Gwen's Michaelmas exams came and went.

Due to her direct involvement in the Dwarven intervention, her various "Murk" showcases met with resounding applause. Her Almudj-enhanced memory, a talent usually reserved for strangers and grudges, proved enough to hit the Distinction range for Astral Theory. However, as she added nothing inspiring to her meticulously regurgitated notes, Gwen barely scraped the D. Nonetheless, she was glad for the taxing work, as the repression from her black-handed murder grew muddled as she mired her mind with academia, IoDRP statements and future intrigues for January.

Now, with Christmas and 2006 so close, it was time for family.

On advice from Lady Grey, Gwen gathered Elvia, Richard, Petra, Jean-Paul and Gracie to grace the historic manor owned by Lady Astor.

The offer had come from the Lady herself, who, as a vital IoDRP stockholder, expressed the desire for Gwen's goodwill and that she dearly missed Evee, a sentiment shared by both women.

At the Lady's generous behest, Ferrier's Cottage, a recently renovated, pre-Tudor stand-alone structure quietly sitting by the Thames, had been made available to Gwen and her company for the week, inclusive of a luxury barge and a team of cooks and servants hand-picked from the main house's retinue. As for the Lady herself, she would receive Gwen and her companions on Christmas eve in a grand ball. Both before and after, they were free to use Cliveden until real-world business once more required their presence.

Before the boon, Gwen had thought to take an ISTC hop back to Sydney or Shanghai. But considering Astor's invitation and her intimate "family" close at hand, she settled on being pampered at home.

"I'll visit the Elves in January..." she promised herself, eyeing the days left in her remaining calendar. "With their long-lives, the knife-ears could surely afford more patience.

As for her upcoming week, she had research to conduct and an Elvia to visit.

Hastings.
Battle Abbey.

Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion Elect, tensed every muscle in her body as the Devourer enveloped her with outstretched arms, her body language resembling Spider-ban's maw.

"E-E-Eveeeee—!" The Void Witch of Cambridge enfolded her petite figure with both arms, her smooth cheeks pushing against Elvia's own as she lifted her off her feet. "Oh, how I've missed you."

Elvia buried her face in Gwen's bosoms, drinking in the familiar scent. With her Draconic senses, she could taste the pulsing seed of Divinity within her companion's Astral Body, knowing her friend had grown yet again after usurping monsters in the Murk.

Having not seen each other for so long, she allowed Gwen's hands to meander.

"You've grown stronger!" Gwen remarked after squeezing her arms, which now possessed some definition to go with the bones. Simultaneously, her companion waved an unenthused hand at Mathias, who looked on like a pup whose master had gotten a new boyfriend.

"...And taller!" Gwen marvelled. "But then again, so much has happened, and it has only been a year, Evee. Can you believe it?"

Elvia could. It was precisely in the same week of December one year ago that Gwen had arrived in England and collected her from Mathias' thankless quest in Merthyr Tydfil. There, Gwen had accidentally saved Hanmoul, berated Mathias, Purged a Troll Warren, then set in motion what would catalyse the Mageocracy's bugle-blaring march into the Dyar Morkk.

For any other nineteen-year-old, Gwen's feats would enter the realm of mythoi. For the Gwen in Elvia's heart, it was just another Monday. With an arm wrapped around the tall sorceress' waspish waist, Elvia considered her friend with whom she had spent ten days cheek to cheek and then the major part of a year apart.

If Gwen's observation was that her "Evee" had changed— then Elvia could only say that Gwen had changed even more. In her eyes, Gwen now displayed a commanding presence that only elders like Seneschal Ashburn or her teacher, the Rectrix Theodora St. Claire, readily possessed. It was the confidence and aura, Elvia discerned, of an administrator whose word and will could at a thought, sent hundreds of families, both Humans and Demi-humans, to heaven or hell.

"How fared Northern Ireland?" Gwen continued off from their last conversation months ago.

Elvia's smile froze for a split-second. "It was rough."

Rough was not a word that could begin to describe the Fomorian's annual Wild Hunt in the Prime Material. Yet, Elvia chose to downplay the hardship, for she had no wish for her friend to once more descend into righteous madness, at least not before Tianjin came to pass.

Still holding her hand, Gwen turned to Mathias. "Mattie? What happened in Northern Ireland?"

"The Fomorians were out in force. We drove them back, but they got what they came for." Mathias' response was far less considerate. Still, she couldn't blame her bodyguard, for where the Knight possessed the pride and enthusiasm of a prancing pony a year ago, recent events had rapidly repressed his optimism. In a way, both she and Mathias had the Fomorians to thank for their rapid acquisition of perspective. "But that's a story for another time. This way, please, the Rectrix is waiting."

"Come on, Gwennie." Elvia relished the secret thrill of once more calling Gwen's nickname. In the Northern Ireland campaign, were it not for the Yinglong's blessing and Sen-sen's outrageous combat multiplier, she would have been Evee-napped and taken to the sacred soil of the Tuatha Dé Dannan to serve some nefarious purpose.

Still holding one another's hand and scandalising the passersby guards and trainees, their party passed under the imposing gate of Battle, its portcullis built for its namesake.

Inside were several cloisters that resembled the ones in Rosebay, through which they reached a courtyard with a half-moon garden and a gazebo, in the shade of which stood Theodora St. Claire, former Duchess of Beaufort and Somerset, grandmother to Emily Greyson Rothwell, and Elvia's warden.

On the roof of the pavilion sat an inch of December snow.
Yet all around the structure grew a profusion of multi-coloured flowers.

"Kiki, Sen-sen." Elvia released her Familiars into the evergreen garden, for it was due to her Familiars that the mortal plants repelled the winter's ravages.

"Ariel, Cali." Gwen performed likewise. "Cali, stay away from the plants…"

A few meters from the smiling Rectrix, Elvia's teacher received them with open arms.

As one of the Holy Ordo, Rectrix St. Claire, possessed equal-rank to that of a Diocesan. As the co-head of a militant order, she also kept pace with the state's Generals. In the year Elvia had spent with the Rectorix, she recognised the woman as genuine and compassionate yet flexible and pragmatic— the polar opposite of Senechal Ashburn, who was as unyielding as a redwood.

"Your Grace." The Void Sorceress curtsied like a pro.

"Welcome, Magus Song." The Rectrix took Gwen by the hand and led her into the pavilion's interior, where a hearty breakfast of jam, honey and scones had been laid out. "It's still early. Have you eaten?"

"I could eat." Gwen waited for the Rectrix to sit before taking her seat. Elvia sat adjacent; Mathias took his place beside her, stoic as a sentinel.

"Mattie, sit," Gwen said to the Knight.

"… That's improper," Mathias recited flatly.

"Do sit, Mathias," the Rectrix implored. "This is Evee's friend, and so she is ours."

The Knight loosened his polished cuirass, then sat with his buttocks nearer the edge of the seat. Elvia gave her Knight an encouraging smile.

"Chip on his shoulder?" Gwen mused at Elvia.

"Mattie's unhappy about what happened in Lurgan," Elvia replied euphemistically. "The Fomorians broke through the defence line and overran the triage centre. Mathias protected me. Many Mages died, as well as several of my fellow Clerics who did not have a Knight of St Michael at their side."

"I see." Her companion allowed the matter to drop. Passing a hand over the empty half of the table, she materialised several obsidian Creature Cores.

Elvia's nose wrinkled. There was something terrible and wrong about the Essence emanating from those Cores.

"Rectrix— my mentor sends her regards. She said that these might be useful to you?"

It took Elvia a second or two to realise the misshapen, kidney-stone shaped Cores were the remains of Aberrants harvested thanks to Golos' presence. From their Element, Elvia could see that the Creature Cores, each with its admixture of Elemental Earth and Ooze, were uniquely suited to ancient Abjuration magic, which were crude but unfussy about materials. A place like Battle was thus perfect for giving roughly-aligned but potent materials proper utility. As to what utility, Elvia could only guess.

"The Ordo thanks you, Magus Song." The Rectrix passed a hand over the Cores while her other hand, glimmering with a faint aura of Faith, touched Gwen's fingers.

"Elvia. Let us pray for your friend's health.

O rise, King of the eternal,
immortal, invisible,
wrap this blessed soul in purple, O Lord
By Christ's cross and Adam's tree,
Look, o Three-personed God, and find thy sermons—
Thy honour and glory be eternal. Amen.

— Greater Bless."

Motes of Faith rose from Elvia's body, forming a brief halo around her brow, mirroring the same phenomenon on the Rectrix. Soundlessly, the spell discharged, its psychic energies of belief manifesting as a "Miracle".

Gwen's expression turned from surprised to wonder, then to awe as the last vestige of any negative feelings she might have held coming into Battle faded into oblivion. From her broad, sunny smile, Elvia recalled a girl living her happiest moments in Sydney, before the Mermen invasion, before Debora-turned-Faceless.

"I am honoured." Gwen bowed her head.

"Please, enjoy the food," the Rectrix commanded the trio. "Waste nothing. These scones are hand-made by our Acolytes for the occasion. The jam is from Seneschal Ashburn's private reserve, and our acolytes in South India hand-picked the tea leaves."

The youngsters performed as told while the Rectrix watched. "Maxine has told me that you wanted to ask about the Northern Steppes?"

Elvia sipped her tea, watching her friend's thoughts transmute.

Undaunted, Gwen affirmatively buttered, creamed, then jammed her scone between her reply. "I have a mind to get down there and see how I may contribute to resolving the local tension. As you know, Meister Bekker was tapped to reinforce the local garrison and put an end to the insurrection, and my friend Jean-Paul is going with her. As a part of my Magisterial course, I'd thought I could spend the month between now and mid-Lent term helping out."

"In your capacity as the Devourer of Shenyang?" her Rectrix was all smiles. "And do as you had done for the Murk?"

"Well," Gwen replied with a hint of smugness. "I have a knack, or so the Tower Master says."

"What do you know?" The Rectrix wasn't one to waste breath.

"From my research." Gwen pointed in the sea's direction, a misaligned gesture Elvia understood to mean Cambridge. "I understand that the Mageocracy has spent centuries fleecing the Centaur-folk from Dushanbe to Karagandy, adding fuel to their inter-tribal grudges every few years. From the local region, there are small mountains of HDMs to be made selling skin, fur and Creature Cores, not to mention rare-earth Crystals needed for Mandalas. After the Tide, when Elementals arrive en mass and the Fire Sea manifested as-is; the entire Frontier pulled back from Baku, and had been pulling back ever since."

Gwen had done her homework.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Elvia's knowledge of the region was only thanks to Lord Ashburn's campaign there to exorcise a corrupt governor, one that was driving the local centaurs into the arms of the Elementals' domain.

"As a result of the Fire Sea's emergence, the balance established by the Mageocracy collapsed, leading to a plethora of problems today. Foremostly, the Khitani Khanate has absorbed the refugees fleeing from the lost Turkmen lands and the tribes exiled from Afghanistan— rapidly outpacing our outposts. Two, the Elementals have begun to enslave and transmute tribes with appropriate affinities into Changeling war hosts. With both concurrently in motion, the Mageocracy knows that a sea-change is coming, but to resist the incoming Tide, it needs to maintain border buffers."

Gwen took a deep breath. "As a result, the Shard is in a bind. There's the Ukrainian line to the west, the Kazakhstani line to the north. The Pakistani line to the west. And Sinai to the south— albeit the Americans are responsible for that fiasco. The point is that everywhere around the steppes sit precarious positions that could spiral out of control at a moment's notice. When they do, the Mageocracy's tenuous control of Central Asia will cease to exist."

"Yes." her Rectrix nodded. "Our Empire is stretched as thin as beaten gold."

Gwen looked over at her attentively, then sighed. "When I was in China, we talked about the Mageocracy as though it was a hegemonic Leviathan. The Empire where the Sun Never Sets, that sort of thing. Now that I am here… it feels like we're trying to catch water with sheets of Swiss cheese."

The Rectrix laughed. "That's an observation Lord Ravenport shares, to be sure. Elvia, you've studied the Steppe Campaign under Ashburn. What do you think of your friend's concerns?"

Elvia cleared her throat, then began to speak in a melodic but meticulous manner. "Gwen is correct, though she lacks details which make the situation worse than it is. The Death Cult of Egypt has its history and conflicts, but we can at least agree they're not going to ally with the Elemental Sultanate. The Undead Aristocracy of Eastern Europe as well, is as opposed to the Elementals as the Mageocracy. To the east, there's the Himalaya divide and the Old Kingdoms of Delhi that fear the Sultanate more than they loath the Mageocracy, which means there is only the problem of the Northern Steppes."

She took a sip of the tea, then continued.

"What happens if the newly risen Khanate breaks off its reliance on the Mageocracy? What if, God forbid, they lay down their arms when the Elemental hosts come knocking? Without the ore, wool, leather, Cores and agricultural produce, who would supply the Eastern European Frontiers? Where would the Mageocracy find another raw-material export zone?"

"Where indeed?" The Rectrix threw the question back at their guest.

"Which is why I've come to the Order." As Gwen spoke, she reached out under the table and squeezed Elvia's hand, signalling that she would soon require her aid. "As one of the Holy Ordo with interest in genuine peace with the Elementals and the Centaurs, I would like to ask for your advice before I commit myself to the plans I've devised for the Steppe region."

Rectrix Theodora St. Claire raised her classically elegant face. Despite her deceptively youthful mien, there was no ignoring her aura of authority and the experience she exuded.

"The Ordo's goals," the former Duchess of Somerset announced. "Is in general alliance with Her Majesty's role as Governor Supreme of our Church of England. Our interest in harmony isn't one pursued out of ethical consideration— but one seeking to preserve the fragile status quo hanging over the Holy Land. What you might see as charity, sympathy, mercy, compassion, inclusiveness and ardent pursuit of peace, is in reality, the product of ulterior interests. Do you understand?"

Elvia recalled being shocked when Ashburn gave her the full dose on her and Mattie's first foray. The good performed by the various Ordos were not acts of inherent selflessness but actions taken to maintain her Majesty's hold on the Mageocracy. In a time when competing interests within her Empire would put House Windsor's interests below their own, the Holy Orders were the monarch's flame and scalpel. Compared to the Towers or the provincial governments of the Commonwealth, the fundamental dissonance was their vows as the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, with strict pledges restricting their access to pleasure and property. Instead, the crown supplied their coffers while they reaped Faith from the masses. To take herself as an anecdote, her soup kitchen in the IoDRP, her orphanage, her clinics and her actions in Northern Ireland all contributed to her and the Ordo's reservoir of Faith.

"I do." Gwen nodded, untouched by the realpolitik. "Rectrix, you've seen how I've dealt with the Mageocracy's dilemmas in Burma, in Peru and the Murk. You've also seen how I've performed in forming diplomatic ties with the Dwarves. Likewise, in London, I have some sway with the public through my paper, the METRO. Just as well, both the Shard and the Foreign Affairs Department are indebted to me for services rendered. If I can apply pressure from both sides, we may not stop the warmongers, but I can twist their arm and divert their claim. Can you tell me more about the Steppe's internal conflicts?"

The Rectrix motioned with her Mage Hand, refilling her cup. "We're a monastic order, Magus Song. Not politicians or financiers. I can only tell you this— if the Militants and the Greys can give up their unnatural occupation of the resources belonging to the Khitani Khanate, we may yet gain a potent ally against the Tide. If not…"

"You think an outbreak of war from the central region is inevitable?"

The Rectrix slightly shrugged her shoulders, then fixed her habit. "Nothing is predestined, though if you look at our politicians and corporations, at how they squeeze the Frontiers for resources and reap wealth from the corpses of the Demi-humans, it should hardly come as a surprise. You come from the Frontier, do you not? What did you learn as a child?"

"That we Humans are at the mercy of the Demi-humans and that we're eking out a living in between their warring factions."

"Do you consider this to be true?"

Gwen thought of the general fear and anxiety Sydney-siders lived in, even with someone like Gunther at the helm. "I can't deny it."

"Your's is a fear London's Militants do not possess. Imagine if you were born in the heart of the Mageocracy as they are," the Rectrix explained. "Picture your aristocratic ascension in a city that has never fallen to the Wildlands, that not only remained standing but reached out and profited from its Frontiers during the Tide. You open the papers each day or watch the vid-casts on the Lumen-channels. On every front, the discussion is what region should the Mageocracy next usurp, which race has capitulated to the Shard's pressure, and which Lord as profited from what war."

"Ah, the old military-industrial complex," the Void sorceress surmised with a Gwenism. "I get it. Invariably, that's the source of the Militant's confidence, their funding, as well as why they must keep conquering out of jaw-clenching reflex. They've built themselves around a myth, and they're driven forward by the momentum like an ouroboros of ambition, eating their tail inch by inch. So long as their gains exceed their loss, they maraud onward like Micah's Juggernaut, crushing the Godless, revelling in plunder, believing themselves the Masters of the Earth!"

Elvia could see her teacher was very impressed.

"Indeed, that's the force you'll be trying to divert if you want to bring stability to the region," the Rectrix concluded. "We tried, God, knows the Ordo did its best— but alas…"

Elvia could feel the Rectrix's frustration and so lowered her head. She understood her teacher's feelings well. In Ireland, against the endlessly mutating Fae and their reality-warping Faery Circles, against the Changelings that replaced one's allies, she had felt the same. In Toner's Bog, she recalled the village they had entered, where her patrol found the missing children swimming in a bubbling Hag-stew— there was no healing Sen-sen or Kiki could manage that would bring back what Mattie and herself had lost in that campaign.

If the Northern Steppes were worse still, what would Gwen do? What if their foes weren't Centaurs but Mages from London? Even with the Shoggoth at her beck and call, what could she change?

Currency. Crystals. Greed. Those were Gwen's weapons as well as her Void and Lightning. If so, would she buy them out of the Steppes? How could she guarantee that the Militants would stay away if there is so much more wealth to be made by reneging on agreements?

"Thank you for that," Gwen thanked her Rectrix. "I think I understand what the reports won't say. Now then, Milady St. Claire, may I ask for a boon?"

Elvia looked up to see Gwen's gaze washing gently over her.
She blinked as their eyes met.

"Could I borrow Evee and the Ordo's aid?"

"For the Northern Steppes?"

"Yes." Elvia's oldest friend placed an assuring palm on the Cleric's knee. Her breath quickening, Elvia's eyes grew as large as pigeon eggs, while beside them, Mathias turned pink as pippins. "Mattie can come along as well. I'll pay for every expense. If you're worried, I can have Evee attend in custom Dwarven Golem Klad to mitigate the danger. If the region is as unstable as you have prescribed, we'll need a gentle hand to deal with the local folk. In that regard, Elvia is far more suited than I, though she'll need support in terms of logistics and a Class VI War Mage to stiffen her resolve."

The Rectrix appeared amused by the idea. "Elvia, dearie. What do you think?"

On the field, Knight Companions played both leader and follower, but here in the Fortress Monastery, Elvia knew better than to lecture her betters. That said, she did desire to work with Gwen once more, not as a sycophant but as an equal. As Gwen had proposed, there were things only Gwen could do and things only she could do. Gwen possessed the threat of total annihilation and HDMs, while Elvia had her healing and the Ordo's reputation. Together, what couldn't be overcome?

"Your wish is my command, your Grace." She bowed her head, conscious of Gwen's hand still arresting her knee.

Theodora St. Claire returned to the Void Sorceress in their midst. "If Elvia has no complaints, neither do I. The Ordo will not oppose you, considering your record so far. However, may I suggest that you scout the Steppes with Meister Bekker? Elvia still has her duties here and training in London's Great Hospitals. I will grant you access to our Chapel Chapter in Aktau. When you need her, the Abbot there can arrange for Elvia's Teleportation, as well as answer any questions you may have. Does that satisfy?"

"A wonderful arrangement." Gwen struck out the hand warmed by her knee.
Ignoring their difference in rank, the Rectrix took it.
In front of Elvia and the wordless Knight, the two women shook.

"Well, now." Gwen sidled up to her Evee. "I'll be taking her to Lady Astor's as discussed. Her ladyship has dearly missed Evee."

"Don't forget our Cleric has sworn to be a Poor Fellows of Christ." The Rectrix shook her head in the manner of a gentle mother warning her bright-eyed daughters. "No liquor and nothing her fellow Brother and Sisters in the Ordo wouldn't do. Mathias, while the Nazarene sees all, only you can keep an eye on our future Knight Companion. Can I trust our Brother Ordo of St Michael on this?"

"Yes! Your Grace!" Mathias left his seat and saluted, finally relieving himself of the accused chair. "She'll be safe with me, Ma'am!"

The look Gwen gave Mathias made Elvia's hairs stand on end.

After that, they were dismissed by the Rectrix, returning Gwen and company to the upper battlements where she had initially landed to the dismay of the temple guards.

Elvia allowed herself to be Gwen-handled. It wasn't that she couldn't do the same, but her friend's height made it impossible for the smaller woman to take the lead.

"Can you fly yet, Evee?" Gwen lead her by the hand, her mind once again turning mischievous.

"Not yet." Elvia shook her head. "Mattie and I have Orbs of Lesser Flight."

"Well then, tell me about Ireland on the way." Her too-friendly companion put her arm around Elvia's tiny waist. "Mattie, Cliveden isn't far. Catch us if you can!"

Buckinghamshire.
Cliveden.
Ferrier's Cottage.

"The Prince of Wales once sat in that chair." Richard gingerly slipped his arse onto the gold-threaded cushion. "… firmer than I imagined."

A few moments later, her cousin hailed the group tour to the master bedroom.

"The Prince of Wales once slept in that bed." Richard ran his hand over the velvet and crimson laced quilt. "At the very least, two Kings have fornicated on…"

"DICK!"
"Richard!"
"God damn it, Rich…"

Gwen threw a pillow at her laughing cousin. "Don't you dare ruin this for me!"

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to come to Cliveden." Richard cackled. "And holy shit! Ferrier's Cottage! This place is full of history! Scandalous, perfumed history. Isn't that why we're here? You even brought Evee— is that a completely innocent gesture?"

The Cleric's face grew instantly red.
Besides the perplexed Gwen, their other guests looked on with confused faces. Jean-Paul was South African and so knew nothing. Petra had never been to England or been taught the trivia. Mathias would never learn of such scandal, and Gracie was a bookworm of an entirely different species.

"You don't know?" Richard roared. "Oh-oh-oh, Duck, you innocent flock of waterfowls…"

At the country kitchen, Richard ordered anytime High Tea from the team of discrete servants living at the main building, then settled the crew down to storytime in the country dining with its lavish decor.

"The main building isn't originally the Astors," Richard began between gulps of English Breakfast, leaving his teeth stained pink with intrigue. "It was originally built by the Lord Duke Villiers of Buckingham, Richard's right hand. He built it not for his long-suffering wife but the stunningly beautiful Lady Talbot, a married woman. This land and its entire property, the most expensive in England at the time, was a gift to his mistress."

Richard pointed at the picturesque bridge just out of view. "When Lady Talbot's husband found out his wife had been taking equestrian lessons atop Buckingham, the Earl of Shrewsbury challenged the Duke. An Earl! An administrator! Against a Duc! A war leader! You can imagine the outcome. And so, on that bridge yonder occurred the first love-induced Mage-duel-to-the-death in English history— which was why Lady Astor ALWAYS hosts stag-duels whenever there's a part at the river garden. "

The listeners made O shapes with their mouths.

"But of course, a one-sided slaughter is hardly romantic. What's infamous is Lady Talbot's performance while the two men duelled."

"What did she do?" Gracie trembled as she asked.

"She stood on the Duke's side and held his horse while the men fought. In the aftermath, she frenched the Duke in front of the witnesses while her husband turned to dust."

Richard's audience drew in deep breaths. The boys weren't much into the aristocratic drama, but the girls were no less thrilled than modern-day homemakers watching the season finale of Downton Abbey.

"After that, the House of Lords ordered the Duke to stay away from Lady Talbot." Richard thumped the table with a suggestive rhythm. "So naturally, the two took to creaming discretely in Ferrier's Cottage…"

The girls put down their biscuits and teas.

"… and later gave birth to the Duke's favourite bastard in one of those beds upstairs."

Richard took another sip. "Not to be outdone by her brother-in-law, Lord Villiers' wisp of a wife had a vivacious vixen for a sister who the Duke occasionally fancied as well. Since she had free reign of this building while Lady Talbot and the Duke were away, she decided to outdo her brother-in-law by entertaining both King George I and later George II in her lap of luxury… somewhere around here…"

The girls began to doubt what the inch-thick Ursine rugs were hiding beneath. The white-washed walls were starting to look a little too white.

"After that, of course, there were a few centuries of peace until Lady Astor's in-laws took over the estate— But not before falling to the cottage's unique charm. One of Lady Astor's relatives was well-connected to the Germans during that unnatural bout of ambition from the Central Continent and used Cliveden as a sort of royal whorehouse for information gathering. Naturally, he chose a secretive and private portion of the estate…"

"Oh, my God..."

Richard grinned wolfishly. "Finally, it was here that Lord Magister Profumo, War Master of the Mageocracy's Mage Flights, was revealed to be entertaining his nineteen-year-old Apprentice in private equestrian lessons as well. Of course, old aristocrats chewing on young tobacco leaves isn't news— but the fashionable sorceress wasn't just a side-piece polishing the War Master's golden knob— she was a bona fide Mind Mage; hailing from the ice country…"

"OH!" Petra's eyes grew wide. It was rare for the trained Mind Mage to be so excited. "Magus Kabiccaya! I know of her! She's a legend in our Tower. There are even portraits of her. That was here? I thought it was the Spring Cottage?"

"After that fiasco, they renamed the cottage."

The ex-Mind Mage rose from her seat to study the room anew, her eyes full of stars. "Do you know which room they used?"

"Pats..." Gwen pulled her cousin down.

"And there you have it." Richard allowed the dollop cream to dribble from his spoon, then looking to Gwen and then to Elvia; the man wiggled his brows. "Welcome to Ferrier's Cottage, Ladies and gents, hand-picked by your Magus Song truly, a sordid homestay with an orgiastic history of sex, spies and scandal!"


Gwen's original plan was to have an old-fashioned girls' sleepover in the spacious extra-king-sized bed of the master suite, where all four women could lay beside one another and yet have room to spare.

After Richard convinced the party of the possibility that the Cottage may inspire spontaneous orgies of debauchery, Gwen's companions slept on the couch, the floor, and behind pillow forts on the bed.

The next day, the crew took a ferry up the Thames, stepped onto quaint old docks while enviously watched by passersby and shopped to their hearts' content from Maidenhead to Medmenham. At night, a traditional farmhouse feast was abruptly demolished by the always-famished Void Mages, leaving the others to ring the main house for replenishments and snacks.

After a second night of listening to Gwen and Elvia exchange horror stories of War and destruction, the party's female members grew close. Gracie especially found an ally in Elvia, who overflowed with vitality and magnanimity, particularly after the woman confessed to being Gwen's soul-subordinate. Gwen replied that Gracie's humbled obedience was wrongly attributed and that she was a free Void Sorceress soon to gain her footing. In response, Gracie grew red-eyed with heartfelt gratitude.

On the third day, a pair of dangerous birds arrived at Cliveden, alighting at the Rose Garden, requiring Gwen's party to emerge from seclusion. The intruders were one black and the other white and were both known intimately to the Devourer.

The 'black' was Mori.
The 'white' was Dede.

According to Ariel, both "missed her dearly", which Gwen took to imply the birds were thirsty for Essence. Out of morbid curiosity, Gwen introduced the pair to Elvia, her fellow "Vessel" and an authentic Draconic practitioner.

"Evee… I want to see what happened if you offer them a mote of the Yinglong's Essence…" After some clamouring from the birds, Gwen suggested they experiment in mixing their juices.

As a biometric academic and a Creature Mage, Elvia's natural curiosity convinced her to entertain Gwen's idea.

Surprisingly, when the girls manifested a clear drop of golden Essence, the avians grew wild.
"Quack! QUACK!" Dede flapped its wings at Elvia, threatening her with its glorious white breast.
"Caw! Caw-CAW!" Mori, much to Gwen's confusion, was no less hostile.

The offence from Mori and Dede was enough to warrant a response from Elvia's defenders.

"Kiki!" Her Alraune Sprite perfumed the air with protest.
"Sen-sen!" The elder Ginseng as well, rose to wrestle the duck, proving itself the superior combatant.

"Looks like the Yinglong and our Almudj don't see eye-to-eye," Richard remarked for their companions. "How curious. I read that lesser beings taken with Essence are susceptible to morphic resonance, resulting in undying loyalty to the patron. The more Essence, the more changes, the more they identify with their Essence-giver. Usually, it's a Draconic phenomenon, but I guess Al's no less an ancient drake, if not more."

"How do you know this?" Gwen asked.

"The King's library is very extensive," her cousin replied. "HOLY HELL— DEDE!"

"Quack!" Dede howled as Sen-sen spun its avian body via its mass of tendrils, turning it just enough to piledrive the bird beak-first into the soft turf. On the other wing, Mori let loose a mighty "CAW!"— summoning a dark murder of crows enough to weigh-down a nearby, splendiferous oak.

Enraged, Dede excavated itself from the floor. Digging into its fluffy breast, it retrieved, then popped an HDM into its beak to replenish its energies. "Quack!"

“SHAAAA!” Caliban entered the fray, believing the contest some great grand melee.
"CAW-CAW-CAW!"
"QUACK!"
"KIKIKI!"
"SEN!"
"WHOA!"
"Ouch!"

Raging torrents of free-flowing mana clashed, ripping up the dirt and wilting the grass, sending drifts of free-falling snow and rose petals in every direction.

"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!" Gwen calmed the farm with a Clarion Call, steam rising from her in spontaneous streams. "We're guests here, for God's sake!"

The Familiars cowered. The Devourer of Shenyang turned to the ongoing party that had all but ceased at the Rose Garden, each drawn by the spectacle of a duck wrestling a root vegetable while a murder of crows bickered with a flower, with a Kirin mewling for peace and a Richard taking bets.

"Lady Astor… I am so sorry…"

The Lady of the house was with her entourage and joined by a dozen guests who had earlier arrived to celebrate Christmas Eve's festivities. Gwen's party had wandered up from Ferrier Cottage, seeing as they were holiday residents. Had Dede and Mori not descended, they would not have met until the evening.

Lady Astor was staring wide-eyed at the crows, evidently recognising their origins and their purpose.

"Caw!" Mori dispersed her flock with a cry, leaving a wordless group of aristocrats and mid-tier bureaucrats thoughtfully sipping gulps of wine.

Their hostess quickly recovered, then invited the students forward to be introduced. Both groups of guests exchanged titles and names, then mingled. When Gwen asked who Astor was expecting to attend, she said that this year, there would be no Ravenport and no Lady Grey, not even a Rothwell in attendance. The advantage Gwen had materialised with the Dwarven alliance meant the Duke of Norfolk was holding a private soiree in his estate for members of the Grey Faction. Being more Middle than Grey, the Lady decided to break from the usually tense and intrigue-charged gatherings at Cliveden every other year.

"If you want excitement, I can ask the Exeters to send the twins over." Lucy Astor sipped from a flute while standing beside Gwen with a smirk. "Care for some payback for last time? With your present standing in the Tower and the news cycle, you'll be able to push much harder than they're willing to push back."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass." Gwen looked to Elvia, who was scolding her two Familiars for their un-lady-like behaviour. "I want this year to be fun and relaxing. Next year we've got Phase III to digest, and after that, our coffers permitting, all of us needs to start laying the foundations for Phase IV."

"How are your studies?"

"Going well, racking up credits," Gwen said. "Hopefully enough to pick up the Magisterhood in another year or two."

"I heard from St. Claire that you and Evee are thinking of heading up to the Steppes?" Astor remarked, her eyes drifting past Gwen's Familiars to the crow now perched on a vine arch. "With Meister Bekker there, I doubt you'll face much danger. That said, you ARE headed for the Steppes, a Black Zone! Do you think you can turn the deficit void-chasm there into profit?"

"I think the Mageocracy can do better than snatch-and-grabs, general oppression and stoking civil bloodsheds," she replied in a low whisper. "If there are as many crystal mines, rare herbs, leather and Cores as they say down there, I think we could manage an import-export consortium. Keen to invest? It could be a new Silk Road."

"If you manage to wrangle the political situation there, sure." Lady Astor nodded. "That said, I do have traders operating out of Istanbul. I'll give you their contacts. When you arrive and are ready to begin operations, tell them I sent you."

"That'll be lovely." Gwen gave the Lady an affirming nod.

Their hostess passed a contact Glyph between them, then turned to Elvia. "My little Evee, my-my, how you've grown. A future Knight of the Bath! Incredible!"

Elvia curtsied. "Your Ladyship."

"I wonder how those sows at GOS would see you now," the ex-Secular Cleric, now House of Commons member, mused. "Probably scrap for scraps at your feet, if I had to guess. Especially the Matrons who used to bully you and those other trainees from Black's too, I wager. Ever thought of going back?"

"I haven't thought of them much." Elvia's expression remained pure and serene. "The Ordo has much work to do."

"True." Lady Astor hugged the girl, squeezing her shoulders hard. "I heard about Northern Ireland. I am so sorry you had to experience that."

"It was a lesson I had to learn. One I don't regret." Elvia gave the Lady one of her signature, heart-melting smiles, one that made both Gwen and Lady Astor sigh with maternal longing.

"Enjoy the party." Lady Astor withdrew, expressing that she had already spent too much time with one group and must now continue her free-flowing meandering. "Merry Christmas. We have high hopes for you all, you who are our nation's future. Magus Song—"

"A merry Xmas to you too, Lady Astor." Gwen curtsied, then hooked an arm around Elvia's inner elbow. "If you don't mind, we'll return to Ferrier's before the crowd arrives. Dede! Cali! Ariel! Mori! We're going!"

"Suit yourselves." The Lady touched a hand to Elvia's cheek and gave it a satisfying squeeze before leaning in to bid them both a fair holiday season. "Keep our Essence-sucking money tree safe, Evee. We're counting on her to pave the Middle Path with crystals."

As a business owner, Gwen understood well the concept of there being no rest for the wicked. The Tuesday past Boxing Day, while the rest of London returned to their repetitive labour, so did the Devourer of Shenyang return to her Isle of Dogs to crunch debit tables and balance expenditures.

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In the aftermath of the Shard's "New Deal" with the Dwarves, Yossari returned with more of her folk to help expand the Westferry Print Works, concurrently providing Petra with more opportunities to delve into the secret of Runic sorcery. At the same time, Nesatin the Smith, Doussed the Rune Tuner, and the two Whitebeards, Thulgig Flinthide and Danmurim the Glum had reached their one-surface-cycle contract and were due home. For their return trip, Gwen gifted caskets of Maotai and rings full of surface goodies from sweets to cured meat, as well as trinkets and Lumen-recordings that she hoped would lure more young Dwarves into exploring Himmseg.

Two days before New Years, Jean-Paul invited her down to London Imperial, concurrent with a Message that his Meister would be expecting her to join her for a working luncheon.

Having already met with Meister Bekker upon her previous return, Gwen made her way down to the grand avenues of South Kensington. She rather admired Jean-Paul's university, though more imposing than the fourteen Meisters under London Imperial's name or the Royal degree marking its inception was the fact that London Imperial has the most generous endowment of any learning institution in Europe, emerging the principle collegial benefactor of Victoriana's colonial conquests. Even now, among all of the universities of the Mageocracy, graduates from London Imperial rank first for employment prospects, dwarfing even the majesty of Oxbridge's combined might.

Recently and infamously, a late Meister Stephan Grimm had committed suicide in the college's now repurposed Royal Spellcraft Hall for reasons unknown. In the aftermath, perhaps more tellingly than the Dust Meister's untimely demise, it was the coverup and the subsequent revelation of the faculties involved in executing factional rivalries, petty jealousies and bitter spitefulness that marred the college's two-century-old name.

Of course, the scandal did not diminish London Imperial's imposing approach. Outside its entrance, the Void Sorceress stood tall as a winter tulip in pale-blue boot-cut jeans, with a light wind jacket just reaching her knees. It took all but a minute for a gaggle of snickering young geese to descend from the steps to surround her, crowding every angle so that her only escape would be via Flight.

"Young Miss." One of the young men bowed his head in a gesture of feigned gentlemanliness, not unlike Dede fossicking for HDMs. "You're a pleasure for sore eyes, have we met?"

Had the man's pick-up not being so tacky, Gwen would have reminded the boy he'd probably seen her on the front page of the METRO. As it were, it had been so long since she experienced harassment by strangers that the encounter felt refreshingly candid. What further enhanced her thrill was the fact that these young drakes had thought themselves cornering a hen when in truth, they were waltzing head-first in a slavering Caliban.

"I am waiting for a friend," Gwen answered demurely, feeling every inch a cat swishing its tail in front of mesmerised mice.

"We can stand in for your friend," another of the young men said. "Where you do hail from?"

"Sydney," she replied. "I am new to London."

"Then we can show you around." The third managed with gusto. "I know the best pubs—"

"GWEN! Over here!"

Gwen was just about to agree to drink the men's wallets dry when Jean-Paul appeared from the main building's double-glass doors. Perhaps the Void Mage was in a hurry, or maybe he was a masochist, but Jean-Paul dressed his lower half in slacks and the top half in a cashmere jumper. Above the ugly Christmas sweater, he even had on an orange and blue beanie. The overall effect could only be described as something the Void had regurgitated after an unsuccessful Christmas eve binge.

"Sorry, fellers." Gwen gave the men an apologetic shrug. "I'd love to get to know you all, but my special buddy is here."

The men's expressions fell several storeys and died on impact. Perhaps they knew of Jean-Paul and knew of his reputation, or mayhap they didn't; either way, Gwen took the opportunity to slip past their guard, leaving only a trail of perfume.

"Miss—" Their leader took on a pained expression of self-doubt after seeing Jean-Paul's exquisite face. "Are you seriously suggesting…"

"Sorry, but it's true." Gwen winked back with a smile. "JP's not good-looking, nor is he rich, but I don't know anyone else with a worm as impressive and useful as his. No other man compares."

The young Imperialists looked as though devastated by a Barbanginy.

Gwen left with a thrilling laugh, quickly leaping up the stairs in twos and threes with elegant dancer's strides to join Jean-Paul. "Hey, bud."

"What did you do to them?" Jean-Paul furrowed his brows. "Desolation Aura?"

Gwen gave her Quasimodo a hearty slap on the back. "You think I'd experiment on students of London Imperial?"

Jean-Paul's expression inferred she would.

Gwen followed her fellow Void Mage through the main foyer, turning heads and catching eyes as she passed. At the atrium, she saw an enormous silhouette four storeys tall in technicolour that Jean-Paul identified as the Astral Body scan of a medical Meister specialising in imaging Divinations.

The building's interior was enormous, easily the size of Kings College's main campus cathedral plus the Old Court, with a section of Peterhouse added as the library wing. Jean-Paul took her through a maze of corridors that would surely spell her doom, arriving finally at a secluded area reserved for Magisters, Meisters and upper-tier administrative staff.

"Meister." Gwen bowed as she approached.

Meister Engela "Mevrou" Bekker, one of three Meisters to emerge from Cape of Good Hope and now a resident researcher at London Imperial, had the atypical appearance of a Boer, with salient ash-blonde hair and piercing, cerulean eyes. When Gwen first met Bekker vis-a-vis, she was shocked to discover that the famed Pretorian scholar was an Ooze Mage, for the clean, austere appearance Bekker maintained was usually reserved for those aligned with Ice or Mineral.

Though in her early fifties, the Meister had enjoyed the likes of Vitae Fruits and rejuvenation treatments, possessing the appearance of a well-kept woman in her thirties. Unlike Lady Astor or Rectrix St. Claire, however, the Meister's appearance was to Gwen a facade, for she lacked the natural youthfulness that came with Positive Energy.

"Gwen, come sit." The Meister was one used to command. "Jean, be a dear and get us fresh beverages, aseblief."

Gwen sat, keeping at arm's length from the Meister.
Here was a woman whose achievements in Spellcraft, academia and politics she could not yet challenge. As for wealth and luxury— she doubted someone sitting at the apex of the sorcerous pyramid would care for something she could acquire at a moment's notice.

In Gwen's eyes, the "Madam's" relationship with Jean-Paul was a strange admixture born out of experimentation. To say that the Mevrou felt love for Jean-Paul wasn't wrong, but it was the leftover sentiment of having a dog by one's side for so long that one felt amiss in its absence. In their everyday interactions, the Mevrou's command of Jean-Paul was absolute, treating the talented Void Mage as something between a scion and a servant.

Yet, Gwen also bore witness to how protective the Mevrou was of Jean-Paul. Engela's was a fierce, maternal emotion the Mevrou herself may not fully comprehend. For instance, in the trimester she had spent with Jean-Paul and Gracie, the girls had attracted unwanted pursuers more than once. As a deterrence, Gwen regularly half-jokingly used Jean-Paul as a Shield to discourage prospective suitors. Unfortunately, there was no lack of young men un-accustomed to women with attitude in a place like London.

When Jean-Paul, "friend with benefits" to Gwen and Gracie, fell victim to unkind rumours, he did not need Gwen or the METRO to step in. Instead, the Mevrou stamped her foot.

Later, the culprits issued public apologies, with one going so far as to withdraw from the college.

The Mevrou was married in her youth but did not have children of her own due to her rapid sorcerous advancements. Jean-Paul was the closest thing to a son, Apprentice and heir she had.

In the privacy of the canteen with no one but themselves, the trio settled down to business.

Meister Bekker's wish was to hit the Steppes just after the Gregorian Calendar turned over to 2006.

As for the journey itself, with Gwen joining them, the Meister advised taking the Eastern European route. They and their party of two-dozen Magisters and Maguses would arrive at Kyiv and then take a short-hop ISTC station to Volgograd, where the Russians once halted the German's eastward ambitions through spellfire, blood and enough bodies to start a second Undead War.

From there, the Flights would have to proceed on-air, hopping down the Volga River for half a day, resting at a trading post on the shores of the Caspian Sea, then take a two-day, two-thousand-kilometre flight across a southern section of the Caspian now renamed the "Fire Sea" to arrive somewhere between the land of the Uzbeki and the Kazakhstani Centaurs, both presently held under the Golden Banner of the Khitani Khanate. As to where their FOB might be, not even Meister Bekker could be sure— for the Golden Pavilion was forever on the move, following the rains, clouds and the seasons of the plains.

Jean-Paul remarked that Gwen owned an Orb that could arguably direct the party toward the desired location through mystical means. If she consciously set her mind on the Golden Pavilion, there was no reason why the Omni-orb couldn't circumvent that particular complication in Meister Bekker's quest.

"… How quaint. If I were a Diviner, I would say fate works in strange ways." Meister Bekker sipped her coffee. "As I am not, I shall abide by an old saying from the Steppes, that 'one shouldn't count a gifted Slave's teeth'."

It took Gwen a moment to catch the Meister's implication.

"Does that idiom mean what I think it means?" Gwen's eyes slightly narrowed. She had only the slightest clue about flesh-trading among the Demi-humans of the Steppes, at least not in enough detail to suggest it was a part of the everyday fabric of life.

"War is constant on the Steppes. And so is the caste system used in the region," the Mevrou flatly replied. "We'll be making extensive use of it, so keep your eyes half-closed and your mind wide open."

"I was under the impression that the 'slavery' was a form of indentured servitude—" Gwen thought she'd ask once more. "Or something like prison camp labour derived from the defeated."

"No," Jean-Paul's teacher assured her of the implications. "These are SLAVES in the sense of American history. There's no euphemism implied. We're talking people as property to treat and trade as you, the owner, sees fit. It's a speciality of the Khanate and one of the principal economic forces that drive inter-tribal conflict. Every battle proceeds with a fatal charge of the slave-corps, after which the main force commits its finest archers and riders."

Gwen acknowledged that reading up on the Golden Horde's history may have warped her understanding of local customs. So far, she had gathered that the Steppes, consisting of plains, tundras, plateaus, reliefs and endless estuaries descending from glaciers to the north and east, was home to hundreds of Demi-human tribes. What she did not realise was that the medieval method of victory through enslaving your opponents was alive and galloping today.

"That's crazy. Outright slavery! I mean, not even serfdom! In this day and age?"

"How much do you think the Northern Steppes has changed since the time of Genghis' Golden Horde?" The Mevrou stirred her coffee, re-heating the liquid with a stern glance. "Whatever system of government they had devised was effective enough to rule the largest land empire on Terra— why should the 'Nayzağay Qanı' Kin that hail from his golden blood desire administerial modernisations hailing from France?"

"Alright," Gwen conceded her human-centric worldview. "What do you mean by we'll be using… the slaves?"

"Use that big brain of yours." Engela Bekker drew her a picture. "On the Steppes, there are many commodities to be traded. Crystal currency, rare earth minerals, Creature Cores and magical ingredients are what we're after, but what do you think the 'Nayzağay Qanı', the 'Thunderblooded' prefer for trade in a place so vast and full of danger?"

"… Labour?" Gwen dreaded the fact that she knew the answer. "… and Food? Wait... Jesus Christ."

"During winter, the two are not exclusive," Jean-Paul's teacher's reply made Gwen's toes curl. "The Thunderblood Marauders of Khitan think nothing of using the docile Tasmüyiz for nourishment. We don't think much of our sheep and cows, and neither do they. Further north, the Wolf Mothers of the Qasqır Clan pay extremely well for teams of Şöpter slaves. During spring and summer, the Şöpter tend to the fields and nurse the pups. In winter, they make for good sport— and if the weather remains foul for too long…"

"… Strewth." Gwen had to put down her fourth croissant. "It's the fucking Dark Ages out there."

"Don't be like those old fogies in the Anthropological Section," the Mevrou chided her. "The Steppe is life in its purest form, raw and free, unbound by petty rules to protect the weak. There's much we could learn, as Mages, from those Centaurs."

Gwen grew contemplative. "This is harder than advertised."

"Did you think this would be easy?" The Mevrou laughed. "The Golden Horde was responsible for the Dark Ages, after all. Our job, Magus Song, is to drag the Khitani Centaurs kicking and screaming into the 19th century."

"Do you mean the 21st?"

"Your optimism is commendable." The Meister gave her a look of disapproval. "You're going to be my assistant Administrator, Gwen. Not the Second Coming of the Nazarene."


Isle of Dogs.
The Bunker.

Gwen plotted out her timetable for the foreseeable future.

She had four days until the New Years, a day of many celebrations. Yet for the Devourer, her holidays were looking like a period filled with preparations. After all, the Mageocracy's centaur crisis waited for no woman, not even one still idling on the invite to Trawsfynydd.

She decided to utilise all four Storage Rings for her imminent venture to work with Evee, undermine the Exeters and usurp more money yet.

One for sundry.
One for HDMs.
One for equipment and materials.
And her original loot Ring from Sobel's underling would hold shoes, shirts, skirts and personal effects like a wardrobe.

The Steppes, if it was indeed a crash course in Dark Age ethics, could not be easily overcome through municipal management. Yet, at the same time, Gwen couldn't help but feel strangely aroused by the thought of so much untapped chaos awaiting her therapeutic touch of order.

Even in this world's limited understanding of global macroeconomics, the Frontier was a meaty beast ripe for rapine. As the top-scorer in her governance and 4P course, Gwen had sniffed out financial dynamics even her lecturers lacked the perspective to see.

In the Purple and Black Zones, her teachers observed resistance to the Mageocracy's imperial government system, preventing investments from ruling class prospectors. They pointed their wands menacingly, principally as a means to subjugate, subdue or coerce local powers into servicing mutual interests, hence the Mageocracy's passion for supporting minorities and "losers" in regional conflicts.

Therefore, the profitability of Frontier ventures lay in untapped raw material markets made possible by infrastructural barriers to foreign investment. Australia, for example, outside its coastal Green Zones, possessed a Saurian-dominated north verdant with untapped HDM mines, lumber, agricultural estate and Magical Materials.

There, Gunther's diplomatic strategy of "shock and awe" alternated between the carrot and the stick, with Humanity conceding a clear-cut boundary they would not cross. In exchange, the Saurians had to operate a trade channel where humans could acquire materials and goods from the Daintree tropics. Concurrently, the Saurians had to resist the temptation to hunt outside their sizeable domain.

Naturally, considering the tribal politics of the Saurians, no small number of them overspilled from the prime rainforest as a result of inter-tribal conflict. In these instances, Gunther would demand the Saurians settle accounts on behalf of Humanity. It was a hard-ball method of "scorched earth, one only someone with the gall of Gunther could show their two-pronged neighbours.

Conversely, the Coral Sea was home to riches that would arguably make Sydney and Brisbane as wealthy as Singapore were it not for the unceasing vermin-tide in the form of Merman. Unlike the Saurians, whose home Gunther could threaten and who threatened Brisbane and Cairns in turn, there was no chasing Mermen Wave Riders five fathoms deep into the Pacific Kingdoms. As a result, like a reverse Rural Fire Service, Gunther and Alesia had to spend random allotments of their time setting ablaze rising waves of clamouring fish that could appear anywhere between Melbourne and Cairns— not that they minded. A significant portion of Australia's export produce came from the ocean, further exacerbating the endless skirmish.

If anything, history in her present world had proven the futility of Humanity trying to govern Demi-humans. As a whole, her species had settled on Democratic Socialism, Constitutional Monarchy, Theocracy or Communism. Conversely, the Demi-denizens of the world privileged entirely different social-political frameworks.

Take the Dwarves, for example. Hanmoul's homeland contains a social system that made no sense in Human terms. At the top of the Dwarven pyramid were Ancestors academics, venerated but removed from holding seats of power and politics in Deepholm. In the Cog Hall, the Dwarven council was formed by a feudal coalition of Clans and Guilds, together holding the reins of Dwarven society's mineral veins. Therefore, the Dwarven people ran a theocratic, decentralised feudal meritocracy with a socialist policy creation system that relied on tradition, honour, and general honesty.

How would that even work, knowing Humanity's propensity for anarchic outbursts of individualism?

Likewise, for the Álfar staying rent-free in her mind thanks to Dickie— Was there even a word for a system of government centred around the maintenance of a tree and a Wyrm? The Elves she had met so far all seemed to act both independently while at the same time appearing to know their exact, multiple roles. If she had to draw an analogy, the whole of Tryfan seemed more akin to a colony of Giant Hornets than svelte and lithe supermodel Elementalists inhabiting an arboreal pocket dimension.

Gwen exhaled as her eyes swept over the construction site with its teams of Golems large and small, hammering away at concrete and stone with bursts of purple Transmutation and vivid Evocation.

If possible, she wanted to delay her Tryfan visit until after the Steppes— but from the sounds of Meister Bekker's business there, one month might not cut the mustard.

And if she neglected the visit for too long, say until March or April, the favour Dickie promised might waste away, and she might even eat into the goodwill he owed her for the Dwarven situation.

Hence, she would visit Tryfan on Friday.
At worst, she would be back by NYE.

With her mind made up, Gwen set others to task.

For any other War Mage, even a Magister-tier operator, they would have to source their materials for their quests themselves or through relevant departments. A Tower Magister, assuming they had appropriate sectional powers from the Shard, could outsource the legwork to apprentices and aides.

For Gwen, she merely stopped by the Isle of Dogs with a list of the following to be delivered no later than a day or two into the new year.

50,000 HDMs, newly minted by the Bank of London in various denominations.
50,000 HDMs, in raw crystals of various Elements.

144 Potions of Healing.
48 Potions of Remove Disease.
25 Potions of Greater Healing.
12 Potions of Restoration.
6 Potions of Haste.
6 Potions of Heroism.

20 Pallets of Military Rations, assorted.
8 Pallets of SPAM in Regular, Cheese and Bacon.
2 Pallets of survival equipment, enough for three Mage Flights.
2 Dwarf-forged Omni-suits for small civil projects.

And armour and arms for herself, Evee, Mathias, and whoever might join them.

As Gwen's stay in the Steppes was strongly correlated with Meister Bekker's designs for her Tower Operations in the region, only she and Evee would be semi-permanent. Even if her family, like Richard or Petra, wanted in on the action, she would have to pay to get them teleported down, and even then, there was the risk of flying solo to find the Golden Pavillion in a Black Zone without Divination Towers. Unlike Evee, who had the Order of the Bath to back her, there would be no secret transit nodes for two 'lowly' Magus-tier casters from Cambridge.

As for armaments, a Dwarf-forged Spellsword was something Gwen had promised Mathias almost a year ago, but both parties had been so busy that what should have been a celebrated and longed-for kit refresh had wholly escaped them. After returning from Battle, she had reminded Walken of the fact. After that, the Magister had informed the Dwarves working at the Isle of Dogs manning the Fabricator. The next day, the Order of St Michael delivered the material components and an order outsourcing the manufacturing to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth.

As for the armours, her Shen-Teī suit was presently in tatters and beyond its ability to self-repair. She could send it back to China, or she could order another one, but now Gwen was interested in something Hanmoul had mentioned a long while ago.

The possibility of creating armour from Big Bird feathers.

So that the Citadel could put hammer to anvil, she had given Hanmoul the go-ahead to craft something "local" that would serve as an improved suit of Shen-Teī. As a Mageocracy War Mage, to have Sinomach sent her a new bodysuit would likely tickle some beards, especially considering how the Shard felt about "Inferior" Communist state enterprises. Just as well, she disliked owing favours to the Greys and especially the Militants, not when she could manage the supplier herself.

She wanted something sleek and svelte and held up well against both elemental and physical damage, a quality that nothing short of Master-tier Dwarven Runecrafting would provide. As for the Creature Core component, she had several Hulk specimens with Negatively-aligned properties that would serve as the suit's conduits— considering her future abuse of Sanguine Mantle and Bone Shield; she didn't mind more Negative Energy drain.

And in the concourse of waiting for her suit to be made, she figured she might as well have one crafted for Elvia as well. The Order of the Bath possessed its own Enchanter Brethren, but Elvia wasn't of the rank necessary to pursue their services. As such, Gwen gave Walken instructions to find Elvia something suitably "Saint-looking" to both protect her friend from harm and harness Faith from folk she would rescue in their future expedition.

When she had mentioned this idea to Elvia during their restless night at the Ferrier's Cottage, the Cleric accepted her gift of a suit in the mid-five-figures range. She then asked: "Who am I saving? Is this for the Steppes?"

Gwen's response had been, "No idea, but I know from whom you'll be saving folks."

"Who?" Elvia had cocked her head with sweet, unknowing innocence.

"… me."

Trawsfynydd.

In the end, Gwen decided not to risk Dickie's ire and the Elves' further impatience. Therefore, from London to Birmingham then to the skies, she had blazed her way north-west at full belt while following her Divi-orb, arriving finally at her fated meeting.

On the grassy knoll approaching the trade station, the Hvítálfar receiving her wasn't the lithe Hierophant Sanari but a black-clad warrior dressed in a scarab-shell battle mantle.

Arch-Warden Eldrin, she recognised the look if not the Elf. The Wardens wore mantles of different length, each resembling gossamer insect wings, with the juniors sporting a single pair of silken fabric. From the looks of the luxurious waterfall of semi-transparent material behind him, the Arch-Warden possessed no less than four pairs.

Was the fabric merely ceremonial? Gwen wondered as she landed with the biggest smile she could muster. Or were they magic items of sorts? Either a form of transformative armour or maybe something akin to wings that could enable supersonic flight.

Different to Solana's ageless mien of tender benevolence, Eldrin's face was more angular and cruel, with a hooked nose that reminded Gwen of a down-turned horned beetle. He was tall even for an elf, standing past two meters from greave to headpiece, all in satin crow-black.

Solana the white. Gwen mused to herself. Eldrin the black.
One took care of the tree and distributed its benediction.
And the other, if the cosplay was anything to go by, was the kind who dispensed violence in the dark, doing clandestine deeds to satisfy Solana's needs so that the rest of the Hvítálfar could look each other in the eye and say "May the Bloom be Eternal" without fear in their leafy warrens.

Gwen inhaled the nourishing air.
The first time she came to Tryfan, she had expected Rivendell with a twist. Now armed with renewed Planar knowledge, she had a better understanding of the Hvítálfars' position. According to Cambridge, the conjecture was that Elves were symbiotic colonisers of the Prime Material. Theirs was a way of the world that had been conceived in a time when men still walked with hunched backs, and Dwarves cowered from the hungry things swimming through the Murk.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Greetings from the Shard." Gwen bowed deep as she landed. "I have come for an audience with Eldrin, Arch-Warden of Tryfan."

The Elf's pupils were the usual chromatic gold common to the Hvítálfar, and thanks to the dark garb of the Arch-Warden, Gwen felt as though acutely studied by an alien beetle with an insectile mind. From her position, boundless potential energy seemed to encase the Arch-warden's conforming bodysuit of chitin, making him appear melded with his carapace armour. In place of stitchings, straps and seals, the suit was unblemished by manufacturing, appearing wholly home-grown.

No doubt, Gwen whistled internally in her mind. The battle suit was unique, mayhap was as rare as the giant Red Dragon Core the House of Windsor displayed in London's Tower.

"Magus Song." Eldrin didn't even grace her with a nod. "You've kept us waiting."

"Duty called." Gwen indicated in the wrong direction that wasn't the Shard. For some reason, she felt strangely rebellious against Dickie's advice to fawn over the Elves like her peers in the Tower. "Lord Hierophant, you weren't standing here for months on end, were you?"

The Arch-Warden's facial muscled moved a micro-millimetre. "Come, we shall speak in a more appropriate place."

Gwen glanced at the phantom "Tree" in the distance that seemed to rise into the heavens. It was an impossible sight, for the weight of all that wood would make its physics akin to an inverted K2 sitting atop the Matterhorn.

"Okay." She followed like an obedient kitten.

Another Mage would question the wisdom of following an elite Elementalist into an abode within which they held complete control over time and space. As for Gwen, the last time she was here, Almudj had a heart-to-heart with the Bloom in White, momentarily transforming the elfin goddess into AC/DC's 1990 Australian classic, "Thunderstruck".

Gwen felt guilty that once more, she was piggy-backing on Al's good graces, despite her Patron having given no such consent. Of course, with the Path of power she had plotted out for herself, such crutches would not remain permanent. Within ten years, she was confident that she would attain Sobel's sorcery level, then far surpass her Master's wife.
Why?

Why Legion, of course.

Short of usurping the telecommunication conglomerate from her, no one in their right minds would allow such a categorical advancement in quality of life to be rescinded from the world.

Even if the Mageocracy tried their darndest, she wasn't worried.
Short of Undeath, they would have to pry the controlling shares from her cold, dead hands.

Beside her, without need for an existing tree, Eldrin willed a trellis gate into existence, then opened a portal into Tryfan.

"Tree Striding is SO incredibly useful…" Gwen remarked as she stepped through.

"Henry could do something like this," came the cold reply. "So can you, if you are willing to learn."

Inside of the portal, they unsurprisingly arrived on the foliage of the grand trunk. The pair was not near the heartwood, as Solana's abode had been, but a balcony overlooking the Cloud Sea below the Plane of Radiance, a sight that hinted at the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Steam having drifted close. They were on a private viewing platform, below which the Great Tree extended into the white unknown and above which the vibrant, jade-leaf foliage tapered toward a blue infinity.

There was an elegant table wrought of vines, fossilised and then carved meticulously with wood-shaping spells, erect amid two equally elaborate chairs. The motif, as far as Gwen could tell, was a narrative tapestry of sorts.

"I have waited upon you, Magus Song," Eldrin began. "Because in my capacity as Arch-Warden, I had been a companion to your Master, Lord Henry Kilroy."

"Thank you for being patient," Gwen said with a tone of apology. "I didn't know you knew my Master."

It was a white lie.
Considering that Henry had a bloody secluded abode where he lived with a bleeding Void Sorceress, there was no possibility that he was on bad terms with the head of security. Still, there was no reason to demonstrate her foresight. Against her seniors, especially older men, Gwen had long learned it was best to pretend that she was ambitious and brilliant but low on wisdom and cunning.

Eldrin gave her a critical glare.
The Essence in her Astral Body instinctively roused, stiffening her spine and adding colour to her cheeks.

"I understand that we are both individuals with more matters of immediacy than time," Eldrin remarked. "Nonetheless, it is The Bloom's wish that you come to understand the arrangement your Master and Tryfan once shared."

"Time? Our lives are as mayflies to willow's compared to yours, Lord Warden," Gwen returned. "Even so, I am surprised the Hvítálfar experience impatience."

The Elf studied her with his chromatic orbs catching the Radiant light. "You speak like one with a limited life, you— who is a calf of the old ones."

"I am still young." Gwen shrugged. "Two decades is all I've known."

Eldrin's unconvinced face made her self-conscious. She felt like an older woman trying to convince the young buck at the bar she was still in her twenties.

"The arrangement we had with Lord Henry stems from the Accord," Eldrin said. "A good number of your Human leaders on the continent you call Europe likewise share this understanding with our kind. Your species may be native to the Prime Material, but our kind has been here far longer than you. Without our presence, the Prime Material will be far more vulnerable to the Astral law of entropy. Without its Great Trees, the Prime Material would have never existed, nor would it continue to exist."

"I understood some of that," Gwen replied stiffly, conscious that they'd been standing the whole while. Unfortunately, since Eldrin stood still as a sentinel, and she had to oblige likewise.

"Magus Song." The gangly and giant Elf loomed. "Will you, as Lord Kilroy's scion, join our Accord?"

"Is Gunther a part of this?" Gwen asked in turn. "Is Alesia?"

"Magus De Botton and Master Shultz are a different breed compared to you and Lord Kilroy," Eldrin answered. "They stand at the apex of your kind, but they are not of interest to the Accord. Master Shultz would have suited our Bloom's purpose, but Lord Kilroy had by choice took him from our commonwealth into his. Now, in Master Kilroy's vacancy, we turn to you who is closest to him and whose potential may be greater."

"Hold up." Gwen put up both hands. "I'll have you know that no one ever explained what the Accord was to me. As far as I know, it's air."

Eldrin appeared to study her face to read the thoughts coursing through her head. "I see. Shall I elucidate its purpose?"

"Not if it means I have to join," Gwen said quickly. "Sometimes, ignorance is bliss."

"You are not curious?"

"Curiosity killed the Displacer Beast," Gwen replied. "Then sold its skin for five hundred HDMs at the Grey Market. I should know. I've got the coat in my Storage Ring. Beautiful colour."

"I see." Eldrin considered her words. "Then, in my capacity as Arch-Warden, I shall consent to give you a certain degree of clarity without charge. Do you still wish to know?"

Gwen was tempted to ask whether it was possible to discuss the issue in her flying Tower a decade from now but also recognised that the Elves were likely starting to take her seriously as a threat, or at least as an unknown element that shouldn't be left alone. Back in the day, Solana had said that they had left Henry to his devices— the consequence was Sobel, then and Henry's death.

Likewise, she still had to report on Sufina's proposal, though she would not make that demand of the Elves until she had some leverage to lubricate the discussion.

Gwen sighed at her indecision.

"You are a very peculiar specimen, Magus Song." Eldrin's expression remained unchanged. "How many of your kind have perished to be let into the Accord so that they may know the deeper secrets of the Prime Material, and yet, you dither at the threshold. We are offering an olive branch out of diplomacy, Gwen. And out of consideration that you are Henry's true Apprentice."

Henry's true Apprentice.
Her breath quickened.
She liked that.

"Fine, I'll bite." Gwen shrugged her shoulders. "Don't you know that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing? How much are you willing to give for free, and if I listen, what choice might I have in remaining neutral to Tryfan's cause? I wasn't staying away out of arrogance, Arch-Warden. I was staying away because there might be prospects far beyond what I can or am willing to handle."

"… And the council complains that you Humans rush forward without consideration for consequences." Eldrin finally revealed a less stern expression. "You may sit."

"And if I refused, were you going to portal me out?" Gwen rolled her eyes and sat. "I am all ears, Arch-Warden."

Eldrin joined her in the adjacent chair.
Elves have long torsos, Gwen observed. Eldrin's sitting height made her feel like he was still standing.

"The Accord," Eldrin began again. "Is both simple and complex. The World Trees are the source of the Prime Material's stability. In its health, there sits the Bloom in White, Master Tyfanevius, and we. In this, they are three and yet; all are one."

"There is always a woman, a snake, and a tree," Gwen mouthed to herself.

"While my kind has made our home here for longer than you can imagine, beings like Humanity are the true inheritors of the Prime Material. We Álfar are custodians— to maintain this balance, your kind as well must do your duty."

"Alright." Gwen thought of the Triffidus infestation she had purged. "But surely there's more to it."

"The Accord is an agreement to maintain the Tree's health, and thereby the health of this Plane we call home," Eldrin explained. "Balance, Magus Song, is more than Purging invasive species and defeating common enemies. Ecological maintenance requires delicacy, for it is an act of foresightful and constant, meticulous pruning. For all our sakes, the equilibrium is maintained. To do otherwise would contribute directly to the Plane's demise."

"Why does that sound so ominous?" Gwen asked.

"Because your kind has failed once already," Eldrin stated without any particular emotion. "Thirty-four Sun Cycles ago, the Great Mor Ereg withered, its Guardian turned on the Great Tree's custodians, and the basin from which some of your greatest ancient nations emerged erupted into a sea of flame. The "Caspian" boiled, Magus Song, and the Prime Material both our people hold dear was torn asunder by the Astral rent that took Mor Ereg's place. The sea changed, the land changed, the clouds shifted. The consequence, you should know well."

"The Beast Tide. The Black Dragon."

"Ancient Vynssarion, yes." Eldrin nodded. "The death of the tree robbed from the old one all sensibility. A being of his power, nourished for aeons by the Great Tree's roots, isn't a madness Elves without a tree could tame alone. As a result, the Elementals usurped a portion of our world— and the Astral fabric tethering together the Prime Material grew thinner yet."

"So, the Accord is a mutual defence treaty?" Gwen asked for clarification. "That's nothing out of the ordinary. Why the secrecy?"

Eldrin waited for her to finish.

"Maintaining equilibrium," he said carefully. "Is a difficult affair. Each Great Tree's pillar stretches only so far, and each tribe, be it the Hvítálfar, the Ljósálfar, the Svartálfar or our mortal cousins, the Träälvor, take a different approach. Some guard their duty with jealousy and hostility. Others chose isolation and seclusion. WE chose cooperation, becoming Wardens, servants to the great balance of all things, living or dead, elemental or native. If you so choose, you too may join the ranks of our kind, nourished by immortality, tethered by compromise."

"Our kind? Immortality?"

"Solana has already mentioned this," the Arch-Warden said. "The Great Tree nourishes the Wyrm, the Wyrm its Vessels."

"VESSELS?" Gwen's eyes grew wide, a torrent of thoughts flooding through her swirling mind. She wasn't sure how the Yinglong fitted into this western narrative, but her cognisance was no longer blank. "I think… I get it. Wow— is that what a Vessel is? Is that the purpose of the Dragons? Are you saying there are more Vessels like Evee and I all over the world?"

"Yes… and no. You are not unique in that capacity, at least. Just as Humanity isn't alone in this sacred enterprise..."

Eldrin left it at that and instead impassively studied her face for signs of further comprehension.

There was much to digest in Eldrin's words, and Gwen chose to do just that.

During the Triffidus infestation, the Shard had moved its military forces from Northern Ireland to put down the Far Planes' planar overspill. According to her lecturer, this was because of ecological conservation and a need to prevent further decay of the Prime Material's paper-thin boundaries.

Now Eldrin spoke of a more significant threat, a kind of Triffidus endgame, that of a Planar race spilling into the Prime Material and becoming a dominant presence strong enough to bend space and warp the elemental composition of Terra.

Unless the Elf was bald-faced lying about the Black Sea, then she could trust his assertion that someone fucked up in the 70s and didn't manage to hold the fort against whatever was undermining the World Tree thereabouts. The consequence, therefore, was the collapse of a planar junction to the south-east, earmarking a part of the world that had served as the cradle of Human civilisation in antiquity as a Black Zone.

As for the meaning hidden in between Eldrin's words, Gwen knew for a fact that there was something direr the Arch-Warden desired her to fathom through conscious cognisance. Only then could this "something" so ominous be acceptable to her.

One by one, she carefully masticated Eldrin's diction choices in her mind, hoping her Master's Translation Stone was up to snuff.

Balance.
Ecology.
Tree.

From the way Eldrin positioned himself, the Warden saw the Hvítálfars' position as guardians of sorts. Even his title of "Arch-Warden" sounded like it hadn't so much to do with defending his tree, but more so to do with a managerial role, something like a CEO.

The Triffdus of Angelsley.
The Elementals of the Fire Sea.
The Purge actions.

Each a volatile element not of this world.

Pruning.
Astral fabric.
Prime Material.

Gwen wracked her brain, sifting the details through a sieve of logic.
What was Eldrin directing her to see? Why was the Accord a thing that folks kept secret? Why was her Master a part of it, but not Gunther or Alesia or the Mages more famous than herself at the University? As for those who are in the Accord, why would they obfuscate their participation? Why did even Dickie speak of it haltingly?

She cycled her train of thought once more, this time from the beginning.

Pruning.
Plane.
Purge.
Equilibrium.
Ecology.
Tree.
Something clicked.
Pieces fell into place.
She looked down at her hands.
They were white, pale beyond belief.
Her fingers were shaking.

Beside her, a slight display of affirming mirth displaced Eldrin's thin, severe lips, forming a pink gash like a fresh razor wound.

The Accord—
In accordance with—
To reach an accord by consensus—

A terrible understanding dawned, emerging from the Mountain of Madness like a gibbering aberrant baying for attention.
The role her Master played for the Hvítálfar burst upon Gwen as though hot slime from a foetid Void pustule.

In her old world, in Yellowstone, the wolves and bears ate the elk who ate the elm, the elm fed the beavers, the beavers built the dams, the dam prevented lowland floods, and the precipitation fed the highland elm. Like a spider's web, every ecological chain was welded to the other, with the removal of a single link spelling catastrophe. For decades, the Wardens of her world pruned the trees, bred the wolves, shot the elk, and balanced the ecological chain.

In this world, the Hvítálfar instituted a more nouveau method.
They invited the elms, the wolves, the beavers, the bears, the ravens, the salmon and whatever else lived in the Prime Material.

And among the species, they picked out a few stand-out individuals.

And then they told them the way of the world.

"Welcome to the round table. Let's keep this simple. Do you want to prune yourself? Or should we do it for you?"

Today, she pruned the Triffidus.
A decade from now, she may prune the Elementals out the Fire Sea.
Then one day, inevitably and for the greater good, she would prune her own.

That was the _Accord_.