"Limber?" Gwen cocked her head sideways. "Meaning?"

Magus Keridwen Le Guevel spun on her kitten-heels with the grace of a serval. "Exactly what you intend it to mean."

"Nope, not happening." Gwen stoppered her instructor's retort. "Prostrate in front of those Troglodytes? There are easier paths to homicide."

"Ah, but these are useful Troglodytes."

"But amphibian nonetheless."

"I never took you for a speciesist."

"What's not to hate? They're slimy, for one, and oddly-shaped. I assume we're still on the topic of the nobility?"

Le Guevel snapped her fingers. With the impact of a quick-cut film-frame from Gwen's old world, they returned to the dreary world of the archaic tutor room, buried four corridors deep in the Ward Library building.

"Nice trick."

"One I'm happy to teach if you pass muster. Else, it'll get you in trouble faster than a Void Bolt. Tell me, kitten." Her instructor leaned in. "You possess enviable biometrics, and I know you're not above abusing it for attention. I've seen those lumen-captures of you in the IIUC and the Sun Herald. Look at those ankles and calves. It's winter! Are you not pandering to the audience?"

"A free woman can dress however she likes." Gwen's lips curled. "It's my body, after all."

"An interesting statement. I don't know whether to be impressed or appalled. And is this woman not a member of the society within which she resides?"

Gwen snorted. "Shall I wear a shawl? Dress in a habit?"

"If you're visiting a nunnery, YES." Le Guevel rolled her eyes. "What are you, a child? Did mummy not buy you pretty dresses when you're younger? Why tease if you can't be spry? Who are you impressing?"

"Myself." On hearing mention of her absent parents, Gwen growled. The remark about Helena had broken skin, pierced flesh then struck bone. "Don't act as if you know me."

"Tsk, tsk, kitten." Le Guevel shook her head. "This is why feral cats get put down."

"You can try." She crossed her arms. "Better Mages have failed."

"I am Illusionist, dear." Le Guevel crossed her arms as well. "If I meant you harm, you'd be raving like a lunatic already. Still, I am sure you'll come around. Tell me, how did you think you faired in your encounter with the Exeter twins?"

"Well enough?"

"Is your bar set so low?"

"And what do you expect me to do? Fight them? Winning would've proven far more troublesome. Imagine if they lost their heads. I like my peace. Thank you very much."

Le Guevel crossed her legs. Unlike Gwen, who steadfastly stuck to her autumn dresses, Gwen's instructor wore a cashmere skirt, and her ribbon-tie blouse covered her up to the chin. Yet, the Illusionist possessed an aggressive sensuality that made Gwen uncomfortable. Was it her presence? Gwen wondered. Le Guevel was neither svelte nor voluptuous. Nonetheless, there was something of a contrast between them that said "here is a girl" and "here, is a woman". It almost made her wish she was older.

"Here's what I would have done." Le Guevel waved a hand. With the subtlest of somatic gestures, a portrait of the twins appeared. "Let us say you've properly armed yourself with knowledge— such as that Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas Holland, sons of John Gaunt Holland, Duke of Exeter, are beholden to Ravenport financially."

Le Guevel materialised another bust, that of a Duke with a scar across the side of his left lip, a sharp-faced, gaunt-jawed gent with the nose like a Roc's beak and a ridiculous bowl-cut fringe.

"Which is good news, because you happen to be the rumoured bastard of Norfolk, Lord Earl Marshall of England."

"You know that's bullshit."

"This isn't Bonk's, Gwen. Its politics. Had you known this, you would have deduced that the twins wouldn't dare test your true mettle, not with Ravenport's reputation on the line. Likewise, you should have known that as a War Mage, and as a very priceless specimen for Peterhouse, you're in the same boat when it comes to mutual-maiming."

"And?"

Le Guevel puckered her lips. "And Kitten, I am told Lady Astor has taken a liking to you. She was delighted with how you bantered with Ravenport. If so, have you wondered why someone with enough Crystals to buy herself a seat in parliament endured the Militants? It's to give you an opportunity, dear, one that you failed as spectacularly as you succeeded elsewhere."

Her instructor's brows arched in ridicule.

"So what would you have done?" Gwen glared back.

Le Guevel cleared her throat. When she spoke again, it was in Gwen's voice, miming her mannerism with such likeness that Gwen's scalp crawled.

"You devilish, aborted fae-spawns! How dare you make a nuisance of yourself in the home of your betters?"

"H-how dare you?" Le Guevel answered in the voice of Edward Poins. "You're just a Frontier poppet. I'll break you here and now."

"Really?" Her instructor's waspish-waist was very limber indeed. When she spoke in Gwen's voice, every syllable cracked like a whip's. "That's an audacious claim for someone who's patriarch owes an entailment worth half-a-dozen Crystal-seams. Don't you know it's polite to pay your debts before you bite the hand that feeds? What are you, a half-orc?"

Gwen leaned back in her seat.

Le Guevel chuckled. "See how fun that was? To be limber is to know which fruits are ripe for juicing. The twins are the result of, let's say, unsavoury arrangements, uncle and niece, sister-wives, that sort of thing— not currently, mind you, and don't say it out loud— but its there, somewhere up the line."

Gwen suppressed a gag.

"Which is why they're particularly incensed by any indirect inferences to bloodlines. Likewise, they do indeed owe a significant volume of debt to Ravenport and Astor both. How else do you think the Militants paid for the Royal Docks? Warmongering spoils from the Frontier takes time— but commerce, comparatively, is instantaneous."

"I can't imagine 'Dickie' would remain silent if I dropped his name."

"Lord Ravenport will not make an appearance for fear of verifying the rumours. Or, if he did by chance, good on you. The Exeter duo can only cower before Uncle Dickie, an ally to Lady Astor. Thereby, by invoking a few choice words, you have both inflamed the fools, and positioned them in between an Earthen Elemental and a Diamond Drake."

"Public shaming is dangerous." Gwen pointed out. "Pushed that far, surely they would prefer immediate satisfaction."

Le Guevel cleared her throat, then placed a hand against a cheek.

When the instructor looked up again, her eyes were full of fire, with her shoulders trembling, her chest heaving. At once, Gwen was struck with the paradoxical desire of wanting to push the woman down while desiring to embrace the miserable vision of abused femininity. "Strike me down then! I invite and dare you! Strike a lady! Strike the daughter of a benefactor! Here's my other cheek! Strike it and see that your daddy-dear won't flay the both of you with your spines!"

The effect was such that Gwen felt quite breathless.

"And then?"

"Then they flee, of course." Le Guevel laughed. "What else? Murder you? They can try. Lady Astor and her Middle Faction will take the cue and see the pair lit like bonfires. Assuming you haven't died from the first strike, the Middle Faction now has fewer Exeters to worry about— AND Lord Exeter will owe you reparations for your anguish. And of course, in the ensuing chaos— I would Consume them both. Just imagine what their in-bred talent could do for a Void Sorceress. How delicious!"

"That's…" Gwen swallowed. "Insane."

"It's what being limber means." Le Guevel returned her prim and proper personage. "So, do you wish to learn the exceptional art of limberness?"

Gwen did.
Not the part that goaded people into being Consumed, but the confidence that came with control. In hindsight, if she could have done that to the Exeters, it would have filled her with such joy, such satisfaction, that her chest may have burst.

Her instructor grinned. Opposite Gwen, Le Guevel rematerialised the bible-sized "Twerp's Peerage", as well as a second book, entitled "Bonk's Genealogical Records of the Ennobled Affinities of England, Ireland and Scotland."

"Study up, kitten— do what you will, or can. The more you know— the _more_ you know."

Cambridge.

Unable to stomach the monotony of genealogy, Gwen decided to take Lady Grey's advice to heart, diffusing her stress by wandering the wintery urban-scape of the college town as its Flaneur. Along the way, she absorbed the gothic trees and spired cathedrals, marvelling at antiquity to absolve the infirmities ailing her mind.

After her lesson, post reanimation of her bangle, four Messages were waiting for her— three from Dominic Lorenzo, stating that he had returned from somewhere called the Isle of Man— and one from Elvia.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

At first, she felt immense relief.
Then, considering the histrionic subtext of her last six Messages, Gwen suddenly didn't feel so rushed to listen to her companion's explanation. If Elvia carried on as though nothing happened, she wouldn't feel vindicated. If Elvia whole-heartedly apologised, she would feel guilty, and should Evee placate her with excuses; she would only grow incensed.

"Evee, Evee, Evee..." Gwen inhaled the frigid air, wistfully longing for the yesteryear.

Instead of replying, she walked on, listening to Dominic's Message.

"... still, I can't believe you took possession of the printing press! The one in the Isle of Dogs? The Mulholland Press? AND Dwarves are arriving to repair the engine? That's incredible news. When are you in London again? Let me know; I am on standby at the moment, the battle's stalled for now. Call me if you're in town— I want to discuss your offer as Editor of this 'Metro Paper'."

Dominic's gusto improved her mood somewhat, enough at least to see her saunter down Pembroke, waltz through Downing, then stroll over to the famous duck ponds at Emmanuel's, kept emerald and temperate all year round by zealous groundskeepers.

The pond was smaller than Gwen expected, certainly not living up to its fame. The ducks as well, were not very numerous, not to mention over half were dull-coloured mallards. She was here because she heard from the Peterhouse lodge that these were magical ducks and that years of feasting on the sorcerous leakage had enhanced their intelligence. Come spring, when birds of prey come to descend upon the ducklings, there were observed anecdotes of the ducks calling on student and staff with cries of "Quelp! Quelp!"

In winter, with the student cohort away until the Lent term began mid-January, Gwen had only ducks with which to share the pond.

"Ariel! Caliban!"

She released her Familiars so that they too could enjoy the sorcery-empowered emerald pond and its wasteful expenditure of the ley-lines' energies. With express orders not to harass the local fauna, her Familiars went about the place sniffing the willows and rolling in the grass, then snow.

On her knee, she opened up Twerp's Peerage, and flipped the page to Exeter. At almost a centimetre thick, the section could block a Magic Missile. Gingerly, she fingered the three lions passant with a blue border of the fleur-de-lis in gold. The page began with John of Gaunt, the Lancastrian progenitor.

It was fascinating, in a way, how eugenics applied to high society. But Gwen understood the obsession. Henry V, Henry of Monmouth, was a man whose military success turned England into a globe-spanning colonial superpower. Wasn't she aiming for the same? Extraordinary individuals were the way of her present world.

She read on— but the material was dry, and her affections for Elvia remained tinder hot. Somewhere in the suffocating jargon, she dithered between berating Elvia and hugging the flaxen healer tight against her bosom.

"Yesterday..." She hummed, the tune rolling off her subconscious. "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay..."

Why Evee had to go her way, Gwen couldn't say, not without acknowledging it was all her fault. In her insecurity, she had told Elvia she was pure, then that she had to be unique, then that they would need to be equals. The contradictions had been intentional, and yet, that's what Elvia now strived to achieve.

Thankfully, she found some solace in Paul McCartney, misplacing her failures in the fancy that somewhere in London, Magus McCartney and maybe Lennon was still making music with the rest of the quartet. Was there a music industry in this world? She wondered, licking her lips. Two best-of albums and she could bribe another Ruxin or two.

"Quack?"

Gwen almost dropped her book. Lost in her sing-song daydream, she had not realised the ducks were listening.

"Quack! Quack!" An abnormally large mandarine duck, the size of a goose, appeared to accost her.

Gwen put down her book to regard the strange waterfowl. To her knowledge, ducks "Quabbed", though she was neither a drake fancier nor a duckologist. Her prior expertise on ducks involved pancake, shallots, and dipping sauce.

"Shaa!" Caliban slithered over. With its aura entirely suppressed, her Void snake was a beautiful, semi-transparent worm wrought of obsidian-glass.

The duck turned to flee.

"Wait, don't be scared." Gwen struck out a hand. Much to her surprise, the duck returned, then nuzzled her palm.

Packing away her book in case the colourful duck pecked the moleskin cover, she searched her ring for food, eventually coming up with a can of SPAM. Opening the tab one-handed, she used the metal to spoon out a good chunk, then offered it to the duck. "Hungry?"

"Quack!" the duck gobbled the lot.

Gwen extracted the rest of the mysterious meat.

"Quack!" The duck was an omnivore.

Next, she produced a raw chunk of HDM.

"QUACK!"

Gwen marvelled as she watched the duck down the crystal shard. "Amazing, so you're a magical duck— WHOA—"

"Quack!" The duck mounted her with a grandiose flap of its wings. The effect was admirable, resembling an explosive rainbow appearing and disappearing at once.

"Shaa!"

"Cali, down!" Gwen commanded Caliban to sit even as the duck alighted, scrunching her dress as it nestled in between her thighs. In the pale light, its feathers shimmered like Almudj's scales, while clear-cut lines of vibrant colours in sunburst, indigo and flamingo pink formed dynamic contours. It was— without a doubt, the most beautiful duck Gwen had ever seen.

"Quack!" The duck implored at her with large, soulful eyes, its irises twin obsidian orbs catching the light of her reflection. Gwen felt a strange sense of endearment. Was it the rainbow-hued body? She wondered, guiltily thinking of Evee and Almudj.

"I bet you're a Familiar," she said to the duck, looking around the whereabouts of their immediate vicinity to attempt visual confirmation of her hypothesis. When no sorcerer materialised to retrieve their soulful counterpart, Gwen raised a mischievous hand toward the duck's vibrant bill. "Say, does ducky want some candy?"

Cycling Essence, she pooled the viridescent green motes within a cupped hand.

"Ee!" Ariel, drawn by the scent, returned to the fold, scattering the ducks surrounding its mistress.

"Patience, Ariel." Gwen scratched the Kirin with one hand while offering the Demi-divine nectar of life to their new companion. If indeed this was a sorcerer toying with her, then they were in for a rude awakening when their Familiar escaped the paddock for the greener grass. Likewise, if the duck was a Transmuted student playing her for a lark, then Gwen took no responsibility for what was about to happen next.

"Quack?" The duck lapped at the emerald elixir. "QUACK?"

Immediately, the creature's girth expanded another inch. It's neck distended further, its wings larger and longer. It's feathers, already the likeness of Almudj turned heart-achingly vivid.

Gwen felt genuinely surprised that she was not being trolled. Delighted, she conjured a little more nectar and fed the rest to her adorably obedient Kirin. On her lap, the duck appeared caught in a trance as the Essence ran its course.

_Ding!_

A Message spell bloomed.
It was her angel-faced tormentor.

"Evee!" Her voice trembled before she could apply what Le Guevel had cautioned, pushing past a masochistic impulse to ignore the Glyph.

"Gwennie!" Elvia's tone wasn't at all what she had anticipated. It was unsure, distressed, and full of vulnerability. "I— I think I am in trouble!"

Instinctively, Gwen felt her blood stir, her angst instantly evaporating. "What trouble? Who is it?"

"No, no, not that kind of trouble," Elvia huffed. "I don't know what's happening! I pulled a Magus Fitzgerald back from the brink of death, and now they're sending me away."

"Hold on," Gwen commanded her Evee to calm, guilty that she felt genuine happiness to have her helpless dolly back in the fold. "You'll have to explain from the beginning."

"Okay!" Elvia's thread-thin voice tickled Gwen's ears. "This morning, I healed a War Mage from the Isle of Man who was badly wounded and on the brink of death. I did it with Kiki and Sen-sen's help, but Director Hatchley said that not even a team at Blacks would have attempted the surgery because of the low success rate. I— "

Elvia halted. "— are you still angry, Gwen, if you're unhappy with me…"

"Nevermind that," Gwen said, feeling the weight lift from her chest. "I wasn't mad for long. Anyway, then what happened?"

"Then I kept practising on the other patients, mostly NoMs, a few lower-tier Mages as well. Director Hatchley called me into her office and said that I was now a big fish in a small pond..."

Gwen's brows furrowed.
Lady Grey was right.
Talent bred trouble like sawmills and loose fingers.

"So, when are you transferring over to the Order of the Bath?" Gwen decided a little Divination of her own might do Elvia some good.

"The… Order of the Bath?" Elvia's response was one of pure puzzlement.

"Aye," Gwen mimicked Hanmoul. Less than a week after politicking with humanity, she missed the Dwarves already. Communicating with the stouts had felt so effortless, for they were a race that rarely saw guile as a virtue. "Did the Knight-recruiters knockdown Director Hatchley's door?"

"… Umm…" Elvia's discomfort was palpable. "Gwen, they're sending Mathias and me to the Isle of Man!"

"Quack!" The duck protested when Gwen's surprise almost tore out one of its feathers. The allure of Alumdj's Essence, however, was enough to anchor the duck to her lap.

"Sorry…" Gwen apologised.

"Was that a duck?" Elvia asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I like ducks." Gwen mulled the place Elvia had mentioned in her mind. Where had she heard it before? "Forgive my ignorance, Evee. What's on the Isle of Man again?"

On hearing the endearing nickname, Elvia's high-strung tone relaxed somewhat. "I don't know much myself, only that the Wildland folk there live among Demi-humans. They've been fighting England since forever, and there's a recent flair-up. I can't tell you more right now, only that Magus Fitzgerald— the Mage I healed, was badly wounded by a Snake Curse— that's old magic, Gwen, Animism from before Spellcraft. Director Hatchley said I was important to Nightingale and Mathias didn't volunteer, so I don't understand why I am being sent out of London again. This is all so confusing. Do you think I should ask Lady Astor? Would she be annoyed? Or Emily perhaps, maybe she can find out why? Oh, Gwennie, everything is happening so fast..."

Gwen wanted to calm her companion but needed more information to ascertain Evee's present crisis, which was why urged Elvia first to take a deep breath, then make herself a cup of tea. "Okay. I get the gist of it. I'll Message you back, Evee. Let me make some enquiries. When do you deploy?"

"… Tomorrow, when Mathias gets here." Elvia exhaled. "There's a whole host of us from the Great Hospitals, a 'volunteer' group..."

Gwen nodded to herself. Somehow, hearing Evee's desperation filled her with a secret joy. It was good to know the Yinglong hadn't't changed her companion where it mattered. Now, she felt as if things had gotten back on track, returned to a state of yesterday.

But of course, her gladness did not diminish the danger Elvia potentially faced. Closing the Message, she dialled in the Glyph for Dominic, having recalled why the "Isle of Man" sounded so familiar.

_Ding!_

"Gwen?" Dominic Lorenzo sounded positively delighted. "So soon? Feeling eager?"

"I am always eager for your advice, Dom," Gwen teased her sister-in-craft's old comrade. "But I'll speak to you in detail about the job once things clear up here. For now, can I ask you some questions about the Isle of Man?"

"The Isle? Sure, what would you like to know?"

"I've got a close friend soon to be assigned there. I want to know if it's dangerous to go. Is there a war going on?"

"Ah— you've come to the right man. I was reporting on the Isle just after your Dwarfs. Indeed, things are heating up over there."

"What's the trouble?"

"The usual," Dominic said. "You want history or just the present-day drama?"

"Explain like I am an NoM."

"Well then, I'll make it succinct." Dominic paused to gather his thoughts. "Pre-England, the Isle was the domain of the Elemental Manannán, worshipped by the Gaels as the God of the Sea. The Elemental demanded a few too many virgin sacrifices from the indigenous folk, resulting in a rebellion where the Druids, aided by their fellow sufferers, the Wood Elves, captured, then enslaved Manannán. After that, the Gaels proliferated for some time— until the 13th century, when English conquest took the Isle. Since then, the conflict between the Manx, the descendants of the Gael and the Elves, and the Crown has risen and fallen with the regularity of the tide. The Mageocracy has a large presence in Douglas, an ex-Tower site, now trading port, and in Avalon, where the fabled King Arthur—"

"Quack!" The mandarine duck fled from Gwen after losing another feather.

"Hold up." Gwen brushed the dirt from her legs. "Are you telling me the Isle of Man is where the Knights of the Round Table happened? I am talking Merlin here— Guinevere! Lancelot!"

"… why do I hear a duck?"

"I was keeping it company."

"The Devourer of Shenyang is keeping company with a duck?"

"I am at Emmanuel's," Gwen said. "I was lonely, and besides, it's a magical duck."

"… yes, Avalon," Dominic continued. "Is the where Arthur and his knights fell. An almost typical story of early colonisation. A group of enterprising Faith casters of old, armed with Relic of yore, enter the Wildlands to convert the heathens. Adventures ensued, success galore and then—"

"And then they delve into the heart of darkness; their Christian ethos turns to pitch-black Void, rape and rapine become the norm before it all ends with their leader dying from malaria, bleating 'the madness… the madness…'?"

"Not so… dramatically," the reporter sounded impressed. "The Round Table did fall because of individual vice— though more tragically, their quest was futile from the beginning. No, no, the Isle is the domain of the Manx, that will not change, unless—"

"Unless?"

"Unless the Devourer of Shenyang wants a new moniker?" Dominic's tone was full of enterprise. "I could imagine your updated title— "

Gwen shivered as Dominic revelled in the journalistic possibilities.

"— Gwen Song! _The Devourer of Man_!"


"The Devourer of Man."

For some reason, Gwen's first thought was of Tao wiggling his brows.

There was an unfortunate implication, lost in translation, whenever the Chinese spoke of the "Devourer" of Shenyang. The English inference was that of a "devouring, all-consuming force" akin to darkness at dusk. Unfortunately, the Chinese, with their cuisine-centric culture, understood "devour" to mean "swallow", as one might gluttonously consume a feast.

"The Devourer of Man" therefore, was a title as aversive to Gwen as an Undead infestation. If the moniker did get out, her Babulya would need to Calm Emotion her Yeye each time a Party cadre winkingly praised their granddaughter.

"You write that Dom, and I'll leave you half-consumed by Caliban," Gwen addressed Dominic's suggestion for the "title" of his article. "And why the bloodlust? What's with you English and colonial conquests?"

"Say that to the Mec Vannin." Dominic's voice took on a solemn timbre. "You want to know a speciality of the Isle? Apart from the usual perils, it's the birthplace of the Manx Cat, a feline beast with no tail— instead, twin tentacles extend from its shoulder-blades, each armed with sucker-tipped mouths crowded with fangs."

"Suckers lined with teeth? Please—please tell me there are natively-occurring VOID-afflicted monsters on the Isle." Gwen almost yelped. For how long had she waited for monsters of her particular Affinity to appear?

"I wouldn't bet on it," Dominic curbed her enthusiasm. "Rarity aside, these are not your average monsters, Gwen. The Manx Cats are ambush-hunters, used by the Manx to serve as battle-beasts. For your friend, the principal danger to her would be these monstrosities. They're capable of warping space and travelling through barriers, blurring their presence to blend in with their surroundings, and attack from afar to drag their prey into the trees."

"You've sold me. I want one." Gwen flexed her fingers. Below her, Caliban shivered in anticipation. Finally! A worthy upgrade for her worm! A compact battle form, not to mention potential Affinity for her Void Magic. "How rare are these monsters?"

"Very, the original was a legend. The others exist only among the Mec Vannin."

"With 'Mec Vannin' being our opposition?"

"A moniker for the elf-touched Wildkin, it means the 'Sons of Man' in their bastardised language, separates them from the Wood Elves."

"How curious... what do they want?"

"To put it succinctly, they want the Mageocracy to get out. That's impossible of course, the Manx's long-dead King gifted the land to the Crown in 1392. The Elves have a claim, but..."

"Tell me about the Elves." Gwen considered the manner of the Manx, their cats, and their patrons. In regards to the Elves, she had yet to meet one in the flesh. "These would be the Träälvor?"

"Not exactly. The indigenous Elves of Man aren't the Nordic Träälvor, but the local variety— an ancient race, but not to be confused with the Silvan-Träälvor, to which the name implies. On the Isle, they mark their home in Glen Auldyn, the forest-home of the Wyld King Maleagant. They're older than England, certainly, but hail from a less developed ethnography."

Gwen furrowed her brows. In her mind, Wood Elves were folk like Elrond of Rivendell of fantasy fame. For years now, she had been looking forward to meeting an alter-world Arwen, though from what Dominic was saying, these were more akin to indigenous folk.

"To confirm, their woodland Spires are not empowered by the sun and alternatively fed by the moonlight, appearing like Eco-lodges in a dream?" Gwen enquired. "Nor are they fair, tall, blonde or brunette, have a thing for "Rings" and speak like folk perpetually foretelling a prophecy?"

Dominic laughed.

"What an imagination! No, no. The one's I've seen are proper Wildkin, all bark-skin attire, with hair and skin the hue of olives. As for their city, maybe in the privacy of their grove? The Woodland Guardians that the militia encounters, those travelling with the Manx, are a nightmare mixture of Druidic sorcery and shapeshifting horror. Remember those Manx Cats?"

"Yes?"

"The reason I doubt the Manx Cats' Void-Affinity, is because, despite their natural scarcity, they're a constant damned presence in the war. Why do you think that's the case?"

"Ah." Gwen was seeing the whole picture now. She had spared an Owl Bear yesteryear and quickly joined the dots herself. If these were shifters then, it meant Caliban could not usurp her desired form. Additionally, she had no desire to slide down that particular slippery slope. "Druidic Shapeshifting?"

"Indeed." Dominic applauded her quick-wittedness. "And therein lies the danger. Your friend may not be in danger while in combat, or while guarded by a Flight of Mages, but that's not how these Druids fight. Do you know what asymmetrical warfare is, Gwen?"

"I have an idea."

"That's how they've kept being a thorn: guerrilla tactics. Be it, Strangler-vine ambushes, night raids, Manx Cat assassins or harassment of civilian miners; it never ends. We can't abandon the Isle either. Avalon serves as an important Divination waypoint. The Teleportation Circle there enables reliable transit to Ireland, a pivotal Frontier too close to home to leave neglected."

"And the Manx are allowed to exist?" Gwen asked an uncomfortable question.

"There is debate as to whether the Crown should simply Purge the Isle of Man and be done with it. The cost has proven unattractive, as inevitably, the Elves will offer the Manx shelter from wide-area Purge bombardments."

Gwen nodded to herself. As a girl-child, she had seen the collapse of the Twin Towers live on television, followed by a decade-long War on Terror that bankrupted a superpower.

"… so the Isle of Man's like a tough bit of gristle; too savoury to toss, too stringy to chew." Dominic helpfully eased her "teenage" erudition.

"I see." Gwen's contemplation, however, wasn't for herself. "Thanks, Dom, I'd love to know more about Manx and Camelot, but I fear I have more enquiries to make. Do you mind if we catch up later?"

"Actually," Dominic said. "We shall meet very soon."

"You will?"

"Didn't you hear? The Americans have come out on top in the IIUC. The Oxbridge team has lost its leader and vice leader."

"Oh? I haven't been keeping up with the IIUC," Gwen confessed. Since returning from London, Gwen had been non-stop updating her "basics". At the same time, she took time to settle into the Fellow's Abode in Peterhouse's domicile, collecting furniture and decorating her studio to her liking. "What was the challenge?"

"A shared quest, the re-opening of an open-pit crystal mine the Grey Faction had been negotiating with the Gigantes of Castile Y Leon," Dominic explained. "Oxbridge attempted diplomacy, as did the Americans. In the end, the Rey of the Giants chose the Bostonites. An inter-Clan scuffle ensued, and Oxbridge emerged worse for wear. The Home Office is none too happy at the moment, having lost its staging post in Salamanca as a result. I can only assume the Americans are laughing since Exxon is a major sponsor for the East Coast IIUC contestants and the ones who will be taking over."

Gwen tried to imagine how the Mages might have struggled against the Gigantes, an Earthen race noted by the Bestiary to possess unparalleled physical strength, high magic resistance, and calculating intelligence. Combined with arcanistry of their own, military tactics, and an Elemental Ethos of racial superiority, she could envision why her team from China would have had little chance when push came to shove. Merely the fact that the Gigantes bred Manticores the same way Lady Grey bred her hounds meant that a regular Mage Flight might just be enough to fight the family dog.

"… so you'll be having your ceremony in Cambridge, after all," Dominic advised. "Assuming everything is wrapped by the weekend, you'll be receiving your title with a full ceremony here in London. Of course, I'd like an exclusive."

"Even after we lost?" Gwen cocked her head, her eyes scanning the pond for her wayward duck. Presently, her rainbow-hued companion floated by the edge, eyeing the hens.

"All the more reason to put more ceremony into your MVP title," Dominic said. "Oxbridge's pride demands it."

Gwen agreed. "Thanks, Dom."

"Anytime," the reporter returned happily. "Oh, and Gwen?"

"Yes, Dom?"

"If you want, I can keep an eye on your companion while in Douglas. I know the Commander there well enough to beg for an extra guard if need be."

"That would be lovely. Thanks again."

As soon as the light of the first Glyph died, Gwen dialled for Richard. She understood what she "ought" to do, but more than that, Gwen needed an affirming voice to fight the gnawing guilt in her chest telling her to go to Douglas.

"Dick, you there?"

"I am. Are you still taking the piss?" Richard's greeting betrayed nothing.

"Nope, I am good. Sorry, Dick, I wasn't thinking straight."

"So long as you're thinking, that's alright with me. So how may this humble one offer aid?"

"Richard, I already apologised," Gwen reprimanded her cousin. "Dick, I need to pick your brain for a minute. Can you explain to me why I shouldn't make time for an excursion to the Isle of Man?"

"Colour me intrigued. Who, where, and what are you up to?"

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

"Just now, Evee was slated for the Isle of Man's volunteer relief-force, and I do not believe it has much to do with her latent potential," Gwen cut to the chase. "I think someone saw what happened in Merthyr Tydfil, and has decided they can play silly buggers with my friends. Maybe its Evee today, maybe you or Petra tomorrow."

Her cousin-cum-advisor's reply was not immediate. There was a thoughtful pause, then another that was longer.

"I don't know the answer to that. BUT— are you hoping to achieve what you managed in the Red Peak, only on the Isle?" Richard asked. "It is amazing what you did, Gwen. To say that you'll replicate the success, however, is irresponsible. From what you've told me, there was plenty of serendipity involved. For starters, what do you even know about the political insurrection there?"

Gwen briefly explained Dominic's information.

"That's not 'danger'— That's life," Richard's reply came without hesitation. "Speaking as someone who went to school with Elvia's brother and knew of her before you did, this is a perfect opportunity for Evee. That girl's always been indecisive and— pardon me— incapable of independent action. You and Yue coddled her in high school. Even in London, Elvia had allies galore. It may not seem it, but from what I've seen, she had more supporters the moment she stepped into Nightingale than you had after a year in Shanghai. I've been thinking about your situation with Elvia, and I say leaving Elvia benefits you both."

"But—"

"IF Elvia is as talented as you describe, gifted with twin-spirits, then her labour is endless by nature. She's a Cleric, Gwen. It's her prerogative to provide care for those in need. Right now, that need is in the Isle of Man. Tomorrow, it could be the foothills of Fuentes Carrionas or the Elemental Sea raging north of Istanbul. Will you leave London to protect her then? Elvia has a personal Knight of St George, and besides, she has a Contingency Ring— your Contingency Ring. In the time it takes for Mathias to perish, Elvia can teleport away unharmed. Besides, doesn't she possess Sen-sen? What on earth is going to battle an enraged draconic Ginseng the caster herself can't control? Also, will Peterhouse let you go without a Contingency Ring of your own?"

Gwen touched the bare flesh on her ring finger.

"Let me remind you. Did Master Kilroy accompany you to Blackheath? Did Gunther accompany you to Singapore? Did any of us in China insist we leave our responsibilities to chaperone you in Shanghai? Besides Uncle Jun, of course, he's awesome."

She was beginning to regret recruiting Richard.

"You know I am right. You are a Magus now. You have duties, as do I, as does Elvia, your friend. You cannot— ought not— think like Helena. Your duty, the one you chose to accept when you came to Peterhouse, is paramount. What Lady Grey has gifted you is what folks like me can only dream of— How can you repay your benefactor and your tutors through frivolous misadventure? Have you bedded her even?"

"Richard, that's enough." Gwen did not enjoy being guilt-tripped, less so when the words rang true. Like dripping water, each rationale Richard provided wore away the stubborn stone wedged against her heart.

"Well? Are we in agreement?"

Gwen dug deep for something profound to say, only to find her well of retorts completely dry.

"That's fine. I'll wait." Richard's Glyph changed hues, placing the call on idle.

Seated on the bench, Gwen straightened her dress, relaxed her shoulders, then leaned back so that her neck hung over the wooden backrest. Above, the English sky was its usual hue of slate and stone; this far from the Mageocracy's centre, the infamous London smog was barely perceptible.

Richard's affirmation was well-placed.
It would be utterly irresponsible to run off a second time just because Elvia was being menaced by sedan-sized, tailless, shapeshifted feline assassins with tentacles.

"Quack!"

In the pond, her rainbow duck "quacked". She noticed that except for the abnormal specimen in their midst, most of the other ducks swam in pairs.

Unwearied by the cold and warmed by the unnatural summer, amiable avian lovers paddled through the pond in companionable streams, leaving trails like open sextants. Some sat near the rushes, plucking at the reeds for nesting material. Others paddled among the stones, frolicking among the brimming water. Within this unnatural Eden, there was nought but serenity.

"QUACK!" Her drake joined the fray; it's bulk cutting the rushes like a frigate. In fear, the smaller ducks fled from the rainbow monstrosity. The drake gave chase, ploughing through the water. All around the pond, the rest of the hens suddenly took flight, mounting on clamouring wings, forming a great bell-beat of feathers as concentric ripples below echoed the great ring of panicked birds above.

"QUACK!" The mandarin duck waddled back dejectedly, staring at Gwen confusedly.

"... fuck me." Gwen exhaled with exasperation.

"… You sound upset," Richard interjected. "Evee?"

"No, no— that was for a duck."

"… I know you like to pick up strays." Richard's tone grew bemused. "But why a duck?"

"That is a VERY good question." Gwen's eyes grew misty. "It was cute, I guess, and friendly, and I had the Essence to spare."

"You're a clear and present danger to anything adorable," Richard remarked. "Is one victim not enough to satiate your cuddle-lust?"

"Very funny, Dick."

"So, have you reconsidered?"

"Yes," Gwen answered. "I am staying in London. I don't have time to shepherd Elvia."

"Good." Gwen could imagine Richard's sarcastic golf-claps. "Did you reconsider my offer from our luncheon?"

"I did. Welcome aboard, I suppose. We'll head to Millwall together on Sunday, after my lesson. I'll introduce you to Wally."

"Great," Richard's reply was curt and quick. "I've picked up a quest for clearing out the Slimes beneath the town. Did you post that?"

"No way." Gwen's stern lips broke into a smile. "You're the one who took up Wally's quest?"

"I thought as much." Richard laughed. "I'll introduce you to a few new mates from King's who will be tagging along. Got a nice place for lunch?"

"I do. Indian."

"Sounds colonial. See you then?"

"See you, Dick." Gwen bit her lower lip. "Thanks for the pep-talk."

"Anytime, Duck," Richard replied. "Stay off the drakes!"

Gwen disconnected the call, then tapped in the Glyph for Elvia.

"Gwen!"

"Evee…" She took a deep breath.

"Quack!" the duck wailed, demanding a return to innocence.

"… okay, thanks, Gwennie. I'll keep safe."

"See ya— Quack!"

Elvia watched the light within the Device die.

Steering Gwen was arguably the most dubious, and also disturbing thing she had done in all her eighteen years of life. Her mind was such a jumble of emotions that she wished she could Calm Emotion herself, even knowing that the histrionic-killing Clerical staple possessed marginal effect on the caster. Even now, knowing she had succeeded, her elevated heartrate was making her pant.

On the call, Gwen had very carefully informed her that she was in no danger— so long as Mathias looked out for Druids who could transform into cats sans tails, plus tentacles.

Was she disappointed that her companion did not insist on accompanying her? Elvia asked herself after a self-medicating dose of becalmed emotions. Her heart said that she was— her magically-placid mind told her it didn't matter.

Contrary to what she told Gwen, she welcomed the unexpected re-deployment. The more folk like Magus Fitzgerald she could pull from the brink, the merrier and more eager her desire to be in Douglas. It was for Gwen, her friend and companion and partner, that she had put on the pretension. More than anything, more than herself, she feared that her deployment was targeted at the Devourer of Shenyang to lure her friend into the mire of war. What Gwen had done for her in Dwarfland made her inconsolably happy, but it invariably left a weakness to be exploited.

If her assignment had been kept from Gwen, Elvia knew her friend well enough to know that Gwen would teleport in, Caliban and all, at the first unexpected news of her endangerment. Now, her partner had made her bed and knew to lie in it. What was surprising for Elvia was that her friend had seen the light of day so articulately, accepting her absence without contest.

Was it Lady Grey? Elvia considered who would offer Gwen such sterling advice. Or perhaps Ollie, her overzealous Praelector suffering from stress-pattern baldness? That poor man needed a dose of Sen-sen's best before he lost all of his hair.

Sighing, Elvia felt a strange tug of jealousy. Why was Gwennie still molesting that damned duck? Could her friend not live for one day without something cute to abuse?

Cambridge.
Peterhouse.

Training Range.

"Curve it!" Magister Kareena Patil's command whipped at Gwen's behind. "Bend it to your will!"

"ARRRRGH!" Gwen flubbed her Void Bolt, a spell she could incant near-silently, but apparently not with applications of meta-magic applied. It was amazing, she conceded, how Yue managed Alesia's Transmutation-Evocation specialisation. Her friend was someone with real talent, not stolen ability.

"That was utterly pedestrian." Magister Patil remained unimpressed. "You know you can do better than that."

Gwen wanted to retort, but first, she had to fight down the feedback loop from the Void mana flooding back into her conduits. When she finally suppressed her breakfast, she reexamined the long list of invocations.

There were hundreds in all, and via matrix-sequences, they created custom formulae that impacted a spells' range, AoE, shape, size, element, trajectory, channel and triggers. What Magister Patil wanted to squeeze from Gwen like blood from a rock was the ability to use Spellcraft not as pre-packaged incantation-chains, but as a fluid language.

"When altering the inflexion, consider the previous predicate and how it modifies the core quantifiers. The second clause of Chomsky's Elemental Cipher indicates a pause— not an enjambment. It's a tongue-tap, after which the original incantation must finish within eight Glyph-notes."

Gwen loosened her tongue by making a lion-face, and then a lemon-face. Her jaws ached, but that was hardly the present problem.

The issue, Gwen came to acknowledge, was that she might not be equipped to exercise the complexity of the magical "programming language"— certainly not on the fly. If anything, rendering invocations were akin to the complex mathematics of her old world, something between the admixture of real and imaginary numbers, fractals in reality, with arcane wrinkles manifesting like a self-perpetuating Mandelbrot set.

If she had been a real novice, she would have told herself that practice made perfect. But as one whose mind betrayed the limber youth of her body, she understood that in the distance loomed an inevitable cerebral bottleneck.

What Magister Patil demanded was new tricks— but Gwen knew herself to be an old bitch not so quickly re-trained.

As a magic-caster, she likened herself to a performance-pianist— fashionable and pretty and mechanically capable of producing the most celebrated works by the greatest composers. With confidence, she could stride on stage with a long slit dress to bathe in the light of ten-thousand watts. There would be applause and tears, and enough roses to fill the pit— but as for talent, she fell far short of Chopin or Liszt.

Simply put, she was a spell-hack— one gifted with the hardware to enact the formulae, but abjectly poor when it came to freestyle; a master of the copy-paste, an Omnimage of common arcane application.

If she was struggling with derivatives and differentiations here in the third tier, she could only imagine the horror of quantum physics past the seventh tier.

Her present struggle also allowed her to relearn why her scholarly cousin, Petra, had neither time or effort to spare on matters like love, quality of life, or even Crystals. The pursuit of knowledge and expertise her instructor anticipated was a life-long endeavour. There were no shortcuts, no bypass, no convenient detours, not for one without the natural talent.

"Void Bolt!"

This time, she curved the Bolt, though the spell's range halved.

Gwen groaned.
Beside her, Magister Kareena Patil's expression had grown cold enough to quench Dwarven darksteel.

"Try again, Omni-Mage."

Gwen had half-a-mind to re-align her instructor's world view.
The holistic pursuit of sorcerous prowess was nice in itself, but Gwen never saw the sorcerous path as the "only" way. The more she thought about it, the more she appreciated why Henry, her Master, never bothered with the explicit teaching of the secrets behind the arcanistry.

What her Master preferred to emphasise was the ambiguous, big-umbrella, utopian vision endorsed by the Middle Factions.

To Deathless Henry, Magic was a tool, a path to power, a badge of proficiency, a hammer to strike down nails. Rather than arcane resources, she and her Master preferred "Human" resource.

Few business leaders in her world, wielding the power of nations and operating budgets higher than the expenditure of some developed countries, possessed the necessary knowledge of operative semantics. Instead, industry-leading CEOs were more often creatures of charisma, leadership, guile, ruthlessness— prophets of profit.

To create a society where herself, Evee, Yue, Richard, squibs like James Ma and NoMs like Ruì could contribute their unique expertise to humanity, sorcerous supremacy was not the answer.

She knew that her Babulya had said that she would walk the Path of Violent Conflict. Her Master had advocated the Middle Path. What if both could be traversed by the Golden Way, a currency-paved road of glittering HDMs?

"To a lesser Acolyte, I would say repeat after me." Magister Patil tapped the runic scripts. "But that is not why we are here. Try again. No more aping, Gwen— let the 'craft' flow through your conduits."

"Yes, Ma'am." Gwen refocused her mind to conduct the business at hand.

For now, she would do her best.
Later, she would do far better.


"Halt!" Nils Kott, Gwen's Abjuration Instructor, called for the cessation of crystalline bombardments on her opaque, double-glazed Mana Shield.

"Very impressive, Magus Song." Professor Brown, who had insisted on joining the pair in the underground testing hall, boisterously clapped with cupped palms.

"You'd have to thank Gunther." Gwen dispelled her barriers. "It's his Signature Shield."

"A complex algorithm, requiring a creative application of external knowledge." Brown's brows remained raised. "And one well-suited for an energy-based Elementalist with high VMI. I am delighted you have it mastered so profoundly."

"So 'profound' it is the only Abjuration spell she knows..." Kott's brows remained furrowed. "A miracle, considering Magus Song's achievements."

Gwen chuckled guiltily.

Magister Brown matched her feigned mirth. "Hardly. I've studied the unedited broadcasts. You have a knack for monster slaying, Gwen— something you shouldn't dismiss so out of hand."

Kotts remained unmoved.

Earlier in the week, when Major Nils Kott had grilled her on the basics of Abjuration, Gwen told the Abjuration specialist that she knew "Shield" and ONLY "Shield". In the intervening few seconds, there had been an awkward silence when they both waited for the other to speak.

Eventually, it dawned on the wide-eye Kott what Gwen meant.

While her time at Fudan taught her the theoretical basics of "Utilitarian" Abjuration, her application of knowledge seldom extended beyond the necessary. Her lack had all but dashed Major Kott's expectation that Gwen was looking to progress into her 'fourth-tier' of expertise— a tier from which an Abjurer mastering two-dozen spells would fall into one or more of the six pathways. Instead, Gwen had to ask Kott for clarification, which the Abjurer dutiful delivered.

"Combat Abjuration" involved various forms of shielding, resistance and mitigation of incoming damage, both physical and elemental and rarely, psychic.

"Structural Abjuration" inferred the protection of structures through inscriptions and Glyph Wards, such as those utilised by Enchanter-Transmuters in heavy industries.

"Strategic Abjuration" comprised the protection and shielding of particular locales, a branch that served as the basis for the Resonance Crystals used by the Shielding Stations.

"Tactical Abjuration" was the warding of an individual's magic against other Mages, including portable Ward-setting and wide-area reinforcements.

"Restorative Abjuration" referred to the original purpose of Abjuring magic— the removal of harmful sorcery. It was a branch that emphasised removing wards, disenchanting protections, and decursing when employed in conjunction with Clerical Faith-craft.

Finally, the last function of Abjuration was the hardest and most sought-after skill set, that of "Spell Piercing". As the name suggested, the sole offensive branch of Abjuration emphasised on spontaneous dispelling, disrupting and breaking of enemy invocations. Gwen's bane, the infamous "Banish" that sent her reeling more often than not, hailed from this particular offshoot.

When initially Kott asked which area she wanted to focus on, her choice was Combat Abjuration, which she already had a foot-in-door, and Spell Piercing.

Now, Nils Kott delivered his verdict.

"I spoke to Magister Patil," the Major informed Gwen sternly. "She says that you are incapable of spontaneous meta-magic Spellshaping?"

"True, thus far," Gwen clarified her insufficiencies. "Give me time, and I should be able to do it for the lower tiers."

"Without spontaneous Spellshaping," Kott disregarded her deliberation. "Even with Divination-assisted live-analysis, 'Counterspelling' would prove nigh-impossible."

Gwen implored her instructor for more information. It was Magister Brown who answered.

"Counterspells are the most distinguished form of mana-manipulation. For instance, you require at the very least four to six seconds to weave up a Dark Tentacle. In that interval, an opponent who has studied your spell list may employ Saussure's Parallax-Matrix to agitate your mana-channel, causing you to mana burn yourself. For Evocation, a well-timed Wall's Quad-Helix Spell Jammer could prematurely ignite the mana as it forms, causing you to self-harm with Void. A feat Major Kott is well-capable of performing. It's a fate diminishable by employing Signature Spells. That said, a true Spell Piercer is capable of near-instant analysis and reconstruction. Against such an opponent, it is best to use group-tactics. Unless you're an Abjurer of equal-talent, your only recourse, regardless of your power, is to flee..."

Kott's stoicism was unflappable.

"...But I am sure Major Kott is teasing you."

"How so?" Gwen asked. "It seems logical to me that such a Mage should be near-indomitable against a fellow caster anyway."

"The number of Mages capable of spontaneous mid-tier counterspelling in London, I would count no more than a hundred. The best are at the Meister tier, followed by a majority of Magisters and a handful of Maguses. Also, the faster the spell, the less chance of interception. This is why high-tier combat Mages prefer to use small scale, mid-range magic in rapid succession as opposed to the grand sorcery of the seventh tier and above. I mean, if you're going to be spending anything between six-seconds to a minute invoking a spell, you're certainly expecting an Abjurer to shield you. If you're alone, invest in long-range bombardments and make a habit of first-strike via Divination. Who can disrupt a spell they can't see coming?"

At Brown's words, Gwen felt better.

"Could I turtle against a Spell Piercer?" She raised a point she had prior put to Major Kott.

Magister Maxwell Brown snorted. "What is that?"

"She means if she can egg-up in a Void Shell while casting spells," Kott explained Gwen's slothful proposal. "That the answer is a tentative 'yes' is an offence to Abjurers everywhere."

"As an Omni-Mage," Gwen explained for her instructor. "I can devise a Shield, while simultaneously Scrying my surroundings. I could do it right now, technically, by using Link Sight with Ariel, though I am finding it almost impossible to cast upper-tier spells while my senses are preoccupied. I was discussing with Major Kott if there's any way to replicate the same spell Sobel used in Sydney, what Magister Walken calls the Dark Egg."

"Devouring Chrysalis." Brown raised an all-knowing digit.

"Hmm?" Gwen blinked.

"The spell is called the Devouring Chrysalis," Magister Brown repeated himself. "It's in the archives on Sobel. You should know that our House Master at Emmanuel's was on a first-name basis with Deathless. You should visit, sometimes, if you're interested, I can submit a request."

Gwen happily declared she would desire nothing else.

"Out of curiosity, I am told you've taken a liking to our pond? Have you taken an interest in our humble abode? You're as welcome at Emmanuel's as Peterhouse..."

"No no, just the ducks," Gwen denied the desire to jump ship.

"The Ducks?" Brown snorted with surprise. "They speak, you know."

"… they speak?" Gwen cocked her head. "In English?"

"Of course not! But with Commune, from the School of Divination…"

Major Kott growled.

"… my apologies." Brown raised both hands. "Nil, she's all yours."

"To answer your question, Magus Song. You'd be a sitting duck. No Spell Piercer worth their salt is going to find much trouble with your low-tier Void Egg— even if you are using Lord Shultz's' variation."

"And yet, brother seems to do fine."

"I imagine Tower Master Shultz would have no problems reducing a counter speller to dust before they could analyse a single Glyph." Kott's lip formed a tenuous curl. "The Morning Star's offence is his best defence."

Another Gunther fanboy, Gwen marked Kott down in her mental notebook. Her brother-in-craft's accumulated kudos was something she dearly desired. When would she be able to imitate the sun like Gunther and be respected by men and women halfway across the world?

"Do you plan on teaching her Enchantment still?" Magister Brown was not very good at keeping his mouth shut. "It seems you have your hands full with Abjuration."

"A good foundation takes time." To Gwen's chagrin, Kott did not deny that his student was less suited for advanced Abjuration than he could ever imagine. "Decades, preferably."

"Perhaps I could offer an accelerated pathway?" Magister Brown's eyes twinkled. "Miss Song, you must forgive Major Kott and Magister Patil. Though humble, your instructors are authorities within their respective fields. Like Lord Shultz, they represent the convergence of talent and effort— while you represent a most curious incongruity— an excess of talent, spoilt by inexperience. My proposal, therefore, is that in lieu of militant learning, I could empower a holistic learning experience..."

Major Kott closed the spell tome in his hand, cutting off his compatriot.

"Since you are occupied, this is as far as we go today." Her instructor rose from his seat. "Complete the unfinished Mandala diagrams in chapter three and six by Thursday, before your IIUC ceremony. I imagine there will be an interruption to our schedule once your social obligations take a front seat. Practice well, and practice often. You need it."

"Understood, Major." Gwen carefully opened the thigh-thick volume to the indicated chapters, where annotations had been made for her. All she had to do was to follow Kott's precise instructions.

Next, she waited for Brown to take his leave. Instead, the man invited her to come closer.

"Such impatience! So much for being a Mineral Mage." Maxwell Brown's lopsided grin sent goosebumps running up her thighs. "Now then, my dear, shall we streamline your learning methodology? Intuitive sorcery, alas, is the rare privilege of casters like you and me."

"I don't believe it. You look— tired." Richard felt genuinely shocked when three days on from their prior communique, he and Gwen met on the Isle of Dogs.

"Shit. One sec." His cousin closed her eyes and engaged in an intense minute of concentration. Visibly, her pale and lustreless skin once again assumed its vital glow, her eyes regaining their attractive sparkle. When she exhaled, signalling the completion of the Essence circuit, Richard could visibly see the weeds around Gwen's feet grow ever-so-slightly, each blade reaching out to bootlick his cousin's beetle-black Mary Janes.

"I mean it as a compliment," he rephrased his comment. "You look like you've been studying hard."

"And I have." Gwen shook out her arms and legs. "You have no idea of the corners I've painted myself. My tutors are borderline obsessive. I think they're taking revenge."

When Gwen explained what Brown had convinced the others to set up, he could only shake his head at their wastefulness. So many HDMs, it was only Gwen that could command such frivolous strategies.

"How's Elvia?" he changed the topic when Gwen complained of a throbbing brain. Richard felt nothing particular; the flaxen-haired beauty was useful only as a source of mental consolation for his moody cousin. She was, in his mind, a medicinal flower whose bud-juices, if applied in excess, turned to the "Blue" so popular with the NoMs. When Gwen spoke of gifting Elvia the Draconic Ginseng, Richard rolled his eyes. Once again, sentimentality had ridden roughshod over rationality. As for Elvia's confession, Richard cared for nothing. The purpose of desire, he reasoned, was motivation. Attainment killed the magic.

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

It should be bloody obvious to all that his Void-fed cousin walked a path few could follow. Any beings caught in her orbit need possess both the arcane and mental aptitude to endure the course. Elvia Lindholm had never been anything special, if Gwen were Jupiter, then "Evee" was no more a Galilean pseudo-moon to Yue's Ganymede or Petra's Europa.

Elvia Lindholm, a celestial object? What horror would that bring to the balance? The collisions, chaos and annihilation engendered by such a thing sat against everything Richard hoped for. So what if there were tentacled felines? If some Druids could extinguish the girl, Gwen was better off without the baggage.

"Evee's doing well." Gwen recollected their last exchange. "Already, she's making a name for herself. I guess that Magus Kilkenny must have set things up so that she would be well-supported."

"… Fitzgerald," he reminded his overtired cousin.

"...Oh, yes, of course, how could I forget Gatsby?" Gwen massaged her temples while sprouting a nonsensical Gwenism. "Sorry, Dick. Too many Mandalas. It's all that's in my head."

"Perhaps a quest might soothe your fever, Duck." Richard rather liked the new nickname he bestowed her. "You could join us in the sewers. Slimes can be very exciting."

Gwen shot him another withering look. "Another outfit? Oh, the hassle—"

"Hey." He shrugged, pointing at his Wellington boots, then at her ankles, bare up to her knees. "Is it my fault Lea and I are perfect for the job?"

At the mention of her name, Lea materialised, keen on soliciting Gwen for Essence. With a wave of his hand, Richard banished the Undine back into its pocket dimension.

"Not now, sweetpea," Richard apologised to his Sprite. "Remember what we discussed. You're as good as Ariel, but I am no Gwen."

"Low-key in London…" Lea's voice drifted through the air, making his hair moist.

"That's right." He soothed his Undine with a jolt of mana. Looking around the entry to the Isle, he could see crows on the treetops and the roofs of the townhouses. In the distance between the pier and the townhouses, two discordant, upright figures came into view.

"There's our men. I'll get them— ELIS! LUKA!"

The two young men who came to join them were dressed in camo-patterned training-outfits, the same as Richard. The shorter of the two sported sandy-blonde hair, the taller, matt-black. Seeing Richard call out, they quickly approached.

"Dick! You're early!" The first bowed from the waist. "This must be the divine employer."

"You've been hiding her from us." The second young man, Luka, broke into a nervous grin.

Gwen performed a half-curtsy, but the two university students shirked back.

"Please don't." The two laughed nervously. "Dick, how about you introduce us."

In high society, etiquette dictated that one must be "introduced" to one's superiors. A carcass must not walk into a conversation like a clueless rustic as Gwen had done on every occasion.

"Duck, this is Elis Cox, third son of some Viscount somewhere in the Frontiers. He is our Evoker, a Lightning Mage like yourself who part-times in Illusion. He dreams of leaving for the colonies one day to make a name for himself."

"My pleasure, Dick," Elis shook hands with Gwen.

"… and this is Luka Spencer, a nobody like me who just happened to work hard enough to claw his way to the top of the food chain. Luka has the rare talent of Ice, perfect for Slimes. He hopes to become a Civil Engineer."

"I am an Enchanter-Transmuter." Luka shook Gwen's hand as well. "I am afraid I won't be much use in combat. But I can repair the wards and put new ones in place to filter out the Slimes to prevent future inundation like the present. Please call on me again if you are satisfied with my work."

"That sounds lovely." Gwen smiled, and Richard watched his mates from King's melt. He had met the duo during Lent O-week, and after some back and forth, had deemed that these two were talented enough to be useful, but sufficiently disconnected from nobility to offer an uncomplicated friendship. It was this sort of respectful partnership that Richard believed was the perfect and proper attitude his cousin should cultivate, especially considering her lack of friends.
A puzzling reality for a girl who had debitors by the dozen, a lover or two, Family who loved her— but non-existent social life, discounting Lady Grey, her Familiars, and now, a duck.

Richard was beginning to miss Petra. Even a Lulan or Mayuree keeping Gwen company would do.

"Well, then." Richard gestured to the sludge-slathered iron gate just below the waterline. "We're going to get started. Assuming no complications, I imagine we should finish within a few hours. Are you coming or will you be shouting lunch?"

"Lunch." Gwen took one look at the moss-caked brickwork and denied his invitation to participate in building rapport with the boys from King's. "After, come find me at the estate. I'll be checking Wally's books and auditing Elvia's soup kitchen."

"You're going to relax by working?" Richard remarked before inspecting the present state of the docks.

From what Gwen had told him, the region was in a poor state before Elvia set up her "Foundation" here on the Isle. With a steady stream of HDMs fed to the furloughed workers, the place appeared to have regained a mote of life. For once, children were playing on the quay rather than huddling at home to conserve their body warmth. He could also spot folk going about sweeping the concrete and hosing off the mud. Elsewhere, across the eastern dockyard, several flatbeds were parked outside the printing press, dragging out great gut-fulls of scrap metal from a collapsed section of the warehouse.

Richard shuddered to think that Gwen was using her Void magic to dispose of trash in a shady, NoM workhouse district. If her instructors were here, the one with a wand up her arse, Patil, would probably need a Calm Emotion from Elvia.

He had no idea if the Isle of Dogs would ever grow into the 'second hub' of London as Gwen proposed, but he could see the potential in an easily accessible peninsula close enough to see the Shard in all its glory.

"See you later, Dick. Take care of Elis and Luka."

"Til lunch, Duck." Richard parted from his cousin with a scented hug before returning to his companion's jealous eyes.

"You two close?" The question came from Elis.

"Not nobly close." Richard's lips curled "That said, if you're feeling it, her warmth's still lingering. I'll do you a solid. How about a second-hand hug?"

Cambridge.
The ides of January came on like snarling Ice Troll, blanketing London with alternating gales of powder and sleet.

Gwen woke to the sound of her Alarm spell blaring away beside her skull, inconsolable but for a placating algorithm Magister Brown had demanded to enforce spontaneous spell-construction as a part of her daily living.

When she finally fell out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, her hair falling about like that of a wet hag, she suffered the distinct pleasure of deciphering a spell-disjunction before the illusory Ward would allow her unvetted access to the porcelain bowl.

Likewise, the hot shower she had so dearly desired accosted her with a minor Mandala puzzle requiring an articulation of random Glyph-formulae selected from her textbook.

At the door of her fridge, breakfast was locked away by a Ward that required a precise spell-strike from a magic missile demanding three combinations of meta-magic, randomly selected by the embedded arcanistry.

After a meal of eggs, Spam and toast, she arrived at her walk-in wardrobe, thankfully devoid of further interruptions, and reached out for a figure-hugging long-sleeved dress.

A split-second later, an Octogramic Ward demanding a combination of Transmutation, Enchantment and Illusion keys overlaid itself over the wardrobe. In real-life, the Ward would trigger a tier 5 spell-strike linked to the specific element HDM it was empowered with— though presently the boobytraps in her apartment hungered for solutions.

As before, if she so desired, Gwen could ignore the probing puzzles and wear the dress anyway, though that would disappoint her instructors, who had each contributed to her anguish.

"This has to be Le Guevel," Gwen complained to the frigid, general air. Near the window, the heating duct, a thing almost two centuries old, plinked in the cold. Unlike most, Gwen's otherworldly constitution made her effectively immune to the cold, though heat and humidity still proved a challenge.

She rummaged through the rest of her closet. An A-line tunic assaulted her eyes with a stronger Mandala than the first. The thigh-length one-piece, one of her favourites, demanded a tier 4 Illusion glyph she had never even seen before. The knee-socks could double as a minor thesis.

"Jesus Christ…" Her scalp crawled. To think Le Guevel had the patience to sort her fashion wear by tiers of indecency. To test her hypothesis, Gwen laid hands on a white blouse that covered her from chin to hip.

Nothing.
Not a damn thing.

Her hand shifted toward a minidress.

A flurry of eye-straining illusions exploded forth whenever she touched the fabric.

Above, she could see little carvings engraved onto the racks. If she wished to cheat, Gwen supposed, it was a simple matter of swapping the hangers.

But that was beside the point.

Sighing, she took down a heavy cotton skirt that reached her ankles in demure grey. Her other hand reached for a three-quarter-sleeve top. As expected, the puzzle-pieces were simple enough that her shame could be covered in under a minute.

She reached for the pump heels.

A half-dozen Mandalas blossomed.

"...fuck."

Peterhouse.
Chapel.

For the plethora of colleges dotting Cambridgeshire, the Chapel remained the centrepiece of each school. Some, like King's, held royal patronage and served as the home to the Queen's Choir. Comparatively, though not the largest nor the most magnificent, Peterhouse's lacquered arches provided an intimacy that the transmuted marble at King's lacked.

“Deus est caritas, et qui manet in caritate in Deo manet, et Deus in eo: sit Deus in nobis, et nos maneamus in ipso. Amen…”

The final words of Peterhouse's College Grace, read by the Vice-Chancellor, faded into the candle-lit air.

A smattering of lumen-bulbs turned the panelled interior quicksilver. With perfect poise, Marchioness Maxine Loftus spoke sternly of solidarity and tenacity in these trying times of the Empire before relenting to the Chief Proctor from Brussels— Magister Helmut Peeters.

For Gwen who stood in her subfusc and crimson mantle, the rows of staff, the faculty, and the gathered students returning to attend the Lent term delivered a vivid flashback to her first day at Blackwattle. The speaker, a platinum-haired, fatherly Director of Events from Brussels, appeared a simulacrum of Jules Bartlett, her old principal.

"Mages, Maguses, Magisters— it gives me great pleasure today to welcome you all to this concluding occasion of the 2004 IIUC. With me today are our esteemed host, the Lady of Ely, Vice-Chancellor Lord Alfred Butterfield, fellow members of the campus, and finally— the object for which we are here gathered— Magus Gwen Song."

Polite applause greeted the Chief Proctor.

"It takes a village— or as it were, two colleges, to raise a Mage to prominence." Chief Proctor Peeters was happy to sail on without a hint of irony. "And tenacity. And Persistence. And experience, for which Gwen Song has exhibited much— certainly no less than many of us today who survived the Beast Tide. From Sydney to Shanghai, and now Cambridge, our starlet is a Mage dear to every leyline a Tower has touched. In Burma, Magus Song has shown leadership and wisdom beyond her years. In Cuzco, she created miracles in a land famous for revelations in saving Lord Inti. Then again, in Dalian, China, she took that expertise for which she is now famous, and applied it to the direst threat facing Humanity— the Undead."

"While many of us, Proctors included, sat safely in our armchairs— Miss Song faced a Soul Eater and taught the renegade the meaning of humility. In her subsequent engagement, she confronted a Lich, fighting the fiend to a stand-still until aid arrived in the form of Magister Walken of Oxbridge—"

Walken bowed. Bulbs flashed. In the stands, Gwen saw his wife and child clapping happily.

"As for what came to pass— I need not tally for you here. Even now, the rebuilding of Shenyang proceeds at full flight, with our allies of the Orient industriously revitalising the Liaoning Frontier to cage the threat."

More bulbs flashed, vivifying her two-toned irises. Standing in full view of the gathered crowd, Gwen studied the many faces present. Most on either wing, Ollie included, hailed from Peterhouse itself, roped by the Lady into filling the gallery. Others from Kings and the fraternity colleges, including Richard and his friends, sat nearer the exit.

"… Magus Song, step forward."

Gwen's Mary Janes clacked across the polished, mirror-shine floor.

"By the power invested in me through the International Inter-University Tribunal, I present to thee, the title of Most Valuable Participant in the 2004 competition year."

Outside, a brass clock struck noon; inside, applause assaulted the vaulted roof.

"...As well, it is with great pleasure that we also present the accompanying prize— An MVP Contingency Ring, wrought with treaties ratified by each and very Tower from London to Tokyo to Auckland."

In a manner not unlike a proposal, the Chief Proctor materialised, then presented a clamshell ring-box. The Creature Core that accompanied the betokened life-saving jewel scintillated as the lumen-globes fired, vivifying its Glyph-lit interior. Like a knight receiving her first Spellsword, Gwen knelt on one knee as instructed, first collecting a Tyrian sash over the rainbow-hued cloth provided by Peterhouse, each representing a proficient School of Magic, then bowing to receive her reward.

A ring of such stature— ratified by all states, was a rare and precious gift indeed. It was a thing whose value did not lie in the cost of creation nor the rarity of its materials, but in the political capital it represented.

A Mage that arrived at a Tower bearing such a ring was fortified by favours, treaties, alliances— and threats of expulsion should a Tower fail to uphold the universal agreement that led to the item's creation.

In front of the lumen-recorders, Gwen placed the ring onto her finger; her silhouette made mercury by the sheer volume of flaring bulbs. In front of an envious audience, she invoked the silent Glyph passed onto her by the helpful Magister Peeters, then raised a dainty white hand to signal that the reward bonded to her Astral Soul.

"I look forward to your future service, Magus Song." Magister Peeters stood to one side, leaving Gwen in the limelight. In turns, she briefly joined hands with Lady Grey for the photo-op, then again with Magister Butterfield, then was once more alone.

From the crowd of reporters, the familiar face of Dominic Lorenzo came into view. Out of the thong of thrusting pens and jostling gestures, Gwen hand-picked her future Editor.

"Magus Song, would you like to say a few words to the future contestants of London for bringing home such as auspicious title?"

"I would," Gwen proceeded as rehearsed. "I want to thank my teammates from Shanghai, Lady Grey of Peterhouse and Dean Luo of Fudan, my colleagues, my mentors, and my brother and sister-in-craft for this honour..."

She paused for effect.

"But I would also like to point out that while we are warm and snug here in the Chapel, bathed in the music of the spheres, there are Mages out there— Mages like my friend Elvia Lindholm of Nightingale's, fighting to save lives, labouring to keep the Mageocracy in one piece. Milady's speech was no sentiment— it is the reality of where we, as a society, stand today."

"Miss Elvia Lindholm?" Dominic feigned surprise. "By who you mean the upstart Cleric with a Draconic Ginseng Spirit and an Alarune? The favoured of Lady Astor?"

The other reporters grew silent. A few began to scribble in their notebooks.

"The very same," Gwen's imploring presence filled the dais as she tapped into her well of Essence. Her next words were enough to vibrate the stained mana-crystals depicting St Peter's reception of the Nazarene. "My selfless Evee! Volunteering in Douglas! On the Isle of Man! Pulling Mages from the brink of Death while fending off the Manx! Putting duty before pleasure, even the attendance of her dearest friend's international ascension! Evee, if you're watching, stay true to the course! All of us here, we're cheering for you!"