“Evee! Evee!”

Elvia Lindholm, the infamous “Trouble Maker”, the great disruptor of the Chain of Being at the Great Ormond Street Hospital, sat dazed in bed, one hand holding her work roster.

When her roommate and now co-worker, Sylvie Stratford, called out her name, Elvia turned as though a journeyman's golem still booting up its Glyph-scripts.

“Yes, Sylvie?”

“So, how is it? Can you come with me to Northumberland?”

“Take a gander.” Elvia handed over her roster slip.

Sylvie scanned the printed strip. “What bollocks is this?! You’re on outbound from tomorrow through to NEW YEAR EVE?”

Elvia lay back on her commandeered gurney. GOS had just beaten back two crises, back to back, and it was only now that the emergency patients could be shipped out to convalescence homes. Each Winter Solstice, the exponential propagation of magical resources meant a proliferation of hostile Demi-human activity. Even so, Elvia hadn't expected to be on deployment.

“Ystradfellte?! That's north of Merthyr Tydfil! Who's responsible for this?”

“Rosy and her fan-club, but you didn’t hear me say that.” Elvia rubbed her swollen eyes. “Maybe they’ve got a good reason? It’s not like I’ve got folks waiting for me. Also, I volunteered last year.”

“Those boots from Royal Alfred!” Sylvia blurted out. "What's Matron Maxwell thinking? Sending our Evee out in the dead of winter. Lord knows what's on those moors."

"Redcaps, usually. Gobs, Snots, the occasional Ice Hob, Trolls. Lots of Trolls." Elvia shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The Purge happens every year, and so do casualties. Every hospital has to cough up 'volunteers'."

“Kiki…” A bipedal sprout emerged from Elvia's coat. It had previously been sleeping in her breast pocket, but the conversation had stirred the Plant Sprite from its meditation. Raising its chubby little arms, the Alraune kissed Elvia on the cheek. “Kiki?”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Elvia hugged the plant between her arms. “We’ll get through this. Another two and a half years is all. Then we can see mum and dad, and Gwen, and Yue…”

“You still haven’t heard from her?” Sylvie appeared stricken by Elvia’s unhappiness. “Surely, in between kicking zombie arse and punching Flayers in the face, she’s got time to Message her bestie? Besides, didn't she finish a month ago?”

“Gwen’s real busy, I bet.” Elvia allowed Kiki to massage her cheeks, working away some of the accumulated fatigue. “If I fought off a LICH, I would be swamped by interviews, offers and engagements as well.”

"Surviving a Lich you mean?"

"And saving the Prince of the Inca!"

"And Eating her way into Shenyang," Sylvie remarked dryly. "You know, I am not so sure about meeting 'The Devourer' after all."

"She's a doll!" Elvia had picked up some old vernacular from the canteen ladies. "After the IIUC, I think everyone will want to be acquainted with Gwen."

“Speaking of connections.” Sylvia sidled closer. “Maybe you should ask Mathias? He can petition Lady Astor in your stead. You’re in her choir, right? If the Lady wants you at her Christmas Mass, how can GOS send you to Ystradfellte? You know how these assignments are. They say ten days, but who knows what’ll happen? If the Purge goes well, you're bored witless for a week— but if bodies start arriving by the truckload, it’s not like you can pack and leave. Nightingale is very particular about its reputation.”

“Lady Astor is fair,” Elvia intervened before Sylvie could work herself into a frenzy. “She doesn’t interfere with GOS’s rosters. If I am not here, then some other poor sod would have to fill the vacancy. I don’t want that, Sylvie. It's Christmas and people ought to be with their families. It's okay for me to work harder. There'll be dozens of physicians from other Hospitals and Colleges there as well. We'll keep each other company. Maybe the field cooks will have pudding?"

“ARRRRGH!” Sylvie pulled at her hair. “You’re such a pushover! Lady Astor adores you— like a pet, I’ll admit— but she likes you better than any other Cleric at GOS! Rosy's perfectly composed abusing her aunty's position, why don't you make use of yours!”

“Sylvie! That’s a conflict of interest!” Elvia pouted, somehow more adorable when upset. “We learned that in orientation—“

“Fur-fooks-sake, Evee!” Sylvia slipped into her northern dialect. “Yer— You’re so nice. You are infuriating!”

Elvia laughed, dispelling Sylvia’s ire with her unadulterated sticky-sweet goodness.

There was, of course, another reason Elvia did not want to disturb her honourable benefactor. Having grown intimate with the powerful widow, Elvia knew better than anyone that Lady Lucy Waldorf Astor had her hands full. As it stood, the General Election was only five months away, and the Lady had been pre-selected for the District of Sutton. To disturb Lady Astor with juvenile, mewling requests for rest, or to open Lady Astor’s mithril reputation to nepotism, was unacceptable to Elvia. That and the more she relied on Lady Astor, the more problems she would encounter when the Lady leaves her post at GOS for parliament.

And as for Mathias, Elvia felt a mild migraine coming on. The intense young man was a catalyst for her woes. The job of a Knight is to protect their ward, and in Mathias' case, Nightingale's Spirit Healer.

Unfortunately, Elvia suspected the young man was unconsciously using her to live out a fantasy. Emily and her father meant well, but Elvia understood that she was, in reality, a nobody. The grand-nephew of a Duke, attending to a peasant? If the fingers and tongues wagging behind her back got any more intense, she'd have to treat them for cramps.

_WHAM!_

On cue, the door slid apart, drawing sparks with the speed in which the metal rail received the slide-catch.

“Matty!” Elvia hissed, her cheeks puffed. “Shush! We're in a hospital!”

"Kiki!" Kiki likewise berated the careless young man.

“Evee—” Mathias, her assigned Knight, was a propaganda poster come to life. “We’re going to a war zone! Again! Huzzah!”

"SHUSH!" Elvia imagined Kiki suffocating the absurdly handsome face.

From behind the impassioned young Knight came the sound of gratuitous giggling. GOS, like the five other major hospitals in London’s Metropolitan area, was a training ground for junior Nurses. As expected, these young women hailed from good families with top-notch education, talent, and connections. As such, within GOS' student hierarchy were pupils from each of London's three major medical colleges— Nightingale's, Royal Alfred's and Black's.

Sir Mathias Rothwell, with his ash-blonde hair and chiselled jawline, broke hearts with a glance. To say the young man was merely good looking would be an insult, for Mathias was Radiant.

When Elvia first saw the young knight-errant standing behind Emily, her friend and Nightingale's Student Council President, she had been shocked into silence by the grandeur of his presence. It wasn't so much that Mathias was a rare Radiant Mage— after all, Elvia had dined with Gunther Shultz, arguably the most famous Radiant Mage in the world. It was that Mathias’ radiance was untempered, unchecked— raw, oozing out from every pore.

"Do you like him?" Emily cooed as though she had presented Elvia with a puppy Golden Retriever.

"He's amazing." Elvia regretted gushing in turn. She was no more immune to the young man's Radiant Aura than any other, but more than anything, she didn't want to disappoint Emily.

"Mathias is a distant grand-nephew of my father," the future Duchess of Somerset introduced the young man, running her hand from his hair to his hips in the vein of one addressing her favourite stallion. "He's three years older than you, and by all accounts from his tutors, extraordinary."

“Lady Lindholm.” The young man had held Elvia’s hand. To her chagrin, he knelt. “Allow me to profess my loyalty, my fealty, and my love.”

Elvia recalled freezing like a Draconic Deer in the path of Gwen's Void Swarm.

In the aftermath, Emily had told Elvia that their meeting had gone swimmingly. In her eyes, Mathias was a proud young stag with the heritage, talent and education to back up his dreams, and she was afraid he would reject Elvia.

Personally, Elvia would have preferred the rejection.

The worst of it, Elvia had learned months later, was that only the nobility had explicitly assigned guardians. For pissants like herself, the Tower appointed interim Knights for individual assignments. A permanent Knight— such as Mathias, could only be assigned by nobility to their family members. Emily had treated Elvia like a sister— but the fact remained that a Rothwell had bent the knee to a Frontier refugee. Naturally, malicious rumours followed— Mathias was the ideal protector for many a well-bred sorceress. When Elvia finally realised the trouble she was in, her reputation as a bite-sized Whore of Babylon was well-cemented.

“Thanks, Mathias.” Elvia wondered if Gwen had ever felt so overwhelmed. For herself, just dealing with Mathias, Lady Astor, Sylvie and Emily was already making her head twice its size. Additionally, she had work, her patients, the unfriendly seniors, the jealous juniors, the snotty Matrons, and more piling on her plate.

It was enough to drive a girl mad.

“Evee.” Mathias parked his tightly-toned figure in the ward. As usual, he was utterly oblivious to the fact that Elvia had been stealing precious shut-eye on her pilfered gurney. “Shall I go and commandeer supplies for our deployment? I am confident the quartermaster would not dare to deny or shortchange you if I am there. If your equipment is short again, I shall beat him!”

“Kiki!” The Plant Sprite waved a leaf. Unlike Elvia, her Alarune had taken to Mathias like a plant to the sun. “Kikiki!”

“Hey there, Kiki.” Mathias withdrew an HDM crystal and awarded the treat without so much as a blink.

“I know, Matty.” Elvia just felt so tired. “Thank you for always watching out for me. Please do that.”

Her lip service was enough to satisfy the bright-eyed Knight.

“Then I shall be on my way. Lady.” Mathias snapped a salute. “Please rest well.”

_BAM!_ The door slid shut. Outside, there was the sound of Mathias being swamped by the angels in white.

With her Knight gone, Elvia wondered if it was at all possible to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, the lingering impact of the Radiant Knight’s Aura had her body operating on full throttle.

“Aah..." Sylvie pined, her eyes full of stars, half-drunk on the man’s Radiance. “Evee, you’re so lucky. If I were Emily, I would have kept that hunk for myself, so what if he's my nephew? Anyway, my shift is up! See you later.”

With Sylvie gone, Elvia stared at the back of the abused door. On its rear, there was a picture of a Manx Cat, hanging from a clothesline. Matron Maxwell was an enormous feline aficionado and had framed the doors with hundreds of the damned things.

“Hang in there,” Elvia read the words to herself in silence, wondering how her friends were doing half a world away.

London.
Heathrow ISTC Station.

Like most capital transit stations, London’s ISTC sat in a quieter part of the city. A key rationale was for the processing of the thousands of Mages passing through its Teleportation Circles on an hourly basis, and another was for the propensity of said Mages to traffick in illicit materials.

Gwen stood pretty as a statue at the base of the ISTC Mandala, scanning for her handlers. When her eyes floated over a pair of Mages in tightly fitted militant uniforms, the duo moved to accost the new arrival.

“Miss Gwen Song of Sydney?”

“That’s me.” Gwen raised a hand.

“ID?”

“Here.” Gwen produced her Multi-Pass.

The two independently verified her credentials.

"You're a Class VI War Mage?" The older of the guards, a stocky man with a bull's neck, eyed her from crown to toe. "Really now?"

"Yep, that's me." Gwen gave what she hoped was a disarming smile.

“Welcome to Heathrow, Miss Song.” The second speaker, a young woman with fair blonde hair, bowed her head.

“Mmm. I am Sergeant Waterford, and this is Cadet Mills. If you could follow us, please? As you are immigrating from a Frontier, we need to clear you for customs."

"Of course," Gwen returned politely. When she caught her reflection of a mirrored pillar, she performed a double-take. In Yangon, she had worn mini-dress and wedge sandals suitable for sticky summers. After crossing the equator, she had put on a parka to cover her arms and shoulders.

Presently, however, the European Mages around her, the guards included, were each bundled up in multiple layers of clothing. From the ISTC's four-storey windows, she could even see snow blanketing the countryside. Next to an iron gate, mist-huffing guards stood with fur hats and trench coats. Inside, the male travellers wore vests and jumpers, the women, full-length coats and scarves.

Presently, Gwen realised. She must look like a crazy person— that or an exhibitionist.

"Sergeant." She stopped. "Could you excuse me for a second? I'd like to change into something warmer."

"No." The sergeant's curt rebuff was puzzling. "Please follow us to the interview room. Also, please refrain from accessing your Message Device as well as your Storage Ring. Penalties will apply."

Gwen glanced at the female cadet, who nodded meekly.

"Alright." After a quick gander around the spacious interior of Heathrow, she chose compliance. She had no idea what 'Airport' security was like in arguably the busiest hub in Europe and didn't want any trouble, at least not before Evee was in her arms.

"Cadet Mills will confirm your visitation endorsements. I will inspect what you are bringing into London. Once satisfied, you will be released into the city."

“Released?” Gwen realised the man never did return her Multi-Pass, wondering if this had to do with her classification. “What am I, a Dragon?”

Sergeant Waterford remained stoic. The corner of Mills’ lips twitched.

Behind a glass barrier with the words, "Border Control - HEATHROW", was a row of offices built without windows. Sterile and intimidating, the interior of the room was furnished with a bare steel table bolted to the floor, and two chairs.

Gwen sat, as did Sergeant Waterford. Cadet Mills was left standing with a data slate.

“Miss, may I have your name?” Cadet Mills was at least polite.

“Gwen Song.”

“Place of Birth?”

“Sydney.”

“Date of Birth?”

“25th of May, 1986.”

“Highest Level of Education Attained?”

“Second-year— Senior?“

"Ma’am?"

“Of Blackwattle High School.”

“Senior Diploma, Ma'am?”

“Er…” Gwen realised something terrible. “Junior? But I have a senior's certificate. Also, I attended Fudan-Shanghai for three Semesters. So I am technically not a Frontier's woman anymore.”

The two officers looked at one another. Sergeant Waterford snorted.

“Your reason for moving to London?”

“Higher Education.”

“Institution?”

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

“Cambridge— Peterhouse.”

Again, the confirmation engendered a longer than usual silence.

"Right."

“Highest School of Magic Attained?”

“Conjuration, Tier 6.”

“Secondary Schools?”

“What, all of them?"

“Yes?”

“Okay. All of them. Excuse me—”

Gwen interrupted herself when Sergeant Waterford rolled his eyes.

"Yes?"

"Not to be rude and interfere with your job." Gwen raised a hand. "But do you not know who I am? Have you picked up the wrong person, perhaps? I am sure there's someone who is supposed to meet me here."

“Employment status?” It was Sergeant Waterford who spoke.

"What?"

"Just answer the question."

“Self-Employed.”

“Occupation?”

“Import-Export. CEO.”

“Where will you be staying in London?”

“A hotel, I’d imagine, near Marylebone, where Evee— Where the Nightingale College is located."

"You DO NOT have a place of residence?"

"Should I? I've only just arrived."

"Name your sponsors, their name, contact and address."

"What?" Now Gwen knew something was wrong. "Listen, Sergeant. I know you have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Gwen Song, and I am here on invitation by the Marchioness of Ely. I am the sister of Master Gunther Shultz of Sydney. You should have seen me on the Vid-Casts. I was in the team going against Pretoria. Now, I understand I may have gotten off the wrong stop. Maybe I was expected in Cambridgeshire. If you could let me out, I am happy to take the next ISTC over and have them deal with me."

“How will you be paying for your stay?”

"Are you even listening?"

"HOW will you be paying for your stay?"

“Sponsorship from Peterhouse.” Gwen's tone grew cold. "Can I speak to your manager?"

“If you’ve brought more than 1000 HDMs into the country, you need to declare the amount.”

“… Oh?” Gwen blinked. Was this what it's about? Could it be a tax thing? "Is there a tax on personal wealth now?"

"I don't make the rules—"

“— You just follow them. FINE." Gwen returned curtly. "I have 112,420 HDMs in credit sticks and minted currency on my person right now. Is that a problem?”

Sergeant Waterford's eyes widened, then he smirked. Gwen recognised the look but did not understand why Waterford looked like a hound jaunting back with a hare in its teeth. Gwen bit her lips in frustration. Something was wrong. The question was whether she had made a mistake in getting off at London, OR if she was caught up in someone else's ploy, OR if said scheme targeted her directly.

Cadet Mills slid a second data slate across the table.

“What is the total value of Magical Items you are bringing to London? Please read sections 1-4 and 2-1, respectively,” Waterford demanded.

Gwen read the slate.
It made no sense.
Dean Luo had said that all she had to do was show up.
Gunther likewise confirmed that someone from London Tower would be awaiting her. No one ever said she had to deal with bean-counting bureaucracy.

Should she play along? Gwen took a moment to consider her options.

Grudgingly, she tallied her Ioun Stones, her Ring of Evasion, her Contingency Ring, Storage Ring, and her yet to be restored Ghosting Amulet, reminding herself that she had an outstanding IOU from Kyoto. Other items such as her babulya's stone of clarity and items of convenience like the Portable Habitat she had forgotten to return, she made a rough estimate.

“Here.” Gwen handed back the slate.

Mills counted the zeros.

“Is this correct? Ma'am?”

“Yes.” Gwen was glad that she gave back Gunther’s Ring. She wasn't an Auctioneer at Sotheby's and would have put down five zeros on reflex.

“You're carrying 26,000 HDMs worth of items on your person...”

“Some of the items are unique.” Gwen's brows furrowed. “Are we done? Can I go now? Important people are waiting for me."

Sergeant Waterford scrolled through the list.

“You have a Spirit on you?”

“It’s a supplement,” Gwen explained. “Think of it as homoeopathic medicine.”

“Can we see it?”

Gwen materialised her jadeite storage box.

“Is that storage device on the list?”

“The box is a Magic Item?” Gwen stared at the box, then realised her stupidity. Hers was a container made from ageless, near-perfect jadeite, hand-carved by Ryxi. In the current jadeite market, the box may be quite priceless. “I suppose it is.”

Before the officers could answer, she opened the box.

“Kii—Kii?” The ginseng stirred. When it caught sight of Gwen, its remaining limbs grew limp. “Kii!”

Gwen patted the root vegetable on the chest, then closed the lid.

The two officers must have stopped breathing at some point because Gwen could hear both of them taking deep breaths.

"Anything else?"

“We'll need to confiscate that,” Sergeant Waterford stated blankly. “The plant is an illicit Class-III Magical Creature. You’re not allowed to bring un-attuned Magical Creatures into London without an Import Licence, a signed 11-B and a Request for Quarantine 12-C. The penalty for non-compliance is a fine of 10,000 HDMs and prison time up to one year.”

Gwen de-materialised the box.

“I wasn’t informed.” She had it up to her neck with these goons. “Cambridge should have taken care of all my papers.”

“Cambridge does not command Border Control.” Sergeant Waterford's eyes grew hard. “Miss, I am afraid we will need you to empty your Storage Ring.”

“No." Gwen felt her patience wane. "Contact London Tower. Tell them to send someone."

“Are you refusing a lawful request?" The Sergeant's tone was arrogant and rude. Gwen checked with a subtle manifestation of Detect Magic that the room wasn't equipped with anti-magic wards. Thus far, no other ISTC station had shown the slightest interest in her inventory. At any rate, the Sergeant's smug mug made her wish she still had her Dragon-fear.

“Sergeant, I may look like this, but I am not stupid,” Gwen complained. “I know my rights. And I will not empty my ring nor relinquish my inventory. Now be a good Sergeant and go and call your superiors. There has been a terrible mistake. Fix this, and I won't pursue the misunderstanding."

“If you are dissatisfied, you may lodge a formal complaint ONCE we stow the contents of your Ring.” Sergeant Waterford stood, his face growing redder with her every word. “Again, I ask that you remove from your body all magical items, and detail the source of the currency, items and materials you are bringing into London.”

Gwen's complexion grew pink. Her irises took on a vivid hue. Even when some NoM groped her tooshie on the train, she had not felt so annoyed. What the fuck was this motiveless malignancy?

“I am a Class VI War Mage." Gwen wasn't sure if what she said held any weight, but it was worth a try. "Return my Multi-pass to me. Now. Then CALL your superiors."

“Sir.” The cadet leaned toward to her superior, her face ashen. “Maybe we made a mistake?”

Sergeant Waterford turned.

“Cadet! NEVER undermine a superior officer.” Waterford’s snap was so vicious that Mills visibly flinched. “Miss Song! I am warning you—”

There was a sound of steel on concrete. Gwen stood from her chair.

“I stand warned. Are we done?"

Waterford's complexion darkened.

“Give me back my Multi-Pass if I am not welcome in London. Send me back to the ISTC station. You can be sure that I’ll inform Tower Master Gunther Shultz and Lady Grey of Ely that some brainless twat stopped me from entering the city because of bureaucratic inflexibility and an ego-driven power trip.”

Sergeant Waterford closed the distance between them in an instant. Gwen sensed a flood of Transmutation cascading from the man’s body. In Sydney, the officer would have been someone special, but here in London, the man was just a grunt with a badge.

“Gwen Song, you are under arrest for refusing to comply with an officer of Border Control,” Waterford announced. “Your belongings will be confiscated and kept in storage until further notice.”

The cramped room, combined with Sergent Waterford's body odour, was making her claustrophobic. In Singapore, she at least knew her father had fucked up. In Shanghai, it was her grandfather who had her incarcerated for observation. Here in London, she was truly alone. If she allowed this man to take her items, who knew what would happen to them? If she allowed this man to arrest her, who knew where she would end up? Gwen studied the man's bloodshot eyes. Was Ravenport behind this? Her Master's Factional enemies? Perhaps, someone looking to embarrass Lady Grey?

“I am leaving,” Gwen stated coldly, raising her Message Device.

“You’re a smuggler!” Waterford barred her way. “And Devices don’t work here, pissant.”

“Move.” Essence flooded Gwen’s conduits. She no longer had her Dragon-fear, but the methods by which Draconic-Essence was deployed remained ingrained within her body. When she once again gazed into her opponent’s eyes, her irises were twin lanterns vivid with scintillating rainbows. She couldn't turn spines into noodles anymore, but her presence was nothing to scoff at.

Unconsciously, the officer took a step back. Mills whimpered against the wall.

Gwen passed the man now sweating profusely, then approached the door.

Click.
It was locked.

Feeding Essence into her arms, she tried the handle again.

It wouldn’t budge. She was hale but no longer a She-Hulk, and her obstacle was designed to withstand Transmuters.

“Go on, leave." Waterford had recovered enough to speak. "What are you going to go? Flee into the city?"

Gwen forced herself to calm. Different from her Draconic days, her fog of indignant rage cleared far quicker than when she was under the influence of Dragon-juice. With an icy clarity, Gwen measured the outcomes of her demolishing the door. Whatever Sergeant shit-for-brains presumed, she was confident that so long as she did not kill anyone, injury and mayhem was perfectly acceptable for someone with her backing. No one wants an angry Alesia in their office, and few bureaucrats in the Tower desired a justified censure from Gunther. If anything, Lady Grey would likely have a stern word with the Border Force's replacement Director.

Satisfied, Gwen placed her hand against the door. Though the mechanism was well-made and enchanted, it was not warded. They were in an office, not an MSS secret prison under the Ministry of Social Welfare.

“Chakram.” She invoked her Signature Spell. Carefully channelling the Void Mana through her Essence-shielded conduits, she neatly sliced at the locking mechanism as though slipping through a credit card.

_Click!_

The mechanism disengaged, the door opened.

"Sir, she IS a Void Mage!" Cadet Mills whispered harshly. "We've—"

“Guards!” her captor was screaming into a communication device. “Code THREE. Female Escapee, on suspicion of currency laundering and smuggling of Magical Creatures. Dark-haired, eighteen years of age, green eyes. She’s leaving the holding section right now—“

Gwen turned, the final syllable for Flashbang on the tip of her tongue, only to be met with Cadet Mills’ pleading eyes.

The spell faded from her lips.

“Caliban! Ariel!”
“Shaa Shaa!”
“Ee EE!”
“Keep me covered. Don’t attack even if provoked.”

Her Familiars complied, each assuming their combat forms.

If her Familiars, so instantly recognisable from the IIUC’s international broadcasts didn’t earn her a visit from the higher-ups, then she was indeed caught in the grip of a wide-ranging conspiracy. In that eventuality, she would make as much commotion as possible, ensure that as many pairs of eyes saw that Gwen Song, Class VI War Mage, was causing mayhem.

Only in the dark were these corrupt, arrogant, bureaucratic bastards powerful. In the light of scrutiny, their schemes melted away like morning snow.

Heathrow ISTC Station.
Exterior.

To the complete awe of sticky-beaked valets, a Rolls Royce idled in the Station's reserved parking bay. In all of the United Kingdoms, only fifteen vehicles of the same make and model existed, making the onlookers guess as to which noble was gracing the station for a business trip.

“Milord, I think now might be a good time to intervene,” sounded an imploring voice from the driver’s side seat. “Director Reeves is en route as we speak."

"Very well, Elliot. You know best."

“Aye, milord.” The driver exited the vehicle, then tapped on the passenger-side door. “Acolyte, ready to leave?"

“Yes, Sir Savile," the young man answered, his voice brimming with barely-constrained agitation. "We'd best hurry— before she eats anyone in public.”

A severe sense of déjà vu assaulted Gwen when two dozen guards surrounded her with sonic suppressors. The last time she had been in this exact precarious situation, it had been Alesia refusing to stand down to Walken’s goons.

If so, who was the mastermind this time? What would happen to her if she Chain Lightninged the lot of them?

If anything, Gwen lamented losing her Dragon-Fear yet again. A good AoE jolt of the Dragon-juice was effortlessly capable of disabling the guards via explosive bowels.

“UNSUMMON YOUR FAMILIARS!” the Guard Captain shouted. “NOW!”

The area outside Border Control had been cleared of civilians, though not before Gwen caught the flash of a few lumen-recorders. Where she loathed exposure in Shanghai, she welcomed it in London. With her beautiful Ariel and her big-black Caliban out in public, how could anyone NOT take a lumen-recording?

“BRING ME YOUR MANAGER!” Gwen wasn’t sure what title the highest officer of Border Force held, and so could only act like an ignorant mall-mom. “NOW!”

"Shaa—"

SCREEEEEEEE—

A sonic suppressor misfired. Perhaps out of nervousness, maybe to test Gwen's resolve. With her Essence encircling her conduits, however, the otherwise agony-inducing device was a minor annoyance.

“Shaa! Shaa!” Caliban sang— its carapace split, driving the men back. Her familiar rather enjoyed the din. “Shaa! SHAA!”

Gwen felt like a fool, but that was the role she now played. Idiots weren't dangerous. Idiots could be pacified. Surely, an idiot who merely stood her ground didn't warrant lethal retaliation. There was no War on Terror in this world, after all, no Fox-News mass hysteria.

“YOUR SUPERIOR, NOW!” Gwen howled, using her Clarion Call. This time, the windows visibly vibrated.

“Maximise output! On my mark!” The Guard Captain, standing in front of a smug Sergeant Waterford, ordered his men for the inevitable. “Miss Song, you have FIVE SECONDS TO COMPLY.”

Groaning internally, Gwen readied her Void Skin and a Lightning Shield. Void Shield had the unfortunate habit of cutting line of sight, and that was something she couldn’t afford right now. With her Essence, Void Skin, and her VMI, she should be able to hold out until someone without shit-for-grey-matter arrived.

“Five—”

“Four—”

“Three—”

“HALT!” A burst of silvery Conjuration gave the Guard Captain pause. A split-second later, the space in between Gwen and the leader of her assailants filled with two figures, one youthful and tall, and the other old and gnarly.

Gwen gasped as recognition dawned, the well-loved contour of the young man's face may as well be an angel sent from heaven.

“R-RICHARD?” she spluttered, her eyes widening. “Oh, thank fuck.'”

“Gwen!” Richard threw both hands up in the air to show that he wasn't dangerous. He then spoke through a silent Message. “Let Lord Savile do the work. “

“Who?”

Richard made the gesture for her to zip it.

“Shaa! SHAA!”

“EE! EE!”

Gwen willed her Familiars to calm. The old Magister-looking bloke must be the man initially assigned to pick her up from the ISTC station. If so, then her pointless ordeal was at an end.

The gent behind Richard produced a crest, lighting up the space in front of him with a Coat of Arms so absurd Gwen almost snorted. The projection was a stylised Glyph, one consisting of a single stripe of gules across a white shield with a trio of emerald parakeets.

“Elliot Savile, acting on the order of the Duke of Norfolk. Guard-Captain, you WILL submit your authority to me. Remove your arms, then remove yourselves from my presence.” The hunched Magister's declaration fulminated across Heathrow's grand hall, driving the guards back.

Déjà vu once again suffused Gwen's senses. Wasn’t this what happened last time too? The old guy wasn’t Gunther "Apollo" Shultz, but he was plenty burly in so far as his presence was concerned.

“She’s a smuggler and a trespasser!” Sergeant Waterford’s face was pale with panic. “Do not be fooled, Secretary Savile. She’s carrying hundreds of thousands in illicit funds, including a Spriggan Sprite stolen from lord knows where! Just check her ring!”

"Sergeant." The man called Secretary Savile appeared unfazed. "Where is your superior?"

_VOOMMPH!_

Another Dimension Door opened, vomiting forth a bespectacled man in a three-piece suit. Others followed, depositing other half-dozen officers. These ones, Gwen could see, were all Combat Mages.

“Sir!” The guards saluted, instantly relieved.

“What’s happened?” The new arrival glanced at Gwen and Richard, then at the wizened Lord in their midst. “Lord Secretary! Why are you here? Have my men offended you?”

“Yes.” The man known as Elliot Saville gestured for Gwen and Richard to gather around.

“Sir!” Sergeant Waterford was bowing and scraping before anyone else could get a word in edgewise. With astounding acuity, he painted Gwen in the colour of his accusation. Gwen seethed, though again Richard held her hand and told her to leave the work to their escort.

Once Waterford finished, the bespectacled Mage turned to Gwen and the Lord Secretary now acting as their shield. “Miss Song, I am Magister George Reeves, Director of Operations here at Heathrow. Is what my Sergeant said true? Are you in possession of the objects and creatures he has identified, and do you lack the necessary paperwork? These are serious crimes..."

Gwen’s stomach sunk. Fucking useless self-serving bureaucrats. “Yes, but—“

“There is NO need to explain yourself, Miss Song.” Richard’s companion interjected, raising a finger to hush her lips. Turning toward the guards and their Director, he thumped the floor. “You have grown too complacent, Director Reeves. She isn't someone you can detain.”

“Check her ring—” Sergeant Waterford was cut off by his Director.

“Lord Savile." The Director adjusted his spectacles. "I would advise against the Grey Faction interfering with border operations—”

“Silence—!“ Savile stopped the man before he could continue. “Is THIS the hill you have chosen to die on, Reeves? Waste my time again, and you'll regret it.”

The Director snorted. “If you think Norfolk can prod and bully—“

To Gwen's amazement, Reeve's voice dimmed. It was as though someone had suppressed the ambient volume around them. In so far as a chantless Silence was concerned, its size and fineness were astounding.

“Miss Song, Mister Huang.” Elliot Savile turned to Gwen and Richard again. The Mage then gestured to the far exit. “Shall we? I am sorry your arrival in London has become so unpleasant. Not to worry, heads will roll."

“We're just going to leave?” Gwen was incredulous. There's still a dozen guards, more on the way, a Director and his cock-brained sergeant hurling abuses! How the hell is anything resolved? Was Savile senile? They've still got her Multi-Pass!

“Gwen, we better listen to what he says.” Richard had been holding Gwen's hand the whole while. “Send away Ariel and Caliban. You're already late for your appointment in Cambridge, or so I am told.”

“I have an appointment?”

“You do.”

“I was going to see Elvia.”

“You will.” Richard squeezed her hand. “Gwen, have patience. Right now, we’re out of our depth. WAY out of our depth.”

Their eyes met.
Richard's eyes were unblinking and full of gravity.

“Fine,” Gwen ordered her Familiars to disperse.

The trio advanced, Savile parted the guards like Moses parting the Red Sea.

“You won’t hear the last of this!” Director Reeves' voice was barely a whisper. “I'll have you censured, Savile! What you're doing is a blatant abuse of power!”

Once outside, Gwen breathed in the air of frigid freedom with gulping breaths. There was already a ring of bright-eyed reporters taking pictures of the Lord, the nobody and the girl wearing not very much.

"Thank God you arrived with Lord Savile, Richard," Gwen said to her cousin, then bowed towards their rescuer. "My most sincere thanks, Lord Savile. Your aid is most timely."

"No need to thank me." Savile gestured to the shadows, his voice deep and raspy. "Your benefactor is over yonder. We should hurry if you do not wish to be tardy. Lady Grey is holding Hall in your honour."

"O?" Gwen followed. "We'd best hurry, then."

"Indeed."

The man quickened his pace, behind them, the stickybeaks dispersed, though the paparazzi followed. Ahead, Gwen caught sight of the most expensive personal possessions she had ever seen, barring Gunther's ring.

“Wow, a Rolls Royce,” Gwen gushed, slapping Richard's rigid body. “Moving up in the world, Dick!”

Still holding her slender fingers, Richard’s hands grew clammy.

All around them, the December snow fell like cotton, the crystallised motes of water clinging to anything remotely warm.

Ten meters away, the door of the Rolls Royce swung open with a will of its own. Gwen whistled. From what she could see, the spacious interior was impossibly large. From the unique mana signature, she recognised the same Spatial Magic used for the Towers interior. If so, how bloody expensive was this car?

"Wait!" Richard pulled her back. "You're just going to get in?"

Gwen staggered, her legs akimbo, slipping on sleet. With both hands, she gripped Richard's coat. "Jesus, Dick, what the hell?"

"W-why are you so weak?" Richard groped her arms, confused as to the unexpectedly soft body clinging onto his neck. To make sure, he gave her shoulders a shake. "What's wrong? What's happened? Did they do something to you in there?"

"No, this is my fault." Gwen righted herself. Peeling away Richard's hands, she punched him in the chest. "Be careful, will you? I am an old lady."

Richard waited for her to adjust her sandals. Struck by a sudden thought, her cousin unzipped her blazer, saw what the parka hid, then re-fastened the zipper. "Why are you wearing a summer dress? It’s two degrees out! My balls are up in my pelvis.”

“Four hours ago, I was in Burma!” Gwen adjusted her jacket. “It was thirty-four in Singapore and thirty-two in Yangon, with a humidity of ninety! That’s when I last stepped out of an ISTC station. Besides, I feel fine. Nothing wrong with a refreshing breeze on the old stalks."

She unzipped her parka. "At least I am immune to cold still."

Richard zipped shut her parka again. Her cousin looked as though he was enduring great mental and physical anguish. "Forget about the dress. Gwen. Didn't your mother teach you never to get into a stranger's car?"

"That's a Rolls Royce, you know. Not a candy van. And those are reporters." She pointed to the men with their Lumen-recorders. "Why?"

"Do you even know who's in there?"

"Our contact from Cambridge? It's not like I can go back to the ISTC station. I don't have my Flight Licence either."

Richard's jaws clenched. "Look, just listen to what I have to say, and stay calm."

“Fine.” Gwen glanced at the leather interior of the Rolls Royce. There was someone in there, but the air was all fuzzy. Considering her near-perfect vision, she figured it was a part of the Spatial Magic.

Richard shook her shoulders. "Gwen, focus, look at me."

"Okay." Gwen obediently gazed into her cousin's eyes.

"The Duke of Norfolk is in that car, and he's offered to chaperon your passage to Cambridge."

"A Duke! How fancy!"

"The Duke of Norfolk— is Mycroft Ravenport."

It took several seconds for the words to filter through her head. Ten-thousand mud-grass horses imported from the steppes of northern China stampeded through her mind in the time a dozen snowflakes kissed Richard's cheeks.

"As to why I am here as a willing captive." Her cousin's Adam's apple bobbed. "Did you know that he's also an ex-Provost of King's College, Cambridge?"

"But you're in Wolfson."

"Not anymore." Richard's complexion alternated between passion and ashen. "I've been inducted into King's College, Gwen. My childhood dream, the impossible goal I set for myself when I enrolled in Prince's— it's come true."

Gwen considered the implication of Richard's words.
The warm interior of the Rolls awaited.
The cold whipped at her bare legs.

"Fuck."


Richard materialised an elaborate, oaken box. On its matt-black surface, the Coat of Arms of Cambridge glimmered in silver.

"Your robe, for Hall."

Gwen opened the container. Inside was a long black gown with bell-sleeves and open forearm seams. At its rear sat a large black hood, bound and lined in ermine. Also included was a perfumed card from Lady Grey, welcoming her to the college, as well as a note with curt instructions on etiquette and attire.

"I was with the Vice-Chancellor originally. He was your chaperone," Richard explained, biting each syllable. "Until the Duke intervened."

"Does the Lady know?"

"The Vice-Chancellor gave me the gown, then returned straightaway to the Old Court. Assuming he's looking to save his skin..."

Richard grew silent.

Gwen studied her cousin's face. The young man wasn't his usual, candid self. Was it safe to speculate that the Lady knew? While she did not possess the Lady's Message Glyph, she knew the Vice-Chancellor's— though Messaging the man was as useful now as blaming Richard.

She placed a white hand against the roof of the Rolls Royce, feeling the mana thrumming through its interior. By the wayside, her cousin stood guilty as charged, watching Gwen ponder her entrance into the lion's den.

Outside, the paparazzi's lumen-flares blanketed the car's boxy, antique exterior. She smiled at the reporters, wondering if she should say something. Maybe a cry for help? "If you find me in a ditch later, blame the Duke of Norfolk?"

"Dick, what happens to you if I leave?"

"I don't know," Richard confessed. "Don't mind me—"

A test? Gwen wondered. And if so, was all that Customs business a part of it? Was Richard a hostage? Or did he find himself a better patron? In his usual candour, Dick did say he was a willing participant. Whatever the case, her answers sat in the car. The question was if she was woman enough to find out.

"Richard," Gwen said. "Hold onto the box. We'll talk later."

Her cousin nodded.

Turning on her heels, Gwen then stepped into the cabin, one white leg after the other.

The lumen-recorders flashed.

Like a perfect egg, the vehicle's doors sealed shut.

Inside, the air was warm and temperate, smelling faintly of leather.

She did not immediately turn to regard her "benefactor" but took a moment to compose herself.

"That's going to hit the back pages for sure," an impeccably pronounced, accented voice drifted across the impossibly spacious interior of the Phantom. "My faultless reputation, ruined by an outlandish lassie. What would the Sun say? Or the Telegraph? Tabloids, they're worse than Transylvanian bloodsuckers."

Conjuring courage from Almudj's encircling Essence, Gwen craned her neck so that the slow focus of her demanding gaze would deliver its full effect.

Charcoal dress pants. Silk shirt. No tie. A fitted jacket. A trimmed beard. Eyes the colour of ice. Black hair with bands of silver.

Mycroft Ravenport. The Big Bad Wolf of London.

The Duke of Norfolk appeared nothing like his son. He did not look malicious; assuming malignancy had a look. Indeed, one glance at Edgar was enough to reveal the insanity simmering behind the man's eyes. Conversely, Mycroft Ravenport looked an actor, a dappled gent who frequented chamber orchestras and attended contemporary art openings. Apart from his high forehead, the most notable feature of the patriarch was his gaunt, skull-like face, particularly the man's aristocratic cheekbones and his lips, pursing to form a thin, red line.

"You're very calm." Mycroft appeared amused. "I like that."

"This isn't my first abduction." Gwen forced the corner of her lips to curl. "The excitement wears off."

"Abduction?" Mycroft appeared genuinely puzzled. "I just liberated you from those egg-headed Militants, and now I offer you unmolested passage to Cambridge, where Justine breathlessly awaits her new ward."

"Am I to understand that I am free to leave?"

"Anytime." Mycroft raised both hands to show that he meant to harm. "Though I am sure Director Reeves is salivating at a chance to get at your ring, and yourself. Besides, I haven't given you any of your documents. I am Mycroft, by the way."

Gwen extended a hand.

"You're not going to Shocking Grasp me, are you?" Ravenport's mouth twisted into a grin. "I've been told you do that. Shock people."

Her scalp crawled. Where did the man get that little detail?

"I prefer civil discourse."

"Is this palatial vehicle, reserved for state officials, not civil enough to bolster your confidence? Nevermind— here, your papers. Please be at ease."

A thick manila envelope materialised in Gwen's extended hand.

Gwen opened the envelope. Inside was a calf-skin leather booklet with the crest of the British Mageocracy imprinted in gold, consisting of the Royal Coat of Arms resting upon a spell tome. The paper itself consisted of the same material as Spell Scrolls. On the first page was a portrait, underneath which sat her biometrics.

When she channelled her mana into her new Multi-Pass, the illusory portrait came alive. It was a lumen-recording she had taken back at Fudan when Dean Luo processed her papers.

"That's an Empire-wide Multi-Pass, good for all Commonwealth Frontiers, as well as tier 1 European cities. We have a treaty with the central powers. It's very convenient."

Gwen sorted through her next piece of "paper". There was a card in plated silver. It was her new Public Practice of Magic Licence, currently authorising self-defence magic up to tier 5.

There were other bundles of paper in the envelope as well, such as certificates for her items, a tax-form for crystals and other materials. Her ginseng had been approved as well. There was even a health certificate for the truck-load of Spam she had in her possession.

"The idiot at the Customs," Gwen said. Stowing her papers. "That was you—"

"The etiquette is to prefix or append requests with 'Milord', or 'Your Grace'." Ravenport returned her glare with a casual glance. "Welcome to high society, Gwen. You can stab me, shock me, throw me to the Void, but you can't be RUDE. It's unladylike."

Gwen swallowed the "Fuck you, Milord" simmering at her throat. There was a time for anger. Now was not a good time.

There was one final item in her envelope: a pair of silver wings. The weight of the metal in her hand, however, felt wrong.

"Mithril Wings— near impossible to replicate," Ravenport said. "Justine said you wanted a pair, and so I sponsored you in place of the others. A word of advice, though. I would refrain from flying at all above the city's capital buildings regardless. The Paladins take their job very seriously."

Gwen glanced at her the Unlimited Flight badge, then at the landscape outside their window. From her memory, Heathrow was already outside of the central business district. It meant that from here to Cambridge, it was mostly countryside. Assuming these documents were real, she could just fly away.

"Satisfied? Did that pacify your upset?"

Gwen studied the Ravenport patriarch, looking for clues, tics, something to indicate his exterior had a crack she could pry to get at the real man inside.

Naturally, the Duke's facade was flawless.

"Good. Savile, we're going."

Soundlessly, the car began to move.

"Your Grace." Gwen reiterated. "Was Officer Waterford your doing?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Gwen asked the obvious.

"None of your business. Though it was good to see Justine's new pet ruffled."

"Did I perform to your expectation?"

"Adequate. Not nearly vicious enough." Ravenport inclined his chin. "Although I would like to apologise for not expecting your… provincial choice of attire."

"What's wrong with this?" Gwen crossed her legs.

"Once you join our ranks, you will learn that a personage in our positions has very little to fear," Mycroft spoke with an air of instruction. "But the masses do have a way of getting under one's skin. For a young lady entering Justine's service, many unpleasant things await. A sorceress with your infamy is a bone the tabloids could chew for years. Just between you and me, if you could send a Shoggoth into the Sun's editorial office, I'll ask the Queen to issue a pardon."

"I am surprised Your Grace is candid about mass-murder."

"Don't be morose."

The Duke of Norfolk casually gestured. Between them, the middle console transformed into a bar table. From a hidden nook, Ravenport produced two glasses.

"Red or White?"

"Red."

"Good choice." Mycroft picked a bottle. "Cabernet Sauvignon from the banks of la Gironde, '87, I believe. A good year. I am fond of a thick, dry, red. It looses up the palate."

While Mycroft ensorceled the cork with a Mage Hand, Gwen scrutinised the father of the psychopath who had violated her. So far, they had remained civil. Gunther had foretold that Ravenport would not make a move on her. Though Gwen held Gunther in the highest esteem, what if he was wrong? What if they're headed for Dover, and Ravenport's looking to dump her chopped up body over a cliff? Assuming a fisherman finds her carcass, would Gunther laser down the Ravenport's Estate? If so, what would happen to Sydney?

Mycroft poured the wine into a pair of enormous Bordeaux glass to air, instantly filling the car's interior with an oaky redolence.

"I don't understand the purpose of our unscheduled meeting." Gwen attempted a direct approach. There were too many possibilities, and her paranoia didn't help. "Surely Your Grace is a man of such importance that his time has to be portioned out by the quarter-hour?"

Mycroft swirled his Bordeaux glass, breathing in the heady scent. Raising the liquid to the light, he gazed at her through the enormous glass. "See the thickness? Beautiful— and bold, like blood."

Gwen felt her fingers perspire. "I am barely old enough to drink."

The Duke of Norfolk handed over her glass. "I like to let the reds sit. Patience is a great virtue when it comes to wine. The older the casket, the richer the relish, the more satisfying the delay."

Gwen didn't have to be a genius to read between the lines.
Ravenport knew.
And from the sounds of it, he knew a lot.

The duo sat in silence while the wine aerated.

"But enough about you." Ravenport read her mind. "Have your associates ever spoken of me?"

"You're the Duke of Norfolk," Gwen now recollected from memory, her adrenaline clarifying a distant conversation she had held with Walken. "You hold the dual-office of Earl Marshall and the Lord of the College of Arms. You sit opposite the Lord Great Chamberlain during the opening of parliament—"

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Parliament! Gwen recalled that Ravenport had his eye on the Prime Ministership in May. To make a viable coalition, Gunther had apprised, Ravenport would not dare make an enemy out of the Middle Path's independents, as the Tories lacked the support to maintain a legislative majority. Steering the Mageocracy was a balancing act, and Ravenport was no more immune to the shackles of power than Gunther.

"I understand if my titles are confusing." Mycroft laughed. "Bonk's Genealogical studies will be in your lessons, I am sure. In addition to being the 18th Duke, I am also the Earl of Arundel and Surrey— those are my land-holds. My Baronetage also includes Beaumont, Maltravers, Fitz, Alan, Clun, Oswaldestre and Glossop, though most remain in the grip of the Wildlands. My official title, as you have guessed, is Lord Earl Marshall, or Lord Marshall."

"I see. Now that we're acquainted." Gwen dried her fingers on her dress, making sure she had a firm grip on the glass. "Care to throw a Frontier lass a bone? What do you want from me?"

"How now." Ravenport looked at her disapprovingly. "Where's the sport?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Gwen replied. "I was raised by Drop Bears."

"Yes, the most deadly fauna in your penal colony, or so they tell me. You know, your stoicism reminds me of old Deathless, your Master. He was never one for tea nor titles. The Crown gifted him a Baronetage for his service. Instead, he asked for a piece of land in Hungary. That did not turn out well, or so I've heard. Quite the stain that made on Kilroy's reputation."

Gwen sifted through the crumbs, pecking at the words. Mycroft's ability to meander was astounding.

"Milord, I am still awaiting an answer to my initial question."

Ravenport raised his glass half-way, Gwen mimicked her opponent.

"For maiming my boy—"

_Tink!_
He struck her glass with his own.

"—I am going to make materials out of your Dragon-blooded body. Then murder everyone you love—"

"!"

Before Ravenport even finished, Gwen felt the invasion of Elemental Dust filling the cabin. With every cell shrieking for immediate action, she called upon her Familiar to defend her. If Ravenport wanted to start, then she would finish. "Caliban!"

"SHAA!"

To her complete surprise, her Void fiend manifested without interruption, filling her side of the back lounge with a two-metre Void python hankering for inbred flesh. Caliban's segments split at once, sending out its twin tendrils to envelope her foe.

_THUNK!_

Half-a-metre from Ravenport, her creature struck a barrier.

Her wine glass, still humming, spilt its contents over her dress, painting Caliban partially crimson.

The Duke's laughter filled the cabin. "Too green by far, Kilroy's Apprentice. But then again, he that made this world made us all differently. You're smart but shallow, and all too honest— a terrible combination for a politician. Lord Shultz has his work cut out for him, I see."

"Cali, calm." Protectively, Caliban coiled about Gwen's person, wrapping around her waist, resting across her lap. Did that barrier work both ways? Gwen wondered. They usually do.

Caliban persisted in its menacing hisses.

"Ha!— straight for the jugular? So you CAN be vicious," Mycroft praised the girl and her snake. "I was expecting something grandiose. You could have been the first Mage in the history of the Empire to let loose a Thundering Shatter in a Phantom IV. Who knows if the Spatial Mandala will hold? What an obituary both of us would make. It'll be a fun piece of trivia for future generations."

Gwen glared, her cheeks glowing pink as her Essence tamed the rising bile. The man was teasing her, confusing her. Was he joking or serious about murdering her loved ones? She was inclined to believe the latter.

"It must be oh-so-pleasant to bait me, Your Grace. A big and burly, Duke of the state, bullying a Frontier innocent."

"Innocent?" Ravenport picked up his glass, then took a sip. " Speaking of innocence, Elvia Lindholm—"

"SHAA!" Caliban hissed, growing engorged. Gwen's eyes turned prismatic.

"— will be in Ystradfellte," Ravenport continued. "Don't stare. It's rude. I merely asked the Tower to keep an eye on her whereabouts. Can you imagine if some tragedy were to strike the poor lass? I have it on good authority that you or that sister-in-craft of yours will find it in your hearts to blame me, somehow."

"Your menace is leaking." Gwen fought back her agitation. The bastard! She wanted Caliban to bite the man so badly! The rotten bastard! "If you want a piece of me, just take a bite. Leave Elvia out of this."

Ravenport snorted, his tone grew admonishing. "How vain, Dragon-girl! Such conceit! Do you think yourself the protagonist of an Epic? Must every ploy point to you? Must every scheme undermine YOUR position, YOUR power, YOUR future?"

"SHAA!" Caliban retorted in Gwen's stead.

Ignoring her Familiar, the Duke swilled the wine, then stowed the glass in some unseen storage. "I'll have you know that the 'innocent' Miss Lindholm is caught up in a vortex of her ineptitude and idiocy. As for why I am telling you this— consider my gift of erudition payment for your contribution at the Teleportation Circle."

Ystradfellte. Gwen repeated silently to herself, committing the tongue-twister to memory. Glancing at the Message Device by her wrist, Gwen calculated that she was trapped for at least another forty minutes.

Ravenport adjusted his sitting posture. For a Dust Mage, the old Duke's haleness was comparable to a younger man. As a comparison, Guo, her Salt-talented grandfather, looked like he had yet to recover from Mao's Long March.

"Are all you provincials so fond of staring?" Ravenport observed her unflinching eyes. "Fine, gawk if you like. What do those Dragon-eyes see?"

Gwen scoffed.

"I see sin puckering on sin. I see a Duke who has clothed his naked villainy with odd and ends stolen out of holy writ. I see a Minister of larceny branding himself as a saint while peddling deceit." She lowered her voice. "You worked with Sobel. You destroyed Sydney."

"Shaa!" Caliban added with brevity.

Ravenport's eyes bore into her own, no longer caring that it was "rude".

Gwen gulped. She did not expect that paraphrasing Shakespeare would have the Lord Marshall stare as though she was the eighth fucking wonder of the natural world.

Ravenport's mouth twitched.

"I destroyed Sydney?" Ravenport's control returned. "Do you have proof?"

"We know Edgar is your son. And we know Sobel worked with him."

"And what does that mean? Did you speak with Henry's wife? Share a cup of tea? Did she boast that a friend in parliament was giving her a helping hand with destroying one of the Mageocracy's dearest resource-Frontiers? Because, as LORD MARSHALL of the United Kingdoms, how I shall benefit?"

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree now, does it?"

"You better have crumpets with Sobel's teeth marks stowed in that ring of yours." The Duke's voice rose an octave. "For a decade, the thrice-accursed NoM-loving socialists couldn't irk me in the slightest, but you've managed to give me a migraine in twenty minutes. Well done, talk about biting the hand that feeds!"

"What, you're giving me a hand?" Gwen snorted.

Ravenport took an exasperated breath.

"Are you not our Class VI teenage War Mage? Am I not the Lord Earl Marshall, an imperial agent of Her Majesty's finest forces? Were we to engage in total war, I would be your highest administrative officer. Cometh a second Beast Tide. Even Gunther would fall under my command."

"Your son—"

"—Was a bastard, a fool and a tool."

"—died—"

"Ingrates die every day, what's one more? Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Care to trade his murderer for a reward?"

Gwen bit her tongue.

"Sin puckering on sin? Now that's rich." The grey-haired Lord faced her with a derisive snort. "Do you have any idea how the Empire stands at the apex of this infested, Demi-human world? Have you ever seen a Mermen port razed by our Royal Marines? Arboreal Villages, burnt to the last elf? What do you think keeps an empire oiled and moving? It's endless rapine! The things we did in Indochina and Africa! The obstacles your DEAR Master Kilroy had parted to plant those Towers. The horrors he made Sobel commit! Oh— you sweet summer child. Holy writ? Our cities are built on bones. And most of it isn't from monsters."

Crumbs and more crumbs, Gwen pecked at the facts. "I know—"

"No, you don't." Ravenport wavered her retort. "You know so little, but that doesn't stop you from lecturing your betters, now, does it? Allow me to elucidate your narcissistic little mind. You are an asset to the Mageocracy. Lady Grey wants you for the Middle Faction— I want you for the Grey Faction. The Militants would love to have you but lack the means. But that's fine. We can learn to share; there's plenty of Gwen Song to go around—"

"And as for what you know— the answer is 'very' little. Edmund has paid the ultimate price, and Her Majesty's government is well-informed of the blemish on my family name of eight centuries. Edmund's resources were mine, but his actions were not. In the wake of Sobel's fiasco, the Mageocracy almost lost a city and did lose one of its architects. But turn, we gained two boons— Gunther Shultz embracing his destined office, and the unveiling of Deathless Henry's legacy."

"What legacy?" The words were barely out when she realised what Mycroft implied.

"What else?" the Lord of the College of Arms replied. "A stable Void Sorceress with the ability to Consume the talent of your enemies. Friend or foe, Human or Dragon."

"Shaa!" Caliban hissed, writhing in her arms as her agitation mounted. "SHAA— Shaa!"

Gwen's blood ran instantly cold. Was the Duke implying that she was going to be force-fed, this time by the Mageocracy? Not even China dared to push her that far.

"You see, even though Sobel was a godsend against the ongoing Beast Wave, we all knew she was an unstable Warding Glyph," the Duke continued. "To no one's surprise, we couldn't control her, and in the end, neither could Henry. But that's alright, because YOU, my dear, in your tiny dress and your self-righteousness, self-dealing hypocrisy, will be everything Kilroy ever wanted. You're his redemption. Justine is convinced you'll inherit Sobel's mantle and do RIGHT by dear Henry!"

"Your Grace, I know you're trying to muddy the water," Gwen fired back. "Stow it. If you think a little panache can drive a wedge between me, my family or my Master—"

Mycroft dismissed her words with a wave. "No, Gwen. We're long past deception. I am here on a mission of mercy."

Lord Ravenport's voice took on a stern and unyielding tone.

"As far as I am concerned, there is NOTHING more important than the supremacy of our species and the perpetuation of the Empire! How many people have lost loved ones? What's a 'son' in the grand scheme of things? I would trade TEN Edmunds for HALF a Sorceress as talented as you!"

"You think that I am here to constrain you? Limit your potential? No, you pig-headed provincial! I want you to live your life and PROSPER! Do your business. Dance with your Dragons. Infest the countryside with this LEGION. Mould the land as you see fit."

The Duke's presence filled the cabin.

"Then, when others say NO! And when others undermine your work, steal your labour, destroy your citadels, maim your friends— you will think of our conversation today. Then you will come to me, just as your Master came to my father— then you and I, we shall talk of Empire."

Gwen gulped.
Ravenport had revealed so much that the buffet of information was impossible to digest at once.

"My Master came to—?"

"To my father— But that information will cost you."

Gwen ground her teeth.

"Fine. How about Richard," she said at last. "What have you done to Richard."

"Processed his immigration form, then inducted him into King's College," Ravenport answered drily. "Who do you think Lady Grey had to ask for such a favour? Who else can elevate an insignificant, unbacked-nobody to the highest institute of learning in the land? Richard wanted to enrol in Wolfson? That boy will be eaten alive. Only in King's will he find sympathy. Oh, you can doubt— but I consider my boon an investment. He's a wise young man to keep on hand, not like some fool hussy hailing from a penal port."

Ravenport's facade was once-again flawless. Gwen prided herself on her ability to read others, but the Duke of Norfolk was written in a whole other language. Outside, against the corner of her eyes, an endless English countryside flittered from meadow to meadow, beautiful beyond words, but also daunting.

Gwen sat in silence, slowly digesting the Duke's words.
Henry Kilroy.
Elizabeth Sobel.
The Middle Path, the Greys, the Militants.
Mycroft Ravenport was right in that were many things she did not know and may never know. Her Master's past loomed like a depthless pool of bottomless brine. What did Henry seek from the Senior Ravenport? What exactly did the Mageocracy do to Sobel? What does it mean to retread Lizzy's Path?

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

"Why the fiasco in the terminal?" Gwen reverted to her original topic. She disliked the silence.

"The intricacies may just be too much for your pretty little head," Ravenport answered. "If you wish to know— keep an eye on the headlines. As always, you overestimate your importance."

The silhouette of Cambridgeshire came into view.

The horizon was now taking on a lovely shade of rye, painting the linen land a dusky gold. Cambridge was close.

"Let's draw a line in the sand." Gwen mentally tallied her meandering conversation with Edmund's father. "All of your cock and bull— it's a warning, isn't it? Step on your toes and the Station Incident will happen again and again, and my enterprises will go exactly nowhere. Meanwhile, Richard languishes at King's, pressed under your thumb. Likewise, Elvia's life is but a whim away. You don't want to deal with Gunther directly. You don't dare to cross Lady Grey. You want your precious majority in parliament, so you slip these needles under my sole and teach me to step lightly. Have I read you correctly, milord? Do I sound elucidated, Your Grace?"

"You've arrived." The Duke indicated to the appearance of suburban buildings outside. "Since you're such a wunderkind, let me leave you with a last bit of advice so that you don't embarrass yourself. We're not enemies. Not yet. Your brother-in-craft brought to us what Edmund's done. The Crown knows. So does the assembly. So does the House of Lords."

"Sydney's reconstruction has gone rather swimmingly, don't you think? All those resources, just pouring into a penal colony. All those work permits signed and delivered! Did you think that was because of Master Shultz's boundless charisma? Which Faction do you think purchased his Leviathan Core? Who do you think donated the Nightmare from their private collection?"

"And Lady Grey, The honourable Justine Maxwell Loftus," the Duke of Norfolk gave her a look of utter contempt. "We're cousins, no different to you and you Richard. The same blue blood flows in our veins, just as it flows lacklustre in yours. We nobles may eat our own, but in the end, it's all in the family. It doesn't matter which of us you choose as your patron. The rules are the same. You give— and we take. If you demand too much—"

The Duke appeared as though he wanted to pat her head or pinch her cheek, but was deterred enough by Caliban to think better of it.

"Listen to Mr Huang, Gwen." The car stopped. "He's a smart boy."

_Pop!_

The doors opened. Outside, the vaulted pillars of the Old Court, ochre and crimson and enveloped with snow, awaited. Richard stood by the door, pale with white mist streaming from his mouth and nostrils.

"The woods have wolves." The Duke waved her goodbye. "And you're just a little girl in a tiny dress. Don't mistake your friends and enemies."

Gwen placed a hand against the overhead rails. She retrieved her Void Familiar, then with one leg out in the cold, she turned to regard Mycroft.

"Cheers for the heads up, Your Grace." Gwen's mind felt as cold as the frigid frost kissing her unprotected feet. "In the future, I'll be sure to live up to your expectations."

The two jousted with their eyes.
Gwen's were vivid and striking, Ravenport's hard and unyielding.

"Savile." Mycroft Ravenport was the first to break eye contact. "We're returning to the Estate."

The Rolls Royce silently rolled from the forecourt. From the Old Court's interior, two beadles in their black coats rushed out with umbrellas to greet their guests.

Richard held the box containing Gwen's robes, standing beside his cousin.

"I'll be waiting… for Hall to finish," he managed to eke out. "I am sorry this happened. It wasn't my intention to be a burden."

Gwen reached for the box in Richard's rigid fingers.

A tug-of-war ensured, perhaps it was best she no longer had her Draconic-strength.

Their eyes met.

In the near-three years that she had known Richard, Gwen had never seen her cousin beg. But now, she saw the desperate plea in his eyes. There were no words, for words would have sullied the purity of Richard's appeal.

On her cousin's dark brown hair, a snow crystal melted, as fragile as hope, as delicate as trust.

Gwen made up her mind. She would not let Mycroft worm into her heart.
The Duke professed to know everything about her, but really, the arrogant bastard knew nothing at all. Could the Lord Marshall imagine a world inter-connected as a worldwide web? A system of government where every citizen voted? That without a single mote of mana, humans had split the atom, harvested the power of a star?

From her connection to Amuldj to her otherworldly knowledge, Mycroft was the one in the dark. He may profess to know the past, but she had seen the future!

"Come on, ya goose." She punched Richard on the arm. "Your balls must be in your intestines by now. Let's head somewhere warm, and you can show me how to wear this damn gown."


Cambridge.
Old Court.

The exterior of “Hall”, the building in which Formal Hall was held, overlooked the frosted lawns of the Old Court facing the east and Deer Park facing north-west.

As an ancient institution, Peterhouse’s Courtyard projected the stoicism of its Laudian Gothic origins. Its interior, comparatively, preserved an older history, favouring the contoured geometry beloved by the Renaissance architects. Within the hall, against a foundation of dark, lacquered wood, vibrant compositions of priceless stained glass, centuries-old and Pre-Raphaelite, depicted the Acts of St Peter, from his adoration of Christ to his crucifixion by Nero.

In the lesser-parlour, a few doors from the Hall, Gwen made use of a converted prayer chamber to change into subfusc attire. From her ring, she picked a long-sleeved ivory blouse, a bell-skirt in black, and a pair of matching heels. Once she was ready, Richard aided her by slipping the Acolyte’s gown over her shoulders, aligning her sleeves and fluffing out her ermine-lined hood.

In a further room, the sound of stirring voices thrummed against the acoustically sensitive ironwood wall.

Thunk! Thunk!

“Miss Song, it’s time,” came the warning from the beadle. “Her Marchioness awaits your arrival.”

“It’s time for me to go.” Gwen brought Richard’s face closer, then kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dick. You can go back to King’s now if you like. I don’t know how long Hall is going to take.”

“I’ll wait.” Richard indicated to the lounge. “I am an undergraduate, not underage. My curfew is quite lax.”

“There are teenagers my age attending College?”

“Sure, the older bloodlines tend to kick-in early.” Richard snorted. “For someone who doesn’t look a day over sixteen, you're such an old soul.”

“Aww, thanks, Richard.” Gwen laughed. “It warms my ancient bones to hear you say that.”

She reached for the door.

“A word of advice?” Richard politely discouraged his cousin. “Don't duel in a seven-century old building.”

The Marchioness of Ely stood under the portraits of her predecessors, proctoring two long tables of Peterhouse’s elites, each in their colour-coded regalia. As per tradition, each member of Peterhouse present on campus did their best to attend Formal Hall when called by its Master.

Justine Loftus observed the swaying gowns with satisfaction; as usual, Formal Hall filled her with a sense of accomplishment.

For Acolytes, the all-black gown ceased at three-quarter length, reaching just above the knees. For the graduate Magus, their vestment sported an ivory moth-silk inlay, with hems reaching the ankle. Comparatively, the lauded Magister’s gown was scarlet, with a black silk inlay and a hooded cloak lined with the finest fur from the endangered Snowdonian Stoat.

For all three variations, a silk-trimmed sash with coloured "bands" indicated their principle Schools of Magic.

Sunburst for Evocation.
Pale nimbus for Abjuration.
Silver for Conjuration.
Ivory for Divination.
Gold for Enchantment.
Lapis for Illusion.
And Tyrian purple for Transmutation.

Had one of Peterhouse's Meisters attended, their gowns would consist of gold-weaved, bible-black moth-silk, with a double-folded sash and sleeves in retina-searing scarlet.

The more carmine that graced a Houses’ Hall, therefore, the more lauded its reputation.

“Students, Maguses, Magisters.” Justine Maxwell Loftus, Mistress of Peterhouse, raised a glass to toast the double doors prefacing the entrance. “I give you our newest inductee, Apprentice to our beloved Master Kilroy and sister to Lord Gunther Shultz and the esteemed Lady De Botton— Miss Gwen Song of Sydney!”

The beadles at the door pulled back the oaken panels, revealing a girl with a beaming face, her complexion as white as lilies, her eyes so bright as to almost appear prismatic.

A murmur broke out among the Magisters. The students themselves remained silent, studying their newest competitor.

The youthful sorceress curtsied expertly, then threaded her way between the two tables, her slender white legs appearing and disappearing between the gown’s folds. Against the fossilised oaken floor, her heels clicked, tip-tapping in dual-toned staccato. The older alumni nodded with approval. The younger Acolytes turned to one another with wiggling brows before returning their attention to the scented body drifting through their midst.

No one spoke a word, though a Diviner would have rolled their eyes at the sheer volume of invisible, Silent Messages bouncing off the vaulted ceiling.

Lady Loftus smiled, happiness blossoming across her still-youthful face.

A few meters from the Lady, Gwen curtsied again. Of all the Mages present, she alone did not possess a single colour— her attire was stark and without adornments.

“Turn around, Gwen,” the Lady commanded. "Do try to impress."

Gwen did as told.

Their new arrival faced the crowd. At once, an indescribable presence radiated from her svelte silhouette. It was an aura of life, of fresh dew on the first day of spring, of thawing brooks frigid with ice melt. Looking at her hopeful, luminous face, her onlookers forgot for a moment that outside, Cambridgeshire was still in the grip of winter.

With relish, Master Justine Loftus produced the multi-coloured stole she had commissioned for the occasion. Working the cloth under Gwen's collar, a tapestry denoting every School of Magic marked the scarf hanging from her shoulders.

The ones closest to the head of the table were the first to inhale sharply. Each by each, the Silent Messages ceased until all present— forty-two sorcerers and sorceresses, stared at the girl. From her contoured heels, their eyes travelled up Gwen's scandalous interpretation of subfusc to arrive at the rainbow-hued sash now completing her gown.

Amused by the cohort's reaction and with Gwen standing by her side, the unwavering Mistress of Peterhouse offered the traditional benediction of the Nazarene.

“Benedic nos Domine, et dona Tua, quae de Tua largitate sumus sumpturi, et concede, ut illis salubriter nutriti, Tibi debitum obsequium praestare valeamus, per Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen.”

“Amen,” the gathered returned.

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

“Amen,” their newest compatriot repeated after the others — when in Rome and all that.

When the Lady spoke again, her magnificent voice filled the cathedral- vaults of the dining hall.

“PETERHOUSE!” Lady Grey toasted the crowd. “Let us welcome our youngest sister! Let us toast the induction of the Mageocracy's first OMNI-MAGE into our abode!”

Hall itself proved to be a simple three-course affair, featuring an entrée of seafood, followed by a main of Australian Auroch cheeks paired with an exotic salad of Wildland origin. Dessert was poached pear in Manuka honey, followed by tea and biscuits.

For Gwen, the hour-long affair was an endless stream of expectant faces.

The Senior Bursar, the Steward, The Dean, the Chaplain, the Archivist, the Senior Tutor, the Tutor for Discipline and Etiquette, the Matron of Accommodations, the College Secretary, and finally Lady Loftus’ assistant-secretary, all made their presence known.

Of the long list of names bobbing through the sea of faces, some were warm, others cold, and many disbelieving. Chief among the sceptics stood the Praelector, an individual whose role was similar to Richard’s Praetorian status at Prince’s.

“Ollie Edwards.” The post-graduate Magus introduced himself. Beneath a head of light brown hair, Ollie possessed elfin features and tapered ears that hinted at an unusual bloodline. From the looks of his colours, the man was a Conjurer-Illusionist-Enchanter. “I’ll be responsible for your discipline, Miss Song.”

“Oh?” Gwen allowed the man to take her hand. “What will you be teaching me?”

“Self-discipline and camaraderie,” Lady Loftus appended. “Unlike London Imperial, Oxbridge utilises a system of peers. We are all obligated to one another to uphold the reputation of Cambridge and Peterhouse. If you blunder, your tutors and especially Ollie, as your Praelector, will be punished accordingly for failing to guide you. Myself, as well, pending the scale of your disturbance.”

“That hardly seems fair.” Gwen looked from the aquiline-nosed young man to her patron. “Collective punishment?”

The Lady nodded. “Once you graduate, your fellows will be your siblings-in-study. As alumni, we walk shoulder to shoulder. To put matters in an oriental fashion, you could think of the constituent colleges as Sects. Whatever you choose to do, Gwen, think of your peers. What you can do for them, and what they may do for you as well. The practice may seem abstract, but it has served Oxbridge well.”

So Oxbridge functions as a result of Nash’s Equilibrium? Gwen digested Lady Loftus' words. Do that which is best for oneself and all parties, assuming that all parties pursued what is best for others and themselves. If indeed all parties, including King’s, lauded the same philosophical tenant, then it would serve to explain Ravenport’s rationale. Everything was on a balanced scale. To harm her or her loved ones would disturb the universe. For her to act without thought would likewise cause an imbalance. For both herself and Ravenport, doing what was best for themselves, and also the Mageocracy, was "win-win"— personal feelings notwithstanding.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The same, Gwen realised, must apply to her tight-lipped brother-in-craft. In silence, Gunther had taken the best course of action to ensure that Sydney benefited and she benefited. In exchange, Ravenport mitigated his son’s scandal and profited in the process. That was why Gunther was confident she would be left untouched in London.

What the Duke of Norfolk must have feared was that in her passion and inexperience, she would pull the wrong brick from underneath a leaning tower.

Realising the depth of Ravenport's plot, Gwen felt goosebumps crawling up her thighs.

“Don't worry. You'll get to know your peers later." Lady Loftus rose to deliver a short, final speech, signalling the approach to the end of Hall. “Take a rest— then we’ll talk in private.”

Peterhouse.
Master’s Suite.

Gwen sipped on sweet cherry brandy, allowing the sticky liqueur to cling to her tongue.

Opposite, attired in a cotton blouse and a long skirt that trailed the floor, the Lady retained her stately aura. In Gwen's eyes, Lady Loftus’ handsomeness indicated both excellent breeding and good education. Without ceremony, she exuded an impeccable aura of gentility. For the Marchioness, there was no need to “make up” for what nature had not bestowed.

The interior of the Master’s suite was modest by the standards of the colleges. Considering that Peterhouse was one of the wealthiest in London, the furnishings were frugal. When the Lady saw Gwen’s eyes darting from divan to fireplace to old drapes, she smiled and explained that the scholarly Monks of Ely, the College’s founders, did not wish the estate burdened by material comforts. She then took a stab at King’s, as well as Trinity, a seminary whose wealth equated the bottom twenty colleges combined. Then, after some intimate small talk of family, Gwen "dobbed in" her encounter with Ravenport.

“Dickie can be such a boar.” Lady Loftus twisted her lips, savouring the pun.

“Dickie?”

“That's what we call Mycroft. It was originally Mickie, coined when we were children, around the time of the Pan-Europe Conflict. We were all children back then. At the war's height, us 'heirs' were moved to the Duke of Edinburgh's rural estate to avoid accidental, violent deaths.”

“How did Mickie become Dickie?”

“Oh, the name was a gift from Aunt Angie, that’s the queen’s mother, who got confused with the nick-names. I mean, there were thirty of us.” Lady Loftus laughed. “For some reason, she kept calling him Dickie, so the kids did as well. It drove Mycroft up the wall. Of course, the more he protested, the more it struck. Children can be so cruel.”

Gwen chuckled.

Mycroft Ravenport, the unseen hand of London and the big Don of the Grey Faction, and now also “Dickie". In her mind, she imagined Ravenport's laughing face when he threatened to cut her up for parts, then juxtaposed that image with a peevish red-faced boy screaming, "Not Dickie! NOT DICKIE! STOP CALLING ME DICKIE!"

Also, did Lady Loftus just casually name drop that she chummed with the Queen as a child? The Queen of England, her Majesty, the ageless Elizabeth the Second? Her Majesty was older than the Marchioness, was she maybe like an older sister?

“If that rooting hog tyrannises you again." Lady Loftus' smile was gentle as felt genuine. "Remind him that even if 'Dickie' becomes Prime Minister, it doesn't make him any less of a 'Dickie'. Step out of line, and Lilibet will put him in his rightful place."

Gwen wasn’t sure how that helped or who Lilibet could be— but assured the Lady that "Dickie" would get an earful.

“And rest assured, Dickie won’t touch your friends or family.” Lady Loftus patted Gwen’s hand. “It's not how we do things here. If the War of the Roses has taught us anything, it is that ruling a barren throne is about as worthwhile as lording over a Necropolis. Dickie excelled in history. No, he won't dare.”

Gwen was amazed. In Asia, threatening to maim friends and family was the number one solution to all conflicts. Even stepping on toes engendered a "Do you know who my father is?" or "I'll fuck your eighteenth generation ancestors!" She had seen it play out in real life. Maymyint threatened Mayuree, Huashan threatened Lulan, the Communists took heirs as hostages, and Eunae had fallen victim to her father's potential dismissal.

“He fears your retaliation as much as you fear his," the Marchioness continued. "Dickie has other children too, you know.”

“He does?”

“Three— well, TWO sons. And a daughter. Edmund and Charlene are from his second wife. Charlene attends Cavendish. Assuming she knows of the feud, I would keep a wide berth. If not, she's a pleasant enough lass.”

“Four children! Isn’t Dickie a Dust Mage?” Gwen marvelled.

“Three now. Is that so strange?”

“But, Negative Energy, magical power and fertility...”

“Dickie hasn’t used his talent since attaining admiralty.” Lady Loftus met Gwen’s eyes. “Or so the tabloids report. Now, if you don’t mind, can we not debate the viability of Mycroft’s loins?”

“Sorry.” Gwen bit her tongue, realising that she had struck the English variation of "Don't ask, Don't tell". It was the same as how the "incorruptible" Communists in China turned a blind eye to political horse-trading.

“Has Henry ever spoken of me?” Lady Loftus took a sip of her cherry brandy.

“I am afraid Master wasn’t very forthcoming.” Gwen touched the subject with a gentle prod. If the Lady’s relationship and Henry was one of friendship, then she should feel disappointed. Had they been more than friends; Gwen sensed she might be in danger.

“Oh…”

“He was very tight-lipped,” Gwen added. “Mark Chandler had me hog-tied and put up for auction before Master bothered explaining Sobel’s connection to his stake in Void Magic.

“The Chandler incident— that was you?” Lady Grey raised her brows, then sighed. “Gunther kept a tight lid on the events in Sydney. I wished that Henry could have trusted us more. We may have prevented Sobel’s infiltration.”

“Is... Dickie, in actuality, unassociated with Sobel?” Gwen followed up with a question that desperately needed answers.

Lady Grey studied her face.
Gwen made herself as earnest as possible.

“A dangerous topic for an unaffiliated Acolyte,” Justine Loftus sighed. “All I will say is that Henry was a great deal-maker with ties to many power brokers. After the Great Restoration, those factions formed into loose coalitions, eventuating into the Greys, the Militants and those who remained unaffiliated. I can't offer you a 'Yes' or 'No' to your question because you lack the context and the position to grasp its ambiguity."

“I wonder if I'll ever know my Master’s past," Gwen lamented, a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice.

“Get yourself a Magister’s robe first and foremost,” Lady Loftus chortled. “As always, if you listen to the stories from each side, you’ll get a different truth. Those are the arrangements Henry had put in place when instituting the Tower system.”

Gwen nodded.

“I’ve heard so much about the Factions.” Gwen changed the topic, meandering away from her Master. “So, am I a part of the Middle Faction?”

“Doubtlessly.” Lady Loftus raised a critical brow.

“It’s just that.” Gwen looked guilty. “Sometimes, I am fairly sure Alesia is on an unerring militant warpath. Between the three of us, only Gunther truly embodies Master's philosophy."

“A curious observation. And how do you see yourself positioned?”

"I do believe in Noblesse Oblige, but I want to carry on Master's Legacy my way."

"Do go on."

“While I was in Shanghai—” Gwen explained. “— and throughout the IIUC, I was consumed by this thought. Lady Loftus, to be entirely forthright with you, what do you know of my extracurricular endeavours? You know that I've brought in a great deal of currency and that I have made connections with otherworldly beings, yes?"

“Likely not to the degree that Dickie professes to know.” Loftus replaced her wine.

“You're too kind.” Gwen took a deep breath, knowing that now was the time to make a good impression, not to mention secure her foothold in London. In Shanghai, when the possibility of her migration materialised, she thought immediately of expanding her operations. Now, Gwen desired to reopen her shop in London. Considering Ravenport's threats, she had to get Justine on her side as soon as possible. “Lady Loftus, there are a few notable capital ventures which I wish to present for your benefit. If you have some time, I would like to give you a quick introduction…”

Gwen stood, her pearly whites flashing brightly.

“No need for formality.” Lady Loftus motioned for her to sit. “I would like to think of you as a niece of sorts— perhaps a grand-niece, considering your age.”

“You’re far too youthful to be a grand-aunt.” Gwen took a few steps back to give herself some room. “Do you mind if I use illusions?”

“How ostentatious—” Lady Loftus appeared impressed by her confidence. “Very well, if you believe me so easily persuaded…”

“Holy shit, Dick, I am so sorry!” Gwen burst into the common-lounge, finding Richard encircled by her new peers from Peterhouse. There was a lad with light-grey hair and dark eyes, and two girls looking very English indeed in their empire-waisted night-dresses. “Oh… am I disturbing anything?”

“Thanks for the head’s up, Richard.” The young man inclined his aristocratic chin. He turned to Gwen, then bowed. “It was a pleasure to meet you at Hall today, Miss Song. I look forward to your contribution to Peterhouse.”

“Thank you.” Gwen waited for the man to introduce himself. Instead, the Acolyte politely made his exit.

“Rachel Clarke, Magus.” The older-looking of the two girls, a blonde, approached to shake her hand. “Welcome to Peterhouse, Gwen.”

“Harriet Cornwall, I am an Acolyte like you.” The second, a brunette, nervously shook Gwen’s fingers. “Richard’s been telling us about your exploits. I’ve seen you on the broadcast, but to think so many details were left out.”

“When are you going to bring out Golos?” The first girl’s eye gleamed. “I am a Conjurer-Diviner, and I don’t have a Spirit yet. BUT, you've got TWO and a Planar Ally. To say I am envious would be an understatement.”

“Stuff the Wyvern.” Harriet’s eyes sparkled. “Where’s Ariel?”

Ah, Gwen glanced at Richard, realising her cousin has been laying down the groundworks.

“I’ll be more than happy to bring them out.” Gwen indicated for the girls to sit. “But it’s midnight, so we'll have to be very discrete.”

“Okay.”
“Agreed.”

The girl sat demurely on the ancient, mustard-coloured lounges.

“Ariel!”

“EEEE!” Ariel materialised with a somersault, eyes gleaming, rainbow coat shimmering and waving its stubby stag horns to and fro. Attached to its perky bottom, a furry fantail, shrouded in nimbus, waved back and forth. “EE?”

“OH MY GOD!” Rachel’s voice was loud enough to summon the dead. “ARIEL YOU ADORABLE BABY!”

“AEEEEEEE!” Harriet squealed, her dignity dissipating before Ariel’s charmed assault. “SO SOFT! ARRRRRRRGH! IT’S LICKING ME!”

“Gwen, you’re officially my chum! Ariel, want an HDM? Yes, you do!”

The Magus dropped a fist full of precious crystals on the couch. When Ariel landed in her lap, the girl appeared as though she was about to lose her mind.

WHAM! A door opened.

The familiar face of Ollie Edwards burst into the lesser-lounge. “What's happened? The Acolytes are trying to sleep, for Peter's sake! You lot better not be engaged in salacious—”

The Praelector’s furious eyes fell to Gwen, who stared back wide-eyed and innocent. Across from her, one of the girls rubbed Ariel’s tail all over her face, while the other made sweet moans as the Kirin licked her fingers.

Ollie Edwards, the man responsible for Gwen's proper behaviour, craned his neck; on his jugular, a vein throbbed.

The girls looked ashamed. Richard gave her dorm officer a nod.

“Mr Huang, please return to King’s. Our visiting hours are between eight AM to six PM.”

“Of course, Praelector Edwards,” Richard bowed his head. “I shall leave at once.”

“Miss Song,” Edwards gulped. “If you could refrain from—“

Other students, having heard the commotion, were now emerging into the lounge. When the young men saw their Omni-Mage “little sister” sitting with her immodest skirt, stretching across the old divan, their hearts sang. When more of the women caught sight of Ariel, all thoughts of the Praelector’s authority flew out Peterhouse’ gothic windows.

“A Kirin!”
“I’ve seen it on the broadcast!”
"If that dress is subfusc, I am a Bridge Troll..."

“STUDENTS—“ Ollie cried out, only to be interrupted by yet more Acolytes emerging from the lower court.

“Caliban! Where’s Caliban!”
“I want to see the Wyvern!”
"Blood of Christ! It's Ariel in the flesh!"

“RETURN TO YOUR DORM!” The Praelector began to realise what the presence of Gwen Song in Peterhouse’s midst might signify for its resident disciplinarian. “GO! NOW!”

Against his orders and encouraged by their numbers, the students Messaged their peers in Gisborne, informing them that a bona fide Draconic-Spirit was freely floating around the lesser-lounge, free to molest for anyone adventurous enough to try.

“Feel this. It’s SO SOFT.”
“TOUCH THE BELLY!”

“EE! EE!”

“It sings!”
“Someone get my Lumen-Recorder!”
"HDMs for Ariel!"

“Everyone…” Ollie Edwards felt a tightness in this chest. Inexplicable helplessness gripped his torso, sapping all strength from his body even as his temple throbbed. Glaring at the Void Sorceress, he wondered if this was the infamous Void Aura that sapped one’s life-force. The Lady did say to be careful around Gwen, and always to regulate his mana.

“It’s alright, mate.” Richard, who was now leaving, patted the young man on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. Just do your best to stay afloat for the next year, then pass her on to the next Praelector."