With Wen and Brown gone to Cambridge, Gwen conjured the third member of Team Cousin to convene with the duo at the Tower of Tandoori.

Unexpectedly, they were joined by Richard's friend and co-worker, Lucas Spencer.

"We were surveying the isle when you called," their cousin explained when Gwen met them with an arched brow. "Besides, if Pats had questions about London or Cambridge, who's going to answer her? You?"

Gwen granted that this was true, though privately she had hoped that the cousins would have the afternoon to themselves. As she had feared, once Lucas' eyes firmly rested on her cousin's face, the young man was smitten.

"Magus Kuznetsova, please do not hesitate to call upon me if you have errands or questions, academic or otherwise," Lucas ingratiated himself by listing his credentials for Enchantment and Abjuration. Gwen recognised that perhaps, this had been Richard's plan all along. Petra may be gifted and well-trained, but her knowledge possessed gaps when compared to a Cambridge elite. Likewise, Petra having a volunteer concierge for the enormous campus would prevent much grief.

"Was this planned?" she demanded.

Instead of replying, Richard indicated behind her.

"Ahh— Namaste, Magus Song—" A pair of well-wishes sallied forth from the swinging double-doors to the kitchen, revealing a pair of cinnamon-skinned siblings in lungis. "It's good to have you revisit us."

"Hello." Gwen waved back. She knew their faces, just not their names.

"Namaste." Richard bowed his head. "Good to see you too, Burhan, Shab. How's business?"

"Master Huang, Lord Mages." The brothers bowed. "We are well, thanks to your patronage."

"Dick, how do you know the owners?" Gwen asked out of curiosity.

"I am far too fond of curry." Richard serenely smiled. "Since you took me here, I've eaten nothing else while working at the isle. Burhan and Shab are old Londoners, did you know? Far more local than your or I. They're the second-generation owners. Their father hailed from the lost colony of Bengal. It's a common story here."

"Master Huang is too kind." The brothers bowed again. "We owe much of our success to Magus Song—"

"Me? You flatterer." Gwen laughed out loud before composing herself, unpleasantly recalling Le Guevel's disapproving face. She needn't have worried, for the other Mages cared not for her company. The clientele here wasn't like Fenbo Village in Fudan, where the NoMs gawked because she was a foreigner and because she had been on the Lumen-caster.

"If you recall, a month ago, Magus Song, you bought out our entire menu for a day and forced us to close," Burhan explained with care. "It has piqued the curiosity of many a Mage from the Shard. The business blossomed since then."

"Sounds about right. That's Gwen's golden touch alright." Richard thanked the owners, then ordered for the table. "Chicken Tikka Masala, Goan Goat Vindaloo, Rogan Josh, Bombay Aloo and Mushroom Bhaji to share. Triple-portion rice, Gwen here can pack away enough for four."

"Hey!"

The table broke into laughter, breaking the ice.

Some small-talk later, fragrant plates of spice arrived with mango lassis on the house. Gwen took hers saucy and robust, while Richard and Lucas opted for something creamier. Petra, who had never had real curry in her life, looked as though Pyrotechnics were about to shoot from her ears.

Now gastronomically content, the cousins settled down for business.

"Tell me about the Dwarves." Petra laid down her utensils. "How do I talk to them? What are the formal greetings? Should I bring a gift?"

"Dwarves are blokes, basically," Gwen explained. "Master Yossari Vildrenbrandt's their de facto leader, an Alchemist Master I've hired to make special ink, among other things. The two you're after are Thulgig and Danmurim the Glum, both Runesmiths. Nesatin and Doussed are the Golem masters— the rest being untitled Journeymen. Gift wise— booze? I am waiting on shipments of Maotai routed through Yangoon; we'll have to settle for something local. The cost is no object."

"Just as well, did you know Lucas is a self-professed sommelier? His father trades in wine from Bordeaux and Rioja." Richard turned to the dark-headed Englishmen. "Spencer, how about you recommend something?"

"For Dwarves?"

"Sure." Gwen nodded. "Make sure its something flammable."

Lucas pursed his lips in deep thought. "You don't mind human-made Spirits?"

"There are non-human made ones?" Gwen inched closer to the young man, suddenly very interested. Petra appeared equally keen. "Go on."

"Well, not exactly, there's Elven Birch Spirit." Lucas gulped. "Frozen birch-sap from Snowdonia is imported by Pullman and Sons into London, where its distilled into an ice-laced elemental liqueur that goes down like quick-rime. On a hot summer's day, there's nothing like it to keep cool."

"That sounds amazing." Gwen licked her lips. "And…"

Lucas' throat bobbed. "Er… a London Classic would be mana-burn Gin from Plymouth, named so because the Royal Navy never sets sail without a half-year supply of ninety-proof bottles. It's a bit of a rough and tumble, cheap and popular with the dockers."

"So long as it gets the job done." Richard stirred his lassi.

"How about mead?" Lucas said. "It is winter, and a hot cup of overproof, tong-clinging mead can be rightly divine."

"Gwen." Petra nudged her cousin. "You're drooling."

"Erg— I haven't boozed-up since the Red Keep," Gwen moped, licking her lips. "Lucas, where does one get this mead?"

"You know what? We'll take care of it." Richard volunteered as tribute. "You gals just go and have fun with your Dwarves."

Gwen nodded approvingly. Tapping the table, she materialised a stack of HDM-chips. "Two hundred enough?"

Lucas baulked. "Are you trying to buy enough alcohol to set sail for the new world?"

"I don't know about that—" Gwen sighed dreamily. "BUT, we're going to be pounding shots with Dwarves, Spencer. Get enough to make it to the Suez at least."

A few hours out with Team Cousin, Petra already felt fuzzy.

Now removed from the all-enveloping love of her Babulya, she had feared that the Moscow part of her life would resurface. Instead, she had laughed more in this one luncheon than many months under Wen.

It was enough to dispel all of her worries.

As an ex-candidate for a Red Ghost, she was erudite on human appetites. Yet, going to London, leaving Wen, striking out on her own with all the responsibilities, financial and otherwise, remained daunting for a young cadet who had been reared hand-to-mouth by a line of caretakers.

She knew much about the world and yet knew little about the world. It didn't help that Master Popov had been very particular about human hypocrisy, perfectly explaining that people were were-jackals. In his view, human beings are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as one succeed they are yours entirely, offering food, blood, property, life, and children; and when the fortunes turned, so would they.

"Take, for example, Minster Abramchenko's lovely young wife, Viktoria." Her Master once boasted while conditioning her for high society. "She's the kind to talk while enjoying the afterglow. It's uncanny. No amount of liquor can pry her tight little lips, and she's trained to obfuscate Mind Magic, but a good massage…"

Petra recalled being disgusted, but her Master merely shrugged. In their profession, he had said, humanity's appetites were bread and butter. She could be a cynic, but she should never get all sanctimonious like those pontific hypocrites in the Orthodox Sects.

For the same purpose, Master Popov also took her on little practicals to air out her talent.

On those trips, Petra, who spent her childhood in an elite cadet-academy, had felt such a thrill that her head grew full of stars. His job as a Mineral Enchanter aside, Master Popov's covers included being a renowned novelist popular both home and abroad. He was also a distinguished paramour and an infamous socialite, one embroiled in no less than three scandals at a time. When he had dressed her up like a daughter-dolly and told her to play the part, she obeyed, and the two of them had frequented cafes and bars, high-rise penthouses, oligarchs' homes, and one time, even toured the Kremlin.

"You can sense the subtle shifts in pathos if you concentrate," Popov would explain with uncharacteristic patience, a rare occasion for the wandering bohemian. "Focus towards six O'clock. No, don't turn to look. Shape your Detect Thoughts, tell me what they're feeling."

It didn't take Detect Thoughts for Petra, then fifteen, to know what the man was feeling.

"No, no, deeper," Master Popov urged. "Don't skim the surface— keep digging."

"… Shame?" Petra took a moment to digest the quagmire of emotions swarming her brain. "Self-loathing?"

"Correct, now turn around and glare."

Petra turned.

The man drooling over her ripening figure was an old priest with a benevolent mien. He wore a priest's collar, and when Petra's cool-blue eyes met his, the man's defence crumbled.

As to what had happened next, Petra recalled with salience. Master Popov stubbed his cigarette, picked up his mug of booze-laced coffee, then walked across the floor.

"YOU, pervert— how dare you gawk at my daughter?"

The priest blinked, his mind suddenly rioting with fear, so much so that Petra could see her thin legs trembling in resonance. "I am afraid you're mistaken—"

_CRACK!_

In one swift movement, Popov smashed his mug over the old priest' head, causing him to topple from the chair onto the floor. Several patrons instantly moved to confront him— Popov's victim was a priest after all, and the old country had long indulged in the opium of the masses.

"Tower business." Her Master wasn't shy to use the notoriety of Moscow Tower. He gave no shits about his employer's reputation.

Naturally, without even questioning his credentials, the onlookers retreated.

"Was that priest a criminal?" Petra recalled asking her Master in the aftermath. "He was bleeding so much."

"Who knows?" Popov laughed once he'd tipped the waitress and they were on the way to their next location. "But then again, who is truly innocent? Purity merely invites sin, my little devotchka. When you get older, we'll get your hands dirty yet."

"Pats?" an endearing voice called from afar.

Petra blinked away the daydream. "Yes?"

"Are you done?" Gwen eyed her leftover Chicken Tikka, for Petra, the spice was too much. "Sorry, if it's not to your liking."

"I wasn't that hungry, you know, because of the Teleportation." Petra smiled as they exchanged plates. Why was it, the Mind Mage wondered, that something as simple as Gwen eating leftovers made her felt warm and loved?

London.
The Isle of Dogs.

Gwen couldn't wait for Petra to see what her Demi-human employees had accomplished.

In six-days, working day and night, her Dwarves-on-loan had performed three-months worth of labour, demonstrating a stark difference between Dwarven engineering and human artifice.

In her old world, Gwen had marketed residential towers for Lendlease, and so possessed a learned eye for the convolution involved in construction projects. Compared to that, Dwarven methodology, combined with the ability to live-fabricate components with complete precision, made the process streamlined. Beyond doubt, what Walken had praised of the Fabricators was an understatement as to why humanity struggled to replicate Dwarf-tech.

Even if a Human technician could attend the proverbial Deepholm College— he or she would remain an Apprentice for three decades and a Journeyman for five. A professional by humanity's standards matured at an age when a Dwarf was still a trainee— edifying an insurmountable experience-gap.

As for runic magic— Gwen had seen Tuner Nesatin servicing the mantis-Fabricator. Once its bright yellow spine-panels came off, there was a galaxy of gears and pistons, lubricated and empowered with hundreds of micro-Mandalas. As someone who had seen War Golems stripped down to the bare frame, the intricacy between what a Masterclass Tuner had invested a half-century of work into, and a mass-produced MK-III was like comparing a Swatch to a Patek Philippe.

What also amazed her was that the Dwarves had not rushed to build their workshops or their garages, though the cavities for those were ready and in service— instead, the first structure to see completion was the Mead Hall.

A Mead Hall! Gwen was giddy Petra had arrived so serendipitously. Sharing Dwarven mead with Pats was one of her most ardent desires. The whole while she partied in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, she had anticipated the prospect of family and friends participating in her Demi-human discoveries.

Naively, she had first taken the room to be a cosy mess. The conjecture made sense, for the Dwarves had to eat, and Human food was far too exotic for Dwarven stomachs used to Battle Bread, charcoal-meat, Wildland legumes and copious volumes of alcohol.

Then, when she toured one evening to check on the expenditure of materials the Dwarves had demanded, she was instead greeted with the sound of rowdy quaffing. Walken then carefully explained that their guests had unanimously voted for the Mead Hall's construction to be prioritised— and he had signed off on the proposal because it would mean keeping drunk Dwarves outside of London's infamously rowdy pubs.

Once inside, she learned that the Dwarves had brought enough materials from home to stock the bar. Behind the long counter, the Journeymen took turns playing the publican, while their Masters, the Tuners, Runesmiths, and of course Hanmoul's aunt knocked down stein after stein. When she asked about the booze, it was revealed that each of the Master-tier white-beards had Storage Rings full of alcohol stowed away for their outing and that the Alchemist herself planned to construct a distillery at the first opportunity.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Join us fer a pint, lassie!" Yossari, a descendent of Bürumm-Dal Irøngut, invited their host to get smashed. "Hanmoul said yer drank em under the table! Tis a mighty feat if true, lass, let yer aunt see the prowess of the Devourer!"

"Gwen still has accounts to settle."

Much to her executive's delight and horror, she took his advice and refrained from impromptu alcoholism.
Thankfully, the Dwarves weren't offended.
Theirs was a hardy and straightforward life.
The Murk-folk drank hard.
And they were honest and hard-working. As an uncompromising superintendent, Gwen felt inspired by the Dwarve's natural, uncomplaining Protestant work-ethic, not to mention their emotional honesty in airing grievances. In the absence of her extended family, she preferred the Demi-human's company to the companionship of the inhabitants of London.

That's not to say there weren't those with whom she could let down her hair— Lady Grey, perhaps, but she couldn't imagine the Lady quaffing and howling. There was Ollie as well, her Praelector was a dear, but the boy would be laid out like a carcass by the second stein. As for those closest to her, Walken proved a fatherly prude, and she had never seen Richard drunk. Caliban would just eat the stein, Ariel would get the zoomies, and Dede— Dede could not afford to get into more trouble.

As for Elvia— Gwen knew full well that she was drinking to distract herself from that particular problem, and therefore her dearest little Cleric didn't count.

Thankfully, now Petra was here.
Unlike Richard, who kept giving her crass and horrible advice, Petra would listen, and Petra would lend her a sympathetic ear. They were alike, she and Pats, both grew up without the support of parents, both had their Masters perish, and both worked like demons.

Yes. With Petra here, Gwen manically convinced herself, everything would be better again.

Despite Gwen's upsell, the Mead Hall was a modest affair, accomodating three dozen bodies at most. Running parallel to the long table was a long bar about ten metres, behind which were kegs of Dwarven brew, provisioned by the inhabitants, was stacked three-kegs high against the recessions in the wall. An automated cleaning-station had been set up in the middle of the bar, and dozens of steins lined the counter. Unlike the freight shaft leading down past the Thames, the walls of the Mead Hall were textured stone, leaving an overall impression of cosiness. Finally, from the ceiling, a trio of moody lumen-globes glowed, flooding the chamber with a dusky warmth.

Into the hall now stepped two giantesses an arm's length short of the ceiling.

Gwen hailed the Dwarves suffering through a supper of stone bread.

The scene in front of her was unbelievable— but as Master Popov used to say— if you're seeing it and feeling it after running a routine for Illusion, only an idiot would deny objective reality. Why couldn't Gwen recruit Dwarven masters? Her cousin might not use Mind Magic, but she did possess the non-magical equivalents of Charm, Silver Tongue and Suggestion.

From the waist, Petra bowed with sincerity. She had not shown so much respect to anyone other than Master Popov and her dear Babulya. It was a demonstration of her awe, her happiness, and her ardent desire to excavate what was buried in the heads of these Dwarves.

"Hey ya, fellers! Yossari! Let me introduce a member of my family, this is Petra, is she not pretty?" Gwen walked past her arched figure without hesitation. "For your information, she's studying magic from your race, and she's a huge fan of Dwarven Runes."

The Dwarves hailed with their mugs.

Her sorcerous cousin strutted toward those august figures seated around the table, walked around the bar, then hefted a keg onto the table. "As promised, I'll be joining you today. Pats, what'll it be?"

"Ur lurlom monleg kjanr etta torjof?" One of the Dwarves, a respected white-beard, chuckled. "Hanja klokar jikablith en Strider!"

The barrage of Dwarven sounded like a man trying to gargle stones while drinking boiling water. Discretely, Petra activated Master Popov's variation of Tongues, ashamed her training had fallen by the way-side.

From the bar, Gwen was explaining that she wanted them to teach her Dwarven magic.

In turn, the Dwarves were expressing their doubts.

"Well then, what's the limitation?" Gwen brokered the question on Petra's lips with the same ease as one asking for a salad recipe. "She'd not acquiring your magic. She's doing her own. Pats' is having some trouble with the next stage. Complications with Meta-magic and Spellshaping are preventing the completion of her thesis."

The Dwarves' mutual gazes fell on Petra.

Star-struck, she blushed, which made her more embarrassed, a prospect that seemed to please her cousin.

"Aye, I am sure we can give the lass some pointers," the Alchemy Master said with a grin. "Come here Lass, let Yossari have a swatch at whit yer got."

"Right now?" Petra's gaze flowed from the Dwarves to Gwen then back to her impromptu examiner. "My magic?"

"Of course! Strike while the iron's hot." Gwen emerged with two jugs. "This is strong stuff, by the way, I don't think you should be performing magic AFTER we get you liquored up."

The mana in her veins pulsed.
Things were happening quite a bit faster than she had anticipated.
When Gwen mentioned Dwarven Masters, she had imagined standing quietly on the side, playing the sycophant. Cold glares and scoffs, then a demeaning command to perform an apprentice's duty for a few months would follow, maybe a caning or two. At some point, Gwen would grease the wheels with gifts of Crystals, and like cold-dripped coffee, knowledge would filter down between her parched lips.

Now, this fine-whiskered Dwarf, a matron of her craft and the leader of even these august white-beards, was asking Petra to show her shameful facsimile?

"Come on, Pats, why so bashful?" Gwen sloshed the jugs, much to the Dwarves delight. "We're asking for a show of magic, not table dancing. The drinks won't wait."

"A-alright." More flustered than when Master Popov had made her charm a man into doing the unmentionable, she extended both hands. A brief manifestation of her Naga Spirit appeared and disappeared, then in her palm laid an empty Spellcube of the fifth-tier.

"This is the magic I am working on completing. Originally, it was my teacher's, Magister Wen's idea, but she's since left it to me, and I've been improving the formulae."

In her palm, the unoccupied Spellcube scintillated, a die of Nephrite half-translucent with veins of ivory lightning. On its surface, Glyphs derived from Dwarven Magic had been magically etched through hybrid Conjuration.

"Interesting lass, a spatial hexahedron with multi-tier containment Runes." Yossari put on a pair of diagnostic spectacles. "Danmurim, this is your area, what do you think?"

A well-soaked Dwarf with a deformed and acid-scarred face pulled himself from the long table. He extended a hand; with reverence, Petra handed over her cube.

"How old are yer?" was the Dwarves' first question.

"I am twenty-one," Petra confessed. To think Gwen was just eighteen and could sit at the same table as these Dwarves.

The Runesmith invoked a form of Detect Magic Petra could not decipher, enveloping her cube with an earthen dweomer.

"Yer a mere babe? Then yer a genius by our standards." Danmurim allowed the cube to traverse from hand to hand while he probed its internal Mandalas. "This is Journeymen material, Yossari. The girl is a gem."

"I knew it!" Gwen filled the steins of a Dwarf next to her, then her own. "To Petra the Gem! Bottoms up!"

To Petra's shock, her cousin downed the mug. The Dwarves performed likewise, then collectively let loose a tremendous belch.

"That said," Danmurium the Glum continued soberly, untouched by the meagre volume of mead. "Yer can see how the Glyph-lines are smashed ter-gether like cobbled-rocks. The formulae are outdated as well, maybe from before the Murk turned dark. Looks a wee-bit strange ter me, maybe from Eth Vaefaz Urndlikr? From the Bjar Kjanth."

"What's that?" Gwen interjected.

"Another Citadel-city, one of the rogue colonies. In your world…" Yossari tapped her empty tankard. Without shame, her cousin happily played the hostess. Once Gwen refilled the mugs, the woman continued. "... Our blue-skinned kindred live between Bavaria and the middle country, past the Elemental Sea, near where the mountains are plenty."

When Gwen struggled to map the locale, Petra intervened. "Do you mean one of the central plains regions, Tajikistan? Kyrgyzstan?"

The Alchemist shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Haven't seen the bastards for two centuries."

"Well? Danmurium? You feel like taking on an intern?" Gwen refilled the Ruinesmith's vessel.

"Wot's an intern?"

Petra stared at her cousin.
Gwen winked back.

"A not-Apprentice," Gwen said. "Just let her follow you around, ask some questions, maybe you answer them, maybe you don't. If you don't like her or if she's a bother, just let her know. You're going to be inscribing the rest of the base with Nesatin, right? Then there's the printing press and after that, the new subway line. I would be very grateful."

Glum looked at Yassari, who raised a tankard. "Aye lass, I suppose that's alright."

Petra gulped. Was that it? Was that how easy it is to acquire a Dwarven instructor?

"She can alternate between you and Nesatin," Yossari advised. "Who knows, you might take a liking to the lass if she's that talented."

Petra watched as Gwen reached her side, then forced her to sit in between her future instructors. A stein of sickly-sweet something soon arrived under her nose. "There you go Pats, all sorted. Cheers to Petra, first-ever intern to the Dwarves!"

"Thank you." Petra received the foaming mug. How in the world had she gone from having never even seen a Dwarf in real life, to following TWO Masters around town? If Popov weren't dead and dusted, the man would pinch her cheeks and call her a liar, then instruct her on how to bullshit believably.

"Hey-hey." Gwen knocked her tankard. "Bottoms up. Before Richard gets here with even more booze— let's try out all the Demi-human stuff."

"We need to get out of here." Richard slung the unconscious, well-quaffed Lucas over one shoulder. "I am going to lose my hearing."

"Agreed." Her cousin grimaced, helping Petra to her feet.

All around them, the Dwarves thundered with their snores, replicating a Fabricator at full-bore. A few had gone back to their unfinished workshops to sleep, but the rest slept where they fell, happy and blissful and well-soaked with Birch Spirit, which had been a surprise sleeper-hit for the folks from the Murk.

Outside, the freezing night air of the Isle of Dogs cooled Petra's flushed face and furnace-lit skin. Gwen appeared to be tipsy, though Petra suspected that unlike herself and Richard, Gwen's intoxication was more mood and less alchemical aid.

"I'll take Lucas home." Richard slung their new friend over his shoulder. "We'll hole up at Mudchute Manor. Our Praelector will have a fit if he sees us like this."

"Thanks, Dick." Gwen hugged herself, even though she shouldn't have felt the cold.

Richard nodded to Petra. "Look after Duck, Pats. Lea, give me a hand. This guy weighs a ton."

"I will." Petra circulated her mana. Mineral Mages, having access to both the Positive Plane and the Elemental Plane of Earth, possessed robust constitutions even when pitted against mixed alcohol.

With Richard disappearing toward Mudchute Manor, she now stood alone in the wintery cold with her Void-ensorcelled cousin. Gwen kept warm by borrowed-Essence from a Mythic; she by her Russian blood and booze.

"Let's take a seat." Petra walked closer to the Thames, then conjured a bench by shaping the Nephrite offered by her Naga Spirit. In the moonlight, the slightly malformed bench of stacked-cubes appeared both comical and majestic, making Gwen laugh.

The girls sat.

"Go on." Petra knew she had to do this for her cousin, who had done much for her. Like Richard, her elevation to Cambridge was in no small part thanks to Gwen selling herself.

Now seated beside the icy flow of the famous river, a whole world away from Shanghai and two from Moscow, Petra recognised once more that Gwen's facade, her maniac exuberance, was as fragile as ice-crystal, as transparent as a poorly-laid glamour.

Her cousin had a tale to tell. She could see it in the way Gwen's eyes fixated the distance, turned to study the cobblestone, then kept flittering about between them. Her stuttering body language, her halting speech, the digression back to the Dwarves, all of it pointed at the emergence of a story that, like an angry box of bees, cried out for release.

The Dwarves were an interlude, Petra decided. The alcohol was the point.

On the bench, she invited Gwen to recline so that her cousin's head rested on her shoulder like so many other times they watched the Lumen-caster at their apartment in Fudan.

"I think I know you well enough to know that something's eating you," Petra decided to initiate. "I am not completely lucid right now, so it's a good time as any to say your piece. Master Popov had a saying— the drunk doesn't judge, and therefore make the best listeners."

"Wait up." For some reason, her cousin activated a Detect Magic. Petra frowned. Was Gwen wary of her Mind Magic?

"Okay… no crows, and nothing too suspicious. All good. Oh-oh-oh, my mind has been full of scorpions, dear Pats."

"Gwennie… Are you in trouble?" Her cousin's head was hot against her cheek. The scent from Gwen's hair was earthy with hints of sandalwood and orange blossom, moss and cedar, as well as something vibrant and sweeter. "Is it something you can't kill or eat?"

Gwen's eyes, bean-green in the dusk-blue light of the lower dock's buzzing bulbs, enlarged with horror. "No! Evee's the problem! Evee!"

"Well—" Petra patted her chest. "Lay it on me."

"Okay…" Gwen took a deep breath, then exhaled; there was a lot inside of her cousin that needed expelling. For half an hour, Gwen's gripes gushed forth like the destruction of the dam-wall at Tonglv, guiding in the South China Sea like a blue-white Leviathan, tumbling over, wave-on-wave, a rolling tsunami of complaints.

"She confessed to you?" Petra halted her cousin when the topic took a turn for the queer. "Elvia, the Anglican Cleric, confessed her love for you?"

"Yeah."

"Is she attracted to you?"

"I'd say so."

"Se— bodily?"

"I would… hope so?"

"Okay." Petra did her best to digest Gwen's words. She remained silent for a long, uncomfortable few seconds while her mind joined the dots. "Alright."

The cold wind remained refreshing while the liquor in her blood diffused. Women could be attracted to women; this was something Petra acknowledged— Master Popov had said it was nothing to be surprised about, for it was just as common for men to be attracted to men. In their world, such incidences were not forbidden so long as the involved parties performed their ultimate duty. Only in some circles— such as under the Orthodox Sects, was the practice taboo; which made them ripe for blackmail.

"Did you reciprocate?" Petra skirted the topic with a careful euphemism.

"I said I was in love," Gwen confessed. "But… no."

"Do you regret not rejecting her? Were you serious?"

"I don't know," Gwen keened like a sickly banshee. "I feel like I've ruined something beautiful, like Dede."

"Who is Dede?" Petra's brows furrowed. A third party made things all the messier.

"Dede's a duck."

"… a duck?"

"Aye."

"… go on."

"I feel terrible for Dede. He was perfectly happy where it was at Emmanuel's, then I—"

"I meant Elvia."

Her cousin corrected the course.

"… I was content with being sisters, but then, of course, Elvia had wanted more than that. And my pent-up feelings in China kind of muddled things— When I saw her again, I just wanted to give her stuff, everything I could spare. It was addictive, you know? The Contingency Ring, the Evasion Ring, a Ring of Storage, I felt such a thrill. I was so happy every time her face was surprised or content. She was upset with my treatment of the Ginseng— do you remember the Ginseng?"

"Yeah, it was delicious..." Petra remembered the Essence-infused Maotai. "Wait— you gave her... THREE rings?"

"Yeah?"

"Into her hand?"

"Onto her fingers..."

"Was one of those fingers... the RING finger?"

Gwen face slowly grew from confusion to recognition to horror.

"Oh, Gwen..." Petra sighed. "Too late now. Keep going. You were onto the Ginseng."

Gwen sighed long and hard, then continued. "... Elvia didn't like that I kept slicing its limbs for wine, so I gave her Sen-sen as well. Holy shit— was THAT a mistake. After the incident at Walken's, I got her into the Tower to make the Ginseng her Familiar— only when she finished, the bloody thing had subverted my Evee! MY EVEE was stolen from me by a night-tripping fairy, Pats! My Evee, a Changeling! She used the Ginseng's connection to the Yinglong to rebuff Almudj's Blessing, then came out the other end as a vessel!"

"A vessel being what, exactly?" Petra turned the phrase in her mind.

"What I am to Almudj, I suppose," Gwen confessed. "I don't know how it works either. Lady Grey said she'll find someone to explain the concept to me in context. For now, I know it as the manifestations of a Mythic's will, a mortal agent of sorts."

"Or a sock puppet." Petra's eyes narrowed. "I think your Rainbow Patron has proven itself loyal, but this Yinglong…"

"Yeah, I wouldn't trust it as far as I can throw it, no matter how many daughters it's got tapping Uncle Jun."

"And after that?" Petra did her best to dispel Ayxin's smug face. The loving duo regularly visited Babulya, and their affection was sickening.

"After that, we stopped talking— properly at least. I started my lessons, and Evee went off the Isle of Man. I think about her a lot, and every time, I get mad, you know? And then I think about how pissed I am, and that just makes me madder. Maybe Caliban can lick some sense into her."

As she complained, arcs of blue-white electricity sparked from Gwen's hair, numbing Petra's skin, frazzling her hair.

"Okay. Deep Breath." Petra circulated some Mana just in case, commanding her Naga to ground a head or two. Maybe a dash of Mind Magic would prevent any accidental electrocutions.

"And the little... lass... used CALM EMOTION on me!" Gwen seethed. "I was livid, and then I was not! It was like having the wind knocked out of you, only it felt good. Can you imagine how weird that is? Her aura was so warm and tender— and next to her. I felt drunk as a skunk. Drunk and happy, like everything's right with the world— Arrrrgh..."

Petra listened. She was a listener by profession. Master Popov once said that when a target was digressing, never interrupt. From what Gwen had explained, she understood that this Elvia Lindholm was Gwen's pet on a pedestal, only now the pet had subverted the Master's control. What Gwen wanted to be was a protector-cum-benefactor. Instead, Elvia chose to live a life of her own and was empowered to pursue it. That was what made Gwen unhappy— what began as holistic generosity now demanded undeserved redress, and the ambivalence was driving the Void Sorceress mad.

In short, Petra concluded. It was nothing new. Gwen's elementally induced masochism was playing up, and the episode should pass once something more concrete came along. Her cousin was an easy girl to love— what she needed was a man, or a woman, who could be her lightning rod.

"How do you feel about Elvia now?"

"If I could scream at her for a bit, I think I would feel so much better. But if I see her…" Gwen sighed. "I don't think I can work up the anger."

"Can you forgive her?"

"I don't want to." Gwen shook her head, hesitated, then shook her head with more conviction. "Not until Evee purges the Yinglong from her system, but that would involve destroying everything she's built up. I've been thinking about it a lot and, can you imagine the shit we might get into if I gave in to Evee? Imagine, a Draconic-pervert watching from behind her eyes, vicariously riding her senses…"

Petra shivered.

"Do you still desire intimacy with Miss Lindholm?"

"No, no, no…" Gwen's brow broke out with a sheen of cold sweat. "Nothing carnal. Don't even go there. Just the occasional cuddles."

Petra fought back a sigh of exasperation. So Gwen wanted a pet after all.

"Okay." Petra pushed her cousin away from her. "I think I've heard enough."

Gwen sat upright, held her hands, then waited for Petra's verdict.

"You can't woo her or eat her, so until she purges the drake-juice, leave her be."

Her cousin deflated.

"So long as she's the vessel of the Yinglong, you can't trust her with your secrets. She might even be an operative of a foreign power with designs far removed from yours. As your future policy advisor, if it were up to me, I'd severe the turncoat like a gangrene limb— but if you have lingering affections, then keep her at arm's length. She can be a friend, but not a confidant— a lover if you don't mind the Dragon, but only for pleasure and not for business."

"But—"

"And if you feel lonely." Petra struck out her chin. "IF a cuddle must be had, there's Richard, and there's me. You can always talk to us about anything. We're your family, Gwen. Blood is thicker than water. You might not realise this, but Richard and I are in your orbit now. We're tied to you in more ways than one. Your suffering is our suffering, your success and triumph we partake in as well. Don't forget— you're the one that sold us your vision of a floating Tower with garden terraces and now, we've followed you to Cambridge. Whatever happens, you'll have Richard and me— and Yue, as well—"

"Arrrrrrugh!" Gwen pulled at her hair. "Fuck! FUCK!"

"What now?"

"I haven't told Yue about any of this!" Gwen howled into the uncertain darkness of the lower docks, sending swarms of rats scattering back into the dark, waking babies from their sleep. "When she finds out I accidentally turned Elvia into a Draconic juice bottle, Yunnie is going to be PISSED…"


The next day, Gwen immediately regretted tipsy-griping to Petra.

At Mudchute Manor, after a hearty bacon breakfast served by NoM servants, Wally broke the news that Dominic Lorenzo had arrived— as well as karma in the lovely form of Elvia Lindholm.

Gwen stared at Petra in wide-eyed self-loathing. Her cousin glared back, daring her to act upon what they had previously discussed.

"I'll leave it to you." She left the table, urging immediate commitment. "Are we going over now?"

"Yeah, I've been expecting Dom for a while now." Gwen put down her utensils. "This is the same Dominic who has been helping out Evee on the Isle of Man to relocate the Manx. He's a good guy."

"Then I better keep an eye on him." Petra stretched out her limbs as if to announce her limberness. "Shall we jog down to the docks? I dare say the Dwarven masters are expecting me."

Their chosen route took the girls from Mudchute down to Millwall Park, then down to A-12-06, where they dodged the occasional honking lorry to take the long way through Cubitt Town. Past Marsh Wall, they took a left through a semi-cleared field used to deposit construction materials, then arrived through Millwall proper at the outer dock print works.

Clunk! Clunk! CLUNK! Mana vapour, steam and construction dust clouded the air over the printing press.

The mantis-Fabricator and the Master Engine was busy at work churning out steel girders for the crew of workmen gathered around the eastern section of the warehouse, now cleared of debris. The Diggers, now armed with new Spellswords, hung from the rafters, were welding together sheets of metal, showing the NoMs below with sparks.

One of the Journeymen Dwarves was instructing the NoM jockeys Walken had recruited on the use of the industrial Golem units abandoned at the factory, while nearer the loading bay Journeymen stripped a printing engine down to its rusty frames.

Inside, Nestain and Doussed patrolled the mess of conveyor belts, replacing parts and tinkering with mechanisms deemed too inferior for the new streamlined design. Gwen reminded herself to ask Walken about the rogue flyer-printers as they passed the roller-tower, realising that at this rate, they would need skilled staff before the end of March.

The pair found the handsome figure of Dominic Lorenzo at the western end, observing the construction of their provisional editorial office. The immediate objective involved a three-storey addition to the extensive warehouse, one that would house two dozen staffs, as well as an overseer's office for Gwen's weekly audits. For now, the exterior facade was Soviet in functionality, a factor Gwen would remedy once the paper was up and running.

"Gwen!" Dominic approached, tired and haggard with his shirt-collar open to the cold. "Here I am. Freshly unemployed after the debacle at the Isle of Man."

"Seriously?" Gwen raised both brows. "Why?"

"It's against journalistic code to intervene in an incident, no matter how dire," Lorenzo explained. "Don't worry. I knew the consequences before I acted. With the Manx relocating, the outcome is far better than what Colonel Tarleton would have done to them."

"Then I am equally happy and appalled— thanks for staying to help Evee, by the way." Gwen nodded in agreement. "This is Petra, my cousin and fellow Magus at Cambridge. Pats, this is Mister Lorenzo, Alesia's old war buddy. I think the two of you should get along just fine."

The reporter and her cousin shook, each studying one another. Gwen watched their expressions. One was an ex-cadet for the Red Ghost program. The other, according to Alesia, was a reporter who moonlighted as British intelligence.

"Where's Elvia." Gwen's eyes scanned the docks.

"She's gone to the clinic." Dominic pointed to Millwall.

"That makes sense." Gwen hoped she had not ironically jogged past Elvia and snubbed her companion while distractedly thinking about her. "I'll seek her out later. You're early, Dom. It'll be a week or two before the office is habitable. That said, there's quite a bit I need you to do."

"I can start today if you like." Lorenzo didn't mind the lack of a workspace. "I spoke to Magister Walken while waiting for you. He mentioned an employment contract?"

"Yes, though that was more specifically aimed at Eric, considering his history."

Lorenzo's tone grew solemn. "Aye, I can see why. What about the rest of us? Or the personnel I'll need?"

"Non-magical contracts will suffice." Gwen scanned the streets once more, then pointed toward Millwall. "Some new shops have opened up, how about morning tea while we talk?"

"Much obliged." Dominic waited for Gwen to lead the way. "You're lucky to have Miss Lindholm. Your friend might have the mien of an angel, but she works like a demon."

"Ha." Gwen laughed to hide her awkwardness. "I'll believe that."

Petra scoffed; Gwen suppressed the colour in her cheeks while they made for the new hole-in-the-wall eatery.

A block past the printing press, the Olive Canary cafe was run by an enterprising NoM family from Marsh Wall. The new owners of the lot had done their best with the partitioned warehouse and had even put out a plaque that said "Dwarves Welcome" in chalk. To promote small business on the isle, Gwen had offered rent-grants for up to six months.

Once seated, the trio ordered scones, cream, jam, and a big jug of English Breakfast. Gwen categorised her thoughts, banished her immediate solicitudes, then began illuminating her designs for Dominic.

"To clarify, the entity you will be helming for is our free Newspaper, the 'Metro Express', operating under the Isle of Dogs Development Corporation." Gwen mimed a few squares with her fingers, and several hovering rectangles in shades of jade came into view. Hers was a demonstration of "PowerPoint 2.0"— now with added sophistication thanks to Le Guevel's tuition. "The Executive Committee, which thus far consists of myself, Eric, and Lady Grey, will be the administrators— though we're figureheads. Lady Grey is providing the clout, I am providing the Crystals, and you can think of Walken as our deputy."

"And myself?" Dominic poked a finger at one of her illusory rectangles. When his fingers fell through, the man muttered a "Hmm..."

"You're our Editor-in-Chief," she replied while willing an orange tag into place. "The rest is flexible. What hierarchal structure have you got in mind?"

"Editor-in-chief, Editors, then News Editors," Lorenzo replied, watching with wonder as Gwen added the text-boxes one by one. "I also want editors for Spellcraft, Economics, Politics, Local News, and a Feature section. These then have sub-Editors, who double as our on-the-ground staff."

"Which would be the Reporters, Staff Writers, and?"

"Correspondents." Her editor filled in the blanks.

Gwen re-arranged the impromptu organisational chart. "Good— That's what I had in mind as well. How optimistic are you feeling about finding staff? I am offering one-year contracts, NoM or Mage doesn't matter. Pay is ten per cent above market rate, with a raised ceiling for performance bonuses. I can also offer a month's pay in advance. All petty-cash costs can be reclaimed, pending audit."

"That's very generous. I believe we can fill the top positions by April if that's what you're offering." Lorenzo materialised a Lumen-recorder, then took a snapshot of Gwen's infographic. "Say, that's a novel way of using Project Image. What do you call it?"

"… PowerPoint," Gwen replied without an ounce of guilt. "Two capitalised P's. One word. I'll submit it to the Tower's Grimoire in the future."

"How interesting." Lorenzo served up a scone, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "Say, can I ask an audacious question?"

"Of course you can, Lorrie." Gwen adjusted her legs while scanning the Millwall end of the street for any suddenly-appearing Clerics.

"How do you know the free Newspaper isn't a massive waste of Crystals? Your predecessors all failed to deliver a profitable Newspaper. The Guardian is only hanging on because of its political backers and as a counter to the Herald and the Telegraph. Why should the Metro survive when others did not? The Herald Sun has extensive access to the affairs of the Nobility, and the Telegraph is well-connected politically. What's our sell?"

"Circulation!" Gwen answered without hesitation. Straightening her spine, she sat tall in her chair to applaud the healthy scepticism shown by Lorenzo. "The Metro will have a level of circulation unmatched by any other. Our profitability will come from sponsored adverts for products— and weekly classifieds for services."

"Where do you get the confidence? Merely because the Metro Express is free?"

"Because we're filling a market gap," Gwen explained with patience. "Best of all, the other papers won't be able to replicate our success without ruining their editorial board."

"How do you mean?"

"We'll diversify content." Gwen conjured a few more PowerPoint rectangles into the air, this time in blue. "Imagine us having three main sections— News, Features, and Spellcraft. Our news needn't be breaking news because the Metro is weekly and merely summarise it. Likewise, our manifesto is to appear non-partisan, so we'll always stake a position in between the Guardian, the Sun Herald and the Telegraph, or fact-check for the Sun if they feel disinclined."

Lorenzo pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Hmm. I'd like that."

"Good. Besides, the point of our Newspaper isn't the news, not exactly. It's more of a privately-owned self-sustained public service. In the Feature section, we're going to have the following things— entertainment and human interest stories for Mages and NoMs, like interviewing Evee for example, or successful NoMs, like the owners of the Tower of Tandoori. There'll be a letter to the Editor page, where people can give opinions or ask for advice. I want a relationship column where people can talk about their love life— or lack of one."

"There's lots of fun to be had," Gwen continued, her words coming as a torrent. "Since our principal avenue of distribution is the public transport system— imagine a section where readers can send in letters to strangers they're attracted to while taking the tube. 'Hi, my name is Wally, and I saw this gorgeous Fire Evoker with red hair on the six o'clock express from High Street to Mile End. I would love to speak with her'— you get me? We'll focus on Human interest and localised content. Additionally, we'll be adding lifestyles pages, the hottest new adventuring locations, Magical Item advice, and even food recipes. We're a must-read Weekly."

"That is… very interesting." Lorenzo licked his lips. "And you're right. I can't imagine the Herald or the Telegraph trying to copy our success. It would change the scope of their tabloid."

"AND ours is free—" Gwen chuckled. "I've gathered enough bodies on the isle to have two-men-teams standing at every exit from Heathrow to Stratford, giving out the papers for free. People can take it, or not, but I'll tell you what. They'll be seeing it at the bus stops, on the tables in cafe shops; the Metro will be everywhere— always within hand's reach whether folks need it or not."

"I see!"

"And that's not all. When I was speaking to Lady Grey, she said that I should offer something to the Shard to stay on their good side. I've since decided that two 'central' pages will be dedicated as a public announcement channel for the Tower and their quests— _free of charge_."

Lorenzo furrowed his brows. "Why free? The other papers charge the Shard a fortune to post its Quest listings."

"Ha!" Gwen willed away her illusions. "Circulation, my dear Lorenzo! Every Mage in London will want to have a stickybeak at our free Newspaper because it'll be easily within hands' reach, cost-free. On that alone, we'll have guaranteed readership among the Mages."

"Marvellous—"

"— Gwen, everything you just said sounds incredibly ambitious," Petra intervened. "Now that you've shown me the extent of it, I have to say I have no idea how much it all costs."

"All enterprises cost money." Gwen swung a scone toward the direction of the printing press. "If we had failed to find our Dwarven compatriots, and if they had not provided us with the men and the equipment, I would not have rushed in at all. Without the volume to reach market saturation— and without the reduced cost of mass production— the system simply will not work."

"How much have you… has the company spent so far?" Lorenzo asked.

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

"About eight-thousand HDMS," Gwen confessed. "That's only one-fifth of the initial budget. I anticipate we'll be in the red for about a year. After that, a healthy parity should happen within twenty-four months, and once our circulation stabilises, we'll see profitability within three years. Eric has a copy of my business report if you're keen."

" _You've_ written a business report? Alright. I'll seek out Master Walken." Lorenzo slapped his thighs. "I don't know what to say. Gwen. Are you sure you're eighteen?"

"I am an old soul." Gwen laughed once or twice. "What can I say? My impoverished upbringing in Sydney has got me running scared."

"You're the richest sorceress I know." Petra upended her humblebrag with a scoff. "You could probably bribe half the Mages in Moscow. In Russia, we call folk like you Oligarchs. They're an evil lot."

Gwen flashed her cousin a sardonic smile. "Not true, I'd say where they're a problem, I am the cure. Money has to flow, Pats, why do you think they called it 'currency'? Anyway, Dom, there's also something else I need you to do."

"I am all ears."

"As with the old Victorian rags, I am thinking of including a serial-fiction section, in preparation for our paperback side of the press business," she explained. "I've got a few interesting manuscripts in my head, but I need ghostwriters to get them manifested. Do you know anyone good at such a thing?"

Dominic drank the rest of his coffee, then mulled for a minute. "I think so. Are NoMs acceptable?"

"More so than Mages for what I've got in mind— ideally someone unattached and unaffiliated." Gwen nodded. "They need to have real talent. I won't be wasting these one-of-a-kind ideas on lacklustre freelancers. When you find them, bring them to me. I'll conduct an interview— and we'll clarify the rules and incentives."

"Sounds reasonable," the reporter said. "Before I go— will you be meeting with Miss Lindholm later?"

"I will." Gwen looked toward the direction of the clinic once more.

"I see. I've apologised already to Miss Elvia for taking advantage of her goodwill, but let me apologise to you as well, Magus Song," Lorenzo spoke with sincerity. "The publication, the story I broke— I fear I took some liberties with the truth. It was I who subverted the Elves— and I used your infamy, Gwen, as the Devourer of Shenyang to do so."

"Really?" Gwen was surprised she felt not a single mote of wonderment at the declaration. Why should she when Militant pacifism was the whole schtick with her Void Magic? Likewise, it wasn't as though Alesia didn't boast about Lorenzo being an operative. "Can you clarify?"

With the succinctness of a professional columnist, Lorenzo explained his case, beginning with Elvia's discovery of Tarleton's strategy, and ending with their expedition to the Enclave of Tir-Mara.

"I am not averse to your decision." Gwen forgave her editor, then looked to Petra for advice. "All's well that ends well, at least for now. Pats?"

"Mister Lorenzo, _are_ you a Cabalist?" Petra's next question made Gwen want to cover her cousin's lips. Whether or not Dominic worked for the secret service was for him to reveal. If they pried it from him, the implications weren't the same.

"I am with the Sixth," Dominic confessed, neither changing tone nor his facial expression. "That's all I can say. I don't think my role here will force a conflict of interest with my other profession— far from it; I would even say they're complementary. So long as our reporting remains neutral, and the paper isn't defaming the House of Windsor."

"We'll step carefully for sure," Gwen agreed. "I have high hopes for you, Dom."

"I understand," the spy concurred. "Thank you for trusting me."

"Better the devil we know." Petra nodded.

Lorenzo expressed his approval. "If there should be an impasse, my resignation should act as a canary of sorts. Please place your trust in me as Alesia would."

The two shook hands.

"I'll be going then." Lorenz stood. "Good luck with Miss Lindholm."

"Dom, what has Evee told you?"

"Not much, but she is not very good at hiding her sentiments."

"I see."

"Then I'll be soon in contact with Magister Walken."

Compared to when he came, the reporter sauntered away with a lighter step.

"And now." Petra tugged at her elbow. "Let's get your other business sorted."

"Yes." She sighed. "Let's."

"Apply the poultice twice a day, and you should see a gradual improvement." Elvia Lindholm placed the satchel of infused herbs in the hands of the woman nodding like a bobbing hen. "The Lord's Blessing on you, Miss Robertson."

"Blessing on you as well, Dr Lindholm— please take this." A cotton sack emerged forth from the heavy duffle bag the woman had brought in. "It's taters' our nan grew in her yard. Nan's very proud of them, always said our family had the best mash on our lane…"

"Thank you." Elvia knew the line behind the woman was still a dozen patients long and so took the gift without complaint. "I'll be sure to enjoy them with Ser Mathias. He's very fond of potatoes."

Satisfied, the woman bent to kiss her hand, then retreated backwards, bowing as she made her exit.

Elvia's looked down at her fingers— the Contingency Ring on her ring finger felt so new, even though a lifetime of events had occurred since Gwen carelessly slipped on the band.

It had been a month since they had talked and Elvia would be dishonest if she said that she was not disappointed in her friend. As recent as yesterday, the locals had told her that Gwen was heard howling like a banshee at midnight, scaring the dog-sized sewer rats into submission.

But where was her friend now?

Back before the Yinglong's vision, Gwen would have burst through the door, barged through the patients, then embraced Elvia so fiercely she could scarcely breathe. Now— now there was no sight nor sound of her unconsummated lover.

"Next—" Elvia announced.

Her next patient seated himself.

Elvia looked up. It wasn't a sickly NoM that faced her now, but a middle-aged man with steel-grey hair and depthless blue eyes in a traditional tunic and cloak.

"Good morrow, Miss Lindholm." The gent indicated to a metallic brooch pinned near his collar bone, holding together two pieces of fabric that formed a stylish white-red shawl. The badge was that of a burnished sun, resplendent in its flames, crafted from some precious alloy Elvia could not recognise. In its centre, there sat a herald of three crowns, surrounded by a ring in guiles with the motto _Tria Juncta In Uno_ in threaded gold. "I come seeking remedy for a dire injury."

Elvia licked her lips nervously. "Sir…"

"My arm, you see—" The man raised his left arm with some difficulty. "Was injured yesterday. My companions and I were in pursuit of a Sarasti Strigoi who proved to be an adept wielder of forbidden Blood Sorcery. We tracked it down to Szczecin, where a long and arduous battle took place. It's always hard capturing Vampires— a Strigoi in an urbanscape, more so..."

Slowly, the man disrobed a portion of his tunic, revealing a husk of an arm. "I have come to seek aid from one famed in bringing life to the withered and wasted."

"Er... I am not sure…" Elvia swallowed. "Lord…"

"Seneschal Adamus Ashburn." The man's smoky voice sounded like sifting shekel-shells. "My present agony is exquisite, Dr Lindholm. I hope you will not turn away someone too 'impoverished' to receive care from the Great Hospitals."

"I understand," Elvia replied, knowing that she understood nothing. The old Mage wasn't lying though. He was indeed in a great deal of pain, though his biometrics remained stable— likely as a result of pain-suppression techniques. As for the man's mangled arm, its mana conduits, blood-vessels and the musculature were all damaged by severe Negative Energy drain. If untreated, it would go into necrosis and need an amputation. "But I don't know how much I can do here— proper aid would have to be administered at Osmond Street, or Nightingale's."

"Please proceed as you would on a battlefield." The man took a deep breath. "My companions and I walked here from the Shard, then waited two hours to see you in person."

"You waited in line, milord?"

"There were others whose needs were greater or direr."

"I understand. Sen-sen— Kiki." Unsure of how to respond, Elvia coaxed her Familiar onto the table. "Please lend me your power to restore Seneschal Ashburn."

"Ki-ki!"
"Sen-sen!"
Elvia took a deep breath. "Bless! Aid!"

A gentle viridescence haloed outward from the Cleric as she invoked her sorcery, channelling the dormant, raw vitality of the Ginseng through her conduits and into her patient. Tapping into the unique blend of Essence-laced mana generated by her body, she goaded the Seneschal's arm into activating its remaining life force.

"I will now begin the Restoration. Please hold still." With two fingers on the Knight's wrist and her off-hand on his exposed chest, she activated the highest tier of healing spell she knew. Kiki's vine-tendrils wrapped around the man's shoulder as a make-shift tourniquet. Sweating, Elvia raised Sen-sen's tendrils. "Sir— the injection will sting."

"Kiki!" Her Alraune raised a perfumed bulb.

"Do not mind me," the old Knight spoke to the flower Sprite with kindness. "I need to see what your master can do."

"Kiki!"

Elvia willed Sen-sen to continue, excavating past the man's dermis to stimulate the deep-tissue directly. The process would take several minutes, and though the Seneschal's complexion changed colour from pale to flush to pale, he continued to speak.

"Miss Lindholm, are you learned in the Path of the Devoted? Has the hospice instructed you in participating in bearing our Lord's burden?"

"Yes, though I am a novitiate." Elvia lowered her eyes. "And my attendance at Mass has been lax of late."

"It is not attendance that marks the Faithful." The Seneschal materialised a sun-token from his storage ring. "Continue, Miss Lindholm. I shall now activate this icon of our Ordo, so that it may judge your worthiness."

Elvia wanted to protest, to tell the man to at least wait until his healing was done. Instead, the aura of fatherly benevolence from the Seneschal was so overwhelming that all she could do was nod.

Gently, the sun-token began to glow, first with a gradual radiance, then warmth, filling the air around them with illuminated threads of gold. Around the old Knight, she could see the thousands of threads as plain as day, flaxen and vivid, pointing like vectors toward something the man wore under his chin. As for herself, the hair-thin ribbons were faded and indistinct.

"Good, perfect—" The Seneschal smiled protectively. "You have aided many, Practitioner Lindholm, and here lies the proof."

"Is this Faith?" Elvia had only the most rudimentary understanding of Faith Magic. The college taught it as a form of latent energy, no different to mana, one generated by the strength of belief, harvested by Humanity since the pagan epoch under Egypt's God-Kings. Today, this distinct form of sorcery belonged almost exclusively to Humanities' organised religions.

"You are not wrong." The Seneschal's tone grew suddenly formal. "Miss Lindholm. As a steward of her Majesty's Order of the Bath, I would like to extend to you an invitation to join our exalted ranks. After a probation period, you shall receive the Multifoliate Red-White Star of our founder, Henry Tudor, and don the Crimson Mantle of one who purifies and protects. Do you accept?"

The Order of the Bath!

One of the five Ancient Ordos!

Though Lorenzo had mentioned that following her actions, one such offer was coming; she remained speechless while her treatment ran its course. Once Sen-sen unwrapped itself from the Lord Seneschal's arm, she again drew breath. A minute later, she had worked up enough courage to meet his eyes.

"I am honoured, Milord— but if you wish an immediate answer…"

She didn't know if this was a decision she could make herself. To join an Ordo was a life-long affair. The vows one made were binding, as Mathias had demonstrated, and would place inconvenient limitations on her life in exchange for unfettered access to knowledge and resources. With her common birth and many complications, how could she join such an exalted existence?

"Sir Ashburn..."

"I am aware of your predicaments, Miss Lindholm. Know that we have been watching you." The Seneschal flexed the fingers of his restored arm. Satisfied, he continued. "Well done. Do not fret that you are involved with the Void Sorceress, or that you are a vessel to the Mythic of Huangshan— far from it; such connections serve to fortify your candidacy. Your affairs on the Isle of Man as well have proven that you possess the right temperament to enter the ranks of higher service. A candidates' natural inclinations we value above all else. You want to right wrongs, do you not? Give a voice to the unheard? In the future, as a Knight Companion, you will be given the authority and power to act on the Commonwealth's behalf."

When the word "future" announced itself from the Seneschal's lips, Elvia couldn't help but feel a tingle in her Astral Soul. The Yinglong's vision once again rose to the fore, and she could see Percy's twisted face gloating over her pale and life-drained carcass while behind the pair, Tianjin burned and the Undead crashed over the waterlogged barricades.

"Sir Ashburn," she spoke suddenly, surprising the Seneschal. "Do Knight Companions receive combat training against Necromancy and the Undead?"

The Knight nodded. "The best the Mageocracy has to offer. Since the Great War, the freeing of populations from the apostasy of Undeath has been one of our chief missions. Therefore, both through sorcery and Faith, our members are well protected from their ilk. Do you possess grievance against the Undead?"

The Seneschal's words rang her heart like a tolling bell. Was this fated? Elvia wondered. Had the Yinglong predicted this as well? Was joining the Ordo a part of what she must do to gain the power necessary to thwart Percy, the Kirin creature, and to stop the Cult of Juche?

"Not personally, no." Elvia shook her head. "I will take your words into consideration, Lord Ashburn."

Without hesitation, the man stood. "We will be waiting, Elvia. I do believe you will find a warm welcome at the fortress-monastery."

Elvia touched a hand to the coin of the Tri-Crown Sun. "Sir, you forgot—"

"Its a gift, novitiate. The Sun-token is a minor Relic, one that will aid you in recognising your potential whether you joined us or not."

The curtains to the consultation section of the clinic pulled back. To Elvia's surprise, the line was now empty.

"I had the men see to your patients, so that we may talk without delaying their care." The Seneschal's secret smile was all-knowing and hopeful. "A sizeable donation has also been made to your Foundation and Clinic, Miss Lindholm. Whatever you choose, good deeds shall not go unrewarded."

"Thank you, Seneschal."

"One more thing." The Knight dipped his chin. "Though our Ordo is not given to careless charity— its members are given the discretion to offer aid by drawing on our coffers."

Elvia's breath grew heavy.

"I see you understand. May the Shepard guide you to our flock."

Elvia's eyes followed the man's aristocratic silhouette as he joined his guards. The other Knights were crimson-robed, and each gave her a parting nod before exiting the converted warehouse. When the trio faded into the docks, Elvia saw that a figure remained undisplaced, one bearing an impatient, agonised mien. It was the Calamity herself, the mistress of the Isle, Gwen Song, here to see her long-neglected lover.

Gwen very much disliked the idea that she could not just waltz into a clinic she had paid for to accost Elvia— until Petra pointed out that the two men very politely barring their way wore the Crimson Mantles with golden sun icons.

The Order of the Bath! Gwen gulped, recalling Le Guevel's lessons and recollecting what Lady Grey had foretold a month ago. Finally, the monks came to elevate Evee into their aristocratic ranks. It was a prospect that should have filled her with pride, but now it only made her suffer, for Elvia' ascension would only mean greater reluctance to forgo the Yinglong's blessing.

Beside her, Petra grew anxious; her cousin was a girl with Dwarves to entertain. Just as well, she would prefer Petra not striking Elvia with a Mindblank.

"Pats, I don't want to take up any more of your time, do you want to go see what Danmurim is doing? He might not be too happy if you don't show up at all during his morning shift."

"Are you sure?" Petra touched her arm protectively. "What if another Calm Emotion quails you?"

"I'll tell her to fuck off," Gwen promised. "I need to do this, Pats— I owe it to Evee and to Yue to resolve this thing, one way or another. This unforeseen problem is taking up far too much of my headspace."

It took some more cajoling to convince her cousin, but at last, Gwen was free to make her case with Elvia.

For another quarter of an hour, she stood outside the clinic while inside, one of the Knights from the Order of the Bath liberally dispensed potions. As the happy residents retreated, they saw the mistress of Millwall milling impatiently, and so approached Gwen to offer their thanks and their love. Gwen obliged, and when finally the NoMs were gone, she persisted until a middle-aged man with steel-grey hair and an imposing aura of presence emerged from the clinic.

Gwen raised a hand to hail the Knights and their leader, though the trio merely passed her with a nod, leaving her hanging.

When her gaze awkwardly returned to the clinic, she saw Elvia standing pretty in her physician's garb. Her chest constricted. The purity of her Evee had not at all been sullied by the horror conducted to the Manx. If anything, she appeared more resilient, mature, and imposing.

"Hey there, Evee." Gwen thought she would initiate.

"Hi, Gwen."

"Did you miss me? How was the Isle of Man?"

"It was the worst."

_Fuck_. She mentally slapped herself, then pushed on. "Evee, I think we—"

"I know—" Elvia gave her a simpering smile.

Gwen breathed in, fighting the tingling in her fingers.

"I know, Gwennie." Elvia directed her to the elevated hospice cot and its taut, uncompromising linen. "I know. Come sit. Let's talk."


The hospice cot was softer than Gwen had expected. The foam, or whatever spring-insert sat between the linen, engulfed her buttocks with a lewd creak, drawing her level with Elvia.

"I am sorry about what happened on the Isle of Man." Gwen patted the space beside her, opening the first salvo. "Dom told me everything."

"Mister Lorenzo did what he thought was best." Elvia refused her invitation with a disarming smile. "He calls it his great success, even though it wasn't right— not for the Manx. Not for the Elves. Not even for the island."

"And how do you know that?" Gwen smugly cocked her head. "Are the island folk not now safe from the predation of this Colonel Tarleton? The ceasefire everyone wanted is in effect. There's no more loss of life on both sides."

When Elvia raised her chin to glare, Gwen glared back.

"The peace is sophistry." Elvia's eyes, Gwen noted, were bright with discontent. "There was no redress, no justice, no punishment for the sinners. The Manx have lost their homes, Gwennie, they've lost everything. Is that how you'll treat Goolagong and her people when you go back to Australia and lord over the continent with Gunther?"

"Old Goolagong?" Gwen frowned, recalling the Indigenous woman. "We're not at war with her people, Evee. Besides, thanks to Almudj, the descendants of the Pintupi share common goals with us. Whatever happens, they're free to either stay on their land or assimilate, think of Tommy for example. I am not going to dictate whether they should embrace modernity—"

Elvia looked away, sighing.

"—What? Don't give me that look. What's wrong?"

"You're becoming like one of them."

"One of who?" Gwen's brows wrinkled.

"The Lords and Ladies here."

"In London?"

Elvia bobbed her head. "You used to be… nicer. I lack your words, Gwennie, so forgive my simplicity. I don't know if you were happier back in Sydney, but I always looked up to how well you treated the NoMs at school, like Mr Rawson. You were so genuine. Could you do that now?"

"Why would I treat Rawson any different?" Gwen swallowed her rising ire. Why was she the one being interrogated? It wasn't as though she's straddling the Yinglong and riding roughshod over their sisterly pact.

"I don't think you'll be able to see Mr Rawson now and see him as anything other than another number in your multitude of NoMs." The sadness in her companion's delivery made Gwen feel patronised. "The same way that the Manx's exodus to you is just an abstracted problem to be solved. You've become a Colossus, Gwennie, and we mortals peep about your great white legs..."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Gwen snapped.

"I mean, how can you believe the Manx is doing better?" Seeing Elvia's adorable face so upset was remarkably intimidating for Gwen. "Not to preach, Gwennie, but I don't understand why you refuse to understand. Maybe there's too much on your plate— your Isle of Dogs being so much more important than the Isle of Man— The tale of two Isles..."

"Hold on," Gwen interrupted the healer. "What exactly are you trying to say here? That I AM trying to roll the Manx-folk off their usurped island? That I AM responsible for the Mageocracy's imperialism from seven centuries ago? You're ridiculous…"

"Am I?" Elvia's chest rose and fell. "Gwen. The Mageocracy, the very one who holds you dear like the Heart of Flames— you're on their side. They took the Manx's women, children, their elders, and they treated them with contempt. They drove them from their homes, then they killed their loved ones, murdered their Druids, performed rapine on the very sites that the Crown had guaranteed them. They then built an ISTC that drained the mana from the Manx's hearth, their trees and their sacred places."

"That's not… my jurisdiction?" Gwen's brows knitted with frustration. The girl's wild accusation was not doing her cause any favours. "I am here to talk about us, Evee… why…"

"Then in the Newspaper and on the Lumen-casters, your Mageocracy, your Tower— Lorenzo included— they called them mad, mocked those of us who wanted to help or placed us on pedestals. The Foreign Office marginalised the Manx, degraded them, tormented and exiled them with politics, made their lives impossible. But they're the _bad_ guys, and you're the _good_ ones. They don't deserve their home, but we deserve our ISTC Station. That's what Dominic is celebrating, Gwennie. Do you support that?"

Gwen gritted her teeth. Why was Elvia so caught up in this Manx business? Shit happened to folk everywhere. If Humanity were weak like the Manx, they would be the ones slaving away in Mermen coastal pens as opposed to having sushi Thursdays. "Evee, enough. Out with it. What do you want?"

Elvia appeared to study her as if seeing her in a new light. "Look, your hypertension is shooting up again. Here, take my hand."

Gwen stared at her partner's dainty fingers.

"No Positive Energy. No vitality." She warned her thankless lover. "Calm my Emotion, and I'll have Caliban French you."

"Okay," Elvia agreed, then continued where she left off. "To answer your question. I know what I want, Gwennie."

"Good." Gwen's long digits enveloped her friend's hand. Evee's fingers were rougher and more calloused than she could recall, a testament to her labour on the Isle of Man. "Come on, lay it on me. Ask, and I shall consider."

"You make my needs sound like a problem to be solved." Her friend's fingers searched out Gwen's, then twined themselves around her slender digits. "Gwennie, must everything be accounted for and audited with you? Can't you just trust me to do what's best for us? For you? When you're doing the same to me?"

"T-trust? I have to trust—" Gwen stopped herself before she could say something she'd rather not walk back. "Fine, you want to tango? Let's do it. But first— Ariel! Caliban!"

"Shaa!" Caliban slithered into the world and onto Elvia's lap.

"EE! EE!" Ariel likewise nuzzled Elvia as soon as it materialised, running figure-eights around the healer like a cat.

"Kiki!" From behind Elvia, the Alraune greeted its peers.

Gwen fought off a wave of displeasure. "You two, go and secure the perimeter. NO CROWS. Cali, you can harass, but no eating. Anyone comes close, Spider them away."

"Shaa!" The departing Caliban gave Elvia an oozy lick, drenching the front of the healer's doctor's coat. Likewise, Ariel kissed the Cleric thrice before reluctantly leaving to perform its duty.

"Kiki, you help as well."

"Kiki!"

"They've grown so much since Sydney." Elvia produced a handkerchief to wipe the gloop from her chest. "Do you remember when Caliban was shorter than me, and Ariel was still a ferret?"

"Simpler times." Gwen sighed. "That was a long time ago, Evee. Master was alive back then. Our world was smaller."

"Yes, I miss Master Kilroy. Sufina too."

Gwen said nothing. She wasn't about to be softened by sentimentality.

"So what do you want, Gwen?" Elvia threw her question back at her.

"Me?" Gwen momentarily pondered if declaring "I want you" was acceptable, but decided against something so camp and easily misconstrued. "I want things to go back to what they were."

"And what would that be?"

"You, me, Yue— just the three of us. Chilling. No Yinglong."

Elvia smiled. "What was so dear about those days that you want to relive them so badly?"

"You should know the answer to that, or at least; before your patron took over." Gwen refrained from shouting out her accusations. She was in control, she told herself. Be mature.

"Gwennie, your inconsistency astounds me sometimes." Her healer walked her fingers over Gwen's open palm. Gwen looked down, knowing there was Draconic strength there if Evee so desired. "You, who have been the vessel of Almudj for so long, do you not possess autonomy from its will? Why should I relent my potential to make the changes I want in the world when you do not?"

"That's hardly the same." Gwen channelled her Essence into her hands to ward away Evee in case she chose to use the Yinglong. "Almudj is benevolent."

"And the Yinglong is not?"

"It's malicious!"

"Who has thus suffered from its manoeuvres?" Elvia's accusing lips were pink and moist. "You? Uncle Jun? Your family? The Chinese? Their homeland?"

"The hell are you on about?" Gwen tried to pull her hand back, but her healer wouldn't let go. "God damn it, Evee—"

"There's that hypocrisy again." Elvia's palm kissed hers. "That's just it, see? Think about all the men and women you've sent to the Front through Tonglv, Gwen. All those machinations you've thus far plotted, all of them had winners and losers— mostly losers— while you came out on top. I should thank you for gifting me with the means of gaining both vision and knowledge, Gwen, but now that I've seen the truth— how can I close my eyes to them? I can't ever become the lordly Lady you aspire to be."

"Oh, that's a crock! I don't aspire to any such thing!"

"That's because you want to be greater than even they—" Elvia's words were using her chest as knife-sheaths. "Isn't that right?"

"And that's wrong, is it?" Gwen sensed the pulsing Positive Energy circulating under her healer's skin. She could sense her Void-tinged mana pulse in response. "Fuck me for wanting to live my life, right? I should be content with being a Dragon's sock puppet. Or the Mageocracy's marionette. Or the dolly-wife of some dickhead like the Exeters, pumping out stillborn Faceless Void babies."

"I don't mean that." Elvia's patience appeared infinite. "I am sad that you think that's what I implied."

Gwen withheld her immediate riposte, which was that she couldn't give two fucks what Elvia thought about her ambitions— but that was in itself deep dishonesty. She was the adult here; Gwen reminded herself repeatedly. Don't let the Yinglong win.

"Thanks to the Yinglong, I think it's obvious that we're no longer able to see eye to eye." Gwen's throat bobbed; her expression grew hard. "But I can fix this, Evee. If you come back with me to Australia, I'll talk to Almudj…"

Elvia stood, then before Gwen could finish her words, she sat down beside her. The healer's coat smelled like antiseptic, but her hair's scent was divine, as was the lustre of her vitality-infused skin, so tender that she just wanted to reach out and pinch it.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Gwen." Elvia looked up, her face as white and fragile as milk crystals. "I like you."

A gush of strange heat ignited in Gwen's chest. Her breathing was already irregular, but now it grew heavy. Was Elvia, her Evee of all people, trying to seduce her? Did her Cleric think that she could pay with her sweet little body for all her transgressions, or was this the Yinglong pushing her buttons?

"Evee, you know that's hardly fair. We need to talk. I am serious."

"You misunderstand me again. I do want to talk." Elvia directed her body so that they sat beside each other. "Your face there was a little scary. Care to listen to a tale, Gwen? Afterwards, you can talk, then we'll make our peace."

With Evee's shoulder warm against her own, Gwen sighed. "Aright. I'll shut up and listen."

"Thank you," Elvia's voice came from beside her. "Do you know the Psalms of Sir Bors, Gwen?"

Gwen shook her head.

"It's a story my mother used to tell me, taken from the tales of Saint Chaucer of Canterbury."

"Alright…" Gwen failed to see how any of this was connected but resigned herself to lend Evee her ears before they reached an ultimatum.

"Before we begin, you should know that Sir Bors was one of the Princes of antiquity to reign over the Isle of Man. His blood, if the tales are correct, contributed significantly to the blending of Elven and Human blood, thanks to him, the Manx survived the Christian epoch of Avalon."

"Bors… from Arthurian legend?"

"The very same— famed for returning with the Grail."

"… okay." Gwen refrained from jeering at this world's patchwork theology. The people here took Faith a little more literally than the folks back in her world. From what she had seen of Prince Inti and the Northern Front, there was little reason why a deified existence like the Nazarene couldn't have fed the multitudes or raised the dead. If she considered that Gilgamesh and Enkidu were all historical figures and that Perseus and Hercules parallelled Charlemagne, there was little reason to doubt the existence of a legendary Relic.

"This parable pertains to you and me," Elvia said. "The details vary between authors, but in Saint Chaucer's Chronicles of Avalon, Sir Bors was the youngest of Arthur's knights, originally rescued from the clutches of the Orc warlord Claudas. While in Arthur's service, the young Bors, a relative of boy-Lancelot, became one of the strongest Faith-casters on the island— until he broke his vow of chastity."

Gwen snorted. "We haven't—"

"I know." Her healer balanced herself against Gwen's weight; the Cleric was small and petite compared to her counterpart. "To his shame, Bors didn't just break a vow of chastity; he raped a girl— an Elven visitor who had come to the isle to converse with Arthur. The two had met at Arthur's banquet, and after the mead and the wine, Bors offered to take the maiden up to her lodgings. Once they were alone up in the parapet, the young Bors gave in to lust and intemperance."

The thematic parallels in the story, Gwen felt, was a little too close to home for comfort. Was Evee accusing her of shoving Almudj's Essence down her throat? Could that be construed as a violation? But then again, back in the observatory, she was the one who halted Elvia's wandering hand. Did that make Evee the aggressor? Was she Bors? But that made no sense either.

"Deeply ashamed, Sir Bors left Arthur's service to seek atonement. He travelled to the Sacred Lake in Loch Lomond and begged the Lady for a way to attain penitence. The Lady informed him that the only way to regain his credo is to discover what women truly desire."

"Love?" Gwen said. "Or money, if we're realistic..."

"Don't be impatient," Elvia rebuked her interjections. "Sir Bors travelled far and wide, rescuing women from horrible estates and freeing them from abuse and defending them from assault. He became very popular with young ladies, though every time, he resisted both wine and lust. A French variation goes that a group of fan-maidens grew so smitten that they threatened to throw themselves from the parapets unless Sir Bors made love to them all."

"So he did?"

"He did not." Elvia gave her a wilting look. "Yes, the old tales can be rather bawdy. As it turns out, these were Sirens who lusted after Sir Bors, and when he failed to heed their song, they leapt from the parapets to take him by force. Naturally, Sir Bors slew them all."

Gwen quickly banished the rancorous vision of Sir Golos and the harpy flock from her mind.

"For ten years, Sir Bors served the cause of women on the Isle, be they human or Demi-human. He came to understand their pain, their suffering, their woes and their desires. Still, he could not answer the question the Lady told him to find the answer to— then, his nephew's scandal with the Queen split the Round Table."

Gwen licked her lips. The story was more elaborate than she had imagined.

"Bors confronted Guinevere and demanded of her why she, who had the world under Arthur, would choose dishonour with Lancelot. The Queen said that though the Pendragon had given her the world, there was something the King refused to give, one Lancelot delivered without her ever asking."

"The female orgasm is no less a mystery today..."

Elvia sighed deeply.

"Sorry." Gwen fought back a chortle. At least the mood was warmer now.

Her healer ignored her and continued. "For the answer, the Queen instructed Bors to visit her kinfolk in the Enclave of Tir-Mara. Bors obliged, though he became entangled within the Fairy Circles. After wandering the woods for days, he met an old crone, who told him thus—"

"'Ye wilt ken what women want, but first yee must yield thy stubborn pride. We shall wed in the Tower 'ere thou defiled the maiden of our Grot, and this withered form, so haggard and woe-begone, shall be thy just reward.'"

"… that's fucked." Gwen tried to imagine the thirty-something Bors, a hero in the prime of his life, being made to bone a Troll hag.

"Bors, fraught with guilt, obliged. He took the old lady, who smelled half like the grave, back to Avalon. The sight of the pair was so absurd that though his nephew Lancelot was at war with Arthur, the King bade his ex-Knight to pass. There, up in the Tower, the two disrobed…"

"Erg…" Gwen was now sure Elvia was pulling her leg.

"As Bor had anticipated. The woman's visage was most foul; her skin was akin to scales, her breasts shrivelled and sapless. Bors grew so disgusted he could barely lay eyes on her— but still, he upheld the promise. In exchange for that which Guinevere refused to tell; he would bed the crone."

"Before the Knight could seal the deal, the woman halted Sir Bors. 'I will give thee a choice,' she told him. 'I can be as thee see me now so that unlike Arthur, thou wilt never fear cuckoldry. OR, thou may bed me as the woman of thine dreams, and like yer Queen, be unreined to relish the general camp as I please. What art thy choice, Sir Bors?'"

That last question was directed at her.

FUCK. Gwen gulped. She was sure there was a similar parable in her world, but she couldn't for the life of her recall the plot-twist ending. From the way the story had been contextualised though, Gwen was certain Evee was running one of her bible-psalm analogies. In this case, was Evee saying that she had to love her unconditionally? Even if Evee was an undead hag? Even if she had a fucking Yinglong nestled in her gut? And if she said yes, would Elvia swear allegiance to her alone? But what of the alternative? Was Evee declaring that, if Almudj purged the Yinglong from her by force, she would leave forever? That even if she swung Evee with her new-found limberness, the Cleric would cuckold her?

"Er… the ugly… one?" Gwen chose, she supposed, the mature choice.

Elvia shook her head sadly.

"Well, I am sorry I can't read your mind." Gwen exhaled, suddenly disquiet. When she spoke again, her tone grew weighted with burgeoning emotions. "Fine, lets cut to the chase— what do you want? Elvia?"

Elvia appeared neither upset nor disturbed by the sudden shift in her timbre.

"Sir Bors..." Her healer returned to the tale. "Sir Bors did not respond. He had spoken to so many women, listened to such suffering that the answer came to him in a flash. Bors did not choose; instead, the Knight said nothing. When the crone asked why he remained silent, Bors said that it is she who should choose. The choice was never his, and he would be a fool to think so. 'Aye', the crone toothlessly grinned back at Bors. 'Ye finally ken. What women want more than anything is that which menfolk took for granted: that which costs nought, and yet weighs more than then Avalon itself— sovereignty.'"

The sudden punchline of Elvia's parable struck Gwen like a bolt from the blue. The resentment and frustration of her heart instantly quieted, as did her rioting upset. She turned to face her friend, and Elvia's eyes, the cool blue of her friend's irises, were so tranquil and without defect that they washed over her like an icy current.

She understood. How could she not when she had excelled so readily in the Humanities across two lifetimes? Her mouth opened and closed, but her Evee had snatched her tongue and skipped down the street. Deeply, her brain dug for an excuse, something to stopper the welling of remorse driving the air from her lungs. Her quest proved futile— for her dear little Evee had perforated Gwen's pride with nothing but a simpering fable for little girls.

_Sovereignty._

How could she deny her Evee that? What kind of monstrous, tyrannical, selfish, ego-centric maniac would deny a person they love the very agency of human experience itself? Unbidden, an image of Helena floated to the fore of her mind, and Gwen suddenly felt such self-loathing that she was sick to her core.

"Shaa! Shaa!"
"EE! EE!"
"Kiki?"

Their familiars rushed back to see what had happened to their masters to cause such a disturbance, rubbing up again the girls' legs to make things right again.

"Gwen, are you alright?"
"Kiki?" Elvia's Sprite appeared concerned as well.

"I am fine…" Gwen gulped air as hungrily as a newborn fawn. "Maybe you are suited to the seminary."

"… the crone," Elvia continued in a quiet voice. "Then transformed back into her original form. It was the female elf, now maiden no more, who Bors had violated almost a decade ago. Like a babe, Bors wept in her arms, and while she cradled his head, she forgave him. Their vows would hold, she told him, and she would bear him a child so that even if he should perish in the pursuit of the Grail, his bloodline will not fade."

"I know, I know— I get it." Gwen inhaled, then exhaled. To her surprise, she felt free. "Jesus Christ… I am so sorry, Evee. I truly am."

"I know." Now facing her, the healer's hands reached up to cradle Gwen's cheeks.

Gwen allowed it to happen.

From Elvia's delicate fingertips, she felt her healer's infused mana knead her skin.

"Your mother's a wise and kind woman." Gwen found something to say. "My mother..."

"Gwen," Elvia spoke softly. "I'll be going away for a while."

"We've only hung out for two weeks," she moped. "God, I am such an idiot. Where are you going?"

"To Battle Abbey, near Hastings," Elvia said. "It's the home of the Order of the Bath."

"… I see, are you going away because of me? Because— wait, wait, wait. The hell am I even on about— Hastings?"

"Yes."

"I can fly there in an hour…"

"I'll be in intermittent reclusion," Elvia explained, biting back a laugh. "Maybe a month at a time, maybe longer, it's determined by how I take to Faith Magic— and if the Yinglong's blessings interfere with Anglican Relics. There'll be outings as well, missions of mercy elsewhere in the Commonwealth where my skills will be put to good use. Compassion is the Ordo's manifesto, after all. There's so much to do."

"Oh… so now the Yinglong gets to plague a Knight's Order. Great."

"The probation period is about a year, and the essential training at least another," Elvia said. "By then, maybe you've finished your studies at Cambridge?"

"I sure as hell hope so." Gwen inhaled in the sweet scent of her soon to be gone Elvia. "I do expect to be in England for a while, though. The Isle is a five-year project; the Newspaper's a longitudinal investment as well. I also don't know how this Magister or Tower business is going to work out in London. I guess if I can make enough Crystals; I could just refurbish one when I eventually head to the States. Over there, Crystals talk a lot louder."

"You always did look far into the future, Gwennie." Elvia's breath was sweet on her face. "I wish I could have that foresight and confidence."

Elvia let her hands fall.
Gwen felt her face flush.

"Evee…"

"Yeah?"

"Just to clarify." Her voice trembled. "Are we… calling it off?"

"Did we even begin?"

"I don't know," Gwen confessed despondently. "I told you before— I am not good at this. And I wanted to wait till you got older, more experienced."

"How about we keep being besties then?" Elvia suggested.

"Yeah, I like that." Gwen could feel the negative emotions drain from her body in the same manner as Void Mana directed into a Conjure Elemental Swarm. "Holy shit, Evee. I would love that."

"You won't be able to kiss me anymore," Elvia teased her. "Would hand-holding suffice?"

"I can't..." Gwen wanted Evee to clarify whether cheeks counted, but then she would be kidding herself. "Sure, I'll take that. There are no limits on cuddles, right? I'll come visit every so often."

"In private. It would be best to refrain in front of the Rectrix."

"The what?"

"The leader of the Order of the Bath," Elvia clarified for her. "Is Rectrix Theodora St. Claire, the former Duchess of Beaufort and Somerset."

"… That title sounds very familiar. Isn't that where Mathias is from?"

"Yeah, she's a Rothwell. Emily and Mattie's aunt." Elvia sniggered. "Britain is a small world."

"A little too small." Gwen moped. "And claustrophobic."

Unsure of what else to say, Gwen sat holding her healer's hands for a while longer, basking in the cathartic silence. Could the Order of the Bath straighten out the Yinglong? She couldn't help but wonder. The Order of St George was, after all, a brethren order of Dragon-killers.

"Gwennie." Elvia's hand found hers once more. "The story I told you— I am serious."

"I know, I know…"

"If one day in the future, I chose to do something and you despise my choices... Promise me that you won't dismiss me out of hand and treat me like a dolly. You have to open your eyes and see. You have to listen."

"Yeah. I get it."

"I don't think you do."

"I do. I promise to respect your sovereignty."

"You must swear."

"Okay." Gwen arched both brows. Her Evee could be difficult and stubborn, so it seemed. "If you're taking this THAT seriously. I swear on my Astral Soul that I will carefully consider your choices and not get mad at you for no reason. I promise to listen before I make a decision."

"Thank you." Elvia's voice grew low; her eyes grew moist.

"Whoa, whoa." Gwen held Elvia's shoulders. "Chill, Evee. Why are you crying of all things?"

Her Elvia was in tears. It wasn't the first time she had seen Elvia sob, but it was undoubtedly the strangest. "I'll respect and love you, as a friend, alright? The best of friends. Did I not swear? Jesus— you've infected me, now I am choking up. Are you going to take responsibility, pay with a cuddle?"

"Ee... Eeee..." Ariel nuzzled the Cleric.
"Shaa!" Caliban sang a little song while coiled against Gwen's ankles.
"Kiki!" the Alarune cooed.

Pushing her away, the Cleric wiped away her shame. "Gwennie. I am hungry."

Gwen checked her Message device. "… holy cows, we've been at this for two hours!"

"I want..." Elvia blew her nose. "I want to eat curry. Spicy curry. Hot enough to make me _hurt."_

"Okay, curry it is." Gwen patted Elvia's head. "My shout. Did you know Petra's here? In London? I'll get her and Richard as well, though I do feel sorry for Pats."

"Why?" Elvia looked up, and her newly freshened face was enough to fill Gwen's chest with profound happiness.

"Well." Gwen stroked her washboard abdomen. "Petra's a bit sensitive to curry… it gives her the er— _whimpers._ But that's fine. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, right?"