Of all the coursework Gwen had undergone during her Magisters' training, the one topic she had never thought to put into practice was city planning.

It wasn't that she was disinterested— only that she couldn't have imagined a situation where she alone had to make the educated guesses for how sanitation could be maintained while living space was maximised.

When Kokochu had said the fort wasn't enough for the rats, the Centaur had a point— the existing infrastructure held two thousand rats at best, while the remaining six thousand were scattered as though she had sown seeds in a wide arc.

To fit her whiskered people, what she needed was aid from the Dwarves, though the possibility of importing talent was close to zero. Curiously though, Strun had mentioned that there were entrances to the Murk hereabouts and that white-skinned fiends inhabited the gloom. Moreover, as Aberrants seldom ranged far from Dwarven settlements, she strongly suspected there should be an isolated Citadel somewhere below the low hills to the east and south of the Sawahi.

If she could get the rats to build their cities underground as warrens and bunkers, it would absolve most imperilments from the Horse Lords, the Harpies, and at least three out of the four principal Elementals.

Then, with basic safety absolved, the Rat-kin could engage in primary produce and commerce, both necessary to attain self-sufficiency.

After that, the existing twelve Clans under her command could then take time to absorb the other tribes. According to Bekker, after the campaign, win or lose, there would be a period of equilibrium where both sides would need to recover. In that lull, she would have the Rat-kin repopulate the Eastern Steppes and treescape the landscape to halt the desertification. Assuming she was right, even the Hvítálfar could be roped into providing support, for Sanari did infer that biodiversity was central to maintaining the stability of the Prime Material.

Hers was a viable, longitudinal plan, though, for the Rat-kin, it would be a challenging and blood-strewn Path for whom sacrifices would be unending, both before and after the fact.

For now, all she could do was provide her rats with as many advantages as she was capable of giving.

At first light, she had commanded Caliban to dive into the billabong to check its depth. Delightfully, the famed aquifer under the oasis was deep indeed, meaning there would be no shortage of fresh water for the Rat-kin, at least until she could import Elemental Water Generators and Filtration Engines to nix that particular problem in the bud.

After that, so long as the rats could trade for enough HDMS to power and service the generators, they should have few issues withdrawing water for agriculture. Once the conflict stabilised, she would have to tinker with the economy in the region until profitability was reached— though that was a problem for the future.

And for that— Gwen's hand wandered to the Druidic Satchel and its Llais Leaf. Unless she completely misread Sanari, the seeds should provide the food she needed to sustain her plan for the Rat-kin. Simultaneously, the concurrence that made her wary was how much the Bloom in White had foreseen, and if she was playing right into the hands of some multi-dimensional "Accord" the Hvítálfar were laying out.

"Strun," she called out via her Empathic Link. As a Soul Slave, the Rat-kin heeded her command, with her will diminished only by distance. The range was significant, for her link with Gracie only waned to the point of emotional ripples after the Teleportation Circle to Eastern Europe. Whatever the case, the nefarious sorcery maintained that a Master could induce suffering regardless of distance and that if Gwen's soul were to perish, all of her Soul Slaves would suffer the backlash, heedless of time and place. "Get Garp to follow the lines Ariel marked out; keep an eye on the labourer teams. I want those aqueducts completed as soon as possible!"

"YES! PRIESTESS!" came the earnest reply. "Your will be done!"

Elvia Lindholm and her trio of Knights arrived at Shalkar at noon.

More so than in Ireland, when she healed the Ordo's Knights in their running retreat against Balor's Wyld Hunt, her chest ached, and her head felt woozy.

She had always suspected that Gwen would grow unscrupulous under the guidance of the Nobles of London. Even her Rectrix had spoken of her peers in disdain, issuing regular warnings for the members of the Ordo to remain vigilant against the temptations of wealth and power. The ORDO— her Rectrix had declared, were the POOR soldiers of the Nazarene. What power and wealth the Ordo gathered was only for its missions and not for personal profit, and should any member feel otherwise; they were free to pursue the Path of secular authority.

Thankfully, Elvia and her party did not arrive at the site of a tremendous Necromantic Ritual.

But that didn't mean Elvia felt any less troubled. After watching the activity in the distance, Elvia began to understand why Walken had been so anxious about what Gwen would get up to if left unchecked.

"Lindholm, is that a Mandala?" Chaplain Hawkford inquired after his knowledge of Necromantic Rituals failed to satisfy his suspicions. "A Transmutation circle, perhaps, within which she could convert all life to Un-life?"

"I don't believe so, Lord Chaplain."

"Elvia's right. It doesn't look magical to me." Smallwater gave his two cents. "That's a lot of rats though, make them Skeletons, and this may as well be a tomb city in Asyut… Rothwell, what's your take on that thing digging the canals?"

"Though I am unlearned," Mathias said his bit of nothing. "I do believe that's a Sand Wyrm, Sir."

"I thought they're wild and uncontrollable?" Elvia noticed the Inquisitor watching her. That there's a tame Sand Wyrm was indeed a strange phenomenon, though one right up Gwen's ally.

"Gwen often charms Magical Fauna," Elvia offered what she knew to be an unsatisfying explanation.

"Magus Song had a moniker during the IIUC," Mathias suddenly reminded them of something profound. "They called her the Worm Handler, Sir."

"A Wyrm Handler? What arrogance."

Elvia felt her chest constrict, fighting to contain her despair over the misunderstanding. "I believe that's what they call a double entendre, Sir— during the broadcasts, Gwennie was exceptionally popular among the male members of the audience. That and her Familiar, Caliban, possessed means to penetrate its foes with its tongues, which are concurrently tentacles, with teeth."

Inquisitor Hawkford's expression was that of a man demanding to know if his juniors were fucking with him.

"It's true, Sir Hawkford." Mathias backed her up.

"That's her flying over yonder?"

"Correct, Sir," Elvia said.

"And underneath, that's a Rat-kin, riding on the Sand Wyrm, steering it with what looks like ropes tied to either side of its head."

"Indeed, Lord Chaplain." Elvia nodded. "I hope Wyrm husbandry isn't heretical."

"Smallwater?"

"It's not an Undead Wyrm, and there's nothing in the manual against taming worms." The Senior Protector shrugged, grinning. "We should probably applaud Magus Song for bringing a Sand Wyrm into the Mageocracy's fold."

"What do you make of the Mandala she's drawing then?" Elvia watched her Chaplain squint. Her brain throbbed in sympathy for the Lord Commander, a man so used to solving problems with hammers that anything sticking out looked like nails.

She did sympathise, however— why would an Inquisitor follow a trail of heretical sorcery only to arrive at landscaping?

"I do believe, Inquisitor—" Elvia had recognised the "strange pattern" at once. For one who knew little about Superstructural Mandalas used to Conjure the Undead, it was self-apparent what Gwen intended to build. "The 'Mandala', Sir, is what folk in the secular world would call Urban Planning."

The quiet that followed was thankfully interrupted by their Senior Knight Protector. "Well, Kent? Shall we meet our sorceress? I am burning with curiosity."

"Indeed."

"I am sure Gwen would be happy to see us." Elvia did not doubt that the moment Gwen saw her, all decorum would go out the Tower, and her friend's affections would come on as thick as molasses, especially considering she's had no one but rats to talk to for the last week. If she took advantage of Gwen's rudeness— then she could warn her of the pitfalls to come.

The foursome drifted forward, picking up speed until they were close enough to be heard with a Clarion Call.

"EVEEEEEEEE—" The sound of booming thunder rolled across the heavens as the meteoric acceleration of Gwen's infamously obnoxious Flight fulminated.

In the next moment, the lithe-silhouetted sorceress Dimension Doored in-between them with both arms open, enveloping Elvia before she could introduce her companions.

"YE GODS— THE HUMAN TOUCH—" Elvia became buried against the protrusions in Gwen's rubbery armour. The eruption of affection had come so suddenly and with such force that her cheeks flared a bright crimson.

"Gwennmmgnnn— these are—"

Hugging her tight, the sorceress took Elvia for a twirl before finally letting go.

"— My seniors, Lord Inquisitor Kent Crawford and Sir Thomas Smallwater, both of the Ordo."

Gwen greeted the two by shaking their hands.

"We've heard many good things about you, Magus Song." Sir Hawkford's eyes fell upon her friend. "But first, we are here to help. Elvia says that you had requested immediate aid."

"Thank you, Lord Chaplain, though I fear there is no longer a need. I have rectified most of my problems for now," Gwen said. "Though at the cost of almost two thousand lives…"

"Gwennie, if those are the Demi-humans you saved, then this is an incredible feat!" Elvia butted in, just in case Gwen meant she spent two thousand lives. Having worked with refugees in Northern Ireland and helped orchestrate evacuations in two separate campaigns, she knew precisely how impossible it was to organise a successful Exodus. "And you did it alone! You're always doing the impossible."

"Nothing's impossible with enough HDMs and prep." Gwen flashed a hand with no less than FOUR shimmering bands, three of which were Rings of Storage. "The ordeal's cost me a few crates, but the main thing is we made it."

"Well, Mattie and I are here to help," Elvia said quickly. "Aren't we, Mathias?"

"I am at your service." Mathias made a mid-air bow. "I am truly grateful for the Spellsword, Magus Song. We've also brought the supplies you requested from Magister Walken, though I fear Evee's and your armour was not ready by the time we left."

Gwen handwaved Mathias' apology like a diner refusing complimentary bread. "No worries, Matt. Don't fret over a mere Spellsword— that's for you to protect Evee. If you want someone to thank, pay your respects to Nesatin Smeltshield. He decided to rush your order ahead of the ones commissioned by the Griffin Guards; I just asked."

"Surely there's something we can do?" Elvia surveyed the Rat-kin below, most of whom were now gazing up at the flying five. "Have you set up a Field Hospital? A triage shelter? I can sense a great illness, Gwennie— something evil is brewing inside these Demi-humans of yours."

"Ah, yes, about that—" Gwen placed a hand on either side of her hips. "Evee, I need your medical knowledge."

Elvia breathed out. Even if the infected were Demi-humans, healing the sick left a good impression on the Ordo, who often contended with races outside of Humanity, and whose mission of mercy did not usually suffer from racial prejudice. Gingerly, she touched a finger to the holy icon hanging by her neck. "Anything, Gwennie, just ask."

"Very well." Her friend nodded amicably at her Chaplain and Senior Protector. By now, both of her superiors had relaxed somewhat. "What do you fellers know about Blood Plagues? Or how to ferment Necromantic phages? I need a hand propagating the one I've got, and I need to make sure its virulence remains at full capacity."

Inquisitor Hawkford stiffened. To Elvia's eyes, the man appeared relieved that his suspicions were right after all.

Comparatively, Sir Smallwater seemed puzzled by Gwen's complete nonplus confession, for her tone was no different to a housewife wanting help with an outbreak of garden snails.

"… Right." Elvia felt her insides grow weak. To think things were going SO well! "Before we take this further, Gwennie, could we get a PRIVATE moment to rest and clean up? I am all icky from flying."

"Companion Lindholm," her Inquisitor interjected, likely to rebuke her audacious partisanship. "I don't believe—"

"Of course!" As usual, Gwen was in no mind to refuse her requests. "This might be the Wildlands, but that doesn't mean I need to be a terrible host. You must all be tired."

"We're fine." Inquisitor Hawkford once more attempted to intervene. "Can you tell us more about this—"

"Don't be a stranger." Gwen laughed without guile then beckoned that they follow. Elvia ignored her superiors and Mattie's alarmed expressions, following her friend like a kitten as she parted the Rat-kin tide like mouse-Moses parting the Rat Sea, revealing a path to a glimmering portal. "Come on, I've got the Portable Habitat set up with cold drinks and fresh fruit. Help yourselves."

"Em…" Before Elvia could protest, her seniors followed them into the portal, with Gwen permitting her companions' entry. Mathias hesitated but still entered the grey space with its three-bedroom bungalow, knowing that he may have to fight his superiors at her command.

Inside the familiar room, Gwen directed them to the kitchen and fridge. While every strand of hair on Elvia's flaxen head threatened rebellion, her friend played the perfect hostess by showing her the spacious bathroom and retrieving for her a fresh towel.

LORD NAZARENE— Elvia's inner voice cried, begging the almighty for the necessary strength to guide her through this ordeal.

Just as Gwen was about to leave to charm her Chaplain and his Knight, she reached out with a trembling hand and grabbed her companion by the wrist. Gwen tugged at her arm to no avail as Elvia had applied her Draconic strength.

Gwen looked down, a little surprised. "Yes, Evee?"

"Let's…" Elvia gulped. She could feel her Draconic Essence reacting against the viridescent counter force flowing in Gwen's body. "Let's…"

"Let us?"

"Go to the bathroom together..."

Gwen let loose a snort just as her cheeks took on the same beetroot colour as Elvia's. Going together to the bathroom wasn't uncommon back in high school, but since Blackwattle, the same occurrence had not happened again.

Behind her, she could feel Mathia's mana go haywire while her Chaplain and Sir Smallwater both stood from their seats.

Gwen's eyes flittered between the men and herself, then an understanding that could not be more mistaken dawned. "Right. Of course, Evee. I missed you dearly as well. Sorry, gents, please give us girls a moment to freshen up."

Then, in mockery of her smouldering nerves and cramping insides, Gwen gave her superiors a wink, as if to challenge whatever opinions they might have on two ladies sharing a moment, then allowed Elvia to take her away.

The door shut.

Elvia's mind raced. Would her superiors use the Eye of Providence? Or the Word of Revelation? She knew of only one way to ensure neither Sir Crawford nor Smallwater would attempt such a thing.

"Goodness!" she shouted at the door. "Gwennie! You've gotten so much more beautiful! What a figure you have."

Her surprised friend grew so scarlet she could have acquired a new moniker to rival Alesia. "Evee, I know we haven't seen each other for a few days, but wasn't our agreement that we would take a more natural course? Time, you know? Like we discussed?"

Elvia walked straight to the bath and turned on both the shower tap and the bath's spigot. She then turned to her friend with a look of complete seriousness.

"Gwennie, we need to talk. It's about the fellers outside." Knowing that time is of the Essence, Elvia incanted the keyword to undo her magical smock. Instantly, her garments loosened, transforming from a body-hugging combat robe into a loose cloak. Then, with a simple wave, she stowed her holy vestments into her Storage Ring. "They won't look— or listen— if it isn't— chaste. Not on mere suspicion."

"Right." This time, Gwen read her intentions. She unfastened several zips, then stepped out of her combat armour like she was peeling off a layer of skin.

"GOOD GOD—" This time, Elvia did not need to fake her emotional outpouring for the men outside. Though her friend's body remained hale, she could see the remnants of bruises both large and small where various body-boosting contingencies had forcibly knitted otherwise dire injuries. Observing the combat armour's inside-out shell, Elvia could see that its protective membranes had been shattered and that the twisted strands of magical fibre were rusty with what could only be dried blood. There was an odour as well, something between rust and the twain that unique to Negative Mana used to empower Necromancy, that spoke plainly of what Gwen had done to survive the past few nights.

"I know, I know—" Gwen escaped into the shower, then covered the door to affect some privacy. Once her other bleeding garments hung on the door, she stepped into the water, momentarily turning the tiled floor ochre. "I wanted to take a shower before you came, but it's been one thing after another."

Elvia fought the repression in her chest; holding the Tri-Crown icon hanging between her bosoms, she prayed for her friend with all her heart. "Heal thy faithful, Lord, and I will be healed— Blessed Aid!"

The white-tiled bathroom glowed golden for a brief moment.

Gwen let loose an audible moan like she was stepping out of four-inch heels after a long day working retail. "Christ, Evee, you're getting GOOD at this Faith business. I take it the chapel at the Isle of Dog is picking up believers by the container load?"

"Yeah…" Elvia herself sat on the toilet seat, confident that Mathias would duel the Inquisitor should they use Scry or Clairvoyance in a situation like this.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"What did you want to tell me?" Gwen's voice blossomed beside her ear. They were out of sight of one another but not out of Divination range.

"Gwennie, did you employ unorthodox magic to save the Rat-kin?" Elvia chose to cut straight to the chase. "The entire way here, we've been picking up traces of Soul Sorcery and Necromancy, among other kinds of... unscrupulous magics."

"Ah—" Gwen's tone, for some reason, sounded relaxed. "Yes, I've been using whatever means necessary to get my rats to Shalkar. Why? Is there a problem? The Tower has sanctioned everything."

"But not sanctioned for unsupervised usage..."

"Outside of London? The unspoken rule is don't ask, don't tell," Gwen's reply was atypical of the secular powers.

"Are the rules of the earthly world so… flexible?"

"Absolutely. It's the bloody wild west out here, Evee." Gwen made a face that imitated Dede. "Tell you the truth— I've been holding back. The Tower's opinion, which is also Brown's and Bekker's advice, was that I should use whatever I deem necessary at every opportunity. Practice makes perfect, or so the adage goes..."

The feeling of repression in Elvia's chest did not change. "Oh, Gwennie, you worry me so. What did you want with the Necromantic phage?"

"It's a long story, longer than a shower at least," Gwen joked at her expense. She then elaborated on the situation of her Rat-kin, victims of the Plaguemancers from Spectre.

"Spectre!" Elvia felt for a moment that the steam had become ice. "That's who Sir Hawkford and Smallwater are hunting."

"Damn righteous," Gwen said. "I'll talk to them. Get them to help."

"But... your 'magic'… I don't know how my superiors would react." Seeing that her friend felt no fear, Elvia self-medicated with a silent jolt of Calm Emotions, soothing her frayed nerves.

"They won't be a problem unless they desire to be." Her friend's eerie confidence was more worrying than her Necromancy. "Look, Evee, I know you're worried, but give me a chance to explain it in front of your peers. Trust me, the higher up they are, the more likely they'll agree with me."

Elvia couldn't help but feel that maybe her friend didn't understand just how high the matter could escalate. If Inquisitor Hawkford saw something he deemed excessive— not even the Tower could contest his accusation. Of course, the powers behind her could then free her, but the procedure would be lengthy and costly.

What Elvia feared then wasn't the consequence of Gwen's Necromancy-lite, but the fallout if she and her Chaplain came to blows. While Gwen's battle potential was there for all to see, Faith Magic did possess an edge over Spellcraft in the distinct manner of its manifestation, something regular IMS users could not begin to fathom. When gathered in the hands of someone at the tier of Sir Hawkford, it would take Gwen's Brother-in-craft, Gunther Shultz, to squeeze out a concession from the Fomorian-crushing Knight Commander.

"Evee—" Her friend addressed her silence. "We take any longer in here, and they'll be reporting you for something else. Look— don't worry about the Ordo, alright? I got it covered. Lady Loftus gave me a very long and detailed rundown, and though I can't say too much, let's say The Order of the Bath and I are natural chums, okay? Your Knight and this Inquisitor are going to LOVE me."

When her friend finally stepped from the shower, Elvia studied the synthetic orchid adorning the sink, hating the fact that she was in no mood for titillating encounters.

Gwen quickly dried herself with an Incantation Cube, donned her intimates, then slipped on something entirely inappropriate for meeting with clergy. True to her word, her companion wasn't troubled.

But could men like Sir Hawkford be moved so easily?
Comely and charismatic her counterpart might be, Elvia did not doubt that the Inquisitor had a mind like tempered iron and was immune to glamour, both magical and otherwise.

"See you outside, Evee." her companion exited with a rush of cold air. "And thanks for the heads up. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have even considered wrangling the Order of the Bath. When Shalkar gets going, you're getting credit, too."

Gwen felt disappointed that the Knights did not liquor up with her Dwarven lagers, although they did help themselves to the platter of fresh fruit she had laid out.

Now freed of her bloodsoaked battlesuit, Gwen was feeling very pleased indeed. Not just because she and Elvia healed a little as a result of her Senior Knights, but also because she hadn't gotten this close to Evee since Sydney, since before things had gone strange and their relationship grew more tangents than an Aberrant had limbs. The naive fluster that Evee had shown— she loved that side of Elvia, especially her good-natured innocence and her well-meaning little acts of self-sacrifice. No doubt, if this Sir Hawkford did indeed have beef with her, then Evee by now would have left little doubt in the man's mind that his doll-eyed acolyte wasn't an obedient sister but a naughty, wilful minx.

For what's to come— an unexpected setup she had Elvia to thank— she wanted the Inquisitor on her side, which meant the Ordo would act as one of her Lightning Rods. If she could manage that, then another obstacle to the Rat-kin's newfound freedom would be exchanged for a support pillar.

After pausing at the doorway so her audience could take a good long gander, Gwen arrived in the midst of three stiffy silent Knights whose eyes couldn't believe what they were seeing.

Indeed, no Necromancer should look so vital.

Gwen didn't know what Soul Flayers looked like in casual, though she suspected heavy mascara, skinny jeans, and tour shirts for Cannibal Corpse might feature. Comparatively, her chosen battle outfit was white-on-white, a demure mini dress with a square window to show off her collarbones, completed by a teasing hem hidden by sheer chiffon. With her hair just dried and trailing the scent of floral shampoo, she thanked the men, then sat on the tub chair directly facing them, thighs crossed, feet bare, her dainty toenails red as rubies.

Mathias stood with his body against the tall back of the chair left empty for Elvia, his eyes finding scripture in the ceiling.

Sir Smallwater sat hunched forward with an appreciative grin, ready to participate in whatever game she invited them to play.

Chaplain Hawkford's gaze remained focused on her eyes. The man's expression was unflappable, though Gwen could sense his uneasiness. Taking a sip from his cup to mask the awkwardness, the Inquisitor finally allowed his gaze to wander, then sighed like a tired Pastor.

"Shall we wait for Companion Lindholm?"

Gwen agreed, then made small talk about London's high society.

A few minutes later, Elvia emerged fully clothed in her battle smock, which is to say white tunic and pants, with the tri-crown logo of the order imprinted on either rigid shoulder. Against her bosom, a holy symbol dangled, diffusing a golden glow that matched the fairness of her flaxen hair.

The Evee of now was also lovely, Gwen thought. Gone was the cluelessness of youth. Now her friend appeared efficacious and thoughtful, though a little tired.

Elvia's Inquisitor-Chaplain was the first to speak.

"Novitiate Lindholm, for reasons you very well know, may I request that you observe a momentary vow of silence?" Hawkford opened without diplomacy. While the man spoke, Gwen noticed his irises glowed as though haloed by the golden hour. "Magus Song, may I ask you a few sensitive questions? Know that my enquiry is for both your benefit, as well as that of our future Knight Companion."

"Of course." Gwen cocked her chin, then twirled a bit of hair about her collar bones. The more unbalanced her audience became, the better the latter impact of her words.

"What sorcery did you use on your Rat-kin to enable their passage from Nukus?"

"Potions, Potions, Potions, and Death March," she answered without pause.

"Death March?" The Inquisitor made a note with a raised brow. "Same as what the Centaurs use?"

"It's a unique variant. We've replaced the Green-skin Essence Sympathy segment with scripts intended for Soul Necromancy originally pioneered during the Great War. The baseline Sigil's Glyphs parallel the original. However, the hybrid Sigil scripts are my Master's invention and are known only to myself and a few select Cambridge Faculty members. A record is available for those with the right clearance."

Her candidness caught the Inquisitor by surprise, for the man had to take a few seconds to digest the fact before continuing.

"We also detected another kind of Soul Sorcery, a kind that has seen questionable applications when used in the South American Wildlands. Is that also by your will?"

"Soul Tap, yes," her candidness continued. "Very useful when you need the dirty truth in a hurry. I've been using this opportunity to test its elasticity and limitations. In the forefront of academia, Sir Hawkford, entire generations of Void Mages' livelihoods now hinge on my proficiency. If successfully paired with Sympathetic Life-Link— that's the other Blood Thaumaturgy you'll be accusing me of, we can stabilise the vital decay stemming from volatile Negative Awakenings. It's all very miraculous."

"You do not appear at all troubled by your descent into Necromancy, Magus Song." The Inquisitor's brows knitted. "I would venture to say that you seem proud of it."

"Should I not be?" Gwen looked to Elvia, smugly smiled, then looked back at the Inquisitor. "I was born in a backwater Frontier, but now I am the Devourer of Shenyang, the Liberator of Kachin, MVP of the IIUC, architect of the Tonglv Canal and the Isle of Dogs, co-Pioneer of common Void Sorcery, Ambassador to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth and fellow to the Tree of Tryfan. At present, I am here for my Magister's training, testing myself by liberating the Rat-kin and to bring a new balance to the Steppes. Did you think I achieved these accomplishments by studying Spell Books at the local library? Where would the Ordo be if its members lack the same conviction and ambition?"

Gwen studied the Chaplain while her accumulative titles tightened the Inquisitor's lips little by little like a tiny ratchet.

"Hubris," the Inquisitor retorted. "... is a treacherous sin even for one so young, no matter the value you may bring."

"You didn't answer my question," Gwen replied with another beaming smile, shifting in her seat so that Mathias found renewed interest in the spotless ceiling.

"No matter, you have answered mine."

"Do I satisfy?" Gwen gestured to herself.

Hawkford's brows knitted.

"Tell me, Inquisitor." Gwen decided she would move on. "Who does the Ordo serve?"

"The Nazarene, for us whose blessed feet were nailed to the bitter cross."

"Indeed." Gwen made the sign of the cross. "For he is the way, and the truth, and the life."

The Inquisitor's coolness cracked. "Magus Song, even for someone in your position, it is unwise to mock the Ordo."

"Lord Commander Hawkford." She leaned forward aggressively so that a portion of her hair fell across her bare shoulders. "I meant no disrespect. Rather, I am frustrated. Did you know that almost nine days ago— yours truly happened to a group of hapless Rat-kin living as slaves without dignity or means of escaping drudgery, enslaved by pagans who worship the old ways? Touched by their suffering, I took their sick and dying and displaced them from becoming hamburger mince under the Centaur's iron hooves, then trekked across a desert filled with wolves, Harpies, Sand Wyrms, and Moses knows what else. I then fed them out of pocket and charity until we reached the promised land of their oasis, only to be shat on by the bloody Khan. As a learned Cleric of the almighty and all-merciful, are you seriously going to dismiss the parallels?"

"I see it," the Inquisitor replied with ambivalence. "You have done an admirable thing, Magus Song, but—"

"Inquisitor! By Him that raised me to this careful height, I have done nought that would go against my God-given conscience!" Gwen carefully raised the frustration in her voice. "Dear Chaplain, you do me shameful injury when you presume my vileness, know you not that the all-knowing watches us, even here in this Pocket Plane?"

"I shall not contest that." Hawkford appeared entered by her flurry of accusations. "Magus Song, I am not here to judge your merits—"

"JUDGE?! If the _temple burning Mongols_ —" Gwen parried the Knight's counter, taking a mile when gifted an inch. "— have not been smitten by Him, then why should the all-knowing damn ME, who sought to save the meek? Blessed are the _Meek_ , Chaplain! You all knew of the Rat-kin's plight! Yet no one helped them but _me_ — a meek woman who knew nothing of their suffering! Yet _lo!_ Here we are, dearest Inquisitor! Their salvation is at hand! Will you damn them? Who can say this isn't providence? YOU? Be you so mighty that you alone speak for the Lord of Lords?"

Gwen watched as Mathias hung his head. Besides the Knight of St Michael, Patron Saint of the Meek, Sir Smallwater shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The Inquisitor raised both hands in protest.

"Magus Song… Your tongue is as wily as the thrice-damned serpent's." Hawkford spoke after a prolonged pause. "Yet, I cannot contest that you have spoken only the truth. Yes, we have taken little care of the troubles here. However, for the sake of our world and to prevent the tragedy that is the Great War, there must be discourse and consequence. Your Path isn't the first to cross ours, Gwen— and you won't be the last."

"Our path isn't crossed, Kent." Gwen fought back, her pupils aglow with supernatural confidence. "Nay, our Paths are parallel and supplementary, like the two rails of a track; one would falter without the other. For instance, Evee says that you are here for the Plaguemancers?"

"That is correct."

"Then you should know that the phage I am trying to preserve is the very one laid by your Plaguemancers. If you have means to track the plague, Kent, I'll give you all the aid and samples I can."

"Much obliged." Hawkford's eyes softened. "But why have you not eradicated the phage?"

"There was no need." Gwen moved on to the next phase of her subversion. "I need the phage to make a home for the Rat-kin and establish a haven. In the months to come, I will gather the scattered Rat-kin Clans of the Sawahi here."

"Your humble Rat-kin are immune to a Plaguemancer's crafted phage?" Hawkford raised both brows.

"In a manner of speaking, thanks to certain improvements on my part, most can endure the worst, with only the weakest and the lame succumbing to the fever. As for those who are newly infected, the phage often lies dormant."

"I hope this isn't yet another sanctioned heretical Thaumaturgy." Hawkford's judgemental eyes gleamed.

"No. Tis a virtue of Essence. Free-range and free of Necromancy," Gwen said. "As to how? That's Classified information. I urge you to petition London Tower if you wish to know more."

"This might be strange, Magus Song, but I find your total honesty... disturbing." Hawkford's truth-seeking glamour flickered as the man massaged one side of his temples. "I concede the point. Your disease is useful in what way?"

"It sends the Centaurs fleeing in every other direction," Gwen delivered her punchline. "I am keeping this gift from the Plaguemancers so that the Centaurs would stay away from Shalkar."

"And if they don't?" This time, it was Sir Smallwater who asked the question. "Horse Lords are very, very aggressive when it comes to territory."

"Then good luck to the Khan. A small force won't make a dent, not with Garp here. Conversely, a large and victorious Horde will return to Nukus laden with casualties and plague. It would be lose-lose."

"Of course, your tame Sand Wyrm." The Inquisitor grew contemplative. "And you… foresaw this?"

"Things happened." Gwen shrugged. "Life is full of ordeals."

"Magus Song, if you don't mind me playing the Devil's Advocate. What's the value in keeping Shalkar?" Sir Smallwater raised a hand, his tone now edging on respect. "And indeed, these bottom-feeding Demi-humans?"

"I plan to terraform the local area into an agricultural primary produce centre." Gwen felt relieved that she could finally draw her pie in the sky for the Ordo Knights. "Did you know that the Rat-kin were originally responsible for the spreading of crops and other plants that prevented the desertification of the Sawahi? The process is reversible, so long as we can keep the Horses away."

"You aim to establish plantations?" The Knight remained unconvinced. "What will you grow?"

Knowing the Knight would ask this very question, Gwen casually reached for a pouch resting on the side table, then retrieved a leaf pulsing with vitality.

"Good Lord." Sir Smallwater blinked rapidly. "Kent, she's got a—"

"I know." The Inquisitor motioned for Gwen to speak. "Gwen, are you party to that which cannot be named?"

Knowing that she had the men now dancing in the palm of her hands, Gwen smiled with teeth. "Maybe, are you, Kent? If so, we can speak more candidly."

"The Ordo is not, and never will be." The ex-Knight Commander shook his head. "Do your orders come from up on 'high'?"

"I shall not verify nor deny that fact." Gwen slipped a pair of fingers into the valve-like opening of the satchel to retrieve a few seeds for all to see. "Starling Tomatoes, Jade Cucumbers, Polar Beans and Sunburst Squash— and to quote my Druid Hierophant— 'These will thrive anywhere on the Prime Material, provided there's sun, soil and water.' Once we have a prolific supply of produce, precious food exports will bring a rapid expansion of the Rat-kin's domain. I don't know if you studied Planar Theory in the seminary, but when an eco-sphere recovers, the Prime Material's fabric will increasingly disfavour Planar invaders, limiting the growth of the Fire Sea, if not outright turning the Elementals into natives. If I succeed— and succeed I shall— then Humanity, the Mageocracy, and the Rat-kin will see wins on every front. AND the Centaurs will have abundant food to sustain their war against the Elementals."

To finish, Gwen willed a juicy apple to float from the fruit basket. Holding the fruit in the palm of her hand, she implored the Inquisitor by taking a bite out of the crisp flesh.

"Thereby, Sir Hawkford. Will you nip this sinner in the bud, or will you aid the meek, and in the process, bring long-lasting peace, prosperity and mercy to the Steppes?"

Opposite Gwen, Elvia's trio of Knights stared as though the Devourer in a short dress had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail.

"Oh, just one more thing." She had wanted to save her Ace-in-the-hole for a rainy day, but with Elvia here, she felt that the time was ripe for teaching her Evee just how tenable her position in the Ordo had become. "I say this with the utmost respect, Sir Hawkford, but after your victorious return to London, you should check in with your secular scribes as to why the Ordo's budget has been so generous."

Inquisitor Hawkford's eyes grew suddenly alarmed.

"Ah— I see you had a hand in the audit duties as well." Gwen passed the bitten apple to her off-hand. "To alleviate your suspicions, I shall confirm your worries. Battle's budget has indeed been generous of late, not only because the Lady of Ely had donated doubly handsomely, but because the Isle of Dogs also contributed. I shall say it here and now, Inquisitor Hawkford— I promise you, in my capacity as the Isle's CFO, that if the salvation of the Sawahi goes well, the Ordo's budget will _increase_ to a degree equating the degree of our success."

"Ye Gods! May the Almighty have mercy on our souls..." Sir Smallwater made the sign of the cross with his Holy Symbol while facing her. "Damned succubus, tempt us not! Kent, what say you?"

"As always, we will do what's right." Inquisitor Hawkford disabled the Faith sorcery empowering his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose with a defeated sigh. "Magus Song speaks the truth— We are mere ministers of His grace, Thomas. Aiding the Meek remains a core duty of us Poor Soldiers."

Gwen happily stood from the couch, shook hands with her new conspirators, then sat beside Elvia with her arm around the Cleric's neck.

"What? How?" Her precious Evee appeared to be in pain after holding her promised silence. "If you could... Why did I even... _ARRRGH—_ "

"Never mind that, Evee." Gwen rested her cheek on Elvia's head as she massaged the young woman's trembling shoulders. "Isn't it nice that God works in _mysterious_ ways?"

Hyrcania.
The Western Steppes.

A mere hundred kilometres from the Fire Sea, the desert air burned even at dusk thanks to the planar tear, its breach of the Prime Material so violent as to be visibly distorting the landscape.

Dini Saran, Chief Shaman, Speaker for the Nayzağay Qani and its numberless Şöpter servants, sought shelter from the heat under the Glyphs laid down by the Human Mages aiding the Horde.

"Şöpters, leave me," she gave the command. Her followers obeyed without question, filing out of the cool tent and into the burning exterior to suffer the heat.

Saran touched a finger to her temple, allowing her consciousness to rang out, affirming that her Khan, Khudu, his other Orkoks and their allied Arcanists were resting from the midday victory against the Dao's Clay Golems.

Thus far, the campaign had progressed at an alarming pace— so exceedingly well that more than once, Saran had asked her Khan to halt his pursuit of the retreating Dao and Djinn for fear of needlessly losing their men to ambushes.

The Khan had given chase heedless of her advice— and against all expectation, emerged victorious with the help of the Human Meister Angela Bekker, besting the ambushes at every turn.

It was incredible, but Hyrcania, the old bastion of the Centaurs under Seljuk Khan some millennia ago, was once more theirs. Through the loss of only an Orkok's worth of Free Riders, they had pushed as far as it was physically possible to do so, leaving only the outer perimeter to cleanse and secure.

Now, Saran felt a horrible disquiet.
The Khitani Horde had bested the mirage-wielding Marids.
Beaten back the deceitful Djinns and even pushed back the magma-hearted Dao.
But where were the Efreeti Clan?
The Fire Sea— so-called because of the reigning authority of the prideful Princeling Zodiam, Son of Flames, that wanton, gluttonous bear of an Elemental, ancient bringer of firestorms and desolation, had amounted its defence sans its strongest soldiery— the infamous Brass Legion.

Their absence, Saran was sure, was the only reason for which Temir, so young and fearless in his courage, could penetrate this deep into the heart of the Fire Sea, a place where Elemental Fire ruled like a fierce tyrant over all other Elements.

Yet, in this promised of land flame and brimstone, where had its sulfur-breathing champions gone?

Again, Saran assured her privacy, then produced from her herb pouch a desiccated leaf. Promptly, she conjured mana and distilled Essence to the hand holding the leaf. The fibres hungrily absorbed what Saran made available, growing vibrant and plump as her figure appeared to wane in the aftermath like a wilted flower, her youthful face growing instantly old before beginning a slow recovery.

Saran had not wanted to use the Llias Leaf, certainly not because of an unexpectedly decisive victory.

Holding the leaf with both hands, she transmuted her thoughts and fears into the sympathetic fibres of the living leaf, calling upon one who had guided her since the time of Temir's grandsire.

"… Saran?" a thought came, borne on the hot winds blowing from the portal.

"… O Eternal Bloom." Saran infused her thoughts with the leaf. "I require your boundless wisdom."

"… An unexpected request from one so capable, but we will oblige. What ails you, child? Have the Elementals proven more powerful than the Council anticipated?"

"The opposite, your worshipfulness. We are at Hyrcania, our losses are acceptable, and morale remains high. We have pushed the Elementals far, but there has been no sight of Prince Zodiam, nor his brass-bound molten legions."

"… Most peculiar. How many Free Riders did you lose? Who did you face?"

"We have slain a little over a thousand of the Elemental Folk, including six Primarches of Earth, Water and Air. Our losses number just over ten thousand, though we will lose more to the Blood Fever when we return. I am sorry to report that the Elementals have allied with Human Necromancers to spread disease and famine."

"Famine?"

"Without other nations to raid, the Sawahi struggles to sustain the Horde's appetites, O Eternal Bloom. After the war, there will be many winters of long attrition. Though we have many Elemental Cores to trade, I know as well as your sagely self that the Mageocracy will not make good on its promises."

"… Saran." To Saran's shock-horror, the all-knowing voice of her ageless sage sounded hesitant. "Has a visitor not appeared, bearing a Druidic seed-satchel by her side?"

"I…" Saran's thoughts flashed over the entourage of Human Mages. She had worked hand-in-hand with every Mage for the last ten days and recalled seeing no one with a Druidic satchel. "… I do not know, O Eternal Bloom. Please instruct this ignorant one."

"… Have you not seen a Void-wielding sorceress?" the voice grew solemn.

"I have, though the sorceress is far from the field, in Shalkar. We had expected to call upon her Creature— though now it would appear there is no need."

"… Why is she not with her companions? With the Khan? She has a way with words..."

"… The girl wished to spare several Clans of diseased Tasmüyiz. When her senior sorcerers humoured her wilfulness, the Khan thought it harmless to send her away and to teach her a lesson in futility so that we are in a better position to negotiate with the Mageocracy after the campaign."

The silence that followed was like whispering silk.

"O Eternal One." Despite the coolness of her yurt's interior, Saran's furry skin broke out in a terrific outbreak of oozy sweat, making the sheer fabric of her robes adhere like a second skin. "Has this one erred?"

"For our ultimate purpose…" the voice that came through possessed an uncanny tone Saran could not read. "You may have achieved a better outcome than any other member of the Accord had achieved in years."

"I thank thee, O—"

"… Though for your people," the voice continued. "Who may know?"

"Eternal Bloom?" Saran's fingers shook. "Should this one retrieve the Void sorceress from Shalkar?"

"I shall leave matters to you," the voice in her head said. "Fret not, Saran. While change itself may be unpleasant, that which endures must be endured, else boon will turn to bane, and the Khitani will join their ancestors in history."

"Please teach your fool." Saran prostrated while holding the leaf, the golden bell of her horns lowering until they touched the carpeted floor. "Guide this one as you always have..."

Saran prayed to the tree in the north.
She prayed to her ancestors, then prayed to the spirit of Great Gengis.
Unfortunately, no further elucidation came to Dini Saran, Chief Shaman of the Khitani Nayzağay Qani.

In the Llias Leaf's silence of thought, there blew only the scalding winds from the Fire Sea, driving the dunes eastward, eternally expanding the Sawahi.


When Gwen and Elvia's retinue of Knights materialised in the world outside, Golos had returned, and she had redressed in safari khakis more suitable for sun and sand.

"Father's Vessel has arrived?" her Wyvern's first act, after dropped off a pair of bloodied bodies, was to remark on the bewildered figure of Elvia. Even now, her friend was reeling from Gwen's conversion of her Ordo's Inquisitors.

When the majestic Wyvern's elongated snout reached the Inquisitor and his Senior Knight, the Wyvern's usual arrogant Draconic gave way to English. "Greetings, Daoshi of the West."

"We hail thee, Scion of the Yinglong." The Inquisitor bowed his head while Gwen introduced them, evidently impressed by so noble a creature.

Her Wyvern appeared to struggle in placing the duo within his internal hierarchy of being. "Calamity, be these allies or foes?"

"We're all friends here," Gwen assured her Wyvern, then directed their attention to the two bleeding, mangled piles under Golos. "I assume those are not our friends."

"Ha! That's the Chief of the Qasqir and his child." Only now did Gwen notice her Wyvern's entire lower half was covered in wet, as opposed to desiccated gore. From the looks of the carnage, Gogo must have had a lot of fun raiding the camp of the Sawahi's hapless, terrestrial Demi-humans. "I thought they might be useful."

"They certainly are!" Gwen patted her Wyvern on the snout. "Well done, Gogo! Your brother would be proud!"

The Wyvern snorted with evident pleasure, then haughtily reared back a head that was as violent as it was handsome.

"That said—" Gwen stepped in front of Elvia almost unconsciously, then felt embarrassed after realising her friend was probably more resilient to Gogo's carelessness than she was. "— are they still alive?"

Her Wyvern shrugged its shoulders, an act so human that both Elvia's Seniors remarked at the Thunder Wyvern's affability.

"I'll check," Elvia offered, conjuring forth Sen-sen without apparent need for an invocation.

The bipedal Ginseng took a wide path around Gwen, then grew out its tendrils to nestle the potential wolf-kin corpses onto makeshift field beds formed of interwoven roots.

The Knight Companion's eyes took on the dim glow of Clerical Divination; after a quick inspection, she raised her Holy Symbol and proclaimed the all-compassing "Aid" of the Nazarene. Miraculously, Sen-sen took on the same illumination as conjured by her Prayer Cantrip, bolstering Elvia's spell with its unique constitution.

It took several minutes for the Aid to run its course. As the spell's gentle suffusion took place, Rat-kin from all over the dig site came to see what their Lord Golos had brought and what their Priestess' companion was capable of performing.

Perhaps hoping that their death should have been the end of it, Gwen's prisoners opened their despairing eyes. Interestingly, Elvia had only partially restored the Wolf-kin, a testament to how well she had read the situation.

"Your names?" Gwen stood beside the scoundrels. If the wolves were to attack, they would instantly discover just how potent a Ginseng could be when reinforced with the Essence of a True Dragon.

In front of the four humans, a Wyvern, an endless ring of rats, and two disorientated Wolf-kin raised their subdued eyes at their captors.

Both Wolf-kin had seen better days, but there was still a savage majesty about the pair that made Gwen think of documentaries she had seen about the Wolves of Yellowstone. In the cold, sandstone pupils of these creatures, she saw cunning, malice, and the deep-set ego of alpha predators.

"Kinsur of Qasqir," the larger of the two replied. "This is Tatatunga. I am chief of the Qasqır."

Gwen looked to her Wyvern.

"If they're lying." Golos grinned cruelly, revealing teeth that the Rat-kin could use for daggers. "I'll raze their village and every other wolf settlement within an hour's flight."

"Thank you, Gogo. Wolf-kin of Qasqır. Why did you attack my Rat-kin?" Gwen asked a loaded question, one she would use to gauge how the Wolves would pay.

"… Nourishment," the wolf calling himself Skinkur spat blood as he answered. "And orders."

"From?" She activated her Desolation Aura.

"From Temir Khan's Eagle-kin." The wolf moaned with every stuttering word, struggling to deliver his rationale. "There's no crime in it. We live on the Steppes. Strength is how things are. They're welcome to raid us back if they're able."

"I see. Though I would be careful what you wish for." Gwen studied her mangy, mangled foe, then turned to Elvia. "Nourishment, you say? Evee, can you use Detect Disease on our guests?"

"Of course." Elvia turned her diagnostic vision toward the Wolf-kin. Incanting a few words, she sent forth a ripple of Positive Energy that travelled through Sen-sen's tendrils to pulse through the creatures' bodies. A few seconds later, Gwen had her answer. "It's a minute manifestation, but it's there. They're sick with the same Blood Fever that's carried by your Rat-kin."

Gwen's lips formed a red line of mockery. "Ah— karma can be a cruel mistress. Tell me, Kinsur, did you two know that the Rat-kin you're attacking are the plague-ridden Tasmüyiz I rescued from under the Khan's hooves?"

The two shook their heads. "Nay. Dini Saran's advice was that these were fleeing the war."

Dini Saran? Gwen scanned her recent memories, and a smiling Şöpter Shaman's face flashed across her mind's eye, the very one who told her to chill out over Strun's mother. If Saran had planned to "reward" the Qasqır by offering them diseased rats, then the fathoms of the Dini's twisted mind was depthless. In one act, the Shaman would have shamed her, killed the rats, then infected the Qasqir, the Centaur's natural competitors.

"I know of this Saran," Inquisitor Hawkford volunteered. "She has served as the 'nurse' of three generations of Khans thus far, an exceedingly unusual prospect for a Şöpter Shaman."

Briefly, Gwen described her encounter with Saran to Elvia and her companions, then elaborated that these two and their Clan of hunters were responsible for the life of some eight hundred refugees.

"Nonetheless, I would hope that your 'mercy' is just." Inquisitor Hawkford appeared to have read her mind. "And without unnecessary Soul Sorcery."

"I'll give them the mercy they deserve," Gwen informed the Inquisitor, then stepped into the air to address her circle of rats. "Prefects! Your Priestess requires your presence!"

A few of her Prefects were already close, while the few that had duties further afield delegated responsibilities to their fellow Centurions, then scampering to the fore.

“Priestess—“
“Dear Priestess!”
“We are here, Priestess—“

The title was enough to raise the brows of her companions.

"It's what they've taken to call me." Gwen laughed off their concern, sensing that her new companions had taken on odd expressions in the rats' presence. "It wasn't easy getting this many folks you've met for a few days to work together without adequate theatrics."

Hawkford gave Elvia a questioning look while her friend once more took on a consternated expression of guilt and concern.

"Trust me, there's nothing to it—" Gwen turned to her rats. "This is Strun, a Centurion and grand scion of Stian. Beside him is the rat himself, Elder of Clan Jildam and a Prefect. Tell them, Stian, what am I the Priestess of, exactly?"

"The Afaa al-Halak! Sovereigns of the Sawahi!" Stian replied at once. "And You are the tamer of the Wyrm, the Rat-kin's salvation, O Priestess."

"See?" She rewarded the Prefect by patting the rat on the head. "Evee, Mattie, you'll be working with Strun in the coming days, together with Garp— that's the Sand Wyrm over yonder. Strun is my Wyrm Rider and Champion among the rats. If there are any problems, Strun will solve them for you."

"Hello, Strun." Elvia waved at the rat. The Knights nodded, unconvinced of the authority bestowed upon so unassuming a Demi-human.

"Welcome, Prefects," Gwen addressed her newly gathered audience. "Over there are the leaders responsible for that night of terror— their Elder and his heir."

The rats' eyes informed Gwen and her fellow sorcerers that they had only one thing on their minds.

"From the fact that they're sick with the Blood Fever," Gwen continued. "I take it that they ATE your kin. Raw."

The murderous aura grew thick enough to slice.

Opposite Gwen, Elvia and her Knights silently waited for the carnage to come.

"In their eyes, what they did was not a crime." Gwen eased the atmosphere of simmering rage by merely raising a hand. "Fortunately for our Qasqır neighbours, I am not one to judge. THEREFORE, what I shall do is encourage the fruits of their labour— Golos will take these two diseased murderers back to their Clan. There, they will inform their kin, or not, that the Khan has gifted them a Necromantic phage that would desolate their stronghold. That will be the karmic outcome of their choice to attack us like jackals in the night."

Gwen waited for rats to digest her judgement. "Does that satisfy? If any should object, come forth now."

Her Prefects were quick to prostrate themselves. "None, noble Priestess, your wisdom is faultless."

"Inquisitor?" Gwen turned to Hawkford. "Can I get a professional opinion?"

"Unorthodox, but apt." Inquisitor Hawkford nodded with solemnity. "As you said, the Qasqır shall eat the fruit of their sins. Tis an admirable summation, Magus Song."

"Thanks, Kent." Gwen gave the man nod. "Mathias, you said you brought supplies?"

"A hundred Cure Disease Potions, and twenty Restoration Potions." Mathias made to remove one of his Storage Rings.

Gwen tossed the ring to Stian, knowing that the rat could use simple items, then turned once more to their cowering prisoners.

"I have given these potions of Cure Disease to the Rat-kin," Gwen informed the pair. "They are free to gift them to you if your people are sincere enough. If so, the penitent may be spared to perpetuate the Clan."

"HA!" Golos snorted, understanding as well as she did that having the Wolf-kin beg at the Rat-kin would break their spines. "Calamity! Ruxin would be proud."

"I know," Gwen stated the obvious. "Now, would you mind delivering these two back home?"

"I shall do it at once!" The Wyvern's innate sadism overflowed from the expression of pure pleasure. "You two! Hold still lest I crush you like Ryxi's carp!"

The Wolf-kin dared only to protest in silence, though they were gone in an instant, disappearing along with Golos' gleeful laughter amid the flapping of great wings. Knowing her Wyvern, he would not only deliver the Wolf-kin's leaders but inform their Clan and the Clans around them of the disease, then stay to watch the shit show like a kid poking at anthills.

"An excellent finishing touch." Inquisitor Hawkford was the first to speak in the aftermath of her judgement, offering an opinion that juxtaposed Elvia's consternation. "Mercy and judgement in equal degree— but not without cost or consequence. Elvia, Mathias, you have much to learn from your friend here."

"Yes, Inquisitor," both Juniors of their irrespective Ordo hailed the Inquisitor's advice.

"So, what will you have us do?" Hawkford indicated to himself and his Senior Protector. "Sir Smallwater and I can spare you a day at best. Companion Lindholm and Sir Rothwell will stay, of course, as per their original designs."

"Please do as you will." Gwen turned to her Prefects. "Ix, Jarl, Bith, can you take these Masters to see Centurion Kuka? They're interested in studying the illness. Give them whatever they need. Scour the mischief for the newly sick if you must."

"YES! Priestess!"

To her companions, she explained that Kuka was the old Shaman of Clan Jildam tasked with helping those suffering from the direst symptoms of the Blood Fever. In those victims, the mature phage and the phage seeds should gift the Inquisitor the means to trace the mana signature of Spectre's Plaguemancer.

"If there are enough samples and Miss Lindholm's aid, we shouldn't need more than a few hours," Hawkford assured her.

"Gwennie, I brought a field clinic with me," Elvia showed off two rings on her off-hand, by which Gwen took to mean she brought tents, supplies and medical necessities for surgeries. If so, then the thousand or so injured rats relying on soiled bandages and splints would be thankful indeed. "Where can I set it up?"

"Skaz," Gwen called on another familiar rat-face. "After they visit Kuka, show our friends where we're situating the town centre, west of the oasis. If Evee needs more space, gather the men to clear out whatever she needs."

"Yes, Priestess! I'll inform the Contuberniums working the site!" The Rat-kin scurried away.

"I'll be back soon." Elvia and herself exchanged a hug, then left to perform her volunteered duty.

While the rest of the rats returned to work, she called over Stian to continue what had been interrupted when Elvia and the Ordo had descended from the heavens.

"Sorry about that unexpected detour, Stian. How are the fields looking?"

"We completed the canals by hand after Lord Garp liquified the stubborn sediments," the Elder explained, gesturing with his clawed hands. "There was also clay which Lord Garp transported, that our artisans had used to fashion aqueducts for your Worshipfulness' magical spigots. Likewise, the planting teams have done their best to enrich the sandy soil with Lord Garp's blessed excrements. If you wish it, Priestess, the Rat-kin can begin seeding immediately."

Gwen felt thoroughly impressed. Her Rat-kin's protestant work ethic was downright admirable. Not even under the reward of bonuses, pay rise, and living quarter incentives had the collective workforce of the Isle of Dogs demonstrated remotely as much efficacy. In a way, the Rat-kin reminded her of the Dwarves, for they never stayed still and always seemed to be engaged with one thing or another. Was it because their natural life-spans were shorter? She wondered, or that Shalkar was now their home?

Whatever the case, Gwen produced the Druidic pouch hanging from her belt.

Just as she was about to hand over the seeds, a stray and daring thought suddenly struck.

Almudj.

Kiki and Sen-sen.

Garp's waste.

And Golos' poop, from which she would need to retrieve additional spoils anyway.

Assuming her seeds were already soaked in the Essence of Tryfan's Tree, what would happen if they were to receive additional boosts from Elvia's plant Sprites and Draconic modifications?

What "GM crops" could her "Ratsanto" then produce?

What if the Rat-kin, who were natural experts, could build a shining farm on the hill producing quasi-magical crops for trading to the Mageocracy?

Gwen's Crystal senses chimed like a church bell.

As a lass growing up eating "normal" food in the Frontier, she knew exactly how rare and costly "Wildland" produce could be. Now, she imagined a farm ploughed by innate Earthen talent from a Sand Wyrm, fertilised by refuse from a True Dragon's Scion, and planted with seeds blessed by Tryfan, the Yinglong and Almudj— Hell's bells, what would grow? The beanstalk of legend? She had always maintained that Jack was an idiot to cut the stalk down when he could have become the Soy King of England.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

"Jesus Lord Almighty…" Here was an opportunity, and she was the only one with the means and the "technology" to seize it. If indeed she could produce results from her little experiment, then in a month, she would have indisputable results to convince Meister Bekker and Magister Frank Taylor, assuming the Southern Campaign ended in their favour.

"Priestess?" Stian carefully stood to one side, alarmed by the strange aura emanating from his cackling Priestess.

"We'll reconvene once the others return," Gwen rescinded her order. "For now, continue with the waterworks and the sand enrichment. There's grain and SPAM in that ring as well, so inform the others, for tonight, we feast in celebration of a better, brighter tomorrow!"

"Yes, Priestess!" Stian received his orders with a bow, nodded at Strun, then left to supervise the field.

"What shall I do?" Strun was the last of the rats' leadership left by her side.

"You're with me," Gwen said. "Do you remember when I asked about the Murk?"

"Yes, Priestess," Strun answered eagerly. "There are entrances all over the Eastern Sawahi, especially in the Badlands."

"Are there any near here?"

"There is." Strun gestured toward the horizon. "At Muruntau, where the rocks pierce the sand to point at the heavens."

"And that's where you saw the white-fleshed fiends?"

Strun nodded.

"Have you seen any Dwarves? They're kind of like humans, but stout, drinks a lot, relishes smithing, drives those—" She pointed to the two Golem Suits she had brought. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to teach the Rat-kin how to use the complex machines, though she could probably import human instructors in the future. With educated rodents, even sans Dwarves, it shouldn't be impossible to create a warren-City underneath Shalkar.

"I am ashamed for my lack of knowledge, Priestess." Strun hung his head.

"That's okay." Gwen rather enjoyed patting the Rat-kin's head, Strun's soft tufts of fur there, and the rat's pink-fleshed ears were soothing on the soul and were on par with Ariel or Evee. "We'll find out in time. For now, go to Garp. We'll put together an expedition once Gogo returns. If Garp is coming, we'll need another guard dog to look after our home."

Shalkar.
The oasis.

It wasn't until the evening that Elvia and her companions finally returned to the camp for supper.

Golos returned at nightfall, giddily reporting that the Wolf-kin had murdered their ex-leader and his son, only to grow wide-eyed when Golos announced that they're all sick and that the Rat-kin had the only cure— and that a tiny obstacle lay between them and the Cure Disease potions— Garp.

The Familiars were out in full force as well, with Ariel, Caliban, Kiki and Sen-sen all running amok among the Rat-kin, whose pups played with the Sprites, unaware that a single one of them could wipe out a hamlet without so much as needing mana from their Master.

Over scattered laughter and steaming plats of Afaa al-Halak both underdone and overcooked on Maxwell's Convenient Camping Kits, the Human Mages shared food with the Rat-kin Prefects. Once again, Gwen re-introduced her officers one by one, sharing the origins of their Clans and the Rat-kin's stories as the Tasmüyiz.

Of the numberless atrocities that gave birth to the Rat-kin's current plight, it was Strun's mother that triggered the Inquisitor, whose eyes grew dark with malice as she described the Centaurs playing carcass Quidditch with a living "Snitch".

The Inquisitor, in turn, shared accounts of the Fomorians, whose cruelty was more deliberate than the Centaur's casual holocaust of whatever civilisation they happened across.

"They have a ritual," Hawkford spoke while drawing a vague figure of a wicker man in the sand. "The captured slaves are carefully selected, with a preference for the young and virginal, then herded into this contraption. In a bad year, some constructs could hold a thousand people; often, there are multitudes of constructs..."

Their audience listened with horrified fascination.

"… at the climax of the Ritual, Balor himself has the honour of igniting the Wicker Man with his cyclopean eye, slow-roasting the victims over hours with his Faerie Fire."

Gwen glanced at the delicious block of fatty Afaa al-Halak meat, slightly charred but sizzling famously as one of the rat-cooks re-applied the lard to retain in the moisture.

"Their victims are not for eating." Hawkford caught her hesitation. "The Fomorians feed on the psychic energy of horror, pain and suffering. That's what our Seminary Scholars proposed— the more we fear them, the stronger they grow."

"That's one of the reasons why we had to move everyone we could when the Wyld Hunt broke through the Prime Material," Elvia added to her experience. "If a person is left behind or couldn't be evacuated, suicide was infinitely more preferable."

"Mages have a worse fate if captured," Hawkford said. "They can be made into Changelings who would murder their family, friends and loved ones. The Fomorians take great delight in that sort of thing because it foments even more belief in their capabilities."

The camp quietly listened to the sizzling of fat on Wyrm meat. Gwen sat beside Elvia, hugging her knees in contemplation of why they started trading atrocities in the first place and why a happy dinner had degenerated into a "my atrocity is worse than yours" competition.

"Magus Song." Hawkford broke the silence. "Your companion and I would like to verify a peculiar fact, if that is alright with you, pertaining a matter of Faith."

"Faith?"

"Do you know of it?" Hawkford asked.

"Evee's kept me updated, sort of," Gwen said. "Faith is a powerful and supplementary focus for IMS Spells, correct?"

"Yes." The Inquisitor nodded. "Though that is an oversimplified analogy reserved for casters rooted in secular society. I speak of Faith, Gwen, because we detected significant manifestations while searching for the origins of the Plaguemancer's phage. It's something we verified again while working with the sick. Suffice it to say; your rats have put their 'Faith' in you."

"I see." Gwen had suspected that the Inquisitor had a few more citations up his sleeve. Though now that she'd wrangled the man onto the same venture, she was way past the foot-in-door needed to gain his sympathy. "It's fine. It won't be the first time I am treated like a specimen."

"We would request that you perform a simple ritual." Hawkford motioned to Elvia, who produced what looked like a broach with a tri-crown logo. "This is a Holy Symbol, an unblessed one. Though it cannot gather Faith, the Glyph array within will reveal the presence of Karmic Tethers— or what those studying the secular system denote as Faith Threads."

Gwen took the Holy Symbol from Elvia. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

"The Inquisitor has the best of intentions," Elvia explained with complete earnestness. "If you're a candidate, Gwennie, it's better that your phenomenon is kept on record. If a judicatory Peer of the Ordo can vouch for your credibility, it will save you no ends of trouble."

"That would be my suggestion as well." The Inquisitor nodded. "If you wish to raise the meek Rat-kin to rival the Centaurs and return Elemental balance to the Prime Material, then you cannot afford to leave glaring vulnerabilities for others to exploit."

"Vulnerability?" Gwen cocked her head. "Folks having 'Faith' in my ability to improve their lives can get me in trouble?"

"You did exact a very peculiar narrative to bring them this far," Hawkford reminded Gwen of their conversation in the Habitat. "Whatever the outcome, I can send a report to the Ordo, and our Rectrix may inform your Patrons to be ready against subversions from the Factions."

Gwen considered the Inquisitor's gift of erudition.
The man spoke true.
Although Hawkford had no idea what she had planned between Golos' poop, Sen-sen, Almudj juice and Garp soil— she knew exactly how attractive Shalkar might shortly become to the Grey or Militant Factions.

A food-producing region with a race of pliant ex-slaves smack in the middle of a potential trade route between Eastern Europe and the Indian subcontinent?

Could a better place exist to plant a Tower and chase off the locals? Surely Humans in Golem Suits could do just as good a job as the Rat-kin, given the same resources?

If Hawkford was willing to vouch for her— not only could she leverage the Ordo to push Bekker and Taylor to her side, anyone challenging her for Shalkar in a legal sense would also have to measure their mettle before making an ancient Knight Order eat their words.

Affirming her willing participation, Gwen carefully examined the Holy Symbol with its three crowns. The item was not complexly imbued— albeit her Enchantment knowledge told her it was made from a composite of gold, Orichalcum and Mithril, making its material value well in the hundreds of HDMs.

"I suspect there will be a fair volume of Faith Threads, assuming that's how it works," Gwen said after a pause. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"You've led these rats for just over a week, Magus Song," Sir Hawkford gently rebuked her pride. "Even if they're fanatics, there's less than ten thousand of them."

"What's a significant amount?" Gwen asked out of interest. "Evee, how many threads do you have?"

"It's not a number, Gwen. Mine is enough to rival senior members of the Ordo, all thanks to you." Elvia laid a proverbial wreath at her feet. "I can empower intermediate-tier Faith Prayers several times a day and supplementary-tier Prayers hundreds of times."

Gwen looked to the Inquisitor for a better metric.

"Us Knights walk a different path." The man raised a gloved hand. "Our icons must be nurtured through prayer, and its psychic energies are expended and restored much in the manner of a wand. Tis a limitation put in place for those who wield the Prayers of Judgement."

"He who judge others are judged in turn," Gwen spoke from experience.

"Well said, Magus Song." The Inquisitor nodded approvingly. "So sayeth the Scripture."

"Hold the Holy Symbol like so," Elvia instructed her to keep the icon just above her forehead. "Now, close your eyes. I will invoke the Mandala in the Tri-Crown icon, and it will verify if there are Faith Threads directed toward you or an idol in your likeness."

"You'll find no idolatry here." Gwen gestured to herself. "Alright, Evee, light 'em up!"

Gwen closed her eyes and turned her mind inward, observing her Astral Body, which appeared no different to its usual garish self. If she could tap a few strands of Faith, maybe she could also learn a few tricks to bolster some of her spells, or perhaps even dig through her Master's collection to see if Henry had toyed with "Prayer Magic". But to whom would she direct her prayers? Gwen stifled a snort, cringing from the thought.

Beside her, Elvia's sweet voice began with a benediction, then moved into the main verse. "O Lord, Him who reveals deep and secret things; Him who knows what lurks in the darkness, let it be known that light dwells with Him."

True to Elvia's words, there was no impact on her Astral Body, nor did she feel any different.

However, the world around her grew suddenly very quiet, and then without warning, a tremendous commotion stirred among her Rat-kin, growing into a deafening clamour.

She opened her eyes.

A solid pillar of light resembling that of a light sabre with her as the catalyst crystal blasted the heaven like an upside-down rocket, lighting up the oasis and causing her rats to hiss and howl.

"IS THIS NORMAL?" Gwen shouted over the sound of the rats scampering away from the retina-searing brightness, every nerve in her body howling that this wasn't normal. "EVEE, TURN IT OFF!"

Elvia quickly withdrew her mana, disempowering the Glyph array in the holy icon.

The light dimmed, fading until only the dull fireflies of Maxwell's Camp Heaters remained around the stunned observers.

"That was…" Inquisitor Hawkford appeared lost for words.

"Excessive?" Sir Smallwater aided his Inquisitor.

"Impossible." Mathias' tone sounded like he had just seen her raise a man from the grave. "It can't be right. Something's wrong with the icon."

"The icon is without fault," Sir Hawkford silenced the panicking Knight of St Michael with a rebuke. "Gwen, tell me true— have you ever engaged in cultivations of cults, parishes or denominations in your likeness?"

Gwen felt her heart shudder even as she forced herself to appear entirely in control. "Not to my knowledge. Was that Faith Threads?"

"More like a Maximised Faith Strike..." Smallwater scratched his beard. "Lass, if you're the Archdeacon of Canterbury, you should let us know. The Ordo and the Church, we are natural allies."

"Calamity, what's the catastrophe this time?" Even Golos thought it fit to give his input. "Should I tell Brother?"

"Gogo, go away," she hissed at her Wyvern.

The dread engendering in her chest grew direr the longer the Knights remained perplexed. As a student of British history, she knew better than anyone just how hot a stake could burn if a girl were to head-butt a state religion. Everything she had accomplished could vanish in an instant, like ash borne on the wind.

"Look, there's got to be a better reason for this," she denied any form of apostasy with complete, categorical vehemence. "I am not even baptised, certainly not to my knowledge. I've never received benedictions in a church unless it happened when Helena got married while I was unconscious because, you know, sex out of wedlock. Oh— My father's a Godless Communist womaniser."

"But your good deeds..." the Inquisitor appeared unconvinced.

"Maybe it's the IIUC?" Elvia appeared to have recovered enough of her wits to come to her defence. "Gwen saved Kachin from a Naga, and they're very religious over there. She's also the IIUC's MVP, which means she was on plenty of advertisement billboards for a year in China— there are lots of NoMs in China and no religion— maybe they're sending her thoughts and prayers?"

While Elvia tested the possibilities, Gwen refuted her hypothesis. Was Faith that easy? One "like" equalled one "thread"? A million "likes" for sainthood? Her mind raced at a mile a minute. Could it be the Mermen? But that was even more absurd! Considering the food piracy the fish performed, who the hell would start a religion around looted cans of SPAM?

Or maybe it was Almudj; Gwen felt her scalp crawl. If she's Al's Vessel, and there's some prominent tribe in Australia worshipping the Rainbow Serpent, would the Faith rub off?

Or Mayuree— Buddha above, would Mia go as far as to put her face on a Pagoda? Surely not. That would step on Ruxin's tail, and besides, putting Ruxin's mug on the Pagodas was far more likely to curry favour with their real boss.

"... so I don't know, truly." She reinforced her expression of earnestness. It was an act, but not of deception, for she honestly had no idea.

"I see." Sir Hawkford indicated to his Knight Companion. "Elvia, try it again."

Gwen quickly held the icon aloft.

Elvia spoke the words with a trembling voice,

When the spotlight once more struck, the Rat-kin raised their hands in worship. "Priestess! Priestess of the Pale Light!"
"SHAA— SHAA—" Caliban joined the chorus of worship.
"EE—EE!" Ariel flew into the spontaneous stadium lighting because there wasn't enough chaos.
"Kiki!" The Alarune danced, sashaying from tendril to tendril.
"Sen!" Sen-sen hid, as Ginseng roots disliked strong sources of light.
"Ha! A new malady for the Calamity!" Golos was never one to miss a party. "Who is trying to murder her this time?"
"SKAAARRRWWWAARRRGH—" Somewhere outside the oasis, Garp burst into whale song.

She tossed the icon back to Elvia like a hot potato. Though the light faded, her face remained as pale as the ivory nimbus. What had manifested wasn't a Faith Thread but more of a fucking Faith "Pillar" the size of Temir's prized Totems.

Unbidden, her thoughts turned to her earlier haughtiness. Those who judge others are judged in turn! Karma is a harsh mistress! To think she had sent off the Wolves no more than eight hours ago!

"Inquisitor." She could feel the cold sweat soaking through her safari outfit. "While I am happy to cooperate with an investigation. I am afraid this isn't the best time for me to return to London."

Hawkford appeared to study her once more.
In truth, the Inquisitor's coolness was as strange as the light shooting from her wherever. In her mind, Sir Smallwater should be readying the pillory and bonfire.

"Magus Song, please do not overreact." Hawkford's following words affirmed her suspicions. "Rather, I bring fair tidings— for I may now affirm that you're not a part of the pact that must not be named, which places you in a more trustworthy position."

"Chaplain..." Elvia attempted to speak, only to be halted by her superior.

"Give me a moment to gather my thoughts on the matter," Hawkford interrupted their interjections, then appeared to mumble a silent prayer for guidance.

While waiting, Gwen delivered her most endearing simper.

Untouched by her feminine wiles, Hawkford met her gaze head-on, then grinned lopsidedly. "Gwen, do you believe in providence?"

"No?" Gwen stuck to the truth. Earlier, that had served her well.

"I do, and I believe our meeting is no accident. But, let us return to my earlier claim, did you know that to those holier-than-thou symbionts of the World's Pillars, Faith is anathema? The guardians of the Planar fabric hold great apprehension for little birds that cannot be controlled and which they cannot cage in their menagerie."

Gwen mulled over the man's words, but her uncertainty remained.

"Then why would the Bloom in White feed me a satchel of seeds?"

"Because you are a powerful adherent of the IMS, Magus Song, a prized Songbird, in a sense." Inquisitor Hawkford's expression grew to encompass both benevolence and admiration. "But if you've garnered Faith— no matter the means, that changes things. Those who dwell above are deeply suspicious of powers so uniquely mortal. For them, Faith is as unnatural as Necromancy."

It took several more seconds for the Inquisitor's cryptic speech to unknot itself in her head. "… So, what you're saying is that you believe me when I say that this Faith ordeal is a coincidence?"

"That is correct."

"And although I've been recruited to work with Tryfan, you deduce that I can't be working with Tryfan because apparently, I have the potential to access Faith as a resource?"

"Also correct."

She turned to Elvia. "Evee. Does any of this make sense to you?"

Besides her, Elvia had wrung a length of Sen-sen's root so hard that green juices were leaking down between her strength-enhanced fingers. Not far, Sen-sen bore the torture, its old sage's mien hiding the pain.

Her Evee nodded, then shook her head. "All I know is that if that many people think of you fondly, Gwen, then it must mean you've helped them change their lives for the better. That's something which the Ordos will respect."

"To garner Faith, your actions, your 'tale' must consistently occupy their thoughts as well." Sir Smallwater gave his opinion. "I do agree with the lass. You must have aided many a folk, Magus Song. It's a commendable demonstration of how you've impacted our world, whatever your methods."

"Faith" sounds eerily utilitarian. Gwen cautioned herself against taking credit lest a future outcome was counted against her favour.

"From the concentration of those Tethers, you've helped far more people than me." Elvia's eyes sparkled with affirmation and support as she caught her hand. "I am so proud of you, Gwennie. I bet all those people who got jobs and livelihoods at the Isle of Dogs and Greenwich think of you every day."

"Thanks, Evee." Gwen squeezed the Healer's fingers back. "I did it for my benefit, though..."

Her gaze swept over her worshipful Rat-kin, then pointed a finger toward the heavens. "Sir Hawkford. To be clear, I have no intent on cutting into the Church's share of its resources. My ambitions are and will forever be secular. Whatever the Ordo is offering, I wash my hands like the Pilate."

"You're very astute, Magus Song. And I agree," Inquisitor Hawkford said. "For now, my advice is to keep this between yourself, the Ordo, and those you trust in the Mageocracy. Of course, those invested in you should be notified lest they're caught up in a future fallout. As for us, Companion Lindholm will not divulge your secrets, and Sir Smallwater, as well as Sir Rothwell, are well-sworn to secrecy. Likewise, your Rat-kin likely can't communicate the details even if questioned. Whatever the case, I shall present the findings in the best light."

Gwen felt her brain throb. "I agree. I'll need some time to digest this. Where can I know more about Faith Magic?"

"I do believe NOT knowing is in your interest," the Knight chuckled. "As matters stand, ignorance is truly bliss."

"Now you're the one tempting me," Gwen groaned, then sat beside Elvia to sort her newly acquired information into its respective mental categories. What Hawkford had stated about The Accord being allergic to Faith Magic was very interesting indeed. Considering the uncensored history she had managed to pick up from the Dragons, Elves, Dwarves and her Magisterial studies, she could feel a vague hypothesis taking place like a deep-diving Leviathan rising to the surface.

Now that Sir Hawkford gave his word, the Mages stepped lightly around the topic for the duration of their dinner, choosing instead to unassuming banter about Shalkar's future; around them, the rats eventually returned to their arduous labours in building their new home.

"Gwen?" Elvia's head rested against her shoulder. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I still feel as lost as ever," Gwen confessed. "BUT— Sir Hawkford is right. I've got work to do here, and I am far too committed in Shalkar to run off and deal with this. I mean, it is not like I'll give up the rats or the Isle of Dogs as a result. Whatever comes will come; there is providence even in the fall of a sparrow— the readiness is all."

"That's from the Book of Matthew, isn't it?" Elvia exhaled with relish. "Have you been studying the Good Book, Gwennie?"

"Goodness isn't found in a book, Evee." Gwen plagiarised a line from The Bard for the benefit of leaving a final good impression for their Inquisitor. "If a person can open their hearts a little bit, they shall see that there are tongues in trees, books in the brooks, sermons in stones and goodness in everything. That's all the teaching a devotee needs."

"WONDERFUL!" Sir Smallwater slapped his thighs. "Well said, Magus Song, now's that's a quote for the Seminary!"

Inquisitor Hawkford nodded with recognition, his conviction in her goodness once more affirmed.

Elvia squeezed her guilty fingers to communicate her support, her delicate face aglow with adoration.

Gwen gave herself a mental slap, then warned herself to refrain from furthermore misleading her Samaritan companions. However, what she had said was true, for she did feel like a sparrow caught in the guiding hand of some greater power. Faith? Who the hell could foresee that bringing economic prosperity could send her careening into the realm of theocracy?
And what did Hawkford intimate?
_Providence?_
No. Fuck that second-rate Divination.
She was no rat in a plague pit.
A world where the NoMs lived in Districts and the Tasmüyiz subsisted on grassroots could not co-exist with a good and all-knowing God.
In this life, only herself, her companions, her family, her Crystals, her Sorcery, and the connections she forged mattered, the sum of which pointed to a single, cardinal truth— that whatever winds directed her sails, she alone held the steerage of her course.