paranoia lay in that with London Imperial's militants removed from the competition; an enormous pressure now fell on Tuks to best the "rabble". Though Pretoria was rank 80 right now, its highest position two decades ago had been in the 40s. Comparatively for Auckland, 90 was the highest it had ever been, while Fudan had been unranked until the mid-80s. Likewise, of the three universities, only Pretoria possessed Meister-tier instructors. For pride, prestige, and innumerable reasons, therefore— Pretoria would be giving it their all. And then there was China's ploy to give Fudan a "leg up". The location of the next match was the coastal peninsula of Dalian, a tiny corner of the Northern Front. To Walken's limited knowledge, Dalian was a headland girt by the Yellow Sea on three sides. Infamously, its north-eastern border was crammed to the brim with Undead spilling from the fallen city of Shenyang. Considering the catastrophe that was the previous IIUC foray into the Undead Front, the Central Bureau must have positioned the competition so that Pretoria and Auckland would be reluctant to send their precious students. That way, if Fudan's competitors refused to commit their forces fully, the host team could arguably emerge an easy victor. As for the Front itself— Walken had no idea what was in store for the contestants. If anything, Gwen should be consulting her war hero uncle. Conversely, now that his student had made her global debut, was the additional danger worthwhile? Though Mages possessed Contingency Rings, casualties at the Front had never been low. When struck by a Soul Drain, afflicted by Umbral Shadows, Enervated by Ghoul-Rot, there was little a triage without Faith Magic could do. Circumstantially, the Chinese Front's voracious appetite for replacements, in Walken's opinion, was traceable to the state's steadfast refusal to utilise religion. Could Gwen quit while she's ahead? Walken wondered, but soon realised the futility of such a thing. Even if Gwen were made to resign, her team would venture forth regardless. And in that regard, convincing her to abandon her teammates would be a task far more complicated than besting an Undead horde. Ayxin sat with both hands placed atop her thighs while she studied the fist-sized orb, round on top and jagged below where it broke off from the Da-Peng's heart. Even as a half-dragon-half-daughter-of-heaven, she felt impressed. For a being like Ayxin, the Dragons' rivalry with the Da-Peng was etched in her marrows. It was a conflict that gave rise to her existence as a being begotten by the alliance between the Yellow Emperor and the Five mythical Dragons of yore, among them her father, the Yinglong. For Gwen to produce three Da-Peng Cores was, therefore, a great shock. Even now, she could feel within her body the welling of violent impulses. Together with awe, she also felt a deep-seated desire to crush the Core here and now. "Wow, so this is a Da-Peng Core." Jun, her mate, picked up the misshaped sphere with one hand. "Heavy! It must have been a very formidable creature. Well done, Gwen." With a greedy ear, Jun had requested the girl's latest adventure, who in turn had questioned Jun about his knowledge of the Front, citing Dalian as their next objective. Discerningly, though Ayxin had made it clear that she was ambivalent to the girl's cause, her husband nonetheless thoughtlessly promised his support. "Jun." Axyin raised a dainty finger. "Put that back." "It's not dangerous, is it?" Jun tossed the thing from hand to hand. "I heard the Da-Peng used to hunt Dragons, is that true?" "It's true." Ayxin's exquisite brows furrowed. "Gwen, tell your uncle to drop it." "Why?" The impertinent girl grinned at her, apparently reading her thoughts. "What's wrong." "Jun, return the orb," Ayxin pleaded. "Please… just do it." Though puzzled by his wife's distress over a dead bird, her human obliged. "Sorry." Jun's face grew sympathetic. "Does the Core make you uncomfortable?" "It does." Ayxin wished that Jun wouldn't be so questioning. He was a good lover and an attentive partner, but he could be woefully obtuse. Jun replaced the orb, then reached over and patted her thigh. It was a habitual act, for having since discovered human "fashion", Ayxin had taken on his niece's preference for dresses above the knee. When Jun's fingers caressed her skin, however, Axyin had reached her limit. Leaping from her chair and too overwhelmed to explain herself, Ayxin proceeded straight to the bathroom to vigorously rub-down the part of her where Jun had caressed. Back in the private dining room, her lover spoke to his niece. "Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with Ayxin, she's usually very accommodating," came the usual deference from her partner. "Uncle," the little hussy's voice came across mirthfully. "You really should wash your hands. That Core was dug out by her brother from a waist-high pile of his own shit." Shanghai. ISTC Station. A troop of giants crowded the spacious international terminal. "Rongo, what do you make of this?" one hulk said to the next. "It's choice, bro. No wonder Shanghai's a tier-one city," remarked another giant waiting to process his Multi-pass. Like the first, this one sported terrifying tattoos from the neck to shin. "I heear there's good eat'n in the sety. The beggar's make chuken hāngi-style." The PLA guards gawked. They had heard that foreigners were big fellers, but these fellers were BIG in a demi-human sense. When one of the guests grinned at a guard, he almost struck the panic button; a device only activated when terrible things with many limbs crawled through a Teleportation Circle. "Whetu, this where your old mate's set up?" the giant called Rango turned to the one called Whetu, the largest of the lot by half-a-head. "Sure is!" came a female voice at once shrill and sweet. "You lot, don't wait for me. Head right for the shuttle bay and don't forget your Translation Stones. I've got a Gwennie to cuddle." "Oi, medgeet." A bear-mitt sized hand gripped the head of the female speaker. "Don't run off just yet; wait for the captain." To the guard's surprise, the "Medgeet" fearlessly battered away the giant, allowing them a good gander at the lone female amidst the mountainous bodies. Where the guards had expected a Gweilo girl, they instead beheld a local girl with a heart-shaped chin, baby-fat still fluffing her cheeks. Attired in a singlet and military cargos, everything about the girl was small and compact but for a pair of protrusions that were scandalously out of proportion. "No need, the captain knows," the girl informed her cadre of giants. "Whetu can come if he wants to watch, but either way, I'll be rocking my Gwennie all-night-long!"

Fengbo Village used to be famous for its Beggar Pheasant, but now it was just as renowned as the local haunt of the Fudan IIUC team. Gwen's patronage, however, was well deserved. There was something to be said when a hole in the wall that barely fitted forty people could capture a sorceress with the fragrance of lotus-wrapped chooks. "Tsingtao for the table as well, Mama," Gwen shouted across to the tiny kitchen. "The big bottles." "You got it, beauty!" the chef's wife, an NoM woman, possessed a voice like a loud hailer. "On the house, okay?" "Thanks, Mama." Gwen wasn't fussed. The tips she usually left were enough to pay for a crate of fifty and then some. Though Gwen was shouting the team dinner, most of the members couldn't make it. Presently, the table was graced by Jiro, Petra, Eunae, Mia and Ruì, with their NoM companion coming off a week spent tallying the paperwork for Gwen's perusal. "Your skin looks terrible," Gwen reprimanded her secretary's unhealthy zeal for after hour labour. "Are you getting enough sleep?" "A few hours, here and there." Ruì's bloodshot eyes blinked. "Tonglv has reached the busiest portion of Stage Two. There's a lot of paperwork." "Is Dai giving you grief? I know Ken's doing alright, he submitted his report two days ago." "Master Fung is doing his best to keep our work on schedule," Ruì explained diplomatically. "He says he misses you." "I am sure he does," Gwen muttered, her chopstick working on a chicken thigh. Still, Ruì's frailness made her wary. How could she allow her right-hand woman to collapse when there was so much work to be done? "Mia, what's a good supplement NoMs can use to maintain their vitality?" "Oh, there's plenty." Mayuree stabbed at the fish head, scooping out the eyes. "I'll have someone send over a box of Vitae-Extra tomorrow." "Thanks." Gwen grinned at the blushing Ruì. "Share it with the others, will you? I'll have to talk to Dai later. If you get sick, what's his contingency plan? Manage the accounts? Pigs might fly!" "Hahaha…" Ruì giggled, hoping that her impertinence wouldn't reach the young master's ears. "It's nothing, Miss. I mean, you guys fought off a Beast Tide! I saw it on the vid-cast!" Indeed, even now, the vid-cast of Fudan's match played in the corner of the eatery. It was a cheap ploy dreamed up by the restaurant's Mama, but Gwen didn't mind. What made her cringe though was seeing close-ups of her face as she incanted spells, especially when she received vitality hits. Her only solace was that Lulan had it worse. Kusu's hair loss aside, the exposure had given Lulu plenty of exposure. Lulu wasn't a bad-looking gal, and her Sword Magic, for all its melee limitations, was remarkably aesthetic. For an audience weaned on Fire Balls and Magic Missiles, watching a petite lass carve a nine-foot Troll like a side of prosciutto was the definition of titillating battle-porn. The trade-off, conversely, came in the form of rabid fanboys around the university district. Gwen's advice for her friend's newfound popularity was that if she had to break bones, Dai would be avilable for clean up. Across the table, Petra downed half a bottle of beer, then frowned at the meagre alcohol content. Eunae sat in a floating world of her own, dreaming of all the rewards her Chaebol relatives had promised, so long as Fudan continued its advance. Their sole male member, Jiro, munched on a chicken leg, very much enjoying the sensation of being surrounded by beauties while dozens of men stared with impotent envy. It was in moments like this that Jiro felt genuinely alive. "Pats, don't worry about Moscow." Gwen replaced her chopsticks. "Hell, look at my parents. I am doing just fine, right?" Petra knocked back the rest of the glass. Even on a good day, she wasn't one for smiling. Now that she was troubled over her parents' renewed affection, the permanent frown she wore made her cousin's heart sore. "Tell you what, we'll go to the House of M after, or the Continental, or the Astoria. With Mayuree's Centurion Card, its Happy Hour every hour!" "Why, that could cheer me up." Petra's indifference cracked. "I am coming too!" Jiro raised his hand. "I'll be your chaperone!" "Shaa!" "We'll be your chaperone." "Shall we dress up?" Gwen made eyes at her cousin. "We could do some late-night shopping as well. The malls are open till late." Jiro's fingers began to shake. He wanted to help the girls shop. He had all kinds of outfits in mind. "Too much effort." Petra dashed Jiro's dream-come-true with only three words. "Can't I go as is?" Gwen regarded Petra's getup. There was a special kind of charm inherent to a beautiful woman wearing a lab coat, but she was sure laboratory couture did not grace the steps of five-star hotels. What if the tabloids were there? In the first few days of their return, the paparazzi had hounded her ceaselessly. "Eunnie, you coming?" Gwen turned to Eunae, then paused when a commotion broke out outside the restaurant. "Wah! Giant Gweilo!" someone was saying. "His face has tattoos!" "Is he a half-orc?" Another voice rudely remarked. "Orcs have tattoos, right?" To Gwen's astonishment, a barrel-chested body barred the doorway, its arch just reaching the giant's chin. "That's one jacked dude," Jiro remarked, dropping his pork hock. "A gweilo from America, maybe?" Gwen flashed the young man an admonishing look with her hazel orbs, then returned her attention to the figure now ducking under the door. To the team's surprise, Gwen suddenly stood from her seat, her mouth half-open. "HOLY SHIT, WHETU?!" her voice rang out. The familiar face was older now, manlier and more heavily tattooed with Tā moko, the telling of a Maori caster's whakapapa, his origin. "Kia ora." The big man waved back, hitting the ceiling with one hand. "OH MY GOD!" Gwen spat, then pushed forward so that she ran face-first against the big man's chest. "WHETU! How the hell? How is this possible— Auckland! You're with Auckland, right?" "That's right." Whetu enveloped the girl in his arms, his muscular frame so impressive as to swallow Gwen's lithe body. "How you been?" "Let's talk somewhere less cramped." Gwen realised Whetu had been stooping the whole while. She apologised to her teammates, promising to return, then led the Punamu Abjurer outside while ignoring the stares from the customers. Gradually, the conversation died down. Back at the table, Petra explained who Whetu was to the rest of her party. "So that's who he is," Jiro intoned sulkily, scratching his head. "Mao! He was taller and wider than Tupaq!" Outside, Gwen found a quiet spot not far from Fengbo village to digest Whetu's mind-blowing visitation. "So, you're here with the team?" Whetu nodded. "Oi sew your match at the ISTC station. They were playing it in the lounge." "God, how embarrassing." Gwen grew crimson. "But never mind that, how are you? It feels like a lifetime since we parted from Singapore. I wasn't expecting to see you at least for a few more years. Like, after I escape to Sydney, you know? Damn. I have to Message Yue and Elvia when I get home. How did you even find me?" "About that." Whetu rubbed his tattooed face with a guilty look. "Don't be surprised now." "About what?" Gwen grinned like a fool. She still couldn't believe she was seeing Whetu Tikitiki O Taranga in the flesh. Unbidden, a swell of joyous feelings gushed forth, she felt giddier than a newborn fawn. "!" It wasn't her Sigil that tinged, but her sides. Before Gwen could profess her delight at Whetu's arrival, a small pair of hands cupped her modest bosoms. Were it not for Whetu looking away and the buxom clues pressing against the small of her back, she would have dented her assailant's face with an elbow strike. Instead, Gwen froze like a Hob in the path of a well-aimed Void Bolt. Whetu turned away, leaving the girls some privacy. "You know..." came a cherished utterance from her waist. "... For the record, I wanted to cover your eyes, but really, high-heels at your height? Fuck me for being a short-ass, eh?" The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Gwen arrested the wandering hands, feeling both their fingers tremble with anticipation. "Whetu, is this an Illusion? I am wearing Mind Shield earrings." "Turn around and find out," the voice commanded. Gwen did as told. "Yue Bai." Gwen inspected her closest and oldest friend. "Gwen Song." Her oldest companion gave her a once-over. "I am going to hug you very tightly," Gwen forewarned her bestie, her eyes growing misty as her lips trembled. "I am very strong and very emotional right now. I don't know if I can control my strength." "I got Healing Injectors." Yue opened her arms. "Come here, woman!" "YUEEEEEEE!" Gwen picked up the girl and squeezed her like a reluctant cat against her chest. "YUE! YUE! YUE! My darling, Miss Bai! Gods, how I've missed you!" "JESUS-H-CHRIST!" Yue felt her joints crackle. "Fuck me; you're stronger than a Hive Queen. What the fuck do you eat? Never mind, its Caliban, isn't it. Shit, you're a walking suit of Golem Armour." Gwen ignored the F-bombs. Instead, she rubbed her cheeks against her friend's, then kissed Yue violently across the forehead, the cheeks and finally pecked her lips. "How! How!? HOW are you here?" "How am I here? The ISTC, of course." Yue pulled herself away to catch her breath. "Bloody hell, don't do this to Elvia. You'll kill her outright." "HOW!" Gwen gushed, unable to control the moisture seeping from her eyes. "Whoa, okay? Tears of joy? I am flattered. Haha, I'll tell you, Jeez." Yue teased her endlessly while holding Gwen's hands. "It's not a long story, but it's a good one, you wanna get a drink? Long trip, you know? I could do with a schooner of horse piss, how about you?" "Of course, what am I thinking!" Gwen apologised as she wiped her eyes, smearing her eye-liner. "Let's go to my usual haunt. I know the owners." Midnight. The Waldorf Astoria. Beside what was once the longest bar in the world, Yue and Jiro arm-wrestled. "YAH!" Yue slammed the Fire Evoker's arm against the wood. "Gotcha, ya soft cock!" Jiro deflated, suddenly doubting his masculinity. Here was a girl that was the spitting image of the Sprite he wished to possess in the future, and yet, she was mangling his ego. In his eyes, Yue should have been perfection - fiery hot but pocket-sized. But the moment she opened her mouth, Jiro felt deeply disturbed by the girl's ability to weave F-bombs into everyday conversation. It was like a foul-mouthed soldier had been crammed into a bite-sized body, then given high-Affinity Fire and a pair of tits. Haughtily, Yue buttoned her blouse. "That's what you get for being distracted." Around the bar, the girls jeered and hooted. Petra was on her fourth cocktail, while Eunae and Mayuree were still finishing their first. Whetu sipped a jug of iced banana milk by the side, citing that he made an immovable drunk. Below the girls' dangling white legs, Caliban kept away the thirsty men while Ariel drew adoring eyes from envious onlookers. "Yue, you're a treasure!" Mayuree giggled. "Steward, another Sunrise!" "So," Yue continued her teasing of Jiro, which Gwen suspected could likely be a fatal, fiery attraction. "I heard you got a nice bird." "A Fire Bird, yes." Jiro nodded. Usually, he would have released the bird to impress the ladies, but Yue made him want to keep the old pecker penned up. "Want to see what I've got?" Yue indicated to her heart. Jiro wondered if the other girls would slap him if he said yes. "Ooo!" Gwen leaned in with a strawberry daiquiri in one hand. "Can we see it?" "Sure." Yue smirked haughtily. "Gonna need some room though." Mayuree signalled the troop of handsome waiters, who immediately cleared a small room's worth of space by relocating the tables. To the participating establishments, the word of the Centurion customer was the word of God. Yue whistled at the demure looking Diviner. "Mia, you own this place or something?" "She's a shareholder," Gwen answered for Mayuree. "You know, Yunnie, I've got a modest income these days. Once this is all over, we can travel the world, you and me and Evee. Where ever we go, crystals will be no object." "Sure, sounds like a plan." Yue grinned as her eyes grew bright with firelight, her pupils lighting like lanterns as Elemental Fire flooded her conduits. "Alright, step back— Tân-Cysgodol!" The group's captive audience shirked back as invisible heat filled the room. The rise in temperature was imaginary, but they could all feel the fire scorching their Astral Souls. In a flash, Yue's contracted Spirit manifested, dwarfing even a high heeled Gwen. What appeared was a coal-skinned horse, its mane brilliant with blue fire while its iridescent cobalt hooves struck sparks against the air. When it swished its tail, a swarm of lesser Elementals spawned in its wake. "Harrumph!" The creature neighed. "Wow." Gwen had expected to be impressed, but this was something else. "A Fire Horse!" "A Nightmare!" Petra corrected her cousin before turning to Yue. "May I ask what tier it is? The blue fire is uncommon even for Nightmares." "High tier. First of all, credit where credit is due." Yue made a face. "I didn't acquire it. It was a gift from my Master, Alesia de Botton." "Is this the one Gunther bought?" Gwen felt green with envy. "My God, Yue! Gunther paid how much for this?" "I am too scared to find out." Yue scratched her brow guiltily. "It was originally meant for Master, so…" Jiro forced his mouth shut. Within his chest, his Firebird cowered like a quail. It wasn't so much that the Nightmare was a more senior tier of Elemental, but that his Spirit was a fledgeling, while Yue's Spirit was a mature being. "Tân-Cysgodol…" Gwen mulled over the name. "Is it Scottish?" "Welsh." Yue stroked the creature's mane as it nuzzled her chest, huffing hot air. "Master says it means flame and shadow." "Can I touch it?" Gwen came closer. "Sure. Be careful; it bites." Gwen sauntered closer, cooing as she raised a hand. "Hello there, Shadow." The horse sniffed her fingers, measuring her with its intelligent eyes. "Ee!" Ariel raised a snout to sniff the horse, receiving a sniff in return. "Shaa!" Caliban raised itself so that it stood at Gwen's shoulder like a cobra. Extending a tentacle from its carapace, it gave the Nightmare a quick flicker with its tongue. Not to be beaten, the Nightmare dipped its head and gave Caliban a lick over its shiny head. "Man, Ariel's looking pretty funky, huh?" "Ariel's been busy! So, is your fire blue now?" Gwen recalled that Alesia was called the Scarlet Sorceress or the Crimson Witch precisely because of the unique hue of her magic. "Only when Tandy is helping out." "Tandy?" "Yeah." Yue snickered. "Tân-Cysgodol is too much of a mouthful, you know?" Yue's horse regarded its owner with depthless eyes, clearly critical of her naming sense. After each of Gwen's team took turns touching the horse, Tân-Cysgodol faded from sight. "How're your studies coming along?" Gwen inquired once the thrill of seeing a flaming mare diminished. "I am learning Conjuration, actually," Yue declared wistfully. "Bloody time consuming, but that's the plan. Major Evocation and minors in Transmutation and Conjuration. Allie's got no talent in Conjuration, apparently, but says I could manage the lower tiers no problem." Gwen imagined a scene where a flame-clad Yue rode through the air on a flying, fire-clad horse, dropping Fire Balls and Scorching Rays. "How's your mum and dad?" Gwen asked. "Still living in Forestville?" "Naw, we're out of that dump." Yue snorted. "I work now, got a salary and everything, and bonuses from Militia requests. Been working like a sheepdog since you left. The amount of shit left to do in Sydney even with Gunther dispensing crystals and CCs like confetti is pretty much what the fuck." "Yeah, I can imagine that." Gwen tried to imagine Gunther the Tower Master sitting at his desk, doughing out quests. "But how did you end up in Auckland?" "Academic Enrichment program. Alesia told me you're going to be in the IIUC and I missed you, so I thought, hey, why not bum a spot from another Uni? I figured if not you, maybe Auck could do well enough to see Elvia!" "Aww, that's sweet." Gwen squeezed Yue's fingers. "And they obliged?" "I was over there working with Whetu's people anyway. Spoke to their captain, their captain spoke to the admin, then Whetu's Master hooked us up. It's all very proper." "Aww, thanks for taking care of her, Whetu." "Sweet-as, bro, no dramas." Whetu gave her a thumbs up. "She's kucking arse for us." "Are you going the Tower route, Yue?" "Naw, I am a grunt, through and through." Yue materialised a military ID from her ring. "Read that? Specialist First-Class. Mage Flight 302. You're looking at a woman with a rank, civilian." "Thank you for your service, Ma'am!" Gwen saluted. "At ease, citizen." Yue saluted back. The rest of the table toasted with a cheer. "So, where are you staying tonight?" Gwen downed the daiquiri in one gulp. "Where's your hotel?" "Where am I staying?" Yue snorted as though Gwen had said a ridiculous thing. "Why, in your bed, my dear." "COUGH-COUGH!" Jiro choked and spluttered, spraying beer all over the bar. When Gwen had just arrived in her strange world of monsters and magic, having Yue in the dorm gently snoring a few meters away was endearing. In those dark days, she was lonely, mortified by her useless magic, and clueless as to what her future might hold. One bed over, Yue's presence had been her rock, anchoring Gwen's frayed psyche to the plane of reality and preventing her from sinking into nightmares of her own making. Now, almost three years and a month to the day, they once again shared a bed. "Yue…" Gwen listened for Yue's breathing in the dark. "What are you doing?" "I am cuddling." "You're spooning me." "I know." "Right." "Yeah." "…" "Go back to sleep." "I can't." "Fine. Want to talk?" "Sure." "What's the deal with Walken?" "Walken? Alesia didn't tell you?" "She went back to Sydney right away. I was in Auckland to train." "Righto, Walken, huh. Well, how much do you know?" "Start from the beginning." "Alright…" Holding Yue's hands at bay, Gwen told the tale in the dark. "Hmm, Master told me to Fireball his ass if he keeps getting handsy with you." "He's not a bad bloke. Misguided, but an ally, at least for now." "Pfft—" Yue breathed on Gwen's neck. "You believe that?" "He taught me his signature magic." "Just the one? I got whole Spellbooks full of Signature Spells." "That's nice." "Shit, sorry…" "Don't mind it." "… are you still a virgin?" Yue quickly changed the subject. "What...?" "Well?" "I don't want to answer that question." "Jesus, how are you still a virgin?" "Well, are you?" "Of course, I am saving myself for Elvia." "… seriously?" "No, silly goose. I am saving myself for twin-dicked saurians." "What? Like the knob you sent me?" "Mate, you seen the size of that thing?" "I am seriously confused right now." "I am in the military, dumbass, unsanctioned fornication is a big no-no." "Why are we talking about this again?" "Tell ya what. I am going to marry an NoM, like my Dad." "Yeah?" "Yep, fuck those purists. We get them by the bucketload in the Frontier Air Division. Pencil wand fuckwits are what they are. Sometimes I feel like making out with the janitor just to piss em off. Like, I'll ride in on Tandy with my NoM stud in tow, flashing my tits at them and shit. Maybe if I dilute my 'lineage' in public, they'll leave me alone, you know?" "Oh my god, Yue, I-I can't breath." Gwen huffed. The imagery was too much. "You're killing me." "You like that, ya hussy? Want me to keep going?" "Jesus, I am cramping up. What do they teach you in the Militia?" "Plenty. You ever go on patrol, and there's just you and four dudes and a thousand lizards for like five weeks in the woods? Lonely folks get thirsty as all fuck. I'll tell you that. Tandy gets a pretty good workout practising identify friend-foe." In the dark, Gwen tried to stop herself from waking Petra with her suppressed shrieking. Yue was the best; the damage she dealt was too great. "So, what about you?" Yue refused to relent. "How do you, you know?" "Caliban…" Gwen began. "What. The. Fuck." Yue squeezed Gwen's waist. "Cali's just a child!" Again, Gwen fought down her cramping abdominals. "No, I mean, when I use Consume, there's this big hit of vitality, and I gotta say, it's better…? Less fuss." "Better than…" "Yeah. No mess either." In the gloomy murk, Gwen noted that her friend had withdrawn her wandering hands. "Yue?" "Yeah-Nah," her friend's voice drifted across the dark. "So you're telling me… that you're getting off from eating people?"

Morning. Gwen left Yue to sleep off their conversation while she jogged out with her creatures to purchase fried dough and fresh-milled soy. In the living room, she apologised to Petra, who had been kept awake by the thinness of their walls, then began her round-the-block regime. Along the way, hawkers waved as they stacked fried tofu or piled buns in bamboo steamers, filling the avenue with the smell of dim-sims. With her ponytail swishing like a metronome, Gwen thought about Yue. Despite Gwen's "confessions of a man-eater", her oldest friend assured her that she didn't mind. If indeed Gwen found men uninspiring because of a phallic Familiar, who was she to judge? "Beauty! The usual?" The old vendor, Mr Yang, towed the dough through the bubbling lard. "Fresh oil today." "I'll take twelve." Gwen smoothed out her ponytail, still thinking of Yue's endless teasing. "Hey, line up like the rest of us!" a customer entirely immune to Caliban complained. "Boss, why's she cutting in line? Don't tell me that's your daughter." "My shout, everyone in line." Gwen placed a stick of HDM crystal in the change box. "Keep the change." "Thank you, beauty." "That's our Miss Song!" "You show the Japs, Miss Worm Handler!" "That's Gwen Song?" The young man who had called her out blanched. Not wanting to cause a scene, the boss hastily wrapped Gwen's dough, tossing in two radish cakes. "Thanks, Mr Yang. You let us know if the Chengguan bother you again, alright?" "No bother! No bother at all." The vendor shook his head as he handed over the soy milk. "They very good now. Thank you." Gwen waved the man goodbye. A week ago, she had happened to be out buying breakfast with Ruì when they saw a Chengguan officer harassing her breakfast joint. When Ruì confronted the man, the city guard made a show of taking both Ruì and Yang in for 'obstruction' of public duty. Much displeased, Gwen straight away called Dai and told him to make himself useful. When the municipal police showed up, they issued Mr Yang an apology and a vendor licence, then took the surprised Chengguan away. As for what awaited the guard, Gwen believed that if you can't hustle when the chips are down, maybe its best not to hustle at all. When she returned to the apartment, Yue was up, and Whetu had come to pick his teammate up. "Youtiao and soy milk?" Gwen materialised breakfast from her ring. "There's enough for you too, Whetu." "Yes, please." The giant's presence made her apartment seem the size of a Kobold cave. "You ready for Dalian?" Gwen dabbed her lips with a serviette after inhaling a few sticks of dough. "I've got an Undead demo with Walken and Wen later today. You interested?" "Nah, don't much feel like seeing his ugly mug." Yue waved a hand. "The comp goes from mid-October through to the end of the month. Pretoria is going to take another week to arrive at least. We got plenty of time to chill. Our Instructor will arrange some Undead encounters for us, I am sure." Gwen checked the clock. "Looks like I gotta go. Tonight, I'll take you to that Beggar Chicken place. Bring the team!" "I'll see who's keen. Meanwhile, have fun with the Undead." Yue blew her a kiss. "And tell Walken that Master says 'fuck you'." "So, Alesia's walking Fireball is here." Walken rolled his eyes. "I should be happy that her master is preoccupied. Can you imagine the two of them together?" "They do get along like a house on fire," Gwen agreed. Standing side-by-side, instructor and student both conversed under Fudan's Handan campus Stadium. The last time Gwen was here, it had been to receive Hufei Chen's guidance. This time, the war veteran came out of curiosity. "You sure about this, lassie?" The gruff Conjurer watched as box after box of warded freight containers backed up against the rectangular array. Also present were Wen and her assistant, Gwen's cousin, both holding biometric slates in their off-white lab coats. Presently, Gwen wore her Mary Janes with a loosely fitted boho-floral one-piece. The getup wasn't exactly professional, but it did leave enough exposed for Petra to inscribe diagnostic glyphs on Gwen's legs, arms, back and collarbones. "Better now than later," Gwen thanked her teacher. Reaching down, she picked up Caliban by the waist and hugged her serpent against her chest. "Cali's a big boy now. You've taught me a lot." "Just doing my job." Hufei kept his usual laconicism. "But I am glad you wrangled your snake. And your mongoose, I've rarely seen a smarter and more obedient Spirit." Gwen smiled politely, allowing Caliban to coil about her narrow waist. "Gwen, please begin." Wen indicated to the testing arena. "As we're still in the fact-finding phase, I could only commission samples up to tier 6." It was a tier which would give an average Combat Mage a headache, though Gwen's observers were painfully aware that their sorceress ate mid-tier Magic Creatures for breakfast. "That's plenty. Dimension Door!" Gwen reappeared in the enclosed room. "Why is she in there?" Hufei raised a brow. "You just need her snake and the Undead, right?" Walken pinched his brows. "Overzealous perhaps. But maybe this is a good thing. She has no experience against the Undead, except for soloing a Soul Eater." Hufei recalled the vid-cast. "Ready the tier 2 samples!" Wen wasn't overly concerned that her samples and her test sample were now rooming together. "Start with one!" An assistant, one of Wen's many post-graduate acolytes, performed an unlocking incantation on the creature-crates connected to the force-fenced arena. "Murrrrgh… MURRRRGH!" Ominous moans hinted at the container's cargo. Once the sealing ward ceased its glow, a shipment of Undead delivered fresh from the Front filed into the demonstration arena. Presently, the Force Barrier admitted a single Zombie. "Ew." Gwen ground her molars as the scent of rotting flesh assailed her nostrils. George A. Romero may not exist in this world, but the man was a bloody prophet when it came to predicting the likeness of the Undead. With her enhanced eyes, she remarked that the "man" was in the latter stages of decomposition, with "his" remaining flesh kept in repose by some unspeakable sorcery. Gwen gulped. Necromancy. To think she was going toe to toe with actual creatures from the horror films of her alternative earth. Presently, two forms of Necromancy existed: Sanctioned and Unsanctioned. According to her declassified textbooks, Death Magic was the earliest form of human-made magic. Since antiquity, the worship of Death, Death Gods, and Negative Energy began long before Mages manipulated the Elements. For Sanctioned Necromancy, one need not look further than the High Priests of Egypt. Drawing on a legacy of preserving the dead for mummification, the Hem-netjer-tep, first servant of Ra the Falcon-headed, could call upon shroud-wrapped ancestors to defend the Kingdom against intruders. Concurrently, the Sau, or Acolyte-Priests of the Kingdom, manipulated lesser corpses as mindless labour to fuel the Nile's resurgent primary industries. As for other surviving proto-cultures from Africa to China to the Israelites, death worship was embedded into their civilisations. Unlike Elementalist Spellcraft, magic users always knew there was power in death, and it should come as no surprise that the Path of Undeath begot many disciples. Conversely, China's Northern Front was a product of the second type of Necromancy. According to her conversation with Jun, it all began in the 1950s. After 1949, the newly emergent People's Republic of China, with the aid of Russia, sought to establish a Pan-Asia Communist-bloc. To prevent the formation of a hostile superpower, the USA, supported by the newly subdued Japan, joined the fray. The result was a proxy war fought by the two fledgeling nations across the 38th parallel. Initially, the near Mage-less South Korean army withdrew to Pusan, but in 1954, the Commonwealth Mageocracy formally joined the conflict. Together, the two Western power blocs provided South Koreans with rapid education reforms, resulting in a slew of newly-Awakened Spell-fodder using the Imperial Metric System. Two years later, in the Spring Offensive of 1956, the North Korean army, despite its Russian field advisors and quasi-magical battalions from China, lost Incheon. China responded by sending more men. As a result, the two sides seesawed back and forth from Seoul to Yalu. In just two years, the South Koran capital exchanged ownership five times, with the war falling into a state of attrition. Still, the fighting continued. For the Mageocracy and the USA, the Korean conflict was a testing ground for new tactics and spells. Famously, the Korean Conflict was the first to see full-fledged Mage Flights. Infamously, Jun explained with ambivalence; Yalu was also the place where the PLA discovered that a quasi-magical NoM battalion was fodder when fielded against a mid-tier Mage Flight. By the height of the conflict in 1957, the USA and its allies had committed 1.5 Million men to the cause, including 23,000 active Battle Mages. On the North Korean Front, 2.7 Million men were committed to pushing back the Western invasion. In the region between the Yalu Crossing and Kaesŏng, some 3 Million bodies mapped the earth, with an additional 1.55 Million cited as missing. By mid 57, the USA, the Mageocracy, Russia and China grew war-weary. After back-channel discussions addressed each nation's concerns, all support to North Korea ceased. As a result, in the winter of 1957, North Korea called for an Armistice Agreement with Six-Party talks between China, Russia, North Korea and South Korea, USA and Britain. However, when the signatories teleported into Pyongyang, what they found was instead the first days of the Undead Front. In response to calls for his removal as Chairman, the megalomaniac Kim Il Sung had turned to Necromancy in the maddening hour of his demise. With the Teleportation Circle now disabled, none survived the Pyongyang Incident. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. South Korea was the first to enact countermeasures. Aided by the USA and its European allies, the military fell back to Panmunjom, creating a combat zone of salted earth filled with obstacles to deter the Undead. As history proved, the abandonment of a stretch of land ten kilometres wide and two-hundred-and-fifty kilometres from ocean to ocean was the right choice. Comparatively, the Chinese Front had met with anarchy. Woefully underprepared for the Undead spilling from Pyongyang, the PLA's Central Bureau was caught with its pants down when five million creatures crossed the Yalu River. For the next decade, the Chinese Communists only managed to contain the Undead threat. In 1971, the Beast Tide resulted in simultaneous incursions from Inner Mongolia, Qinghai, and the South China Sea. Within weeks, the Northern Front collapsed in its entirety. Liaoning Prefecture was all but overrun in six-months, followed by the loss of three million souls in Shenyang. Sweeping through Jinzhou, a swarm numbering six million made it as far as Tangshan, two hours Mage flight from Beijing before Central committed all of its resources to stem the tide. Today, the Northern Front extends from Jinzhou to Xilin Gol, stretching the length of Manchuria from mountain to coast. "MARRRRGH!" The lone Zombie must have sensed her overlarge brain, for it suddenly broke into a half-crawl, half-sprint canter. "Do I consume it now?" Gwen asked her instructors. "Why not play with it a bit?" Walken recommended. "Since you're here, may as well get some experience. Zombies are the most numerous of all Undead, and in enough numbers, they're virtually unstoppable." "What if I get bitten?" "Then we get more data," Wen scoffed. "Do as you will, we don't have all day." By now, the Zombie was almost upon her. Caliban looked toward its mistress, waiting for further instructions. Having watched all seven Resident Evil films, Gwen struck out a heeled foot, then stomped at the creature's chest. In her mind, she pictured the Zombie splattering spectacularly against the wall. Crunch! "ARRRGH!" "MARRRRGH!" Gwen suddenly found herself compromised by unwanted matrimony when her foot punched through the torso of the Zombie to exit the other side. Gore-soaked and covered in rotten flesh, she shrieked in place of her ruined Mary Janes, which possessed no mouth for screaming. Leaning against her arm, the Zombie then bit her shoulder. "G-Gross! Oh, Gods!" Gwen threw her hands wildly, striking the Zombie so that its head went flying. Shuddering in horror, she then peeled the briefly animate corpse from her quaking body. Where it had bitten her, she could feel a slight soreness. "HOLY SHIT!" She exposed her shoulder to Walken by pulling down the fabric. "I GOT BIT!" "Betrayed by your strength!" Walken nodded appreciatively. "Ready for the next one?" "What?" Gwen protested. "I got bit, Eric!" Walken raised a brow. "I am going to turn into a Zombie!" Gwen wailed. "How would you like that? Zombie Gwen! How would you explain that to Gunther?!" Walken glanced at Wen. "What's she on about." "How would I know?" The Magister shrugged. "Gwen," Petra intervened. "Are you confusing Zombies with Vampires?" Gwen pointed to her neck. "If you get bitten by a Zombie…" "… then you need a healing spell?" Petra's gaze grew sympathetic. "I don't understand?" Gwen felt her eyes moisten. She had seen her share of the Walking Dead. No matter the character's popularity on the show, one scratch and it's roll credits. "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban was confused as well; it had sensed no drop in Gwen's vitality, nor the slightest hint of malaise. "Gwen." Walken pointed to the still groaning head. "You need to crush the head to release the Negative Energy." "BUT!" his student protested, exposing her shoulder some more to show off her non-existent wound. "Zombies are the lowest form of Undead!" Walken averted his eyes. "They manifest when minute Spirits from the Plane of Negative Energy infuse a corpse! When infused, they raise the freshly fallen as Zombies and are known to grow exponentially resilient when swarming. ZOMBIES DO NOT SPREAD BY CONTAGION. You're thinking of Vampires or Plague Priests. Did you study the bestiary?" Gwen did study the bestiary, though it was very thick. Unfortunately, she had glossed over "Zombies" as she had seen Dawn, Night, Resident Evil AND had read World War Z. But her Instructor's spittle seemed to indicate that she was safe. "Void Bolt!" she silenced the chattering skull while nursing her shoulder. If she were to return as a Zombie, Walken would be her first victim. "Feel anything?" "Nope, no different to a Gob." "Good." Wen motioned to the operators. "Release the rest." "MARRRRGH!" Six Zombies limped into the arena. "That stench is enough to kill." Gwen's hyperactive senses were driving her crazy. "Eric, how bad does it get at the Front?" "There's a spell you can get for the smell," Walken assured his student. "These are just regular zombies, mind you. You may very well run into exotic specimens called Putrid Ones." She breathed through her mouth. "Wen. Mind if I test some spells?" "... Fine." Gwen gathered her wits, then marked the shortest spell she could manage under the odious circumstances. "Lightning Bolt!" The room grew suddenly bright. A sizzling line of electricity pierced the Zombies. Where her positively charged mana struck, the foul creatures disintegrated, collapsing onto the floor as a smoking heap. "Well done!" Hufei nodded in approval. "Lightning is the bane of the Undead." "As you can see." Walken pointed to a husk decorating the floor. "Lightning disperses the Negative Energy held within the Undead's Core, destroying the 'will' that gives life to the pale flesh." "Void Bolt!" This time, Gwen made sure to aim for the torso. Where her mass of Void-matter struck, the Zombie's body folded in half, sans spine and left lumbar. But even collapsed on the floor, it continued to wail. "Conversely, Void is only worthwhile against Undead that usurps vitality to regenerate," Walken advised. "The Soul Eater was an excellent specimen, for example." The remaining zombies began to gain momentum. "Likewise, low-tier Undead are quite fearless. Only higher-tier Undead are capable of thought and speech. The rest will swarm until everything edible is consumed, or they're destroyed." Gwen listened as she activated her next spell. Each lesson she learned here would be one less surprise in Dalian. "Elemental Sphere!" The ball lightning and its subsequent nova consumed her remaining enemies in a flash. Hufei approvingly inclined his head. "Please Consume the next few enemies," Wen interjected. "Mid-tier samples don't come easily." Gwen signalled her compliance. Caliban wiggled its tail. "Release the Jiangshi!" The second gate slid open, revealing a corpse in a lesser state of decay. The former resident of the body appeared to be Asian, and an old-fashioned one at that. As the Jiangshi left the receptacle, it began to hop in an ungraceful manner that was semi-comical and just terrifying enough to give Gwen the creeps. Unlike Zombies, which occurred naturally in places inundated by death, Jiangshis were created to act as guardians in ancient tombs. Once released, a Jiangshi possessed capabilities to transform the living into its likeness. A nightmarish stratagem found in Ming and Qing era tombs was the "live burial" of attendants. Once the tomb was sealed, the Jiangshi warriors transformed soldiers, minions and labourers alike into guardians. "Don't let this one bite," Wen advised. "If it drains all your Positive 'Yang' Energy, you're going to turn into a Jiangshi." "Caliban!" Gwen needed no coaxing to offer the creature a seat in Cali's all-consuming gullet. "Do it!" The rigour-bound corpse managed about ten meters before her Void fiend coiled about its body and took the creature head-first into its enveloping maw. When the thing slid into Caliban's innards, Gwen sensed a metallic tang on her tongue. As Caliban translated its senses synaesthetically across their Empathic Link, what she tasted was akin to licking the gutter of an abattoir. "Petra, biometrics." Wen reviewed her slate. "I am on it." Gwen's cousin ran not one, but two diagnostic spells simultaneously. When she saw Gwen's expression, she couldn't help but wince with sympathy. One minute. Two minutes. Three. "Okay, I am feeling it," Gwen announced to the Instructors. With a "Shaa!" Caliban delivered its payload. "Gods!" Gwen groaned, her teeth suddenly chattering. Where the feast of life usually began as a gentle warmth near her diaphragm, growing more intense with each tier absorbed, she now observed an internally induced hypothermia. From the region of her liver, a sliver of Negative Energy flooded into her conduits, atrophying everything it touched. In the span of a second, Gwen transformed into a ghost, her eyes engorged by black-veins before her face flushed red-hot. Gwen knelt, hugging her abdomen, dry-heaving as the world spun. An alarmed Caliban reached her side as she coughed and gagged against the barrier, trying to keep herself in one piece. When finally her Essence kicked in, revitalising her diminished vitals, she became drenched from brow to ankle in a sticky sheen of cold sweat. "Gwen!" Petra's eyes went wide at the biometric transcripts. "Master, she can't Consume the Undead. It's too much." "That Jiangshi was barely tier 4." Wen frowned. "Gwen, can you continue?" "Bloody hell, Wen! A little humanity isn't going to kill you." Walken Dimension Doored into the sealed room and passed Gwen a towel from his ring. "Girl, take it easy. We can do this another day." Thankful for the aid, Gwen took the towel from her instructor and wiped her mouth. "Let's not do that again," she huffed. "I could feel the necrotic energy ravaging my insides." "I know- I saw." Walken held her shoulder. "You're going to have to be very cautious at the Front. One wrong 'Consume', and you could be down and out." "Sounds about right." Gwen inhaled and exhaled as her face regained its usual haleness. "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban inferred it would protect its mistress. "Caliban can sense vitality though," she reminded Walken. "It knows what to Consume and what to avoid." "That would be for the best." Walken studied his trembling pupil. In moments like these, Gwen reminded him of his daughters. Gone was the Omni-Mage capable of stopping a Swarm almost single-handedly, replaced instead by a young woman. "Shall we call it?" "No, let's finish up." Gwen picked herself from the floor. "I'll be leaving Consume up to Caliban's discretion." "Do as you will, but take care." Walken hesitated before teleporting back out. "Are you fit to continue?" Wen's glacial voice boomed beside Gwen's ear. "Don't push yourself." Hufei's concern followed. "Magister Wen." Gwen shot herself a dose of Essence. "Please continue. I could use more experience fighting the Undead." "Very well." Wen nodded. "Petra, focus. You there, release the next creature!" Wen's subsequent trials consisted of a Ghoul followed by a Ghast. The Ghoul was a strange humanoid undead with both natural and Mage-made places of origins. Pale skinned and emanciated, the creature was hairless all over, hunching like a toad as it dribbled paralytic secretion from its maw. When it finally escaped from the stasis magic holding it in place, it launched into a quadrupedal gallop toward the awaiting Sorceress, howling and drooling as its purple tongue tasted her sweet body. "Void Bolt!" Gwen snapped a bolt at the charging fiend, removing one of its limbs. As a mid-tier monster, the creature was more resilient than a Zombie. Undeterred, the Ghoul landed on its shoulder, rolled, then continued its assault unimpeded by the loss of a limb. Caliban intervened, taking off an arm as it slammed into the grey-skinned humanoid. The Ghoul responded by clawing an arm-long welt on Caliban's upper carapace while simultaneously biting Cali's torso. "Void Bolt!" Gwen aimed for the head but struck its chest when the Ghoul dodged. Unlike the clumsy Zombies, the higher tiers of Undead possessed agilities far surpassing their bumbling cousins. A moment later. Caliban expelled the mess of flesh that once constituted a Ghoul. The final "sample" was one of the more common "Commander" variants found in the Front. Compared to the Ghoul, the Ghast didn't so much resemble an Undead, but rather a creature akin to a Hob or an Orc. Smooth and sleek, the Ghast possessed a lean, muscular body, not unlike a human gymnast. When hunting, its jaws could distend and unhinge as wide as Gwen's head. Impressively, its flesh-coloured maw possessed a prehensile-tentacled tongue half-a-metre in length. When the grate opened, it bolted for Gwen not in a bee-line, but by bouncing from the Wall of Force. "It knows PARKOUR?!" Gwen spluttered. "Focus!" Walken spat back. "Caliban!" She erected her Shield for the first time. In the next second, the Ghast slammed against her diamond-faceted barrier with a resounding thwack. Compared to the Da-Peng, however, the Ghast's assault was a mere toddler beating on tempered glass with balled fists. What truly astounded her was that when Caliban gave chase, the Ghast fled. Gwen was aghast at the comical sight of her snake slithering behind a skittering, bouncing Undead. Frustrated, Caliban switched to its spider form. "Wocao!" the Ghast swore as it fled. "The fuck? IT TALKS?" Gwen followed up with an F-bomb. "Beauty, how about we both calm down," the Ghast dodged a pair of scything forelimbs. "This doesn't have to end with one of us vanishing, whatever you need, brother will provide..." "Umm… " "DON'T TALK TO IT!" Walken and Wen both shouted. "Cali!" Gwen required no encouragement to silence a creature whose only diet consisted of human and demi-human flesh. "Onslaught!" The Ghast groaned when Caliban finally caught up. It parried the first few blows, but Cali's spider form had more forelimbs than the Ghast possessed total appendages. A flurry followed, then the howling Undead fell to pieces. Thunk! "I curse your family!" came its last words. "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban stuck its tail spike into the severed head, singing in tune as a burst of Negative Energy released into the atmosphere, spelling the creature's release from un-life. "Is it dead?" Gwen inspected the head. "It has passed on." Wen read the biometric reading on her slate. "Looks like Caliban is immune to the Negative Discharge. That's useful." "Okay, we're done." Petra signalled for the walls to come down. When she approached, the odour radiating from her cousin was enough to make her eyes water. "Gwen..." "I need a shower," Gwen declared, then her eyes grew suddenly dead-serious. "Are there hot showers at the Front?"

Magister Roslyn-Marie Wen meandered about her laboratory in a daze. Only an hour ago, she had been studying the data from the Void Sorceress’ engagement with the Undead. Midway, the Dean had invited himself in, and now she felt paralysed by an uncharacteristic surge of jubilation hammering against her chest. “I have informed Eric.” Dean Luo watched his prized researcher pace like a clockwork construct. “He should be joining us very soon.” Wen paused, frowned, then returned to the Diagnostics Engine to print the biometric script. The cognitive labour, she hoped, would calm her nerves, not to mention clarify her hypothesis. The knock sounded just once before Walken entered in a huff. “What’s wrong? Is she in trouble again?” The British Magister opened with a rhetorical question. “Good, we’re all here. Ellen, do we have unwanted company?” Luo asked of his Familiar. In her incorporeal form, Ellen responded by whispering into his ear. “We can use my lab’s Pocket Dimension,” Wen pointed to the inscribed portal. A pocket-space was a standard attachment to most experimental laboratories. Such a workspace was excellent for volatile experiments. When a spell goes awry, the researcher could instantly expel themselves back into the Material while shunting the melting mess into the Astral Plane. "It’s a little disordered inside," Wen warned as she entered. “Mao!” Luo baulked when he had to sidestep a Spellcube. “You’ve got quite the collection, Magister.” “It's a hobby.” Wen shrugged. “The rarer spells are so hard to come by.” Inside was a chamber the size of a tennis court, beyond which Astral grey-space met an infinite horizon. Here and there, stack upon stacks of stowed magic formed waist-high walls. “A veritable treasure trove!” the Dean remarked, carefully picking up a cube to examine its content. "You've managed to stabilise the formula?" "The bonding wards rapidly decay outside the Astral Plane," Wen replied, her thin lips curling to form a smile. "I am leaving the project to Petra for now. As you know, there are more pressing discoveries." Walken’s attention fell upon a particular corner. “This is…” “My contingency collection.” Wen pointed to the thirty-thick stack of crystalline cubes. “The glowing ones are her viridian Essence; the dark ones are her Void Mana.” “What for?” Walken guessed the answer as soon as the words left his mouth. “Why, for when she dies.” Wen raised hers in response. “I am not the one pushing her into danger, you know. Prodigies perish every day, but the search for knowledge must go on.” The Dean coughed. “Jiang, show him the letter.” “What’s this?” Walken recognised the broken seal even with its top half missing. “From Oxbridge?” “Cambridge, to be exact.” The Dean smacked his lips. “What do you make of this, Eric?” Walken retrieved the sheet, then activated the embedded glyph, embossed by an ermine fur "cross" linking four golden lions, the university's coat of arms. “Dean Jiang,” the Message began to read itself in the voice of the Vice-Chancellor, a bureaucrat above Walken's paygrade. “It is my supreme pleasure to have the opportunity to speak to you regarding one of your most accomplished acolytes - Miss Gwen Song. Since witnessing her performance at the last IIUC, many of our senior House Masters and Matrons have expressed interest in the girl as an exchange candidate…” Walken paused the Message. As an old boy, he knew exactly how difficult it was to be admitted to Oxbridge, much less receive an invitation. To his knowledge, a demand such as this was enough to make waves in the intra-politics of the colleges. “And it bears a seal from his Grace, the Duke of Edinburgh...” "Oh, it's real." Dean Luo's expression was unreadable. “I spoke to Magister Butterfield via simulcast this morning. He has assured me that their commitment should be considered immovable." “Immovable!” Walken swallowed. “For Gwen?” “That’s right.” Walken returned to the Message, as he read the lines, the Vice-Chancellor’s imposing voice continued to play. “...I understand that Miss Song may be considered an important asset for your university, and mayhap your nation possesses designs upon her many-talented person. Rest assured that we fully respect your ambitions and that Cambridge will offer the candidate's weight in mithril in reparation. For our ‘exchange’, I am willing to gift Magister Marie-Roslyn Wen a placement as a King’s Scholar. Post-peer-review, all Void-related research she thereby publishes shall bear the seal of the Arcanum Press. Furthermore, should she successfully defend her thesis against the academic board, Cambridge shall itself vouch for her Meisterhood. At any period during her stay, she is free to return to Shanghai…” Walken stared at Wen. Incredibly, the mineral-woman reddened. “… On a more personal note, I would like to communicate a few points of interest to yourself and our old alumni—Magister Walken, who I understand is the girl's caretaker. Our oldest and most prestigious houses had initiated the sponsorship for Miss Song's invitation, including Peterhouse. The personages involved hold significant weight in the academic and the public sphere. Please understand that I am neither making a threat nor being obtuse when I say that even as the Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, denying these august individuals would lead to no end of trouble…” “Who made the offer?” Walken regarded the Dean. “He didn’t say. I guess some big-wigs, wouldn’t you know?” Walken chewed his lips as his eyes returned to the letter. If the request came from Peterhouse, could it be her ladyship? As for the others, were they academics curious to dissect Gwen's unique physiology, or did they simply want to keep an eye on the second Sobel? If anything, Gwen's mimicry of the Void egg came vividly to mind. “… Finally,” the Message continued to play as Walken finished off the last few paragraphs. “… I am in contact with Miss Song’s guardian, Lord von Shultz. The young Master of Sydney is pleased that we can offer Miss Song a position in our ancient establishment. Such was the university's generosity that two of our finest Magisters should soon be taking residence in Sydney Tower as thanks to Magister von Shultz’s boundless wisdom. Presently, the same offer has been extended to the PLA's Secretary-General, who may soon be in contact, pending your decision... I look forward to your reply. Yours with the utmost sincerity, Butterfield V-C.” "Well?" Luo regarded Walken. “Is…” Walken’s brows stitched. “No one going to ask for Gwen’s opinion? Does she even know about this?” Wen and the Dean appeared taken aback by the comment. “Why would anyone turn down Cambridge?” Wen spluttered in disbelief. “She wanted a Tower, did she not? How else is she hoping to get one? Attaining the title of an Oxbridge Magister halves her labour.” “That's true. Gwen could graduate right into middle-management, perhaps oversee a fief on the Mageocracy's behalf,” the Dean appended his Mineral Magister. “Eric, do you mean Gwen would say no?” “The girl's a sentimentalist,” Walken stated the obvious. “Her family is here in Shanghai.” “Then I shall take Petra with me,” Wen retorted with arrogance. “I have an allowance for an assistant.” “What about—“ Walken jogged his bloated brain for names. “Richard? Lulan? Her grandmother and that Uncle of hers?” “The Ashbringer?” “Yes!” Walken was incredulous at the cluelessness of his colleagues. Surely it wasn’t just him who understood the girl? He never professed to be an authority in Gwenology, but his colleagues appeared novitiates. “She possesses an unhealthy attachment to the man. Even if he's free to travel, there is no bleeding way the PLA is letting him and his Dragon Princess out of the country.” Wen and the Dean regarded one another. “Eric, whose side are you on?” Wen's eyes narrowed. Her stone-cold expression was declaring that she wasn't about to let anything come between her and the Meisterhood. “Eric,” the Dean growled. “Do you have any idea what Wen's Meisterhood can do for us? She would be the first Chinese Meister since Yu-Lin Chan! Furthermore, she wouldn't be a Meister bought with favours from the Americans, but one recognised by Cambridge! Fudan would exceed Jiantong and reach the status of Peking University overnight!” Walken ground his teeth. “I haven’t informed the Secretary-General Miao yet, but I know this— one complaint from this Butterfield that we’ve turned down free advisors from Cambridge, and we’ll all be rotting inside Tianlanqiao within the week,” The Dean explained with great wariness. “I think you're pessimistic. Who says she doesn't want to go? Gunther should contact her soon. I mean, how about yourself? Don’t you want to return to Cambridge, to London?” Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. The Lightning Magister held his tongue, his awareness of his Affinity's mental corruption far too acute for an obtuse response. If Gwen were to go to Cambridge, where would that leave him? Compared to those monsters at the peak of Spellcraft, Magister Eric Walken was just an understudy. Once he lost Gwen, what would he do? There was no homecoming in Sydney, and Walken could hardly return to his wife or his family in London either. He would once again become an aimless vagabond. “Earlier, I processed her biometrics,” Wen changed the subject when Walken chose the right to remain silent. “I think she'll do just fine in Oxbridge.” Having seen the script, Jiang Luo patted his old friend on the shoulder. “Woe betide the man who hopes to corral the girl, Eric. Don't be a fool. You're a Lightning Mage, not a lightning rod.” His mind in turmoil, Walken read the lines one by one. “Evocation 5.31 — 5.51.” “Conjuration 5.80 — 6.01” “Transmutation 3.75 — 3.85.” “Abjuration 2.54 — 2.67.” “Divination 1.67 — 1.72.” “Illusion 2.45 — 2.48.” “Enchantment 1.30 — 1.46.” The incremental increases in Gwen's Schools of Magic had been somewhat expected, considering that the girl had been training and fighting ceaselessly. Seeing her Conjuration reach the sixth tier especially filled his heart with jubilation, for the girl had accomplished in one of her seven Schools what others took decades to attain. That she leapt into the next tier also suggested a rarer talent - the lack of a bottleneck. For the next tier, however, the girl would be kneecapped by her inadequate knowledge. Still, the milestone was cause for celebration. He turned to the next scroll. “VMI 302 — 330.” Walken blinked, then reread the numbers. “That’s right.” Wen smirked. “She can increase her VMI from consuming Demi-human casters. It’s not as pronounced as Human Mages, mind you, but it’s there.” “Trolls can hardly be considered Demi-human magic-users,” the Dean proposed dreamily. “Imagine if she could get her hands on a High Elf Elementalist. Their mana reserves are legendary.” “You're getting rather ahead of yourself,” Walken warned the Dean. “Pudong will have your head, even as a joke.” “You jump at shadows,” Wen snorted. “Keep reading.” Walken ignored the Mineral Mage, then read on. “Lightning 6.67 (6.89) — 7.01 (7.44), the latter is if we include her Kirin.” “Void 4.51 — 4.72.” “She can absorb the Undead to increase her Void Affinity?” “Not from our samples,” Wen shook her head. “Maybe it was the Soul Eater? Or something in that Beast Tide? Or perhaps the Hags. We’ll need formalised testing under controlled conditions. I anticipate better opportunities in England. Someone in Eastern Europe could probably conjure a Soul Eater for the girl to try her luck. Did you notice her Lightning has pushed past 7?” “She was already a handful,” Walken grimaced. “A teenager and a dragon... a rebellious teenage dragon, my God.” “Her pride shall work in our favour,” Wen remarked with cold logic. “Pardon me, Dean, but who would grace Fudan when one can be a graduate from Oxbridge? The same goes for you, Magister. Why would anyone care for Eric Walken when one could apprentice under Meister Darwin or Sanger or Beckett? Imagine being an alumna to Meister Oppenheimer of King's College! She’s already an Omni-Mage, Eric. Give it five, six decades, and she may very well attain the title of Sorceress Supreme! The Übermensch the Grey and Militant Factions dreamt of creating!” The researcher’s pale crystal eyes glowed with sickly fervour, as though she’d just found the God of a new Cult she’d been following. Walken felt a queasy unease. Wen’s unfeeling mockery hurt because she was right. What was Walken to Gwen? If he hadn’t intervened, she would be interning under Kilroy, a man who could exchange favours from London’s Meisters at a moment’s notice. “Well, Eric.” The Dean’s gaze bore into his soul. “Are you with us?” “... What do you think, Sis?” Gwen sat beside Yue and Petra. When Gunther rang, the girls had offered to leave the apartment, but seeing as her brother-in-craft didn't object, Gwen had begged them to stay. “Never been to England except with Master.” Alesia scowled, her exquisite face scrunched with annoyance. “It's filled with lecherous old bastards.” “She means lecturous,” Gunther intervened before his sister-in-craft could get the wrong impression. “Alesia gutted the King's Arms. Master had to bail her out.” “Those House pricks duelled ME!” Alesia huffed. “If you can’t wrestle the Ogre, don’t grope its testes.” “Well said!” Yue slapped her thighs. Gwen almost spat out the juice she was nursing. “OKAY, OKAY,” Gunther prevented his prudish sister-in-craft from further mental degradation. “Presently, nothing’s confirmed as of yet. I'm just letting you know that an offer has been made. For sure you're bound to get other proposals soon, but this is your best bet. To my knowledge, Vice-Chancellor Butterfield is acting on behalf of Lady Grey. To you, that's the Marchioness of Ely, Justine Maxwell Loftus. She and Master go way back, and I can personally vouch for her ability to keep you from... undesired attention. If you do decide to go, you’ll be in reliable hands. Most importantly, so long as the Marchioness requests it, every summer and winter break, you’ll be free to go where ever you please. That includes Shanghai and Sydney.” “Pats, what do you think?” “If what Gunther says is correct,” Petra’s face positively glowed. “I may be able to leave with Master and study under her in Oxbridge. I could even find a sponsor to further Spellcube research and author my own paper if and when she chooses to return to China.” “Yue?” Gwen turned to her oldest friend. “Why are you asking a spell-fodder what she thinks of Cambridge?” Yue laughed. “I am a high school graduate and a grunt. What the hell do I know about prestigious universities?” “What about Richard?” Gwen grasped at straws. Her chest felt full of water. The notion of prematurely leaving Shanghai was a shocking proposition. There was no reason to reject Gunther’s good news, but it was all so sudden, all too soon. The direction she had finally garnered was once again spinning like a broken compass. “I can petition Marchioness Loftus on Richard's behalf,” Gunther intoned gravely. “But then, you would owe her a great deal. When you get to her tier of power and influence, favours and promises may as well be Geas.” “Richard is legitimately talented,” Gwen defended her cousin. “He could have gone to England himself, don't you know?” “As a Praetor— not a student,” Gunther reminded her. “Not to mention he’d be under London Imperials, serving the Four Houses as a faithful guard dog.” Gwen scowled, feeling that her pride for Richard's accomplishments had been trampled. “Why not speak with Richard, tell him there’s an opportunity for both of you to attend Cambridge? Remember, you mustn't mention Lady Grey,” Gunther advised. “The poor boy's deeply indebted to you as it is. Have his parents arrived in Shanghai?” “Not yet.” “In case he asks, they won’t be going to London,” Gunther spoke with brevity. “Not even with CCs.” “It’s not like that, Dick’s just repaying them,” Gwen explained that Richard felt he owed his parents. “He’ll be happy in Oxbridge, I’d imagine.” “No doubt, studying in London was his dream, after all.” Gwen sighed, leaning against Yue so that the petite soldier became a comfortable human pillow. There was her family in Shanghai, as well as the friends she had made. But she also wanted to see Elvia, who she could now cuddle a year and a half in advance. Academically, her study of Spellcraft would see a significant boost if she could receive tutelage from the progenitors of the knowledge she was studying. The author of her first-ever Spellcraft primer, Deekin A. Allenberg, was a Cambridge graduate himself and currently lectured there. But then there were her investments here in Shanghai. Would Nantong allow her to leave the country? Certainly not with a one per cent stake in Tonglv. She would have to be bought out at a loss— her loss. As for the House of M, Mayuree and Marong could keep her interests satisfied, but the loss of Tonglv would mark a notable setback. On the other hand, assuming Gunther's Lady Grey was a reliable sheila, Gwen'd be a free bird. As a globetrotter, far more business interests would open to her. With her stock of HDMs, using ISTC stations across the continents was no object. In her old world, the early 00s was a period of rapid innovation that had set the technological trends for the next decade. Knowing this, she would be remiss to not take full advantage of the fact. But her heart remained sore. Babulya. Percy. Tao and Mina. Tonglv. Ruì and Professor Ma. Lulu and Kusu. How would their lives be altered if she were to bugger off to London? What would happen to her family's current prosperity? Would the PLA let her leave? How would she know they'd be safe? What if she were to act against the PLA's interests in the future? Indeed, a significant conflict of interest was inescapable. “How long do I have to decide?” “Take your time,” Gunther implored. “A month would be my guess.” “Until the IIUC ends? Or when we lose.” "At most, until London's winter solstice," Gunther explained. "You would require remedial studies before commencing any courses at Cambridge. Even if you arrive in February, you will miss Lent. Assuming six months of catch up, Easter is out as well. At best, you’re looking at Michaelmas.” “I know some of those words.” Gwen’s head throbbed. “October. You won’t be able to start second-year until October. But…” “But?” “You can see Elvia anytime,” Gunther roared with laughter. “No, that's a cheap shot. The choice is yours, little sister. You have to understand that it was YOUR performance in Burma and then in Amazonia that has brought this opportunity. I don’t know if you could have done better under Master if he were still here, but I do know you’ve worked hard. This outcome is what we desired from the very beginning.” “Well said,” Alesia joined in. “Good work, Gwennie. Master would have been proud.” Gwen perked up, the clot in her chest unclogging as she imagined a happy Henry giving his well-wishes. “Thanks, guys. How could I have achieved this without the two of you, my siblings?” “Bah, modesty isn’t you,” Alesia snorted. “Sorceresses like you and I, we have reason to be proud. Right, Yue?” “Fuck yeah!” “Don’t listen to them,” Gunther forced Alesia out of view. “Take your time. If you must accept an offer, accept this one.” "BYE, GWEN! Yue, show em hell!" The Message ended. Gwen repositioned herself beside Yue, then studied her cousin. Petra’s Husky-blue orbs glowed. If eyes could speak, they'd be screaming, “Screw going home to Moscow, we're going to Oxbridge!” She puckered her lips. She would have to consult Richard, and Babulya, Tao and Mina and her Uncle Jun. Ayxin would probably call her unfilial, mocking her for leaving her family to fend for themselves. Unlike the dragon-princess, they were just mortals; her family and allies didn't have a pact where they banded together to shit on anyone who dared provoke them— She blinked. “Holy shit,” Gwen punched the air with a snap. “RUXIN!” Yue jumped, wondering if a Dragon had just gotten into her friend. “What about Ruxin?” Petra wondered why Gwen was suddenly screaming the Thunder Dragon’s name. “Ruxin is the elder Prince of Huangshan, and Tonglv is only two-hundred kilo-meters away from its border,” Gwen tittered like a greedy Goblin, her cunning eyes sending shivers up Petra's spine. "Pats, you know what. I am about to have my cake, and eat it.” “Marong, did you feel that?” Ruxin laid down the reports Marong had brought to the Jade Palace. The numbers at the bottom had grown since his favourite servant had begun manipulating the Jade Market. Under the throne room, Ruxin's cache of element-specific crystals was also piling up rapidly. “I felt nothing, my lord,” Marong gulped. “It felt as though…” Ruxin tasted the air. “That’s strange. The weather's changing. How could it, when I gave no such command? Perhaps it's Golos? What’s he doing?” “Sporting with his new mate, the bird-woman.” Marong touched his forehead to the cold ground, afraid that his lord was displeased. “I fear they made quite the mess in the eastern hall. The female, Phelara, she’s roosting.” “Oh, do get up,” Ruxin commanded. “As my niece would say, don’t be so formal. Good service seldom comes from fear, and formality gets tiresome.” “Of course, my lord,” Marong stood to one side, where Tika, who he now recognised as the old Naga of the mount, stood to attention. “So, not Golos then. How strange.” Ruxin watched the hair rise on his humanoid arm. “Marong, look at this. Do your human follicles sometimes have a mind of their own?” “Ah.” Marong stopped himself from bowing. “That, my lord, is what we call premonition.”

Before Jean-Paul became the protègè of Meister Bekker, he was a foundling with no name. According to his file, his mother was a prostitute, an unenviable position in the days of South Africa's regime change. A six-word abbreviation indicated she had died giving birth to her life-leeching son in an alleyway in Sunnyside. As for his father, any number of hundreds of Johns could have contributed to Jean-Paul's miraculous genetic makeup. As an infant, Jean-Paul bid his time at the Sacred Heart Kinderhuis, an orphanage located in Pretorian platteland, a place that used to be a pumpkin farm. The modest acreage was composed of a vaulted chapel attached to a schoolhouse with a semi-detached dwelling. Together with the occasional neighbour, the orphanage was presided over by one sister Annett de Mulder, a flaxen-haired cleric-cum-caretaker. For Jean-Paul, Sister de Mulder's Positive Affinity was a blessing, for the pallid child with the horrid constitution couldn't have survived anywhere else. Yet, here with the generous-souled sister, his health held on with the tenacity of a spider thread. Compared to the other children, who prospered or starved pending the season, Jean-Paul's body possessed an incredible ability to subsist on anything given to him, no matter how unnutritious or unsavoury. When strife broke out in Pretoria and sister de Mulder's brood of some two dozen were reduced to soupy rice and pumpkins, Jean-Paul stubbornly thrived like a vermin, subsisting on the thinnest milk and the soupiest porridge for months. Diseases also seemed to take to Jean-Paul like flies to a carcass, for though he had contracted everything from cholera, dysentery, smallpox and a strange rash on his pale, colourless flesh, he rejected all calls to a higher purpose. As a result, his arms and legs grew covered with scars and scabs from his ceaseless picking, and as his height sprouted, ringlet stretch-marks scored his encrusted skin. "Jean-Paul, you're as tough as a warthog!" de Mulder had teased him once. "Nee nee nee," the other children revolted. For some reason, they never liked Jean-Paul, whose bulbous eyes made them afraid. "Jean-Paul is an Umzokwe!" Jean-Paul did not know what the word meant. He was neither the youngest nor the eldest orphan, but he was the least popular by far. Perhaps it was because of his upturned nose, which was so different from the straight-ridged or flat-button organs the other children possessed. Or maybe it was his grotesque pallidness, which juxtaposed the pale-pink or the creamy nutmeg of his fellows; either way, Jean-Paul was born alone and preferred to be alone. Just once, Jean-Paul had asked her what the nickname meant. "Ah…" The sister's well-loved eyes grew awkward. "You are named after 'John' the Baptist, who christened Christ. It's conjoined with 'Paul', the teacher of Tarsus, he who spread the words of the saviour. As for your surname, we'll see when your adoption arrives, hmm?" "No, I meant 'umzokwe'," the boy inquired, his blue orbs sucking the sister's soul. "It means the blessed one." Later in life, Jean-Paul said a prayer for the sister to atone for her little white lie. "Umzokwe" was a Zulu word for leech. According to Meister Bekker, who applauded the children's wisdom, the word referenced not the common leech, but the deathless blood-suckers that inhabited the Vaal River. In popular myth, if one were to chop an umzokwe in half, two would emerge a week later. Older, Jean-Paul would learn that "umzokwe" had another meaning. It was one derived from an ancient Zulu custom— the slaying of sinners by bleeding them in a river full of umzokwe. For the Boers who bore witness to the trials carried out by the Sangoma, "umzokwe" was a word they took to mean 'cruelty'. Every so often, the orphanage was visited by men and women looking to adopt the children. Prior to their new homes, the children studied Spellcraft, awaiting the day when they would be selected. For an orphan, the age of thirteen was the longest they could stay under the care of sister de Mulder, after which those who failed an early Awakening would attend a state-sanctioned school. Once, when Jean-Paul snuck into the chapel to watch the process, he saw the sister bring out what he would later recognise as the Awakening Stone from the storage room. "Lightning, tier 1." One of the men grinned at Johan, a haughty thirteen-year-old who often picked on Jean-Paul. "Geluksvogel, you're getting adopted." "Well done, Sister." the bearded leader left a bagful of crystal credits on the altar, what Jean-Paul now identified as HDMs. "See you in six months." Sister de Mulder bowed from the waist. "Please take care of Johan, Lord Magus. He is a good boy with a good heart." That was the last Jean-Paul saw of Johan, and he was happier for it. When Jean-Paul turned ten, news came from the Boers up the road that the British abolished the old laws, and a new coalition was in power. The celebration was so drawn and so vast that even in the platteland of Pretoria, they could hear the sound of fireworks and spells firing off from Johannesburg. Mister Nieuwoudt, their neighbour who was in Pretoria when it happened, said that the party had lasted three days and three nights; that the NoMs hung wands across the Johan Rissik Bridge so that sparks showered on the trains and trams, heralding the end of a misguided era. Cries of "Long live Johannesburg!" resounded through the city, reaching even Jean-Paul's ears when a group of NoM labourers drove by the farm, screeching wildly. For a while, things in the city had remained hopeful. But when time passed, and nothing changed, the jubilation fermented faster than sauerkraut. One night, only six-months after the political sea change in the city, Jean-Paul was awoken by the sound of shouting in the chapel. A fidgety sleeper mocked for his permanent eye-bags, Umzokwe snuck into the chapel by wiggling into the storeroom's underfloor crawl space. To his chagrin, it wasn't the lord Magus who had come to visit, but a group of strange men armed with clubs and what appeared to be shock wands, like the one sister de Mulder kept locked in her office. The weapon was a necessity, for occasionally if a group of Gobs appeared and the neighbours were busy, the sister would have to shoo the monsters herself. "Bitch, where did you send my sister?" A man pushed sister de Mulder against the dais from which she usually conducted her lessons. Sister de Mulder kept her eyes downcast. "I do not know, Mattys. I am just a caretaker." _Slap!_ The man struck her with a blow so savage that Jean-Paul almost leapt from his hiding spot. In his mind, the strike may as well have been a thunderclap. "Hoer Heks! Where is my sister? What have you done with her? The man turned. Now that Jean-Paul could get a better look, he could see that his face was familiar. It really was Mattys, a boy that had left the orphanage some four years ago. His sister was two years his junior, a fair and auburn-headed lass with long limbs. Jean-Paul recalled that she had happily Awakened as a Fire Mage and had been adopted by a Magus. "WHERE IS SHE?" Mattys struck the sister again, an act that made Jean-Paul flinch. He wanted above all else to bite the man in the neck, to tear his throat; but, somewhere in his head, wedged between the floorboard and the foundation, he understood his helplessness. As a child yet to be tested for Affinity, Jean-Paul was wand-fodder. Could he charge out and headbutt the man? Could he stand and defend sister de Moulder even if he possessed the will? In the room, the sister remained defiant. "You cannot cow me, Squib. You're a disgrace to our kind. How dare you join the NoMs to conspire against your superiors? They'll murder your future children, I guarantee it." Mattys paused. Jean-Paul held his breath. He was ignorant then, and the sister's vitriolic voice shook him to his core. Never before had he seen the sister so bitter and so angry. Even with her body pressed against the dais and her arms pinned by the men, her pride astonished him. "Brett." Mattys' response was to place a hand upon sister de Mulder's motherly bosoms. "Can you guess the sister's age?" "Twenty? Thirty?" The older man's expression darkened. "Why?" "She's forty at the very least!" Mattys tugged at the fabric so that the sister's collar came loose, revealing the white flesh beneath. "She's a Cleric, you know. When I studied under her, the textbooks say that healers have the sweetest bodies, full of youth, that they'll survive even the harshest abuse." The other men laughed. As a child, Jean-Paul understood but did not understand why their laughter stunned his ears and made his chest feel like exploding. Thankfully, the group's leader, the bearded Brett, told Mattys to leave the sister. Mattys insisted that the sister paid for her crimes as a sorceress, and it wasn't until Brett intimidated the men with a Lightning Wand that they backed away, muttering something about "Just having fun". "Sister." Brett turned to sister de Mulder. "We'll be taking some supplies; then we'll be on our way. Is that agreeable?" Sister de Mulder nodded, hugging her habit against her torso. Jean-Paul could see that she had turned as white as a freshly laundered sheet. When the men left, sister de Mulder knelt before the cross and prayed. Jean-Paul wanted to return to bed, but the sister's suppressed sobs had by now paralysed every nerve and sinew. As a teenager, Jean-Paul asked the all-knowing Meister Bekker about who the men were. The Meister explained that encounters like the one Jean-Paul had experienced happened all over the country. The policy changes forced upon the Boers by the British were an experiment designed to encourage exodus. "There's bad blood from the war, the memory of what the Mageocracy did to our women and children..." the Meister's lips pursed. "Don't mind it, Jean-Paul, that was another time and another place." Thanks to Mattys' overzealous looting, when winter arrived, the orphanage had neither food nor mana crystals to survive the cold. Even with aid from their neighbours and Sister de Mulder's magic, several of the younger children perished. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. When the promised time of the adoption came, the men and women who arrived weren't nearly so kind as they had been before. As usual, Jean-Paul snuck under the floor. "What did you tell the Coalition?" This time, the Magus had not come to exchange the cheer. "Nothing, sir," the sister spoke true. "We lost two farms, totalling twenty acolytes. Magus Rylond paid with his life. You were on the list of people they spared. Do you mean to tell me those NoMs left you alone out of kindness?" "I…" Sister de Mulder paled. "I bribed them with food." "Then you have aided and abetted the enemy. Corli, you're clear to proceed." That was the first time Jean-Paul saw Mind Magic. He would see it in employment many times as yet, but this was the moment he would always recollect. Pressed against his juvenile brain, the sight of sister de Mulder's screaming as her eyes rolled into her head branded him forever. While he crawled in the earth, not unlike that of a white, pallid leech biding its time in winter; sister de Mulder drooled over her habit, her eyes dilating as though possessed by a demon. "Did you tell the rebels were the other farms are?" "N-no…" "But you did give them food?" "Y-yes..." "Where did they go?" "Westward." "How many men?" "A dozen... more..." "Weapons?" "Wands..." "Did they do anything to the children?" "No." "What did they want?" "Mattys' sister." "Where is the sister now?" "Magus Kruger's office." "Did you tell them any of this?" "N-Nothing..." "They left you alone?" "They struck me…" The sister's eyes were wide and vacant. "Mattys tried to rape me. I was going to kill myself." The Mages fell silent. "This country has gone to the fucking ogres. Corli, heal her." "She needs a Lesser Restoration. Sir, we're tight on potions." "Do it. Gather the Flight. We'll hunt these dogs down and give them a taste of their own medicine." The wooden planks creaked. Jean-Paul felt the Magus come close to where he hid under the floor. There was the sound of a Flare spell striking, then the acrid smell of tobacco. When the men left, Jean-Paul dragged the sister through the corridors and to her bed. There, he covered her with a blanket, then fed her the potion on the altar. The last thing he recalled was that he fell asleep beside her, but awoke in his bed. When winter ended, Mattys and his gang returned. "YOU HOER! You sold us out!" The man's voice burst through the splintered door before the smoke could clear. "They killed Brett, you bitch! They necklaced him!" That was the first time Jean-Paul heard of the torturous form of execution known as "Necklacing" derived by NoMs and carried out on Mages. When a Mage became sufficiently subjugated, his or her assailants would tie a rubber tire around their neck, then set the thing alight with a Scorcher. As the victim attempted to douse the flames with complete futility, there would be clapping, often to the tune of his or her spluttering Mana Shield. In response, disgruntled Mages sometimes returned the favour, often as a warning, occasionally for sport. For now, the children sat stunned at Sunday service, staring at the silhouette of the madman stepping through the door with a dozen others, each dressed in outlandish bric-a-brac of salvaged uniforms. "Children, leave now! Go!" Sister de Mulder gave the command. Together with the other foundlings, Jean-Paul streamed past the crowd of NoMs. While the other children fled for the schoolhouse basement, however, Jean-Paul made directly for the sister's office. There, he found the key for the storeroom, entered through a hole in the roof, then unlocked the chest containing the Awakening Stone. Across the thin walls, Jean-Paul could hear the horse-laughs, the groans and grunts, the choked screams and the tearful pleading. _Thump! SLAP! Thump!_ Came the thunderous sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed shortly by the din of sister de Mulder rolling painfully across the floor. For a little while, the commotion almost took on a rhythm, but then the sister began to howl like a gutted Hob, all dignity forsaken. When the spark from the Awakening Stone jump-started his Astral Form, Jean-Paul felt consumed by an alien ecstasy. Never before had he felt something so intense, so full of malice that he struggled to breathe. His throat burned, and Jean-Paul tasted such hatred for these NoMs that the desire for their extinction consumed his mind. When her scream intensified, Jean-Paul wondered if he had gone insane, for even behind a door and a corridor, he could smell the frothing blood, the heady musk and the mutton-stink radiating from the sweltering men. Without warning, his chest grew hollow, expelling Jean-Paul's frustrated feelings. It was as though a balloon had burst inside him, or that a stiletto had punctured his bloated torso. Something inside him cut loose, and Jean-Paul possessed neither the will nor desire to suppress the unnamable thing scratching at the edge of his consciousness. He screamed into the Void, and something shrieked in reply. As volatile mana filled his conduits, Jean-Paul knew only one thing. That unless he acted, he would be consumed by regret. For his tireless caretaker, Jean-Paul would open the lid, unwind the seam, untether the leash, unbind every delicate tendril if it meant that her suffering would cease by a single second. If he were to do nothing again, if he were to hide and hold his breath, hibernate like a leech, he would prefer oblivion. Like a fetid stream overflowing, Jean-Paul's Astral Body tapped into the Sigils, Glyphs and Gates he'd been learning for the better part of his adolescent life. Magical formulas flashed through his mind, leaping from textbooks and the inscriptions to clash and collide in his feverish cerebellum. "Umzokwe!" Jean-Paul invoked the vision he had dreaded since childhood, calling into being the very thing that had haunted his dreams. The men were monsters, Jean-Paul argued. To defeat them, he had to be the bigger beast. In the chapel, the vaulted roof grew suddenly clamorous with howls and screams, minging with the sound of sister de Mulder's insane howling. Pallid and segmented, sinuous, slimy and ever-hungry, Jean-Paul's beast visited its wrath upon the source of his anguish. It had manifested on Mattys, swallowing the man wholesale into its tripartite lips with nary a slurp. Then, well-fed on the Squib, it warded off the blows from the low-tier wands to consume the others one by one, using its viscous saliva to glue them to the chapel's floor. When the last assailant disappeared screaming and kicking into its slurping gullet, Umzokwe turned to the quivering sister, even now bleeding out on the crumpled rug. His fiend possessed no eyes, but even so, Jean-Paul saw. "Jean-Paul…" the sister's voice was barely a whisper. She knew it was her pale-skinned ward, but she couldn't see. Earlier, the NoMs had taken her eyes in their cruel antics. "Con...gra...tulations..." When Jean-Paul unlocked the door, there was only his monster left. In greeting, Umzokwe clicked its teeth, its semi-translucent flesh undulating with pleasure. It was hungry still, and so was he. Jean-Paul couldn't recollect much after that, but Meister Bekker told him that when the Enforcers from Pretoria arrived, they found a pallid, skeletal child sitting alone in the ruined chapel. There were wands stolen from the security forces scattered here and there, but no other survivors. When he had regained his senses, Jean-Paul had arrived in the city on the hill, the place he knew was the administrative centre of his country, Pretoria. There, among the falling flowers of ten-thousand jacarandas, he met a woman with the scent of mouldy scrolls and yellowing paper. When his escorts bowed from the waist, Jean-Paul understood that he was before a rare presence. As he had performed before the age-worn statue of Christ in the chapel, the newly awakened Void Mage knelt. "Jean-Paul." The woman whose eyes were the colour of a cloudless sky spoke his name. "Welcome to Pretoria. From this day on, I christen you— Jean-Paul Bekker." "Meister—" "Nee, nee, Jean-Paul. You shall refer to me as Mevrou." His new sponsor was Meister Engela Bekker, one of three Meisters to grace the Cape of Good Hope. Under her tutelage, innumerable tests were carried out on Jean-Paul, who understood that his life was worth precisely as much as the utility Mevrou Bekker could derive from his plaint body. Without complaint, Jean-Paul came to heel, never once complaining of pain, not even when the diagnostic machine made him violently ill. Day after day, he practised the knowledge his new master gave him. Though his constitution continued to wane, Jean-Paul remained tough, wiry and stoic, a paragon apprentice, docile and diligent in equal measure. No matter Mevrou Bekker's pleasure, he left no curiosity unsatisfied, no single flap of skin unpeeled. In the beginning, he was made to call on Umzokwe until he grew emaciated. By twelve, Umzokwe could be manifested for six, eight, ten hours before he lost consciousness. When it came to feeding time, Jean-Paul-cum-Umzokwe ate whatever the Meister willed, be it animals, Magical Creatures, Demi-humans, NoMs or the occasional Mage. When he wasn't baiting Umzokwe with live prey, he studied, working toward his fifteenth spring. When he finally came of age, Jean-Paul took to the dais to receive his biometrics. As a confidential project reared hand to mouth like a pet by a Meister of the Republic, Jean-Paul proved the rarest of specimens. Conjuration— 3.22. Transmutation— 2.55. Void— 2.30. It was a memorable day for Jean-Paul, for Mevrou Bekker hugged him, embracing him against her chest. She had always loathed his touch, though that was something Jean-Paul had come to anticipate from others, and so this was a special moment. "Jean-Paul, come. It's time you met my colleagues." Forty-eight hours later, Jean-Paul had travelled across the world. Standing in a stranger's land, he looked up at the grandest sandstone building he had ever seen, wrought with the most intricate murals imaginable. At the relief's centre was a shield adorned by seven golden lions and an open spell scroll. Scripts in a language he had never seen spelt out the words "Spellcraftia imperii decus et tutamen". "Mevrou," Jean-Paul recalled asking his master. "What does that mean?" "Spellcraft knowledge is the crowning glory and the safeguard of the Empire," the Meister intoned, her face unreadable. In London, Meister Bekker's tests continued, as did Jean-Paul's growth. More and more, he came to understand his place in the world— that he was a unique existence. In the half-decade he had spent in Mevrou Bekker's laboratory, Jean-Paul met other Void Mages, though they seldom lived long after their Awakening. The volatility of their element, the Negative Drain associated with its utility, was biologically insurmountable for all but the rarest candidates. In that regard, Jean-Paul's Umzokwe was capable of storing the life-force of the beings he consumed. As per Meister Bekker's findings, Demi-humans and humans were the most nourishing, followed by higher-tier Magical Beasts. Thankfully, the Mageocracy's endless conflicts of interest meant there was seldom a shortage of Demi-humans. In the intervening years which followed, Jean-Paul often heard a name— Elizabeth Sobel. A woman whom the Meister said was the best of his kind, the Mageocracy's magnum opus, its chef-d' œuvre. If Jean-Paul could prove himself half as talented as Sobel, the Meister promised, he would find both purpose and pleasure in life. When his craft matured, Jean-Paul prepared himself in the Purple and Black Zones all over the world. In most instances, his Mevrou stood a safe distance away with a data slate, directing him to complete one feat or another. "You've done well," Mevrou Bekker had kindly informed him when he was eighteen, though sadly, he wouldn't be a second Sobel. Jean-Paul undertook the criticism without complaint; he was merely a canvas on which Mevrou Bekker painted her colours, and so continued his questionless compliance. Though the pair seldom stayed at London Imperial, the Mevrou had a tradition of returning to her homeland each spring to flee the British winter. A sentimentalist, the Meister longed for the lilac and purple Jacarandas that turned the boulevards of Pretoria indigo. "Jean-Paul, return home," the Mevrou called him one October morning, pulling him from the depth of Swaziland. "I need you to see this." Two days later, Jean-Paul sat beside the Meister as she played a broadcast from the latest IIUC, a competition the Meister often mocked as student politics. The vid-cast showed a girl. A girl who was like Jean-Paul, and was yet dissimilar. A sorceress who tapped into the Quasi-elemental Plane of Lightning and Void. A smiling lassie with pale skin that didn't resemble the leeches living in the Vaal, but whose dermis glowed with smooth and supple vitality. A young miss surrounded by companions and friends; men and women who trusted her enough to put their lives on the line. A Void Mage who transformed into a dark egg, swallowing a Beast Tide. "A second Sobel," Mevrou Bekker informed the pale-miened Jean-Paul, then sighed deeply. "She's Kilroy's hidden apprentice, as you are mine. One wonders how one man, not to mention a dead one, could find two diamonds in the rough." When next the Meister placed a hand on Jean-Paul's shoulder, the warmth he longed for sent shivers down his spine. He had been in Swaziland for months and it had been a long time since a fellow human had touched him.Yet, he couldn't help but feel ill. "Jean-Paul," the Mevrou's voice filled the recesses of his mind. "Ever thought about acquiring a lady-friend?"

Gwen regarded her armoured profile in the mirror. "It has heels?" she asked, dubious that such a decision had made it into the custom suit's design. "A melee AND an aesthetic feature. It collapses at-will." Magus Lin Tsai, the representative from Sinomach Heavy Industries, mopped the sweat from his brow. The stiletto had been incorporated by their chief designer, who had projections of Fudan's vice-captain pinned to his workbench. Ever since Sinomach's RECON Operator's Garb appeared unannounced in Cuzco, requests and complaints had driven the clerks in the public-relations section mad. In response, Commissioner Tsai made explicit demands that their state-sponsored corporation wouldn't made a laughing stock in future broadcasts. The result was a maintenance team that arrived at Fudan with a fully-equipped service truck. In the training hall, Fudan's eye-catching Void Sorceress cat-walked up and down an invisible rail, observing her reflections in the conjured mirrors. The re-tooled MKIII CUSTOM promised to hold together much better than the stock MKII, with elevated thresholds for dampening physical and elemental damage. Likewise, for Fudan's members who necessitated external means of Flight, an internal module enabled tier 3 locomotion, specced to the competition's item-assistance limitations. Furthermore, the once unisex Shen-teī was gender-split. Gwen's suit had conduit-lines inscribed around her lumbar to cup her under-breast, while at the rear, a half-armoured skirt protected her bottom, extending like a dovetail. Comparatively, the girls' collision-pauldrons draped around their shoulders, capable of transforming into all-weather capes. An automatic potion-injector was initially included, though Gwen forsook the unaesthetic waist-bulge for reasons that a crushed potion-pouch was no use to anyone. The result was a sleek and modern design akin to Magi-tech racing suits. For the palette, Fudan's iconograph came in three hues— red or blue with a white backdrop. The original designer favoured Revolution Red with white highlights and a blue under-layer, but all Gwen could see was a Pepsi Company IP violation. "I want Gunmetal, here, here, and there…" Gwen ran a finger down her body line from chin to her inner thighs, then from knees to boots. "The team members who are willing to keep the red motif are welcome to, but I need the thighs in white. The butt-skirt's a nice touch, by the way, more space." "Space for what?" Magus Tsai furrowed his brows. "There are no modules for that… region." "Nothing to worry." Gwen grinned at her re-colourised reflection. "The armour should work out beautifully." "So you keep saying..." The Magus Glyphed new hues onto the skin-hugging malleable-metal. Of Fudan's crew, he far preferred working with Miss Li, who was petite, red-faced and obedient. Even Miss Wong, who asked for the men's variant, had been perfectly happy with the original design. As for the Void sorceress, she had an opinion for every nook and contour. "Miss Song, as an Illusionist and an Enchanter, it's easier if you manipulate the pattern and colour yourself. I'll relinquish the formulae." "Even better." Gwen checked herself in the mirror again, inspecting the angles. Feeling sentimental, she wondered when she'd be able to sell the world's first selfie App. But for that to happen, she needed a whole tree of technologies to be unlocked. Maybe when she arrived in North American or London, places where entrepreneurs had guaranteed rights backed by the Tower and the government, she could test the possibility of bringing more of her old world inventions to bear. In her old world, she struggled to gain a position higher than a Senior Consultant. Even when self-employed, her company was limited by size and affordable talent. Perhaps in her second life, it was possible to build something that spanned the continents. "Miss." The Magus felt a feeling of revulsion as the girl chuckled narcissistically, wholly engrossed in her reflection. "Please take care of our product." "It'll stay in one piece." Gwen cowed her technician by testing the armour's inbuilt heels, instantly raising her stature. Placing one foot ahead of the other, she tapped across the training hall. "Four inches? That's ambitious." "Miss Song, if you're done, I shall go and aid Miss Li. Her CQB variant needs adjustments." "Make sure her shoulders, breasts and thighs are matt-white," Gwen instructed the retreating technician. With the flustered Enchanter retreating across the room, Gwen was quickly approached by Anita, looking very handsome indeed with her half-cropped hair and arrogant lips. The men's variant was bulkier, though Anita carried the look with dignity and pomp. "Just to confirm." Anita pointed to her chest. "We're adhering sponsorship logos?" "Indeed." Gwen inspected Anita's suit, pointing to either side of her chest. "We will affix our biggest sponsors at the front and back. Fudan's seal hangs over your heart; adjacent is Sinomach. Our major sponsor is Wang Enterprises and Centurion-M. Down here we have the lesser sponsors, Tonglv, SinoTrans, SAIC Motors, and finally Mao-tai Co." Anita nodded like a chick bobbing to a mother hen. "All in all, 11,000 HDM for each of us. Plus a bonus if we win," Gwen assured her companion. In truth, she and Lulan commanded four times the price but chose to subsidise the others. "Not bad, eh? Don't you love it when crystals fall from the sky?" "No kidding." Anita counted her post-match income both hands. "If we win, the sponsorship fee will exceed three years of my allowance!" "Afterward, don't forget to ride out your fame. Use it to build your brand." Gwen slapped the Mineral Mage on the shoulder. "Who wouldn't know Anita Wong after we scour Dalian of the Undead?" "Ha!" Anita snickered. "You're thinking of Lulu. She's CCVC-1's darling at the moment." "Do you desire greater exposure?" Gwen asked seriously. "We could probably manage it." "Oh, Mao, absolutely not." Anita sighed. "I am no martyr. Famous and alive— that's my motto." "Knock on wood." Gwen rapped on Anita's armour with her knuckles. Anita made a Taoist sign to ward away evil. "So, what now?" _Sch-Chik!_ Gwen un-deployed her stilettos, acclimatising herself to the balance shift. According to the spec sheet, the Keen Enchantment could punch through steel plates. "Let's check with the others. I want to see Richard and the boys. After our promo-shoot, we need to get dressed to receive our oversea guests." At Gwen's behest, the reception was to happen on their home turf, the Waldorf Astoria on the Bund, where the House of M's Shadowmen could keep a pair of eyes on things. This time around, major dignitaries included big-wigs like the Mayor of Shanghai, Magister Rong Yin; a sorcerer-bureaucrat whose many tasks included balancing Pudong against the PLA. Likewise, newly arrived was the American proctorship delegation with representatives from Stanford and the American Towers. Concurrently, as Shanghai's first international match in recent memory, the paparazzi were legion, enough to make the dog-packs ambushing Gwen and Lulan at Fudan seem like tame poodles. "Gwen, may I have a word?" Walken's Message blossomed against Gwen's ear. "We haven't had any good opportunity to talk of late. I would very much like to hear your mind before your decisions go public." "One second, I'll meet you downstairs." The sound of blow-dryers accompanied Gwen's answer. When the girl arrived in the lobby of Gouding B1, Walken's breath seized. Since her return from Amazonia, the aura of personality his student possessed now encroached on oppressiveness. Perhaps it was the Lightning affinity, or maybe the girl had reached another essence-milestone; her presence captured the attention of onlookers, willingly or otherwise. How exactly like a Dragon, Walken reflected as he circulated a mote of mana. Already, the residents and the concierge had ceased their activities to stand and stare. "Do you like it?" His protégé spun her body mid-stride, expertly turning on one foot as the fishtail dress fanned out. When she crossed the floor, the girl blossomed like an Amaryllis, her hair falling about her shoulders. Unusual for an exhibitionist who shamelessly showed off her vain stalks, Gwen's present hem was modestly pinned, though the shoulderless upper portion appeared to overcompensate for her knee-length demurity. "It's an Alex Mu original. He's an up and coming designer the House of M is sponsoring." "You're certainly becoming acquainted with the locals." Walken looked up at the ceiling, conjuring visions of his daughters to ward against Gwen's ostentatious fashion. "Are you sure you can bear to leave Shanghai?" "And there it is." Gwen curled the corner of her lips. "I wondered when we'd have this talk." "Call it curiosity, that and self-preservation," Walken confessed, switching to Silent Message. "You can't blame an old cynic, can you?" "Let's sit and talk." Gwen pointed to the garden. The cafe next to B1's lobby wasn't very good, but it was convenient. "I am not going to ditch you in Shanghai if that's what you mean." "You're not?" Walken followed. To the observers, the Magister appeared like an abandoned mutt who had just heard a whistle in the distance. The two sat. Outside, the paparazzi were ready with their optically-enhanced lumen-recorders. Walken sat with his back to the lenses, while Gwen flashed her teeth for her cyclopean admirers. "Beware," Walken intoned gravely. "You're tier 7 now." "I know." Gwen rested her face against the palm of her hand. "So, what would you like to know." "Are you going to London?" "Do I have a choice?" "There's always a choice," Walken scoffed. "Now or in the future, no one will want to fight Gunther von Shultz." "And in the not so distant future, no one will want to fight Gwen Song." Walken's countenance twitched. So much for stemming her pride. The girl wasn't wrong, but her boisterous swagger was a magnet for future troubles. "Sorry…" the girl stuck out her tongue playfully when she saw the vein bulging against his temple. "But yes, I WANT to go to London." "Because?" Walken demanded. "Do you not have enough family here? Not enough crystals? Not enough influence? Do you have any idea what the PLA will give if you're willing to forsake the Mageocracy?" "Who paid you off?" Gwen cocked her head, a lock of hair falling across her eyes like a dash of dark paint. "What's the going rate for Magister Walken these days?" The Magister scowled. "I am serious." "Alright." Gwen suddenly sat upright so that Walken had to avert his gaze. The dress, though elegant, wasn't at all lady-like. "I spoke with Babulya, and she's in agreement that I shouldn't be caught up in the CCP's internal affairs. Yeye isn't going to stay a Secretary forever, and once he's out, either I fall in line, or they'll screw me out of everything. As for Gramps, I'd say he's ambivalent. For now, I am a boon, but knowing his inheritance plans for Percy— who knows? To the Party's upper echelon, too much wealth is a taboo. The Communists loathe the notion that power and wealth should be concentrated." "Career-wise, I am well aware of my shortcomings. Fudan's a good university, but it's all second-hand knowledge. I've got Magisters who studied in England teaching me a facsimile of what authors in Oxford and Cambridge composed. With my limited time and intelligence, I am not sure if I'll ever reach my full potential. Magister Wen said that with my access to all schools, I should be making stride into Signature spells, like Henry, like Gunther and Alesia. Did you know that my late Master designed Gunther's 'hybrid School' of spells with the help of mates from Oxbridge? That's what I want..." Stolen novel; please report. Walken felt like slapping some sense into the girl— _designing new hybrid Schools!_ The waif was barely a noviciate theorist— and she wants to make new spells! Did she think spell-crafting for a rare Element-Affinity was akin to growing tomatoes? That one rubbed a few flowers together to engender hybrids? What half-truths had Wen been feeding the girl? "You're not wrong." Walken thumbed his cup. "But in England, you won't have the support network you've built up." "I'll have Gunther's buddies, and Lady Grey, and Elvia, my little Evee!" _Is Elvia is all you care about!?_ Walken suppressed the complaint spewing from his chest. "Did Gunther mention Mycroft Ravenport?" "He told me not to worry." Gwen toyed with a tuft of loose hair. "Lord Ravenport's Faction has their eyes on the Prime Ministership. If they make Gunther and the Middle Faction their enemy, it would make their objective near impossible. If need be, he'll mediate for me." "And when Ravenport attains the Ministership? Where will you go then?" "Gunther says the Tories still need the Middle Faction's support to retain a majority against the progressives. Think about it, Eric. Ravenport's left me well alone for almost two years now. He's never expressed interest in my existence. We don't even know if he's received the intelligence from Nephres. If I go, there's the questionable threat of a Purist avenger; conversely, the longer I stay here, the more I am painted in the CCP's colours." "A man like Ravenport has patience you cannot imagine." "All the merrier. In time, I'll eat the bastard head first if he dares to take revenge for what his son did to me. Hell's bells, maybe I'll pay him a visit. Maybe he should be worried." "You're letting your Lightning do the talking." Walken furrowed his brows. "Your victories are getting to your head, Gwen." "Why are you so against me going to London anyway?" "I want what's best for you." "You mean, what's best for you." "I'll not deny it." "I already told you, I am not going to leave you homeless." "And what's that supposed to mean?" Walken scoffed. "What do you owe me?" "Well, things have changed. You stood up to Alesia, and she has left without turning you medium-rare," Gwen retorted. "Even Gunther said that you've paid for your crime in Sydney. For your involvement in Master's demise, we'll never see you as one of our own, but you know what? I prefer that we work as mutual beneficiaries. Our short time together has made me fond. I don't mind having you around." Walken gulped, sensing a slight crinkle in his chest. "You don't?" "I don't." "Well..." the Magister realised too late that he was smiling. Gwen's Cheshire smile possessed a sickening infectiousness. "I— I am flattered." "As you should be." Gwen sipped from her pearl tea. "Eric. I am not the idiot girl who was abducted from Singapore anymore. I entrapped the leadership of Tonglv into giving me one per cent of their gross. I started a credit company without spending a cent. I tripled the price of Jade without lifting a finger. According to my bio, I liberated a country..." "Allied yourself with Dragon princes…" "Ate a Beast Tide…" "Saved a royal…" "Got offered a place in his harem…" "What?" Walken almost spat his latte in her face. The girl's facade fractured as she grew suddenly scarlet. "Okay— please disregard that— I thought you knew?" Walken dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, then took a moment to regulate his breathing. "But Gwen, what can I do for you in London? I am afraid I'm not very popular with the Grey Faction, at least at the moment. Without a position, there are scant favours I may call on. As for academia, compared to the Meisters and Magisters at Cambridge, I shan't offer much in the Path of the Omni-Mage." "Are you trying to leave?" Gwen's voice grew surly. "Have you tired of my company?" "Just... pointing out the obvious." Walken despaired at his opponent's endless teasing. "I want your counsel and your experience." The girl leaned in just enough so that her finger touched his hand. "I need someone to watch my back, who knows what tricks Ravenport may be up to, or Wen, or even Lady Grey?" Eric Walken felt a tightening in his chest. Was the girl serious? "Don't you know its unwise to trust me?" he confessed. "De Botton would skin you alive." "No, she won't." The girl chuckled. "She'll flay you first, then baste you over a slow fire. Then Gunther will pick up the slack." "I fear your trust." Walken felt a queer twinkle of delight constricting his heart, making his head buzz. Was this what the girl had done to her orphaned followers? He wondered. Was this what it felt like to be Lulan or Richard, utterly caught in the orbit of the girl's gravitational pull? "You're asking too much of a retired old man." "Don't kid yourself. Your ambition's written all over your face," the girl mocked his attempt at humility. "Come on, Eric, you want the job or not?" "The…" Walken snorted indignantly. "T-The JOB?" "I need a majordomo." Gwen's presence seemed to magnify as Walken fought off her Draconic-aura. "You're my guy, right?" "I most certainly am not your 'guy'." Walken forcibly reminded himself that he still had an estranged wife and two daughters, one of whom was ill. "And stop pouting like that, and sit properly. Your un-lady-like etiquette will most certainly cause tongues to wag. Lady Grey will have a fit." "See? Helpful already." Gwen laughed. "So, will you think about it." "You want… one of the Ten…" Walken huffed. He wasn't one of the Ten anymore, but still, he had his dignity and his pride. "To be your butler?!" "Would it sound better if I gave you a title? When my— Ruxin's crystal mountain is deployed in London or the Americas, I shall be the CEO of a new multinational company. As my second and my ancient, you shall be my Inside Director, my whip. Our board will consist of major stakeholders, people like Gunther, obviously Ruxin, maybe another dragon or two to balance the books, and stockholders from major industrial sectors will serve as Outside Directors. Your job will consist of wrangling their support so that our interests can be prioritised." Walken stared so hard that his eyes began to water. "I am very interested in the communications sector," Gwen continued. "China isn't a good place for the development of long-distance communication technologies, but I have a very good idea involving the Divination Towers. That and I have a few notion involving wires and lighting-charged cores. From this baseline—" The girl paused. Her conversation partner appeared Petrified. "Eric?" Eric Walken breathed out; his warm coffee was now stone cold. As for his mind, a riot of possibilities played across his frontal lobe. He did not believe the girl had a means of cheap communication for the masses, and yet, Gwen had never disappointed when it came to generating obscene volumes of currency. "You've got a few months to decide," the girl promised as she slid from her chair. Over the hedge, a dozen bulbs flashed, painting her complexion vivid ivory. "No rush, we've got an IIUC to win!" The old "Shanghai Club", now known as the Astoria at the Bund, possessed an unrivalled chronicle. Constructed in 1910 to cater to wealthy Westerners, it subsequently survived the Qing Dynasty, the Sino Occupation, The Great Revolution, a failed coup, and then a Beast Tide. Both inside and out, the Astoria was an art-deco, ultra-luxury colonial marvel whose price-point mocked the communist banners celebrating the workers' victory only four blocks away. One step past the footmen, anyone unwilling to burn at least a hundred HDMs at the bar should think twice before gracing its four-storey foyer. For Fudan and the young Mages from Auckland and Pretoria, it was with great fortune that the House of M covered all expenses. Had Dean Luo been made to foot the bill, the poor man would have lost all his hair by morning. _Tink! Tink! Tink!_ The shrill twinkle of English silver on elven-glass silenced the room. "Students, advisors, and esteemed guests- we welcome you to this gathering for the International Inter-University Competition. TONIGHT— We kick off the second round of the IIUC. Before I reveal the Quest portion of our competition, let us celebrate our future Magus and Magisters, our talented young people whose very presence represents humanity's hope and dreams..." The woman with a sonorous timbre was Magister Maryam Clark Jamison, a Stanford alumna of great renown. With her curly bob, creme-coffee complexion and almond eyes, the Magister's presence was awe-inspiring, as befitting a Mage of high station. For Gwen, this was the first African-American Magister she had seen, much less heard of, and so her first instinct was to silently Message Walken. "Don't act the bumpkin," Walken's voice returned. "According to her file, Jamison heads medical Magi-tech research at Stanford, served as the Chief Medical Officer in Chicago, and now works as an external consultant for Pfizer-Klein. In terms of Factions, she's a neutral outsider..." Gwen couldn't help but note that Walken was more enthused than usual. Upon the stage, the chief proctor continued. "… You all know the Magister beside me— Mayor Rong Yin. Sir Yin, the pleasure is all mine," the healer finally finished after a five-minute pontification on the spirit of competition. "Your modesty is very un-American." The Mayor of Shanghai, physically an unassuming man, chuckled, eliciting a round of laughter from the room. Once the noise died down, he pointed to the reporters surrounding the hall. "Alas, I am not the main attraction, not today. Stop pointing those devices at me— the stars tonight are these young men and women who will soon venture into the hell known as the Northern Front." As if on cue, bulbs glowed white-hot. "Well said, Sir Yin." The chief proctor flashed her pearly teeth. "Let me not steal the Dancing Light either. Without adieu, let's invite to the stage— Your Captains and Vice-Captains!" The reception broke into wild applause. Of the hundred-meter long length of tables that had been set up, three pairs stood from their seats. From Fudan's side, all eyes were focused on their resplendent vice-captain, whose daring, figure-hugging dress and four-inch stilettos elevated her head and shoulders above her captain. Arm-in-arm, the two proceeded down the extended entry onto the dais, half-blinded by the lumen-blasts firing from the recorders. Pretoria's leading couple was equally eye-catching. Their captain was a flaxen-haired young man with a prominent jaw and clear, crystal-like eyes in a navy herringbone tuxedo. Everything about the man was tailored; even his measured walk suggested that his existence was brevity in itself. Attached to his arm was an olive-skinned beauty with auburn hair. In contrast to the tapered young man, the lady was outrageously voluptuous. Though she moved languishingly, it was as though every ounce of her sensuous flesh smouldered. Finally, Auckland's duo turned head by virtue of their difference in height and girth. From what the audience could see, Auckland's captain had the body of a child and the face of a gruff soldier. Measuring just under four-foot-four, the captain from the Land of the Long White Cloud reached only the bosom of his partner. Compared to her captain, Auckland's vice-captain was a giantess with a sculpted body matching her Earth-Affinity. Together as a trio, the group made quite the headlining spectacle. "Let us begin with our far-far-away-team…" chief proctor Jamison intoned. "Captain Hertzog, please say a few words for the audience, the people of China, and your fellow contestants." "Ek groed u, my liewe vriende." The young man's accent was apparent even through the translation stone. "We are delighted to be here and be given the opportunity to represent my country and my university. Though much has changed in my country since the days of my great-grandfather, I hope to prove to the world that despite the blessing the Britannic Mageocracy has bestowed upon us, the blood of our forefathers flows undiminished. Today, I am here with my vice-captain, Alizea Kock, my teammates Lencho, Mariete, Ella, Altus, Pieter, Izette, and Heila. Together, I hope that we shall provide the people of this land some solace from its invaders. From the depth of our hearts, we truly thank you for hosting us." The Captain of Pretoria bowed. "Wooo, snarky." Gwen had learned of the beef between the Boers and the British who came into South Africa salivating after its abundance of precious minerals and HDM mines. According to Walken, the result was that South Africa's Purists were dragged kicking and screaming onto the Middle Path. One by one, Gwen's gaze matched the names to the nodding faces and the waving arms. "Six… seven— there's nine of them? Eric, did someone die?" "No, there's ten of them. Hertzog missed the last one." Gwen's gaze fell upon an individual she had disregarded. It wasn't surprising, considering his lack of presence. Now that her Essence-infused eyes focused, she saw a young man who could only be described as unfortunate. Where the rest of Pretoria had the chiselled look of young nobles with their Duchess noses, deeply sunken eyes and fair to olive skin; the oddball appeared as if a goblin shark and Voldemort had a lovechild. Gangly and yet somehow shrunken, the man looked completely uncomfortable in his designer suit, giving the impression that the wardrobe designer had stuffed a sphinx cat into a child's tux. As if sensing her gaze, the man raised his head. His eyes were a beautiful blue, but against his face and his pallid dermis, all Gwen could think of was Gollum. "Wow." Gwen repressed her ingrained prejudice, then silently Messaged her instructor. "What is that dude? Is he demi-human?" "I'll find out from Magister Jamison," her instructor replied. "Stop staring, it's rude. You'll see worse in England, I promise you. The upper nobility throws up some horrors now and then. I'll tell you that." Unable to control her mirth, Gwen burst into a dazzling grin before removing her eyes from the unfortunate tenth member of Pretoria. Next to take the spotlight was Auckland's mismatched combination from the buddy comedy "Twins". "Kia Ora!" came a booming voice from a tiny body. "Rona Manaia from Turangi, Captain of Orkland, at your service. Oi am here with me mates and missus from Oceania and the Land of the Long White Cloud. With me here is our missus boss, Ruihi Keeti. As for the other fellers: from the left, that's Yue Bai from Sydney, the Wikiriwhi brothers from Whitianga, Maka and Timoti. Over there's Rongo and Otikoro, the big boi there is Whetu of Rotorua, next to him in the shade is Tua from Te Urewera. Finally, that choice young lady there's Opi from my hometown. It's good to be here with the bros, and we look forward to a good competition." Yue waved at her captain, or perhaps she was waving at Gwen— Gwen couldn't tell. The little-red dress that Yue wore, however, was sure to raise eyebrows once the cocktails started flowing. "The captain's a 'quarterling'." Walken's voice drifted across the room via the Silent Message. "It wasn't mentioned in his file. How quaint." "What the hell is a _quarterling?"_ "Half of a Halfling." Walken's dad-joke flew over her head. "You're aware of what happens when a Demi-human and a human love each other very much, yes?" "AH." Gwen nodded imperceptibly. The young man was barely up to her chest, but his hand and feet were enormous. "And finally, a word from our residents!" Magister Jamison stalked around Gwen and Tei, cooler than a cucumber. When she passed Gwen, the chief proctor lowered her voice. "Miss Song, I've seen your uncut vid-casts, and I must say that what you refer to as CPR has turned heads and peaked interests in my field of expertise." "I am happy to hear it." Gwen smiled at the decorated Magister, carefully observing the youthful, forty-something woman. "We've yet to find an avenue to publish our findings, you should know. Perhaps in the future, when I am abroad…" "Of course." The Magister pursed her thick-lips. "Which one of you will speak?" "Tei, work your magic." Gwen nudged Tei so that he began the usual cookie-cutter speech deemed acceptable at all official CCP events. Without blinking, he began to extol their un-repayable gratitude for the nation, his Clan, his parents, to Fudan. "… He's our official CCP spokesperson." "You're not going to speak yourself?" The chief proctor measured the girl from head to toe with her amber orbs. "You've got a gift for oratory. Some would say that's a rarer talent than Magic." "And a good speech must be delivered at the right time and in the right place. For now, I am happy to play the vase." Gwen held her gaze steady as the two women measured one another. "…Magister, I think you're up." "We'll talk later." The caramel-complexioned Magister turned her face slightly from Gwen to face the crowd. As her voice rose to a crescendo, the multitudes stood to raise their glasses. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, allow me to declare the opening of the 2004 second round of the INTERNATIONAL INTER-UNIVERSITY COMPETITION! FUDAN! PRETORIA! AUCKLAND! YOUR MISSION, should you choose to accept: is to assist in the RECLAMATION OF SHENYANG!"

With the formalities petering out, the contestants moved to a courtyard lit with Dancing Lights, forming a dazzling display where illusory lanterns suffused the garden with gentle ambience. Unlike Cuzco, the PLA proved keen on inter-team duels. However, to limit injury before the contestants ventured into an Undead Black Zone, the duels had been restricted to individual bouts. After a speech about professional conduct, sportsmanship and safety, Magister Jamison invited the teams to offer volunteers. Likewise, to prevent damage escalation, the style was set to Oxford, meaning that contestants entered the bout without pre-buffs. Gwen was halfway to the dais when Walken commanded her to stand down. As their ace in the hole, she was far better suited to countering enemy Mages. "Lulan," Tei implored their sword-wielding starlet. "Do you mind starting for us?" "Not at all." Lulan Misty-Stepped onto the announcement platform. For the evening event, the students had changed out of their formal wear into university-themed training outfits. In her tights and halterneck body-suit, Lulan positively glowed. To her unsuspecting admirers, the girl possessed a striking aura. To Gwen, she knew that Lulan's battle-heavy training regime fed the Naga Spirit like no other and that its Draconic-essence was likely nourishing Lulu. Arriving, Lulan bowed toward the chief proctor, the overseer of the duels before facing the crowd. "Lulan Li, Sword Mage of Fudan! I seek instruction from my seniors!" Yue met Gwen's eyes across the room. To her disappointment, her aunt-in-craft shook her head. "Allow me, sister," came a reply from Pretoria. "I am also a Spirit-bonded Earthen Mage. I'll show you a few tricks— if you're willing to learn." Gwen recognised the young Mage as Ella Goosen, a flaxen-haired beauty with a bronze complexion. Side-by-side, though both were Earth Mages, Lulan's figure was compact and petite; Ella's was tall, dignified, and glowing. "I look forward to our exchange—" Lulan bowed. A second later, she Misty Stepped into the duelling cage. Unlike her opponent, Pretoria's Abjurer did not possess instant-movement spells. "Let's play a game." Ella raised a hand, making a gesture for Lulan to initiate the first strike. "Attack all you like. I shall forfeit if you breach my defences before you are OoM." "Deal." The crowd roared as Lulan slowly materialised all five blades, causing a cascade of lumen-bulb flashes to fill the arena. "HaiiiiYA!" Lulan leapt into the air, twisting and turning her body to gain the momentum necessary to begin her blade dance. "Panzerschreck!" She fired off a single blade to test Pretoria's defences. "Man van Goud!" Ella's pupils transformed into pin-points of golden brilliance. "Golem, kom!" _CLANG!_ A clay-statue rose from the ground where Lulan had expected a shield to manifest. To her complete amazement, the vague figure moved, catching her blade with mitt-sized hands, eliciting a clank of fiery sparks. Not relenting on the momentum of her strike, Lulan fell into her usual rhythm. "Sweep!" "Strike!" "Pierce!" "Golems! Defend me!" Four human-sized gingerbread men had now manifested, and each of them clutched Lulan's blade. In the eyes of Fudan's observers, Pretoria's Abjurer must have anticipated a comfortable victory if she disabled Lulan's melee spells. "Heart-Seeker!" Lulan waited for the moment the fourth nugget-man caught her blade before firing her final weapon through the gap. "Shield!" Ella hurriedly manifested a shimmerin, golden shield with a malleable surface that snagged the blade's cutting edge. "BRAVO!" came the sound of Gwen's breathless voice after seeing so much gold in one place. "Good work, Lulu! Great defence!" "Not using Blink?" Ella ignored the hooting Void Sorceress, then snorted at the petite Sword Mage. "You do yourself a disservice." "It's not a fight to the death." Lulan allowed her blades to crumble. "If you insist, I'll Shield Break you in the next minute." "Do your worst, meisiekind." "This will hurt. SWEEP!" Lulan stomped the underfoot Force Barrier, using the rebounding energy to somersault above the haughty Mage and her gold-laced Earth Elementals. Though Lulan herself had no name for the flurry of strikes she now committed, the watching journalists dubbed the chained combination, "The Green-Iron Blossom". _CLANG!_ _CLANG! CLANG!_ _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_ An unceasing cascade of blows pushed Ella into a corner, her golden golem-men absorbing into her shield one by one as the pressure mounted. Lulan's blows felt like a blacksmith's hammer, pounding her shield into a distorted mess. _P—AAANG!_ Lulan changed the angle of her strike. To the audience's delight, a slice of golden metal flew from Ella's control and smashed against the vibrating wall. In desperation, Pretoria's defender let loose a shout of dismay before muttering an inaudible spell under the din of Lulan's discordant strikes. When the Sword Mage again closed in to shave away more of her manipulated alloy, an impaling spike erupted the moment Lulu connected her blow, returning the favour. "Lulu! Dodge it!" came the sound of her teammate's cries. Lulan took the erupting lance without so much as a grimace, allowing it to graze her abdomen. Sparks flew as the fabric ripped, exposing her tempered abdominals. With a grunt of effort, her riposte landed, penetrating Ella's shield with an ear-grating sound of metal on metal. "Shield Break!" The chief proctor declared with a clap of her hands. "Both of you. Well done!" The contestants bowed, shook hands, then left the stage to the sound of thunderous applause. "Lulu, did you see her element?!" Gwen was shaking. "Is it gold— like real gold?" "It's a gold-alloy." Walken's Message interrupted her glee. "Did you read my notes? The regions around Johannesburg and Pretoria are inundated with rare earth minerals, precious metals and gemstones. She must have picked up a rare Earth Elemental." "Damn it, so it's not gold?" Gwen materialised a towel for the victorious Lulan. "Here, put this on. Kusu's going to complain." Lulan wrapped the beach towel around her shoulders. Against her tiny frame, the bath-sized fabric was just enough to cover her bruised midsection. Next to take the stage was another member of Pretoria, the sultry vice-captain with an outrageous figure matched only by Yue. Yawning, she pointed a disinterested finger at Team Auckland. "Alizea Kock, I'll fight two rounds. One from each of your teams. Who's first?" The sorceress' husky voice befitted her smouldering silhouette, leaving no doubt that compared to Fudan's fresh-faced lasses, she was a full-fledged woman. Gwen focused just enough to activate her Detect Magic. Here was a Mage whose element sent her heart into bouts of palpitation. Though she had seen Wonsoo in action in Guangzhou, no further opportunities had since arisen where she could tangle with the versatility of one of the rarer quasi-elements - Ooze. "Maka Wikiriwhi of Whitianga, here to answer your challenge!" A giant appeared on stage, emerging from a hiss of sulphur. "Magtig, you're groot one." Alizea smirked, her clear-cobalt eyes appearing to swallow the man whole. "We're badly matched, Maka. I'd recommend someone else. Like your captain, or that fiery little bakvissie who's giving me the evil eye." "You'll have to defeat me first." Maka stretched his arms and legs, his admirable muscles rippling across his magnificent bulk. On his face, the vivid ta moko— the tribal tattoos of the Maori people, writhed as though alive. "Come at me, bro." "I'll be nice." Alizea Dimensioned Doored into the arena, crossing her arms under her chest. "Coming?" Maka followed with a Blink. From the difference in their mana trails, Gwen could see that Pretoria's craft was superior. "First Strike is all yours." Alizea stepped back. "I don't much like opening a fight, though I tend to end them." Maka took a deep breath, then without warning, his facial expression changed. With a tremendous shout, his body expanded, his muscles tensed, his bull-neck strained, and his eyes bulged from their sockets. _"Ka mate, ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!…"_ Barking war cries erupted from the Kiwi's lips, blowing away not only the audience but Alizea. "Jislaaik!" the sorceress shirked back, half-stunned by the sudden display. "What ancient witchcraft is this?! BOB!" Of all the audience present, it was likely that only Gwen and Auckland's team knew the meaning behind the one-warrior Haka that Maka now performed. In the Land of the Long Cloud, the Haka and the ta moko greatly enhanced a Mage's physical and mental abilities, granting the invoker resistance and courage in equal measure. Unfortunately for Maka, "Bob", a gelatinous ooze shaped like a cube and half the size of the arena swallowed the still-shouting Kiwi. Not expecting to be outright overwhelmed, Maka was mid-stride and half-finished when he became suddenly encased in slime. "YOU—!" Yue shouted from below the dais. "He was getting to the good part!" Gwen wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or cringe. She knew what a Haka was and still, Maka managed to make her flinch with that first "Ka ora!" For someone like Alizea, it must have felt like a sonic assault. In the cube, Maka tried to move, to invoke a spell, to bring forth his magma. Unfortunately, all was in vain. "Maka! Get back here!" Yue fumed, scalding the air around her body. "I'll boil this bitch's blood!" No response came. Maka couldn't breathe, much less banter. The advantage often used by Water Mages to prevent their opponents from casting was now manifested in its unadulterated glory by Alizea the Ooze Mage. "What a wonderful Familiar," Richard muttered under his breath, his eyes gleaming. "Beautiful." Alizea waited for half-a-minute before releasing the coughing Maka from her jello prison. Red-faced and vomiting undigested dinner, the Kiwi rolled to one side to prevent himself from been choked to death by his ejecta. With Yue foaming at the mouth, Gwen grew terrified that the competition may see its first fatality before the matches had even begun. Pulling her friend into her arms, she held the Fire Sorceress against her chest, forcing her to calm down. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Miss Alizea, I challenge you!" a voice rang out from behind Gwen. She turned to see a red-faced Jiro ready to rock. "Miss Bai, I dedicate this match to you!" Gwen made a face. Elementally, Jiro wasn't a good match, though his ever-burning Firebird may yet secure a victory. "Whatever." Alizea furrowed her brows, realising that Auckland and Fudan not only knew one another but were acquainted. If so, she would teach them a lesson. "A friendly warning though. I have the advantage. You should quit before you hurt yourself." Jiro didn't hear a word, for the young man Blinked into the area without so much as waiting for Walken's advice. "Idiot." Petra rolled her eyes. "Eunae?" "Yes, Petra?" Eunae's expression grew worried. "Get Eunae ready," Walken likewise lamented in his Message to Gwen. "Fighting an Ooze Mage in a cage? That boy's thinking with his wand." "Contestants, BEGIN!" Chief proctor Jamison was happy so long as bodies filled the arena. "First to shield-break!" True to their prediction, Jiro opened strong with an all-consuming barrage. To the layman observer, the Fire Mage appeared to dominate as Alizea dodged and rolled, protecting herself with blob after quivering blob of conjured Ooze-flesh. Yet, when Jiro filled the arena with fire, his expression grew increasingly disorientated until, too incoherent to control his body, he fell face-first into a pile of still-smouldering Slime. For all of Jiro's talk of overcoming hardship with guts, physiology remained an immutable barrier. Outside, Gwen was ready with Eunae beside the stage as Alizea delivered the unconscious Fire Mage. When Jiro flopped onto Yue like a dead fish, Gwen growled dangerously, making even Yue flinch. "May I have a match?" Her hazel eyes were almost amber with anger as she regarded the Ooze Mage. The air sparked, or at least the onlookers felt that it had. "We may not." Alizea unsummoned her globular multitudes. "I've seen your prowess. We're not a good match up." "Do you only fight when the Affinities align?" "No." Alizea stood so close that the two could have touched. Refusing to give an inch, she fired back at the boisterous young sorceress of Fudan with a snark of her own. "I don't waste my energy unless I can win." "Well said!" Magister Jamison golf-clapped. "Some would call it cowardice, but knowing your strength and weaknesses marks the true form of the expert Mage." "Fine. Which one of you is GAME enough for a challenge?" In her wounded pride, Gwen's aura verged on oppression. "I'm going with Eunae," Yue grumbled. Jiro had wanted to fight in her stead, meaning his humiliation belonged to her as well. Without a deathmatch, there was no way for their fire to offset Alizea's Ooze before they succumbed to her toxins. Mayhap Jiro had not possessed the purest of intentions, but he did take a bolt to the brain for her sake. "Kick their ass for me." "May I have a match?" the voice of Pretoria's Captain filled the vox-casters. "I have heard endless praise for your prowess. Our advisor said to avoid duelling you at all costs." Gwen stepped away from Pretoria's vice-captain, allowing the woman to pass. "Wel gedaan," the young man intoned when his twice-victorious teammate returned, greeting her with an affirming pat. "Let's see if I measure up against the fabled Void Sorceress of Fudan. If I lose, tell the leech to step up and make himself useful." "Good." Gwen stepped into the duelling box, materialising Ariel and Caliban as she did so, eliciting gasps from both Auckland and Pretoria. At the barrier, recalling the information Walken had provided, she paused. "Schalk, aren't you an Abjurer? I am not going to go easy, just so you know." "Beware his Banish," Walken's voice drifted in. "He's got a Banish loaded up," Petra warned her. "Gwen, he's going after your pets." The third voice belonged to Whetu. Gwen remained unfazed. Rather than wariness, she looked forward to it. "I am what they call an all-rounder," the young man with the surname of Hertzog spoke with care. "Before we begin, hear me out. I know you're upset— you look upset. BUT— we're _competitors,_ not enemies. Once the IIUC is over, I want us to meet as friends." "How humble." Gwen stood with a hand against her hip. The captain's diplomacy surprised her, especially considering what Walken had said about the Purists. "You mistake my humility." Pretoria's captain regarded Gwen with irises that were carbon copies of Petra's. Schalk was a good-looking bloke; his intense eyes reminded her of a majestic male Husky. With his straight nose, square jaws and tapered chin, he appeared to Gwen a twenty-something Alec Baldwin. Of all the teams they fought so far, Pretoria's Mages ranked high as decent-looking lads and lasses, sans Gollum von Voldemort. "I will do my best." The captain bowed. "Shall we?" The two moved to opposite ends of the arena. "Mages— keep it cool, keep it clean, and keep the lethality low. You'll be touring the Front in two days." Chief proctor Jamison waited for the reporters and journalists to settle before announcing the match. "BEGIN!" At the drop of the Magister's hand, Gwen conjured two spells in quick succession "Chakram! Ariel— Lightning Bolt!" The crowd burst into amazement at the live demonstration of oppositional elements. As an arc, a dark disc of Void sliced toward Schalk while instantaneously, two bolts of high-tier Lightning arced toward Pretoria's captain. "Dimension Door!" Schalk appeared and reappeared, catching Gwen on the back foot even as she commanded Caliban to ambush the man when he re-materialised from behind. Unexpectedly, her prediction fell short. The distance Pretoria's captain had displaced was just enough to render her spells null. "Miss Song, be careful now— Scatter Shot!" The space in front of Gwen appeared to compress. In response, she raised her double-glazed shield. A split-second later, a hundred thudding impacts clattered against her diamond-faceted barrier, pinging off the surface. "EE EE!" Ariel warned her that Schalk had disappeared into another Dimension Door. "Cali, spider form as soon as he reappears!" Gwen swore as she followed suit, likewise teleporting across the duelling floor. A Banish was coming sooner or later; she had to be ready. When her world reorientated, she painted her surroundings with a Lightning Nova, hoping to catch an unsuspecting Schalk setting up his attack. "EE EE!" Ariel screeched. She looked up. Schalk was standing upside down and directly overhead through Spider Climb. The man had not teleported beside her but had readied an ambush instead. Her Divination Sigil tingled as Gwen grimaced. Compared to Tei, she wasn't an expert duellist, but were her tactics that easy to read? "Scatter Shot! Earthen Spikes!" Pretoria's captain let loose two near-simultaneous low-tier spells at once. The execution was academic and concise, precisely as Magister Jamison had requested— crisp, clean and the lethality low. Before she could Dimension Door again, Gwen had to open another shield. Around her came the pop and crackle of rapidly expanding crystals, followed by the sound of fracturing glass as her double-glazed barrier took damage from above and below. Had she been a sorceress lacking the VMI necessary to compress and sustain her defence, the match would have been over. For Gwen, however, she was merely inconvenienced while her shield-bubble turned opaque. "SHAAA!" A cry from Caliban indicated that Schalk's troubles were about to begin. In its spider form, Caliban Hasted itself with Gwen's vitality, then rapidly clambered toward Pretoria's Captain on spindly legs. With complete calm, Schalk extended both hands, then swiftly drew a series of Mandalas through the air. Less than a meter away, Caliban raised both forelegs. If the multi-talented Mage refused to raise his shield, it would skewer the man like a boerewors. The entire exchange lasted barely five or six seconds, but it was enough. "Banish!" Schalk completed the spell with nary a second to spare. A lesser Mage would have experienced a multi-tongued kiss to the face. "SHAAA!" Caliban fell from the ceiling, landing as though suddenly drunk, then collapsed into its original serpent form. For Gwen, the Banish came as a blow directed against her Astral Soul, though she successfully kept her Familiar intact. Though Caliban's morphic presence grew uncertain, her beast remained fully manifested in the material realm. "It's not banished?" cries from Pretoria's side rang out. "How can this be?" "Extraordinary!" Magister Jamison clapped. Impressed by Schalk's ability to juggle Abjuration, Enchantment and Conjuration simultaneously, as well as by Gwen's Astral fortitude. "You too, Miss Song, that was tier 5!" Inside the arena, Schalk Hertzog felt his back suddenly drenched in cold sweat when Gwen's barrier shield dropped. Banish took a great deal of concentration, and he was counting on Gwen's disorientation to offset his spell-fatigue. "You almost had me there," came the girl's icy voice from below. "Flash Bang!" _BUNG!_ A star was born, manifesting so rapidly that his shield barely had time to solidify before his senses were momentarily overwhelmed. Reflexively, Schalk Dimension Doored to safety. _BUNG!_ Came a second flash of light and sound, jarring his innards. Schalk wanted to spew; if he had possessed a softer element like Alizea's Ooze, he could have repressed the spell's potency. As a Mineral Mage, however, the vibrations shook his brain even as the refracting light made his diamond-shield iridescent. A role-reversal, Schalk noted. The girl was as spiteful as a manticore. "EE EE!" "Barbanginy!" Gwen had yet to use Walken's Thundering Shatter on anyone other than Petra during practice, but the close call with Caliban had exacerbated her foul mood. As Ariel manifested the spell at a distance, a rolling, tile-displacing, glass-vibrating clamour rumbled through the shaking duelling box. "REMOVE THE TOP BARRIER—" Magister Jamison warned the technical team. "NOW!" Outside, the guests' jubilant expressions paled as some realised the Wall of Force might not hold against a spell especially designed to disrupt single-pane barriers. Inside, Gwen came to realise she had miscalculated Ariel's firepower, particularly that there was no IFF for sonic damage. "Idiot girl!" Outside, an ashen Walken despaired. Anything from Lightning Bolt to Ball Lightning could have cracked the boy's shield— why Thundering Shatter? The spell was infamously destructive without her Essence, and now with the girl's tier 7 Affinity combined with her Kirin, the spell's magnitude had grown beyond compare. _CRACK!_ A fulmination so turbulent as to mirror the heavens splitting in twain filled the interior of the duelling area. Where Schalk had cloistered himself in a diamond-like shield, the sound of sheet-glass shattering punctuated the din. For an elongated second, the shrill whine of portable force-generators screamed like strangled cats. A spluttering fart followed, after which the devices burst into bright plumes of fizzling mana. Walken despaired. Like all good spells, there remained a second-stage manifestation. Just when the guests thought the worst was over, the low rumble built into a shrill-shriek akin to ceramic scratched over a chalkboard, amplified to liquefy one's soul. Crystalware sourced from Elven artisans, having been in the Astoria's collections for decades, exploded into fine powder as goblets and pitches cracked and crumbled. Not far from where the courtyard housed the duel, multi-storey sheet-glass split into splendiferous hues, catching the shocked faces of the journalists, the proctors, and the contestants. Stunned by the power of her magic, Gwen felt her soul grow sore, thinking of the crystal compensation soon to follow. Even now, the liqueur covered guests and the proud staff of the historic Astoria painted her lonesome figure with death glares. "M-My recorder!" a journalist wailed when his vision turned kaleidoscopic. "Shaa Shaa!" Caliban menaced the unmoving captain, ready for round two, heedless of the crowd. "EE! EEE!" Ariel looked to Gwen, expecting praise for its brilliant assault. Pretoria's captain laid very still on the floor, blinded and deafened and knowing that it was far better to remain prone than to expel his dinner. Upon the dais, Magister Jamison took a deep breath. Had she not disabled the top-most portion of the force field, she wondered if Schalk Hertzog would have turned to jelly. A slow clamour began to grow from the thong of guests below. Some were understandably upset. Others were applauding, while here and there, people took the unfortunate event to be a tale told and retold weeks and years from now. "I was there!" they would say. "When the Astoria had to be restored! Again!" "LOSS, Gwen Song!" Magister Jamison growled. "For excessive force and excessive injury and collateral damage. You're worse than an acolyte, girl! Learn some control! Come here." While Pretoria's team attended to their victorious captain, Gwen sheepishly walked toward the Magister with her Familiars in tow. "Give the crowd a few minutes to settle, then issue an apology." The chief proctor's eyes searched Gwen's face for the slightest hint of insubordination. "Yes, ma'am." "Girl. Do you have enough crystals to pay for the damage?" Gwen appeared on the verge of agony. The Magister snorted. _Silly girl, stupid is as stupid does,_ she critiqued sympathetically. At this rate, the girl may be paying off the debt even after her graduation. "That's it for the duels then." The chief proctor scanned the ruined party, her ageless face wrinkled by the stress brought on by the unruly sorceress. "A friendly bit of advice. Kiss and make up with Pretoria if you can. Urban warfare isn't going to be a Quest Fudan wants to do alone." "Ha! Suffer in ya jocks!" Yue slammed the beer before crushing the can. "NEXT!" "I yield," slurred the Lightning Mage from Pretoria, a teal-eyed youth who had challenged her to a beer-drinking contest. "For such a tiny meisie, where do you pack all that booze?" All eyes fell toward Yue's low-cut top; many inquisitive minds reached the same conclusion. After the duels were suspended, Fudan's vice-captain invited both teams to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant to experience "xiao ye" or midnight-supper. For Auckland's Mages, the famous Beggar Chicken reminded them of "Hāngi" feasts. Meanwhile, Pretoria's members blew Gwen's mind when they took to eating liver, fatty intestine, and even chicken feet without batting an eye. After two-dozen dishes populated the table, the Tsingtao began to flow in earnest. "Oi! What are you staring at, you wanna go?" Yue barked at the shadow lurking not far from Gwen. For a while now, the last member of Pretoria had grated her nerves. Gwen begged a good oogling, but that was no reason to undress her with his eyes. "Don't mind him." Schalk opened a can and passed the ice-cold beverage down the table. "Jean-Paul isn't used to public spaces or people. Isn't that right, Jean-Paul?" Hearing his name, the creature known as Jean-Paul appeared to shrink into his chair. "Say something, Jean-Paul," Alizea demanded from across the table. "Don't play the mute. We know you can talk." The rest of Pretoria laughed, a few from Auckland and Fudan joined the mirth. Jean-Paul opened his mouth to speak, though no sound emerged. His pallid face was already a deep scarlet, and now he looked on the verge of asphyxiation. Across the long table, Gwen sat transfixed, likewise glancing at Jean-Paul. More so than the others, it was Gwen's undivided attention that made the man with a face no mother could love squirm. Yue scoffed. So what if the cockroach was a Void Mage? Who could match her friend's prodigious talent? Certainly not a hairless Water Ghost. "No matter, three CHEERs to our success on the Front! May our adventure be sweet-as!" Rona, Auckland's captain, stood on his seat to raise a toast. Like Yue, the man could drink like a fish. "Just as the headiest foam rises to the top, may the best team emerge the victor!" "Cheers!" "Gānbēi!" "Gesondheid!" Foaming cans and bottles clinked across the air. Until the beer ran dry, no contestant wanted to recall that in less than forty-eight hours, they would no longer be in a city of twenty-million living souls, but knee-deep in the Undead.

By the time the beer dried up, the three teams had become well acquainted. At Gwen's behest, each member of their Dalian foray was to deliver a show and tell, like on day one of a tutorial class. The first to volunteer were the boisterous New Zealanders. Their captain, Rona Manaia, a stock-standard Water Mage, announced that he would spend the match in the backlines. His speciality, Illusion and Conjuration, may work wonders on intelligent enemies but was hapless against the Undead. When asked if he was a 'quaterling', Rona raised a toast. "Yeah bro, me old woman's a halfie." The captain's endearing vernacular had Gwen in fits. "Don't knock me mum for her size though. She's sweet as they come." "It's true," Yue cut in. "Mrs Manaia's pavlova? Ernnnngh!" As Yue grunted in a most unladylike manner, Gwen peeked at the Purists from Pretoria. Surprisingly, Schalk and mates appeared entirely chill with the idea. If so, it was true what Richard had once said, that among the Purists, there were factions. For pursuers of unadulterated magical might, unions with higher-order demi-humans were encouraged. What united the Purists, therefore, was mutual loathing for NoMs. "Whetu Tikitiki O Taranga." The biggest of the gathered students half-stood so that he wouldn't head-bump the greasy ceiling. "I employ Punamu. I am our team's Abjurer-Defender. I can use a little Transmutation." In addition to Gwen's friends, the other members of Auckland were the Wikiriwhi brothers, Maka and Timoti, both Spirit-bound Magma Mages and Evokers. Maka minored in Transmutation, while Timoti was skilled in Conjuration. Their other relative, Rongo Winiata, was a rare Water Evoker. "Too bad you and I couldn't duel." Rongo grinned at Richard. "Oi've heard of ya, Mr Undine." "I am happy to oblige whenever." Richard looked the big man up and down. "Your spirit, its a whale, isn't it?" Rongo abruptly lifted his shirt, revealing chiselled abdominals like those found on a polished statue, from his chest to his left lumbar, an enormous ta moko depicting a flat-headed fish impressed Gwen to no end. "Not whale, but He-Mango-Tohorā! Whale Shark!" Richard whistled. Lulu covered her face. Soundlessly, Lea manifesting beside him, dazzling Richard's audience with a beauty only a fay could possess. Chuckling, she handed him a cold beer. "Thanks, love." The two men watched one another. The whale shark evidently could not manifest Rongo a cold one. With a laugh, the next candidate, Otikoro Aperahama, announced himself as Auckland's Water Abjurer-Transmuter. The man beside him, a giant heavily tattoed with dog-skin ta moko, introduced himself as Tua Kahurangi. He was a Sand Mage, a talent that knitted Gwen's brow and brought on unpleasant memories. "Ruihi Keeti, Enchanter, Earth." A robust woman with dazzling ember eyes and big bushy hair stood to reveal twin arms tattooed from fingertips to her undershirt. Most jarring was the ta moko that gilded her neck to her chin, giving the impression of a beard. "My speciality is defensive buffs through the sacred art." "And I am Opi Raharuhil, Diviner-Enchanter, Air." A slim woman as tall as Gwen stood, she sported more ta mojo than her already impressive sister-in-craft. "I specialise in the ta moko of attack." The last of the Kiwi crew wasn't a New Zealander at all but a Sydney-sider on loan, one that grinned mischievously at Gwen before telling her story. "My mother's an NoM," Yue declared when it came to her turn, wiggling her brows at Pretoria. As expected, a few of the members sobered up with conflicted expressions, dimming the mirth. A dozen pairs of eyes drifted back and forth as Yue shit stirred. Fengbo Village was no place to duel. "Good for you," Schalk broke the ice. "Are you expecting one of us to smash the table and call you a squib? I could oblige if it makes you happier." "Schalks, you don't mind someone like Yue?" Gwen cut straight to the chase. She'd been worried about how the two would interact. "Why would I mind?" Pretoria's captain snorted. With his pale eyes gleaming, he stood to face the half-blood sorceress. "Miss Bai, are you willing to bear me a child?" "FUCK NO!" Yue's spray of Tsingtao missed Gwen by an inch. "Gwen, tell him he's dreaming!" "Schalks, I am afraid Yue's not a good fit..." "Of course she's not." Schalk grinned, the young man's charisma was palpable. "Now then, shall I rage and fume at a half-breed with no interest in partnership? We're allies of circumstance. She may do as she pleases, as will I. We Boers are objectivists, Miss Song— we're nothing like those British or the American hypocrites. Please don't lump us together." "You surprise me more and more." Gwen raised a glass. "To your health." "Gesondheid!" Schalk raised his bottle of half-finished beer. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Schalk Hertzog. I am a Mineral Mage, I major in Abjuration, and minors in Conjuration and Enchantment. Just so, I possess lesser talents across the spectrum. My great-grandfather is the great J.L. Barry Hertzog, a hero of the Boer Union of the old Cape. Though my ancestor's statue has been removed from the Union's lawn, he is immortalised by the Hertzoggie, a delicious jam-tart, my favourite dessert. As of today, I am the first Mage in my family to be beaten unconscious by a beautiful young woman, live, and on international vid-cast." Gwen nursed her glass, half full of guilt and the other half sloshing with wounded pride. She wondered if Schalk was willing to accept compensation, but what could a Mage of his stature possibly lack? "Gwen." Richard nudged her. "Announce your list of Schools, then give him the bird." "Richard!" Gwen hissed at her cousin like a cat, causing the table to burst into laughter. Next to introduce herself was Alizea Kock. "Alizea, Ooze. Transmutation Conjuration. Controller." The woman flopped in her chair. "Please get on with it." The rest of South Africa's team followed their captain and vice-captain. Ella Goosen was the Earthen Abjurer-Conjurer who commanded gold-laced minerals. Lencho Afrika and Mariete Afrika were cousins who both Awakened in Lightning Evocation and had reached tier 6. Pieter Zietsman was an Ice Mage Transmuter-Abjurer, and Pretoria's second defender. Their controller, Altus De Waal, an Air Illusionist, confessed to joining Auckland's captain on the backbench. Lastly, Pretoria's two utilitarian casters were Izette Rautenbach, a Cleric hailing from the Convent of the Reformed, and Heila Anderson, a Diviner. "And you, sir?" Gwen finally turned to the young man half-sunken in his chair. It was the moment she had anticipated since finding out from Schalk that Jean-Paul was a Void Mage. The news had come so unexpectedly that even now, Gwen doubted Schalk's words. If Jean-Paul was a Void Mage, why couldn't she sense anything? Not even her Detect Magic saw anything but raw and mundane sorcery from the unassuming man. "My name is Jean-Paul Bekker," came a tiny whisper. "And are you a Void Mage?" Gwen studied the bloke whose face had been left half-finished by a cruel creator. When the man opened his mouth to speak, her heart leapt. "Yes. I am a Void Mage," Jean-Paul's reply was a mosquito's hum. "I major in Conjuration… and Evocation." "See? I told you. Jean-Paul is a bonafide Void Mage, with a Void Spirit to boot. Though he was thrust upon us, I can vouch for his skill," Schalk spoke in his dumb companion's stead. "Maybe the two of you could get acquainted? If you're willing to take him off my hands, that would be a blessing." The teams looked to Gwen, then to Jean-Paul and back again. Surely, Elves weren't interested in malnourished Hobs? Jean-Paul had never felt so much self-loathing as he had in the last few hours. He knew he had a face even his whore of a mother would struggle to love, that his appearance was so lame and unfashionable that dogs barked when he neared. Still, until he had to sit in public with Pretoria's fair-faced contestants, he had never realised just how different he was to others. For most of his life, under Mevrou Bekker, the shape of his face and the contour of his gaunt silhouette mattered less than the Demi-humans Umzokwe took for sport. Before he left, the Mevrou had said that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. Yet, here in a stranger's city, on a strange continent, sitting beside his object, a fellow Void sorceress, her perfect visage caused him physical pain. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. How could he execute Mevrou Bekker's desire when his face frightened the girl? He wasn't Schalk, who could charm the undergarment from a woman without spending a single HDM. In all his life, Jean-Paul never even had a lady-friend, much less a girlfriend. Other than Mevrou Bekker, the number of times he sat alone with a woman could be counted on both hands. For now, all he could do was watch his breath steam the air. Goulding B1's sky garden measured only a few dozen meters across, and now that winter approached, all the plants and flowers were withered. "Are you not cold?" Jean-Paul eyed his female companion, who wore nothing but a silk shawl over her otherwise naked shoulders. As for himself, he wore a jacket and an overcoat. "Not at all." The girl shrugged. After the duel, she had switched to casuals. "I find the weather's refreshing." "I hate London's weather." Jean-Paul fought to find a common subject. "I miss Pretoria's Jacarandas every year." "I miss home too. We have Jacarandas in Sydney as well, only they're red, and we call them flame trees." The girl smiled. When she glanced at him, Jean-Paul felt a strange heat in his abdomen. "So… Jean-Paul, shall we get to know each other a bit better?" Jean-Paul's complexion turned the colour of plums. Get to know him? Already? He wasn't at all prepared! Things were progressing somewhat faster than he had anticipated. "I mean, you've seen mine, it's only fair you show me yours," the sorceress reiterated, sensing his hesitation. With a finger, she stirred the fabric of space and time, tearing a rip into the ever-familiar nothingness of the Void. "Shaa!" Her Familiar, Caliban, slithered into being. Even as a fellow Void Mage, Jean-Paul sensed the hunger radiating from the creature. Different from Umzokwe, he could sense that the beast was younger, less experienced. He could also sense that though Caliban had fed of many a lifeform, very few of its victims were intelligent. Was Caliban a Spirit like Umzokwe then? Or was it a dumb beast? Jean-Paul couldn't tell, not without inspecting Caliban thoroughly. The serpent approached. Jean-Paul remained very still while it sniffed his hands. "Shaa!" The creature nuzzled his hand. Jean-Paul's brows stitched. Why does the thing remind him of a cat? "I shall show you." Jean-Paul likewise stirred the air. "Umzokwe!" Mirroring the sorceress's Familiar on the adjacent bench, Umzokwe slithered into being. The only difference was that his leech made nary a sound. Unlike the boisterous Caliban, Umzokwe was an ambush predator. Soundlessly, his great white leech sniffed the air, its segmented body engorged with stowed vitality. In the dim light of the sky garden, his creature was pallid, as pale as Jean-Paul himself. When hungry, Umzokwe resembled a flatworm. Now that it had fed, it was a bloated, car-sized maggot. "Shaa!" The creature known as Caliban slithered closer, sleek and hungry, reminding Jean-Paul of its slim-limbed mistress. "Shaa?" Umzokwe sniffed its brethren from the Void. A vibrant feeling of near-hysterical hunger travelled across his Familiar's empathic link. Not daring to meet her eyes, Jean-Paul studied the girl's heeled-wearing feet. The girl's aura was palpable now that both their Familiars grew excited. How did she control the Void's call? By what means did she stave off its incessant appetite? Below, Umzokwe opened its maw, within which pink tentacles akin to parasitic worms peeped forth. "Shaa!" Caliban's carapace split, revealing two appendages, one pink and the other blue, reminiscent of an anatomy model's painted arteries. Gingerly, their Familiar's touched tips. Jean-Paul blanched; his mind once again engulfed with the insatiable hunger transmuted from between their Familiars. He grunted, or perhaps he groaned, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that the girl's creature was hungry and that it could eat every living being in B1 and still have space left over for B2. _Slurp! Lick! Squelch!_ Umzokwe reared, its many-segment body undulating as though mimicking the noontide. "Shaa!" The obsidian serpent retreated. "HUUURRRRK!" Umzokwe opened its maw. From within the darkness, half-a-torso emerged. The head, mostly annihilated by Jean-Paul's Void spell, remained tethered to the neck by a loose ligament. Jean-Paul blinked, his arm-hair erecting like bristles. It took him a second to realise that this was the Hartebeest Centaur he had stowed in Swaziland. The fiend had been raiding the local villages for food and women; only this time, it had found Umzokwe where it had expected a virgin. How sweet! Jean-Paul's face formed a rare smile. His Familiar was sharing its bounty! "Shaa!" A happy Caliban dove onto the slime-slathered, half-mangled cadaver. "Miss Song— it seems that Umzokwe has found a friend." Jean-Paul looked up, finally full of confidence. For the first time since they conversed, he met her wondrously hypnotic eyes, noting that her pupils shrivelled to pin-points. He took a deep breath. "May we be—" "NOOOOO! NO GOD NO!" the girl's blood-curling scream was enough to wake the neighbourhood and blast Jean-Paul off his seat. "CALI! NOOOOOOO!" Gwen figured it must be karma. How often had she frightened the bejeezus out of her friend and foes with Caliban? Most of the time, it was unintentional, but after a while, she felt a sadistic rush whenever her enemies reacted to seeing her fiend for the first time. Despite her initial loathing, she had grown uncommonly fond of Cali's slick carapace and its cute, bobbing, bulbous idiosyncrasies. Even its tentacles, conditioned in her head to resemble sloppy dog-tongues, were adorable in a lamprey-tipped, soul-sucking way. Even Cali's spider-form had grown on her, and now she enjoyed riding her Familiar like a great Strandbeest. But this THING. This leech-maggot. It was too much. An aura of vertigo aside, the thing was semi-opaque like mutton fat and slick with ooze from tip to tail. As its segments undulated, she could see bits of its organs shifting back and forth, haunting its interior. Void beasts were scentless, but even so, Gwen's brain assaulted her with recollected synaesthesia. When she was a child, her mother had asked her to bring up the groceries. Not wanting to carry such a heavy load, she made several trips, only to forget a frozen chicken, wedged in the garage. When a week later her mother returned, she dragged Gwen by the scruff of the neck down to the garage on a thirty-degree day. There, Gwen was given explicit orders not to return home until the place smelled fresh as new. When she finally gathered the courage to open the bag of swarming flesh, she near lost her mind. So it was that despite the freezing air, Gwen began to sweat. In a second, her shoulders glistened with the effort of appearing in control. Within the recess of her mind, a voice wanted to vacuum the leech-beast wholesale. Even with her legs exposed, her knees perspired while one heel tapped ceaselessly, transmuting her agitation against the sandstone tile like a staccato drum. When furthermore Jean-Paul's maggot opened its maw, Gwen felt a new wave of revulsion overwhelm her better judgement. She wanted to excuse herself and take an hour-long shower. Conjuring an excuse, she looked at Jean-Paul; the Mage was gazing at their pets with a look of benevolence. Following his eyes, her attention turned to their Familiars— then she regretted possessing eyes. Caliban and Umzokwe were shaking hands. But worms do not possess hands. Gwen baulked as the horrid spectacle assaulted her sanity, taking no prisoners. _Slurp! Lick! Squelch!_ As though mocking her distress, their creatures became tongue-tied, giving Gwen the impression of a deep-throated kiss. Her eyes watered. She felt a hysterical madness coming on and wondered if this was how Void Mages grew infamously psychotic. "HUUURRRRK!" Umzokwe projectile vomited, covering Caliban with a milky goo. Splat! Something landed, splattering her Mary Janes. It was a face— no, half a face, near-consumed by something akin to Void Bolt. Gwen's eyes followed the flap of skin. There was a hairy torso there, and an arm, all very much human. "Shaa!" Caliban's delight fed into their Empathic Link. The sensation was such that Gwen grew momentarily confused, too late to stop Caliban from sweeping up the carcass. "NOOOOO! NO GOD NO!" she cried out, her voice suddenly hoarse as her belated dinner rose from the deepest part of her Astral Soul. "CALI! NOOOOO!" "Is it safe to leave them like that?" Richard stood beside Yue, observing the twin silhouettes below in B1's sky garden. "Think she's going to eat him?" Yue stood so close to the glass that she frosted the panes. "Could give her a boost, you know." "I know." The two gave one another an expectant look. Was this another stray cat Gwen would soon add to her collection? "I can set up a Scry…" Mayuree gently coughed. "To maintain... subtlety, it'll just be audio. Gwen's very sensitive to targeted Divination." "We shouldn't—" Lulan protested. "It's for Jean-Paul's safety," Petra, who had been observing the interaction, butted in. "I don't trust Gwen to leave the man alone." "Let's take this up in my penthouse." Mayuree pointed upstairs. "We can… protect Jean-Paul from there. If need be," "She's a thirsty one," Yue agreed. "You know her love of masochism. And that dude is a walking shit-show. His mates just left him like a bad smell. What the fuck?" "But—" Lulan felt torn. There was something indescribably wrong about Scrying on her friend and saviour. Was this why Kusu was concerned? That all of these people surrounding Gwen had one chopstick longer than the other? "No time to waste, let's go." Richard opened the lift. "Come on!" Upstairs, Lei provided tea and snacks so that the voyeurs could spy in comfort. "…Jean-Paul, shall we get to know each other a bit better…" "I mean, you've seen mine, it's only fair if you show me yours…" "I shall show you…" "Shaa!" "Ergn..." Jean-Paul groaned. Gwen's closest companions regarded one another. Then came the sound of what sounded like a jousting pair of tongues. Before anyone could comment, the spacious living room resounded with the sweet music of copulating tendrils. Lulan sat hugging her knees, her face redder than a beetroot, her innocence wild with feverish imagination. Petra gazed into her cocktail, wondering how to face her cousin after all this. Richard sat grinning without a word. Mayuree covered her ears. "Wow." Yue paced back and forth. "I didn't think Gwen had it in her. Jean-Paul? FUCK! What about Evee?" "… Mind Magic?" Richard raised a finger. "Impossible." Petra shook her head. "She's resistant to glamours, and she's wearing a Mind Shield." "Maybe a Visual Scry could help clear this up." Mayuree raised a hand. "Give me a few seconds." "Do I need to see this?" Lulan groaned. "I don't want to see this. Kusu is going to be so mad." "What if." Yue paused. "She's eating—" "NOOOOO! NO GOD NO!" came a hysterical outburst. In an instant, Yue Blinked from the penthouse to the balcony, ten storeys above the sky garden. With her enhanced spells, she could blast the prick to cinders while sparing every hair on Gwen's pretty head. Channelling mana to her eyes, she saw the two figures below, one female and one male, and their Familiars. Yue paused. Her best friend was performing an obscene manoeuvre on Caliban. From her vantage, she saw that Gwen had Cali caught and cupped between her chest and her torso. With a violent, thrusting motion, Gwen dry-humped Caliban, choking her snake. Not far, the Void Mage with a face like taut foreskin kept apologising profusely. Adjacent to the heaving girl and the bowing guy, a disgusting maggot-thing swayed back and forth as though enjoying the sound of Gwen's high-pitched shrieking and Caliban's gagged singing. "Is she alright?" Richard's voice drifted across, not at all worried. "Did Caliban eat the guy?" "I don't know." Yue stepped back onto the balcony, her understanding no longer within the realm of reason. "Bloody hell, I am so fucking confused right now."

Once Gwen's scream-queen antics died down, she asked for Jean-Paul's forgiveness. The maggot was a leech, the Void Mage explained, and though Gwen felt no better about the pallid white slug, she conceded her mistake. "Who is your teacher, Jean-Paul?" Gwen asked, hugging Caliban's bruised body to her chest. Earlier, she had applied enough force to feel its carapace crack, though returning its meal was no longer a possibility. Thankfully, the cadaver belonged to a monster Jean-Paul had exterminated, one that possessed the guise of a man but was very much a menace. Once her nerves settled, she returned to the topic of their mutual magic. "You know, I've been picking at this Void thing largely on my own thus far. Can we exchange some notes?" "I'd be delighted to. My Master is Meister Bekker of London Imperial," Jean-Paul name-dropped without batting an eye. Opposite, Gwen's eyes had gone glassy. London Imperial was on par with Cambridge, sans the spotless reputation. And a Meister as a master was an incredible boon. "Jean-Paul, When did you Awaken?" "Twelve or so?" "And you've followed a Meister for how long?" "Almost a decade…" Jean-Paul confessed with great solemnity. "I've still got lots to learn, Mevrou Bekker has very high expectations." Gwen's chest ached. She felt as though a scab had been rent from an old wound. To think that were it not for Sobel, she could now announce to Jean-Paul that her instructor was the great Henry Kilroy, co-founder of the Towers, Master of the Ten. "Are you alright?" Jean-Paul leaned back when her complexion blanched. "I am fine…" Desiring a distraction, she re-steered the topic onto Spellcraft. According to what Jean-Paul was willing to let on, each Void Mage of note— meaning the ones that survived, invariably possessed the means to restore their vitality. The few that Jean-Paul had met in London who lacked this critical talent and had no other option but to subsist on potion infusions and Positive Energy. As a result, their bodies invariably developed immunities or reached alchemical limits, after which they either lived as a squib or perished. "Our creatures manifest their absorption in different ways," Jean-Paul proceeded with great patience. "For example, Magister Wen's papers stated that you can absorb traits from Caliban's Consume, correct?" "There's a limit." Gwen felt her face growing hot when she realised that soon, her talent would become public knowledge. But then again, all she had to hawk in her early days was herself. "And… debilitating side effects." "Well, for Umzokwe," her fellow announced. "My Spirit picks up bits and pieces belonging to creatures it consumes. Sometimes, I can recall old memories or strong emotions or particular knowledge. When I was a child, the empathy was enough to drive me half-mad, but I've since trained to resist its effects." "Wow." Gwen's lips parted. "That is an amazing talent." "So, what does Caliban do?" Gwen felt guilty that she couldn't tell her new friend the truth. What was she to say? That she grew drunk on the ecstasy of Caliban ingesting her foes? That sans her humanity, she could be the second coming of the Sorceror Supreme? What would Jean-Paul think? "He eats stuff and sends me the life-force," Gwen said. "Sometimes, I receive too much vitality, and I can't move." "Ah, bio-feedback. Yes, it happens to me as well." Jean-Paul replied. "I have an Augmentation to manage that." "You do?" "Ja." Jean-Paul's expression grew hesitant and indecisive. "And Transmutations to use Umzokwe as a storage unit." "That's WONDERFUL!" her pitch rose an octave. Storage? Caliban storage? How many goods could Caliban stow if a Caliban did stow goods? "Look, I've got CCs…" "I am afraid we don't publish our spells to the Tower's Grimoire," Jean-Paul apologised. "Master's work is far from finished." "Oh." Gwen lowered her hands. "The Mevrou and I devised several tiers of Void-specific spells in the past decade. You'll see them in action during the competition." Jean-Paul's words scratched at her chest like a cat. "Familiar invocations as well, BUT to learn them— well— she gave instructions, that is…" "That is…?" "Er, the Mevrou—" Jean-Paul momentarily transformed into a human beetroot. He couldn't look her in the eyes. "That is—you and I could—do...?" This time, it was Gwen who grew concerned. Still clutching Caliban, she leaned in so that her face was a few inches from Jean-Paul's sweat-soaked brow. "Are you alright?" "Shaa!" Caliban nudged Gwen's chin with its forehead. Umzokwe replied in kind, sending her leaning back the other way. Jean-Paul stammered painfully. "I—I am hot." "Hot?" Gwen felt perfectly comfy in the cold. "It's single digits out there. Surely we're both immune to mundane illnesses?" "I should go." Jean-Paul suddenly stood, sweating buckets. "See you at the Front, Miss Song." "Wait…" Gwen reached out and took the Void Mage's arm. She wanted to hear more about these spells, at least what they did, how they functioned, what Schools they drew upon. Jean-Paul retracted his wrist, wincing as his slimy skin slipped through her hand. "Shit— sorry." Her face flashing white and red, she had applied a little too much strength. "I didn't mean that." Jean-Paul paused, nursing his fingers. His lips looked as though he wanted to say something, but his grimace suggested that an Umzokwe was stuck in his throat. "W—We'll talk after the match in Dalian. Please bear witness to my master's spells." "Shaa, shaa!" Caliban waved goodbye as Umzokwe dematerialised. Gwen felt a wave of disappointment as Jean-Paul's gangly silhouette beat a hasty retreat. She wondered what it was that Umzokwe's master was loathed to say. Maybe, Gwen realised with a snap of her forefingers, cursing her stupidity, the Apprentice was under a Geas! Dalian… Dairen in Russian. Ryo-jun in Japanese. Port Arthur as mapped by the Mageocracy. Some called it the Pearl of Liaoning, others the City of Traitors. To traders, it was the Treasure Port. Now, for all intents and purposes, it was a fortress city holding the Undead Front. Before the Undead threat altered the metropolis, Dalian was a cosmopolitan city. The earliest buildings in its settlement were built by the Russians. In the sixth century, the late Tang Dynasty developed the region into a township. Fourteen centuries later, following the Sino occupation, the British transformed Dalian into an international port servicing trade between Korea, China, Russia and Japan. Today, Dalian remains the most important logistical centre on the North Front. The city itself lay fifty kilometres from Manchuria proper. The peninsulas are joined by a stretch of granite no more than four kilometres in width, forming a natural chokepoint. To further offset the threat of the Undead, its natural landbridge had been transmuted by a strategic-class Mandala, capable of severing Dalian from the mainland. Presently, the population of Dalian ebbed and flowed between a resident population of four million, discounting its occupational force. Of the Divisions stationed in its many ports and military encampments, the bulk of the NoM Troops belonged to the 70th to 98th Quasi-Magical Infantry Division. Additionally, rotations of specialised Divisions augmented the standing troops, such as the 206th Long-Range Sorcery Regiment, the 207th and 209th Magi-tech Armoured Regiment and finally the 4th, 7th, and 19th Aerial Recon. Of particular note was the poster child of the Front, the 1st Force-Recon Aerial Division, the very same that in the mid-90s, gifted the nation with the Hero of the Northern Font, Captain Jun Song. Dalian Tower. Lieutenant General Liang Chu-Rong surveyed the young Mages arriving below as they lined up in the courtyard. Visually, the young men and women from tier 1 capitals were unimpressive. Undisciplined and full of curiosity, some meandered, others chit-chatted, while scores of them left the confinement yard to spy on the city from the Tower's lower battlements. Yet, despite his disgruntlement, the General stood ramrod straight. For the first time in as long as he could recall, China had the home ground in an international Spellcraft competition. Win or lose, the mere fact that red-blooded sons and daughters of Mao made the team from Fudan was enough to made his soldiers hold their heads higher. "How long until they get here?" Liang turned to the chief proctor standing beside him. He wasn't used to dealing with women of rank, much less an American Magister with a complexion the colour of caramel. In his opinion, the sooner these Gweilos left his Tower, the sooner he could get on with the operation to reclaim Shenyang. When no reply came, he added a grudging "Magister Jamison." For the students' reception and briefing, he had chosen the operations auditorium. In the middle of the spacious, oval chamber was an American-made terrain-visualiser, a transmutation-based device capable of rendering landscape by tapping into buried Divi-probes. In times of war, it provided real-time battlefield information. In quieter times, it served to instruct strategy and tactics. "Give them a moment, General," Jamison said. "They're young. Translocation disorientation isn't so readily shrugged off." Liang nodded. Given Jamison's deceptive youth, he got the impression that anytime, an older Magister might find his way to the auditorium to berate his Apprentice. A quarter of an hour later, the contestants arrived. In the front row was Fudan, their eager faces captured by the CCVC-1 crew and their cameras. Behind the home team, flanking left and right, sat Pretoria and Auckland. "Students, welcome to Dalian. I assume you are acquainted with Magister Jamison. As you are here, I shall now proceed with your Quest. For the second IIUC round, you have been invited to participate in the Great Purge of Shanyang. This operation will involve twenty Quasi-magical NoM Divisions, ten Mage Flights, including yourself, as well as artillery and Golem support from the 206th and 209th. Your Quest, taking into account your inexperience in large-scale military operations, will be as auxiliary units. Magister?" As Liang spoke, the sand map on the central dais changed until it transformed into a diorama of the local terrain from Dalian to Shenyang. "Your teams will split into two Flights. For CCs, you will be assigned field objective as the reclamation progresses. Roles are split into offence and defence. The offensive team will accompany the PLA Mage Flights clearing a beachhead outside Shenyang, establishing Forward Operation Bases in Dengta, Shili, and Shahe. The second party will defend these FOBs, among other tasks." "From Dalian to Shenyang is five hundred kilometres, which we hope to clear in one week. The FOBs will be established by Combat Engineers. Until the NoM Divisions arrive, your teams' first task is to hold the ground. Once our FOBs are up and running, each of the defensive teams will activate the Shielding Beacon and count down to the Tower's arrival. Before this occurs, expect an endless swarm of Undead. Once the Dalian Tower arrives, defenders will help with the establishment of safe zones, triage centres, field Teleportation Circles and supply depots. During this process, the attacking party will push into Shengyang as hunter-killer units. Your task is to root out Necromancers and obliterate Undead nerve centres. Your Chief Proctor will explain." Magister Jamison thanked the General. "To surmise, there are two stages to the operation of interest to you." Jamison surveyed the students' youthful faces, though some of the Maori Mages had beards that would have made her father proud. "For the attacking party, Stage ONE involves clearing Undead units and establishing an operations area. Stage TWO, post the Tower's arrival, involves street fighting, as the PLA will be bombarding Shenyang beforehand to soften your targets. For the defending party, Stage ONE involves supporting our NoM Divisions as they make their way to each of the objectives. Stage TWO will involve repelling what is effectively an Undead Beast Tide with the support of Dalian Tower." "Operation timeframes are listed in your briefings. Remember that you are an auxiliary unit. You are not formally a part of the PLA's military estimates. If you strike too deep or get yourself into trouble, there will not be an Armoured Division risking their equipment and lives to pull you out. Just as well, you are welcome to forfeit your match anytime. The operation will continue, with, or without your contribution, though you have General Liang's word that the PLA shall generously reward battlefield valour." Her eyes inspected the students. "If you lack cold-weather equipment." Jamison glanced at Gwen, who wore one of her figure-hugging dresses, and toward the tattooed Maoris. "General Liang's quartermaster has opened his stalls. Additionally, detoxification potions and Restoration potions have been made available to you. Let me warn you that the Front's frost is no common cold. The Negative Energy inundating the region has warped the weather, not to mention flora and fauna, all of which will sap your life force." This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. "Expect about -10°C at night," the General added helpfully. "Read your debriefing carefully and learn from your assigned advisors. Remember, any source of heat naturally draws wandering Undead." "ANY QUESTIONS?" The contestants had many, but none the Lieutenant General likely had the patience to answer. "Good, I look forward to debriefing all of you again in Shenyang. Dismissed!" With the General and his staff gone, the students crowded around the diorama display. "Yue, what do you think?" Rona, the captain of Auckland, peeked just over the table. "Whetu, if you will?" Whetu made a stool for his captain. Yue eyed the map of the Dalian peninsula, then zoomed the transforming landscape in and out to get a better gander at the terrain. "Yunnie, you know how to use this thing?" Gwen marvelled that Yue was punching the Glyphs without a glance. "Worked with a few before," Yue hinted at her training under Alesia. "To be honest, I think the defending teams have the hardest job. Between Jinzhou and Bayuquan are tablelands, so we can see the Undead coming. But from Guizhou to Anshan, it's a hundred kilometres through hilly and mountainous terrain— also known as Ambush Central. After that, its open tundra for another hundred-and-fifty until we hit Shenyang. If it gets THAT cold, the ground's either ice, snow, or hard soil." "Ma'am." Schalk turned to Magister Jamison contemplatively. "Can members of offence and defence switch sides during the mission's phases?" "You may not." Jamison shook her head. "However, inter-party exchange for members lost in combat is acceptable. Note that until the FOB's Teleportation Circle is established— or until the Tower arrives, staff swapping would be impossible. Until logistics catch up, the attacking teams will be at the mercy of the Undead." The contestant's gazes returned to the table. "The proctors and I will be performing final equipment checks before you leave," Magister Jamison informed them. "For this mission, I would like to offer a spot of advice…" The contestants listened. "Considering the nature of your battles ahead, I'll allow you to keep illicit items in your rings. If you use one, there will be stiff CC penalties, possibly even disqualification. However, you may save a life, whether yours or another's or scores of others. Remember that the IIUC, auspicious as it may be, is only a competition. You have to live to be a hero. Don't let your 'pride' or your 'nationalism' get in the way of growing up to be Maguses and Magisters that can contribute to our future prosperity." "Yes, Ma'am!" The students bowed their heads. "I'll be downstairs with the other proctors, we're lending the PLA use of our Divi-Engines as a part of our agreement. If you have concerns, feel free to Message my device or one of my peers." The Magister and her assistants filed out. "Where's Walken?" Gwen looked around. "I don't see Petra either." "Getting permission for deploying your Planar Ally." Richard joined her side. "Time's tight, and we had to split the party. So, are you going to see Percy?" "I really should, I haven't seen him in months." A nostalgic smile touched Gwen's lips. "I wonder how he's getting along as a cadet." "Let's get on with it then." Richard returned to the map. "Captain?" Gwen's eyes swept over the diorama. Though her soul ached for Percy's boyish countenance, tactical decisions had to be finalised. As expected, Pretoria was the first to sort itself. With an all-star cast, their splitting the party was of little concern. On the offensive were Jean-Paul, Captain Schalk, Lencho, one of the Lightning Mages; Izetta the Heale, and their Diviner, an ash-blonde girl called Helia. Pretoria's defensive team was lead by their vice-captain, Alizea, their other Lightning Mage, Mariete; Ella the gold Mage, and finally Pieter the Ice Transmuter and Aldus the Illusionist. Comparatively, Auckland's assignment was less balanced. Their offensive team included Yue, Whetu as defence, then Rongo the Water Evoker. They were joined by Timoti the Magma Mage and Opi, the ta moko Enchanter. The Kiwi's defending team included the other Magma brother, Maka, their captain, their mobile Abjurer Otikoro, the sand Mage Tua, and Ruihi, the second inscriber. Comparatively, Auckland's defence was low on damage dealers compared to Pretoria. As for Gwen's team, she allowed the assignment to fall to Tei, who possessed experience fighting the Undead. He assigned her and Richard to the offensive team together with Lulan, Mayuree and Eunae as support. He was confident that Gwen's VMI, combined with Golos, could clear the field, and that with Eunae, Caliban may also employ its Big Bird form. For defence, Tei assigned himself, Jiro for his Fire Walls, Petra for her versatility, and Rene and Anita to protect the soldiers under their charge. When Gwen asked if the defenders needed healers, Magister Jamison advised that NoM regiments already had assigned Clerics. All that was left then was inventory, then getting to know the PLA unit to whom they would be assigned. Once Gwen and the others returned to the courtyard, they were greeted by Petra and Walken. In front of the gathered crowd who had come out to gawk at her cousin, Gwen dropped a small fortune onto the magic circle, eliciting gasps from the soldiers and contestants alike. "Planar Ally!" The HDMs blazed as her invocation flared, burning the equivalent of many a Magus' salaries in the span of a dozen seconds. Despite the recent hit to her capital, conjuring Golos across time and space from his rented bachelor pad in Burma to Dalian costed far less his previous, continent-spanning journey. Moments later, the clear sky fulminated. A retina-searing rod of lightning engendered, birthing the Thunder Wyvern. When Gwen and her Ally had last parted, Golos was injured and bloody. Now, it appeared larger, spikier, and meaner than its pre-Da-peng self. "Calamity." Golos snorted, stretching its neck with a crack. "Gogo. How is Phelara?" "Heavy with eggs." Golos grinned before surveying their surroundings, its nostrils flaring. "I smell death." "We're going to be fighting the Undead in the north." She pointed to the south with a vast and expansive sweep of her arms. "Princeling, Welcome to the Northern Front." Richard redirected his cousin's finger until it pointed the right way. On this trip, Mayuree would be doing the orienteering. If they were to follow Gwen's sense of direction, Beijing's defence barrier might activate. "Any word from Ruxin?" "He said to speak to him after your match. Negotiations with the humans in their Towers are ongoing… also, what's with all these bodies? I prefer Mermen, fat ones, not primates." "They're our comrades, Gogo, have some respect." Gwen turned to her audience. "Everyone, this is Golos, my Planar Ally, he's a Thunder Wyvern and a patriot from Huangshan. He'll be helping us out with the Undead... You may applaud now." The stunned troops began to clap. First a few, then a dozen, then a thunderous clamour as what was likely a thousand or more people banged their perspiring palms together. Having never experienced applause, Golos appeared almost coy. "Not much to eat if we're fighting desecrators," Golos grumbled even as he kept his neck elegantly elevated, bathing in the praise. "What's good around here?" "Ha! I knew you'd say that. I've prepared all kinds of interesting dishes," Gwen promised. "You might want to eat in your human form, though. You hungry?" "Now?" Golos licked its chops, its evil eyes browsing the two-legged meals standing from horizon to horizon. "Sure. Long distances make me hungry." Gwen looked toward Tei, who inclined his head. To secure a supply of vitality for herself and to ensure an undistracted Golos, the House of M had given her containers of Wildland food-stuffs. If Golos had to eat meal-rations, he'd be a Draconic-menace. "Alright." Gwen eyed Golos' flail-tail as it wagged. The spikes had since regrown thicker and larger. "Did you bring pants?" "I did." Ever since Gwen introduced her Wyvern to underwear, Golos' jeans no longer chafed. "Good." She patted the Wyvern on the knees. Since the Da-peng affair, Golos had calmed somewhat. If she had to guess, likely Ruxin had a stern word, and Phelara had sponged his bottled energies somewhat. "Let me introduce you to the other folks before we eat— also, have you met my brother?" Percy Song had kept himself busy. Thanks to Guo's connections, Percy had entered military service as an officer cadet. According to his grandfather, the Front was a rite of passage for the power-progeny of the PLA. There, the PLA's future officers taste the dangers of the Front while sheltering behind their seniors. After a three-month stint, the cadets would receive certificates and medals, all of which would legitimise their bid for Peking or Jiantong University. The ordeal was supposed to be a cakewalk. BUT— with his sister's fame breathing down his neck, Percy was intent on proving his mettle. Much to the surprise of his instructors, he succeeded, demonstrating a battle-sense that delighted his babysitter, Major Chang. After four weeks of light skirmishes with low-tier Undead including Zombies and Ghouls, Percy quickly acquired a taste for laying waste to waves of shambling corpses. Armed with light recon-armour and boots of flying, he and his friends devastated the shamblers below. In contrast to Chou, his party's Air Evoker, or even Lu or Mei's Lightning, his Salt proved leagues more effective in halting the walking dead. According to their instructor, Salt was a natural ward as proven by the fact that the hordes avoided the sea. When Percy grew sceptical, his mirthful instructor revealed that it was because Salt, a Negative sub-type, disabled the Negative life-force of undead automatons. "Beware higher-tier undead," Major Chang warned in turn. "Creatures powerful enough to generate Cores— or are risen using the Core of a higher-tier being, aren't easily rebuffed." But Percy knew there was another reason why the swarms they faced proved such easy prey. It was the Kirin Amulet. No wonder his uncle was the Hero of the Front. Though dormant, he could feel the stone feeding off the creatures he destroyed, especially the Undead. Limbs crushed by his Salt ceased their provocations, heads snapped off no longer chattered. With enough Undead by his side, his vitality hardly fell. Even when they had encountered a Revenant— a risen Mage turned by the Necromancers in Shenyang, Percy still slew the horror. His feat had been celebrated, for he had accomplished a task marked for Senior Mages. "So, where's sister Gwen?" Mei paced back and forth in the barracks, looking as though a Corpse Worm was digging through her guts. As students, there were limits to their freedom on a military base. "She said she would visit, right?" "She'll be here soon," Percy assured his companion. "Didn't you hear the thunder? That's her, I bet. Summoning her Wyvern." "A Thunder Wyvern!" Mei gushed. "I want to touch it!" "Sure," Percy promised, though he was a little unsure if his sister had a tight leash on the monster. _Ding_! "This is Cadet Percy Song," he answered his Message device. "Your orders, Sir?" "Percy, you're requested at the Tower's mess. You've been given permission to dine there. Your sister has arranged a buffet." "She has?" Percy raised a brow, confused by the news. "You and Cadet Yang are relieved until curfew." Major Chang's voice had a touch of saltiness to it. "Tell Miss Song I wish her fair fortunes... and remember— Miss Li's autograph." "Right." Percy looked to Mei. "Looks like Sis' shouting us food." When Percy and Mei walked into the officer's mess, they were astounded by the volume the cooks had prepared. Not only were the portions gigantic, but fabled dishes like whole-coasted Wildland Goat, Thistle-boar Ham, plates of steamed Dagger-fin Arrowfish, Rock Clams, and Crystal Prawns spilt across the stainless steel tables. Percy saw his sister standing among the crowd, a head taller as usual and as eye-catching as ever. "Gwen—!" "SIS!" Mei bolted from Percy's side. "I've missed you so much!" The girls awkwardly embraced, with Mei charging into Gwen's arms, eyes full of stars. "I saw all your matches! It was wonderful! I re-watched them a dozen times! Where's Ariel? Where's your Wyvern?!" Wordlessly, his sister indicated to the right, where a topless white giant with silver hair and horns was eating with both hands. Presently, Golos was crunching through an Iron Shell Crayfish as though it were crispy rice crackers. "That's the Wyvern?!" "Yes," Gwen said. "That's Golos. Princeling of Huangshan." Having deflected his girlfriend's enthusiasm, his sister beckoned for Percy. When he approached, Gwen enveloped him like an octopus. "Please don't…" Percy squirmed in her vice-like arms, one cheek pressed against her shoulder as she picked him off his feet. "People are staring." Indeed, people were watching— all twenty-nine contestants, a few proctors, a dozen officers and the staff had all switched from ogling at Golos to gawking at the sibling's public display of affection. "This is my brother, Percy." Gwen held on for what seemed like an eternity, then turned to the crowd. "Percy, say hi to everyone." "Greetings, I am Percy Song." Percy bowed from the waist, feeling the weight of their judging eyes. With unmoving and involuntary expressions, the contestants nodded back, a few others said, "Hello". "You've grown, squirt," A girl Percy recognised anywhere walked around him, scowling now that he was the taller of the two "Not bad. Still got a bit to go before you catch up to Gwen though." "I am trying," Percy returned Yue's jab. "Miss Bai, I see you've remained largely the same size." "I've grown in other ways." Percy's already flushed cheeks took on an additional layer of colour. He looked away as Yue jiggled her brows, cackling like a witch. Next, his sister brought him vis-a-vis with Golos. Percy had seen the Wyvern on the vid-casts, though now that the beast was a biting distance away, his skin crawled. "Gogo, this is my kin." Gwen presented him as though her favourite puppy. "Say hello." A crab claw paused mid-delivery. Golos glared at Percy with an icy look, then grunted, emitting a sound like low thunder. "Calamity, he's no kin of mine." Golos crushed the claw with one hand to extract the meat. "Your brother's scent is all wrong. I don't like him." _Well, fuck you too, lizard._ Percy said silently. On the surface, he kept up his awkward smile. "Too bad," his sister fired back. "Just showing you who he is so you don't EVER harm him by accident." "Boy, you stink to high heaven." Golos' voice reverberated in his head. "Calamity, what is he supposed to be? He's spoiling my appetite." "He's a Salt Mage." "Wer isthasy di vi Calamity ui stil vi Calamitas." When Golos replied in Draconic, Dragon-fear assailed Percy's trembling chest. "Just eat your food." Gwen dismissed the Wyvern, then pulled Percy away. "Remember, no harming my brother. Now or in the future. I'll hold you to that." "A fool's sentiment—" came a reply from Golos that made Percy's skin crawl. "Why—" "HELLO!" Their banter was interrupted by the sprightly sound of Mei greeting Golos with a bow. "Sir Golos, is it true that you are descended from a mythical dragon?" Golos burped. Percy could see its reptilian eyes measuring Mei from the tip of her hair to her toes. Surely the Wyvern wastn't interested in Mei? He grew uncertain. His sister was right beside him. If anything, in terms of looks, power and charisma, wasn't his sister the superior partner by far? "Begone, skinny peasant," the Wyvern's steely voice berated the starry-eyed Mei. "Unless you're a fat, juicy eel-kin, I don't have the appetite to spare." Percy relaxed. Under his military-issue singlet, the Kirin Pendant hummed. Lieutenant General Liang watched from the Tower's vid-casters the final muster of the recon force. Together with the students, each Aerial Mage Flight consisted of three Wings of five Mages each, forming independent battlegroups. Behind the Recon-Flights were five Units comprised of Engineers, the Artillery unit, and the FOB Intelligence Unit. Row by row, they each appeared ready to give their all for the CCP. Of the three rows of students, it was Fudan that stood out the most. Where every other university stood to attention, Fudan's line was disrupted by a meandering Wyvern sniffing the place and scaling the walls, harassing the troops. Above, a Kirin loitered, distracting his men. Compared to their host, the platoon of stoic giants beside them, as well as the primly uniformed Gweilos on the left, were far more disciplined. What additionally made the General's complexion burn was Fudan's armour, which he recognised as the Shen-Teī garb from Sinomach. The design, however, was nothing like the variant his troops employed. For the men at least, he saw a resemblance, but for the women, the stylised bodysuits were unnecessarily distracting. Comparatively, Pretoria's team wore equipment specialised to their individual roles. The defenders, including their captain, wore booster-plates made by Armscor, a South African arms consortium. The other members likewise sported protection closer to their given roles, with Enchanted monster-leathers for the controllers and damage dealers, and reinforced fabric for the Diviner, the Illusionist and the Cleric. Moreover, despite the different designs, Pretoria's equipment uniformly comprised of shades of green and blue, crisscrossed with red, white and black highlights. As for Auckland, the giants wore singlets even in the blistering cold of winter. More than likely, Liang guessed, the Maori's resistances were tied to their vivid tattoos. To credit his hypothesis, even the expatriate member of Auckland's team, Yue Bai, had been inscribed from chin to ankle. The General frowned. "What designation are those?" Liang pointed to the prints on Fudan's armour. "The Lieutenant must inform the general that those are not Division inscriptions, Sir!" a lieutenant hollered. "They appear to be Fudan's sponsors, Sir!" "Sponsors?" "Yessir!" The Scryed vid-cast moved closer. Sinomach. Fudan University. Such inscriptions were expected, but on the armoured plating riveted to the students' thighs, he saw an embossed golden "W" and a stylised "Centurion" in matt-black. There was also the Tonglv project's letterhead, as well as SinoTrans, SAIC Motors and finally, a very familiar logo. "Mao-tai?" the general spluttered, feeling faint. "Yessir." the lieutenant knew the General was fond of the nation's most expensive liqueur. What he didn't realise was that presently, ten thousand Mud-grass Horses trampled his CO's chest. "Let's hope—" the General remarked as the advanced party took to the air. Below, the NoM Division filed into their mix-terrain carriers, each man nursing their weapon, wrapped up to the neck in quasi-magical cloth armour. If the battle went well, more than three-quarters of his troops should return. Should the operation be a failure, then all Liang could do was offer up his lapels, and hope Central wouldn't ask for his head as well.

From the air, it was self-evident where Dalian's domain ended, and the Black Zone began. Past the landbridge, past the precipitous rise of the Heishan, the late autumn forest turned to sickly stumps, then into blasted soil devoid of life. "That's actually from spellfire inundating the landscape," Lieutenant Jinwei Hān, 1st Force-Recon, Fudan's Advisor, replied with a glance. "We run periodic training exercises as well as Purges in the region. When an overflow disrupts the ley-lines, the land becomes inconducive to life." Gwen floated beside the Lieutenant, her porcelain-white armour gleaming in the morning sun. Behind her, the team fanned out, with Lulan and Richard on either side, and Eunae and Mayuree sheltered in-between. Their liaison was a PLA officer in his early thirties, though thanks to a cracked and weathered mien, the man appeared older. Measuring just five-foot-five, the Air Transmuter-Evoker had the typical stone-face syndrome which afflicted northern military men. "Do you know my Uncle?" Gwen's eyes brushed over the man's unit insignia, possessing the Chinese pictogram for "One". "Never had the luck." Hān shook his head. "As his junior, I must say, I am glad I'm not from his generation. The unit replenishment rate during Captain Song's moment of glory was almost ninety per cent. Who could envy that?" "Jesus." Gwen grimaced, as did her team. "Is it that bad now?" "Not nearly. The Undead are losing their momentum. Running out of living bodies. That's why we're pushing back." The Lieutenant grinned at Fudan's vice-captain. "We've fought them to a standstill for almost two decades now. Even Necromancers need supplies—" "Contact, North-North-West, two klicks. Zombies." Mayuree's voice blossomed just below the assault team's ears. From up on high, it was easy to spot the Undead by sight, though all humanoid specimens appeared identical when viewed from afar. Hān listened to the orders transmitted into his ear, confirming Mayuree's intelligence. "Vice-captain, this will be your first sortie." The officer's voice filled their Message Devices. "Standing Orders are to neutralise hostiles in quadrant 44-D2. Will you accept?" "Understood!" Gwen saluted inexpertly. The whole setup of the Chinese IIUC round was suspect, Gwen felt. The idea was that the student teams were auxiliaries who receive real-time objectives assigned by the frontline troops. That way, they "participated" in the war, and were at the same time safe where the fighting couldn't accidentally swallow them wholesale. It was very much a curated experience, one that Gwen felt was ripe for underhanded advantages. The boon, of course, was that Fudan stood to benefit, as per the point and purpose of choosing home ground. Winning with an extra ace from the dealer was no skin off her nose. She was no child, and possessed no idealistic delusions that the world was fair. Whatever advantage they received, she would take. Whatever disadvantage they faced, she would overcome. As a future Frontiers woman in London, having more matches under her belt would ease the favour Lady Grey had to afford with Richard and anyone else she desired to bring with her. Beside her, her cousin and Lulan closed ranks, while Mayuree and Eunae took up defensive positions in the rear. Somewhere above, where the Elemental Air was thickest, Golos coasted on unseen currents. "Our first swarm!" Gwen's clarion voice echoed as Richard and Lulan activated their buffs even as Eunae Aided and Blessed the team. "Let's do this!" A Zombie Horde! Gwen had seen her share of World War Z, but that didn't' stop her eyes from watering when they arrived downwind of the ambling mass. From a bird's eye view, the ghastly sight appeared a knot of pixilated tendrils, fragmenting and budding, moving forward not as individual bodies but as a living, breathing Undead thing. "Dull Sense!" Gwen activated Walken's long-promised Transmutation. Below, the Undead walkers made steady pace southward. The sight was almost reposed, now that she could no longer smell anything. Where she had anticipated a rush of rotting fresh barrelling toward distant Dalian, the reality was that the swarm sent out "feelers" of meandering runners before absorbing them back into the throng. Without a foe, the Zombies were entirely placid. "What's the count?" Richard scanned the roving mass below them. "Between three and four hundred." Mayuree performed a quick calculation. "Lieutenant, may I request advice?" Gwen wasn't shy with potential short cuts. "You may. I would suggest bundling these CCs tighter," Hān replied. "Do use bait." "Live bait?" "A good Cleric ought to do it. Zombies mindlessly seek out life and positive energy." The party turned to regard Eunae, who grew instantly white. _Not me,_ her lips appeared to say. _Please, for the love of Korean Jesus, not me._ "Eunnie, its time for you to make Seoul proud!" Gwen grinned at the Cleric. "Have no fear, Dick is here!" Eunae wanted to hold Luyi tight to her chest, but her doe wasn't capable of flight. "Lea!" Gwen's cousin entreated his smiling she-devil. "Make sure not a single hair on Eunae's head is molested by the dead!" Zombies. In their past life, when they were still men and women, the ambling corpses had been fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. Now, they were driven by insatiable hunger and an implanted drive to move south, caring only to increase the swarm's number. Though sans mind, sans eyes and sans taste, each Zombie was acutely attuned to the presence of vitality. For months since emerging from Shenyang, the horde had shuffled across the tablelands, fording the Beida River by stepping on the floundering bodies of their fellows, splintering and reforming as the swarm ebbed and flowed. Abruptly, the Zombie Horde turned. Now that they scented the presence of life, a strange focus overcame the meandering figures of blackened blood and rigid flesh. "MUURRRRRGN!" Sensing the sweet presence of a life-bringing Cleric, the swarm began to boil like fingerling fishes at feeding time. Nailless digits dug into cold flesh preserved by the Negative energies empowering their disfigured muscles. Limbs distended, tongues outstretched and yellow teeth gnashed. By the dozens, the Zombies piled toward their new messiah, climbing atop each other to reach her trembling, tender flesh. Above the mindless swarm, the students watched, waiting for the Zombie pile to reach critical mass. "MAELSTROM!" came the sound of a rumbling female voice. Emerald lightning crackled across a cloudless blue sky. With a shuddering roar of thunder, a portal opened into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning. An enormous vortex of air began to form, quickly descending in the guise of a cyclonic eye, vacuuming the flailing limbs, ascending their ghoulish flesh into gentle oblivion. "Eunnie! Hold on for five more minutes!" "She'll be right, mate." Richard kept up his spherical water shield even as a trail of white water fed into the vortex. "I've got a good RPM going, Eunae's untouchable." "ARRRRRRRGH!" Eunae shrieked, caught between a Zombie Horde and a portal choked with living lightning. While the healer's howls reverberated across the horizon, the horde depleted. When finally their numbers dwindled under a hundred, Gwen ceased channelling the spell and allowed the duration to play out on its own. "Ariel! Caliban!" She allowed her Familiars to descend and stretch their limbs. Ariel sent forth bursts of intermittent lightning drawn from Gwen's Bolts, obliterating the stragglers. Caliban's spider form skittered across the battlefield, ignored by the Zombies, harvesting heads. Not far, Lulan pounded the survivors into mince with iron girders. Doubling her duty, Gwen fulminated as she swept the battlefield, picking off cadavers that her Maelstrom failed to absorb. Mayuree kept up her Detect Foe until the final feeling of danger faded. "Three... two... Alright! Mission accomplished!" "Very good, I shall verify your results." Lieutenant Hān descended. "I was hoping to see Lord Golos in action." "He gets hungry if he exercises too much," Gwen explained. "I'll save him for bigger foes." In her opinion, they had done a decent job. The worst aspect of fighting Zombies is when chopped up creatures continued to function. These crawling swarms, known as "Biters" or "Creepers" were a nightmare for the PLA's NoM troops. Closer to the ground, Gwen noted that the shamblers wore the garb of military men as well as clothes worn by peasants. The gender divide, in so far as such a thing was plausible to consider, was also male-centric. As the stories of the Front had foretold, the roving hordes consisted of fallen PLA troops mixed in with missing peasants from the Manchurian Frontier. "Well done!" came the approval from Lieutenant Hān. "Twenty-six minutes, a lesser party would have taken a least three hours. I'll Message over the debriefing while we continue our flight." A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Gwen's eyes swept over the fallow earth. Her chest constricted. To think that these were once men and women, full of hope and desire. "Lead on, Lieutenant." She pointed to the west. "Lead on!" The party headed north. After their first taste of roasted flesh, the party gained a better understanding of the PLA's ploy. Across a widening Front a hundred kilometres wide, the 1st Force-Recon, joined by the 4th and 7th Divisions formed a sweeping scythe clearing the way for the NoM Divisions to follow. Quests were generated spontaneously by the officers as the advanced force trailblazed, filtered by the IIUC's chief proctor. For phase one, the more quests a university was able to complete, the more CCs they were liable to gain. According to Hān, haste and efficiency was the key to acquiring CCs, as the operation could generate an endless volume of requests if need be. On the first day, the projected purpose was to clear the first hundred-and-fifty kilometres from the Dalian peninsula to Shimenzi, an abandoned water treatment plant and reservoir. Before the Undead threat forced the PLA to pull back into the port city, Shimenzi was a sight-seeing region famous for its waterways. Now, in the slates provided to the students, an illusory projection displayed a bleak and abandoned quarry-cut lake grey with weathered granite. "Looks like your contemporaries are doing well," Hān remarked on the military's internal chatter. "No problems so far. Pretoria is clearing a thousand-strong swarm as we speak. Auckland earlier destroyed a Grey Ghoul blood pack in just under forty-five minutes. Their Fire Mage must be very skilled to hunt such swift creatures so steadily." "What's next?" Gwen was keen to get on with it. Lulan returned to the fold, using the armour's self-cleaning function to wipe away the juice-splatters staining her petite profile. Eunae had lost her voice somewhat, but as a healer, her sanity should return within the hour. "I was so scared!" the Cleric moped, glaring at Richard. "That was worse than those bug swarms in Amazonia!" "There, there." Richard patted her hair. "You did well. That wasn't so hard, was it?" "There'll be riskier Quests at Shimenzi without a doubt," Hān replied. "Hold on—" Ding! Hān's brows relaxed. "There we go. Fudan, Purge request at Zhongchang, Corpse Hulk, maybe a controller nearby. The 4th Recon made the discovery— and you have first dibs. Shall we?" First "dibs". Gwen chewed the words. Hazzah for the home front. It stood to reason that the PLA would give the quests with the most CCs to Fudan, but a caveat made the seemingly unfair system balanced— the danger of dying. If the CCP was less brazen, they could have asked two or three university teams to work together. To give the request to Fudan alone meant that one team would hog the gains— and that Fudan had to stomach the risk. Should Gwen's party fail to subjugate the beast and its numberless minions, they would waste CCs, lose the match, or in the worst-case scenario, squander their lives. According to Walken, the committee turned a blind eye toward politically driven favouritism. It all balanced out in the end, he had informed her, for the same practice occurred every time in every match, everywhere. The lesser ranked universities had been given priority to choose for good reason. Having exhausted their pick, the future Fudan will have to fight a superior team on foreign soil. "Understood." Gwen passed the thought onto Golos. She welcomed taking on the PLA's ambitious requests. It wasn't as though a regular team had a sixth-member in the form of a Mythically descended Thunder Wyvern. As for their Corpse Hulk, Gwen conjured the vision of a monstrous creation composed of collated dead flesh, a colossal Frankenstein's Monster. Different to a self-perpetuating Zombie Horde, the Hulk had to be engineered through secret rituals to be controlled by a living Necromancer. According to the Bestiary, the Hulk could be anywhere between four to ten meters in height, pending the caster's skill; though its threat rarely exceeded the tenth tier. "Is this your first Necromancer?" Hān pointed the students in the right direction even as he passed the coordinates onto Fudan's Diviner. "Our very first." Gwen avoided the Lieutenant's gaze as the party's trajectory corrected, thinking of her uncle Jun. "Some advice?" "Of course." The Lieutenant banked upward so that the team rapidly gained altitude. "What do you know about our resident Necros?" "The bestiary says there are four common archetypes of Necromancers when discounting religion," Gwen recited from memory, having studied the book and consulted her uncle. "Ritualists are those who seek eternal life in Undeath or are trying to stay alive after Awakening with a talent for Negative Energy. Summoners are classic Necromancers who specialise in the raising of bodies, imbuing cadavers to empower Familiars. Corpse Grafters are construct-makers who experiment with the remains of humans and demi-humans, and finally, Soul Flayers are Necromancers who harken after Essence and Spirits, specialising in Ghosts, Wraiths and Spectres." "And the Hulk?" "… is typically accompanied by a Grafter," Gwen answered. "In addition to their minions, Conjuration-Grafters control a construct crafted from their bone, a monster that grows malignant with each additional graft." "Well done." Lieutenant Hān appeared pleased. "How will you approach? Do you have a plan?" "I do." Gwen's lips curled. "But first, let's see what our foes have in store." * * * Zhongchang. From five klicks away, Gwen caught sight of the Zombie Horde. Or so it seemed— until her essence-infused pupils re-focused. What caught her off guard was the eerie appearance of a spartan but otherwise undisturbed township. With her eagle-eyes, she could see what appeared to be innumerable Zombies, some thousand or more, milling about a cabbage field three times the size of the town itself, ploughing the earth and turning the soil. Not only that, she could see that the vegetation was neither withered or dying like the plants they had seen on their previous encounter. Instead, the plants appeared to be green and robust and thriving under the cloudless, midday sun. "Halt," Gwen gave the command, then turned to Hān. "What the hell is this?" "An outpost," the officer said. "Housing a Necromancer and his or her host of Undeath." "Are you inferring that the Undead eat cabbage?" Richard, who had likewise read up on the PLA's state-issued bestiary, furrowed his brows. "Gwen, I've heard rumours like this," Eunae, whose home city was a strategic spell distance away from the DNZ, butted in before her teammates' tone grew harsh. She hadn't been to the Black Zone in her youth, but the stories were well-circulated. "The areas occupied by the Undead can have regions where human or demi-humans live. The lower tier monsters mindlessly seek out living flesh, but the Necromancers and their minions who flock to the Black Zones still need to eat. So, they have outposts like this that provide fresh food for the still-living casters. I've heard that there are even reports of cows and sheep near Pyongyang." Gwen's eyes swept past Eunae's entirely wholesome and completely innocent face. "Eunnie— there are enough cabbages there to fill five semi-trailers," Gwen explained the reason for her dismay. Certainly a few fields of rapunzel weren't going to ruffle her tail feathers. "What kind of Mage subsists on cabbages? I don't even like it as a filling for my dumplings. They add nothing." "I concur." Richard floated beside Lieutenant Hān. "Those are grown to feed NoMs." "Your QUEST is to Purge sector G2-55." Hān's expression grew amused, his eyes forming two slits. "150 CCs, with a bonus for Necromancers. A gift from the 4th Recon." "Mia," Gwen requested of her Diviner, ignoring their PLA liaison. "What's the maximum range on your Scry?" "In the open? Just over two klicks," Mayuree replied. "I'll check as soon as we get closer." "Your uncle Jun ever mention anything?" Richard asked Gwen in a silent Message as the team picked up the pace. "If there are NoMs here, surely he would know." "Uncle Jun hasn't been at the Front since the late nineties," Gwen recollected. "He was also stationed where the fighting was heaviest. The Tangshan Line north-west of Beijing." "Lulu, you ever heard anything about NoMs on the Front?" Lulan shook her head. "Why does it matter?" Mayuree's voice quivered. "Are the NoMs… food?" "The Necromancers are growing food for their food?" Gwen questioned her friend's horrific hypothesis. "Our serpent tamers breed Hornshell Rats to feed the Horntail Vipers," Mayuree reminded Gwen of the ingenuity of Mages when it came to harnessing power by any means. "Also, in Yunan, the Miao Clan keeps NoM slaves to temper the poisons of their Familiars." "Let's hope you're wrong." Gwen increased her velocity, leaving a dirty trail of blue-white mana. Her agitation seemed to have infected her Wyvern, who telepathically requested the cause of her concern. "Yes, Gogo?" "Calamity, I grow bored," Golos bemoaned. "Let me fight the Hulk." "I'll be the judge of that." Her answer was for her Ally to hold his position. "Don't forget, you're my ace-in-the-hole, don't show yourself so easily." "HA!" came a prideful huff from Golos. Her Wyvern had no idea what the idiomatic reference to poker implied, but felt instinctively pleased by her words. A few minutes later, the village fell within the range of Mayuree's Scry. She could see now that the town below them consisted of only a dozen inhabited buildings, while the hundred or so dynasty-spanning mud-brick homes were left abandoned. Where the modernised houses began, a bone-white fence ran a ring around the structures, outside of which meandered the milling Zombie farmers. "Found it!" Mayuree directed their eyes toward a large warehouse structure. "The Hulk is in there. It's not moving right now— there are glass baubles and jars everywhere. And bits of people." "Is the Necro alone?" Gwen called Ariel to her side, informing Golos to remain ready. "I sense… ten mana signatures in the houses. Nine low-tier readings and one at the tier of a Magus, almost a Magister," Mayuree noted. "There are other people here as well, without Mana signatures. Servants, I think, about twenty or so..." "Lieutenant." Gwen halted. This high up, they were specks barely worth noting. "Why hasn't the main recon force annihilated this place? "Well." Hān pointed to the houses below. "They're YOUR CCs." "I see..." Gwen observed the village below. Now she knew the CCP fully intended to pad Fudan's score. To that end, she could open up with an Essence-enhanced Maelstrom while obliterating the Hulk with a Void Sphere, but what of the humans in the houses? There were thirty more lives below— assuming one Necromancer who had to die. "Those people—" "Renegades and Rogue Mages," their advisor stipulated, biting each word. "Vice-captain Song, these are CCs which the 4th Recon has left for your team. I assure you that the IIUC will recognise these contributions, the same as the Wildland Mercenaries you neutralised in Kachin." Gwen's expression grew hesitant. "I can move in with Mia and Lulu," Richard advised in her stead. "You take care of the Hulk and the Zombies— and Golo can snag the Grafter." "BUT— I suggest you alpha strike as soon as we close in." Richard's logic pounded her ears. "Those Rogue Mages are bunched up right now. Chasing them would be a chore." "Why haven't they noticed us?" Gwen felt her conscience throb against her temple. She would have preferred if the acolytes fled, but these were Necromancers. For some reason, Michio Lee's words came to the fore of her mind, explaining that Necromancy was no different to Biomancy and that the mere practice of it shouldn't sign a death warrant. "There are no Message Towers here in the Black Zone," Mayuree explained. "Our enemy's outposts likely keep in touch through physical means." "Corpse Ravens. Ones which the 4th Recon has neutralised for you," Hān added helpfully. "Miss Song, will you proceed? Forfeiting the quest at this stage will result in a penalty. And of course, we shall then offer the same quest to your competitors." Gwen's well-loved eyes swept over her teammates. Richard had no qualms about doing what was necessary, that was a fact she could clutch with absolute confidence. Lulan had already proven that she thought little about carving through a wall of NoMs; even after her District 109 rampage, her remorse had been demure. For Mayuree, Gwen was sure the coup against Maymyint involved removing at least a three-digit number of ex-allies that opposed Marong's plans. And Eunae— sweet Eunae could be discounted, for she couldn't battle her way through a dozen NoMs, much less mass murder them. As their vice-captain, it was her responsibility to make a choice. For some time since Maymyint, she had understood that in the distant future, there would come a time for stone-cold slaughter. That future, however, had arrived a little sooner than she had anticipated. As Gunther had said so long ago, it was a Mage-eat-Mage world out there, and even if Gwen had no desire to take the lives of others— others had great desire to make her life as humanely miserable as conceivably possible. Even now, she wasn't yet at a tier of power where mercy was something she could afford. Didn't Mia say the workshop was a full-blown charnel house? That these Necromancers thrived on the lives of innocents wasn't an ambiguous reality. It was only her silly conscience that prolonged the inevitability of their execution. When she opened her eyes again, her emerald-amber orbs were as unyielding as gemstones. Necromancers were living, breathing, thinking human beings. But they were also aberrant psychopaths who pried open the body of the weak to practice their profane arts. If so, what mercy did they deserve? Didn't she boast to her Master that she had to be cruel to be kind? To be kind to a Necro was to be cruel to the living. "Lieutenant Hān." Her husky voice took on the hardness of granite. "The quest was for the destruction of the Hulk, yes?" "Indeed." "Then we destroy the Hulk as our topmost priority," Gwen said. "Richard, Lulu, please take care of the Rogue Mages. If you can, show some pity for the NoMs." "Yes, Vice-captain!" her teammates replied. "Golos?" "Calamity?" Her Wyvern demanded to know her mind. "The Desecrator is yours. I'll let you know as soon as I can locate the caster." "With pleasure." "Ariel. We're opening with a big one." "EE! EE!" Gwen took a deep breath. "FUDAN! ROLL OUT!"

"True Strike!" Mayuree's damage-divining augury flooded Lulan's mind with sudden clarity. Below, above the workshop, her vice-captain had opened up with a triple-eruption of Element Sphere, staggered so that the first would blow away the tin roof, and the second and third, issued from Ariel, would vaporise the Corpse Hulk within. _CRUNK!_ The roof deformed as displaced lines of current cascaded down its sides, neutralised by an unseen ward. Across the team's Mind Linked stream of consciousness, she heard her vice-captain let fly an expletive as the nova rang out harmlessly. A half-dozen heartbeats later, Ariel's cloned Spheres struck, turning the flaring Glyphs white-hot before the mandala failed, this time ripping apart the topmost portion of the laboratory. With the sheeting structure peeled like an orange blossom, a cloud of foul and poisonous gases, superheated by the electrical discharge, polluted the air. Within, the team saw what Mayuree had seen, a stitched horror, an abomination some six-meters tall, held together from bulbous face to multi-limbed bottom in gory stitches. Lulan recoiled. Against her anticipation of a giant Jiangshi, the craft used to create the now-stirring creature was western Necromancy, for she had never heard of such monsters in the annals of Huashan's index. _DING! DING! DING!_ An alarm rang out, alerting the compound. Lulan rotated her hovering blades, shaping the iron so that the weighted tip formed an acute cone, while its latter half tapered into a four-finned, narrow-waisted fletch. "Chakram!" Gwen let loose two of her discs to dice at the creature below. Lulan grunted as she reshaped her conjured iron. A surge of agitating bloodlust from her enchanted heart threatened to revolt against her better judgement. Her Naga Spirit as well, raged within her Astral Soul, howling for violence. Through sheer force of will, she fought down her impulses, patiently awaiting the moment her assigned targets revealed themselves. And they did. A flood of bodies— not the ambling Undead, but living figures, fled for their lives, pouring from the homes in the middle of the township. One by one, Lulan head-counted the escapees. "NoM, NoM… NoM— MAGE!" The Necromancer's Acolytes were easy to spot. Where the NoM servants wore the juniper-coloured hemp common to North Korean peasants, the Mages wore silken garbs of black edged with silver. In more fortunate times, the uniform denoted their superior existences; now, it made them targets. "Panzerschreck!" Her borrowed premonition foretold that now was the time to let loose a modified Heart-Seeking Sword. _Schwing!_ The largest of her projectiles, the "central" head of her Naga Spirit, punched the whistling air. _CLANG!_ First rang the sound of shattering glass, then a thunk as her projectile ricochetted into the fortified abode. "Wha—" "Urk!" The result was music to her ears. Not only had her projectile punctured the first Acolyte through the chest, crushing his shield and penetrating the man's heart, it had also caught the second Mage unaware, mangling his unprotected legs before his barrier could manifest. "GROOOOAR!" Lulan's attention momentarily shifted, distracted by the earth-shattering howl of the Corpse Hulk. For whatever profane reason, her vice-captain's spells had failed to sever its bodily appendages. "Lightning Tentacles!" In response, Gwen switched to Lightning, entrapping the flailing beast as bolt after bolt of cobalt electricity penetrated its barrel-waisted body, igniting the alchemical compounds oozing from the ravaged lab. "Mia— targets!" Lulan requested of their Diviner. "Upper left, second storey! Ground level, forth window, just above the basement!" "Got it! Panzerschreck!" Lulan sent four more projectiles toward Mayuree's nominated destinations, piercing through the feeble ward and striking at the unseen interior. By design, magical wards prevented magic from damaging or altering the shielded region of effect. Her solid-steel projectiles, however, were a matter of brute physics. A short scream from the ground floor indicated that she was now three for five. Lulan proceeded to "reload". Without conscious thought, she ran her Clan's secret invocations through her Astral Body. As they passed through her Heart of Iron, a mystical transfiguration transmuted Huashan's Blade Summoning into gleaming slabs of polished steel. "Spine Spear!" came the sound of retaliatory invocations from below, unveiled by Mayuree's sharing of Detect Foe. The bloody bone-projectile lost its momentum at about eighty-odd meters, then fell toward the earth. As for Lulan, her Panzerschreck rounds were optimised for assault between two to five hundred meters, weather permitting. Gwen had even said that with practice, power and better 'designs' on the missile itself, distances exceeding a kilometre were entirely possible. "Panzerschreck!" Without needing to look, she returned the favour. In times like these, having Mind Link with Mayuree was a Mao-blessed wonder. Two solid girders of racing iron crushed the brick-facade, collapsing a portion of the outer wall. The other three, formed as twisted metal, rebounded through another window. A crash engendered, then a wailing cry began to haunt the lightless room, reminiscent of a blood-letted pig. "That's four," Mayuree's voice came across the channel. "Be careful. They're desperate now." From the dashed windows, what must be the oldest of the Necromancer's Acolytes emerged. To Lulan's surprise, they were almost all foreigners; one even had the blonde hair of a European. "Panzerschreck!" Lulan unleashed another volley. This time, the Mages had prepared defences. The leader was an Abjurer, for a wall of bone deflected Lulan's leading projectile. The second, however, crushed the skeletal barrier, while her third penetrated the resulting debris and the forth speared the woman, clearing her abdomen, withdrawing a trail of intestines. The remaining five fanned out. "Run—HURRK!" "MMMMGN!" Richard was waiting below, hidden behind his invisible Undine. Soundlessly, Lea enveloped an Evoker before the sorceress could utter a single spell. Another, one that Mayuree detected as a Transmuter, clutched at his face as a globule of water forced its way into his mouth and nose, manifesting as a Water Tomb. "JET BLAST!" Simultaneously, a torrent of hyper-pressurised water sent a man shield-first against the house, obliterating first his bubble, then breaking every bone in his body before he rag-dolled against the brickwork, coughing up blood. The remaining two fled. Lulan's lips twisted in mockery. If she missed from this distance, she wouldn't know where to hide her face. With the NoMs fleeing for safety, Gwen focused on the monster. In the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the blood splatters painting the shattered panes as Lulan's invocations fired with its characteristic shriek of wailing metal. Her alpha strike had been too conservative. She hadn't expected that such a shabby looking laboratory would possess Abjuration wards. Likewise, when the thing awoke, and she attempted a decapitation, the resistance of its un-living body far exceeded her anticipation. Cursing, she switched from Evocation to Conjuration, Void to Lightning. With her present expertise, her Lightning Tentacles were as thick as her thighs, with six meters of reach. Before the giant could bring to bear the momentum of its bloated body, she had it tethered by the neck and shoulders. "MUUOOAR!" the Hulk possessed vocal cords like a harpooned whale. With a heave, it tugged at the tendrils, displacing the elemental link momentarily before Gwen re-connected the ethereal chains, tethering it like a mongrel against the workshop's concrete floor. "Lightning Bolt!" Gwen called upon Ariel to bring the creature to its knees. Bright arcs of electricity travelled from sorceress to Kirin to the Hulk, cooking its flesh as the Positive Energy of her Lightning neutralised the Negative motes of mana empowering the monster's profaned flesh. "Gwen!" Mayuree's voiced pinned her ears. "The Zombie Horde's closing in! Finish up with the Hulk!" Gwen immediately upped her ante, invoking a torrent of rapid-firing bolts. "MUAAOAR!" The Hulk pulled away from her tentacles. By now, its skin was almost crispy with char, and its eyes had exploded from its sunken sockets. Yet, unperturbed by its injury, the thing rampaged toward her with the tenacity of a runaway semi. Given time, she could toy with it, but now, she had to deal with an emerging Necromancer and his Zombie Horde. There was also the matter of the Grafter's Familiar, a threat that would surely be more powerful than this dumb brute. A few seconds was all it took for the Hulk to close the distance. As it swung its meaty arm, a length of bone, shaped like a scythe, swung through the air. "Shield!" Her diamond-facetted barrier turned opaque. Gwen smirked. Whatever the power of this thing, it wasn't even half of Golos. As for her Wyvern, it was now circling just out of sight, awaiting the Necromancer's emergence. "Mia, buff me up!" "True Strike!" Mayuree invoked the blessing from a distance. Thanks to Mind Link, the range of her buffs was well-extended. Almudj's Essence boiled over, Gwen called a Lightning Bolt to her lips. Her complexion turned pink as pippins as the vitality inside her body mingled with the mana she was sending Ariel. When the word came to her lips, it was with great relish, as though the first downpour after a muggy, humid day. "Barbanginy!" "EEEE!" A bean-green bolt of living lightning pierced the Hulk. Where it struck, the vibrant green energy spread through the brute's body, peeling its charred skin like an overripe avocado. A violent viridescence lit up the Hulk's interior, escaping from its eyes and its all-devouring maw. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. The mountain of flesh stumbled forward, toppling like a fallen titan. "MURRRRGGN!" a great cry of confusion and dismay uttered from the lips of some dozen stitched cadavers. A wave of spell fatigue washed over Gwen's Astral Body. Before she could catch her breath, the Zombie swarm grew wild. Where the Horde had earlier possessed a singular focus, its members now began to meander. Two dozen came toward Gwen, a handful gathered under her team members, and a clump of close to a hundred roved toward a shivering Eunae. "Shit!" She connected the dots. "Mia! Where is the Grafter?" "I sense…" Mayuree swept the compound. "His signature is gone! The Necromancer must have used a Teleportation Scroll!" "Damn it!" Gwen cursed. "Richard, can you help gather up the NoMs?" "Sure, I'll do it while I entertain our new friends." Richard pointed to the two Acolytes suspended in mid-air, kept barely conscious by not nearly enough air. "If you can deal with the Horde. I'll find out where our Necromancer has gone." "HIEEYA!" Lulan was already knee-deep in the dead, pulverising Zombies by the score. Her lack of wide-area AoE, however, limited her effectiveness. "Eunae, you're with me." Gwen Dimension Doored beside their Cleric. "Don't worry. I'll protect you." Eunae keened, wearing an expression that suggested she wanted to remain well out of reach of the Zombies' grubby hands. With her vice-captain breathing down her neck, though, she had little choice but to offer up her sweet body to the masses. Alighting atop a farmhouse, the South Korean Healer conjured Luyi. "Yi—" Luyi trembled. The smell of death made it drunk with fear. Embracing her Familiar, Eunae pumped her mana into her Sprite. Luyi glowed, its stag horns extending until they formed a dozen points. At once, the Zombie Horde lost all interest in the NoMs and the Mages. "Wall of Lightning!" Gwen's newly learned Evocation extended almost forty-meters in circumference, with a height of three meters. With her Transmutation, she had the option of flexibly manipulating the spell's manifestation, to which she chose a circular barrier with herself as the loci. It was the sort of versatile spell-casting that Alesia once showed Yue, utilising the combination of two or more Schools of Magic. _ZAP! SPAK! PSZZZT!_ All around her, Zombies sizzled like minute-steaks, filling the air with the rotten scent of flesh gone awry. Momentarily safe, Gwen began a second invocation. In her hand, she materialised a rod of True Silver, one of a dozen she had specially prepared for this occasion. Weaving the somatic material into her tier 5 Conjuration, she was glad that for once, the spell which Richard had advised her to learn was used for its explicit purpose. Wincing as she overcharged her sorcery, Gwen exhaled as the final invocation left her lips. "Cloud Kill!" The infamous ultra-AoE offensive spell was designed from the Glyph up to possess superior range and coverage. Now combined with Gwen's VMI, her seven tiers of Affinity, her hyper-tier control of Conjuration and the True Silver in her hand, the spell erupted. _VOOMF!_ A rapidly expanding fog of scintillating silver fled from her general vicinity, rolling over the fields of cabbage, covering no less than a radius of a hundred meters. _Tsssz—!_ This time, the sizzling was no longer the sound of summer insects dashing into a blue-lit mesh, but the sound of Negative Energy becoming neutralised by the invasive, lightning-charged motes of blessed silver. Whatever the Horde's resistances, the comprehensive coverage of Cloud Kill offered no solace against its corrosive sparks. The first Zombie fell, then another, a dozen, and a hundred or more. Organs long preserved by necromantic energies erupted. Muscles slid from bone as the gentle repose preventing the flesh from deteriorating disappeared. More and more of the Zombies charged in, while the ring of carcasses around Gwen and Eunae grew by the minute, doubling then tripling in size. "How many of them are left?" Gwen Messaged her Diviner. "About a two-thirds," the Diviner returned with the intelligence. "Can your mana pool hold up?" "I'll micromanage," Gwen said. "Eunae?" "I am fine." the Healer had by now grown indifferent, her mind numbed by the horrid odour of human fat ignited by Gwen's lightning. "Let's continue." "Take my hand." Gwen grasped her Healer's frigid little fingers. "Dimension Door!" "I am impressed." Lieutenant Hān gave Richard a thumbs up. "And no, rest assured none of this will be broadcasted. The PLA will make sure of that." "Thanks, mate." Richard tapped his data slate. "How about that, eh? AND Shimeizi's our last stop for the night. I guess we'll find the old fox yet." The PLA officer was inclined to agree. For a while now, he had watched the half-Asian Conjurer perform his inexpert labour. For a Frontiersman who couldn't be further from a Military Mage, Richard demonstrated the sort of talent that the Ghosts would unquestioningly welcome. Different to the indecisive womanliness of his vice-captain, Fudan's mobile defender was a model Mage in the matter of operational efficacy. When the young man had entered the commandeered abode, he had allowed his Undine to take one of the prisoners, the man, into the basement. Richard meanwhile took the other, the woman, into a separate room. At first, Hān had imagined something not meant for CCVC-1, but very quickly, Richard demonstrated his "technique". After the first Acolyte begged for sweet release, Richard questioned his second prisoner. Then, with slate in hand, he cross-examined the survivors' details, meting out punishment where specifics did not match, allowing for air when confirmations could be ascertained. "Gwen, are you done with the Zombies?" Richard paused to ask after his vice-captain outside. "Down to the last batch," came the reply. "Should be done before I am OoM." Hān resisted an urge to exhale deeply. Gwen Song had proven herself to be a one-woman platoon. Her capacity for destruction exceeded any single member of the standard Recon Divisions, and that was excluding her Wyvern. "Take your time, then some rest," Richard advised as he turned to the woman in the water bubble. The Necromancer's Acolyte was paler than a blanched egg and turning a shade of purple. At Richard's slightest behest, a torrent of information would pour from her tortured lips. "Lea, we're done with this one. Bring Lieutenant Hān the CC surprise." The Undine's exquisite face peeped out from behind the door. Behind her semi-transparent body, suspended on coils of water, floated a middle-aged man wearing a pair of charcoal pants and a woollen vest. The man was an NoM, and from the looks of his portly belly, he held a position of some merit. "Found this one in the basement." The Undine giggled, her mischievous eyes sparkled with glee. "He had a wand and a Storage Ring. Also, I found these." In one hair tendril, the Undine held aloft a Lightning Wand made for NoM usage. In her other water appendages, she held a ledger of sorts and a box of HDMs. "Good work, Lea," Richard praised his Familiar. Walking a circle around the portly NoM, the Conjurer grinned from ear to ear. "Mr Chen, how are you this fine day?" The NoM's eyes grew wide. Lieutenant Hān raised a brow, wondering how Richard knew the NoM's name. It took him a second to realise that the Acolytes had mentioned there was a 'trader' of sorts. Richard flipped through the ledger, then passed the book to Hān. "Gwen's probably better at this than I am. As such, I am going to keep this short—" "I'll talk!" the man squealed. "Mercy, Masters! I was captured— forced to work for these monsters! It's true. It's all true!" "My heart bleeds with sympathy. But first, who is your employer?" "I—" The man blanched. "I am just a bookkeeper— I was taken here against my will." "It's not that I don't believe you." Richard smirked. "All things considered, you're rather calm for an NoM. You're not from around here, Mr Chen-Du-Li from Tianjin, are you?" The "trader" began to shudder violently. Hān recalled that Richard had demanded a list of names for the NoMs. Unsurprisingly, even under the water rack, the Necromancy students couldn't remember the names of their servants. The female prisoner had said something about a Du-Li, while the male Acolyte had referred to the trader as Chen. "Candidate Huang." Lieutenant Hān wasn't an intelligence officer, but it didn't take a Ghost to join the dots. "Do you mean to say…" "I do." Richard snorted. "You've got folks from the living side supplying the Undead, Lieutenant. That's fucked up." "What for?" the military man's eyes instantly turned to obsidian. His colleagues, his comrades, had all suffered through the Front. A multitude of many millions had lost their lives pushing back the Undead, and now, a student was telling him that living men were trading with the Rogue Necromancers? "Food? What do the Necros have to trade?" Richard placed Chen's hand against the briefcase. "Open Sesame," he invoked an old fable. The lock unlatched. Within its velvet folds were shimmering crystals of soul-sucking darkness. "... Alright." Richard whistled. "Not what I expected, but just as well..." "Negative Aligned High-Density Crystals!" Lieutenant Hān spat. "Mao's Crystal Tomb!" Negative Energy existed in places where death and decay ruled. In a Plane full of life such as the Prime Material, it was rare indeed that such a sphere could grow a crystal counter-conducive to the germination of life. As for the unusual HDM's uses, there were many. Weaponisation, research, and most importantly— Necromancy. The creation of higher tiers of Undead was near-impossible without Creature Cores, Crystals, and a host of grotesque materials. For the everyman of the Communist Party, the most they knew about the Negative Aligned HDM was that it empowered Mao's Crystal Sarcophagi with a perpetual Gentle Repose. Outside China itself, religions tied to pseudo-resurrection, from the Catholic Theocracy to the Jackal Priests of Anubis, ensured there was forever a bull market for such unusual commodities. "Mr Chen" was by now sweating enough to fill an asphyxiation bubble all by himself. "Good value there," Richard hypothesised. "Gwen once said that for a tidy profit, men are willing to flout the law. For doubling the profit, traders will disregard all ethics. Beyond that? Human greed grows to the size of Leviathans." "Accursed NoMs!" Lieutenant Hān growled. "Not NoMs." Richard studied his indignant advisor. "Just me— even you and I have a price." Hān did not approve of Richard's aphorism. Mao, in his "Red Book", had warned of this exact thing, though the enemies were the capitalists and the foreign imperialists, not the people of the republic. "How shall we proceed?" Richard jabbed a thumb at Chen. "I could interrogate him, but I am certain you'd prefer a Mind Mage to rake over his brain. There are the other NoMs as well, hiding here and there, assuming the Zombies didn't eat em." Hān inclined his chin. "I'll request transportation." "Good." Richard looked away for a second, then returned with a grin. "Miss Lei and Mister Nowak are officially deceased, please don't forget our CCs. Is there a bonus for the NoMs?" "I'll put in a recommendation," the Lieutenant promised. "Gwen should be about done." Richard checked his Message Device. "Shimeizi's how far from here?" "Two hours as the crow flies." "I look forward to it." Richard caught a strand of his materialising Undine's hair. "Gwen is very good with confined spaces, did you know?" Besides Richard, his Undine giggled. Though her mien was beautiful beyond measure, Hān felt an undulating sense of unease in the Spirit's presence. In their natural habitat, Undines lured children into their lakes and waterways to drown them; ofttimes, it was for nourishment, mostly, it was for sport. "Release." PSSSHHT— The Shen-Teī armour loosened, allowing Gwen to peel the plated-fabric from her torso. "Cleanse!" The magic from her laundry Device began to remove the embedded odours from her hair, her thermo-layered skinsuit, and the armour itself. In her opinion, she had discovered a significant design-flaw— for though the exterior was self-cleansing, the interior had an inadequate deodorising function, meaning all she could smell after the battle was the scent of barbecued human flesh. Beside her, Eunae dry heaved, likewise victim to the deluge of assailing scents baked into her armour. Human bodies, so packed full of bone, ligaments and most importantly, fat; possessed a uniquely offensive fetor. If Gwen had to find words, she would depict the smell as acidic, with a twangy pungency that made one's eyes water. While she recovered, Richard emerged from within the house with Lieutenant Hān. "The Necromancer's fled to Shimeizi." Her cousin wasted no time. "That's our next stop. The main force should be arriving three hours ahead of us. I suggest we go straight there — far better CCs than grinding Zombies in remote villages. From the sound of it, there's a whole nest of the bastards holed up under the reservoir. Also, how long do your dogs last when out of range?" "A few hours," she replied. "Why?" "Need one to keep an eye on the NoMs until the PLA picks them up." "The NoMs survived? That's great!" Gwen mopped her face with a towel. Even with the enchanted skinsuit, she was sticky with sweat from the expenditure of almost 300 VMIs. Even in the Amazon, she hadn't OoMed so quickly. The eradication of a thousand Zombies was equivalent to a high-intensity workout of not only her body but her mind as well. Even now, her frontal lobe throbbed. Across the field, three rings of Zombies littered a demolished acreage of cabbages the size of human heads. The first pile was nearly three meters high, forming a gently smoking circle of flayed corpses. The second and third were more modest, while here and there littered dozen upon dozens of stragglers slain by Lulan, Ariel and Caliban. "Sir, we're clear," Mayuree indicated to their advisor. "I don't sense any hostiles." "Good." Gwen repositioned herself so that her face caught the mid-afternoon light. "Give me some space. There's one more thing I have to do." The team moved to one side. It was happening. Gwen had discussed it prior, but to see it happening for real made the team's kidneys ache. "Lulu, I am going to do it once, and then it's your turn, alright? Don't forget, our sponsors paid good Crystals for optics." "… Okay." "What's this?" Lieutenant Hān turned to Richard. "Extra-curriculum revenue." Richard scratched his nose. He had heard Gwen boast but didn't think to see it live. How was it possible that his cousin was capable of doing something as embarrassing as selling herself, but be incapable of imploding a building and every NoM, Acolyte and Necromancer within it? Granted, the building had been warded, but he would have liked to see Ariel sneaking through a window or a chimney, and then open up with an Essence enhanced Thundering Shatter. If that didn't blow out the structure and turn the inhabitans into jelly, she could follow up with triple-set of Elemental Spheres. Better yet, a pyrite Cloud Kill would have completed the Quest like a house on fire. Even as his imagination exercised Gwen's lost opportunities, the fresh-faced sorceress turned toward an invisible lumen-recorder. With one hand, she dramatically wiped sweat from her brow, then surveyed a vista of smouldering Undead. Suddenly, with one hand on her hip, she materialised a bottle of Maotai from her Storage Ring. Unstopping the cap with her teeth, Gwen then turned the ceramic jug so that a good handful of the precious liquid sprinkled across the fallow earth. "For the fallen," she said to no one in particular. An arc of cobalt electricity blazed across her pupils. She raised the same bottle so that it rested beside her exquisite face. "Maotai— Peace for the dead, life for the living..." She drank, allowing a few drips to slip past her lips and fall onto her bare collar bones. Her team watched; their mouths pursed and mute. "Okay, Lulu." Gwen gestured to the red-faced Lulan, looking as though already drunk. "Your turn, Miss superstar."

"Anything of interest?" Schalk Hertzog, Captain of Pretoria, stood over the meditating Jean-Paul as the Void Mage assimilated his latest meal. Jean-Paul slowly opened his eyes, his face contorted with bulging veins and dripping sweat. "I do have something. A senior apprentice, I think, one who'd been commanded to gather the materials in the laboratory, then use the attuned Teleportation Circle to escape. I would imagine our junior Necromancer could have made it bar the time it took to stow the ingredients and the spell scrolls. But— then again, returning without them may be yet another death sentence." "Too bad the circle's locked and warded." Schalk studied the crude Glyphs. "Damaged as well. I can repair it, but not without the Glyph-key." "You mean this?" Jean-Paul incanted a few invocations under his breath. The Teleportation Circle flickered, blazed for a bright second, then died. Schalk raised a bushy brow. The Void Mage was turning out more useful by the minute. "Gelukkige baster..." Lencho, ever the prideful Lightning Evoker, observed sourly. He couldn't fathom why his captain so readily accepted such a disgusting being. If it was Fudan's sorceress, he could understand, but this thing? "Well done, Jean-Paul." Pretoria's captain glared his damage-dealer into submission. "I wasn't thrilled when you replaced Lukas, but I don't begrudge your usefulness." "I fear Lencho's right," Jean-Paul replied meekly. "The memories Umzokwe collects are entirely random." "Is it though? I was informed your Familiar targets powerful thoughts and emotions." "Ja, but in the moment of oblivion, a lot of things cross people's minds." Jean-Paul stared at his pallid fingers. "Moments of filial beauty, a triumphant Awakening, a lover's hands, a Master's rebuke… or a set of Glyph keys they're told to keep secret unto death." Though he still found the aberrant Mage off-putting, Schalk patted his teammate on the shoulder. It was the sort of thing a good Captain should do. "Helia, what say we leave our PLA Advisor and enter the portal ourselves?" The Diviner took a minute of meditation to reveal her depthless ultramarine orbs. "I sense woe. Great woe." Schalk regarded the Necromancer's Portal. It was a great opportunity, but as Helia said, it could also be suicide. Hours ago, when Pretoria had been given the task of clearing out an outpost, he hadn't expected that there would be Rogue Necromancers excercising their craft so close to the Dalian border. The fact that these worshippers of death operated so brazenly outside of Shenyang bespoke of a well-entrenched enemy. Then again, what if he sent in Jean-Paul first? The Void Mage had said that he possessed an impressive AoE and that his abilities were triply as effective against lesser Mages. If so, assuming Jean-Paul could secure the Teleportation room, wouldn't Pretoria hog the CCs at Shimenzi? Schalk took a deep breath. It took two seconds for the impulse to pass. How would he answer Meister Bekker in the aftermath? The IIUC wasn't worth bringing trouble to his family. "Helia, contact Lieutenant Peng," Schalk dismissed the unappetising gamble. "Tell him that we're done. Withhold the key for now, and inform him we're ready to take on other quests." "Fireball! Fireball! Fireball!" A triple set of explosions rocked the fortification at Shimenzi. "FUCK!" Yue cursed out loud. "Fucking gopher bastards!" "Bro, that ward's choice as," Rongo snorted, grumbling at the soot-laden lake. "Too bad the water's contaminated, could have done something otherwise." Unlike Pretoria and Fudan, Auckland fully embraced the dozens of micro-Purge missions leading up to the first stronghold of the Black Zone's Necromancers. As a result, they quickly advanced through the Front, destroying hordes of Zombies, packs of ghouls, and even a village haunted by Jiangshi, demonstrating an impressive rapport that surprised even their PLA advisor. To counter each mob, Timoti utilised Quake and Magma Wall to corral the roving bodies while Rongo's Maelstroms, empowered by his He-Mango-Tohorā, swept his victims into a churning pile. Then, with enough victims gathered in one place, Yue would finish with a ten-second Flame Strike in brilliant blue, transforming the salt-water into superheated steam. It was a tactic that worked wonders against the Mermen, and though they were now far from the Tasman Sea, it proved no less effective against the Undead. By the late afternoon, Auckland had caught up with the main troop of Force-Recon Mages scouring the landscape for signs of Necromancy. At their final Nav-point, the standing orders for the students was to patrol the waterworks' exterior. Bored, Yue wanted to try her luck at puncturing the fort's defences. "Mao, don't you foreigners ever tire?" Lieutenant Xiao, their exhausted adviser, had grown breathless from watching Auckland quest for almost eight hours straight. Were it not for Yue; she would have suspected the giants from the Island of the Long Cloud were demi-humans. "I could inscribe a Ta Moko for you," Opi offered, pointing at the cussing Yue. "It'll be the non-permanent inscriptions Yue is using." Compared to Fudan's flamboyance, Auckland's team wore very little armour. In place of Magi-tech bodysuits or purpose-built garbs like Pretoria, they employed tattooed body-buffs. From what Auckland's Enchanter was willing to reveal, Yue's arms held the Mark of the Mangopare, the Giant Hammerhead Shark, gifting her with endurance and durability. On her left thigh and right calve, wrapped like a wedding garter, was the Mark of the Silver Fern, a Ta Moko that regulated mana and stifled the effects of spell fatigue. On her left lumbar was inscribed the Pakati, Mark of the Dog Skin, offering protection akin to a Maki's hide. "Check these bad boys out." Yue caught the woman staring and pulled down the neck of her top, causing the Lieutenant to flush and blanch simultaneously. Across the Fire Mage's ample cleavage were concentric, circular rows of Unaunahi, Mark of the Fish Scale, warding her against the elements. "Unaunahi weaved into Moana," Opi offered. "Like the sea, you won't tire, or need to sleep, so long as your mana keeps up." "Shall we head back?" Whetu stated nervously. He was reasonably sure their orders were to waste time and not start the assault. "We're supposed to wait for the others." "Hold up, let me give Tandy a swirl—" Yue began a long invocation. Her Nightmare manifested with a neigh, stamping the air with fiery hoof prints. "Tân-Cysgodol, lend me your strength! INVESTITURE OF FLAME!" A blue cloak of fire wrapped around Yue's body, lighting up half the mountainside. It was an impressive scene, one that would have wowed audiences around the world— until her tank top incinerated. "Fu—!" Whetu spluttered. One of the many horrible habits Yue had inherited from Alesia was the preference for non-magical clothing made from conventional material. "Mage Armour!" "Aiiiya!" Lieutenant Xiao waved her arms, at once wanting to cover her contestant while concurrently fearing she might turn to cinders. Whatever the case, the two-second "slip" was NOT suitable for national broadcasting. "Sweet-ass." Rongo beamed. In response, their Ta Moko Enchanter knocked the Water Evoker over the head with her knuckles. Caught in a state of elemental clarity, Yue gave no shits about her momentary indecency. Instead, she raised a flaming hand, gathered the force into a pin-point, then evoked a hyper-tier invocation. "SHADOW FLARE!" A globe of near-invisible, superheated Elemental Fire struck the warded surface of the defunct waterworks. A cascade of brilliant-blue sparks erupted where the sphere connected, filling the fetid pools below with hissing steam. A second-later, gouts of molten silica poured from the granite surface, sizzling with spell-fire as the embedded wards fought back the flames. Auckland, as well as their advisor, shielded their eyes from the miniature sun. In the eyes of the onlookers, the assault appeared as though an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. "Bloody oath!" Yue's flame-cloak sizzled, then spluttered, leaving her encased in plated Punamu. Though she could arguably employ spells up to the sixth tier, her lack of experience prevented her from accessing ambitious sorcery like Fire Storm and Disintegrate without first deploying a lesser variation of her Master's Flame Avatar. It was a make-shift method devised by Alesia so that Yue could access higher-tier spells by drawing on her Familiar's talents. "How deep did I get?" "… about sex meters," Rongo observed. "The ward's closing over as we speak. How bleeding strong are these Neecromancers?" "I don't think its the Necros," Lieutenant Xiao intervened. "I believe the waterwork's wards tie into ley-lines beneath the reservoir. Shimenzi isn't just a filtration facility either. You'll find out in the debriefing." "Can't the PLA turn the Enchantment off?" "No, not without accessing the Mandala's nuclei." Xiao shook her head. "Unfortunately, that's also the most secure section of the waterworks. It's right below the exchange-filters and the pumps, built into reinforced bedrock." Yue growled. "What if our CCs escape?" Lieutenant Xiao pointed at the Mages in the main camp, patrolling the perimetre in pairs of twos and threes. "Without access to a Divination Tower, Teleportation Circles have no more than fifty kilometres of range. Even assuming the Necromancers have Teleportation Scrolls, a stockpile is nigh impossible. Each scroll, depending on inscriber, fetches well over a thousand HDMs, more on the black market." Xiao took a deep breath. "Rest assured. The PLA will crack the gate and pry open the bunker. You're all-star students, Miss Bai, leave the dirty work to the grunts." Impatiently, Yue turned her eyes below, where two Golems idled beside their pilots; Chinese soldiers from the 209th Armoured Regiment. As for the Iron Golems— they were American made General-Dynamics MK266 Dust Pounders, lovingly known as "the Dusty 266". The variants below were crewed, as automation remained the exclusive privilege of the USA and its Israeli allies. At close to three-tons each, the Golems had a maximum payload of over four tons, capable of carrying everything from artillery-tier wands to crystal-caches that extended its run-time to a week. Presently, the crew had outfitted the machines with sonic excavators used to breach the warded concrete. Once the Golems opened a path into the water work's interior chambers, CQB Mages may then ferret out its inhabitants. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. _Ding!_ Yue's Message Device chimed. "Gwen's here," Yue informed her companions. "Be back later, fellers. Gonna get changed and see how the girlfriend's doing." A round of cheers broke out when Fudan alighted near the main camp. The military Mages in the 4th, 7th, and 19th Aerial Recon were mostly men in their late twenties, meaning a bevy of young and beautiful idols brought much mirth to an otherwise grim tour. "Ma'am!" A grizzled veteran with a beard like a bristling porcupine approached Lulan. Behind him, a dozen more waited to see if the scarlet-complexioned sarge would succeed— or eat an Iron Sword to the face. "M-May I have an autograph?" Lulan stared, her eyes entering fight or flight. "Of course you can." Gwen shook her Sword Mage by the shoulders. "Come on, Lulu. It's all a part of the hustle." "The…" Lulan's orbs glazed over. "… the what?" "Here." Gwen guided the man's photo of Lulan's promotional material toward her, pushing a mana-pen into her fingers. "Sign your last name." Lulan scratched in her mana signature, punching through the photo-paper. Gwen grimaced at her friend's uninspiring handwriting. "Ouch. We'll work on it. You better keep that close to your chest, Sargeant. That's Lulu's virgin signature. You're her first." "I-I'll keep this as an heirloom!" The man visibly trembled. "Mao! Thank you, Miss Li! Please win the competition!" Hearing Gwen's titillating proclamation, the other soldiers rioted, clamouring for Lulan to sign their things. One soldier even unbuttoned his shirt and asked her to carve her initials on his collarbone so that he would never forget this day. "SHUT UP!" Lieutenant Hān barked. As an officer of the First-Recon, his reputation preceded him. "Form a line! Proceed in order of Rank! Cue jumpers will be sent into the Necro-den first, without Golem support!" The men quickly fell into step. "GWENNIE!" Yue landed a dozen steps from the ogling men, ignoring their licentious attention. "What took you so long? Our advisor said you guys left your last objective four hours ago." "The locals waylaid us," Gwen explained with a sigh and a roll of her eyes. "When did you get here?" "An hour ago, we're waiting on the Golems." Gwen's eyes flashed. "Those? They're huge!" "Nah, those are chicken-hawks. The 266s are medium-weight models," Yue casually informed her. "Tell ya what though. The bloody walls on that place are warded to hell. Hopefully, the Dusties will dig in through the exterior without drama, maybe soften up the inside a bit. While Yue spoke, Gwen inspected the two humanoid Magi-tech machines. To her eyes, they resembled squat gorillas in plated mail. As tall as they were broad, most of its two-storey bulk consisted of a central torso, a massive set of shielded shoulders, and robust arms twice as thick as its hind legs. From the way the vehicles' statue hunched, Gwen guessed these were likely quadrupedal machines capable of significant velocity. Presently, a pair of gloves that resembled a mole's forearms had been affixed to the forelimbs. The pilots, one woman and the other a man, wore high-vis jumpsuits. To Gwen, it was all very Top Gun feeling. The male pilot caught her looking and waved. She waved back, pausing when a growl of displeasure derailed her train of thought. "Alright, come down," Gwen said to no one in particular, drawing a curious glance from Yue. Much to the delight of the Combat Mages, the giant Wyvern they'd seen back at Dalian descended from the dusky sky, circling over the Shimenzi until it skidded to a halt not too far from where the girls stood. "Calamity!" the Wyvern called out. "HUNGRY, NOW! Those horses were inedible!" "Alright, alright. Hold your Harpies." Yue, together with dozens of soldiers, watched with fascination as her friend approached the monstrous brute to deposit an enormous crate of stacked SPAM almost as tall as herself. "What in Father's name is this?" Golos stretched his wings, tucked them against his sides, then sniffed the small mountain of cans. "Its SPAM, Gogo. Nothing but the best for my drake." Gwen touched the Wyvern's snout, feeling her fingers grow numb from the static. "There's regular SPAM, Turkey SPAM, Teriyaki SPAM, Smoked SPAM, Bacon SPAM, Cheesy SPAM; I had them shipped from Hawaii." Grunting, Golos transformed into his human form. Unlike Polymorph, the Wyvern's Draconic-racial didn't involve twisting bones and moulting skin, but rather a blast of retina-searing lightning. A second later, a nine-foot giant with horns pulled up a pair of jeans, slipped on a tight t-shirt, then adjusted his mace so that it slid down a trouser leg. Gwen felt a nudge in her ribs. Beside her, Yue's brows came alive as though two jostling caterpillars. Taking a can in each hand, Golos began. "Mmmm…" the humanoid Wyvern masticated the punctured aluminium. "Not bad. The metal skin of this meat fruit adds a particular crunch." Gwen raised a finger, opened her mouth, then allowed her hand to fall. "It's great with rice," she said finally before returning to Yue. By now, Whetu, Richard and a few others had joined them. "So, what delayed you?" "Ah." Gwen tugged at the collar of her Shen-teī armour, loosening the neckband. She was beginning to envy the comfort of Yue's fitted tank top. "We ran into Centaurs." "No shit?" Yue swore, the warmth of her breath steaming the air. As advertised, Liaoning's temperate rapidly fell as the sun dipped into darkness. "The half-horse, half-human ones?" "Undead ones," Richard cut in, having supervised Lulan's meet-and-greet with fans. "Great galloping bastards. They were shooting arrows and throwing spears too. Almost got us a few times. Who would have thought? Bloody Undead Centaurs, you live and learn." "Yeah, those Centaurs were no cake-walk," Gwen continued. "We were ignoring them until they started galloping below us. When we crested a hill, they got close enough to start throwing spears." "Zombies can use weapons?" Whetu inquired contemplatively. Gwen shook her head. "They looked like Ghasts to me. Lean and gaunt with lots of ribs showing. Long, skinny legs, big long manes. Strong as anything." "They followed us for almost twenty-minutes at close to eighty kilometres an hour," Richard expressed his admiration of the Centaurs' prowess. "And they didn't tire either." "How'd you fight them? With Cali?" "Golos took em down." Gwen gestured to her Wyvern. "We took to a higher altitude while Golos strafed them with Lightning. He picked off most of them, but a dozen or so ran. Our advisor wasn't too happy with that. He said that the NoM battalions had a hell of a time weathering centaurs, so we had to chase the rest down. That took AGES." "Lulu's not a good flyer," Richard explained. "Neither am I. Gwen had to do most of the work herself." "Sounds like a hassle." The diminutive Evoker inclined her chin. "Your advisor's right, though. While WE're hurling Fireballs from the air, the grounded Mages and the armed NoMs are ducking arrows and trying not to be trodden. Even armoured convoy trucks are no match if they run into something higher than tier 6. You remember that Land Shark back in the Hunters?" "Don't remind me." Gwen grimaced. "One of those can demolish a fleet of vehicles," Yue said. "They eat metal as well as flesh, and they're built heavy enough to erupt from the ground and knock a transport truck over. Whetu and I saw it happen in Tauranga. Local militia got bogged down, lost half their men before we arrived from Auckland." "Yikes." "Mobility is life. When—" her friend pronounced sagely before suddenly pausing. "Finally, they're here! Let's get this show on the road!" Six dots appeared on the purple horizon. Gwen's eyes searched for Jean-Paul. "I wonder what took them so long?" "I would have kept patrolling if I knew we had to wait this long," Yue grumbled. "I take it there's a good reason those Golem units are still idling." Two dozen Daylight Flares hovered around the Shimenzi's general vicinity, turning night into midday. As super-charged Dancing Lights, the Military staple covered a range of almost half a kilometre each, underneath which a shadowless, all-enveloping light ensured Shimenzi was laid bare. In better times, the winding canyon would have arguably made an impressive panorama. Under the guardianship of the Undead, however, cold granite met with shattered shale, giving the river's vista the likeness of an upturned graveyard half-caught in a rock-slide. "Students!" A uniformed Magister in pressed olive presented himself as Colonel Qin Qíao of 1st Force-Recon and the Field Officer in charge of the Reclamation of Shenyang. "Many of you may be wondering why we are so invested in Shimenzi. Now, I shall elucidate you." The commander cleared his throat. "While our troops clear the way to Shenyang, you have been offered the chance to PURGE Shimenzi. Lieutenant Xiao, the map." A projection of the waterworks and its internal chambers materialised into view, vivid and brilliant under the unnatural daylight. The students' stunned faces stared at the architectural layout, knitting their brows at the sight of the extensive underground bunker. "Shimenzi… is not just a water filtration plant for the local farms," the Colonel explained. "In the late sixties, we commissioned Russian engineers to build it as a military base during the defence of Liaoning. Apart from the Undead, the base was also built to repel Americans..." "Strewth." Yue rolled her eyes. "No wonder I couldn't punch past the first layer. It's a legit habitat bunker. Fuck." "You tried breaking in?" Gwen whispered. "Destroyed the wall and everything," Yue remarked. "But— no luck." "Firepower, firepower, firepower?" Gwen grinned. "Not enough firepower. Master might be able to do it. Gunther could probably blast straight to the core." Whetu coughed. The girls zipped their lips. "… Presently, we anticipate that Shimenzi is home to at least forty individuals engaged in the practice of Necromancy. Of these criminals, at least THREE have attained the level of Magus. Here are their profiles—" A three score of headshots materialised mid-air. The Colonel stood below the first floating face, a Mage with ash-blonde hair and sunken blue-green eyes reminiscent of arctic ice. "Anton Yermolov, Russian. Sixty-Seven years of age. He served as a Biomancer in Moscow before turning to study Necromancy. He's a freelance Ritualist researching Undeath and immortality. Wanted in Russia, Ukraine, Poland and of course, China, Mister Yermolov is worth 400CCs dead or alive. Should you encounter him, expect dangerous Familiars and spells affecting the mind, as well as your Astral Body." A second image appeared. This time, it showed a pale-skinned man in the garb of a priest. The most notable aspect of the Necromancer was his hawk-beak nose. "Diego Valentino, Italian. An ex-communicated priest from the Ordo Praedicatorum. Fifty-seven years of age. Spent the first thirty years of his life hunting down Necromancers. Now, he's one of them. His spells principally focus on Essence and Spirits. We have it on good authority that he controls incorporeal monsters. His Tower Bounty currently sits at 550 CCs, with an additional 250 CCs if his Storage Ring and certain contents can be returned to the Ordo. If you do find it, I suggest handing it to the PLA for processing." A third face materialised. This time, there was very little bio-metric data. To Gwen, the last Necromancer was a slim-faced North Korean woman in her forties. "Finally, Sung Min-Seo. A local. Information regarding Sung's whereabouts was recently gathered thanks to Fudan. From what we can deduce, she is a Magus-tier Grafter, so expect monstrous creations such as Hulks, Abominations and at worst, Demi-human Bone Golems. Currently, the PLA will offer 300 CCs for her and 50 CCs for each of her upper-tier creations." The Colonel paused, then raised his head to survey the students. "All three have been pushed from their laboratories and hiding places. All three should now be in Shimenzi. These are your principal Quest targets, in addition to the complete Purge of the fortification." The Colonel pointed to the Golems. "When the operation begins, the PLA will breach Shimenzi from the Front with our mechanised units, distracting the innumerable Undead defenders who will meet us. As for your teams…" The Colonel pointed to three separate sections on the map. "You may choose an entry point cleared for your convenience or breach the fort by individual means. If you are unsure, I want to remind our guests that this mission is not compulsory and that you may continue collating CCs tomorrow and in the next six days until we reach Shenyang. Note that requests we are offering you are neither easy nor safe. It will test every spell you have at your disposal, as well as stretch your resources to the breaking point. Do you understand?" "Yessir!" the students answered as one. "Good!" The Colonel cleared his throat. "Fudan, will you proceed?" "We accept!" Gwen's husky voice reverberated through the day-lit night. "Pretoria?" "None shall survive, Colonel!" Schalk crisply answered, standing to attention. His movements were curt and flawless, despite his cumbersome seeming Armscor booster-plate. "Auckland?" "We'll kill em all!" Yue snapped a salute, her heels clicked. "Nothing will survive, not even a Zombie rat, sir!" "That's what I like to hear!" The Colonel returned to the cross-section diagram. "Now, pick your entry points." "Sir!" Schalk raised a hand. "Yes, Mister Hertzog?" "We would like to offer an alternative entry, Sir! We have obtained the Glyph for Shimenzi's mid-level Teleportation Circle, Sir!" The Colonel paused. "Well, well..." The man's countenance then contorted in the manner of a smiling wolf. "What wonderful news!"

The leaders of the triumvirate huddled. "I volunteer for the breach." Schalk raised his hand. "With my booster armour and my talents, I should be able to hold the Teleportation room until the rest of you can safely arrive." "Schalk, you're too reckless," Izette, Pretoria's Diviner, dissuaded her captain. "Neither mine nor Mayuree's Divinations showed weal." All three teams were keen on the idea of teleporting into the enemy base while their main force was distracted by the Golems kicking through the front door, but then the question arose of who would breach the great unknown. If Ghouls and acolytes held the entryway, then all would be well. If Ghasts and Bone Monarchs, supported by Senior Necromancers, held the portal, then doom awaited the intruder. Yet, no matter the difficulty, someone had to be first, for the PLA would not wait to make their assault. Of the three Abjurers, Schalk suggested that he could withstand whatever spells, curses, and afflictions the Necromancers threw at him. Richard conveyed that he could instantly flood the vicinity to extinguish any opportunity for retaliation. Whetu assured the teams that nought would bypass his Pounamu barrier. "How about we send in our Familiars?" Jean-Paul meekly susurrated, shirking the artificial daylight, his complexion so pale as to glow. "Umzokwe can independently manifest. As can Caliban." "But then we'd lose control of them. Besides, how're your vital stores?" Gwen countered her companion. "I've got supplements... and Eunae if need be, but if our connection is cut by the ward..." "Umzokwe's stores will suffice." Jean-Paul wheezed. "If not, I can replenish once we're inside." "…" Gwen felt as though she should issue a rebuke. But since none of her fourteen compatriots batted an eye, she realised that perhaps, she was the weirdo and not Jean-Paul. Wistfully, Gwen felt once again struck by the banality of her old world sentimentality. Even now, she felt no desire to murder NoMs, nor become a cannibal; no matter if her victims were Necromancers. Watching the others luridly vociferate the methods of accredited murder, she felt dirty. In her mind, death should be clean, not obscene. Sighing, her eyes wandered toward Golos. A thought took root. "WAIT—!" she slapped the table, causing the others to stare. "I have a better idea!" "... Let's hear it." Schalk folded his arms with mild annoyance. "Gogo can breach for us." Gwen jabbed a thumb at the diminishing mountain of SPAM. "As a Thunder Wyvern, he's highly resistant to all kinds of magic, even Void. His element is also directly opposed to Negative Energy users and Necromancy. He's stronger than a bone golem, AND he's also immune to status attacks due to his mythical bloodline. If need be, I'll front up the extra HDMs for his weight-class." The students' eyes wandered to the burping Wyvern, then back to the Teleportation Circle. Somehow, the prospect of dropping an eleventh tier Thunder Wyvern into the midst of a Necromancer's lair seemed— utterly amazing? Indeed, after Golos cleared the Teleportation Circle, they could leisurely teleport in, leading with their Abjurers, then branch off in their irrespective group to hunt the named Necromancers. "What a wonderful idea," Yue cooed in gleeful agreement, her eyes full of anticipated mayhem. "Gogo go-go!" Golos lifted its head, wondering why a stumpy peasant was hollering his name. "I…" Schalk struggled to think of a disadvantage. "Well... Let's do it." "Great!" Gwen exhaled with some relief. She turned toward her SPAM-eating Wyvern. "GOGO! Finish up! It's time to earn your keep!" From the blueprint of the old PLA fortification, the hidden megastructure comprised of eight tiers. The ground floor consisted of a fortifiable lobby connected to a guards' barracks, an administrative sub-floor, and levitation lifts proceeding up and down the stratum. The upper floors, involving Levels I, II and III, were the heart of the bunker, with shared rooms for Mages, a command theatre, a mess, and storage rooms for HDMs and equipment. A different set of lifts, however, descended past the Lower Ground floor, accessing Basement levels I to III. Thankfully, the Teleportation Circle Pretoria had obtained was the magical personnel entry built into the Lower Ground, an elaborate chamber about sixty or so square meters, depressed so that it could be accessed from several adjacent sections simultaneously. Of the lower floors, B-I consisted of a substantial troop barrack meant to house up to a thousand NoMs, a kitchen and mess, segregated showers and bathrooms as well as food stores and an armoury. B-II housed the water filters together with the now-defunct pumps feeding the reservoir sitting adjacent to an engineers' section. Finally, B-III represented a principal objective, covering the control Mandala, the Crystal Core tapping into the ley-line, and the loci for the superstructure's wards. Each of the levels furthermore possessed sub-stratum and off-shots in the form of chambers, hidden or otherwise, connected by a mole's lair of transmuted tunnels. "Hello, claustrophobia," Gwen remarked for herself and the others. The corridors' width stood two Mages abreast at best. The cramped space was great for her line-based Lightning Bolts, but the same confinement meant there was no evading her enemies' AoEs either. If she teleported away, she would leave Mayuree or Eunae open to assault. "Time is of the essence," Schalk said. "One team should circle back and attack the enemy from the back. Another team should push upward into the headquarters, while the last team should aim for the control Mandala. You know your abilities best, so let's hear it." Yue was the first to speak. "Alright, maties. I've got firepower bleeding out my nose, Timoti's got both damage and control, and Rongo's got snares well-suited to confined spaces," the Fire Mage transcribed, pointing to each of her team. "We got Whetu as well, and Opi doubles as a CQB Transmuter Mage. Ergo, we'll Fire Lance the Necros right in the starfish." "Do you need a healer?" Gwen frowned at her friend's bluster. "What if one of you got drained or injured?" "We'll toast any and everything before they get close," Yue replied with confidence. "You can take our Eunae with you." Gwen looked toward her healer. In turn, Eunae shook her head vigorously. "… or not." "I'll be fine." Yue shrugged. "Got pots, got tats, we're sweet as, bruh." "Right." Gwen looked to Whetu. The big man nodded, affirming Yue's boisterous confidence. "How about you guys?" The others gave their two-cents. In the interim, Gwen regarded her Void counter-part. For the whole while, Jean-Paul had remained silently receptive to whatever demand Schalk placed upon him. Was he being bullied? She wondered, but couldn't tell from Jean-Paul's expressionless mien. In the end, she chewed her lower lip, remembering that there were plenty of talented but introverted folks who preferred extra work to contentious confrontations. ".... and I am well versed in Spellcraft theory, particularly the construction of wards and Mandalas relating to Abjuration wards," Schalk stated nonchalantly. "Who here can say the same?" Whetu remained silent, as did Richard. As for Gwen, she could at best inscribe a cooking fire. "Then Pretoria shall take the lead down to B-III," Schalk declared. "Miss Song, I guess that leaves the upper levels for you." "I am fine with that. Richard? Everyone?" "No complaints here." Lulan was her usual, accommodating self. "I am game," Richard replied. "I'll follow you," Mayuree stated. "So long as we're not reckless." Eunae eyed Yue, hoping there wasn't going to be another offer of rent-a-Cleric. "Alright." Gwen pointed to L-II and level L-III. These were chambers where enemy Mages resided, a prospect that suited her just fine. "Assuming the PLA is going to be holding the lobby, we'll head for these levels." "Wonderlik!" Schalk clapped once. "Don't forget, the levitation platforms will be disabled, so you'll be flying up the shaft. Meanwhile, we shall be relying on your Wyvern." "What sort of resistance is the PLA anticipating?" Gwen asked for a reminder. "Lower-tier Undead in the thousands. Up to a century of mid-tier Necromantic beings. A few mid to higher-tier constructs. And acolytes in addition to our Magus-tier targets." Mayuree recollected from the briefing. "The lesser Undead will be bolstered and buffed by the apprentices, that's why the PLA will handle the frontal assault." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "That's a tough slog, bro," Rongo remarked. "Poor bastards." "That's why we're here." Lencho, Pretoria's Lightning Mage, looked from Gwen to Golos, appearing apprehensive. Agreeing with the Evoker's assessment, Gwen offered a prayer for the soldiers below. Having sent a thousand Zombies into oblivion, she knew first hand just how troublesome a swarm could be. It wasn't so much that each Zombie was cumbersome to kill, but that the possibility of a group of Mages growing OoM before the majority of Zombies perished was relatively high. Add in ambusher-types like Ghouls with low-cunning or the swift-limbed Ghasts, it was relatively easy for a Mage to be snatched while taking a breather from spell fatigue. Ding! Ding! The teams' Message Devices chimed, accompanied by the revving of the Dusty-266's roaring mana-engines. The time for action was nigh. Shimenzi. Lower Ground Teleportation Circle. Iosif Mazylak was the senior apprentice to Anton Yermolov, a Ritualist Magus in all but Tower accreditation. Iosif Like many in his Romanian village, Iosif believed in the existence of the immortal Koschei, a myth whose stories and legends had permeated the collective memory of his people. As the tale tells it, the 12th century Immortal King, without formalised knowledge of sorcery, lived until the twenty-fourth generation of his kin— an impressive feat for a Mage of antiquity. Thus raised on outlandish tales, Iosif had forgotten all about Tower's propaganda when Anton arrived looking for potential apprentices. A dream-prone adolescent, Iosif was full of delusion and grandeur. It wasn't an unusual trait— for life on the Frontier was boring but hard; it was a place where sudden, violent deaths daily occurred. While the Tower Masters of the Black Sea ate caviar in Istanbul, the meagre fortune of not starving to death in Poiana Brașov was a luxury few could afford. That and the villagers were predated upon by the Night Hags, Dhampirs, and the Nachtkrapps that roamed the mountains. "O God so merciful in heaven," the old men in his village would pray when the Dhampirs came for their milk-skinned daughters. "O Lord, Father of all, deliver us from harm." But it wasn't God who came to save the village. It was Anton Yermolov. At once, Iosif knew he had found his calling. Before he had learned the Craft from his Master, Iosif's greatest ambition was to take Elena, the Mayor's daughter, on her wedding bed. A year on, Iosif had forgotten all about that banal fantasy. He came to realise the vastness of the world, how high the mountains of knowledge, and how fathomless the Spellcraft seas. Very quickly, Iosif exposed the lies besmirching Necromancy and the scourge of the Undead plague. Now, as a senior acolyte, he recognised Necromancy in its true form— art. For what else could he label magic that could arguably be utilised by anyone with a hint of talent? Like death, Necromancy was an equaliser. All one needed to ply the Craft was knowledge, mana, and the capacity to suspend worldly ethics. "Mages were born free," his Master had quoted a famous philosopher. "Yet, thanks to the accursed Imperial Magic System, he is everywhere in chains." Iosif agreed. Compared to the Seven Schools of Magic, Necromancy was freeform and primal, drawing on the raw Essence possessed by all beings. Where there was life, there was death. Where there was decay, there was regeneration. How can one outlaw the foil to life itself? It was absurd. When he had finished his first half-decade under the Master, raised his first Zombie and watched his minions perpetuate, Iosif felt elucidated. When a decade later, the first of his slaves rose not as a mindless being, but a thinking, feeling Ghast, Iosif attained an epiphany. "Life is death!" his Master had hollered to his students. "Don't you see? It is reversible! Life is death as death is life! Undeath is sovereignty over the tyranny of nature! It is an escape from the karmic forces of the material world! Undeath is the bottling of God's domain! It's true freedom!" But the journey to transcendence was long and arduous. Master Yermolov's Path, as the Tower Mages would say, was one of Ritualism, the prolonging of life through the exploitation of death. It was an easily misunderstood goal, for the actual purpose wasn't life, but the attainment of Undeath— the transformation into an immortal legend known as a Lich. At first, Iosif had disputed if such a tier of mastery existed. But after a visit with his Master to Pyongyang, all doubts had ceased. After an august audience with what must be a Magi, Iosif knew that God, or Gods, or at least a facsimile of divinity, did exist on the Material Plane. "Master Iosif…" a voice more juggling stones than vocal cords addressed the day-dreaming apprentice. "When may we… feed?" Iosif frowned. He disliked being interrupted, especially by a slave. The Ghast that spoke was Paul, a dear friend and Elena's fiancé. In his youth, Iosif had been greedy and had practised his Craft on Elena before his skills had matured. Luckily, his friend promptly arrived at the end of a two-year sojourn searching for his fiancée. Full of remorse, Iosif had welcomed his friend into his Master's abode, after which, the rest was history. "You may feed when the PLA has had their fun, or when reinforcements arrive from Shanyang," Iosif stated. Disgracefully, the PLA's assault had caught them all by surprise. Their contacts in Dalian had been told that it was a routine military drill— until reality had caught up, too fast for many of the Masters to preserve their experiments. From what he had heard from upstairs, Master Valentino had lost a senior apprentice in his haste to retreat to Shimenzi. Having then lost his precious materials, the Mage had flown into a rage and Soul Flayed a lesser apprentice when the girl was clumsy enough to bump into him. Now, caught in the cramped confines of Shimenzi, the brooding Masters bid their time. In the gloom, Iosif's Ghast nodded, then returned to staring blankly at the Teleportation Circle. Together with Paul were a half-dozen of his Master's lesser creations, as well as a few of his experiments. Though Iosif felt he could be arguably be made useful elsewhere, someone had to guard the portal in case allies arrived. Suddenly, the ground swayed. "Whoa—" Iosif muttered when the ground shook. The PLA's assault on the front gate had begun. "Death preserve us." Paul said nothing. Other than the occasional complaint about his eternal hunger, the Ghast voiced little of anything. The floor shook again. Iosif's greatest worry was the stock of fresh flesh in the larder. Economical Undead like Skeletons and Zombies could be starved for years and indeed, possessed higher functions when frenzied, but not so intelligent variants. Unlike their bio-mechanical cousins, conscious Undead required maintenance and sustenance. One of Iosif's tasks for the first decade of his apprenticeship had been precisely that, a Ghoul farmer whose job was to throw meat to the howling horrors while avoiding being eaten himself. Indeed, of the ten gathered from his village for the test, only Iosif survived. _BOOM— Rumble—_ Dust fell from the ceiling. The PLA were really giving it their all, but Shimenzi wasn't an easy fortress to penetrate. Iosif yawned. The Undead made good guards but made terrible conversationalists. If he was bored, maybe he should take the time to pick apart one of his Master's Clawed Ghouls? Or perhaps one of the Mutated Zombies to see how their imbued enchantments caused Negative Energy to warp their flesh? _THRUMMMMMM—_ Iosif blinked. The Teleportation Circle churned, filling with mana. Another ally, arriving from an outed outpost? Iosif frowned. With the PLA assaulting the upper levels, wasn't it a bit convenient for someone to be visiting? But then again, only senior apprentices knew the key to the teleportation array. Even if an acolyte encountered a Mind Mage, the Death Geas would ensure they drained themselves to death before a single Glyph could be uttered. _—NMMMMM_ — the thrum of silvery Conjuration filled the air with static. The amount of mana being channelled through the portal was terrific. It must be an ally. Iosif relaxed. The size of the thing coming through was at least the volume of an Abomination or a Hulk. "I hope the chamber's big enough," Iosif muttered warily. The individual rooms were generous, but the corridors were barely two and a half meters high. _ZAAAP!_ The circle deposited its cargo. "Welcome!" Iosif hailed the new arrivals in guttural Korean. "You've come at a…" His lips grew transfixed. A man appeared amidst the firefly motes of Conjuration, a nine-foot giant. "What the—?" Iosif muttered in his native tongue. The man's stature was enormous, akin to an Armoured Revenant, possessing arms like trunks and a body sculpted of Grecian marble. Atop the man's brows grew two horned ridges that ran the length of his skull, half-hidden within a mess of platinum-white hair. The man looked around, his silvery orbs refracting the lumen-globes like the eyes of a cat. Iosif swallowed, fighting the panic in his heart. "ATTACK! All attack!" He wasted no time summoning a staple invocation to his lips. "Agonising Enervation!" A stream of Negative Energy, conjured by the inscribed artificial Sigil drawn into his Astral Soul, flooded through Iosif's warded mana conduits. Of his collection of spells, the fourth-circle debilitator was his favourite, for it afflicted the target with spine-wrecking agony while transferring their vitality back toward the caster. "Sisargh hofiba!" the demi-human uttered in a bone-chilling, alien tongue. Iosif's charm struck. A split-second later, nothing happened. The Senior Apprentice grew confused. There was no fizzle— his spell had been successful. He had seen its dark miasma connect with the demi-human. If so, why didn't it work? "GAWWWRRR!" Paul had by now reached its enemy. From all ten digits, it distended blade-like claws pumped full of ghastly venom, fully capable of disabling the stoutest of Mages. The demi-human looked up, frowned, then moved like a blur. _Snap!_ The Ghast halted mid-stride, suddenly caught in an iron vice. Iosif's eyes grew impossibly wide, then fuller again, pressing against his sockets. While the Mutated Zombies gnawed on the Demi-human with their distended jaws to no avail, the man effortlessly reached out, catching Paul's head like a ball. Then, with a single, fluid motion, the giant tore the Ghast's skull, spine and all, from his torso. "GRAAA—" Paul made just one sound before his Necromantic energies expired, washing over the man's well-muscled body like water off a duck's back. Iosif shook, his fingers trembled, spells long recollected failed to pronounce themselves. His assailant began swatting at the lesser Undead. _Whack!_ With a bone-shattering blow, a Zombie's head exploded like an overripe melon. _THWAK!_ A quick stomp sent the lower half of another Ghoul flying into the distance to splatter against the wall. _CRUNCH!_ A simple sweep cut six Ghouls in half, mutilating both flesh and bone. "HA!" The demi-human giant swung Paul's head like a mace, smashing apart Iosif's and his Master's beloved creations with Paul's profaned remains. Across the chamber, the Necromancer acolyte felt as though his brain was spinning like a top. What the hell was this? His soul rioted. Who was this monster, and why was it here in Shimenzi? For Iosif, there was only a single recourse. He had to inform Master and bring reinforcements! Surely a Bone Golem could best this creature! "Shield!" Iosif preemptively erected a barrier. He wasn't an Abjurer, not to mention his minions usually blocked his foes. Unfortunately for Iosif, his present defences rapidly deteriorated as the humanoid dreadnaught pounded his pets into mincemeat. "Blood Walk—" In desperation, he opened a vein. "LOREAT!" came a cry more bark than speech. Iosif was a few incantations from completing his limited-range teleport when his long-neglected testicles suddenly shrivelled up into his torso. A spine-wrangling, strength-sapping wave of fear overwhelmed his faculties, turning his frontal lobes into quivering soup. Something indescribable relaxed in his gut, his innards revolted, and the room grew suddenly heavy with the scent of excreta. His mouth filled with bile, Iosif looked down in disbelief. Was he the first Necromancer in history to suffer Mana Burn because he shat himself? What would his Master say? But he needn't worry about that. Not when the collated strength of a dozen Ogre Ghasts punched through his feeble grey shield to take him by the neck. Moments later, against the concrete fortification, Wyvern and former Necromancer painted an impromptu Pollock. "… Gogo's done." Gwen licked her drying lips. It was unexpected, but Link Sight somehow worked on Golos, bypassing the ward. "We're clear, for the moment." Schalk, Whetu and Richard stepped into the circle. "Miss Song." The captain of Pretoria inclined his butt-chin. "See you on the other side." ****

Gwen could smell the ultraviolence the moment she teleported into the chamber. Foremost was the stink of Undeath, after which proceeded the unmistakable stench of ruptured bowels spilling from a torn black robe. "Gogo?” She looked around for her Wyvern. “He’s gone on ahead.” Schalk had taken up a position next to one of the entrances, overlooking the results of his Diviner's Scrying. “Lord Golos was muttering something about desecrators.” Feeling her scalp crawl, Gwen reactivated her Gogo-VR. Presently, her twin vision showed the Wyvern walking over a mangled mess of coarsely ground meat. All about the princeling extended a Brutalist, Soviet-era habitat-block the size of a tennis court, in the midst of which she could see the levitation lifts. “Did you run into any trouble?” she asked suspiciously. The Wyvern grunted, wiping his feet on an unsoiled robe. Gwen felt her throat constrict. There was something abstract in gazing at Golos' victims through borrowed eyes. The carnage was so distant— like she was the operator of some first-person murder game. "Stay there, I'll be with you soon." Gwen cut the link. A few more flashes of Conjuration later, the rest of the contestants filled the Teleportation Chamber. "Good work." Schalk stood beside the portal’s mechanisms with an impressive-looking inscription-tool. “I will now disable the Circle. No one will be able to use it until they unravel the Arcane Lock. A feat which, though I don’t profess to be the premier Enchanter in Pretoria, should be time-consuming, to say the least.” "And after that?" Yue glanced at the crumpled heaps by the wall, disappointed that Golos had hogged the action. “To CCs and glory.” Lencho’s fingers sparked with electricity. Ever since Gwen had "lost" to his captain, the prideful Evoker had felt as though he was an oft-forgotten sidekick. “Fret not, Lencho. I’ve got a good feeling about this,” Izette, Pretoria’s Diviner, painted a rosy picture for her teammate. Gwen's eyes fell to Pretoria's Void Mage. Presently, Jean-Paul was whispering to his Familiar. “Cali! Ariel!” she called her own to join the fray. She entertained summoning her Morden's Hounds but concluded that vertical levitation shafts made poor battlegrounds for magical dogs. “EE EE!” “Shaa shaa!” The great white leech slithered from Jean-Paul to rub up against Caliban. Whatever the relationship their owners might have, the two Void Beasts had taken to one another like flesh-eating peas in an eldritch pod. "Shaa!" Carapaces popped, tentacles writhed; unwitting observers stepped away. Ariel wanted to join, but Gwen held her Kirin back, producing a fistful of HDMs to placate its excitement. Forming into their respective lines, the squads marched outside the teleportation chamber with their Abjurers leading the way. Discerningly, in place of guards and patrols, they discovered lightning-scorched walls and half-cooked bodies, all of which had met with sudden and fatal violence. “How did you manage to tame a Thunder Wyvern?” Schalk enquired of Gwen, his expression almost worshipful. “What a magnificent Ally.” “Lucky, I guess,” Gwen answered evasively. “I ran into Gogo on a mountain. We argued, my Uncle ploughed his sister, and then we made up.” "... I would love to meet this Uncle." Schalk glanced at the armoured sorceress. "Truly, you're the most interesting person I've ever met." "You're a pretty decent bloke yourself." Gwen gave the man her best smile, catching Jean-Paul looking meekly downwards. "You two should get a room up in L-III, ” Yue interjected between them. “Schalk, what's the fastest way up to the foyer? I bet the PLA’s up to their necks about now.” Turning a corner, the parties arrived at the Lower Ground's access chamber. In its present state, the severe room appeared as though a meteor had crash-landed in its midst, leaving no survivors. Gwen nodded at her Wyvern as he scratched a crotch itch, stannding beside the lifts. Golos nodded back. Schalk inspected the Glyph inscriptions on the platforms' control plate. _Whomp!_ Rongo thumped the Glyph. To no one's surprise, nothing triggered. "Bloody hell, it's shut." “Anyone good with metal?” Schalk looked around. "Lulu?" Gwen nominated her Sword Mage. Lulan stepped up. The Sword Mage's fingers blurred, silently performing an invocation for Shape Metal. On cue, the stainless steel began to warp. A few inches later, her spell fizzled. Lulan's face turned a deep scarlet. “I meant cutting through it...” Schalk glanced at the Sword Mage, amused by her dismay. “Can for another try?” “Sorry, Lulu, my mistake,” Gwen patted Lulan on the head. “Gogo, think you can best this feeble, human-made door?” Golos snorted, positioning himself in front of the double-panel. With a sound of metal-on-metal, he dug his fingers into the pane, levering the portion where Lulan’s magic had warped the seamless metal. “GRRAARRRRGH!” Golos howled, his body crackling with power. Visibly, a mountain of muscles bunched across his back, coming alive with Draconic essence. _CRUNK—PANG!_ Something inside the panels snapped. Inch by inch, the door parted, pulling apart as the structural integrity of the gears and pistons failed. “HA!” Golos kicked, sending the left-most panel flying off its sliding rail. With a dissonant clang, the pane launched into the interior of the levitation shaft. The resulting noise was no less than a gong announcing the Mages' arrival. "No matter," Schalk stated with a straight face. "I am sure they're expecting us. Master Golos, may I humbly request that you also open ours?" “Here's is where we part,” Gwen struck out a hand. “Schalk, Jean-Paul, everyone, good luck.” The others joined in, exchanging handshakes. “Come back alive.” Jean-Paul’s palm grew slimy the moment Gwen clasped his fingers. “Totsiens…” “Take care, JP." “Shaa! Shaa!” Caliban nudged Umzokwe. The leech wiggled its segmented tail. With final formalities performed, Pretoria formed into their marching order, with Schalk and Umzokwe leading, followed by Jean-Paul, Izette, Helia, and finally Lencho. With great solemnity, Fudan and Auckland watched as the basement shaft swallowed the Afrikaners. “Shall we?” Yue stepped into the shaft, seamlessly transitioning from land to air. One by one, her teammates joined her. “Take care and don’t be rash,” Gwen warned her friend. “It’s just a competition.” “No worries, I’ll protect her.” Whetu's eyes encompassed the petite Fire Mage protectively, reminding Gwen of Jonas, Alesia's Cleric. “Ha!” Yue grinned, her affable enthusiasm melting Gwen’s heart. “Tell ya what, let me give you a bit of advice in turn.” Gwen perked up. It wasn’t every day that the mighty Yue dispensed wisdom. “DO NOT pussy-foot around.” Yue's amber eyes grew severe, wiping the smirk from Gwen's sultry lips. “Fuck everything up. NoMs, Monsters, Necromancers, EVERYTHING— if not, you’ll be the one getting rat-fucked.” “Bless!” “Aid!” “Mage Armour!” “Protection from Elements!” “True Strike!” “Mind Link” “Guardian of Faith!” The Fudan five hovered in the dimly lit vertical tunnel. After Yue's team chose the middle route, they had opted for the rightmost shaft. Thankfully, unlike the claustrophobic corridors, the transmuted concrete was widened to accommodate cargo, measuring some six meters in diameter. "Still warded." Lulan retracted a hand. "Of course it is." Richard brushed a finger across the seamless surface. "Levitation shafts are central components of any base. In a Tower, there'd be mana dampeners lining the walls as well." “How’s it looking up there?” Gwen inquired of her Diviner. “Your friend has just broken into the ground floor,” Mayuree sucked in a breath of stale air. “There are A LOT of enemies.” "And above us?" “I am not sure,” Mayuree knitted her brows. “There are mana signatures all over, but I can't use Clairvoyance through warded concrete. I am not seeing much with Arcane Eye either.” “Don't worry about it then,” Gwen acknowledged the limitations of mid-tier Divination. “Stick to our plan. We should proceed to L-III, then Purge downward from there. Is the tunnel clear?” "I think so." Richard gazed into the uncertain darkness. “Stay away from the walls. You never know.” “Shaa!” Caliban concurred. Its spider legs skittering about the shaft’s surface, somehow managing to stick to the smooth concrete. Beside it, an invisible Ariel flittered through the air in its Kirin form. “Good idea,” Fudan’s Captain took her Abjurer’s advice. “We’ll lead with Familiars. I’ll bring up the rear. Gogo, can you take the lead?” Golos yawned. As a creature of Air and Lightning, levitation proved no obstacle. "I am glad we see eye-to-eye. Alright, everyone, let's ascend." With concurrent thrums, Fudan switched their Shen-teī armour to combat mode, offering their mana pool to the armour's batteries. This way, the suit not only provided better protection but took on the peculiar Elemental affinities of their wearers. A dozen meters from their entryway, Fudan passed the ground floor. From behind the double doors, the rollicking sound of chaotic combat reverberated, shaking the tunnel and displacing the dust. "I hope Yue and Whetu are doing alright," Gwen remarked as they passed the sealed doors. Compared to the rumbling entrance, L-I proved the quieter counterpart, followed by a silent L-II. If anything, seven-foot cement slabs were very good at sealing sound. Near L-III, some fifty meters from the lower ground, Ariel reported that it had run up against the base of the levitation platform. “Gogo,” Gwen called upon to her Wyvern again, appreciative of the way her brute served as a humanoid bulldozer. “Can you move the platform, please?” Golos sighed, perhaps thinking that the sooner the Quest was done, the sooner he got back to his lair. Ten meters from their target, the Wyvern paused. “What’s wrong?” Gwen’s eyes scanned the sterile vicinity of their concrete tube. “Gogo?” Her Wyvern dipped in the air, his mane suddenly bristling like the back of an agitated hog. Above it, the base of the levitation platform came alive with living shadows. “Calamity!" Golos growled, his voice filling the levitation tube like a thunderclap. “It's an ambush!” "That's an imperial fuck-load of Undead." Yue pronounced her unadulterated opinion of the churning battle cascading from the alcove from which they had emerged. On every surface, Skeletons, Ghouls, Zombies and Ghasts of all sorts hung from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. There was Undead everywhere she looked: the service counters, the waiting rooms, the armoury, the barracks— no space was left unsullied. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. In front of the PLA's Golem-lead beachhead, the Undead formed an undulating tide of glistening, roving, jostling bodies moving as one, surging so that they boiled and tumbled. And the smell! The Mages gagged. The foetid air was solid with the scent of reposed flesh. Opposite the Mages, leading the invasion were the two Dusty-266s, already up to their waists in Zombies. With wide swings, they swatted away the cadavers with their buzzing sonic claws, their roaring, red-hot mana engines shaking the dust from the walls. Behind and beside the War Golems were the PLA Mage Flights, slinging spells and pushing forward with every element they could muster, cleaving the flanks with quicksilver flashes. A Blade Barrier! Yue cooed with admiration. Colonel Qin Qíao of 1st Force-Recon led the charge, maintaining the spell-made industrial harvester so that it reduced anything within range into mince-meat. "Manaaki!" Opi activated her team's suite of Ta Moko enhancements, warding her companions against the dead. The group-wide buff was necessitated by the Negatively-aligned miasma, for the bone-chilling aura sapped the vigour from the living, polluting their minds with despair. "Let's clear the casters first..." Yue gave her command. Bolstered by the Maori's craft, she suppressed her battle lust, using her fingers to mark the team's victims, one by one. "... before they realise we're the real threat." Behind the solid wall of grasping corpses pushing back the PLA, a dozen human acolytes commanded the Undead. In waves, the Necromancers wove spells of empowerment, throwing up profane sorceries to wear down the PLA's spell-bound barriers. Such was the ebb and flow of all battles against the Undead, for the Mages would grow exhausted eventually, culminating in a retreat. After that, the Necromancers could choose pursuit, or if the victory was pyrrhic, they could re-raise their minions. “I’ll keep the horde pinned with Rongo,” Timoti's conduits bloated with magma. “Whetu, stay with Yue and hunt the Necromancers.” “Sweet-ass, bro,” Whetu was confident in his Pounamu Mage Armour. “Ready when you are, Cuz.” Rongo needed no advice to begin his most powerful Evocation. As a Water Mage, his spells lacked in damage, but more than made up in flexibility. With one hand, the Evoker inscribed a Ta Moko-like mandala in the air, concurrently lighting up the tattoos enveloping his body. On his torso, the Whale Shark came alive as conduits overflowed with supercharged mana. With a mighty cry, the Water Mage called upon his Spirit. “He-Mango-Tohorā, come forth!” Abruptly, the Mandala expanded to ten times its size, covering the space of a dozen meters. Behind Rongo, a brief impression of a Whale Shark manifested, filling up half the chamber. “Parawhenua!” The beloved son of the sea unleashed the fury of his patron. Before the Undead onslaught could build enough momentum, a streaming jet of whitewater erupted, tossing the Skeletons and Ghouls like children's toys. An unstoppable torrent, the jet blast travelled forward unimpeded for a dozen meters before petering out, transforming the region around Auckland's team into a miniature lake, dashing apart the Undead formation. “Behind us! Infiltrators!” The Acolytes realised too late a new threat had struck. The howling sorcerer, Yue concluded, must be her first target, for he looked the oldest, and his robes were richly embroidered. “Mi-Jeong! Stop them!” her future victim commanded a junior. From the rotting throng, a Giant Skeleton and a three-meter Abomination broke free, wading through the water toward Auckland. “Tuatara!” Timoti sensed that the time was ripe to summon this three-headed Lava Lizard, a spirit unique to his home region. “Magma Burst!” From the shallows came exploding spikes of magma-drenched stone, instantly solidifying as they passed through the seawater. Two magma-spikes caught the skeleton, entangling its bones in hardening obsidian. Against the Abomination, the super-heated volcanic ejecta straight-away exploded, flaying the flesh from its stitched frame and spilling its worm-like innards. But a Giant Skeleton wasn't so easily checked. With one hand, the monstrous Undead sling-shotted a club comprised of sharpened bone at Rongo. _Crash!_ A timely shield from Whetu deflected the crushing blow. Yue meanwhile, took advantage of the distraction to fly past Timoti and Rongo, stopping just within spell-range of the Necromancers pointing at her and shouting. “Pounamu Protects!” Whetu preemptively materialised a honey-comb latticed barrier capable of withstanding all forms of exotic punishment. “DAMPENING FIELD!” With Auckland’s level of Spellcraft, practical counter-spells were nigh-impossible. As such, Whetu opted for a double-edged solution— reducing their and their enemy’s elemental efficacy so that he could tank what remained. Of course, outside the spell's range, Yue's power remained unabated. “Incoming!” Whetu felt his Astral Soul quake from the avalanche of Negatively-aligned assault consuming the abjuring vigour stowed in his Pounamu. Like spoiled oil, a fusillade of necrotic energies slid from Yue, cascading in sheets as Whetu renewed the serpent stone. The Abjurer grunted, gleaming sweat flinging from his steaming back to enliven the throbbing Ta Moko. Warding against Necromancy was a hard slog. Without Faith Magic, there was no way to entirely prevent the sorcery from eating away at Yue’s life force. Thankfully, the serpent stone fort needn't be held for long. A dozen rapid incantations later, it was Yue's turn. “INVOCATION OF FIRE!” The pint-size Evoker burst into cobalt flames, lighting half the lobby as she assumed the likeness of a regal Ifrit. Tân-Cysgodol, her Nightmare, could just be seen flittering in and out of her ever-expanding cloak of fire. “Tandy!" Yue's voice rang as a thunderclap. "Fuck’em up! CHAINED CONFLAGRATION!” A brilliant blossom of near-invisible fire combusted near the senior acolyte, melting through the feeble shield put up by the self-taught Mage. As the air ignited, transforming into white-hot plasma, it was accompanied by more spontaneous fireballs, engulfing the Acolytes wholesale. All around Auckland, the world burned. One after another, chained explosions engendered. Though Alesia's apprentice left much to be desired in the realm of control, the power of Yue’s blast accommodated any and all enemies within its range of effect. _—BANG!_ _—BANG!_ _—BANG!_ A third and fourth explosion rocked the ground floor, concordant shock-waves caught one another as bodies turned to sizzling mince. After a fifth and final discharge, Yue stabbed herself with a mana-injector, grunting as the infused plasma reinvigorated her mana pool. Tân-Cysgodol faded from sight. Her cloak of flames, so blinding only a moment ago, slid from her shoulders, revealing a huffing sorceress wreathed with writhing Ta Moko. Yue surveyed the scope of her work. A dozen craters studded the foyer where the acolytes had stood their ground. The junior Necromancers were utterly stunned by the attack from behind. As per tradition, senior casters always stood near the back, meaning the best of them were now painting the walls, their blasted brains mingling with their beloved Ghouls. The battle tide was turning. The Acolytes faltered. “Good work!” Whetu shouted. “Let’s regroup!” Without the Necromancers' battlefield control, Rongo’s one-man tsunami came rushing in, hissing as the seawater cooled the scorched stone. “Fuck, I blew my load too soon.“ Yue eyed the remaining Necromancers and the other nine-tenths allotment of Undead still swarming over every surface. Taking down five acolytes was good, but she could have done better. “Should have waited for the cunts to clump— WHOA!“ “SHIELD!” Whetu raised a honey-comb barrier just in time to catch a Bone Lance, stopping the projectile a few inches from Yue’s bosoms. The Evoker shirked back, taking a few splinters across her warded dermis, leaving white scars where the necrotic energy caressed her skin. The party looked to the ceiling. A congealing pool of blood had silently engendered on the roof, beneath which now suspended an upside-down Necromancer. The cruel face that regarded Auckland was graced by a head of ash-blonde hair, looking far younger than its proclaimed sixty-seven years. Standing just over six-feet, the man wore a stark white, skeletal armour resembling an exoskeleton. Anton Yermolov! A name came to Auckland's collective mind. "FOUR-HUNDRED-CCs!" Yue shouted. "Come here, ya bastard!" “MAELSTROM!” Rongo howled, persisting in his finisher despite the immediate dangers facing Yue and Whetu. Together with the swirling sea draining into the Elemental Plane of Water, he could dispose of several hundred lesser Undead. Once ejected into the Plane itself, the corpses would become fish-feed for the numberless denizens of the Fathomless Sea. “Quake!” Timoti simultaneously directed his seismic assault at the walls and the ceiling, peeling the Undead hanging there from every surface to aid in Rongo's efforts. Though the wards prevented the manifestation of his unique Para-Element, the jolting harvest of tumbling Undead was well worth the mana. “TANDY! INVESTITURE OF FLAME” Yue burned the mana that had only a second ago entered her conduits. Excessive use of Investiture caused self-harm— but the Necromancer left her little choice. “Arrogant Tower brats!” came a mocking snarl from their enemy. “Five little mice sneaking into our base? You’ll make excellent materials! Foetid Deluge!” Acidic droplets of dark and eldritch blood began to fall from the ceiling. Where it landed on the Undead, it empowered them. Against the living, it sapped them of life. At once, Auckland’s Abjurer conjured semi-transparent Pounamum shields for his companions. “Yue!” Whetu sensed a yet more powerful surge of Negative Mana welling up inside the Necromancer’s body. With a word, he buttressed her wards. “Don’t fight him head-on, bro!” “Protection from Evil!” Opi reached the Abjurer's side, simultaneously reinforcing a sacred Ta Moko to bolster Whetu's fortitude. “Go! Take a drain for her if you have to, we need her awake and alive!” Whetu needed no coaxing. Like a human battering ram, he pushed through the pelting rain of corrosive serum, positioning himself above the Evoker. “I'll fuck him up proper, don't you worry.” Yue winced when an earlier splatter bypassed her fire to corrode her skin, forming an instant, necrotic lesion. The agony was exquisite, but the pain helped to focus her mind as she called upon the ill-tempered Tandy. “Give me a minute!” But a minute was an eternity when squaring off against a Magus, and a Necromancer at that. “Fools!” Anton rebuked the young Mages and their arrogance. “Sanguine Mantle! Mass Terror!” A wave of nausea washed over the Kiwis, reaching even the PLA Mages below. As much as the Chinese soldiers wanted to reach the Necromancer raining blood from a safe distance above, splitting from their well-practised battle-bulwark would make them fodder for the wave of Undead breaking upon their formation. Even Colonel Qíao, who had been splitting the Undead sea, knew the young Mages had to face the profane caster alone. As a ruby-red bird of prey, the Necromancer approached. “You’ll make an excellent Revenant, my girl.” The man’s face was barely visible behind his mask of bone. “And your Nightmare will nourish my Bone Spirit!” For once, Yue had no retorts. Other than tracking her target’s trajectory, the Fire Mage paid the man no heed. With a singular focus, she exercised her Signature invocation, citing every Glyph and guiding every mote of mana into their proper place. Alesia's gift of Shadow Flare was her favourite spell outside Fireball. It was an incantation exchanged from the Deep Dwarves, whose control of Elemental Fire far exceeded mortal ken. The only drawback was that without Tân-Cysgodol, the unique flame could not be manifested. Above her tiny body, Whetu’s expanding barrier of Pounamu grew threadbare. Behind that, a furious Anton approached, wreathed in blood and bone. Gwen had never seen a Wraith before, but she knew a bloody Dementor when she saw one. And just like in the movies, the Wraiths' appearance was as Rowling had advertised. "Holy shit..." she announced her dismay. In a flash, a dozen or so cosplaying Nazgûls had them instantly surrounded. Unbidden, the temperature in the levitation tube fell by a dozen degrees, turning the Mages' breaths to mist. “WEEEEEAAARRRGH—“ “WEEEEARRRGH—“ Goosebumps covered length of Gwen's limbs. The keening of a Wraith was said to stifle a victim’s soul, paralysing even the stoutest and most fortified Mage. The bestiary proved accurate, for even with Eunae’s Bless and Aid, Fudan’s Mages seized, held prisoner by a primal terror. “Gogo!” Gwen shook off the wailing, shocked but not stunned. “Defend us!” “ROOAAARRRR!” Golos’s answer emerged in the form of white-hot lightning. As his Dragon breath flashed the tunnel, it caught not only the Wraiths but struck the bottom of the Levitation platform. _CRACK—BANG!_ Came the sound of fulminating thunder, amplified by the enclosed space. Living lightning crawled along the walls, climbing down the exploding granite as bits and pieces flaked from around the team’s surroundings. “Ariel!” Gwen added her firepower to the display. Even with Eunae as support, she had no desire to play victim to a Wraith’s soul-draining touch. “Elemental Sphere!” Compounding bolts of hysterical electricity filled the tunnel, forcing Mayuree and the rest to activate their shields and Richard to retrieve Lea. Even Lulan, who had taken a hack at a Wraith to see what would happen, was forced to withdraw behind Richard’s water sphere. “Ha!” Golos’ laughter cut through the cacophony. “They’ve perished!” “They’ve hidden themselves in the walls!” Came Mayuree’s Mind Linked interjection, clear as crystal despite the non-OSHA compliant decibels assailing their ears. “You're shitting me,” Gwen cursed. _The fucking walls were warded against spells, but not against ghosts?_ _CRUNK!_ A sizeable chunk of metal fell from the “ceiling”. As always, Golos' full-strength breath knew not the meaning of subtlety. The levitation disk groaned as though an enormous Zombie. All around the contestants, shattered concrete and loose steel broke free from the ozone-filled gloom directly above the contestants. When their vision returned, what they saw was a tittering Levitation platform on the verge of imminent structural failure. “Shit!” Gwen banished the Wraiths from her mind for the moment. “Gogo, don’t let that thing fall on us!” Golos disliked being commanded over being coaxed, but the circumstances hardly allowed for negotiations. With a fulminating growl, the Thunder Wyvern grew into its magnificent self, anchoring its claws on the tunnel’s walls. Then, with a mighty flap that drove the students back, the Planar Ally heaved with its muscular neck, tilting the platform so that it grew inverted. The levitation Mandala held on for a moment more— then failed. As one, the contestants retreated. The disk was only a dozen meters above them. Nonetheless, with its weight, the momentum was enough to rake arm-deep gouges into the cement walls. “Lea! Jet Blast!” Richard corrected the chaotic tumble of the wobbling levitation platform as it fell, ensuring a perpendicular descended past Fudan’s Mages. When the tiled surface came within half a meter of them, Gwen felt a thrill like no other. “!” Her spine tingled. She activated a shield but suddenly realised it wasn’t danger from the falling disc that had triggered her Divination senses. “Shit! Get—” “— Eunae! AWAY FROM THE WALLS!” Mayuree’s warning came earlier, but still, it was too late. “AEEEEEE!” Eunae screamed. She had been so fearful of being crushed that she was almost melding into the tunnel's sides. It had been a reflexive but poorly thought-out strategy, for consequently, she had no time to manifest her Shield of Faith against the Wraiths still hiding in the walls. Instantly, the Cleric’s face grew deathly pale. The vital forces within her body gave way as Negative Energy hungrily consumed her life-force. Beside her, the Mind Linked Mayuree groaned. “Eunnie!” Gwen cursed. “FUCK! Lightning Bolt!” Ariel’s bolt warped until it wrapped around Eunae, severing the Wraith’s limb and driving its presence from her body. Had Fudan lacked Gwen as a Lightning sorceress, that would have been it for Eunae. “Shaa!” Caliban caught the falling healer with a pair of tentacles, reading Gwen's desperation, likewise frustrated that it couldn’t consume incorporeal foes. A Dimension Door later, Gwen stood atop Caliban, holding Eunae in her arms. The girl wasn’t wounded, at least not anywhere she could see. The infamous Draining Touch, however, had no doubt afflicted Eunae in unimaginable ways, shutting down the girl’s physiological functions. Had she been even a little slower, Gwen shivered. Eunae would have teleported back to Dalian. “Here.” Richard materialised a Restoration injector. “Ariel! Keep watch!” “I’ll help.” Mayuree materialised a Wand of Lightning. The item was illicit, but the CC loss was minimal compared to being bogged down by spirits playing hide and seek through the bloody walls. With a hiss, the injector's precious cargo left the tube, filling the Cleric’s body with a new lease on life. Eunae gasped, her fingers clutching Gwen’s shoulders, her armoured gloves scratching the ceramic plates. “Eunnie, are you alright?” Gwen’s voice grew soft. She felt a pang of remorse. “I—I thought I was going to die.” Eunae’s doe-like eyes were wide and misty with moisture. “Gwen, it was horrible! It grasped my heart! I could feel—” “Shhh— you're safe now. It's gone.” Gwen hugged the girl back when Eunae crushed herself against her chest, refusing to part from her lightning-clad vice-captain. Empathising with the Cleric's unease, she wondered if she should have learned Calm Mind from Petra. “Maybe you should heal yourself a bit.” “I-I want to go—“ The Korean expatriate suddenly bit her tongue. The girl’s pained expression made Gwen wince. Eunae had finally regained enough awareness to realise that this was the IIUC and that folks back home would be watching her performance. Had those words left her mouth, her main family would be very displeased indeed. “Eunnie, I need you to stay strong for us,” Gwen whispered beside the healer's ear. “You'll be safe. Maybe not unscathed, but all of us are going to come out of this just fine.” Eunae’s expression softened. In her arms, the healer’s limbs relaxed. “I hope so. Thank you, Sunbae-nim.” The honorific made Gwen's lips curl. “Eunnie… you’re older than me.” She snickered, bringing a moment of mirth to calm the shivering Cleric's uncertain mind. “But sure— Sunbae-nim is here for you." Eunae’s complexion turned the colour of pickled beetroot. "That’s all well and good." Richard pointed at the mechanism holding the double doors accessing L-III. “But how about we get out of the tunnels and find the Necro controlling these Wraiths?"

"GOGO!" Golos smashed the stainless steel doors with a resounding CLANG. In his Wyvern-form, it was far easier to brute-force the mechanism until the whole structure failed. The aftermath, as the party had well-anticipated from the groaning, was a room full of Zombies. As the heaving mass pressed in toward the hovering Mages, what should have been a fatal crash of frenzied teeth instead free-fell into the four-storey shaft. "What a devious ambush," Gwen drily observed as the creatures continued to cascade, enacting the 1991 PC classic, Lemmings. "They look strong, some of these even have grafts." "Those Wraiths are still around…" Eunae shivered as the thumps echoed from below. At some point, enough bodies would collate to cushion the rest— after which the accumulated Negative Energy would likely re-raise the inanimate corpses. While the Zombies euthanised themselves, Mayuree sent forth her Arcane Eye. The chamber directly connected to the Levitation lifts was a central block that led off in three directions, likely to different suites servicing the upper echelon of the base. Within its chambers, Fudan's CCs reclused himself behind his minions, lamenting the cheating presence of a Thunder Wyvern. "I see a heavily glyphed door," Mayuree soon relayed the Eye's vision through their Mind Link. "The ward barricading the war theatre is at least tier 6. It doesn't look like Imperial Magic either. If this isn't Anton Yermolov, then it has to be Diego Valentino." "Finally." Lulan exhaled, incanting a self-buff that turned her skin a shade darker. "Vice-Captain, please forgive my incompetence." "Lulu, don't worry about the Wraiths," Richard discounted the Sword Mage's self-loathing. "I am sure this Necromancer will take a sword to the gut as well as any regular Joe." "Let's hope so." Lulan glanced at her hovering iron sword. "I'll train harder." "Why don't you imbue the swords with ego?" To their surprise, it was Golos who interjected. "You Taoists hunt Spirits for a living, don't you?" Lulan looked to Golos, then to Gwen, embarrassed by her ignorance. "Gogo, what's an Ego Sword?" Gwen asked in her Sword Mage's stead. "When I was young drake." The Wyvern's rough-hewn face recounted. "We had visitors from the Sects. Their Masters could imbue their swords with their will— meaning they could strike down incorporeal creatures. In my memory, hunting ghosts and demons was the whole purpose of the Sects, is it not?" "I've never heard of such a spell, Master Golos," Lulan apologised. "I don't think our Clan possesses the skill anymore." "Father's feathers, you Humans are so fragile..." Compassion from a Wyvern wasn't something that Gwen had thought the creature capable of possessing. "You should visit my sister, she knows the old Sword Arts. That's why father invited those old scrawny mortals— to tutor Ayxin. I am fairly sure Ryxi has a few scrolls in his library as well." "I shall endeavour to." Lulan bowed toward the Wyvern. "Thank you, wise one." "Hee hee—" Golos's horns weaved through the air, apparently pleased with Lulan's patronage. Gwen meanwhile, was seeing a whole new side of Golos. Her rooster-brained Wyvern, dispensing wisdom? Why... pigs might fly— "GRRRAAAR!" A Zombie, one of the final few, suddenly made a leap, clearing the space between the room and the Mages hovering in the chute. Her invocation was near-complete when a maced tail swatted her assailant mid-leap. A blink later, it erupted like a pustule, painting Gwen from head to shoulder. "Whoa— I was wondering if the Zombies had a herder." Richard winced at his vice-captain's dripping face. "And there he goes." Gwen wiped bits of Ghast from her lips and her hair. "Thanks, Gogo." "Don't mention it." "S-sorry." Lulan looked as if she wanted to crawl into a hole. "I was distracted." "Don't tax yourselves, females, not in my presence," Golos' bone-throbbing voice hummed. A flash followed, engendering a nude giant struggling into a pair of jeans. "You should have ordered self-fitting slacks," Gwen drily observed as Golos wrestled with his mace. The other girls stood as stoic as statues, wondering how much of the Lumen-cast had to be edited. Now that they were alone, the party could deduce that the mindless Wraiths had been set as guards. Indeed, in hindsight, had the students arrived on the Levitation platform, they would have been incapacitated or panicked by the ghostly sentries— and then eaten alive by the swarm. Even should they survive the Wraith ambush, the possibility of fighting both an incorporeal and a physical horde was slim, more so when sans Golos. Away from the levitation lifts, the corridor was as Mayuree had advertised: cramped, claustrophobic and beyond perfect for incorporeal ambushes. Despite being the top floor, the Russian architects who had conceived of Shimenzi were entirely enthralled by concrete. Out of both form and function, or possibly because of the ease of running mana conduits, Fudan's Mages were effectively encased in a visually sterile tomb. As far as their eyes could see, the brutalist facade of the base's interior was uniform. Each corridor's interconnected pathways shared a similar starkness, homogenous but for the embedded "III". "Lea, stay with Eunae," Richard assured their healer. Eunae nodded obediently, still traumatised by Caliban's writhing, dual-tone tentacles. "Shaa! Shaa— Shaa!" Caliban hummed a dirge of oblivion as it shimmied down the concrete path. Plink! As expected, it triggered an unseen Glyph. A blast of jagged bone peppered Gwen's fiendish spider. "Shaa?" Caliban cared not. It regenerated its limbs and continued. A dozen meters down, Caliban stepping into yet another exotic trigger. An inundation of Negative Energy flooded over Caliban's spidery body. "Shaa!" The cold shower was pleasing to Gwen's Void beast. As before, Caliban had no shit to give. "I could do that," Golos grunted. "Save your strength." Gwen chuckled. "There's a lot of traps. I want our MVP well rested for the Necromancer." Plink! Caliban triggered another Glyph. Above the team, the lumen globes flickered. A split-second later, the light died. "Wall of Water!" Richard wasted no time in creating a barrier around the party. "ROOAAAR!" Golos delivered a Lightning-breath against the floor, arcing electricity all over, jolting Richard so that he half-leapt into the air. "Bloody hell!" Gwen's pupils were the first to adjust to the abrupt incandescence. Quickly, she filled the darkness with a pair of Dancing Lights. "Dick, are you alright?" "I am shocked!" Richard wheezed, slapping his chest plate. "Shocked at how well my Shen-teī MK-Custom from Sinomach held up against Dragon-breath!" "..." The rest of the party groaned with second-hand embarrassment. "Jesus, Dick..." Gwen felt an ache in her chest. Just how desperate was Richard for crystals? As for Golos, she couldn't believe the bloody Wyvern had wasted a breath within ten-seconds of her sagely advice. "There! Got one." Golos pointed to a wisp of dark smog hanging about the floor. "Desecrator coward! He should be fighting us head-on!" "Ariel could have taken care of that." Gwen sighed. "And what, risk your females?" Golos grunted, grinning at Lulan and the girls. "Have you no shame, Calamity? What if Lulu gets hurt?" Lulu? A shiver prickled the nape of Gwen's neck, awkwardly, she looked to Lulan, then to Eunae and Mayuree. As one, the girls returned her inspecting gaze with awkward and ambivalent expressions. "Just..." Gwen paused her party. Whatever Golos' intention, the Wyvern had hit the Glyph on the head. "You know what. Gogo is right. I've been lax. Let me fix this—" Her finger wove through the air. "Morden's Hound Pack!" "Morden's Blood Hound!" Eight Draconic-deerhounds plus one Alpha materialised beside the team. To summon all her dogs took a toll, but their circumstances called for nothing less. "Ariel, stay above us and set a defensive perimeter, I want a dog protecting each of us. Astro, stay just ahead of the party. Cali, keep going." "Shaa!" "EE EE!" "Woof! Woof!" "Arrrroooooo!" Soon, the newly reformed and starkly lit party began the arduous process of clearing the passage to the central auditorium. "Wonderful!" Gwen surveyed her team of lightning-charged glow-lamps. Together, the pack was enough to banish all shadow from the team's vicinity. "Let's huff and puff and blow down that door!" "INVESTITURE OF FLAME!" Yue fought back the taste of iron on her tongue, swallowing the exquisite agony rending her conduits. Although her flame-clad cloak flared out like the feathers of a blue-black peacock, it was clear that the continuous combat had taken its toll. "Come on, fucker! I can do this all day!" Her vim, however, remained inextinguishable. All around Auckland's Mages, a stink of scorched flesh immersed the expanse of Shimenzi's foyer, with liquified fat dripping fire and suffocating the air with Elemental Ash. Not far, holding a smoking stump half-cauterised with boiled blood, knelt Anton Yermolov, a master of Necromancy, a Magus-tier Ritualist. "Undeath to Living!" the man howled, and not for the first time either. As before, the stump on his arm and his half-melted face remained insensible to his profane efforts. "HOW?!" the man keened, near-insensible from the anguish. "You're just a Fire Mage!" "The fuck would I tell you?" the cobalt-clad Evoker mocked the man's despair. In actuality, she WAS the source of the Necromancer's dismay. Tandy wasn't just a regular old Nightmare, it was a mutated Sprite whose flames wove Elemental Ash into its heat. Why else had Gunther paid a city's ransom for the privilege of acquiring it for his wife? Below the exhausted duo, Rongo and Timoti were near-OoM and at their alchemical limits. Yet, the Undead swarm persisted— Even now, at least half remained to besiege both the IIUC Mages and the PLA's battleline. "Ready to die?" Yue's taunts appeared to enliven her flames. "Brat, I don't fear death," Yermolov retorted, his lips black with bloody spittle, curtesy of the failed regeneration. "I welcome it." Yue snorted. "Tandy!" she called for her Nightmare. "We're finishing this!" The Necromancer growled, his mutilated face twisting with misery. "Diego will reave your souls and turn you all into Wraiths! See you in the unlife, Tower Bas—" "SHADOW FLARE!" Auckland's Evoker completed her invocation before Yermolov could finish his rebuke. Instantly, a near-invisible fire swallowed her victim, incinerating all resistance, eating through the man's buffs. "Another one bites the dust," Yue recalled a jingle Gwen had once invoked. Within her conduits, the euphoric expenditure of power dimmed. In its fiery aftermath, a bone-throbbing agony enveloped her tiny body. At once, the veins on her extremities grew grotesquely engorged, erupting into bruised flesh. When she opened her mouth to swear, a blood-strew mist splattered her chest. Were it not for Yue's Dogskin Ta Moko, her Contingency Ring would have pinged. "Yue!" Whetu double-checked his Pounamu shield, thinking that she had suffered an attack. He wanted to scoop the girl up in his arms, but he too was exhausted, not to mention Timoti and Rongo were still fighting. "Opi! Yue needs help!" "Whakaoranga Ngawari!" their Ta Moko inscriber caught the girl in their Abjurer's stead. With worshipful words, she activated the latent healing powers stowed in the Ta Moko she had inscribed on Yue' chest, stifling the internal bleeding. As for Yermolov, all that remained were Ash-strewn flames— that and a Storage Ring Opi caught in one hand. "Are the Undead stopping?" Yue groaned in her Enchanter's arms. "Are we winning?" Unfortunately, even Auckland could see that the Undead weren't perturbed by the heat-death of Anton. If anything, their frenzy had gained a supernatural focus. "We'll win, eventually." Amidst her platitude, Opi stabbed the Evoker with a Healing Potion. Yue moaned in turn, but for one at their alchemical limits, there wasn't much the panacea could do. "But I think someone else is controlling them." Opi frowned at the unending battle. Even now, Whetu was warding them against bone-shrapnel and femur-arrows. "Whetu, let's close ranks!" Thanks to Anton, the big man looked as though he'd lost about twenty kilos. Where he had been a veritable giant before entering Shimenzi, deflated muscles and slackened skin now hung from his massive frame. As he had promised, not a single one of the Ritualist's killing spells had gotten past Auckland's Abjurer, one way or another. "He-Mango-Tohorā! Return them to Tangaroa's embrace!" Below the clustered trio, Auckland's Water Evoker weaved the raging torrents. This time, the magically-induced tsunami finally crashed over the remaining Acolytes. With the mass of water finally in place, Rongo called for a great cleansing. "Maelstrom!" With gradual urgency, a magically induced bathtub vortex engendered, sucking the Undead into the Elemental Plane of Water. "Lava Spike!" Though exhausted, Timoti continued to deliver his molten payloads. Whenever a larger than life Undead construct managed to stem the tide and hold their ground, he would dislodge them with a burst of magma. When the waters finally ebbed, all that remained was the throaty roaring of the Dusty-266s crashing amidst a sea of skittering, chattering, Undead bodies. "Fall back!" Opi commanded. Of the party, she alone retained her health and her mana. "Gather up! We're going to join up with the PLA!" With a resounding crash, the party— or more correctly Gwen's menagerie— poured into the auditorium. The endless array of traps leading from the lifts to the theatre had been exhausting. Were it not for their born masochist, Caliban, the party would have had to contend with Necrotic toxins, exploding bone-splinters, howling Wraiths and even a host of flesh-eating beetles. There had even been a close call— a Spine Spear that manifested from behind the party. Had Mayuree not pushed Eunae down, and had Lulan not parried the three-meter lance with her Iron Sword, somebody would have reawakened in a triage bed. But at long last, they had arrived. _BUNG! BUNG! BUNG!_ A triple-set of Essence-infused Flashbangs rocked the theatre's interior. "Woof! WOOF!" "Woof! Woof! GRRRR!" The tunnel swelled with hoots and howls as Gwen's creatures streamed through the door, accompanied by Ariel and Caliban, re-clad in refreshed Invisibility. Beyond the double-door was the war theatre, the nerve centre of Shimenzi. Within, a hundred screens had displayed a panopticon array of images from inside the base, illuminating the otherwise ambient chamber with flickering projections. Now, they fell about in pieces, shattered by Gwen's Signature stun spell. Quickly, her party spread through the dark chamber. Thus far, everything had gone according to plan. First, Fudan swept the theatre with disabling-spells, then, they had entered hounds and Familiars-first to avoid additional arcane pitfalls. After that, the Mages flew in, ready to counter whatever foes the hidden Necromancer would throw at them. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "I see him!" Mayuree marked the clump of Negative Energy through their shared Mind Link. In front of the wall of fissured screens, appearing as though a spider perched on a web, stood a man in the simple black garb of a priest. His attire was clean, humble, and unadorned, as one would expect to see on a pastor. On the first impression, the Necromancer known as Diego Valentino appeared amiable and ancient, a sad man whose body had been eaten alive by his craft. A spot of movement attracted Gwen's eyes. On a surviving Lumen-screen, she caught sight of Pretoria fighting what appeared to be an enormous Bone Golem. "Welcome, students of the IIUC." The man's voice was barely a croak, spoken as though by an invalid on his hospice bed. "My name is Father Diego Valentino, formerly of the Ordo Praedicatorum." With a thought, Gwen's lightning dogs surrounded the man from every angle. In the illumination cast by her hounds, the man in the priestly garb grew somehow sanctified. "Gwen Song," Gwen announced herself. She stepped toward the central dais, her courage bolstered by the man and women beside her. Silently, she ordered her Familiar to take to the ceiling. "By order of the People's Liberation Army, we are to take you, dead or alive." "Alive would be preferable." Diego Valentino choked out a broken smile. "Undeath is better, but I'll not rebuff your offer." Gwen felt the man's milky eyes crawl across her armour. She wasn't sure if the man could see, but to say he made her skin crawl would be a gross understatement. As insurance, she raised a hand in warning. In anticipation, her team half-held spells upon their lips, each ready to play their part. In the half-lit gloom of the broken lumen-screens, the venerable Necromancer audibly exhaled, then tittered from the dais. "My child, what do you suppose will happen to me?" "That's not for me to say." Gwen tried her best to keep her voice calm. For reasons unknown, her pitch had risen an octave. "Keep your hands up. And also, I am not your child." "Ah— but we're all God's children..." The Necromancer obediently raised both hands, then stepped off the dais with a painful grunt. In the light of Gwen's dogs and the lumen screens, his ancient hump was well hunched. Even his scarred and wrinkled face was entirely pale and bloodless, with sallow cheeks that draped across what once had been youthful cheekbones. Step by step, the man shuffled closer. "STOP!" Gwen's shrill voice pierced the gloom. She willed her dogs forward. "Don't come any closer!" "Why?" The man's measured pace continued with the tick-tock of a metronome. "Can I not take a good gander at my capturers? My eyes... they're not what they used to be." "HALT! Astro!" Her leading deerhound leapt. It landed a few meters from the Necromancer, then let loose a growl that was enough to send a mortal man to his knees. "Draconic... dogs?" Diego's milky orbs were two pools of cloudy azure, piercing into her soul. "And a Wyvern too." Unbidden, the Necromancer continued his approach. When the man passed the growling Astro, Gwen came to the realisation that she may be leagues out of her depth. When was the last time a college course taught how to negotiate with a terrorist? Despite having lived two lifetimes, she had never learned how to apprehend a monster with the blood of a thousand men on his hands. "Richard," she thought aloud through the party's Mind Link. "What do I do?" "Cut off his arms legs?" Richard answered with his usual pragmatism. "Good idea. I'll do it," Lulan concurred. "He's an old man!" Eunae verbalised her horror. "Don't be fooled, Eunnie," Richard advised. "He's an old Necromancer." "Well?" The Fatherly Necromaner kept his hands well-exposed. "What's the matter? Is my surrender insufficiently compelling?" Gwen wanted to return a quip but found herself lost for words. Between an opponent whose motives she couldn't untangle and one who would fight her to the death, she preferred the latter. Why would the Necromancer give himself up? Didn't he know what awaited him in Tianlanqiao? How could she accept his surrender but then demand his arms and legs? Would it gain or lose CCs for her team? To play it safe, her mind turned to Mayuree. "Mia, what say you?" "I can't tell," their Diviner proffered the limitations of her diluted bloodline. "The threads of fate are too tangled. Anything could happen." Gwen shifted her thoughts to Golos. If the Necromancer reneged on his offer, Gogo could break an arm or two... or a spine... or a neck. "Gogo," she intoned, feeling guilty that her princeling was made to fetch. "Can you—" She needn't have imposed, for as the old man walked within strike-range of Golos, her Wyvern's nostrils flared. Before she could react, a fulminating surge of outrage swelled within her creature. "CALAMITY!" Golos' voice filled the auditorium. "STEP AWAY! That's no MABLIK! His stench exceeds even those desecrated souls!" Gwen took a double-take. In Draconic, Mablik meant mortal. In the next moment, her incensed Wyvern transformed. His twenty-meter body blocked the entrance to the chamber, his expansive girth battering away Fudan's Mages, sending them skittering into upturned chairs and tables. "KAEGRO! Return to dust!" Golos's jaws cracked with fulminating electricity. "ROARRRRR!" It was her Wyvern's final breath, and he gave it his all. A line of vivid lightning struck the priest where he stood, swallowing the man wholesale. "Gwen!" Richard's voice came through the Mind Link. On reflex, Gwen triggered the latent energies empowering Ariel. "Ball Lightning!" "EE EE!" A dozen spheres pursued the priest. "Panzerschreck!" Lulan launched all five blades at once, taking full advantage of Mayuree's pre-buffed True Strike. Even among the hysterical electricity, they saw the blades connect. The spells converged. Fulminating lightning, iron blades and a thrashing Wyvern annihilated the dais, cracking the concrete and vaporising the screens. In the aftermath of their assault, the auditorium shook, its base quaking like mad. A cloud of dust billowed out from the epicentre, obscuring all vision, swallowing the constants whole. Surely, Gwen narrowed her eyes to ward against the dust and the heat. Nothing could have survived that. "Is he dead?" Gwen turned to Mayuree. "I don't sense—" Mayuree focused her Detect Magic. "His body's gone! I think—" _DONG!_ Came a resounding peal. A spine-chilling wave of enervating energy soundlessly permeated the walls, pervading the auditorium in the form of an invisible shockwave. Glyphs long inscribed, marked by blood and bone, ignited with ghostly fire, vivifying a buried Mandala a decade in the making. "NO—" A violent dizziness silenced Gwen's better faculties. From her mouth came a half-strangled utterance, after which all sound ceased. Without warning, her Astral Body dimmed. Deep within the recess of her subconscious, the metaphysical manifestation she had internalised in the Cognisance Chamber winked out. _DONG!_ Again, Fudan's Mages heard the peal of a grand church bell. Her deerhounds flickered, then died— un-summoning themselves as the connection between Master and monster untethered. Ariel, as well, unable to anchor itself via her Astral Body, forcibly returned to its pocket dimension. _DONG!_ Gwen attempted to call Golos, but her lips had grown insensible. "WEAAAAAARRRRAH—!" A deluge of ghostly keening abruptly filled the theatre, setting her teeth to chatter like mad. Like an inverted bog, two dozen Wraiths mounted her Wyvern, grasping at Golos' thrashing body, launching themselves so that they ignited against the Wyvern's lightning-wreathed scales. "CALAMITY!" Her drake squirmed, thrashing wildly. The Wyvern weaved its head back and forth in a desperate attempt to crush the unseen Necromancer yet again. "FLEE!" _WHOMP!_ Golos' anarchic defence against the incorporeal beings sent her tumbling into a set of anchored chairs. With a clattering thunk, her armour compressed, absorbing all impact. From the floor, she watched with fascinated horror as Golos' tail rammed into her likewise insensible party. Her friends tumbled through the air. Were it not for their Shen-Teī armour, the consequence would have been unimaginable. _GO HOME!_ Her mind positively shrieked. _GOGO! CANCEL THE ALLY SUMMON!_ Desperately, she tried to reach out, to utter an invocation, to channel her mana. "WEAAAAAARRRRAH—" More Wraiths appeared, swarming her Wyvern, polluting his demi-divine body. In the flickering light, Golos looked as though he was being smothered by a single sheet of midnight chiffon. _CRACK-WHOOMP!_ A bolt of lightning vivified her Wyvern's trashing bulk, blinding them all. When finally Gwen's eyes re-focused, her Ally had returned to its natural home. _FUCK!_ Gwen screamed internally. _What the fuck just happened?_ Why isn't the Necromancer dead? What was that spell? Could she have prevented it? Why couldn't she use spells? Was this the anti-magic they used in Tiaolanqiao? IF the Necromancer had an invocation to incapacitate them all, why all the effort? Why was the man surrendering if he could— A shadow caught her eye. Her stomach revolted. A surviving Wraith was fast approaching Eunae. Across from Gwen, her healer's eyes were wild with terror, staring at Gwen but also straight through her. "SHAA!" A remaining Empathic Link tingled. _CALIBAN!_ Gwen exalted. Caliban had survived the tolling of the bell! She didn't know why nor how, but her heart filled with sudden gladness. Her immediate command was to send Caliban down to rescue Eunae. Caliban's reply was to remain still and stoic. Gwen baulked; at once confused and horrified. By the time her rioting thoughts caught up, her healer's youthful mien had deflated, her chubby cheeks fading to grey. _NO! NO! NO!_ Gwen felt as though a flensing knife was being twisted through her diaphragm. _BASTARD! BASTARD!_ She called out over and over in her mind. _CALI! CALI CALI!_ She wanted to send out Caliban, to transform him just so that she could say that something was done, that she tried. _EUNNIE! HOLD ON!_ In the Wraith's embrace, Euane's eyes grew dull with resignation. A familiar burst of silvery Conjuration engendered. Then Fudan's Cleric was gone. Suddenly, terror turned to relief, then with equal abruptness, relief turned to frustration. Why hadn't Caliban obeyed her command? Her answer came in the form of a collating, ghostly body standing where their Cleric had been. As it formed, the horrified members of Fudan's crew saw that the Eunae-fed Wraith now regenerated into the guise of a man. Diego Valentino. Her frustration now turned to cold rationality. A trap. It had all been a trap. The ambush at the lifts was a trap. The traps along the way were a part of it too. Even the old man's act— all of it was a trap. It was all a manoeuvre by Diego Valentino to make them think that their target was weak, that he needed underhanded methods to survive. It had all being a ploy to draw them— _Into range?_ No, Gwen discerned. _Into the room._ There was something in the chamber. How could she have been so stupid and blind? Look at those lumen-screens! The man had been watching them since their ascent! Since their first spell! The whole time, they were dancing in the palm of his hand! They should have nuked the fucker from orbit! Or at least from the fucking tunnels! _And Eunae!_ Her soul ached. She felt like such a hypocrite, boasting that she would protect Eunae to her face, playing the Sunbaenim. And as for the competition itself. Their mindset had been wrong from the beginning. The whole while she had thought the IIUC a competition, that she was here to vanquish Necromancers. They had joked about CCs! This wasn't a competition. This was real life. She was here to take the lives of living, breathing, free-thinking beings. They accrued CCs, but the actuality was that their foes were fighting for their lives. And when a man is in defence of their continued existence, what means were taboo? With a heart in revolt, Gwen watched as Diego Valentino's re-constructed body descended. The Soul Flayer was as white as a newborn babe, yet fully grown and in the prime of life. "I should thank you all," the newly risen Necromancer declared, filling the theatre with his vibrant voice. "Without your intervention, I would have never had the courage to complete the rite." Diego Valentino wondered if he should thank the Maker of Man for his good fortune. Unlike the fool Ritualist, he knew well that there would be no reinforcements from Shenyang. If anything, Diego scoffed, Shenyang may already be knee-deep in the living. He knew this because he was the Master of Shimenzi, a region he had been given to tinker at his leisure and thereby his to defend. Such was the stratagem the deathless ones in Pyongyang deployed, for the same buffer-tactic had precedence in history— be it the Ming's use of Khitanic Demi-humans. Or the Russian Empire's alliance with the Cossak Centaurs. Shimenzi was but one of the many cushions between China and the well-cemented Necropolis of Pyongyang. For researchers like Diego, it was a region of great autonomy. And now came the cost of that autonomy. As his Astral Soul collated, mote by mote, he was beset by unfathomable anguish. SOUL KNELL was a rite unique to the Cabal of Kane, first of his name. In Diego's misguided youth, he had hunted his colleagues, until one day, through its Master, he came to know love for the Craft. In Undeath, all sins were reposed. In Undeath, all beings were equal. Be it Man, Elf, Dwarf, Orc, Centaur or Faye— all who practised the Craft escaped the tyranny of karma. Became free agents of their individual wills. And so it was that in his hour of despair, Diego Valentino exercised an apex invocation unique to his Craft. In offering his Astral Soul, in shedding his physical body, he would be born again, just as the holy Tomes had told of the Nazarene. For Diego, his crisis was also his baptism. Though the holy rites of the Cabal taught the ritual to each of its high-ranking elders, few were the ones who succeeded in regaining their body. More often than not, their Soul was blown to pieces by the Astral winds before their flesh reconstructed itself, ending decades of dedication to the Craft. And yet, here and against all the odds; set against a hundred Mage-souls collected over two decades, bolstered by the heart-blood from a thousand sycophants, he had succeeded. All that was left was to survive Shimenzi, a comparatively trivial task. Luckily, the very same adversaries who had him cornered would now provide him with additional leverage. Such hap, Diego grinned, feeling his lips move. With a flutter of his long lashes, Diego opened his eyes. Slowly, with articulated care, he stretched his reformed fingers. He felt magnificent. His vision was no longer clouded. His back no longer ached. His limbs, long and lithe, sang with grace. "I should thank you all," Diego announced, delighted by his sonorous voice. "Without your intervention, I would have never had the courage to complete the rite." One by one, he regarded the remaining members of the team that had breached his sanctum. First, he was glad the Wyvern was gone. That one, he dared not slay. To kill a creature so choked full of Draconic Essence was trouble personified, and Diego was far too knowledgable to attract the ire of a High Dragon Patriarch. Then there was the stone-faced Water Mage, a Conjurer with a most curious Undine as his spirit. The young man had not panicked, even when his Astral Soul was banished from his body, a quality that Diego admired. The Sword Mage, conversely, was clearly a mad dog. Even with her limbs made insensible, the lass looked as though she wanted to tear his throat out with her teeth. The Diviner was a disappointment. Compared to the Abjurer and the Sword Mage, she appeared nothing special, barely a nourishing meal. And finally, there was his grand prize. A living, breathing Void Sorceress! One who could also utilise Lightning. He had never heard of such a thing. What a bargaining chip she would make! Gingerly, delighted by the suppleness of his new feet, he approached the worthless Diviner. "I must borrow some of your health, my child," he intoned, studying the others. "Worry not, you shall soon return to safety." Without the need for somatics, Diego activated Drain Life, an ability now innate to his blessed new form. Spontaneously, the Diviner's brow turned the hue of lilies. He gave her a flick across the forehead. A burst of silvery Conjuration enveloped the unconscious seeress. "There... aren't I generous?" Diego was in a good mood. "Now there are only three of you. A far more manageable larder, don't you think?" With great amusement, he noted that Gwen Song— the girl who had called herself their leader, appeared as though she could gnaw through a mithril collar. Her beautiful eyes were orbs of glowering rage. Such was the fury in her trembling body that her face turned scarlet, fuelled by an undercurrent of resentment mighty enough to ignite mountains. "Child, just what are you?" The girl's murderous glares were delightful. From the aura of her nascent soul, Diego, an expert in the reading of souls, knew her to be different from the rest. Indeed, the girl was unique, and not just for her talent. First, the lass' Astral presence was enormous, warping more space than even Diego himself. Just the same, her aura radiated the same scintillating rainbow as the Wyvern, only purer, more vibrant and with such saturation that Diego had initially doubted her mortality. Was she a scion then of a Draconic-Clan? He hypothesised. If so, there was no transmuting her into a minion. As per the Wyvern, Diego desired no trouble from lizards whose grudges outlasted the longest-living Lich. "Can you speak?" Diego wondered out loud. "Well, not yet, I guess. You can't even move a finger until the resonance passes." He continued to inspect his prized hostage, noting the uniqueness of her armour. "So, Gwen Song of the IIUC. Who are your parents? What is your Master's name? Tell me, and I shall leave you unscathed. Your voice should have returned. Don't hide from me, child. I know you better than you think." Diego Valentino approached for a closer look, flanked by Wraiths on either side. Finally, the girl opened her lips to speak. He liked the way she squeezed the sound through gritted teeth. It was pride, Diego recognised the look. Pride was good. Pride was the hallmark of the Dragon-kind. "C— " "Yes?" "Ca—" "What is it, child?" Diego came closer. Up close, he noted that the girl's comeliness was exquisite. Someone somewhere, he felt more confident than ever, would pay a king's ransom to get her back in one piece. Considering her age, the payee would likely be a spouse, or even better, an influential set of in-laws. "There's no need to look at me like that. I didn't kill your Wyvern, or your Healer, or your Diviner. You are all my prisoners until the term of my freedom is negotiated. Worry not, the other survivors will join you soon. Even now, my Dread Wraiths descend below to subdue your companions." "Ca—" The girl's lips moved. "CALIBAN!" With a sigh, Diego raised a wall of bone with the flick of a finger, so confident in his new form that incantations needn't even part his lips. From behind, the girl's Void fiend, the very one that was missing in action and which Diego had first assumed banished with the Kirin, ran tentacle-first into a jagged bone-barrier. "SHAA!" The creature frenzied, skittering against the concrete. The fiend's insane limbs cut and jabbed at his barrier with such barbarity that Diego had to concentrate his mana where the assault was the fiercest. "NETHER SCYTHE!" Diego called upon yet another of his many spells. This one conjured a rip through space and time, jarring the fragile folds of the Material Plane. "SHAA!" The girl's creature raged for a moment more before it fell limp, all life siphoned from its spell-hewn corpse. The beast shuddered when its carapace split in twain, spilling forth an inordinate volume of goo-smothered stuff. "A curious thing," Diego exalted in his mastery. "I would have loved to study it. For now, as you have tested my patience— URK—!" A pair of slender hands, their gloved plating ripped and torn, assaulted the bone-barrier protecting Diego's upper torso. As they smashed through the closely criss-crossing thorns, the lacerating bone-splinters flensed the girl's extremities, stripping away the fabric, mangling her wrists and forearms. To Diego's utter astonishment, the girl's fingers did not shrink in agony, but instead wrapped around his neck. "Futile—" he choked out a feeble cry, feeling such disappointment that he couldn't enslave the girl's soul as punishment for her impertinence. The girl's grip was firm; possessed of more strength than any mortal girl should possess, but Diego wasn't fazed. Without words nor gestures, he activated a healthy dose of Drain Life, one that would keep the girl pliant for the duration of his negotiation with the PLA. Viridescent vitality spontaneously flooded his conduits. "JESUS!" Diego's eyes rolled to the back of his skull. What came through the girl's hands wasn't vitality, but rapture. It had been only a trickle, a taste, but already he had ascended into Seventh Heaven. Every pore on his body opened as though panting for air, every sinew felt renewed, every muscle was crammed full of vim and vigour. Even the apparatus between his legs, a thing he had long since forsaken for its senselessness, grew suddenly engorged. "C-CHRIST ALMIGHTY!" Diego Valentino shuddered, his digits curled. Here in Shimenzi, in the most unlikely of places and most unusual company, he was emptying of one life and filling with something greater, grander and older than any Essence he had ever tasted. "W—GHrrrk—" Diego tried to speak, though the girl's fingers remained an iron vice crushing his windpipes. Through the misty vision of his dilating eyes, he caught sight of her emerald-amber orbs and her pinpoint pupils, depthless like the Void. _Thralls!_ He commanded his spectral minions. _STOP HER!_ "CALIBAN!" The girl's voice was a roaring gale filling every recess of his ecstasy addled mind. "CONSUME!" Caliban rose from the dead, as girthy as the grandest Naga it had fought in Burma. At Gwen's behest, its rejuvenated carapace split, enveloping the Essence-gorged Necromancer, Bone Barrier and all. A split second later, Caliban's lips closed with a sickening crunch, pushing away Gwen's mangled hands before sliding its prey deep into its gullet. "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban sang, its innards boiling with turbulence. "Caliban! Return!" Gwen commanded her Familiar, paranoid that her beast might regurgitate its once-risen victim. Only in her banished Pocket Dimension was she confident that there existed no possibility of the Necromancer resurrecting again. Across the aisle, Richard nodded imperceptibly. A few chairs away, Lulan's eyes spoke of triumph. And all around them, the Wraiths recoiled. At first, the soul-bound creatures appeared confused by the disappearance of their Master. Then, whatever the Undead equivalent of cathartic release from existential slavery dawned, gently fading as the Negative Energy decayed. Very quietly, the trio sat in the now-empty auditorium. "I couldn't save Eunae," Gwen's voice drifted across like that of a spectre. "Mia. as well." If her companions could speak, they would. But they knew that for now at least, there would be no solace for their vice-captain's pyrrhic victory. "..." Richard made a move to speak. "What is it, Dick?" Gwen wanted to stand, but she was too drained to even crawl over to her cousin. Richard's blinking grew desperate. "I know, I am sorry," she apologised. "I'll beg on my knees for their forgiveness. I was a terrible leader. I overestimated myself and underestimated our foe. I walked us into a trap." Richard's agony only grew in intensity. "I know. Golos as well." Gwen choked, her voice full of sorrow. Richard was blinking so hard his eyes watered. "I know you blame me, but—" "Y-yOU A-ATE Him!" Richard finally squeezed out his warning. Gwen paused. Her eyes widened. She had finally unravelled Richard's charade. As if on cue, her breath quickened. With every passing second, the sensation in her abdomen grew in intensity. Together with her abducted Almudj's Essence, there was also an unfathomable volume of undigested vitality spilling over from Caliban. What she had anticipated as a smidgen of a man inundated by Negative corrosion was now proving himself the better part of a dozen Nephres. "Oh— NO NO NO—" her eyes grew misty. Already, her cheeks were vermilion. She had to fire off a Void Bolt, or TWO, or A DOZEN. She had to do something. But how could she? Right now, she couldn't even access her Astral Body. Right now— all she could do was curl into a ball, hug her knees, cover her face, and hope to God the IIUC could edit out the next fifteen minutes.

“Izette, left tunnel!” “CLEAR!” As one, Pretoria reversed course. With Izette’s Mind Link active, the party's flight resembled that of Dusk-wing Cormorants flocking as one, keeping the distance between each team member uniform and one another’s field of vision uninterrupted. _CRASH!_ Ahead, rampaging through the intermittent darkness cast by the flickering lights, was the infamous Bone Golem, a monstrous being crafted by the Grafter Sung Min-Seo. Constructed like a centaur, its upper body was multi-limbed, each possessing articulated digits wielding necrotic magic. Bouncing from wall to wall, the creature came, throwing motes of consumptive fire at the contestants while simultaneously flinging globs of necrotic contagion. “Diamond Barrier!” Schalk intoned, his semi-transparent eyes darting from one surface to the next, mentally mapping out anchor points for his partition-making Conjuration. Abruptly, where the Bone Golem placed the weight of its many-legs, a diamond barrier burst from the concrete. The monster countered with supernatural agility, evading the scintillating shards, rebounding from the floor to the rightmost wall. A second barrier erupted, snagging a front hoof. A third quickly followed, knee-capping its forelimbs, sending the six-meter bone-train to derail against Shimenzi's immovable interior. “Conjoin Crystal!” Schalk invoked one of a dozen secondary effects attending to his base invocation. Instantly, the crystalline partitions proliferated. Schalk's first creation caught the Golem’s hindquarter, the second its thorax, and the third encased its upright torso. With a bone-aching creak, the Golem stopped in its tracks, stunned by the sudden loss of momentum. When it recovered a second later, its dozen limbs raking the smooth concrete, it became wholly immobilised. "Uiteindelik!" Lencho spat. "I can't believe we kited that thing for two levels!" Besides the Lightning Evoker-Transmuter, Jean-Paul's fingers mapped out arcane gestures. “Umzokwe,” the Conjurer called upon his hidden Familiar to furnish him with the vitality necessary for his magic. “Consumptive Orb!” In between the trapped Bone Golem’s ribcage, a pinpoint of Void manifested, growing to the size of a grapefruit. Where it touched the monster’s sculpted innards, a fissure of rapidly reproducing cracks engendered, its stowed mana consumed by the swirling micro-nebula. Fed on the magical energies contained within the Negatively-aligned construct, the sphere grew to the size of a melon before its unstable core went catastrophic. The claustrophobic passageway suddenly filled with the thrilling shriek of sucking air. The contestant's ears popped, parallelled with a soundless burst of Void matter, peppering the Golem's insides. “That resistance is something else.” Schalk knitted his brow when the hole-riddled Bone Golem reared its horse-skull once more, its undying essence appearing as twin points of purple fire lighting up its sockets. “Lencho, Heila, your turn.” “With pleasure.” Lencho rose a little into the air. “Ball Lightning!” Heila, meanwhile, held her blessed rosaries and prayed. Weaving strands of Faith into her benevolent healing magic, she directed her targeted restoration toward the Bone Golem’s chest and shoulders, where the damage was most significant. “O Lord, Great Redeemer, crownest us with kindness and tender mercies. We petition Thee, that Thou hast heard our prayer, — HEAL!” A burst of gentle light accompanied Lencho’s hysterical electric discharge. The lightning devastated whatever elemental resistances had been built into the Golem, after which Heila's magic permeated its profane body, unravelling the repose brought by Necromancy. “That's enough!” Schalk stopped Jean-Paul before he could utter another spell. “Save your strength, Mister Bekker, this one has fought its last.” On cue, the Bone Golem crumbled. _SNAP!_ The bottom half of the Golem broke from the rest. Like a prehensile lizard’s tail possessed of a mind of its own, it fled into the distance, skittering on half-a-dozen limbs. “Pufft! Hahaha…” Lencho snorted. “Lekker werk, Kaptein.” Schalk made a face. What more could he say? He wasn’t used to fighting the Undead. South African had problems with NoMs in the cities, Grootslang in the mountains, Inkanyamba in the rivers, Kongamato in the skies, but it didn’t— Goddank— have an overt infestation of Undead. “Group up.” Pretoria's captain re-organised the team's marching order. “Izetta, offer our Grafter parley. If she returns your Message, try to pinpoint where she’s hiding.” “Goed.” Their Diviner concentrated, a soft halo of Divination soon suffused the blonde caster, evidence of her high-tier proficiency. Meanwhile, the rest of the party meditated. “… The Necromancer says we’ll pay for her Golem and that your bones will be the centrepiece of her new work.” Schalk's lips grew cruel. “Damned fanatics.” “No prisoners then?” Lencho shrugged. “Jean-Paul, got the room for dessert?” “Umzokwe is quite bottomless.” Jean-Paul smiled sheepishly. Before the mission, Lencho had been all spikes and bristles, making Jean-Paul uncomfortable. Now that he had proven himself, the quick-loving Lightning Mage professed himself his “broer”, making the Void Mage doubly embarrassed. “Ag! Let’s go!” Lencho slapped Jean-Paul on the back. “I want to see your wurm werk! It’s still keen, ja?” "Ja." What more could he say? Jean-Paul sighed. The party retraced its footsteps, returning to the shaft that led down to B-III. Earlier, they had kited not one, but TWO Bone Golems. One was the specimen they had just annihilated, and the other was a humanoid variant akin to a Skeleton Knight, a creature specialising in CQB. Schalk’s Party did not possess a CQB Mage like Fudan, but they did have Umzokwe. When the bone-blade wielding necrotic maniac had filleted the great leech, Jean-Paul’s creature retaliated by smothering the Golem with corrosive, Void-tinged blood. Thus immobilised, the party wore out its resistance with consecutive blasts of lightning and Positive Energy. “Where is the Grafter now?” “Close to the Mandala Core.” Izette manipulated the Arcane Eye she had conveniently left behind. “Minions?” “Zombies and Ghouls, a few hundred at most. Two Abominations. One hulk. One Golem tail.” “Good. Status report?” “Half-full,” Lencho declared. “I am good,” Jean-Paul returned sheepishly. “We’re both fine,” Izette spoke for her utilitarian partner. “Alchemical limits?” “Two potions under.” "We're at one each," the girls replied. “I am… fine,” Jean-Paul muttered in a low voice. “But Umzokwe could use a refill.” “That's easy, I see at least four targets in B-III,” Izette confirmed, her blue eyes looking straight through her team members at some distant vision. “We'll be neutralising them as a top priority. The herd loses focus once the casters perish.” “Good.” Schalk digested the information filtering through Izette’s Mind Link. “We’ll take Formation B. Lencho, you take the General-tier constructs, I’ll push us through with Breaching Wall. Jean-Paul, you’re on Acolytes. Heila, can we count on you for a wide-area Psalm to fatigue the minions?” The healer made the sign of the Lord. “Very good.” Schalk stepped into the shaft. “Izette, take us in!" “Fill us with your cleansing love, O Lord— berate your wayward flock. Do not cast away these lost lambs, let not the gaze of your Holy Spirit stray…” Heila's soul-soothing voice pealed across the tunnels of Shimenzi's basement, permeating the enclosed chambers before the party even emerged. “ _GLORIA Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto…_ ” Her sweet benediction grew in fervour and intensity as the party neared their destination, filling every syllable with divine power. “ _…Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum… Amen!”_ The polluted air visibly hummed, thrumming with radiance. At the shaft’s base, the frenzied Zombies ceased their groans, their movement growing languished as the psalter's verses soothed their soulless, animated anguish. “Impundulu!” Lencho’s youthful howl broke the serenity of the moment. Before the spell had even engendered, a rip-roaring fulmination shook the interior of the Mandala Core's chamber. “TEMPEST RUSH!” At once, the immediate entry to B-III lit with circlets of hysterical electricity. As Lencho passed, the rings scatter-shotted into the Zombie Horde, intermittently conjoining lines of arching lightning, sending vivid lashes of pure plasma into Pretoria’s foes. “ERAARRRRGH!” Expelled a room-shaking roar from a four-meter Stitched Horror, a bloated Abomination sutured from the remains of a hundred corpses. With ground-shaking stomps, the monster battered away the allies in its path, charging toward Pretoria. “Breaching Wall!” Schalk scattered their closest foes with an explosive Shatter from his Diamond Barrier, launching half-a-dozen groaning bodies flying into the air. As the Abomination picked up speed, he gestured at the Abomination. _KRINK!_ A sound of shattering glass accompanied the proliferation of Chalk’s diamond-tough manifestations. A lance-like wedge emerged, thrusting forward so that it caught the horror in the gut, directly impaling the beast before breaking off in its brittle midst. “Wooaaarrrgh—“ The creature stumbled. With a three-meter menhir caught in its innards, its cumbersome form struggled to maintain the momentum without toppling over. “Chain Lightning!” Lencho utilised the gargantuan creature as an anchor point so that his thunderbolts could tether the twin hulks approaching from behind. Seeing their creature taking a beating, the Acolytes desperately wove their magic. “Empower Undead!” “Frenzy!” From a safe distance, the Acolytes threw down their creature buffs, knowing full well that if Sung's monsters perished, so would they. “Heads DOWN!” Schalk communed through their Link Mind. “Take cover!" Pretoria's captain gathered the latent mana embedded in all of his crystalline constructs. It was a valuable second-stage effect made possible by his mid-tier Enchantment. The process involved injecting his crystal with double-charged mana, then releasing the stowed pressure in one go, overloading the instability with a jolt from his Astral Body. “Woerrrgh?” As the crystal in its gut rapidly expanded, the Abomination staggered from the spikes erupting from his skull, _Krink—BAM!_ Schalk warded his team against the shower of skin, blood and bone. As with most monsters, the insides of creatures lacked the same toughness as their exteriors, more so for constructed monstrosities like the Stitched Horror. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. The resultant discharge of diamond fragments covered almost a quarter of the room, opening an eye in the roving storm of swarming Undead. “Ar-Aaarrrgh! Help—!” followed the cry of a distracted Acolyte. In the earth-splitting aftermath of the crystalline detonation, no one saw the invisible leech slithering unseen among the Undead. With a slurp, Jean-Paul's Familiar had distended its three-pronged lip, then swallowed its victim— wand, robe, boots and all. “Black Arrow!” the closest two Necromancers responded with spells capable of withering the stoutest foe. _Thunk—Thunk!_ The great white leech burped. It now wore a peevish expression of pure hunger. With the Black Arrows still humming half-stuck inside its body, Umzokwe returned the favour with a _SPLURK,_ flinging two globs of Void-tinged saliva straight back at its assailants. Reflexively, the Acolytes erected their barriers of bone. Unfortunately for the pair, someone had been lying in wait. “Usurp!” came a foretelling invocation from Pretoria's Void Mage. A ball of swirling darkness about the size of a tennis ball, materialised between the two Acolytes, crackling with unstable energy. The closest rib-shield abruptly crumpled. “No—!” The first Acolyte took a glob of spit to the teeth, instantly melting half his face. The second held onto his diminishing barrier by immediately pumping his vitality into the bone structure. “Consumptive Orb!” Jean-Paul released the stolen mana from the Acolytes. Usually, Usurp wasn’t particularly effective against the standard array of Primary Elementalists common to Spellcraft. Luckily, in a place where every foe freely wielded Negative Energy, Mevrou Bekker’s theoretical magic worked wonders. Soundlessly, the collated sphere of purloined power erupted, a vivid contrast to the raw force of Schalk’s mineral blast. The radius of the lightless, combusting ball was barely two meters, but it was enough to splatter Jean-Paul’s unsuspecting foe. The Acolyte fell, alive but incapacitated by the two dozen trypophobic orifices now oozing on his back, his limbs and a part of his skull. Umzokwe slithered close, not one to waste food. Pretoria’s staggered assault continued unabated, each wave of Lightning, Void, Mineral or Positive Energy bisected the next, leaving neither the Zombies Horde nor the surviving Acolytes room for breath. “Deus det nobis suam pacem—“ When finally the spell-rotation again reached Heila, she wove the Faith from her relic into the True Silver she now held in one hand. It would be her last spell, beyond that, she was obliged to retain her reserves for contingency healing. “— Cloud Kill!” The rod glowed golden, as did Pretoria’s surroundings. “Garrroaw!” “Murrrragh!” “Kaaarrrgh!” The Undead melted away as though fresh-fallen snow under the noontime sun. The combination of transmuted True Silver with the distinct metaphysical attributes of reality-warping Faith was palpable. Like a cleansing wave, the tidal flood of Positive Energy unanchored the Undead from the material world, dissipating the compelled obedience possessing their shambling forms. “TEMPEST RUSH!” “Breaching Shield!” “Void Burst!” Not even the Hulks were immune when submerged in the warm glow of Heila’s blessing. Inch by Inch, grid by grid, over charred bodies and crystalised corpses, Pretoria approached the Mandala Core. It was a contest, one to see if their mana held out, or if enough Undead remained to overwhelm them. “Grrrngh?” "Murrrgh...?" Unseen but palpable, the atmosphere shifted. The Zombies who had been so focused on their unceasing advancement grew suddenly lax and disorientated, as though the will driving their actions had been sapped. “Something’s happened upstairs,” Izette remarked, scanning their surroundings with Detect Magic. “Remember I said there was an oppressive eye watching us? It’s gone!” “Perhaps our competitors are successful in their suite,” Schalk said, eyeing their objective. He didn't mind his competitor's success. A confused Horde was a boon. What it also meant was that at the base of the cubic Mandala Core, the haggard Korean woman cloaked in olive-green was now without protection. “Should we question her?” Lencho asked of his Captain, flexing his fingers. “No need.” Schalk’s expression was unreadable. “Jean-Paul?” The Void Mage’s answer arrived in the form of Umzokwe, now twice the girth as it slithered toward the Grafter. “Tower Bastards!” the woman known as Sung Min-Seo screeched, her voice piercing their ears. Around her waist was wrapped her Bone Golem, now acting as her armour. “I won’t be meeting the eminent one alone! Dimension Door—” “Dispel—“ “USURP!” Jean-Paul proved the faster caster. Unlike the studied nuance of Dispel Magic, Usurp was a brutal tug-of-war of wills. A mote of spell-siphoning Void engendered beside the suicidal Grafter, stealing just enough of her vitality and mana to disrupt her spell’s successful formation. In awe, disdain and indignity, Sung Min-Seo glared at her assailants. As the feedback of Negative Energy exceeded her conduit's warded state, her eyes bled, her skin ruptured, and her bones rapidly grew into splintered spikes. It was too late to recant her final spell— her Bone Golem trembled. _BA-BAM!_ The Golem exploded, showering the entrance to the Mandala Core with blood and bone. Schalk winced as his barrier grew polluted with a stirfry of entrails. What was left of Umzokwe was barely a stump. More aptly, what remained was a quarter of a quivering creature, happily wiggling beside blasted, pockmarked concrete. “Corpse Explosion...” Jean-Paul winced as the feedback from Umzokwe rolled over his pallid body, setting his teeth to chatter. “It's true what they say. To be a Necromancer, one needs first to be cruel to oneself.” “Wel gedaan!" Schalk walked over the Necromancer’s blasted corpse, plodding over shredded flesh as he materialised his Evard’s Many Layered Toolbox. Finally, the Mandala Core was open to Pretoria's unique expertise. “Lencho, Jean-Paul, set up a perimeter. I am not sure what Auckland or Fudan has done, but we’re going to be the ones to finish the first leg of the competition.” Colonel Qin Qíao oversaw the cleanup. By mid-morning, the battle was over. The living had triumphed over the dead. Anton Yermolov had been reduced to cinders by Auckland. Sung Min-Seo painted the ceiling. And presumably, Diego Valentino had been existentially erased from the world— or so the shaken sorceress from Fudan had declared. Qíao tapped his data slate. That their home team had run into the most powerful of the three Necromancers trapped in Shimenzi, and that the Soul Flayer was at the tier of a high-tier Magus wasn’t something Qíao would have like to see. But— a pyrrhic triumph, especially one without death, was laudable. “How’s our sorceress doing now?” “Resting in her Portable Habitat.” The commander's aid gulped. "She said... Miss Song said she needed a hot shower." Colonel Qin Qíao frowned. With such attachments to creature comforts, it was little wonder the team suffered against such a foe. The exact details of the girl’s encounter had yet to be made clear, but Qíao suspected inexperience, a lack of conviction, and egocentric grandstanding had all played a part. He had seen it happen too often to these next-generation Mages reared on Western Spellcraft and fed on bottomless pits of crystals. The perfumed youth of today, in the Colonel's humble opinion, was nothing like the young men and women who survived Mao’s Purge, then the Beast Tide, then the Undead Front. “Send over some supplies.” Qíao withheld the desire for discipline. These weren’t his students, and whatever their fault, they DID swallow the bitter pill in the PLA's stead. “How are our men?” “Six-dead, ten maimed, Sir! One Golem needs extensive repairs.” The Lieutenant snapped to attention now that the conversation had steered back to military business. “Sir... We lost Major Hong, Sir.” Qíao's fingers flexed and unflexed. “Cao… his son just turned six. This is why you never boast about your kids before a mission.” “Sir?” “Recover their bodies and raise a flag in their honour.” “Yessir.” Colonel Qíao swept his eyes over the control room at B-III. “…And get our Enchanters to go over the Mandala again. Change the Key Glyph. Pretoria might resent London, but they're still a part of the Mageocracy.” By mid-morning, a portable Divination Tower had been set up. Now that the lesser Undead were cleansed from the interior by rotating Purge teams, the Enchanters could redirect the Mandala’s energies into the filter systems, re-igniting decade-old mana engines that worked to exchange the foetid liquid below with that of freshwater from the Elemental Plane. It was over the churning whitewater that Gwen sat alone atop the steep rise overlooking the brown gorge. Thanks to their efforts, the renewed earth would once again grow hospitable to life. Her mind was gravid with words, ones she’d mulled over for hours, first in the shower, then on the couch, then again when she woke, sick with unease. She had prepared them for Eunae and Mayuree, though more so for Eunae— the girl she had promised, then failed, to protect. Ding! As assured, the portable Divination Tower had been made available for her convenience. “Gwen,” Walken’s voice came through like a thorn of ice. “Eric...” The pit of her stomach dropped. She hadn't expected Walken to call in the girls' stead. “First things first.” Ger Instructor’s voice was ice. “Mayuree is safe and sound. She says she’ll be back to normal in a week or so. She's looking forward to reuniting with you in Dalian.” “Oh, thank God—“ “Eunae Lee, not so much.” Gwen's relief evaporated. “Is she…?” “Oh, she’s alive,” Walken intoned emotionlessly. “But she won’t be of use— no, it's not her health.” “Then what’s the problem?” “She says she can’t cast spells. Can’t contact her Deer Spirit.” “What? How?” An ailment came to her mind. PTSD. “It’s not entirely your fault.” Walken’s voice took on a hint of sympathy. “A Proctor had been paid off by the Lee family to keep an eye on Eunae. When she returned to Dalian jittering with madness, the man must have blabbed. Not long after the healers transferred your Cleric from Triage to the Ward, she received a Long-Range Message from her extended family…” “Oh…” “I think we can both imagine the conversation…” “They told her to quit? Shit.” “Just the opposite.” Walken’s annoyance was palpable. “The attending physician informed me that the Lees told Eunae to push on and that her life, for what it is worth, isn’t nearly as important as the family’s reputation. They would rather have Eunae die as a martyr than 'quit' as a shameful failure.” “Bastards!” “To be expected, I suppose. The Chaebol are a prideful lot. You can talk to Eunae later. For now, she’s saying that she’s been wounded by the Soul Flayer and that she can’t conjure her Spirit. Personally, I think its an illness of the mind, her Astral Body is likely refusing to manifest due to her subconscious reluctance.” As her instructor continued to speak, his tone took on a steely edge. “Whatever, what's done is done— NOW, let’s talk about your performance.” Gwen fought the urge to hang up. Shame, pride, and regret made a curious cocktail in her aching abdomen. “Alright.” She hugged her knees against her bosoms. “Eric, I know I screwed up.” “I am not faulting anything you did under duress.” Walken's objection surprised her. “I saw the raw footage. Under the circumstances, you performed under par but fair. My real concern is that you’ve got a PROBLEM ignoring my advice. Recall what we discussed! ALWAYS put yourself first, then others! Let me ask you something— why didn’t you choose the Ground Floor?” "The Ground Floor?" Gwen grew confused. "Yue said—“ “THERE! Who cares what 'YUE' has to say?!” Walken’s retort cracked like a whip. “During the planning stage, after your forced entry, FUDAN should have picked the GROUND FLOOR! YOU had the closest connection to the PLA! Colonel Qíao served with your Uncle! YOU possess an overlarge mana pool and ultra-wide AoEs! Maelstrom! Cloud Kill! Ariel and Barbanginy! YOU have Caliban for the Acolytes! Do you realise how easily YOU could have minimised risk and maximised Fudan's CC output?” “Eric—“ Gwen felt as though caught in a storm. “Why didn’t you act to maximise outcome?! Why did you not act in your team’s BEST interests? You gave away a clear advantage! YOU risked Mayuree AND Eunae! For what? What did you gain? This is a God-damned contest on the international stage! Auckland and Pretoria are NOT your chums! That you’re not blasting each other in the back is already the greatest courtesy!” Gwen bit her lip so hard she could taste iron. Walken was wrong. If she didn’t take the upper level, then Yue would have fought the Soul Flayer. Could Auckland have survived like she did? Could Pretoria? How dare Walken demand that she should live while Yue could die for all he cared! The bastard hadn’t changed at all! It was the case with her Master all over again! “Gwen, listen well. I don’t fault what's happened in the war theatre. There was little anyone could have done there,” Walken's critique continued. “But by GOD, Gwen, ofttimes, you’re so devious that I am in awe. Then again, sometimes I wonder if you’re spell-touched in the head! What the hell were you thinking, girl? We’ve gone over this in the Bestiary— Don’t fight enemies you can’t defeat without Faith Magic! You’re an Omni-Mage, a fledging at that, you are not all-powerful! That Richard as well, always enabling your appetites, I'd like to have a word with him!” “I had Gogo with me, so I’d thought…” “A lot of good that did, eh? Where's Golos now?” “Home? I hope—” “Fudan will likely lose this round.” A Wyvern caught Gwen's tongue. Walken’s analysis struck her pride like a physical blow. “That's right. Your deference to your friend, your meekness when desiring approval from others, has lost Fudan the chance to advance.” “But Tei and the others—“ “—would have barely made it past Burma without you.” “Oh, come off it, Eric, that’s not true.” Walken scoffed. “Replace you with Auckland’s Captain, or Pretoria’s Captain, or even the Captains from Tokyo or Jiaotong, and your team would have perished in Amazonia. If everyone but Richard and Tei became Tide fodder, I would not be surprised.” Gwen nibbled her lips again. Walken's pontification was backed by cold rationality. “Now that you've taken us here... let me be perfectly frank. In the B-Teams, neither Fudan nor Auckland can come close to Pretoria. Even if Tei is equivalent to Alizea, their Ooze Mage, Pretoria also possesses Ella, a defender many times Anita's superior. As for Rene or Jiro— Mariete Zietsman, Pretoria's tier 6 Lightning Mage with a Behir Sprite is incomparably their better. Even with Petra helping Tei, the overall gap in Spellcraft knowledge remains astounding.” Her chest grew sore. What her instructor had counted on was for Fudan's A-Team to work another "Gwen" miracle. Of course, that dream now flew out the window. So they would lose because she wasn’t selfish enough? Because she wasn’t willing to stomp on her fellow contestants’ faces? “I sense your elucidation. Let me impart another lesson. When you acquire a Flight of your own, or a township, or dare I say it, a Tower, will you still put your feelings first? Or will you think of what is best for your men, your people, your Faction?" "Your problem, Gwen, is prioritisation.” Walken allowed the moment to sink in. “And now you face a dilemma.” Her instructor's tone softened. “I want you to think very carefully. Will you risk Richard and Lulan on blind forays into Shenyang’s dungeon-like alleyways, its skyscrapers and its sewers, WITHOUT a Diviner? Without means to ward away disease, debilitation and life-drain? Are you ruthless enough, wanton enough, to do that?" "No," Gwen confessed. “And THAT is why Fudan will lose this round.” Walken’s prediction repressed her bleeding heart. “Because you wanted to play nice. Because you listened to a friend, rather than rebuking a competitor. Because in the aftermath, you’re incapable of risking your friends' lives to gamble for victory. Because of that, your team’s career, their individual ambitions— ends here..." "... And so... are you sorry now? Do you understand?" Braced against her knees, Gwen realised her legs were covered with goosebumps. Was she sorry? She was. Walken's advice was pure platinum. Fudan's path away from victory had already been set the moment she ignorantly failed to pursue the natural advantages they possessed. In hindsight, hadn't Yue laid out why she chose the Ground Floor? Hadn't Schalk explained why he was suited to the Basement? It had felt so natural to heed their opinions that she had neglected her own team. Likewise, now that her head had cooled; even if Auckland had taken the upper floors, would Yue have failed? If Pretoria was coerced to fight Diego, would they be helplessly encircled by Wraiths? “I am sorry, Eric,” her prideful retort emerged as a morose apology. Her voice choked, finding no excuses to hide behind. “I disappointed you.” “For what it's worth, I accept your apology.” Her Instructor likewise grew reserved. “But I don’t think Eunae will. And it’s not to me that you should be apologising, but your teammates who you let down.” “Alright, Eric. I get it.” Walken cleared his throat. There was a pause, as though her instructor had been waiting for this moment all along. “But all's not lost." "Eric?" "Gwen... For the IIUC. Shall we go out with a bang?”

Lieutenant General Liang Chu-Rong very carefully read the recommendation placed in front of him by the IIUC Sino-Committee. He looked up. "You had this ready, when?" "That's a need to know... Look, I wouldn't worry, what's the worst-case scenario? One sorceress?" Magister Eric Walken, Fudan's advisor, carefully explained. "If the Planar Ally works— all's well, ends well. If not, you are neither liable nor is your task any more difficult." "And this… Shoe Goliath," the Lieutenant-General pronounced the unfamiliar word. "Shoggoth," Walken intonated helpfully. "What is it?" "Nobody rightly knows." Walken's eyes were sparkling. "Why do you think there's so much interest? Our lack of knowledge is precisely why we want it manifested away from human cities and in a place full of potential targets." "And… what is Yog-Sothoth?" Liang felt his skin crawl. "We believe it's an intelligent entity that resides in the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Void. The girl once said that 'Yog' is the gate and the way, the origin of the Void things that lurk in the dark of space and time. Yes, she's got a talent for the theatrical." The commander of Dalian's Tower grunted, clearly disliking this talk of theatre. "And this Shub-Niggurath?" "The mother, I suppose, of all Void beings. The lass says she's a planar goat of sorts. I'd put it as the overimaginative mind of a girl-child." "… and you expect me to believe this?" "Do you expect ME to believe this in your stead?" Walken shrugged. "General, we know intelligent Spirits exist in every Elemental Plane. If so, why not the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Void? I don't know if the girl dreamed up these names or if they really exist, but we all know that what the will makes, the magic manifests. We're not High Elves, you know, we're still knocking on the front door of Spellcraft and asking to be let in. For now, what really matters is the practicality of this thing she's dreamed up. Gwen has never touched Faith Magic. I believe it is safe to assume this is a 'being' inside the Void, no different to Salamanders or Undines or Sylphs." "And Shenyang shall prove if this Shoggoth is benevolent or malevolent?" "Where better?" Walken pointed to a scaled model of the city and its surrounding troop movements. In the decades since its fall, much of Shenyang's exterior settlements had decayed to nothing. What remained were ruins of the old CBD marked by a harrowing expanse of concrete four kilometres in diameter, encircled by a crumbling orbital highway. As the oldest of China's satellite Frontiers, Shenyang had been the antiquity provincial capital of Liaoning before being subsumed into China's Dynastic expansions. It was initially founded by the neolithic Xinle, a group of nomadic Demi-humans who took advantage of the Hunhe River's spring passage through the valley. During the Han Dynasty, the middle-folk took, then rebuilt Shenyang into a northern wonder of commerce, only for to it be razed by the Demi-human Empire of Liao. During the Ming Dynasty, the Chinese retook Shenyang and rebuilt it again as a fortress city. A mere century later, the Centaurs returned, transforming Shenyang into the "Rising Sun on the Hill"— the new capital of a Demi-human Empire. Shenyang's ownership was thus a revolving game of hopscotch, each time devastating the city in unimaginable ways. From Centaurs to the Qing, then a short stint under Russia, then to the Japanese, then to the Communists and finally to the Undead, the city's strategic significance was the only reason it continued to exist. As a result, beneath the city's ancient city wall and its Soviet-era bunkers were endless warrens and tunnels connecting an ant-hill dozens of kilometres in every direction. That was why, although barely a structure stood in between the city's war-ravaged edge and the central administrative blocks, the PLA's forces were encamped twenty kilometres away. "And this creature… this 'Shoggoth', it is capable of slipping into the tunnels?" "We shall see. By all accounts, I would imagine that it possesses excellent permeability in invading narrow and cramped spaces." "And it's banishable?" "Indeed, given enough mana," Fudan's advisor assured the General. "At worst, we can restrain Gwen if she loses control. It's bound to exhaust its internal supply once the link is severed, and there isn't life here for it to feed. Besides, the Tower will keep it well away from your troops and our allies." "I won't alter our existing mission projections." The man tapped his table. "No need." Walken indicated first to the map, then to the request form. "The contestant will set up a separate incursion point from Grid G44-P39. I will personally oversee the test AND take responsibility for its success or failure. As you know, Miss Song is a subject of great interest to Central. Have you been informed of the exchange taking place?" "I've been briefed." "And you have reviewed what happened in Shimenzi?" "I've seen enough." "Good." Walken leaned back in his chair, looking smug. "Then let the girl have her moment. For the present, her glory belongs to Fudan, and thereby to your nation. After that, whether she succeeds or fails, she'll be out of the PLA's hair." "And out of our reach?" "Hardly, she has family in Shanghai, doesn't she? Her Uncle is an enlisted member of your organisation and a war hero." The General remained mum. "This order from Secretary-General Miao…" Lieutenant General Liang Chu-Rong very carefully intoned. "Says to give her free reign to succeed or perish." "It's a part of a larger deal. Remember that in exchange, you would receive Magisters from Cambridge, as well as the Meistership for your pet researcher. An unequivocal exchange, to be sure, but that's politics for you. You wouldn't want to compromise the Secretary's plans, do you?" Again, the General remained contemplative. "Do you fear the girl will gain too much influence?" Walken cocked his head. "The recordings for the present IIUC should make an interesting broadcast, don't you think. In a prudish country like yours, the Party can easily displace whatever sympathy she had gained. For a Mage, and for a girl— it won't be easy to gain back… what is it that you call it here? Mien?" "Mian-Zi. It means esteem." "Yes." The Englishman grinned. "Our little 'Devourer' made quite the obscene spectacle, didn't she?" General Liang nursed his now warm cup of water, trying to read fallen Magister known as Eric Walken. It was rare to see a certified Oxbridge Magister so committed to a cause. As for the girl's Mian-Zi, even without the audio recording, the visuals had been shameless enough to make her inclusion in the PLA's designs undesirable to the core. The displacement of such an uncontrollable, anarchic element, one with such pull in the military, was in Liang's opinion, good riddance. From her dossier, he understood that the girl's rapid rise equated that of a firecracker wrapped in festive red-paper. One day, sooner or later, she would explode, showering them all with debris. As for the standing order from Secretary-General— Liang felt doubt. The Secretary-General was discretion personified. Still, he knew Central well enough to understand that the Inner Party operated at a level he shouldn't be questioning, not if he wanted to retire as a General. What troubled him was who in the Mageocracy possessed the clout to move the Secretary-General to issue such a permit? If what Eric Walken said was to come to pass, the IIUC shall soon witness the power of one-woman strategic-class invocation. A patient man, Liang studied the smug Magister. The IIUC. The recording. The Planar Ally. The Songs. The Hero of the North. Tonglv Canal. Magister Wen from Fudan. The Cambridge offer. The dossier had been quite thorough. One by one, Liang rearranged the pieces until they made sense. "I am starting to see your stake in this," Liang answered after a minute of carefully scanning the memo from Secretary-General Miao. "You're trying to salvage the girl's reputation. For when she leaves China for the West. Am I correct? You think those greedy Clanners in Tonglv are going to make a move on her stake by using her departure and her Shimenzi incident!" Walken's flawless teeth gleamed like polished ivory. "Well... You know what they say. One man's trash." He chuckled, golf-clapping at the Lieutenant-General's sudden clarity. "… is another man's treasure." Four hardwon days and almost a week into the competition, Fudan's B-Team arrived at Shimenzi. In its battle-worn halls, haggard and OoM, they met with the account of A-Team's pyrrhic victory. One received with ambivalence. Of the three teams that participated in the Purge of the waterworks, Fudan was the "victor", after defeating the most potent foe and having worked diligently during the approach. Unfortunately, in the struggle for dominion, Gwen had lost Eunae and Mayuree, and she could not summon Golos again until she and Petra reconvened at Shenyang's outskirts. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. As a result, even taking into account their vice-captain's capacity for damage output; the three remaining members were crippled. Without healing, buffs, or Divination, their efficacy was no match for the synergy-heavy Auckland or the all-star Pretoria in the subsequent lead up to Shenyang. Even if Gwen and her companions took willing risks to hunt the ever-larger Zombie Hordes, spell fatigue would wear them down. Even with the PLA's hand-picking targets for the trio, there was only so much an Abjurer, a Sword Mage, and a jack-of-all-Schools could arguably achieve. "Poor Gwen." Anita glanced at Rene, seeing her disappointment mirrored on her friend. "I guess we can't complain, not with what we've seen on the way." "Gwen had done her best," Petra returned, her tone tart and defensive. "The intelligence was improperly scouted." "I hope she's not beating herself up." Jiro was more sympathetic. "Don't be discouraged. We'll continue to do our very best," Fudan's Captain agreed with his Fire Mage. "If Gwen had trouble with this Diego, then there's nothing the rest of us could have done. Since Eunae and Mayuree are both safe, we should focus on the task ahead." "Right." Rene nodded, though it was clear her heart wasn't in it. Together with Fudan and the other defensive teams were the 78th, 82nd and 88th Quasi-Magical Infantry Division, supported by four Golems from the 209th Magi-Tech Armour and one Flight from the 4th Aerial Recon. Tei wanted to say something to up the cheer but lacked the charisma of his vice-captain. At any rate, it wasn't the unexpected upset that had sapped the party's spirits, but rather the rigour of their four-day sojourn from Dalian to Shimenzi. It was the fatigue of seeing death on an industrial scale. For the young Mages, the inclusion of NoMs in overland battles had always been an abstract reality. Of Fudan, it was only Tei who had some experience of the Front's horrors. Nonetheless, over the last four days, each member of Fudan, arguably one of the top universities in a country of almost half-a-billion people, witnessed the stark fate of being a citizen-soldier. Theirs was an unavoidable fate. The Purge of Liaoning was a national effort, one that called upon the nation's able-bodied citizenry to add their blood and tears to the future of China's prosperity. To wit, Tei was very proud of China's NoM Military. Distinct from the Westerners, Mao's rise to power wasn't built on the back of Noble Mages or Magical Entrepreneurs, but NoMs. During the People's Revolution, it was the NoMs, aided by sympathetic Mages, who overthrew the Scholar Bureaucrats of old. Against the Japanese, it was the scorched flesh of citizens that exhausted the wands of Emperor Hirohito's soldiers. In the Great Purge, it was NoMs who dragged the land-owning Mages and their industrial ambitions from their saffron-roofed manors. And with no less fervour, buttressed against the Beast Tide and then the Undead Front, the People's Liberation Army paid in blood and bone. As elites, Tei's teammates were a prideful lot. But their brittle pride wasn't equipped to deal with frustration on such a scale. That a single mishap translated into a dozen casualties, hour after hour, was enough to mangle the mind of any Mage not sufficiently fortified for the fact. For the PLA, casualties were a necessary reality and progress often paralleled body count. In China, the PLA's soldiers were numberless and renewable— through devotion and numbers, they made up for the nation's gap in Spellcraft, Golems and Magitech. As solace, Fudan's liaison from the PLA had explained that compared to the dark days post-Beast Tide, the army had come a long way. Now a "Modernised Quasi-Magical Soldier", the everyman troop of the PLA, was reasonably equipped. Compared to the peasant soldiers fighting with pitchforks and pikes, the soldiers now wore enchanted combat boots, damage-resistant pants and vest, a steel helmet, and a well-supplied canvas pack. Most importantly, each man carried a Type 95 Element-LANCE made for NoMs by SinOrdin, with time-decayed crystal cartridges each capable of thirty shots. "And of course, our soldiers are armed with nationalism," the liaison had boasted. "They don't fear death because the families of the deceased are treated well." Fighting in formation, the troops had been trained to never break rank on pain of execution by the embedded Commissars wielding Type 44 anti-personnel wands. It was an anti-Undead tactic that the PLA had taken years to perfect. In Central's opinion, so long as unmolested divisions could rid the battlefield of Undead while they busily fed on another division without breaking, then the battle as all but won. It was a bitter tactic, but it worked. Though each individual soldier was weaker than a Ghoul, when rows of a thousand NoM soldiers five-deep opened fire, a living sheet of raw lightning washed over the landscape, piercing the Horde. Once their spear-points grew white-hot, the first row retreated. The second row took aim, waited for their targets to clear the smoke, then fired. After that came the third, and them the fourth and the fifth in an endless rotation. And it was under these conditions that Fudan, Pretoria and Auckland fought beside their NoM comrades. Straight away, Pretoria expressed complete disdain for the NoM soldiers, choosing instead to neutralise threats on their own. Auckland attempted to hold the line with Fudan. With a sub-par team-make up, however, all they could manage was a battalion-wide Hakka buff, followed by intermittent interventions where possible. Against swarms of corpses numbering in the thousands, a thirty-meter Wall of Water or a twenty-meter Sand Well was little more than a blip on the kilometre-long Front. At first, the unaccompanied Hordes weren't impressive enough to tax the soldiers' wills. That changed when the main force made contact with a swarm lead by a Grafter and his Acolytes. Once engaged, Pretoria left to hunt the enemy Necromancers while Auckland and Fudan supported the soldiers against the four-thousand deep throng of teeth and nails. For two hours, Tei managed to keep the Undead at bay, but as one man, even supported by Petra's Spell Cubes, the incoming tide proved too much. When finally he was near OoM, the levy broke. As a mass of roaring brown water, the leaping, crawling, skittering shoal of bodies broke over his Dust Wall, swallowing the still-firing platoons. Without hesitation, Tei had ordered his party to withdraw and regroup into the air. Anita, Rene, Jiro and Petra obeyed, but their expressions spoke wildly of disbelief, anguish, frustration and bewildered helplessness. Jiro especially had reached his alchemical limits in the first hour, having laid waste to some two-three hundred Ghouls and Zombies. Rene as well, fighting beside the idealistic Fire Mage, had depleted herself trying to prevent the approach of two Abominations. The exertion proved to be her undoing, for the creatures' monstrous resistances exhausted the sorceress even as the fat sizzled from their lava-locked bodies. Then there was Anita, whose confidence was undermined most profoundly by the mass casualties among the NoM soldiers. Her style of magic was ideal for small groups but was woefully underprepared for engagements of mass melee. All Anita could do was aid Tei with barriers that slowed and funnelled the zombies into kill zones, that and ward two dozen Commissars with Crystalline Mage Armour. Of the group, it was only Petra who truly shone. A versatile Enchantress, she dispensed healing, defence, damage and control where ever she landed. Spell cube after spell cube, the Flower of Fudan proved herself an angel of the battlefield. And after that, the party watched the mutual carnage as their countrymen advanced, never faltering, never breaking, never retreating. Like an Iron Golem, only wrought of human flesh, the PLA's battalions marched toward Shimenzi, clearing a swarth four kilometres wide and eighty kilometres deep from Dalian. From start to finish, Tei recalled seven engagements. On the first day, they had keenly asked to review casualty reports. On the second day, they chose silence. On the third day, they grew numb to the slates handed down to them by their liaison officer. On the fourth day, they fought without words, each performing their duties, then meditated behind the reserve troops so that they may sooner rejoin the fray. And on the fifth morning, they arrived at Shimenzi to receive news. "Tei, let's eat." Rene could smell the thousand-year-old egg porridge bubbling in the Officer's Mess. Far from her peppy self in Shanghai, her eyes were now bloodshot and lacking in lustre. Her bright face, as well, was so weighted with fatigue that she was starting to resemble the fabled Panda people of Sichuan. "Right." Tei felt glad that in moments like this, Dust dulled not only his capacity for wonder, joy and pleasure but also the impact of undesired emotions. "Eat up, we rest for a day, and then we leave for Shen Yang." "I am as dry as a billabong in Broken Hill." Gwen rested her spell-numb fingers. "And fresh out of True Silver as well." "Here, take mine." Heila materialised four rods as repayment. "Your VMI… Praise the Lord, you are truly blessed, Miss Song." "Nothing to it!" Gwen shook her head, receiving the reagents without complaint. "Izette, are we good here?" "Yes, Miss Song," Pretoria's Diviner returned her Message from afar. "Jean-Paul is finishing up as we speak." "Now that's a blessed boy." Gwen sighed at the thought of Jean-Paul's Signature Spells. A few of Pretoria's constants returned with strange looks. "Something the matter?" Gwen smiled back, wondering if praising Jean-Paul was something that the Void Mage's companions found strange. If anything, she suspected it may be because Jean-Paul had replaced one of their original core members. "You should ask Jean-Paul about his childhood sometimes." Schalk's smile was very polite and not at all sarcastic. "If he's willing to share, you'll hear quite the tale of how our country faired under the Mageocracy." "And the Nun who raised him." Lencho wormed his way in between Gwen's conversation with the others. Ever since Gwen offered to alternate between helping out Auckland and Pretoria, Schalk's Lightning Mage had felt like a cat on a hot tin roof. Though Lencho's mastery and teamwork were leagues above Fudan's Lightning Sorceress, the girl possessed superior firepower, not to mention an inexplicable ability to multiply her output. "Lencho, hou jou bek," Schalk snapped, silencing the Lighting Mage at once. "Miss Song is our guest." "Ja, ja…" the prideful Mage mumbled. "Meisie, you should know that Jean-Paul and I, we're piele vleg." "Did he just say…" Gwen almost bit her tongue. She had no idea Lencho was so openly liberal. "Well, good on ya, mate." Lencho squinted suspiciously. "I am not your mate." Gwen gave up. She could empathise, though. Jean-Paul wasn't a looker, but he oozed talent. Thus far, she rather enjoyed her role as a supporting caster. Whether backing Pretoria or Auckland, Fudan's inclusion in the margins of any quest expanded operational capacity by leaps and bounds. The solution had been Walken's idea. As CCs were awarded for teamwork and support, Walken had said. They may as well attain a score proportional to their competitors' gains. That way, her instructor hypothesised, assuming their final hand was a royal flush, they would indeed end the competition with a "Bang". Presently, Lulan and Richard aided Auckland, while she supplemented Pretoria. Thus embedded, Gwen took the humbling opportunity to watch and learn. So far, she had observed the nuances of formation fighting and spell staggering, concepts her team had exercised through incidence rather than emphasis. Likewise, courtesy of Izette's Link Mind, she was opening up to profound and subtle ways in which Divination could be used to coordinate team movement. As for the others, even the abrasive Lencho had shown her new ways to combine Evocation and Transmutation. His Signature Spell, Tempest Rush, was especially impressive as it created movable anchor points from which the caster could rebound Lightning Bolts. But of Pretoria's august members, it was only Jean-Paul for whom Gwen had to repress her growing envy. From what she could discern with her limited knowledge, Jean-Paul's repertoire was almost all Signature Spells she had never before seen in the Tower's Tomes. Each invocation was a painstaking creation from the august Mevrou Bekker, who had taken a novel approach to the pitfalls of Void Magic. Consumptive Orb, for example, stole residual mana from the target. On a Magical Creature, it commandeered passive mana inherent to upper-tier creatures. Against a Mage, the spell was most effective against Negative-alignments but fizzled against Positive Energy spectrums. As for the theoretical framework of Jean-Paul's magic, "Usurp" was the base upon which the Mevrou's Signature Magic was founded. "The difficulty must be astounding," Gwen cooed. "You patronise us, Miss Song. Once you reach a sufficient tier of knowledge," Schalk professed. "You should stop thinking about Spells as from Scrolls, but collated effects made harmonious through custom-formulae. Range, Area of Effect, Shape, Size, Element, Seeking, Channelling, Scale, Pre-Manifestation, Post-Manifestation, Meta-Magic, Spell Triggers, the variations are almost infinite… assuming you have the time and the resource." "Then, I could also…" Gwen licked her chops. "I don't entirely agree with Schalk. The Mevrou says that Spells should never be made for the sake of making spells, that there have to be explicit rationales," Jean-Paul quickly added, watching Gwen's eyes glaze with anticipation. "There's a reason Fireball remains the greatest Evocation Spell of all time. It's simple to cast, difficult to disrupt, easy to learn, fast to manifest, stable, low-cost and mana-efficient." "That's incredibly astute! Ahh—" Gwen sighed. "I wish I could have an instructor like yours in London." "You probably will," Schalk's interjecting voice resounded assuringly. He glanced at Jean-Paul, then back toward the guileless sorceress. "But remain vigilant. In London and everywhere— there is no such thing as a free lunch."

The Northern Black Zone. Dengta Forward Operating Base. On the seventh day of the invasion, the imminent arrival of the Dalian Tower was preceded by the deployment of twenty divisions in the central staging area. Altogether, Dengta alone had amassed some twenty-thousand standing troops, eleven-thousand-two-hundred support personnel, five-thousand reserve infantry, and four-hundred odd Mages of varying talents. In the distance, Shenyang's wilted silhouette perched in the gloom like the carcass of a dead Leviathan, awaiting its next victim, inviting the invaders into its many-layered tunnels and bunkers. In silence, the 70th, 72nd, 79th, and 91st Quasi-Magical Divisions settled into the dugouts excavated by the Combat Engineers. As one, the grim-faced NoMs lined the criss-crossing bastion of transmuted fortifications, their positions layered and staggered to form kill zones. On either side of the earthen fort, construction continued, polluting the air with the roaring of Golems, the invocations of Transmuters, and the crunch of ferroconcrete crashing into place. Behind the main battle line, a network of portable Divination Towers hummed, tethered to dozens of trucks each laden with crates of High-Density Mana Crystals. Together, the network fed a beacon Mandala half-a-kilometre wide, carved out overnight by the logistic Mages. In addition to the entrenched troops, towering Golems from the ubiquitous Dusty 266s to the monolithic Atlas 388s lined the perimeter, their blast wands attuned for artillery. Below their great stature, umbilical cables snapped into mana packs, snaking through stockpiles of enclosed HDMs. And upon the battlement, Colonel Qíao stood, a technical aide by each side, reviewing the mana scripts. Thus far, Shenyang had yet to react, though Qían was sure an all-out counteroffensive was coming. Logistically, if the Necromancers lost Shenyang, Beijing would reduce the buffer between Pyongyang and the new Front to a mere one hundred and fifty kilometres of Black Zone. The strategic advantage was the reason why the PLA had decided to go all-in. As the new millennia dawned, China could no longer afford to bleed out its resources on the Undead Front. "Good." Qíao exhaled mist. The frigid atmosphere of Shenyang's winter was warmth sapping, a necromantic chill that drained the vitality from their bones. Even now, where the city's edge began, a visible ring of rime smothered the crumbling orbital highway, encasing the central business district in decade-old, accumulated ice. And at the centre of that dark and dilapidated urban preserve sat the seat of a Necromancer who had transformed a living city into an Undead Necropolis. Qíao wondered if a single Tower was enough to make the difference in numbers. Three decades ago, they had contended with both a Beast Tide and an Undead Incursion simultaneously. The worst of it was that in the aftermath, many of the slain beasts had simply been re-risen in their Undead forms. What he feared now was how many monsters had been dissected, sutured and remade into new abominations. If he was a Necromancer elite, what manner of ritual could he engender if given two decades? Could the PLA, now equipped with the best Magi-tech armaments China could import or manufacture, finally turn the tide? "Sir." Qíao's aides connected a Message from Lieutenant-General Liang Chu-Rong. "Dalian is ready to proceed with the Teleportation." "Very well." Qíao turned to face the Mandala. "All troops to their posts. BEGIN the Signal." Lieutenant-General Liang Chu-Rong stood on the bridge of Dalian's Tower, one of eight mobile platforms China had built for itself since the 1980s. Unlike the PLA's super-structural Tower in Shanghai, Dalian was a modest design bought from the Mageocracy. It was originally a research Tower with a Dwarven-made Levi-plate just under a kilometre in length, the smallest in the Party's national armoury— and the most cost-effective. Inevitably, battles were fought with currency. To translocate a Tower from Dalian to Shenyang costs just over a million HDMs. To further activate the Tower's Shielding Crystal without the help of ley-lines, ten thousand HDM crystals had to be consumed each day. Factor in the additional cost of defensive Mandalas, spell amplifiers, embedded blast-wands and troops teleporting into and out of the Tower, another million HDMs may yet be exhausted. The Party, therefore, could not afford catastrophic failure, not when the annual production of a medium-sized city had gone into the reclamation. Already, the sheer volume of collated HDMs stockpiled for the operation had impacted the exchange rate for Chinese-Minted currency. "Sir, we will shortly re-enter the Prime Material." His junior officer informed the Lieutenant-General. "Materialising in THREE… TWO… ONE…" Liang's innards lurched. There goes the first million. The Tower was protected by a Bothe-Geiger Negation Field. Even so, the once in forever translocation had filled its crew with unspeakable dread. In the most unlikely of circumstances, a misalignment meant that the Tower could end up in the Primary Plane of Fire, or if they were very, very unlucky, in the Quasi-Plane of Ash. "We're materialising!" The Major's voice rose a whole octave. The floor thrummed. The lumen-screen projecting the grey expanse outside burst into activity. A second later, a three-hundred and sixty-degree projection of Dengta's desolated plains came into view. "Absolute altitude, thirty-three meters— holding steady!" "Stabilising horizontal drift. Dropping Dimensional Anchor!" "The Ley-line is right below us! Beginning disruption. Switching to internal supplies." "Weapons are live. Fire crew reports that they are at the ready, sir! Auxillary systems are charged, sir!" "Shields are at five per cent and regenerating." "Engine Room reports all systems normal. Capacity at seventy-five per cent!" "Teleportation Circles are HOT! Maximum range is set at twenty kilometres." A slew of tactical information washed over the Lieutenant-General, as did a surge of adrenaline tingling his spine. They were back! The PLA was back with a vengeance! Below his dais, both in the control room and across the plain, a cheer broke out, first in waves, then as an undulant tide of shouts and hoots. A few of the older Mages who had gained their lapels fighting on the Front visibly wept. But their commanding officer remained stoic. Poor bastards, Liang forced his fervour to cool. Retaking Shenyang was well and all, but what of the cost? With the Tower now committed, the privilege of a retreat no longer existed. Be it the Mages or the NoM soldiers, their only recourse was to retake Shenyang or die trying. In the worst-case scenario, Dalian would reduce itself and its target to a twenty-kilometre crater. "Give me a region-wide scan of the city," the Lieutenant-General ordered. "I want the place mapped twenty-meters deep from the Governor's Building to the bunker-shelters." An enormous illusory projection appeared over the control theatre, courtesy of the Tower's embedded Diviners and Illusionists, some of the best in the nation. Outside the Tower, a visible ripple of Divination rang out. The Clairvoyance echo took several seconds to cycle. Once the intelligence theatre parallel-processed the data, the results were then transmitted to the command room. Within the projected three-dimensional diorama of the landscape, friendly units were outlined as green blips, while the Golems and the machinery were triangular blocks. As Undead units appeared, unmasked by their unique Negative Energy signatures, they manifested as pulsing red dots. Presently, a sea of green blinked below the Tower's massive silhouette. Not far, pulsing faintly to indicate their place underground, was an ocean of all-enveloping red. At best, their foe was two kilometres away and slowly moving toward the viridescent markers. "… Cao…" The Lieutenant-General swore before he could catch himself. "Colonel Qìao! Get your men ready! The Undead are coming! Dalian Tower! All teams to battle stations!" ArroooooooOOOOooo— A blaring proximity alarm indicated that the enemy was close enough to be soon within the range of the Type 95 LANCE-wands. "There goes tea time." Gwen dematerialised the team's SPAM sandwiches. "Pats, let's get going." "Will do." Petra cleaned her hands with water from Lea. "Tei, guys, are you going to be alright?" "Don't mind us," their captain returned. "We've been defending the soldiers for a week. We know how they fight, what they need, and what type of enemies need to be neutralised first. Go help Gwen, we'll wait for the good news." "Thanks, everyone." Gwen dispensed a round of hugs among her companions, noting their bruised eyebags. "I won't let you down." "Let's buff up before you go. Mage Armour!" Anita was beyond glad that she was once again reinforcing her own team and not a non-commissioned officer incapable of withstanding a single swipe from a Ghast. That a low-tier Mage could be so fragile wasn't an occurrence the Abjurer had at all anticipated. In her experience, even the petite Mayuree, a Diviner, possessed the VMI and expertise to defend a least a few blows. "Resist Elements! Enhanced Ability! Be safe, Vice-Captain!" "I will." Gwen gave Anita a pat on the shoulder, touched Rene on the arm, brushed the dust from Jiro's chest plate, then held Tei's mailed hand. "Thanks for understanding." After the B-Team's arrival, the contestants had shared a few hours of respite, enough to catch up on the events of the last seven days. As Walken had anticipated, the performance of Fudan's B-Team was adequate but unimpressive. Comparatively, Auckland had most definitely fallen behind, while Pretoria's B-Team performance was more pronounced. Now, the conquest of Shenyang had entered its second stage. From their briefings, the students knew that the rulers of the Necropolis would scramble all available resources under their command to topple the Tower. It was an obvious conjecture, for as long as China was willing to feed crystals into Dalian's mana furnace, Shenyang would remain under siege. What remained now was a time-sensitive occupation. But any response from Pyongyang would be intercepted by troops from the 1st Force-Recon, joined by elites recruited from other single-digit Mage Flights. For the occupation force, it meant that within the week, Shenyang had to be cleared and its ley-line activated and fortified. Dalian Tower would, in effect, transform into Shenyang Tower. And in the middle of the madcap scramble was Pretoria, Fudan and Auckland's students, hoping to carve out CCs and glory for their institutions. Which was why for the final leg of the match, Petra rejoined Gwen's A-Team at the expense of a CC penalty so Gwen could bring forth her Allies, Golos and the Shoggoth— Fudan's aces in the hole. "Which way to G44-P39?" Petra took to the air. "Er…" Gwen's orbs glazed over. She looked at Richard for help, finding her cousin unhelpfully marking "North" with his eyes. "This way." Lieutenant Jinwei Hān, their liaison, steered Gwen in the opposite direction she was facing. "The Lieutenant-General has teleported a recon force to the location in order to clear the area so you and your Enchanter may construct the Summoning Circle unmolested." "Thanks," Gwen said. "How far—" _—B-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_ In the distance, where the Tower faced the Front, the battle was joined. From the Dalian's central column, a line of Disintegration thicker than two Whetus sliced across the landscape like a scalpel, vaporising the topsoil to reveal the tunnels being dug below. An eerie silence passed, then like a poked ant-hill, a horizon of Undead appeared from the frigid earth, clambering onto the cold soil. Suddenly, innumerable bodies formed into numberless throngs, stamping the virgin frost underfoot as they charged. In retort, the Tower shimmered, dialling its Shielding Core to the maximum allotment. Against low-tier Undead, Shield Barriers served as mediocre deterrents. But, its ability to impair powerful constructs like Golems and Abominations mixed into the Horde was a necessity to ensure victory in a mass-melee. "Wow." Gwen gasped as a bone-throbbing thrum of mana rippled from the Tower's mid-section. "The artillery is about to begin—" Lieutenant Jinwei Hān advised. "Hold your ears." _B-BOOM—BOOM! BOOM!_ Gwen had never felt so abused by anything so noisy and so intense in all her years. The sounds from the shockwaves were like a construction zone going off inside her skull. Unlike the sharp "CRACK!" and "BANG!" of her Flashbangs, what she now witnessed was a real-time earthquake erupting with spellfire. "OTHER THAN THE UNDEAD, THE SHOTS ARE BREAKING UP THE GROUND SO THE HORDE CAN'T MOVE FREELY!" Jinwei hollered, shouting despite the Message device on his wrist, deafened even to the howl of his own voice. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "CAN'T THEY USE THE DISINTEGRATE AGAIN?" "NO! TOWER ARTILLERY CONSUMES TOO MUCH MANA, IT'S ONLY USED FOR SIEGES AND AGAINST MYTHICS!" Gwen shivered, thinking of what might have befallen Almudj if Melbourne and Brisbane Tower had been keen in their pursuit of the Mythic. If a Disintegration Ray had struck her rainbow-hued companion, could her "Kin" have kept its cool? Morbidly, she could imagine the mountainous corpse in the harbour, along with at least one destroyed Tower, besides which was what remained of Sydney. _VOOOSH! VO—VOO—VOOOOSH!_ _— BOOM BA-BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!—_ Next to unload were the Golems. With their portable artillery wands raised high, an unending fusillade of citrine, cobalt and sunburst filled the sky and the distance between the Horde and the Tower. As the spells connected, Fireballs, Lightning Bolts, Bounding Flames, Elemental Arrows raked the line of Undead from east to west with splendiferous spellfire. "Gwen," Petra urged her cousin, her face warmed by the heat from the arcanistry. "We need to get to our fight." "Right." Gwen turned to face the east, her vivid irises illuminated by the refracted spells. "Let's fly." Shenyang. West of its business district, a flight of Mages from the PLA had secured grid G44-P39. It was a tedious but humble task, for the battle some six-kilometres to the east had the Necromancers well-preoccupied. As a result, the soldier-tier Undead they had encountered were all dusty old ghouls and ancient zombies, all of which were quietly dispatched by the elite taskforce. "Magister, they've arrived," a PLA Seargent informed their VIP. "I see them." Eric Walken, the advisor to Fudan, waved at the incoming foursome and their PLA liaison. "Gentlemen, lets us welcome our star sorceress." "Bloody oath, Eric!" Gwen could hardly believe that one of the cloaked figures as her instructor. "You're here, personally? Is that even allowed?" "Where else would I be?" Walken replied, his old face bemused by her excitement. "I promised I'd see you through, didn't I? And yes, my presence is authorised." "I was expecting you to watch from the Tower's top floor," Gwen marvelled, landing heavily. With a hiss, the Shen-Teī suit cushioned her forceful descent. "It's dangerous here, what if we get attacked." "I might be rusty, but I should be able to obliterate a small Horde without too much trouble." Walken gave her a puzzling look. "But that's not why I am here. Petra, are all of Gwen's preparation's ready?" "Yessir." Petra's response was terse. Gwen suspected her Russian cousin didn't have the best opinion of Eric. Both thanks to Wen and her misadventures at the hands of Moscow Magisters, Petra possessed little reason to love someone like Walken. "We may proceed." "Good— Richard, Lulan, it's good to see you're both safe." "Allow me to apologise for what happened at Shimenzi, Teacher." Lulan bowed deeply. "No need." Walken waved a hand. "It was bad luck, coupled with Gwen's inexperience. As for yourself, it was a poor match up. You've done excellent work otherwise." "I would say Gwen performed excellently, all things considered," Richard retorted in their quiet vice-captain's stead. "She choked that Necro without using magic, through a Bone Shield no less." "Of course she did. A lesser Mage would have... not done it. But— let us waste no time." Their instructor guided them toward a half-collapsed, abandoned brutalist office building. "Gwen, what do you make of this?" "A parking multi-storey?" Gwen said, studying the ugly structure. "Ha!" Walken chortled. "No, there weren't that many cars back in the 70s. THIS is the old MSS headquarters, sans windows and walls. Its northern branch building. Sergeant? If you would? I believe the Lieutenant-General has given you the authorisation?" "Please follow me, Magister." One of the soldiers led the party around the destroyed building. Near its rear, they found an intact wall. Urging the others to step back, the Seargent then activated a concealed Glyph console. A slow rumble shortly followed, depressing the base until it revealed a set of stairs spiralling into the depth. "We'll lead," the Sergeant offered. "Meng, Jei, take point—" "Hold— allow me to excuse you." Walken waved a hand. "Gwen? Richard? Let's not risk the lives of our helpers, shall we?" "Ariel! Caliban!" "Lea!" "Shaa shaa!" "Ee ee!" The students conjured their Familiars. It was a curious juxtaposition. Caliban slithering into being was enough to drive the soldiers back; Ariel and Lea's resplendent forms were oppositionally enticing enough to leave them in awe. "Cali, you take the lead," Gwen commanded her Void serpent. "Ariel, stay behind us." "Lea, scout ahead." Richard turned his Undine transparent and misty. "Report back any enemies you encounter, do not engage." As the Familiars took to the basement, Walken explained their present course of action. "Originally, I was expecting to take us to a rooftop to conjure the Shoggoth. BUT, the Lieutenant-General was thankful enough for your selfless contribution to Shimenzi that he proffered the MSS's drafts for the installations under Shenyang. From the civil blueprint, we can discern that there's a long-sealed escape tunnel that connects into the main bunker at the heart of the city, under the People's Hall." "Incredible, and the shelter had remained undiscovered?" Lulan enquired with disbelief. "The MSS's transit tunnel was naturally a well-kept secret," Walken explained. "As for its present state of occupancy, we shall shortly find out. Richard? What does your Undine see?" "Magister Walken is right." Richard kept one eye open while he focused on Lea's Empathic Link. "It's safe down there, but…" "But?" Richard's mien was expressionless. "Gwen, take a gander through Link Sight and tell me what you think. I'll get Lea to guide Cali down to the central chamber." His cousin obliged. A minute later, she let loose a yelp. "Oh, Eric, it's horrible…" "Are you being vague on purpose?" Walken loathed having partial knowledge. "Out with it, girl, what is it?" "I think it's the MSS agents." Gwen felt the blood drain from her face. "They're… they were trapped inside when Shenyang fell!" "We'll arrange for them to be buried and their families contacted." The Sergeant saluted at the two-dozen bodies sitting by the wall of the spacious chamber. Once, the vast vault may have served as an emergency bunker of sorts, now, it was just an elaborate coffin. "As true sons of the motherland. They died with dignity." When the team had earlier arrived in the building's belly, they were met with a dozen carcasses hunkered in a row. Each by each, the slumped cadavers had assumed a kneeling position, their skulls blasted apart by a wand. In a far corner, the agents' executioner sat with his Type-22 stuck in between his clenched teeth, bits of brain decorating the concrete behind him. "How morbid," Gwen muttered. What was worse was that she could empathise. Weighed against a slow death brought on by thirst, starvation or asphyxiation, or being raised as a Revenant, wasn't sudden death preferable? "Detect Magic." Walken ran a scan through the bodies regardless of the delicate sentiment of their observers, briefly illuminating the cadavers with motes of Lightning. "Good, they've passed on." The Sergeant glared, dismayed by the Magister's paranoia. Walken ignored the soldier, in Shenyang, he was taking no chances. "I'll watch you set up the Mandala here," the instructor's voice echoed through the high ceiling. From the looks of the different furnishings and the incomplete construction, the bunker was initially intended to be an underground archive. Now, it served only as an enormous concrete coffin. "Richard, Lulu, our PLA colleagues, can you check the lower ground access, maybe unlock the transit tunnel. Let's give the girls some room." "Yessir." The others moved for the sealed exit opposite the entrance. "Right." Gwen gulped as Petra produced her inscription kit and its many-layered toolbox. Though an inexpert Enchanter, she aided her cousin by setting up the Mana Cache, bundled in crates Marong and Mayuree had helped prepare. According to the House of M's general manager, some of the HDMs were sourced from the Tyrant's despoiled lair, meaning they were very dense indeed. _Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!_ Crate after crate landed. Despite the seals designed to retain the mana contained in its precious cargo, the room felt instantly more alive. The PLA soldiers sucked in breaths of frigid, mana-rich air. For the Mages whose mana pool had been taxed by their earlier Purge of the grid, the natural recovery of their internal mana doubled. Without warning, here were more HDMs than any of them had ever seen at any point in their lives. "Gwen, take the Mithril Thread," Petra requested of her vice-captain. "Once the cache is done, start by marking out the Summoning Mandala. First, we'll bring back Lord Golos." The drawing of Glyphs wasn't an impossible endeavour once an Enchanter learned the patterns. In training, the chief preoccupation of junior Enchanters consisted of line tracing while attuning their mana to match the ebb and flow necessary to imbue arcane symbols with mystical power. Naturally, the concentration required was no mean feat. Thankfully, Gwen, with her phantom age, was no stranger to tedious chores that called for meticulous attention to detail. In a way, the stressful concentration was therapeutic, for even now, the suspense of days past threw up unnecessary remembrances, writhing like mired worms in the murk of her memory. The misery was almost burlesque. Even during Gwen's peppy forays with Yue and Jean-Paul, no matter how she distracted herself, the pallid face of the Necromancer molested her mind. _But why worry?_ She wanted to say— _Another day, another victim, wasn't that the rational way of things?_ Logically, it was easy to placate the ambivalent loathing bluntly hammering at her conscience. One would think she was used to it by now. Didn't Babulya warn her that the Path of Violent Conflict was full of thorns? If so, why worry over a little bloodletting? With her friends' lives threatened, what better excuse was there to exercise her wrath? Without her spells, how else was she going to nail a reborn Necromancer? Was it the pleasure then that was eating her from inside out? Seeing the Necromancer's despair before Caliban's maw closed over him? Or the infusion of Essence that had mangled up her guts and made her eyes roll up inside her skull? That for almost fifteen minutes, she had felt the closest she had ever been to the time Almudj possessed her mortal body? "Gwen, you've messed up the Piguet-Cox parallel, your Marden Glyph is missing a syntax." Her instructor complained, standing on the sideline. "Focus." "Sorry, I'll fix it right away." Or, Gwen wondered. Was it that she wanted to avoid the hard road of raiding Shenyang with Richard and Lulan? The rationale behind borrowing the Void's malevolence was inevitably tied to her close call in Shimenzi. No matter the pretty words Walken used to dress her fears, the reality was that she neither wanted to lose the IIUC outright— nor did she want to risk Lulu and Richard— nor subject herself to another Soul Flayer. Like the old saying goes, once bitten, twice shy. That feeling of helplessness... It was almost like she was back in the cave with Edgar. Almost. "But what of the living beings still residing inside the city?" She had confronted Walken with her hypocrisy. The Necromancers still ate mortal food, meaning the number of NoMs living in Shenyang should be in the thousands. "Collateral damage," Walken answered without pause. It was the same horrible phrase she had heard so many times in her old world. "Don't turn the nincompoop now, Gwen. Did you really think the PLA will let anyone live? Let these NoMs roam its cities? Whether those people were livestock, servants, aides or otherwise, nothing dead or living will be leaving Shenyang— Even in England, we're not so kind as to be THAT stupid. Make a call, 'vice-captain'. This time— make the right one. If not, it would be better if you head home and start preparing for London." Gwen recalled feeling hurt. Yet again, her mawkish predilections had been checked. But injury aside, she was astute enough to see that Walken was offering to bear her burden. Her instructor was offering her a way out, an excuse to clear her conscience by saying, "He made me do it, I didn't want to. I was goaded." Like the gutted wife of the Thane of Fife had once said, in an earthly world, to do harm is often lauded, while careless altruism was dangerous and foolish. As a learned sorceress equipped with the means, why shouldn't she be bloody, bold, and resolute? Why shouldn't she laugh to scorn those who wished her harm? Even assuming there was a place for the milk of human kindness, and it sure as hell wasn't in Shenyang, not when her team had near lost their lives. When almost a million people in Shenyang had already lost their lives. "Gwen, are you alright?" Walken's voice drifted across the room. "I am fine... and Eric?" "Yes?" "Thanks." Gwen took a deep breath. First, she would bring back Golos. Then, her all-consuming Shoggoth would follow. Gwen stood in the Summoning Circle, gently inbreathing. Re-summoning Golos was easy. She knew the Thunder Wyvern by name and scent, sight, sound and Essence. She also knew him by blood, first as foe, then as a comrade against her enemies. When the princeling re-appeared, angrier than a trodden cane toad, she had hugged her Wyvern's snout to placate his frustration. Gogo's response was to scrape her suit, growl against her body until his upset was spent. After that, she asked her friends and her instructor to wait in the relative safety of the outside world, where they could reliably flee from kilometre-long, rampaging tentacles. Then came the witching hour. "Yog-Sothoth!" she recalled what she could of the books she had obsessed over as a sullen adolescent. With a mother like Helena, the idea of calling upon an Elder being to destroy a shit-stained world was a fantasy she had entertained daily. As for the visualisation portion of the invocation, she hoped a pastiche of Shakespeare and Lovecraft would suffice; at worst, she'll toss an added verse of Poe. "Lä, Shub-Niggurath! Bring forth the creators of the dark cities! Birth unto this world ye servants! O ye Manglers from the Mount! Hunt mine enemies! Lä— YE MOUTHS OF MADNESS! CONSUME MY FOES!" "SHAAA! SHAAA! SHAAA!" Caliban sang. "EE! EE!" Ariel cowered. "Calamity!" Golos swore. "The Dragon father preserve us!" With complete liberty, the Fudan's Worm Handler offered up the collated vitality from the Soul Flayer. Instantly, her glowing face turned anaemic. Unlike Golos, summoning the Shoggoth was an exhausting endeavour. It was coming. "Yog-Sothoth!" Lei-bup wept salty tears as bubbles blew from his greasy lips. Finally, the Great Being had responded to his call. "Lä! Great Elder One! O key to the Gates where the Spheres Conjoin!" The chieftain of Turd Island howled in his fishy way, his tooth maw gnashing with spittle. "Come! Come to us! Saviour of the Deep!" With one claw, Lei-bup crushed a fistful of roe, splattering the unhallowed earth with lives of a hundred young. "Help us, Shub-Niggurath! Master of the woods that wend! Birth your children!" All around Lei-bup, the stones grew suddenly slick. Unbeknownst to the Merman performing his daily ritual, sympathetic magic channelled across space and time conjoined, harkening to the desperate desire of the Jifen-folk of the Dawugui archipelago. A dark ooze wept from the Summoning Circle left behind by the negligent human Mages. Unbeknownst to them, Lei-bup possessed enough knowledge of his kindred to scrap together the most rudimentary of Conjuration. The circle won't be enough to manifest even a ten-thousandth of the great Shoggoth's form— but for the Mermen, any evidence of the Elder One's meagre mysticism would suffice. _Weee—Weeee—Weeee—_ The air sang. Lei-bup freely wept. Ever since the Pale Priestess had gifted the Mermen a hundred kilos of brown rice and a whole container of mysterious meat in cans, his tribe had thrived. It was for this reason that ever since the departure of the Pale One, Lei-bup had anointed the sea in her master's name, blessing the circle with unseeded eggs. And what BOON the rite had brought! Under the guardianship of the Pale Priestess and the Elder One, the thriving Jifen Folk had subjugated all the surrounding tribes, adding new females and slaves to their domain! And when the newborns grew up healthy and well-fed, they had ventured further, foraged deeper, and dominated the whole island chain! And with every new victory, Lei-bup believed more and more that his conjecture had been correct. With every tribe flocking under the Jifen's banner, the number of faithful grew. Their prior meekness now seemed ridiculous. Before the tribe had received nourishment from the Pale Priestess, they were a plate of loose sand snails, subject to the undulating tides of fate. Now, they were united by the strength of something larger than themselves! Already, the other elders had started to call Lei-bup the Priest, for it was Lei-bup who had won the rice, and it was Lei-bup who had given them mysterious meat for the winter! "Praise be to the Pale Priestess!" "Praise!" a thousand voices answered. "Praise be to the Shoggoth! It of many eyes!" "Praise!" a thousand voices echoed. "Praise be to the Elder ones, who art Mother and Father!" "Praise!" a thousand voices cried out. The Summoning Circle sizzled. "PRAISE!" "PRAISE!" "PRAISE!" And so it was that on Turd Island, a thing of the Void, a formless protoplasm of primordial ages past, sullen, intelligent, all-enveloping, half-mad with teeth and all-seeing with its wealth of eyes... Descended.

Oi Kuk-ryol began life in '21 as a war orphan under the care of the Great Leader's first spouse, the illustrious but short-lived Kim Kyi-Sui. After Oi's induction, he quickly rose to power as the Vice Secretary of the National Defence Commission with his fellow orphans, each Awakening serendipitously to talents of their own. In '45, during the Japanese Occupation, he single-handedly defeated three Imperial Chrysanthemum Mages while retaking Incheon, earning a new lapel as the Secretary-General of the National Operations Department. In '50, when the Great Leader demanded the reunification of both Koreas, Oi was at the forefront, wielding his spells of destruction, cutting down the American invaders. Then, in the spring of '57, when the Americans pushed the People's Army back toward Pyongyang, Oi was the last of the twelve Generals to return to the great leader's hall. And finally in the same winter, when the Great Leader gathered his Officers to discuss the Path called "Juche", the art of "Man mastering his destiny through autonomy, self-reliance, and independence" Oi was the first to take a spell to blasphemers who refused the Gift. After that, Oi remained dormant until the spring offensive of '82. In Liaoning, Oi spearheaded the invasion of Northern Manchuria, leading the People's Army into northern China, crushing all resistance, succeeding in surrounding Shenyang. Naturally, the living refused to surrender. Oi didn't mind. Once the walls fell, Oi entered with the will of the Worker's Party behind him, committing the city's one million exploited labourers to the ideology of Juche, freeing them from the cycle of brutal karma. And when Oi's natural lifespan expired, he gifted his heart to the Great Leader as a keepsake, re-awakening as the Secretary-General of Shenyang, having attained the apex of Juche. "Secretary-General, the PLA has decimated the Zom— the workers! AND their Tower has intercepted the ley-line powering our wards. The city— cannot hold." Presently, Oi oversaw the assembly of the Disciples of Juche at Shenyang, sending only the most talented to receive higher education in Pyongyang. "And what of it?" "We should contact Pyongyang by any means possible! We need to relocate the Disciples of Juche! We need—" The speaker was a Flayer of no small talent. Oi extended a finger. It's skeletal tip glowed pale green. "— time to move our ingredients, we— NO!— Secretary! Mercy— I just—!" The Mage in the black robe wilted like a desiccated flower. Visibly, the pale shadow of his escaping soul fled from his body to twirl around Oi's withered digit. "Who else would speak of weakness?" Oi asked his audience of a hundred Necromancers. As much as he needed the living to tend to the workers in his domain, their propensity for self-preservation was something Oi often found disappointing. "None, Secretary!" the chorus chanted as one. "Then move to your sectors and defend the city with your creations and your still-living carcasses..." Oi needn't move his jaws to speak, though old habits died hard, far harder than the frail flesh of the aspirants. "We shall hold Shenyang until the Great Leader sends the united will of the workers to chase these foes from our domain..." "But for how long…" a Necromancer, this one a dark-skinned practitioner from the high plains, gingerly requested of Oi. "I DO intend to defend our home, Master. You know as well as we do that we have nowhere else to go. I merely wish more knowledge to ration our resources more effectively." "… until I perish," Oi's cold voice rang out, resonating against their quivering souls. Within the hollow sockets of his gaunt skull, two pinpoints of illumination flashed, irradiating Oi's olive dress uniform. On his right breast, rows and rows of medals appeared almost like antiquated scale mail. "… and Shenyang falls." The cavern shook, displacing enough dust to rattle Gulnaz al-Bashkir. "Inkar, Inzhu, keep vigilant," the bearded Mage commanded his apprentices. "How's our flock?" "Agitated, my liege." Inkar, with her eyes like dark pears and lips like red wine, replied in that husky manner familiar to Gulnaz. "Why wouldn't they be? There are more materials out there now than the last two decades combined." "Don't underestimate our enemies." Gulnaz flattened his beard, surprised himself that he of all people felt so uneasy. "They have a Tower, meaning the city's defences are down. Our job is to hold this quadrant until 'help' arrives." "Will reinforcements from Pyongyang be enough?" Inzhu, the younger sister, demanded of no one in particular. Compared to her senior sister, Inzhu had honey-coloured eyes and a smile to match. "Aren't we all spell-fodder for that corpse in the People's Hall?" "Inzhu!" Inkar looked around them. "The walls have eyes." "Indeed, Inzhu," Gulnaz berated his Apprentice. "— but Master Oi is what we all aspire to be one day, the Great One permitting. Whatever he thinks of us, the path of Juche speaks for itself." "Then, do you think we'll hold the city?" "That's our business," Gulnaz al-Bashkir, the Summoner of Shelek, intoned with a hint of bitterness. "Know that Shenyang is our home now, and with it gone, we will perish." Inkar shivered. Her Master was, of course, correct. Until the trio's decade spent studying in Shenyang, they had fled from city to city, pursued by Human Mages and Wildland Demi-humans. Without the protection of a Theocracy or the blessings of an ancient religion, the free-practitioners of Necromancy were no more than rats bolting across a busy market choked full of terriers. The two women remained mum. Gulnaz sighed. He wondered if they'd been spoiled by the glut of necromantic energies welling from the city's mass graves. In Shenyang, there was an inexhaustible supply of corpses, both from its internal stock and raids conducted in Chinese-controlled Manchuria. But now came the settling of accounts. He should hardly be surprised, Gulnaz supposed. China's power had been on the rise; its population of NoMs has always been the densest in the world. How could a rising power stomach the presence of a Necropolis so close to its capital? But it wasn't all bad news. IF Gulnaz and his fellow Necromancers held the bunkers, then the new materials left behind by the retreating Chinese would bolster their expansion into Jinzhou. If they could capture the Tower, then the rewards from Pyongyang would be unimaginable. And if they failed? As a whole, Necromancers didn't fear death. What they feared instead was a supreme sense of regret, that in having their lives cut short, they would return to the karmic circle, wasting a lifetime. "Guurrrrgh—" the foremost rank of Zombies groaned. Within the bunker's claustrophobic tunnels, the air turned oppressive; the walls grew slick with moisture. Something was coming. The area which Gulnaz guarded was the western quadrant of the bunker network under the People's Hall. Together, there were at minimum a hundred practitioners like him forming blockages in every segment of the subterranean bastion. Their goal, as the apex-embodiment of Juche in the People's Hall had commanded, was one of delay. For each hour they managed to hold off total annihilation, the likelihood of survival increased. "Let's get to work." "Resist Elements! Ghoul Skin! Ivory Armour!" Inchu was originally an Abjurer. With a few well-practised invocations, the trio grew clad in ivory plates of clattering bone. "Link Sight! Death Tap!" And uniquely, Inkar was a rare Diviner capable of utilising the Craft with Divination. A novice Flayer, she could insert her mind momentarily into a semi-intelligent vessel. "Great protector." Gulnaz walked forward as he began his chant, drawing a crimson Mandala in the air with a withered hand. "Protect your flock in this hour of need. ERASYL! Come to your brother in this hour of need!—" Gulnaz winced as his life-blood anointed the magic circle. "—Summon Dread Knight!" The two women behind Gulnaz squirmed as their collective life-force fled from their bodies, blanching their vibrant, still-youthful complexions. Gulnaz himself shivered, his teeth chattering as the Negative Energy necessary for such a high-tier creature caressed his conduits, freezing his lifeblood. A few body-lengths away, a dark mist, tinged with the scent of rot and decay, swiftly materialised the form of a man once known as Erasyl, the Hero of Almaty, a peerless Swords Dancer and a renowned Monster Slayer. In another life, he had been Gulnaz's half-brother. When the man had been alive, they weren't close. Now, the two were inseparable. "BROTHER." The Dread Knight's voice scraped like rusty swords. "DIRECT ME TO YOUR FOE." "I shall. But for now, protect us," Gulnaz commanded. "AS YOU WISH." Erasyl turned to face the dark tunnel. In his hand, the infamous Black Blade, the life-sapping weapon formed from a Dread Knight's tormented soul, glimmered darkly. It was the creature's signature attribute— possessing the ability to cut through most Mage Shields like butter. "GUARRRRLL—!" the Zombie vanguards at the fore of the arched tunnel met with their opponent. "It's not a party of Mages," Inkar reported, her mind linked with the few intelligible Ghouls under her command. "Our enemy is—what is that? Ectoplasm?" "An Ooze Mage, perhaps." The Summoner furrowed his brows. "I think so." Inkar's voice grew shrill. "I think I see something. I'll possess one of the Ghasts to check..." "It looks big; whatever this is, it's taking up the whole corridor." "I see pale yellow light... looks almost like a willow-o-wisps..." "Its eating our troops..." "Ooo! The main body was hidden! I see it moving!" "Let me get closer... I'll try to locate the caster for Erasyl." "There's... no Conjurer? It's just— a thing by itself..." "OH, GODS! It's looking at me! Heavens—EYES! So many eyes!" "A quasi-ooze? What element is it?" Gulnaz cursed that of all the enemies; he had to run into such a troublesome foe. "Ink—" "AEEEEEE! AARRRRRGH! IT HAS ME!" Inkar fell back, suddenly clawing at her face, her long nails digging into her scalp. With a scream, she tore out fistfuls of auburn hair. "INCHU! IT'S EATING ME! I CAN F-FEEL EVERYTHING! ITS… SUCKING ME UP!" "Sis! Cut the LINK!" Inzhu caught her thrashing sister and channelled a smidgen of vitality to stabilise her anarchic conduits. "Master!" "I-I CAN'T— BLUURRGH!" Inkar regurgitated a gutful of bile onto the floor. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. "Erasyl!" Gulnaz commanded his Dread Knight. "Incapacitate her!" The Dread Knight touched a blade to Inkar's thigh. The woman's torso jerked just once as the vitality left her body, cancelling her Divination spell. "Death Domain!" "AT ONCE!" The Dread Knight lamented. A dark haze exploded from below the upper-tier Revenant, filling the tunnel with motes of Negative Energy. Where it touched the Zombies and Ghouls, the creatures grew suddenly energised, falling into rank and file. Inkar panted on the floor, her chest rising and falling arrhythmically, her skirt covered in sick. "Sis, are you alright?" Inchu could see her sister was not alright. "Hunger..." The girl convulsed, her pupils dilating, her eyes seeing nothing. "Emptiness, only hunger..." "Sik!" Gulnaz swore. "Once the danger's gone, feed her a potion." _SPLAT!_ An ectoplasmic blob about two-meters across flattened itself against the polished concrete. At first glance, the globular entity was grey and colourless, inanimate in its passivity. Upon closer inspection, Gulnaz could see that there was a half-dissolved Zombie trapped within the blob. "GUAARRGGL!" In the distance, the Horde continued their fearless charge. Usually, against a Creature Mage with an exotic Familiar, there was no better fodder than low-tier Undead. "Go forth!" Gulnaz lacked access to Banish, so his only recourse was the empowered minions. Under the Dread Knight's leadership, the "workers" possessed heightened physical abilities and higher resistance to the Imperial Magic System's invocations. "Tear that thing to pieces! Wear it down!" Gluurg—Bloop—Gloop—glug— The rest of the gargantuan thing came into view. "Sik…" Gulnaz felt his soul shrivel as an enormous eyeball pressed itself through the goo. "What is THAT?!" "HUNGER—" Inkar writhed on the floor, clawing the concrete. "IT'S HUNGER ITSELF!" Gulnaz quaked; neither the Summoner nor his Apprentice had the means to describe the creature they now faced. In and amongst the flood of grey-goo oozing through the tunnel, he saw an eyeball a full two-meters across. And what an orb! Its cyclopean sphere housed an octopus' W-shaped pupil, ringed in vivid emerald with a dark circumference and an amber core. As the creature slid forward, its depthless gaze seemed to swallow the world, refracting everything within its optic prison! Their gazes met. Gulnaz understood instantly the infinite malevolence transmitted by that slitted eye. Uncharacteristically, his body broke out with a terrific heat, making sodden the back of his silver-threaded robe. He had to kill this thing! His Astral Soul cried out. Whatever the cost, he mustn't let it near him! "Spine Splitter!" Gulnaz's conviction was immediate. Materialising a wealth of inscribed and harvested Demi-human spines, he let loose a whole year's cache of painstakingly crafted ammunition. "Creature! Perish!" _PH—ULRK!_ The first lance struck, exploding into ten-thousand fragments of swiftly expanding bone, ripping apart the all-seeing eye, rupturing the meniscus and shredding its membranes. _PHULRK!_ A second spine followed the first seamlessly, driving the creature back, allowing it no opportunity for regeneration. _PH—PHLURK! SPLURK!_ The third and fourth Splitters erupted, covering the concrete walls with ten-inch fragments of razor-sharp ivory. Concurrently, bursts of Negative Energy, enough to sap the life from anything capable of holding even the tiniest mote of vitality, saturated the tunnel, furthermore empowering Gulnaz's minions. "Well done, Master!" Inzhu had Shielded them from their Master's spell. Panting from the exertion, she cradled her still-gibbering sister. "That should keep its Summoner honest." Gulnaz grinned. "Flock, tear it apart! Finish it off!" "GURRRRL!" In lock-step, the Zombies rushed forward, flailing their engorged limbs, gnashing their jagged jaws, a symphony of teeth conducted by the Dread Knight. SPLAT! The response from their unidentifiable foe was instant. Without warning, the grey goo multiplied, expelling a new wave of scentless ectoplasm. Where it touched the Undead, the Horde grew helplessly paralysed. When it landed on the bone shards, the ivory-like surface turned black with decay. "I-Impossible!" Gulnaz felt the Negative Energy in the area fall away as though syphoned into an enormous vortex. "What manner of creature is this? Do they have a sanctioned Necromancer on their side—? Bone PRISON!" A pair of bony claws enclosed around the incoming tendrils. Gulnaz knew it wasn't enough to subdue a being such as this, but there wasn't much a Summoner could do other than feeding it Zombies until its caster ran out of mana. "Erasyl! Stop that thing!" "I OBEY!" The Death Knight made the gesture of drawing a bow, materialising a shadowy bow easily the height of one of the Necromancer's Apprentices. "CREATURE! PERISH!" Soundless, the arrow left the bow. In life, Erasyl had been a peerless spell-fighter, and in death, his body performed with equal aptitude as a Dread Knight. _Th-THUNK!_ The Blight Arrow, a quivering construct of corrosive Negative Energy mixed with the unerring Magic Missile, struck the incoming creature between the fingers of the Bone Prison. It was one of the reasons why Gulnaz favoured the defensive spell, for trapped targets were easy prey for his all-powerful Dread Knight. But this time, the damage served only to grow the blob haughtier, angrier, more lively. The compressed Negative Energy within the blight-afflicted projectile seemed only to feed into the creature's hunger. Within the span of a few stunning seconds, the ectoplasm squeezed past the wall and flooded into the corridor, rolling over the Undead as though an enormous eruption of dark gelatine. "A Colossal Ooze?" Inzhu pulled her gibbering sister onto her feet. "But that's a tier-fourteen creature! Who can control such a thing! Oozes are mindless—" In her arms, Inkar wept hysterically. "FLEE! We must flee! Go to the Master! There's no limit to the fiend's hunger! It'll consume everything! Our minions, our mana, our everything!" "Shut her up!" Gulnaz had no time to deal with insane Apprentices. "Erasyl! Attack it directly!" The Dread Knight became a black blur. As its mummified legs kicked off the ground, the warrior's shroud-wrapped lips let loose a wailing Banshee's moan, flooding the tunnel with soul-rending echoes. "DIE!" The Dread Knight drew its blade and swung. _SPLURK!_ The blade plunged into the midst of the enormous grey blob, cleaving through the ectoplasm and striking the concrete floor with a _Clang!_ Erasyl's eyes, long since reduced to twin points of unhallowed light, gazed into the gloom. Inkar hugged herself against her knees; her expression transformed into one of jibbering despair. "T-That's not even its body! That's just its voracious excretions! I saw— I SAW the creature! It has eyes—so many eyes— and mouths, SO MANY MOUTHS!" "Where is she getting the energy?" Gulnaz felt his scalp crawl, his patience at wit's end. Inzhu jammed her fingers into her sister's mouth. Of the two, Inkar was usually the one who was calm and collected, and that made their difficult circumstance all the more precarious. "MNNGH— IT SEES US— MNNGH!" Inchu looked up, then immediately wished she hadn't. "My God…" Her Master was staring at the newly descended horror. First came the gibbering mouths, each screaming incoherent nothings in a low, raspy whisper that stunned the ears and filled their minds with spleen rupturing terror. As Inkar had foretold, there were far too many mouths than was possible on any being that could exist in the Material Plane. At a glance, Gulnaz counted three dozen or more, some with human incisors, others with the canines of carnivores or the molars common to grazers. Embedded between the multitude of mouths were the eyes, each an emerald orb, wetly nestled within slimy pockets, all of which stared without blinking. As the creature slid forward, the eyeballs spun, searching for something the Necromancers could not see. When finally the eyes settled on the Mages, each of the creature's observers felt as though they held its undivided attention. "PERISH!" Erasyl swung his sword again. This time, the black blade plunged into one of the creature's endless maws. The mouths opened. Erasyl's hands slid in down to the elbows. And when the Dread Knight retrieved his extremities, his limbs were gone, appearing as though his hands had never existed. The Dread Knight looked down. Lacking pain, it grew confused. But on the opposite end of its Empathic Link, its controller wasn't so apathetic. "ARRRRGH! YE GODS!" Gulnaz felt such sympathetic agony that his hands might as well have been wrenched from their sockets by a great and powerful vice. "Master!" Inchu acted on reflex. "Bone Barrier! Bone Splinter!" A wall of bone skittered into place, simultaneously launching blasts of ivory shards. To Inchu's dismay, she couldn't even penetrate the ichorous slime. "It's too late—!" her sister, now freed, began to howl. "—IT HUNGERS! IT —COMES—IT—COMES— FOR US ALL!" "Huk!" Gulnaz circulated just enough stolen vitality to regain his clarity. His return, however, came too late. The pocket dimension he had dedicated to nurturing his Dread Knight faded, appearing as though he had never had a Familiar at all. "What is this?! How can— Arrrrrgh!" Up ahead, the Dread Knight was halfway inside the gullet of an invading army of mouths, the upper portion of his Undead body reduced to a half-eaten carcass. The sight was as unsettling as it was beautiful; for all the lives he had drained, Gulnaz had never before seen such a display of abominable, unadulterated horror. Each maw, restricted by the Dread Knight's natural resistance, could only take off a mouthful and no more. Yet, with so many mouths baying for the Dread Knight's mana-infused body, Erasyl's shrouded form lasted no more than a few frenzied seconds. "To think you have found rest before me..." Gulnaz of Shelek allowed his hands to fall. He readied himself. A Necromancer shouldn't fear oblivion. A Necromancer's death should be dignified. "IT COMES IT COMES IT COMES—" Inkar howled, welcoming the end in her own way. "I am here! Monster! I AM HERE!" "Master, I can't hold it!" Inchu vomited blood when her Bone Barrier broke. The ectoplasm pushed forward. Minion after minion advanced into the mincing mouths of madness, not slowing the Shoggoth's march by a single second. Gwen was used to being stared at. As a "beautiful" child, she had been paraded incessantly by her attention-seeking mother. And when her mother was absent, which was often, it wasn't queer for strangers to follow her with their eyes whenever she trained back to Forrestville. At Bondi, she sold as many Cornettos as the number of times she was hit upon. In university, she embraced the fact, wallowing in admirers and concurrently gaining an unpleasant reputation. Finally, as a junior at McKinsey, she learned to bathe in the gaze, convincing herself that from Sydney to New York, women everywhere all did the same to get ahead of the curve. But this was a whole other kind of attention. "So..." Gwen smacked her lips. "With all those mouths and all, do you speak?" Four hours after the summoning, she sat cross-legged with Ariel in her lap, Caliban propped as a backrest, and Golos beside her, close enough to sniff her hair. All around them, covering the former MSS basement from wall to wall, mating with the concrete, was the ectoplasmic manifestation of the "Shoggoth". All in all, about four hundred eyes looked upon Gwen and her familiars, while on the ceiling, an enormous, central eyeball stared directly downwards. _Do you speak?_ Gwen again attempted to communicate through their Empathic Link last time, she swore the Shoggoth was somewhat intelligent. _Dear Shoggoth, please blink if you can understand me, any odd eye will do._ Her answer returned in the form of unpleasant vertigo. Were it not for the suppression applied by her Essence, Gwen was sure she would be lying in a pool of her own sick. "Oi, YOU! Cease that insolence!" Golos growled, crackling electricity. In his human form, the re-summoned princeling was sweating profusely. Gwen could tell that her Wyvern was too proud to be terrified, but his body-odour made for a terrible liar. "Gogo, move aside a little." Her nose twitched. "You're too close." "Calamity! I am trying to protect you here." Golos' rotten-meat breath washed over her delicate face. "Right." Gwen grimaced. She would soon have to introduce Golos to another human invention— mouth wash. Ding! "Gwen, how are you holding up?" Walken's breathless voice came through her Divination Device. "Your Ally is doing very well, its breached nine sectors in the western quadrant in the last three hours!" "Eric! Where are the others?" "They're with me. I am tracking your Shoggoth through the Eye of Providence. It's amazing! Girl! AMAZING!" "You can track the Shoggoth?" "It's still your creature." Walken sounded like he had gone for a run. "It's got your mana signature." "And you're recording its... actions?" "All of it," Walken replied. "Hold the fort, my girl, and we'll have this in the bag. The Proctors and the Generals, they're all astounded! Everything you're doing, EVERYTHING! It's all unprecedented!" "How deep has Shoggy gone?" "Wouldn't you know?" "I possess no desire to Sight Link something with THIS MANY eyes, Eric. I want to keep my sanity. Thank you very much." And it wasn't just the eyes. There were tentacles as well, with sucker-mouths. Like Caliban's innards, the Shoggoth's limbs were akin to slithering lamprey things unique to the Void. Whatever the "Shoggoth" might be in actuality, it remained a product of her imagination in unholy matrimony with the essential elements of the Void. "How's your health?" Walken calmed himself somewhat. "I took precautions." Gwen eyed the eyeballs. "The beginning was a bit dodgy. I drank some of that infused Maotai just in case. I think the Shoggoth can perpetuate itself now. Maybe its attained equilibrium? Found a cache of vitality? There's still a kick from the residual Negative Energy flooding the base, but the feedback has since ceased." "Can you control it?" Gwen shook her head. "Once it stopped... nursing from me— it stopped responding." "Can you banish it?" "I hope so. The Mandala's still active..." "Does er... 'Shoggy' respond to friendlies?" "It's non-reactive toward Cali, Ariel, Gogo and I." "... Shall I see if the PLA can find out? In the name of Spellcraft?" "Eric! I don't think that's a good idea—" _GU—BLURP!_ The walls shuddered. At once, a hundred eyes began to spin in orgiastic agony. Gwen let loose a low-moan. The sensation bleeding through her Emphatic Link was indescribable. It was as though a frigid icicle had just passed through her amygdala. "Shaa! Shaa! SHAA—AA!" Caliban began to wail, growing suddenly larger. "Ee Ee?!" Ariel's fur bristled with sparkling motes of electricity. "Calamity!" Golos growled, his ridged horns crackling with power. "Something dreadful is coming this way! Look at my feathers!" Golos' plume, a signature genetic trait of its mythic father, was bristling like a quill boar's bone spines. Gwen activated detect magic, though the Shoggoth covering the walls made her effectively blind. "!" Her Divination Sigil screeched, striking her spine with such poignancy that she grew momentarily breathless. What was it? Her senses searched the room of eyes. It wasn't the Shoggoth straining against its cage, of that she was sure. If so, it could only mean the danger came from an outside source. "Eric!" she Messaged her instructor for advice. It was a CC penalty to do so in the middle of a quest, but the last time she had felt so in danger was when Sobel showed up in Sydney. "What the hell is happening! Shoggy's going nuts!" "A LICH!" Walken's voice fired back, filled with excitement and horror. "ALMIGHTY CHRIST IN HEAVEN, GWEN! GET OUT NOW! DIMENSION DOOR AS FAR AS YOU CAN! BACK TO THE TOWER! THEY'VE GOT A FUCKING LICH DOWN THERE, AND IT'S COMING FOR YOU!"

"THEY'VE GOT A FUCKING LICH DOWN THERE, AND ITS COMING FOR YOU!" "A lich? Like, with a phylactery?" "YES! YOU DAFT FOOL! GO!" Gwen glanced at the Summoning Circle. If she went, how the hell was she going to wrangle her Shoggoth? There was no way she could just leave an intact Mandala here; God knew who might use an abandoned Circle to access her unique magic to pilfer Shoggy. "Quickly! Else I am going to SLAP you once you get back!" Walken sounded on the verge of a heart attack. "Use my Device as the Divi-Loc, I've set it just outside the western quadrant, GO!" "One sec... got it!" Gwen turned to her Familiars. "Cali, Ariel, I want you to destroy the Mandala as soon as I am clear." "SHAA!" "Ee! EE!" "Golos, can you follow?" Her Wyvern nodded. Golos may be inept in Spellcraft, but he could piggyback on her Conjuration, using his innate mana to enable translocation. "Shoggy... you stay here and clean up." Gwen addressed the room full of ogling, oozing eyeballs and drooling lamprey mouths. Whatever this "Lich" was doing to her Shoggy, it wasn't pleasant, not even for a kilometre long stomach spawned from the Void. "Dimension Door!" She opened her conduits. Immediately following her final syllable, electricity cascaded around her body, enveloping her armour. When she reappeared, she should at least be two hundred meters away, ready to recycle her magic. Assuming she took a short break, she should be within range of Dalian Tower within twenty hops. "!" A jolt of disruptive mana kicked her in the diaphragm, pressing the air from her lungs. The destination beacon Walken had offered abruptly winked out of existence. The mana that had been manifesting into Dimension Door shunted back into her body, bloating her conduits and seizing her limbs. She couldn't be sure of just how far she moved, but she materialised as though launched from a wand. "Whoa—" Limbs akimbo, she bounced off the far wall. Above her, four hundred eyes spun in their slimy sockets. Disgustingly, or perhaps fortuitously, a particularly googly orb cushioned her forward momentum. Gwen blinked. She righted herself, cheek-first against her Shoggoth, her arms and legs covered in its silky slime. What the hell happened to the beacon? She tried to clear her head. Did Walken shut his device? "CALAMITY! We must retreat!" Golos, having escaped her spell-induced disorientation, was beside her in an instant. Unhinging his jaw in the manner of serpents, the Wyvern's chest rapidly expanded, then let loose a mighty Dragon Breath. "ROOOO—" A line of living lightning erupted against the far wall, passing through a vaguely humanoid something that had made its presence felt. "—AAAAR!" Gwen shielded her eyes as Golos poured out his soul. Still pressed against the Wyvern's bony back, she felt the heat of the princeling's smouldering skin scald the delicate surface of her face. She pushed herself away from the Wyvern. "Dimension Door!" This time, she directed herself upwards. With a clearance of over two hundred meters, Gwen was positive that she could clear the bunker's depth in one leap. If not, then she was also prepared for a world of non-lethal pain, nothing her Essence couldn't absolve. Her mana fled. Another wave of dizzying nausea engendered. She reappeared a dozen meters away, reeling with disorientation. "Ariel! Cali!" she shrieked like a banshee, landing on her shoulder to soften her roll. Lich or no Lich, she would show Voldermort no quarter. "EE!" "Shaa! Shaa!" Her Familiars assumed their battle forms, Caliban transforming into its swiftest variant, the spider Wanka, and Ariel into its Kirin guise. With a word and a surge of will, she convoked as much Essence as she could muster under the circumstances, leaving half for future contingencies. With a layer of Detect Magic illuminating her pupils, she pinpointed the distorted Astral Space in the room's centre. "Ariel—" Emerald Lightning fulminated across the length of her armour, sending her hair and her skirt into a wild flutter. Her fingers finished the somatic components in a flash. "—BARBANGINY!" Fearing that there might be a counter to Lightning Bolt, she chose the rarer two-stage Lightning Sphere. A split-second later, her AoE connected, enveloping a quarter of the room in viridescent electricity. Bathed in emerald, Gwen adjusted her eyes. _Fizzak!—BAM!_ The second stage nova rang out, so powerful that even under Ariel's control, her wall-hugging Shoggoth lost the portion of its body closest to the ground level. As the electricity drained away, she caught sight of a region where her sorcery was displaced by a subtle shadow. "Gogo!" Gwen directed Golos to their target. "ROAARRRRRR!" Golos let loose another breath, fulminating his guts out, howling so hard he simultaneously farted, irradiating the basement with his retina-searing discharge. "Ariel! Ball Lightning!" Gwen's intent was to leave no quarter. Learning from her last mistake, she flooded the target space with such an excess of plasma that the concrete cracked and split, spraying shards of white-hot silica. "Shoggy!" she commanded her Planar Ally. "If you can do something, now's the time!" _Glug-Gloop— Glop..._ All around their fiercely gesticulating mistress, the eyes rotated wetly in their sockets. "Fine, I guess you're preoccupied— Wall of Lightning!" Gwen wondered if she fought a vital target, the Shoggoth would react with great urgency. Nonetheless, at her behest, the atmosphere of the bunker grew thick with motes of cascading electricity, arcing from corner to corner. Unlike her Evocation spells, the conjured barrier would continue to strike her target so long as her mana pool held out. "Ariel! Again!" She added three more Lightning Spheres to the fray. If there was an Undead that could survive such an inundation of offensive magic, then her goose was cooked. Certainly, Gwen couldn't imagine Tei or even Gunther just standing there, soaking her magic like a lightning rod. Plink! Plink! Plink! CRACK! The splintering of cooling stones echoed throughout the secret basement. Gwen's pinpoint pupil dilated, adjusting to the low-light. Hanging a few feet above, Ariel sniffed the air, reporting nought but the stink of ozone. From the far wall, Caliban scanned the room with its vitality-vision, finding nothing. Finally, Golos, now polymorphed into his true form, coiled around her protectively so that she was nestled between a white wing and his plated torso. "Is it dead?" Gwen wondered if the proctors would find her confidence impressive or foolish. "Caliban, get ready." "Shaa!" "Shoggy, wanna make yourself useful?" Gwen asked the room again. The rolling eyes slowly ceased their erratic movements. By the dozen, their orbs focusing on a particular spot not far from where she had been raining down AoEs. "Arcane Sight!" Gwen attempted a Divination Magic she rarely had the opportunity to deploy. Unlike Detect Magic, the second-tier Divination allowed her to see both invisible creatures and those hidden in the Astral Plane. Instantly, she caught sight of a smouldering, shady figure hovering in the shadows cast by her and Golos' illuminating presence. "CALI! CONSUME!" Caliban transformed into a black blur. Before Gwen could blink twice, her fiend had positioned itself above its target, its gullet fully extended. "SHAA!" The Void spider's abdomen expanded into an overlarge, misshapen pustule. Distending its underside jaws, her Familiar swallowed the shadow by scooping up a whole semi-sphere of concrete. "Did we get em?" Gwen loaded up a Dimension Door even as she searched her Empathic Link for evidence of Caliban's meal. If the answer was "Yes, there's a Lich in Cali", she may have to drown her liver in Maotai— as well as murder Ayxin's Ginseng supplement. Caliban shook its bulbous, arachnid arse, expelling a slab of innutritious concrete. Fighting the premonition crawling under her skin, Gwen scanned the room once more. "!" Her spine shivered. "Isn't life a tiresome thing?" a male voice whispered beside her ear, causing both Gwen and Golos to whip around, she with her hair and Golos with his serpentine neck. "Show yourself!" Gwen snapped at the empty space, as did Golos in less endearing terms. "Is it hiding in the walls like a Wraith?" Her Wyvern demanded, frustrated by the lack of tangible prey. "What a curious specimen you make." The hoarseness of her croaking observer called from beyond the grave. "A bloodline sorceress possessing dual-elements, and a foreigner at that. I think the Great Leader would enjoy a component such as yourself." Gwen eyed the exit. She ha no idea if that was the Lich or not, but she had no desire to tarry and find out. In near-silence, she activated the Dimension Door she'd been nursing for the better part of a minute. "We're not finished!" the horrible voice gurgled. A rush of abjuring energy washed over her manifesting magic, suppressing the mana within her conduits. Just before she lost Arcane Sight, Gwen saw the air near the entrance distort, indicating the subtlest ripple of Abjuration mana. "THERE!" She exalted. "Gogo! CALI! ARIEL!" "ROAARRRRRR!" Golos filled the tunnel with plasma, taking full advantage of the claustrophobic battlespace. "ARIEL! Lightning Bolt! Barbanginy!" Gwen mustered up another jolt of Almudj's Essence so that an Emerald line of lightning as thick as her body bounced from wall to wall, leaving Lichtenberg fissures. Together with Gogo and Ariel's duplicated offensive, no shadow was left un-obliterated by their threesome vomit of awesome power. Now! Gwen attempted yet another Dimension Door, feeding off the steely adrenaline in her Essence-thickened blood. "CIRCLE OF DEATH!" Her throat choked. The bunker's already dim interior grew sullen. The space surrounding herself, Golos and Ariel turned frightfully frigid. Before her teleport could activate, an enormous clump of vitality fled from her torso. She felt suddenly violated, her lifeforce unwillingly extracted by profane arcana. Before the last syllable even left her lips, her body all but seized up, held hostage by paralysis. Gwen panted, suddenly short of breath, overwhelmed by vertigo and nausea. Within her arrested bosom, her heart palpitated so powerfully that her ribcage felt bruised. Unbidden, she wanted to vomit, when she reflexively clutched her chest, her left lumbar turned numb. Terror stirred in the murk of her mana-addled brain. Was the Lich compelling her heart to explode? If so, what about Gunther's Ring? Would she teleport to Dalian or Shanghai, but dead on arrival? _NO!_ She told herself. _Not like this! Not by a soul-stealing monster!_ Through sheer force of will, she bunched her right fist, then pounded the left-most chest plate of her Shen-teī armour. Simultaneously, she forced her Essence to circulate, bathing in the warmth of Almudj's blessing as it revivified her extremities, dispelling the tingling magic teasing her Contingency Ring. _Splink!_ A sharp snap in the back of her neck sent a screaming roar of white-hot agony into her body. Gwen shuddered, the pain was exquisite, but it broke the spell. The chilling gloom ebbed. The world of the living returned. Gwen reached behind her head, wincing as her hand came away covered in blood. More alarmingly, within her palm, she found a freshly dislodged dragon-scale. Likewise mixed into the gore were the shattered halves of a Zircon Stone, the one that had been mitigating the Negative Energies inundating her conduits. It was the eruption of this crystal that had slived her neck and mattend her hair with gore. At the sight of her injury, her chest grew tight, though thankfully not from a repeat of whatever the Lich had earlier afflicted. Besides her, via her Empathic Link, she sensed that Golos had endured the same experience of faux-death. Though subdued, her Wyvern was magnitudes more robust than herself, withstanding the Necromantic AoE with gusto. Ariel, comparatively, fell victim. As a young Spirit with a manifested body, its vitality was woeful compared to Golos, forcing it to return to Gwen's pocket dimension. Thankfully, unlike Gwen's Void spells, the Necromancy used by the Lich was biological and therefore, spared her Kirin's Spirit. "You cling to life with such tenacity— how disappointing." The owner of the ghostly voice stood at the entrance to the bunker, blocking the single physical exit. From the looks of his lightning-licked uniform, her target had not survived her bombardment unscathed. Slowly, the Lich materialised. First appeared an overlarge military cap. Then a salient gold-red star. Then a deluge of medals that covered the olive garb from neck to crotch. _A General?_ Gwen felt her mind riot. _The LICH was a FUCKING NORTH KOREAN GENERAL?_ And Ariel— But her Familiar didn't matter right now. What mattered was how the fuck she was going to get the hell out of here. Can Liches smell fear? She wondered. Golos was bristling like a hog. As for herself, were it not for the Lich's absurd appearance, she would have made use of her magical underpants. "You're in BIG TROUBLE, dead man," Gwen replied reproachfully, her brain furiously cycling through her options. If anything, only bullshit can save her now. Her only recourse was to bide for time and find an opening. "Circle of DEATH?! How dare you! Do you know who I am?" The Lich's poker face was as masterful as its obscene command of Necromancy. Gwen stared the Lich down, her eyes wide and arrogant. Without replying, the North Korean General extended a pale green digit. "FINGER OF—" "OUR PATRIARCH! THE YINGLONG—" Gwen slapped Golos on the torso with a metallic _Clang!_ Then thrust out her modest bosom with so much pride that her indignant neck grew stiff from the effort. "THAT'S WHO KIM IL SUNG IS FUCKING WITH." The Lich paused, the spell stifled itself. _You would lie about Father?_ Golos lodged an internal complaint. _PLAY ALONG!_ Gwen pleaded. _OR WE'RE BOTH MEAT._ With a silent grunt, she flooded their surrounding space with all the Dragon Fear she could manage. Clearly, like Diego, the Lich was wary of the Yinglong. If so, maybe she could negotiate a ceasefire treaty, such as that she would call back the Shoggoth if it allowed her and Golos to go their way unmolested. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "You—" The Lich spoke, Gwen noted that its lips moved out of sync with its voice. "YOU've heard correctly." She squared her shoulder. "Gogo here is a Princeling of Huangshan, and I am personally related to the foremost Princess of the Mount. Me and Granddad, we're peas in a pod, see? How else do you think a magnificent Uncle like Gogo is acting my bodyguard? Not only that, Ruxin— that's the crown prince— he and I? We're tight!" She made a gesture with her thumb and her forefinger. "...like this. Tell you what, dead guy, THIS ONE TIME— I might just forgive you for your trespass— but if you dare attempt my life again…" Gwen narrowed her eyes, circling lightning through her emerald orbs so that her irises burned cobalt. Caught in her delusional deception, Golos growled in tandem, crackling with power. "… Aunty Ayxin is going to shunt your withered ass into a Prison Dimension. Uncle Ruxin will rain down a TEMPEST on Pyongyang for Seven-Seven Forty-Nine days until nought but dust remains. And when our Patriarch gets wind of your actions— and trust me, he's the God of Wind... He'll separate North Korea from the Asian Continental Shelf and send it into the bloody South China Sea! How would Dear Leader like that? EH—? WHAT SAY YOU?" The Lich was visibly shaking. "You..." Gwen faced the creature with defiance, urging the still-confused Golos to do the same. As one, woman and Wyvern stood side by side, facing off against the General. The Lich's LED-eyes dimmed, then burst into sickly green fire. "YOU… DARE MOCK THE GREAT LEADER? SPEAK OUR FATHER'S NAME IN VAIN?" Lich-fear or whatever Liches used to emulate Dragon Fear, exploded across the room, suppressing her and Golos' aura. Then, for the first time since their encounter, the Lich raised both hands. _FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!_ Gwen raised her hands as well. "VOID SHIELD!" She called first for protection, then started on her next invocation. "DIMENSION DOOR!" "FOOL!" A burst of abjuring spellfire washed over woman and Wyvern. As before, she choked on the feedback. This time, the delay in her recovery was enough for the Lich to complete its malicious magic. "SHAAA!" Caliban closed in, too late to help its mistress but close enough to disrupt the Lich's future casting. "CALAMITY!" Golos concurrently enveloped her armoured profile with twin layers of leathery wings. With a sizzle, the death-spell struck her Wyvern's wingtip. "GAARRRRGHH!" "Gogo!" Gwen's vision struggled to adjust to the anarchy. There was a horrid stench of decaying flesh, then she caught the hideous sight of Golos' afflicted wing, decayed to a stump. Suddenly, her chest burst with indignant fury. If Lightning didn't work, how about Void? Could the Lich spell-drain a Void Seeker? "RUN!" Golos nudged her with his body, sending her reeling backwards. The Wyvern then teetered, too proud to lie down, too afflicted with death magic to fight the Lich in melee. "There's NOWHERE to run!" Gwen kicked her Wyvern back. "We have to fight! CALIBAN! SHOGGY!" The Lich had kept itself out of reach with micro-teleports, but now Caliban grew to four times its usual size. With a sickening crunch, its carapace erupted, birthing two additional heads. While five was her limit, the Lich's Circle of Death had usurped enough vitality from Gwen that she no longer had enough to max out her Familiar. Up above, plastered across every wall and ceiling, the Shoggoth watched impassively. Gwen fumed, but her frustration was impotent. In all likelihood, the Void being was far more invested in penetrating deeper into the bunker network, where its foes possessed life and vitality. "INSOLENCE!" The Lich dodged a corrosive glob from the three-headed Naga. Its fingers were a flurry of arcane gestures as it activated its suite of Necromantic sorcery. "If you're so proud of your bloodline, then I will present your corpse as a gift! If the Yinglong dares come to Pyongyang, we shall gladly receive it as our eternal servant!" "FATHER WILL HEAR OF THIS!" Howling even as he limped, Golos covered Gwen with his remaining wing, knowing that the Lich could dispell her shield. As Golos' warning echoed, Caliban reached its foe. Without hesitation, it attempted another Consume, aiming to end the threat to its mistress once and for all. "USURP EGO!" The Lich's spell casting continued without interruption. Without warning, a beam of viridescent Transmutation struck Gwen's Familiar. _SNAP!_ Caliban's central maw closed around the Lich's uniformed body. _PUFFT!_ The Void Naga's head, together with a portion of its torso, burst into a shower of Astral dust. "SHAA!" the larger of the remaining heads screeched. "Shaa!" the smaller appendage writhed. Caliban struck the floor, squirming like a cut-up worm. It was one thing to be hacked, lobbed, pierced and crushed, and a whole other to be reduced to powder. Gwen meanwhile, heard the splintering shatter of the mind warding earrings she wore on her lobes. It was the left-most Creature Core, the larger of the two inscribed for fettering Mind Magic that now broke, painting her left cheek with blood. This limp-prick bastard! Gwen flinched as the residual Mind Magic caressed her psyche. Was this it? Was this where Gunther's heirloom met its end? She staggered against Golos. With the Lich's unparalleled command of soundless casting, she understood that turtling was no option at all. To protect herself, she would need nothing less than a Force Cube, but that was a 7th tier restricted spell, one she had no hope of accessing for some time. If so, what the fuck was she going to do? All she had in her arsenal of spells were single target invocations and AoEs. Golos was already getting his ass kicked, and Caliban was getting pummelled to dust in the literal sense. Worst of all, after taking her vitality, her Shoggoth gave not a shit about her well-being, and Ariel was effectively banished. Cloud Kill? Could she flood the place with True Silver? She could use more Void Spells, but the feedback might just kill her. "You are well provisioned." The Lich rose into the air. "You Tower Mages have Continency Rings, do you not? Is that the source of your courage? I tell you now, wyrmling, nothing will save you from the Great Leader's Wrath. GRASP HEART." "Void Seeker!" Gwen panicked. In her haste, she had forgotten about her Conjuration-Evocation's significant travel-time; that and the Lich chose not to use a spell that Golos could block with its body. "URGK!" the high-tier Necromancy struck before her Seekers completed their journey. Conjoined with the feedback, Gwen grew insensible as an otherworldly force took hold of a sorceress' second-most important mana-organ. "G-Gogo— I— I can't breath—!" Within her chest, the last of her Almudj's Essence battled the heart-stopping Negative Energy atrophying her cardiac tissues. Beside her torso, her arms fell limp as the precious lifeblood that sustained her body slowed to a trickle. Her brain, abruptly starved of oxygen, robbed the lustre from her eyes. Her world grew cold— so cold. Upon her finger, Gunther's Ring twinkled. An explosion of silvery Conjuration suffused her whereabouts, followed by a burst of viridescent vitality. "GREATER RESTORATION!" Gwen gasped. Suddenly, air suffused her lungs. Unbidden, the frigid cold invading her body evaporated; instead, her tortured body filled with Evee-blessed motes of unadulterated life. "Aella! Spirit Guardian!" came the howl of a fatherly, endearing voice. Above herself and Golos' prone and groaning form, a great feathered serpent, twenty-meters from head to tail, engulfed the space around them with vibrant strands of golden lightning. As for the Mage now beside them, he brushed the ash of the spent scroll from his fingers, then flashed toward her a winsome smile. Shenyang. Old town. Eric Walken observed the Flight-forms of Petra, Richard, Lulan and Fudan's rented PLA guards. It had taken some coaxing for the children to accept that they were liabilities in the event of Gwen's retreat. Lulan, in particular, was fiercely combative until he had explained that if she was taken hostage, their fool friend would fight to the death. But now Walken felt torn. Despite his promise to the girl's companions, his prized student had not materialised after banishing the Shoggoth. In fact, he hadn't heard a peep. Worse still, no amount of Divination had penetrated into the bunker since he received word that a signature synonymous with a Lich was headed her way. A Lich! Walken hadn't heard of such a name since forever. For all he knew, the damned things were an academic curio. Mythologised to be the ultimate form of arcanistry made to simulate immortality. On record, the most famous of the monsters was arguably the mad monk, Grigori Rasputin. Though accounts wildly vary, it was said that the equivalent of no less than six high-tier casters, including three Paladins sent by the Moscow Patriarchate, were involved in the Lich's subjugation. Even so, the vacuum of power left by the Necromancer then all but condemned the fate of the Tsarists. _But North Korea?_ Walken was utterly sceptical that North Koreans could produce a Lich of the same calibre. Still, the acidic anxiety of Gwen's continued absence was burning a hole in his abdomen. For a horrible second, he even considered venturing into that Shoggoth-infested warren to search for his student. _Ding!_ "Magister Walken." A Message blossomed beside his ear. "We can't Scry what's happening inside the bunker presently, but your contestant's biometrics just fluctuated wildly enough to encompass half-a-dozen lives..." Walken's hands felt suddenly slimy with sweat. "Did her Contingency Ring trigger?" "Surprisingly, no." Magister Jamison's tone was grim. "I hope she's got a good one, though. I don't think Dalian is furnished with whatever help she is going to need... unless she can 'CPR' herself." "She's equipped with the best Contingency Ring. It'll take her to Beijing." Walken quickly cut the Chief Proctor off. "It's a peerless item, as you should know. You did the equipment check." "Yes." Jamison's tone withdrew some of its steel. "But she's facing off a Lich, not a hog. Liches embody the worst of us. They know how our Rings work..." And there it was. Walken groaned inwardly. Only this time, Gwen's conundrum wasn't just the girl's fault. It was also his miscalculation. With the Tower cutting the ley-line, the Wards under Shenyang would have lost their spell-jamming capabilities. That was why, smelling an opportunity, he had proposed for Gwen to field-test the questionable applicability of her Void Ally. Whether they succeeded or failed, a question of academic value would have been answered. And should they succeed, Fudan may yet salvage the competition. _And what else?_ A guilty bit of cognisance demanded. Walken's clenched fingers unfurled. There had also been naked ambition. Of course, he and the girl had both consented and considered the consequences. He had even asked her to re-consider, though she had adamantly expressed her desire to repair her misstep. But the dilemma now was that he, Eric Walken, was safely outside, barely a few kilometres from the Tower's strategic Ray of Disintegration, while Gwen was duelling a godless, communist, necromantic demi-god. "Magister Jamison," Eric was surprised to hear his own voice speak without an explicit command from his brain. "May I ask you to relocate to the Tower's triage chamber? I don't trust the communists' healers." "… good. I shall await your return." Jamison's voice drifted across the Divination channel. "Good speed, Magister Walken. Should you return, I will personally make an appeal for Fudan." The glowing Message blinked out. Walken double-checked the contents of his Storage Ring. "The girl's stupidity must be infectious," he muttered to himself, wondering if he should see a Mind Mage to get his sanity evaluated. "Goaded by a Yank, what would my friends think? Henry must be laughing at me from beyond the grave." He looked down. Dimension Dooring into a room with so much concrete, Shoggoth, and potentially a Lich was suicide. He would have to employ more subtle means. "Aella." Walken materialised his Couatl Spirit. From his Storage Ring, he produced a golden idol in the shape of a feathered serpent, the type worshipped by the Aztecian Theocracy. "If anything should happen to me… go to Gwen, or go home." "Eric! Eric!" the feathered serpent bopped him on the nose. Serpents, as a whole, were woeful at miming mammalian expressions. "Protect!" Walken nodded. There was no more time for sentimentality. With both hands, he invoked the first phase of a tier 7 teleportation alternative known as Ethereal Jaunt. The spell was an old one, favoured by Mages who preferred delicacy, for it allowed one's physical body to temporarily cross the liminal space of the Astral Plane. Once a Mage was shifted in-between the material and immaterial, he was then free to spontaneously traverse short distances. "… Ethereal Jaunt!" Walken finished the Mandala with a final flourish. The world turned colourless and transparent. Below his feet, he saw the dimension-warping body of the Shoggoth, so enormous as to bend the Astral current, displacing the edgeless grey gloom. Within that colossal, oesophagus-like body of the Void creature was the tunnel that had descended into the MSS's old secret base, inside which sat a clump of hyper-dense Negative Energy. And not far from that solidified malevolence was the vibrant silhouette of his protégé, flickering like a candle caught by the Astral wind. Gwen gasped. "E-Eric?" she spluttered, scarcely believing her eyes. "Why are you here?" "SHUT UP and listen." Her instructor's berating tone cooled her feverish head. "The barrier's not going to hold. I am not a Faith Caster, and that's a stolen Relic. We've got a minute..." _PZZZCK!_ A green ray of Disintegration, perfect for destroying barriers, struck the golden halo. Aella screeched defiantly, flapping its wings. "... a dozen seconds at best!" "Eric, I—" "We will Dimension Door in tandem." Walken pulled her up by the wrist. "The Lich can't dispel both teleports. We'll piggyback each other." "That's— brilliant!" Gwen's eyes, so dull a moment ago, lit up with hope. "If that's the case, I'll dismiss my Planar Allies! Cali! Keep the Lich busy!" "Shaa! Shaa!" Her now twin-headed Naga persisted in its harassment. Outside the barrier, the Lich flittered to and fro, effortlessly teleporting around the chamber, evading Caliban's projectile spittle while testing the halo for weakness. _PZZZCK!_ A second splash of emerald energy sizzled the Guardian Shield. "Protect!" Aella hissed, still holding the barrier. "Gwen! Gwen!" Her instructor took her hand. His grip was hard and warm and firm. "No matter what happens next," her steely-eyed mentor informed her. "Don't leave the Tower again. Your friends are waiting for you. Richard and Petra, and Elvia in London— they're ALL waiting for you." "Okay!" Gwen conjured the courage that the Lich had previously beaten out of her inch by inch. "Gogo! Thanks for everything, I'll make it up to you! Shoggy! GO HOME! BANISH!" The Summoning Mandala burst into brilliant silver as it sizzled out. Golos could return home or stay at its leisure, though for now, a retreat was obviously the preferable course. As for the Shoggoth, it shouldn't be able to maintain itself for long once she cut it off at the source. As for its continued duration— that was also a subject of the field test. Gwen clutched her instructor's bony digits, feeling such gladness that her heart verged on bursting. "See you on the other side." Walken squeezed her trembling fingers. "Dimension Door!" "Dimension Door!" Walken brushed the scroll-dust from his fingers. He breathed out, suddenly relieved. The girl was safe. His conscience was at ease. With this, he had paid back some of his debt. "You Teleported the blasphemer?" The Lich's consternation was as stark as blighted ice. "That wasn't a Dimension Door." "Didn't expect that, did you?" Walken grinned at the Lich. It was impossible not to smile. When the Lich's Greater Dispel had washed over them both, it was hard not to burst out in laughter. "Wasn't that great? Scrolls can't be countered— and I know you Undead lads have no talent for Divination. You could Teleport after her if you like. For all I know, you just might pop into the Tower's range." If stares could kill, Walken was sure the Lich would raise him just to kill him again. "I know. I know. You feel cheated." Walken opened both hands to show he meant no harm. "Could you blame me? You were killing her outright, after all. What's the use in delivering a corpse to Beijing? In lieu of her absurdly expensive Contingency Ring, I opted for a reasonably costly scroll inscribed by none other than Magister Moseley. Do you know who that is? I don't suppose you receive the Oxbridge Almanac in Pyongyang, do you? How do you bumpkins keep up with the times?" _PZZZCK!_ Yet another beam struck the barrier maintained by Aella. While the shield held, the strands of gold woven into the spell visibly decreased. The Relic Walken had hidden in his possession since acquiring the Couatl from its homeland would last a few more gloats at best. "Relax, old chap. Don't be so hasty." Walken forced down the reflux simmering at his throat. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Eric Walken, a Grey Faction Magister. I'd like you to know that in our Faction, we are not completely averse to your kind..." _PZZZCK!_ Aella shrieked, shedding feathers like softly falling snow. Its power infusion was at an end. Walken's sped up his pitch. "YOUR FREEDOM IN EXCHANGE FOR MY LIFE—" the Magister materialised a Divination Beacon in one hand. It was his Message Device, designed to resemble a pocket watch. "Having anticipated our encounter, this device is glyphed with a Divi-loc that will take you at least ten kilometres in the direction of Pyongyang. The city might fall, but you don't have to. My little girl's experiment might have taken down your goons, but I am sure the Great Leader would be amiss if one of his Generals were to perish." The Lich paused. "As a token of my sincerity..." Walken gestured to Aella. With a wail, his feathered serpent returned to its pocket dimension. As a spell, Spirit Guardian directly taxed the Essence of the tapped Spirit. With both Aella and its birth-relic burned out, Walken was at the Lich's Mercy, as exposed as a new-born babe. "You would play traitor to your people?" The Lich's disgust was palpable. "And you call yourself a Tower Magister?" "Better than DEAD to my people." Walken waved the device. "Not to mention, the Chinese are hardly my people. I've got a wife and two daughters waiting for me in London, you know. Now that I've sent the girl back safe and sound, I've got all the more reason to live…" "Why should I trust a traitor—" _Glurp-GLOOP!_ The eyes on the walls shifted, oozing its distinctive grey goo. One by one, the orbs shifted in their sockets until altogether, they stared down at the duo still in the belly of the beast. As one, a dozen mouths opened to speak. _"Please don't die."_ _"Bloody hell!"_ _"Eric!"_ _"IDIOT!"_ _"Come back!"_ _"You tricked me!"_ _"Not like this!"_ _"Bastard!"_ _"If you die… I'll kill you!"_ Walken wasn't sure if a Lich could shiver, but he sure as hell did. In all honesty, though Gwen's sweet moans echoed from the mincing, drooling mouths mated to the wall, the spectacle was horrific beyond belief. He wasn't sure how the phenomenon worked in theory, but he wasn't averse to taking advantage of the unexpected. "The perils of teaching." Walken fought down his unease with a smile. It was delightful listening to the girl's woes, but he would have preferred that it came from her petals and not a chorus of lamprey-lips lined with razor-sharp teeth. With a straight face, he turned to the Lich. "Looks like her ASTRAL DEVOURER is finally coming home to roost. It takes effort to wrangle a beast that consumes REALITY ITSELF, you understand. But I digress. Your men are scattered, your troops annihilated. Your city is ripe for the taking." Walken dangled the pocket-watch so that it swung like a metronome. "So, General, what will it be? Is the life of a single Magister worth losing an eternity of blessed Undeath?" The North Korean General's gaunt face remained unreadable. Walken held up the Divination Beacon in one hand. A bluff could only go so far without committing himself. "Suit yourself. Telepor—" "GRASP HEART!" "—Arrrghk!" Walken staggered, allowing the Message Device to fall from his hand. A little too late, a Lightning wreathed Mage Shield then sprung into place. "HA! Worm of the Tower!" Twiddling a finger, the Lich summoned the device into its hand. "You foreigners and your weak-willed conviction will never overcome the Path of Juche!" "You scoundrel!" Walken coughed as the magically-induced cardiac arrest seized his heart. A split-second later, a near-instantaneous and uncounterable Contingency Teleport enveloped his convulsing figure. "I wish you repose in the afterlife," the Lich intoned, swinging Walken's Message Device gloatingly. "Until the day I call upon your service." "ERIC! Thank God! You're alive!" Eric Walken, Instructor-Advisor to Fudan, slowly sat, aided by none other than the premier healer-researcher of Stanford, Chief Proctor Maryam Clark Jamison. Unexpectedly, there was a tear-stained young woman in his arms and pressed against his chest, a sensation he had not felt since leaving London. Reflexively, he cupped the girl's face. But rather than familiar azure of Audrey or Beatrix or Angie's eyes, he met with a pair of moist green irises speckled with amber. "Thanks for the demonstration, Eric." Magister Jamison removed her hand from his back. In her off-hand, she held a recording slate, while behind the Chief Proctor stood two medical officers with Lumen-recorders. "I wasn't expecting a live demonstration— and yet, here we are." "A what? Of… what?" Walken's lucidity trickled back. He touched a finger to his lips and felt the warmth there. There was a sweet floral taste in his mouth. When he looked down, the girl was red-faced and buried in his dishevelled robes. His chest ached like nothing else. "The CPR, of course." Jamison looked a though she'd just finished an intense session at the spell range. "The girl broke a few of your ribs, but I've since restored them. I have to say, I am impressed." Walken patted the girl in his arms. "Happy now? You gave me a heart attack." In response, the girl hugged him so tightly that his spine groaned. "NEVER MIND THAT!" Walken suddenly lifted his body from the gurney. This seemed to surprise the girl, who slid off with a yelp, falling onto the floor. "Sorry, now's not a good time to play house." "Wha—?" Gwen's adorable blush turned to one of indignation. " _G44.22.1-Q22-41-98!_ " Walken almost howled out the coordinates. "Quickly! Someone lend me a Message Device! I need to let the Lieutenant-General know! We may yet catch ourselves a Lich!"

"So— what happens now?" Alizea Kock, the vice-captain of Pretoria, tugged her ponytail loose, drawing eyes from across the room. "What? Don't look at me. I can't do what she just did. That 'Devourer' thing isn't an Ooze." Her captain, the lauded star of House Hertzog, was affixed to the lumen crystals he had acquired from a sympathetic proctor on a hand-held device. "So, did we win or lose?" Alizea's voice oozed. "Against... that." "The part where she choked a reborn Soul Flayer, moaned for a quarter of an hour, or the part where she consumed half the underground bunker?" "All of it?" Jean-Paul raised a pale hand. "May I speak, Miss Kock?" "Speak freely, leech." The Ooze Mage jiggled as she leaned back, languished by the surreal sight to which they had just bore witness. Alizea's frustration wasn't hers alone. For the better part of two days, Pretoria had exhausted themselves defending the PLA's troops, simultaneously breaching the eastern quadrant of the city. Even at the risk of injury, Schalk and the others had punched through no less than twelve checkpoints, killing six named Necromancers and countless acolytes. However, a kilometre away from the central chamber where the highest concentration of CCs awaited, they and the PLA Mages aiding Pretoria were ordered to retreat. The rationale? All troops had to make way for the all-consuming Void Beast that was making its way through the city centre. The delay had persisted for a day, after which the now fabled "Devourer" revealed itself, spilling over onto the city's surface until grey ectoplasm inundated every conceivable cranny, leaving nothing organic in its wake. Furthermore, to add insult to injury, the notice came two days later that the Purge was at an end and that the Tower would now move to occupy Shenyang's ley-line. That was when Schalk lodged a complaint, after which their advisor returned with copies of Fudan's crystals to placate the team. Upon review, all protest evaporated as they watched Fudan's Gwen Song run face-first into a Lich, after which she had to be rescued by her instructor. Once Magister Walken sent Gwen back to base, the vid-cast ended. When Schalk asked the others how they would have dealt with the Lich, the whole team engaged in a prolonged debate, but agreed on one thing— none of them could have held the Lich as Gwen had. It didn't help that the PLA had then effectively 'exorcised' that very same Lich. According to the rumours, Fudan's instructor had predicted where the Lich would choose to teleport above ground. When finally the People's Hall fell, and the Lich materialised, it appeared well within the range of Dalian's adjusted artillery. The resulting spell-cluster was a strategic bombardment involving a Mandala of Disintegration, a six-some battery of Atlas 388s, two Spell Jammers, and a projected, maximised and empowered Sun Beam from the Lieutenant-General himself. So little of the Lich's mana signature was left afterwards that at least a decade would pass before it could be reborn from its phylactery. "Unless they're disqualified, Fudan is going to out-CC us," Jean-Paul intoned demurely, not wanting to meet Azalea's smokey eyes. "But we should advance nonetheless. I am looking forward to our home match— I am missing Pretoria already." _"Regtig?_ And why would you think that?" "Gwen is strong," their Void Mage continued, more confident now that he wasn't rebuked. "But she's a Spellcraft amateur in reality. The chances of her squaring off an offensive duelist from Oxford or the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy is virtually nil. Strategically, she could utilise this Devourer of hers, but from the fact that we all had to retreat, its ability to differentiate friend and foe must be minimal. If anything, the IIUC will not allow a sorceress with such an unpredictable skillset into a higher-tier competition where the stakes can be incredibly high." "I agree with Jean-Paul," Schalk concurred. "Especially when the final two bouts traditionally take place in the Wildlands, usually conducted with, or against Demi-humans. She's simply too unpredictable, not to mention she's a magnet for trouble. As for her Void Beast, one only needs to look toward Elizabeth Sobel." The team nodded, they had all studied up on the modern history of Void Magic thanks to Jean-Paul and Gwen Song. "And so far, in all of her matches, she had pulled through mostly by the skin of her teeth. And during our current quest, she had TWICE almost met a grisly end…" Schalk reminded his teammates. "Comparatively, we're relatively unscathed, that has to be taken into account." "And her teammates…" Jean-Paul's voice trailed off. "Are _hondekak_." Lencho wagged a finger rudely. "Lencho!" Schalk snorted at their Lightning Mage. "Gwen is twice the Evoker you profess to be." " _Ja—ja—_ " Lencho growled. "Acting nice doesn't mean we deny the truth. Richard and Lulan are passable, but not on our level. Their Captain barely reaches your ankles. The rest of her team…" The Evoker wiggled a pinky. " _Bly stil_." Schalk waved him away. "Our conversation isn't private." Around the officer's lounge, the Chinese Mages kept a respectful distance from the Afrikaners. Hopefully, Schalk glanced around the place; these junior officers didn't have Translation stones capable of filtering Afrikaans. "We'll wait for the outcome." Schalk reset the Lumen-recording. "For now, let's review the scenes again— ours, Fudan's and Auckland's. I want each of your thoughts and countermeasures." Magister Jamison laid down the facts with a flourish. She had gotten her heart's desire, and now it was time to pay the piper. "At this point, I don't think there's much point bean-counting." She pointed to the lumen screens behind her. On each was a lumen-crystal playing Fudan's highlights, which was to say, a certain Void sorceress' most valorous and lascivious moments. Though some of the recording had been blocked by the Lich's Necromancy, subjects under the Eye of Providence provided individiual Divi-Scrys via inscribed Eye-beacons. "Need I remind the Proctors that extreme circumstances call for unusual measures— and that Fudan has shown itself to be a true anomaly?" A dozen hands raised from the long table. "Jacqueline, speak your mind." "Paris' opinion," the blonde Magister spoke with a haughtiness distinct to the French. "Is that Fudan should not advance." "And the reason?" "We are bending too many rules for them already." The Magister tapped the table with a fountain pen. "First, we turned a blind eye to the Chinese when they fed Fudan the most viable quests. Then, we capitulated to their instructor's request to use the Shoggoth in what was essentially a clear violation of the limitation of spell tiers. THEN, their instructor broke protocol and rescued contestant Gwen Song." "Noted. Though I must remind you that as Chief Proctor, I did consult with the PLA, our host, it was they who made the request." Jamison stood her ground. "And besides, what would you do, have the girl die?" "Absurd! She possessed a one-of-a-kind Contingency Ring!" "She was holding off a Lich!" "From which she was rescued, when she should have dealt with the escape on her own." "Let's agree to disagree on that point," Jamison scoffed. "The circumstances for the violation were sound. We don't send students to duel Liches, Magister Brodeur; we don't send Magisters to duel them either." The Parisian proctor snorted. "You may see a wonderful specimen, but I see a danger. Chief Proctor, Magister Jamison, let me be plain. I know that you got research out of Gwen Song. Thereby, I openly question your impartiality." "No doubt." Jamison's eyes grew hard. "And it is your privilege to do so. That said, feel free to lodge your complaint. For reasons I can't possibly discern, I think Brussels will take Oxbridge and Stanford's revision over yours." The room grew frigid. "Now, now." Another proctor stood between them. "Let's not get so cavalier about our differences. We're all on the same side. Chief Proctor Jamison, what will it take for you to concede Fudan's advancement? I will not fault your admiration of the girl's talents, but her team won't cut the mustard, as you Americans say. The final rounds are simply too much. Consider the mediocrity of their support and the limitations of China's indigenous Spellcraft, and in particular, their rented Healer from Seoul. Haven't you heard that their Cleric now refuses to participate? At best, Fudan has a passable team of five, with the rest being spell fodder. Why send them into the next round just to be humiliated? Fudan won't even have home ground. They'll be fighting in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I am sure you know the area, yes? What possibility is there for another 'Shoggoth' to be deployed in the American heartland?" Jamison's chocolate orbs scanned the table of proctors. Of the dozen present, most of the contingent hailed from American Universities and therefore would follow her lead. The few that remained opposed, however, weren't easy to sway nor quick to be cowed. The rules of the IIUC were ironclad, and obedience to the regulations are absolute. As their leader in Brussels once said, rules are broken only once— after that, they're just a technicality. "That may be, but the girl's singular contributions cannot be ignored," Jamison intoned, staring down the European Magisters. "That said, if Pretoria must advance, then I shall nominate Miss Song for the title of Most Valuable Participant." "Preposterous!" The proctor from Paris slammed the table. "There are two more matches to be concluded! AND the girl's from a no-name, third-string Chinese institution!" "And should any of the competition's future participants fend off a Lich, consume six-dozen Necromancers, six-and-a-half thousand Undead, not to mention thousands in collateral fodder... They can then convince the PLA, an important regional ally, to offer up Contribution Credits in their name. Find me a Mage willing to do HALF of that, and I'll concede." "Jacqueline." Another proctor placed a hand on the fuming woman's shoulder. "Leave it to Magister Jamison. We have an acceptable resolution, and she's still the Chief Proctor." This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. "Very well." Jamison motioned. "All in favour of Pretoria to advance, Fudan and Auckland to concede, and Gwen Song as the nominee for MVP, say 'aye'." "Aye." "Aye." "Aye." "Aye." "Aye." "Aye." "Aye." "Aye." "Then I won't ask for 'nay'." Magister Jamison slid a dozen slates across the table. "Sign, please. After that, we'll tally the CCs. They should be nothing but damning, in MY opinion." Percy endured the constant line of congratulations with the patience of an Earthen Abjurer. It was a chore he bore with dignity. How else was he going to stomach the nauseating reality that his seniors were vicariously addressing his sister by greeting her facsimile? "Gwen eradicated the Lich?" Mei gushed, her eyes sparkling, her grin so extensive as to appear comical. "She was involved in the process. I'd imagine." Percy forced himself to desist in tapping his left foot, dispelling some of his aggravation. Naturally, he refused to believe the gossip. If Gwen did solo a Lich at eighteen, he may as well give up now and spend the rest of his life living in the limelight of the future General-Secretary Song. "They say her Devourer consumed all the Necromancers! She's a hero, just like Uncle Jun!" "But she was injured." Percy made a face, wondering when he would be allowed to visit the upper portion of the Tower, if at all. "As usual, Sis was over-ambitious and bit off more than she could chew. I imagine Babulya is going to be upset." "And Uncle Hai as well." Mei hypothesised un-ironically, having met the charming Hai just once, Percy's father had left a wonderful impression. "I wouldn't channel mana into that idea." Percy's tone softened. "Dad… let's not talk about Dad. If anything I think Uncle Jun would be more upset." "When do you think we can see Gwen?" "Not anytime soon. Our party is going back to Shanghai as soon as Shenyang re-opens the routes. But maybe we can bum a Teleport from my sister. She's loaded, after all." "Aiyaaa! Rich, pretty, and she eats Necromancers by the dozen! Percy, you're the luckiest little brother I know!" Percy smiled politely, then sighing, he fell into deep thought while one thumb caressed his Kirin pendant. As usual, Gwen returned from an adventure laden with accomplishments and prospects. That his sister's Necromantic ability to stack corpses to pad her talent wasn't yet an open secret was astounding to Percy. Comparatively, he had been risk-aversive since realising the pendant's utility. Nevertheless, though incomparable to his sister's nonchalance in swallowing her enemies on national Vid-cast, he had not wasted his time at the Front. Thanks to the invasion, he had gotten permission from his instructor to follow the 7th Recon in repelling multiple waves of the Undead Tide. As a result, by merely fighting beside the PLA soldiers, he was able to pick up not only the ethereal Essence from the perishing Undead but also the occasional jolt from a dying Mage. For someone at his tier, his progress had been nothing short of incredible. The prolonged engagement had ensured a wealth of opportunities. Where previously he had hunted the blighted dead for days just to feed smidgens of Essence into the Kirin Core, his ancestral spirit now gorged on a feast of dissipating energies so thick as to form a miasma over the battlefield. Where the NoMs and the Undead had been locked in ultra-violence, he had felt tirelessly energised. As a result, his pendant was now glossy and nourished, its veins pulsing with an inner radiance. That and his instructor and the Captain from the 7th had put in a commendation for his excellent display of valour. "You're right, Mei— I AM lucky." Percy slipped the pendant back into place, just above his heart. "Either way, this training trip has taught me a lot. My bottleneck on Evocation and Transmutation are both loosening." "So soon?!" Mei squealed. "And your Abjuration is almost at tier three!" "I AM the brother of the famous Devourer of Shenyang, after all." Percy mulled over the nickname fast spreading through the ranks. When one desired a fashionable alias, the acquisition was harder than grappling a greased orc. When it came to stupidly suggestive ones, they spread like a swarm of pissed-off fire ants. "Are you disappointed?" Whetu and the other Maori's protruding bodies ensured that Yue hid behind a mountain of caramel flesh. "Over what? Gwen being choice?" Yue stabbed at the grape in her bowl. "Over Auckland being bested." Whetu glanced at their advisor, saw the woman contentedly chatting with the others, then turned back toward Yue. "I should be." Yue scratched her chin, then pointed at the rest of her team. "But does that mob look they're moping over their loss?" "... Oi suppose you're right." Two tables across and crowding the soldier's mess, the Wikiriwhi brothers were slamming down free beers with the NCOs. After the declaration of the operation's decisive success, those not on duty had all assembled in the lower mess to celebrate, with the Non-Coms bringing in crates of bubbling horse piss. Not far, Rongo, the Water Evoker, sprayed spittle all over, narrating his conquest of the Necromancers at Shimenzi. Rona, Auckland's quaterling captain, stood on a table, entertaining a group of whistling soldiers with illusions of Gwen overpowering the enemy. As for the rest, Auckland's happy-go-lucky participants wandered here and there, receiving hugs, clinking glasses, and exchanging boasts of their contributions in the war. "Not joining them?" Yue grinned. "They told me I shouldn't drink while the healing spells are still in effect, so I've been stuck with this ginseng root brew." "Oi'll stay ear with you." The big man blushed. "Aw, that's sweet, Whetu." Yue giggled, then sighed. "There is something though— since you're asking. Ya know— I thought I'd caught up to Gwen by now, but so much for that, eh? Did you know that when we first started, she had no idea how an Awakening worked and spent almost three months trying to cast Magic Missile without using a Sigil? She was such a clueless hussy back then. It was cute." "Oi am sure et was." Whetu grinned. "And there's this time she got dragged by her uncle into a marriage arrangement thing, offered to the highest bidder, you know? And at his mansion, she got hog-tied and put up for auction, and then in the nick of time, my Master crashed through the ceiling and burned the dickhead's house down. It was in the news for days." "That oi don't remember," Whetu chortled. "You know, are you sure that's root beer? It smells strong as anything..." "Eh, close enough." Yue took another long swig. "So that's it, eh? Back to Sydney for me. Back to my hovel! I guess I've accomplished my objective. Got to meet Gwen, see the world, crisped up a dozen Necromancers, almost burned out my conduits. All-in-all, a good road trip before I start my new job in the Greater Sydney Militia." "Blessed moana, Oi hope we're not taking the sheep back." Whetu paled. As a Pounamu Mage strongly attuned to Elemental Earth, the big man languished when left at sea for extended periods. "I'll send word to our rich bitch," Yue snickered, before suddenly slapping Whetu on the thighs. "Oi oi oi— Wait-a-second—" "What is it?" Whetu winced, startled by the unanticipated assault. "If Gwen is free to leave Shanghai after this, and she's got crystals for days…" Yue clapped her hand. "Why the fuck shouldn't she take a detour back to Sydney? Holy shit! I have to let her know before she plans her trip!" Gwen took a deep breath, circulating Essence to displace her nerves. Though she had lost Ayxin's scale, the flow and control she maintained remained no worse than before. It meant that "Essentially", her training wheel stage of Essence-control was over. As for her health, she felt fine, though according to Magister Jamison, she shouldn't be out and about just yet— not after copping a Circle of Death and a Grasp Heart, both spells from which Mages seldom walked away. Still, her present errand had to be done. Else, she would never taste the sweet balm of guiltless sleep again. "Ee ee!" Gwen's unseen helper offered a yip of encouragement. In turn, she patted her invisible pseudo-Kirin, then gathered up her strength for the cringeworthiness to come. "It's me, Gwen." She knocked on the ward door. "Can I come in?" "Gwen? Bless the Goddess! Come on in!" Mayuree's peppy voice chimed an invitation. Gwen opened the door. Recuperation suites in the Tower were neither spacious nor many, so the two girls who had been "Contingencied" back had been shoved into one room, their beds split by a pale blue privacy curtain. "Gwen, they told me you were injured as well!" "Ha— I survived, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, eh?" "If you say so. We've won, right? The healers aren't keen on details." "That... isn't for me to say." Gwen regarded the two girls in their sanatorium gowns. Mayuree had lost the lustre with which she was usually suffused. Heartachingly, her chubby cheeks had since grown sallow, and she looked to have lost her usual weight. One bed space across, Eunae was no less adorable than her usual self, though the healer's expression when she walked through the door wasn't at all welcoming. "Yi… yi…" Something quailed under the bed. It was Luyi, Eunae's doe sprite, covering its eyes with its hooves. "Mia, Eunnie," Gwen swallowed. Just in case, she toned down the Essence circulation. What she needed now was a softer, sisterly touch. "Are the both of you alright? We won the battle. Shenyang is ours once more. The Undead are gone!" "I knew it!" Mayuree punched the air, a gesture she'd inherited from Gwen. "Great work, Gwennie, I was confident you could do it! What does that mean? Are we going to advance? Are we going to America or London? Marong's currently trading with the Rare Stone and Creature Core markets over there. I am sure we'll be looked after if he makes a request, we're talking hundreds of thousands of HDMs here..." "No..." Eunae moaned, her brow breaking out in a terrific cold sweat. On cue, Gwen repositioned herself sympathetically, then reached out with a hand of compassion and mercy. "Eunnie, are you feeling okay? Do I need to call the physician?" Her healer began to cry. Great glops of liquid leaked from Eunae's big brown eyes, painting a very picture of pity. "Aww, don't cry." Gwen patted the girl softly, feeling every bit the remorseless villain. "Eunnie, whatever's the matter, you can tell your vice-captain, okay?" Eunae's sobs stifled. When she looked up, her expression was both defiant and melancholic. Okay— Post Wraith-Stress Disorder? Gwen bit her lip. Despite being a post-Lich survivor, she wasn't at all familiar in dealing with real-life PTSD. What she remembered of the subject was pure conjecture gained from reading the ABC and BBC. As for her moment of terror, it was easy to banish the spring-wrangling horror when a threat could be externally rationalised. That or she was growing a little too numb to hair-breathe escapes for her own comfort. Thrill-seeking, as her old psychologist would say, was no less self-destructive. "Talk to me, Eunnie." Gwen put aside her problems for the moment. She wasn't a stranger to comforting young interns. As a manager, she understood the carrot and the stick, and though she had never fancied herself Merril Streep from the "Devil Wears Prada", she could be very commanding when the occasion arouse. "If it's a problem that we can solve, then we will solve it together." "Ee ee!" Ariel comforted Luyi by stroking the doe with its furry tail. Unfortunately, Eunae's Familiar appeared dead-set on mirroring its owner's anxiety. Assuming an expression of great patience, Gwen waited. And waited. Then waited some more. And then she realised, with a little internal surprise, that there was a limit to her patience and sympathy. As Gwen had always suspected, Dr Monroe charged an arm and a leg for good reasons; that woman possessed the patience of Mother Theresa. "Gwen," Mayuree interjected when Eunae continued to play the ostrich. "Listen, but keep comforting Eunnie." Gwen remained still, persisting in her patience act. Mayuree was using a silent Message. "Eunae's spooked," Gwen's Burmese companion explained. "I don't think you should be speaking to Eunae about victories. She's deathly scared of progress at the moment. I guess she blames you— wrongly— for what happened to her. That and she's frightened. You have to remember, Eunnie's just an exchange student, she got talked into the competition by the Dean just to be your support. She's not— equipped for some of the things we've seen and done." Like usurping a country, murdering a sibling, quelling a rebellion and selling the dynast to a Dragon, Gwen thought even as she inclined her chin. That and eat people and monsters to steal their talent and Essence. "We've been here almost ten days now, and we've talked a lot," Mayuree continued. "Eunnie's wish was to be a top physician in Tokyo or Shanghai or anywhere… away from the Front. She thought taking a turn in the IIUC would look good on her resume, but then, of course, we won in Peru. She had thought about quitting then, but her family told her to stay. When it was announced that we were going to the Front, she almost ran, but again, the Lees kept up the pressure." "Her dad?" "OVER her Dad, and her brother, too. Their careers had been held hostage. That's what Eunae said. The main family's influence in Seoul is unparalleled." "Well, shit." Gwen moved to hug Eunae, but the girl drew back. Gwen bit her lower lip. "It's alright, Eunnie." She patted the girl on the knees. "I won't make you do anything you don't want to, alright? I'll talk to your family." "It's no use. Gwen, we'll have to replace her." Mayuree's tone was unexpectedly stark, likely as a result of failing to persuade Eunae for several days. Still, for Gwen, the Diviner's proposal came as a surprise. After Kitty's passing and Marong's take over of the family business, her Diviner had most certainly changed, though Gwen wasn't sure if it was for the better. "Didn't Golos say Lulu could go to the Mount for lessons? Maybe you could learn that healing Lightning you told me about, we'll find someone else to replace Eunae, ideally a buffer like those Auckland girls. Then, we advertise for a Faith Healer." "I don't know for sure if we're going to advance," Gwen whispered back. "The Shoggoth did a lot, but Walken had to save me in the end—" "That traitor Magister saved you?" Mayuree gasped. "So the rumours are true?" Gwen cleared her throat, blushed a little, then spoke out audibly. "Why don't we take a walk, get some fresh air? Eunnie, you can tell me all about what you wish to do next, and I'll relay what happened after our series of unfortunate events."

On day fourteen, the marshalling rostrum on the second tier of the renamed Shenyang Tower played host to the summing-up of the International Inter-University Competition. With all three teams standing shoulder to shoulder in the quadrangle, the Lieutenant-General of Shenyang, now the Provincial-Secretary of New Liaoning, gifted each contestant with a pin-stripe palladium medal for "Service to the Republic of China and its People". As the lumen-recorders hovered over the gathered crowd, the students turned to salute the surviving soldiers. In response, all bowed deeply, thanking one another for risking their all to return Shenyang to the world of the living. Atop the pulpit, Provincial-Secretary Qíao delivered an hour-long speech detailing the valour of the troops and their sacrifices. He began with thanking Mao for garnering the will of the people and ended with a special mention for Committee Chair Song, whose granddaughter had contributed significantly to the victory at Shenyang. Finally, Magister Eric Walken, formerly of Oceania, stepped forward to receive an individual medal of recognition for catalysing the banishment of the Lich Oi Kuk-ryol. After the speech, Magister Jamison, Chief Proctor, declared that though Fudan was the overall winner of the Chinese round, they had chosen to bow out. In total, Fudan had finished the competition with a tally of 7,450 CCs to Pretoria's 4745 and Auckland's 3270. However, due to extenuating circumstances such as Magister Walken's intervention, the contestants had chosen to end their bid on a high note. Finally, the night concluded with an officer's soiree wherein Fudan, Pretoria and Auckland traded contact details. For high-tier competitions, networking was a principle purpose; for there was nothing quite like mutual survival to bond young mages into a web way of 'guan-xi'. In the decades to follow, assuming the students survived to become Magisters, Secretaries, Ministers and Tower Masters, their youthful memories would grow into bonds of trust. Two decades on, if Minister Hertzog had a problem in South Africa, he could look to an old friend like Secretary Bai, or Magister Song of Sydney for advice or support. A few years on, they would then return the favour under no uncertain circumstances. And so it was that after a healthy infusion of alcohol, Gwen found herself facing a deeply embarrassed and completely scarlet Jean-Paul asking for her Message Glyph. "Shall we take a stroll?" Gwen extended an elbow. "You did say you wanted to talk in private." "Y-yes." In his double-breasted jacket, the pale Jean-Paul was positively oozing, not unlike a lightly-salted slug. For the farewell party, the students had changed into their best for the mass media. As before, Gwen had dressed her team in oriental-themed garbs, rehashing the same outfits from Cuzco with different accessories. For herself, she had chosen a midnight blue floral cheongsam with a classic thigh-split, paired with a pair of platform pumps in pearl. It wasn't anything outlandish, but the lumen-recorders burned bright nonetheless. Comparatively, Auckland was decisively uncomfortable wearing three-piece suits, meaning the moment the media relented, the men were reduced to tie-less dress shirts. As for the three female members, it was Yue who naturally stood out— both for being the only Asian in a throng of caramel giants and her halter-maxi, on loan from Alesia. And for Pretoria, the Afrikaners reminded Gwen of a wedding party, with the men stiff in charcoal herringbone, adorned with ties in sunburst and emerald, accessorised with union-jack pocket squares. In such a garb, even the boisterous Lencho was pleasing to the eye, proving that even lipstick did work on hogs. Comparatively, the women were more florid in their attire, with Alizea, Ella, Izette and Mariette igniting many an imagination. As for her present company, Gwen wondered if Jean-Paul had intentionally morphed his self-fitting suit two sizes too large, appearing so hollow that, for a moment, she wondered if Umzokwe would crawl out to say hello. "We're alone now." Gwen found a place by the outer wall. Gingerly, she tucked her dress against her buttocks with both hands, then sat between the jutting battlement. "So, what's Mevrou Bekker's proposal?" Jean-Paul's face was by now the colour of boiled beetroot. The Void Mage had been shadowing her all night, leading Richard to joke that she had gained a new Familiar. "Before I explain— how do you like my spells?" Jean-Paul began with an unusual ice-breaker. "Like… Usurp and Consumptive Orb, did you watch the lumen-crystals I sent over?" "I watched them twice!" Gwen sighed wistfully, turning her face to enjoy the wind. With the Undead gone and the ley-line thrumming below, the night had lost its malicious chill. "Simply masterful, Jean-Paul. Compared to you, I feel like a bruiser. There's going to be so much I have to learn and relearn in London. But of course, you said they're not for trading." "Well, they could be…" "THEY CAN?" Gwen perked up. Flashing Jean-Paul a simpering smile, she arched her spine to present her best profile, her heels swinging like puppy tails. "Go on, I am listening. I've got CCs to burn, babe." "Babe? YES! NO! I mean..." Jean-Paul stared at her shoes. "Oh, you meant me, right, right… er…" Gwen awaited the Void Mage's offer, weighing the young man with considerable attention. "Umm— look, I am going to just come out and say this. The Mevrou gave me a 'Quest', if you will, for my benefit, that is..." "I am listening." Jean-Paul looked her in the eyes. She smiled back. The Void Mage grinned, looking very thirsty indeed. Fighting back a snort, Gwen redirected her mirth toward more constructive feelings. While Jean-Paul remained the most malformed creature she had ever seen, his unique visage now appeared to her a sort of cuteness associated with Sphinx Cats. "Goed, I am going to say it— okay?" "Ja." "The Mevrou will teach you all the spells she has made if you can lend me... your _egg."_ Gwen blinked. "My _what_?" "Egg?" Jean-Paul appeared to look for a crack to crawl into. "Like…" Gwen made a somewhat obscene gesture with her fingers that resembled an okay sign, then poked a finger into it. For some reason, all she could think of was Ayxin and Jun. "No! Your o..." Jean-Paul's eyes fell lower to where her waist tapered, and her hips flared out. "You mean—" Gwen felt suddenly dizzy. "My OVARIES?" "I think? I am not sure why I said egg... eggs." "I think the Mevrou inferred my womb." "Ah?" Jean-Paul looked hopeful. But Gwen's expression was no longer kind nor friendly. "I take it she wants to see what happens when two Void Mages conceive a child," she intoned, gritting her teeth. The vision of Axyin in her mind was quickly replaced by the face of Elizabeth Sobel. "I understand her concern, but I am really questioning her intent. Let's say I am missing a few brain cells and consent—" "Er…" Jean-Paul looked as though he was emerging from a sauna. "I… I don't know? I mean, I would imagine marriage first… I am supposed to be Catholic." "—Whatever. Sure. BUT then what? What happens if there IS a child? Is she going to take my BABY? Is she expecting a mother to give up her babe? For what? Her experiments? That's monstrous!" Even as Gwen spluttered, she glared at Jean-Paul, her eyes sharp with displeasure. Together with her rising ire, a wave of Dragon-fear rippled out, prickling the shivering Jean-Paul with icy jabs of primordial terror. "I think I misunderstood—" "I don't fucking think so." Gwen's voice grew infinitely stiff, turning almost into a rumble. "No. No. No. Jean-Paul, you're barking up the wrong tree, mate." "I meant no offence." Jean-Paul raised both hands. His pupils turned midnight as he circulated notes of Void to fight off the gut-clenching fear. "I think I misinterpreted my Quest." "Whatever." Gwen stood. In her heels, her Amazonian stature towered over the little man. "A little tact could have helped to lubricate your proposal." "I am not good with love, or romance, or dates." Jean-Paul's eyes floated like a pair of runny eggs. "I've never touched a woman either—" "Okay, a little too much info there," Gwen groaned, realising Jean-Paul really was serious. Scattering her bubbling Essence, she withdrew the Dragon-fear. "Tell ya what, bud, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. What are the Mevrou's exact words?" "My Master wanted to know if it was possible for two Void Mages…" "To conceive?" "… to find attraction in one another, and to start a family. She often spoke of children. She also said you might be interested in learning real Void Magic." "That's fucked up, JP." Gwen decided she should be honest as well. "First of all, I am absolutely not whoring myself out for Signature Spells, no matter how bloody good they may be. Second of all, this hypothetical kid is your son or daughter, JP, and MY flesh and blood. How the hell am I supposed to give him or her up to your Master? What kind of monstrous mother would do that? Fucken oath, I don't know about you, but my child would mean the world to me. I would never abandon them! Your Mevrou would have to pry the baby from my cold dead hands!" Without warning, Jean-Paul misted over. "JP! Do you understand— Whoa!" Gwen paused when Jean-Paul oozed in earnest, leaking fluids from every facial orifice. "You're a good person, Gwen." Jean-Paul fought back his choking voice. Gwen scratched her head, then recalled what Schalk had revealed about their Void companion. "Oh— Oooo— bugger. I am sorry if I made you remember something unpleasant." Jean-Paul reached out with his hands. She allowed the young man to cup her fingers. Gingerly, the Afrikaner kissed the tip of her digits, then clasped them with his own. "You're so beautiful and strong —" Gwen felt goosebumps crawl up her thighs, but before she could withdraw her hand out of disgust, Jean-Paul continued. "Gwen, I am a bastard born from a whore and a no-name Mage." Jean-Paul stared into her palm as though reading his fortune from the creases on her skin. "The farm I grew up on, it was for talented children who tested positive for rare magic. We were orphans, and we were raised by a Sister. I was there out of luck and pity, but the others— the Mevrou told me they were part of a breeding program by the country's elites. Effectively, we were livestock…" If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "Jesus, that's terrible." Gwen resisted hugging the poor sod. Instead, she optioned to sit beside him. At any rate, her womb wasn't for sale, though she was keenly interested in Jean-Paul's origin story. If anything, Schalk said there was quite the saga. "If you're keen to talk, JP, you might as well recount from the beginning. I think I know what the Mevrou wants, and I am not upset, really. We Void Mages are a rare breed, bud, and we should stick together… platonically." And so, Jean-Paul began. Gwen listened, commenting every now and then, gasping when the NoMs raided the orphanage for the first time, then fought down her anger when they returned. After Jean-Paul's beloved Mevrou finally entered the scene, she understood why the young man thought the world of his Master. "The Mevrou told me that we were spare bodies bred to fuel the exhaustion of talent brought by the civil war. She's a little strange, but she's a sincere individual and the closest thing I have ever had to a parent," Jean-Paul explained, exhausted by the emotional outpouring. "Therefore, I sincerely believe in her vision, that together, as a pair, our lives will be better than if we went our separate ways." Oh boy, Gwen sighed as she traced Jean-Paul's train of thought. The idea that two Void Mages are better than one was difficult to refute. After all, who could a Void Mage speak to about their fears? Who would understand their unyielding hunger? Who else could empathise with their guilt? How could a Void Mage open themselves up to anyone but another of their kind? Even herself who had friends and family aplenty had never told anyone the explicit extent of her talent. Since her Master died, not a single other, not Gunther, not Alesia, not Walken or even Petra or her Babulya, fully understood the potential of her talent should she unshackle morality from power, damn the Noblesse Oblige. Gingerly, she cupped her companion's head and guided Jean-Paul so that the back of his high-rising skull rested against her thigh. "Don't move," she told the blushing young man. "Let me talk." "Alright." "I understand your desire, JP," she said softly. "A family, a home; the power to ward away the wolves and live a life of your own choosing. A lover who understands your fears, your pain, your suffering and your triumphs. That's nice. Those are all admirable goals. I get it." "Then..." Gwen interrupted her fellow Void Mage. "Shush—" "..." "JP, do you know what love is?" "I think so." "Shouldn't you marry the person you love?" "That only happens in stories," Jean-Paul replied. "Don't move." Gwen pushed him back against her leg. "..." "Good. Let's talk love and Spellcraft— since your Master is offering a two-in-one package." Jean-Paul looked up at her. Gwen puckered her lips thoughtfully. "To me, having power means having the privilege of falling in love with who I want. If I was to marry you and conceive a child so that I could learn the Mervrou's invocations; I would do so to fund my personal power. And once I have what I want, I would leave, because I don't desire power for power's sake. In fact, for making me auction the most sacred part of myself, I would hate myself, and then you, and then your Mevrou. I would loathe such a thing with every fibre of my being. Even if you had made a better case, and I was to fall in love with you, I would doubt myself— do I really care for you? Or are my feelings tainted by ulterior motives? It's a no-win situation, JP, do you see?" Jean-Paul nodded. "I am not a romantic, Jean-Paul. I've been through enough to know that the love they show in Vid-cast dramas doesn't exist. I also know that for folks like us who can depopulate a town if left unchecked, marriage is a BIG deal. Nonetheless, I am refusing your offer. One, I barely know you and that my feelings for you are purely platonic. Two, I am rejecting you because you can do better, because one day, someone will appear who genuinely loves you, and then you'll regret everything." "But..." "No." Gwen shook her head. "You don't know me, Jean-Paul. You see a polished stone, but underneath, I am a mess of fractures. I am selfish, egotistical, arrogant. I am greedy, and a born hypocrite. I like to talk a good game, but I don't want to sully my hands. I honestly don't think I'll make a right partner for anyone. God knows I am a terrible friend, did you see what happened to Eunae? Did you know we had a teammate, Kitty Liang, that I abandoned to a Naga on a mountaintop, and I felt fucking great doing it?! I was singing myself praises! Viva la vengeance! Of course, eventually, I realised too late Kitty was innocent after all... after I voided her corpse... okay, now I am crying, you asshole." "..." The two Void Mage sat side by side, drying their eyes. "... I ate Sister de Mulder." Jean-Paul suddenly confessed. "And the other children too." "... fuck me dead..." "Ja." "Bloody oath... what a pair we make." Gwen began to laugh, thinking of Caliban's first foray. "For the record, I did that too. A whole den of NoMs and captive Mages." Jean-Paul snorted, then paused, then joined her bitter laughter. From atop Shenyang Tower came the roaring of two Void Mages, laughing at the world, laughing at themselves because sometimes, anything was better than silence. "Gwen?" "Yeah?" "Later, do you mind if I come and find you?" "Sure, but why not make a Tower of your own? You're Meister Bekker's Apprentice. I am a nobody." "Hey?" "Ah— you're too modest by half." "So... I can visit?" "Sure— you're welcome, bud. I don't know what the Mevrou's expecting from me, but I'll reserve a spot for you, I promise." "Thanks." Gwen leaned back, throwing her weight on the palm of her hands. "Good luck with the competition, JP. Show the world what we Void Mages can do." "I will. And..." "And?" "When I said I'd come to see you, I meant in a few months... I'll see you in London. Our universities are less than an hour's flight apart..." "... Bloody hell!" Gwen slapped Jean-Paul on the forehead, causing the young man to yelp. "Get off my leg, you cad! You got me all sentimental for no reason!" Shanghai. For a week, the politburo debated whether a national holiday should be declared for the reclamation of Shenyang. The victory was a piece of welcoming news— but the CCDI under Secretary-General Miao advised against celebrations. Do not grow lax, Miao intoned; not when the likelihood existed that the city may be retaken. Nonetheless, a celebration WAS in order. Thus, the largest festival since the fiftieth anniversary of the People's Liberation poured across China's cities, setting alight the night sky with fireworks and illusions. And in and amongst the dazzling, effect-added propaganda projected from lumen-casters in every square, the citizens of the Middle Country raised cups to the team Fudan. Of the group, Lulan emerged as the crowd favourite. From the very first broadcast, the vid-projections had emphasised her hot-blooded, iron-wrought "Patriotism". A notch down the totem pole sat the flame-trailing Jiro, immortalised by a scene of the Fire Mage laying down Phoenix Pinions to defend the PLA soldiers. Lower still, Rene and Anita emerged as regional favourites, each upheld by their respective Frontier regions as paragons of modern Magehood. When the news broke that Fudan had chosen not to go on ahead with the IIUC's semi-finals, the response had been devastating. But, the concession was soon buried under the reconstruction of Shenyang. While some questioned why so little vid-cast of the pretty vice-captain was shown, or why the principal CC champion fled the IIUC, their suspicions were quickly glossed over by the mass of troops, labourers and Mages marching into Liaoning. "Soon", declared Central from the People's Assembly, a thirteen-hundred kilometre long, ten-kilometre wide strip of "salted earth" would be dug out beside the Yalu River to segregate the North Korean peninsula forever. And as each Frontier province conscripted its able-bodied men, the cries of separated families soon snuffed all interest in the IIUC. As for the contestants, they first returned to Fudan from the Front to receive a thank you speech from the Dean in the assembly hall, then went about taking advantage of their ephemeral spotlight. "Gwen, Richard, come see me once you're finished." Dean Lou was the very definition of courtesy. "We need to finalise your documents." "Will do." The duo waved at the Dean. Upon Gwen's and her cousin's return, Dean Luo had informed them that he had worked tirelessly to ensure Richard also had a placement in Cambridge. It was a kindness performed by vice-chancellor Butterfield to facilitate Gwen's uncomplaining transfer. The caveat though was that an ancient college like Peterhouse was too good for Richard. Instead, the Abjurer could enter Wolfson, one of the modern collegiates with a less severe transfer policy. Naturally, the Dean assured them, the students' performances in Shenyang had helped grease the wheels of cumbersome bureaucracy, so some credit should go to themselves. Outside, the paparazzi awaited. Though Fudan's fame had fallen in the week since; there was more than enough mana left for the gossip magazines and the local press to make mountains out of molehills. And so, in front of the thundering globes, under Guanghua Hall, the students stood with Gwen and Tei, having their lumen-pics taken. Now that the proverbial banquet was at an end, Gwen felt strangely melancholic. In her mind, the team was going to stay together for at least two more matches. Nonetheless, the fact that a group she had spent almost three months with was now going their separate ways was a reality she found difficult to accept. Her captain, Tei Bai, had offered his wholehearted congratulations. After woodenly receiving a kiss on the cheek, he thanked her for catalysing his dream of taking Fudan beyond China. When Gwen asked of his future, Tei startled her by saying there wasn't much he looked forward to. To inherit the position of Clan Head was his duty, and that was that. The fact that he got to see so much of the world before he assumed his life-long vigil was enough. The same sentiment was echoed by the other third-years, who would now be entering society. Rene looked forward to returning to the Thundering Peninsula south of Guangdong to assume future duties as de-facto head of her House. Anita chose to remain in Shanghai, though she now dithered between joining the PLA or the Pudong Tower, knowing that one offered present advantages, while the other allowed her to maintain future relationships with Gwen and company. As for Jiro, he no longer lusted after a position of influence and power in Asia. Instead, he said that he wanted to travel the world, selling his skills and polishing his spells. In a heartfelt confession, Jiro intimated that having seen beautiful sorceresses with hair the colour of sun-silk and eyes the blue of the sea, there was no possibility of him been bogged down by an arranged spouse. If anything, he wouldn't rest until he had visited all corners of the world. After which Rene slapped Jiro, inferring that either he was coming to the Thundering Peninsula with her, or she would have him castrated here and now. Sulkily, Jiro conceded, promising Gwen that he may very well visit when she acquired her very own Tower. Of the remaining two, Mayuree would graduate the next year after earning her degree in Divination, though her life, much like Tei's, was set in stone. As the mistress of the House of M, she would spend her time between Shanghai and Myăma. Of her separation from Gwen, she felt unintimidated. The unspoken truth was that someone with Mayuree's wealth and influence could really travel anywhere in the world if she wished. Even if Gwen and the others were going to be in London, LR Message conferences or a monthly ISTC jolt to London, Paris, Frankfurt, or any of the larger cities proved relatively painless. Conversely, Lulan's future was in flux. Now a celebrity, the PLA promised complete support, conceiving of Lulu as a wedge to dislodge the influence of the Clans. Nevermind that the girl herself was only interested in swinging her sword, the PLA desired a new Ashbringer. And so long as she sword-danced to the Party's tune, she would feature prominently in the future of many young Mages' minds. As for Kusu, the young man was simply overwhelmed by it all, asking if it was at all possible for them to leave China as well. Gwen's response was that she wouldn't dare deprive the PLA of Lulan, at least not yet. But, they should be well looked after once she brought Ruxin onboard. And finally, Eunae attained her heart's desire. One of the first things Gwen enacted upon returning to Shanghai was relaying her concerns for the half-Korean member of her team. Between Secretary Song, her Babulya, Dean Luo, and the power of HDMs dispensed by the House of M, Eunae would have a position waiting for her in the first PLA Army hospital should she wished, or in Pudong Tower. However— where the "Lees" were concerned, Eunae was on her own. No one had the clout to force the Chaebol to heel, not when ten families owned more than a quarter of a nation's GDP. With so much authority, it was little wonder Eunae's uncles believed themselves Demi-gods. And so, all good things now came to an end. And standing on the steps of the towers, Gwen felt she had aged a decade. Gone was the last vestige of her teenagehood, for once she left Fudan's gates, a new chapter of her life would begin. "Once more!" A reporter hailed the group. "Big grins for the Shanghai Extra!" Gwen put on her most dazzling smile. Suddenly, Richard wrapped a hand around her shoulder, then squeezed her tightly. "What's sup, Dick?" Gwen whispered by his ear. Her cousin waited for the camera to flash, then leaned across and kissed her on the side of her head, eliciting a few squeals from the watching crowd. Richard hadn't been promoted much on the national vid-casts, but he had a fan-following of girls from around the university, especially the local senior high school. "What was that for?" Gwen touched the side of her head. "An apology in advance." "For what?" "For that... " Richard pointed at the wall of bodies. "GWEEEEEEEN! MY BEAUTIFUL NIECE!" an ear-splitting shout pierced the crowd. Gwen shrivelled; all sentimentality, all goodwill, all feelings of effervescence evaporated. Her Uncle Kwan, only a head shorter than Whetu and wearing a scurfy suit, stepped from the circle of reporters. "AND MY SON! THANK MAO, THAT'S MY SON AND NIECE!" Gwen's reflexive desire was to call a Vold Bolt to rid the world of this travesty. When she finally focused her eyes, however, her heart softened. The boisterous Kwan had clearly lost weight since the events of Sydney. Whatever his old wealth and power had been, living the better part of one and a half years as a refugee, forced to work for Surya in exchange for board and food had milled her prideful uncle down to the stumps. For Gwen, who had once been so intimidated by Kwan's mere presence, the sallow-cheeked, grey-haired Indonesian now appeared Negatively Drained. Behind Kwan, another well-known face, that of Aunt Tali, loitered in the crowd, too embarrassed to make herself known. "Sorry…" Richard half-sighed, half-grinned. "Thank fuck we're both going to London, eh?"

Dai sunk into the office chair his missus-boss had ordered from Denmark, gliding a hand over the supple Salamander-skin. With goods now re-routed from Tonglv to Dalian, the former high society playboy now sat on no less than three advisory councils. More and more often these days, Dai dearly desired a return to the careless past of nightclubs and fight-clubs. But Dai knew that no matter how much praise his father may have heaped upon him, Tonglv's success couldn't be attributed to the triumvirate. Instead, it was the girl from the House of Song who had conceived of the stock-credit system. Without doubt, his missus-boss' unseen hand guided the canal into its present form, both through her sorcerous accounting and in establishing James Ma's audit team. Indeed, Gwen and Gwen alone was the reason Central showered accolades on the Fungs like confetti. And at first, when the credit system all had been a pipe dream. Dai's father, Chairman Tu and Magister Quin had thought the single per cent of the canal's revenue a fruitless request born from naive confidence. Now, six months since the canal's operation, Tonglv's turnover had already reached ten million TEUs thanks to its "free" passage for law-abiding parties. Following Stage Two, the third and fourth South Sea canals may very well push the Tonglv' capacity northward of fifteen million TEUs, rivalling Shanghai. Likewise, at the girl's behest, the establishment of micro industries servicing the port had blossomed, transforming rural Nantong into a burgeoning trading hub with the potential to rival Shenzhen. When Ruì submitted the financial year's income report, the canal's Withholding Fund had accrued twenty-three million HDMs. Presently, through accrued interest, investments, and real estate, Gwen received 124,000 HDMs annually gross, totally 71,522 after sundries, expenses, and taxes. As for Stage Two, considering that ninety-eight thousand acres had passed through the State Surveyor's office, something close to fifty million HDMs in land alone was incoming over the next two financial years— and all of this was just the beginning of the fund's true potential. What the triumvirate now thought of the girl was a blood-gorged Stirge, well-wedged in their profits, siphoning their serum. Worse still, with each IIUC match, her fame, not to mention her grandfather's position in the CCP, grew more difficult to dismiss out of hand. To Dai, Shen had lamented Gwen refusing to become the Fung family's daughter. If so, he would have given her everything the Clan possessed, Dai included. But, once news arrived of the girl's inevitable departure, both members of the CCDI and Tonglv's partners argued against the presence of a foreign Magus or Magister embedded in China's infrastructure. Removing the girl from their contracted obligations, therefore, had been a foregone conclusion. Gwen's stake in the Tonglv Fund would be purchased at cost, and she could either take the severance or face scrutiny and censure. If need be, her reputation and alas, her position, may need to be severely weakened. For Dai, once outside his father's penthouse office, the Fung's heir felt assaulted by a disturbing sense of oppression and injustice. Such a fit of indignation rose within him that he had almost stormed back inside to shout at the codgers. Then, he took a deep breath. The Fung's heir knew that while a warrior followed his heart, a leader must think with his head. Intellectually, he understood that what he should be doing was luring Gwen into a false sense of security, or perhaps, convince her to cut her losses and be satisfied with a Ring full of HDMs. But the heart wants what the heart wants. That was what it meant to be young. Click! The frosted glass door opened, revealing the lithe form of his unrequited object of affection. "Young Master Dai." Gwen smiled as she passed, leaving a trail of perfume. "What's the news?" Dai was up in a split-second. "Gwen— tell me the truth. Are you going away? Are you leaving us?" With infinite patience, the object of his protest pulled out her seat, patted down her skirt, sat, crossed her legs, then faced him with a picture-perfect smile. "Yes," she replied finally. "I'll be moving to London for some time. Cambridge has given me an offer." Dai deflated. Returning to his visitor's chair, he sat, then sighed again. "So it's all true." "It is." Gwen nodded. "But worry not, I am a free woman. I'll be back every other year to see my Babulya and grandfather. I still have to check up on Percy and Mina and Tai and everyone, and you, of course, AND to groom my interests here in Shanghai. I am leaving, but in a way, I won't be, not completely. This place will be my home away from home." Dai looked up. It was hard to believe that almost two years had passed since he had caught Gwen duelling in the House of M for change. To think that in so short a time, the girl was now an internationally famous Void Mage who ate a Beast Tide and then Shenyang. His father had even said that, in lieu of the IIUC broadcast, Gwen had faced a Lich and lived to tell the tale. Studying her mien, he could see that her youthful face was now more mature. The girl had lost some puppy fat, and what remained was sharper, more defined, like an enchanted blade half-showing its vorpal edge. A pang of desire arched across Dai's heart. Even before he had arrived at her office, he had dithered on the choice before him. Now, seeing her face to face, his heart filled with a strange gladness. Without obstruction, the warning slid from his lips. "I think my father and the others are trying to usurp your shares in Tonglv," Dai suddenly intoned, finding the words liberating. "They're arguing that there's no way someone who is not a part of the Party can have so much influence over so critical a piece of infrastructure. I don't know what they have on you, but they should be enacting their plans after you leave China. If they scandalise your reputation, the triumvirate will vote you out. And if you're away, you would have to return to defend yourself in a public hearing." "Oh?" Opposite, the recently minted Devourer raised a brow. "What about our Tower contract?" "For the volume of Crystals you shall be receiving in the future, the PLA Tower is more than willing to go against Pudong..." "To be expected." Gwen rolled her eyes. Even in her old world, the Party seldom honoured intellectual boundaries with foreign corporations. One such example would be Kawasaki's design of China's high-speed rail, where after the fact, Kawasaki was removed from China's patent filing as a contributor. "I shouldn't be telling you this." Dai shuddered. He withdrew a clip of Halfling tobacco from his jacket and offered Gwen a hand-rolled stick from a Mithril fag case. "I really shouldn't..." "And I appreciate it." She smiled at him with such warmth that his heart fluttered. "I won't forget your aid, Dai Fung." Dai lit up. "Dai." She watched him puff as the delicate smoke filled his lungs. The rare tobacco was a treat, even for him. A dozen sticks alone cost twenty HDMs. "Aren't you happy that I am out of your hair? You could finally be the son your father wanted, the big man of the Tonglv project. You did very well with selling Stage Two, you should know. The number of investors willing to part with their deposits has already generated enough HDMs to enable Stage Three." "Miss you?" Dai swallowed, feeling a buzz from the heady smoke. "I would miss you very much, Gwen. You know that." "A leopard can't change its spots, I see. Dai the flatterer." She chuckled, then leaned forward. Her breath was sweet, her eyes vivid and green and sparkling, refracting the Daylight Globes overhead. Dai exhaled, blowing the acridness downward so that he wouldn't pollute the space between them. If she was going to kiss him, he felt a pang of regret, then he shouldn't have smoked. Still, nerves were nerves, and there was nothing like a stout lungful to unknot his inner torment. Her face came so close as to be an inch from his face, but then vertigo struck. Employing a mote of Void between her fingers, Gwen snuffed out Dai's cigarette, displacing the tip so that he was left holding a stump. "Dai, go back to Nantong and carry on as though this meeting never happened." Her lips grazed his cheeks, her soul-searing gaze burning holes at the back of his brain. "I've got my side of things handled— and I promise I won't forget the choice you made today." "Babulya, Yeye, I am home!" Gwen's husky voice hailed the central courtyard of the Song's family compound. At the head of the banquet table, the Chair of the Confidential Communication Committee, soon to be promoted to a vice-Secretary of the Central Bureau, surveyed his family. Beside him stood his wife, Klavdiya, welcoming his tardy granddaughter, and over to her left was Gwen's seat, after which sat Percy then Jun. Across the table sat Nen with her son and daughter. Finally, the empty space beside Nen had been reserved for the absent Hai, his wife Qīn, as well as the kids' step-sibling, Sui. "Dearest, come and sit next to Babulya." Klavdiya motioned for their granddaughter to take her seat beside Percy. The girl obliged, ruffling Percy's hair as she passed, eliciting a cry of protest from her brother. "You're late," Guo complained, eyeing his granddaughter. The girl's attire, as usual, was far too westernised for his liking. A girl of her age should be well covered, especially in winter. That his granddaughter should be seen in form-fitting clothing would only invite undesired attention. Already, his colleagues had spotted Gwen's Lumen-pics on the back pages of the People's Daily no less than a dozen times, each time engendering a cascade of proposals. "Sorry." The girl struck out her tongue childishly. "I had some Tonglv matters to absolve. My secretary was understandably upset, but everything is alright now." Guo's lips twisted. The disparity between the girl's feigned child-like visage and the subject matter of a national infrastructural project was unsettling, to say the least. Already, news up the grapevine had warned that the masters of Nantong were hoping to squeeze Gwen out of Tonglv. Of that, Guo was of two minds. As a long-serving Secretary of the Party, then Departmental Chair, and soon to be Inner Party Cadre, he knew the dangers of wealth. In a position of sufficient height within the Communist Party, personal wealth was a liability, for an abundance of assets inevitably resulted in conflicts of interest. For many of his colleagues, the excuse, "My wife is good at business" only flew under the Scry when they remained in power. Once their inevitable retirement came, many were investigated by the CCDI, stripped of their estates, then sent to the Front. If Gwen could receive a fair buyout for her share, therefore, he had no complaints. No girl needed millions to live comfortably in London, and he would prefer to enter the Party's leadership without the shadow of a millionaire granddaughter. "Uncle Jun!" The girl positively squealed when she embraced Guo's second son from behind, cuddling Jun's face with her own. After her dear babulya, the girl remained closest with Jun. As for her strange fascination, Guo had initially found their intimacy disconcerting, though now with the Dragon Princess in the picture, he could breathe easier. Still, Gwen's disregard for respectful distance was displeasing all the same. "Tao! Mina!" More hugs were exchanged. Guo kept his face stoic as he awaited his turn. He wasn't a tactile person, not even with his wife, so the kisses and the hugs seemed to him unnecessary gestures. "I saw the vid-casts!" Mina gushed, cradling Gwen's hands. "You were brilliant, cousin! Brilliant! Everyone at my school is talking about you. They wouldn't stop asking me questions!" "Haha, I hope I wasn't a bother." "No, no, none at all!" "Yoyoyo Wassap Gwenabitch? Looking fly!" "I've missed you, Peaches. What have you been up to?" "Crushing it, ya know? Cruising with mah crew, Big-Dog and Mack-Daddy, they enquired after yo ass." Guo shuddered. Wang's son was an aberrant existence, a blight upon the Song family. A goblin who talked in tongues while making obscene hand gestures. More than once, Gwen had attempted to convince Guo that the boy had a prodigious talent for "music". It was an absurd proposal, for Guo had yet to see the man-child touch a single instrument. Instead, the infernal fruit persisted in making percussion sounds with his lips, an act that appeared as though Tao was perpetually fellating the air. "You looking sweeter than ever, hoe. Got yourself a sugar daddy yet? Or dare I say, yo a sugar mama yet?" "Working on it." Gwen laughed, apparently unperturbed by the strange words emitted from Tao's filthy lips. "I am sorry we're not going to America, Peaches, but the opportunity will arise. The States are definitely on my shortlist." "It's cool, yo! We jam later!" Tao crossed his arms, his fingers forming a fork, making Guo's blood boil. "Peaches in the House!" Finally, having finished greeting Nen, his granddaughter arrived, having come full circle. "Yeye—" Gwen curtsied, lowering her hips and raising her head so that for a moment, rather than a sorceress who could level Shenyang, she appeared a docile grandchild. "How is your back?" If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "It's better," Guo replied formally, all of his ire melting away as though snow in spring. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, or give her a pat on the shoulder, but with Klavidya watching, his hand refused to move. A Patriarch should be stoic. "Sit, the food is getting cold." Gwen gave him a hug anyway, one Guo enjoyed with relish until Klavdiya caught him smiling. The family sat. "Thank you all for coming." Guo wasn't one for big speeches or to mince words. "Jun especially, I know your duty with the Princess is taxing." "It's a burden of love, Father," Jun confessed readily. "Ayxin sends her regards. Have you been taking the ginseng?" "Sparingly." Guo inclined his head. "Thank her for me. And no more gifts we can't repay." "Alright, father." "If you tell your brother..." Guo paused, then sighed. "Tell him Percy is doing well. Better than he was at the same age." Percy beamed. Gwen made a face at her brother. Guo then turned to Gwen. "Has Jiang Luo finalised your transfer papers? What of the others?" "The Dean's been very good to me." Gwen tapped her Storage Ring to indicate that her papers were done. "Richard and Petra will leave separately. There's a matter I wish to inform the family, actually." "Inform", Guo noted, not "inquire". As much as he had grown fond of Gwen, the girl's propensity for independent action was an unsettling and unwelcome characteristic. Swiftly, the servants plated the banquet. One by one, Guo "opened" the dishes by taking a small portion for himself and Klavdiya. "Tell us later." Guo snatched the head of a Sea Bass, depositing the gaping upper torso in Gwen's bowl. "Eat up. I know how much you Void Mages need to replenish your vitality." The girl grinned back. Without a smidgen of lady-like behaviour, she delivered the creamy eyeball to her lips. "Eat up… eat up…" Guo relaxed, wondering why the only Chinese part of his granddaughter was her ability to pack away any and all cuisine. "Jun tells me you'll be meeting with Ayxin's brother?" "Yes!" Gwen replied between mouthfuls. "It's to do with Tonglv. Which, by the way, is the matter at hand." "Gwen, what are you planning to do with Tonglv," Jun interjected, apparently more in the know than Guo himself. "Ayxin says you're going to see her brother in Yangoon?" "Nothing too serious, really." Gwen picked at the fish head until she extracted the cheek meat. With an expression of happiness, she popped the flesh between her lips. "But let's just say any would-be schemers may be stealing from the mouth of a not so proverbial dragon." Myăma. Yangon. Marong, viceroy of the House of M, presided over the meeting between his two benefactors. One of whom was the woman responsible for his emancipation; the other, his liege. Arriving with Gwen was his sister, who had returned to take custody of the family business. There was little need, however, for once Ruxin reigned over the family, no noble dare raised their eyes at Mayuree's stewardship. Just the opposite, the historically Naga worshipping people of his nation fell into line now that a real Dragon had become their lord and patron. The old nobles had been so supportive that the Shadowmen of Manipur complained of having nothing to root out other than bland corruption and the occasional assassination. Presently, a foursome of Dragons gathered under the perfectly conditioned temperature of Karaweik Palace's vaulted throne room. To Marong's knowledge, his benefactor was still in the dark regarding the plea-bargain he had made with Ruxin— though now the truth hardly mattered. That the House of M deferred to their Demi-God neighbour was a fitting gesture even if they were in the heart of Pudong. Upon the former golden throne, Ruxin lounged on a divan. In his human form, the first prince of Huangshan was a flawless, pearl-skinned gent with platinum hair and irises of gold. Loosely attired, Ruxin appeared a regal wonder in his gold-threaded robes; his hair, ears and fingers all adorned with priceless gems and jadeite. Ayxin meanwhile, was as delicate as she was striking, a blooming metallic flower in robes of ivory and rose gold. With her racially ambiguous mien and metallic-coloured eyes, she was the picture of majesty, despite borrowing the mortal fashion of the human cities. And to the side, looking very much like a mutt, sat Golos, squatting on the steps. Despite becoming larger and meaner than before his participation in the IIUC, the Wyvern's innate morphic-magic remained amateurish. It was a sore point that both elder drakes complained of their thin-blooded little brother. Whatever Golos' development appeared to be, it seemed only to aid the Wyvern's brutishness. "I fear you shall have to explain again," Ruxin commanded from up on high. "That's alright." Gwen's heels clicked on the jadeite tiles. "As I said— I have transferred to you all of my Chinese investments. Marong here has lodged the transfer with Pudong. Take a gander, I've included a five-year forecast as well." Marong, who had stood behind his Master, knelt first, then presented the data slate Gwen had prepared. "Your lordship— Miss Song's one per cent stake presently generates as much as seventy-thousand HDMs per annum. In Tonglv's Phase Two, she may receive several hundred thousand in dividends. In the future, her share may generate far more... for as long as Tonglv stands." Ruxin tapped the slate, then frowned. For some infernal reason, Human Magitech disagreed with the prince. "Allow me, Lord." Marong obliged. Once they reached the bottom of the slate, Marong sensed that his lord's mood vastly improved. "And in turn?" The Thunder Dragon raised a silvery brow. "You want me to preside over the fate of your mortal kin?" "And a few friends." Gwen rested a hand on her arched hips. "And of course, collateral borrowing from your treasury for 'OUR' future ventures." Marong's master tilted his head, his golden irises capturing the girl in their reflection. "Your grandparents. Your cousins. A Dai, and a Ruì? And this Lulan and Kusu Li. Shall I bring them to my lair? That is the safest place." "Oh, no, NO." Gwen shook her head. "Just name drop a few times. Arguably, you don't have to do anything, Marong will keep an eye on your investments. But if something goes south, if 'The Great Dragon of Kachin" could pass a note to the CCDI's Secretary Miao, that would be great." "There's no need for Ruxin to intervene. I'll take care of Jun's progenitors," Ayxin cut in, her golden irises flashing. "I alone am enough to keep the humans cowed." "I don't doubt it." Gwen smiled with teeth. "But you said yourself that your Draconic-powers and Spatial Magic are limited while inside the Shield. You couldn't even sense the scale you used to spy on me." "It kept you safe." Ayxin raised her chin. "As was my promise to Jun." "Yes, thank you, 'Aunty'," Gwen replied churlishly. "For my Uncle, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." "Ungrateful brat." The Dragon-princess hissed. "That's me." Gwen turned away from her uncle's spouse. With a teasing smile, she continued her banter. "That said, I do appreciate your aid. Although, if you want me to feel grateful, then tell me that you did it for my sake, out of the goodness of your own kind heart." "You think far too highly of yourself." Ayxin glared. "Your grandfather's right. You're an impertinent whelp." "HA. You females should fight it out." Golos looked up. "The winner can take the Ash Mage." "SHUT UP, GOLOS!" "GOGO, that's disgusting!" Golos rolled his eyes. Marong looked from Gwen to Ayxin, then to the smiling Ruxin and back. He could scarcely believe his eyes and ears. That Gwen acted the equal of these beings who were centuries old and descended from an ancient Mythic was incredible. "Tell me again of the venture you're planning." Though his Master found the females' rivalry amusing, a Dragon's crystal hoard was paramount. Despite Gwen's well-catered promises, the idea of allowing his "Financial Advisor" intimate access to the currency financing his future ascension made the Thunder Dragon uneasy. "Speak less in tongues." Below, Gwen motioned for Marong to return to her the data slates she had prepared. With her other hand, she extended her arm, exposing a slender wrist. "Let's start from the beginning. This is a Message Device. It has an inscribed Core that emulates a Diviner's Message Spell. These are made by various manufactoriums around the world, and they require a Divination Tower to function outside of direct Line of Sight." "Yes. I know of these Magic Items." Ruxin nodded. "Humans are incapable of communicating with their kind over long distances and so must rely on their craft, correct?" "That's correct." Gwen detached the bracelet with a silent command, then left the bangle hanging from Marong's fingers. "Let me show you." Their presenter incanted something under her breath. In the next moment, a series of geometric shapes appeared in thin air. It took him a moment, but Marong recognised the spell as Minor Image. "As someone who has been paying through the nose for LR Messages to London, I am simply aghast at the business models employed by the Towers for regulating their Message network. Did you know that the Towers erect Divination Stations entirely out of their own pocket? Imagine that! Telecommunication is one the most important aspects of human civilisation, and they're just letting any Mage with access to a Message Device use it willy-nilly! The Divination Stations and its maintenance are paid for by the Towers! Out of pocket!" The images materialised until a mono-coloured, bright green map the shape of Shanghai and its surrounding provinces solidified. "Up on this coverage map. I have colourised the sections of Suzhou, Hangzhou, and Nantong Frontiers currently possessing Divination Stations and or Towers. You will note that much of the surrounding regions, despite housing millions of customers— remain unserviced." "I don't quite follow." Marong's Master frowned, as did Marong. That Frontiers lacked Divination Towers and that Mages had to use Diviners or portable Divination Engines was no surprise to anyone. "This is where a prospective entrepreneur should come in." Gwen pointed to her bosom, then to Ruxin. "Do you know why the coverage for Message is so horrible, and why humans have so much trouble every time we leave the tier 1 cities? It's because the Message Towers have limited range and scope. Once in a Green Zone, our Devices become virtually useless without a line of sight to our party member. We're blind and deaf out there! Disconnected! While working on Tonglv, I looked into the rationale behind the lack of Divination coverage, and I've found the reason; very stupid reasons— funding and upkeep." Gwen closed the first polygon image, then raised another in the form of a Tower that resembled the Queen from a western chess set. "But that's where we come in. As far as I am concerned, there is an easy way to resolve this issue of coverage. By establishing a new Divination-based business I shall dub ' _Network-Carriers_ ', we shall front up the HDMs necessary to expand Divination Towers into the Green Zones." "Have you not said that such an investment is futile?" "But NOT for us—" Gwen raised a finger. With another gesture, she conjured up several bar-graphs showing the cost of constructing the Towers. "The Divination Stations, Towers, whatever— are a mature form of Magitech, so mature that minimal improvement has been made since the seventies. Our only concern is if IT IS POSSIBLE to generate more revenue than we spend. This is why I am interested in an experiment." In front of Marong, Gwen made a bright orange map of greater Sydney. The city itself was covered by a large yellow dome, followed by intermittent spots here and there, appearing like the pox. "Consider Sydney. Outside of the city, there are countless Green Zones where the land is tilled for agricultural output. Yet, most of the folks living in this region have no way of communicating with the Magisters in the city. They would need to write letters, or physically relocate a town with a Divination Tower, a prospect that remain few and far in-between. In times of emergency, timely aid is nigh impossible." Gwen wagged a digit, and a ring of blue enveloped Sydney's central districts. As far as Marong was concerned, it was the most peculiar use of Illusion he had ever seen. "This is where we come in. We will raise Carrier-Towers to provide the coverage. Then, we will introduce Glyph algorithms that tie individual devices to 'accounts'. I know the Towers have Magitech Enchanters capable of this capacity because they charge me for my calls with Evee. Anyway, when a customer uses our network for Messages, their mana signature generates a monthly invoice— charging say, a quarter of an LDM per Message, per thirty-second block. Of course, we tithe Messages both coming in and going out." "In this way, we attain economy of scale. For greater Sydney, for example, about two million individuals reside across the Frontier, and three million in the tablelands. Assuming a brisk business— say, 200,000 Messages across the entirety of a city of ten million souls a day, that's 350 odd HDMs per twenty-four hours in gross revenue. And that's just the beginning." Another line-chart illusion demonstrated growth potentials. The number of digits indicated on the charts was enough to raise even Ayxin's brows. "The Divination Beacons themselves last several decades, despite using present Enchantment algorithms and medium-tier Creature Cores. For this reason, with sufficient warding, we really don't have to worry about wear and tear. By that virtue, so long as our Carrier-Towers remain standing, they will continue to generate a small but steady stream of disproportionate revenue." "Why hasn't anyone else done this?" Ayxin's question cut to the bone. "Good question!" Gwen spun toward the princess. "The answer is simple. This is a project that requires a confluence of favour, land, materials, HDMs, Magitech— and me." Gwen conjured the shapes of a dozen different Towers she had seen being used across Shanghai's Frontiers. "A problem with the existing system is that each of the Towers builds its own Divination Stations with varying degrees of quality, range, and compatibility. Some cheaper Message Devices, such as those for NoMs, may fail to work entirely. Likewise, the Cores used by the Divination Towers are wildly inconsistent, meaning their processing capacity remains inconsistent. During peaks like natural disasters or monstrous incursions, it's not at all strange for Divination-communication to fail." "And this is where we shall create a bull's market." The girl exalted, opening both arms. "Through mass production, we can lower costs by venturing into standardisation utilising production lines. After that, we plant the Towers, starting with low-risk Green Zones with high economic yields like Sydney and the future Yangon Tower. By working with the resident Mage Towers— such as those my brother-in-craft and Marong control. This will give us a working model to sell to local governments. Of course, once our Carrier is up and running, we shall invest in proper R&D of patented Divination Mandalas." "And if someone else does mimic this proposal of yours?" Ruxin rested his chin on his knuckles. "Surely, there are better-positioned brokers in Shanghai?" "GOOD POINT!" Gwen thrust out her chest. "BUT Ruxin, don't you wonder WHY Marong there is doing so well hawking your jadeite? Don't you find it strange how the Tonglv folks owe me their success? Do you know that without me, the Centurion Card and the House of M's credit lending would never exist?" "Arrogance!" Ayxin hissed, her eyes flashing. "Let her speak." Ruxin handwaved his sister. "She has cause to be arrogant." "Thanks, Uncle," Gwen cooed, beaming broadly. "You see, what you uniquely possess isn't Spellcraft, but rather an syergistic system of accounting and billing. What you have... is ME! What I offer you is unadulrated efficacy in managing the Network-Carrier business. What will cost others many times their material investment, we shall attain with impunity. In this, you are a world leader. Trust me." "Trust you?" Golos snorted. "I've still got missing scales—" "SILENCE!" "Gogo! The adults are talking!" Gwen snapped at her Wyvern. Marong stifled a grin when Golos cowered. "Marong, can you show Ruxin my bangle?" Marong raised the Message Device. "THAT is a Hitachi MSB-211. A horribly marketed Device but one of the best for its size and function. A lower-working tier Mage cannot afford a Device such as this— BUT, together with Marong's Centurion credit program, THEY CAN! What we can do is offer a twenty-four months contract which offsets payment for the Hitachi, including a monthly Message stipend. For example, let's say one such device is usually 130 HDMs, our customer will now pay, over the course of twenty-four months, 245 HDMs. However, the boon is that he or she gets to utilise a high-tier Divination Device without an upfront payment..." Marong shivered when Gwen's maniac grin split from cheek to cheek. "AND they're locked into our Carrier-Service, AND they're automatically a gold-member of the Centurion program." Ruxin rose from his chair. "… but we're getting too far ahead—" Gwen giggled gleefully with the sincerity of a pyromaniac, setting Marong's nerves on edge. With a hand, she retrieved the Message Device from Marong's fingers. "AND in the future. There will be no need for voice Messages. We will create a series of devices for TEXT! TEN TEXTS per LDM! And TEXT AND VOICE PACKAGES! For corporate, private, and individual users. We can tailor all to suit—" Once the arithmetics caught up, Ruxin's expression grew troubled. "And your share…" "For now, I'll take one per cent as before. If I fail, you still have my Centurion income and my Tonglv credit as collateral. In the future, though, our Carrier-Corp may grow so large that not even a princeling of Huangshan can hold down the greed it will engender from others. With enough authority, we may yet become the most loathed corporation in the world! BUT, if and when that happens, I would suggest we issue shares to placate said parties. We shall retain control, of course, but the point stands. We can absorb more allies into our fold. Our network will swallow every place. What we will create, dear Uncle, is a Leviathan!" "The girl's gone wild!" Ayxin leapt to her feet. "She's drunk on crystals!" Marong's master stood, half-fulminating with barely suppressed lustiness. "And what will you call this—" Golos also stood for appearance's sake, feeling awkward that everyone else was standing. "—Network-Carrier..." Marong articulated helpfully, his hair standing on end, his scalp positively crawling. "I have the perfect name." Gwen's eyes sparked as she approached the dais. "As our Towers shall be many, I shall dub our new venture— _PROJECT_ _LEGION_."

"Trust me, Marong and Mia will take care of everything." Of all the employees at her office, Gwen considered Ruì her head girl. Having invested so much of herself in Tonglv, Ruì was also the most distraught when the office received notice that their boss was leaving for London and that the Shanghai office would be shut down. "It's been a pleasure, Ma'am." Ruì fought back the choking sobs even as she packed. "Ruì, don't be so dramatic." Gwen wrapped an arm around the NoM girl's shoulders. "Look at how happy everyone else is!" Effi and Terence returned awkward grins. Gwen smiled back. After she had returned from Yangon, Gwen had set into motion a domino of events that would culminate in Dai's prediction of her ousting. Of course, when the hammer drops, she should be in London, and her greedy business partners would find themselves staring down the dagger-toothed maw of a Demi-God. "I don't want the severance." Ruì's courage was commendable. "Miss, can't I keep working for you in another capacity?" "YOU ARE!" Gwen squeezed her assistant's arms. In a way, she understood why her PA was so upset. From Ruì's humble origins as an NoM Economics graduate, she had tasted the sweet nectar of authority. It meant that now, the prospect of a regular desk job could no longer satisfy. Borrowing Gwen's terror, Ruì commanded Ken without reserve, and Dai had listened to her requests without complaint. For her to return to a workplace where she dared not stare a Mage in the eye would be the equivalent of caging an Elven Druid in a concrete cell. "Worry not! You'll be working for Marong, and Marong's a business partner of sorts! The House of M's balance sheets might be short a zero or two compared to Tonglv, but it's getting there. Rest assured, I shall need your capabilities in a few years, not to mention you have to pass on your experience to others." "… I obey." Her assistant relented, though Ruì's agony remained barely disguised. Gwen exhaled, feeling a little vexed, but mostly delighted by Ruì's tears. Competence was an endangered bird, but when combined with loyalty, it was rarer than a Colossal Dodo. In the event of the Shanghai office's dismissal, she had arranged new positions for each of her workers. Effi and Terence were given middle management positions in Professor Ma's audit team as well as a generous severance package. Ken, whose resume included corporate espionage, received a cheap thank you card. Dai was accounted for by Ruxin and Marong, meaning his privileges should remain unassailed in the event his attack of conscience exposed itself. And for Ruì, Marong had arranged for the girl a managerial position overseeing the Centurion accounts, working on accruing HDMs for Project Legion. If anything she looked forward to the day Ruì talked shop with a five-hundred-year-old Thunder Dragon. If her NoM secretary knew the truth, Gwen chuckled. How would she react? "Ruì— Ruì?" The girl looked up from studying the carpet. Gwen gave the girl a final hug. Once the doors of the office were shut, they would no longer be employer and employee, but friends, at least for the foreseeable future. "Chin up! The best is yet to come!" "Please come back soon!" Ruì stiffened in her arms. "Until then, I'll work hard!" Marie Roslyn Wen, future Meister and current Magister— scrutinised the butt-ends of her research papers, each taking up a sizable chunk of her desk space. Her first paper, "Investigation of Void to Vitality Conversion", had been abandoned due to the inherently unstable nature of Gwen's fluctuating health. She had initially paired the study with research into Druidic Essence, but outside forces had put a halt to that entirely. Her next proposal, "Affinity Scales for Void Magic: A Systematic Comparison", had mustered enough data saturation for a modest publication like the Asian Pacific Journal of Spell Craft, but was far from the longitudinal data pool required for recognition from Harvard or Cambridge. Conversely, "Void versus Matter Interactions, a Material Data Compilation", was far more comprehensive. Thanks to a wealth of citations and support from the PLA, her third endeavour had been published in the "Sino Journal of Spellcraft", seeing wide circulation both in Asia and overseas. Her crème de la crème, the article with the most extensive interest from overseas Towers and Universities, was "Void and the impact of Consumption on the Caster: A Case Study". It was an ambitious paper that linked Sobel to Gwen, using Gwen's abilities as a yardstick to define the "morphic impact" of Essence Consumption, culminating in Gwen's attainment of Omni-magic. The article was followed by a sixteen-month investigation entitled, "A Longitudinal Study of the Extended Use of Void Magic". Unfortunately, Wen had only one test subject. Fortunately, most Void related studies only had two or three samples anyway, not to mention their samples rarely survived the "longitudinal" aspect of the study. Now gazing at the work she had produced over the past year and a half, even Wen had to admit she felt proud. Carrying out groundbreaking studies was an opportunity that came once in a lifetime, and in Gwen, she had unearthed a treasure trove. And in a few months, assuming she successfully defended her research and provided citations to satisfy Cambridge's review board, she would ascend. For this, she had Klavdiya to thank, and Wen promised herself that both her friend and her granddaughter would be mentioned in her acceptance speech. _Meister_ Roslyn Marie Wen! China's first Meister in a decade! Wen shuddered at the audacity of such a thought. To join that august group of researchers at the forefront of Spellcraft! _Ding!_ Her Message Device chimed. "Master," Petra's voice jolted Wen from her lucid daydream. "Gwen's scripts are ready." "I'll be out in a moment," Wen answered, sweeping a hand over her notes so that they deposited neatly in her Storage Ring. Outside, seated in her laboratory at Henglong, was the freshly attired subject of her studies. Beside Gwen stood Petra, her Apprentice, as well as the unwelcome vision of Magister Eric Walken. "Let's take a look." Wen took possession of the data slate from Petra's hands. Quickly, she scanned the numbers. As before, the statistics filled her with apprehension. A year ago, she would have screamed. Now, she just felt numb. "How very impressive." "I should think Vice-Chancellor Butterfield would be plenty satisfied," Walken agreed. "Whether it's Gwen's thick skull, skin or her talents, the girl is without equal." "Oi!" the girl slapped her mentor on the back, sending the Magister stumbling, disregarding the disguised compliment. "Excuse you, Eric." "Gwen— if your Spellcraft knowledge was as absurd as your Omni-talent, you'd be receiving a Meisterhood," Eric Walken replied jovially, not missing the chance to flash a mocking glance toward Wen herself. "Hmmph!" Wen snorted, dismissing Walken's snark as common jealousy. "Let's see…" “Evocation 5.51 to 5.62” “Conjuration 6.01 to 6.23” “Transmutation 3.85 to 4.07” “Abjuration 2.67 to 3.01” “Divination 1.72 to 1.78” “Illusion 2.48 to 2.56” “Enchantment 1.46 to 2.11” “7.01 (7.44) to 7.12 (7.57) for Lightning.” “4.72 to 5.23 (5.33) for Void.” "Great progress indeed," Wen read out the Affinity readings even as her eyes scanned the biometrics. "And a VMI of 345. It does look like your Conjuration has struck diminishing returns. The principle craft of a Soul Mage is Conjuration, you should know. Still, there are increases across the board. Did you have your fill of Mages in Shenyang?" "If you mean Necromancers, then yes," the Englishman interjected before the girl could answer. "No different to an Orc Shaman or Troll Priest. In fact, I would venture to say that thanks to Gwen, a greater good has been attained. Won't you agree?" "Sure." Wen chose not to pursue the matter. Once she left Shanghai, Gwen would no longer be her subject, and as such, her relationship with the girl was soon at an end. Through one another, they had each gotten what they wanted. The girl received her recognition and her placement in Cambridge, and she, her title. In so far as mutual benefits go, the exchange had been holistic and satisfactory. "… Anyway, it would appear your Shoggoth Planar Ally provides very little vitality, feedback, or Essence," Wen translated the biometric data. "If I were you, I would focus more on Caliban's Consume. That is a talent which I am increasingly lead to believe is unique, existing so far only through yourself and Sobel." "I see." The girl's knitted brows frowned unhappily. "If you could somehow uncover more of your Master's research, it may help your cause." Wen helpfully dispensed a spot of advice. "I do recall he had a Dryad, yes? And something of a laboratory called the 'Grot'. Surely the man kept notes, journals, Spell Tomes. It's a pocket dimension, after all. Mages, on the whole, enjoy squirrelling away the things precious to them." "Wen has a point," the weasel-faced Walken agreed. "Gwen, when you were in Sufina's Grot, did she mention anything about Henry's library? I've seen thousands of Tomes in his possession. In my memory, Kilroy was quite the collector. I borrowed from him on more than one occasion, and he never seemed to lack a publication, no matter how rare or obscure." "I— I don't know." The girl shook her head. "When Master died, we were in and out in a hurry. Even when I studied with him, I never saw such tomes. Master always had the right book on hand every time we conducted lessons." Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "Can you return to this 'Grot'?" "Not easily." The girl bit her lower lip. "I also don't know if Sufina still remembers us. You know what happens when a Familiar is freed for too long." "They go feral," Petra joined the conversation. Wen could see that her apprentice had been edging to beg a question of her own. "Speaking of which, is that a Spirit reading on Caliban?" "A smidgen." Wen checked the in-depth diagnostic data. "Gwen, were you able to spell-shape your Void Element?" Gwen shook her head again. "I am afraid not." "Still a ways to go then." Petra gave her two cents. "That or the nature of Elemental Void makes IFF infeasible." "I hope not." The girl raised a brow, glad for the change in topic. "Petra has a point," Walken joined in. "I don't ever recall Sobel possessing IFF either. In the Tower, some of her creatures ate one another." "But Caliban can identify friends," Gwen raised a point. "It knows when NOT to eat." "A cause for investigation then." Wen tapped the slate impatiently. "Do you know if it can transform into its last victim? By all accounts, you almost died, and the Necromancer was formidable indeed. Going by our previous experience…" The girl closed her eyes, then opened them again. "No," she returned. "The best Cali can manage is Big Bird." "The Da-peng?" "Yes." "A shame." Petra sighed. "Cali could really use a humanoid form." "Gods, that's a terrifying thought." Gwen grimaced. "I don't even know where to begin." Petra laughed. Wen handed her slate back to her Apprentice, Klavidya's grand-niece. In their five years together, Petra had gained much from her tutelage. It was a shame that once the girl's research was completed, she too would leave. But such was the way. In Wen's world, some were there to be used, and some made use of others. In this way, things finished cleanly. Why should there be sentimentalities and complications of the heart when the academic mind could be well provisioned? An excess of emotion was precisely the reason Klavdiya's granddaughter would not graduate a perfect Omni-Mage. Thinking of the mewling girl, Wen could only snort at the girl's bleeding heart, her initial reluctance to Consume Choi. Deep down, she wanted to query the girl regarding her shifting moral goal post. What was it like? She wanted to say, how will you justify consuming a quarter of Shenyang, including its thousands of NoM serfs? That the girl continued to maintain her mask of Magely virtue was both ridiculous and grotesque. And that Eric Walken continued to groom the girl's facade only added to the absurdity. Hypocrites! She wanted to point her finger at their righteous noses. How dare you judge my research, you walking, talking contradictions! But as always, her mineral-minded patience prevailed. "Gwen." Wen made her case as clear as crystal. "As we shall no longer be seeing one another again in the capacity of mentor and instructor— nor subject and researcher, I hope our relationship will remain amicable." Their eyes met. Hers were glassy, the girl's glimmering with a power that was difficult to discern. "Of course, Magister Wen." The girl extended a hand. The vulnerability she had shown prior instantly evaporated. "Good luck with your Meistership. Please continue to look after Petra. She is very important to me, and I would be distraught if her studies were neglected." The two shook. The girl's grasp was firm and wholly immovable. "Till we meet again." Wen quickly withdrew her hand. "See you in London..." The girl's reply was curt and professional. "... and good luck." Without warning, Wen felt as though a Wraith had stalked across her grave. "It's settled then? I shall be going first?" Walken squirmed, decisively uncomfortable beneath a wall of magically induced, unnaturally blooming roses. The source of his embarrassment was many: the girl opposite, the pollen, the gawkers inside the shop, and the paparazzo camping outside. When he and Gwen had entered, Walken had hoped that their observers were merely drawn by the sight of a beautiful young woman in a tapered pea-jacket. But then someone recognised Gwen from the Vid-casts, and now they were Magical Creatures caught in an exhibition. "... Unless you want to come with me to Sydney?" the girl teased, stabbing at a strawberry cheesecake with a wooden fork. "I shan't try my luck." Walken straightened his spine. Failing to find comfort, he focused on sipping his Earl Grey. "Your sister-in-craft may have gotten over her immediate contempt, but who knows? It's one thing to part ways without her itching for a Fireball, and quite another to invite me to dinner at her home." "I suppose you're right." Gwen sipped her latte, crossed her long legs, then smacked her lips. "But didn't you say there was 'domestic strife' in London? Where are you going to stay?" "I'll rent a room in Cambridgeshire. Vice-Chancellor Butterfield has requested for a meeting." Walken held his porcelain one-handed, appearing natural and poised, befitting of an Englishmen whose youth was shaped by Eton's wand-wielding parsons. "I'll request a meeting with Lady Grey as well, see what we can do to ready your induction by Michaelmas. There's the matter of your stay as well. Cambridge does have dorms for students, but I doubt you would wish to share a room with a stranger." "I wouldn't mind if its Evee." Gwen raised her latte in a mock-toast. "Sweet, innocent Evee, at long last." "The Nightingale College is in London proper, south of Wandsworth Commons, and all of its healers are well sheltered from the likes of you." Walken let rip a snort. "No, you cannot stay at their dorms. Cambridgeshire is an hour as the crow flies and just over two hours by public transit. You can visit on the weekends— assuming you can fish up a Flight licence." "Nooo! I refuse to be away from Elvia when she's so close!" the girl whined, crushing her shortcake. "Eric, I command you to make it so!" "And anger the Nightingale School?" Walken drew back. "I mean, I won't stop you, but you're on your own." "Fine." The girl leaned back in her seat. "And back on topic. What are you planning to do about your family? Audrey and Beatrix and Angie?" "They'll find out about my return sooner or later." Walken cringed. He had not hidden from Gwen the fact that he hadn't parted from his family in gentle terms. "I'll have to break the news tenderly." "With gifts, of course." Gwen's eyes sparkled. "I can't materialise Spirits, but in terms of gemstones and jadeite, I could source something convincingly sincere. You can't just work some fresh scones, marmalade, that sort of thing? It worked wonders on me." "That's because you are both a Void-fiend and a piglet." "Humour, Eric? That's unbecoming of you." "Well, maybe with the girls." Walken inhaled, then exhaled slowly. "Audrey isn't an easy woman to please. There's also the fact that her family's peerage is higher than mine, so things have gotten complicated." "It's not like you cheated on her." Gwen snorted. "Career man goes off and does career things. You can always write it off as doing it for the girls' futures. People have been forgiven on shittier excuses. Trust me, just look at my daddy dearest. The prick's a flaming bastard living a perfectly happy life, consequence-free." "Please don't compare me to your father." The Magister made a face. "Look, I'll do my best." "You usually do." Gwen motioned for the bill. "Is that it? Fair travels then?" "Let's hope so." Walken stood, happy to be out of sight of the ogling pedestrians. He collected his coat from the chair, then slipped into the cashmere jacket. "Until London." "Until London." Gwen slipped on her jacket as well, though her attire was evidently not designed for warmth. "And Eric?" "Yes, dear?" "Good luck with the girls." "Thanks." Walken readied himself for the Shanghai winter, soon to be London snow. An old man, he lacked Gwen's enviable constitution to withstand the cold. "I don't envy the weather in London, not at all." "TO US!" Gwen raised her tankard. "To Gwen!" "Gānbēi!" "Cheers!" "To London!" "To richbitch Gwen!" Peaches prematurely slammed a round of Maotai, warping his already misaligned vernacular coherency. Glasses clinked for the dozenth time. Around the hotpot sat Yue, Whetu, Richard, Petra, Mina, Mayuree, Marong, Tao, Kusu and Lulan, each pouring one out for their Gwen-touched futures. Initially, Gwen had invited her IIUC teammates as well, but each of them had left Shanghai or were occupied with their respective Clans and families. Filling in for their vacancy were Percy and Mei. A request that her brother had declined at first until his "Mei mei-mei" insisted. And among the round table of Mages, each capable of levelling hamlets of varying sizes, sat the harmless Ruì, wholly lost and too terrified to speak. After only a single thimble of mana-rich Maotai, she laid against Richard, warm and satisfied. "I can't believe it's been a month!" Lulan sat cosily beside Gwen. "I knew you were leaving, but this is too soon." "Lulu, I am not leaving for good." Gwen allowed the girl to mimic Ruì. The magically fermented red sorghum was a potent concoction indeed, not to mention she had enhanced the bottle with a tendril from the Ginseng Spirit. The precious elixir had been a farewell gift of sorts, ensuring that all of her close friends and cousins would remain hale and vital. "I'll be back now and then. Once you've made a name for yourself, you can visit London as well." "I don't know if I can meet everyone's expectations," Lulan whispered by her ear. "Gwennie, I am just a swordswoman, I fight monsters and people. That's all I know." "You're more than that, Lulu." She refilled Lulan's glass. "Besides, Kusu will look after you. Won't you, Kusu? Failing that, Marong and Ruxin will back you up. There's Ryxi as well, he's the one who is going to be teaching you." "I don't understand why the Lord of Nagaland would want to help me." Lulan's eyes had gone misty, though Gwen suspected it was from the alcohol. Of the girls, Petra was a silent drunk, Yue was the loudmouth, Mayuree was the sleeper, and Lulan was the apologetic worrier. "Me? A mortal? Going to Huangshan? Am I living a fairy tale? Would a hundred years pass before I descend the mount? They say a year on the mount is a decade in the mortal world! What if I miss you?" "Ryxi better not take a bloody century to train you." Gwen caressed the girl's hair. "Else you're going to be our older sister, hahaha…" "I too would prefer if she remained my younger sister." Kusu coughed. Unlike Lulan, he was taking his time with the Maotai. "OUR little sister." Gwen held Lulan against her bosom, staring down the sweltering Kusu. With her other hand, she picked a generous portion of sliced Auroch and deposited the lot into the bubbling chilli soup. "You'll like working for Marong, Kusu. In the future, Lulan is going to need you." "That's all the more reason for me to be cautious." Kusu's words were wiser than his twenty-odd years. "What could someone like you need from someone like me?" Gwen snorted. "For one, I need Lulu, and you guys come as a package, am I right?" "I wouldn't presume to dictate Lulan's life." Kusu eyed his sister's clingy form. "I just want what is best for her." "Good. Because what's good for Lulu, will be good for you." Gwen smirked. "And while I don't presume to know what is best for her, what I can do is provide her with a rare opportunity to unlock her potential. If Ruxin can send her to Huangshan to learn the old arts, then she'll be all the more valuable to the PLA— and me. With my Uncle Jun and Ayxin looking after her as well, what more is there to fear? As long as Lulan doesn't get drunk on arrogance and start bitch-slapping the Secretaries' scions, she'll be right as rain. You hear that, Lulu?" Lulan straightened herself. With her delicate profile still brimming with emotion, the Sword Mage retrieved the cooked meat from the boiling oil, mixed in the spices, then deposited the savoury, chilli-covered treat in Gwen's bowl. "I don't know if we're ever going to repay you." Kusu regarded the girls. "Lulu can repay me with her, you know..." A smile touched Gwen's lips. With one hand, she gripped Lulan's waist possessively. Kusu paled, suddenly perspiring. "...Friendship." Gwen finished with a chortling snort. "Kusu, you have to let her go eventually. She's her own woman. If she does get involved with a nice young man and wants to settle down in China, that's fine with me. As far as I am concerned, Lulu's a mate, and she owes me nothing." "A mate? She's too young." Kusu chewed his lip. "Please don't joke about that." "I want to adventure and quest with Gwen!" Lulan shouted a little too loudly. "And Richard and Mia as well! We'll hunt the Demi-humans and the Undead, forever!" Gwen broke into a hearty laugh, savouring the compliment. "How good it is to be young!" The table joined in the laughter. "Spoken like an old aunty!" Yue's acute observation jolted Gwen from her revelry. "You know you're the second youngest, right? You sound like a crone." "It's true, I was born with an old soul," Gwen confessed. "Well, Aunt Song, have you packed yet?" Her oldest friend retrieved a few pieces of daikon from the boiling broth, popping the steaming vegetable into her mouth. "Our ISTC is booked for Tuesday afternoon. Master is making Gunther cook." "There's not much to pack." Gwen flashed her Storage Ring. "Can you believe that I've been here for almost two years, and the only things I've acquired are for my wardrobe?" "That and a reputation." Yue raised her glass. "And crystals. Mountains of crystals. FRIENDS! TO THE DEVOURER OF SHENYANG!" "To the DEVOURER!" "Gānbēi!" "Cheers!" "To Sydney!" "To she who swallows!" Tao wiggled his brows as Gwen drank, his face red with excitement. In phonetic Chinese, the wordplay was far less explicit, though the impact on the table was no less impressive. "The SWALLOWER of Cities!" "—C—Cough!" "O Gods, I can't breathe." "The chilli's in my nose!" "Percy! You're turning purple!" "ERRGH—" Gwen hacked and coughed, her face turning unwholesomely red as the Maotai shot up her nose. "Bloody hell— PEACHES— If that goddamned moniker spreads, I am going to feed you to Caliban!"

Of all the goodbyes, it was the inevitable handwringing at Shanghai Hongqiao's ISTC terminal that Gwen dreaded the most. As anticipated, there were high sentiments from all her relatives, though none was more so heartbroken than her dear old babulya. "I'll come back and visit as soon as I can," Gwen promised, cradling the old woman in her arms while the others watched. "Give me a year or two, and I'll teleport back. A few thousand HDMs and a hundred-odd CCs are no obstacle for your granddaughter." "You have to take care of yourself in London!" Her babulya had held together reasonably well the previous week, though not so now. "And this Lady Grey, how do we know she's trustworthy?" "She's an old friend of Gwen's Master," her grandfather intoned with annoyance, embarrassed by Klavdiya's public display of devotion. "And the Morning Star himself promised the Marchioness would look after Gwen. Stop worrying, dear. She is in good hands." "It's true!" Gwen kissed her babulya on the forehead, cradling the small babushka in her arms. "I'll be well sheltered. Besides, who can take me on? I've got Cali and Ariel! At worst, I'll throw in Golos. They'll have to bring an army." "That may be— but a girl should only be so arrogant," Guo criticised her overconfidence. "You'll be meeting some of the finest Mages in the Mageocracy. I would venture to say that there are at least a dozen competent casters among them." "Pufft!" Tao snorted. "That's why the Party's lily ass exchanged Gwen for English Magisters, true dat?" "That's classified information," Guo growled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Who told you this?" "Cao…" Tao paled. "He heard it from me," Gwen apologised. "Yeye, Babulya, I know the two of you have done so much for me since my untimely arrival—" "I don't know about that, Yeye didn't do shit!" Tao objected. "He wanted to cage you like a bitch!" "I'll put YOU in Tianlanqiao in a moment!" Guo's face turned scarlet. "Peaches, shush!" Mina pulled her brother back. "What's wrong with you?" "Tao's just agitated," Gwen intervened. Moving between the human fruit and their grandfather. "Peaches, you'll miss me, right?" "You know it!" Tao made a gang-sign. Then, the black sheep of the Wang and Song deflated. "It was fun having you, Gwen. Thanks for coming to mah shows and helping with my lyrics. And for Petra not kicking my ass. And for talking to the old man about music." "The pleasure's all mine." Gwen pulled both cousins in for a big hug. "Okay, gotta go. Give Uncle Jun my love." "I will, dear." Her grandmother embraced her again. "Come home soon." "I'll call as soon as I find a place." Gwen squeezed her grandmother, absorbing her babulya's boundless affection by hugging her tightly against her torso. Finally, Gwen turned to her conflicted brother. "Keep up the good work, bro." She grabbed both his hands and squeezed. "I'll wait for you." "No need." Percy leaned in for a hug, finding his sister meeting him halfway. After rocking the young man back and forth so that the pair appeared floating at sea, Percy pulled himself away. "I am going to catch up to you, Sis. While you train, watch me make our family proud and powerful." "Good!" Gwen patted his head. "Kick some ass out there, bud. But always remember— stay safe. And don't make Mei cry, else I'll come back here and beat you raw." "That was the sappiest farewell I have ever seen," Yue greeted Gwen on the opposite side of the barrier. "And I've seen plenty of Frontier send-offs." "Sorry," Gwen apologised. "I am not used to having a family." "Nah, it was cute." Yue shrugged. "It makes me happy, you know? Back when we were kids, you were all kind of gloomy and depressing. Your mum was a psycho bitch, and Morye was a right cunt, shit was the pits." "Yeah." Gwen glanced at her still-waving family outside the Force Barrier. To her amusement, even Guo was waving, albeit discreetly. "Those days are behind me." "Thank fuck." "You sure you're okay not going for the parade with Whetu? Team spirit and all that? Promos and stuff." "Nah, I am a merc," Yue said. "Whetu and the boys, they're the heroes." "I suppose. It's a shame I couldn't hang out with the Kiwis some more." "I am more so surprised Dick's not coming with us." "He's going to settle his family down, then meet us in London. We're on entirely different enrolment schedules. I've also got a lot on my plate before I can attend classes." "Yeah, like running a bloody empire of greed. Are you as rich as Lulan's yapping? Or is she mostly hot air?" "Ha!" Gwen grinned. "I've got enough to get by in London. I can borrow crystals to invest as well." "How much have you got on you?" "What, right now?" "Yeah." "In HDMs?" "Sure." Gwen held up six fingers. "Six hundred HDMs?" Yue snorted. "Very impressive." Gwen gave her friend the stink eye, demanding to know if she was as thick as her bosom was mighty. "Six THOUSAND?" Gwen snorted through both nostrils. "SIXTY THOU—" "One-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero—" she whispered the numbers across a silent Message. "And then some. Marong had it prepared for London. I am going to need an office, among other things." "Christ of Naz—" "Shhh!" She pulled the Evoker closer. "— and I've banked up just over 3000 CCs…" Yue slapped away her friend's wayward hand. "Oi, now you're just showing off. Peaches' ain't kidding, Dragon-girl." Gwen giggled, grinning like a shot Wyvern. "What can I say? You're talking to a bona fide rich-bitch." When Gwen had come through her first ISTC Station, she had been so sick that she could hardly breathe. Now, with her Conjuration hitting the upper-middle tiers and her conduits brimming with VMI, she could barely feel a tickle as she translocated across thousands of kilometres. Their first stop was Singapore's ISTC, one of the most extensive networks in the southern hemisphere. At the island nation's vast sorcery-inclined shopping mall, Gwen purchased some new clothes, a dozen pairs of shoes— all magical, and some local specialities for Gunther and Alesia. Yue followed her clicking heels, disturbed by the ease of Gwen's capitalist-spendthrift, lacking the words to voice her working-class agitation. Two hours and a sumptuous meal later, the duo entered another ISTC platform and made for Sydney. This time, there were no complications or abductions, only a flash of Conjuration and a horrid feeling that a part of them remained thousands of kilometres away. "Welcome to Darwin," a troop of Tower Mages greeted the new arrivals. "Please register your multi-passes at the Administration Block." After receiving their stamps and Glyphs, the girls made a snack out of fish and chips, then awaited their turn. Forty minutes later, they embarked on yet another ISTC array, hopping from Townsville to Brisbane, then to New Castle, and finally Sydney. "Huzzah! HOME AT LAST!" a cry of jubilation interrupted the hurried transit of travellers in Sydney's newly built ISTC terminal. From the exit gate, the staff and the guests were enchanted by the visage of a svelte young sorceress floating across the marble floor, making for the exit. Once outside, the girl spread her arms wide as though praising the sun, then twirled, tantalising the onlookers with her pale limbs and long hair. "Arrrgh!" To their surprise, the sorceress retreated no more than a few seconds later, escaping back into the shade to join her companion, a flustered Asian sorceress in military cargos and a tank top. "Affinity predicaments?" Yue stepped into the sun beside her friend. "We're just into December, but the avo's always a right broil. Is the Aussie summer proving too much for you?" "I could feel myself cooking." Gwen scrutinised the snail sheen of sweat covering her arms and legs. Gingerly, she examined herself for sunburn. "The Radiance index here is insane! And there's no mana miasma to diffuse the sunlight either." "Ha! Would you like me to get you a parasol and a cup of tea, my lady?" came Yue's mocking laughter. "You're not even in London yet, and you're already acting like a shrinking violet. Ah, well— I suppose the London fog should agree with you." "Ah, well indeed—" Gwen circulated Almudj's Essence, not wanting to show up to Alesia and Gunther's supper partially Polymorphed into a lobster. "Whoa—" "What now?" Unlike in Shanghai or elsewhere, her body was brimming with vigour, as though empowered by something far more substantial than herself. If she were a religious person, she would almost believe herself at the mercy of a higher power. But, the feeling lasted only a second. In its aftermath, everything, even the air and the asphalt beneath her Mary Janes felt intimate and connected. Gwen inhaled deeply, held the air in her lungs, then exhaled. "What freshness!" Yue glanced at the shuttle busses, each vomiting lungfuls of unspent mana. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. "Good for you," she said finally. "So, should we take the T-Circle, the shuttle bus or a taxi? The city's completely changed since you left. Knowing your sense of direction, you might end up back in China." "Let's share a cab." Gwen beamed, once again stepping into the sun; this time, she felt as though bathed in warm water. In the distance, she could hear the laughing of kookaburras. "Along the way, you can tell me all about it!" "So, where you lovelies from?" To demonstrate that some aspects of Sydney remained immutable, the taxi driver kept glancing at his rearview mirror at the two girls seated behind. Compared to the vigilant Yue, Gwen didn't mind the occasional gawker. Her dress wasn't exactly Victoriana, and her contoured calves were arguably a tantalising distraction. "First time in Sydney? Where to? I could show your ladies the best view of the CBD if you're keen. We're on the up and up. Sydney's an up-and-coming tier 1 city!" "Mate— keep your eyes on the road," Yue warned their driver. To show that she meant business, the sorceress materialised an ID, one that displayed her Military Rank and her Public Practice of Magic number. Thanks to a ruby-red "5" beside her Schools of Magic, the driver grew instantly attentive. "Yes, Ma'am!" "We got business at the new Tower. Head north after Kinsington, then swing through Paddington until you hit Town Hall." "Right away, Ma'am!" The driver half-saluted. "No problem." The midday traffic through Kingsford proved light as the girls made for the heart of the city. Along the way, Yue ran a running commentary on Sydney's altered landscape. "You'll see it once you get to Master's place..." Yue spoke at length about the carcass of the Leviathan still parked in the harbour. Thanks to the tsunami that engulfed the coastal suburbs, everything eastward of the Royal Botanic Garden had to be rebuilt from scratch. Once the Mermen inhabiting the organic treasure trove were purged, the Leviathan had then been worked to the marrow, transforming Elizabeth Bay into a maritime strip mine. Together with the east, most of Sydney CBD's quadrants had been demolished by the invasion as well. Thus far, only the central segment from Macquarie Street to Barangaroo had been reconstructed. Likewise, the crumbling, historical architecture of the city had been all but cleared, leaving wide avenues ripe for modern urban planning. As their taxi passed worksite after worksite, Gwen saw that Gunther had tirelessly transformed his home, ensuring Sydney could no longer be easily invaded. In between the gleaming concrete and glass, the Tower Master had installed watchtowers, Divination Beacons, Shielding Stations and Barrier Checkpoints, forming an intra-city defensive grid. "Wow— look at that! Amazing." The biggest difference, in so far as Gwen was concerned, was the appearance of Sydney Tower. In the past, her Master's residence had been primarily a concrete fort. Built in the early 80s under Henry Kilroy's guidance, it's sole purpose was as a military installation. Now, taking a leaf from Singapore and Hong Kong, Gunther had revamped the Tower by building an extension beside its original self, marrying curved glass and transmuted steel with the sandstone facade of the brutalist original. Side-by-side, the two buildings possessed an asymmetric appeal, symbolising not only the power and wealth of Sydney's Tower Master; but both the city's past and its bright future. "The new roads are so wide!" Gwen cooed, very much a bumpkin entering the big city for the first time. "Whoa, Martin's Square is now a pedestrian zone? And there are so many shops! I haven't seen half of these brands! Where are they all from?" "Mostly Europe," Yue answered, trying her best not to imagine Gwen buying up the inventory. "Gunther gathered A LOT of Mages in Sydney. Thanks to the reconstruction, our employment market is incredibly lucrative right now. Master says Sydney has the highest concentration of low to mid-tier Mages in Oceania." "What about the NoMs?" Gwen scanned the streets. In so far as she could tell, an equal volume of NoMs and Mages jostled through the crowded avenues. "They're mostly relocated to satellite hubs outside the CBD like Parramatta, Castle Hill, Lakemba, Blackheath and so on. Now that the old NoM districts are gone, they won't be able to afford the city's centre. All the buildings here are brand new." "That's terrible." Gwen frowned. "How about public transport? Did Gunther provide new lines to those areas?" "The city council's working on building tramlines into the suburbs where NoMs refugees have rebuilt. They started when I left a few months ago, but I don't think there's been much progress." "What are the refugees doing for crystals?" "Menial jobs, I'd imagine." Yue pointed to a crew of hard-hatted workmen digging out a pit on the road, supervised by a Transmuter in a hi-visibility jacket. "Most of the folks our family used to know from Forrestville are labourers now. You know; installing drywalls, running mana conduits, tiling, flooring, carpentry, that sort of thing. Gunther says that the NOMs are getting by just fine. I am just happy that mum's doing alright, I got her a position in the Tower's refugee relief unit. She's working the soup kitchens." "That's kind of her..." Gwen checked her reflection against the blurring city. Indeed, some things remained immutable, even under a benign dictator like Gunther. In the rearview mirror, she noticed that their driver was once again glancing at them. This time, it was their topic of conversation that made the man beyond curious. That they kept name dropping "Gunther" now and then was also highly suspect— for what business could two young women have with the highest office of Sydney? The most perplexing thing, Gwen mused, was probably why two chicks on a first-name basis with the premier Mage of Sydney had to take an NoM's taxi. "Yunnie, does Aunty like working for the Tower?" "I made sure the staff knew she was the mother of Yue Bai, Apprentice to the Scarlet Sorceress." Yue scoffed. "Anyone trying to bully mum will be served to the homeless, medium-rare." "Jesus." Gwen snorted. "And you didn't get a visit from HR?" "H-what?" "Never mind," Gwen withdrew her Gwenism. "How's Uncle Bai?" "Dad's alright. He got a cushy managerial position thanks to Gunther. We're no longer living in Forrestville, by the way. The Bais are moving up in the world! We bought a new place in Vaucluse, not far from the ferries. We got those now too, by the way." "Nice." Gwen recollected scenic Vaucluse from her old world. "That's right next to the water. Not worried about another Mermen invasion?" "Not with Gunther in charge. That Leviathan's provided plenty of materials to upgrade all of our Shielding Stations. Its skull now serves as a permanent military installation. We've got it towed to the Watson Bay inlet, right at the entrance into Sydney— they're calling the new island Mermaid's Head." "Classy. I suppose there's always a boon after the bust." "There's only a boon if your city happens to have an arse-kicker capable of decapitating a Leviathan five kilometres out, with minimal preparation and no Tower backup." "True." Gwen wondered if Gunther had gotten even stronger since his world-famous battle. "Gunther was Master's Ace." "Pufft, then what does that make you? The cat—" "Ma'am," their driver interrupted. "This is as far as I can go." The taxi pulled to a stop. Gwen materialised four LDM sticks. "Keep the change." "Cheers," the driver intoned reverently, happy for the sorceresses to depart his coarse and common vehicle. Outside, two guards in Fascist-white quickly accosted the girls. Different from the uniforms in Gwen's memory, the Tower's imposing attires had taken on a para-military aesthetic. The men's Merskin belt, Gwen noted, sported both a wand and a Sonic Suppressor. "Girls. You're in a restricted area. Please leave." The first guard placed a hand on the knob of his weapon. When Gwen responded to the man's menace with a wholly unconcerned smile, his tone softened. "Sorceresses, why are you here?" "Mate, we're here to see the Tower Master." Yue drew a Glyph in the air, which Gwen assumed to be some sort of passcode. "Take Gwen here to the Teleportation Platforms and inform Master Shultz that his little sister has arrived." The guards regarded one another. The one that had addressed them suddenly slapped his thigh. "You're Gwen Song!" The young man opened his mouth wide enough to swallow an egg. "I've seen you on the Vid-casts—!" The second guard slapped the first on the back. "That's Miss Gwen Song you're speaking to, Private Jones." The senior of the two saluted. "Corporal Gris, at your service, Ma'am." "Hello." Gwen inclined her chin politely. "Sorry for the hassle." "No trouble, Ma'am." The Corporal bowed. "Please, this way. Jones is just a little star-struck." With the guards leading the way, the two waltzed into the Tower's interior. Along the way, Gwen made pleasant small talk as she had always done, leaving the men well impressed. "How come they didn't recognise you?" Gwen leaned in beside Yue. Now below the Tower, she was delighted to see that the exterior cladding refracted the sunlight like the scales of a certain Rainbow Serpent. Inside, the multi-storey foyer was breath-taking, more akin to an ultra-luxury hotel rather than a central government office. "I don't much like coming here." Yue shrugged. "Master doesn't either. She says there's too much hot air. We generally spend our time in the Frontier zones." "But the IIUC Vid-cast..." "Gwen, you underestimate how memorable you can be." Yue smacked her on the bottom. "Now get! I've got places to be." "You're not coming with me?" Yue pointed a thumb to a sign that had the words "Teleportation Circle Access", followed by an arrow. "Nah, all that classified stuff you and Gunther are going to sprout is going to give me a headache. Besides, you're going to chill with your family..." Gwen's friend parted from her without so much as an adieu. "... and I am going to see mine." "Come in," Gunther's baritone voice resounded. Gunther's secretary, a middle-aged Diviner, opened the double-doors for Gwen. Located at the top floor of the new Tower, the oval office offered a horizon to horizon vista of Sydney's harbour and its south-western suburbs. "Brother!" Gwen made a bee-line for her sibling-in-craft. In the two years since Henry's passing, Gunther had been her rock, fluidly assuming the stewardship of their Master's orphaned Apprentice. "Sister." Gunther stood, as imposing as always in his surreal handsomeness. With outstretched arms, he caught the girl running toward him. "You look good. You're a young woman now." "Gods, I missed you." Gwen buried her face into her brother-in-craft's chest. "You have no idea how happy I am to be back here. I swear to God, a bloody lifetime has elapsed since we last spoke in person." "The feeling's mutual." Gunther awkwardly patted his "Sister" across the back. "Also, that's some strength you've got in your arms. Please try to refrain from squeezing out my insides. I am not a tube of toothpaste." Gwen laughed, releasing Gunther just enough for him to feel his spine realign. With great relief, he directed her to the visitor's chair. "First things first," she declared, flashing Gunther's Contingency Ring before chanting the secret Glyph to deactivate its magic. With a deft pull, she removed the ring from her ring finger, then placed the thumb-sized, un-glamoured diamond in front of her brother-in-craft. "Here you are— Thanks for the loan, Gunther, but your live-saver is killing me." "You should keep it." Gunther appeared puzzled by her rejection. "It makes me happier knowing that you're safe." "No thanks, Gunther. You forgot to mention that your heirloom is a unique artefact the likes of which the world will never see again." Gwen lamented. "You told me this was a 'decent' Contingency Ring. You DID NOT say that it was an irreplaceable, last of its kind Magic Item crafted by the House of Asscher, whose chief inscriber passed away a decade ago." "Regardless, the utility is what makes it precious." Gunther shrugged. "What use is it otherwise?" "How about you save it for Alesia." Gwen pushed the ring forward. "Or Gunther Junior. He or she would need it, knowing Alesia." Gunther smiled secretively. "Are you sure?" "I am sure. Besides, I've acquired one of my own." Gwen flashed the Continency Ring on her ring finger. "It's a Gavin Company 'Brilliant Round' from South Africa. Like yours, it's also an Eye Tyrant's Core. A friend of mine put in a good word with the company." "A friend?" "A Mineral Mage from Pretoria." "The young Hertzog?" Gunther nodded. "He's from good stock." Gwen cocked her head; her thick lashes fluttered uncertainly. "Gunther, have you been spying on me?" Her brother-in-craft leaned back in his executive's chair. Despite the inhuman hours spent at the desk, Gunther did not morph into a "Dad" as she had hoped. Conversely, where Magus von Shultz the Combat Mage had reminded her of a warring Apollo, Tower Master von Shultz took on a gentler, bookish air. "I kept tabs," Gunther replied, studying her face. "The Master of your other companion, Meister Bekker, doesn't have the best reputation. And Jean-Paul Bekker isn't exactly known for acts of chivalry." "He was a cool guy." "Cool— and cold, and ruthless, and just weird enough to be dangerous." Gunther picked up his ring, then slipped it onto his left index finger. "I've gotten wind of the deal he offered you, and no, Meister Bekker does NOT have my blessing." "O, Gods..." Gwen's face turned instantly scarlet. Gunther raised both hands. "I won't interfere with your life, Gwen, but I won't be kept in the dark. Is that agreeable." "I should say no." Gwen half-leaned against the table, nibbling her bottom lip. "But such is life, I suppose. I mean, are you going to give me privacy if I chucked a tantrum?" "No," Gunther candidly replied. "You're our little sister. You haven't even come out to society yet. You're also a Class VI War Mage." "A what?" "After Shenyang, you've been compartmentalised as a strategic asset." Gunther's smile betrayed the seriousness of his words. "There won't be limitations to your freedom as such, I've seen to that— but your general whereabouts and those with whom you associate will be made known to us. In Sydney, I can keep you out of the Tower's eyes and ears, but once you're in London…" "I understand." Gwen nodded. "The perils of power, huh?" "Especially when combined with youth," Gunther returned. "Once we're done here, I am going to send Emily to help you with getting your ID updated. For now, I'll grant you an Unlimited Class V Public Practice of Magic Licence. You should be able to use spells up to tier 5— but as always, there will be penalties if you abuse your privileges. Even as your brother-in-craft, I won't show favouritism in enforcing the rules of my city." "Thanks, but I won't be in Sydney for long." "How long?" "Two weeks? I am going to visit Opa and spend some time down at the Hunters. Hang out with Yue and Alesia, probably. Other than you guys, I am all alone." "That's all?" "That and I brought you this—" Gwen passed a hand over Gunther's table, materialising five tomes, each as thick as her wrist. Gunther picked up a leather-bound volume and flipped through the covers. The content was, demonstrably, both familiar and arcane. "Accounting? Auditing? What is this?" "A gift of knowledge for all the help you've given me. These are Professor James Ma's internal memos, collated into a manual for NoM trainees. I would venture to say that this is the sole reason Tonglv kept within budget AND managed to generate profit without wankers skimming the proceeds." Gwen's explained. "For a Tower Master up to his neck with delegated infrastructural projects, I'd imagine they're going to be quite invaluable." "Really? That's quite the gift." Gunther opened the first volume on corporate governance. After scanning the first few pages, he nodded. "But why NoMs?" "Ah, now that's a million HDM question." Gwen's eyes grew mischievous. "But I know how busy you are, so let's save the details for dinner. I wonder, what fine cuisine will the most bad-ass Mage in all of Oceania prepare for his prodigal sister?"

"Oh, wow." Gwen choked up, conquered by a torrent of welling emotions. Before her very eyes, engraved onto the Tower's dark, marble floor, was a glowing Teleportation Circle. "I can't believe it's still here." "I couldn't bring myself to disenchant it." Gunther's tone grew paternal as he patted Gwen's shoulders. "I had the Mandala preserved after we relocated. It's only one-way now, but very much still functional." "That's fine." Gwen stepped around the old Teleportation Circle. Her grandfather had inscribed the one in Pokolbin, but her Master had engraved its twin in the Tower. "I'll go and visit Opa tomorrow. I don't think I can fly back in time for dinner if I go now." "Maybe you should inform him of your arrival." "Naw." Gwen shook her head. "I want it to be a surprise. Is he hale?" "Your grandfather lives an interesting lifestyle," Gunther said, keeping a straight face. "If he's sick, I would have known." "Even if Opa's not," Gwen joked, admonishing Gunther's stoicism. "I can bring him back from the dead." Gunther coughed. "Let's not get carried away." "How do I access the circle? Tomorrow, I mean." "I'll arrange clearance for you." Gunther tapped his Message Device. "Look, I've got to get back to work. Alesia should return in an hour. Yue won't be joining us?" "She's got the family to attend to," Gwen said. "It's been almost three months since she last saw her mother." "How admirable," Gunther approved. "See you at dinner, Gwen." "Will do." Gwen gave her brother-in-craft another hug. "Thanks for preserving the Mandala." "No need." Gunther grinned. Before Gwen could speak, he patted her head. "To Alesia and I, you're the only family we've got left, so don't rush, you're still young. When you return from London and Sydney has settled, we'll go visit Master and Sufina together. Then, we'll find Sobel." As the fiancee of Sydney's Tower Master, there was no particular reason for the Scarlet Sorceress to stay in her old apartment. Nonetheless, out of sentimentality and or stubbornness, that's what she did. Located north of Lavender Bay and overlooking Wyatt Park, the former "Bay Lodge" of Nelson's Point had survived the Leviathan with no more than shattered shopfronts and flooded basements. The aftermath, however, saw Alesia's building playing home to the abruptly displaced refugees of the eastern suburbs. At her behest, the lower floors and the old commercial centre had turned into soup kitchens and its multi-story parking lot into temporary shelters. But once the crisis passed, the once august locale had lost all of its well-to-do owners and tenants. Furthermore, its new inhabitants were no longer named Mages that graced Sydney's social circles. Instead, newly wealthy migrants filled the skyscraper's middle floors, while the lower levels were converted into restaurants and cafes catering to the new flux of foreign workers. Alesia de Botton's residence in the penthouse suite, therefore, had become a fable of sorts. For a building located not so conveniently across the bay from Sydney's new Tower, it was difficult for the inhabitants to conceive that the premier Mage in Oceania and his wife lived a few floors up. Presently, within the lodge, in a closeted chamber shielded from Divination, Gwen materialised. With an irrepressible sense of nostalgia, she brushed the motes of sizzling Conjuration from her dress. Three years ago, she had teleported with Alesia into this very spot, knowing almost nothing about the world within which she had found herself. Then, after changing into a borrowed dress, they had gone to see her Master, Henry Kilroy. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! "Gwen— is that you?" Alesia's voice rang out before Gwen could even walk through the door. "Alesia, it's me!" She called back. "Er… I can't open the secret door. Did you change the Glyph?" "Ah— Gunther had new wards installed. One sec!" There was a din of stomping feet, then the wooden panel slid into its hidden recess, revealing a familiar face. Compared to when Gwen had first met her sister-in-craft, the Alesia de Botton of today appeared older, more worn and threadbare compared to the vivacious woman Gwen had met almost three years ago. "Allie!" "Gwen!" The pair embraced. Alesia delivered a mighty hug that wholly enveloped her sibling-in-craft. She kissed her twice, once on each cheek. "You've scared us almost to death!" The sorceress pulled herself away. "A Lich! Who the hell fights a Lich?!" "It had me pinned!" Gwen protested. "Did you watch the whole thing? I did my best to try and bluff it, but the damned thing wasn't afraid of Dragons. It was either fight or flight. I mean, it was tossing Disintegrates like confetti!" "I saw— at any rate, no more Liches for our Gwen-Gwen." Alesia kissed her again on the head. "Gods, that was too close. Fucking Chinese organisers, I just knew they would be full of shit." "No one anticipated a literal Lich." "Well, I think you should have burned Gunther's Ring as soon as you saw the limp-dick bastard. Fuck the competition. There's no merit in celebrating dead champions." Assaulted by Alesia's foul-mouthed kindness, Gwen melted in her sister's arms. Finally, here was someone whose reaction was entirely within the range of rational and reasonable expectations. "Still, I survived!" Gwen intoned sincerely. Thinking of her future majordomo, she decided to test the tension between them. "Walken saved my life, you should know. I survived thanks to him." "No—" Alesia wagged a finger rudely in her face. "Walken saved his arse. If you had died, Gunther would have reduced him to cinders. Hell, I would have scorched the bastard from inside out, starting with his marrows." "He almost died saving me. I had to CPR him back to life." "It was an act of desperation," Alesia insisted. "But enough about that snake. So, London, eh? Looking forward to it?" "Oh, absolutely." Gwen grinned from ear to ear. "Cambridge and Elvia, what's not to like?" Alesia laughed, inviting Gwen upstairs to the penthouse. As before, Alesia proceeded to her fridge, inside, as per Gwen's initial visit, were rows upon rows of beer. "Jesus, Allie, that's no way for the First Lady of Sydney to live." "Ha! Did Gunther tell you?" Alesia raised an elegant brow. "Tell me what?" "I am Missus Shultz now." "WHAT!" Gwen almost crushed her can of stout. "WHEN?" "When I got back from Shanghai." Alesia giggled. "After speaking to Ayxin, I decided it was time. Gunther and I, we're not going to find some else like ourselves. If a Dragon could find the courage to straddle the human she loves, why not me? It was a civil ceremony. We're both far too busy to organise a wedding and there are far too many young hussies in the Tower aiming to be Missus Shultz I didn't want to invite. That and I have only Yue and you, and Gunther his thousands of contacts..." Gwen appeared devastated. "Allie! WOE IS ME. The matrimony of de Botton and Shultz was supposed to be THE event of the decade! We're talking LORD GUNTHER von SHULTZ here! The King of Australia! You could have had an Opera House wedding dressed in white, with a train that stretches from Circular Quay to the Bennelong's lawn! The hair! The jewellery! The Vid-casts! The— THE CATERING! ARRRGH—!" "Hahaha..." Alesia's laughter shook the window panes. "You're so funny." "No, seriously!" Gwen almost tore out a clump of her precious hair. "I wanted to be your bridesmaid! O my God! How can this be? One of my most fervent dreams, shattered by inconvenient scheduling! How is Gunther okay with this?" "Gunther preferred it. He was oh-so-relieved when I told him we should just get the Governor-General to come and officiate at the Tower. Fifteen minutes was all it took. Gunther zipped the old feller up to his office; then it was all over. I've got the certificate witnessed and sealed and everything. You want to see?" "I do, but still—" Gwen felt physical pain. A civil ceremony? She could imagine the riot if William and Kate decided that a Westminster wedding was too much of a hassle, and so got notarised at the motor registry. "You have to give me time to digest this thing. I can't believe it. Gunther and Alesia, hitched! In an office! By the GG!" "It's not so bad." Alesia drummed her tummy absentmindedly. "Holy COWS—" Gwen's lips trembled, as did her fingers. "Are you…" "No, not yet." Alesia smiled. "You know how it is. The more talented a Mage, the harder it is for us to conceive. That's why sorceresses marry young— and why you're so damn popular. As for us, we're trying, but nature is going to take a long while to get here." "Well, you can give it a push! Are you menstruating on the regular? Have you counted your ovulation days?" "What kind of question is that?" Now, it was Alesia's turn to splutter. With her expression suddenly reserved, she regarded Gwen with suspicion. "And what would you know about pregnancy?! Have you got a boyfriend yet?" "What? No way." "Then— HAVE YOU BEEN WITH A BOY?!" Alesia pointed a trembling finger toward Gwen's face. "Allie, the only dudes I chill with are family, workers, and Dragons—" "HOLY SHIT, GWEN!" Alesia quivered with disbelief. "IS IT A DRAGON?! GUNTHER is going to be PISSED. Are we talking about the Wyvern or the Thunder Dragon? OR BOTH? Two at once? Jesus— Look, it doesn't matter, they fry all the same—" "No! No! No!" Gwen crossed her fingers to form an X, warding away Alesia' sudden hysteria. "Absolutely no boys! AND NO DRAGONS." "You better not be lying to me—" "Look, if you recall, my Babulya is the director of the Second PLA Army Hospital," Gwen declared with a straight face. "I am a girl, and she's an experienced medical practitioner. Naturally, in the course of our filial conversations, we've discussed such matters that pertain to female anatomy and fertility." The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Really…" "YES!" Alesia's shoulders fell. "Then why aren't you dating?" Gwen rolled her eyes. "So, are you and Gunther having problems conceiving?" "Not as such." Alesia squirmed. "It's just how it is. All older sorceress will run into the same problem. The more magic one possesses, the more problems a woman encounters. Some folks say since our lifespan increases, it's only natural for our fertility to decrease. For me, since I am a combat sorceress, I've sustained quite a bit of damage in my youth. If you recall, during that time we ran into your snake, Edgar and his goon took out a chunk of my gut. Then, during Sobel's invasion, I burned up half my conduits. All that healing takes a toll. Upper-tier mystic ingredients don't just fall from the tree, you know." "Bloody hell, Allie." Gwen held her sibling's hand, feeling her cold fingers tense. "Don't you worry, you're still young…" "Young?" Alesia snorted. "Now you're making fun of me. My body's probably all kinds of beaten by now." "Nah, you don't have to worry about that." Gwen grinned mysteriously. "Injuries? Accumulated body fatigue? Pufft! That's nothing. Let's wait for Gunther. For you guys? I've got the good shit..." "Gunther, you've CHANGED." Gwen stabbed her fork into the oily breast of a roasted Teak-beak Goose. "TAKE AWAY, really?" "You have only yourself to blame." Gunther massaged his eyes. "I spent the whole afternoon reading those manuscripts you left me and lost track of time. It's going to take a few months to gather the personnel, but I expect we should be able to get a division of scribes up and running before the next financial year." "You'll need to establish an Enforcer team as well, filled with Mages you trust. Folks will do anything to dodge their taxes and cheat the government of its rightful dues. Killing, I'd imagine, would be the least of your problems." "I know." "Still, that's no excuse for sub-par food!" Gwen hissed. "Look at this greasy skin! It's burnt! And this meat, it's dry! You think Allie will get hale enough to bear a baby if she's eating takeaway from Phat's on George St?" "Can we not talk about babies?" Gunther grimaced, looking toward Alesia for help. When Alesia grinned, he disapprovingly raised both brows. "What do you know? You're a kid. Do you even have a boyfriend?" "My Babulya's a doctor!" Gwen rudely waved her fork. "So you keep saying." Gunther rolled his eyes. "Bah!" Gwen turned aside with a huff. "Men! You can lead a Sleipnir to water, but you can't make it drink!" "Gwen— leave the baby-making to Gunther and me." Alesia attempted to calm their youngest, who was both excited about the future and upset over the food. "So what's this big gift you keep hinting at?" "I had other gifts prepared, but now that I know what you need..." Gwen walked to the end of the table, where the tabletop wasn't inundated by a dozen takeaway containers. "... BEHOLD!" With a wave of her Storage Ring, she materialised a white-jade bottle of Maotai with a scarlet label. "This is half-century-old Maotai, brewed by the masters of Guizhou from the rare Wildland Red Sorghum and kept sealed under the ley-line beneath the brewery for five decades. It was bottled before the Communists took China." With another gesture, she materialised a sealed box radiating Enchantment. "And is a half-millenium-old ginseng raised by Dragons." She opened the box. "Ta-da!" "Kii—KII?" The Ginseng Sprite, again disturbed from its slumber, gazed up at Gwen with its faceless mien. As before, her Dragon-fear held it in place. Already, the Ginseng was missing most of its right limb, some of its left leg, and most of the tendrils. "Kii?" "Don't worry bud." Gwen held the Ginseng down with one hand. With her other hand, she summoned a thin disk of Void, not dissimilar to the cutting edge of her Chakram. "You won't feel a thing." "KII?!" The Sprite let loose a piercing shout. Its protest was fruitless, for Gwen soon snapped-shut the box and held within her hand a segment of its right-most extremity. "Noisy little bugger." "Jesus, Gwen." Alesia held a hand to her lips. "I don't think you should be doing that." Gunther was equally aghast. "To my knowledge, certain groups of powerful Demi-humans may not find your usage... kosher." "Not to worry," Gwen assured her siblings-in-craft. "It exists to be eaten, after all. The dude who grows these does it out of boredom. It walks and talks, but really, it's just a herbal supplement." "That looks like a low-tier Spirit to me," Alesia pointed out. "A Draconic one at that." "— and now!" Gwen ignored her siblings. "We apply some Essence to the herb in question." Gunther and Alesia sat transfixed as a pool of viridescent Essence, unadulterated in its purity, collected on their sister-in-craft's palm. "That's pure Druidic Essence." Alesia had seen Gwen feed her Familiars motes of the stuff, but had no idea Gwen could pump Essence outside her body like a liqueur from a bottle. In her hand, the root from the Spirit Ginseng began to sprout little tendrils. Gwen exalted in the act, for here in Australia, Almudj's gift flowed far more accessibly than when she was elsewhere. After absorbing the viridescent fluid in her palm, Gwen expertly unstoppered the bottle of half-century Maotai, then cupped the opening, forcing the struggling "herbal supplement" into the alcohol. Instantly, a fragrant scent of alcohol combined with the bitter redolence unique to ginseng permeated the air. At the final step, she re-stoppered the Maotai, gave the elixir a good shake, then presented the precious liquid with a winning smile. "And there we have it. The panacea to all your ailments. Whatever injuries you have sustained in the past. Gone! Back pain? GONE. Work stress? NO MORE! Age lines. A thing of the past! Ailing libido—" "Okay— okay." Gunther put up both hands in surrender. "Gwen, I know what I am looking at. Dare I ask how you got your hands on this, and how much it costs?" "About four hundred HDMs for the bottle, which isn't terrible, considering a limited stock exists. The ginseng, comparatively, is priceless. I doubt there's more than a hundred of its ilk still cultivating in Huangshan. The gardener's a prude, or so I've heard. As for the Essence, that's all me— and Almudj." "I see." Gunther eyed the bottle. "It certainly looks and smells potent. I can feel the vitality from here. Is it safe to imbibe?" "I wouldn't drink more than a thimble a day," Gwen warned her siblings. "About a quarter of the bottle is enough for me to summon Caliban's Bird or Hydra form without needing to replenish. As for safety, my family in China can vouch for its potency. We've had it twice so far, everyone's doing well as a result." "That's good to know." Alesia licked her lips. "But that's not all!" Gwen made a second pass at the table. A whole stack of assorted goods materialised, some boxed, others bundles, yet more items were crystalised in Petra's cubes. "This is from Fur-Peak, a tea that has absorbed the Essence of a Mythic-class Dragon. It likewise restores vitality and boosts vigour, but should be drunk slowly over a year." "Here's some Dragon-carp meat from Gogo. He's been a good boy. Considering how virile he is, I suspect there's something in his favourite food. Did you know he knocked up a pheasant? They're not even the same species!" "These are lamb-fat jadeite talismans. I've requested one for the each of you. It will ward away Negative Drain, protect you from evil, and bring good luck— or at least that's what my mate Ruxin says. As a five-century-year-old Thunder Dragon and the lord of Kachin, Nagaland and Manipur, I reckon he knows his jade." "You still traffic with this Ruxin?" "Of course, I am his financial advisor. Alesia's informed you I hope. Allie's mates with Ayxin, Ruxin's sister." "Hold on." The Tower Master of Sydney wondered when his sister-in-craft would stop dropping one Fireball after another. "I know that you're involved with the Draconic Clans in China. I also know that your Uncle is 'involved' with one. Can you repeat the last part?" "Sure. Alesia knows Ayxin. Ain't that why you guys got hitched?" "No," Gunther said. "The one before that." "My role as a financial advisor?" "Yes, please explain?" "What's there to explain? Dragon has crystals, and by supplying me with a commission-based salary, he now has more. It's win-win." "And this Ruxin has invited you into his vault, has he?" "Think of his treasure hoard as a bank." Gwen made a box with her hands. "I am working on multiplying the hoard rather than let it grow mould. In turn, I take a small cut for myself and use an otherwise static resource to benefit mankind. Currency is so named because it must flow, Gunther, you should know that. At any rate, this way, the more prosperous our cities become, the more crystal Ruxin accumulates both in his lair and on paper. Ergo, the humans leave the Dragon alone, and the Dragon sees the humans as beneficial." "But a Dragon is a Dragon," Gunther pointed out. "To it, we're chattel." "If Ruxin is any indication, Dragons are a decent sort, certainly no worse than the monsters in our midst. In my experience, they're creatures characterised by a love of land, crystals, and laziness. Satisfy all three, and a Draconic ally becomes a great boon." Gunther and Alesia exchanged disbelieving glances. "It's true." Gwen smiled. "For example, you know I've got some stake in Tonglv, correct? Soon, the old codgers are going to make a move on my cut of the action. Additionally, I won't be able to defend myself in their kangaroo court." "I could pay them a visit," Alesia offered. "That'll sort them out." "No need." Gwen smirked impishly. "I've arranged it so that Ruxin is now the principal benefactor of my portion of the Tonglv Fund. I've given him all my assets in China as collateral for his future financial support." "So you're the advisor to Ruxin— and Ruxin is the custodian of your investments?" "Bingo! Imagine what will happen when the Fund stops paying out to my accounts— which are now Ruxin's accounts. When the Thunder Dragon sees the pricks stealing from him, what will he do to those poor sods in their ivory tower? Ruxin's father is a Mythic Dragon, and Huangshan is only a hundred kilometres from Nantong. For a being that literally controls the weather over China's rice bowl, what would be the implications?" "Strewth, Gwen." Alesia watched the goosebumps run up and down her arm. "HA! What will the mighty Central Commission for Discipline Inspection think when news reaches them that a bunch of greedy bastards are taking China's largest city to the brink of starvation over a mere matter of a few hundred-thousand HDMs? Suffer in your jocks!" Alesia turned her chin slowly to gaze at Gunther. Gunther met his wife's eyes with a cocked brow. "Are you really the Gwen we know?" Alesia placed a hand on her sister's forehead. "I don't know whether Master would be terrified, pleased or both." Gunther exhaled. "Gods, Gwen, what a horrible scheme you've hatched. It's like a page out of the Grey Faction's manifesto." Gwen allowed Alesia to squeeze her cheeks. Whether her sister was being proud or admonishing, she couldn't tell. "Gunther, those crystals are rightfully mine," Gwen declared, her face pink thanks to Alesia. "I designed the Tonglv Fund from the ground up. I gave them the means! I trained those auditors and brought Professor Ma on board as well. The hours I poured into making the system work could have gone to my Spellcraft! If they wish to usurp my share, then they should be ready to pay the price. You said it yourself, didn't you? We have to be cruel to be kind." "I think that was you..." "Gwen." Alesia drew Gwen closer. "I think you're growing up a little too quick for my comfort." Gunther, comparatively, appeared less worried and more so wary. "Gwen, tell me truthfully. Did Eric Walken instruct you to engage this ploy?" "Sorry to disappoint, but the credit is all mine." Gwen met her brother-in-craft head-on. "I believe that this result is the culmination of opportunities I have cultivated in China— My father's family, the Dragons of Huangshan, Tonglv Canal, Professor Ma, the auditors, the Centurion Credit Program— and now, Legion Corp." "Legion Corp?" Gunther and Alesia both raised their heads. "YES! I was hoping you could give me a hand so that I can help Sydney help itself." Gwen's voice took on a peculiar and hypnotic cadence. With a word, Gwen activated the Illusions she had practised for Ruxin. In front of her sister and brother-in-craft, a map of greater Sydney and its Green and Orange Zones materialised. "What is that?" Alesia asked. "THIS is the end goal of Legion Corp! Make no mistake, our motto is simple: _We're with you, and we're Legion_." The next morning, Gwen awoke while her siblings slept next door. For the first time in a long time, Gunther called in late for work. It couldn't be helped, for an all-night discussion of Sydney's future had taxed the man to exhaustion. That and Gwen suspected from the Sound Ward on the second floor that the two may have too eagerly partaken her alchemical aids. As a long term imbiber of vitality-rich elixirs, she could only imagine what effects so much vigour could have had on two individuals in the prime of their lives. For sure, if Ayxin was confident in offsetting decades of Ash-usage, Gunther and Alesia should have no problems. Gwen ate a can of heated SPAM with a spoon while her siblings napped, then wrote the two a note to say that she would Message from Surya's. With her Flight Licence and Gunther's gift of Glyphs, it wasn't difficult to cross the bay then take a taxi from the Ferry Terminal. Once inside the Tower, two cadets respectably chauffeured her into the depth of the old Tower. "Miss Song, please call us if you need anything." The guards bowed deeply. Gwen returned their offer with a nod, after which the duo disappeared down the familiar levitation platform. The room she once used still appeared as it always had been. In the past, she had come and gone from the Tower via this very Mandala, splitting her time between her Master's domain, Blackwattle High, and Surya's Estate. For a long while, she had thought that her quiet, routined life would continue until the end of high school, perhaps even the end of university. But that part of her life was long gone. Expertly, Gwen materialised an inscriptor in her dominant hand, carefully, she traced the outline of the Mandala. Now possessing the talent for Enchantment, the magical formulae no longer appeared mystical and unknowable. Within the circle, Gwen observed both the works of her Master and her Opa, each distinct in their execution of Weinberg's Parallel Conduit and Higgs' Parabolic Equaliser. With her other hand, she materialised a dozen HDMs and slotted them into the dimples carved onto the floor. Power nodes, these were dubbed in the parlance of the Enchanters; designed to channel and consume the latent energies held within the mana crystals. For her present transit, however, the Tower's internal conduits would provide the necessary mana. "Teleport!" Gwen spoke the final invocation. With a stirring of dust, the Mandala activated, flaming with silvery Conjuration. In the middle, the Divination portion of the Mandala returned pure-white and vivified, verifying its linked-twin hundreds of kilometres away. The room flashed. Time and space lost all meaning. Quicksilver Conjuration fell all about Gwen's body, swirling and swirling until the mana was spent. Gwen opened her eyes. She had arrived at her destination, and all around her was darkness.

For added insurance, Gwen conjured Caliban. "Shaa?" Caliban scented the pitch-darkness, reporting nothing 'living' within her vicinity. "Arcane Sight!" With her Familiar's assurance, she took a few precious seconds to activate her Divination. Gwen's emerald irises glowed viridescent, dispelling the darkness. Not surprisingly, she was in a warehouse— one packed to the rafters with boxed and warded ingredients. Gwen recalled that the Mandala used to be in her Opa's workshop, though now it seemed that her grandfather's sanctum had been abandoned for some time. With her enhanced vision turning the stacked boxes of materials phosphorescent, she stepped around the wards, then located the door. There, she found her exit locked with Transmutation and warded with offensive Abjuration. With her limited knowledge of Enchantment, dispelling the protection was impossible. "OPA?" she called out. "HELLO?" "Shaa—Shaa?" "OPA? It's me, Gwen!" Gwen checked her Message Device. Surya's Glyph was inoperative. "OPA!!!" Gwen hammered the ceiling after sensing no retaliatory Enchantments. _THUMP!_ She recalled Gunther had said that there were NoMs living on her grandfather's property. Surely, someone would hear her and find her Opa. "HELLO?" This time, she added Clarion Call. "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban aided its mistress as best as it could, rising on its tail to drum the roof with its tentacled tongue. “SHAAAAA!" Surya Huang laid in his bed, watching a fly entrapped within the gossamer half-covering his bed. Usually, the Enchanter possessed a carefree disposition. More and more frequently, however, Surya had found himself in what Tess dubbed "one of those geezer moods". It wasn't that Surya wanted to be depressed. Sometimes, the deviation of his present circumstances from his hopes and dreams simply caught the veteran unaware. For a self-professed family man, few things were more demoralising than not having a family nearby. After the Coral Sea War and after Agnes' rejection, Surya had settled down to build his Australian Dream. He had found himself a devoted young wife, engendered two lovely children, and thanks to his mate Henry, enjoyed both fame and fortune. The future of House Huang had looked bright, and the aspirations he nurtured for a grand estate crawling with dozens of grand and great-grandchildren seemed at hand. Now, he slept alone in his enormous bedroom, thinking of two-dozen ways to fry a panicking blue-bottle while his once-manicured estate crawled with despondent NoMs. Surya tried his best not to think of his children, but the memory of their sweet, smiling faces vying for their father's attention made him both nostalgic and upset. Kwan had always been ambitious, and Surya couldn't fault his son's appetite for wealth— for that had been the pie in the sky he had painted the boy in his youth. As for Helena, her marriage to Morye was the final straw that broke the camel's back. And as for his grandchildren; he had seen Richard only a dozen times in his life. Percy, likewise, had always thought of Surya as senile codger. As for the one that was abducted, Surya sighed. When would he see his cute _cucu perempuan_ again? "Mel?" Surya croaked. No response came. "Tess?" His other Apprentice was away as well, likely working out yet another gripe for the NoMs. "Hehe." Surya reached under the bed and produced a bottle of Bundaberg's finest overproof. Tess and Mel forbade him from drinking the strong stuff, but the girls were far too used to their Storage Rings to notice that the folds between the bed base and the mattress served as mundane storage. Shimming up his fort of goose-down pillows, Surya groped for a glass in the gloom. "Here's to you, my _cucu perempuan_ — stay safe." In one swig, Surya knocked back the amber liquid, allowing the alcohol to suffuse his mind so that the bubbling bile of unhappiness could once again settle in its well. Soon, the sweet and sticky sugarcane rum suffused Surya's insides, warming up his stick-thin body. "Opa?" echoed a muffled cry from below. Surya squinted in the curtained light. Just in case, he turned the bottle over, making sure Tess hadn't replaced the damn thing with Cane Toad extract to teach him a lesson. "Helloooooo?" There it was again! Surya broke out in a cold sweat. How could Gwen be HERE of all places? Thousands of kilometres from China? If anything, shouldn't she be headed for London? And even if she was, why would she be in the walls? And if she was in the walls, why was she haunting him? Gingerly, he sniffed the bottle, then swilled the liquid to check for impurities. Maybe Tess mixed in the toad-juice with the rum? That sneaky little witch needed to be spanked! "SHAA!" came a spine-chilling shriek, this one straight out of Surya's fevered nightmares. _THUMP!_ Something was striking the walls below. _THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!_ Goddess! Surya felt his heart leap to his throat. Was this an indigenous spirit, come to punish him for building a house— "Anyone home? I am going to Dimension Door out!" Surya again tried to discern if the voice he was hearing was real or hallucinatory. He recalled something about the workshop beneath his bed, but the overproof rum was remarkably potent. _VOOOMPH!_ A concentric ring of raw electricity ignited the air, materialising a feminine figure in a mini-dress. The room illuminated for a second, then without warning, his _cucu perempuan_ , the cutest, most beautiful granddaughter in human history, stood staring at him, her face a mask of horror. "G-Gwen?!" Surya spluttered. "SHAAA!" Besides the girl, her serpent, as black and phallic as the day it was born, screeched with delight, slithering onto the bed. Gwen's eyes glowed with supernatural sight, her pupils capturing every detail in crystal clarity. "Y-you're REALLY here?!" Surya spluttered. A torrent of repressive, gut-churning, spine-wrenching terror radiated from the girl. Under that gaze, Surya felt his body transform into a boneless anemone. "O-OPA! W-WHY-WHY are you NAKED?!" "A man's home is his castle," Surya explained, nursing his old bones. Thanks to Gwen's Dragon Fear, he had fled his bed and dressed so fast he had sprained his back and shoulders. "I sleep naked because it's hot. It's a sauna this summer." "You're an Enchanter!" Gwen glowered, rubbing her eyes. "There are cooling Glyphs in your room! On your bed! And also leather cuffs— why are cuffs—" "A man's got needs—" "You're SIXTY…" "I am a servant of Eros," her Opa explained, pointing a thumb at one of his many erotic statues. This one appeared to be a poor woman kneeling over, submitting to two Calibans. "Shaa?" Caliban appeared confused. "Is that the only thing on your mind?" Gwen quickly retrieved her innocent serpent before it could be corrupted. "Its art, and yes, I am very creative." Gwen reformatted her long-term memory to hard-wipe the mental image of her grandfather reenacting "The Nude Maja", consigning her recall to Caliban's gullet. "Okay, let's leave it at that." Slowly, her expression softened. Hesitantly, after checking her Opa's robes for stains, she opened her arms. "Now that you're decent. Come here, Opa." "My _cucu perempuan_!" Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Gwen cradled the frail old man in her arms. Two years ago, when she had last done the same, her Enchanter grandfather had felt larger than life. Now, her Opa appeared drained of all his vivacity. Even held against her bosom, the grinning old man barely reached her chin. Even his hands, one pressing the small of her back and the other gripping her arm, felt like bird claws. "How's your health?" Gwen asked her grandfather. "Gunther tells me a lot has happened." "Yes, indeed." Surya exhaled. "Too much…" "Well." Gwen pulled up a chair. Outside and below the estate's elevated veranda, makeshift shelters stretched from east to west, falling away where Surya's boundary fence met the neighbours. "For once, I've got all the time in the world." From Gwen's Singapore misadventure to her family in China, Burma, and elsewhere, Opa and _cucu perempuan_ exchanged stories of the past two years. When finally, the conversation fell to her deceased Master, her Opa fell silent. For Surya, the fall of Sydney and the death of Henry Kilroy had come as a profound shock. Now, out of his original party, only he, Mark, Agnes and Elizabeth remained. "To think Deathless Henry would leave this world before I took the long walk." Surya shook his head. "Hold up." Gwen's brows knitted. "Chandler's not dead?" "He escaped the Tower in the ensuing confusion." Surya breathed out. "Or so I've heard from Gunther. Your Brother-in-craft suspects that someone had to have aided Marc. It's a moot point, though. He's a Necromancer now, with a bounty on his head across all of the Mageocracy. What kind of life is that?" "Did he escape into the Wildlands? Become a Rogue Necromancer?" "It's possible. You didn't run into Marc in Shenyang, did you?" "No." Gwen hesitated at the possibility that Chandler HAD escaped to Shenyang, and that one of the many faceless victims of her Shoggoth was a man responsible for her pain, shame and misery. "Not that I would know." "A shame." Surya shook his head. "Although he was a companion, I would have preferred him deceased. With Henry gone, we need closure." "Me too," Gwen concurred. Having experienced Necromantic magic firsthand, her desire to see their mass-murdering "Craft" scoured from the earth was no less constant than Gunther's or Alesia's. "How's Agnes and the ladies?" "They're doing well." Surya grinned. "Agnes had the girls hide in the Black Cat when the city flooded. Thankfully, Surry Hills wasn't completely inundated by the Mermen tsunami. It's a hilly place, as the name suggests. She and the local militia managed to fight off the vanguards and establish a defensive cordon. For now, business is booming. She's expanded the business and the shelter. Some of the girls visit monthly to model for me." "I didn't need to know that." "It's nothing inappropriate. What's wrong with young ladies helping an old man find joy—" "Please." Gwen handwaved her Opa into silence. "So, what do you think about Dad? Now that you know everything, I mean. The Song family, why he's in Australia, the works." "I dearly wish my counterpart could beat the bastard black and blue every Tuesday," Surya growled. "Hiding his talent! Seducing my daughter and abandoning my _cucu perempuan!_ Leaving you to be abused by his new in-laws, then ploughing some hussy half his age and even having a son with her? There's no justice in the world, I tell you. If there is a God like the Christians say, that salty bastard would have eaten dirt during Sydney's siege." "The communists are godless," Gwen reminded her Opa. "But I concur, Morye or Hai— he's a failure, much less a father." "But his family seems a decent lot," Surya agreed whole-heartedly with Gwen's vitriol. "That Grandmother of yours seems like a decent sheila. And sweet Petra…" "Won't be coming to Australia." Gwen almost regretted pointing out that the leggy Russian brunette in the IIUC footage was her cousin. "To change the subject, you haven't heard from my mother at all?" "I'd imagine you would have heard from her," Surya returned guiltily. "I mean, she's in China and all, and so were you." "We had a clean break." Gwen put together her hands; when she opened them again, a Vitae Fruit was resting on her palm. "I gave her back her youth. We're done." "Ho!" Surya's brows arched with surprise. "Where did you find this?" "I've collected this and more." Gwen smiled at her Opa. In her eyes, her grandfather looked far too old for a Magus of his station and skill. Considering individuals like Walken appeared perfectly youthful, no more than a dandy gentleman in his forties— why should her Opa look like something the cat dragged in? "Some wine, some tea, some herbal supplements, all of which will make you haler and younger." "There's no need." Surya flexed his wiry-thin arms. "I've been like this for decades." "The supplements I've brought are so potent that an Ash Mage with an affinity higher than tier 7 may be conceiving a half-dragon child as we speak," Gwen spoke as she laid out her gifts one by one. "I wonder what an artist such as yourself can do with such an infusion of life?" "You desire another Uncle or Aunty?" Surya was incredulous. He took her fingers with an earnest look of disapproval. "I know Hai has neglected you, but I didn't think your problems were so serious—" "Let me stop you right there," Gwen spluttered, slapping her Opa's wayward hand. "I mean your health! Don't be insulted Opa, but you look like hell. You look like a desiccated coconut!" "I live in on a farm, looking after thousands of refugees! With no son, no daughter and no grandchildren!" Surya chuckled. "Why do I care about my looks?" "You should because you're going to live a LONG TIME." Gwen pinched Surya on the thighs, making the old man yelp. "Ten, twenty, FIFTY years from now, you'll still be by my side, right? I need an Enchanter for my Tower." "Your what?" "My Tower." "You're going to be a Tower Master?" Gwen nodded. "I want to make life better for the people who helped me come all this way. If possible, I want to carve out a place for the NoMs as well, so they aren't just livestock for the Mageocracy." Surya gawked at his little girl, now suddenly a giantess. "Was this Henry's idea? The Noble Obligation thing?" "It's Noblesse Oblige, and the idea was mine," Gwen said. "Master felt responsible for the NoMs— but to him, they're still just second class beings. I want to make their place in society worthwhile, at least economically." "Really? And what are NoMs to you? From the position of the Mageocracy's future Omni-Mage, I mean." Gwen pointed a finger toward the folk milling about below. There was now a makeshift community living on her Opa's estate. Considering the difficulty of relocation, Gunther had offered to gift Surya with a similar piece of land elsewhere. "Opa, I am going to tell you something that I haven't told anyone yet. Not seriously, at least. Can I trust you to keep a secret?" "Of course, if you can't trust Opa, who can you trust?" Gwen smirked. "Okay, here I go—" She took a deep breath. "Opa, I feel that NoMs, our fellow human beings, possess within their multitudes a great and untapped potential. I am not speaking of NoMs who may one day Awaken as Mages, but NoMs with skills, talents, and gifts in their own right. Some may become great theorists of mathematics and physics. Others become traders, entrepreneurs, artists, poets, and writers. Within the untapped multitudes, we may very well uncover ideas and merits that will change humanity far more fundamentally. In my opinion, a million NoMs given proper training and education far exceed an Omni-Mage's greatest potential." "Bloody oath." Surya sipped his rum, feeling flushed with warmth and vitality. "You're going to pull some whiskers. I'll tell you that. People will die." "People die every day and everywhere as we speak. Nonetheless, that's what I believe in," Gwen continued. "Right now, we dig and dig and dig away at our Frontiers. Killing demi-humans, harvesting Wildland ingredients, mining for crystals. BUT what the humans don't realise is that the biggest bounty lies in themselves." "The humans?" Surya snorted. "Us, I mean." "But resources are finite." "And our planet is plenty." Gwen shrugged. "Opa, I believe without a shadow of a doubt that even if there are seven billion of us in this world, we would still be perfectly able to supply an excess of food, water and shelter to our species, dickheads notwithstanding. What's limiting us isn't Monsters or demi-humans— it's our irrational 'apartheid' for those who lost the genetic lottery." "I don't know what to say," Surya confessed. "I am just an Enchanter. All I know is how to make Magical Items and sculptures. You must have met some great teachers in Fudan. Is this a part of their Communist Manifesto or something." "Not really, but there are parallels." Gwen allowed the matter to drop. If her Opa believed that this was what she learned in China of all places, then so be it. "Now, on the matter of Enchantment— what do you think of my new talent? Can I carry on the House of Huang as you had envisioned?" "Ah, yes." Surya rubbed his hands together, his face brightening at once. "NOW THAT'S WONDERFUL NEWS!" Gwen remained at Surya's for three days, catching up with Mel and Tess, teaching them how to consume the Draconic-tea from Fur Peak and making sure that her grandfather wouldn't overindulge, causing his lower body to explode. Concurrently, she spoke at length with Surya about her plans for the future. More explicitly, she had relayed the requirements she and Marong had discussed for Project Legion's fleet of Divination Stations. To Surya, who had long lost the passion for the crafting of magical items and mandalas, the Legion Project appeared to ignite an old fire. That or Gwen suspected, her supplements had regenerated the gnarled synapses of her Opa's eros-addled brain. According to the old Enchanter, Gwen and her partners would have to supply five critical components for her "Carrier Network" to manifest in reality. First, they needed a steady supply of high-quality Creature Cores, ideally harvested from a plentiful, renewable source to ensure consistency. When Surya noted the impossibility of such a thing, Gwen immediately thought of Golos. If Ruxin or Gogo could arguably put some effort into subsuming Magical Creatures, then it was entirely possible to generate caches of middle to high-tier Cores consistently. Secondly, "Legion Corp" needed to recruit a group of specialised Enchanters. These new-fangled Magitech-crafters must possess the capacity to engrave reactive Mandalas that interacted with the "datum" Gwen wished to traffic. Of greater difficulty was an even rarer breed of Enchanters who specialised in information algorithms and Crystal Cores. These individuals, Surya explained, originate from Palo Alto, a place dubbed the Crystal Valley— the birthplace of the Crystal Core commonly found in Data Slates and Lumen-Recorders. Upon hearing the name, Gwen blinked, thinking to herself that, OF COURSE, such a place existed. Thirdly, Gwen needed to make contact with the manufacturing giants that made the Message Devices. Only by convincing the creators of these devices to use her private network could she arguably enact her plan. A caveat that would doubtless burden her goals was the fact that she was attempting to give NoMs the means to widely adopt Message Devices— a fact that may not sit well with manufacturers in Central Europe, Japan, and Korea. Gwen replied that those who do not innovate, stagnate; and that in time, the market would ensure her detractors fall in line. Her Opa shrugged. He wasn't an economist and could not comment. Fourthly, as she intended to work with the Towers, a working relationship would have to be established with the Master of each region where her "Carrier Network" hoped to exist unmolested. There, she would have to deal with the unfortunate reality that Tower Masters followed Factions— and her benefiting the Grey Faction, for instance, may spoil her chances of planting Towers in another Faction's domain. Fifth and lastly, the Legion Corporation needed to lease land. To start, Gunther and Marong had no complaints in supporting her hobby. Likewise, from Lima to Cuzco, Gwen was sure to receive a fair shake of the sauce bottle. In other locations and in dealing with less favourable individuals, however, the tithing and service paid to spiteful stakeholders may sink her profits entirely. Gwen's response to Surya's paranoia was that as with all business dealings, localities had to be dealt with on a geographic basis. She was well aware of the risks and would handle the rollout with the utmost care. Of all of her Opa's advice, the ones she truly heeded were the ones on Enchantment. It would seem that her plans for the next five years now involved a trip down to "Crystal Valley". The reality of how specialised modern Magitech had become was no less arcane than the Renaissance of home computing in the early 2000s. For Gwen, to number herself among the likes of those groundbreaking, world-changing entrepreneurs was a daunting endeavour, offset only by her promise to Tao. Were the Jobs and Gates of this world Enchanters, or were they neglected NoMs awaiting discovery? Gwen shivered just thinking about the potential innovations she may yet make in Palo Alto. And so it was, three days after her arrival at the tablelands, the Devourer of Shenyang kissed her well-rested Opa on the forehead, then once again said her farewells. As for her next destination, it wasn't toward Sydney, but an encampment in the interior, a place where she had last met her kin.

More so than in her old world, the wide brown land was sparsely populated. It was a fact made apparent ten minutes Mage Flight from Pokolbin, for once the last vineyard ended, continuous leagues of stunted bush stretched monotonously from horizon to horizon. "Ee!" Ariel performed a mid-air summersault. Against a limitless sky, her Kirin's appearance was so beautiful as to make Gwen's heart soar. "Race me!" Gwen pointed in the general direction of Barrington Tops. "Ee! EE!" Ariel performed and upside-down loop. "Eeeee!" Leaving behind two rings of sizzling static, the two set off, twin meteors fulminating across a cloudless, cobalt sky. As she edged toward top-speed, Gwen conjured a conical Shield to reduce the drag coefficient created by her blouse and jeans. The buffeting wind ceased at once, though she had a nasty vision that should she impact something; there was going to be a rather spectacular splatter. "EE!" Ariel zoomed on ahead; its quasi-magical body unbound by laws of physics as its mortal Conjurer. "Woohoo!" Gwen hooted, performing a corkscrew, paralleling a distant memory of Disney's Peter Pan. Ariel followed, slipping through the air like mercury. "Ee! EE!" Her familiar warned her of impending danger. In the distance, a few dots approached on a perpendicular course. Gwen accelerated. "SQWARK!" came the warning from afar. "SKARK!" From where she hovered, Gwen could see that the intercepting creatures were sleek, missile-like birds with serpentine necks. With her Essence-focused eyes, she remarked that the avians possessed two pairs of wings. As the flock banked toward her and her Familiar, she spotted a distinct dash of black feathers running the length of the birds' forehead down to its spine, ending with long and elegant plumes the colour of obsidian. "Bustards!" Gwen marvelled at her encounter. These were rare and precious birds, a real delicacy if Alesia were to be believed. In her old world, the Bustards were large and impressive avians. In this world of monsters, the aerial predator was the size of a Cessna. "SQWARK!" "Ee! EE!" "SQWARK!" "EE!" Kirin and the bird engaged in a shouting match; from her Empathic Link, she recognised that they were in the bird's territory. It was one of the many reasons why air travel never took off— for Magical Monsters constantly waylaid the travellers. "Tell it we're leaving." Gwen pointed their trajectory westward. "We'll take a detour." "EE! EE-ee!" "SQWARK!" the leading bird approached, rapidly increasing its velocity. At the very tip of its albatross-like frame, a keratin-sheathed beak protruded like a spear. Though the Bustard was only a tier 6 threat— for a Mage in-flight, Gwen imagined, its powers were well magnified. "HMMPH!" With a grunt, she let loose a tendril of Dragon Fear. "SQWARK!" Like Golos reacting to the Da-peng, the leading Bustard fell away, momentarily paralysed. The other two, shocked by their alpha's sudden retreat, followed their leader. "EE!" Ariel mocked their challenger, swishing its tail to and fro. Gwen chuckled, pleased by the peaceful resolution, wondering if Dragon Fear could be bottled. Dusk. Barrington Tops. Gwen could not believe that despite following every direction and matching every landmark, she still got lost. Thankfully, at Mangrove Mountain, she ran across a party of very surprised Mages questing for ingredients, and it was they who walked her the two-hour-long trek to Lake Glenbawn. "What business do you have with the savages, Miss?" The leader, a battler bloke, was a gruff Abjurer very keen on offering a hand to a perplexed sorceress descending from the blue. "My business is my own," Gwen declined to comment, seeing that the party did not possess Storage Rings, she tossed the adventurers a crystalline credit stick for fifty HDMs. "This area isn't safe. I would leave as soon as you can." "Yes, Ma'am!" The Abjurer checked the credit stick twice before pocketing the glowing crystal. He wasn't sure who the svelte sorceress could be, though the pressure she exerted indicated they should probably obey her command. "We'll head back. Your reward is already more than what we had expected to make on the trip, haha…" "Goodman!" Gwen slapped the Abjurer on the back, sending the good-natured bigot sprawling against a tree. "Goodbye." She blasted off, leaving the confounded Mages well-impressed. Below, with the landmark in sight, she discovered Tommy's tribe's encampment at the lake's edge. With the setting sun painting the surface a dusky salmon, she skimmed across the mirror-like water until she caught sight of a familiar figure standing by the shore. "Goolagong?!" Gwen landed with an unexpected splat, flinching as the muddy silt rode up her ankles to splatter her pants. There had been a drought, and from the looks of it, the once-enormous lake had receded significantly. "Migloo girl!" the indigenous witch-woman, looking every inch an earthen fertility goddess, waved back with complete familiarity. In the dying light, Gwen could see that the wide-hipped matron was naked to the waist, her skin alive with mystic markings. "You're late!" "I got lost." Gwen's cheeks took on a smidgen of heat. "How did you know I was coming?" "This Spirit Walker may be old, but she still Dreams!" the old woman cackled, revealing rows of teeth the colour of corn. "Come! Have you eaten?" At the invitation, Gwen's stomach growled. "I could eat." "Then eat." Goolagong motioned for her to follow. "You are much changed, child. What happened to the clueless Migloo who came to visit Almudj many moons ago? You smell different, mixed." "It's a long story." Gwen scanned the bank for signs of Goolagong's people. Against all expectation, there were no more than a dozen of the indigenous folk where there had been hundreds. "Where are the rest of the tribe?" "Here and there." Old Goolagong cackled. "They've gone to Uluru to ask for the rain. The earth is red and dry! The lake, do you not see? It clings to you!" Gwen looked down at the mud slathered over her ankle-jeans. "You didn't go with them?" "O— you give me eye?" Goolagong puckered her lips. "Maybe through the Migloo girl, old Goolagong save herself the Long Walk! Yes? It's not easy, the pilgrimage to Sing the Snake. I am no longer a young _koman._ No, Goolagong cannot walk the desert anymore. Here I will stay, maybe the rain comes, or maybe I go find the _aak oncham_." The duo arrived at Goolagong's humpy, a sorry-looking thatched hut about half of Gwen's height. "Rest! I bring you tucker." "If you're short on food and water—" "Nonsense! You are Almudj's kin! Sit and wait, girl. I will return." With old Goolagong sauntering away, Gwen sat cross-legged on the thatched floor, looking at the dried-up lake. Her mind wandered as she folded her legs into the lotus pose. Reflexively, she circulated her mana, allowing the flow of Essence to seep into her conduits, inviting the mana of the world to suffuse her Astral body. First came the scent of fecund clay, rich with decomposition and full of worms squirming through its depth. Then came the sound of eucalyptus swaying with the wind, its dry bark falling in sheets. On the wind was the smell of distant fire, and on the gothic trees, Scarlet Galahs burst into torch-song. Within her mind's eye, her Astral Body glowed viridescent. It had been some time since she had so easily accessed such a clarified vision. As before, her dancer's figure held within its form both Lightning and Void, igniting and extinguishing, eternally in flux. Also mingled were scintillating motes of emerald, which she recognised as Almudj's gift, and the cobalt of the Yinglong's Draconic-Essence, half-married to her Lightning. Compared to the extraordinary purity of Alesia's soul fire, her Astral Form was a chaos of colour. _CLAP!_ Gwen opened her eyes. "Migloo girl!" old Goolagong was holding a big basket of bush tucker. "Don't go off just yet! To Sing the Snake, not showing the proper respect is _ngench-thayan_! You may never return from the _tjukurpa katutja ngarantja!_ " "Sorry." Gwen cleared her mind. Last time, she had to dance to circulate her Essence into her Astral Body. Now, with so much practice, it was as easy as a catnap. "What's this _tjukurp— rantja?"_ "Difficult to say." Old Goolagong squinted. "In Migloo words, impossible to know. _Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja_ is a place, but not a place. It is free from time, free from land! An unformed country where the old ones sleep!" "The Unformed—" Gwen blinked. She could swear that someone somewhere had mentioned the word before. "The Unformed Land. What is it exactly?" "Where the Dreaming happens, naturally." Goolagong's grin was expansive. "It is the season before there are seasons, the rain before water!" "Is it a Plane of Existence? Like the Prime Material?" "Old Goolagong does not know your Migloo Magic words." The indigenous woman shrugged. " _Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja_ is where Almudj sings the world into being, its mountains and streams, its wet and dry places. It is where the cheeky one dreams of rain." Seeing that a non-cryptic response wasn't likely forthcoming, Gwen allowed the matter to drop. "You have too many questions, Migloo girl," old Goolagong chortled. "Now, eat this, and take off your clothes." "Again?" Gwen was just about to reach into the basket when she paused. "But I almost succeeded just then." "Girl." Goolagong retrieved a blood-red quandong, crushing it between her palms. "We need to anoint you with the proper scent so that you can greet the cheeky one proper! Else Almudj may think you a usurper and gobble you up!" Gwen wanted to contest Goolagong's claim that Almudj would respond to her poorly but knew next to nothing about the rites of her people. If the old witchdoctor said that she needed to be in the nuddy, who was Gwen to say no? Besides, other than a woven skirt, Goolagong herself was very much leading by example. "Fine, fine." Gwen stood. She took a deep breath, then pulled her shirt over her head. A few pairs of eyes drifted her way; one of the men turned away, heaving heavily. "Ah, Migloo girl, you are paler than a Witchetty grub!" Ignoring the running commentary, Gwen kicked off her jeans, then stepped out of her socks and runners. "Enough?" she asked. Goolagong rolled her eyes. "Alright, alright." Gwen unbuckled her bra, leaving her wearing nothing but a pair of cotton knickers. "We good?" "Get down, Migloo girl. Are you putting on a show?" Goolagong realigned several baskets of berries and fruits, most of which she did not recognise. Gwen recognised the ochre paste used for painting, as well as the crushed white powder which was ground bone. "Sit and eat. Goolagong will get you prettied up to meet Almudj." Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. "You don't need to beg favours this time?" Gwen asked just in case. "To be fair, I can probably take five Wankas at once." "No need." Goolagong handed her a bushel of riberries. From the bush, she picked a few, mashed the aromatic, scarlet flesh with the quandong skin, then began to paint Gwen's back. "You come to see Almudj, and Almudj comes to see you. Don't move too much. Sit up straight. Almudj does not like this strange stench you have on you." Discretely, Gwen sniffed her armpit, smelling nothing. "What's this?" Gwen held up something that looked like a dark orb. "Bush Bread," Goolagong said, now working on her shoulders. "Eat it with the berries." The slow meal of mysterious ingredients took the better part of an hour, a period through which Gwen sat red-faced, watching the indigenous sorceress dab every inch of her lithe body. Old Goolagong removed the band holding together Gwen's ponytail, then ran her voluminous tresses through the oil from the lemon myrtle. "Better." The woman sniffed her neck. "But it is still there." "Migloo girl?" Goolagong paused, her tone troubled. "What's wrong?" Gwen felt a shiver. "Where is Almudj's gift? You used to wear it on your neck." Gwen blinked. She had not seen Almudj's scale since the incident at Rosebay. After gifting it to Henry and Sufina, it had disappeared. Had it been spent and destroyed? Was it lost in the fabric of space and time? Did Sobel take it? Her memory in the chaos was hardly reliable. Being half-eaten by Faceless, then becoming a vessel for Almudj was rather more poignant. If the scale had remained active or connected to her in any way, Gwen was sure that she should have felt its presence. That she had not sensed the slightest smidgen of its existence, spoke sternly of her loss. "I-I lost it." "Oh, dear." Old Goolagong wagged a finger. "Migloo girl, Almudj is not so forgiving. It does not gift easily." "Regardless, I don't know where it is." Gwen's voice took on a defensive tone. "I am not joking when I say there's an apocalyptic rationale behind its misplacement." Goolagong finished by slapping a palm print onto Gwen's modest breast. "Other side!" Gwen turned her body. "I cannot help." Goolagong puffed, fatigued by her work. "You can beg Almudj for another, perhaps. While you're at it, you should ask Almudj for a bigger bum! Good for babies!" Gwen winced each time Goolagong struck her buttocks and thighs, hoping the woman wasn't using the anointment as an excuse to spank her for losing Almudj's scale. As a final touch, Goolagong adorned Gwen's cheeks with parallel white lines. "Good!" Old Goolagong inspected her work. "I've done my part. When you are ready, come with me into the Spirit Circle. I feel that Almudj is keen to meet its kin." The "Spirit Circle" was only a small distance away. This time, instead of a dance circle, Gwen sat in a ring of stones. Curiously, she noted that each pebble was a different hue that together, formed a rainbow circumference. Swinging her arms, she danced an awkward jig, feeling her blood burn with embarrassment. Goolagong snorted. "No dancing today, not enough singers." The woman intimated for her to sit however she liked. From the basket, the woman produced a pair of clapping sticks, then cleared her throat. "Meditate while I Sing, Migloo girl. Don't forget to ask for rain, and your scale!" Without waiting for an answer, old Goolagong began her chant. To interpret the Spirit Walker's "singing" was impossible, for the hums and whistles of the prehistoric dialect was beyond Gwen and her Ioun Stone. The melody itself was bone-deep, punctuated by the clarion clacks of the ironwood sticks. As the song droned on, thanks to a tummy full of fermenting native berries, Gwen grew sleepy as the staccato intervals drew longer and longer. Her lids grew heavy, and her consciousness gradually evaporated with the sweat streaming from her painted body. Gwen opened her eyes, wondering if she was in another flashback. Last time, she had dreamt of old Tjupurrula and Kalinda, Almudj's "Kin" from another time. Would their story continue? Did Kalinda survive, or more particularly, did the colonists defeat or were annihilated by Almudj? "Hello?" she implored a limitless horizon. This time, she was standing in a dreamscape, ankle-deep in a vast stretch of water refracting a lilac-pink sky. Shockingly, she realised she recognised the place. In her old world, she had paid good money to visit its shores in the wet season. She was in Kati Thanda— Lake Eyre. A place that alternatively represented the single largest concentration of life in Australia's vast interior, and during the dry season, a vast plain of salt and death. "Almudj?" She was alone, that much was obvious. When Gwen looked down, she saw her topless reflection, still vivid with ochre and bone, staring back at her surprised face. This time, she wasn't borrowing the memory of Kalinda. This time, she was herself. _Kin!_ A burst of rainbow erupted across the surface of her thoughts, reminding Gwen of the Skittles jingle. The surface of the lake stirred, a meniscus of water expanded to accommodate an enormous head the size of a small island. Concentric ripples rang out, distorting the mirror-like lake as streaming white waterfalls cascaded from serpent's brows. "Almudj!" Gwen squealed with childish glee, though she wasn't sure how one might hug a full-blown geographic feature. "How have you been? Have you recovered from your injuries?" Almudj was at once distant and yet close. If she reached out, Gwen felt, she might just bop its snout. "I've missed you." Gwen presented her Essence, allowing the emerald elixir to pool between her outstretched hands. Gingerly, a rope-like tongue flickered from the snake's smiling snout. It tasted the air, then just as quickly as it had emerged, retreated into the mountainous maw. When Gwen looked down, the Essence-dew was gone. "Kin?" Gwen opened her arms, anticipating recognition. The serpent did not answer. Instead, it continued to rise until it filled the horizon. "Almudj?" Gwen gulped. "It's me—" _Invader!_ Came another unbidden thought, this one bitter with the eye-watering smoke of bushfires. As a psychic rebuke, the serpent's will lashed at Gwen, sending her tumbling into the water. Kalinda's words from long ago echoed within the recess of her mind. Almudj did not like strangers. Almudj will attack strangers! "NO!" Gwen cried out, pointing to the earthen powder and berry juices covering her body. From her hair, she rung fistfuls of oily lemon myrtle. "It's me! I am Kin!" But Almudj would not listen. When it opened its mouth again, Gwen stared upward at a solar eclipse. Then, without heeding her shrieking voice, it descended. "STOP!" Gwen frantically called upon her magic. She screamed out her best Evocation, howled her Abjuration, begged the world for her Conjuration to activate— but here in the Unformed Land, no mortal invocation could help a tainted Migloo girl. "ALMUDJ! NO!" "Almudj alive!" Gwen bolted upright, a female Frankenstein's monster, gasping for air. "Migloo girl, are you alright?" Besides her, Old Goolagong's soothing voice never sounded so sweet. Very carefully, Gwen propped herself onto her elbows. "Ergh—" She winced. Every part of her body throbbed. She felt as though she had run an eight-hour marathon without rest, and now it was the morning after she had forgotten to stretch. "My bones are swollen." "Here, some water." Goolagong placed a cup of water beside her lips. Gwen drained the contents in one gulp. "Holy hell, Goolagong, I think Almudj's upset at me!" "Ah— cheeky Migloo girl! I saw you in the dream! Our Almudj says you have been unfaithful!" Goolagong tsk-tsked. "I could smell it on your blood, in your bones. Who have you been sleeping with?" "No one?" Gwen replied, earnestly. She wasn't about to proclaim her virginity. "I am serious." "Are you sure?" Goolagong poked Gwen's belly, or more precisely, the whereabouts of her womb. "Yes!" Gwen blushed, acutely aware of her present state of undress. "Almudj does not like it when others spoil its seed." Goolagong chuckled. "How do you feel now? Has Almudj claimed you again?" "What do you mean?" Gwen checked to ensure all her limbs were still in place. Her bodily markings had by now half dissolved from the sweat pouring from every pore, mixing into a kind of abstract art. She felt icky beyond belief. "I— allow me to check." Warily, she circulated her Essence. Thankfully, Almudj had not withdrawn its blessing. Acutely, she smelled the sweet rot of the sunken mud, felt every pin-prick of the mat under her buttocks and saw every speck of milled pigment on Goolagong's painted face. When she kindled the Essence in her torso, all fatigue fell away. Where she could barely move a moment ago, now her bruised flesh sang songs of joy. Her Almudj's blessing— or what Magister Wen mistook as Druidic Essence, had multiplied by magnitudes. But nothing was ever that simple. "Oh, no. Almudj, you didn't!" Gwen's blood grew suddenly cold. Drawing on the reflexive breathing techniques Ayxin had taught her, she focused her mind, called upon the underlying currents of power in her Astral Body, then released a torrent of Dragon Fear. Nothing. Not even a fart. "HRRRGGHN!" Not a mote of the Yinglong's Essence remained. Almudj giveth, and Almudj taketh. Feeling a blind panic coming on, Gwen forced herself to stand. "Don't rush, Migloo girl!" "Shit—SHIT! ARIEL!" Gwen tapped into her Conjuration Sigil, flooding her body with motes of Lightning. "EE!" Her pseudo-Kirin materialised in a flash, regarded its panicked master quizzically, then muzzled her thighs. "Wa-hoo! This is one cheeky dingo!" Goolagong marvelled. "Stag horns… scales, claws, hoof, mane— thank fuck…" Gwen hurriedly recounted Ariel's features, relaxing when her Familiar remained untouched by her patron's confiscation. "Caliban!" "Shaa!" Caliban coiled about her legs. " _Koonhang AKAN!_ " old Goolagong jumped back, almost matching Wanka in its hasted form. "Back! Bad Spirit! Ooo this one proper cheeky! Very dangerous!" As expected, Caliban remained altered. "Shaa?" Caliban cocked its head. "Cali, return! Ariel! Combat Form!" Gwen pushed her new-found Essence into her Kirin. Spontaneously, Ariel grew iridescent, crackling with multi-coloured lightning. Its stag horns distended, branching until it formed a dozen points, while its body assumed the height of a horse. Where the Ariel from before was magnificent, it now radiated the ambience of something ancient and otherworldly. Each of its draconic features appeared subdued, and yet magnified, while distinctly, its scale-patterned fur now possessed a splendiferous, rainbow hue. "EE?!" Ariel as well was surprised at its new chromatic characteristics. "EE?" "What are you doing? Migloo girl?" Impressed as she was by Ariel, old Goolagong was keeping well away. Gwen looked toward the lake. "Migloo girl?" "Ariel! _Barbanginy!"_ Her Kirin's horns glowed incandescent. "EE—EE!" A line of lighting shot from between Ariel's horns, cracking across the half-dried lake until her Elemental Sphere manifested. Where her previous Barbanginy had doubled or tripled the maximised power of her magic, what it now achieved was nothing short of mass destruction. The horizon lit up with a second sun, igniting the lake with an incredible display of azure, emerald and lilac. _KA—CRACK!_ A crash of fulminating thunder raced the all-enveloping light. An explosion followed, rapidly displaced the lake's interior. Against the sloshing undulation, the Elemental Sphere's second-stage nova erupted, ranging some hundred meters from the epicentre. And after the thunder, came the downpour. Gwen suspected that had midnight been swapped for noon, a rainbow would have appeared. The deluge lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to drench Gwen, Goolagong, her people, and a yipping Ariel. "You are loved by many old ones." Goolagong wiped the water from her face. "But you are too cheeky by far." "But…" Gwen wanted to protest that she had quintessential uses for her Draconic-Essences. Since consuming those creatures in Huangshan, she had fostered her control over her Dragon-juice, making it a crucial part of her growth in Spellcraft. Now, without Dragon-fear, without her Draconic-centric physical abilities, she felt weak. A part of her fumed. Even if Almudj was the jealous type, did it have to take away something she had spent so long nurturing? Couldn't she just pledge her fidelity? The serpent never said their kinship was monogamous, did it? But then again, Gwen recalled that the Yinglong did take a crack at her soul and that Almudj had sent it packing. Perhaps, unbeknownst to her, the powers she so dearly desired was merely the root of a bigger problem. After all, Almudj's Essence, not the Yinglong's, was the reason her body survived first the Soul Flayer, and then the Lich. She had to be thankful for that. Gwen forced her balled fists to relax. _Spilt-milk,_ she told herself. _Don't cry. It's stupid to wish to have your cake and eat it._ Like a greedy-gut spoilt brat, she had come seeking Almudj— partly to thank it for its unconditional aid, and partially also in the secret hope that her serpentine kin had more to give. As for the outcome, it may be a bitter pill for now, but who knew what new boons Almudj's blessing held? She would have to plumb its depth once she got to London. If Wen's research was any indication, she should find herself a handsome Elrond and beg for tuition. "Can I talk to Almudj again?" Old Goolagong shook her head. "Did you ask Almudj about the scale?" "Bugger—" Gwen slapped her forehead. "It all happened so quick. I didn't even ask about the rain!" "No matter." Goolagong patted Gwen's muddy shoulders. "One day, when you recover the scale. Come and see old Goolagong. You and I, we go see Almudj in the flesh! You know where Almudj rests?" "Yes," Gwen recalled the lake. "Good. Do not worry about your lost endowment, girl. When the rain again comes to the great lake, we shall go and petition the old snake. This time, you bring the cheeky one's memento! Remember, Almudj will attack intruders!" "I know. But what will you do now? The dry season has just started—" "We survive, as always. Wet, dry, hot, cold, we have ways you Migloos cannot know." "Sorry…" "Not to worry." Goolagong sat back on the mat. It squelched unpleasantly. "Sorry again." Gwen winced, her buttocks cold against the mud. "Its the Lightning. I get impulsive, especially when something unexpected happens. If I had lost both Almudj' blessing and my Draconic Essence..." "Where will you go now?" Old Goolagong cocked her head. "To find scale?" "I'd love to, but haven't the faintest idea where to begin." Gwen sighed. "I need to get to London to perfect my Migloo Magic." "Can you return?" "I will, in a year, two at most. I've got other continents to go as well." "Ah, beware when you once again meet others like our cheeky one." Old Goolagong slapped Gwen's knees. "There is no cheating Almudj! The bearded snake is proper wise! Just look at me! An old wanchinth kath should have known better than to cheat the Long Walk, eh? The snake is cleverer than you or I!" "I may need to work with the... others," Gwen confessed. "What if I take in more of their Essence?" "Then recover Almudj's gift!" Old Goolagong huffed, growing upset. She waved her slapping hand dangerously, hovering over Gwen's buttocks. "Are you so eager to swallow the seed of other serpents? You're too indulgent, girl! How greedy must a Migloo be?" Goolagong's unfortunate phrasing took the words right out of Gwen's petulant mouth. Abstractly, however, Gwen understood that trafficking in rival Essences was, as Goolagong's analogical cuckoldry inferred, in bad faith. "Look— fine, I get it." To distract herself, she fossicked through her inventory for something to reward old Goolagong. All of her "supplements" where ill-gotten gains from Huangshan, which she was sure would just piss off Almudj more. Likewise, gifting bottles of high-proof alcohol to the indigenous wasn't something she dared contemplate. "Would you like a Storage Device?" Gwen materialised a deactivated, medium-tier Storage Ring, one of the few she had purchased via Marong. "Trust me. It'll make keeping food much easier." Goolagong shook her head. "No, no, no. That is an expensive thing! Old Goolagong knows. Sure, it brings convenience for now, but what if we run into your folk? Trouble is what it brings. Greed! Jealousy! Death!" "How about Spam?" Unconvinced, Gwen materialised a few cans. "I've got… a lot. In different flavours too. You can eat it out of the can, mash it, pop it in a stew—" "No need!" Goolagong pointed to the shore, where the members of her tribe that had remained now milled about, knee-deep in mud. Every few steps, they would drag out a large fish, whether stunned or electrocuted by Gwen panicked Barbanginy. "See? Almudj— the bearded one has not forsaken old Goolagong! Go to this London, Migloo girl— _but return with Almudj's scale_!"

"You want to go and see Sufina?" Gunther's knitted brows implied to Gwen that her request may not go over as well as she had hoped. "The island's a Black Zone, and its under Singapore's jurisdiction, not ours. Besides, who are you going to take with you?" "Er…" Gwen stopped herself before blurting out that she would be visiting with Ariel and Caliban, maybe Golos. Instead, she weaponised her long lashes and vivid eyes. "I don't suppose either of you has the time to spare?" Gunther sighed, not exactly exasperated, but assuredly not a happy-chappie. "Alesia?" The Tower Master turned to his wife. "What's your take?" Alesia sat on the sofa. Often, when the conversation steered to the deceased Henry, the sorceress grew absent-minded. "To Master's sanctuary?" "Now Sufina's lair," Gunther corrected his wife. "For all intentions, it's a Dungeon. Escaping from the maze without killing its owner is improbable." "I suppose it has been almost two years," Alesia agreed. "I wonder. Does Sufi retain her humanity still? She'll remember us, I am sure, but I don't think she'll be amicable. She'll be a living tomb-guardian by now." Gunther drummed his fingers against the table, then turned to Gwen. "I can't let you go — not this time. We can't contact Sufina, and we can't accompany you. I could arguably call on Jonas and the boys, but they've got important missions elsewhere, supporting your friend Yue. We're short-handed as it is." "Gunther, you're the Tower Master, surely…" "I can put out a Quest, and we can pay with CCs, but who can we trust to enter Master's home? We can't Geas mercenaries, at least not legally. Besides, I refuse to allow a stranger to enter a place so intimate to our past. Not to mention you're there to dig for secrets. What if Sufina isn't friendly? What if she refuses to let you enter? Are you going to Consume the island? Consume Sufina or her Kin?" "I don't think it'll come to that." "There's no reason why it won't." Alesia played tag-team with Gunther. "It's a BLACK ZONE, Gwen. The creatures there are completely hostile, especially to women, for which they have no use. I mean, for a man, things could be worse, you get the idea. Either way, there will be no mercy. Dryads will fight to the death to defend their Grove, and you're more or less unstoppable in a jungle setting. Will you nibble away until they cough up the island's secrets? Threaten Sufi by eating her sisters one by one?" "Bloody oath, Alesia," Gwen retorted, her tone growing tense. "Alright— what would you do?" "Gunther?" "If we were to force a meeting with Sufina in the future, it should involve a surgical intrusion into the island's centre. Pending on Sufina's response, we'll decide, as siblings, what to do." Gunther declared. "I should also mention that at some point in the next few years, I would like to recover our Master's remains. His mausoleum is still empty as we speak. I would prefer his remains safely interred and warded." "You don't mind hurting Sufi?" Gwen's lips grew stiff. "Now you're acting churlish. Don't put words in my mouth." Gunther's measured tone matched his command for Gwen to calm her farm. "I said we'll decide as siblings. TOGETHER. If leaving Master's body with Sufina is the final recourse, then that's what we'll do. If Sufina has gone completely off her rocks, then she's a danger and a monster. And we'll do what needs to be done." "But Master's books—" "May, or may not be in the Grot," Gunther reiterated. "Where did you get the idea that our Master would stow his tomes with Sufina? Master understood more than anyone that once his mutilated body waned, Sufina would be too powerful for other Mages to inherit. Keeping decades of research embedded within Sufi's abode is rather short-sighted, don't you think? How is any of us going to access them?" "But—" Gwen's face grew scarlet. Gunther cooly refilled his glass of water to the exact millimetre. "And this 'Almudj's Scale'." Gunther sipped the ice-cold water. "Why did you visit a Mythic without informing Alesia or myself?" "Does she need to?" Alesia called out from the couch. "Gwen's an adult." "Her attraction to trouble notwithstanding, there are three million souls in Sydney and its regions." Gunther remained unfazed by Alesia's protest. "Allie, I am speaking in my capacity as Sydney's caretaker. Not as Gwen's brother. I am berating a Class VI War Mage; now more than ever, as AN ADULT, she is liable for her selfish decisions. Master would agree. Do you?" "Fine, but get off your high horse," Alesia pushed back. "Gwen knows what's up." "Does she?" Gunther's scorching gaze descended on Gwen's skin like the scorching sun. "Gwen— where is your Draconic-strength? Your Dragon-fear? Your Draconic-resistances?" "Brother's right." Gwen deflated, wilting in her seat. Self-consciously, she gripped the hem of her dress. "I should have consulted with you both. I was following a gut feeling. I didn't know Almudj was the jealous type." "Creatures that exist outside of mortality and time do not suffer human emotions," Gunther refuted her oversimplification. "But be your patron a Snake, Dragon or Land God, they're unequivocally possessive. Alesia's Elemental, if you recall, had refused to relent her body. As far as the Efretti was concerned, a Plane-touched body, once touched, was effectively a part of its being. Imagine being asked to—" "It's not that complicated," Alesia interjected. "Gwen, imagine if a London Magister demanded you hand over Ariel." "Stealing a Spirit? Is that possible?" Her complexion paled. "Only if you are near-death or recently dead, and the Spirit is willing, AND there's a compatible Mage immediately available," Alesia explained. "But that's not the point, what would you do if someone tried to usurp Ariel. Try to imagine it, Gwen, put some gut feeling into it, be honest." Sometimes, Gwen hated her overactive imagination. "I'd Consume the fucker, wipe the bastard from the Material Plane," she confessed. "Is that bad?" Alesia grinned. "I'd do worse, but that's the feeling. That's what Almudj should be feeling, assuming it has feelings." "I am Almudj's Familiar?" "An interesting analogy." Gunther appeared contemplative. "Look, I get it." Gwen shivered, her arms and thighs covered in goosebumps. "I can see why Almudj was pissed." "And thankfully, not interested enough to visit Sydney." Gunther pointed to the Illusion-empowered map of Sydney hovering in his office. "All things considered, the serpent is a well-mannered Mythic. I plan to leave it alone, where did you say it made its abode for now?" "Lake Eyre." "Good, I'll inform Adelaide to keep a wide berth. Are you able to communicate with it?" "Not until I get my scale back." Gwen returned to her original request. "I last left with Master, if you recall." "I wasn't there," Gunther replied glumly. "I remember," Alesia said. "But then what happened?" "I don't know." Gwen tugged at her skirt, crumpling the fabric. "I didn't see it after the battle. When I visited Sufina two years ago, I couldn't sense it either." "Then where else could it be?" "It has to be in the Grot," Gwen replied. "Unless Sobel took it." "Hell's bells, I hope not." Gunther grimaced. "I'll second that." Alesia raised a glass of Fur-Peak green tea. Since Gwen's return as a self-professed authority on pregnancies, she had been taking daily supplements. The three sat in silence, each aghast at the worst-case scenario. Ding! "Lord Shultz," the broadcaster on Gunther's desk chimed. "Your next-next appointment is also here and waiting." "Tell em to fuck off," Alesia shouted at the crystal on the table. "Sir?" "Tell them to wait," Gunther interceded. Turning to the women, the Tower Master of Sydney stretched his broad shoulders. "We're out of time, but here's my proposal. For now, go to London, and start your studies. I'll arrange for a recess before Michaelmas next year. If you remain convinced the scale is in the Grot and that Master hid his tomes with Sufina— then we'll visit her together. As your seniors, it is our pleasure and duty to accommodate your needs. Is that agreeable? Before you reply, I hope you understand that me being away from Sydney for a week is no mean feat. The city's ongoing restoration— including your proposals for both the new Port Authority as well as Legion, cannot be left to their own devices." "I understand." Gwen bowed her head. "Thank you, Gunther. Sorry I was rude." "Not at all, I do like it that you spoke your mind, Gwen. Your brother is not so thin-skinned as to be offended by a little sister." Gwen grinned. "Thanks, Gunther." "Good." Gunther stood to show them the door. "Now, both of you need to be on your way." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "When are you leaving?" Alesia gave Gwen a much-needed embrace outside Gunther's door. "Yue's going to miss you. Again." "I know." Gwen sighed. "But we can visit one another now. It won't be like before." "True." Alesia separated from her not so little sister. "For you, at least. I don't think Yue has a few thousand HDMs to spare. So?" "After that meeting? Day after tomorrow," Gwen declared. "I hope to be in London before Christmas." "Oh-ho!" Alesia appeared to have read her mind. "A white Christmas with Elvia?" "That goes without saying." Gwen's smirk was positively predatory. "I'll be her present, and she'll be mine." "Not to disperse your Cloud Kill, but it's only verified that Elvia's cohort will be in London," Alesia warned her sister. "As for Evee herself, she could be on a mission or working overtime in an away hospital. If she's religious, maybe secluded meditation? Nightingale Acolytes are a busy lot." "That would be terrible." Gwen controlled herself, taking deep, lungful breaths. "But I'll track her down. First thing I am applying for in London is an Unlimited Flight licence." "And how are you going to achieve that?" Alesia cocked her head. "CCs make the world go round. I checked. It's seven hundred fifty for Limited and fifteen hundred for Unlimited." Gwen laughed haughtily. "I've got my references all lined up as well. One from Walken, one from Gunther, and one from Lady Grey, I hope." "Gunther agreed?" Gwen chuckled. "Would Gunther rather deal with Scotland Yard when they arrest an unlicenced Omni-Mage blasting across London's airspace?" London. Cambridge. Peter's House. Old Court. Justine Maxwell Loftus, The Marchioness of Ely, "THE Lady Grey" to her enemies and "Lady Grey" to her friends, studied an iconograph of Peterhouse's crest. Compared to the younger houses, the oldest constituent college of Cambridge University lacked a florid Coat. The simplicity couldn't be helped, for the arse end of the Dark Ages wasn't an epoch known for radical iconographers. Stoic in its plainness, the Arms consisted of four pale gules within a border of gules charged with eight golden crowns. For seven centuries, the Coat stood, unyielding to change, attested by the sad fact that Lady Loftus remained the sole female Master of Peterhouse since its inception, heedless of its astounding roster of women Magisters. Nonetheless, Peterhouse remained a bastion of brilliance. Among its exalted alumni was the Mage responsible for decoding multi-tier Dwarven Runecraft— the posthumously titled Meister Charlie Babbage. Likewise peering down on the Marchioness was the hung portrait of the honourable Meister Jamie Clarks Maxwell, grandfather to Justine's late husband, famous for his study of energy conduits. Beside Jamie hung the picture of Meister Thomson, more popularly known as Baron Kelvin, first of his name— for pioneering magical manipulation of climate events. "All is well..." Under the austere gazes of these world-changing men, Justine listened to the droning voice of Vice-Chancellor Butterfield. "... the girl will be leaving tomorrow, hopping through Sydney, Brisbane, Townsville, Darwin, Singapore, and stopping at Yangon. On the 17th, the girl is scheduled to set foot in Istanbul via Mumbai's Inter-Continential Circle. Assuming she's in one piece after that jaunt, her next stations are Rome, Paris, then London. The Customs Office has sent out the paper works. The girl's Classification has caused a few headaches, but we'll manage." "Will she be arriving at Cambridge directly?" "Actually." Vice-Chancellor Butterfield's voice grew concerned. "She is going to stay in London until after Christmas. The missive from Lord Shultz said that we should expect her just before or after New Years." "She'll be staying in London? Alone?" Justine Maxwell furrowed her brows. "We'll be on Michaelmas break, just what is the girl planning to do? Has she booked a hostel?" "The girl is said to be unreasonably attached to an old friend," Alfred Butterfield replied. "An undergraduate at Nightingales by the name of Elvia Lindholm, formerly of Sydney. They survived the fall of the city together." The Lady's expression relaxed. "Permissible, though I WILL see the girl as soon as she arrives. She must be inducted without mishap. Ensure she makes the trip down to Cambridgeshire. I'll take care of matters at Peterhouse." "Certainly." "And Lindholm— where have I heard that name? It sounds northern." "The girl is Lady Astor's ward." "Ah—" Lady Grey clapped. "I remember now. Lucy did mention she had a new pet project. Is the girl unique in any way?" "She's a Spirit Healer with a juvenile Alraune. She's also unaffiliated. A complete independent." "Really? How quaint." "And another thing, Maxi—" Lady Grey's eyes narrowed. "— Justine. Lord Gunther has signed off on the girl applying for an Unlimited Flight licence. He has asked for your understanding." "Are you our number three?" "No, Magister Walken has that honour." "Eric Walken? The idiot of Sydney? Why are they acquainted?" "He did save her life in Shenyang," Butterfield expressed a grudging measure of respect. "Tied down and entrapped a North Korean Lich, he did— made us Oxbridge boys proud. What's more impressive, of course, was that by all accounts, he had effectively died, only to be brought back by the new technique Magister Jamison is pushing in Stanford. A shame. We could have used the technique for our Clerical faculty." "I don't see why we can't." The Lady Grey glanced at the portraits hanging above the mantle. "It's a race to publish, after all. She who is cited most, is cited best, is it not? There's going to be so much work to be done. I am certain Miss Song will prove a potent dose of vitality for our ghoulish faculty. Under my watch, she shall bear the torch Henry had so abruptly left behind." "I hope she won't disappoint." Butterfield adjusted his mantle. Of all the classical buildings in Cambridge, he disliked the Old Court the most. The decor used far too much heartwood, and the portraits tended to follow you with their eyes. "She is after all, firstly from a penal Frontier, and secondly from the Orient. I would not be surprised if she is uncouth, lacking in discipline, and possessed no idea of her place. I would remain cautiously optimistic, Justine." "I think she'll make quite the splash." Lady Grey motioned for Vice-Chancellor Butterfield to leave her to her thoughts. "Go. Tell Gwen she must visit. And that when she does, Peterhouse shall hold Hall in her honour." "Very well." Alfred Butterfield turned to leave. "Wait—" "Yes, Justine?" "Have— her robe prepared. If she comes in wearing a gauche outfit..." "Or brandishing adverts..." The vice-chancellor left the horror unsaid. "Let's hope not." Lady Grey shivered. "Henry's ghost, I hope old Deathless isn't turning in his mausoleum. No one likes being accused of Necromancy." Gwen's parting at Sydney Tower consisted of Gunther, who dropped by for thirty-seconds; Alesia, who kissed her on both cheeks; Yue, who held her like an abandoned joey; and her Opa, who wept like a woman. "Come home soon!" Surya bawled. "Don't forget, your love child is safe in our hands! We'll nurture it with all my heart!" "What?" Yue was just about to let go. "Legion!" Gwen hissed under her breath. "He means the Divi-Tower project! Stupid Opa." "It better be." Yue relaxed. "When you see Elvia, give her my love." "I'll hug her until she passes out, then say 'From Yue with love'," Gwen promised. "Okay, deal." The girls parted. "See you in a while, crocodile?" "Yep. I'll be in contact! If you want to visit, just holler. I'll cover the ISTC tickets." "Nah, I'll pay my way. Quit showing off, ya rich bitch." Yue chortled. "Seriously though, stay safe out there, watch out for those Ravenport bastards." "I'll keep my eyes wide-open." After another hug and a wet, slopping kiss from Surya, Gwen retreated behind the barrier. "I'll call when I can!" Gwen waved a final time when the white-uniformed guards politely steered her toward the stage. "Stay safe, everyone!" A blast of retina-searing Conjuration later, Gwen was gone. "And just like that, she's on another adventure," Surya lamented. "Like the wind." Alesia dabbed at her eyes. "She's a busy girl." "I am hungry," Yue complained. "Hungry and sad." "Alright!" Surya slapped his knees. Ever since taking Gwen's supplements, all of his old war wounds had ceased to ache. He felt like a younger man, one with a weekly appointment at the Black Cat. "Let's eat! Whatever you want, anything in the city. My shout!" The thing with ISTC stations, Gwen realised, was that they were so uniform in their aesthetic that rapid transits felt like glitches in reality. Her final stop on the first leg of her journey was Yangon, where she held a meeting with Marong to deliver the trade agreements Gunther had set up between the two nations. To Gwen's delight, Mayuree, who she had thought returned to Shanghai, had delayed her trip just so that they could catch up. Arm-in-arm, Diviner and Omni-Mage embraced for a long while, reminiscing the deaths, dangers and dares the duo had shared. "Your body, its changed," Marong, professed expert in Gwen's physiology, spoke over iced cakes and sweet tea. "What happened?" "Stuff." Gwen's eyes informed her ally that as much as she wanted to share, the information wasn't hers to tell. "What do you see that's different?" "It's your smell— Sorry, I don't mean to be crude," Marong apologised. "It's no longer similar to Lord Ruxin's, at least not anymore. I am smelling something, older, or younger. It's strange, intoxicating even, but I don't know—" "It's a blessing akin to the Yinglong's, but not like the Yinglong." Gwen gave all the hints to which she was privy. "I was hoping Ruxin would be here. I've got questions only he can answer." "I can Message Lord Ruxin. If you like," Marong offered. "Believe it or not, the Master of Manipur, Nagaland and Kachin has taken to our Magi-tech like a Dragon to the heavens." "Hmm..." Gwen pondered the prospect of litmus testing her Essence but ultimately declined. For now, keeping the status quo was preferable, especially as she was mid-transit. "Nah, let's not tempt fate." "I tried divining your future, Gwennie, and as usual, its weal and woe in equal measure." Mayuree rested her head against Gwen's shoulder. "That said, Marong's right, you smell great." "Ha." Gwen laughed awkwardly. "Shall we head to the banquet?" Mayuree pulled at her hand. "Brother's prepared a feast fit for a royal." Gwen sensed her tummy growling happily. If anything, her increased Void Affinity, the digestive prowess of Almudj's Essence and her lighting-charged metabolism, made her "Temple" the equivalent of a food furnace. "Let's go." Gwen allowed herself to be tugged along. "Marong, you can brief me over dessert." Past Yangon, Gwen's ISTC hopscotch felt like flipping through a Contiki brochure. On her second leg, the first city on her itinerary was Mumbai, said to possess one of the largest ISTC station in the East Indies, second only to Singapore. In Gwen's earthly memory, she recalled a colonial city resplendent with old architecture but dense with smog, skirted by a brown-grey Arabian sea that alternatively smelled of brine and raw sewerage. In her contemporary setting, all she caught was a glimpse of the mana miasma; then she was whisked away by guards wearing red berets and crisp uniforms. When she grew paranoid as to why she alone out of the travellers had an armed escort, she was reminded of her Multi-Pass's new markings by a Custom's Officer. _Class VI War Mage_ Feeling obtuse, Gwen apologised to the junior officer. If she was the Mayor of Mumbai, and a cruise missile wearing heels wandered through her airport, she would have taken the same precaution. And so, without so much as a vindaloo, Gwen arrived at Istanbul, where an armed escort awaited her eminence. Not exchanging a single word, she was marched, with excessive politeness, to her next stop. The denial of Turkish Delight was a glimpse of the life Gunther had foretold. For a girl of her age, lacking titles, backers, Faction and a TOWER to belong to, she was the dictionary definition of a loose cannon bouncing through someone's else's city. At Rome, her "guide" was a Magister all too happy to talk. Their fifteen minutes together were enough to yield an invitation to Castel Sant'Angelo on a future date of her choosing, as well as her first European contact card— that of Magister Isabella Conigliaro. "We owe him so much," the Magister had professed while holding Gwen's hand. "If you are in Rome, I'll be at your service." In Paris-Charles De Gaulle, a stop that would have been wondrous had the ISTC Station not been built within what looked like a converted catacomb, more friendly faces graced her arrival. Her trio of hosts hailed from the infamous Tour Montparnasse— said to enjoy the most beautiful view in all of Paris because it offers the only vista without the Tour Montparnasse. "I imagine you'll find generosity wherever the Towers are old." The lead Magister provided Gwen with a glimmer of optimism. "Lord Kilroy may no longer grace our presence in the light, but his achievements have cast a long shadow." "Much like the one cast by the _plus laide_ Tower in all of _L'Europe,_ " a younger Magister added sarcastically. "Nonetheless, you are more than welcome to visit our hideous abode." "Leon is joking. Renovations are being negotiated with the Dwarves of Mont Blanc." The leader of Montparnasse's trio flashed his junior a dirty in a way only the French could manage. "For now, please enjoy yourself in London. We await your coming." "Oh, I'll be back." Gwen's credit-counting fingers itched just thinking of the fashion houses she had skipped for no reason other than sovereign borders and passports. Waving goodbye to her "new friends", she once again stepped into the Teleportation Circle. This time, finally, after an eternity of warping space and time and trading HDMs for distance, she had arrived at her port of call. Elvia.

“Evee! Evee!” Elvia Lindholm, the infamous “Trouble Maker”, the great disruptor of the Chain of Being at the Great Ormond Street Hospital, sat dazed in bed, one hand holding her work roster. When her roommate and now co-worker, Sylvie Stratford, called out her name, Elvia turned as though a journeyman's golem still booting up its Glyph-scripts. “Yes, Sylvie?” “So, how is it? Can you come with me to Northumberland?” “Take a gander.” Elvia handed over her roster slip. Sylvie scanned the printed strip. “What bollocks is this?! You’re on outbound from tomorrow through to NEW YEAR EVE?” Elvia lay back on her commandeered gurney. GOS had just beaten back two crises, back to back, and it was only now that the emergency patients could be shipped out to convalescence homes. Each Winter Solstice, the exponential propagation of magical resources meant a proliferation of hostile Demi-human activity. Even so, Elvia hadn't expected to be on deployment. “Ystradfellte?! That's north of Merthyr Tydfil! Who's responsible for this?” “Rosy and her fan-club, but you didn’t hear me say that.” Elvia rubbed her swollen eyes. “Maybe they’ve got a good reason? It’s not like I’ve got folks waiting for me. Also, I volunteered last year.” “Those boots from Royal Alfred!” Sylvia blurted out. "What's Matron Maxwell thinking? Sending our Evee out in the dead of winter. Lord knows what's on those moors." "Redcaps, usually. Gobs, Snots, the occasional Ice Hob, Trolls. Lots of Trolls." Elvia shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The Purge happens every year, and so do casualties. Every hospital has to cough up 'volunteers'." “Kiki…” A bipedal sprout emerged from Elvia's coat. It had previously been sleeping in her breast pocket, but the conversation had stirred the Plant Sprite from its meditation. Raising its chubby little arms, the Alraune kissed Elvia on the cheek. “Kiki?” “Thanks, sweetie,” Elvia hugged the plant between her arms. “We’ll get through this. Another two and a half years is all. Then we can see mum and dad, and Gwen, and Yue…” “You still haven’t heard from her?” Sylvie appeared stricken by Elvia’s unhappiness. “Surely, in between kicking zombie arse and punching Flayers in the face, she’s got time to Message her bestie? Besides, didn't she finish a month ago?” “Gwen’s real busy, I bet.” Elvia allowed Kiki to massage her cheeks, working away some of the accumulated fatigue. “If I fought off a LICH, I would be swamped by interviews, offers and engagements as well.” "Surviving a Lich you mean?" "And saving the Prince of the Inca!" "And Eating her way into Shenyang," Sylvie remarked dryly. "You know, I am not so sure about meeting 'The Devourer' after all." "She's a doll!" Elvia had picked up some old vernacular from the canteen ladies. "After the IIUC, I think everyone will want to be acquainted with Gwen." “Speaking of connections.” Sylvia sidled closer. “Maybe you should ask Mathias? He can petition Lady Astor in your stead. You’re in her choir, right? If the Lady wants you at her Christmas Mass, how can GOS send you to Ystradfellte? You know how these assignments are. They say ten days, but who knows what’ll happen? If the Purge goes well, you're bored witless for a week— but if bodies start arriving by the truckload, it’s not like you can pack and leave. Nightingale is very particular about its reputation.” “Lady Astor is fair,” Elvia intervened before Sylvie could work herself into a frenzy. “She doesn’t interfere with GOS’s rosters. If I am not here, then some other poor sod would have to fill the vacancy. I don’t want that, Sylvie. It's Christmas and people ought to be with their families. It's okay for me to work harder. There'll be dozens of physicians from other Hospitals and Colleges there as well. We'll keep each other company. Maybe the field cooks will have pudding?" “ARRRRGH!” Sylvie pulled at her hair. “You’re such a pushover! Lady Astor adores you— like a pet, I’ll admit— but she likes you better than any other Cleric at GOS! Rosy's perfectly composed abusing her aunty's position, why don't you make use of yours!” “Sylvie! That’s a conflict of interest!” Elvia pouted, somehow more adorable when upset. “We learned that in orientation—“ “Fur-fooks-sake, Evee!” Sylvia slipped into her northern dialect. “Yer— You’re so nice. You are infuriating!” Elvia laughed, dispelling Sylvia’s ire with her unadulterated sticky-sweet goodness. There was, of course, another reason Elvia did not want to disturb her honourable benefactor. Having grown intimate with the powerful widow, Elvia knew better than anyone that Lady Lucy Waldorf Astor had her hands full. As it stood, the General Election was only five months away, and the Lady had been pre-selected for the District of Sutton. To disturb Lady Astor with juvenile, mewling requests for rest, or to open Lady Astor’s mithril reputation to nepotism, was unacceptable to Elvia. That and the more she relied on Lady Astor, the more problems she would encounter when the Lady leaves her post at GOS for parliament. And as for Mathias, Elvia felt a mild migraine coming on. The intense young man was a catalyst for her woes. The job of a Knight is to protect their ward, and in Mathias' case, Nightingale's Spirit Healer. Unfortunately, Elvia suspected the young man was unconsciously using her to live out a fantasy. Emily and her father meant well, but Elvia understood that she was, in reality, a nobody. The grand-nephew of a Duke, attending to a peasant? If the fingers and tongues wagging behind her back got any more intense, she'd have to treat them for cramps. _WHAM!_ On cue, the door slid apart, drawing sparks with the speed in which the metal rail received the slide-catch. “Matty!” Elvia hissed, her cheeks puffed. “Shush! We're in a hospital!” "Kiki!" Kiki likewise berated the careless young man. “Evee—” Mathias, her assigned Knight, was a propaganda poster come to life. “We’re going to a war zone! Again! Huzzah!” "SHUSH!" Elvia imagined Kiki suffocating the absurdly handsome face. From behind the impassioned young Knight came the sound of gratuitous giggling. GOS, like the five other major hospitals in London’s Metropolitan area, was a training ground for junior Nurses. As expected, these young women hailed from good families with top-notch education, talent, and connections. As such, within GOS' student hierarchy were pupils from each of London's three major medical colleges— Nightingale's, Royal Alfred's and Black's. Sir Mathias Rothwell, with his ash-blonde hair and chiselled jawline, broke hearts with a glance. To say the young man was merely good looking would be an insult, for Mathias was Radiant. When Elvia first saw the young knight-errant standing behind Emily, her friend and Nightingale's Student Council President, she had been shocked into silence by the grandeur of his presence. It wasn't so much that Mathias was a rare Radiant Mage— after all, Elvia had dined with Gunther Shultz, arguably the most famous Radiant Mage in the world. It was that Mathias’ radiance was untempered, unchecked— raw, oozing out from every pore. "Do you like him?" Emily cooed as though she had presented Elvia with a puppy Golden Retriever. "He's amazing." Elvia regretted gushing in turn. She was no more immune to the young man's Radiant Aura than any other, but more than anything, she didn't want to disappoint Emily. "Mathias is a distant grand-nephew of my father," the future Duchess of Somerset introduced the young man, running her hand from his hair to his hips in the vein of one addressing her favourite stallion. "He's three years older than you, and by all accounts from his tutors, extraordinary." “Lady Lindholm.” The young man had held Elvia’s hand. To her chagrin, he knelt. “Allow me to profess my loyalty, my fealty, and my love.” Elvia recalled freezing like a Draconic Deer in the path of Gwen's Void Swarm. In the aftermath, Emily had told Elvia that their meeting had gone swimmingly. In her eyes, Mathias was a proud young stag with the heritage, talent and education to back up his dreams, and she was afraid he would reject Elvia. Personally, Elvia would have preferred the rejection. The worst of it, Elvia had learned months later, was that only the nobility had explicitly assigned guardians. For pissants like herself, the Tower appointed interim Knights for individual assignments. A permanent Knight— such as Mathias, could only be assigned by nobility to their family members. Emily had treated Elvia like a sister— but the fact remained that a Rothwell had bent the knee to a Frontier refugee. Naturally, malicious rumours followed— Mathias was the ideal protector for many a well-bred sorceress. When Elvia finally realised the trouble she was in, her reputation as a bite-sized Whore of Babylon was well-cemented. “Thanks, Mathias.” Elvia wondered if Gwen had ever felt so overwhelmed. For herself, just dealing with Mathias, Lady Astor, Sylvie and Emily was already making her head twice its size. Additionally, she had work, her patients, the unfriendly seniors, the jealous juniors, the snotty Matrons, and more piling on her plate. It was enough to drive a girl mad. “Evee.” Mathias parked his tightly-toned figure in the ward. As usual, he was utterly oblivious to the fact that Elvia had been stealing precious shut-eye on her pilfered gurney. “Shall I go and commandeer supplies for our deployment? I am confident the quartermaster would not dare to deny or shortchange you if I am there. If your equipment is short again, I shall beat him!” “Kiki!” The Plant Sprite waved a leaf. Unlike Elvia, her Alarune had taken to Mathias like a plant to the sun. “Kikiki!” “Hey there, Kiki.” Mathias withdrew an HDM crystal and awarded the treat without so much as a blink. “I know, Matty.” Elvia just felt so tired. “Thank you for always watching out for me. Please do that.” Her lip service was enough to satisfy the bright-eyed Knight. “Then I shall be on my way. Lady.” Mathias snapped a salute. “Please rest well.” _BAM!_ The door slid shut. Outside, there was the sound of Mathias being swamped by the angels in white. With her Knight gone, Elvia wondered if it was at all possible to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, the lingering impact of the Radiant Knight’s Aura had her body operating on full throttle. “Aah..." Sylvie pined, her eyes full of stars, half-drunk on the man’s Radiance. “Evee, you’re so lucky. If I were Emily, I would have kept that hunk for myself, so what if he's my nephew? Anyway, my shift is up! See you later.” With Sylvie gone, Elvia stared at the back of the abused door. On its rear, there was a picture of a Manx Cat, hanging from a clothesline. Matron Maxwell was an enormous feline aficionado and had framed the doors with hundreds of the damned things. “Hang in there,” Elvia read the words to herself in silence, wondering how her friends were doing half a world away. London. Heathrow ISTC Station. Like most capital transit stations, London’s ISTC sat in a quieter part of the city. A key rationale was for the processing of the thousands of Mages passing through its Teleportation Circles on an hourly basis, and another was for the propensity of said Mages to traffick in illicit materials. Gwen stood pretty as a statue at the base of the ISTC Mandala, scanning for her handlers. When her eyes floated over a pair of Mages in tightly fitted militant uniforms, the duo moved to accost the new arrival. “Miss Gwen Song of Sydney?” “That’s me.” Gwen raised a hand. “ID?” “Here.” Gwen produced her Multi-Pass. The two independently verified her credentials. "You're a Class VI War Mage?" The older of the guards, a stocky man with a bull's neck, eyed her from crown to toe. "Really now?" "Yep, that's me." Gwen gave what she hoped was a disarming smile. “Welcome to Heathrow, Miss Song.” The second speaker, a young woman with fair blonde hair, bowed her head. “Mmm. I am Sergeant Waterford, and this is Cadet Mills. If you could follow us, please? As you are immigrating from a Frontier, we need to clear you for customs." "Of course," Gwen returned politely. When she caught her reflection of a mirrored pillar, she performed a double-take. In Yangon, she had worn mini-dress and wedge sandals suitable for sticky summers. After crossing the equator, she had put on a parka to cover her arms and shoulders. Presently, however, the European Mages around her, the guards included, were each bundled up in multiple layers of clothing. From the ISTC's four-storey windows, she could even see snow blanketing the countryside. Next to an iron gate, mist-huffing guards stood with fur hats and trench coats. Inside, the male travellers wore vests and jumpers, the women, full-length coats and scarves. Presently, Gwen realised. She must look like a crazy person— that or an exhibitionist. "Sergeant." She stopped. "Could you excuse me for a second? I'd like to change into something warmer." "No." The sergeant's curt rebuff was puzzling. "Please follow us to the interview room. Also, please refrain from accessing your Message Device as well as your Storage Ring. Penalties will apply." Gwen glanced at the female cadet, who nodded meekly. "Alright." After a quick gander around the spacious interior of Heathrow, she chose compliance. She had no idea what 'Airport' security was like in arguably the busiest hub in Europe and didn't want any trouble, at least not before Evee was in her arms. "Cadet Mills will confirm your visitation endorsements. I will inspect what you are bringing into London. Once satisfied, you will be released into the city." “Released?” Gwen realised the man never did return her Multi-Pass, wondering if this had to do with her classification. “What am I, a Dragon?” Sergeant Waterford remained stoic. The corner of Mills’ lips twitched. Behind a glass barrier with the words, "Border Control - HEATHROW", was a row of offices built without windows. Sterile and intimidating, the interior of the room was furnished with a bare steel table bolted to the floor, and two chairs. Gwen sat, as did Sergeant Waterford. Cadet Mills was left standing with a data slate. “Miss, may I have your name?” Cadet Mills was at least polite. “Gwen Song.” “Place of Birth?” “Sydney.” “Date of Birth?” “25th of May, 1986.” “Highest Level of Education Attained?” “Second-year— Senior?“ "Ma’am?" “Of Blackwattle High School.” “Senior Diploma, Ma'am?” “Er…” Gwen realised something terrible. “Junior? But I have a senior's certificate. Also, I attended Fudan-Shanghai for three Semesters. So I am technically not a Frontier's woman anymore.” The two officers looked at one another. Sergeant Waterford snorted. “Your reason for moving to London?” “Higher Education.” “Institution?” The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. “Cambridge— Peterhouse.” Again, the confirmation engendered a longer than usual silence. "Right." “Highest School of Magic Attained?” “Conjuration, Tier 6.” “Secondary Schools?” “What, all of them?" “Yes?” “Okay. All of them. Excuse me—” Gwen interrupted herself when Sergeant Waterford rolled his eyes. "Yes?" "Not to be rude and interfere with your job." Gwen raised a hand. "But do you not know who I am? Have you picked up the wrong person, perhaps? I am sure there's someone who is supposed to meet me here." “Employment status?” It was Sergeant Waterford who spoke. "What?" "Just answer the question." “Self-Employed.” “Occupation?” “Import-Export. CEO.” “Where will you be staying in London?” “A hotel, I’d imagine, near Marylebone, where Evee— Where the Nightingale College is located." "You DO NOT have a place of residence?" "Should I? I've only just arrived." "Name your sponsors, their name, contact and address." "What?" Now Gwen knew something was wrong. "Listen, Sergeant. I know you have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Gwen Song, and I am here on invitation by the Marchioness of Ely. I am the sister of Master Gunther Shultz of Sydney. You should have seen me on the Vid-Casts. I was in the team going against Pretoria. Now, I understand I may have gotten off the wrong stop. Maybe I was expected in Cambridgeshire. If you could let me out, I am happy to take the next ISTC over and have them deal with me." “How will you be paying for your stay?” "Are you even listening?" "HOW will you be paying for your stay?" “Sponsorship from Peterhouse.” Gwen's tone grew cold. "Can I speak to your manager?" “If you’ve brought more than 1000 HDMs into the country, you need to declare the amount.” “… Oh?” Gwen blinked. Was this what it's about? Could it be a tax thing? "Is there a tax on personal wealth now?" "I don't make the rules—" “— You just follow them. FINE." Gwen returned curtly. "I have 112,420 HDMs in credit sticks and minted currency on my person right now. Is that a problem?” Sergeant Waterford's eyes widened, then he smirked. Gwen recognised the look but did not understand why Waterford looked like a hound jaunting back with a hare in its teeth. Gwen bit her lips in frustration. Something was wrong. The question was whether she had made a mistake in getting off at London, OR if she was caught up in someone else's ploy, OR if said scheme targeted her directly. Cadet Mills slid a second data slate across the table. “What is the total value of Magical Items you are bringing to London? Please read sections 1-4 and 2-1, respectively,” Waterford demanded. Gwen read the slate. It made no sense. Dean Luo had said that all she had to do was show up. Gunther likewise confirmed that someone from London Tower would be awaiting her. No one ever said she had to deal with bean-counting bureaucracy. Should she play along? Gwen took a moment to consider her options. Grudgingly, she tallied her Ioun Stones, her Ring of Evasion, her Contingency Ring, Storage Ring, and her yet to be restored Ghosting Amulet, reminding herself that she had an outstanding IOU from Kyoto. Other items such as her babulya's stone of clarity and items of convenience like the Portable Habitat she had forgotten to return, she made a rough estimate. “Here.” Gwen handed back the slate. Mills counted the zeros. “Is this correct? Ma'am?” “Yes.” Gwen was glad that she gave back Gunther’s Ring. She wasn't an Auctioneer at Sotheby's and would have put down five zeros on reflex. “You're carrying 26,000 HDMs worth of items on your person...” “Some of the items are unique.” Gwen's brows furrowed. “Are we done? Can I go now? Important people are waiting for me." Sergeant Waterford scrolled through the list. “You have a Spirit on you?” “It’s a supplement,” Gwen explained. “Think of it as homoeopathic medicine.” “Can we see it?” Gwen materialised her jadeite storage box. “Is that storage device on the list?” “The box is a Magic Item?” Gwen stared at the box, then realised her stupidity. Hers was a container made from ageless, near-perfect jadeite, hand-carved by Ryxi. In the current jadeite market, the box may be quite priceless. “I suppose it is.” Before the officers could answer, she opened the box. “Kii—Kii?” The ginseng stirred. When it caught sight of Gwen, its remaining limbs grew limp. “Kii!” Gwen patted the root vegetable on the chest, then closed the lid. The two officers must have stopped breathing at some point because Gwen could hear both of them taking deep breaths. "Anything else?" “We'll need to confiscate that,” Sergeant Waterford stated blankly. “The plant is an illicit Class-III Magical Creature. You’re not allowed to bring un-attuned Magical Creatures into London without an Import Licence, a signed 11-B and a Request for Quarantine 12-C. The penalty for non-compliance is a fine of 10,000 HDMs and prison time up to one year.” Gwen de-materialised the box. “I wasn’t informed.” She had it up to her neck with these goons. “Cambridge should have taken care of all my papers.” “Cambridge does not command Border Control.” Sergeant Waterford's eyes grew hard. “Miss, I am afraid we will need you to empty your Storage Ring.” “No." Gwen felt her patience wane. "Contact London Tower. Tell them to send someone." “Are you refusing a lawful request?" The Sergeant's tone was arrogant and rude. Gwen checked with a subtle manifestation of Detect Magic that the room wasn't equipped with anti-magic wards. Thus far, no other ISTC station had shown the slightest interest in her inventory. At any rate, the Sergeant's smug mug made her wish she still had her Dragon-fear. “Sergeant, I may look like this, but I am not stupid,” Gwen complained. “I know my rights. And I will not empty my ring nor relinquish my inventory. Now be a good Sergeant and go and call your superiors. There has been a terrible mistake. Fix this, and I won't pursue the misunderstanding." “If you are dissatisfied, you may lodge a formal complaint ONCE we stow the contents of your Ring.” Sergeant Waterford stood, his face growing redder with her every word. “Again, I ask that you remove from your body all magical items, and detail the source of the currency, items and materials you are bringing into London.” Gwen's complexion grew pink. Her irises took on a vivid hue. Even when some NoM groped her tooshie on the train, she had not felt so annoyed. What the fuck was this motiveless malignancy? “I am a Class VI War Mage." Gwen wasn't sure if what she said held any weight, but it was worth a try. "Return my Multi-pass to me. Now. Then CALL your superiors." “Sir.” The cadet leaned toward to her superior, her face ashen. “Maybe we made a mistake?” Sergeant Waterford turned. “Cadet! NEVER undermine a superior officer.” Waterford’s snap was so vicious that Mills visibly flinched. “Miss Song! I am warning you—” There was a sound of steel on concrete. Gwen stood from her chair. “I stand warned. Are we done?" Waterford's complexion darkened. “Give me back my Multi-Pass if I am not welcome in London. Send me back to the ISTC station. You can be sure that I’ll inform Tower Master Gunther Shultz and Lady Grey of Ely that some brainless twat stopped me from entering the city because of bureaucratic inflexibility and an ego-driven power trip.” Sergeant Waterford closed the distance between them in an instant. Gwen sensed a flood of Transmutation cascading from the man’s body. In Sydney, the officer would have been someone special, but here in London, the man was just a grunt with a badge. “Gwen Song, you are under arrest for refusing to comply with an officer of Border Control,” Waterford announced. “Your belongings will be confiscated and kept in storage until further notice.” The cramped room, combined with Sergent Waterford's body odour, was making her claustrophobic. In Singapore, she at least knew her father had fucked up. In Shanghai, it was her grandfather who had her incarcerated for observation. Here in London, she was truly alone. If she allowed this man to take her items, who knew what would happen to them? If she allowed this man to arrest her, who knew where she would end up? Gwen studied the man's bloodshot eyes. Was Ravenport behind this? Her Master's Factional enemies? Perhaps, someone looking to embarrass Lady Grey? “I am leaving,” Gwen stated coldly, raising her Message Device. “You’re a smuggler!” Waterford barred her way. “And Devices don’t work here, pissant.” “Move.” Essence flooded Gwen’s conduits. She no longer had her Dragon-fear, but the methods by which Draconic-Essence was deployed remained ingrained within her body. When she once again gazed into her opponent’s eyes, her irises were twin lanterns vivid with scintillating rainbows. She couldn't turn spines into noodles anymore, but her presence was nothing to scoff at. Unconsciously, the officer took a step back. Mills whimpered against the wall. Gwen passed the man now sweating profusely, then approached the door. Click. It was locked. Feeding Essence into her arms, she tried the handle again. It wouldn’t budge. She was hale but no longer a She-Hulk, and her obstacle was designed to withstand Transmuters. “Go on, leave." Waterford had recovered enough to speak. "What are you going to go? Flee into the city?" Gwen forced herself to calm. Different from her Draconic days, her fog of indignant rage cleared far quicker than when she was under the influence of Dragon-juice. With an icy clarity, Gwen measured the outcomes of her demolishing the door. Whatever Sergeant shit-for-brains presumed, she was confident that so long as she did not kill anyone, injury and mayhem was perfectly acceptable for someone with her backing. No one wants an angry Alesia in their office, and few bureaucrats in the Tower desired a justified censure from Gunther. If anything, Lady Grey would likely have a stern word with the Border Force's replacement Director. Satisfied, Gwen placed her hand against the door. Though the mechanism was well-made and enchanted, it was not warded. They were in an office, not an MSS secret prison under the Ministry of Social Welfare. “Chakram.” She invoked her Signature Spell. Carefully channelling the Void Mana through her Essence-shielded conduits, she neatly sliced at the locking mechanism as though slipping through a credit card. _Click!_ The mechanism disengaged, the door opened. "Sir, she IS a Void Mage!" Cadet Mills whispered harshly. "We've—" “Guards!” her captor was screaming into a communication device. “Code THREE. Female Escapee, on suspicion of currency laundering and smuggling of Magical Creatures. Dark-haired, eighteen years of age, green eyes. She’s leaving the holding section right now—“ Gwen turned, the final syllable for Flashbang on the tip of her tongue, only to be met with Cadet Mills’ pleading eyes. The spell faded from her lips. “Caliban! Ariel!” “Shaa Shaa!” “Ee EE!” “Keep me covered. Don’t attack even if provoked.” Her Familiars complied, each assuming their combat forms. If her Familiars, so instantly recognisable from the IIUC’s international broadcasts didn’t earn her a visit from the higher-ups, then she was indeed caught in the grip of a wide-ranging conspiracy. In that eventuality, she would make as much commotion as possible, ensure that as many pairs of eyes saw that Gwen Song, Class VI War Mage, was causing mayhem. Only in the dark were these corrupt, arrogant, bureaucratic bastards powerful. In the light of scrutiny, their schemes melted away like morning snow. Heathrow ISTC Station. Exterior. To the complete awe of sticky-beaked valets, a Rolls Royce idled in the Station's reserved parking bay. In all of the United Kingdoms, only fifteen vehicles of the same make and model existed, making the onlookers guess as to which noble was gracing the station for a business trip. “Milord, I think now might be a good time to intervene,” sounded an imploring voice from the driver’s side seat. “Director Reeves is en route as we speak." "Very well, Elliot. You know best." “Aye, milord.” The driver exited the vehicle, then tapped on the passenger-side door. “Acolyte, ready to leave?" “Yes, Sir Savile," the young man answered, his voice brimming with barely-constrained agitation. "We'd best hurry— before she eats anyone in public.” A severe sense of déjà vu assaulted Gwen when two dozen guards surrounded her with sonic suppressors. The last time she had been in this exact precarious situation, it had been Alesia refusing to stand down to Walken’s goons. If so, who was the mastermind this time? What would happen to her if she Chain Lightninged the lot of them? If anything, Gwen lamented losing her Dragon-Fear yet again. A good AoE jolt of the Dragon-juice was effortlessly capable of disabling the guards via explosive bowels. “UNSUMMON YOUR FAMILIARS!” the Guard Captain shouted. “NOW!” The area outside Border Control had been cleared of civilians, though not before Gwen caught the flash of a few lumen-recorders. Where she loathed exposure in Shanghai, she welcomed it in London. With her beautiful Ariel and her big-black Caliban out in public, how could anyone NOT take a lumen-recording? “BRING ME YOUR MANAGER!” Gwen wasn’t sure what title the highest officer of Border Force held, and so could only act like an ignorant mall-mom. “NOW!” "Shaa—" SCREEEEEEEE— A sonic suppressor misfired. Perhaps out of nervousness, maybe to test Gwen's resolve. With her Essence encircling her conduits, however, the otherwise agony-inducing device was a minor annoyance. “Shaa! Shaa!” Caliban sang— its carapace split, driving the men back. Her familiar rather enjoyed the din. “Shaa! SHAA!” Gwen felt like a fool, but that was the role she now played. Idiots weren't dangerous. Idiots could be pacified. Surely, an idiot who merely stood her ground didn't warrant lethal retaliation. There was no War on Terror in this world, after all, no Fox-News mass hysteria. “YOUR SUPERIOR, NOW!” Gwen howled, using her Clarion Call. This time, the windows visibly vibrated. “Maximise output! On my mark!” The Guard Captain, standing in front of a smug Sergeant Waterford, ordered his men for the inevitable. “Miss Song, you have FIVE SECONDS TO COMPLY.” Groaning internally, Gwen readied her Void Skin and a Lightning Shield. Void Shield had the unfortunate habit of cutting line of sight, and that was something she couldn’t afford right now. With her Essence, Void Skin, and her VMI, she should be able to hold out until someone without shit-for-grey-matter arrived. “Five—” “Four—” “Three—” “HALT!” A burst of silvery Conjuration gave the Guard Captain pause. A split-second later, the space in between Gwen and the leader of her assailants filled with two figures, one youthful and tall, and the other old and gnarly. Gwen gasped as recognition dawned, the well-loved contour of the young man's face may as well be an angel sent from heaven. “R-RICHARD?” she spluttered, her eyes widening. “Oh, thank fuck.'” “Gwen!” Richard threw both hands up in the air to show that he wasn't dangerous. He then spoke through a silent Message. “Let Lord Savile do the work. “ “Who?” Richard made the gesture for her to zip it. “Shaa! SHAA!” “EE! EE!” Gwen willed her Familiars to calm. The old Magister-looking bloke must be the man initially assigned to pick her up from the ISTC station. If so, then her pointless ordeal was at an end. The gent behind Richard produced a crest, lighting up the space in front of him with a Coat of Arms so absurd Gwen almost snorted. The projection was a stylised Glyph, one consisting of a single stripe of gules across a white shield with a trio of emerald parakeets. “Elliot Savile, acting on the order of the Duke of Norfolk. Guard-Captain, you WILL submit your authority to me. Remove your arms, then remove yourselves from my presence.” The hunched Magister's declaration fulminated across Heathrow's grand hall, driving the guards back. Déjà vu once again suffused Gwen's senses. Wasn’t this what happened last time too? The old guy wasn’t Gunther "Apollo" Shultz, but he was plenty burly in so far as his presence was concerned. “She’s a smuggler and a trespasser!” Sergeant Waterford’s face was pale with panic. “Do not be fooled, Secretary Savile. She’s carrying hundreds of thousands in illicit funds, including a Spriggan Sprite stolen from lord knows where! Just check her ring!” "Sergeant." The man called Secretary Savile appeared unfazed. "Where is your superior?" _VOOMMPH!_ Another Dimension Door opened, vomiting forth a bespectacled man in a three-piece suit. Others followed, depositing other half-dozen officers. These ones, Gwen could see, were all Combat Mages. “Sir!” The guards saluted, instantly relieved. “What’s happened?” The new arrival glanced at Gwen and Richard, then at the wizened Lord in their midst. “Lord Secretary! Why are you here? Have my men offended you?” “Yes.” The man known as Elliot Saville gestured for Gwen and Richard to gather around. “Sir!” Sergeant Waterford was bowing and scraping before anyone else could get a word in edgewise. With astounding acuity, he painted Gwen in the colour of his accusation. Gwen seethed, though again Richard held her hand and told her to leave the work to their escort. Once Waterford finished, the bespectacled Mage turned to Gwen and the Lord Secretary now acting as their shield. “Miss Song, I am Magister George Reeves, Director of Operations here at Heathrow. Is what my Sergeant said true? Are you in possession of the objects and creatures he has identified, and do you lack the necessary paperwork? These are serious crimes..." Gwen’s stomach sunk. Fucking useless self-serving bureaucrats. “Yes, but—“ “There is NO need to explain yourself, Miss Song.” Richard’s companion interjected, raising a finger to hush her lips. Turning toward the guards and their Director, he thumped the floor. “You have grown too complacent, Director Reeves. She isn't someone you can detain.” “Check her ring—” Sergeant Waterford was cut off by his Director. “Lord Savile." The Director adjusted his spectacles. "I would advise against the Grey Faction interfering with border operations—” “Silence—!“ Savile stopped the man before he could continue. “Is THIS the hill you have chosen to die on, Reeves? Waste my time again, and you'll regret it.” The Director snorted. “If you think Norfolk can prod and bully—“ To Gwen's amazement, Reeve's voice dimmed. It was as though someone had suppressed the ambient volume around them. In so far as a chantless Silence was concerned, its size and fineness were astounding. “Miss Song, Mister Huang.” Elliot Savile turned to Gwen and Richard again. The Mage then gestured to the far exit. “Shall we? I am sorry your arrival in London has become so unpleasant. Not to worry, heads will roll." “We're just going to leave?” Gwen was incredulous. There's still a dozen guards, more on the way, a Director and his cock-brained sergeant hurling abuses! How the hell is anything resolved? Was Savile senile? They've still got her Multi-Pass! “Gwen, we better listen to what he says.” Richard had been holding Gwen's hand the whole while. “Send away Ariel and Caliban. You're already late for your appointment in Cambridge, or so I am told.” “I have an appointment?” “You do.” “I was going to see Elvia.” “You will.” Richard squeezed her hand. “Gwen, have patience. Right now, we’re out of our depth. WAY out of our depth.” Their eyes met. Richard's eyes were unblinking and full of gravity. “Fine,” Gwen ordered her Familiars to disperse. The trio advanced, Savile parted the guards like Moses parting the Red Sea. “You won’t hear the last of this!” Director Reeves' voice was barely a whisper. “I'll have you censured, Savile! What you're doing is a blatant abuse of power!” Once outside, Gwen breathed in the air of frigid freedom with gulping breaths. There was already a ring of bright-eyed reporters taking pictures of the Lord, the nobody and the girl wearing not very much. "Thank God you arrived with Lord Savile, Richard," Gwen said to her cousin, then bowed towards their rescuer. "My most sincere thanks, Lord Savile. Your aid is most timely." "No need to thank me." Savile gestured to the shadows, his voice deep and raspy. "Your benefactor is over yonder. We should hurry if you do not wish to be tardy. Lady Grey is holding Hall in your honour." "O?" Gwen followed. "We'd best hurry, then." "Indeed." The man quickened his pace, behind them, the stickybeaks dispersed, though the paparazzi followed. Ahead, Gwen caught sight of the most expensive personal possessions she had ever seen, barring Gunther's ring. “Wow, a Rolls Royce,” Gwen gushed, slapping Richard's rigid body. “Moving up in the world, Dick!” Still holding her slender fingers, Richard’s hands grew clammy. All around them, the December snow fell like cotton, the crystallised motes of water clinging to anything remotely warm. Ten meters away, the door of the Rolls Royce swung open with a will of its own. Gwen whistled. From what she could see, the spacious interior was impossibly large. From the unique mana signature, she recognised the same Spatial Magic used for the Towers interior. If so, how bloody expensive was this car? "Wait!" Richard pulled her back. "You're just going to get in?" Gwen staggered, her legs akimbo, slipping on sleet. With both hands, she gripped Richard's coat. "Jesus, Dick, what the hell?" "W-why are you so weak?" Richard groped her arms, confused as to the unexpectedly soft body clinging onto his neck. To make sure, he gave her shoulders a shake. "What's wrong? What's happened? Did they do something to you in there?" "No, this is my fault." Gwen righted herself. Peeling away Richard's hands, she punched him in the chest. "Be careful, will you? I am an old lady." Richard waited for her to adjust her sandals. Struck by a sudden thought, her cousin unzipped her blazer, saw what the parka hid, then re-fastened the zipper. "Why are you wearing a summer dress? It’s two degrees out! My balls are up in my pelvis.” “Four hours ago, I was in Burma!” Gwen adjusted her jacket. “It was thirty-four in Singapore and thirty-two in Yangon, with a humidity of ninety! That’s when I last stepped out of an ISTC station. Besides, I feel fine. Nothing wrong with a refreshing breeze on the old stalks." She unzipped her parka. "At least I am immune to cold still." Richard zipped shut her parka again. Her cousin looked as though he was enduring great mental and physical anguish. "Forget about the dress. Gwen. Didn't your mother teach you never to get into a stranger's car?" "That's a Rolls Royce, you know. Not a candy van. And those are reporters." She pointed to the men with their Lumen-recorders. "Why?" "Do you even know who's in there?" "Our contact from Cambridge? It's not like I can go back to the ISTC station. I don't have my Flight Licence either." Richard's jaws clenched. "Look, just listen to what I have to say, and stay calm." “Fine.” Gwen glanced at the leather interior of the Rolls Royce. There was someone in there, but the air was all fuzzy. Considering her near-perfect vision, she figured it was a part of the Spatial Magic. Richard shook her shoulders. "Gwen, focus, look at me." "Okay." Gwen obediently gazed into her cousin's eyes. "The Duke of Norfolk is in that car, and he's offered to chaperon your passage to Cambridge." "A Duke! How fancy!" "The Duke of Norfolk— is Mycroft Ravenport." It took several seconds for the words to filter through her head. Ten-thousand mud-grass horses imported from the steppes of northern China stampeded through her mind in the time a dozen snowflakes kissed Richard's cheeks. "As to why I am here as a willing captive." Her cousin's Adam's apple bobbed. "Did you know that he's also an ex-Provost of King's College, Cambridge?" "But you're in Wolfson." "Not anymore." Richard's complexion alternated between passion and ashen. "I've been inducted into King's College, Gwen. My childhood dream, the impossible goal I set for myself when I enrolled in Prince's— it's come true." Gwen considered the implication of Richard's words. The warm interior of the Rolls awaited. The cold whipped at her bare legs. "Fuck."

Richard materialised an elaborate, oaken box. On its matt-black surface, the Coat of Arms of Cambridge glimmered in silver. "Your robe, for Hall." Gwen opened the container. Inside was a long black gown with bell-sleeves and open forearm seams. At its rear sat a large black hood, bound and lined in ermine. Also included was a perfumed card from Lady Grey, welcoming her to the college, as well as a note with curt instructions on etiquette and attire. "I was with the Vice-Chancellor originally. He was your chaperone," Richard explained, biting each syllable. "Until the Duke intervened." "Does the Lady know?" "The Vice-Chancellor gave me the gown, then returned straightaway to the Old Court. Assuming he's looking to save his skin..." Richard grew silent. Gwen studied her cousin's face. The young man wasn't his usual, candid self. Was it safe to speculate that the Lady knew? While she did not possess the Lady's Message Glyph, she knew the Vice-Chancellor's— though Messaging the man was as useful now as blaming Richard. She placed a white hand against the roof of the Rolls Royce, feeling the mana thrumming through its interior. By the wayside, her cousin stood guilty as charged, watching Gwen ponder her entrance into the lion's den. Outside, the paparazzi's lumen-flares blanketed the car's boxy, antique exterior. She smiled at the reporters, wondering if she should say something. Maybe a cry for help? "If you find me in a ditch later, blame the Duke of Norfolk?" "Dick, what happens to you if I leave?" "I don't know," Richard confessed. "Don't mind me—" A test? Gwen wondered. And if so, was all that Customs business a part of it? Was Richard a hostage? Or did he find himself a better patron? In his usual candour, Dick did say he was a willing participant. Whatever the case, her answers sat in the car. The question was if she was woman enough to find out. "Richard," Gwen said. "Hold onto the box. We'll talk later." Her cousin nodded. Turning on her heels, Gwen then stepped into the cabin, one white leg after the other. The lumen-recorders flashed. Like a perfect egg, the vehicle's doors sealed shut. Inside, the air was warm and temperate, smelling faintly of leather. She did not immediately turn to regard her "benefactor" but took a moment to compose herself. "That's going to hit the back pages for sure," an impeccably pronounced, accented voice drifted across the impossibly spacious interior of the Phantom. "My faultless reputation, ruined by an outlandish lassie. What would the Sun say? Or the Telegraph? Tabloids, they're worse than Transylvanian bloodsuckers." Conjuring courage from Almudj's encircling Essence, Gwen craned her neck so that the slow focus of her demanding gaze would deliver its full effect. Charcoal dress pants. Silk shirt. No tie. A fitted jacket. A trimmed beard. Eyes the colour of ice. Black hair with bands of silver. Mycroft Ravenport. The Big Bad Wolf of London. The Duke of Norfolk appeared nothing like his son. He did not look malicious; assuming malignancy had a look. Indeed, one glance at Edgar was enough to reveal the insanity simmering behind the man's eyes. Conversely, Mycroft Ravenport looked an actor, a dappled gent who frequented chamber orchestras and attended contemporary art openings. Apart from his high forehead, the most notable feature of the patriarch was his gaunt, skull-like face, particularly the man's aristocratic cheekbones and his lips, pursing to form a thin, red line. "You're very calm." Mycroft appeared amused. "I like that." "This isn't my first abduction." Gwen forced the corner of her lips to curl. "The excitement wears off." "Abduction?" Mycroft appeared genuinely puzzled. "I just liberated you from those egg-headed Militants, and now I offer you unmolested passage to Cambridge, where Justine breathlessly awaits her new ward." "Am I to understand that I am free to leave?" "Anytime." Mycroft raised both hands to show that he meant to harm. "Though I am sure Director Reeves is salivating at a chance to get at your ring, and yourself. Besides, I haven't given you any of your documents. I am Mycroft, by the way." Gwen extended a hand. "You're not going to Shocking Grasp me, are you?" Ravenport's mouth twisted into a grin. "I've been told you do that. Shock people." Her scalp crawled. Where did the man get that little detail? "I prefer civil discourse." "Is this palatial vehicle, reserved for state officials, not civil enough to bolster your confidence? Nevermind— here, your papers. Please be at ease." A thick manila envelope materialised in Gwen's extended hand. Gwen opened the envelope. Inside was a calf-skin leather booklet with the crest of the British Mageocracy imprinted in gold, consisting of the Royal Coat of Arms resting upon a spell tome. The paper itself consisted of the same material as Spell Scrolls. On the first page was a portrait, underneath which sat her biometrics. When she channelled her mana into her new Multi-Pass, the illusory portrait came alive. It was a lumen-recording she had taken back at Fudan when Dean Luo processed her papers. "That's an Empire-wide Multi-Pass, good for all Commonwealth Frontiers, as well as tier 1 European cities. We have a treaty with the central powers. It's very convenient." Gwen sorted through her next piece of "paper". There was a card in plated silver. It was her new Public Practice of Magic Licence, currently authorising self-defence magic up to tier 5. There were other bundles of paper in the envelope as well, such as certificates for her items, a tax-form for crystals and other materials. Her ginseng had been approved as well. There was even a health certificate for the truck-load of Spam she had in her possession. "The idiot at the Customs," Gwen said. Stowing her papers. "That was you—" "The etiquette is to prefix or append requests with 'Milord', or 'Your Grace'." Ravenport returned her glare with a casual glance. "Welcome to high society, Gwen. You can stab me, shock me, throw me to the Void, but you can't be RUDE. It's unladylike." Gwen swallowed the "Fuck you, Milord" simmering at her throat. There was a time for anger. Now was not a good time. There was one final item in her envelope: a pair of silver wings. The weight of the metal in her hand, however, felt wrong. "Mithril Wings— near impossible to replicate," Ravenport said. "Justine said you wanted a pair, and so I sponsored you in place of the others. A word of advice, though. I would refrain from flying at all above the city's capital buildings regardless. The Paladins take their job very seriously." Gwen glanced at her the Unlimited Flight badge, then at the landscape outside their window. From her memory, Heathrow was already outside of the central business district. It meant that from here to Cambridge, it was mostly countryside. Assuming these documents were real, she could just fly away. "Satisfied? Did that pacify your upset?" Gwen studied the Ravenport patriarch, looking for clues, tics, something to indicate his exterior had a crack she could pry to get at the real man inside. Naturally, the Duke's facade was flawless. "Good. Savile, we're going." Soundlessly, the car began to move. "Your Grace." Gwen reiterated. "Was Officer Waterford your doing?" "Yes." "Why?" Gwen asked the obvious. "None of your business. Though it was good to see Justine's new pet ruffled." "Did I perform to your expectation?" "Adequate. Not nearly vicious enough." Ravenport inclined his chin. "Although I would like to apologise for not expecting your… provincial choice of attire." "What's wrong with this?" Gwen crossed her legs. "Once you join our ranks, you will learn that a personage in our positions has very little to fear," Mycroft spoke with an air of instruction. "But the masses do have a way of getting under one's skin. For a young lady entering Justine's service, many unpleasant things await. A sorceress with your infamy is a bone the tabloids could chew for years. Just between you and me, if you could send a Shoggoth into the Sun's editorial office, I'll ask the Queen to issue a pardon." "I am surprised Your Grace is candid about mass-murder." "Don't be morose." The Duke of Norfolk casually gestured. Between them, the middle console transformed into a bar table. From a hidden nook, Ravenport produced two glasses. "Red or White?" "Red." "Good choice." Mycroft picked a bottle. "Cabernet Sauvignon from the banks of la Gironde, '87, I believe. A good year. I am fond of a thick, dry, red. It looses up the palate." While Mycroft ensorceled the cork with a Mage Hand, Gwen scrutinised the father of the psychopath who had violated her. So far, they had remained civil. Gunther had foretold that Ravenport would not make a move on her. Though Gwen held Gunther in the highest esteem, what if he was wrong? What if they're headed for Dover, and Ravenport's looking to dump her chopped up body over a cliff? Assuming a fisherman finds her carcass, would Gunther laser down the Ravenport's Estate? If so, what would happen to Sydney? Mycroft poured the wine into a pair of enormous Bordeaux glass to air, instantly filling the car's interior with an oaky redolence. "I don't understand the purpose of our unscheduled meeting." Gwen attempted a direct approach. There were too many possibilities, and her paranoia didn't help. "Surely Your Grace is a man of such importance that his time has to be portioned out by the quarter-hour?" Mycroft swirled his Bordeaux glass, breathing in the heady scent. Raising the liquid to the light, he gazed at her through the enormous glass. "See the thickness? Beautiful— and bold, like blood." Gwen felt her fingers perspire. "I am barely old enough to drink." The Duke of Norfolk handed over her glass. "I like to let the reds sit. Patience is a great virtue when it comes to wine. The older the casket, the richer the relish, the more satisfying the delay." Gwen didn't have to be a genius to read between the lines. Ravenport knew. And from the sounds of it, he knew a lot. The duo sat in silence while the wine aerated. "But enough about you." Ravenport read her mind. "Have your associates ever spoken of me?" "You're the Duke of Norfolk," Gwen now recollected from memory, her adrenaline clarifying a distant conversation she had held with Walken. "You hold the dual-office of Earl Marshall and the Lord of the College of Arms. You sit opposite the Lord Great Chamberlain during the opening of parliament—" If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. Parliament! Gwen recalled that Ravenport had his eye on the Prime Ministership in May. To make a viable coalition, Gunther had apprised, Ravenport would not dare make an enemy out of the Middle Path's independents, as the Tories lacked the support to maintain a legislative majority. Steering the Mageocracy was a balancing act, and Ravenport was no more immune to the shackles of power than Gunther. "I understand if my titles are confusing." Mycroft laughed. "Bonk's Genealogical studies will be in your lessons, I am sure. In addition to being the 18th Duke, I am also the Earl of Arundel and Surrey— those are my land-holds. My Baronetage also includes Beaumont, Maltravers, Fitz, Alan, Clun, Oswaldestre and Glossop, though most remain in the grip of the Wildlands. My official title, as you have guessed, is Lord Earl Marshall, or Lord Marshall." "I see. Now that we're acquainted." Gwen dried her fingers on her dress, making sure she had a firm grip on the glass. "Care to throw a Frontier lass a bone? What do you want from me?" "How now." Ravenport looked at her disapprovingly. "Where's the sport?" "Sorry to disappoint," Gwen replied. "I was raised by Drop Bears." "Yes, the most deadly fauna in your penal colony, or so they tell me. You know, your stoicism reminds me of old Deathless, your Master. He was never one for tea nor titles. The Crown gifted him a Baronetage for his service. Instead, he asked for a piece of land in Hungary. That did not turn out well, or so I've heard. Quite the stain that made on Kilroy's reputation." Gwen sifted through the crumbs, pecking at the words. Mycroft's ability to meander was astounding. "Milord, I am still awaiting an answer to my initial question." Ravenport raised his glass half-way, Gwen mimicked her opponent. "For maiming my boy—" _Tink!_ He struck her glass with his own. "—I am going to make materials out of your Dragon-blooded body. Then murder everyone you love—" "!" Before Ravenport even finished, Gwen felt the invasion of Elemental Dust filling the cabin. With every cell shrieking for immediate action, she called upon her Familiar to defend her. If Ravenport wanted to start, then she would finish. "Caliban!" "SHAA!" To her complete surprise, her Void fiend manifested without interruption, filling her side of the back lounge with a two-metre Void python hankering for inbred flesh. Caliban's segments split at once, sending out its twin tendrils to envelope her foe. _THUNK!_ Half-a-metre from Ravenport, her creature struck a barrier. Her wine glass, still humming, spilt its contents over her dress, painting Caliban partially crimson. The Duke's laughter filled the cabin. "Too green by far, Kilroy's Apprentice. But then again, he that made this world made us all differently. You're smart but shallow, and all too honest— a terrible combination for a politician. Lord Shultz has his work cut out for him, I see." "Cali, calm." Protectively, Caliban coiled about Gwen's person, wrapping around her waist, resting across her lap. Did that barrier work both ways? Gwen wondered. They usually do. Caliban persisted in its menacing hisses. "Ha!— straight for the jugular? So you CAN be vicious," Mycroft praised the girl and her snake. "I was expecting something grandiose. You could have been the first Mage in the history of the Empire to let loose a Thundering Shatter in a Phantom IV. Who knows if the Spatial Mandala will hold? What an obituary both of us would make. It'll be a fun piece of trivia for future generations." Gwen glared, her cheeks glowing pink as her Essence tamed the rising bile. The man was teasing her, confusing her. Was he joking or serious about murdering her loved ones? She was inclined to believe the latter. "It must be oh-so-pleasant to bait me, Your Grace. A big and burly, Duke of the state, bullying a Frontier innocent." "Innocent?" Ravenport picked up his glass, then took a sip. " Speaking of innocence, Elvia Lindholm—" "SHAA!" Caliban hissed, growing engorged. Gwen's eyes turned prismatic. "— will be in Ystradfellte," Ravenport continued. "Don't stare. It's rude. I merely asked the Tower to keep an eye on her whereabouts. Can you imagine if some tragedy were to strike the poor lass? I have it on good authority that you or that sister-in-craft of yours will find it in your hearts to blame me, somehow." "Your menace is leaking." Gwen fought back her agitation. The bastard! She wanted Caliban to bite the man so badly! The rotten bastard! "If you want a piece of me, just take a bite. Leave Elvia out of this." Ravenport snorted, his tone grew admonishing. "How vain, Dragon-girl! Such conceit! Do you think yourself the protagonist of an Epic? Must every ploy point to you? Must every scheme undermine YOUR position, YOUR power, YOUR future?" "SHAA!" Caliban retorted in Gwen's stead. Ignoring her Familiar, the Duke swilled the wine, then stowed the glass in some unseen storage. "I'll have you know that the 'innocent' Miss Lindholm is caught up in a vortex of her ineptitude and idiocy. As for why I am telling you this— consider my gift of erudition payment for your contribution at the Teleportation Circle." Ystradfellte. Gwen repeated silently to herself, committing the tongue-twister to memory. Glancing at the Message Device by her wrist, Gwen calculated that she was trapped for at least another forty minutes. Ravenport adjusted his sitting posture. For a Dust Mage, the old Duke's haleness was comparable to a younger man. As a comparison, Guo, her Salt-talented grandfather, looked like he had yet to recover from Mao's Long March. "Are all you provincials so fond of staring?" Ravenport observed her unflinching eyes. "Fine, gawk if you like. What do those Dragon-eyes see?" Gwen scoffed. "I see sin puckering on sin. I see a Duke who has clothed his naked villainy with odd and ends stolen out of holy writ. I see a Minister of larceny branding himself as a saint while peddling deceit." She lowered her voice. "You worked with Sobel. You destroyed Sydney." "Shaa!" Caliban added with brevity. Ravenport's eyes bore into her own, no longer caring that it was "rude". Gwen gulped. She did not expect that paraphrasing Shakespeare would have the Lord Marshall stare as though she was the eighth fucking wonder of the natural world. Ravenport's mouth twitched. "I destroyed Sydney?" Ravenport's control returned. "Do you have proof?" "We know Edgar is your son. And we know Sobel worked with him." "And what does that mean? Did you speak with Henry's wife? Share a cup of tea? Did she boast that a friend in parliament was giving her a helping hand with destroying one of the Mageocracy's dearest resource-Frontiers? Because, as LORD MARSHALL of the United Kingdoms, how I shall benefit?" "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree now, does it?" "You better have crumpets with Sobel's teeth marks stowed in that ring of yours." The Duke's voice rose an octave. "For a decade, the thrice-accursed NoM-loving socialists couldn't irk me in the slightest, but you've managed to give me a migraine in twenty minutes. Well done, talk about biting the hand that feeds!" "What, you're giving me a hand?" Gwen snorted. Ravenport took an exasperated breath. "Are you not our Class VI teenage War Mage? Am I not the Lord Earl Marshall, an imperial agent of Her Majesty's finest forces? Were we to engage in total war, I would be your highest administrative officer. Cometh a second Beast Tide. Even Gunther would fall under my command." "Your son—" "—Was a bastard, a fool and a tool." "—died—" "Ingrates die every day, what's one more? Did you kill him?" "No." "Care to trade his murderer for a reward?" Gwen bit her tongue. "Sin puckering on sin? Now that's rich." The grey-haired Lord faced her with a derisive snort. "Do you have any idea how the Empire stands at the apex of this infested, Demi-human world? Have you ever seen a Mermen port razed by our Royal Marines? Arboreal Villages, burnt to the last elf? What do you think keeps an empire oiled and moving? It's endless rapine! The things we did in Indochina and Africa! The obstacles your DEAR Master Kilroy had parted to plant those Towers. The horrors he made Sobel commit! Oh— you sweet summer child. Holy writ? Our cities are built on bones. And most of it isn't from monsters." Crumbs and more crumbs, Gwen pecked at the facts. "I know—" "No, you don't." Ravenport wavered her retort. "You know so little, but that doesn't stop you from lecturing your betters, now, does it? Allow me to elucidate your narcissistic little mind. You are an asset to the Mageocracy. Lady Grey wants you for the Middle Faction— I want you for the Grey Faction. The Militants would love to have you but lack the means. But that's fine. We can learn to share; there's plenty of Gwen Song to go around—" "And as for what you know— the answer is 'very' little. Edmund has paid the ultimate price, and Her Majesty's government is well-informed of the blemish on my family name of eight centuries. Edmund's resources were mine, but his actions were not. In the wake of Sobel's fiasco, the Mageocracy almost lost a city and did lose one of its architects. But turn, we gained two boons— Gunther Shultz embracing his destined office, and the unveiling of Deathless Henry's legacy." "What legacy?" The words were barely out when she realised what Mycroft implied. "What else?" the Lord of the College of Arms replied. "A stable Void Sorceress with the ability to Consume the talent of your enemies. Friend or foe, Human or Dragon." "Shaa!" Caliban hissed, writhing in her arms as her agitation mounted. "SHAA— Shaa!" Gwen's blood ran instantly cold. Was the Duke implying that she was going to be force-fed, this time by the Mageocracy? Not even China dared to push her that far. "You see, even though Sobel was a godsend against the ongoing Beast Wave, we all knew she was an unstable Warding Glyph," the Duke continued. "To no one's surprise, we couldn't control her, and in the end, neither could Henry. But that's alright, because YOU, my dear, in your tiny dress and your self-righteousness, self-dealing hypocrisy, will be everything Kilroy ever wanted. You're his redemption. Justine is convinced you'll inherit Sobel's mantle and do RIGHT by dear Henry!" "Your Grace, I know you're trying to muddy the water," Gwen fired back. "Stow it. If you think a little panache can drive a wedge between me, my family or my Master—" Mycroft dismissed her words with a wave. "No, Gwen. We're long past deception. I am here on a mission of mercy." Lord Ravenport's voice took on a stern and unyielding tone. "As far as I am concerned, there is NOTHING more important than the supremacy of our species and the perpetuation of the Empire! How many people have lost loved ones? What's a 'son' in the grand scheme of things? I would trade TEN Edmunds for HALF a Sorceress as talented as you!" "You think that I am here to constrain you? Limit your potential? No, you pig-headed provincial! I want you to live your life and PROSPER! Do your business. Dance with your Dragons. Infest the countryside with this LEGION. Mould the land as you see fit." The Duke's presence filled the cabin. "Then, when others say NO! And when others undermine your work, steal your labour, destroy your citadels, maim your friends— you will think of our conversation today. Then you will come to me, just as your Master came to my father— then you and I, we shall talk of Empire." Gwen gulped. Ravenport had revealed so much that the buffet of information was impossible to digest at once. "My Master came to—?" "To my father— But that information will cost you." Gwen ground her teeth. "Fine. How about Richard," she said at last. "What have you done to Richard." "Processed his immigration form, then inducted him into King's College," Ravenport answered drily. "Who do you think Lady Grey had to ask for such a favour? Who else can elevate an insignificant, unbacked-nobody to the highest institute of learning in the land? Richard wanted to enrol in Wolfson? That boy will be eaten alive. Only in King's will he find sympathy. Oh, you can doubt— but I consider my boon an investment. He's a wise young man to keep on hand, not like some fool hussy hailing from a penal port." Ravenport's facade was once-again flawless. Gwen prided herself on her ability to read others, but the Duke of Norfolk was written in a whole other language. Outside, against the corner of her eyes, an endless English countryside flittered from meadow to meadow, beautiful beyond words, but also daunting. Gwen sat in silence, slowly digesting the Duke's words. Henry Kilroy. Elizabeth Sobel. The Middle Path, the Greys, the Militants. Mycroft Ravenport was right in that were many things she did not know and may never know. Her Master's past loomed like a depthless pool of bottomless brine. What did Henry seek from the Senior Ravenport? What exactly did the Mageocracy do to Sobel? What does it mean to retread Lizzy's Path? The woods are lovely, dark and deep. "Why the fiasco in the terminal?" Gwen reverted to her original topic. She disliked the silence. "The intricacies may just be too much for your pretty little head," Ravenport answered. "If you wish to know— keep an eye on the headlines. As always, you overestimate your importance." The silhouette of Cambridgeshire came into view. The horizon was now taking on a lovely shade of rye, painting the linen land a dusky gold. Cambridge was close. "Let's draw a line in the sand." Gwen mentally tallied her meandering conversation with Edmund's father. "All of your cock and bull— it's a warning, isn't it? Step on your toes and the Station Incident will happen again and again, and my enterprises will go exactly nowhere. Meanwhile, Richard languishes at King's, pressed under your thumb. Likewise, Elvia's life is but a whim away. You don't want to deal with Gunther directly. You don't dare to cross Lady Grey. You want your precious majority in parliament, so you slip these needles under my sole and teach me to step lightly. Have I read you correctly, milord? Do I sound elucidated, Your Grace?" "You've arrived." The Duke indicated to the appearance of suburban buildings outside. "Since you're such a wunderkind, let me leave you with a last bit of advice so that you don't embarrass yourself. We're not enemies. Not yet. Your brother-in-craft brought to us what Edmund's done. The Crown knows. So does the assembly. So does the House of Lords." "Sydney's reconstruction has gone rather swimmingly, don't you think? All those resources, just pouring into a penal colony. All those work permits signed and delivered! Did you think that was because of Master Shultz's boundless charisma? Which Faction do you think purchased his Leviathan Core? Who do you think donated the Nightmare from their private collection?" "And Lady Grey, The honourable Justine Maxwell Loftus," the Duke of Norfolk gave her a look of utter contempt. "We're cousins, no different to you and you Richard. The same blue blood flows in our veins, just as it flows lacklustre in yours. We nobles may eat our own, but in the end, it's all in the family. It doesn't matter which of us you choose as your patron. The rules are the same. You give— and we take. If you demand too much—" The Duke appeared as though he wanted to pat her head or pinch her cheek, but was deterred enough by Caliban to think better of it. "Listen to Mr Huang, Gwen." The car stopped. "He's a smart boy." _Pop!_ The doors opened. Outside, the vaulted pillars of the Old Court, ochre and crimson and enveloped with snow, awaited. Richard stood by the door, pale with white mist streaming from his mouth and nostrils. "The woods have wolves." The Duke waved her goodbye. "And you're just a little girl in a tiny dress. Don't mistake your friends and enemies." Gwen placed a hand against the overhead rails. She retrieved her Void Familiar, then with one leg out in the cold, she turned to regard Mycroft. "Cheers for the heads up, Your Grace." Gwen's mind felt as cold as the frigid frost kissing her unprotected feet. "In the future, I'll be sure to live up to your expectations." The two jousted with their eyes. Gwen's were vivid and striking, Ravenport's hard and unyielding. "Savile." Mycroft Ravenport was the first to break eye contact. "We're returning to the Estate." The Rolls Royce silently rolled from the forecourt. From the Old Court's interior, two beadles in their black coats rushed out with umbrellas to greet their guests. Richard held the box containing Gwen's robes, standing beside his cousin. "I'll be waiting… for Hall to finish," he managed to eke out. "I am sorry this happened. It wasn't my intention to be a burden." Gwen reached for the box in Richard's rigid fingers. A tug-of-war ensured, perhaps it was best she no longer had her Draconic-strength. Their eyes met. In the near-three years that she had known Richard, Gwen had never seen her cousin beg. But now, she saw the desperate plea in his eyes. There were no words, for words would have sullied the purity of Richard's appeal. On her cousin's dark brown hair, a snow crystal melted, as fragile as hope, as delicate as trust. Gwen made up her mind. She would not let Mycroft worm into her heart. The Duke professed to know everything about her, but really, the arrogant bastard knew nothing at all. Could the Lord Marshall imagine a world inter-connected as a worldwide web? A system of government where every citizen voted? That without a single mote of mana, humans had split the atom, harvested the power of a star? From her connection to Amuldj to her otherworldly knowledge, Mycroft was the one in the dark. He may profess to know the past, but she had seen the future! "Come on, ya goose." She punched Richard on the arm. "Your balls must be in your intestines by now. Let's head somewhere warm, and you can show me how to wear this damn gown."

Cambridge. Old Court. The exterior of “Hall”, the building in which Formal Hall was held, overlooked the frosted lawns of the Old Court facing the east and Deer Park facing north-west. As an ancient institution, Peterhouse’s Courtyard projected the stoicism of its Laudian Gothic origins. Its interior, comparatively, preserved an older history, favouring the contoured geometry beloved by the Renaissance architects. Within the hall, against a foundation of dark, lacquered wood, vibrant compositions of priceless stained glass, centuries-old and Pre-Raphaelite, depicted the Acts of St Peter, from his adoration of Christ to his crucifixion by Nero. In the lesser-parlour, a few doors from the Hall, Gwen made use of a converted prayer chamber to change into subfusc attire. From her ring, she picked a long-sleeved ivory blouse, a bell-skirt in black, and a pair of matching heels. Once she was ready, Richard aided her by slipping the Acolyte’s gown over her shoulders, aligning her sleeves and fluffing out her ermine-lined hood. In a further room, the sound of stirring voices thrummed against the acoustically sensitive ironwood wall. Thunk! Thunk! “Miss Song, it’s time,” came the warning from the beadle. “Her Marchioness awaits your arrival.” “It’s time for me to go.” Gwen brought Richard’s face closer, then kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dick. You can go back to King’s now if you like. I don’t know how long Hall is going to take.” “I’ll wait.” Richard indicated to the lounge. “I am an undergraduate, not underage. My curfew is quite lax.” “There are teenagers my age attending College?” “Sure, the older bloodlines tend to kick-in early.” Richard snorted. “For someone who doesn’t look a day over sixteen, you're such an old soul.” “Aww, thanks, Richard.” Gwen laughed. “It warms my ancient bones to hear you say that.” She reached for the door. “A word of advice?” Richard politely discouraged his cousin. “Don't duel in a seven-century old building.” The Marchioness of Ely stood under the portraits of her predecessors, proctoring two long tables of Peterhouse’s elites, each in their colour-coded regalia. As per tradition, each member of Peterhouse present on campus did their best to attend Formal Hall when called by its Master. Justine Loftus observed the swaying gowns with satisfaction; as usual, Formal Hall filled her with a sense of accomplishment. For Acolytes, the all-black gown ceased at three-quarter length, reaching just above the knees. For the graduate Magus, their vestment sported an ivory moth-silk inlay, with hems reaching the ankle. Comparatively, the lauded Magister’s gown was scarlet, with a black silk inlay and a hooded cloak lined with the finest fur from the endangered Snowdonian Stoat. For all three variations, a silk-trimmed sash with coloured "bands" indicated their principle Schools of Magic. Sunburst for Evocation. Pale nimbus for Abjuration. Silver for Conjuration. Ivory for Divination. Gold for Enchantment. Lapis for Illusion. And Tyrian purple for Transmutation. Had one of Peterhouse's Meisters attended, their gowns would consist of gold-weaved, bible-black moth-silk, with a double-folded sash and sleeves in retina-searing scarlet. The more carmine that graced a Houses’ Hall, therefore, the more lauded its reputation. “Students, Maguses, Magisters.” Justine Maxwell Loftus, Mistress of Peterhouse, raised a glass to toast the double doors prefacing the entrance. “I give you our newest inductee, Apprentice to our beloved Master Kilroy and sister to Lord Gunther Shultz and the esteemed Lady De Botton— Miss Gwen Song of Sydney!” The beadles at the door pulled back the oaken panels, revealing a girl with a beaming face, her complexion as white as lilies, her eyes so bright as to almost appear prismatic. A murmur broke out among the Magisters. The students themselves remained silent, studying their newest competitor. The youthful sorceress curtsied expertly, then threaded her way between the two tables, her slender white legs appearing and disappearing between the gown’s folds. Against the fossilised oaken floor, her heels clicked, tip-tapping in dual-toned staccato. The older alumni nodded with approval. The younger Acolytes turned to one another with wiggling brows before returning their attention to the scented body drifting through their midst. No one spoke a word, though a Diviner would have rolled their eyes at the sheer volume of invisible, Silent Messages bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. Lady Loftus smiled, happiness blossoming across her still-youthful face. A few meters from the Lady, Gwen curtsied again. Of all the Mages present, she alone did not possess a single colour— her attire was stark and without adornments. “Turn around, Gwen,” the Lady commanded. "Do try to impress." Gwen did as told. Their new arrival faced the crowd. At once, an indescribable presence radiated from her svelte silhouette. It was an aura of life, of fresh dew on the first day of spring, of thawing brooks frigid with ice melt. Looking at her hopeful, luminous face, her onlookers forgot for a moment that outside, Cambridgeshire was still in the grip of winter. With relish, Master Justine Loftus produced the multi-coloured stole she had commissioned for the occasion. Working the cloth under Gwen's collar, a tapestry denoting every School of Magic marked the scarf hanging from her shoulders. The ones closest to the head of the table were the first to inhale sharply. Each by each, the Silent Messages ceased until all present— forty-two sorcerers and sorceresses, stared at the girl. From her contoured heels, their eyes travelled up Gwen's scandalous interpretation of subfusc to arrive at the rainbow-hued sash now completing her gown. Amused by the cohort's reaction and with Gwen standing by her side, the unwavering Mistress of Peterhouse offered the traditional benediction of the Nazarene. “Benedic nos Domine, et dona Tua, quae de Tua largitate sumus sumpturi, et concede, ut illis salubriter nutriti, Tibi debitum obsequium praestare valeamus, per Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen.” “Amen,” the gathered returned. “Deus est caritas, et qui manet in caritate in Deo manet, et Deus in eo: sit Deus in nobis, et nos maneamus in ipso. Amen.” “Amen,” their newest compatriot repeated after the others — when in Rome and all that. When the Lady spoke again, her magnificent voice filled the cathedral- vaults of the dining hall. “PETERHOUSE!” Lady Grey toasted the crowd. “Let us welcome our youngest sister! Let us toast the induction of the Mageocracy's first OMNI-MAGE into our abode!” Hall itself proved to be a simple three-course affair, featuring an entrée of seafood, followed by a main of Australian Auroch cheeks paired with an exotic salad of Wildland origin. Dessert was poached pear in Manuka honey, followed by tea and biscuits. For Gwen, the hour-long affair was an endless stream of expectant faces. The Senior Bursar, the Steward, The Dean, the Chaplain, the Archivist, the Senior Tutor, the Tutor for Discipline and Etiquette, the Matron of Accommodations, the College Secretary, and finally Lady Loftus’ assistant-secretary, all made their presence known. Of the long list of names bobbing through the sea of faces, some were warm, others cold, and many disbelieving. Chief among the sceptics stood the Praelector, an individual whose role was similar to Richard’s Praetorian status at Prince’s. “Ollie Edwards.” The post-graduate Magus introduced himself. Beneath a head of light brown hair, Ollie possessed elfin features and tapered ears that hinted at an unusual bloodline. From the looks of his colours, the man was a Conjurer-Illusionist-Enchanter. “I’ll be responsible for your discipline, Miss Song.” “Oh?” Gwen allowed the man to take her hand. “What will you be teaching me?” “Self-discipline and camaraderie,” Lady Loftus appended. “Unlike London Imperial, Oxbridge utilises a system of peers. We are all obligated to one another to uphold the reputation of Cambridge and Peterhouse. If you blunder, your tutors and especially Ollie, as your Praelector, will be punished accordingly for failing to guide you. Myself, as well, pending the scale of your disturbance.” “That hardly seems fair.” Gwen looked from the aquiline-nosed young man to her patron. “Collective punishment?” The Lady nodded. “Once you graduate, your fellows will be your siblings-in-study. As alumni, we walk shoulder to shoulder. To put matters in an oriental fashion, you could think of the constituent colleges as Sects. Whatever you choose to do, Gwen, think of your peers. What you can do for them, and what they may do for you as well. The practice may seem abstract, but it has served Oxbridge well.” So Oxbridge functions as a result of Nash’s Equilibrium? Gwen digested Lady Loftus' words. Do that which is best for oneself and all parties, assuming that all parties pursued what is best for others and themselves. If indeed all parties, including King’s, lauded the same philosophical tenant, then it would serve to explain Ravenport’s rationale. Everything was on a balanced scale. To harm her or her loved ones would disturb the universe. For her to act without thought would likewise cause an imbalance. For both herself and Ravenport, doing what was best for themselves, and also the Mageocracy, was "win-win"— personal feelings notwithstanding. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. The same, Gwen realised, must apply to her tight-lipped brother-in-craft. In silence, Gunther had taken the best course of action to ensure that Sydney benefited and she benefited. In exchange, Ravenport mitigated his son’s scandal and profited in the process. That was why Gunther was confident she would be left untouched in London. What the Duke of Norfolk must have feared was that in her passion and inexperience, she would pull the wrong brick from underneath a leaning tower. Realising the depth of Ravenport's plot, Gwen felt goosebumps crawling up her thighs. “Don't worry. You'll get to know your peers later." Lady Loftus rose to deliver a short, final speech, signalling the approach to the end of Hall. “Take a rest— then we’ll talk in private.” Peterhouse. Master’s Suite. Gwen sipped on sweet cherry brandy, allowing the sticky liqueur to cling to her tongue. Opposite, attired in a cotton blouse and a long skirt that trailed the floor, the Lady retained her stately aura. In Gwen's eyes, Lady Loftus’ handsomeness indicated both excellent breeding and good education. Without ceremony, she exuded an impeccable aura of gentility. For the Marchioness, there was no need to “make up” for what nature had not bestowed. The interior of the Master’s suite was modest by the standards of the colleges. Considering that Peterhouse was one of the wealthiest in London, the furnishings were frugal. When the Lady saw Gwen’s eyes darting from divan to fireplace to old drapes, she smiled and explained that the scholarly Monks of Ely, the College’s founders, did not wish the estate burdened by material comforts. She then took a stab at King’s, as well as Trinity, a seminary whose wealth equated the bottom twenty colleges combined. Then, after some intimate small talk of family, Gwen "dobbed in" her encounter with Ravenport. “Dickie can be such a boar.” Lady Loftus twisted her lips, savouring the pun. “Dickie?” “That's what we call Mycroft. It was originally Mickie, coined when we were children, around the time of the Pan-Europe Conflict. We were all children back then. At the war's height, us 'heirs' were moved to the Duke of Edinburgh's rural estate to avoid accidental, violent deaths.” “How did Mickie become Dickie?” “Oh, the name was a gift from Aunt Angie, that’s the queen’s mother, who got confused with the nick-names. I mean, there were thirty of us.” Lady Loftus laughed. “For some reason, she kept calling him Dickie, so the kids did as well. It drove Mycroft up the wall. Of course, the more he protested, the more it struck. Children can be so cruel.” Gwen chuckled. Mycroft Ravenport, the unseen hand of London and the big Don of the Grey Faction, and now also “Dickie". In her mind, she imagined Ravenport's laughing face when he threatened to cut her up for parts, then juxtaposed that image with a peevish red-faced boy screaming, "Not Dickie! NOT DICKIE! STOP CALLING ME DICKIE!" Also, did Lady Loftus just casually name drop that she chummed with the Queen as a child? The Queen of England, her Majesty, the ageless Elizabeth the Second? Her Majesty was older than the Marchioness, was she maybe like an older sister? “If that rooting hog tyrannises you again." Lady Loftus' smile was gentle as felt genuine. "Remind him that even if 'Dickie' becomes Prime Minister, it doesn't make him any less of a 'Dickie'. Step out of line, and Lilibet will put him in his rightful place." Gwen wasn’t sure how that helped or who Lilibet could be— but assured the Lady that "Dickie" would get an earful. “And rest assured, Dickie won’t touch your friends or family.” Lady Loftus patted Gwen’s hand. “It's not how we do things here. If the War of the Roses has taught us anything, it is that ruling a barren throne is about as worthwhile as lording over a Necropolis. Dickie excelled in history. No, he won't dare.” Gwen was amazed. In Asia, threatening to maim friends and family was the number one solution to all conflicts. Even stepping on toes engendered a "Do you know who my father is?" or "I'll fuck your eighteenth generation ancestors!" She had seen it play out in real life. Maymyint threatened Mayuree, Huashan threatened Lulan, the Communists took heirs as hostages, and Eunae had fallen victim to her father's potential dismissal. “He fears your retaliation as much as you fear his," the Marchioness continued. "Dickie has other children too, you know.” “He does?” “Three— well, TWO sons. And a daughter. Edmund and Charlene are from his second wife. Charlene attends Cavendish. Assuming she knows of the feud, I would keep a wide berth. If not, she's a pleasant enough lass.” “Four children! Isn’t Dickie a Dust Mage?” Gwen marvelled. “Three now. Is that so strange?” “But, Negative Energy, magical power and fertility...” “Dickie hasn’t used his talent since attaining admiralty.” Lady Loftus met Gwen’s eyes. “Or so the tabloids report. Now, if you don’t mind, can we not debate the viability of Mycroft’s loins?” “Sorry.” Gwen bit her tongue, realising that she had struck the English variation of "Don't ask, Don't tell". It was the same as how the "incorruptible" Communists in China turned a blind eye to political horse-trading. “Has Henry ever spoken of me?” Lady Loftus took a sip of her cherry brandy. “I am afraid Master wasn’t very forthcoming.” Gwen touched the subject with a gentle prod. If the Lady’s relationship and Henry was one of friendship, then she should feel disappointed. Had they been more than friends; Gwen sensed she might be in danger. “Oh…” “He was very tight-lipped,” Gwen added. “Mark Chandler had me hog-tied and put up for auction before Master bothered explaining Sobel’s connection to his stake in Void Magic. “The Chandler incident— that was you?” Lady Grey raised her brows, then sighed. “Gunther kept a tight lid on the events in Sydney. I wished that Henry could have trusted us more. We may have prevented Sobel’s infiltration.” “Is... Dickie, in actuality, unassociated with Sobel?” Gwen followed up with a question that desperately needed answers. Lady Grey studied her face. Gwen made herself as earnest as possible. “A dangerous topic for an unaffiliated Acolyte,” Justine Loftus sighed. “All I will say is that Henry was a great deal-maker with ties to many power brokers. After the Great Restoration, those factions formed into loose coalitions, eventuating into the Greys, the Militants and those who remained unaffiliated. I can't offer you a 'Yes' or 'No' to your question because you lack the context and the position to grasp its ambiguity." “I wonder if I'll ever know my Master’s past," Gwen lamented, a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. “Get yourself a Magister’s robe first and foremost,” Lady Loftus chortled. “As always, if you listen to the stories from each side, you’ll get a different truth. Those are the arrangements Henry had put in place when instituting the Tower system.” Gwen nodded. “I’ve heard so much about the Factions.” Gwen changed the topic, meandering away from her Master. “So, am I a part of the Middle Faction?” “Doubtlessly.” Lady Loftus raised a critical brow. “It’s just that.” Gwen looked guilty. “Sometimes, I am fairly sure Alesia is on an unerring militant warpath. Between the three of us, only Gunther truly embodies Master's philosophy." “A curious observation. And how do you see yourself positioned?” "I do believe in Noblesse Oblige, but I want to carry on Master's Legacy my way." "Do go on." “While I was in Shanghai—” Gwen explained. “— and throughout the IIUC, I was consumed by this thought. Lady Loftus, to be entirely forthright with you, what do you know of my extracurricular endeavours? You know that I've brought in a great deal of currency and that I have made connections with otherworldly beings, yes?" “Likely not to the degree that Dickie professes to know.” Loftus replaced her wine. “You're too kind.” Gwen took a deep breath, knowing that now was the time to make a good impression, not to mention secure her foothold in London. In Shanghai, when the possibility of her migration materialised, she thought immediately of expanding her operations. Now, Gwen desired to reopen her shop in London. Considering Ravenport's threats, she had to get Justine on her side as soon as possible. “Lady Loftus, there are a few notable capital ventures which I wish to present for your benefit. If you have some time, I would like to give you a quick introduction…” Gwen stood, her pearly whites flashing brightly. “No need for formality.” Lady Loftus motioned for her to sit. “I would like to think of you as a niece of sorts— perhaps a grand-niece, considering your age.” “You’re far too youthful to be a grand-aunt.” Gwen took a few steps back to give herself some room. “Do you mind if I use illusions?” “How ostentatious—” Lady Loftus appeared impressed by her confidence. “Very well, if you believe me so easily persuaded…” “Holy shit, Dick, I am so sorry!” Gwen burst into the common-lounge, finding Richard encircled by her new peers from Peterhouse. There was a lad with light-grey hair and dark eyes, and two girls looking very English indeed in their empire-waisted night-dresses. “Oh… am I disturbing anything?” “Thanks for the head’s up, Richard.” The young man inclined his aristocratic chin. He turned to Gwen, then bowed. “It was a pleasure to meet you at Hall today, Miss Song. I look forward to your contribution to Peterhouse.” “Thank you.” Gwen waited for the man to introduce himself. Instead, the Acolyte politely made his exit. “Rachel Clarke, Magus.” The older-looking of the two girls, a blonde, approached to shake her hand. “Welcome to Peterhouse, Gwen.” “Harriet Cornwall, I am an Acolyte like you.” The second, a brunette, nervously shook Gwen’s fingers. “Richard’s been telling us about your exploits. I’ve seen you on the broadcast, but to think so many details were left out.” “When are you going to bring out Golos?” The first girl’s eye gleamed. “I am a Conjurer-Diviner, and I don’t have a Spirit yet. BUT, you've got TWO and a Planar Ally. To say I am envious would be an understatement.” “Stuff the Wyvern.” Harriet’s eyes sparkled. “Where’s Ariel?” Ah, Gwen glanced at Richard, realising her cousin has been laying down the groundworks. “I’ll be more than happy to bring them out.” Gwen indicated for the girls to sit. “But it’s midnight, so we'll have to be very discrete.” “Okay.” “Agreed.” The girl sat demurely on the ancient, mustard-coloured lounges. “Ariel!” “EEEE!” Ariel materialised with a somersault, eyes gleaming, rainbow coat shimmering and waving its stubby stag horns to and fro. Attached to its perky bottom, a furry fantail, shrouded in nimbus, waved back and forth. “EE?” “OH MY GOD!” Rachel’s voice was loud enough to summon the dead. “ARIEL YOU ADORABLE BABY!” “AEEEEEEE!” Harriet squealed, her dignity dissipating before Ariel’s charmed assault. “SO SOFT! ARRRRRRRGH! IT’S LICKING ME!” “Gwen, you’re officially my chum! Ariel, want an HDM? Yes, you do!” The Magus dropped a fist full of precious crystals on the couch. When Ariel landed in her lap, the girl appeared as though she was about to lose her mind. WHAM! A door opened. The familiar face of Ollie Edwards burst into the lesser-lounge. “What's happened? The Acolytes are trying to sleep, for Peter's sake! You lot better not be engaged in salacious—” The Praelector’s furious eyes fell to Gwen, who stared back wide-eyed and innocent. Across from her, one of the girls rubbed Ariel’s tail all over her face, while the other made sweet moans as the Kirin licked her fingers. Ollie Edwards, the man responsible for Gwen's proper behaviour, craned his neck; on his jugular, a vein throbbed. The girls looked ashamed. Richard gave her dorm officer a nod. “Mr Huang, please return to King’s. Our visiting hours are between eight AM to six PM.” “Of course, Praelector Edwards,” Richard bowed his head. “I shall leave at once.” “Miss Song,” Edwards gulped. “If you could refrain from—“ Other students, having heard the commotion, were now emerging into the lounge. When the young men saw their Omni-Mage “little sister” sitting with her immodest skirt, stretching across the old divan, their hearts sang. When more of the women caught sight of Ariel, all thoughts of the Praelector’s authority flew out Peterhouse’ gothic windows. “A Kirin!” “I’ve seen it on the broadcast!” "If that dress is subfusc, I am a Bridge Troll..." “STUDENTS—“ Ollie cried out, only to be interrupted by yet more Acolytes emerging from the lower court. “Caliban! Where’s Caliban!” “I want to see the Wyvern!” "Blood of Christ! It's Ariel in the flesh!" “RETURN TO YOUR DORM!” The Praelector began to realise what the presence of Gwen Song in Peterhouse’s midst might signify for its resident disciplinarian. “GO! NOW!” Against his orders and encouraged by their numbers, the students Messaged their peers in Gisborne, informing them that a bona fide Draconic-Spirit was freely floating around the lesser-lounge, free to molest for anyone adventurous enough to try. “Feel this. It’s SO SOFT.” “TOUCH THE BELLY!” “EE! EE!” “It sings!” “Someone get my Lumen-Recorder!” "HDMs for Ariel!" “Everyone…” Ollie Edwards felt a tightness in this chest. Inexplicable helplessness gripped his torso, sapping all strength from his body even as his temple throbbed. Glaring at the Void Sorceress, he wondered if this was the infamous Void Aura that sapped one’s life-force. The Lady did say to be careful around Gwen, and always to regulate his mana. “It’s alright, mate.” Richard, who was now leaving, patted the young man on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. Just do your best to stay afloat for the next year, then pass her on to the next Praelector."

The next day, Gwen made preparations for her quest to find Elvia. Her morning began with Lady Loftus at high tea, demonstrating the full extent of her appetite, and a woeful understanding of etiquette. The Marchioness, however, assured Gwen that her undisguised manners had a purity to them which she had not seen for years. After so much pretension, the Marchioness mused, she had lost the ability to tell whether anyone genuinely enjoyed eating. Through three tiers of cakes and ices, the Head Mistress and Matron of Peterhouse prescribed Gwen's developments for the months ahead. First and foremost, upon her return to Cambridge, she would commence her studies under Peterhouse's Senior Tutors, one for each of her Schools of Magic. Unlike Spell-orientated lectures at other universities, institutions with the clout of Oxbridge emphasised individual ability. An Acolyte, therefore, attended lectures given by instructors based on their goals and interests. Concurrently, the college organised seminaries for students with similar expertise to share and engage in research. Then, once an Acolyte settled on a particular course of knowledge, they underwent individual research. And this was where Cambridge shone. For Gwen, "Supervision" provided the opportunity to explore her Schools of Magic in a theoretical sense, allowing her to examine each strength and weakness freely. In her case, personal tuition allowed the delivery of specialist knowledge at the instance in which she required it. For the semester of Lent, the Lady of Ely prescribed ten hours of supervision and twelve hours of seminars, in addition to any lectures she wished to attend. During the Easter Term, her training would favour practicals over theory. Then, finally, she would sit for a Magus-tier examination, and pending results, Michaelmas term would commence. On a side note, Lady Loftus had responded with good grace to her capitalist ventures, particularly her explanation of the "Centurion" and "Legion" projects. What she desired in London, Gwen explained, was a base of operations where she could lay down roots, eventually importing a completed system from either Sydney or Yangon. Though sceptical, Lady Loftus professed that she would not oppose Gwen's nouveau rich crassness. High society was full of snobs, the Lady explained, but few could resist the crystal's call. To show her support, and out of "grotesque" curiosity, the Lady Loftus offered Gwen a leasehold near the heart of London for her "Office". If Gwen could demonstrate a result that paralleled the "pie in the sky" she professed, then the Lady would consider backing her "Centurion" project. The last of their conversation pertained to less pleasant prospects. As a part of tuition, Gwen had to participate in experiments and research which will contribute to Cambridge's understanding of Void Magic. The study would be carried out by the university's Magisters, drawing on the works of Magister Wen, slated to arrive with Petra post-Lent. Concurrently, should Gwen allow the relevant researchers access to her Essence, the university would repay her by obtaining demi-human instructors. When Gwen mentioned that Ayxin had warned against investigating "Draconic-Essence," the Lady asked if her mysterious rainbow "patron" had forbidden the genuine employment of its blessing. "No," Gwen had confessed— but wasn't sure if her answer could pass the pub test. Almudj, after all, did not care in the slightest. But to allow others to study Almudj? Was this a form of betrayal? What would the serpent think, if it did indeed have an opinion? When she compared notes with Richard, Dick's schedule at King's was less about filling deficits in Spellcraft theory and more about revising missed coursework. Already, two upper-tier Magisters had expressed interest in helping him synergise new spells with Lea and in pushing his Conjuration to new heights. Walken as well had left a note saying he had arrived— but was now missing in action. If anything, she hoped her mentor survived his wife's wrath. A woman's scorn was a terrible thing, indeed. Finally, there was her fourth and most immediate concern, one that made Lady Loftus raise a critical brow— Evee. When Gwen again relayed her worries regarding Ystradfellte to her Head Mistress, the wisened Lady appeared exasperated. When Gwen insisted, the Lady relented, not wanting to end the year on bad terms. "If you must know... Ystradfellte refers to the Demi-human lands south of the Red Mount— 'Rjoth zana indu', the Dwarves call it, 'The Peak of Red Stone'. Every winter solstice, the Crimson Peak fights its twin, the Crimson Peak, for dominance of the valley." "I am so sorry," Gwen had to apologise for her confusion. "Could you clarify? I don't know anything about the area, other than that I should be there for my friend. The mountain is fighting itself?" "It's alright." Lady Loftus was as kind as she was compassionate. Her new mentor then explained that the region was richly blessed by the Elemental Plane of Earth, abundant in rare deposits. Every solar year, when the stars aligned, crystals as well as magical flora and fauna sprouted from the valley, inciting prospectors to try their luck. As for the Crimson Peak "s", the name was a trick of history. On the west end of The Peak of Red Stone laid the Dwarven Fortress City of "Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth", or the Iron Citadel. When the early Saxons first encountered, then befriended the Dwarves, the Demi-humans claimed the land around a summit they called "Crimson Peak". Opposite the Iron Citadel was a challenger to the claim, a depthless warren of Redcaps, Gobs, and Goblins ruled by Trolls. When inevitably, conflict broke out, the Trolls claimed that the Dwarves and their Human compatriots encroached on their homeland— also called "Crimson Peak". Confused, the old cartographers, lacking the means to fly over the region, assumed that both the Dwarves and the Trolls lived on the same peak. Instead, the two "Races" lived on opposing summits, separated by a good fifty kilometres. During the Beast Tide of '71, the Dwarves sealed their city, leaving their human "allies" to fend off the discharge of some hundred-thousand salivating, frenzied green-skins charging down the mount. As a result, tensions with the Dwarves remain high to this day, especially as the Grey Faction had set up an industrial township at Merthyr Tydfil. As far as both sides where concerned, the town encroached on both Troll and Dwarven land, but remained discrete enough to be ignored by the warring demi-human factions. "Why haven't we wiped out the er… Demi-humans?" Gwen asked. If this were China, the PLA would have planted a flag over their corpses. "Vargan Giantbreaker is the third cousin to the wife of Deep King Madgrat Dragonhammer of Bavaria." Lady Loftus shrugged. "If they— why are you laughing?" Gwen collapsed. The names were too funny. Was this a high fantasy novel? Thankfully, as it turns out, the names weren't literal. It just that Dwarven runes were bloody hard to translate and highly dependent on history and context which Humans lacked. To draw a comparison, biblical allusions like "Mathew" "Jean" "Adam" sounded like animal noises to a Dwarf. "And what's this talk of regicide? I can see that the orient is NOT a good influence, Gwen. What the communists did to their poor Emperor…" "My grandfather said it was the Japanese who—" "I did say Orientals, dear." Lady Loftus patted Gwen's hand. "Don't you worry. There are no communists in London. Maggie uprooted the last of the socialists in her final term of government." And that was when Gwen recalled that out of credits, currencies, Dragons and telecommunication, it was only toward Gwen's desire to employ NoMs as counter-balance against Mages that Lady Loftus had found wanting. Simply put, the very idea that an assembly of NoMs could hold a team of Mages responsible for flouting the law was, in her words, "morbid." For Gwen, the integration of a tertiary NoM workforce with complete loyalty to the company that uplifted them from poverty was essential. To trust Mages, especially London's Mages, to not skim from the company's coffers, or to sell the company's secrets, was nigh-impossible. As Gunther had said, writing a Geas into an employment contract with an NoM manager was unethical, but not uncommon. So long as both parties consented, the Tower wasn't going to interfere, and even if they did, they wouldn't raise a ruckus over an NoM. To force Geas upon employees who were Mages, comparatively, was sure to turn heads. When in turn, Gwen had asked what if they paid the NoMs well enough to engender loyalty, Gunther told her not to be so naive, and that only a Geas would thwart the bulk of magical-espionage. Thus, with the blessing of her House Matron, a head full of warnings, and an unyielding spirit of adventure, Gwen hovered over Cambridge, taking in the vista. In her old world, a brochure once said that it was only from the sky that a traveller truly appreciated the scale of the university, and Gwen wholeheartedly agreed. Cambridge was, simply put, expansive. From the enormously generous central courtyard of King's College, the university spiralled outwards, with St Catherines, Corpus Cristi, Queens and the massive estate of Pembroke to the south. To the east sat Sidney Sussex, Christ's and Emmanuel's, famous for its pond and its highly articulate ducks. To the north, Trinity and Magdalene marked the map. To the east of the River Cam, open fields dotted the landscape, enveloping the much younger Newnham, Wolfson, and Robinson campuses, the newest addition to Cambridge. What Gwen also struggled to believe was that almost all leaseholds, discounting King's and Trinity, belonged to their benefactor, the Marchioness of Ely. From Cambridgeshire to Ely to Peterborough, Gwen could fly wherever she wished. No Provost or Mayor, Gwen imagined, fancied having their landlord breathing down their neck. And that was the reason why the nobility, in her opinion, was stagnant. In Gwen's eyes, their wealth was built on land leases. Every generation, a lord added to their holdings. Twenty generations on, they owned the works. As gentry, they prided themselves not on productivity but passive income. Gwen snorted. How could that compare to human industry? But now was not the time pull teeth from the gentry's mouths. First, came Elvia. For her quest, Gwen had initially been given a piece of unwelcome baggage. Since Richard was tied up with King's and wasn't a local in any case, she had been assigned a grudging Ollie as a guide to Ystradfellte. By mid-morning, Ollie was shocked to discover that Gwen intended to fly the whole way, for he lacked an Unlimited Flight Licence. Unfortunately for the Praelector, Gwen was in no mind to delay her meeting, and so left the poor man pinning her Message Device while she— privileged by House Shultz, Loftus and Ravenport, blasted off into the blue yonder. "See you in Merthyr Tydfil! Just take the bus!" "COME BACK!" Ollie's voice echoed through the courtyard. "THERE ARE NO BUSSES TO SOUTHERN WALES!" Mathias Christopher Rothwell belonged to the Honourable and Ancient Order of St Michael, the Knight Protectors of Britannia. All members of St Michaels hailed from one blue-blooded family or another. These rare youths, lauded for their ability but lacking in inheritance, were given a second chance in the Order, prestigious enough to be of use, but far divorced from ascension to be ambitious. They were taught from induction that chivalry, honour and faith made them different and unique. And they believed it. Thanks to mass-entertainment, the visage of a Knight in shining Mage Armour coming to the rescue of a dame were etched into the psyche of the public. Over the decades, new Knight Aspirants began to believe in their hype, coming to internalise the mythos, personify their servitude with holistic devotion. During martial demonstrations, it was these orders, from the magnificent Most Noble Order of the Garter, the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, of the Bath, of St Michael, of St George, and the more recent Order of the Commonwealth, that captured the popular imagination. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. A Mage-Knight was, therefore, an extraordinary existence. Though an upper-tier War Mage was arguably far more critical than a Knight, there were significant distinctions, made more so specialised by the function of each Ordo. The Knights of the Garter, the most prestigious of the six Ordo Britannia, were directly tied to the Crown, counting only twenty-four individuals among their number. Their principal role was to act swiftly and decisively against all threats to the royal family. In times of crisis, each member was a Knight-Commander capable of leading the Empire's forces. Comparatively, Mathias' Ordo Sancti Michael was an active troop consisting of an indefinite number of individuals serving as protectors and guardians. In particular, the Order's members serviced London's Great Hospitals and Colleges, providing a much-needed militant arm to the scholastic endeavours of London's elites. Mathias had initially wanted to join the Order of St George, famous for their Dragon-slaying. His talents, unfortunately, had Awoken with a principle emphasis on Abjuration. When by the age of fourteen, he showed ability in Transmutation, his future as a Knight Protector became immutable. Mathias was disappointed but not deterred. He knew from an early age that Knighthood was his only path to glory. As the fourth son of a branch-House, he was so far from the Rothwell line of inheritance that should he become the legal successor; there may not be a House Rothwell left for him to rule. But Mathias remained driven. "Don't believe in the Chain of Being." His landless mother had cradled her golden boy against her bosoms. "Believe in yourself." And so, with the Rothwell blood and all its potential brimming in his veins, Mathias excelled. He sparred daily against his seniors; he trained until he coughed blood. He volunteered for thankless, dangerous missions without batting an eye. When finally the time came for his induction, he was given the rank of Knight at the tender age of nineteen, one of the youngest in the Order's history. Then on the Michaelmas of his twenty-second summer, his most beloved cousin, the heir to House Rothwell, brought Mathias to her home. There, she introduced him to Elvia Lindholm, a Frontier refugee. At first, Mathias had mistaken the flaxen-haired angel for a high-noble. Having escorted dozens of healers, he exactly knew what talent the girl possessed from the intensity of her Positive Energy. When the girl with the big blue eyes curtsied, Mathias could hardly believe that here, he was in the presence of a Spirit Healer. That was why once Emily explained what she wanted of him, Mathias had knelt to pledge his undying support without batting an eye. To be Emily's Knight had been Mathias' dream, though that dream was a will-o'-the-wisp. But a foreign noble? An orphaned Baroness? That, Mathias was confident— he could bring under his wing. In truth, Lindholm made an excellent Cleric. She wasn't the best chant in the Tome, but she was dedicated to her craft. The girl cared for patients, no matter how lowly, and she did not shy away from the blood and guts of the battlefield. She was selflessly loving and effortlessly garnered Faith from her patients. Her Spirit, Kiki, was also a prized Alraune, and a juvenile Spirit at that. With her Healer's aura, baby-face and curly blonde hair, Mathias could understand why Emily felt smitten by the Australian import. Still, a commoner was a commoner. But commoners had their uses. For instance, if Elvia died under his watch, there were no penalties beyond a strike against his rank. Emily would be upset, but even she couldn't influence the Order of St Michael to act against him. Of course, Mathias would do his utmost to protect Elvia. He had, after all, sworn an Oath, and in agreement with his credo, his pledge was soul-binding. Until he was near-death, Elvia would remain safe. But what Mathias could do was to take full advantage of the girl's expendability. When serving with the masses, a healer was a member of an adventuring company. The dangers they faced were real, and death and injury happened as a matter of fact. Should Mathias be in the service of a genuine Viscountess from Royal Alfred's, he would not dream of putting his ward in danger. Everyone knew that a competent team of Knight Protector and Spirit Healer fought in the heat of battle. But the reality was that "noble" healers spent their time at the triage tent and damned those who couldn't survive the transit delay. The hypocrisy of such an act was something Mathias always hated. And in conversing with Elvia, the malleable little girl also expressed her desire to save as many lives as possible. For this, Mathias was thankful. Saving lives and fighting monsters. What was not to like? "Cure Moderate Wounds!" Not far from Mathias, Elvia's flaxen hair, even bundled up tightly in a bun, was speckled with blood. "Kiki! Help me with the arrow!" Not far from Mathias, Elvia commanded Kiki to worm her way into the gut of a Transmuter who had taken a barbed and poisoned arrow to the intestines, sucking up the shit and blood. Had Mathias and Elvia not been present, the chances of the poor sod arriving then surviving triage, even with a Healing Potion, were slim. _Ping!_ Mathias' reflexive mana shield deflected a sniper's arrow aimed at Elvia's neck. "Eagle's Vision!" The Knight frowned, searching for the source of the sneak attack. All around the duo, chaos reigned. Across a snow-blanked valley, snail trails of human and Demi-human activity had speckled the linen landscape crimson with ultra-violence. Here and there, parties of questing Mages flung spells against the bands of Redcaps dashing across the snow. Nearer to the valley's entrance, Gobs erupted from the tunnels and dragged prospectors down into the dark. Unlike the pitched battles taking place across the saddle of the Crimson Peaks, the skirmish in Ystradfellte was a mess of NoMs, Mage prospectors, and adventurers. On the side of the humans, thousands of hard-hatted crystal miners drawn to the region's yearly bloom of "Red Ore" fled from the mineral fields. Mathias did not fault the men nor their greed, for he too was engaged in a desperate bid for a better future. For a prospector, surviving meant that, potentially, they walked away with hundreds of HDMs, enough to buy land and retire to the country. For the Mages, the swarming miners drew the Redcaps, Gobs, and the occasional Mountain or Frost Troll from the peak. Instead of venturing into no man's land, it was safer to defend the fleeing miners, get paid for protection, then harvest the Demi-humans for ingredients. The trouble then, was that as more Mages and miners showed up in Ystradfellte, more monsters poured from the mount. As the Winter Solstice approached, the numbers snowballed. An avalanche of entrepreneurs rolled into Merthyr Tydfil, inundating the taverns, erecting whorehouses, opening butcheries and magical workshops. The locals, seedy, uncouth, and charging high-prices and dicing on who would return and who would not— demanded government regulation. The Tower obliged. Without it, the town would transform into a hive of low-born villainy. Mathias' quest, therefore, was truly a thankless task, one that only individuals as poverty-stricken as Elvia could stomach. In the distance, some two hundred meters away, Mathias saw their attacker. It was a Redcap Hob. A rare evolved Goblin of sorts, as tall as a man but three times as strong and ten times as hale. In his hand, the beast held a blacken yew-bow. On its back, a half-quiver of barbed arrows remained. Mathias drew his wand. The official moniker of a Knight's patented wand was "Spellblade", a part of a Knight's official arsenal of magical items. As warriors trained in close-quarter-combat, their wand was a device forged from Dwarven Runesteel and made to magnify Affinity. Rare and exclusive, Spellblades were forged for their owners by Dwarven craftsmen on a commission basis, then awarded to the individual Knight during their induction ceremony. Each had a name, and Mathias' was "Dawnstar", after his hero, the "Morning Star" Gunther Shultz, the saviour of Sydney and now its Master. "O Christ, our Saviour, I am thy mace, thy implement of Chastisement." While Mathias gathered his will, motes of Radiance, intermingled with Faith, sheathed his blade in retina-searing brightness. With his Eagle-Eye, he marked the Hob. "Irradiance!" The Hob turned, suddenly aware that the snow all around him began to glow. When he turned to flee, the halo followed, centred on the creature's back. "HILF!" the Hob cried. Its skin, scaly and warty and rusty like old blood, began to smoke. "GARRRGH!" The creature ran into a mob of Redcaps. Its kin howled in amazement, hooting and kicking the rolling Hob, trying to put out the fire— then, without warning, the green-skinned assembly burst into incandescent flames. "ARRRRRRGH—" Two dozen flaming torches spread through the surroundings, crashing through the polluted, mud-churned snow, setting others alight. Tzzzz— Mathias pressed the tip of his blade into the snow, allowing the metal to cool. As a Radiant Mage, his rare element fortified many of the Order's Faith-fuelled Magic, and his Spellblade multiplied the effect. "Sir Mathias!" "Thank you, Sir Mathias!" "Praise St Michael!" With the backline of the Redcaps disrupted, the Mages and the Miners burst into a clamouring cheer. "SIR MATHIAS!" the cry that now addressed him was the recovered Transmuter. The sod had been the parties' scout before he took an arrow to the gut. "There's a troop of Trolls coming this way! Led by a Rock Troll, big, burly bastard, built like a hill. It's tier 6— no, tier 7 at least!" "I see." Mathias sheathed his wand. "Trolls regenerate. Is there not a Fire or Magma Mage among you?" "Sorry." A young woman raised her hand. "I am only tier 4, Sir. Its resistance is much too high." "Do what you must. Either way, I must stand by my oath to protect my Healer." Mathias flashed the blushing woman a winsome grin. "That said, I'll not let such a foul creature roam uncontested, you can be sure of it!" "Alright lads, back to the fray!" an Abjurer yelled, gesturing toward the new wave of Redcaps trudging through the snow. "Sir Mathias is behind us!" "Thank you, Sir Mathias, Lady Elvia." The Transmuter grovelled, snow and mud dripping from his cloak. "Thank you for saving Thomas." His companion, the woman, bowed to Elvia. "We will make donations to your order and spread the word of your generosity." Elvia waved the duo away with a smile. Mathias watched as the Healer's petite chest rose and fell, her cheeks ruddy with exertion. He could tell that she was suffering from spell fatigue. Mana-wise, Elvia should be fine. Wales, with its criss-crossing ley-lines, demi-human races and places of power, was immersed with power. If Elvia had time to meditate, her meagre VMI should replenish within the hour. "HEALER! WE NEED A HEALER!" A group of miners emerged from the crest of a hill. Even in the snow, during the day, Mathias glowed like a beacon. Mathias directed the wounded miner toward Elvia. Something had chewed off the man's right foot, likely a Gob digger. With every meter made by the Levitating Disk, a pint of crimson painted the crunching snow. Elvia fell to her knees immediately. "Kiki, tranq him, I need a tourniquet on that leg." "Kiki! Ki!" Kiki had been trained well. With one tendril, the Alraune injected a dose of dew into the man's stomach, instantly sending the prospector into a stupor. With another tendril, the Alraune lifted the man's leg, then stopped his bleeding by wrapping around his calves, cutting the blood flow. "That has to go." Elvia performed a quick head to toe, then looked toward Mathias. NoMs cannot afford Regeneration or Regrowth spells. "Mattie, lend me a hand." "At once, milady." Mathias raised his Spellsword. "Radiant Blade!" A line of Radiance sliced the miner below the knee without so much as a hiss. The crushed leg came off, the wound fully cauterised. "Heal Minor Wounds!" Elvia tended to the man's leg. "Faithful Restoration!" The man's breathing slowed, his hands still tightly clutching a sack of crystals close to his chest. Mathias' lips twitched. "Take him back to town and tell Matron Nadia I sent you," Elvia huffed, wiping sweat from her brow. She desperately needed to meditate. "Thank you!" "Thank you so much!" "Don't thank me." Elvia pointed to the crest of her school: a stylised golden nightingale on a white shield adorned with three blue stripes. With a word, she conjured water to wash her hands. Her Healers' robes were immune to dust and grime, but even so, it looked bedraggled after dealing with so many victims. Mathias likewise Prestidigitated the grime from his coat. On his shoulder, set against a spell-warded pauldron, gleamed an engraving of the Archangel Michael, sword raised, defending the unseen Mary from Lucifer. Below the enamelled image, the words "Auspicum Melioris Aevi" was etched in untarnished mithril. Against the snow, he looked resplendent in his Saxon-blue mantle in satin, handsome in crimson taffeta. In the distance, a Troll bellowed. "HEALER! IS MISS ELVIA STILL HERE?" a scream came over the hill. Mathias huffed, watching his breath turn to mist. Today was a good day. Like a wandering comet, Gwen blasted past the rolling hills of southern Wales, her Shen-teī suit slicing the air. Where "New South Wales" was bushland from horizon to horizon, the English countryside had left no turf un-farmed. As far as two hours from Cambridgeshire, a stream of hamlets, villages and farmhouses ran the length of well-paved roads. Flying in the country had its boon as well. Far from industry, Gwen did not have to worry about Knights encircling the capital challenging lone fliers with no business taking to the air. Flying alone, however, was an exceedingly dull affair. As with flights on planes, once the vista grew repetitive, one's thoughts wandered, then filled with ebullient Evees. Two hundred meters from the ground and scattering the creatures below, she began to sing. _"I got some Crystals in my pocket (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _I got my licence in my hand (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _Getting down to Merthyr Tydfil (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _to see my cleric in a band (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _Evee, Evee— Evee put your wand down_ _Evee, Evee, Evee— put your wand down!_ _She's got the talent of a healer (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _She's working for the queen (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _She cures Moderate Wounds (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _to think she's only nineteen (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _Oh, little Healer, you're so scared—_ _you hardly make a sound—_ _Just listen to Cali's singing, Shaa! Shaa! Shaa—_ _Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_ _Evee, Evee— let your wand hang down_ Feeling inspired, Gwen began another verse. _I'll meet you at the Mountain (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _and there I'll take you by your hand (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _I crossed an ocean just to see you (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _Time to make amends (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_ _Evee, Evee— let your wand hang down_ _I left behind Ollie, (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _I hope he doesn't mind (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _I'll meet him in the valley (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _First I'll make sure you're alright (Dudoodududoooo—)_ _Oh, little Healer, you're so scared—_ _you hardly make a sound—_ _Just listen to Cali's singing, Shaa! Shaa! Shaa—_ _Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_ _Evee, Evee, Evee put your wand down_ _Evee, Evee— let your wand hang dooooooooown—"_ She couldn't remember the exact lyrics, but that was alright. Given another two hours, and Evee would be in her sights. Giddy with anticipation, Gwen stopped to check the map. Admittedly, it can't be too hard to find a big red hill, can it? If so, why did the landscape look different?

Gwen smacked her lips, realising that this time, it wasn't her cartographic skills that failed her, but the difference between British and Australia seasons. In Australia, where the coldest temperature was five degrees Celcius, the seasons were recurrent. In England, every three months meant a whole new landscape. From the looks of it, she was near Cotswold, meaning the tiny township she could see in the distance must be Gloucester, and the river running out of the city must be the Severn. Past Gloucester, all the fairness of the gentle country disappeared. Instead, woods both tall and depthless, combined with rolling hills and jutting mounds, stretched from horizon to the sea. It was little wonder the air was so dense with mana. "Alright, so if I fly straight..." She checked the compass built into her armour, then mapped her trajectory against the silhouette of a mountain in the distance. At worst, she would hit the ocean, if so, there was only one mountain to the north-east. "Alright! Let's roll!" Thunder rumbled across the cloudless sky, its passage marked by a streak of vibrant cobalt. Two hours later, Gwen rechecked the map. She finally understood why the English like to say "to make a mountain out of a molehill". Thankfully, she was in the right place, or at least, the right molehill— except the Red Peak wasn't a peak, and it wasn't red either. First of all, seeing as it was winter, the whole bloody thing was white, and where the rocks were without snow, the stones were igneous and dark. Secondly, she was now an uninvited spectator to the jolly grand melee carrying on below, full of howls, explosions, shouts and shrieking spells. On one side were the green-skins— a whole lot of them. More Gobs than she had ever seen, all of which were wearing these adorable little red hats, but carrying giant bows, axes, and other medieval armaments. In and among the multitude, she could see Rock Trolls built like brick shit-houses, also wearing Santa hats. From the east, or west, or whatever, she had no idea, stood lines of Dwarves in stocky Golem Armour, backed by a pair of towering, insectile Iron Golems. The Dwarven infantry stood about the height of a man and just as wide. Squarish and stout, their armour consisted of sloped and geometric plates that interlocked, giving an art-deco aesthetic. Each battlesuit had a "hump" where a miniature mana-engine roared, articulating the whirling mechanism hidden within. For armaments, the Golem-plated soldiers sported a Spellhammer of runic crystal on one arm, while in the other, Gwen swore she saw a chainsaw. The full-sized Golem units were smaller than the "Dusties" used by the PLA, about two storeys tall. These looked like sloped boxes mounted on four legs, with two protruding artillery hammer-wands mounted up top, two to the side, and two more limbs donning melee implements. Etched from the cockpit to its digger-clawed toes in runic scripts, white-hot jets of unburnt mana spewed from the rear exhaust channels, polluting the snow. Presently, pressured by the swarm, the Dwarves were performing an orderly retreat. "Fuck me, Peter Jackson, eat your heart out," Gwen muttered to herself. The beast tide of green-skinned creatures outnumbered the Dwarves by a degree of ten to one, but the Dwarves held their line steady with sweeping gouts of fire and lightning from their heavy infantry, aided by artillery from the crawling Golems. Ding! An uninvited Message blossomed beside her ear. When flying, it was always wise to keep one's channels open. "Oi, Lass! what unit yer from?" a gruff voice called out. "Yer support from London? The Forge Master said yer wouldn't kom." The speaker was speaking in Dwarven, meaning Gwen had only her Master's Ioun Stone to translate a language that may as well be two drunk Scotts throat-singing. "L-London Tower? Belay that," Gwen replied, thinking of a viable reason she should wander into a mass melee other than she got lost. "I am a… tourist." "A WOT?" "I am sight-seeing," Gwen said politely. "My apologies, I am looking for Merthyr Tydfil." "Well, if ya looking for the home of boot-licking, crystal-steal knaves, then ya came to the wrong spot, lass. Ya know were ter go?— ONE MOMENT—" The sound of explosions in the Message was concurrently met with the leading Golem letting rip its side-mounted Spellhammers, setting off what appeared to be two jets of thigh-thick Scorching Ray. "I wish I did." Gwen silently whistled when at least one Rock Troll knelt over. "So, can you point me in the right direction?" "Look fer the lake two klicks south-south-east, ya should find a Troll mound, then go five klicks south til ya hit the Taf Fawr, the town's at the widest part," the operator replied. "Go on, get. This place ain't safe for a lone lass." "I have no idea what you just—" A splatter of corrosive meat smashed up against the speaker's Golem unit. Not far, with an earth-shattering howl, a once-dormant Rock Troll, its form bulging with infused power, covered the distance in a dozen strides, batting away the infantry like a man swatting gnats. "— WOT in the Deep King's name?! ARRRGHK—!" With a clang, the veritable engine of meat and muscle ran head-first into the towering Golem, tearing at the plates that protected the cockpit. Caught by surprise, the quickly-recovering Dwarves around the Golem stabbed lances of enchanted fire into the Troll, though the war-mad creature took no heed of its dire injuries. A second Golem turned its turret toward the first and doused its companion in arcane-fire. The Rock Troll howled, sheets of skin melting off its back. Its limbs, however, persisted in tearing her guide's Golem apart. "Jesus." Gwen winced. "Are you alright? Need a hand?" "DOES IT LUK LIKE AIM ALRIGHT? YA COG WITH A TOOTH LOOSE?! FURK! The bugger's breeched me cabin! Rockhammer! Get this green arse off me Golem! " Gwen's fingers itched. Are Dwarves our allies? She tried her best to recollected Lady Grey's words. The answer was, "The best allies— until the mines run dry." Not wanting to see the friendly Dwarves turned into a feast for Trolls, Gwen frantically dialled her new boss. Until she could dangle a foot into the local geopolitical pond, she had to be careful. Knowing the precarious balance of power, who knew what could happen if she tipped it the wrong way? _Ding! Ding!_ "Gwen!" The Marchioness of Ely was surprised to hear back from her protégé so soon. "What's the matter? Did you find the girl?" "Ma'am!" Gwen wasted no time in explaining the situation below. "I am somewhere near Merthyr Tydfil. There's a battle near Red Peak, and the Trolls and Goblins are pushing the Dwarves back. The Trolls have a Hag, meaning the Dwarves are in deep shit. Permission to help?" "I see. And why would you want to help Dwarves?" Gwen blinked. What sort of question was that? "The enemy of my enemy is my friend?" "Good. You may do what you think is right," her Mistress advised. "In the future, there's no need to verify such trivial decisions. What matters is the consequence, not the intent. You had argued that we shouldn't restrict your freedom. Now's your chance to make a mark, make good use of that liberty you so desired." Gwen circulated her Essence. "I understand. Thank you, Ma'am." "Take your time, dear." The Marchioness sounded amused. "Fair warning though, if you accidentally Consume an important Dwarf, Dickie's office will hear no end of it." Right, Gwen ended the call. To help, or not to help; that was the question. By now, the second Golem had successfully eviscerated the Rock Troll using a mechanised drill. Even lacking its innards, the Troll's body continued its assault, persisting until it lost strength. Gwen's eyes followed the line of green blood trailing across the snow. With her Essence-infused pupils scanning the battlelines, she just managed to spot the bone-clad headdress of a Troll Hag. "Shrakloomar ulaguth!" The Hag bellowed, shrouding the surviving horde with red mist. The dead and dying Redcaps exhausted their struggling at once, while the still-living creatures erupted into jubilant shouts. Where the temporary death of the Rock Troll had doused their fervour, now the swarm appeared doubly motivated, crashing across the linen snow like a green tide. _Tink! Tink! Tink!_ Gwen's mana barrier deflected half-a-dozen arrows. More so than alarmed, Gwen felt impressed. She was almost two hundred meters in the air, meaning these Red-hatted archers were as good as stumpy-legged centaurs. If she were lower-tier Mage, she would probably take an arrow to the gut. Opposite, the Dwarven battle line shrunk, concentrating their firepower. Slowly but surely, they backed away toward a series of steam-billowing structures. The entrance to their city? Gwen wondered, or perhaps, something like heat-vents? "Ariel!" Gwen summoned her Kirin, concurrently applying an Invisible Familiar. In a manner of seconds, her mind browsed through a dozen scenarios. After exchanging her Draconic Essence for Almudj juice, lesser Void Magic barely scratched her conduits. That said, the more Void Mana she processed, the more Essence was consumed. It meant that, if she wanted to burn the proverbial candle from both ends; she had to balance Void and Barbanginy. _Tink! Tink!_ More arrows clattered against her shield, turning a few pin-points opaque. Mentally, Gwen weighed the boons and banes, then made a decision. With this many mobs, vitality shouldn't be a problem. If she wanted to help the Dwarves, she might as well do a good job. The Trollic horde, in her humble opinion, wasn't too generous a meal. If they had been in the Amazon, facing warrens of the big, burly bastards in an enclosed forest full of monsters, it was a different story. Here, with two kilometres of open-air Dimension Door and no Lich to counter her spell, she felt no pressure at all. Her mind now made up. Gwen tapped her Message Device, pinning the Dwarf that had called her earlier. "Lass!" There was a sound of pressurised steam hissing in the background, likely a whistling canister of coolant. "Wot are yer still doing here? Get!" "Let me re-introduce myself," Gwen said calmly. "My name is Gwen Song, Class VI War Mage. I would like to offer my aid via an AoE as well as my Familiars. Is that acceptable." "Yer a Conjurer?" "I am an Omni-Mage." Gwen decided she may as well start building her brand. "They call me the Swa—" FUCK, Gwen swore. That was close. Such was the danger of alliteration. "— the DEVOURER of Shenyang." "Don't nu about that," the gruff voice said. "But if yer wanting to do something, I'll not stop yer. Just save yer hide when the time comes. We can't spare the carcasses to go saving yer hinny." "Good." Gwen drew a deep breath. "Trust me. I'll be done before you can finish a casket of ale." Stolen novel; please report. Hanmoul Bronzeborn, son of Dwomrul, son of Handrek Bronzeborn, was a warrior caste Hammer Guard of the Iron Legion. His father, and his father's fathers, had all died glorious deaths— one fighting the Murk-dwellers of the Deep Dark, and the other defending the Red Citadel from the Scarred King of Red Peak. The first of four brothers and two sisters, he was the head of his House and a renowned member of the Rotory Guild. His present mission was a Purge of the lands surrounding the Red Citadel to prevent the build-up of green-skins that would seek to infiltrate the workshop district from above. The task was thankless, as Dwarves fought poorly in the open, but someone had to lead the young ones. For this, Hanmoul begrudged the Deepdowners, the Clan's keepers of artifice. How could their elders be so greedy for the wealth of the lidless world, while concurrently loathing everything above the earth's crust? To Hanmoul, the hypocrisy was astounding. Nonetheless, his routine patrol had begun without incident, with a troop of twelve Ironclads and two Rockcrushers MK VIs, they went about their business blasting Gobs and nailing Redcaps. When they reached Greyrock Bluff, however, the green buggers poured out of the warrens like the stench from a ruptured septic tank. Without delay, Hanmoul's hands danced across the runic keys, setting the Rockcrusher to maximum output. The quad-turbo mana-engine roared, its vibrations sending shockwaves through his seat. Kicking with both legs, he pivoted the converted mining engine at the waist; above the Spellhammers grew hot. _BLAM!_ _BLAM!_ The control cabin shook. Two gouts of superheated plasma, sticky and unstable, arced through the air and into the crowd of Redcaps. Hanmoul's first victims were incinerated at once, then— _BO-BOOM!_ The globules erupted, splattering the surrounding space with conjured phosphor, igniting a dozen Redcaps, including a Long Tooth Hob. Besides Hanmoul, his partner likewise lit up the enemy's backline. "Contact in THREE… TWO… ONE… Dragon Breath!" From all twelve Ironclads, torrents of fire transformed their perimeter into a landscape of hell. "Hold the line! The Redcaps can't get through your armour. Leave the Trolls to us, and keep the Long Toothes pinned!" Hanmoul commanded his troops. "Rockhammer, up the pace! Look for a caster!" "Commandrumm, I see their priest! He's out of range!" "Furk!" Hanmoul swore. A Priest meant that what they encountered wasn't a patrol, but a war party. What it also meant was that anytime now, the Priest would conjure its Brutaliser guard. On cue, the snow exploded, revealing a Rock Troll. This one wasn't a Brutaliser, though it was stout enough to wear the moniker. "Covering fire!" Hanmoul pulled at his beard. "Pull Back! Rockhammer, keep it from closing on us!" "Hanmoul!" Broroth's Message bloomed beside his ear. "There's a human Mage watching us from six o'clock. I can't tell if she's friendly or hostile. What if she's one of those Rogue Mages?" "Dirrk! Just our luck. Must have kicked the wrong pickaxe in the morning," Hanmoul growled. Tapping into the war engine's diagnostics, he zoomed into the image of the human Mage. To his surprise, it was a Human female adolescent. She did, however, wear combat armour, and from the looks of the materials, it looked expensive. "Let me check… she's on an open channel..." _Ding!_ "Oi there, Lass, what unit yer from?" he called out, doing his best to control his temper. "Yer support from London Tower? The Forge Master said yer wouldn't come…" "I will now begin." The sorceress was now out of his optical range. "Begin wot?" Hanmoul checked his diagnostics, wondering if the Human was also a Diviner. His runic readings flashed green, then orange, then red, then purple. The Hammer Guard tapped the screen, checked that his instruments still functioned, then drew in a breath of coolant-choked air. The lass, her energy reading was off the charts! A War Mage? A pure platinum, Human War Mage? What are the likes of her doing here, floating over the Red Citadel? Shouldn't she be at a Front somewhere, fighting to claim resources? _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ A warning icon flashed overhead. Hanmoul re-calibrated his instruments, then marvelled at the volumetric scale of the sorceress' manifestation. _Crack!_ Fulminating thunder rolled across the clear sky. As advertised by Hanmoul's instruments, a portal into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning opened directly over the head of the green-skinned swarm. Beside his head-up display, the diagnostic engine identified the spell as "Maelstrom— Lightning". As the numbers compiled, Hanmoul's eyeballs almost punched his visors. The bleeding thing was two kilometres wide! A strategic spell? Where was the Mandala or the setup? Where was— _CRACK! BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—_ A line of living lightning cut the Gob swarm in half. When his spectacles adjusted to the retina-searing assault, Hanmoul performed a double-take. The electricity was viridescent! Never in all his years of trading with the humans at Merthyr Tydfil had he seen such a meta-magic. Just what in the Sju Forfran's name did the Humans steal from the blasted long-ears this time? Before Hanmoul could wrap his head around the blazing phenomenon, an array of warning Glyphs exploded across his HUD. "SHAA—SHAA! SHAA!" "Hanmoul! There's a monster descending from the sky! It's bloody huge, and it isn't in our bestiary!" "Wot de FURK is that? A Drake?" Hanmoul zoomed in on the outline of an enormous bird-slug, a full twenty meters from wing-tip to wing-tip. "Why does it have hands? Why does it have HANDS FOR FEET?!" Understandably, Rockhammer was screaming. "Hold yer FIRE!" Hanmoul recalled the girl's warning that she would bring forth a Familiar. Meanwhile, the Maelstrom descended. Near its epicentre, a stream of swirling, screeching, howling Gobs and Redcaps soared from the Prime Elemental directly into the Eye of Lightning at the centre of the storm. After a concurrent series of hoots, the Troll horde retracted their battleline, the surviving Hobs, too strong to be caught in the static-charged tornado, formed a perimetre around the Hag. Dishearteningly, Hanmoul saw the Brutaliser still standing beside the caster. Until it fell, there was no touching the Troll's priest, but without the Hag's death, there was no stopping its minions. Not far from Hanmoul, the pseudo-Brutaliser he had torn apart was rapidly regenerating, ignoring his troop's generous application of Fire and Magma. Given time, the Trollic Flesh Golem would be as good as new. The Hag raised both hands, then pointed at the approaching bird, laying down a black-blooded curse. The Hobs raised their bows, their accuracy now guided by a supernatural charm. Hanmoul recognised the affliction as The Curse of Arrow Attraction. He sighed. The girl was overconfident. The black arrows of the Long Tooth Hobs were deadly to all unarmoured creatures. "SHAA! SHAA!" Hanmoul shuddered. The bird was the most horrific thing he had ever seen. It had a long neck, but no face. Its feathers were so dark as to consume the light of day. The worst of it was that beneath its feathered body, distended a pair of white hands with six long and slender, feminine-looking fingers. "Master Hanmoul—" "HOLD FIRE!" Hanmoul gave the command. Hammer Guards weren't berserkers. They did not risk their lives for atonement. He would not send in his men without knowing that the bird was friendly. "— There are more monsters incoming." Hanmoul checked his map. His partner was right. According to the diagnostic engine, there were at least eight creatures rapidly approaching from the east. From the signature though, these were not Trolls. If so, from where did they come? Thin air? A few seconds later, the blimps on his map came into view. War dogs? Hanmoul thought. No, the creatures were too large to be dogs. They were more like horses. Yet, the "Dogs" did not appear terrestrial, for they possessed a faceless, eyeless, bullet-shaped head that took up half of their bulk. The rest of the sleek-bodied creatures were all muscle and sinew, sporting long, spindly legs encased in a slick, oily exoskeleton. Morden's Hound Pack— his engine submitted its diagnostic results. "Element: Void". Mole Shit of the Deep! Hanmoul staggered. He had never seen a Hound Pack like that! From behind the Troll band, the pack dashed toward their targets, moving without sound. From above, the big bird circled, screeching and howling and giving the Trolls the finger with its many... fingers. _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ Another spell signature. "Wot the bollocks?!" Hanmoul tapped his screen. Was there a whole platoon of Mages hiding somewhere? Was the girl a scout? The reading was off the charts! Did the Human possess the mana pool of a Golem with a Core in her gut? _CRACK—_ "Chain Lightning"— the diagnostic engine returned, registering an energy signature well above the spells' recorded threshold. Among the crowd of huddled green-skins, an arc of electricity struck the Brutaliser. _—ZAP! SPAK! CRACK!_ After the brute, the bolt struck the Hag, then five other minions before arcing back toward the Brutaliser. Not far from the circle of lightning, a creature shimmered in and out of optical range. Simultaneously, the big bird, now riddled with arrows but not giving two shits, descended with an earth-splitting "Shaa!". While the Trolls remained paralysed, the bird-slug opened its maw, its neck peeling back like the exotic human fruit known as banana, then enveloped the Brutaliser head-first. Simultaneously, one of its hands seized the Troll Priest, each delicate digit folding against the Hag's body, then squeezed. "MAY THE DEEP ANCESTORS PROTECT US!" His partner, Rockhammer, was howling into his Divi-link. If his infantrymen had an open channel, they would also be screaming. "What tier is that thing? At what pressure index are its fingers running?" Between the big bird's fingers, the Hag oozed. Though Hanmoul was too far to hear the cracking of bone and the rending of flesh, his optics showed the Shaman's eyes shooting of her sockets, while between the big bird's fingers, bits of stuff dribbled over the snow. Hanmoul gagged. The bird-slug with hand-feet was wringing the Hag like a piece of cloth to prevent it from regeneration. No matter how tenacious the Hag's life force may be, to recover from that state— Hanmoul winced. Sometimes, death was infinitely preferable. Beside the Hag, the Brutaliser stumbled away, headless and for some reason, no longer regenerating. It walked a dozen steps before its pulsing stump erupted into a dark-green fountain, then laid still. And now, the dog-horse things closed in, ripping through the still-paralysed Hobs, taking the creatures in their human-sized jaws, swallowing some whole, tearing others apart. "By the Sju Dorfran…" Rockhammer's voice quivered, calling on the Seven Ancestors. "Hanmoul, what have we summoned? What calamity could do a thing such as this? Maybe she's a Dragon pretending to be human?" Every Dwarf knew that humans were as greedy as Dragons. Every aid required payment in gold, in minerals, or gems. Now that Hanmoul had inadvertently enlisted the aid of so mighty a Mage, what would happen to the Council's coffers? If the girl came calling, what would the Deepdowners think? When the last Hob died, Gwen licked her lips and realised she might have overperformed her initial objectives. It had been months since she had felt the thrill of combat, and in her haste to test the extent of Amuldj's Blessing, she had gotten a little overexcited. For now, since the Dwarves were safe and they had her moniker, it was best to be on her way. Finishing up, she called Ariel and Caliban to her side, applying another layer of Invisible Familiar. Caliban was beyond happy to be out and about, and she was delighted to see it fly with Ariel as a companion. Though she now slinked away from the field of battle like a thieving cat, she felt giddy with satisfaction. Losing her Draconic-Essence had undermined her confidence, but now, her Void abilities had grown to replace what was taken. She was, after all, a Void Mage and not a Dragon-Mage like Ayxin. Without a willing Dragon to impart its racial knowledge, she had limited utility for Draconic-Essence beyond punching Necromancers in the face, kicking Da-Pengs in the face, and belting young masters in the face. That and make NoMs shit their pants. "In hindsight, it is for the best..." Gwen muttered to herself as she headed for the human township. Sometime later, Caliban's vitality trickled back into her body, forcing her to land so as to walk off her shivers and to orientate her bearing. She was happy to find that the pleasure was no longer so intense. After the Soul Flayer, her tolerance had grown. "Evee—" She punched the air as her body grew warm. "I am coming! No more delay!" Elvia moaned, her face flushed, sweating through her bedsheets. Outside, a thunderstorm rocked the valley basin. Such was the nature of weather in Southern Wales, as unpredictable as a drunk Troll. Beside the healer's gurney, her Knight and the Magister responsible for the security of Merthyr Tydfil argued. "Mathias, you are a Knight— and as such, I won't judge." Beside Mathias, the Tower's ombudsman, Major Hanford, sucked on a pipe. "But as the officer overseeing the defensive operations in Merthyr Tydfil, I cannot commend your recklessness." "That's because you fail to understand Elvia's selflessness." Mathias stroked his healer's long, blonde hair. "We saved, what? A hundred men today? I alone took down two Rock Trolls, mind you, and a few hundred Redcaps. Who can say the same?" "That may well be." Hanford's tone remained cold and unconvinced. "We needed her here with the others, working triage. Also, if you lose Miss Lindholm, I'll have to answer to Lady Astor. Then what would happen to the town's Contribution Credits?" "Many of those men and women, Mages and NoMs, would not have made it to triage, Magister." Mathias' voice rose an octave. "Dare you demand that I abandon my duty?" "YOUR—" Hanford controlled his temper. "Duty? To tax your healer so much she concurrently suffers both spell AND mana exhaustion? Are you daft?" "I merely did as she wished." "She's a Frontier Refugee! You're an overtrained Knight! Show some wisdom, man! Guide her if she's an idiot!" "I cannot refuse her selflessness, not in the slightest." Mathias shook his head. "Now, if you're done, let us discuss tomorrow's operations. With Elvia recuperating, I can—" _Ding!_ "Yes, Lauren?" Hanford's Message blossomed beside his ear. "What? A War Mage? Here? Did London send her?" The Magister's eyes moved from Elvia to Mathias, to the door. "For Miss Lindholm?" "What's this?" Mathias cocked his head. "Why would someone from the Tower come for Elvia? Is it a friend of Emily's? Tell her Elvia is doing fine, and that we'll be back—" The Magister motioned for Mathias to shut it. "Tell her to wait— What do you mean she's coming in? She flew here— she has a Mithril-Class Licence? Which Unit is she from?" The Tower's base of operations at Merthyr Tydfil was, in fact, a commandeered inn. As the operation in the Dwarven Frontier rarely lasted over a month, investment of additional resources had been deemed unnecessary. "You can't go in there—" Hanford's aid stopped at the threshold. A flash of lightning lit the room quicksilver before its delayed fulmination rattled the windows. The hinges creaked. The double doors to the inn's common room, now the command room and the officer's quarters, swung open, siphoning the warm air. Into the room, the sorceress' aura poured over the men like treacle. The girl was dangerous; the Mages implicitly understood that as fact. At the same time, they felt confused by the paradoxical sensation of both elation and vertigo emitted by the girl. A Druid? Mathias glanced at Hanford. The Magister had no idea, particularly in light of the girl's battledress. "My secretary is right. You can't be here. Miss—?" The self-deploying rain cloak retracted. Click. Click. Click. The girl approached— her enchanted attire drying at once. The sorceress' heels, Mathias noted, were stiletto daggers. Her irises were multi-coloured and brimming with depthless desire. From her shapely calves to her elegant shoulders, she was clad in cloth plating, a style of armour favoured in the east. Draped on her back, was a handsome blue mantle. Suddenly, Mathias' lips felt dry. He recognised her peerless face. More importantly, there was no mistaking the "Maotai" printed across the sorceress's thighs. "Song." The girl arrived at Elvia' bedside. "Gwen Song." "From the IIUC?" Hanford discerned the competition logo plastered on her chest plate. His daughter religiously followed the competitions. Fudan was her favourite until they dropped out. "Miss, why are you here?" Mathias' gut tingled. He wasn't a Diviner, but the Knight sensed an awful thing was about to happen. The girl stood beside the gurney, seemingly transfixed by the vision of Elvia's semi-conscious body on the levitating stretcher. "I was sight-seeing." The tone of the Devourer of Shenyang's voice sucked the life from the room. "What's wrong with Evee? Why is she like this?" "Trolls," Mathias blurted. Hanford gave him a strange look. The Knight could not believe the words were coming out of his mouth. He couldn't recall the last time he had almost lied. Such cowardice was dangerous for a Knight, anathema to the Faith magic they practised. Nonetheless, something told him he had better pay Gwen the lip service, or forever hold his peace. "Yes." Mathias forced his mouth to move. "Those blasted Trolls did this."

"Did she get cursed by a Hag?" The sorceress' gaze, burning with an inner light, scanned Mathias like a cheap piece of meat. "As her Knight, is there a reason why Evee's horizontal, and you're still upright?" Mathias met the girl's burning eyes and felt his Radiance quake. Gwen Song! From the International Inter-University Competition; Elvia's "Mate" and her long-distance Message-pal. Here was a woman-shaped Thunder Tyrant Rex. The controller of Caliban! Mistress of Ariel! Tamer of Golos! The Devourer of Shenyang! And now, she was accusing him of dereliction of duty! A burst of bile threatened to spill from Mathias' throat. Misunderstandings were dangerous, especially when one side held a Mithril Badge. Sponsorship from three Magisters was the bare minimum required for such freedom. But as a Class VI asset, who had the clout to stomach the uproar when the girl misstepped? The only Mage Mathias knew to possess the clout was Grand Master Errol and Emily's father, the reputable Duke Rothwell. "Yes, I am her Knight." Mathias kept his face stoic. "And NO, Miss Elvia is not injured. She overtaxed herself from saving those who had been caught up by the Beast Tide. I assure you, not a hair has been harmed on her head." "A Beast Tide? Of course." The girl's reply was churlish and provincial, indicating a lower-class upbringing. "Evee— can you hear me?" Elvia moaned, deaf to the world. Something wiggled under the healer's shirt. A little bulbous head peeked out, its short limbs waddling as it emerged. "Kiki?" "Kiki!" the girl squealed. "Long time no see, buddy. How's Evee?" "Kiki! Kiki!! Ki!" "I don't speak Kikish." The girl waved her hand. "One second, Ariel!" _Clonk! Clonk!_ A shimmering pony knocked on the door, then entered the inn, sending the dozen or so Mages in the dining section scrambling. Both Mathias and Hanford fought to keep their cool. A Kirin! Their minds reeled. A real-life Kirin! Look at its horns! Its hooves! Its rainbow-hued coat! The blasted thing glowed! As with many Magical Beasts of the upper-tier, it was the unique presence that made them larger than life. "EE! EE!" "Kikiki!" "EE?" "Kikiki-ki!" "EE-EE!" "EE-EE-ee-EE!" Gwen's Kirin gestured with its horns toward Mathias. Mathias put a stout oak table between himself and those horns. "I see." The girl shot Mathias a glare that made him place a hand on the pommel of his Spellsword. "We'll see what happens when Evee wakes. For now... hop on." Mathias moved to intervene. He knew next to nothing about the Void Sorceress' abilities other than the fact that she could clear a District without breaking a sweat. "Ki-ki!" When the Alraune leapt into Gwen's hands, Mathias slowed. He couldn't swat the willing creature out of the sorceress' palms. Her Kirin looked mighty dangerous, not to mention she still had "Caliban" hidden in a pocket dimension. Beside him, Hanford leaned over Mathias' shoulder with a face full of wonder. "My word, that IS Druidic Essence!" "Drink up." The sorceress glowed. In the dim light of the room, a viridescent puddle of sloshing, viscous liquid, brimming with life, pooled in between the palms of Gwen's hands. "Kiki!" The Alraune danced in the manna and began to absorb the elixir at an alarming rate, growing glossier and more globular by the second. Atop Kiki's head, a tropical lily bloomed out of season. Hanford's eyes wandered toward the girl's ears. Thankfully, her well-rounded lobes were entirely human. A minute later, Kiki had soaked up every drop. Now appearing the size of an infant, it leapt onto Elvia's chest, then slipped a hollow, tentacle-like tendril in between the healer's lip. Through his well-trained senses, Mathias felt his Cleric's hollowed-out conduits infuse with raw, unadulterated vitality. As Kiki transferred the viridescent energy, Ariel stood guard, licking the flower Sprite's bulbous body. "What now?" Mathias stood sideways from the Kirin; its hind-legs looked like they packed a wallop. "Well." Magister Hanford's eyes darted between the smartly attired War Mage and the sweating Knight Protector from St Michael's. "While we wait for Miss Lindholm, would Miss Song care to answer a few questions?" "Sure." The girl appeared to relax, or so Mathias hoped. "Besides, I want answers too." Before the fall of Sydney and its horrific revelations, Debora was the companion that Elvia admired the most. Out of all their friends, it was her vivacious confidence that made Elvia feel the rare bite of jealousy. At first, she had felt astounded by the audacity exhibited by "Debbie". Though all of them were equal friends, that Debora would so brazenly declare her worst intentions had made Elvia feel ill. Not only was the bronze-skinned Transmuter unafraid of ostracisation or rejection; she revelled in Gwen's distress. Inevitably, the corresponding recall would remind Elvia that their friend had long been an inhuman Void spawn. What Faceless had wanted was for Gwen to join its crusade against the world— and failing that, it would assimilate Gwen into itself. And if Faceless had succeeded? Elvia shuddered every time the possibility of losing her friend crossed her mind. Seeing Gwen's exquisite face morph from adoration to sadism, love to hunger was a sure recipe for insomnia. Presently, however, the healer's consciousness was consigned to the void. Such deep, self-induced meditation was a known phenomenon. During periods of extended duress, a Mage may continue to tax their mental and physical reserves, using their body as fuel. For a Void Mage, the process was par for the course, but for a healer, the occurrence was rare indeed. And so, caught in the undertow of self-restorative slumber, Elvia dreamt the strangest dream. "Evee!" someone shouted. Elvia's eyes shunted open. She wasn't on her gurney; instead, she sat on loose straw over powdery clay. The air was impossibly dry, her tongue felt like sand, and dust invaded every fissure. Squinting, she saw that over the ochre landscape, a sinking sun warped the horizon with heat. Beside Elvia sat Gwen, grinning with her teeth showing, puckering her lips. When Elvia's eyes wandered across her friend's figure, her complexion turned scarlet. "Why— why are you in the nuddy?!" Elvia blurted out. "F-for shame!" Gwen laughed; her skin glistened, reflecting the slick patterns of ochre, obsidian and sunburst adorning her torso. Likewise, ghostly handprints covered the canvas of her body. Elvia recognised the five-fingered contours. Some of them belonged to Yue, and more than a few belonged to herself. Her friend pointed to Elvia's right. "Evee, Look!" Elvia followed Gwen's finger. They were languishing in the shadow of a colossal landmark, too famous not to be recognised. Ulu—ULURU?! Elvia's heart seized. Why were they in Uluru? Wasn't she in England? A dream, Elvia pinched herself. Gwen stood. OH MY GOD, Elvia's mind rioted. She was in a VERY realistic dream. "Kapi!" Gwen clapped, extending a hand in invitation. Not knowing what else to do, Elvia took it. With a strength that betrayed her litheness, her friend lifted Elvia to her feet so that she fell against her bosoms. OHMYGODOHMYGODFORGIVEMEFORMYSINS— Elvia felt Gwen's heart pounding against her cheek. An inch from her nose was Gwennie's— _Thump! Thump! Thump!_ Gwen's heart thundered. On cue, there came a crash of thunder; then the sky began to pour. A cloudburst fell in pailfuls, a near-solid wall of water bucketing from the blue. Arm in arm, their skin as slick as eels, the girls looked up at the red stone of Uluru, where snail-trails of white water turned into wine. "The Rainbow - the rainbow comes from the earth and returns here," Gwen spoke beside Elvia's ear. The temperature fell, but she didn't feel cold at all. Gwen's body was a furnace, and presently, their shared warmth permeated everything, the muddy earth, the cloudless sky, the plunging deluge. "Haha, Almudj is proper cheeky." Gwen's arms crossed over Elvia's shoulders. With one hand, she pointed to the sacred stone. "My kin lives here— she has a long beard and sharp teeth. She does not need men or women. She dreams, requiring no ceremonies. Very rarely does she wake— but when she does, Almudj is proper cranky." Elvia opened her mouth, her thirst quenched by the downpour. In gulps, she swallowed, her body filling with the waters of life. Gwen regarded her with a broad grin, her pink lips curling at either edge. "Remember, Evee, the Snake. She will attack invaders. If someone bullies you, it will return their body to their ancestors. No matter how many of them. No matter where—" _CRACK—BOOM!_ An ear-splitting cry of thunder shook Elvia's world. The sky! It was opening up! She could see a fracture across the infinite space of the horizon. All around her, the ground shifted and moved and shook. Atop the stump that was Uluru, an immense shape began to slither and meander, emerging from the interior of the stone. "We're kin, Evee. Mayhap more, but never less. I've always wanted to share with you Almudj's Song. The Song of the Pintupi, the Singing from a time when the world was young." A flash of quicksilver ignited the sky. The dream world crumbled. Elvia fought against her friend's embrace, but Gwen held her fast. In tune with the supernatural fulmination, their hearts beat in twain. Gwen began to clap. "Kapi! Kapi! Kapi!" Came another earth-shattering reverberation from the apex of Uluru, the serpent that birthed the world swam for the sky. Water, the colour and texture of blood, flooded the desert, restoring the soil's fecundity, bringing to bloom a million wildflowers. "Come on, Evee!" Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Elvia joined her friend, her hands slapping the water. A rainbow appeared, linking the horizon from ocean to ocean. Unbidden, Elvia wept, for here was where every river in the world begun. Soft as feathers, Elvia's long blonde lashes fluttered open. "Too dangerous, the Trolls have warrens here— here— and here—" Half a room away, the harsh tone of Magister Hanford quarrelling with Mathias was as familiar to Elvia as a lullaby. "You can't be thinking of taking them alone? That's stupidity!" "Kiki!" Her Alraune Sprite prodded her cheeks, its adorable bulb wadding left and right. "Ki-ki!" "A friend?" Elvia's gaze lingered on the blooming Alraune with confusion, finding herself exhausted beyond belief. "Who is it?" "EE! EE!" answered a triumphant thrill, followed by a cold nose touching her neck. A wet tongue, sticky and smelling faintly of rain, licked her lips. Instantly, her brain fired up to wakefulness. "A-ARIEL?" The argument from the map-table ceased at once. "EVEE!" an all too familiar voice rocked the inn, displacing the dust from the ceiling. "Thank God, you're awake!" A pair of arms soon enveloped her torso. A familiar silhouette kissed her left cheek, once more on the other, then again on her forehead. "Gwen?" Elvia fought her irresponsive extremities, her mind struggling to connect the dots. "What's happened? Why are you here?" Her assailant pulled back. Her friend looked older. That was Elvia's first impression. Gone was the puppy fat once adorning her friend's cheeks, giving her an elfin visage. Gwen's eyes as well, once so glistening with insecurity, were sharp and focused, almost frightfully so. She appeared taller too, the confidence she now exuded was practically tangible. "O, you heart-breaker, you!" Another round of uninvited kisses showered Elvia. But why was Gwen in Merthyr Tydfil? Her mind was only now registering the reality in front of her. All those months without contact; week after weeks of watching Gwen slog through the IIUC, fighting rogues, Trolls and then Undead, and now her friend was here? "Ah—" Elvia tried to speak, but what emerged instead was a choking cry of insurgent emotions. Her eyes misted over, growing damp with feelings impossible to keep in check. There was so much she wanted to say, so much pent up stress that needed to be released. "G-Gwennie… I missed you so much." "I know… I know…" Gwen held her tight. "It's okay, Evee. I am here." Behind her friend, Mathias wore an unreadable expression. But that was no different from how Mathias usually acted. Elvia felt she could barely read Mathias anyway and had long since given up trying. But, none of that mattered now. "Ow—" When Gwen attempted to lift her from the gurney, her muscles throbbed with protest. "What's wrong?" Gwen's face twisted with concern. "I am aching all over." Elvia wondered if it was because of the dream she had endured. Did Gwen have anything to do with it? She would have to ask her about that. Almudj felt far too real to be a hallucination. "Can you put me into a chair? I don't think I can stand right now, not until I get some more mana in me." "Aww, you poor thing," Gwen cooed. In the next instant, her eyes lit up. "You know what? I've got just the thing. Stay here; I'll make you a nice tonic that'll fix you right up." Under the watch of both her Knight and Major Hanford, Gwen Mage Handed a table close to the gurney. Then, she produced a nephrite bottle of what looked like rice wine as well as a vibrant jadeite container. That looks expensive, Elvia innately appraised the object. Not even in the home of Lady Astor had she seen such exotic Magic Items. "For this, I am going to need Cali's help," Gwen said to Elvia, then addressed the two men. "Magister, Mattie, please step back. Caliban isn't nearly so friendly as Ariel." Obediently, the Mages heeded the Void Sorceress' advice. "Caliban, come forth!" Gwen twirled her fingers, coaxing her monster to existence. A pinpoint opening tore the fabric of space and time. Elvia had seen it a hundred times before, but for the others, they had only seen it once or twice and then only via vid-casts. An illusory Caliban was terrifying enough. Now, in real-time and vis-a-vis, they felt the bone-chilling, gut-churning vertigo characteristic of Void Magic. "Shaa! Shaa!" "Cali!" Elvia squealed. "SHAA?! SHAA!" The endearing Void fiend stood two meters tall when fully erect. With a tentacled tongue, it rubbed Elvia's head. "Wow, you're so big!" Elvia did her best to pet the faceless boa. "It's been a while. Thanks for looking out for Gwen, Cali." "Shaa!" Caliban nuzzled the healer with its carapaced head, much like a cat reclaiming an old acquittance. A table away, Mathias' eyes strained, his fingers flexing and unflexing. "Cali, keep an eye on our root vegetable." Gwen tapped the box, unsealing its wards. "If it runs, drag it back." "Shaa!" Gwen opened the box. Her audiences' eyes went wide. "KIKI?" Her Alraune looked inside with a bulb full of curiosity. "Kii?" a soft groan emanated from the jadeite preserver. A Ginseng! Elvia cooed. And a Spirit at a that. Unfortunately, it looked as though the Spirit was injured. From its humanoid likeness, the Spirit was missing both its lower limbs, most of its tendrils, and a portion of an arm. Instantly, her heart filled with sorrow and empathy for the poor thing. What horrid suffering had the poor plant endured? How lonely must it be to slumber in the darkness alone? Groggily, the Ginseng turned to look at Gwen. "KIIIIIII—!" it began to keen. Elvia felt her chest constrict. The poor baby! "SHAA!" Caliban yelled it into silence. "This won't hurt a bit." Gwen reached for the Ginseng. "KIKI?" Her Spirit leapt in front of her friend. Elvia winced; a string of gut-churning emotions translated by her Alraune flooded her constricting bosoms. GWEN WAS GOING TO EAT IT? Elvia comprehended Kiki's warning at once. "Gwen, NO! No eating! That's a Spirit!" Gwen paused, a sliver of Void circulating about her fingertips. "Don't worry, Evee— this thing is cultivated. It's domesticated and reared explicitly for this purpose, no different to a delicious lamb chop." "NO, NO, NO!" "KII! KII! KII!" "KIIIIIII—" "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban howled, spraying Elvia, Kiki and the Ginseng with grey goo. Elvia clammed up, as did the root, a pulsating, purple-fleshed Caliban was pretty much the stuff of nightmares. "KI—KI!" Her Alraune was the hero Elvia often aspired to be. "KII!" "But we need it to heal Evee." Gwen's brows furrowed. "I suppose your master could stuff the whole thing down her gullet, but then she'll erupt with vitality." Someone coughed. "If I may, Miss Song— I don't think you should be eating that." Magister Hanford's voice drifted across from the other side of the room. "Not in public, I mean." "We diced one up for Chinese New Years…" Gwen recollected Ayxin's gift to Jun's parents, which they shared with friends and family. "It was older than this one." "May Christ have mercy for us all," Mathias swore, marking a cross across his forehead and his chest. "You Orientals will eat anything…" "Gwennie, please?" "Fine." Gwen withdrew her Void scalpel. Elvia exhaled. "KII—KII!" Kiki slapped Gwen's hand with a tendril. Like Sufina, its island sister, the Alraune was fearless. "Shaa!" Caliban licked its chops, issuing a warning. Disregarding the serpent, Kiki reached into the box, then helped the Ginseng to its feet— or more correctly, its stumps. "Gwen, how could you," Elvia chided her heartless friend, staring at the stumbling Ginseng with moist eyes. "Was Sen-sen who you were eating in the competition?" "Sen-sen? Eating that root vegetable pulled me through quite the pickle, possibly gave Allie a baby, and added twenty years to Gramp's life!" Gwen cocked her head. "But, what's done is done. Now, do you want it?" Elvia's reply caught in her throat. A Spirit? One that knew pain and could beg to be spared? How many CCs could it be worth? "I… can't. It's far too expensive." "Kii!" Kiki glared at Gwen, stomped the table angrily, then passed a tendril toward the Ginseng. A dribble of Gwen's viridescent Essence infused the root vegetable. "Sen?" The Ginseng shuddered, then gestured wildly to itself. "Sen-Sen! Sen-sen!" "Look at it," Elvia begged, feeling another stab of empathy striking her heart. "Can you heal it? With your Druidic Essence?" "Heal it?" Gwen looked from her friend to the Ginseng. "It's supposed to be providing nourishment for us, not the other way around. I mean, if you want it, that's another thing. If not, I'll box it for another day—" "I'll keep Sen-sen!" Elvia announced. Kiki's emphatically-linked demands were tearing her heart out. "Don't worry, Kiki, we'll save him yet." "Fine. Kiki, move aside," Gwen commanded the Alraune. Warily, the flower Sprite shifted to one side. Elvia watched as her friend uprooted the feeble Ginseng by its leafless head, then laid it flat on the palm of one hand. Again, Gwen's audience bore witness to the spectacle of Druidic Essence oozing from a human sorceress. Bathed in the elixir of life, the Gingseng Spirit sprouted hundredsof tiny tendrils that, once interwoven, began to resemble a pair of stubby legs. Its missing arm as well grew hundreds of whiskery beards that soon resembled a limb. Atop its head, leaves began to sprout, first a few petals, then a whole bushel of "hair" emerged, transforming the deformed Ginseng into a textbook Mandrake. By the time the Spirit could move on its own, Gwen was breathing heavily. "Sorry," Elvia apologised. "I didn't know it was that hard." "Anything for you, Evee." Gwen gave the Ginseng a flick on the knob. "Here, your new pet, 'Sen-Sen' sans three limbs but otherwise as good as new." "Kiki!" The Alraune hugged the Ginseng. "Sen!" The Ginseng, having escaped the chopping block, embraced the Alraune. "Aww," the girls cooed. "Shaa!" Caliban salivated. "Kiki!" Kiki directed the Ginseng toward Elvia. "Sen!" The Ginseng ran toward Elvia on its new legs, then performed a kowtow by throwing itself on all fours. Kiki's pantomimed Sen's intent. "It wants me… as its Master?" Elvia didn't understand Fae, but Kiki was a champion at charades. "But I've got you already, Kiki." "Miss Elvia—" It was Mathias who interjected. "Perhaps it is best to donate the Mandrake to the Tower? A friendly, sapient Spirit is worth a great deal of CCs. Think about the other Healers who could use it to bolster their craft. The favours you could curry..." "NO." Gwen wagged a finger. "That root vegetable is Mine. I gave it to Evee, and I reserve the right to prevent it from falling into anyone else's hands. Either she keeps it on her person, or I mash it for Maotai. There is no recourse." "Miss Song." Mathias grew radiant. "Please be reasonable. You'll be entering society soon, I wager." "I am reasonable, 'Mattie'." Gwen's acerbic defiance gave Elvia an indescribable thrill. "You want a Ginseng, ride your ass up to Huangshan and rip it out of the Yinglong's garden. Otherwise, keep your advice to yourself." Mathias' jaws clenched. Elvia gulped. "Why are YOU upset?" Gwen snorted. "Look at the state I found Elvia in, 'Knight Protector'. Got a complaint? Go fish. I welcome any grievances, large or small, lodged against my person. If anything, you should ask the Duke of Norfolk's office to process the claim. Old Dickie's out on a limb to see me fail." "This incivility isn't becoming of you, Miss Song," Mathias replied with a measured tone, though Elvia could sense her Knight's heart rate elevating to new heights. "I would have imagined Elvia's companion possessing more class." "I hail from the industrial district of Forrestville, from Frontier Sydney." Elvia noticed that Gwen's lips sneered whenever she enabled her first-class bitchface. "This is how us plebs speak." "Mattie, Gwen doesn't mean to be rude." Elvia felt her heart simmering at her throat. She did not desire conflict between her Knight and her best friend. Besides, Mathias was strong, but Gwen was lethal. "Please, we'll discuss this later, okay?" "You! Ginseng!" Gwen snapped at her dietary supplement. "Sen!" The Ginseng snapped to attention. "Leave Elvia, and you're soup." Gwen patted Caliban on the head. "SHAA!" "EE!" Ariel added its two cents. With an air of fatalism, the Ginseng approached its new Master. "Kiki!" With a shuddering wince, Sen-sen tore out one of its leaves and placed it against Elvia's hand. "For me?" "Sen!" Elvia placed the green growth under her nose. The magical salad smelled strongly of soil, and also something far older. Gwen nodded. "Eat it, Evee. I should tell you that this is a five-hundred-year-old Ginseng cultivated by Golos' brother, Ryxi the White Serpent, in the secret valley of the Yinglong's Mythic-class abode. I'd wager its got quite the kick." The two men opened their mouths. Mathias maintained a stiff upper lip. A little nervously, Elvia chewed the leaf. "MMPH!" Her eyes sparkled. The taste was bitter beyond belief. The energy, the vitality, the mana contained therein, however, was unlike anything she had ever imbibed, not that a pleb like herself had access to ultra-rare Wildland ingredients in the first place. "Take it slow…" Gwen advised. "Circulate your mana, allow the Essence to infuse your body." "Essence?" Elvia blinked. "Draconic-Essence." Gwen grinned. "Yinglong's dragon juice tends to infuse everything. Don't worry, Sen's safe to eat. No one at the banquet exploded. I think." Elvia closed her eyes, allowing the vitality to infuse her body. The fatigue in her limbs melted away. Her mind, so murky a moment ago, felt crystalline with cloudless clarity. Gradually, the earthen taste in her mouth turned to mint, reinvigorating every cell in her exhausted body. Elvia burped. "Evee." Gwen studied Elvia's new Ginseng friend. "I gotta ask, as my memory isn't great. Is Kiki a Familiar?" "Nup." Elvia shook her head. "She's a freely contracted Spirit. I've never performed the Familiar ritual." "That's, unfortunately, fortunate—" Gwen cocked a brow. "Good news. Now you have room for a bonded Familiar." "Miss Song, I cannot advise…" Mathias interjected. "Such a waste..." Elvia too felt overwhelmed by the excess. A Spirit replaced one's Familiar. She had never heard of someone with a Spirit contracting a whole other Spirit through Summon Familiar. Theoretically, both could co-exist, but Mathias was right. What a waste! No matter how good she became, she couldn't perform the job of TWO Spirit Healers. "So? Its HER Spirit to waste." Gwen shrugged. "What's so unique about a Spirit Ginseng? I wager there's two-dozen more on Huangshan. It's no biggie, Evee. If this limp-limbed bugger doesn't yield..." Gwen shook the bottle of Maotai, looking every inch the tyrant. "KIII!" The Ginseng kowtowed wholeheartedly, looking like it was doing push-ups. "Sen-sen! Sen!" "Smart plant." Gwen packed away the booze. "How are you feeling now, Evee? Come off the bed, let's see how you are." Elvia nodded. Slipping from the thick, goose-down sheets, she landed on her dainty little feet. Her friend, however, felt her hands, paused, then glared at her fingers. "What's wrong?" Elvia asked, puzzled by Gwen's steely expression. "A small Storage Ring?" Gwen blurted in disbelief. "Evee, where's your Contingency Ring?" Elvia cocked her head. Was it so strange that she didn't have a Contingency Ring? Those cost at a minimum, thousands of HDMs. A good one that came with guarantees for sanctuary, healing, and safe delivery ran into tens of thousands. Even after all her sanitarium work, once her tuition and lodging was paid, she had a few hundred HDMs to her name. Most of her quests that Mathias took were voluntary work. "Erm... I don't have one. It's too expensive..." "I see." Her protector's eyes trained onto Mathias. The glowering storm outside continued its pitter-patter, growing louder until a stone-splitting roar rattled the windows. "'Mattie'." Gwen's accusation sizzled like a branding iron. "Why are you so useless?"

It took Mathias a full second to digest the Void sorceress' earth-shattering accusation. Besides the Knight, Magister Hanford's open mouth could have swallowed a duck egg. "I beg your pardon?" His jaw clenched, turning Mathias' neck a bright pink. That thrice-damned Alraune! To think the blasted bulb was a flower on top, but a serpent beneath! "What are you on about, young lady?" The sorceress stood between himself and his ward. "Do you deny your dereliction of duty?" "Absolutely!" Mathias allowed his Radiant mana to circulate. "I warn you, Miss Song. The honour of a Knight isn't so cheap that a nobody from a Frontier could waltz in and point fingers. I swore an Oath to protect Miss Lindholm!" The Knight's sword-hand burned with a phosphorescent brilliance. "That my Faith remains is a testament to my service!" Mathias allowed both Faith and Radiance to inter-mingle. His face glowed; his blonde hair engendered a halo. "Miss Song, you test me again and again, for no reason other than petty jealousy over my guardianship of Miss Lindholm. I implore you, with complete sincerity and politeness, to cease your belligerence! We both want what's best for Elvia." But the girl did not back down. Instead, she raised Elvia's hands. "Then how do you explain Evee's poverty of items? She's been questing with you for how long?" "Six months." "SIX MONTHS!" The girl continued without missing a beat. "If there is such a demand for Evee— and yet she's penniless— then as her manager, you're bloody hopeless! If she isn't profiting, then who is profiting OFF her?" Mathias had never felt so insulted in his life. He never knew anger could influence the flow of mana. Now he did. "Did I hit a nerve?" His accuser stood with one hand pointing and her other against her hip, not unlike a pissing tea kettle. "Where were you when Evee got bullied? When they overworked her, why didn't you campaign to give Evee a fair go? Look around you— where are the OTHER healers with burned-out brains? Is that a testament to their apathy, or your ineptitude? Or Both?" "Milady's compassion—" Mathias was finding it hard to speak. "—Is not your social capital!" The girl's voice was like a gale. "Kiki tells me Evee gets attacked by monsters, every day, every fucking time!" "The Spirit lies!" Mathias growled. "Evee's never lost a hair. Elvia, tell her how I've shielded you!" "Sophistry!" The girl's rudeness grated like a rusty saw. "Your bull doesn't pass the China-test, Mattie. Let's cut to the chase. Show me your hands." "What?" The girl extended her hand. "Here, let me help: Ring of Evasion— Ring of Storage— Ring of Contingency—" Mathias's complexion shifted from scarlet to white. His Radiant mana hammered at his skull, tolling like church bells. The Contingency Ring on his left index finger was burning his skin as silver burns a Lycanthrope. The ring was from his Order. It wasn't his to give— or was it? Mathias no longer knew the answer. The girl pulled his healer's hand forward. "Here. I know it's hard, but let me show you the rare bird called 'giving a fuck'." With a zap of electricity, the girl pulled two bands from her fingers, materialising a third in her offhand. "Gwennie," Elvia protested in alarm, her whole body pulling helplessly against the taller sorceress. "You can't! That's Gunther's Ring! Alesia's going to be pissed! I am not worthy!" "I can, and you are," the girl retorted, then slipped the Contingency Ring onto the Elvia's trembling fingers. Mathias' eyes grew round when he caught the Beholder's Core mounted in the Contingency Ring. When furthermore his ears registered Elvia's protest, the implication slammed into his skull like an empowered Missile Swarm. Gunther? Which Gunther could afford a Contingency Ring made from a Beholder's Eye Core? Alesia? He knew of only one sorceress called Alesia. "Evee, relax. I returned brother's heirloom in Sydney," the Void sorceress explained. "This one's a discounted facsimile from Pretoria." "It's too expensive!" "More valuable than my peace of mind? Hardly—" The Void sorceress slipped on the other two rings as well: her Ring of Evasion, and what looked like a Medium Storage Ring. "There! You see, Mathias? Evee's now snug as a bug. Now that's Evee husbandry, 101." "M-Miss Song," Mathias murmured, his mind still reeling from the revelation. In his chest, the anger and the resentment drained away into the Ethereal Plane. "By Gunther, do you mean Lord Shultz, of Sydney Tower?" "Who else?" The girl assumed her tea kettle pose once again, fully intent on filling him up to the ears. "He was Evee's immigration sponsor. Do you take offence to that?" Mathias felt as though struck by a bolt of livid lightning. Every hair on his body stood on end. His spleen ached. Why hadn't Emily told him? Why hadn't Elvia mentioned a word of her connection to the Tower Master of Sydney? Why, if she had so much as dropped a hint, he would have duelled Royal Alfred's Knight to secure every holiday from here to next year. Master Shultz! Mathias' mind felt as slow as a snail's crawl. Against his right thigh, Dawnstar hung like a lead weight. "Well, Mattie?" The girl's supply of spittle was endless. Her eyes flashed like that of a fixated hawk on a fleeing prey. "Now do you see—" _CLANG!_ Mathias' body was in motion before his mind conceded. In one, swift action, the Knight dropped to an armoured knee. "MY HEART WAS IMPURE!" In one smooth draw, Mathias presented his Spellsword, then offered it to his accuser in a gesture of supplication. "Lady Lindholm, I beg for your clemency!" Gwen braked so hard she stuttered, biting her tongue. Behind the Void sorceress, Elvia cringed and whimpered, the cost of the rings flaying the flesh from her fingers. Across the counter, Magister Hanford choked on the mead, then began to cough uncontrollably as the rogue booze shot up his sinus tract. Ascending toward the second floor, the Void sorceress and the Spirit Healer ventured upstairs, joined by a Kirin, a Void serpent, a Ginseng and an Alraune. Below, the two men prepared to call it a night. "That young lady's quite the orator." Hanford rummaged below the counter, then pulled out a bottle of ancient-looking rum, poured himself a glass, then filled a second goblet. "Now that's over, care for a pint to calm the nerves?" "I don't— sure." The Knight hesitated but did not decline the Magister's sympathy. By the creed of temperance, a Knight was only allowed to imbibe alcohol as a part of the Sacrament. Luckily for Mathias, a Knight of St Michael was also an anointed Cleric by trade, fully equipped to deliver Mass or authorise a marriage. "Bless, O Lord, this drink which Thou hast created. Here, by Thy holy name, I receive the blood of thy body and soul. Amen." As per the ritual, Mathias drained the chalice in one gulp. "Hmm..." Hanford double-checked the bottle's back label. "... shit." Mathias wiped his booze-stained mouth, breathing slowly to fight down the alcohol. In an instant, the Knight grew pale. "By St John, I feel as though afflicted with Negative Drain. In St George's name, what is this thing? My gut's fallen into the seventh circle of hell..." Hanford winced. He should have known from the bottle that the rum was Dwarven. That and virgin Knights were famous teetotalers. Carefully, Magister Hanford poured himself a half-shot. "Will you be joining us tomorrow?" "Wherever Miss Lindhold goes, so shall... so shall I..." "I see." Hanford raised a foaming toast for the boy-Knight who survived the Devourer of Shenyang with four limbs intact. "Here's my belated Amen— and here's to keeping your job. Sir Rothwell. Good night." "That's right. I am a good Knight." The Radiant Mage slumped into a tub chair. His belly growled. Dwarven rum wasn't for the faint of anything. "O Christ, shield me from this unholy fire." When Elvia's companion saw the modesty of the inn's bedroom, she straight away offered the Portable Habitat she had "neglected" to return to Melbourne Tower. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. An HDM and a few minutes later, the girls and their menagerie of flora and fauna relaxed in the interior of the Habitat, sprawled out across the spacious living room. Kiki and Sen-sen wandered all over, investigating every nook and cranny. Caliban took up residence on the carpet, coiled and comfortable, while Ariel, now lap-sized and docile, rested against Elvia's legs. There, in the privacy of each other's company, Elvia related the dream she had appropriated from Gwen's Outback adventure. "...Kapi-Kapi?" "Yeah! It was like you were there!" Elvia painted for her friend the strangest dream she ever dreamt. "There was Uluru and the Rainbow Serpent, and we were Singing the Snake..." Gwen smacked her lips. "Did rain come from a cloudless sky?" "Yes! Then Almudj came out of the rock! And there was red water everywhere." Her friend's expression grew contemplative. "So, you were Kalinda, and I was the Tjupurrula... how curious..." Once the dream-talk ceased, the atmosphere grew contemplative. On her fingers, Gwen's rings weighed heavily on Elvia's heart, stifling her breath. In the ensuing silence, Elvia drew on some of that courage she had so admired in Faux-Debora, slipping across the couch so that she sat on Gwen's lap. Sensing a lack of protest, she then laid her back against her friend's supple torso. From Gwen's hair, she could smell the faintest hint of eucalyptus. "What's wrong, Evee?" Gwen read her mood like a book. "Gwennie," Elvia heard herself lament, her voice almost a whisper. "Why me?" The paranoia that twisted Elvia's gut wasn't uninvited, but something she had known since Sydney. As a mere healer, one without charisma, character, or backing, what could she possibly gift to Gwen? What aid, no matter how trivial, could she deliver to the devourer of a city? "Don't say that," Gwen scolded her with a snort. "You're more important than you think." "But I am not." Elvia felt her friend shifting beneath her. After repositioning her legs, Elvia now used her friend's thigh as a pillow. "I am not strong, and I know I am not smart. Mathias isn't wrong, you know. I am a liability." "Nope, stop right there." Gwen's fingers prodded Elvia's button nose as though a stop-start button on a Golem. "You're a special person. You just don't know it." "I watched you and Yue in the IIUC." Elvia rested her cheek against the palm of her friend's outstretched hand. "I kept trying to imagine how I could have helped, but I don't think I can. Be it Sylvie, or Emily, or even Lady Astor, everyone thinks of me as a tag-along. Nothing more." "That's quite the imagination you got there." A finger wiped away the string of wetness flowing down Elvia's pippin-pink cheeks. "Christ, Evee. Relax. Man, I should install a vid-caster in here." Elvia sighed, feeling all the more guilty for her friend's sympathy. Doing her best, she choked back a sob. "Alright, now I feel like an unsympathetic bitch." Gwen patted her head. "How about you put a stopper on the tap and let me explain." Elvia did her best. The mind was willing, but the flesh was tender. "In life, Evee..." Gwen began, dabbing her face with a tissue. "...there are folk who pop in and out of our orbit." "With some, we grow intimate— Petra, who you know; or Tao my fruity cousin; or the iron-hearted Lulan. These are honest folk with dreams and aspirations. Their goals, I respect, and when our paths bisect, I want to help them." "Then, there are selfless souls like my Babulya; or Uncle Jun. Like Opa, they want to see me prosper and do well. But with these folks, their love comes with anticipations and expectations, and of course, should I misstep— disappointment." "Then, there are the folk who walk a parallel path. Ruxin and Gogo the Dragon siblings of Nagaland; Marong, my business partner; Magister Walken, who sees in me a kindred spirit on the path to relevance. Guo, my legacy obsessed grandfather— these folks I work with because our goals align and our interests are complimentary—" Elvia listened, bathed in the warmth of her friend's enveloping embrace. "And finally, there are those who are closest to our hearts. Yue takes a spot. Alesia and Gunther are my unconditional allies. Percy of course, he's my little brother after all. Richard as well has sacrificed much— though thankfully, I've managed to even the odds of late…" Gwen's irises burned with a gentle light. From within her friend's arched body, Elvia felt a curious resonance. In her chest, below her throat, the thrumming Essence felt like heartburn. "...And there's you, Evee." Elvia's complexion grew hot-pink, whether due to nervousness or embarrassment, she didn't know. "Some might say that being normal and nice implies a lack of character, that a lack of ambition makes you a lesser person. But to me, that's what makes my Evee endearing. What I admire in you, Evee— is your simplicity." "My… simplicity?" "That's right." Gwen parted her flaxen hair, knotting the strands around her fingers. "You know, Evee, I've been fighting non-stop for four years now. Sometimes, I think about the places I've seen, the monster's I've eaten, and wonder how far I've drifted from a bedroom with an ocean-view." Elvia recalled that indeed, an ocean-view bedroom had been her friend's dream. "Can you imagine that, Evee? Before meeting Master Henry, all I wanted was a three-bedder at Potts Point. Now, I harp on about being the Master of a Tower. Christ! A cloud-clapped Tower, Evee! Tall as anything—staffed by thousands! But then, after Caliban burps and Ariel's gone to bed I think to myself— what the fuck am I doing? Right now, I can buy TEN houses by the sea. Why aren't I retired by the ocean, fighting Mermen from my porch?" "But…" Elvia felt her friend's frustration through the emphatic link of their mingling essence. "You can't retire. You're the Devourer of Shenyang." "Aye, that's the rub— the calamity of so elevated a life." Her friend breathed out for what felt like an eternity. "I miss the old days." Her friend's face was an inch from Elvia's head. "You and me and Yue, going to Blackwattle, eating at Market City, Yue fellating paddle pops and making us laugh, all in that cramped sauna we called home. I miss my Master, as well. Henry and I only shared a year, but he was so kind to me, more than anyone I knew in all my... years. I miss Sufi too, and not just because of her Golden Mead. Her emotions were always so pure." "Kiki!" Elvia's Alraune, having returned to check on its mistress, patted Gwen on the shins. A few inches away, Caliban sniffed the Flower Sprite's bulb disinterestedly. "Sometimes, I can't help but imagine what would have happened if Sobel never happened to us, or if I had been stern enough to listen to Yue and kicked Debora out. Imagine that— You and I, and Yue, in Sydney for the next three years. We could have made a party of our own with Whetu and Richard. The SIMPLICITY of it, Evee. That's what I miss more than anything." All Elvia could do was nod. "If you're afraid you've got nothing to contribute, Evee." Gwen's lips hovered over her own. "Then I'll give you a job." "A job?" "Yes, Evee. One only you can do. You see, after the Trolls, the Undead, the Dragons, and the people; I need something to anchor myself. What I mean, Evee— is that I need an anchor that isn't mountains of Crystals and cloud-clapped Towers. What I need, Evee— is something more concrete than the pageant of popularity and the phantasms power, do you understand?" Elvia shivered. "What can I do?" "Be Elvia Lindholm." Gwen's voice grew low and husky. "That, to me, is more precious than anything." "But I am not special. Not like you." "Then I'll make you special." The conviction in Gwen's voice made Elvia's spine suddenly rigid. Her friend's next words were barely a whisper, but it fulminated within the recesses of Elvia's mind. "Evee— I don't want to be another Sobel." Against her cheek, Gwen's thighs were clammy. A part of Elvia wanted to get away, to slip from her friend's lap and flee the Habitat. What Gwen had just told her, the "Job" Gwen had offered— could anyone bear such a burden? Could she? Could a weak-willed waif serve as the foundation of a sorceress who may one day change the Mageocracy? Was Gwen being selfish? "Kiki?" Her Alraune stroked her arm with an elongated tendril. "Ki?" "Sen!" Sen-sen as well, perhaps reading Kiki's distress, touched Elvia's toes and prodded her pink digits. Her friend grew silent, awaiting a response. Elvia felt queasy. Was she up to the task? In truth, she had no idea. In truth, she missed Mathias already. Her glory-seeking Knight was a knee-deep pond; Gwen was the abyssal ocean. "Kiki!" Her Alruaune thumped its chest as a sign of solidarity. Courage, or was it Essence, flowed into Elvia's chest. Kiki was right! So what if she dived head-first into the Void? Gwen would do just as much for her, so why couldn't she do the same? Whether she could hold Gwen back was one question. Whether she was willing was another. One needn't inform the other. "Gwennie?" The brimming Essence in her conduits overflowed. "Yes, Evee?" "I'll... BLUERRRRRGH—" Unfortunately, having acquired Almudj's blessing only an hour ago, the rising ardour Elvia had felt wasn't Essence. Instead, it was reflux from her oesophagus, caused by her threadbare nerves. And so, to conclude their first conference in two years, against the softness of her best friend's awaiting body, Elvia Lindholm poured out her soul. "Evee! Evee! Evee, let your wand hang down..." Gwen hummed as she changed, readying herself for the day trip. In the master bedroom, Elvia slept like a lamb, exhausted after a lengthy apology and an even longer shower. Still, even a rancid Elvia sparked joy. Gwen could hardly complain when her little healer grew so happy that she vomited on the couch. That had been her fault, she later realised. Evee had languished for the better part of a day without taking a meal, and though Almudj's Essence provided many gifts, a full stomach wasn't one of them. PSSSHT— Her Shen-teī armour tightened, enclosing her athletic figure with a hiss, kissing every inch of her dermis. On a nearby pedestal, Gwen aligned more gifts readied for Elvia. The first was a spare suit of Shen-Teī in white. To their premier model, Sinomach Heavy Industries had been very generous with their samples, especially after the IIUC's unprecedented viewership. Also on the pedestal was her Radiant Diamond Ioun Stone. Last night, Mathias had folded like cheap origami, but she couldn't trust the Knight, at least not yet. As for her losses, Gwen did not consider the items critical to her ventures in London. Seeing as she was a Class VI asset, surely the Mageocracy would give her a sizeable discount on a Tower-issued Conti-Ring. As for the Ring of Evasion, now that her split-second Dimension Door well-exceeded the range of most AOEs, Magister Ferris's handcrafted item now felt meagre. And as for the Ioun Stone, Elvia would better benefit from its shell-hardening than herself, who could pump the equivalent of a dozen Mages' mana into her Gunther Shield. Already, for their first outing visiting the Troll warrens around the Gulch, she had a plan. The dastardly Duke of Norfolk had name-dropped Elvia to serve as a warning, but now, Gwen considered the advice with kindness. That those with fingers in her future would see Elvia as Gwen's weakness was a certainty. If so, why should she step lightly and keep her best friend from the limelight? Through her Master, Gwen had learned that recognition could be utilised like a Force Wall. From Gunther, she had learned that though one spoke softly, it didn't hurt to tap the table with a big stick. And if there was anything Alesia taught her, it was that infamy could be just as useful as fame. _Ding! Ding!_ Her out-bond Message chimed. "Miss Song?" an accented tongue echoed by her ear. "This is Dominic Lorenzo. Alesia said you'd call. How do you like London? And how can I help?" "Hi, Dom." Gwen's voice was sugary sweet. "Thanks for answering. I am so sorry to impose on you so soon, and without a luncheon first to get acquainted." "Ha, don't mind it, anything for Alesia's sister," the man replied with enthusiasm. "Not to mention you're the talk of the town. Have you read the Telegraph? You're all over page three! I wouldn't dream of dining with a tabloid girl in public." "Er…" Gwen paused. "What's this about?" "You know, Lord Ravenport. Hahaha, you young sorceresses sure move fast these days." Gwen blinked, wondering if the tavern received daily papers. "I am at Merthyr Tydfil right now." "Near Red Peak? What's a lass like you doing on Dwarf land?" "Long story," she said. "Look, we'll meet up and talk later, Alesia said to ask you if I needed help. She said you're the man with the connections." "And so I am. Go on." "Lovely." Gwen cleared her throat, putting aside the tabloid business for now. "So— I am about to clear a Troll warren near Merthyr Tydfil, something called the Scarlet Gulch—" "Ah, the place where Earthen Crystals sprout about now—" the voice paused. "Hold up— doth my ears deceive me? Did you say you want to PURGE the area?" "You could say that. I've got some stake in elevating one of my friends to the public eye, a healer. As such, I was wondering if the media was keen to see a Void Sorceress single-handedly clear a valley of green-skins in defence of a fellow sister dual-wielding sapient Spirits…"

Dominic Lorenzo went by several names, some of which were public, and most of which were selectively known to friends in unusual places. To the Mageocracy, Dominic was a murky ghost, one of the hundreds that made up London's grapevines. Together, he and his ilk sent bite-sized observations up the trellis so that problems could be propagated or pruned. To Dominic's unknowing co-workers, he was a dapper, good-natured journo who was serious about his work but would never get promoted because of a meddlesome, naive sense of justice. To Alesia De Botton, he was a compatriot, co-tethered by a debt owed to the late Master of Sydney. Presently, Dominic engaged in a masochistic ritual known as, "reading the Sun Herald". Within London's battlefield of public opinion, he worked for the Guardian, winner of the BBC's Mithril Shield, comparatively, the paper in his hand was the editorial equivalent of coal dust. Nonetheless, knowing one's foes was an essential part of Dominic's job. He turned the page. A headline in large, red writing seared his retina. _Norfolk's Secret: How a Customs Agent Uncovered Ravenport's Hidden Daughter._ _THE DUKE OF NORFOLK, one of the most powerful men in London, was seen rushing back to his manor when a customs agent uncovered the Duke's ploy to mule illicit goods through a young Australian-Chinese sorceress by the name of Gwen Song._ _In a Fireball revelation, Miss Song was revealed to be the youngest Apprentice of Henry Kilroy, the now-deceased Master of Sydney, a long-time associate of Mycroft Ravenport. A further inquiry carried out by the Herald Sun revealed Miss Song was the same Void sorceress who wowed audiences in September's International Inter-University Competition. According to internal memos, Miss Song was on route to receive a scholarship from Cambridge University when Heathrow intercepted the sorceress, revealing a cache of illicit goods. However, Lord Ravenport's court ally, Lord Seville, intervened to remove Miss Song from Border Force's custody. The young sorceress was then photographed entering Lord Ravenport's private vehicle, an exclusive Phantom IV gifted to the Duke by the Royal Family. Miss Song has not been seen in public since._ _Lord Mycroft has been embroiled in scandals prior, such as the rumoured involvement of his son in the Fall of Sydney. Exclusive to the Sun, sources have acknowledged that the Void sorceress may be a secret daughter, engendered by an unintended tryst..._ Dominic suppressed a smirk. Secret daughter, sure. The picture they had of Gwen was of her getting into the Duke's car, her lower body in crystal-sharp focus, while everything else faded into the backdrop. In a stark and titillating vision, one saw a single, contoured leg hanging outside the bible-black, beetle-shell carriage. As it was winter, the implications were self-evident. But just in case the Sun's readers were too obtuse, the paper teased the imagination by pairing the article with a page three girl— a hopelessly underdressed Eurasian sorceress with dark hair and green eyes, eye-fucking the camera. In a ham-fisted way, the unspoken inference fully demonstrated the near-supernatural magnetism a million tabloids a week held over the lives of the Lords and Ladies of London. For the apathetic public, there was nothing more satisfying than scandals that exhibited the snobbish gentry's basest desires. In response, Norfolk's office had ­issued two denials over the claims saying that _"any blood relations between the sorceress and Lord Ravenport_ " was _"categorically ­untrue"_. A second line included the usual response from Windsor castle, _"We deny that the Duke of Norfolk had any form of relationship with the young woman. The allegations are false and without ­foundation."_ Dominic quickly checked through the rest of the paper to ensure that nothing else would catch Gwen by surprise. It was on page seven that Dominic spotted the second mention of Gwen. This time in an article written by an actual journalist, detailing the replacement of George Reeves, Director of Operations at Heathrow. The article cited that not only had Director Reeves not questioned the illicit conduct of staff under his watch, but had stubbornly refused to cross the 'blue-line', being an ex-Major and all that. This time, however, the victim to be "shaken down" happened to be Gwen Song, Class VI War Mage of IIUC fame, and sister-in-craft to Lord Shultz, Tower Master of Sydney. The incident, the Sun reported, has caused significant grief within the foreign office. Reeve's replacement, Deputy Director Rachel Swann, then offered a platitude: " _We expect our leaders to conduct themselves professionally at all times and treat our nation's best and brightest with respect. Director Reeves has failed to meet these expectations and has been dismissed after a misconduct panel, presided by factional representatives from London Tower, the Public Safety Committee, and the Border Force Military Tribunary. Lord Ravenport, the speaker for the committee, instrumental in negotiating Miss Song's lawful release, has stated, 'The public has a right to expect absolute integrity.'"_ "You've got to be shitting me." Dominic felt a vein throb. Gwen was in London for ten minutes, and she had already made it onto the most notorious paper in the city— twice. If the edition sold well, and House Ravenport suffering from a rash of ill repute almost certainly will— Gwen could kiss her privacy goodbye. _Ding! Ding!_ Dominic's device chimed. The caller ID indicated that it was Ravenport's leggy daughter. _Speak of the hellcat,_ Dominic whistled. He dispelled the visage of the bare bosomed beauty on page three; once his mind was purged of impure thoughts, he tapped the Glyph for receive. "Thank you, Mister Whitely," Ollie Edwards, Post Graduate Conjurer-Illusionist, thanked the miner who had been kind enough to give him a ride to Merthyr Tydfil. With great politeness, he laid down an HDM on to the seat. "Please take this." Ollie had left London at five AM. After delivering a note to the Head Mistress of Peterhouse, he caught the ISTC to Oxford, a bus down to Gloucester, then waited for a cargo lorry to take him to Merthyr Tydfil. As much as a Flight Licence was useful, Ollie could not justify spending a year's worth of CCs on convenience. An hour into the bumpy ride, when his buttocks complained of the spring digging into his thighs, he wondered if it was faster to teleport to London, then pay for a General Area Teleport above the resource outpost. But, as always, Ollie considered the request from Lady Loftus a test. With the Matron of Peterhouse, quests were rarely straightforward, and Ollie suspected that looking after Gwen Song was demonstrative of the Lady's faith in her Praelector. When they arrived at Merthyr Tydfil, the town was as he had imagined. It was dirty, dingy, and looking like a mining town straight out of an '80s vid-cast before Maggie Thatcher put an end to all that. "Keep the crystal," the squat NoM shooed the Magus away, tossing him back the credit-stick. "Careful, Magus. Them Dwarves are devious buggers, and them Trolls will make soup from your bones!" "I shall. Thank you again!" "Good luck finding your girl." The old feller winked. "Right." Ollie then turned his attention toward the inn. Here was where the local militia had set up their headquarters. With a deep breath, he pushed through the oak double doors. "Hello! My name is Ollie Edwards. I am Miss Song's Praelector from Cambridge—" Ollie paused. The place was empty. There was plenty of evidence that the inn had been lived in, there was no doubt about that; the place was a damned Goblin warren, but there wasn't a single soul to answer his enquiry. "Mister Publican?" His answer bounced back from the vaulted, Tudor-era ceiling. Feeling his fingers grow clammy, Ollie exited the inn. Outside, the town went about its business. "Good sir!" He flagged down a sauntering prospector. "What's the news? Where are Magister Hanford and his men? Also, have you seen a tall, Eurasian sorceress with green eyes? She has hair up to about here— and she's quite— pretty." "Aye, you missed them an hour ago." The prospector's teeth had more yellow than white. "They've gone down to the gulch. A group of journos teleported in just after morning tea— said that the Devourer of Shenyang is going to clear the Red Gulch for Miss Elvia. Most of the folk are gone to take a gander." Ollie's overlarge ears grew red. "You're joking. Who's Elvia?" "No joke. The lass will take on the Trollies by herself. They said— oh, Miss Elvia's our healer. But..." The man shook his head. "Bollocks, I say. Even if she's Ravenport's daughter..." The man patted his newspaper. "She's WHAT now…" Ollie's eyes rifted to a familiar face on the front page. "Sorry, could I see that?" "Sure." The man handed the paper over. "Help yourself. Mind page three, it's a little damp." Frantically, Ollie read the front page, turning the slightly moist paper until he reached the prized double-spread. His heart froze for a moment when a modest Eurasian face stared back at him, wearing tiny garments, but relaxed when it wasn't Gwen. When his eyes rolled over the article, however, his breath grew difficult. "S-secret daughter?!" Ollie's molars ached. His mind raced. Daughter or no daughter, scandal or otherwise, he had to find the girl as soon as possible. What had the miner said? Red Gulch? But where in Dwarf Land was "Red Gulch"? Was it where the miners went to smuggle the seasonal ore? "How can I get there?" "In there." The prospector pointed to one of those "ye old' shoppes". Giving his thanks, Ollie pushed into the general store. Inside, a man dozed against the counter, awaking when the door-bell trilled. "Good sir! I am a Magus from Cambridge. I need to get to Red Gulch as soon as possible." It took the fellow a few seconds to fire up his synapses. "You and half the village," the shopkeeper snorted. "Don't worry, lad. I've got all the maps you can buy, all certified lodes with Troll Warrens marked and ready for prospecting." "Which one's for Red Gulch?" "This one." The man's swimming eyes reminded Ollie of a pair of poached eggs. "Now, that'll be five quid, young prospector! Best of luck!" Stolen novel; please report. Ollie handed over 5 LDMs. The shopkeeper produced a map from under the counter. "Here you go. RG-23, updated last week." "What about those?" Ollie pointed to the hand-thick stack of maps. "Oh dear!" the shopkeeper chuckled, one gold tooth glimmering sickly in the lumen-light. "Must have misplaced the Purge maps." Hanmoul Bronzeborn didn't mind the surface. The lidless world, with its green vegetables and elongated humanoids, was so much more interesting than the Deep Kingdom's endless crusade against the monsters of the Murk. But for all its grandeur, the above-ground world possessed foes the Dwarves were ill-equipped to fight. That was why, when after the last Gob died, jade-flesh writhing under the Rockcrushers' grinders, the dazed Dwarves could hardly believe their eyes. It was as though a Dragon had come through the peak, swept through the green-skin horde, then left without demanding tribute. And that was what worried Bronzeborn more than the horse-dogs that had eaten the Hobs head-first. Among the Iron Born, all acts of valour garnered recognition, translating directly to material rewards. The killing of a Hag, in particular, warranted a mention in the Ancestor Hall's record tablets. It was a rare honour, for scant were Hags that ventured out from the warrens, and rarer was the Dwarf who survived one. With a heavy heart, Hanmoul saw the battlefield looted and cleared, then ordered his patrol to head for home. At the council chambers, Hanmoul Bronzeborn made his report to a stunned Iron Command, then steered his shattered engine toward the workshop to be stripped and re-fitted. From the sound of the coolant leak in his cabin, the instrument panel's conduits must be a melted-mess, and the umbilical tether was shot. As for the actuator and the heat exchangers— Bronzeborn could only hope it held on for a few more meters. "Deep Ancestors!" His foreman and mentor, the honourable Signerlig Bronzeborn, almost dropped his auto-wrench when Bronzeborn's Rock Smasher lumbered came into view. "Wot happened? Did a Black Dragon take a liking to yer Smasha?" _PSSSHT— Clang!_ Hanmoul dropped the hatch. The pane caught halfway down on a broken sprocket. "I am lucky to be alive, Siggy. Thank the Deep." The Commandrumm of the Hammer Guard kicked the joint until the metal gave way. "Yer would nae believe what we ran inter…" After the tall tale was delivered, Signerlig poured the son of Dwomrul a stiff pint of rum brewed from the arse-end of Golden Sugar Ants. "Go take a rest, Hanmoul." The Senior Engineer shook himself out. "Yer gonna get trouble when that lass comes calling, son. A Debt of Haj-Zül isn't so easily repaid." "I know, Siggy," Hanmoul growled. "Gwen Song, that's her name. I'll take a strider inter Merthyr Tydfil tomorrow and speak with the Human Magister there, find out ter which Faction the lass belongs." "Pray its the Greys." Signerlig walked a circle around the Rocksmasher. "Yer don wanna be trafficking with the War Mages. They'd just ask for another schematic, yer ken? Or more Runeswords." The Commandrumm nodded solemnly. "See yer in a few hours, Siggy, take care of me girl." "Don't yer worry yer hairy arse, I'll ave 'er fixed reit up." Hanmoul made a detour on his way to the habitat to make sure there was at least one "Strider Beast" left in the garage. In the glowlight, the silhouette of the vehicle resembled a stumpy pill-bug, resembling the Black Scarabs so commonly found in the Dim. With a tug, Hanmoul removed the oiled cloth. He had to admit; the Strider was a beautiful thing. When dormant, the quasi-Golems appeared as though a geometrically shaped boulder. When active, however, the machine possessed a rare grace. Hanmoul sighed. It was a shame then that the Deepdowners had proclaimed such machines _Vadam,_ "Forbidden". According to the Deepdowners, the surface world held many allures to waylay young Dwarves, and no Engineer, not even a Hammer Guard, was immune to the corrupting seduction of the lidless world. Naturally, Hanmoul took the warning to mean that the pale-skinned old codgers were neck-deep in mole-droppings. Ever since the Sundering Tide shattered the Underway, the surface had been the only reliable way of communication for the Deep Kingdoms. That was the sole reason, Hanmoul concluded, that the Dimland Dwarves now received recognition at all. To denigrate their cousins bestriding the surface, while also pushing them to interact with the knife-ears and the Humans, was hypocrisy. Hanmoul lovingly patted the shell of the Strider. For some reason, his mind lingered on the malignant form of the white-fingered bird wielded by the girl-sorceress. What a magnificent creature! Hanmoul felt an unexpected tingle. What manner of a creature could it be? The Dim was free of avians. How was it possible that a flying monstrosity could concurrently exert such mechanical pressure with its digits? Was it a type of Dragon? The Dwarves knew Dragons better than anyone, but Hanmoul had never seen a beast like that. If possible, he would trade a vault's worth of gold to receive a pair of the bird's tendons as test-material. "By the Deep Ancestors." Hanmoul tapped the Strider's segmented canopy. "I'll ask the lass tomorrow." CLUNK! The final crate of HDMs fell into place. "And this, Gentlemen, is the Mandala for calling on Golos, Princeling of Huangshan." Gwen ran her hand over the three-thousand HDMs she had conjured into place. A safe distance around the Mandala, spread out in a semi-circle, were her observers. Presently, the crowd included Magister Hanford and his team of Tower Mages; Mathias and Elvia, who stood the closest; and gawkers from the town, who came to see if the sorceress really could obliterate the warrens. Already, the paparazzi were in a frenzy, their lumen-bulbs firing every few seconds. Gwen wasn't sure what Lorenzo said convinced the press to attend, but they did, en masse. "Evee," Gwen extended a hand to her healer. "Hold my hand. Step into the circle to gain its protection. Gogo can get a little excited, and you're looking a treat." Having seen the Wyvern on the broadcast, Elvia complied. Besides the Cleric, Mathias stood like an attentive clerk, ready to help. Gwen then began the complex process of invoking the necessary mystic energies for materialising Golos. She had earlier requested a second audience with Lady Loftus, assuring the Lady that Golos would return after forty-eight hours. The Lady's advice was to leave Gwen to her devices, redressing her new-found freedom with the simple truth that censures resulted from failure. "Meritocracy" was the watchword of the Mageocracy, the Lady sagely reminded Gwen, assuming peers of comparable standing. For her show and tell, constructing her Mandala without aid for the first time had been harrowing, especially with a peanut gallery. Thankfully, she had repeated the procedure enough times with Petra and Walken to re-create the summoning circle. Mid-invocation, the Glyphs sizzled as the Mandala's circuits flared into life. A little prematurely, a blinding bolt of lightning shot from the Mandala in reverse, stabbing into the landscape as though a sabre of light, birthing Golos into the world. The crowd clapped and wowed. Lumen-bulbs erupted. It wasn't every day that low-tier Mages bore witness to a Planar Ally and a Draconic-one at that. Golos, his sleek body well-defined with sinews, spread his wings and uncoiled his neck. The Wyvern appeared larger than Gwen recalled, indicating that it lived a good life smooching off Ruxin's good fortune. "SUCH ABUNDANT MANA!" the Wyvern barked, both nostrils flaring. On its crested skull, colourful feathers scintillated with a metallic sheen. "Calamity, what is this place?" "England," Gwen answered from below. "Gogo, meet my friend Evee." Golos' prideful visage surveyed the press corps, the prospectors, the low English horizon, then turned his attention downward. "You smell different." Gwen allowed her Essence to circulate. "How so?" The Wyvern lowered his head. "You feel… older—" "— And no longer like your brother?" Golos turned his head this way and that. The Wyvern drooled. "You smell delicious." "Hello…" Elvia's voice piped up besides Golos. "Kiki!" "Sen!" "No need to worry your pretty head, Gogo." Striking a pose, Gwen felt relieved that Golos' reaction was puzzlement and not hostility. Part of it may be their Planar Ally contract, but there was also wariness, history and respect. "Essence or no, Ruxin and I are business partners. Our interests run parallel." The Wyvern sniffed her again. With a tongue as thick as her thigh, he gave her cheek a quick-tongued tap. "Calamity. I can't sense Father on you at all. Did you eat him?" "There are older beings in this world than Daddy dear." Gwen pooled a bit of Almudj's Essence in her palm. "Care to take a hit?" "Hello." Elvia raised a hand again. "Lord Golos. I am Elvia Lindholm. Here is Kiki, and this is Sen-sen." Golos sniffed Gwen's hand, but to her surprise, the Wyvern turned away. "Tempting, but no. The Essence from another shall not pollute my father's blood. Besides, we are not mates, and if we were, I should be the one to enter—" "WHOA!" Gwen covered Elvia's ears. "Keep it to yourself, big guy. God knows who speaks Draconic here." Finally, Golos took notice of the girl in Gwen's arms. "I thought there was something familiar here." The Wyvern shifted its massive bulk, bringing its clubbed tail to bear. "I know you." "Evee," Gwen translated. "He says he knows you. Gogo, how come you know Evee?" Elvia froze. Despite Gwen's assurances, Gogo was one big Thunder Wyvern. A few meters away, Mathias drew his Spellblade. "You're the one Ayxin took for the Calamity." Golos chuckled. "Sen-sen!" The Ginseng on Elvia's shoulders stood, waving its tendrils, it bowed. "Sen!" "Hoho, a new Master," Golos rumbled, its reptilian slits finally focusing on Elvia. "This tiny mortal, mind giving her to me as an offering?" "Gogo, don't even joke about that." Gwen slapped the Wyvern on the snout. "Say hi to Evee, she's important." "She's skinny and unsavoury," Golos grunted. "Why, I could flatten her with one blow, swallow her with half a bite. If she were fatter..." "I could have Caliban burst out of your gut." "Insolence!" Golos barked, but it was their usual ego-joust. A moment later, the wyrm sniffed her partner, who stood as stoic as a statue while his muzzle prodded her bosom. "I see. You have claimed this female?" Gwen paused, then began to smile. "That's right, Golos. Protect her well, and you'll be rewarded." "Another one?" Golos rocked his giant head. "What happened to the Sword Mage? I like that one better. More bloodlust." "Lulu's special," Gwen said sweetly. "Why? Did something happen?" "Ryxi says she's arrived at Huangshan." Golos casually dropped a bomb on Gwen's lap. "He has taken a liking to your female." "Oh?" Gwen raised both brows. "Ryxi isn't thinking of— you know? Is he? If so, give him a stern warning." "HA!" Golos snorted. "That pallid, cock-less slug? He couldn't breed with a carp on a chopping board." "Thank you, Golos, for that fine imagery," Gwen returned drily. "Well, give Lulu my love. I hope she does well in learning the old arts. Flying around on a sword! What will they think of next?" "Enough talk, I grow bored and hungry." Golos reared to its full height. "What are we killing, THOSE?" A lumen-blast went off just as Golos craned his neck toward the press gallery. Surprised by the light, the Wyvern menaced the reporters, sending the townsfolk scattering. Magister Hanford and the other Mages from the Tower erected their shields just in case. Mathias, meanwhile, popped a Radiant barrier, first around Elvia, then himself. Good, Gwen nodded. Good dog. "Friend, not food, Gogo. Today, we're going after Hags, Trolls and Hobs. You're going to be in the thick of it. I want you to eat as many as you can, really fill up that poop rope of yours. It'll be a bounty for us both, buddy." "A battle! This pleases me." The Wyvern stretched its wings. "I shall be where the air is thickest." "Go scout, and watch out for other Dragons," Gwen warned. "There's bound to be a few in England! If one challenges you, come right back." Grunting, Golos took to the blue. A few scattered claps escaped the observing crowd. Gwen stood with both hands on her hips. "Sorry Evee, he's not fully trained yet." "That's okay." Elvia was sweating enough for the two of them, considering the linen snow that stretched from gulch to hill and that the Shen-teī's regulated temperature, it was an impressive feat. Gwen waited for the right moment, then returned her attention to the press gallery. Weathering a dozen blasts, she addressed the reporters. "And that's Golos, perfectly competent and diplomatic to boot," she assured them. "Now, once Gogo checks the gulch. It will be time to make time for my friend Elvia Lindholm." After five kilometres of Dimension Door paired with Wind Walk, Ollie Edwards had to stop. Firstly, he was exhausted with spell-fatigue. Secondly, a Dwarf was asking him for directions. "Young Human..." The Dwarf's armour bore the iconography of the Hammer Guard. From his relaxed demeanour, Ollie Edwards could guess that this was one of the Dim Dwarves, accustomed to living in-between "worlds". Presently, his conversation partner sat two meters in the air, held aloft by a many-limbed mechanical vehicle with dozens of skittering, sword-like legs. "...Am looking fer a sorceress from yer town. A ladette— tall like a knife-ear, dark hair, bald-faced, blue plating, goes by the callsign 'Voracious Eater'. Could yer point a Dwarf in the right direction?" _A Voracious Eater?_ It took Ollie a moment to catch on that the Dwarf must be running a sub-par Translation Stone. The descriptions weren't exact, but Ollie figured that the Hammer Guard was looking for a beardless "Devourer". "Are you after Gwen, by any chance?" "Yer noe the lass?" The Dwarf appeared relieved. "Perfect. I got solemn business with her." "Troublesome business?" "Aye, right troublesome." "Oh…" Ollie's blood ran cold. Was he too late? "Aye." The Dwarf sighed. "So, yer headed for the sorceress?" "I am." Ollie nodded. "Are you—" _BEEP! BEEP!—BEEP!_ A series of whirls and beeps interrupted Ollie's reply. A billowing gust, punctuated by the great bell-beat of leathery wings, smothered the pair with powdery snow. "WOT IN THE DEEP KING'S NAME IS THAT?" The Dwarf pointed at a passing silhouette. "A Thunder Dragon?" Ollie shielded his eyes. An inconceivably large Wyvern sailed through the sky, casting a magnified shadow over the ivory hills leading down to the Red Gulch. As it passed, the whipping wind in its wake sent up a storm of spiralling sleet. For some reason, Ollie was reminded of the snobs from Trinity who liked to show off in their expensive automobiles. _GOLOS! The_ name came to Ollie at once. What had Gwen done now? Why was an upper-tier monstrosity hooning about within three hours flight of London? Ollie's blood turned to ice. Did his junior ask for permission? What if the Wyvern ate someone? What if it ate an NoM— OR— Ollie looked at the Dwarf. What if it ate a Dwarf? _Please, God, O Mighty and the Merciful,_ Ollie Edwards begged the ancient Nazarene. Let him make it to Gwen Song before something terrible happened.

"It's a Wyvern," Ollie explained. "It belongs to Gwen." "So, trouble on wings." The Dwarf appeared to check his instruments. "That's one clunking big signature." "Spawn of a Mythic," the Mage replied drily. "Or so I've heard." The two stood in silence, each caught in a world of their own, pondering the reality that there existed a young woman who threw Thunder Wyverns at her problems. "Yer looks like you could use a ride, laddie." The Dwarf brushed the melting snow off his goggles and his beard. With a CLANK, a section of the tessellated plating slid apart, revealing what Ollie could only describe as a passenger seat tall enough for a child, but wide enough for two men. "I'll save yer some mana. Let's see wot yer wee sorceress is up ter." Feeling fatalistic, Ollie helped himself into the lowered seat. His only hope was that whatever Gwen was doing, it wouldn't gouge a pound of flesh from Peterhouse. His position as Praelector guaranteed a particular tuition discount, and he had plenty of Elven Glyph-sorcery left to transcribe. "Thank you." Ollie hugged his knees as the canopy closed, sealing the two as though a twin-yoked egg. "Ollie Edwards, Magus, Peterhouse. I don't have a Tower position yet." "Hanmoul Bronzeborn, Hammer Guard, Commandrumm." The Dwarf inclined his chin then licked his lips. "Strap in, lad. Gotta mek sure the lass dornt dae us any more un-negotiated favours. Dae ya mind if we gone a wee-bit fast?" "Faster," Ollie agreed. "Fastest would be better." The Devouring of Red Gulch began with a bang. In places where the fabric of the Material Plane and the Elemental Plane of Earth rubbed thin, Elementals like Redcap Snots and Goblins spawned en masse, becoming as common as crystals. When periods of peace breaks out, these dumb and servile fodder-creatures fed the Trolls and the other, older monsters of the under-hill who have long since marked the land as their own. Comparatively, above the warren, where the snow fell, there was no feature which made the Gulch discernible from the air. Were it not for the miners tearing apart the countryside looking for the raw, iron-bound crystals emerging from the valley, the hollow in the linen landscape would have been impossible to locate. To navigate the interior of the warrens, Gwen volunteered a hapless, knock-kneed prospector to guide her Invisible Familiar deep into the hollows. Down and down her Kirin went, past the narrow passageways, the byways, the dagger-like stalactites, the milling Gobs and hibernating Trolls, plumbing the deep-dark. Upon reaching the warren's heart, the girl was delighted to find that the central cathedral served as the artery connecting the den with a more significant system of caves leading back to the peak. Striking while the iron was hot, her eyes came alive with rainbow hues. "Barbanginy!" The snow jumped, then seconds later, tendrils of dust billowed from the exits. Cool as a cucumber, the sorceress resummoned her Kirin before prescribing a dozen more Thundering Shatters, shaking the landscape and collapsing the alternate entries. A minute later, of the twelve entrances, only one remained, the largest and the straightest, perfect for line-based Lightning. Then began the second act. With relish, the Void Sorceress called on her twin-Spirited companion from Nightingales. She took pains to point out the girl's Alarune, then introduced the press to "Elvia's" exclusive Draconic Ginseng Spirit "Sen-sen", certified by Golos, the Princeling of Huangshan. Then, at the epicentre of all attention, the Void sorceress stood with her legs slightly apart, conjuring a great, big swarm of vertigo-inducing lampreys. The observers reeled back, some immediately set to hurling as dizziness swallowed the crowd like a Stinking Cloud. Not far from a nauseated Dominic, a bubbling, boiling, writhing mass spilt from the sorceress's half-formed shield, appearing as though ink oozing from a dark egg. "Cali! Swarmlings to the walls! Gogo, prioritise eating high-value targets. Ariel, you're on overwatch! Buck! Take care of the Hobs and Trolls when they emerge. Astro, take your boys and hunt down stragglers. Evee, Sen-sen, MORE JUICE!" "Yes, Gwennie!" "Kiki!" "Sen!" "Shaa shaa!" "Ee! Ee!" "Woof! Aroo!" "These Trolls better taste good..." the Wyvern looked hungry. The Kirin was resplendent. The Wyvern majestic. The Void Creature took on the guise of a grotesque albatross with human fingers, while the dogs split between sleek lightning and slick obsidian. As for herself, in her white-blue cloth-armour, the girl was a general with a self-summoned army. As a student of the arcane histories and a wordsmith, Dominic Lorenzo recalled an old limerick about a Conjurer who went from town to town, first bringing plagues of vermin, then solving said plague: _Into the street, the Enchanter stepped,_ _While down below the rats had slept_ _To trill the pipe his lips did wrinkle,_ _And green and amber his eyes did twinkle,_ _Three thrilling notes the Piper then uttered,_ _And from the depth a hundred Dwarves muttered;_ _First, the muttering turned to a grumbling;_ _Then out from below, the rats came tumbling._ _Gob rats, fat rats, grand old codgers,_ _Elf rats, orc rats, slim young dodgers_ _Dad rats, Mum rats, gay young friskers,_ _Bouncing pups with pricking whiskers,_ _From alley to alley the Enchanter did blow_ _And mischief to mischief the swarm did flow!_ Or so the children's tune went. The difference between Gwen and the Piper in the famous fable, Dominic supposed, was that the Piper didn't also possess a Kirin, a Void Beast, and a Wyvern. Gwen's dogs, as well, were extraordinary. The Lightning Hounds had a sleek, reptilian look about them, but were at least dog-like enough to pass off as multi-hued greyhounds. Conversely, the Void dogs were living horrors, possessing more mouth than their torso. The worst was their faceless mien, which split when they panted, revealing rows of glimmering white teeth on purple gums. Just what was the girl's VMI? Dominic had lost count. Even a Magus had to take a breather after so many manifestations. "Hey, Dom." One of the lumen-recorder wielding reporters gave him the upward nod. "Thanks for the scoop, I owe you one." The carnage hadn't even started, and his colleagues were already scribbling away at the weekend edition's future front page. At first, they had been amazed that Dominic knew where "Mycroft's secret daughter" had recused herself. Now, they cared only for the mass-scale Void demonstration. It was terrific that, unlike any other Void Mage under the Tower's roster, Gwen openly displayed her craft without reserve, performing her feats with wholehearted enthusiasm, a far cry from the secretive colleges. "Gogo, ready?" Besides the girl, her Wyvern snorted. "Alright, here it goes— Cloud Kill!" At the remaining entrance to the cavern, a green, noxious cloud began to develop. Dominic recognised the variant as catalysed by Halite, more commonly known as earth salt, a substance found all over the peak. When mixed into the infamous AoE, the result was an acid cloud that burned the eyes and attacked the respiratory systems of living creatures. Against Rock Trolls, who possessed enormous regeneration and external resistance, there was no better strategy. In a second, the noxious miasma flooded the cavern's entrance— pushed forward by an unseen current. "Gogo! Do it!" the girl commanded her Ally. A whirlwind of air began to flow around the Wyvern, visualised by the swirl of snow now dancing around the creature's head. Dominic raised both brows, at first unsure of what he saw, then realising that the Wyvern was the scion of a Winged Dragon commanding the weather system over China's southern rice bowl. Stolen novel; please report. Steadily, as a stream, the acid cloud flowed into the cavern's hidden passageways. Quickly, Dominic asked a fellow reporter for a map of the Warrens. Tracing the entrance and its tunnels with his fingers, he soon perceived the full extent of Gwen's ploy. "Outrageous!" Dominic audibly mouthed. "She's planning to smoke them out?" The reporter double-checked the crude print. Topographically, the Red Gulch consisted of a narrow valley with granite cliffs on either side, wind-worn by time, forming a passageway as twisted as a tedious argument. The map itself was born from Prospectors daring death and danger, selling what knowledge they uncovered as consolation for their failures. From the looks of the annotation, the Troll's warrens extended about a hundred meters deep, branching into lairs and vaulted cathedrals. Assuming Gwen could put enough volume into her Cloud Kill, she could blanket the first few hundred meters, more than enough to flush out the Trolls, Hobs and Gobs resting in the dark. The gathered crowd waited with bated breath, wary of the noxious gases now seeping from the crushed passageways. Then without warning, from the depth, came a crash of indistinct scrambling. Over what seemed like an eternity, the scrambling grew to a grumbling, then to a shuddering rumble. Standing amidst the ice and snow, the Void sorceress began to shake and shiver, her face turning pink with undisguised passion. Having seen her work in Cuzco, Dominic could only assume that her lampreys were at work. Lumen-recorders flashed; a few emphasising the sorceress, others waiting to see if the girl's ambush would bear fruit. With her striking face and shapely silhouette, the girl's optics reminded Dominic of Alesia. Their answer arrived a few breaths later. "GARRRARK!" a bestial wail rocked the gulch. From the cave's depthless maw, a long-limbed Troll, a dozen lampreys hanging off its legs and torso, stumbled into the open, peeved as a pissed badger. "Chakram!" Dominic noted the girl was neither quick nor particularly apt in her use of Void-based Evocation. "GARK—" Nonetheless, the dark disc struck true, taking the creature's lower limbs. With a choked cry, it fell into the pool of squirming, all-consuming grease. The crowd sucked in cold breaths of frigid air. A few of the reporters sent their hovering lumen-recorder forward, risking their precious instruments for the best action shot. Next, the throat of the cave regurgitated a troop of Redcap Hobs, armoured in bits of scavenged Dwarven gear, smashing at the silken eels crawling between their armour. Behind them, a dozen lumbering outlines could be seen, guarding what could only be the quintessential member of the Troll's matriarchal hierarchy. By the dozen, the sorcerer's prey lined up, fleeing from the acid cloud, wedged by the encroaching swarm. "ROAARRR!" Golos introduced the indigenous residents of South Wales to the fury of Huangshan. "Lightning Bolt!" Gwen and her re-conjured Kirin joined her Wyvern, sending a threesome of sizzling beams into the cave, banishing all shadow as the air turned to plasma. The Hobs melted at once, disappearing like dew in the afternoon sun. The Trolls faired better, their Earthen Cores resisting the livid lightning as the hysterical electricity grounded itself, likely re-directed by the Hag. "Dol-ilrag ushhuth thuritcarg!" Came a guttural, scarcely female cry from the dark. "Isharuku shrakloomar!" "Guardian of Faith!" From behind the fulminating sorceress in blue, a golden nimbus rang out from Nightingale's Cleric. A vibrant manifestation of Faith grew to encompass the duo, forming a bell-shaped halo. The barrier materialised in time to intercept a rain of dark blood stinking of spoiled meat. The Void sorceress reeled, her mind invaded by the Curse, though thankfully, the Faith-charged Guardian was enough to de-curse the malignant energies of the hidden Hag. "ROAARRR!" "GARRARK!" " _Duvenguth guallen_!" Out came the Troll guards, each one larger than the next, their skin crawling with electrical burns. But the battle's momentum had only ever belonged to the Void sorceress. All around the cavern's entrance, a dark tide swept up the emerging Trolls, splashing against their stone-caked bodies. Lampreys as thick as Gwen's thighs, engorged from the abundant vitality borrowed from their mistress, sought entry into the Troll's bodies. Undeterred, the Trolls came on, heedless of the creatures devouring their flesh, hell-bent on breaking the invader of their home in half. "SHAA!" Caliban seethed at the incoming combatants, opening its wings to intimidate and intercept. As one, the Hound Pack made their move. Dominic and the men felt such a thrill as they had only seen in times of total war. As Gwen's creatures closed in, bylines and headlines filling all the tabloids from Liverpool to Brighton blossomed. Ten minutes from the heart of the action, shielded by a cresting hill, Ollie and Hanmoul disembarked from the Strider. They had decided to move toward the gathered crowd of cheering, shouting, complaining Mages on foot, because one was a wise man and the other was a wise Dwarf, and over yonder was a rather special sorceress. When the duo crested the saddle, they came face to face with the unbelievable sight of a one-woman mass melee. Three rings of mortal combat spilled from the entrance to the Red Gulch and its infamous warrens. The outermost ring consisted of stickybeaks, protected by what looked like uniformed Tower Mages keeping the public safe from the ensuing spectacle in the second ring. Now and then, they pushed the wayward Troll back into the fray. The second ring consisted only of ranged combatants— that of Gwen, protected by a semi-dome shield of midnight-black, flinging Volt Bolts and Lighting Bots like a vengeful goddess, her hair flying this way and that as she commanded the battle below. Not far, a hovering Cleric in plated white, ringed with a golden halo, dispelled each Curse thrown at her companion sorceress, concurrently supplying a viridescent stream of vitality. Behind the eye-catching duo, knee-deep in the dirty, trodden snow, a Knight of St Michael threw up shields and buffs, aiding the two girls as best as he could. And finally, where the action was thickest, a Wyvern, clad in blue-white lightning, duked it out with an enormous Brutaliser easily the size of a house, beating the creature senseless with its tail while keeping it off-balance with the immense reach of its neck. Here and there, a scattered troop of armoured Trolls, each carrying clubs, battled a swarm of oily serpents while simultaneously assaulted by a dozen dogs, some Void, and some Lightning, nipping, tearing, and harassing their limbs. "Deep Ancestor's Cog!" Hanmoul felt his mouth turn dry. "She's Purging a Troll Home? All by her lonesome self? Does the lass have magma fer blood?" "N-not exactly alone." To Ollie, semantics were important. "There's a Knight of St Michael. Maybe he's in command? Maybe they're doing this to defend the prospecting folk? I am sure there's a perfectly plausible rationale for Gwen to go this far." "Shaa!" A commotion engendered near the main entrance of the warrens. A great big bird emerged, its body half wrecked and covered in rot and filth, exposing pulsing organs, missing one wing. With its "head" still fizzling with acidic burns, the bird's faceless neck-stump opened up to reveal a tooth-lined maw, then coughed forth a half-eaten Hag. To no one's surprise, the Hag instantly usurped its Brutaliser's stowed vitality, turning upright on its decimated body so that it could scramble away on one leg and half an arm. Where it ventured, rot and decay followed, displacing even the lampreys. Amidst shouts from the crowd, it rolled itself into the mass melee, making halfway before the Wyvern, batting aside the Brutaliser, bashed the Hag with one sweep of its mace-tail, sending it face-first into the earth. "GAAROORL!" The Brutaliser's scarred skin darkened as it frenzied, as conditioned by its flesh-warped existence. In the guise of a certain lumbering green giant with anger-management issues, the creature charged. "SHAA!" Blocking its path was Gwen's regenerated bird-beast, perched on its elegant finger-claws, equally impressive in power. Answering the challenge, the Brutaliser balled its fist, then tore into the sorceress' avian Familiar, striking it on the head so hard and so fast that a splatter of dark, semi-opaque goo sprayed across the unsullied snow. However, the grotesque albatross remained wholly undeterred. Even as the Troll's momentum was spent, six elegant fingers wrapped around the giant's arm, then squeezed. "AWWWRRGH—" The crowed collectively winced. Had Ollie or Hanmoul ever seen zucchini fettuccini being squeezed through a press, they would have felt better for the analogy. As they had not, the duo now developed a phobia of green pasta. Once the Brutaliser lost all but one of its limbs, it fell into the ankle-deep pool of writhing, lively eels hankering for its vitality. The blackbird then turned in the manner of a gangly raptor and stalked its way besides the still-living Hag to pin it under one claw. "Chain Lightning!" The bombardment never stopped. A dozen exchanges later, the final act played out. A few of the Lightning hounds dissipated in their selfless combat with the Trollish warriors, as did two unlucky Void dogs. Gwen's Wyvern stalked from Troll to Troll, finishing their foe while the Void sorceress starved the swarm, allowing the mass to crawl into the depth to seek out survivors. _"Sini!!"_ the Wyvern barked at the bird in Draconic. " _Batobot jahus sia svent!_ " "Shaa!" The bird hissed back. "Shaa! Shaa!" A standoff ensued until the sorceress intervened, throwing the bird a dozen HDMs. Begrudgingly, the albatross retreated, allowing the Wyvern to disembowel, then swallow the Hag. The Brutaliser soon followed, finding a new home in the lightning-charged furnace of a Thunder Wyvern's belly. It was a fate that drew much solace for Ollie and Hanmoul, for the heat-death of a Thunder Wyvern's digestive systems was preferable to eternal oblivion. Then, almost as if there had been no battle at all, it was over. From their overhead vantage, Ollie and Hanmoul felt that the most disturbing aspect of the engagement was that in its conclusion, there were no bodies remaining. It was as though Elves had whisked away all the combatants into the world of the fay, leaving nary a trace to be seen. "Arrghk, I could use a stiff drink," Hanmnoul confessed. Ollie Edwards, Praelector, nodded. Gingerly and with great solemnity, the duo approached the crowd of silent Mages and prospectors listening to Gwen's closing speech. "Give it six hours to play it safe, and the lampreys should dissipate," the girl explained. "Other than that, I think we're good. I can't say much for new Trolls or Hobs tunnelling in, but for the next few days, there shouldn't even be fungus alive in those warrens. For this boon, you should all thank Elvia here—" With one hand wrapped around the blonde healer's shoulders, the Void sorceress began a great speech about her friend— a bonafide survivor from Sydney, and how she was the best healer in her class, bar none. "Why have you taken it onto yourself to perform this dangerous task?" a reporter asked. "You are not claiming the HDMs in the warrens?" "Not at all," Gwen answered with complete earnestness. "Unless Elvia wants her cut..." "I can't," the Cleric pipped up. "I can't take the miner's lifeblood." "Then good for YOU!" Gwen addressed the crowd. "Enjoy the crystals, lads! Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year! What do we say to the Miss?" Ollie's mind performed a summersault. Did Gwen just say the Cleric was the source of all this commotion? Did Gwen just say she _Purged_ a thousand CCs worth of Trolls for her friend, gratis? "Hazzah!" "Hazzah for Miss Lindholm!" A great tolling of cheers filled the valley, ringing from peak to peak, quaking Ollie's heart and greatly disturbing the troubled mind of Hanmoul Bronzeborn, Commandrumm.

Mathias stared at the chest-high pile of Wyvern dung. "One-tenth of the final sale if I sift through this for treasure?" "Yep." Gwen stood a little distance back, one hand holding back Elvia. The stench of digested Troll was a horror unto itself, more to those with fine-tuned senses. "You expect me, a Knight of St Michael, to dig through—" "I don't expect anything." Gwen hand-waved the Knight's protest. "But I am offering the opportunity to learn a valuable lesson." Mathias took a deep breath, then immediately regretted taking said breath. "No," the Knight declined. "I'll not be made a fool, Miss Song, even if you are Lord Shultz's sister-in-craft. You may humiliate me, but you cannot humiliate my Ordo." "Suit yourself." Gwen turned to their other two companions, equally transfixed by the sight they had to endure. Elsewhere, Golos rested after surviving the bowel movement, surrounded by the press, who were taking notes and asking the Thunder Wyvern questions about Huangshan. "So, who else is game for the Golos Lottery? You have my personal guarantee that you won't regret it." "Gwen, this is hardly proper," Ollie Edwards, Praelector, advised his college sister. "You're going to tarnish our reputation." "In contrary, you'll be pleasantly surprised, I think." Gwen smiled sweetly. "Trust me." "Ah-ha." Ollie raised a finger. "I would like to contest that point. You did leave me in Cambridge and fly off by yourself." "Only to save our Dwarven friend here through serendipity and goodwill." Gwen winked at Hanmoul, who waved back sheepishly. "Did you enjoy the show, Mister Bronzebeard? I've a deft hand when it comes to Trolls." "Bronzeborn." Hanmoul fought back a cough. The girl was very tall, and her bearing was sufficiently intimidating to make him want to step into his Golem plates. "Apologies, Commandrumm Bronzeborn." "Please, I am but a humble Engineer," the Dwarf replied nervously. "And aye, that was a terrific show of force, lass, I'll not deny yer that. Ya can call me Hanmoul, by the by. It's not like ye surface-Humans ken the ancestor's histories." "Right," Gwen agreed. "Nonetheless, I am happy to see our ally unmolested by the uncivilised denizens of the region." "Yer came at the right time, that's fer sure." "So, any takers on the pile?" "Nay lass, I am not for gold diving." The trio fell silent. Earlier, when Golos evacuated his bowels, Gwen had charged toward the steaming mountain as though the Wyvern had shat HDMs. Now, the outrageous offer she made was turning heads and stiffing lips all around. "Do you mind if I try?" A hand raised from the crowd of stickybeaks. "I am a Water Mage, so…" The speaker was a dapper gent in olive trousers, a striped-vest and a salmon shirt. From the recorder hanging from his hip, they could guess that he was a journalist. "Dominic Lorenzo, at your service." "Oh!" Gwen clapped, her eyes lit up. "You're Dominic! I am so sorry, I had no idea—" "Quite alright." Dominic joined the circle, taking a picture of the pile. "Dung Diving, eh? It's an old, Welsh custom. I am surprised you know of it. Our Dwarven friend here certainly does." "Of course, an OLD custom." The sorceress' complexion flushed a little. "Thanks for calling out your colleagues, Dom. I know it cost them a pretty penny to Teleport out here." "Bah, they're laughing from here to Monday. A fantastic hand you played, by the way. Your performance really is one for the front pages, provided nothing cataclysmic happens between now and final print." "Thanks." The girl's eyes took in Lorenzo's well-trained figure. "So, you said you wanted to have a go?" "I did." Lorenzo took another picture. "In exchange, will you give me an exclusive?" "Are you a reporter yourself, Mister Lorenzo?" "I am with the Guardian." The man nodded. " Could I get the lot of you standing beside the dung?" "I don't know about that." Mathias raised both hands. _Bung!_ "Perfect." Lorenzo de-materialised the lumen-recorder. "Now, let's see if my history lessons have paid off, or if my anthropology professor was full of Dragon dung." The others, including Gwen, took a long step back from the body of water conjured by the journalist. "Prestidigitation!" Alesia's ally inexpertly managed his Conjuration-cum-Transmutation. Carefully, the man separated the solids, sending the sludge far away while extracting what could be worthwhile. When he was done, seven cores remained. Five of the Cores looked like sickly-green ambergris, verified by a helpful Hanmoul as belonging to veteran Troll Warriors. The remaining two were a little more particular. One was shaped like a misshapen mace the size of an infant's head, while the final article was a smooth, kidney-shaped block of blood amber. "Golos had better not passed a kidney stone," Gwen muttered, studying the larger of the two "Cores". "Seven Cores!" Ollie was beside himself with shock. "There are SEVEN cores in that pile of—" Besides the Praelector, Mathias' face grew redder than Lady Rothwell's heirloom beet. What had Gunther's sister said? She would give one-tenth the value of the proceeds to the man who scoops the poop? "Holy shit! Boy, am I glad old Ducksworth was right on the HDM." Dominic made sure to dispose of the excess excrement discretely. "For the uninitiated, Dung Diving was what the pre-industrial folk used to do. Too weak to hunt or tame Magical Monsters, they followed in the wake of upper-tier creatures. Sometimes, the bottom of a cliff where Dragons lived could turn out to be a mecca of Creature Cores. You've heard of fishermen snagging giant clumps of poo of the shallows, haven't you? Those are the compressed evacuations of Sea Dragons. Break open a good one, and you could change your fortune in a heart-beat." "I've never heard of such a thing." Ollie was very much impressed. "I shall look into it." Hanmoul's beard twitched, as did Mathias, who did his best to mask his raging dismay. "Yes, that's what I was going for." Gwen nodded sagely. "Now, let's check. Dominic, can you do the honours?" A few of the other reporters approached, drawn by the commotion caused by the chattering group. "Identify!" Dominic began with the Troll Cores, expertly demonstrating his principle School of Magic. "— and here's where the real lottery begins." "Mundane." "Mundane…" "Mundane—" "Oh… Oh my, this is in no way mundane." "A Spirit?" Gwen's eyes lit up with invisible currency signs. "Is it a Spirit? Or a mutated Core? Or—" "A Spirit!" Dominic tossed the kidney-shaped Core from hand to hand like a hot potato. "Christ! A Blood Core! Who would have thought! You know, Dragons usually drain all Essence from the Cores. Either this was one wilful Hag, or your Wyvern's had a little too much to eat." "Amazing!" Ollie leaned in closer. "I've never seen such a high-tier Core, not fresh from the beast, anyhow. Dung Diving is amazing!" The Dwarf appeared contemplative. Hag Cores were definitely _Vadam._ Mathias let loose an audible groan. Feeling his Faith tremble, the Knight opted to go for a walk to cool his head. "Lucky you," Gwen congratulated the jubilant reporter. "What's it look like?" "Tier 7 or 8, but this is a Demi-human caster's Core! Its Spirit could provide multiple boons, assuming the right Master could be found." Gwen instantly looked to Elvia, who furiously shook her head. Obviously, the girl wasn't looking to gain a THIRD Spirit, certainly not one as filled with malevolence as a Hag. The other reporters closed in, snapping lumen-pics. "What's it worth?" Gwen appraised the unexpected treasure. "Oh, I wouldn't sell it for HDMs." The reporter turned the stone over and over in his head. "But I do know who might be very interested. There are favours that money can't buy. Do you trust me to act as your broker, Gwen?" "Of course— I'll tell you what. Whatever it's worth, I'll peg you a monetary reward to the nearest evaluation. Not an HDM less. Now, let's get a pic to commemorate your windfall!" The sorceress motioned for her present company to gather. Retrieving the Spirit-imbued Core from Dominic, she made them all pose beside Elvia, who was made to hug the huge haul against her chest with a pained expression. Dominic may have washed the Cores, but the steaming stench of Golos' remains lay only a metre away, tenderly reminding the Cleric she wasn't out of the poop just yet. "Where's Mathias?" Elvia looked around for her Knight. "He's figuring out how to kick his own arse, I bet. I've never seen someone refusing free HDMs before." Gwen positioned herself between Dominic, Ollie and Hanmoul, with Elvia standing in front of them all. "Everyone— Thanks for coming to the Dung Diving session! Say— EE!" The lumen-globe flashed. In Elvia's arms, the Hag-Core scintillated. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Merthyr Tydfil. The Waterhouse Tavern. If someone had told Gwen that she would one day sit in front of a bona fide Dwarf in a fantasy inn with actual oaken caskets behind the bar, drinking Dwarf-Rum, she would have asked how many Mojitos they've had. "I don't much care about yer intent or if ye mean it or nay." Hanmoul eyed the tankard in front of Gwen suspiciously, wondering how the girl was holding her liquor. "But a Bronzeborn will nay renege on a debt, not on yer life." Gwen drew another cup from the keg. "Alright, alright, no need to get bristly. I'll take credit for bailing you out of that fiasco on the mount, but not the Gulch— That was done for Evee." "No matter, yer on land belonging to the Citadel," Hanmoul insisted. "Where the line is drawn, we nae tolerate Trollies, be it the Dim or the lidless plains. Besides, our Kings nae have a defence treaty." "We don't?" Gwen looked to Ollie, who sat sipping peppermint tea, thankful for the roaring, crackling hearth. "London has enjoyed a tentative relationship with the gentlefolk of the Red Citadel," Ollie explained for his younger House-sister. "The bitterness from the Beast Tide has yet to recede." "Well, Humans didn't come ter our aid either." Hanmoul shrugged. "I wouldnae worry, though. Yer surface lubbers hold grudges for a few decades before yer old ones die out. Now a Dwarf, we can hold a grudge fer centuries, sometimes millennia. Me Nan still recalls the time Erik Founderson stole 'er sweet roll oan 'er fiftieth birthday, and that dink's a Forge Chief now." "I still don't get why you're putting yourself in debt?" Gwen cocked her head. "I would have Purged the Trolls regardless." "Because those Trollies would have made it into the Dim sooner or later. They were harvesting crystals, same as ye, to power their rituals, fatten up their war reserves. If that Hag and her retinue passed the Dim into the Deep, our Kin would have warred. Who kens how many lives would be lost?" "That's stretching it a bit far." "I'll take prevention over than a messy scrum lass, just accept it. Now, what do yer fancy as a reward? Crystals? Precious minerals? A diamond or a dozen? I heard from Ollie that Human ladettes love shiny rocks." "I said no such thing," Ollie objected. "Sir Hanmoul, I do protest—" "But I do like shiny rocks." Gwen mulled over the offer. She understood where the Dwarf was coming from, but really, she had no real interest in a monetary reward. With the Hag Core and the other loot, Gwen could arguably add another five to ten thousand HDMs to her war chest. Compared to when she could get ventures running in London, however, these one-time windfalls felt unsatisfying. "Don't be shy, lass." Hanmoul drained his cup. "The Bronzeborn isn't so poor as to turn down a wee request from a lass." "Ollie, what do you think?" Gwen thought maybe her Praelector had a better idea. "Is there something wrong with asking for currency?" Ollie raised a brow. "Gwen, you're going to need crystals for research materials, lab hire, room and board, extra tuition, training arenas, and supplementary quasi-magical foodstuffs. The expenses could be as high as two or three thousand per annum!" If Elvia was here, the Cleric would have spat out her drink. Fortunately, the healer was out of action after just two sips of Dwarven rum. Presently, she was resting in Gwen's habitat, guarded by a melancholic, rum-loathing Mathias. "Naw. I don't have a—" Gwen's tongue searched the cavern of her mouth for a word. "— Let's just say I got enough HDMs." "A Magic Item then?" Hanmoul offered. "We have some of the best Rune Crafters this side of the Dim." Gwen shook her head. She wasn't desperate for items either— unless the Dwarves wanted to offer her a Gunther Ring. But a race of Earthen folk without a mutual defence pact with London Tower weren't likely going to have a contract servicing a Contingency Ring. Even if they did, would she want to Contingency into a Dwarf-home? "Actually." A thought flashed upon her inward-eye. Her mind was full of the scenes from the Mines of Moria. One of her greatest peeves was that none of the films showed a thriving Dwarven city. "Hanmoul, could you take me on a tour of your home town? I've never been to a Demi-human city before, much less a Dwarven one." Which wasn't true, Elvia later pointed out. What Gwen meant was that she had never been to one that she hadn't razed. Earlier in the Void Sorceress' occupation, she had visited a Water Monkey Den— which she Purged. She had also attended a Merman village— which Caliban ate wholesale. There was also the Troll Temple in Amazonia— yet another city she razed to the last block of lichen-covered stones. And of course, there was Shenyang. Hanmoul appeared hesitant. "Gwen, you can't just demand to waltz into a sovereign territory!" Ollie hissed beside her. "You're going to cause a diplomatic incident!" "I see. I am sorry I asked," Gwen retracted her offer. "Nae." Hanmoul scratched his bushy beard. "Too late now, lass— Yer asked, and it shall be done. Give me a few days, mebbe a week to clear the request with the council. Them Deepdowners are gonnae to be right pissed." "It's fine, really." Gwen shook her head vigorously. "It was a stupid whim." This time, it was Hanmoul who raised his hand. "Its fine, lass. I don't know if ye'd be seeing the Forge, but ye can visit me Clan's compound, at least. Are yer sure that's all ya want, lass? Yer Human leaders are bound to ask for Dwarven Tech. They usually do." "Ollie?" Ollie Edwards looked from Gwen to the Dwarven friend he'd made on the way. How was he supposed to know the answer? Was he a Tower Magister? He was responsible for Gwen not making a laughingstock of herself, not for Spellcraft espionage in a Dwarven under-city. "I don't know. Mayhap we should consult the House Matron." "Then it's settled. Don't worry, lass. You'll not leave uncompensated! I'll have the Quarter Master dredge up some pressies." Hanmoul raised his stein. "Cheers to you, Master Bronzeborn." The two clashed tankards. "When next we drink in a Dwarven tavern, I'll be sure to supply some of the best rice wine in the Human world. May the best drinker remain upright!" "Ha!" Hanmoul laughed. "That's a boast I like!" Gwen felt aflutter with excitement. A Dwarven city! What would it be like? A giant forge? An enormous tunnel-based city-state? Or perhaps, a cavernous cathedral as far as the eye could see, glowing with magma. "Say." Gwen glanced at the tavern's low ceiling, thinking of her dearest, sweetest companion. "Do you think I could bring a plus-one?" Across from her, Ollie appeared taken back. His face flushed from his pointed nose to his tapered years. "I— I don't know what to say, Gwen. It's an honour…" The next morning, Gwen, Ollie, Elvia, and Mathias packed for London. Last night, Commandrum Hanmoul— satisfied that a resolution had been reached, had retreated back to the Red Citadel in a blur, crashing through the snow in his pill-bug Strider. Likewise, Dominic Lorenzo had left with the rest of the reporters, saying he would be in touch and that he would contact Gwen when he received news from a potential buyer. The reward, Dominic reiterated, wasn't necessary, and that she should keep the money for her tuition. When the time came to leave, another complication ensued. Of the foursome, Gwen rocked an unlimited flight licence; Mathias possessed a conditional one, and their two non-combatant companions were land-bound. Though Gwen flexibly believed that flying in the wilderness was a case of "What does it matter if you shit in the woods if there's no one to see it..." Mathias and Ollie were sticklers when it came to rules. Thankfully, as the heroine of Merthyr Tydfil, Gwen had no trouble commissioning a team of prospectors to conjure up an eight AM ride out of town down to Newport, connected by barge to Bristol. There, they could ride the local ISTC to Cambridge, then back to London and Nightingale's. Once the truck arrived, Magister Hanford offered a warm farewell to the Void Sorceress, as well as his contact Glyph. "I'd like to say call me if there's anything you need, but it's truer to say I would be calling on you." "Anytime, Magister." Gwen received the contact Glyph with her Device. "I welcome your guidance." "I'll let the boys know what I've seen here." Hanford put forth the most sincere face he could manage. "The Militant Faction could use someone headstrong and qualm-free: a Combat Mage on the warpath! I've no doubt someone may be in contact very soon." "Ha!" Gwen hid her awkwardness. She hadn't known the Magister belonged to the one Faction with whom she had not brokered a formal relationship. "Thank you, Magister, I look forward to it." Later, her buttocks bouncing on the back of the cargo lorry, Gwen asked Elvia what they could do in London, as a pair. "Perhaps Miss Lindholm could attend milady Astor's Christmas Mass?" Mathias reminded his charge. "I am sure Miss Emily is attending, as well." "Oh, yes!" Elvia lit up. "Gwen, we can go together! Cliveden is absolutely astounding! It's the biggest house I have ever seen! Bigger than a town!" "I do love a good Estate," Gwen cooed. "What else is good? In London proper, I mean." "I recommend Hyde Park." Ollie piped up. "There are several places where our nation's leaders gave speeches to the public. Including the Speaker's Corner, where NoMs can debate Mages and vice-versa without fear. It's one of the specialities of London's intellectual circle. After a pleasant chat, you could take a picnic, or row a boat across the lake." "Oh, that sounds wonderful," Gwen gushed. "Then there's Westminster. If you're interested, winter break is as a good time as any to see the Lords and Ladies of the Mageocracy attending ceremonies and Masses. Likewise, the Cathedral still holds mass every weekend, and the Queen's Mass will be taking place there on the twenty-fourth." "Excellent idea! May I ask where the shopping's at?" Gwen inquired of the two boys. "You know, for shoes and dresses of the magical variety?" "I wouldn't know." Ollie inadvertently looked his House-sister up and down. Presently, the sorceress wore a skirt, stockings and a sheer blouse. Comparatively, Ollie was bundled up to the neck, Mathias wore his winter uniform, and Elvia had on a coat and scarf. "Do you not have sufficient attire? The university offers an assortment of humble, semi-formal wear, hand-made by the NoMs who live in the nearby villages. You can get them glamoured in town." "I think Gwen means a place like Shoreditch— or Harrolds," Elvia interceded. "Emily frequents the shops there. There, you can find luxury goods, trinket crafters, Enchanter-weavers, and so on." "That's the ticket." Gwen gave her friend a thumbs up. "We'll go and drop some crystals." "You could visit a museum…" Mathias advised with a measured tone. "Something sufficiently patriotic, of course. There's the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square for the arts, the Royal Natural History Museum with its collection of preserved Magical Beasts, or the Britannic Spellcraft Museum for a history of the arts. My favourite is the War Memorial at Lamberth detailing the exploits of the Mageocracy's greatest Magisters since colonisation began. There's an entry on Lord Gunther..." "Is there a Globe Theatre?" Gwen asked suddenly, interrupting the droning Mathias. "Shakespeare, you know? William Shakespeare? To be, or not to be?" "Who?" Mathias cocked his head, being new to Gwenisms. "Is he an Illusionist?" "Romeo and Juliet?" The trio looked from each other to one another. Gwen's lips turned in disappointment. "Are there stage shows in London? Like, you know— theatre. Guys and Dolls acting out plays, singing and dancing?" Mathias laughed. "Why? Do you not have them in Sydney? Or Shanghai?" "Well." Gwen felt her heart sink. Where the hell did Baron Andrew Lloyd Webber go? The genius showman had better not died on the front lines. "Are there theatres or not?" "Sure." Mathias nodded. "The larger ones are located here and there around Trafalgar Square, mostly playing musicals, operas, Epics and so on. The Perils of Odysseus has been playing for years now, without waning in popularity." "Oh, thank God." Gwen breathed out. "And do any of these shows involve a pair of star-crossed lovers whose misadventure doth overthrow their parent's strife through a passage of fatal love?" "That sounds amazing." Elvia's eyes blinked with anticipation. "Which story is this?" "Don't worry. It's a fancy, nothing more…" Gwen puckered her lips, her mind a tapestry of possibilities, stitched with guilt and dread. "What do folk do for fun around here?" "I train, mostly," Mathias confessed. "I'll admit— once, I saw a picture show for NoMs. It was about the Falklands Expedition. One of my Seniors saw it while stationed in Gibraltar and wouldn't stop talking about it. The plot involved a medical officer who, tired of the endless conflict, treated both Human and Elvish combatants, eventually bringing about a ceasefire and a treaty." "I saw that one too," Ollie replied excitedly. "Magus Caine was excellent as Cleric Commander Simon Lambert. Miss Collins made an excellent Matron Roseville as well." "She was much more beautiful than the real Magus Roseville…" "Mattie, don't let the Magus hear that," Elvia chided Mathias. "I see the Matron around at GOS sometimes." "Hahaha…" "Have you seen 'The Risen Sun' Mathias?" "I am not a fan of the pictures, just the fighting ones. 'The Last Knight', for example..." Gwen turned away from the others to regard the disappearing path behind the lorry. In this parallel, magical world, some things survived, others were extinguished. There was a Ray Bradbury time-travelling spiel somewhere, but even so, the loss of the arts to such a degree made her heart sore. In her old world, the politicians often said that there's no "harm" done in not wanting to fund the liberal arts. The artists, of course, protested that defunding the arts deprived the people of vicarious compassion— an act that included all conceivable "harm". Was the casual cruelty of the Mage world the result of a constant, existential threat of extinction? Or was it class apathy and the lack of progressive education? In a world where all human potential steered toward survival, then expansion, what energy remained to plumb the depth of the human soul? Was the lack of literature why in the Mages' society, there existed so little empathy for the NoMs? If so, what was there to be done? And how did she stand to profit?

Sunday. All across England, from John O' Groats to Land's End, the clinking of silverware on porcelain aligned like a synchronised ceremony. Butlers, the stoic sentinels of propriety, awoke their masters and mistresses for church and or business. Downstairs in every manor; scones, cream, and jam were warmed and plated, ready to be served with a strong Assam from India's Orange Zones, alongside the day's paper. At seven-thirty, having relieved the First Footmen, or Head Maid, pending the proprietor of the estate; both lords and ladies perused the latest national gossip. The weekend marked the week-in-summary edition of the Herald Sun and the Telegraph, meaning extra-thick papers weighted with classifieds. The Sun's double-page jacket, with its eye-catching red letters, featured a picture of Gwen Song, her eyes all aurora, her figure sleek and svelte in her Shen-teī battleplate. In Brittanic Bold, the plosive "EATEN ALIVE" was what the editors had chosen to ensnare eyeballs, followed by the non-sensical standfirst, "Devourer engulfs Ystradfellte". In a smaller, blue-tinted teaser for page 3, the words "Nothing to Hide" prefaced a picture of the Void sorceress' flushing face. Should the discerning buyer turn immediately to said page, what they would then find was more gainful employment for Miss— a buxomly gifted sorceress of petite talent. Assuming the reader could tear their eyes away from the compelling article on Miss Caterina's favourite food— "Fish and Chips", they would then find a small expose on Void Magic. That, and an image of Gwen standing beside a timid Mage in Cambridge robes, alongside a gruff Dwarf. Should a customer inquire whether the sorceress was Ravenport's daughter, the paper did offer an apology— on page 9, in a tiny grey amendment box. Next to the Sun, the Telegraph, its editors possessing a keener sense of authenticity— chose to go with an image of Gwen standing amidst a dark swarm of lampreys. The headline, "One Woman Purge" was front and centre. What its teaser showed was a fair-haired Cleric with a flower Spirit on one shoulder, and a Mandrake on her palm. "Strength of Spirit" was the name of the page 5 article, composed so that the judicious reader was awarded a close up of Sen-sen, a cross-continental Ginseng from Huangshan. In a smaller teaser, advocating for page 8, one could read an interview with Gwen Song's feathered white Wyvern. Turning the pages, a few browsers sipped their tea a few seconds too long and scalded their tongues. Other raised brows and requested that their majordomos filled in the details. Who could have imagined that; uninvited, a single sorceress would gnaw her way through the Red Gulch, erasing all green-skin presence for the next quarter, freeing mines for deep-ranging excavation? Who could guess that the same sorceress had then befriended the Commandrumm of the Hammer Guard, requesting a city-wide tour of the Red Citadel? Who should have expected that said sorceress now held within her palm, a twin-Spirited Cleric, and a freshly-harvested Hag-Core from her Wyvern's arse? Lord Mycroft Ravenport wordlessly nibbled on a brittle scone as he scanned the tabloid, first quickly, then again in detail. After the last tidbit of misinformation was digested, he willed his Message Device into life. Ding! The spell connected. "You've reached Dominic Lorenzo," a tired, just awoken voice replied. "May I ask who this is?" "The cockatrice croaked thrice." "Three times I denied the Nazarene." The Diviner was now wide awake. "God save the wicked." The resultant pause was held a little too long for comfort. "Milord." "Agent." "How may I be of service." "I am told you know Gwen Song in a personal capacity?" "Knew her since Friday, Milord. I am well acquainted with her sister-in-craft, however." "Who is your handler?" "Magister Milliford. Your Grace." "Joan? I see. I'll have Saville debrief your Master. My apologies for the… unsanctioned contact." "Quite alright, Sir. We are the Mageocracies' eyes and ears. We live to serve." "Yes." Ravenport sipped his tea. "Now, I wish to know every detail. Leave no act untapped." "I... was on the front page once." Lady Loftus sipped her tea, seated across the table from a fresh-faced Gwen and an eye-bagged Ollie. "I was sixteen and coming out. Lord Wembley's boy, Jeremiah, invited me to first-dance. Acting on a dare from his Eton mates, he kissed me without permission, in public. I struck the boy twice— like this…" The Lady Grey mimed a Mage Hand. "— The cad lost two of his front teeth. Father was furious, of course. Lord Wembley came to apologise personally, and poor Jem went about without his incisors for the better part of a year while father's upset simmered." Lady Loftus allowed the cup to rest; her expression remained contemplative. "Jem died after the Beast Tide. Near Merthyr Tydfil, in fact, to Trolls. We found his body eventually, though not all of it." The matron sighed. "How curious— I haven't thought about Jeremiah in two decades." "I am sorry to hear that," Gwen apologised. From the looks of Ollie's apprehension, Lady Loftus wasn't the type to outwardly show upset. "Don't mind me. Just an old woman's musing." Lady Loftus reheated her Assam with a glance. "You'll be going to London then?" "Yes, Ma'am." Gwen nodded. "Elvia and I will be visiting the galleries and the museums, maybe watch a show or two." "No word from our Dwarven compatriots?" "Not yet, Milady." "I see. You must remember, London has the highest concentration of Mages anywhere on earth, not to mention Demi-human dignitaries. Any Mage worth her salt in sorcery must tread as if on air. Ollie?" "I'll take care of Gwen, Mistress." "You just do your best. Gwen, will you be visiting the Isle? I've told Wally you'll be gracing his presence and needing his full cooperation." "I shall." Gwen bowed her head. The Isle of Dogs was the leasehold Lady Loftus had lent to Gwen as a base of operations. Located some ten kilometres from London Bridge, the underdeveloped peninsular skirted the River Thames on all sides sans north. Presently, the Marchioness' men operated a farm for unique breeds of quasi-magical domesticated animals, including kennels with breeding prize-winning hunting hounds. Boundary wise, Gwen's jurisdiction began and ended with the farm and its surrounding hamlets— Cubitt and Millwall. Gwen herself had been stunned by the Machioniness' generosity. In the forgotten dimension of her mundane world, the Isle of Dogs was prime real estate. In the late 80s, the revitalisation of Canary Wharf Station had completely revitalised its dilapidated, outdated, decaying infrastructure. In the 90s, following an uptick in land speculation, the Isle rapidly consolidated into an office and retail mecca, kicking out the very dockworkers that the redevelopment initially sought to aid. In Gwen's present London, no such developments had yet taken place, and the Isle continued to remain a bastion of close-knit communities tethered like beasts of burden to the yoke of Canary Wharf and Millwall's shipyard. The port authority of the Isle currently suffered from poor management and a lack of understanding of the location's importance, primarily as a result of prejudice toward the NoM ghetto-townhouses. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Wally Samson was the custodian of the Isle, overseeing Lady Grey's puppy mill. A Mage of small talent, Wally was the son of the Marchioness' ageing ground keeper, having returned from Military Service to receive a coveted position as a custodian for Ely's many properties. "Well, then." The Lady indicated for the tabloids to be moved downstairs to be savoured by the servants. "Shall we expect you before or after New Years?" "After." Gwen bowed again. "Thank you for your understanding, ma'am." The Lady appeared to rest her case but then decided against reticence. "The 'rags' are a double-edged blade, Gwen. I hope you know what you're doing. They're like Gnolls— not impossible to tame, but completely comfortable with biting the hand that feeds." Gwen assured the Lady that she knew her goals. "Good, then I shall leave you with an axiom from my mother," Lady Loftus intoned carefully. "Maxie— make some trouble out there, but if an angry mob stampedes my garden, God help you..." Nightingale's College, London. As one of the big three Medical Colleges responsible for churning out the Mageocracy's frontline healers, the college took great pride in the location of its leasehold, being situated directly adjacent to Westminster Bridge, opposite the palace of the same name, overlooking the Thames. The brutalist building itself, however, did not echo the grandeur of its surroundings. As celebrated as Florence Nightingale was during her tenure, there was significant opposition to her philosophy that magical healing was for both NoMs and Mages. There was also her unorthodox view that vast numbers of low-tier quasi-magical nurses utilising magical instruments trumped the training of Faith-fuelled Clerics. As a keen student of biographies, Ollie informed Gwen that Florence was first a graduate and then an instructor at King's College. Under Queen Victoria, the founder of Elvia's college came into prominence for her actions during the Crimean Conflict against the Demi-humans of Central Asia. The present-day college itself was converted from St Thomas' Hospital, underwritten by King's into a secular medical school in recognition of Nightingale's achievements during the war. Also according to her Praelector, Nightingale's represented a curious bridging of the Mage-NoM divide. The Crimean Conflict, alas, was the first publicised instance in which a prominent, frontline individual at the highest tier of Victorian Spellcraft demanded practical healthcare for NoMs. Namely, the radical Miss Nightingale fought for the sanitation of NoM infantry hostels, triage stations, healing tents, and the placement of one lower-tier healer for every fifty or so NoM infantrymen. Incredibly, where more than a hundred thousand soldiers died of preventable illnesses and injuries in the three-month campaign in Scutari, her compassionate, cost-saving measures reduced subsequent casualties to two-thirds. And though recognition had initially escaped the Lady of Modern Medicine, no petty politics could impact the unambiguous matter of Faith. All across the front, the worship of "Our Lady of the Lamp"— said to be the lone figure of Florence wandering the camps at midnight, bestowing Healing Word and Remove Disease upon sleeping soldiers, widely circulated. For the establishment in the Church of England at the time, Nightingale proved an awkward "Saint" to place. The reason being that the middle-aged woman widely spoke out against the use of Faith Magic in the conquest of colonial heartlands. Instead, she considered Faith to be a manifestation of compassion, love, and care for the suffering of Mages, NoMs, and Demi-humans. In the aftermath of Florence's academic teaching, the untitled Magister wrote simple and concise medical annotations in prose, making many of the epoch's kept knowledge open to all. Thanks to her and her advocates, a sharp decrease in infectious diseases, preventable ailments, and infant mortality spread across the Mageocracy like a reverse-contagion. Her generosity was such that even Demi-human races long plagued by chronic maladies came to benefit, ushering in a new era of diplomacy across much of Queen Victoria's domain. When Florence finally passed at the age of ninety, the church breathed a sigh of relief and christened her "Our Saintess of the Lamp". All across London, medical institutions erected statues and stained-glass portraits in her honour. Most curiously, in the Purple Zones skirting the Black Sea, there exist shrines to Florence Nightingale, worshipped by the local Demi-humans as a Goddess of restoration and regeneration, a fact that, to this day, vexed heads at the Westminster Congress of Cardinals. And it was in front of one such statue that Gwen, disembarking from Waterloo's endless array of levitation platforms, arrived. "Palace to the right, palace to the left, palace opposite—" Gwen felt dubious that, for occupying such a location and as a place of such fame, Elvia's home looked underfunded by two decades. "The college portion is located in the newer wings," Ollie explained. "The hospital wing needed to be shut to be renovated— I guess the authorities never had the opportunity." "The woes of public health." Gwen approached the gate. Where a guard had been staring for some time. Others gawked as well: one reason was that her face looked familiar. Another could be that the sorceress stood pretty in a knee-length skirt and kitten heels, oblivious to the cold. "Hi. I am Gwen Song. Here is Magus Ollie Edwards. We're here to visit Elvia Lindholm," Gwen relished her next words. "We hail from Cambridge." The guard stood aside before he even finished Messaging the ward Matron. Inside, the college wing of the teaching hospital was a mishmash of modernisation and dilapidation. The antiquity of the lesser rooms had overseen the crossing of four monarchs. Others portions were renovated with glass and steel, filtering sunlight from outside through Daylight Orbs. "Miss Lindholm's shift hasn't ended." The Matron standing guard behind the counter at Elvia's station eyed Gwen questioningly. Speculating that this must be one of the crones giving Elvia grief, Gwen stood her ground and stared back until the Matron looked away. "No visitors for staff," the woman insisted. "We'll wait." Gwen directed Ollie to a side bench. The Matron looked like she wanted to say something, but thought better of addressing someone rumoured to have wiped out a mountain. While her Praelector fiddled with a data slate, Gwen observed the coming and goings of the hospital, diving deep into thoughts of her own. Now that she had settled into London, how should she proceed with the enterprises she had laid out in China and Sydney? It wasn't as though, without a base of operations, without a crew of tertiary-educated workers; and without a central office, she could reproduce her success. Without the right support, she wouldn't trust herself to operate a fleet of hotdog stands. What she needed then, was something lucrative and agile enough to give credibility, but transparent and straightforward enough to skill up a group of locals. As with China, she would prefer NoMs uplifted by gainful employment, for these individuals engendered the highest loyalty and enthusiasm. Now, seeing that the Lady Loftus was willing to lease her the lesser portion of the Isle, there was no reason she could not strike another deal with the port authority there. With the Marchioness backing her interests, it would take a brave and greedy entrepreneur to short change a noblewoman with a direct line to Buckingham Palace. If so, drawing from the House of M, she may be able to "import" skilled individuals from Shanghai, elevating NoM professionals into the realm of highly paid expatriate professionals. After that, she could use these little seeds to propagate a core group of accountants and managers. The time frame, assuming she could kick-start the mana-engines at the decrepit docks, would take a year or more. In the meanwhile, she needed to gain a local presence. What she needed, Gwen considered her options, was a tremendously daring book— an intellectual enterprise that would shake the foundations of Mage society, while maintaining a facade of progressive, moral superiority. When earlier, she had gazed upon a handsome statue of Florence Nightingale in the lobby, she couldn't help but feel that there was a book that could be engendered— one that was the crying need of the hour, showing the terrible cancer of apartheid with all its boils and bleeding scabs. If composed correctly, here was a book that should serve as a clarion call to the bruised and beaten NoM masses. And Elvia— Eureka! EVEE would be the key! The healers needed Faith, if so, why not make Evee the subject of an appropriated book? Sure, it was fiction, but when did "Faith" ever need something concrete and tangible? In this book, she could create a diptych of humanity— she— or the ghostwriter she paid, would expose Mage society and its disgusting depravity. Then, she would present a young healer, one of original innocence and natural virtue, blonde, of course, with the bluest eyes. This healer would have a mentor, a father figure of sorts, who existed as an unyielding defender of the rights of NoMs as enshrined by the law, a man would not break under the yoke of the Mage's repression! What a book it would be! Presented in the timelessness of its literary milieu, it would vicariously draw the audience into a bitter conflict of grace and disgrace, discrimination and altruism! The readers could not help but be moved— touched— enraged! And Evee, hailing from Nightingale's was a perfect model for mythology! She was a scion of the very "Saintess" who treated NoM soldiers during the war. Who was to say that Evee, with her Kiki and Sen-sen, would not rise to become the poster child of the college? All Elvia lacked was a generous crystal-account for acts of philanthropy, a good consultant who understood the vertical integration of charity-branding, and good "Faith" would come rolling in. A philanthropic Demi-Saintess with two Spirits and a multi-national charity under her wing? Sweet dreams are made of Evees! Gwen felt her hands clench and unclench. It was achievable; she could feel it in her bones; she could put it in the bank! Money and momentum! Once the Evee Express left the station, fundraisers, sponsors, government grants, maybe even cross-continental recognition and support— the world was Evee's oyster! "Hehehe... Hahaha…" Gwen chuckled to herself, grinning like a mad priestess. "Excellent— how excellent!" Beside her, Ollie Edwards felt goosebumps rise all over his skin. Haunted by Gwen's cackling, he couldn't help but wonder if somewhere, a Shoggoth was descending into the Material Plane. "Gwennie!" Elvia's voice greeted the duo from the corridor, wholly oblivious of the "Special" role she would play in her friend's otherworldly ambitions. "Ah, Ollie— thanks for coming." "Evee!" Gwen stood, opened her arms, then swallowed the girl wholesale with her long limbs. "Did you get your vacation approved? If not, I'll have a stern word with your boss, or we'll go Purge another mountain." "No, no, I am free!" Elvia replied quickly, aware that her friend wasn't joking. "I've sent Mathias back to the barrack as well..." "— she's joking," Ollie declared to the doctors and nurses, now watching the trio with unfriendly expressions. "Let's go, let's go. Trafalgar Square awaits!"

Evee and Ollie's guided tour of London central began a hundred meters from Nightingale's, where the Southbank Lion stood, a silent sentinel guarding the south end of Westminster Bridge. As it was winter, the River Thames ran blue and aloof, its lapping edge white with rime as the body meandered past County Hall. Different to Gwen's memory of London, there was no "London Eye" jarring the cityscape. Instead, a towering lattice-structure held a shielding transponder amidst a dizzying array of Divination nodes, winking against the cold light. "All of this feels so surreal," Gwen remarked as they crossed on foot, their noses wrinkling at the mana miasma spewing from endless trains of lorries and busses. "What, being in London?" Elvia giggled. For Gwen's big day out, the healer was bundled up in a lime-green cashmere jumper adorned with a raspberry beret. The colour-combination was borderline Kiki— though as far as Gwen was concerned, Elvia could do no wrong. "Sen!" Sen-sen peeked out from a pocket, joined by Kiki, both drinking in the winter sun. "Yes." Gwen's eyes followed the unfamiliar, and yet all-too-similar skyline. Everything "old" was there: The Palace of Westminster, the Metropolitan Guard Quarters, the Big Ben, behind which one would find No. 10 Downing, the state-sanctioned residence of Lord Magister Blair. "Did you know." Ollie's eyes twinkled as they approached the pier-side of Westminster. A lightbulb hailing from Mayfair, the Praelector had advertised himself as their guide. "That Big Ben does not actually refer to the clock itself?" "Sure, it refers to the principal bell inside the Tower," Gwen answered casually, still deep in thought. "And the building is called Elizabeth Tower. After her Majesty's Diamond Jubilee." "Your patriotism is admirable—" Ollie regarded his companion strangely. "I believe you meant her Golden Jubilee? Her Majesty enjoyed a Commonwealth-wide celebration only two years ago." "Ah—" Gwen realised she may have let slip a bit of the future. "Of course, what I meant was that her Majesty's rose will never fade." "Wrong Elizabeth," Ollie chuckled. "But… Elizabeth Tower, eh? I like that." "Ahaha…" Gwen squeezed Elvia, simultaneously teasing Sen-sen. Seeing that Ollie did not pursue the matter, she changed the subject. "When can we hear it chime?" "Unfortunately, not until Christmas Eve," Ollie lamented. "It's more so a symbol now. After the Germans damaged the mechanism during the great Blitz of '41, killing the Dwarven artificer responsible for the original design, we've had no end of trouble. It's still accurate, mind you, but the city-wide sonic-spell generated by the bell takes a toll on the delicate instruments. Also, since we all use Divi-Devices now, having the glass thrum and threaten to break is becoming a bother. Of course, for special occasions, Big Ben will toll without delay." Past the clock tower, the self-guided tourists kept a brusque pace as the trio advanced into the city, sauntering into parliament square. A few passersby stared; mostly gawking at Gwen, others at the two Sprites jostling for space in Elvia's pockets. At the garden, Gwen met a familiar face. "Lord Magister Churchill," she declared happily. Keeping an eye on Ollie, she then tested the waters to see if her memory could fill some gaps in London's parallel history. "His speeches are so inspiring— 'We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.'" "You forgot 'We shall fight in the air'— you're a fan of Minister Churchill?" Ollie appeared pleasantly surprised. "Impressive, for a Frontier girl. Do you recognise any of the other statues here?" "Gwen, how do you know of Lord Churchill's speech?" Elvia cocked her head adorably. "Did they teach this stuff in China?" "I read it back in Sydney." Gwen resisted the urge to mount a lumen-recorder onto a pole to snap a picture of Evee and herself. But then again, who would she send it to? Yue? "But— I've never seen you read while we're in Sydney," Elvia demanded suspiciously. "You're always training or eating or sleeping." "I was wrapt in secret studies." Gwen hand-waved her friend's suspicion. "With Master, you know." Here and there in the square were other statues, most of which Gwen did not recognise. Names like Lloyd George, Jan Smuts, George Canning, escaped her entirely. Others, like the immediately recognisable statue of Honest Abe, was obvious at a glance. "Who's the woman?" Gwen asked when they reached a humble bust less grandiose than the others. "Millicent Faulkner?" "Miss Faulkner fought for the right of women to own property and participate in the Spellcraft revolution," Ollie stated proudly. "She's one of ours." "Ours?" "The founder of Newnham College, of Clough Hall fame." Ollie's voice rose an octave. "Quite a few of our alumni have statues in the city. I can point them out if you like." "That would be helpful but unnecessary." Gwen curbed her guide's enthusiasm. "Let's keep going, I want to see the rest of the landmarks, hit the museums." "Well, ONE Museum," Ollie snickered. "Besides, the Commonwealth's collection isn't so easily accessed. We'll need permission to see the rarer displays." "All the Museums, we would take until New Years," Elvia chimed in. "Also, we need to break for lunch." "What's good for eating?" Gwen asked. In China, there had been so much food that she was spoilt for choice. In London, she had thus far kept to a strict diet of meat and vegetables; interestingly, the pastry and cakes had been excellent. "Fish and Chips?" Elvia suggested. "We'll go by Buckingham, then circle back to Trafalgar. There's a delightful pub called 'The Lord Moon' which serves wonderful whiting. I've been there with Sylvie." "Sure." The corner of Gwen's lips twitched. Fish and Chips? Surely there's better food? "But since this is London, how about authentic British Curry?" "You'd have to go to Soho for that." Ollie made a face. "I am surprised you know, much less fancy, Demi-human food. Spice, from the Indian subcontinent? I don't know. A lot of our expatriate Mages are addicted to the stuff— says its flavour from the Gods. I tried it once. Far too pungent for me, and the heat— good lord, its like eating fire. Goes down like magma, comes out like—" "You folk seriously don't eat curry?" Gwen felt as though slapped in the face. No curry Tuesday? Did people here survive on steak and vegetables? "Did you eat curry in China?" Elvia was keen as well. "If you recall, we had it once in Sydney. It gave me a tummy ache." "They don't make it the same in Shanghai." Gwen realised she had not seen the controversial Gandhi statue while in Parliament Square. If there was no readily available curry, what did that imply for the Mageocracy's history with the Indian subcontinent? Moreover, what did it mean for this world's East Indies as a whole? "So the NoMs don't eat it?" "Spice is far too expensive for NoMs." Her Praelector shook his head. "What supply that reaches London isn't lucrative enough for high profit, nor is it abundant or cheap enough for the masses." "I see." Gwen licked her lips. Butter Chicken, Tikka Masala, Beef Korma, Rogan Josh. Gods above, her mouth watered uncontrollably just thinking about the food. Perhaps at the Museum of London, she could gain some insight as to what had changed across the Mageocracy's five-centuries of colonisation to deny Britain its most quintessential cuisine. The tourist trio had next planned to skirt Buckingham Palace via the avenue called the Mall. Unfortunately, they only made it as far as Marlborough House before they were halted in their tracks. "G-Griffins!" Gwen gripped Elvia so hard the girl yelped. "Bloody oath! Evee—" Overhead, the sight of Royal Griffins made her heart flutter. Standing in the shade of a mulberry tree, Gwen fought to encompass the majesty of an eagle-lion with wings of copper-gold and white feathers hinting at silver. Even the half-mythical Golos, who was 'ruggedly' handsome— lacked the regality of Britain's iconic heraldric beast. Was it the mounted Knights that plucked at the heartstrings? Gwen wondered, feeling her face flush. The red-jacketed Mage mounted atop the marvellous bird-beast sported three plumes on his helmeted headdress. Below the chin, the Griffin Guards wore polished cuirasses, inscribed with Glyphs and runes too complex to decipher. On the Griffins' heads, shoulders and fore-claws, they were protected by magical barding in matching Mithril that glinted as the birds sailed through the sky. "And this is why you don't fly near the Palace," Ollie warned his companion. "The Griffineers hunt first, ask questions later, assuming you survive." "They look so awesome," Elvia squealed. "Evee, who do you think is stronger." Gwen breathed out when a Griffin turned to face the trio. "Gogo or— er— is that patrol coming toward us?" Her observation proved acute. A trio of Griffins, each the size of a caravan, alighted on the broad strip of tempered, crimson asphalt. "Stay calm," Ollie warned his House-sister, while Elvia hid behind her and her Sprites inside her jacket. "They're likely asking for our ID. Papers at the ready—." With a grand buffet of breaking air, the Griffins landed. A head double the size of Gwen's torso turned to regard her with its golden eyes. "Halt!" the lead Knight approached. From the Saxon-scarlet satin adorning the man's armour, Gwen could see that this was a Mage from Mathias' most desired Ordo— The Most Distinguished Order of St George. "Why do you approach the home of her Majesty?" "Lord Knight— here are our identifications and credentials." Ollie presented their Public Practice of Magic licences. "We hail from Cambridge." The Knight scanned their cards with his eyes. When the man took Gwen's ID from her to peruse its tiny, bible-print list of Schools and annotations, the man's eyes widened. "SKAARK!" the Knight's Griffin snarled. Leaning closer to the girls, it sniffed them both. Elvia hid her Sprites, hiding in Gwen's shadow. Gwen's feeding-hand itched. She wanted to give the Griffin a drop of Almudj juice. But, with Ollie besides her, it took everything she had to resist stroking the Griffin's beak. This close, the creature's beauty was heart-breaking. From its feathers to its divinely-sculpted profile, the Griffin was a thing of superb intelligent design. "Very well," the Knight returned a greeting. "I have taken note of your credentials. Now, why do you approach?" "We wish to sight-see," Ollie declared. "To my awareness, the public is allowed to approach up to and outside the Victorian Gate, are they not? We wish to contemplate the crest of the Unicorn and the Lion, so that we may wish her Majesty well." "I would allow it, usually," the Knight paused. His piercing blue eyes then locked onto Gwen. "However, proximal admittance for a Class VI War Mage will require clearance from the Tower." "Ah—" Ollie bowed. "Apologies, I was not aware, Lord Knight. We shall take our leave." The Knight did not immediately dismiss them. Instead, he nudged his Griffin's flanks so that it approached the Void Sorceress. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Hello," Gwen said nervously. The Griffin's beak could arguably pierce her chest, puncture Elvia, and still had more length to spare. "Young Lady, the word is that you Purged the Red Gulch?" The officer, who Gwen could see was in his forties, kept a tight reign of his bird-mount. "By yourself?" "I had Evee here to help me." Gwen patted her healer on the back. "There was a guy called Mathias as well— a bloke from St Micheal's. He came along as support." "The Rothwell boy?" "The very same." "Good on him." The rider leaned down and extended a hand. "I am Knight-Captain George North. I am pleased to see such a worthy addition to our nation's military arm. I do not doubt we may see each other again in the future. I hear you have a tamed Kirin?" "I do, Sir North." Gwen shook the man's mailed glove, then curtsied a little lower than she wished. "And yes, Ariel is a Kirin— of sorts. There's Caliban too, with its many forms. May I know your partner's name?" "This is Sparhawk." The Griffin Guard looked pleased with Gwen's response. "We are bound by blood." "I'd love for Ariel and Sparhawk to meet, but don't think I can summon my Familiars here," Gwen replied carefully. "Nonetheless, it's nice to meet you both." "Likewise. My apologies for detaining you so far from the gate." The Knight-Captain was surprisingly cordial. "My liege is much occupied this time of year. As her guards, we take no chances." "Of course. I understand," Gwen simpered, stunned that she was having a conversation with a Royal Magister seated on a Royal Griffin, outside the Royal Home of Elizabeth II, discussing how close she could get to the Queen of England. "We don't wish to inconvenience you." "I see we understand one another." The Knight backed his mount away. "— Sparhawk?" Of its own volition, the Griffin nuzzled Elvia, enticed by the healer's presence, or at least the morsels in her pockets. "Good luck." The Knight coaxed his mount way. "Cambion, Clifford, we're resuming patrols!" "Yes, Sir!" The others took to the air. In a minute, the Griffin flight once again turned to specks above the palace grounds. "Well." Gwen turned to the others once the last bell-beat of wings faded. "That was… something." "Isn't it?" Ollie breathed out. "It's the dream of every boy to be a Knight," Elvia provided some insight into Ollie's sigh. "And the dream of every Knight is to join the Griffin Guard." "You get to raise a Griffin from infancy to adulthood," Ollie appended Elvia's proclamation. "You receive an egg, once you're inducted, to bond with your Astral Soul. If the rider dies, the Griffins will hunt down their partner's killer to the end of the earth. Once avenged, or if the quest is no longer possible, they kill themselves. The same could be said of the riders." "Jesus." "That's why they're the ultimate symbol of loyalty," Ollie said. "Lions, Unicorns, and Griffins— Courage, Purity, and Loyalty— the watchwords of the Empire where the sun never sets." Gwen watched Ollie's chest puff with pride. "How very nationalistic." "It's only natural." Ollie shrugged. "We're citizens of the Mageocracy, after all. As Mages, we're the keepers of the state's Mandate." "Of course." Gwen looked around at the empty avenue, deserted save for a few Mages like themselves who had business here. So much land, so many cloud-clapped spires, gilded statues and golden-winged cherubs had been dedicated to just one Household. But for how long could such a system sustain itself? History splutters, but it chugs on, driven by the momentum of the aeons. Like a glacier being pushed out to sea, the resentment of the NoMs would pile up, until one day, like climate change... Gwen felt her will waver. Why should she, a benefactor of the Tower systems, act as the catalyst? What if all she desired was a palace for herself and Evee? But no— she cautioned herself. Touching Elvia's golden curls to calm her mind. Some things ought to be done, not for the sake of picking a path, but because they were right. If not for collective gain and a mutual profit, why do anything at all? "… and here we are, Trafalgar Square! The heart of the city! Up there's Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, Hero of Trafalgar, perished during the action against the French and Spanish allied fleet. His sacrifice led to unchallenged Britain supremacy over the Atlantic and Pacific for the entire Hanover epoch, culminating in the establishment of the Mageocracy as we know it." Nodding, Gwen surveyed the scene. Trafalgar Square was as she had recalled from her alter-life. The enormous roundabout was there, as was the Georgian and Edwardian Gothic-revival architecture that surrounded it. The difference, as far as Gwen could see, was that the iconic memorial felt more prominent and boisterous, matching the gravity of the Mageocracy. That, and the Lions that adorned the base of Lord Nelson's column were instead a foursome of Griffins, each with their wings tucked, eyes sharp, and talons fully extended. The fountain monument beside Lord Nelson was also many times larger than Gwen recalled. Unlike its modest incarnation in her world, a massive Grecian sculpture in transmuted bronze marked its centre. Upon closer inspection, Gwen perceived the mangled series of fins, arms, busts and buttocks displaying an epic struggle of tumultuous battles at sea. At the very top of the structure, a triumphant Lord Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood rested the butt of his sword-wand on the head of a bowed Mermen King. "For the conquest of the Caribbean and the successful defence of the Mediterranean from the resurgent Mermen," Ollie helpfully provided the details. "The one been trodden on is the Coral King of Ionia. It's a wonder that forty ships of the line managed to down a Leviathan, using only quasi-magical black powder and Dwarf-forged Adamantite Harpoons. Lord Collingwood was Lord Nelson's Second if you're wondering— both are British legends." "Were they notable magic users?" Gwen inquired, feeling oppressed by the excessive history. Australian chronicles tended to favour the First Fleet, sans the Indigenous folk, and focused more on looking ahead. There was a lot to be proud of, though much of it involved desperate struggles celebrating local vagabonds like the Rogue Mage Ned Kelly, or acts of English futility like Gallipoli. "Lord Collingwood was an early example of a Master Transmuter." Ollie pointed to the plaque. "Lord Nelson... was talented in other ways." "How so?" "Today, we would call him a Squib." The Cambridge Magus forced the words from his throat. "I know, absurd, right?" "Wow." Elvia stroked Sen-sen with one hand, toying with Kiki with the other. The plants purred, mewing softly. Impressed, Gwen tried her best to visualise the battle at Trafalgar. For herself, it wasn't hard to imagine a time when a man with a talent for command, a knack for rousing speeches, and a mind for tactics was far more important than a girl who could summon Wyverns and matter-devouring Caliban-beasts. If this world had indeed once entertained such individuals, what had gone wrong during the Spellcraft Revolution to curb the involvement of non-magical individuals in British society? As a beneficiary of the neo-libertarian new world order, Gwen suspected she knew the answer. "Shall we head to lunch?" Elvia tugged on her sleeve. "The Lord Moon is close." "Sure." Gwen turned away from the bubbling mayhem of amalgamated metal. A fin here, a boob there, contorted limbs all over. "Fish and chips it is." Gwen felt conflicted. Her biggest disappointment came in the form of a modern theatre made from glass and steel that sat beside Southwark. The ubiquitous Millennium Bridge was missing as well, making the stretch between Blackfriars and London Bridge exceptionally inconvenient. And then they arrived at London Tower, also known as the Old Palace, "The Ivory Tower", The Shard. Over its nine-century year history, the Tower had served sequentially as a palace, an armoury, a treasury, a menagerie, an administrative record office; and now the heart of the Mageocracy's Tower System. For the locals, the soaring spire's design had attracted an atypically dry English moniker— "The Shard"— for its likeness to a chipped HDM. Compared to Gwen' recollection of the original structure— London Tower and its surroundings proved far more extensive. With Mage Flight becoming commonplace, the moat was now a spacious lawn, within which, in centre of its double-walls, sat the fabled Tower. Though the designers had kept its original facade, it wasn't difficult to spot the late 20th-century addition— a section a kilometre in height, levitating above the medieval base. Combined with the dozens of renovated, medieval spires surrounding the base block, the scene stole all breath from Gwen's lungs. "Wow," she marvelled on approach. "It's taller than the Chinese one. They really built a floating superstructure?" "It's the 'tallest' Tower in the world. I mean, it would have to be. It houses the Crown Jewels!" Ollie's eyes misted over with admiration. "Between the Crown, Sceptre and the Sovereign Orb, our Artefacts are powerful enough to cow even Dragons. You ever heard of the Heart—" "Yes, the Heart of Flames—" Gwen mumbled, her mind suddenly mired in the past. In the recess of her skull, a baritone voice hummed the Empire's nationalistic masterpiece, "Jerusalem". Bring me my wand, of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of Desire: Bring me my stone: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Heart of Fire— Her Master had sung that song, fighting embarrassment to mollycoddle her upset. Who would now do that again? Gwen despaired even as she swallowed her feelings. Gunther growled rather than hummed, and Alesia's singing-voice sounded like she was vocalising from the bedroom. "I know the story. It's the Core of an Ancient Dragon." Ollie sighed with relish. "Did you hear about the Red Dragon incident we had in '01?" "I did." Gwen nodded. How could she forget, that was the day she "arrived" in this world. "Once the fires died down, her Majesty had a word with Sythinthimryr, the keeper of Carrauntoohil, regarding the egg episode. Palace officials say the Crimson Queen was invited into the Tower of London to gaze upon the Heart, after which she willingly went home without needing reparations. It was quite the story when it broke." "The tale of the tail-wagging Dragon Queen, eh?" "Well." Ollie grinned. "In the worst-case scenario, the Order of St George is well versed in hunting down Titans and Mythics. That and Carrauntoohil is within teleportation distance of the Shard. Arguably, after an incident like that, we have good cause to parley with the great lizards." "That's awfully kind of the government." Gwen wondered if the incident really was as cleanly wrapped up as the reports said. In her opinion, someone like Ravenport may provide a more nuanced view of things. "That's the way it is." The researcher laughed. "Shall we?" The trio made their way into the inner courtyard, up the ramparts, and between the gate towers. "Not many people here," Gwen observed. In Shanghai, even Fudan's faux Towers were shoulder to shoulder with activity. "Slow day?" "Oh, Gwennie, people don't 'walk' into the Tower," Elvia chuckled. "We won't be either, there are short-range Teleportation Circles at the base of the old Ivory Tower. It's a security measure." "My mistake. Well done, Evee." Gwen ruffled Elvia's hair to disguise her embarrassment. One can take the Omni-Mage out of the Frontier, but not, apparently, the other way around. At the gate, the trio was greeted by Tower Guards in midnight-blue uniforms, embroidered with markings in gules. Upon the men's bosoms sat the Royal Crown, tied together with an overlarge hat, a thick coat and shoes sporting what appeared to be a stylised Tudor rose. Once the guests made a show of their licences, the stoic guards stood aside. "Are those Beefeaters?" Gwen whispered. "You know about Beefeaters too?" Ollie was well delighted by her knowledge. "That's not a term you hear too much outside the service. Every Custodian is a veteran Mage who has served his or her tour in her Majesty's beloved corps." "We should show the proper respect," Elvia reminded her boisterous, all-too-casual companion. "You know, the other half of the Beefeaters are the Ravens at the Green Tower. There are thousands of the buggers when the weather's fair. They've been around since the eleventh century, or so the story goes. Most of the flock's quasi-magical now after Henry VIII's decision to make use of the local flock. At least a hundred at any given time serve as Familiar to the Beefeaters, who feed them beef sourced from the Royal farms. I've heard that some Transmuters have chosen to join them, leading the murder. This one Sun article said that when young Mages tried to Magic Missile one, the Raven turned one of the delinquents to stone." "If the last raven dies, the Tower falls," Elvia added ominously. "So the story goes." "Hold up." Gwen's scalp crawled. "You're telling me there's Ravens that are in fact, people?" "Which is why it is best to leave the birds well-alone while in London," Ollie advised. "Imagine netting a Magister…" What Gwen protested was the loss of privacy to the fact that some Raven-guy could be staring at her right now. In fact, she seemed to recall seeing a few here and there while they toured the Thames. Her complaint, however, was silenced by their stepping into a circular portal located inside the spacious liminal space of the magically amplified Ivory Tower. "We're in a secure pocket dimension used for transit—" Ollie explained before they teleported into the interior. A split-second later, their circle flashed quicksilver, depositing the trio in the main lobby. "— and here we are. Welcome, to London Tower, House-sister." "Holy—" Inside, the lobby of the Ivory Shard could only be described as monolithic. Above them, the ceiling stretched upward indefinitely, though Gwen suspected some illusion must be at play. All around them, the horizontal space expanded outwards like an Olympic oval. Reminding her of termite mounds on the savannah, obsidian service counters sat on white marble, stretching as far as the eye could see. In place of pillars, Teleportation circles in aesthetic, circular tubes gave the sterile space a retro-future aesthetic. "From here, just approach a counter and they'll port you to the right sector within the Shard." Gwen's helpful House-Brother pointed to a smiling woman who was unoccupied. "Shall we?" At the counter, the middle-aged woman's eyes lit-up. "Welcome to London Tower. Miss Song, I presume?" "You know me?" "It's our job to know." The woman's smile was kind and affecting. "How may I help?" "You're famous!" Elvia cooed. "Miss Devourer of Shenyang." Embarrassed, Gwen slid over her ID. "I'd like to check my CC account, please." The clerk placed her card onto a small, elevated dais just enough to hold a phone. A glow of Divination engendered, then the clerk tapped on an unseen data slate. Once a hidden device spat out a receipt, she continued. "Here's your script, Ma'am." Elvia looked away, as did Ollie. "2901." Gwen whistled, pleasantly surprised. "Where did the—" A pair of tendrils from Kiki cupped her mouth by pressing a petal against her lips. "Gwen! You can't just say that out loud!" Elvia hissed. "That information is private." "You wouldn't want to invite hucksters." Ollie looked around nervously, as though Gwen was showing off an armful of Creature Cores. "Let's keep moving. Did you have any business to conduct at the Tower?" "No, not yet." Gwen packed away her ID, then waved to the clerk. "Thank you, Ma'am." "Wouldn't dream of it, Miss Song." The woman appeared genuinely taken by her presence. "Not for the daughter of Lord Ravenport." From smiling serenely, Gwen stopped dead in her tracks. Elvia's eyes went wild. Ollie swallowed nervously. Having spent some time in her company, a few inklings of Gwen's trouble with Ravenport had leaked through the sieve of idle conversation. "Gwen… don't mind it." "Gwen, that's not true... right?" Evee appeared the sort easily swayed by print media. "Of course not!" Gwen snapped, first growling with ire, then deflating when she realised there was nothing to be mad about. Like Lady Grey forewarned, tabloids were a double-edged affair. "Ravenport and I— We're not anything! We're less than nothing!" "Gwen—" Ollie pulled her aside. "Keep your voice down." "Don't be upset." Elvia patted her sides. "Let's go to our next stop." "Not enough time for the Museum." Ollie quickly let go of Gwen's clammy hand when he realised he had lewdly waylaid his House-sister without her permission. "Shall we head for the Isle? Master Samson should be waiting for you." "Alright." Gwen noticed that, as advised, the others around them had their ears perked. She wanted to stay in The Shard longer, to see if there were Demi-humans, possibly an Elf or two, but Ollie was right. The Tower could wait. Now, it was time to visit her London abode.

The trio took the country-line to Limehouse, then a bus to Blackwall. No fare was needed thanks to their Public Practice of Magic Licences, which allowed the Mages free transit on intra-city transports from ferries to busses to the London Tube. At the station, Gwen bought a copy of the Sun Herald, one of the three newspapers widely available for purchase. When she handed over the currency card, a wide-eyed newsagent stared, scarcely believing that page three had come to life. Flipping through the spread, she could see that the public interest continued thanks to new testimonials coming out of Merthyr Tydfil. Once disembarked, Gwen studied the locality with a measured eye. In its present incarnation, Canada Square, Cabot Round and Westferry Circus all remained in their pre-developmental dilapidation, with short, squat brick buildings encompassing the length of the waterside, crammed to the brim with town housing for NoM dockers. For Gwen, who was all too familiar with old-world London's infamous "second CBD", seeing Canary Wharf in an untransformed state was jarring to the extreme. In her plane, since the late 80s, foreign investment from the Saudis and then the Chinese had transformed the docklands into a financial leviathan. Pound for pound, the apartments and commercial spaces around the Isle became some of the most expensive in the city. The irony was that, when the economy of the Isle of Dogs collapsed in the 1980s, the project sold itself as bringing back jobs to the 20,000 dockworkers and their families. Naturally, by the 90s, all but the fringe-living families on the isle had been priced out by the enterprises. Thanks to Thatcher's union-busting and Blair's public cuts, Canary Wharf had even attained corporate extra-territoriality for its pseudo-public spaces. On their way to Millwall, Gwen felt giddy that present-day Canary Wharf remained entrenched in the 80s. There were no skyscrapers, only plumes of oily, inefficient mana exhaust adding to London's winter smog. Amazingly, the old quay still operated— serving the very same purpose it had some century ago, off-loading incoming freight that serviced the city. When she spied at the cargo barges, most of the ferried goods consisted of fruit and vegetables from both across the English Channel and from the northern wildlands. "It stinks," Ollie observed, wrinkling his nose. Elvia agreed. The region had been a bog-swamp. Now, as a result of urban decay, nature had reclaimed some of its industrial spaces. Half-a-kilometer later, the trio passed the Marsh Wall, arriving at what could have been the seventh-five storey Landmark Pinnacle. Disparate from Gwen's recollection, a triple set of steel-gated warehouses, half-rusted with the teeth kicked-in and the windows smashed, occupied the hotel's commercial space. "Location, location, location." Gwen smacked her lips audibly enough for the others to hear. "What a place this is." "Does it remind you of Forrestville?" Ollie's lips curled, suggesting that Gwen was nostalgic for the industrial sprawl of her Australian home. "Forrestville wasn't this bad…" Elvia pulled her sweater lower, even though she wore formless pants that hid her thin legs. "Gwen, there are NoMs here." "Of course there are NoMs here," Gwen snorted. "This is the hamlet of Millwall!" And as the trio knew nought of Millwall, there was nothing more to be said. To their left and right, moving down Westferry into the Outer Docks, sat rows of grey, Victorian terrace houses with shared partitions and dark, conjoined gables. From the windows of these cramped, dreary-looking homes, tired eyes looked out at the intruders. What must they look like to the NoMs? Gwen wondered. She must appear out of place with her elegant autumn getup. Beside her, Ollie was every inch a Wizard from Hogwarts, wearing grey trousers and oxfords, half-hidden under Cambridge's signature robes. Behind them stood Elvia, whose garish combination of colours was the brightest, retina-searing thing from dockside to the farm. "Watch out!" Ollie halted the group. There was a puddle, or perhaps a sinkhole, or maybe something disgusting and unnameable, barring their way. Threateningly, the muddy water glooped. "We could walk around." "Not for much longer." Ollie indicated to the patch of green on the distant hill. "This area used to be a bog. Thanks to the snow, the mud rises like water across the tidal flat. Gwen can fly, but WE need to play by the rules." "Is Levitation too much?" "There's always Prestidigitation," Elvia suggested. Gwen looked around. "Ariel!" "Ee!" A crash of thunder struck the clearing, Ariel appeared a split-second later, hovering mid-air. "Ollie, Evee, you guys Levitate and hold onto Ariel." Flying in a sense, but not-flying all the same, the trio forded the encircling ring of mud. "Ee!" Ariel's senses were sharper than its human companions. Instinctively, it picked up the odour of unwashed bodies ripe with cabbage smells, emerging from the docker's terraces. For a creature of rarified air, the stench of the unwashed masses shivering with winter-sweat was not a pleasant experience. "Looks like we've got company," Ollie observed drily. A mob approached, assembled from the flotsam and jetsam of folk emerging from the leaning terraces. Most of them wore work shirts with dark, rain-proof jackets. There was nary a woman among the men, who wore unfriendly scowls, carrying dangerous malice in their eyes. "Oi, wot're the bleeding likes ef ya doin' in a sheit hole loike this?" The leader, so far as Gwen could see, was a man in his late forties; ham-faced, barrel-chested, and wearing a newspaper cap. "I am sorry?" Gwen halted Ariel. "What are we doing here?" "Yeah, wot're chicky Sorceresses loike yos doin' in a hoe loike ours?" "Sight-seeing." Gwen returned a dazzling smile. "Gentlefolk, please don't mind us." "Oh, but we do min', young lydy. This 'ere is our 'omes. What's so interestin' abaht a bunch o' wag's hearths?" Gwen wondered if the workers would at all understand if she simply told them that she would soon bring them new jobs with fair pay for the next two decades. Seeing the isle in such a state, she could almost taste the untapped opportunities— though that could also be the swamp water. Either way, all she needed was a spark, once an investor appeared with the cash to gentrify a single section, other punters followed like hungry mongrels smelling a fresh carcass. "Rest assured we have no unkind intentions, good sir." Gwen nodded. "Ya best be garn naw." The dockers menaced them. "Of course, we—" Ollie halted her before Gwen could go. Leaning closer, the Praelector began to furiously whisper beside her ear. "Gwen, are you going just to let them… bark?" Gwen cocked her head at her companion. "Yes?" Ollie raised a brow. "They're NoMs." "I know. These are the salt of the docks. The common muck coughed forth by the Thames." Gwen shrugged. "Don't give me that face, Ollie. Are you seriously going to bang spells with yokels?" "We are Elite Mages." Ollie's voice rose an octave. "Untitled we may be, we remain beyond the NoM's reproach. I am a Magus of Cambridge, and you're a sanctioned War Mage. We are free to go where we please in London. Be it the Tower, or this— eyesore." Hearing Ollie's displeasure, the dockworkers stepped back. "Now you're frightening the poor sods." Gwen sighed. "Good people of the Millwall. Pay Magus Edwards no mind. We'll be leaving immediately." "Gwen." Elvia tugged Gwen's sleeve. "Yes, Evee?" "I can sense their sickness." Elvia's eyes darted toward the leader and a few more of the younger men. "Malnutrition mostly, and Diphtheria, Tuberculosis, Mould Lung…" "Black mould?" "Quasi-magical toxin poisoning," Elvia whispered. "There's probably Slimes and other Magical Creatures living in the docks, or under the hamlet in the sewers." "Yikes…" "Can we help them?" "Are they dying as we speak?" "No…" "Then we'll be back." Gwen waved at the dockworkers to show that indeed, they were merely passing by. "Ollie, be a dear and come away." The trio skirted the soupy water in the dock, then threaded their way through the dockland until they reached upper Mudchute, once a fishing village on a boggy rise emerging from the swamp. A century ago, the land had appeared as a result of displaced Transmutation overspill from the dock's construction. Now, the mud-hill was the location of Gwen's new address— Lady Loftus' gifted leasehold. At the gate of what could only be Mudchute farmhouse, Ollie fired off a flare to inform the keeper of their arrival. With the silvery Sigil blooming overhead, a hound call went up, followed by a long chain of howls, barks and growls. A moment later, streaming from the barns and the kennels, some two dozen dogs poured forth. "Holy hell…" Gwen fought back her lesser instincts. These were large dogs— wolfhounds by the appearance of their bristly coats, and each the size of a pony. On long, graceful legs, the dogs pounded the sodden turf, bringing up great clouts of icy clod. Instantly they surrounded the trio, forcing Kiki and Sen-sen to hide even deeper inside Elvia's pockets. "Come-bye!" came a great, booming voice over the hill. The dog-swarm obeyed, forming a clock-wise wheel as they encircled the travellers. The silhouette of a man emerged, stocky and stout and with the air of a military man. "Stand!" A shrill whistle followed the order. As one, the twenty-odd dogs stood to attention, a few scratching their ears while the rest panted, sniffing the air to taste the intruders. Gwen and her two companions waited until the man was in speaking range. "Gwen Song, War Mage," she introduced herself. "This is Magus Ollie Edwards— Peterhouse's Praelector, and here is Elvia Lindholm— trainee Cleric from Nightingale's. Master Samson, I believe?" "Right you are, Miss Song." The man saluted, despite Gwen possessing no official rank. "Excuse the pups. They are still in training." "They're plenty well trained." Gwen drifted forward, just skimming the earth. The ground underfoot alternated between waterlogged grass and ankle-deep ice-sludge. "Aye, it's a wee wet after the snow thaws." Wally Samson put on a knowing smile. "I brought a few pairs of Wellies." Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Together, the group made for the house on the hill. The veteran was older than he looked. The man's wheat-coloured hair was interwoven with strands of grey, giving him a grizzled demeanour. "Wally Samson, at your service." "Thank you, sergeant." "Just Samson will be fine." The man brushed off their politeness. "Got early supper prepped if yer mind. Just simple, farmhouse fair." "I love a good farm to table." Gwen was entirely serious. The fish and chips had been a bit too lite and a bit too rich; a paradox made possible only by fast food. "EE!" Ariel expressed a desire to play with the dogs. Gwen obliged by cutting the Familiar loose, allowing Ariel to hover over to the panting hounds hungry to take in the newcomer's scents. "Caliban!" "Shaa!" The dogs bolted, instantly recognising a predator who could consume the lot of them and still have the stomach to spare. "EE!" Ariel lamented, glaring at Caliban. "Shaa!" Caliban considered chasing the hounds. "Aww." Gwen tossed her Familiars a few HDM crystals. "Poor Cali. Don't mind it." "Shaa…" Wally said nothing, though he did keep a safe distance from Caliban. The farmhouse itself was a brick and flint cottage in dusky red, with mossy-tiled roof and a lichen-covered fence surrounding the outskirts. To the rear sat two enormous barns, both taller than the house itself. The kennels were located in the eastern quadrant, taking up more space than both the main building and the barn, looking drier and better furnished as well. Here and there, Gwen could see Black-faced Suffolk sheep, the curly-haired Irish Auroch, and stranger creatures halfway between horse and goat. Atop the roof gable, a pair of ravens looked down on the gathering with cold, unblinking eyes. The voyeuristic birds and the dour stench of the swamp aside, the setting very much reminded Gwen of an episode in "Escape to the Country". Inside, Gwen was surprised to see an unsealed ceiling older than the Mageocracy, left exposed so that the fireplace could bake the moisture from the wood. With a Firebolt from Wally, the hearth roared into life, casting the dining room into shades of warm orange. "That er guess?" A woman emerged from the attached kitchen, her face white and round as a full moon. "Time ter service supper, ser?" "Almost, Mary, thank yee," Samson gave his orders, then shooed her from the dining. "Please, yer honours, sit where ever ya like." Ollie and Elvia sat on either side of the large, oaken table, while Gwen sat at its head. Wally Samson then left to retrieve a bundle of documents, returning to the desk with printed parchments and an expensive fountain pen. "Yer lease-holds, my lady." Wally presented the documents. "Sign here, and you'll receive custodianship of the lower Isle's estates, as well as care over Cubitt and Millwall for the next five years." "Thank you, Wally." Gwen read through the documents carefully, a paranoid habit inherited from an earlier life. "… it says here I have to pay a levy?" "Ten per cent of what the estate produces." Wally nodded. "Mind you, other than the kennels. We don't produce much of value. Just enough to eat." "I assume our benefactor receives the levy?" Gwen asked if the tithing was to the London Tower, the Commonwealth Government, or the Lady of Ely. "Yes, the tithing is to the Lady of Loftus," Wally clarified, apparently more in the know than Gwen gave him credit. "Of course." Gwen felt better for the fact. It came as no surprise that Lady Grey's kindness wasn't without her slice. "And the rent?" "No rent. But, as our custodian, you will be liable for the estate's land tax, stamp tax, corporate tax and income tax during your occupation. Other than that, the levy is all." Gwen performed a few quick calculations. If her tax code served, up to thirty per cent goes to the man, plus lump sums throughout the year, plus another ten per cent of her gross goes to her benefactor. After that, whatever she portioned out to herself lost another thirty per cent to the state. Compared to her forming a party and going out and farming for Cores and crystals, it was a bland affair. If so, there was little wonder that adventuring, with its hard-to-trace income streams, was a principal avenue of profit. Studying the next few pages, she puckered her lips while scanning the documents. For someone without the means to circumvent the economic barriers, the Isle of Dogs was a problematic piece of real estate. For herself, who had seen it all happen, the matter was more so an issue of how to kick-start the transformation. First, she desired tax cuts. That was the catalyst she needed. She could effortlessly bring the cash, but the city of London had to guarantee her profitability if it desired advancement from the private sector. In exchange for bringing employment and rejuvenating the local economy, there had to be tangible benefits; not just for herself, but for her future investors. One of which was Lady Loftus, naturally. Once the isle's potential could be realised, the Marchioness of Ely would be the envy of all. Then, assuming she could bring onboard new friends with vaults full of HDMs, it was entirely possible to recreate some portion of the isle's commercial landscape within the span of five to ten years. Of course, she would need a trustworthy and wily manager to oversee the operations, at least until her Spellcraft course finished. If there was one thing she looked forward to, it was that few would dare to short-change Magister Song, War Mage. In time, she could then funnel the profits into a Tower— if not in the Commonwealth, then a commercial one in the USA. And as for the NoMs— Gwen paused when she reached the last page. NoMs weren't Mages. No matter how much they worked, the distance between Demi-gods and mortals could not be bridged, not without unbearable upheaval. If there must be change, it must come gradually, slowly, trickling from below, seeping through the stratum of society like the moisture-seeking roots of a rock-tapping cactus. That, or ride in high upon the crashing crest of profit. With a flourish, she signed her name, then pressed her Glyph into the contract. The paper briefly flashed while the Divi-invocation took hold. Wally Samson bowed deeply. "Ma'am. The thirty employees of the estate and I, await your pleasure." "Thank you, Wally." Gwen packed the papers for safekeeping. "I look forward to working with you." "Nary a title, and yet already the mistress of a domain," Ollie said, his lips sultry with longing. "Maybe you can start by teaching those dockers a lesson in propriety." "You're still mad about that?" Gwen gave Ollie a sideways glance. "Wally, what's the state of employment in Millwall and Cubitt?" "Idle, Ma'am," Wally replied without any particular emotion. "Ever since the upgrade to the Royal Albert, the Royal Victoria, and the George V docklands, Canary Wharf has been neglected." "From that prefix— I take it the 'Royal' docklands are operated by folk with long names and blue blood?" "Correct. A coalition, ma'am. Each of the Factions has their cut. Norfolk, Camden and Exeter have controlling stakes, among others." "I see." Gwen's nostrils flared when Wally spoke the familiar name. With some disappointment, she realised that market regulation in this world didn't come in the form of government intervention. The state itself spearheaded the spirit of anti-competition. If so, then the proposals she sold in China would fail to net her the same portion of profits. Different to the economic wild west of the Frontier, London beheld itself to "Royal" robber barons and resource tycoons. In turn, all sycophants must offer perpetuation perpetual tithing to those at the top. Feudalism-in-reality. Democracy-in-name. Fascism-in-practice. Cronyism by design. — all sustained by the perpetual threat of extinction. Gwen found it ironic that a Brit— the late novelist George Orwell— warned the world that the purpose of conflict was to consume the products of human labour. In Oceania, the repressive fear of annihilation made the gifting of all power to a small caste seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival. Fighting down an impulsive fancy, Gwen wondered what would happen if she quoted Orwell on a pamphlet and rained his wisdom over London? Would she be in Stasis by the end of the week? "I am sure even you can see these are desperate folk," Gwen invited Ollie to consider the NoM's circumstances. "Who cares for propriety when there's no gruel for the babe? Manners? Can manners nourish a dying daughter?" Ollie formed a slight frown. "And they're sick," Elvia aided her companion. "These are hungry people, Ollie." "It's the lord's responsibility—" Ollie began, then quickly realised what he was about to admit. "I have taken too little care." Wally bowed his head, saving the young man. "Please inform Lady Loftus of my ineptitude." "That's not what I meant. I say, your dogs look wonderful," Ollie added quickly. "Incredible coats, very robust, superbly fed, I—" The young man stopped when Gwen and Elvia's gaze shoved the words back down his throat. "Well-fed Wolfhounds and starving villagers." Gwen sighed, turning away from the wisdom of Cambridge's esteemed Magus Edwards. "Not the best combination, Wally." "The hounds have claimants." Wally's voice grew stiff, "Many of them will grace the estates of the nation's foremost Lords and Ladies. The genealogy of these dogs harkens back to the time of the Virgin Queen." "I know." Gwen reached out to deliver a reassuring pat on Wally's shoulder. "I am not admonishing you, Wally— but we are going to do things a little differently in the next few months. Please bear with me and trust in Lady Loftus." "I shall." The ex-soldier, now dog-man, doggedly bowed. On cue, more than likely listening for her entrance, Mary the kitchenmaid entered with a troop of maidservants, bringing in a stream of Mudchute's finest produce. Toad in the hole, Shepard's Pie, Scotch Eggs, Steak and Kidney Pudding, and of course, a famous, farmhouse Sunday Roast. Elvia professed to have lost her appetite thanks to growing concerns for the villagers. Ollie's hunger was repressed by his earlier misstatement. Gwen partook in the early supper with her usual professionalism, pounding down unsaturated fat, creamy starch and baked carbohydrates without so much as a visible belly bulge. When she finished her third portion, Wally coughed politely. "Yes, Mister Samson?" Gwen looked up from her plate, a sausage sitting on a fork. "It's customary to leave enough for the staff," Wally hinted in a low voice. "And for their families as well… for, you know, bubble and squeak. It's a rare treat." "I am sorry— for what?" Gwen put down her sausage. "Leftovers? They eat our leftovers?" Her gaze swept over the mostly empty pots and pans. "My apologies…" She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a serviette. "That said, ever heard of the wonders of SPAM?" Gwen and her party stayed the night at Mudchute Manor, a place that Mary intimated was known to the locals as "The Kennel". The cheeky moniker aside, there was ample room, as Wally had cleared Lady Loftus' master bedroom for Gwen's occupation, as well as two guest bedrooms, a study, and a section of the barn should she wish to stow a vehicle. The next morning, after a farmhouse breakfast of bacon and eggs, the trio, joined by Wally, made a tour of the farm. Caliban and Ariel had spent the night wandering the extremities of the estate, harassing sheep and playing with the dogs, eventually sleeping in the kennel, where it was nice and cosy. In part, thanks to Ariel's intervention, the Wolfhounds accommodated Caliban's presence, tolerating the slithering beast in their midst. After morning tea, the men, the women, the Familiars and the dogs bounced their way across the snow down to Cubitt. At the farm's edge, the dogs returned. Gwen packed her Familiars away, not wanting to frighten the NoMs eking out an existence under the shadow of London's Elite. Cubitt itself possessed less history than Millwall, though no less sorrowful. During the Pan-European Conflict, Canary Docks saw the launching of a dozen ships from Westwood & Baillie, Samuda Brothers, J & W Dudgeon, including the Dreadnaught HMS Royal Albert. After the Beast Tide, the shipyards and the freight-docks unilaterally migrated eastward to the five-kilometre stretch that made up the Royal Docklands. Canary's owners, unable to find investors, allowed the facilities to rust, then rot. "What's that building over yonder?" Gwen pointed to an enormous warehouse some two blocks across that looked like shipping containers plastered together with glass, concrete and sheet metal. "The West Terminal Printing Press," Wally advised. "It's all but abandoned, I am afraid." "What happened?" Gwen's profit-senses tingled. There was an opportunity here; she could feel it in her bones. "I thought the tabloid-rags did well in London." "Not all. Here lies The Observer's final stand. Lord Mulholland, the first Earl of Halifax, built the press-factory originally in the thirties. The German blitz had damaged the press when they launched strategic spells at the docks. His grandson, Charles Wood Mulholland, third Earl of Halifax in the late 80s, hoped to revive the business through volume-production. Unfortunately, his business could not compete." "Who did it lose to?" "The Sun Herald and the Telegraph, ma'am. The London Observer performed well for a time. It faced criticism from Minister Thatcher's government, for its socialist outlooks. Once sales began to slip, and the advertisers left, there was little Young Master Charles could do. In the end, he chose not to continue his grandfather's legacy." "I take it." Gwen twisted her lips with pleasure. One man's garbage was another transmigrant's treasure. "That the Earl of Halifax thought Page Three was a sham, Page Five was for fools, Back Page sports was worthless and that the news should only report the truth and nothing but the truth?" "You've read him like a tabloid, ma'am." "Do we own the press?" "No, ma'am, just the land." "What's in there now?" "Abandonment, I fear. Most of the machines are inoperable." Wally shook his head. "There's been vandalism as well." "But the operation has remained," Gwen stated. "The system is there. The streamlined paper printing, I mean." "Yes, ma'am." "Is the lease released?" "The estate has outstanding rent." Wally coughed uncomfortably. "The Marchioness has instructed us not to pursue the balance… for now." "Okay. Well, that's just wonderful. I want to see inside," Gwen announced. "Wally, take us over." "We're not going to the city?" Elvia butted in. Today, the Nightingale Cleric chose to wear a bright-red, knee-length jack with a rabbit-fur stole. She looked like a little Santa, or perhaps a young Missus Claus. They were three days off Christmas, mayhap Elvia was feeling festive? "Oh, museums can wait." Gwen's eyes were positively aglow. She was feeling festive for an entirely different reason. There could be no better Christmas present than what she had just uncovered. "Wally, who used to work at the press?" "Locals from Millwall, Cubitt and Blackwall. The dockers can at least cross the river to work at the Royal Docklands— the print labourers, I am afraid, have taken up either vagrancy or menial labour down in Dulwich and Greenwich." Fuck me! Gwen breathed out. Her heart had not palpitated like this since Tonglv went into business. It was amazing how, sometimes, things just fell into place of their own accord, as if a higher power directed her with a guiding hand. The isle, the printing press, the labour-ready workforce desperate for any work, the indebted owners... Through further confirmation awaited, she now knew London was a different beast to China. As a century-old ocean-fairing superpower, her desire to tap into the profits of the docklands was likely in vain. But, as Ravenport had demonstrated, the nobility's economic prowess was wholly focused on the acquisition of tangible resources within the Mageocracy and its colonial heartlands. Ingredients, Crystals, Magical Beasts, Demi-humans, land itself— these were its heart's desire. Comparatively, against intangible forms of currency generation, the inbred nobles may as well be cross-eyed. "Wait, we're NOT headed for the National Museum?" Ollie affirmed Gwen's sudden change of plans, previously verified at breakfast, flabbergasted by his ward's fickleness. "I was going to instruct you regarding the Mageocracy's history!" "HA!" Gwen had to hold onto something to still her untamable pleasure. She found her stress ball in the form of Evee's pliant, wincing shoulders. "The past can wait, old man! We're going to see the _future!"_

The idea of "free newspapers" wasn't original. In Germany, at the turn of the twentieth century, an entrepreneur named Charles Cullmann attempted the nouveau business model with minimal success. Unable to compete with the prevalence of yellow journalism in unregulated tabloids, it took until the 1950s for San Francisco to see its first sustainable free newspaper, and the early 2000s for the emergence of Metro, a Swedish model from Luxembourg that focused on public-transit distributions. What Gwen could see in London, therefore, was a massive market gap for an essential information service— 'free' transit rags for the tube, the bus, the country-link, and the waiting lobby of the ISTCs. When Gwen had visited old-world London, she had ignored the red-top tabloids sold by News Corp and friends. But she had picked up copies of the Metro, left here and there and given to her at every exit, sometimes by panhandlers looking for coins. Though she had never studied journalism, the business model by which a "successful" "free paper" operated was well-known to her profession. The essential issue was that journalists weren't business consultants. What the early wordsmiths had fumbled was targeting the right demographic. If in the epoch of mobile entertainment, rags like the Metro remained profitable, then it was self-evident that a world where folk happily bought newspapers, there was an unsaturated market. What's more, unlike her predecessors' wrangling of the counter-intuitive free-distribution model, her "Metro" would be spared the cost of trial and error. To start, she could release a bi-weekly edition while the new editorial office collected talented writers. The sections needn't be lengthy, exclusive, or comprehensive. A few articles would be all: the national news, the international press, gossip columns, sports and entertainment, an adventure's column. The psychology of need-to-know was human nature. Beyond the mundane, she would curate the paper's main feature— content "for" and "of" the millions of NoMs milling about London, holding up the city's infrastructure. Content like baking recipes with grandmotherly sob stories, chicken soup for the soul. That and human interest anecdotes, life in the day of who's who. The occasional tale of woe and success, the Mage "commoner" and the NoM who rose to prominence. A small section entitled "Weird" or "Humour of the Day", where editors rated memes of obscenely-shaped vegetables. And of course, an "Ask Evee" segment, where folk could post in questions about whatever, replied to by Elvia's ghost-writers, or herself, if she's inclined. The exchange, as it were, would give Mages insight into the multi-dimensional lives of NoMs. Meanwhile, the NoMs could freely read the exploits, dangers, and wonder of the Mage's world straight from the horse's mouth. And— Gwen grinned. She had at minimum a hundred serials in her head. Assuming she could find a good NoM writer to act the revenant for her plagiarised authors, the "Fiction" section should keep eyeballs firmly glued to each edition. She even had a potential partner in mind— Dominic Lorenzo. If the man was as good a journalist as his peers reported him to be, would Alesia's old war bud choose to switch roles from frontline journo to editor-in-chief? Oi, Dom— care to run an influential paper? She would ask him. One with above market-pay and a ten per cent stake for a five-year contract, with a second share-offer if circulation metrics met certain thresholds? Gwen wetted her lips, drawing strange looks from her companions. She was getting ahead of herself. For now, she needed to inspect the condition of the printing press. "Holy hell, what in the Wildlands is this?" Gwen wondered whether she had wandered into the innards of a steampunk dystopia. Once the daylight globes burned bright, the abandonment of the "Halifax" Printing Press revealed itself. "This thing is a monster!" Ollie marvelled at the mechanisms— a thousand, perhaps ten-thousand times more complicated than a mid-tier strategic Mandala. "What Machinist could tame something like this?" Gwen agreed. Even in her old world, machinists were a dying breed. Outside of the underlying semantics, Gwen knew little to nothing about manufacturing. As far as marketing was concerned, once a recommendation was made; things happened, then products materialised. What happened in Shenzhen, China; stayed in Shenzhen, China. What the trio was looking at— ignoring a collapsed section of the conveyor system, was what Wally dubbed a "Koenig & Sconebolt MK IV". From gate to gate, the warehouse was enormous, a stadium unto itself. Even so, it was choked from cargo gate to delivery bay with bits of protruding blue metal. "The core components came from Würzburg, Bavaria— north of Munich and east of Frankfurt," the keeper of the isle explained with some difficulty. "Dwarven artifice, I am lead to believe. This one was built about thirty years ago. It's been repaired now and then, of course. Expanded too, but alas…" Her groundskeeper lacked the jargon, and Gwen lacked the know-how. With her limited intuition, Gwen did her best to comprehend the mechanisms by confining her attention to just one section of the press. From the eastern quadrant, she could see small Golem-suits previously used to move large rolls of paper. Most of the Golems currently sat half-rusted beside piles of mouldy cylinders. Further down, roles of conveyor belts connected drum-feeders— presumably where the paper rolls could be attached— feeding a foursome of three-storey tall towers. "These are the presses?" Gwen drifted closer. Despite the disuse, she could smell the viscous ink, pungent and distinct, assailing her nostrils. She had once heard that fresh newspaper-ink resembled baked bread, though now they affected a sour fetor. There was the stink of machine oil as well, churned to the consistency of tar, as well as opaque lubricants still dripping through fissures and canals. The printing towers themselves were encased in a protective metal shell, still glowing faintly with mana. As for their insides, Gwen didn't dare to look. "Printing Engines," Wally corrected her, shaking gunk from his gumboots. "The press-making machine requires a Mage to operate, a specialist by trade. It's in another section of the building." "I see." Gwen followed the presses' inter-connected "ley-lines" until she lost herself in the two-dozen rows of feeders snaking through the warehouse. At its end, she found a mechanism with rusted blades and precisely shaped funnels. Beyond that, more platforms, more swirling conveyers until finally, she saw the light of day at the western sector's bundling bay. Strangely, this section did not appear nearly so ruined as the eastern quadrant. Further evidence supporting her observation appeared in the form of ink— buckets of the stuff, still fresh from the smell of it, lying beside a plinking roll-press. The hint of mana, unlike at the primary engines, was still strong. There was Evocation, Conjuration, and a heavy dose of Transmutation and Enchantment; all rolled into one. "Wally!" she called out to her assistant. "Get over here. I think I've found something." It took the others almost ten minutes to navigate the innards of the printing press. Without so much as a grimace, Wally stuck a hand into the rollers and felt its press-plates. "Still wet. Someone's been using this section." "What is it? A small printing engine?" Wally growled. "Aye, ma'am, looks like parts clogged together from that mess over yonder. That's OUR spare parts, mind you. The Marchioness is owed debt." Gwen looked at the rusted, tangled heap that was once a fully functional newspaper press, said to churn out a hundred thousand papers a day. Now, it looked like a machinist's nightmare. "Locals?" "We'll see." Wally uncovered a panel. With some hesitation, he punched in a few Glyphs, and the van-sized press churned into life. A roll of almost-exhausted paper began to turn. From the top of the machine-tower, several drums slowly spun, some taking up ink from a plumbed feeder, another glistened with purified water. A loud hiss, followed by groaning metal turned the cogs, flywheels spun, sparks flew here and there, then the rear of the machine shat out a quart of black oil. CHONK! CHONK! CHONK! A pair of teeth at the bottom of the press gnashed. Somewhere to the left, a roll of prints emerged. Gwen picked up a sheet. There was a Mandala-looking inscription on the letterhead. "The Tower of Tandoori," Gwen read. "Serving the finest exotics from the East Indies. Butter Chicken, Tikka Masala, Chicken Biryani. Catering available. Call 20 7237 2247 for a booking. 14 Duchess Walk. Closed Mondays." Wally smacked his lips. "I am not sure what I expected," the gruff soldier stated blankly. "Revolutionary pamphlets?" Ollie remarked, taking one to read himself. "A secret meeting place? Spectre Cabal?" "Yes, Spectre meets there on Mondays." Gwen stowed a copy in her ring. She now knew where to have lunch. "Someone's going to pay." "For using our parts?" Gwen shook her head. "If they can bang this together from that, we need to find them and give them a job." Wally's face turned indignant, as did Ollie's. "They're burglars!" "Industrious ones, with skill and innovation," Gwen corrected her groundskeeper. "Put that on your to-do, Wally. Find out who these people are. Tell them they're in no trouble and that they should keep working here. I formally give consent. However, they should refrain from looting the press until I can get someone to come in and have a look. Also, I need an office near here, or in here— but away from the noise." Wally bowed his head. "Gwen, you can't be serious about this printing business," Ollie spluttered. "This is such a waste of your time! You're an Omni-Mage, what are you—" "Ollie— let me stop you there." Gwen waved a hand so that she cut him off mid-sentence. "In time, I shall prove you wrong. Until then, just watch. Don't forget— you're not my keeper. If I require advice, I shall ask for it. If Lady Loftus did not trust in my abilities, she would have sent you to the isle instead." The Glyph on the wall proved a little excessive for Ollie, whose mouth pursed sulkily. Frustrated, he scratched his head, shedding a few hairs. "Wally, call the owner of this place. Tell them I have assumed control of the lease-hold. Negotiate a price for all this 'junk'. Emphasise the scrap metal— and say the 'estate' needs its debts repaid. If they're willing, we'll call it even. If not, call me, and I'll explain to the Marchioness just how much she stands to profit. Tell Halifax— tell them the interest is accruing as we speak..." "But there isn't..." "There is now." "I see." Wally swallowed. "I'll not disappoint, ma'am." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. "Good, get it done. As for the clean-up, you have until mid-January." Gwen materialised a crystal box. "Here's two-thousand HDMs. Keep a record of all your expenditures, and Message me if you need to make extra-large purchases over a thousand HDMs." "No such need." Wally opened the currency-box. "I shall locate and clear out the old office. I recall it was in the northern quadrant, beside the press-plate storage. The local labourers are inexpensive." Wally pushed back a thousand HDMs. Gwen pushed back. "We'll do a soup kitchen. And free lunch for labourers. Meat, vegetable, all that." Gwen gestured to Elvia. "Put everything under Evee's name." "What?" Elvia raised both brows. "Gwen, what are you doing? That's your money!" "Call it an experiment." Gwen conjured another set of 100 HDM currency cards. "Which reminds me. Take these and get a clinic set up in the local town hall. I'll hire a few temps from the Tower. I reckon 'Elvia's Blessed-Heart Foundation' sounds about right. Get her face known, maybe make some iconography. Ollie?" "Y-yes?" "You're an illusionist, right?" "I am." "Good, I want a big projection of Evee at the soup-kitchen and clinic." "But—" Elvia protested before Ollie could interject. "Gwen, it's all your money!" "I can spend my money how I wish." Gwen patted her Evee on the head. "You wanted to help the villagers, right? Are you going to refuse now? The charity will be in 'your' name. I'll be its director and you, its spiritual spokesperson. I can compensate you if you're unwilling—" "I'll do it!" Elvia's eyes grew bright. "I want to help the villagers!" "Of course, whatever your heart desires." Gwen's smile grew calculating. "Get Mattie to come as well. Damned Knight's got to earn his keep. My future taxes will be going into his upkeep." "Alright..." Elvia nodded obediently. "Good. Wally?" "It will be done, ma'am." Wally saluted. The housekeeper appeared appreciative of the fact that every command came bundled with HDMs. Gwen produced her Prestidigitation box and cleaned her hand and soiled boot, likewise running the cantrip over Elvia and the rest. "What now?" Ollie drew a shuddering breath before replying through petulant lips. "Back to the villages? Feed the poor? Give jobs to the masses? Hug an NoM child?" "I like your enthusiasm," Gwen said with a smirk. "Let's head back to the Tower. I need to check the estate's CC count and put in requests for healers— after that, let's bring the charitable spirit of Christmas to Millwall and Cubitt." His fringe had thinned. Ollie came to that realisation when finally, dead tired, the trio returned to the estate at Mudchute. Between his thumb and forefinger, he held a few loose strands. Gwen's hair was black and velvety, so healthy that Ollie oft felt an urge to wrap a fistful around his hand. Elvia's was fair and flaxen, full of Positive Mana. Wally was half-bald and had little to lose, meaning these definitely belonged to him. Following the horrid printing press, they had walked around the city non-stop. First, they went to London's City Council Chambers, where Gwen spent almost three hours working out how to lodge a new Charity Organisation under her and Elvia's name. Unfamiliar with the city's nefarious bureaucracy, she grew dangerously frustrated until a middle-tier manager, sweating from every pore, materialised to appease the irate War Mage. After that exhaustive encounter, they returned to The Shard to recruit no less than ten healers to be stationed in the Isle of Dogs for three months, spending 300 of her credits and 300 from the estate's coffers, as well as another thousand HDMs. In the late afternoon, starving and irate, the trio arrived at the Tower of Tandoori. Gwen ordered Demi-human dishes that smelled and tasted as intense and fiery as they looked, giving Ollie such an upset that he had to circulate mana for hours just to keep his intestines inside his lower body. When he asked the girl how she faired with the aftermath of this "Vindaloo", the bright-eyed sorceress replied with complete candidness. "I am used to the heat, to be honest. That and I've got these magical undies—" "NO!" Ollie held her mouth before quickly removing his hands as though he'd gripped a sizzling branding iron. Red-faced, he admonished her for discussing drawers in public, shushing his House-sister in the strongest possible terms. "Never say that in polite company!" he warned her, as Lady Loftus has instructed. "Never! Some topics are taboo! They're unmentionable!" The girl had laughed in his "prudish" face, which made Ollie's chest sore. He could see in her eyes that she understood, but simply did not care. Afterwards, following a report from Wally, they returned to the isle to inspect the future address of the temporary clinic. That was the other thing driving Ollie up the wall. First, why did she care at all for NoMs? From the way she spoke to them, he could see that her inappropriate social-distancing was genuine. There was no superficiality in the way she talked to the muddy-booted scum dredged up from the thalweg of the Thames. In his eyes, Gwen chummed with the common muck as naturally as she interacted with him! A Magus of Cambridge! What was worse, she had taken the same tone with the Marchioness! When they had first met, and Gwen had sat beside the Lady of Ely, he had thought her a noble— plausibly, as they whispered in the corridors, a bastard of Ravenport. Now, he had no idea, for only someone who had spent much of their time among the folk of the street could understand their cockney accents. To Ollie, the damned NoMs sounded like they were clearing their throat or gargling rocks! And this clinic business, the speed in which it was happening was giving him whiplash. Did the girl have no concept of capital? Or rather, who was supplying her with her seemingly limitless war chest? She hadn't even sold her Creature Cores yet! Between the morning and the evening, some two thousand HDMs had been dispensed into Millwall and Cubitt, enough for a term of Spellcraft training, with lodging! Without delay, lured by the promise of cold, hard LDMs, men had lined up to clear out an old warehouse while women by the dozen scrubbed the floors. By the mid-afternoon, beside the new "clinic", a small mountain of garbage threatened to tip into the river. At first, when Gwen used Bilby's Hand to compact the trash, Ollie had thought she was about to throw the lot into the Thames. Then the girl blasted the trash with Void. Ollie recalled screaming another "No!" VOID MAGIC! That rare and priceless resource of the Empire, an element that taxed the body and soul! Every use diminished the caster until they wasted away. "We can't be polluting the Thames, Ollie old boy." Gwen had furrowed her brows before letting loose another tier 4 Elemental Sphere. The first stage all but consumed the remaining pile; the second stage levelled out the terrain. "Don't wrinkle your face like that. I am good for a dozen of these without too much drama." The NoMs fell about fainting and vomiting at first— then appeared to adapt with a frightful resilience befitting the verminous multitudes. In the late afternoon, Mathias Rothwell, a Knight from the Ordo of St Michael, rendezvoused with their party. Ollie had imagined the Knight an ally, but the quiet young man went about enacting the behest of his healer without complaint. Afterwards, at supper time, all the servants from Mudchute manor descended, using the cleared warehouse as a base, they started a soup kitchen of sorts, serving Spam. SPAM! Ollie's vindaloo-ravaged innards cramped just thinking about it. Spam and cabbage soup. Spam, egg and rice. Grilled Spam with mustard. Spam in brown sauce. Ollie's innards revolted just thinking of the mysterious Wildland meat. "Hang in there, Ollie!" Elvia had mopped the sweat from his brows, soothing his tortured soul. "Evee! More benedictions!" Gwen cracked her whip. "Come get your SPAM and BLESS! Groups of five! Don't rush, plenty to go around! Those who worked get first dibs and a second-serving!" "Thank yee, missus! Thank yee so much!" There were some two thousand people between Cubitt and Millwall, meaning the manor's staff had to work until midnight. Ollie had thought at first that the NoMs would rush the tables, or swarm Miss Elvia and was going to conjure some illusory deterrents. Gwen, however, was way ahead of him. All around the perimeter, a dozen pony-sized Wolfhounds, best-in-breed, kept the crowd honest. Additionally, her Void snake hissed at rowdy individuals while her Kirin hovered overhead, sniffing the sycophants petitioning the visage of Elvia he had earlier glamoured. All the while, the stoic Mathias stood guard beside Miss Lindholm, one hand on the pommel of his Spellblade, smiling serenely at the NoMs, glowing faintly with undisguised Radiance. When finally, all was said and done, Ollie sat in his room, trying to digest the last twelve hours. The reason for his whiplash, he slowly realised, was that Gwen had made good on all her pledges— that was the cause of his ontological crisis. When he and his fellow Mages debated at Speaker's Corner regarding the malaise of London, it was just that— talk. Which among them would walk among the destitute? Who would want to spend Christmas and New Years feeding the poor? Even Ollie, who saw himself as a pillar of propriety, had worked for Saint Vincent's twice in his life. Once when he was a Prefect at Eton, leading by example, and once during his first year at Cambridge. Comparatively, since the Frontier girl came to London, she had escaped to Wales, obliterated two armies of Trolls, saved a Dwarven Commandrumm, dug out a Hags Core, titillated the tabloids, and now she was bringing alms to the poor? And tomorrow or the day after, a troop of Clerics would arrive to treat the sick of Millwall and Cubitt, gratis. She had even declared compensated employment for those who labour to maintain the township! Sweep its streets! Shovel the mud into the river?! And Gwen had promised new roads, new buildings, new jobs at the printing press and in construction, all in one speech— all in front of a warm and just-fed audience still buzzing with Elvia's Blessing. She even said that there would be a Magister who would later arrive to oversee the operations and maintain the peace, one who had experience lording over a continental Frontier. Ollie's temple throbbed. There was so much to digest that his brain felt like Butter Chicken. When he closed his eyes, the faces of the smiling folk haunted him. These bright, hopeful mouths, loudly chewing Spam, their lips red as ketchup. Were these NoMs the norm? He wondered. He knew NoMs, of course. They worked at the Tower as janitors and cleaners, semi-invisible in their grey tunics and white hats. Out in the country, he'd seen happy and well-fed NoMs, but these usually worked for a benevolent Lord or Lady on large, expansive estates. He had never seen NoMs, their clothes grimy with scum, hands grubby with the dockland's ever-present dust, laugh and cry and eat and talk about their families. Was a job sweeping the docks worthy of roof-rattling cheers? Was a position ferrying bricks enough to make a grown man weep? "They'll soon turn back into their dreary, conniving selves," or so he told Mathias, who humoured him with a nod. But nothing explained his hair. He was only twenty-six! The Praelector despaired. There was no pattern-baldness in his bloodline, so it must be something else. A disease? That was impossible, for the ever-attentive Miss Elvia would have known. What could it be? Christmas descended, blanketing the estate of Cliveden. Unlike the Commonwealth-wide Midnight Mass held at Westminster by Primate Archbishop Lorde Wembley, Lucy Astor's gathering served a more earthly purpose— the collection of social currency. It was because Lucy Waldorf Astor was not like the other Lords and Ladies of the English nobility. First of all, she was among the wealthiest, which instantly rose her above the ordinary, blue-blood claptrap. Secondly, she was American by birth. Thirdly, and perhaps with more complex than most would admit— she's not an Astor, nor a noble. Which is not to say the upper crust looked down on her. Instead, it was her being a stranger that made her endearing. In days of yore, the Astor family had its roots in old England, holding a traditional seat in Plymouth, Sutton. At the turn of the last century, the English side had dwindled, while the American branch prospered profoundly in the New World. When, after the Beast Tide, no more British Astors remained to inherit the title, the American Astors sent their first son, Waldorf Astor, across the ocean to take care of business. It was a subversive move, for the famous Waldorf was an infamous alcoholic with a choleric temper to match his bank account. His birth mother perished when he was a boy, and his ambitious step-mother had given birth to a second son with prodigal talent. Though many of the nobility of London looked down on the young Waldorf, they humoured him for his wealth, a resource sorely needed to rebuild Britain's tattered, post-tide Empire. And this was where Waldorf's young, charming wife came onto the scene. Beautiful and possessing a cutting wit, she diffused one crisis after another, tying together a web of patrons. Thanks to her guidance, the Sutton Astors regained its place among the House of Lords. The Chain of Being was restored, and in time, the wonderful and always charming Lady Astor gave birth to an heir— "Bobby". And for two decades, things were reportedly well. Until Bobby perished in the Mediterranean, fighting an otherwise mundane battle against the Mermen. If the fight had been better fought, or perhaps if the stakes were higher, Lord Astor might have taken his son's death better— but the fact remained that Bobby died in a foolish mishap. It was unfortunate, but by the time their son's body teleported back into Athens, the Merman's venom had all but turned half his blood into jelly. The Temple of Apollo did what they could, but in the end— a promising young Mage died because he and his team forgot to equip themselves with upper-tier injectors. It was a purposeless death— nihilistic as mud, and all the more unfortunate for Bobby's uncommon blood. Now heirless, it took five years for Lord Astor to drink himself to an early grave. An impressive feat, considering the Astor's access to medicinal and magical healing. In his final days, Dwarven brew proved too potent for modern magic, even when interwoven with Faith. Pragmatically, the New York Astors desired to reinstate their claim by having her remarry a nephew or a branch member. Lucy told them they would have to Transmute a ring onto her cold, dead finger. She wasn't afraid of them; with so many entwined interests, the Brits had her back. Widowed and still grieving the loss of her son, Viscountess Lucy Astor assumed her role as the Heiress of Cliveden. To prove herself, she would replace Waldolf's seat in the House of Lords with another in the House of Commons. Of all her nest eggs, the GOS Hospital for Children proved her favourite, largely because her husband had sponsored the hospital in Bobby's name. Waldorf's charity had proved sound, for Lucy had gained a position sorely needed to distract her from the unyielding grief. In a way, her famous parties served the same purpose, especially when paired with politics. From noon, high tea was served at the grand hall, followed by an endless stream of canapés flowing from three kitchens, servicing the hundreds of guests flooding the concourse. In the chapel, the choir practised with the nuns, while the Bishop of Exeter polished his sermon. Out on the estate, hundreds more strolled through the extensive gardens, engaged in amorous rendezvous in the maze, or fought duels in the gymnasium. Trailing the room with a train of silvery silk, Lady Astor glided as though mercury slipping through the air, her poise unmatched by the younger upstarts with their pushed-up bosom and smokey eyes. Though she was no longer young, her generosity with crystals had afforded whatever longevity the Wildlands could supply. "Milady." A maid curtsied beside her mistress, awaiting her pleasure. "Yes, Lily?" "Miss Lindholm has arrived," the maid replied. "She has?" The Lady's smile was genuine. "I am well pleased. Is our little angel alone?" "No, ma'am. She's brought company." "Oh?" Lady Astor's ruby-red lips grew rigid. A young man, perhaps? She felt a mote of disappointment. "Who has taken my adorable little cherub under his wing?" "Gwen Song, milady." The maid lowered her eyes, her voice trembled. "Miss Elvia is with the Devourer of Shenyang."

"Kilroy's ward?" Lucy Astor's mind conjured forth an impressionable mien, a Phantom IV, and an outrageous short summer dress. The Lady of Cliveden had few vices and the gossip column was one of them. "Mycroft's bastard?" The maid said nothing. An excellent servant did not presume. "Where's Dickie now?" "At the Duke's Garden, madam, with Exeter and Landsdowne, dealing in the dark." Lucy felt the corner of her lips curling. "Why do the men always act like they're a cabal of warlocks? Nonetheless, this ought to be interesting. Where are our pups from the press?" "Airing themselves among the parterre." "Corral a pair to the Duke's Garden. And tell Nellie to bring Miss Lindholm to the Garden as well. And our Devourer, naturally." "Aye, ma'am." "Do pass on my most sincere courtesy." Lucy Astor's eyes informed her maid that the Lady of Cliveden was in one of her moods. "Let us see how Kilroy's Apprentice performs." With ambivalence, Mathias followed the girls at a distance, not wanting to be too close to the Devourer of Shenyang, while fearing rebuke should he stray too far from Elvia Lindholm. Then there was the fact that he was exhausted. It wasn't the sort of fatigue that came from defending a keep until the eleventh hour against the Mermen tide. It wasn't even the tiredness he felt drilling Spells until he was OoM. It was an exhaustion of the mind, of administering the destitute for two days straight, assuring strangers that Miss Elvia would soon be free to oversee their ailment. Until midday, Gwen and her conspiracy from Mudchute had busied themselves with the spirit of what she called "A True Christmas Miracle", curing the sickest among the residents of the Isle of Dogs. Naturally, by then, the news had spread, and NoMs from Blackwall to Poplar and Greenwich had come in search of a meal and a heal. Thankfully, three mid-tier Clerics had arrived from the Tower, taking over some of Elvia's duties. Concurrently, against a backdrop of Elvia's face plastered across the back of the warehouse, the hungry received their Spam and pumpkin soup and black bread. Elsewhere, the ex-foremen of the docks took on their former roles, gathering the abled-bodied to sell them a dream of fairly-compensated labour. For some strange reason, Gwen had made the Praelector from Cambridge conjure up a jolly image of who he could only assume to be Saint Nicholas and to decorate a large, mostly dead tree. Despite having changed out of their grimy, NoM-molested attires and then teleported from London to Heathrow to Cliveden, Mathias felt stuck in transit. Having spent so much time among NoMs; he now felt repressed by the grandeur of Lady Astor's Estate. Of the two extremes, which did he prefer? The Knight fought down an impulsive and chaotic thought. To walk among the insects who saw him as an avatar of compassion and charity, or to return to the shadow among the genteel folk? The Knight of St Michael had no answers, at least not without betraying a deeper part of his Oath. Ahead, his ward glowed in a corseted silk dress Gwen had produced from her Ring. The train was modest, an arm's length at most, and the flowing fabric enchanted to repel grime and dust. On the dress's front, an intricate jadeite necklace, threaded with silver, marked Elvia's collarbones, sloping the fabric between the gentle swell of the healer's bosoms. Besides his Cleric, the Devourer of Shenyang herself wore an oriental dress made from moth silk, elegant and contoured, but also skin-hugging and risqué. To cover her otherwise exposed arms and shoulders, the girl wore a sky-blue stole, adding to her natural elegance. Their Praelector, who had thought he was coming with them, was given orders to return to Peterhouse's Matron. "I've got Mathias with us." Gwen had glanced at him. "Besides, I am a hoot when it comes to parties." "I don't know…" Ollie Edwards had made several appeals. "Ollie, go home." Gwen's voice grew stern. "I am spending Xmas with Evee, just Evee. Is that understood?" Though the Magus was her superior, the man nodded. Mathias felt a bout of sympathy and compassion, wondering if he had found a fellow sufferer. He was indebted to Gwen due to the events at the Gulch, as well as in the hope that one day, she would put in a word with Lord Shultz. "Miss Lindholm!" The callout from a maid stirred Mathias from his mental stupor. "Nellie!" Elvia tottered forward. "The Lady is beyond pleased that you could make it." The maid, prim in her penguin two-tone, bowed. "You are cordially invited to the Duke's garden to accompany her ladyship." Mathias observed the exchange, especially when Elvia re-introduced "Nellie" as one of the three head maids of Cliveden. The Duke's Garden? The VIP section of the Estate, used only for the entertainment of Lucy Astor's most select friends? "Miss Nellie," the Knight intruded, mindful of his position. "May I ask why the Duke's Garden? We're perfectly happy to meet her in the central ballroom, or the guest dining inside Cliveden House itself." "I can't say." Nellie remained bowed. "If you would follow me?" The trio followed. It wasn't as though the girls could refuse, not with the head of Cliveden House calling for them explicitly. Even if they didn't know Lady Astor on a personal level, the courtesy had to be repaid. Although like all the other guards, he would be left out in the cold. Duke's Garden. Cliveden. Of the dozen English gardens surrounding the three hundred-odd acres of Cliveden, the Duke's Garden was the sole original from before the Astor family renovated the home into one of the most extensive estates in Britain. Walled on all sides by Wildland flower beds, the Garden consisted of an acreage of elevated sandstone, built for privacy and warded from wind, rain and Divination by an elaborate underground Mandala. To enter, one negotiated the two guards standing outside, each holding the rank of Magus. Other guards patrolled the Garden's exterior, awaiting a call from their masters should the conversation turn sour. Mycroft Ravenport knew the Lady of Cliveden was up to something the moment two reporters, one from the Telegraph and the other from the Sun Herald, wandered into the Garden's confined spaces. In truth, the Duke of Norfolk didn't much like Lucy Astor, "American" Heiress, and neither did she like him. They were partners in many ventures; however, he needed her business contacts across the borders, and she, his iron hand in whipping the nobles into line. In his younger days, he would have suggested that the woman's presence tarnished the Chain of Being and the dignity of the nobility. Now, he could only concede that few among the blue-bloods had half the wit as Lady Astor. The obsession with breeding for talent, Mycroft confessed, had brought a terrible toll. Exeter's twin morons, Mycroft shuddered, were evidence of that. The profitability of Lady Astor also made her a curious being among the Factions. In temperament and politics, he would gladly call her one of his own. Yet, the Lady of Cliveden professed on joining either the Middle Path Faction, or be without one; the latter being what the Factions preferred. To have Astor fiddle with the Middle Faction's complex politics created vast unknowns— while having her as an independent would at least make the woman's profiteering predictable. Sheepishly, like conjured imps, the reporters slinked among the roses. Most of the upper class took no notice. Others, like Mycroft, dimmed their presence, wondering if their host was seeking a frontpage shot to entertain her bid for the House of Commons. Lucy had acumen, Mycroft respected that. If only the woman weren't American. She wasn't a raven-haired prodigy like his late wife but kept well enough to be desirable still for many of their ilks. Which was why when Lady Astor entered the Garden, gliding across the blue-green lawn like a shimmering bloom, the men turned to bow. Very soon, Lady Astor gathered around her a small swarm of crystal-chasing bumbling nincompoops, much like a nature goddess for fools. Mycroft himself chose the shadows offered by the Devil's Pothos. There were a time and place for the limelight. Even the role of an officious parliamentarian did not make him anymore noticeable outside Downing Street. He was British-looking, not good-looking, meaning it was easy to glamour the part to suit the occasion— or fade into the fog. The Duke of Norfolk was just about to smirk when his half-formed smile was forcibly torn from his thin, pale lips. Emerging from the gate was a vision in pale blue, slender and tall and clad in gossamer from the Ming Dynasty. When the girl moved, her shawl lingered like a scent, turning heads and pausing conversations for the briefest of seconds. Behind Gwen Song came a shorter lass in cold white, emerging as a shocking burst of gold-blonde hair. Elvia Lindholm, Mycroft recalled. She must be the companion Gwen saved in Ystradfellte. The girl's dress suited her youthful body well, accentuating what she did possess, and making what she lacked less memorable. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. As for Gwen Song, with her raven hair swishing at the waist, Mycroft couldn't help but be reminded of another girl-child from long ago, following a Deathless Mage like a bright-eyed kitten. _Bung! PA!_ Lumen-globes flashed. Mycroft grew increasingly self-aware of the fact that the eyes in the Garden were now looking for someone— and that someone was him. Across the Garden's lantern-lit trellises and ancient touchstone walls, two pairs of eyes met across time and space. Mycroft's nose itched, his attention-dimming obfuscation rarely failed. The girl's mouth mimed a word. F—? Father? Mycroft's scalp crawled. If the girl dared to say that aloud in public and within the lens of the reporters, Mycroft would have half a mind to reinvigorate the magic he had reportedly left unused for two decades. Such a deluge of Dust would arrive from the heavens that from this day forth, the Duke's Garden would change its chronicle to adhere to Norfolk. Thankfully, the girl's vivid irises passed like cold water, shifting toward Lady Astor. The girl smirked. What is this? Ravenport felt his spell-finger twitch. Was the girl saying this was a favour? He felt assaulted by absurdity. If so, did she expect him to repay it? Dare the girl try to tease her betters? One capable of ejecting her from the Material Plane itself, damn the consequences? Elvia wasn't sure if she respected, or feared Lady Astor's fierce affection. Perhaps only Lucy Astor's maids knew, but the woman had told Elvia more of her life, of Robert and of Wardolf, than was proper for the friendship between the head of a Noble House and a stray girl picked up from the gutters. Or perhaps, as Gwen had informed her— Elvia precisely presented what the Lady needed. The woman had lost a son and then a husband, and she had to abide by the stiff-upper-lip attitude. If so, why shouldn't a plushie like Elvia become a source of her ladyship's soul-soothing escapism? Elvia did not believe it of course, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. The Lady of Cliveden was upset, but her outward expression was always one of fairness and unbearable sternness. If Gwen was right, then wasn't she, a young woman with no connections to anyone, the perfect sponge for the Lady's unresolved emotions? "ELVIAAA!" Lady Astor's thrilling voice called across the courtyard of the floral Garden, stirring the scent. "Come here, young lady." Her leggy companion fell back, allowing Elvia to lead. The move made Elvia nervous, especially considering the size of her heels and the irregular cobblestones. Without much grace, the Cleric tottered toward Lady Astor until, half a meter from the Lady, she fell into the woman's motherly arms. "My golden cherub, back at last." The Mistress of Cliveden squeezed Elvia about the shoulders to steady her. "And this must be the intrepid Miss Song." Besides Elvia, Gwen raised her chin elegantly. Her companion had no trouble navigating anything in heels, striding on stilettos with a natural sense of balance. A little scandalously, the porcelain-wrapped young woman curtsied, showing off as much as she had intended. "You're rather infamous, Gwen." "Shenyang was a necessity, ma'am." Gwen raised her chin, finding herself two inches taller than their host. "It was life or Undeath— I chose life." "Well said." Their hostess clapped. "Elvia has told me much about you. I have also watched ALL of your matches." "I am flattered." Gwen smiled back. The whole exchange was happening above Elvia's hastily piled curls. "I hope I can live up to both your expectations." "You have already, Miss MVP of the IIUC." Lady Astor studied Elvia's companion. "Milady, surely you jest." Her friend's body tensed with a sudden thrill. "You think far too highly of me." "I do not think the 'impossible' is something you're known to abide by." Lady Astor's smile was untouched. "I am a sponsor, you should know, for the competition. One of its financiers. I have a direct ley-line to Brussels. As usual, Oxford shall take the cake this year, though I am always happy to see a dark horse." "I am unworthy." Elvia's friend bowed her head, accepting the reality with a hidden grin and a careful bite of her lips to preserve her makeup. "That's wonderful, Gwen!" Elvia gushed for her friend's growing fortunes, feeling such happiness that she was on the verge of soaring. "As repayment, dear," the Lady continued. "What is your relationship to Dickie?" The nobles around them grew silent. Crystal flutes that had been kissing sultry lips now rested against expectant bosoms. "Strictly business?" Gwen spoke with such innocence that Elvia had to laugh. "A bold answer." "Completely professional of course," Gwen continued. "Without a doubt, the good Duke and I shall share an orbit, whether I desire his company or otherwise, so I'll not fight his advances." "You tease us, surely!" The Lady was enjoying herself immensely. One of the paper men raised a hand. "What's there to tease?" Gwen shrugged, presenting herself so that she seemed to glow. Facing the two men from the press, she made her favourite tea kettle pose. "Observe— Here are my hands, these are my knees— I know the rags want a big strip-tease, but come on, get serious! The Duke and I barely know each other. If anything, we started in the opposite camp." Lady Astor leaned in closer so that Elvia was squished between the two women. With each cheek against a bit of side-boob, the two women continued their pantomime. "Yes. From what I know of Sydney... you should be at each other's throats. Poor Henry, he was the best of us." "He was." "And Norfolk?" "Why, what did the Duke do to me?" "I wonder…" "Lady Astor," Gwen stated firmly so that all present heard. "I shall state this very clearly. The Duke of Norfolk is a most excellent gentleman. I know none among you who would profess yourself his enemy— come! I dare you to declare yourself here and now—" The crowd was silently rivetted. It wasn't every day that a Manticore strolled into Rome and gave birth in front of a live audience. "I see— and therefore I, a young waif from the Frontier, shall not short sell myself. I do not know if any of you call yourself a true friend of the Duke either. BUT I have been instructed by the Duke and can offer one insight. The Duke of Norfolk and I are of the same breed: We have no permanent enemies and no permanent allies, only permanent _interests."_ "Well said!" Lady Astor clapped while the crowd tried to read between the lines. "Well done, I say! I wholly agree!" Elvia jostled so that she could escape from the two women pressing in, Gwen was tugging on her wrist, but Lady Astor had her shoulders well-arrested. "Mycroft, come and join us!" Lady Astor announced. Elvia felt her blood freeze. Was Gwen aware that the Duke of Norfolk was here? Was the most powerful man in Britain watching them the whole time? How terrible it must be to be talking behind a Duke's back! W-would he slap her? From the darknesses, a sliver of twilight peeled from the shadows. The Duke of Norfolk. Earl Marshall and the Lord of the College of Arms. The Lord Great Chamberlain who sat beside and below the Sovereign's Orb made his appearance known to Elvia's wide and trembling eyes. "Milord." "Your Grace." "Ser Duc…" The others made room for their senior-ranked companion. "Milady Astor has 'goaded' quite the 'tease' from our Devourer of Shenyang." The Lord of Norfolk remarked in a rather unremarkable manner. "Another addition to your collection?" Elvia tried to study the man as Gwen had, but found Mycroft Ravenport's face utterly unreadable. In her eyes, though the gauntly cheek-boned blue-blood appeared amiable, she still felt intimidated to the marrow. "You jest." Lady Astor feigned a blush so well that for a moment, Elvia thought her ladyship had materialised a fan. "I am perfectly comfortable here, in my little cottage at Sutton. What would I need to know of the big wide world?" "For one so professedly impoverished," the Duke remarked coldly. "You know far too much, Lady Astor." "Its the Lady's business to know," Gwen intervened, her rudeness causing the lesser nobles to flinch. "I know a businesswoman when I see one." Elvia's glowing blue eyes darted between the trio, lost for words for their meaningless words. How did these people even communicate? They're speaking in tongues! "Lady Astor." Elvia's friend abruptly revived the conversation. "I trust you because you've looked after Evee like one of your own. May I interest you in a curious business proposal?" The Duke of Norfolk coughed. "Go ahead." Lady Astor ignored the Duke's reprimand. "What is it, dear?" "Elvia is now the head of her very own 'Blessed-Heart Foundation'," Gwen began. "She is?" Lady Astor appeared surprised, or at least Elvia believed she did. "How exciting! An enterprise of her own!" "And I am her executor in this venture," Gwen continued. "We've set up at the Isle of Dogs. By the way, I am now the isle's legal administrator and custodian…" Both Ravenport and Astor raised their chins this time. "… and I shall, in the next three to four years, develop the docklands into a major commercial and residential region, not to mention, revitalise the lives of the NoMs there." "The old docklands?" Ravenport sneered. "Fool girl, the Royal Docks are…" "I've no interest in the Dock's business. I know very well this isn't Nantong," Gwen snapped back. "And this is an offer for Lady Astor. Although, your grace and the lords are all welcome to participate. He and I are, after all, bound..." Elvia felt shaken when the Duke of Norfolk visibly frowned for the first time. "… as associates of my late Master, Henry Kilroy." The crowd around the duo made knowing faces. "For now, I am cleaning the place up for Elvia. Her Foundation will be a self-sustaining charity, one that should hold some promise. Lady Astor, it would be my greatest pleasure to invite you as a visitor and a future investor." Ravenport's paper-thin lips formed a barely perceptible line. "I would love to participate. As they say, the early Roc gets the Wyrm!" Lady Astor clapped. "Isn't that so, Elvia?" "Gwen's very good at making Crystals," Elvia assured her sponsor. "She's put several thousand into the Foundation already, and cleaned up the two hamlets in a matter of days!" "Evee means she's done it," Gwen corrected the girl in their midst. "Without Evee, I'd rightly say the folk there would still be wallowing in the muck dredged up from the Thames. We've set up a soup kitchen and a clinic, nothing unusual…" Gwen again addressed the two reporters lurking in the shadows. "… you two, a picture of us all together? Remember, this here is Elvia Lindholm, over yonder is the Isle of Dogs! This year, they're finally receiving the spirit of Christmas!" The reporters appeared hesitant. Lady Astor smiled her smile. The men both raised their Lumen Recorders. "Make sure Elvia isn't left out." The Lady gathered them close so that the Duke of Norfolk couldn't escape. "Say Dragons!" _BUNG!_ Memory Crystals flared. "Toying with masses is a dangerous sport," Ravenport muttered as their bodies separated. "They're playthings to you perhaps, but to me, they're the Empire's chief resource." "Come see for yourself," Gwen muttered back. "I don't need your approval. I've got Lady Grey's." "Are you asking me to up your ante?" "Is your present plotting too uninspiring?" "Don't test me, whelp." "Don't threaten me, old man." A cold, scalp-chilling dryness permeated. Once again, Elvia felt the aura of her companion crush her in their midst. "Hahahaha…." Lady Astor's thrilling laughter cut in between the two like a knife. "That's enough, you two. You speak as though you are…" Before Elvia's eyes, Gwen and Mycroft tore themselves apart. Ravenport in his suit of dark fabrics, Gwen in her showy, leggy dress. The Cleric breathed a sigh of relief. She was sure that had the two continued, the Duke's Garden may acquire a new reputation. _Bung!_ The reflectors fired. "… the same breed of people, as Gwen had supposed." Lady Astor golf clapped. "Alright, let us go to the chapel. It's almost time for the mass. Then after that, I would love to see Miss Song here demonstrate some of that rare devouring ability." "You want Gwen to fight?" Elvia's eyes blinked. "To cement for Gwen a useful reputation, and perform a courtesy for our Lady of Ely." Lucy Astor's lips twisted. "Elvia, Gwen's a fighter. Her ability is a part of who she represents to the Mageocracy. As a direct recipient of your friend's prowess, don't ever shun away from it." "I— I see." Elvia lowered her chin. She knew Gwen enjoyed the fight, but she did not enjoy the sight of her friend fighting. When she watched the IIUC, every time her friend's Shield was struck, each time Gwen grunted and reeled from the blowback of a Void Spell, her heart was rendered sore. But Lady Astor was right. Gwen's battle ability, much like her acumen for crystals, was a defining part of her identity, as innate as her desire to aid the needy, no matter how impoverished. "Time to start the main course." Gwen pivoted her heel so that her dress briefly billowed, causing Elvia's thoughts to go blank. "And after that, dessert."

Christmas Mass was as magical as Gwen had anticipated, involving four rows of adolescent girls in white, each carrying Globes of Illumination, filling the sandstone cathedral with heavenly voices. The head girl, an elfin blonde, wore six illuminating Ioun Stones, appearing haloed with radiance. The service opened with popular hymns, then a rousing speech by the Bishop of Exeter on the nature of giving in the spirit of the Nazarene. Choir favourites followed, mostly in English, a few in Latin, followed by Lady Astor's well-wishes to the attendees. At the service's conclusion, a basket came and went for donations to the poor. Gwen filled in Elvia's and Mathias' tithe, not wanting the penniless duo to lose face, as her Chinese cousins would say. The Duke of Norfolk, Gwen noticed, had no time for something as trivial as charity and carols, having gone his merry way as soon as the garden's business concluded. With the sourpuss gone, she could relax and enjoy the spectacle of Christmas at Cliveden. Post sermon, a Faith-laced Blessing from the Bishop warded the crowd from illness and disease and dispelled the British winter. After the final "Amen!" was delivered, the guests exited the private cathedral. Following the night's activities, they gathered outside the Duelling Pavilion, where servitor Mages had engendered an early spring. From what Gwen could see, Cliveden ran a proper setup, with underground barrier generators hooked up to the estate's ley-lines. The terrain modifying Transmutation slabs also appeared more complex than the ones she had seen in Rosebay. Overhead, the shimmering Walls of Force extended upward well over fifty meters. "So, do you think I'll be duelling folk or eating monsters?" Gwen queried her companions. Unlike her previous locales, Lady Astor's well-dressed guests meandered, all the while attended by the staff. Rather than a gladiatorial pit, the hedge garden made the arena akin to a rich man's menagerie, where the contestants were the exotics on display. "Or eating fo—" "MAGICAL Beasts, I would imagine," Mathias interrupted from behind Elvia, now serving the pair as their chaperone. There was a maid-attendant as well, though the smiling, middle-aged woman said nothing and simply allowed the trio to wander. "Mattie, stay here with Evee while I scope the joint," Gwen reassured her friend, then stalked her way down to the lawn. The Knight should know what to do if someone 'handsy' showed up— to shield Evees from undesired attention was the modus operandi of a Knight Protector. As for herself, Gwen knew her luck with parties. If she could get away without at least one Lightning-fried challenger, she would be doing well. Currently, the duelling arena was occupied. Inside, a bloke in his mid-twenties, an Air Evoker-Transmuter by the looks of his mana signature, squared off against an Owl Bear. With her enhanced vision, Gwen could see that this was no ordinary Magical Monster, but a rarer variant. Its feathers, for one, were warding off the Mage's endless stream of bolts with ease, glimmering a dark-shade of turquoise as they resisted the Mage's magic. "SCREEEEEE!" A jet blast of concentrated, icy air just missed the duelling Mage, clipping his mana shield. An Owl Bear! Using spells! Gwen baulked. Even the monsters in Britain were in a different league. "Hammer Press!" The young Mage's AoE was a muffled gong reverberating across the battlefield, compressing the air in a broad circumference to paralyse the monster. "Beast! Submit!" "SCAWWWWL!" The Owl Bear forcibly escaped the grinding plates of pure force conjured by the Evoker. In its wake, the bear left behind fistfuls of bloody feathers and great gouges of dirt where its powerful claws propelled its body. "Thomas! Give it up!" Other spectators, which Gwen could only presume to be Thomas' mates, hollered at the challenger. "You've bitten off more than you can chew!" "Shut up, Poins!" Thomas pirouetted mid-air, dodging a blast of pointed feathers and another jet of blue-green rime. "Missile Swarm!" Gwen whistled. The spell wasn't overpowering, but it was the definition of finesse. As though shedding feathers from an invisible wing, some two dozen Magic Missiles, self-seeking and brimming with mana, peeled from Thomas' shield even as he continued to duck and dodge. It was too bad, then, that the variant Owl Bear's feather-plated coat proved resistant to his spells. In a dogfight, Gwen had no doubt; the man was an exceptional opponent. Against an ice-based tanker, the battle was woefully matched. "Hoo-Hoo!" The Owl Bear raised a fluffy, feathered paw. A flood of viridescence burst forth from its chest, flooding its bulky frame with emerald motes of glowing energy. "H-healing Renewal?" Gwen recognised the effect. She had seen Mayuree use the low-tier Clerical heal when her mana was low. It was a slow and gradual restoration, unlike the bone-itching, flesh-warping harshness of Cure Wounds. On the Owl Bear, however, the impact was immediate. Visibly, its feathers grew back, broken flesh knitted as though new; the monster even appeared to grow an inch. "Too bad, Tom!" Thomas' friends burst into laughter. "Bah! Dimension Door!" More so discouraged than defeated, Thomas exited the duelling arena. A round of polite applause resounded, then fell to silence as Cliveden's hostess arrived with her entourage. Across the blue lawn, Lucy Astor locked eyes with her guest. "Gwen— care to try?" Gwen's host succeeded at redirecting attention toward her proclaimed guest of honour. "Against that?" Gwen fired back a smirk, trying to guess whether her hostess was serious about wanting to see her deploy the infamous devouring, as was seen on TV. "Your ladyship, this Owl Bear has seen fairer days, I fear. It would hardly be a fair fight." A clamouring round of ambivalent murmurs rang through the court. "Arrogant simp..." Gwen sometimes regretted having such sharp ears. In the next moment, a hint of colour touched her cheeks. It would appear her feign modesty wasn't as well-received as she had thought. Should she change gears then? Tone up the arrogance and entitlement? "You there— !" It was too late; her miscalculation had attracted the attention of the duelist and his friends. "— might you demonstrate your superior skills then?" Thomas landed not far from her, slowing from a full descent to a casual stroll. Closer, perhaps dazzled by her beauty, the man's tone relaxed. "My apologies, you are—?" "Gwen Song," Gwen nodded. "From Sydney." "A Frontierswoman?" Thomas raised both brows. "A Frontierswoman? Ahahaha…." Lady Astor's floated across the lawn like a silver cloud. "Don't let her pretty face fool you, Tom. Who we have here is the Devourer of Shenyang." Thomas bowed from the waist while a dozen others converged. As always, Lady Astor's presence possessed a palpable gravitational pull. "Gwen, let me introduce you to our rare guests and your future colleagues." Gwen curtsied, mindful of her fashion choices. The younger of the men appeared appreciative; the women scandalised, while the older folk hid their reactions. "You've met Tom," Lady Astor indicated to Thomas the Air Mage. "And this is his brother, Joshua Freemantle. Over yonder is Dylan Downer, heir to Parker. Ah— young Wakerworth! Glad to see you've made it, this is Gwen..." A dizzying array of names and ranks sprouted from the Lady's lips without missing a syllable. Gwen shook hands, curtsied, nodded, grinned and smiled until her facial muscles were half-paralysed. Finally, the Lady's attention alighted on a pair that Gwen had been wary of since the beginning. "Countess..." the greeting came as one voice. "Allow me to announce the future Lords of Exeter, Magus Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas, of House Holland." Gwen curtsied at the twins, both curious and a little alarmed that suddenly, the crowd grew silent. Looking up, she saw that the brothers had the same facial structure, though one sported a frightful head of dusky grey, while the other was a flaming carrot-top. "The Devourer of Shenyang," Edward mouthed sulkily. "In the flesh." "She looks better in the flesh," Benedict appended his brother's observation. "You look a treat, my dear." Lady Astor remained smiling, heedless of the brothers killing the mirth. Caught flatfooted, Gwen studied the duo before her true feelings boiled over. Everything about the Exeters appeared tailor-made, from their tapered vests, their fingers full of rings, to their shiny, thrice-enchanted Oxfords. Assuming the men weren't putting on a facade, they were walking, talking "Old Boys", the Polo Men, Tom Buchanans, men whose egos superseded their Astral Bodies. "Interesting choice of dress," the ashen-haired one continued. "Oriental," the other remarked. "But you don't look oriental." The "Exeter" folk, Gwen concluded, looking from the brothers to Lady Astor and back. These must be the crowning roosters of the inbred-coop. Their indifference wasn't just toward her— it was toward their host as well. "Thank you, do you like it?" Gwen was beginning to really miss her Dragon Fear. The men closed in, caging her with their overt interest. The skin on her thighs prickled. Gwen recognised the all too familiar gaze. When had she last suffered such repression? Walking through Forrestville, it had been a daily affair; then there was that incident at Huang's, and after that, Dai at the House of M. The Exeter twins were not studying a fellow student of the arcane, but browsing over an exotic animal, a rare mutant. Summoning a surge of Essence to circulate her conduits, she met them head-on. The air grew suddenly thick. Gwen smiled, showing some teeth. The men grinned back. Gradually, the back of her sheer dress grew soaked with sweat. Even without Ollie pouring warnings in her ear, her Divination senses warned her to speak softly and carry a big Caliban. The men's ability to project their aura, not to mention their Spellcraft, was superior. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "It's a pleasure to meet you all..." Squaring her shoulders and forcing her spine to straighten, Gwen kept her balance. The twins appeared amused by her resilience, Gwen imagined they must be a pair of cats amazed by a mouse squeaking in protest. "… and Gwen here, of course, is this year's MVP." Lucy Astor touched a hand to Gwen's silken shoulder. "Now, she's going to demonstrate some of that Void Magic for us, aren't you, dear?" "I shall," Gwen answered with a winsome smile. "Shall I take care of the… Owl?" "Absolutely. Everyone, let's give our Devourer some space." The crowd parted. Instead of jumping into the fray, the Void sorceress paused. If the twins were going to cause her trouble, Gwen mulled, she rather not fight them in a flimsy silk dress. "Milady, may I change into something more durable?" "Here and now?" Lucy Astor appeased the crowd at her expense. "I understand you've roughed it against the Beast Tide in South America and the Undead Tide in China, but here in Cliveden…" Though embarrassed, the reignited laughter softened the mood somewhat. "Gwen..." Elvia, having reached her side with Mathias, pulled at Gwen's sleeve, her expression indignant and protective. "I'll show you to the change rooms." "Thanks, Evee." Gwen slipped an arm in her Cleric's elbow nook, glad for the opportunity to be out of sight. Taking solace in Elvia's warmth, she fortified her spirit, then addressed her audience. "Lady Astor, my very merry fellows, I shall return shortly, and I shan't disappoint." Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas watched with pleasure as their little mouse scampered from the fray. Of all present at Cliveden, the Exeter twins uniquely felt insulted by the presence of the MVP upstart. From the perspective of blue-veined noblemen, their ire was well-directed. They too had once been IIUC contestants, both Edward and Benedict were on the winning team of '98, under the banner of Oxford. But the well-bred brothers did not go around gifting themselves titles as gregarious and grotesque as "The Devourer" and the, "Omni-Mage", nor proudly proclaim one's earthen blood as Draconic. Unlike the mud-blooded Frontierwoman, House Holland's peerage was the stuff of legend and lorel! Their progenitor was the begetter of Kings! Within their veins flowed the purest blood of the Plantagenets! They were the direct descendants of John Holland, father to Henry Bolingbroke, patriarch to Henry of Monmouth! Henry the Fifth! Henry of the golden reign! Henry, who seeded an empire! Henry the Undefeated! Within the potential of the Exeter's bloodline, existed a natural, untaught grandmaster of sword, sorcery and statesmanship. If only the mewling waif could understand the grandeur of their ancestor! Did she know, for example, that at the tender age of seventeen, Harry, Prince of Wales, known as "Hal" to his boisterous mates, bewitched the world with his presence at Shrewsbury? Had the girl been educated, she would have known that the Holland bloodline heralded the first instance in which a Human Mage subjugated an overwhelming Demi-human force! In single combat, the former Prince of Wales slew the fabled Arthurian Knight Percy Northumberland. Armed with a conjured Black Blade, the future King harvested "Hotspur's" crown of garlands— said to be woven by Elven maidens, to be piked and displayed before the gobsmacked Druidic allies of Owain Glyndŵr. As for Glyndŵr himself, the young prince had captured, then redeemed the howling caster by wrapping the Arch-Druid's intestines around his life-tree before purifying the heathen in righteous fire. Could the girl conceive of a bloodline so talented as to subjugate the Elven enclaves of Snowdonia, subdue the Circle Wizards of Edinburgh, and suppress the Dwarves of Ben Macdui? She should visit the London Musem! There, the Frontier simpleton could be educated by Lord Scribe Holinshed's Chronicles. She would learn that in Henry's campaign to reunite the English and French throne, he took the Fortress of Harfleur in two weeks with exhausted, outnumbered, and malnourished troops! Then, without pause, their King miraculously demolished the French retribution on the plains of Agincourt! Theirs was a King of firsts! The first to demonstrate nouveau tactics such as mixing magic and martial mettle. The first to widely employ Circle Wizards, trapping the superior French army in a "Quagmire" while flanking, swift-footed Elven archers made them into pincushions. Once decimated and demoralised, the King's men-at-arms, supported by Dwarven Ironborn, simply moved into the field and hacked the opposition into mincemeat. Oh, the glory! Would the simp ever know that after Agincourt, Henry roped into service Mermen allies, deployed to route the Genoese mercenaries hired by Emperor Sigismund? That the triumphant, unstoppable Henry took Caen in a week and all of Lower Normandy in another month. That Rouen was promptly besieged, then sacked to feed his growing army— that Henry herded the wasteful mouths of women and children, into the hungry, productive mouths of his Mermen allies? Sure, the Pontiff may have censured Henry as the "Mad King", but the man still arrived at Paris to forcibly wed Catherine of Valois, the French King's daughter, successfully uniting the Franco-Saxon throne. Their only regret was that, like a fading comet flaming with all the grace stolen from heaven— on August 1422, Henry the Fifth, the Northern Star of England, died, aged twenty-seven. The cause was unknown. Henry's celestial fire simply extinguished, as the physicians of antiquity would say. The King's "humours" were no longer in balance, and thus, his Astral Soul could no longer maintain its position in the firmament. The King was dead! Long live the King! The shadow cast by the young Mage-King was so vast that each scion who hailed from John the Gaunt believed that one day, by anointment, chance, or proper breeding, another celestial Plantagenet would arise. THEY would be the ones to unite the human world! THEY would crush the welkin beneath Britannia's ironwood stave! Such was the position of supremacy from which the twin-sorcerers of Exeter saw their upstart, bushy-tailed sorceress sauntering about the courtyard of yet another upstart, Lady Lucy Astor. And to flaunt her body so boldly! The brother's nostrils flared. To tease them so outrageously and act the coy waif! So unmannered, uncultured, and uncouth! Why— if she were not a Class VI War Mage, they could just gobble the girl up! Therefore, without so much as a Telepathy, the duo agreed that the Wildland wildcat, who was a walking affront to the very visage of nobility, must be put in her place. Who did she think she was? What even flowed in her bastard, mongrel blood? For though the Crown now sat with the House of Windsor, the scions of Gaunt did not perceive themselves diminished. The Windsors are a branch of the Plantagenet, but the Hollands blood ran purer than Mithril. The future, as far as the patrilineal Plantagenet Houses were concerned, was one of male succession and blessed-blooded intermingling. In their minds, all true Englishmen harkened after the golden age of celestial Henry. Such was the ineffable order of the Chain of Being! Such was the Divine Right of House Holland, under whose auspice this "Omni-Mage" usurper must be taught her place! Gwen returned in her Shen-teī cloth-plates, drawing wows and coos from the crowd as they recognised the visage from the IIUC broadcasts. Greetings flooded in as other guests arrived for the demonstration, crowding beside the pavilion. But though the crowd's blood heated up, Gwen's motivation had grown cold. The Owl Bear— it was meditating. Even when she teleported in with a thunderous Dimension Door, it remained docile, sitting like a hermit, drawing what mana it could from the tapped ley-lines under Cliveden. Was this thing intelligent? Gwen felt a bout of doubt; the sort she had wholly abandoned while the IIUC went on and endless battles drowned her better judgement. Now, after a long few months of peace and a few days with Evee, her sanity had rebounded enough to plague her conscience. Was it because— Gwen cautioned herself; that the Owl Bear looked kind of cute? It did, after all, have the head of a great horned owl, possessing moody, expressive brows. Its body was large, about four meters from claw to crest fully extended, and completely round. The colouring of this variant species was dusky ice near its tail and a fresh turquoise on its wingtips. It was a beautiful creature, and to see such a thing slain for sport made Gwen rebellious to her present purpose. "Ariel!" She summoned her Kirin, much to the delight of the onlookers. "Caliban!" Her Void fiend drew both cheers and applause. The crowd continued clapping as Caliban's palpable vertigo aura rippled forth from the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void. "Ariel, go chat to it," Gwen commanded. "Give it a zap if it's hostile. Cali's got your back." "EE EE!" Ariel asked for a jolt of Almudj's blessing, and Gwen fluffed her Familiar until it glowed radiant like a rainbow. The crowd's response was a mixture of envy, desire and wonder. A Kirin was rare enough, but Ariel was as unique a Kirin as the Owl Bear was different from its crazed, Wildland cousins. "EE! EE?" Ariel hovered a few meters from the Owl Bear. "Ee!" "Hoo-hoo!" "Ee—ee?" "Hoo-hoo—" Gwen focused on her Empathic Link. With Ariel growing more intelligent by the day, she could discern more complex thoughts. From the character of Ariel's translation, the creature was too demotivated to fight. It was instead resigned to its fate, ready to receive a dignified death. Furthermore, when Ariel scented the creature. It informed her that the Owl Bear wasn't the creature's original form. Her Familiar could sense that within the Owl Bear's body was a whole other thing with wildly different Essence. "You've got to be shitting me," Gwen muttered. "That's a Polymorphed being?" Now she was truly demotivated. "Shape-shifted— actually." An intrusive Divination spell bloomed beside her ear. "We caught it near Dartmoor, raiding the local villages' winter stores. It's a fun little bugger, ain't it?" Gwen turned her head slowly to see who was sending her unsolicited Messages and saw that it was one of the twins— the ashen-haired elder of the two. "Do go on," the speaker urged. "Don't tell me our all-devouring lioness is getting cold feet?" Here it comes. Gwen bit back a retort. What was his name? Edward-Poins? Or just Edward? Cold feet? Gwen fought off the annoyance. What joy was there in destroying a defenceless creature? "Lady Astor," she called out with Clarion Call. "This creature appears to be both intelligent and capable of sentimentality, I would prefer to consume something stronger, far more savage, and larger, if at all possible. Anywhere between tier seven to nine is fine." "Is the Owl Bear not to your liking?" Lady Astor's voice rang out. "There's no sport in it, ma'am." Gwen had just enough time to wonder what might then happen to the docile Owl Bear when the teleportation Mandala fired up once more. When the sizzling Conjuration cleared, it wasn't a monster that appeared, but Edward Poins Holland. "Milord Holland?" Gwen quickly retracted her Familiars in case Caliban desired a snack. She looked to Lady Astor, who said nothing, while all around the arena, the crowd grew intense with anticipation. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" "Allow me to give you a helping hand," Edward's voice had barely reached Gwen's ears when the man faded away, quite literally, into tendrils of smoke. "Sir, I don't need your—" Gwen protested. "SCRAWWWK!" The Owl Bear bolted upright, then slammed into an invisible wall with such force that it almost cracked its beak. A split-second later, bars of smoky, barely tangible force materialised like ethereal fingers, forming a bony, clawed hand in the guise of a cage. "Oi! You leave that damn Bear alone!" Gwen snapped. "That's my prey…" "Wrong. It belongs to me, you see," the whispy Mage's smile gave her the shivers. "I caught it, after all, and offered it up as tribute for some fun and games. If our bitch isn't keen on bear-baiting, then I shall play the hound…" Did that cunt just call her a— Gwen's mind reeled. "It's defenceless!" She gestured toward the Owl Bear, even now the smoke cage closed in, crushing its body and distorting its thick, plated feathers. Louder and louder the creature screeched, its wailing growing to such a pitch that Gwen could hardly hear herself think. She wanted to slap some sense into this sadistic blue-blood but knew that with Elvia just below her and Lady Astor and Lady Grey anticipating diplomacy, she couldn't afford to offend the man, not over a Monster. "A mere Force Cage," Edward rematerialised, this time closer. "Come, surely you could counter such a thing." Listening to the bone-crunching wailing from below, a rush of blood touched her head. So this was the point. Gwen realised. The fucking bastard was showing her up. "Or a well-aimed Disintegrate? Hmm? No?" "I am still a student, milord…" "We were all young, once. So, NO Obliterate? NO Beam of Annihilation? Surely, a Destruction wouldn't be too much to ask for?" The Force Cage was now half the size of the Owl Bear, and the creature's pulsing innards were spilling from the gory spectacle. It was dying, but not dead. "COME ON! Do something! The damn thing's suffering!" The smug face drifted yet closer, almost teasing her while scant laughter broke out across the arena's perimeter. "How about a Dispel? It's tier three Abjuration. Omni-Mage! Show us the goods, put crystal where your mouth is!" Gwen drifted away from the psychopath. Below, the Owl Bear breathed its last. Once its life-force ceased, its shape began to shrink until it resembled a furry Hob, only larger and hairier. A Bugbear, Gwen recognised the mangled shape from its distinctly crested brow and bat-like ears. A brutal thing, but a thinking, feeling being all the same. "Good show, Omni-Mage." Edward reached out to pat her shoulder. When Gwen retreated, the man offered her a smile full of teeth. "We'll be seeing you around, Devourer." Gwen watched the Mage teleport away in a puff of acrid smoke. The scion of House Holland was a Smoke Mage, and from the looks of Force Cage, the man had at least one School of Magic touching tier 7. "Gwen," Lady Astor's guiding voice was neutral as can be. "Don't mind them. Come back and enjoy the evening. There's more to Cliveden than duels, I assure you." "Alright." Gwen sighed. Should she have Consumed the Bugbear? Here was a being, clearly with a mind of its own, giving up the fight to preserve its dignity. As for her performance? Gwen shook herself out of her stupor. She mustn't let the Holland pricks work up her edge. She was the current IIUC's MVP, right? The ceremony was in January. Why would she worry about a dinner show? It was meaningless violence. "Gwen, are you alright?" Elvia waited on her as she returned with a dazzling Dimension Door, regretfully packing away a still-hungry Caliban and an upset Ariel. Lady Astor gave her a measured look that was equal parts "stay away from the Hollands" and "its time to take Elvia and enjoy another part of the garden". "I am fine, Evee," Gwen relieved her pent up stress on her friend. "Shall we... call it a night?"

With Mathias tailing at a distance, Gwen and Evia strolled through Cliveden's extensive grounds, eventually arriving at the rosarium. Elvia paced beside her companion as they passed each floral archway, made shy by the suggestive Grecian statues. With each step, she could sense her friend delving into a deeper deliberation of her aborted duel. What was Gwen feeling? Elvia wondered. She could see from the knitting of Gwen's brow that her friend was no longer enjoying herself. If anything, the way Gwen wetted her lips every so often indicated that some nefarious plot fomented in her friend's mind. Was Gwen's humiliation so great? Elvia wondered. At the pavilion, Gwen had not appeared nearly so afflicted. Desperately, she wanted to offer a word of wisdom regarding House of Holland. Unfortunately, Elvia had no idea where Exeter even existed. "Mattie?" She turned to their resident expert. Knights were made to study the peerage. "Yes, Lady Elvia—" Mathias walked a few steps closer. "What can you tell us of the Exeters?" Mathias appeared sympathetic as well. If anything, Elvia could see that her Knight was confused by Gwen's tight-lipped passivity. But then again, Elvia supposed. Mathias did not know Gwen as she did. All Mattie could see was a firebrand sorceress with powers beyond her ken, eating Trolls and befriending Dwarves. Elvia, however, had seen Gwen wearing all of her multifaceted facades. "Exeter is located East of Dartmoor and west of Devon. In the Frontier of Exeter, located on the River Exe. It's the traditional seat of power for the Hollands." "Are they a powerful clan?" "They are." Mathias nodded. "Equal in dignity and history with House Ravenport, though not so involved in politics. The House of Holland is well known for producing rare bloodlines. An ancient House, their lineage can be linked to Henry the Fifth." "I see…" Elvia turned to her companion to check if the information was any help. "Gwen, are you feeling alright?" "I am fine, Evee." Her friend's voice was calm and collected. "I was just affirming how far I've overshot my tangent." Both Elvia and Mathias gave their companion questioning looks. "I believe I've done a little TOO much since arriving in London." Gwen tucked her hair, allowing the light from a lumen globe to catch in her eyes. "It's a wonder that, thus far, without context or background knowledge, I haven't run headfirst into a wall. It's a bad habit, I am afraid, grasping at opportunities like that. Think of it, Evee— I overleapt Heathrow, then confronted Mycroft, shared Hall with Ollie, communed with Lady Loftus. Then after that, I went to Wales and fought Trolls, saved Dwarves…" Gwen rattled off a list of events so packed that in concert, even Elvia found her friend's ten-day continuity incredible. "… almost all spontaneous and off the cuff." Gwen winced. "I don't mean to say I regret any of it, but today, facing that idiot? It awoke me to just how haphazardly I've been forging ahead." "I do envy your achievements," Mathias confessed, then loudly exhaled. "Though I wonder, Miss Song, for one possessing the power, why did you allow yourself to be humiliated?" "Was I humiliated?" Gwen grinned back. "Or perhaps, allow me to subvert your enquiry. Should I have humiliated the Exeter twins, at a party hosted by Lady Astor? Could I emerge an overall victor?" Mathias swallowed. "You would have floored them with your Void Bird, I presume. But then of course…" "Comes the endless, ceaseless retribution." Gwen shrugged her shoulders. "If China has taught me anything, folk like Edward Poins are a special feature of any society built on inheritance. The geography changes, the landscape changes, but some things remain immutable. I am a Frontier girl, and they're blue-blooded nobles; no impression will change their minds. If even in a socialist country, these self-same fools sprout like mushrooms, then what hope do I have in an Empire where blood holds sway? To prove them wrong, to subjugate them, nothing short of total power will do." Mathias visibly squirmed at Gwen's seditious sentiments. Elvia watched as Gwen touched her hand to a blooming rose, cut the base with a mote of Void, then smoothed out the spiked stem in the same fashion. The demonstration showed excellent control over so volatile an element, something the old Gwen would have never managed. "Evee, for you." Her companion struck the bloom rose behind Elvia's ear. "It's lovely here, why don't we let the Spirits out for some air?" Elvia agreed, then conjured Kiki; who patiently waited while its mistress produced a jadeite container housing Sen-sen. For fear of desirous eyes, the girls had decided to keep the Draconic Ginseng well shielded in a party were megalomaniacs were as common as the canapè. "Kiki!" The floral Spirit pulled at her companion. "K!" "Sen?" Sen-sen yawned. It took a jolt of restorative energy from Elvia to revive the dormant Sen-sen, who then rushed off with Kiki to speak to the roses. "Ariel, Caliban—" Gwen released her Familiars as well, with strict orders that Cali should under no circumstances consume any part of Lady Astor's ensorceled rosebushes. "EE-EE!" "Shaa!" With great gusto, the Familiars chased one another through the rosarium. With a glance, Elvia willed Mathias to linger elsewhere. Once she was alone with Gwen, surrounded by a delicate redolence, she made themselves comfortable on a Woodshaped bench. "Roses in December, blooming among the snow," Gwen remarked with a snort. "Too rich for my blood." Elvia exhaled mist as she leaned on the sorceress' padded shoulder. "Gwennie, don't say that." "I think it needs to be said," her friend insisted. "Everyone's been overtly polite so far, and it's created a false facade of London for me. Think about it, Evee— Lady Grey was the definition of courtesy, Lady Astor, up until the incident, was a thoughtful host. Even my nemesis, Ravenport, kept our bickering civil. I think Mattie's not so bad once you get to know him. Ollie's alright, and Dominic's a charmer. Hell, even Hanmoul was a vision of respect compared to what we saw today." Elvia did her best to read Gwen's ambivalent expression. "What I've come to acknowledge," Gwen explained, drawing her closer. "Is that an invisible stratum will always separate the folk here. Look at how the nobles treat each other. Lady Astor's rich and famous, right? Even so, the Hollands made fun of me in the middle of a party she hosted, even after she said I was an especially important guest. When they interrupted my duel— that's a big no, no, Evee— no one intervened. I even heard laughter from some of the blue-bloods outside. The guy was a total wanker, yet, Lady Astor's guests humoured the boneless-chook wrangler. They were laughing at both of us, Evee— out of lark for me, out of fear for Poins." Gwen continued. "I've taken my share of Mages by now, and I can tell the brothers aren't just walking egos. I can't guess how skilled they are unless I fight one for real, probably until one of us maws the other. But I've sensed the same confidence in others as well, though not nearly so full of volatility— Prince Inti, for example, or Uncle Jun before he gets worked up. These are folk who have taken a lot of lives callously; you saw what they did to that poor Bugbear. They are what I don't want to become." Gwen then sighed, which made Elvia unhappy. In a way, she felt personally responsible. It was her desire that compelled them to come to Lady Astor's party. They could have spent Christmas camped outside Westminster to listen to the choir or take a pleasure cruise down the Thames. Instead, they came to Cliveden because she couldn't really say no to Lady Astor's expectations, and now her friend was hurt. "I am so sorry." "Hold up— there's nothing to be sorry about." Gwen caught a lock of her hair when she bowed, tucking loose strands back in place. "I reckon tonight was a good showing, Evee. I needed the perspective before I got on with business in London. Your invitation has saved us, I'd say. Can you conceive of the shit show that could happen if I dumped crystals into the printing press without realising the extent to which irrational arseholes ruled London as well? Big o' asses that could crap all over us at a moment's notice?" Elvia grimaced. For one so gifted in gab, Gwen often revelled in her working-class origins. "Hahaha… sorry," Gwen snickered. "Anyway, at no point did I intend to fight that swirling ball of compressed narcissism. I need to find and enlist Walken soon. That old snake will know how to navigate all of this, not to mention digging a big-ass dunny-pit." DING! The abrupt Message Glyph made Elvia flinch. Who would call Gwen on Christmas Eve? Who did she even know in London? "Yes?" Gwen kept the channel open and public. "Gwen." The voice on the other end belonged to Ollie Edwards. "Sorry for the late call, but the matter is urgent. You and I have been invited by Hanmoul Bronzeborn to tour the Rotary Guild. We are scheduled to visit from the 25th to the 27th. Lady Grey has authorised our attendance, meaning we are to leave as soon as possible, ideally at first light. The Dwarves can be particular about punctuality." "I see." Gwen gave Elvia a look that spoke volumes of their earlier conversation. "Thanks, Ollie, I am in Cliveden at the moment, does that help?" "Can you fly to Merthyr Tydfil? I am catching a Teleport first thing in the morning." Ollie's voice brimmed with excitement. "This is an important milestone, Gwen. We'll be the first Humans to enter the Red Citadel in almost a decade outside of politics. Please don't be late. I need to speak to you as soon as you get here." "Gotcha," Gwen replied chirpily. "See you in Merthyr Tydfil then?" "Will do." The Message died. "Speak of the devil." Gwen shrugged at her friend. "See? I told you I was overcommitted. My timetable is bursting at the seams. I made all this time for you, and now I've squandered it." Elvia knew that Hanmoul's invitation was not one that could be turned down. If Gwen refused to go, the insult would cause a diplomatic incident. The fallout would make Edward Poins' dickery appear a childish tantrum. "You have my support, whatever you choose," she promised. "Do you have to go now?" "I'd rather not trouble Lady Astor for a Teleportation Circle," Gwen said. "How about this? Let's enjoy ourselves a little more. Then, I shall head for Merthyr Tydfil. Mattie?" "Yes, Miss Song?" "Can you see Evee safely home?" "I will. I shall." "And while I am away, you'll still have to go with Elvia to the isle. Wally should have things in hand, but they need a bigger presence than maids, an ex-Military Mage and two dozen dogs. I'll leave Evee a few thousand HDMs as a contingency if supplies are low. Make sure you keep a close eye on things." The Knight inclined his head. "I'll do my best as well," Elvia promised in turn. The Isle was Gwen's domain, and her friend trusted her enough to leave it to her care. The folk of the isle had just seen hope in the face of a custodian who cared about their welfare, and she would very much like to keep it that way. Even now, thinking of their happy faces, she felt a peculiar heat ignite inside her bosoms. "Alright then." Gwen readjusted the flower in her hair. "Let's take a stroll, Evee. It's not every day blooming roses surround a girl in winter. Tell me, where do you see the isle in a few years?" Before the party's departure, Emily, one of three Head Maids of Cliveden, visited Lady Astor's notable guests, conspiratorially proffering up a scented card "for Miss Song's eyes only." Nonplussed, Gwen offered to share the Message. Her companion, however, was adamant that if Lady Astor desired a private conversation with Gwen, she would have no part of it. "Please return safely," Elvia pleaded. "No more adventures." "I'll do my best. If you're worried, there should be Divi-signals near Merthyr Tydfil," Gwen assured her friend. "Though probably not inside the Red Citadel, but we'll see. I'll bring back some Lumen-pics, assuming we can take pictures." At first light, Gwen took to the air to orientate her bearings before blasting off toward Ystradfellte, using Oxford's distant silhouette as a landmark, aiming for the fog-ridden River Severn. Once her trajectory was assured, she pitched a shield to stifle the buffeting air, then opened the card from Lady Astor. An illusory projection instantly sprang into place as the ingredients empowering its magical ink ignited, dispensing a scent of roses. "Gwen— is Elvia with you?" Lady Astor's beaming face announced. "No matter, she may attend if she so desires— Elven illusion-ink is costly, so please excuse my brevity." "Foremostly, Miss Song, I would like to offer an apology for the events of tonight. I was, I am sorry to say, wholly aware that Edward Poins and his brother, Benedict, would be present— and that it was out of morbid curiosity that I had anticipated your friction." Gwen bit her tongue. At least the Lady was honest. "Please don't take their ill-humour too seriously. The twins are notorious enough that their actions should not tarnish your reputation. Rest assured, your refusal to participate in their bear-baiting has left a good impression on both myself and the Middle Faction. Exeter, as you can imagine, often antagonises our cause. Nonetheless, I shall repay your upset with a show of goodwill. Next cycle, the Telegraph's articles shall lean in your favour." "And naturally, in the future, you are welcome to visit Cliveden and make use of its grounds. If Elvia wishes to raise funds or build on the fame of her Charity, you shall have my full support." Gwen allowed a coy smile to touch her lips. If she could tap into Lady Astor's network, then she would take two Poins at once. "Ah yes, one more favour. I am led to understand that Maxine, your housemistress, is keeping tabs on your performance. I shall deliver a Message to your patron and inform her of the happenings at Cliveden. Finally, I wish you luck in the Murk— remember, stay away from the Deepdowners!" So Lucy Astor knew that she was visiting to the Dwarven city? The Lady must have friends in high places, or at least Arcane Eyes all over the gardens to pick up on something so private. If so, was that last bit of encouragement an "advice"? Or was it a warning that as she, like Mycroft Ravenport, could make her life in London exceedingly interesting? Gingerly, she stowed the card. Such considerations were for later. Now, Gwen had to focus on getting to Merthyr Tydfil without getting lost in the damned fog. Ollie Edwards audibly ground his teeth when his sorceress appeared, not in the air, but inside Hanmoul's Strider. Beside him, Magister Hanford delivered a good-natured snort. "Would you believe I got lost, ahaha…" Gwen laughed off her awkwardness. "Flew straight to the mountain like last time. I saw Hanmoul and his team making his way down, so I followed them." "Lass almost flew into the vents." Hanmoul leapt from the Strider's capsule, landing on the cobblestone with a thunk before he longingly stretched his back. "Ancestor's cogs! I'll have ter adjust the inertia dampeners." "It was a bit bumpy." Ollie's House-sister mirrored Hanmoul's groan as she performed a vertical downward dog against the Strider, making Ollie's stomach tingle. "Not much vertical space in there." "Yer can flitter until we reach the outskirts," Hanmoul advised. "After that, yer'll have ter crowd the Strider til we reach the Rotary Guild." "Naw." Gwen wavered the offer, shaking loose her limbs. "Well, Ollie, shall we?" "Gwen, I need to speak to you in private." Ollie felt out of breath. "Commandrumm, do you mind?" "Not at all, I'll take a gander around town if ye don't mind." "Do help yourself," Magister Hanford, who had risen early to welcome the return of their resident Omni-Mage, bade them be at ease. "The villagers have been instructed. Business is booming. Try our ginger sours?" The Tower's representative struck a thumb toward the crowded main street, where dozens of sticky-beakers had stopped to gawk at the three Dwarven Striders parked outside the inn. Compared to before Gwen's Purge, the town positively bustled with activity. Without Trolls eating the prospectors, raw crystals and ore by the truckload were hauled from the Red Gulch, racing the restoration of the deep tunnels by their original inhabitants. "Gwen, this way…" Ollie retreated into the inn. Gwen followed, hailing an appreciative Hanford along the way. Once inside, Ollie initiated a silent Message exchange. "Gwen. I asked you to meet up with me first." "I know," Gwen agreed. "Sorry, Ollie, it sort of just happened." The Praelector scratched his scalp, then handed over a data slate. "Here, a quest from the Shard." "A Quest, from London Tower?!" Gwen was incredulous. She wasn't even a ranked member, and she certainly hadn't received a stipend. Was this a War Mage thing? "Just read it." Gwen scrolled through the letter. "... It says to compose a comprehensive report on our opinion of the Dwarves' war potential, including Golem units, types of Golems, their standing military, and other objects or places of interest, such as the leadership of the Guild." "Yes." "Holy shit, Ollie." Gwen endured a pang of guilt. "Are we spies?" "We're Mages," Ollie reminded her. "We do what's required." "Aren't we're being invited as a gesture of goodwill?" "Not really," Ollie refuted her claim. "You're being invited as payment for saving Hanmoul, something the Dwarves call the Debt of Haj-Zül. I am your attachè— since the Commandrumm knows me by name and we are House siblings, which in their terms, makes us family of sorts." "I don't know…" "Just keep an eye out, I'll do the reporting if you're not willing." "Can't we come clean to Hanmoul about this?" Gwen reread the data slate. The quest awarded a minimum of 300 CCs, with more to come pending on the value of their information, and if their data could be ascertained. "Can I ask Hanmoul straight up if a girl could take a gander at his armoury? For evaluating future treaties, that sort of thing?" "Are you looking to sabotage the Tower's request?" "Alright, alright..." Gwen felt ambivalent. Hanmoul seemed a good bloke. That they were going to double-cross the Dwarves' genuine intentions sat wrong with her. Espionage was a necessity, she knew, but she didn't like it one bit. "Jesus, Ollie, I thought you're one of the good guys." "What does virtue have to do with this? You and I are foremost Humans, then citizens of the Empire, then members of Cambridge, Peterhouse—" Ollie's tone grew firm. "You'll be a Magister one day. How do you think that works? The Shard signs a certificate stating it's fine with you doing whatever? The Tower's support comes with commissioned requests every few months." Gwen was beginning to understand why Gunther had put off his Magisterhood for so long. "Besides, I'd imagine Cabal No. IV already has data on the Dwarves defences. We're merely verifying and cross-correlating existing data." "If you say so." Gwen stowed the slate in her ring. "The Tower says so," Ollie assured her. "How's your memory?" "Very good, actually," Gwen said. "It's not eidetic, but if I concentrate, I can recall most details with perfect clarity." "Good." Ollie stood to straighten his robes. The Praelector was in his officious Cambridge field-garbs, which meant he wore a half-shoulder sash of scarlet silk over his bible-black double-breasted blazer. An ermine-fur hood hung from his back, affixed to his breast by a golden badge minted with Peterhouse's golden stripes in gules. "I've brought your sash and your badge." "I am not even a student yet." Gwen opened the box and marvelled at the luxurious attire. "Well, these are a Magus' icons. Start getting used to it," Ollie declared. "You've been given provisional honours by the College. The Tower has also permitted the unorthodox promotion for this special occasion. We're on a diplomatic mission, so to speak." "Very well." Gwen wasn't one to say no to free titles. Sliding the sash overhead, she observed with pleasure as the quasi-magical attire repositioned itself so that it covered her with a cropped-cloak down to the hips. Asymmetrically, her other shoulder sported a scarlet sash and the red-gold emblem. The colour was mildly jarring against her white armour, but the overall effect was unexpectedly handsome. "Oh, this is nice." "Of course. It's all made in-house by our Sister-Enchanters at Lucy Cavendish," Ollie boasted with relish. "May we proceed?" "Let's rollout." Gwen tugged at her new attire. Outside, they waited another twenty minutes for Hanmoul. When the Iron Born returned, he seemed well pleased. "Got the lads some Overland souvenirs." The Dwarf flashed a blocky looking Storage Ring. "Ya ready to ride, lass?" "Ready as ever." Gwen made her way to Hanmoul's Strider, ensuring that Ollie had to ride with an assistant. "Commandrumm, lead the way!" As before, Gwen hugged her knees and curled into a ball while the Strider Beast crashed through the snow, its multi-limbed mechanism churning up clumps of clod and ice. As Hanmoul had promised, the ride was smoother once the dampeners were adjusted, saving her skull the danger of getting intimate with the canopy. Watching Hanmoul steer the beast was a marvel in itself. The Iron Born cranked knobs and levers with the expertise of one commanding living limbs. Between the Dwarf's legs, a multi-layered set of pedals allowed the driver control of the mechanical beast. "Lassie, have ye got some knife-ear blood in ya?" Hanmoul asked suddenly. "For a female, yer taller than yer mate, skinny as a strider, an' yer fuller than a mana tank." "I am taller than most," Gwen replied, unsure of how to explain her stolen VMI. "Won the bloodline lottery, I guess. Are Dwarves more homogenous?" "Always," Hanmoul grunted. "We like things to be measurable and orderly. You'll see when we getter the Citadel. Ay buildings tend to follow the Ancestors' Scales, as do our constructs. There's nothing quite like the sight of a hundred Hammer Guard standing in a row— not a centimetre out of place." "You use METRIC units for measurement?" Gwen was surprised to hear Hanmoul's choice of diction. "Yer mean YERS use it? The Ancestors' Scales belongs to us— you Humans 'borrowed' it," Hanmoul complained, then broke into a hearty laugh. "Aye, lass, weren't ya ever taught that yer Empire plagiarised our arithmetic?" "I am afraid not…" Gwen confessed. Who in Blackwattle would bother teaching her about the origins of the International Metric System? She didn't even know the history behind the Imperial Spellcraft system. "Am nae surprised." Hanmoul pulled on a lever. With a hiss, the Strider accelerated. "As ay lore tells it, the Seven Ancestors each left our folk with the knowledge ta measure one of the Seven Constants of the Underworld— length, mass, time, current, temperature, luminosity, and substance. From this, the Deep Dwarves derived the know-how to control machines, create Golems, build our cities, and fend off the Murk. You'll see their monuments soon enough; every city begins with the path ay the Journeymen." "Wow, you live and learn." "Ain't it?" Hanmoul appeared pleased by her open-mindedness. "Now, when we enter the city, yer'll be our official guests— the first Humans to step into the Citadel in decades. Ya're welcome to ask onie questions yer like, but yer mustn't touch anything— especially others ay our kin." "Oh?" Gwen's lips form an O. "Biosecurity?" "Ha!" Hanmoul barked with a coarse laugh. "No, lass. Religion." "R-religion?" Gwen's nostrils shot out twin streams of air. "Truly?" "Aye, the Murk's been volatile in recent years. Reclamation isnae gonnae as smoothly as the Deepdowners hud hoped. We've got dozens of the buggers stuck with us up in the Murk, they're desperate to git back down ter the deep dark, but nae luck, eh?" "I am not sure I fully understand." Gwen tried to picture their conversation. "So, there are three strata to the Dwarven world? Something called the Murk; then a place called the Deep-Dark? I take the last one is the surface?" "Ye're a speedy one." Hanmoul applauded her comprehension. "Aye, the surface, or 'Himmseg', isn't something our kin are keen on, mostly because there are foes aplenty apart from Humans and knife-ears. Underneath the earth, where there's still light, dae's the Murk. Deeper, rooted in caverns that stretch as far as the Elemental Plane, exist a network of low-ways connecting the Dwarven cities of old called the 'Dyar Morkk'. Say, yer've nay heard o' this, lass? I'd thought it's common knowledge even fer Overlanders?" "That's privileged information for me since I am not from around here," Gwen explained. "I am afraid you're chosen a bumpkin for a friend, Hanmoul." "Haha… then I wish all humans are bumpkins like yee—" Hanmoul remarked, then quickly added. "Though I hope they nae as handy with that wicked magic. The Murk's choked full of chaos as it is." "Troubles at home?" "Aye, big trouble, same with you Humans." Hanmoul was so forthcoming that Gwen couldn't help wondering if straight-shooting was a Dwarven trait or just the Commandrumm. "Back during what you folks called the Beast Tide, most of the low-ways collapsed, filling wi' monsters an' Magical Beasts. Now, fer the last three decades, we've bin tryin' tae re-link the Murk and the Dyar Morkk. Nae luck though, it's twisting the Deepdowners' something proper." "So these Deepdowners… are they priests?" "Nae, not like that— they're keepers of knowledge. I suppose." Hanmoul's voice took on an edge. "We need them to bless the Forge and the Manufactoriums. Without their secret arts, we Murk Dwarves willie have stout trouble maintaining our cities. If yer sees one, whatever you do, don't touch 'em. You'll recognise them by their armour. They're distinctive." After the talk of Deepdowners, Hanmoul's appetite for conversation appeared to wither. For the next hour, both lass and Commandrumm travelled in silence, lulled by the rhythmic churning of the Strider Beast's pistons. A little sleep-deprived, Gwen found her mind drifting in and out of hazy catnaps until a mail-gloved hand patted her knees. Snorting loudly, she pulled herself away from the thrall of Hypnos. "Did yer have a good nap, Lass?" "Whoa…" She looked up. The whole ground was vibrating. God knew how many tons of snow slid from a lifting plank of impossibly large metal, slowly rising from the floor of a cresting hill. Gouts of steam hissed every which way, misting her surroundings so that a proper bearing was impossible to apprehend. From below the elevated plank, two dozen humanoid machines that Gwen recognised as the Hammer Guards in Golem Armour marched out from the dark to flank the three Striders crawling into the iron maw of the mountain. As Hanmoul had advertised, apart from their disuniform weapons, the line up was not an inch out of place. As the Stride Beasts clanked into the interior, there was a brief moment when daylight persisted, then, abruptly, the glimmering snow disappeared, plunging the world into a dim-darkness. "Let yer eyes adjust." Hanmoul popped the canopy. "Ah— unburnt liquid Crystal, the smell of home." Gwen made do with Almudj's Essence. Her viridescent irises glowed momentarily rainbow, allowing her pupils to expand like a feline's. "Wow…" Gwen gasped at the descending architecture. "I— I am in awe." Hanmoul puffed out his chest. Below, the Hammer Guards saluted as one. "Aye Lass, welcome to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The entrance to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth loomed in every sense of the word, inducing a sense of breathlessness as the Striders stalked down the incline, minuscule amid an enormous avenue paved with dark granite, lined on either side by towering monuments of the “Seven Ancestors”. The statues themselves bore the semblance of medieval metallurgists, depicting imposingly bearded Dwarven men. The foremost had the look of a warrior, being half-clad in plate mail, carrying an arcane measuring device in his dominant hand, while his offhand rested on the pommel of an enormous war hammer. The others were similarly positioned, each holding instruments signifying knowledge in one hand, while the other held weapons that symbolised martial prowess. “Hanmoul, can I ask you an audacious question?” Gwen inquired carefully. “Sure,” her driver replied, piloting one-handed. “Are any of the Ancestors women?” Hanmoul gave her a strange look. On the Commandrumm's face, a pair of finger-thick brows knitted, conjoining into a single, furry worm. “Sorry…” Gwen apologised, realising that perhaps, she had stepped on a cultural Warding Glyph. “O' coorse there's wimmin among them…” Hanmoul snorted when she attempted to walk back her question. “What ya think, our babes are carved from boulders?” Gwen had indeed wondered if Dwarves were hewn from stone. After all, in areas affluent with Elemental Mana, creatures sprang out of rocks, or water, or from whatever corresponding Plane they usually hailed. Sometimes, from the chaos of the immaterial elements, obscene and strange creatures such as Chimeras came into being all on their own. “If so.” Gwen wiggled her brows, studying Hanmoul intently. “Which Ancestor is, er… the less bearded sex?” “Dunno.” Hanmoul shrugged. “You don’t know?” “Not a cog.” Hanmoul laughed. “The Clan Matrons like it that way. Who’s ter say any of the Ancestors can’t be wimmin? Maybe more than one? Maybe all of them?” “I haven’t seen any women yet,” Gwen mentioned casually. "Want me to get one of the lads to pop her armour?" Gwen's brain throbbed at the poorly translated gender pronouns. "I assume I'll see a Dwarven lassie eventually?" “Since yer a wee lassie yerself, sure—” Hanmoul replied with good humour. “No luck fer Ollie though. Aye, I’ve seen how that lad looks at ye. He’s a willie one, that Ollie.” Gwen grinned. “Ollie, eh? I suppose.” “Ooo, I see em looking. I reckon that lad likes wot he sees.” “I know, I know. Are you married, Hanmoul?” “Now that's an audacious question!” Hanmoul's waist-length beard masked his expression. “Nae lass, old Hanmoul’s a bachelor.” “Truly?! Surely, for someone in such a high position…” “The Rite of Nogazen is all politics.” Hanmoul wiggled his moustache. “It’s best for the Commandrumm of the Hammer Guards not to be political. Besides, I've got cousins by the dozen.” “I'll take your word for it.” Gwen returned her attention to the outside world. “Goodness, how deep are we going?” “Boot a kilometre down is where Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth’s main gate lies.” Hanmoul pointed to a vague structure in the darkness ahead, made visible by lumen globes leading up to an enormous keep. “Of course, we won’t be going through the Gate of Kazhul, but our Strider's bay. I am sorry to say, lass, you’re a guest of the Guild, not a dignitary visiting the Thane.” “That’s fine with me,” Gwen reassured her host. “I am honoured just to be here.” On approach, Gwen did her best to internalise the operatic, Dwarven architecture in familiar terms. From a broad base, the grand gates of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth stood a dozen storeys tall, taking advantage of an impossibly large cavern system hollowed out by its Demi-human denizens. Nearer the understructure, she judged the aesthetic to be neo-brutalist, consisting of overlapping, herringbone grids. Higher up, upon closer inspection with her Essence-empowered vision, she realised that the herringbone pattern consisted of incalculable arrays of stairs forming a teeth-like array of battlements. The facade of the keep itself was a curious mix of art-deco and neo-brutalism, crossed with the grandeur found in neo-classical capital buildings. Holding up the multi-storey, hundred-meter deep gate, soaring buttresses the size of skyscrapers held the cavern’s expansive roof aloft, each adorned with low-poly countenances taken from Dwarven lore. _TSSS!_ Hanmoul cranked a shaft, then pivoted the Strider hard-right. Accompanied by the thunking of the Hammer Guard’s uniform boots, Gwen’s entourage guided their guest away from the city’s principal entrance. Once diverted from the avenue, the spacious cavern gave way to multi-storey tunnels marked by low-hanging lumen globes. These had the look of service over commemoration, for Gwen could see the oil stains, burns, and the occasional missing slab as their procession thundered through the Transmuted passageway that hinted at a less than peaceful history. “How do your people construct all of this?” Gwen indicated to the criss-crossing passages, reminding her of subway tunnels. “Do Dwarves have Mages as well?” “All Dwarves can meld stone in one degree or another,” Hanmoul answered. "For construction, we Murk Dwarves use specialist Golems. Our tunnellers can bore out a new shaft in a matter of days, assuming the earth permits. To achieve structural stability, we utilise our Artificers, Machinists and Engineers, and of course, we seek guidance from those with rarer talents, such as the Stone Speakers." “And that would be the Deepdowners?” “Not always, but aye, the Deepdowners produce the most accomplished Unrol Spakrumm. They are, after all, handpicked by the Ancestors, selected from wee lads to be custodians of our most sacred lore.” Gwen wanted to say that the arrangement sounded awfully like the human nobles monopolising education, but kept her opinion to herself. Why should she be surprised that, other than humans, Demi-humans also built artificial social strata based on withholding essential knowledge poignant to the survival of the species? To scoff would be hypocritical. In London, how many Humans could Awaken to become Mages? How many Mages graduated high school? How many graduates completed a tertiary education? And how many in places like Oxbridge? At the very least, Hanmoul and his Murk Dwarves seem to run their cities independent of their worshipped cousins. _CLUNK—!_ Hanmoul stomped a pedal into submission, filling the upper cavity of the tunnel with unspent miasma. The service tunnel ended at a guard post carved out from a single block of stone rising from floor to ceiling. With her Detect Magic active, Gwen could see that the gate positively crawled with runic wards. Yanking a lever, Hanmoul popped the canopy, revealing himself and his Void Mage cargo. “Kumdael Hillbrook! Why is that gate nae lowered?” Hanmoul hollered at the guard just peeking out over the teeth-like battlements. “I’ve got important guests!” "Commandrumm!” A dozen heads appeared like the final stage of a Wack-a-Dwarf carnival game, half of whom wore miner’s helmets with directional lumen globes. “Trouble in sector seven-three-three, Ser! We’ve got a breach in Shaft five! At the new farm, Ser!” “Am gain fur half-a-day, and yer got britches?” Hanmoul growled. “Where’s Stonehammer?” “The foreman's taken a crew o’ Crusher down Shaft nine ter plug a leak, Ser, got a swarm of Vannsk Sjekkliag loose in eight-two. Outpost eight-two and six-one are also occupied.” “What’s a van-nesk-sklag?” Gwen waited for a lull in the conversation before asking. To her left, she could see Ollie crawling out of the Strider to straighten out his spine. “A type of Water Elemental,” Hanmoul explained offhandedly. “Nae a big threat, usually. Troublesome though, if they get powerful enough, they can flood the whole shaft.” The Commandrumm punched a few Glyphs invisible to Gwen’s eye. A burst of steam and mana miasma hissed from the Strider’s rear, then a platform lowered, revealing an empty suit of what Gwen recognised as Dwarven Golem Armour. “Protocol is not to open the guard post until the Murk's monsters clear,” Hanmoul said sombrely. “Not to admit strangers, at least. My apologies lass, I am ashamed to say you may have to wait—“ “I’ll come with you,” Gwen interrupted Hanmoul before Ollie could get a word in edgewise. “We’re friends, aren’t we? What’s a dozen Trolls between mates?” “Meites?” Hanmoul’s beard rustled. “It means we’re war buddies.” Gwen quickly appended her vernacular. “Ollie, you coming?” The Praelector sighed. “Yes, Gwen.” “Good man.” Gwen gave the tired-looking Illusionist a thumbs up. Thankfully, Hanmoul wasn’t the squeamish or indecisive type. Without hesitation, he barked orders for his Hammer Guards to form up, then stepped into the empty suit of Golem Armour. Now that Gwen could see the suit up close, she could begin to appreciate why the Magisters marvelled at the Dwarve's signature mechanised infantry. The interior, so far as she could tell, was alive with Glyphs, etched onto velvety leather crawling with Mandalas. The suit itself resembled a beetle-like exoskeleton, adding enough elevation to Hanmoul that, when equipped, he matched her height. The exterior of the armour consisted of mould-injected interlocking plates that reminded Gwen of archaic dive-suits. As wide as it was tall, the lumbering, hunch-backed Golem armour sported a Spellsword under the wrist of each massive gauntlet, one of which possessed an articulate hand, while the other held a tool-attachment that resembled a drill. Alone, a suited operator could be impervious to lower-tier creatures, as a squad, five units could hunt monsters that would occupy a Mageflight. Once occupied, the armour’s hermetic seals slid into place. It’s mana-engine roared, spewing cobalt jets of mana-exhaust from two cyclonic vents below the rear shoulder. “Squad One, yer with me,” Hanmoul hollered. “Squad Two, yer guarding our guests.” “No need.” Gwen raised a hand. “Ariel! Caliban!” "EE!" "Shaa!" While the Hammer Guards cleared some space for her Familiars, she completed another set of spells. “Hound Pack! Blood Hound!” Eight Void Dogs plus "Buck" slinked into existence. “… Squad Two, form up on me.” Hanmoul nodded. “Lass, we gonnae go a wee bit fast.” “I’ll keep up.” Gwen switched over to Lightning. “Flight! Arcane Sight!” “Mage Armour! Mirror Image!” Ollie buffed up a little himself. When Gwen addressed the four Ollies standing side by side, her House-brother answered as a sheepish quartet. “I am not a combatant like you, Gwen. I’ll do what I can as support…” Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Hanmoul nodded, his movement fully articulated through the full-faced visor caste in the visage of a war-like Ancestor. _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_ As one, the Hammer Guards marched in lockstep. At first, the Dwarfs’ speed was as Gwen had anticipated, slow and ponderous. Gradually, the procession upped the pace so that the assembly stormed forward with the momentum of a freight train. A tunnel-length later, the troop of Dwarves was moving faster than Gwen could run, and it was only because of Flight that Gwen and Ollie could keep up. “There isn’t a troop transport we could take?” Gwen Messaged Hanmoul as the Commandrumm opened the way. “Surely you can’t be running from one fire to the next. What about the Rockcrusher suits?” “The shafts are unstable and narrow, far too unpredictable for us to send a Crusher or a Vularm. If there's a breach, it usually means somethings' happened to the Repelling Wards.” “A caterpillar?” Gwen caught the strange translation of Vularm. “Segmented, multi-limbed transports with carriages.” “Don’t tell me our people stole the design for trams from your folk as well.” “Could very well be.” Hanmoul’s voice sounded deeper from inside the Golem plating. "So, what are we expecting?" "The farm lost contact a few hours back. It happens, our Echo Glyph nodes bleed intae the Planes an' the signal goes unanswered." Nodding, Gwen made a note to investigate the Dwarven variation of Divination Towers. For now, she had poignant questions that needed answers. "Did your men delve too greedily and too deeply, thereby disturbing something large, fiery and angry?" “Nae, Murk Dwarf donnae dig that deep, we mine for ore and groan our scran in the Murk, just belaw the surface. The resources are soond, but danger and reward come in twain. The richer the seam, the nastier beasties it attracts.” “Oh." Gwen felt almost disappointed. "What manner of monsters do you get here, in the Murk, I mean?” “Yer’ve seen the Red Knobs and the Trollies.” Hanmoul slowed the cadence of his men’s sure-footed march. Perhaps by design or through something like an internal gyroscope, the cumbersome armour was surprisingly agile while moving through the increasing non-uniform tunnel. “But our grudge with the Scarred King is ancient history. The war is seasonal. On the other cog, monsters of the Murk obey no such tradition. There’s an evil intelligence lying belaw, lurking in the deep dark, sending out its feelers to taste our defences, ambush our caravans, or massacre our outposts.” “Intelligence, as in...” Gwen wondered if she should mention the Elder Gods. Perhaps Nyarlathotep had a hankering for Dwarf? "Ancient things?" “Mayhap,” Hanmoul replied evasively. “We Murk-dwellers don’t rightly ken fer sure. The Deepdowners say that something awoke in the deep dark when the Black Dragon stirred three cycles ago. Others say that they dug too deep and angered something long entombed in the Elemental Plane of Earth. In the end, all we ken is that monsters appear throughout the Murk, disrupting our trade and our passages. Every time we exterminate a warren or pit a nest ter fire, two seem ter sprin' up.” “Sounds like the surface,” Gwen remarked. “Our biggest problem is probably the Mermen. They breed fast, have fish for brains, and invade our cities at every opportunity.” “We too get Mermen where there are large bodies of water,” Hanmoul said as he slowed his pace. “Muck-men, we call them— The Commandrumm raised a fist. "—Alright lads, scouting formation. Tordrum, Grimgal, take the lead.” The troop of Golem Armours plinked and whined as their mana-jets cooled. Hanmoul's soldiers had arrived at a network of newly bored tunnels extending every which way, including up and down. Gwen had a strange feeling that if she were to get lost in these passageways, she might very well transform into the tourist in Lovecraft’s “The Beast in the Cave”. “You may use my dogs.” Gwen fought down her fear of orienteering in the dark, then offered the faceless, salivating head of Buck, whose jaw took up almost forty per cent of its body length. “If you recall, they’re rather resilient.” Hanmoul raised a fist. “Yer our guest. Allow my men to protect you when we find the beasties.” “Gwen, please let the Commandrumm do his job.” The chorus of Ollies begged her from the back. Gwen nodded. She drew Buck, Ariel and Caliban around herself, but willed the pack to take up an unobtrusive perimeter. Unlike her new friends, the dogs were consumables. Tordrum and Grimgal received the nod from their Commandrumm and moved out, their Golem plates thrumming as they lowered their profiles. The Hammer Guards appeared identical, with the only discernible difference being the numeric markings on their shoulder pauldrons. “Ariel, Invisible Familiar,” Gwen incanted the spell under her breath. “Move up and keep an eye out.” “Ee!” the Kirin replied though their Empathic Link. “Deploy the Krawluroz Eyre,” Hanmoul commanded. Up ahead, the two Hammer Guards moved their hands across the wall, materialising from their Storage Rings half-a-dozen spider-constructs. With a clang, wound-up sprockets sprang into gear, after which the palm-sized crawlers scattered like lemmings. “You have drones?” Gwen was beyond impressed. How did that even work? She had seen no real indication that advanced electronics existed in her present world, much less AI. There were no modern creature comforts, not even in the six-figured, palatial sedans used by the state. “Imbued Machines, not male bees,” Hanmoul carefully explained, as one might to a slow novice. “The Eyre is a type of Golem. They're made to be very irritating.” Just as Gwen was about to ask how exactly the mechanical spiders hoped to be irritating, one of them began to unleash an ungodly wail, all the while blasting beams of light in a shotgun pattern directly ahead. “Contact!” Hanmoul barked into his suit's communication device. “Two O’Clock, three hostiles, large size!” With complete obliviousness, the drones charged forward, skittering across the walls, the floor and even across the ceiling. One of them ran straight into what Gwen supposed as a large boulder, then exploded into globules of slime with the luminesce properties of Faery Fire. “KARRAK!” Said bounder fell from the ceiling, striking the ground with a bone-throbbing thud. For a moment, Gwen wondered if she had finally encountered a Drop Bear. “HOOKA AZKHORN!” Hanmoul hollered something about a "horror" with hooks, then ordered his men for ranged engagement. “Penetrator Spells! On my mark— Karaad!” Mana engines whirled into life, as did the protruding Spellblades. A near oppressive volume of Elemental Earth filled the tunnel; then the Dwarves fired their payloads. _THUNK— THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!_ The stone-like creature unfurled itself just in time to take a dozen metallic bolts to the chest. The majority was deflected by its carapace, though three shards thankfully overcame their target's resilience. “KARR-GARRGGGH—!” The monstrosity stumbled backwards, vomiting up black blood. A chimaera? Gwen’s glowing eyes focused on the creature’s physiology. The Hooka was a turtle, a leatherback of some sort standing on two stumpy hind legs. Up top, its forearms were twin scything claws the size of Ollie. Remarkably, its head resembled that of a drake crossed with the likeness of a snapping turtle. With one swing, the armoured horror broke off the spines embedded in its body. Its bloodshot eyes rolled in its sockets, filling with rage. With a grunt, its head lowered, readying a charge. _C-CRASH!_ Two more half-painted horrors landed from the murky height of the cavern, triggered by the light and sound. “Gilthok!” Hanmoul swore. "Pin those down!" “Need help?” Gwen’s dogs were already whining. Not far, Caliban was salivating at the seams. “No, not that,” Hanmoul growled. “If Hookas are guarding the entrance, I donnae 'ave much hope we’ll be finding the farmin' team in one piece.” “Oh.” Gwen grimaced. “KARRAK!” The injured horror began its charge. “Tordrum, Grimgal! Slow 'em down! The rest— FOCUS FIRE!” The leading Hammer Guards spell-shaped the ground just in front of the creature as it charged, warping the floor so that the monstrosity reared off-balance, running head-first into the wall. Meanwhile, a mixed volley of magma, steel, and pure force struck the horror’s armoured hide, burying it in an avalanche of spellfire. “KARRAK!” The remaining two horrors, now fully unfurled, began their charge. “AXES AT THE READY!” Hanmoul barked. “Torrigg! Banmur! To the fore!” Gwen was happy to leave the fight to the Dwarves, but even she could see that one unlucky swipe from one of these king-crab looking turtle-demons would peel the armour from her new mates like a bowie knife popping a chilli can. If she was to do something, anything, now was the time. “Ariel! Chain Lightning!” Her spell manifested in the nick of time, with Ariel positioned just so above the scythe-clawed fiends. With a mighty “EE!”, the tunnels came alive with hysterical electricity, bouncing from horror to horror, the spell's potent energies maintained by Ariel’s unparalleled access to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning. “GAOK—“ On its third retina-searing revolution, the channelled lightning turned the embedded spikes still sticking from the wounded horror’s chest into molten slag. Its eyeballs exploded in a burst of bubbling, milk-white juices while smoke spewed from the creature’s beak. Its remaining companions took far less damage but were stunned long enough for the lightning to singe their hide. “Buck! Caliban, Onslaught!” Her contingent of Void-hounds surged forth as a dark tide, silently slobbering as they converged on the horrors. “Sorry, Hanmoul, better safe than sorry.” “Lower your swords!” Hanmoul halted his troops in response to Gwen’s creatures swarming past the howling Golem-plated warriors. Buck was the fastest among them, making no sound but the splatter of gooey drool leaking from its enormous mouth. It bit into one of the horror’s claws and hung on, corroding the creature's resistance. The other deerhounds followed suit, swarming over their enemies so that momentarily, two writhing mounds slick with dark oil was all the Dwarves could make out. Caliban, resembling a great black spider drone, arrived just in time as the larger of the two horrors broke free. A corroded limb threw two of Gwen’s dogs from its back with such force that one brained itself against the rough-hewn cavern. “SHAA—!” Caliban repaid the insult with a blur of forelimbs, each a segmented spear glimmering darkly with motes of Void. Soundlessly, it tore into the horror’s chest, puncturing the turtle-demon from neck to the chops. “KARRAK!” The horror pushed forward while Caliban’s legs were still fast-stuck inside its body, uncaring that an eight-foot spider was dicing its innards. As one, Gwen’s dogs retreated while spider and horror embraced like lovers. “Consume!” Gwen agreed that if the Hooka Azhorn had a death-wish, then she would oblige. Additionally, assuming there was a bigger foe than these walking harvesters for enemies, she would need the life-force. By now, through borrowed vitality, her damaged dogs had recovered. All nine then piled onto the remaining horror, tearing and ripping at the armoured beast to disassemble it piece by piece. The horror’s response was to enrage itself into a frenzy of blurring claws and gnashing beak, splattering the walls with deerhounds. Gwen shook off the slivers of ice that haunted her innards whenever vitality fled from her body. Caliban was now devouring the horror wholesale. What was interesting to see, she noted cooly, was that the monsters were fearless. Usually, when mundane creatures encountered her Void beasts, their first reaction was an existential fear that paralysed muscle and sinew. These fiends fought her monsters tooth-and-nail. “Ancestor’s Cogs…” Hanmoul held his men at bay while Gwen’s creatures finished up. Caliban burped just once after swallowing an adversary twice its size and dozens of times its weight, then proceeded to scatter the dogs so that he could finish the ravaged remains of their final foe. “Yer a true terror, lass.” “All in a day’s work,” Gwen replied sweetly, circulating both Essence and Mana. If Caliban’s happy mewling was correct, there was likely going to be a significant volume of vitality incoming. “I need to meditate, do you mind if I rest at the back?” “I insist.” Hanmoul’s tone was stoic. Gwen retreated beside an ambivalent Ollie. “You should have let the Dwarves handle it themselves.” “I wouldn’t want us to return to base sans a member of our entourage. Do you think we'll be in the mood to tour the city after that.” Ollie sighed. “Anyway.” Gwen batted her long lashes. “Could my Praelector conjure up some privacy for his House-sister?” Ollie blinked, his eyes growing wide and his face turning scarlet. “Aren't you wearing… the er… magical intimates?” “Not for that, ya dirty dope!” Gwen berated her House-brother. “I need to manage my vitality feedback! If you got something, do it now, else I am going to use Void Shield.” “Will you be immobilised during this… feedback?” “I should be able to walk it off.” Ollie exhaled. “Dissonant Blur!” Gwen’s form instantly grew hazy and indistinct. “Nice,” her voice replied from the general vicinity. “I should pick this up for myself. I’ll tell you when to dispel it.” “I am gonnae to need a stiff bevvy efter this.” Hanmoul swore when they found their first suit of shattered Golem Armour. Like an opened can of pear, the interlocking carapace had parted at the seams. Near the back, a rent as wide as Gwen’s thighs exposed the cobalt coolant, which had erupted with such pressure that the wall became pock-marked with caustic reactions. Presently, Gwen's former entourage was assembled in a shaft that didn’t so much resemble a mine, but a vertical hydroponic farm. Though ravaged, Gwen could make out the lattice-climbing legumes being fed a diet of nutrient-rich solutions, neatly arranged in an endless array of parallel aqueducts. Up top, near the ceiling, the levitating lumen globes had been crushed, casting the tunnel into pitch-blackness. “More of those Hooka things?” “A Shale Wyrm, by the looks of it.” Hanmoul's grimness matched the low rumble of his armour. With a finger, he pulled a length of silk-like saliva from the emptied armour. “Looks like its brooding.” “Wyrm as in…” Gwen mimed a wingless drake swimming through the rocks. “Aye lass, but not what you’re thinking.” Hanmoul clambered back into his armour. “This time of year, the eruption of Earthen mana is strong near the Red Peak. Just as we rush ter harvest the crystal growth, the Wyrm’s come ter spawn, and just sae happens, it’s found a warren full of scran.” “Is it related to those Hooka things we fought earlier?” “An elder Wyrm will use lesser creatures as servants in return for scraps and protection,” Hanmoul explained. “As for the Wyrm itself, it hails from the Elemental Plane of Earth.” “Sapient?” “Not intelligent like you and I, but capable of reason, aye.” Hanmoul placed a hand over the empty suit of Golem Armour. A second later, the shattered armour rested in the Commandrumm's Storage Ring. “They’ve more instinct than reason. Eyeless, foo ay teeth an' scrabblin' claw, mair worm than wyrm.” "We'll follow you." "Aye, we need to follow the trail." Hanmoul’s mana engine roared into action. “There should be four more Hammer Guards, including their Foreman, as well as two dozen labourers. We'll neeta brin' buck their armour if naething else.” Gwen straightened her back. With the lumen globes gone and the hydroponics smashed up, the darkness seemed to stretch on forever. Acutely, she made herself aware that this was the world of the Dwarves, a place of fortresses, tunnels and shafts embedded in subterranean strata, choked full of danger far different from the surface. Up there, in her world, there was space to run, room to flee, an open sky full of possibilities provided one’s enemy wasn’t a flock of Furies or a pissed off Dragon. Here in the Murk, every confrontation was the survival of the fittest. Every engagement was a fight to the death for what little space nature or labour could carve out. From the darkness, her dogs slinked into view, each as sleek as missiles, appearing in the dim like malevolent drops of semi-solid crude. In the dark, her invisible Caliban reported a mass of delicious vitality existing some distance from their entry point. “Don’t worry Hanmoul.” She patted the thrumming armour, careful to avoid the vents. “We’ll find your mates, or we’ll find the Wyrm. And with any luck, we’ll find both.”

"Commandrumm, we're nae gonnae wait fer the Rockcrushers?" one of Hanmoul's Iron Borns sent over a discrete line on the comms. "Nae lad, we've got the lassie here lending us a hand," his superior replied. "Besides, it'll take another two hours for a squad of Wyrm-hunters ter get to us. Where dae yer think that'll leave the survivors? There are twinti Dwarves in that farm, Tordok. You're gonnae answer ter their Clan elders?" "Nae, Ser…" "Donnae think so." Hanmoul raised an armoured fist. "Squad Halt. Set up a perimeter patrol." "I believe our objective is just up ahead." Beside the Commandrum, the human sorceress appeared to focus on something out of sight. "Yes, Cali tastes something fairly substantial, about six Striders arranged end-to-end. Sounds about right?" "Aye, that's our brooder." Hanmoul was now sure that including their helpful artillery was the right choice. "Can ya see any of our kin?" "There's close to two hundred motes of life in that tunnel," Gwen translated what Hanmoul supposed was a vision from her Void Familiar. "How do you want to proceed?" "Normally, I donne say we britch from below." Hanmoul pondered their present condition. "However, I have it on good authority that Shale Wyrms possess the ability to sense tremors." "Hyper-sensitive to light and sound?" The sorceress' face lit up. "Only to subterranean vibrations," Hanmoul said. "We've used sonic attacks against them before, and lightning, and fire. The Wyrm nae donne have eyes. Like most Draconids, they're very resistant against all elements and near-impervious against lesser physical attacks." "And you're positive that the Wyrm is draconic?" "Aye. Tis a mongrel of sorts. Thar be True Wyrms living in the Elemental Plane of Earth. I would presume the Shale Wyrm aye an offspring, or perhaps a creature morphed by Essence." "Breath attack?" "Ay believe so." "Can it speak Draconic?" "Yer ken Draconic?" "I can translate it… " Gwen tapped the back of her neck. "I donnae think ye can talk it down." "Well." The sorceress appeared full of confidence. "As long as it's running on Dragon juice, I think we're good with non-diplomatic solutions." "How sae?" Hanmoul raised a bushy brow. The lassie was good at shaving Trolls down to a ramrod, but this was a creature he and his men would take hours to exhaust! If half of his armoured units survived the operation and only one man perished, Hanmoul would have counted himself lucky. "You'll see." The sorceress cracked her knuckles, then stroked her eyeless black dog. "Trust me, Hanmoul. That Wyrm's as good as worms meat." "... There are spherical things, here, about two dozen of them— the same area, assuming those cocoon things are NOT eggs, should be your men. As with before, there are some strange formations here and here… so they're likely those subterranean Drop Bears we encountered, not to mention swarms of these worms with copper-coloured beaks..." The Commandrumm plotted out the assault based on what Gwen termed "Ariel VR". Unfortunately, due to the hostages, they could not flood the tunnel with noxious gas or open up with a Maelstrom. What they could do, however, was to have Gwen's Familiars distract the enemy so that Hanmoul and his men could retrieve as many of the "storage cocoons" as possible. Ollie raised a hand. "I do believe that I can conjure enough Phantasmal Force to double, or triple our forces." "Aye, but the Wyrm sees through tremor, how good's yer ghosts?" Ollie scratched his chin. "I could throw in some Mimic and Auditory Hallucinations, magnify the effect with Haunt." "I have no idea what that means," Gwen declared for the Dwarve's benefit. "Ollie, can you explain in laymen terms the implications of those spells?" Realising his error, Ollie patiently obliged. Phantasmal Force allowed him to create mock-visages of the Golem units. Mimic could, as the name suggests, mime the sound of the Golem's tangible qualities, including the vibration they made in transit. Auditory Hallucination, comparatively, directly affected simple creatures, being effective across an enormous range and coverage. Haunt was a single target spell that afflicted the target with hallucinations and phantom enemies, inducing sensory confusion or self-harm. "Sweet." Gwen gestured to her twin Hound Pack, totalling eighteen individuals in obsidian and cobalt. The Lightning dogs, after her encounter with the Wolfhounds at the isle, now appeared closer to their terrestrial cousins. "How many Phantoms can you manage?" "About three…" Ollie craned his neck proudly. "And I can manage six other layers concurrently." Ollie's response reminded her of Tao. Sure, her cousin was stacking low tier spells, but in a way, the wannabe gangsta was a terrific Illusionist. Smiling secretly to herself, she wondered if Ollie and Tao would get along like a Wall of Fire. "Alright, let's go with Mimic and Phantom then," she stated. "Hanmoul, you need to trust me on this. If that Wyrm has an ounce of Draconic in him, it'll stick to Cali like Gogo on Phelara." The team wasn't sure what the analogy meant but made ready for the rescue operation, materialising runic melee implements from piston-hammers, chain-axes to whirling drills. Meanwhile, Gwen called Caliban into position. "Make sure you get its attention," Gwen empathically commanded her Familiar to take whatever vitality it needed. Just outside the cavern where the Wyrm brooded, Caliban began to bloat. Gwen ordered her dogs into place. Post Caliban, they would be the first wave, followed shortly by a mixture of real and illusory Dwarven rescuers. Ollie had promised that at full throttle, he could guarantee an hour of faultless operation, more than enough time for their allies to flee with their targets. "Ancestors' protect us," Hanmoul whispered what Gwen supposed was a Dwarven prayer. "May Nörn-Zur's Dousing Rod guide us to the motherlode." There were many species of Shale Wyrms, pending on its elemental-genus and Draconic-origins. Prior to its exogenous metamorphosis, the creatures were said to be Earthen Worms living deep in the Elemental Plane of Earth, eyeless, blind, all-consuming but hardly malevolent. However, once polluted by the Essence of the Great Wyrms leaking from the Unformed Land, the Earthen Worms began to change. First, they grew larger, more aggressive, becoming voracious. An Earthen Wyrm began its career by consuming other worms in its vicinity, collating what little Essence its unevolved cousins had gathered unto themselves in the manner of Dragons. Then, by moving further afield, it found other prey. Little by little, intelligence engendered from its non-existent brain, growing ever more ill-disposed until one day, it became aware of its life-long pursuit— to metamorph into a True Wyrm. Rarely, one such creature ventured too far through the Elemental Plane of Earth. It struck a fracture where the fabric of reality has worn thin and found itself in the Prime Material Plane. Suddenly cut off from the presence of its progenitor, the creatures grew slowly insane as their existential dogma grew futile, leaving them with little more purpose than to consume and procreate. In that regard, like most Planar annelids, the Earthen Wyrm reverted back to baser instincts, engendering eggs using its own hermaphroditic body to be brooded in nodes rich with mana. And so it was that this particular flotsam of the protean Planar tides, having found such a place, cowed the natives, then made its lair in a seam abundant with food. Here, it would breed, soaking its stone eggs in mana. Then it would watch as its young devour the morsels it had collected along the way, starting with prey, then finishing with its enslaved allies. "SHAA! SHAA!" The sleeping Wyrm stirred before the sound could reach its hyper-sensitive follicles. When its proboscis tasted the air, the Wyrm's diluted Draconic blood ignited as though sulphur struck by lightning, rippling its carapaces from fanged snout to barbed tail. Without understanding, the Wyrm's Essence-addled brain burned with agitation. Such resentment coursed through its bloated body that milk-white mucus poured from its pores, smothering its surroundings with strands of viscous silk. A moment later, a creature stomped into the domain of its tremor-sensitive bristles. The Shale Wyrm had never seen a bird before, but that did not prevent it from acknowledging acutely ancestral memories demanding its foe's demise. "KE-KE—!" The Wyrm bared its four pairs of fangs, each set embedded within the other. Its organ gurgled and gnashed, brought to bear by the blessing of the Great Wyrms. Distending its neck, pulling back every muscle in its throat, the Shale Wyrm compressed the dozen acid glans hidden in its fleshy cavities, compressing its potent payload. "GLUBLURRRGH!" Elemental Earth and Water, mixed with Essence and the creature's secretions, vomited forth as a blue-green sludge. "SHAA!" Its avian assailant covered itself with both wings, shielding its face and body. In the aftermath, the Shale Wyrm panted, its great, glistening frame undulating as it absorbed the surrounding mana, turning fields of brittle crystals into lightless dust. Sulfurous gas rose from the granite flagstones as the all-melting compound slid from the bird's crow-coat, eating the floor in great mouthfuls. "SHAA!" The creature continued its advance. Its wings unfurled to reveal a mouth that rivalled the Shale Wyrm's flesh-flaying apparatus. Below its crow-black feathers, a white pair of claws, so discordant against its sleek body, stalked forward with dreadful purpose. Rising to the challenge, the Shale Wyrm uncoiled itself, segment by armoured segment. "Ke-ke-ke—" Numberless symbiotic scavengers and parasitic hangers-on jolted awake at the behest of their usurping sovereign. With a growl more "Akch!" than throaty howl, it willed its dominated allies to expend themselves against the invader. "Harath!" Hanmoul gave the order. Over forty Golem-units rushed headlong into the cavern, following the pitter-patter of Gwen's streaming hounds. At the threshold of the cavern, a chaotic line of scavengers, everything from swarms of elementals like the parrot-beaked Copper Slugs to a family of menacing Hookas met the trespassers. Grouped by themselves, Hanmoul would not have found the monsters to be insurmountable. Be it the iron-eating swarmers with their acidic breath, or the Hookas with their ambush, the Magical Monsters of the Murk had individual territories and quirks. Low in intelligence, these beasts were rarely a match for the organised Dwarves, who conducted monthly Purges to push from the Murk toward the Dyar Morkk, the low-ways. Indeed, only when commanded by a higher being to not fight among themselves did the tier of danger offered by the Murk multiplied. The dim cavern grew suddenly bright with firelight. A portion of the illusory Hammer Guards opened fire, while others dashed forward with no regard for their safety. The sorceress' conjured beasties performed just as admirably, splitting into streams to flank the monsters in their midst, sowing confusion. "Tordrum, take Squad One left and start retrieving the cocoons. Grimgal! Take a right, you and Squad Two are with me!" "Aye, Commandrumm!" BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! A rolling wave of corrosive gas, lime-green and glowing with supercharged mana, rolled over the lair's invaders. "UP YER ELEMENTAL RESISTS!" Hanmoul punched-in the Glyph combination. "Keep moving even if yer legs melt!" Up ahead, the lass' Big Bird survived the enveloping acid without so much as a step backwards. With a "Shaa!", it battered away the stone-melting sludge, then continued its march toward the Wyrm. The Wyrm itself was as Hanmoul had feared, an escaped denizen from the deeper parts of the Elemental Plane of Earth. It was an adult, at minimum the size of a ten-carriage Vularm, stretching from cavern floor to ceiling. How was the girl's bird, which was a quarter its size, hoping to defeat such a beast? Hanmoul wondered. Or perhaps that wasn't the point, Hanmoul contemplated the match-up. Was the girl offering her Familiar as a selfless distraction so that, given the operative time frame, Hanmoul's men could pull as many cocooned eggs from the lair as possible? And, the Ancestors' willing, would find his kin still possessing the breath of life? "KE-KE!" "Shaa!" The Wyrm was wily. Flanking the Big Bird, it attacked with all four-sets of diamond-hard mandibles from the flank, while up above, its tail was poised to strike with an envenomed, spear-tipped barb. "Girlie!" Hanmoul warned his companion even as the corroding fog sent up warming flares all over his diagnostic panel. "Void Sphere!" Hanmoul needn't have worried. An eruption of dark matter spewed forth as though a tenebrous capsule of ink, consuming the tip of the tail, followed shortly by a secondary nova. In the spell's passing, there was no explosion nor conflagration, not even a shockwave. There was only the eroded stump of what had been a tail, fountaining jets of oily, aubergine ichor. In totality, the spell had removed but a finger from the Wyrm's mass. In practice, the Wyrm had been disarmed. "SHAA!" The bird took flight. Hanmoul didn't know much about birds, but from the mass of the house-sized avian horror, it should not have been able to lift into the air, at least not without reinventing Gul-Zūh's Law of Mass. Instead, the creature's muscles and ligaments make a mockery of physics. With a thunderclap of dark wings, it lifted itself above the Wyrm, forcing the creature's momentum-filled strike to pass harmlessly below. Then the Big Bird landed. A pair of white hands, slender and feminine, closed in around a segment of the Wyrm's torso, one against its spine, assuming it had one, and the other nearer to the base of its neck. Hanmoul quaked, all rational thought momentarily fled his mind. As the creatures met in melee, Hanmoul forgot about the Copper Slugs gnawing at his armour's thigh and swarming over his men, both real and imaginary. _CRUNCH!_ Hanmoul winced, suddenly filled with compassion for the Wyrm. As had been done to the Trollies of Scarred Peak, the Big Bird's finger-claws first deformed the Wyrm's carapace, then rendered its soft-flesh into oozing clay. "KAKAKAKA—" The Wyrm thrashed madly, perhaps in disbelief that it would be bested so quickly and so totally. Once again, writhing, twisting and turning, it opened its maw, glans at the ready, then smothered the bird with sulphuric acid. The Big Bird simply did not give a krummp. Hanmoul soberly forced himself to refocus on the task at hand. With a three-score of expertly-timed strikes from his chain-axe, he hewed at the Copper Slug's joints until the carapace gave way. Crushing the soft flesh with his mechanised, mana-charged fist, the Commandrumm then pushed through the acid fog to arrive at the brooding site. Already, his men were hewing at the base of the cocoons, spell-shaping the granite to free their attached cargo. Locating an egg himself, Hanmoul set to work, mindful that not a dozen meters away, a terror bird was shredding a Vularm— carriage by squirming carriage. "Buck! Take the Hooka on the right! Astro, retreat, then help carry the cocoons!" Via Ariel's eyes, Gwen surveyed the battlefield, feeling every bit the all-seeing player of a real-time strategy game. Ollie stood a meter away, refreshing the Invisibility on her armour while maintaining his Phantasmic Force, concurrently confusing the swarms with hallucinations. The young man was already one mana potion down and panting, though his face flushed with excitement. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. "Ariel, get ready…" Gwen waited for the monsters to converged on the fleeing Dwarven armour before pushing Almudj's Essence into her conduits. "Ball Lightning!" "EE-EE!" Where the interior of the cavern had glowed with fire and magma, it now grew hysterically bright as orbs of sizzling, viridescent electricity expanded amidst the pursuing swarm. One by one, the Dwarves retreated with their cargos, some cradling two eggs, others having three cocoons chained together as a bouncing, skittering train. "Invisibility—" Ollie obliged once more, an expert in Spellcraft but inexpert when it came to the art of war. He was also clad in the second-tier illusion staple, though as an ally, Gwen could make out a faded outline, as though her House-brother had become incorporeal. "Gwen, are we retreating now?" "Sif!" Her blood was up. Who would retreat when their gamble paid off? The Wyrm was well-pollinated with Draconic Essence, and as one who had experienced the prowess of the Big Birds against Golos, she possessed not an ounce of worry that Caliban would not emerge with a new form. "Retreat? We're finishing this!" "But you said…" "I told him to trust me— whoa—" Gwen shuddered as vitality fled from her body, making her momentarily blank out. "Sorry, that had quite the kick—and he's right to do so. Cali will win, and we will reclaim this part of the mines for our allies." Unable to refute her claim, Gwen's companion returned his gaze to the titanic struggle between bird and worm while Gwen returned hers to the general chaos of the battlefield. "Chain Lightning!" She loved the fact that thanks to Ollie's illusions, and with Ariel acting as her portable turret, the enemy was wholly unaware of her lightning blasts' origins. "Invisible Familiar!" "EE!" Ariel too enjoyed itself. Like shooting Gobs in a terraformed pit, electricity arched between Ariel's sixteen pointed stag horns before sharing the Evocation favourite with the masses, ripping through the Hookas, liquifying a dozen Copper Worms, then circling again to ravage the foe anew. "SHAA!" A cry of triumph echoed. Caliban, missing feathers here and there, sans half the digits on its hands as well as a mortal segment of its neck, had removed enough Wyrm flesh to expose the Wyrm's sacred component— its Creature Core. "Consume!" Gwen's heart pounded against her throat. "Cali! Do it now!" Perhaps realising that the end was nigh, the Wyrm reverted to its lesser instincts. From every inch of its quivering flesh, a silky, viscous ooze erupted forth, making itself slick and slippery. Caliban's peeled, tooth-lined maw struck the creature's flank, only to come away frustrated, catching a throat-full of slime. Gwen felt her understanding of Magic Creatures and their defence mechanisms fully renewed. All that vitality she poured forth, all that Void matter, and the mitigating offset was the power of Vaseline?! Nature does find a way! "Fuck me. Cali, keep it pinned! Ariel! Lightning Bolt!" Her alternative efforts were likewise disappointed by the Wyrm's primordial defences. "Void Seeker!" Her discus consumed itself about half-a-meter into the creature's flank, barely enough to slice off its lest rotund segment. Caliban made another attempt, but not only was it slipping on great gobs of slime from chin to chest, but its fingers were also losing grip. _Ding!_ Hanmoul's Message pinged. "Yer desiring to hunt the Wyrm?" "YES!" Gwen hollered back. "Any ideas?" "Don't you worry, Lass," Hanmoul's reply was full of confidence, as well as a hint of relief. "We'll keep it contained. Alright, lads! Let's turn up the heat for the lassies' cockie! Dragonbreath! Give it all yer got!" Those of the Hammer Guards still retrieving the cocoons rushed past Ollie and Gwen, while others returning to the fray fired up both Spellswords. Beginning with Hanmoul, the Dwarves poured gouts of fire toward the slimy, shimmering Wyrm. If anything, Gwen supposed, Dwarves would know how to temper a forge. Instantly, the temperature in the cavern shot up. The smothering slime dried up within a matter of seconds, becoming flaky and crusty. As for the great Wyrm itself, it writhed and turned, seeking an escape, only to be battered back by Caliban using its wings and its whip-like neck. More and more Dwarves joined with their flamers, their mana-engines glowing blue-hot as the liquid crystal blew out. The air grew so hot that the cavern's stones sizzled while its inhabitants baked. Ollie erected his Mage Shield, while Gwen found herself surprisingly resilient against the arcane fire. Her Lightning dogs seemed to largely ignore the heat, while her Void hounds skulked like murky skeletons among the wavering air. The surviving swarms that fed on the Shale Wyrm's waste fled, while what remained of the family of Hookas perished under renewed volleys of iron-wrought spikes, impaled against stone hot enough to cook their insides. The Wyrm made a wild dash against the granite floor, shaping the stone, seeking a way out. Unfortunately for their otherworldly invader, its fount of slime was no longer sustainable in its immediate environment. Even as it attempted to bore a new hole, the Dwarves sealed its exit with stone shaping spells fired from their Spellswords. Caliban descended, breaking through the crispy, smouldering silk to tear away chunks of bruised and battered flesh. Where the blistering slime grew exposed to the searing heat, it quickly solidified, losing all viscosity. At long last, goaded by a madcap Gwen howling "Consume! CONSUME!" Caliban enclosed the creature's Core with its tentacled maw, severing the Wyrm's heart from its Tyrian-veined arteries in a single tug, painting the Dwarves below with an arc of bubbling purple blood. "SHAA!" Rousing cheers went up as the Hammer Guards bathed in ankle-deep gore. "Good work, Cali!" Gwen poured what vitality she had left into Caliban, restoring her fiend's battle-weary body. No doubt she would soon be deep in meditation, the intensity of which nothing short of a Void Shield would keep decent. From her present vantage, all that was left was to grind down the remaining foes. Caliban was, after all, full-fluffed and choked full of vitality, brimming with battle lust in its most aggressive form. "Cali, Ariel, Buck, Astro, Ollie— clean up the rest." She fought off the shivers even as her limbs grew ice-cold. "Mummy's going to take a breather." Gwen emerged refreshed and hale from her meditation, having Prestidigitated her armour while in seclusion. When her Void Shield faded from view, she found herself surrounded by a wall of metal standing shoulder-to-shoulder. "They wanted to defend you while you were meditating," Ollie quickly explained. Gwen gave her audience an appreciative nod. "Hanmoul?" "Over there." Ollie's expression did not posses expectant joy, nor a look of burgeoning hope. Bowing their heads slightly, the Iron Born Dwarves clanked aside in their cumbersome battlesuits. Further down the corridor, she could see Hanmoul and the others, flanked by his sergeants. Presently, the Dwarves were at the tail end of their egg-sorting labour. As she approached, she couldn't help but notice that the tunnel's walls were bruised with ichor in lurid, crimson shades. That and beside the group, there were rows of Dwarven bodies caked in slime. There were three dozen in all, all of whom laid perfectly still. "Shit…" Gwen muttered. "We didn't know, but the Wyrm's venom takes life while preserving the flesh," Hanmoul announced for her benefit. "I am truly sorry, lass. You did all of this for nothing." CRUNCH! One of the armoured Dwarves cracked open the last cocoon. Once the content revealed itself to be the rock-like egg belonging to their kin-slayer. Swiftly, the Hammer Guard smashed into the egg, splatting embryo across the wall, then set the yolk aflame with gouts of orange magma from his Spellsword. "That's all of them." The Iron Born saluted. "I am sorry too, Hanmoul." Gwen walked through the rows of grey-faced cadavers. There were Dwarves both young and old, some with beards just reaching their neck, others as long as their waist. There were women as well, with fine whiskers and less prominent noses and jawbones and a certain softness to the brows. All of whom now laid side by side, still slick with the enzyme from the Wyrm's digestive systems. Dearly, Gwen wished that she had an Evee to cuddle. "Caliban…" Her Void snake, now docile, communicated that there were no discernible motes of vitality to be consumed. "We're grateful, lass," Hanmoul assured her, as if afraid of her displeasure. "Truly." "I know." Gwen fought down the cold invasion of disappointment. She had genuinely hoped that they would find someone, anyone, alive and well. If even one individual survived, then any effort would have been worthwhile. "We shall consign their bodies to their Clans." "That's good to hear." "The Clans will be in your debt..." "That was not my intention." Gwen shook her head. Her intention had been two-fold. One, she wanted to bring back Hanmoul's kin alive. As for her secondary purpose, it was the selfish curiosity of wanting to pit Caliban against a Draconic foe. "I've called for escorts and transports," Hanmoul continued. "We'll be entering through the Gate of Kazhul, sorceress. By my word, ye shall receive a proper welcome." "You don't have to." Gwen wondered if her modesty was feigned even as the words left her mouth. She had desired the Dwarves' favour, that much was self-evident. They had access to technology and expertise that she could not beg from London, not with the nobles barring her way. "Hanmoul, I said we're mates, and if you see me as a mate, we don't need ceremony or repayment for offering a helping hand. If Ollie got nabbed, would you have aided me in his retrieval?" Ollie gave her a strange look, demanding to know if her analogy involved extracting his blue-veined corpse from the gut of a shredded Wyrm. "Nae, lass." Hanmoul wasn't in the mood for debates of modesty. "I'll not have yer slink into the city like a thief, not after what yer've done for us in aw home. The Clans will ken what you did and why yer're here." Gwen could only nod, lamenting the murdered mirth that should have followed a thorough victory. Up close, the Gate of Kazhul was twice the size and grandeur. In her mind, Gwen always imagined that a hero's welcome set in a world of high fantasy would involve rose petals, trumpets, clarions, tapestries and adoring fans lining the battlements tossing streamers. Instead, she walked beside Hanmoul, leading a train of grey-faced cadavers through the solemn halls embedded within the keep, watched by the lantern-like eyes of the Citadel's citizens. Inside, she was in no mood to marvel at the architecture, the stained-crystal murals, the monolithic statues of Dwarven warriors holding up the ceiling. Instead, she was met with the despairing howls of families as they emerged from Citadel's depth to claim the dead. Gwen stood and studied the gathered crowd while they watched her in turn. The citizens, as far as she could tell, were dressed in a variety of garbs closely resembling medieval tunics but adorned with gadgets and tools. Physiologically, the Demi-human folk known as Dwarves were essentially stout Humans, with the males being barrel-chested and rotund, while the females were thick-thighed and generously bosomed. There was an overt preference for unisex leather gloves, as well as knee-high boots, and far more uniformity than what one would expect in a Human enclave. Hanmoul walked among those unfortunate enough to have to step up from the crowd to claim a body, patting shoulders and offering kind words here and there. Once identified, the segmented, self-propelled dollies used to transport the bodies followed the claimants, presumably taking the corpses to the Clan's abode to be returned to the Plane of Earth. "Gwen— heads up." Ollie's silent Message bloomed beside her ear. As prescribed, she looked up. There, standing behind the keep's art-deco parapet, was a troop of black-clad Dwarves looking straight out of dystopian science fiction. Their leader was the one to whom Ollie referred, for the Dwarf was clad from head to toe in bound cloth and forge-pressed plating. The mask reminded Gwen of Daft Punk's signature helmets, while around the man's torso, form-fitting runic plating glowed faintly with warding magic. The Dwarf's arms were likewise covered in what looked like holy scripts, ending in a pair of overlarge gauntlets half-hidden in long, pontifical sleeves. A Deepdowner, Gwen recognised the unusual look. Those who loathed the surface, and who considered anything outside the deep dark Vadam. Their eyes met, or rather, she met the helmet's reflective exterior. "Don't stare." Ollie coughed. "Remember what Hanmoul said." And what Lady Astor had forewarned, Gwen cautioned herself as she returned her attention to the grieving parents, siblings, Clanmates, mentors and friends. The scene was touching, but she had seen it all before. Were such displays of human suffering no longer sufficiently woeful? She wondered, or was it because there was no Elvia here to ground her to reality, to put the proper emotions in place? Cart by cart, the bodies were claimed until only one remained. "A Clanless…" Hanmoul shook his head. "We get them sometimes, survivors from another enclave." "What happens to him?" "We'll consign him to the fire in the Hall of Names." With the last body gone, Gwen breathed out. "Let us return to the Rotary Guild." Hanmoul's expression remained sombre. "We've done well today, thanks to you. Woe for the dead, but joy for the living. And so the Great Cog turns..." If Gwen had to describe the journey from the gate down to the imposing fortress known as the Rotary Guild, she would expound on the time she walked through Blackheath wearing a minidress. And like the residents of that down-and-out suburb, the Dwarves here did not shy away from a good gander. As before, walking beside Hanmoul, she felt like an animal in a gilded cage being paraded through the avenue, attracting the eyes of men, women and children alike. Ollie followed, possibly making himself less conspicuous with his illusions, leaving her to take the brunt of the Citadel's attention. Now and then, she waved back as would a friendly celebrity. Her audience's response was to shy away, cover their children's eyes, or gave her the Sign of the Thrice-jammed Cog. Such was the intensity of the half-kilometre journey from the gate to the guild that she felt exhausted despite the newly usurped vitality. At the guild itself, Gwen and Ollie were ushered into an amphitheatre carved from the bedrock. The building had the look of a town hall, with its centre consisting of six monolithic pillars inscribed with Dwarven runes. There, not seated in the six-seat dais but standing on the stage to await her grace, stood Hanmoul's superior, the Master of the Rotary Guild. "Miss Song, Magus Edwards," the Guild Master, much to the Human's surprise, spoke perfect British English. "Welcome to our humble abode." "It's a pleasure to be here." Gwen bowed from the waist. "Thank you for satisfying my selfish request." "Lord Engineseer." Ollie appeared to have studied the Murk Dwarf's hierarchy. "Though you know us already, allow me to introduce us still. Here is Magus Gwen Song of Peterhouse, Cambridge, War Mage of London and my House-sister. Please refer to this one as Magus Ollie Edwards, also of Peterhouse, Cambridge, London Tower. We are beyond grateful for your reception." "No need." The Guild Master hand-waved the humans' simulated modesty. "From what our man tells us, you have been instrumental in aiding Hanmoul yet again! Young one, you now owe Miss Song a great deal." "I shall endeavour to satisfy Haj-Zül's Debt," Hanmoul assured his Guild Master. A name that Gwen now understood as one of the Seven Ancestors; one who had repaid a debt with such magnificence that the tale had grown into a cultural aspiration. "First, allow me to introduce the Chief Engineseer of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, Whurforlüm Ironførge, First of his Clan, First of the Citadel Council, Lord Librarian, White Beard, and my teacher." "Hanmoul is too high-strung," the Guild Master scoffed at the breathless range of titles. "You may call me Whurforlüm, though I have given myself a Human name as well— Wilhelm." "Lord Ironførge," Ollie genuflected once more. "Milord Wilhelm." Gwen grinned at the portly old Dwarf. Unless she ignored the big white beard, the belly, the expansive, smiling face and the hale, rosy cheeks, it was impossible not to see Santa Claus. "I am sure you are eager to tour the city, and indeed, make certain requests of Hanmoul," the Guild Master accounted benevolently. "I understand that a difficult battle had taken place. You must be exhausted and hungry." "There's no need—" Ollie continued to play the diplomat. "I could eat," Gwen confessed. Her candidness was well-founded. Draining vitality made one exceptionally hungry. Restoring it did nothing for the feeling of fullness, nor accounted for an empty belly. "Then I am well pleased." The old Dwarf indicated to the exit. "Go and enjoy a banquet in your honour, walk the city with Hanmoul, think deeply of what you wish from us, then return here on the last day of your visitation. If I judge your demands acceptable, the Citadel will do its utmost to fulfil our side of the debt." Gwen felt most agreeable, finding the old Dwarf the most pleasant fellow she had come across in a long time. If all Dwarves could be negotiated with like the Guild Master, she saw no reason why some manner of burgeoning trade couldn't be established between the races. "Hanmoul, do show our guests to the Great Hall. You and your Hammer Guards have done well." Hanmoul did not at all appear pleased by the praise. "No one was saved, Ser." "Yet, the bodies of our kin have been returned to the Hearth of their Ancestors. None have become fat for the Wyrm. Who to thank for that, but your Legion and our guests?" "... Thank you Ser," Hanmoul conceded. "I shall serve our people better from now on." The Guild Master patted his student on the head, then directed his guests to the door. "Do enjoy yourselves, young Humans, but beware the potency of our beverages. Overlanders such as yourselves have required healing in the past due to reckless indulgence. It would certainly not do for our honoured guests to teleport back their Citadel!" Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. The Guild District. The Nut and Cog Rotary Tavern. As a culinary light-weight, Ollie paled at the Dwarven tavern-feast presented to the two guests. Piled three-stack high, the small mountain of foodstuffs consisted of creatures, legumes and root vegetable he had never seen or heard. The most salient was an enormous platter consisting of a horned iguana roasted throughout and stuffed with a mixture of unnamable herbs in fat-soaked Dwarf bread. Next was a plate of golden carapaced beetles, each a handspan in length, boiled then seasoned with milk-butter from God knews what source. Nearer Gwen sat potentially a pheasant, but more likely a flightless raptor of sorts, steaming famously on a plate of grease-strewn rhizomes. Then there were apple tarts. And six types of mead. And sixteen types of beer. And seven types of cider. And a grain-brewed something the Translation Stone forewarned as "Everclear". And Ollie would have kept well away from the sauce bottle had he not been bombarded by requests from the Hammer Guard to pour one out for the fallen. Compelled by circumstance, the Praelector chose mead— and was down and out half a stein later. "A round fer our Sorceress!" Sergeant Tordrum raised his tankard. "Two mugs, for saving us twice over!" Without waiting, the Dwarf sculled the first, then took up the other. He managed half-way before he had to belch, a foppish act that drew boos and jeers from his peers. "Wellie, YOO bloody scullie the Black Stout if yer so hale!" the Sergeant sputtered mead all over his beard. "Come on, do yer Ancestors proud!" Gwen gave the mead a polite sip to ensure that it was to her taste. Hanmoul had said that the sticky brew was made from honey; though from what "honey" the Commandrumm had declined to clarify. "I'll take you up on that." She stood with a stein in one hand. Tilting her head back, Gwen slammed down the sickly-sweet concoction without so much as a wrinkle of her brow. First, there was silence— then a roaring cheer shook the roof as a dozen tankard hammered the table. "Another!" Grimgal, who turned out to be a ladette rather than a lad, handed her a brimming pewter mug. With a flourish and a mote of circulating Essence, Gwen drank half the mug, paused for effect, then finished the rest. Taking a cue from her Chinese adventures, she overturned the stein to show that not a drop remained. "Gwen! Gwen! Gwen!" "That Human lass sure can drink!" "Ach! By me beard! She might be a Dwarf in disguise!" "Gwen, are you alright?" Hanmoul was sweating from every pore. The Commandrumm knew well the effects of Dwarven alcohol on the teetotaling Humans. What if the sorceress expired? Could their physicians heal a Human? "I am feeling GREAT!" Gwen felt a flush of warmth flooding her innards, indicating that for the first time in a long time, she was beginning to hit that lauded drinker's high. "Who's next?" "The Commandrumm!" Grimgal grabbed a clay bottle from under the table. "I've got an heirloom bottle of Everclear..." "GRIMGAL!" Hanmoul slammed the table with a balled fist. "Yer trying to kill our guest, ya daft wrench?" "Hold up. I am game." Gwen could already feel her Essence at work, detoxifying her blood at such an alarming rate. "What's the damage?" "Stormbreaker Everclear." Grimgal's smile was full of teeth. "It'll be a real test. Our Commandrumm's a Berumm Fest Octobrumm champion; he can outdrink any Dwarf under the table, man or woman." "I was a lad of fifty then!" Hanmoul protested. "Don't expect me to do that now. Argh, my poor liver..." "Jesus," Gwen remarked, studying the Dwarf from head to toe. Outside of his armour and uniform, Hanmoul looked like Gary Oldman as a lumberjack. "How old are ya now?" "A hundred and two." "Holy shit." Gwen cackled. "How old are the rest of ya?" "Seventy-four." "Fifty-nine." "Hundred and Twenty!" "Tordok's the young 'un— he's forty-nine." "Nae old enough ter drink, but old enough ter pilot." To settle her nerves, Gwen reached for the bottle of Everclear, uncorked the cap, then took a generous swig. The taste was akin to high-proof absinthe. Slowly, the liquid seared her gullet like a line of fire. She belched. Her eyes watered. A thundering outburst exploded across the tavern. Even Dwarves not affiliated with the Hammer Guards were now joining in on the action. "Fer your information. I am EIGHTEEN!" Gwen called out, finally feeling the buzz. "HOW'S THAT, OLD MAN HANMOUL?" The tavern grew silent. "Gilthok!" Hanmoul grumbled. "Ahahaha…" Grimgal snorted so hard she choked on a bit of yam. "Ya sure pick em young, Commandrumm. She can't be drinking with us!" "Don't know about that." Young Tordok growled. "I wasn't yet fifty, and yer all made me piss ma-self. Me mum had to drag ay carcass home to face the Ancestors." "She's a Human adult!" Hanmoul assured his men. "Fine. Gwen, pass it here." "Hold up." Gwen was abuzz with inspiration. Unbidden, she felt the engendering of a beautiful epiphany. Thanks to the Everclear coursing through her blood, her thoughts were free-flowing and without inhibition. "I've got just the thing!" From her ring, she retrieved the final bottle of Maotai that she had stowed. The lamb's fat jadeite flask caused a stir among the Dwarves, who marvelled at the intricately carved bottle made from a mineral rarely seen in this part of the world. With a deft hand, she uncorked the bottle. "Wot is that?" "The scent…" "LASS! Bring me a fresh mug!" "And a spot of the special sauce…" Gwen giggled, grinning like a demon, like a maniac alchemist, she materialised the rare whiskers she had harvested from Sen-sen, then deposited the lot into the fragrant sorghum-brew. In a set of crisp jade thimbles, she poured until the crystal liquid formed a brimming meniscus. "There!" "What is that?" Hanmoul licked his lips. "It's Soma, Ambrosia, the Drink of Gods," Gwen boasted. "One glass, and you'll be taking a holiday in heaven." "Bah!" "Human brew taste like water!" "It looks like water!" The other Dwarves jeered. Gwen gave them the Sign of the Thrice-jammed Cog. "Commandrumm?" The two very carefully raised their drinks— Gwen with the rest of the Stormbreaker, and Hanmoul with her doctored Maotai. Hanmoul leaned in, allowed the cup to touch his lips, then in one gulp emptied the contents. "ARRGHK!" the Commandrumm suddenly stood. "Wot is it, Commandrumm?" "Did the lass poison ya?" "ANCESTOR'S COGS!" Hanmoul's face turned communist red. His pupils rapidly dilated as his body filled with righteous fire in the form of unadulterated vitality gathered from a Mythic being so powerful as to permeate a plot of land ten times the size of the Red Citadel. "WOT IS THIS? THERE'S SOMETHING IN ME BLOOD!" "Hundred-year sorghum distilled with five-hundred-year Draconic Essence." Gwen's nonchalance froze the life-blood of all who awaited to share a drink with the sorceress. "Trust me, mate, for an old war dog like you, this sauce will do yer good…"

Hanmoul hailed from the bloodline of Bürumm-Dal Irøngut, famous for turning any amount of alcohol into white-hot battle-gall. The ancestor was also a renowned warrior berserker. And among the Iron Borns, his blood flowed thick and sanguine, filling his descendants with equal-parts courage and choler. The Maotai, or perhaps the herb Gwen had placed inside the Maotai, seemed to have awakened something in Hanmoul long made dormant by his thankless labour as the Commandrumm of the Overland Expedition. Straightaway, his face grew beetroot, his bile churned, and his torso filled with fire. _Crack!_ Hanmoul slammed the jadeite cup so hard that it splintered the ironwood, jarring his instrument-sensitive fingers. "Another!" His blood was boiling, evaporating the pain in his hand, swelling his head to twice its size. “I’ll not let you drink me under, lass! The Hammer Guard will never live it down if a mere child, and a human at that, defeat the sons of Bürumm!” “I am afraid you’re in for a surprise then.” The girl’s jadeite irises gleamed, vivid with the hue of rainbows— a surface phenomenon that only the Overland Expedition had ever laid eyes upon. “Bathroom breaks be damned; there’s only one way this is going to end.” “Oh-ho, lass, yer playing a dangerous game!” Hanmoul summoned his lads and ladettes behind him. “KINNA! Brin' the stash you’ve got hidden in the cellar!” “YER SURE?” the barkeep, a matronly Dwarven woman wider than even Hanmoul, hollered back with a voice no less loud than a Clarion Call. “That lass's quarter yer size. Do yer fancy popping her Human life-preserver?” “I’ll be fine, really.” Gwen’s tone was almost amused. “Commandrumm, care for a wager?” Her audience banged the table with their steins. “Ankrumm! Ankrumm! Ankrumm!” “Ankrumm it is! What do yer fancy?” Hanmoul belched, expelling the hot, alcoholic air, feeling as though he had just delivered a breath attack. “I’ll wager yee, alright, but woman, but what will ye do if yer lose?” “First, that won't happen because I’ll drink ALL of you under…” The sorceress placed a hand on her pancake-flat abdomen. “If I win, promise me you’ll help me with some of my ‘Overland’ businesses. I need Dwarven Machinists, like the ones they’ve got in Bavaria to repair my Dwarf-made printing engines.” “I donnae know if anyone’s willing ter leave the Murk.” Hanmoul’s eyes were twin moons as he spoke. “But aye lass, I’ll find ye someone. And what if yer eyes are bigger than yer stomach?” “First, I’ll pay for everyone here. Additionally, I’ll import, gratis, ten more bottles of this priceless liqueur,” Gwen offered. “And supply you with monthly care packages from the above-ground world, sans commission.” “Ha! Yer on!” Hanmoul’s face was radiant with Essence. “Bring on the Jäger and Korfrumm!” The crowd roared. “Kor! The Commandrumm’s serious now!” Grimgal’s face glowed with admiration. “His old man gullet might never recover from this.” “Shall I call for the Kirkdun?” Tordrum, who was the oldest, asked the general vicinity. "We might still need the Commandrumm, come tomorrow." Gwen narrowed her eyes when a familiar-looking green bottle materialised on the table. “From the old country.” Hanmoul grinned with confidence. Gwen did her best to read the label. “Tell me that doesn’t say Jäger... meister.” “Aye lass.” “…” “And this?” “Korfrumm is distilled from the crushed Korumm beetle. Do you have Korumm in the above-ground world?” Gwen gave the dark amber liquid a sniff. It was, for all intents and purposes, a sickly-sweet coffee-mead. “Don’t tell me.” She licked her drying lips. “You pour the Jäger into a thimble— then you drop it into a stein of Korfkrumm…?” “You have heard of the magnificent Jäger Bombe?” Gwen pinched her brows, suddenly assaulted by heady visions of Friday night outings, projectile hurling, student dorms, ravished dresses and the ugliness of the morning after. When the only time a student could afford drinks for herself was the happy hour, it made for terrible drinking habits. "HA, no regrets, lass? Wilting on yer Commandrumm already?" “Not really.” She sat back to reassess the situation. Ollie was asleep, thank god. Additionally, she was wearing tight, waterproof, malfunction-safe armour with magical undies, not to mention her liver was booze-proof. She was in good hands, ones belonging to herself. All-in-all, what was there to fear but fear itself? Student-Gwen would have been three shots in already. “Alright, Hanmoul.” She banged on the long table. “You lot! Clear out! Mistress Kinna! Line 'em up!” If there was drunken Karaoke in this world, Gwen was sure the Dwarves would be champions. "... We must away— ere break of dawn. Far under the Himmseg— to low-ways deep…" Inside The Nut and Cog Rotary Tavern, a Human sorceress' voice reverberated. Earlier, Grimgal had regaled their audience with a bawdry jig about a lonely female Mechanic who discovered an amusingly shaped spanner. After a smack across the head, the aborted act was then followed by an epic recital by Hanmoul about Bürumm-Dal’s slaying of the Dusk Wyrm at Dürren’s Hall. Tordok attempted a song but passed out two verses into the tune. A few others obliged, too intoxicated to recall the lines, but made merry all the same. When finally it was Gwen’s turn, she had to sing, or it would show that she was too intoxicated and therefore signal her loss. Driven to a corner by their expectant, exuberant faces, she called upon the spirit of Tolkien to see her through the predicament. Softly, beginning with melancholic, lilting notes, her contralto voice wafted through the boozy air, narrating the only “Dwarven Song” she knew. "The fire was black— it flaming spread..." One by one, the belching, groaning, fussing half-conscious tavern grew silent. What would the Human sing? The crowd had wondered. A song of home? A tale of sorceresses and suggestively shaped vegetables? Indeed, a sorceress of such alcoholic depth would possess a harem of legumes. Then she opened her mouth, and with the Divination-assisted aid of the Alexandrite left to her by her Master, she belted out the Dwarven words, drawing on a minor Ventriloquism cantrip to reinforce the sentiment. “Far over the Misty Mountains cold To low-ways deep— an’ caverns old We must away— ere break of dawn To find our lost and wayward home. The Dark was roaring, down below The earth was moaning— in th’ deep The drake was black— its flames had spread; Our Citadels blazed all night. Now the iron's rusted, on the heath And in Dyar Morkk— there stirred no life: There the Murk lay— in night and day And dark things silent crept beneath. O' Farewell, to hearth and hall! Though death may follow— our kin may fall We must away— ere fall of dusk Far under the Himmseg— to low-ways deep— The longer she sang, trying to modify the tune on the fly, the more soundless the tavern grew until all she could hear was quiet sobs. “… Was it that bad?” Gwen stopped, her face so red as to radiate scarlet from chin to ear. “If so, I am sorry for killing the mirth.” “Yer making me eyes mourn, Ancestors’ beard,” Hanmoul bawled, clearly overwhelmed by both alcohol and emotion. “Aye, the deep, the DEEP! I know, I know. We’ve got ter fin' our way back through the blasted Murk. It's the Dwarven thing to do. Aye, yer Gods— O' Ancestors…” “Are you sure yer, not a Dwarf?” Grimgal was drooling snot and tears from every conceivable orifice. “How else can you harken after Deepholm?” The other Dwarves, those still conscious, collectively sighed. Somewhere, another Iron Born cried himself to sleep. “A righteous Skūld.” Hanmoul wiped away something from his face. “If that tune had come out of the lips of a Deepdowner Runesinger, I wouldnae be stunned, but from you, a Human lass? What can an old Dwarf say?” “You could clarify if we’re still drinking…” Gwen’s eyes swept across the half-hundred bottles, glasses, and steins, not to mention the mountain of Dwarven carcasses snoring beneath the tables. “Nae lass, it's yer win.” Hanmoul tried to stand. For an awkward second, he looked down at his feet as though surprised to find them there. “Bürumm's beard… I cannae seem to move my feet.” “Commandrumm, that’s my feet,” Grimgal, who sat beside her commander, informed him with great solemnity. “Yours are buried between Thorke and Tordok.” “Ah. Right you are.” The Commandrumm kicked away his junior officers. “I should show you to your quarters.” Gwen pointed to the half-bottle of Maotai still left. “Not finishing up?” “Nae wannae explode,” Hanmoul growled. “Do yer mind if I gift what’s left to my teacher? Yer got no more, yer said?” “Not for a while, no. It’s all yours.” Hanmoul nodded, stowing the bottle. “Right then lass— let me show yer how our folk relax after a stiff stout!” This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. The Guild District. The Rotary Guild, Guest Quarters. Gwen regarded Ollie’s comatose, rag-doll body, as well as the freshly laid out Hanmoul. According to the Commandrumm's last lucid moments, orders had been given to ready the facilities for her use, including the communal bathroom, the lounge, the meeting room, and the steam bath, a must-try local speciality. "Ah, boys," Gwen mused to herself. Once Hanmoul and Ollie were placed side by side and on their side to prevent choking on their vomit, she was finally in the mood to take in the sights. Prominently, she was given a room with a view. From the vista offered by the stained-crystal bay-window, Gwen saw that they were high up in the Guild Hall, in one of its side towers. Below, she could just make out the city, and in the distance, its all-enveloping stone barrier. How like our cities, she considered the déjà vu— where they had Shielding Stations, the Dwarves had Rune-etched Walls. The Dwarven outpost, as Hanmoul had foretold, was split into four districts, with the Guildhall, the Ancestor’s Hall, the Golem Hangers, the Hammer Guard’s Barracks and other administration buildings at its centre. To the north sat the Gate of Kazhul, housing the Clans and their keeps. The east and west held the manufactoriums, while the spillage to the south was home to the factories and foundries. There, in the low-rising buildings, the vast majority of the Dwarven labourer-citizens eked out a living. Thanks to the floor to ceiling “Wall”, the vista of the citadel appeared miniaturised, like one of those extensive model train-sets the English love to collect. Though she was in the “centre” of town, the loci of the citadel sat like a sunnyside egg with the government buildings rising like the yolk while the eggwhite spilt into the dark. The difference, Gwen conceived as her eyes studied the pin-points of light, was that the Dwarves utilised vertical space, even ceiling space, in their city planning. Where the horizontal plane constrained humanities' cities, the vertical space of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth utilised every stalactite and stalagmite. Reinforced by runic warding and transmuted stone, these grew into natural apartments. Likewise, to service these population centres, track-lined ring-roads spiralled throughout the citadel’s interior, making her eyes dizzy. _Khunk! Khunk! Khunk! Khunk!_ A continuous, unceasing drone permeated the air, punctuated by the sound of a six-storey tall hydraulic hammer in the Craftsmen’s quarter. To Gwen, whose body-clock informed her that it was ten PM at most, there was no discernible way to tell night from day. No change in lighting, sound, or the perpetual industry suggested that there were sessions for rest and recuperation. She tore herself away from the organised chaos. Gone was her booze-stained combat armour, the victim of many a quaffing from a dozen Dwarves hoping to see her make-out with the grimy floor. She had won the drinking contest thanks to Almudj’s blessing, though the price of excess was a bone-weary soreness that came from overtaxing her organs. “The steam bath…” Gwen pulled out the access Runes Hanmoul had gifted her before he passed out. Water wasn’t a plentiful resource in the Murk, not because it wasn’t everywhere, but because the Dwarves tended to prioritise industry over all else, leaving little fresh water for things like private showers. Instead, communal bathhouses akin to Sino Onsens pockmarked the residential districts. The Guild Hall’s quasi-magical steam bath, according to Grimgal, was one of the best facilities in the Citadel. Most importantly, there were no other guests, meaning she had the facility to herself, or to share with Ollie if she so desired. After a few twists and turns through the winding corridors, Gwen reached her objective. Scented acacia framed the entrance, a rare material in a land without natural light— showing the investment the Guild had put into making visitors feel well-loved. Gwen ducked under the doorway, finding herself in a long sandstone corridor dipping into the earth. Once past the warded threshold, the narrow space exponentially expanded to reveal multiple tiers of geometric baths covered in blankets of rolling mist. To her left and right, tastefully stone-shaped, were alcoves that served as private change rooms, made to appear out of sight when inside the bath. Happy that Grimgal's advice rang true, Gwen disengaged her Shen-teī suit, then peeled the outfit from her sticky body like a second skin. Materialising a muslin towel, she stepped out of her undergarments, then gave herself a Prestidigitation to ensure she didn’t pollute the bath. Gingerly, filling her nostrils with nourishing steam, she walked up the stone steps, then descended into the deepest pool at the apex of the cascade. Once the water kissed her waist, she melted. “Mother of God, I should bring Elvia here…” The Dwarves' trademark recreation utilised no mortal bathwater. The liquid was dense, almost gelatious, allowing her to sink into luxury. Once the bath was past her shoulders, Gwen felt as though returned to the womb. Additionally, the mist soothed her sore throat and dry nostrils, making her want to spread her limbs and just let it all go. “I should build one of these in London…” Gradually, every knot in her muscles unwound, bringing forth the shower’s Zen’s lesser-known cousin, the bathing Zen. “Jorumm.” Her Translation Stone did its best with invoking the throaty invocation. Near the ceiling, the hexagonal crystal rods dimmed. Smothered by the mellow “Murk”, Gwen slowly sunk into the water, circulating Essence until she began to in-breathe, drinking the wealth of mana offered by the pool. Held aloft in the bobbing, buoyant liquid, she made mental bookmarks for the expatriate craftsmen she desired from Hanmoul, ideally a dozen or more, working on rotation to prevent the Dwarves from feeling homesick. Applications for cultural exchange could have to be made through the Tower— ideally requested by Lady Grey. Additionally, Shielding Resonators for London’s Stations had to be commissioned, then affixed to her employees to prevent spontaneous combustion. She also desired to barter with the Dwarves, possibly through the creation of a trading station. From the looks of their love for Jadeite and Maotai, perhaps an exchange of luxury goods was possible with the help of Marong and Mayuree and the House of M. And while she had Hanmoul's hospitality, investigations into the transferability of Dwarven Magi-tech such as their Scrying Engines, Communication gadgetry, and semi-autonomous Golems would take priority. Likewise, if the Dwarves had a streamlined production process she could appropriate, she wasn't going to be shy in pushing Hanmoul's people. As for the Tower's request, she would compose a wonderfully detailed report— on trade, and luxury goods, and the potential boons of establishing a permanent trading port that would include military assets like Golems. After that, she would return to London. First, she would have to visit the isle to ensure that Elvia and her operation was running smoothly and that Wally and Mathias had taken care of business. Assuming all went well, she had a few more days to spend with Elvia, maybe visit the London Museum, or see what passed for theatre in this world. During this time, she would also have to track down Walken and Dominic, though the latter depended on her new crew of Machinists. After that would come the finale. On NYE, they could watch the parade while sitting somewhere suitably elevated, such as the spire of one of London’s dozen bridges, to watch the fireworks and count down the hours. If at all possible, she would like to borrow an LRM device to contact Gunther, Alesia, her Opa, and her family in China. What would Uncle Jun think of her exploits? Had Percy learnt any new spells? When would Petra get to London? _— SHUURK!_ The sound of the hermetic seal sucking shut stirred Gwen from her half-slumber. Very quietly, she brought her head above the water, all the while adjusting her eyes with Almudj’s Essence for low-light vision. There was a Dwarf— female by the shape of her heavy-set hips, inching toward the bath. When the woman did not react to her presence, Gwen realised the rolling steam must have obfuscated her body. Before she could decide if a polite cough was in order, the Dwarf woman stepped into the tub with a delightful moan. Gwen smiled to herself, knowing well the bliss they both shared. From her higher vantage, she could see that the Dwarven woman possessed skin like pale milk, flawless and aristocratic, not at all what she had imagined of the stout folk. Her hair as well, caught in the dim golden light, were flaming orange— not the auburn-scarlet Alesia sported, but apricot fading to honey, hanging just below her waist. And her bosoms— Gwen’s nostrils flared. Even Yue would be impressed. Into one of the shallowest pools, the woman sat, then profoundly inhaled and exhaled, as though attempting to purge all her worries from her lungs. Once her intruder was suitably relaxed, Gwen made her move. “… Hello,” she said in Dwarven. The woman froze. A welling of ultra-dense mana suffused the woman’s eyes, turning her irises brilliant citrine. The purity of the Earthen energy was such that, Gwen couldn’t help but respond with a mana-rush of her own, preparing for sudden combat engendered by panic and fear. With great deliberation, two pairs of glowing eyes in the mist faced one another. Gwen responded by emerging from the water, one hand raised and the other covering her unobtrusive shame. The Dwarven woman parted the mist by swatting the air. It was impossible to tell the woman's age, though she did possess a delicate mien with large eyes and a Roman nose, made imperfect by a weak chin. “I was here first,” Gwen said softly. “If you must know. I am a guest of the Commandrumm.” “… I know,” the woman replied, appearing to make up her mind. Coolly, she lowered her mana-charged hands. “My apologies for the intrusion.” “Not at all.” Gwen remained still. “Shall I leave?” “… no.” The woman shook her head. “The fault is mine. Do stay, Surfacer.” At a loss for conversation, a stony silence accompanied the gentle flowing of water. “… the steam there is the hottest in the room,” the Dwarven woman asked, attempting to dispel the awkwardness. “How are you not fainting or feeling ill?” “I’ve got a good constitution,” Gwen explained. She had thought the water perfect for relaxing her Caliban-drained muscles. “Quite the sigh you had. Long day?” “I wonder." The woman stiffness visibly mellowed. "Often, it feels as though the Vigil of Varekan-Kül never ends.” “Are you a noble?” From her skin and her hair, Gwen could guess that this was not a Dwarf who engaged in manual labour. That and the guest’s steam room had wards that granted exclusive access, meaning she had to be somebody. “Sorry, I have been rude. My name is Gwen Song, a Human Magus. I hail from London.” “Hilda,” the woman replied after some hesitation. “Nice to meet you, Hilda.” “The same.” “… do you mind if I dim the lights?” Hilda asked. “The lumen rods don’t agree with my eyes.” “Go ahead.” “Jorukka—“ The lights winked out. “… sorry, can you see?” “Would you believe me if I said I could?” “A surfacer who can see in the dark?” the woman scoffed. “What am I holding up?” “The Sign of the Thrice—“ “— Sorry." Hilda's skin flushed peach and scarlet. "I believe you.” Gwen delivered a good-humoured snort, putting the matter to rest. Now acquainted, the duo enjoyed the bubbling silence, soaking their bones in the mineral-rich springs. “Gwen, where do you call home?” Hilda’s voice drifted through the dark. “A place far, far from here, called Australia.” “Your home. What’s it like?” “What, Australia?” “Yes.” “Well's there are millions of us. We live in cities of glass and concrete that reach out for the skies, staked into the earth like swords. In some places, Humans rule supreme. Elsewhere, we’re food for whatever Magical Monsters that make it past the Shielding Walls.” “The land, I mean. What’s it like?” “Ah—“ Gwen's tone grew homesick. “Australia is an old and ancient country.” “Big?” “Beyond all concept of size. It’s the wide brown land, stretching from horizon to horizon.” “Strange words. I don’t know what that means, I am afraid…” Gwen wondered if she could translate her nostalgia into more relatable terms. “Well,” she searched her memory for something appropriate, locating her answer in the verse of a fellow expatriate homesick for the land of the boxing Kangaroo. "I come from a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains, full of rugged mountain ranges, droughts and flooding rains…” Hilda closed her eyes. "... an opal-hearted country, land of the rainbow gold. Though the Murk may hold all splendours, if ever I should encounter a Drop Bear, I know to what country, my Contingency Ring will fly.” “I can see it now.” Hilda opened her eyes, cooing happily. “So that’s your home, a place of opals, precious stones, and Drop Bears.” “Yes.” Gwen supposed that was good enough. “You’re very good with your Dwarven.” “It’s the Translation Stone,” Gwen explained. “A gift from my late Master. So far, it's doing a bang-up job.” “Then it must be you in the Guild's Tavern…” Hilda’s voice grew pregnant with emotion. “I am told that you sang a song about Deepholm to the Commandrumm and his men.” “Ah…” Gwen now realised why Hilda had asked her about 'home' in the first place. “Yes, I did.” “Could you… sing it for me?” Now that she was completely sober, singing an appropriated, plagiarised-song adapted from Tolkien’s original epic seemed utterly cringe-worthy. “Please?” Hilda’s voice quivered. “Okay, but don’t laugh..” "I won't." "Okay, let me warm up..." Gwen obliged as best as she could, beginning with the “Misty Mountains Cold”. After a few rounds of the Chorus, she got into the mood, eventually ending with a rousing verse of “and Low-ways deep”. “… I don’t understand,” Hilda’s voice quivered with emotion. “Why you can vocalise what so many of our kin fail to comprehend.” “Which is?” “The desire to return home. Every stone cycle, we push and pull into the Murk, but every time, once we discover new seams or hollows, the Guild stops to mine the place. Each time, they bring the lode here— not to Dwarfholm, but the Citadel.” “That’s Dwarven nature though.” Gwen could sympathise with Hilda’s frustration. “What’s wrong with the Red Citadel?” “It’s so close to the Surface, for one. ” “I don't think that's the problem?” Gwen refuted Hilda's claim. “What's 'too close?' Too close for raising a family? Finding a career? Eke out a living? Put food in their bellies? Money in their pockets?” When Hilda remained silent, Gwen continued. “Folk are folk, Hildy, anywhere you find them. They’ll stay as long as there’s employment, bread, and the occasional circus. Home is where the hearth is, right? And the hearth is where you raise your family. Give a Dwarf a stiff drink, a pickaxe, a bag of precious minerals and a forge to call home, and he’ll stay put. Humans are the same, no matter the skin colour, the creed or the culture.” “… I see.” Her companion grew contemplative. Have I upset the aristocrat with a teeth-jarring truth-nugget? Gwen felt a bout of paranoia. “Hilda?” Clang! Clang! There was a polite knock on the sealed door. “Thank you for the company,” the woman replied, suddenly displacing the bath. Glorious in her nudity, she made for the nook. “Apologies Surfacer. I must return to my duties.” "Sure, it was nice meeting you." There was the rustling of cloth, the donning of armour; then the silhouette was gone without a backward glance. “Hmm…” Gwen muttered to herself. “Should have gotten her last name.”

The next day, a refreshed Hanmoul, buoyed by the Essence from Sen-sen, took Gwen and the hung-over Ollie around the Citadel on the Vularm transports, riding the mechanical caterpillars throughout the four districts. The entire journey, Ollie remained tight-lipped, utilising every ounce of will to stay respectable. The Citadel, perhaps due to its vertical space, was deceptively compact, taking up little more space than the central Business District in Shanghai. From rim to rim, the largest dome stretched over twenty kilometres, sans the stalactites, with the furthermost edge an ever-expanding pockmark of unfinished construction eating into the mountain's interior. In the Craftsmen's quarter, at her behest, she met a group of potential future employees in the form of Runesmiths and Tunesmiths, the Dwarven variation of Manufactorium Mages. A Runesmith specialised in the inscription of Glyphs, the foundation of Dwarven magic, while a Tuner, Gwen surmised, was akin to a mechatronic-engineer. Naturally, it took both specialisations to empower the constructs that turned the cog of the Dwarven industry. Upon further enquiry, those having attained mastery of both forms of Runecraft were called "Engineseer", or the antiquated title of "Mötorserumm", one who communes with machines. Other titles and professions existed as well, though the Machinists she wished to hire would hail from the principle ranks of Dwarven professionals. Likewise, within the Craftsmen's Quarter, Gwen observed a strict hierarchy. The younger, bright-eyed Dwarves coming from notable Clans made up the bulk of the apprentice-tier craftsmen, asking after their Masters like ducklings. Once deemed sufficiently skilled, the next tier was the attainment of a "Journeymen" licence. The problem was that with the Dyar Morkk out of commission, there was no real "journey" to be had. As such, graduates generally apprenticed for another decade or so, emerging as mechanics capable of independent, unsupervised labour. As a sizeable Dwarven stronghold, the Peak thankfully retained its share of Masters and Grand Masters of the craft. According to Hanmoul, the smaller enclaves cut off by the Murk had no such luck, meaning eventually, without the unlikely emergence of an anomalously talented individual, crafts and innovations stagnated forever. Out of necessity, therefore, Hanmoul explained, Craftsmen were paramount in influence and respect in the Murk. Warriors like himself were hailed as heroes but paled in comparison to a Grandmaster. An Engineseer's work could power the entire city's fleet of Golems, or expand the city's arable food-shafts three-fold as a result of a new crop or an energy-efficient way to maintain the hydroponic systems. Perceptive as always, Gwen steered the conversation toward the Deepdowners. "Aye, yer ken. For the same reason, the Deepdowners eh held in high esteem. As Deepholm's elite, they exist at the apex of both knowledge and talent." When Gwen asked if Hanmoul used the word "Talent" as the Human's do, citing her dual-elements, the Commandrumm nodded. "Those deemed with 'talent' inherit their gifts from the Seven Ancestors," Hanmoul explained as they strode down the open avenues of the Craft Quarter. There were workshops as far as the eye could see, though much to Gwen's disappointment, the shopkeepers cared little for items suitable for Humans Mages. Most sold ready-made parts, such as Mana Engines, or a Flux Capacitor, or something that looked like a vehicle battery, or Spellsword blades, or parts for other Workshop's creations. "Rarely ay one of us Murk-folk borne blessed. It happens much mair frequently in the awld Clans, especially in Deepholm." "You said all of you could Stoneshape to some degree." Gwen clattered alongside the Iron Born in her Mary Janes. Clad in her Magus mantle, she looked every inch the Cambridge-graduated sorceress she imitated. The Dwarves, Ollie explained, saw the ermine-lined robe as equivalent to the attire of a Master, if not in craft or skill, then at least in terms of power and influence. "Ergo, all Dwarves are talented in Earthen-magic?" "The difference ay enormous." Hanmoul nodded. "We're scions of the Earth Mother, after all, and the Plane is mighty vast. Maybe I can demonstrate…" The Dwarf looked around the shopfronts, then picked up a detached rod of iron. Holding the rusty pole in front of Gwen, he twisted the metal until it formed the shape of a pretzel. "There. A small gift from Bürumm." Gwen hefted the iron pretzel with both hands. If she had the Yinglong's Draconic Essence, perhaps she could have managed to twist the metal. Presently, however, the rod remained un-malleable. "Amazing." Gwen returned the sample. "I think I am starting to understand why we haven't 'stolen' much else from your people." What she meant was that in all the Workshops she had visited, there were particular skills, talents, methods and applications unbefitting the one-mould-fits-all practice of production preferred by human industries. The rare Human Mage may mimic the Dwarve's magic, but the masses couldn't possibly achieve the same tier of expertise. For this reason, most of the workshops were akin to mid-sized outfitters crafting custom parts for high-octane racers. The majority of the craftsmen were employed by the Guild, which served as a central body for commissions. Others worked as individual contractors, with certain specialists attaining an essential status. The scale and size of the operations were far below Gwen's expectations but made sense when considering that the Citadel held half-a-million Dwarves at best, barely the size of a mid-range Human metropolis. Gwen received a second confirmation at the Mana Engine workshop ran by Master Rostrum Luggcrann, the supplier for Hanmoul's Striders. While she watched in silence, Gwen bore witness to the Dwarf sticking his hand, unprotected, into a bubbling vat of heated metal, moulding the engine frame not through precision machinery, but the mind. Components that would have required CAD software, machine beds and CNC cutters in her world had all been bypassed by intuition and "Talent". An additional factor, Ollie reminded Gwen as she pondered the nature of Dwarven industry, was that Dwarves lived long lives— almost four-times an NoM's and twice that of a fully provisioned Mage. Sans industrial accidents, the Craftsmen were seldom in danger, meaning most Apprentices could hope to reach the stage of a Master in their second century. The Citadel's premier Grand Master of Runes, Master Grouzumin Zur-Himlegg, was in his fourth century and kept hale enough to drink two-century-old peers under the table. For lunch, the trio stopped at an artisanal street for food. Though more than half of the cramped boulevard consisted of craft-beer and spirt-mixers, dozens of families had taken up the enterprise of improving Dwarven cuisine. "Meat Smokers?" Gwen was surprised to find, of all things, a Journeyman chef engaged in the act of smoking an enormous side of Mud-land Iguana. "And hickory too!" "Aye. We have got a keen interest for certain things on the Surface world," Hanmoul confessed. "Especially when it comes to scran. Stone-bread is…" The Commandrumm made a face that suggested he wished he still had all of his original molars. As Demi-folk with creation origins rooted in the Elemental Plane of Earth, the Dwarves could subsist on native produce, such as the lichen and fungi that proliferated in the Murk. When ground down and baked, the product was a nigh indigestible pane de "stone". When appropriately stowed, the bread kept indefinitely, growing more inedible with time, so much that one look at an old loaf was enough to curb all hunger. When the Murk folk had first turned to the surface for quality of life improvements, one was the ever-present hydroponic systems that had replaced the moss and lichen harvests of yore. Culinary pursuits by renegade cooks had even introduced the nouveau profession of "Chef"— one that was met with considerable success in citadels all over Dwarf-land. Once the lizard was greasing their insides, the tour continued. Throughout the way, Gwen paid explicit attention to a particular technology she wished to appropriate for her operations— a Dwarven Magitech known as Echo or "repeater" Glyphs. At her behest, Hanmoul took the pair to tour the Avenue of Cunning Artificers, a section of the Western Craftsmen's Quarter that specialised in Rune-tuning, magical accessories and machine-components. The Workshop they chose to visit was owned by Braem Yufir-Flaskthane, a lady-crafter with a century of experience under her considerable girth. "You're after old tech pioneered by Grand Master Khazül-Dal Bhordodd, of Deepholm." The boisterous Tuner was happy to entertain Gwen's acute curiosity. "Of course, the proviso is that yer's got a lode of Taveir to spare…" From a storage box with indefinite dimensions, Braem materialised two nondescript looking crystals. Each was inscribed with complex Glyphs in Dwarven Runescript. Tapping a few invisible Glyphs only she could see, the artificer activated the left-most crystal, lighting up a pattern of Runes. A split-second later, a corresponding set of Runes glowed on the adjacent gem. "The more refined the crystal, the more clarified the pulse, the greater the distance." "How rare are these Taveir Crystals?" "Rarer than Mithril in these parts." Braem's words made her wince. "The motherlode's in Deepholm. In the old days, we could order Vularm-trams of the stuff to be delivered. Now? We're substituting whatever we can scrap." "Which is?" "Creature Cores." The Master Tuner shrugged. "Inconsistent as anything, yer ken. But it's the best a Tuner can do under the circumstances." "How so?" "Tier, Element, clarity, battle-damage, supply, ye name it." The crafter shrugged. "O how I yearn for the days when we could receive a crate of two hundred identical stones from the same lode…" Gwen took notes, committing the knowledge to memory. According to their verbose Tuner, the Taveir crystal's unique properties were empowered by resonator Glyphs. By likewise inscribing Creature Cores, a "poor Dwarf's" sympathetic resonance could be achieved across distance and space, potentially even Planes. The problem was consistency, for each pair was unique. In this manner, the Dwarves maintained their equivalent of Divination Towers. To Gwen, the kit was akin to a magical form of Morse Code. The difference that was a skilled operator could add a near-infinite level of complexity, pending skill and materials. Additionally, paired with specially made equipment, it was possible to transmute the resonance into voice and vision. The problem for Gwen, alas, was that "D-Tech" was highly dependent on Dwarven artisans. Whether or not a human manufactorium could reproduce the same effect remained anyone's guess. For her ambitions, therefore, D-Tech held both strength and weaknesses. The boon being she could have an exclusive, difficult to replicate operation— while the bane was that her supply-chain was highly dependent on volatile, inter-racial politics. But it wasn't as though she lacked countermeasures. Potentially, the technical hurdle could be lowered if say, a Dragon Prince were to supply quality Cores from Nagaland, Kachin and Manipur or Huangshan. Likewise, she needn't begin with voice or vision. Texting would suffice for phase one. Hell, a Pager system would work. Later, she could commission Magisters to unravel or appropriate the tech. It wasn't as though Dwarven-magic specialists did not exist. Even Petra confessed that the progenitor of her Spellcubes sourced their inspiration from Dwarven Runic Magic. When she proposed purchasing the Magi-tech, however, the Master Tuner broke into a high-pitched, snorting laugh. "Fool lass! Yer grasping at the Phantom of Thul-Dâr! Hahaha…" "The Guild can supply you with Echo Beacons," Hanmoul explained, a little red-faced. "But the Guild of Artificers cannot teach you the Glyphs or the Runes. Whatever tech that belongs to, and is derived from, the grand teachings of the Ancestors belong to Deepholm. Only the Council of Seven can authorise such an audacious transaction." If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "Could I make a petition?" Gwen smiled, thinking of Ruxin's hoard. How many more HDMs had now accumulated from the Tonglv project? "I can be very convincing." Hanmoul politely coughed. "We've had scant contact with Deepholm since the Murk became flooded," the Commandrumm said. "You won't even be able to make a petition, lass." "There's no one who can authorise a barter for the betterment of the Citadel?" Gwen extended her enquiry. "No one would dare unless yer count the Deepdowners trapped here with us." Hanmoul shook his head. "Braem's right, though. There's no graspin' for Thul-Dâr's Phantoms. It would take a supreme act to move their stone hearts." "Maybe if yer cod clear the way to Deepholm." The Master Tuner laughed at the Surfacers' expense. "Then one of them could just be desperate enough to shoulder the reprimand and the responsibility of hawk'n the Ancestor's Craft." "You would have to convince our Thane as well. Without Deepdowner support, he won't act either." Hanmoul gestured to the gate, under which sat the Keep, a fortress-within-a-fortress that housed Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth's elected leader, the foremost Dwarf among the Clans. "It donnae be Vadam." "But you can lend me personnel as well as sell me ready-made goods?" "That the Guild can manage on its own, och aye." Hanmoul nodded. "We traded with humans before. Yer should cont yer luck that despite the grudge between our folk, there was nae directive from Deepholm to cut commerce. It won't be easy. First, you would have to convince the caravaneers. Most of them haven't ventured out in decades, much less traversed the surface. They're staying thrang just keeping the surrounding settlements supplied." Gwen looked at Ollie, who nodded back that Hanmoul was telling the truth. "How interesting," she muttered. "Right then. Shall we visit the lower regions?" Gwen could see that Hanmoul was ambivalent about her desire to see the Dwarven equivalent of the slums, but relented after Gwen explained that she wanted to see all of the city, not just the prosperous parts. What Gwen withheld from the Iron Born was that how a culture valued the most vulnerable was a key determinant for market viability. Her's wasn't a metric for morality; instead, she was taught to structure a business around a society's strata. In countries where corruption wasn't so much a disease but natural gut-fauna, bribes were an investment expense. In nations where the Rule of Law held sway, agencies took their cut, but also provided guidelines and assurances. When in the past, she had advised for an Australian mining firm looking to expand in Bangladesh, half the expense usually for environmental protection had fattened the local councilmen. What was legal and what was ethical were entirely separate matters. In the holistic pursuit of profit, altruism was a privilege. When their multi-segmented Vularm approached the working-class district called the Foundry, she immediately had flashbacks of Blackheath. She even felt a shiver when they stepped into the smog-filled suburb, where endless storeys of favela-structures made up the cavern's walls. As before, Gwen became the immediate centre of attention. The Dwarven Citadel wasn't small by any means, but it was compact, which meant rumours spread like an aftershock. Anyone who kept their ear to the ground knew of the Human Sorceress who had consumed a Shale Wyrm. All who now laid eyes on the giantess wondered if she brought destruction or salvation. To Gwen's studied eyes, the workers' conditions were leagues improved to what she had seen in Burma, and certainly better than the treatment of the dock labourers on the isle. For one, the teams of Dwarves manning the sky-scraper foundries all wore codified uniforms with protective Runes to shield them from the heat. There was OSHA, certainly, and the workers also appeared, at least on the surface, to be hale and enthusiastic about their work. If she had to present the atmosphere in familiar terms, she would cite case-studies of pre-Reagan Steel Belt. Whether as a result of propaganda or culture, the workers here had pride in their work and understood the essential nature of their labour. "How's their upward mobility?" Gwen waved at the workers, who averted her eyes. "They move well enough." Hanmoul pointed to the carts and pulleys powered by thrumming mana engines. "... I mean their career mobility." "Aye..." When she looked to her companion, Hanmoul remarked with sagacity that such was the difference between those who lived by the work of hands besides those with craft and talent, one may be comparing dirt and Mithril. "Nevermind." "If yer mean better jobs, we recruit Guards from here." The Commandrumm nodded back to the workers. "Some talents aren't gifted by the Ancestor's blood." "Like?" "Like riding the Golems." Hanmoul grinned. "That's true…" Gwen fell silent. She recalled hearing that the American IIUC teams used NoMs as pilots for their custom-made Iron Golems. As someone who came from the working class, she knew not to underestimate dedication driven by a desperate desire to escape mediocrity. As for the central continent, Hanmoul likely referred to the Bavarian Clans, who had not only worked but lived alongside the Human settlements in lower Germany. "You don't use autonomous Golems?" "Machine Souls are Vadam!" Hanmoul lowered his voice; his skin flushed two shades darker. "The Ancestors have forbidden such a thing!" "Right, right." Gwen quickly changed the subject. The tour of the Foundry District took the rest of the afternoon. The group furthermore visited the mine shafts, as well as a system of ventilators that connected to the outside world. These, Gwen guessed correctly, were the source of the giant mana-plumes that she had twice almost flown into. Supper involved more roasted richness. This time, Gwen recognised the sickly-rich bread underneath the whole-animal roast as the infamous stone-bread. Despite soaking in saturated fat and smoke-cooked for up to ten hours, the discus bread's nutritional value remained immutable. Following another round of riotous quaffing, one from which Ollie abstained, the Mages retired to their quarters. Nearing the witching hour, Gwen informed Ollie of her plans for the steam bath, leaving her Praelector red-faced and pale-lipped at the jocular invitation. This time, she checked that the chamber was unoccupied before stepping into the all-enveloping waters. Comfortable in the liquid-womb of the mana-rich water, she spent some time absorbing the sights of the day. Foremost of all, she desired the Dwarven technology known as the Echo Beacons, as well as the Runic Glyphs that made the "signal repeaters" possible. By that same measure, she wasn't so naive to think that she would maintain a monopoly on Dwarven-tech for long. Once her profits came in, the technology behind the Towers would undoubtedly be copied and imitated. But— she wasn't worried. Her plans for Project Legion did not crutch on patented technology, but instead the arcane system she would devise with the help of data-tech, NoM employees, the House of M's Centurion program, and Gunther and Lady Grey's word with the Tower. The implementation of a seemingly unique Magi-tech system, therefore, would leave a Shoggoth-sized red-herring for her future competitors. Without a doubt, they would misplace their methodologies, resulting in investments both futile and fruitless. After which, she could snap up cheap assets like freshly picked legumes. Then there was the matter of the Machinists, of whom she desired a dozen, split between Runesmiths and Tuners. Hanmoul had said that hiring a Master was possible through short-lease. The contract would last a stone-cycle, a geo-synchronised measurement closely matching the Gregorian calendar. Additionally, she was confident that among the isle, there were Human tinkerers skilled enough to absorb enough of Dwarven knowledge to maintain the machines once their stout tutors inevitably returned to their Citadel. Tomorrow was their third day in the Guild. Hanmoul had promised a careful look at the lands surrounding the Dwarven Bastion, as well as a gander at the different types of Golems in the Hammer Guard's armoury. Gwen had rolled her eyes when Ollie made the request but allowed the Praelector the freedom of making his bed. She had half a mind to pass Hanmoul a note under the table, but then again, Ollie was right in that the Dwarves were Demi-humans and not something like an oppositional Human nation. Should the inconsequential matter escalate, what would happen to her plans for Evee and Legion? Did that make her a bad friend and a worse partner? She chose not to dwell on the hypocrisy. _SHURRRK—_ The sucking sound of the pressurised door opening and closing announced the arrival of a late-night bather. Gwen had wondered if her companion would return, and to her delight, she did. "Magus Song?" The voice called out in the dark. "Hildy. I am happy you've returned." In consideration of her new friend, she had dimmed the lights to their lowest setting. "And so I have." From Hilda's tone, the Dwarven noblewoman had been expecting her as well. "Shall we continue our conversation? I have since grown curious about the surface. Can you tell me more about the profession known as Adventurers? And thank you for the jadeite. As you have surmised, we are indeed interested in its many properties." "Of course." Gwen parted the steam with a wave of her hand. "But first, would you like to meet my Familiars? They're simply adorable." The next morning, against all the odds and to Ollie's complete surprise, their tour of the hydroponic farms and mining pits proceeded without encountering a single Magical Creature for Gwen to devour. The lack of action was so unanticipated that, by the end of the four-hour route, the unmitigated tension had exhausted the Praelector. Gwen, conversely, appeared deep in thought since the patrol began. When Ollie asked what she was worried about, the sorceress simply replied that she was thinking about how to best approach Whurforlüm about her request. As usual, Ollie offered advice based on humility and delicacy. "No matter how much you desire funds for Elvia," the Praelector proposed with great understanding. "Don't offend. Know your limits." "And what limit is that?" Gwen gave her companion the strangest look. "… ten thousand HDMs?" Ollie scratched his head. The Illusionist was doing that a lot in recent days, so much that Gwen could see his hair thinning in real-time. "I am sure they have vast reserves of it leftover from the pre-Tide days." HDMs? Gwen restrained herself from patting Ollie like a puppy. Now elucidated by her midnight tuition, Gwen understood that the enclaves used human currency because of an unexpected schism following the Beast Tide. It all began pre-Dragon, with Humanities' Spellcraft Revolution. Against the advice of the Deepdowners, many of the Murk Citadels chose to trade with Humans, greatly accelerating the development of Spellcraft while enormously enriching themselves. Post-Dragon, cut off and geologically displaced from Deepholm, the enclaves either shut themselves away or opened up new avenues of trade with their Surfacer neighbours. Prior, Dwarven currency, consisting principally of gold, Elementium, Adamantium, and precious metals like Mithril and True Silver, were minted exclusively by the Masters of the Iron Vault in Deepholm. In the decade that followed the Murk's spread, Thanes of various enclaves diluted their coins, resulting in economic chaos among the Clans. Following the near-collapse of the Murk's currency, as a compromise, the surface Clans agreed to switch to Human HDMs. It was a sound choice, as many Citadels lacking in resources now relied on Overland trade for raw materials. Concurrently, as Humans had little to no interest in expanding underground, the young race made perfect trading partners thanks to their greed for elemental minerals. In some places such as Bavaria, the two tribes even shared common racial enemies in the form of Green Skins and Magical Monsters that traversed the Overland and the Murk. Their present enclave, Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, was a regional power wealthy enough to minimise contact with the Humans after the perceived betrayal of trust. It's current Guild Master wished to test the waters of tentative trading— while the conservative faction headed by the Deepdowners were dead-set against being tainted by the surface. It was a tug-of-war as old as time. In their exchange, her bathing buddy had advised that the conservative Clans were deeply ingrained in the teachings of the Deepdowners, believing Dwarf-kind diminished by the disconnect between Deepholm and the Murk. For many of the White Beards, the quintessence of Dwarvishness lay in completing one's pilgrimage to the origin city to kiss the sarcophagi at the bases of the Seven Shrines of the Ancestors. For many of the Citadel's craftsmen, they still recalled the golden halls of Deepholm, its glimmering galleries adorned with jewels the size of Dragon eggs, and the monuments of Grand Masters adorned with plated Mithril. To the true Dwarf, not having touched the Blackened Forge of Gul-Zūh or inhaled the bitter air surrounding Nörn-Zur's Crucible made one deficient. If a smith never laid eyes on the original artifice of Haj-Zül, then how would they measure their craft? If a Tuner had never been dazzled by the ten-thousand scripts of Varekan-Kül, how would they know mastery? It was only the young like Grimgal and Tordok who thought the stories of Deepholm a fool's errand. Gwen had nodded in turn after Hilda unravelled the intricacies of Dwarven lore. Against all the odds, she sympathised with the zeitgeist of Hilda's lost people. Like the Biblical Magi of old, having followed the Northern Star and seen the divine body of Christ in Bethlehem, how could the pilgrims return to their countries in peace? What riches, what pleasures, what palaces could bring them peace of mind when they had witnessed the Nazarene cooing for milk? Without Deepholm, the learned Dwarves of the Murk were lambs without Shepards, living in guilt every day they grew diverted from their objective. Conversely, as the young struggled to understand their elder's obsession, the diaspora only grew. It was no wonder that Hanmoul's love of the surface and the deep made him a little schizophrenic. To open up Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, thereby, Gwen would first have to convince those whose modus was to delve deeper towards the low-ways. In the Murk, progress upwards had to be precipitated by advancement downwards. In turn, Gwen had informed her bathing buddy that few things moved humanity like unmitigated profit. If the Citadel had made little meaningful progress on its own in the last three decades, why not seek external aid? Given enough incentive, legions of Adventurers would flood the Murk to harvest the Dwarves' foes and open new byways. So long as the residents of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth were willing to accept expatriates in their midst, the potential for cooperation was limitless. In truth, what had the Dwarves to lose? It wasn't as though Humans could inhabit the Murk; the claustrophobia alone would drive her kind mad. Her companion said nothing, but Gwen could see the bolts spinning into place behind Hilda's eyes. By the night's end, the noblewoman still hadn't informed Gwen of her true identity. Gwen remained mum, knowing better than to demand something her helpful tutor refused to give freely. Already, Hildy had told her plenty— enough for her to drive a good bargain with the Guild Master and to ensure that she had plenty of Dwarves manning the printing press. For now, that was enough. After all, not even Rome was transmuted in a day.

Gwen stood regal as a Tudor Rose in the sunken amphitheatre, garbed in ivory and carmine, possessing a poise befitting a virgin queen. Directly overhead, positioned just so that they could still look down on the petitioner, sat the Grand Council of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. To her right, appearing with the air of a funeral, sat a trio of iron-clad Deepdowners in their all-enveloping armour, attended by a train of sycophants. To her left sat the Clan Heads, representing the common interest of the citizens. Finally, directly ahead, Whurforlüm Ironførge, Master of the Rotary Guild, surveyed the proceedings. Earlier, Hanmoul Bronzeborn, Commandrumm of the Hammer Guard, the Iron Born scion of Bürumm-Dal Irøngut, had appraised his case for satisfying the Debt of Haj-Zül. In its aftermath, Gwen registered her demands. "… in turn, I wish to obtain the aid of my brother-in-arms for my industrial endeavours. MY petition shall be satisfied with a staff of no less than twelve technicians split among Tuners and Runesmiths, including one Alchemist, lead by a Master, to travel with me to London for the duration of one Stone Cycle. Between our Adventurers and your Technicians, there shall be mutual benefit and common gain." "AND they won't work for free. All employees shall receive an attractive stipend," Gwen continued with relish. "In minerals, in HDMs, in knowledge if they so desire, or the freedom to journey to Bavaria and back." The Guild Master, Whurforlüm "Wilhelm" Ironførge, nodded encouragingly. The Clan heads, appearing as a cluster of beards, held various expressions from uncertainty to disdain to ambivalence. The Deepdowners were unreadable thanks to their masks, though Gwen could sense their flesh-flensing stares just the same. "My last petition, as Commandrumm Hanmoul has noted, is for the Magitech Enchantment known as the Echoing Glyph to be supplied to my firm, 'Legion' Proprietary Limited, as an exclusive patent secured by London Tower." A nervous ripple spread from left to right. One of the Deepdowners growled, sounding like a seismic rumble. "AHEM—" An uptown Dwarf with a beard the size of a broom made his displeasure known, then rose from the semi-circle rows of the amphitheatre. "Magus Song." The Dwarf made a show of drawing eyes from around the room. "I must object." Gwen acknowledged her "objector" by relenting the floor. She was not surprised that the Deepdowners had nominated a noble to kneecap her request. If Hilda hadn't warned her, she would now be furious that the Dwarves were undercutting Hanmoul's obligations. As the noblewoman had said, the Deepdowners' faction loathed even a single mote of Earthen Mana escaping the earth. Opposing her attempt to bring Humans in, or to bring Dwarves out, came as naturally to them as breathing. Gwen studied the fine-bearded Dwarf. From what she had seen of the Dwarves' frugal fashion, her present opponent was excessively-dressed for the part. His beard, for one, was bound in what looked like Mithril bands, and the Dwarf's hands were encrusted with enchanted jewels. Making his way up the dais, the Dwarf lord stopped as soon as he gained the height advantage. A politician; Gwen recognised the Walken-esque sneer. "As we ur among Clan, fowk an' friends, Ay shall speak candidly." Her bullshit senses tingled. The bastard had come with a speech! Gwen quickly glanced at Ollie. Her Praelector was already sweating buckets from her earlier proclamations. Ollie was a scholar, a student, a primrose of fantastic breeding, but one of Ravenport's finest he was not. Around the amphitheatre, a murmur of agreement met the nobleman, making Gwen suspect more than a few were conservative plants. "Ye all ken my name— Brugal Brumdahr." The Dwarf pointed his considerable chin down toward Gwen's general direction. "Mine Clan has been the theme of honour's tongue since the time of Haj-Zül Brumdahr, frae whose loins we ur issued. Ay dunnae think there is a better Iron Born to speak of the Debt and the honour of repayment other than Ay. If any of ye in this hall ken themselves moor suited tae speak for the Clans, then dear friends, make your voice knoon..." The rhetorical question met with silence. Gwen sought out the Guild Master with her eyes. Up top, the master craftsmen seemed content to see the drama play out. "Aye, we agree, then," Brugal continued. "Under our law, as in our LORE, the debt between Haj-Zül Brumdahr to Bürumm-Dal woz a matter of rivalry, friendship— or loove, if the Matrons have their say—" The Clan Heads laughed. "— Aye, Bürumm-Dal's admiration and love, was the source of his Debt of life. Yet, to call what we owe this mercenary, this free-lancer, this hired Goorumm from the Overland the Debt of Haj-Zül— it pains me. The honour of our home, the honour of Clan Brumdahr, has never been so diminished! The Debt is something we rejoice in, and yit, when news reached me lugs that we are sending our wee jimmies and Masters of the Rune to Lundun? To that blighted, lidless place? I cood nae sit idle, mah friends." The barely veiled insult sent a touch of heat to kiss Gwen's cheeks. More than her pride, however, she felt for Hanmoul. Already, the Commandrumm's face was scarlet, like a trodden-on Displacer Beast, his beard was sticking end-on-end. "Dunnae look at me so peevish, Hanmoul. Yer know I honour the Hammer Guard and yer battle-kin. But yer gotter ken, me man, as yer was valorous, so I supported yer. But as yer trade our kin to the Overlander, I must oppose ye. Aye, yer saved our fellow Clansmen— Just last night, I quaffed to yer health! But now, Commandrumm, I see yer ambition has out-grown the boundaries of yer duty; and so I must put yer back in yer Golem, lad." "Giltho—" "—Hanmoul, let me finish," Brugal's voice grew hypnotic. He turned away from Hanmoul and instead faced the assembling of Clan Heads seated here and there around the upper quadrant of the amphitheatre. "As yer can see, the Commandrumm aye offended. BUT is anyone here equally vexed that I wish tae preserve our purity? Our culture? Our doctrine? LOOK! Gaze upon the visage of our Lore Keepers, and see how they seethe! Who dares say that ay acted out of turn? Who can say Brugal am wrong? Misguided ye art, Hanmoul, we know yer yearning for the surface lad— but upward is not dae way." Hanmoul choked as the noblemen dragged his petition through the Murk, too upset to compose a rebuttal. Gwen could see that the Commandrumm was a fighter, not a debater. "What say ye, Witch? Did yer think our kind so innocent as to allow yer tae abscond with our knowledge?" "Abscond?" her lips split to form a forced smile. Without the beard to go with the grin; however, she wasn't sure if the Dwarves could be sufficiently titillated. "You, Ser, must be unaware of the contributions I have made to your esteemed city. The Wyrm? The Trolls? Was Commandrumm Hanmoul so lacking in charisma that you feel personally insulted by his achievements?" "Dunnae speak of Hanmoul ter me, lass. He is one of our own. Yer Mageocracy harkens after our Golems and our Mithril. Do tell, Witch, what do ye intend to do with our craftsmen? Excavate our secrets with yer Mind Magic?" "I do object!" Ollie raised a hand. "Sir Dwarf, you mistake my sister's purpose. She's after Crystals, nothing more!" "Then why not ask for Crystals? The human lust for HDMs is well-known." Gwen gave Ollie a withering look, then took a deep breath. Brugal put on a good show, she had to admit; but she was no stranger to smarmy snakes in business suits. The self-proclaimed descendent of Haj-Zül whats-his-name talked a good game, but little did the Dwarf know he was now in the big leagues. "Are you an artificer or a warrior yourself, esteemed Sir?" She tested the waters. "Do yer mock me, Magus?" The Dwarf's brows knitted. Gwen's sultry lips formed a thin red line. With her eagle-eyes, she could see that Brugal's hands had not seen a day of labour. She felt sorry for Hanmoul. How disappointing it was that not even the Dwarve's meritocratic society could escape the malaise of inherited wealth. "I wouldn't dream of it, Ser Brumdahr." She feigned ignorance. "But I fear you have misread me from the beginning. Such a misconception is unbecoming of a Clan Lord." This time, it was the Brugal's beard that bristled. "Your worries were apt, Ser," Gwen observed, then she addressed the entire assembly, including the Deepdowners. If the barrel-shaped lawyer wished to play the rat, Gwen mulled darkly; then she would play the piper. "Friends, Dwarves, Fellows of the Murk; I humbly beg for a minute more of your time." The Clan Heads maintained a polite silence. The Guild Master shifted in his seat, while the Deepdowners sat unmoved. "I understand Ser Brugal's many insecurities. They are well-founded, for Ser Brumdahr is the theme of honour's tongue, and indeed, so are all of our present company. However, if Ser Brumdahr wishes to speak ill of my dear battle-mate, Commandrumm Hanmoul, then I too, shall throw in my gauntlet." Together with her pantomime, she opened the tap on Almudj's Essence, arresting her viewers with supernatural, newfound confidence. "When we first met, Ser Bronzeborn was fighting for his life. Not for his gain, nor for honour or glory. Thanklessly, he was protecting the ventilation systems that lead from the surface down to the heart of your city. The gallant engine of his Rockcrusher had been torn apart by a Brutaliser, ripped limb from limb, bleeding liquid-mana and blue-green coolant over the linen snow. One bite from the Troll and Hanmoul would have perished. Oh, when I found him, my friends! The Commandrumm bled from every pore; his courage had congealed against his armour in strands of coagulant gore! And YET he carried on!" Gwen paused, taking a step so that she rose a little up the dais, matching Brugal's gaze. "Was this ambition? Was he fighting for the LOVE of Himmseg? Or was it Dwarven dogma?" Brugal's expression grew worrisome. "Even a tongue of True Silver won't—" "Ser Brumdahr!" Gwen spun without warning, turning on Brugal like a viper. "Ser! I am EIGHTEEN— a 'wee' lass. A True Silver Tongue? For shame, Ser! Is mine a face of cunning? But then again, I can't refute your claim. Unlike YOU, I am NOT the theme of honour's tongue." Before the Dwarf could retort, she raised her voice once more, this time weaving a spot of Ventriloquism so that her suppressed emotions reverberated across the amphitheatre. "When I met Ser Bronzeborn again, it was at this very Citadel. At its gate, a toothy horror with a dozen tongues hailing straight from the deepest, darkest depth had found its way into your abode. There, the guards informed us that the Wyrm had Dwarf-napped your kin! Your Clansmen! Your family and citizens! For egg-fodder! For WORMS MEAT!" Her audience flinched as her irises glowed, circulating a dazzling play of colours. "Naturally, possessing no desire to risk my life, I shrugged. I am a greedy, conniving Human Sorceress. I just wanted to be let into the Citadel and stake my claim—" A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "BUT— Ser Bronzeborn wouldn't have it! He was an avatar of Dwarfdom! Naive and altruistic! He wanted to help without the backup of the Rockcrushers! He arrested my wrists— like so, and looked me in the eye and said 'Lass, my kin aye down there.' I asked him what was in it for me, and he said to me, 'Whatever yer desire, Human, from mah beard to me bones.'" Hanmoul stared with his mouth half-open, likely wondering if the Jäger Bombes addled their collective memory. "I was moved." Suddenly, without warning, Gwen took a step upward so that she now rose above Brugal. "But I digress. What do I know? I am not like Ser Brumdahr over yonder, the bloody theme of honour's tongue, whistling, whistling away like a leaking steam-vent." The noble blinked. "BRUGAL!" Gwen suddenly spat, a spot of spittle striking the Dwarf like a bolt of lightning. "When we were neck-deep in Wyrm-spit and up to our crotch in Copper Worms, where were you and your honourable men?" A chuckle broke out from behind the row of Clan Heads. Someone was enjoying the spectacle. On the central platform, Whurforlüm twirled the gavel in between his fingers, fighting back a smile. Brugal Brumdahr took a step back, only now realising he was seized in the jaws of a proverbial Wyrm. "Ser Bronzbeard risked his life and the life of his men to bring back the bodies of your kin so that their Spirits could be consigned to the Stone," Gwen drew out the timbre of emotion in her voice. "But what would he know? He's not like you, Milord Brumdahr. He's not the theme of bloody honour's tongue." Her cadence picked up. "When we brought those poor Dwarves back to the gate, we spoke to the families as their husbands, wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters lay there, cold and unmoving." Gwen implored the Clan Heads, taking another step so that she towered above them, matching the Guild Master's platform with the help of her heels. "Were you among them?" She leaned down to deliver the coup de grâce. "What did you do for them? Brugal?" "Blame Hanmoul? Did a Wyrm eat your conscience?" "Was this the Commandrumm's lauded love for the surface?" "If Hanmoul's a turncoat, then what are you?" "I-insolence!" Brugal's face had grown to encompass the likeness of a cornered mole-rat. "Yer— ye—" "I think you should sit down." Gwen patted the Dwarf on the shoulder. "You're not yourself, Lord Brumdahr." To achieve the desired effect, she momentarily flooded her conduits with Void. Borrowing from the exercise she had learned from Ayxin, Gwen focused her intent until Brugal visibly lost his balance. Then, with a kind, helping hand, she steered him toward his seat. Slowly, for visual effect, Gwen straightened her spine. "Anyone else got—" WHOMP! The assembly, with exception to the Guild Master and Gwen, collectively flinched. One of the Deepdowners rose to his considerable height, standing a whole head taller than the rest in their custom, hermetically sealed armour. "ARROGANCE!" A booming voice, projected as though through a loud hailer, deafened the room. "ALL IS VANITY." "Keeper Muirrigg!" The Guild Master, as Gwen's bathing buddy had predicted, came to her aid as soon as the Deepdowners breached their custodial duty. "Your opinion is appreciated but not needed, Ser. As per the Ancestor's teachings, the Keepers of Lore shall not interfere with the ruling of a Citadel." "I AM SAVING YOU FROM YOURSELVES." The Deepdowner had a voice like gravel. "THIS FEMALE, CAN YOU NOT TASTE THE DEATH ON HER SKIN? SHE IS VADAM, A WALKING CALAM—." Gwen felt her lips twitch. "BAH! Ay have had just aboot enough fer this!" Hanmoul stepped in front of her, his hand half-drawing his Spellsword. Gwen could see that her impassioned defence had ignited the Commandrumm's berserker-blood, as was expected of a scion of Irøngut. "Scorning the Debt of Haj-Zül! Insulting mine battle-mate! That es proper Dwarven now, AYE?" "Both of you! Calm yourselves!" Whurforlüm slammed the table with a miniature war hammer. "Your distemper shames us all!" "THE SURFACER INVITES OUR DOOM," the Deepdowner persisted. A swirl of unadulterated Earthen mana flooded the space where the man stood. Gwen knew not how Dwarven Magic worked, but what she sensed was no less than a tier 5 Transmutation. "CALI!" Gwen conjured Caliban, materialising in the middle of the amphitheatre the living embodiment of the Deepdowner's dread. Whurforlüm stayed the guards with a wave of his hand; a few of the Clan Heads reached for their wands, though none chose to act. Behind the Deepdowner, their entourage made a show of rattling mailed gloves and magical implements. "If I may speak?" Gwen's Clarion Call shook the room while Caliban soaked the attention like a sponge. "SHAA! SHAA!" "As I said earlier." She pointed to her serpent. "There has been a miscommunication. If you allow me to finish without interruption, I shall ratify all concerns. If you remain unsatisfied after, I shall leave and never return. But if you deny me, then I shall exact my price with interest." "Gwen!" Ollie appeared entangled in a nightmare. "P-put away Caliban now!" "Ollie." Gwen placed a hand on her Praelector's shoulders. "Sit down and keep Ser Brumdahr company. He's looking faint." Confused and shaken as to why Gwen reprimanded his perfectly sensible advice, the Praelector did as told. "Now." Gwen returned to her captive audience. "You accuse me of wanting to steal your precious Dwarven Golems. I have no idea where you even got this idea. I don't need your Golems, be it the Striders, the Rockcrushers, or the Irongrinders because of a simple fact—" Before the audience could react, rippling waves of nauseating feed-back flooded the chamber. Caliban began to moult, its carapace growing grotesque as her Familiar bloated. From the size of three Dwarves standing head-to-toe, it grew and grew, filling the spacious amphitheatre until the enormous council-chamber felt claustrophobic. The Dwarves, captive in their elevated seats, reared back as Caliban continued to expand. Unlike the Wyrm whose Core Caliban had consumed, the Void Wyrm was a horrifying thing, possessing more mouth than any other physiological apparatus. When her Familiar finally finished its bloated metamorphosis, leaving the Void Sorceress covered in a sheen of cold sweat, it stood thirty meters from end to end, possessing enough tentacles to pluck the whole assembly into its maw. "G-GUARDS!" The Deepdowner hollered— a reasonable reaction. "HOLD!" Whurforlüm thankfully rescinded the Deepdowner's demand. Gwen fought down the heebie-jeebies wrecking her chest. She could act out because last night, Hanmoul had gifted the Sen-infused Maotai to his teacher, curing the old Dwarf of his rheumatism. It was an unseen debt, and now the Guild Master was using the encounter to repay her unsolicited favour. When the old Dwarf met her eyes, she knew that now and in the future, her insolence would be tolerated just once. "Magus Song, I believe you've made your point." "Your monster is no match for our Balefire Dreadnaughts!" Brumdahr growled from beside Ollie. "Perhaps," Whurforlüm pronounced mockingly from up on high. "But will you consign your Spirit to the Ancestors to empower it, or will a younger kin volunteer? The theme of honour's tongue, indeed!" "Whurforlüm! You would side with a Surfacer?" "I do not have 'sides' Brugal," Whurforlüm's voice carried a tone of retribution. "You wear away our patience, boy." Brugal swallowed his next words. Behind him, the table of Clan Heads suddenly found great interest in staring at their lap. The Noble caste may shout at the warriors or holler at the Overlanders, but an Engineseer's words, and a Grand Master's at that, carried supreme weight. "Caliban, return!" Gwen quickly withdrew the Void mana pumping into Caliban, though there was no salvaging the spent vitality. With a whine, her Void Wyrm shrivelled, then disappeared. Her complexion paled. Where the Big Bird form was demanding but efficient, the Wyrm form was sheer gluttony. "Just so we're clear," Gwen walked down the granite tier and stepped carefully into the middle of the amphitheatre. "I don't need your HDMs." _THUNK!_ She dropped a crate worth at minimum five-thousand, splattering the lowly seated audience with Cali-goo. Instantly, the atmosphere grew thick. _THUNK!_ _THUNK! THUNK!_ _THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!_ The vapour grew so dense as to paint the cold stone, affecting a luminous hue. "There is… ten, twenty more stacks in the piggy," Gwen made a show of walking around the stockpile flashing her Storage Ring. "And countless more lodes are resting beneath Manipur, Kachin and Nagaland, awaiting my beck and call." Elevated on the steps, Ollie and Brugal sat beside one another, both with their nostrils flaring, sucking in the mana-rich fog. The Praelector's eyes were bloodshot, while the Dwarven noble's hypertension made his fingers tremble. "So you see." Gwen brushed a sticky strand of Caliban's mucus from her Magus' mantle. "I bring you neither doom nor gloom." To the Guild Master, she bowed her head. "To Midlord Ironførge and the Rotary Guild, I bring the winds of change to dispel the air of stagnancy that has shrouded Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth for three decades." Then, she faced the Clan Head sitting like ducks in a semi-circle row. "To you, my lords— I am an investment, one that will bring your people and your Citadel unfathomable fortunes." Finally, she turned to the Deepdowners. "And to my friends of the deep, you denizens of Deepholm. I promise hope, hearth and home, down below the Misty Mountains cold…" "NAE—" The Deepdowner stood, no longer willing to let her do as she pleased. The Runes on his armour blazed red, orange and ochre even as Gwen readied her double-glazed mana shield. Had she failed? Gwen cursed internally. Maybe the HDMs were too much. _CLUNK!_ The Dwarf stumbled. A second Deepdowner, the one who had sat beside the gravel-voiced gruff, struck the first so hard that his helmet almost cracked. "Argh!" To Gwen's surprise, the stricken Deepdowner, rather than retaliate, retreated a step before dropping to one knee. "A-Apologies, Lord Engineseer." Gwen raised an arched brow. An Engineseer and a Deepdowner? The leader of the trio of fishbowl-wannabes must be gifted indeed. More curious was the fact that even among Deepdowners there existed such a difference in prestige. Hilda had given the impression that the folk-below were a monastic order of Lore Keepers. As the leader of the Deepdowners rose, the entourage behind her shrunk away, either bowing or falling to one knee. From the patterns on the master-crafted armour, Gwen recognised the individual. She had seen this very Deepdowner coming into the Citadel observing her from the parapets. "As Master Whurforlüm has said, it is not our role to interfere." A pleasant, melodious female voice reverberated through the chamber, one that was acutely familiar to Gwen's ears. "Well said, Magus Song." Gwen blinked. She recognised the voice, she realised, though she had been banking that her bather-companion was either the Thane of the Citadel or at worst, a wife or daughter. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that she could charm a Deepdowner while tits-up in a sauna. "Strewth… Hildy?" "Your gift of gab is almost as pleasant as the Ancestor Scald, Billelynn Møsvian." Hilda's projected voice grew mirthful. "You have my vote, Sorceress. I'll be watching and waiting." "Mistress…" Hilda's Deepdowner attendant rose in surprise. "The Human—" "Ebren, another complaint and you will be joining the craftsmen we're lending to Miss Song. Imagine that, brother, strolling in Himmseg under a cavern without a ceiling." At his mistress' rebuke, Ebren broke like a rusted factory spring. His containment suit seemed to shrink as the Dwarf within deflated. "Hilda!" Gwen called after the Deepdowner, stepping out of Caliban's muck. "Can we have a word?" What she wanted to know was if their encounter had been serendipity, or if the Deepdowner had sought her out. "In time, we shall speak again in Dyar Morkk's vaulted corridors." Hilda was already half-way down the hall. In a moment, her entourage enclosed around the Deepdowner, cutting off the sight of Hilda's lumbering armour. "I would be disappointed, Magus Song, if that day does not come to pass. You bluster well, but I hope your actions speak louder." "Gwen, what's happening?" Ollie watched his fingers jitter while he circulated mana to bring the feeling back into his toes. Up ahead, Gwen rode in a separate Strider with Hanmoul while Ollie himself sat next to a grinning Grimgal. Since leaving Red Peak, he had wondered how he would explain the occurrences to Lady Grey, and what Peterhouse would think of their newest position as a noted ally of the Dwarves. In their sockets, his eyeballs felt heavy and swollen. There was an indescribable ache in his belly. Why hadn't Lady Loftus told him that Gwen was the heiress to a Dragon's hoard? That she carried more HDMs on her person than the ancestral vault of Baronettes? If only the lady would laugh and tell him that Gwen was, in reality, a polymorphic Dragon playing silly buggers in the mortal world. And that speech she gave! The way she whipped the Dwarven noble until the poor sod's face imprinted in the granite, the way she peeled back his 'honour' until the man was stark naked and shivering in the limelight of mockery and laughter… Ollie shivered. Could he, a second son from the hills, really steer this Dragoness toward propriety? Was it possible for a man to tame a Displacer Beast? Can a Cabal of Wizards herd Drakes? What if she thought him too fussy and decided to put him through the same crucible? Would there be enough blood left in his shame-wrung body to keep his heart beating? "You just keep doing your job, Ollie," Gwen's Message came back with a hint of mirth. "I think we did rather well, don't you think? New trade route, new allies, new staff, a whole region opened up for adventuring. All in a day's work, eh?" "Please don't say 'we'." "Don't be shy, Ollie. I couldn't have done it without you." "No-no-no," Ollie moaned. The fluttering in his diaphragm was getting worse. He felt sick. "You were my moral support, you know; we're like a... dynamic duo. I knew you had my back." "Please…" "Lady Grey will be so pleased." "Gwen, I am begging you…" "You're my guy, Oz." Ollie groaned, vexing Grimgal, who disliked men who couldn't keep their liquor, or their nerve. "Stone bread trouble?" she asked with a hint of sarcasm. "It goes down hard and comes out like a high-grit grinder. Is your bung—" Grimgal's passenger shook his head, hugged his knees in the cramped cabin, then stared out at the woodlands swishing by as the Striders pounded through the trail. Ollie Edwards, Magus and Praelector of Peterhouse, had been homesick for London since the first day they drank Dwarven Rum. Now, he wished he had stowed a bottle away to drink away his consciousness.

Wednesday brought a rare lull in the snow. Two frigid evenings past Boxing Day, the zeal of gift-giving finally gave way to old enmities, restoring the city of London to cynicism as usual. At six-thirty AM sharp, from the icy coast of Canisbay to the southern-most part of Cornwall, the folk of England awoke to the sound of the paper boy's adolescent holler. "DWARFIES to reopen the ye old RED KEEP! OLD Ally NEWLY back in the fold!" In every news agency, tram station and vendor stand, similar images of the Gate of Kazhul, wide-open for the first time in three decades, splayed across the tabloids. Lower, nearer the article itself, a portrait that had now thrice graced the red-letter tabloids smiled winsomely at the audience with sparkling eyes, promising exciting things to come. Over in Cambridge, Peterhouse, under the sheltered groves in the Deer Garden, over the clinking of heirloom silverware, Lady Grey shared a spot of morning tea with an old nemesis, "Dickie" Mycroft Ravenport. With pleasure, The Lady of Ely revelled in the fact that she had been the very first to know of the Murk Dwarves' new stance toward the Mageocracy, and so had time to position her pieces just right. Though she had contributed nothing of note to the endeavour, the ambassador responsible for cracking the hard-headed Dwarves had been sent at her behest. In high-society, this meant Gwen's accolades were foremostly hers, then Peterhouse's, then Gwen's. "I had to withdraw two Mage Flights and a triage team to babysit her unannounced caper," Ravenport intoned annoyedly. "You know what Ireland's like this time of the year. The Militia's short-staffed as it is, and now the Mercenaries are delving en-mass into Merthyr Tydfil like mud down a sinkhole." The mistress of Peterhouse waited for a block of loosely-compressed sugar to wholly dissolve before taking a sip of her steaming, yearling Devonshire. "Is that so bad? London has effectively gained access to a virgin Dungeon, one that's untouched since the Beast Tide. Which of the central powers can boast the same? And it's close to home as well, no need for complex logistics. Surely your people stand to benefit more than they can lose?" "We've no idea what's down there, Maxi." Ravenport buttered a scone with far too much marmalade. Unbeknownst to his enemies, the stone-cold, sable-clad Duke of Norfolk had a sweet tooth. "The girl reported that she fought a Wyrm! A mutated, draconic Earthen Worm." "It's Gwen's Wyrm now," Maxine corrected her childhood companion. "Ergo, the danger is now sans Wyrm." Mycroft meticulously masticated, swallowed, then continued. "There's no such thing as a free lunch. The Dwarves are not fools, least of all Whurforlüm. Did you know my grandfather was the last Tower Mage to confide with the Guild Master in person? Now I, his grandson, must broker a deal with the same Dwarf. You understand how vexing that could be?" "A tad rich, coming from one who negotiated our treaty with the Hvítálfar," Maxine said carefully. "Aren't the highborn effectively immortal? The first Duke of Norfolk, working under Henry V, would have dealt with the same aldermen as you had." "Wholly different," Mycroft refuted the implied hypocrisy. "The Hvítálfars are changeless, immutable, whereas the Dökkálfars are prone to change, only slower and more stubborn. A century from now, Snowdonia would remain as it has always been, out of touch— and reach— but can you say the same of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth? The girl wants to punch through the Murk and connect their citadel back into the Dyar Morkk. I shudder to think they would succeed." "Is that so bad?" The Lady relayed her amusement at Mycroft's frustration. "You've been trying to tempt the Dwarves— well, OUR Dwarves, for years. You're just upset that Gwen did the job of the Foreign Office in place of your lackeys, am I right? At any rate, whatever muck will hit the Dwarves first and foremost." "What an unkind thing to say." Mycroft sipped his tea, making a slight scowl. One of the reasons he did enjoy Maxine's company was that as equals, and as acquaintances since they were children, there wasn't too dire a need for facades and frivolities. After a long few days herding vipers, it was surprising how much one longed for candidness. "My Faction employs the finest men and women our country has to offer." "I am reminded of an oriental idiom." Maxine fought back a grin. "Black cat, white cat, fat or lean, a good cat is the one that catches the mice." "Now you're rubbing salt in my wounds." Mycroft sighed. "Enjoy it while you can Maxi. Your whelp will stumble sooner or later. Then you'll have to come to me to clean up her mess." "Gwen can afford the reparations. Isn't that wonderful, Dickie? What a fortuitous investment Henry has left us, the gift that keeps on giving. All profit." "Profit?" Ravenport's nostrils twitched. "You realise the Dwarves have submitted a hundred thirty-four requests for Resonators? One-Twenty of which was for overland travel to Central Europe. A mob of them to Sharr, a crowd to the Rila, a horde to Berchtesgaden and Lowland Bavaria. The Shard has decided to show our generosity and throw in diplomatic travel and Teleportation. Over in the mainland, their Towers are charging us arms and legs for the privilege of ferrying Journeymen to visit their cousins." "Assuming twelve of them are Gwen's merry men, are any others staying in London?" "Two dozen. Liaisons for the Freelancers. The Guild Master said they don't just want any riff-raff raiding in the Murk. There'll be cultural sensitivity training on both sides and a new licence office." "And?" "And what?" "What is your department getting out of this, Dickie? Don't tell me a bloodsucker like you has suddenly caught an outbreak of philanthropy." Mycroft twirled a dessert fork. "We've sent visitation applications to the Germanic and Icelandic citadels, as well as Dwarven enclaves in the Eastern Reaches. Requests for visitation and overland travel should be flooding in as we speak. Naturally, we hope to recoup our costs and then some." "How are our own responding to this?" Mycroft's pursed lips edged upward. "It's been a while since we could commission regional Dwarven battle-gear. Just the demand for Spellswords is driving the Militant Faction into a tizzy. The Knight Orders as well are demanding a refresh to their armoury. For a few years now, the youngsters have been making do with re-forged facsimiles." Maxine chuckled. "How desperate are the men?" "The Order of St George has offered to send Knight Commander Springfield with a Squadron of his best Hunters to scour the Murk if it means the Ordo can have first-privileges on custom blades. The Griffin Guard is keen for updated Spell-lances, though understandably, the underground nature of the Murk has limited their application." "You have this well in hand, I assume?" "Naturally, a good blood-letting— by which I mean a public auction, is in order. We shall soon see who has deeper pockets." "Boys and their toys." Maxine rolled her eyes. "No extra Golems for the Kingdom's forces?" "The Red Citadel's designs aren't as easily modified as the German Mark IV's." Ravenport shook his head. "Besides, the contracts are set in stone. We're still waiting on a delivery of two-hundred by next year's end. The department's current budget does not allow for more." "Nonetheless, you must be a popular man right now. More so than usual." Mycroft affirmed the Lady's observation, then signalled a change in the subject by switching to an after-meal tea. As though hoisted by a poltergeist, the tea sets rearranged themselves. "I always digress when it comes to you. Very unpleasant. Now— back to the subject of our sorceress. My sources from Hong Kong have informed me that the Communists are ready to make a move on her assets in Shanghai, in particular, her cut of Tonglv." "To be expected." The Lady shrugged. "Would you allow a Chinese Magister part ownership of the Royal Docks?" "You jest, but the clever thing is, they're accusing her of the very thing. Supposedly, she's supplying the Royal Docks. Naturally, rumours suggest she's consorting with myself." "Supplying you with what, exactly?" "The fanciful finance she sold to Shanghai via the Pudong Tower." "Is it true?" The Lady of Ely raised a brow. "You did accost her at Heathrow. She told me all about it. Did the two of you consort beyond what's proper?" "No, nothing of the sort." "And did you, Dickie Ravenport, as one of the four major stakeholders of the Royal Docklands, deny such an accusation?" Mycroft grinned like a shot fox. "I declined to comment, as did my colleagues." The Lady shot her confrere a concerning glare. "Nanny always said you were a nasty boy." "Nanny knows best. I wonder, though. Do you think the girl has contingencies in place?" "You don't know?" "Should I?" Maxine covered her smirk with a side of scone. "If anyone should know, it should be you." "What?" Mycroft shrugged. "What is she to me? Am I the Oracle of Delphi?" The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The Lady of Ely looked up from her teacup. "On a brighter note. Have you finalised the roster for Snowdonia?" Mycroft paused, sensing an unpleasant premonition rising to the fore. Maxine Loftus seldom made requests of her companions; when she did, the Lady of Ely expected satisfaction. "You jest." "Don't you think it'll be interesting?" Lady Loftus' eyes became two smiling half-moons. "Maxine." The Duke of Norfolk replaced the fine china, indicating that he suddenly recalled pressing business. "I really must be going." "Dickie," his companion's tone grew dangerously charming. "Care for a wager?" The Duke paused. "Go on." "I'll loan you the girl for the Isle of Man if indeed she's caught flatfooted by the scheming Orientals. Else, you have to find her a suitable instructor." Mycroft squared his shoulders "You wager that an adolescent, much less a Frontier bumpkin from Sydney, would possess enough personal or local clout to fend off an attempt by the Party to retrieve an infrastructural apparatus linked to gross domestic output? Am I to believe Lord Shultz will be shortly gracing Shanghai?" "My confidence in Gwen nears the supernatural." Mycroft let lose an undulating wave of uncharacteristic laughter. From the shadows among the trees, his footman, ever attentive Elliot Saville, materialised to aid the Duke in donning his outer coat. Outside the warmth of the Warding Mandala, the frigid winter whistled through the gothic fruit trees haunting the Deer Garden. "Fine." Mycroft donned his hat. "My scepticism is no less supreme." On Maxine Loftus' face, the Lady of Ely blossomed as though Juno summoning a second spring. Raising her cup, she toasted the departing Duke. "Til next time, Dickie. May our communist friends live in interesting times." London. The Isle of Dogs. Magus Gwen Song; honorary Magus of Peterhouse, relayed the events of the past three days to her dearest provisional-practitioner of Magical Medicine, Elvia Lindholm of Great Osmond Street Children's Hospital. Though it had been only three days, the stimulation afforded by the influx of HDMs had changed the atmosphere of Millwall from humid and mouldy to merely bedraggled. The streets which were previously choked with black snow, industrial waste and mud from the sea-swell had all been cleared, leaving the Victorian cobblestone exposed and glistening under the dreary wintery sun. The dilapidated press, Gwen's targeted industrial operation, had likewise been unearthed by human hands wrought of flesh and powered by fragile hope, revealing a hint of its former glory. Gwen's only gripe was the townfolk's dubious grasp of sustainability. Downstream, a month on, the Royal Docklands would inevitably discover a glut of old trash clogging up its eastern in-takes. "Was Hanmoul upset?" Elvia listened, the very picture of attention, "When you told him Ollie was a spy?" "Not after I bribed him with a dozen Da-peng feathers," Gwen explained. "He forgot all about Ollie after that. Said it wasn't the lad's fault, and that he had to deal with the Clan Heads and the Deepdowners all the time in a similar fashion. Every time he came to Merthyr Tydfil, he took notes and bought information as well." "Hanmoul's not among the twelve to come here?" Elvia spoke with disappointment. Gwen shook her head. "The Commandrumm will be all kinds of busy dealing with the new operations to clear a way through the Murk. He's working hand-in-glove with our representative from the Shard though, so there's a chance he might be able to visit." "A shame, I rather like Mister Bronzeborn." "Yeah, he's a good bloke, one of the best I've met. Tell you what though. Give it some time and we can both look forward to working with him again." Quickly, Gwen polished off her richly laden bowl of SPAM soup, a concoction of cabbage, tomato paste and copious amounts of Spam sliced and boiled until falling apart. Her roster had left little time for cuisine. Since returning from Merthyr Tydfil, she had reported to Lady Gray, dropped off Ollie to recover his sanity, then jetted her way at maximum velocity back to her Evee. After spending a night cuddling the healer's hot water-bottle body, she had risen, rested and restored enough to expend her final few days of freedom. First, there was Walken. Then, she had to locate Dominic Lorenzo and recruit him for the free paper gig as soon as possible. When her Dwarves arrived in a month, she had a feeling that things would be moving very quickly indeed. Assuming all went well, she should be wrapt in secret studies, meaning she had to have delegates set up and ready to go. "So." Gwen studied her flaxen-haired companion. "Ready to add a second Spirit to your menagerie?" "Sure am!" Elvia nodded, bobbing her fringe back and forth. Each day Sen-sen remained an unattached ginseng was a source of disquiet and danger for the not-so-well connected Cleric. "Have you found Master Walken?" "Lady Loftus gave me his country house address," Gwen said. "No wonder he's disappeared from Cambridge, the old dog's in Brighton." "The resort town?" "The very one." Gwen grinned. "Lucky for us, eh? We can take a stroll along the beach. Eat ice cream by the ivory pavilion." "It's winter and five degrees out..." "... buy scarves, shoes and dresses from the Lanes, dine on sea scallops by the seashore." "I thought we're there to find Master Walken's family." "That too." Gwen laughed. "I take it all's well in Millwall? Are you fine to be absent?" "Not really…" Elvia sulked. "The other Clerics aren't giving it their all." "Is Mathias not doing his job?" "He is," Elvia quickly interjected, pointing to the lone figure of the Knight patrolling the aid station and the food hall. "I guess the Tower hires find it strange that we're treating the NoMs, destitute ones at that." "Did you tell those snobs Lady Astor and Lady Gray are your sponsors?" "I don't think we are…?" Elvia cocked her head. "You are," Gwen assured her friend. "Trust me on this. Why else would they offer?" "Umm…" Elvia pursed her petite, pink lips, the picture of uncertainty. "I'll have a word with Mathias and our trio of hired help." Gwen flashed her Peterhouse Magus emblem. "I spent good CCs on those Clerics. They had better be OoM at the end of every shift, or somebody is going to suffer a stern word from Caliban." Gwen was very much glad that Brighton was where Walken had chosen to hole up because she adored the resort town in her old world. Of course, her glee had little to do with its famous beach— Australia's beaches were incontestable when it came to the quality and quantity of bronzed-bodies being tanned. Instead, she longed for its white-domed pier, its orient-influenced Royal Pavilion, its trendy art-house cafes and restaurants. As for the journey south, flying toward the curvature of the coast with Evee princess-carried against her torso was itself a pleasure. The squirming, squealing girl's fright gave her no end of sadistic joy as she pumped more and more mana into her flight spell, piercing the air with such velocity that Brighton came within view within the hour. Mid-way over the rolling hills of West Sussex, the duo encountered a flock of Razor-billed Starlings, appearing as a vast net to enmesh the pair. A robust burst of pseudo-Dragon-fear from Ariel was enough to spare the ten-thousand or so spatchcocks. The farmhouse below, however, was left inundated in a sudden downpour of panicked deposits, spontaneously inspiring a scene from Hitchcock's "The Birds". Closer to the sea, once accustomed to the skin-ship, her companion relaxed, staring in wide-eyed wonder at a vista which only those willing to pay the gratuitous cost of Flight could see. "I should learn a faster Flight Spell," Gwen murmured. The velocity was as therapeutic as Evee's delightful squeals. "I recall Allie employed Greater Flight." "It's a higher-tier Transmutation though," Elvia jittered as they plummeted downwards. When the seaside pavilion rapidly approached, Gwen cut their velocity via a rapid series of Dimension Doors. When finally the duo appeared on the ground, it was to the shock of the Town Guards on the watchtowers, whose Scrying diagnostics implicitly surmised that anyone licensed to be flying into town would not appreciate overcurious public servants. "Erg— pebble-sand." Gwen grimaced. The idea of landing on Brighton Beach with Evee had been so enthralling she had neglected the impossibility of walking on loose pebbles in four-inch heels. Of course, the annoyance aside, she had good cause to loathe the touch of cold, clinging sand-grit. "It's coarse and irritating and gets everywhere." "Sorry…" Elvia apologised. "What for?" "I wasn't there for you when Debbie…" "It's all in the Void now." Gwen dismissed her friend's concern. "Really. Caliban can be very therapeutic." Both wishing to quell the rising sentiment, the two unfurled the town map. Elvia's attire matched the winter decor, with her petite figure bundled in a knee-length overcoat and enclosed by a pair of suede booties. Gwen was her usual stubborn self, preferencing a light autumn-dress with stockings, vying for maximum comfort. Thanks to Almudj's blessing, the ravages of the seasons seldom touched her skin, though as a Sydney-sider, she had never bothered with winter-wear across either of her two lives. "Walken's address…" Gwen diverted her attention to the legend, both brows sulky with confusion. "Allow me." Elvia turned the map ninety degrees. "It's close." "Shall we fly?" "The apartments here are tightly staggered." Her helpful Elf steered them onward. "You'll never find it. Besides, it says 11/43 Chester Terrace, Brighton East. We'll have to consult the locals. The buildings here all look the same." "Right," Gwen relented. There was certainly nothing wrong with a seaside stroll with Elvia. Once they cleared the beach, she was pleased to find that the ivory-facade Brighton was famous for had not faded in this world, but expanded to encompass entire blocks. Though her present world lacked many quality-of-life improvements in information technology, its sorcerous means of erecting buildings was second to none. "It's beautiful," Elvia marvelled as they strolled through King's Parade, overlooking the lapping blue-green waters of the English Channel on their left. The Lanes remained as Gwen had recalled, though more built up, with a significant extension of the Lanes. Gone, however, were the trendy boutiques—instead, trinket-makers, jewellery-crafters, and an assortment of fabric-sellers, seamstress' abodes and gift-emporiums had replaced the familiar sights. After an eye-opening meander, Gwen made a note to take Elvia to a sweets shop called "Charlie's Crystal Emporium", a business with patrons spilling out the doors. Secretly, she hoped that there would be something akin to Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans of Potter-lore. Surely that would be a fun game to play with Evee. After a few twists and turns from helpful, neighbourly individuals who seemingly appeared out of thin air to aid Elvia with directions, the duo looked upon No. 11/43 Chester Terrace, Brighton East. Unexpectedly, the abode was not an apartment but a townhouse with shared walls, as was proper for those with the means to afford the view. Impressively, the beach-facing home was three-storeys tall, crammed between two identical apartments in the same Regency style that made Brighton such a throwback to the halcyon days of empire. Gwen inhaled in the frigid sea air. Despite the Shielding Stations shimmering in the distance, there was almost no detectable trace of mana miasma. "Bloody good location," she remarked, glancing at the marina and its collection of private yachts. In a world of Mermen and monsters, a vessel spoke loudly of the owner's confidence at sea. Barring the most unfortunate of cases, it was a Mermaid's great misfortune to run into a group of eager Maguses and Magisters fishing for rare specimens. "Well then, shall we?" "Shouldn't we Message Master Walken first?" Elvia withered in the shadow of the stately townhouse, plausibly worth more than a whole student wing at Nightingales. "His device isn't in service." Gwen shrugged. "Besides, it'll be interesting to see what he's up to, don't you think? Maybe he's intimately catching up with his estranged wife." "Gwen!" Elvia appeared scandalised. "You have the wildest imagination... Maybe we should wait?" "It's almost mid-day, and he's unemployed," Gwen snorted. "Barring coitus interruptus, she'll be right, mate." She pressed the doorbell. A delightful chime thrilled. A brief lull later, the door opened, revealing a young brunette who could only be one of Walken's daughters. Unmistakably, the girl sported the same charcoal-coloured eyes as her father, an unusual hue among Saxons. Beatrix or Angie? Gwen wondered. The girl had the look of a second child, meaning she must be Angie. Their eyes met. Gwen put forward her most endearing, benevolent, winsome smile. She felt almost maternal toward the girl, notwithstanding the difference in their age. Having guided Walken with a tender hand in Shanghai, her feelings toward her colleague's children were full of benevolence, especially Angie, who suffered from Mana Asthma. Just as her Master had taken care of Angie, so would she. "Good Afternoon! My name is Magus Gwen Song, this my colleague, Elvia Lindholm. We're here to see your father, Magister Walken." As she announced herself, Angie's smile arrested, then like the coming of permafrost, the girl's expression grew increasingly rigid. An Ice Mage? Gwen applauded Walken's genetics. Despite the unanticipated chill, Gwen maintained maximum amicability. "Is your father in—" "MOTHER!" the girl cried out suddenly, her voice crackling with ice. "THE WHORE OF BABYLON HAS COME FOR DAD!"

In Gwen's impressionable adolescence, there had been mandatory Christian-study in place of actual counsellors. Post Thatcher, Australia, like most liberal economies, had embraced a new wave of bible-thumping the likes of which had not been seen since the '50s. It was the zeitgeist of a conservative right-wing boom aghast at the freedoms offered by the rock' n' rolling '80s, a riposte against the rise of alt-pop, hiked-skirts and the modern woman. The pastor, plagued by gaggles of giggling school girls, gave up discipline within the hour and opted for the fire and fury of hell to inspire virginity for Jesus. Gwen, being the tallest, prettiest poppy of the lot, would be singled out more than once to endure such a sermon. The Whore of Babylon was often the topic of such an episode. "The Mother of Prostitutes! Abominations of the Earth! She with whom all the kings of the earth have committed fornication!" The pastor, recently divorced as per the spirit of the wanton age, would exhaust himself in bumbling ecstasy, his wandering eye regularly resting on the Eurasian in their midst. Thankfully, it was the age, and not something more sinister. Only recently had the "Gooks" made headlines as kingpins of heroine and the "Chinks" fled Tiananmen en-mass to Sydney's shores, allowing, "the bloody Wogs" a relieving breath of unmolested air. When the same words emerged from the perfectly formed face of Angie, Gwen had to fight off the stunned donning of an all too disturbing mantle. It made no sense. In this life, her pastor would have wept like a child at her prudence. Was Walken's daughter daft? Gwen knew she wasn't a "whore", not by any metric. Naturally, she understood the biblical implication; the school chaplain had called his whore wife nothing else. Quickly, she glanced at Elvia, who appeared equally slack-jawed and wide-eyed, completely lacking in understanding. Evee had once remarked that a puss at work had labelled her with the title, though Gwen had yet to get around to skin that particular cat. "I am sorry?" Gwen opted for diplomacy, choosing to understand that there might be a misunderstanding. "Young lady…" "GWEN? You're here?" The familiar face of Eric Walken, ex-member of the council of ten of Oceania, appeared in the corridor. "Eric!" Gwen waved. "Yes, I am here. Why wouldn't I be?" Angie's face fell once more. "Oh, dear…" Walken stopped in his tracks. To Gwen's eyes, her old nemesis-turned-ally looked quite a bit different from his Machiavellian self. In Sydney, Walken had been the aloof politician. In China, he had persisted in the air of a prideful English Magister, always appearing a rung above the rest. Now, with his gold-rimmed spectacles, scruffy beard and apron, the Magister appeared emasculated. There was now an unmistakable air of domesticity to the older man that made Gwen doubt her eyes. She rather fancied the newly mellowed Walken, even though he was so divorced from the Mage she had imagined him to be. "… I think you better come inside first." Despite her father's amicability, Angie was not having it. "Dad, are you serious?" "Possum, don't be rude to our guest." "MOTHER!" The girl fled. Gwen and Walken looked at one another eye-to-eye. Walken looked tired. VOOMP! A Dimension Door appeared and disappeared, revealing who could only be Audrey, Eric's wife. In between the fading motes of icy Conjuration, Gwen spied a dark-haired woman with the likeness of a lark. At first impression, the wife of Walken seemed sweet and sincere. She was short, as per her bird-like guise, with a narrow body, a small face and teak eyes. She dressed well in a full-length cotton-skirt and a pale-blue cashmere cardigan, certainly better than her aproned husband, carrying a demeanour that was dignified and portrait-ready. "You must be the delightfully unattached Miss Song." Audrey's voice, like her appearance, was sharp and controlled. "Do come into the kitchen." "Audrey," Walken raised his voice. "This is most improper. Gwen's a guest and an important one at that. Show her to the living room." Gwen involuntarily gulped when Walken's wife swept the gathering with her matronly gaze. Having enjoyed no experience of domesticity of any kind across two lives outside of compelling Percy to cook, she felt genuinely lost for words. "In the kitchen," the wife insisted. "Angie, you may make our guests some tea." The daughter stomped away, as did Audrey, leaving Gwen standing in the corridor, watched by a confused Elvia. "How's London?" Walken said awkwardly. "Not the catch up I expected," Gwen replied to the unspoken question. "Mmm." Walken sighed. "I had wanted to prevent an incident, but now that you're here, maybe you can help us resolve our differences." The country kitchen inside the townhouse was larger than Gwen had expected from the outside. Since the family occupied all three levels, the back porch had been knocked out and extended to the exterior, creating an oblong, half-dome winter garden. Around the kitchen table, the family sat for the impending presentation of their father's head on a silver platter. "My apologies for Angie," Audrey began, her lips thin and severe. "Angie. Apologise." "Sorry, Miss Song." Angie inclined her chin. To Gwen, the girl looked to be in her late teens or very early twenties. Like her father, her keen features made her appear maturer than her years. "That's fine." Gwen hand-waved the prior insult. It wasn't as though she could extract satisfaction from Walken's family, so the apology was a moot point. Audrey began the proceedings with a nod. "To formalise our introduction, my name is Audrey Walken— of House Coke of Leicester, Norfolk. The late Earl Thomas Coke was my father. I am his surviving daughter. You've met my second, Andrey Coke-Walken, currently studying at London Imperial. Our eldest, Beatrix, is presently a Magus serving in Edinburgh. Finally, as you well know, Eric is currently unemployed." "Gwen Song, provisional Magus, Peterhouse, Cambridge and Class VI War Mage," Gwen answered stiffly, matching the woman's terseness. "My companion is Elvia Lindholm, a provisional practitioner of GOS and Nightingales. Also, your husband isn't unemployed." "Really?" Audrey spooned a sugar cube into a steaming cup of English Breakfast. "Do tell." "He will very soon be working as an Executive Officer on several operations involving the Isle of Dogs and an infrastructure project for the rest of London." "Working 'under' you, I presume?" "You are correct." Gwen left her tea untouched. From the wife's tone and the way Walken clenched his teeth, she was beginning to put two and two together. "Audrey, I am sensing a great deal of uninvited hostility. Your husband is correct in claiming that there has been a misunderstanding." "Very well." Audrey pursed her lips. "I am not unreasonable. Enlighten us." "Eric?" Gwen turned to Walken. "Care to clarify the problem?" Walken cleared his throat. "The fault is mine." "Naturally—" Audrey stirred the tea. Gwen agreed, as did Angie. "...After our unfortunate incident in Sydney." Walken's face took on an uncharacteristic hue. Gwen had never seen the man so flustered, not even in front of a Lich. "I er… never quite communicated to Audrey the extent of the trouble I was in, what with the exile from Sydney and all..." "… fuck me." Gwen winced. "Eric. REALLY?" Beside her, the well-informed Elvia gasped. Gwen now understood the source of Walken's humility. "A temporary affair. As you know, I was repairing the damage from the fallout, and indeed, good progress has been made." "True." Gwen nodded. "What progress? From a regional administrator to unemployment?" Audrey chided her husband with her icy eyes. "That's progress, is it?" Walken waited for his wife to stop interjecting. "At any rate, for amply good reasons, I was off the grid while in China— the family was still provisioned materially, of course. Unfortunately, the trouble here began when they broadcasted the IIUC." "You didn't realise they would show your face?" Gwen cocked her head. "You were our team advisor. You knew the Proctors by name." "I had made a request," Walken answered. "We had been right as rain up until the incident with the Lich. It's hard to avoid the vid-casts when one's nearly deceased." "Ah…" Realisation dawned. "Daddy risked his life for you!" Angie could no longer hold her tongue. "He wasn't home often, but he always came back! Now, because of you, Daddy disappeared for almost a year! We haven't heard a peep from him since the Fall of Sydney, and when we see him again, he's on the vid-cast with you wrapped around his neck! Who are you to him anyway? Why would he do that for you?" Puzzle pieces clicked into place. Already, Gwen felt irked by the drama. She needed Walken up and running on the Isle of Dogs, not dealing with trivial domestic disputes. "Angie, manners," Audrey quietened her daughter. Turning to face Gwen, the older woman's face was the picture of judgement. "I don't know how your folk do things in Australia, but we Brits hold certain ceremonies as sacred. The facade of matrimony must be upheld on the highest pedestal. In private, if Eric wishes to seek the warm and inviting company of a young sorceress such as yourself, then I have only my lack of allure to blame. However, what you have done to our reputation as a household is irreparable. Beatrix has already received many a mocking remark, and Angie here can barely keep her head held high. I, myself, as the chief victim of his affair, should consider myself lucky that I have sympathetic companions and friends in high places. What I ask from you then, is merely the impoverished gift of truth." Gwen opened her mouth wide enough to fit two boiled eggs. What. The. Fuck. Walken's wife was suspecting she and old man Walken were bumping uglies because the old dog had neglected to churned her butter? The very thought of herself and Walken as non-platonic professionals made her drier than a slab of biltong. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "According to Eric, you're simply a stepping stone back to where he should be," Audrey continued, her words making Walken squirm like a cheap steak on a sizzle-plate. "He expects us to believe him. Of course, I want to, but the evidence is difficult to swallow." "What evidence?" Gwen demanded, her tone growing churlish. Being labelled a biblical destroyer and being accused of being a homewrecker were wholly different tiers of insults. What evidence did Audry possess? Was the woman going to show her a vid-cast of Instructor Walken teaching horizontal Spellcraft? "You're easily worth the candle; I'll give you that." Audrey's eyes spoke volumes of what the wife thought of her attire, particularly the breathability offered by the autumn fabric. "Not that I don't trust Eric's temperance— rather— I know him too well." Gwen shot Walken a wilting glare. Walken's wife lowered her teacup until it clinked. Turning to her husband, she cooly continued. "I don't think, if it came to it, that you would die for me, Eric. Maybe for the girls, but not for me. You've always been an absent father and inattentive husband, but I always believed in your adherence to the gentleman's code. Now, you've another significant other— Miss Song here, which begs the question. What should your wife think, Magister Walken, when her husband is willing to give his all, NOT to his daughters, whom you've left here in London: Beatrix in that godforsaken Frontier; Angie with her asthma; nor to his loyal spouse— but to Miss Song?" "You're missing the point," Walken appeared blindsided by his wife's audacity. "I've explained everything! More than once! Gwen's not like that." "Like what? I somehow doubt this teenager is supplying you with the power and influence you crave. What she can offer, and what you may give; is self-evident." Audrey delivered her verdict. "So that leaves us with a natural conclusion. Ergo, Eric— I want a divorce." Silently, Gwen mouthed the words, "Holy shit." "Divorce? DIVORCE?" Walken's Adam's apple bobbed like a buoy at noontide. "Christ, Audrey…" "It's only fair if you can't even pretend to play the faithful husband. At first, I had my doubts. Then I saw her kiss you— or revive you— or so you say, on the vid-cast, broadcasted across every respectable home in London and beyond. Still, I reserved my judgement, pushed my boundaries of belief, until the truth came out. We've all read the tabloids. Gwen Song, Void Sorceress, the maybe daughter of Mycroft Ravenport— your old patron and Factional chum. That was the final straw, Eric. Now I know why you did what you did— though I can't fathom why she could bear reciprocating the advances of an ageing, greasy eel. The mystery's gone, Eric. To the air, be free." "Rubbish!" Walken's face blushed scarlet. "Why do you think I was away all the time? Why was I alongside Gwen in the IIUC? I was WORKING! Working to ensure that one day, we would be influential again. That one day, the girls could return to Holkham Hall!" "Never mind the ancestral estate, Eric. That's not your business, not anymore. We wouldn't dare take up any more of your time." Walken appeared to fight his hypertension with every mote of mana remaining in his unemployed body. "HOLD UP." Gwen raised her voice. She had seen enough. A few clarifying words should clear the whole thing up in a jiffy. "This is ridiculous. Audrey, Eric, Angie, can you at least listen to what I have to say before burning your bridges?" Three pairs of eyes converged on Gwen. "Gwen, tell them." Walken massaged his heart. Imperiously, Gwen sat up straight and dosed herself with a jolt of Almudj's Essence. Crossing her long legs, she squared her shoulders and extended her swan-neck. "Fair warning. I will NOT be interrupted." The women snorted. Walken nodded. Elvia briefly met her gaze, her blue-eyes wild with alarm. Gwen began. "First, Audrey. You are mistaken. Eric and I started as enemies at each other's throats. My Master, if you haven't read the backlog, is Henry Kilroy, Master of the Ten, and victim to your husband's grievous miscalculation. He's dead now, in no small part thanks to Eric. Later, when Walken first approached me in Shanghai, we almost came to blows. When my sister-in-craft, Alesia de Botton found him, she chased him across the university district flinging Fireballs. In time, he assumed the role of an advisor for Fudan's IIUC team, of which I was vice-captain. We went through the rounds, eventually ending up in the Chinese Undead Front. A Lich ambushed me, and not wanting to lose all his efforts in making it up to Alesia and my brother-in-craft, Gunther Shultz of Sydney, he risked his life to do what's best for him. Having lost a gambit, I shared with Walken some of my life. That was the broadcast where I revived him from the brink of death." Walken nodded at Gwen, then at his wife. "This is why we're close." Gwen patted Walken on the shoulder in a familiar manner. "I don't know if you've ever fought a live Lich, but we survived one. At that moment, our lives were inextricably entwined. That's the reason why I trust him, and he trusts me. For Combat Mages, there exists a special bond of camaraderie that's difficult for civilians to internalise. But fear not, our bond is platonic and professional. With your husband beside me…" Walken inclined his chin in approval. His wife, however, grew more frigid with every word. Besides her mother, Angie's mouth twisted with loathing. "Disgusting…" Angie mumbled. "Dad, you're disgusting." "… and as my Chief Executive Officer—" Gwen bit her tongue. Her audience wasn't listening, though God knew why. Having come from a family championed by Morye no.1 in her old world, and Hai no.2 in her new world, she knew she was ill-equipped to be a family consultant. But Gwen had thought her monologue thoroughly diplomatic. If she were her mother's daughter, she would have slapped Audrey right in her sulky mouth. In any case, the wife was giving her the piss. Was exploring the beneficial bond between her and Walken insufficient? Perhaps Audrey needed to hear the jingle of crystals. How about a spiel about the profitability of Legion? Or the Isle? Or her Dwarves? "Eric." The wife spoke before she could continue. "We can make it to the Shard and get the forms signed before they shut." "Audrey, my patience isn't without limits..." Walken undid his apron. Understandably, her companion had suffered enough. It was just as well; Gwen shrugged mentally. An unattached Walken would probably devote himself to work more readily than one with baggage. After his liberation, she could settle Walken down on the Isle as her majordomo. Once the Dwarves arrived, he would know how to deal with them. There was the matter of trade with the Red Keep as well, involving the import of jadeite and Maotai and other materials from Burma and beyond. Post commencement of her Spellcraft lessons, Walken would keep matters well in hand. "Dad, you're ridiculous…" "Not now, Angie..." "Don't you dare silence her! You're just a Baronet if even that!" "You two do whatever you want, and I don't complain…" "What do you call this then? Are you not complaining? I must have gone mad…" Once the noise began, Gwen tuned right out. It was amazing how some habits could cross over two lifetimes. Family disputes were all the same, everywhere. Vaguely, she felt sorry for her future officer, but really, Walken's family business was his own. All she could offer the man was work to free him from strife. It was generosity enough. "STOP! ALL OF YOU!" The cry that rang out like clarion to quell the quarrel came from the unlikeliest of sources. Elvia stood, pale-faced, red-eyed and panting. "You're all wrong!" She howled at them, a little lioness clawing at the air. "GWEN ISN'T A HOMEWRECKER!" "Who are you to say so?" Angie challenged Gwen's companion. "Who are you to her?" "I am…" the girl paused. Gwen met her Evee's glimmering eyes. What was her cleric up to now? Why should she care about Walken? "Evee—" Then Gwen got her answer. Without reserve, hesitation nor warning, Elvia Lindholm; her sweet little Evee from Avalon— kissed her full on the lips. Gwennie was digging her own grave. From what Elvia knew of her friend's familial history, Gwen was the last person who should be giving Walken advice about marriage. The scenario was so insane that, as soon as they had passed the door, Elvia suspected Gwen would be swimming upstream through a river of shit. How in God's name could two workaholics: one a power-hungry career politician who had left his family for almost a decade to work on the Frontier; the other an orphaned daughter of Hai and Helena— rekindle the flames of a snuffed marriage? The two arsonists of love might as well douse Brighton in Dwarven promethium, then invite Yue to start a bonfire. When Gwen's explanation strayed into how important Walken was to her immediate future, Elvia had cringed so hard her chest cramped. When again, through the lens of meritocracy, Gwen had raised Walken above and beyond the boundaries of ordinary friendship, her heart grew sore. If even herself, who knew Magister Walken was not Gwens' carnal companion, was feeling such jealousy and frustration, what would Walken's family think? There was also Gwen's cold-heartedness, her complete disdain for the fact that a man was about to lose a wife and two daughters. How could her dearest friend be so kind, and yet be so insensitive to others? It was a side of Gwen she had rarely seen, one that sent shivers quivering down Elvia's spine. In private, Gwen had once remarked that family was a love that grew about the bone. If so, why should Walken slave away in the salt-mines of regret and bitterness for Gwen's convenience? Why not let go? Leave him to his family? As expected, following Gwen's tirade, Walken's wife and daughter descended into self-harm, feeding on each other's flesh. As for Gwen, as soon as her friend's eyes glazed over, Elvia knew the girl had gone over a cliff and would not be coming back. There was only one person present who could bring back the trio from the brink, and it was herself. "STOP! ALL OF YOU!" Her new-found sternness surprised even herself. When Angie, the foolish daughter of the Magister, furthermore challenged her with the absurd question of who she was to Gwen, all of her pent up frustration and longing cascaded into an unopposable, barrelling impulse. It was a threshold that she had told herself never to cross, no matter how much she desired it. Growing up in Avalon by the bay, she understood the importance of boundaries all too well. Her house had overlooked the Shield Walls. These invisible barriers, these curtains of civilisation, were the final frontier of Sydney. Once past the shallows, past the final stretch of the continental shelf, came the dark water— murky and muddled and mired with Mermen. Now, she crossed it. Thoughtlessly, she had stepped past the sandbar and plunged into the deep dark before her mind even registered that her feet were no longer touching the seafloor. "To Gwen. I am the only one that matters." The voice that spoke was alien and strange, almost as if not her own. She must be sleep-talking, Elvia thought. Only in her dreams had she ever been so full of surety and confidence. From her pocket, the newly awakened Kiki, stirred by the turbulent emotions welling up inside her torso, made itself known with an equally elated, "KIKI— KI!" "Gwen isn't for your husband," the voice of God continued. "Not now, not ever. So you have nothing to worry about." "Ki-ki!" The room sat in stunned silence, including Gwen, now the victim of a Gorgon's gaze. "Mister and Missus Walken!" Elvia wasn't sure if she could maintain her ethos after her implied logos of love, but she was up to her neck now and paddling free. She had only the experience of her sickeningly-loving parents as an anecdote— that and fifteen years of Sunday Service at St Mary's. "Earlier, you said that you hold 'certain' ceremonies sacred— inferring that you made a vow to love and care for one another in sickness and in health, till death do you apart. Is this true?" The couple nodded. "Where were you married?" "St Andrews…" Walken's eyes darted between Gwen and then herself. "By a priest?" "A Bishop…" Walken intoned drily. "Then why do you neglect the Lord's sanctification? Did St Paul not say that husbands should love their wives, just as Christ loved the church, for he gave up his life for the latter? And YOU, Ma'am. As one with children, TWO in fact, how can you talk of divorce so carelessly? So selfishly? He who loves his wife loves himself. Man and woman; yolk of the one egg, who shall mock the flesh of their flesh? Why should Angie and Beatrix lack their parent? What kind of blasphemy do you propose to teach your children?" Audrey stared, bewildered by Elvia's accusation of apostasy. "… We're agnostic," Walken's wife interjected woodenly. "Papa wanted the chapel wedding." The atmosphere grew somehow even more awkward. "Do you love your wife, Magister Walken?" Elvia cashed her chips. She was all-in. "… I do." Walken nodded sheepishly. "Say it then. Affirm yourself, Magister." Walken's scarlet face was no less carmine than his wife's. "I do still love you, Audrey." "Do you, Audrey, still love your husband?" There was hesitation. However, compelled by Elvia's angelic aura, Audrey nodded. "Say it." "I… don't hate him." "Angie? Do you want mum and dad to go their separate ways?" "Jesus, I am in university…" Angie cowered in her chair. "Miss Lindholm, please don't make me say this." Elvia channelled her inner Gwen, pouring positive mana throughout her conduits until she appeared to glow with unadulterated altruism. Likewise, tapping into what little Faith she had collated in the last few days, she threw in a silent invocation of Bless, turning a few motes of her outward projection golden. "… I love you both…" Angie cringed against the chair, every inch an Undead compelled by the sun. "Oh my God… someone Void me right now." "Then love each other deeply, because only love shall overcome the multitude of your sins," Elvia repeated the often spoken mantra drilled into her brain by the Matrons at Nightingales. "And another thing." She wasn't finished just yet. "Why do you think we came all this way? We're not just here for you, Sir Walken. Not at all! Gwen knew about Angie's mana asthma, and I may have a way to deal with her condition in the interim." "You do?" Her companion blinked. "We did?" "Of course. Did you forget? We came to seek Master Walken's aid in making a Greater Familiar contract-circle," Elvia announced. "Through Sen-sen, we may once again gain access to something akin to Lord Henry's Golden Mead, or at least a facsimile. If the Essence of Mythic Dragons isn't going to overcome something as worldly as hyper-inflammation of the respiratory tracts, then I would be supremely surprised by the Yinglong's existence beside Shanghai's world-class miasma." "Y— you have Golden Mead?" Walken and his wife spoke up at once. "Not if you don't corroborate with Gwen." "We'll cooperate." The Magister affirmed his new loyalties. "Yes, it was all a misunderstanding." Audrey inclined her head. "My apologies. Angie, apologise." "Umm..." Angie appeared confused. "Sorry?" "GOOD." Elvia's aura of benevolence faded. "Do everything in love. Amen." She sat back down. Just as her external crisis faded, her internal uproar rang out like an air siren. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around her torso, curled her knees into a foetal stance, then folded herself like origami. A threshold had been crossed. She was out now. Out and out. Out past the shallows, past the sand bar and the rolling white shoals brimming with mana, out where the sun burned bright, glimmering as blinding shards of scintillating silver, fleeing toward the great blue yonder; unbound and outside the shelter of Sydney's Shielding Stations.

Despite the aborted divorce, Walken's wife did not appear nearly as convinced as Angie of Gwen's presumed innocence. Instead, Audrey's reprieve would depend on the delivery of a panacea for Angie. "I'll arrange it right now." Her future executive officer had wasted no time. "First, tell me all of your current contacts in London..." True to form, the old snake's knack for dropping names at precisely the right intervals worked wonders. After an hour of interrogating Gwen's numerous overreaches and over-achievements, instances of "Lady Grey", "The Mistress of Cliveden", "Our new Dwarven Allies", and "I would not want to waste Duke Mycroft's time either," peppered the Magister's vernacular. She needed time to think, and Walken had unconsciously done her a favour by exhausting the afternoon pulling every favour to schedule Sen-sen's ritual as soon as possible. In addition to procuring materials, he would also personally inscribe the Mandala, as well as spend CCs to contract an assistant upper-tier Enchanter. It was a pleasure, in a way, watching Walken work, even if his care for Angie did leave a bittersweet saltiness in her mouth. Beside her, Elvia remained shut as a catatonic clam, likewise needing time. Whenever Gwen tapped the healer's shoulders, touched her shins, or called her name, the girl only answered in single syllables. For Gwen, the lack of response only multiplied her silent distress. Even now, the petals of her lips burned with the heat of a thousand suns; though she tried NOT to think about the sweet kiss planted by her willing Evee, the sensation invariably lingered. "I'll join you on the Isle of Dogs mid-January," Walken explained, finally exhausting every topic of conversation. "We'll be attending the IIUC ceremony together." "Will it be in London?" "The venue depends on the victor. If Oxbridge takes the crown as per usual, then you'll receive your scroll at home. If not, you can choose to go to Cambridge, or exercise a private ceremony at Peterhouse." "The one in Massachusetts?" Walken nodded. "I think it should come as no surprise that your friends from Pretoria failed to outperform the previous champions. Did you get a chance to watch the December match?" "No, not at all. How about you, Evee?" The Cleric's chrysalis remained impregnable. ".... A shame. Jean-Paul did well. Nothing compared to a certain sorceress' metrics in Shenyang, of course, but he's made a name for himself. The lad from House Hertzog as well has received invitations to engage in post-graduate studies here in England. They both have an interest in you and, though I am overstepping my boundaries, let me say Meister Bekker's influence transcends Factions and borders." To further distract herself, Gwen recalled the cringe-worthy invitation from Jean-Paul, smothering the smouldering coals stoked by Evee. "Is Jean-Paul back in London?" "I doubt it," Walken said. "Its spring right now in Pretoria." "True." Gwen redirected her thoughts toward the jacarandas and flame trees studding Sydney's southern suburbs. Her advisor was right. Her fellow Void user did profess that he and his Master escaped the winter every year in South Africa. Given time and resources, she too would one day ascend the ranks of migratory globe-trotters. The two rested their teacups. "... Miss Song, are you staying for supper?" Angie appeared at the kitchen door. "Mum said you're welcome." And with that, her hardwon time delay came to an end. After the teas and ices, the crisis had climaxed. Within her beaten body, the surviving motes of emotional awareness that had outlived Helena and Hai cried out for redress. Whether weal or woe, Elvia's courage deserved an answer. And for that, they needed privacy. Luckily, they were in the right town. On Brighton's foreshore, there was an old observational outpost, an enormous pin-shaped tower that commanded a three-sixty degree view of the township. A simple call from Walken citing a Class VI War Mage's desire was enough to warrant unfettered access to the decommissioned war relic. And that was why, ten minutes later, with Elvia cradled in her arms, the duo arrived a-hundred-and-sixty meters above sea-level into the curved-glass capsule, overlooking the bayside town of Brighton. "Kiki!" "Sen!" "Shaa-shaa!" "Ee—EE!" Elvia had long since learned to observe Gwen by observing her Familiars. Near the ceiling of the semi-doughnut dome of the observatory, Ariel hovered listlessly, agitated by alien emotions it could not process. Below the Kirin, its sibling writhed, an eel on a hotplate, drooling goo like a dying hagfish. Not far, her Alraune Spirit was in full bloom, feeding off her burgeoning desires, dripping with the scent of lilies. Besides her, Gwen sat as shy as a rain-teased bud, swaying softly in the honeyed light from the bay below. Elvia circulated a calming surge of Positive Energy to ease her nerves. What should happen next, she knew all too well. In her occasional daydreams, when she dared to have them, she had already imagined every nook and cranny of her friend against her own, perfectly fitted as if devised by nature. In Blackwattle, mid-adolescence, her delusions had been vague and fuzzy, full of ambiguity and fantasy. Now, as a provisional practitioner of reproductive health and magically-assisted midwifery, no imagination was needed. Though she lacked practical experience, Elvia understood the physiology of pleasure in an academic context. Though best practices varied, she knew what to stoke and coax. Why, with a little help from diagnostic magic, she would take Caliban's best consumption for a run— And then the delusion ended, and the root of Elvia's slender neck grew flamingo-pink. From the corner of her eye, she spied at her muted friend, wrapped up in deliriums of her own. A passive Gwen was lovely as well. Elvia loved the way the dying light turned her eyes amber. She loved the elegance of Gwen's neck, the fall of her hair about her shoulders, her pale skin against the dark fabric of her dress. When would an answer be forthcoming? Between her abdomen and her diaphragm, two Sen-sens jostled for space. In the chamber of her heart, an effervescent Kiki danced. Elvia blinked, realising she had been caught in yet another private revelry. Beside her, sitting pretty, Gwen had never appeared more beautiful, more within reach. "Gwen…" she reached out. There was no more patience to waste. The fruit of the temporal was ripe for the picking. For the self-reared Gwen growing up in Newtown, the path of love proved only marginally less torturous than midday dramas. To pay her way through university, she had worked popular dives, which put her in the vicinity of unique opportunities. More than once, she had frightened off disappointing father figures who skipped town when the crazy out-stripped the fun. By the second year of university, she had grown tired of catfights, fistfights and the company of sympathetic cops escorting belligerent lovers from boarding houses. Vowing to better herself, she turned to the voracious consumption of literature, living the lives of fictional women to supplement her loneliness. It was there, in the library, in the first chapter of a vintage romance novel, that she met Clarissa, an Austen-reading, Woolf-quoting, Plath-citing bibliophile. For six-month, Gwen had done her best to keep her spectres bottled, and for a while, life was stable and fulfilling, thanks in no small way to her mild-mannered lover's incredible endurance. After that, old habits surfaced, grinding her companion down to the stump until she too could no longer endure Gwen's unpredictable mood-swings. In hindsight, the juxtaposing six months of happiness were a rare poison. The fallout from that particular breakup had bordered on the burlesque, almost derailing Gwen's tertiary education. What she learned from the episode, once professional advice had been sought, was that lacking the aid of Dr Monroe's one-fifty-an-hour clarity, she struggled to understand, much less balance, the intimacy, insecurity, support, challenge and celebrations that came with "healthy relationships". "I think we should keep exploring the episode with Clarissa." Dr Siobhan Monroe's empathy was boundless when she finally coaxed the tale from Gwen. "That said, are you keeping up with the Celexa? How's your appetite?" And therein, Gwen self-diagnosed, lied the crux of her agitation. It wasn't so much that she wasn't "Gwen". That was a moot point since Elvia had never known the original. Rather— she couldn't get over the cradle-robbing reality of their difference in maturity. Perhaps it was a symptom of growing up in the '90s, an era where the prurient paedophilia performed by the local Church perverted the public conscience, popularising the notion of "grooming". Sure, under her guiding hand, Elvia could live in a golden palace. But the imbalance of control she would exert over her doll-like lover turned her stomach. She required Elvia to be herself, to live her own life and attain her dreams as she would. She wanted Elvia to be happy, upset, angry, indignant, all of her own accord. But Hai and Helena had only taught her that love was usurpation; that Caliban was Love's patron saint. Conversely, her affection for Elvia had its origins in sisterhood, in friendship, in oxytocin incited by small blonde things soft to the touch and snug as a warm pillow. To say that there was something more, to pass that particular threshold, required a re-arrangement of mental and physical faculties beyond the pale. And her self-chastisement wasn't even the beginning of their problems. Say she cast aside the metaphysical age difference between herself and Evee—how would their meritocratic society gaze upon the loss of not one, but two unique sorceresses? Soon, Elvia would become a twin-Spirited Cleric with unlimited potential. As for herself, she could strip a city down to the bones and not even need to change out of her dress. Evee had the privilege of naivety, but she had tasted the bitter fruit of societal pressure all her life. Before she could raze a village, her beauty had been a burden, something to be prodded and molested, or upheld on a pedestal. Now, that very power which freed her acted as her chains. If she denied the Mageocracy its dearest wish, as her Master had once foreshadowed, as JP's Meister now so desired, what would become of them? As a Weapon of Mass Destruction with a womb, were her life choices truly hers alone? What would Gunther say? Or Babulya? Or Opa, or her Yeye or Uncle Jun? From Sydney to China to London, there was no doubt that the availability of her body, to put matters crudely, had opened doors. As one old enough to understand consequences beyond overt sentimentality and hormonal longing, she shuddered at the catastrophic cost of forsaking potential. And wasn't Elvia a staunch Christian? Or at least a devoted practitioner of the Faith? The Evee she knew always said her prayers, gave her alms, knew her psalms and attended Mass. What would happen to her Faith Magic if she lived in existential sin? How would the hospital, the state, the Shard, Evee's sponsors, overlook an asset the likes of which they may never see again? For now, love was blindness. But success, their future success, required sacrifices. And say they overcame all of that, Gwen licked her parched lips. Could she abandon her cloud-capped Tower and the ambitions left by her beloved Master? What about Sobel? Could she leave that behind? She was a one-woman army, but she was no longer one-woman, not anymore. "Gwen…" Elvia's longing resounded as though filtered through a dream. Their gazes entwined. "Evee." She swallowed, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. "Quite the display you put on at Walken's." NO! Her brain almost threw up. That's not what she meant to say, not what she meant all! "I did it for you." Elvia sidled closer, her limbs parasitic vines curling about Gwen's princely trunk. In the next moment, her healer's breath was hot against her collarbone. "I swear by my Astral Soul, Gwennie, I—" "I know," Gwen interjected. To prevent any immediate misunderstanding, she gave Elvia a peck on the forehead, deftly re-zipping the side-slit of her dress. "Let's slow down a bit, shall we? I want to ask you some questions, Evee, and we'll need all our wits about us." The vague fingers withdrew. There was confusion and hurt, Gwen felt it acutely, but there was no helping it. "When did you know?" Gwen wrapped her fingers around Elvia's dainty digits. The girl's hands were tender and warm and trembling. "Since Sydney." "When did you start to like girls, I mean." Elvia's face grew evermore scarlet. There was a pause before the girl began to speak. "I am sorry, I lied to you and Yue." Her figure appeared to shrink. Gwen blinked, derailed by Elvia's train of thought. "How so?" "I told you both that I was afraid of the arranged marriages set up at Lilith's," the Cleric confessed. "And that's why I transferred to a government school, where no one would know me, or care to find out." "Oh…" Gwen was intrigued. Elvia was indeed an oddball at Blackwattle. Her talent, her wealth, her demeanour, all of it juxtaposed the academy's working-class cohort. Her healer squirmed in her arms. "I had to leave because one of the sisters found out." "About your… disposition?" Evee nodded. "I didn't know what I was doing then. One of the older girls I was fond of took me behind the chapel, to a shrine in the cloisters…" "Oh my…" Gwen felt her cheeks heating up. "And then?" "Then nothing," Elvia quickly clarified. "We danced... and kissed, that's all." "Like a peck? On the lips?" "No..." "How did it feel?" "It was... the most exquisite thing. I couldn't think at all. One minute we were practising for the formal, then the world was on fire. All I remember was Matron Mavis screaming, that and St Peter's disapproving face looking down from the altar." Gwen felt her palpable jealousy prick like a malicious pin. "Did you tongue-wrestle?" "GWENNIE!" "Hahaha…" The built-up tension fell from her shoulders together with the rolling laughter. Finally, she could breathe again. "Alright, that was my bad. So the Sister found out, and then?" "She called my parents and the girl's parents. Mine was nicer. Less fire and brimstone, but the senior girl's parents were livid. They accused me of seducing their daughter, who was Awakened and engaged to marry. They were from the North Shore proper, not immigrants like us, so we couldn't do anything other than accept their accusation at face value." "Bastards…" "In the end, Daddy appeased them by offering to move me out of school so that we would never meet again. I stayed home for a term, moping and crying while my mother comforted me. She said that everything would be alright." "And was it?" "It was." Elvia's lips were wet with happiness. "I met Yue— and I met you." "I am glad you came to Blackwattle as well." Gwen offered her Cleric another affirmation, this time on the hands. The fascinating flashback recollected by her healer had finally dispelled all doubt from her mind. "Okay, I've made up my mind. Care to listen?" Elvia nodded. "Right. Here goes." Gwen took a deep breath. "Evee, I do share your feelings." Elvia squealed, her voice child-like and full of glee, further cementing Gwen's determination. "But—" Instantly, the girl settled. "— Love is never easy. It's complicated, messy, and deceptive. It's not black and white, give and take. Some of us— like you, have so much to give, while others like me— tend to take and take." "I don't—" "I know you don't care if the balance is tilted. That's too like you." Gwen continued. "And yes, that's what it means to be in love. I don't intend to patronise or condescend, Elvia, but whatever I say to you now, you're not going to empathise, not holistically, at least." "What do you mean?" Elvia's nervousness was palpable. "I can only speak for myself," Gwen spoke up. "And speaking for myself, I am not a suitable partner." "No!" "Let me finish," Gwen silenced her Evee with an all-too-serious flash of her amber eyes. "I didn't say I wouldn't make a wonderful companion, a loyal mate, an incredible business associate, a constant sister or a zealous devotee—" Elvia ceased her struggles. "Rather— I was raised by Helena and Hai, remember? Right fucking paragons of partnership and parenthood. For a long while, I knew only how to appease others. Then for a longer-while, I learned only to please myself. Even now, what I want from you is completely one-sided." "I can…" "But not like that, not yet." Gwen arrested Elvia's fingers a little more tightly in case her resolve grew ill. "But that's what I mean. Love isn't simple. It's a network of conflicting interests that, without venturing into the wider world, you can't begin to comprehend. I love you, Evee— as a friend, a sister, a party member, and so much more, but let me say this, and you're not going to like it—" Elvia's eyes turned liquid. Before she could continue, Gwen knew she had to fortify her life-long companion for what was to come. Evee's gentleness, depthless when needed, was also as fragile as crystal. Answering her healer, she leaned in until their face was an inch apart. Greedily, Elvia met her halfway, wrapping the small of her arm around the crook of Gwen's neck so that she could no longer pull back. Then for a long, lingering while, with Brighton's brimming channel shimmering below them, they stayed entwined and interlocked, a pale-skinned glory against a mortal Ledean body, enacting the yolk and white of the one shell. She was breathing through Evee, and Evee through herself, connected by a consciousness older than the oldest of continents. In time, the pair parted— a viridescent spider-thread appearing and disappearing between them. "What were you saying?" Elvia slurred, drunk on the milk of paradise. "Evee." Gwen forced her tremulous voice to remain perfectly level, her brimming emotions a careful meniscus of constrained passion. "We're going to have to take things slow. Very slow." "I don't understand." "You will, in a decade or two," she pulled them apart, tearing Elvia from her as one might coax an octopus clinging to the coral. "For now, I want us to remain the best of friends. Closer than friends, but not quite lovers, not yet." "Why?" "For one, there's no gay marriage here or there or anywhere, unless Hanmoul's expecting to blow my mind when we get to Deepholm." To her surprise, Elvia's confusion multiplied. "Why would we get married? We're both girls." Gwen performed a double-take. "… Good point, I'll get back to you on that one." She realised she might have to pull back, not just to the '80s, but possibly revisit the '50s. "Don't you want to have children, Evee? I know you've got a brother, but your parents are the most loving, caring people I've ever met. Wouldn't they be disappointed? After your ejection from Lilith, weren't they upset?" "Mum..." Elvia's tone lost some of its enthusiasm. "Mum and Dad were both very kind, but yes, they were shocked." "And did you stop to think whether I would want children?" Gwen struck while the fire was hot. "No…" Evee's voice grew fainter still. "NOT that I do, so don't fret! On the off-chance, we could adopt, of course, save a soul, or two, or a dozen from destitution and ruin," Gwen assured her little Evee. "Our children need not even be human— Golos would make a good candidate for a little gopher." "… that's terrible! I would prefer my Kiki." "Ha! They'll make quite the pair at the local kindergarten." Gwen relaxed her guard. For someone with her limited capacity for non-manipulative empathy, trying to seesaw between passion and prudence was no easy feat. "And what if this is just a phase, Evee? The seasons change, as do lovers. Lest we transcend the shackles of time, nothing's immutable." "I won't change." "Nor do I want you to," Gwen sighed. "But you're— we're still YOUNG. Gods, Evee, we're a bunch of babies! Relatively speaking, we're infants! According to Golos, I'd be still kicking around in my third or fourth century, and that's before I had met Almudj again, or ate more Dragons." Elvia's eyes misted over. For a girl of eighteen, a century was unimaginable. "I mean, holy crap Evee. Fancy that! In a hundred years, humanity went from buffalo farming to a globe-spanning system of Towers connected by Teleportation Stations! Can you imagine what things would be like two-centuries from now? Would we be in space? Will we jaunt across the aether and colonise the Planes of Fire and Radiance? Drink coffee in Deepholm? Mine the red soil of Mars courtesy of Meister Musk?" "Who's Musk?" "What I mean," Gwen backpedalled from her digression. "Is that there's no rush. For now, if you're content with my devotion, then leave us enough space to catch our breath." "… and if I am not?" Gwen paused. Sometimes, she hated the fact that she had all the right lines. "The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long. I don't want that for us, Evee. A millennium without you? What a terrible aeon that would be. I would prefer the extinction of our world." Her prophesy lingered in the air, keeping company with the redolence spread by a simpering Kiki perfuming the interior of the observatory. Beside the flower Sprite, Sen-sen approached the observatory's precipice, only to shrink back with an alarmed "Sen!" before retreating to the stairs. Ariel lingered near the ceiling, feeding off the nascent emotions rolling through their Empathic Link. A calmer Caliban coiled under the chair, purring softly at the twin-morsel. As per the mutability of England's weather, the once burning sky turned rapidly overcast, mauve and under-lit against the crumbling silhouette of the Shielding Station's constant shimmer. The town itself remained fruit-shop bright, gregarious in its faux-summer hues; across the painted English Channel, Gwen saw the marina's yachts returning from their hunt. Like goose-down they were, erect and upright, bobbing in a crow-black sea, mariners of the aubergine murk, cubism hovering on air. As the light died, the mulberry horizon lost its dimensions, becoming as dull as bleached chiffon. "Gwen?" "Yes, Evee?" Gwen held her breath. "At the very least, can I kiss you now and then?" Her hesitation lasted only a second. The fear of loneliness made for a potent aphrodisiac. Down below, one by one, the unfurled quills came home as a line, each a white-winged sister from Nightingale's, idly awaiting their turn in the confessional.

The following morning, Gwen flew Elvia and herself back to London to meet Walken. Once the shellshock passed, she came to a nerve-pinching acceptance of her new reality— that she had once again indulged in what Petra had remarked as gluttonous masochism. On the one hand, she felt happy. Deliriously happy, like Bacchus drunk-charioting after a Friday grape binge. On the other, she felt disturbed, like an insomniac wondering whether they'll ever lay with Hypnos again. The high was nice, but she had been burned before. What would be the cost of overreach this time? An Icarian descent, perhaps— first celestial, then meteoric. Then _SPLAT_! For now though, with the intoxicating scent of Evee in her arms, it was easy to dismiss the Leviathan of love parked off the coast of Brighton, floundering in the shallows. Perhaps that was why she had declined Walken's offer of a free Teleport to London. The old dog's interrogating gaze aside, she had to post-process the consequence of her choices. She had told Evee that she loved her for her simplicity. But now, with Elvia so invested, she felt that their relationship had become anything but simple. She had told Evee would make her special. But not like this. Then what? Her mind demanded her hypocritical self. _What does Gwen Song want from Elvia Lindholm?_ Should Evee remain as a virgin handmaiden? But that wasn't it either. Within her pocket dimension, Caliban rested fitfully. Suddenly, Gwen felt a novel desire to strangle something soft. "Gwennie, what's the Summon Familiar ritual like?" Elvia yawned, breaking the monotony of constant locomotion. Glad for the distraction, Gwen did her best to recollect the first time she'd met Caliban and Ariel. She was fifteen, and she had no idea that her Master had pumped a Magister's treasure trove into a tier 1 Spell designed initially for novices. And so, like a little fool, she had gone with the flow without a second thought, letting her imagination run wild. "Are you aware of how the spell works, Evee?" "I understand the theory." "Good. Okay. So, after you mix your mana into the circle, the Mandala does all the grunt work. You'll feel a distortion in the Material Plane— but since Sen-Sen is here already, I guess that part's not important." "Mmm-hmm." "Then, here's going to be a tugging feeling in your chest. Your Astral Soul is going to feel like it has been prodded, or pushed. That would be your Familiar's Ego. Again, Ariel and Caliban were both infants then, so there wasn't anything to dominate. Sen-sen's willing— or it better be— so all you need to do is let it come into your Astral Body." Gwen paused to find the right words. "For Caliban, the exchange was more explicit. Cali was a ball of hunger demanding a pound of flesh to keep it manifested in the real world. Ariel was easier, I wanted a companion to counter Caliban, and so it came without compulsion. Again, with Sen-sen, I don't know if you'll have trouble controlling it or not, what with its age and lineage." Elvia inclined her chin. "I'll do my best." "I know you will." She sped up, concurrently ensuring that her shield kept the buffeting wind at bay. If she had been a lesser Mage, she would have long been OoM had she simultaneously maintained Flight and the desired to keep their clothes unruffled. And with the disappearing distance, the taste in her mouth grew bittersweet. After tonight, she told herself, Evee would return to her classes at Nightingales and practicum at GOS. Gwen herself would be confined to Cambridge, likely in a dungeon with a train of tutors each eager to bludgeon knowledge into her brain. Other than the rare weekend, she would see her healer twice, at best thrice a month, assuming their timetables aligned. Would she be sad? Gwen wondered, fearful of the strange relief scratching the inside of her ribcage. She had only two weeks to spend with Elvia, only now, it felt like a lifetime. After an eye-watering meal at the Tower of Tandoori, Gwen and Elvia arrived at the Tower of London. At lunch, Elvia spoke at length about her brother and her family and how Gwen's Long Range Message Device had been a godsend in keeping contact with her lost kin. Gwen reciprocated by speaking at length about Percy's burgeoning talents in Shanghai, about his girlfriend Mei, and their contributions at Shenyang. Finally, just past three, they arrived at the Shard. As it was nine hours before the Big Ben tolled in the new year, the administrative staff had made the lobby both festive and inviting. Though the desks were as busy as ever, Walken had paid good CCs for the Tower's time, affording unmolested transit from the marbled anterior to the Shard's multi-dimensional interior. Unlike Sydney's maze of gravitation platforms, the state of the art Shard utilised a system of Teleportation Circles to securely, and discretely, transfer Mages to their desired destination. As the unofficial capital of Spellcraft in the Britannic Mageocracy, the Shard's mastery of dimensional magic was a cut above its central continent cousins. "You must be Magus Song and Miss Lindholm." A wizened Magister in a crimson artificer's robe, studded with Glyphed pockets, led the pair into his workshop. Bespectacled in gold, the man's wild hair was a proud badge indicating his profession as a master of the Enchantment School. "I am Magister Gilbert Rendfrey, Senior Enchanter here at the Shard. Magister Walken is already inside." On the exterior, the Shard resembled a minimalist blade of glass, crystal and steel. It's interior's "interior", however, was tailored to each Magister's taste. As Gwen's party would be borrowing Magister Rendfrey's studio, they entered a smoky abode studded with magical bric-a-brac, with exotic materials lining the walls and spilling from every cabinet. A vision of Walken, prone on his stomach, soon appeared behind the threshold, halfway levitating from the floor, painstakingly etching the Greater Familiar Mandala with a sizzling inscriber. The chamber itself was atypical of the spacious sub-spaces popularly utilised for discrete experimentation. Once inside, the volume of the room rapidly expanded until it was almost the size of a modest warehouse. The air was crisp, and barring the unsettling grey-space near the edges, there was even a temperate ocean breeze, smelling faintly of morning brine. For Gwen, the disorientation lasted only a second. "Eric," Gwen greeted her Magister, sulky at how hard Angie's father was willing to labour. It took Walken a good ten seconds to realign himself. The Magister was in good health, but he was no longer spry. "Gwen. Elvia." “Magister Walken.” Elvia curtsied. "We have a problem." Walken wiped his hands on a bit of cloth. "Rendfrey?" "Mmm… yes, we appear to be the victim of an inventory oversight." The Magister touched a guilty finger to his beard. "It rarely happens, but it does." "What's missing?" Gwen examined the room. "Dragon blood, actually." Rendfrey adjusted his spectacles. "We have decided to proceed nonetheless because Magister Walken informed me you have access… to live samples?" Gwen turned to examine the sheepish Walken. "Audrey and I invested a lot of CCs to get this done as soon as possible," the Magister explained. "Hiccups were anticipated, I would imagine. We should consider our selves in luck that the missing ingredient is readily available." Gwen masticated Walken's words. "… do you mean Golos?" "Unless you happen to have a vial of something more sanguine," Walken said. "You haven't been very forthcoming on Golos' origins." "You'll get the whole picture once you start your job," she acknowledged his concern. One by one, her thoughts flittered through Ayxin, Ruxin and Golos. Of the trio, asking Ayxin for a pint was unthinkable. Ruxin might be willing to part with his blood if given enough incentives, while Golos, as Walken had guessed, was a malleable target. "So I am to summon Golos?" "I should mention the ritual does not necessarily need Dragon Blood," the Enchanter raised a hand. "Magister Walken is testing my hypothesis." "We need a resonating medium to act as the catalyst," Walken quickly explained. "Your Ginseng is very old, and bred in close vicinity to the Yinglong, or so you said. Without sacrificing sacred blood to shackle the Ginseng's ego, Elvia may not be able to access that part of its lineage." "You mean, the part Angie needs," Gwen clarified for her researchers. "Undoubtedly." Walken raised both hands in defeat. Gwen's lips pursed. To her, a committed father was a foreign thing. But for now, their interests aligned. She wanted Elvia to gain as much benefit from Sen-sen as possible, and agreeably, Walken wished to maximise the potential of Sen-sen being able to produce a panacea. Since she wanted Walken's loyalty, it was only fair that she met her future executive halfway. "Right, where do I set up?" "Just over there" Rendfrey appeared entirely enthralled by the exchange. "A Thunder Wyvern with a mythic bloodline? I haven't felt this excited since we started processing Griffin Blood!" London. The Shard. For the first time in the history of the Britannic Mageocracy, the city played host to a scion of the Yinglong. "You want my blood?" Golos breathed down at Gwen and Elvia's face, sending their hair flying all over. "Just a litre or two," Gwen covered her nose. "You've got plenty to give. Just look at the size of that gut. Not much exercise at Ruxin's?" "You've reneged on your promise," Golos sulked, his scales and spinal feathers bristling in turn. "I smell the scent of death on you fresh as a fat Eel-kin. You've been having fun. Did you eat another Wyrm?" "A foreign worm," Gwen nodded. "It was disgusting. All slimy and earthy, very gamy, you won't like it, trust me. How's your brother?" "He awaits your promised hoard." "On that front, we're on track." Gwen felt a vague camaraderie with the Wyvern she hadn't seen for a week, like meeting a companion from the past after a lengthy absence. "How's Phelara?" "Still brooding. Ruxin has a keen interest in her homeland. Big brother wants to know when you're going back for the Da-peng." "In good time," Gwen promised. "Best let sleeping birds lie for now." "Hmm…" Her Wyvern huffed at Elvia. "Greetings, Lord Golos," Elvia beamed. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Sen-sen, say hi." "SEN!" The Ginseng fell on its face, performing a kowtow. "Sen! Sen!" "Mmm…" Golos' nostrils flared. He sucked in the air around Elvia, then licked his tongue, tasting her presence. "And something else as well, the old one?" Gwen knew that Golos had a better nose than most, but the lizard's present perception was impressive beyond all comprehension. "Very nice, Golos. Not only does your nose detect magic, but it also detects Essence?" "Not all beings that can be eaten should be eaten," Golos announced wisely. "Ruxin says this is because you never know when someone's progenitor decides to eat you in turn." "Wise lad, that Ruxin. Did you catch up with Ryxi lately? I asked about Lulu before." "Missing your Kenshi mate already?" Golos' laughter came in rolling waves. "She was a feisty one. Ryxi says she's a handful." "Gogo..." Gwen was glad that Elvia could not speak nor translate Draconic. "Just as not everything can be eaten, you should also learn the difference between friendship and fornication. For example, we're friends, right?" Golos leaned in closer. "I wouldn't want to mount you anyway." The Wyvern huffed snot over her chest. "Too old." Elvia stared on innocent while Walken choked, then began to cough uncontrollably. Gwen pushed the massive, reptilian face away. "Thanks, Gogo. That makes me rest easier at night. Now pass me a pint, you sleazy slug." The Wyvern appeared hesitant. "I can compel the root," he offered, simultaneously unfolding its massive wings. "Sen! In the name of thy creator— _TYRTROL!"_ "SEN!" Sen-sen turned over to show its belly, then laid flat on the ground— a root on chopping board, awaiting inevitable dissection. Gwen's cutting-finger itched. Give her another hundred grams of pure, unadulterated Sen-sen for her future cache of Maotai and the Dwarves shall be dancing in the palm of her hand. "See?" Golos grinned, looking more smug than usual. "Walken?" Gwen turned to her Conjurer. "Rendfrey, what do you think?" "With all due respect to Lord Golos here." Rendfrey appeared wholly impressed with the Wyvern's amiable performance thus far. "I am ill-equipped to comment. Dragon-tongue is not Spellcraft. The direct alteration of reality through force-of-will is a higher tier of study than mortal magic, I fear." "Blood it is then." Gwen turned back Golos. Pointing to his wings, she made a cutting motion with her hand. "You want to do this— or me?" "Bah—" Golos extended his neck until a particularly thick part presented itself. "Take it from here, Calamity, between the feathers— wing wounds itch." "Good boy." She stroked the Wyvern again to show her approval. "Keep this up, and maybe we can go for a stroll in London, get you some genuine Chicken Tikka Masala from the Tower of Tandoori." Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Golos sniffed her lips. "Intriguing. I have scented something familiar near Ruxin's abode, though only on the plants." "I strongly advise against that— " Walken interjected. "Outside of this pocket dimension, I am afraid Lord Golos is going to fare very poorly indeed. Assuming he can resist the resonance given off by the city's four-dozen Shielding Cores, the Griffin Guards shall subdue us within the minute, and then we'll be in gaol, all of us, with her Majesty's Cabal blanking our minds." "… the shop does take out." Gwen tapped the golden vestibule against Golos' electrum scales. "Eric. How long are we going to be here?" "That depends on the subject," Magister Rendfrey indicated to the quivering Sen-sen, quivering and ready to meet its maker. "And of course, the subject's master." "Calamity, I shall not be denied this Chicken Tikka Masala you speak of—" Gwen passed a smidgen of Void between her fingers. "GAAAARGH—!" "Bosh! How the hell else am I going to get through your bloody diamond-armour?" Gwen tapped the vessel filling with dark, potent blood. "Look at the size of that neck of yours. That incision was a centimetre thick, tops. Your bleeding's already slowing." "Your wounds are most irksome." Golos nudged her again until Gwen almost lost her balance. "I demand recompense." "If it's not too much trouble. I'll tell an Apprentice to bring up this Tandoori fellow," Magister Rendfrey volunteered. "It's no bother if Lord Golos desires it. Him being most accomodating and courteous. I'll pay, of course." "If you insist, Magister." Gwen moved over to Walken's Mandala with the heavy jug of still-bubbling blood polluting the air with a stink of rust and iron. "Fair warning, Gogo eats just as much in his human form." "A humanoid morphic field! Astounding!" Magister Rendfrey rubbed his hands together. "Come! I shall give you my Apprentice's Message Glyph. Use Giles as you see fit. Magister Walken! Shall we?" Walken took possession of the austere vessel of dragon blood. On the levitation platform, a host of ingredients already churned within an automated ink-blender. When Gwen's eyes wandered over the interior, her Magister helpfully obliged. "Asphodel, Hippogriff's Bezoar, Lionfish Core, Eye of Ash Newt, Coral Pearl Dust, Fireseed, Ice-laced Rocksalt and ingot of True Silver— am I missing anything?" "That's all, Eric." Rendfrey applauded his fellow Magister. "It's a shame you've chosen not to take up alchemy proper." The addition of Golo's blood prompted the keg of inscriptor-ink to simmer for a half-minute before the concoction settled. Though the smell was foul, the gathered could sense the palpable power of the blood-laced gloop swirling within. Meanwhile, Magister Rendfrey thrice-confirmed the Mandala's every wand-stroke. "Miss Lindholm, if you would take your Spirits— both your Spirits, into the circle's midst, we may begin." "Yessir." "Now. Are you _completely_ certain neither of your creatures will subsume the other? Don't say I didn't warn you," Rendfrey spoke as he coaxed the admixture from the pot with the length of carved yew that had been hanging by his side. Into the grooves of the base granite, the liquid seeped, lighting up with the silver-sheen of Conjuration as it touched the Mandala. "There's no crying over spilt milk if one— or both, perish as a result." Elvia's eyes widened. "You got this," Gwen gave her healer an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. She possessed absolute confidence her friend would succeed. "Golos is here to help as well. Sen-sen should prove no trouble." "Kiki!" The Alraune showed its determination by flexing its tendrils. "Kiki!" "Sen!" The Ginseng followed Elvia obediently into the middle of the Mandala, waddling as it went. "Alright!" Gwen finished inscribing the Message to Rendfrey's Apprentice. After today, her Evee would never be underestimated by the Mageocracy, or anyone, ever again. "Let's get this show on the road! Evee, your ascension is at hand!" Elvia sat in the lotus stance, trying her best to relax both body and mind. To her left rested her Alraune Spirit, waving gently against the invisible breeze. To her right, held captive within a triple-layer of Octogramic Warding, sat Sen-sen, staring at her with its eyeless face. "The Circle's powering up!" came a warning from her present and future partner. "Start probing Sen-sen with your mind! Reach out and try to envelop him with your Astral Body!" Elvia closed her eyes and shut out all distractions. A healer's concentration was different from that of a Combat Mage. A Cleric's focus was inward-facing, generating an immutable sense of calm that drove away all unnecessary stimuli. Drawing upon that third-sense now, she sharped her insights until Sen-sen came into direct focus. Around her, the Mandala burned, igniting the Dragon Blood. Within the swirling world of conscious and the subconscious, Elvia's world imploded. The bonding had begun. "Sen-sen— come." The physiology of an NoM, lacking the reactive motes of mana that made one's body near-transparent to the diagnostic magic of a healer, was a dull and uninspiring affair. Comparatively, a Mage's body, depending on their expertise, could appear as a well-lit network of conduits, beneath which she could see the vessels of the body ferrying forth the lifeblood from the central mana organs— the brain, the liver, the heart. Gwen's interior, when Elvia had sought to satiate a forbidden curiosity, was a whirling network of Lightning and Void, criss-crossed in every which way and yet running in perfect parallel. It shamed her that, in the Frontier, she had been flooding Gwen with raw Positive Energy to stimulate her body's healing potential. In those dark days, it was little wonder that they emerged from every battle utterly exhausted and craving the sweet embrace of slumber. As for Sen-sen, the stowed vitality crammed within the root's tiny body was akin to diving into a celestial cluster. Within, she needed to locate Sen-sen's Spirit, and with sufficient will, overpower the Ginseng's ego. Deeper and deeper she dived, headlong into the nebula until, from that strange, metaphysical firmament, she began to tumble, limbs akimbo, falling and falling without end. A growing panic took hold. Something was wrong. This was not at all what the Spellcraft theory had prescribed, nor what Gwen had foretold. "AEEEEEE!" Lacking the means to fly, and missing her partner's guiding hand, Elvia's mind tumbled through the Astral world. "Gwennie!" " _Tyrtrol vur qe Meagea_!" Golos spat forth a mouthful of volcanic Vindaloo. Draconic— with its forceful, plosive tones, wasn't exactly the best language for simultaneous speaking and eating. " _O-rigato dout Navnik Zhren_!" A spot of curry sizzled against the burning Mandala. Gwen's nose twitched. "Lord Magister," she quietly enquired of their hired aid. "Vindaloo doesn't impact the efficacy of Mandalas, does it? Elvia won't bond to curry, I hope." "I certainly hope not!" The Magister had taken one sniff at the oriental concoction, then backed away from the tubs of sludge-like spice. Adjusting the Arcane Eye embedded into his spectacles, he quickly confirmed his hypothesis. "Imagine the scandal. We would have the owners on stasis in a heartbeat! 'Tower' of Tandoori indeed!" "Golos is certainly enthused…" Walken's voice took a tone of concern. His eyes glowed with the light from a Glyph-studded spectroscope. "Your Ally is feeding the Mandala— you know, usually, an expenditure of Essence comes at a drastic cost to the caster." "Good on Gogo for giving it his all." Gwen did her best via her Detect Magic. "Sen-sen might not have the brains, but it IS five centuries old and bred for Dragon-chow. Evee's just recently eighteen. I imagine there's quite the existential difference to be balanced out. Kiki as well is at least half a century old. What a rout, eh? I'd like to see her competitors bitch now." "True, and our Mandala is holding steady," Walken remarked. "You've tamed your pet Wyvern in ways we cannot begin to comprehend. In the future, you may wish to volunteer some of your methods with the Bestiary section of the Tower. The Griffin Tamers, in particular, have considerable trouble pinning down alpha specimens. Once the birds get a taste for human flesh..." Walken made a chopping motion with his hand. "Caliban— I mean— 'I' can be very charming..." Gwen had never clarified the precise particulars of how Golos came to fear her, nor would she share it. For one, her prideful Wyvern might rampage if Humans started giving him looks of pity. "There's not much to it. Golos is just a big ball of raging Draconic testosterone. He eats, shits and fucks. How hard can it be to satisfy that?" "All Dragons have hidden depth," Walken warned her. "No pool insufficiently deep can hold a Water Dragon, that's an oriental saying, I believe?" Gwen looked over at Golos stuffing his face silly with naan and globs of curry, having the time of his life. "I'll keep an eye out," she answered sceptically. "Say, do you know any Dungeons, parks or Wildlands hereabouts that's Planar Ally friendly?" _WHOOMP!_ Through the displacing dust, Elvia found herself alone and atop a blasted building torn to smithereens by the force of a recently passed AoE. The city below, a silhouette foreign to her memory, smouldered as though a rolling wave of coal-fired lava had erupted from the earth's core. Screams, thick as the steam, filled the air, joining the barrier sirens to form an unholy requiem of death and destruction. "What…" Elvia circulated as much mana through her conduits as she was able to muster, concurrently calling on Kiki and Sen-sen. As expected, her Spirits failed to make an appearance. Where could she be? Caught in an illusion? If so, which city now boiled below? Elvia focused on empowering her vision. There wasn't just fire; there was water as well. No city with skyscrapers and avenues like that should be so inundated by the sea. " _SVA DRONG ANNYO!_ " A shrill, soul-piercing shriek resounded across the horizon. Elvia's gaze followed the howling gale to see a moving, shifting, quadruped silhouette roving through the oily, aubergine atmosphere. Rippling waves of black-red ash fell from the blue-dark like October snow, smothering the city with its suffocating gloom. A _Dragon?_ A BLACK DRAGON? Her heart seized. "Calm Emotion!" Elvia weaved the subconscious Clerical sorcery through the air. The spell failed to manifest, though she did feel calmer for the placebo. Momentarily, the charcoal creature pierced through the cloud bank. "… Ariel?" There was no mistaking it. The stag horns, the stout body, the lion's claws and the rear hoofs she had molested so often, as well as the goldfish's fantail. A Kirin. An ashen Kirin shrouded by malevolent vapours of Negative Energy. Her body began to shiver. If that was Ariel, then where was Gwen? If that was Ariel, then what of Caliban? She scanned the city below. Presently, the milling mass of dark motes continued its onward march. There was an awful familiarity about it all, the way it flowed and ebbed, reached out with tendrils to test the distance, tasting the direction in which it spread. _Undead!_ Elvia's mind was now in full revolt. Millions of Undead! A whole host of them— enough to swallow a capital! Why was she in the midst of this horrid vision? Where's Sen-sen? “Gwen?” She called out. “Gwennie? Where are you? Lord Golos? Magister Walken?” "Evee…" a voice answered her from behind. Elvia spun. When finally her mind caught up, her lips parted with incomprehension. "P-Percy?" The boy— or perhaps she should say, a young man now, appeared wiser than his years. "What are you doing here?" Elvia's head abruptly filled with conspiracy. What if, for example, she and Gwen and everyone had fallen under the Curse of a malignant Hag's nightmare. Or if there was a wide-scale terrorist attack on the Shard? "Where's Gwen?" "The great _Saviour Song_ is getting ready to deploy her Shoggoth," Percy's tone was churlish and provoking. Closer, the young man's salt-encrusted armour crumbled. With a grunt, he dispelled the upper layer, revealing a shrivelled body speckled with combat-damage. "Tianjin is gone, I am afraid. They're letting Gwen clean up. This time tomorrow, there'll only be a husk of a city left." "She's using her Shoggoth?!" Elvia gulped. "I need to get to her! Why am I here of all places? Why is there Undead here in Northern China?" Percy appeared confused. "Don't worry— Lulan's with Gwen. Sis told us to wait for her here, at the Observatory, don't you remember? The city is overrun. The PLA is in full retreat. Beijing Tower's not coming. There are nine million souls down there ready to join the Undead Tide from Pyongyang. The Party won't let that happen, not with the Forbidden City a day away." "Jesus Christ." Elvia glanced at the carnage below. She could just make out pockets of fighting. A Squad of PLA Golems, burning blue with jets of exhaust, laid down lines of radiant fire into the avenues of the flaming city. Where the dark swarm retreated, a dozen tendrils emerged, each led by howling Wraiths and screeching Death Guards riding monstrous drake-steeds the size of semi-trailers. Behind the line of spluttering Golems, the city's fleeing defenders— an endless multitude of crying, churning civilians, scrambled over one another. "Percy, how did this happen?" "The cult of Juche, how else? But enough questions— I am badly drained—" Percy stumbled forward. Without thinking overmuch, Elvia caught the young man in her arms. "Are you alright?" "Does it look like I am right?" Percy's cheeks appeared sallow, his eyes, now that the young man was closer, she could see that his eyes had the lustre of dead fish. "Sorry. I'll heal you now." "My gratitude is boundless." Percy placed a hand around her shoulder, using her body as support. "How's Richard? Did he make it?" "Richard? What happened to—" _CRACK!_ A booming roll of thunder snapped across the heavens. From the impenetrable dark clouds, a meteor rapidly fell, a white-scaled body clad in living lightning— though much diminished and missing one wing. Together with the tumbling mass of its sleek, elegant figure was a deluge of corrupted blood, carapace and spellfire. "Lord Golos!" Elvia's eyes went wide. "Is— is GWEN there? Fighting?" The Ashen Kirin re-emerged in hot pursuit. " _JAKA, shio sia Irlymi Wharac sva sia KILITH!_ " Hearing the Kirin's croaking voice was like having claws scratching the inside of her skull. Her skin crawled. It almost sounded like the monstrous being was speaking in their general direction. " _Axun, sva Drong Annyo_ ," answered a voice an inch away from her neck. Elvia snapped her face around to see Percy's eyes grow suddenly cruel. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. "I am sorry, _Evee…"_ The boy who was Gwen's brother gripped her neck with one hand, the other pressed against her abdomen. Unbidden, her mana, her vitality, all the warmth from her body drained away. Negative Energy hammered her brain, nullifying all thoughts into the consistency of soup, preventing her from conjuring of even the most rudimentary of spells. GWEN! Elvia wanted to awake from the nightmare. The sensation, the pain, the fear, the soul-crushing feeling of life drain, none of it felt like an illusion. "… but it was a matter of time before Gwen finds out about Uncle Jun..." "Uuuuerrggk…" "... and I think we both know Sis well enough to guess her mad dog antics..." Strangely, Percy's eyes were not focused on his victim, but the flickering, dark horizon, denying her the final dignity of having her murderer stare her down. Acutely, she felt her flesh turning to crystalline salt. The agony, in a clinical sense, was beyond the sensory limit of her nervous systems. "So this isn't anything personal. If anything, I'd call it self-preservation." Reflected in Percy's eyes, Elvia saw a great tendril descend from the churning heavens. It was the Shoggoth, and it had arrived to undo all the follies of man. _GODS! This can't be real! None of this is real!_ An internal voice howled in desperation. _By the Nazarene! WAKE UP!_ Her eyes snapped open. There was light, and once her pupils adjusted, she saw rock formations bustling with pine trees that grew like sinuous serpents—all around her, cloud banks and rolling seas of mist cascaded down calico granite cliffs. From the burning city, she was now floating listlessly through a stone mirage. She raised her head. Amongst the vague, mystical mountains, a mutton-jade rise pierced the heavens, shrouded in toiling cumulonimbus, cracking with blue-white lightning. Her heart ballooned until it was on the verge of bursting. Was this the domain of Almudj? The fabled Unformed Land? The air here was different— the atmosphere was so thick with mana that she felt it permeate her mortal lungs. The clouds parted. A singular eye— cobalt and emerald and enormous beyond all comprehension, appeared and disappeared into the uncertain fog. "GWEN!" Elvia called out, her spine growing rigid with alarm. There was no way this was Almudj. Here was a whole other Mythic, the one from Gwen's stories, one with whom she should have no discernible business. "Thou art at a crossroads, companion of the Calamity..." a great, booming voice toiled in the recess of her head, filling her skull with its presence. Her host was enormous, stretching from peak to peak, coiled about the landscape as a roaring river. "Little Ginseng, O seed of ruin, thou shall choose which grain shall grow, and which shall wilt and rot..." The Mandala sizzled out. Within the confines of her Divination-infused vision, Elvia's mana presence doubled— perhaps tripled in intensity. It wasn't so much a matter of volume, as per Gwen herself, but density and purity. For a mid-tier Spirit and a mundane Conjurer, a significant boost in Affinity was expected. In Elvia's case, her transformation was transcendent. "How is it?" Gwen turned to her betters for an answer, her basic knowledge insufficient to offset her anxiousness. "No need to fret. I believe we have achieved our goal." Magister Rendfrey clapped his hands happily. "Most importantly, without incident! Without even a single contingency Glyph tripped! My word, Magus Song, are you certain your companion doesn't have a little mystical Essence in her?" "Maybe she does. Evee's special," Gwen smugly replied, relieved that Almudj has Evee in her sights. "No doubt. No doubt." Rendfrey nodded without refrain. "The diagnostics from our venture should serve the Tower well, I think. Dual-Spirits! And using only a Seventh-Circle Mandala following a classical Margulis-Gessner cross-modulation! I just knew the Dragon Blood would do the trick. Ah, but do not let me detain you— here comes our future saintess!" Within the dissolving circle, Elvia emerged from the cascading sheets of silvery Conjuration, her complexion as pale and oily as lambswool. The girl was soaked in sweat, her blouse diaphanous enough for Gwen to materialise a towel. "Evee!" Gwen approached without hesitation. "My God! You must be exhausted." "I am alright." Elvia raised a dainty, trembling hand. "Gwennie, look at what I've got— Sen-sen!" Her healer squeezed the Ginseng in her arms. The Cleric's cheeks flushed crimson. The air around Elvia shimmered. "SEN!" Gwen's body froze, not just at the sight of Elvia looking so radiant, but out of bone-deep, primal instincts ingrained into the genes of her ancestors. Walken as well, stiffened and grew pale, while the jubilant Magister Rendfrey sunk to his knees and whimpered. "… Oops," her healer quickly relented. "That's enough, Sen-sen. Sorry everyone, I am not sure how to use him yet. Gwen is going to have to coach me." "Sen!" Sen-sen attempted to wiggle out of Elvia's arms. "Kiki!" Her Alraune slapped the Ginseng across the mid-section. "Kiki!" "Sen-sen..." Sen-sen quailed before the bulbous floral Sprite. Gwen waited for her jaws to re-hinge, forcing through Almudj's Essence so that ligament by ligament, her muscles warmed up. Next, it took all her courage to make her next enquiry. "Evee… is that— Dragon Fear? What the hell did you do?" With a subtle gesture, her healer released her root vegetable from the Material Plane. After a final, relieved "Sen!", the Ginseng disappeared into its newly-formed pocket dimension. When Elvia gazed back, Gwen's healer appeared taller somehow, more dignified. "You said you would make me special." Elvia's blushing face was such a juxtaposition against the sphincter-crunching horror Gwen had just endured that she suffered from whiplash. "Now— I am." Gwen licked her lips, her tongue parched, her mind tabula rasa. Gods, Evee was beautiful— and terrifying. "Are you... not pleased?" Elvia cocked her head. "But..." For several seconds, the silence in the room grew thick enough to be sliced. "Hahaha…" Golos' abrupt, interrupting laughter crowded the room like the stink of a suffocating, Draconic-curry fart. "So you've chosen. Well done, _Moxt Myvish_." Gwen's brows furrowed as her Translation Stone performed its terrible divination. "Little… S-sister?" She spun around toward Golos. She knew it! She just knew it was too good to be true! Gogo, an accommodating, considerate drake? There was no such thing as a free lunch! Fucking Golos, helping out, making Sen-sen obey! She couldn't possibly be angry at Evee, so all she could do was steer the freight train of her anger elsewhere. "GOGO! EXPLAIN YOURSELF! OR I SWEAR TO EVEE, _YOU'LL BE EATING CURRY OUT OF A TUBE!"_

"Gwen, NO." Elvia's svelt figure interposed itself between Golos and the impending eruption of ultraviolence. From raising the hand of God, Gwen found herself suddenly diminished. "Evee, step aside." Her voice grew low and loud like impending thunder. "Gwen. No." Elvia's response was accompanied by Kiki crawling up her arm to sit on one shoulder. Before Sen-sen, the Alraune had proved too heavy for the small-framed healer. Now, that was no longer the case. "This isn't Lord Golos' problem." "The hell it isn't!" Gwen growled. "Gogo! You know what you did! Get your ass over here." "For aiding your mate in attaining her heart's desire?" Golos lacked even the barest token of repentance. "Upset that I satisfied where you could not, Calamity? You should be thankful for our 'sister' receiving what you had left disappointed." "Our? Is Ruxin a part of this? Is Ayxin?" Her mind furiously worked through the list of Dragons who might traffic Elvia against her. "Is your _fucking_ father involved?" "You overstep," Golos snapped back, leaking Dragon fear in the manner of an upset puss dissuading predators. "Calamity, watch yourself." "Gwennie!" Elvia stomped her feet, her blue eyes flashing with annoyance. Usually, Gwen would have remarked that her healer's upset made her all the more adorable. With Sen-sen, however, a truly upset Evee was a catastrophe. _Fuck!_ She ground her teeth. She knew she should have diced the little Ginseng fucker for spice when she had the chance. "Evee, you're not yourself, that's the Essence talking. Why this? Almudj is big enough for both of us." "Almudj is Almudj. And just as it knows its mind." Elvia's golden hair streamed as she spoke. "I know mine. You're not Almudj's sock puppet, and neither am I." "Evee, seriously." Gwen wanted to reach out, grab Golos, and wring the Wyvern like a wet rag until all the blood and poop oozed from every orifice. Her Evee! Her poor little Evee! Look at what they did to her beautiful Evee! "Don't do this." "I am serious, Gwen. Dead serious." Elvia approached, leading with her eyes and her small, glistening mouth. Gwen took a step back. "Evee…" "Or are you saying my choice doesn't matter?" Elvia's accusation snapped like a whip. Elvia's irises were blue, so blue that they hurt Gwen's eyes. "Must you choose for me? Must a higher power choose for me? For all of the Nazarene's divinity, Father Maxwell says the Almighty gives us free will. Do you deny what I've chosen for myself, Gwen?" "Evee, I didn't say that." "Then a little respect would go a long way, I think." Elvia's words crammed Gwen's tongue back down her throat. "Gwennie, you can't just get mad at Gogo without asking why." Gwen wanted to say "of course" she could; as a grown woman, she could do and say whatever the fuck she wanted. But she kept her mouth shut because she could see in Elvia's eyes she would have to bypass her healer first. "You going to hide behind Evee, Gogo? A big Wyvern like you?" She tried a different approach. "I see you squirm, Calamity." The Wyvern appeared to be enjoying himself. Why the fuck wasn't her Wyvern an idiot at a time like this? "Haha! As Father said, there is a foil to everything! As water is to fire! Metal to wood! So you are helpless against our Moxt Myvish! She's your Argonite!" Argonite being the draconic equivalent of kidney stones, or so Golos had once overshared. Gwen felt her face grow hot. She was so pissed off she could feel the Lightning encircling her irises, empowered by a feverish desire to make Golos into a Caliban sock puppet. "Your hypertension is at a dangerous level, Gwennie." Elvia reached out with a compassionate hand. Gwen stood her ground. If she gave in now, what precedent would that set for Evee? For her stupid drake? "Calm Emotion!" Soft and gentle streams of mana flooded Gwen's conduits, bathing her in lukewarm water. The anger that had simmered against her throat and made her voice hoarse suddenly abated. Unbidden, her heart-rate slowed, and the depth of her breathing grew shallow. Without biting her tongue, she would have moaned. "God damn it, Evee…" She breathed out, deflating as her rage died like Golos double-teamed by Big Birds. "What am I going to do with you." "A hug would be nice." Her healer was inches away. "There's still five hours until midnight." As commanded, she hugged her healer, allowing the sickly sweetness to envelop her annoyance like raw honey. The girl's soulful presence was akin to the milk of paradise. "Hee." A pair of prying eyes interrupted her revelry. "What are you staring at?" She snapped at her leering Wyvern. "Fuck off, Gogo. Go back to Ruxin and tell him I am very cross with you. Next time, if there's a next time..." "Ingrate hag," Golos grumbled. Languishingly, he stepped back into the Summoning Circle. Momentarily, the Wyvern's humanoid shape flashed blue and white, turning Rendfrey's workshop quicksilver before his material body dis-corporated across space and time. A precious silence descended, accompanied by the stink of curry. "Miss Elvia…" Walken gently raised his voice, understandably impatient. "If I may ask…" Her healer left her arms. "I believe Sen-sen's leaves can be crushed and infused within Miliberg's Remedy-All Tonic to suppress Angie's condition," Elvia acknowledged Walken's concern. "Gradually, her constitution will improve, though I am unsure how many dosages it may take. May I recommend you take her to GOS, where I work, and put up a slate for Angie?" "Yes, that's satisfactory." Walken nodded. "Thank you, Miss Lindholm. I'll do that tomorrow." Unused to her assertiveness, Elvia's face grew scarlet. "Think nothing of it, Magister Walken, you've been such an indispensable help to Gwen and myself. It's I who owe you a favour." "Hahaha..." Walken too, wilted under Elvia's sincerity. The corner of Gwen's left eye twitched. "... And my most sincere apologies, Magister Rendfrey." Elvia bowed to the owner of the workshop. "I haven't gotten used to Sen-sen's power yet." "No problem, not at all." The now-recovered Rendfrey mopped his forehead. "The old heart isn't what it used to be. Dragon Fear! How exhilarating!" "Allow me." Elvia raised a hand, "Peace be upon you, Magister. Aid!" A golden halo encircled the Enchanter for a split second, disappearing as quickly as it appeared, suffusing Rendfrey's face with unbridled vitality. Straightening his back and neck, the Magister suddenly stood taller. "Oh my." Magister Rendfrey inhaled and exhaled with great enthusiasm. "My girl, we need to get you to a Cog-Chamber! I insist, and I shall pay! What I wouldn't give to see your biometrics!" Thanks to Walken's glib coaxing and a promise of favours from Rendfrey, the party of four arrived at a rotund Cog-Chamber. Gwen wetted her lips at the intimate familiarity. The Cognition Chamber which they now occupied was the same as the one Henry had used to teach her, a memory that made her chest sore. How strange it was that the shoe was on the other foot— that she now plumbed Elvia's potential, while Evee stood in her place, wondering what lurked inside her Astral Body. "Shall we recluse ourselves?" Gwen applauded Walken's foresight to offer the girls privacy. Different from biometric readings, the matter of one's Astral Soul was deeply personal. "Please." Elvia bowed her head. "We shall soon be done, Lord Magisters." Walken and Rendfrey exchanged a look. "Of course, of course. Let us waste no time. You girls wanted to see the New Year's fireworks, yes?" Rendfrey added regretfully. "You won't want to miss that! What a wonderful occasion to celebrate with a show of colour! That said..." "Rendfrey!" "Yes, yes..." "Operator, you may begin," Gwen announced to the general air once they were alone. The air thrummed. The distance disappeared. The mirrored lake interior manifested. And upon that illusory, parallel plane, a divine presence dawned. "Holy shit, Evee…" Gwen had never seen Elvia's post-Sydney Astral Body, and so could not comment on Elvia's Affinity before Sen-sen's capitulation. To her knowledge, Elvia was gifted, but not so talented as to receive an invitation to Nightingales without Gunther, placing the girl at an Affinity apex of four-on-five at best. For Sydney, such an Affinity was well above average. In the Mageocracy's heartland, the benchmark for receiving the esoteric craft of Faith-weaving demanded purer talents. "What am I even looking at?" If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "There's so much mana..." Her healer's untainted, joyous excitement was turning Gwen's bones to jelly. "Sen-sen! Kiki!" Elvia's Spirits appeared beside her. "ARRUGH!" In the Cog-Chamber, one's eyelids only worked marginally. Gwen had only felt such blinding, stabbing pain once before— when Alesia decided to show off in front of Henry and had seared their newest sister's retinas. This time, it took several circles of Essence to adjust to the lumen range. "Kiki! Kiki!" The Alraune bathed in the light from her mistress, visibly growing taller and plumper. As for the blasted Draconic Ginseng, it fed its mistress a steady stream of raw mana through their Empathic Link, their conduit so thick as to distort the illusory space conjured by the chamber. "What do you think?" Elvia twirled, or not, Gwen couldn't tell because Elvia was a stadium flood-light. In ripples, Positive Energy rolled out from around the girl's feet, brushing up against Gwen's heels like thick, heavy water. Without a word, Gwen stepped from her Mary Janes and stood upon the Cognition Chamber's chilly floor, barefoot and bare-legged. Visibly, the outward ebb of Elvia's Positive Energy, that golden nectar of mana, began to swirl about her vague Void and electrified Lightning. Where their Astral Body's edges met, she saw for the first time, the outer walls of her energy-hungry aura absorbing Elvia's pearlescent motes of life. The pleasantness was indescribable. The tactility of Evee's Positive Energy halo was different from the violent consumption and the cresting climaxes offered by Caliban's Consume. Her healer's blessing was, Gwen blushed, a thing of womb water, a gentle envelopment that made her calm and sleepy and docile. For someone like herself, who subsisted on Almudj and lived each night as the patron saint of insomnia, the temptation to simply drown herself in Evee's chamber of the sea was all too real. "Does Sen-sen have a combat form?" Gwen changed the topic. "Does Kiki?" Elvia shook her head. "Kiki is still young, though she could be used if I need battlefield control. As for Sen-sen, I don't think I can command it's full power, at least not yet. Can you teach me how to use Dragon-Essence?" There existed not a single ounce of desire within the entirety of Gwen's being that wanted to pass on the knowledge Ayxin had imparted. "Gwennie?" Elvia's imploring eyes pulsed with star-fire. "… sure." Gwen folded like a napkin. "It's largely instinctual though, all I can teach you is the meditation and a general idea of how to wrangle the impulse." "Thanks, Gwennie. Let me finish up for the sensors." With a final word, her healer's Astral Body turned supernova, bathing the room in light, casting behind Gwen a dancing line of macabre shadows, writhing like uncertain Calibans, eating away at the fabric of space and time. London. New Year's Eve. Near midnight, the Thames lit up with vibrant Illusions and cacophonic Evocation. From behind the gargoyles lining the upper strata of Nightingale College, Gwen sat with her healer resting against her shoulder. Around the pair, their Familiars ran free: Kiki and Sen-sen paced around the rooftop, Caliban played pillow against her back, and Ariel drifted like a carefree cloud. Though the eclectic, floral atmosphere was heartbreakingly evocative, Gwen's heart grew heavy, and not just with the weight of her Evee. She had wanted a stronger Elvia. She had fancied her Evee to be special, unique, a cut above the rest. That was why, unsure of what else she could offer Evee, she had given Elvia crystals, bling, and Spirit. But not like this. Gwen understood what it meant to be the victim of the Yinglong's Draconic Essence. She knew all to well its intoxicating effect, the powers it offered, the way it bolstered her confidence to supernatural heights. She also knew that the Yinglong's Essence came at a cost—and that cost was a little snippet of one's self, the portion that was doubtful, cautious and meticulous. "Sen!" Sen-sen wiggled back and forth, terrified and yet intrigued by the height, enjoying its restored limbs. Sulkily, Gwen observed that within its tiny body rested a reservoir far more significant than what Gwen herself had accessed, and now its resources were Evee's to abuse as the healer saw fit. "Kiki!" the Alraune Sprite appeared more humanoid than its prior incarnation as well. It's leg tendrils were more limb-like and less akin to green caterpillars. It even had a little waist to go with its bulbous upper body, shaped like a rare stargazer lily. And though Elvia had placated her unrest with a darting peck on the lips, a sourness remained, like sugarcane left fermenting for too long. Was it because Elvia was no longer hers alone? Or was it because Elvia had pledged herself to a different patron? Over-possessiveness was poison, Gwen had learned the lesson from Dr Monroe, but she just couldn't shake the feeling that a precious thing had been denied. It was a perception that, if she had to vocalise her dissent, was akin to having one's stock portfolio two-grand short of a million, missing that sweet seventh digit. A great cheer rose from below. The hospital staff, those soon to be on duty, took the opportunity to share the joy of entering a new year. "Cold?" Elvia adjusted her head so that she rested yet more of her body on Gwen's torso. "Here, I'll warm us up." A gradual heat transferred from Elvia's body to hers. With hyper-tier Affinity, Walken had said; unusual things happened to a Mage's Astral Body. With her Affinity to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning, much of her body chemistry had been affected. As for the Void, that she was alive and well was itself a miracle of modern Spellcraft. With Evee, with the addition of TWO spirits, one Sufina's wily Junior, the other a Ginseng masochist, had gone beyond even that. Earlier, when the script from the Cognition Chamber spat out its numbers, both Magisters had steadfastly denied the accuracy of its numeric output. "An Affinity of FOURTEEN?" Walken had raised a brow before passing the data slate to Rendfrey. "Well done, Gwen. We have coaxed a Celestial Archon from the Positive Plane. Our next step should be to call the Church of England and tell them we recovered the long-lost Spirit of Saint Cuthbert. Your knighting ceremonies are next week." "A hyper-tier Cleric would cause a wave with the Vatican, what with their anointed saints and all." Rendfrey chuckled nervously, mopping sweat from his brow. "So er… we agree to keep this between us for now?" "Yes." Walken passed the data slate back to Gwen. "The instrument isn't made for measuring twin-Spirits. I shall go and lodge Elvia's Spirit Registration with the Tower. We can leave the specifics for later. No doubt, there will be questions for Miss Lindholm shortly. Best leave this to the state's Clerical apparatus." "When you get back to Great Osmond Street," Gwen likewise warned her healer. "Try not to bring back the dead accidentally." "Like you?" Her healer's lips were coy. Walken coughed. Gwen recalled shivering then. The Magisters had downplayed the fact, but she could see on their faces the beginnings of trouble which none of them was equipped to forestall. Perhaps that was why her nerves remained frayed even now. Had she, in her haste, in her love, in her all-consuming desire for Elvia's elevation, bypassed the threshold of theoretical Spellcraft? Had Elvia, the recipient of best intentions, accidentally ascended into quasi-Godhood? She had wanted Elvia to be unique. But not like this. _Christ Almighty_! Gwen fought back a morbid impulse. Like the fabled Victor Von Frankenstein, what had she created? And the bleeding Draconic Essence! Had the Cog-Chamber even taken _that_ in to account? GODS! What would Yue say when she found out? What would their oldest friend do to her if she found out how badly she had mangled Evee's body? Thinking of Yue erupting with the fire and fury of a fully-formed Tandy, Gwen's limbs grew covered with goosebumps. "Gwen, you're shivering again." Elvia remained oblivious. What was the healer thinking? Gwen wondered. Probably how many more Blessings she could give at the Isle before she was OoM. Her healer's selflessness could be infuriating at times. "How's that possible? Between Almudj and my Bless, you can't be ill." "I am just…" Gwen licked her lips. Evee's hot waterbottle aura was making her a little dizzy. "… so happy, is all. The fireworks, this city, everything's just so beautiful." "It is, isn't it?" "It is…" _Bung! Pa—Pa—Pa—BOOM!_ A floral display in the form of a peace lily, white-hot and glimmering with mana, showered the pair with their multi-coloured light. A cheer broke out all across the riverbank, welcoming the arrival of 2005. One supernova. Two supernovae. Three supernovae in quick succession. "Happy New Year, Gwennie." "Happy New Year, Evee." Little Evees, each at a fraction of the healer's Cog-Chamber luminosity, erupted all over London's skyline, turning night into day. January 1st. Morning. With her nostrils still hinting at her healer's heavenly redolence, Gwen left her healer's college for Cambridge. In her immediate future, she would return every few days in the first week of January. Her precious hours, however, would be for business, such as at the Isle of Dogs, or to check up on Evee's progress with Draconic meditations. A new year. A new beginning. Back home, on New Year's Day in Australia, most families opted for a spring clean, meaning every window and door of every house would be open, littering the lawn with trash from the last twelve months. In London, with the temperature below six and snow up to the ankle, there was no such bustle. The magically inclined families would mostly be recovering from their food coma, lazing about in cosy houses with logs of inscribed yew burning gently, drawing in heat from the Elemental Plane of Fire. The NoMs, if they were well-provisioned, would have something to celebrate as well. If not, then as little body heat should be expended as possible in this trying time. Feeling affected by the view, she circled the blanketed city as it slept. The fallen snow had obscured the city's Districts, hiding the unseen suffering lurking in its industrial borders. When Gwen did a lap around her demesne, the children waved at her. For her subjects, the sight of the sorceress in her out of season dress had become commonplace. Now, with their bellies full of SPAM and the streets cleared of mud and refuse, the kids had excess energy to burn. Gwen waved back, happy that the mud of Mudchute, salt of the earth had gained a little reprieve. When she circled the farm, Wally the caretaker gave her a smart salute, then commanded the dogs to give a great howl as she passed. It was a simple gesture, but one that made her well-pleased, a feeling that juxtaposed her prior oppression. Was this Noblesse Oblige? She wondered. What had begun as sophistry to suck up to the old Magister was now manifested in reality. If her Master was alive right now, would he be weaving a garland of praises for her head, and would he be praising her with fatherly hugs and kisses? It was difficult to believe sometimes; when she stepped back to take it all in, of all that had happened and what was soon to transpire. What began in Sydney as a vague desire to survive comfortably had morphed into a chimeric monstrosity with more heads and tails than she could count. At first, plunged into the inky, Spellcraft sea, she had blundered onto her self-driven quest out of jaw-clenching reflex. Like Pac-man acting on instinct, she had consumed foe after foe without overthinking, desiring only to live her second life freely. Promptly, she entertained a dangerous thought. She had time, and indeed, the capital to do an "Hai Song". With what she had amassed thus far, she could retreat to Sydney, take up a side-gig clearing out Mermen or difficult and dug-in monsters to bide her time. Barring that, she could even find a cushy, laid-back position within the CCP if she so desired— although that might piss off Percy. The point was that she could— but would not— be Hai's daughter. She had made hard promises to too many people whose lives now depended on her maintaining momentum. That, and she was caught up in the undertow of things bigger than herself. Gwen sped up. She felt trapped. An ironic emotion, seeing as she was blasting across the English countryside at over a hundred kilometres an hour, an austere member of a select Cabal with the clout to go wherever they pleased. Wanting to leave the feeling behind, she pumped more and more mana into her spell, shrinking the radius of her barrier so that she could feel the whistling wind scraping against Gunther's double-glazed shield. She had been reborn into this world, free, in a fashion. Now? Now she had the legacy left her by Master, Henry Kilroy, compounded by her siblings' promises to hunt down Sobel. She had the burden of Tonglv's success and the rise of her family's fortunes in Shanghai. Elsewhere, she had Mayuree and Marong in Myanma, and dragons dreaming of Centurion and Legion. There was also the IIUC's aftermath, Lady Grey's patronage, the Isle and its expectant folk, the printing press, the promise of Deepholm. Evee's rebellion. For all her freedom, she was everywhere in chains. Unconsciously, Gwen upped her velocity once more. Far below, confused farmhands waved at the rumbling contrail of mist and snow, unsure of whether this New Year's omen signalled weal or woe.

"Gwen, come in." A smiling member of the student-staff opened the oaken doors to Lady Grey's office at the Master's Lodge. Inside, Gwen was surprised to find the Victorian room curtains billowing, flooding the solemn office with stark, wintery light. "Head Mistress Loftus." Gwen bowed as soon as she entered. An arcane Quadro stood with Maxine, as for their identity, she could hazard a guess that they were her tutors. "Milords, Sirs and Madams…" There were two men and two women, and they instantly refocused their attention to catch Gwen in the crossfire of their imperious gazes. "Your instructors," the Lady affirmed Gwen's suspicions before turning to the austere group with a nod. "Magisters. Please introduce yourselves to our principal contributor in bringing England's Dwarves back into the fold. I am sure you are as eager to begin your moulding of our Void Mage as she is eager to learn your spells, so please— help yourselves." The first to tribute was a middle-aged gruff with a self-suffering demeanour. The man's hair, what was left of it, was slicked back and parted in the three-quarter style popular with military men. "Nils Kott." The Mage's speech carried a Germanic inflexion. "Abjuration, Warding and Enchantment specialist. I will be instructing you on the creation, maintenance and disruption of Spells and Mandalas." "Sir." Gwen delivered a heart-warming smile. Her instructor appeared unmoved. "… Major Kott comes to us from Ludwig-Maximilians Universität. He is on loan in exchange for one of our own. Gwen, say hi to one of the top Abjurers of München," the Lady kindly bridged the awkward gap. "I asked for the Major because he has extensive combat experience. It wouldn't hurt to ask him about the Luftwaffe's much-lauded Undead Purges carried out in Romania. Major Kott led the spearhead operation." "Sir!" Gwen saluted. The Major dipped his chin. Without pause, her next tutor, an enthused individual, younger than Kott, presented his very English self. Fair of skin and dark-haired, the sorcerer sported the atypical pale irises of a Mineral Mage. "Magus Song, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Maxwell Brown, of the King's Browns, from Lynn. Though I do hold the title of Viscount, I sincerely hope that you and I could be on first name terms." Gwen and the instructor shook hands. True to his disclosure, the Viscount's fingers were warm and clammy. "I shall be your instructor in Adaptive Spellcraft theory. My speciality is meta-magic, and I currently teach Spell Theory over at Emmanuel's. With your Omni-talent and my knowledge, I hope there will be deeper profundities with which we can plumb. Once our new Meister— That is, Magister Wen from Fudan arrives, she will be joining us in expanding the hitherto untapped potentials of Void Magic. I will also be advising your cousin, Miss Kuznetsova, on her thesis." "Petra will be lucky to have you, sir. What manner of a caster are you, Magister Brown?" "Myself?" Brown's grin grew broad. "I would fancy myself an Omni-Mage like yourself, Miss Song, although I was originally a Transmuter. My curiosity during my youth led me astray, I am afraid. I am no good in combat, though I hope with the aid of Magister Kott here, our endeavour may yet persevere." "It's my pleasure to be under your care, Sir." "The same! The same." The manic researcher withdrew with a face full of undisguised anticipation. "Kareena Patil," the next instructor presented herself. This one had immediately attracted Gwen's attention. She was the only other Indian subcontinent magic caster Gwen had seen outside of Taj, and Gwen had met more than her fair share of Mages by now. With her creme latte complexion, the woman's age appeared repressed, revealed only by the subtle crow's feet around the edge of her olive eyes. "I'll be taking your Transmutation to the seventh tier, assuming your potential is genuine." If Magister Brown had given a fiery introduction, then Magister Patil's was a cold one. "Dame Patil has been kind enough to divert from her duties at Lucy Cavendish," Lady Loftus intervened before the atmosphere grew colder. "There is scant a more accomplished sorceress in Cambridge when it comes to Spellshaping." "No need, Maxxie, to hide the girl's inexperience. I have seen your transcripts and your essays from Fudan, Miss Song. So much raw power without the understanding of the metaphysics that empower the phenomenon is a dangerous thing. Rarely have I felt such agony watching a sorceress trounce her way through an IICU." Kareena Patil remained aloof despite Lady Grey's kind intervention. "If you find my judgement too harsh, then prove me wrong in the months to come." "I won't disappoint, milady." Gwen bowed again. "I would hope not." Patil shrugged. "It's not my CCs been burnt." "I am last then," spoke Gwen's final instructor, a woman in her forties with the bearing of someone from a period film. "My name is Keridwen Le Guevel, for the duration of your stay in Peterhouse and until my dismissal— I shall be your Illusionist, as well as your instructor of etiquette, speech, and decorum." Gwen looked up at the Lady, who masked a smirk behind her flawless complexion. "Raw power," Keridwen stated abruptly. "Must come with dignity. I have heard of your peerless duelling exploits and have extensively studied your actions during the IIUC, Miss Song. Sufficient to say, if you wish to one day marry into the most august of Europe's families, you will need to perform considerably fairer than your prevailing circumstances have prescribed. My mission is to ensure that you look well, present well, and keep well so that your prospects remain undiminished." At the word "marry", Gwen's brow broke out in dismay. It was well, very well— that Elvia was not present to give her opinion on that matter. Thus far, other than the very confused Walkens of Brighton, she had not told anyone of that particular inclination. "Yes, ma'am." She relented for now. With Evee's present condition, her buyer's remorse was as acute as ever. She loved her healer as a Dwarf loved Mithril, but now there was a Dragon-sized chasm between the pair. "Great! And finally, you have one more instructor— me." Lady Grey stepped out from behind her desk. "From now until you are capable of enrolling and keeping up with Cambridge's classes— I shall be your chief tutor. I will inspect your progress fortnightly, and we shall have guidance sessions per fortnight so that you may ask me questions discrete from your instructors." "No discretion is needed!" Magister Brown appeared shocked. "Gwen, I will give you my all." "What's a Magister without a secret or two?" The Lady hand-waved the Viscount's concern. "Now, fair instructors, you may leave us. Gwen and I shall commence our first session. Peterhouse thanks you for your morning." Her instructors shuffled out. Servants shuffled in, laid down tea, then were gone again. Gwen sat in front of her patroness, shy as a lamb in her black and white pleated dress. "An august lot," Lady Loftus began. "I am in your debt, milady." Lady Loftus motioned for tea, and to Gwen's amazement, the tea set obliged. "Think nothing of it. The most important thing about learning Spellcraft isn't having access to the best spell instructors, spellbooks or tutors. Rather, one is required to know the right questions to ask. To that end, let's begin with the fundamentals so you won't embarrass yourself later. Amuse me, War Mage, what Frontier nonsense have they taught you about the Imperial Spellcraft System?" "The IMS began as an internationally ratified methodology for practising arcanistry first pioneered by Jean-Philipe de Périgord at Saint-Cloud," Gwen's recall was as expert as the vagueness of her historical understanding. "Later, Meister Wolfgang Maximilian of Berlin expanded the system during the unification. The Mageocracy was a late fosterer that vastly expanded Spellcraft during the hey-days of Pax Britannica, peaking just before the Great War. The controversy is that we appropriated the system from the central powers despite refusing to participate in its inception." "Now that's an amusing bit of history." Lady Grey drew in the scent from her Earl Grey, a tea named after one of her ancestors. "The accuracy is wanting, I fear. Tell me, child, as a guest of the Red Keep, what have the Dwarves told you? I know the Deepdowners mention this fact at every turn." "Hanmoul said Humans stole the structure for the IMS from the Seven Ancestors." "They're not wrong." Lady Grey's lips curled with amusement. "Though theft is such a strong word. One may as well steal the concept of colour! Magic, sorcery, arcanistry— SPELLCRAFT— Gwen, is the observance of that which governs the hidden laws of nature— the rules that bind together this fabric we call the Prime Material Plane. Anyone sufficiently observant enough, or possessed of an earnest desire for discovery like Magister Brown, is going to uncover its rules sooner or later. So no, I would not venture to say who stole from who. The foundation was volunteered, at any rate—" "Elves? Ma'am?" "That's right. Now there's something you don't read in your Frontier manuals. Gwen, you've been studying Spellcraft, in a manner, but you've never tapped into its source. Take my Earl Grey, for example, you've drunk it all your life— but have you seen Wildland Keemun? Have you ever touched the flesh of the bergamot that gives this tea its unique scent? Did you know a change in the rainfall changes the flavour? Or drying out the soil fortifies the scent?" Gwen shook her head. "And so it goes with Spellcraft. In time, as you grow into a finer sorceress than you are now, you will inevitably meet our benefactors who centuries ago sowed the seeds, I suppose, to see what will grow. Mind you, I am speaking only of the IMS. Long before the Hvítálfar gifted their unique, esoteric understanding, magic was studied in enclosed Enclaves and hidden Cabals, consisting of Wizard Circles, Witch Covens and Warlock Conspiracies. And of course, we mustn't forget the Vatican— though that's another sarcophagus altogether." "The Hvítálfar?" "Indeed. It is what the High-born call themselves." "Ma'am." Gwen could barely contain the excitement in her voice. "Are you saying Elves taught us sorcery?" "No," Lady Grey bid Gwen curb her enthusiasm. "And nor is it 'Elves'. Our allies are a fringe group of forward-thinking radicals, and what they engendered was the beginnings of something no Demihuman could conceive, the 'rise' of Humanity. Can you imagine, Gwen, that though there are now billions of humans dwelling upon the Prime Material Plane, we were once the runt of Terra's litter? The most impoverished of the sapient races?" "Is Spellcraft Elven?" Gwen did her best to digest the Lady's words, but her focus remained steadfast locked onto Elven matters. "I see Henry's education has heavily favoured pragmatism," Lady Grey patiently commented. "Practice without context, how flavourless that must be, dear." "I didn't mind it." Gwen stopped to retrieve a sweet biscuit. "Just as well then. I doubt your other tutors would be as inclined as I am. They're used to older, more knowledgable pupils. Anyhow, to continue, let us begin with antiquity. No, Spellcraft isn't Elven. Humans always possessed their own magic. From the ancient rule of the First Dynasty to the Israelites' uprising against Ramses II, rare individuals in history have appeared with "Talent". Have you not heard of the Greek heroes of antiquity? Hercules? Hector, Perseus, the wily Illusionist Odysseus? The indomitable Transmuter Achilles? Doesn't it make your blood boil, child, to think that despite our not so distant history, explosions of raw Human talent had germinated empires stretching far beyond our means? Ancient magic, Faith magic, and... Necromancy... evolved entirely on its own, surprising even the Hvítálfar." "The Elves…" Gwen reiterated. "Yes, yes." Lady Grey smiled. "As for Elven intervention, there exists no lack of circumstantial evidence. That said, the Hvítálfar's schemes are beyond human history, if simply because the original contractees, their children, and their scions, had less life in them than the lowest Träälvor. Where the Hvítálfars have interfered in history, we have only ruins to tell the tale. For instance, Sumeria's rise to power hinted heavily at the involvement of the Fair Folk." "Sumeria... Gilgamesh? I thought that part of the world consists of nought but Elementals and Black Zones?" "Indeed." Lady Loftus took a sip to wet her lips. "Present-day academics believe the Mesopotamian intervention by the Hvítálfar may have to do with the growing potency of the Eleventh Dynasty and the rise of the Canaanites, who by now had developed a potent form of Faith-craft. Do you know of Enkidu?" "The man-bull." "Right. Gilgamesh's constant companion, was a being 'created by the Gods' to interfere with the urban King Gilgamesh's conquest. From what we know of the noble Elementals residing in the Babylonian basin, Enkidu was likely a simulacrum of sorts— a Flesh Golem created by the Archon of the Elementals, Ishtar, keeper of the Sacred Plains. According to the surviving manuscripts, the Golem was peerless in combat and all but resistant to magic. If so, how could a fledgeling King defeat such a being created from the raw magic of creation?" Gwen's brain bloated from the flood of information. Elementals, deserts, ancient history, Faith Magic, Spellcraft— But then again, wasn't that the nature of history? The chronicle of Humanity was by nature an interwoven web of causation, tottering from one tragedy to the next, with kingdoms rising and falling like sandcastles at high tide. "From the Epic of Gilgamesh, the poets speak of a companion of the King— a 'temple maiden' called Shamhat. She left his side, alone, mind you, to tame the Golem with her demi-divine body. In the desert, she made love to the creature for seven days and seven nights, until the Enkidu's angst abated." "… how lewd." "Poetic epics, much like our popular vid-cast, frequently whets its audience with high appeals to low appetites." The Lady laughed, pointing to Gwen's exposed ankles. "Have you seen your IIUC broadcasts? I am afraid not even the highest institutions of learning is above titillating the audience for ratings." Gwen hid her cringe with another biscuit. "Anyway," the Lady continued. "Enkidu has no gender. It's a golem. It has no genitals. Elementals do not reproduce as we do. It is neither male nor female. How does one make love to that?" "… the Epic's composers must have had an incredible imagination." "Haha… indeed. Of course, now we have confirmation that Shamhat was a Ljósálfar, an acolyte overseeing the Sumerian Sects. Our Hvítálfar herders wanted to see if our tenacious selves, capable of populating the harshest of habitats, could be a war potential against Ishtar." Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "We were the Elves' spell fodder?" Gwen stated incredulously. "But…" "And therein lies the Hvítálfars' dilemma. Humans, up to a certain point, whether now or in history, are easily steered, at least at first. Unlike the other races, say the Dwarves, with their ageless tradecraft, or the Green-skins, with their versatile mutability, or the Mermen, unparalleled in their propagation, what Humans excel in— is _chaos."_ "Chaos?" "Raw, unmitigated, chaos— which we shall call innovation, invention and experimentation." The Lady's face grew flushed. "That's the beauty of our race, Gwen. Humanity can neither be contained or controlled. We proliferate regardless of the circumstances. With the meagrest aid, the slightest of hints, the most fragile seed of knowledge, we can bring about great booming Towers that defy distance to suck the marrow from Terra herself! Our benefactors may have withheld the true knowledge empowering magic— but Humankind overcame! The Dwarves sold us their Runecraft for food and materials, so we mimicked their Mandalas! The Mermen's attacks revealed the abundance of resource in the ocean, so now we harvest their kin, year on year!" The Lady paused for effect. "It is undeniable that modern magic and its foundations were never ours. Yet, it is without a doubt that we Humans are the legitimate successors of Spellcraft as it now exists. Human magic lacks nuance, as the Hvítálfar would say, and stability, so say the Dwarves— but it's ours. Only in our hands, does it flourish, do you see?" "I do." Gwen felt as though passing through a threshold. "To surmise, the methodology of magic is akin to language, right? Incantations are the words moulding the mana, invocations its grammar, its resultant metaphors and synecdoches are the spells we shape. IMS— is arcane linguistics, for Humans. And like English, it is constantly evolving. Though its origins are myriad and rooted all over the world— from culture to culture, race to race, its semantics remain coherent enough to communicate every idea, from the simplest order to the most empathic Ode. What the Elves had begun, and we Humans propagated, is now a common and accessible linguistic system for all Humanity to tap into sorcery, heedless of racial and cultural backgrounds!" Lady Loftus carefully lowered her tea. "Brilliantly surmised. Very concise. No wonder Henry saw something special in you. You're not just beauty and brawn, my dear! What a dangerously brainy little kitty you are." "Why isn't this common knowledge?" Gwen asked. "I feel embarrassed to be so delayed. Not even Master was forthcoming, and he taught me Dimension Door out of his very own Spellbook." "Oh, there's much you will need to un-learn. Since you mentioned Spellbooks, let's move onto that. The Grimoire, as you know, is a fundamental aspect of the Tower System your Master set up. The spells contained therein are accessible by anyone with the CCs and the talent, a pillar of the Mageocracy's centralised infrastructure. Had you stayed on the Frontier, you would have spent your whole life collating CCs to purchase the spells crafted by your betters. But now— furnished with proper access to the source of Spellcraft, you may compose your own. A spell, when deconstructed, is merely an arcane syntax, as you have interpreted." Gwen understood what her matron was saying. Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man Magic Missile, and he'll roast squirrels for life. Pre-written spells were rote learning. True Spellcraft was academia. "Another question?" The Lady was enjoying herself. "I do." Gwen had been fermenting one since last year. "I have a question regarding Affinity. Is it possible for a Mage's Affinity to exceed 10?" The Lady cocked her head ever so slightly. "Worried about Miss Lindholm?" Gwen's eyes grew wide and innocent. How did her patron discover Elvia's talent so quickly? What did the Lady know? "I take the Familiar ritual was successful?" "… Yes, ma'am." "I see." Maxine Loftus grew contemplative. "I suspected that at some junction, I will have to raise the topic of Miss Lindholm with you, though if you are acquiescent, I am more than happy to discuss the dilemma now." "Dilemma, ma'am?" Lady Loftus carefully stirred the sugar. The tea set added the milk, though she did not take up the fragrant beverage. "First, let us address the matter of Miss Lindholm's undeserved Affinity. It is NOT fourteen. Magister Rendrey and Walken are right in suggesting that the script is in error. Miss Lindholm's original talent is admirable but common. Even with her Alraune, she remained merely impressive. Unlike you, her ascension would not be for another decade or two, or five, not until the Alraune matures— whereupon she shall make a passable Combat Cleric." "Is Kiki not... suited for Evee?" "Why would it be? Let me be honest— the Alraune is wasted on her. I know a dozen students, Prime Mages like your Master Henry, who're still waiting to discover their life-long companions." "Oh…" Gwen felt her heart prickle. "Of course, the nature of Spirits and their acquisition is less predictable than the English weather. No amount of longing will gift them with Miss Lindholm's fortune." Fortune? Gwen felt guilt lick her insides. If Sufina hadn't gotten to Evee, Yue and Whetu in time, she would have shipped three desiccated carcasses back to Australia. "An excess of fortune, however, is a terrible thing," the Lady stated ominously. "I understand you have transactions with members of the Ordo Draconis, dear. What I don't understand is why you would offer up your dearest friend to be a 'Vessel'." "A… 'Vessel'?" Gwen felt cold sweat soaking her dress. "What do you mean, ma'am?" "A Vessel, an Essence holder, a—" Lady Loftus appeared to study her face to see if she was lying. When Gwen's guileless orbs spoke of complete earnestness, her House Mistress grew incredulous. "Oh, dear… You didn't know?" "I…" Gwen bit her lower lip. "I've sort of just blundered and blasted my way through obstacles thus far." "Goodness gracious. I take back what I said earlier." Lady Loftus raised a hypercritical brow. "You understand YOURSELF to be a Vessel of the Mythic that resides in Ayers Rock, do you not? Your brother-in-craft was as forthright as he could, but as you know, Henry was a deeply private individual." "Ma'am, do you know about Almudj?" "Should I know about Almudj?" Gwen grew silent. "Gwen." The Lady's tone grew serious. "I am your custodian and patron. Peterhouse has thus invested so far, two Senior Magisters and a Meisterhood, not to mention countless favours. For your instruction, I may be giving up much more. In return, it is your responsibility, your very purpose, to live up to mine— and Henry's— expectations. You must make up for what Sobel destroyed." "And what is that?" Her tone grew low and agitated. "Do you recall what you told Henry?" "A deterrent," Gwen recalled her grandstanding. "Correct. Peace through the threat of absolute destruction— mutual if it must be. Wars are coming, kitten. We will need your talents in the days to come to prevent another Sydney." "You can't be serious." Gwen gulped. They were tottering from crisis to crisis, and she could hardly catch her breath. "With who?" "With whoever wishes to threaten our cities. The Mermen, the Undead in Eastern Europe and North Korea, the savage Demi-humans of the steppes, the Elementals East of the Fire Sea; Spectre's shadow. We have been at peace, in a manner of speaking, for three decades, Gwen. Do you know how bloated the Empire has grown? How overtaxed the Communists have become? How ravenously the Americans plundered the New World? Humanity is a simmering vessel, and without the means to vent…" The magic kettle whistled. "… We have strayed." The Lady sighed. "Back to the matter at hand. You are a Vessel, by definition if nothing else. Miss Lindholm is a Vessel. Each Vessel wishes for certain boons when they take on their agreement with their respective Mythics. You wished for life— I assume, to offset the Void ravaging your body; and Miss Lindholm wished for unparalleled proficiency in her profession of choice." "So, the Affinity isn't because of Sen-sen—" Gwen almost bit her tongue. "That's the Ginseng… from the Mythic's sanctuary." "The Ginseng is the conduit," Lady Loftus clarified. "The more profound the conduit, the more conducive the contract. I wonder, what was your conduit?" "So Elvia…" "Is no more improved than she would have been otherwise. Assuming the girl began with an Affinity of 4, I would place her Affinity at 8— a tragedy, considering what two Plant Mages could have achieved with the same opportunity. Think, Gwen; the Mageocracy has missed a chance to produce two facsimiles of Henry. Why didn't you listen to Ollie? Or Mattias? They're right, you know. One wonders why you take your senior's advice for nought. Had you made the right choice, two Great Houses would defend her to the last heir, while she could have remained simple and sheltered." Gwen said nothing. Her mind was too numb to respond. "Now, thanks to your generosity." Lady Loftus' criticism was without mercy. "Miss Lindholm will have to make up to us. A Mythic's Vessel makes the rarest of Mages, you of all people should know. Why else are you special? How many Void Mages may use Void Magic with impunity? Who can do what you can do, at your age? You've put Miss Lindholm in a precarious position, Gwen." "What will happen to Elvia?" "Once her talents are verified." Lady Loftus was once again studying her face. "Your friend will be transferred into the Order of the Bath, where she shall work toward becoming a Knight Companion." The colour in Gwen's cheeks rose several degrees. "No way. A Knight's Companion…" "... Is a title and a Rank, denoting membership in the Order of the Bath. There exist only twenty-four official posts otherwise." Lady Loftus sighed wistfully. "Good grief. The dangers of ignorance." "Sorry." Gwen was still reeling from the idea that she and Elvia were "Vessels". Why hadn't anyone told her before? Then again, who in her orbit had been an expert on Draconic vassals? Ayxin of course— but the Dragon Princess owed her nothing. If anything, their mutual admiration for Jun made them natural competitors. "Ma'am, is this common knowledge?" "Nothing involving Dragons can be common. In this regard, we have only hearsay. A better instructor than I... might know more." Gwen tried to regulate her breathing. "Which brings us to an unpleasant topic of conversation." Lady Loftus drew a Glyph in the air. The windows slowly swung inward, leaving the room utterly silent but for the crackling of the inscribed yew logs. "Gwen, can you clarify what your intentions are with Miss Lindholm?" "Protect her with everything I've got, Knight or no Knight," Gwen stated. "… I mean as a companion." "Oh… OOH." Gwen's lips made an "o". "Always check for crows on your outings…" Lady Grey pointed outside the window, were a pair of crows, ubiquitous in London, sat opposite the French windows. "Or use your Portable Habitat. Why in God's name would you do that sort of thing in plain view, when there's still light? At least wait for nightfall." "Ah…" Gwen choked on embarrassment. She doubted her conversation with Elvia would have gone nearly as well if they had discussed it in the privacy of the Habitat's bedroom. "It was just as well they were my Crows, and not Ravenport's." "Oh thank God…" The unceasing revelations had made her quite breathless. "That said, milady, am I to understand you've been spying on me?" "Firstly." Lady Loftus raised a finger. "It is not my business to question how you spend your time, or with whom you find your fun. What I loath is your lack of discretion." "Understood." Gwen lowered her eyes. "I shall be cautious next time." "Secondly." Lady Loftus raised a second finger. "Being a Vessel completely complicates one's political capital." Gwen grew silent. She empathised with her patron's position— but what about Evee? Had she inadvertantly fucked her friend sideways? "Thirdly, should Miss Elvia elevate herself— and she shall— that will mark her as an Exalted of The Most Honourable Order of the Bath, a bearer of its burnished sun crest. Her duty means she shall not have you or anyone as a carnal companion. Should she renounce celibacy, her position and the Relic she bears—" "And what if Evee doesn't want to enter the Ordo?" "So long as she is a citizen of the Mageocracy, a healer, and a Vessel, what has been squandered will not be squandered again." "She can't refuse?" Gwen's tone grew menacing. "Why the upset? It's not as though you can deny your future Magisterhood." Lady Loftus remained unfazed. "The Mageocracy will not risk either of you slipping from its grasp; your extinction would be a preferable alternative— that or Stasis." "If I may be so ungrateful." Gwen fought back the death-chill in her chest. "May Elvia and I leave for the New World? I have received offers from them as well if you must know." "Of course, and endure WORSE terms? With folk who don't harken after Henry, who don't care for your companions? What would Gunther think of such ungracious behaviour? Not to mention Miss Lindholm, with her ordinary talent, would not survive a year in the Protestants' Lutheran Seminary. They'll break her like a bare-back heathen on the wheel. If you wish to cut and run, Gwen, I would recommend China. Naturally, we would withdraw our Magisters, and Wen's Meisterhood will be rescinded. But I am sure the Godless Communists would welcome a Void Mage." Now that the Lady's sweetness was spent, Gwen realised that Maxine Loftus was far from gentle and beyond terrifying. The Lady's candidness, however, was refreshing. "I understand." Gwen nodded. "My enquiry was… academic." "And my advice merely hypotheticals." The Lady smiled. "Remember, whatever you wish for Miss Lindholm, think of your own future as the herald of our cause— consult someone… Richard perhaps, or Gunther, if you find us oldies wanting. Don't let either of your Affinities— or your patron, decide for you." "I understand." Gwen took a deep breath. "… out of curiosity, Ma'am, just how much of my condition do you know?" "How much do you wish to divulge?" "I'd prefer none." "Then leave it at that. Didn't Henry say that Magisters and secrets all go together like Dragons and Virgins? It comes with the title, dear." "One last thing, if I may be so forward— society and nobility aside, what would the Tower, the Mageocracy even, perceive of my… indelicacy with Miss Lindholm?" The matron of Peterhouse smirked. "It's not all doom and gloom, Gwen. Let me conjure a Greater Image for you. As you are now? You will lose a significant portion of your freedom. Later, if you graduate a Magister of the Middle Faction, most if not all will turn a blind eye, as your worth far outweighs the trouble of censure. And if and when you become a Tower Master, even the Grand Master of the Order of the Bath will grin and bear whatever you wish to do with their Companion. He may even see your affection as a leash, well worth a sullied Companion. Beyond that..." Maxine Loftus took a deep breath. "… there are two endgames. If you become a great bower for the Mageocracy as Henry was, then truly, there are very few shackles to your freedom other than those of your own making— family, Apprentices, favoured folk. If you become its vorpal sword— as Sobel was meant to be, then who would dare question anything you do?" "I see." Gwen rested both trembling hands on her knees. "Thank you, Maxine. For being so sincere with me. In the same vein, may I know more about my Master? I know so very little about him." "You may." Her patron willed away the tea tray. "But our present lesson is at an end. I have business elsewhere. Do remember that the IIUC's final results will be out in a fortnight, so plan your London outings accordingly. Heed well my advice, child. Speak to your 'friends'. If you feel depressed, go and see the sights in Cambridge. Also, ask Keridwen to change you into something more official. You are, after all, a Cambridge celebrity…" London. Nightingale College. The first medic-call of the year sounded across the courtyard of the research building. Though not a principal port of call in London, the teaching hospital does cater to patient overflows arriving from combat zones all over the Mageocracy and its territories. Deep within the hospital's bowels, the Teleportation Circle linking it and the Shard flared Mithril and quicksilver, pulsing in tune to the siren's wail keening after the hospital's skeleton staff. A physician in customary white, stained with congealed gore, appeared beside a gurney to greet the rush of nurses and doctors stationed since the evening. Promptly, the incoming physician drew a Glyph in the air. "Magus Joseph Carmichael, requesting triage handover to Nightingales!" the transferring doctor called out. "The patient is Magus William Fitzgerald, Code Orange, suffering from acute pulmonary obstruction due to quasi-magical diffusion of the alveolar. Currently, the patient has a situ Weiss-Hermann portable Ventilator implanted via trach. Pharmacology reports 5mg of Prilosec per alchemy cycle, catalysed by 1mg of Stirgenix. Potion injectors are infused with 12mg Ipratropium infused with 30-70 Wyvern serum." The receiving practitioner caught the glowing Glyph. "Magus Derek Hope, initiating handover." Hope took one scroll through the data slate and deflated. "Jesus... are you serious?" "Yes. Acute trauma of the left lumbar, punctured lung, poison, and Arachnid Hex, tier 4-5." "Active?" "Repressed, for now." "Christ, he's sixty-four? Multiple combat tours… old injuries— the Boer Conflict, the Ashantee War— That's two decades ago. How the hell is he still standing? Why was an old vet like that still serving in Ireland?" "Don't ask me." Doctor Carmichael shook his head. "We're barely keeping the floor open over at Dublin at the moment. I hear the staging zone on the Isle's a bloodbath." "Dare I ask why Magus Fitzgerald has arrived at our teaching hospital rather than Black's or Royal Alfred's or Cambridge?" "I don't. Do you?" The room grew uncomfortably silent. The gurney's diagnostic magic beeped. "Not at all." Hope swore internally. The patient, as far as he could tell, was a political case. For various reasons, the older generation of combat vets possessed bodies insensitive to magical healing. Some of them had wounds from Hexes that no longer existed, thanks to the Mageocracy's extreme prejudice during the Beast Tide. Others had scar tissues both inside and out, piling on top of damage decades in the making. Nonetheless, any hospital that allowed a "War Hero" to die received a black mark. To send such a patient to a teaching hospital to allow the younger physicians to test their mettle under the pretence of triage, was a way to preserve the reputation of the Great Hospitals. "Who's rostered right now?" Magus Hope turned to his team of nurses. "In the Emergency, I mean." "Doctor Lindholm and Witherspoon," the machine-nurse replied without hesitation. "Ser Witherspoon is a fine physician, and as for Doctor Lindholm, she's the one with the reputation, sir, she's why Lady Astor did the shakeup last year." "Director Aston— do you mean the trouble maker who got herself a pledged Knight of St Michael by sucking eggs?" "Yessir." "Hmm…" "I should go." Doctor Carmichael returned to the circle. "I assume our patient will receive your utmost duty of care? He is, I should remind you, a holder of the Gallant Cross. There aren't too many Maguses with that sort of standing left in London. The home office will not be pleased." The portal flared. With Carmichael fled, Hope turned to his attendant. "What else do you know?" "Not much. Doctor Lindholm has recused herself from Lady Astor after the Director returned to Cliveden. She is also a close associate of Lady Rothwell, though only the SRC President and not the family. Beyond that, I do not believe she has any sponsors. Oh, she also chums with one of the Frontier contestants from the IIUC, the Void Sorceress." "You seem to know an awful lot, Marie." "It's common knowledge in the ward, sir. After she stirred up all that trouble with Lady Astor and got Nancy and the girls removed from GOS, here at Nightingale, we've kept an eye on her." On the gurney, the diagnostic displays began to issue the inevitable warning signs. As expected, the alchemical infusions were failing. "Very well." Hope acknowledged the time for deliberation and discussion was over. "Put him with Miss Elvia. Send her an assistant as well. Tell her to do her best— and that she won't be held accountable even if the Magus succumbs to his natural condition." "She won't?" The nurse appeared disappointed. One glare from the Magus was enough to wilt his nurses' questioning eyes. The stupidity of these waifs was beyond comprehension. Were they afflicted with Enfeeble Minds from birth? "Go now!" Hope barked, tapping his slate to confirm the transfer. "And don't forget to tell Miss Elvia we have the utmost confidence in her ability to apply her training."

**Sanctioned Schools of Magic** (Sigils by Lampshade) Evocation The most commonly awakened school in modern Spellcraft, Evocation is a school that manipulates energy. Evokers become the mainstay of the citizen-soldiers, wielding spells of Fire, Earth, Water, and more exotic elements such as Lightning or Radiance. As Evokers mature, they become more specialised in a particular elemental affinity, taking up specialist equipment, attunement and contract Spirits. In the media and propaganda, the Evoker is the archetype Mage, the spell slinging, fireball blasting Sorcerer of yore, tapping into and drawing limitless power from the elemental planes. Abjuration Abjurers weave spells that protect, block, dispel or banish. An Abjurer is a common but highly sought after profession. Abjuration made Shielding Stations possible. An Abjurer possesses the unique ability to utilise restoration spells such as De-Curse and the ability to dispense protective AOE combat buffs. Specialists in this field typically contract elementals of earth, ice, and water, all of which are relatively common. Conjuration Conjuration is a school that materialises creatures or materials for the caster. A Conjurer becomes a one-man army after mastering higher tiers of Magic. Through Familiar rituals and or contracting Magical Creatures, Conjurers gain life-long companions that grow with the Mage in power. Due to this advantage, it is not uncommon for Summoners to become several magnitudes more powerful than Mages of equal tier. The disadvantage of Conjuration is the persistent mana drain caused by most of its sustained effect spells and crippling loss of combat potential to specialised Abjuration such as Banish. Certain Conjurers choose to focus on the summoning of items or beings. These valuable individuals are also responsible for the Teleportation Circles around the cities. Divination Diviners reveal information. They are highly prized for their cognisant abilities in detection and foretelling. Many diviners go on to become telecommunication specialists, becoming key intelligence and strategist operatives who serve a multitude of critical roles. Other schools of Divination focuse on disaster deterrence, by reading the threads of time and fate. Despite their lack of offensive capabilities, it is said that the most influential Magi on the United Nations Council is the Oracle of the Acropolis. Though the Divination school has no preference for elemental afflictions, it is a school that synergises well with subsequent studies of other schools. Many Diviners go on to become Magus or Magister. Enchantment The school of Enchantment remains the most difficult and expensive to train of all schools. Capable of imbuing items and buildings with protection, strengthening materials and extending persist phenomena - Enchanters are essential to humanity’s cities. The world's most successful manufactoriums and artisanal workshops are all operated by skilled Enchanters. Unlike regular Mages, many Enchanters seek to master additional schools such as Transmutation or Abjuration for the creation of magical items. A dangerous school within-a-school of Enchanters are those whose abilities allow them to control, manipulate, and glamour the minds of others. Mind Mages are closely watched by government forces, for the misuse of mind-altering effects on others could lead to life-imprisonment or banishment. Illusion Illusion is the magic of mirage, the altering of perceptions to create false visions. Many Illusionists go on to become involved in espionage if they choose the path of the militant. Many others, however, have elected media and entertainment, creating spectacles for adoring audiences, becoming superstars of immense prestige. Illusion spells which deal damage attack the mind directly, creating what is known as psychic feedback. Transmutation Transmutation is an unusual school in that it changes the caster and the objects they touch, manipulating the properties in powerful ways. In the present world, Transmuters become builders, architects and creators, working hand-in-glove with Enchanters. In combat, some Transmuters choose to specialise in manipulating life itself, changing plants, creatures, and even themselves to become deadly and proficient in the art of war. It is said that Transmuters posses the most versatile school of all and enjoy the most lauded status after that of Evokers. An overall well-rounded School of Magic. Biomancy The Clerical School of Healing Magic has always existed in human history in one form or another. Some say that this was the original 'School' of magic. In Modern Spellcraft, Clerical magic exists between Conjuration and Evocation, and is considered a 'hybrid school of magic'. Exclusively, Biomancy requires Mages attuned to the Positive Energy Plane. The combination of Healing Magic and Positive Energy often shrouds the Biomancer with a 'halo' of sorts. Necromancy The dreaded School of Necromancy was banned after WWI following the Geneva Convention. Currently, the school is studied only by Sects authorised by the U.N, arguing that the study of souls and the afterlife is inseparably connected to matters of faith, culture and religion. For many scholars, the irony of the matter is that Necromancy is most likely the most ancient school of magic in the world; dating back to the Egyptian Pharaohs, in an age when man first uncovered magic. As such, it is more accurate to say that the summoning, raising, and animation of the dead is strictly forbidden, as much of the old world had turned into ash and cinder following The Great War with the Undead. Post Note: Other schools of magic likely exist but lie beyond the reach of the ordinary Mage. These include Faith Magic, ancestral worship, old world shamanism, naturalism, animalism, and so forth. By the same measure, rumours of humans learning the magic of monsters, magical beings, and demi-humanoids, or Demi-humans learning Human Spellcraft abound. **Elements & Elemental Magic** ** **by Me (best with white background) **Prime Material Plane (The Material Realm)** The Primary Elements of the Material Plane are what Astrologists propose our world is made from. It is the very stuff of existence itself, existing in perfect harmony. It is suggested that when a Mage is attuned to a certain element, it is because that an excessive element is present within their body. Though exceedingly rare, there exist individuals who are born capable of tapping into all four Prime Elements, becoming mages capable of manipulating 'wood' and other natural phenomena, hypothesised by Eastern Spellcraft as an individual element. **Prime Energy Planes** **The Positive Plane -** The Plane of Positive Energy is a place of pure life-force, it is where the healers draw their power to heal and mend one's broken bones. The Undead are fearful of this energy, and the unwary caster should be as well. Too much positive power without the ability to channel it may lead to strange mutations and cancerous tumours. **Negative Energy -** Where Positive is life, Negative is death. The Undead are tethered to this plane, drawing their undead lifeforce from this domain. When 'living' creatures utilise Negative Energy, they suffer Negative Drain, rapidly diminishing vitality. In the old days, the Mage world saw the Negative Energy as just another source of power. After WWI, Necromancy became highly controversial, gaining a dangerous reputation as a forbidden craft. **Prime Elemental Planes** **Earth** \- Earth is one of the most useful and common elements awakening in Human Mages, it is the element responsible for most of our industry, mining for Mana Crystals, building our cities, and so on. It is said that one-fifth of Mages awaken as Earthen Mages. **Air** \- The Elemental Plane of Air, as the name suggests, a place of gases and open space, frequently filled with thunderstorms, blizzards, microbursts, tornadoes and all manners of interesting weather phenomenona. Of the four common Elemental Affinities, Air is the rarest. **Fire** \- Fire is another common element Mages manifest. Ancient legend has it that Fire was stolen from the Gods themselves. With Fire, man has created many useful tools and beaten back tides of monstrous creatures. Fire is another common element for Mages to possess and the mainstay of Combat Evokers, Transmuters and Conjurers. **Water** \- Assumed to be a near-infinite volume of water, this Elemental Plane is pivotal to the survival of modern magical cities. The Plane provides Human cities with its supply of fresh water. Likewise, human cities pump its waste-water back into the Elemental Plane. It is theorised that the Oceans are directedly connected to this Elemental Plane. Water Affinity is exceptionally common among coastal communities. **Para-Elemental Planes** **Ice** \- Ice is the most common Para-Element to awaken in Mages. It is a supremely useful element that creates drops in temperature - being a combination of Air and Water. The Plane of Ice is said to be a tumbling expanse of frigidity with islands of glacial ice. Ice provides good defence and offence capabilities, as well as chill and slow effects against water-based enemies. **Ooze** \- Ooze is a stranger element, scarce and virtually non-existent outside of isolated magical bloodlines. Ooze Mages are specialists, pending on their school, with spells that focus on entrapment, debilitation, poison, and other strange and mysterious effects. A speciality of the Ooze Conjurer is the ability to summon creatures that exist within that elemental plane - Oozes. It is theorised that some oozes are virtually indestructible except by other Specialist Mages. Ooze is the combination of Water and Earth. Mud is a derivative of Ooze, though far closer to the Elemental Plane of Water than true Ooze Mages. **Magma** \- The Magma Mage is unique indeed; a rare combination of Fire and Earth. These Mages are typically found where there are volcanic islands or fjords. Their power combines the physical prowess of the Earth Mage, with the damage potential of the Fire Mage. **Smoke** \- Smoke is the marriage of Air and Fire. Smoke is an element that is said to only exist in legend. Very little is known about Smoke Mages or the Para-Elemental Plane of Smoke. **Positive Quasi-Elemental Planes** **Mineral** \- Mineral Mages take their capabilities in the form of specialised mineral or metal to which the caster is attuned. As such, the Element creates distinct abilities that differ from Mage to Mage. A Mage capable of summoning volcanic stones, for instance, would generate obsidian shards which are brittle and fragile but possess dangerous offensive capabilities. Jedite Mages create powerful super-dense defensive layers. There are rumours that King Midas was a Gold Mage. **Lightning** \- Existing between the Air and Positive Elemental planes, Lighting is the most penetrative of all elements due to its electrical nature. Lightning causes stun and paralysis, in addition to manifesting instantly and delivering payloads in a fraction of a second. Lightning Mages are preferably Evokers, Conjurers or Transmuters. The Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning is said to be a place of plasma, ozone and endless thunder. **Steam** \- Where the Positive and Water Elemental Planes meet, one gets Steam. Steam is a rarely seen element. Only a handful of Mages are on record as having tapped into a Goldilocks' zone where two Elements meet in harmony. There is little known about the Plane and its Elementalists. **Radiance** \- Radiance is formed from Fire and Positive energy. Often mistaken as the power of Light. In theory, it should be useless, too scattered to be used offensively - too dispersed to be used defensively. It takes a special Mage, therefore, to change something so immaterial into a powerful projection of destruction. At a certain intensity, Radiance is capable of melting through solid steel, boiling blood, searing flesh, and severing matter. Not much is known about the Elemental Plane of Radiance. **Negative Quasi-Elemental Planes** **Ash** \- A derivative of Negative-Fire that manifests corrosive ash and black flames. The most destructive element in the array of Elemental Planes. Ash Mages rarely live long as the Element eats away at their minds. It is said that Ash Mages exist as tortured existences whose ruinous powers rack their bodies with unbelievable pain. If one is Negative Drained by an Ash Mage, one loses one's seven emotions and six desires. **Dust** \- Dust is the most stable of the Negative Quasi-elements, next to Salt. It doesn't have any offensive capabilities of its own but enjoys the same corrosive ability drain as Ash. The most annoying part of fighting a Dust Mage is their ability to deaden all elemental damage. Due to its abrogating nature, Dust consumes Fire, Water, Air, Lightning, even Ash. It is said to be the most stalwart Abjuration Affinity next to Mineral. **Salt** \- Salt is a stable Negative Quasi-element, with the additional ability to form into a range of crystalline shapes. It's capable of dealing extreme damage to Slimes and Oozes, as well as an assortment of creatures composed mostly of water - including Humans. The desiccation caused by the Salt Mage draws out elemental water from the bodies of their enemies. Elemental Salt is different from mortal salt, found in oceans and sometimes in rocks; it is formed where Negative Energy and Water meet. Salt is the least destructive of Negative Quasi-elements. **Void** \- As the name suggests, the Elemental Plane of Void is a place of vast, perpetual darkness, where strange, forgotten things lurk in a vacuum darker than black, always hungering. It is a Plane consisting of the very idea of nothingness, a place where forgotten things end up. When manifested in the Material Plane, Void consumes matter, then disappears. Like Steam and Smoke Mages, very little is known about Void Mages. Arguably, the most famous Void Mage in Modern History is Elizabeth Sobel. **Spellcraft and Metaworld Glossary** **Astral Body** \- The cognitively generated projection of one's connection to the Multiverse, visualised via indoctrinated Spellcraft. Typically manifests as a humanoid silhouette with abstract details pertaining to the user's Sigils and Elemental Affinity. Elements are perceived to be within the astrophysical body, while Sigils manifest Externally. Only Mages possess Astral Bodies. **Physical Body** \- No matter how powerful a Mage may be, they are still biological creatures that need to eat, crap and sleep, subject to Eros and Thanatos, life and death. The Physicality of a Mage tends to reflect the degree of their Elemental affinity. Most infamously, Earthen Mages have rock-hard physiques, Air Mage are frail and flighty, while Lightning Mages have quickened metabolisms. **Anima (Animus)** \- Drawn from the theory of the Meister Sigmund Jung, the psyche, the Anima (male psyche & common vernacular) and Animus (female psyche) inference a being's subconscious self-awareness. Only sapient creatures are classified as capable of possessing Anima and Animus. **Mana** \- The Gurus of Hinduism refer to this as spiritual energy or Prana. Chinese Doshi denotes this spiritual energy as Qi. Early Western Theology referred to this energy as Faith or Zeal. Modern Spellcraft unified the term as Mana, a generic word for mystical 'energies' of any kind. The Astral Body produces mana as it interacts with Glyphs and Gates, channelling mana into conduits of the physical body. **Mana Pool** \- The maximum amount of mana which a Mage can produce. When the Astral Body is no longer capable of producing mana, this is referred to as OOM, or Out of Mana. VMI - Volumetric Mana Index - is the official nomenclature for measuring a Mage's mana pool. **Mana Channel -** Often confused with the concept of a Mana Conduit. A Mana channel refers to metaphysical pathways by which Mana produced by the Astral Body enters the Mage's physical body. A Mage's Mana Channels can never be damaged without injury to their Astral body. **Gate and Conduit** \- A Gate refers to nomenclature describing the effect of non-elementally attuned mana becoming suffused with the Mage's Element. This 'elementally-attuned' mana then feeds back into the physical body. The pathways through the Mage's physical body are referred to as Mana Conduits. Damage to the physical body damages one's Mana Conduits. **Essence -** A metaphysical form of energy derived from a being's existence. Referred to commonly as one's 'Soul' or "Spirit" in ancient Spellcraft, contemporary Spellcraft sees Essence as a hitherto little-known form of energy, separate from mana. Creatures possessing great magical power and ego possess higher degrees of Essence. Likewise, sapient beings typically possess greater essence than their non-sapient peers of the same subtype. NoMs, in general, possess little Essence. Human and Demi-human Mages possess immense Essence, a fact profoundly valuable to the study of Necromancy. Theoretical Spellcraft propose that Essence is tied to a Mage's ability to access particular Schools of Magic. **School of Magic** (Imperial Metric Schools) - Since unifying the study of Magic under the IMPERIAL METRIC system during the Spellcraft Revolution at the turn of the 20th century, 7 Schools of Magic exist: Evocation, Transmutation, Conjuration, Abjuration, Divination, Enchantment and Illusion. **Hybrid School of Magic** \- Rarely, some Mages awaken with Magic in between the Sanctioned Schools of Magic, belonging to no School. Of these types of Magic, Biomancy: the manipulation of Postive Energy and Necromancy: the manipulation of Negative Energy, reign supreme. **Awakening** \- The term is loosely used to describe an Acolyte coming to terms with their first School of Magic and their Affinity for an Element. In Frontier cities, NoM Civilians are filtered, with potential Mages tested for aptitude. In tier 1 cities, Mages naturally grow into their powers, training from an early age. A 'Stimuli Crystal' may be used to induce an Awakening, circulating mana into the recipient as to 'jolt' their Astral Bodies into existence. **Spellcraft** \- The study of Magic. The Imperial Metric System (IMS) splits spells into 9 Tiers. **Advanced Spellcraft Theorems** \- Spells whose theory and manifestation fall outside of existing methodology. Most universities study Advanced Spellcraft to push past the current boundaries of human knowledge of Magic. Those who contribute significantly to this study are awarded the title of Meister. **Sanctioned and Unsanctioned Magic** \- Sanctioned Magic may be purchased by Tower Mages with LDMs, HDMs, and CCs. Unsanctioned Magic may only be acquired through petition. If a Mage is found practising unlicenced Unsanctioned Magic, they are subject to severe punishments and even disbarment. **Sigil** \- A spiritual manifestation of one's affinity for particular forms of Magic, tied to the generation of one's Astral Body during Awakening. Each school of Magic possesses a unique Sigil under the IMS visualisation doctrine. **Glyph** \- Sigils exist only in one's mind. When Mages wish to manifest the concept of Sigils externally, they turn to Glyphs. Glyphs vary but may be thought of as symbols of power capable of channelling Magical energy as though a man-made conduit existing outside the Mage's body. Magic Items and Enchantments such as Wards rely exclusively on complex Glyphs and Mandalas. **Mandala** \- Taken from Tibetian Mysticism, Mandala refers to large-scale, complex Glyph arrays used to support complex Spellcraft manifestations. **Spell** \- A series of Incantations both somatic and verbal which triggers magical phenomena when exercised with mana from a Mage's Astral Body. **Rite** \- A spell requiring time, preparation, and setup, typically includes meditation, ritual and complex external components. Rites include city-wide Strategic-Class Spells. **Incantation** \- Invocations with somatic and verbal components. These are mnemonics which manifest Magic through Sigils. The higher the 'tier' of magic, the more complex and convoluted the number of Major and Minor Incantations. Senior and experienced Mages may specialise in particular spells so that they become 'silent'. **Shield** (Mage) - Shield refers to the mental ability for Mages to form a barrier of mana around their physical bodies. Even without training, a Mage is capable of manifesting a membrane of mana, projected just outside of their physical body, which displaces hostile mana and foreign objects. Abjuration specialises in forming persistent Shields and Shields that can manifest on Mages OTHER than the caster. **Acolyte** \- Neophytes and Acolytes are the colloquial names for beginner Mages. The moniker of Mage or Senior Mage is given to those with mastery over at least one school of magic, meaning access to spells over tier 4. **Magus** \- A Magus is an arcanist who has gained multiple Schools of Magic through talent or laborious study. To be called a Magus in public, the Mage must undergo examination within a Tower. **Magister** \- Likewise, a Magister is a peer-reviewed, publically sanctioned Magic Caster. Unlike the moniker of Magus, Magister is a title that comes with the weight of public service and responsibility of upholding the Tower's interest. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it **Meister** \- A Meister is a Magister, but not all Magister can become a Meister. A Meister is a Mage who has contributed significant advancement to Spellcraft, and whose work benefits all of Mankind. Claude Van Saint, the famous healer who pioneered modern magical medicine, is a Meister. Philo R. Farnsworth, the man responsible for proving that Illusions may exist as a form of media stored in Capture Crystals, is a Meister. As powerful as famous individuals like Henry Kilroy has been, his preference for keeping his studies wrapt and secret excludes him from the title of Meister. **Magi** \- A Mage whose power and command over Spellcraft exceed Sanctioned limits, going beyond the 9 Tiers. A Magi rarely concerns themselves with worldly affairs. They are seen as humanity's greatest deterrence against Demi-human and Magical Creature incursions. It is unfortunate that Magi are typically old and venerable. **Sanctioned Mage** \- A Mage registered under a Tower, beholden to its Laws, Codes of Conduct, and Ethics for Public Practice of Spellcraft. **Rogue Mage** \- A Free-Mage that is not registered, practices magic freely and therefore perceived as dangerous to society. **Tier** (spell) - Tier 1 to 9 of Spellcraft. Tier 1 - 3 is accessible to almost all Mages. This tier is capable of combating individual, as well as groups of Monsters. Tier 4 - 6 exists within the realm of all Maguses as well as most Senior Mages with a single School of Magic. This tier is capable of wiping out Monster lairs and Demi-human villages. Tier 7 - 9 is open usually to Magisters for reason of both academic-access as well as state sanction. High tiers of Magic can act as strategic-class spells capable of wiping out cities. **Tier** (Affinity) - The attunement of a Mage to their element. The higher the affinity, the higher the efficacy for Damage and Mana Cost. As Affinity grows, damage increases by a magnitude of 10% for every observable tier. Likewise, mana cost for spells decreases with higher affinity. Though damage increase appears to be on a linear scale, mana cost suffers from diminishing returns. As such, a spell will never be 'free'. Higher affinity likewise involves physiological and psychological changes for the Mage in question. Some examples are provided below, taken from the story-in-progress. **Fire** Mages are often hot-tempered and over-zealous, possessing a short fuse. Physiologically, they gain resistance to cold and heat. **Air** Mages become fragile and whispy, becoming airy and flighty in their mannerisms. **Earthern** Mages undergo the most profound physiological change, becoming taller and more robust, with enhanced musculature, increasing both strength and fortitude. **Water** Mages are known to be pliable and easily convinced, with personalities that like water, are capable of fitting any vessel. **Lightning** Mages gain increased metabolism, becoming prideful and possessive beings. **Ash** Mages are known to become apathetic. Their emotions become dulled by the continued practice of Ash Magic until they waste away. **Void** Mages are rumoured to exhibit extreme hunger, both physiologically and in terms of their psychological demands. **Ooze** Mages are said to be slothful and lazy, unmotivated and uninspired. **Mineral** Mages become dispassionate and pragmatic, often, their eyes take on the likeness of their attuned mineral element. **Positive Energy** Mages are ubiquitously known to be amiable, friendly and full of life and vigour, possessing a halo of likability. **Tier** (Creature) - A generic classification system used in common parlance to ratify the danger-level of a particular creature. Goblins usually have a tier of 1. A raid of Goblins may be up to 4 or 5. An adult Dragon up to 20, pending bloodlines. A Leviathan with a swarm of Mermen may be up to 25 - 30, requiring the mobilisation of a Tower or Towers. **Class** (Monster) - Military lexicon for the number of Mages needed to pacify a threat. Soldier-Class infer a single Mage. Lieutenant-Class infers the need for a Magus or two or more Mages. General Class requires a Magister. Usually, a party of Mage may subdue a Lieutenant-Class Magical Creature. A Party of Senior Mages lead by a Magus may defeat a General-Class Creature. Some creatures, such as Titans (overlarge Monsters) and Mythics (Land Gods) are likewise a part of this denomination. Class systems differ from nation to nation and are not an official Tower designation. **Wildlands** \- Lands not occupied by Human Cities, separated into Zones. Green - relatively safe for NoM habitation. Orange - unsafe for occupancy, safe for Mages to traverse. Purple - dangerous for both Mages and NoMs, contains hostile creatures that will disrupt human habitation. Black - extremely dangerous for human habitation; zone includes creatures that predate on humans. Environmental factors may also play into codified Zoning. **Demi-Humans** \- Humanoid races that share the Prime Material Plane with Humans. Friendly species include Nordic and Bavarian Dwarves, Keltic Elves, German Gnomes and Hobbits from New Zealand. Hostile races include Goblinoids, Dragonoids, Harpies, Serpentfolk, Merfolk, Mermen (Oceanic), Lizardmen, Dryads, and other sapient beings capable of speech. Like most Magical Creatures, these beings possess a Core. Some Demi-humans are capable of interbreeding with humans. The majority of Human cities are highly xenophobic and racially homogeneous. **Magical Creatures** \- Creatures generated by nature where the veil between the Prime Material and the Elemental Planes are weak. Current theory infers they are Elemental creatures that manifest into the Prime Material. Magical Creatures possess Cores, which are condensed mana that serve as the anchor of the creature's Essence to the Prime Material, giving it life. **Cores** (Creature) - From the lowest Snotling to the highest Ancient Dragon, all Magical Creatures possess Cores. Upon death, the Core shatters, releasing the wild energies contained within. Interesting fact - ancient creatures have highly condensed and compact Cores that are virtually impervious to damage. **Spirit** (s) - When a creature possesses a high level of anima, its Core may contain a Spirit. Spirits are potentially found in all forms of Creature Cores, though typically, it is exceedingly rare amongst lower order Magical Creatures. For Spirit-Seekers, the irony lies in that billions of low-tier creatures exist with a lottery's chance of possessing a Spirit. While beings with a high probability of retaining a Core upon death, as well as possessing both ego and anima, are exceedingly rare, and more often than not incredibly powerful. **Spirit** (Mage) - A Mage dreams of augmenting their elemental powers with a Spirit. A Spirit may be acquired through directly killing and harvesting Cores, then bending the will of the 'anima' of the creature contained therein to the Mage's service. When successfully attuned, the Spirit is absorbed into the Mage's Astral Body, becoming a part of the Mage's ability to channel Elemental powers. The alternate method of gaining a Spirit is through taming existing Magical Creatures and opening one's Astral Body to the foreign Spirit. This methodology is considered highly irregular and potentially fatal for an unsuspecting Mage incapable of melding with the entity. **Familiars** \- Typically, the Conjure Familiar spell is responsible for bonding Elemental entities to a Mage's psyche or anima. Such creatures are manifested from the psyche of the caster. When a Spirit is partnered with the Mage, the Anima of the Spirit usually takes the form of the Familiar. When a Spirit is bonded with a Mage already in possession of a Familiar, it usually subsumes the form of the Familiar and replaces it with its own. It is not known if Familiars can become Spirits through gaining ego and animus. **The Frontier** \- Originally a term denoting cities which are cut off from logistical support after WWII, the term has grown to encompass all Human territories lacking geodynamic Ley-lines. Some Frontier cities such as Merauke, Darwin, Chittagong, and Izmir, are little more than Human havens eking out a living in the wilderness, serving as little more than trading ports and supply stations. Prosperous Frontier cities such as Sydney, Singapore, Naples, Las Vegas, have a quality of life nearing tier 1 cities in all but name, lacking the geography, natural resource and political power to ascend into the status of a tier 1 city. With exceptions akin to continental hub-cities like Singapore and Istanbul, the vast majority of Frontier cities have limited access to Spellcraft and Magitech. **Tier 1 Cities** \- Cities build around powerful convergences of Ley-lines are considered tier 1 cities. These cities have the near-perpetual energy to supply to their internal and external Shielding Stations. To apply for tier 1 status, a city-state must pass muster with the Commonwealth Towers , joining the network of tier 1 cities. **Shielding Station** \- A stationary mini-Tower built to withstand the elements, manned by Abjurers and a patrolling team of Mages. At the heart of the Shielding Station is a Resonance Crystal which projects a frequency harmful to all beings possessing Cores not attuned to a Mage. A Shield Generator Tower creates the resonance, visually manifesting as a shimmering 'wall' or 'barrier', and additional, smaller station refract the "Shielding". **ISTC Station** \- The Inter-State Teleportation Circle Station allow Mages long-range teleportation to and from nations. Prohibitively expensive, ISTC Stations are used only by the upper echelon of Tower Mages and State-level operatives. Most tier 1 cities have ISTC stations to and from the Towers in allied cities, as well as its satellite, Frontier cities. **Tower** \- A robust structure with inbuilt Enchantments. A Tower can vary in size, function and power. In most cities, the Tower functions as a way-station, a bastion, and a nerve-centre for all magical matter. Even the most basic Tower include the ability to amplify the manifestation of Spellcraft of its stationed Mages, the levitation of its structural body, long-distance teleportation and displacement, and the ability to act as a mass-communication Divination array. A tier 1 city's Ley-lines usually provide power to the Tower. For Frontier cities with limited geodynamic supplies of mana, a significant cargo of HDMs are required. **The Towers** \- The United Nation Council of Towers (U.N) refers to a coalition of all Towers from around the world formed after World War II's Beast Tide. Akin to the U.N in Gwen's old world, the Towers sanctify and ratify the regulation of Spellcraft, the status of city-states, and mediate the conflicts of interest between Human nations. **Tower** (Commonwealth) - Towers belonging to the old British Mageocracy, said to have conquered more than 50% of all Human lands in its Golden Age. The Commonwealth form a loose factional coalition through a shared ideology of social democracy, English as a primary language, and mutual defence-pacts. **Tower** (Independent) - Towers not beholden to any specific faction and are wholly independent (on paper). Singapore, Istanbul, Tel Aviv, and Hong Kong are examples. **Tower** (State Owned) - Towers which are a part of the global network of Towers but are beholden to their city-states or nations. Almost all non-independent Towers belong to this category. **NoMs** \- Non-Magical Human Beings, also derivatively known as No-Magic. In the Frontier and tier 1 cities, NoMs serves as a labour force. The majority of NoMs work in agriculture and manufacturing, with a small percentile working in Administration and other white-collar positions. Most NoMs, whether because of indoctrination or the social climate, see the possibility of becoming a Mage, or introducing a Mage to their bloodline to be a way out of a life of oppression, poverty and mediocrity. **House** (Mage) - A bloodline of Mages usually with a powerful or influential Progenitor. A House usually includes three or more generations of Mages. A Branch House is when a potential heir, usually a sibling, starts a new House with the same bloodline. **Clan** (Mage) - A coalition of Houses sharing the same bloodline. A Clan involves several hundred individuals across a dozen Branch Houses, supporting the Main House. Clans are highly hierarchical. Clans are also unique, pending context and culture. Asian Clans focus on styles or Schools of Magic, while European Clans may focus on bloodline lineage. Some Clans operate by region, heedless of bloodline or magic. Due to the desire to keep a particular bloodline 'pure' or a specific magical talent prevalent, marriage within the Clan is common. **Sect** (Mage) - Sects can be religious, ideological, factional, or based upon styles of Magic. In China, old Doushi Clans evolved into Sects, with famous examples such as Kunlun, Huashan, Shaolin, Wutang, The White Lotus Society and so on. The Western world's Sects tend to be based around organised religion, while regions in continental Africa tend to have Sects based around tribal boundaries and shared ancestry. **Currency** \- The objective means by which trade is conducted. Humans use localised currency, LDMs, and HDMs. **Mana Crystals** (LDMs and HDMs) - Mana Crystal is the currency used by Mages across the human cities. In its raw form, they are harvested from places where the fabric between the Prime Material Plane and the Elemental Planes are thin, allowing 'crystalised' shards of mana to grow. Where there are large volumes of Mana Crystals, there are almost always powerful Magical Beasts. While most mana crystals are non-elementally aligned, rare and precious specimens do exist as gems and precious stones. Examples include Jadeite, Citrine, Emerald, Zircon and Turquoise. **Crystal Currency** \- Defined by the World Bank as a single shard of High or Low-density crystal, containing a standardised (1 LDM or 1 HDM) volume of mana. A shard of LDM resembles a fingerling crystal akin to a 3cm hexagonal pencil. The appearance of LDM currency is exemplified by its semi-opaque state. Comparatively, a shard of HDM is transparent and without blemish, measuring 5 CM. Certification is overseen by a cooperation between the Towers and a local agency (Bank of China, for example). The volume of crystals in circulation is often controlled on the Frontier. **LDMs** \- Low-Density Mana Crystals are commonly used on the Frontier and as lesser denominations. Raw shards of L-D crystal can be exchanged in terms of weight and total mana volume, but cannot be used as formal currency. **HDMs** \- High-Density Mana Crystals are the currency of choice for Mages in the tier 1 cities, consisting of compressed and certified crystals. **Currency Cards** \- Certified cards which contain 10 - 50 - 100 - 1000 HDMs that can be exchanged at local banking branches and Towers. **NoM Currency** \- Local currency issued by the government for use by the NoM population. In poorer Frontiers and tier 1 cities with large volumes of NoM activity, the local currency is vulnerable to hyperinflation, forgery, and currency fraud. **Demi-humans and Human Currency** \- As humans are the only race capable of mass-producing crystal currency, Demi-humans have taken to use human currency as the preferred unit of exchange for barter. **Scrolls** \- Scrolls are a way for mages to save their spells for later use and also to use spells they cant cast themselves. However, with the increasing difficulty of a spell, the cost of the materials of the scroll rises exponentially. It always takes an Enchanter to create one. A book of spells **Grimoire** \- A book of spells. **Mage Classifications ** **CQB Mage -** A Close Quarters Battle Mage as the name says is a mage focused on melee or low range combat. A Transmuter, the popular military spec is near peerless at lower tiers, growing to encompass the peak of power in the middle tiers. Against Mythics, however, the CQB Mage suffers from a problem of scale. Nonetheless, no dungeon crawl is complete without a CQB Mage. **War Mage** \- War Mage is a classification of the Towers given to a Mage depending on how much damage a sorcerer can reliably cause given the opportunity. Though technically all Combat Mages are suited for war, very few individuals can sustain enough output to be classified as a danger by themselves. Though the metric is not definitive, a Class I War Mage may wipe out a Hamlet or Village without overtaxing themselves. A Class IV War Mage may cause significant loss of life and infrastructure if left unchecked. A Class VI War Mage may be able to depopulate a city of 100,000 or more alone. If a Mage is capable of such abilities without significant resource allocations, they are considered a public risk, and will almost always be tracked and monitored through their lives. **Artillery Mage** \- A Mage serving as mobile artillery casting large scale AoE spells. A team usually supports them, providing protection and recovery. Multiple artillery mages with support team can rival the firepower of a Tower in short bursts. In times of War, boxed squadrons of Artillery Mages are seen follow the spearhead of an assault, laying waste to all that bar their way. **Translocator** \- A Transportation Conjurer specialises in the translocation of personnel and goods. A large mana pool, knowledge in Enchantment and Mandala-crafting is essential for this class of specialists. Heedless of elements, these Mages are common to every mid to significant military engagement. **Cleric / Healer / Combat Healer** \- The title of Cleric is an archaic one, often used in conjunction with that of the "healer". In modern Spellcraft, there is little difference, as both are seen by the public as angels in white, delivering salvation of magical restoration where ever they venture. In reality, a Cleric is a healer trained in the use of Faith magic. Faith, being a commodity unique to Humanity and its distinct history of arcanistry, has been long-since associated with healing, restoration, and resurrection. In ages past, without Spellcraft, it was only through pure Faith and invocations passed down from generation to generation by especial individuals born with talent and genius that healing magic existed. Today, any Mage capable of channelling Positive Energy will be trained as a healer. A Combat Healer refers to experienced healers who concurrently possess some ability to protect themselves. In peace times, healers work in the Great Hospitals. In times of war, all healers are Combat Healers. There exist as a particular denomination for Clerics specialising in combat-healing in the mid of spellfire— Combat Clerics. These Relic-carrying faith healers, guarded by their retinue of Knights as they lay down the mass-benedictions of Faith, may very well change the tide of a losing battle. **Mage Flight** \- a party of five Mages, usually with balaned roles, equipped with means of Flight. **Nations and Factions** **The Britannic Mageocracy (British Commonwealth) -** A Behemoth that starves to death is still the size of a mountain. Though the days of Pax Britannia are long gone, the shadow of Victoria's "Soverenity where the sun never sets," continues to leave its mark on the world. Once the apex Human organisation on Earth, the Mageocracy has had a long way to fall. First came the Undead and the Great War, forcing the Mageocracy to commit resources away from the colonies. This imbalance resulted in the Pan-European Conflict, spearheaded by resurgent competitors mad for the unclaimed Frontiers around the globe. After the 70s Beast Tide, the Mageocracy rebranded itself as the Commonwealth, emphasising cooperation between the far green isle in the north and its vassal Frontiers, from Australia to Singapore to South Africa. **The United States of America** \- The US weathered the necromantic disaster and the pan-European conflict in the early 20th century quite well, managing to profit significantly from the diaspora of Mages leaving Europe for the New World after each world war. Despite its turbulent history of genocide and slavery against the native Demi-humans of North America, the nation prides itself on individual freedom, democracy, and the single most extensive cache of domestic Magitech armaments outside of Deepholm. After the Beast Tide, the USA lost large swaths of Frontiers, most notably the Great Plains and the Rocky mountains to resurgent Demi-humans, thus confining human settlements to the east and west coastal regions and the Great Lakes. **Central Powers (European Union)** **\- ETA** The EU is a tightly-knit league of European Nations that survived the Beast Tide of '71 through mutual defence-pacts. Together with France, Italy, Russia and over thirty other member states and city-states, the Central Powers rivals the Mageocracy, China, and the USA as the world's premier Human Superpower. Germany - Germany has remained one of the leading powers in the world, channelling a large part of its influence through the EU. France - Greece is famed for the Oracle of Delphi, who has aided Humanity in mitigating many of its worst disasters. In antiquity, Greece was once the centre of Europe, bridging continents. Spain - Russia - Denmark, Sweden, The Netherlands - Poland - Italy - **The Vatican -** A Church-State led by Pope Benedict XV centred on Rome. It derives enormous influence indirectly through its institution as well as directly through martial and healing Orders sworn to the Catholic religion. Of all the Judeo-Christian Religion to survive the annuals of time, the Vatican commands the vastest body of believers among Humanity, which they call Christiandom. In aeons past, the Vatican had called up Holy Wars, called Crusades against the Undead of Eastern Europe, or the Elemental Sultanates of the Middle East. Today, the Vatican remains the spiritual centre of Humanity and has not participated in politics since the Spellcraft revolution of the 19th and 20th century. **Australia** \- For a country where everything is trying to kill you, Australia is by equal degrees the lucky country. As a colony isolated from almost all geopolitical conflicts, the country has weathered the various global disputes, happy to contend with its internal crisis of Mermen, Saurians, Were-roos, Dropbears, Weredropbears. Aracanids, Dingos, Were-bats, Snake-kin, regular roos, Were-mus, regular emus, Gobs, Hobs, Yobbos, Trololos and so on. Australia, perhaps thanks to Henry Kilroy, surprisingly has five Towers, though only Sydney and Melbourne may be counted as equals among their European cousins. The current Master of Sydney is none other than Gunther von Shultz, arguably the most formidable Spellslinger in the southern hemisphere. **China -** The "Middle Country" of the Orient lost much of its power in the 19th and early 20th century. However, it is slowly clawing its way back towards the world stage. It had the unfortunate luck of fighting an Undead incursion from Pyongyang in the North-east when the Beast Tide struck. Late to embrace Spellcraft and its revolutionary impact on Humanity, China's long history has gifted it with a unique magical heritage. Presently, the Chines Communists are contending with Undead from the northern Korean peninsula. **Japan** \- Dai Nippon, like Germany, was a mid-40s industrial superpower afflicted by the resource-wars. Taking advantage of China's rapid decline at the turn of the century, Japan took both Manchuria and Korea in the 1910s, then pushed into the Chinese heartland in the 1940s as an ally of the Reich. Ultimately, the ambition of its rapid expansion placed it on the warpath with the USA. After Germany's surrender, Japan continued to plunder China and Korea until the Americans executed the first Super Massive Strategic Magic on Hiroshima. Post War, Japan quickly embraced Spellcraft manufacturing in both Heavy Industry and consumer Magi-tech. Currently, Japan is divided between its old capital— Kyoto, favouring Demi-human co-existence, juxtaposing the Magi-tech capital, Tokyo. **Korea** \- Korea refers to South Korea, marked by the purification zone stretching from Kaesŏng to Kosong, as North Korea has completely fallen under the sway of the Cult of Juche. Post Sino and then the Communist split, South Korea, with the help of the USA, has rebranded itself as a primary designer and manufacturer of Magi-tech. Though the country modelled itself after the USA, feudal rule by the Chaebol, the Ten Great Corporations, each ruled by a patriarch, hold absolute sway. Its citizens bitterly jest that in America, the top entrepreneurs can change anytime; in Seoul, the Gods are immovable. **Aztecs -** The Aztecs native nation in Meso-America is in a state of continual conflict with the US. For centuries since the arrival of the colonists to the New World, Central America has been plundered, first by the British then by the new nation that rose from slaying the British. Until the Beast Tide, the Aztecan Theocracy at Tenochtitlan had been hardpressed by superior American spell power. Now, after three decades, the Theocracy and its host of Spirit-Shifters will no longer be subordinate to any authority other than their own. **The Incas -** The Inca nation managed to reassert itself in the early 20th century, casting off the Spanish colonial government in the Andes. They are in a somewhat critical position, bordering the Amazonian Black Zone. A theocracy built around the Sun Cult and its King, Inti, they also one of the most isolated major human settlement in the world. Today, the nation has developed its first Mage Tower thanks to the Mageocracy and is looking to participate in global trade and politics. **The Ideological Factions** Factions can be broadly categorised by "The Greys", "The Middle Path" and "The Militants" Those three cover most of the ideological spectrum Mages follow across official geopolitical groups. **The Militant Faction -** The Militant Faction is composed of Mages that believe that it is the right of Humanity to dominate Earth. They are Mages whose origins often stem from families, Houses, and Clans that rose to the top during the hey-days of Spellcraft. To the far right, members support the extermination of all Demi-Human races by way of Purges; to the left, members wish for Humanity to rule over any useful non-human beings. Though the Militant Faction is the weakest among the top tiers of the magical community, it enjoys immense support among the lower-tiers, and the among the NoMs, who see nationalistic, race-based endeavours as a way out of poverty and suffering. They also have known links to the Vatican, though the depth of that relationship is unknown. **The Grey Faction** \- The Grey Faction believes that Humanity is only one more race on Earth and that while they should strive for its betterment, it should not attempt to deprive the other sentient races of resources to do so. Practically speaking, the Grey Faction serves diplomats who tie commercial links of variable degrees of savouriness with the Demi-Humans factions. To the right, the extremist Greys believe that without the NoMs, Humanity could abandon the cities and reproduce among the Wildlands as a quasi-magical race. To the left, the socialists conceive of an intermingling of human and demi-human bloodlines, resulting in the blurring of racial and magical segregation. **The Middle Path** \- The Middle Path Faction is, as its name indicate, not focused on an ideal like the Greys or the Militant. If they have an objective, it would be to balance and arbitrate the other's excesses, assisting the Militant when a Purge is necessary to safeguard a settlement and bankrolling a Grey initiative to guarantee a stable relationship with Demi-human colonies. If anything, the Middle Path can be identified by their labyrinthine network of favours, acquaintance, enmity and friendship it has woven since its funding, promoted in part by its founder, Henry Kilroy. Though the Middle Path prides itself on being the most powerful of factions, it is wildly fragmented in its power base, with a decentralised system of politics. **Demi-Human Races** **Dwarves** \- The Dwarves have their original hearth in the metropolis of Deepholm, said to be located in between the Prime Material and a deposit-rich region of the Elemental Plane of Earth. The Deep is the natural home region of the Dwarves, who have been digging 'upward' to locate resources away from the highly competitive domain within the Elemental Plane itself. These colonies in the Murk are the Citadels, the equivalent of human Frontiers. After the Beast Tide separated Deepholm from the Murk, the stranded Dwarven Thanes in their respective domains attempted, with futility to reach a network of low-ways connecting the Dwarven cities of old called the 'Dyar Morkk'. Some communities, seeing the futility of such a quest, has chosen co-existence with Humans, others chose isolation. **Elves** **TBA:** **Hvítálfar** \- White Elves, the Highborn Elves - the near-immortals **Dökkálfar** \- An elvish term for Dwarves (Elves of Below) Humans generally do not use this term. **Ljósálfar** \- Light Elves (Beings of Light) **Svartálfar** \- Dark Elves (Beings of Dark) **Träälvor** \- Wood Elves (Beings of the Woods) **Elementals** \- TBA in Collaboration with @Wandysama **Saurians** \- Saurians live where the Jungles are thick, hot, and muggy, such as in far north Queensland. Like the Greenskins, these primordial creatures have thrived in various forms and created vast civilisations away from Humanity. **Mermen** \- The Empires of the Sea remain a thorn in the side of the Mageocracy and Humanity in general. Some scholars have even stated that in fact, Terra is not a domain for land dwellers, but rather an extension of the Elemental Plane of Water. Considering how much of the surface is covered by water, the argument is sound. For Humanity, the ocean is a place of tremendous resource, far more extensive than the land itself. The current theory for the Merman empires indicates that incursions are a form of Holy War, or that the undersea Factions are using Humanity to blunt its abundant population, a warier rationale is that an existential conflict for Earth herself fuels the Mermen Kingdoms. **Merfolk** \- Different to Mermen, the 'folk' aspect infers land-dwelling Mermen, who live in rivers and lakes and estuaries. These are either outright hostile and exterminated, or live in a precarious peace with their human neighbours. Some have even attempted to integrate into civilised societies, though most remain at the stage of tribal governments. **Greenskins** \- From Snots to Gobs to Hobs to Trolls to the Behemoths, the Greenskins are perhaps, the most prolific of all quasi-native elemental creatures. Pending on the region, they take on elemental subtypes, usually tied to one of the Prime-Elementals. When spikes of mana erupt, creating powerful mana flares near the Earth's surface, Gobs are always first on the scene, appearing en-mass to populate, then desolate the local flora and fauna. Deep in the Wildlands, whole civilisations of Greenskins exist that are millennia old. It is said that the Greenskin are long-time competitors to Dwarves, long before Humans entered the scene, and may even be collectively as old as Elves or Dragons.

"Sterilise." Elvia completed the cantrip without the need for somatic components, freeing her hands to direct her Spirit and her Familiar. Across the operating table, her machine-nurse, Rosemary, a low-tier healer trained in offering support to her betters, watched with mouth half-open as she went about a two-surgeon operation solo. Presently, Kiki, her Alraune, kept their patient well-sedated and securely tethered to the table with a proliferation of tendrils. "Wound looks clean," Elvia spoke to her imaginary co-surgeon. She was used to operating without aides-de-camp. Things had not been easy at GOS since Director Astor left to pursue her political venture, nor were they better here at Nightingale. In the beginning, she had moped in Sylvie's arms, but over time, she grew accustomed to the cold shoulders. If anything, she considered the proliferation of low-tier Mages and NoMs assigned to her a badge of honour. Her lack of malpractice had annoyed the blue-bloods to no end, but there was little else her bullies could do in case Lady Astor materialised again to enact a new round of Purges. "Healing Word!" A gentle suffusion overcame her patient's open wound, a broken femur resulting from a drunken, late-night meeting with a taxi. Elvia focused the viridescent vitality gathered near her fingers. "Sen-sen, follow my lead." With her right hand, she directed the Ginseng's prehensile whiskers to remove the debris still embedded in the flesh. Sen-sen wasn't as skilled as Kiki, who was experienced by now, but as her Familiar, its Empathic Link guaranteed ease of communication. Concurrently, with her left, Elvia stabbed at the ruined flesh with jolts of healing energy. A thrill coursed through Elvia's veins as she conjoined the broken bone. Simply put, it was a pleasure to heal. Underneath her steady lay-on-hands, the man moaned as the tissue of his thighs rapidly began to regenerate. The itch that resulted from magical healing, no matter how repressed, was something that tugged at the soul. "Ma'am." The nurse offered a sheet of gauze. Elvia glanced up. A curious anomaly the Ginseng's vitality effected was the ability to uplift a certain offensive organ. In Oriental medicine, the plant was considered "Yang", which Elvia took to mean vigorous. "... Sen-sen, lower the dosage. Rosemary, can you cover that up? It's in the way." "Yes, Ma'am." "Beginning suture," she informed the machine-nurse. "Kiki, keep him still." A glamour from Kiki was enough to send the man back into the void for another five minutes. The machine-nurse obediently handed over one tool after another. Elvia threaded the hair-thin tendril generated by her Ginseng Familiar through the incision, well-practised after hundreds of sutured bananas, grapes, and NoMs. Once in motion, her hands moved like little white butterflies, working the wound to see the dermis restored. "Good. We're done. Please clean up." Elvia withdrew her Familiars. "Heart-rate is depressed. Blood Pressure normal. Blood oxygen saturation is holding. Thanks, Rose. Give him a 5mmg Remove Disease immuno-infusion once he's settled." "My pleasure, Dr Lindholm." The machine-nurse wiped the blood from the patient's leg, revealing only a pink scar. The perfection of the heal was enough to draw a gasp. "Ma'am, how did you do that?" "Practice?" Elvia stepped back with both hands raised. "Sterilise! — Okay, I am going to make a cuppa, yourself?" "I'll keep an eye on the patient." "Right." With her heart still singing, she ducked into the break room, where already, a big jug of English Breakfast simmered on the stove. She poured herself a cup, added milk and sugar, then checked her Message band. Six missed Messages. But Elvia didn't much feel like returning them. Under the pale hospital light, she began to mull. Her resounding success with her present patients had thoroughly validated the Yinglong's generosity. Sen-sen was an amazing boon to her Affinity in more ways than one. Never in her life, never in any medical books, had she heard of a newly-bonded Spirit Familiar having both high-ability and unwavering obedience. For instance, though her Alraune followed her lead, communication errors, disagreements and incomprehension of context often resulted in less than sterling results. With Sen-sen however, she had acquired a simulacrum, one with which she could generate as many pairs of helping hands as her concentration could muster. The control, the finesse, the exactitude offered by Sen-sen was orgasmic compared to the primitive prodding afforded by vague fingers or rune-scripted surgical tools. As a practitioner of magical medicine, she could imagine a future where, if she possessed the knowledge, no injury was an obstacle. If a Mage wasn't dead on arrival, she could arguably keep their biometrics above the threshold. If they were— she could even enact the kiss-of-life Gwen had performed on Magister Walken. But the blessing of restoration wasn't free, and for this Elvia could not help but envision Gwen's bitter face while she revealed her new patron. Was her action a form of betrayal? Elvia had wondered after the fact. To Gwen, perhaps. But not to herself. Even without the Yinglong's divine intervention, she wanted the means to achieve her desire, one her mother, her uncle, and their parents had harkened after— the Hand of God. Given the opportunity, why shouldn't she resolutely accept the personal cost? With complete empathy, she understood her companion's emotions— for all her vulnerability, Gwen's affection was like a rolling, all-consuming tide. And like a moody sea, Gwen was full of ebbs and flows, hiding a Kraken beneath her undertow. She wanted to change the future, even though her patron said there was no diverting the Yangtze of fate. Whatever will happen— will happen, and the best a demi-god or she or anyone could do was fudging the details. Who was to die? Who was to live? Who was to grieve? It was a matter of delicacy. If she were to beg the Oracle of Delphi, the Seeress would say that no matter the histronics, Troy would burn, Agamemnon would die, and Priam would be made mince. But if an actor could stay Pyrrhus' wrath for just an hour, then perhaps a hundred souls could flee his coal-eyed rampage. If another could keep the gore-clad avenger pinned at the palace, maybe Polyxena may live, and possibly Polites' blood need not pollute Zeus' marbled palace. That was the boon the Yinglong had offered her, a seed of subversion. She would be the stone to trouble the yellow river of predestination, even a little bit, and in exchange, she would be the Yinglong's Vessel to overlook the Calamity. But why was Gwen the Calamity? Shouldn't the calamitous sorceress be Elizabeth Sobel? Already, the Void Witch had consumed whole cities, resulting in the death of untold thousands, consumed human and Demi-humans, maybe even Dragons, alike. "Thy Sobel art merely a seed-spawned ivy strangling the princely trunk that once nourished her." The Yinglong's thoughts had boomed across the toiling firmament. "The Calamity is uncertainty, an anomaly, usurping the fate of others." Sincerely, Elvia had begged for clarity, but the Yinglong spoke only in riddles, as was expected of a being older than the Nazarene— older than western civilisation. All it could promise was that when the time came, when the divergent rivulets of destiny coalesced over that fateful battlefield, she would make a choice, and it would matter. That was the power which Sen-sen bestowed. "Magnificent one, may I inform Gwen?" She had demanded of the Yinglong. "If she usurps fate, won't she be able to change the fate of millions?" "Mayhap the Calamity will trouble the river more than most," the great voice reverberated within her skull. "But the burden of change art for thee to bear. If thou wilt dispose mine divine vision, then so be it." It was an answer Elvia took to mean that if she changed enough of the future, then the exact location of the vision, as well as the participants involved, would change beyond recognition. Tianjin would fall, the Undead would rise, but she would not know where Percy was, or Gwen, or Richard, or Lulan, or Golos. What good then, would the foresight do? Who could she save? "Great Dragon." She had taken as much liberty as she dared. "What does it mean that Gwen consumes the fate of others?" "Thou should question thy Devourer" The Yinglong began to settle back into its long slumber. "Coax from thy Calamity the truth of her cruel conception, if thou would risk thine curiosity. But recall, Vessel, that thou art destined to restore mine child. This, thou wilt perform above all else." It was a duty Elvia had promised to deliver, though presently, her mental map remained incomplete. So many questions remained from the vision. Why were they in China? What happened to Uncle Jun? Why did Percy, Gwen's coddled brother, turn into a monster? Why did fire, flood and Undead simultaneously unleash upon Tianjin? _DING! DING!_ "DR LINDHOLM, please respond." The crimson Message Glyph bloomed beside Elvia's ear. "You are needed in Emergency." Elvia tipped her tea and disappeared her tea set into the Storage Ring Gwen had given her. She felt the weight of the Contingency Ring acutely on her ring finger as well, a symbolism her friend had not previously noticed, which had made her dejected for days. "I am here!" Elvia saw the gurney before it arrived at her station. "What's the status?" The machine-nurse passed over the data slate. "Code Orange. Spider Curse. Acute pulmonary interference. In situ Weiss-Hermann portable Ventilator via trach. Infusions of 5mg of Prilosec PAC, 1mg Stirgenix and 12mg Ipratropium compounded with 30-70 W-S." Elvia's eyes browsed the transfer papers, then looked down at the patient, Magus William Fitzgerald of Kildare, holder of the Queen's Gallantry Cross. The man's body, what's left of it, was a sunken, sallow husk of a human being. For a Combat Mage to live so long and fruitfully from the 70s was itself a small miracle. "He's unwell." Elvia replaced the slate, realising her higher-up's ploy. "Shall I ease his discomfort until the surgical team arrives?" "No, Dr Lindholm. You are to heal him," the machine-nurse related the orders from the head surgeon with sparkling eyes. "Magus Fitzgerald is in your care, Dr Lindholm. Please confirm the handover and nominate your staff." Elvia recognised the churlish tone. It told her more than she needed to know— more than the hidden condition of her patient, at any rate. Magus Fitzgerald was not likely going to survive his ordeal, not when the Spider-Curse required an open cardiothoracic operation involving individual manipulation of major organs. From what she could see, merely attempting a thoracotomy of the pleural cavity would put the Magus six-feet-under. Even if they managed, resuscitative efforts would likely fail due to the Magus' spent vitality. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. She met the nurse's smug eyes. "I see," Elvia confirmed the handover Glyph, then Messaged her colleague. "Dr Witherspoon?" "Sorry, Elvia, I am a bit preoccupied here," came the reply a moment later. "Perhaps ask for someone from the ICU?" Elvia rang a few more of her stationed colleagues, each providing an excuse or were occupied in actuality. Feeling a cold stab of ice in her chest, she considered her options. Some of the staff she could beg, some others she could commandeer. What she needed was someone to clarify her limited knowledge base. If it weren't so soon since the new year, she could ask Sylvie. Or if Emily had been here, her friend would bring a whole gaggle of healers, both senior and junior, who would grudgingly aid their mistress's "pet". But Sylvia was away up north in Scotland, and Emily was back with her family. As for the other Doctors, they would only fight her if Kiki and Sen-sen took their place. In that case, Magus Fitzgerald was as good as dead. "You," Elvia's lips pronounced as her eyes scanned over the self-satisfied handover nurse. Many of the senior nurses were more knowledgable than the doctors; what they lacked was magical talent. "You can be my assistant." "… What?" the machine-nurse, whose name-tag read "Georgia Fields", spluttered. "I am Dr Hope's assistant." "And now you're mine." Elvia pulled back her lips so that she showed teeth, a habit that Gwen often affected. "What's wrong? Magus Fitzgerald doesn't have time to squander." "I…" The woman was sweating. Elvia knew the healer of middling-talent didn't have the authority to refuse her demand. Each Doctor had their assistants and aides not because of official assignment, but because of preference and habit. Whatever her excuse, the hospital's hierarchy was absolute. "I need to return to Magus Hope." "Don't you want to save the Magus? The note here says he expects me to do my utmost. Well. Ergo, I command you to stay and aid me." The woman gulped. "Who… else is with us?" "No one." Elvia placed her hand on the forehead of her patient. "Its just you and me, nurse Fields." "You're insane!" The woman's eyes widened. "You're trying to drag me down with you!" "Am I?" Elvia cocked her head. "Is Magus Fitzgerald going to die?" "No! But…" Her eyes darted back and forth. "Follow me. Or not. It's our positions on the line." Elvia commanded. "Kiki!" Her Alraune leapt from her pocket to rest atop the gurney. "Keep nurse Fields close, and keep Magus Fitzgerald sedated." "Kiki!" The floral Sprite twirled, sprinkling the unique sorcery of her species over the weakly breathing Magus. A few more tendrils, green and wax with new buds, teased the machine-nurse. "Bless! Aid!" Elvia bolstered the man's vitality. On the diagnostic panel, the Magus' biometrics stabilised. It was a temporary boost, one that would fail as soon as the spell's duration rang out. Nonetheless, Elvia was confident Sen-sen's bolstered buffs could remain active for at least twenty-four hours— for such was the efficacy attained by having a demi-divinity strengthen one's access to the Positive Plane. With Nurse Fields confused and tottering on the verge of blind panic behind her, Elvia savoured the peculiar satisfaction she felt for her tormentor's internal agony, wondering if this was what Gwen observed when Consuming her foes. Soon, both passed the sterilising threshold of the operating theatre. Vivian, Elvia's former machine-nurse, appeared with a fresh supply of sanitised tools. "Dr Lindholm?" "You sit this one out, Rose," Elvia commanded her sympathiser to leave, leaving Nurse Field on the verge of breathless asphyxiation. "Fields— dress me." "I really must protest." Fields made no move, perhaps realising this was her final chance. "I need to return to Magus Hope." "NOW, Miss Fields!" Elvia knew that she would call upon Sen-sen's abilities, but had not expected that the first time she would utilise it would be against her nurses. Inexpert and with poor focus, a wave of Dragon Fear radiated from her petite body, turning her already ultramarine eyes so blue that her audience grew bedazzled. Rosemary, being spared the brunt of Elvia's intimidation, took several steps backwards, then fled from the theatre. Nurse Field stood ram-rod straight and stiff as a board, appearing as though every nerve had fired at once. "M-Ma'am!" the nurse stammered, then almost without thought, pulled open the scrubs and dressed Elvia with trembling hands. "I, I obey." "For the sake of keeping your bowels dignified, please don't deny me again, Nurse Fields." She nixed the Essence-tap so that no more gut-clenching fear twisted her victim's spine. A surge of guilt coursed through Elvia's chest, battling the unbidden happiness leaking from somewhere unseen. "Please lend me your knowledge. We have a hero to save." * * * Magister Amanda Hatchley had received the news too late that a Gallant Cross recipient had been delivered to her beloved college, and knew that her arrival at London would prove a fruitless formality. Still, it was her desire, her duty even, to ensure that some poor sod from her school did not suffer the consequences of degrading failure when a futile request had been laid across their lap. She didn't mind the "black mark". Come budget-time; there would be plenty of alumnae defending the college. Instead, as an administrator, she was wary that should the students perceive their instructors as willing to push them under the Golem, the moral implication would impact morale. Thereby, once she found whoever the hell decided to pass Fitzgerald on to the provisional medics, a public shaming would be in order. Her only hope was that her culprit, likely a third-son or daughter, did not have the clout to get away with so blatant a deflection of duty. "Ma'am, we're here," her driver unobtrusively reminded his mistress of their arrival. Hatchley alighted from the saloon like a storm on heels. Hospital Directors often suffered short-lived holidays, but hers had died from malpractice within forty-eight hours. In the lobby, she hailed the first Matron to cross her path. "Sal!" "Director Hatchley?" the older woman paused. "What's the matter?" "Where's the patient?" "The patient?" "Magus Fitzgerald! Gallant Cross! Is he dead?" "Ma'am?" The Matron appeared confused. "We haven't heard a death knell since last week." Amanda Hatchley stopped in her tracts. She could hardly believe it. The bleating goats are hiding mortuary reports now? Was that why no one could answer her Messaged enquiries? Who did they think they could fool? "Take me to Emergency. Bring me an audit report of all incoming and goings since this morning's shift." "Yes, Director." Hatchley tapped her foot the whole agonising two minutes it took for the levitation platform to descend and take her down to Emergency. Nightingale, as a teaching hospital, was not equipped with the sprawling Emergency rooms usually seen in the Great Hospitals like Royal Alfreds. Theirs was a three-theatre affair, with no more than thirty beds available, of which no more than ten had attendants. Inside, the atmosphere was not at all what she had anticipated. There was no anxiety, no grim faces, no Matrons in a huff. Instead, everything appeared business as usual. "Where's Magus Fitzgerald?" she demanded of the desk nurse, who quickly rose halfway through a sandwich. "Ward 3, Ma'am." Amanda Hatchley wasted no time. Such was her fury that a conga-line of nurses and a few junior doctors followed her from the levitation platform down to the section housing the Intensive Care Recovery rooms. As soon as she was through the door, she caught a headful of perfume smelling like fresh lilies. Dispelling the scent with her hand, she pulled back the curtain, expecting more than anything to see an empty bed. Instead, a stunned, half-naked old Mage with greying hair with a half-shaved chest stared back at her, mid-way through picking at the pink scars crossing his chest. "… Excuse you, ma'am." The man slowly pulled up his surgical gown. "… Magus Fitzgerald?" Hatchley's eyes swerved to the diagnostic panel. The blood pressure and heart rate were all within acceptable parameters. The oxygenation was well over ninety per cent! "Aye, tis I." the Magus' hinted strongly of his place of origin. "You are?" "Director Amanda Hatchley, Nightingale's College." "A pleasure then." The man extended a hand. The two shook. Amanda Hatchley wanted to ask why the man was alive and well, but the proposal proved too absurd for the present. "I am happy to see you're doing well." "A wee too well." the Magus took a deep breath. "I haven't breathed like this since… I can't recall, really, not since the Boers struck me with that corrosive Cloud Kill. We got the blondies back though, kicked up Firestorm from up on high." "May I?" Hatchley indicated to the spectrographic metre on the wall. "I wish to confirm your health if that's alright with you, sir. A thorough head to toe, if you may permit me." "Go ahead." Magus Fitzgerald's face took on a dreamy look. "Quite the Cleric you've got there, the blonde girl. A celestial, hahaha. When I woke, I had thought the Lord's Angels had come for me. Yer know— we _really_ need one like her at the Isle. Is she battlefield trained? Knighted?" "One moment, Sir William. Who is the Magus' attending physician?" Hatchley turned to the Matron. "Dr Lindholm, ma'am." "Elvia?" A vision of fine, flaxen hair demurely drifted across Amanda Hatchley's mind's eye. "Where is she now?" "… in theatre, Ma'am. There's an NoM patient Dr Witherspoon did not wish to operate on." "She is?" Hatchley raised a brow. If she, as an upper-tier physician, had been present to perform Fitzgerald's operation, she would have been exhausted by now. Did the girl utilise Faith? If so, where was she collecting it? "That's admirable. I'll stay here with Magus Fitzgerald." Her attention returned to the Magus. "I'll make the enquires, Magus Fitzgerald. For now, please relax. Eye of Discernment!" The Director swept her all-seeing vision through the Magus' body. The trachea had healed admirably with minimal scarring of the oesophagus. The right lung remained absent, meaning Elvia had not regenerated one from scratch. The bronchi tubes were cleared of the Spider-Curse's ruination, as well as old growths. The left lung was presently functioning under the auspice of a restored pleural membrane, flushed with oxygenated blood from vibrant pulmonary vessels. Interestingly, where the intercostal musculature married the diaphragm, obstructive scarring from prior injuries had been suppressed. The work was far from the hand of God, but it was the sort a senior healer might achieve with a small team of specialists; that or a Relic-Attuned Cleric empowered by Faith. Elvia Lindholm, to her knowledge, was neither. "Who was with Elvia?" she turned to her Matron. "Nurse Fields, Ma'am." "I meant the attending specialists." Hatchley cocked her head. "How's it look?" Below her data slate, Magus Fitzgerald appeared to delight in the very act of breathing. "How long have I got?" "I fear you have more to give to the Mageocracy," Hatchley stated with a tone of complete seriousness. "Your respiratory system is delicate, but only compared to a completely healthy Mage sans sustained injury such as yours." Magus Fitzgerald's brows furrowed. "That's… impossible, you know. I was at Black's. They said it could not be done." "It is done now." Hatchley did her best to keep a straight face. The Magus' expression grew hearty. "When can I go back to the Isle? I have friends there, students, Apprentices, still fighting." Hatchley nodded. "Matron, who was with Dr Lindholm?" The Matron gulped. "… Just Nurse Fields. Ma'am." The room was suddenly hushed. "Are there recordings of the surgery?" "Yes, Director." "Send them to my office." The Director of Nightingale's teaching wing felt her scalp crawl. "Magus Fitzgerald, I would advise one more day on restoratives. Matron, as soon as Elvia is done, send her over." * * * Gwen had half a mind to teleport to London when after almost a day, Elvia still hadn't returned her Messages. The anticipation was making her hungrier than ever, shocking even Richard when they caught up for luncheon. When, after two family-sized shepherd's pies, she privately explained the ordeal to her cousin, he disappointingly declined to comment on Elvia's condition, citing that one should not piss off the boss's boss. Instead, he spoke at length about the Isle, the Dwarves soon to arrive, and his willingness to serve as her proxy in regards to the press. "I am good with NoMs," Richard sold his services over a cold stout. "Let me at 'em. And the paper press! What a brilliant idea! You've been a busy bee, cousin." But inevitably, the conversation returned to that of Elvia. What could the girl be doing? She demanded of Richard. Even if Evee's working, surely she could take a Message and fire off a quick response? "Have you thought Elvia might be busy doing her things?" Richard politely interjected after the fifth complaint. "You know, like you? Like me? Having— like, goals?" And that was the end of their luncheon. An hour later, with Richard back at King's, the distraction caused by Elvia's lack of response ballooned. Gwen felt such repression that she could hardly concentrate on Magus Keridwen Le Guevel's lecture. Not that it was interesting— the Magus was getting her to memorise the history of England and musical chair of Noble Houses. Thus far, her instructor had been very patient with her disinclined pupil. "Let's take a pause." Le Guevel replaced the dictionary-sized edition of Twurp's Peerage of England and the Kingdom. "What a face you're making, Gwen. Remember the basics when dealing with Nobles. Don't let your true emotions show." "I know, I know…" Gwen sighed. When it came to money, she could play poker with the best of them, but when it came to the matter of interpersonal relationships, her face took on a life of its own in the worst manner. When she was deliriously happy, she grinned and laughed and smiled to excess. When the mood soured, her bitch-face could cure meat into biltong. "What am I to do?" "Try smiling, dear." Gwen grinned for the imaginary cameras. "Try to smile with your eyes. Disconnect it from the thoughts in your head. Its a masquerade. Your face should be calm like a lake, static, placid, reflective— oh Gods." Magus Le Guevel snorted when Gwen fluttered her lashes. "My dear, you reminded me of a short-changed whore in Soho trying to coax an extra florin from a tight-fisted John." "… I am sorry, what?" Gwen performed a double-take. A flush of heat touched her cheeks. Had her ears deceived her? Her instructor's smile was pure wickedness. Where the Magus had been a Victoriana flower, she promptly grew smokey and alluring. There was something about the woman's expressive eyes that hinted at hidden and exciting things, making Gwen's heart palpitate. "Did that wake our kitten up?" "Shouldn't you be instructing me on social propriety?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "That was a bit crass, don't you think? What would your nobles think?" "Poor kitty." Le Guevel's amusement proved as annoying as it was disarming. "I knew you weren't paying attention. Lady Grey didn't employ me to teach you how to be polite, Guinevere, I am here to teach you how to be..." Le Guevel twirled a finger. "Be what?" Gwen was now wide awake. Her instructor wetted her lips ever so slightly. With no discernible change to the setting of the library's tutor room, the atmosphere had shifted toward that of a sleazy jazz saloon. "... _Limber,_ dear. How to be more _limber."_

"Limber?" Gwen cocked her head sideways. "Meaning?" Magus Keridwen Le Guevel spun on her kitten-heels with the grace of a serval. "Exactly what you intend it to mean." "Nope, not happening." Gwen stoppered her instructor's retort. "Prostrate in front of those Troglodytes? There are easier paths to homicide." "Ah, but these are useful Troglodytes." "But amphibian nonetheless." "I never took you for a speciesist." "What's not to hate? They're slimy, for one, and oddly-shaped. I assume we're still on the topic of the nobility?" Le Guevel snapped her fingers. With the impact of a quick-cut film-frame from Gwen's old world, they returned to the dreary world of the archaic tutor room, buried four corridors deep in the Ward Library building. "Nice trick." "One I'm happy to teach if you pass muster. Else, it'll get you in trouble faster than a Void Bolt. Tell me, kitten." Her instructor leaned in. "You possess enviable biometrics, and I know you're not above abusing it for attention. I've seen those lumen-captures of you in the IIUC and the Sun Herald. Look at those ankles and calves. It's winter! Are you not pandering to the audience?" "A free woman can dress however she likes." Gwen's lips curled. "It's my body, after all." "An interesting statement. I don't know whether to be impressed or appalled. And is this woman not a member of the society within which she resides?" Gwen snorted. "Shall I wear a shawl? Dress in a habit?" "If you're visiting a nunnery, YES." Le Guevel rolled her eyes. "What are you, a child? Did mummy not buy you pretty dresses when you're younger? Why tease if you can't be spry? Who are you impressing?" "Myself." On hearing mention of her absent parents, Gwen growled. The remark about Helena had broken skin, pierced flesh then struck bone. "Don't act as if you know me." "Tsk, tsk, kitten." Le Guevel shook her head. "This is why feral cats get put down." "You can try." She crossed her arms. "Better Mages have failed." "I am Illusionist, dear." Le Guevel crossed her arms as well. "If I meant you harm, you'd be raving like a lunatic already. Still, I am sure you'll come around. Tell me, how did you think you faired in your encounter with the Exeter twins?" "Well enough?" "Is your bar set so low?" "And what do you expect me to do? Fight them? Winning would've proven far more troublesome. Imagine if they lost their heads. I like my peace. Thank you very much." Le Guevel crossed her legs. Unlike Gwen, who steadfastly stuck to her autumn dresses, Gwen's instructor wore a cashmere skirt, and her ribbon-tie blouse covered her up to the chin. Yet, the Illusionist possessed an aggressive sensuality that made Gwen uncomfortable. Was it her presence? Gwen wondered. Le Guevel was neither svelte nor voluptuous. Nonetheless, there was something of a contrast between them that said "here is a girl" and "here, is a woman". It almost made her wish she was older. "Here's what I would have done." Le Guevel waved a hand. With the subtlest of somatic gestures, a portrait of the twins appeared. "Let us say you've properly armed yourself with knowledge— such as that Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas Holland, sons of John Gaunt Holland, Duke of Exeter, are beholden to Ravenport financially." Le Guevel materialised another bust, that of a Duke with a scar across the side of his left lip, a sharp-faced, gaunt-jawed gent with the nose like a Roc's beak and a ridiculous bowl-cut fringe. "Which is good news, because you happen to be the rumoured bastard of Norfolk, Lord Earl Marshall of England." "You know that's bullshit." "This isn't Bonk's, Gwen. Its politics. Had you known this, you would have deduced that the twins wouldn't dare test your true mettle, not with Ravenport's reputation on the line. Likewise, you should have known that as a War Mage, and as a very priceless specimen for Peterhouse, you're in the same boat when it comes to mutual-maiming." "And?" Le Guevel puckered her lips. "And Kitten, I am told Lady Astor has taken a liking to you. She was delighted with how you bantered with Ravenport. If so, have you wondered why someone with enough Crystals to buy herself a seat in parliament endured the Militants? It's to give you an opportunity, dear, one that you failed as spectacularly as you succeeded elsewhere." Her instructor's brows arched in ridicule. "So what would you have done?" Gwen glared back. Le Guevel cleared her throat. When she spoke again, it was in Gwen's voice, miming her mannerism with such likeness that Gwen's scalp crawled. "You devilish, aborted fae-spawns! How dare you make a nuisance of yourself in the home of your betters?" "H-how dare you?" Le Guevel answered in the voice of Edward Poins. "You're just a Frontier poppet. I'll break you here and now." "Really?" Her instructor's waspish-waist was very limber indeed. When she spoke in Gwen's voice, every syllable cracked like a whip's. "That's an audacious claim for someone who's patriarch owes an entailment worth half-a-dozen Crystal-seams. Don't you know it's polite to pay your debts before you bite the hand that feeds? What are you, a half-orc?" Gwen leaned back in her seat. Le Guevel chuckled. "See how fun that was? To be limber is to know which fruits are ripe for juicing. The twins are the result of, let's say, unsavoury arrangements, uncle and niece, sister-wives, that sort of thing— not currently, mind you, and don't say it out loud— but its there, somewhere up the line." Gwen suppressed a gag. "Which is why they're particularly incensed by any indirect inferences to bloodlines. Likewise, they do indeed owe a significant volume of debt to Ravenport and Astor both. How else do you think the Militants paid for the Royal Docks? Warmongering spoils from the Frontier takes time— but commerce, comparatively, is instantaneous." "I can't imagine 'Dickie' would remain silent if I dropped his name." "Lord Ravenport will not make an appearance for fear of verifying the rumours. Or, if he did by chance, good on you. The Exeter duo can only cower before Uncle Dickie, an ally to Lady Astor. Thereby, by invoking a few choice words, you have both inflamed the fools, and positioned them in between an Earthen Elemental and a Diamond Drake." "Public shaming is dangerous." Gwen pointed out. "Pushed that far, surely they would prefer immediate satisfaction." Le Guevel cleared her throat, then placed a hand against a cheek. When the instructor looked up again, her eyes were full of fire, with her shoulders trembling, her chest heaving. At once, Gwen was struck with the paradoxical desire of wanting to push the woman down while desiring to embrace the miserable vision of abused femininity. "Strike me down then! I invite and dare you! Strike a lady! Strike the daughter of a benefactor! Here's my other cheek! Strike it and see that your daddy-dear won't flay the both of you with your spines!" The effect was such that Gwen felt quite breathless. "And then?" "Then they flee, of course." Le Guevel laughed. "What else? Murder you? They can try. Lady Astor and her Middle Faction will take the cue and see the pair lit like bonfires. Assuming you haven't died from the first strike, the Middle Faction now has fewer Exeters to worry about— AND Lord Exeter will owe you reparations for your anguish. And of course, in the ensuing chaos— I would Consume them both. Just imagine what their in-bred talent could do for a Void Sorceress. How delicious!" "That's…" Gwen swallowed. "Insane." "It's what being limber means." Le Guevel returned her prim and proper personage. "So, do you wish to learn the exceptional art of limberness?" Gwen did. Not the part that goaded people into being Consumed, but the confidence that came with control. In hindsight, if she could have done that to the Exeters, it would have filled her with such joy, such satisfaction, that her chest may have burst. Her instructor grinned. Opposite Gwen, Le Guevel rematerialised the bible-sized "Twerp's Peerage", as well as a second book, entitled "Bonk's Genealogical Records of the Ennobled Affinities of England, Ireland and Scotland." "Study up, kitten— do what you will, or can. The more you know— the _more_ you know." Cambridge. Unable to stomach the monotony of genealogy, Gwen decided to take Lady Grey's advice to heart, diffusing her stress by wandering the wintery urban-scape of the college town as its Flaneur. Along the way, she absorbed the gothic trees and spired cathedrals, marvelling at antiquity to absolve the infirmities ailing her mind. After her lesson, post reanimation of her bangle, four Messages were waiting for her— three from Dominic Lorenzo, stating that he had returned from somewhere called the Isle of Man— and one from Elvia. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. At first, she felt immense relief. Then, considering the histrionic subtext of her last six Messages, Gwen suddenly didn't feel so rushed to listen to her companion's explanation. If Elvia carried on as though nothing happened, she wouldn't feel vindicated. If Elvia whole-heartedly apologised, she would feel guilty, and should Evee placate her with excuses; she would only grow incensed. "Evee, Evee, Evee..." Gwen inhaled the frigid air, wistfully longing for the yesteryear. Instead of replying, she walked on, listening to Dominic's Message. "... still, I can't believe you took possession of the printing press! The one in the Isle of Dogs? The Mulholland Press? AND Dwarves are arriving to repair the engine? That's incredible news. When are you in London again? Let me know; I am on standby at the moment, the battle's stalled for now. Call me if you're in town— I want to discuss your offer as Editor of this 'Metro Paper'." Dominic's gusto improved her mood somewhat, enough at least to see her saunter down Pembroke, waltz through Downing, then stroll over to the famous duck ponds at Emmanuel's, kept emerald and temperate all year round by zealous groundskeepers. The pond was smaller than Gwen expected, certainly not living up to its fame. The ducks as well, were not very numerous, not to mention over half were dull-coloured mallards. She was here because she heard from the Peterhouse lodge that these were magical ducks and that years of feasting on the sorcerous leakage had enhanced their intelligence. Come spring, when birds of prey come to descend upon the ducklings, there were observed anecdotes of the ducks calling on student and staff with cries of "Quelp! Quelp!" In winter, with the student cohort away until the Lent term began mid-January, Gwen had only ducks with which to share the pond. "Ariel! Caliban!" She released her Familiars so that they too could enjoy the sorcery-empowered emerald pond and its wasteful expenditure of the ley-lines' energies. With express orders not to harass the local fauna, her Familiars went about the place sniffing the willows and rolling in the grass, then snow. On her knee, she opened up Twerp's Peerage, and flipped the page to Exeter. At almost a centimetre thick, the section could block a Magic Missile. Gingerly, she fingered the three lions passant with a blue border of the fleur-de-lis in gold. The page began with John of Gaunt, the Lancastrian progenitor. It was fascinating, in a way, how eugenics applied to high society. But Gwen understood the obsession. Henry V, Henry of Monmouth, was a man whose military success turned England into a globe-spanning colonial superpower. Wasn't she aiming for the same? Extraordinary individuals were the way of her present world. She read on— but the material was dry, and her affections for Elvia remained tinder hot. Somewhere in the suffocating jargon, she dithered between berating Elvia and hugging the flaxen healer tight against her bosom. "Yesterday..." She hummed, the tune rolling off her subconscious. "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay..." Why Evee had to go her way, Gwen couldn't say, not without acknowledging it was all her fault. In her insecurity, she had told Elvia she was pure, then that she had to be unique, then that they would need to be equals. The contradictions had been intentional, and yet, that's what Elvia now strived to achieve. Thankfully, she found some solace in Paul McCartney, misplacing her failures in the fancy that somewhere in London, Magus McCartney and maybe Lennon was still making music with the rest of the quartet. Was there a music industry in this world? She wondered, licking her lips. Two best-of albums and she could bribe another Ruxin or two. "Quack?" Gwen almost dropped her book. Lost in her sing-song daydream, she had not realised the ducks were listening. "Quack! Quack!" An abnormally large mandarine duck, the size of a goose, appeared to accost her. Gwen put down her book to regard the strange waterfowl. To her knowledge, ducks "Quabbed", though she was neither a drake fancier nor a duckologist. Her prior expertise on ducks involved pancake, shallots, and dipping sauce. "Shaa!" Caliban slithered over. With its aura entirely suppressed, her Void snake was a beautiful, semi-transparent worm wrought of obsidian-glass. The duck turned to flee. "Wait, don't be scared." Gwen struck out a hand. Much to her surprise, the duck returned, then nuzzled her palm. Packing away her book in case the colourful duck pecked the moleskin cover, she searched her ring for food, eventually coming up with a can of SPAM. Opening the tab one-handed, she used the metal to spoon out a good chunk, then offered it to the duck. "Hungry?" "Quack!" the duck gobbled the lot. Gwen extracted the rest of the mysterious meat. "Quack!" The duck was an omnivore. Next, she produced a raw chunk of HDM. "QUACK!" Gwen marvelled as she watched the duck down the crystal shard. "Amazing, so you're a magical duck— WHOA—" "Quack!" The duck mounted her with a grandiose flap of its wings. The effect was admirable, resembling an explosive rainbow appearing and disappearing at once. "Shaa!" "Cali, down!" Gwen commanded Caliban to sit even as the duck alighted, scrunching her dress as it nestled in between her thighs. In the pale light, its feathers shimmered like Almudj's scales, while clear-cut lines of vibrant colours in sunburst, indigo and flamingo pink formed dynamic contours. It was— without a doubt, the most beautiful duck Gwen had ever seen. "Quack!" The duck implored at her with large, soulful eyes, its irises twin obsidian orbs catching the light of her reflection. Gwen felt a strange sense of endearment. Was it the rainbow-hued body? She wondered, guiltily thinking of Evee and Almudj. "I bet you're a Familiar," she said to the duck, looking around the whereabouts of their immediate vicinity to attempt visual confirmation of her hypothesis. When no sorcerer materialised to retrieve their soulful counterpart, Gwen raised a mischievous hand toward the duck's vibrant bill. "Say, does ducky want some candy?" Cycling Essence, she pooled the viridescent green motes within a cupped hand. "Ee!" Ariel, drawn by the scent, returned to the fold, scattering the ducks surrounding its mistress. "Patience, Ariel." Gwen scratched the Kirin with one hand while offering the Demi-divine nectar of life to their new companion. If indeed this was a sorcerer toying with her, then they were in for a rude awakening when their Familiar escaped the paddock for the greener grass. Likewise, if the duck was a Transmuted student playing her for a lark, then Gwen took no responsibility for what was about to happen next. "Quack?" The duck lapped at the emerald elixir. "QUACK?" Immediately, the creature's girth expanded another inch. It's neck distended further, its wings larger and longer. It's feathers, already the likeness of Almudj turned heart-achingly vivid. Gwen felt genuinely surprised that she was not being trolled. Delighted, she conjured a little more nectar and fed the rest to her adorably obedient Kirin. On her lap, the duck appeared caught in a trance as the Essence ran its course. _Ding!_ A Message spell bloomed. It was her angel-faced tormentor. "Evee!" Her voice trembled before she could apply what Le Guevel had cautioned, pushing past a masochistic impulse to ignore the Glyph. "Gwennie!" Elvia's tone wasn't at all what she had anticipated. It was unsure, distressed, and full of vulnerability. "I— I think I am in trouble!" Instinctively, Gwen felt her blood stir, her angst instantly evaporating. "What trouble? Who is it?" "No, no, not that kind of trouble," Elvia huffed. "I don't know what's happening! I pulled a Magus Fitzgerald back from the brink of death, and now they're sending me away." "Hold on," Gwen commanded her Evee to calm, guilty that she felt genuine happiness to have her helpless dolly back in the fold. "You'll have to explain from the beginning." "Okay!" Elvia's thread-thin voice tickled Gwen's ears. "This morning, I healed a War Mage from the Isle of Man who was badly wounded and on the brink of death. I did it with Kiki and Sen-sen's help, but Director Hatchley said that not even a team at Blacks would have attempted the surgery because of the low success rate. I— " Elvia halted. "— are you still angry, Gwen, if you're unhappy with me…" "Nevermind that," Gwen said, feeling the weight lift from her chest. "I wasn't mad for long. Anyway, then what happened?" "Then I kept practising on the other patients, mostly NoMs, a few lower-tier Mages as well. Director Hatchley called me into her office and said that I was now a big fish in a small pond..." Gwen's brows furrowed. Lady Grey was right. Talent bred trouble like sawmills and loose fingers. "So, when are you transferring over to the Order of the Bath?" Gwen decided a little Divination of her own might do Elvia some good. "The… Order of the Bath?" Elvia's response was one of pure puzzlement. "Aye," Gwen mimicked Hanmoul. Less than a week after politicking with humanity, she missed the Dwarves already. Communicating with the stouts had felt so effortless, for they were a race that rarely saw guile as a virtue. "Did the Knight-recruiters knockdown Director Hatchley's door?" "… Umm…" Elvia's discomfort was palpable. "Gwen, they're sending Mathias and me to the Isle of Man!" "Quack!" The duck protested when Gwen's surprise almost tore out one of its feathers. The allure of Alumdj's Essence, however, was enough to anchor the duck to her lap. "Sorry…" Gwen apologised. "Was that a duck?" Elvia asked. "Yes." "Why?" "I like ducks." Gwen mulled the place Elvia had mentioned in her mind. Where had she heard it before? "Forgive my ignorance, Evee. What's on the Isle of Man again?" On hearing the endearing nickname, Elvia's high-strung tone relaxed somewhat. "I don't know much myself, only that the Wildland folk there live among Demi-humans. They've been fighting England since forever, and there's a recent flair-up. I can't tell you more right now, only that Magus Fitzgerald— the Mage I healed, was badly wounded by a Snake Curse— that's old magic, Gwen, Animism from before Spellcraft. Director Hatchley said I was important to Nightingale and Mathias didn't volunteer, so I don't understand why I am being sent out of London again. This is all so confusing. Do you think I should ask Lady Astor? Would she be annoyed? Or Emily perhaps, maybe she can find out why? Oh, Gwennie, everything is happening so fast..." Gwen wanted to calm her companion but needed more information to ascertain Evee's present crisis, which was why urged Elvia first to take a deep breath, then make herself a cup of tea. "Okay. I get the gist of it. I'll Message you back, Evee. Let me make some enquiries. When do you deploy?" "… Tomorrow, when Mathias gets here." Elvia exhaled. "There's a whole host of us from the Great Hospitals, a 'volunteer' group..." Gwen nodded to herself. Somehow, hearing Evee's desperation filled her with a secret joy. It was good to know the Yinglong hadn't't changed her companion where it mattered. Now, she felt as if things had gotten back on track, returned to a state of yesterday. But of course, her gladness did not diminish the danger Elvia potentially faced. Closing the Message, she dialled in the Glyph for Dominic, having recalled why the "Isle of Man" sounded so familiar. _Ding!_ "Gwen?" Dominic Lorenzo sounded positively delighted. "So soon? Feeling eager?" "I am always eager for your advice, Dom," Gwen teased her sister-in-craft's old comrade. "But I'll speak to you in detail about the job once things clear up here. For now, can I ask you some questions about the Isle of Man?" "The Isle? Sure, what would you like to know?" "I've got a close friend soon to be assigned there. I want to know if it's dangerous to go. Is there a war going on?" "Ah— you've come to the right man. I was reporting on the Isle just after your Dwarfs. Indeed, things are heating up over there." "What's the trouble?" "The usual," Dominic said. "You want history or just the present-day drama?" "Explain like I am an NoM." "Well then, I'll make it succinct." Dominic paused to gather his thoughts. "Pre-England, the Isle was the domain of the Elemental Manannán, worshipped by the Gaels as the God of the Sea. The Elemental demanded a few too many virgin sacrifices from the indigenous folk, resulting in a rebellion where the Druids, aided by their fellow sufferers, the Wood Elves, captured, then enslaved Manannán. After that, the Gaels proliferated for some time— until the 13th century, when English conquest took the Isle. Since then, the conflict between the Manx, the descendants of the Gael and the Elves, and the Crown has risen and fallen with the regularity of the tide. The Mageocracy has a large presence in Douglas, an ex-Tower site, now trading port, and in Avalon, where the fabled King Arthur—" "Quack!" The mandarine duck fled from Gwen after losing another feather. "Hold up." Gwen brushed the dirt from her legs. "Are you telling me the Isle of Man is where the Knights of the Round Table happened? I am talking Merlin here— Guinevere! Lancelot!" "… why do I hear a duck?" "I was keeping it company." "The Devourer of Shenyang is keeping company with a duck?" "I am at Emmanuel's," Gwen said. "I was lonely, and besides, it's a magical duck." "… yes, Avalon," Dominic continued. "Is the where Arthur and his knights fell. An almost typical story of early colonisation. A group of enterprising Faith casters of old, armed with Relic of yore, enter the Wildlands to convert the heathens. Adventures ensued, success galore and then—" "And then they delve into the heart of darkness; their Christian ethos turns to pitch-black Void, rape and rapine become the norm before it all ends with their leader dying from malaria, bleating 'the madness… the madness…'?" "Not so… dramatically," the reporter sounded impressed. "The Round Table did fall because of individual vice— though more tragically, their quest was futile from the beginning. No, no, the Isle is the domain of the Manx, that will not change, unless—" "Unless?" "Unless the Devourer of Shenyang wants a new moniker?" Dominic's tone was full of enterprise. "I could imagine your updated title— " Gwen shivered as Dominic revelled in the journalistic possibilities. "— Gwen Song! _The Devourer of Man_!"

"The Devourer of Man." For some reason, Gwen's first thought was of Tao wiggling his brows. There was an unfortunate implication, lost in translation, whenever the Chinese spoke of the "Devourer" of Shenyang. The English inference was that of a "devouring, all-consuming force" akin to darkness at dusk. Unfortunately, the Chinese, with their cuisine-centric culture, understood "devour" to mean "swallow", as one might gluttonously consume a feast. "The Devourer of Man" therefore, was a title as aversive to Gwen as an Undead infestation. If the moniker did get out, her Babulya would need to Calm Emotion her Yeye each time a Party cadre winkingly praised their granddaughter. "You write that Dom, and I'll leave you half-consumed by Caliban," Gwen addressed Dominic's suggestion for the "title" of his article. "And why the bloodlust? What's with you English and colonial conquests?" "Say that to the Mec Vannin." Dominic's voice took on a solemn timbre. "You want to know a speciality of the Isle? Apart from the usual perils, it's the birthplace of the Manx Cat, a feline beast with no tail— instead, twin tentacles extend from its shoulder-blades, each armed with sucker-tipped mouths crowded with fangs." "Suckers lined with teeth? Please—please tell me there are natively-occurring VOID-afflicted monsters on the Isle." Gwen almost yelped. For how long had she waited for monsters of her particular Affinity to appear? "I wouldn't bet on it," Dominic curbed her enthusiasm. "Rarity aside, these are not your average monsters, Gwen. The Manx Cats are ambush-hunters, used by the Manx to serve as battle-beasts. For your friend, the principal danger to her would be these monstrosities. They're capable of warping space and travelling through barriers, blurring their presence to blend in with their surroundings, and attack from afar to drag their prey into the trees." "You've sold me. I want one." Gwen flexed her fingers. Below her, Caliban shivered in anticipation. Finally! A worthy upgrade for her worm! A compact battle form, not to mention potential Affinity for her Void Magic. "How rare are these monsters?" "Very, the original was a legend. The others exist only among the Mec Vannin." "With 'Mec Vannin' being our opposition?" "A moniker for the elf-touched Wildkin, it means the 'Sons of Man' in their bastardised language, separates them from the Wood Elves." "How curious... what do they want?" "To put it succinctly, they want the Mageocracy to get out. That's impossible of course, the Manx's long-dead King gifted the land to the Crown in 1392. The Elves have a claim, but..." "Tell me about the Elves." Gwen considered the manner of the Manx, their cats, and their patrons. In regards to the Elves, she had yet to meet one in the flesh. "These would be the Träälvor?" "Not exactly. The indigenous Elves of Man aren't the Nordic Träälvor, but the local variety— an ancient race, but not to be confused with the Silvan-Träälvor, to which the name implies. On the Isle, they mark their home in Glen Auldyn, the forest-home of the Wyld King Maleagant. They're older than England, certainly, but hail from a less developed ethnography." Gwen furrowed her brows. In her mind, Wood Elves were folk like Elrond of Rivendell of fantasy fame. For years now, she had been looking forward to meeting an alter-world Arwen, though from what Dominic was saying, these were more akin to indigenous folk. "To confirm, their woodland Spires are not empowered by the sun and alternatively fed by the moonlight, appearing like Eco-lodges in a dream?" Gwen enquired. "Nor are they fair, tall, blonde or brunette, have a thing for "Rings" and speak like folk perpetually foretelling a prophecy?" Dominic laughed. "What an imagination! No, no. The one's I've seen are proper Wildkin, all bark-skin attire, with hair and skin the hue of olives. As for their city, maybe in the privacy of their grove? The Woodland Guardians that the militia encounters, those travelling with the Manx, are a nightmare mixture of Druidic sorcery and shapeshifting horror. Remember those Manx Cats?" "Yes?" "The reason I doubt the Manx Cats' Void-Affinity, is because, despite their natural scarcity, they're a constant damned presence in the war. Why do you think that's the case?" "Ah." Gwen was seeing the whole picture now. She had spared an Owl Bear yesteryear and quickly joined the dots herself. If these were shifters then, it meant Caliban could not usurp her desired form. Additionally, she had no desire to slide down that particular slippery slope. "Druidic Shapeshifting?" "Indeed." Dominic applauded her quick-wittedness. "And therein lies the danger. Your friend may not be in danger while in combat, or while guarded by a Flight of Mages, but that's not how these Druids fight. Do you know what asymmetrical warfare is, Gwen?" "I have an idea." "That's how they've kept being a thorn: guerrilla tactics. Be it, Strangler-vine ambushes, night raids, Manx Cat assassins or harassment of civilian miners; it never ends. We can't abandon the Isle either. Avalon serves as an important Divination waypoint. The Teleportation Circle there enables reliable transit to Ireland, a pivotal Frontier too close to home to leave neglected." "And the Manx are allowed to exist?" Gwen asked an uncomfortable question. "There is debate as to whether the Crown should simply Purge the Isle of Man and be done with it. The cost has proven unattractive, as inevitably, the Elves will offer the Manx shelter from wide-area Purge bombardments." Gwen nodded to herself. As a girl-child, she had seen the collapse of the Twin Towers live on television, followed by a decade-long War on Terror that bankrupted a superpower. "… so the Isle of Man's like a tough bit of gristle; too savoury to toss, too stringy to chew." Dominic helpfully eased her "teenage" erudition. "I see." Gwen's contemplation, however, wasn't for herself. "Thanks, Dom, I'd love to know more about Manx and Camelot, but I fear I have more enquiries to make. Do you mind if we catch up later?" "Actually," Dominic said. "We shall meet very soon." "You will?" "Didn't you hear? The Americans have come out on top in the IIUC. The Oxbridge team has lost its leader and vice leader." "Oh? I haven't been keeping up with the IIUC," Gwen confessed. Since returning from London, Gwen had been non-stop updating her "basics". At the same time, she took time to settle into the Fellow's Abode in Peterhouse's domicile, collecting furniture and decorating her studio to her liking. "What was the challenge?" "A shared quest, the re-opening of an open-pit crystal mine the Grey Faction had been negotiating with the Gigantes of Castile Y Leon," Dominic explained. "Oxbridge attempted diplomacy, as did the Americans. In the end, the Rey of the Giants chose the Bostonites. An inter-Clan scuffle ensued, and Oxbridge emerged worse for wear. The Home Office is none too happy at the moment, having lost its staging post in Salamanca as a result. I can only assume the Americans are laughing since Exxon is a major sponsor for the East Coast IIUC contestants and the ones who will be taking over." Gwen tried to imagine how the Mages might have struggled against the Gigantes, an Earthen race noted by the Bestiary to possess unparalleled physical strength, high magic resistance, and calculating intelligence. Combined with arcanistry of their own, military tactics, and an Elemental Ethos of racial superiority, she could envision why her team from China would have had little chance when push came to shove. Merely the fact that the Gigantes bred Manticores the same way Lady Grey bred her hounds meant that a regular Mage Flight might just be enough to fight the family dog. "… so you'll be having your ceremony in Cambridge, after all," Dominic advised. "Assuming everything is wrapped by the weekend, you'll be receiving your title with a full ceremony here in London. Of course, I'd like an exclusive." "Even after we lost?" Gwen cocked her head, her eyes scanning the pond for her wayward duck. Presently, her rainbow-hued companion floated by the edge, eyeing the hens. "All the more reason to put more ceremony into your MVP title," Dominic said. "Oxbridge's pride demands it." Gwen agreed. "Thanks, Dom." "Anytime," the reporter returned happily. "Oh, and Gwen?" "Yes, Dom?" "If you want, I can keep an eye on your companion while in Douglas. I know the Commander there well enough to beg for an extra guard if need be." "That would be lovely. Thanks again." As soon as the light of the first Glyph died, Gwen dialled for Richard. She understood what she "ought" to do, but more than that, Gwen needed an affirming voice to fight the gnawing guilt in her chest telling her to go to Douglas. "Dick, you there?" "I am. Are you still taking the piss?" Richard's greeting betrayed nothing. "Nope, I am good. Sorry, Dick, I wasn't thinking straight." "So long as you're thinking, that's alright with me. So how may this humble one offer aid?" "Richard, I already apologised," Gwen reprimanded her cousin. "Dick, I need to pick your brain for a minute. Can you explain to me why I shouldn't make time for an excursion to the Isle of Man?" "Colour me intrigued. Who, where, and what are you up to?" Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "Just now, Evee was slated for the Isle of Man's volunteer relief-force, and I do not believe it has much to do with her latent potential," Gwen cut to the chase. "I think someone saw what happened in Merthyr Tydfil, and has decided they can play silly buggers with my friends. Maybe its Evee today, maybe you or Petra tomorrow." Her cousin-cum-advisor's reply was not immediate. There was a thoughtful pause, then another that was longer. "I don't know the answer to that. BUT— are you hoping to achieve what you managed in the Red Peak, only on the Isle?" Richard asked. "It is amazing what you did, Gwen. To say that you'll replicate the success, however, is irresponsible. From what you've told me, there was plenty of serendipity involved. For starters, what do you even know about the political insurrection there?" Gwen briefly explained Dominic's information. "That's not 'danger'— That's life," Richard's reply came without hesitation. "Speaking as someone who went to school with Elvia's brother and knew of her before you did, this is a perfect opportunity for Evee. That girl's always been indecisive and— pardon me— incapable of independent action. You and Yue coddled her in high school. Even in London, Elvia had allies galore. It may not seem it, but from what I've seen, she had more supporters the moment she stepped into Nightingale than you had after a year in Shanghai. I've been thinking about your situation with Elvia, and I say leaving Elvia benefits you both." "But—" "IF Elvia is as talented as you describe, gifted with twin-spirits, then her labour is endless by nature. She's a Cleric, Gwen. It's her prerogative to provide care for those in need. Right now, that need is in the Isle of Man. Tomorrow, it could be the foothills of Fuentes Carrionas or the Elemental Sea raging north of Istanbul. Will you leave London to protect her then? Elvia has a personal Knight of St George, and besides, she has a Contingency Ring— your Contingency Ring. In the time it takes for Mathias to perish, Elvia can teleport away unharmed. Besides, doesn't she possess Sen-sen? What on earth is going to battle an enraged draconic Ginseng the caster herself can't control? Also, will Peterhouse let you go without a Contingency Ring of your own?" Gwen touched the bare flesh on her ring finger. "Let me remind you. Did Master Kilroy accompany you to Blackheath? Did Gunther accompany you to Singapore? Did any of us in China insist we leave our responsibilities to chaperone you in Shanghai? Besides Uncle Jun, of course, he's awesome." She was beginning to regret recruiting Richard. "You know I am right. You are a Magus now. You have duties, as do I, as does Elvia, your friend. You cannot— ought not— think like Helena. Your duty, the one you chose to accept when you came to Peterhouse, is paramount. What Lady Grey has gifted you is what folks like me can only dream of— How can you repay your benefactor and your tutors through frivolous misadventure? Have you bedded her even?" "Richard, that's enough." Gwen did not enjoy being guilt-tripped, less so when the words rang true. Like dripping water, each rationale Richard provided wore away the stubborn stone wedged against her heart. "Well? Are we in agreement?" Gwen dug deep for something profound to say, only to find her well of retorts completely dry. "That's fine. I'll wait." Richard's Glyph changed hues, placing the call on idle. Seated on the bench, Gwen straightened her dress, relaxed her shoulders, then leaned back so that her neck hung over the wooden backrest. Above, the English sky was its usual hue of slate and stone; this far from the Mageocracy's centre, the infamous London smog was barely perceptible. Richard's affirmation was well-placed. It would be utterly irresponsible to run off a second time just because Elvia was being menaced by sedan-sized, tailless, shapeshifted feline assassins with tentacles. "Quack!" In the pond, her rainbow duck "quacked". She noticed that except for the abnormal specimen in their midst, most of the other ducks swam in pairs. Unwearied by the cold and warmed by the unnatural summer, amiable avian lovers paddled through the pond in companionable streams, leaving trails like open sextants. Some sat near the rushes, plucking at the reeds for nesting material. Others paddled among the stones, frolicking among the brimming water. Within this unnatural Eden, there was nought but serenity. "QUACK!" Her drake joined the fray; it's bulk cutting the rushes like a frigate. In fear, the smaller ducks fled from the rainbow monstrosity. The drake gave chase, ploughing through the water. All around the pond, the rest of the hens suddenly took flight, mounting on clamouring wings, forming a great bell-beat of feathers as concentric ripples below echoed the great ring of panicked birds above. "QUACK!" The mandarin duck waddled back dejectedly, staring at Gwen confusedly. "... fuck me." Gwen exhaled with exasperation. "… You sound upset," Richard interjected. "Evee?" "No, no— that was for a duck." "… I know you like to pick up strays." Richard's tone grew bemused. "But why a duck?" "That is a VERY good question." Gwen's eyes grew misty. "It was cute, I guess, and friendly, and I had the Essence to spare." "You're a clear and present danger to anything adorable," Richard remarked. "Is one victim not enough to satiate your cuddle-lust?" "Very funny, Dick." "So, have you reconsidered?" "Yes," Gwen answered. "I am staying in London. I don't have time to shepherd Elvia." "Good." Gwen could imagine Richard's sarcastic golf-claps. "Did you reconsider my offer from our luncheon?" "I did. Welcome aboard, I suppose. We'll head to Millwall together on Sunday, after my lesson. I'll introduce you to Wally." "Great," Richard's reply was curt and quick. "I've picked up a quest for clearing out the Slimes beneath the town. Did you post that?" "No way." Gwen's stern lips broke into a smile. "You're the one who took up Wally's quest?" "I thought as much." Richard laughed. "I'll introduce you to a few new mates from King's who will be tagging along. Got a nice place for lunch?" "I do. Indian." "Sounds colonial. See you then?" "See you, Dick." Gwen bit her lower lip. "Thanks for the pep-talk." "Anytime, Duck," Richard replied. "Stay off the drakes!" Gwen disconnected the call, then tapped in the Glyph for Elvia. "Gwen!" "Evee…" She took a deep breath. "Quack!" the duck wailed, demanding a return to innocence. "… okay, thanks, Gwennie. I'll keep safe." "See ya— Quack!" Elvia watched the light within the Device die. Steering Gwen was arguably the most dubious, and also disturbing thing she had done in all her eighteen years of life. Her mind was such a jumble of emotions that she wished she could Calm Emotion herself, even knowing that the histrionic-killing Clerical staple possessed marginal effect on the caster. Even now, knowing she had succeeded, her elevated heartrate was making her pant. On the call, Gwen had very carefully informed her that she was in no danger— so long as Mathias looked out for Druids who could transform into cats sans tails, plus tentacles. Was she disappointed that her companion did not insist on accompanying her? Elvia asked herself after a self-medicating dose of becalmed emotions. Her heart said that she was— her magically-placid mind told her it didn't matter. Contrary to what she told Gwen, she welcomed the unexpected re-deployment. The more folk like Magus Fitzgerald she could pull from the brink, the merrier and more eager her desire to be in Douglas. It was for Gwen, her friend and companion and partner, that she had put on the pretension. More than anything, more than herself, she feared that her deployment was targeted at the Devourer of Shenyang to lure her friend into the mire of war. What Gwen had done for her in Dwarfland made her inconsolably happy, but it invariably left a weakness to be exploited. If her assignment had been kept from Gwen, Elvia knew her friend well enough to know that Gwen would teleport in, Caliban and all, at the first unexpected news of her endangerment. Now, her partner had made her bed and knew to lie in it. What was surprising for Elvia was that her friend had seen the light of day so articulately, accepting her absence without contest. Was it Lady Grey? Elvia considered who would offer Gwen such sterling advice. Or perhaps Ollie, her overzealous Praelector suffering from stress-pattern baldness? That poor man needed a dose of Sen-sen's best before he lost all of his hair. Sighing, Elvia felt a strange tug of jealousy. Why was Gwennie still molesting that damned duck? Could her friend not live for one day without something cute to abuse? Cambridge. Peterhouse. Training Range. "Curve it!" Magister Kareena Patil's command whipped at Gwen's behind. "Bend it to your will!" "ARRRRGH!" Gwen flubbed her Void Bolt, a spell she could incant near-silently, but apparently not with applications of meta-magic applied. It was amazing, she conceded, how Yue managed Alesia's Transmutation-Evocation specialisation. Her friend was someone with real talent, not stolen ability. "That was utterly pedestrian." Magister Patil remained unimpressed. "You know you can do better than that." Gwen wanted to retort, but first, she had to fight down the feedback loop from the Void mana flooding back into her conduits. When she finally suppressed her breakfast, she reexamined the long list of invocations. There were hundreds in all, and via matrix-sequences, they created custom formulae that impacted a spells' range, AoE, shape, size, element, trajectory, channel and triggers. What Magister Patil wanted to squeeze from Gwen like blood from a rock was the ability to use Spellcraft not as pre-packaged incantation-chains, but as a fluid language. "When altering the inflexion, consider the previous predicate and how it modifies the core quantifiers. The second clause of Chomsky's Elemental Cipher indicates a pause— not an enjambment. It's a tongue-tap, after which the original incantation must finish within eight Glyph-notes." Gwen loosened her tongue by making a lion-face, and then a lemon-face. Her jaws ached, but that was hardly the present problem. The issue, Gwen came to acknowledge, was that she might not be equipped to exercise the complexity of the magical "programming language"— certainly not on the fly. If anything, rendering invocations were akin to the complex mathematics of her old world, something between the admixture of real and imaginary numbers, fractals in reality, with arcane wrinkles manifesting like a self-perpetuating Mandelbrot set. If she had been a real novice, she would have told herself that practice made perfect. But as one whose mind betrayed the limber youth of her body, she understood that in the distance loomed an inevitable cerebral bottleneck. What Magister Patil demanded was new tricks— but Gwen knew herself to be an old bitch not so quickly re-trained. As a magic-caster, she likened herself to a performance-pianist— fashionable and pretty and mechanically capable of producing the most celebrated works by the greatest composers. With confidence, she could stride on stage with a long slit dress to bathe in the light of ten-thousand watts. There would be applause and tears, and enough roses to fill the pit— but as for talent, she fell far short of Chopin or Liszt. Simply put, she was a spell-hack— one gifted with the hardware to enact the formulae, but abjectly poor when it came to freestyle; a master of the copy-paste, an Omnimage of common arcane application. If she was struggling with derivatives and differentiations here in the third tier, she could only imagine the horror of quantum physics past the seventh tier. Her present struggle also allowed her to relearn why her scholarly cousin, Petra, had neither time or effort to spare on matters like love, quality of life, or even Crystals. The pursuit of knowledge and expertise her instructor anticipated was a life-long endeavour. There were no shortcuts, no bypass, no convenient detours, not for one without the natural talent. "Void Bolt!" This time, she curved the Bolt, though the spell's range halved. Gwen groaned. Beside her, Magister Kareena Patil's expression had grown cold enough to quench Dwarven darksteel. "Try again, Omni-Mage." Gwen had half-a-mind to re-align her instructor's world view. The holistic pursuit of sorcerous prowess was nice in itself, but Gwen never saw the sorcerous path as the "only" way. The more she thought about it, the more she appreciated why Henry, her Master, never bothered with the explicit teaching of the secrets behind the arcanistry. What her Master preferred to emphasise was the ambiguous, big-umbrella, utopian vision endorsed by the Middle Factions. To Deathless Henry, Magic was a tool, a path to power, a badge of proficiency, a hammer to strike down nails. Rather than arcane resources, she and her Master preferred "Human" resource. Few business leaders in her world, wielding the power of nations and operating budgets higher than the expenditure of some developed countries, possessed the necessary knowledge of operative semantics. Instead, industry-leading CEOs were more often creatures of charisma, leadership, guile, ruthlessness— prophets of profit. To create a society where herself, Evee, Yue, Richard, squibs like James Ma and NoMs like Ruì could contribute their unique expertise to humanity, sorcerous supremacy was not the answer. She knew that her Babulya had said that she would walk the Path of Violent Conflict. Her Master had advocated the Middle Path. What if both could be traversed by the Golden Way, a currency-paved road of glittering HDMs? "To a lesser Acolyte, I would say repeat after me." Magister Patil tapped the runic scripts. "But that is not why we are here. Try again. No more aping, Gwen— let the 'craft' flow through your conduits." "Yes, Ma'am." Gwen refocused her mind to conduct the business at hand. For now, she would do her best. Later, she would do far better.

"Halt!" Nils Kott, Gwen's Abjuration Instructor, called for the cessation of crystalline bombardments on her opaque, double-glazed Mana Shield. "Very impressive, Magus Song." Professor Brown, who had insisted on joining the pair in the underground testing hall, boisterously clapped with cupped palms. "You'd have to thank Gunther." Gwen dispelled her barriers. "It's his Signature Shield." "A complex algorithm, requiring a creative application of external knowledge." Brown's brows remained raised. "And one well-suited for an energy-based Elementalist with high VMI. I am delighted you have it mastered so profoundly." "So 'profound' it is the only Abjuration spell she knows..." Kott's brows remained furrowed. "A miracle, considering Magus Song's achievements." Gwen chuckled guiltily. Magister Brown matched her feigned mirth. "Hardly. I've studied the unedited broadcasts. You have a knack for monster slaying, Gwen— something you shouldn't dismiss so out of hand." Kotts remained unmoved. Earlier in the week, when Major Nils Kott had grilled her on the basics of Abjuration, Gwen told the Abjuration specialist that she knew "Shield" and ONLY "Shield". In the intervening few seconds, there had been an awkward silence when they both waited for the other to speak. Eventually, it dawned on the wide-eye Kott what Gwen meant. While her time at Fudan taught her the theoretical basics of "Utilitarian" Abjuration, her application of knowledge seldom extended beyond the necessary. Her lack had all but dashed Major Kott's expectation that Gwen was looking to progress into her 'fourth-tier' of expertise— a tier from which an Abjurer mastering two-dozen spells would fall into one or more of the six pathways. Instead, Gwen had to ask Kott for clarification, which the Abjurer dutiful delivered. "Combat Abjuration" involved various forms of shielding, resistance and mitigation of incoming damage, both physical and elemental and rarely, psychic. "Structural Abjuration" inferred the protection of structures through inscriptions and Glyph Wards, such as those utilised by Enchanter-Transmuters in heavy industries. "Strategic Abjuration" comprised the protection and shielding of particular locales, a branch that served as the basis for the Resonance Crystals used by the Shielding Stations. "Tactical Abjuration" was the warding of an individual's magic against other Mages, including portable Ward-setting and wide-area reinforcements. "Restorative Abjuration" referred to the original purpose of Abjuring magic— the removal of harmful sorcery. It was a branch that emphasised removing wards, disenchanting protections, and decursing when employed in conjunction with Clerical Faith-craft. Finally, the last function of Abjuration was the hardest and most sought-after skill set, that of "Spell Piercing". As the name suggested, the sole offensive branch of Abjuration emphasised on spontaneous dispelling, disrupting and breaking of enemy invocations. Gwen's bane, the infamous "Banish" that sent her reeling more often than not, hailed from this particular offshoot. When initially Kott asked which area she wanted to focus on, her choice was Combat Abjuration, which she already had a foot-in-door, and Spell Piercing. Now, Nils Kott delivered his verdict. "I spoke to Magister Patil," the Major informed Gwen sternly. "She says that you are incapable of spontaneous meta-magic Spellshaping?" "True, thus far," Gwen clarified her insufficiencies. "Give me time, and I should be able to do it for the lower tiers." "Without spontaneous Spellshaping," Kott disregarded her deliberation. "Even with Divination-assisted live-analysis, 'Counterspelling' would prove nigh-impossible." Gwen implored her instructor for more information. It was Magister Brown who answered. "Counterspells are the most distinguished form of mana-manipulation. For instance, you require at the very least four to six seconds to weave up a Dark Tentacle. In that interval, an opponent who has studied your spell list may employ Saussure's Parallax-Matrix to agitate your mana-channel, causing you to mana burn yourself. For Evocation, a well-timed Wall's Quad-Helix Spell Jammer could prematurely ignite the mana as it forms, causing you to self-harm with Void. A feat Major Kott is well-capable of performing. It's a fate diminishable by employing Signature Spells. That said, a true Spell Piercer is capable of near-instant analysis and reconstruction. Against such an opponent, it is best to use group-tactics. Unless you're an Abjurer of equal-talent, your only recourse, regardless of your power, is to flee..." Kott's stoicism was unflappable. "...But I am sure Major Kott is teasing you." "How so?" Gwen asked. "It seems logical to me that such a Mage should be near-indomitable against a fellow caster anyway." "The number of Mages capable of spontaneous mid-tier counterspelling in London, I would count no more than a hundred. The best are at the Meister tier, followed by a majority of Magisters and a handful of Maguses. Also, the faster the spell, the less chance of interception. This is why high-tier combat Mages prefer to use small scale, mid-range magic in rapid succession as opposed to the grand sorcery of the seventh tier and above. I mean, if you're going to be spending anything between six-seconds to a minute invoking a spell, you're certainly expecting an Abjurer to shield you. If you're alone, invest in long-range bombardments and make a habit of first-strike via Divination. Who can disrupt a spell they can't see coming?" At Brown's words, Gwen felt better. "Could I turtle against a Spell Piercer?" She raised a point she had prior put to Major Kott. Magister Maxwell Brown snorted. "What is that?" "She means if she can egg-up in a Void Shell while casting spells," Kott explained Gwen's slothful proposal. "That the answer is a tentative 'yes' is an offence to Abjurers everywhere." "As an Omni-Mage," Gwen explained for her instructor. "I can devise a Shield, while simultaneously Scrying my surroundings. I could do it right now, technically, by using Link Sight with Ariel, though I am finding it almost impossible to cast upper-tier spells while my senses are preoccupied. I was discussing with Major Kott if there's any way to replicate the same spell Sobel used in Sydney, what Magister Walken calls the Dark Egg." "Devouring Chrysalis." Brown raised an all-knowing digit. "Hmm?" Gwen blinked. "The spell is called the Devouring Chrysalis," Magister Brown repeated himself. "It's in the archives on Sobel. You should know that our House Master at Emmanuel's was on a first-name basis with Deathless. You should visit, sometimes, if you're interested, I can submit a request." Gwen happily declared she would desire nothing else. "Out of curiosity, I am told you've taken a liking to our pond? Have you taken an interest in our humble abode? You're as welcome at Emmanuel's as Peterhouse..." "No no, just the ducks," Gwen denied the desire to jump ship. "The Ducks?" Brown snorted with surprise. "They speak, you know." "… they speak?" Gwen cocked her head. "In English?" "Of course not! But with Commune, from the School of Divination…" Major Kott growled. "… my apologies." Brown raised both hands. "Nil, she's all yours." "To answer your question, Magus Song. You'd be a sitting duck. No Spell Piercer worth their salt is going to find much trouble with your low-tier Void Egg— even if you are using Lord Shultz's' variation." "And yet, brother seems to do fine." "I imagine Tower Master Shultz would have no problems reducing a counter speller to dust before they could analyse a single Glyph." Kott's lip formed a tenuous curl. "The Morning Star's offence is his best defence." Another Gunther fanboy, Gwen marked Kott down in her mental notebook. Her brother-in-craft's accumulated kudos was something she dearly desired. When would she be able to imitate the sun like Gunther and be respected by men and women halfway across the world? "Do you plan on teaching her Enchantment still?" Magister Brown was not very good at keeping his mouth shut. "It seems you have your hands full with Abjuration." "A good foundation takes time." To Gwen's chagrin, Kott did not deny that his student was less suited for advanced Abjuration than he could ever imagine. "Decades, preferably." "Perhaps I could offer an accelerated pathway?" Magister Brown's eyes twinkled. "Miss Song, you must forgive Major Kott and Magister Patil. Though humble, your instructors are authorities within their respective fields. Like Lord Shultz, they represent the convergence of talent and effort— while you represent a most curious incongruity— an excess of talent, spoilt by inexperience. My proposal, therefore, is that in lieu of militant learning, I could empower a holistic learning experience..." Major Kott closed the spell tome in his hand, cutting off his compatriot. "Since you are occupied, this is as far as we go today." Her instructor rose from his seat. "Complete the unfinished Mandala diagrams in chapter three and six by Thursday, before your IIUC ceremony. I imagine there will be an interruption to our schedule once your social obligations take a front seat. Practice well, and practice often. You need it." "Understood, Major." Gwen carefully opened the thigh-thick volume to the indicated chapters, where annotations had been made for her. All she had to do was to follow Kott's precise instructions. Next, she waited for Brown to take his leave. Instead, the man invited her to come closer. "Such impatience! So much for being a Mineral Mage." Maxwell Brown's lopsided grin sent goosebumps running up her thighs. "Now then, my dear, shall we streamline your learning methodology? Intuitive sorcery, alas, is the rare privilege of casters like you and me." "I don't believe it. You look— tired." Richard felt genuinely shocked when three days on from their prior communique, he and Gwen met on the Isle of Dogs. "Shit. One sec." His cousin closed her eyes and engaged in an intense minute of concentration. Visibly, her pale and lustreless skin once again assumed its vital glow, her eyes regaining their attractive sparkle. When she exhaled, signalling the completion of the Essence circuit, Richard could visibly see the weeds around Gwen's feet grow ever-so-slightly, each blade reaching out to bootlick his cousin's beetle-black Mary Janes. "I mean it as a compliment," he rephrased his comment. "You look like you've been studying hard." "And I have." Gwen shook out her arms and legs. "You have no idea of the corners I've painted myself. My tutors are borderline obsessive. I think they're taking revenge." When Gwen explained what Brown had convinced the others to set up, he could only shake his head at their wastefulness. So many HDMs, it was only Gwen that could command such frivolous strategies. "How's Elvia?" he changed the topic when Gwen complained of a throbbing brain. Richard felt nothing particular; the flaxen-haired beauty was useful only as a source of mental consolation for his moody cousin. She was, in his mind, a medicinal flower whose bud-juices, if applied in excess, turned to the "Blue" so popular with the NoMs. When Gwen spoke of gifting Elvia the Draconic Ginseng, Richard rolled his eyes. Once again, sentimentality had ridden roughshod over rationality. As for Elvia's confession, Richard cared for nothing. The purpose of desire, he reasoned, was motivation. Attainment killed the magic. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. It should be bloody obvious to all that his Void-fed cousin walked a path few could follow. Any beings caught in her orbit need possess both the arcane and mental aptitude to endure the course. Elvia Lindholm had never been anything special, if Gwen were Jupiter, then "Evee" was no more a Galilean pseudo-moon to Yue's Ganymede or Petra's Europa. Elvia Lindholm, a celestial object? What horror would that bring to the balance? The collisions, chaos and annihilation engendered by such a thing sat against everything Richard hoped for. So what if there were tentacled felines? If some Druids could extinguish the girl, Gwen was better off without the baggage. "Evee's doing well." Gwen recollected their last exchange. "Already, she's making a name for herself. I guess that Magus Kilkenny must have set things up so that she would be well-supported." "… Fitzgerald," he reminded his overtired cousin. "...Oh, yes, of course, how could I forget Gatsby?" Gwen massaged her temples while sprouting a nonsensical Gwenism. "Sorry, Dick. Too many Mandalas. It's all that's in my head." "Perhaps a quest might soothe your fever, Duck." Richard rather liked the new nickname he bestowed her. "You could join us in the sewers. Slimes can be very exciting." Gwen shot him another withering look. "Another outfit? Oh, the hassle—" "Hey." He shrugged, pointing at his Wellington boots, then at her ankles, bare up to her knees. "Is it my fault Lea and I are perfect for the job?" At the mention of her name, Lea materialised, keen on soliciting Gwen for Essence. With a wave of his hand, Richard banished the Undine back into its pocket dimension. "Not now, sweetpea," Richard apologised to his Sprite. "Remember what we discussed. You're as good as Ariel, but I am no Gwen." "Low-key in London…" Lea's voice drifted through the air, making his hair moist. "That's right." He soothed his Undine with a jolt of mana. Looking around the entry to the Isle, he could see crows on the treetops and the roofs of the townhouses. In the distance between the pier and the townhouses, two discordant, upright figures came into view. "There's our men. I'll get them— ELIS! LUKA!" The two young men who came to join them were dressed in camo-patterned training-outfits, the same as Richard. The shorter of the two sported sandy-blonde hair, the taller, matt-black. Seeing Richard call out, they quickly approached. "Dick! You're early!" The first bowed from the waist. "This must be the divine employer." "You've been hiding her from us." The second young man, Luka, broke into a nervous grin. Gwen performed a half-curtsy, but the two university students shirked back. "Please don't." The two laughed nervously. "Dick, how about you introduce us." In high society, etiquette dictated that one must be "introduced" to one's superiors. A carcass must not walk into a conversation like a clueless rustic as Gwen had done on every occasion. "Duck, this is Elis Cox, third son of some Viscount somewhere in the Frontiers. He is our Evoker, a Lightning Mage like yourself who part-times in Illusion. He dreams of leaving for the colonies one day to make a name for himself." "My pleasure, Dick," Elis shook hands with Gwen. "… and this is Luka Spencer, a nobody like me who just happened to work hard enough to claw his way to the top of the food chain. Luka has the rare talent of Ice, perfect for Slimes. He hopes to become a Civil Engineer." "I am an Enchanter-Transmuter." Luka shook Gwen's hand as well. "I am afraid I won't be much use in combat. But I can repair the wards and put new ones in place to filter out the Slimes to prevent future inundation like the present. Please call on me again if you are satisfied with my work." "That sounds lovely." Gwen smiled, and Richard watched his mates from King's melt. He had met the duo during Lent O-week, and after some back and forth, had deemed that these two were talented enough to be useful, but sufficiently disconnected from nobility to offer an uncomplicated friendship. It was this sort of respectful partnership that Richard believed was the perfect and proper attitude his cousin should cultivate, especially considering her lack of friends. A puzzling reality for a girl who had debitors by the dozen, a lover or two, Family who loved her— but non-existent social life, discounting Lady Grey, her Familiars, and now, a duck. Richard was beginning to miss Petra. Even a Lulan or Mayuree keeping Gwen company would do. "Well, then." Richard gestured to the sludge-slathered iron gate just below the waterline. "We're going to get started. Assuming no complications, I imagine we should finish within a few hours. Are you coming or will you be shouting lunch?" "Lunch." Gwen took one look at the moss-caked brickwork and denied his invitation to participate in building rapport with the boys from King's. "After, come find me at the estate. I'll be checking Wally's books and auditing Elvia's soup kitchen." "You're going to relax by working?" Richard remarked before inspecting the present state of the docks. From what Gwen had told him, the region was in a poor state before Elvia set up her "Foundation" here on the Isle. With a steady stream of HDMs fed to the furloughed workers, the place appeared to have regained a mote of life. For once, children were playing on the quay rather than huddling at home to conserve their body warmth. He could also spot folk going about sweeping the concrete and hosing off the mud. Elsewhere, across the eastern dockyard, several flatbeds were parked outside the printing press, dragging out great gut-fulls of scrap metal from a collapsed section of the warehouse. Richard shuddered to think that Gwen was using her Void magic to dispose of trash in a shady, NoM workhouse district. If her instructors were here, the one with a wand up her arse, Patil, would probably need a Calm Emotion from Elvia. He had no idea if the Isle of Dogs would ever grow into the 'second hub' of London as Gwen proposed, but he could see the potential in an easily accessible peninsula close enough to see the Shard in all its glory. "See you later, Dick. Take care of Elis and Luka." "Til lunch, Duck." Richard parted from his cousin with a scented hug before returning to his companion's jealous eyes. "You two close?" The question came from Elis. "Not nobly close." Richard's lips curled "That said, if you're feeling it, her warmth's still lingering. I'll do you a solid. How about a second-hand hug?" Cambridge. The ides of January came on like snarling Ice Troll, blanketing London with alternating gales of powder and sleet. Gwen woke to the sound of her Alarm spell blaring away beside her skull, inconsolable but for a placating algorithm Magister Brown had demanded to enforce spontaneous spell-construction as a part of her daily living. When she finally fell out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, her hair falling about like that of a wet hag, she suffered the distinct pleasure of deciphering a spell-disjunction before the illusory Ward would allow her unvetted access to the porcelain bowl. Likewise, the hot shower she had so dearly desired accosted her with a minor Mandala puzzle requiring an articulation of random Glyph-formulae selected from her textbook. At the door of her fridge, breakfast was locked away by a Ward that required a precise spell-strike from a magic missile demanding three combinations of meta-magic, randomly selected by the embedded arcanistry. After a meal of eggs, Spam and toast, she arrived at her walk-in wardrobe, thankfully devoid of further interruptions, and reached out for a figure-hugging long-sleeved dress. A split-second later, an Octogramic Ward demanding a combination of Transmutation, Enchantment and Illusion keys overlaid itself over the wardrobe. In real-life, the Ward would trigger a tier 5 spell-strike linked to the specific element HDM it was empowered with— though presently the boobytraps in her apartment hungered for solutions. As before, if she so desired, Gwen could ignore the probing puzzles and wear the dress anyway, though that would disappoint her instructors, who had each contributed to her anguish. "This has to be Le Guevel," Gwen complained to the frigid, general air. Near the window, the heating duct, a thing almost two centuries old, plinked in the cold. Unlike most, Gwen's otherworldly constitution made her effectively immune to the cold, though heat and humidity still proved a challenge. She rummaged through the rest of her closet. An A-line tunic assaulted her eyes with a stronger Mandala than the first. The thigh-length one-piece, one of her favourites, demanded a tier 4 Illusion glyph she had never even seen before. The knee-socks could double as a minor thesis. "Jesus Christ…" Her scalp crawled. To think Le Guevel had the patience to sort her fashion wear by tiers of indecency. To test her hypothesis, Gwen laid hands on a white blouse that covered her from chin to hip. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Her hand shifted toward a minidress. A flurry of eye-straining illusions exploded forth whenever she touched the fabric. Above, she could see little carvings engraved onto the racks. If she wished to cheat, Gwen supposed, it was a simple matter of swapping the hangers. But that was beside the point. Sighing, she took down a heavy cotton skirt that reached her ankles in demure grey. Her other hand reached for a three-quarter-sleeve top. As expected, the puzzle-pieces were simple enough that her shame could be covered in under a minute. She reached for the pump heels. A half-dozen Mandalas blossomed. "...fuck." Peterhouse. Chapel. For the plethora of colleges dotting Cambridgeshire, the Chapel remained the centrepiece of each school. Some, like King's, held royal patronage and served as the home to the Queen's Choir. Comparatively, though not the largest nor the most magnificent, Peterhouse's lacquered arches provided an intimacy that the transmuted marble at King's lacked. “Deus est caritas, et qui manet in caritate in Deo manet, et Deus in eo: sit Deus in nobis, et nos maneamus in ipso. Amen…” The final words of Peterhouse's College Grace, read by the Vice-Chancellor, faded into the candle-lit air. A smattering of lumen-bulbs turned the panelled interior quicksilver. With perfect poise, Marchioness Maxine Loftus spoke sternly of solidarity and tenacity in these trying times of the Empire before relenting to the Chief Proctor from Brussels— Magister Helmut Peeters. For Gwen who stood in her subfusc and crimson mantle, the rows of staff, the faculty, and the gathered students returning to attend the Lent term delivered a vivid flashback to her first day at Blackwattle. The speaker, a platinum-haired, fatherly Director of Events from Brussels, appeared a simulacrum of Jules Bartlett, her old principal. "Mages, Maguses, Magisters— it gives me great pleasure today to welcome you all to this concluding occasion of the 2004 IIUC. With me today are our esteemed host, the Lady of Ely, Vice-Chancellor Lord Alfred Butterfield, fellow members of the campus, and finally— the object for which we are here gathered— Magus Gwen Song." Polite applause greeted the Chief Proctor. "It takes a village— or as it were, two colleges, to raise a Mage to prominence." Chief Proctor Peeters was happy to sail on without a hint of irony. "And tenacity. And Persistence. And experience, for which Gwen Song has exhibited much— certainly no less than many of us today who survived the Beast Tide. From Sydney to Shanghai, and now Cambridge, our starlet is a Mage dear to every leyline a Tower has touched. In Burma, Magus Song has shown leadership and wisdom beyond her years. In Cuzco, she created miracles in a land famous for revelations in saving Lord Inti. Then again, in Dalian, China, she took that expertise for which she is now famous, and applied it to the direst threat facing Humanity— the Undead." "While many of us, Proctors included, sat safely in our armchairs— Miss Song faced a Soul Eater and taught the renegade the meaning of humility. In her subsequent engagement, she confronted a Lich, fighting the fiend to a stand-still until aid arrived in the form of Magister Walken of Oxbridge—" Walken bowed. Bulbs flashed. In the stands, Gwen saw his wife and child clapping happily. "As for what came to pass— I need not tally for you here. Even now, the rebuilding of Shenyang proceeds at full flight, with our allies of the Orient industriously revitalising the Liaoning Frontier to cage the threat." More bulbs flashed, vivifying her two-toned irises. Standing in full view of the gathered crowd, Gwen studied the many faces present. Most on either wing, Ollie included, hailed from Peterhouse itself, roped by the Lady into filling the gallery. Others from Kings and the fraternity colleges, including Richard and his friends, sat nearer the exit. "… Magus Song, step forward." Gwen's Mary Janes clacked across the polished, mirror-shine floor. "By the power invested in me through the International Inter-University Tribunal, I present to thee, the title of Most Valuable Participant in the 2004 competition year." Outside, a brass clock struck noon; inside, applause assaulted the vaulted roof. "...As well, it is with great pleasure that we also present the accompanying prize— An MVP Contingency Ring, wrought with treaties ratified by each and very Tower from London to Tokyo to Auckland." In a manner not unlike a proposal, the Chief Proctor materialised, then presented a clamshell ring-box. The Creature Core that accompanied the betokened life-saving jewel scintillated as the lumen-globes fired, vivifying its Glyph-lit interior. Like a knight receiving her first Spellsword, Gwen knelt on one knee as instructed, first collecting a Tyrian sash over the rainbow-hued cloth provided by Peterhouse, each representing a proficient School of Magic, then bowing to receive her reward. A ring of such stature— ratified by all states, was a rare and precious gift indeed. It was a thing whose value did not lie in the cost of creation nor the rarity of its materials, but in the political capital it represented. A Mage that arrived at a Tower bearing such a ring was fortified by favours, treaties, alliances— and threats of expulsion should a Tower fail to uphold the universal agreement that led to the item's creation. In front of the lumen-recorders, Gwen placed the ring onto her finger; her silhouette made mercury by the sheer volume of flaring bulbs. In front of an envious audience, she invoked the silent Glyph passed onto her by the helpful Magister Peeters, then raised a dainty white hand to signal that the reward bonded to her Astral Soul. "I look forward to your future service, Magus Song." Magister Peeters stood to one side, leaving Gwen in the limelight. In turns, she briefly joined hands with Lady Grey for the photo-op, then again with Magister Butterfield, then was once more alone. From the crowd of reporters, the familiar face of Dominic Lorenzo came into view. Out of the thong of thrusting pens and jostling gestures, Gwen hand-picked her future Editor. "Magus Song, would you like to say a few words to the future contestants of London for bringing home such as auspicious title?" "I would," Gwen proceeded as rehearsed. "I want to thank my teammates from Shanghai, Lady Grey of Peterhouse and Dean Luo of Fudan, my colleagues, my mentors, and my brother and sister-in-craft for this honour..." She paused for effect. "But I would also like to point out that while we are warm and snug here in the Chapel, bathed in the music of the spheres, there are Mages out there— Mages like my friend Elvia Lindholm of Nightingale's, fighting to save lives, labouring to keep the Mageocracy in one piece. Milady's speech was no sentiment— it is the reality of where we, as a society, stand today." "Miss Elvia Lindholm?" Dominic feigned surprise. "By who you mean the upstart Cleric with a Draconic Ginseng Spirit and an Alarune? The favoured of Lady Astor?" The other reporters grew silent. A few began to scribble in their notebooks. "The very same," Gwen's imploring presence filled the dais as she tapped into her well of Essence. Her next words were enough to vibrate the stained mana-crystals depicting St Peter's reception of the Nazarene. "My selfless Evee! Volunteering in Douglas! On the Isle of Man! Pulling Mages from the brink of Death while fending off the Manx! Putting duty before pleasure, even the attendance of her dearest friend's international ascension! Evee, if you're watching, stay true to the course! All of us here, we're cheering for you!"

Around the world's imagined corners, the troubles of the Mageocracy toiled on and on. From the Isle of Man to Kandahar to the Great Australian Blight, folk wrestled with predicaments large and small, be it an intricate Mandala sealing a too-short skirt, or a strategic one poaching Mermen in the Baltic Sea. Ten thousand kilometres from where Humans fought the Manx and Dwarves fought the Murk, lay the mystical mount of Huangshan. There, Ryxi, the unrecognised oldest scion of the Yinglong, wise beyond human comprehension, mulled over the final verse of the Huiwen, a twenty-nine by twenty-nine character rhyming verse that could be read forward or backwards, horizontally, vertically, or diagonally. For almost two centuries, Ryxi could not find the time to compose his palindrome masterpiece. Golos daily attempted to rob or mate with the goats, carps, and various offerings Ryxi cultivated for their Father's abode. Whether or not the Yinglong subsumed said offering was no business of his, but as Lotus Peak's majordomo, he refused to shirk from his divine duty. In the year since the Calamity came to Huangshan, much had changed in his changeless home. Ayxin, the oppressive brother-now-sister, Father's favourite, had gone down into the lower realms to nest. Ruxin, who had been away for several decades, recently came to announce that he had found a peak in a place called Nagaland and would not be returning. For good measure, their 'eldest' had also taken Golos with him, which was _guzen_ to Ryxi's ear holes. _Thank Father's feathers!_ Ryxi rejoiced. From being pummelled by an iron-willed Ayxin, a pea-brained Golos and an overbearing Ruxin, he was free. With Father dreaming in the Unformed Land, he could do as he pleased. Sharing his serene sentiment, a pearl of limewater fell from a waxy pine-needle. On impulse, Ryxi's dragon-whisker _maobi_ danced across the silkscreen, flowing like water, moving of its own accord. Opposite his pavilion, a peak ten-millennia in the making stood solitary as his Father's austere self. On his serpent-tongue, he savoured the scent of midnight frost melting into morning dew, dripping as the pines bowed, a chorus of scholars paying homage to the White Serpent ancestor. "Ten thousand clouds, ten thousand streams, Here I lie, an idle Snake, Roaming green peaks by day, Coiled by cliffs, slumbering peacefully From juniper to juniper, springs to autumns, Free of heat and disturbance, my genteel mind. Sweetness in solitude, needing nothing, Silent as the autumn river's—" _SCHWING!— THUNK!_ A murderous shard of glimmering iron, spinning at such velocity that it ignited the air, passed between one rising crag and another. Mid-flight, the mana enveloping the projectile forced it to curve around the arc of a vibrating pine before striking a granite rock face. "SHATTERING SWORD!" On impact, a shard of metal almost as tall as Ryxi's human form erupted into a thousand fragments of spiralling alloy, stripping the cliff of every inch of plant life. With a slow and agonising rumble, the granite began to split, no longer capable of bearing its top-heavy trees. In front of Ryxi's very eyes, the object of his versification crumbled then crashed down below, setting off flocks of startled avians. With a snap, the bamboo brush in Ryxi's hands snapped in half. "… Lulan!" Ryxi called out. Just when he thought he as finally alone! Why was it so hard for a snake to find peace? "Lulan! Why are you still here?" "Shifu! You called?" With a resounding " _Clang!"_ of clashing iron, the dashing figure of a sword-woman leapt from the Shan-Shui landscape onto the pavilion, as vibrant as a brushstroke. Where she landed, the jade tile fractured, sending tremors of despair through Ryxi's otherwise slow-beating heart. "Shifu!" Lulan bowed. "I am rushing the practice you set before I return to Shanghai. As I'll be absent for a few weeks, I've added the missed training to my existing schedule. I'll master the Third Form soon! I promise!" Ryxi recalled that indeed, it was he who had given her a grandiose speech about adhering to his training even if she died. It had only been a month, but already the human girl was showing progress. The Sword Art of Huashan was one of the Five Schools during the Song Dynasty for excellent reasons. What made Ryxi nervous was that, while the style's original creators emphasised on the philosophy of "tapping reeds like Dragonfly, strike like plum blossoms"— this Lulan wielded the gentlemen's sword like a butcher's cleaver, especially now that her internal techniques, corrupted by forgetful time, was repaired by Ryxi at the behest of Ayxin and Ruxin. To her credit, though Ryxi could trap the limber Kenshi in a Mist Maze for all of eternity, he would not want to fight the girl head-on. "There's no need!" The White Jade Serpent of Lotus Peak wept over his paint-speckled silk from the mid-Ming period. He could magic the blemishes away, of course, but as its creator, he couldn't unsee the imperfections. "Won't you be late for Ruxin's quest?" "No, Shifu! I shall use the Flying Sword technique you taught!" Lulan willed a hovering slab of sword-shaped iron into being. "I can make it to Shanghai in three hours if I use Body Reinforcement." Ryxi winced. Just the thought of Lulan slinging through the air, leaving contrails of disturbed mist made his scales ache. He was a serpent of delicacy and ethereal grace, as were the Sword Arts he taught. If so, how did he manage to train up a female Golos? "Then go." Ryxi sent out a gust to send Lulan drifting into the peak. "I'll disable the Mist Maze. Don't return until your earthly duties are done!" "What can I bring you from the human world, Shifu?" Lulan shouted as she drifted down the mount. "More paintings?" Ryxi paused. There was something he wanted. "Lumen Crystals!" he called out. "Moving pictures! Bring me all the moving pictures!" Ruì Li, advisory to Director Marong of the House of M, personal assistant to "he who must not be named" and General Manager of Gwen Song's estates in Shanghai, could scarcely believe she stood now as an equal to Professor James Ma. Her folk were a family of farmers labouring in the Canton Frontier until her father got a position as a machine operator. The income from that fortuitous position was enough to put Rui and her brothers through the municipal high school, an endeavour in which Ruì excelled, receiving a scholarship to attend Canton University. At the NoM college, Ruì once again proved herself a prodigy, ultimately landing herself in Fudan, with a bright future as an accountant at a Mage-owned firm in the bright and shiny southern capital. At Fudan, she met Professor Ma, her mentor. Who introduced her to Gwen Song, her boss. Gwen then introduced her to Director Marong, a merchant-prince from Burma. Then, while touring working the House of M, Marong brought Ruì before her backer's backer. Before the age of fourteen, Ruì could not recall speaking to a Magus. Now, she trafficked with a deity. Lord Ruxin, as Marong had called the giant with stag-horns and white hair, was Miss Song's celestial investor. Ruì recalled bowing so deep her forehead almost touched her shoes. What else could she do? She doubted crawling on all fours would make the Land God like her anymore. As Gwen had said— for an NoM, being useful was more endearing than being slick. After she explained her relation to Gwen, Lord Ruxin asked for the present state of Gwen's holdings, now his equity. With the sagacity of one reading her palm-lines, Ruì had launched into a torrent of numbers and statistics, projections of expenses and anticipated revenue, threats, weaknesses and stakes. "A hundred and forty-six thousand, sixty-seven-four-fifty HDMs, Sire!" Ruì had called out with her clarion voice. "Annually?" "Last quarter, Sire!" The Land God ranked higher than a king, and so Rui took a title often used by actors on period, Lumen-screen dramas. "I like this one," the stag-horned giant had mused. "That all?" "No, Sire!" "No?" "That amount is Quarterly, for the Tonglv Canal, and the fund itself. Milady's investments additionally include land from Phase 2, both residential and commercial investments. At her discretion, I've made investments on her behalf in the local service industry. Our secondary portfolio recorded an earning of sixteen-thousand-five-hundred HDMs last quarter." "Marong?" "Yes, Sire?" "Keep this mortal safe." "I shall, my Lord." Marong stood quietly to one side. "… we've also made tertiary investments…" Ruì recalled continuing like a stuck lumen-recorder. Bathed in that august presence, she couldn't stop for fear of peeing herself. "Eleven per cent of all stage one equity has been diversified into stocks of companies servicing Tonglv. Since the full operation began in April, the tertiary portfolio has seen an increase of seven-hundred-and-ten per cent…" When finally she was forced to take a breath, the Land God appeared well-pleased. "Tis a rare day a mortal could please me so," the voice boomed from the jade dais. "I shall reward you. For now, you may go." "But Sire." Ruì realised that at some point, so much adrenaline had flooded her spine it had ceased to flop. "That was for Tonglv, Sir. I haven't told you of Milady's Centurion holdings…" Twenty minutes later, the Land God's laughter filled the palace. "Good! Good—" "B-but, Sire." Ruì was on fire. If she died right now, her parents would be proud knowing it was the result of spontaneous combustion while facing down a Mythic being. "There's still Milady Gwen's branding payouts— and I've yet to cover the Jade trade…" The Land God's presence had flooded the chamber— then Ruì knew no more. "Ruì— hey, Ruì! Focus." Ruì shook herself from the intensity of her recollection. "Any idea why we're being summoned before the Tonglv triumvirate?" James Ma stood with his arms crossed, flanked by two assistants, both Government-assigned bodyguards. Since becoming the head of the auditing tribunal, the former professor had entered the Party's Secretariat department with a provisional rank of Inspector General. "Lulan? Do you know?" Behind Ruì, there stood a now-famous Mage Ruì could call a friend. Lulan Li of Huashan, a compatriot of her Missus Boss' and a student of the Land God's lesser minion. "I've been told to protect Miss Ruì." After a few months of absence, Lulan's face had lost some of its puppy fat. The Sword Mage, Ruì felt, appeared like the keen edge of a blade. "From Shifu's telepathic conversations, I think it has to do with Gwen." "Ah—" James Ma nodded. "So its come at last." "What has?" Lulan cocked her head. "Gwen's out of reach. What can they do to her here?" "It's not Gwen they're after, but her assets here in Shanghai." Secretariat-Inspector Ma pursed his thin lips. "I guess that resolves one mystery. I guess it is in the nature of Clanners to step on their toes. Unlike us scholar-bureaucratic families, the Clans are well-set in certain compulsions." "I don't understand." Lulan appeared as confused as ever. The mana in her pupils smouldered like tempering iron. "Are we under attack?" She made a one-handed chopping motion. Ruì grew instantly nervous. "Please calm yourself, Miss Lulan. Miss Song is very wise. Also, we're in the Fung's building right now." "Gwen is 'Magus Song' now, from what I've learned. Ruì is right though. You shouldn't bare your fangs just yet." Ma regarded her puzzlingly. "I can foresee how this might go, but I don't understand why you're both here. They could have sent for the audit report you and I have provided." "I am Miss Song's legal proxy for some of her investments," Ruì explained. In truth, she couldn't fathom why she'd been sent either. Her orders from Director Marong had been to simply answer the Tonglv Triumvirate's questions to the best of her abilities and with complete honesty. According to Marong, things would somehow work out, and that Lulan was merely there to keep her safe. As for what purpose she served, Ruì knew her place. In a Mages' game of 'Go', NoMs were less than spell-fodder. Dai Fung had always thought that the line of Fung would end because of his screw up, such as a hot-headed exchange with a Secretary's scion, and not with his father's lofty ambitions. Beside him, the Tonglv triumvirate lounged in the glass-walled boardroom atop the Fung corporate building. Internally, Dai's guts were performing pirouettes. For months now, he had attempted to persuade his father, the Governor-Secretary of Nantong, to relent on recovering Gwen's share of the Tonglv project. An iron-clad agreement from Pudong Tower aside, he had gotten a glimpse of what lurked behind the Void sorceress' bottomless portfolio while working for the currency-witch and knew Gwen's backers consisted of more than a humble Party-Secretary Yeye and a Hospital Director Nainai. "You look nervous, xiao-Fung." Tu Guangshao of the Shanghai Economics board toked on an ivory length of "Double Happiness", filling his lungs with flavourful mana. Dai did his best to smile. "Your boy's still got feelings for the traitorous harlot?" Magister Quin Chen, the Party official overseeing the Tonglv project, had grown fat since the end of phase one. With profits from the projects rolling into the Party's coffers, he had been paving his way upward, hoping that one day, he too would sit upon the Central Committees. "She was something, eh? Those legs— the very best of east meets west. Haha, to be young..." Dai briefly envisioned punching the man's teeth in. "Dai, control yourself!" Usually, his father's voice sounded to Dai like a whip. Presently, Dai could hardly hear the noise coming from the head of the table. "— Good. They're here." With a sucking sound, the massive, double-door entry to the executive boardroom unsealed itself. Two doormen held the panes while their guests, Secretary James Ma, overseer of the Tonglv Audit Committee, and Ruì, Gwen's personal-accountant, entered the room on clicking heels. Behind the NoM, Dai caught the familiar face of Lulan Li, the Sword Mage from Huashan, famous in all of China thanks to the IIUC broadcasts. Were it not for the fact that she had disappeared of late, her darling face would be plastered all over Tonglv's billboards. Across the floor, Ruì stood demure as a mouse. Though the NoM's parents were peasants, Dai had since learned not to demean the girl's talents. What she had, he sorely lacked. It was a stern lesson he took to heart, for though Gwen was now absent, their old crew, Effi and Terence, now worked for Dai. Additionally, he now had a whole contingent of NoM accountants working under him, reporting to him the undercurrents flowing beneath the Fung's auspicious exterior. That was also why Dai knew the Fungs were in dire straits. As Gwen had long anticipated and Ma had warned— it was in the very nature of the Clans to eat the grass around their hutch to fatten themselves. Were it not for the absurd volume of HDMs filtering into the company; the Clan's coffers would have long been hollowed out. Or, a more disturbing insight interrupted his thought. Were it not for Gwen and the mass of crystals flooding into the Fung's coffers— their Clan would have remained the mud-Emperors of Nantong and not have leapt onto that precarious platform called Party politics. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. It was a calamity in the making— the higher one's rise, alas, the harder the impact, and in Dai's opinion, the Fungs of Nantong had soared far too close to the Central Committee's five-point celestial star. Opposite from Dai, he could see Ruì was terrified, which was a natural response. Beside her, James Ma's demeanour was one of amusement. What did Fudan's ex-professor know? Dai desired more than anything to find out. From the hands of servants, precious tea from Fur-Peak greeted the guests and hosts. One for each, but none for Ruì. Dai's lips twitched. With a stern glare, he commanded another cup to be made available. "Please help yourselves," his father began, ignoring Dai's actions. The Patriarch did not appear bothered by the fact that James Ma seemed unfazed. "Since we are all here, I will waste no time. For some time now, we have entertained the architect of our Tonglv Project, Magus Song. As the granddaughter of Committee Chair Guo Song, she was someone we have placed great faith in bringing continued prosperity to the State and the Party." James Ma said nothing. Ruì stared at the table, avoiding the Patriarch's eyes. "However," Shen Fung continued. "It is without a doubt that Gwen Song is no longer that young lady of the House of Song we so admired. You've all seen the broadcast of her receiving her title from the IIUC. Gwen Song! Of Cambridge! A travesty of loyalty and piety! She has forgotten her roots! You've all seen her bearing her crimson mantle, smiling as she held the hands of her British hound masters." James Ma nodded. Ruì studied the woodgrain. "Allow me." Tu took over. "Tonglv— is a critical infrastructural component for Shanghai and the Party. As a representative of the Economic Activities Committee, I cannot— will not— allow a foreigner partial ownership of the Canal. I have already communicated this reality with our Regional Development office, and have a secured Secretary Jiang's compliance. We have additionally obtained confirmation from London that Gwen Song is in league with the capitalist-imperialist Ravenport. Thereby, for the good of Tonglv, for the people of Nantong and the motherland itself, I declare that the triumvirate will rescind the contract given to Miss Song, and withdraw the single percentage stake of the Canal's Class-A shares." Their opponents remained silent. Dai quaked. It was happening! Why wasn't Ma up in arms? He desperately looked to his father, only to be met with a dead-eyed command to remain silent. "Of course, we are not without guilt," Magister Chen added his piece. "We too, must take responsibility for misplacing our trust. The Tonglv Committee will repay Miss Song for her losses, based on the price at which she originally acquired the shares." Ruì suddenly looked up. "Lords and Sirs. The original shares are worth less than a thousandth of what Tonglv is currently trading." Shen Fung furrowed his brows. "You are not here for input, Miss Ruì. You are here to execute the order we have delivered. James, what say you?" "A fair deduction." James Ma inclined his chin. Dai held his breath. Something was coming. He could feel it in his Astral Body. It was only natural that Ma was unimpressed. Gwen had said that she had planned for this eventuality. He had even forewarned his father, but who in Shen's lair of nepotistic favours had bothered to dig deep enough to uncover what favours Gwen had trafficked? Dai had looked into it himself and turned up nothing— not a mote! Something— someone— at Pudong, had obfuscated Gwen's financial activities. Was it James Ma? Or someone higher? "Sirs." Ruì humbly bowed her head. "I can't process your command to rescind Miss Song's shares. That is not within my given privileges." A round of snorting sneers answered the NoM woman. To Dai's growing anxiety, Ruì no longer appeared so intimidated. "All you have to do." Tu's patience for NoMs was non-existent. "Is take these contracts…" The man slid over a thick stack of papers. "... And inform Miss Song she needs to sign them." "I can't do that—" "Miss LI!" Magister Chen raised his voice. "You forget your place! Do you know who we are? What we stand for? You are not the Devourer of Shenyang!" Lulan moved to stand beside Ruì. The Sword Mage was like a sheathed blade, waiting to be drawn. Dai heard his father laugh under his breath. Shen Fung did that whenever he grew annoyed or angry. The idea that an NoM woman, an accountant at that, was telling them she would not execute their order was magnitudes beyond what he and the two fat men beside him could stomach. "Ma, control your underling." Tu turned to the professor. "She's not one of mine." Ma shrugged. "Besides, she's right. There's nothing Miss Ruì can do for you." "Then you do it," Tu growled. "You're on the committee. You can bring us her asset report and execute the transfer once she signs." "I can't do that either." Ma shook his head. "Why not?" Chen's tone grew dangerous. Since Chen was an inner-Party official, Dai guessed, the professor-turned vice-secretary was less wary of Ma like the others. Moreso, Chen had always been jealous of Ma, a squib, who had received more power from the Central committee than he. "You can't shield her, Ma. It'll be the death of you. I'll have you and that accountant there charged with treasonous activities." "Hahahaha…" Ma began to laugh. Dai baulked. It was a rare day that a squib mocked Mages. Such carelessness was suicide. Ma had even left his bodyguards in the lobby. "Have you gone mad?" Dai watched his father stand to point an accusatory finger. "Ma, what did the girl give you?" "It's complicated." James Ma shook his head. "Ruì, care to clarify?" "Miss Song no longer owns any of the assets you wish to reclaim," Ruì explained slowly and meticulously, as if to children. "I can't process the rescind order even if the legalities allowed for such a thing. What doesn't belong to Magus Song cannot be returned." Following Ruì's words, a vast silence descended. Dai closed his eyes, then slowly reopened them. Everything remained in its place— this was not a bad dream. He knew Gwen would not have let things lie as they were. "Your mistress must have made out like a mountain bandit." It was Shen Fung, Dai's father, who first broke the silence. Having received the warning from Dai, he knew well enough that Gwen had cards left in play. "No matter, let the records show what revenue she has absconded withal. We will recover every HDM, mark my words." "… I am afraid that's not possible." This time, it was James Ma who spoke. "I oversaw that transfer a month or so back. The young lady received a sum of exactly ZERO HDMs. No Shares, no warrants, no dividends. Nothing." "Bullshit!" Tu slapped the table so hard the mahogany trembled. "I would have known!" "I passed it upward." Ma's lips curled with pleasure. "Maybe the transaction was authorised, maybe not, I am just an auditor. My only role was to ascertain Magus Song's total assets at the moment of transfer." At Ma's deflection, the trio's attention returned to Ruì. "Magus Song now owns no assets in Tonglv, or in Shanghai itself..." Dai inhaled as the air grew suddenly thick. As for what came next, there were three very angry, surprised, and frustrated Magus-tier casters in the room: Shen Fung. Tu Guangshao And Chen Quin. The four bodyguards from the Fung Clan as well had at least one School of Magic at the fourth tier, in addition to their Clan's secret arts. The mana pressure exerted by the sheer hostility of the Mages was enough to compress the air around the poor NoM accountant like a wall. Very quickly, Ruì's face filled with blood. Without an Astral Body of their own, NoMs could easily asphyxiate from the aura exuded by an upper-tier Mage. "Who now owns the sorceress' shares?" Shen Fung demanded. "Show me those files," Tu demanded the ring on Ruì's finger. "We'll get to the bottom of this. If your western whore of a mistress thinks she can jilt the Tonglv Economics Committee, she's in for a very long and unpleasant surprise, and so are you." Dai desired to act, but it was Lulan Li who stepped forward in his place. CLANG! With a single swing of her arm, a massive blade wider and taller than her body materialised from thin air. The blade-metal sliced the space between the triumvirate and the panting NoM and squib, instantly severing the pressure. At the same time, the single block of whetted alloy split clean through the century-old conference table's arm-thick lumber, then cleaved deeply into the reinforced concrete. Dai's heart leapt to his throat. Sword Energy? Sword Ki? Ken-ki? What ancient power was this? The building itself was protected against higher-tier destructive magic and built on a ley-node! Abjuration, Transmutation and even Fengshui reinforced it! To slice into the concrete like butter— what man could erect a Shield to withstand a strike like that? His father was making a terrible mistake! Things were spiralling out of control! "… INSOLENCE!" Shen Fung raised a hand to command the guards. As one, the Clan's elite members drew their wands. Tu's frustration was also at his limits. With a snarl, the hypocritical patriot Earthen Mage called upon a dozen rods of iron projectiles empowered by British magic, enabled by an American-made wand. Chen, ever the scholar, took two steps back and inexpertly worked on his cowardly Illusion. Every hair stood on Dai's body. Gwen would never send someone like Lulan to die a dog's death. His father might not believe it, but when Dai had chummed with Tao and Mina, the siblings had revealed that Gwen's IIUC excursions had netted her patrons, allies, and debtors from all over the world. He wasn't sure if any of them could pressure the CCP, rival the Party in power, but Gwen was the girl who liberated Shenyang, fought a Lich! No matter his father's confidence, or Tu's bribes, or Chen's delusions of Party grandeur— it was entirely possible Gwen had the eye of someone in the politburo. What if that was why she saw his admiration only as a distraction? There was someone else, maybe, a Party Secretary, or a European prince, who could be her amorous sponsor! "Father— NO!" Dai knew it was now or never. He had to gamble everything. If Dai failed, he would be excommunicated by Shen, removed from the line of succession, chased out of Nantong. But if he succeeded and his guess was right— Then the Nantong Fungs might still exist tomorrow! Bodily, Dai leapt in front of Lulan and Ruì. "Patriarch! You're making a terrible mistake!" "Dai!" His father growled like a Water Ghost. "Get out of the Mao-damned way, you ingrate—" _DING!_ A blooming Message spell exploded beside Shen's, Tu's, and Quin's ear, visible to all. For those in the know, they perceived it to be a missive from the Party directorial office, delivered through the elevated channels occupied by the Confidential Communications Committee. Dai watched as Shen Fung looked at his son, at his partners, then lowered his hand. _DING!_ The spell tolled on, demanding public redress. His father touched a finger to his wrist. "Wei, send it through." Without ceremony, the Message resounded through the room. The voice that broadcasted itself was strange to all but the three who oversaw Tonglv. "Mister Fung. I humbly ask you and your men to stand down when my men arrive. Should there be a confrontation, I have given full authority to my proxy to deal with you as they see fit…" Dai did not know the voice, but from the way his Father's face turned instantly ashen, he could guess to whom it belonged. Secretary-General Miao Yang-Bò! He who oversaw the Central Commission for Discipline and Inspection! The unseen-hand, holding the leashes! The watcher who watches the watchers. Who else could bypass his father's web of alliances? Who else couldn't care less for Tu and Chen's cocoon of favours? "… take a seat. Do not fret. Your deliverance will soon arrive." Magister Chen found an executive chair and sunk into the luxurious leather. He clutched his chest with one hand, while the other supported his torso so he could remain upright. Tu too had turned the colour of ash as he mopped the sweat pouring from his head with the palm of his hand, adding to the stains on his rapidly yellowing collar. Dai met his father's eyes. An adage his father often sprouted in Dai's youth came to mind. "Do no evil in the bright day. Fear no evil in the night." The CCDI had appropriated the same ancient aphorism as its eight-worded motto. "Curb desire at day, fear no knocking at dark." Sure, Gwen was fleecing the Tonglv project hundreds of thousands of HDMs a year, but she did so legally. Could the Fung Clan say the same? Could Tu? Or Chen? How bottomless was their greed, that they could not stomach losing even one-hundredth of the money Tonglv made? And now it was all too late. Like a man exhaling for the last time, the double doors opened once more. Shen, Tu and Chen all rose to greet the inspector sent by the CCDI. When they saw the familiar face, the blood drained from their bodies once more. Chen grew so weak that he even sank to the floor and had to be helped by a guard. "U-uncle Jun!" Dai blurted out when he met the man's eyes. "You're here? But…" But of course. Tao and Mina had mentioned in passing that Miao Yang-Bò spoke to Gwen during an incident involving her Father's wedding in Hangzhou. Behind Jun were other members of the CCDI, staff with absolute loyalty to the Party apparatus, bound by Geas and indoctrinated from childhood. Before Dai could bow and scrap, another figure entered the room. A woman. No, Dai reminded himself. A goddess. If Gwen was beautiful, then this vision of loveliness was the single most alluring being he had ever beheld in all his years. It wasn't so much her hair, her vivid eyes, the flawlessness of her skin, or the stature of her svelte figure— it was that her presence grew beyond what humanity could engender. She was otherworldly: that was all Dai could fathom as her aura filled the room. "Shishu." Lulan bowed from the waist. Master-Uncle? Dai's jaws clenched reflexively. It took a second for his mental faculties to process the archaic title, and when they did, he understood that he was in the presence of a being whose bloodline hailed from a time when the Fung still fished with sticks and stones. "Lord Ayxin." Shen Fung held out his hands in a bygone, dynastic act of supplication. "The Nantong Fungs welcome the scion of the Yinglong to our humble abode." "Greetings to Lord Ayxin." Tu quaked. "Greetings to Lord Ayxin." Chen did his best to retain what dignity he had left. The guards fell to one knee. Ruì was already on both knees, though the girl knelt to one side, in the manner of a vassal. Dai's face violently filled with blood. Like observing the end of a contentious game of Go, the final checker-piece fell into place. Secretary-General Miao. Jun Song. Princess Ayxin. Lulan Li's Master-Uncle. Ruì— awed but unsurprised. James Ma's great gloat. Gwen's absent assets. _Mao's balls!_ Dai felt as though his mana channels were about to erupt. He lacked a mouth but was full of desire to scream and howl. GWEN SOLD THEM OUT TO A DRAGON. That's why Secretary-General Miao was involved! A Dragon! The Huangshan princess! That she owned a portion of Tonglv meant that a mythic now held a mutual interest in China's infrastructure! The old dogs in the Party were paying tithes in all but name to the master of southern China's rice bowl! Since the inception of the CCP, the Party had struggled to create meaningful dialogue, and now, thanks to Jun— or Gwen— and Ayxin, they had it! Praise the Three Gorges! Across the room, Dai could see that his father must have reached the same conclusion. For a moment, their eyes met, and Dai saw in the usually imperturbable mien of his esteemed father, such despair and self-loathing that his heart instantly ruptured. "Vataka!" Ayxin gave the command. "What gall you must possess to threaten one of my brother's employees? AND one of our disciples? I could flay your souls and not quail a mote of our family's anger!" Dai allowed his body to fold. The triumvirate who had not knelt crashed to the floor, not so much that they could not resist Ayxin's Dragon-tongue, but that they dared not. With the CCDI even now securing the building and Jun, the uncle of the very girl whose shares they attempted to usurp watching like a hawk, they knew there was nowhere to run, that a teenager had outplayed them all. "How dangerous is human greed, to desire more than you deserve," Jun remarked. To Dai, the war hero appeared younger than in the posters he recalled. "Ruì, Lulu, why are you kneeling? Professor, please get up. Ayxin?" The Dragon-fear relented. Ma and his men retrieved themselves with Jun's aid. Jun took a stroll around the cleaved table, whistled, patted Lulan on the head, then reached Dai. Dai looked up. "Get up, Mister Fung." With great unwillingness, Dai stood. "Don't fret." Jun's hand on his shoulder possessed the weight of mountains. "Gwen told me about you. And we've also seen how you've followed her advice in governing Tonglv— curbing nepotism, fully-auditing accounts. Well done, xiao-Fung." Dai choked. "My… my father." "Will live, thanks to you." Jun's amiable mien may as well be the risen sun, melting the winter ice. "Those other two, however, will be taking a trip to Nagaland. As for Patriarch Fung. We'll be mining his memories, delicately, so that he will recover in time. That said, a dozen years in Stasis goes without question. An example must be made." "Nagaland?" Dai mumbled over his words. "Father? Stasis? Why?" "Bribery of Party officials— fermenting dissent, conspiring to form a party-within-the-Party. Disturbing the peace. Profiteering from Party infrastructure. Misuse of public funds. Tax Evasion." Jun sighed. "Gwen left the Fung's something amazing. Was it not enough? I don't know whether to praise or scold her for the flood of Penal Mages now serving in Shenyang. Tonglv might seem like an ascension to most, but to me, all I see is an enormous rat-trap." Behind the two, the Dragon goddess muttered something in a language Dai could not understand. Tu's whimpering ceased at once— not because the man had grown a spine, but because he had become entirely rigid. It was Stasis— an upper-tier multi-school magic Dai had only heard rumours of existing. A spell that held one's body frozen in time, or managed a visual facsimile, while horrifyingly, left one's mind free to think and wonder. In Tianlanqiao, the spell required two mandalas, powered by a ley-line connected to a multi-storey structure. "Mao, please, I have a family. I have grandchildren…" Chen whimpered as Ayxin approached. "Please, princess, have mercy, think of your children. Have compassion—" "Vataka!" _THWACK!_ Chen slammed himself wetly against the floor so hard that when he once again lifted his face, it bled from every orifice. Without expression, the Dragon-Princess performed the same rite. "You two are a reparation gift." Ayxin's face was without expression. "Don't worry; your family will be going with you. Every one of them that has benefited from the hoard you stole from my brother, will answer in his Jade Court." Dai dared not glance at his father's shivering form. Instead, he addressed Jun once more. "How… could the Party just surrender its citizen like this? They misappropriated funds. They didn't hurt anyone." Jun cut him off before he could finish. "HDMs? Is that all? These are men who have fed on the flesh of their fellow citizens, young Lord of the Fung Clan. As of now, almost a million of our people are reliant on the canal for their daily rice. From the meanest peddler to Ma's senior auditors, the seasonal labourer to our Committee Chair. Your father— Tu and Chen, though they have not maimed anyone personally, they've done untold harm to tens of thousands. Because they wanted more power, Crystals meant for investments bled out from Tonglv. Hundreds of thousands of workers, maybe more, were underpaid or not paid at all. How do you think those luckless workers in the Districts survived the winter? How about their starving wives and daughters? Because of their unnatural ambition, goals went unmet in phase two, land sold for cheap to their friends and families. But what about the jobs those sales were engendering? The workers whose wages were paid for by the project profits? What of Tonglv's municipality, who never received the land tax? Who could keep the Districts running on hot air? Fresh food, clean water, books for the children, Awaken Crystals! Are these not lives in themselves? No, they may not have killed anyone— but fractions of a hundred-thousand-lives were lost." Dai nodded. Could he have stopped his father? Tonglv was the infinite rice cooker Gwen had filled for the Clan of Fung. It was a golden goose that laid Mithril eggs, conjured from thin air— but for the Clans, one goose wasn't enough. What Jun said wasn't arcane. The Grey Ghost's mantra from Mao's Red Book was a lesson all knew but few heeded. "Dai!" Shen Fung's final words rang across the boardroom as Jun's men politely bound his wrists. "Son, save the Clan!" Looking at the queerly familiar silhouette of Ayxin, Dai felt such regret that he had fallen for that vision of loveliness at the House of M. If he had controlled himself then— if he had walked away— He was the one who had invited Gwen into the Fung's midst. And sure, Tonglv had elevated the Fung Clan to lofty heights of late. But what goes up, must come down. And now, the Fung Clan may never rise again. Evening. The Nantong-Shanghai Expressway. Against Jun, Ayxin lounged on the Drake-skin leather of the palatial German automobile the government had provided for her outings. She was in a delicate mood, one she seldom showed to her companion, feeling a discontent that only rose to the fore whenever Jun or someone discussed the matter of Gwen Song. Her lover still held enormous sentiments for his niece— fatherly feelings, as familial as his filial respect for Klavdiya. Yet, they caused Ayxin untold upset. Consciously, she attributed her burgeoning emotions to her gradual humanisation. To understand Jun, his family, and to provide for a family of her own, she had allowed herself a gradual increase in mortal sensations. Jun, for example, had a preference for excessively spiced food— a habit he professed to be weaning from thanks to her revitalisation of his Ash-tainted senses. As for Ayxin herself, she had no preferences other than for what Jun preferred. The mortal foodstuff in the lower realms had the Essence value of dust compared to the creatures fed by her Father's occupancy. To that end, she had made demands to Ryxi to supply their meals. "Ayxin…" Jun turned his head to kiss her forehead. In his eyes, she could see her visage reflected, a sight that well pleased her. "Do you think Gwen planned for all of this? If she did— Mao help us, that girl is inhuman." "No," Ayxin refuted all credit to Jun's slithering, green-eyed niece. "Ruxin is the one mastering the claim." "Oh thank Mao," Jun exhaled, laughing nervously. "Of course, that makes more sense." Ayxin turned away, suddenly disquieted. Had the Calamity planned for any of this? Surely her eldest was the master behind the puppet? If not— Ayxin observed the goosebumps rising on her bare thighs. Jun was looking as well, though likely for entirely different reasons. A curious thing, Ayxin wetted her lips; unlike her Draconic-form, her human body possessed a mind of its own.

"Chin up!" With a finger, Magus Keridwen Le Guevel teased her student's profile until she achieved the desired limberness. "My dear, you have an enviously inviting neck." "That's not ominous at all." Gwen mindfully swallowed, tracing the wandering digit with her eyes. "There aren't any Vampires in Cambridge, are there? Square jaw, smoky eyes, sparkles in the sun?" "One could hope," Le Guevel cooed. "England isn't the untamed Eastern Reaches. I wonder, though. You would make a wonderful diplomat, with such tempting veins, rich with the unclaimed blood of a virgin." At the V-word, Gwen stumbled forward, her left foot tripping on her four-inch heels, the ball of her foot landing on her instructor's shoe. "Oh my god…" Wincing in sympathy, Gwen made a face. At six-foot-something, she was not light like Elvia. "Keri, are you alright?" "I am… fine," Le Guevel's mouth spoke without moving. "You're sweating…" "And you need to keep your chin up— Mind your expression, dear." Magus Le Guevel recovered through sheer force of will. "You're not Devouring. You're dancing." Gwen did her best to put on a felicitous expression while her instructor attempted to regain her mobility. "This time, follow my lead." Her tutor took Gwen by the fingers. "Chin up— poise is the point of the cotillion. We'll get you into a corset and petticoat soon, kitten." "Er… please don't." Gwen rigidly swung her limbs, at once thrilled and horrified by the prospect. To her chagrin, her upper body and lower body appeared to possess separate nervous systems. "How is this so hard?" "Be patient, dear. As with Spellcraft, you'll get there." "Why is this necessary again?" Gwen sighed. "Isn't this sort of thing outdated?" "The cotillion? Outdated?" Magus Le Guevel snapped back indignantly. "Exclusivity is the point, kitten. Besides, how do you expect to spend your days and nights in high society? Show off your crates of HDMs? Compare Magic Items? God forbid you debate politics in public! A good mixer, pussy cat, is diplomacy! Be it a quadrille or a tango or a grand waltz— they'll tell you more about a man than any words. If your horizontal fandango is as uncoordinated as your vertical waltz—" Gwen snorted. "Do you doubt our lesson, young noviciate?" "I wouldn't use so strong a word." Gwen shook out her stiff arms. "I get it. But it's not Mind Magic." "So you do doubt." Le Guevel snorted back. "Take my hand. I will show you. Are you familiar with the box step?" "I might be." Gwen met her instructor's fingers with her own. Le Guevel's sinews were taut like piano wires, expert and in control, a stark contrast to her own. "Let's begin." Le Guevel led her forward, placing a palm so intimately against Gwen's tapered waist that Gwen's face grew flushed. In the next moment, when the illusory-music began to play, student and instructor stood skin to skin, an inch apart, with Le Guevel's breath warm on the nape of her exposed neck while around them, a vague Blue Danube lulled from bar to bar. At first, her steps continued its confusion, but once she fell in rhythm with the tempo, her body felt far more natural. Le Guevel's unorthodox lessons continued. "From the subtle tremors of your partner's hand, you may sense their sincerity. This close, you can feel the rush of heat under their skin when they lie." Once the Waltz got going, Gwen felt as though caught in a trance. When was the last time she danced with someone in either of her two lives? "Good… now that we are joined at the hip— answer a question for me." "Go on." Gwen allowed her body to follow its instincts. Was it the human touch she craved? It had been weeks since she took her dose of Evee. "Kitten. Are your feelings for Miss Lindholm the result of indiscriminate longing for companionship?" Gwen retreated a step, tripped over her ankles, then overcorrected by pulling on her instructor and swinging her right foot forward. "See how easily you can unbalance an opponent?" the Illusionist spoke through clenched teeth. "... Sorry about your shoes." "You should be." Her teacher studied the ceiling, her expression unflappable. "They're Parisian." The Isle of Man. Fort Nook. The Angel of Douglas, famous on Vid-cast, would have preferred being roasted in the interior of a Manx effigy to her present assignment. Never in all her eighteen years of life had she ever entertained the notion that someone was better off staying dead on her operating table. The very idea that leaving a woman to bleed out from a Serpent Curse could prevent unimaginable miseries had never occurred to Elvia before— and now that it did, she suffered for it. Perhaps if Gwen were here, her savvy friend would know what to do, come up with an endearing excuse. Herself was woefully equipped to deal with the demands of her present dilemma. After surviving GOS, after the bullying and the hazing and the alienation, after Mathias and Red Peak and the Yinglong; she had thought herself fortified against the Wildlands. But not, apparently, against the depth of human depravity. Even now— this very instant that she worked her magic, a part of her wanted to snuff out the life pressed between her forefinger and her thumb. It would be so easy, a little push, a nudge, and the suffering sinner would face the highest court of justice. But just as likely, her present patient could be innocent and ignorant, like her. The dissonance was enough to drive her mad. "Sen-sen, Kiki, we're done here." Elvia raised her bloody hands. "Nurse, clean up. Sergeant Smith should wake up in an hour." "Yes, Dr Lindholm!" Her trio of assistant nurses obeyed without question. Unlike at GOS or Nightingale, numbers were the only thing that mattered in a field hospital. For Elvia, her accumulative success had gained her respect, adoration and faith. A worship she had welcomed with complete innocence until she found the mangled Manx boy outside the fort. Now, every near-cadaver that passed through her station made her question her credo. Nonetheless, she instinctually healed each of her patients, knowing that the responsibilities of a physician were intrinsic. She was not judge and jury, and she would not be the executioner either, even if she suspected their crimes. "I'll be making the rounds," Elvia informed the guards as she passed, inviting winsome smiles and wholehearted salutes. Her Spirits, the sauntering Sen-sen and her gliding Alraune, likewise received benedictions in the form of Prime Element LDMs harvested from the isle's interior. Outside the triage tent, Mathias was already waiting. "Elvia." Mathias appeared to have not slept for some time. The young Knight's eyes were sallow despite her vitality-infusions. Her protector too had suffered from the burden of knowledge. "I've just come back from the Brig. They've rounded up more of them since this morning." "Manx Tree-Striders?" Mathias shook his head. "Civvies, both men and women. I heard the militia gloat about the Colonel's latest ventures. They say she raided one of their Grots." "Kiki!" The petals on Elvia's Alraune grew scarlet. "Where's the Colonel now?" "Out foraging, again; she should be back in the evening." Foraging— Elvia shuddered. If only she knew what that meant the first time. Elvia attempted to weigh the pros and cons of her desired action, but her head was a scrambled mess of wants and wishes, preventing an informed decision. But then again, it didn't matter. She would follow her heart first; what was the alternative? Leave the locals to suffer needlessly? Very quickly, she made for the lower reaches of the encampment, where new Manx prisoners were covertly fed into "The Brig". From the courtyard, she crossed the murder holes, passing by Mages who stopped to wave. Once down the cliff face steps and through the carved out line-break, she and Mathias arrived at a secondary court levelled from the hillside by ancient Earthen Transmuters. Though the fort's upper tier was new, the structure itself was a chimeric mess of encampments from each of the "Manx Wars" spanning the centuries. Opposite Fort Nook's hillside, Elvia could see the Port of Douglas. During the 14th century, the original fort served as a bastion for English forces under Henry V. Together with Avalon on the isle's north-east, and Fort Erin nearer the isle's south, the triple locale serviced London's sovereignty. The Brig was divorced from the main encampment, located in a part of the fort that few would visit. Were it not for the boy and Mathias' subsequent enquiries, Elvia would not have even known it existed and would have blithely restored every monster that came her way. "Dr Lindholm, Ser Rothwell." The guards at the grated gates stood to attention. Their faces were friendly, but their body language spoke of wariness. "This area is out of bounds." "But not to one executing duties as a member of the medical staff." Elvia gave them the most charming grin she could muster, fighting the self-loathing and wondering how Gwen dealt with bad people so readily. "Please open the gate. Cleanliness is Godliness. I'd hate to treat you all for infections." The guards' mien took on complicated expressions. "Ma'am, the Colonel has given an explicit command to bar you from entry." "Why?" "It is dangerous for an august personage like yourself to visit the Brig. These Manx, they're animals." "And the Angel of Douglas can't be aiding and abetting an enemy," the younger of the guards, a corporal, repeated something he must have heard from a higher up. "I am afraid he's right." The senior of the two scratched his nose. "You're a member of civ-staff as well. You need permission. I am sorry, Doc." Elvia looked to Mathias. "Corporal." Mathias stepped forward. "As a Knight of St Michael, I have extra-special powers of inspection regarding her Majesty's armed forces. As such, I shall now exercise—" _Aarrrrrrgh— Aarrrrrgh—_ The cry that came from below was barely a whisper. The walls were thick stone reinforced by rebar. Whatever happened beyond the rusty portcullis, occurred in darkness, out of sight and out of mind. That was the purpose of the Brig. Elvia grew momentarily paralysed by that terrible sound. "Mattie, tell them to let me in." "Ma'am—" The guards placed their hands on the pommel of their wands. "There is no—" "LET ME IN!" Before Mathias could speak, Elvia felt the heat rise in her chest. With her Essence-enhanced senses, she could hear the scream again, and to her chagrin, she knew the owner. It was the Manx boy. God damn it! God damn these bottled spiders! These abortive devils! How could they?! "Sen-sen!" "Sen!" Her Ginseng Sprite obeyed without delay, impairing the pair with a crash of fear so poignant it may as well be liquid. The men vomited, reduced to jelly as they prostrated on the floor. Facing the miserable cretins, Elvia erased all conflicted feeling of guilt. For the "Fear" to truly work its wickedness, the user had to infuse the aura with harmful intent and emotion— and right now, she was anything but a walking Tower of fury and vengeance. "Elvia." Mathias stood in her way. "They're just following orders." A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Elvia did not agree. God gave all men the infinite faculty of choice, and these men had made theirs. "Sen. Take the gate down." "Sen!" The ground cracked. A dozen tendrils as thick as Elvia's waist sprouted from the diminutive Sen-sen, forming a bizarre and disproportionate spectacle. Once the Ginseng dug in, it took only two tugs for the metal to warp, then for the gate itself to be wholly removed from the Warded walls, resulting in a shower of zig-zagging mana. "Assuming there's a next time." Mathias watched while Kiki subdued the guards with a sting to their necks. "Let me cut the gate. At least that would be repairable." Saying nothing, Elvia entered the horridly dank stairway leading downward into the Brig. Once a medieval castle, the fort's under-chambers previously served as storage. It was built from dark stone naturally resistant to magic, especially the kind wielded by the Druids of the isle. "I'll lead." Mathias pushed his body in front of her. Elvia nodded. There was the likelihood of physical traps in a place like Fort Nook, with its history of perpetual war going back millennia and more. A level later, the Knight's worries had been proven false. There were no flesh-turning Warding Glyphs. There was, however, the mercenaries. _Spak!_ The sound of a Magic Missile pinging off Mathias' Armour of Faith resounded sharply in the corridor. Ahead of Elvia, her Knight growled. Mathias appeared calm on the surface, but his biometrics spoke only of fury. "SMITE!" The Knight glowed briefly golden as the spell struck. The impact was followed shortly by the sound of a shattering shield, then the muffled thunk of a body hitting the floor. Around the corner, the Knight's victim came into view. A middle-aged Mage, one of the many recruited by the Colonel, a "volunteer". "Healing Word!" Elvia made sure their assailant lived to pay for his crimes. "This way." Mathias pointed to the door from which the merc had emerged. Inside was another guard; one Mathias politely dispatched— though that was no business of Elvia's. She ran instead to the hog-tied silhouette in the cell and tore the tendon-like ropes with her bare fingers. When the boy came into view, Elvia's blood curdled. Presently, he was naked and unconscious, breathing in alternating rhythms of fast and slow. His arms and legs, and the area near his ribs, were covered in little black scabs. His head was shaved bald, and worst of all, the long, tapered ears the Manx had inherited from their Elven forefathers had been hacked down to the stump. Elvia's fingers trembled even as Mathias audibly swore, infringing on his oath. _A week ago. A WEEK AGO!_ She and Mathias had found him below the fort, in a pile of indiscriminate trash. The dying boy was covered in the same wounds from neck to groin. Disturbed, Elvia had healed the boy then and there, inadvertently saving his life. She and Mathias had argued, then they allowed the boy to flee. Afterwards, Mathias had made enquiries, and that was when they found "The Brig". The same knowledge revealed why the Colonel had earlier arrived at Elvia's operation table riddled with arrows, why three-dozen Manx, two Druids among them, had risked and lost their lives to ambush the Isle's commander. Beside the boy, on an old, rickety table laden with rusted tools, Mathias picked up the boy's file. "It says here..." The Knight's tone could crack the stonework. "There has been a confession. A confession that the Manx had stolen from the granary, from the fort itself, from the townsfolk. It says there's going to be an armed rebellion, and that in a month, there will be an all-out war against the kingdom. It says here that the boy is a spy, a scout." "Bastards!" Elvia bit back the bitter beginnings of seething tears. She willed Kiki to inject the boy with a dose of pleasant dreams, then with the greatest delicacy, she infused the Manx child with a vivifying surge of Essence-laced Positive Energy. The boy stirred, awoken by the bone-scraping itch of mending flesh. When the scabs fell from his body, Elvia could see that this time, there was no restoring his ears. The cartilage was sawed off. There would be no intervention without higher magics. The boy fought to open his eyes. When they finally did, his orbs were full of vacant violence, when he opened his mouth— Elvia gasped. The boy's teeth, or the lack of it, turned her stomach. "Calm Emotion! Bless!" She blasted the boy with twin fortification, one for the mind and the other for the body. _"Deirfiúr!"_ The boy spoke sloppily, bewildered by his surroundings, his eyes swimming in their sockets. The Calm Emotion had hidden the horror, but lucidity brought new terrors to his waking mind. _"Deirfiúr! Deirfiúr!"_ "What's _Deirfiúr?"_ Elvia looked to Mathias, who had a Translation Stone. "... _sister."_ Mathias swallowed. "... Mathias..." Elvia could no longer think straight. Quickly, she doused herself with Sen-sen's latent Essence, flooding her conduits with a tolerance she could not otherwise possess. "I'll go on ahead." Her Knight volunteered. Spellsword in hand, the warden of St Michael's Oath proceeded down the corridor, moving out of sight, hollering for who else was left in the Brig to give themselves up. Inside the small cell, Elvia asked her Ginseng to bundle the boy in a nest of tendrils. Kiki sprayed the corridor with neurotoxins in case more of the island's militia arrived. Furiously, she turned her mind over and over, trying to think of a way forward. If there was one solace, it was that thanks to Gwen's uninvited vid-cast, her present reputation had her high on an unwanted pedestal. A dozen senior Maguses like Fitzgerald and even the Colonel herself owed her their health. It meant that no matter the Colonel's rage, she would have to weigh her options before confronting her. What must she do to expose the isle's commander? Elvia queried herself. The confession the boy had signed made him an enemy combatant. There would be duplicates, even if Mathias burned the folder. If the Manx boy were human, the Tower would afford him certain rights, but as a demi-human— Elvia glanced at the vacant boy, restored but for his teeth and ears. The Manx, with their olive-hued dermis, came in colours ranging from sweet birch to chocolate mahogany. Their eyes, much larger than a human's, were fox-like and vivifying, not unlike Gwen's. With their high cheekbones and petite mouths, the long-living demi-humans appeared younger than their years. _Subhuman,_ according to the Colonel— but _human_ enough for Elvia to hate her own kind. But feelings aside, her present dilemma remained. She had effectively broken into the isle's private prison and attacked its men. How could she turn this around? What would Gwennie do? _Ding!_ An urgent Message came from Mathias. In between the warded walls, Elvia could hear the distinct sound of her Knight's Radiant Rays scorching the stonework, as well as the familiar din of rapid spell casting from his opponents. "Follow me, stay close." Elvia placed the half-conscious youth between herself and Kiki, sending Sen-sen to lead the way. Past the muggy, low-ceiling corridor and its ancient stonework, she came upon the guard's quarters. Within, Mathias had subdued the mercenaries by slicing their drinking table in twain, along with the wine and the cans of bully beef, scorching the cards and the gambling chips with his Radiant Aura. Elvia could see that her Knight shook with barely contained fury. His armament, a suit of Faith-laced Mage armour empowered by a minor Relic of St Michael, glimmered on and off like a bulb. With her arrival, Mathias stared so hard Elvia was half-way tempted to bestow a Calm Emotion on her companion. Numerically, the diagnostic overlay of her enchanted eyes marked the young man's hypertension as well-past two-hundred. "Blackguards! Traitors to the Mageocracy! The honour..." _Honour?_ Elvia sighed. She moved past Mathias, past the four singed Mages standing with their faces to the wall, then looked into the dozen or so cells spanning the lower reach of the makeshift dungeon. The first two cells held victims of harsh interrogation. The third held something far worse. "Don't look!" Mathias was still far too overprotective. Elvia recalled the story Gwen once told of her finding such a scene in the lair of a Water Ghost chieftain. What Gwen tried to narrate, her diagnostic magic told her far more than she could ever desire to know. The Manx female would live, that much she could ascertain— for the mercenaries' cruel sport, as well as the extorted confession, a live victim was necessary. And all of this was the work of the Colonel. The same platinum-haired, blue-eyed Colonel who had publically commended her, kissing her cheeks! Now the thrice-damned demoness was once again out there, foraging for the Manx— all thanks to Elvia. "… I'll melt this place to magma." Mathias' fury came across in a silent Message. "Evee, the shame… it's too much. How could this happen? We're long past the Beast Tide, and yet, these Mages are worse than the Beastmen. Now we know why the common folk can't ever be in command!" Elvia had no answers for her Knight-companion. She wasn't Gwen, who could fathom everything. What she did have, however, was the beginnings of an idea that only she could enact. As a famous no one who belonged to no House, no Faction, and whose patrons paid only in lip service, she was free— free and unindentured to do what was necessary. What was the worst that could happen— could they send her to another Frontier to heal the needy? Restore the NoMs? Thinking of her attention-loving partner, an idea coalesced. "Mattie," Elvia spoke while Kiki kept the guards dreaming until kingdom come. "Are the reporters still in Douglas?" "Reporters?" Mathias did not comprehend her purpose. "If they are, they'll be at the port, drinking at the Sea Shanty." "Get Dominic." Elvia willed Kiki to do her thing. "Contact the base, sound the alarm. Tell everyone to bring everyone. Every lumen-recorder…" Realisation dawned on her partner's face. "Evee— I can take care of this. I swore an oath to uphold what's good. The militia can't fault me without infringing on the Knights' Code. But you…" "No, it's fine," Elvia shook her head. She was involved now. "Who needs an 'oath' to do what's right?" Elvia activated her Message Device as well. She had no idea who was in cahoots, nor did she care. The horrors here must be brought into the light. The Message spell chimed. Elvia greeted the man responsible for her presence on the isle. "Elvia?" the sound of Magus Fitzgerald's gravelly voice sounded concerned. "What's the matter? You sound upset." "Sir," Elvia needed no acting to voice her rioting emotions. "I need you to come down to the southern end of Fort Nook. I found something, and I need your help." The Lord Earl Marshall of Britain was in the middle of a meeting when the news broke that the timed Warding Glyph regarding Tonglv had erupted spectacularly. Outside, mid-conversation with his agent in Hong Kong, a second Crow from the Fifth Cabal arrived with developing events from the Isle of Man. Thanks to their man there, Dominic Lorenzo, the Foreign Service had gained twenty-four hours to frame the narrative before the news-cycle struck. Unfazed, the Duke of Norfolk communed with his officers, then reclused himself to the executive suite reserved for the Lord Marshall of England, deep within the tiered halls of the Westminster Palace. Once seated, Mycroft cooly massaged his temples, relaxed his brows, then settled down to think. That the communists' capitalist venture would implode had been within expectations. Conversely, the Isle of Man was an ongoing headache. There was nothing like conflict close to home to burden the population with war fatigue. Now, the sentiment would only sour. On the surface, the two events would appear separate. But beneath the beneath, Mycroft could see the interconnected ley-lines. For Shanghai, what his agents had failed to foresee, was that a teenage Void Sorceress would rope a family of Mythics into managing a portion of Tonglv's revenue stream. That and her patron was Ruxin, newly minted Lord of Nagaland, Kachin and Manipur, the offspring of the mythical Yinglong. To complicate matters, with Yangoon's Tower underway, his Faction considered Ruxin a vital ally for regional stability. As for the twin-Spirted troublemaker in Fort Nook spoiling Colonel Tarleton's stratagem, the same sorceress was responsible. How was it all correlated? The seemingly disjointed nature of what should be interconnected was what grated on Mycroft's nerves. With an outreached Mage Hand, Mycroft punched an unseen Glyph. The cold air circulating the room thrummed, coalescing until it formed a vague, female silhouette. Ravenport closed his eyes and calmly meditated, wary of the Negative Energy flowing underfoot, feeding the Mandala etched into the ancient woodwork. Across from the Marshall's table, nearer the centre of the room, the shadow of unlife grew substantial, birthing red cloth like velvety wine from an open casket. Atop the fount of falling fabric, a white face blossomed, wreathed in braided strands of crow-black hair. "My lord." The female figure bowed her head. "Morrigan." Ravenport dipped his chin. "I require clarification." "Of course. Your tithe?" The Duke of Norfolk extended his hand, from his palm, a single orb of sanguine blood drifted forward. Tenderly, the spectre parted her mouth, resting the droplet on her wanton tongue. "You should cut down on the sugar." The phantom licked her lips. "Very well, by oath and hearth— How may I serve?" Ravenport gathered his thoughts. His thrall-Sprite had little patience for matters outside its domain. "I want everything gathered by the Crows, foreign and domestic, on the subject of Gwen Song, correlated with the Tonglv Project in Nantong. Search array should be between 2003 to late 2004. Process the reports in order of incidence, add keywords for the Dragons of Huangshan— Yinglong, Ayxin, Ruxin, Golos." "Gwen Song. Understood." Like rich wine soaking into the corduroy carpet, Morrigan sunk unto the Mandala, burrowing into the vaults beneath Westminster Palace, where a million shelves housed the unfathomable volumes necessary in running an Empire as broad in scope as the Mageocracy. It took the phantom only fifteen minutes to return. One by one, the reports opened themselves for Ravenport's convenience, held in a semi-circle before and above the Duke in the manner of an orchestral pit surrounding a wanded conductor. Each by each, the dossiers appeared unenterprising. Together, they were enough to construe a fanciful tale of events unfolding first in Nagaland, then Yangoon, then Nantong and Shanghai. After a focused hour, Mycroft concluded that the Mageocracy needed to invest more analysts to evaluate the intelligence filtering in from Hong Kong and Shanghai. The Communists had censored much of the information surrounding the Dragons of Huangshan, but the tale-telling facts had not been missed— only disregarded. In hindsight, was the girl's involvement coincidental or explicit? If the latter, when had she begun to sow the seeds of change? Around the time of the IIUC? Or earlier? "Morrigan, arrange the dossier via chronology and region, start with Shanghai, then Yangoon, Kachin, Huangshan, Dalian and finally Shenyang." "As you wish." With hindsight and a dozen hovering files floating around him, Mycroft Ravenport tentatively appended the missing connections. "… Morrigan, bring forward all articles with mentions of Gwen Song." The scarlet phantom performed as was told. Mycroft Ravenport sighed. The emerging pattern told an unlikely tale. How could a single human Mage bring about such radical change? If Gwen Song rivalled Sobel, and if Kilroy still worked behind the scenes, then maybe, he was willing to entertain the possibility. But according to these reports, the girl had no political backing, no Factional membership, and no more than a dozen spells, none above the sixth tier. What was the source of Maxine's confidence? What of Gunther Shultz, was he involved? Now, he had to make good on the promise of finding the girl an apt instructor, the means for which lay in Snowdonia. Mycroft felt a peculiar thrill as his gaze swept over the levitating reports. A part of him detested the scandal of being humbled by so young an opponent. Another part of him welcomed a skilled adversary, one whose potential, adequately directed, could bolster the Mageocracy's upward momentum. Out of habit, his skeletal fingers drummed the ancient oak of the brass-bound Griffin-hide throne. Curiously, his rumoured bastard was settling into London wholeheartedly. According to Morrigan, the girl held unnatural affections for Fort Nook's troublemaker. Concurrently, the Order of the Bath was closely following the healer's performance on the isle. If so, regardless of the Knight Elector's decision, he could put in a petition to have the girl inducted. There was also the girl's first cousin, Richard, presently studying at King's College. Like the Cleric, the prior Prince's candidate, an ambitious young man with a steady hand for Crow work, was a seed worth cultivating. Additionally, according to Cambridge, yet another family member was on the way. What had prompted the memo on Petra Kuznetsova was the girl's prior history as a Red Ghost in training from Moscow Tower, a femme fatale abandoned by the late "Master" Popov. Finally, there was Dominic Lorenzo, soon to become the girl's confidant. A secret smile touched the Duke of Norfolk's lips. There was undoubtedly much work to be done. "Thank you, Morrigan. That will be all. Please keep a bird on our Void Sorceress at all times." "Understood." The spectre dissolved. Gradually, the secret room regained its previous temperature. Tonglv. Communists. Dragons. Mycroft Ravenport finally relaxed. The lass was a hellcat to be sure. Just as well, fortune and success made for snug collars.

Cambridge. Maxwell Brown, Professor of Advanced Spellcraft Theory at Emmanuel College, inspected the adjacent laboratory he had vacated for his new colleague, "Meister" Wen. For a while now, he'd been in an ebullient mood, ever since their schooling of the Void Sorceress began in earnest. As a member of the staff responsible for grooming the university's premier show pony and the Mageocracy's future workhorse, Brown considered himself a holistic devotee to the Omni-Mage known as Gwen Song. On the subject of Void Magic, Gwen was a fount of untapped potential, providing answers for so many questions Deathless Kilroy had left long neglected for want of materials. Answers to long-held enquiries such as how did Sobel grow so powerful and so quickly found a sterling reply in the rapid rise of Gwen from a mewling Evoker to ravaging a city. Likewise, the confounding question of Sobel's survival in the intervening years was now an answer free for the men of Spellcraft to plumb. Deathless Kilroy! An existence for whom Maxwell Brown held the greatest ardour! One of the original architects of the later-day Mageocracy! The progenitor of the Towers! The maker of the witch who had reversed the Crown's downward spiral! There was little wonder that the metaphysical child of Sobel and Kilroy should stand at the apex of the specimen pile. After Sobel's initial success in subduing the Coral Sea and the Saurians, the Mageocracy had madly scrambled to secure more of her kind, hoping that each could turn the tide where Pax Britannia had been washed away by the Magical Beasts and demi-humans erupting in every province. The first of the Mages to grace Brown's spectrometer had been an adolescent Evoker from Mumbai, retrieved by a Frontier survey team and brought to London for study. Brown's predecessor, Magister Alex Fleming, had been the one to receive the caramel-complexioned youth. Compared to now, it was surreal to recall that he too had been a bright-eyed Magus shoring up his doctorate. As expected, their precious specimen had been handled with a silken cord, well-loved and fattened up before they began the rituals. It had been disappointing then, that their sorceress had become inert before her third set of Magic Missiles. Undeterred, they waited for the girl to recover, painted her a picture, then did their best keeping the permanently anaemic sorceress upright and casting. The girl perished halfway through the team's second specimen, also a girl-child, this time from Hong Kong. By then, Oxbridge's researchers had learned through corroborating evidence that Void Mage manifestations deviated from the norm. From Germany, France and the USA, all participants seeking to craft their own Sobel discovered that, whether kept in check or left to roam freely, no methods existed in the Imperial Spellcraft System to maintain a Void Mage's health. To make matters worse, Tokyo University proved that even when denied the learning of Spellcraft, the Awakened struggled to survive puberty. Instinctually, the Void Mage grew increasingly unstable until, whether through mental infirmities or mana leaks, they imploded. Contrastingly, an LMU specimen kept at lower tiers managed to live longer— surviving until her thirties in '97. The proviso was that the Void Mage did not exercise spells above tier 4 and did not use their powers often. That and a carefully arranged diet of Wildland cuisine had kept the pampered sorceress alive. Regardless, her Astral Soul grew more porous than threadbare linen, proving both functionally useless in battle and a drain on resources. Undeterred, the quest for knowledge continued. In parts of the Mageocracy's domain less concerned with optics, eugenic programs fathomed the possibility that mutations, variances and freak accidents may stabilise the bloodline. Again, failures proved the norm, while success was a rare and unreplicated bird. To Brown's knowledge, a certain Meister Bekker from London Imperial, formerly of Pretoria, had succeeded in distilling a self-sufficient Void Mage with a comparable lifespan to normal Mages, possessing the potential to one day tap into the upper tiers. He had submitted a specimen request— but was denied. Comparatively, Oxbridge's final, unenterprising specimen was another young woman, one living out her peaceful days in Lucy Cavendish. From the very beginning, poor Gracie had struggled with the simplest spells. Her School of Magic Affinity was barely past two, and the girl's talent emphasised on Illusion, making even the simplest physical magic a death wish. Perhaps he could arrange a meeting? Brown wondered. Maybe Gwen had something to offer her inferior counterpart. Stepping up to the window in the old court, Maxwell Brown relaxed by taking in the tranquil Eden-scape of the Duck Pond. Watching waterfowls was a habit many of the colleges' senior staff developed throughout their years of tenure. In his opinion, Cambridgeshire's wintertime only made the Duck Pond more beautiful. Well-pleased, Brown smiled to himself, filling his nostrils with the sterile scent of still-wrapped equipment, musty with a hint of salt from transit by sea. Roslyn-Marie Wen. Magister Wen's enrichment to the corpus-knowledge of Void Magic had been incidental. Her contribution, such as Gwen's profound ability to thrive through Void Consumption, was a freak accident of coalesced opportunities. Brown could only be thankful that during her time in England, the Magister had been well-trained in the Spellcraft Method. Her submissions on Gwen's growth had been a boon to the Void Magic community, a fact significantly contributing to the decision of awarding the much-undeserved title. Once the "Meister" arrived, she would spend her time lecturing and teaching, as well as experimenting on the specimens the rest of Europe was sending Oxbridge's way. Thanks to Kilroy, the pursuit of the stable application of Void Magic had held a constant interest in the academic community. Now, after Sobel and Gwen's sterling performances, the tree was bearing fruit. As a bonus, he would concurrently mentor the curio known as Spellcubes, a project Wen had all but abandoned after dedicating her time to the study of Void manifestations. The newfangled Enchantment, modelled after the same patterns used by Dwarves to craft Spellblades, was now the domain of Petra Kuznetsova, Gwen's cousin. As a thesis, the theory was sound. However, the overt disadvantage of the Spellcube system was the onus placed on the Enchanter, as well as the difficulty of teaching the spell to non-tertiary educated Mages. That the NoM manufactoriums could not even begin to replicate its spatial-encasement pre-shaped mana significantly limited the spell's viability. Still deep in thought, Brown browsed the scene below with benevolence. On a beautiful, cloudless day like this, the snow sparkled, the waters refracted the clouds above, and it was only the ducks' frolicking that cast ripples into the sublimity— "Oh my…" Brown came closer to the window. Down in the courtyard, where a clear-cut, snowless path met the outskirts of the pond, he was bearing witness to an incredible sight. First, there was that lone mandarine duck the pond entertained, now somehow half the height of a student, roving the grounds as though it owned the Crown land. Then, there was a Kirin— Gwen's Kirin, roaming freely beside the duck, kicking up a fuss at the students. Finally, there was the Void worm, Caliban, slithering to and from between the two creatures, appearing as though wrought from obsidian-glass. Refracted against the window, Brown watched as they had cornered what looked like a first-year female student against the snow-line. Elsewhere, senior students stood, watching the show. The duck quacked, flapping its wings and flashing the lass with its rainbow underside. Terrified, the girl threw a fistful of LDMs at the trio of creatures, then quickly retreated behind the second years. Next, the Kirin approached. The mewling it made must have been thrilling, for the students instantly formed a ring around the creature to pat and molest its fur before awarding it everything from LDMs to HDMs to a ham-sandwich. The Kirin's name, Brown recalled with delight, was "Ariel". For a chimeric-Draconid, the name was apt, for its etymology drew from the language spoken by the Elementals surrounding the Sea of Fire, meaning the "Lion of God". After the Lion of God came the Void fiend, only the watching students now scattered like seeds blown by a wicked wind, escaping from the hissing creature as though frightened deer in Peterhouse's park. Compared to "Ariel", the professor had doubts as to how the serpent's name came about. In the same Elemental tongue, the closest etymological link would be "Kalib", a term that inferred "yonder dog" or more precisely, "that which God has denied a human form". Again, the name was apt, but how could a Frontier teen possess such esoteric knowledge? Maxwell credited the girl's late master once more. As for the duck, the student body had come to call it "Dede". The meaning was a mystery. There had been a poll, and the name stuck. Either way, Brown felt thoroughly impressed. According to Wen, Gwen Song had summoned these creatures when she was fifteen. When creating Familiars from the nebulous stuff of the Elemental Planes, one needed to have a complete understanding of what one sought. To bring into being such incredible monsters while so young— it spoke loudly of the profound lengths Kilroy had gone through to ascend his priceless specimen. "Aeee!" the shrill screams of youthful females filled the courtyard. Magister Brown refocused on the scene below. Now the duck was chasing a student— a different one, round and round the pond. "Damned duck! Desist in your vulgarity!" Another student, one who must have been an admirer, raised a hand in warning. "Last chance, fowl fiend!" Brown furrowed his brows. Students being harassed, attacked, maimed, accosted, robbed by the ducks was a well-honed tradition of the college. But a student stupid enough to attack the college's ducks? Now that was a crime worthy of a visit from the Praelector. "Magic Missile!" Brown snorted when the student released the lowest spell he knew; mindful at least, in using the non-elemental variation, meaning he could avoid reporting to the discipline committee. "Quack!" Brown almost spat on the glass when, to his and the student's surprise, Dede swatted the Magic Missiles from the air with one sweep of its wing, then promptly delivered a broken-nose to its assailant with a resounding snap from its beak. Maxwell Brown baulked. Who the hell recruited this spell fodder? The duck-abusing imbecile! How much of a bookworm must the boy be if he couldn't even shield up to defend against a God-damned duck! That said, Dede had certainly fattened up of late, supernaturally so. Below, the boy rolled in agony, saved only when the girl he had been trying to help dropped a fistful of HDMs. Activating a suite of reinforcement magic, she bodily lifted her abortive white-knight in a princess carry, making for the infirmary. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. Turning on his heels, Brown left for the pond. Had a Blackguard been experimenting with his beloved ducks? The scowl on his face grew more intense the more he thought about the possibility. These were the college's waterfowls! Emmanuel's pride and joy! His ducklings! When he reached the courtyard, he rediscovered the trio under the giant willow overlooking the pond, where Dede, Caliban and Ariel had pooled their loot. "What the devil?" Brown activated a localised Scry from the Old Court's entryway. "EE! EE!" "Hissa!" "Quack!" The beasts were— Brown felt his world spin— splitting the loot! Dede nudged the crystals with its beak. One for itself, one for Caliban, one for Ariel— Brown counted the HDMs and LDMs. "Dede knows arithmetic?!" The trio of creatures each took their share; Caliban in its mouth, the Kirin in a cloth pouch under its neck, and Dede gobbling the lot. Quickly, Brown approached. "Dede! Dada is here!" he called out endearingly, thinking kindly of his and the drake's history. Nervously, the Void snake and the Kirin drifted a distance away, likely wary of the man who had tortured their master to near madness. A prideful Dede waddled up to Brown's crotch. It had been weeks since Brown had paid appropriate attention to his avian companions in the pond. Such was the weight of his labour for Gwen, burdened atop of his usual teaching and marking duties, that he had hardly slept. Nonetheless, since the rainbow duck had appeared with regularity, he had thought all was well. "By the Nazarene!" Brown now realised something had gone awry. "Dede, you're... positively monstrous!" The drake was now larger than a swan, and Cambridge was no stranger to Wildland swans! Gone was the cuddly, waddly duck. What faced him now was an apex avian that could wrestle a sea eagle. Calming himself, he activated the magic he had advised his Void student. "Commune!" "Dede..." Brown's expression grew serious. "Who did this to you?" "Quack!" "A woman." "Quack!" "In a dress..." "Quack! Quack!" "She fed you... her j-juices?" Brown's scalp crawled. What a sick, ill-minded monster! The college had surely fallen if such a degenerate was left to roam the campus. "Dede, who is this woman? Do you know?" "Quack! Quack! Quack-Quack—Quack!" "Yesterday?" Brown cocked his head, silently humming the strange tune Dede was barking out. "All your troubles... was furtherer away?" Maxwell Brown's brows furrowed. What the hell did that even mean? Not far, a Kirin and its companion snake fled for the safety of Deer Park. Ollie Edwards felt that Gwen had received a dose of her own medicine when, during their luncheon, they heard the name Elvia Lindholm play across the cafe's lumen-caster. At first confused, then enthralled, his House-sister bolted upright from the lounge chair, halfway spilling her coffee. "… That's right, Gilbert; there hasn't been an open scandal like this since the Duke of Norfolk reformed the Adventurer's Charter of England four years ago. If you recall, that incident was the result of Foreign Service allowing mercenary auxiliaries to participate in the Fourth Ashanti War…" Before the brief interruption, Ollie had been discussing with Gwen the wisdom of allowing her Spirits to roam Cambridge, on advice offered by Lady Grey. It was a long-standing theory that more independent a Spirit could become, the faster its growth. Gwen had been stating that Lea, Richard's Spirit, should roam with the others. With Ariel and Caliban to protect her, no Mage would dare lay a hand on her cousin's Spirit— not without having to fight off a very angry Void Fiend. Ollie had been considering whether he should contract a first-year as Gwen's Familiar-sitter when Gwen suddenly grew fixated on the screen behind them. "You're not thinking of flying to Douglas, are you?" Ollie's scalp itched. "No," Gwen answered stiffly. "… or Teleporting over." "Maybe," his House-sister answered honestly. "And leave your Dwarves to the cold?" Ollie reminded the girl of their most pressing concerns. "The first contingent of Runesmiths are due to arrive next week— followed shortly by Petra. Didn't you want to be there to supervise their meeting? You said 'Cousin Petra' would be thrilled to meet a master of the craft she has adapted for Spellcraft." "Yes, yes." Gwen glanced at the vid-caster, her eyes cloudy with indecision. "Why not just call Miss Lindholm?" Ollie studied the fidgeting sorceress. The girl had finally unlocked some of her more flamboyant attires, though the fabric remained demure enough for winter. Like Ollie himself, the patrons in the coffee shop stared regardless. One because Gwen was pleasing to look at, another because there was nary a Mage in Cambridgeshire itself who would not recognise the Devourer of Shenyang. "I tried earlier." Gwen tapped her Device to try again. "See? No luck." "I wonder what she's doing?" Ollie warily glanced at the news. The segment on Elvia had lasted barely ten seconds, the shot of the Cleric's bust had materialised for no more than four. The principle report remained centred on the going conflict with the Manx and how the newly revealed atrocity would strain any effort at making peace with the fey-blooded indigenous folk of the isle. "I think…" Gwen began. "Don't—" Ollie shook his head. "To remind you of the Lady's advice. You solve this one, and you'll be called to every conflict and every stalemate. There is no rest for those who give up their gifts so easily." Gwen sighed. "You're right— you're right. Ah sweet Evee…" "She'll be fine." Ollie wanted to pat Gwen's knees to reassure her but settled for his own. "She's got the Ginseng and Ser Rothwell, and she heals like anything. It'll take an army to take them down." "I hope you're right." The Devourer of Shenyang sighed sulkily. "If anything happens to Evee, it'll take an army to pry me from the Isle of Man." Elvia listened to the lecture from Dominic Lorenzo as their group made their way south with a sleepy Sen-sen nodding off by her shoulder, and Kiki swinging from tree to tree. The info-dump had been teased from the helpful reporter when Mathias had asked, not without some manner of frustration, "What is the Manx dissatisfied about anyway? And what do they, in fact, want from us?" The Manx's demands, Dominic clarified, was simple. They wanted Humans to stop spreading across their lands. They wanted their island back, the mana miasma dispersed and the ley-line untapped. They desired sovereignty. "The raids carried out by the Colonel and their auxiliaries forces are unprovoked, to say the least." The reporter parted the snow with a Wand of Flaming Hands, concurrently serving as a walking stick. "Its a part of a longitudinal operation in which Tarleton has been given free reins. Unlike the previous commander, who failed to contain the war, she's fresh from the Chad campaign, where the Mageocracy succeeded in removing the Bultungin— that's Lycanthropic Hyena-folk, from the Upper Niger Delta. There, she's built quite the reputation for ruthlessness. Even before that, she was well known for her involvement in the Fourth Ashanti War, for ransoming the King's captured children— one limb at a time, until their Queen lost her mind and the King lost the popular support of his noblemen…" Elvia listened in silence. Behind her, the freed Manx prisoners followed obediently, awed by Sen-sen and charmed by Kiki. Of the six, the boy was the bravest and followed the closest. His name, Elvia learned, was "Sionn", meaning "The Fox", a moniker now diminished by the lack of long, pointed ears. His sister's name was Siofra, a somewhat literal translation from Manx, meaning "Elf-like", so named because she was uncommonly pretty, a comeliness that had done the lassie a great disservice. Yesterday, in the aftermath of Elvia's revelations, the Colonel had arrived to disperse the soldiers, the reporters, and the dozens of locals working in the Fort. Yet, despite her whistleblowing, Elvia was neither punished nor scolded by the Fort's Commander. Instead, Colonel Susan Tarleton had assured her that the mercenaries would be trialled and punished for their crimes and that she would assume all responsibility for the actions of the auxiliaries. Happily, the reporters received their lumen-pics and quotes, then departed together with the stickybeaks. When Elvia demanded what was to become of the Manx prisoners, the Colonel had confided in her that usually, she would see their ashes scattered into the sea. But, as Elvia had saved her life, she would do right by her, and give her the prisoners as a reward— to heal, to kill, to keep as playthings or release into the wilderness. "I have a war to run, sweetie." The Colonel had bitten the matter off with a smile that revealed nothing. "Now then, squirrelkin, run along." Lacking Gwen's words and disheartened by the nonchalance shown by the other Mages, she had left Fort Nook saddled with six recently restored prisoners. She wished— Elvia repressed her alter-instincts— that the Manx could teach Tarleton another lesson, only this time she wouldn't be there to heal the Colonel. She wished that the people in Fort Nook, rather than shying away or spitting at the Manx when she tried to find them food and clothing, would treat them any way other than as animals. "… It's a wonder why the Manx believe we would ever leave," Dominic concluded his lesson. "This place was forfeited to the Crown by their ancestors who lost the war in pitched battles. Everything between Douglas, Avalon and Port Erin has belonged to her Majesty for five or six centuries. As far as the government's concerned, it's our outpost, our settlement, our ISTC—" Lorenzo glanced at the Manx trailing behind them, trudging through the sleet-like snow. "— our guests appear unconvinced." " _Chan eil sin fìor!_ " The Manx sister of the boy, the Elf-like one, struck out her tongue at Lorenzo. Unlike the older Manx, the girl spoke enough standard English to trade with the locals. "Our people have been here since the time of the Elves! The isle has been our home since a hundred-hundred years ago! Since the old days, we have made the Stone Circles, tended the trees, grown orchards and harvested honey all over the isle. Here is our root, our home; all you have done is cut down our woods and bleed the land to harvest your Crystals. _Luchd-ionnsaigh!_ " Elvia felt relieved that the girl had the energy to joust Dominic. It was just as well that the Manx's anatomy was human-like. When considering how much of Siofra she had to heal, how much of the girl's organs she had to re-align and repair— it was good that Siofra did not recall what the mercenaries had done to her. Her present self-assigned quest was to take Siofra and the others home, a recourse Elvia had arrived at after seeing how Douglas' townsfolk treated the Manx. Their destination was the sky lake, a place called "Injebreck", a name Dominic Lorenzo had touted as meaning Ingi's Slope, a Nordic name, one that was undoubtedly un-Manx-like. "If the name of your home isn't even in your language," the reporter had mocked the bronzed Manx girl. "Then how can the land be yours?" His words seemed to upset the lass, who then did not speak again for some time. The journey was not long. The lake was nary a ten-kilometre trek through shrub-land and low-woods, meaning they would be in and out before nightfall. Initially, the party consisted of only herself and Mathias. When Magus Fitzgerald caught wind, he and a few of the veterans she aided had asked for leave to escort Elvia on her search to appease her conscience. To no one's surprise, the Colonel refuted the men's request. In the end, it was Dominic who volunteered to play guide. And through Dominic, she found out the Manx lived only fifteen minutes Mage Flight away, and that the island was traversable in a few hours via the sky. What she had imagined as Wildland barbarians living in the dark and wending woods were, in fact, a stone's throw's distance from Fort Nook. Likewise, the war was waged by Humans on the isle's north, while the regions around Douglas suffered only from infiltrations. For Elvia, the conflict was beginning to make sense— until her party arrived at the sky lake. For a place the Manx kept calling a lake, Elvia knew what to expect; a serene pond, maybe a few ducks, reeds and fish, with possible encampments nearer the far bank. A place poorly defended against aerial assaults but sheltered against Magical Beasts. What she found instead was a blighted plateau. There was nothing. No water. No lake. Not even much snow. A strange sense of déjà vu overcame Elvia at once. The terrain was desolate but familiar, especially the pale pink of the salty lake-floor, where jagged hexagonal shards of raw salt pushed through the crystalised plane. Upon closer inspection, there was water, only the brine-like liquid oozed beneath the arm-thick crust, making the surface arguably a deathtrap. All around the lake, trees withered where they stood or died after becoming covered by permafrosts of crystals, lining the edge of the lake like grave posts. Concurrently, a strange stink of rotting vegetable pickled in sodium haunted the party's nostrils. Much less fish, there wasn't even a bird in the cloudless sky. Past the salt, after the party plodded across the side, she could see slimes, the primordial manifestation of rot and decay, clambering the edge of the alkaline lake where the salt had yet to grow. Nearer the brine's surface, the stench grew so terrible Elvia had to cast "Aid" on the whole party. Shouldn't this be where the Manx called home? Elvia felt her heart sink. Were they fighting the Mageocracy to the death to protect this? "Was it always like this?" Mathias suddenly spoke. "Of course not!" a reply came from the girl. "When I was younger, our home was beautiful. There were perch and bream in the lake, and waterfowl nesting by the tens of thousands." Elvia struggled to think that the adolescent she had thought younger than herself was in her thirties. The Manx, thanks to their Elven blood, were long-lived and slow-maturing. "How did it become like this?" Elvia asked the siblings and their fellows. Her eyes, however, fell on to Dominic, who seemed to know the isle's history better than they. "It happens." Dominic's response was lukewarm. "Where the fabric between the Prime and the Planes grow thin— ah, but that's a story for another time. I do believe we have company." "Halt!" Mathias raised a glowing fist, simultaneously rising an inch into the air, cascading salt that had crawled onto his combat boots. From the far edge, striding through the few trees that remained, a host approached, olive in their attire, olive-haired and olive-skinned, with ears as long and tapered as flensing knives. Before her Knight could draw his Spellblade, a palpable aura hundreds of meters in diameter erupted from Sen-sen. It was Dragon-fear, only there was no hostility, at least not yet. Instead, the stifling aura served as a warning that she came in peace, offering the gift of life. Or— if these Elves would attack her or her party— the gift of Gwen.

Elvia's only knowledge of the Träälvor was through Nightingale's extracurricular classes on Prime Material beings tiered as "better attuned" than Humanity, by which the lecturer meant "older" "troublesome" and "a hard nut to crack". That said, indigenous Elves from the Enclave on the Isle of Man was not the Nordic Träälvor of yore. Where the bestiary had prescribed the Träälvor Demi-race as fair-complexioned with dark hair and lithe silhouettes six to seven feet tall, these native "Träälvor" were much shorter, with their leader standing half a head shy of Gwen. "Miss Elvia. I fear your warning has fallen on long but deaf ears," Dominic Lorenzo drily observed. "Why?" Elvia whispered back to their Diviner. "We brought back their kin!" "Yes, but I don't doubt the Colonel has made a habit of baiting the Manx," Dominic reminded her of why they were here. "If you wish to speak to them, you'll have to first quell their mistrust." "How do I do that?" "Nothing engenders respect like a show of restrained force," Lorenzo advised. "Worry not. Ser Rothwell and I will keep you safe." Elvia nodded, her face turning bright pink. The party watched while their prisoners shuffled forward, with the boy and girl waving goodbye at Elvia, unaware of what was soon to follow. " _Clann_!" one of the Manx, a middle-aged woman standing behind the Elves reached out, urging the youths to hurry. An upraised hand halted her affectionate outburst. Beside her, the leader of the Elves stepped forward. "Our cousins applaud thy gall, invader," their leader's voice covered the distance without effort, sounding as though susurrated from the surviving trees. "But doth thou think all would be forgiven if thou returned our kindred? A hundred lives lie in the embrace of the Earth Mother by thy efforts. How shall thee atone for our kin thy sorcery hath made mute?" "That doesn't sound sylvan," Elvia whispered. "That's... old English." Lorenzo raised a brow. "Their leader must have learned our tongue centuries ago." Elvia concentrated Essence onto her optic nerves, bringing the "Elder" into sharp focus. From afar, the Wood Elves' leader reminded her of a wind-tossed oak of sorts. On closer inspection, their clothing, which Elvia had initially taken to be Druidic Bark Skin, revealed itself to be woven membranes of organic matter, a sort of living-armour. Likewise knotted through the Demi-human's hair and clothing were branches and twigs with tiny leaves. The Elder's face, Elvia discerned, possessed an elfin appearance that betrayed the caster's advanced years, making the gruff leader appear ageless. Like the Manx besides him, the Wood Elve possessed large, oval-shaped eyes tilted towards at an angle like a feline's, with crisp lilac irises that added an exotic mystique. Beside the presumed Alderman, stood a pair of near-identical sisters, likewise clad in skin-hugging bio-outfits, each carrying tall staves topped with entwined vines brimming with Primal mana. "Enclave Druids," Lorenzo silently dispensed his knowledge. "It's safe to assume the old one is an Arch-Druid. In our language, his title is Primach." Elvia raised both hands in a show of diplomacy. "Noble Primach of the Enclave, I have come in peace and returned your kin," she announced, unused to hearing her voice spoken so loudly across so distant a space. "And to hear the grievance of your people." "A Sun Knight, a Priestess, and a Mind Seer, on an errand of arrogance." The Arch-Druid shook his head. "Tìr-Mara's descendants shall not be deceived, Human. Thou wilt be ransomed for the return of our kin. Guardians! See that these invaders art chastised!" "Steady now," Lorenzo's steady voice soothed Elvia's strumming nerves. "He's testing us to see if we're here to talk, or if there's an ambush." "Evee! Six O'clock!" Mathias conjured a Shield of Faith into place before she even noticed the shimmering of space around them, like mirages on a hot day. "Dom!" "Purge Invisibility!" Dominic, a veteran of many warzones, expertly wove his detection magic into place. The instant Lorenzo's nova of revelation rang out, no less than three Manx Cats appeared within charging distance, sleek as midnight, elongated and elegant, with raised haunches that menacingly waved prehensile tentacles tipped with sucker-mouths, hungry for tender flesh. "I see them!" Mathias' Radiant Aura burned golden, swiftly condensing into a suit of Faith-laced plate mail. "I'll take the front and left." " _Primach! Tha-iad nan daoine-math_!" Siofra and her brother began to shout that they were friends and not foe. Elvia's heart had already reached her throat when, thankfully, an eruption of tendrils coiled around the ex-prisoners, delivering them to safety. Concurrently, the rest of the tendrils entwined into a six-metre colossus wrought of vicious dog-thorn, reminding Elvia of the Amazonian Brutalisers from Gwen's IIUC highlights. "A Thorn Elemental!" Mathias ignited his Spellblade. "That's mine—" " _SCROOWORRRL_!" Before Mathias could retort, the trio of Manx Cats made a sound that sounded like a high-pitched tumble drier on its last legs. By inches, the apex predators prowled closer, keeping their bodies low, their tentacles rising into the air as though tasting prey. Dominic backed away toward Elvia, covering her right flank. Their assailants inched closer. Despite Lorenzo's spoon-fed foresight, Elvia's adrenaline-addled brain was a mess of instincts clambering over one another, each demanding redress. In her prior forays, Mathias had made all the decisions and calls. In Sydney, Gwen was their fearless leader who yelled out the commands. Now, she was beginning to understand just how rare it was for a Mage to think straight while confined in a narrow alleyway with three tentacle-panthers looking for a feed. Should she defend first or attack? What of the Manx's counter-attack? How to minimise harm to her teammates? Would maiming, then mending the Druids count as overt hostility? Thankfully, Alesia's old contact came to her aid once more. "Miss Lindholm, taking down their Elemental might blunt their fervour." Elvia willed her Ginseng into action at once. "Sen-sen! Kiki!" "SEN!" Her Ginseng dug its tendrils into the ground with such palpable force that the salt-encrusted earth split and cracked. This time, she did not dilute the Dragon-fear. " _MEOOWRRRL_!" As one, their opponents' ears, both cats' and Demi-humans', simultaneously flattened. The six-legged hunter-killers staggered back, their bodies and minds caught in the disharmony of primal fear and wilful lucidity, their tentacles ramrod straight. On the far side, the Elven party grew briefly viridescent. The twin druids by either side of the Primach rammed their staves into the salt-sodden earth, engendering twin rows of growth in the form of a trellis of thorns. A viridian, vital glow Elvia had once seen on Sufina travelled underground through some secret means and suffused the cats, dispelling the paralytic Dragon-fear. "That would explain why they were unfazed the first time," Lorenzo called out. "Incoming!" " _STHKARRRWL_!" The largest of the recovered cats leapt. Mathias's armour flickered, indicating that a full dose of Radiance now coursed through his conduits. In his dominant hand, his Dwarf-forged Spellsword warped the air with simmering heat. _Kth-Chunk!_ In Dominic's leading hand, an Abjuring Rod was ready to deploy its defences. But the Cats did not attack. They were waiting for the Elemental. With a shackle-sound of thorn-parrying-thorn, the lumbering giant crossed the distance in great strides, making for her party. "Sen-sen!" Her Ginseng rooted itself with a thump. In the next-second, an enormous root, shaped vaguely like a carp, leapt from the cracked ground to intercept the thorny giant, collapsing it via its mid-section to pin the giant to the floor with an ear-splitting sound of wood breaking wood. At the same time, hidden coils of arm-thick roots erupted all around her party, grasping for the Manx Cats. Caught by surprise and dulled by the Dragon-fear, Elvia was sure the Manx Cats would be short-lived combatants. Her jubilance proved no less short-lived. Just as Sen-sen's tendrils recoiled around the sleek beasts, the creatures Blinked away. "Well, shit." Dominic drew a second wand with his off-hand and marked the space in front of him in quick succession. "Reactive Barrier! Listen for—" "Nine O'clock!" Dominic shouted. Elvia was still trying to untangle the chaos when Mathias activated his Spellsword and Relic. With one hand, the Knight pressed his healer behind him while his sword drew a cross in the air. "Radiant Guardian!" A shield bearing the heraldry of the Order of St Michael, as metaphysical as it was solid, briefly flittered into view as the Manx Cat materialised with a guttural snarl. Extending claws as long as fingers, it swatted at the Knight. The blow struck; Mathias grunted, parrying the murder-mitten even as it shaved away chunks of amber mana. "Kiki!" Elvia's floral Sprite leapt into action. Now that it could sense their opponent, it quickly filled the trio's front-right flank with a thorn-trellis vibrant with poisonous flowers. The barrier was enough to deter the charge from Manx Cats, though from the sight of the emerald sap filling the air with every swipe, Kiki's sleep-inducing power was of no use. Across from her party, the twin Druids continued to chant, regrowing the Thorn Elemental to subdue her Ginseng's counter-attack. Elvia suspected that if she were to send Sen-sen fully unleashed, she might be able to turn the tide. Unfortunately, she also had no idea if Sen-sen in such a state could be controlled, much less commanded to apply finesse. Besides her, Mathias retaliated with fiery Radiance, grunting whenever a tentacle or claw swiped at the Guardian spell keeping the trio safe. For a dozen exchanges, tentacles flailed, tendrils curled and regrew, and two titans wrestled in the salt-strewn earth. "My mana isn't going to keep up," Mathias growled when the lead Manx dodged a Lance of St George from his smouldering Spellblade. "I'll need to potion if they keep up the pace." "Barrier!" Dominic barred a tentacle with his wand. "Same, I brought enough cartridges, but I doubt they'll let us reload." "Sen!" Of their party, it was only Sen-sen that dominated, trashing the Thorn Elemental's futile efforts to reinforce the Blinking Manx Cats. Frustrated, Kiki misted the air with perfume and poison, though again, the anaesthetic appeared to have little impact on the snarling felines. "We need more offence," Dominic observed. "Ser Rothwell?" "I can't both attack and defend." "Miss Elvia?" Elvia shook her head. "Not even Magic Missile?" "... I haven't practised." "Well then." Dominic dissuaded a sucker-mouth with a pane of solidified air. "Miss Lindholm, you are aware of the alternate application of Biomancy on living creatures, yes?" Crack! Sen-sen pummelled the Thorn Elemental with its roots, tearing off a limb with a drake-headed tendril. In an instant, the Thorn Elemental's sap painted the salt-strewn hilltop. "Yes…" Elvia felt an ominous premonition. "Then it's up to you to subdue the Blinking bastards." Dominic pointed at the Manx Cats. "Use Aid, blend everything you've got into it. Faith, Essence, Mana, the works. Benedictions-class Clerical spells suffer no cooldowns, correct?" "Yes…" For very good reason, her mind reminded her of that time uncle Hans liquified a Mud Mage. "Good. Your buffs are so strong they can be used to stagger. If the cats can be incapacitated, we can parley." Elvia wasn't sure if Lorenzo's was the correct path forward. The decision, however, was quickly taken out of her hands when Mathias lost a chunk of his manifested armour to a hungry appendage. Subdue the Druids with Sen-sen? Or bless the Cats? "AID!" she raised a hand, gesturing toward the tentacled-toms, calling upon the power of the Almighty and the bottomless vitality of Sen-sen to wish the Manx Cats well. "Aid!" Instantly and involuntarily, a soft glow suffused the confused Manx Cats, energising their fatigued bodies. Visibly, the cats' bodies bulged, their pupils grew large, and even their fur turned glossy. Stolen novel; please report. "Aid!" Another jolt of heavenly fortification struck the shapeshifted Druids. "AID! AID! AID!" " _Moorrrrw_ l!" A much-blessed Druid gnarred and grumbled, appearing as though suddenly intoxicated. The rapid din of combat lulled. The Arch-Druid and the twins from across the battlefield watched with perplexed expressions. " _Moorrrrwl_?" The leading Guardian paused its assault, suddenly sensing that a part of its polymorphed physiology had gone awry. "Hoo boy…" Dominic swapped his wand for a lumen-recorder. Elvia's face burned. She understood very well what happened when too much of Sen-sen's Essence was infused into her healing. " _Murrrrrl_!" As much as the Guardian tried, it was impossible to ignore its perilously engorged seventh leg, a swollen club of tortured flesh. When the feline attempted to move, it's distended organ swung from side to side, dangerously scraping over the salt-encrusted floor, reducing its agility by half. The two bothered beasts eyed their untouched companion, a lucid female empowered, but otherwise unmolested by Sen-sen's yang-energy. Suddenly apprehensive, the Guardian took an uncertain cat-step backward. Mathias lowered his sword to stare. "Good Lord, they've got barbs…" Dominic quietly intoned, "Let us wait and see if our Arch-Druid wants to continue. Miss Lindholm. Keep your blessing hand hot and ready for benediction." On the far side, Sen-sen's tendrils wrapped around the Thorn Elemental's neck and waist, with a booming crash of splintering timber, it tore the thing in twain. "Sen!" Ginseng flexed its tiny, root-knotted body. Elvia wetted her lips. Ginsengs were well-known for fortifying male potency. Likewise, Draconic Essence was liquid libido, as evidenced by the infused creature-hordes occupying the territory of a landed Dragon. Without pause, the female feline fled for the whereabouts of her Primach, while the other two Blinked away into the woods, leaving only a musky trace of their passing. An awkward minute of silence hung listlessly between the two parties. "Well fought," the Primach said at last. "You may... approach." Still burning with embarrassment, Elvia smoothed out her working robes, a white-on-cerulean robe that covered her from chin to ankle. Mathias dispelled his Mage Armour and followed closely behind. Dominic carefully stowed his Lumen-recorder. Closer, Elvia could see that the expressions on the Druids were sombre. The Manx she had rescued, including the siblings, hid stoically behind their kin, leaving Elvia to face their Elder. "Thou has... circumvented our Guardians." The Elder Druid glanced at the sky for a moment before extending a twig-like hand. "Without harm, which is commendable. Thou may call me Golion, son of Iliynore, Primach of the Snaefell Enclave, Tìr-Mara's Protector and teacher to the Manx. I now greet thee in the custom of thine kinfolk." "Elvia Lindholm. This is Ser Rothwell, my Knight, and Ser... Lorenzo." Elvia reciprocated by extending a hand. The two gingerly shook. The Druid's skin felt like paper. "Having satisfied thine ordeal, I now invite thee to partake in our generosity." The twin Druids parted, revealing a path that led to a sole remaining elm struggling to hang on to the last vestiges of life. The sisters chanted in synchrony, raising their twin-staves until the tree's bark split open, revealing a depthless chasm. The spell known as Tree Striding was an infamous Druidic staple that ensured no trees large enough to be a threat existed within the concrete walls of Douglas and Fort Nook. Unsure of how to proceed, Elvia glanced at Dominic, who assured her with a nod. "I accept your generosity, Primach Golion." Elvia bowed. Still perplexed, the Primach led the way. "Evee... never use Essence when you heal or buff me," her Knight reminded her as he passed, placing her between himself and Dominic. "You know our code. Death before dishonour." Above the desolate sky lake, Colonel Susan Tarleton hovered with her Mage Flight, the loose cords from her combat jacket flapping angrily. "You'll be taking responsibility?" she spoke not to a fellow Mage, but a crow perched atop her Sergeant. "That was the Gorlion and the twins, you know. We take any of the three and keep them entertained for any amount of time, and the fairies will fold like napkins." "Caw! Caw!" croaked the jet-black crow, cocking its head. "I politely decline." Tarleton's icy mien grew somehow colder. Everything about the blonde, from her glacial blue eyes to her tightly knotted bun, spoke of war-worn hardiness. "We in the Militant Faction are not your flunkies, Lord Marshall. If you wish her preservation, get the Order to do it themselves, or submit an official channel request." "Caw!" The crow lifted itself, then fled toward the uncertain arc of the expanding horizon that housed the English coast. "Fucking politicians." Tarleton spat, turning to her men, she orientated herself back toward Douglas. "Bird's the word, fellers. Hunt's off!" Without a sound, the Colonel and her obfuscated Mage Flight departed, leaving the pilgrims below free to perform their insubordination. "Crystal-Crystal— Crystals—" the chirpy sorceress hummed under her breath, delighting Eric Walken with the simplicity of its sinful rhythm. "It's a rich Mage's world—" "My my, you're in a good mood." Walken kept pace beside his future employer. Presently, with Aella, Ariel and Caliban in tow, they were drawing eyes from all over the isle. "It's been a good week, Eric." Gwen tapped along on her freshly unlocked Mary Janes, sending her long skirt aflutter. "Did you hear about Tonglv?" "No. I am no longer privy to that sort of information." Walken shrugged. "More victims?" "Ha!" the girl's bell-like laughter thrilled his ears. In the three years that he had known her, Gwen had seldom appeared happy, and so her sun-soaked visage was a rare treat. "This is waaaaaaay better. Remember how I told you about the Tonglv triumvirate and how they would be going after my share of the project?" "Go on." Walken slowed his pace to take in their unimpressive surroundings. Here was where he was soon to be installed, no less in a dog house belonging to Lady Grey. Still, it was his duty to harness an impression of the region before he toured the place in an official capacity. "I am all ears." "Mayuree Messaged, saying the trio made their move." The girl grinned mischievously, her eye glinting like whetted knives. "They pushed to confiscate my share, saying that I worked for foreigners. What they didn't know was that I already gave away my share to Ruxin." "The Lord of Nagaland?" Walken filled his lungs with frigid air, tasting a stink unique to areas affluent with NoM activity. "The Dragon we encountered in Kachin? The one you cited as a relative of sorts?" "That's right." The girl puckered her lips. "The greedy guts tried to extort my Ruì— you remember Ruì? They were six-miles high on their white horse until Ayxin and uncle came in—" "You mean Captain Jun?" "It's _Dragon-whipped_ Jun now." Gwen's tone grew sulky with sugar. "… anyway, Ayxin and Jun showed up with an army of spooks from the Ministry of State Security and ran the lot of them through the bureaucratic blender." "What, all of them?" "Half the Fungs in Nantong, with Dai escaping the chopping block because he followed my advice." Gwen smugly struck out her chest. "Good corporate governance meant he need not be entertaining at the Front, and he will now inherit the Clan. Isn't that amazing? Who could have thought that NOT embezzling funds from a government infrastructural project by putting relatives in key places to short-sell stock and land could keep a man from Shenyang?" Walken furrowed his brows. From what the girl was saying, it sounded like a massive Purge had happened on a mid-scale governmental level. If so, how many lives had been irrevocably changed? A thousand? Ten-thousand? "It's not like I didn't warn them!" The girl's ebullient mood continued to fizz. "Zero tolerance for bullshit was my first lesson during our initial talk. I ran them through the importance of auditing, of gutting anyone that tries to subvert Ma's work, but no, they preferred eating the bitter fruit of avarice…" Walken considered the girl's words, reading the not so hidden subtext. "I think I understand." He halted their progress down Millwall's abandoned dockland. "At least, I understand your veiled threat." The girl paused. Her lovely eyes drew blanks. "Wow... Shit, Eric. I didn't mean it like that…" "It's quite alright. I wouldn't trust me either if I was in your position. Suspicion is a very healthy thing in a relationship like ours. We must gain mutually, as you have said, for true partnership. Audrey would prefer that, as well." The girl chewed on her lower lip. "Maybe a formal employment contract isn't so necessary," she said suddenly. "It was on Lady Grey's advice that we make one. I could probably persuade her to forgo the guarantee." "I am sure you could," Walken refused the goodwill, finding himself surprisingly at peace with an otherwise shameful binding. Then again, his history spoke for itself. "But that's alright. She owns this place, and you're merely its manager— and I, your under-manager. Correct? Let's give the Lady peace of mind." "It's nothing like that," Gwen reassured him with a smile. "Here's the thing. I've fashioned our investments into various divisions, each with vertically integrated stakeholders, with a core party as the proprietors of the parent company. The Isle of Dogs is merely an asset on loan, with monthly repayment tithes. What it means is that we're all shareholders, you as well, so long as you remain our partner and Executive. That's why you're my subordinate only in a corporate sense. Eric, if you're dissatisfied, it's important that—" "Gwen, there's no more to explain." Walken shook his head, though the faint mirth on his face remained. "For now— we remain equals. The journey ahead is long, my dear. Let us walk in his hour, as though the future has no power..." The words from his heart seemed to touch the girl somewhat, for he could see her throat bobbing. "What's wrong?" Walken stopped to study the sorceress now staring out onto the half-frozen water. Sometimes, when he disregarded her uncommonly youthful face, Gwen's silhouette reminded him of someone older— much older, shouldering an unseen weight. Fortunately, the sentiment passed once he recalled that Gwen was a Void Sorceress with a vitality-tank and that once he wedded his fate to the Shard's second Sobel, there would be no recourse, only sink or swim. "How's Angie?" Gwen asked. "No recurring symptoms so far, but it's only been a few weeks." The girl nodded. "To answer your earlier question. I was wondering what life would be like if we could speak like this before the fall of Sydney. Do you think things still would have happened as they did?" Walken settled himself beside his conversation partner, though he possessed no answers for her particular line of enquiry. "Missing your Master?" She inclined her chin. "And Allie, and Gunther, and Sufina." "Well, I wasn't exactly a friend," he reminded her. "I don't think you would have listened to anything I said, not with Alesia screeching beside your ear to Void me at the first opportunity. If ever we were to speak, it would be through Henry, I think. Alas…" "I still haven't forgiven you," Gwen said suddenly. "For Sydney?" "For what you tried to do in Shanghai." Walken turned his head ever so guiltily. "Would a heartfelt apology suffice?" "Maybe." Without hesitation, he cleared his throat. "Eric, stop…" The girl interrupted Walken before he could continue. Walken waited for his student to speak. Behind them, their Familiars frolicked, too preoccupied with the open space to be bothered by the subtle emotions coursing through their Empathic Links. "… I wasn't serious." "Well, I was—" Walken's words became lost in a sudden jumble of sound, interrupted by a line of lorries rushing past the snow-strewn road, freshly shovelled by the inhabitants. As one struck a pothole, clods of river mud, as well as sprays of snowmelt, half-washed over the two Mages, forcing them to erect quick barriers or risk becoming soiled. "Cali, get back!" Gwen commanded her Void fiend to stop chasing the accelerating flatbed. The trucks' destination was the print works, now a hive of activity compared to the abandoned docklands. Turning the corner, they saw a ring of NoMs a dozen bodies thick, gawking at something nearer the entrance. "I do believe our guests from the Murk have arrived ahead of schedule." Walken pointed at the dozen or so segmented trucks now visible outside the print works. Once they rush past the warehouse, he caught sight of the Dwarf-made Golem Engines unloading from the trucks. These were the "Fabricators", the distinguished units used by Dwarven crafters. As an ex-Overseer of the Grey Faction, he knew well how the Dwarves managed their resource-colonies, called Citadels. Each of the engines had a particular function, from digging to smithing to construction, creating the necessary structures and machine-beds used for Dwarven manufacturing. A complete six-Golem host, given the span of a month, could carve out a new outpost in the Murk capable of sustaining itself for centuries, assuming supplies and raw materials were plentiful. "Let's hurry!" The girl quickened her pace. "I hope they're not upset." "With whom? With one holding the Debt of Haj-Zül? You would have to go beyond all conceivable dignity." He followed Gwen's clacking heels as they crossed the rough asphalt. "Let's hope it never gets to that." Gwen's reply had a hint of paranoia to her tone. When he followed her eyes, he could see that she was looking at the NoMs. It wasn't so much that the isle's folk would harass the lauded Engineseers, but that there was a lot of Dwarven cargo, and should something go missing— Walken took a deep breath. Here was London. If an NoM was caught stealing from a Mage, hard labour awaited. Should the Mage strike out at said NoM, a stiff HDM and CC penalty applied. In the event of the transgressor's death, a tribunal could theoretically sentence the offender to six-months of Stasis. However, rare was said sentence— non-existent even, unless politics was involved. If one of these peasants were to offend an august personage by doing something nigh-unthinkable in Dwarven society— stealing— what would Gwen do to her new citizenry? The Eric part of Walken wished his student would never have to face such a dilemma. As for Magister Walken, he could barely suppress the morbid anticipation of seeing his boss' first trial. The Isle of Man. Elf home. The visitation to the Grot was going as well as expected. Once inside, questioning glares from the Grot's inhabitants had greeted the new arrivals, replete with menacing stares, glowers, the rattling of quivers, the hiss of critters, and mothers hiding their children behind leafy-attires. The interior landscape of the Grot was frankly sublime, made lesser only by its compactness, consisting of a verdant valley of proliferating emerald greenery hanging from plinths-mantles rich with orchids. All around the Grot's edge, skyward junipers reached for the vibrant cerulean distance, appearing as though cumulus clouds of shamrock on chartreuse adorning columns of towering wood. "Tìr-Mara", the Wood Elves called their home, a garden of wood and sea— their humble island abode. Of their party, Kiki appeared to be wholly enjoying herself, flittering from leaf to leaf, lapping at the dew and hugging the occasional flower. Comparatively, Sen-sen scoffed at the offering, compared to the vitality and grandeur of the Yinglong's valley, Elvia presumed, the home of the indigenous Elves must feel like the Isle of Dogs. Nonetheless, Evee considered that she should be lucky to be invited into an Elf home, something not even Gwen has had the pleasure of experiencing. Once seated, Golion, scion of Iliynore, Primach of the Snaefel Enclave, presented them with sticky meads of wild-honey and fresh fruits from the orchard, delighting the visitors. They then discussed the matter of a certain Colonel Susan Tarleton, and the campaign of terror said Colonel had covertly carried out to flush the Manx from the southern portion of the isle. Taking a leaf from Gwen's book of Essence-bribery, Elvia begged from Sen-sen a hair-thin tendril, which she then used to infuse a jug of floral mead. As expected, the Elves grew mightily thrilled by the foreign Essence, rapidly warming up to both herself and her Familiars. Once the scented alcohol ran dry, laughter flowed freely. What made Elvia curious, once each of their company introduced themselves, was that of the thirteen present, only three were the Manx. All the other who's who of Tìr-Mara's Druidic council consisted of the indigenous Träälvor. Once the conversation turned to the released prisoners, Elvia candidly confessed to Siofra's suffering— and the fact that she had healed then saved the young woman from the burden of bearing a poisoned fruit. As expected, the Manx clamoured for war. The Elves appeared more appreciative of her morbid kindness. Their concern was that the ISTC station appeared to be drawing far too much mana from the land, resulting in unpleasant changes to the isle's elemental physiology. On and on the council laid out their grievances, until, at the end of a long-winded airing, Dominic raised a hand. "Speak, Ser Lorenzo—" the wizened Arch-Druid had done his best with his unruly council. "Withhold nothing. We hath lent thee our ears— now gift us thine thoughts." "Thank you." The reporter stood. "Protector of the Manx, most gracious Primach, as time is short, please forgive this humble one for conferring the stark reality the Manx face should they refuse the Colonel's threefold partition." The table grew silent— the Druids, including the two who had earlier fled with their erection between their legs, all ceased their melodic, chant-like chattering. "I present these findings with the most ardent humility." Lorenzo bowed from the waist. "— please think of what you're about to see as an act of complete earnestness and kindness, I wish only the best for our Elvish allies." Elvish, Elvia noted. But what about the Manx? With that, Lorenzo materialised a Lumen-projector, inserted a recording crystal, then waited several seconds for the Druids to protest. When none intervened, he pressed the Glyph for "play". A familiar scene sprang into view. A city in ruins, dark tunnels, a malevolent miasma punctuated by strange moans. A montage of a city overrun then rapidly panned through every monstrosity from Abominations to Corpse Hulks to Zombies legions a kilometre wide. "You would unleash Defilers onto our island home?" The Elder stated calmly, his purple eyes hidden behind two narrow slits of flesh. Across the rest of the table, his Druids began to clamour. "Nothing of the sort, please observe." A piece of eerie background music began to play. The projection flashed, the vision panned upward toward a sickly grey sky, then down slowly toward the silhouette of a stricken Frontier. "… Shenyang…" A voice-over in the sultry voice of the female announcer pronounced with dread, gravid with desolation. "A city lost to the dead, taken by the numberless followers of Juche; a Necropolis lorded over by a deathless Lich…" Mathias blinked at Elvia, who stared back, equally confused. Why was Dominic Lorenzo playing a recording of Gwen's IIUC Match?

Dominic Lorenzo, a veteran member of her Majesty's Sixth Cabal, congratulated himself with an invisible pat on the back. All that groundwork he had laid on the Isle of Man, the interviews, the gratuitous drinking, the "friends" he made in the Brig, the covert recordings of their activities, all of it was coming to fruition faster than a reporter could push onto his editor. It was insane how fast things moved whenever Gwen Song's unseen hand got involved. Considering that Tarleton, the "Ogre of Niger" was at the helm, he had expected the scandal to stew for many more months while fatigue blunted the jingoism. And like all good smut, the public just couldn't get enough. Now, via the vehicle of Elvia Lindholm's best intentions, he had arrived at the heart of the fray, no longer an observer, but a participant capable of steering the course of events; an agent of history, rather than its eyewitness. The prospect was peculiar because usually, both of Lorenzo's jobs required distance and objectivity. As a member of her Majesty's Ordo of tattle-tellers, he and his ilk were sworn only to the Crown, existing as threads on her Majesty's gown of eyes and ears. Together, they informed her highness of which wild growths weighing down her magnificent trunk was next in line for pruning. The isle was one such bower that needed trimming, though compared to the ongoing horrors that were the Niger Delta, the Coastal Mermen and the Elementals of the Fire Sea, it was merely a stubborn twig. What magnified its notoriety was the proximity of it to the trunk, which weighed on the Crown not because of the scale of the victory or loss, but because of chest-beating populism propagated by parties behind the Herald Sun. "MANX OR MAN?" "TERROR ON DOUGLAS" "THIEVES IN THE NIGHT" Dominic recalled wincing every time he saw his publication, the Guardian, beside the red font of the Herald Sun like a slap to the face. His articles, with titles like "The Isle of Lives Lost", simply did not pluck the same heartstrings as a portrait of parents holding the inert body of their arrow-riddled son. And don't even get started on tragedy paired with bared bosoms on Page Three! A worrisome fact of the isle's conflict was that the Factions themselves, initially put in place by the Towers' architects to decentralise power, now pandered to goals of their own. His superior had said that it was the inevitable consequence of long-range communication and ISTC stations, allowing the Factions to find like-minded allies across the globe. Take the Isle of Man, for example, and the unfounded aggression against the Manx. The war should have been preventable, but the militants had come to see themselves not as a branch of service to the legislative assembly of the Empire— but a part of some ideological holy war waged for Humanity, a global behemoth, too big to fail, that fed on Human and Demi-human lives. Thanks to the proliferation of rags like the Herald Sun and its backers, inclusive of industrialists, noblemen, politicians and foreign investors, the public had been split in twain, dichotomously sundered into those clamouring for human supremacy, and those who turned a blind eye. And the Greys, for better or worse, pursued power as the prophets of the profit gospel. On the surface, they were the proponents of peace, advocates for integration. Beneath the beneath, Dominic secretly documented what Creature Cores the men trafficked, and what specimens in the form of appealing Demi-humanoids became available thanks to the war. These, more often than not, were transacted into London for the nobility's exhaustive entertainments. Juxtaposing all that was Elvia, her eyes wet with second-hand remorse as she related events at the Brig. The commanding, crystal gaze the girl affected reminded Lorenzo of a simpler time, where for a stint, he had been a scalpel, scouring rotten flesh from the Mageocracy's bloated hide. That was when he had first met Alesia De Botton. It was the nineties, and the Sixth Cabal had tracked down the remnants of a coven responsible for war crimes hailing back to the German occupation of Europe. Lorenzo had brokered the discovery, and seeing that ex-members of the Shultz family's inner circle were involved, the power merchants in Britain extended a courtesy to the Paladin of Sydney. With star-struck eyes, Lorenzo had anticipated the arrival of the man they called the Morning Star. Instead, he met a fiery redhead in her early twenties. It had taken him several meetings to connect that vibrant, vivacious visage with that of the striking, flame-wreathed face used on propaganda posters. The Scarlet Sorceress! Lorenzo cautioned himself. Kilroy's infamous attack dog! The Coral Sea Witch! As it turned out, working with Alesia was pure sublimity. The Cabal would uncover a nail— And Alesia would hammer it down, no questions asked, performing her task with such conviction that Dominic wondered if the sorceress belonged to one of the Knight Orders. Amazingly, even when that very finger of the Crown pointed itself at family members who had aided, and indeed profited, from the coven of Rogue Mages and their ill-reputed work, the Scarlet Sorceress was ruthless. Whether she simply did not care, or that her sense of justice was beyond the politics of context, she left only smouldering infernos in her wake. After six months, their operation was concluded; the gangrene was scoured from the flesh, and the Mageocracy, now freed from boil and pustule, could heal. Calls for her head came from every Faction, but once she returned to Sydney, all complaints disappeared into the depth as though weighted with lead. As a once ambitious public servant, Lorenzo was in love. In the intervening years, the Scarlet Sorceress had sought him out many more times, from expurgations to headhunts to naive blonde healers. To Lorenzo, the Scarlet Sorceress' ethos was unfazed and unchanged by time. Comparatively, the deeper he supplanted himself from his labour as a journalist, the further he drifted from the Sandhurst scholarship boy who had sworn to protect the Empire's people. Then in November, he had received a private Missive from De Botton, stating that her sister-in-craft would be making her way to London and that the forces were trying to groom her into a second Sobel. "Looking out for her would be a direct conflict of interest," Lorenzo recalled confessing with complete candidness. "Oh, no, no, no." Alesia's laughter had flooded the Message spell. "You just keep an eye out. Gwen's slipperier than a Hagfish Merstrider. She'll have them lapping Essence out of her hand soon enough." Lorenzo had wondered what Alesia meant by lubrication and lapping— Until he had met the girl on Red Peak, corralling Greenskins and pulling Dwarves from the jaws of annihilation, smiting Trolls via Void Dogs, leaving not even a shred of flesh behind, while concurrently at London, the girl snagged the old printing press at the Isle of Dogs, secured the domain as her demesne, then thrice scandalised the Lord Marshall. Furthermore, far from disproving herself as the bastard of Ravenport, she leveraged the rumour, leading to the Lord Marshall expending favours to speak to him, a mere ghostly grunt, in person. Finally, as a reporter, he could only gawk at the snowballing momentum of Gwen's misadventures in enthralling the Herald Sun, the Telegraph, and The Guardian, playing both victim and benefactor. Just as Lorenzo was beginning to wonder if the girl would take a breather, she left him a Message while he was digging up dirt on Tarleton. "Sup, Dom! I am starting a modest newspaper business, likely the largest in London. Keen to be my Editor?" Gwen had told him. "Also, I need you to look out for my five-century-old-Mythic-Essence-enhanced-Cleric on the isle. Cool?" The news that the headliner herself would now print the papers took Dominic some time to digest, but he was interested. He felt keen as an enchanted bean, if he had to be honest, because Gwen's paper was free, and because it was for the NoMs to read. A newspaper for the NoMs? By the grace of England's Virgin Rose! Why hadn't HE thought of that? Then again, so what if he did? Did he have the crystals? The clout? The connections? Political ambition? He wondered what the powers-that-be would think of Kilroy's seed weighing in on London's political discourse, but possessed no real answers— domestic policies were the domain of the Fifth Cabal. The Sixth's task was the subversion of friend and foe outside London's borders and within its Frontiers. A task to which he now committed himself. Across the oaken table, his captive audience grew glummer the longer the vid-caster played. Lorenzo had chosen the broadcast used for the IIUC recap after Gwen's coronation as the MVP. It had everything: whether it was Gwen choking the "Death" out of the Soul Eater— or her bringing forth the Shoggoth— or her duelling the lich— and when she stood beside Lady Grey to receive the Contingency Ring. Using Gwen as a deterrent had been on Lorenzo's mind since he witnessed her prowess on Red Peak. As an agent of the Cabal and as a scholarship boy, Lorenzo always did his homework. Three decades ago, Henry Kilroy had subdued many realms with the help of his all-consuming wife. Naturally, this included conflict hotspots like the Isle of Man, on which the repressed Manx had taken the opportunity to throw off the Empire's yoke. Ergo, by that history and logos, Lorenzo was willing to bet his Astral Soul Golion had seen Sobel in her prime. Now, he and his party waited for Golion; descendent of Iliynore, Primach of the Snaefel Enclave to respond. "The Usurper Sobel, is it?" The Arch-Druid's tone was wary. Dominic nodded, waited a moment for his heart to calm, then shook his head to refute the Primach's observation. "Not Sobel, lord Druid." Lorenzo pushed the recorder-player forward and left it sitting on the table. "Magus Gwen Song, a sorceress with far more potential, greater empathy, and autonomy. A pacifist at heart, a businesswoman and a dreamer well-concerned with the common folk." Lorenzo stood aside so that the whole table could see Elvia. "As evidenced by her dearest friend, our priestess, the kindhearted Miss Elvia Lindholm." The Primach regarded their Cleric. Elvia held her own by meeting his gaze. The Arch-Druid leaned forward, his purple eyes twinkling dangerously. "Art thou advising our Grot is forfeit? That Tir-Mara itself is forfeit should the Manx refuse to concede?" "No! Gwen wouldn't." As Lorenzo anticipated, Elvia protested, rising from her seat. "She would never do that, not to people, never. She's not Sobel. We found Sobel in Sydney. Gwen hates her guts— she killed Gwen's Master!" Lorenzo bade the shaken Cleric sit. "Please understand, Arch-Druid, that we have come in opposition to Colonel Tarleton. Your people, the Manx, were slated for executions, and Miss Elvia, a volunteer healer, whisked them away from the jaws of extinction to your Grot. As for myself, I am but a humble minstrel of the written word— one who has seen too often how far the Mageocracy is willing to go." Lorenzo placed a hand on Elvia's shoulder, an act that drew an unfriendly stare from her Knight. "The war— this war— it is deeply ambivalent for our people. The Mageocracy is averse to having atrocities so close to home. With the news of Tarleton's rapine breaking in London as we speak, there will be only a short window where public sentiment has turned its tide." He turned to the trio of Manx Elders present on the table. Consciously, he switched to high Sylvan, aided by his upper-tier Translation Stone. "Milords of the Manx, as a political correspondent, I must provide you with the truth, no matter how unpleasant. You rail against the ISTC— an understandable grievance— but the ISTC station is here to stay. Its presence is pivotal to the Mageoracy because uniquely, your home offers interference-free translocation between Edinburgh, Dublin and London—" Stolen novel; please report. Lorenzo retrieved a handful of the Druids' fruity offerings. First, he rearranged the sweet stalks of Wildland rhubarb into the shape of the Union Jack. "Here we have London with its outward expanding Mageocracy, perched like a fat spider." The reporter then placed a golden apple and a red-skinned pear to the east. "And here lies Ireland, home to _Tuatha Dé Danann_ , your mound-hearth cousins on the Isle of Dusk and Dawn, vassals to Sythinthimryr, she who guards the Great Tree on Carrauntoohil." Closer to the rhubarb-asterisk, a juicy feijoa rolled into place. "And here endures the ivory hall of the Hvítálfars in white-spired Snowdonia." Lastly, Lorenzo let fall a handful of grapes and lychees, signifying the Mageocracy's concerns to the north. "And finally, beyond Glasgow and Edinburgh, lie the Sundered Hills, home to our most common foe, the custodians of Cairn Gorm, the Son-Kings of Balor the Fomorian." While the Primach pondered the fruit-founded cartographic display, murmuring in near-silent Sylvan to the other Elves, Lorenzo circulated mana to calm his broiling mind. Finally, with steady fingers, he placed a grape in between each location. "And equal distant… is Douglas, whose ley-lines are free from the influence of Loch Lomond, Carrauntoohil and Snowdonia, existing in perfect, triangulated harmony." Lorenzo wetted his parched lips. Could these native Träälvor be moved? Would they pull the Manx back and delay the inevitable for another half-century while the ley-line altered the southern ecosphere? "And what do you say of the threat of Sobel?" The Primach returned in high Sylvan, a dialect the Manx only half-understood. "There is nought to be said, milord," he replied. "What I've shown you has been shown across the world, from your Enclaves in Snowdonia to the Wildfire Gulch on Wilkinkarra, it is no secret that such a being now bides her time in the Mageocracy." The Arch-Druid turned to Elvia. "Gwen would never unleash the Shoggoth here, not against the innocent." The girl rose to the occasion once more. "Lord Druid, I swear by the Nazarine, by his Almighty Father, and on my Astral Soul." Lorenzo could see the Primach's eyes turn in his skull. Were they doing it? Lorenzo gulped. Could the old Elf be convinced? "Lord Primach!" Across the table, nearer the end, the three Manx Druids rose on indignant feet. "The south is our home. We've lived here since you've known our ancestors." "—You can't leave us!" "We're kin!" Golion frowned. "...You would resist the Humans until the last Manx?" The Primach cocked his head, his lilac pupils pulsing with an inner light. "Or do you suppose that Snaefell Enclave would fight your enemies until its last Elf? We are the Guardians of Tìr-Mara, Alderman Eòghan. We promised to protect your people, but the Träälvor shall not be a shield for the Manx's troubles." "We cannot hold our home if you leave!" Another of the Manx Druids was beginning to panic. "What they're doing to us, to our people— Primach, you cannot abide by—" "And now you tell me what my people can and cannot do." Golion shook his head before glancing at Lorenzo's party. "Did you forget our pact? Just as our sovereigns in that paradise of Snowdonia had left us with autonomy, so we have not interfered in your dealings with the Humans. YOU chose to fight them. They have made their proposal, Eòghan. What is yours?" "O-our what? Primach?" "What do you offer your benefactors, other than destruction and ruin? Can you deliver the peace we desire?" "You're... abandoning us?" the Manx Druid named Eòghan turned to fume at Lorenzo, Elvia and finally Mathias, who sat silently beside his Cleric, stoic as a statue, one hand on the pommel of his Spellblade. "... Whatever your accusation, your Manx brothers and sisters shall have shelter, food, and space…" Golion touched a hand to his brow. "Eòghan, do you wish that we should fight for your home when you cannot? Why should the Träälvor of Tìr-Mara bleed for you half-bloods? Our Hvítálfar cousins do not fight for us. Why should we for you?" "Primach." Eòghan's long and elegant eyes grew hard with hate. "These humans, they will come for the north eventually." "Perhaps." Golion's interest appeared to wane. "Or reasonably, like every Human empire since they confronted us with sticks and stones and your ancestors were their's and not ours, the threat will cease to exist— the land will heal— and no Elf need perish unnaturally." While the Manx grew pale, and the Primach returned his attention to Lorenzo. "Do enjoy the fruits of thine labour and ours." The Arch-Druid took the words right out of Lorenzo's mouth. With that, the Primach stood, an act echoed by the other Elves, then began an agonising march away from the table to a private conference elsewhere in the meeting hall. The three Manx Druids followed with bows and scrapes, pleading with their elders. When Lorenzo sat back down, all the tension drained from his body at once, leaving him semi-paralysed. Had he done it? After all these years, was he now the one directing the headline? On his right, Elvia's delicate face drifted closer, full of confusion and question. "Mister Lorenzo, what did they say? Why are the Manx so upset?" "They came to an inevitable conclusion, dear Evee. All thanks to the opportunity you provided with your selfless kindness." Lorenzo gazed benevolently upon the girl who would assume credit for his hidden labour. "I should congratulate you, Miss Lindholm, you've done it. After this, you can stand beside Magus Song on your own two feet." "Done what?" The girl's breathing grew rapid. She wasn't stupid, and from the looks on the Manx's faces and the Elves who averted their eyes, she should be able to guess what the outcome had been. Nonetheless, Lorenzo chose kindness. "Why the war, Miss Lindholm. It's done, at least for two decades. Only two paths now lie ahead of the Manx. Relocation— or _eradication_." As was promised to Gwen, the Dwarves-on-loan at the Isle of Dogs numbered a total of twelve. Two Engineseers Two Runesmith Enchanters. Seven Senior Apprentices. And one Master Alchemist. Of the number, Nesatin Smeltshield and Doussed Wyvernbreaker, both Tuners, made up the Engineseers who would be revitalising the printing press, aided by their Journeymen, Vaz, Thakaen, Kilmug and Grutgruli; an all-beard contingent of volunteers eager to tour the Overland and its pubs. The Runesmiths consisted of two white-beards; Thulgig Flinthide and Danmurim the Glum, with the latter possessing a ruinous face thanks to a grim machine accident. They too were joined by their Apprentices, Grut, Skori and Ori, of which the last two wore fake beards because Human males had unquenchable thirsts. Finally, a Golem, better yet the bottom half of a modified Golem Suit, rumbled beside Gwen. Upon the platform, standing head and shoulders above her host, Yossari Vildrenbrandt introduced herself as their Alchemist. Unlike the other female Dwarves, her pilot's jacket made no move to hide her femininity, a fact that drew considerable attention not only from the grinning Dwarven men but from the NoM crowd as well. Much to her delight, Yossari revealed herself to be the "Master" sent by Guild Master Whurforlüm. While Walken briefed the others, Gwen settled beside the thrumming leader of the Dwarf party. Reaching up, they shook. "Hanmoul's my nephew." The smiling matron shook Gwen's hand via an articulated gauntlet. "He's told me a lot about you, Magus Song." "I hope its all good." Gwen laughed. "All interesting, at the very least." Yossari paused, leaned in, then appeared to fixate on her IIUC Ring. "Huh, that's one of ours." "Ours?" When she tried to withdraw her hand, she found her fingers well arrested. "Your Contingency Ring, the setting is of Dwarf-make." The Alchemist turned her hand over, taking a closer gander. "Ah yes, here it is— Master Gemsmith Lindknottr of Vaduz. Very interesting how our cousins in Bavaria are getting along. Love to go there after this. And this Storage Ring— my, it's an old one, from before the war in Europe, not one of ours though." With a smile and a gentle yank, Gwen freed her hand. "You must be very knowledgable about Magical Items, Master Vildrenbrandt." "It's a hobby." The Alchemist's eyes swept the print works. "So, is this where we're holed up?" "I've booked a hotel." Gwen pointed at the horizon, where several structures jutted skyward, one of which was the Thames Regency, whose accommodations for Demi-human dignitaries came with recommendations from Lady Grey. Yossari audibly snorted. "Aye, Hanmoul did say yer one to overthink. Der yer believe yonder Murk-boots would be willing ter leave the Earth Mother's embrace when they're away from home? Nay Lass, just tell us where to dig." "Dig?" Gwen looked about the vicinity of the printing works. The parking bay was enormous, but not that enormous. "Yer got jurisdiction over this lot?" Vildrenbrandt pointed to a section beside the outer dock's rectangular mass of half-frozen water. Gwen followed the articulated mechanical digit. Hanmoul's aunt was eyeing a section of the old freight road labelled by the London Metropolitan Council as "A-12-06". Presently, it was home to a row of townhouses abandoned once jobs dried up. "I don't think you'd want to live there," Gwen replied with a note of caution. "Filth, vermin and poor construction aside, those folks at the Shard would crucify me if our Dwarven guests are put up in anything but the best we can offer. Did you know there was talk of accomodating you in St James' Palace?" "Ha!" Vildrenbrandt chuckled, dialling a few nobs here and there. "We're a humble lot. How much space do you think was in our keep? We're far more comfortable sleeping in our workshops. Look, can yer offer us that block of land or not?" "It IS vacant, and I do manage it, but there's not much bedrock." Gwen mimed her warning with her hands, wiggling fingers to show the groundwater. "You're not thinking of starting now, surely? I've got a Habitat, and I can probably get a few more on loan—" "You're the local Thane then? That makes it easy." The Alchemist clunked past her without so much as a pause. "ALRIGHT, LADS! Over yonder's where we'll construct our outpost! Nesatin! Doussed! Yer on the Fabs with me! Thulgig! Danmurim! Get on the Diggers. Journeymen! Yer on material duty!" The Journeymen ran for their Golems, while the titled smiths merely nodded and made their way to the Fabricator Engines. A thundering hiss of steam blew up Gwen's skirt. By the time she tamed the fabric, Walken had returned to her side, furrowed like a scrunched ball of paper. "You got permission for the Dwarves to build a fort in the middle of London?" The Magister raised a very valid point. "Since when was the Municipal office that pliant?" _THUMP! THUMP! THUNK!_ Gwen's reply was lost in the din of a four-metre Golem, the first of its kind to invade England's capital city, thundering past the shore-break on its stumpy, cobble-crushing feet. In storage, the Fabricator-Golem had appeared to Gwen a giant steel box painted in sunburst yellow, scuffed with the signs of hard labour and smelling faintly of crude oil. Now unfolded, the 10-ton Golem was a monstrosity with a pair of bi-folding piston-feet each the size of vans. Hissing steam and howling jets of superheated mana from its exhaust, it lumbered forward in lurches, leaving footprints large enough to form future archaeological dig-sites. Behind it, a second engine unpacked, tall and lithe with the look of an orange-black six-limbed mantis. This one, Gwen guessed, should be a transformed crane of sorts, for its arms and limbs could be extended via means of inter-locking hydraulics. The third and fourth "Digger" Fabricators were a smaller, bipedal model with an enormous mana-tank almost three-quarters the size of its entire body. Its foursome of forelimbs consisted of nine-segment manipulator-arms with tiny crystalline tips, making Gwen suspect they were specialised Spellswords of some sort. Comparative to the bitumen-chomping behemoths, the smaller construction Golems piloted by the Journeymen were akin to the combat suits used by Hanmoul and his men, only odd-looking, boxy, and cumbersome, tottering along on stumpy legs busy with exposed pistons and a large mana tank nearer the back. These possessed the usual assortment of manipulator gauntlets, underneath of which were slotted Spellsword crystals. _THUNK!_ Sorceress and Magister watched with wonder as the Alchemist-driven Fabricator anchored itself with self-digging bolts to the ground. With a monstrous shudder, it pivoted from the waist; then blasted a trio of brick townhouses with a pure stream of Transmutation magic. In front of their very eyes, the council-housing wilted. Glass, brick, terracotta, bits of metal and even the old fence collapsed into sand and silt. "Are you sure those are unoccupied?" Walken tapped Gwen on the shoulder. "Did someone do a survey?" "Wally said..." Gwen's blood suddenly ran cold. Spinning on her heels, she turned to her crowd of NoMs. "OI! YOU LOT! ARE ANY OF THOSE OCCUPIED?" Most of the NoMs shook their head. To her chagrin, a few nodded. In the next moment, Gwen parted the crowd like a biblical Magi, isolating the group that had nodded. In her presence, the NoMs quailed. "WHO? Who is living in there?" "Derek and his family were taking turns with another lot of vagrants from Blackfriars." The NoM day-labourer pointed to the whereabouts of the quickly liquifying buildings. "I don't know if they're still in there though." "SHIT!" Gwen turned to face the Golems, Clarion Call on full blast. "Master Vildrenbrandt! STOP! There are possibly people in there! Please refrain from liquidating my citizens!" "Arrghk, they'll be alright," the Alchemist's voice came from above, projected through a Vox output. With an ear-splitting roar, a blast of raw mana tore through the rapidly atomising structure. Over the Thames, an enormous cloud of fine particles settled over the frigid water, revealing the base structure of the abandoned townhouses. Old mud, dried brick, rotten plumbing and sewerage pipes covered the lowest floor, looking like a wasp nest cleaved in twain. Also exposed was the wide-eyed, newly-nude family taking shelter in the abandoned townhouse, squinting at the sight of a screaming Fabricator Golem, a hundred-strong throng of NoMs, and their mistress and manager of the Isle of Dogs. "Our Transmute to Dust only works on the non-organic matter. Nothing living will be harmed," Vildrenbrandt noted smugly. "Not without a little tweaking, anyway. None of your folk hail from the Elemental Plane of Earth, do they?" True to the Alchemist's word, there were masses of unnamable organic matter, their true compositions too horrible to consider, that now lay about in splotches. Likewise, though much of the fabric on the poor NoMs had been disintegrated, somehow enough remained, making the audience wonder. The sewerage began to pulse. Gwen suddenly recalled that in Dwarfland, the water closets were all unplumbed, quasi-magical devices. Across the Thames, the wind blew in. With her supernatural sense of smell, Gwen was the first to gag. In an instant, she and the crowd were turned captive victims by the raw and horrid smell of an NoM-empowered Stinking Cloud formed of human excreta, fermented by time, mixed with urine, garbage, refuse, enlivened by fleeing dock rats the size of cats. "Ironborn! Deep Gas Protocols!" The Alchemist was the first to call out. "Looks like we've hit a seam! Journeymen! Get those humans out of here!" _Shuuu-CHUNK!_ The Golem units switched to internal filters. "Walken!" Gwen staggered from the inadvertent biological warfare breaking out over the lower docks, every meal from Sunday to now threatening to return to the above-ground world. Every breath was agony; every syllable filled her tongue with foul-tasting particles. "Wind Wall! WALKEN! _Gurrrk—_ WIND WALL!"

* * * **Voting for the novel ::Voting button** **Also, shoutout to Vowron Prime** **... For his seminal work the MAGNUS a powerful and peerless tale of saving imoutos. ** **Chapter Ref ::** * * * **Volume 1 Amazon (US) the book is in all markets as well. Volume 2 Amazon (US) the book is in all markets as well. V1 Google Play, iBook, Kobo, Nook and Playster Link V2 Google Play, iBook, Kobo, Nook and Playster Link** **Paper back in near future** * * * **Metaworld-Meta-fics :** ** "Strictly Caliban" From the always catty @Wandysama ** **And "An Islander's Meta-Journey" from young gun @Bartimeus **The Mysteries of Fudan, and Other Rumors From the Metaworld **Strategic Magic by kjoatmon Farewells - The Strange Life of a Quarter-Elf From Sydney Rise of a Magi by a Duck Mage (Rhein) ** * * * **Metaworld Audiobook : ** **AGROSQ Audio** * * * **Discord is now level 3 and has Mods! JOIN OUR DISCORD SERVER** For theorycrafting, world building, Dede, and meta-brew Roleplaying! * * * **Voting for the novel ::Voting button** * * * * * * __ Who are your favourite Characters and whose POV do you want to read from? * * * * __ Wednesday, July 8, 2020 11:17:20 AM * __ Wednesday, July 8, 2020 12:54:12 PM * __ __**Bio:** I write on the phone and edit at home. Times are tough! Theme (Entire Website) Dark Light Dim background 0% 20% 40% 50% 60% 80% 100% Font Size 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 20 22 24 28 32 Reader Width Max 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% Font Family Default ————— Open Dyslexic Atkinson Hyperlegible ————— Arial Roboto Open Sans OS Default Comic Sans Lucida Verdana Ubuntu Ubuntu Condensed Franklin Gothic Garamond Caslon Minion __ Color Scheme Theme Default OLED Black Royal Road Dark Dark Gray Gray Light Gray Sepia White __ Tap again to scroll to the top!

Once the NoM family received hand-me-downs from the public, the Dwarves went to work. Now that the hole she had dug herself was irreversibly deep, Gwen asked Walken for advice on how to best approach the bureaucratic bog. Eric wisely replied that personally calling the Metropolitan council was itself a lesson in futility; instead— she should leverage Lady Grey's position to plank over the paperwork quagmire. After a few minutes of watching the Dwarves work, Gwen decided to operate through an intermediary. With a flourish, she dialled her Praelector. "Ollie. Gwen here, how are things, buddy?" "… Good?" the young man answered with a tone of caution. "Anything's the matter? No— trouble?" "Nothing serious," Gwen playfully teased the Message Device, her voice oozing with honey. If Le Guevel had been present, the Magus would have sighed with pleasure. "Oz, listen, I was wondering if you could spare me an hour since I am preoccupied with our guests from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. Can you do that for me?" "An hour? I suppose..." "GREAT!" Gwen gushed with relief. "I need a retro-authorised Development Permit for our Dwarven allies to make a medium-sized house, like an R-2—" "Extensive bunker." Walken coughed. "Maybe, Z-3?" "Z-3... to make a large underground structure beneath the Isle of Dogs, like one of those parking complexes under Harold's, you know? Three—" "About seven." Her advisor observed. "Five storeys, down, two above at most," Gwen finished in one breath. "Make sure our dearest lady is clued in, okay? It's her property, after all. Once the Dwarven Workshop is up and running, it is sure to become a major centre for invest— for arcane learning! Don't screw this up, Ollie!" "Wha— I—" "I know, Oz. I believe in you! Buy ya dinner later!" Gwen shouted into the pulsing Glyph, then snuffed the light with a wave of her hand before extinguishing the device entirely. "Phew— that was easier than I imagined." "… Gwen." Her partner shuddered beside her. "If you do that to me, I will do terrible things to you in turn. Do you think Ollie will manage?" "He'll be right. Would Oz ever fail in managing the Lady's affairs? Dare paper-pushers delay the Foreign Office's triumph?" Gwen grinned. "I know Ollie's type. They're the backbone of the Empire. I'll make it up to him later." "By not leaving him with more surprise quests?" "Hilarious, Eric." Besides the pair, the Fabricator with the likeness of a Mantis was already perched on top of the rectangular hole, its long and geometric limbs busy at work inscribing Runes onto the transmuted stone surface. Considering that the Glyphs used in Imperial Spellcraft had their origins in Dwarven arcana, Gwen could just make out anti-corrosion and stability Wards deployed in the Enchantment Mandalas taught by Nils Kott. These would be tied into the city's mana-grid; thankfully, the isle had been built for heavy industry. From the talk of what Yossari Vildrenbrandt had planned, the Dwarves were carving out a whole complex of workshops, inclusive of garages for their Golems. The team must have come prepared, for one of the Fabricators was using Spatial Magic to conjure steel girders into thin air before fusing them into place. Meanwhile, the Diggers continued their work out of sight, perceivable only by the sound of their rumbling engines. "Where do you suppose all that waste-water and soil has gone?" Gwen asked Walken after a while. "Should I be expecting a complaint from downstream?" "The Dwarves are using an Elemental Exchange algorithm," the Magister explained. "Dwarven magic has extremely high mana fidelity compared to ours, so it's possible to exchange denser matter in the Prime Material with objects in the Elemental Plane of Earth. Take their Diggers, for example; I wager that their Spellswords are using a form of Conjure Metal admixed with Runic modifiers for Shape Metal. What they pick up goes back into the Plane, while the seam they're tapping is transmuted here in real-time—" "Correct!" Yossari Vildrenbrandt's voice came through her vox device. "Well done, Magister." Walken stared into the hole, then up at the Dwarven woman in the rumbling machine. "How deep are you digging? Once you're past the clay, its quicksand and oyster beds throughout." "Oysters?" Gwen raised a brow. Walken gave her a superior look. "Layers of it half-a-kilometre thick. It's a famous story, the death and triumph of the Brunels of Portsea. Have you heard?" "Not at all." Gwen's curiosity piqued. "Care to enlighten us? Does it have to do with what Master Yossari is doing?" "Oh, absolutely." Ever the happy talker, Walken indicted to the depthless drop even now growing deeper. "About two centuries ago, during the reign of Mad King George, a Transmuter called Marcus Brunel tried to tunnel under the Thames. A few months in, his team of proto-Transmuters made it down and under the thalweg, fighting brackish water, seeping sewerage and Mer-Goblins. Fearful of the river falling in; they tried to dig deeper. Unfortunately, once the clay layer was exhausted, it turns out London sat on an enormous bed of oyster shells from the Draconic Era. Realising that he'd just about ruined his chances at making history, he tried to transmute back up through to the clay, only to have the underground water overwhelm him and his team. Marcus was a tenacious pioneer though— after the investments dried up, he worked on it alone— and came close to succeeding, until heavy floods from the rain season crushed his tunnel, erasing a life in its prime." "By the Sju Dorfran," Yossari hailed from up on high. "Always a shame to lose a fellow Digger. Tunnelling accidents happen though. Usually, it's because we delved into the lair of something, or that 'something' is digging into our tunnels. Let me tell yer, becoming trapped between an angry swarm of Ember Ants and a Fabricator too bulky to turn around is a terrible way to go. You said there was a triumph?" "Indeed, that would be with his son," Walken continued. "Isambard Brunel, who proved not only to be an apt Transmuter but one of the greatest Engineers of the Spellcraft Revolution. It was he who sought out the Dwarves and apprenticed himself to learn their craft, not the first to try— but one of the few to succeed. Master Vildrenbrandt, have you heard of Isambard before?" Yossari's machine continued to churn while its pilot thought it over. "I was a lass back then, so I wouldn't know. If memory serves, I was being schooled at Eth Jarlethurkon-Gintor Kjangtoth. That was before the Murk turned completely dark." "A shame. At any rate, the future Meister Brunel returned from studying in Bavaria with a modified method of Dwarven Engineering which utilised runic steel—" The Magister indicated to the labour being carried out by the mantis-crane. "To prevent flooding, he additionally designed the first elemental-exchange transformer, what you see used in our waterworks today, to displace the Thame back into the Elemental Plane of Water. It's called the Brunel Water Engine." The story appeared to have garnered the interest of the Journeymen as well, who came closer to listen to the Magister speak. "A patient man, unlike his father, Isambard worked slowly and meticulously, taking a decade to inch his tunnel into the shell-bed. Meanwhile, he became responsible for two other engineering innovations— the modern dockyard used to build Atlas-class ships— and of course, the original transatlantic freighter-carrier." "Amazing, is he dead?" Yossari asked. "I am afraid he is." "Aye, yer short-lived humans. Yer burn bright, and yer dies like Murflies." "Compared to Dwarves," Walken agreed, then returned to his tale. "The younger Brunel, after eight years, succeeded in tunnelling below the Thames with only rudimentary Spellcraft and imported Dwarven knowledge. Yet, his work was extraordinary. It's still in service today. I am sure Gwen's even used it." "I have?" "Indeed, if you rode the Subway, it means you've passed the original tunnel at some point. The Brunel Tunnel is still in operation and perfect condition almost two centuries on." "Astounding!" "That does sound impressive." Yossari's tone grew admiring. "Maybe we'll visit." "Please let Gwen know before you do," Walken advised once more. "You will need a permit to enter the tunnels, and the trains will have to be routed. If your people could be so kind, Gwen could certainly use your help in improving transportation on the Isle of Dogs." "Yes, just give the word." Gwen gave their Master Alchemist the thumbs-up. "I know a guy, Ollie. He's the man who can get it done!" For Gwen, January passed with the swiftness of a Wanka at full-mast, skittering across the salt flats on all ten legs. On the subject of her Spellcraft theory, she had made significant progress thanks to Brown's merciless gavage. Though her "lacks" remained ample, Gwen had already unlocked better dresses with nicer fabrics, as well as more stylish heels. The improvement came as no surprise to herself; she was a mature age student with no lack of discipline, and now the results were showing— at least for some of her tutors. In Abjuration, Nils Kott's Munich-winter began to thaw once Gwen started to show more promise in alternate forms of Abjuration Magic. She could now carve out with speed and accuracy the basic Mandala known as Alarm, synthesising Abjuration and Enchantment with low-tier Illusions like Clarion Call to blare out an air-siren. The effect itself was superficial for someone who possessed dogs, a Drake, Kirin and worm, but the theory provided the groundwork for higher applications. Perhaps because Kott felt like Gunther-lite, she found herself rapidly warming up to the man, and her subsequent enthusiasm in investigating mana-vitality efficacy made their relationship easy and amiable. With Keridwen Le Guevel, Gwen's lessons in seemingly irrelevant things continued. To teach her the proper use of Illusion beyond the cosmic utility of PowerPoint, Gwen had taken up painting and singing. To Gwen, who had never had the opportunity for either, the exercise proved a relaxing counterpoint to the mental strain of solving Brown's puzzles and the constant disappointment of Kareena Patil. Initially, Le Guevel had intended to kill two birds with one stone by providing her with lessons in classical instruments favoured by the nobility. When Gwen began having vivid flashbacks of earlier life under Helena, she had opposed the training outright. To her tutor's frustration, Gwen had little talent for either— though the purpose, Le Guevel explained, was to ease her training in Illusion and not produce art or song. For Gwen, as much as she was tempted to blow "Keri" away with an old-world Top 40: say, Toto's Africa; she refrained for fear of another leak like what had occurred with Jun. Le Guevel forgave her, then moved on to dancing lessons. One time, Le Guevel even invited a partner, a middle-aged NoM dandy for Gwen to exercise her limberness. The whole hour-long session, Gwen's face had burned like the setting sun; besides the waltzing couple, her tutor took notes. Comparatively, Magister Kareena Patil's tongue-lashes left her bruised and bleeding. In response, Gwen retorted that Patil had unrealistic expectations— after all, she was performing admirably with Abjuration and Illusion and making steady headway with Mandalas. She was an Omni-Mage, Gwen snapped back, not an Omni-human. Perhaps it was the Magister's attitude, or maybe she refused to yield to Patil's constant conjecture that Gwen possessed some sort of learning difficulty, or mayhap the woman reminded her of Helena; the two got along like Void and Lightning. Neither looked forward to their lessons and their time together merely resulted in more resentment. Later, in private, Brown had told her that Kareena was the one who had devised most of the puzzle-Mandalas for Gwen's home and that she should not judge a Mage by their scowl. Finally, as January came to a close with its snow and sleet, swelling the Thames, three unanticipated events marked the conclusion of a busy month in a foreign land. The first was the polarising opinion of what the Sun Herald insisted was a Dwarven Fortress and what the city of London had lodged as a workshop. The news went that Gwen Song, responsible for opening up relations with the Dwarves, was now a Demi-loving turncoat looking to profit from the people of London. All that good-will she had created on the Isle of Dogs, the paper inferred, was merely a cover for this outrageous land-grab for the "Squats". Gwen's displeasure was that the Tower made no move to impute the Herald Sun for publishing flaming bullshit and that during her weekly audit of the isle, groups of reporters would crowd the manor, clamouring for her to confess. The truth, Gwen suspected, lay with Walken who convened with London Metro to discuss the possibility of paying the Dwarves to expand beneath the Isle of Dogs. With the Fabricators, they could likely complete a circular route of the eastern Underground within half a year. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. The second event to catch her by surprise happened at Emmanuel College, midway through massaging her rainbow-hued duck. While pampering her drake, a triumphant shout from the Old Court had sent the pair reeling against the park bench. "YOU! You've been modifying Dede?" Maxwell Brown Dimension Doored beside them, his face scarlet with a disapproving scowl. "Gwen, why?" Deeply ashamed, Dede's gooseneck withdrew into its body. "Dede, Dada isn't angry." Maxwell promptly changed his tone, much to Gwen's surprise, then discomfort. The Magister then invited himself to sit beside her and the duck. After several kisses to the duck's head, he turned to her accusingly. "Dede is a wild animal, Gwen. A Familiar or a Spirit might take to your Druidic Essence kindly, but a free creature like Dede? What you've done is highly unethical." Still shaken, Gwen wanted to know why. "Essence!" Brown seethed; rarely had she ever seen the jovial researcher in such a mood. "All animals have their scents, and when it comes to Magical Beasts, Essence, no matter how meagre, determines their physiology, tier and being. I know that you've had fortuitous encounters and your body is nothing short of miraculous, but you shouldn't be polluting innocent creatures with your— emanations!" "Dede loves it though." Gwen wiggled a finger like a worm. "Quack! Quack!" Dede agreed, kicking its little orange feet. Brown sighed. "Gwen, you're of a certain age, so I think it is safe to say you're not the wholesome young woman you pretend to be, certainly not with Keridwen Le Guevel sinking her claws into your brain. You've had boyfriends, right? I do apologise for the plural, but one can only speculate— but think on this, how would you like it if someone came along and took advantage of your impoverished wisdom?" "Quack!" "I am not sure how your analogy works." Gwen narrowed her eyes, a little confused, more so insulted. "Are you saying I… took 'advantage' of your duck?" "Dede is his 'own' duck," Brown snapped. "Don't be insensitive." "Okay..." "You've changed him!" Brown growled. "Dede was a loner, but he was a mighty-fine duck, you know? How's he going to find a mate now? Who is even in the same realm as Dede? The female mallards are terrified of him. Did you know the other day he fought with a male for their attention, and he swatted one into the water so hard it broke both wings? Some of the students had to take the poor mallard to the infirmary. After that, the hens fled. If Dede had tried to mate with one— sweet Jesus— excuse me, but by God..." "… Maxwell." Gwen felt uncomfortable enough to change the topic. "You seem to know a lot about ducks." "I also know a lot about respecting our campus fellows, alright? Dede's no different. You need to recognise his autonomy." "Dede has autonomy?" Brown nodded. "Dede is brilliant, always has been. Many of our finest Magisters and scholars spend their time here at the pond, the students as well. Maybe it rubs off? I am not a cryptozoologist, but after what you pulled..." The Magister took a deep breath. "Did you know your Familiars and Dede have been harassing our students? Shaking them down for food and crystals?" "They have?" Gwen looked around for her missing Familiars, who were gone as soon as Brown confronted her. Their absence meant that Magister Brown was likely telling the truth. "And they've been splitting the loot. Dede knows arithmetics." "Are you sure he's originally a duck?" Gwen was very impressed. Not even Alesia's decade-old Caracal could do that. At the same time, she wondered if Dean Luo's Air Elemental, Ellen, could do mathematics. "And he knows how to buy bread from the local delicatessen." "That's not that crazy; Ariel used to exchange crystals for chicken legs near Fudan." "Dede gets the change exact and gets his order delivered to the pond. He also uses coupons." "...wow." The Magister pinched his brows. "The point is, how's Dede going to find a mate? How can Dede fulfil its purpose in life? Did you give him a purpose before you elevated him with your Draconic morphology?" "No… but I see your point." "Do you?" "I think I do…" Brown watched her, and in her instructor's eyes, Gwen saw herself helplessly shrug. When Dede paddled on her thighs and soulfully comforted her trespass, an unfortunate parallel, her dearest Evee, rose to the fore of her mind. Her mind grew gravid with doubt— as with the duck, had she done right by Elvia, or had she made her friend's situation infinitely worse? Was giving Evee Sen-sen her mistake? Or was Sen-sen merely the symptom of a bigger problem? The affection she felt for her Evee was as generous as ever, but now those feelings felt tainted— by guilt, by self-loathing, by the poor returns. In the end, student and tutor petted the duck, fed it Crystals, and spent the afternoon in quiet contemplation of Dede's future. The final event occurred the next day, on her morning jog through Cambridge, whereupon a familiar face on the front page— that of her friend Elvia Lindholm, confronted her. Afraid of what she might read in the Herald Sun, she picked the Guardian. "HOSTILE DIPLOMACY" read the headline in bold print. Below was a picture of Elvia in what looked like her Nightingale school clothes, blonde as spun gold and cute as a button. Morbidly curious for what she was about to learn, Gwen strolled back to Emmanuel to pick up her Familiars, walking as she read. "… Junior Cleric from Nightingale moves the Manx with compassion." The paper had printed. "Since last November, London's fragile and often callous diplomatic ties with the indigenous folk on the Isle of Man has resulted in wide-ranging skirmishes costing lives on both sides. The hostility broke on Thursday evening when the Manx leadership offered a ceasefire and truce, unexpectedly agreeing to pull their presence from the isle's south. Though the isle has long since belonged to Britain in legality, the Manx have continued to flout the treaty of 1347. With the present agreement, however, ratified by the Wood Elves of Tir-Mara, the Mageocracy anticipates a long-lasting peace…" Gwen skipped the fluff until she got to the paragraph with Elvia. "Doctor Lindholm, who last week was responsible for uncovering atrocities committed by mercenary-Adventurers under the command of Colonel Sarah Tarleton, had been forced to escort her rescued prisoners back to their hidden home. Aided by the Guardian's own Dominic Lorenzo and Ser Mathias Rothwell of The Order of St Michael, the trio located and then proceeded with diplomatic talks. The Arch-Druid of Tir-Mara, Primarch Golion…" The story further goes on to mention that Elvia had convinced the Druid of the Mageocracy's sincerity and that her warning was the straw on the camel's back that broke the strained relationship between the Manx and the Elven Enclave on the isle. Without the Elves' support in the war, the Manx could only pull back to designated safe zones ruled by their allies. "In an additional gesture, Lindholm has offered to remain behind to relocate the Manx, providing much-needed Clerical aide to a desperate and destitute people ravaged by centuries of war and discrimination…" "Our little Evee's all grown up." Gwen sighed as she crumpled the paper. "To think a month ago, Mathias was using her as a rug." Suppressing her ambivalent emotions, she wondered when was the right time to give Elvia a call and ask how her friend was— and how she felt. A few days later, Elvia did not call, and neither had she. Gwen had put the matter behind her, for it was so easy to be distracted when one wanted to be, and Elvia proved an easy victim to the insanity of her schedule. With the Dwarves now settled in, the repair of the printing press was underway. Accounts had to be balanced as capital flowed out and then rebalanced when a sudden rise in the enterprise of Tonglv and its associated projects saw her funds replenished. Yossari proved perfectly happy aiding in her immediate need for office space, especially now that a limited-permit had been issued to Lady Grey to accommodate whatever urban planning Gwen desired. As he had promised, Walken blood-sealed the contract without incident and assumed his position as an executive of the Millwall-Cubitt Development Group. Taking advantage of Gwen's permit, the Magister asked the Dwarves to erect the company's first official office space. It was a prospect both Grey and Gwen found agreeable, as Walken could now keep an eye on the Dwarves and oversee the town from up on high. A day later, Richard arrived, bringing Elis and Lucas from King's College to seek out internships. Gwen placed them under Walken, roles the trio took without complaint, then personally toured the isle for outstanding issues to be resolved. Once the chaos settled, Gwen observed that the peninsula was finally something other than a dilapidated Dickensian wasteland of muck and refuse. The most significant change was in Millwall, where the streets had been cleared of trash, and the public buildings were once again in use. Shattered windows that once gazed out like blue-addicts onto A-12-06 now held both light and people, giving the town a feeling of human warmth. When Wally conducted the January census, he recorded a total of three thousand inhabitants, and just over a thousand vagrants who desired abodes in Millwall. Concurrently, Elvia's clinic and soup kitchen had expended thrice and was known all over the region for its thick, gut-settling SPAM soup. For men on the isle, those who were able-bodied were employed by the printing press, either as cleaners, fitters, or day-labourers helping the Dwarves. Public projects like the restoration of the mud-covered roads continued, delivering gainful employment to hundreds, even though Richard and Lea could clear the lot in a week. With wages being paid on time and in LDMs, merchants smelling opportunity had set up stalls and rented shops closer to the shore, selling enigmatic sausages in a bun that not even Caliban would eat, at least not without the sauce that cost extra. Other labourers came from as far as Stratford and Vanbrugh to find work, for Gwen had given orders to keep as many bodies as possible on the isle. When the construction began in earnest, she had told Walken— there would not be enough hands even if they drained the inlet from Limehouse to Plumstead. Then in between her life of increasingly more convoluted puzzles, training with Nils, persevering with Patil, tending ducks with Maxwell, limbering with Keridwen, and High Tea with Lady Grey, Petra arrived to preserve Gwen's sanity. London. Heathrow. Gwen's second time at Heathrow was met with far more success than the first. Rachel Swann, Ravenport's replacement Director of Security at the ISTC station, had instructed her people to recognise Gwen on sight. Little did she know, her order was wholly unnecessary, for its entire staff, those not yet laid off— had all witnessed the legendary lumen-recordings of the Devourer's tantrum that lead to Director Reeve's dismissal. Her infamy became apparent when she teleported in with Magister Brown in tow. As if via divination, two uniformed guards stood ready with welcomes and hellos, asking for her business and destination. When she said that she would not be travelling interstate and that she was instead here to receive a friend, the atmosphere visibly relaxed, and the guards explained themselves. "The arrival lounge is this way," the officer directed them toward a section of the ISTC that Gwen knew a little too well. "You're a celebrity," Brown teased her with a smirk. "I doubt they have any idea who I am." "You should try having a ring with your entire inventory confiscated." Gwen chuckled. "I bet you'd fight them to the last mote of mana as well." "Oh, I would— but I don't have a Lord Marshall to back me up. What if I get arrested?" "Dickie didn't bail me out for fun," Gwen explained as they made their way across the lounge. This time, she was at least in a calve-length coat; last time, she had teleported in wearing a summer dress. "If you recall, I was grilled within an inch of my life in that car." Brown laughed. "I am jealous. You have no idea how generously people will pay to arrest the Duke of Norfolk's ear for an hour. To think he came to you, free of charge and in person. There's little wonder the tabloids speculate." "No need to tell me about it. I am living it." Gwen quickened her pace. "Come on. I think Pats should be here already." ISTCs, unlike the air-lounges of her old world, were relatively instant for those with HDMs and passports. The only obstructions facing legitimate travellers were crystals and customs, a problem only for those who were Class VI War Mages carrying enough capital to fund a city-wide insurrection. At the glass doors facing the retro-futurist decor of the lounge, Gwen spotted her cousin seated beside the un-endearing face of Magister Wen. "PETRA!" She rushed forward. Petra looked up from her tablet. Her cousin remained as comely as she had always been; if a bit pale from the long-distance teleportation. Tall and svelte, Petra's hair fell loosely about her shoulders, while on her shoulders hung a long sleeved one-piece that wrapped her figure snugly. Like herself, the Enchanter had forgone her coat. As an old Moscow girl, Gwen figured, Pats must not think much of London's meagre single-digit winters. Beside her, the future Meister Wen looked like she walked out from Heilong Laboratory, got on a cab, strolled through the ISTC, then arrived at Heathrow's lounge. Her face was its usual shrivelled-pickle self, and her eyes still possessed that lifeless, glassy quality that came standard in old Mineral Mages. "Gwen!" The two girls crashed in a fierce embrace, with Gwen enveloping her cousin by lifting her into the air. Petra's body felt so soft, her hair smelled terrific, and it felt amazing to hug something other than a Familiar, or a duck. "Pats! I've missed you so much. Lord knows enough has happened with you gone." "Gwen— you've…" Petra appeared surprised she could breathe. "You've lost your Draconic-strength? So it's true?" "Aye, it's true." Gwen let her go. "We'll talk at Peterhouse, your new home. I've got a private suite there. Or on the Isle of Dogs where I've got a manor." "I am going to Peterhouse?" Petra turned her head. "You're not?" Gwen looked to Maxwell Brown, who was shaking Wen's hand and offering the usual English platitudes. That Vice-Chancellor Butterfield had sent Gwen to retrieve the scholar from Fudan had been a message in itself. Roslyn-Marie Wen was a research fellow, a Meister by virtue of what the college had exchanged— not by academic merit. Likewise, as Brown would be taking over from Wen as the chief researcher of Gwen's mystical prowess, the inclusion of the Magister in their welcoming party was an indication of Wen's future place at Cambridge. In a way, Gwen almost felt sorry for the researcher. If she were to reach the apex of her life, she would hate for it to be half-arsed and co-dependent on politics. "Greetings, Magister Wen. You're looking well." Wen inclined her chin. "Hello, Gwen." Still holding Petra's hand, Gwen waited for an answer from Brown. "Well." Her tutor grinned. "I imagine that as a post-graduate, Magus Kuznetsova can pick whichever college she likes. That's how it usually works, you know? Either we pick you, or you pick us. Not everyone's inducted by Lady Grey personally at Hall. Besides, you're a Magus of the college— but not yet its student— how's that for an irregularity." "Magus?" Gwen met her cousin's crystallin irises. "Dean Luo was very kind." Petra beamed. "I had enough units completed anyway, and moving to Cambridge as an undergraduate would prevent me from progressing in Spellcube research." "I am happy for you, Magus Kuznetsova!" Gwen squeezed her cousin's hand. "The same, Magus Song." The two laughed, drawing eyes from around the lounge. "Magister Brown, I was thinking of Queen's College," Petra answered their earlier question. "They have a very advanced corpus of work regarding Dwarven technologies." "Oh-ho-ho, Dear Petra—" Gwen interrupted before Brown could deliver the news himself. Huffing arrogantly, she imperiously placed a hand around Petra's waist and another around her shoulders. "If it's Dwarven Runes yer' ken, yer in for a treat, lass. Say, how's the liver these days?" "My liver?" The researcher cocked her head. "Aye-aye." Gwen grinned with teeth, doing her best Hanmoul. "Tell me, lassie. Yer ever pass out from a Dwarven Jäger Bombe before?"

With Wen and Brown gone to Cambridge, Gwen conjured the third member of Team Cousin to convene with the duo at the Tower of Tandoori. Unexpectedly, they were joined by Richard's friend and co-worker, Lucas Spencer. "We were surveying the isle when you called," their cousin explained when Gwen met them with an arched brow. "Besides, if Pats had questions about London or Cambridge, who's going to answer her? You?" Gwen granted that this was true, though privately she had hoped that the cousins would have the afternoon to themselves. As she had feared, once Lucas' eyes firmly rested on her cousin's face, the young man was smitten. "Magus Kuznetsova, please do not hesitate to call upon me if you have errands or questions, academic or otherwise," Lucas ingratiated himself by listing his credentials for Enchantment and Abjuration. Gwen recognised that perhaps, this had been Richard's plan all along. Petra may be gifted and well-trained, but her knowledge possessed gaps when compared to a Cambridge elite. Likewise, Petra having a volunteer concierge for the enormous campus would prevent much grief. "Was this planned?" she demanded. Instead of replying, Richard indicated behind her. "Ahh— Namaste, Magus Song—" A pair of well-wishes sallied forth from the swinging double-doors to the kitchen, revealing a pair of cinnamon-skinned siblings in lungis. "It's good to have you revisit us." "Hello." Gwen waved back. She knew their faces, just not their names. "Namaste." Richard bowed his head. "Good to see you too, Burhan, Shab. How's business?" "Master Huang, Lord Mages." The brothers bowed. "We are well, thanks to your patronage." "Dick, how do you know the owners?" Gwen asked out of curiosity. "I am far too fond of curry." Richard serenely smiled. "Since you took me here, I've eaten nothing else while working at the isle. Burhan and Shab are old Londoners, did you know? Far more local than your or I. They're the second-generation owners. Their father hailed from the lost colony of Bengal. It's a common story here." "Master Huang is too kind." The brothers bowed again. "We owe much of our success to Magus Song—" "Me? You flatterer." Gwen laughed out loud before composing herself, unpleasantly recalling Le Guevel's disapproving face. She needn't have worried, for the other Mages cared not for her company. The clientele here wasn't like Fenbo Village in Fudan, where the NoMs gawked because she was a foreigner and because she had been on the Lumen-caster. "If you recall, a month ago, Magus Song, you bought out our entire menu for a day and forced us to close," Burhan explained with care. "It has piqued the curiosity of many a Mage from the Shard. The business blossomed since then." "Sounds about right. That's Gwen's golden touch alright." Richard thanked the owners, then ordered for the table. "Chicken Tikka Masala, Goan Goat Vindaloo, Rogan Josh, Bombay Aloo and Mushroom Bhaji to share. Triple-portion rice, Gwen here can pack away enough for four." "Hey!" The table broke into laughter, breaking the ice. Some small-talk later, fragrant plates of spice arrived with mango lassis on the house. Gwen took hers saucy and robust, while Richard and Lucas opted for something creamier. Petra, who had never had real curry in her life, looked as though Pyrotechnics were about to shoot from her ears. Now gastronomically content, the cousins settled down for business. "Tell me about the Dwarves." Petra laid down her utensils. "How do I talk to them? What are the formal greetings? Should I bring a gift?" "Dwarves are blokes, basically," Gwen explained. "Master Yossari Vildrenbrandt's their de facto leader, an Alchemist Master I've hired to make special ink, among other things. The two you're after are Thulgig and Danmurim the Glum, both Runesmiths. Nesatin and Doussed are the Golem masters— the rest being untitled Journeymen. Gift wise— booze? I am waiting on shipments of Maotai routed through Yangoon; we'll have to settle for something local. The cost is no object." "Just as well, did you know Lucas is a self-professed sommelier? His father trades in wine from Bordeaux and Rioja." Richard turned to the dark-headed Englishmen. "Spencer, how about you recommend something?" "For Dwarves?" "Sure." Gwen nodded. "Make sure its something flammable." Lucas pursed his lips in deep thought. "You don't mind human-made Spirits?" "There are non-human made ones?" Gwen inched closer to the young man, suddenly very interested. Petra appeared equally keen. "Go on." "Well, not exactly, there's Elven Birch Spirit." Lucas gulped. "Frozen birch-sap from Snowdonia is imported by Pullman and Sons into London, where its distilled into an ice-laced elemental liqueur that goes down like quick-rime. On a hot summer's day, there's nothing like it to keep cool." "That sounds amazing." Gwen licked her lips. "And…" Lucas' throat bobbed. "Er… a London Classic would be mana-burn Gin from Plymouth, named so because the Royal Navy never sets sail without a half-year supply of ninety-proof bottles. It's a bit of a rough and tumble, cheap and popular with the dockers." "So long as it gets the job done." Richard stirred his lassi. "How about mead?" Lucas said. "It is winter, and a hot cup of overproof, tong-clinging mead can be rightly divine." "Gwen." Petra nudged her cousin. "You're drooling." "Erg— I haven't boozed-up since the Red Keep," Gwen moped, licking her lips. "Lucas, where does one get this mead?" "You know what? We'll take care of it." Richard volunteered as tribute. "You gals just go and have fun with your Dwarves." Gwen nodded approvingly. Tapping the table, she materialised a stack of HDM-chips. "Two hundred enough?" Lucas baulked. "Are you trying to buy enough alcohol to set sail for the new world?" "I don't know about that—" Gwen sighed dreamily. "BUT, we're going to be pounding shots with Dwarves, Spencer. Get enough to make it to the Suez at least." A few hours out with Team Cousin, Petra already felt fuzzy. Now removed from the all-enveloping love of her Babulya, she had feared that the Moscow part of her life would resurface. Instead, she had laughed more in this one luncheon than many months under Wen. It was enough to dispel all of her worries. As an ex-candidate for a Red Ghost, she was erudite on human appetites. Yet, going to London, leaving Wen, striking out on her own with all the responsibilities, financial and otherwise, remained daunting for a young cadet who had been reared hand-to-mouth by a line of caretakers. She knew much about the world and yet knew little about the world. It didn't help that Master Popov had been very particular about human hypocrisy, perfectly explaining that people were were-jackals. In his view, human beings are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as one succeed they are yours entirely, offering food, blood, property, life, and children; and when the fortunes turned, so would they. "Take, for example, Minster Abramchenko's lovely young wife, Viktoria." Her Master once boasted while conditioning her for high society. "She's the kind to talk while enjoying the afterglow. It's uncanny. No amount of liquor can pry her tight little lips, and she's trained to obfuscate Mind Magic, but a good massage…" Petra recalled being disgusted, but her Master merely shrugged. In their profession, he had said, humanity's appetites were bread and butter. She could be a cynic, but she should never get all sanctimonious like those pontific hypocrites in the Orthodox Sects. For the same purpose, Master Popov also took her on little practicals to air out her talent. On those trips, Petra, who spent her childhood in an elite cadet-academy, had felt such a thrill that her head grew full of stars. His job as a Mineral Enchanter aside, Master Popov's covers included being a renowned novelist popular both home and abroad. He was also a distinguished paramour and an infamous socialite, one embroiled in no less than three scandals at a time. When he had dressed her up like a daughter-dolly and told her to play the part, she obeyed, and the two of them had frequented cafes and bars, high-rise penthouses, oligarchs' homes, and one time, even toured the Kremlin. "You can sense the subtle shifts in pathos if you concentrate," Popov would explain with uncharacteristic patience, a rare occasion for the wandering bohemian. "Focus towards six O'clock. No, don't turn to look. Shape your Detect Thoughts, tell me what they're feeling." It didn't take Detect Thoughts for Petra, then fifteen, to know what the man was feeling. "No, no, deeper," Master Popov urged. "Don't skim the surface— keep digging." "… Shame?" Petra took a moment to digest the quagmire of emotions swarming her brain. "Self-loathing?" "Correct, now turn around and glare." Petra turned. The man drooling over her ripening figure was an old priest with a benevolent mien. He wore a priest's collar, and when Petra's cool-blue eyes met his, the man's defence crumbled. As to what had happened next, Petra recalled with salience. Master Popov stubbed his cigarette, picked up his mug of booze-laced coffee, then walked across the floor. "YOU, pervert— how dare you gawk at my daughter?" The priest blinked, his mind suddenly rioting with fear, so much so that Petra could see her thin legs trembling in resonance. "I am afraid you're mistaken—" _CRACK!_ In one swift movement, Popov smashed his mug over the old priest' head, causing him to topple from the chair onto the floor. Several patrons instantly moved to confront him— Popov's victim was a priest after all, and the old country had long indulged in the opium of the masses. "Tower business." Her Master wasn't shy to use the notoriety of Moscow Tower. He gave no shits about his employer's reputation. Naturally, without even questioning his credentials, the onlookers retreated. "Was that priest a criminal?" Petra recalled asking her Master in the aftermath. "He was bleeding so much." "Who knows?" Popov laughed once he'd tipped the waitress and they were on the way to their next location. "But then again, who is truly innocent? Purity merely invites sin, my little devotchka. When you get older, we'll get your hands dirty yet." "Pats?" an endearing voice called from afar. Petra blinked away the daydream. "Yes?" "Are you done?" Gwen eyed her leftover Chicken Tikka, for Petra, the spice was too much. "Sorry, if it's not to your liking." "I wasn't that hungry, you know, because of the Teleportation." Petra smiled as they exchanged plates. Why was it, the Mind Mage wondered, that something as simple as Gwen eating leftovers made her felt warm and loved? London. The Isle of Dogs. Gwen couldn't wait for Petra to see what her Demi-human employees had accomplished. In six-days, working day and night, her Dwarves-on-loan had performed three-months worth of labour, demonstrating a stark difference between Dwarven engineering and human artifice. In her old world, Gwen had marketed residential towers for Lendlease, and so possessed a learned eye for the convolution involved in construction projects. Compared to that, Dwarven methodology, combined with the ability to live-fabricate components with complete precision, made the process streamlined. Beyond doubt, what Walken had praised of the Fabricators was an understatement as to why humanity struggled to replicate Dwarf-tech. Even if a Human technician could attend the proverbial Deepholm College— he or she would remain an Apprentice for three decades and a Journeyman for five. A professional by humanity's standards matured at an age when a Dwarf was still a trainee— edifying an insurmountable experience-gap. As for runic magic— Gwen had seen Tuner Nesatin servicing the mantis-Fabricator. Once its bright yellow spine-panels came off, there was a galaxy of gears and pistons, lubricated and empowered with hundreds of micro-Mandalas. As someone who had seen War Golems stripped down to the bare frame, the intricacy between what a Masterclass Tuner had invested a half-century of work into, and a mass-produced MK-III was like comparing a Swatch to a Patek Philippe. What also amazed her was that the Dwarves had not rushed to build their workshops or their garages, though the cavities for those were ready and in service— instead, the first structure to see completion was the Mead Hall. A Mead Hall! Gwen was giddy Petra had arrived so serendipitously. Sharing Dwarven mead with Pats was one of her most ardent desires. The whole while she partied in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, she had anticipated the prospect of family and friends participating in her Demi-human discoveries. Naively, she had first taken the room to be a cosy mess. The conjecture made sense, for the Dwarves had to eat, and Human food was far too exotic for Dwarven stomachs used to Battle Bread, charcoal-meat, Wildland legumes and copious volumes of alcohol. Then, when she toured one evening to check on the expenditure of materials the Dwarves had demanded, she was instead greeted with the sound of rowdy quaffing. Walken then carefully explained that their guests had unanimously voted for the Mead Hall's construction to be prioritised— and he had signed off on the proposal because it would mean keeping drunk Dwarves outside of London's infamously rowdy pubs. Once inside, she learned that the Dwarves had brought enough materials from home to stock the bar. Behind the long counter, the Journeymen took turns playing the publican, while their Masters, the Tuners, Runesmiths, and of course Hanmoul's aunt knocked down stein after stein. When she asked about the booze, it was revealed that each of the Master-tier white-beards had Storage Rings full of alcohol stowed away for their outing and that the Alchemist herself planned to construct a distillery at the first opportunity. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "Join us fer a pint, lassie!" Yossari, a descendent of Bürumm-Dal Irøngut, invited their host to get smashed. "Hanmoul said yer drank em under the table! Tis a mighty feat if true, lass, let yer aunt see the prowess of the Devourer!" "Gwen still has accounts to settle." Much to her executive's delight and horror, she took his advice and refrained from impromptu alcoholism. Thankfully, the Dwarves weren't offended. Theirs was a hardy and straightforward life. The Murk-folk drank hard. And they were honest and hard-working. As an uncompromising superintendent, Gwen felt inspired by the Dwarve's natural, uncomplaining Protestant work-ethic, not to mention their emotional honesty in airing grievances. In the absence of her extended family, she preferred the Demi-human's company to the companionship of the inhabitants of London. That's not to say there weren't those with whom she could let down her hair— Lady Grey, perhaps, but she couldn't imagine the Lady quaffing and howling. There was Ollie as well, her Praelector was a dear, but the boy would be laid out like a carcass by the second stein. As for those closest to her, Walken proved a fatherly prude, and she had never seen Richard drunk. Caliban would just eat the stein, Ariel would get the zoomies, and Dede— Dede could not afford to get into more trouble. As for Elvia— Gwen knew full well that she was drinking to distract herself from that particular problem, and therefore her dearest little Cleric didn't count. Thankfully, now Petra was here. Unlike Richard, who kept giving her crass and horrible advice, Petra would listen, and Petra would lend her a sympathetic ear. They were alike, she and Pats, both grew up without the support of parents, both had their Masters perish, and both worked like demons. Yes. With Petra here, Gwen manically convinced herself, everything would be better again. Despite Gwen's upsell, the Mead Hall was a modest affair, accomodating three dozen bodies at most. Running parallel to the long table was a long bar about ten metres, behind which were kegs of Dwarven brew, provisioned by the inhabitants, was stacked three-kegs high against the recessions in the wall. An automated cleaning-station had been set up in the middle of the bar, and dozens of steins lined the counter. Unlike the freight shaft leading down past the Thames, the walls of the Mead Hall were textured stone, leaving an overall impression of cosiness. Finally, from the ceiling, a trio of moody lumen-globes glowed, flooding the chamber with a dusky warmth. Into the hall now stepped two giantesses an arm's length short of the ceiling. Gwen hailed the Dwarves suffering through a supper of stone bread. The scene in front of her was unbelievable— but as Master Popov used to say— if you're seeing it and feeling it after running a routine for Illusion, only an idiot would deny objective reality. Why couldn't Gwen recruit Dwarven masters? Her cousin might not use Mind Magic, but she did possess the non-magical equivalents of Charm, Silver Tongue and Suggestion. From the waist, Petra bowed with sincerity. She had not shown so much respect to anyone other than Master Popov and her dear Babulya. It was a demonstration of her awe, her happiness, and her ardent desire to excavate what was buried in the heads of these Dwarves. "Hey ya, fellers! Yossari! Let me introduce a member of my family, this is Petra, is she not pretty?" Gwen walked past her arched figure without hesitation. "For your information, she's studying magic from your race, and she's a huge fan of Dwarven Runes." The Dwarves hailed with their mugs. Her sorcerous cousin strutted toward those august figures seated around the table, walked around the bar, then hefted a keg onto the table. "As promised, I'll be joining you today. Pats, what'll it be?" "Ur lurlom monleg kjanr etta torjof?" One of the Dwarves, a respected white-beard, chuckled. "Hanja klokar jikablith en Strider!" The barrage of Dwarven sounded like a man trying to gargle stones while drinking boiling water. Discretely, Petra activated Master Popov's variation of Tongues, ashamed her training had fallen by the way-side. From the bar, Gwen was explaining that she wanted them to teach her Dwarven magic. In turn, the Dwarves were expressing their doubts. "Well then, what's the limitation?" Gwen brokered the question on Petra's lips with the same ease as one asking for a salad recipe. "She'd not acquiring your magic. She's doing her own. Pats' is having some trouble with the next stage. Complications with Meta-magic and Spellshaping are preventing the completion of her thesis." The Dwarves' mutual gazes fell on Petra. Star-struck, she blushed, which made her more embarrassed, a prospect that seemed to please her cousin. "Aye, I am sure we can give the lass some pointers," the Alchemy Master said with a grin. "Come here Lass, let Yossari have a swatch at whit yer got." "Right now?" Petra's gaze flowed from the Dwarves to Gwen then back to her impromptu examiner. "My magic?" "Of course! Strike while the iron's hot." Gwen emerged with two jugs. "This is strong stuff, by the way, I don't think you should be performing magic AFTER we get you liquored up." The mana in her veins pulsed. Things were happening quite a bit faster than she had anticipated. When Gwen mentioned Dwarven Masters, she had imagined standing quietly on the side, playing the sycophant. Cold glares and scoffs, then a demeaning command to perform an apprentice's duty for a few months would follow, maybe a caning or two. At some point, Gwen would grease the wheels with gifts of Crystals, and like cold-dripped coffee, knowledge would filter down between her parched lips. Now, this fine-whiskered Dwarf, a matron of her craft and the leader of even these august white-beards, was asking Petra to show her shameful facsimile? "Come on, Pats, why so bashful?" Gwen sloshed the jugs, much to the Dwarves delight. "We're asking for a show of magic, not table dancing. The drinks won't wait." "A-alright." More flustered than when Master Popov had made her charm a man into doing the unmentionable, she extended both hands. A brief manifestation of her Naga Spirit appeared and disappeared, then in her palm laid an empty Spellcube of the fifth-tier. "This is the magic I am working on completing. Originally, it was my teacher's, Magister Wen's idea, but she's since left it to me, and I've been improving the formulae." In her palm, the unoccupied Spellcube scintillated, a die of Nephrite half-translucent with veins of ivory lightning. On its surface, Glyphs derived from Dwarven Magic had been magically etched through hybrid Conjuration. "Interesting lass, a spatial hexahedron with multi-tier containment Runes." Yossari put on a pair of diagnostic spectacles. "Danmurim, this is your area, what do you think?" A well-soaked Dwarf with a deformed and acid-scarred face pulled himself from the long table. He extended a hand; with reverence, Petra handed over her cube. "How old are yer?" was the Dwarves' first question. "I am twenty-one," Petra confessed. To think Gwen was just eighteen and could sit at the same table as these Dwarves. The Runesmith invoked a form of Detect Magic Petra could not decipher, enveloping her cube with an earthen dweomer. "Yer a mere babe? Then yer a genius by our standards." Danmurim allowed the cube to traverse from hand to hand while he probed its internal Mandalas. "This is Journeymen material, Yossari. The girl is a gem." "I knew it!" Gwen filled the steins of a Dwarf next to her, then her own. "To Petra the Gem! Bottoms up!" To Petra's shock, her cousin downed the mug. The Dwarves performed likewise, then collectively let loose a tremendous belch. "That said," Danmurium the Glum continued soberly, untouched by the meagre volume of mead. "Yer can see how the Glyph-lines are smashed ter-gether like cobbled-rocks. The formulae are outdated as well, maybe from before the Murk turned dark. Looks a wee-bit strange ter me, maybe from Eth Vaefaz Urndlikr? From the Bjar Kjanth." "What's that?" Gwen interjected. "Another Citadel-city, one of the rogue colonies. In your world…" Yossari tapped her empty tankard. Without shame, her cousin happily played the hostess. Once Gwen refilled the mugs, the woman continued. "... Our blue-skinned kindred live between Bavaria and the middle country, past the Elemental Sea, near where the mountains are plenty." When Gwen struggled to map the locale, Petra intervened. "Do you mean one of the central plains regions, Tajikistan? Kyrgyzstan?" The Alchemist shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Haven't seen the bastards for two centuries." "Well? Danmurium? You feel like taking on an intern?" Gwen refilled the Ruinesmith's vessel. "Wot's an intern?" Petra stared at her cousin. Gwen winked back. "A not-Apprentice," Gwen said. "Just let her follow you around, ask some questions, maybe you answer them, maybe you don't. If you don't like her or if she's a bother, just let her know. You're going to be inscribing the rest of the base with Nesatin, right? Then there's the printing press and after that, the new subway line. I would be very grateful." Glum looked at Yassari, who raised a tankard. "Aye lass, I suppose that's alright." Petra gulped. Was that it? Was that how easy it is to acquire a Dwarven instructor? "She can alternate between you and Nesatin," Yossari advised. "Who knows, you might take a liking to the lass if she's that talented." Petra watched as Gwen reached her side, then forced her to sit in between her future instructors. A stein of sickly-sweet something soon arrived under her nose. "There you go Pats, all sorted. Cheers to Petra, first-ever intern to the Dwarves!" "Thank you." Petra received the foaming mug. How in the world had she gone from having never even seen a Dwarf in real life, to following TWO Masters around town? If Popov weren't dead and dusted, the man would pinch her cheeks and call her a liar, then instruct her on how to bullshit believably. "Hey-hey." Gwen knocked her tankard. "Bottoms up. Before Richard gets here with even more booze— let's try out all the Demi-human stuff." "We need to get out of here." Richard slung the unconscious, well-quaffed Lucas over one shoulder. "I am going to lose my hearing." "Agreed." Her cousin grimaced, helping Petra to her feet. All around them, the Dwarves thundered with their snores, replicating a Fabricator at full-bore. A few had gone back to their unfinished workshops to sleep, but the rest slept where they fell, happy and blissful and well-soaked with Birch Spirit, which had been a surprise sleeper-hit for the folks from the Murk. Outside, the freezing night air of the Isle of Dogs cooled Petra's flushed face and furnace-lit skin. Gwen appeared to be tipsy, though Petra suspected that unlike herself and Richard, Gwen's intoxication was more mood and less alchemical aid. "I'll take Lucas home." Richard slung their new friend over his shoulder. "We'll hole up at Mudchute Manor. Our Praelector will have a fit if he sees us like this." "Thanks, Dick." Gwen hugged herself, even though she shouldn't have felt the cold. Richard nodded to Petra. "Look after Duck, Pats. Lea, give me a hand. This guy weighs a ton." "I will." Petra circulated her mana. Mineral Mages, having access to both the Positive Plane and the Elemental Plane of Earth, possessed robust constitutions even when pitted against mixed alcohol. With Richard disappearing toward Mudchute Manor, she now stood alone in the wintery cold with her Void-ensorcelled cousin. Gwen kept warm by borrowed-Essence from a Mythic; she by her Russian blood and booze. "Let's take a seat." Petra walked closer to the Thames, then conjured a bench by shaping the Nephrite offered by her Naga Spirit. In the moonlight, the slightly malformed bench of stacked-cubes appeared both comical and majestic, making Gwen laugh. The girls sat. "Go on." Petra knew she had to do this for her cousin, who had done much for her. Like Richard, her elevation to Cambridge was in no small part thanks to Gwen selling herself. Now seated beside the icy flow of the famous river, a whole world away from Shanghai and two from Moscow, Petra recognised once more that Gwen's facade, her maniac exuberance, was as fragile as ice-crystal, as transparent as a poorly-laid glamour. Her cousin had a tale to tell. She could see it in the way Gwen's eyes fixated the distance, turned to study the cobblestone, then kept flittering about between them. Her stuttering body language, her halting speech, the digression back to the Dwarves, all of it pointed at the emergence of a story that, like an angry box of bees, cried out for release. The Dwarves were an interlude, Petra decided. The alcohol was the point. On the bench, she invited Gwen to recline so that her cousin's head rested on her shoulder like so many other times they watched the Lumen-caster at their apartment in Fudan. "I think I know you well enough to know that something's eating you," Petra decided to initiate. "I am not completely lucid right now, so it's a good time as any to say your piece. Master Popov had a saying— the drunk doesn't judge, and therefore make the best listeners." "Wait up." For some reason, her cousin activated a Detect Magic. Petra frowned. Was Gwen wary of her Mind Magic? "Okay… no crows, and nothing too suspicious. All good. Oh-oh-oh, my mind has been full of scorpions, dear Pats." "Gwennie… Are you in trouble?" Her cousin's head was hot against her cheek. The scent from Gwen's hair was earthy with hints of sandalwood and orange blossom, moss and cedar, as well as something vibrant and sweeter. "Is it something you can't kill or eat?" Gwen's eyes, bean-green in the dusk-blue light of the lower dock's buzzing bulbs, enlarged with horror. "No! Evee's the problem! Evee!" "Well—" Petra patted her chest. "Lay it on me." "Okay…" Gwen took a deep breath, then exhaled; there was a lot inside of her cousin that needed expelling. For half an hour, Gwen's gripes gushed forth like the destruction of the dam-wall at Tonglv, guiding in the South China Sea like a blue-white Leviathan, tumbling over, wave-on-wave, a rolling tsunami of complaints. "She confessed to you?" Petra halted her cousin when the topic took a turn for the queer. "Elvia, the Anglican Cleric, confessed her love for you?" "Yeah." "Is she attracted to you?" "I'd say so." "Se— bodily?" "I would… hope so?" "Okay." Petra did her best to digest Gwen's words. She remained silent for a long, uncomfortable few seconds while her mind joined the dots. "Alright." The cold wind remained refreshing while the liquor in her blood diffused. Women could be attracted to women; this was something Petra acknowledged— Master Popov had said it was nothing to be surprised about, for it was just as common for men to be attracted to men. In their world, such incidences were not forbidden so long as the involved parties performed their ultimate duty. Only in some circles— such as under the Orthodox Sects, was the practice taboo; which made them ripe for blackmail. "Did you reciprocate?" Petra skirted the topic with a careful euphemism. "I said I was in love," Gwen confessed. "But… no." "Do you regret not rejecting her? Were you serious?" "I don't know," Gwen keened like a sickly banshee. "I feel like I've ruined something beautiful, like Dede." "Who is Dede?" Petra's brows furrowed. A third party made things all the messier. "Dede's a duck." "… a duck?" "Aye." "… go on." "I feel terrible for Dede. He was perfectly happy where it was at Emmanuel's, then I—" "I meant Elvia." Her cousin corrected the course. "… I was content with being sisters, but then, of course, Elvia had wanted more than that. And my pent-up feelings in China kind of muddled things— When I saw her again, I just wanted to give her stuff, everything I could spare. It was addictive, you know? The Contingency Ring, the Evasion Ring, a Ring of Storage, I felt such a thrill. I was so happy every time her face was surprised or content. She was upset with my treatment of the Ginseng— do you remember the Ginseng?" "Yeah, it was delicious..." Petra remembered the Essence-infused Maotai. "Wait— you gave her... THREE rings?" "Yeah?" "Into her hand?" "Onto her fingers..." "Was one of those fingers... the RING finger?" Gwen face slowly grew from confusion to recognition to horror. "Oh, Gwen..." Petra sighed. "Too late now. Keep going. You were onto the Ginseng." Gwen sighed long and hard, then continued. "... Elvia didn't like that I kept slicing its limbs for wine, so I gave her Sen-sen as well. Holy shit— was THAT a mistake. After the incident at Walken's, I got her into the Tower to make the Ginseng her Familiar— only when she finished, the bloody thing had subverted my Evee! MY EVEE was stolen from me by a night-tripping fairy, Pats! My Evee, a Changeling! She used the Ginseng's connection to the Yinglong to rebuff Almudj's Blessing, then came out the other end as a vessel!" "A vessel being what, exactly?" Petra turned the phrase in her mind. "What I am to Almudj, I suppose," Gwen confessed. "I don't know how it works either. Lady Grey said she'll find someone to explain the concept to me in context. For now, I know it as the manifestations of a Mythic's will, a mortal agent of sorts." "Or a sock puppet." Petra's eyes narrowed. "I think your Rainbow Patron has proven itself loyal, but this Yinglong…" "Yeah, I wouldn't trust it as far as I can throw it, no matter how many daughters it's got tapping Uncle Jun." "And after that?" Petra did her best to dispel Ayxin's smug face. The loving duo regularly visited Babulya, and their affection was sickening. "After that, we stopped talking— properly at least. I started my lessons, and Evee went off the Isle of Man. I think about her a lot, and every time, I get mad, you know? And then I think about how pissed I am, and that just makes me madder. Maybe Caliban can lick some sense into her." As she complained, arcs of blue-white electricity sparked from Gwen's hair, numbing Petra's skin, frazzling her hair. "Okay. Deep Breath." Petra circulated some Mana just in case, commanding her Naga to ground a head or two. Maybe a dash of Mind Magic would prevent any accidental electrocutions. "And the little... lass... used CALM EMOTION on me!" Gwen seethed. "I was livid, and then I was not! It was like having the wind knocked out of you, only it felt good. Can you imagine how weird that is? Her aura was so warm and tender— and next to her. I felt drunk as a skunk. Drunk and happy, like everything's right with the world— Arrrrgh..." Petra listened. She was a listener by profession. Master Popov once said that when a target was digressing, never interrupt. From what Gwen had explained, she understood that this Elvia Lindholm was Gwen's pet on a pedestal, only now the pet had subverted the Master's control. What Gwen wanted to be was a protector-cum-benefactor. Instead, Elvia chose to live a life of her own and was empowered to pursue it. That was what made Gwen unhappy— what began as holistic generosity now demanded undeserved redress, and the ambivalence was driving the Void Sorceress mad. In short, Petra concluded. It was nothing new. Gwen's elementally induced masochism was playing up, and the episode should pass once something more concrete came along. Her cousin was an easy girl to love— what she needed was a man, or a woman, who could be her lightning rod. "How do you feel about Elvia now?" "If I could scream at her for a bit, I think I would feel so much better. But if I see her…" Gwen sighed. "I don't think I can work up the anger." "Can you forgive her?" "I don't want to." Gwen shook her head, hesitated, then shook her head with more conviction. "Not until Evee purges the Yinglong from her system, but that would involve destroying everything she's built up. I've been thinking about it a lot and, can you imagine the shit we might get into if I gave in to Evee? Imagine, a Draconic-pervert watching from behind her eyes, vicariously riding her senses…" Petra shivered. "Do you still desire intimacy with Miss Lindholm?" "No, no, no…" Gwen's brow broke out with a sheen of cold sweat. "Nothing carnal. Don't even go there. Just the occasional cuddles." Petra fought back a sigh of exasperation. So Gwen wanted a pet after all. "Okay." Petra pushed her cousin away from her. "I think I've heard enough." Gwen sat upright, held her hands, then waited for Petra's verdict. "You can't woo her or eat her, so until she purges the drake-juice, leave her be." Her cousin deflated. "So long as she's the vessel of the Yinglong, you can't trust her with your secrets. She might even be an operative of a foreign power with designs far removed from yours. As your future policy advisor, if it were up to me, I'd severe the turncoat like a gangrene limb— but if you have lingering affections, then keep her at arm's length. She can be a friend, but not a confidant— a lover if you don't mind the Dragon, but only for pleasure and not for business." "But—" "And if you feel lonely." Petra struck out her chin. "IF a cuddle must be had, there's Richard, and there's me. You can always talk to us about anything. We're your family, Gwen. Blood is thicker than water. You might not realise this, but Richard and I are in your orbit now. We're tied to you in more ways than one. Your suffering is our suffering, your success and triumph we partake in as well. Don't forget— you're the one that sold us your vision of a floating Tower with garden terraces and now, we've followed you to Cambridge. Whatever happens, you'll have Richard and me— and Yue, as well—" "Arrrrrrugh!" Gwen pulled at her hair. "Fuck! FUCK!" "What now?" "I haven't told Yue about any of this!" Gwen howled into the uncertain darkness of the lower docks, sending swarms of rats scattering back into the dark, waking babies from their sleep. "When she finds out I accidentally turned Elvia into a Draconic juice bottle, Yunnie is going to be PISSED…"

The next day, Gwen immediately regretted tipsy-griping to Petra. At Mudchute Manor, after a hearty bacon breakfast served by NoM servants, Wally broke the news that Dominic Lorenzo had arrived— as well as karma in the lovely form of Elvia Lindholm. Gwen stared at Petra in wide-eyed self-loathing. Her cousin glared back, daring her to act upon what they had previously discussed. "I'll leave it to you." She left the table, urging immediate commitment. "Are we going over now?" "Yeah, I've been expecting Dom for a while now." Gwen put down her utensils. "This is the same Dominic who has been helping out Evee on the Isle of Man to relocate the Manx. He's a good guy." "Then I better keep an eye on him." Petra stretched out her limbs as if to announce her limberness. "Shall we jog down to the docks? I dare say the Dwarven masters are expecting me." Their chosen route took the girls from Mudchute down to Millwall Park, then down to A-12-06, where they dodged the occasional honking lorry to take the long way through Cubitt Town. Past Marsh Wall, they took a left through a semi-cleared field used to deposit construction materials, then arrived through Millwall proper at the outer dock print works. Clunk! Clunk! CLUNK! Mana vapour, steam and construction dust clouded the air over the printing press. The mantis-Fabricator and the Master Engine was busy at work churning out steel girders for the crew of workmen gathered around the eastern section of the warehouse, now cleared of debris. The Diggers, now armed with new Spellswords, hung from the rafters, were welding together sheets of metal, showing the NoMs below with sparks. One of the Journeymen Dwarves was instructing the NoM jockeys Walken had recruited on the use of the industrial Golem units abandoned at the factory, while nearer the loading bay Journeymen stripped a printing engine down to its rusty frames. Inside, Nestain and Doussed patrolled the mess of conveyor belts, replacing parts and tinkering with mechanisms deemed too inferior for the new streamlined design. Gwen reminded herself to ask Walken about the rogue flyer-printers as they passed the roller-tower, realising that at this rate, they would need skilled staff before the end of March. The pair found the handsome figure of Dominic Lorenzo at the western end, observing the construction of their provisional editorial office. The immediate objective involved a three-storey addition to the extensive warehouse, one that would house two dozen staffs, as well as an overseer's office for Gwen's weekly audits. For now, the exterior facade was Soviet in functionality, a factor Gwen would remedy once the paper was up and running. "Gwen!" Dominic approached, tired and haggard with his shirt-collar open to the cold. "Here I am. Freshly unemployed after the debacle at the Isle of Man." "Seriously?" Gwen raised both brows. "Why?" "It's against journalistic code to intervene in an incident, no matter how dire," Lorenzo explained. "Don't worry. I knew the consequences before I acted. With the Manx relocating, the outcome is far better than what Colonel Tarleton would have done to them." "Then I am equally happy and appalled— thanks for staying to help Evee, by the way." Gwen nodded in agreement. "This is Petra, my cousin and fellow Magus at Cambridge. Pats, this is Mister Lorenzo, Alesia's old war buddy. I think the two of you should get along just fine." The reporter and her cousin shook, each studying one another. Gwen watched their expressions. One was an ex-cadet for the Red Ghost program. The other, according to Alesia, was a reporter who moonlighted as British intelligence. "Where's Elvia." Gwen's eyes scanned the docks. "She's gone to the clinic." Dominic pointed to Millwall. "That makes sense." Gwen hoped she had not ironically jogged past Elvia and snubbed her companion while distractedly thinking about her. "I'll seek her out later. You're early, Dom. It'll be a week or two before the office is habitable. That said, there's quite a bit I need you to do." "I can start today if you like." Lorenzo didn't mind the lack of a workspace. "I spoke to Magister Walken while waiting for you. He mentioned an employment contract?" "Yes, though that was more specifically aimed at Eric, considering his history." Lorenzo's tone grew solemn. "Aye, I can see why. What about the rest of us? Or the personnel I'll need?" "Non-magical contracts will suffice." Gwen scanned the streets once more, then pointed toward Millwall. "Some new shops have opened up, how about morning tea while we talk?" "Much obliged." Dominic waited for Gwen to lead the way. "You're lucky to have Miss Lindholm. Your friend might have the mien of an angel, but she works like a demon." "Ha." Gwen laughed to hide her awkwardness. "I'll believe that." Petra scoffed; Gwen suppressed the colour in her cheeks while they made for the new hole-in-the-wall eatery. A block past the printing press, the Olive Canary cafe was run by an enterprising NoM family from Marsh Wall. The new owners of the lot had done their best with the partitioned warehouse and had even put out a plaque that said "Dwarves Welcome" in chalk. To promote small business on the isle, Gwen had offered rent-grants for up to six months. Once seated, the trio ordered scones, cream, jam, and a big jug of English Breakfast. Gwen categorised her thoughts, banished her immediate solicitudes, then began illuminating her designs for Dominic. "To clarify, the entity you will be helming for is our free Newspaper, the 'Metro Express', operating under the Isle of Dogs Development Corporation." Gwen mimed a few squares with her fingers, and several hovering rectangles in shades of jade came into view. Hers was a demonstration of "PowerPoint 2.0"— now with added sophistication thanks to Le Guevel's tuition. "The Executive Committee, which thus far consists of myself, Eric, and Lady Grey, will be the administrators— though we're figureheads. Lady Grey is providing the clout, I am providing the Crystals, and you can think of Walken as our deputy." "And myself?" Dominic poked a finger at one of her illusory rectangles. When his fingers fell through, the man muttered a "Hmm..." "You're our Editor-in-Chief," she replied while willing an orange tag into place. "The rest is flexible. What hierarchal structure have you got in mind?" "Editor-in-chief, Editors, then News Editors," Lorenzo replied, watching with wonder as Gwen added the text-boxes one by one. "I also want editors for Spellcraft, Economics, Politics, Local News, and a Feature section. These then have sub-Editors, who double as our on-the-ground staff." "Which would be the Reporters, Staff Writers, and?" "Correspondents." Her editor filled in the blanks. Gwen re-arranged the impromptu organisational chart. "Good— That's what I had in mind as well. How optimistic are you feeling about finding staff? I am offering one-year contracts, NoM or Mage doesn't matter. Pay is ten per cent above market rate, with a raised ceiling for performance bonuses. I can also offer a month's pay in advance. All petty-cash costs can be reclaimed, pending audit." "That's very generous. I believe we can fill the top positions by April if that's what you're offering." Lorenzo materialised a Lumen-recorder, then took a snapshot of Gwen's infographic. "Say, that's a novel way of using Project Image. What do you call it?" "… PowerPoint," Gwen replied without an ounce of guilt. "Two capitalised P's. One word. I'll submit it to the Tower's Grimoire in the future." "How interesting." Lorenzo served up a scone, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "Say, can I ask an audacious question?" "Of course you can, Lorrie." Gwen adjusted her legs while scanning the Millwall end of the street for any suddenly-appearing Clerics. "How do you know the free Newspaper isn't a massive waste of Crystals? Your predecessors all failed to deliver a profitable Newspaper. The Guardian is only hanging on because of its political backers and as a counter to the Herald and the Telegraph. Why should the Metro survive when others did not? The Herald Sun has extensive access to the affairs of the Nobility, and the Telegraph is well-connected politically. What's our sell?" "Circulation!" Gwen answered without hesitation. Straightening her spine, she sat tall in her chair to applaud the healthy scepticism shown by Lorenzo. "The Metro will have a level of circulation unmatched by any other. Our profitability will come from sponsored adverts for products— and weekly classifieds for services." "Where do you get the confidence? Merely because the Metro Express is free?" "Because we're filling a market gap," Gwen explained with patience. "Best of all, the other papers won't be able to replicate our success without ruining their editorial board." "How do you mean?" "We'll diversify content." Gwen conjured a few more PowerPoint rectangles into the air, this time in blue. "Imagine us having three main sections— News, Features, and Spellcraft. Our news needn't be breaking news because the Metro is weekly and merely summarise it. Likewise, our manifesto is to appear non-partisan, so we'll always stake a position in between the Guardian, the Sun Herald and the Telegraph, or fact-check for the Sun if they feel disinclined." Lorenzo pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Hmm. I'd like that." "Good. Besides, the point of our Newspaper isn't the news, not exactly. It's more of a privately-owned self-sustained public service. In the Feature section, we're going to have the following things— entertainment and human interest stories for Mages and NoMs, like interviewing Evee for example, or successful NoMs, like the owners of the Tower of Tandoori. There'll be a letter to the Editor page, where people can give opinions or ask for advice. I want a relationship column where people can talk about their love life— or lack of one." "There's lots of fun to be had," Gwen continued, her words coming as a torrent. "Since our principal avenue of distribution is the public transport system— imagine a section where readers can send in letters to strangers they're attracted to while taking the tube. 'Hi, my name is Wally, and I saw this gorgeous Fire Evoker with red hair on the six o'clock express from High Street to Mile End. I would love to speak with her'— you get me? We'll focus on Human interest and localised content. Additionally, we'll be adding lifestyles pages, the hottest new adventuring locations, Magical Item advice, and even food recipes. We're a must-read Weekly." "That is… very interesting." Lorenzo licked his lips. "And you're right. I can't imagine the Herald or the Telegraph trying to copy our success. It would change the scope of their tabloid." "AND ours is free—" Gwen chuckled. "I've gathered enough bodies on the isle to have two-men-teams standing at every exit from Heathrow to Stratford, giving out the papers for free. People can take it, or not, but I'll tell you what. They'll be seeing it at the bus stops, on the tables in cafe shops; the Metro will be everywhere— always within hand's reach whether folks need it or not." "I see!" "And that's not all. When I was speaking to Lady Grey, she said that I should offer something to the Shard to stay on their good side. I've since decided that two 'central' pages will be dedicated as a public announcement channel for the Tower and their quests— _free of charge_." Lorenzo furrowed his brows. "Why free? The other papers charge the Shard a fortune to post its Quest listings." "Ha!" Gwen willed away her illusions. "Circulation, my dear Lorenzo! Every Mage in London will want to have a stickybeak at our free Newspaper because it'll be easily within hands' reach, cost-free. On that alone, we'll have guaranteed readership among the Mages." "Marvellous—" "— Gwen, everything you just said sounds incredibly ambitious," Petra intervened. "Now that you've shown me the extent of it, I have to say I have no idea how much it all costs." "All enterprises cost money." Gwen swung a scone toward the direction of the printing press. "If we had failed to find our Dwarven compatriots, and if they had not provided us with the men and the equipment, I would not have rushed in at all. Without the volume to reach market saturation— and without the reduced cost of mass production— the system simply will not work." "How much have you… has the company spent so far?" Lorenzo asked. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. "About eight-thousand HDMS," Gwen confessed. "That's only one-fifth of the initial budget. I anticipate we'll be in the red for about a year. After that, a healthy parity should happen within twenty-four months, and once our circulation stabilises, we'll see profitability within three years. Eric has a copy of my business report if you're keen." " _You've_ written a business report? Alright. I'll seek out Master Walken." Lorenzo slapped his thighs. "I don't know what to say. Gwen. Are you sure you're eighteen?" "I am an old soul." Gwen laughed once or twice. "What can I say? My impoverished upbringing in Sydney has got me running scared." "You're the richest sorceress I know." Petra upended her humblebrag with a scoff. "You could probably bribe half the Mages in Moscow. In Russia, we call folk like you Oligarchs. They're an evil lot." Gwen flashed her cousin a sardonic smile. "Not true, I'd say where they're a problem, I am the cure. Money has to flow, Pats, why do you think they called it 'currency'? Anyway, Dom, there's also something else I need you to do." "I am all ears." "As with the old Victorian rags, I am thinking of including a serial-fiction section, in preparation for our paperback side of the press business," she explained. "I've got a few interesting manuscripts in my head, but I need ghostwriters to get them manifested. Do you know anyone good at such a thing?" Dominic drank the rest of his coffee, then mulled for a minute. "I think so. Are NoMs acceptable?" "More so than Mages for what I've got in mind— ideally someone unattached and unaffiliated." Gwen nodded. "They need to have real talent. I won't be wasting these one-of-a-kind ideas on lacklustre freelancers. When you find them, bring them to me. I'll conduct an interview— and we'll clarify the rules and incentives." "Sounds reasonable," the reporter said. "Before I go— will you be meeting with Miss Lindholm later?" "I will." Gwen looked toward the direction of the clinic once more. "I see. I've apologised already to Miss Elvia for taking advantage of her goodwill, but let me apologise to you as well, Magus Song," Lorenzo spoke with sincerity. "The publication, the story I broke— I fear I took some liberties with the truth. It was I who subverted the Elves— and I used your infamy, Gwen, as the Devourer of Shenyang to do so." "Really?" Gwen was surprised she felt not a single mote of wonderment at the declaration. Why should she when Militant pacifism was the whole schtick with her Void Magic? Likewise, it wasn't as though Alesia didn't boast about Lorenzo being an operative. "Can you clarify?" With the succinctness of a professional columnist, Lorenzo explained his case, beginning with Elvia's discovery of Tarleton's strategy, and ending with their expedition to the Enclave of Tir-Mara. "I am not averse to your decision." Gwen forgave her editor, then looked to Petra for advice. "All's well that ends well, at least for now. Pats?" "Mister Lorenzo, _are_ you a Cabalist?" Petra's next question made Gwen want to cover her cousin's lips. Whether or not Dominic worked for the secret service was for him to reveal. If they pried it from him, the implications weren't the same. "I am with the Sixth," Dominic confessed, neither changing tone nor his facial expression. "That's all I can say. I don't think my role here will force a conflict of interest with my other profession— far from it; I would even say they're complementary. So long as our reporting remains neutral, and the paper isn't defaming the House of Windsor." "We'll step carefully for sure," Gwen agreed. "I have high hopes for you, Dom." "I understand," the spy concurred. "Thank you for trusting me." "Better the devil we know." Petra nodded. Lorenzo expressed his approval. "If there should be an impasse, my resignation should act as a canary of sorts. Please place your trust in me as Alesia would." The two shook hands. "I'll be going then." Lorenz stood. "Good luck with Miss Lindholm." "Dom, what has Evee told you?" "Not much, but she is not very good at hiding her sentiments." "I see." "Then I'll be soon in contact with Magister Walken." Compared to when he came, the reporter sauntered away with a lighter step. "And now." Petra tugged at her elbow. "Let's get your other business sorted." "Yes." She sighed. "Let's." "Apply the poultice twice a day, and you should see a gradual improvement." Elvia Lindholm placed the satchel of infused herbs in the hands of the woman nodding like a bobbing hen. "The Lord's Blessing on you, Miss Robertson." "Blessing on you as well, Dr Lindholm— please take this." A cotton sack emerged forth from the heavy duffle bag the woman had brought in. "It's taters' our nan grew in her yard. Nan's very proud of them, always said our family had the best mash on our lane…" "Thank you." Elvia knew the line behind the woman was still a dozen patients long and so took the gift without complaint. "I'll be sure to enjoy them with Ser Mathias. He's very fond of potatoes." Satisfied, the woman bent to kiss her hand, then retreated backwards, bowing as she made her exit. Elvia's looked down at her fingers— the Contingency Ring on her ring finger felt so new, even though a lifetime of events had occurred since Gwen carelessly slipped on the band. It had been a month since they had talked and Elvia would be dishonest if she said that she was not disappointed in her friend. As recent as yesterday, the locals had told her that Gwen was heard howling like a banshee at midnight, scaring the dog-sized sewer rats into submission. But where was her friend now? Back before the Yinglong's vision, Gwen would have burst through the door, barged through the patients, then embraced Elvia so fiercely she could scarcely breathe. Now— now there was no sight nor sound of her unconsummated lover. "Next—" Elvia announced. Her next patient seated himself. Elvia looked up. It wasn't a sickly NoM that faced her now, but a middle-aged man with steel-grey hair and depthless blue eyes in a traditional tunic and cloak. "Good morrow, Miss Lindholm." The gent indicated to a metallic brooch pinned near his collar bone, holding together two pieces of fabric that formed a stylish white-red shawl. The badge was that of a burnished sun, resplendent in its flames, crafted from some precious alloy Elvia could not recognise. In its centre, there sat a herald of three crowns, surrounded by a ring in guiles with the motto _Tria Juncta In Uno_ in threaded gold. "I come seeking remedy for a dire injury." Elvia licked her lips nervously. "Sir…" "My arm, you see—" The man raised his left arm with some difficulty. "Was injured yesterday. My companions and I were in pursuit of a Sarasti Strigoi who proved to be an adept wielder of forbidden Blood Sorcery. We tracked it down to Szczecin, where a long and arduous battle took place. It's always hard capturing Vampires— a Strigoi in an urbanscape, more so..." Slowly, the man disrobed a portion of his tunic, revealing a husk of an arm. "I have come to seek aid from one famed in bringing life to the withered and wasted." "Er... I am not sure…" Elvia swallowed. "Lord…" "Seneschal Adamus Ashburn." The man's smoky voice sounded like sifting shekel-shells. "My present agony is exquisite, Dr Lindholm. I hope you will not turn away someone too 'impoverished' to receive care from the Great Hospitals." "I understand," Elvia replied, knowing that she understood nothing. The old Mage wasn't lying though. He was indeed in a great deal of pain, though his biometrics remained stable— likely as a result of pain-suppression techniques. As for the man's mangled arm, its mana conduits, blood-vessels and the musculature were all damaged by severe Negative Energy drain. If untreated, it would go into necrosis and need an amputation. "But I don't know how much I can do here— proper aid would have to be administered at Osmond Street, or Nightingale's." "Please proceed as you would on a battlefield." The man took a deep breath. "My companions and I walked here from the Shard, then waited two hours to see you in person." "You waited in line, milord?" "There were others whose needs were greater or direr." "I understand. Sen-sen— Kiki." Unsure of how to respond, Elvia coaxed her Familiar onto the table. "Please lend me your power to restore Seneschal Ashburn." "Ki-ki!" "Sen-sen!" Elvia took a deep breath. "Bless! Aid!" A gentle viridescence haloed outward from the Cleric as she invoked her sorcery, channelling the dormant, raw vitality of the Ginseng through her conduits and into her patient. Tapping into the unique blend of Essence-laced mana generated by her body, she goaded the Seneschal's arm into activating its remaining life force. "I will now begin the Restoration. Please hold still." With two fingers on the Knight's wrist and her off-hand on his exposed chest, she activated the highest tier of healing spell she knew. Kiki's vine-tendrils wrapped around the man's shoulder as a make-shift tourniquet. Sweating, Elvia raised Sen-sen's tendrils. "Sir— the injection will sting." "Kiki!" Her Alraune raised a perfumed bulb. "Do not mind me," the old Knight spoke to the flower Sprite with kindness. "I need to see what your master can do." "Kiki!" Elvia willed Sen-sen to continue, excavating past the man's dermis to stimulate the deep-tissue directly. The process would take several minutes, and though the Seneschal's complexion changed colour from pale to flush to pale, he continued to speak. "Miss Lindholm, are you learned in the Path of the Devoted? Has the hospice instructed you in participating in bearing our Lord's burden?" "Yes, though I am a novitiate." Elvia lowered her eyes. "And my attendance at Mass has been lax of late." "It is not attendance that marks the Faithful." The Seneschal materialised a sun-token from his storage ring. "Continue, Miss Lindholm. I shall now activate this icon of our Ordo, so that it may judge your worthiness." Elvia wanted to protest, to tell the man to at least wait until his healing was done. Instead, the aura of fatherly benevolence from the Seneschal was so overwhelming that all she could do was nod. Gently, the sun-token began to glow, first with a gradual radiance, then warmth, filling the air around them with illuminated threads of gold. Around the old Knight, she could see the thousands of threads as plain as day, flaxen and vivid, pointing like vectors toward something the man wore under his chin. As for herself, the hair-thin ribbons were faded and indistinct. "Good, perfect—" The Seneschal smiled protectively. "You have aided many, Practitioner Lindholm, and here lies the proof." "Is this Faith?" Elvia had only the most rudimentary understanding of Faith Magic. The college taught it as a form of latent energy, no different to mana, one generated by the strength of belief, harvested by Humanity since the pagan epoch under Egypt's God-Kings. Today, this distinct form of sorcery belonged almost exclusively to Humanities' organised religions. "You are not wrong." The Seneschal's tone grew suddenly formal. "Miss Lindholm. As a steward of her Majesty's Order of the Bath, I would like to extend to you an invitation to join our exalted ranks. After a probation period, you shall receive the Multifoliate Red-White Star of our founder, Henry Tudor, and don the Crimson Mantle of one who purifies and protects. Do you accept?" The Order of the Bath! One of the five Ancient Ordos! Though Lorenzo had mentioned that following her actions, one such offer was coming; she remained speechless while her treatment ran its course. Once Sen-sen unwrapped itself from the Lord Seneschal's arm, she again drew breath. A minute later, she had worked up enough courage to meet his eyes. "I am honoured, Milord— but if you wish an immediate answer…" She didn't know if this was a decision she could make herself. To join an Ordo was a life-long affair. The vows one made were binding, as Mathias had demonstrated, and would place inconvenient limitations on her life in exchange for unfettered access to knowledge and resources. With her common birth and many complications, how could she join such an exalted existence? "Sir Ashburn..." "I am aware of your predicaments, Miss Lindholm. Know that we have been watching you." The Seneschal flexed the fingers of his restored arm. Satisfied, he continued. "Well done. Do not fret that you are involved with the Void Sorceress, or that you are a vessel to the Mythic of Huangshan— far from it; such connections serve to fortify your candidacy. Your affairs on the Isle of Man as well have proven that you possess the right temperament to enter the ranks of higher service. A candidates' natural inclinations we value above all else. You want to right wrongs, do you not? Give a voice to the unheard? In the future, as a Knight Companion, you will be given the authority and power to act on the Commonwealth's behalf." When the word "future" announced itself from the Seneschal's lips, Elvia couldn't help but feel a tingle in her Astral Soul. The Yinglong's vision once again rose to the fore, and she could see Percy's twisted face gloating over her pale and life-drained carcass while behind the pair, Tianjin burned and the Undead crashed over the waterlogged barricades. "Sir Ashburn," she spoke suddenly, surprising the Seneschal. "Do Knight Companions receive combat training against Necromancy and the Undead?" The Knight nodded. "The best the Mageocracy has to offer. Since the Great War, the freeing of populations from the apostasy of Undeath has been one of our chief missions. Therefore, both through sorcery and Faith, our members are well protected from their ilk. Do you possess grievance against the Undead?" The Seneschal's words rang her heart like a tolling bell. Was this fated? Elvia wondered. Had the Yinglong predicted this as well? Was joining the Ordo a part of what she must do to gain the power necessary to thwart Percy, the Kirin creature, and to stop the Cult of Juche? "Not personally, no." Elvia shook her head. "I will take your words into consideration, Lord Ashburn." Without hesitation, the man stood. "We will be waiting, Elvia. I do believe you will find a warm welcome at the fortress-monastery." Elvia touched a hand to the coin of the Tri-Crown Sun. "Sir, you forgot—" "Its a gift, novitiate. The Sun-token is a minor Relic, one that will aid you in recognising your potential whether you joined us or not." The curtains to the consultation section of the clinic pulled back. To Elvia's surprise, the line was now empty. "I had the men see to your patients, so that we may talk without delaying their care." The Seneschal's secret smile was all-knowing and hopeful. "A sizeable donation has also been made to your Foundation and Clinic, Miss Lindholm. Whatever you choose, good deeds shall not go unrewarded." "Thank you, Seneschal." "One more thing." The Knight dipped his chin. "Though our Ordo is not given to careless charity— its members are given the discretion to offer aid by drawing on our coffers." Elvia's breath grew heavy. "I see you understand. May the Shepard guide you to our flock." Elvia's eyes followed the man's aristocratic silhouette as he joined his guards. The other Knights were crimson-robed, and each gave her a parting nod before exiting the converted warehouse. When the trio faded into the docks, Elvia saw that a figure remained undisplaced, one bearing an impatient, agonised mien. It was the Calamity herself, the mistress of the Isle, Gwen Song, here to see her long-neglected lover. Gwen very much disliked the idea that she could not just waltz into a clinic she had paid for to accost Elvia— until Petra pointed out that the two men very politely barring their way wore the Crimson Mantles with golden sun icons. The Order of the Bath! Gwen gulped, recalling Le Guevel's lessons and recollecting what Lady Grey had foretold a month ago. Finally, the monks came to elevate Evee into their aristocratic ranks. It was a prospect that should have filled her with pride, but now it only made her suffer, for Elvia' ascension would only mean greater reluctance to forgo the Yinglong's blessing. Beside her, Petra grew anxious; her cousin was a girl with Dwarves to entertain. Just as well, she would prefer Petra not striking Elvia with a Mindblank. "Pats, I don't want to take up any more of your time, do you want to go see what Danmurim is doing? He might not be too happy if you don't show up at all during his morning shift." "Are you sure?" Petra touched her arm protectively. "What if another Calm Emotion quails you?" "I'll tell her to fuck off," Gwen promised. "I need to do this, Pats— I owe it to Evee and to Yue to resolve this thing, one way or another. This unforeseen problem is taking up far too much of my headspace." It took some more cajoling to convince her cousin, but at last, Gwen was free to make her case with Elvia. For another quarter of an hour, she stood outside the clinic while inside, one of the Knights from the Order of the Bath liberally dispensed potions. As the happy residents retreated, they saw the mistress of Millwall milling impatiently, and so approached Gwen to offer their thanks and their love. Gwen obliged, and when finally the NoMs were gone, she persisted until a middle-aged man with steel-grey hair and an imposing aura of presence emerged from the clinic. Gwen raised a hand to hail the Knights and their leader, though the trio merely passed her with a nod, leaving her hanging. When her gaze awkwardly returned to the clinic, she saw Elvia standing pretty in her physician's garb. Her chest constricted. The purity of her Evee had not at all been sullied by the horror conducted to the Manx. If anything, she appeared more resilient, mature, and imposing. "Hey there, Evee." Gwen thought she would initiate. "Hi, Gwen." "Did you miss me? How was the Isle of Man?" "It was the worst." _Fuck_. She mentally slapped herself, then pushed on. "Evee, I think we—" "I know—" Elvia gave her a simpering smile. Gwen breathed in, fighting the tingling in her fingers. "I know, Gwennie." Elvia directed her to the elevated hospice cot and its taut, uncompromising linen. "I know. Come sit. Let's talk."

The hospice cot was softer than Gwen had expected. The foam, or whatever spring-insert sat between the linen, engulfed her buttocks with a lewd creak, drawing her level with Elvia. "I am sorry about what happened on the Isle of Man." Gwen patted the space beside her, opening the first salvo. "Dom told me everything." "Mister Lorenzo did what he thought was best." Elvia refused her invitation with a disarming smile. "He calls it his great success, even though it wasn't right— not for the Manx. Not for the Elves. Not even for the island." "And how do you know that?" Gwen smugly cocked her head. "Are the island folk not now safe from the predation of this Colonel Tarleton? The ceasefire everyone wanted is in effect. There's no more loss of life on both sides." When Elvia raised her chin to glare, Gwen glared back. "The peace is sophistry." Elvia's eyes, Gwen noted, were bright with discontent. "There was no redress, no justice, no punishment for the sinners. The Manx have lost their homes, Gwennie, they've lost everything. Is that how you'll treat Goolagong and her people when you go back to Australia and lord over the continent with Gunther?" "Old Goolagong?" Gwen frowned, recalling the Indigenous woman. "We're not at war with her people, Evee. Besides, thanks to Almudj, the descendants of the Pintupi share common goals with us. Whatever happens, they're free to either stay on their land or assimilate, think of Tommy for example. I am not going to dictate whether they should embrace modernity—" Elvia looked away, sighing. "—What? Don't give me that look. What's wrong?" "You're becoming like one of them." "One of who?" Gwen's brows wrinkled. "The Lords and Ladies here." "In London?" Elvia bobbed her head. "You used to be… nicer. I lack your words, Gwennie, so forgive my simplicity. I don't know if you were happier back in Sydney, but I always looked up to how well you treated the NoMs at school, like Mr Rawson. You were so genuine. Could you do that now?" "Why would I treat Rawson any different?" Gwen swallowed her rising ire. Why was she the one being interrogated? It wasn't as though she's straddling the Yinglong and riding roughshod over their sisterly pact. "I don't think you'll be able to see Mr Rawson now and see him as anything other than another number in your multitude of NoMs." The sadness in her companion's delivery made Gwen feel patronised. "The same way that the Manx's exodus to you is just an abstracted problem to be solved. You've become a Colossus, Gwennie, and we mortals peep about your great white legs..." "And what's that supposed to mean?" Gwen snapped. "I mean, how can you believe the Manx is doing better?" Seeing Elvia's adorable face so upset was remarkably intimidating for Gwen. "Not to preach, Gwennie, but I don't understand why you refuse to understand. Maybe there's too much on your plate— your Isle of Dogs being so much more important than the Isle of Man— The tale of two Isles..." "Hold on," Gwen interrupted the healer. "What exactly are you trying to say here? That I AM trying to roll the Manx-folk off their usurped island? That I AM responsible for the Mageocracy's imperialism from seven centuries ago? You're ridiculous…" "Am I?" Elvia's chest rose and fell. "Gwen. The Mageocracy, the very one who holds you dear like the Heart of Flames— you're on their side. They took the Manx's women, children, their elders, and they treated them with contempt. They drove them from their homes, then they killed their loved ones, murdered their Druids, performed rapine on the very sites that the Crown had guaranteed them. They then built an ISTC that drained the mana from the Manx's hearth, their trees and their sacred places." "That's not… my jurisdiction?" Gwen's brows knitted with frustration. The girl's wild accusation was not doing her cause any favours. "I am here to talk about us, Evee… why…" "Then in the Newspaper and on the Lumen-casters, your Mageocracy, your Tower— Lorenzo included— they called them mad, mocked those of us who wanted to help or placed us on pedestals. The Foreign Office marginalised the Manx, degraded them, tormented and exiled them with politics, made their lives impossible. But they're the _bad_ guys, and you're the _good_ ones. They don't deserve their home, but we deserve our ISTC Station. That's what Dominic is celebrating, Gwennie. Do you support that?" Gwen gritted her teeth. Why was Elvia so caught up in this Manx business? Shit happened to folk everywhere. If Humanity were weak like the Manx, they would be the ones slaving away in Mermen coastal pens as opposed to having sushi Thursdays. "Evee, enough. Out with it. What do you want?" Elvia appeared to study her as if seeing her in a new light. "Look, your hypertension is shooting up again. Here, take my hand." Gwen stared at her partner's dainty fingers. "No Positive Energy. No vitality." She warned her thankless lover. "Calm my Emotion, and I'll have Caliban French you." "Okay," Elvia agreed, then continued where she left off. "To answer your question. I know what I want, Gwennie." "Good." Gwen's long digits enveloped her friend's hand. Evee's fingers were rougher and more calloused than she could recall, a testament to her labour on the Isle of Man. "Come on, lay it on me. Ask, and I shall consider." "You make my needs sound like a problem to be solved." Her friend's fingers searched out Gwen's, then twined themselves around her slender digits. "Gwennie, must everything be accounted for and audited with you? Can't you just trust me to do what's best for us? For you? When you're doing the same to me?" "T-trust? I have to trust—" Gwen stopped herself before she could say something she'd rather not walk back. "Fine, you want to tango? Let's do it. But first— Ariel! Caliban!" "Shaa!" Caliban slithered into the world and onto Elvia's lap. "EE! EE!" Ariel likewise nuzzled Elvia as soon as it materialised, running figure-eights around the healer like a cat. "Kiki!" From behind Elvia, the Alraune greeted its peers. Gwen fought off a wave of displeasure. "You two, go and secure the perimeter. NO CROWS. Cali, you can harass, but no eating. Anyone comes close, Spider them away." "Shaa!" The departing Caliban gave Elvia an oozy lick, drenching the front of the healer's doctor's coat. Likewise, Ariel kissed the Cleric thrice before reluctantly leaving to perform its duty. "Kiki, you help as well." "Kiki!" "They've grown so much since Sydney." Elvia produced a handkerchief to wipe the gloop from her chest. "Do you remember when Caliban was shorter than me, and Ariel was still a ferret?" "Simpler times." Gwen sighed. "That was a long time ago, Evee. Master was alive back then. Our world was smaller." "Yes, I miss Master Kilroy. Sufina too." Gwen said nothing. She wasn't about to be softened by sentimentality. "So what do you want, Gwen?" Elvia threw her question back at her. "Me?" Gwen momentarily pondered if declaring "I want you" was acceptable, but decided against something so camp and easily misconstrued. "I want things to go back to what they were." "And what would that be?" "You, me, Yue— just the three of us. Chilling. No Yinglong." Elvia smiled. "What was so dear about those days that you want to relive them so badly?" "You should know the answer to that, or at least; before your patron took over." Gwen refrained from shouting out her accusations. She was in control, she told herself. Be mature. "Gwennie, your inconsistency astounds me sometimes." Her healer walked her fingers over Gwen's open palm. Gwen looked down, knowing there was Draconic strength there if Evee so desired. "You, who have been the vessel of Almudj for so long, do you not possess autonomy from its will? Why should I relent my potential to make the changes I want in the world when you do not?" "That's hardly the same." Gwen channelled her Essence into her hands to ward away Evee in case she chose to use the Yinglong. "Almudj is benevolent." "And the Yinglong is not?" "It's malicious!" "Who has thus suffered from its manoeuvres?" Elvia's accusing lips were pink and moist. "You? Uncle Jun? Your family? The Chinese? Their homeland?" "The hell are you on about?" Gwen tried to pull her hand back, but her healer wouldn't let go. "God damn it, Evee—" "There's that hypocrisy again." Elvia's palm kissed hers. "That's just it, see? Think about all the men and women you've sent to the Front through Tonglv, Gwen. All those machinations you've thus far plotted, all of them had winners and losers— mostly losers— while you came out on top. I should thank you for gifting me with the means of gaining both vision and knowledge, Gwen, but now that I've seen the truth— how can I close my eyes to them? I can't ever become the lordly Lady you aspire to be." "Oh, that's a crock! I don't aspire to any such thing!" "That's because you want to be greater than even they—" Elvia's words were using her chest as knife-sheaths. "Isn't that right?" "And that's wrong, is it?" Gwen sensed the pulsing Positive Energy circulating under her healer's skin. She could sense her Void-tinged mana pulse in response. "Fuck me for wanting to live my life, right? I should be content with being a Dragon's sock puppet. Or the Mageocracy's marionette. Or the dolly-wife of some dickhead like the Exeters, pumping out stillborn Faceless Void babies." "I don't mean that." Elvia's patience appeared infinite. "I am sad that you think that's what I implied." Gwen withheld her immediate riposte, which was that she couldn't give two fucks what Elvia thought about her ambitions— but that was in itself deep dishonesty. She was the adult here; Gwen reminded herself repeatedly. Don't let the Yinglong win. "Thanks to the Yinglong, I think it's obvious that we're no longer able to see eye to eye." Gwen's throat bobbed; her expression grew hard. "But I can fix this, Evee. If you come back with me to Australia, I'll talk to Almudj…" Elvia stood, then before Gwen could finish her words, she sat down beside her. The healer's coat smelled like antiseptic, but her hair's scent was divine, as was the lustre of her vitality-infused skin, so tender that she just wanted to reach out and pinch it. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. "Gwen." Elvia looked up, her face as white and fragile as milk crystals. "I like you." A gush of strange heat ignited in Gwen's chest. Her breathing was already irregular, but now it grew heavy. Was Elvia, her Evee of all people, trying to seduce her? Did her Cleric think that she could pay with her sweet little body for all her transgressions, or was this the Yinglong pushing her buttons? "Evee, you know that's hardly fair. We need to talk. I am serious." "You misunderstand me again. I do want to talk." Elvia directed her body so that they sat beside each other. "Your face there was a little scary. Care to listen to a tale, Gwen? Afterwards, you can talk, then we'll make our peace." With Evee's shoulder warm against her own, Gwen sighed. "Aright. I'll shut up and listen." "Thank you," Elvia's voice came from beside her. "Do you know the Psalms of Sir Bors, Gwen?" Gwen shook her head. "It's a story my mother used to tell me, taken from the tales of Saint Chaucer of Canterbury." "Alright…" Gwen failed to see how any of this was connected but resigned herself to lend Evee her ears before they reached an ultimatum. "Before we begin, you should know that Sir Bors was one of the Princes of antiquity to reign over the Isle of Man. His blood, if the tales are correct, contributed significantly to the blending of Elven and Human blood, thanks to him, the Manx survived the Christian epoch of Avalon." "Bors… from Arthurian legend?" "The very same— famed for returning with the Grail." "… okay." Gwen refrained from jeering at this world's patchwork theology. The people here took Faith a little more literally than the folks back in her world. From what she had seen of Prince Inti and the Northern Front, there was little reason why a deified existence like the Nazarene couldn't have fed the multitudes or raised the dead. If she considered that Gilgamesh and Enkidu were all historical figures and that Perseus and Hercules parallelled Charlemagne, there was little reason to doubt the existence of a legendary Relic. "This parable pertains to you and me," Elvia said. "The details vary between authors, but in Saint Chaucer's Chronicles of Avalon, Sir Bors was the youngest of Arthur's knights, originally rescued from the clutches of the Orc warlord Claudas. While in Arthur's service, the young Bors, a relative of boy-Lancelot, became one of the strongest Faith-casters on the island— until he broke his vow of chastity." Gwen snorted. "We haven't—" "I know." Her healer balanced herself against Gwen's weight; the Cleric was small and petite compared to her counterpart. "To his shame, Bors didn't just break a vow of chastity; he raped a girl— an Elven visitor who had come to the isle to converse with Arthur. The two had met at Arthur's banquet, and after the mead and the wine, Bors offered to take the maiden up to her lodgings. Once they were alone up in the parapet, the young Bors gave in to lust and intemperance." The thematic parallels in the story, Gwen felt, was a little too close to home for comfort. Was Evee accusing her of shoving Almudj's Essence down her throat? Could that be construed as a violation? But then again, back in the observatory, she was the one who halted Elvia's wandering hand. Did that make Evee the aggressor? Was she Bors? But that made no sense either. "Deeply ashamed, Sir Bors left Arthur's service to seek atonement. He travelled to the Sacred Lake in Loch Lomond and begged the Lady for a way to attain penitence. The Lady informed him that the only way to regain his credo is to discover what women truly desire." "Love?" Gwen said. "Or money, if we're realistic..." "Don't be impatient," Elvia rebuked her interjections. "Sir Bors travelled far and wide, rescuing women from horrible estates and freeing them from abuse and defending them from assault. He became very popular with young ladies, though every time, he resisted both wine and lust. A French variation goes that a group of fan-maidens grew so smitten that they threatened to throw themselves from the parapets unless Sir Bors made love to them all." "So he did?" "He did not." Elvia gave her a wilting look. "Yes, the old tales can be rather bawdy. As it turns out, these were Sirens who lusted after Sir Bors, and when he failed to heed their song, they leapt from the parapets to take him by force. Naturally, Sir Bors slew them all." Gwen quickly banished the rancorous vision of Sir Golos and the harpy flock from her mind. "For ten years, Sir Bors served the cause of women on the Isle, be they human or Demi-human. He came to understand their pain, their suffering, their woes and their desires. Still, he could not answer the question the Lady told him to find the answer to— then, his nephew's scandal with the Queen split the Round Table." Gwen licked her lips. The story was more elaborate than she had imagined. "Bors confronted Guinevere and demanded of her why she, who had the world under Arthur, would choose dishonour with Lancelot. The Queen said that though the Pendragon had given her the world, there was something the King refused to give, one Lancelot delivered without her ever asking." "The female orgasm is no less a mystery today..." Elvia sighed deeply. "Sorry." Gwen fought back a chortle. At least the mood was warmer now. Her healer ignored her and continued. "For the answer, the Queen instructed Bors to visit her kinfolk in the Enclave of Tir-Mara. Bors obliged, though he became entangled within the Fairy Circles. After wandering the woods for days, he met an old crone, who told him thus—" "'Ye wilt ken what women want, but first yee must yield thy stubborn pride. We shall wed in the Tower 'ere thou defiled the maiden of our Grot, and this withered form, so haggard and woe-begone, shall be thy just reward.'" "… that's fucked." Gwen tried to imagine the thirty-something Bors, a hero in the prime of his life, being made to bone a Troll hag. "Bors, fraught with guilt, obliged. He took the old lady, who smelled half like the grave, back to Avalon. The sight of the pair was so absurd that though his nephew Lancelot was at war with Arthur, the King bade his ex-Knight to pass. There, up in the Tower, the two disrobed…" "Erg…" Gwen was now sure Elvia was pulling her leg. "As Bor had anticipated. The woman's visage was most foul; her skin was akin to scales, her breasts shrivelled and sapless. Bors grew so disgusted he could barely lay eyes on her— but still, he upheld the promise. In exchange for that which Guinevere refused to tell; he would bed the crone." "Before the Knight could seal the deal, the woman halted Sir Bors. 'I will give thee a choice,' she told him. 'I can be as thee see me now so that unlike Arthur, thou wilt never fear cuckoldry. OR, thou may bed me as the woman of thine dreams, and like yer Queen, be unreined to relish the general camp as I please. What art thy choice, Sir Bors?'" That last question was directed at her. FUCK. Gwen gulped. She was sure there was a similar parable in her world, but she couldn't for the life of her recall the plot-twist ending. From the way the story had been contextualised though, Gwen was certain Evee was running one of her bible-psalm analogies. In this case, was Evee saying that she had to love her unconditionally? Even if Evee was an undead hag? Even if she had a fucking Yinglong nestled in her gut? And if she said yes, would Elvia swear allegiance to her alone? But what of the alternative? Was Evee declaring that, if Almudj purged the Yinglong from her by force, she would leave forever? That even if she swung Evee with her new-found limberness, the Cleric would cuckold her? "Er… the ugly… one?" Gwen chose, she supposed, the mature choice. Elvia shook her head sadly. "Well, I am sorry I can't read your mind." Gwen exhaled, suddenly disquiet. When she spoke again, her tone grew weighted with burgeoning emotions. "Fine, lets cut to the chase— what do you want? Elvia?" Elvia appeared neither upset nor disturbed by the sudden shift in her timbre. "Sir Bors..." Her healer returned to the tale. "Sir Bors did not respond. He had spoken to so many women, listened to such suffering that the answer came to him in a flash. Bors did not choose; instead, the Knight said nothing. When the crone asked why he remained silent, Bors said that it is she who should choose. The choice was never his, and he would be a fool to think so. 'Aye', the crone toothlessly grinned back at Bors. 'Ye finally ken. What women want more than anything is that which menfolk took for granted: that which costs nought, and yet weighs more than then Avalon itself— sovereignty.'" The sudden punchline of Elvia's parable struck Gwen like a bolt from the blue. The resentment and frustration of her heart instantly quieted, as did her rioting upset. She turned to face her friend, and Elvia's eyes, the cool blue of her friend's irises, were so tranquil and without defect that they washed over her like an icy current. She understood. How could she not when she had excelled so readily in the Humanities across two lifetimes? Her mouth opened and closed, but her Evee had snatched her tongue and skipped down the street. Deeply, her brain dug for an excuse, something to stopper the welling of remorse driving the air from her lungs. Her quest proved futile— for her dear little Evee had perforated Gwen's pride with nothing but a simpering fable for little girls. _Sovereignty._ How could she deny her Evee that? What kind of monstrous, tyrannical, selfish, ego-centric maniac would deny a person they love the very agency of human experience itself? Unbidden, an image of Helena floated to the fore of her mind, and Gwen suddenly felt such self-loathing that she was sick to her core. "Shaa! Shaa!" "EE! EE!" "Kiki?" Their familiars rushed back to see what had happened to their masters to cause such a disturbance, rubbing up again the girls' legs to make things right again. "Gwen, are you alright?" "Kiki?" Elvia's Sprite appeared concerned as well. "I am fine…" Gwen gulped air as hungrily as a newborn fawn. "Maybe you are suited to the seminary." "… the crone," Elvia continued in a quiet voice. "Then transformed back into her original form. It was the female elf, now maiden no more, who Bors had violated almost a decade ago. Like a babe, Bors wept in her arms, and while she cradled his head, she forgave him. Their vows would hold, she told him, and she would bear him a child so that even if he should perish in the pursuit of the Grail, his bloodline will not fade." "I know, I know— I get it." Gwen inhaled, then exhaled. To her surprise, she felt free. "Jesus Christ… I am so sorry, Evee. I truly am." "I know." Now facing her, the healer's hands reached up to cradle Gwen's cheeks. Gwen allowed it to happen. From Elvia's delicate fingertips, she felt her healer's infused mana knead her skin. "Your mother's a wise and kind woman." Gwen found something to say. "My mother..." "Gwen," Elvia spoke softly. "I'll be going away for a while." "We've only hung out for two weeks," she moped. "God, I am such an idiot. Where are you going?" "To Battle Abbey, near Hastings," Elvia said. "It's the home of the Order of the Bath." "… I see, are you going away because of me? Because— wait, wait, wait. The hell am I even on about— Hastings?" "Yes." "I can fly there in an hour…" "I'll be in intermittent reclusion," Elvia explained, biting back a laugh. "Maybe a month at a time, maybe longer, it's determined by how I take to Faith Magic— and if the Yinglong's blessings interfere with Anglican Relics. There'll be outings as well, missions of mercy elsewhere in the Commonwealth where my skills will be put to good use. Compassion is the Ordo's manifesto, after all. There's so much to do." "Oh… so now the Yinglong gets to plague a Knight's Order. Great." "The probation period is about a year, and the essential training at least another," Elvia said. "By then, maybe you've finished your studies at Cambridge?" "I sure as hell hope so." Gwen inhaled in the sweet scent of her soon to be gone Elvia. "I do expect to be in England for a while, though. The Isle is a five-year project; the Newspaper's a longitudinal investment as well. I also don't know how this Magister or Tower business is going to work out in London. I guess if I can make enough Crystals; I could just refurbish one when I eventually head to the States. Over there, Crystals talk a lot louder." "You always did look far into the future, Gwennie." Elvia's breath was sweet on her face. "I wish I could have that foresight and confidence." Elvia let her hands fall. Gwen felt her face flush. "Evee…" "Yeah?" "Just to clarify." Her voice trembled. "Are we… calling it off?" "Did we even begin?" "I don't know," Gwen confessed despondently. "I told you before— I am not good at this. And I wanted to wait till you got older, more experienced." "How about we keep being besties then?" Elvia suggested. "Yeah, I like that." Gwen could feel the negative emotions drain from her body in the same manner as Void Mana directed into a Conjure Elemental Swarm. "Holy shit, Evee. I would love that." "You won't be able to kiss me anymore," Elvia teased her. "Would hand-holding suffice?" "I can't..." Gwen wanted Evee to clarify whether cheeks counted, but then she would be kidding herself. "Sure, I'll take that. There are no limits on cuddles, right? I'll come visit every so often." "In private. It would be best to refrain in front of the Rectrix." "The what?" "The leader of the Order of the Bath," Elvia clarified for her. "Is Rectrix Theodora St. Claire, the former Duchess of Beaufort and Somerset." "… That title sounds very familiar. Isn't that where Mathias is from?" "Yeah, she's a Rothwell. Emily and Mattie's aunt." Elvia sniggered. "Britain is a small world." "A little too small." Gwen moped. "And claustrophobic." Unsure of what else to say, Gwen sat holding her healer's hands for a while longer, basking in the cathartic silence. Could the Order of the Bath straighten out the Yinglong? She couldn't help but wonder. The Order of St George was, after all, a brethren order of Dragon-killers. "Gwennie." Elvia's hand found hers once more. "The story I told you— I am serious." "I know, I know…" "If one day in the future, I chose to do something and you despise my choices... Promise me that you won't dismiss me out of hand and treat me like a dolly. You have to open your eyes and see. You have to listen." "Yeah. I get it." "I don't think you do." "I do. I promise to respect your sovereignty." "You must swear." "Okay." Gwen arched both brows. Her Evee could be difficult and stubborn, so it seemed. "If you're taking this THAT seriously. I swear on my Astral Soul that I will carefully consider your choices and not get mad at you for no reason. I promise to listen before I make a decision." "Thank you." Elvia's voice grew low; her eyes grew moist. "Whoa, whoa." Gwen held Elvia's shoulders. "Chill, Evee. Why are you crying of all things?" Her Elvia was in tears. It wasn't the first time she had seen Elvia sob, but it was undoubtedly the strangest. "I'll respect and love you, as a friend, alright? The best of friends. Did I not swear? Jesus— you've infected me, now I am choking up. Are you going to take responsibility, pay with a cuddle?" "Ee... Eeee..." Ariel nuzzled the Cleric. "Shaa!" Caliban sang a little song while coiled against Gwen's ankles. "Kiki!" the Alarune cooed. Pushing her away, the Cleric wiped away her shame. "Gwennie. I am hungry." Gwen checked her Message device. "… holy cows, we've been at this for two hours!" "I want..." Elvia blew her nose. "I want to eat curry. Spicy curry. Hot enough to make me _hurt."_ "Okay, curry it is." Gwen patted Elvia's head. "My shout. Did you know Petra's here? In London? I'll get her and Richard as well, though I do feel sorry for Pats." "Why?" Elvia looked up, and her newly freshened face was enough to fill Gwen's chest with profound happiness. "Well." Gwen stroked her washboard abdomen. "Petra's a bit sensitive to curry… it gives her the er— _whimpers._ But that's fine. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, right?"

Over curry, Gwen explained to a distrustful Petra that she and Elvia had sorted things out for now. Unconvinced, her cousin crossed her legs and scrutinised the Cleric from her flaxen head to her calf-skin booties, sizing the healer up like an exotic creature. "You've caused some grief, Miss Lindholm. What I wouldn't give to pick your brain..." "Be nice…" Gwen raised a piece of cheesy nan to diffuse the tension. "We're cool now, Pats." Across from the bickering cousins, the demure healer focused on hammering home the lava-vindaloo, her cheeks rosy and her eyes brimming with moisture. The girl was suffering, Gwen could see, but Evee was determined to fulfil her earlier prophecy. "Don't force yourself," Gwen cautioned. She wondered why her Evee was taking enough spice to keep Petra confined to the throne— mayhap the Cleric was stress eating? Just the smell of the spice was making her lips heat up. With Petra gawking like a Big Bird, Evee dared not speak, and for the duration of the curry, the sound of spoons scraping plates passed for conversation. "So, I'll be keeping your Foundation running while you're away," Gwen said at last. "It'll do you good, I imagine. The Ordo has relics that collect Faith, right?" "You don't have to." Elvia replaced her spoon. "I'll find the time to—" "Nonsense, you don't have the skills or the manpower, at least not yet." Gwen cut in. "Besides, I am keeping it running for my people on the Isle. They're used to your face by now. No point changing it." "But maybe one day you could use Faith Magic as well," Elvia said. "After all, with Caliban, anything's possible." "You're not suggesting Cali should Consume a Knight or an Ordained Priest?" Gwen laughed. "Besides, I am not even religious. Faith Magic? The Anglicans would tie me to a cross and call me a witch. Say, is that all you're eating?" Petra watched with fascination as Gwen wolfed the rest of their food, after which her abdomen showed nary a bump. "I'll be going back to the dorm…" Elvia explained when Gwen asked for her immediate plans. "I still haven't told Sylvie and the others about what happened. They're probably wondering if I've been exiled to the Isle of Man." "When are you expecting to be stationed at Hastings?" Gwen asked as they proceeded down London's infamously narrow streets, flanked by cars and lorries, driving a little too close for comfort. "As soon as possible, I imagine, once I inform the Seneschal." Elvia edged against the sandstone wall as she was the slimmest. "I guess I'll see you later?" The casual goodbye was enough to make Gwen stop in the middle of the footpath, attracting more than a few grumbles from the passersby who had to step out onto the asphalt. "Yeah." Betraying her words, she hugged her dearest friend to her chest, enveloping Evee's body with both arms. Even after huffing the Cleric's hair and making Petra's blood pressure rise, she held on. "Oh, Evee. I am going to miss this." "You said it yourself— I am only an hour away. And I will be in London now and then." Elvia hugged her back, albeit with far less force. "I'll miss you, Gwennie." "Me too, stay away from any skirt chasers," Gwen warned her. "I know those white knightly types. Give them an inch, and they'll be in your panties next." "Mathias will be with me, remember? He's sworn." Elvia giggled. "If its Mattie, then that's fine. Just tell him there's a face-to-face with Gunther in it for him if he keeps you safe. He'll get it." "… sure." Elvia pushed her away when Petra grunted beside them. "Gwennie, are you sure about the er..." Elvia touched her ring finger. "Of course, they're yours." Gwen hand-waved the gifts. "I got my IIUC replacement, and mine's a bigger Storage Ring. I'll be getting some cool stuff from our Dwarven friends as well. You make good use of those." "Okay." Elvia touched Gwen's arm. "I'll be going now." The two young women watched the Cleric saunter away toward Nightingale College. "Good riddance—"Petra made the universal gesture for sweeping out vermin. "Bloody oath, Pats..." Gwen warned her cousin. Petra shrugged. After twenty-odd metres into the crowd, Evee disappeared. Gwen watched her Cleric turn the corner, feeling a little lost, wondering whether she did the right thing. "Are you sure it's wise to let the little minx go?" Petra reached her side. "She's a Vessel of our foe, right? She knows too much." "Her patron is the Order's problem now." Gwen patted Petra on the shoulders. "And in a way, Evee's right. I can't honestly say the Yinglong's done anything unforgivable other than giving Evee a dodgy dose of sovereignty. That and I still need Golos until my abilities catch up. Speaking of which, how was your lesson with the Runesmiths?" "Very instructive." Petra's mood lightened. "I never knew how intricate contemporary Dwarven magic could be! Did you know that Chadwick's Constant could be paired with Giem's Equilibrium through parallel conduits?" "I understood some of that." Gwen grinned broadly. "I'll have you know; your cousin knows more than just Shield now. I also know Alarm, and I am working on Resist and a Cambridge Edition of Mage Armour." "Impressive." Petra bit back a smile. "How's your Enchantment?" "Not sure, actually— I should be on the second tier of efficacy. Major Knott has been sweating me with inscriptions." Gwen stretched her neck. "What are your plans for the rest of the week?" "Seeing as I'll be missing the Lent Term regardless, would you mind if I stayed in London to accompany the Masters?" "Sure, it's no skin off my nose," Gwen said as they made their way through East End. "Magister Wen isn't going to mind?" "My learning contract with her has been absolved," Petra said. "What, just like that? You're not sentimental at all?" Gwen felt surprised by Petra's candidness. "She did look after you for three, four years?" "Babulya looked after me," Petra corrected her. "Which reminds me, you've been neglecting a lot of folks back home. They've been asking for you." Gwen slapped her forehead. "You're right! Tonight! Wait, tomorrow! I'll call home first thing in the morning!" To Gwen's wonderment, a fortnight and then some elapsed without incident, vanishing the linen snow, replacing the sleet with warmer and wetter weather. The Dwarves' construction projects continued full-steam, kindling her stock of HDMs as newly erected scaffolds transformed into warehouse buildings, brutalist offices and streamlined printing towers. Lorenzo returned after a week's absence, bringing a list of names, mostly NoMs, who were willing to jump ship from the Herald Sun and the Telegraph. A few of the spook's old mates at the Guardian were keen as well, and after signing off their CVs, Gwen interviewed her future staff in person. Petra finally enrolled, ultimately choosing Queens College. Gwen commissioned Ollie to find her cousin a rented house not too far from Peterhouse as Petra was a post-graduate student and therefore had the option of external accommodation. Once the orientation completed, the Mind Mage elected to spend most of her time on the Isle of Dogs, observing the Dwarves, bringing their daily skinship to an end. Gwen met with Elvia once more before she left for the Order of the Bath, taking the girls shopping at The Strand and filling their rings with clothes, shoes, makeup, snacks and assorted bric-a-brac. Hastings was a sizable township— but its commercial offering was incomparable to the capital. Before her pilgrimage, Elvia informed Gwen that she had asked Sylvie Stratford, her colleague at Nightingale, to stand in at her Clinic to work under Walken. Gwen recalled that the pink-haired girl had looked after her friend, and so and told Elvia that Sylvie would receive her guidance. Concurrently, Gwen's lessons under her tutors persisted: art, music and Illusion with Le Guevel, abjuring Mandalas under Kott, frustrations under Patel, tea with Lady Grey, and outings with Dede with Maxwell Brown. Then, one tranquil afternoon, while breaking bread with her duck, she was accosted by her tutor. "What's wrong?" Gwen noted Brown's haunted expression. The man wanted something from her but was hesitant to initiate. Finally, after some duck banter, the Magister cleared his voice and delivered the bad news. The first instalment of Gwen's repayment had arrived. The college now desired her active participation in researching Void Magic. "Gwen, I've come to speak to you as a friend, your teacher, and the researcher trusted by the Academic Council to plumb the depth of arcanistry pertaining to your Element." "Really?" Gwen lifted her face from Dede's rainbow feathers. "You need my permission?" "Of course dear, we're not the CCP." Brown gave her a sideways glance. "We always ask for permission, so long as you don't upset the powers-that-be by refusing." Gwen laughed at the mirthful Catch-22. "Why are you laughing? This is your life," Brown replied seriously. "Oh…" Gwen's grin grew rigid. "The necessity of quantifying Void as an Element, which will lead to new Spellcraft advancements and countermeasures against Elizabeth Sobel, is no laughing matter." The Magister's eyes were unmoved by her upset. "Of course, this is not just for yourself but other Void Mages as well. To pool together our knowledge, you'll be joined by your contemporaries." "Other Void Mages? Who else is there aside from me?" Gwen was genuinely astonished. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "From London Imperial, there's Meister Bekker's boy, who recently returned from Pretoria. I believe you're acquainted?" "Jean-Paul?" "The very same. And you'll also be meeting Gracie Hillbrook." "And who would that be?" "A predecessor." "A Void Mage? Like Jean-Paul and me." Gwen's mouth half fell open. "Why haven't I heard of her?" "We've been keeping her safe." "Quack!" Dede struck out a wing in warning when Gwen's fingers dug a little too deep into its feathers. "Come again?" Gwen placated the duck. "Cambridge has 'kept' this girl on campus?" "She's not the most stable sorceress." Brown cocked his chin. "A good study of Sobel's deterioration over time, actually— besides, if the college didn't step in, she would have wasted away." "Kept her like…" Gwen looked to Dede then to Brown. "… like a duck in a pond? How old is Gracie?" "Twenty-one," Brown recollected. "Her birthday was last November. She's been with us for six years." "And you want us Void Mages to meet and greet, show and tell?" "An encounter that is in itself an experiment," Brown confessed. "We're still negotiating with the central continent's institutions for their candidates. Understandably, they're wary of you. Don't you think it's interesting? Did you have nothing to gain from Adventuring with Jean-Paul?" "I suppose we had a good time." Gwen considered their experience with the Undead. Jean-Paul had indeed demonstrated a whole new tier of Void-based arcanistry. "We think Gracie could use a dose of your optimism. She's recently become more unstable and erratic." Brown cautioned her. "Understandable. Nobody wants to die, of course, especially from Void consumption." "That's… sad." Gwen felt a surge of sympathy. "You're sweeter than you look, Gwen." Brown struck out his hand and patted Dede. "Dede's an excellent judge of character. Can I ask your permission to go ahead with the meeting of the Void Mages?" "I am glad you asked, but why would I say no?" "I am afraid you might feel compelled to save Gracie." "What?" Gwen cocked her head. "Are you saying I should let a fellow Void sorceress die when I can empathise with the hunger, the terror, and the needless suffering?" Brown's lips formed a bitter smile. "Thanks to Wen, we now know your physiology is unique— and that your Druidic Essence is a transferrable medium." He stroked Dede's head. "I performed some tests on Dede, just to be on the safe side. Yours is a raw and primordial form of Essence. We don't know what Caliban ate to give it to you, or if the vitality is a unique part of your Astro-morphic frame— but it can benefit others." "It only works on Magical Creatures," Gwen pointed out. "Hardly. Have you tried giving it to humans?" "Of course not." "But you have," Brown reminded her. "That Chinese wine you dispensed so freely…" Gwen raised both brows. "That was Sen-sen." "A mere medium. Nothing we can't solve, or we can have Miss Lindholm provide the leaves on commission. We can even have Gracie train in Conjuration and whip-up a Familiar. I hope you understand the implications. The burden of life is something no one wants to bear. That's why I am warning you." Gwen spent a moment digesting Brown's truism, gradually coming to terms with the entanglements Brown inferred. If indeed she could single-handedly prevent future Void Mages from dying with Almudj's Essence, utilise mediums of Wildland origins to infuse consumables with vitality— wouldn't the onus of her kind's livelihood be held in her dainty white fingers? As someone shouldering that obligation— the potential dilemmas and moral baggage were unfathomable. Even altruistically, the idea of Void Mages whose lives relied on her goodwill made her skin crawl. "Please don't look like that. It's best to think of yourself as a medical specialist," Brown re-framed her growing unease. "You can save as many as you're willing— but no Cleric is morally obligated to operate on every patient." "Yeah, that's a fucked up proposal if I ever heard one." "Quack!" Dede agreed, dabbing her cheek with its bill. "Please mull the matter over. You don't have to decide right away. Also, that was the lesser of our two problems." Brown smiled. "I was, alas, buttering you up for the bigger predicament." "My womb is off-limits." "... Your mind amazes me sometimes." Brown choked on his spit. "No, no— word has arrived from up-on-high to quantify the risk-tier of your Planar Ally. Factional interests wish to observe, document, then eradicate this creature you have dubbed the Shoggoth. I say this is a bigger problem because it isn't so much a quest but an obligation— one that pertains to your freedom anywhere in the developed world." Gwen pursed her lips. "Before you go and tattle… Lady Grey is in favour," Brown explained. "I don't think there's a living soul who would suggest that we should allow the contractor of a creature as inexhaustive as the Shoggoth, to exist unchecked and unexplained. For your knowledge, the Militants have been banging on the gates very loudly since your arrival." "And NOW they tell me this? After how many weeks?" Gwen narrowed her eyes. "This would have been more palatable if it was a condition of coming to London." "Then blame the Isle of Man for bringing the time table forward. We wanted more time for you to settle in as well. The more invested you are in us, the more we can invest in you. It's a two-way avenue." Brown returned her antagonism with calm logic. "If anything, blame that Cleric of yours who used your IIUC vid-cast for inciting the Militants. The Shoggoth can't be used as a deterrent if we have no idea what it's capable of deterring, or if it is quashable— a crucial distinction." "They're going to blow up my Shoggy? What if they piss it off?" Brown raised a critical brow. "In your report— you said that the Shoggoth is a mindless mass of mouths and that it does not possess intelligence. In the haste to get you inducted, the college assured the Tower that this was the case..." Cold sweat instantly drenched the delicate fabric on Gwen's back. "Right," she replied with the only acceptable answer. "Then, we will proceed." Brown hovered a hand over her shoulder, hesitated, then moved onto Dede. "Gwen, are you certain the Shoggoth is a Planar Manifestation without an Ego?" "Quack?" Dede gazed at her with its unsullied eyes of beady black, demanding the answer. "Quack-Quack?" Gwen knew she had only moments to speak. Was the Shoggoth capable of feelings or emotions? Did it understand logos as humans did? Was it a product of those stories she loved, or did the Shoggoth communicate the will of something swimming five fathoms down, deep in the depthless Void? In all honesty— she desired a definite answer as well. "Yes." Gwen crossed both fingers under Dede's feathers. "To my knowledge, I can say with confidence that Shoggy is an amoeba of hunger." " _Enlarge_. _Seeking._ " Patel commanded from behind the Wall of Force. "Void Missile!" Gwen ramrodded the spell through her conduits, her lips muttering invocations while her fingers somatically assisted the mental incantation. Soundlessly, three amorphous globs, each resembling a dark ball of tenebrous ink, whipped through the air to strike the bird-Golem used for target practice. As her spell struck true, a sound of springs released from ratcheted tension accompanied the sight of the bird careening into the firing range. "Next. _Extend Range. Delay. Simulcast_." Another bird fluttered into the range, this time slow and ponderous to lower the difficulty of her targeting. "V-Void Missile!" Gwen fumbled but quickly recovered by repeating the latter portion of the spell. With her VMI and Almudj's Essence, the exercise of low-tier Void-craft proved little inconvenience unless the elevated invocations suffered from catastrophic failure. As per her designation, the first set of missiles did not manifest. "Void Missile!" She finished her second spell just as the first materialised. Together, twin globs of Void matter shot forward as though propelled by a catapult. The second struck true, taking the Golem by the wing. The first missed by inches, sizzling against the Wall of Force before dissipating. Gwen growled. " _Enlarge_ , _Explosive._ " the command came from Patel. "Void Missile!" Fighting the spell-strain, Gwen just managed to complete the third spell. "Enlarge" required two additional Minor and one Major invocation. "Explosive" was trickier, adding seven Major invocations that required another twenty-two Minor ones so that the spell exploded on command and not the moment it left the gate. This time, her missile sailed just overhead of the fallen target. At her behest, it erupted in a jet-black burst of Void, showering the surrounding area with droplets of corrosive, all-consuming ink. "How's that?" Gwen smugly turned to her instructor. "I did it." "You fumbled, and then you missed against a slow-moving target." Kareena golf-clapped. "Yes, congratulations, Magus Song, you did it." Just as she was about to offer a witty riposte, her tutor redirected her attention. "Before you embarrass yourself further. Your audience is growing impatient." Gwen spun on her heels. On the bleachers behind them, shielded by yet another Wall of Force, was a group of Mages. Two, she recognised instantly. One was Magister Brown in his demure jacket and dusky vest; the other had an unforgettable face; the last, a young woman, was new. Gwen quickly bowed toward her Transmutation-spellshaping tutor, then made for her observers. "JP!" Gwen dismissed the barrier, her voice bouncing across the high ceiling. In the next moment, she embraced the young man, who was shorter than herself, then gave him two unreciprocated air-kisses on either side of his face. "It's good to see ya, buddy." In response to her friendly overture, the pale young man with a face that only a Meister could love polymorphed into an overlarge beetroot. Suddenly self-conscious, Gwen glanced down to see if she had unexpectedly shamed herself with a daring attire. These days, her attention often waned thanks to her mental toils. Some mornings, whatever she could unlock within the first ten minutes had to suffice. Presently, she wore conforming jeans joined by a zip-up sports top, hardly the sort of thing that could start a scandal. More than likely, JP had not anticipated so warm a welcome— which, combined with his introverted tendencies, had made him flustered. "… Hello." Jean-Paul unglued himself, extending each finger as though unfurling a row of sticky tendrils. "You look well." Gwen laughed. For some reason, she liked JP's awkwardness. There was a genuineness to it that the smooth-talking folk at Cambridge with their titles and their upbringing could not affect even if they tried. "Emm…" Jean-Paul glanced at the young woman beside him, bracing himself with an expression of a boy waiting for the whip to land. Brown coughed. "Gwen, this is the sorceress we discussed, Gracie Hillbrook." With one hand still hanging on Jean-Paul's shoulder, Gwen looked to her right. Gracie Hillbrook stood five-foot-six with a luxurious head of hair that fell over both shoulders down to her chest. She had an angular face atypical of the English, with freckles bespotting her pale skin from ear to ear. From sunken sockets, dark eye bags that rivalled Jean-Paul's made her forest-green irises especially intense. If the girl could be healthier, Gwen would remark that the sorceress was pretty— though now the girl simply appeared perpetually tired. On her bony shoulders, Gracie donned a tunic that was one-size too large, beneath of which a drab skirt covered her to the ankles. The overall effect, Gwen felt, was a frailness that cried out for a pair of strong arms to hold her tight. Their eyes met, the girl looked downward, not daring to meet her gaze. "Hello." Gwen extended a greeting. "I am Gwen Song." "Gracie…" the Void Sorceress swallowed the air before producing a skeletal hand. "Hillbrook." "Nice to meet you." Gwen took the woman's enfeebled extremities. From the trembling in her digits, Gwen could sense the young woman was undergoing a whole range of complicated emotions. "You alright, Gracie?" The sorceress withdrew her hand. "Magus Song, are you well-acquainted with Jean-Paul?" The timbre in the woman's voice was enough to catch Gwen off guard. With a bemused expression, she looked from sorcerer to sorceress, trying to discern the source of Gracie's antagonism. "Of course, JP and me, we go way back." She patted Jean-Paul's curved back. "He and I, we survived the Front together, demolished Dungeon-fulls of Undead in Shenyang! How about you, Gracie? When did you get to know Jean-Paul?" "Only a few days." Gracie's expression remained irksome. To Gwen's dismay, the young woman turned to Magister Brown accusingly. "Sir, what is the meaning of this?" Very carefully, Jean-Paul slipped from under Gwen's arm to stand to one side. "Gwen." Brown's expression was cringeworthy. "Though it is not my place to say so, I should inform you that Miss Hillbrook is well on her way to becoming Mrs Bekker..." "... What?" Gwen's immediate response was to snort. A second later, she caught herself. "WHAT?" "Per our prior conversation," Magister Brown spoke slowly and meticulously. "Miss Hillbrook has decided to put her future in the hands of London Imperial's Meister Bekker." Gwen's mind performed a mental pirouette before landing back in reality. A week ago, post Brown's petition, she had advised her tutor that she would not be providing for the Mageocracy's future Void Mages. Brown had concurred, stating that the Tower's wish was to respect whatever outcome she chose. Now she was being told that Gracie Hillbrook and Jean-Paul Bekker were en-route on becoming Mister and Missus Bekker. If Jean-Paul had said that he had known Gracie since childhood, Gwen would have bitten off the matter with a smile— but Hillbrook had just admitted that she knew the guy for a few days. The fuck did that portend? Her fingers grew numb— an arranged marriage? No, worse than that. Meister Bekker had a way to keep Void Mages alive— as evidenced by Jean-Paul, and Brown had said that Gracie wasn't going to last much longer. If so, was this young woman choosing to offer her body to Umzokwe's Master to stay alive? A grotesque wave of repression suffused her abdomen, making her breathless. Gwen rarely felt such upset for someone she had never met. Gracie, poor fucking Gracie. As a fellow Void Sorceress, she completely understood the horror of extinction from self-consumption. She also empathised why Gracie would choose to risk-bearing a child over wasting away. BUT— Did JP and Gracie know how fucked up it is to bear a Void baby? Did anyone even know that Faceless was Sobel's kid? Or that Sobel went batshit insane on a Consume-spree because she was eating for two? She should tell them— but was her Master's shame her secret to give? As for Jean-Paul, the cocky prick— "Oi, _Bekker_ " Gwen heard her voice ring out, her tone as hollow as the Void. She glared at Jean-Paul, who she had thought was a nice enough chap, despite literally everything else. The very thought of Jean-Paul's frog-like figure sprawled out over Gracie's milk-white body made her want to punch his teeth inwards. "Y-yes, Gwen?" the Void Mage intensely studied the floor. "Are you for reals, JP?" A wave of expanding vertigo filled the space between them. Beside her, Gracie Hillbrook took a step back, her irises suddenly contracting as the Void mana still churning in Gwen's conduits tuned the air solid with pressure. "Mate, you ever heard of the story of Sir Bors of Avalon?"

"Gwen! Stop that!" Magister Brown erected a Shield so that the barrier enveloped both himself and Gracie. "She can't defend herself!" "Surely not." Gwen retracted her soul-constraining aura. "Look at JP— he's not even flinching." "Gwen…" Brown raised his voice several decibels. "With your history, you should know better." Gwen looked to Gracie, whose face was beading with sweat. The young woman looked as though she would faint at any moment. Still, Gwen felt the need to leave a stern impression. If Gracie couldn't even take a harsh stare from a Void Sorceress on the fifth tier of Affinity, how could she stomach having a life-sucking parasite siphoning on her already disasterous constitution? "Sorry Gracie." Gwen raised both hands. "Jean-Paul, explain yourself." "Me? I-I— er—" "Perhaps you should converse with Gracie before you blame Jean-Paul." Brown set the trembling Gracie down on a cushioned seat before returning to Gwen. "Your friend is the ward of the Mevrou, and Gracie is ours. Please don't presume you can compel either of them." The young woman took another minute to fully recover, allowing Gwen more time to study the kept Void Sorceress. Though her frumpy dress hid her figure, she could see from her collarbones that beneath the fabric was a vitality-famished body in the process of consuming itself. It wasn't a matter of fat and sinew, as with cases of anorexia, but a deeper, more metaphysical malaise. Everything about Gracie was weightless and frail, so much that Gwen wondered if she could lift her with one hand— or if such an act would break an arm or dislocate a shoulder. She felt sorry for the girl, and also upset and angry and resentful all at once. "Magus Song." Gracie's voice sounded like a ghost's. "I would not want to be a bother to your busy self." "Bollocks," Gwen cut in. "We're both in Cambridge, and we're both Void Mages. If anything, now that we're acquainted— I would loath to leave you be." "… Thank you." Gracie swallowed. "I think Magister Brown has told you that I am not well." Gwen nodded. Gracie touched a white hand to her hair. "I am an Illusionist by trade. I can't exercise my spells every well, and I don't have any means of replenishing my vitality. Nonetheless, I understand that as I grow older and the talent continues to mature, my body won't be able to keep up." "We've been looking after Gracie both nutritionally and through Clerical means," Brown interjected. "It is possible to keep Gracie hale if we simply pile on the Wildland ingredients—" "I could chip in," Gwen said immediately. "You know how much…" "— I fear between diminishing returns and the exorbitant cost, there's a limit." Oh yeah, Gwen recollected from her Fructum Vitae adventure. Most effects from the Wildland's mystical ingredients lost their efficacy by half with repeated consumption. Gracie' shoulders fell. "I've never been able to do anything myself. I am sick of it." A pang of guilt hammered home the shame Gwen had kept at arm's length. She thought of Elvia, then she thought of Dede. Gracie had made a decision that should be respected, but why shouldn't she broaden the girl's options? Wasn't that sisterly solidarity? "Is marrying Jean-Paul a part of that?" "The Mevrou has said that she has a way for me to keep hale," Gracie lowered her voice. "She said I could live a normal life, or even be useful as a Mage— if I so desire." "And that's what you wanted?" "I am sick of being kept." Gracie's breathing grew strenuous. "I see. That's understandable. I don't fault you, Gracie." Gwen took a deep breath, then turned to her old party companion. "Jean-Paul, do you know why I am angry?" "I listened to Mevrou Bekker?" The Void mage continued to study the floor. "No." Gwen clicked her tongue. "I am upset because last time, we talked about all of this. We talked about respect and marriage and love. Do you remember that?" Jean-Paul nodded. "I said to you— there needs to be more to making babies than getting told you should. If there's no love, no affection, only desperate perpetuation or blind lust, then you're just animals— cows and bulls. Besides, we're talking about a kid here. A living, breathing, mini Jean-Paul or Gracie! Both our childhoods were fucked up— yours especially. Why would you think giving that to a kid is a good idea?" Magister Brown loudly coughed. "...Yes, Max, I know I sound like Elvia delivering a Sermon. I know I chose not to help Gracie, and that makes me a hypocrite and a Void-damned bitch. But this is about— dignity, I suppose. Jean-Paul, you failed to see that Gracie isn't just a womb you need to fill at the Mevrou's request. And Gracie, girl— you need to have more respect for yourself. You too, Jean-Paul, you're not just an inseminator." Gwen blushed heavily even as she spoke. "The— er— Mevrou said 'love' should come tomorrow because Gracie needs to live today." Jean-Paul's nostrils flared. "She also says you're welcome to keep Gracie, but then she won't be responsible for Cambridge's candidate." Gwen felt a massive migraine come on. Looking at the young couple squirm, she could see that some personal sacrifices needed to be made on her part to dissuade the pair. "Okay. I am going to tell you about some very unpleasant truths. Max, can we get some privacy? I need to inform these two why this baby business is not happening. You can listen in— but no questions." "Is this classified information?" Brown wetted his lips. "It's private and pertains to mine and Gunther's Master." "Very well. To avoid Scry and Crows, may I suggest your Portable Habitat?" The scholar extended a hand. "You can set it up over there." "Alright." Gwen led the foursome to the empty range. "Caliban! Ariel!" "EE! EE!" "Shaa! Shaa!" Her Familiars materialised with a flourish. Gracie's eyes grew wide. "Its… the Death Worm and the Kirin!" "You two, keep guard." Gwen inserted the crystal, then laid down the pocket dimension. "Alright, you love birds, come inside. It's time to learn about the life-eating bees and the soul-sucking birds." Peterhouse. The Deer Garden. Gwen held the inconsolable Gracie's bony waist with one arm, rubbing her back with another. Caliban rubbed itself against Gracie's leg, while Ariel lent itself as her support. The story that Gwen had framed for the trio was that, fearful of her flirtatiousness among Sydney Tower's young men, Henry Kilroy had set her aside for a cautionary tale about a pregnant Void Sorceress. Within her story, her Master had the misfortune of studying the unfortunate sorceress. Throughout the gestation period, the Void-talented Transmuter had grown so erratic and insane that she began to drain anything she could get her hands on from plants to dogs to manservants. In the end, at six month, her own body half-consumed the child. When the miscarriage occurred, what emerged was a mangled mass of aberrant, pulsing flesh, driving the woman mad. The poor girl then Voided herself, much to Kilroy's dismay, and that was the end of her unsung story. "For me, all hanky-panky was off-limits." Gwen painted Henry as a stern father warning a rebellious daughter with a preference for miniskirts and heels. "Trust me— neither you nor your baby is going to survive. You can't breed Void Mages. They have to Awaken naturally." Jean-Paul then tried to explain that Mevrou Bekker could circumvent this tragedy through workarounds— but Gwen retorted that if "Deathless Henry", husband to the vilest and most successful Void Sorceress in all history, drunk on Sufina's Golden Mead, could not protect this pregnant nobody— then it was unlikely a Meister from South Africa half of Kilroy's age could proceed with confidence. If Jean-Paul cared at all for Gracie, Gwen said, he should consider the risks. If he didn't care, then she would spank his ass with Lightning until he did. There was silence. Then all three sighed long and hard. By the time they left the portal and returned to the wet and dreary space of the Deer Garden, Gwen had delivered the promise that she would keep Gracie hale for now with her "Druidic" Essence— while Jean-Paul should renegotiate with his Mevrou. "My Master will return next week," Jean-Paul muttered under his breath. "Could you speak to her for me?" "Er…" Gwen felt her innards scrunch. Speak to the Mevrou? A Meister? Not one like Wen, but a ruthless elite who had figured out the quirks of Void Magic and could even make spells for her Apprentice? Someone who, according to Jean-Paul, probably presided over a state-wide eugenics program? Would she be debating with the devil herself? "Sure thing, JP. Just give me plenty of warning. Don't you dare throw me to the wolves like you did with Gracie." Jean-Paul responded to her elder-sisterly authority in the only way he knew how. Gwen sighed. She looked at Gracie; then she looked at Jean-Paul. Void Mages. What a fucked up existence. "You two." She mulled over the matter in her mind, toying with a solution. "You guys ever heard of a Worker's Union?" If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. A day later, Gwen convened at Peterhouse with Lady Grey, Magister Brown, Ollie and a representative from the Tower at the Master's building opposite the Old Court. In a room richly draped with crimson and furnished with rare wood, the imperialist coven plotted the demise of the Mageocracy's enemies. "By the authority of London Tower, I now commence this formal meeting to discuss the deployment of the Shoggoth by Magus Song, Public Practice Licence No. 321530— Class VI War Mage," Colonel Sam Greyson, Administrative Official and representative of the Shard, spoke toward an omnidirectional recorder device. "Present with me are Marchioness Maxine Loftus of Ely, Magister Maxwell Brown of Emmanuel College and Magus Gwen Song of Peterhouse. Scribe Ollie Edwards shall serve as our minder of the minutes." The speaker waited for his august company's silent input, nodded, then continued. "I present to our members the developing situation in Northern Wales." Colonel Greyson punched a few Glyphs in the air visible only to himself. "Our allies in Snowdonia tasked London Tower with a Quest last June. The given objective was to exterminate an aberrant parasitic life form, the carnivorous extra-planar species known as Triffidus Celestus, an invasive Elemental flora plaguing the peninsula of Anglesey— allow me to bring up an image." With a touch, the Colonel projected a lumen-cast illusion into the space between the observers. "That's a Triffid?" Gwen asked with both brows raised. In her mind, Triffids looked like single-stem orchids and were kind of cute. "It's disgusting…" In the image, a roughly phallic-shaped monstrosity writhed and turned. On one bulbous end, a massive head consisting of tiers of lilac, violet and sunburst petals tapered into a muscular shaft that propelled itself via malicious tentacles. From the barbed neck, its waist snaked downwards until it formed a mass of angry knots that serviced its locomotion. "There are now three variants in the Triffidus species." Greyson breathed out. "During the first extermination, we sent a Flight of Magus-tier Combat Mages into Anglesey. The purge took a week, and their Quest reported success. In hindsight, the Tower should have sent specialists, as untrained Combat Mages could not have known that the flora left spores. When the next outbreak occurred, the Triffids were far more durable and immeasurably hardier, some even evolved. In October, we sent two Flights of veteran Combat Mages, together with a Botanist, Magister Valarie Banks, up to the region for a second round. The Purge was a success. However, Magister Banks reported that the Triffids had fundamentally altered the physiology of the landscape and that extermination would involve a longitudinal operation." The image shifted to a map showing the spread of the Triffid contagion. "Her prediction came true in early November. Adventurers Purging the region of regrowth reported seeing not two, but three variants of Triffids." A second bestiary image came into view. This time, it showed a Triffid with no less than three heads, and its central torso was a mess of vines that entwined to form a reptilian body. As it slithered forward, the whole thing appeared both comical and terrifying. "This variant, the adventurers call Hydraffid," the Colonel explained. "The Triffidus Hydrus possesses extreme regeneration. Size-wise, its three times the length of the Mono-Triffid while possessing extreme agility. Thus far, the encounter-tier is set at six. Unlike the normal Triffids, they do not hunt in packs." Finally, a third image came into view. "This came from our December expedition to study the creatures. We call it Triffidus Primus. It is an intelligent creature capable of reproducing crude but powerful Druidic manifestations. It can also summon its kind, rapidly regenerate, and is intelligent enough to utilise tactics. It speaks rudimentary Elemental." The image depicted an enormous humanoid-plant hybrid half-buried in the mossy ground. Its face was a flower with a maw that resembled a carnivorous fly-trap. A massive mane of leaves surrounded its neckless head, and on both of its shoulders distended two Triffidus Celestus that served as limbs. "We have consulted Snowdonia on the matter, and they have raised the level of alarm near their Grove. Though the Elves are fully capable of eradicating this invasive species, the Mageocracy's present treaties with the Hvítálfar dictate that regions outside of their Träälvor Warden's control remain within our jurisdiction." "With resource comes responsibility," Lady Grey interpreted for Gwen. "In this regard, we're farmers given land to till." The Colonel brought up another map. "Since January, the Triffidus contagion has taken no less than three dozen Adventurers— including one Mage Flight from the local Garrison sent to suppress its expansion. Thanks to the Isle of Man's ceasefire, we can now relocate Mechanised Golem units across the Menai Strait to Pili Palas. The operation was set to commence next week— until we received news that Magus Song shall be gracing us with her presence." "How green is this region?" Gwen asked. "Colonel, have you been briefed about the Shoggoth's propagation abilities?" "If need be, you may cleanse the peninsular entirely." Colonel Greyson indicted to the infestation map. "Only a bridge conjoins the landmasses. Our citizens who have not left the island have long become monster-fodder. On the other hand, the indigenous inhabitants on the isle are negligible. We tried to evacuate them, but they are either in hiding, have escaped, or are being used as food by the Triffids." "All those villages are empty?" Gwen pointed to the hundred or so dots lining the coast from the English mainland to the Irish Sea. "Some benign Merfolk and Avian colonies live near the coast," the Colonel explained. "Fear not, they can escape into the ocean." "Let's say the Shoggoth grows too large." Gwen eyed the map. "Then what happens?" "In Shenyang, it reached no more than three kilometres at the apex," Brown noted helpfully. "Mind you, that was a city said to have several thousand still-living souls. I think we should be fine. The amount of energy required to manifest in the Prime Material is astounding. For a Shoggoth, its maximum allowance is limited by your Void Affinity and Conjuration tier as well. Once its dimensional anchor becomes disrupted, the cost to remain in our world will directly be burdened by its internal supply of mana— and there is no way to resupply while on the Prime Material. Void as an Element simply does not 'exist' per se." "Which is why before it disappears, the 5th Regiment Royal Gunners, joined by the 32nd Royal Artillery, will be conducting field exercises. Likewise, they'll be joined by specialists from Oxbridge and London Imperial, in addition to invited observers from our allies." "Shock and awe?" Gwen raised both brows. "You're using this example to flex some muscles?" "You could say that." Colonel Greyson nodded. "We're assuring our allies, dear." Lady Grey's eyes twinkled. "Considering Sobel, it's best to keep you an open secret." "And once the Triffids are gone, the moorlands should return to shrubbery and granite within the month with the Druids' help," Browned assured Gwen. "Worry not. We've checked with the Dwarves as well. They don't have a settlement in the area. It's a clean Purge." "One more question." Gwen raised her hand. "Are the Triffids sapient?" "In the same vein as most extra-planar lifeforms of a high-enough tier," Colonel Greyson affirmed. "Is that important, Miss Song." "I mean, we negotiate and work with Dryads and the Alraune, don't we?" "Not exactly, dear," Lady Grey joined the conversation. "Both your Master's Sufina and Miss Lindholm's Familiars were companions from an early age. In the wilderness, a fully developed Alraune is an upper-tier menace capable of siphoning away entire settlements if allowed to ensnare even a single man. Likewise, Sufina's kind can dominate entire regions if gone unchecked. They're not openly malicious, though one should always be wary when one's neighbours reproduce by predating on sons and husbands." "Besides, the Triffids should not exist on our plane." Colonel Greyson's patience endured. "That and their evolution is too rapid to be left alone. I hate to imagine the diplomatic pitfall should they make it to Snowdonia. It would be Ysbyty Ifan all over again." "What's Ysbyty Ifan?" Gwen regarded her betters. "It sounds Elven." "Druidic-Gaelic, actually," Lady Grey answered her ward. "Ysbyty Ifan was where the Militants decided to challenge the Snowdonian Enclaves over ownership of Afon Tryweryn, the Lake of Crystals." "A tragedy." Greyson made the sign of the cross. "Less so because of the lives lost, but more so because we asked a question and we didn't like the answer." "That and none of us stopped the Militants from asking the said question." Gwen's House Mistress rolled her eyes. "The Crown too had made a misstep." The rest of the room remained silent. Only a childhood friend of the Crown could offer such open criticism. For the rest, to speak too candidly was a danger in itself, and disingenuous as well, considering the power and prestige the jewel of Britannia had salvaged from the Beast Tide's aftermath. "Elves kicked our asses?" Gwen noticed the change in atmosphere. "I, for one, believe the humiliation was necessary," Colonel Greyson spoke carefully. "I think our heads got rather large after we recovered Australia and South Africa and parts of South-East Asia. The incorporation of new arcanistry from our Demi-human allies, as well as the plethora of new methodologies presented by the Grey Faction, had opened up avenues that Humanity was not yet ready to explore." Brown and Loftus both raised their cups. "… one more thing." Gwen looked around the room. "Am I one of those avenues?" "Not you personally," Brown quickly interjected. "Sobel, on the other hand..." "I see." Gwen made a mental note to petition Lady Grey in private, hoping her hostess was willing to dispense with the details. With everything happening at once, Gwen realised she had neglected to chase up her Master's old mates for their stories. "Please continue. I apologise for interrupting." The tension in the room relaxed. "Our operation will consist of the following." The Colonel returned to the map. "If you will observe…" For Gwen, the Purge action was set to be in two stages. Stage one involved the capture and collection of Triffids to be kept in Stasis. The Royal Botanical Society requested a hundred specimens of the baseline variant, as well as up to twenty of the evolved species. Four Flights of Mages, together with Adventurer-volunteers, would be deployed across the strait at the forward operating base at Menai. During this stage, Gwen would assist the Purge and stock up on vitality for her Shoggoth, helping to ensure the safety of the academic staff. The Shoggoth event itself would take place on the moorland, now a carnivorous forest crawling across tablelands formally known as Anglesey. In the aftermath, guarded by the Tower's Mage Flights, Gwen would deploy her Planar Ally, then retreat to the Forward Operating Base. As insurance, Dublin's defence-focused Tower had been put on alert and would mobilise in anticipation of an extreme event. Observation of the Shoggoth would then take place, followed by suppression. "… and this concludes the briefing." Greyson bowed. "Marchioness, Magisters and Maguses. Are we in agreement?" His audience returned nods, or stood and bowed as the officer retrieved the recording device, bowed in turn, then made his exit. "Ollie, Max, you may leave us." Lady Loftus permitted the men to leave. Ollie bowed, gave Gwen an amicable look of caution, then turned for the door. Gwen's instructor performed likewise after a silent exchange with the Marchioness through pulsing Message spells. Once the two were alone, the two women drank tea and made small talk about the news. Lady Grey informed her that a full biometric evaluation would take place before the mission to ascertain the efficacy of Caliban's Consume, not to mention the Shoggoth's baseline arcane emanations. "Gwen," Lady Grey hailed the contemplative sorceress once the tiring details were exhausted. "After the Purge, would you like to take a break?" "A break?" Gwen's eyes lit up. "I would love a break. This isn't a trick question, is it?" "It's a sincere enquiry, dear. You've been working very hard both for yourself and for the Isle of Dogs. The college will fund this expedition for you. Would you like to spend a spell in Snowdonia?" Gwen blinked. "We can visit Snowdonia now?" "Of course, if you have the connections and the HDMs." The lady smiled. "That said, you won't be entering the Enclave unless personally invited. There's a trading post— Trawsfynydd, not far from the Grot where it's possible to spy the grand trunk of the Elfhome at Tryfan. It's a very popular destination for our well-to-do members. I suppose you can consider it a waiting room of sorts for those seeking an audience with the Masters inside the Grot. If you're lucky, you may even spy a Hvítálfar Elementalist training the youth on the Llyn. Moreover, there's someone there who we would like you to meet." "Who would that be?" "An ally of the Mageocracy, someone who has been helping us for a very long time." "An Elf?" "Not just any elf. A Highborn immortal." Gwen swallowed. She immediately thought of Galadriel. Would it be like meeting a goddess? What would Snowdonia's Grot look like, she wondered. Hopefully, like Lothlórien. "Any idea what she needs from me?" "It's a 'he'," Lady Grey assuaged her fears. "And I think you meant what _you_ might need from _he_ who is a thousand or more years old, likely older. He knew Henry Kilroy longer than any of us and can answer all the questions we're not at liberty to address— and only he has the authority to teach you a unique form of sorcery." Suddenly, Gwen's Divination Sigil tingled. Instantly, Gwen's chest constricted, although with excitement or fear, she couldn't tell. The feeling of premonition travelling up and down her spine was making taste buds hallucinate. For some strange reason, she could taste eucalyptus. "Druidic Magic?" "Nothing quite so rustic." Lady Grey's gaze was full of benevolence. "And don't count your cockatrices before they hatch. No one said the Master is willing to teach you— that, my dear, is a test where you're truly on your own." ****

Gwen wondered if she could replace the flimsy hospital gown with a swimsuit or a silk robe. The sheer fabric made her feel exposed, especially with the silhouette of Wen bending over the Glyph panels, reminding her of the unpleasantness that filled her early days in Shanghai. Back then, she had been desperate— both to please and to find out more about her latent Void talent, a combination that resulted in her consenting to Wen's suggestion of testing Caliban on a human being. The results had been spectacular— even from the braindead Choi, she had extracted his talent for Illusion. In its aftermath, however, she had dreamt of the man's expressionless face, half-drooling even as Caliban tunnelled under his tremulous rolls of fat. _Beep— Beep— Beep—_ Pinned to her chest, just above her heart and below her breasts, Glyph-clad devices the likeness of scarab beetles pulsed with light as her body channelled its energies. A thin veneer of sweat plastered her skin, making her feel all kinds of icky. Connected to the nodes was a thrumming thinking-engine feeding a stack of Wen's Spellcubes, each tenebrous with Void Mana, drinking in the pale light. A year ago, before Almudj's blessing, she could fill three or four— now, she had just managed a dozen. "Gwen. No need to push yourself." Petra was ready with a warm robe even though Gwen did not fear the cold. It was the sterility of the lab, the smell of pristine equipment, the tang of metal-on-metal that made her skin alive with goosebumps. "She needs to push her limits for the accuracy of the data." Wen's voice was no less sterile as she performed her calculations. "I can't believe Cambridge hasn't been collecting data the whole time you're here." "Maybe they think of me as a person," Gwen replied with unapologetic sarcasm. "Having a lucid Void sorceress is more important than having data." "Wishful thinking," Wen said. "Their deference is because you swallowed Shenyang." "I'll take it," Gwen said. From across the glass pane, Wen touched a few Glyphs only she could see. "This will sting." "Strewth!" Gwen flinched when the beetles attached to her skin suddenly bit her. The one attached to the base of her skull was especially nasty. "What the hell?" "Blood and skin samples." Petra stopped Gwen from removing the scarabs. "If you recall, the sensors are for your heart, liver and—" "I know, I know… jeez…" "We're done. You may remove the dive nodes now, Petra," Wen informed her ex-student. Her cousin carefully tapped the seamless plating that married the scarabs to the tubes feeding back into the Spectrometer. With a squelch, the little lamprey-attachments loosened, leaving red welts marked with rows of tiny needle-teeth punctures. "Oh, you're bleeding." Petra reached for a cotton pad. "You weren't bleeding before." "I am dry on Essence." Gwen steadied herself with one hand against her cousin. "And I am running on mana fumes." "You look terrible." Her cousin agreed. "You look like that Gracie." Unable to staunch the blood naturally, Gwen accepted a low-tier Heal Minor Wounds from one of Petra's spellcubes. After she healed, Gwen forwent the robe and slipped on her intimates, followed by a loose cotton one-piece dress from her ring. Once her hair was tamed and her feet adorned by a pair of kitten heels, she was ready to meet the others. Jean-Paul milled about just outside, half-hunched against the wall with a slumped Umzokwe blowing bubbles onto the floor. Both were exhausted, as the sorcerer's Void admixture took from both himself and his Familiar. On the opposite wall, sitting and hugging her knees, Gracie appeared both diminished and drained. "How are you all feeling?" Gwen smoothed out her dress. "I am starving." "I could eat," Jean-Paul concurred. "I want to sleep." Gracie buried her head against her lower limbs. The sight was so pitiable that Gwen materialised a jacket for the young woman's shivering shoulders. "Sleep for a week." The door to the laboratory next door slid open with a hiss, revealing Brown in his tweed coat. "Well done, you three. I've got the results. Would you like to share them?" "I don't mind," Gwen shrugged. Jean-Paul nodded. Gracie said nothing. "… here's the script." Brown appeared to think better of reading the numbers out loud. "There— at your discretion. Ask me questions." Petra took a step back, but Gwen positioned the script so that her cousin could read it anyway. Unlike the simple line-scripts from Fudan, Cambridge's Spectrometer encompassed visualisations, depicting everything from Affinity for School to Mana Efficacy to aggregate scores for her Different Schools of Magic. The row on the left indicated Wen's last measurement of her talents, while the row on the right showcased the score assigned by Cambridge. "Luckily, Wen trained in England," Brown explained. "Meister Bekker as well." Together, the girls read the report. Gwen Song PPL No.321530 Lightning: 7.12 (7.57) — 7.17 (7.84)” Void: 5.23 (5.33) — 5.42 (5.56)" "The kids have grown thanks to adventuring with Dede," Gwen remarked to Petra. "Looks like socialising the Familiars does help. My affinity hasn't grown much, though." "Thanks to diminishing returns, you would hit a soft cap around the sixth tier," Brown spoke beside them. "Where's Wen? She might offer some better insight." "She's occupied," Petra offered a non-committed answer. Gwen understood that Wen was taking some time to adjust. In Shanghai, she had been lauded and celebrated as the city's precious Meister. Here, the polite indifference was maddening. "Your mana growth appear to have stunted." Brown watched as Gwen turned the page. "We both know the solution to that…" Gwen read the summary. VMI: 345 — 352 Her growth, Gwen noted, was indeed minimal considering all the work she had put in. "Maybe it'll expand after the expedition?" Brown read her disappointment. "There's nothing like combat for a Mage to grow, and you're one hell of a Battle Mage, or so they tell me." "Yeah." Gwen mulled over the various indices. "Let's see the damage." “Evocation 5.62 — 5.71” “Conjuration 6.23 — 6.27” “Transmutation 4.07 — 4.70” “Abjuration 3.01 — 3.50” “Divination 1.78 —2.00” “Illusion 2.56 — 3.21” “Enchantment 2.11— 2.78” "Other - 4.78," she muttered to herself. "… Other?" Gwen's brows furrowed. "What's 'other'?" "Our spectrometer takes into account talents other than those measurable by the IMS." Brown's voice took on a calming tone. "Other is… assorted efficacies other than the Schools mentioned above. They're more common in students with exotic bloodlines." "That seems rather helpful." Gwen re-read the sheet. "Druidic magic?" "One would hope." The Magister smiled. "You have a rather exotic Astral Body that filters Essence, after all. It's only fair you would have an affinity for unconventional arcanistry." "Maybe it refers to something older." Gwen thought of Almudj. Maybe it's the Dreaming? She thought to herself. Holy shit! That would be amazing. "How do I find out what it is?" "I am told you will be receiving an instructor from Snowdonia?" "In Snowdonia—" Gwen corrected her tutor. "I don't know who this 'Master' could be, Maxine would not say." "I shall enquire no further." "Suit yourself." Gwen kept reading. "I see that Evocation and Conjuration have reached a bottleneck." "It's only natural," Petra observed. "Your Enchantment and Illusion was going up by leaps and bounds— Transmutation especially." "I did a lot of Spellshaping," Gwen confessed. "Nothing but Void as well." Gwen turned the page, saw Jean-Paul's profile image, then handed the sheet over to her compatriot. "Er... I've seen yours before…" the Void Sorcerer confessed. "Would you like to see mine?" "… phrasing." Gwen amused herself, then took back the script. "Oh, this is very interesting." "Evocation 5.27 — 5.34." "Conjuration 5.61 — 5.71." "Transmutation 2.12 — 2.35." "You can access three Schools of Magic, JP?" "I was a Conjurer by trade. Many of the spells I utilise require Spellshaping and Multi-School focus from the very beginning." Jean-Paul's lips formed a lopsided grin. "It's not so hard if it's all you've ever known." "Elite training, eh?" Gwen read on. "Void Affinity— 5.80 (6.45) and a VMI of 220. That's impressive, JP." "It's not so impressive when you consider that I was…" Jean-Paul's tone grew devoid of any particular emotion. "… tailor-made." Woodenly, Gwen read on. There was a shorter section of the paper stack that remained— Gracie's biometrics. "Gracie, do you mind?" Gwen offered a platitude. "If I am sponsoring you, I would like to know what we're dealing with." "Help yourself." Gracie's face grew red. "It's incomparable to your talents." Gwen quickly studied the graphs. Illusion 2.44 — 2.48 Void Affinity — 4.11 - 4.12 VMI - 43-45 "Your Void Affinity is quite high," Gwen remarked with surprise. "How often do you train?" "That's almost pure talent," Brown explained in Gracie's stead. "Keep in mind that affinity denotes efficacy. Void Mages Awakening with low affinity have lower chances of survival." "But higher affinity means more mana leaks…" Gwen's brows furrowed. "Jesus, we're fucked from both ends?" "What a wonderful way with words you have, Gwen. Yes. There's a Goldilock's zone involved. You were lucky to have Awakened in Lightning concurrently," her tutor remarked. "Wen says your affinity began around two?" This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it "Something like that," she replied. "Master Kilroy had said I shouldn't be bothering with Void Magic for a long while, at least until I was an adult. It wasn't until I got to Shanghai that I started using it regularly." "And that would be thanks to Wen." Brown made an unpleasant face. "A fortunate woman who met a very lucky specimen. A less talented Void Mage would have perished in her laboratory." "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Gwen smirked. "Your Affinity was only two?" Gracie looked up, her face full of hope. Pre-Faceless, it probably was, Gwen thought, mentally banishing the howling, laughing, screaming mien of the tar-like shapechanger as Caliban slurped her up like a line of stubborn snot. "Yeah. I had some close calls, but things worked out," Gwen assured her newest companion. "Somewhere up there, a hidden hand hath the steerage of my course." "Are you religious, Gwen?" Gracie responded to her Gwenism by stretching her limbs like someone trying to figure out independent muscle groups. "That sounded biblical." "No, not at all," she replied, helping Gracie into the jacket. "Let's go get some piping hot curry. After that, allow me to prescribe some medicinal spirits. JP, Gracie, you're coming with me." "Where to?" Jean-Paul looked to Brown for permission, then turned back to Gwen when Brown concurred. "To the Runic Underground!" Gwen grinned. "I wanna take you to a Dwarf Bar." The reason Gwen had elected to take her compatriots to the Dwarf Bar was that finally, after placing the order in early December, her new stock of Maotai had arrived. At the docklands, she was received by Wally, who made his report for the week, then lead the foursome down to the warehouse, where Gwen gazed with benevolence upon the virginal pallet of life-giving elixirs. Unfortunately, these were no longer the Dynastic-era distils, but decade-old variants available to the mass market. The House of M had acted as her agent in the auction and had succeeded in securing a pallet of the precious liquid for the open market. Its present value was well over ten thousand HDMs, a hit to the wallet even for someone like Gwen— though she knew that with her special constitution, these liquids could open doors no volume of crystals could begin to pry. With a wave of her hand, twenty-four cases of six bottles each disappeared into her Storage Ring. They then toured the isle with Gwen selling its sights and prospects, making a detour via the printing press to say hello to Lorenzo's gang, likewise meeting Eric Walken. "I've found those ghostwriters you were after," Lorenzo reminded her. "When do you want to meet them?" Gwen informed Lorenzo that things would have to wait until after the Triffidus Purge. "Such a shame our paper isn't ready for this headliner." Lorenzo sighed. "Remember, no interviews. You'll be on the Front Page of our first edition. 'An Audience with the Void Sorceress'." Gwen concurred. Walken's concern was more so concentrated on the Void Mages. "An interesting development." The Magister's gaze made Jean-Paul and Gracie uncomfortable. "I can see where this is going. It's fine, I suppose. Just be careful out there. And don't drink too much. Last time, you frightened the wits out of the NoMs with your midnight screeching." Gwen apologised, then unapologetically and without adieu, made for the bar. "Any 'mate' of Gwennie's is a clan of ours!" Yossari Vildrenbrandt slammed back the thimble of Maotai. "Phua—! This Firewater kicks like an overcharged Strider!" "This is the Maotai I've been telling you about." Gwen studied the Dwarves as they threw back their heads, then wiped their beards or whiskers. "I've added some vitamins as well. How is it?" Yossari smacked her lips. "Curiously vital. It reminds me of Elven sap-mead. What's in it?" "A criminal amount of fermented sorghum," Gwen explained. "I am told that the volume of harvest required to distil this one bottle could feed the township that makes Maotai for a year. It is a luxury for an era of prosperity. The older distils' all gone now, more or less. No one had the food to spare to make Maotai during the Sino Conflict, and then the Revolution, and then the Beast Tide." "We've got spirits like that in Deepholm." The Alchemical Master poured herself another thimble. "What vitamin?" "A bit of Druidic Essence." Gwen smiled. "My secret concoction, what do you think?" "Earthy, with a hint of oak, a little bitter." Yossari swirled the metal vessel. "Needs stronger legs. Not nearly mellow enough. Yer no Brewmaster, are yer?" "I was a bit tired today." Gwen looked at Jean-Paul and Gracie. "Maybe it'll have more kick when I am fully-charged." Jean-Paul was staring into his cup, half-slumped against her shoulder, his face red from the neck up. Gracie looked like she was warm and fuzzy and could do with a nap about now. Her complexion was much better, though Gwen doubted a mere 75 HDM crystal bottle of booze is going to fix her swiss-cheese Astral Body. More than likely, at least for now, she would have to add another leaf or two to her monthly Sen-sen Tax. Before she left for the Triffids and then Snowdonia, she would very much like to possess a bottle as close to the Sen-sen Original as possible prepared for her mysterious mentor. "I'll ready another batch later," Gwen informed the Dwarves, who between them had already demolished no less than six bottles. "Trust me. When it's at full strength, it'll grow you a new beard." For the next few days, Gwen's tutors readied her for the excursion. Le Guevel conjured a few life-like Triffid illusions to get her acquainted; Patel drove her up the wall with IFF spellshaping, and Brown busied himself with coordinating the Void trio. Her last lesson of the week was with Nils Kott, who wanted her to finalise proximity wards. "How's this?" Gwen looked up from the floor, where she had been busy inscribing a Warding Circle. "Fair— but too slow considering we're on a levelled plane with no debris and no howling Triffid. Some field exercises would do you good." Major Kott walked around the circle scratching his chin, inspecting her work. Gwen pumped mana into the inscription rod, liquified the precious materials contained in its cartridge, then continued her mental chant while her hand moved the cumbersome wand over the floor. "Sir. Some of my largest gains in recent months are in Abjuration and Enchantment." "I've been informed." Kott smiled warmly. "I am glad you're taking this seriously, Magus Song." "No need to be so formal. Just Gwen's fine." Gwen gazed up at the square-jawed German. "Thank you for teaching me so well. I never knew that Enchantment and Abjuration had so much synergy and that it could be used offensively as well. I've banked enough CCs to pick up Repulsive Field, Spell Siphon and Core Shatter. It's hard to imagine a defender capable of smashing monsters to smithereens." Gwen's tone of worship was because she had finally gotten a glimpse at the true potential behind Abjuration when she tapped into the upper tiers. For instance, the sixth-tier Repulsive Field created a movable Wall of Force in a semi-dome that not only functioned as a barrier but created multiple 'sponge' layers. These buoyant barriers then worked to absorb incoming attacks, ultimately unleashing an omnidirectional wave of destruction. Likewise, Spell Siphon at tier five could drain mana from an area to dampen a variety of effects, serving as the basis of Anti-Magic Mandalas inscribed by Enchanters. As for Core Shatter, Gwen had only recently discovered that such an Abjuration spell existed at the seventh tier, being capable of casting a "Banish" with such brutality that lower-tier Creature Cores would explode, instantly slaying their foe. When such a spell was deployed against a Creature Mage, Kott had warned her— weak-willed Conjurers may suffer permanent damage to their Astral Souls, akin to what Alesia had sustained. In her mind, therefore, Gwen imagined a scene in which hundreds of Triffids hammered on Kott's Repulsive Field. Then, at the apex of the spell's potential energy, the Abjurer concurrently unleashes an AoE Core Shatter on the field itself, sending an explosion of erupting bodies flying every which way. "You have a long way before you get there." Kotts snorted. "Whatever the case, don't get cocky, and don't underestimate a wildland creature's hunger for life. I've left instructions for the crew to have you perform the Wards for their camps. If you fail, somebody may very well die due to your negligence." "I'll do my best." Gwen saluted, giving the man her best smile. The more time she spent with the Major, the more she admired his stoicism. Likewise, as with most Abjurers, there was a natural protective aura they exerted which she found to be calming. Major Kott looked downward. She followed his eyes, wondering if the instructor was seeking out something he liked. "If that's your 'best', I would be cautious in that Triffid-infested Purple Zone. Re-inscribe this hextogramic ward right now." The Abjurer-Enchanter knitted his brows. "And stop getting distracted while you're inscribing. Abjuration isn't Evocation! A wrong stroke could mean a life lost!" Emmanuel's College. The Duck Ponds. A few days later, after some back and forth, it was decided that Richard and Petra would accompany Gwen, Gracie and Jean-Paul. Together, the fivesome would make a party of a sort, with Richard as the defender, Gwen and Jean-Paul as the damage dealers, Gracie on support, and Petra on utility. The rationale given by the university was that they wanted London's three Void Mages to get to know each other better by observing one another in combat. Through feats of broil and battle, Brown explained, the participants may awaken particular instincts, or reach new states of clarity not possible while living in Cambridge's greenhouse. Gwen had no complaints, neither did Jean-Paul, who had full confidence in his and her appetite for destruction. It was only Gracie who had never been to a Purple Zone, and who hyperventilated over the prospect of seeing a live-fire exercise of two battle-ready Void Mages against truck-sized monsters. On Gwen's lap, Dede the duck coiled its massive body, mesmerising Gracie with its rainbow hues. Around the pond, Caliban and Umzokwe wrestled on the lawn, sending screeching students fleeing for the Old Court. Ariel drifted overhead, napping in the warm sun. "Between my dogs, Familiars, Richard and Lea, you'll be right as rain," Gwen assured the Illusionist. "The university will also provide you with protective items, so this is more like a field trip of sorts. Besides, we're not the front line. Mine and JP's job will be stocking up on vitality while we travel with the Botanists." "Indeed," Jean-Paul chimed in. "Anglesey is Gwen's proving ground. We're just there to observe." "And you'll get to meet Golos," Gwen said to the Void Sorceress. "You said he was your favourite out of the three on the vid-cast, right?" Gracie nodded. She had said that she admired the raw power and majesty of the Thunder Wyvern. Gwen was more interested in the copious volumes of Triffid Cores Golos could bring to the market. Once the Triffids ceased to exist in the wild, she could operate a soft monopoly until someone found a way to farm them safely. "Great, as so long as I have a stern chat with the horny lizard, you two can hang out." Her voice took on a chill that made the two Void Mages shiver. "If he's as cheeky as before, you guys will get to see how Caliban tames Drakes." As for reaching the peninsula, only Gwen possessed a Flight licence, and so they would first take the ISTC from Paddington to Birmingham, then from Birmingham to Liverpool. Once outside Liverpool's airspace, they would be free to utilise Flight spells. The distance, as Gwen could see between the coastal port and Bangor, was exactly fifty kilometres, meaning an hour's flight at worst. "That said, how're you feeling?" Gwen asked the young woman. Wen's tests had been exhaustive, so much so that Brown had brought in a Cleric. "Are you taking your nightly Maotai?" Gracie's luminous eyes lowered with shame. Once the sorceress found out that Gwen was sharing the source of her vitality to keep her hale, she hadn't known how to express her gratitude. Gwen didn't mind. She wasn't helping Gracie for her appreciation. At least now she had confirmation of Brown's hypothesis. After two biometric scries, spectrometry and blood works, it was determined that her "Druidic Essence" could indeed be a stop-gap for Gracie's decline. The Maotai, as a Wildland component, would eventually lose its efficiency as Gracies' body began to reject the rejuvenating effects. However, the same diminishing returns did not apply to Gwen's Essence, which Gracie's body appeared to absorb readily. What it meant, therefore, was that a Maotai-like medium could catalyse 'Druidic Essence' to fortify physical and Astral bodies, even with its potency diluted. The confirmation meant that Gwen could arguably juice-up elixirs that could allow Void Sorceresses to keep their health. The problem was that, should Gwen fail to provide said elixirs, lose the ability to produce Essence or die in battle, the fate of all Void Users addicted to her life-giving salve would immediately be sealed. There was also a longitudinal predicament. With Gracie's affinity, the more capable her body became in sustaining the demands of her talent, the more robust its growth. What should be a sufficient volume of Essence today may not be for tomorrow. If they were to multiply the demand by ten-fold, or a hundred-fold— then what? But Magister Brown had an answer for that too. It wasn't as though a Void Mage could not be kept upright through periodic injections of Positive Energy, Faith Healing and Wildland rarities— as was the case with individuals reportedly living in the central continent and the USA. If they took that approach, Gwen's talent was merely another unsustainable delay of the inevitable. What the researchers desired was Umzokwe and or Caliban as a sustainable addition— a way to tap into the lamprey-Sprites theorised to exist within that realm of pitch and nothingness, awaiting a human mind to give them shape. "I am feeling better," Gracie replied demurely. "Quack!" Dede offered his sympathy. "Quack!" Gwen patted the girl's hands in a show of solidarity. "Get some rest, Gracie. We'll be leaving first thing tomorrow. JP?" Jean-Paul, half-draped over the park bench watching Caliban french Umzokwe, was smiling. "What's up?" Gwen said, watching the master of the White Leech. "This is nice." Jean-Paul's lopsided grin once again marred his face. "I am feeling an abnormality in my chest." "A what now?" "Like a current of warm water." Jean-Paul's expression changed as he did his best to explain. "I feel less constricted." Gwen was about to ask Jean-Paul if he could clarify when the realisation struck. She tilted her head, studied the confused young man, then broke into a generous grin. Without a word, she reached out to give the wretch a big hug. "Come on, Dede. Gracie, you join in as well." "Quack!" Flustered, Jean-Paul sat with slack limbs while Gwen enveloped him in a manner akin to Caliban's spider-limbs. Gracie dreamily joined in a moment later, her arms encircling Gwen's waist to dig into Dede's soft, luxurious feathers. "Quack!" "How about now?" Gwen said to the blushing young man. "Even better?" "Yes." Jean-Paul's breathing grew rapid. "Am I ill?" "Oh, you poor thing." Gwen rubbed her companion's hunched back, running her finger over the ridges of his spine. "JP— that is what we call _ordinary happiness_."

Lieutenant Shiyang Chen ordered the corvette to drift closer to Jifen Village. In the South China Sea, on Chicken-shit Reef's Turd Island, his map marked a fishing hamlet rife with stubborn, fish-headed Mermen refusing to leave even though the Navy repeatedly gave them warning to move further down the Xima-Anshan archipelago. The reason for clearing out undesirables was simple. From the lip of the Yellow Sea, it was only seven hundred kilometres, or two day's passage between Shanghai, Jeju and that cursed Dai Nippon island chain of Okinawa, allowing no complications in the delicate balance. With his motherland as the most significant rising economic and military power in the region, both the American-backed Koreans and the Demi-human loving Japanese had grown enormously nervous. Chen's was a fact-finding patrol; one sent to investigate the loss of a supertanker— the Liaoming. With Tonglv and its canal operating at capacity, an endless volume of goods rolled into and out of Shanghai. As much as the nationalists loved to shout, the flow of Crystals between the three nations flourished in this period of unusual tranquillity. Any disruption to that flow was unacceptable. Presently, a question lingered on everyone's lips. With the recovery of Shenyang hailed as a success, why was there no adverse reaction from Pyongyang? In the past, the Cult of Juche was never one to back down from a slight. Every so often, whenever it felt even the pettiest disrespect from its neighbours, the Lich Lords of Pyongyang would threaten to unleash a flood of Undeath across the borders unless a ransom was paid. Since the Beast Tide, the Undead threat had bound the three nations in a careful treaty. Now, with China's success, the Koreans grew wary of Great Mao's map-striding fingers walking through Liaoning once more. Of course, a land invasion via Jilin's tundra was impossible, as was any hope of crossing the Yalu via Dadong. Its inaccessibility left the East China Sea as the only viable trade and military route, one that interconnected the Sea of Japan to the north and the Philippine Sea to the south. In Chen's studied opinion, the East China Sea had grown far too crowded. Cargo carriers, military warships, fishing boats, patrol vessels, privateers and black market traders had all piled into the two-thousand-kilometre long trade routes between Asia's largest population centres. Kilotons of fish, squid, prawn and Wildland Demi-humans of the South Sea, harvested by state-lead frigates crewed by red-eyed Mages trawled the waters for its seemingly limitless resources, battling the weather, the wildlife and the indigenous populace. "Lieutenant Chen. It's all gone. Exactly as the Coast Guard had reported. Some form of 'planar activity' wiped them out; there were no survivors." "Wiped out?" Chen furrowed his brows. "None of them have returned? Is the island still unoccupied? Usually, not even periodic Purges can discourage them." "Not a thing, sir. There's a magic circle on the island, but that was from an authorised experiment carried out by the CCP Tower last year." "I see." Chen rubbed his chin. "How's our Scry looking?" "No sign of the Liaoming anywhere." The Ensign saluted. "The waters around here are too clean. There aren't even low-tier Mermen." "That makes no sense…" Lieutenant Chen couldn't help but feel that there was no possible way that a container carrier half-a-kilometre long with a breadth of seventy-meters could just disappear without a trace. COSCO ships, like all carriers, had embedded Shielding Stations, meaning nothing short of a Kraken could come near the vessel without writhing in debilitating agony. The Liaoming's route naturally detoured around Chicken-shit Island, and so he had thought to interrogate the inhabitants. If these Mermen had absconded, then did that mean the inhabitants of the island were responsible? Chen shook his head. That prospect was laughable. His suspicion was because Mermen who lived near Human coastal cities, the friendlier ones, had over the half-century developed a resistance to the resonance thrumming from the ships' passage. The wretched fiends would have to— or else their Cores, assuming they had one, would eventually collapse from the stress fractures from the tens of thousands of carriers that passed each year. The official intel was that these Mermen, resistant to resonance and highly adept at farming or gathering Wildland fauna, fed the tri-nations' Grey Markets, and so had been left alone. The more accurate tale, Chen had suspected, was that the administration used them as an early warning system against undetectable Mermen activity in the deep. "Tell the men to return to the vessel," Lieutenant Chen gave the order. "We continue the patrol. Divert 20 per cent output to our Scrying Engines. Lin and Liang will have to cycle their shifts. I want one Diviner awake and searching the seabed at all times." The seaman then looked toward the open water. No Mermen anywhere? Chen felt disquieted. Sometimes, there was nothing more foreboding than unexpected good news. In the East China Sea, four hundred kilometres north-north-east of Shanghai, a "Great Shoal" was on the move, marauding across the murky depth. Terra— the Prime Material Plane— was over seventy per cent inundated by the boundless seas, its precious waters of life held hostage by gravity and atmosphere, ebbing and flowing endlessly, its currents and streams unknowable by the mere mind of men. If on land there existed places where the Prime Material grew thin, and the Elementals that inhabited their irrespective planes emerged to forage or begin new lives— then the ocean's three-dimensional, depthless space was a sieve of planar-instability, bringing every flotsam and jetsam from Krakens to Charybois to alluring Sirens through dimensional tears larger than human cities. Thankfully, these creatures of the deep, so used to the cold dark of the Elemental Plane of Water, rarely sought the warm and lighted space of the sunlight zone. Unfortunately, what these marauding masses of ageless predation also brought was a game of hunger in which monsters were pushed from stratum to stratum, rising bottom-up to plague Terra's oldest migrants— what Humanity called the Mermen. To say that the Mermen were a single species would be a great misunderstanding. The ocean, with its hugely variable living conditions, had led to the rapid evolution of creatures far more complex than the happy homogeneity offered by the arithmetic surety of living on land. What their numerous habitats also meant was that like the ocean itself, the arrangements and politics of the sea were always in flux. On his coral dais, affixed to the cargo carrier's bridge, Lei-bup slumped against the side of his throne. Below, with the anchor-chains around their bullish necks, two tamed Ningen, their limbs lazily swimming through the water, pulled the Human ship toward its destination with powerful swishes of their vast, fleshy fins. Beside him, the Great Shoal of the Elder One, the multitude faithful of Yog, Saviour of the Deep, travelled as a constant stream toward the underwater city of Blightreef. Ever since leading his people from Turd Island, they had absorbed tribe after tribe, clan after clan, spreading the gospel of the Pale Priestess. In his heart, he knew that the power of the Elder One was unfathomable and that its will was as unpredictable as the sea. He was merely its instrument, a Mermaid's Purse sown by the Pale Priestess to do the All-Watching One's bidding. Even now, his near-death made him shudder. The last instance Lei-bup had successfully called forth the Pale Priestess' Shoggoth, it had fully descended onto the island and devoured every last living thing that existed. That night, Lei-bup had thought himself on the verge of rapture. Yet, when the screaming had stopped, and only the silent susurration of the sea sounded on Turd Island, Lei-bup and a dozen of the faithful remained. Was it luck? A little voice at the back of Lei-bup's mind demanded. No. Lei-bup felt an unholy assurance surge up his spine and envelope his Core. His survival was intentional. He had been chosen. The great Shoggoth, O digit of the Old Ones, poking through the abyssal gates to anoint the faithful, had chosen Lei-bup as its prophet. "Iä! Great Elder One! O key to the Gates where the Spheres Conjoin!" Lei-bup recalled howling at the starless havens. "PRAISE!" "PRAISE!" "PRAISE!" "PRAISE!" echoed the voices of the surviving faithful, each rancorously covered in layers of abandoned ectoplasm. Joining the survivors, cries of jubilation and awe echoed from the sea. All around Turd Island, drawn by the tribe's unexpected ascension, hundreds of thousands of the sea's denizens had witnessed their communion with a God of the depth, saw the improbable survival of Lei-bup and his priests, and shuddered at the unfathomable power of the Shoggoth. After that, Lei-bup knew he had crossed the threshold of the void's baptism. Where he had been the leader of the Jifen Folk and de facto master of the archipelago, he now metamorphosed into the heart of an immigrating shoal. _A Great Shoal!_ The very thought straightened his spine— for though he was the wise Elder of the Jifen, there had been no Great Shoals seen since what the Human's called the Beast Tide. When finally, he had time to settle down and think, Lei-bup marvelled at the Elder One's design. What the Priestess likely had fathomed was that life in the sea was ten times more arduous than Lei-bup's life on land. Those Mermen who had been drawn by the food dispensed by the Jifen folk, whose females entered into the island chain's hierarchy, and who had come to spy on the Jifen's resolve, were all made to witness her gospel of power. Lei-bup was old for a Merman and knew that in the open sea, a few rules were Mythril. One was that there was safety found in numbers. On the land, a pack of Skull Jackals could down an Oliphant, and in the ocean, a frenzy of Gill-Tooth Marauders could strip a Megamouth to the bone within the hour. Alone, the individual Merman was ephemeral, an insignificant existence—together, they were combined and eminent. To seek safety in numbers was an instinct built into the minds of the Mermen, no matter one's fins, gills, tentacles or proboscis. Where the water grew deep, selfishness was self-destruction— safety rested with the masses. And this Lei-bup knew well because he had read Mao's Manifesto, delivered to his island by the missionaries from the mainland in rusty containers filled with the little red books. As the great exodus from Jifen took place, Lei-bup could not help but see a strange parallel between him taking his people from the tyranny of the Human bureaucrats and Mao's revolution to build the promised country. It was just like how, when Mao had to fight the Imperialists, he took the Great Red Army of NoMs and Mages on that suicidal Exodus from Jiangxi to Yunnan to Shaanxi. The destruction of his home by the Shoggoth was a sign— a dear and intimate omen from a priestess to a prophet. Why else, Lei-bup reasoned, was the only surviving food left from the Shoggoth's all-consuming purge those tins of mysterious meat called SPAM? That was what the Pale Priestess had first gifted to Lei-bup. That was how Lei-bup knew she was watching. And just like how Mao was forced from his home to rule over the central continent upon his return, so Lei-bup must take his people away from Jifen to the sea shelf beyond. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. As for the Shoggoth, that was another precept of the ocean that the Mermen inherently understood. Some beings and their prowess were insurmountable— even if said being never ventured to the surface. Past the daylight zone, past the twilight, there lurked unfathomable creatures the size of islands, bigger than the largest Human tankers. Leviathans, these were called, beings whose stature dwarfed the oldest Krakens. That was why they believed in the Shoggoth. And though some kin would become fodder for the Elder Gods; the Mermen steadfastly believed they had found a proverbial shelter-beast; themselves serving as its Remora labourers. To survive, the Mermen were pragmatic. When the Hammerhead Raiders from the deep Clans attacked, nothing remained, be it females or eggs or food. At least with the Shoggoth, the Faithful would survive. All of this, Lei-bup understood, both as a Merman and as an indifferent disciple of Mao. When the representatives from each of the tribes approached Lei-bup to seek out his wisdom, this was what Lei-bup had to deliver: "Only in the Pale Priestess and her Elder Gods lies the truth. A truth that is beyond our mortal ken but yet paves the way to salvation. No— do not question. We who are touched by her grace know that we must humble ourselves in front of she who brings forth the Great Shoal." " _The Great Shoal!"_ The crowd had cried out, drunk on the elixir of belief. "Before we embark upon our great Exodus, lend me your ear-holes," Lei-bup raised his voice, finding that strangely, his words travelled through both air and water with equal ease. "If you wish to join us— you must give up yourself. _One_ fish— no matter how smart or limber or powerful, is always defeated. You are doomed to die, alone, a failure of a fish who did not fertilise ten-thousand spawns. But with the Elder Gods, with the Path of the Pale Priestess! You can escape from the _one_ _fish's_ frail and mortal body! Give me your submission! Give her your Faith! Call them! Iä! Great Elder One! O key to the Gates where the Spheres Conjoin! Iä! Yog-Sothoth! Only then can the _one fish_ escape from his or her vice! Escape from predation! Only in the Great Shoal can _the proletariat fish_ find their way to the Promised Land! Only as a part of the _Great Shoal_ can _one_ fish be _all powerful_ and _all knowing_! IMMORTAL and COMPLETE!" In the silence, Lei-bup knew that he had them. The Great Shoal was already forming, and soon, they would be on their way. "Weee—Weeee—Weeee— Lei-bup began to cry, mimicking the Shoggoth. "Weee—Weeee— "Weee—Weeee—Weeee— "Weee—Weeee—Weeee— Weee—Weeee—" The multitude had sung. And the rest was history. Along their way, no tribe or clan who had seen their Great Shoal, its girth stretching from horizon to horizon, could resist their evangelisation. Over a distance of thousands of kilometres under the sea, meeting a thousand tribes in their tiny territories, they absorbed them all by faith or by teeth. Then, in the path of the Great Journey Forward, the passing Shoal became blocked by a Human cargo carrier bearing its own Shielding Station. For Lei-bup and the folk living near Jifen who regularly traded with the Humans, the agony from the passing ships had grown to encompass a part of their being. Those of them too weak to survive the disruption of their Cores had long ago died as spawnlings. As for the rest, the Leviathan-sized ship's passing became a keen blade that sliced into his people, sending hundreds plummeting below while others held their heads in induced madness. Eggs burst, pregnant Mer-women miscarried. Some of the deep-living Shell-folk even tore off their limbs; such was the pain they endured. Lei-bup knew he had to do something. He was their father now and the shoal, his fingerlings. "Warriors! With me!" He counted on the fact that the more of them gathered, the more the resonating power of the ship's onboard Shielding Core would be split, for without a direct connection to a ley-line, its output was severely limited. "Weee—Weeee—!" "Weee—Weeee—" "Weee—Weeee—Weeee—" "Weee—Weeee—Weeee—" A thousand warriors answered Lei-bup's call. Following the folk from Jifen, they surged upwards toward the carrier. They had believed— and so the High Priest's words rang true, for with enough of them gathered, the resonance tearing apart their Cores wasn't nearly so painful. On their barbed Seahorses, the Wave Striders of the Blue-fin Tribe burst through the surface to scale the container ship's walls. From afar, forty Eagletail Razor Rays, each mounted by a dozen Flying Carvers with toothy blades of bleached coral, sailed through the spraying brine. The Ningen, risking their white-fins, halted the carrier in its wake. Lei-bup knew that once they boarded the ship, there wouldn't be much of a fight, for the Humans rarely had Mage Flights to spare for cargo vessels. His first order was to bring down what he recognised as the ship's Divination Tower. Then, he redirected the slower but heavily armoured Claw-folk to the bridge, where the human crew awaited for salvation that would not arrive. There, his faithful had peeled back the metal and made tasty work of the screeching bipeds packed-in like sardines. It took only an hour for the ship to be captured. Lei-bup was in the middle of considering scuttling the ship when one of his men from Jifen excitedly ran up the bloody stairs. "High Priest!" the man was dribbling slime and snot from every orifice. "We found it!" "You found what?" "The sign!" The sign? His opaque eye-lids formed a squint. Lei-bup did not know this sign. He had to see for himself. Together with his guards, which now consisted of an overlarge Bluefin Strider Captain, a burly Crustacean Razorclaw and two of his priests from Jifen, he entered the cargo bay. His folk, who had long worked with humans, had an excellent understanding of Human-made contraptions. "This is—!" Lei-bup was speechless. Here was the cargo hold, and within it were thousands of containers. One of the Crab-folk had peeled back the tin to reveal cases and cases of the tiny golden boxes of nourishing meat. With trembling fingers, he lifted one of the tins. There, on the printed label, was a tiny visage of the Pale Priestess. "An official sponsor of the IIUC," the label read, followed by a tiny speech bubble from her mouth that said, "SPAM— Miracle in a can." "How…" Lei-bup's hands trembled. "How many are there?" "A hundred containers or more like this, filled with other foodstuffs in cans…" His aide swallowed the air like a fish on land. "High Priest, you should see this as well." Together with the others, Lei-bup followed the fish until they reached the crew's quarters. Inside the cosy hiding hole, there were bunks, and plastered across the shared wall was an image anyone in the Great Shoal would recognise. It was the Pale Priestess, wearing a skin-tight suit of white and blue, looking like she was ready to dive into the ocean. Her benevolent face was smiling broadly at them with that secret smile of hers as if she knew everything that would happen from now until their eventual ascension. The poster was huge, almost life-size, so vivid that it seemed like the Pale Priestess might leap forth and bless them herself. "Sinomach Heavy Industries" read the logo. "Miss Gwen Song, International Inter-University Competition's Most Valuable Participant. The Devourer of Shenyang will wear NOTHING ELSE." "Join Us!" read the words in Chinese, which only Lei-bup understood. It was followed by a prophesy written in blood-red calligraphy. "A hundred battles— A hundred victories!" "A… a fellow c-cultist?" Lei-bup stuttered, suddenly regretting killing all the Humans. It was amazing— incredible— beyond belief that there was MORE of them, even among the Humans. Naturally, unlike the other Mermen, he understood the poster to be an advert, but why else would such an image be in a prominent position? At this time? In this place? "She brought this gift to us," his adjutant began to wail, completing his hypothesis. "Gu-wen, S-song— Weee—Weeee—" "Weee—Weeee—" "Weee—Weeee—" the others answered. "… this ship, it is a gift by the Pale Priestess," Lei-bup announced to his men, finding the only acceptable answer to the serendipity as a feeling of unfettered acceptance suffused him. The clarity he now felt could only be described as divine. "It is ours now. The ship will be our mobile home. Its Core will deter our enemies and open the way for us." "How so?" The crustacean grumbled. His kind was most vulnerable to the resonance. "We will find a way to utilise the Crystal Core of this Drift Hulk," Lei-bup promised his warriors. "With her gift, we can build ourselves the promised land." "What shall we do now?" "We keep travelling," Lei-bup gave the order. "But tonight, we feast in her image— and call out the name of _Gwen Song_." Since that eventful encounter, months had passed, and now they arrived at their destination. Lei-bup shifted in his seat, clearing the recollection from his mind. Blightreef. Even as a child, Lei-bup had heard of its infamy. Blightreef was the lawless, chaotic city at the end of the first Eastern Sea's continental shelf. It was a Merman port ruled by gangs of Tigermaw Shark-folk, patrolled by Hammerhead Raiders, and lorded over by the machinations of the Kraken Biplipodoofu. It was also a place where Humans from the black markets traded with the denizens of the deep, pouring crystals into the greedy Kraken's coffers even as it chopped up the city's citizens for parts. All this was the tale that Lei-bup had heard from Humans— stories now verified by Karasin, the Bluefin Captain, whose kin's flesh was considered a delicacy among the Man-folk of Nippon. Even Jinka, the warrior supreme from the Claw Clan validated that indeed, Blightreef was the wealthiest city between the first and second sea shelf, and also a living Wet Market. Here was the place that Lei-bup saw as their promised land— as one whose wisdom spanned both the above water and below water realm, Lei-bup's perspective was uniquely positioned— another blessing the Pale Priestess must have foreseen. He knew more than the others that Blightreef was near-equal-distant to the Human nations of Japan, China and Korea and so saw scant naval activity. Yet, at the same time, its existence was condoned by something called the "Grey Faction". Ever since the Great Shoal had left Jifen Island, Lei-bup had been wondering if their mass would grow powerful enough to subdue a city of a million Mermen ruled by a four-century-old Kraken. Before they had found the "Liaoming" bearing the sign of the Pale Priestess, the answer was no. Now— now Lei-bup was confident they could take the tyrant by the tentacles and yank him from his octopus pot. If he could combine the advantage of the Human-made Resonating Crystal with their united calling for the descent of the Shoggoth— the Kraken could only submit or be consumed. Of course, he would first give the slavers a chance to convert. He had plenty of food— obscene volumes, in fact, and the folk that lived on Blightreef were well-starved by its cruel master. It was almost too easy— for how else would they consign their children to be butchered? How else could the Kraken's thugs bully the proletariat of the sea? The city's masses were a million strong— ten million more if Lei-bup counted the young, but how many predator-thugs did the Kraken command, all-in-all? A thousand? Ten-thousand? Even the Imperialist Mages had more men when Mao bore down on Nanking and Shanghai! Conversely, Lei-bup's Great Shoal was a mass of a hundred-thousand fish, all chomping at the hook to be unleashed! They were well-fed, not only on the flesh of their enemies but the food they had unsealed from the tanker! "Lord High Priest."A Mermaid drifted closer, her lengthy hair fanning out in vibrant red waves. "We should arrive soon. Shall I inform the Striders and the Claw Clan?" "Not yet, we await parley—" Lei-bup stood, peeling his slimy body from the coral throne. "What word from Biplipodoofu? We have his city surrounded." "The Messenger did not return." The pretty Mermaid, whose hair was dark and her skin like the moonlight, had been specially selected to serve as his aide. The first of many future Temple Priestesses. She was fertile and well-shaped, Lei-bup could see, and she was too pretty to be a helper. Were his followers afraid that Lei-bup would leave no heir? The High Priest chuckled to himself. There was nothing to fear. Lei-bup had twice survived the descent of the Shoggoth— why would he worry over something as mundane as the little-death that resulted from violence? How could such insignificance compare to the Great Shoal? Did Mao's death stop the Communists? Not even close. Even if he were to perish, the Shoal would go on. They had all sworn by the name of the Pale Priestess, whose human name was Gwen Song. They had all given up their Cores to become the Great Shoal itself, that all-consuming collective which is immortal and everlasting. Strike him down, Lei-bup laughed, and the Shoal would become more powerful than Biplipodoofu could imagine! Martyrdom? He welcomed it! "Then we wait for them to act," Lei-bup gave the commands. "Tell Blo-bup and Fu-bup that the Floating Hulk will move on my command. I will be along shortly to conduct the rites." "YES! High PRIEST!" The Mermaid's eyes, along with that of the guards behind him, were crystal-bright. "Soon, we shall bear witness—" Lei-bup gazed over at the teeming city below. The central spire of Blightreef, fashioned like a giant spiralling shell, rose up and up and up until it reached the surface, where a series of looted Human ships formed a flotilla of hulks. "Weee—" "Weee—Weeee—" "Weee—Weeee— Weeee—" "WEEE—WEEE— WEEE— WEEE—" The chants began, first from the hulk, then spreading throughout the Great Shoal until the water itself appeared to vibrate, growing thick with such a tangible resonance of mana and belief that it seemed as though the shimmering mass was not a multitude, but a single, living being.

Northern Wales. Bangor Forward Operating Base. Gwen and her party of six marvelled at the British-made Cromwell MK VIII Multi-Terrain Golems queued to cross the Menai Bridge. Every third engine of death sported the "Winged Sword" of a Crusader MK V, signified by the distended wand on its shoulder as tall as the Golem itself. "Not half-bad." Yossari swilled from a flask of Maotai hanging from her wrist by a leather strap. "Your Runesmiths have developed variant algorithms different from our Spellswords: less precision and control, but an abundance of range and firepower. I guess yer'd have ta, what with yer ceiling having no lid. Very rarely do we need that sort of range in the Murk." Gwen glanced up at the horizon and tried to imagine an enormous ceiling covering the landscape like a potlid. "We would welcome your expertise," Magister Brown spoke beside the Dwarf. "Many of the Golems are survivors from an earlier time when we traded with your kin." "Yer won't tease the Clan's promise from me that easily." Yossari snorted at Gwen's tutor, who smiled in that disarming, scholarly way he affected toward everyone but ducks. "What have yer got ter trade?" "How about an invitation to witness the Shoggoth?" Brown joked. "This sort of transparency between our people has to be worth something." The Alchemist chose to ignore the wily Magister. Gwen smiled. According to Brown, there would be several groups of emissaries from the surrounding powers coming to see her Shoggoth show. Names from Berlin, Paris, Rome, Brussels, Amsterdam and Athens have all made requests, each wanting a piece of the Commonwealth's teenage Sobel. The Dwarven master crafter had been a last-minute addition, one the Tower was happy to accommodate. Across the strait, the B-54-20, a fire trail used for lumber and agriculture, snaked inland. The first contingent of mechanised infantry, joined by the Mage Flights, was already over the horizon, burning back the Triffidus Celestus' alien groves, sending plumes of black smoke rising into the lidless sky. Out of habit, Gwen checked her gear. As usual, she wore her white-blue Shen-Teī suit, a look matched by Petra in red, their paired silhouettes leaving no doubt that the two girls were related. Richard wore his Shen-Teī as well, though the vibrant teal of the original design had been made into a pattern suitable for the woodland. Opposite, Jean-Paul wore a charcoal cloth-armour outfit that reminded Gwen of distillation suits from a desert space opera. As for Gracie, their final member was comically protected by an articulated suit formed of quasi-magical polymers, encasing her torso with tessellated plates. Her striking visage was so endearing that Gwen had taken to calling Gracie "Ser Hillbrook", bringing a curve to the others' lips. "Yer not wearing helmets?" Yossari tapped the bulk of her Golem suit. "Non-specialists are not trained to cast spells in armour," Petra explained. "That proficiency has to be gained. Anything that interferes with natural gestures and invocations can result in spell-failure. Most non-military Mages prefer using Shield. At any rate, it is not as though we possess Dwarven Magitech." "Yeah. Mana burn's a bitch." Gwen glanced at Gracie. In the Illusionist's case, severe mana burn might mean death. The Alchemist chided that even the youngest Acolyte or Pilot in the Murk grew up in armour. Most Dwarves, even those from the labouring caste, could jostle about in Golem Plates with greater agility than if they were told to storm the Murk in the nude. Gwen thanked the Dwarf for the imagery, taking the chance to admire Yossari's heirloom Golem Suit that had Cambridge's Enchanters drooling. Earlier, the Dwarf had been generous enough to let them inside for a show-and-tell, though Gwen and Petra proved too tall for the squat exo-armour to encase their body. Behind them, the researchers' group consisted of a convoy of ten trucks for storing specimens, two Cromwell units, and two dozen assorted Mercenaries. The leader of the mechanised column was the Botanist, Magister Valarie Banks, who deferred command to Major Halifax, an eagle-eyed Golem-Commander-Diviner from the Shard's intelligence division. Gwen's party consisted of themselves, though for now, the Tower Flights from Bangor base would be observing their progress. At the Major's command, the secondary party formed into its irrespective columns, with Gwen's party taking the right-most trail, Banks the left, and the trucks and Golems bringing up the rear. In the sky, a Mage Flight, joined by assorted specialists, relayed information back to Halifax's command Golem. "Don't worry, Miss Hillbrook, we got your back." Richard looked toward the unnatural green sea that covered the peninsula from horizon to horizon. "Please look forward to Golos. He's very impressive." "Bless! Aid!" Petra popped off her stowed buffs, suffusing the party with vibrant motes of Positive Energy. "Resist Toxins!" Gwen allowed the buffs to suffuse her body, tasting the spell as though a connoisseur of Clerical sorcery. As she anticipated, a mundane Cleric's potency was incomparable to Elvia's endowments. The contrast was akin to Yue throwing Fire Bolts in high school, versus when they first witnessed Alesia's Fire Ball. "Stay safe!" Brown waved the party away. "Richard, Petra, keep Gwen out of trouble!" The others burst into laughter. "What's so funny?" Gracie appeared puzzled by the party's high-strung mirth even as Gwen clicked her tongue. "Rude." She scolded her companions. "Alright, let's go." Richard couldn't help but grin when, a few kilometres into the verdant forest, the Void Mages exhibited their IIUC prowess. Gwen put up a good show, and he had no doubts that a Scry was in place and that a group of middle-aged men and women were chattering away in Bangor, sipping tea and buttering scones. Earlier, for an hour, a Mage Flight had been loitering overhead had watched Gwen and Jean-Paul in action. From their public Divination chatter, Richard felt sympathy for their demoralisation. Theirs was a military outfit consisting of two Evokers, an Abjurer-Transmuter, a Cleric and an Illusionist-Diviner. Below, between Gwen and Jean-Paul, the Cambridge party consisted of nine Lightning Hounds and nine Void Hounds from Gwen, Caliban in its Stag guise, Ariel in its Kirin form, Jean-Paul's eight Void Hounds, Umzokwe, plus Lea. In a semi-circle of tooth and nail, the party's minions fanned out in front, foraging through the unnaturally dense forest, leeching back vitality for their owners and ferreting forth the hidden Triffids. Very clearly, the Void Mages outclassed their would-be helpers. "SKARRRAAK!" Another Triffid burst from the twisted jungle that had usurped the island's original flora. To a Mage who had never experienced arboreal battlefields, the ash-pink and lilac thorn-hedges, so unusually tropical and colourful would appear daunting. To Richard and his experienced party of Amazonian wayfarers; the Triffidus-infected trees could hardly compare to the sky-high elder-woods that locked invaders into a Dungeon of timber and fungi. "Lightning Bolt!" "EE!" "SKARRRAAL!" The lonesome Triffid ate dirt. Before the worm-like flower Sprite could even reach the Mages, the dogs were upon it, tearing and rending its tendrils until a pus-oozing, limbless slug-thing remained. These were left behind for harvest, for Void-tainted wounds took a very long time to regenerate and so could be left alone for the NoM cleanup crew to load into the stasis chambers. During the first stage of the operation, the going was slow and meticulous. Gwen had initially wanted to summon Golos then and there. However, her Wyvern had to slaughter the Triffids to absorb their Essence, meaning her Core-gathering clashed with Oxbridge's specimen-collecting. Greedy for Cores, Gwen had even considered sending Golos to party with the main Mage Flights who were clearing a direct route into the heart of the Triffid infestation, aiming for Llyn Alaw, where the Tower planned for Gwen's calling of the Shoggoth. In a rebuke, Richard noted the last time Golos was left out and about, the thing brought back three Big Birds. This time, so close to Snowdonia, Golos could do infinitely worse. Gwen grudgingly agreed. She would summon Golos once the platform for her Shoggoth was established, both to talk to the creature, and to strike some discipline into the haughty drake after its unsolicited tryst with Elvia. For now, their party's goal was "Objective Beta". A smaller water source called Lyln Cefni, a place where the scouting parties had spotted a hive housing a Triffidus Primus. "Our dogs look so different," Gwen remarked at the carnage. Richard kept his eyes and ears open, observing Gwen as she and Jean-Paul compared Hound Packs. Gwen's inquiry was because much like Jean-Paul's Familiar, his dogs were pale, slimy, leech-like things, soft-bodied and possessed of sucker-mouths writhing with a circular discus of tiny teeth. Comparatively, Gwen's dogs were skeletal, sleek, and jet-black, with a mouth that took up over half of the dogs' torso. When butchering Triffids, Gwen's animals took bite-sized chunks from the screeching, walking flowers, while the Afrikaner's leech-dogs piled on, then hung on, turning Gracie two shades paler. By mid-afternoon, the party had ventured past the tree line and arrived in the woods' inner sanctums. The map marked the place as Ceint, though now there was neither a village nor the road that at lead into it. The terrain was sodden with foliage and rotten wood, while all around them, with exception to the path they had cleared, alien vines with orchid flowers as large as their heads hung like listless, purple tongues. "JP, how do you want to do this?" Gwen stuck a thumb in the general direction of what she imagined to be the lake. "Elemental Swarm?" Richard helpfully corrected the direction of her digit. "Too slow. With a mass like this, the swarm would take far too long. Best to think of it as a Plant Mage's Wall of Thorns or something. If you recall, the Triffidus Primus has Druidic powers." Just as he spoke, one of Gwen's dogs ventured close enough to the tendril wall to trigger a reaction. From the tangled mess, a lashing vine ripped out from the knotted greenery to wrap around her dog. There was a brief struggle as purple ichor pumped through the thorn-strewn tentacle, then the Void Hound bit itself free and staggered back into the whinnying pack. It's body momentarily shuddered; then it vomited forth a bubbling jet of hissing venom. "That looks like it could hurt," Gwen remarked. "Best keep our distance." Richard studied the thorn-hedge. "Try a Chakram?" Gwen performed as told, flooding her conduits to unleash a disk of Void as large as a dinner table. The silent discus managed to slice about two meters into the mass of jade-green vines, felling an enormous stack. Like a burst vein, a fountain of ichor sprayed into the atmosphere. "Lea—" Richard commanded his Familiar. An enormous Water Shield materialised, enough to envelope the party, repelling the foul liquid. "Looks corrosive." Yossari's Golem had in-built diagnostics and so ran some measurements once the spray died down. "Mild, but in enough volume, it'll do some damage." "They're regenerating." Petra pointed to the wall. "So much for cutting through." Where Gwen had made the incision, a busy susurration of vine-flesh began to sprout rapidly. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. "Let me try." Jean-Paul raised his hand, then pulled at the air as though trying to take control of some unseen foe. "Consumptive Orb!" Where Gwen had struck, a tiny sphere of Void materialised, eating away at the bio-matter in its immediate vicinity to suddenly bloat and grow. Within seconds, the blob of pulsing Void was a metre across. Jean-Paul gritted his teeth and held on until the Consumptive Orb was the size of Caliban's stag-form, then uttered an ejaculatory "Void Burst!" Like a popped balloon, the Consumptive Orb discharged its payload in a forward-facing spray of tenebrous and uncontrolled Void matter, splattering the writhing vines. A great commotion of shrivelling flesh resounded as the Void-splatter began to eat away at the wood. "Something's coming," Yossari reported, checking her Golem's HUD. "Two— no, THREE Hydraffids!" "Thank God, finally." Gwen perked up. "The sooner we get our specimens; the sooner Golos can come out and play. Caliban! Ariel! Get ready!" "Vitriolic Mist!" Jean-Paul put in place a Signature Evocation-Conjuration Void Spell, materialising a fine haze of floating Void-motes in a wide semi-circle arc far from the party. "How are you two casting all of this?" Gracie almost bit her tongue. "So many spells at so many tiers!" Richard glanced at the disbelieving Void Sorceress while willing Lea to conjure the beginning of a Shield for each of their members. Like Gwen herself, he too had done the hard yakka since arriving at Cambridge. Different to his cousin's Omni-path, Richard always knew that his way forward lied in greater efficacy with Lea. A Water Mage, particularly a Conjurer, was limited only by their imagination and the volume of water they could manipulate at once. As such, he had been training Lea's affinity through an array of odd-jobs around London. Now with access to the Shard's Grey Market, he had been spending both CCs and HDMs on acquiring Wildland ingredients that would increase his VMI, his Familiar efficacy, as well as empower Lea herself. "SKAAARRRL!" With a roar more hiss than bark, the infested woodlands parted, spilling forth the contorted bodies of a trio of Hydraffids. These waded through Jean-Paul's fine mist of Void matter, crashing through the intangible barrier, growing slick with ichor as their' outer dermis melted. As one, the Hydraffids reared their heads. "Dick!" Gwen called out. They had seen the same display in Burma. "On it! Water Prison!" Richard reacted before she even finished, conjuring bubbles of water around the heads of the monsters. His anticipation proved correct; a second later, globs of corrosive poison struck the prisons he had conjured, filling the pristine water with venom. "Recycle!" he commanded Lea. Effortlessly, his Familiar willed the contaminated liquid back into the Elemental Plane. "All yours, Duck." "Thanks, Dick!" Gwen commanded her mix of dogs to go for the second and third Hydraffid while Jean-Paul's minions leapt for the first. "JP, we need them alive for the researchers!" "Understood!" Jean-Paul pointed at the tail segment of his prey. "Consumptive Orb!" "Lea! Keep them shielded!" Richard spread his awareness so that he could encompass the entire battlefield. "Don't let them use range!" "SKAARRRK!" The woods to their east exploded with activity. A sixsome of Triffids newly arrived on the scene, slithering from the thorn-wall to join the fun. Like the Hydraffids, these ran head-first into the Void tinged mist Jean-Paul had conjured. "Duck! Keep them pinned!" Richard called out. His cousin concurred, "Ariel! Chain Lightning!" Rapid incantations thundered from Gwen's lips as the Lightning Kirin lit up like a Christmas Tree at Trafalgar Square. From its horns, arcs of living lightning struck the Hydraffids before making their way toward the Triffids, striking with such force that orchid-coloured flesh exploded from their writhing bodies. "Here's another!" Gwen appeared to have spell focus to spare. Her second string of plosive syllables was enough to send two Elemental Spheres into the creatures' midst. "Ariel! Fry-em!" Richard expanded Lea's many Shield spells, making sure that the blowback from the thunderous explosions did not impact the damage-dealers. "They're still alive!" Yossari confirmed through her suit's Scrying capabilities. Much to the party's surprise, the Hydraffids carried on. It wasn't that the Void or Lightning Magic were not sufficient— more so that the plant-creatures appeared perfectly happy to function without heads or torsos and most of their limbs. Added to their resilience were a high spell resistance and the ability to regenerate wounds not sustained from Void, acid or fire, it was little wonder regular Mage Flights found them to be a living nightmare. "Caliban!" Gwen chose expedience. "Do it!" "SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban expanded like rising dough. In a moment, it transformed into an eight-metre Hydra far more robust than the sinuous Hydraffids. With six-heads writhing, it was just enough to intercept two of the creatures. Once in melee, Caliban split open the mouths of its faceless "heads" to reveal rows of gnashing teeth glistening with grey globs of saliva. "Umzokwe!" Jean-Paul's creature proved less protean. Tapping into its vitality, it grew to three times its usual size, becoming almost six-metres, coiling itself around the Hydraffid. At its master's command, its corrosive, pink-veined stomach inverted, exploding forth from its nozzle-like lips to splatter the Hydraffid as though casting a net of tangled flesh. "BLURRRRRGGH—" Gracie fell to her knees and cleared the contents of her stomach. Next, the dogs closed in. "Lighting Bolt!" Gwen was relentless with the mid-ranged artillery from Ariel. "Lightning Sphere!" "Void Burst!" Jean-Paul took out the mobile part of his victim's lower body. "Umzokwe! Control yourself!" Not far from the white leech, Caliban rendezvoused its twin Hydraffids head-on, frenching the creatures with its many maws. Where the plant monsters' heads got severed, the stumps spurted pus-like, fungal blood. Behind the clashing titans, where the Void mist had dissipated, the triple pack of dogs made short work of the regular Triffids, with the Lightning Hound tearing off wriggling limbs while their Void counterparts feasted on chunk-fulls of vitality. Richard kept an eye on their surroundings while he studied Gwen's rival. Like his cousin, Jean-Paul possessed the means to imbibe vitality through his leech. Unlike Caliban, the thing known as Umzokwe was overtly gluttonous, choked full of flesh meandering through the Familiar's semi-clear, bloated body. Even so, Jean-Paul appeared stricken while Gwen grew flush from head to toe. It was a curious juxtaposition. Richard wasn't sure how contracts between Master and Familiar worked for Void Mages, but it would appear Jean-Paul had gotten a rather bum deal compared to Gwen. "Stop!" Petra suddenly shouted, her eyes aglow with Divination. "They're almost dead. Don't forget, the longer it takes for the specimen collection to complete, the longer we're stuck here." "Cali, return!" Gwen commanded her Familiar. Caliban withdrew its many heads, shook off the gore, then wandered back, burping loudly from two of its six heads. Umzokwe viciously tore out a final chunk of Hydraffid before it too returned, engorged and massive, trailing clear slime that dissolved the dense foliage beneath. Richard took some mental notes, then sent Lea to patrol the perimeter. Knowing one's adversaries was half the fight. "Buck! Astro!" Gwen recalled her dog pack as well, urging Jean-Paul to do the same. En route, three headless, limbless Hydraffids rolled on the rotten foliage, spilling lime-green juices all over the floor. "This one needs a stabilisation." Petra pointed to the one Jean-Paul had left behind. "Dick, cover me." Richard encased his cousin with water while the Enchantress approached to dispense a Cure Minor Wounds, injecting the quivering mound of knotted flesh with just enough Positive Energy to keep it from expiring. Richard turned to Gracie, tasking the Illusionist with something useful. "That's three Hydraffids and six more Triffids. What are we at?" On the forest floor, Gracie wheezed while she relayed Richard's question. "… Ten more Hydraffids and forty more Triffids. There are no Primus sightings as of yet." "How's your mana?" Richard asked Gwen. "I am good. Jean-Paul?" Gwen's cheeks were positively glowing. "I can keep going." "Great." His cousin placed both hands against her hips. "I think I've got a good idea of how we can clear this wall." "Cali-wyrm?" Richard recollected at once. "Would it work?" "Worth a try. Either way, I am up to my neck." Gwen tapped her throat with one hand. "Let me tell ya; these Triffids make for RICH eating." With the winter light dying over a smothered horizon, the party chose to camp at a township formerly known as Llangefni. Formerly— because after the Triffids had taken over the land, the brick and mortar buildings had all been reduced to rubble. At the town's centre, the only surviving structures were a regional government building and a church. Further excavation reduced the foliage, revealing a clocktower choked with Triffid spores. Gwen's dogs, who had fanned out into the town once they ate through the vines, soon returned with the news that they had found something. The party proceeded to the church; in the basement, they found the drained bodies of no less than fifty-odd men and women, children too, tethered to the walls by withered vines. "JP, you stay with Gracie," Gwen told the two. Team Cousins, joined by a curious Yossari, ventured down into the ancient base-level. The scene was as she had observed via her Ariel VR. "You get folk like this everywhere," to their surprise, Yossari spoke up. "Yer can tell a town to evacuate, but there's always folk who think they know better. Or who think yer a joke or the danger's a hoax. Yer say this is a temple?" "Yes—" Gwen covered her nose and mouth, fearful that her enhanced smelling-sense might overwhelm her olfactory functions. As it turned out, there was no need, for the poor sods fell apart the moment Richard touched them— much in the manner of clumped loam having lost all its moisture. "Oh— Jesus, Dick, careful with that!" Yossari shrugged. "That'll explain it. Even in the Murk, there's folk who think the Deepdowners or the Ancestors will save them, or that something or someone's looking out for them. They refuse to leave their Citadels even when the monsters are scratching at the walls, flooding into the forge— of course, by then, it's far too late." "The Triffids are invaders, right?" Gwen asked her cousin, her jaws grim. "From another Plane?" "Something like that." Her cousin nodded. "I wouldn't overthink. We're here to exterminate them. They'll cease to exist in three days. I wouldn't bother with the academics. Not our job." "A fair point." Gwen looked around. It was easy to think of the Triffids as monsters. They obviously ate humans, and they were definitely in-human. "Do we bury these people?" "We can collapse the Church," Petra advised. "I don't think they're moveable. If Elvia was here, I bet she's trained in the Final Rite." "I can do that for you." Yossari waved a manipulator arm, revealing a Spellblade. "I'll return them to the earth's embrace. The Earth Mother doesn't discriminate." Gwen nodded her head sadly, then backed away toward the basement stairs. In the depth of her Empathic Link, Caliban informed her that it had finished patrolling the town. Ariel reported no more hostiles. "Alright, I think the Familiars are done. Let's head up. We'll set up on the roof of the town hall." "Should we inform Gracie and Jean-Paul?" Richard was the last to leave. "Naw." Gwen recalled Jean-Paul's story about the Nun. "JP and church basements don't mix." _Weee—Weeee—_ _Weee—Weeee—Weeee—_ _Weee—Weeee—Weeee— Weee—Weeee—_ _Gweeegn— Gweeegn— Gweeegn— Gweeegn— Gweeegn—_ Gwen slowly opened her eyes. "What the fuck was that?" she demanded of the frigid night air, made lightless by an overcast sky. "Cali, was that you?" "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban's response came from below, where it waited in ambush for the wayward Triffids filtering in from the forest. Twice now, she had circulated her Essence to ward away sleep, and both times, the moment she entered a meditative stance, some god-forsaken voice started to resound in her head. "Is somebody Singing the Snake?" Gwen considered the possibility. She continued to circulate her Essence until she felt on the verge of bursting. "Almudj? Is that you?" Her reply came in the form of a splintering crash northward of the town hall, followed by the sound of her Alarm Wards firing away. The constant harassment was the reason why Gwen offered to take watch. With the Triffids crawling into the cleared square like clockwork, sleep was all but impossible, and only she and Jean-Paul could comfortably keep individual monsters at bay. And as only Gwen could arguably keep awake via Essence, she offered her team the Portable Habitat, while herself, Caliban, Ariel and the dogs held the fort. "SKARRR—!" the howling abruptly cut short. A minute later, Caliban burped. The dogs soundlessly returned to their usual spots, with Astro's pack lighting up the perimeter while Buck's crow-black cabal hid in the dark. Gwen returned to her meditation, though like tinnitus, she could still make out the "Weee— Weee—" at the back of her skull. Throughout the night, her teammates came out to join her on the second floor of the abandoned town hall every odd hour while Caliban carried out an unseen carnage below. At dawn, the party emerged into an ichor-strewn street painted green with blood from what must be thirty-odd monsters. Most were dead, though a dozen, yet to bleed out, could be collected by the convoy. "I think I am good to summon the Shoggoth," Gwen informed them during breakfast, her appearance so hale that one would have thought her awakening from a 10,000 HDM spa treatment. "Who would have thought there were so many of those Triffids left?" "I say the grove is growing them as we speak." Richard performed a quick stretching routine. "We checked before we camped, it was all clear." "Such a shame Golos isn't here." Gwen sighed. "All those wasted Cores..." Richard agreed. "How'd you sleep?" She turned to Gracie, who emerged in her bulk armour once more. "Well enough," Gracie replied, tugging on her hair with a brush. "Its… very quiet in there." "Ha, the Ethereal Plane is like that. It takes a few nights to get used to it." _Ding!_ A Message pinged the party. "Yes?" Gwen put the Message on an open channel. "Magus Song's party reporting in." "Magus Song," the incoming command resounded. "This is Bangor Command. The main party has arrived at Llyn Alaw. We await your rendezvous at Check Point Alpha. The capture mission will continue. There's no sign of the Primus." "Understood," Gwen reported. "We're at Llangefni, about twelve kilometres out. Shall we make for Objective Beta?" "Negative. A Teleportation Circle has been set up at Alaw, please secure your perimeter and set up a field Circle. Do you require aid? We can fly a Specialist over." "No need. I'll do it." Richard raised his hand. "Negative, Bangor Command. I'll see you on-site soon," Gwen replied into the Message. "Please send the gate codes." "Roger that." There was a pause. "Sending codes now." Once Gwen memorised the flashing Glyphs, the Message spell dimmed, then died. "JP, you and I will set up the perimeter." Gwen turned to her partner. "Let's get the dogs out and about. We'll have to unsummon them before we port over." "I'll help with the Teleportation Circle," Petra offered. "I know the script, though Richard will have to provide the mana and the spell." "Great." Gwen breathed out, observing the wall-to-wall exotic greenery surrounding their party. Already, the path they made via Cali-worm was creeping back. "I just hope Golos can find some Cores before we unleash the big dog."

At Llyn Alaw, Gwen and her crew teleported into a clearing burned clean of Triffid infestation. From the portal to the pavilion, the landscape resembled a No Man's Land, with the lake itself smothered with ash, emerald with Triffid spores, hinting at the battle that must have taken place overnight. At the edge of the Teleportation Circle's raised dais, Gwen and her companions hailed the guards, then joined Magister Maxwell Brown, who had been waiting for them. Inside the overlarge pavilion, Gwen met with many strange faces and shook hands with every Magister and Magus until her fingers grew numb and her face grew partially paralysed. Jean-Paul likewise received benedictions and praise, though Gwen suspected her companion's Master had far more to do with the introverted sorcerer's popularity than his Triffid-count. "Gwen, how is your health?" Brown corralled his trio of Void sorcerers once Gwen had performed her social dues. "Mind you. We won't be summoning the Shoggoth until we find that Primus." "I am all charged up," Gwen assured her tutor. "But we're going to Llyn Cefni after this, aren't we? I would like to exercise my Wyvern." "I admire your eagerness. Having the Purge was a serendipitous affair, wouldn't you say?" Brown raised a cup of fragrant English breakfast. "If it weren't for this fortuitous outbreak of Triffids, you would be between a Dwarf miner and a hard place." "How so?" Gwen cocked her head. Beside her, Jean-Paul and Gracie came close to hear what the Magister had to say. "Without the push from the Isle of Man." Gwen's tutor replaced his cup with a clink. "The closest Purge would have been in the Niger Delta, be it the lycanthropes or the Mami Wata— you be looking to consume some very talkative Demi-humans with complex social structures. The Mami Wata especially; most of them are snake-bodied, but their magic-casters are bipedal and near-human, alluring as well, from what the locals say. I suppose you wouldn't be so keen on exterminating those, eh?" "True. I should be thankful for being put on weeding duty." Gwen pursed her lips. "I don't profess to know much about Triffids, but I sure as hell prefer feeding Caliban salad than something that begs for its life." "Have you eaten… those before, Gwen?" Gracie gulped her juice beside them; her eyes wide and morbid with fascination. "Things that beg?" "You want to know? Gracie? Curiosity killed the cat." Gracie looked to Jean-Paul for an answer. Jean-Paul gave Gracie an affirming nod of psychopathic solidarity. "Everyone's eaten one at some point. They're a primary source of Wildland bush trade, why, the Japanese…" "Please don't." Gwen suddenly felt sick. "I would rather not know if my _otoro_ can litigate. Besides, Caliban's doing the eating." "Have you eaten…" Gracie licked her lips. "P-people?" "I have." Jean-Paul leapt into the abyss without hesitation. "Umzokwe's first feast began that way—" "If you must know. Same story here," Gwen lowered her voice. "Not willingly, of course. I was hog-tied in a basement, and Caliban went off the rails. I'll tell you the story sometime." "Umzokwe has eaten at least a half-hundred." Jean-Paul's candidness made Gwen wonder if he saw their mutual atrocities as a scoreboard. "When I was on a Purge quest in Swaziland, it was the most expedient way of dealing with Rogue Mage warlords." "You've killed half-a-hundred people?!" Gracie's mouth hung open. "Not Demi-humans, but people?" "Haha..." Jean-Paul appeared to take Gracie's horror as praise. "It's nothing compared to Gwen's accomplishments." Gracie turned to Gwen with an expression of pure horror. "Accomplishments?" Gwen gave Jean-Paul a stern look. "Jesus Christ, JP, that's nothing to be proud of." "Why not?" Jean-Paul cocked his head. "You're the Devourer of Shenyang! They say it was the greatest victory against the Undead in this decade! How many hundreds of Necromancers were in that city? How many of their sycophants?" Gwen's blood ran cold even as her mind dug for an excuse. Inadvertently, Jean-Paul had pinched a nerve that she hadn't ever really considered. Her present labours were not about how many fathers might lose their jobs because she recommended a corporate restructuring so that new hires could reduce overhead; these were actual beings— hundreds and thousands of lives that she had snuffed out on her climb to the top. Looking at Gracie's uncomprehending face, she became reminded of Elvia's complaint against her protean morality. How strange it was that her memories of Blackheath now felt so indifferent. "Yeah well—" Gwen delved deep for the right words. At the very least, she had to instruct Gracie. "Look, people or no people, there has to be a line, alright? This thin, red line, let's call it morality— better yet, _ethics,_ or professionalism. Even if we're Mages of Mass Destruction, there's a boundary, right? We take on monsters that threaten our way of life— help our kin find new homes, colonise new lands. Where possible, we sue for peace. Power, when properly projected, is a deterrent to conflict..." "Anway... I called it Militant Pacifism," Gwen chugged on. "The more power I— I mean the Mageocracy projects, the less likely other races will choose the Path of Violent Conflict. Of course, there's a whole social contract element involved, and things get muddled— Oh, hey— Yossari, what do you think?" While her monologue rambled on, their now unarmoured Dwarven Alchemist joined them. Yossari wore a metallic tunic with thick boots, held her hair in a tight bun secured by a Mithril band, and drank straight scotch from the bottle. "I ain't one to speak, seeing as I am not from the warrior caste." The Alchemist shook her head. "Hanmoul has done well for himself, though. His notches can be counted in the thousands. Very interesting, this Military Pacifism. As for yer flustering..." The Dwarf turned to Gwen and gently punched her solar plexus. "Let me give yer some advice I once gave Hanmoul a century ago. The only burden yer should live with is yer code. For us, the Code of the Ancestors is very generous." The Dwarf took a deep breath. "Care for yer kin, care for yer Clan, care for yerself, care for yer Thane," the Alchemist said. "Not all of us take it in that order of priority, but it's a start." Gwen grew contemplative. "Well said. For loyalists like us, its Queen and Country." Brown raised his refilled cuppa. "Long Live the Mageocracy, naturally." Gwen regarded her duck-loving tutor. "I'll stick with having a conscience if it is all the same to you, Max." She then turned to the confused-looking void sorceress. "Don't fret, Gracie. I don't think you'll become like us. As for me and JP, so long as we don't cross that thin red line in our hearts, I think we'll do okay. What do you think, Jean-Paul?" "Honestly…" Jean-Paul said. "I haven't given it much thought." "Perhaps that is the correct answer." Maxwell Brown golf-clapped approvingly. "There's nothing wrong with a strong sense of duty. Our topic reminds me of a limerick from the Pan-European war." The Magister cleared his throat. "'Do your duty, girl or boy— Learn to survive and never want joy. You'll all be happy, protected and warm, and fear no monster, suffer no harm'." A few close listeners hid their cynicism with a smile. Jean-Paul and Gracie appeared in agreement. Yossari cared not for the rhyming propaganda. As for Gwen, her lips moved with a volition of their own. "And because I obey, they think there's no injury. Praise God and Queen, who makes a heaven from our misery." "Ha!" Yossari clapped at her Gwenism. "Nicely done!" "I would keep that to myself," Brown cautioned with uneasy wonder. "Gracie, keep in mind Gwen grew up on the Frontier, and has family in China. Her perception can be somewhat radical." Besides Gwen, good girl Gracie nodded her head. Gwen sighed. "Well whatever, let's bring out Golos and find ourselves that Primus" After breakfast, Gwen's party was followed by throngs of curious Magisters out toward the lake, where an earthen platform had been prepared for her demonstration. Armed with newfound Abjuration and Enchantment, Gwen produced her inscription wand and drew up a passably impressive Planar Ally Mandala with minimal guidance from Petra, completing the magic circle in record time. Once the circuits conjoined, she invoked the rites, vivified the etched Glyphs and spoke the words. As a final flourish, Gwen materialised the impressive crates of HDMs and placed them in the adjacent fuel-circles. These were enough to silence the crowd, giving her the tranquillity required to complete the tongue-twisting incantations. "Gogo!" she invoked the contract held within her Astral Body, envisioning Golos' stupid, grinning face as the Lightning mana fled, consuming the crates of compressed HDMs. "Come! Aid me!" From the overcast English sky, a funnel of mana formed, materialising into vivid strikes of lightning that fed into the summoning mandala. With a thunderous crack of unmitigated power, a roaring gash to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning was torn into the Prime Material, forming a conduit that spanned the space between places. A living rod of lightning struck the dais. A split-second later, Golos, Wyvern Prince of Huangshan, surveyed the scene below him. Scant applause filled the banks of the lake where Gwen's observers took notes or otherwise made encouraging remarks. To Gwen's surprise, it wasn't only the Wyvern that appeared, but also a dozen crates, each about half her size. These were etched with Glyphs, ones pertaining to long-distance Teleportation. "Gogo." Gwen waved. "I am surprised you're in one piece. What's in the boxes?" "Calamity." Golos smouldered as his scales cooled, discharging the excess energy from his transit. Seeing their audience, the Wyvern's cruel, toothy lips split into a grin. "Ruxin has sent you gifts." Gwen remained unimpressed. "A refund for summoning you? How thoughtful your brother must be. Am I to take this as an apology?" "Take a look." The Wyvern stepped back. "He says if you desire additional morsels, he can arrange more." "Morsels?" Gwen approached one of the crates. She quickly glanced at her audience, checking that no one shouted warnings or began to weave Abjuration spells. Closer, a strange premonition tingled her spine. It wasn't the spine-wrangling sting of imminent danger, but she was confident that something very unpleasant was about to enter her orbit. "Golos, what's in this thing? More Ginsengs?" She could sure as hell use more Sen-sens right now. "Brother says that it's a warning to all who would cheat you." The Wyvern reared his majestic head. Once risen, Golos began to speak in Draconic. "BEHOLD, MORTALS! SUCH IS THE FATE OF THOSE WHO WOULD DEFRAUD OUR KIN!" "Wait!" Gwen said to the Wyvern, her premonition evolving to encompass a migraine. "Gogo! What's in the box—" CLANG! As one, the Glyph-clad boxes opened, their panels falling to the wayside to reveal their precious cargo, the so-called 'gift' to Gwen. A stink of sick and in some instance, urine, polluted the air. Gwen blinked, disbelieving her eyes, then rapidly blinked again to make sure she wasn't having a lucid nightmare. The observers around her, most of whom had no access to Draconic, now gawked with their mouths open. "Morsels!" Golos opened his wings. "For you to bolster your unholy magic!" Gwen felt the flow of time around her in the manner of a Mage affected by Haste, where everything felt as though moving in slow motion. How could this be happening? She asked herself. She was just summoning Golos so the drake could shit out some cores. Was Ruxin trying fuck with her? On the elevated dais, the Devourer of Shenyang now stood with a Wyvern and a multitude of men and women in sullied, orange prison uniforms, most of whom she knew by name. Magister Quin Chen! Director Tu Guangshao! Magus Xing Fung! Magus Jiang Fung! Magus Bai An Fung! Magus Teng Cai Fung! Senior Abjurer Cui Delan Tu! Senior Transmuter Tian Hanying! Secretary Duan Zhen! District Party Secretary Geng Mu! The Wyvern aside, she had conjured men and women galore! A veritable Mage Flight! Enough high-tier magic users to run a provincial District! Very slowly, the pale-faced, blue-lipped Mages turned to face her. Like marionettes pulled by strings, their bodies moved against their will until, as one, the group fell, prostrating themselves by striking the floor with their hand and foreheads. "Now consume them!" Golos pointed a sizzling claw of lightning at the Mages, then at Gwen. "These carcasses stole Crystals from you, Calamity. Show them the wrath of an Elder Kindred! Use them for the only purpose they're fit for— as fertiliser for your calamitous, soul-drinking worm!" As Golos' enthusiasm washed over her, Gwen became hyper-aware of her observers on the banks. Magister Brown was holding Gracie, who was near-collapsed in his arms. Richard stood with a shit-eating smile split from ear to ear. Petra appeared impressed and lively, and Jean-Paul looked like he could swallow an egg. Besides her team, the Colonels, Majors, Magisters and Maguses all wore various expressions impossible for her to read. As for Yossari, the Dwarf shook her head, likely wondering what the hell these Humans were up to now. "NO!" Gwen spun, sending her hair fanning out in a semi-circle. "NO! NO! NO! WHAT THE FUCK?! Golos! Did Ruxin put you up to this?" In the midst of her fury, there was also clarity. Ruxin was arrogant and a bit a of a dick, but there was no possible way the Dragon would spoil their investments by ruining her reputation like this. For the sake of Crystals, she would have the truth! She would have Caliban ferret the facts from Golos' gut if that were how deep she had to dig. "WELL?" "Er…" Golos stumbled from the force of her glare. "I am just a Messenger." "And Ruxin told you to say this?" She pointed at the shivering prisoners. "Your brother, the Master of Manipur, Kachin and Nagaland, currently my partner, put you up to this pile of Dragon shit?" Out of sheer nervousness, Golos began to pick at his snout furiously. "Caliban!" Gwen called for her Familiar. "Big Bird—" "Ayxin told me to say it!" Golos hastily spat before Caliban materialised. Gwen looked to the crowd, within whom the misunderstanding must be brewing like bacteria in a cesspit. She so wanted to grab the fangs sticking out of Golos' face and rip a pair out. Thanks to the idiot, regardless of the truth, sensationalist headlines about man-eating sorceresses would fly its way around the world before reality could even get its pants on. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "Ayxin?" Gwen bit back the vitality necessary for Caliban to beat the Wyvern a new shade of blue. "Why would she do that?" "Her mate speaks about you incessantly," Golos readily confessed, perhaps realising he may as well tell the whole tale. "When sister complained she was still without egg. I told her if she's anxious about infidelity, then she should share. That way, the first female to bear fruit proves the better mate. Its how we Dragons do it." "Jesus, you dull-witted bird brain…" Gwen gagged, feeling such cringe that her skin itched. She could just imagine the siblings communing via their Dragon-App or whatever they used to talk. There's Ruxin's boasting about cash, Ayxin lamenting about Jun— then Golos, for some stupid fucking reason, stops ploughing Phalera long enough to deliver Ayxin a shit-nugget of wisdom. In response, choked by a cold and vengeful fury, Ayxin gives Golos an amazing idea to piss on their niece, giving her enough reason to send Caliban on a magical mystery tour. "Bloody oath, Gogo… you've got a god damned death wish." "… you're not going to eat them?" "Of course not!" Gwen snapped. "These are people, Golos! They're wearing pants! Tell me, what are Ruxin's plans? His real one this time." "These are your new labourers," Golos finally explained, revealing the untold secret behind the crates. "They're Essence-bound to obey your every word and will." "Oh…" Gwen looked toward the prisoners shivering on the floor. "… fuck. What happens if I don't need them? Can I send them home?" "Then their Astral Bodies will cease to exist, and they will die," the Wyvern explained. "He did say they would make a good example of anyone who chooses to steal from you. He does not wish for the same thing to happen to his Crystals in this land of the western empires." Gwen opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. "Mister Tu," she left the Wyvern to address the kowtowing Mages. "What do you think of all this?" "Our only wish only is to perish in your service." The once-mighty Director of Finances, Tu Guangshao, kept his head low. "If we may advance your course by one millimetre, Mistress, then our duty is done." "Are you all glamoured?" Gwen asked. "Yes," Tu replied with a tone of maniacal optimism. "Master Ruxin would like you to know that this is what we chose out of the paths he had offered us. The ones you see here chose the Path of Servitude." Gwen sighed. Looking at Golos, she turned again to her old employers. "Magister Chen, are you under duress?" "It was death— I chose life," Magister Chen replied. "I serve freely and willingly." "Somehow I doubt that," Gwen said. "What happens if I free you?" "Consumption by your Void Fiend would be preferable." "I see…" Gwen mulled over her options. If only Walken were here, she lamented. For now, someone else would have to fill the old fox's shoes. Quickly, she sent a Message to Brown, explaining her dilemma. "More than anything, these are foreign Mages who have no right to be here." Brown pushed back against the clamouring of shocked Magisters surrounding him, "We'll have to send them to Customs to get processed. What do you want to do with them?" "If I send them back, they're meat," Gwen said. "They're white-collar criminals who failed at playing politics. The Dragon I am doing business with— Ruxin, sent them over to be my servants rather than killing them outright. They're under some form of indentured servitude, sealed with a Draconic Geas." "No doubt," Brown's voice returned. "Christ, Gwen— this is a bureaucratic nightmare. These are Magisters and Maguses, not NoMs. And if they're loyal to you or the Lord of Nagaland..." A moment of silence passed between them while behind Gwen, Golos the Wyvern scratched an ear hole with a wingtip. "Maybe you should let the Lady know." "Maybe I should let the Lady know…" the two said at the same time. "Okay." Gwen was glad that great minds thought alike. As much as she felt pity for these sods, they had made their beds. "Good idea. I'll call Ollie." Once the excitement died down, Gwen's party had two options— to stay at Llyn Alaw and wait for the hunt for the Primus to conclude, or to venture out themselves to join the hunt. Gwen's first choice, considering Golos' smug face, was to proceed as planned. That was until Richard intervened and explained to her the poor optics of her thumping through the forest with Golos in tow while her 'servants' stood on the dais in the wind and rain, suffering the potential of spontaneous combustion. "And no." Richard appeared perfectly happy with her new servants. "Putting them undercover doesn't help. Who are the authorities going to talk to when they arrive? Ollie? Magister Brown? They're your responsibility, Gwen. Or do you want them to interview Golos?" "I didn't want this." Gwen felt such ambivalence. She understood that the lives of these folks were not her responsibility— but she also acknowledged that she alone was responsible for them. In a Message to Mayuree, she had urged her business companion to begin working on sending her a team of auditors for London. Marong had replied that there would be many hurdles, as Frontier immigration remained troublesome— that and most of their management-level staff in Shanghai would not want to leave their tier 1 home. Assuming word had travelled up the mountain, Ruxin's boon was a natural solution to the Isle of Dog's short-handedness. Her surface reading was that the Dragon was a good business partner, one providing her with capable, loyal, magically inclined staff with decades of experience in managing things— albeit corruptly. The underhanded implication, Gwen suspected, was that Ruxin wanted eyes to see what she was doing and that for someone whose Crystal hoard was being held hostage, the Dragon wanted another layer of assurance. "Fine—" she relented. "I'll take care of this." She rounded up the docile prisoners, who gazed toward her as though she was the light of salvation at the end of a long tunnel. At her behest, Golos turned himself into his humanoid form, once again wowing the crowd with his spike tail club before Gwen made him wear pants. Once across the thin strip of land adjoining the platform to the lake's edge, she handed over her "servants" to the military. When Major Halifax indicated that they did not have the men to spare, considering the Magister-tier casters in her group, Gwen conceded to Richard's wisdom. "Good work, Dick," she commended her cousin, concurrently commanding Golos and her Familiars to keep an eye on the captives. "That's alright, Duck." Richard patted her head. "Besides, I am sure half of those folks still think you're going to eat them in secret. Maybe make a public announcement?" "Good idea." Gwen waited until the prisoners were relocated before she turned to address an eager crowd panting for the relationship between a shapeshifting Wyvern and a Void Sorceress. That particular bit of detail had been left out from their briefing, especially the part where Chinese Mages had cheated Gwen out of money she co-owned with a Dragon. Gwen did not mind. The Tonglv incident was an open secret; now, it was merely in the open. "Alright, you scoundrels—" Gwen imperiously addressed the prisoners. "A gentle approach might be best…" This time, it was Petra who spoke through a Silent Message. "Gwen, you're in England now. These Dragon-baits might answer to you, but you answer to London's Tower. Be mindful of who's watching." Their eyes briefly met. Petra nodded her head, nudging Gwen to move in the right direction. "Worry not," Gwen corrected course at once. "You will wait here with me until Heathrow sends their officers. When you are questioned; tell them what you know. Hide nothing. Your honesty will determine if you can carry out your duties as promised to Ruxin. If you lie, I'll send you back to China or Nagaland to answer to the Dragon himself. Understood?" Collectively, the Mages bowed. "Yes, Mistress!" "Good, now talk." Gwen curled Caliban under her so that she instantly possessed an impromptu and terrifying bench. "Now— tell me everything." Thankfully, it wasn't nearly as bad as she had thought. According to Tu and Chen, after their arrest, they and their family were kept in stasis until they made the ISTC journey into Yangon. There, they were transported by Marong's people, the private militia servicing the House of M called the Shadow Men of Manipur, to Nagaland. Upon their arrival in the Jade Palace, the hundred or so prisoners had kowtowed in Ruxin's presence to face his judgement. The Dragon's displeasure swept over them, and about a dozen of the weaker members died right there and then. The survivors weren't nearly so lucky. The Dragon had used its Draconic tongue to compel the truth from their teaming brains. Each by each, the men and women confessed to every crime and perversion. All admitted to bribery, theft, false bookkeeping, lovers outside of wedlock, bastard children. One even professed of having silenced a mistress and another to having impure thoughts about a threesome with Ayxin and Jun. Nothing was left unturned as the Dragon's Essence-tinged Mind Magic picked over their brains, turning their egos into mushy rice. Once satisfied with their blabbering, semi-moronic semblances, the Dragon gave his sentence. The intent was that they would die eventually in the jade mines, be it from abuse or exhaustion, Ruxin didn't care— — Until Ruì intervened. Out of the unsullied goodness of her heart, Ruì felt compassion for those men and women who would have murdered her over a mere hundred HDMs and suggested they could be put to use for Gwen in England. If even she, a mere mortal of so little power, could find it in her heart to feel for these miserable cretins, Ruì explained, why can't Ruxin, who was so much wiser and kinder? The survivors of Ruxin's interrogation eagerly agreed, even when Ruxin said that he would mark them and that they would die a death of ten-thousand cuts if they displeased him or betrayed Gwen in any capacity. If she commanded them to die, Tu spoke without expression; they may very well die more horribly if they failed to kill themselves. "I command you to live," Gwen said immediately, then shook her head in disgust. It took an hour for Customs to arrive. In time, Heathrow's very friendly and accomodating officers arrived with Ollie, who looked like he wanted to wrap his hands around Gwen's slender neck and just squeeze until something snapped. Gwen played the matter off with big smiles and fluttering lashes, telling her Praelector that here was an opportunity to give the Isle of Dogs project a kick in the behind. Grudgingly, Ollie relayed that Lady Grey would take custody of the Mages. For now, her new aides from Shanghai would be registered as illegal aliens, and only if they passed muster would they be expatriate labourers under Magister Walken's care. Considering how much influence Gwen had over them, the Lady has advised that they work for Gwen, but not directly under her— as the implications of slavery were something of an anathema to the British, who had weaned off that particular teat some centuries ago. The process of watching over the second round of preliminary interrogations took several more hours. During that time, Gwen grilled Golos about the incident with Elvia. When her Wyvern revealed nothing of note; she believed his ignorance. If the Yinglong was as wily as she supposed, there was no reason it would trust Golos to do anything other than act as a conduit between her and itself. From the way Golos blurted out its death wish to Ayxin, then revealed Ayxin's plot to herself, the drake was either the dumbest lizard alive, or more devious than a Dragon who plotted to drag the Tyrant out of its lair without losing a single scale on its back. Dozens of interviews later, her head throbbed, and she was hungry to boot. To her surprise, an extraordinarily sumptuous meal of curry was teleported in for Golos, who must have demanded it from the accomodating staff servicing the Magisters coming to see her Shoggoth. To assert dominance, she spitefully ate his Chicken Tikka Masala. The overall atmosphere of the encampment returned to mirth once Golos' simple-minded tomfoolery became apparent, chiefly when half of the Wyvern's dialogue consisted of how many broods he had hatched with Phalera. If this world had smartphones, Gwen shuddered, she could just imagine Golos with one arm around the neck of a sweating Magister, scrolling through copious pictures of his "babies", oversharing the occasionally compromising photo of Phelara. "Young one!" Golos separated himself from the crowd of Magisters to greet Ollie, who he recognised from their last adventure. "Why the long face? Did the Calamity trouble you again?" "Of course." Ollie's teeth gnashed as he looked up at Golos. "I don't know how you do it, Ser Golos. Have you thought about eating her?" "She's not so hard to handle," Golos snickered. "Did you know the Calamity's one weakness is love? I can give you some tips. I am, after all, the father of a hundred chicks..." At dusk, the search party returned with a Primus kept in stasis on an enormous, levitating barge, ready to be teleported back to some undisclosed location in London. Gwen whistled as the raft floated by their encampment. The Primus was enormous, a verdant colossus if she had to guess by its pre-capture size. From the looks of the ichor-splattered Golems thundering back into the clearing, they must have knee-capped the thing somehow, and then worked their way up from there. Two of the Golems looked like they would need new canopies; one was missing most of its outer shell and was being towed across the sunken earth by its sibling on a Disk of Levitation. Once the show was over, the party returned to their tent to await the inevitable call for Gwen's show and tell. Yossari, now that she was no longer a part of the party left to join the VIPs. As for Golos, the Wyvern wandered the camp, awaiting her pleasure. Once they began, she would be alone. During the Planar Ally's deployment, only Gwen and her minions were immune to the Shoggoth. "Not all of the team came back," Richard remarked once he was comfortable. "But since everyone's smiling, I assume no one died. We're close enough to a Tower, even for shorter-ranged Contingency Rings." "I guess this means it's my turn soon." Gwen yawned. Dealing with Heathrow's Custom officers had been taxing. She had no idea how Ollie could survive the repetitive, constant interrogation and could only be glad for his presence. "Too bad I couldn't exercise Golos." "You're not at a loss. Since the college is paying for his ticket to London." Petra sat on her bunk, fiddling with a Spellcube. "And Walken's got some new helpers. That's got to be worth more than Cores." "We could have gotten both," Gwen pointed out. "You guys need funds, don't you?" "Nothing urgent." Petra shook her head. "I can do Enchanting work, especially after I learn from the Dwarves." "And I've been doing odd jobs." Richard shrugged. "We're fine, I think. I am receiving pay from Walken as well for work on the Isle of Dogs." Gwen looked across to Jean-Paul. "I've got Crystals." Jean-Paul touched his ring. "Do you need Crystals, Gwen?" "… I am good." Gwen gave the man a thumbs up. "Thanks for offering." "I have some savings." Gracie raised her hand since it appeared that everyone's talking about their finances. "Er… I get an allowance; for surviving." "Oh, Gracie." Gwen walked across the tent to pat her new companion on the head. "Crystals are the least of your worries. Once your health improves, we'll focus on getting you up to spec, hmm? I am sure there are lots of ways we can see if it is possible to get you up to spec. With Evee's Sen-sen and my help, you'll be fine. I promise. A Void Illusionist! You'll be breaking new ground!" "Okay." Gracie's expression grew so hopeful that Gwen felt a pang of guilt. "I've seen and learned a lot on this trip. Thank you, Gwen. You too, Jean-Paul." "Aww, you're too sweet." Gwen gave the girl a big hug, pushing her shoulder against the young woman's. _Ding!_ On cue, a Message Glyph, red with urgency, blossomed beside Gwen's head. Gwen answered the call. "Magus Song, we're ready for you," came the reply. "Please gather your team at the main pavilion. Final checks have been carried out. We're green-lit to go." "Understood," Gwen returned the Message. "I'll see you on the dais." The array of instruments set up around the summoning platform reminded Gwen of a concert, while she was the diva taking centre stage. Spectrometers of all kinds with confusing Latin names bobbed in the water, hovered in the air, or were anchored to long steel piles driven into the soft earth. At her insistence, the observers forwent the bunkers the Transmuters had conjured from stone, and instead took to the open air. There were no shockwaves that followed a Shoggoth; she had told them; only tentacles coming out of dark places where ectoplasm could collect. Finally, with warnings delivered, Teleportation Beacons affixed, and mental wards assigned and tested, the gathered Mages were ready, and so was she. Behind her, her Wyvern grunted. Gwen had initially entertained the idea of having Golos sit outside the Mandala, for such was her annoyance at the brute— but then she recalled that in Shenyang, the Amazon, and Nagaland, the two of them had fought shoulder to shoulder, and had bled together, his huffing snout against her breathless bosom. Under Shenyang, in the gaping maw of the Shoggoth, Golos had even covered her with its stinking, fear-drenched body. The Wyvern was a fool and an innocent, this she had to accept. If she could forgive and find trust in Eric Walken, whose actions had orchestrated the fall of her Master, then why shouldn't she give the benefit of the doubt to Golos? Therefore, armed with sentimentality, she told Golos to sit inside the circle so that when the Shoggoth descended, they were both protected. "Alright," she muttered to herself. "Let's get this show on the road." Stepping into the epicentre of the Summoning Circle, she flooded her conduits with Essence to offset the life-leeching Void. The first time she had called on the Shoggoth, she had not anticipated that an actual 'thing' right out of Lovecraft's Mountains of Madness would materialise so readily. Now, she had experience, knowledge and confidence. Though the night was clouded, Gwen in her blue-white Shen-Teī suit was lit by a bright nimbus, making her appear as though some old-world priestess. It was because a dozen Day Lights had been set up by the observing Magisters, momentarily banishing all shadow from the vicinity of Llyn Alaw and its calm, mirror-like water. Gwen wetted her lips, then began. "Yog-Sothoth!" she repeated the words from her last conjuration. She had no idea if the make-believe itself was necessary, but she was invested now in the old paths. "Lä, Shub-Niggurath! Bring forth the creators of the mad cities! Birth unto this world ye servants! O ye Manglers from the Mount! Hunt mine enemies! Iä— YE MOUTHS OF MADNESS! CONSUME THESE TRIFFIDS!" The Mandala darkened with Void mana, its silvery burst of Conjuration consumed by the ink-like rushes of crow-black energies hungrily lashing at the air. As before, her once glowing face grew anaemic, though this time, she could feel her abundant Essence fighting the Negative Energy drain, preserving her stamina. _Weee—Weeee—_ _Weee—Weeee— Weee—_ _Weee—Weeee—Weeee— Weee—_ _Gweeegn— Gweeegn— Gweeegn— Gweeegn—_ The strange gale she had heard in her dreams grew suddenly tumultuous within the recess of her mind. At her nadir, the Mandala connected the Prime Material and the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void. Toward her zenith, the clouds began to swirl and turn, forming into a descending funnel, not unlike Golo's descent. Thus far, everything other than the uninvited howling was as she had anticipated. Just as she wondered if the strange hoots existed only in her mind or if it was wailing in real life, Golos began to shout. "Calamity!" Golos appeared bewildered. "What is that noise?! This isn't like last time!" "You can hear it too?" Gwen said, suddenly realising that she could barely hear her voice. "GOLOS! WHAT'S THIS NOISE?" Even with Clarion Call, she couldn't hear herself. It was as if a million voices were chanting at once, their cacophonic choruses pouring through the conduit she had forced into the Void to extract her Planar Ally. Golos said something, but like a dark tide, the sound of the _Weee—_ went up and down, filling all space, bouncing off every nook and cranny in the interior of her skull. _Ding!_ A Message spell bloomed, though Gwen could no longer hear the ringing. Above, the cloud boiled then parted, revealing an enormous eye some fifty meters across, with a strange "W" shaped iris, staring straight down at Gwen and Golos. A foetid stink of ocean water mixed with fish guts and ancient soil fell upon the dais in a violent squall, plastering both cultist and Wyvern in what was absolutely not semi-gelatinous primordial ectoplasm. When Gwen raised her hand, she could even see bits of fish scales, half a lip, and what looked like a chewed fin, platter within their general vicinity. Gwen's mouth moved, but no sound could be heard. The sudden, fishy tempest that muted her hard-bitten syllables had also filled her half-open mouth. From where the Shoggoth was supposed to emerge, the giant eyeball erupted as a dozen tentacles burst through its meniscus lens, revealing a formless protoplasm from primordial times— an all-enveloping, all-consuming hunger made into a writhing, slithering mass of mouths. That— and a torrential downpour of dismembered fish.

"Ramming speed!" Lei-bup commanded his kin in the engine room to punish the behemoth's whirling turbine. Thus far, their run of luck had persisted, for the ship's instruments had been made for "NoMs". Upon the horizon, the floating island of hulks amassed by Biplipodoofu laid sprawled like a timid mermaid, arms-wide and ready to receive the Laioming's violent intrusion. "Warriors of the Great Shoal!" Lei-bup stood opposite the cracked glass of the forecastle bridge, in his hand, a can of Spam, polished to a golden-glean, was held aloft. These were the remaining vessels of flesh from the Pale Priestess' pilgrimage on Turd Island, one of the few that now remained. "Comrades of the Shoal! Lend me your strength! Give yourselves so that all may attain our promised land!" From above the sea's surface and below, Lei-Bup's call to a higher power traversed through the multi-kilometre swarm of swimming bodies, fuelled by the mental energies of some million-strong Mermen desiring delivery from the tyranny of the ocean's savage freedom. “Weee—Weeee—“ “Gweee—Gweeee— Gweeee—“ “GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“ _CRASH!_ In the fashion of tectonic plates colliding, the thrumming bow of the Liaoming kissed the rusted metal of the wrecks that made up the upper segment of Blightreef and gifted its unflattering name. Straightaway, a quaking shudder ran through the super tanker's internal structure, followed by the ear-splitting din of metal scraping on metal. A resounding crash flooded the cabin as the momentum of the ship transferred forwards, casting Lei-bup against the console; after which the Liaoming pushed through. A modern ship with only a decade of service, the Liaoming resembled an iron claymore, crumpling the rusty origami of time-collected flotsam. With barely a hint of resistance, the tanker penetrated the Merman port of Blightreef, travelling so far "inland" as to cleave the wreck-heaped island in twain. "Comrades! Drop the anchors!" Lei-Bup knew the opportunity had ripened. Below, the shoal's twin Ningen beasts, each an expanse of dumb muscle, tugged on the ship's tethered anchors. On the crumpled forecastle deck, hawsepipes holding three tons of Dwarven dark-steel discharged its coiled cargo, screaming red hot as its "M" shaped weight-ends plunged below. From Blightreef, a school of Hammerhead guards, rising to strip the white-blubbered Ningen of their flesh, instead met with the unimaginable force of two descending blocks of metal some ten-metres across. In the anchor's passing, a bloody hole appeared in the shoal of slavering sharks as if by sorcery, with the sizzling chain further decimating their numbers by the dozen. Lei-Bup's minions cleared from the listing ship. The Liaoming itself bit into the water with a violent splash; then, as the chains reached their constrained length, it rapidly began to sink, lead by the crumpling bow. Inside the bridge, the supertanker's instruments sparked and fizzled as the ship traversed in a direction it was never designed for, bursting into arcane flames. When the sea rose, the storm-proof Wall of Force around the bridge lasted only thirty seconds, dashing Lei-bup and his fellows violently against the newly pressurised cabin. Banishing the stars from his eyes, Lei-Bup wiped sticky blood from every orifice as the whitewater washed into the bridge's interior. By all measures, like the others, his mistake should have been fatal, his bone and muscles reduced to a pulp. Yet, fuelled by the faith from the Elder Being's million-strong servants, he could feel his organs mending even as his lungs switched from air to water. In one hand, he still clutched his can of crushed Spam, while inside his torso, fragmented ribs quickly reformed. “Weee—Weeee—“ “Gweee—Gweeee— Gweeee—“ “GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“ The cries of the shoal vibrated through the water, conjoined with the warping lament of deforming metal to drown out all sound. Once past the waterline, the supertanker plummeted, dragged by the Ningen and its twin anchors, sending containers, crates, cranes, and bits of sheet metal racing toward the seafloor. "Praise be to the Pale Priestess!" Lei-bup's command vibrated through the Geat Shoal. "Praise!" ten thousand faithful answered. "Praise be to the Shoggoth! Hear us! Pale Priestess! Deliver unto us ascension!" "Praise!" a hundred thousand voices echoed. "Praise be to the Elder ones, who art Mother and Father!" "WEEE— WEEE— WEEE—" A million howling beings of the deep swirled around the city of Blightreef, their collected volume sending bits of coral and old barnacles from the jutting spires. "GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH!" Where Lei-bup pointed the momentum of the faithful, the city's defences were likewise whipped into a frenzy. The elite guards of the Kraken, the two dominant Clans, the Tigermaw and the Hammerhead Shark-folk, were rousing the population to defend their lord. The problem though was that since the arrival of the Great Shoal, Lei-bup had been peppering the city with propaganda that all would be equal under the Pale Priestess. The idea itself was absurd, at least for Mermen living under the shadow of a higher-life form— and yet, Lei-bup's ascension was living proof that there was some truth to his promise. Under the watchful gaze of the all-seeing Elder Gods, Lei-bup promised that tyranny would be a thing of the past, and all who laboured would receive their share of fish and sea. Initially, thousands of Mermen, drawn to the allure of food dispensed by the Great Shoal had joined Lei-bup. But following a violent and rapid crackdown from the Kraken's Elite Guard, the Bightreef's proletariat was forced to relocate into the city's coral interior. "WAIT FOR THE KRAKEN TO SHOW ITSELF!" Lei-bup howled from the inundated bridge as the last of the instruments fizzled. "Blo-bup! Fu-bup! Get ready to overload the Shields! Fear not for thy Cores, comrades! The Pale Priestess Protects! As one, we art fodder! Together, we art Leviathan!" _Would his kin survive?_ Lei-bup could only hope that they too had faith. Under his feet, the supertanker shuddered; what little automated defence its superstructure still possessed withdrew until only the engine room and the Shielding Core remained operational. Somewhere within the ship's bowels, the fellow cultists of Lei-bup, his blood relatives, Blo-bup and Fu-bup, turned the dials on the instrument panels until their Cores were on the verge of splintering like overheated glass. "The Priestess preserves!" his men answered over the spluttering, water-logged intercom Glyphs, amazed that their High Priests' words seemed to resonate within their heads. Each by each, they produced their cans of Spam and held the shiny metal close to their chest, where their Cores were beginning to unravel. "For the Shoal, comrade!" "For the SH—" A howl of tortured metal twisting and bending as the sinking tanker passed the halfway mark resounded. This deep, the micro blood vessels on Blo-bup and Fu-bup's fishy face erupted as the pressure from the descending hulk mangled their fishy forms. Even as the world turned dark, they held their cans of Spam, for they were the survivors of the Shoggoth's descent. They alone out of the thousands had endured! Such a thing had to be providence, Blo-bup and Fu-bup believed, for there existed no explanation for their continuance other than the especial care of an all-powerful creator. “GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“ The Great Shoal's chanting hammered at the hull. "The KRAKEN COMES!" Lei-bup's voice was the last thing the cousins heard. "Comrades! Let none retreat! The Pale Priestess is _watching us!_ " The Kraken Biplipodoofu was an old monster. To say that it was as old as Dragons would be an understatement, for things in the deep aged very slowly and drank deeply from the Elemental Plane of Water, allowing their powers to grow as unfathomable as the ocean's depth. A century ago, he had arrived at Blightreef to claim it for his own. The city had been a raider's den then, consisting of nought but jutting crags of deep-sea coral sheltering shoals of Tigermaws and Hammerheads caught in perpetual conflict. The reason for their conflict was Blightreef itself— for beneath the city was a ley-point where the continental shelves met, so abundant with mana that it had attracted the aimlessly drifting form of Biplipodoofu, an emerging master newly set out from the Abyssal Trenches. Initially, Biplipodoofu had been wary. Tales of Dragons ruling the eastern seas had always circulated in this part of the ocean, and though Biplipodoofu did not think itself inferior, it also knew that Krakens were no match against an existence as ancient as the sea itself. Thankfully, Krakens were patient schemers. After a decade of lurking, Biplipodoofu was appalled to find that no Water Dragons ruled these waters. It was as though these creatures who owned vast tracts of the ocean in the long dark had no interest in these shallow but rich waters. It was a prospect which suited Biplipodoofu just fine. Once the Kraken's mind was made up, Biplipodoofu moved on Blight Reef with brutal efficiency, quelling the tribal conflict between the shark-tribes. As a superior existence, he had invited their leaders to negotiate— then crushed the Chieftains into cankerous globs of mutilated pulp in front of their kin. Over the next century, Biplipodoofu built on the existing city. With his tentacles dipped into the ley-line, his form grew massive and bloated, accumulating far more power than his still-wandering brethren. Naturally, greedy challengers presented themselves— Deep Whales, Titan Jellies, a Mindweaver Lungfish— twice he fought off older Krakens, absorbing the Essence from his victims to bolster his power. Then came "The Madness". Biplipodoofu, far wiser than the simple-minded Mermen thanks to the knowledge baked into his genes, knew it to be Dragon Fear. The Kraken had felt Dragon Fear before, but this was different. What he now experienced was the insane rage of something primordial, hailing from a time when the oceans were still unfilled; when the Kraken-kind still wallowed in their abyssal pools of ancient brine. Never had Biplipodoofu been more thankful that his Core was bolstered by a century of feeding on the mana node. While his minions rampaged, the raging torrent of rippling mana merely filled him with violent agitation, causing Biplipodoofu to crawl from the depth to exercise an unbidden impulse for ultraviolence. When he emerged, the usually clear water was hazy with fish blood, salty with spilt guts and churning with white flesh. His shark-troops had gone wild with terror and were marauding through the metropolis of millions, indiscriminately murdering as they went. Everywhere, every fish from the flat-bodied Manta-folk to the slender-waisted Hag-kin fought fin and claw in an orgy of destruction. Biplipodoofu did his best to save the city from eating itself into extinction, but even with his powers, he managed only to quell a minor quadrant. As for the rest— Biplipodoofu despaired as his subjects emerged from coral and crag to commit mass murder-suicide. In the aftermath of the Madness, Biplipodoofu had sent out his feelers into the surrounding waters. What surprised him was that all the Mermen Kingdoms had launched a Holy War against the Humans. For the next few decades, Biplipodoofu defended his domain from privateers. A curious thing that happened was that ships— sometimes steered by Humans and sometimes as abandoned jetsam, began to collect above the city, driven by some unseen current likely responding to the ley-lines. These hulks smashed together, sometimes sinking to form new reefs, otherwise joining the flotilla until they became a small island unto itself. On these wayward ships came Humans, which at first Biplipodoofu tried to eat, though he felt offended by their fibrous tissue. Interestingly, the Humans held no hostility to Blightreef and instead informed his sharks that they were willing to trade, facilitating something Biplipodoofu had not ever considered before— the ability to harvest exotic goods from the surface. "Bring me Crystals," Biplipodoofu commanded the Humans, who said they hailed from the Greys. "And earthly morsels of every kind. I will trade you the Cores and flesh of my slaves." And so, despite losing his century-long labour to the Madness, Biplipodoofu prospered, feeding on succulent things abducted from beyond the shoreline. Crystals of all elements, the flesh of strange creatures from plains and mountains, grains and produce from the Fae Folk filtered into Blightreef. Biplipodoofu also traded for food to expand his city, for the humans had mastered a means of generating endless grain, a feat Biplipodoofu could not replicate underwater. For this, the Kraken praised his wisdom, for the bilateral beneficence was a difficult scale to balance. The Mermen hatred of Humans was a palpable thing, for their ancestors spoke of giant nets, fathoms deep and kilometres across, that would rake the seabed. Indiscriminately, these would abduct the fish folk's warriors, females and children to be dismembered on the Human's giant tankers. Others told tales of madness derived from the passing ships armed with "Shielding" that decimated their reefs, rupturing their eggs, or drove their young ones to suicide. All who lectured of the Humans wished for their destruction, a sentiment that Biplipodoofu had manipulated to unite the city. To keep the facade, Biplipodoofu had asked the "Grey" Humans to send him prisoners. These he fed into the city's gladiatorial arenas, places were the Mermen merited out the savage justice of the sea. For thirty-odd revolutions after the Madness, all had proceeded swimmingly— until the arrival of this "Great Shoal". At first, the Kraken paid them no heed. A swarm of this size was no real threat to himself, especially when he discovered that their leader was a Mermen of the lowest order known as Lei-bup, a coast-dwelling mud-skipper! If Biplipodoofu's parrot beaks could form a smile, he may very well have smiled in the guise of those Grey Human traders. What was Biplipodoofu? An adult Kraken-kin! The sole surviving spawn of a million eggs! How many siblings had he consumed, how many monsters of the deep had Biplipodoofu bested? Even faced with the hard-headed Dragon Whales' warrior hunter-killers who pursued his kind for sport, Biplipodoofu had prevailed, strangling the son-of-a-drake to death by crushing their deep-diving lungs! As for the coastal Merman, Lei-bup was an existence who could not match one sucker-fang on Biplipodoofu's two-dozen tentacles. Why should he worry about a shoal lead by such an insignificant being? Even if one of his guards filleted the minnow and presented Lei-bup with that Human flavouring— wasabi, it would lack sufficient taste. And so, Biplipodoofu had kept one eye open as he watched the events unfold above. His only thought was that this incoming shoal, with its diversity of ocean-kin, could revitalise Blightreef and give him more parts to trade to the "Grey" Humans. That was why, even as the "Great Shoal" began their blasphemous chanting, Biplipodoofu kept his calm. That is until his precious port of smashed-up human ships erupted. "BLOPUPUPU!" Biplipodoofu swore, sending such shockwaves out from the undercity that his guards instantly perished from the pressure. His ink-sacks quivered with inconceivable fury! It was one thing to fight him, teeth against beak, hot fin against slimy tentacle, but the port was Biplipodoofu's livelihood, the source of his joy! How dare this Lei-bup touch what doesn't belong to his stunted fins! The rush of raw and rare emotions coursing through Biplipodoofu tore his city apart. As he rose from the depth, Blightreef's districts shattered, entire columns of coral apartments toppled as Biplipodoofu's demi-god body slithered upward, ready to eradicate this "Great Shoal" and crush its insignificant, worm-like leader. "GUARDS!" Biplipodoofu's order rang out, rousing the city's inhabitants. "Consume these invaders! Banish them to the deep! Feast on their females and young!" Around his city, the "Great Shoal" had formed an enormous ring of silver, neither attacking nor retreating, merely chanting some strange, eldritch cry of "Weeee—" an alien syllable that made Biplipodoofu's scarlet skin crawl. “GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“ The chants grew louder. The Kraken raised its enormous eye toward the murky surface above. Something was coming. _A ship!_ Biplipodoofu recognised the silhouette at once. He could tell from the currents that it was falling rapidly toward his city. THIS MUD-DWELLING BOBBIT WORM! Biplipodoofu abruptly understood his mistake; he had misread his enemy's goal! This Lei-bup was trying to destroy his city! That which now fell was what the Grey Humans called a supertanker, a Human-made thing larger than Biplipodoofu himself! If such a mass crashed into his city, his operations would be ruined! All the time he had spent building up Blightreef to service his every whim and pleasure: the breeding pits, the gladiatorial arenas, the endless games of inter-feuding that pleased his mind to no end, it would all cease to exist! Blightreef would become just that, a blighted reef! Biplipodoofu grew so furious that a gush of hot ink polluted the seawater in his vicinity. No! He would not let the mewling minnow have his way! With one push, Biplipodoofu surged upward, his powerful body displacing the water so rapidly a torrent of air bubbles formed. Within his majestic, carmine body, his Kraken-blood burned blue and black, commanding the ocean currents to obey his command. With all his strength, Biplipodoofu was confident; he could turn the ship's falling trajectory and thwart this Lei-bup! "BLUBLBUFU!" Biplipodoofu growled as the ship's anchor pierced his shoal of minions, turning dozens of warriors into chowder. Following behind was the enormous shape of the tanker, approaching as though it were a steel-wrought Leviathan, trailing bubbles even as it disintegrated. Two Ningen, as dumb as they were pallid, broke away and fled for the protection of the ring of invaders, pursued by hundreds of his sharks. "CURRENTS! OBEY ME!" Biplipodoofu imposed his will on the incomprehensible mass of water surrounding his being. An invisible nova formed around the Kraken as the stowed mana within his Core grew to encompass the region of his being. The arcana held in his ancient blood boiled within his dilating veins, sending his six-hearts into a pulsing frenzy. Unseen currents tormented the space between city and ship. Down the tanker came and up the Kraken went; an immovable force meeting the unstoppable object. Lei-bup felt the trajectory of the tanker shift and so knew that the eye of Biplipodoofu was upon them. With the cries of _Weee—_ still bouncing inside his head, he prayed that his ploy would strike true and that the ship, with its resonating crystal, would crush the rising Kraken. When their opposing forces met, a skull-splitting groan of twisting steel resounded. If the Liaoming could feel agony, then its sinews were now being wrenched from its bones. Lei-bup felt his spine shudder. The Kraken was deflecting the ship! It was impossible to imagine that such a feat was at all possible, even for the Pale Priestess. As robust as her Emissary of the Elder Ones could be, this was a supertanker of unimaginable weight bearing down like a mountain! How could one creature, even if its age and size were on the tier of ocean royalty, overcome the blunt physics of overwhelming mass? Seconds later, Lei-bup received his answer. With a deep, metallic moan of overstressed metal, the Liaoming began to fall apart, its internal structure finally failing from the abuse. Lei-bup prayed for the second stage of his plan. The resonance from the Shielding Core, now close enough to be felt by their targets, thrummed and thrived, sending the city's defenders into a crazed frenzy. The organised shoals of Tigermaws and Hammerheads either fell apart or were dispersed as their members attempted to get away from the Core shredding agony of Abjuration magic. If the city's forces could be mitigated, Lei-bup hoped, then they could focus the Kraken. From the bridge, Lei-bup could see the immense form of Biplipodoofu squirming in fury from the vibration. He also knew the respite was temporary, as soon as the ocean water flooded into the engine room, the resonator would cease its function. After that, the Kraken would feast. In the end, the shoal's path was pre-ordained. "COMRADES, HEAR ME!" He called out to the teeming masses. "THE TIME HAS COME!" With the golden can of Spam held high, he poured his faith and belief into his next words. "PRAISE YOG! CALL HIM! OPEN THE GATES!" From around the city, the encircling shoal moved with the fluidity of a living thing, tightening their circumference. From his vantage in the crumbling bridge, Lei-bup could see that vaguely, the Great Shoal had obeyed his will and formed the Mandala he had meticulously recollected. On their journey through the sea, he had attempted many times to call forth the Shoggoth, to plumb the depth of the Pale Priestess' craft. These were the times when the shoal had consumed sea tribes too stubborn to convert to the great commune, putting no less than ten thousand heretics to the trident. Yet, each time, Lei-bup had failed— and in those times, he wondered if his lack was to blame, or if some other arcane mechanism was involved. Now, there was no more room for doubt. With the Great Shoal joined and the city rising to resist their existential deliverance, all now followed the rite of summoning. This time, the Mermen gulped, how many of the faithful would give their lives for the Elder Ones? How many in the shoal truly believed? Lei-bup steeled his faith. Maybe that was the point. Without a baptism of blood, how could the faithful be weeded from those who followed merely out of fear and self-preservation? What the Pale Priestess desired was absolute loyalty; what the Elder Things wanted was the commitment of both Core and Essence. Take himself— had Lei-bup not given up his tribe to be so anointed? Why should these neophytes be spared? “GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“ The ebb and flow of faith rose and fell. Outside the bridge, the battle began. "PRAISE!" Lei-bup cried out. "WEEE— WEEE—" The waters of the Blightreef grew gradually pink as the great wheel of teeth, fin and claw met the city's defenders in savage disharmony. His school of the devoted, having accustomed itself to the resonance for many days, crushed Blightreef's howling, rag-tag marauders. The heartening sight lasted only a few minutes, for even as the shoal constricted its foe, the Liaoming choked on its Siren's song, then died. Outside the bridge, the Kraken was now physically diverting the ship from its city. It was searching for him, Lei-bup knew, for that was how the creatures of the sea fought; minion-against-minion, leader-against-leader. In this regard, Lei-bup was a dishonourable coward. A massive "W' shaped pupil passed the window. It's multi-cloured, metallic-seeming iris abruptly focused on the fish hiding inside the small metal cage. Knowing the end was nigh, a strange calm overcame Lei-bup. The desperation he had felt a moment ago gave way to an indescribable certainty. The Priestess was watching and listening, Lei-bup discerned. Something was happening. Even as the bridge collapsed and crumpled under the Kraken's tyrannic strength, Lei-bup sat back in his captain's chair and directed the Great Shoal, correcting its course, ensuring that the circle remained accurate to the summoning Mandala. Outside, with one swipe of a mighty tentacle, a thousand faithful fishes perished. Against the cracked and ruptured windows of the bridge, a great eye pressed itself upon the frame, its meniscus lens bulging against the jagged borders. "I FOUND YOU!" the Kraken's voice was enough to shatter the windows that remained. Lei-bup did not feel the need to answer the Kraken. Around them, the blood-frothed waters churned. Distinctly, as before, he sensed the connection between worlds weaken. It was a familiar feeling, that strange vertigo which only creatures living on land could genuinely comprehend. In the end, "sacrifice" was the key. Only in the madness of ultraviolence could the Shoggoth be conjured. Only bathed in belief could Shub-Niggurath's will be known. Only then would Yog send forth its Emissary. Only by blood would the gates conjoin. When the sea outside the shattered bridge suddenly darkened, Lei-bup opened his eyes. Bewildered by the rift in the Planes, the Kraken's eyeball swivelled in its socket. "On the contrary, Master Biplipodoofu," the High Priest spoke with a faint, toothy smile at the ink-jetting Kraken. "I fear our Lord and Saviour has found YOU." Llyn Alaw. Gwen recalled too late that a Shield could act as an umbrella, and so employed an Extend Range meta-magic to create a semi-dome that encompassed both herself and Golos. Gingerly utilising Conjure Water, she washed her mouth, then hosed themselves free of the fishy downpour. With her barrier in place, the roaring storm of blood grew muted, though all around them, the howling WEEEE— seemed to defy all applications of Abjuration. "I've got nothing to do with this," Golos assured her. "Calamity… when did the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void become inhabited by fish?" Forcing herself to ignore the "tinnitus", Gwen concurred that Golos was not the culprit here. What she couldn't guess was why an enormous eye, now torn to shreds, had flooded the entire dais with its milk-white internal juices. Paranoid, she searched for her spectators, conceiving through their absence that Brown and company must have retreated to safety. "Golos, cover me." Gwen knelt to check her summoning Mandala. In her studied eyes, the etched Glyphs were all in place. It made sense, for that was the reason why she had summoned Golos before the Shoggoth. If her drawing proved faulty or warped by some strange, unknown phenomenon, Gogo would have failed to materialise. Nonetheless, for insurance, she injected fresh mana into the Mueller-Burbank Octogramic Sigil that governed the contractual aspects of the Mandala, finding her inscription without flaw. "Okay..." Gwen tsked. If the summoning was perfect, why was her Planar Ally spell raining blood and fish? Was bread or locusts going to follow? "This doesn't make any sense…" "Calamity, your Shoggoth has descended," Golos spoke using their Empathic Link, for the WEEEEE— was unceasing. "I think it was in the middle of dinner." Girl and Wyvern both looked out into the sorcerously-lit clearing, where piles of the Shoggoth's tendrils, some studded with eyes but mostly armed with lamprey lips, coiled like soft-serve ice cream onto the Triffid grove. The instant Shoggoth and Triffid-tree made contact, an explosion of ectoplasm splattered forth, covering an area about the size of a football field, smothering the strange, alien jungle. Now that Gwen had time to take it all in, the scene around her was surreal beyond belief. First, the milk-pus from the ruptured eye that emerged had painted the lake-forest white. Then, the pelting, pellet sized blood-rain had turned it pink and scarlet. Belatedly, like cords of clotted blood, the Shoggoth's tendrils hung from the heavens, where even now the portal into the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void vomited up its grotesque, formless body. "Shall we go up?" Gwen asked after a while, finding that there was little else she could do. "I've yet to see Shoggy in its entirety." Golos agreed; though the Wyvern's booming affirmation grew mute against the raging WEEEE— _Ding! Ding!_ Another Message spell bloomed beside her face, though answering the damned thing was impossible. Both inside her head and as a physical manifestation, the howling voices drowned out all thought. "I CAN'T HEAR ANYTHING RIGHT NOW!" she shouted back into the Message spell. "TALK LATER! SHOGGY IS DANDY! I DON'T KNOW WHY THERE IS FISH!" "Are they going to believe that?" Golos asked with a snort. "God knows," Gwen answered through their mental link. "I sure as hell don't. Flight!" Gwen rose into the air with her Wyvern, keeping them shielded and protected from the soft archery of offal. "Look—" From up on high, she could guess that the gobs of red flesh pelting down belonged to one creature. She had no idea what it was— but there were bits of tentacles, intestine and stranger things. The most remarkable piece of ejecta was the now perforated meniscus lens that covered the "W" shaped eye. Gwen grew gradually confident that this was no fuck-up of her making. The Void was an unpredictable Plane, and no one knew what existed beyond the veil. Maybe the Shoggoth was wresting with another resident, and she had caught it in the middle of a throwdown? After all, Void Calamari was no less horrific than the lampreys she summoned. Both were aquatic-looking, slimy and phallic, and both had sucker-disk mouth-things. If the Triffids were engaged in a blood-soaked orgy and her spectators were braying, bellowing, and writhing, chanting "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!" that would be someone else's story. But nothing of the sort happened, and her Shoggoth seemed in perfect health. She couldn't vouch for the hundreds of thousands of fish-bits that were falling, but that giant eye that had appeared was similar enough to the smaller squid eyes that her Shoggoth usually sported. The question then, was why the strange chant? And most importantly, why the fish? Was it because she was guilty about Mermen otoro? Maybe next time, she should think about salad. Just as well, she formulated answers for her detractors. "I am the student here, you're the Masters..." she would say to them, why would a group of researchers ask an eighteen-year-old-girl with no more than four years of formal education under her belt to rationalise a world-first Void phenomenon? Was she supposed to interrogate her Shoggoth? "It's growing larger still." Golos brought her back to the present. Gwen concurred. Her Shoggoth now covered the span of the lake and was rapidly expanding as it digested the verdant Triffid forest. Now and then, a living Triffid emerged to challenge the thing, only to be smothered by ethereal tendrils armed with gibbering mouths. These bit into the Triffid, taking it apart in the manner of an elephant overpowered by floating maws attached to an endless stomach. Further on, a Hydraffid burst forth, attempting to defend its portion of the grove, only to be tenderly devoured over ten-odd minutes. The Shoggoth wasn't fast, but it was fastidious. Against monsters, its toothy apertures rivalled Golos' chompers. For the thorn-walls, it first applied the sticky ectoplasm, then unleashed the main body's multitude of mouths. All the while, intermittent eyes appeared and disappeared, swivelling in their pockets of grey goo, searching for prey. Where the Shoggoth passed, only bare rock slimy with semi-clear discharge remained. Gwen had half-a-mind to descend and examine if Triffid spores remained but felt compelled to observe her creature's progress. Over the next hour, the discordant Gweeegn— Gweeegn— Gweeegn— faded, as did the rain of blood from above. Gwen thanked the Sleeper of R'lyeh that her prediction came true— that upon her Shoggoth exiting the summoning rift, the natural elasticity of the Prime Elemental Plane would weld shut the ethereal tear, cutting her creature from siphoning the mana it needed to remain manifested. "I am back," Gwen once more addressed the Message spell. "The noise is gone. How's everyone?" "… Gwen? Are you alright?" it was Brown who answered. "You've given us quite the fright." "I can imagine," Gwen replied as jovially as she could muster. "For the record, I was in no danger. Moreover, Shoggy is taking care of the forest as planned." "We can see that." Brown paused. "Any notion why the rain of blood? You're not a Necromantic Blood Mage, are you?" "I hope not. I believe Shoggy was in the middle of lunch," Gwen answered honestly. "There's so much we don't know about the Void and what's living in it." "That's God's truth." Brown hesitated. "Are you in control?" Gwen willed the Shoggoth to pause its hunger. When no response came, she reported her finding. "No control, I am afraid. Limited Identify Friend-Foe is the best Shoggy can manage." "I see. We'll keep observing. Once enough of the island is clear; secondary operation will begin. I'll keep you informed." "Roger that." Gwen watched the Shoggoth's expansion. Thus far, the absurd growth rate of the creature remained unabated. Was there that much vitality in the trees? Gwen doubted it. Earlier, Caliban had reported great dissatisfaction for the thorn wall. If so, how was it that her Shoggoth was so vigorous? Even as a laywoman, Gwen understood that the volume of materials needed to fill ever-larger spaces was exponential. To cover so much forest so quickly, just how much life were the Triffids leeching from the land? If so, then she could see why the Elves had demanded a Purge. "Even the trees are fleeing." Golos chortled. "You really are a Calamity." Gwen eyed the regions of the island that remained untouched, feeling a tiny tingle tickle her conscience. Now that the rain of seafood and the high-pitched wailing ceased, the susurration of the Shoggoth's murderous march was madness-inducing. So the creatures did know fear, Gwen pondered the strange display. What would this world's Vegans say if they could see that even weeds understood despair? "Let's give Shoggy a hand." She eyed her Wyvern's potbelly, suddenly wishful for enterprising distractions. "You can get some exercise, and I can gather some spare change." The blood made it hard for Lei-bup's gills to function. The gory "air" felt so thick, especially when mixed with the ink from the Kraken. All around Lei-bup was an impenetrable murk— not for lack of light, but that he swam in a thick soup of death, foetid with floating particles of Mermen, Kraken and ectoplasm. Was he dead and now afloat in the primordial stream of life? Lei-bup starkly meditated, until something moved in the dark. A tentacle drifted in and out of sight, appearing and disappearing in the ectoplasmic gloop. His lidless eyes attempted to focus, but there was nothing to be seen past the length of his own hands. When he churned the water, bits of fish-lip, tissue, and an occasional eyeball came floating by, propelled by some unseen current. "ARRRRGGH—" In the uncertain distance, someone screamed, then its fearful cry was abruptly cut short. "O Emissary! Mercy—" Another voice howled out its guts. There was a sound of bones crunching, then that too fell silent. Lei-bup attempted to tap into the Great Shoal as he had done so before. "Comrades..." he paused when a renewed pulse of vertigo washed over his trembling body. In the murk, something moved, parting the waters, drinking-in the chowder of dismembered carcasses. An eye appeared, about the size of Lei-bup himself, with a "W" shaped iris yellow in the middle but emerald nearer the edge. There was something familiar about the colour— something that Lei-bup felt he should recall once his mind returned to clarity from the madness that now strangled his throbbing, frontal lobe. Two more eyes appeared. Then three and four, all moving independently. In a minute, a dozen eyes, each swimming in ectoplasmic spheroids of vaguely organic strips attached to prehensile tendrils, gazed at Lei-bup as if caressing his quaking soul. The High Priest swallowed. In his hand, the crumpled can of SPAM felt hard and cold, not at all the relic he had upheld to be the light and the truth. "O Emissary of the Elder One…" Lei-bup stood paralysed, unable to move their merest fibre of his being. Was his faith sufficient? How much of the Great Shoal remained apart from himself? Would the miracle of the Deep One's mercy happen for the third time? A dozen questions raced through Lei-bup's fishy brain as his eyes swivelled in their sockets. "How may your humble servant serve?" he begged of the eldritch manifestation. The eyes came closer. Lei-bup forcibly reminded himself that he should welcome oblivion, for only past the Void's veil can a fish be one with the body of an Elder Being. Such was the sacrifice the all-consuming ones demanded; it was not Lei-bup's intent to deny his patron. Feebly, he raised the Spam, then sunk to his knees. "O Elder One." Lei-bup's lips trembled. He wished that like Humans, he had eyelids, for thanks to the spiritual vitality gifted by the Great Shoal, Lei-bup had no doubt he would be eaten alive. "Your servant is ready." Even now, somewhere out in the blood-dimmed muck, intermittent cries of guttural terror, together with the sound of flesh rending flesh tested his resolve. Slowly, gingerly, the tendrils approached to touch Lei-bup's pancaked tin of spilt Spam. The Merman froze. He finally recognised the unique colour of the eyes on the Shoggoth. _She was watching all along!_ Before his mind could recover, Lei-bup found that his vertigo ceased. "O! O! O!" Lei-bup wept salty tears, his excretions mixing with the bloody brine. He understood at once that the "Gwen" must have intervened ."O Pale Priestess, your servant is undeserving…" For some time, Lei-bup remained kneeling, holding the SPAM in his hand. Gradually, the seawater regained its clarity; the gore, the ink and the ectoplasm either sunk or were blown away by the ever-cleansing currents from the Elemental Plane of Water. Like a new-born, Lei-bup emerged into Blightreef, standing atop the shattered bridge overlooking the devastated city. His heart was whole, as was his being. No doubt now existed in his mind. The Kraken was no more— that much was obvious. Its sole bone stood stabbed into the sodden seafloor like a tombstone. Elsewhere, one of its eyes, partially devoured, floated like a jellyfish's umbrella cap through the pink-tinged water. Beneath his confident gaze, one by one, the survivors emerged. "High Priest!" a shout cried out. It was Jinka, the warrior Chief of the Claw Clan. The peerless fighter had three limbs left, though they would eventually grow back. To Lei-bup's amusement, he wore a necklace of Spam polished to a glean. "Did we succeed? Did we defeat a Master of the Abyssal Trenches? We WON?" "Was there any doubt?" Another cry drifted in with the freshwater. Karasin, the Bluefin Strider Captain, arrived with a dozen of his men. By some unfathomable stretch of arithmetic, they appeared unscathed by the Shoggoth's passing. "I believed—" Karafin held an empty can of Spam aloft. "I consumed the flesh of the Pale Priestess, and it gave me strength and protection." "Hooo!" his riders howled in turn, reeling their sword-fish mounts. "AH—" Jinka slapped his carapace. "You mollusc! I should have thought of that!" From up on high, Lei-bup's echoing laughter rang out. "I too, had misunderstood. The Priestess had given us the gift of flesh to consume originally, hahaha… To think I've kept these last few tins as a memento of our meeting." "High Priest!" "Chief Jinka!" "Captain Karafin!" "Lord Lei-bup!" From here and there, from under the ectoplasm and the flayed carcasses; from the murk at either end of the city, from buried alleyways and collapsed coral apartments, hundreds and thousands of survivors belonging to the Great Shoal began to emerge. Together with Lei-bup's folk were the stunned inhabitants and the surviving Shark-folk. As their worshipful gaze converged upon him, unexplainable strength flooded over Lei-bup's body. From his earlier exhaustion, Lei-bup felt buoyed by an overwhelming vitality, as if the mana in his body was trying to escape the confines of his Core. From the fore of the sloped forecastle, Lei-bup rose. It wasn't even a conscious effort. The acolyte of the Pale Priestess simply ascended until he floated above the stark-white shape of the Kraken's bone-Core, behind of which the supertanker similarly stood, thrust into the seafloor, a testament to Lei-bup's conversion of Blightreef by right of might. "Comrades!" Lei-bup's voice swept through the city, piercing every blockade and barrier. "Who among you still has doubt?" The proletariat's answer, Lei-bup was glad— required no voice to be heard.

"Forward Observer has confirmed Divi-Loc on Target." The comm-Glyph crackled from the disruptive flow of Negative Energy inundating the airwaves. "Confirmation Received. _Fire for Effect!_ " Gwen braced for the explosive exit of artillery shells; what energised instead was the oppressive hiss of compressed mana from inscribed Creature Cores. From the Bangor basecamp, a Fire Team of hulking Crusader MK V Artillery Golems unleashed the latent energies stowed in their churning mana engines. The granite bluffs of the peninsula glowed brightly as a Daylight spell, turning the dark waters aquamarine. Like comets, a dozen streaks of spellfire arced toward the heavens, then simultaneously erupted over the twitching mass of the bloated Planar monstrosity. Next came the anticipated roar, followed closely by multifoliate roses of blooming plasma materialising over the glistening form of the Shoggoth. An expanding stink of foetid steam followed, cascading from the cold cliffs as the hot mist mixed with the frigid sea air. Gwen felt her organs tingle. Her empathic link with the Shoggoth transmuted little else other than hunger or satiation, yet even so, she suffered the sensation of a thousand tiny ants stinging her skin. Beside her, Magister Brown observed the instrument panels mirroring her health, as well as the status of the amoeba-like Shoggoth. "Prepare a Cold Round," Major Halifax instructed the artillery team. "How is it?" Richard took hold of her shaking shoulder. "Please don't touch me right now." Gwen winced, retreating a step, then exhaled audibly to express her discomfort. "I should be glad Shoggy doesn't possess pain receptors." From the firing line, tubular crystal caches ejected from the munition case with a hiss, landing red-hot on the sandy basin. The skilled Golem crew then slid home fresh cartridges, this time armed with Elemental Ice, into the spellshaping chamber. "I think this one is going to sting." Gwen circulated what Essence she managed to recover in four hours. "Divi-Loc Confirmed!" The Fire Control officer shouted over the intercom. " _Fire for Effect!_ " An insidious hiss of compressed mana escaped the wands' super-cooled tips as the forcibly compressed Evocation raced from Bangor toward the Shoggoth's still-crisp body. At its highest point, the spells erupted, forming enormous but ephemeral Mandalas. From these arcane fireworks, the mana manifested into spells. The grey heaven roared, then a hail consisting of crackling ice the size of small cars pummeled her Planar Ally, erupting into frost novas on impact. Gwen quaked as unbidden goosebumps rose and fell all over her body. If she had worn a dress and not her bodysuit, she would have seen the muscles under her skin spasm. "I don't think Shoggy likes the cold," she informed Brown. "Max, I need to sit down." "Shaa!" Caliban coiled into a seat. "EE-EE!" Ariel provided the blanket. "Thanks, boys." "Something to drink?" Brown motioned for cocoa from their assigned aides. "Good idea." On a side table, Gwen produced a mug and a bottle of Maotai, then began to unstopper the bottle with her shaking hands. "Allow me." Petra unscrewed the lid, unlocking the Glyph-seal. Before she poured, she looked to Brown. "It's fine." The Magister nodded. "Phase one reduction of mass by twenty-five per cent!" The FO's voice returned over the intercom. "Area of Effect clearance at eighty per cent." "I understand you feel terrible, Gwen. That said, I am glad that conventional arcanistry is working." Brown took the bottle from Petra and poured Gwen a mugful. "If we can stop your Ally by upscaling mundane arcanistry, that's good news to you." "How is that good news?" Gwen slammed down the Maotai in two mouthfuls, flushing her cheeks pink with vitality. "Wouldn't that mean Shoggy isn't as useful?" "On the contrary." Brown refilled her cup to half-full. "That makes it far more useful." Gwen cocked her head. "You mean, I'll prove less of a danger?" "And thereby live your day to day life in less danger," Brown clarified. "Not only that, assuming the same base matter services both your Ally and what we've observed from Sobel, then your Master's Ex-Wife's Spirit, Familiar or Ally isn't insurmountable. It proves an important point— that Sydney was a confluence of unfortunate circumstances and not a forgone conclusion." "The Black Sun," Gwen recalled the terrible orb that had dominated the horizon. "I don't think it's a Shoggoth. I remember it being ethereal, almost intangible. But yes, I can see the similarities." "A different spell, of course, and a different creature," Brown concurred. "But data is data. The more you know, the more prepared we'll be. I have no doubt Spectre is planning their next disruption." "Target size reduction, sixty-per cent." The FO's report followed the second volley. Gwen wiped the excess liquor from her lips. She felt better, though the nastiness from seeing her Shoggy's slow death remained no less acute. "Finish it with Lightning Rounds." Not far from the observation post. Major Halifax gave the command. Gwen looked sourly to her spectators. Presently, her audience of Magisters from all over Europe relaxed in a bunker-pit overloaded with Lumen-caster projections. Some appeared amused; others studied data slates; a few cast careful looks toward her general direction. _Crack-BOOM!_ Over the horizon, a Tempest Strike blue with crackling discharges abruptly banished the darkness. An eye-blink later, Gwen almost jumped from her seat as bolts of electricity sundered her Shoggoth, rendering it tendril from tendril, exploding its ectoplasmic exterior and boiling its multitude of eyes in their gooey sockets. Panting in tune with the Lightning raking over the landscape, Gwen swallowed the air in gulps, her fingers straining against Caliban's slick, obsidian body. "Gwen— cut the link," Petra worriedly warned. "You look like you're about to burst a vein." "It's fine," Gwen grunted. "I brought Shoggy here, so I'll damn well see it home. Tell you what though, after all this, Snowdonia better be fucking amazing." Within the Department of the Interior, Mycroft Ravenport was the first among equals, and so naturally was the first to lay his hands on the latest biometric and spectrometric data on Gwen Song, the Devourer of Shenyang. Unfortunately for Mycroft, the privilege came burdened with responsibilities, which was why the Duke of Norfolk had not seen the interior of a bedroom for almost forty-eight hours. On his desk, Morrigan had laid out every tidbit of information he could gather on the Mageocracy's hopefully sane Sobel. Heavy was the head that wore England's crown, and with matters escalating so quickly, he suspected it would soon demand answers from its eyes and ears. It was a report the Duke of Norfolk dared not deliver to his superior unless he possessed complete confidence. For several days now, once his official duties were done, the fastidious Duke had locked himself away in the cold office, feeding the Sprite that governed the Mageocracy's secrets. Sooner or later, Ravenport had anticipated, interest in the girl would reach the highest authority. What he had not anticipated was that the girl could foment trouble so swiftly and without warning, that circumstances surrounding her person would be a season of many storms, sweeping up plots and sucking-in unwilling bystanders. Tonglv— Mycroft Ravenport's head throbbed. He wished that he too has such a gift that kept on giving. When the girl's Wyvern had arrived with her latest Draconic blessing, even Mycroft had to raise both brows. A Magister-Magus team, enslaved under the thumb of an eighteen-year-old student? Not even the Exeters would have the privilege of enjoying such an abundance of human resources. The only saving grace Mycroft could consider was that none of her helpers were Combat Mages and that their primary function would be aiding her administration of the Isle of Dogs. Thereby, as a compromise, the Tower was willing to take a gamble for the sake of stable trade with Manipur, Kachin, Nagaland and Yangon. Ravenport grumbled. The Interior Department's initial dismissal of Tonglv had been his mistake, one whose debt he was paying even now. The girl's apparent 'blood relations' to the Nagaland's new regent had unfortunately escaped the Mageocracy's operatives. That and the fact Gwen Song was serving as the Vessel of a being most certainly NOT the Yinglong, as proven by reports regarding Elvia Lindholm's induction into the Order of the Bath. According to the stories that survived pre-Sobel Sydney, the only Mythic to make its contact with the girl was the Rainbow Serpent, a connection even Mycroft found difficult to believe. The Dream Serpent was something that existed before humanity possessed the means to communicate through language. The ancient snake had been a ruling deity of the land down under since before the emergency of Necromancy, Faith Magic or even indigenous Shamanism. Ravenport was no Hvítálfar Spirit Sovereign, but he was confident in his knowledge of sorcerous affairs. Who could forge a contract with that? Not even Henry Kilroy could manage such a thing. And if she did— then she mustn't be human. Conversely, Mycroft had non-ambiguous evidence that the girl was indeed born in Sydney, that her father was Hai Song, a Salt Mage, and the woman whose womb bore the girl was a merely Tier Two Fire Mage of no renown. With Morrigan's blessing, he had traced the girl's lineage to Harbin's Frontier from since before the Great War in Dynastic China as well as pre-colonial Indonesia. Thus far, nothing impressed the Duke of Norfolk. _Ding! Ding!_ The crisp ring of newly arrived data blossomed carmine, signifying its urgency. "Morrigan, if you please." His scarlet-clad companion burst into a shadowy flock of aberrant, many-eyed crows. When she reassembled a few seconds later, one of the crows held a crystal-chip in its beak. Held between her bone-thin fingers, Morrigan scanned the data cache. Within the Sprite's expanding pupils, words and images rapidly flashed across a depthless void. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The edge of her mouth curled. "Morrigan—" Ravenport raised a finger in warning. "Not now." "Who would demand the Goddess of Secrets to forgo such a morsel?" Morrigan's tone grew mocking. "You must grant me the privilege of first-to-know, that was in our contract." Ravenport sighed. The more blood he fed the indentured Goddess, the more her original personality emerged. "Fine, I want a full analysis." Happier, Morrigan demurely stood in her corner of the office, her eyes half-closed, her vast mindscape stretching across the near-infinitely volumes of reports daily filed into the catacombs below. It took several minutes for the Sprite to digest her latest 'morsel'. "Now…" Ravenport slotted the returned data crystal into his desk. "Let's see…" The first to appear were lines of biometric data pertaining to the girl's vitality fluctuations. On the graphical display, the vital pulse sprinted across the X-axis with the regularity of a light jog until it struck the moment of truth. There, the spectrometer's readings jumped ten-fold at its peak, then rapidly fell below the mean blue line. "A lesser Mage would have died," Ravenport said to himself, thinking aloud so that Morrigan could hear. "The mark of a Vessel. A powerful one at that." But an Elder being's Vessel took decades of service to mature. To his knowledge, the Hvítálfar's seeded Arch-sorcerors, be they Druids or the lauded Spirit Striders, took centuries to gain the tier of trust necessary to channel so much raw vitality from their sponsor. There was one exception, and this was if the Essence required barely tickled Gwen's patron. Was her Patron the Rainbow Snake then? Even if Mycroft suggested it, he felt, few among his peers would believe it. How would one communicate with such a being? Would a creature as ancient as the stars even care for the fleeting life of a mortal? The same would imply Mycroft showing especial consideration to a dust mite he found clinging to his boot. Mayhap if the girl was a long-awaited Spirit Shaman or a Dream Singer with a dozen generations of inter-breeding— or if her mother was a Vessel herself who bore the Spirit child of the Mythic, then there could be such a connection. "Her father, Hai Song, is rumoured to be quite the gigolo. The mother, by all accounts, could be unfaithful," he related to Morrigan. "What's the possibility that she's not their child?" "Less than one per cent," Morrigan stated flatly. "Such indiscretions would contradict all existing data." "Could she be a Changeling?" "There exist no records of illicit activities from the Fae in Sydney." Nodding, Ravenport activated the recordings. First came the funnel cloud. Then the rain of blood and guts. Then an explosion of milk-white pus from a giant eye. Then the Shoggoth's tendrils descended. The girl and her Wyvern then bantered while massacring Triffids. Afterwards, she sent the creature away and returned to Bangor. From there, she squirmed atop her Familiar while the Golems expelled the Shoggoth until, with a final spasm from the jittering lass, the Shoggoth forcibly returned to its original residence. In the aftermath, the peninsula of Angelsley smouldered, stripped of all life. If one discounted the coaxing of Druids and Plant Mages for the next decade, it would remain a useless, uncultivated, barren plain. The Necromancy-seeming phenomena aside, the mission was a resounding success. On a separate Lumen-caster, he checked the girl's spectrometric data. For a while, the only sound in the room was Ravenport's increasingly strained breathing. Upon comprehension of the event's spectrometric data, Ravenport's brows grew deeply furrowed. Gingerly, the Duke of Norfolk poured himself a glass of the Navy's stoutest rum. He needed something substantial to take off the edge; else he would pollute Morrigan's ears with language too foul even for the slave-Sprite. First things first, Ravenport told himself. "That's a Kraken's eye," he dictated the facts to Morrigan. "… I believe this is specifically Biplipodoofu's eye." Morrigan's reply sent his blood pressure well past his physician's recommended threshold. "Your Faction's sea trade with the beast is well-documented. As is the beast itself." Ravenport almost spilt the half-drunk glass across his velvet-draped office. "Biplipodoofu? How? WHY?" "Insufficient data." "How do you—" "The chroma-scale of a Kraken's iris is unique to individuals." Morrigan sounded amused. "They are like Human finger-runes. Besides, if you would examine the sub-reports, you will find that the residual mana signature given off by the eye matches our records by seventy-three per cent." "But the blasted thing's in Blightreef! That's eight— no, NINE thousand kilometres away as the crow flies!" "Physical distance is no object if conjoined through the Summoning Portal of the Planar Mandala." "This makes no sense. Gwen can't be summoning Biplipodoofu—" Ravenport gazed up at the intricate ceiling. Finding no answers there, he laid down the class. "Can she?" "She cannot. That possibility does not exist within the current field of data." Ravenport circulated his Negatively tinged mana until the annoyance in his mind grew blunted. "Who do we have in the region?" "We can draw on Singapore Tower's resources, or we can issue a quest to Seoul or Tokyo." "Do it. All of it." "I shall inform your peers at the Foreign Affairs Ministry." "There is something else." Morrigan extracted a series of readings from the crystal scripts. With a swipe of her hand, the Sprite cleared the recording from view. "I believe this should be of interest." Ravenport's eyes quickly scanned the spectrometric reading. "Faith Magic?" Morrigan leaned in. "Not ours. The reading indicates rudimentary Shamanism. Its wavelength, however, is comparable to a large-scale congregation." "Interlopers then? What is it? Witchcraft? Voodoo? Uto-Aztecan Blood Rites? The Deepsea Kingdoms?" "The signature isn't anything we have on record." "Then find out! Keep filtering through the records! I want all mentions of Gwen Song on Faith Magic, Mermen, and her 'other' talent. Keep your crows on Lindholm and get me reports from the Order. If its Faith Magic, Lord knows if her companion is involved." "I shall. In the meanwhile, what will milord report to her Majesty?" Morrigan's lips, bright as ruby petals, formed a winsome grin. "How will the Duke of Norfolk steer the talented Magus Song? Will you be chaperoning her in Snowdonia?" "Questions, Morrigan?" Ravenport's tone grew annoyed. "How unbecoming for someone in your portfolio." "Tithe." Morrigan gently smacked her lips, ignoring her Master's demand. "Your commissions make for thirsty labour." With a nick, The Duke of Norfolk unceremoniously filled a mithril goblet about the size of a thimble. "This and nothing more. You're drunk." "I wonder how the blood of a Vessel tastes…" Morrigan licked her lips. "One with so many secrets." "Don't," Ravenport cautioned the Sprite. "Lest you violate your Greater Geas." "Haha, who said I was going to aid her?" Morrigan's tingling, bell-like laughter rang out. "What's the harm in having a little side-dish?" She's drunk. Mycroft furrowed his brows. Lately, he has been using the Sprite to excess. In his opinion, it didn't help to have Morrigan restore too much of her independent personality. Studying her eyes, he measured the cost of keeping Morrigan active versus postponing the answers he sought. There was already enough mischief with one Gwen Song, he groaned. God forbid he would have to wrestle an ancient Undead Celt into obedience as well. "This place is fucking amazing." Gwen had little else to say when Trawsfynydd dawned on the horizon after a mere hour. As they had to skirt Snowdonia's borders, the duo had made a loop around the domain of the Elves to soak in the sights. Her demeanour was genuine; Wales, as it existed in her memory, was the end product of a thousand generations of agrarian cultivation terraforming the primal forests of the pre-Roman Celts into rolling tablelands. In her present world of magic and monsters, no Human industry dared encroach on the land of the Hvítálfar. Rather than the gridded geometry of pasture or sheep or cattle, old forest as ancient as the landscape itself stood pristine and virginal, untouched except to service accessibility. According to Brown, Trawsfynydd served as a transitional point, an overlap between the Hvítálfar's domain and the classic Kingdom of Britannia. What surprised Gwen more than anything was the scale of what her instructors reverently termed the "Sacred Forest of Light", for she was confident the eternal Elf home could be traversed in under two hours. In the Amazon, when the locals had spoken of Svartálfar, or "Dark Elves", she did not doubt that somewhere in that continent-spanning forest existed these legendary Demi-humans. But then again, Gwen reminded herself as she breathed in the heavily oxygenated air— Lorien and Murkwood were both blips on Tolkien's imaginary map. If she drew on the same rationale, then it made sense that both vertical living and a sparse population meant there was no need for lavish land holds. "It's lovely, isn't it?" Ollie Edwards, a student of Elven Magic and a man very much in need of rest after negotiating passage for Gwen's train of trans-planar migrants from Tonglv, had been chosen to chaperone the Void Sorceress. Her only regret was that Richard and Petra could not come with her— and though she had considered forgoing her "R&R" as a show of solidarity, neither of her cousins humoured her. Overhearing her indecision, Ollie Edwards had reminded Gwen that Lady Grey had arranged an opportunity for her at Trawsfynydd to meet with a potential instructor. "What do you know about this place?" Gwen inquired of her companion, who flew beside her via a pair of Boots of Flying on loan from Peterhouse. "You study Elven Magic, don't you?" Ollie's face was unusually happy. "My lineage has a mote of Elven blood." The young man brushed a hand past his thinning hair, now turning slightly grey. "You're partly Demi? Do you have a Core?" "Ha!" Ollie snorted. "You know, it has been years since someone asked that question. No. Nothing of the sort. Its miracle enough that whoever inherited the blood could engender progeny, much less talent tied to the Elder blood. Folk in my family just have a bit more Affinity for Air and Water, and we age a bit slower. My great grandfather isn't even at the higher tiers, but he's been kicking around since before the Great War." "Have you been to Snowdonia before?" Her Praelector shook his head. "I haven't even been to Trawsfynydd. I did grow up with tales of Snowdonia constantly in my head, though. My great-grandfather sang of it constantly. There's this limerick he passed down through the generations. The legend goes if I ever get lost in Snowdonia, I can use it to orientate my bearings." Gwen looked at Ollie, saw that the boy was earnest, and so felt the tug of curiosity. "Alright, let's hear it. You know me and orienteering. Also, last time we were travelling, I sang the Dwarf song." "You want to hear it now?" "Would you rather sing this thing in Trawsfynydd? What if it's like a children's song and the Elves think you're a simpleton?" "Who said I was singing?" Ollie's tone grew defiant. "House Brother—" Gwen gave Ollie a grin as bright the newly risen sun over the tranquil waters of Lake Trawsfynydd. Her eyes grew large and vivid as she stretched the vowels of her long-winded plea. "Can you humour me? Your House Sister is asking so nicely." Her Praelector studied the forest, his cheeks rouged with unbidden heat. For some reason, Gwen was reminded of what Hanmoul had said about Ollie having a thing for her, and as hyperbolic as the Dwarf's assertion could be, she cautioned herself against overmuch teasing her Praelector. Perhaps to dispel the awkwardness, Ollie quickly delivered his promise in a minor key, demonstrating a talent befitting a retired member of King's Choir. "Gwydir! Ay know there's no forests lovelier than ours, And fairer hills and loftier Fae, And grots more full o' flowers, And boskier woods more blithe with rain And misty with birds' adorning, With sweeter throats than I could sing Their prayers to the trees each morning By Talwaenydd, O tempest-worn, Or Gwydir's everlasting glory, To Garmon, where the dead are buried, and Merlin once told his story, East by mountains where Arthur dreamt, Of Pendragon's host defiant, Llanrhychwyn's mound a molehill seems, A Dökkálfar to a giant. By Snow, Senny, Dovey and Dee, Edw, Eden, Arwen and all, Taff and Towy broad and free, From the highest branch, the waters fall, By Pont Pen-y-benglog, Dulais and Daw, Look for the tree on Glyder Fawr Small is the mirror of Llyns' bath, West to Croesor, follow the path O Carnedd Llewelyn, King of the oak, Thy Heron's Head has long been broke A bit of stone with seaweed spread North where gulls weep in Llanfairfefed. Unseen by men, lay the woods that wend By Golden Grove' neath Nant Gwynant, And on the ley, the Alfa sing all day, They never, ever— age away." Ollie's voice traversed clean and crisp, as expected of a boy graduated from the world's foremost choir. The way the song sounded reminded Gwen of her Dwarven rendition of Mountains Deep, but the song Ollie called "Alfar's Way" wasn't a forlorn hymn of sorrow or diaspora; instead, it was a ballad of remembrance and joy. "Sounds more like a poem than a song." Gwen played the words over again in her head. "Also, I have no idea what most of those words mean. Is it Old-Elven? My Ioun Stone can't make heads or tales of the landmarks." "The land names are. Also, I fear its off-key, as I can't replicate some sounds without the help of Sylvan Lyres," Ollie said sadly. "What do you think? That's the best I can do." "You did a wonderful job. But, hows that supposed to help anyone orientate Snowdonia?" "I think." Ollie pursed his lips in thought. "The song teaches Humans how to pronounce the landmarks when they ask for directions." Gwen burst into laughter. "It's true." Ollie joined her mirth. "You try saying 'Llanfairpwllgwyngyll' without your stone." Gwen wagged her tongue clumsily, making a series of spluttering gurgles. Ollie looked away. "That reminds me, your translation stone allows for both Hvítálfarian and Träälvorian?" "Sylvan too," Gwen affirmed her polyglot supremacy. "It was my Master's." "Good, we can avoid any awkwardness if that's the case. Follow my lead after we land. There's a process involved in identifying ourselves." As the two crested the final hill, the misty haze fell away, revealing Trawsfynydd with its rolling arboreal tree-scape and its sky-mirroring lake. The township itself was a mix of Human and what Gwen presumed to be Sylvan buildings, with the latter worked into the trees with the likeness of large, bell-shaped lanterns formed from pliant wood. In stark contrast, the human buildings were Nordic cabins with a stone base and slat-wood walls in ash and pine, appearing squat and geometric. "Now that's my kind of fantasy," Gwen let loose a Gwenism. Drawing in the frigid air, she began her descent. Finally, four years and then some into her transmigration, she would soon be vis-a-vis with handsome Elves worthy of Tolkien lore.

"Magus Song, Magus Edwards, welcome to Trawsfynydd." The second Gwen and Ollie alighted onto the soft grass, a pair of Elven women, flaxen-haired and graceful, buzzed from canopy to ground as though descending from a painting. The fair-haired pair was tall, as tall as Gwen herself if she wore her pump heels. Their figures appeared elongated, gracefully so, but with a hint of the uncanny that differed from the Dwarves' well-proportioned squatness. For one, their graceful necks were so long as to be lofty, while their arms, when at rest, could almost rap their knees with their fingers. The tunics they wore were immodest even by Gwen's standards, consisting of diaphanous layers of gossamer that reminded her of Dragonfly wings, beneath which the contours of their well-toned physique spoke of agility. As she anticipated, the Elves possessed ageless, elfin miens, markedly hinting at the aesthetics of Haute Couture. Likewise uncanny were the High Elves' golden eyes— breathlessly striking, but refracting the light in the form of pearlescent metal, akin to the chroma of a Jewel Scarab. In totality, the fair Elves' allure was distinct from Evee's adorability or Petra's sensuality; theirs was a beauty that was stark and intimidating, like gazing upon the perfect symmetry of a Golden Orb Weaver. Gwen glanced at Ollie, other than his high cheekbones; the one-sixteenth Elf was definitively human. "Your ladyships, we hail from Cambridge," Ollie instructed Gwen to bow. "I am Magus Edwards, and this is Magus Song. I believe we are expected." "Your eminences are indeed expected," the leading Elf responded with a curtsy. Their articulate limbs both spindly but agile. "Allow me to introduce ourselves. My name is Sanari, and this is Zestari. We are your assigned guides. Welcome to Trawsfynydd. May I show you the way to your assigned cabin?" The Elven women gestured toward the general direction of the lake, and the duo followed. Gwen studied the women with the intensity of a spectrometer, scrutinising every detail. Ahead, her foremost host wore a halter-top tunic-dress. From Sanari's posterior, she could see its many layers of semi-rigid silk being tethered by invisible threads, allowing the fabric to extend seamlessly past the Elf's long legs while still affording ample mobility. Was there a market for Hvítálfar cuture? Gwen did not recall such a thing in London. Her hostess, Sanari, must have felt the intense inspection, for she turned to express her discomfort by meeting Gwen's eyes. Gwen cleared her throat. "Lady Sanari, is there a place here that sells the dresses you're wearing?" she asked casually, thinking that perhaps, she should pick up a set for all her girls in London and Shanghai, especially considering the breadth of her trade network. From what she knew of Tao's peers, theirs was a market with far more Crystals than common sense. "Of course." Sanari grinned, though Gwen found the expression uncanny. "We have a crafters' hall where those willing to trade with Humans may bring their wares. Trawsfynydd is, foremost of all, a trading hub for our peoples." Satisfied, Gwen allowed her eyes to wander. Here and there, rows of individual residences, literal "Air BnBs", lined the treetops overlooking the water. There were other Elves as well, gardeners in their olive overalls, officious looking sorcerers, guards in beetle-carapace, and hosts and hostesses in attires akin to Sanari and Zestari, accompanying Human guests. Nearer the semi-circle township's epicentre, the foursome passed cafes, restaurants, and the trading hall. The experience, Gwen felt, was meticulously manicured. Here and there, the smiling ash-blonde Elves reminded her of Stepford men and women in a curated utopia. As impressive as it was, Trawsfynydd was no more representative of Elven culture than St. Regis at Bora Bora was representative of Polynesians. The foursome then travelled in silence for a while longer until they reached the base of an enormous oak at minimum four-storeys tall, crowned with a verdant bower about the width of a large field. "Here we are." The women curtsied once more, their dresses fluttering in the manner of translucent wings. "Please follow." Ollie took flight, as did Gwen once she renewed her concentration. Atop, the canopy cabin turned out to be a plurality of smaller rooms that created the semblance of a larger structure. The central, open cabin with its sloped, bell-shaped room served as a living room, with its interior adorned with ornate Sylvan furniture that favoured curved edges and crested, floral flourishes. To Gwen's mind, the Elf hotel was a stark contrast to the geometric, art-deco design preferred by the Dwarves, unique in its nature-inspired philosophy. From the central 'pod', pathways floored with large-leafed, semi-translucent plank-ways lead to what she presumed were the bedroom, a separate sunroom, and a final chamber with a higher elevation that offered a broad view of the lake. "The meditation room is the highest point of the lodge, perfect for harnessing mana, among other things." "Trawsfynydd occupies a ley-junction," Ollie aided the women's explanation. "It is abundant with Elemental Air and Water. In the early morning, we should be able to see the silhouette of Glyder Fawr and its world-topping tree at Tryfan." Gwen looked out the window. "The grand trunk of Tryfan isn't visible from the lake view suites." Sanari, the senior of the two, smiled apologetically. "If you wish to see our home, please visit the canopy's lookout. There's an information centre there as well." Gwen's lips twitched. Did Resort Trawsfynydd come with a Tripadvisor no.1 rating? She wanted to ask. Whatever happened to her high fantasy Elves? Where were the low-key racism and the snottiness? How could her Elven encounter be complete without at least one snub? She exhaled. "Sanari, am I correct in saying Trawsfynydd is in an Elven resort for the well-to-do?" "Trawsfynydd is a trading station and a place for arcanists of all races to enjoy rare Elven delights," Zestari assured her from a rehearsed line. "You're still in your combat suit, Magus Song. Would you like to change into something more comfortable? You as well, Magus Edwards. I can sense your weariness. Your work must be very stressful. Our world-famous day spa service is complimentary for our VIPs..." "Stressful?" Ollie eyed his Void sorceress. "Lady Zestari, you have no idea." Gwen ignored the jab as her fantasy continued to crumble. What she had hoped for was something akin to Hanmoul's guided tour of the Citadel, where they strolled and spoke at length about history both ancient and recent and reflected on economic and political opportunities. Now, instead of Glorfindel the Elementalist— what she got, Gwen lamented, wasn't even Arwen, but Sanari, a concierge with the power to bestow rest and relaxation. "AH— ah— AH—" Indecent moans conducted through the cultivated oak of the cabin, growing fainter the further the Void sorceress' vibrato cries traversed the bower. Underneath her towel, Gwen's pliant body quivered; her mind wild with unbidden stimulus. She could have never imagined that her first encounter with "High" Elves, the Hvítálfar of yore, would be both horizontal and intimate. Though Sanari resembled an anorexic model from Fashion Week, her fingers were freakishly strong, possessing such strength and dexterity that Gwen felt her soul leaving her body. "How are you so strong, Sanari?" Gwen groaned. Her strength, Sanari explained, was because in her last 'cycle', she was a Warden. In the cycle before that, she served as a Druid of the First Circle. Now, in her eleventh "Cycle", she chose to be a caretaker at Trawsfynydd. Gwen asked for clarification, to which her host volunteered that the ageless Elves exercised a role arrangement in which members took on different functions of Elven society during certain periods of their lives. It made sense, given that they were so long-lived. Being stuck doing the same thing for aeons was a case for mastery, but just as likely a source of complacency and boredom. From what Gwen could see of the faintly-smiling Sanari and Zestari, the women had every indication of enjoying their job. At least until Zestari paused for a brief, unprofessional instance when Ollie was revealed to possess the atypical pale, English hobbit-feet, a stark distinction to Gwen' photogenic perfection. "O— Oooo—" Zestari was ruthless in her assault of the Praelector's scholarly body. "This will itch…" Sanari's warning came a second before an orb of concentred Druidic mana rolled over the sole of her foot, curling her toes. "Let it sink in." Gwen grunted, the glistening skin of her trembling shoulders tensing as the knots in her overworked body unfurled one by one, releasing an unbidden undulation of indescribable pleasure not unlike Caliban's gluttony. "Now for the other one." Sanari arrested her other foot. "Your body is very peculiar, Magus Song." "How so?" Gwen asked. "You possess Essence, as we do," the Druid-warder-masseuse noted. "Are you kin to our kind?" "I am a Vessel," Gwen confessed her open secret. "Ah." Sanari nodded. "Well done, Magus Song. it is rare that your kind can attract the especial care of an Elder being." "Ouch— Arrrgh—" Gwen buried her head in her towel, her Tolkien image of Elves all but shattered by the rejuvenating mana massaging her foot. The treatment, Sanari had promised, would have her feeling weightless for weeks. Earlier, once she had changed into something light and scant, Sanari and Zestari had invited them into the upper viewing room, then wood shaped twin spa beds. If Gwen wanted to know about Elven culture, Sanari had cooed, she may as well learn while relaxing. "Don't worry, Magus Edwards." The bell-like laughter of Zestari made Ollie hyperconscious of his Englishmen's feet. "We have a pedicure service as well. Why do you think us Elves are so light on our feet?" Ollie half-cried into the moth-silk towel. His skin was beet-red, both from the female hands touching his skin and from his loosely dressed companion's matching moans. Gwen studied the woodgrains on the floor as Sanari's fingers worked its way up her calves. "Are many Elves 'Vessels'?" "Only select individuals may attract the Guardian's favour during their cycle of service as Wardens or as Druids. Even for us, Vessels are rare and precious. You must be truly special among your kin, Magus Song." Gwen cringed from the overt flattery but continued her enquiry. "Sanari, can you enlighten me on how the Hvítálfar see Humans?" Ollie rose to protest her political line of enquiry, only to have Zestari arrest his neck and push his face against the towel. "Of course, we're allies," Sanari replied. "Our kindred and yours have shared this land since before the cult of the Nazarene arrived. In recent years, I suppose things grew strained somewhat. Do not fret, Trawsfynydd is neutral ground. There are no politics here; the highest Accords protect this grove." "So Trawsfynydd's a DMZ?" Gwen almost choked on her own saliva. "You say there's peace, but what about Ysbyty Ifan?" Gwen recalled from her Triffid briefing. "Wasn't that recent? And close to here?" "An unfortunate skirmish. The Elders have marked it as the result of a misunderstanding. No Elf from the grove died, so the matter was forgotten." Sanari switched to Gwen's other leg. "Your kin-folk can be as fickle as the Svartálfar." "I'll agree to that." Gwen assumed the worst, curious that Magister Greyson's tragedy was to her attendant's eyes a mere skirmish. "Another question. My mentor at Peterhouse said that I was to meet with someone here, an instructor. Any ideas?" If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Sanari relocated her fingers to Gwen's neck and shoulders. "I can ask for you, though I have no doubt someone from Tryfan will wish to pay homage to the Devourer of Shenyang during your stay." "You know of me?" Gwen grunted as powerful fingers kneaded her shoulders. "We're a trade station," the Elf reminded her once more. "Information is an important commodity in itself. That and you're famous, Magus Song, not because you're the Devourer, but because you're an heir of Lord Kilroy." "You know of my Master?" "Most do. His death sent shockwaves of grief through the trees," Sanari replied. "Lady Sufina was well-loved as well. The ties that bind Lord Kilroy to Snowdonia are as many as the threads on a Weaver's web." "That's... incredible." Gwen twisted her upper body until she faced her attendant. "What did Master do here?" "He was first a student, then a friend, an ally, a teacher and finally a protector." Sanari's gaze filled with benevolence. Gwen tightened her moth-silk robes. "Did you know my Master?" "Not especially, no." "Have you ever spoken to him?" "I have." Gwen felt her breath catch in her throat. The possibility that she and this ageless woman were connected by Henry Kilroy across species, continents and time, was beyond incredible. "What... was Master like? Back then?" "Young, then old." Sanari's response was abstract. "He was Human." Gwen paused at the thought. Thirty years was a lifetime in the eyes of Humankind but to Elves, with their lifespan at minimum ten-times that of her species, were three decades not a short sabbatical in comparison? Sanari continued. "Magus Song, I should inform you that Lord Kilroy has an abode up on Tryfan, where the Sixth Circle commences. To my knowledge, it is untouched since his passing." "Could I access it?" Gwen felt such longing that before she realised, she was holding Sanari's hand. "I will make enquiries for you, Magus Song." "You have my thanks, Sanari." Gwen's voice grew muffled. That she would find so welcoming a boon in a holiday home was wholly unexpected. "If there's any way I can thank you, be it Crystals or rare materials..." "No need." Sanari smiled serenely. "Please give me some time." Gwen nodded, returning her cheek to the spa bed. "Errrrrgghnnn—" Not far from her, Ollie bit his towel. The young man rose to speak— then Zestari fell upon his shoulder blades. Poor sod, Gwen felt sympathy for her Praelector's internal cries of alarm. Lady Grey must be working the poor bastard down to the bone. The Council of the Ninth Circle took place near the zenith of the Elder Tree at Tryfan; a myth locale that, together with its brethren, had inspired fanciful lore-names like "Yggdrasil". Unfortunately, the Nords, though creative in their interpretation of Elven chronicles, had gendered a misnomer. In Sylvan lore, there was no need to differentiate the "one" Elder Tree from another. All had come from the seed of the world, and all were one. To give each a name would be as foolish as individually naming the crowning branches of a world-topping redgum. To outsiders, the Elder Elves rarely gifted the truth of the World Trees, and so the subject had grown obfuscated by myth and mystery. "Hierophant Initiate Sanari..." bowed the Wardens standing guard beside the Arch of the Triumphant. "Welcome back to Tryfan's Embrace." "May her bloom be eternal." Sanari inclined her chin. "Where is Primach Vulmari?" "The council awaits your pleasure in the Ninth Circle." "Good." Sanari proceeded past the Wardens without a glance. Above and around the Hierophant-Initiate, the liminal subspace of the Hvítálfar's home stretched upward, tapping directly into the Plane of Radiance, providing Tryfan's World Tree with an inexhaustible source of life and vitality, banishing all notions of darkness. Sanari willed her clothes to change, its fabrics growing thicker and more articulate until it covered her arms and legs with long, flowering fabrics resembling the petals of exotic flowers found on the canopy. Nearer the towering roots of Tryfan's tree, empathic vines growing upon the thick bark entwined, forming an emerald threshold just as Sanari passed, transporting her from the understory to the emergent layer. Time and distance momentarily lost meaning, then the Initiate arrived upon the canopy of Elfhome's ninth pocket plane. Once past the threshold, Sanari drew in a deep breath of vitality-rich air, expanding her lungs until pain tickled her diaphragm and her head felt light. Gradually, she expelled the inferior oxygen of the exterior world. Once naturalised, Sanari proceeded down the branches toward the meeting place of Snowdonia's apex Enclave. At the path's end, the Bellflower Hall was cloaked in pale cobalt, with its interior open-air and filled with light. Herein gathered sat the Tryfan Enclaves' Ninth Circle Council, ready to discuss the matter of the Mageocracy's emergent Sobel. "Hierophant-Initiate Sanari—" The gathered rose in their respective chairs; each positioned to represent their irrespective concourse of interests. At the head of the table, bathed in light, sat the Bloom in White, her Ladyship the Tongue of Tryfan, regal in her pale, pearlescent robes, still as a statue and untouched by time. To her right sat the Lords of the Sixth and Third Circle, Isilynor and Esta, anxious in their colourful ceremonial carapace. As the Träälvor Lords of the lower realms, their impatience spoke loudly of their limited lifespans. To the White Lady's right, Primach Vulmari, Sanari's instructor and blood-kin stood stoic and silent beside Arch-Warden Eldrin, a warrior faithfully wedded to his crow-black battle mantle. Finally, opposite the party of Elves sat their guest from the realm of men, one Duke of Norfolk, Mycroft Ravenport, aptly wrapt in a sable garb of velvet cloth. "Primach Vulmari, Hierophant Eldrin, Lord Isilynor, Lady Esta, your Grace." Sanari bowed her head. "And my Lady Solana— Blessed be the Flower of Tryfan." "We art blessed," the Elves answered in turn. The Human nodded. "May Tryfan bloom eternal." Each member took their place on the circular table while Sanari entered its spacious centre to face her superiors. "How is our guest?" Hierophant Eldrin was the first to speak. The outpost of Trawsfynydd lay within his jurisdiction. "Relaxed and happy, for now. The child has asked after Lord Kilroy." "As she should." Eladrin shifted in his battle plate. "Arch-Druid Kilroy was an honourary member of the Circle Council. It is right that his Human Apprentice should inherit his abode and receive our benediction." "Eladrin, patience," the Primach of the Enclave, Vulmari Vagolorithil, interjected before the Warden could continue. "Sanari, tell us about the Void sorceress, what have you confirmed?" "She's a Vessel," Sanari stated without ambiguity. "And who might her Patron be?" Hierophant Eldrin raised a perfectly arched brow, the stag-horns protruding from his helm tilted left and right. Sanari shook her head, indicating she did not know. "Her Patron did not respond to my probing— though I can confirm its Essence is ancient." "Ancient? Older than Tryfan's Guardian?" The haughty profile of Isilynor, Lord of the Sixth Circle, leaned forward. "You expect us to believe that such a being married a Human Vessel?" The round table grew silent. "Lord Mycroft, might you provide some clarity?" Hierophant Eladrin's ageless voice drifted across the Council's august chamber. "I fear I came here to find answers." The Human noble cleared his throat, then replied. "In Gwen's dossier, I have spared no intrigue. My purpose is to request an instructor; if you will recall. It would be both foolish and fruitless to withhold information that your august selves will discern once her training begins." Lady Esta's eyes narrowed, reminding Sanari of the monstrous orchid mantis sometimes found in the upper canopy. "Find her an instructor, and we shall find out? Do you take us for the gullible Dökkálfar, dear Duke?" "Then shall I tell her to return home?" Duke of Norfolk held his own against the Lords of the Circle. "Cambridge is but an hour's flight and a Teleport away." Both Isilynor and Esta stared rapiers at the Duke. The audacity of Humans continued to surprise Sanari, who was in her fifth century of service. With their lives so threatened by mortality, each Human act was a plunge into uncertainty, whose fruit may never be tasted by the executor. Had Sanari not volunteered to be tenured at Trawsfynydd as one of the grove's caretakers, she would have never comprehended how Humans saw the world. What differentiated Man and Elf, Sanari had discerned, was the understanding of immediacy, that strange and indescribable feeling of impending action. For some of her folk, such as Isilynor and Esta, the very notion that a decision must be made, here and now, filled them with agitation. "Good. Return the child to London." Lady Esta of the Third Circle raised a bejewelled hand. "Sobel was an ill-bearing fruit we all regretted. Need I remind his lordship the living blight is still on the loose. Why should Tryfan risk a second Sobel? Must Lord Kilroy perish in vain?" "I agree with Lady Esta," Isilynor offered his support. "Mycroft, you forget that your kin art mere mercenaries under Tryfan's employ. One loose monstrosity is quite enough." "There won't ever be another Sobel." The Duke's voice took on a threatening air at Isilynor's undisguised reminder of Humanity's place within the Accord. The man leaned back, his fingers forming an arch. "Not if Magus Song receives the proper aid. If she does not—" "Enough, Mycroft." Hierophant Eldrin silenced the Duke with a gesture. "Sanari, you've marked the child. Tell us of your findings." A room full of golden eyes focused on Sanari. More than the scrutiny of her superiors; however, it was Ravenport's dusky irises, so grey and lifeless-seeming, that made her follicles crawl. "Gentle Lord. Esteemed Council." Sanari once more breathed in the mana rich air. "As stated, Magus Song is the lesser Vessel of an Elder Being. Upon contact, I spoke at length to the child, eventuating in the Rite of Rejuvenation. I have found that her Astral Body differs from Human Mages, as the Essence of her being consists of chimeric additions; though the Elder Being's Essence has suppressed all potential revolt. Of these pilfered Essences, thousands exist, their tiny presences layered like sediments within her Astral Soul. When our Essence twined, there was no response from her Patron. Further examination has allowed me to conclude that her Lord Spirit does not inhabit her body, not yet, nor is there a Conduit present." "How is she receiving aid then?" Lady Esta demanded. "From within herself." "A Changeling, then." Primach Vulmari touched a finger to his forehead. "You're brought us a right mess, Mycroft. Those separate, lesser Essences, I take it they're the number of lives she's consumed. Are you certain the child isn't a second Sobel?" "— A Patron as old or older than our Guardian…" Arch-Warden Eldrin contemplated the possibilities behind Sanari's words. "A primordial being? An untethered serpent from when the world was young?" "An answer I would like to know myself." Ravenport splayed both hands to simulate his helplessness. "The girl knows nothing, as I said. She believes that she's on an expenses-paid holiday—" "As a reward for eradicating the Triffidus infestation," Sanari's Arch-Warden informed the Council. "Though you have your doubts, I should remind all present that Lord Ravenport has yet to disappointed us and that his continued service is necessary for Tryfan's continued bloom." The Lords of the Sixth and Third Circle scoffed. "A service that warrants reciprocation." Ravencroft turned not to his conversation partners, but to her ladyship, the Bloom in White. In Sanari's eyes, the act was the definition of insolence, though as Vulmari and Eldrin remained mum, so did the other members of the Council. "As Tryfan has faith in my service, so I have faith in our Elven allies not to disappoint so meagre a request." The gathered Elves looked toward the esteemed Tongue of Tryfan. "I do not support the instruction of the girl." Isilynor raised his hand. "Neither do I," Lady Esta concurred. "I will, however, allow her access to Lord Kilroy's suite. His abode is within the domain of my Circle, and in his demise, death now pollutes its sanctum. Were it not for Lady Sulfina's sake; I would have had the space expelled back into the aether." "Well, I support the child's instruction." Eldrin, Ex-Hierophant and Arch-Warden of the Enclave, nodded at Ravenport. "As do I." The Druids' Primach cocked his chin. "I wish to converse with her Patron." "Then your ladyship has the final word, as is proper." The Human Duke bowed. Lady Solana, the Tongue of Tryfan, the speaker and the voice of the World Tree, first Vessel of its Guardian, parted the pink petals of her imperious lips to deliver the verdict. In her presence, the others lowered their heads. "Eldrin, bring her to me," the Bloom in White delivered her judgment. "We shall not grant instruction as the Raven has requested— not until the child has proven herself suitable for the Accord, as her Master had been." Sanari glanced at the Human Duke. She could see the man's lips tittering on the edge of protest, but in the end, his reverence superseded his Human capacity for rudeness. "I obey the Tongue of Tyran." The Human Duke arched his back. "May its white flowers bloom eternal." Sanari exhaled as the tension bleed from the room. Now, she must return to the lower realms and its foetid air to deliver the good news. While minds multitudes older than Gwen's puzzled their heads, Gwen grew perplexed over tea. "Elf cakes." Gwen cut into her delicate offerings, each shaped like exotic wildflowers too beautiful to be butchered by her silver knives, feeling as though she wanted a refund on her Tolkien tour. "Not Lembas Bread, but berry tarts and citrus meringue?" "The Hvítálfar are famous for their obsession with perfection." Ollie sat opposite, so relaxed that his hair appeared thicker and his body language ten-years younger. "It was French Magisters who first introduced the idea of desserts made from flora to the Cévennes Enclave. It grew to be immensely popular among the Elves, and now they make better dessert than we do." Unlike the often greasy pastry items that featured prominently on Human menus, the Elves' selection was much like themselves— light and airy, with a delicate texture that teased the palate. Gwen stretched, distending her limbs like a cat's until her toes curled. The sun was warm, the air fresh, the view was a million HDMs, the tarts were sweet, the tea fragrant, and her company was tolerable. Yet, despite the perfection of the moment, the disarming tranquillity was disturbing. Was it the quietness? Gwen wondered. She was an urbanite; give her a cafe, loud traffic, endless streams of men and women hurrying to work and a hobo ranting about Jesus saves, and she would feel right at home. "You ever feel like something's going to happen and you just can't relax?" Gwen asked her Praelector. "What? Why?" Ollie bolted straight at once, all signs of happiness evaporating at once. "What's happening? Did you do something? What did you do now?" "Nothing," Gwen chided her prudish House-Brother. "How rude." "Gwen, can't you just let up for once?" Ollie begged her. "We can't offend the Hvítálfar. Not even Lady Grey can save you from them." "And just how would I have an opportunity to offend them?" Gwen scowled back. "Is this about what happened at lunch again? That buffet wasn't properly stocked. I swear to God—" _Chirp! Chirp!_ A cicada-shaped bell announced the arrival of a guest, interrupting Gwen's impassioned self-defence of her gluttony. "Come in!" she announced. The lithe form of Sanari appeared at the doorway, her ageless face a flower of friendship. "Magus Song, I bring good tidings." "Is this about Master?" Gwen stood in her robe. Opposite, Ollie looked like a deer caught in the path of a Lightning Bolt. "Indeed." Sanari bowed deeply. "Our esteemed Lady, the Bloom in White, would like to speak with you in private regarding Lord Kilroy's estate." "PUFFFFT!" Ollie spat out a half-sipped mouthful of tea all over the cakes. "The Speaker of Tryfan? The Immortal Bloom herself? Gwen, no! You— This— FU— Oh my God!" Gwen stepped away from her embarrassing Praelector. "I am forever grateful." "NO!" Ollie begged from below. "You can't offend her, Gwen. She's the spiritual leader of the Hvítálfar! One word from her and— look, just know that you'll be speaking with someone no less august than our Majesty herself. Your etiquette is barely passable! You haven't even passed your decorum class! You curtsy like a drunk Ork and eat like a starved Mermen, what if..." Caught in the middle of Ollie's rant, Gwen grew uncertain. "Do not fret," Sanari promised with a smile. "There exists no kinder and wiser being than our Lady... certainly not outside this mundane mass of the Prime Material you so called London. As for you, Magus Edward, rest assured that there exists no ambiguity as to Magus Song's attendance. To refuse would be a dire insult..."

"So… you are not a masseuse?" Gwen questioned her attendant, now confessed to be a multi-classed Druid Hierophant-Initiate of the Tryfan Enclave. "I am that and more, though I understand the confusion, Magus Song. It's admirable— for even the Dökkálfar with their long-lives seldom master more than one profession." Sanari's perpetual smile persisted. "And though some of our kind prefer stagnancy, I enjoy the fluidity brought by each changing cycle of service. Within the World Tree, seasons change and each year is different from the last, why should we be any different?" "So you don't find the work demeaning?" Gwen continued her enquiry out of morbid interest, attempting to trace the sprigs and branches of Hvítálfar society. "You're an ageless being with centuries of wisdom, and you are willing to 'service' a member of the younger race? I was under the impression that 'real' Elves saw us as akin to apes... Like how we see the Mermen..." "We have no conflict with the Mermen to denigrate them as you do." Sanari waved away her accusation. "Their envoys are just as welcome as yourself. It is true that before my time, before even Lady Solana and the Guardian came to be, your kind may have been simians, but you are not now, are you?" For some reason, Gwen thought of the macaque queen she'd met in Burma, as well as the Water Ghosts in their sodden den. "No," she said. "But it's still demeaning." "Demeaning?" Sanari slowed her step to match Gwen's stride. "How so?" "I, for one, can't imagine myself in your position." Gwen intimated that she was offended by the very notion of menial servitude, even if it was something respectable that cost a great deal of money to purchase. In her eyes, she'd rather pay with cash than cash-in her dignity. "What a peculiar arrogance." The Druid's golden eyes regarded her with interest. "Must pride and power always occupy the same pod? In your Human Circle, does might and wealth make one superior to one's kin?" "Not abstractly, not in a society where all have equal rights," Gwen replied with a hint of cheek. "But explicitly, prestige and power can purchase equality by the bundle." Sanari grew confused by her Gwenism. "A contradiction, I see. Is your hypocrisy because Mages in your society are inherently superior to your non-magically affiliated citizenry? How irrational. Doesn't one engender the other? Mages don't grow on trees, I assume." "Wait up," Gwen asked in turn. "Don't the Hvítálfar lord over the Träälvor?" "If you mean whether the Träälvor come to us in times of need," Sanari replied. "Then, yes. Though not often. The Circle Council may grant a boon if the need is dire." "But the Hvítálfar do not consider themselves superior to the Träälvor?" Gwen asked. "I mean, in terms of magic, lore, lifespan, power..." "It's truer to say the Träälvor consider themselves inferior." Sanari searched for her next words. "As kin, we think of them kindly, of course, though they have their duties, just as we have ours. I would not presume to impose a Träälvor Ranger, for instance, though most would be happy to do my bidding. Likewise, among our woodland cousins, some are proud as well, such as the Keepers of the Circles. They resist the hierarchy their people revere acutely— it's a complex affair." "I bet." Gwen took mental notes. "I like you, Sanari. You're not snobbish and self-important despite holding such a position in your society. If that applies to your people in general, then the Hvítálfar sound too good to be true. I mean, do all Hvítálfar exist in an egalitarian commune?" "I do not think your human analogy would work," Sanari disagreed with her summation of fantasy communism. "This harmony is merely how things are. Take this notion of elevation which you prize so dearly. For our kin, the seasons turn as a water-wheel, and that which blooms shall wilt to bloom again. Why fight for the fecundity of the moment? An irresponsible desire for unnatural harvests will only poison the soil. Things fade, creatures die, trees perish. Nought exists for long but for the aeons. Our disinterest in pride and prestige isn't something we consciously pursue: it exists as the Accord; as holistic as our genesis from the World Tree." "Like a... Great Chain of Being?" Gwen was beginning to feel that her fellow Humans had thrifted plenty of ideas from their knife-eared neighbours. "Perhaps. It is difficult to explain to an outsider." "I see…" Gwen attempted intellectual empathy, but lacking the necessary context, she felt like an illiterate rube trying to unpack Keynesian economics. "The Bloom in White will be a better instructor than I, I am sure," Sanari assured her. "I am yet unlearned in the Accord. Perhaps I shall apply myself in the next cycle." The two walked on until they reached the centre of the tourist town. At the crossroad of Trawsfynydd's square stood the Heart Oak, so named because it was the tallest tree visible to the guests, and also because it served as the conduit between Trawsfynydd and Tryfan. "Before we head inward. Are there any taboo subjects? Despite being an Alfarphile, Ollie's not much more knowledgable on Elven etiquette beyond trade basics. His sorcerous thesis was on Elven integration of the Imperial Magic System, not Elven intrigue." "When speaking to the Bloom, you should be yourself," Sanari stated. "The Lady has met generations of Humanity's finest. Your genuine nature will be an important distinction." "I'll do my best. Are we climbing the World Tree?" Gwen's eyes sparkled. "Is it true that it's a multi-tier Grot?" "Yes. No, we will proceed directly to the Sun Sanctum," Sanari informed her. "We're not sight-seeing?" Gwen felt taken aback. "You are not a guest in Tryfan, not yet." Sanari's face retained its unflappable serenity. "Your talents are too peculiar to be left unchecked. Your Void beast, if left alone, will bring great alarm to our insular kin." "Caliban?" Gwen touched a finger to her heart. "Cali is perfectly tame." "My concern isn't for the wellbeing of our people." Sanari smiled. "Enough talk. Let us proceed." Ahead, the branches of the Heart Tree lowered themselves, entwining until a threshold formed. Sanari incanted in Sylvan, a language Gwen could comprehend only thanks to her Master's Ioun Stone. Soundlessly, an emerald portal sprung into being in the space between the twisting branches. "Is this Tree Stride?" Gwen eyed the portal. The Druid extended a hand, saying nothing more. Swatting the butterflies alighting in her stomach, Gwen arrested the Elf's elongated digits, mindful of her imminent close encounter of the Galadriel kind. In her old world, Gwen had travelled the breadth of its cities. Inevitably, curated by Tripadvisor, she had detoured through innumerable cathedrals from the medieval Notre-Dame de Paris to the ultra-modern Catedral de Brasília, all of which had succeeded in making her cynical heart swell with wonder and worship. Such was her immediate impression of the Sun Sanctum, the interior of which reminded her of these vainglorious edifices. As with her visitation of the Hagia Sophia, her vision first ascended toward the Elf hall's apex, a curved, bell-shaped roof grown from warped leaves two storeys tall, joined by colossal stems to form an organic, semi-translucent octogramic dome that filtered the radiance. From there, pillars composed of polished white oak, carved with what Gwen presumed to be narrative tapestries of Elven lore, cascaded downward as towering monoliths of ivory, seamlessly sprouting from the ground level. The floor itself was formed of soft moss, creating an overlay plusher than any carpet. Inside, the open space was sweet with mana. Nearer the exterior, in place of curtains, Sylvan Glyphs, gentle in their channelling of latent, mysterious energies, hovered between the columns, beyond of which an unbound and uncanny vista made Gwen gasp. The cosmos of the World Tree was without a horizon. A little disturbed, Gwen looked away, refocusing her attention toward the temple's centre. As with her Master's Grot, there was a tree in the Sun Sanctum's loci, a yew tree from the looks of the leaves; an expected detail, considering Britain was famous for yews, whose wood was famous for producing bows, a staple armament of the Träälvor's Ranger Wardens. The yew tree itself was enormous, with a height Gwen guessed to be six or seven storeys and a vast circumference of two football fields. When an unseen wind passed, its verdant foliage susurrated as she and Sanari crossed the mossy underlay. Gwen clutched the hem of her dress. Earlier, at the Hierophant-Initiate's advice, she had forsaken her battle armour for a tunic-skirt that suited her humble purpose, a one-piece cut above the knee in crow-black with white-winged collars. For footwear, she entrusted her Mary Janes, a veteran of her many ordeals, to possess the grit and luck to see her through an Elder being's scrutiny. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. As they came closer, she noted the gentle incline of the floor and heard the music of tender water flowing beneath the tiles. The air inside the lowered depression was noticeably crisper, humid but pleasant, abundant with vital mana. Each step Gwen took, her body felt lighter, as though buoyed by new life, wearing away the lingering fatigue from conjuring her Shoggoth. "Where is the er… White Flower?" Gwen asked of her hostess, her eyes scanning for what may be a colossal Alraune. Sanari bowed in the tree's general direction. Gwen bowed likewise just in case. Then her host whispered something about "Bloom eternal", took a step backwards, and was away. "Sanari?" Gwen's eyes followed the Druid until, a safe distance away, the ripple of a Tree Striding portal swallowed the Hierophant-Initiate. "… Okay." Gwen returned her attention to the tree. "Em... Your Ladyship! I am Magus Gwen Song of Cambridge. Apprentice of Henry Kilroy. Please forgive my informality. How may I address you?" "In your tongue, 'Your Grace' will suffice…" came a chirping voice from somewhere in the shadowy alcove. Gwen looked up. There was a blooming white flower sitting on a rough and pitted branch jutting from the giant yew. "Up here, dear child." The same voice filled her head, negating the distance. "The solar wind from the Plane of Radiance is quite nice." Gwen accepted the invitation, thinking of Ollie begging her with tears in his eyes to obey every word waggled forth by the Tongue of Tryfan. Gingerly, with great care not to touch a single leaf, she flew upward until she drew level with her interviewer. "Your Grace—" Gwen's voice caught in her throat as her mind briefly turned white. Solana's divinity, simply put, was on par with Galadriel, dispelling the disappointment she felt for the worldly Sanari, leaving Gwen in stunned silence for a jaw-dropping second. Against the yew's trunk, Lady Solana sat, regal as the noblest metal, pretty as the rarest flower, so absurdly brilliant that Evee would appear as common as a clucking hen besides a dignified crane. Was it Solana's radiance? Gwen wondered, circulating both Void and Essence to dull the impact of the Demi-god's glamour. Her effort at self-control took several breaths, gradually building in strength until the saintly aura of the Lady dimmed enough for her to rediscover her senses. "Well done, child of Kilroy," the voice in her head whispered again. "I had expected nothing less." Gwen swallowed. Now close enough to touch, she could see that the Bloom in White had the same atypical features as her kin, only more pronounced. From her head, Solana's hair flowed fair and flaxen, wild and untethered as spun Mithril from her shoulders to her waist. Upon her elfin face, a pair of blazing golden irises looked out toward her impertinent guest; sagacious with experience, but tender with benevolence. Below her Grecian nose, Solana's mouth was small and petite, gifting the ageless leader an unsettling youth. Finally, past her waspish waist, from the flower-pocket of her folded dress, a graceful pair of legs dangled over the branch, ending in a pair of dainty feet, its soles tinted green with sap. "Here." The Bloom in White patted the place beside her. "Let us take a look at you." Gwen demurely sat. "Don't be shy," the High Priestess spoke, this time the words issuing from her lips. "No harm shall come to Henry's legacy." Gwen shimmed closer, wincing when the rough bark stabbed into her unprotected thighs. "First time sitting in a tree?" Solana glanced at the bark. Without warning, her spiky saddle mutated into something with the softness of duck down. "I do apologise. Our bodies care little for creature comforts." Gwen nodded, relieved that she wasn't about to be rubbed raw by a Mythic-class yew's envenomed protrusions. "I haven't scaled a tree since I was a child. The one time I did, my mother skinned me alive for ruining a forty-HDM dress." "Hahaha…" Solana laughed. "How candid you are. Your Master was never one to speak his mind. Did the two of you get along?" "Very well, strangely enough." She instantly felt a strange kinship with the demi-human deity, especially the way Solana managed to pronounce "Henry" so effortlessly and with natural ease. "Is that so?" The Tongue of Tryfan hugged a knee against her chest, just touching the tip of her sculpted chin. "I've been well-informed of your history and your achievements, Gwen. Both from sources working for us, and from your allies. In exchange, I judge it fair that you may ask me a few questions before I seek answers for mine." "I would like to know about my Master." Gwen wasn't one to look a gift-goddess in the mouth. "That is, please tell me about the Mage Henry Kilroy and what you know of him." "You don't… know?" Solana tilted her head. "How curious. Henry has two other Apprentices, does he not?" "I'll be blunt." Gwen used her hands to mime her lack of knowledge. "Master cared not for our past, and we did not ask about his. I didn't even know about Sobel— or at least not the whole story— until some psycho called Mark sent me to the slums as bait. Master occasionally waxed about his old post-Tide days, but that's about the extent of it." "What would you like to know?" There were so many questions simmering at her throat that Gwen took a moment to try and place the unreadable mien of the serene-looking spiritual leader of the Elves. Solana's amicability felt different from Sanari's polite caution. Where the Hierophant had the demeanour of a middle-manager, Solana felt akin to a professor overseeing a precocious pupil. Wary of the cosy vibe they had going on, Gwen reminded herself that the female demi-human in front of her wasn't an elderly babulya, but something as old as the Nazarene, if not older, and according to Ollie, the Vessel of a tree that may have existed since tyrant lizards stalked the earth. Likewise, she had to remind herself that here was a being on another tier of existence. Even if she were to become Gwen-E-Buffett, she might not move the Bloom in White in the slightest. Here was a woman that had seen the Egyptian dynasts rise and fall, witnessed Caesar butchered in the streets of Rome and the Knight Templars burnt to smithereens by the Djinn Marauders of the Elemental Sea. If she were to insult the Bloom in White, such a quake would ripple through the Mageocracy that England's Queen herself, armed with the faith of the Commonwealth's billion-strong citizens, would move to placate her ire— which may involve atomising their Void sorceress. "My question." Gwen made firm her trembling voice. "Is what questions may I ask. What topics are taboo, and how much time do we have?" "Hahaha…" Solana's trilling laughter sent the tree into a shivering sway. "Thou truly art a strange one." "… I've been told to tread like a Träälvor ranger," Gwen confessed, laying the blame on Ollie as her mind turned. "After all, your Ladyship is the oldest and most powerful being I've had the pleasure of meeting." "You lie well." Lady Solana's lips formed a thin line, not unlike a headmistress catching her head girl midway through a fag. "Er…" Gwen felt taken aback by the sudden change in tone. "The most powerful Mage I know is Gunther, or maybe Master, so…" "Half-truths? How Henry of you..." Solana touched a finger to her chin. Her holinesses' digits, Gwen noted, were without adornments; instead, she could just make out pale markings in Sylvan forming intricate floral patterns that extended up Solana's wrists like Henna, with the rest hidden by her floral tunic. Gwen acutely felt the blood hammering at her temple. Should she just blurt her 'patron' out when she had no idea what the stakes were? Was Almudj friendly or otherwise to the Elves? If Solana replied with "Ah, old Elf-muncher, very cheeky, we lost millions to that bastard... you bitch..." Would she be fucked? "Child..." Concurrently, alarming thoughts of Ollie screaming "Why-why-why!" flashed through her teaming brain. Gwen agonised over her imperfect awareness. If Solana was as old as they say, shouldn't she know Almudj from the old days? Would the Mythics enjoy a once per-thousand-year meeting of the oldies, ala Golden Girls, to discuss the present state of Terra and the damned new kids on the block ruining the garden? "Your Grace..." Gwen took the plunge. "Are you familiar with the Rainbow Serpent?" "I know of it." "Al—mu—dj—" Gwen uttered the syllables in the manner of a gipsy fortune teller. "Almudj!" "A true name for mortal ears, but one I have never had the pleasure of address." The Tongue of Tryfan's confession filled Gwen with equal volumes of surprise and relief. "Perhaps Milord Tyfanevius will know. He is older than I." The bower grew turbulent, forcing Gwen to grasp the closest branches to keep her balance. "No matter. As promised, let us first converse about Henry." Lady Solana slid from the branch, Feather Falling to the ground with the grace of a petal bore by a gentle wind. "Who is Tyfanevius, your Grace?" Gwen inquired, following the Lady. "My consort and our Guardian. Do not fret, child. He's been sleeping for a long time, albeit with one eye open." Before their feet even touched the ground, whatever forces that fed the enormous yew obeyed, germinating a table and three chairs. "Do remove your leather garments," Solana advised. "The moss of our Sun Sanctum is a rare pleasure for the younger races." Gwen willed her shoes and socks away, not wanting to perform the crass act of removing clothing mid-descent. When she landed, what met her was an immense nostalgia. At once, Gwen realised that Henry likely had modelled his Grot after the Sun Sanctum, for the design of the table and the chair were the exact ones she had enjoyed, and the positioning of these familiar-looking furniture was also precisely as she had recalled. Together with the dappled garden-grove, she could almost imagine her old life revisited, only this time her instructor was an ageless Elf Queen, and Sufina, she supposed, a world-topping tree. Solana took her seat, as did Gwen, leaving the chair of her 'consort' jarringly empty. The Elven priestess waved her hand over the table. Instantly a feat of patisseries materialised. Gwen audibly gasped, her vision made blurry by the sheer volume of calories presented in one sitting. "Incredible! What manner of a spell conjures floral cakes? Is this high-tier Druidism?" The Elf gave her a puzzling look, then flashed a wood-band Storage Ring by raising a hand. "Oh…" Gwen turned as scarlet as the blossoming desserts. "Feel free to partake," Solana commanded. "I had these prepared. Do not mind my abstinence. I ate months ago." Gwen fought down a cheeky impulse to ask the Lady for dieting tips. Gently, she broke off a petal of crystallised sugar and delivered the morsel to her lips. A vivid sensation of verdant vitality suffused her tongue. "Vessel." Solana studied her with her golden irises. "Tell me what you know of Henry." Collecting her thoughts, Gwen did her best to narrate her and Kilroy's first meeting, their conversation about the Middle Path, and her Apprenticeship. When prompted, she expanded on Marc Chandler, his sister, Elizabeth Sobel, Noosa Heads, and finally finishing with a first-hand account of Henry's demise in their desperate push to regain control of the Tower. When Gwen finished, the immortal Elf sighed. Above them, the yew shivered, shedding a small sun shower of leaves. "What a needless and wasteful loss." Solana shook her head with far more human emotion than Gwen had expected the Demi-God of possessing. Gwen took another sugary petal to banish the oppressive melancholy, finding the vitality rush as therapeutic as it was intense. Solana waited for her to finish. "Your Master, Henry Kaine Foster Kilroy." The leader of the Elves of Snowdonia spoke after a half-minute of contemplation, dusting off the ancient history archived within her mind. "Is the eighth grand-scion hailing from the line of Morden. Do you know Arch-Mage Morden, child?" Gwen could almost recite the biography by heart, as Morden had been one of Henry's favourite casters. "Yes. Malcolm Kane Morden, Arch-Mage. A nineteenth-century Scottish Highlander, originally from the Greyhawk Citadels in Suilven. He was the Master of a failed alliance called the Circle of Eight." "Well done." Solana appeared pleased by her knowledge. "Continue..." "He hunted Trolls and Giants and was... formidable as a Mage and a politician. Morden was against the English Crown and wanted Scotland's independence. In the end, he disappeared, failing to stop the English, but leaving behind numerous books and spells, and a Noble House that prospers even now..." "Also— Morden was a signatory of the Accord," the High Priest appended her recollected biography. "A sorcerous purist, and a progenitor of the Magic you employ, not to mention the Towers you build. And of course, he was Henry's grandsire." Though Gwen's non-monetary arithmetics suffered, she did her best. "I fear you've lost me. Do you mean Morden was Master's progenitor?" Lady Soalan smiled. In response, Gwen's hands grew clammy. "May I ask what year Master was born?" "We are not familiar with the calendar of the Nazarene," the Elf spoke without a single indication she found Henry's purported age to be peculiar. "But I do recall that it was the same decade Alexandrina Victoria of Hanover took to the throne." "But that's..." Gwen recalled from her high school propaganda class that Alexandrina Victoria was the maiden name of her Majesty, Queen Victoria. "That's... that's 1838!"

Gwen's immediate gut-instinct was to deliver the diatribe that her Master's age was "impossible!". But then she recalled Walken's gaslighting, and that her present conversation partner wasn't speaking from hearsay, but delivering a first-hand gospel. "Though it may belie belief, your Master was unimpressive at first, though through no fault of his own," Solana's voice was melodic and pleasant. "The stability and applicability of Morden's prototype Imperial Sorcery, a method he experimented on those of his bloodline, suffered from growing pains. The Arch-Mage himself could access each of the Prime Elements, but no scion had inherited potential. For a Mage on a mission to change magic, the loss of his craft was one of his dire fears." "What happened to Morden?" Gwen asked. "He came to us," Solana stated the obvious. "He wasn't the first to be invited into the Accord, and he certainly wasn't the last." "May as I ask what the Accord is?" "You may not." Solana politely halted Gwen's line of enquiry. "Right." Gwen wondered if she could ask why not. "Pray, continue." "Henry began life as an unimpressive Water Mage, a noviciate in Suilven, where Morden had spell-shaped the mountain into a Dungeon. The Arch-mage ran an academy there in its depth, though most of the Acolytes were either his kin or tributes from the Scottish Clans and their Irish allies. Adolescence was a difficult time for Henry, for Morden's methods of uplifting scions leaned heavily on mutual competition and survival of the fittest. True to his brutal purpose, the Arch-Mage preferenced students whose violence and conviction was necessary for repelling the rapidly expanding Mageocracy. For this purpose, Henry's talent was late-blooming. When eventually his Affinity for chimeric-sorcery such as Demi-human magic came to light, it earned the ire of his siblings." "Fortunate for them, your Master's predilection for pacifism ill-matched his sibling's ambitions. When he was old enough to quest away from Suilven, which I would venture to guess some two Human decades, your Master did just that. He took on the maiden name of his mother, from Clan Kilroy, and began a journey throughout the known world." "During his aimless wandering, Henry awaken to the promised bloodline powers of his progenitor, venturing far and wide at a time when Human sorcery was still esoteric and extraordinary. From decade to decade, he lived through battles and sieges, fortunes both weal and woe, living in perpetual conflict against men, Magical Beasts, Demi-folk, and even the Elder kin on several occasions. Those tales I shall not relay, but sufficient to say, Henry survived disastrous pitfalls, betrayals, misfortunes by fire and field and near-deaths by the hundreds. Once, he was captured by Svartálfar in that lightless Enclave in Amazonia and escaped by Polymorphing into a Toucan. He rode with Centaurs in Mongolia, hunted Ogres in Zambia, drank wine with the Elemental Princes of long-perished Persia, and was for a year an indentured thrall of a Vampire in Romania. He loved to tell tales, and for us Hvítálfar who rarely ventured from our sacred Grove, his tales made him popular and welcome. With relish, Henry told us that in Jotunheimen, he met our Ljósálfar cousins, that their Grove was white and fair and touched the heavens with its pale branches. In their fair company, he fought the Storm Jötunn and drank a stolen Elixir brewed by their maidens from the gall of White Dragons. In a latter decade, he resided within the Dwarven Halls of Bavaria, helping to map the Murk, bumping his head in the underworld's rough quarries and forging a deep friendship with the master crafters of Deepholm. And of course, who could forget that Henry spent a spell in Singapore, hunting the Mermen that preyed on the fishermen there, ultimately meeting his partner, Lady Sufina." Solana spoke without pause, her breath coming in light and full of nostalgic remembrance. Beside her, Gwen listened with rapt fascination. "With each decade that transpired, Henry's craft grew. With each Element awakened to his Astral Soul, he came closer to becoming Morden's true heir. But of course, far from his prowess with sorcery— it was his web of alliances that made him such a threat to his siblings." "So... the true treasure was the friends Master made along the way..." Gwen added drily. "Well observed," Solana agreed with a heartfelt nod. "When finally Henry came to us nearer the end of Victoriana's reign, his exploits were well known among Magic users. Even our Träälvor kin on the mainland spoke nothing but praise for his aid in restoring balance to their Groves and in fending off the encroachment from the Eastern Undead. Eventually, the Council deemed Henry important enough to participate in the Accord— and so he arrived at Tryfan, as foretold." "It was here that he met his dying grandsire, who had abandoned his worldly affairs to remain in the shelter of the World Tree, hoping to extend his life. Here in the Grot, Morden offered the 'runt' who had rejected his surname his legacy. What Morden failed to comprehend in his isolation was that among your Master's friends, most were from the Mageocracy itself, his mortal enemies. That and your Master loathed the 'might makes right ideology' espoused by Morden's remaining scions." "Henry Kilroy's stone-hearted denial of his grandfather was what rang the Arch-Mage's death knell. It's peculiar how mortality unmakes a man. When Morden first came to us, his noble dignity was enough to fill the Sun Sanctum. On the day he expired, he was howling with rage, robbed of all sense by senility." "In the decade that followed, Morden's succession wars rocked the upper stratum of England's sorcerous society. There's even a Dungeon named after his lost academy— Morden's Magnificient Mausoleum. Ultimately, with Kilroy aiding his friends from the Mageocracy, Morden's legacy was not only taken but integrated into Humanity's need for a way to mass-produce sorcerors— and so, the Imperial Magic System came to be." "I beg your pardon, your Grace." Gwen raised her hand. "My House Mistress, the Marchioness of Ely, says that the Hvítálfar had a hand in that." "The succession Dungeon?" Solana asked. "The basis of the IMS," Gwen clarified. "Did the Hvítálfar contribute to its development?" "Ha!" The Bloom in White chuckled. "Very perceptive, but I am afraid only a member of the Accord may know the answer to that question." "I see… " Gwen curbed her curiosity. The Lady remained jovial. "Understandably, Henry's donation of the priceless trove of sorcerous invocations from one of Humanity's principal Arch-Mages placed him firmly at the heart of the Mageocracy. In this way, he found a calling of sorts while travelling between Europe's institutions, pushing the idea of a unified system of magic, supported by 'Towers', as his grandsire had envisioned, to bring together humankind's magical minds. " "Such lofty ideals naturally saw equal opposition. Henry wasn't the only one who had the idea of unifying Humanity under a common banner. In direct opposition to Henry was the Disciples of the Eighth School of Magic— the School of Necromancy." "Holy shit— " Gwen's green eyes grew wide. "Pardon the Dwarven, your Grace; Necromancy was an official SCHOOL of Magic? " The Elven priestess waited for Gwen to recover. "For our friends in the Mageocracy, I shall abstain from certain details. Suffice it to say, your kin's theocratic schism was the result of existential conflict between the School of Necromancy and the Primary Schools of the IMS. For the Hvítálfar, any magic that prevents natural renewal is the sorcery of heresy and blasphemy. Yet, the "Craft" endures as one of the two 'origin' sorceries of your kin, for death and the exploitation of life has always been a part of Humanity's ascension. For your ancestors, Necromancy had come as naturally and unbidden as the belief-sorcery you call Faith Magic, and indeed, the two were seldom performed apart." Gwen took another petal of flower cake to calm her nerves, her mind reeling at the epiphanic realisation. To think that the vile sorcery she had witnessed in Northern China was not some ancient evil awakened from a tomb but the driving force of human civilisation. "In the Great War that followed, your Master laid the groundwork for his Towers and his Path of Pacifism. Though his participation was indirect, I do not doubt that Henry suffered. In the 'war to end all Necromancy', many of his colleagues died vainglorious deaths, especially the young and the impressionable who were told to fight for Humanity. A few of his companions had to perish twice once the Necromancers reanimated them. By the war's end, millions of lives were extinguished, not even our kin were spared. In the Eastern Mainland, a dozen Groves in Belovezhskaya was turned to service the 'Craft'." "After that, we had hoped your kin would break for breath." Solana sighed. "But Humanity is a race that feeds on death and destruction. After an eye-blink spent rebuilding, yet another conflict broke out across the continent, this time fuelled by something far more primal and instinctual." "Geo-political escalation?" Gwen ventured a guess. "Greed." Solana shrugged her shoulders. "With the IMS finally triumphing over both Necromancy and Faith Magic, your kind ushered in another so-called Golden Age. Post-war, many of Europe's Demi-races had been weakened by the Undead, leaving their resources ripe for plunder. According to Henry, innovations in Magitech, such as the ease offered by the supermassive sea-faring vessels, enabled mass migrations and wide-spread colonisation. Forgive my consternation, child, but your race spread into our world like a fungal infestation. If we measured the losses suffered by the denizens of Terra, your kin's imperialism would outperform the Undead by magnitudes." "Yeah, I can imagine that," Gwen acknowledged with ambivalence. "Somebody wiser than I once said that only when the last oak has been cut down, the last fish caught, the last river poisoned, only then will Humanity comprehend that one cannot eat Crystals. I think there's a lot of sustainability management the Mageocracy needs to introduce. Corporate governance too." Lady Solana clapped thrice in succession to express her agreement with Gwen's summation of the Human race. "During the Undead recovery, Henry took on a much more hands-on role in directing events in the outside world. His visitations to Tryfan grew less frequent as his duties grew burdensome. When war broke out again, we Hvítálfar all but closed our portals to all parties. This time, fearing for our Träälvor kin on the mainland, ultimatums were delivered to your Queens and Chancellors and Chairmen that we would break Humanity's back if a single Grove fell to your wanton appetite for conflict." "From the fact that we're still here, I take it the warring factions took great care?" "They did, but still, your war's brutality shook us to our Core. This time, what your kin exacted on one another made the Undead Plague seem kind in comparison. From what Henry told us, tens of millions more folk perished. Your Master, who had dreamt so long of restoring peace, was shattered by the aftermath." "Did more of Master's friends perish?" "Far worse," Solana said sadly. "When Henry returned to us, he was changed. Fearing for the mind of Morden's heir, I spoke in private with Sufina; the Dryad lamented that this time, the war was no longer a clash of sorcery, but resource and politics. In the course of Henry's friends murdering one another, your Master had been caught in the middle, with both sides claiming him as their own. In the end, he watched companions he had known for half-a-century perish without lending his power to either. According to Sufina, their surviving kin hated Henry for his neutrality and blamed him for their loss." Her Master's ubiquitous melancholy flashed across Gwen's inward eye. In light of this new information, she grew tickled by the irony that she was learning more about history from an Elf Queen than any Human history book. "I think I am starting to see where Master got the idea for the Middle Faction from," Gwen muttered to herself, shaken to her core by the possibility that one day, two people she loved might engage in a deathmatch— and that both would turn to her with desperation and demand her aid. "What did Master do after the Pan-European War?" Solana exhaled. "Henry Kilroy did not grace the Tree of Tryfan again, not until Vynssarion's madness poisoned the Prime Material." "Vynssarion?" "Ancient Vynssarion is… or was, the Guardian Wyrm of the Black Sea. It was he who brought on the Beast Tide." Gwen's fingers twitched. Finally, the culprit behind the trouble facing Humanity today had a name! And did the Bloom say "Guardian"? Did that mean the Black Dragon had the same job as her hubby, Tyfanevius? Did this mean the source of the Beast Tide was a case of Humans logging too deep and greedily, only in place of the Balrog, they found a pissed-off Dragon? "Could I ask—" "You may not." "— because I am not a part of the Accord?" "That, and because there is nought else to be said. You are likely more familiar with your Master's exploits in the wake of Vynssarion's madness," Solana stated. "Henry did return to us just once, though this time he had a young bride in his arms, a Void Sorceress." Gwen felt her hair stand on end. "Can I ask..." Solana waited for her finish. "Right, Accord." Gwen leaned back, taking a moment to appreciate the story of her Master's life. Henry was a very long-lived, very busy man, but in the end, so much of his ambition died with him, bequeathed to Gunther, Alesia and herself. In that way, her Master had relived the same karmic route taken by Morden. "Thank you for the story, your Grace. May I enquire how I may be of service?" Satisfied, at least for now, Gwen moved the conversation forward. "We would like to verify your Patron— and its intentions," Solana said. "This is very important for our continued amicability." "I welcome the examination." Gwen nodded. "But I hope you'll believe me when I say that Almudj does whatever it wants, whenever it wants. I am stumped in so far as communication with it goes." "I am sure it cares for you greatly, child. Though I must ask, where or what is your Conduit? How are you drawing on 'Almudj's' Essence without it?" "Maybe...." Gwen touched a finger an inch below her heart. She thought about her chimeric Astral Body. "Maybe… the magic was inside me all along?" "That is not how a Vessel's contract functions." Solana appeared perturbed by her casual ignorance. "A Conduit is a token of a kinship. Where is yours?" "A long time ago, Almudj had given me one of its Rainbow Scales…" Gwen explained how she had received the scale, then briefly debriefed the High Priestess on her apocalyptic baptism at Sydney. "… after the Grot disappeared, I had no way of seeking it out. Would Almudj know where its scale has gone?" Gwen sighed. If only Conduit items from Mythics possessed a "Find my iPhone" function. Over the cakes and ices, Solana studied her with her golden irises. With mindful patience, Gwen marvelled at the perfection of the Bloom in White's Demi-divine form. The Elf was so perfect that she seemed to Gwen more so a manifested ideal than a physical being. After a brief lull in the conversation, her fellow Vessel raised a delicate hand. "I see. If there is no recourse, then we shall probe your Patron by hailing it directly. Take my hand, child." Gwen did as was told. The sanctum pulsed. At once, Gwen sensed the flow of life beneath the moss transmuted through her tender toes, even now digging into the plush, emerald growth. From the gathering mana, Gwen understood that the all-enveloping World Tree of Tryfan sustained not only the Sun Sanctum but the pocket plane itself. The yew overhead grew verdant, sprouting new leaves as the vital energy summoned by Tongue of Tryfan coursed through her body, slowly forming a viridescent pool of Essence in her hand. "Drink." "From your hand?" Gwen's cheeks grew scarlet at the vengeful visitation of karma. To think that so suddenly, the shoe was on the other foot and that she would be the Dede. It was one thing to make a duck drink from her hand, but for herself to lap a puddle of Essence swimming in the palm of a Demi-divine goddess? "Partake," the Elf commanded. "Tis the Elixir of life." There was a barely a ladle's worth of Essence, though cradled in the Bloom's hands, its opaque surface appeared depthless. With her hands touching the Elf's, Gwen took a deep breath, filled her lungs until her sides stung, then dived in. Though the collated pool was tiny, Gwen felt as though caught in the power of a receding maelstrom. Untethered, she plunged into that viscous, viridian billabong, pushing herself deeper, stroke by broke, her cells awakening to the passage of a distant time. Her lungs grew gills, breathing not oxygen, but life itself, opening like flower petals as the skin of her bosom parted, revealing blades of tightly packed leaves, their membranes inhaling and exhaling, photosynthesising the primordial air. Her proud white stems fused, turning tanned and sturdy, her bones metamorphosing into one strand of continuous fibre. Oh, sweet Eden! Came the exultant thought as the solar winds rustled her leaves, filling her with an unbidden, unspeakable joy. The beauty of understanding suffused her welded spine, now one unbroken petiole, engendering an eyeless comprehension of the world, an in-sucking genesis of air and atmosphere, emerald and flamboyant; her tips just breaching the firmament and her roots digging at earth's core. She was a part of an impossibly tall Tree. And below its Plane-spanning bower, where its wall-like roots coiled through the squelch and peat of the world's soil— she saw the sleeping Serpent, her Guardian, her protector. Sleek and coiled the Serpent slept in its cold dark den of no breath nor light with one eye watching the world. Its twin nostrils, clad with viridian scales in cascading hues from lime to juniper, inhaled the scent of the intruder. Soundlessly, it stirred; its colossal tongue slithered out to taste her presence. Concurrently, the ocular scale protecting its rotund orb of metallic gold slowly retracted, revealing a slitted pupil as depthless as the Void. Tyfanevius— the name came to her in a flash. Consort to Solana. Guardian of the Tree of Tryfan. Gwen recoiled from the Serpent's alien gaze, obeying an ancient reflex as old as human history. The snake opened its mouth to speak— _CRACK!_ From the cloudless firmament came a sound of sudden thunder, its rippling blow transmuting through every fibre of her woodland being. Across the rift of space and time, her slumbering kin had arrived to accost whatever had dared to penetrate her Astral Body. _Hiss!_ The Serpent below the tree spat at the heavens. It did not like strangers. _HISSAK!_ Came the reply, filling the space of no space. From Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja, from the unformed place, free from time, free from land, where the old ones sleep, where the old songs sang the world into being, Almudj proclaimed its displeasure. The sky split. The earth shook. From within the abyssal crag of heaven, a rainbow-hued head emerged, making minute the opposing Mythic. "Stop!" Gwen screamed at her kin, though as a tree, she had no mouth with which to make the sound. "Almudj! This one's friendly!" Almudj opened its mouth. A salmon-pink tongue, forked and as large as Tyfanevius himself distended with disapproval. From below, the jade-green viper performed likewise. Their tongues touched. "Almudj!" Gwen raised her non-existent voice. "Friend, FRIEND!" From the heavens, the sound of rumbling thunder tolled once more. Almudj is proper cheeky, Gwen recalled. And Almudj did not like strangers. Almudj will attack strangers! "Almudj! NO!" Gwen opened her eyes in just time to see a branch the size of a semi upturn the plush moss like a plough. In the Amazon, she had torn apart trees and set whole hills alight with lightning. Now, in a swell of karma, she bore witness to the result of magical thunder striking the inner manifestation of a World Tree inside the sacred home of an ageless Elf she could not afford to offend. "Arrrgh—" the Bloom in White shuddered. While her hostess steadied herself, Gwen saw in her mind's eye a vision of London overgrown into a verdant forest, its citizens hunted by zealous Hvítálfar Wardens conducting a holy war of retribution. "One man for every fallen leaf!" the Elves would cry out. "One shire for every twig!" She began to wonder if Ollie would prefer death over explaining to Lady Grey how World War III came to be when he allowed Gwen to visit the Grot. If she was to die here, Gwen lamented, then what a waste it was to spend so much time on the Isle of Dogs. The more fearful she grew, the more she felt hollow, her body weightless. Would Evee be sad? She thought. Would Yue or Alesia threaten to burn down Tryfan? Opposite, Solana steadied her breathing, her hair frayed, and her appearance the spitting image of a thunderstruck goddess. Not far, the unspent energy from Almudj's Barbanginy continued to erupt from the stricken branch, bursting into emerald fire. The wet wood, combined with the bleeding sap, sent plumes of choking smoke into the once perfect air of the Sun Sanctum. A dozen portals flashed opened nearer the sanctum's edge. Elven Wardens, dozens of them in that insectile carapace the Elves used for war, leapt into the fray. Some carried bows; others had glaive-wands; all were ready to render Gwen into mulch. With complete comprehension of her present circumstance, Gwen forced her eyes to water. "Lady Solana, I am very, very sorry. Can we fix the tree? I can provide the Essence." The Lady raised a hand. The Wardens' advance halted. "Leave us." To Gwen's immense relief, the ring of death disappeared as quickly as it appeared. "Your…" Solana appeared lost for words. Her dress was no longer pure and pale but charred at the edge where she had warded away the Barbanginy's initial eruption. "... Almudj," The Bloom in off-white continued. "It said it does not like strangers." "… no, it does not." "Your Patron is old," Solana continued. "Older than when we came to this Plane. There is little wonder it cared not for diplomacy." "Right." Gwen wasn't sure what the Lady meant, nor was she in any mood to refute her hypothesis. "Your Grace, are you alright? Are you injured anywhere?" "Almudj is as old, older than Tyfanevius, as old as the Tree, possibly, or older…" Bemused by the outcome, Solana's brows grew knitted. "If so, where's Almudj's tree? An untethered Serpent as ancient as Lord Alumdj should possess an abode to match its stature." "I may know the answer to that…" Gwen recalled the viper-like Wyrm coiled at the base of the Tree of Tryfan and tried to imagine Almudj doing the same. "Almudj's currently having a soak in a desert lake, sleeping off Sobel's Black Sun. It's an incredibly beautiful mass of water. Is the tree important?" "Always. There is always a tree, child," Solana announced with reverence. "And there is always a Serpent. Do you not know this?" Gwen searched her mind for the mythos of her old world. Despite the Nordic premise, what Solana's present invocations reminded her of was a garden, a snake and a woman tempted to take a nibble. Feeling as though standing upon a precipice of comprehension, Gwen studied Solana's face and listened to the timbre of the Elf's vocalised monologue with the special attention of a piano tuner. "Is… Lord Tyfanevius upset at all?" Acutely, Gwen was sure she had stumbled upon one of her present world's certainties. From just that glimpse of Tryfan's Guardian, she understood that on a fundamental level, her future enterprises as Almudj's Vessel might involve a great many Serpents. "He was surprised, that's all," Solana said, then closed her eyes in concentration. Acutely, Gwen felt another surge of vitality suffuse the Grot. Besides them, the flaming branch doused its flames; then the soft loam split to swallow the offending waste, stitching close with a wet squelch. In less time than it took for Gwen to plead for forgiveness, the upturned moss reintegrated into the sanctum, returning the scene to one of serenity. When she opened her golden eyes, Solana was once more without blemish. "At least now we know your Patron isn't one to be provoked," the Elf said. "That and we now have an idea who your Patron is." "The Rainbow Serpent," Gwen added helpfully. "From down under. Is that going to be a problem?" Seeing that Solana wasn't going to pursue the matter of her shattered Grot, Gwen re-equipped her backbone. "Not from Tryfan. Know that you have passed an important milestone, for we now know who your Patron is 'not'." "Who or what did your Grace suspect?" Gwen cocked her head. Solana remained mum. "Right, Accord. Gotcha." Gwen wetted her lips. "Milady. May I be so impertinent to ask if there's still the possibility of acquiring a trainer from Tryfan? My House Mistress was particular that there would be an opportunity here." "You wish to receive instruction?" The Bloom in White studied her once more. "In what sorcery? Elven Elementalism? Imperial Magic? Druidism?" "Actually." Gwen pointed to the spot where the branch had fallen. "I was wondering if there's anyone who can teach me how to speak to Almudj, or at least use this…" She circulated the Essence brimming within her body, pooling a handful on her palm. "You can secrete Essence Elixirs?" Solana's face lit up. "You, who lack even a Conduit?" "To tell the truth... I can ONLY secrete Essence Elixirs…" Gwen whispered conspiratorially. Solana extended an elegant digit from an outstretched hand, then gingerly dipped her fingertip into Gwen's brimming pool of viridescence. Gwen took a deep breath, bracing herself for yet another Barbanginy. Thankfully, even after the Elf withdrew, no thunderous tempest appeared to split the yew in twain. Her hostess flushed as the vitality leeched into her body. "This is... YOUR Essence. How strange. To produce Essence without training and lacking a Conduit— I should commend Sanari. You are a Changling." Gwen willed her face to display an ardent desire for clarification. "I have no doubt you are full of questions," Solana answered her enquiry blankly. "And indeed, we have answers, though they are neither free nor easily obtained." "Understandable," Gwen boldly replied, finding comfort in the debit and credit the Elf leader noted. "Name your price, your Grace." Solana laughed. "Henry said the same thing, once upon a time. If you wish our aid, then you will have to work through the official channels. Whether here or in your world, privilege is a boon and a burden, child. I would not presume to circumvent the rules the Circle Council has established." "What must I do?" "For that, you should converse with our Arch-Warden in Trawsfynydd. But let it not be said that we are unkind to Henry's Apprentice. For accompanying me today, I shall gift you two favours. One— you may visit your Master's abode in the Sixth Circle and recover his things. Two— I will ask the Arch-Warden Eldrin to grant you unfettered access to the Grove at Trawsfynydd so that you may further your enquiries through service. Now, before I send you to the Sixth Circle, do you have any more questions?" "Just the one." Gwen cleared her throat. "The Accord. It seems to me that many of the answers I seek rest within its unspeakable boundaries. How is one 'invited' to join?" "You are observant." Solana's expression grew stern. "But let me deliver a warning. The Accord binds the present state of your world— the Mageocracy, the Frontiers and the Wildlands. It wrote the history of your kind and mine. The secrecy is as much for our preservation as it is for yours. The knowledge that comes with being bound may bring elucidation— but not happiness nor consolation. Instead, for one in your position, excess knowledge brings only ruin. Your people have a saying, do they not? _'Beware, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge. Happy is the man who believes his hamlet to be the world—'_ Do you not wish to live happily and in harmony?" Gwen met the Bloom in White's golden eyes head-on, not deterred but stirred by the High Priestess' warning. What the Bloom in White intimated, not even Gunther or Alesia could know. If acting on the Elves' behalf meant she would get to reveal what her Master did to Sobel, then she would swallow the bitter pill in her sibling-in-crafts' stead. "Your Grace, I thank you for your love. That said, I've always been more of a big city girl and not a hamlet-dweller..." "Oh?" Lady Solana raised both pencil-thin brows. Gwen steeled her nerves. "What we should fear isn't too much knowledge, your Grace. Rather, the real danger lies in knowing too little. The _illusion_ of knowledge, your Grace. THAT is the most dangerous thing of all."

Of the Tryfan Enclave, the Sixth Circle was one of the nine Demi-Planes ringing the canopy of the World Tree and Sanari's home. When earlier the Hierophant-Masseusse had arrived to pick up their guest, she was profoundly shaken by the vision of the Void Sorceress standing beside the Bloom in White with every limb intact. From the smell of ash in the air and the chaotic swirl of mana in the sanctum, she could guess why every Master Warden from the Seventh to the Ninth Circle had answered the breach siren. What Sanari did not understand was why the Bloom in White did not immediately reject their guest from the sacred tree but commanded Sanari to shelter Gwen on route to Henry Kilroy's abandoned abode in the outer circuit of the Sixth Circle. "Woooow…" Beside the Heirophant-Initiate, the clueless Human cooed at the unbound vista, a scene that roused powerful emotions in the Circle's guest. The broad avenue upon which the pair walked was the main thoroughfare through the upper district of the Circle, offering its residents an unfettered view of the lower Circles' canopy roof. The circular branch-ways ringed the circumference of the Sixth, affording space aplenty for the Circle's some two-thousand citizens. Different to the lower districts, which housed the agricultural regions of the World Tree, the Sixth Circle was the preferred residence of Elves currently undergoing their Cycle as Druids and Elementalists. As a result, its dwellings and public buildings were large and distantly placed, with vast open tracts of level growth serving as practice fields. Their present destination was a scant-occupied quarter used by the district's most prominent casters. Within its shelter, the girl's Master had made his home a century ago, first with Lady Sufina, then with the aberrant known as Sobel. "We've arrived," Sanari notified their guest. From her ring, the Hierophant-initiate produced a Key Glyph specific to the late master caster's home. "Here is your key." The gate to the courtyard stood as a silvery carving etched onto the base of an enormous banyan tree, the kind native to Lady Sufina's island. The sapling, Sanari notified her companion, was painstakingly translocated from the island home of the Dryad by her Master. "Thank you, Sanari." The girl took the key from her hands. "Would you like to come in?" "I do not believe that is appropriate." Sanari understood that while the Bloom in White may not consider the Grot's content important, her more worldly superiors, such as Arch-Warden Eldrin or Primarch Vulmari, would possess no such qualms. To avoid getting caught between the High Priestess' carefree generosity and her superior's curiosity, Sanari figured it was best to let sleeping Nymphs lie. "Are there any Wards inside?" The girl played with the Glyph key. "Or guards, like a pissed-off mini Sufina?" Sanari searched her memory for hearsay from the last century. "I am unsure, as your Master is Human. He did enjoy a constant stream of visitors, so I do not believe his sanctum is warded to cause harm. He was perfectly safe here. The Tree of Tryfan is unassailable. Even Sythinthimryr the Red would think twice about flying too close." "That's good to know. May I use magic here?" The Void Sorceress enquired. "I'd rather play it safe and scope the place first. Master liked his secrets." "You may," Sanari gave permission, a privilege granted by the Bloom. "Please keep your sorcery localised, especially those associated with the Negative Plane. Since Master Kilroy's extinction was confirmed, his neighbours had all relocated— that's how sensitive the Hvítálfar are to mortality. I should also note that you should scour your Master's Grot for his effects. Lady Esta, the Lord of the Sixth, has expressed her desire to purge this pocket plane into the Astral expanse." "What? Why?" "This is the home of a being no longer alive, and one associated with Sobel, a betrayer of the Accord," Sanari explained with patience when Gwen knitted her brows. "Please do not take offence. The same purgation is performed for our loved ones as well. Though it has been some decades since we've had a Sending." "No Elf has died in recent memory?" the girl's tone grew sceptical. "Not even from violent deaths?" "Conflict is not our way…" "By which you mean…" Her guest's lips grew churlish. "You've freed yourselves from the need for conflict because us Humans are fielding for your kin to catch the conflicts before they can roost at Tryfan, quashing problems like the Triffids." "Perhaps." Against the girls' penetrative gaze, Sanari felt her chest constrict. It was true that since the young Human Queen took power, Tryfan's Wardens and Rangers had suffered no losses. "Is it because of the Accord?" the girl followed up. "That we act as a buffer for Tryfan?" Sanari stopped herself short before she could blurt an answer. Was the girl baiting her? The Elf reminded herself to smile. "Magus Song, your benefactor's legacy awaits within. You have only a few hours." "What's a few more hours to those unmoved by the tyranny of time?" The girl's grin made Sanari nervous. "I shall stand guard to warn away wayward eyes," she declared, ignoring the Human. "Proceed with your sorcery as you please. Do make haste. The Guardian is wary of your presence." "Thanks, I'll be done in a jiffy." The Void Sorceress concentrated, drawing crude, borrowed Glyphs in the air "Morden's Hound!" Unbidden, Sanari felt every muscle in her over-trained body tense, her Warden's senses sending whistling flares up her spine and down her limbs, tingling her fingers. Unbidden, the Druidess' breath caught in her throat as the tendons supporting her lofty skull tightened, making visible the blue veins supplying mana and blood to her brain. Simultaneously, a dreadful sensation of free-falling forced her to brace against the rugged bark of the banyan. Besides the child of Void, an obsidian horror, the likes of which Sanari had never thought she would behold, slinked into being from a slit in space. Half-maw and half-hound, the thing of living hunger was eyeless and faceless, akin to the pale wyrms that lived in the lightless caverns on the First Circle, languishingly feeding on the World Tree's roots. Once birthed, the hound panted against the girl like a pup, smearing her thighs with its grey goo. "Stay still, Buck. I'll get your buds out. Hound Pack!" The sorceress continued her unholy craft. Nine more of the terrible beasts emerged, smaller but no less ugly. Together, they sniffed the air around the tree, tasting its sacred spaces. _For the love of Tryfan, please don't wander away_ , Sanari prayed to the Bloom for support of her sanity. She had no desire to corral these things, and even if she did, she wasn't sure the execution of the dogs' summoner would sit well with the Circle Council. "Almost done," her guest assured the ashen Sanari. "Ariel! Caliban!" When the Draconic-chimaera emerged with a flourish and an "Ee!", Sanari breathed out a sigh of relief, unsurprised that a Familiar as piecemeal-proportioned as its Master existed. When the infamous Void Worm made its appearance, her disgust returned with a two-fold dose of oppression, so acute that a desire to send a Viridian Bolt to the creature's featureless face flashed across her rioting mind. "This is Ariel the Kirin," the girl explained, ruffling the chimaera's mane. "And this cutie is Cali. Say hi, everyone!" "EE!" the Kirin saluted, raising a front hoof to show its proud frog. "Shaa— Shaa!" The Void fiend opened its maw to vociferate a gut full of grey goo. _Was it staring at her?_ Sanari couldn't tell for the thing had no eyes, though its depthless throat did communicate a distressing hunger. "Magus Song, please proceed inside," Sanari begged the Void Sorceress. With so many manifested clumps of Void tainting her mana senses, Sanari felt queasy, like that one time she ate greasy Human food fried in animal fat. Thankfully, the junior Void Sorceress rallied her creatures without ado, then pressed Kilroy's key against the door to invoke the threshold. "Buck, fellers, in you go. Cali, keep an eye on them," the girl commanded her minions. "Ariel, you bring up the rear." "I hope you find what you need," Sanari well-wished the Human sorceress before stepping away, hoping her guardianship of the girl would soon end. "I hope so too." The girl smiled back. "Also, I am not going in yet. The doggies will give the place a once-over first, and I'll be using Ariel VR." With patience, Gwen waited for her dogs to settle, then entered into a dimly lit interior plated from floor to ceiling with lacquered wood. Her hounds had already sniffed through the house, using their bodies to test for traps as they slinked through the modest space in-between the clutter of furniture, which to her eyes resembled an Edwardian drama set. The epoch of the decor made perfect sense— Gwen realised once she stepped into the Grot herself, for it affirmed the Elves' assertion that Henry had furnished his home in the period before the Great War. Atypical of the colonial epoch, the interior of Henry's Grot-away-from-Grot was richly adorned, with wooden tapestries in carved oak stretching from floor to the two-storey ceiling, where exposed beams supported an ornate roof, beyond which lay the Astral expanse. From the foyer, which resembled a tunnel of geometric wood stained with dark varnish, the corridor opened into a well-lit living room library. ___A library at last! Huzzah!_ Gwen's girlish heart burst into rapture. Books! Tomes! Grimoires and volumes were lining the walls in every windowless direction! From knee-level shelves, each a meter long and as tall as the ceiling, rigid, hard-cover spines pronounced their titles. Breaking the biblio-monotony were pigeon holes; different to the shallow shelves serviced the books, these hid scrolls and parchments, sporting "X" shaped alcoves stuffed with paper. In the middle of the living room and library sat an ecliptic assortment of couches in pastel. The largest was in burgundy, while another had lime-green floral for its fabric. Against every second armrest, tasselled table lamps sat on reading stands, with semi-translucent strings of crystal hanging from ivory shades. On the floor, enormous carpets with arcane designs stretched from sofa to sofa, marking the boundaries between areas for rest and locomotion. Facing the chairs sat a fake fireplace, fully functional from the looks of the enchanted kindling still pulsing with faint mana. On the furthermost side, a set of heavy curtains covered the wall. Thoughtfully, Gwen approached a well-worn single-seater sofa in midnight blue, finding interest in the indent in the frayed cushion. Within her mind's eye, she could imagine a younger Henry, not so frail and possessed still of a heart, sitting there, a scroll in hand and a book on his lap, using Mage Hand to jot-down the results of his research. "Shaa Shaa!" Caliban slithered under a dresser, emerging a moment later with a pair of slippers. Gwen was on the verge of commending the creature when she noted from the design that these were not her Master's slippers, but ones belonging to someone with smaller, daintier feet and a predisposition for lace. "Jesus Christ! Drop em!" Caliban recoiled, letting fall the offending footwear. As quick as her empathic sentimentality had come, what were most likely Sobel's favourite comfy-shoes killed all nostalgia. "Ee! EE!" Opposite, Ariel played with the drawstrings threaded through the heavy drapes. With a careless tug, it displaced the curtain, revealing the hidden visage. A pair of unholy blue eyes stared out at the Grot's uninvited intruder. "HOLY FUCK!" Gwen involuntarily took a step back, almost tripping over Caliban. "Elizabeth Sobel!" It was Sobel— or more accurately, a portrait of Sobel, hung against the wall so that the peruser of the library, when seated to read, would always have its fairness within sight. "Thanks, Master, I hate it," Gwen complained, calming herself by circulating a mote of Almudj's Essence. The portrait of Lizzy frozen in time was younger than the Elizabeth she had seen. The face was more rounded, the chin weaker and her eyes less almond and more oval. How old was Sobel during the sitting? Gwen wondered, approaching the painting to study its details. Up close, she could see the oily textures where the hues had been expertly blended to create the semi-realistic image. From the style, she would guess that the painter must be an old master, for she had seen the same likenesses of Magisters in Peterhouse's common room. The most striking thing about the image, other than Sobel's sultry, scarlet lips, were her eyes. The Void Sorceress' orbs were a soulful baby-blue, so blue the pigments struggled to capture their vividness. And like herself, the girl within possessed pale, flawless skin, with a hint of rose to her cheeks framed by dark hair. In their youth, they did look somewhat alike, Gwen realised, ambivalent in her discovery. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Her Master must have enjoyed the countenance of his young wife, Gwen measured the vector between her Master's favourite chair and the portrait's gaze, vaguely aware of the implications. By the measure of years, her temptation to accept Elvia's companionship seemed like a completely natural thing in comparison. She cast her gaze around the room. Sanari had given her a limited timeframe, but no specific deadline. She could drag out her stay in her Master's home, but doing so excessively would outstay her welcome. If she refused to leave, would the delay piss off this Lady Esta enough to void the abode with her in it? Knowing the Elves' antipathy towards bereavement, she chose urgency. From her Storage Ring, she produced three more Large Storage Rings, each a discounted item gifted to her by Marong for looting Golos' spoils. While empty, extra rings could be stowed, but once in use, they must be worn or carried on her person. Together with her looted original, she totalled about five shipping containers of storage space. If Solana's ilk intended to purge her Master's pocket space, then it goes to reason that she should loot the joint like a bandit. Systematically, she began with the cumbersome couches and the tables, the lamps and the rugs. Once these were packed, she started with the books, running her hand along the rails so that the volumes disappeared each by each, giving her a glimpse of the titles. There were the usual suspects, such as Allenberg's Primer for Astral Theory, Otsu's Primer for Evokers and Goulding's Primer for Transmutation, though, from the leather-bound covers, she suspected these were rarer editions than the cardboard mass-manufactured Spellbooks she had held as a high school student. Other volumes had portentous titles like The Netherbane Lexicon, Old Griever's Ledger, Tome of Aquamancy, Crick's Primer of Illusions, Bilby's Spellbinding, Gärsthorn's Epi-tome, Morden's Guide to Giant Slaying, Hodking's Notes on the Mysterious of the East, Oriental Magic: A Study, among which sat extra-exotic volumes that made her question why anyone would want to know Werewolve Husbandry. Very soon, the room grew spartan but for the portrait of Sobel and a small trove of books. "Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban reported that her hounds had found something unusual. Beside Sobel's portrait, Buck and a buddy nuzzled a section of the bookcase she had yet to stow. "What is it?" Gwen came close. She double-checked the volumes the hounds were sniffing. The Void hounds possessed an indifferent sense for the olfactory, but she knew they were hyper-sensitive to mana and vitality. She waved her hand across the tomes, filing all but one volume into her ring. "Oh-ho?" Gwen placed a finger on the spine. "A pulley-book? How tacky…" The book was a lever. With a Shield spell on her lips, she took the stubby tome between her finger and her thumb, then pulled. _Clack_ Sobel's portrait swung open on silent hinges. "Not much of a secret." Gwen attempted to think as a younger Henry vicariously. "I guess this must be the reserved section." Behind the portrait was another bookshelf. This one contained both leather parchments and scrolls, as well as bound volumes in ancient leather. Here, Gwen guessed, must be the collection her Master did not want to display in public. There were a dozen alcoves in all, each holding an assortment of scrolls and books. Silently, Gwen prayed to the Bloom in White, hoping she would not be finding Henry's stash of intimate photos of his wife. With great care, she took a textured parchment from the shelve. The contents were composed in a language she did not recognise, but as her eyes browsed the page, her Master's Ioun Stone hummed, drawing on her passive mana to divine the scroll's contents. **Flesh Stitching** Conjuration Casting Time: 81 Major Invocations Range: Visual, up to 20 metres between Familiar and Target Components: Somatic, Thrall blood Duration: Instant _This spell restores the flesh of a wounded Familiar by drawing upon the flesh of a Thrall or a subdued enemy. The supplementary target must be subdued, unconscious, or willing. Vital energy will be transferred from the target to the Familiar, restoring bodily damage as well as Essence. The origin of this spell lies with the Witch-Hags of the Northern Reach Troll Tribes. See Appendix for notation on the base invocation._ There was a handwritten note at the bottom. "Further tests needed for Mass supplement variation." Gwen lowered the Spell Scroll, suddenly feeling a terrible premonition. Just to be sure, she reread the description before replacing the parchment. Unable to stifle her curiosity, she took up another. "Void Enervation..." **Void Enervation** Conjuration-Evocation Casting Time: 120 Major, 121 Minor Range: Touch Components: Somatic Duration: Instant, Channel _Through focusing Void-aligned mana, a manifested orb may suppress, paralyse, and drain the life force of any living creature the sorcerer strikes. Once touched, the target rapidly loses vitality equal to the volume-metric input of Negative-aligned mana utilised for the spell._ _Upon channelling, the subject will continue to take on Negative Drain while a portion of the subject's vitality is transferred to the caster. The Negative Drain caused by this spell cannot be restored with basic Biomancy. A Clerical invocation such as Restoration of at least the fifth tier is required._ __ This one also had a hand-scribbled note. "Enervation in its Necromantic form— see attached scroll— can be used to empower Undead Familiars. Empowerment of Lizzy's Brood Worms has demonstrated limited economy..." Gwen's spine grew gradually rigid as she finished reading the notes. Cold perspiration oozed from her shoulders, covering her neck with a snail sheen of sweat. _Conjuration? EVOCATION?_ _Wasn't this Necro—_ Touching a finger to her lips, Gwen forced herself to remain calm. Replacing the parchment, she picked up the thickest volume on the shelf. "… Samshulael's Tome of Flesh Puppetry…" She read out loud, just to double-check with her ears what her eyes were seeing through the Ioun Stone. Fervently, she opened the pages, hoping against hope that perhaps this was some perverted book about making conjugal aids. A dozen pages later, she found an entry with helpful diagrams. _Poppet of Flesh_ Enchantment-Conjuration Casting Time: 219 Major, 22 Minor, Other Range: Close Components: See attached Ingredients List Duration: Persistent _This spell details the process involved in making a servitor-ghoul (fig.1.3) with intelligence enough to serve as a serf or servant. The genesis invocation utilised for this is supplied from "Samshulael's Records of the Golem Craft of the Middle-Age Israelites, Vol.3 1892", adapted from the Tome of Creation by Arch-Mage Izikiel Shamshad._ _To begin, a Poppet is an intermediate variation of the Golem of Flesh. The caster should start by preparing a fresh corpse—_ Gwen quickly closed the book, then placed it back on the shelf. Ardently, she commanded her overimaginative mind to calm her farm. She forced herself to recall what Professor Michio Lee had said, that Necromancy without a Necromancer was just harmless knowledge. It was no different from reading The Anarchist's Cookbook on the internet out of morbid curiosity. She comprehended a few more titles. So, these are Necromancy manuals; Gwen accepted her new reality with complete candidness. If so, was the possession of such knowledge a sin? Necromancy didn't raise people. People raised people. Moreover, that Void Enervation spell sounded a treat, and from the look of it, she had also found a method to heal Ariel without the need for a healer as well, a skill that could come in handy if her dearest Kirin got wounded. As for these other volumes and scrolls; surely they're all research material? After all, her Master beat back the Necromancers with a big stick, didn't he? These must be Henry's loot! With trembling fingers, she reached out for a volume bound in leather the colour of dried blood. There was no title, and the parchment had the texture of human dermis. This one was only the thickness of her finger. Contained therein were mostly handwritten notes, followed by what looked like half-completed spells. "Exsanguination…" She read. "Each creature within the radius of this spell with an open wound…" She stopped reading to swear. Her wandering fingers returned to another segment of the treasure trove of spells. One compartment appeared more disturbed than the others, with a few scrolls that appeared frayed from frequent access. Gwen retrieved the top-most page. "Void Conduit…" She read in a monotone voice. "This modified variant of the Vampiric Siphon shows promise when utilised with Evocation. Unfortunately, its vital drain has exceedingly poor economy compared to the Nosferatu original. The limitation is likely as a result of incompatibility with Major Invocations taken from Eastern Necromancy, which originated within the Orthodox Sects of Bulgaria. Without a constitution of Undeath, the life-leeching effects rack the user's body with agony as excess…" She pulled something from the lower piles. "A Blood Thrall, even a volunteer..." She decided not to read-on for now. With a flick of her hand, she stowed the lot, fearing what Solana had said about the nature of knowledge and what would happen if an ignorant rube were to leave his hamlet for the big smoke. What are you going to do with these books? A voice in her head gently coughed. Are you going to read them? Study them? No! Gwen replied. Okay, maybe, just to read her Master's notes. That's an Apprentice's duty, wasn't it? If there's a clue about Sobel's sorcery, it was up to her and Gunther and Alesia to find out. If the secrets here should see the light of day, then the discretion lied with her and Gunther and Alesia. They were the gatekeepers of Henry's legacy. They would decide together. But these scrolls. Did this mean that Henry dabbled in Necromancy? Gwen asked herself. If so, was she a Mandatory Reporter? Did that duty come with the title of Magus or War Mage or whatever they're slathering her with these days? Power and privilege seldom came without obligation; should someone uncover that she had hidden Henry's forbidden trove of spells and lore, heads would roll. Maybe her's. Maybe another's. Somehow, she doubted Ollie could handle something of this magnitude. She closed her eyes to think. When she opened them again, rationality prevailed. There was no possible way for Henry to be a Necromancer even if he tried. Her Master lacked the means— at least Elementally. When Gwen ran the fact through her head once more, applying a fine sieve to the mass of information, another epiphany came to her. Her Master had used the Grot since before the Great War, right? The chronology of events meant that the collection had existed before Necromancy was outlawed. This stuff— all of this, the whole kit— it was necessary knowledge! As Guo would quote with a grumpy face, "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you're an idiot." Henry had a lot on his plate, according to Solana. He had to fend off the School of Necromancy while dealing with competitors in the form of his siblings, while concurrently juggling international pressure against the adoption of the IMS and the Tower systems. Then, presumably, her Master attempted to experiment with Void Magic just like Jean-Paul's adopted mother-mentor, which naturally meant digging for the deep knowledge of the past, before magic was regimented, simplified and categorised. _What to do?_ Gwen agonised, causing Caliban to writhe and turn and Ariel to squirm. Her dogs as well, agitated by her surging adrenaline, huffed and whined. For the present, she boxed the lot into her Storage Ring. Leaving her Master's smoking wands for the Elves wasn't a decision she could make. Consultation with Gunther and Alesia would take precedence, and if need be, there was no proof a Void Bolt couldn't disprove. Besides... Void Enervation sounded like one helluva boon for a Void Sorceress with a starved grimoire.

With the library looted, Gwen moved on to the smaller rooms, choosing not to overthink. In her Master's bedroom, she packed away the ornate, hand-carved Elven four-post bed, an enormous fibrous mattress, a dresser, the wardrove, bedstands, two chests of sheets, and countless bric-a-brac once belonging to the couple. These, she figured, could be used to catalyse Divination Magic for finding their owner. There were also dozens of dresses, distinctly Elven in design, as well as pants and suits in the same style worn by the male Elves Gwen had seen in Trawsfynydd. Comparatively, the guest rooms proved spartan, with little more than empty decor. When she finished, all but one Storage Ring had been filled to the brim. Standing in the library, she looked around the room once more. "… fuck it." With a gesture and a series of invocations, she conjured a Void Chakram and sliced the hinges securing the portrait of Sobel. Before the painting struck the hardwood floor, Gwen stowed the offending masterwork. "Ariel! Cali! Come back!" she dismissed the dogs and recalled her Familiars, hoping Sanari wasn't too peeved that she had taken the better part of three hours. Outside, she found the Hierophant-Initiate engaged in meditation. When she approached, Sanari's blonde lashes fluttered open, revealing the High Elf's golden irises. "Are you ready to return to Trawsfynydd?" the Druid enquired, unfazed by Gwen's liberal use of her time. "I fear your sorcery here has caused a disturbance in the District." "If I am that unwelcome, then let's go." Gwen took a long, lingering look at the real-life Elfhome, fairest of all realms, a metropolis of tree-homes born from the dream of a World Tree. She had finally gotten her glimpse at the Elves of this world; only they weren't the world-weary Lothlórien-kind or the xenophobes of Mirkwood. Beneath the cordial surface shown to outsiders, the Elves of Tryfan harboured an unfathomably cold conspiracy called the "Accord". Was anyone in London willing to snitch on her host? Gwen mulled with ambivalence. Or would she have to wait to join the Accord one day and be bound by its enigmatic stipulations? To her disappointment, her return journey down from the Sixth District of Tryfan involved the shortest possible route. From the overhanging branches, Sanari conjured a Tree Striding portal— And an eye-blink later, Gwen stood in the town square of Trawsfynydd, unceremoniously ejected from the home of her hostess. Sanari shut the portal behind them, then addressed her with cautious politeness. "Magus Song, shall I escort you to your cabin?" "Actually." Gwen turned to her guide unapologetically. By now, all desire to explore the holiday town had vanished from her mind. On her digits, the rings' contents were burning red-hot on her fingers, the anxiety melting a hole through her stomach. "Sanari, could you be a dear and shout me a Portal back to London? I have urgent business with my siblings-in-craft." Sanari blinked in surprise. "Leaving so soon? You are a cherished guest. Lady Solana made that very clear." "I know, and I am very grateful." Gwen bowed her head slightly. "Please give the Lady my apologies. The matter is urgent." "Very well." The Druidess willed into being another portal, entwining the vines to form an arched trellis of wood. "Which direction? I can take you as far as the edge of Snowdonia." "Then put me beside Bangor." Gwen did her best to conjure up a mental map. "They're still cleaning up Triffids. I am sure there's a Teleportation Circle there I can use." "I do hope you will return to us soon." Sanari activated the portal. She paused for a moment, as if listening to some distant voice, then nodded at her guest. "The Bloom in White says you are forever welcome. If you have more questions about Lord Kilroy or the Accord, Arch-Warden Eldrin would be your point of contact, as will I." "Tell her Grace I am thankful for her generosity and wisdom." Gwen bowed in the Tree's general direction. "Please do not hesitate to ask if I may be of service to Tryfan. May her bloom never wilt." "May her bloom be eternal." The Elf made the sign of the blooming flower with her fingers. "I shall await your return, future associate of the Accord." "Yes, that would be nice." Gwen bequeathed Sanari her most business-like smile before stepping through the threshold. "If I ever find out what it is." London. Westminster. Deep under the parliamentary building, a long-imprisoned Sprite, once a worshipped Demi-being, vicariously watched the world through her Crows. The world she once knew had changed much since her incarceration, so much that any other old God would have perished from confusion and irrelevance. But not so Morrigan, once Mór-Ríoghain, the foretelling phantom; she who guards the secrets to victory; the crow who is one and who is three. In the past, she had guided the Welkin, the people of the sky and the sea in that land now mapped as Ireland, bringing her folk to victory at Magh Tuireadh, leading the sons of Nemed unto the promised land. There, she taught them the hidden tongues of the Fey and the Álfar so that together with the Tuatha Dé Danann, their coalition would triumph over the Fomorian hordes. Oh, how she missed those days of glory! Lo! How she longed for the past, where she had slaked her thirst with foe-blood and adorned herself with gore, bathing in the violence directed by her hand. But all that seemed so distant now, so indistinct that Morrigan could only vaguely recall her abduction by the King called "Hal". Bested by the young monarch's demi-divinity, she had howled as his Crusaders slaughtered her folk and pillaged the home of their flower wives and daughters. After which, she had suffered the same fate— a fitting end for a Goddess who guided the 'fate' of the red-haired berserkers bawling her name. Without ceremony, her totem was uprooted and moved to London, bound and tied and smothered under the weight of a body of faith powerful enough to banish her ego at a whim. After that, for aeons, Morrigan had stared into the darkness, knowing nothing of the world's secrets, existing for no purpose other than as a myth to frighten children to bed. Until one day, she saw the light, as well as her first Ravenport. "Serve," the man spoke in the old tongue. "Or fade forever." The old Gods were not like the new ones, haughty and prideful and impassioned by martyrdom. The old Gods were honest and human and full of desire. And so Morrigan chose service. In the beginning, from what she once knew of the followers of the Nazarene, Morrigan had expected a graceless, tedious epoch of servitude. What she received instead was a trove of secret knowledge so vast and so limitless that were her anima not bound to the bedrock of Westminster's holy sanctums, her powers would grow a thousand-fold. Just how many secrets could one Kingdom hold? For three centuries, Morrigan laboured in the deep dark, commanding the crows occupying the Tower of London, plumbing the Mageocracy's secrets, growing so bloated on conspiracies that her natural curiosity had grown blunted. Even for a Goddess, the Information Age was a tiresome thing. Very recently, she had found a new bauble. Her Master, the latest head to adorn the Ravenport line, had directed her eyes toward a rare individual who possessed enough intrigue to warrant her full attention. A second Sobel. In the same manner that a Vampire Noble of the Eastern Reaches could measure the vitality of a being at a glance, Morrigan, as per her portfolio, could taste the depth of a being's secrets like a connoisseur savouring aged wine. Though her ability to warp fate had been siphoned from her, she could see the threads of destiny wrap around the girl like a vortex of Void. From Gwen's accostment by Mycroft to her adventures in Merthyr Tydfil to her elevation of the avian known as Dede, Morrigan had kept her murder of crows close to the Mageocracy's cherished specimen. The girl's talents were exceptional, and what's more, her body possessed an Essence of one older than even Morrigan— what's more, she freely gave it without care. At the thought of the sorceress' sweet elixir, Morrigan wetted the petals of her scarlet-hued lips. She couldn't directly interact with the girl. That would break the Geas placed on her by the scions of Norfolk. But a Goddess of mysteries could be very slippery if she wanted to be— especially when she and her contractor shared the same desire to plunder the girl's secrets. Down in the catacombs under Westminster, a thousand trained Diviners busied themselves filing the lastest missives into the crystal-storage that served as Morrigan's stark temple. "Go to Mycroft, sweetie," she instructed the closest crow to find the Duke of Norfolk. "Tell him that the girl has returned from Elfhome with more secrets than when she'd entered, and that a missive has arrived from the Bloom in White, expecting his presence within the week." At Bangor, Gwen took advantage of her privilege as a Class VI War Mage to commandeer the Teleportation Circle to return to Heathrow's ISTC before rerouting to Peterhouse at Cambridge. There, she flew directly to the Master's Lodge, informing the door keep of her arrival and that she had to make immediate use of the college's LRM Device. Inside, she proceeded to the private conference room, stopping only to ensure that Lady Grey was not seeking an audience, or that the device was in use. Presently, it was Tuesday, 1735 in London, meaning it was 0835 in Sydney. The time to call was perfect unless her overworked Brother-in-craft was already in an important meeting. The brass-bound device blinked, begging her patience, then a green crystal projection indicated that a connection had been made, after which Gunther's chiselled mien came into view. "Gwen?" Her Brother-in-craft wore a broad smile. "This is certainly an unexpected pleasure. You're calling from Peterhouse?" "I am." Gwen wasted no time. "I don't know if this Message is secure, so I am going to make it vague and short. I just got back from the Tree of Tryfan after looting Master's century-old home. I've picked up clothes, effects, STUFF, Sobel's old slippers, the works. They're burning a hole in my pocket, but I don't know what to do with them. I NEED you or Allie here to sort through this stuff with me." To emphasise her desperation, Gwen made full use of her expressive eyes. Gunther's comprehension was immediate. "How much did you find?" Gwen held up both hands. She had two Storage Rings on each hand, as well as her looted original. "Okay, I'll come to London," Gunther said after a moment. "Expect me soon." "Just like that?" Gwen expressed shock at her Brother-in-craft's composure. "Tower Masters have diplomatic immunity against such inconveniences," Gunther explained. "Give me an hour to clear matters here in Sydney. I'll arrive before midnight. Can you inform Maxine?" "I shall," Gwen promised. "Good. I'll meet you at Peterhouse. For now, go and find Lady Grey. You can trust her with anything relating to Henry. But don't leave the lodge nor speak of this to anyone else." "Understood. Will Alesia join us?" "No, as a War Mage like yourself, her travel restrictions take time to lift." Gunther shook his head. "See you soon, little sister." "See you, brother." Gwen smiled at the sound of the endearing title. The projection died. Gwen closed the device, took a breather, then opened the double doors. Immediately outside, she saw the gentle face of the Lady of Ely sitting by the study lounge, sipping a cup of tea with a flawless display of grace and poise. "Your Ladyship." Gwen bowed slightly. "I have returned from Trawsfynydd." "In less than forty-eight hours?" the Lady's brows formed the universal symbol for scepticism. From the hint of agitation in Maxine's voice, Gwen guessed that the Marchioness was likely wondering if she had provoked the Elves in some way. Gwen gestured to the conference room. "Your Grace, can we speak in confidence?" "Of course, did something upset you?" The Lady's sense for intrigue was vorpal. "Ollie, perhaps." "Oh shit, Ollie!" Gwen realised she had completely forgotten about her Praelector. "Er, yes. The matter is regarding Ollie." Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Lady Grey sighed. "Alright, I can spare a few minutes. Millie?" Grey's attendant maid bowed her head. "Push my schedule downward one quadrant. If need be, cancel Lord Braxton's petition. I'll let you know if more time is required." "Yes, ma'am." The maid read the situation well. Taking command of the entourage, she led the Lady's aides away from the chamber. Gwen waited for the Lady of Ely to enter first before turning her back and closing the double doors with a click. From the lodge's two-storey french windows, she could just make out the murder of crows sitting outside, chattering away with their long-drawn "Awwwwws." Gunther Shultz, first of Henry Kilroy's Apprentices and the Master of Sydney Tower, arrived without pomp. His detour through Heathrow was the only indication that one of the foremost combat Mages in the Mageocracy had dropped into its capital, sending London's various agencies into a frenzy. His departure from Sydney had been hasty but not without contingencies in place. As the inheritor of Kilroy's most troubling Apprentice, Gunther knew well that a day on which he had to drop everything to Teleport to Gwen's side was inevitable. Even before Gwen had left for China, he had already arranged an army of aides-de-camp to take over his day-to-day duties. If anything, the test for his secretaries had arrived later than he had imagined. Knowing Ravenport's interest in his Sister-in-craft, and the matter with Edgar, he had anticipated a head-on collision with the Duke of Norfolk. Likewise, the paranoia of Gwen maiming London's blue-bloods had been eating him for some time. When instead, their prideful princess took the abuse and turned the other cheek for the Exeter twins, Gunther knew the girl he had saved at Blackheath had finally grown up. Take the present matter, for example. That Gwen did not overreact but calmly returned to Cambridge, then contacted him without delay was a sign of growing wisdom. If so, he could feel at ease, for as her foster sibling, the guilt that came with lacking means and time to guide Gwen personally had gnawed on his conscience. That was why, when the double doors to the conference chamber at the Master's Lodge opened, Gunther felt immense pleasure at seeing Gwen seated like a lady beside the peerless Marchioness of Ely, compiling a list of the Grot's spoils. "Gunther!" Gwen lost all lady-like pretence at once, her eyes instantly swelling with moisture. Gunther allowed the indiscretion, feeling a brotherly joy when the girl dove like an overgrown pup into his open arms. "Holy hell, I missed you so much." The girl dug her face into his shirt. "Thanks for coming, I can only imagine how crazy your schedule must be." "It's only been a few months." Gunther grinned despite himself. "From the sounds of it. You're the one who's being busy. Master had a Grot at Tryfan, eh? He never mentioned it." With some effort, he pulled the clinging girl from his torso. "Aunt Loftus." He bowed from the waist. The Lady of Ely was as he recalled from their last meeting many years prior— wise and prideful, but also gentle and patient. "No ceremony." Maxine hand-waved his courteousness. "We're close enough to dispense with all that— and you're a Tower Master now. How about that? The sullen boy who Henry used to bring to dinners is now the Master of millions and the governor of Oceania. The old man would have been proud as punch, Gunther." "I'd still prefer being Master's Paladin." Gunther felt his chest constrict. "That said, some Paladin I turned out to be. If I had taken greater care…" "Nonsense!" The Marchioness was as sympathetic as she was tender. "Sobel was a debt that only your Master could have repaid. The fault was Henry's if anyone's at all. If he lived to know that you, Alesia and Gwen would now bear his burden, he would be horrified." Gunther understood the Lady of Ely as another victim of Henry's untimely passing. In the past, Maxine had been a ward of Henry's like himself; a favour Henry had to repay— though Gunther had always suspected that the famous Marchioness held more than just daughterly affection for the man who sheltered her. Similar to Gunther, Henry had hand-reared Maxine Loftus to prominence amidst the troubled years of her hotly-contested inheritance. "I can see why you called." Gunther shifted his attention to the mess presently occupying the enormous table. At a glance, he caught the familiar hand-writing of his Master, scribbled here and there over the loose manuscripts. The one closest to him looked at least a century old, hand-composed in the letterbox composition the Tower's Grimoires now imitated. He retrieved a wayward parchment. **Corpse Explosion** Evocation Casting Time: 20 Major 7 Minor Range: Medium Components: Material, Somatic Duration: Instant _This copy originates from transcriptions of The Book of Coming Forth by Day. As per the original, this IMS variant offers a near-instantaneous Evocation that draws out the Negative Energies inhabiting a creature after death, creating an eruption of flesh and bone. For the base invocation, see the excerpt attached in Appendix 1C. My colleague, Zulkir Xash Tarn of Cairo, is credited with the base spell's spellshaping add-ons. For chained, empowered, split, repeated and maximised modifications—_ Seeing Henry's annotations, Gunther felt awash with nostalgia. "Interesting choice of research Master was exercising." Gunther replaced the page. "It's not all like this, is it?" "It's all useful," his Sister-in-craft interpreted for him. "Lady Grey said she would help register any research that is compatible with the Tower's policies." Gunther turned to their mutual compatriot with polite scepticism. The Lady nodded, affirming the girl's hopeful tone. He picked up another parchment. **Bone Shield** Conjuration Casting Time: 7 Major 2 Minor Range: Self Components: Core, Somatic Duration: Long _The durability of this classic Necromancy spell relies on the material used. Creatures of a higher tier create more substantial barriers than beings of a lower tier. Furthermore, this modified variation is capable of reproducing some of the elemental or physical properties the creature held while alive._ "Would the Tower accept these?" Gunther envisioned Gwen in battle with blocks of bone behaving as reactive armour. In the past, he had fought Skelemancers before. As Creature Conjurers, these summoners were among some of his least favourite foes. Where a Soul Flayer was physically weak to his near-instantaneous beheading, Bone Mages could block his Radiant Lances with Negative-infused armour and shields. "I think Gwen should be in the right. Most of these are old manuscripts that predate the ban," the Marchioness explained. "Such things exist, here and there, in private collections and libraries. We even have an assortment here in Peterhouse, though untranscribed and useless for Void Magic. If the Shard's willing to accept them into the Grimoire for Gwen to use, then there shouldn't be a problem." "I wouldn't accept this," Gunther gave his opinion. "Not in Sydney. That's a slippery slope if I am not mistaken." "Just as well we're in London, then." Lady Loftus pulled up another sheet. "The researchers here are hungrier and more forgiving. We're already sanctioning Necromancers under a cultural pretext, so no point disparaging the spells. Oh, bosh! Don't give me that look, Gunther. We're doing this for Gwen. Here, read this." The Lady of Ely passed over a leather binder. Gunther's fingers glided over the rough, skin-like parchment. Where ordinary Spell Books used paper made from Elder-wood sap, Necromancers preferred more exotic materials. **Essence Tap** None Assigned Casting Time: 243 Major Range: Medium Components: Verbal, Somatic Duration: Instant _By invoking the True Name of a creature or Demi-human, the caster may forcibly usurp a portion of its Essence. This Essence may be stowed via the means of a Soul Well (See Appendix 2B), or be used as a spell component by a practitioner of Soul Sorcery. For a surviving target of a successful Essence Tap, secondary effects range from becoming stunned, falling comatose, to losing control over one's corporeal form. For the original invocation, see Soul Tap (Appendix 3A)._ "Interesting, no? That's Svartálfar Essence magic," the Lady said. "With some tinkering, its something Gwen could use to increase her capacity and to diversify her skill set." "I can see that," Gunther remarked to Henry's old ally. "But isn't Gwen receiving instruction from Cambridge?" "In conventional Spellcraft and spell theory, yes," Lady Grey said, taking the book from his hands to add to the pile slated for submission. "But your sister needs a unique Grimoire of specialised sorcery to supplement her unique physiology. We can't have her subsisting on an impoverished spellbook. You've gone through the spell-making route, Gunther. Do you remember how long it took for Henry to develop your Signature spells?" "I was hoping the university could take care of that for Gwen," he said. "Maxwell Brown, among others, will indeed be taking care of it," the Lady said. "Don't fret. We'll make sure these spells are safe for Gwen's use. I doubt you'll like the alternative, such as borrowing Meister Bekker's work. That would demand certain sacrifices on Gwen's part." Gunther recalled the pasty face of the skinny young man. Though he held no feelings for the hopeful scoundrel, he snorted. "Gwen's too good for him." "Aww," his sister cooed. "Don't say that, Gunther. Jean-Paul's a good bloke. He's better than he looks." "Are you close?" "Closer. We're forming a Void Mage coalition," Gwen boasted. "I think I'll call it the Cabal of the Void. Besides, JP is kind of cute-ugly?" Lady Grey chuckled. "Stop teasing your brother. I am sure he has someone suitable in mind for his sister. Do you, Gunther?" "I wouldn't dare." Gunther kept a straight face. "Gwen, do you have a companion in mind?" "Nope. I'll give it another decade." The girl turned red as a beetroot. Lady Loftus gave a knowing smirk before reintroducing him to another stash of spells she had categorised. "These are the spells nearest to completion. Henry developed them for Sobel." Gunther took the half-dozen scrolls and read through them one by one, noting the standouts. **Hydra** Conjuration Casting Time: 20 Major 7 Minor Range: Medium Components: Verbal, Somatic Duration: Until dismissed This spell will manifest what Elizabeth calls "The Hydra", a creature— or perhaps a portion of a larger "animal" that exists inside the Void that endlessly regenerates if there is enough vitality. We do not know its actual property, nor if the creature is intelligent. When made material in the Prime, the eyeless creature resembles slugs. However, by my observation, the physiology appears closely related to deep trench lampreys found below the Sea of Java. Perhaps they hail from the same source? We know nought about the Void and its properties due to how rarely it naturally materialises. For now, this spell will summon one to six of the things, with no discernible way to control how many slip through the portal. What we do know is that these are voracious worms of perpetual hunger, capable of partially sustaining themselves. Elizabeth says that she can command them to perform rudimentary tasks. Does this mean they can be tamed? **Void Fire** Evocation-Conjuration Casting Time: 30 Major 51 Minor Range: Close Components: Verbal, Somatic Duration: Varies, Channelled _This spell creates a caustic Void flame that grows in size as per the Evocation original, Caustic Flame (See Appendix 1A). This combination of invocations creates a heatless fire formed of Void particles that replicate when made to consume living flesh, particularly high-vitality targets. I intend this variant to be the base spell to a family of new invocations. If one can reduce the consumption rate of the channelled mana, it may be possible to create a hybrid, self-perpetuating Negative Demi-element with the property of Druidic Wildfire or a Djinn's Fire Curse._ **Desolation Aura** Evocation-Illusion Casting Time: 60 Major 21 Minor Range: Medium Components: Verbal, Somatic Duration: Channelled _We've experimented with intensifying the psychological and physiological effects associated with Void manifestations to create an aura field that incapacitates enemies in a large circumference. Presently, in this variation, those caught within melee range suffer Negative Drain sickness._ "Your Master's collection was enormous," Lady Loftus commented while Gunther read. "We found old Magic that the Elves forbade as well. How curious that the old man had kept it in the Grot at Tryfan of all things." "How old?" "Old." The Lady gestured to a few volumes bundled in vellum and threaded with silk. "There's a half-translated copy of the Papyrus of Hunefer from the third Dynasty which any High Priest would give their Ibis heads to possess. Henry's annotated the contents. It's over there, take a look…" Following the Marchioness' direction, Gunther retrieved the wrapt copy of hand-written notes. Gingerly unfurling the old paper, he quickly scanned the contents. "Is this the wrong scroll?" He turned to the Lady. "There's nothing here." "Read the first line." Lady Grey wore an anticipatory smirk. "Fourth page." "The Papyrus of Hunefer: A disambiguation by Sir Richard Karl Lepsis… edited by Henry Kilroy." "Give it to Gwen to read," the Lady said. "Gwen— read Gunther's page." Gunther passed the bundle over, noting how much more grown up the girl now seemed. With the pages in hand, Gwen's intelligent eyes scanned the content, and then she began to read. "Okay, it says… Soulfire Strike, er… no School, untranslated, range is Medium. 'This ancient form of Necromancy ignites the Essence tied to the caster's physical body, or a prepared source, to create Soulfire. A large enough volume can ignite the Astral Essence of all beings within its radius." "Really?" Gunther took the parched from the girl's hands, then read the lines carefully. In his eyes, the text remained a dry-reading of history. "Detect Magic—" Nothing. "Tongues—" He activated another Divination staple. Still, he saw nothing of note. "True Seeing!" There were three layers of illusion on the scroll, but no spells. "How are you reading this?" he asked the giggling girl. Gingerly, Gwen pulled her blue-dark hair into a ponytail, revealing to him a slender neck with three Ioun Stones embedded against the ridge of her spine. "Master's Translation Stone?" "That's right." The corner of Maxine Loftus' mouth curled. "What an ingenious method! The residual magic from the inscription overpowers the illusion, so it's undetectable. The illusion itself requires the Ioun Stone to translate, so even knowing there's an illusion there wouldn't help." "Master had his ways." Gunther patted Gwen on the head, making her cover her neck. "What else are you hoping to submit?" "I found a spell that 'conjures' Wraiths by using the Essence from recently deceased Magical Creatures. There's another one that 'restores' a companion, I think, from death. That one's Egyptian in origin. It says the spell was intended for a cat…" Gunther didn't know whether to be offended or appalled. "That's unquestionably Necromancy." "There exist sanctioned variations already," Lady Loftus reminded him. "We'll let the Shard's prudes judge for themselves. Either way, something like this must be registered to prevent future troubles. You know how pedantic they can be about unsanctioned spellbooks." Gunther grunted, feeling ambivalent about the Lady's nonchalance. "Henry also dabbled in Demi-human Shamanic magic." Loftus pointed to another pile. "Those were also hidden. They look like they're derived from the Greenskin Totemcraft from the Middle period. Henry's research into Void sorcery did not discriminate between sources." "There's this spell." Gwen's green eyes gleamed. "It's amazing. Through this ritual, you ingest a potion mixed with blood from your mates. When active, the spell pools the collated vitality of the whole group. In the original, the weakest member of the party dies when the group takes damage or loses vitality— but Master made it so that it is possible to redirect that damage to the strongest member of the group. He was trying to utilise the spell so that the drain from Void Sorcery could be spread out and mitigated. I think it can be altered so I can use Cali's vital store instead." "You're putting yourself in danger," Gunther noted with a frown. "Magic like this offer endless temptation." "I should remind you, Gunther, that Gwen is the hope of all Void Mages in the Mageocracy," Maxine defended her ward. "Besides, she's been doing just fine, despite these temptations. Her new spells could be the beginning of a solution to resolve the vitality problem of other Void Mages. You know the University has been trying to find a reliable method for a long time. Henry's trove isn't something to be buried. Some of these spells Gwen can hoard, others we have to share. Whatever the case, there won't be another opportunity to mitigate decades of research like this." "So, Necromancy from the Great War, Shamanism from the Steppes, _Svartálfar Druidism_ , Egyptian Death Rites..." Gunther pointed to the rest of the unsorted stash. "What else?" "We also found Eastern Witchcraft and Sanguine Thaumaturgy." Gwen's eyes watched him pleadingly, hoping for his acceptance. "Blood magic?" Gunther's mind conjured forth some very vivid, and very unpleasant memories of hard-fought campaigns in Eastern Europe, where most of the surviving Necromancers from the Great War had holed up in their irrespective strongholds. "Do you mean Vampiric Thaumaturgy?" "There's a spell that utilises vitality to make expendable barriers, kind of like Bone Shield, but much more subtle," Gwen hastily spoke. "The crazy part is that you don't have to expend your vitality— you can use your foe's, like from Magical Creatures and such. Master was researching another one called the Sanguine Mantle—" "… I know that one." Gunther sighed at the girl's excited face. "It's a horrible spell that creates an armour of blood that crystallises and hardens around the user's body. It also heals the caster's wounds by replenishing their vitae." "Only now Master's made them accessible through the IMS!" "Impressive, yes." Gunther bit back his immediate rebuke. "But the implication..." "Master said that Magic was a tool." Gwen's expression spoke of her great expectations. "He said 'It's the spell of the heart that murders, not the spell of the hand'. Do you remember that one, Gunther?" "I do," Gunther recalled the old man's aphorism. "If these spells can be made viable through the IMS," Gwen said slowly. "And the Shard is fine with me using them; then they're just tools. Like Master said, 'It's the abuse of magic' we should fear, not its 'use.' Master left us these spells, and I am in dire need of a unique Void Grimoire. I think Master would have taught me these invocations anyway. I—" "Do as you will." Gunther halted his sister's tirade. He did not need to be convinced, for he had no doubt his Master would have left the bulk of his research to Gwen, as she had supposed. "What you practice is your freedom, sister, and my job isn't to act as a gatekeeper. That said..." Just to drive the point home, Gunther hardened his gaze with a mote of Radiance. "In Master's absence, I shall act as the disciplinarian. If you abuse his legacy..." He left the rest unsaid. "I won't disappoint you, Gunther," the girl promised. "I know you won't." Gunther patted her head once more, wondering what Alesia would have said in his place. "Use Master's legacy well, little sister. When the time comes, you'll be the one to take back everything he ever gave to Sobel."

Gwen spent the next two days resting and relaxing with Gunther, touring an endless stream of cafes by the Thames, their conversation meandering from familial to foreign with complete ease. When she begged for updates, her brother was happy to humour his little sister. Foremost of her Australian connections was Surya, who after Sydney's siege had transformed his art-ranch into a refugee camp. For her Grandfather, Gunther was happy to report that the old artist was back to his old trade, this time creating erotic artworks inspired by her summoned monstrosities. Comparatively, Alesia possessed no such leisure. Sydney's outer regions continue to be a mess and she and her team, whose members the Scarlet Sorceress had retrieved from Yue, ceaselessly snuffed out fires on a Frontier where every flora and fauna preyed on Humanity. When Gwen asked after Yue, Gunther informed her that Gwen's former schoolmate, the "Violent Sorceress" had founded another team together with Whetu and Rona Manaia, the quarterling Captain of Auckland U. As with Alesia, Yue engaged in an endless stream of errands under Sydney Tower to earn the CCs and HDMs necessary for improving her craft. "You mean violet sorceress?" Gwen asked. "No." "... Right." "I sometimes wonder if Yue's your Changeling double," Gunther mused to himself. "She's been walking the path Master had originally planned for you. Learning from us, performing quests, building a team and gaining accolades in Australia. That said, what you've managed for yourself, sister, be it arcanistry or industry is nothing short of astounding. I am in awe." "Speaking of Changelings." Gwen reacted to the familiar word, "The Elves said I might be one. Does the term mean what I think it means?" "I would assume so. Master had the same thought, though other than your Essence, you lack all the signs." "What signs?" "Talk in tongues, lunar morphic instabilities, speak with animals, visitations from Spirits, drift off into dreamscapes for prolonged periods, growing a horn..." "Ha!" Gwen snorted. "I've done the occasional 'Dreaming'." "A Fey dreams because they dream of home. They certainly don't dream about running Towers and making Crystals," Gunther remarked drily. Gwen laughed out loud, half-covering her mouth as Le Guevel had instructed. Beside her, Gunther caught her infectious mirth, drawing eyes from other patrons. Gwen grinned. She relished the looks of envy when strolling with her Radiant German Adonis, especially with her arm hooked inside her brother's elbow. She could only guess what the Londoners thought— but took pleasure at their lip-biting and eye-popping. Savouring the intimacy, she then relayed to Gunther everything that had transpired, beginning with Ravenport, then Lady Grey, her tutors, Ollie, Walken, Jean-Paul, Petra, the Dwarves, the Elves, and her new "servants" from Tonglv. Out of her assemblage of ambivalent foes and allies, Gunther's concern was unexpectedly not for Ravenport, but for Ruxin, the now-official Master of Manipur, Kachin and Nagaland. "I have yet to conspire with True Dragons." Gunther mulled over her clingy retelling until his coffee had to be re-heated with a glare, Superman-style. "More than when we first spoke, what surprises me is your presumed familiarity. Ayxin is a half-human Dragonkin, so her motivations I can sympathise. Golos isn't a worry if you think Caliban can subdue him— but Ruxin is a five-century old Asianic Dragon, I wouldn't trust it any more than I'll trust our western Chromatics." "A reasonable caution," Gwen's response was cheeky. "Though as Ruso's financial manager, I reckon our connection is arguably more reliable than if we were, say, in an amorous relationship. Ruxin and I, we're bound by mutual profit. If he betrays me, his future as the undisputed king of crystal mountain will be in jeopardy. Where I need his money to grow, he needs me to grow his money. Our trust is forged by links of pure HDMs." "I see. Then why did you say the Yinglong is wary of you? Are you leading Ruxin astray?" "Ha! I wish. Naw, it's worse than that..." Gwen grimaced. With some pain, she carefully explained her meeting with Elvia, the mistake she had made in giving Elvia Sen-sen, and the present strain of their friendship. Considering that Gunther was the closest thing she had to family outside the Songs, she left no leaf unturned and no closet locked. Gunther listened with an attentive ear, commenting when he desired clarity. "So, thoughts?" Gwen concluded with Elvia disappearing into the crowd. "Re: Evee, I mean. Who do you think is at fault?" "To assign fault is childish— I think you and Miss Lindholm should remain each other's support." Gunther's unreserved acceptance was equal-parts unexpected and daunting for Gwen. "Love is hard. It took me a long time to comprehend and accept Alesia's feelings— considering I watched her 'mature' from an angry, psychotic adolescent who wanted the world to burn into the lauded Scarlet Sorceress. As such, I'll refrain from giving Romantic advice. Heck, even if Master was here, I doubt he could help, especially if he had stayed single for..." "A hundred and fifty years?" "After which he fell for Sobel. I do think, however, that you owe Miss Lindholm an apology." "Why?" Gwen's tone grew sullen. Of all her people, she had expected Gunther to be on-side. "Is it so hard to understand? I speak for Yue and Alesia when I say that your power trajectory is nothing short of monstrous, sister." Gunther gave her a side-long stare. "For all of us, this is a wonderful thing, and if Master were alive, he'd be quaffing Golden Mead with joy— but have you considered how hard it is for your friends and allies to keep pace with your accomplishments?" At Gunther's words, Gwen felt the uncomfortable click of some terrible box opening inside her chest. "I can't speak for your cousin Petra, or this girl, Lulan that you've befriended, but I can tell you with complete confidence that your growing authority has put a lot of pressure on Yue. For myself, a parallel would be Allie. For instance, I've known for a long while that she trains herself ceaselessly because she doesn't want to be a burden if she wishes to stand beside me. Though it may seem arrogant to say so, I doubt there are many casters in the Mageocracy that can match my prowess. Don't you think that puts particular insecurities into Alesia's head?" "I guess…" "What's worse, you and Yue came from the same school. She was your better, then equal for some time. Now, not so much. That's why she's been questing night and day. She knows that she can't ever be as good as a Void Mage, just as Alesia's Fire will never best my Radiance. Why do you think I consented to give Yue Allie's Nightmare? I know exactly how your friend feels, Gwen, though I fear you haven't given the matter much thought, considering the expression you're making right now." "Fuck… you're right. You're right." Gwen felt her throat constrict as Gunther kicked out her legs and set her to dangle. "Shit, so in the end, I AM the asshole." "Now— Elvia. You're telling me that this girl loves you, and has professed to have loved you for several years. She's a healer— a lauded position in Sydney, sure, but hardly special compared to a Void Sorceress, especially not one with a Shoggoth. In London, where you can have as many healers as you desire, she's less than nothing. I can only imagine how Miss Lindholm must feel while watching these Magisters and Magus' heads spin as they dance to your every whim. So why should you be shocked when she's offered a way to level with you— to be your equal, to become 'special' as you are? How else is she going to stay beside the love of her life and not have her place taken by a better cast of supporting Mages?" Gwen groaned, her face alternating between hues of red. "That's reason number ONE to return to Miss Lindholm. Now, let us not forget this Yinglong." Gunther patted her head, perhaps wondering if he'd gone too far. "Do you recall the saying, keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer? Elvia Lindholm happens to be both, so that's reason number TWO." "Okay, okay, I'll visit her Convent." Gwen fell back against her chair, completely helpless; her limbs had lost all strength and sensation after that asphyxiating rude awakening. "Gunther, you'd make a wonderful shrink." Her Brother-in-craft studied her face, pondering her Gwenism. A moment later, he gave up and instead offered her a fatherly grin. "I'll shout." He drained his chai. "Let's go. Didn't you want to show me the Isle of Dogs?" On the isle, she showed Gunther what she had achieved with the Dwarves, introducing her Brother-in-craft to Master Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt and her team of crafters tuning up her printing presses, squealing when Gunther started to speak in fluent Germanic-Dwarven. While touring his sister's future propaganda rag, Gunther spotted Dominic Lorenzo advising the NoMs. Their eyes met, then with an unspoken understanding, the two men convened, leaving Gwen to contend with her stout companions. When they returned, they gave one another firm handshakes, then returned to their prior occupations. "What did you talk about?" Gwen burned with curiosity. "You know Dominic's a Ghost, or something like it, correct?" her Brother-in-craft asked. "More or less. Allie said as much. Is that going to be a problem?" "Not until you're a problem, but he'll advise you before that happens. For now, he's volunteering to be your canary." "Aww, that's sweet." Gunther shook his head. They patrolled the two-storey printing towers. Yossari had been using her unique skills to create ink for the rolling presses. "Impressive, isn't it?" Gwen said proudly. "Did I do good?" "I hope you'll do some good," Gunther chortled. "A word of advice, though. No matter what happens, you cannot disparage the House of Windsor. As little as they're involved in open politics— when they do…" "Righto," Gwen promised. "May her Majesty's bloom be eternal." Gunther gave her a strange look. After that, Gwen prepared her body for an awkward meeting she had been anticipating for some time. "Magister Walken." Outside, across from the canal of the outer dock, Gunther stood stiffly opposite the man partially responsible for their Master's death. With Henry as a hot topic of late, the atmosphere grew instantly stifling. "Lord Shultz." Eric Walken's lips appeared parched. Gwen had given her business partner the head's up, and the old fox had consented; still, finding closure with Gunther was no easy prospect. "Eric has been helping me with just about everything," Gwen affirmed once more for Walken's benefit. "From the IIUC to the Isle of Dogs. He's been indispensable." Her Brother-in-craft looked at the silent Walken, then extended a hand. "Thank you for saving Gwen's life, Eric." This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "No, no, it is I who should thank Gwen for the opportunity. My wife and children are in her debt as well." Walken shook the ex-Paladin's gesture of forgiveness. "I couldn't say it the last time we met— but I am truly sorry, Gunther." "Then let us not speak of it again." Gunther released his grip after a moment. "Gwen has forgiven you. Alesia has chosen not to dwell, and my feelings were never as pronounced as theirs. If you're going to be Gwen's associate, I would prefer a genial relationship." "I see. I am happy with that." Walken tested their new friendship. "Cheers." "No worries, Eric," Gunther replied in Australian. "… That's it?" Gwen felt the tension drain from her chest. "No punch up? Not even a spell?" "Your Brother-in-craft isn't so childish, unlike someone we know." Walken took a jab at the beaming girl. "What good would hysterics do for either of us?" "Master Walken is right," Gunther agreed. "You would do well to learn from him, little sister." "From an old villain like him?" Gwen turned aside. "More like he's learning new tricks from me." Walken pretended not to hear. "How long will you be staying, Gunther?" "Not long. I'll be returning tonight," Gunther explained. "Just so you both know. I've given some of Sobel's items to the Sixth Cabal. Mostly her old, intimate things. Though Sobel should have anti-Divi arrays in place, I doubt she expects someone to source her intimates from two-three decades ago. Spectre's been quiet of late, as have the Merman and the Saurians, and that worries me. There are reports of their activity up in Greenland, near the Arctic circle." "There's nothing there but snow and Elves," Walken said. "I am sure London's investigating," Guther returned. "Maybe the items will help." "Imagine if we manage to catch her thanks to Master's preference for French negligees..." Gwen smirked. Of the looted memorabilia from their Master's wife, Gwen had decided to gift Gunther the lot except for six dresses which she kept out of curiosity and spite. She couldn't help it. With no immediate desire to return to the Elves, her concern for Elven-couture had out shone her loathing for Sobel. When Gunther appeared uncomfortable, Gwen grew adamant that fashion was without sin. Besides, she had answered; the offending articles appeared hardly worn, if ever. "Why do you suppose the old cat's so deranged?" Gwen said. "Why is she so deadset on dragging us into the undertow?" "If you don't mind a self-evident answer," Walken helpfully chimed in. "Here's an axiom. Where there's an old-world order, there will be folk wanting a new world order. Its the way of things." "But why?" Gwen stood beside the two men gazing out at the Thames. "What does she want? Better pay? Bigger house? Tower by the sea? Rarer dresses? Fresher seafood? Another husband?" "Speak for yourself?" Walken chortled. "If only it were so easy to tame Sobel." "I think Elizabeth wants do undo our Master's work," Gunther spoke after listening to their banter. "She was his partner. During the Beast Tide, they were putting out fires and quashing monsters while he tuned the Factions and raised the new Towers. Perhaps she thinks that Master used her— or that by destroying his legacy, she'll finally find closure." "Say she succeeds, and then what?" Gwen frowned. "Does Sobel enjoy being hunted and hounded and never knowing a day of peace? How crazy do you have to be to give up all foreseeable pleasures to feel better about being rejected by a husband who took offence to you eating the locals?" "It takes great conviction," Walken replied to her rant. "To succeed the state of power Sobel has attained, and to enact her tier of atrocities. I doubt creature comforts are what moves her." Gwen sighed. "What I'd give to take a stroll in her head." "You'd probably go mad," Walken said. "Sobel's insane, no matter how you twist it. She was willing to put a whole city to the sword to get at Henry." "Did Master never speak of Sobel to you, Gunther?" "Not in detail, no." Gunther shook his head. "Never mind the past, little sister; the die is cast, and our fatal collision is now written in the stars. Even if Master turns out to be a Lich King who raised Sobel, it doesn't change our quest nor our conviction. As soon as your education finishes, or if we discover the woman's hermitage— you, Alesia and I shall go on the offensive. We'll pursue her to the ends of the earth." This time in the afternoon, the Thames stank of mana miasma. When Gunther spoke again, his face was that of an Ex-Paladin. "Excuse my Dwarven, sister, but for Master and for Sydney, be it the bitch or Spectre, BOTH must burn." The same evening, Gunther returned to Sydney as foretold, refuting Gwen's suggestion that her brother should stay for a short, impromptu holiday. It was a lost opportunity Gwen lamented, for she had been looking forward to seeing Elvia's Knight lose his damned mind when Gunther casually turns up for dinner at the Tower of Tandoori. At Heathrow, hugs were had, though Gwen dispensed with tears and sighs. If she missed Gunther enough, it was a simple matter of taking a week off and burning three to four thousand HDMs, pending her Teleportation route. As for herself, she returned to her usual schedule— now with additional sessions of tuition with Dede. In Emmanuel's Old Court, with Maxwell Brown beside them, she came to know that thanks to Lady Grey and Gunther's involvement, the Shard had delivered its judgement in record time. Most important was the decree that all recovered spells regarding the late Magister Kilroy would now belong to her, who was his rightful heir. All future magic thus derived from her Master's research would be marked as such, with the royalties going toward the siblings-in-craft. As for her haul from the Elfin Grot, the Shard had divided them their irrespective Restriction Classes to stifle their spread. First, baseline invocations such as Hydra, Void Fire and Desolation Aura possessed no restriction as they were Void specialities and were no more dangerous than other magic used by Negatively-aligned Mages. In contrast, Class I Restricted spells applied to Bone Shield, indicating invocations with dubious origins re-tuned for ethical applications. There was still much work involved, for the originals were derived from pre-war Death Magic and used human components. For Gwen to safely utilise magical materials and non-human substitutes, the ethics board had to approve a Tower variant. Different to Class I, Class II Restricted spells applied to all sorcery with ethically ambivalent applications, with Cloud Kill as a prime example. The exchange of these spells was strictly controlled by the Tower, with every user requiring registration via unique mana signatures. For Gwen, these included her future "Abjuration" spells such as Sanguine Barrier, Mantle and Armour, both of which still had to pass muster before a variant that utilised Magical Creature as ingredient emerged. Of Class II spells, Flesh Stitching and what Maxwell dubbed as "Death March" landed on the watch list. Both derived from Shamanic mysticism, these arguably necromantic spells worked best with "willing" allies and so complicated their viability. Of the two, Death March was the nominated subject of Maxwell's paramount research, with Gwen and Gracie as volunteers to test if she could share some of her boundless vitality with the weaker sorceress. For her selfless actions, Gwen's reward was Enervating Orb, a spell derived from Void Enervation. With sufficient Spellshaping, she could deploy the Signature Void spell in its fifth-tier Evocation-Conjuration configuration. It would be her first individual Signature Spell, for only she was uniquely equipped to stomach the initial cost of the exorbitant manifestation. Analogously, Class III restrictions applied to the Essence Sorcery sourced from Svartálfar Druidism, likely because of pressure from the Hvítálfar. Of her current list of candidates, these included Essence Tap and Soulfire, spells that were useful to a uniquely positioned "Vessel" such as herself, but otherwise useless to the Mageocracy's Grimoire. Categorically, Henry's unfinished Essence Magic was pigeon-holed between the School of Evocation, Conjuration and Transmutation, seeing as its invocations and Glyphs drew heavily from similar Affinities used in Necromancy. As for her potential practice of these spells, the Shard had declared it private enterprise. These spells solely belonged to Gwen, and she was responsible for their upkeep and secrecy. If her variation of the sorcery disseminates, then the Tower would soon be knocking on her door. There was also a selection that became outright outlawed. These sat between Class IV and V, with IV being a slippery slope spells like "Raise Companion", and Class V spells being "Conjure Wraith". Even when Maxwell argued the case that Gwen was arguably a trustworthy individual— being tied to the House of Loftus and Shultz, the Tower chose to err on the side of caution. Without cause for cultural or religious exemptions and extraordinary adventures, the Shard asserted, these spells should remain untaught. The Tower's sole responsibility was persecution with extreme prejudice in the event of abuse. "Why not just confiscate them?" Gwen demanded. "Leaving it with me seems irresponsible." "Regulating secrets is a fool's errand," Maxwell explained mirthfully. "The Shard is happy enough to know who to find if people in London start raising their dead pets." "So I am bearing the burden alone? That's stupid. So much for Transparency." Brown laughed. "Transparency is insurance. Who would be foolish enough to declare their collection of old Necromancy Grimoires only to practice said sorcery in public? It pays to have the benefit of the doubt when it comes to the Tower's Enforcers. Our Paladin, Horace Marshall of Knightsbridge, is no less zealous than your Brother-in-craft. You would much rather the man accost you at the door than crash through your window on his Griffin." "Quack!" Dede concurred, adding brevity to their conversation. "Quack! Quack!" "Agreed." Maxwell Brown patted the duck on the back. "It's not going to be an easy few months ahead, Gwen. Are you certain you can keep up the pace? You've got the isle, and now all these new spells." "I'll manage somehow." "Well, I trust you know best." Brown shrugged. "You did say your Druidic Essence substituted sleep, right?" A day later, after Gwen convened with Keridwen Le Guevel for Illusion classes, her worldly tutor produced some extracurricular reading for her to digest, namely the latest edition of the Herald Sun. "Gwen dearest. You're famous all over again." Gwen remained stoic as Le Guevel had taught. There was no mistaking the image of her posing in her Shen-teī suit splashed across the front page. Behind her was a panoramic spread showing the Shoggoth sprawled across Anglesey. At the bottom, there was a candid image of her looking fresh at a coffee shop with a male companion. Gunther's face was blurred out. "TRIFFIDUS EXTERMINATUS" screamed the headline in eye-watering scarlet. "The Mageocracy's new Void Sorceress a veritable one-woman-unnatural-disaster," announced the first bleed out. The next bleed declared her "A double-edged blade" and a "clear and present danger to all foes of the Mageocracy". She flipped to the double tabloid spread. "Woe for the Orientals," read the next title line. There was a picture of Golos looking smug, below which was a line-up of her newly acquired "Indentured Servants", and an article speculating with surprising accuracy about her "trafficking" with Dragons. Le Guevel next directed her attention to the editorial section, where no less than six of London's influential Magisters gave their opinions on her performance. Two praised her as a beacon for the Militant Path, while three condemned her for such callous demonstrations of power that would frighten allies and incite enemies. Only one critic was concerned that her Shoggoth could impact trade relations. "I see that no one has mentioned Shoggy folded after several dozen artillery rounds," Gwen remarked sarcastically. "Playing up your abilities to sell papers gets the blood boiling," her tutor said. "And playing you down gets the public frightened and weary, so they buy more papers." "What do the others say?" "See for yourself." Le Guevel displayed the other spectrums. The Telegraph proved marginally less obnoxious than the Herald Sun, while the Guardian appeared to be firmly against her brazen deployment of the Shoggoth. "So I am now a darling of the Militants?" Gwen snorted. "And the Middle Faction's against the whole thing?" "The Middle Faction is fragmented." Le Guevel's smoky eyes studied her face. "Few sit truly in the middle like our Lady Grey." "And the Grey faction?" "Any conflict they chose to support is usually quite profitable," her tutor reminded her. "Unprofitable wars seldom start in times of peace. Just think about the Isle of Man. If the island was a Black Zone like the Elemental Sea, you might be able to drag the Militants into the fray with calls for Human supremacy. Conversely, the Greys will fight you to their death with lofty calls for peace and respect for Demi-human sovereignty." Gwen shuddered at the mental gymnastics required for such a thing. "But that's not your problem, at least not yet." Le Guevel laughed. "Now let's see this new spell of yours, shall we? Void-based Illusions, how exciting!" Six months. That's how much time Gwen had left before her commencement at Cambridge if she were to enrol in the Michaelmas Term. Her remaining bridging period was adequate, given CCs and Crystals heaped on her person by Peterhouse. In Maxwell Brown's words, enrolling in Cambridge wasn't an issue, for her backing was stout enough to overcome even the strictest, most cynical proctor. Instead, it was for her benefit that she must reach a level of Spellcraft expertise that matched the elite attendees so that she may blossom into a true Cambridge Magister. Echoing this point of view was Kareena Patil, who parroted that anyone hoping to supervise ten-thousand rubes and their surviving the Wildlands must possess no blind-sides. In this regard, the duties of any Magister worth their salt was unending and multifarious. If a Frontier lacked an Enchanter of sufficient talent, who would maintain the Filtration Mandala? When the Shielding failed or faltered, where will she find an Abjurer of the fifth tier to repair the circuits? Could she maintain the Militia's equipment, or reconfigure Wands necessary to repel a particular type of foe? How about if a Wyvern ate their Divination Tower? Or their construction Golem was damaged during transportation? Or the crystal-powered mana barrier failed? What of the Thinking Engine used by her administrators to stow data on her citizens? How does a Magister urban-plan without the plans? And there were non-magical problems as well, from finance to accounting to economics, to agriculture, Demi-human lore, law both Human and Non-Human, and NoM husbandry galore, all of which were covered by the courses she would be completing from Michaelmas onwards. To the common folk who were the salt of the sea and the muck of the mire, Patil declared, a Cambridge Magister was a superhuman being; the apex of Humanity. Of course, in reality, no Magister could single-handed perform the tasks she had nominated—be it under their talent or through peers they've met during the period of their education. There were limitations to both magic and human resources that prevented Humanity from colonising parts of the world hostile to their presence. "Which is why every institution dreams of fielding an Omni-Mage." Patil's amber eyes critiqued her in the manner of a Crufts' judge watching a blue-ribbon pooch struggling to fetch. When she next spoke, Gwen could sense the uncertainty oozing in-between the Transmuter's exotic accent. "And if it takes a Void sorceress usurping talent from her lessers..." Her tutor left it at that. The point was, Gwen had a distance to go. Whatever the Magister's opinion, she understood that her arrow had now left the quiver. Her path was set; her aim and faculties clear and present. Knowledge, arcanistry, crystals, property, Magisterhood and Evee, she expected to consume them all. Gwen inhaled until her ribs ached. Six months was neither long nor short. If only there was a spell called "Training Montage".

London. Westminster. Morrigan, Ravenport's Keeper of the Kingdom's secrets, watched the world through avian eyes. Within the Raven's Loft, below the Shard, her murders plotted far and wide. In the beginning, the ravens at the Tower of London were actual ravens—intelligent Corvids bred to deliver messages in the age before Message spells. When Morrigan took over the loft, her immediate desire was to rid the Tower of its ravens and replace them with her crows. Considering the Ravens' symbolic importance, however, she chose to subsume the ravens, for unlike her wild and often unruly crows, these were quasi-magical Corvids purpose-bred to be resourceful, resilient, and immensely adaptable to arcanistry. Over time, after a century or so, Morrigan had interbred the normally warring species to create a new breed both amiable to her possession and adaptable to the Tower's ancient sorcery. These new hybrids had proven such a success that Mages had even taken to studying their particular physiology for Polymorphic purposes, resulting in some rather unsavoury rumours of Ravens knocking on doors, demanding entry. The Duke of Norfolk, arguably the busiest man this side of the Thames, had been missed of late by his equals in the House of Lords. It was an absence that his peers understood to be the imposition of power, for if one wanted to carry weight in parliament, one also had to shoulder the burden. As the Lord Marshall of the Kingdom, the nation's problems were his problems. In the colonies, old mutinies were spiralling out of control within the Niger Delta. Across the Suez and the Senai, ancient grudges flared, as they wont to do every decade. In the United States, men with insatiable appetites for industry eyed the untapped resources of the Elemental Sea. Elsewhere, almost two years past Sydney's tragedy, the ghost of Spectre was once again haunting the Mageocracy's peace. At home, there was the sustained popularity of the Labour Party as the people grew tired of the Tories and their ties to the warmongering blue-bloods. These and a myriad of problems were why Mycroft Ravenport had all but given up going home to his estate and had taken up semi-permanent residence in the Westminster Building. As well, against the mounting stacks of reports requiring his attention, yet another duty added to his rising hypertension— the unshakable feeling that the Devourer of Shenyang would pull a fast one. Presently, Morrigan had two murders alternating their observation of Gwen Song, adding endless entries to the file entitled the "G.Song Field Observation Journal". It was an impressive undertaking, even for a Sprite fed on data, for each of the entries possessed ties to associated files, records, memos and reports gathered by the Mageocracy's Fifth Cabal and Sixth Cabal. **24th of February 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse. _The subject fed the duck called Dede again. The creature has wiles to influence the Void Sorceress. Mayhap the Devourer is attracted to Drakes? See Memo DD-3221.32.121._ **Saturday 26th of February 2005** London, Isle of Dogs. _The subject has met with Dominic Lorenzo, Sixth Cabal Agent WCD.FZ42302 and two NoMs who are known to the Ministry. Internal files indicate the individuals are Victor Verne of Villers-Cotterêts, a French Novelist, and Iris Robertson of Dublin, runner-up in the Toby-Booker Prize a year prior. Initial findings indicate that the topic of interest appears to be Mockingbirds. Mockingbirds, from the Family Passeriformes and the Genus Mimidae, are an invasive quasi-magical species with known ability to mimic speech to the degree that their vocalisation is almost indistinguishable from humans. See Bestiary Link P224.M22.358.33._ Ravenport paused to ponder the report. Mockingbirds? For a man steeped in secrets and veiled truths, Ravenport sometimes found Kilroy's Apprentice puzzling beyond good sense. Take this Mockingbird, for example. Logic would dictate that the Void Sorceress had concluded experimentation with the duck, and was now moving onto more useful avians to modify. If so, more than a member of the Mimidae, wouldn't a hyper-intelligent member of the Corvid family be a better candidate? Say Gwen Song succeeded in breeding an exceptionally intelligent Mockingbird. What then? Who would she imitate? Who could she fool with something as primitive as animal mimicry? Mycroft did not have answers, and so could only await the passage of time to see what eggs the insidious scion of Kilroy was hoping to lay. **Sunday 27th of February 2005** London, Isle of Dogs. _Iris Robertson received an apartment from the subject in Millwall for the duration of Project "Mockingbird." Initial observations suggest the NoM composer is working on a propaganda piece. For surveillance notes and projections, see Data Crystal DB.2331.424.121.9._ Morrigan's crows had managed to gain access to the NoM's apartment through knocking on the window and scaring the woman witless. Once Ravenport processed the pictures in his mind, he sat back to think, puzzled by Gwen Song's enterprise. In the crows' captured vision, he saw an apartment overspilling with notes. From his reading of the loose annotations, the NoM was trying to piece together a picture of injustice. The story was set in Australia, and it involved a family of Mages with two children, with the father characterised as a Tower Arbiter in the hard-wrought period just past the Beast Tide. Ravenport knew the period well. Folks were famished, Demi-humans ran rampant, and most resources were portioned for the magic-wielding citizens. Yet, within the story, it was an NoM chambermaid who taught the prodigious young sorceress "Allie" her life lessons, with the Radiant brother "James" as her ally and protector. The general complication, Ravenport discerned, was about a kind-hearted NoM accused of seducing a female Evoker suffering from war fatigue. When said NoM was put to trial for a crime he did not commit; the kids helplessly watched an innocent man perish, learning a harsh lesson of the real world. There was no dialogue as of yet, nor much of the text composed, only a skeleton. Ravenport pursed his lips. He was beginning to see that the story was about Kilroy, Alesia and Gunther, though as to the validity of the fictive biography, not even Morrigan could verify. But the characterisation of this "Finch" fellow was undoubtedly Kilroy. Was this then a re-writing of history? Mayhap an attempt to shift Kilroy's past to twist public opinion? More than anyone, Ravenport understood just how many secrets Henry Kilroy possessed. After all, his father was the one who had introduced him to Kilroy. Once more, all he could do for the moment was wait. A few days later, another report landed on his desk. **Tuesday 1st of March 2005** Cambridge, King's College Training Field, Outer Court _The subject has been invited by members of King's College to tour the grounds, accompanied by Instructor Maxwell Brown and Richard Huang. Several male pupils soon expressed interest in the subject, exhibiting a desire to mate. The Void Mage Jean-Paul Bekker, student and ward of Meister Engela Bekker of London Imperial, was used to deter interest. One of the subject's amorous admirers then challenged Magus Bekker to a duel, after which, in the subjects' words, the Void Magus "wiped the floor" with his challenger. Magus Bekker has expressed interest in the subject's genetic potential._ Ravenport smiled. Stag-duels were an honoured sport among the young nobility. He too was an able contender in his youth, and it was through such duels that he had met his first wife. Much like Bekker, Ravenport had also entertained the potential of introducing his children to the Void Sorceress. His eldest, however, was married and with children of his own. His second, Richmond, was seven years Gwen's senior. Edmund was dead, murdered by the sorceress' means, and as for Charlene, he doubted the prideful lass would want to associate with a peer responsible for her brother's death. Sighing, Ravenport moved on with his work. **Wednesday 9th of March 2005** Cambridge, Emmanuel College _The duck has received another dose of Essence. It is now nothing short of monstrous. See Memo DD-3221.32.122._ Ravenport sighed again. Why was Morrigan so obsessed with the duck? He would have to warn the Sprite. Such a fixation was unhealthy and unprofessional. **Monday 14th of March 2005** London. Outer region. _The subject has left London city, travelling two hours via Southend-on-sea to Battle. The rationale for leaving Cambridge appears to involve secondary observation target, the Draconic Vessel Elvia Lindholm. On route, subject encountered a roving band of Redcaps native to High Weald looting vineyards at Chapel Down. Following a brief engagement, all hostilities were extinguished. The subject was awarded a dozen cases of reserve Cabernet Sauvignon by the surviving owner, who recognised her. It would appear the sorceress is not against imbibing alcoholic beverages mid-flight. A penalty notice has been logged._ **Monday 14th of March 2005** Battle Abbey, Battle _The subject has arrived at Battle Abbey and joined Elvia Lindholm, shepherded by Rectrix Theodora St. Claire of the Somerset Rothwells. The Rectrix has displayed displeasure at this one's duty. The murder was withdrawn as a result._ Ravenport pondered the significance of the Rectrix's reaction. The Order of the Bath, as with most of the Ordo under the control of the Crown, served their unique creeds and purposes independent from the government. In ancient times, the Ordos' principal purpose was the recovery of Faith Relics. With the onset of Modernity, the power of the Ordos waned, becoming elite Military units under the Crown's express command. The Rectrix belonged to no Faction and seldom cared for politics. It was, therefore, wisest to leave the abbey well alone. **Monday 21st of March 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _Magister Eric Walken has summoned subject to attend. Observation indicates that the security forces on the Isle of Dogs have captured a group of looters who previously damaged the equipment belonging to the METRO Printing Press. The men had been in hiding and were discovered when locals reported engine components in one of the men's homes. Magister Walken sent Mr Tu, now working under the Isle of Dogs, to retrieve the NoMs, John Green, Nathan Green, and Julia Deng of Millwall. The subject has asked the men to return the looted parts of the press without fear of penalty and has offered them atonement in exchange for service. Scotland Yard reports no such record of the theft. PD.343.767.32.5._ Ravenport processed the timeline of events in his head, then frowned. That Gwen had asked the men to return the looted parts of the press in exchange for service was disregarding due process and highly unorthodox. Likewise, that the NoMs on the Isle of Dogs reported to the Dwarves at the press rather than offices from Scotland Yard, inferred Gwen to have obtained significant trust in the local populace. Either way, it was something to mull. **Thursday 24th of March 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse. _The Subject's Abjuration has reached the fourth tier of expertise._ _The Subject's Transmutation has reached the fifth tier of expertise._ _The subject's Enchantment has reached the third tier of expertise._ _The subject's multi-modal talent has reached the fifth tier of expertise._ **Thursday 31th of March 2005** Cambridge, Emmanuel College _Magister Roslyn-Marie Wen and Magister Maxwell Brown submitted spectrometric data for Void Enervation. Without complication, the subject has successfully recreated the Necromancy fifth-tier sorcery "Enervation" in its Void variant. The lodgement was as follows:_ **Enervating Orb** Conjuration-Evocation Casting Time: 180 Major 63 Minor Range: Medium Components: Verbal, Somatic A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Duration: Channelled _This variant of Void Enervation is derived from "Enervation", with credit for the original conversion going to Magister Henry Kilroy. This variant is the brain-child of Magister Maxwell Brown, Roslyn-Marie Wen and Magus Gwen Song. Through focusing on manifesting Void Mana, an orb is created at the designated location which radiates an aura of Void. Within its Affinity-based area of effect, affected targets become suppressed, paralysed, and drained, suffering both material and immaterial damage. A portion of the spell's damage, both in terms of vitality and mana, will be redistributed through the converted Necromantic Glyphs into life-force. Current drawbacks include casting complications, stationary manifestation, incompatibility with most Spellshaping, and high initial cost in vitality. The original spells' Negative Drain has been minimised for the Tower's consideration. Initial tests carried out on Magical Creatures have demonstrated the viability of Void-Necromancy. Enervating Orb has been designated as a Class II Restricted Access spell._ Ravenport tapped the table. "Morrigan, get me all the spectrometric data." The Sprite obliged, reappearing moments later with a thick stack of scrolls. Void-Necromancy! The Duke of Norfolk allowed the words to roll back and forth on his tongue. To a significant degree, the Mageocracy had always known that Soble dabbled. Their lenience had always depended on the fact that a firm hand had held the leash— until the bitch grew crazed. To this day, no one knew what had gone down in Hungary. As an architect of the Tower System, Kilroy possessed a level of privacy like no other. Even now, the locals believed the killing spree was the work of a risen vampire Countess called Elizabeth Báthory. If the girl would take a similar path, would there be a similar outcome? But the girl was a Vessel as well, and a Lightning Mage. She did not need to hide her power either. If anything, Ravenport mused, the girl had become a celebrity. It was a move he applauded, consequently enabling Ollie Edward's prodigious ability to muster certifications and councils approvals. Be it family, fame or fortune, all three required investments, and like the roots of the Elves' World Tree— that which provides shelter and safety also binds and constraints. **Saturday 2nd of April 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _Professor Victor Verne, Chair of Contemporary Literature at Sorbonne, CR.221.903.22.0 has returned to London with a manuscript for the subject._ Currently, Ravenport sat in his private study, listening alarmedly to his Sprite ranting about a book. "The first of however many volumes," she declared with pride. "Is magnificent! It starts at sea..." Ravenport had anticipated espionage. At the very least, he was expecting Necromancy or an equally forbidden tier of sorcery to be smuggled into London by the NoM professor. Instead, the man wrote a book on Gwen's orders. "The subject says that this story was initially told to her by Kilroy." Morrigan's excitement was making Ravenport's scalp crawl. According to his Sprite, what the Void Sorceress had commissioned was the tale of a Mage living in Napoleonic France with the name of Francois Picaud. The manuscript related that Francois was a talented young sorcerer who found success in the navy. Following the imprisonment of Bonaparte, he returned to Paris to marry his childhood friend and fiancée, the extraordinarily beautiful Mercedes. However, on their wedding night, Royalist Mages burst into the banquet and dragged Francois away, accusing him of spying on the French Crown for the English and plotting the Emperor's return. Horrified by the accusation, Francois fought with all his might until he was subdued by the Royalist and taken to an island prison, the infamous Château d'If. There, he met the imprisoned Court Sorcerer of Napoleon, the Hvítálfar Elementalist Gaeardir, who was his cellmate. Over the next seventeen years, Gaeardir, who knew he would die, taught Francois everything he knew, including the location of Napoleon's hidden treasure, which he had planned to use in the event of a counter-revolution against the First Restoration. "And then! Francois, using his new command over Arcanistry, escaped the Island! He dug up Napoleon's SECRET treasure at a place called the Isle of Monte Cristo..." Morrigan's cheeks were flushed, painting her lips a ruby red. With a feeling of ill omen, Ravenport listened to the story of a man driven by rage, now unfathomably rich, returning to a now peaceful and restored Paris. There, Francois disguised himself as an Englishman with Elven Glamours and visited his old home. There, he discovered that the night he lost Mercédès was no misunderstanding, but a plot orchestrated by three men he knew. The first was his fellow sailor in the French Navy, Douglas, a man who made his living selling magical contraband, and who was exposed and expelled by Francois. The next was his best friend and fellow sorcerer, Ferdinand, from whom he won Mercedes. The final member of the trio of plotters was Prosecutor Gerald, who had used the opportunity to gain a promotion. Now, seventeen years later, all three men were prominent figures under the restored Monarchy. The scamp Douglas was now the wealthiest man in Paris. Gerald had become Chief Prosecutor of the High Court and Ferdinand a Count thanks to his military achievements. What's more, Mercedes, who Ferdinand had taken on Francois' wedding night, had borne the Count an heir in a son— Alberto de Morcerf. "And so... Francois, burning with desire for revenge, emerging from the balefire of hate and vengeance as the Count of Monte Cristo, hell-bent on tearing apart the happiness of every man who was responsible for his imprisonment! First, Francois arrived at Venice, where the children of his targets, Alberto, Frank and Vivian, were enjoying the Masque Festival—" "... and then?" Ravenport swallowed. A man in his position very much enjoyed a good revenge story. Also, if the story rang true, he would have to consult with his French counterparts. A treasure left by Napoleon? Such a trove was rarely without a companion. No Emperor would ever place their eggs in a single basket. "... that's it." Morrigan licked her lips. "That's all he wrote." Ravenport could see the madness in his Sprite's eyes. Had he given her too much blood of late? She was becoming very emotional, and very human— both qualities he did not desire in an assistant. What frankly puzzled Ravenport, however, was why this particular tale exist. Unlike the Mockingbird, what was the purpose of this? **Tuesday 5th of April 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _The subject has met with Jean Paul's master, the honourable Meister Engela Bekker, formerly of Pretoria. Unfortunately, Meister Bekker has prevented all meaningful observation._ **Monday 11th of April 2005.** Cambridge, Emmanuel College. _Magister Brown and Wen have succeeded in formulating the spell originally dubbed Death March. See the annotation below._ **Sympathetic Life-Link** Evocation-Enchantment-Transmutation Casting Time: 243 Major Range: Close Components: Verbal, Somatic, Ingredient Duration: Channelled _A spell derived from the rites utilised by Greenskin Totemcraft commonly seen in the wake of a Greenskin Beast Tide. For the original invocation, see appendix 4b. A significant complication in the application of this spell is the need to attain Essence sympathy between its users. For Demi-humans and Magical Creatures with Cores, components possessing Essence, such as heart blood, can be consumed by the caster to grant sympathetic resonance. As Human Mages lack the means of materialising Essence, unorthodox methods such as Essence Tap in appendix 1a will replicate the effects. Post "Master" and "Thrall" Essence-Exchange, the spell activates. The parallel conduit established between caster and the follower creates a "Vital Bridge" which allows for the transfer of Positive or Negative Mana between them. With consent, the caster may receive both Negative and Positive Energy from the Thrall. However, the Thrall may only receive vital energy at the caster's discretion._ "... Further testing will take place on the 18th of April," Ravenport read out loud. He understood why the Tower had allowed such an abusable spell to pass muster. If Gwen Song could indeed share her vitality with a fellow Void Mage, then enough training without fear of sudden extinction could mean eventual control over one's craft. It was an innovative proposal, one that he very much looked forward to seeing in practice. **Thursday 14th of April 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _The subject has returned to Battle to visit Magus Elvia Lindholm. Outside the Cloister, the subject managed to consume three times the same volume of food as the Knight-Initiate. If this unnatural gluttony continues, it may be cause for concern. Additional investigation was not possible due to interference by the Rectrix._ **Monday 18th of April 2005.** Cambridge. Peterhouse. _The Subject, Gracie Hillbrook, Magister Brown and Magister Wen have succeeded in manifesting Sympathetic Life-Link. However, shortly after, Gracie Hillbrookwas hospitalised for treatment. A report from Magister Brown can be found at RP.550.31.1._ **Thursday 21st of April 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _The subject has gathered a large group of NoMs from the surrounding dockside to offer them "gainful employment". The details of the position appear to involve the propagation of the publication known as "METRO". A total of three hundred and forty-one NoMs have subscribed to " an opportunity you cannot afford to miss." It would appear their new duty involves handing out newspapers at particular places along the Metropolitan railway line. Each NoM has been armed with two hundred copies of this "London Metro", with multiple individuals standing guard near the exits of the underground from Queen's Park to Liverpool, down to Westminster and West Brompton._ As soon as Ravenport saw the memo, he left the office for a brisk walk. As the Sprite had suggested, the damned things were suddenly everywhere; be it abandoned on park benches, littered on the sandstone floors of the pier, or flying through the air whenever a particularly robust wind blew. Quickly, he approached the Westminster tube station. Sure enough, he spotted two NoMs standing outside, bowing and scraping. "Free paper, Sir!" "Free paper, Ma'am, no charge." "Please take a gander, milord, its free." To Ravenport's horror, people took it. One of the NoMs caught him staring. "Milord! Free paper, Sir?" Ravenport took the paper without looking the man in the eye. "You look awful-familiar, Milord," the NoM grinned at him with pearly teeth. At the very least, the girl had the sense to pick the clean and better-dressed workers for the posher stations. "You the Prime Minister?" "That's Magister Blaire." Ravenport shook his head, then quickly retreated to the privacy of Parliament Square Garden. Now that he could take a "good gander", Ravenport felt his jowls twitch. "THE PRICE OF PROGRESS," read the headline, prefaced with an image of the Void Sorceress in a pale teal dress that Ravenport recognised as an Elven treasure. The sorceress stood in what looked like Peterhouse, near the formal Hall, with her hand resting on an ornate brass lion. The girl was beautiful, Ravenport had to admit, and could see why so few refuted the paper. For the working folk, there was nothing quite so titillating as a pretty sorceress promising to devour the Mageocracy's enemies. The article itself contained an interview with Gwen, written by Dominic Lorenzo, Chief Editor of the METRO. It detailed her operations on the Isle of Anglesey with a riveting account of the personal cost of practising Void sorcery from self-harm to ailments, to historical examples of temporary insanity caused by its Negative Drain. The picture it painted, Ravenport twisted his lips as Morrigan's crows cawed overhead, reading over his shoulder, was one sympathetic to the additional images of the pretty, pale-skinned sorceress looking a picture of pity in her shoulder-less dress. Lorenzo's tone made him curious, for it contained a distinct air of nationalistic martyrdom. Was the agent helping the girl in the genuine sense? Ravenport wondered. Or was the agent trying to cement the girl to London, as had been instructed? Other articles in the second and third pages covered news of the week, surmised by the editorial team of the Metro to be easily ingested. The headliner for the "News in Brief" section was one Ravenport loathed. "Blaire Polled to Win in May," it said— as if he needed another reminder of the ill-will the Militants had injected into the voting public. It was followed by other eye-catching titles such as "Blame Game Continues in Westminster", "Duke of Norfolk says Application of Force Necessary and Proportionate in Niger Delta", and "Beast Tide Break over Sfax after Earthquake", "Coastal City Besieged" and a Global News segment with images from Friday with "Merfolk Swarms Mississippi after largest Hurricane in Decade — Are Elementals to Blame?". Past the news were articles surmising the latest in Magitech, followed by an opinion column on said politics and sorcerous developments. With a special section dedicated to the applications of Void Magic by Magister Maxwell Brown of Cambridge. In the middle segment of the METRO, Ravenport found the source of the paper's income. There were hundreds of boxes, currently empty, under tags such as Employment, Magitech, Education, For Sale, with marked fonts in black and red stating "PUT YOUR AD HERE" and "SELL YOUR ITEM HERE" and "TRADE YOUR GOODS HERE" and "OFFER YOUR SERVICES HERE", together with contact details. Quickly, he flipped to the back section. Ravenport's brows furrowed. There were strange headlines the likeness of which he had never seen on any paper, be it the Herald Sun, the Guardian, or the Telegraph. "Employment for NoMs on the Rise!" "Mage jailed after Unprovoked assault on NoM Family." "Heads and Tales— How this Liverpool Father found his purpose." "The best pubs this side of West Side." "Non-Magical Mother of Four gives up Secret to raising Four Mages." "Horror at Mansfield, NoM Employee mauled by escaped Magical Pet." There were even recipes! For NoMs! "Pot Pie for Under Five Quid." "Spring Salads you can harvest from your local garden!" The more he read, the more puzzled he became. NoMs? Ravenport cocked his head like a bird's. A newspaper for NoMs? He had an inkling after all these weeks observing the girl, but still, the excess effort exerted for the Mageocracy's arguably second-class citizens puzzled him. Was this information warfare? Was the girl plotting a mutiny? Was this Communism? He turned the page. "CAW! CAW! CAW!" The crows watching him from the tree began to flock and dance. "The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexander Dumas, Chapter One," read the tagline. The first instalment had only four chapters. "Caw!" Morrigan's crows began to crow blue murder. "Caw! Caw!" Her crows murdered the cheap paper, beating their wings in a frenzy. Ravenport flung the paper away from him, only to have the pages torn to shreds by the enraged crows. "CAW! CAW! CAW!" **Wednesday 27st of April 2005** Cambridge, Emmanuel College _The duck has received YET ANOTHER dose of Essence. Petition for the duck to join the murder. See Memo DD-3221.32.125._

**Sunday 1st of May 2005** London CBD _The METRO's internal files indicate that over 250,000 copies in print have left the press. By my crow's calculation, 200,000 copies of the Metro have inundated the tube and rail system._ **Monday 2nd of May 2005** London CBD _The second edition of the METRO is now in distribution. The Count of Monte Cristo is currently at Chapter Eight. The comics attached to the NoM section depicting milord and other members of the nobility are proving popular. The free paper is now endemic in central London. My murders have observed the homeless using the METRO as blankets. MD-6221.62.139._ **Thursday 5th of May 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse. _The subject has convened with Gracie Hillbrook, Magister Brown and Wen to re-attempt Sympathetic Life-Link. Submissions by Magister Brown indicate the success of the rudimentary Essence Sorcery. See RP.550.31.2_ **Monday 9th of May 2005** London CBD _The third edition of the METRO is now in distribution. Circulation has reached 300,000. The murders observed NoMs from Wembley to Stratford to Dulwich speaking of little else but the METRO's contents, particularly the novel. The free paper's rivals are beginning to take note. The Herald Sun appears particularly hostile to the METRO's success._ **Tuesday 10th of May 2005** London, Westminster _Milord. A dubious report has arrived from the South China Sea, which I included for your consideration. In recent months, two supertankers carrying trade goods from North America have been raided by Mermen pirates. Survivors from the ships' crew reported that the Mermen were lead by a High Priest of immense power worshipping a being of the deep with the moniker "The Pale Priestess". The Captain reports that the raiders' leader was reportedly wielding a Faith Relic consisting of SPAM cans. This entry has been submitted as the word "The Devourer of Shenyang" has appeared once and "Gwen Song" sixteen times in the interview transcript. See file FP.3190.312.21.1 for additional details._ Once Ravenport finished the final report on Gwen Song, he pinched the ridge between his eyes. The witching hour was nigh, and Mycroft grew weary of the dangers of over-imagination caused by a sleep-deprived mind. Different to the Lords-in-name-only, London's Lord Marshall possessed actual duties beyond his function as a chief courtier, one with hours so long, he oft wondered if the lack of long-lived Ravenports was less because of Affinity and more so exhaustion. As for the point of interest raised by Morrigan— Ravenport tapped into his mental filing system, searching for a relevant entry. It was an exercise he often employed when faced with potential threats to the Empire, for a man in his position had to possess a healthy dose of paranoia and suspicion, even for the smallest detail. One by one, he had Morrigan summon said details and the associated segments. SPAM, Mermen Priest, Pale Priestess, The Yellow Sea, Monsters of the Deep, Biplipodoofu and Blightreef, Missing supertankers, and the golden trade-triangle between China, South Korean, and Japan. And somewhere in that mess, Gwen Song had her fingers in the pie. Other than the girl's love of SPAM, he couldn't see any links. The creatures from the Deep were innumerable and unpredictable, too alien to garner human sympathy. Were the Mermen readying for another invasion? And this Pale Priestess— what could it be? There had been many such beings in history, though only one that's contemporary. In the past, he had more than once heard the moniker circulate in conjunction with Kilroy's pale-skinned, red-lipped Void wife. And after Sydney, all knew the woman was a known associate of the Mermen Kingdoms. "Morrigan, bring me everything on the South China Sea from the last month. Everything recent on Spectre as well." Morrigan sunk into the shadows. When she returned, the secretary Sprite materialised the data with the aid of Mage Hands, setting those with the highest relevance indices to hover. Mycroft scanned the files one by one, willing his mind to dive into the abyssal depth of cross-analysis. "I hypothesise that Sobel is evangelising Mermen in the Yellow Sea," he said to the Sprite. "The likelihood is great if we take precedence into account," Morrigan agreed. "Sydney serves as a significant example." "Send a Message to Secretary-General Miao. Call it a favour," Ravenport gave the order. "If the Mermen do invade their coast, they can't say we didn't warn them. Tell them to keep a close eye on their coastal batteries as well. Let Sydney be a stern lesson." Morrigan's eyes grew briefly dark. "It's done." The Duke of Norfolk rose from his seat. "Well then, goodnight, Morrigan." "Goodnight, my Duke." The double doors clicked shut, returning the suite to the shadows. **Monday 16th of May 2005** London CBD _The fourth edition of the METRO is now in distribution. The subject has warned her staff about intrusive crows, not that it matters. The NoMs are well aware that when a crow knocks on their window or door, its best to let it in— especially when they scratch out "Oi, Tower Business" on the window._ **Wednesday 18th of May 2005** Cambridge, Emmanuel College. _Memo DD-3221.32.129. The observer would like to note that the subject has scant observable examples of human friendship. As per your command, a compiled list of the subject's most frequent contacts, sans family, employees, and instructors, appears as follows:_ _Ollie Edwards — Less than a friend or a mate, the subject appears to treat her Praelector as a personal secretary._ _Gracie Hillbrook — the subject feels sympathy for the Void Illusionist._ _Jean-Paul Bekker — the subject has been using him to ward away unwanted interests._ _Elvia Lindholm — Miss Lindholm remains an intimate companion, though the pair rarely convene due to their positions._ _The closest companion to the subject remains Dede. It is strongly recommended that the duck be recruited into the murder._ **Saturday 21st of May 2005** London, Heathrow _Customs have intercepted a package for the subject, sent from Yangon. From exterior spectrometric readings, the item appears to be densely enchanted with Divination. Customs has passed the package onward without tampering with the Glyph Seal. CR.2240.938.21.6_ **Sunday 22nd of May 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _The subject is touring the underground construction taking place beneath the isle of dogs. The overland extension Tramline and the refurbishment of the wharf at Millwall are progressing without incident. The municipality of Millwall and Cubitt has reported a population increase to 11,239 registered residents. The average land price of the county has increased by 146% since January._ **Monday 23rd of May 2005** London, Westminster _The fifth edition of the METRO is now in distribution._ _Memo DD-3221.32.129. The observer would like to note that Dominic Lorenzo was visited by Magus Sebastian Cribbage, Editor-in-chief of the Herald Sun. From internal files extracted from our sources in the Herald, their backers appear to feel threatened. The unannounced visitation from Cribbage and his subsequent, dissatisfaction indicate future complications to come._ **Wednesday, 25th of May 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse _The subject is now nineteen years of age. Richard Huang, Petra Kuznetsova, Jean-Paul Bekker, Gracie Hillbrook have prepared a surprise celebration for the subject at Peterhouse's Old Court. Some of the subject's Housemates and Tutors elected to participate as well. A cake prepared for the subject was devoured by Dede prior to the reveal. The Dragon Ruxin has gifted an unusual present (See RP.2240.938.21.6). I've obtained a similar object with the closest attribute. Please note that the subject's article has a Jadeite Pixiu Core._ **Omni-Directional Orb** _A crystal orb bestowed with highly advanced navigation magic, usually used in seafaring. The Orb is capable of guiding the user toward their desired direction regardless of obfuscation both magical and mundane. It may be used in conjunction with Find Person, Locate Object, and Dowsing. The accuracy of this item varies based on its materials._ Tier 9 "Jadeite Pixiu Core", Black Zone, Tibetan China. Crafter - Unknown. Estimated worth, 12,000 HDM Crystals _Pixiu?_ Ravenport masticated the word with his mind. "Morrigan, can you clarify?" Morrigan's pupils grew dark. "The white jade Pixiu is a Draconic chimeric Draconoid found in Chinese-ruled Tibet, an auspicious creature tied to wealth and prosperity, said to harness the Essence of "Fortune". From the Analects of the Mountains and the Sea, the Pixiu was the well-behaved scion of the heavenly Asiatic Metallic Dragons. A gifted but spoiled child, it joined forces with monsters for whom it felt sympathy and rose against the Jade Emperor during the Great Sealing. To spare the Pixiu's life, the Yinglong transformed the prideful creature into an animal without a rectum, constraining the creature's diet to gold, silver, gems and crystals so that it may never consume human flesh again." "… it has no rectum?" Ravenport raised a brow. Never in his ancestor's wildest dreams would they have imagined that one day, a descendent would be demanding if Oriental Dragon-Lions possessed assholes. "I believe." Morrigan scanned the records for lions sans shit sheaths. "This particular chimaeric Draconid is a higher-order elemental who consumes Crystals and do not need defecation due to their extraordinary absorption rates." "Right." He knew from reports that the girl had a fatal, "directionally challenged" weakness. Logically speaking, this palm-sized item would resolve that problem. However, that such a thing arrived from a Thunder Dragon made Ravenport think. The Asiatic Dragons were inferior to the Western Chromatic Dragon's physical prowess, but they did possess feats of Divination their western counterparts could not match. Was there a more profound implication to such a useless, albeit unique item? Ravenport chose to wait and see. **Thursday 26th of May 2005** London, Westminster _The subject has spent 370 CCs out of 1780 CCs to purchase the following spell._ **Bilby's Blade Barrier** Evocation-Conjuration Casting Time: 401 Major 328 Minor Range: Close Components: Verbal, Somatic Duration: Channelled _The caster creates a wall of whirling, razor-sharp blades of force. The baseline spell creates a barrier up to thirty meters long and half-a-metre wide, two-meters high in a line or as a ring. As with a Wall of Force, only a Greater Dispel, Spell Disjunction, or Disintegrate may impact the spell's manifestation so long as the caster is alive. When an enemy enters into the space of Blade Barrier, it immediately begins to take damage and becomes ensnared. Bilby's improved Morden's Blade Barrier allows for complex manifestations utilising meta-magic spellshaping, including Elemental Shift. Likewise, a comprehensive range of expressions is available to the caster, including as a horizontal plane, a dome, a wedge, or as a piece-meal manifestation of singular blades in predetermined patterns. For Elemental variations, see appendix 1B. Note: The mana consumption of this spell's channelled effect is exceptionally intensive._ Ravenport couldn't help but imagine what the staple offensive spell could do in the hands of a Void Sorceress. A combination of both Void and Force Magic was already lethal against grounded enemies. With Bilby's variation, a skilled caster could even anchor the spell in mid-air, using it as a means to trap flying enemies like Rocs and Drakes. "Morrigan, are there any ongoing conflicts suitable for our sorceress to gain practical experience?" Ravenport asked of his Sprite. "The Fomorians will be entering their active season in August," the Spirit replied. "Six Flights have been committed to the Purge, including two Mechanised Units and their support auxiliaries." "Hmm... Giants." Ravenport took a sip of his piping Earl Grey. A keen blade needed whetting from both stone and flesh, and a Combat Mage was no different. "Make a Memo. We'll consider it. No point letting a War Mage get rusty." Not to mention Tryfan had wanted to deepen their ties to the girl. Ravenport mulled in silence. Three months wasn't much time in the eyes of the Elves, but by now Vulmari and Eldrin are wondering where their sorceress had gone. The girl had been given express consent to visit Trawsfynydd; only Gwen grew so wrapped up in her media hype, she must have forgotten about the Hvítálfar. To make the High Elves feel impatience! Ravenport smiled in the privacy of his secluded abode. The girl had good points after all. **Monday 30th of May 2005** London CBD _The sixth instalment of the METRO has entered London's transportation network._ _Circulation of the paper has reached 340,000 to 360,000._ _In busier stations like Waterloo, Victoria, Liverpool and Bridge, the subject has placed a dozen NoMs throughout every entry and exit, equipped with Dwarf-forged pulley carts, each a quasi-magical storage device with a capacity of ten-thousand or more copies of the METRO. My crows have reported several incidences of robbery. The incident has caused a stir in Scotland Yard as Master Yossari on the Isle of Dogs registered herself as the complainant. A record of the arrest can be MPS.2331.424.33.1._ **Monday 6th of June 2005** London CBD _The METRO's seventh edition has included a piece on the recovery of the stolen Dwarven Storage "Pulley". The METRO has commended the Metropolitan Police London for its service. The Chief Superintendent has publically assured our allies from the Red Citadel that their business will not be impeded by "The rare scoundrel". Dominic Lorenzo penned the praise piece. My crows indicate the attacks on the NoMs were orchestrated by associates of the Herald Sun. The METRO has chosen not to pursue._ **Saturday, 11th of June 2005** London, Westminster. _The Dwarves under the subject's command are nearing completion of the tube substation underneath the Isle of Dogs previously commended by your lordship. Together with the overland rail system, Millwall Docks is now the lastest location in London accessible by ferry, tube and overground trams. The locales' unique accessibility has not gone unnoticed. The owners of Canary Wharf, the Barlow Consortium, has expressed concern and lodged complaints against the development of Millwall and Cubitt Town. See RP.560.32.5_ This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. **Sunday 19th of June 2005** London, Westminster. Of all the nobility in London, scant individuals stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Lord Marshall of the Empire. There were those like the Exeters, who were his contemporaries, but whose excess choler and extreme views made them poor politicians. Then there were ones like Lucy Astor, who had money and weight but lacked the history to curry favour with the older families. Some he admired, like the Rothwells, who stuck to their obligation of keeping their noble noses out of politics and instead focus on improving the Mageocracy. Others, like Lady Maxine Loftus, were both his childhood companion and a friend. And it was by her behest that they now gathered here in the mud-strewn hills of Mudchute Farm, awkwardly engaged in an alfresco function. The purpose of the gathering, one in which notable names were invited, was to celebrate the completion of the first stage of the Isle of Dog's redevelopment project. Under the auspice of fast-tracked council approvals and Lady Grey calling in favours: the Millwall Ferry, Millwall Tube Station, and Millwall overland Tram Exchange were now in service. Since mid-day, flocks of cocktail dresses and tuxedos enchanted to resist crinkle and stain had meandered from one transport interchange to another, smiling rigidly at the Lumen-recorders from the Telegraph, the Herald Sun, the Guardian and now the METRO. At the overland, Magister Eric Walken of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment committee gave a stump speech about bringing employment and opportunities for the local population, with particular attention given to how many NoM families would soon find gainful employment in the construction projects slated to flood the peninsular. At the newly constructed tube station, under the curved facade of trigonometric Dwarf-cut glass in the art-deco style, Lady Loftus spoke proudly about offering the Mages of London a second business centre with unparalleled access. There, she unveiled the next expansion project of the Millwall-Canary interchange— an ISTC junction connected to the Tower's network, allowing relatively cheap teleporting into and out of the Isle of Dogs. The announcement was met with a shower of flashing strobes, followed by public transit to the finale at Mudchute Farm. Before the girl's investments, the farm served as Maxine Loftus' kennel. Now, a not-insignificant amount of landscaping had gone into the enormous English garden that sprawled over its locale, joined on the right by Maxine's character-mansion and on the left by a Union Jack themed three-storey pavilion. Here and there, London's elite exchanged gossip and clinked glasses, their eyes lingering over the distant lights that hid the Isle of Dogs' newest economics zone. As a guest, Ravenport attired himself in unassuming grey. Prior to his attendance, he had Seville triple-check the guest list to ensure no undue complications awaited him. It was a necessary caution, as he had pushed back many requests seeking to stifle the Isle of Dog's progress as a kindness to Maxine. Moreover, politically speaking, he had stepped on a few toes in the process, considering that the Labour Party and the Middle Faction were the ones pushing for development. In opposition, the Tories and the Militants had opposed it as a matter of principle. That was why presently, the Duke of Norfolk stood with his "Allies" on the matter of the Isle of Dogs. Each to each, he and his companions exchanged notes to fathom the depth of Gwen Song's ability to bring about a six-month metamorphosis to a region that had remained unchanged since the Victorian Era. "... And on top of all that, she wants to link the underground to North Greenwich, up to Westham and loop through Stratford..." Lady Rothwell sipped on her flute of overpriced French bubbly wine. "And add a route to the Docklands Light Rail," Lady Grey explained patiently. "From Canary to Mudchute, to Island Garden and finally to Greenwich." "How is 'she' paying for all of this?" Lady Astor marvelled. "The Dwarves have saved us a lot of crystals." Maxine Loftus smiled secretively. "We're only providing the raw materials and the liquid HDMs. In six months, the Dwarven Masters will come to retrieve their Fabricators. After that, most of them will be returning to their Citadel." "Still, a Wharf, a Printing Press, three DLR stations and a new underground complex for the tube?" The new voice belonged to Emilia Callaghan, Chief Whip of the United Kingdoms Labour Party. "Is she secretly a Dragon? The cost of all this must be a whole hoard's worth, especially if Waterloo Station's refurbishment contract has anything to say." Ravenport hid his secret smile, though not too well. "Milord Mycroft, do you know something we don't?" The Chief Whip was onto him in a split-second. "Do the Greys have anything to do with this?" Ravenport shrugged; it was fun watching his opponents puzzle over Gwen for once. "She submitted the Isle of Dog's audit report months ago." Lady Grey held back a smile. "Fret not, Minister Callaghan, our bookkeeping should satisfy the Interior Department's deepest scrutiny." "Indeed, both Lady Grey and I have placed much faith on this project," the wily Lady Astor spoke, her American accent drawing eyes a usual. "And the IoD Restoration Corporation is majority-owned by members belonging to the Mageocracy." The women's candidness suggested to Ravenport that something was afoot. For a while now, Gwen's investments had remained so secretive that Morrigan had to tap into the Municipal land-records filed by Magister Walken. With casual ease, he slipped away from the group, allowing the women to talk among themselves. He disliked Labour's newest whip. She was a lass with an unshakable bias, believing that no project ever occurred without the Tories lining their pockets with the public purse. Naturally, she was right— but such costs were merely a fact of business. All around the garden and the pavilion, the guests spread themselves thin between the open bar, displaced by its train of servants swaying with floating rounds of colourful alcohol. After a thirsty afternoon loitering from photo-op to photo-op, careless laughter gradually turned to casual innuendo. It was to be expected— for all of the attendees knew one another from a thousand past soirées. Not wanting to be accosted, the Duke of Norfolk invoked subtle motes of Dust to blend into the background, enacting a reputation for being an excellent listener. Across the garden, the four-string orchestra Lady Grey had requested from the Conservatory took up their instruments, playing a key higher now to make the conversation easier. Ravenport retired beside a pillar, cloaked in Glamour, watching the groups ebb and flow, filling with new arrivals, dissolving when their conversation dried up. After a scan around the newly-grown garden, his eyes left the chittering cliques to land near the rose circle, where flashes of Lumen-strobes proclaimed the sorceress of the hour. The pale-complexioned girl stood with a group of Dwarves in formal tunics, wearing a risquè, one-of-a-kind Elven apparel with a corset in royal-blue, trailing a shimmering train of spectral daffodils petals. Also with the group were her Familiars: a Kirin about the size of a Great Dane wearing a bowtie; a snake as large as a Burmese Python, also wearing a bowtie, and a duck— likewise wearing a bowtie. So that's Dede. Ravenport recognised the beast at once from Morrigan's incessant reports. He couldn't help but notice that indeed, the duck was monstrously large, with its head height as tall as the Kirin. If the damned thing reached its peak, it may start giving Royal Griffins a run for their crystals. Among the crowd, the girl moved confidently, heedless of the Elven fabric barely covering her very alluring shoulders, amusing Ravenport whenever the men stiffened and the women upturned their noses. Her confidence surprised him once more, for she meandered here and there among the noble, the rich and the powerful, alternatively sliding between groups with the ease of fruity liqueur sliding down parched throats. When finally the girl retreated to a corner to rest her tongue, Ravenport saw a mouse-faced scoundrel break away from a circle close to the Militants. Sebastian Cribbage was the man's name; an infamous wordsmith and the Herald Sun's alpha attack dog strongly tied to the Militant Faction. The two met in shadow, where the Daylight Globes began to fade. Invoking a higher tier spell, Ravenport edged closer. "… Dominic's loyalties are misplaced, as are yours, Magus Song." Though the two spoke in "private", Ravenport could see the Militants with their ears to the wind, while on Gwen's side, her two cousins stood distractedly. "A Newspaper isn't all it seems, you understand. There are certain positions one must take, stakeholders one must respect. We had offered you an olive branch, not out of weakness but respect; if you continued on your path of self-delusion…" In Ravenport's eyes, Cribbage was, as his name suggested, a low-life polymorphed cabbage. More than once, the Duke had wondered if his Barlow Consortium backers would dare file a suit against his position if a pair of crows happened to peck out the cabbage's eyes. To his knowledge, it was Cribbage who pushed the story about Gwen "bastard Ravenport" Song. No one worthy believed the tale, of course, but his children had complained, and he had lost face. Nonetheless, it was refreshing to see Cribbage's slithering villainy levelled against someone else. How would the girl react? Ravenport wondered. Overhead, he could sense Morrigan's crows watching with equal interest. The girl stared at Cribbage, her face still pleasant. With every syllable leaving Cribbage's lips, however, her expression grew gradually cold, bleeding the effervescence from her nubile body. When Cribbage finally finished, the Lightning Evoker had become the Void Conjurer. Against his expectations, the girl did not act out. Rather, the girl's lips grew cruel like that of a predatory feline. "...Therefore, Miss Song, I would not seek to upset anyone else." "Oh dear, Mister Cribbage, I simply didn't know the Herald Sun held sovereignty over our citizens' right to know." With poignant sarcasm, the girl studied the Herald Sun's Editor-in-chief. "Rest assured, I'll shut down my paper first thing tomorrow." Cribbage frowned, clearly unused to resistive, sarcastic young women. "I am warning you, lass. We've been diplomatic for Lady Grey's sake. If you dare challenge us, don't blame me for the headlines tomorrow. We know of your sinful relationship with the Knight-Initiate from the Order of the Bath. We've also obtained records that you Consumed prisoners while in Shanghai to fuel your magic. You're a mad, deviant stray, Magus Song, and that's all there is to it. No amount of free newspapers is going to keep the truth from the people of London!" Ravenport suppressed a sudden thrill. Cribbage told the truth— but like his newspaper, it was a half-truth. So long as Gwen played her part as the suppressant keeping the Mageocracy's enemies on their heels, those in power could turn a blind eye, be it trade, transaction or propagation with Dragons, Dwarves or Elves. To his knowledge, the Mageocracy was no stranger to turning the other cheek when the benefits outweighed the costs. In that sense, Cribbage did well in flinging mud to see what stuck. Conversely, for Elvia Lindholm, accusations of moral deviancy at a sufficient volume could prove fatal for an untitled supplicant, for even within Battle Abbey's hallowed halls, politics thrived. How would the girl react? Ravenport wished he had a bucket of the exploded corn that the lower-classes loved so much. Once more, Gwen Song's reaction proved a delightful surprise. The girl sighed, appearing demure and disappointed. "If you're willing to go that far, Mister Cribbage." She gave the look of a disapproving governess. "Then are you prepared to pay the price?" Cribbage's complexion grew two shades darker. "Miss Song, do you believe my warning to be a joke?" "Sir, you're asking me to shut down a business worth hundreds of thousands of HDMs," Gwen said. "Are you not serious?" "You—" "Then let's get serious." Gwen's tone changed at once. She struck out her naked shoulders, took a deep breath so that for a moment, Cribbage's eyes drifted downward, then— _SLAP!_ The slap didn't have much force in it, but it was loud. The strike came so suddenly that Mycroft almost jumped. When next he looked at Cribbage, he near burst a snort because the Editor-in-chief looked as though his world had just exploded. "How dare you, Mister Cribbage!" Gwen's voice pierced through Mudchute via her Clarion Call. "For shame!" Like flies to carrion, the guests flocked to the drama. Subtly, Ravenport slipped into the crowd. Cribbage shook off the slap with surprising candour. There was no rage, no outburst, just a cold, calculating coolness. Opposite, the girl was a picture of pity, instantly turning the young stags among the party to her cause. From their stance and eagerness, Ravenport could see that several were near-ready to duel Cribbage to the death. "You don't think we know your whorish tricks?" Cribbage sneered, checking his cheek for blood from Gwen's rings. "You don't think my crew is recording? The Herald Sun is a paper of integrity and truth, Miss Song, unlike your NoM-cheering, cantankerous METRO! The truth will be known!" Ravenport nodded with satisfaction. Now there's the thick-skinned Cribbage he knew. It was with good reason the man still retained both eyeballs. Now the rest of the crowd was looking to chew the proverbial exploded corn. "Oh, that wasn't for your benefit, Mister Cribbage." The girl huffed, flicking away a strand of impertinent hair. "I just felt like slapping some sense into a fool. Tricks? Falsehoods? We don't need that here on the Isle of Dogs. What makes you think YOU can threaten ME, Mister Cribbage?" "Threaten?" Ravenport could see that Cribbage was now aware that many of London's upper class were watching. "You're very good at misconstruing other's words, Miss Song. How is a friendly reminder now a threat? I am thinking of tomorrow's headline— 'Man-Eating Void Sorceress menaces the Herald', 'A Bully and a Bitch', What do you make of that?" "I think— 'Infamous Editor Propositions Young Sorceress' would be a nice one," the girl replied with both hands on her hips. "Driven by arrogance, entitlement and appetite, Editor-in-Chief of the Herald Sun demands intimate favour from Gwen Song lest he publishes untoward articles ruining her vestal reputation." "You think anyone would believe that?" "Wouldn't you know better?" Gwen laughed. "Is your written truth better certified than mine? I have Marchioness of Ely, Duchess Rothwell, and Lady Astor of Cliveden to vouch for me, and…" Slapped by yet another bout of the girl's impertinence, Cribbage's patience had burnt its last wick. "Keep that up, Miss Song, and 'Fatal Fire at West Ferry Press" may just adorn every headline in London," Cribbage whispered harshly. "You think a printing press doesn't have accidents? There are always problems with the machines. It would be a shame if—" The man's next words caught in his throat. There was a visible ripple of mana, then the Void Sorceress' pupils transformed into twin-points of depthless darkness. From the girl's torso, Ravenport could sense twin, concentric circles of Illusory mana permeate the space around her. _Desolation Aura!_ Ravenport recognised the spell. So the girl succeeded in another Signature spell. How did Morrigan not know this? "Before you froth and bite." Gwen raised her voice so that all present could hear. "Let me tell you something worthy of publishing— the names of the major stakeholders of the Isle of Dogs Reconstruction Project, of which the METRO press belongs to." "First and foremost, there's my House Mistress, Lady Maxine Loftus." Lady Loftus smiled in her usual serene manner. "Then there's our angel investors, Lady Astor and Lady Rothwell." The two ladies gave elegant nods. "There is also milord Ruxin, Master of Nagaland, Kachin and Manipur, True Dragon and scion to the Yinglong," Gwen continued. "And over there are our friends from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, who have a twenty per cent take in the press and its proceeds. The Shard also owes a stake in the press, such as the patent to our printing presses and its associated systems. We only own the ink." It took Mycroft only a few seconds to process the girl's words, after which he had to suppress the urge to clap. He had seen the report months earlier and had been puzzled by her generosity. Now he knew, for though the patent for the press was given freely to the Mageocracy, the design had to use ink made by the Alchemist! If Gwen's press sold the ink, then the patent was itself a lure to consolidate buyers! She had a monopoly! "And this is only the beginning." The smiling Void Sorceress patted the stunned Chief Editor on the shoulder as she passed, then opened her arms as if to envelop the crowd, her dark pupils returning to their usual clarity. "All are welcome to invest in suites, apartments, offices and condos on the Isle of Dogs. And the earlier you buy, the more profitable your venture shall be. By October, we will release Phase I's allotment, and you may purchase suites off-the-plan at an unmissable, competitive rate in the second heart of London." Stricken by the depth of the girl's greed, Ravenport felt his thumbs prickle. The IoD group was gathering funds by selling off-the-plan! What a dastardly filthy idea. With Lady Grey, Astor and Rothwell's skin in the game, there was no way the scheme could be a scam. If so, then the early crow gets the latest chapter of the Count of Montecristo! Gwen turned to Cribbage once more. "You see? I do not need tricks." Gwen gave the shivering man a look of unadulterated wickedness. "Let us make something very, very clear, Mister Cribbage. You sell your paper, and I'll sell mine. You can put any old pile of horse shit into your paper, and I'll put the truth, or its nearest, verifiable facsimile. I don't need threats to evolve past your outdated business model, and I certainly don't need you or your backer's permission to operate. Come at me again with anything less than complete courtesy, and a raging Thunder Wyvern or a berserk Construction Golem will be the least of your worries, capeesh?" Somewhere, a Dwarven Alchemist burst into rip-roaring laughter. As for Ravenport, the final, non-sensical Italian was too much for the Duke of Norfolk, and he had to turn his head to hide his delight even as Cribbage stuttered and mumbled. His mirth aside, however, what worried him was that despite everything, extrinsic details had slipped through the cracks. He knew almost too much about the METRO, the printing press and their beef with the Herald Sun. He even knew what volume two of the Count of Monte Cristo entailed well ahead of the public. But he had heard nothing of note about the ink, and little else in regards to the property development on the Isle of Dogs. Maybe, Ravenport looked around the garden; strangely, both of Gwen's Familiars, as well as the duck, were missing. What if Morrigan's hunch was right? He wondered. What if, indeed, the duck was a way of breaking through to the girl's inner circle? **4th July 2005** London, Westminster. _From the subject's internal filing, the circulation of the METRO is currently distributing between 450,000 to 500,000 copies per week._

_Caw—_ _Caw— Caw—_ _Caw— Caw— Caw!_ The ubiquitous crooning of Corvids at dusk was such an emblematic feature of London that it possessed the same ambience as vomiting drunks on Friday night. With the sun fled and the lightless sky overcast with impending showers, the Tower's infamous murders flocked overhead, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, observing a swaggering trio of Magical Beasts sauntering away from Mudchute Farm. Under normal circumstances, the farm's fences, not to mention its small battalion of Wolfhounds, would have prevented the entry or exit of magical fauna. These, however, were no mortal monsters. One was a Pseudo Kirin fed on the Essence of a True Dragon and a primordial Tree Serpent, made mobile aerially by blessings no terrestrial mongoose could match. Another was a Void beast, a thing of bottomless hunger that Consumed its way into possessing both form and ego, a deathless fiend even the Hvítálfar would think thrice about accosting. The final member of the swag-posse was a duck that drank the milk of paradise and was now near-escaping the mortal coil, a mathematician and a lord of larceny cowing the students on Emmanuel's campus. It was with great interest then that Morrigan divided her murder so that a flock of Corvids observed the Familiars, while the rest kept their eyes on Mudchute, where her principal observation subject was in the midst of orally flagellating the Editor-in-chief of the Herald Sun. What dastardly evils could the Familiars and the duck be dreaming? Morrigan burned with curiosity. In a row, lead by Dede, the creatures strolled into Millwall. "Quack!" Dede raised a wing when he passed the Soup Kitchen. As with the construction site not far from Millwall's inner dock, the suburb burned the midnight oil. The clinic's patron, Elvia Lindholm, had secured funding from her new masters at the Order of the Bath and had expanded operations of late. Subsequently, "Evee's Clinic" and the "Our Lady Elvia's Soup Kitchen and Shelter" now operated twenty-four hours, drawing vagrants from far and wide. Outside the clinic, Morrigan observed Gwen's predatory recruiters loitering about with pamphlets printed by the press, ready to seduce the honest swagman into dishonest work. "Oi there, lass. Had a good feed, 'ave we?" The rat-faced men dressed in the navy-blue uniforms of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment Project, or IoDRP, would burst into bouts of capitalist evangelism. "Would yer like a job, feller? Full-time and all yer got ter do's hand out papers, don't even have to sell em! You there, lad, you look like you could shoulder a barrel of ink no problem, how about some gainful employment?" More often than not, the churning maw of the press lured men and women from the surrounding boroughs into its depth, emerging attired in blue, confused and weighed down with work. "Dede Duck! Mister Cali and Ariel!" The cries of children echoed in the night before emerging into the floodlight like a swarm of moths. Morrigan marvelled as the children began to dance around the trio, with Ariel emerging the clear favourite. That these kids weren't afraid of the Familiars gave the Sprite food for thought as to whether Caliban thought of the children as food. Several of the children climbed onto Caliban, who hissed at them, sending the laughing kids scattering into the clinic before they emerged again, challenging one another to climb the snake. Dede stood regally, observing the children, possibly considering the consequences of swallowing one wholesale. "Yer Snots! Buzz off!" came a cry from the rumbling dark as a pair of headlights approached. From the rolling dust emerged a Dwarven Apprentice astride a Work Golem. "Don't play ed de road, yer Gobs! Do you want ter be stepped-on? Oh—" "Quack! Quack!" "Alright, alright, I didn't see yer duckness there." the Golem took a detour, churning up blocks of dark mud and construction debris as its three-claw toes sunk into the soft earth. The kids blew raspberries at the Dwarf as the Golem passed. Morrigan was just about to croon about the audacity of these NoM Goblins when a heavy-set nurse built like a Dwarven matron burst from the clinic with a booming cry. "WHY ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DORMS?!" the NoM woman's voice may or may not have been naturally empowered with Clarion Call. "BACK! BACK YA GET! I SAID NOW, BILLY!" The kids fled. The woman, Morrigan saw, was the mistress of the orphanage now operating behind the clinic. Despite the rising land price, the subject had gifted the lease to a block of land for her friend Elvia's charitable endeavours. "Terribly sorry, yer Familiarships." The woman scraped and bowed. "Quack!" Dede fossicked inside the feathered breast, then tossed an HDM at the woman. "Quack!" The NoM caught the crystal, bowed again, then retreated. "Shaa Shaa!" "EE!" The Familiars approved of the duck's generosity. "Quack!" Dede raised its head high. "Shaa Shaa!" "EE!" After a round of self-congratulations, the trio continued on their way. Puzzled as to their destination, Morrigan set a crow overhead. Billingsgate Market! She realised at once when the crow cleared the dock's warehouses. At night was when the fishing fleet arrived at Canary to offload the fresh produce. Were these creatures on their way to pilfer the fishermen's hard-won labours? Just as she wondered how the trio hoped to reach the market, Dede took flight, its wing-span almost two meters in length, dwarfing that of her Corvid spies. Ariel took to the air by stepping on invisible steps, allowing its sibling to coil around its torso to catch a ride. Near the lower dock at Billingsgate, Blackwall, the scent of fish guts churning the Thames polluted the atmosphere with the stench of bacteria busy at decomposition. There, the Familiars landed, much to the shock of the fishermen and the workmen busy cleaning the night's catch. "Quack!" Dede informed them that there was no cause for alarm, then took his companions toward the fishery. "Your lordships!" The shopkeep, who must have recognised who these creatures belonged to, hailed them. "Are ya here to purchase fish for her Ladyship?" "Quack!" Dede waddled closer. "Quack! Quack!" "One moment." The man bowed. "Hey, you lot! Can anyone use Speak with Animals or Tongues?" "I'll get me-Missus, she's a Diviner!" someone shouted from one of the bobbing ships swaying in the flickering dark. Morrigan circled the docks as the men who were resting on their vessels disembarked to observe the spectacle of the "Familiars" running errands. This time of the night, the area churned with activity, with both Mages and NoMs swarming over the fresh catch. As for why they remained unfazed by the Familiars, Morrigan suspected it was because they were wearing bowties. Without doubt, these were educated Familiars. A few minutes later, a young woman in rubber boots and a bloody apron rushed down from one of the larger ships. "Your honours." The woman curtsied. "How can Fawsitt's be of service?" "Quack! Quack!" "Of course." The woman turned to her foreman. "Bring out the fresh catch from tonight." The men soon produced several carts laden with fish. "Quack! Quack!" Dede patrolled the produce. "Quack!" "Six Sea Bass, Three Rainbow Bream and four kilos of the Ivory Scallops, de-shelled and cleaned!" the woman hollered. While the men worked, there was an awkward silence. Once someone weighed the fishes, she demurely delivered the price. "That's 17 HDMs and 11 LDMs, milords…" "Quack!" Caliban rose to its full height. Just before the seamen could holler blue murder, it coughed up a fistful of HDMs covered in grey goo. "Quack!" Dede counted the crystals, then pushed them forward. "… you want them bagged?" the Diviner chose not to question her good fortune. Morrigan withdrew from her crows, feeling a little faint. There was the matter of training Spirit-Affinity through Humanisation, but what the hell was this? Why was a duck, a Void Fiend and a Kirin buying fish? Also, how did Caliban cough up the right change? In her mind's eye, across the docklands, the creatures' Master was now painting for the crowd a picture of a Millwall and Cubitt studded with skyscrapers and new residential apartments. When her attention returned, the snake, duck and Kirin had finished eating. The scallops were for Dede, while Ariel had the Bream. Caliban must have swallowed its meal wholesale, for there was nothing left but an empty cart. Maybe they're returning to the Party now? Morrigan studied the fish carcasses. It was impossible for a duck to de-flesh a third-tier deep-sea fish with scales like steel plates, but Dede was able to peck part the fish with the ease of eating peas. To her mortification, the trio's adventure continued. With Dede leading, the creatures continued to stroll toward Blackwall's night market, with the NoMs and the occasional late-working Mage sparing the trio a wide berth. Here and there, someone recognised the subject's Familiars, for the Void Sorceress' generosity on the Isle of Dogs ranged far, drawing labourers widely from London's Tower Hamlets. Once inside the bustling night-market, the crows watched with fascination as Dede continued to dispense HDMs, trading with the locals for everything from hot plates of fish and chips to buckets of beer. From one seller, the duck bought the entire pot of spicy crawdads and gobbled the lot with Ariel. Afterwards, Caliban ingested the rest, stock-pot and all. Then somewhere in the chaos, the duck and its gang of Familiars found something else of interest— a little girl in yellow Wellies and a pastel pink rain jacket. Morrigan had noted the girl earlier, who seemed to be lost or at least looking for someone. The market was bustling this time of night, with hundreds of fishmongers pushing the day's produce onto London's restauranteurs. The lass looked local, though it was without doubt that a little girl was out of place in a square stinking of decaying fish. The girl was cute, Morrigan decided, but exceptionally common. "Quack?" Dede turned its head intelligently. The girl looked about nine or ten, barely as tall as the duck that now questioned her. "Quack?" If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "Ee!" Ariel swished its tail, patting the girl on the head as if to ask if she's alright. Beside it, Caliban drooled spicy hot sauce. "Hello Mister Duck…" the girl looked up at the enormous duck with its rainbow-hued feathers. "And Mister Monsters." "Quack!" "Ee!" "Shaa!" "Oh, me? I am looking for my cat, Mittens" the girl explained. "She always runs away when fresh fish is arriving." "Quack?" "You want to help find Mittens?" The girl guessed at the duck's intent. In contrary to the girl's belief, what Dede had said was "Get out of my way, peasant". It was a very duck thing to say, who were rude bastards compared to her Corvids. "Thanks, Mister Duck!" the girl hugged the enormous waterfowl. "Quack!" Dede replied the avian equivalent of, "Don't touch me, you Plebeian!" "Okay, I think Mittens went this way!" the girl patted the duck on the snout. "Look for a Mittens this big. She's got short stumpy legs, a black patch on one eye, and a brown patch on her tail." For a nervous second, Morrigan considered calling on Ravenport, for the duck looked as though it was seriously considering eating the NoM. "Quack! "EE!" "Shaa!" The other two reminded Dede that it was bad to harm humans. "Quack…" Dede waddled after the girl as she skipped away. Up above, Morrigan furrowed her avian brows. Was this turning into a kidnapping incident? If Dede pulverised the ignorant girl by accident, who would take responsibility? Her worries were for moot, for the foursome ran circles around the market until the NoM girl grew too tired to walk. Frustrated, she sat on the steps on a fishmonger's warehouse and began to sob, complaining that someone might have abducted her cat. "EE!" Ariel was up in arms. "Shaa!" Caliban likewise hollered. "Quack!" Dede patted the NoM child on the head. "Quack!" Seeing the trio so dejected, Morrigan decided she could perhaps do the duck a favour. After all, if she wanted Dede in her murder at a future date, it was good to establish diplomatic ties early on. _Caw—_ _Caw— Caw—_ _Caw— Caw— Caw!_ A conflagration of dark feathers flocked overhead. Ten minutes later, Morrigan found her mark. There was a man putting cages into the back of a van not far from the market. She could sense that the man was a low-tier Evoker, one possessing just enough skill to be a pest-controller. Monster Catchers, the locals called them, a Mage variation of the traditional Rat-Catcher, a sort of bounty hunter who hunted small fauna that had grown used to the Tower's Shielding oscillation. Presently, the man had a dozen cages worth of wild beasts, both mundane and quasi-magical. Most places like Fish Market and the city's abattoirs hired such individuals, for the abundance of blood and offal attracted all kinds of nasties down in the sewers. Inside the van, near the outer row of cages, Morrigan spotted the girl's cat, meowing away. Some distance away, a crow landed in front of the crying girl and her trio of frustrated animals. "Caw! Caw!" "Quack?" "Caw!" "Quack!" Dede pointed at the alleyway her crow had indicated. "Quack!" "Shaa!" "Ee!" "Is that where Mitten's gone?" the girl ran after the hopping crow. Morrigan suspected having the little girl confront a scallywag Evoker over the matter of a cat might not be the best idea— until she reminded herself this wasn't her rodeo, but Dede's. If Dede could swat down Elite Mages attending Cambridge, why would it fear a mere Monster Catcher? Likewise, it had a Void Fiend and a Kirin to back it up— both lacked the means to activate their Combat Forms, lest Gwen calls them back, but dealing with a mere goon was no object. Just in case the man drove off without the girl finding him, she sent crows to harass the Evoker. As expected, the scoundrel was quick to pull a few Magic Missiles at her birds, resulting in her creature fleeing the scene imbued with her shadow magic. "MITTENS!" the little girl cried out the moment she burst onto the scene of the swearing Monster Catcher. "Mittens is in that cage! The bad man has her!" "Stand back!" the man growled, having just fought off a murder of crows— and everyone knew just how unlucky it was to be accosted by crows in London. "Nonsense, young lady, here is a... Sumerian Dagger-Toothed Tiger! Albeit a young one. It'll take off your hand in one bite!" "No! That's Mittens!" the NoM lass insisted. "Give her back!" The man glanced behind her, then gulped. "Jesus Christ, that's a fat duck." From her rooftop vantage, Morrigan could see that Dede had arrived on the scene to act as the distraction while the other Familiars circled from behind. Pack tactics! The Sprite marvelled. How did the duck learn this? "Quack!" Dede demanded the return of the cat so he could get on with it. To lubricate the process, it rummaged in its chest feathers for another HDMs crystal and tossed it at the Evoker's feet. The Monster Catcher picked up the HDM and took a bite with his good teeth, testing the hardness. When the crystal proved to be real, the man eyed the duck, then slowly wetted his parched lips. Morrigan recognised the bloodshot look in the man's eyes. Here was not a man marvelling at a duck tossing an HDM, but a man wondering if there were more HDMs inside the duck. Granted, a duck of Dede's size could probably hide a small fortune. The little girl approached, heedless of the Evoker's expression, her small hands reaching for Mitten's cage, who was now meowing frantically. "Is this your duck, lassie?" the man may as well have "villain" stamped on his forehead. "Give Mittens back!" the girl demanded. "She's mine!" Morrigan could see the hunter looking around. He and the girl were alone— not in the sense that no one was watching from the small townhouse windows surrounding the alley, but that there was no one to stop the man from taking what he wanted. He glanced at the back of his van, only quarter-filled with dead and dying Monsters, then at the giant, HDM producing rainbow duck. Life for a Monster Catcher was hard, this Morrigan knew. On a good day, there were enough Magical Creatures in the sewers to eat you alive. On a bad day, the monsters had their meal. Unsurprisingly, the man chose to grasp this unlikely opportunity. "Girl, tell your duck to get in the can, and I'll give you back your cat," the man promised. The girl glanced at Dede, then back toward the Evoker. "No!" The man materialised a catcher-pole from his Storage Ring. "Not your duck? I am afraid that duck is a public hazard. I'll have to take it into custody." The little girl must have grown afraid, for she released her grip and began to shout that Dede needed to flee. Morrigan wondered why the man thought it was a good idea to catch a creature as conspicuous as Dede, but then again, human greed had lead to absurder and stranger acts by far. "Come on, now.' The Evoker edged closer to Dede, its catcher-pole primed and ready to wrangle the duck by the neck. "Be a good duck now and— Whoa!" _CLANG!_ With one swipe of its wing, Dede deformed the hollow pole with the attached claw. When the Evoker attempted to use the bent head to snag Dede's neck, it pecked at the mechanism, tearing apart the metal as though it were paper. "Jesus Christ!" The Catcher allowed the pole to fall when Dede tore the thing from his grasp with force rivalling a CQB Mage imbued with Ogre's Strength. _Crunch!_ With a stomp, the duck crushed the pole underfoot. "Quack!" "Little ducker—!" The Catcher swore. Pulling back, he instantly erected a Mage Shield, then buffed himself. "Enhanced Strength!" Perhaps it was dark, or maybe the man just wasn't that smart, but he did not notice as Morrigan did that the pavement under the drake's webbed feet fissured. When Dede did not attack, the man raised a hand in warning. "You better come quietly, duck. Don't make this harder for either of us. I work for the Tower." "Mittens! Mittens!" The little girl, perhaps realising she had one chance, frantically pulled at the cage piled on top of a row of other pens. Thanks to the Catcher's preoccupation with a colossal duck, she managed to climb up to the second row before her luck ran out. With a sound of warping wires, the whole rack began to backslide, sending the animals inside tumbling toward her. "Quack!" The Catcher didn't care, for the girl was neither his child nor his liability. The duck, however, did fancy itself responsible for the human it had inadvertently adopted. "EE!" A flash of light, quick as a flaring lumen-bulb on a recorder, turned the alleyway momentarily quicksilver. When Morrigan's crows regained their sight, Ariel in its Ermine-Kirin form stood beside the van, the little girl half-caught in its mouth, while a small mountain of cages fell over its robust body. The Catcher turned to look at the Kirin. The man's eye lit up with undisguised eagerness. "Well, I'll be damned—What's a thing like you doing here in London? Do you have an owner?" "EE!" Ariel shrieked in warning, sounding as cute as ever. Morrigan seriously began to doubt the Catcher's survival rate. Was the idiot thinking of catching Ariel for a reward, perhaps selling it to one of the local syndicates who would inevitably present it for auction in the Grey Market? Still, even without having seen the IIUC, common sense dictates that this was a powerful Mage's Familiar. Can't the man see that here was a Kirin! A chimeric Draconic being! Did he have cabbage for brains? Did he write for the Herald Sun? "EE!" From his Storage Ring, the man produced yet another catcher-pole. This time, Morrigan could see that it was a magical device, one with a Glyph that caused paralysis and numbness when the barbed mouth closed. Against mundane Magical Creatures lucky enough to survive the resonance, it would work wonders. "Quack!" Dede told Ariel to get back. The Familiar belonged to the subject and would get into trouble if it dismembered a human in the centre of London. As for Dede, he was a wild, proud and free-living Magical Creature, or so Morrigan discerned; that and there was no crime in acting in self-defence. "Buzz Off!" The Evoker snapped at Dede, fearful that the cute dog-thing would escape while he fended off the overlarge duck. When Dede aimed for his pole again, the man lost his temper. "Magic Missile!" Three shrieks of unerring mana shot toward Dede's chest. SPAK! SPAK! SPAK! Dede swatted aside the missiles without blinking. "Quack!" The Monster Catcher's eyes almost popped out of their swollen sockets. In his carelessness, his pole went wide, near grazing the little girl were it not for Ariel jousting the claws with its horns. "EE!" Ariel grunted as the paralysis sorcery struck. Its fur bristled— Morrigan could imagine the Monster Catcher becoming a human pin-cushion in the next second. "Shit!" The Catcher erected a Shield again, but this time, his Mage Shield failed to form a semi-dome. Caw—! Caw—! Caw—! Morrigan crows hollered blue murder, flocking into the skies. The Monster Catcher turned to examine what had blocked his Shield. "SHAA—SHAA!" Morrigan felt every hair on her scalp stand on end as the monstrous Void Fiend exploded forth from the darkness, its segmented body tearing open to reveal a multitude of tentacles. With a splatter of grey saliva, Caliban smothered the man from head to toe with non-digestive juices. "ARRRRGH—! ARRRRRGH—!" The man began to scream. "AEEEEE!" The little girl screamed as well. "MEORRRWL! WEEEEERARAGH!" Mittens fought the cage, determined to do or die in an attempt to escape. The other animals, from foxes to dogs to hedgehogs that wandered into the wrong borough, raged within the van's caged confines, fighting the barriers, fighting one another. "Quack! Quack!" Dede added a much-needed percussion. "EE! EE—! EE—!" And Ariel added the castrato vocals. "SHAA— SHAA— SHAA—" Caliban began its aberrant serenade, joining the choir of madness. "Caw! CAW—!" The sound of crooning crows added the final touch to the Magical Creature variation of Dante Alighieri's Virgil falling to hell, reified by a hundred frantic string-segments. When finally Caliban's tendril forced open the man's clenched mouth for a sloppy, spicy-crawdad kiss, the Monster Catcher's sanity evaporated. From above, Morrigan watched the man go limp. Dede pecked open the cage as though it were paper. The cat was now catatonic, though that was beside the point. In the sobbing girl's arms, Dede deposited the limp feline. In the distance, the sound of police sirens added to the chaos. "Quack!" Dede pointed toward the Isle of Dogs, indicating that they should split post-haste. With practised expertise, Caliban mounted onto Ariel, then the trio made their escape into the night, trailed by a murder of curious crows. Her remaining Corvid looked down at the foaming Catcher and the confused, crying girl. Feeling overwhelmed by inexplicable fatigue, Morrigan sighed. The Familiars were gone, but someone had to waffle-stomp the shit stain they left behind. A split-second later, Morrigan assumed control of the crow. "Hey you," she addressed the girl, who was on the verge of hysteria after her allies fled, leaving her with a van full of hooting animals and a nasty bloke that even now twitched involuntarily. The girl looked up with large, liquid eyes. "Birdie?" "Yes, tis I, birdie." Morrigan nodded her avian head intelligently. "Where did Mister Duck go? I just wanted to find Mittens…" The child's mental elasticity in facing otherworld horrors was nothing short of incredible. Hopping on to the girl's shoulder, she patted the girl on the head. "What's your name, child?" "Sandy." "Sandy, when the police get here, I want you to say nothing. I'll take care of it, and after that, the nice officers will take you home, okay?" "Okay." Sandy nodded. "Is Mitten going to be okay?" Morrigan examined the cat. Physically, the cat was okay. Mentally, the cat had screamed out all nine of its lives. "I don't think Mittens will be running away again," she assured the girl. It took only a few more minutes for two officers to alight from a squad car. Following protocol, the two advanced into the alleyway with wands raised, their off-hands operating hovering Light Globes. "MPS! Hands and Wands on the floor!" the leading officer, a Senior Sergeant, flicked off the safety on his Baton-wand. "Move away from the body!" Morrigan's crow watched while Sandy turned, the girl's face ashen from the sight of two armed officers. "It's a little girl… with a cat," the Senior Sergeant identified their culprit. "I see the victim. I think it's the local Monster Catcher." "Right." The second officer lowered his wand. "Little girl, did you do this?" "Caw!" Morrigan flapped her wings to catch their attention. "No need for alarm, Officers. You're speaking to a Tower Crow, Officer Code: TC21319. Watchword 'Raven's Loft'. The girl's with me and the man's alive, just unconscious. He's a smuggler who has been kidnapping local pets. Just check his van and his home, and you'll find what you need." "Sarge." The younger man gulped. "Is she one of them Tower Crow Mages?" The older man packed away his Baton-Wand, then swatted the youngster on the helmet. "That's Magus to you, dimwit. Sorry, Ma'am, do you mind if we run your ID code?" "Go ahead." The Senior Sergeant took a moment to communicate with Scotland Yard. When the Message returned, he bowed, as did the younger man. "Lord Magister, how may we be of service?" "Take this girl and her cat home," Morrigan commanded, indicating with her beak. "I have business elsewhere." "Yes, Ma'am." The men bowed again. "Sandy, go with them." "Okay, birdie." The little girl quickly ran into the officer's open arms. "Don't you worry, Miss Sandy, we'll see you home," the Seargent explained. "Have a good night, Ma'am." Morrigan nodded her avian head at the officers. "Goodnight, officers." The sergeant and the constable saluted. Morrigan retracted her mind. That wasn't at all how she had hoped to contact the duck, but what was done was done. If her Master would allow it, all that's left was to cement the bond of Corvid and Drake.

**Tuesday, 5th of July 2005** London, Westminster. _Project Mockingbird is nearing completion, and Iris Robertson has delivered the manuscript to the subject. A copy of the document has been obtained for your pleasure._ "Dear Fifth Cabal," read the page inside the manuscript's jacket. "I have made this copy available for the birdies always watching outside. — From your friends at Westferry METRO Printing Press." Ravenport snorted. The girl had quite the imagination. Nonetheless, despite this latest elucidation, the moniker of "Mockingbird" still made Ravenport wary. That was why, when his real work was finished, the Duke materialised the manuscript to check for insurgent details. If need be, members of Westminster's Parliament may move motions to ban books. Any such action, however, was sure to raise hell among The Commons. Even her Majesty who rarely took a stance frowned on the notion of book burning, for during the Great War, a great many pigeon-winged grimoires penned by Necromancy partisans were destroyed to satisfy the Accord. Still, the more Ravenport masticated the prose within this "To Kill a Mockingbird", the more he felt the suspicion of something unspeakable coming to pass. At the same time, he couldn't quite place his finger on the ley-line. Running his thumb across the spine of the stapled manuscript, he flipped through the finger-thick novella once more. Within the ghostwriter's vision of the girl's avian tale, there were three Mages by the avian name Finch— the Father, Henrik; the son, James; and the youngest, a little girl called Allie living in post-Tide Sydney's regional Frontier. Henrik was an Arbiter, a Pan-European War veteran-widower who had immigrated to Sydney, only to catch the full brunt of the Tide. The story, strangely enough, was not told from the perspective of Henrik but narrated through the deceptively observant voice of Allie, a future Fire Transmuter with great potential. In the first section of the novel, the kids hunted Gobs and amused themselves with their friend's imaginary Quests, causing no end of trouble around the outback township. Their live-action roleplay, unfortunately, progressed into demeaning a half-dumb local veteran with crippling trauma from the war. When finally the Henrik caught wind of the kids' actions, he schooled his children with this to say: "You'll never really understand a person, be they NoM or Mage 'til you consider things from their point of view— 'til you walk a mile in their shoes." It was a good analogy, though Ravenport suspected that as the father possessed the might of a Magister, he could have meant Polymorph. As the plot progressed, the kids went to Primary School and befriended NoMs for the first time. When James brought an NoM girl home for dinner, Allie insulted the girl, then bespoke that James' companion, "Isn't anything at all, she's just an NoM." To Ravenport's distaste, it was then the family's NoM nanny, Old Goolagong, who gave Allie a tongue-lashing with the full support of father Finch. There were many such highlights in the novel, including one that stayed with Ravenport. It was an interlude incident involving a raving mad Abyssal Goose that roved into town, sending the guards to flee. In the end, it was Henrik who emerged from their house to wrangle the beast with his sorcery, teaching the kids that though violence is a solution to most problems— it should never be the only solution. There was a "spell" of the hand and a "spell" of the heart— and one must never lose sight of why God gave a Mage his or her "gift". The primary plot then opened midway in the sense of an NoM labourer accused of attempted rape after she showed him kindness. At first, the kids were appalled, until their father revealed that he was the Arbiter defending said NoM. When the kids experienced the derogatory truncation of being "NoM-Lovers" at school, the father told them that "'NoM' is a foul and ugly label'" and that "NoM-Lover is a term used by ignorant, trashy people." Once more, Ravenport felt that within the book's perfectly reasonable prose, there existed an air of sedition. Eventually, after defending the NoM with his life and having James and Allie dissuade an angry mob of low-tier Mages from tearing the NoM limb-from-limb, the climax struck in the courtroom, and it was this particular segment that gave the Duke of Norfolk the heebie-jeebies. In court, the father of the victim demanded nothing less than a live lynching of the "yonder NoM" who was "rutting my Mary." Yet, through Divination, hard evidence and tack-sharp cross-examination, Henrik managed to prove beyond doubt that it was the father himself that had caught Mary flirting with the man, and then in a fit of insane, petty rage, aberrantly abused his child. Then, with the full and disgusting picture revealed, the case came down to a jury of Magic-wielding peers serving in the local militia. There, despite the impossibility of an NoM overpowering the teenage Transmuter and clear evidence of the father's sins, the Mages voted against the NoM. When the kids asked in the aftermath if dingoes had fled with the court's justice, the father had this to say. "There's something in our society that makes the Magic-wielding folk lose their heads— and for that, they couldn't see past their noses if they tried. In our courts, when it's a Mage's word against a NoM's, the Mage always wins. It always takes a Mage to fight a Mage— a sad fact of life. The Empire's courthouse is a place were a Mage and a Non-Magical Human is equal, but a court is only as sound as its jury, and the jury is only as sound as the Mages who make it. I have already used every tool available to save Thomas, Allie— but in the secret courts of Mages' hearts, Thomas was dead the moment her father heard Mary hollering." Curiously, that was not the end of the novel. During the case, Henrik publically made Bob into a pariah. In his rage, Bob sought revenge by attacking Jame and Allie. Though young, the just-Awakened James held off the foul-mouthed Evoker just enough for a saviour to arrive, preventing Allie from her first live-burning. As to that saviour, it was the veteran who the kids earlier mocked. In the aftermath, there was one more poignant allegory for the kids to learn. "It's a sin to kill a mockingbird. They don't do one thing except for miming our voice and singing their hearts out. That's why its a sin to kill a mockingbird." Finally, in the epilogue, Henrik went on to become a Tower Master, James became his Paladin, and Allie took up a life of service fighting against exploitive and malignant Mages exploiting NoMs as a firebrand sorceress. As a bystander reading between the fictive lines, Ravenport felt an indescribable sense of passive oppression. One for the plot's heartrending description of the quality of life NoMs experienced after the Tide, and two for the fact that the book was a blatant attempt at altering Kilroy's legacy. But more than that, what Ravenport mulled over was what the story represented of the girl's innate views on the Mageocracy. For someone like Ravenport, the Non-Magical Human population was a fact of life in the same manner serfdom was a fact of the medieval Empire. All around Terra, the Hvítálfar had the Träälvor; the Deepdowners had the Murk Dwellers; the Trolls ruled the Hobs, and the Hob ate the Gobs who ate the Snots. Therefore, it was well-within the Chain of Being that Mages were superior to NoMs, despite NoMs giving birth to Mages. As to who gets chosen, who awakens and what wild magic emerges, the "gift" of arcanistry was a force majeure in the same manner as the Beast Tides. Of course, Humanity had since gained some control over incidence and occurrence of such things, but the fact remained that a dual-element Lightning-Void Sorceress could be born from a renowned Salt Mage and a low tier Evoker. Was this why religion remained so entrenched? Ravenport mused himself. Nonetheless, the girl's propensity for NoM welfare fed the Duke of Norfolk food for thought. As a subject who was shaping up as the Mageocracy's "Vorpal Sword", it only made sense that the Mageocracy sheathed her in a jewelled scabbard. A naked blade was, after all, a danger to oneself, no matter how skilled the wielder. Politically speaking, the girl's actions aligned strongly with the socialist members of the Labour Party. She appeared to believe that indeed, NoMs were "Equal" both abstractly, socially and economically to the Mage. Yet unlike the inward-turning Leftists, she was a right-winged economist. Within the Mageocracy's political spectrum, only the Grey Faction's most ardent members believed in total economic integration on a global scale with Demi-humans. Of which Gwen had already demonstrated by using a Chinese-Burmese True Dragon's hoard as her piggy bank, as well as integrating Dwarven technology into her and the Tower's businesses. How could the silly girl hope to reconcile these two extremes when arguably, for most Demi-humans, Mages were a food that fought back and therefore demanded recognition, while NoMs were food, full-stop? What would happen when she forges a blood-bound alliance with a Clan of Draconoids who hunted Humans for sport? What if she had to choose between all-out war with a Vampire Count leaving or leaving the NoMs as dumb, bipedal blood-cattle? For that, not even the Duke of Norfolk had answers, though he did look forward to the girls' inevitable consternation. **Thursday, 7th July 2005** London, Westminster. _A request has arrived from Trawsfynydd asking after the subject. I have forwarded the request to your official desk. RP.2143.323.00.1_ **Monday, 11th July 2005** London, Westminster. _The subject has returned from visiting Knight-Initiate Lindholm in Battle. Between mid-July and October, Initiate Lindholm will be assigned to the 4th Expedition to Glenveagh, Northern Island, as a part of the Order's annual duties against Fomorian aggression. Her Knight, Sir Mathias Rothwell, will be attending; together they make one of ten Ordo-attendants assigned to Lord Glenwell's Forward Operating Base at Lough Beagh. Lady Grey has expressly warned the subject not to travel to Glenveagh lest she amplified Ireland's problems._ **Friday, 15th July 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse. _With the aid of Magister Brown and Major Kott, the following spells have been provisionally made available to the subject. The Shard has approved of the following variations._ **Lesser Sanguine Mantle** Abjuration-Transmutation Casting Time: 81 Major Range: Self Components: Blood, Somatic Duration: Channelled _For the original conversion by Henry Kilroy, see Sanguine Mantle. This unique variation of Sanguine Mantle only works with Demi-human and Magical Creatures. Derived from True Vampiric Thaumaturgy, the spell requires blood-letting as a part of its initial-invocation, either from the user or the caster's opponent. Once manifested, the Mantle serves as a fully articulated heavy-tier armour, with a potency that increases with the caster's Affinity in Abjuration. When in use, the armour remains in a semi-gel-like state as per the original, reacting instantly to incoming attacks, offering significant boosts to physical and elemental resistance, as well as spell-resistance. Users should beware that damage to the armour exhausts the plasma fed into the spell. Without means to replenish one's vitality, self-inflicted exhaustion from blood loss will occur._ **Reactive Bone Shield** Conjuration-Evocation Casting Time: 81 Major Range: Self Components: Creature Core, Somatic Duration: Until Dismissed _For the original conversion, see Necromantic Archives for Bone Shield. This unique variation of Bone Shield is a modified alternative that cannot be fuelled by Human remains. Instead, it utilises etched Creature Cores to mimic the original invocation, allowing the caster to conjure forth articulated barriers formed of Elements unique to the material consumed. Once active, the reactive shield manifests a number of times approximately equating the caster's tier of Affinity in Abjuration._ _Note: Of the two spells, Reactive Bone Shield was put into circulation in the Shard's Grimoire, while Lesser Sanguine Mantle has made its mark as the subject's Signature Spell._ **Sunday, 17th July 2005** London, Westminster. _The subject's contingent of NoM accountants from Shanghai has arrived at Heathrow. Following quarantine procedures, the men and women received their visitation permits and relocated to the Isle of Dogs._ "Morrigan." Ravenport briefly glanced at the dossier on each of the tier 1 city clerks. Like most Westerners, he was prone to Asian face-blindness, and so chose to rely on the judgement of his mistress of secrets. "Are there anything of note with these… workers?" "They're from the group responsible for bringing down the Tonglv triumvirate," Morrigan explained. "As far as NoMs go, their backgrounds are clean. Their previous employee, Professor James Ma, is a squib with little dealings outside of tertiary education and his more recent role acting as CCDI's internal revenue auditor." Ravenport eyed the report once more. "This is unprecedented." "It is rather unusual," Morrigan agreed. "Forty-three expatriate NoMs moved from the Orient into the Empire in one week, and from a Communist nation no less." "I meant the cost." Ravenport tapped his fingers on the table. "Gwen spent over fifty thousand HDMs moving nameless NoMs from Shanghai to London. What kind of NoMs are worth that kind of money?" "They're experienced professionals in their field." "We have analysts as well, here in the kingdom." Ravenport touched a finger to his temple to massage his throbbing head. "NoM auditors… is she going to replicate Tonglv in London?" "That probability is high." Morrigan ran the numbers. "A reckoning of the Isle of Dog's internal accounts may be nigh; our Mages are no less immune to skimming funds than the Orientals." Ravenport eyed another stack of reports he had yet to have time to decipher. "The land sales began last week," Morrigan reminded him. "If you recall, there was a double-page advert in the Metro and the Telegraph. The IoDRP sold its first allotment within twenty-four hours." "What's the isle's land value now?" "Approximately 578% since January, and rising." "Give me concrete numbers." "The Isle of Dog is a small peninsula." Morrigan conjured up a shadowy, illusory map. "But it now has the transport infrastructure rivalling that of a major hub in London. If we discount the inner dock and the printing press…" Morrigan pointed to the outer edges of Millwall, tracing her fingers along the seawall until she reached Cubitt Town. "… there's more than two decade's worth of developments to be made. The apartment towers she proposed are also highly unorthodox. The filter rooms and the parking is underground, as expected, but the ground floor and the second floor will not serve as a foyer, but as shopfronts, cafes and restaurants adjoined by waterfront parklands." Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. "How much to purchase a two-bedroom suite overlooking the quay?" Ravenport furrowed his brows. "Between 25,000 HDMs to 45,000 HDMs off-the-plan, milord." The Sprite was quick with the mathematics. "Many of the NoMs in the area are selling their leaseholds to the highest bidder for thousands of HDMs, then purchasing homes outright adjacently in Rotherhithe and Greenwich." "… Preposterous!" Ravenport breathed through clenched teeth. NoMs with HDM! What's next? Mermen wanting to buy studios adjoining the Thame? To an NoM labourer who usually used the overinflated coin currency the state provided, a hundred HDMs were a veritable fortune, enough to keep a family of four fed for a year. Now, overnight, more than a hundred NoMs were moving out of Millwall with more HDMs than they would ever see in their lives. Was that a good thing, Ravenport wondered, or something that will bring the newly wealthy leasers untoward danger and misery? After all, it was one thing to possess so much HDMs, and another thing to be able to keep the proceeds. "Did you obtain a copy of their intake?" Morrigan made a strange face. "Milord…" The Sprite materialised a richly produced pamphlet hard-covered with Wildland vellum. "I passed a Message through the duck. Subsequently, Magister Eric Walken gave my crows one of these." Ravenport raised a critical brow, then ran his finger over the cover. There was an illusion-Glyph embedded into the vellum, one that activated once he sent a jolt of mana into the parchment. Instantly, a scene of the Isle of Dogs choked full of gleaming skyscrapers, gardens, terraces and parks came into view. Doubtlessly, a master Illusion-artisan had meticulously crafted the faux-skyline. "Interesting." He opened the first page. A flood of information popped into existence, hovering over the inscribed vellum. "The subject calls this an 'Infographic'," Morrigan explained. "It is a little amazing." In the next moment, the illusory sorceress' sultry voice began her siren's song. "The Isle of Dogs Restoration Projection Corporation presents its first integrated, Illusion-infused Quarterly Report to communicate how our business operates. Within this report, you will find fact-checked, internally-audited performance metrics, as well as an introduction to our prospects— know that always, transparency is the isle's watchword..." The scene changed, switching to a headshot of the subject in a grided window, next to her, Ravenport recognised the faces of Maxine Loftus, Jane Rothwell, and Lucy Astor. In the fourth column, there was a handsome mien with a stag-horned head, who Ravenport could only assume to be Ruxin. The fifth column contained a fair of faces he recognised as the siblings from Yangon's royal household. He turned the page. The visage of the girl smiled at him alluringly. "The Mageocracy in which we operate is rapidly changing. Many global trends, including urbanisation and magi-tech from both Dwarven and Elven sources, are reshaping the way Mages and our Non-Magical family across the Prime Material live their lives and build their homes..." "How do I skip this?" "Turn the page, milord." Ravenport turned the page. There was a number that popped up in emerald green, under which there was a smaller font. "… 16.3 Million?" The Duke of Norfolk almost dropped the hardcover pamphlet. "That includes all forty units in the initial sale, including two discounted penthouse suites." The subject's voice continued in the background. "To our esteemed investors, we would like to report that our profit after tax in the second quarter of 2005 is 9.5 Million HDMs…" "...What's the girl's share?" "Her consultancy rate is 1% of net." Morrigan's eyes appear to glow in the dark. "Her stake in the IoDRP is 34%, though near all of it is technically owed to the Dragon Ruxin. She likewise has proxy control over Mayuree and Marong's 4%." "She has generated 165,000 HDMs in six months?" "After Corporate and Individual Tax, milord, the subject has acquired between 100,000 to 110,000 HDMs." "9.5 Million HDMs…" Ravenport felt his pulse quicken. Last financial year, the entirety of Norfolk Estate's income was a "mere" 4.75 Million HDMs, and most of it was spent on maintenance, reconstruction and public service. The amount that reached the estate's coffers was less than 500,000 HDMs. Yet here, the untitled girl made in six months a quarter of the income of his entire estate! He was the Duke of Norfolk! He maintained properties from the edge of Hunstanton to the western reaches of Great Yarmouth! Of course, the estate wasn't his only revenue stream, there were also the Royal Docks, the Grey Markets, Sotheby's Auction House, proceeds from the Militant's wars, so on and so on, but this was one girl! In six months! With no peerage or land! "Turn the page, milord." Morrigan appeared to be enjoying herself. Ravenport wondered if he should turn the page at all lest his hypertension acted up again, but did so anyway with the mind of a martyr. The girl's smiling face and striking eyes appeared once more. "By 2010, we aim to generate a billion HDM in turnover…" her voice began. Ravenport snapped the vellum shut. One per cent of a billion crystals was ten million HDMs. At the bare minimum, the girl would be worth a million HDMs a year by 2010? If such a subject was to become the Master of a Crytal-forged Tower, what would her Majesty make of her? Ravenport felt his shirt grow clammy. A Tower Master with that kind of financial backing and that kind of personal income; had such a thing ever occurred in the history of the Mageocracy? How should his Faction react to such a being? **Tuesday, 19th July 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _The subject has let it be known that "beta-testers" of the Dwarven Press will receive discounted ink and free mechanical service; late-comers will pay full fare. Together, including the Shard's Archive Division, a total of 128 units have been ordered, including a ten-year loan contract with the Guardian Newspaper._ **Thursday, 21st July 2005** London, Westminster. _The Dwarven Captain, Hanmoul Bronzeborn, son of Dwomrul, kin to the Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt, has arrived at the Isle of Dogs, bringing news of progress throughout the Murk. Though the tunnelling itself has progressed commendably, there were significant losses from both our Adventurers and the Dwarves' Iron Guards. The subject has promised to convene with Hilda, a Deepdowner at a later date when an opportunity arrives._ **Saturday, 23rd July 2005** Cambridge, Emmanuel College _I am pleased to report that the murder previously involved in the Monster Catcher incident have befriended Dede. The duck's greed has proven to be more acute than previously anticipated, which has made the creature susceptible to gastronomic and economic temptations. A suspicious Magister Brown has made enquiries through the Shard; though we have chosen not to disclose any unnecessary information._ **Monday, 25th July 2005** London, Westminster. _The METRO has reached 700,000 in circulation and has begun delivery to outer suburbs and shires around London. The paper's continued publication of the Count of Monte Cristo has contributed significantly to the METRO's success. As of this time, the paperback edition of the novel's first volume has gone on sale together with "Mockingbird". Due to pressure from the Barlow Group, most of London's chain-bookstores have chosen not to carry books from the Metro Press. However, the subject has retaliated by allowing both books to be sold by the three thousand odd NoMs distributing the METRO. Significant friction has resulted throughout the industry as a result._ **Tuesday, 2nd of August 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse _Progress befriending the duck known as Dede continues. Though the creature's original home is the Duck Ponds at Emmanuel, it has grown accustomed to following the subject to the Isle of Dogs. There, it has gained a popular following among the children at the orphanage, where it now acts as a foster-patron. The children have begun to call themselves "Children of the Duck". Milord, as yourself have sponsored orphans of the military, I do believe "The Crow Children" make an excellent moniker._ On this day, Ravenport decided rewarding excess blood to Morrigan was a bad idea. **Tuesday 9th of August 2005** London, Westminster _Milord, allow me to note that Trawsfynydd has continued to ask after the subject. Master Eldrin has enquired if he should send a contingent from the Diplomatic Corps. See MM 413.524.32.9_ **Thursday, 11th of August 2005** London, Westminster _Phase II of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment has started in Cubitt Town. The second high rise block will consist of 55 units split between 20 studios, 20 two-bedroom apartments, 13 three-bedroom apartments, two penthouse suites and 3,700 square meters of commercial space overlooking the now pristine inner dockland. The projected cost of the design rests at 837,000 HDMs, with another 200,000 in liquid capital preserved from Phase I profits._ **Wednesday, 17th of August 2005** London, Westminster _The Earl of Huntingdon and the Viscount Torrington of her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition have issued an injunction on the floor of the Upper House against "To Kill a Mocking Bird" on the grounds of its seditious allegory. Fierce contest has arisen from Her Majesty's Government, lead by Dame Emilia Callaghan, Chief Whip, climaxing in a near-brawl on the parliament floor. The ghostwriter, Iris Robertson of Dublin, has refused all interviewers, leaving only the comment "Let the people judge." The Barlow Group's backers, together with London's major private publishers, are likely behind the move to shut down "The riotous press at Westferry"._ Ravenport rubbed his chin. As if he hadn't got enough on his plate with the American upstarts in the Elemental Sea or the Lycanthropic tribes in the Niger Delta; now the House of Lords was pressuring his office to give up the dirt on Iris Robertson. Of course, he would if he could, but the NoM was a tool and not even the original wielder at that. What could the woman give up? Nothing but a waste of his time. Had the girl planned this, or was it a simple coincidence? Conversely, this French fellow, Victor Verne, was receiving attention like no other. Though he confessed to having composed the text from a "discovered, partial manuscript" with elements of "realism and historical research", the man was fast becoming a trending celebrity in the English and French-speaking world. "Morrigan, if any of the Militants do anything stupid to Iris Robertson, record everything, especially if Gwen gets involved." "I wouldn't worry, milord, but I shall do as you ask." "And why is that?" "The writer currently resides on the Isle of Dogs," Morrigan replied. "A stone's throw away from the Printing Press, there's enough Mages and Dwarven Golems there to fend off one of your Queen's best Griffin Flights. Dominic Lorenzo has also put safety measures in place for the subject's pet author through the Cabals." "… I see." Ravenport took a moment to gather his thoughts. Taking into account Eric Walken, Fabricator Golems, Lady Grey's Kennel Master, the Chinese Mages permanently stationed on the Isle of Dogs and the students working odd jobs on-site, he really couldn't imagine a scenario where a bully gang of sorcerous thugs broke down an author's door. "Well then, carry on." **Tuesday 23rd of August 2005** London, Isle of Dogs _The METRO has issued a double-page spread condemning the censuring of Mockingbird, together with signed petitions from the Labour protests. As a result of the parliament's censure appearing throughout the Telegraph, Herald Sun, the Guardian and the METRO, sales have increased fifteen-fold. Internal documents from the subject's press indicate that well over 64,000 copies have circulated._ Ravenport sighed deeply. His political companions had truly raw-dogged the Cerberus by bringing this damn book of no-repute into public ill-repute. With "allies" like these, who needed enemies? **Friday 26th of August 2005** London, Westminster _The debate over the book's contents continued to rage, dividing opinions in both the Upper and Lower Houses. Chief Whip Callaghan has cited the impossibility of censoring a book now so widely in circulation and has invited her opposition to try and silence "the people"._ **Monday, 5th September 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse _Sales of "Mockingbird" has broken 100,000. Circulation of the Metro's latest edition has broken 1,000,000 with a special edition promoting the book. Concurrently, the IoDRP has taken out multiple double-page spreads in the paper lauding the prospects of the Isle of Dogs with a public announcement that they will support NoM and Mage developments on the isle equally._ **Wednesday, 7th September 2005** London, The Ritz Carlton by the Thames _The subject has invited London's high society to attend a celebratory banquet for the press's recent achievements. Much of London's community and its business leaders have responded to the invitations sent by Lady Grey, Lady Rothwell and Lady Astor. Scenes from the banquet have dominated the back pages._ The Duke of Norfolk unfurled the Herald Sun, then sat back with a frown. He raised his brow at the third Elven master-crafted evening dress Gwen had displayed since returning from Elfhome, a lilac-pink piece blooming above the waist like a flower, leaving her neck and shoulders a little too bare for English sensibilities. Below her tapered waist, the train was a flowing river of Moonmoth silk glamoured to resemble dew-laden wisteria. He regarded the lacquer-panelled ceiling for a moment. Ravenport knew for a fact that the Herald Sun considered the girl their top-ten public foe. Yet, its editors, like Void Fiends, were instinct-driven to chomp at the bit when presented with Lumen-pics of beauties and celebrities. That the publication freely publicised the girl and her activities with gusto was, Ravenport supposed with consternation, a form of masochistic professionalism. **Friday, 9th September 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse _The Sixth Cabal continues to report troubles in the Yellow Sea, especially in the Kraken-infested Purple Zone between China, South Korea and Japan. The Mermen mentioned in the earlier report have become a significant menace. Preliminary findings by Tokyo's Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office has given us a name for their presumed leader— High Priest Lei-bup, a fact confirmed by the CCDI. By your will, I have cross-examined all reports concerning the subject and found the following receipt from before the commencement of the 2004 IIUC. It seemed she at one point ordered a container of rice for a Mermen tribe on "Turd Island", whose'chief goes by the name Lei-bup. There exist no other evidence of direct or indirect contact. Please note that "Lei-bup", pig-Mer for "the round-bellied one", is a prevalent Mermen name. The probability that a High Priest, a shallow-water powerhouse is the same plebian the subject has encountered is extremely low, though not impossible._ **Sunday, 11th of September 2005** London, Westminster _Trawsfynydd has asked after the subject's progress. I have sent Master Eldrin a comprehensive report. See MM 413.524.32.21_ **Monday, 12th September 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse _The subject has commenced her Michaelmas Admissions Examination._ **Friday, 30th September 2005** Cambridge, Peterhouse _The results of the subject's secondary performance percentile bands for the 2005 final senior school intake are as follows:_ **Biometric Admissions Test (BAT) - S+** **Categorical Affinity -** \- Evocation: 5.71 — 6.06 \- Conjuration: 6.27 — 6.35 \- Transmutation: 5.04 — 5.17 \- Abjuration: 4.18 — 4.44 \- Divination: 2.00 — 2.09 \- Illusion: 3.21— 3.78 \- Enchantment: 3.21 — 4.05 \- Other: 5.79 **Elemental Affinity -** \- Lightning: 7.17 (7.84) - 7.23 (8.21) \- Void: 5.42 (5.56) - 5.63 (6.12) **Astral Volume -** \- VMI: 352 — 374 **Higher Magical Learning Admissions Test (HMLAT) - A** Spellshaping B Magical Theory B Sorcerous History A Bestiary Knowledge A Formations and Mandalas A **Literature Admissions Test (LAT) - A+** General Literacy - A Classical Literature - A Sociology and Politics - A **General Knowledge Aptitude Test (GKAT) - A+** Arithmetic - A Economics - A+ Geography - A History - B "A straight-A student," Morrigan reported. Ravenport was not surprised. After six-months observing the girl weekly, he was no longer surprised by anything. At the beginning of the year, if someone told him that an imported Frontier sorceress would make more HDMs in half-a-year than his salary as the Lord Marshall for the same year, he would laugh in their faces. Now, he could only numbly accept the sad reality sold to him by the Devourer of Shenyang. "The subject's classes commence from the 5th of October," Morrigan said. "I know." Ravenport replaced the report on the table. He felt strangely affected by an unpleasant jumble of emotions. The last time he had held the "grade report" of a child and felt such a rush of blood while reading the results was for Charlene, his youngest. "What course is she undertaking?" Morrigan paused before materialising a copy of her subject's application. "… Land Economy and Management Studies? She's not going to push for Magical Engineering or Advanced Spellcraft?" "The application says that she's hoping to do her future Tower justice, milord." Ravenport took a deep breath. Typical "Elite" students studied to attain the title of Magister so that they may work their way up within the Mageocracy's Tower system. Gwen Song "studied" because she couldn't erect her Tower without a Magistership under her belt. A Magistership— one of the most lauded positions in the world, a title worshipped and adored by the multifarious multitude in their milling millions, was a mere tool the girl needed to keep a promise made with her dead Master. The Duke of Norfolk carefully examined his turbulent feelings. Not for the first time and not for the last time, Mycroft Ravenport wished that Edmund wasn't such a blithe, red-headed fool. If his boy had turned out anything near normal, he would have been a post-graduate scholar by now, or at the very least a Major in her Majesty's esteemed service. Maybe then, with a bit of coaxing and a dash of Morrigan's serendipity, the meeting between Gwen and Edmund would have been something worth celebrating, especially with his spell-hand casting Grease on the wheels of affection. "Where is she now?" Ravenport asked. "Soon not to be in Cambridge, milord," Morrigan produced another document. "She will be going away for the first two weeks." "Truly?" The Duke of Norfolk scanned the application. "An application for leave… is she returning to Shanghai? I suppose that makes sense, considering how long she's to remain anchored in London once her classes commence in full. The Magistery Qualification Exams are not easy by far." "The subject will route to Yangon, then to Shanghai," Morrigan replied. "Then within the week, onto Singapore with Gunther Shultz and Alesia de Botton."

Yangon. Kandawgyi Lake. Within Karaweik Palace's golden exterior, "Matriarch" Mayuree, Lady Protector of Myăma and it's Frontier provinces, reunited with her friend and saviour. The embrace was heartfelt, for though nary a year had elapsed since Shanghai, a lifetime had transpired. Wilted was the Mia of the past, a meek little Diviner fearing for her life at every turn; she was now robed in silk, satin and authority, a glorious vision of wealth and prosperity mirroring her burgeoning city on the Yangon River's lip. Trailing the throne-hall, twin lines of servants from menial to civil bowed from the waist while seated on their knees, engaged in genuflection. Some venerated her out of genuine worship, for Mayuree remained an inheritor of the Eight-headed Naga's blood. Others yielded out of fear for the glimmering eyes lurking in the shadowy ceiling. A few final obstructionists, half-crouched, bided their time, too proud to confess their capitulation. Yet, bathed in the presence of a Devourer capable of banishing existence from the karmic wheel, Mayuree could see that even the hardliners quaked with soul-trembling terror. A year was a long time for a city in constant flux. After the IIUC, Marong's Shadowmen had performed a deep cleansing of the House of M's affairs with the aid of Ruxin's compelling Dragon-tongue. Then, in March, after Professor James Ma sent the pair a company of auditors, a second reckoning had shaken Yangon's provincial government. Each time, the infamy of the Devourer had been utilised by Marong to cow the opposition. Now, with the insurgency in hiding, the Pillar of Jade installed inside the gemmed halls of the Shwe Dagon Pagoda and the newly furbished Yangon Tower guarding her reign; peace of a kind had returned to Kachin, Manipur, Yangon and Nagaland, forming a vast stretch of fertile Green and Orange Zones. Even as Mayuree received her companion of yesteryear, a million square kilometres of the Irrawaddy River's rich-silt shores awaited transformation into fertile rice fields, while up north, past the abandoned capital of Mandalay, Dwarf-made diggers crushed the jade-rich seams to pour a constant stream of revenue into Ruxin's emerald vaults. And most importantly, the House of M, a consortium that once existed only to retain what little resource the royal family once possessed, was now a regional powerhouse controlling the South-East Asian jade trade with a near-monopoly. It also served as the largest financial institution in Indo-China, offering itself as the Mageocracy's lending proxy. Yangon's new seaport, taking a leaf from Tonglv, added to the trade from the Ivory Coast, the Bay of Bengal, and to the fortress city of Singapore and beyond. Concurrently, in the wake of its industrial rebirth, new public infrastructure from Shielding Stations to public schools sprouted like new fungi after the yearly monsoon. For the first time in a long time, the colonial city's streets were choked with industrious labourers, while hopeful children grew assured that human tithings to the Tyrant were a thing of the past. "I've missed you." Mayuree ignored the stares from her ministers as she held her guest's hand like a lovesick child. It was a struggle to voice just how she felt seeing her old friend again, for though their titles had changed, her feelings of awe and gratefulness remained Mithril. She was now a ruler with the fate of millions on her shoulders and Gwen, a renowned Combat Mage and Mageocracy socialite known around the world. "I missed you too." Her friend held Yangon's royal majesty for a long minute, squeezing the girl against her tall and imposing figure. "It's good to see you again, Mia." "I hate to intrude, but Master Ruxin awaits." Mayuree's beloved brother, Marong, stood by her side, every inch the demure servant, no longer possessed of the arrogance and pride he once carelessly exhibited. She was his queen now, Marong had explained, and he, her subject. The only privilege he retained was the right to smoke in the throne room. "Reunions can wait." "I just got here." Gwen gave her brother a churlish reply. "What's the rush?" "Well, we wouldn't want to upset a Dragon." Marong exhaled nervously through both nostrils, trailing smoke as he spoke. "We're in Lord Ruxin's debt— and unlike yourself, we're not his relatives." "Bah, Russo's long-lived," Gwen insisted. "He'll be fine." Mayuree watched her friend dismiss the caprices of a being capable of returning Yangon to the jungle at a whim. No doubt, Gwen had matured, for the unusual age her friend previously displayed now harmonised with the allure of a budding young woman. As for Gwen's presence— Mayuree could only compare the sorceress to the Thunder Dragon who now ruled the region through mutual accord with the Mageocracy. "... or maybe you're right. Your office is a lot busier than I imagined." To her surprise, her companion appeared uncomfortable in the presence of open, slack-jawed worship by her servants and ministers. "Fine, Ruxin it is. I'll do it as a favour for my exchequer." Marong bowed. "You have my thanks. The Teleportation Circle is in the lower levels." Seeing that Gwen chose to humour her insistent brother, Mayuree relaxed. While technically speaking, they were safe from the Dragon for many reasons, Gwen's favour was central to the precious peace they had carved out of blood and jade in Yangon. "It's a shame that Shanghai proved more troublesome than anticipated," Marong commented as they made their way past the prostrating ministers. "I suppose in the end, the House of M's hand in the Tonglv confrontation trod on the Communist's bottom line. The socialists are happy to eat their own, but when you invite a Dragon to a Human buffet..." "It's fine." Gwen dismissed the bad news. "As long as Ruxin gets his cut of Tonglv, we're good. I still need that revenue." "The Jade has more than made up for the limitation to our enterprises in Shanghai." Marong toked deeply on a dogend. "The communists are not going to give us the freedom to take the Centurion program beyond entertainment and hospitality. Their central bank is proving to be as zealous as Master Ruxin." "Hahaha..." Gwen laughed. "Very well, then. Say Marong, I know we talk shop a lot, and I know Mia's happy, but how are you these days?" "Well, if you must know, I am still losing sleep over Aung Sung's rebels, the lot of them..." "I meant you, Marong." Gwen stopped her brother before he could continue to gripe about national security. "You weren't very forthright about working for Ruxin, though now I see you two are as thick as thieves. It can't be easy both managing your sister's estate and keeping a True Dragon satiated. There's little wonder you smoke two packs a day..." Her brother regarded Gwen, exhaled a lungful of smoke, then reorganised his thoughts. "I am alright, I suppose. If Mia's fine, then I am fine. We talk a lot about this book you've published these days." "Oh? Which one?" "The Mockingbird," Mayuree said. "We're learning a lot to avoid our ancestor's pitfalls." "Aww, that's cute. Still, you should take care of yourself. Learn to delegate and go easy on the smokes. I'll leave you a few bottles of the Essence-Maotai. Get Ruxin to reward you some of their free-range Draconic ingredients as well." "I'll... take care," Marong replied. Mayuree could see that her brother appeared affected by the concern from the Dragon's niece. "You better. After all, we've still got Legion to test and implement in Yangon." Gwen burst out laughing as soon as the words left her lips. "Once the Dwarves make enough progress through the Murk, I'll see if it's possible to get them to send us a contingent of Magitech Engineers and Runesmiths. For now, we better fatten up Russo before his hoard shrinks again, hahaha…" Mayuree joined the pair, filling the cold halls of Karaweik Palace with warm laughter. Nagaland. Saramati Peak. Ruxin never understood his immortal father's fascination with the human female that bore Ayxin, at least until he met the female called Ruì, whose name, "Ru—Yi—" meant "wished for" in the old dynastic dialect. But, as a hermitic Dragon for whom very few events could elicit powerful emotions, Ruì's monthly visits did gift him with genuine pleasure, and for that, his immortal self felt well-pleased. "Is she here yet?" Beside the throne of Jade, Golos paced. "Please be patient, Lord Golos," trilled the voice of a multi-coloured individual with a woman's upper torso and the lower body of a bird. In her feathered arms, she held a trio of chirping Harpy-spawn. These had the lovely likeness of their mother, though their feathers had taken on the vibrant hue of spawn descended from the line of the Yinglong. The Lord of Nagaland glanced at the pair: reflected in his slitted irises, "Phalera" was at least the apex embodiment of her Avian race. Conversely, Golos' chimeric whelps, despite their wanting, luminous moon-yolk eyes, were ordinary mud. "They are arriving now, Lord Golos," Sagol Kangba, Vairagi and Grandmaster of the Shadowmen of Manipur, softly whispered from the shadows. Ruxin felt the ley-lines beneath the Jade Palace faintly pulse. He counted to twenty, ignoring his impatient brother and his rainbow-coloured consort while engaged in meditation. When he opened his eyes again, the double doors to the palace opened, revealing the petite figure of his maid-servant, Tika. Ruxin watched as the pathetic Naga removed herself from his sight. With the vermin gone, his eyes met with the smug and smiling mien of his crystal tree niece. "Russo! How's it going?" Gwen broke into an enormous grin as she strode into the jade-plated hall, her heels clicking musically on the tiles. As usual, she attired herself in a manner advertising one seeking a mate, though Ruxin always suspected the display was a ritual, a ploy or a lure, like those monsters of the Deep that possessed light-emitting mana-organs. "Mate, guess what I've got for you?" "M-mate?!" Golos almost jumped, his eyes darting between Ruxin and the sorceress. "It's an expression, brother, from the land of the Elder Serpent," Ruxin explained with patience lest the Wyvern misunderstood. "You should know better than I the Calamity's glibness. Have you learned nothing in your travels with our niece?" "… I've never been to the Calamity's homeland," Golos grumbled, peeking at Gwen from beneath his scaly eyelids. "Haven't met her mother snake either." "That's for the best, I am sure. If you anger the Elder One, its wrath may very well reduce you to Essence cinders—" The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. The girl walked right past Golos. "Oh my god!" the Devourer squealed, passing under Ruxin's eyes with an impertinence that reminded him of Ayxin in her youth. "Phalera! Is that—" "These are our children." The bird-being came closer, her avian eyes full of happiness. "This is Verynse, Phynase, and this is Lysaphse." "SO CUTE!" The girl reached out to pet the chicks' heads. "Do they bite?" "Don't you dare devour my girls!" Golos warned the girl. "Despite their affinity for Lightning, they're not tasty at all." Gwen gave Golos a glance. It was evident what the girl thought of his brother's intelligence. Amused, Ruxin observed the girl as she picked up a chirping harpy-chick and began to speak to it as though her intelligence had dropped to an infantile stage as well. The girl's affection surprised him, for the chicks were crude fledgelings with muddy bloodlines. A True Dragon spent aeons developing intelligence and mastery in the egg; these fledgelings were bred and spawned within eight months in a mortal shell barely large enough for a Golos-portioned omelette. "Calamity, I want a favour." His brother was without tact as usual. "Can you spare my kids some of your Primordial Essence? I want them to grow up strong enough to fight the Da-peng!" To Ruxin's surprise, Gwen looked to him for advice. "Fine by me. But would your Father mind, Ruxin? " "No." Ruxin shook his head. "Their blood is... thin." Phalera lowered her head in shame. Gwen turned to Phalera. "Then I'll thicken their blood. One drop enough? We can re-dose when they're older. Does this make me their fairy God Mother, haha..." "YEEEE!" "YAAA!" "EEEEE!" The chicks eagerly opened their mouths to receive their blessings. What horrors would these bird-beings become if they're weaned on the Essence of an Elder Serpent? Ruxin felt a tingle of morbid curiosity. A part of him desired to put a stop to this affront to the Elder Serpent, but as a Dragon millennia away Unformed Land, he was also bored enough to want to see what would happen. With the doses delivered, the chicks fell asleep to digest the enormous potential now injected into their tender bodies. Golos loudly boasted that his kin could grow big enough to wrestle Big-Birds while Phalera prostrated to show her gratitude. "Enough." Ruxin silenced his chittering family. "Gwen, Ruì said you had something to show me?" "Ah ye." Gwen gave the chicks one last pat while their parents beat a retreat away from the irate Ruxin. Ruxin watched the girl walk into the middle of the throne chamber. "Here looks like a big enough space. You ready?" "For?" Ruxin cocked his head. As with their kind, the girl liked her showmanship. Gwen grinned. "For your investment returns." She flashed both hands, revealing four Storage Rings. "Alright, Hoss. It took me a lot of effort to prepare this." In the next moment, a wave of raw mana blew over those still sitting in the throne room. A small rive of clattering crystals poured onto the jade tiles, made far more impressive by the fact that on solid stone, the crystals jingled and clattered, skipped and jumped, flowing over one another like liquid. Each hexagonal rod, representing a single HDM, radiated the astral energy contained within its elemental prison, enriching the air with their tangible presence. Near the door, Golos and his avian consort stared. Ruxin did not condemn his bumpkin brother for acting the idiot, for the young drake had never seen their father's treasure hoard. As for himself, he felt his Essence quickened, just a little. "Two million-odd HDMs is a lot less impressive in person than I imagine, but here it is. That said, if I gave you the same profit in ten-thousand HDM credit chips, it would be less impressive still," Gwen explained, drained from the exhaustive act of using mana to unload the HDMs from her ring. "I was originally going for raw Air, Water or Lightning crystals, but the volume of ore was near-impossible to stow without paying out for even bigger rings." The Dragon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The pile was majestic and glimmering, but really, it was big enough only for Gwen to make a bed. Without the compression applied by the Mageocracy's minting engines, raw HDM crystals made a rough collection, hugely varying in purity and element. The girl was right that if she had materialised the same volume in freshly mined crystals, the "hoard" would make a comfortable bed for Ruxin— but that would be an unergonomic gift. "Well done. I thought you said ten years," Ruxin recalled from his perfect memory. "Is it wise to return so much crystal so soon?" "I said I would flood your vault to the brim and then some in ten years." The girl waded through the ankle-deep pile of crystals. "Not to mention..." His niece made a circle with her arms. "All this— This is just the beginning. Give me your complete confidence because soon, I'll be needing A LOT more crystals. You're my Bank of Ruxin, remember?" "I am your..." Ruxin's chest cavity tightened. Unsure of what to think, he motioned to Tika by the door. "Tika, move the spoils to the treasure room. Every last one." Tika's shoulders drooped as her eyes swept over the small mound of crystals scattered all over the hall. "Sorry," Gwen gave his servant an insincere apology. Ruxin wondered what his niece would think if he told her that here was the Naga that had eaten one of her "friends". Would the girl demand Astaka's Core there and then? Undoubtedly, knowing their relationship, he would be happy to oblige. "Well then, that was an entertaining display," he confessed. "What do you wish as a reward? An item? Sorcery? Creature Cores?" The girl approached. When she stood close enough to touch, Ruxin considered his conversation partner. The girl's Astral Body had grown since their last meeting. Not immeasurably, but more contained and controlled, akin to a compressed HDM versus its raw, excavated form. She was also glancing at his brother's bastards while making moon-eyes, cooing with her lips at the Essence-drunk infants. "I want a favour, one only you can give, though you may not be willing to give it." Ruxin grew suddenly worried. "Name your demand— though I should forewarn you that unlike yonder 'Gogo', a True Dragon's first-spawn cannot and shall not be a Dragon Carp—" "What? No!" Caught by surprise, the girl almost swallowed her tongue, a reaction that made Ruxin relax his spine-ridge. Near the door, the stricken Thunder Wyvern fled from the shameful past of his adolescence. The Yinglong's 'first-spawn' nodded. His brother had learned shame since travelling with Gwen. His niece shuddered at the thought of the carp-grubbing Thunder Wyvern relieving himself. "Nah, Russo, we're not partners in that sense. I would like you to speak to your Father about what plans Daddy Dear has for my friend, his shiny new Faith-filled Vessel— your er... 'aunt'?" Shanghai. Hongqiao. When she first transmigrated into her present world, Gwen lamented the fact that air travel was rendered moot by marauding Air Elementals. Now, armed with riches beyond the wildest dreams of most Magisters, she much-preferred the Conjuration-empowered workarounds used by the residents of her present reality. The longest flight she had taken in her past life was a business trip to Argentina involving a four flight from Sydney to Auckland, thirteen hours to Santiago, then another six to Buenos Aires. Including transfers, she had remained lucid and awake for over thirty hours, finally alighting drunk and sleep-deprived, slathered with gritty, half-runny foundation. Comparatively, in a world sans air bussing, she took a few minutes to teleport from Nagaland to Yangon, then an hour to transfer from Yangon to Kunming before arriving at Chongqing for customs processing. There, forgoing the Panda-folk yet again, she stepped into the ley-line Circles connecting Chongqing to Shanghai's Hongqiao interchange, appearing a split-second later at her desired destination. All-in-all, the trip took two hours. Less time than it took to drive to Kensington's air lounge, check-in, buy coffee, wait for boarding, then embark. Her travel arrangements proved so expeditious that she had arrived ahead of her escorts from the MSS, ensuing a quiet lull that gave her some time to catch up on her conversation with her Draconic banker. All-in-all, her detour to post-Colonial Myanmar proved fruitful. Last night, over dinner, when she had questioned her business partner about the intentions of his Demi-god patriarch, the perfect-jawed drake had evasively provided some food for thought. First, the Thunder Dragon explained that thanks to his new abode, he was no longer affiliated with his esteemed father in any way Dragons were concerned. They were now competitors, and only after another aeon when his father soared into the Unformed Land would he return to the Yinglong's court. Assuming the other Asiatic Dragons had not themselves ascended, his "Uncles" would help Ruxin defend his father's legacy from foreign Dragons, such as the three-headed green-lizard in Siberia. Beyond that, if their scions wished to contest Ruxin, then Huangshan was his to defend. Alliances like this were why True Dragons lauded unsullied bloodlines, as the ancient kin would only aid those who bled the same Essence. Then the topic moved onto Elvia, whose predicament she had explained to Ruxin. In the past few months, she and Elvia had patched up much of their grievances, though their friendship continued to suffer from the air of secrecy between Elvia and her patron. As her friend had not forbidden Gwen from seeking discovery, she had interpreted Elvia's reticence as an invitation. With his role exacted, Ruxin explained that his father's position had always been a neutral one not dissimilar to the Middle Faction's propensity for avoiding extremes. As a skilled Soothsayer who was the first to "ying" or "heed" the call of the Jade Emperor, thereby acquiring the title of Yinglong, his father seldom acted rashly. In his opinion, Elvia Lindholm must be a central character in a future event; a lynchpin in an interplay of cosmic convergence regarding a matter his father held dear. As to when, what, why, who, and how, Ruxin had no idea— but the centrality of her flaxen-haired companion was beyond doubt. "Whether his blessing bodes ill or weal, I do not think our father will allow his Vessel to perish. Alas, I must also challenge your claim of foul play. Have you considered that perhaps, all of this could have nothing to do with you? For instance, this "Evee" of yours, you say that she is now a part of an elite Sect of Sorceror-Monks?" "Er… the Order of the Bath, yes," Gwen had to admit Ruxin made an excellent if disturbing observation. It was Draconic arrogance to think that whatever the Yinglong had planned must revolve around herself like Jupiter's moons, but why else would Elvia be chosen? "They're an order of do-gooders, generally speaking. With the 'altruism' being whatever brings repute for the House of Windsor and 'bad' being whatever would paint them with ill-repute." "Then what are the chances of your 'Evee' engaging in battle against some great Calamity? Like this 'Sobel' and her 'Spectre', independent of you? With her vital facilities, could she not preserve someone pivotal to some balance in the human world— and therefore our world?" Gwen had sighed, unconvinced by the Dragon's musing. "We keep a precarious balance among our kind." Ruxin's patience proved impressive. "Through her, for example, Father could prevent the slaying of a Chromatic whelp, thereby averting a generation of War or another Beast Tide. Either way, whatever branch of fate Father chooses to prune or preserve, I doubt Father cares about you as much as you think. That and you over-estimate our patriarch's interest in the Human world. Father could doze for a century, and all the humans we now know would be dust. Now, if you were involved with the Elder-kin, that would be—" "Russo, you keep saying 'we'," she had remarked after measuring the Draconic scale of time against her Human urgency. "Why?" Ruxin had given her a strange look, which when paired with his perfectly Polymorphed face, made for a comical combination. "I forget you're younger than an egg sometimes. Though I suppose time will be a better teacher than I." After that, their conversation returned to the matter of business ventures from Yangon to London. Gwen briefly closed her eyes, trying to imagine how her Evee was doing in Ireland. Was Mathias keeping her safe? Was the expedition keeping the Fomorians in check? The Bestiary had said that the violent and ancient fae could grow powerful enough to hunt Dragons should the fabric between the Planes grow thin-enough to allow the ancient elementals free rein. If Caliban couldn't eat Elves, how about a fey? "Magus Song?" A pair of bowing bodies shook her from her mental revelry. "That's me." Gwen looked up to see a pair of vaguely familiar faces. "Good morning, Magus." The stoic-looking Chinese Mage snapped a salute. "I am Officer Wei, and this is my partner, Officer Yung—" "… I know you guys." Gwen left the lounge, shaking out the fatigue from her body by circulating a mote of Essence. "You guys came for me when I was in Singapore." "Ah." Wei's face grew instantly clammy. "Maybe that was… another Wei?" "My memory is perfect." In heels, Gwen stood half a head taller than the man who once arrested her. "I mean, your partner's even wearing the same shirt." Wei glared at his partner accusingly. "… I like this shirt." Officer Yung complained to the devastated Wei, far less affected by Gwen's recognition of her former captors. "Besides, we were perfect escorts. She vomited on you last time, and you helped the Miss clean up." "You fellers still working for Gramps?" she asked, genuinely nostalgic that Guo's goons were still around. She didn't dislike them, for although she possessed no fame, wealth, nor power the last time they met, Wei was very professional. "Promoted. Wei's a Departmental Head now." Yung laughed infectiously. "Word from above is for us to accompany you while you're here in Shanghai." "A guard detail? Surely I am a trustworthy individual." Gwen snorted. "I spent almost two years in Fudan without burning the city down, and then I fixed Tonglv and cleaned up Shenyang. Secretary Miao even commended me." "Miss Song, we're not here for your protection or as your guards," Wei explained while staring down the passersby who stopped to stare. "It's just that. You have no idea just how famous the face of SPAM might be in Shanghai, especially after news of what you managed in Tonglv became common knowledge. For the duration of your stay, orders from Secretary-General Miao is to filter your visitors through the Ministry of State Security." "May I speak to anyone I wish?" "That's your freedom, ma'am." "But if unsolicited people want to speak to me..." "Then they'll have to go through us." Wei nodded with solemnity. "You're a Class VI War Mage, Magus Song. And a Mageocracy one at that..." Gwen straightened out her dress, then took a deep breath. Only nine months, and how things had changed...

Gwen's Mary-Janes clacked against the tiled interior of the Song compound, leaving behind the palatial MSS saloon with its Divination-warded windows. Almost three years ago, when she walked through the redwood door frame for the first time, she hadn't recognised a single soul residing within its quartered courtyard. This time, she arrived with the bearing of a returning prodigal scholar-bureaucrat newly lauded by the Emperor, missing only the scarlet shower of firecrackers. "Gwen, welcome back!" "Granddaughter, welcome home." "Gwennie! We've missed you!" "Yo! Yo! Yo! Gwenabitch back in da house!" "Sis Gwen—!" "Welcome home, sis…" Each of the familiar faces and voices staked an unmistakable feeling of gratitude deep into her crystal-wrapt heart, striking at the foundation of her being. Gwen felt an unseen tension unwound like a ball of yarn. This life, she had made the right choices. Percy's smile fought to reach his eyes, then deserted him altogether once his sister grew distracted by their grandmother. In any other elite family at the tier of the Songs, a young man with his accomplishments would have been hailed as a once-a-century prodigy. Nonetheless, he felt like a support prop for his sister's prima donna mid-air pirouette. What infuriated Percy bitterly wasn't the usual story of sibling rivalry that plagued households like theirs but the complete acceptance the Songs demonstrated. "Don't worry, Percy." His Babulya had set him aside every so often when news of Gwen filtered through the Party's information Shield Wall. "Your sister's path can't be walked by anyone else." "Always making trouble, never a quiet moment!" Guo's dismissal continued unabated, often accompanied by a self-satisfied smile. "Ignore her, Percy. Gwen's not someone you need to concern yourself with." "Focus on yourself, Percy— Gwen's on a different plane." Jun too had laughed off Gwen's overseas accomplishments as fact. "What else can I say when Ayxin's brother is her business partner?" "Forget your sister." In Suzhou, even the apathetic Hai had assured him with a wink as young Sui bounced on his lap. "It's best not to be concerned at all. Much more relaxing that way, hahaha…" Finally, Percy turned to Mei, only to cough up clotted blood when his girlfriend had given him a hypercritical glare. "The way I like Sister Gwen is different from how I like you. Why are you so obsessed with Sister Gwen anyway? You're not bothered by Aunt Ayxin, are you?" Percy bit his lip; the Kirin Amulet nestled between his collarbones grew warm as his emotions churned. Dismissal. Apathy. Nonchalance. These were the reactions that stoked the balefire smouldering inside his chest. Was he not trying hard enough? Percy ground his teeth in frustration. Could he try any harder? Xiangming High School was already the pyramid's peak when it came to burgeoning young sorcerers in China. Its ranking within the Municipality of Shanghai was the product of unbridled meritocracy, a congregation of top talent filtered through tests and trials. Almost two years on, within his cohort, Percy Song stood near the top as a member of the school's Discipline Committee. Likewise, in the Municipal Militia, he held the position of a Cadet Officer with the rank of Junior Lieutenant. Outside of school, thanks to Uncle Jun's recommendation and his grandfather calling in favours, he and Mei had also participated in every significant Purge action after the reclaiming of Shenyang. His magical accomplishments as well were nothing short of miracles: Tier four Abjuration. Tier four Evocation, encroaching on five. Tier three Transmutation. He had a registered spell list of over thirty invocations. And he possessed the prodigious ability to replicate all relevant magic taught to him by his instructors with a success rate unmatched by others of his age from the same school. AND he possessed charisma, a good face, a national hero for an uncle, as well as a grandfather who retired from a public security Committee Chair, only to fall into an actual inner-Party Committee Chair. But the reaction anyone ever enacted whenever Percy became known, be it a military camp, a function, or a gathering of Guo's inner-Party officials— was a knowing nod followed by the everpresent, backhanded comment, "So that's Gwen Song's brother…" His frustration was also engendered by the fact that his sister's accomplishments had long abandoned the realm of Spellcraft, while he could only push forward by punishing his health. Salt was a gentler Negative Element compared to Void or Ash, but it was a Negative Element nonetheless. The Amulet kept the Negative Energy drain down to a trickle, but even a trickle could wear away fertility and vitality if abused. To combat the diminishment of his body, Percy ate Wildland food until he was sick even though he knew that there was one satiation his Astral Soul desired. Vitality and Essence. But without a Tower Master's backing that Gwen received, he had few opportunities to utilise Drain Life— of late, only one on the Northern Front, another during a Purge in Hangzhou's Lake District, where he enjoyed enough privacy to bolster Transmutation and Abjuration. On these adventures, Mei had followed him everywhere— serving both as his alibi as well as a gatekeeper to the constant temptation that threatened to spill. Thankfully, in a recent expedition to the Yellow Sea, he had the luck of picking up a tier of Illusion from a Rogue Mage, a useful skill for an uncertain future. With Gwen gone for ten months, his concern for her had diminished somewhat, becoming preoccupied with what opportunities he could garner by taking on Quests. Now, with the prodigal princess returned, he felt paralysed by her radiant presence. "Gwen, welcome back!" "Granddaughter, welcome home." "Gwennie! We've missed you!" "Yo! Yo! Yo! Gwenabitch in da house!" "Sis Gwen—!" His girlfriend and party member, Mei, ran to embrace his sister while the rest of the family filled the compound with laughter. The genuineness of the felicitous atmosphere felt like Cloud Kill stabbing at his lungs. For the banquet, other than Jun and Ayxin, Hai and his new family, the whole Song Clan had gathered for his sister's return. When had he last heard the family laugh like this? "Welcome home, sis…" Percy forced himself to think of simpler times when he and Gwen lived under one roof in Forestville, surviving off sambal eggs on toast. Back then, it seemed a strong wind could blow his paper-thin sister away from the apartment balcony. Now, her brilliance could bake raw terracotta into bricks. "Percy…" His sister's face opened like a white flower in bloom, the joy on her face so striking as to make his chest contract with self-loathing guilt. Hugging Mei and then setting his girlfriend aside, she gifted him her full attention. "Oh, my..." Gwen's measured eyes were twin smiling half-moons. "You've grown! My little Percy is finally a little man…" Guo agreed wholeheartedly with Gwen. Not so much that Percy was a "little man", but that his grandson had indeed matured into a hardworking young man rarely seen in Shanghai's privileged circles. To Guo, Percy was so studious that sometimes, he wondered how in Mao's name an ingrate like Hai managed to seed a son so talented and humble with a partner whose only talent was her looks. When his friends at the Bureau insisted that it was Guo's superior genes that must have been inherited, the Committee Chair modestly declined— instead referring to his peerless wife, Gwen's dear Babulya. Knowing their colleague's ego, those old dogs at the Committee had jeered his humblebragging, demanding that he thank his ancestors neither Gwen nor Percy had inherited his bulldog exterior. Stone-faced, Guo had threatened to audit their expense accounts while his peers toasted. Nonetheless, whatever the opinion of the other Committee Chairs in the Secretariat group, his grandson remained a rare child. Of Guo's compatriots, few of their grand or great-grandchildren amounted to anything. Some, such as the public scorned power progeny, only understood coercion and intimidation through their father's influences. Others, such as the Fu-er-dai, were akin to the trumpeting, tongue-twisting Tao, spoilt by freedom and privilege. Such occurrences were an insult to the older generation. In their minds, when the country still fought incursions from the Undead, Centaurs on the Steppes and caste-driven Elemental-sycophants across the Himalaya range, what kind of man-child aspired to make music? And not even propaganda music, but western music! And not even classical western music! But Hip-Hop?! Where was "Hip" "Hop" when he and Klavdiya death marched from Harbin to Tianjin? The same Juche-damned Undead that laid waste to the north were still roaming the earth, and the heir of Wang enterprises wanted to waste his life rhyming non-sensically about hoods? Preposterous. With some measure of self-caution, Guo forced himself to calm. Of the Song's youngest generation, there was Mina, Tao, Percy, Gwen and now Sui. Mina was an able socialite, polite, meticulous and helpful to her father. As a healer, she could take either route as a businesswoman or follow in Klavdiya's footsteps. Tao was dead to him. Sui was still too young to be judged, though he doubted the Liu Clan would allow their 'heir' to be anything but upstanding. Percy was a boon he had duly received from the ancestors. But his granddaughter continued to bewilder Guo. In their way, he and the girl had made their peace. Yet, he felt a wariness when dealing with her that did not extend to other members of the family, not even his Demi-daughter-in-law, who possessed a mind that could move mountains but the guile of an infant. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. In recent months, he and Secretary-General Miao had kept their confidential Message Devices open to their counterpart in London. The news that had filtered through to Guo via the CCDI's international channels had made him immeasurably proud but also hesitant as to whether an Elemental had pierced the veil and usurped Gwen's Astral Body. According to London, post-Tonglv, his granddaughter had busied herself with real estate on the Isle of Dogs, aided by indentured Dwarves who had contributed Runsmiths, Engineseers, Alchemists and even their precious Fabricator Engines, all to serve the whim of a teenage girl. Demi-humans?! Guo wanted to vent his bewilderment. What in Tao's "ill-rhyming" business was his granddaughter doing with Demi-humans from the deep floors? Was this what she meant by having lived in the "land down under"? Then the girl started a printing press. He recalled Miao had given him strange looks. Shouldn't Gwen be in a preparatory course for Cambridge? What was the correlation between printers and bridging-courses? But then, of course, news arrived that she started a Newspaper and not only that, its circulation was eating established publishers alive because it was free and wholly crafted to cater to NoMs. "… is the girl spreading the Teachings of the Red Book?" Miao had announced with reverence. "By Mao, what a precious child!" But when they received copies of the paper, Miao and Guo's brows grew full of wrinkles. _Baking recipes?_ _Celebrity news?_ _Latest Magitech for NoMs?_ _Paid Classifieds?_ _A trading post?_ _Investment tips for the Non-Magical citizen?_ _The Count of Monte Cristo?_ Without a doubt, Capitalism had gnawed away the girl's good senses. Over the next few editions, Guo also bore witnesses to numerous lumen-pictures of Gwen wearing semi-living diaphanous leaves that did away with her dignity, burning his eyes with fiery shame even as Miao coughed and tried not to laugh. "I have three grandsons, one her age— " The Secret-General spoke to the ceiling. "The oldest is older by a decade, though that might not be a bad thing. My youngest is graduating from Tsinghua this year and has been tapped to enter the CCDI as a junior cadet, training from the ground up." Guo recalled staring at his counterpart, his mind numb with possibilities. It was one thing to be the relative of a Dragon-princess who had chosen his son out of the blue— and a whole other thing to join hands with the director of the CCDI. While any other Committee Chair would drool at the opportunity, Guo knew well there was no such thing as a free lunch. Eventually, when Miao lost power— every macaque taking shelter in the grand trunk that was the Middle Faction would fall into the Yellow River and drown in the wake of Clan Miao's passing. Politely, Guo declined the suggestion. After the newspaper, the girl's press released a book in support of justice for NoMs. Not economic justice, Guo noted with displeasure. Just "justice" in the sense that NoMs deserved it as much as a man dying of thirst deserved a drink of water. The context made no sense to him, nor did the uppity attitude of the Arbitrator father. He much preferred the French novel about the secret treasure of Napoleon and its cautionary tale about a man consumed by his desire for revenge. Then after that, Miao passed a memo that Gwen had made an eye-watering amount of crystals in the short span she had resided in London. The total volume wasn't near as much money as she had generated through Tonglv, but the implication was different. In Tonglv, his granddaughter's crystals were bundled with stakeholders far beyond her lonesome power to move. Though she could freely spend her proceeds, moving the wealth elsewhere was something the Party would dissuade with extreme prejudice. In the "Free" West, however, she could exploit the masses as she pleased. As for the amount, the volume of Crystals she dispensed to Ruxin was around two million. Guo had to write out the numbers in Elementally derived Middle Eastern numerals to make sure there were six zeros behind the "2", after which he stared at the paper. Had the Songs ever possessed that many Crystals in the course of their millennium-old history? He asked himself. Their ancestral home in Hubei might be worth that much, but who in their right minds would sell the land of their forebears? Only the rootless capitalists! "Nainai! Ye-ye!" Gwen bowed from the waist. The girl was wearing the dress her grandmother had gifted her upon their first meeting— a gesture that made Klavidya tremble with emotion. But for a Chairman of the Confidential Communications Committee who had sent two of his best men to keep his granddaughter well-segregated from the masses, he understood his feelings a little too well. Between him and his wife, Guo would leave the loving to Klavdyia. As for himself, Guo wholly embraced the anxiety, fear and weariness that came with guiding Gwen. With Ayxin at least, he understood that she was an actual daughter-in-law who happened to be a Dragon. With Gwen, however, he couldn't shake the idea that perhaps, she was a Dragon masquerading as a Human granddaughter. Once she polished every dish on the banquet table, Gwen chewed the fat with her cousins and her baby brother. For her present trip, she had only a night and day in Shanghai, and then she would teleport to Singapore, where Gunther and Alesia would await her arrival. Each to each, Gwen regarded her present company. Of her family in China, it went without saying that her bond with Babulya was most precious. Klavdiya's care was without condition, and though grandmother and daughter had shared no similar interests beyond each other's lives, the exchange between them felt the most genuine. Closely behind was Percy, bound by two lifetimes of affection. Listening to Percy's unassuming digression of his endless commendations and accolades, she could see the pleasure on Guo's face and the genuine happiness her grandmother felt for her husband and their heir. Beside Percy, Tao yawned. Gwen chuckled. "The Big Peach" occupied a particular spot in her bosom. It wasn't that they had anything in common other than lineage, but that The Big P's unbridled passion and his devil-may-care attitude toward what other's thought tickled her pragmatic heart in strange ways. Her cousin had talent— she knew this; how else could a rapper perform a multi-instrumental Illusion solo alone? What his elders did not understand was that Tao was a man born in the wrong place and in the wrong time. She was confident, however, that given time, she could make good on the promise of touring the USA with Tao in tow. Though she knew nothing of recording crystals in the states, just from the rudimentary music industry in the UK, Australia and China, she could see that consumer entertainment was a Wildland Black zone. "Are you and the 'boys' doing well?" she caught the colour of her grandfather's face changing as Tao told his tale of trying to bring hip-hop to Shanghai's masses without success, lamenting that Gwen was "making bank" while he wallowed in mud. "Me and da bois are doing good," Tao assured her nonetheless, throwing a few arcane gestures her way. "Big Dog collects your pictures, for the lonely times…" Tao wiggled his brows. Mina covered Tao's face with a napkin. Gwen laughed out loud, undeterred by Tao's dubious charms. "As an infamous someone, how's my 'cred' on the homefront, Peaches?" "Higher than a Roc, dawg!" Tao declared. "Even mah motherfucker's impressed. He says yo development of the Isle of Dawgs is naffink short of a miracle. The old bastard's got a lot to learn from you." "Ah-Wang says it's too bad he didn't have the foresight to work with you more closely while you're still in Shanghai," Tao's mother joked half-seriously, so desensitised by Tao's indecency she no longer noticed it. "Can you help Tao, Gwen? Our Peaches rarely listens to anyone, not even Ah-Wang, but he seems to listen to you." "Mr Wang's far too kind." Gwen pushed away from Tao's father's excessive endorsement. "And I'll do my best with Peaches." "No need to be humble," Mina said. "We should all thank you, my father included." "How so?" Gwen raised a brow. "I am not even in China." Her cousin glanced at their grandfather. Seeing as Guo did no object, she leaned closer conspiratorially and began to explain to her the Song and Wang's present fortunes. "After you sold Tao's talent to father, he's decided not to force him." Her cousin's eyes were gleaming. "Which leaves me..." To Gwen's delight, Mina explained that since Tao had decided to embrace music, she was now the heir apparent. While usually, women did not inherit the family business, that cultural prejudice had been made moot by Gwen's showing at the Isle of "Dawgs", as Tao puts it. Further on, Mina remarked that Gwen's rising social capital and their grandfather's "friendship" with Secretary-General Miao also served to bolster her influence over Wang Enterprises, and this wasn't even taking into account Ayxin's relationship with Jun. Indeed, three years ago, Guo was slated to retire from his role. Now, their grandfather sat above his old superior, not far under Miao himself. All-in-all, the Song family had reached a new height of influence and power in an epoch characterised by China's burgeoning globalist ambitions, now accelerated by the rapid retreat of the Cult of Juche from Manchuria. "Aren't you the one to thank for all of this?" Mina asked. "Bloody hell—" There was a barely audible groan. When Gwen looked up, she saw Percy rolling his eyes. "Tell us about the Doofs!" Tao cut in just as the atmosphere grew strangely anxious. "Does their music have rolling rocks in it?" Gwen burst out laughing at the Translation Stone's rare misnomer. Her Master's Ioun Stone was so great she had utterly forgotten that they were conversing in different languages. With some added spice, she told the story of her drunk-singing the Dwarves into submission with a rendition of Misty Mountain. With the youngsters talking away, plates of dumplings made by Klavdiya arrived. Between mouthfuls of minced Wildland boar cut with garlic and chives, Gwen answered questions about her adventures in London, especially her work with Dwarves and her meeting with the Elves— two Demi-human races absent from the long homogenous "Central Country". Naturally, Peaches grew enthralled by the topic of ageless Hvítálfar women, while Gwen promised Mina she would gift her one of the Elven dresses. "I hope your venture in London isn't another Tonglv," her grandfather spoke after observing the children's chatter. "The Fungs deserved what they got— but to have a Dynastic Clan plucked like a boiled pheasant…" "I heard that Professor Ma's classes are using your drafts as case studies," Gwen's Babulya changed the topic of conversation to divert her grandfather's incoming rant about Capitalist evils. "The new students are publishing papers to try and analyse the economic impact of your actions. Your old Professor's on the up-and-up, he and his NoMs are now an established branch of the CCDI's Internal Revenue Audit Committee." "That's good because Tonglv is in phase three now." Gwen pictured the endless array of enterprises drooling over land and licence sales. Phase III was the redevelopment of Nantong into a city of manufacturers. If successful, she even had plans to build her future Divination Towers there. "It's out of my hands, though. I've signed it all away." "I know, dear." Her Babulya sighed. "Yoooo! That's what my Dad's most impressed with," Tao said. "To let go like that, at the right time, with the right poise, my motherfucker says you've got balls. Dragon Balls." Gwen almost dropped her dumpling. "Are you doing things by the book in London?" Guo asked suspiciously. "I've paid all my taxes if that's what you mean." Gwen gave her grandfather an ambiguous smile. "Everything is double audited, internally and externally. There's a great deal of philanthropic work under the IoDRP as well, mostly headed by Evee— do you remember Elvia Lindholm?" Guo rested his chopsticks. "Is what I've heard about your friend true?" "That she's joined the Order of the Bath?" Gwen tested the water. Her grandfather wasn't referring to her thinking of dating Elvia, was he? If so, then either Petra or Richard was a lot less reliable than she had imagined. Guo raised a brow. "The Ying..." "—Ah." Gwen wiggled her brows in turn. "Yeah. That's true. You can put it in the bank." "What's the world coming to?" Guo shook his head. "Chinese Dragons are now possessing Gweilo Vessels?" "Maybe the Yinglong is a Yin-long?" Tao guessed at the topic of their conversation, using the Chinese homophone of "heeding" interchangeably with "lascivious" to infer to the sexual infamy of Dragons. Guo, who'd been moodily chewing a dumpling, suddenly choked and began to cough. "Tao!" Her Babulya was shocked. "If Aunty were here, she'd make you beat yourself black and blue." Gwen grimaced, trying not to imagine the "Big P's" furious self-flagellation. "Babulya, how's Uncle Jun, anyway. It's a shame I've missed him this time." "They're training in Huangshan," her Babulya advised with a wink. "Ayxin's getting impatient, so they're going to try where the Yinglong's Essence is strongest." Gwen immediately dismissed her Babulya's candid vision of Uncle Jun and Ayxin trying to conceive even as a peculiar analogy invaded her head. Ayxin and Jun, swimming back to the holy mount to breed, climbing the jade peaks to fertilise eggs? What were they, Salmon? "Ah, well." Gwen shrugged. She had no time to fly to Huangshan. Besides, it would be beyond rude to pass over her father's head and not say hi or stop to see Sui, her new baby brother, so leaving the meeting for next time would be best. "How's Lulu doing?" she asked Mina; not flying to the mount also meant missing her Sword Mage. "I am glad you asked. Are you free after dinner?" Mina asked in turn. "Sure." Gwen had until the next morning to Teleport to Singapore. "What's up?" "Lulu and Kusu are both at the House of M, waiting for you." "Why didn't you say so?!" Gwen chided her cousin, who glanced at Guo. "Go!" her grandfather growled. "None of you are children anymore. Do what you want. Just don't cause trouble." "Trouble?" Gwen snorted dismissively, hooking her outstretched arms around Percy and Peaches' necks. "Do we look like the type to cause trouble?"

Shanghai. The Old Districts. The M on the Bund, Gwen felt, was the right choice for a reunion. The first time she was "taken out" by her cousins Mina and Tao, it was to this cafe by day, underground fight club by night. Here, she met Dai, fought her first duel in Shanghai, and was near-arrested for cockfighting. After that, thanks to actions by Mayuree and Marong, the M on the Bund had become a favoured haunt for her new circle of friends, mainly because she had been poor and Mia had footed the bill. Now almost eighteen-months into the epoch of Centurion Credit, the House of M stood as a playground for the wealthy and privileged in Shanghai. The source of the House's prestige lay with Marong who had secured the once riotous venue by proportioning out profits to influential Party members, choosing to harness social capital over wealth. In this way, the House of M was now the venue of choice for the Guan-er-dai and the Fu-er-dai. Here, the progenies of power resolved disputes through duels, found happiness in questionable pursuits and exchanged grey market goods, all under the watchful eye of their guardians— as well as Marong's Manipuri Shadowmen. Prior, there had been a collective hush when the military-plated vehicle arrived. Now, Gwen inspired a sucking-in of breath as she stepped onto the curb, aided by Wei. Gone was the demure china-blue apparel she received from her Babulya. Instead, she wore a naughty black dress purchased from a London designer with a flair for the Elven. Quickly adjusting her hem, she waited as Tao and Mina rendezvoused with Percy and Officer Yung from the second saloon, then made for the entrance. "Esteemed young Misses and Sirs." The six or so doormen bowed before accosting the group. "Do you have an invitation?" Before Wei acted, Mina snatched at the air like a Conjurer performing a trick, revealing a Centurion Card. The sight was enough to draw a collective murmur of awe and envy from the queue, to which Gwen nodded with pleasure at the reaction. From the crowd's longing glances, it meant the marketing Marong had put in place at her behest was working well. The security Mages hurriedly unhooked the velvet rope barring entry to the club. "Welcome to the M on the Bund, Ma'am. May I ask for your preferred destination? The jazz lounge, karaoke, the M Club or the duelling ring? We shall ready a suite before you arrive." Gwen looked toward Mina. "The duelling ring." Gwen raised an arched brow. Mina gave her a secret smile in turn. "This way." The leading concierge half-turned— then suddenly paused. A hint of recognition abruptly registered in the man's eyes, changing the tone and pitch of his voice. "Ma'am, may I enquire if your Ladyship is the esteemed Miss Song?" "Dat's right, bitches!" Besides her, Tao could no longer contain his smugness. Wherever there was a crowd, Gwen observed, Tao's inner Peaches threatened to spill. "Mah 'Cuz' here is the world-famous Devourer of Shenyang!" Gwen winced the moment the words left Peaches' flapping lips. As expected, the unhappy, chittering queue of gawkers checking out the giantess fell into a stunned stillness. "So that's Gwen Song…" someone murmured. "It's her; I recognise the... eyes." "Mao, she looks exactly like her SPAM advert…" "Can a Void Mage live in a tier 1 city?" For Gwen, it had been some time since a peanut gallery had turned her into a curio. Perhaps it were the cultural differences between Shanghai and London; East versus West; or simply that there were more Magisters in London than one could shake a Wand at. In London, not once had the actual public stopped to stare as though an Owl Bear was giving birth on Broadway. Then, to her surprise, the tightly packed crowd began to disperse. "Looks like you're more famous than you think, sis." Percy smirked. The departing crowd collectively chose taciturnity, bowing, nodding, curtsying and backing away with forced smiles. Within the minute, the hundred or so well-dressed party-goers flocked for the shadows, leaving Gwen's party watching woodenly by the entryway. Once more, Gwen looked toward Mina questioningly. "What you did to Dai," Mina explained while shaking her head. "And by extension, the Fung Clan has become a fabled allegory among the youth." "What 'I' did?" Gwen's tone turned churlish. She could understand if these assorted progenies wanted to kiss her hand or her feet, knowing their fetishes, but to turn from her like she was a Void Plague? "Word on the street, Gwennabitch," Peaches illustrated with rare sobriety. "Is that those who woo you or attracts your ire will suffer the pain of excommunication from their House or Clan. The journalists call you the Saviour of Shenyang, dawg, but in the hood, we call you the C—" "Peaches!" Mina hissed. "— Calamity!" Peaches blurted forth the four-syllable word. "… Calamity it is." Gwen breathed out with a sigh. Looking at the empty line, she supposed a deserted club was better than no club. "Alright, come on. Let's hope Lulu's got better luck with the guests." In the underground arena of the infamous House of M, Shanghai's midnight children spell-duelled for honour and ego. Officially, there existed not even a remote possibility that any an illegal activity would be condoned by a Party whose watchword began and ended with social "Harmony". Unofficially, such a facility HAD to exist, and if it must, then it might as well profit its backers. Compared to the Devourer's infamous initial visit, the "House Arena" now sported a tier of Abjuration akin to IIUC competitions. On the floor, shape-shifting terrain-plates that generated any number of exotic battle-settings sheltered Anti-magic Wards to keep contestants cool in the heat of battle, enveloped by continuous Walls of Force. Usually, a cacophony of squealing women and hooting men ran circles around the oval area, placing bets, quaffing drinks and baying for blood. Tonight, however, even the premier Adjudicator Magus Ji Meng Yuu remained unusually reticent. In the VIP box, Kusu Li checked his Message Device for the umpteenth time. "Are they here yet?" Ruì downed a shot of mana-rich rice wine, her teeth still chattering after what Lulan had done to her last victim. Kusu wanted to know the answer to that question as well. Checking his device once more, the Sword Mage from Huashan felt so anxious his bladder throbbed. From memory, driving from Wujiaochang to the Bund couldn't have taken more than forty minutes, even taking traffic into account. "The Winner is Miss Lulan Li!" A burst of Illusion-empowered fireworks smothered the ceiling, followed by scant cheers and a few half-hearted claps. On the far side, a contingent of Healers, one at least at the rank of Magus, dragged a rag-dolled body out of the arena. Beside them, an NoM crew wiped the blood from the Wall of Force. "You." The petite figure on the stage pointed to a group of ashen-faced young men and women sitting like Wildland quails at a street-side butcher in Wuhan. "You're next." A young man, the object of his sister's finger, twisted his face with an expression of undisclosed inner agony. Kusu could see that he and his lackeys knew they had stepped on a Warding Glyph, and they had apologised, in a way— but Lulu was neither one to take on apologies nor sycophantic pleas. "Miss Li." The young man stood, straightening out his suit to soothe his nerves. "If you do not accept our sincerity even after what you did to Pei, then you're truly making an enemy of the Sun family." "The Arena, NOW." His sister's face was all rime, and her voice was December frost. "Or apologise to Ruì. Or I fight you out there. No rules, no healers, no magic dampeners." The young Mage's lips twitched; for a young master, grovelling to an NoM peasant was a fate worse than Lulan. It didn't help that somewhere in the dark, Kusu could hear the sound of people failing to suppress their glee. The Sword Mage's temple throbbed. Here was the reason he never allowed Lulan to visit seedy places like the M on the Bund. Ever since her Heart of Iron days, his berserker sister was always low on what Gwen coined as emotional intelligence. It took an insidious mind to navigate the twisted path outside; his sister's thought process, conversely, was as straight as a shot of Panzerschreck. A few days ago, when news arrived that Gwen would stay over for a day in Shanghai, Lulan had flown back from Ryxi's abode hoping to see their friend and saviour. Over the last nine-months, Lulan had greatly enhanced her fighting potential by training in the ancient methods provided by the White Serpent of Huangshan, her Shifu. Having mastered the early stages of the Plum Blossom Sword, she had wanted to show off her progress to Gwen, whom his sister had professed to serve as a vassal when the Devourer earned her Tower and by extension, semi-autonomous extraterritoriality. When she spoke to Mina about duelling Gwen, Mina had recommended the underground arena run by the House of M. With her Centurion Card, Mina explained, they could eat and drink to their leisure, as well as book the fighting pit at a moment's notice, assuming Gwen could attend. As a result, Lulan had dragged Kusu, herself, and the hardworking Ruì out to meet Gwen. And as expected, almost without fail, trouble found them. Sun Liyun, the Mage Lulan was currently chopping down to size, was the son of someone who was someone, or so Kusu figured. His bodyguard, a man Lulan had pulverised with a single Heart-Seeking jadeite slab at medium range, was a Magus of no small renown at the M's duelling floor. Kusu felt sorry for the bastard, for Sun's highly paid bodyguard had stepped into the arena only because Lulan had earlier sent three of Sun's "friends" to the infirmary. The first bout had ended with a Cloud Striking Palm that shattered a woman's jaw, the next with a round-house that mashed a man against the wall. Yet another concluded with a sword swing that turned an Abjurer's arm U-shaped, then after that came the bodyguard, though none of their bodies had satiated Lulu's bloodlust. But Kusu couldn't blame his sister, not this time. As the old saying goes, "If you don't try to die, you won't die." The whole event happened earlier when Lulu had ordered an expensive drink called "Sex on the Beach", arriving concurrently at their VIP booth with a boisterous group of Guan-er-dai headed for the stall next door. The moment Sun's eyes had rested on his sister, the Mage's lips curled, a reaction understandable to Kusu. Lulu was the most beautiful beauty he knew, more beautiful than even the Flower of Fudan, attractive enough that passersby suffered from whiplash. Every so often, he wished that Lulan would look more like Ruì, who was mundane, not tall, nor skinny, nor pale like nephrite, just pleasant enough to look nice. Opposite, Sun Liyun was a perfectly handsome, perfectly educated, perfectly rich kid with HDMs to burn. The young man and his buds were out on the Bund for a good time, probably after studying hard all week, and Kusu had no desire to see the sod arrive at the morgue with nary enough bits for his family to identify. "Hey, beauty." The young man had begun with the softest white rice pick-up Kusu could imagine, so lame that Kusu had gone into crisis mode. How did this Sun not recognise Lulu's lovely face? He had baulked. His sister wasn't as famous as Gwen, but she had graced the billboards for a few months after the IIUC. And though news of Lulan had died down after she left for training, who could forget a face like his sister's? Lulan had responded by raising a hand and shaking her head, dismissing the catcall. Naturally, the Guan-er-dai were undeterred. "Go away," Lulu had next replied. Kusu recalled feeling very proud of Lulu's self-restraint. "Beauty, give us some face." Sun Liyun then proceeded to the next stage of auto-erotic asphyxiation without even a wrinkle of the brow. "So that you know, I am Sun Liyun." Watching Sun's face filling with hope, Kusu had decided he wanted to save the young man's bright future from himself. "Mr Sun's fame is well known!" Kusu had raised a glass of water, for neither he nor Ruì liked alcohol. "Unfortunately, we are waiting for an important guest. If Mr Sun doesn't mind, please permit us to grace your presence at a later date." "You are…?" "Kusu Li." Kusu had bowed his head respectfully but not in subservience. "Of Mount Hua." Technically, he and Lulan were no longer linked to the Clan. Still, as Elder Li was now digging for ore in some Orange Zone and the Clan had given its "Outer Sect" prodigies unanimous support, Kusu was well within his right to wield the Clan's title. Thankfully, Sun had bought the bill. Raising a glass of amber liquid, he toasted Lulan. "Well met. I've always admired Mount Hua. To your health." Turning to his sister, Kusu had furiously wriggled his eyebrows. Sighing, Lulan raised her liquor and drank. Kusu was half-way to relief when, to his complete chagrin, Sun's companions then approached with smirking fox-faces, each holding a glass. He wanted to facepalm. How many ways did these people want to die? Did they write wills before coming to the House of M? "Hey, you— why don't you drink to Brother Sun's health as well?" One of Sun's female companions had pointed to Ruì. Ruì's face had grown instantly two shades paler. While working for Gwen's holdings in the House of M and overseeing Tonglv and Ruxin, she knew her position well. Outside of the company, however, an NoM was an NoM. "I don't think Brother Sun cares for a common—" someone behind Sun had hollered half-way before suddenly realising the lack of mana radiating from Ruì's body. "Wocao! She's an NoM!" "Whahaha— they brought that here?" "Why is there an NoM in the VIP box?" someone protested. "Kick the filth out!" "You sure know how to play, Brother Li," another voice roared. "With a sister like that, you're still turning to NoMs?" The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Against the jeering, Ruì had assumed a mousy demeanour, her eyes studying the floor. _Splash!_ Before Kusu could stop her, Lulan had picked up the glass that one of the men had placed on the table and threw the contents in a wide arc toward Ruì's tormentors. Instantly, a half-dozen Mage Shields sprung up, protecting their casters from the cocktail but at the cost of no small chaos among the clamouring crowd. Kusu had then positioned himself in front of Lulan, knowing that a single Shattering Sword from his sister would reduce this crowd of future "leaders" into strips of Dragon-carp bait. _Please don't attack!_ Kusu had prayed to his ancestors. He wasn't sure if he could tank the spells from these Guan-er-dai with his implements, but he knew they would not survive if Ruì so much as lost a single hair. "Esteemed Guests!" Thankfully, the voice of Magus Yuu, overseer of the duelling arena, had burst around them like a Fire Bolt. "If you have grievances, look no further than to the arena. Should you fight out here, I hope you can face the consequences." They had all turned to gaze at the wizened old organiser. Yuu was a veteran and a well-connected Abjurer with actual skill; how else could he become the custodian of a place as rowdy as the House of M's night club? Before Sun Liyun could address the respectable Magus, Lulan had Misty Stepped into the arena without a word, her expression a dense slab of cold iron hungering for hot flesh. "You— you— you and you." His sister had raised her sword hand. "Come at once." Kusu had figured that Yuu must know Lulan's identity, for the triage Mages were already standing ready beside the duelling box. At the same time, Yuu's nonchalance also gave Kusu a good idea of what Sun Liyun was worth and how influential his family may be. Additionally, the Magus likely knew Lulan's spells— for though Elemental Magic could be dampened and made harmless, the "mass" of a raw slab of hyper-dense jadeite could not. "I'll teach this little bitch a lesson, Brother Sun." A young woman, an Evoker by the looks of her, had leapt into the arena in defence of her man. "She'll be kowtowing in no time." And the rest was spleen-splattering history. Kusu knew the only way to save Sun now was if Gwen arrived to change his sister's mood. Once again, he raised the Message Device to his face, dialling in the Glyph code with a flourish. _Ding!_ _Ding! Ding!_ The sound came from the entryway. "THANK MAO!" Kusu almost burst into tears. "Gwen! Miss Song! Over here! Over here!" Responding to Kusu's wild gesticulation, all eyes turned toward the silhouettes descending the stairs. With Gwen's arrival, Kusu's worried eyes ignited with hope. That undeniable, alluring mien! That poise and presence! That air of confidence! In all of Shanghai, there was no equal to the face of SPAM. In front of Gwen, two grim-faced Mages with the aura of throat-slitting razors opened the path for their newly arriving guest. Besides the leading sorceress, Kusu hailed the appearance of Mina Wang, heir to Wang Enterprises, juxtaposed by the half-hunched, swaggering "Wassap!" that was her brother. Behind the trio, Kusu could see that the Song's rising star, Percy Song, moodily followed. "Gwen!" Lulan's murderous mood changed at once, erasing Sun and Co's presence from her mind. With a heel-stomp, his sister Misty Stepped from Sun Liyun's circle to greet their saviour, her ponytail wagging with happiness. Gwen embraced his sister before Lulan could bow. "Lulu! I've missed you as well. What's happened? Oh hey, there's Ruì as well. Hi Ruì, good work with Russo!" Ruì stood and bowed. Kusu turned to regard Sun Liyun and saw that the young man had gone completely white. The heir to the Sun Clan might accept that a beating from his sister was at least an honourable way out, but he now faced the Shanghai spokeswoman for SPAM. For the city's established families, the Devourer of Shenyang was an impressive title but not one that gave them pause. After all, it wasn't as though Gwen could unleash her Shoggoth in Shanghai. But as the victor of Tonglv and one who had single-handedly uprooted the Fung Clan with its millennia-old roots, there was a standing order to keep a wide berth between themselves and the Worm Handler of Fudan. "Trouble?" Gwen looked to her bodyguards, who began the process of removing Sun Liyun. "It was a misunderstanding!" Impressively, Sun made his choice before Gwen's men even opened their mouths. Striding forward toward Ruì, the young man bowed from the waist, then remained stooped as he spoke. "We had no idea Miss Li and her friend were affliiates of the granddaughter of Chairman Song. With all my heart, I humbly beg for forgiveness. To show sincerity, we are willing to accept any punishment!" Ruì looked to Gwen, then Lulan, then to Kusu. "I don't mind..." "Well said, Master Sun," Kusu interjected before Gwen or his sister could speak. "Take care that this never happens again. Now go." "Thank you!" Sun gave Kusu a nod of gratitude as he passed. Wasting no time, he gathered up his entourage, then quickly skulked from the scene, leaping up the velvet steps with the aid of Expeditious Retreat. Kusu exhaled. It wasn't easy saving a whole Clan from self-annihilation. Opposite, Gwen chuckled, then held his diminutive sister's hand with a self-satisfied smile. Around the club, those whose curiosity overruled the warning from their elders stayed, while the other half of the guests chose to relocate to other parts of the club. "Well done, Sis." Percy laughed when Gwen's expression grew concerned. "I haven't seen a room clear this fast since someone in the barracks said they found a bite-mark on their ankle." Gwen gave her brother the evil eye before turning to Lulan. "Wow, Lulu, you look fantastic. That aura! And the mana! Your growth is incredible! What were you doing just now? Showing the youngsters here the ropes?" "Ryxi has taught me well," Lulan said, then without waiting for the ice to thaw, his sister retracted her fingers from Gwen's grasp, then delivered the cargo that had been stowed rent-free in her mind. "Gwen, I want you to duel me seriously." The Devourer of Shenyang stared at his guileless sister. Kusu understood her dismay, for Gwen had not even warmed her buttocks before being asked to fight with all her might. Gwen stared at Lulan, her eyes measuring the Sword Mage from head to toe. The Omni-Mage must have read his sister's sincerity, for the next moment, she gave her consent. "Alrighty then." The girl grinned. "Let's see how far my Lulu has come." "Miss Song." One of the men accompanying Gwen coughed politely. "You're supposed to stay out of trouble." "Just stretching my legs." Gwen smiled back. "Besides, Lulu's a teammate and a future employee. We're revising our training." Kusu observed their saviour, sensing that something about Gwen had changed. Both physically and mentally, she seemed in tune with her now older self. During the start of the IIUC, Kusu always felt that the youthful mien possessed by Gwen did not suit her mature presence. Now, Gwen appeared more comfortable in her skin. "Oxford or Harvard?" Gwen asked once she was inside, kicking off her heels and stowing them as she twirled her long hair into a tightly knotted bun, revealing the slender nape of her neck. "Harvard." Lulan Misty Stepped to join her, likewise removing her shoes, one heel still dripping blood. "Use Caliban or Ariel, and buff how you will." Kusu felt his chest constrict. "Lulu, be careful." "We'll stop when it hurts," Gwen's assurance was not very reassuring. Those spectators who had not left by now gathered close, happy that they were going to witness a battle to brag about in their old age but also wary that should the barriers fail, there would be no old age to worry over. But they stayed nonetheless, firstly because they were young and reckless, and secondly because of the hormones fogging their brains. It was a phenomenon that Kusu understood, for no one drew eyeballs as readily as the Devourer other than his sister, and now the both of them were in one spot. "Caliban! Ariel!" Gwen conjured forth her Familiars. To Kusu's untrained senses, Ariel manifested as its IIUC self. Conversely for Caliban, Kusu felt the snake had grown by magnitudes. "Shaa!" Caliban rushed for Lulan. "Cali! Back!" Gwen commanded the creature. "Fight first, then hug!" "Shaa! Shaa!" "Ee! Ee!" "Agility! Strength! Constitution!" Their IIUC vice-captain matched Lulan buff-for-buff, missing only Lulan's signature Iron Skin. "And one more thing so you can go all-out— Sanguine Mantle!" In front of a wide-eyed audience, the Void Sorceress produced a vial of scarlet serum, unstoppered the contents, then released a free-floating ball of liquid to hover about her person. "New spell?" Lulan assumed a fighting stance, one that Kusu recognised as the opening form to Huashan's Plum Blossom. "New Abjuration," Gwen answered as an insidious, inky Void-sphere enveloped the contents of the vial. "Whatever happens, until my vitality's depleted, it'll keep me on my feet, so feel free to go hard. Should I start, or do you want to go first?" "We'll go at the same time." "Alright." Gwen raised her hand. "Ariel! Lightning Bolt!" The invocation half-formed before Gwen had even finished the incantation, demonstrating a passive Affinity that bordered on complete mastery. At once, twin bolts of Lightning leapt from Ariel's horns while from Gwen's fingertips, a bright blue arc erupted into a thigh-thick bolt of pure power, turning the dark club incandescent. "Plum Blossom Sword— Verdant Spring!" Lulan announced her attack for the benefit of her competitor. Unlike most Western magic, the esoteric arts of the warrior ascetics focused entirely on internal discipline, striking with the force of a cyclone but the subtlety of a gentle breeze. The moment the Lightning blazed, Lulan was gone, leaving only a slab of iron to act as a grounding rod for Gwen's assault. In the blink of an eye, his sister closed the distance between them, her hand forming the somatic incantation for summoning Huashan's signature sword strike. "Shield!" Gwen's famous double-glazed barrier erupted in the form of an enormous semi-dome large enough to keep two Lulans at bay, taking full advantage of her abnormally large VMI. The unorthodox defence was enough to catch Lulan flat-footed, as she hadn't anticipated Gwen to spellshape her barrier. "Void Seeker!" The speed at which Gwen completed her incantations left Lulan little room for hesitation. In quick succession, she stepped on Gwen's shield, using the hardened barrier as a springboard to dodge the incoming chakram of Void. "Parry!" A rough slab of half-formed iron ate up the target-seeking disk of Void. "Heart-Seeking Sword!" _CLANG!_ Such was the speed of Lulan's spell that the sound of the blade striking the double-glazed barrier happened a split-second after her invocation. "Good work, Lulu." Gwen remained unmoved. "Cali! Ariel, Ball Lightning!" "Shaa— Shaa!" Cali came on in its spider form with all its limbs waving in the air, sending the guests recoiling from the barrier wall with ashen faces. On Lulan's side, a surge of Transmutation in the form of "ki" informed Kusu that his sister was getting serious. A brief vision of a six-headed Naga formed behind Lulan, visualising the Spirit inhabiting her Astral Body. Behind his sister, as though Lulu possessed additional eyes, two blades of jadeite three meters long pierced the encroaching Caliban, momentarily pinning the spider Fiend to the floor like a specimen. In front, four rods of jadeite as thick as Gwen's waist, half-mixed with rusty chunks of oxidised iron intercepted the barrage of target-seeking electricity, giving Lulan enough time to perform half-a-dozen Misty steps around the closeted battle area. Once Lulan was confident Gwen grew disorientated, she let loose the spell she had been nursing. "Shattering Sword!" Since her training, Ryxi had absolved Lulan of much of the pastiche arts borrowed from Spellcraft, modern magic and Huashan's remaining manuscripts. The long-ranged spell that Gwen had devised for her friend, Panzerschreck, had now become amalgamated into its final form— The Flower Shattering Sword. "Dimension Door!" Gwen must not have possessed the confidence she could stomach the killing blow with her Shield alone, and so re-appeared nearer the ceiling mid-invocation. Her choice proved correct, for the sword first stabbed into the double barrier with a Clang! Then erupted into ten thousand shards of razor-sharp jadeite. To buy time, Caliban directly transformed into its Big Bird form, sending the spectators reeling while simultaneously parrying the fragments with its metallic feathers. "Ee!" Yet another twin-bolted pair of Lightning flashed across the area, near-striking Lulan as she twisted and turned through the air with supernatural agility. Having perfected the step-formation technique from Ryxi, his sister's movements grew too erratic to predict, especially with her at-will usage of Misty Step. "Petal-Plucking Sword!" Lulan extended an arm. The Spirit of the jadeite Naga grew fully visible for a brief moment. "Blade Barrier!" Gwen's spell and Lulu's sword strike manifested concurrently, sending the whirling generators containing the battle into a frenzy. From nothing, a vast array of spinning blades of force, now wreathed in lightning, materialised both on Lulan's path of assault and her retreat, instantly transforming Lulan's forward momentum into self-defeat. Ahead of her, Gwen hovered, but in her way were three sets of rapidly spinning, star-shaped force-swords. Behind her as well as everywhere in the oval were these same rotating mincers, each crackling with electricity. What's worse, below her awaited Big Bird Caliban, its neck distended, waiting for her to lose momentum. But if Lulan forfeited now, then she wouldn't be Lulan. "Lulu!" Kusu saw his sister enclose her fist, pulling the blades closer so that they wrapped her like a suit of armour. Then, maintaining her head-long rush, she charged in-between two sets of whirling blades. _SPAK! SPAK! CLANG!_ _CLANG! SPAK! SPAK!_ An ear-grating array of noises denoting the meeting of an immovable object and an unstoppable force, throwing such a shower of bright sparks that the interior of the underground abode once more turned incandescent. "Lulu!" Kusu shouted. "Control yourself!" Though Gwen had resolved much of Lulu's chi issues regarding the Heart of Iron, Kusu's sister had lived with the excess Yang energy in her body long enough to turn her bane into a boon. Even so, there was a cost; compared to the others in their Clan, Lulu's berserker form was as pronounced in power as it was burdensome on her psyche. When finally the light died down enough for all to see, Lulan emerged from between the blades, her clothes in tatters, her skin whipped and welted and her hair a whole crop shorter than before. Kusu winced. He liked Lulu with long hair, as did Ryxi, who liked to dress Lulu in moon-silk attires from the Tang and Ming dynasties. "Shield!" Gwen had not anticipated that Lulan would rush through a deadly, Mage-mincing barrier. "Lightning Bolt!" Lulan discarded her sword shell, opting for a quick finish. Just as Gwen's barrier formed, four more sword-slabs smashed into the dome, turning the surface opaque. This time, Lulan chose to eat the Lightning Bolts to maintain her forward momentum. Watching the hysterical upper-tier energy dance across his sister's singed skin, Kusu felt his organs grow suddenly old. But the sacrifice was enough for Lulan to reach the double-glazed shield. "Shivering Blossoms!" Kusu's throat constricted. When had his sister grown so great? Gwen was arguably the most peerless Mage he had ever worked with, possessing the largest mana pool known for someone not already a Magister. Yet, Lulu was going to make the hope of the Mageocracy yield in a one-on-one battle? Were the girls not best friends, Kusu would almost imagine that Lulu was scheming to use the Devourer of Shenyang to prop up a reputation for herself, or at least put herself in a position to promote China's burgeoning nationalism. The "Blossoms" struck. With a sound of suddenly shattering glass, Gwen's Shield disintegrated. Lulan reached in and conjured another sword, this one just long enough to hover an inch away from Gwen's quivering white collarbones. "Do you yield?" Lulan huffed, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her organs worked furiously to replenish the energy drained by the rapid series of non-stop movements. "Do you?" Gwen smirked in turn. "Look down." Kusu looked up at the same time as Lulan looked down. The air shimmered, then Caliban's Spider Form re-appeared. Gwen wasn't flying, but instead standing on Caliban's segmented torso. Presently, just as Lulan had a sword to Gwen's throat, Caliban's all-consuming maw was less than half a meter and a split-second away from dragging Lulan into the abyss with an array of hissing tentacles. "How?!" Ruì gasped, unable to help herself. Both Mina and Tao made their awe known, as did Gwen's guards. Below, the Big Bird Caliban shimmered, performed a convincing "Shaa!", then faded from view. _An illusion!_ The crowd murmured in turn. Still, who was the victor? Kusu wondered, then realised the stupidity behind his naive conjecture. Hadn't Gwen had earlier activated something called Sanguine Mantle? Assuming the spell was anywhere near as stout as her shield, the girls' exchange wouldn't be at all equal. At worst, Gwen would be maimed and incapacitated, while Lulan would have taken a long trip down to tentacle town. "I lost." Lulan retracted her sword with an expression of self-loathing. "You held back," Gwen said. "No Vibration Sword earlier? You could have cut through my shield anytime. My Mantle didn't activate, but who knows if you're able to slice through it." "You held back on using Void Spells," Lulan said, shaking her head. "If that had been Void Bolts and a Void-aligned Blade Barrier…" "We're not duelling to the death, Lulu." Gwen unsummoned her Blade Barrier, but left her Familiars. Once the girls alighted, Caliban and Ariel both rushed to comfort Lulan, giving her face a tongue-bath even as they made figure-eights between her legs. "I wanted to be of use," Lulan mourned her loss, both hands keeping Gwen's pets at bay. "You ARE of use, or will be," Gwen assured her, joining the huddle. "Gods, Lulu, you have no idea how kick-ass that was. I was sweating buckets! Buckets! Touch my back; I am drenched!" With Gwen's kind words, Kusu saw that his sister's expression took on a note of undisguised happiness. As expected, his Lulu was no match for the wily capitalist. "I'll go back to training," Lulan promised. "I'll get better. Learn more Sword spells from Ryxi! I'll work twice as hard!" "Don't work too hard." Gwen wrapped her arm around Lulu's neck. "Jeebus, my Sanguine Armour's all sticky. And your dress is ruined." "I don't mind—" "I know you don't, but I mind, and Kusu minds..." Gwen shot him a wink as she materialised a towel. So intense was the battle and its aftermath that it was only now that Kusu realised his sister was showing an awful lot of skin. He did have spare clothes for Lulu, but to walk out now and bring out a set of women's tracksuits may engender some very awkward rumours. A Dimension Door later, the pair was back in the lounge area. "The change room is this way." Magus Yuu and the staff from the House of M was ready to wait on the two women, eager to satisfy any requests they might make. "Good. Come along, Lulu. I got you a half-ring worth of goods from London. Elf-made dresses, Lulu. I saved you a set. You'll never guess who they used to belong to..." "I'll help." Mina left the VIP box and joined the pair, leaving Kusu standing alone with Percy and Gwen's thuggish-looking escorts. "Are we picking the dresses now?" With his blood pressure finally down to a safe level, Kusu found himself a seat. Opposite, Percy nursed a glass of wine, his expression a mask of deep thought. Ruì blended into the background through an NoM's innate ability to seem unassuming, while Gwen's guards stood on either side of the women's change rooms, drawing curious looks from the remaining audience. "Your sister's special." Kusu surmised he had found a kindred spirit in Percy, who also shared complicated feelings for his overachieving sister. "Must be tiresome having a sister like Gwen." "Yes," Percy mumbled tiredly, his evasive eyes telling Kusu everything he needed to know. "It's a hell of a thing." "But you wouldn't trade her for anyone else, right?" Kusu laughed, the handsome vision of Lulan duelling Gwen playing over and over again in his mind, making his chest burst with pride. "I sure wouldn't." "I wouldn't trade my sister for any of yours either." Tao looked around smugly when Percy appeared to mull over Kusu's proclamation. "Mina's the _best_ sister ever, she's taking over the family business, did you know? I am FREE, BITCHES! How's that for a great sister? Eh?" "To great sisters." Kusu raised a glass of rice wine. "To our bitch'n sisters!" Tao cracked a can he earlier swiped from Sun's table. "Come on, Percy, grab a beer!" Sighing deeply, Percy raised an unopened can. "To Gwen." "To Mina!" "To Lulu!" "To FREEDOM!"

Gwen's last twenty-four hours spent in Shanghai were so satisfying that she considered taking an overnight hop over to Sydney to slug a few stubbies with Surya. It was a tempting impulse, though one overshadowed by her impending reunion with Sufina. According to conventional Spellcraft lore, dearest "Sufi" would have lost most of her Henry-acquired Humanity by now, for without the anima or animus of a Mage fostering an Elemental, personality reversions were inevitable. Luckily, for Kilroy's Apprentices, higher-order beings like Sufina immutably retained their intelligence. As for her present aftermath, once she and Lulu had liquored themselves up to the neck, a relieved Kusu had taken his sister and Ruì home, with Wei and Yung driving the Songs back to their respective manors. At their penthouse, Tao had made Gwen promise to contact him as soon as she had plans for the United States. Mina, meanwhile, made sure their father kept in contact with Gwen through the House of M. The next morning, at breakfast, Gwen emerged in her silk PJs to a grumbling grandfather griping about her reckless hen-fight with Lulan, relishing the opportunity to tell her off once more. "I'll try to come back during Golden Week," Gwen promised her family while she nestled in her Babulya's arms like a smug cat after tipping the soy sauce bottle. "Between the Isle of Dogs, the Void Union, Dwarves, Elves and Cambridge, I am going to be flat-out. I think there will be planned field exercises too. Ruxin's expecting a lot more HDMs as well..." Her Yeye gazed at the ceiling, perhaps to question an ancestor, then bade her go her way. "I am so proud of you." Her Babulya sighed while stroking her grandchild's hair. Gwen agreed, self-satisfied by a feeling of accomplishment. Things had gone swimmingly for her in the last nine months; other than a dozen lawsuits and underhanded competition against London's notorious news rags, her two-year plan was well on track. "Fingers cross I'll find my keepsake," she breathed out, hoping her run of good luck would continue. "You are certain this 'keepsake' is with your Master's Familiar?" her Yeye asked. "I used it on Henry last," Gwen said confidently. "I've managed without it just fine, but after everything the Elves said, it seems quite a bit more important than just a memento." "Do be careful." Her Babulya worriedly patted her hand. "Dryads are extremely pernicious creatures, especially if they're once the companion of a master Mage." "I'll take care," Gwen promised before turning to Percy to give her blushing brother a sloppy kiss on the forehead. "Take care, little bro. Don't push yourself too hard." Percy's hug felt a little limp compared to her full-bodied enthusiasm. "Goodbye, sis." "Ciao, champ." Then she was away, escorted by silent Wei and chatty Yung back to Hongqiao's ISTC interchange. At the gate, she hired an LRM Device to quickly send Gunther and Alesia a notification that she was on route. After that, it was time for goodbye. "Good luck, Magus Song." "Stay safe, Gwen." The relieved Wei and Fung both bid her farewell. "See you again next time!" With a final nod, Gwen stepped into the blazing circle of quicksilver Conjuration, then was gone. Singapore. Changi ISTC Interchange. The usually fluid flow of passengers streaming forth from the furthest-reaching ISTC station in the southern hemisphere stopped to stare at the sight of a pair of rare figures in the arrival lounge. One was a Germanic giant with dark hair, silently simmering with a gentle, barely contained radiance. Without apparent effort, the Mage appeared a Demi-god even while dressed in an unbuttoned shirt and a loose tee, drawing wholesale adoration from the milling multitudes. Standing beside the man was a stunning redhead, her loose head of autumn hair cascading from her shoulders and down her back. She wore red as well, pairing a light-pink top with a billowing, retina-searing carmine skirt and ruby wedge sandals, cutting a figure that appeared as bold as a dab of blood on laundered linen. As a combination, therefore, the pair slowed the traffic to a standstill, unaccosted only because six of Changi's best security officers stood by, keeping the crowd at bay. The arrival lounge's glass doors slid open. "Gwennie!" "Sis!" "Gwen." "Brother!" A young woman no less distinct than the pair emerged from the ISTC portals. The crowd cooed, tantalised by the sheer luck required to win the genetic lottery thrice within the same bloodline. When the two women hugged and exchanged cheeks, there was an audible, collective sigh. "Let's go," the man declared, glancing at the travellers forming an ever-thickening semi-circle around them. "If we stay any longer there'll be a complaint from Tower Master Lee." Escorted by the guards, the trio soon found themselves victims to the city's unyielding summer. As always, the humidity native to Singapore was enough to glue fabric to skin. Outside the terminal, the trio's youngest was surprised to find that there was no escort to deliver them to the docks. "Er… how do we get to Abang? It's a hundred kilometres out. Weren't we hiring a ship?" "No, you goose," the sister-in-red laughed. "We fly, of course." "To Riau island chain? There are a thousand or more islands out there. What if we get lost?" "Don't you have an Omni-Directional Orb?" the man asked. "I figured we could put it to good use." "I haven't tested it on the open ocean," the girl gulped. "Don't worry." The woman patted the girl's head. "Worst comes to worst; we've Teleportation Scrolls that'll take us back to Singapore Tower." Flying through Singapore's mana-miasma made Gwen feel as though she was swimming through coconut laksa. The heat was a symptom of the city's prosperity, for the same multi-layered ring of Resonance Shields that kept the monsters at bay also served to stifle the sea breeze, transforming the bay into a giant heat trap. Worse still, they had to fly low and slow while within the city limits, and so took almost thirty minutes to clear the harbour and shipping lanes, finally arriving on the open ocean. There, hovering above a blue meniscus horizon, she sighed with happiness as the salty breeze cooly kissed her sunscreen-smothered legs. Once her clothes sufficiently dried, Gwen set the Omni-Orb to hover while she drifted toward Abang. As expected, the Orb began to fly in the opposite direction. "How useful." Alesia whistled. "Draconic Core?" "Yep. From a Dragon sans asshole." Gwen followed the Orb. She had no idea how it worked, only that it hadn't failed her yet. Once attuned, all Gwen had to do was to will in her mind the "right" place, and the Orb would begin to float in the "right" direction in an entirely mystical manner. Once, she had experimented by desiring Chinese food after a late night of auditing on the Isle of Dogs. Dumbly, Gwen had followed the Orb for twenty minutes, finally arriving at a mid-night Hotpot joint operated by an immigrant family in Croydon. The next day, when she consulted with Diviners at Cambridge, the mystics informed her it was safest to rely on the Orb for translocation and orienteering and nothing else, lest she became misguided to places where she "had causation" but no business nor desire to visit. "How fast can you fly?" Gunther studied the Orb with interest before turning to the women. "About one-thirty, if I push it," Gwen said. "I am running tier 5 Transmutation at the moment." "I can do one-fifty in short bursts." Alesia looked to Gunther. "One-ten consistently. Are we racing?" "Unlike you two, Transmutation isn't my strong suit." Gunther laughed. "I'll be burning Crystals instead." The Tower Master pulled up his trouser leg to reveal the inscribed pair of boots. "Primarch Roc Core… tier 16." The corner of Gwen's lips twitched. It was good to be a Tower Master. "It is indeed." Her Brother-in-craft grinned, reading her mind. "Something to keep you motivated, but do go at a speed of your choosing. I'll take the rear." "Are we going like this?" Gwen pointed to her skort, which looked like a miniskirt but was, in reality, a pair of comfortable shorts, then to Alesia's flowing maxi. "There's a lot of creepy crawlies on the island. Flesh-eating plants and such. Flying's fine, but the trek is going to destroy our clothes." "We can change into leathers once we land," Gunther suggested. "I bought enough for all of us, though I doubt we'll run into anything near our combat-class. Unless, of course, you're thinking of taking on Sufina." "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Also, does Singapore's Tower Master know about Sufi?" Gwen asked. "I mean, is she common knowledge to the higher-ups?" "They know, but they don't know," Gunther replied. "They know that Master's Grot's somewhere in the Riau archipelago, but no one knows which island or which grove. Lee knows, but he's an ally. He was also keeping out unlucky Adventurers when Master was alive, but not since." "Do you think anyone's harrassed Sufi?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "One would presume Master's Grot holds many treasures, not that there was any while I was there, but it's logical to assume that a Master's Tower home would be as provisioned as the one I found in Tryfan." "They'll be a nice snack if anything. You should know that Sufi could drain a lesser Dragon down to the marrow if she wished," Gunther assured her. "I don't think you ever had an opportunity to see Sufina in full bloom. Master was already past his prime when he took us on as his Apprentices, but Sufina's the type that grows stronger with age. Don't forget she's also capable of manipulating space and time inside her Grot. Who or whatever tries to access Master's home is going to have a wonderfully terribly time." "Yeah, Sufina was the one sustaining Master in the end," Alesia concurred sadly. "Were it not for that Void bitch, Master could have lasted another century or two at least." In the silence that followed, Gwen solemnly sent the Orb forward. When in use, the Omni-Orb traversed a little faster and further ahead than its owner, regardless of the user's velocity. It was another one of those occult occurrences only proper Enchanters with mastery over contemporary and ancient methods could truly fathom. "I'll lead." She sent her Familiar forward as a windbreak. "Ariel!" "EE-EE!" Opening the flood gates of Elemental Lightning, she pumped her channels full of crackling electricity, then shot toward Abang as an arc of blue-white energy, trailed closely by a streak of scarlet and then the casual figure of a Tower Master following with neither flare nor showmanship. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Though Gwen was a Diviner, she had not received training beyond Detect Magic. As a novice, therefore, she lacked the means to attain the meditative state required to function as a Divination node. It was a lack that limited the trio to line-of-sight communications; a restriction made null by the open sea but may grow cumbersome in a dense, death-filled jungle. Presently, midway through the Singapore Strait, Gunther and Alesia watched Caliban resupply on a shoal of Golden-eyed Travelly in its carp form, stocking up on Vitality for whatever trouble might greet the pair on Abang. Watching the hunt was hair-raising, for though Caliban's river-carp figure lacked the sleekness adopted by ocean predators, its advantage lay in two-meter long lamprey-tipped tentacle-tongues capable of snatching prey from two body-lengths away. While her Familiar ate, Gwen marvelled at the ease of collecting vitality from the ocean. Indeed, as her tutors had taught, the sea remained a limitless Frontier barely penetrated by Humanity's shipping fleets. "Shaa!" "EE—!" Not to be outdone by its darkling sibling, Ariel also joined in, emerging now and then with a fish half the size of Gwen's torso, revelling in the slime and slick, drenching its fur with semi-transparent blood. Once they were in motion again, Alesia updated Gwen on Yue's rise within Sydney's militia. While Gwen studied, Alesia explained, the infamous "Violent Flight" with Yue, Whetu and Rona had become a CC farming powerhouse throughout Oceania's coastal waters. "Yue is an able combatant, but her Fireball diplomacy bottlenecks her promotion pathways." Gunther's Message blossomed beside Gwen's ear. "I tried putting her on administrative duty in June; she burned down the records office after a spat with one of the Senior Managers." "Jeff was stealing from the Tower," Alesia's interjection arrived a split-second later. "Jeff continues to be one of my best Arbitrators." Gunther looked away from his wife. "Sure, he's using Tower funds to socialise and supply favours, but his negotiations always prioritise the Tower's interest." "That doesn't absolve him of pilfering the Tower's resources," Alesia snapped. "Once a thief, always a thief." The Tower Master of Sydney sighed. "What do you think, Sister?" "Tell him to fuck right off, Gwennie." Gwen had a feeling Gunther was using her as a Wand of Persuasion, or a Shield. "I would have demoted the man, but kept him on with a bonus. I would also promise to doubly promote him if his work ethic improves," Gwen said after a moment's pause. "That or open an expense account for the man to use if he needs extra funds to get his job done— after a public apology. I don't mind if my managers need to shower clients through the company, I mean, who can afford the out of pocket expenses as an individual? Even bribes are just an expense if the outcome is good." "… you sound like Walken," Alesia sulked. "And Eric's a good manager." Gwen decided to side with Gunther. "Your personal feelings are not wrong, Allie, but if you want Yunnie to be anything other than a glorified spell turret, she needs methods other than setting folks on fire. I am not critical. Gunther's just telling it like it is. Think about the Isle of Dogs and how many people are dipping into my honey pot. You can't imagine how many pies-in-the-sky I had to conjure to convince people to risk their crystals. The NoMs as well— there's over six-thousand now working for the Westferry-Millwall Printing Press. Another four thousand's working on the construction site. There are ten thousand more, servicing the ten thousand labourers, their families, and the local small businesses. No amount of Fireballs is going to make that happen." "I want Yunnie to do better than me," Alesia confessed. "I know I am not good with these things like you." "Don't fret, Allie. You're not 'wrong' wanting do what's 'right'," Gwen assured her sister-in-craft. "You just be you, and Yue can be herself. In the future, I'll have a spot for Evee and Lulu and Yue in my Tower. I think I'll need folk like them to tell me when I've gone too far. In that regard, we all need a bit of Alesia in our lives." "Hear that?" Alesia snorted at her husband. "Well said," Gunther laughed. "I wouldn't exchange Allie for all of Sydney." Gwen's flight speed dipped as her Siblings-in-crafts crammed their moon-eyed sentiments down her throat. "Please get a room." Gwen tried her best not to think of her Evee's milk-white face and how snugly the Cleric had fitted in between her arms. "And— hold up, what's that?" Of the trio, Gwen possessed the sharpest eyesight by far. Upon the simmering, fish-scale horizon, she could see the silhouette of ships, a dozen of them or more, stretching between a series of islands. A few looked like trawlers; a few more had the shape and size of coastal patrol vessels. The mothership, however, possessed the distinct cumbersome form of an 80's' supertanker, a medium-sized carrier used by militaries all over the world. "Is that—?" Alesia furrowed her brows when Gwen pointed out the ship adjacent to their destination. "Abang?" Gwen squinted. "This can't be a coincidence." "I wager it might be." Gunther supplied a less sceptical perspective. "I mean, if they're here for us, there would be at least a strike cruiser or a troop carrier. Look at that thing. The barriers are so weak I could sink their cargo-carrier from here. The silhouettes look ancient. Considering where we are, they're probably from Malaysia or Indonesia." "Then what do we do?" "I'll go," Alesia said, exhaling sulphur. "If they attack, that's that." Gunther stopped his wife. "Gwen, can you handle this?" "Me?" Gwen glanced at the specks on the horizon. "Sure." "Let's see if our sister's practicals are as amazing as her theory," Gunther said to Alesia, concurrently talking with his eyes. "Don't worry about her safety. She's got both Familiars and Dimension Door. Even if something catastrophic were to occur, I burn a Teleport Other scroll and displace the both of you before you burn your rings." "Sounds good. Either way, let me check it out first," Gwen noted Gunther had that particular look. "Don't worry, Gunther. I'll engage if the need arises. Ariel! Cali!" While herself remained visible, Ariel and the now Big Bird Caliban took on the guise gifted by Invisible Familiar. She then buffed herself with a suite of spells ranging from Ability Enhancers to Sanguine Mantle. She felt tempted to deploy Reactive Bone Armour, but suitable Creature Cores didn't exactly grow on trees. Conversely, there was no harm in a little blood-letting, and so Lesser Sanguine Mantle demonstrated its versatility once more. With Gwen gone, Sydney's Tower Master turned to his wife. "So much for exercise…" Alesia displaced her mana until her skin once more grew cool. "What do you think? Doesn't look like a sanctioned resource fleet to me." "It's a poacher fleet," Gunther agreed. "Bad luck for them. Poaching in non-international coastal zones is punishable by Death or Stasis. Lord knows what the Demis will get up to if we don't draw a line in the sand." "Are you sure it's coincidence there's a fleet near Sufi's island?" "Good chance it is," Gunther remained positive. "Half of Sydney knows I am away— or at least a Teleportation Scroll away. That and I've got multi contingencies set up if something happens to either of us. Even if that's a United States strike-cruiser armed with an Obelisk of Disintegration, we'll still sink it. Besides, if need be, Lee can teleport the mobile Tower here in less than it takes to chase us down, Gwen especially." "Think she'll handle it?" Alesia asked once Gwen's figure shrunk to a speck. "I'll run a Scry," Gunther burned a scroll, concurrently conjuring a mirror showing the area traversed by Gwen. "You couldn't have Scryed instead of sending her?" Alesia said. "You can be so nasty sometimes." "Our little sister's been in polite society for too long," Gunther explained, drawing his wife closer, so they stood shoulder to shoulder. "This is the Wildlands, Allie. Gwen needs to know there are far more desperate folk out there than those who are after her profit margins. Besides, I am keen to how our little Void Fiend has gotten with the program since Blackheath. What good is a tier VI War Mage if high-living mills away her bloodlust?" "… what do you think she'll do?" "With her tier of Abjuration? I would say she'll suffer a moral quandary for ten minutes." "That's hardly fair," Alesia complained. "Usually we have a party and a ship of our own to deal with poachers. Without a prison ship for prisoners, what do you want her to do with the survivors?" "They're dead men by law," Gunther said without any particular feeling. "Besides, this close to Sufina and Master's Grot, I am not too confident in my capacity for compassion." "Still thinking this whole thing is a coincidence?" The Tower Master of Sydney appeared thoughtful. "If Gwen sinks the carrier, then yes." "And if they manage to take her down?" "Then we better save a few survivors," Gunther remarked drily. "And dig through their brains to see who is pulling strings…" "HAILING ALL VESSELS! STOP YOUR ENGINES, POWER DOWN YOUR SHIELDS." Gwen's air siren greeting rolled like thunder over the ships anchored across the island chain. On approach, she had the choice of engaging stealthily or openly. Considering the size of the fleet and the pressure she could exert as a Mageocracy Magus, she chose the former. As expected, like a kicked ant's nest, the decks suddenly filled with people, with about one in a dozen possessing a low-tier mana signature. When she drifted closer, she could see that someone had docked several of the vessels against the island where Sufina made her home. That and the fact that a long chain of floating logs trailed from the coast to the ships, with several mid-sized cargo carriers loading the wood onto their rusty decking. Loggers? Gwen's brows furrowed in an unfriendly manner. According to Attenborough's Bestiary, Dryad Groves did produce inordinately prized lumber, not to mention Dryadic Heartwood harvested from their hearth-tree made precious wand and stave ingredients. The harvesting itself, however, was often a deadly affair. On the island, she could see men in Golem-suits, going at the Banyan treeline hammer and tongs, filling the air with mana miasma and the crash of whipping chainsaws chewing on wood. With many kilometres to the heart of the island, either the Dryads didn't care, or there was a resonator keeping them at bay. Around the cumbersome carrier, smaller ships in the form of rusty tub vessels were trawling for fish with enormous nets stretching from bay to bay. On the factory-carrier itself, she could see metric-tons of silvery bait-fish piled in between the crude hulls, feeding into a churning metal mouth. Loggers and fishers? An idea was beginning to form in her head. Poachers? Was this a poaching fleet stealing from Purple and Black Zones under the protection of city-states? According to her Commonwealth Territorial Treaties handbook supplied by Le Guevel, wasn't the offence punishable by imprisonment, stasis and for the Captains, death? Gunther wasn't expecting her to be judge, jury and executioner, was he? Gwen felt suddenly nervous. For some reason, she thought of Blackheath. "THIS IS MAGUS SONG OF LONDON TOWER," Gwen declared via Clarion Call as per protocol. Hopefully, these dodgy looking vessels could provide some evidence of their innocence. If anything, she dreaded the inevitable use of force to convince the poachers to leave Sufina's island. "STATE YOUR—" Her Divination senses tingled before the mana signatures below could complete their circuits. Reflexively, she erected her double-glazed Gunther Shield. _SPAK! SPAK—SPAK!_ _SPAK-SPAK! SPAK!_ _SPAK! SPAK—SPAK! SPAK! SPAK—SPAK!_ _HSSS—!_ A dozen Magic Missiles enhanced by whatever Mandala was inscribed on the ship to increase the range of the Mages' spells washed over her spherical barrier like pelting hail, turning half of her globe white with impact. The last attack was an Acid Arrow, indicating something of an Ooze Transmuter onboard the vessel. When she replenished her barrier, she could even see NoMs wielding charged-wands fed by cumbersome mana-batteries. FUCK! She swore silently. Gwen Dimension Doored about a hundred meters out, reappearing some distance away. "HALT—" Her Divination Sigil pinged again. _HSSS—!_ _SPAK! SPAK—SPAK!_ _SPAK-SPAK! SPAK!_ _SPAK! SPAK—SPAK!_ Another round of ship-enhanced low-tier Evocation blasted her Shield. Individually, the spells were negligible, but the sheer volume of attacks landing on her was both draining her mana and preventing her from casting. Worst of all, the attacks were unceasing, with smaller spells hitting every few seconds in between the volleys. "Gunther!" She Messaged her Brother-in-craft back while gaining altitude. "These idiots started attacking me!" "We can see that." Gunther's Message came back. "Poaching in Singapore's waters awards eighty lashes— effectively a death sentence for non-Transmuters. Harvesting Dryad wood and threatening the unspoken peace Singapore has established with the Demi-folk is likewise punishable by swimming with the Merlions." "You knew they were poachers?" "You just confirmed it." _HSSS—!_ _SPAK! SPAK!_ _SPAK-SPAK! SPAK!_ _SPAK! SPAK—SPAK!_ _HSSSS!_ "God damn it!" Gwen growled in frustration. These bastards had a deathwish! She had already Dimension Doored three times! "How are they targeting me?" she asked Alesia through another Message, sensing that Gunther was up to his usual tricks. "Their command ship's got a Divi-loc on your mana Signature," Alesia's voice sounded amused. "You could fly out of range, but we need to get on the island anyway, meaning we'll have to bypass these goons regardless— unless you want to wait a day for the coast guard? So, you want to handle this or should I oblige? Gunther can be done in fifteen minutes." "We're killing them, just like that?" Gwen demanded darkly, suddenly realising her siblings had sent her out for a reason. "Come on, that's ridiculous. There's like a hundred— two hundred people on those ships, likely more!" "Are they not presently trying to kill you?" Gunther asked. "Need I remind you—" Gwen corkscrewed through the air to no avail. Having studied and worked mainly outside of combat for nearly nine months, Gwen knew her Flight was rusty. Then again, it wasn't as though she could dodge Divi-guided Magic Missiles anyway. Just as Gunther's warning reverberated through her head, a foursome of Elemental Orbs, each resembling green boils, burst about her person, fracturing the first layer of her Shield. If she had been a lesser Mage, a face full of noxious acid would be her present condition. Slipping away through yet another Dimension Door, Gwen took a good long gander at the Mages flinging spells at her person. Through her Essence enhanced eyes, she could just make out the Poacher's leader, a scruffy Ooze Evoker or Transmuter throwing low and mid-tier spells her way, dressed in a tattered combat suit. The rest of the poachers, both NoMs and low-tier Mages, appeared to be just that— low-tier nobodies and NoMs. To her eyes, the men looked Indonesian, with oily skin the same hue as Surya's. "Shaa!" Caliban expressed a desire to board the vessel. "EE! EE!" Ariel suggested an Essence-infused Maelstrom. Gwen chose to dodge for now. Gunther's advice at Blackheath seared her brain like a branding iron, as fresh as a jagged flesh wound. In her head, however, she couldn't help but think about the same desperate people who had been starving in Millwall and Cubitt before she arrived. These guys were poachers, not blood-thirsty pirates. They're just folk trying to make a living off the edge of society by providing for the Grey Market. Is trying to make a living punishable by death? Killing NoMs for poaching was such a medieval act, no matter how Gunther framed it. _SPAK-SPAK! SPAK!_ _SPAK! SPAK—SPAK!_ Gwen flew up and up until she was out of range and the ships were once more miniscule. Undeniably, Gunther was right on one point. They DID try to kill her. She had flown for several minutes just now without retaliation, and the bastards hadn't let up. As her Babulya would say, even Buddha loses patience when struck in the face three times. Inside her chest, a raging torrent of hysterical electricity threatened to spill. Below, the poacher fleet appeared as tiny as sand, a mere speck, a pinprick on the goosebump of an orange, its rusty vessels the colour of rotten pulp. And above them, their unhappy arbiter of fate hovered, an indecisive goddess holding back the power to split the bean-green sea asunder.

Nanang "The Brave" was born in the seaside port of Semarang, south of the Indonesian island chain that formed the Greater Sunda Islands. For generations, his family worshipped the Elemental God Batara Guru, a deity-Spirit who aeons ago ordered the creation of their island home by taking one of the five peaks of Mahameru in Jambudvipa and anchoring it to the floating landmass that was Java. On his island, Nanang and his ilk believed that the fire-belching ring of fire wasn't an island at all, but a Leviathan-deity, a slumbering Naga Turtle with the Meru on its back, sleeping in the bean-green sea. For Nanang and his people, the Sea of Java was the womb of their civilisation. As a child, he collected cockerels and shellfish from its shores. As an adolescent, he dived for abalone and lobsters. And when he Awakened at fifteen, Nanang joined the other boys of similar age from the village and boarded the rusty vessels sailing from Semarang to the Frontier city of Jakarta. Standing half-naked on the shoreline, they were hand-picked by the exalted Captains of the Naga fleet in a grand auction of the local talent. As a tier three Water Transmuter, Nanang fetched 80 HDMs, a veritable fortune for his impoverished, starving village. After that, once the Headhunter took his cut, 68 HDMs were exchanged for food and sundry, then sent back to Nanang's settlement. That night, the village celebrated while its prodigy son, Nanang, took his place on the deck of the Akimvrishka, one of the Naga fleet's many converted factory-carriers. This year, Nanang was twenty-two. For seven years, he had worked ceaselessly on the Akimvrishka, earning the rank of Third Mate thanks to the short-lived career of his seniors. For the Naga fleet, the sea was harsh and generous in equal measure; a Deva and an Asura in one. Those who lived off her many bosomed teets had to suffer weather, accident, Mermen and zealous disputes with their Captains on a near-daily basis. Nanang's dearest wish, if there was one, was to finish his ten-year tour and return to Semarang. There, he could rejoin the village as one of the lucky ones, find himself a woman, father children, and pay respects to his sire, assuming the Mage was alive, then crew a small fishing vessel as its Master. Nanang had deemed his dream a humble one, though now it seemed his last incarnation might have contaminated his present luck. For a fleet of their size, it wasn't that unusual to be accosted by the Coast Guard who could be bought with HDMs or Creature Cores. What was unusual was a random encounter with a lone Mage out in the Black Zones, one that demanded unconditional surrender. Stranger still, when the sorceress came close enough for Nanang to see, he had felt an unspeakable sense of recognition— feeling as though he had seen her supple silhouette elsewhere. "Keep firing!" Captain Raharjo's spittle landed on Nanang's shoulder. "Take the harlot down! No witnesses!" Nanang's chest flooded with fatigue as he conjured yet another Magic Missile. The Mandala-tuned mana enriched by the ship's defences overwhelmed his conduits, bloating his body to bursting. Around him, Nanang could see his lesser shipmates bleeding from their noses and their ears; a few had burst the capillaries in their irises, turning them into red-eyed Asuras. As for their foe, Nanang did not believe they could slay nor capture the sorceress. Over the last seven years, he had slain Mermen Scouts, jousted with Manta Riders and exchanged blows with Crab-clawed Heavy Infantry. On the islands the fleet passed, he had subdued flesh-eating natives, drowned crazed snake-women with scale-covered breasts that shorne like jewels and splintered walking trees that tore men apart and ate their fatty intestines. Each of the battles was hard-won, for it was only thanks to the combined force of the ship's Resonator and its make-shift Wands that they could triumph over the Black Zone. But Nanang had never witnessed such an encounter as a Bulai who was pretty as a picture, single-handedly confronting a Naga fleet while armoured in a flimsy shirt and skirt. Not only that, she had declared herself to be a Magus from London, and that the fleet should prepare to be boarded by her lonesome self. Naturally, their Captain refused to suffer the insult. They had too much to gain and too little to lose. As for whether Raharjo made the right decision, Nanang couldn't say. For men who lived on the crests' edge, violent solutions were a jaw-clenching reflex. Raharjo had no idea if the girl was alone, or if there was a fleet or a Flight cloaked with Mass Invisibility in her mana wake. He only cared that if their presence got back to Singapore via officious channels, the fortress city's Strike Cruisers would pursue them from Bangka Belitung to Jakarta. "How is her Shield still unshattered?" His Captain watched the girl ascend without effort, trailed by no less than a dozen Magic Missiles pinging off her spherical mana wall. Somehow, she had even shrugged off his fourth-tier Elemental Orbs. "Bangke! What is she, a Sea Elf?" Nanang had no answers for his Captain. He wasn't educated like those Singaporeans across the strait, safe in their fortress, he hadn't gone to secondary school or even learned to read and write beyond what was necessary for survival. "She's out of range," Nanang observed. "I can see that," his Captain growled. "Bangsat! She's up too high! Now we'll have to hunt her down! Sinta! Dian! Come with me!" "Aye, Captain!" The ship's First and Second Mate, both women and both Transmuters-Abjurers, broke from the milling thong of NoMs fiddling with sizzling-hot wands overheated from the meta-magic. A few seconds later, they completed their Flight and defence buffs and hovered through the air. "Bridge, where is she now?" "We're tracking her directly above us, about two hundred and twenty metres, Captain." "Don't lose her. Keep her signature locked-on." A pulsing green Message flare affirmed Raharjo's command. For Nanang, his superiors' flying forms, dark against the burning brightness of the water, made his heart sore. When would he have an opportunity to learn spells like Flight? Nanang lamented. His Affinity for Transmutation, according to the scribes at the auction office, was already at the right tier. For a rube like him, however, it would cost over two hundred HDMs to hire a tutor willing to teach him while under the auspice of a Cognisance Chamber. If Nanang was a woman, and a pretty one at that, his Captain might have taken an interest— but Nanang was a man and therefore both a useful tool and a potential competitor. Though his increase in sorcerous potential could help, there was little motivation for his Captain to elevate Nanang, at least not with Sinta and Dian clinging onto the Raharjo's trouser legs. _DING! DING! DING!_ A Mass Message spell from the bridge's Divination room blossomed beside Nanang's ears. "Unexpected Conjuration detected, Captain! Look out for—" "SHAAA—!" Something akin to a shadow briefly flickered at the edge of Nanang's vision. A wave of nausea washed over him; then like a mirage revealing a Dragon Turtle hidden in the mist, the monster fell upon them before anyone could react. A twin pair of white hands, feminine and slender like that of the divine Avalokiteśvara, reached out across the aether toward Sinta and Dian and caught them, one by the torso and the other by the hip. The strangely beautiful spectacle felt so surreal that Nanang's lips naturally affected a grin, recalling how he had once seen pretty girls at the market clutching colourful dolls carved from leftover lumber. "—ARRRRRRGH!" "GNnnnarblergh—!" The slender fingers squeezed. His shipmate's Shields shattered in intermittent bursts of discordant mana. "ACID Barrier!" His Captain forwent saving the two screaming Transmuters, for he could see their innards overflowing from between the digits of the six-fingered hands; if anything— death would be a mercy. The spells struck, there were a hiss, an _SHAA_ and a cry of pain, then the fog in Nanang's head dispersed. "Concentrate all FIRE!" he howled at the NoM sailors with their tethered wands. "BANISH THE RAKSHASA!" The lower-tier Mages and the NoMs raised their weapons once more. When finally his Captain's acid slid from the creature, Nanang saw the monstrous bird in its entirety. The fiend wasn't overly large, as it had appeared earlier in his mind, but still as big as a Gull-winged Peng, the mortal scions of the Leviathan-bird of Kunlun. What terrified his NoM shipmates and Nanang was that the bird had no face, for it was all mouth from the neck up, and now it was doing its best to devour their Captain even as he transmuted spell and shield to escape the tentacles latching onto his acid-tinged barrier. _SPAK! SPAK! SPAK! _ _SPAK-SPAK!_ The Wand-spells struck. A hive of piercing missiles ricochetted from the creature's jet-black, obsidian feathers, bending nary a plume. "B-Blink!" In a blind panic, Captain Raharjo jaunted through the aether, leaving behind a pile of rags and un-attuned clothing, reappearing near-naked some distance away on the deck. By now, the man's eyes were two bloodshot orbs of hapless desperation. "Corrosive Missiles!" "Lesser Shape Metal!" Nanang drew on everything he had to transmute the shattered decking, hoping to snare the creature so that his Captain could reduce it into a pile of bubbling black bile. "SHAA!" When its fingers tore through his sheet metal like paper, Nanang felt complete despair. What manner of creature was this? He demanded to know. From what demi-plane of the Gods had it descended and how could they defeat that which could not be harmed? _CRACK!_ Before Nanang could catch up with his runaway imagination, the well-lit sky grew unnaturally, infinitely brighter. A solid rod of living lightning, as thick as the stoutest pillar in the Obsidian Temple of Shiva in Bali, struck the water before expanding into ten thousand branches of arcing electricity, blossoming like a giant Banyan, turning the blue sea white. Up in the bridge's castle housing, the magic-dampening Mandala must have taken damage, for Nanang could hear the distinct sound of the ship's inner conduits shriek, after which the thrumming mana beneath his feet churned and choked. "SURRENDER YOUR ARMS!" Came the command from the heavens, the very same that had ordered them earlier. It was the girl whose likeness brushed against vague memories he could not recollect. For now, as the bird-thing smeared the deck with gore, Raharjo's Third Mate had only one thought— if this winged Rakshasa served the sorceress, then had they offended an incarnation of Shiva? "SURRENDER NOW OR—" "Nanang! PUSH IT INTO THE WATER!" Raharjo half-melted a fleeing NoM with one sweep of his hand. "Do it now!" Nanang compelled his mind to concentrate, banishing the stalking bird from view. Between the bird and himself, there were some dozen NoMs who would act as his proxies before he came face to face with that bottomless gullet. His Captain was right; if he could move the armoured bird into the sea where its hands and wings were useless, maybe it would drown. "ARIEL!" Came a shattering howl of righteous anger. "EE!" The air above the tanker shimmered, revealing a quasi-draconic visage ten-times the resplendence of the idols in Candi Borobudur's sacred halls. A KIRIN! By Batara Kala! Nanang's mind grew suddenly blank as ancient tales of Devas and Asuras warring over the fate of man unfurled in his head like a length of illustrated Sutra. A Kirin? Rather than an Asura, was the sorceress an emissary of the Deva? There was a moment's pause, the calm before the storm. Nanang had only a moment to ponder if the girl was an Asura or Deva, then— If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. " _BARBANGINY_!" — their tribulation arrived. Nanang supposed the sorceress' wrath was a foregone conclusion, a punishment for Nanang and his ilk who had not immediately prostrated to kiss her flawlessly pale feet. The lightning landed this time on the castle, naturally guided by the laws laid down by the Gods to the highest point of the factory-carrier. The Shielding Mandala visibly glowered for a few seconds as the materials used to inscribe the Ward turned to motes of super-heated liquid. A split-second later, the bridge erupted in a blooming flower of emerald electricity. All around Nanang, chaos reigned. From the castle, bits of metal, some as large as crab-folk Mermen, rained down around them. "SHAAA!" There was a brief scream. Nanang turned, caught in a dream of slow-time, discovering to his surprise not a large bird with a mouth for a face, but a six-headed Naga where the bird had been. Each faceless head had presently arrested a resistive Mage, their bewildered Captain included. The scene all but erased the last shred of doubt in Nanang's mind. To command the Naga and a six-headed beast at that, the girl must be a High Asura, one of the ten-thousand hands of she who was the Destroyer of Worlds. Caught in the monster's mouths, his Captain had attempted another Blink, but the unpracticed Mage proved too stricken with horror to maintain his concentration. With an effortless tug from two heads, Captain Raharjo split at the seams, his entrails stringing between two mouths fighting for the upper portion of Raharjo's carcass. Nanang knelt with the others laying down their arms. "Great Varunas, we give ourselves willingly, please return this offending servant to the Great Wheel." A burgeoning surge of violent frustration filled Gwen's chest to the verge of bursting, releasing only when the supercharged mana left her conduits, leaving her blissfully empty. Below the halo of heat left by the racing electricity, Ariel's quasi-divine visage grew envigorated until it was larger than even Caliban in his Big-bird form. Once fed on Almudj's Essence, its horns grew incandescent, so bright that a second sun appeared to envelop the Kirin— then both bolts discharged at once. Of the Evocation in her present repertoire, Gwen chose Chain Lightning for its capacity to carry the necessary voltage of mana, as well as its inclination to leap between targets. Taking a leaf from the lessons taught by Patel, she had taken the time to modify the spell for range and violence, vastly inflating the spectacle of her sorcery in exchange for lethal potential. _CRACK!_ Her Barbanginy struck, drawn to the lightning rod Divination bridge. The initial impact shattered every shielded window, first blowing the warded panes inward before the scorched interior expelled its occupants outwards. Concurrently, the fleeing currents of blue-green electricity proved too much for the old carrier, peeling the rusty panes from their scaffolding, melting the heated rivet bolts. From the bridge, the Chain Lightning then leapt to the forecastle, tearing up the double hull in a fantastic explosion. Then from the carrier, the much-diminished discharge travelled to the closest trawler, one pulling blocks of pilfered wood into the factory ramp, lighting the cabin like an overblown bulb before striking an adjacent tug, igniting the crystal stows so spectacularly the resulting explosion kissed the gunwale of the factory-carrier. Gwen took a deep breath then delivered her final ultimatum. "SURRENDER OR PERISH!" Her vociferated warning rolled like low thunder across an oily sky polluted by streaked columns of black smoke. "Shaa!" In her mind, Caliban reported that the stunned survivors had fallen to their knees to beg for mercy. As for those that continued to attack, they now rested in its gullet. Around the carrier, she could see that the ships which had escaped her Chain Lightning now attempted to flee. A quick assessment flashed across her mind. Catching all the vessels would require a supreme effort of using Dimension Door together with Lighting Bolts, a bothersome but not impossible task. BUT— such pyroclastic performances would inevitably consume the lives of the NoMs too weak to defend themselves against her meagrest spell. _I should show mercy toward these helpless NoMs_ , the white-winged portion of her conscience remained resolute. _Ah, but is letting the ships flee mercy at all?_ The fork-tail voice of rationality mocked her conscience. _Out there was the Javanese Sea: a hot zone of men-eating Mermen; without a Shielding ship, how far could your mercy float before becoming Mer-feed?_ She didn't like the answer, and so chose not to dwell. Instead, she focused on the group grovelling on the carrier's broad-brimmed deck. One group was on their knees, chanting in front of Naga Caliban, while the other half of the crew confusedly hollered at Ariel to save them from Caliban. Gwen hovered mid-air, mindful of the Wands still lying within arm's reach. "Allie, Gunther, I've subdued the ship," she sent out a Message when no attack came. "The fishing fleet fled." Thirty-seconds later, Alesia arrived as a retina-searing meteor. Gunther caught up a few seconds later with a non-too-impressed disposition that made her chest tighten. "… An interesting outcome, one I assume you planned for," Gunther said. "I can see most of them are unharmed." "I killed the belligerents." "They're all belligerents." "Being poor and desperate isn't a crime, Gunther." "Attempted murder of a Magus of the Mageocracy executing his or her official duty is a capital offence." Gunther's eyes were cold as steel as they swept over her tightly wound body. He then pointed to the abandoned trawler nets and the floating logs. "As is the theft of the state's resources and the agitation of Demi-humans within the state's area of control." "That may be, but we are not Singapore Tower's goons," she retorted. "I am not dirtying my hands to save their guards the effort of coming out here themselves." "Is that what a future Tower Master should say?" Gunther cocked his head. "Are laws so malleable?" "No more malleable than yours," Gwen snapped back at her brother-in-craft. "Else you'd be flaming any officers who dared to steal from the Tower's coffers, even if it's in the execution of their duty." "Gwennie…" Her sister-in-craft looked torn between wanting to clap because Gwen had nailed Gunther with his hypocrisy and wanting to scold Gwen for not sinking every ship she could. Gunther met her defiant amber-green eyes. "Then I shall abstain from commenting on your methods," the man said, his tone unchanging. "I do not fault you for taking a stand, Sister. Just know that every choice has a cost." Gwen relaxed. "Which brings us to this—" Gunther's next words had her by the throat. "What do you intend to do with these poachers?" Below the trio, men and women squirmed like exposed grubs, their sickly skin slick with oozy perspiration, their caramel complexions blanched with fear. From the bridge, the stench of scorched flesh drifted downwards, viscid and oily; around the deck, a stink of oxidising iron accompanied the mangled victims of the fallen debris. When the sea breeze picked up, the wafting odour of unwashed bodies, soiled garments, sweat and spoiled fish only added to the picture of misery. In Gwen's mind, these men were floating on a veritable Raft of the Medusa. As for Gunther's question, she knew what she did NOT want to do. But she had no idea what to do. "Sail them back to Singapore?" Try as she might, she couldn't think of anything else. "The city is only a hundred kilometres out." "Assuming they aren't scuttled the moment they appear within Shielding range, that's a possibility," Gunther said. "Do you happen to have any diplomatic connections in Singapore?" "… I know a Tower Master from a major power next door, whose city is Singapore's chief supplier of grain and beef." Gwen looked to her brother-in-craft. "Maybe he could help." "I can guarantee that you can land the ship, but no one here will escape punishment," Gunther said. "Look at them, do you think they'll survive the lashes?" Gwen's eyes swept across the crowd, many of whom stared back at her in horror. A few of the men must have understood English, for Gwen could see in their faces that a few of their prisoners understood their impending fate. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." Gwen sighed. "Tell you what, though. Get me in contact with someone who's someone, and I'll put on the old charm—" "SHE LIES!" Her consideration was interrupted by an unexpected disruption. One of the servitor Mages, an Evoker tethered to a Magic Missile Wand, grew suddenly wild with speculation. "She lies!" The man's eyes hid nothing of his feelings. "They won't spare us! She's Priestess to the Rakshasa! She's the Asura they worship! We're not going to Singapore! We're food! We're FISH FOOD!" Before Gwen could respond, a low-tier Transmuter beside the Evoker tackled the man to the floor and covered his mouth with his hands. Bewildered, Gwen looked to Alesia and Gunther, who appeared equally perplexed, then turned to the struggling duo. The siblings all sported upper-tier Translation Stones, so the Pig Latin used by these men wasn't alien to them. Priestess? Asura? Fish food? "Mistress, Bambang isn't well." A caramel-skinned Water Mage prevented Gwen from directly addressing the sobbing dissident. "He did not know your grace ruled these waters." "I rule what now?" Gwen questioned the man, her brows furrowing. "What's your name?" "Nanang, O worshipfulness. I am the ship's Third Mate." "Where are your First and the Second?" Nanang gestured behind her. "Shaa?" First Mate Caliban cooed coyly. Gwen nodded. "I see. What's your man talking about?" "Bambang has gone mad, Mistress," the man explained meekly, sweat oozing from every pore. Though he already prostrated, he somehow grovelled lower. "I humbly beg for your mercy." "You're a fool, Nanang! There's no mistaking it! She's the Priestess of the Rakshasi of the sea!" Bambang appeared to shrink as she approached. "We should have never have harvested that shoal of Mermaids! She's here for them, just like they said! The Pale Priestess will come, they said! The Pale Priestess avenges!" "Bambang, do not irritate the Mistress!" The sailor known as Nanang swiftly kicked the man in the face, then grovelled once more. "He speaks of dreams, your worshipfulness!" "What Mermaids?" Gwen demanded, her curiosity peaking. Without effort, her Desolation Aura swept across the deck, cowering any who dared to stare. "Show me, or I'll show you the anger of an Asura." The pair grew paler as the Negative Energy lapped at their Astral Bodies, wearing away their will. After a moment more, their pupils grew dark and fatalistic. "In— in the hold." "Take me down." Gwen signalled Caliban. A rippling wave of vertigo accompanied the sound of shifting flesh and snapping bone as Caliban assumed a multi-legged form suitable for low passages and narrow gangways. In a ring around Gwen, her prisoners kissed their heads against the rusty deck in the manner of men wishing they could meld with the metal. "I'll be back," Gwen said to her siblings, who appeared intrigued by the whole ordeal. "Ariel. Overwatch." "EE-EE—EE!" Alesia promised, ruffling the Kirin's fur. "Fair warning. If they have a go at me, they burn." Gunther delivered an assuring nod. Led by the shaking, muttering Evoker and accompanied by the ship's Third Mate, Gwen descended into the dark. The interior of the ship stank as much as the exterior, only with an acridness thrice as concentrated. The interior passages, Gwen could see, were far from OSHA compliant, as there were clothing, shoes, toiletry and personal effects hung all over, acting as evidence of the inhabitants' thread-bare humanity. "This way." The path down to the factory floor took a dozen twists and turns, confusing Gwen so much that she felt tempted to produce her Omni-Orb. "In here, O worshipfulness." The men grovelled. The chamber in which she and the others arrived was an interior processing unit for tinned seafood. When the iron door swung open, the result of billions of bacteria busily decomposing portions of fish struck Gwen like a mallet, overpowering even her eyesight. "SHAA! SHAA! SHAA!" Caliban began to sing, celebrating the miasma of decay that made the dim-lit factory line so morbid to behold. As with any place where life had been extinguished on an industrial scale, there was no lack of Negative Energy. Bathed in stench and desiring to burn her present attire, she took a moment to gather her wits. Inside, Nanang and Bambang dragged forward a crate on casters the size of a skip bin filled with what looked like unprocessed fish. In it, Gwen recognised what could only be sawed-off components of Mermen and Mermaids, now mingled in bloody matrimony. Despite being a stable food source, a Mer-person's upper body was usually processed into fish paste because its humanoid likeness was too much for consumers. Hypocritically, their tail was often left on display over sheets of ice, perfectly preserved through Gentle Repose and wildly popular with fine diners. With some effort, the Mages pulled several torsos from the pile. "Light." Gwen activated a cantrip. When her spell shed elucidation on what the men had first attempted to hide, her concentration faltered, causing the globe to flicker. "August Asura." Bambang lowered his head. "We did not mean to harm your slaves. It was all under Raharjo's orders." Gwen swallowed hard, doing her best to ignore the bile brushing her tonsils. The dismembered bodies in front of her displayed nautical tattoos commonly found on Mermen tribesmen and women. Culturally, the practice paralleled the Kiwi's Ta Moko, though to Gwen's knowledge, rather than ancestry, the Mermen's florid inscriptions served to identify religion, fealty and accomplishments. Her shock, therefore, was for the likeness staring back at her. It was her face. A stranger might not recognise Gwen at first from the blue-black lines, but she could— for the particularity of the shape, the silhouette, the lines around her eyes and her chin and the way her hair framed her shoulders were all familiar. It was the lumen-image of her sold to the Hormel Food Company for use on IIUC promotional cans. A second body had the same visage roughly imprinted on its chest, not unlike the countenance of Ernesto "Che" Guevara on the t-shirts of liberal college girls. Another female had her eyes tattooed near the collarbones. Gwen's skin grew gradually clammy. A thousand questions assailed her mind, the foremost being, "Why her face was being used as Ta Moko?" Hadn't these Mermen ever heard about registered trademarks? Yet another likeness of her, a half-body version from throat to navel, had been chopped in half by a meat saw. "What the fuck is this?" She made her confusion known, though no answer came from her trembling prisoners. With some effort, a fifth body was pulled from the bin, exposing its back where a mass of dark markings resembling tentacles with eyes writhed. A sudden and terrible suspicion came to her, numbing Gwen from her sweaty crown to her curling toes. "You two, enough." Gwen halted the two Indonesian Mages from dragging more bodies from the bin. Gwen pinched her brows, banished the confusion from her mind, then tried to think her way through this discovery. Unfortunately, she wasn't the self-philosophising Prince Hamlet. Her God-given capability and reason did not prevail. In her confined experience, no notion, rationale, justification, nor understanding could explain why her face adorned the bodies of the Mermen. Maybe, she ventured a guess. Maybe the Mermen in the region REALLY liked SPAM and thought she was the originator of miracle mystery meat? It wasn't unreasonable to believe that the fishy masses might have confused branding with evangelising, coming to see her as a SPAM-bearing messiah. Should she ask Ruì what their contract with Homel entailed? Gwen queried herself, shivering at the crude ink depicting her smiling face. Even if Ruì was trying to maximise their quarterly earnings, selling her image to a Mermen church seemed excessive. "Gunther? Allie?" her voice echoed in the foul space of the iron-walled hull. Unfortunately, her companions were out of Divination line of sight. Gwen sighed. She should have sunk the ship.