It took Mathias a full second to digest the Void sorceress' earth-shattering accusation. Besides the Knight, Magister Hanford's open mouth could have swallowed a duck egg.

"I beg your pardon?" His jaw clenched, turning Mathias' neck a bright pink. That thrice-damned Alraune! To think the blasted bulb was a flower on top, but a serpent beneath! "What are you on about, young lady?"

The sorceress stood between himself and his ward. "Do you deny your dereliction of duty?"

"Absolutely!" Mathias allowed his Radiant mana to circulate. "I warn you, Miss Song. The honour of a Knight isn't so cheap that a nobody from a Frontier could waltz in and point fingers. I swore an Oath to protect Miss Lindholm!"

The Knight's sword-hand burned with a phosphorescent brilliance.

"That my Faith remains is a testament to my service!"

Mathias allowed both Faith and Radiance to inter-mingle. His face glowed; his blonde hair engendered a halo. "Miss Song, you test me again and again, for no reason other than petty jealousy over my guardianship of Miss Lindholm. I implore you, with complete sincerity and politeness, to cease your belligerence! We both want what's best for Elvia."

But the girl did not back down. Instead, she raised Elvia's hands. "Then how do you explain Evee's poverty of items? She's been questing with you for how long?"

"Six months."

"SIX MONTHS!" The girl continued without missing a beat. "If there is such a demand for Evee— and yet she's penniless— then as her manager, you're bloody hopeless! If she isn't profiting, then who is profiting OFF her?"

Mathias had never felt so insulted in his life. He never knew anger could influence the flow of mana. Now he did.

"Did I hit a nerve?" His accuser stood with one hand pointing and her other against her hip, not unlike a pissing tea kettle. "Where were you when Evee got bullied? When they overworked her, why didn't you campaign to give Evee a fair go? Look around you— where are the OTHER healers with burned-out brains? Is that a testament to their apathy, or your ineptitude? Or Both?"

"Milady's compassion—" Mathias was finding it hard to speak.

"—Is not your social capital!" The girl's voice was like a gale. "Kiki tells me Evee gets attacked by monsters, every day, every fucking time!"

"The Spirit lies!" Mathias growled. "Evee's never lost a hair. Elvia, tell her how I've shielded you!"

"Sophistry!" The girl's rudeness grated like a rusty saw. "Your bull doesn't pass the China-test, Mattie. Let's cut to the chase. Show me your hands."

"What?"

The girl extended her hand. "Here, let me help: Ring of Evasion— Ring of Storage— Ring of Contingency—"

Mathias's complexion shifted from scarlet to white. His Radiant mana hammered at his skull, tolling like church bells. The Contingency Ring on his left index finger was burning his skin as silver burns a Lycanthrope. The ring was from his Order. It wasn't his to give— or was it? Mathias no longer knew the answer.

The girl pulled his healer's hand forward. "Here. I know it's hard, but let me show you the rare bird called 'giving a fuck'."

With a zap of electricity, the girl pulled two bands from her fingers, materialising a third in her offhand.

"Gwennie," Elvia protested in alarm, her whole body pulling helplessly against the taller sorceress. "You can't! That's Gunther's Ring! Alesia's going to be pissed! I am not worthy!"

"I can, and you are," the girl retorted, then slipped the Contingency Ring onto the Elvia's trembling fingers.

Mathias' eyes grew round when he caught the Beholder's Core mounted in the Contingency Ring. When furthermore his ears registered Elvia's protest, the implication slammed into his skull like an empowered Missile Swarm.

Gunther? Which Gunther could afford a Contingency Ring made from a Beholder's Eye Core? Alesia? He knew of only one sorceress called Alesia.

"Evee, relax. I returned brother's heirloom in Sydney," the Void sorceress explained. "This one's a discounted facsimile from Pretoria."

"It's too expensive!"

"More valuable than my peace of mind? Hardly—" The Void sorceress slipped on the other two rings as well: her Ring of Evasion, and what looked like a Medium Storage Ring. "There! You see, Mathias? Evee's now snug as a bug. Now that's Evee husbandry, 101."

"M-Miss Song," Mathias murmured, his mind still reeling from the revelation. In his chest, the anger and the resentment drained away into the Ethereal Plane. "By Gunther, do you mean Lord Shultz, of Sydney Tower?"

"Who else?" The girl assumed her tea kettle pose once again, fully intent on filling him up to the ears. "He was Evee's immigration sponsor. Do you take offence to that?"

Mathias felt as though struck by a bolt of livid lightning. Every hair on his body stood on end. His spleen ached. Why hadn't Emily told him? Why hadn't Elvia mentioned a word of her connection to the Tower Master of Sydney? Why, if she had so much as dropped a hint, he would have duelled Royal Alfred's Knight to secure every holiday from here to next year.

Master Shultz! Mathias' mind felt as slow as a snail's crawl. Against his right thigh, Dawnstar hung like a lead weight.

"Well, Mattie?" The girl's supply of spittle was endless. Her eyes flashed like that of a fixated hawk on a fleeing prey. "Now do you see—"

_CLANG!_
Mathias' body was in motion before his mind conceded. In one, swift action, the Knight dropped to an armoured knee.

"MY HEART WAS IMPURE!" In one smooth draw, Mathias presented his Spellsword, then offered it to his accuser in a gesture of supplication. "Lady Lindholm, I beg for your clemency!"

Gwen braked so hard she stuttered, biting her tongue. Behind the Void sorceress, Elvia cringed and whimpered, the cost of the rings flaying the flesh from her fingers. Across the counter, Magister Hanford choked on the mead, then began to cough uncontrollably as the rogue booze shot up his sinus tract.

Ascending toward the second floor, the Void sorceress and the Spirit Healer ventured upstairs, joined by a Kirin, a Void serpent, a Ginseng and an Alraune.

Below, the two men prepared to call it a night.

"That young lady's quite the orator." Hanford rummaged below the counter, then pulled out a bottle of ancient-looking rum, poured himself a glass, then filled a second goblet. "Now that's over, care for a pint to calm the nerves?"

"I don't— sure." The Knight hesitated but did not decline the Magister's sympathy. By the creed of temperance, a Knight was only allowed to imbibe alcohol as a part of the Sacrament. Luckily for Mathias, a Knight of St Michael was also an anointed Cleric by trade, fully equipped to deliver Mass or authorise a marriage.

"Bless, O Lord, this drink which Thou hast created. Here, by Thy holy name, I receive the blood of thy body and soul. Amen."

As per the ritual, Mathias drained the chalice in one gulp.

"Hmm..." Hanford double-checked the bottle's back label. "... shit."

Mathias wiped his booze-stained mouth, breathing slowly to fight down the alcohol. In an instant, the Knight grew pale. "By St John, I feel as though afflicted with Negative Drain. In St George's name, what is this thing? My gut's fallen into the seventh circle of hell..."

Hanford winced. He should have known from the bottle that the rum was Dwarven. That and virgin Knights were famous teetotalers.

Carefully, Magister Hanford poured himself a half-shot. "Will you be joining us tomorrow?"

"Wherever Miss Lindhold goes, so shall... so shall I..."

"I see." Hanford raised a foaming toast for the boy-Knight who survived the Devourer of Shenyang with four limbs intact.

"Here's my belated Amen— and here's to keeping your job. Sir Rothwell. Good night."

"That's right. I am a good Knight." The Radiant Mage slumped into a tub chair. His belly growled. Dwarven rum wasn't for the faint of anything. "O Christ, shield me from this unholy fire."

When Elvia's companion saw the modesty of the inn's bedroom, she straight away offered the Portable Habitat she had "neglected" to return to Melbourne Tower.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

An HDM and a few minutes later, the girls and their menagerie of flora and fauna relaxed in the interior of the Habitat, sprawled out across the spacious living room. Kiki and Sen-sen wandered all over, investigating every nook and cranny. Caliban took up residence on the carpet, coiled and comfortable, while Ariel, now lap-sized and docile, rested against Elvia's legs.

There, in the privacy of each other's company, Elvia related the dream she had appropriated from Gwen's Outback adventure.

"...Kapi-Kapi?"

"Yeah! It was like you were there!" Elvia painted for her friend the strangest dream she ever dreamt. "There was Uluru and the Rainbow Serpent, and we were Singing the Snake..."

Gwen smacked her lips. "Did rain come from a cloudless sky?"

"Yes! Then Almudj came out of the rock! And there was red water everywhere."

Her friend's expression grew contemplative. "So, you were Kalinda, and I was the Tjupurrula... how curious..."

Once the dream-talk ceased, the atmosphere grew contemplative.

On her fingers, Gwen's rings weighed heavily on Elvia's heart, stifling her breath.

In the ensuing silence, Elvia drew on some of that courage she had so admired in Faux-Debora, slipping across the couch so that she sat on Gwen's lap. Sensing a lack of protest, she then laid her back against her friend's supple torso. From Gwen's hair, she could smell the faintest hint of eucalyptus.

"What's wrong, Evee?" Gwen read her mood like a book.

"Gwennie," Elvia heard herself lament, her voice almost a whisper. "Why me?"

The paranoia that twisted Elvia's gut wasn't uninvited, but something she had known since Sydney. As a mere healer, one without charisma, character, or backing, what could she possibly gift to Gwen? What aid, no matter how trivial, could she deliver to the devourer of a city?

"Don't say that," Gwen scolded her with a snort. "You're more important than you think."

"But I am not." Elvia felt her friend shifting beneath her. After repositioning her legs, Elvia now used her friend's thigh as a pillow. "I am not strong, and I know I am not smart. Mathias isn't wrong, you know. I am a liability."

"Nope, stop right there." Gwen's fingers prodded Elvia's button nose as though a stop-start button on a Golem. "You're a special person. You just don't know it."

"I watched you and Yue in the IIUC." Elvia rested her cheek against the palm of her friend's outstretched hand. "I kept trying to imagine how I could have helped, but I don't think I can. Be it Sylvie, or Emily, or even Lady Astor, everyone thinks of me as a tag-along. Nothing more."

"That's quite the imagination you got there." A finger wiped away the string of wetness flowing down Elvia's pippin-pink cheeks. "Christ, Evee. Relax. Man, I should install a vid-caster in here."

Elvia sighed, feeling all the more guilty for her friend's sympathy. Doing her best, she choked back a sob.

"Alright, now I feel like an unsympathetic bitch." Gwen patted her head. "How about you put a stopper on the tap and let me explain."

Elvia did her best. The mind was willing, but the flesh was tender.

"In life, Evee..." Gwen began, dabbing her face with a tissue. "...there are folk who pop in and out of our orbit."

"With some, we grow intimate— Petra, who you know; or Tao my fruity cousin; or the iron-hearted Lulan. These are honest folk with dreams and aspirations. Their goals, I respect, and when our paths bisect, I want to help them."

"Then, there are selfless souls like my Babulya; or Uncle Jun. Like Opa, they want to see me prosper and do well. But with these folks, their love comes with anticipations and expectations, and of course, should I misstep— disappointment."

"Then, there are the folk who walk a parallel path. Ruxin and Gogo the Dragon siblings of Nagaland; Marong, my business partner; Magister Walken, who sees in me a kindred spirit on the path to relevance. Guo, my legacy obsessed grandfather— these folks I work with because our goals align and our interests are complimentary—"

Elvia listened, bathed in the warmth of her friend's enveloping embrace.

"And finally, there are those who are closest to our hearts. Yue takes a spot. Alesia and Gunther are my unconditional allies. Percy of course, he's my little brother after all. Richard as well has sacrificed much— though thankfully, I've managed to even the odds of late…"

Gwen's irises burned with a gentle light.

From within her friend's arched body, Elvia felt a curious resonance. In her chest, below her throat, the thrumming Essence felt like heartburn.

"...And there's you, Evee."

Elvia's complexion grew hot-pink, whether due to nervousness or embarrassment, she didn't know.

"Some might say that being normal and nice implies a lack of character, that a lack of ambition makes you a lesser person. But to me, that's what makes my Evee endearing. What I admire in you, Evee— is your simplicity."

"My… simplicity?"

"That's right." Gwen parted her flaxen hair, knotting the strands around her fingers. "You know, Evee, I've been fighting non-stop for four years now. Sometimes, I think about the places I've seen, the monster's I've eaten, and wonder how far I've drifted from a bedroom with an ocean-view."

Elvia recalled that indeed, an ocean-view bedroom had been her friend's dream.

"Can you imagine that, Evee? Before meeting Master Henry, all I wanted was a three-bedder at Potts Point. Now, I harp on about being the Master of a Tower. Christ! A cloud-clapped Tower, Evee! Tall as anything—staffed by thousands! But then, after Caliban burps and Ariel's gone to bed I think to myself— what the fuck am I doing? Right now, I can buy TEN houses by the sea. Why aren't I retired by the ocean, fighting Mermen from my porch?"

"But…" Elvia felt her friend's frustration through the emphatic link of their mingling essence. "You can't retire. You're the Devourer of Shenyang."

"Aye, that's the rub— the calamity of so elevated a life."

Her friend breathed out for what felt like an eternity.

"I miss the old days." Her friend's face was an inch from Elvia's head. "You and me and Yue, going to Blackwattle, eating at Market City, Yue fellating paddle pops and making us laugh, all in that cramped sauna we called home. I miss my Master, as well. Henry and I only shared a year, but he was so kind to me, more than anyone I knew in all my... years. I miss Sufi too, and not just because of her Golden Mead. Her emotions were always so pure."

"Kiki!" Elvia's Alraune, having returned to check on its mistress, patted Gwen on the shins. A few inches away, Caliban sniffed the Flower Sprite's bulb disinterestedly.

"Sometimes, I can't help but imagine what would have happened if Sobel never happened to us, or if I had been stern enough to listen to Yue and kicked Debora out. Imagine that— You and I, and Yue, in Sydney for the next three years. We could have made a party of our own with Whetu and Richard. The SIMPLICITY of it, Evee. That's what I miss more than anything."

All Elvia could do was nod.

"If you're afraid you've got nothing to contribute, Evee." Gwen's lips hovered over her own. "Then I'll give you a job."

"A job?"

"Yes, Evee. One only you can do. You see, after the Trolls, the Undead, the Dragons, and the people; I need something to anchor myself. What I mean, Evee— is that I need an anchor that isn't mountains of Crystals and cloud-clapped Towers. What I need, Evee— is something more concrete than the pageant of popularity and the phantasms power, do you understand?"

Elvia shivered. "What can I do?"

"Be Elvia Lindholm." Gwen's voice grew low and husky. "That, to me, is more precious than anything."

"But I am not special. Not like you."

"Then I'll make you special." The conviction in Gwen's voice made Elvia's spine suddenly rigid. Her friend's next words were barely a whisper, but it fulminated within the recesses of Elvia's mind.

"Evee— I don't want to be another Sobel."

Against her cheek, Gwen's thighs were clammy.

A part of Elvia wanted to get away, to slip from her friend's lap and flee the Habitat. What Gwen had just told her, the "Job" Gwen had offered— could anyone bear such a burden? Could she? Could a weak-willed waif serve as the foundation of a sorceress who may one day change the Mageocracy?

Was Gwen being selfish?

"Kiki?" Her Alraune stroked her arm with an elongated tendril. "Ki?"
"Sen!" Sen-sen as well, perhaps reading Kiki's distress, touched Elvia's toes and prodded her pink digits.

Her friend grew silent, awaiting a response.

Elvia felt queasy.
Was she up to the task?
In truth, she had no idea.
In truth, she missed Mathias already.
Her glory-seeking Knight was a knee-deep pond; Gwen was the abyssal ocean.

"Kiki!" Her Alruaune thumped its chest as a sign of solidarity.

Courage, or was it Essence, flowed into Elvia's chest. Kiki was right! So what if she dived head-first into the Void? Gwen would do just as much for her, so why couldn't she do the same? Whether she could hold Gwen back was one question. Whether she was willing was another. One needn't inform the other.

"Gwennie?" The brimming Essence in her conduits overflowed.

"Yes, Evee?"

"I'll... BLUERRRRRGH—"

Unfortunately, having acquired Almudj's blessing only an hour ago, the rising ardour Elvia had felt wasn't Essence. Instead, it was reflux from her oesophagus, caused by her threadbare nerves.

And so, to conclude their first conference in two years, against the softness of her best friend's awaiting body, Elvia Lindholm poured out her soul.

"Evee! Evee! Evee, let your wand hang down..."

Gwen hummed as she changed, readying herself for the day trip. In the master bedroom, Elvia slept like a lamb, exhausted after a lengthy apology and an even longer shower.

Still, even a rancid Elvia sparked joy. Gwen could hardly complain when her little healer grew so happy that she vomited on the couch. That had been her fault, she later realised. Evee had languished for the better part of a day without taking a meal, and though Almudj's Essence provided many gifts, a full stomach wasn't one of them.

PSSSHT—

Her Shen-teī armour tightened, enclosing her athletic figure with a hiss, kissing every inch of her dermis.

On a nearby pedestal, Gwen aligned more gifts readied for Elvia. The first was a spare suit of Shen-Teī in white. To their premier model, Sinomach Heavy Industries had been very generous with their samples, especially after the IIUC's unprecedented viewership. Also on the pedestal was her Radiant Diamond Ioun Stone.

Last night, Mathias had folded like cheap origami, but she couldn't trust the Knight, at least not yet.

As for her losses, Gwen did not consider the items critical to her ventures in London. Seeing as she was a Class VI asset, surely the Mageocracy would give her a sizeable discount on a Tower-issued Conti-Ring. As for the Ring of Evasion, now that her split-second Dimension Door well-exceeded the range of most AOEs, Magister Ferris's handcrafted item now felt meagre. And as for the Ioun Stone, Elvia would better benefit from its shell-hardening than herself, who could pump the equivalent of a dozen Mages' mana into her Gunther Shield.

Already, for their first outing visiting the Troll warrens around the Gulch, she had a plan.

The dastardly Duke of Norfolk had name-dropped Elvia to serve as a warning, but now, Gwen considered the advice with kindness. That those with fingers in her future would see Elvia as Gwen's weakness was a certainty. If so, why should she step lightly and keep her best friend from the limelight?

Through her Master, Gwen had learned that recognition could be utilised like a Force Wall. From Gunther, she had learned that though one spoke softly, it didn't hurt to tap the table with a big stick. And if there was anything Alesia taught her, it was that infamy could be just as useful as fame.

_Ding! Ding!_

Her out-bond Message chimed.

"Miss Song?" an accented tongue echoed by her ear. "This is Dominic Lorenzo. Alesia said you'd call. How do you like London? And how can I help?"

"Hi, Dom." Gwen's voice was sugary sweet. "Thanks for answering. I am so sorry to impose on you so soon, and without a luncheon first to get acquainted."

"Ha, don't mind it, anything for Alesia's sister," the man replied with enthusiasm. "Not to mention you're the talk of the town. Have you read the Telegraph? You're all over page three! I wouldn't dream of dining with a tabloid girl in public."

"Er…" Gwen paused. "What's this about?"

"You know, Lord Ravenport. Hahaha, you young sorceresses sure move fast these days."

Gwen blinked, wondering if the tavern received daily papers. "I am at Merthyr Tydfil right now."

"Near Red Peak? What's a lass like you doing on Dwarf land?"

"Long story," she said. "Look, we'll meet up and talk later, Alesia said to ask you if I needed help. She said you're the man with the connections."

"And so I am. Go on."

"Lovely." Gwen cleared her throat, putting aside the tabloid business for now. "So— I am about to clear a Troll warren near Merthyr Tydfil, something called the Scarlet Gulch—"

"Ah, the place where Earthen Crystals sprout about now—" the voice paused. "Hold up— doth my ears deceive me? Did you say you want to PURGE the area?"

"You could say that. I've got some stake in elevating one of my friends to the public eye, a healer. As such, I was wondering if the media was keen to see a Void Sorceress single-handedly clear a valley of green-skins in defence of a fellow sister dual-wielding sapient Spirits…"


Dominic Lorenzo went by several names, some of which were public, and most of which were selectively known to friends in unusual places.

To the Mageocracy, Dominic was a murky ghost, one of the hundreds that made up London's grapevines. Together, he and his ilk sent bite-sized observations up the trellis so that problems could be propagated or pruned.

To Dominic's unknowing co-workers, he was a dapper, good-natured journo who was serious about his work but would never get promoted because of a meddlesome, naive sense of justice.

To Alesia De Botton, he was a compatriot, co-tethered by a debt owed to the late Master of Sydney.

Presently, Dominic engaged in a masochistic ritual known as, "reading the Sun Herald". Within London's battlefield of public opinion, he worked for the Guardian, winner of the BBC's Mithril Shield, comparatively, the paper in his hand was the editorial equivalent of coal dust.

Nonetheless, knowing one's foes was an essential part of Dominic's job.

He turned the page.
A headline in large, red writing seared his retina.

_Norfolk's Secret: How a Customs Agent Uncovered Ravenport's Hidden Daughter._

_THE DUKE OF NORFOLK, one of the most powerful men in London, was seen rushing back to his manor when a customs agent uncovered the Duke's ploy to mule illicit goods through a young Australian-Chinese sorceress by the name of Gwen Song._

_In a Fireball revelation, Miss Song was revealed to be the youngest Apprentice of Henry Kilroy, the now-deceased Master of Sydney, a long-time associate of Mycroft Ravenport. A further inquiry carried out by the Herald Sun revealed Miss Song was the same Void sorceress who wowed audiences in September's International Inter-University Competition. According to internal memos, Miss Song was on route to receive a scholarship from Cambridge University when Heathrow intercepted the sorceress, revealing a cache of illicit goods. However, Lord Ravenport's court ally, Lord Seville, intervened to remove Miss Song from Border Force's custody. The young sorceress was then photographed entering Lord Ravenport's private vehicle, an exclusive Phantom IV gifted to the Duke by the Royal Family. Miss Song has not been seen in public since._

_Lord Mycroft has been embroiled in scandals prior, such as the rumoured involvement of his son in the Fall of Sydney. Exclusive to the Sun, sources have acknowledged that the Void sorceress may be a secret daughter, engendered by an unintended tryst..._

Dominic suppressed a smirk.
Secret daughter, sure.
The picture they had of Gwen was of her getting into the Duke's car, her lower body in crystal-sharp focus, while everything else faded into the backdrop. In a stark and titillating vision, one saw a single, contoured leg hanging outside the bible-black, beetle-shell carriage. As it was winter, the implications were self-evident.

But just in case the Sun's readers were too obtuse, the paper teased the imagination by pairing the article with a page three girl— a hopelessly underdressed Eurasian sorceress with dark hair and green eyes, eye-fucking the camera.

In a ham-fisted way, the unspoken inference fully demonstrated the near-supernatural magnetism a million tabloids a week held over the lives of the Lords and Ladies of London. For the apathetic public, there was nothing more satisfying than scandals that exhibited the snobbish gentry's basest desires.

In response, Norfolk's office had issued two denials over the claims saying that _"any blood relations between the sorceress and Lord Ravenport_ " was _"categorically untrue"_. A second line included the usual response from Windsor castle, _"We deny that the Duke of Norfolk had any form of relationship with the young woman. The allegations are false and without foundation."_

Dominic quickly checked through the rest of the paper to ensure that nothing else would catch Gwen by surprise.

It was on page seven that Dominic spotted the second mention of Gwen. This time in an article written by an actual journalist, detailing the replacement of George Reeves, Director of Operations at Heathrow. The article cited that not only had Director Reeves not questioned the illicit conduct of staff under his watch, but had stubbornly refused to cross the 'blue-line', being an ex-Major and all that. This time, however, the victim to be "shaken down" happened to be Gwen Song, Class VI War Mage of IIUC fame, and sister-in-craft to Lord Shultz, Tower Master of Sydney. The incident, the Sun reported, has caused significant grief within the foreign office.

Reeve's replacement, Deputy Director Rachel Swann, then offered a platitude: " _We expect our leaders to conduct themselves professionally at all times and treat our nation's best and brightest with respect. Director Reeves has failed to meet these expectations and has been dismissed after a misconduct panel, presided by factional representatives from London Tower, the Public Safety Committee, and the Border Force Military Tribunary. Lord Ravenport, the speaker for the committee, instrumental in negotiating Miss Song's lawful release, has stated, 'The public has a right to expect absolute integrity.'"_

"You've got to be shitting me." Dominic felt a vein throb. Gwen was in London for ten minutes, and she had already made it onto the most notorious paper in the city— twice. If the edition sold well, and House Ravenport suffering from a rash of ill repute almost certainly will— Gwen could kiss her privacy goodbye.

_Ding! Ding!_

Dominic's device chimed.

The caller ID indicated that it was Ravenport's leggy daughter.

_Speak of the hellcat,_ Dominic whistled. He dispelled the visage of the bare bosomed beauty on page three; once his mind was purged of impure thoughts, he tapped the Glyph for receive.

"Thank you, Mister Whitely," Ollie Edwards, Post Graduate Conjurer-Illusionist, thanked the miner who had been kind enough to give him a ride to Merthyr Tydfil. With great politeness, he laid down an HDM on to the seat. "Please take this."

Ollie had left London at five AM. After delivering a note to the Head Mistress of Peterhouse, he caught the ISTC to Oxford, a bus down to Gloucester, then waited for a cargo lorry to take him to Merthyr Tydfil. As much as a Flight Licence was useful, Ollie could not justify spending a year's worth of CCs on convenience.

An hour into the bumpy ride, when his buttocks complained of the spring digging into his thighs, he wondered if it was faster to teleport to London, then pay for a General Area Teleport above the resource outpost.

But, as always, Ollie considered the request from Lady Loftus a test.
With the Matron of Peterhouse, quests were rarely straightforward, and Ollie suspected that looking after Gwen Song was demonstrative of the Lady's faith in her Praelector.

When they arrived at Merthyr Tydfil, the town was as he had imagined. It was dirty, dingy, and looking like a mining town straight out of an '80s vid-cast before Maggie Thatcher put an end to all that.

"Keep the crystal," the squat NoM shooed the Magus away, tossing him back the credit-stick. "Careful, Magus. Them Dwarves are devious buggers, and them Trolls will make soup from your bones!"

"I shall. Thank you again!"

"Good luck finding your girl." The old feller winked.

"Right." Ollie then turned his attention toward the inn. Here was where the local militia had set up their headquarters. With a deep breath, he pushed through the oak double doors.

"Hello! My name is Ollie Edwards. I am Miss Song's Praelector from Cambridge—"

Ollie paused.
The place was empty.
There was plenty of evidence that the inn had been lived in, there was no doubt about that; the place was a damned Goblin warren, but there wasn't a single soul to answer his enquiry.

"Mister Publican?"

His answer bounced back from the vaulted, Tudor-era ceiling. Feeling his fingers grow clammy, Ollie exited the inn. Outside, the town went about its business.

"Good sir!" He flagged down a sauntering prospector. "What's the news? Where are Magister Hanford and his men? Also, have you seen a tall, Eurasian sorceress with green eyes? She has hair up to about here— and she's quite— pretty."

"Aye, you missed them an hour ago." The prospector's teeth had more yellow than white. "They've gone down to the gulch. A group of journos teleported in just after morning tea— said that the Devourer of Shenyang is going to clear the Red Gulch for Miss Elvia. Most of the folk are gone to take a gander."

Ollie's overlarge ears grew red. "You're joking. Who's Elvia?"

"No joke. The lass will take on the Trollies by herself. They said— oh, Miss Elvia's our healer. But..." The man shook his head. "Bollocks, I say. Even if she's Ravenport's daughter..."

The man patted his newspaper.

"She's WHAT now…" Ollie's eyes rifted to a familiar face on the front page. "Sorry, could I see that?"

"Sure." The man handed the paper over. "Help yourself. Mind page three, it's a little damp."

Frantically, Ollie read the front page, turning the slightly moist paper until he reached the prized double-spread. His heart froze for a moment when a modest Eurasian face stared back at him, wearing tiny garments, but relaxed when it wasn't Gwen. When his eyes rolled over the article, however, his breath grew difficult.

"S-secret daughter?!" Ollie's molars ached.

His mind raced. Daughter or no daughter, scandal or otherwise, he had to find the girl as soon as possible. What had the miner said? Red Gulch?

But where in Dwarf Land was "Red Gulch"? Was it where the miners went to smuggle the seasonal ore?

"How can I get there?"

"In there." The prospector pointed to one of those "ye old' shoppes".

Giving his thanks, Ollie pushed into the general store. Inside, a man dozed against the counter, awaking when the door-bell trilled. "Good sir! I am a Magus from Cambridge. I need to get to Red Gulch as soon as possible."

It took the fellow a few seconds to fire up his synapses.

"You and half the village," the shopkeeper snorted. "Don't worry, lad. I've got all the maps you can buy, all certified lodes with Troll Warrens marked and ready for prospecting."

"Which one's for Red Gulch?"

"This one." The man's swimming eyes reminded Ollie of a pair of poached eggs. "Now, that'll be five quid, young prospector! Best of luck!"

Stolen novel; please report.

Ollie handed over 5 LDMs.

The shopkeeper produced a map from under the counter. "Here you go. RG-23, updated last week."

"What about those?" Ollie pointed to the hand-thick stack of maps.

"Oh dear!" the shopkeeper chuckled, one gold tooth glimmering sickly in the lumen-light. "Must have misplaced the Purge maps."

Hanmoul Bronzeborn didn't mind the surface.
The lidless world, with its green vegetables and elongated humanoids, was so much more interesting than the Deep Kingdom's endless crusade against the monsters of the Murk.

But for all its grandeur, the above-ground world possessed foes the Dwarves were ill-equipped to fight. That was why, when after the last Gob died, jade-flesh writhing under the Rockcrushers' grinders, the dazed Dwarves could hardly believe their eyes. It was as though a Dragon had come through the peak, swept through the green-skin horde, then left without demanding tribute.

And that was what worried Bronzeborn more than the horse-dogs that had eaten the Hobs head-first. Among the Iron Born, all acts of valour garnered recognition, translating directly to material rewards. The killing of a Hag, in particular, warranted a mention in the Ancestor Hall's record tablets. It was a rare honour, for scant were Hags that ventured out from the warrens, and rarer was the Dwarf who survived one.

With a heavy heart, Hanmoul saw the battlefield looted and cleared, then ordered his patrol to head for home.

At the council chambers, Hanmoul Bronzeborn made his report to a stunned Iron Command, then steered his shattered engine toward the workshop to be stripped and re-fitted. From the sound of the coolant leak in his cabin, the instrument panel's conduits must be a melted-mess, and the umbilical tether was shot. As for the actuator and the heat exchangers— Bronzeborn could only hope it held on for a few more meters.

"Deep Ancestors!" His foreman and mentor, the honourable Signerlig Bronzeborn, almost dropped his auto-wrench when Bronzeborn's Rock Smasher lumbered came into view. "Wot happened? Did a Black Dragon take a liking to yer Smasha?"

_PSSSHT— Clang!_

Hanmoul dropped the hatch. The pane caught halfway down on a broken sprocket.

"I am lucky to be alive, Siggy. Thank the Deep." The Commandrumm of the Hammer Guard kicked the joint until the metal gave way. "Yer would nae believe what we ran inter…"

After the tall tale was delivered, Signerlig poured the son of Dwomrul a stiff pint of rum brewed from the arse-end of Golden Sugar Ants.

"Go take a rest, Hanmoul." The Senior Engineer shook himself out. "Yer gonna get trouble when that lass comes calling, son. A Debt of Haj-Zül isn't so easily repaid."

"I know, Siggy," Hanmoul growled. "Gwen Song, that's her name. I'll take a strider inter Merthyr Tydfil tomorrow and speak with the Human Magister there, find out ter which Faction the lass belongs."

"Pray its the Greys." Signerlig walked a circle around the Rocksmasher. "Yer don wanna be trafficking with the War Mages. They'd just ask for another schematic, yer ken? Or more Runeswords."

The Commandrumm nodded solemnly. "See yer in a few hours, Siggy, take care of me girl."

"Don't yer worry yer hairy arse, I'll ave 'er fixed reit up."

Hanmoul made a detour on his way to the habitat to make sure there was at least one "Strider Beast" left in the garage. In the glowlight, the silhouette of the vehicle resembled a stumpy pill-bug, resembling the Black Scarabs so commonly found in the Dim.

With a tug, Hanmoul removed the oiled cloth.

He had to admit; the Strider was a beautiful thing. When dormant, the quasi-Golems appeared as though a geometrically shaped boulder. When active, however, the machine possessed a rare grace.

Hanmoul sighed. It was a shame then that the Deepdowners had proclaimed such machines _Vadam,_ "Forbidden". According to the Deepdowners, the surface world held many allures to waylay young Dwarves, and no Engineer, not even a Hammer Guard, was immune to the corrupting seduction of the lidless world.

Naturally, Hanmoul took the warning to mean that the pale-skinned old codgers were neck-deep in mole-droppings. Ever since the Sundering Tide shattered the Underway, the surface had been the only reliable way of communication for the Deep Kingdoms. That was the sole reason, Hanmoul concluded, that the Dimland Dwarves now received recognition at all. To denigrate their cousins bestriding the surface, while also pushing them to interact with the knife-ears and the Humans, was hypocrisy.

Hanmoul lovingly patted the shell of the Strider.

For some reason, his mind lingered on the malignant form of the white-fingered bird wielded by the girl-sorceress.

What a magnificent creature!
Hanmoul felt an unexpected tingle.

What manner of a creature could it be?
The Dim was free of avians.
How was it possible that a flying monstrosity could concurrently exert such mechanical pressure with its digits? Was it a type of Dragon? The Dwarves knew Dragons better than anyone, but Hanmoul had never seen a beast like that. If possible, he would trade a vault's worth of gold to receive a pair of the bird's tendons as test-material.

"By the Deep Ancestors." Hanmoul tapped the Strider's segmented canopy. "I'll ask the lass tomorrow."

CLUNK!

The final crate of HDMs fell into place.

"And this, Gentlemen, is the Mandala for calling on Golos, Princeling of Huangshan." Gwen ran her hand over the three-thousand HDMs she had conjured into place. A safe distance around the Mandala, spread out in a semi-circle, were her observers. Presently, the crowd included Magister Hanford and his team of Tower Mages; Mathias and Elvia, who stood the closest; and gawkers from the town, who came to see if the sorceress really could obliterate the warrens.

Already, the paparazzi were in a frenzy, their lumen-bulbs firing every few seconds. Gwen wasn't sure what Lorenzo said convinced the press to attend, but they did, en masse.

"Evee," Gwen extended a hand to her healer. "Hold my hand. Step into the circle to gain its protection. Gogo can get a little excited, and you're looking a treat."

Having seen the Wyvern on the broadcast, Elvia complied. Besides the Cleric, Mathias stood like an attentive clerk, ready to help.

Gwen then began the complex process of invoking the necessary mystic energies for materialising Golos. She had earlier requested a second audience with Lady Loftus, assuring the Lady that Golos would return after forty-eight hours. The Lady's advice was to leave Gwen to her devices, redressing her new-found freedom with the simple truth that censures resulted from failure.

"Meritocracy" was the watchword of the Mageocracy, the Lady sagely reminded Gwen, assuming peers of comparable standing.

For her show and tell, constructing her Mandala without aid for the first time had been harrowing, especially with a peanut gallery. Thankfully, she had repeated the procedure enough times with Petra and Walken to re-create the summoning circle.

Mid-invocation, the Glyphs sizzled as the Mandala's circuits flared into life. A little prematurely, a blinding bolt of lightning shot from the Mandala in reverse, stabbing into the landscape as though a sabre of light, birthing Golos into the world.

The crowd clapped and wowed.
Lumen-bulbs erupted.
It wasn't every day that low-tier Mages bore witness to a Planar Ally and a Draconic-one at that.

Golos, his sleek body well-defined with sinews, spread his wings and uncoiled his neck. The Wyvern appeared larger than Gwen recalled, indicating that it lived a good life smooching off Ruxin's good fortune.

"SUCH ABUNDANT MANA!" the Wyvern barked, both nostrils flaring. On its crested skull, colourful feathers scintillated with a metallic sheen. "Calamity, what is this place?"

"England," Gwen answered from below. "Gogo, meet my friend Evee."

Golos' prideful visage surveyed the press corps, the prospectors, the low English horizon, then turned his attention downward. "You smell different."

Gwen allowed her Essence to circulate. "How so?"

The Wyvern lowered his head. "You feel… older—"

"— And no longer like your brother?"

Golos turned his head this way and that. The Wyvern drooled. "You smell delicious."

"Hello…" Elvia's voice piped up besides Golos.
"Kiki!"
"Sen!"

"No need to worry your pretty head, Gogo." Striking a pose, Gwen felt relieved that Golos' reaction was puzzlement and not hostility. Part of it may be their Planar Ally contract, but there was also wariness, history and respect. "Essence or no, Ruxin and I are business partners. Our interests run parallel."

The Wyvern sniffed her again. With a tongue as thick as her thigh, he gave her cheek a quick-tongued tap. "Calamity. I can't sense Father on you at all. Did you eat him?"

"There are older beings in this world than Daddy dear." Gwen pooled a bit of Almudj's Essence in her palm. "Care to take a hit?"

"Hello." Elvia raised a hand again. "Lord Golos. I am Elvia Lindholm. Here is Kiki, and this is Sen-sen."

Golos sniffed Gwen's hand, but to her surprise, the Wyvern turned away.

"Tempting, but no. The Essence from another shall not pollute my father's blood. Besides, we are not mates, and if we were, I should be the one to enter—"

"WHOA!" Gwen covered Elvia's ears. "Keep it to yourself, big guy. God knows who speaks Draconic here."

Finally, Golos took notice of the girl in Gwen's arms.

"I thought there was something familiar here." The Wyvern shifted its massive bulk, bringing its clubbed tail to bear. "I know you."

"Evee," Gwen translated. "He says he knows you. Gogo, how come you know Evee?"

Elvia froze. Despite Gwen's assurances, Gogo was one big Thunder Wyvern.

A few meters away, Mathias drew his Spellblade.

"You're the one Ayxin took for the Calamity." Golos chuckled.

"Sen-sen!" The Ginseng on Elvia's shoulders stood, waving its tendrils, it bowed. "Sen!"

"Hoho, a new Master," Golos rumbled, its reptilian slits finally focusing on Elvia. "This tiny mortal, mind giving her to me as an offering?"

"Gogo, don't even joke about that." Gwen slapped the Wyvern on the snout. "Say hi to Evee, she's important."

"She's skinny and unsavoury," Golos grunted. "Why, I could flatten her with one blow, swallow her with half a bite. If she were fatter..."

"I could have Caliban burst out of your gut."

"Insolence!" Golos barked, but it was their usual ego-joust. A moment later, the wyrm sniffed her partner, who stood as stoic as a statue while his muzzle prodded her bosom. "I see. You have claimed this female?"

Gwen paused, then began to smile. "That's right, Golos. Protect her well, and you'll be rewarded."

"Another one?" Golos rocked his giant head. "What happened to the Sword Mage? I like that one better. More bloodlust."

"Lulu's special," Gwen said sweetly. "Why? Did something happen?"

"Ryxi says she's arrived at Huangshan." Golos casually dropped a bomb on Gwen's lap. "He has taken a liking to your female."

"Oh?" Gwen raised both brows. "Ryxi isn't thinking of— you know? Is he? If so, give him a stern warning."

"HA!" Golos snorted. "That pallid, cock-less slug? He couldn't breed with a carp on a chopping board."

"Thank you, Golos, for that fine imagery," Gwen returned drily. "Well, give Lulu my love. I hope she does well in learning the old arts. Flying around on a sword! What will they think of next?"

"Enough talk, I grow bored and hungry." Golos reared to its full height. "What are we killing, THOSE?"

A lumen-blast went off just as Golos craned his neck toward the press gallery.

Surprised by the light, the Wyvern menaced the reporters, sending the townsfolk scattering. Magister Hanford and the other Mages from the Tower erected their shields just in case. Mathias, meanwhile, popped a Radiant barrier, first around Elvia, then himself.

Good, Gwen nodded. Good dog. "Friend, not food, Gogo. Today, we're going after Hags, Trolls and Hobs. You're going to be in the thick of it. I want you to eat as many as you can, really fill up that poop rope of yours. It'll be a bounty for us both, buddy."

"A battle! This pleases me." The Wyvern stretched its wings. "I shall be where the air is thickest."

"Go scout, and watch out for other Dragons," Gwen warned. "There's bound to be a few in England! If one challenges you, come right back."

Grunting, Golos took to the blue.
A few scattered claps escaped the observing crowd.

Gwen stood with both hands on her hips. "Sorry Evee, he's not fully trained yet."

"That's okay." Elvia was sweating enough for the two of them, considering the linen snow that stretched from gulch to hill and that the Shen-teī's regulated temperature, it was an impressive feat.

Gwen waited for the right moment, then returned her attention to the press gallery. Weathering a dozen blasts, she addressed the reporters.

"And that's Golos, perfectly competent and diplomatic to boot," she assured them. "Now, once Gogo checks the gulch. It will be time to make time for my friend Elvia Lindholm."

After five kilometres of Dimension Door paired with Wind Walk, Ollie Edwards had to stop.

Firstly, he was exhausted with spell-fatigue.

Secondly, a Dwarf was asking him for directions.

"Young Human..."

The Dwarf's armour bore the iconography of the Hammer Guard. From his relaxed demeanour, Ollie Edwards could guess that this was one of the Dim Dwarves, accustomed to living in-between "worlds". Presently, his conversation partner sat two meters in the air, held aloft by a many-limbed mechanical vehicle with dozens of skittering, sword-like legs.

"...Am looking fer a sorceress from yer town. A ladette— tall like a knife-ear, dark hair, bald-faced, blue plating, goes by the callsign 'Voracious Eater'. Could yer point a Dwarf in the right direction?"

_A Voracious Eater?_ It took Ollie a moment to catch on that the Dwarf must be running a sub-par Translation Stone. The descriptions weren't exact, but Ollie figured that the Hammer Guard was looking for a beardless "Devourer".

"Are you after Gwen, by any chance?"

"Yer noe the lass?" The Dwarf appeared relieved. "Perfect. I got solemn business with her."

"Troublesome business?"

"Aye, right troublesome."

"Oh…" Ollie's blood ran cold. Was he too late?

"Aye." The Dwarf sighed. "So, yer headed for the sorceress?"

"I am." Ollie nodded. "Are you—"

_BEEP! BEEP!—BEEP!_

A series of whirls and beeps interrupted Ollie's reply.
A billowing gust, punctuated by the great bell-beat of leathery wings, smothered the pair with powdery snow.

"WOT IN THE DEEP KING'S NAME IS THAT?" The Dwarf pointed at a passing silhouette. "A Thunder Dragon?"

Ollie shielded his eyes.

An inconceivably large Wyvern sailed through the sky, casting a magnified shadow over the ivory hills leading down to the Red Gulch. As it passed, the whipping wind in its wake sent up a storm of spiralling sleet. For some reason, Ollie was reminded of the snobs from Trinity who liked to show off in their expensive automobiles.

_GOLOS! The_ name came to Ollie at once. What had Gwen done now? Why was an upper-tier monstrosity hooning about within three hours flight of London?

Ollie's blood turned to ice. Did his junior ask for permission? What if the Wyvern ate someone? What if it ate an NoM— OR— Ollie looked at the Dwarf. What if it ate a Dwarf?

_Please, God, O Mighty and the Merciful,_ Ollie Edwards begged the ancient Nazarene. Let him make it to Gwen Song before something terrible happened.


"It's a Wyvern," Ollie explained. "It belongs to Gwen."

"So, trouble on wings." The Dwarf appeared to check his instruments. "That's one clunking big signature."

"Spawn of a Mythic," the Mage replied drily. "Or so I've heard."

The two stood in silence, each caught in a world of their own, pondering the reality that there existed a young woman who threw Thunder Wyverns at her problems.

"Yer looks like you could use a ride, laddie." The Dwarf brushed the melting snow off his goggles and his beard. With a CLANK, a section of the tessellated plating slid apart, revealing what Ollie could only describe as a passenger seat tall enough for a child, but wide enough for two men. "I'll save yer some mana. Let's see wot yer wee sorceress is up ter."

Feeling fatalistic, Ollie helped himself into the lowered seat.
His only hope was that whatever Gwen was doing, it wouldn't gouge a pound of flesh from Peterhouse. His position as Praelector guaranteed a particular tuition discount, and he had plenty of Elven Glyph-sorcery left to transcribe.

"Thank you." Ollie hugged his knees as the canopy closed, sealing the two as though a twin-yoked egg. "Ollie Edwards, Magus, Peterhouse. I don't have a Tower position yet."

"Hanmoul Bronzeborn, Hammer Guard, Commandrumm." The Dwarf inclined his chin then licked his lips. "Strap in, lad. Gotta mek sure the lass dornt dae us any more un-negotiated favours. Dae ya mind if we gone a wee-bit fast?"

"Faster," Ollie agreed. "Fastest would be better."

The Devouring of Red Gulch began with a bang.

In places where the fabric of the Material Plane and the Elemental Plane of Earth rubbed thin, Elementals like Redcap Snots and Goblins spawned en masse, becoming as common as crystals. When periods of peace breaks out, these dumb and servile fodder-creatures fed the Trolls and the other, older monsters of the under-hill who have long since marked the land as their own.

Comparatively, above the warren, where the snow fell, there was no feature which made the Gulch discernible from the air. Were it not for the miners tearing apart the countryside looking for the raw, iron-bound crystals emerging from the valley, the hollow in the linen landscape would have been impossible to locate.

To navigate the interior of the warrens, Gwen volunteered a hapless, knock-kneed prospector to guide her Invisible Familiar deep into the hollows. Down and down her Kirin went, past the narrow passageways, the byways, the dagger-like stalactites, the milling Gobs and hibernating Trolls, plumbing the deep-dark.

Upon reaching the warren's heart, the girl was delighted to find that the central cathedral served as the artery connecting the den with a more significant system of caves leading back to the peak. Striking while the iron was hot, her eyes came alive with rainbow hues.

"Barbanginy!"

The snow jumped, then seconds later, tendrils of dust billowed from the exits.

Cool as a cucumber, the sorceress resummoned her Kirin before prescribing a dozen more Thundering Shatters, shaking the landscape and collapsing the alternate entries. A minute later, of the twelve entrances, only one remained, the largest and the straightest, perfect for line-based Lightning.

Then began the second act.

With relish, the Void Sorceress called on her twin-Spirited companion from Nightingales. She took pains to point out the girl's Alarune, then introduced the press to "Elvia's" exclusive Draconic Ginseng Spirit "Sen-sen", certified by Golos, the Princeling of Huangshan.

Then, at the epicentre of all attention, the Void sorceress stood with her legs slightly apart, conjuring a great, big swarm of vertigo-inducing lampreys. The observers reeled back, some immediately set to hurling as dizziness swallowed the crowd like a Stinking Cloud. Not far from a nauseated Dominic, a bubbling, boiling, writhing mass spilt from the sorceress's half-formed shield, appearing as though ink oozing from a dark egg.

"Cali! Swarmlings to the walls! Gogo, prioritise eating high-value targets. Ariel, you're on overwatch! Buck! Take care of the Hobs and Trolls when they emerge. Astro, take your boys and hunt down stragglers. Evee, Sen-sen, MORE JUICE!"

"Yes, Gwennie!"
"Kiki!"
"Sen!"
"Shaa shaa!"
"Ee! Ee!"
"Woof! Aroo!"
"These Trolls better taste good..." the Wyvern looked hungry.

The Kirin was resplendent. The Wyvern majestic.
The Void Creature took on the guise of a grotesque albatross with human fingers, while the dogs split between sleek lightning and slick obsidian.

As for herself, in her white-blue cloth-armour, the girl was a general with a self-summoned army. As a student of the arcane histories and a wordsmith, Dominic Lorenzo recalled an old limerick about a Conjurer who went from town to town, first bringing plagues of vermin, then solving said plague:

_Into the street, the Enchanter stepped,_
 _While down below the rats had slept_

_To trill the pipe his lips did wrinkle,_
 _And green and amber his eyes did twinkle,_

_Three thrilling notes the Piper then uttered,_
 _And from the depth a hundred Dwarves muttered;_

_First, the muttering turned to a grumbling;_
 _Then out from below, the rats came tumbling._

_Gob rats, fat rats, grand old codgers,_
 _Elf rats, orc rats, slim young dodgers_

_Dad rats, Mum rats, gay young friskers,_
 _Bouncing pups with pricking whiskers,_

_From alley to alley the Enchanter did blow_
 _And mischief to mischief the swarm did flow!_

Or so the children's tune went. The difference between Gwen and the Piper in the famous fable, Dominic supposed, was that the Piper didn't also possess a Kirin, a Void Beast, and a Wyvern. Gwen's dogs, as well, were extraordinary. The Lightning Hounds had a sleek, reptilian look about them, but were at least dog-like enough to pass off as multi-hued greyhounds. Conversely, the Void dogs were living horrors, possessing more mouth than their torso. The worst was their faceless mien, which split when they panted, revealing rows of glimmering white teeth on purple gums.

Just what was the girl's VMI? Dominic had lost count. Even a Magus had to take a breather after so many manifestations.

"Hey, Dom." One of the lumen-recorder wielding reporters gave him the upward nod. "Thanks for the scoop, I owe you one."

The carnage hadn't even started, and his colleagues were already scribbling away at the weekend edition's future front page. At first, they had been amazed that Dominic knew where "Mycroft's secret daughter" had recused herself. Now, they cared only for the mass-scale Void demonstration. It was terrific that, unlike any other Void Mage under the Tower's roster, Gwen openly displayed her craft without reserve, performing her feats with wholehearted enthusiasm, a far cry from the secretive colleges.

"Gogo, ready?"

Besides the girl, her Wyvern snorted.

"Alright, here it goes— Cloud Kill!"

At the remaining entrance to the cavern, a green, noxious cloud began to develop. Dominic recognised the variant as catalysed by Halite, more commonly known as earth salt, a substance found all over the peak. When mixed into the infamous AoE, the result was an acid cloud that burned the eyes and attacked the respiratory systems of living creatures. Against Rock Trolls, who possessed enormous regeneration and external resistance, there was no better strategy.

In a second, the noxious miasma flooded the cavern's entrance— pushed forward by an unseen current.

"Gogo! Do it!" the girl commanded her Ally.

A whirlwind of air began to flow around the Wyvern, visualised by the swirl of snow now dancing around the creature's head. Dominic raised both brows, at first unsure of what he saw, then realising that the Wyvern was the scion of a Winged Dragon commanding the weather system over China's southern rice bowl.

Stolen novel; please report.

Steadily, as a stream, the acid cloud flowed into the cavern's hidden passageways. Quickly, Dominic asked a fellow reporter for a map of the Warrens. Tracing the entrance and its tunnels with his fingers, he soon perceived the full extent of Gwen's ploy.

"Outrageous!" Dominic audibly mouthed. "She's planning to smoke them out?"

The reporter double-checked the crude print. Topographically, the Red Gulch consisted of a narrow valley with granite cliffs on either side, wind-worn by time, forming a passageway as twisted as a tedious argument. The map itself was born from Prospectors daring death and danger, selling what knowledge they uncovered as consolation for their failures. From the looks of the annotation, the Troll's warrens extended about a hundred meters deep, branching into lairs and vaulted cathedrals. Assuming Gwen could put enough volume into her Cloud Kill, she could blanket the first few hundred meters, more than enough to flush out the Trolls, Hobs and Gobs resting in the dark.

The gathered crowd waited with bated breath, wary of the noxious gases now seeping from the crushed passageways. Then without warning, from the depth, came a crash of indistinct scrambling. Over what seemed like an eternity, the scrambling grew to a grumbling, then to a shuddering rumble. Standing amidst the ice and snow, the Void sorceress began to shake and shiver, her face turning pink with undisguised passion. Having seen her work in Cuzco, Dominic could only assume that her lampreys were at work.

Lumen-recorders flashed; a few emphasising the sorceress, others waiting to see if the girl's ambush would bear fruit. With her striking face and shapely silhouette, the girl's optics reminded Dominic of Alesia.

Their answer arrived a few breaths later.

"GARRRARK!" a bestial wail rocked the gulch. From the cave's depthless maw, a long-limbed Troll, a dozen lampreys hanging off its legs and torso, stumbled into the open, peeved as a pissed badger.

"Chakram!" Dominic noted the girl was neither quick nor particularly apt in her use of Void-based Evocation.

"GARK—" Nonetheless, the dark disc struck true, taking the creature's lower limbs. With a choked cry, it fell into the pool of squirming, all-consuming grease.

The crowd sucked in cold breaths of frigid air. A few of the reporters sent their hovering lumen-recorder forward, risking their precious instruments for the best action shot.

Next, the throat of the cave regurgitated a troop of Redcap Hobs, armoured in bits of scavenged Dwarven gear, smashing at the silken eels crawling between their armour. Behind them, a dozen lumbering outlines could be seen, guarding what could only be the quintessential member of the Troll's matriarchal hierarchy.

By the dozen, the sorcerer's prey lined up, fleeing from the acid cloud, wedged by the encroaching swarm.

"ROAARRR!" Golos introduced the indigenous residents of South Wales to the fury of Huangshan.

"Lightning Bolt!" Gwen and her re-conjured Kirin joined her Wyvern, sending a threesome of sizzling beams into the cave, banishing all shadow as the air turned to plasma. The Hobs melted at once, disappearing like dew in the afternoon sun. The Trolls faired better, their Earthen Cores resisting the livid lightning as the hysterical electricity grounded itself, likely re-directed by the Hag.

"Dol-ilrag ushhuth thuritcarg!" Came a guttural, scarcely female cry from the dark. "Isharuku shrakloomar!"

"Guardian of Faith!" From behind the fulminating sorceress in blue, a golden nimbus rang out from Nightingale's Cleric. A vibrant manifestation of Faith grew to encompass the duo, forming a bell-shaped halo.

The barrier materialised in time to intercept a rain of dark blood stinking of spoiled meat. The Void sorceress reeled, her mind invaded by the Curse, though thankfully, the Faith-charged Guardian was enough to de-curse the malignant energies of the hidden Hag.

"ROAARRR!"
"GARRARK!"
" _Duvenguth guallen_!"

Out came the Troll guards, each one larger than the next, their skin crawling with electrical burns.

But the battle's momentum had only ever belonged to the Void sorceress. All around the cavern's entrance, a dark tide swept up the emerging Trolls, splashing against their stone-caked bodies. Lampreys as thick as Gwen's thighs, engorged from the abundant vitality borrowed from their mistress, sought entry into the Troll's bodies.

Undeterred, the Trolls came on, heedless of the creatures devouring their flesh, hell-bent on breaking the invader of their home in half.

"SHAA!" Caliban seethed at the incoming combatants, opening its wings to intimidate and intercept.

As one, the Hound Pack made their move.

Dominic and the men felt such a thrill as they had only seen in times of total war. As Gwen's creatures closed in, bylines and headlines filling all the tabloids from Liverpool to Brighton blossomed.

Ten minutes from the heart of the action, shielded by a cresting hill, Ollie and Hanmoul disembarked from the Strider. They had decided to move toward the gathered crowd of cheering, shouting, complaining Mages on foot, because one was a wise man and the other was a wise Dwarf, and over yonder was a rather special sorceress.

When the duo crested the saddle, they came face to face with the unbelievable sight of a one-woman mass melee.

Three rings of mortal combat spilled from the entrance to the Red Gulch and its infamous warrens. The outermost ring consisted of stickybeaks, protected by what looked like uniformed Tower Mages keeping the public safe from the ensuing spectacle in the second ring. Now and then, they pushed the wayward Troll back into the fray.

The second ring consisted only of ranged combatants— that of Gwen, protected by a semi-dome shield of midnight-black, flinging Volt Bolts and Lighting Bots like a vengeful goddess, her hair flying this way and that as she commanded the battle below. Not far, a hovering Cleric in plated white, ringed with a golden halo, dispelled each Curse thrown at her companion sorceress, concurrently supplying a viridescent stream of vitality. Behind the eye-catching duo, knee-deep in the dirty, trodden snow, a Knight of St Michael threw up shields and buffs, aiding the two girls as best as he could.

And finally, where the action was thickest, a Wyvern, clad in blue-white lightning, duked it out with an enormous Brutaliser easily the size of a house, beating the creature senseless with its tail while keeping it off-balance with the immense reach of its neck.

Here and there, a scattered troop of armoured Trolls, each carrying clubs, battled a swarm of oily serpents while simultaneously assaulted by a dozen dogs, some Void, and some Lightning, nipping, tearing, and harassing their limbs.

"Deep Ancestor's Cog!" Hanmoul felt his mouth turn dry. "She's Purging a Troll Home? All by her lonesome self? Does the lass have magma fer blood?"

"N-not exactly alone." To Ollie, semantics were important. "There's a Knight of St Michael. Maybe he's in command? Maybe they're doing this to defend the prospecting folk? I am sure there's a perfectly plausible rationale for Gwen to go this far."

"Shaa!" A commotion engendered near the main entrance of the warrens.

A great big bird emerged, its body half wrecked and covered in rot and filth, exposing pulsing organs, missing one wing. With its "head" still fizzling with acidic burns, the bird's faceless neck-stump opened up to reveal a tooth-lined maw, then coughed forth a half-eaten Hag.

To no one's surprise, the Hag instantly usurped its Brutaliser's stowed vitality, turning upright on its decimated body so that it could scramble away on one leg and half an arm. Where it ventured, rot and decay followed, displacing even the lampreys. Amidst shouts from the crowd, it rolled itself into the mass melee, making halfway before the Wyvern, batting aside the Brutaliser, bashed the Hag with one sweep of its mace-tail, sending it face-first into the earth.

"GAAROORL!" The Brutaliser's scarred skin darkened as it frenzied, as conditioned by its flesh-warped existence. In the guise of a certain lumbering green giant with anger-management issues, the creature charged.

"SHAA!" Blocking its path was Gwen's regenerated bird-beast, perched on its elegant finger-claws, equally impressive in power. Answering the challenge, the Brutaliser balled its fist, then tore into the sorceress' avian Familiar, striking it on the head so hard and so fast that a splatter of dark, semi-opaque goo sprayed across the unsullied snow.

However, the grotesque albatross remained wholly undeterred. Even as the Troll's momentum was spent, six elegant fingers wrapped around the giant's arm, then squeezed.

"AWWWRRGH—" The crowed collectively winced.

Had Ollie or Hanmoul ever seen zucchini fettuccini being squeezed through a press, they would have felt better for the analogy. As they had not, the duo now developed a phobia of green pasta.

Once the Brutaliser lost all but one of its limbs, it fell into the ankle-deep pool of writhing, lively eels hankering for its vitality. The blackbird then turned in the manner of a gangly raptor and stalked its way besides the still-living Hag to pin it under one claw.

"Chain Lightning!" The bombardment never stopped.

A dozen exchanges later, the final act played out. A few of the Lightning hounds dissipated in their selfless combat with the Trollish warriors, as did two unlucky Void dogs. Gwen's Wyvern stalked from Troll to Troll, finishing their foe while the Void sorceress starved the swarm, allowing the mass to crawl into the depth to seek out survivors.

_"Sini!!"_ the Wyvern barked at the bird in Draconic. " _Batobot jahus sia svent!_ "

"Shaa!" The bird hissed back. "Shaa! Shaa!"

A standoff ensued until the sorceress intervened, throwing the bird a dozen HDMs. Begrudgingly, the albatross retreated, allowing the Wyvern to disembowel, then swallow the Hag. The Brutaliser soon followed, finding a new home in the lightning-charged furnace of a Thunder Wyvern's belly. It was a fate that drew much solace for Ollie and Hanmoul, for the heat-death of a Thunder Wyvern's digestive systems was preferable to eternal oblivion.

Then, almost as if there had been no battle at all, it was over.

From their overhead vantage, Ollie and Hanmoul felt that the most disturbing aspect of the engagement was that in its conclusion, there were no bodies remaining. It was as though Elves had whisked away all the combatants into the world of the fay, leaving nary a trace to be seen.

"Arrghk, I could use a stiff drink," Hanmnoul confessed.

Ollie Edwards, Praelector, nodded.

Gingerly and with great solemnity, the duo approached the crowd of silent Mages and prospectors listening to Gwen's closing speech.

"Give it six hours to play it safe, and the lampreys should dissipate," the girl explained. "Other than that, I think we're good. I can't say much for new Trolls or Hobs tunnelling in, but for the next few days, there shouldn't even be fungus alive in those warrens. For this boon, you should all thank Elvia here—"

With one hand wrapped around the blonde healer's shoulders, the Void sorceress began a great speech about her friend— a bonafide survivor from Sydney, and how she was the best healer in her class, bar none.

"Why have you taken it onto yourself to perform this dangerous task?" a reporter asked. "You are not claiming the HDMs in the warrens?"

"Not at all," Gwen answered with complete earnestness. "Unless Elvia wants her cut..."

"I can't," the Cleric pipped up. "I can't take the miner's lifeblood."

"Then good for YOU!" Gwen addressed the crowd. "Enjoy the crystals, lads! Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year! What do we say to the Miss?"

Ollie's mind performed a summersault. Did Gwen just say the Cleric was the source of all this commotion? Did Gwen just say she _Purged_ a thousand CCs worth of Trolls for her friend, gratis?

"Hazzah!"
"Hazzah for Miss Lindholm!"

A great tolling of cheers filled the valley, ringing from peak to peak, quaking Ollie's heart and greatly disturbing the troubled mind of Hanmoul Bronzeborn, Commandrumm.


Mathias stared at the chest-high pile of Wyvern dung.

"One-tenth of the final sale if I sift through this for treasure?"

"Yep." Gwen stood a little distance back, one hand holding back Elvia. The stench of digested Troll was a horror unto itself, more to those with fine-tuned senses.

"You expect me, a Knight of St Michael, to dig through—"

"I don't expect anything." Gwen hand-waved the Knight's protest. "But I am offering the opportunity to learn a valuable lesson."

Mathias took a deep breath, then immediately regretted taking said breath.

"No," the Knight declined. "I'll not be made a fool, Miss Song, even if you are Lord Shultz's sister-in-craft. You may humiliate me, but you cannot humiliate my Ordo."

"Suit yourself." Gwen turned to their other two companions, equally transfixed by the sight they had to endure. Elsewhere, Golos rested after surviving the bowel movement, surrounded by the press, who were taking notes and asking the Thunder Wyvern questions about Huangshan. "So, who else is game for the Golos Lottery? You have my personal guarantee that you won't regret it."

"Gwen, this is hardly proper," Ollie Edwards, Praelector, advised his college sister. "You're going to tarnish our reputation."

"In contrary, you'll be pleasantly surprised, I think." Gwen smiled sweetly. "Trust me."

"Ah-ha." Ollie raised a finger. "I would like to contest that point. You did leave me in Cambridge and fly off by yourself."

"Only to save our Dwarven friend here through serendipity and goodwill." Gwen winked at Hanmoul, who waved back sheepishly. "Did you enjoy the show, Mister Bronzebeard? I've a deft hand when it comes to Trolls."

"Bronzeborn." Hanmoul fought back a cough. The girl was very tall, and her bearing was sufficiently intimidating to make him want to step into his Golem plates.

"Apologies, Commandrumm Bronzeborn."

"Please, I am but a humble Engineer," the Dwarf replied nervously. "And aye, that was a terrific show of force, lass, I'll not deny yer that. Ya can call me Hanmoul, by the by. It's not like ye surface-Humans ken the ancestor's histories."

"Right," Gwen agreed. "Nonetheless, I am happy to see our ally unmolested by the uncivilised denizens of the region."

"Yer came at the right time, that's fer sure."

"So, any takers on the pile?"

"Nay lass, I am not for gold diving."

The trio fell silent. Earlier, when Golos evacuated his bowels, Gwen had charged toward the steaming mountain as though the Wyvern had shat HDMs. Now, the outrageous offer she made was turning heads and stiffing lips all around.

"Do you mind if I try?" A hand raised from the crowd of stickybeaks. "I am a Water Mage, so…"

The speaker was a dapper gent in olive trousers, a striped-vest and a salmon shirt. From the recorder hanging from his hip, they could guess that he was a journalist. "Dominic Lorenzo, at your service."

"Oh!" Gwen clapped, her eyes lit up. "You're Dominic! I am so sorry, I had no idea—"

"Quite alright." Dominic joined the circle, taking a picture of the pile. "Dung Diving, eh? It's an old, Welsh custom. I am surprised you know of it. Our Dwarven friend here certainly does."

"Of course, an OLD custom." The sorceress' complexion flushed a little. "Thanks for calling out your colleagues, Dom. I know it cost them a pretty penny to Teleport out here."

"Bah, they're laughing from here to Monday. A fantastic hand you played, by the way. Your performance really is one for the front pages, provided nothing cataclysmic happens between now and final print."

"Thanks." The girl's eyes took in Lorenzo's well-trained figure. "So, you said you wanted to have a go?"

"I did." Lorenzo took another picture. "In exchange, will you give me an exclusive?"

"Are you a reporter yourself, Mister Lorenzo?"

"I am with the Guardian." The man nodded. " Could I get the lot of you standing beside the dung?"

"I don't know about that." Mathias raised both hands.

_Bung!_

"Perfect." Lorenzo de-materialised the lumen-recorder. "Now, let's see if my history lessons have paid off, or if my anthropology professor was full of Dragon dung."

The others, including Gwen, took a long step back from the body of water conjured by the journalist.

"Prestidigitation!" Alesia's ally inexpertly managed his Conjuration-cum-Transmutation. Carefully, the man separated the solids, sending the sludge far away while extracting what could be worthwhile. When he was done, seven cores remained.

Five of the Cores looked like sickly-green ambergris, verified by a helpful Hanmoul as belonging to veteran Troll Warriors. The remaining two were a little more particular. One was shaped like a misshapen mace the size of an infant's head, while the final article was a smooth, kidney-shaped block of blood amber.

"Golos had better not passed a kidney stone," Gwen muttered, studying the larger of the two "Cores".

"Seven Cores!" Ollie was beside himself with shock. "There are SEVEN cores in that pile of—"

Besides the Praelector, Mathias' face grew redder than Lady Rothwell's heirloom beet. What had Gunther's sister said? She would give one-tenth the value of the proceeds to the man who scoops the poop?

"Holy shit! Boy, am I glad old Ducksworth was right on the HDM." Dominic made sure to dispose of the excess excrement discretely. "For the uninitiated, Dung Diving was what the pre-industrial folk used to do. Too weak to hunt or tame Magical Monsters, they followed in the wake of upper-tier creatures. Sometimes, the bottom of a cliff where Dragons lived could turn out to be a mecca of Creature Cores. You've heard of fishermen snagging giant clumps of poo of the shallows, haven't you? Those are the compressed evacuations of Sea Dragons. Break open a good one, and you could change your fortune in a heart-beat."

"I've never heard of such a thing." Ollie was very much impressed. "I shall look into it."

Hanmoul's beard twitched, as did Mathias, who did his best to mask his raging dismay.

"Yes, that's what I was going for." Gwen nodded sagely. "Now, let's check. Dominic, can you do the honours?"

A few of the other reporters approached, drawn by the commotion caused by the chattering group.

"Identify!" Dominic began with the Troll Cores, expertly demonstrating his principle School of Magic. "— and here's where the real lottery begins."

"Mundane."
"Mundane…"
"Mundane—"
"Oh… Oh my, this is in no way mundane."

"A Spirit?" Gwen's eyes lit up with invisible currency signs. "Is it a Spirit? Or a mutated Core? Or—"

"A Spirit!" Dominic tossed the kidney-shaped Core from hand to hand like a hot potato. "Christ! A Blood Core! Who would have thought! You know, Dragons usually drain all Essence from the Cores. Either this was one wilful Hag, or your Wyvern's had a little too much to eat."

"Amazing!" Ollie leaned in closer. "I've never seen such a high-tier Core, not fresh from the beast, anyhow. Dung Diving is amazing!"

The Dwarf appeared contemplative. Hag Cores were definitely _Vadam._

Mathias let loose an audible groan. Feeling his Faith tremble, the Knight opted to go for a walk to cool his head.

"Lucky you," Gwen congratulated the jubilant reporter. "What's it look like?"

"Tier 7 or 8, but this is a Demi-human caster's Core! Its Spirit could provide multiple boons, assuming the right Master could be found."

Gwen instantly looked to Elvia, who furiously shook her head. Obviously, the girl wasn't looking to gain a THIRD Spirit, certainly not one as filled with malevolence as a Hag.

The other reporters closed in, snapping lumen-pics.

"What's it worth?" Gwen appraised the unexpected treasure.

"Oh, I wouldn't sell it for HDMs." The reporter turned the stone over and over in his head. "But I do know who might be very interested. There are favours that money can't buy. Do you trust me to act as your broker, Gwen?"

"Of course— I'll tell you what. Whatever it's worth, I'll peg you a monetary reward to the nearest evaluation. Not an HDM less. Now, let's get a pic to commemorate your windfall!" The sorceress motioned for her present company to gather. Retrieving the Spirit-imbued Core from Dominic, she made them all pose beside Elvia, who was made to hug the huge haul against her chest with a pained expression. Dominic may have washed the Cores, but the steaming stench of Golos' remains lay only a metre away, tenderly reminding the Cleric she wasn't out of the poop just yet.

"Where's Mathias?" Elvia looked around for her Knight.

"He's figuring out how to kick his own arse, I bet. I've never seen someone refusing free HDMs before." Gwen positioned herself between Dominic, Ollie and Hanmoul, with Elvia standing in front of them all. "Everyone— Thanks for coming to the Dung Diving session! Say— EE!"

The lumen-globe flashed.

In Elvia's arms, the Hag-Core scintillated.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Merthyr Tydfil.

The Waterhouse Tavern.

If someone had told Gwen that she would one day sit in front of a bona fide Dwarf in a fantasy inn with actual oaken caskets behind the bar, drinking Dwarf-Rum, she would have asked how many Mojitos they've had.

"I don't much care about yer intent or if ye mean it or nay." Hanmoul eyed the tankard in front of Gwen suspiciously, wondering how the girl was holding her liquor. "But a Bronzeborn will nay renege on a debt, not on yer life."

Gwen drew another cup from the keg.

"Alright, alright, no need to get bristly. I'll take credit for bailing you out of that fiasco on the mount, but not the Gulch— That was done for Evee."

"No matter, yer on land belonging to the Citadel," Hanmoul insisted. "Where the line is drawn, we nae tolerate Trollies, be it the Dim or the lidless plains. Besides, our Kings nae have a defence treaty."

"We don't?" Gwen looked to Ollie, who sat sipping peppermint tea, thankful for the roaring, crackling hearth.

"London has enjoyed a tentative relationship with the gentlefolk of the Red Citadel," Ollie explained for his younger House-sister. "The bitterness from the Beast Tide has yet to recede."

"Well, Humans didn't come ter our aid either." Hanmoul shrugged. "I wouldnae worry, though. Yer surface lubbers hold grudges for a few decades before yer old ones die out. Now a Dwarf, we can hold a grudge fer centuries, sometimes millennia. Me Nan still recalls the time Erik Founderson stole 'er sweet roll oan 'er fiftieth birthday, and that dink's a Forge Chief now."

"I still don't get why you're putting yourself in debt?" Gwen cocked her head. "I would have Purged the Trolls regardless."

"Because those Trollies would have made it into the Dim sooner or later. They were harvesting crystals, same as ye, to power their rituals, fatten up their war reserves. If that Hag and her retinue passed the Dim into the Deep, our Kin would have warred. Who kens how many lives would be lost?"

"That's stretching it a bit far."

"I'll take prevention over than a messy scrum lass, just accept it. Now, what do yer fancy as a reward? Crystals? Precious minerals? A diamond or a dozen? I heard from Ollie that Human ladettes love shiny rocks."

"I said no such thing," Ollie objected. "Sir Hanmoul, I do protest—"

"But I do like shiny rocks." Gwen mulled over the offer. She understood where the Dwarf was coming from, but really, she had no real interest in a monetary reward. With the Hag Core and the other loot, Gwen could arguably add another five to ten thousand HDMs to her war chest. Compared to when she could get ventures running in London, however, these one-time windfalls felt unsatisfying.

"Don't be shy, lass." Hanmoul drained his cup. "The Bronzeborn isn't so poor as to turn down a wee request from a lass."

"Ollie, what do you think?" Gwen thought maybe her Praelector had a better idea.

"Is there something wrong with asking for currency?" Ollie raised a brow. "Gwen, you're going to need crystals for research materials, lab hire, room and board, extra tuition, training arenas, and supplementary quasi-magical foodstuffs. The expenses could be as high as two or three thousand per annum!"

If Elvia was here, the Cleric would have spat out her drink.
Fortunately, the healer was out of action after just two sips of Dwarven rum. Presently, she was resting in Gwen's habitat, guarded by a melancholic, rum-loathing Mathias.

"Naw. I don't have a—" Gwen's tongue searched the cavern of her mouth for a word. "— Let's just say I got enough HDMs."

"A Magic Item then?" Hanmoul offered. "We have some of the best Rune Crafters this side of the Dim."

Gwen shook her head. She wasn't desperate for items either— unless the Dwarves wanted to offer her a Gunther Ring. But a race of Earthen folk without a mutual defence pact with London Tower weren't likely going to have a contract servicing a Contingency Ring. Even if they did, would she want to Contingency into a Dwarf-home?

"Actually." A thought flashed upon her inward-eye. Her mind was full of the scenes from the Mines of Moria. One of her greatest peeves was that none of the films showed a thriving Dwarven city. "Hanmoul, could you take me on a tour of your home town? I've never been to a Demi-human city before, much less a Dwarven one."

Which wasn't true, Elvia later pointed out. What Gwen meant was that she had never been to one that she hadn't razed. Earlier in the Void Sorceress' occupation, she had visited a Water Monkey Den— which she Purged. She had also attended a Merman village— which Caliban ate wholesale. There was also the Troll Temple in Amazonia— yet another city she razed to the last block of lichen-covered stones. And of course, there was Shenyang.

Hanmoul appeared hesitant.

"Gwen, you can't just demand to waltz into a sovereign territory!" Ollie hissed beside her. "You're going to cause a diplomatic incident!"

"I see. I am sorry I asked," Gwen retracted her offer.

"Nae." Hanmoul scratched his bushy beard. "Too late now, lass— Yer asked, and it shall be done. Give me a few days, mebbe a week to clear the request with the council. Them Deepdowners are gonnae to be right pissed."

"It's fine, really." Gwen shook her head vigorously. "It was a stupid whim."

This time, it was Hanmoul who raised his hand. "Its fine, lass. I don't know if ye'd be seeing the Forge, but ye can visit me Clan's compound, at least. Are yer sure that's all ya want, lass? Yer Human leaders are bound to ask for Dwarven Tech. They usually do."

"Ollie?"

Ollie Edwards looked from Gwen to the Dwarven friend he'd made on the way. How was he supposed to know the answer? Was he a Tower Magister? He was responsible for Gwen not making a laughingstock of herself, not for Spellcraft espionage in a Dwarven under-city. "I don't know. Mayhap we should consult the House Matron."

"Then it's settled. Don't worry, lass. You'll not leave uncompensated! I'll have the Quarter Master dredge up some pressies." Hanmoul raised his stein.

"Cheers to you, Master Bronzeborn." The two clashed tankards. "When next we drink in a Dwarven tavern, I'll be sure to supply some of the best rice wine in the Human world. May the best drinker remain upright!"

"Ha!" Hanmoul laughed. "That's a boast I like!"

Gwen felt aflutter with excitement. A Dwarven city! What would it be like? A giant forge? An enormous tunnel-based city-state? Or perhaps, a cavernous cathedral as far as the eye could see, glowing with magma.

"Say." Gwen glanced at the tavern's low ceiling, thinking of her dearest, sweetest companion. "Do you think I could bring a plus-one?"

Across from her, Ollie appeared taken back. His face flushed from his pointed nose to his tapered years. "I— I don't know what to say, Gwen. It's an honour…"

The next morning, Gwen, Ollie, Elvia, and Mathias packed for London.

Last night, Commandrum Hanmoul— satisfied that a resolution had been reached, had retreated back to the Red Citadel in a blur, crashing through the snow in his pill-bug Strider.

Likewise, Dominic Lorenzo had left with the rest of the reporters, saying he would be in touch and that he would contact Gwen when he received news from a potential buyer. The reward, Dominic reiterated, wasn't necessary, and that she should keep the money for her tuition.

When the time came to leave, another complication ensued. Of the foursome, Gwen rocked an unlimited flight licence; Mathias possessed a conditional one, and their two non-combatant companions were land-bound. Though Gwen flexibly believed that flying in the wilderness was a case of "What does it matter if you shit in the woods if there's no one to see it..." Mathias and Ollie were sticklers when it came to rules.

Thankfully, as the heroine of Merthyr Tydfil, Gwen had no trouble commissioning a team of prospectors to conjure up an eight AM ride out of town down to Newport, connected by barge to Bristol. There, they could ride the local ISTC to Cambridge, then back to London and Nightingale's.

Once the truck arrived, Magister Hanford offered a warm farewell to the Void Sorceress, as well as his contact Glyph. "I'd like to say call me if there's anything you need, but it's truer to say I would be calling on you."

"Anytime, Magister." Gwen received the contact Glyph with her Device. "I welcome your guidance."

"I'll let the boys know what I've seen here." Hanford put forth the most sincere face he could manage. "The Militant Faction could use someone headstrong and qualm-free: a Combat Mage on the warpath! I've no doubt someone may be in contact very soon."

"Ha!" Gwen hid her awkwardness. She hadn't known the Magister belonged to the one Faction with whom she had not brokered a formal relationship. "Thank you, Magister, I look forward to it."

Later, her buttocks bouncing on the back of the cargo lorry, Gwen asked Elvia what they could do in London, as a pair.

"Perhaps Miss Lindholm could attend milady Astor's Christmas Mass?" Mathias reminded his charge. "I am sure Miss Emily is attending, as well."

"Oh, yes!" Elvia lit up. "Gwen, we can go together! Cliveden is absolutely astounding! It's the biggest house I have ever seen! Bigger than a town!"

"I do love a good Estate," Gwen cooed. "What else is good? In London proper, I mean."

"I recommend Hyde Park." Ollie piped up. "There are several places where our nation's leaders gave speeches to the public. Including the Speaker's Corner, where NoMs can debate Mages and vice-versa without fear. It's one of the specialities of London's intellectual circle. After a pleasant chat, you could take a picnic, or row a boat across the lake."

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Gwen gushed.

"Then there's Westminster. If you're interested, winter break is as a good time as any to see the Lords and Ladies of the Mageocracy attending ceremonies and Masses. Likewise, the Cathedral still holds mass every weekend, and the Queen's Mass will be taking place there on the twenty-fourth."

"Excellent idea! May I ask where the shopping's at?" Gwen inquired of the two boys. "You know, for shoes and dresses of the magical variety?"

"I wouldn't know." Ollie inadvertently looked his House-sister up and down. Presently, the sorceress wore a skirt, stockings and a sheer blouse. Comparatively, Ollie was bundled up to the neck, Mathias wore his winter uniform, and Elvia had on a coat and scarf. "Do you not have sufficient attire? The university offers an assortment of humble, semi-formal wear, hand-made by the NoMs who live in the nearby villages. You can get them glamoured in town."

"I think Gwen means a place like Shoreditch— or Harrolds," Elvia interceded. "Emily frequents the shops there. There, you can find luxury goods, trinket crafters, Enchanter-weavers, and so on."

"That's the ticket." Gwen gave her friend a thumbs up. "We'll go and drop some crystals."

"You could visit a museum…" Mathias advised with a measured tone. "Something sufficiently patriotic, of course. There's the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square for the arts, the Royal Natural History Museum with its collection of preserved Magical Beasts, or the Britannic Spellcraft Museum for a history of the arts. My favourite is the War Memorial at Lamberth detailing the exploits of the Mageocracy's greatest Magisters since colonisation began. There's an entry on Lord Gunther..."

"Is there a Globe Theatre?" Gwen asked suddenly, interrupting the droning Mathias. "Shakespeare, you know? William Shakespeare? To be, or not to be?"

"Who?" Mathias cocked his head, being new to Gwenisms. "Is he an Illusionist?"

"Romeo and Juliet?"

The trio looked from each other to one another.

Gwen's lips turned in disappointment.

"Are there stage shows in London? Like, you know— theatre. Guys and Dolls acting out plays, singing and dancing?"

Mathias laughed. "Why? Do you not have them in Sydney? Or Shanghai?"

"Well." Gwen felt her heart sink. Where the hell did Baron Andrew Lloyd Webber go? The genius showman had better not died on the front lines. "Are there theatres or not?"

"Sure." Mathias nodded. "The larger ones are located here and there around Trafalgar Square, mostly playing musicals, operas, Epics and so on. The Perils of Odysseus has been playing for years now, without waning in popularity."

"Oh, thank God." Gwen breathed out. "And do any of these shows involve a pair of star-crossed lovers whose misadventure doth overthrow their parent's strife through a passage of fatal love?"

"That sounds amazing." Elvia's eyes blinked with anticipation. "Which story is this?"

"Don't worry. It's a fancy, nothing more…" Gwen puckered her lips, her mind a tapestry of possibilities, stitched with guilt and dread. "What do folk do for fun around here?"

"I train, mostly," Mathias confessed. "I'll admit— once, I saw a picture show for NoMs. It was about the Falklands Expedition. One of my Seniors saw it while stationed in Gibraltar and wouldn't stop talking about it. The plot involved a medical officer who, tired of the endless conflict, treated both Human and Elvish combatants, eventually bringing about a ceasefire and a treaty."

"I saw that one too," Ollie replied excitedly. "Magus Caine was excellent as Cleric Commander Simon Lambert. Miss Collins made an excellent Matron Roseville as well."

"She was much more beautiful than the real Magus Roseville…"

"Mattie, don't let the Magus hear that," Elvia chided Mathias. "I see the Matron around at GOS sometimes."

"Hahaha…"

"Have you seen 'The Risen Sun' Mathias?"

"I am not a fan of the pictures, just the fighting ones. 'The Last Knight', for example..."

Gwen turned away from the others to regard the disappearing path behind the lorry. In this parallel, magical world, some things survived, others were extinguished. There was a Ray Bradbury time-travelling spiel somewhere, but even so, the loss of the arts to such a degree made her heart sore. In her old world, the politicians often said that there's no "harm" done in not wanting to fund the liberal arts. The artists, of course, protested that defunding the arts deprived the people of vicarious compassion— an act that included all conceivable "harm".

Was the casual cruelty of the Mage world the result of a constant, existential threat of extinction? Or was it class apathy and the lack of progressive education? In a world where all human potential steered toward survival, then expansion, what energy remained to plumb the depth of the human soul? Was the lack of literature why in the Mages' society, there existed so little empathy for the NoMs?

If so, what was there to be done?
And how did she stand to profit?