The idea of "free newspapers" wasn't original.

In Germany, at the turn of the twentieth century, an entrepreneur named Charles Cullmann attempted the nouveau business model with minimal success.

Unable to compete with the prevalence of yellow journalism in unregulated tabloids, it took until the 1950s for San Francisco to see its first sustainable free newspaper, and the early 2000s for the emergence of Metro, a Swedish model from Luxembourg that focused on public-transit distributions.

What Gwen could see in London, therefore, was a massive market gap for an essential information service— 'free' transit rags for the tube, the bus, the country-link, and the waiting lobby of the ISTCs.

When Gwen had visited old-world London, she had ignored the red-top tabloids sold by News Corp and friends. But she had picked up copies of the Metro, left here and there and given to her at every exit, sometimes by panhandlers looking for coins. Though she had never studied journalism, the business model by which a "successful" "free paper" operated was well-known to her profession.

The essential issue was that journalists weren't business consultants. What the early wordsmiths had fumbled was targeting the right demographic. If in the epoch of mobile entertainment, rags like the Metro remained profitable, then it was self-evident that a world where folk happily bought newspapers, there was an unsaturated market. What's more, unlike her predecessors' wrangling of the counter-intuitive free-distribution model, her "Metro" would be spared the cost of trial and error.

To start, she could release a bi-weekly edition while the new editorial office collected talented writers. The sections needn't be lengthy, exclusive, or comprehensive. A few articles would be all: the national news, the international press, gossip columns, sports and entertainment, an adventure's column. The psychology of need-to-know was human nature.

Beyond the mundane, she would curate the paper's main feature— content "for" and "of" the millions of NoMs milling about London, holding up the city's infrastructure. Content like baking recipes with grandmotherly sob stories, chicken soup for the soul. That and human interest anecdotes, life in the day of who's who. The occasional tale of woe and success, the Mage "commoner" and the NoM who rose to prominence. A small section entitled "Weird" or "Humour of the Day", where editors rated memes of obscenely-shaped vegetables.

And of course, an "Ask Evee" segment, where folk could post in questions about whatever, replied to by Elvia's ghost-writers, or herself, if she's inclined.

The exchange, as it were, would give Mages insight into the multi-dimensional lives of NoMs. Meanwhile, the NoMs could freely read the exploits, dangers, and wonder of the Mage's world straight from the horse's mouth.

And— Gwen grinned. She had at minimum a hundred serials in her head. Assuming she could find a good NoM writer to act the revenant for her plagiarised authors, the "Fiction" section should keep eyeballs firmly glued to each edition.

She even had a potential partner in mind— Dominic Lorenzo.

If the man was as good a journalist as his peers reported him to be, would Alesia's old war bud choose to switch roles from frontline journo to editor-in-chief? Oi, Dom— care to run an influential paper? She would ask him. One with above market-pay and a ten per cent stake for a five-year contract, with a second share-offer if circulation metrics met certain thresholds?

Gwen wetted her lips, drawing strange looks from her companions.

She was getting ahead of herself. For now, she needed to inspect the condition of the printing press.

"Holy hell, what in the Wildlands is this?"

Gwen wondered whether she had wandered into the innards of a steampunk dystopia.

Once the daylight globes burned bright, the abandonment of the "Halifax" Printing Press revealed itself.

"This thing is a monster!" Ollie marvelled at the mechanisms— a thousand, perhaps ten-thousand times more complicated than a mid-tier strategic Mandala. "What Machinist could tame something like this?"

Gwen agreed. Even in her old world, machinists were a dying breed. Outside of the underlying semantics, Gwen knew little to nothing about manufacturing. As far as marketing was concerned, once a recommendation was made; things happened, then products materialised. What happened in Shenzhen, China; stayed in Shenzhen, China.

What the trio was looking at— ignoring a collapsed section of the conveyor system, was what Wally dubbed a "Koenig & Sconebolt MK IV".

From gate to gate, the warehouse was enormous, a stadium unto itself. Even so, it was choked from cargo gate to delivery bay with bits of protruding blue metal.

"The core components came from Würzburg, Bavaria— north of Munich and east of Frankfurt," the keeper of the isle explained with some difficulty. "Dwarven artifice, I am lead to believe. This one was built about thirty years ago. It's been repaired now and then, of course. Expanded too, but alas…"

Her groundskeeper lacked the jargon, and Gwen lacked the know-how. With her limited intuition, Gwen did her best to comprehend the mechanisms by confining her attention to just one section of the press.

From the eastern quadrant, she could see small Golem-suits previously used to move large rolls of paper. Most of the Golems currently sat half-rusted beside piles of mouldy cylinders. Further down, roles of conveyor belts connected drum-feeders— presumably where the paper rolls could be attached— feeding a foursome of three-storey tall towers.

"These are the presses?" Gwen drifted closer.

Despite the disuse, she could smell the viscous ink, pungent and distinct, assailing her nostrils. She had once heard that fresh newspaper-ink resembled baked bread, though now they affected a sour fetor. There was the stink of machine oil as well, churned to the consistency of tar, as well as opaque lubricants still dripping through fissures and canals. The printing towers themselves were encased in a protective metal shell, still glowing faintly with mana. As for their insides, Gwen didn't dare to look.

"Printing Engines," Wally corrected her, shaking gunk from his gumboots. "The press-making machine requires a Mage to operate, a specialist by trade. It's in another section of the building."

"I see." Gwen followed the presses' inter-connected "ley-lines" until she lost herself in the two-dozen rows of feeders snaking through the warehouse. At its end, she found a mechanism with rusted blades and precisely shaped funnels. Beyond that, more platforms, more swirling conveyers until finally, she saw the light of day at the western sector's bundling bay.

Strangely, this section did not appear nearly so ruined as the eastern quadrant.

Further evidence supporting her observation appeared in the form of ink— buckets of the stuff, still fresh from the smell of it, lying beside a plinking roll-press. The hint of mana, unlike at the primary engines, was still strong. There was Evocation, Conjuration, and a heavy dose of Transmutation and Enchantment; all rolled into one.

"Wally!" she called out to her assistant. "Get over here. I think I've found something."

It took the others almost ten minutes to navigate the innards of the printing press.

Without so much as a grimace, Wally stuck a hand into the rollers and felt its press-plates. "Still wet. Someone's been using this section."

"What is it? A small printing engine?"

Wally growled. "Aye, ma'am, looks like parts clogged together from that mess over yonder. That's OUR spare parts, mind you. The Marchioness is owed debt."

Gwen looked at the rusted, tangled heap that was once a fully functional newspaper press, said to churn out a hundred thousand papers a day. Now, it looked like a machinist's nightmare.

"Locals?"

"We'll see." Wally uncovered a panel. With some hesitation, he punched in a few Glyphs, and the van-sized press churned into life. A roll of almost-exhausted paper began to turn. From the top of the machine-tower, several drums slowly spun, some taking up ink from a plumbed feeder, another glistened with purified water.

A loud hiss, followed by groaning metal turned the cogs, flywheels spun, sparks flew here and there, then the rear of the machine shat out a quart of black oil.

CHONK! CHONK! CHONK!

A pair of teeth at the bottom of the press gnashed. Somewhere to the left, a roll of prints emerged.

Gwen picked up a sheet.

There was a Mandala-looking inscription on the letterhead.

"The Tower of Tandoori," Gwen read. "Serving the finest exotics from the East Indies. Butter Chicken, Tikka Masala, Chicken Biryani. Catering available. Call 20 7237 2247 for a booking. 14 Duchess Walk. Closed Mondays."

Wally smacked his lips.

"I am not sure what I expected," the gruff soldier stated blankly.

"Revolutionary pamphlets?" Ollie remarked, taking one to read himself. "A secret meeting place? Spectre Cabal?"

"Yes, Spectre meets there on Mondays." Gwen stowed a copy in her ring. She now knew where to have lunch.

"Someone's going to pay."

"For using our parts?" Gwen shook her head. "If they can bang this together from that, we need to find them and give them a job."

Wally's face turned indignant, as did Ollie's. "They're burglars!"

"Industrious ones, with skill and innovation," Gwen corrected her groundskeeper. "Put that on your to-do, Wally. Find out who these people are. Tell them they're in no trouble and that they should keep working here. I formally give consent. However, they should refrain from looting the press until I can get someone to come in and have a look. Also, I need an office near here, or in here— but away from the noise."

Wally bowed his head.

"Gwen, you can't be serious about this printing business," Ollie spluttered. "This is such a waste of your time! You're an Omni-Mage, what are you—"

"Ollie— let me stop you there." Gwen waved a hand so that she cut him off mid-sentence. "In time, I shall prove you wrong. Until then, just watch. Don't forget— you're not my keeper. If I require advice, I shall ask for it. If Lady Loftus did not trust in my abilities, she would have sent you to the isle instead."

The Glyph on the wall proved a little excessive for Ollie, whose mouth pursed sulkily. Frustrated, he scratched his head, shedding a few hairs.

"Wally, call the owner of this place. Tell them I have assumed control of the lease-hold. Negotiate a price for all this 'junk'. Emphasise the scrap metal— and say the 'estate' needs its debts repaid. If they're willing, we'll call it even. If not, call me, and I'll explain to the Marchioness just how much she stands to profit. Tell Halifax— tell them the interest is accruing as we speak..."

"But there isn't..."

"There is now."

"I see." Wally swallowed. "I'll not disappoint, ma'am."

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

"Good, get it done. As for the clean-up, you have until mid-January." Gwen materialised a crystal box. "Here's two-thousand HDMs. Keep a record of all your expenditures, and Message me if you need to make extra-large purchases over a thousand HDMs."

"No such need." Wally opened the currency-box. "I shall locate and clear out the old office. I recall it was in the northern quadrant, beside the press-plate storage. The local labourers are inexpensive."

Wally pushed back a thousand HDMs.

Gwen pushed back.

"We'll do a soup kitchen. And free lunch for labourers. Meat, vegetable, all that." Gwen gestured to Elvia. "Put everything under Evee's name."

"What?" Elvia raised both brows. "Gwen, what are you doing? That's your money!"

"Call it an experiment." Gwen conjured another set of 100 HDM currency cards. "Which reminds me. Take these and get a clinic set up in the local town hall. I'll hire a few temps from the Tower. I reckon 'Elvia's Blessed-Heart Foundation' sounds about right. Get her face known, maybe make some iconography. Ollie?"

"Y-yes?"

"You're an illusionist, right?"

"I am."

"Good, I want a big projection of Evee at the soup-kitchen and clinic."

"But—" Elvia protested before Ollie could interject. "Gwen, it's all your money!"

"I can spend my money how I wish." Gwen patted her Evee on the head. "You wanted to help the villagers, right? Are you going to refuse now? The charity will be in 'your' name. I'll be its director and you, its spiritual spokesperson. I can compensate you if you're unwilling—"

"I'll do it!" Elvia's eyes grew bright. "I want to help the villagers!"

"Of course, whatever your heart desires." Gwen's smile grew calculating. "Get Mattie to come as well. Damned Knight's got to earn his keep. My future taxes will be going into his upkeep."

"Alright..." Elvia nodded obediently.

"Good. Wally?"

"It will be done, ma'am." Wally saluted. The housekeeper appeared appreciative of the fact that every command came bundled with HDMs.

Gwen produced her Prestidigitation box and cleaned her hand and soiled boot, likewise running the cantrip over Elvia and the rest.

"What now?" Ollie drew a shuddering breath before replying through petulant lips. "Back to the villages? Feed the poor? Give jobs to the masses? Hug an NoM child?"

"I like your enthusiasm," Gwen said with a smirk. "Let's head back to the Tower. I need to check the estate's CC count and put in requests for healers— after that, let's bring the charitable spirit of Christmas to Millwall and Cubitt."

His fringe had thinned.

Ollie came to that realisation when finally, dead tired, the trio returned to the estate at Mudchute.

Between his thumb and forefinger, he held a few loose strands.

Gwen's hair was black and velvety, so healthy that Ollie oft felt an urge to wrap a fistful around his hand. Elvia's was fair and flaxen, full of Positive Mana. Wally was half-bald and had little to lose, meaning these definitely belonged to him.

Following the horrid printing press, they had walked around the city non-stop. First, they went to London's City Council Chambers, where Gwen spent almost three hours working out how to lodge a new Charity Organisation under her and Elvia's name. Unfamiliar with the city's nefarious bureaucracy, she grew dangerously frustrated until a middle-tier manager, sweating from every pore, materialised to appease the irate War Mage.

After that exhaustive encounter, they returned to The Shard to recruit no less than ten healers to be stationed in the Isle of Dogs for three months, spending 300 of her credits and 300 from the estate's coffers, as well as another thousand HDMs.

In the late afternoon, starving and irate, the trio arrived at the Tower of Tandoori. Gwen ordered Demi-human dishes that smelled and tasted as intense and fiery as they looked, giving Ollie such an upset that he had to circulate mana for hours just to keep his intestines inside his lower body.

When he asked the girl how she faired with the aftermath of this "Vindaloo", the bright-eyed sorceress replied with complete candidness.

"I am used to the heat, to be honest. That and I've got these magical undies—"

"NO!" Ollie held her mouth before quickly removing his hands as though he'd gripped a sizzling branding iron.

Red-faced, he admonished her for discussing drawers in public, shushing his House-sister in the strongest possible terms.

"Never say that in polite company!" he warned her, as Lady Loftus has instructed. "Never! Some topics are taboo! They're unmentionable!"

The girl had laughed in his "prudish" face, which made Ollie's chest sore. He could see in her eyes that she understood, but simply did not care.

Afterwards, following a report from Wally, they returned to the isle to inspect the future address of the temporary clinic.

That was the other thing driving Ollie up the wall.

First, why did she care at all for NoMs? From the way she spoke to them, he could see that her inappropriate social-distancing was genuine. There was no superficiality in the way she talked to the muddy-booted scum dredged up from the thalweg of the Thames. In his eyes, Gwen chummed with the common muck as naturally as she interacted with him! A Magus of Cambridge! What was worse, she had taken the same tone with the Marchioness!

When they had first met, and Gwen had sat beside the Lady of Ely, he had thought her a noble— plausibly, as they whispered in the corridors, a bastard of Ravenport.

Now, he had no idea, for only someone who had spent much of their time among the folk of the street could understand their cockney accents. To Ollie, the damned NoMs sounded like they were clearing their throat or gargling rocks!

And this clinic business, the speed in which it was happening was giving him whiplash. Did the girl have no concept of capital? Or rather, who was supplying her with her seemingly limitless war chest? She hadn't even sold her Creature Cores yet! Between the morning and the evening, some two thousand HDMs had been dispensed into Millwall and Cubitt, enough for a term of Spellcraft training, with lodging!

Without delay, lured by the promise of cold, hard LDMs, men had lined up to clear out an old warehouse while women by the dozen scrubbed the floors. By the mid-afternoon, beside the new "clinic", a small mountain of garbage threatened to tip into the river.

At first, when Gwen used Bilby's Hand to compact the trash, Ollie had thought she was about to throw the lot into the Thames.

Then the girl blasted the trash with Void.

Ollie recalled screaming another "No!"

VOID MAGIC! That rare and priceless resource of the Empire, an element that taxed the body and soul! Every use diminished the caster until they wasted away.

"We can't be polluting the Thames, Ollie old boy." Gwen had furrowed her brows before letting loose another tier 4 Elemental Sphere. The first stage all but consumed the remaining pile; the second stage levelled out the terrain. "Don't wrinkle your face like that. I am good for a dozen of these without too much drama."

The NoMs fell about fainting and vomiting at first— then appeared to adapt with a frightful resilience befitting the verminous multitudes.

In the late afternoon, Mathias Rothwell, a Knight from the Ordo of St Michael, rendezvoused with their party. Ollie had imagined the Knight an ally, but the quiet young man went about enacting the behest of his healer without complaint.

Afterwards, at supper time, all the servants from Mudchute manor descended, using the cleared warehouse as a base, they started a soup kitchen of sorts, serving Spam.

SPAM! Ollie's vindaloo-ravaged innards cramped just thinking about it. Spam and cabbage soup. Spam, egg and rice. Grilled Spam with mustard. Spam in brown sauce. Ollie's innards revolted just thinking of the mysterious Wildland meat.

"Hang in there, Ollie!" Elvia had mopped the sweat from his brows, soothing his tortured soul.

"Evee! More benedictions!" Gwen cracked her whip. "Come get your SPAM and BLESS! Groups of five! Don't rush, plenty to go around! Those who worked get first dibs and a second-serving!"

"Thank yee, missus! Thank yee so much!" There were some two thousand people between Cubitt and Millwall, meaning the manor's staff had to work until midnight. Ollie had thought at first that the NoMs would rush the tables, or swarm Miss Elvia and was going to conjure some illusory deterrents. Gwen, however, was way ahead of him. All around the perimeter, a dozen pony-sized Wolfhounds, best-in-breed, kept the crowd honest. Additionally, her Void snake hissed at rowdy individuals while her Kirin hovered overhead, sniffing the sycophants petitioning the visage of Elvia he had earlier glamoured.

All the while, the stoic Mathias stood guard beside Miss Lindholm, one hand on the pommel of his Spellblade, smiling serenely at the NoMs, glowing faintly with undisguised Radiance.

When finally, all was said and done, Ollie sat in his room, trying to digest the last twelve hours.

The reason for his whiplash, he slowly realised, was that Gwen had made good on all her pledges— that was the cause of his ontological crisis. When he and his fellow Mages debated at Speaker's Corner regarding the malaise of London, it was just that— talk.

Which among them would walk among the destitute?
Who would want to spend Christmas and New Years feeding the poor? Even Ollie, who saw himself as a pillar of propriety, had worked for Saint Vincent's twice in his life. Once when he was a Prefect at Eton, leading by example, and once during his first year at Cambridge.

Comparatively, since the Frontier girl came to London, she had escaped to Wales, obliterated two armies of Trolls, saved a Dwarven Commandrumm, dug out a Hags Core, titillated the tabloids, and now she was bringing alms to the poor? And tomorrow or the day after, a troop of Clerics would arrive to treat the sick of Millwall and Cubitt, gratis. She had even declared compensated employment for those who labour to maintain the township! Sweep its streets! Shovel the mud into the river?!

And Gwen had promised new roads, new buildings, new jobs at the printing press and in construction, all in one speech— all in front of a warm and just-fed audience still buzzing with Elvia's Blessing. She even said that there would be a Magister who would later arrive to oversee the operations and maintain the peace, one who had experience lording over a continental Frontier.

Ollie's temple throbbed.
There was so much to digest that his brain felt like Butter Chicken.

When he closed his eyes, the faces of the smiling folk haunted him. These bright, hopeful mouths, loudly chewing Spam, their lips red as ketchup. Were these NoMs the norm? He wondered. He knew NoMs, of course. They worked at the Tower as janitors and cleaners, semi-invisible in their grey tunics and white hats. Out in the country, he'd seen happy and well-fed NoMs, but these usually worked for a benevolent Lord or Lady on large, expansive estates.

He had never seen NoMs, their clothes grimy with scum, hands grubby with the dockland's ever-present dust, laugh and cry and eat and talk about their families. Was a job sweeping the docks worthy of roof-rattling cheers? Was a position ferrying bricks enough to make a grown man weep?

"They'll soon turn back into their dreary, conniving selves," or so he told Mathias, who humoured him with a nod.

But nothing explained his hair.

He was only twenty-six! The Praelector despaired. There was no pattern-baldness in his bloodline, so it must be something else. A disease? That was impossible, for the ever-attentive Miss Elvia would have known.

What could it be?

Christmas descended, blanketing the estate of Cliveden.

Unlike the Commonwealth-wide Midnight Mass held at Westminster by Primate Archbishop Lorde Wembley, Lucy Astor's gathering served a more earthly purpose— the collection of social currency.

It was because Lucy Waldorf Astor was not like the other Lords and Ladies of the English nobility.

First of all, she was among the wealthiest, which instantly rose her above the ordinary, blue-blood claptrap.

Secondly, she was American by birth.

Thirdly, and perhaps with more complex than most would admit— she's not an Astor, nor a noble.

Which is not to say the upper crust looked down on her. Instead, it was her being a stranger that made her endearing. In days of yore, the Astor family had its roots in old England, holding a traditional seat in Plymouth, Sutton. At the turn of the last century, the English side had dwindled, while the American branch prospered profoundly in the New World. When, after the Beast Tide, no more British Astors remained to inherit the title, the American Astors sent their first son, Waldorf Astor, across the ocean to take care of business.

It was a subversive move, for the famous Waldorf was an infamous alcoholic with a choleric temper to match his bank account. His birth mother perished when he was a boy, and his ambitious step-mother had given birth to a second son with prodigal talent.

Though many of the nobility of London looked down on the young Waldorf, they humoured him for his wealth, a resource sorely needed to rebuild Britain's tattered, post-tide Empire.

And this was where Waldorf's young, charming wife came onto the scene.

Beautiful and possessing a cutting wit, she diffused one crisis after another, tying together a web of patrons. Thanks to her guidance, the Sutton Astors regained its place among the House of Lords. The Chain of Being was restored, and in time, the wonderful and always charming Lady Astor gave birth to an heir— "Bobby".

And for two decades, things were reportedly well.

Until Bobby perished in the Mediterranean, fighting an otherwise mundane battle against the Mermen. If the fight had been better fought, or perhaps if the stakes were higher, Lord Astor might have taken his son's death better— but the fact remained that Bobby died in a foolish mishap. It was unfortunate, but by the time their son's body teleported back into Athens, the Merman's venom had all but turned half his blood into jelly. The Temple of Apollo did what they could, but in the end— a promising young Mage died because he and his team forgot to equip themselves with upper-tier injectors. It was a purposeless death— nihilistic as mud, and all the more unfortunate for Bobby's uncommon blood.

Now heirless, it took five years for Lord Astor to drink himself to an early grave. An impressive feat, considering the Astor's access to medicinal and magical healing. In his final days, Dwarven brew proved too potent for modern magic, even when interwoven with Faith.

Pragmatically, the New York Astors desired to reinstate their claim by having her remarry a nephew or a branch member. Lucy told them they would have to Transmute a ring onto her cold, dead finger. She wasn't afraid of them; with so many entwined interests, the Brits had her back.

Widowed and still grieving the loss of her son, Viscountess Lucy Astor assumed her role as the Heiress of Cliveden. To prove herself, she would replace Waldolf's seat in the House of Lords with another in the House of Commons.

Of all her nest eggs, the GOS Hospital for Children proved her favourite, largely because her husband had sponsored the hospital in Bobby's name. Waldorf's charity had proved sound, for Lucy had gained a position sorely needed to distract her from the unyielding grief.

In a way, her famous parties served the same purpose, especially when paired with politics.

From noon, high tea was served at the grand hall, followed by an endless stream of canapés flowing from three kitchens, servicing the hundreds of guests flooding the concourse. In the chapel, the choir practised with the nuns, while the Bishop of Exeter polished his sermon. Out on the estate, hundreds more strolled through the extensive gardens, engaged in amorous rendezvous in the maze, or fought duels in the gymnasium.

Trailing the room with a train of silvery silk, Lady Astor glided as though mercury slipping through the air, her poise unmatched by the younger upstarts with their pushed-up bosom and smokey eyes. Though she was no longer young, her generosity with crystals had afforded whatever longevity the Wildlands could supply.

"Milady." A maid curtsied beside her mistress, awaiting her pleasure.

"Yes, Lily?"

"Miss Lindholm has arrived," the maid replied.

"She has?" The Lady's smile was genuine. "I am well pleased. Is our little angel alone?"

"No, ma'am. She's brought company."

"Oh?" Lady Astor's ruby-red lips grew rigid. A young man, perhaps? She felt a mote of disappointment. "Who has taken my adorable little cherub under his wing?"

"Gwen Song, milady." The maid lowered her eyes, her voice trembled. "Miss Elvia is with the Devourer of Shenyang."


"Kilroy's ward?" Lucy Astor's mind conjured forth an impressionable mien, a Phantom IV, and an outrageous short summer dress. The Lady of Cliveden had few vices and the gossip column was one of them. "Mycroft's bastard?"

The maid said nothing. An excellent servant did not presume.

"Where's Dickie now?"

"At the Duke's Garden, madam, with Exeter and Landsdowne, dealing in the dark."

Lucy felt the corner of her lips curling. "Why do the men always act like they're a cabal of warlocks? Nonetheless, this ought to be interesting. Where are our pups from the press?"

"Airing themselves among the parterre."

"Corral a pair to the Duke's Garden. And tell Nellie to bring Miss Lindholm to the Garden as well. And our Devourer, naturally."

"Aye, ma'am."

"Do pass on my most sincere courtesy." Lucy Astor's eyes informed her maid that the Lady of Cliveden was in one of her moods. "Let us see how Kilroy's Apprentice performs."

With ambivalence, Mathias followed the girls at a distance, not wanting to be too close to the Devourer of Shenyang, while fearing rebuke should he stray too far from Elvia Lindholm.

Then there was the fact that he was exhausted.

It wasn't the sort of fatigue that came from defending a keep until the eleventh hour against the Mermen tide. It wasn't even the tiredness he felt drilling Spells until he was OoM. It was an exhaustion of the mind, of administering the destitute for two days straight, assuring strangers that Miss Elvia would soon be free to oversee their ailment.

Until midday, Gwen and her conspiracy from Mudchute had busied themselves with the spirit of what she called "A True Christmas Miracle", curing the sickest among the residents of the Isle of Dogs. Naturally, by then, the news had spread, and NoMs from Blackwall to Poplar and Greenwich had come in search of a meal and a heal.

Thankfully, three mid-tier Clerics had arrived from the Tower, taking over some of Elvia's duties. Concurrently, against a backdrop of Elvia's face plastered across the back of the warehouse, the hungry received their Spam and pumpkin soup and black bread. Elsewhere, the ex-foremen of the docks took on their former roles, gathering the abled-bodied to sell them a dream of fairly-compensated labour. For some strange reason, Gwen had made the Praelector from Cambridge conjure up a jolly image of who he could only assume to be Saint Nicholas and to decorate a large, mostly dead tree.

Despite having changed out of their grimy, NoM-molested attires and then teleported from London to Heathrow to Cliveden, Mathias felt stuck in transit. Having spent so much time among NoMs; he now felt repressed by the grandeur of Lady Astor's Estate.

Of the two extremes, which did he prefer? The Knight fought down an impulsive and chaotic thought. To walk among the insects who saw him as an avatar of compassion and charity, or to return to the shadow among the genteel folk?

The Knight of St Michael had no answers, at least not without betraying a deeper part of his Oath.

Ahead, his ward glowed in a corseted silk dress Gwen had produced from her Ring. The train was modest, an arm's length at most, and the flowing fabric enchanted to repel grime and dust. On the dress's front, an intricate jadeite necklace, threaded with silver, marked Elvia's collarbones, sloping the fabric between the gentle swell of the healer's bosoms.

Besides his Cleric, the Devourer of Shenyang herself wore an oriental dress made from moth silk, elegant and contoured, but also skin-hugging and risqué. To cover her otherwise exposed arms and shoulders, the girl wore a sky-blue stole, adding to her natural elegance.

Their Praelector, who had thought he was coming with them, was given orders to return to Peterhouse's Matron.

"I've got Mathias with us." Gwen had glanced at him. "Besides, I am a hoot when it comes to parties."

"I don't know…" Ollie Edwards had made several appeals.

"Ollie, go home." Gwen's voice grew stern. "I am spending Xmas with Evee, just Evee. Is that understood?"

Though the Magus was her superior, the man nodded. Mathias felt a bout of sympathy and compassion, wondering if he had found a fellow sufferer. He was indebted to Gwen due to the events at the Gulch, as well as in the hope that one day, she would put in a word with Lord Shultz.

"Miss Lindholm!"

The callout from a maid stirred Mathias from his mental stupor.

"Nellie!" Elvia tottered forward.

"The Lady is beyond pleased that you could make it." The maid, prim in her penguin two-tone, bowed. "You are cordially invited to the Duke's garden to accompany her ladyship."

Mathias observed the exchange, especially when Elvia re-introduced "Nellie" as one of the three head maids of Cliveden.

The Duke's Garden? The VIP section of the Estate, used only for the entertainment of Lucy Astor's most select friends?

"Miss Nellie," the Knight intruded, mindful of his position. "May I ask why the Duke's Garden? We're perfectly happy to meet her in the central ballroom, or the guest dining inside Cliveden House itself."

"I can't say." Nellie remained bowed. "If you would follow me?"

The trio followed.

It wasn't as though the girls could refuse, not with the head of Cliveden House calling for them explicitly. Even if they didn't know Lady Astor on a personal level, the courtesy had to be repaid.

Although like all the other guards, he would be left out in the cold.

Duke's Garden.

Cliveden.

Of the dozen English gardens surrounding the three hundred-odd acres of Cliveden, the Duke's Garden was the sole original from before the Astor family renovated the home into one of the most extensive estates in Britain.

Walled on all sides by Wildland flower beds, the Garden consisted of an acreage of elevated sandstone, built for privacy and warded from wind, rain and Divination by an elaborate underground Mandala.

To enter, one negotiated the two guards standing outside, each holding the rank of Magus. Other guards patrolled the Garden's exterior, awaiting a call from their masters should the conversation turn sour.

Mycroft Ravenport knew the Lady of Cliveden was up to something the moment two reporters, one from the Telegraph and the other from the Sun Herald, wandered into the Garden's confined spaces.

In truth, the Duke of Norfolk didn't much like Lucy Astor, "American" Heiress, and neither did she like him. They were partners in many ventures; however, he needed her business contacts across the borders, and she, his iron hand in whipping the nobles into line. In his younger days, he would have suggested that the woman's presence tarnished the Chain of Being and the dignity of the nobility. Now, he could only concede that few among the blue-bloods had half the wit as Lady Astor. The obsession with breeding for talent, Mycroft confessed, had brought a terrible toll. Exeter's twin morons, Mycroft shuddered, were evidence of that.

The profitability of Lady Astor also made her a curious being among the Factions. In temperament and politics, he would gladly call her one of his own. Yet, the Lady of Cliveden professed on joining either the Middle Path Faction, or be without one; the latter being what the Factions preferred. To have Astor fiddle with the Middle Faction's complex politics created vast unknowns— while having her as an independent would at least make the woman's profiteering predictable.

Sheepishly, like conjured imps, the reporters slinked among the roses.

Most of the upper class took no notice. Others, like Mycroft, dimmed their presence, wondering if their host was seeking a frontpage shot to entertain her bid for the House of Commons.

Lucy had acumen, Mycroft respected that. If only the woman weren't American. She wasn't a raven-haired prodigy like his late wife but kept well enough to be desirable still for many of their ilks.

Which was why when Lady Astor entered the Garden, gliding across the blue-green lawn like a shimmering bloom, the men turned to bow. Very soon, Lady Astor gathered around her a small swarm of crystal-chasing bumbling nincompoops, much like a nature goddess for fools.

Mycroft himself chose the shadows offered by the Devil's Pothos. There were a time and place for the limelight. Even the role of an officious parliamentarian did not make him anymore noticeable outside Downing Street. He was British-looking, not good-looking, meaning it was easy to glamour the part to suit the occasion— or fade into the fog.

The Duke of Norfolk was just about to smirk when his half-formed smile was forcibly torn from his thin, pale lips.

Emerging from the gate was a vision in pale blue, slender and tall and clad in gossamer from the Ming Dynasty. When the girl moved, her shawl lingered like a scent, turning heads and pausing conversations for the briefest of seconds. Behind Gwen Song came a shorter lass in cold white, emerging as a shocking burst of gold-blonde hair. Elvia Lindholm, Mycroft recalled. She must be the companion Gwen saved in Ystradfellte. The girl's dress suited her youthful body well, accentuating what she did possess, and making what she lacked less memorable.

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As for Gwen Song, with her raven hair swishing at the waist, Mycroft couldn't help but be reminded of another girl-child from long ago, following a Deathless Mage like a bright-eyed kitten.

_Bung! PA!_
Lumen-globes flashed.

Mycroft grew increasingly self-aware of the fact that the eyes in the Garden were now looking for someone— and that someone was him.

Across the Garden's lantern-lit trellises and ancient touchstone walls, two pairs of eyes met across time and space.

Mycroft's nose itched, his attention-dimming obfuscation rarely failed.

The girl's mouth mimed a word.

F—? Father?

Mycroft's scalp crawled.

If the girl dared to say that aloud in public and within the lens of the reporters, Mycroft would have half a mind to reinvigorate the magic he had reportedly left unused for two decades. Such a deluge of Dust would arrive from the heavens that from this day forth, the Duke's Garden would change its chronicle to adhere to Norfolk.

Thankfully, the girl's vivid irises passed like cold water, shifting toward Lady Astor.

The girl smirked.

What is this? Ravenport felt his spell-finger twitch.

Was the girl saying this was a favour? He felt assaulted by absurdity. If so, did she expect him to repay it? Dare the girl try to tease her betters? One capable of ejecting her from the Material Plane itself, damn the consequences?

Elvia wasn't sure if she respected, or feared Lady Astor's fierce affection.

Perhaps only Lucy Astor's maids knew, but the woman had told Elvia more of her life, of Robert and of Wardolf, than was proper for the friendship between the head of a Noble House and a stray girl picked up from the gutters.

Or perhaps, as Gwen had informed her— Elvia precisely presented what the Lady needed. The woman had lost a son and then a husband, and she had to abide by the stiff-upper-lip attitude. If so, why shouldn't a plushie like Elvia become a source of her ladyship's soul-soothing escapism?

Elvia did not believe it of course, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. The Lady of Cliveden was upset, but her outward expression was always one of fairness and unbearable sternness. If Gwen was right, then wasn't she, a young woman with no connections to anyone, the perfect sponge for the Lady's unresolved emotions?

"ELVIAAA!" Lady Astor's thrilling voice called across the courtyard of the floral Garden, stirring the scent. "Come here, young lady."

Her leggy companion fell back, allowing Elvia to lead. The move made Elvia nervous, especially considering the size of her heels and the irregular cobblestones. Without much grace, the Cleric tottered toward Lady Astor until, half a meter from the Lady, she fell into the woman's motherly arms.

"My golden cherub, back at last." The Mistress of Cliveden squeezed Elvia about the shoulders to steady her. "And this must be the intrepid Miss Song."

Besides Elvia, Gwen raised her chin elegantly. Her companion had no trouble navigating anything in heels, striding on stilettos with a natural sense of balance. A little scandalously, the porcelain-wrapped young woman curtsied, showing off as much as she had intended.

"You're rather infamous, Gwen."

"Shenyang was a necessity, ma'am." Gwen raised her chin, finding herself two inches taller than their host. "It was life or Undeath— I chose life."

"Well said." Their hostess clapped. "Elvia has told me much about you. I have also watched ALL of your matches."

"I am flattered." Gwen smiled back. The whole exchange was happening above Elvia's hastily piled curls. "I hope I can live up to both your expectations."

"You have already, Miss MVP of the IIUC." Lady Astor studied Elvia's companion.

"Milady, surely you jest."

Her friend's body tensed with a sudden thrill. "You think far too highly of me."

"I do not think the 'impossible' is something you're known to abide by." Lady Astor's smile was untouched. "I am a sponsor, you should know, for the competition. One of its financiers. I have a direct ley-line to Brussels. As usual, Oxford shall take the cake this year, though I am always happy to see a dark horse."

"I am unworthy." Elvia's friend bowed her head, accepting the reality with a hidden grin and a careful bite of her lips to preserve her makeup.

"That's wonderful, Gwen!" Elvia gushed for her friend's growing fortunes, feeling such happiness that she was on the verge of soaring.

"As repayment, dear," the Lady continued. "What is your relationship to Dickie?"

The nobles around them grew silent. Crystal flutes that had been kissing sultry lips now rested against expectant bosoms.

"Strictly business?" Gwen spoke with such innocence that Elvia had to laugh.

"A bold answer."

"Completely professional of course," Gwen continued. "Without a doubt, the good Duke and I shall share an orbit, whether I desire his company or otherwise, so I'll not fight his advances."

"You tease us, surely!" The Lady was enjoying herself immensely.

One of the paper men raised a hand.

"What's there to tease?" Gwen shrugged, presenting herself so that she seemed to glow. Facing the two men from the press, she made her favourite tea kettle pose. "Observe— Here are my hands, these are my knees— I know the rags want a big strip-tease, but come on, get serious! The Duke and I barely know each other. If anything, we started in the opposite camp."

Lady Astor leaned in closer so that Elvia was squished between the two women. With each cheek against a bit of side-boob, the two women continued their pantomime.

"Yes. From what I know of Sydney... you should be at each other's throats. Poor Henry, he was the best of us."

"He was."

"And Norfolk?"

"Why, what did the Duke do to me?"

"I wonder…"

"Lady Astor," Gwen stated firmly so that all present heard. "I shall state this very clearly. The Duke of Norfolk is a most excellent gentleman. I know none among you who would profess yourself his enemy— come! I dare you to declare yourself here and now—"

The crowd was silently rivetted. It wasn't every day that a Manticore strolled into Rome and gave birth in front of a live audience.

"I see— and therefore I, a young waif from the Frontier, shall not short sell myself. I do not know if any of you call yourself a true friend of the Duke either. BUT I have been instructed by the Duke and can offer one insight. The Duke of Norfolk and I are of the same breed: We have no permanent enemies and no permanent allies, only permanent _interests."_

"Well said!" Lady Astor clapped while the crowd tried to read between the lines. "Well done, I say! I wholly agree!"

Elvia jostled so that she could escape from the two women pressing in, Gwen was tugging on her wrist, but Lady Astor had her shoulders well-arrested.

"Mycroft, come and join us!" Lady Astor announced.

Elvia felt her blood freeze. Was Gwen aware that the Duke of Norfolk was here? Was the most powerful man in Britain watching them the whole time? How terrible it must be to be talking behind a Duke's back! W-would he slap her?

From the darknesses, a sliver of twilight peeled from the shadows.

The Duke of Norfolk. Earl Marshall and the Lord of the College of Arms. The Lord Great Chamberlain who sat beside and below the Sovereign's Orb made his appearance known to Elvia's wide and trembling eyes.

"Milord."
"Your Grace."
"Ser Duc…"

The others made room for their senior-ranked companion.

"Milady Astor has 'goaded' quite the 'tease' from our Devourer of Shenyang." The Lord of Norfolk remarked in a rather unremarkable manner. "Another addition to your collection?"

Elvia tried to study the man as Gwen had, but found Mycroft Ravenport's face utterly unreadable. In her eyes, though the gauntly cheek-boned blue-blood appeared amiable, she still felt intimidated to the marrow.

"You jest." Lady Astor feigned a blush so well that for a moment, Elvia thought her ladyship had materialised a fan. "I am perfectly comfortable here, in my little cottage at Sutton. What would I need to know of the big wide world?"

"For one so professedly impoverished," the Duke remarked coldly. "You know far too much, Lady Astor."

"Its the Lady's business to know," Gwen intervened, her rudeness causing the lesser nobles to flinch. "I know a businesswoman when I see one."

Elvia's glowing blue eyes darted between the trio, lost for words for their meaningless words. How did these people even communicate? They're speaking in tongues!

"Lady Astor." Elvia's friend abruptly revived the conversation. "I trust you because you've looked after Evee like one of your own. May I interest you in a curious business proposal?"

The Duke of Norfolk coughed.

"Go ahead." Lady Astor ignored the Duke's reprimand. "What is it, dear?"

"Elvia is now the head of her very own 'Blessed-Heart Foundation'," Gwen began.

"She is?" Lady Astor appeared surprised, or at least Elvia believed she did. "How exciting! An enterprise of her own!"

"And I am her executor in this venture," Gwen continued. "We've set up at the Isle of Dogs. By the way, I am now the isle's legal administrator and custodian…"

Both Ravenport and Astor raised their chins this time.

"… and I shall, in the next three to four years, develop the docklands into a major commercial and residential region, not to mention, revitalise the lives of the NoMs there."

"The old docklands?" Ravenport sneered. "Fool girl, the Royal Docks are…"

"I've no interest in the Dock's business. I know very well this isn't Nantong," Gwen snapped back. "And this is an offer for Lady Astor. Although, your grace and the lords are all welcome to participate. He and I are, after all, bound..."

Elvia felt shaken when the Duke of Norfolk visibly frowned for the first time.

"… as associates of my late Master, Henry Kilroy."

The crowd around the duo made knowing faces.

"For now, I am cleaning the place up for Elvia. Her Foundation will be a self-sustaining charity, one that should hold some promise. Lady Astor, it would be my greatest pleasure to invite you as a visitor and a future investor."

Ravenport's paper-thin lips formed a barely perceptible line.

"I would love to participate. As they say, the early Roc gets the Wyrm!" Lady Astor clapped. "Isn't that so, Elvia?"

"Gwen's very good at making Crystals," Elvia assured her sponsor. "She's put several thousand into the Foundation already, and cleaned up the two hamlets in a matter of days!"

"Evee means she's done it," Gwen corrected the girl in their midst. "Without Evee, I'd rightly say the folk there would still be wallowing in the muck dredged up from the Thames. We've set up a soup kitchen and a clinic, nothing unusual…"

Gwen again addressed the two reporters lurking in the shadows.

"… you two, a picture of us all together? Remember, this here is Elvia Lindholm, over yonder is the Isle of Dogs! This year, they're finally receiving the spirit of Christmas!"

The reporters appeared hesitant.

Lady Astor smiled her smile.

The men both raised their Lumen Recorders.

"Make sure Elvia isn't left out." The Lady gathered them close so that the Duke of Norfolk couldn't escape. "Say Dragons!"

_BUNG!_

Memory Crystals flared.

"Toying with masses is a dangerous sport," Ravenport muttered as their bodies separated. "They're playthings to you perhaps, but to me, they're the Empire's chief resource."

"Come see for yourself," Gwen muttered back. "I don't need your approval. I've got Lady Grey's."

"Are you asking me to up your ante?"

"Is your present plotting too uninspiring?"

"Don't test me, whelp."

"Don't threaten me, old man."

A cold, scalp-chilling dryness permeated.

Once again, Elvia felt the aura of her companion crush her in their midst.

"Hahahaha…." Lady Astor's thrilling laughter cut in between the two like a knife. "That's enough, you two. You speak as though you are…"

Before Elvia's eyes, Gwen and Mycroft tore themselves apart. Ravenport in his suit of dark fabrics, Gwen in her showy, leggy dress. The Cleric breathed a sigh of relief. She was sure that had the two continued, the Duke's Garden may acquire a new reputation.

_Bung!_ The reflectors fired.

"… the same breed of people, as Gwen had supposed." Lady Astor golf clapped. "Alright, let us go to the chapel. It's almost time for the mass. Then after that, I would love to see Miss Song here demonstrate some of that rare devouring ability."

"You want Gwen to fight?" Elvia's eyes blinked.

"To cement for Gwen a useful reputation, and perform a courtesy for our Lady of Ely." Lucy Astor's lips twisted. "Elvia, Gwen's a fighter. Her ability is a part of who she represents to the Mageocracy. As a direct recipient of your friend's prowess, don't ever shun away from it."

"I— I see." Elvia lowered her chin. She knew Gwen enjoyed the fight, but she did not enjoy the sight of her friend fighting. When she watched the IIUC, every time her friend's Shield was struck, each time Gwen grunted and reeled from the blowback of a Void Spell, her heart was rendered sore. But Lady Astor was right. Gwen's battle ability, much like her acumen for crystals, was a defining part of her identity, as innate as her desire to aid the needy, no matter how impoverished.

"Time to start the main course." Gwen pivoted her heel so that her dress briefly billowed, causing Elvia's thoughts to go blank. "And after that, dessert."


Christmas Mass was as magical as Gwen had anticipated, involving four rows of adolescent girls in white, each carrying Globes of Illumination, filling the sandstone cathedral with heavenly voices. The head girl, an elfin blonde, wore six illuminating Ioun Stones, appearing haloed with radiance.

The service opened with popular hymns, then a rousing speech by the Bishop of Exeter on the nature of giving in the spirit of the Nazarene. Choir favourites followed, mostly in English, a few in Latin, followed by Lady Astor's well-wishes to the attendees. At the service's conclusion, a basket came and went for donations to the poor. Gwen filled in Elvia's and Mathias' tithe, not wanting the penniless duo to lose face, as her Chinese cousins would say.

The Duke of Norfolk, Gwen noticed, had no time for something as trivial as charity and carols, having gone his merry way as soon as the garden's business concluded. With the sourpuss gone, she could relax and enjoy the spectacle of Christmas at Cliveden.

Post sermon, a Faith-laced Blessing from the Bishop warded the crowd from illness and disease and dispelled the British winter. After the final "Amen!" was delivered, the guests exited the private cathedral. Following the night's activities, they gathered outside the Duelling Pavilion, where servitor Mages had engendered an early spring.

From what Gwen could see, Cliveden ran a proper setup, with underground barrier generators hooked up to the estate's ley-lines. The terrain modifying Transmutation slabs also appeared more complex than the ones she had seen in Rosebay. Overhead, the shimmering Walls of Force extended upward well over fifty meters.

"So, do you think I'll be duelling folk or eating monsters?" Gwen queried her companions. Unlike her previous locales, Lady Astor's well-dressed guests meandered, all the while attended by the staff. Rather than a gladiatorial pit, the hedge garden made the arena akin to a rich man's menagerie, where the contestants were the exotics on display. "Or eating fo—"

"MAGICAL Beasts, I would imagine," Mathias interrupted from behind Elvia, now serving the pair as their chaperone. There was a maid-attendant as well, though the smiling, middle-aged woman said nothing and simply allowed the trio to wander.

"Mattie, stay here with Evee while I scope the joint," Gwen reassured her friend, then stalked her way down to the lawn. The Knight should know what to do if someone 'handsy' showed up— to shield Evees from undesired attention was the modus operandi of a Knight Protector.

As for herself, Gwen knew her luck with parties. If she could get away without at least one Lightning-fried challenger, she would be doing well.

Currently, the duelling arena was occupied.

Inside, a bloke in his mid-twenties, an Air Evoker-Transmuter by the looks of his mana signature, squared off against an Owl Bear. With her enhanced vision, Gwen could see that this was no ordinary Magical Monster, but a rarer variant. Its feathers, for one, were warding off the Mage's endless stream of bolts with ease, glimmering a dark-shade of turquoise as they resisted the Mage's magic.

"SCREEEEEE!"

A jet blast of concentrated, icy air just missed the duelling Mage, clipping his mana shield.

An Owl Bear! Using spells! Gwen baulked. Even the monsters in Britain were in a different league.

"Hammer Press!" The young Mage's AoE was a muffled gong reverberating across the battlefield, compressing the air in a broad circumference to paralyse the monster. "Beast! Submit!"

"SCAWWWWL!" The Owl Bear forcibly escaped the grinding plates of pure force conjured by the Evoker. In its wake, the bear left behind fistfuls of bloody feathers and great gouges of dirt where its powerful claws propelled its body.

"Thomas! Give it up!" Other spectators, which Gwen could only presume to be Thomas' mates, hollered at the challenger. "You've bitten off more than you can chew!"

"Shut up, Poins!" Thomas pirouetted mid-air, dodging a blast of pointed feathers and another jet of blue-green rime. "Missile Swarm!"

Gwen whistled.
The spell wasn't overpowering, but it was the definition of finesse. As though shedding feathers from an invisible wing, some two dozen Magic Missiles, self-seeking and brimming with mana, peeled from Thomas' shield even as he continued to duck and dodge.

It was too bad, then, that the variant Owl Bear's feather-plated coat proved resistant to his spells. In a dogfight, Gwen had no doubt; the man was an exceptional opponent. Against an ice-based tanker, the battle was woefully matched.

"Hoo-Hoo!" The Owl Bear raised a fluffy, feathered paw. A flood of viridescence burst forth from its chest, flooding its bulky frame with emerald motes of glowing energy.

"H-healing Renewal?" Gwen recognised the effect. She had seen Mayuree use the low-tier Clerical heal when her mana was low. It was a slow and gradual restoration, unlike the bone-itching, flesh-warping harshness of Cure Wounds.

On the Owl Bear, however, the impact was immediate. Visibly, its feathers grew back, broken flesh knitted as though new; the monster even appeared to grow an inch.

"Too bad, Tom!" Thomas' friends burst into laughter.

"Bah! Dimension Door!" More so discouraged than defeated, Thomas exited the duelling arena.

A round of polite applause resounded, then fell to silence as Cliveden's hostess arrived with her entourage. Across the blue lawn, Lucy Astor locked eyes with her guest.

"Gwen— care to try?" Gwen's host succeeded at redirecting attention toward her proclaimed guest of honour.

"Against that?" Gwen fired back a smirk, trying to guess whether her hostess was serious about wanting to see her deploy the infamous devouring, as was seen on TV. "Your ladyship, this Owl Bear has seen fairer days, I fear. It would hardly be a fair fight."

A clamouring round of ambivalent murmurs rang through the court.

"Arrogant simp..." Gwen sometimes regretted having such sharp ears.

In the next moment, a hint of colour touched her cheeks. It would appear her feign modesty wasn't as well-received as she had thought. Should she change gears then? Tone up the arrogance and entitlement?

"You there— !"

It was too late; her miscalculation had attracted the attention of the duelist and his friends.

"— might you demonstrate your superior skills then?" Thomas landed not far from her, slowing from a full descent to a casual stroll. Closer, perhaps dazzled by her beauty, the man's tone relaxed. "My apologies, you are—?"

"Gwen Song," Gwen nodded. "From Sydney."

"A Frontierswoman?" Thomas raised both brows.

"A Frontierswoman? Ahahaha…." Lady Astor's floated across the lawn like a silver cloud. "Don't let her pretty face fool you, Tom. Who we have here is the Devourer of Shenyang."

Thomas bowed from the waist while a dozen others converged. As always, Lady Astor's presence possessed a palpable gravitational pull.

"Gwen, let me introduce you to our rare guests and your future colleagues."

Gwen curtsied, mindful of her fashion choices. The younger of the men appeared appreciative; the women scandalised, while the older folk hid their reactions.

"You've met Tom," Lady Astor indicated to Thomas the Air Mage. "And this is his brother, Joshua Freemantle. Over yonder is Dylan Downer, heir to Parker. Ah— young Wakerworth! Glad to see you've made it, this is Gwen..."

A dizzying array of names and ranks sprouted from the Lady's lips without missing a syllable.

Gwen shook hands, curtsied, nodded, grinned and smiled until her facial muscles were half-paralysed.

Finally, the Lady's attention alighted on a pair that Gwen had been wary of since the beginning.

"Countess..." the greeting came as one voice.

"Allow me to announce the future Lords of Exeter, Magus Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas, of House Holland."

Gwen curtsied at the twins, both curious and a little alarmed that suddenly, the crowd grew silent. Looking up, she saw that the brothers had the same facial structure, though one sported a frightful head of dusky grey, while the other was a flaming carrot-top.

"The Devourer of Shenyang," Edward mouthed sulkily. "In the flesh."

"She looks better in the flesh," Benedict appended his brother's observation. "You look a treat, my dear."

Lady Astor remained smiling, heedless of the brothers killing the mirth.

Caught flatfooted, Gwen studied the duo before her true feelings boiled over. Everything about the Exeters appeared tailor-made, from their tapered vests, their fingers full of rings, to their shiny, thrice-enchanted Oxfords. Assuming the men weren't putting on a facade, they were walking, talking "Old Boys", the Polo Men, Tom Buchanans, men whose egos superseded their Astral Bodies.

"Interesting choice of dress," the ashen-haired one continued.

"Oriental," the other remarked. "But you don't look oriental."

The "Exeter" folk, Gwen concluded, looking from the brothers to Lady Astor and back. These must be the crowning roosters of the inbred-coop. Their indifference wasn't just toward her— it was toward their host as well.

"Thank you, do you like it?" Gwen was beginning to really miss her Dragon Fear.

The men closed in, caging her with their overt interest.

The skin on her thighs prickled.

Gwen recognised the all too familiar gaze. When had she last suffered such repression? Walking through Forrestville, it had been a daily affair; then there was that incident at Huang's, and after that, Dai at the House of M. The Exeter twins were not studying a fellow student of the arcane, but browsing over an exotic animal, a rare mutant.

Summoning a surge of Essence to circulate her conduits, she met them head-on.

The air grew suddenly thick.

Gwen smiled, showing some teeth.

The men grinned back.

Gradually, the back of her sheer dress grew soaked with sweat. Even without Ollie pouring warnings in her ear, her Divination senses warned her to speak softly and carry a big Caliban. The men's ability to project their aura, not to mention their Spellcraft, was superior.

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"It's a pleasure to meet you all..." Squaring her shoulders and forcing her spine to straighten, Gwen kept her balance. The twins appeared amused by her resilience, Gwen imagined they must be a pair of cats amazed by a mouse squeaking in protest.

"… and Gwen here, of course, is this year's MVP." Lucy Astor touched a hand to Gwen's silken shoulder. "Now, she's going to demonstrate some of that Void Magic for us, aren't you, dear?"

"I shall," Gwen answered with a winsome smile. "Shall I take care of the… Owl?"

"Absolutely. Everyone, let's give our Devourer some space."

The crowd parted.

Instead of jumping into the fray, the Void sorceress paused. If the twins were going to cause her trouble, Gwen mulled, she rather not fight them in a flimsy silk dress.

"Milady, may I change into something more durable?"

"Here and now?" Lucy Astor appeased the crowd at her expense. "I understand you've roughed it against the Beast Tide in South America and the Undead Tide in China, but here in Cliveden…"

Though embarrassed, the reignited laughter softened the mood somewhat.

"Gwen..." Elvia, having reached her side with Mathias, pulled at Gwen's sleeve, her expression indignant and protective. "I'll show you to the change rooms."

"Thanks, Evee." Gwen slipped an arm in her Cleric's elbow nook, glad for the opportunity to be out of sight. Taking solace in Elvia's warmth, she fortified her spirit, then addressed her audience. "Lady Astor, my very merry fellows, I shall return shortly, and I shan't disappoint."

Edward Poins and Benedict Thomas watched with pleasure as their little mouse scampered from the fray.

Of all present at Cliveden, the Exeter twins uniquely felt insulted by the presence of the MVP upstart. From the perspective of blue-veined noblemen, their ire was well-directed.

They too had once been IIUC contestants, both Edward and Benedict were on the winning team of '98, under the banner of Oxford. But the well-bred brothers did not go around gifting themselves titles as gregarious and grotesque as "The Devourer" and the, "Omni-Mage", nor proudly proclaim one's earthen blood as Draconic.

Unlike the mud-blooded Frontierwoman, House Holland's peerage was the stuff of legend and lorel! Their progenitor was the begetter of Kings! Within their veins flowed the purest blood of the Plantagenets!

They were the direct descendants of John Holland, father to Henry Bolingbroke, patriarch to Henry of Monmouth!

Henry the Fifth!
Henry of the golden reign!
Henry, who seeded an empire!
Henry the Undefeated!

Within the potential of the Exeter's bloodline, existed a natural, untaught grandmaster of sword, sorcery and statesmanship.

If only the mewling waif could understand the grandeur of their ancestor!

Did she know, for example, that at the tender age of seventeen, Harry, Prince of Wales, known as "Hal" to his boisterous mates, bewitched the world with his presence at Shrewsbury?

Had the girl been educated, she would have known that the Holland bloodline heralded the first instance in which a Human Mage subjugated an overwhelming Demi-human force!

In single combat, the former Prince of Wales slew the fabled Arthurian Knight Percy Northumberland. Armed with a conjured Black Blade, the future King harvested "Hotspur's" crown of garlands— said to be woven by Elven maidens, to be piked and displayed before the gobsmacked Druidic allies of Owain Glyndŵr.

As for Glyndŵr himself, the young prince had captured, then redeemed the howling caster by wrapping the Arch-Druid's intestines around his life-tree before purifying the heathen in righteous fire.

Could the girl conceive of a bloodline so talented as to subjugate the Elven enclaves of Snowdonia, subdue the Circle Wizards of Edinburgh, and suppress the Dwarves of Ben Macdui?

She should visit the London Musem!

There, the Frontier simpleton could be educated by Lord Scribe Holinshed's Chronicles. She would learn that in Henry's campaign to reunite the English and French throne, he took the Fortress of Harfleur in two weeks with exhausted, outnumbered, and malnourished troops!

Then, without pause, their King miraculously demolished the French retribution on the plains of Agincourt! Theirs was a King of firsts! The first to demonstrate nouveau tactics such as mixing magic and martial mettle. The first to widely employ Circle Wizards, trapping the superior French army in a "Quagmire" while flanking, swift-footed Elven archers made them into pincushions. Once decimated and demoralised, the King's men-at-arms, supported by Dwarven Ironborn, simply moved into the field and hacked the opposition into mincemeat.

Oh, the glory! Would the simp ever know that after Agincourt, Henry roped into service Mermen allies, deployed to route the Genoese mercenaries hired by Emperor Sigismund? That the triumphant, unstoppable Henry took Caen in a week and all of Lower Normandy in another month. That Rouen was promptly besieged, then sacked to feed his growing army— that Henry herded the wasteful mouths of women and children, into the hungry, productive mouths of his Mermen allies?

Sure, the Pontiff may have censured Henry as the "Mad King", but the man still arrived at Paris to forcibly wed Catherine of Valois, the French King's daughter, successfully uniting the Franco-Saxon throne.

Their only regret was that, like a fading comet flaming with all the grace stolen from heaven— on August 1422, Henry the Fifth, the Northern Star of England, died, aged twenty-seven.

The cause was unknown. Henry's celestial fire simply extinguished, as the physicians of antiquity would say. The King's "humours" were no longer in balance, and thus, his Astral Soul could no longer maintain its position in the firmament.

The King was dead! Long live the King! The shadow cast by the young Mage-King was so vast that each scion who hailed from John the Gaunt believed that one day, by anointment, chance, or proper breeding, another celestial Plantagenet would arise.

THEY would be the ones to unite the human world!
THEY would crush the welkin beneath Britannia's ironwood stave!

Such was the position of supremacy from which the twin-sorcerers of Exeter saw their upstart, bushy-tailed sorceress sauntering about the courtyard of yet another upstart, Lady Lucy Astor.

And to flaunt her body so boldly! The brother's nostrils flared. To tease them so outrageously and act the coy waif! So unmannered, uncultured, and uncouth! Why— if she were not a Class VI War Mage, they could just gobble the girl up!

Therefore, without so much as a Telepathy, the duo agreed that the Wildland wildcat, who was a walking affront to the very visage of nobility, must be put in her place. Who did she think she was? What even flowed in her bastard, mongrel blood?

For though the Crown now sat with the House of Windsor, the scions of Gaunt did not perceive themselves diminished. The Windsors are a branch of the Plantagenet, but the Hollands blood ran purer than Mithril.

The future, as far as the patrilineal Plantagenet Houses were concerned, was one of male succession and blessed-blooded intermingling. In their minds, all true Englishmen harkened after the golden age of celestial Henry.

Such was the ineffable order of the Chain of Being!
Such was the Divine Right of House Holland, under whose auspice this "Omni-Mage" usurper must be taught her place!

Gwen returned in her Shen-teī cloth-plates, drawing wows and coos from the crowd as they recognised the visage from the IIUC broadcasts.

Greetings flooded in as other guests arrived for the demonstration, crowding beside the pavilion.

But though the crowd's blood heated up, Gwen's motivation had grown cold.

The Owl Bear— it was meditating.

Even when she teleported in with a thunderous Dimension Door, it remained docile, sitting like a hermit, drawing what mana it could from the tapped ley-lines under Cliveden.

Was this thing intelligent? Gwen felt a bout of doubt; the sort she had wholly abandoned while the IIUC went on and endless battles drowned her better judgement. Now, after a long few months of peace and a few days with Evee, her sanity had rebounded enough to plague her conscience.

Was it because— Gwen cautioned herself; that the Owl Bear looked kind of cute? It did, after all, have the head of a great horned owl, possessing moody, expressive brows. Its body was large, about four meters from claw to crest fully extended, and completely round. The colouring of this variant species was dusky ice near its tail and a fresh turquoise on its wingtips. It was a beautiful creature, and to see such a thing slain for sport made Gwen rebellious to her present purpose.

"Ariel!" She summoned her Kirin, much to the delight of the onlookers.

"Caliban!" Her Void fiend drew both cheers and applause. The crowd continued clapping as Caliban's palpable vertigo aura rippled forth from the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void.

"Ariel, go chat to it," Gwen commanded. "Give it a zap if it's hostile. Cali's got your back."

"EE EE!" Ariel asked for a jolt of Almudj's blessing, and Gwen fluffed her Familiar until it glowed radiant like a rainbow.

The crowd's response was a mixture of envy, desire and wonder. A Kirin was rare enough, but Ariel was as unique a Kirin as the Owl Bear was different from its crazed, Wildland cousins.

"EE! EE?" Ariel hovered a few meters from the Owl Bear. "Ee!"

"Hoo-hoo!"

"Ee—ee?"

"Hoo-hoo—"

Gwen focused on her Empathic Link. With Ariel growing more intelligent by the day, she could discern more complex thoughts. From the character of Ariel's translation, the creature was too demotivated to fight. It was instead resigned to its fate, ready to receive a dignified death.

Furthermore, when Ariel scented the creature. It informed her that the Owl Bear wasn't the creature's original form. Her Familiar could sense that within the Owl Bear's body was a whole other thing with wildly different Essence.

"You've got to be shitting me," Gwen muttered. "That's a Polymorphed being?"

Now she was truly demotivated.

"Shape-shifted— actually." An intrusive Divination spell bloomed beside her ear. "We caught it near Dartmoor, raiding the local villages' winter stores. It's a fun little bugger, ain't it?"

Gwen turned her head slowly to see who was sending her unsolicited Messages and saw that it was one of the twins— the ashen-haired elder of the two.

"Do go on," the speaker urged. "Don't tell me our all-devouring lioness is getting cold feet?"

Here it comes. Gwen bit back a retort. What was his name? Edward-Poins? Or just Edward? Cold feet? Gwen fought off the annoyance. What joy was there in destroying a defenceless creature?

"Lady Astor," she called out with Clarion Call. "This creature appears to be both intelligent and capable of sentimentality, I would prefer to consume something stronger, far more savage, and larger, if at all possible. Anywhere between tier seven to nine is fine."

"Is the Owl Bear not to your liking?" Lady Astor's voice rang out.

"There's no sport in it, ma'am." Gwen had just enough time to wonder what might then happen to the docile Owl Bear when the teleportation Mandala fired up once more.

When the sizzling Conjuration cleared, it wasn't a monster that appeared, but Edward Poins Holland.

"Milord Holland?" Gwen quickly retracted her Familiars in case Caliban desired a snack. She looked to Lady Astor, who said nothing, while all around the arena, the crowd grew intense with anticipation. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Allow me to give you a helping hand," Edward's voice had barely reached Gwen's ears when the man faded away, quite literally, into tendrils of smoke.

"Sir, I don't need your—" Gwen protested.

"SCRAWWWK!" The Owl Bear bolted upright, then slammed into an invisible wall with such force that it almost cracked its beak. A split-second later, bars of smoky, barely tangible force materialised like ethereal fingers, forming a bony, clawed hand in the guise of a cage.

"Oi! You leave that damn Bear alone!" Gwen snapped. "That's my prey…"

"Wrong. It belongs to me, you see," the whispy Mage's smile gave her the shivers. "I caught it, after all, and offered it up as tribute for some fun and games. If our bitch isn't keen on bear-baiting, then I shall play the hound…"

Did that cunt just call her a— Gwen's mind reeled.

"It's defenceless!" She gestured toward the Owl Bear, even now the smoke cage closed in, crushing its body and distorting its thick, plated feathers. Louder and louder the creature screeched, its wailing growing to such a pitch that Gwen could hardly hear herself think. She wanted to slap some sense into this sadistic blue-blood but knew that with Elvia just below her and Lady Astor and Lady Grey anticipating diplomacy, she couldn't afford to offend the man, not over a Monster.

"A mere Force Cage," Edward rematerialised, this time closer. "Come, surely you could counter such a thing."

Listening to the bone-crunching wailing from below, a rush of blood touched her head.

So this was the point. Gwen realised. The fucking bastard was showing her up.

"Or a well-aimed Disintegrate? Hmm? No?"

"I am still a student, milord…"

"We were all young, once. So, NO Obliterate? NO Beam of Annihilation? Surely, a Destruction wouldn't be too much to ask for?"

The Force Cage was now half the size of the Owl Bear, and the creature's pulsing innards were spilling from the gory spectacle. It was dying, but not dead.

"COME ON! Do something! The damn thing's suffering!" The smug face drifted yet closer, almost teasing her while scant laughter broke out across the arena's perimeter. "How about a Dispel? It's tier three Abjuration. Omni-Mage! Show us the goods, put crystal where your mouth is!"

Gwen drifted away from the psychopath.

Below, the Owl Bear breathed its last.
Once its life-force ceased, its shape began to shrink until it resembled a furry Hob, only larger and hairier.

A Bugbear, Gwen recognised the mangled shape from its distinctly crested brow and bat-like ears. A brutal thing, but a thinking, feeling being all the same.

"Good show, Omni-Mage." Edward reached out to pat her shoulder. When Gwen retreated, the man offered her a smile full of teeth. "We'll be seeing you around, Devourer."

Gwen watched the Mage teleport away in a puff of acrid smoke. The scion of House Holland was a Smoke Mage, and from the looks of Force Cage, the man had at least one School of Magic touching tier 7.

"Gwen," Lady Astor's guiding voice was neutral as can be. "Don't mind them. Come back and enjoy the evening. There's more to Cliveden than duels, I assure you."

"Alright." Gwen sighed. Should she have Consumed the Bugbear? Here was a being, clearly with a mind of its own, giving up the fight to preserve its dignity.

As for her performance?

Gwen shook herself out of her stupor. She mustn't let the Holland pricks work up her edge. She was the current IIUC's MVP, right? The ceremony was in January. Why would she worry about a dinner show? It was meaningless violence.

"Gwen, are you alright?" Elvia waited on her as she returned with a dazzling Dimension Door, regretfully packing away a still-hungry Caliban and an upset Ariel.

Lady Astor gave her a measured look that was equal parts "stay away from the Hollands" and "its time to take Elvia and enjoy another part of the garden".

"I am fine, Evee," Gwen relieved her pent up stress on her friend. "Shall we... call it a night?"