October was heating up for the folk of Oxbridge's Academic Board, whose august members possessed three opinions on the matter of "Magister Gwen Song" and her rise to prominence.

The first was the working crew of academics responsible for the university's certification examination, honest in their opinion that Provisional Magister Song had demonstrated ample ability to bring prosperity to a small dominion.

The second faction had ties to the IoDNC's balance sheets and demanded to know if any other Magisterial candidate had accrued as much _credit_ as Magister Gwen Song. Their argument held that Gwen was the one who motivated the report, " _A Hypothesis on Elemental Flux on regional Climates, Change and its Consequences_ ," an achievement enough to elevate her title to that of _provisional_ Meisterhood. They likewise pointed out that Magister Song was already the author of no less than twenty-seven papers on Void Magic, co-authored by Magister Maxwell Brown of Emmanuel's College and others in Peterhouse. Her Author Citation Index: cited the pro-Gwen faction, matched scholars like Meister Petrie Higgs, responsible for the Conjuration formulae employed in the spatial magic that enabled Humanity's partnership with Dwarven low-ways. For that reason, there was no sense that Oxbridge should gift Gwen a mere Black Gown and not the Scarlet Sash, signalling one whose contributions outstripped her contemporaries.

The final faction opposed awarding _provisional_ Magister Song anything other than the non-hooded Magus Gown for basic graduation. In their eyes, the young War Mage was just that—a loose canon. She was not an academic. She did not contribute personally to the human body knowledge of Spellcraft, and her recent achievements were more suited to civil service than academia. Even if the girl was capable of a plethora of sorcery, her craft was taught or inherited rather than discovered. Ergo, a Meisterhood was absurd, and a Magisterhood was already the limit of the committee's greatest allowances.

Additionally, the conservatives complained loudly—the girl had missed her welcoming party and its impromptu viva voce. The entire panel had awaited her arrival, hoping to hear from the horses' mouth its defence of the events presented by Maxwell Brown on her behalf, only to be left out in the cold. Worse still, a rumour even had it that she had spent the night at an abbey in Battle with the Ordo Bath! Such zealot-like behaviour was the antithesis of Oxbridge's academic and pragmatic-minded modernity. If the girl wanted to dabble in Faith Magic, let her join an Ordo. Then, the academic circles could wash their hands clean of her corruptive, money-grubbing influence and return to business as usual.

The debate was well-argued until the point of Gwen's economic clout, framed as the "stink of HDMs that wreath her like a crown..." was brought up for the third time.

At this point, a member of the audience, Lady Grey, the Marchioness of Ely, reminded the genteel committee that she remained Cambridge's largest landlord and was also a major shareholder of Magister Song's IoDNC. She informed them that the forgiving rent on Cambridge's enormous grounds was a rude subject for a refined audience. That and she was not pleased by the politics involved in confirming her protègè. With the voice of a stern nanny, she informed the grumpy men that no Magisterial confirmation may be impromptu and that all merit, in the eyes of the university, is apolitical. She did not wish to impact their decision, though the county's outgoings had been increasing of late.

After that, even without a body being present, _Magister_ Gwen Song's provisional confirmation concluded with a supermajority.

What was left to confirm was the official confirmation itself and the candidate's final biometrics, for her Mastery of the different schools of magic would determine the number of silks she wore over her all-blacks, such as azure for Conjuration, crimson for Evocation, Tyrian for Transmutation, and so on.

At any rate, what had been a stunt remained just that—for the girl had already missed the June graduation ceremony, and her moment of publicity would have to wait until the middle of '07, even if Gwen were to assume official duties on the morrow.

Indifferent to the board's turmoil, the soon-to-be officialised Magister Song was far too busy to worry about the misguided politics of a college.

Once Gwen had recharged her sanity, she returned to the Isle of Dogs to oversee the paperwork taxing Eric Walken's sanity. Thankfully, the lion's share of her catch-up labour required her signature rather than judgement, a formality Walken had left for her to shoulder, possibly out of spite. Concurrently, she concluded an interview with the METRO, giving Lorenzo the rest of her lumen captures Richard and Petra had taken of the refugees around the various places she had visited, delivering stern remarks for the troubles to come. After that, she checked in on her Dwarven allies, most of whom had now returned home via the fully functional Dyar Morkk transit station below the Isle of Dogs, now overseen by "Station Master" Hanmoul.

As far as Gwen could discern, the station was the sort of Brutalist engineering marvel seen only in old-world fantasy epics. Separated into three sectors and almost twenty levels, the ant city "node" connected London's ley-lines with that of re-activated Dwarven Low-ways throughout Wales and Scotland, creating a series of Pocket Planes that compressed space. To travel from London to Merthyr Tydfil in Wales was four hours by crow-flight and almost seven hours by land transit. Now, twenty minutes was all it took for a "Low-way Tram" to navigate the same distance. While the process remained incomparable to Teleportation, the core premise of the Dyar Morkk was the ease of transporting heavy materials without additional cost in mana—an arcane secret Humanity had yet to unlock.

For this reason, the "Dwarven Subway Station" conjoining Canary Wharf and the London Underground was undoubtedly the most important infrastructural addition to London since its original transit routes were constructed.

As a result, employment at all levels on the Isle of Dogs had grown almost ten-fold, as had the land price of the surrounding suburbs, as well as the interest expressed by the Mageocracy and its allies' corporations in establishing a base of operations on the Isle.

Quite literally, what had begun as a farm and a slag swamp only years ago, was now the most sort-after commercial real estate in recent years.

All who had initially invested in the Isle of Dog, or were given principle shares during its inception, were now speechless. Some, such as the Marchioness of Ely and the American Lady Astor, cooly accepted that their wealth had increased by degrees and margins that were _generational_ in scale. Early investors like Richard Huang, who had been paid in shares and salary, now looked into purchasing manors in Knightsbridge or Mayfair—areas with unexpected vacancies thanks to the troubles of the Militant nobilities' finances. Others, such as the Isle's initial Mage employees, could repay their tuition ten times over. Even the humble NoM folk who had opted for limited shares from the Isle's first phase offering were now poised to hold enough capital to make a Senior Magus weep—a dangerous circumstance for those untethered to power.

Conversely, three days after her arrival, the architect of London's wealth left the city to finally grace herself in front of Oxbridge's Magisterial panel, who had burning questions on their plate to serve her. Like a choir, her proctors' inquiries boomed across the vaulted ceilings in the great hall of Peterhouse.

"Do you mean that… it is by your connection to… the Elder One… that you hypothesised the climate changes brought about by the Elementals?"

Their questions were ones which Maxwell Brown, her lecturer, co-author and ally, had already answered over and over without satisfaction—the question of _why a Frontier sorceress knew of Climate Change when all the Queen's Mages and Magisters_ could not construct a whole picture. After all, all of Gwen's predictions came true. The Fire Sea _was_ an experiment of sorts in changing the climate of the Caspian. The assault on the poles _was_ an extension of the same principle—now ratified by Zordiam's Legions. The Elves _had_ been blindsided by the prospect of what Spectre was willing to sacrifice to accomplish—and in their limited success, the world was now thrown into an inexplicable, unpredictable chaos, making it ripe for subversive anarchy.

Again, all of this was predicted by a Frontier sorceress with only a few years of university education.

Even if Meister Engela Bekker had proposed the outcome, the pioneering Eugenicist would have still been scrutinised by her peers.

Yet, an un-titled Gwen Song had delivered a ludicrous warning—

Then, a bank-breaking military Expedition had set sail for the North Pole.

Then somehow, House Ravenport funded yet another Expedition for the South Pole.

AND THEN—both had returned with the news that INDEED, there _was_ Elemental interference in the Axis Mundi and that what could be fixed had been repaired. But still, the lax security would precipitate a tough decade of global chaos.

If one could trace Gwen's involvement throughout the events, they would have thought that perhaps, Magister Gwen Song was a member of Delphi's Oracles. Even the Oracle herself, a known prophetess, had not come to nearly foresee as much detail as a twenty-something Void Mage from Sydney.

Hence, many were curious to know even the vaguest answers from their soon-to-be-minted Magister.

To her credit, Gwen had already prepared several misdirections to rationalise her otherworldly insight: from the works of old Magisters and Meister who had studied the Axis Mundi to citing the unconfirmed labours of her Master, Henry Kilroy, to finally heaping credit on Almudj the Rainbow Mythic.

Though stern, the session was not intended to pry—nor coerce. In all likelihood, the sitting Magisters knew her form-fitting ankle-length jeggings were on fire—not that it mattered. According to Brown, her confirmation was all but concluded, and the process was merely a formality.

As pragmatic men, the panel accepted the casualty of truth for the gift of her service. Thereby, she and the committee danced the quadrille until the questions were exhausted, and the final lines of her service to the _Greater Good_ of Humanity were customarily asked.

"Do you, candidate Gwen Song, concur that your advancement of Spellcraft shall benefit Humanity in the years of your service as a Sanctioned Magister of the Commonwealth Mageocracy?"

As a tradition, the basic expectation was that a candidate would uphold Humanity's interests in a just and moral manner. The open nature of the question was deliberate, as both qualities were malleable and highly contextual.

"I shall," the soon-to-be ratified Magister Gwen Song verified her best intentions. "I shall always endeavour to achieve the greater good, that all parties may profit from cooperation."

The committee murmured their agreement. "There is one more addition. What shall be your coda to your juniors, Magister Song?"

The final formality was for the books. Over the centuries, many Magisters have left timeless mottos recited by subsequent generations. Brown had forewarned Gwen that such a flair would be added to her records at Cambridge and that though inconsequential, it should be done with _style._ Considering that her Magisterhood was based upon the proof of the necessity of intervention in matters of the Axis Mundi, Gwen had only one particular phrase in mind—one as arrogant as it was truthful. __

“ _Quod Erat Demonstrandum._ ” Her reply must have raised every brow in the theatre.

Her Magisters in question nodded their agreement. QED, the conclusion of the Polar incident was as she had predicted, and so was the rapidly evolving matter of the refugees and the disruption of the Mageocracy's economic framework of colonial Frontiers and first-tier cities.

After her hour-long viva, Gwen was escorted by Magister Brown back to Peterhouse's working section, where her spectrometric reading was to take place.

For the common Magus or Magister in a lesser institution, the readings would have been presented to the committee as a measure of their worthiness. For a Magister graduate from Oxbridge, achievements were deemed worthier than mere prowess in magic, as candidates with meaningful research were rarer than Battle Mages. Conversely, Gwen was an odd egg within Cambridge's walls. She was an import and a Combat Mage more fitting for the alumni of London Imperial, whose graduates were well noted for possessing some of the highest combat prowess in the Mageocracy.

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Thereby, as the scion of Kilroy and a War Mage of the Shard, her true biometrics was a subject of classification, known only to the highest members of the military order and the Tower.

When the door to the familiar lab slid open soundlessly, she was greeted by the pleasant face of Gracie Hillbrook.

"QUACK!" Before Gwen could react, a massive yellow-billed face instantly snuggled up to her and wrapped its enormous neck around her waist, transforming her into a Carnival float-girl.

"Dede!" Gwen kissed the duck on the bill. "My, you've grown smaller! Did you learn a new trick?"

"Quack!" The duck made its intentions known.

"Alright—alright!" Gwen slathered a palmful of Essence down the duck's reciprocating bill, then conjured forth a happy Ariel, who began running circles around the colourful drake.

After several bouts of "Quack!" and "EE—EE!" The Familiar and duck were ushered from the laboratory into Peterhouse's gardens.

Finally, Gwen was able to address her friend of two years.

"Magister Song!" Gracie clutched her data pad while wearing an expression of a star-struck rock fan. "Y-you're finally back!"

"Gracie! My goodness… you look…" Gwen could not help but feel a warm gush of gladness infuse her mana conduits, for it had taken her several seconds to ascertain that, indeed, this was the same Void Mage. "Amazing! And don't you start! It's _Gwen_ to you, Magus Hillbrook!"

When Gwen had left, Gracie was nearing the breaking point of her Affinity for Conjuration to use the Conjure Familiar spell to find herself something akin to Caliban or Jean-Paul's Umzokwe. She had left the girl plenty of Essence-infused Maotai as backup, and Brown was acting as the overseer of his and Gwen's great experiment to "stabilise" the health of a growing Void Mage. Still, Gracie had appeared like a lost cousin to The Addams Family, both ghastly in her complexion and dour in her introverted fatalism.

Now, the girl was the most hale she had ever seen, with rosy cheeks adorning a woman the bloom of her college days.

"It's all thanks to you." Gracie curtsied at first, then stopped and bowed. "We found a suitable Familiar for me! I can source my vitality now, Gwen. _Thank you so much._ "

" _Quod Erat Demonstrandum."_ Brown chuckled. "I did promise that _reconstitution_ was possible with your Master's Method, the very same he did for Sobel and yourself. So, what do you think, Magister Song? Pleased with your research? I did submit the papers with you and me as principal authors."

Gwen couldn't help but walk a circle around the white-robed Gracie. After her depression at sea, Gracie's happiness was amazing news that delivered a jolt of Radiance to dispel her lightless months in the Antarctic.

"There's no biting fish yet—" Her former tutor spoke again after she and Gracie burned a few minutes to catch up. "But we are expecting others like Gracie shortly. Once we stabilise Gracie's condition in a longitudinal sense, I suspect the universities of the central continent will grow desperate, that and I wouldn't put it past Meister Bekker to possess another stock of students like Jean-Paul, only without JP's luck."

What Brown meant, Gwen knew well, was something she had entirely overlooked for Gracie's sake, the use of Soul Tap on her peers to _save_ them from themselves, enslaving their Astral Souls to gift them a portion of vitality via Sympathetic Soul-Link. In Brown's research, the breaking point of Void-vitality equilibrium could not be reached without explicit design. All naturally occurring Void Mages would invariably perish unless they possess a high Affinity for Conjuration from birth. Even so, they must achieve a sufficient tier to use the Conjure Familiar spell. Then, they must cycle through Familiars until a suitable creature could be farmed or found, with the caveat that each instance a new Familiar was conjured or abandoned, the caster suffered enough feedback to self-destruct.

Gracie's new best friend, the girl had summoned, was a Void-subtype Gastropoda dubbed the "Abyssal Conch", something between a land snail and a carrion crawler. The Familiar was purchased at the Grey Faction's Auction thanks to Lady Astor's many-talented tentacles. And Gracie was lucky enough to find compatibility with the creature, who felt enough Affinity to fall into her service.

Thus far, the Void-slime-secreting snail was the size of a house cat. It fed ravenously on high-vitality ingredients and was principally a nocturnal hunter that silently "grazed" on prey by oozing paralysing digestive juices over its sleeping victims. As per her usual greeting, Gwen gave the creature a helping boost by sharing some of her Essence, making its owner shudder and flush a healthy scarlet.

Gwen wanted Caliban to meet its cousin and see if the two might build a friendship, but her Familiar remained unattentive. Even conjured, Cali presented itself as an inert black mass.

A few minutes later, with Gracie's aide, Gwen stood dutifully in her gown and channelled her various Schools of Magic into the sterile instruments. At the same time, Brown made his recordings known, reading them out once for himself and again for Gracie to punch into the records.

"Evocation… 6.99."

"Conjuration… 6.99."

“Transmutation…5.99.”

The already silent room grew quieter somehow.

"Your Affinity is better than mine by a tier," Brown read the scripts, looked up at Gwen with an awkward grimace, and then read the white slips again. "Just how much did you fight over the six months?"

"There was a small continent of Undead Mermen." Gwen did not wish to recollect her six months too vividly. Less pleasant memories were best kept buried if she cared about her mental health. "Did you read the report?"

"Three Month inland, two months breaking through the blockade?" Brown nodded. "Daily fighting?"

"We fought like Dwarves. Sometimes up to sixty or more hours." Gwen felt her chest grow cold as muscle memories reflexively re-lived those moments. "The Undead Kraken took us a month, one tentacle at a time. Luring it out, fighting its Shoal, thinning its vanguards, flank guards, royal guards, _strewth,_ give me a live Kraken any day. Thank God it couldn't regenerate well enough to keep fighting or was intelligent enough to abandon its post."

"And that it had no Lich to support or command it," Brown reminded Gwen of her world-famous achievement. "What a stroke of genius it was to use Caliban on the Ziggurat."

"It was. As for the aftermath..." Gwen made a genuine gagging motion. "You cannot believe the smell. It seeps into everything. Even now, I am sure there are residue strands of Necrotic mana in my Astral Soul. You know, I burned everything replaceable that I took with me on the expedition."

"Of course," Brown continued. "Abjuration… 5.22."

"Wow." Gracie's fingers were white with tension. "Gwen, you're amazing."

"Divination… 2.50."

"Illusion… 4.01."

"Enchantment… 4.45."

"Gwen.. you're a _bonafide_ Omni-Mage!" If Gracie's pupils could glow, they would have lit up like Faith relics.

"I am relieved your other magics remain within the realm of mortals," Magister Brown joked. "In that combination, however, I am not sure if you're still Human, Gwen."

"I feel… _Human_ ," Gwen assured them.

"Well, we'll know if your ears start to elongate." Brown made sure to glance at her ears, making Gwen conscious enough to touch them. "And your… other Affinity, the one gifted by your unusual diet—"

Gwen's ears perked up.

"Do you wish to know?"

"What's not to like?" Gwen shrugged. "At this point, I am invested."

"6.99." Brown read out the number. "I shall refrain from commenting on your private relationship with your Master's designs, so let's move on. Now… your Affinity for the Elements. Let's see—"

The machine quickly spat out a new script as if equally eager to move on.

"Lightning is at 7.99… inclusive of Ariel's current supplementation, its reading… is 8.54. A bit on the low side."

"Yes. That's less than I imagined." To the horror of the examiners, Gwen had the gall to complain.

"You need to advance your Kirin's purity," Brown noted her dissatisfaction. "Higher order Cores, perhaps import a few from your Draconic connections?"

Gwen quickly thought of Golos' gift from the Frost Wyrm, then dismissed it promptly lest she grew tempted to take a friend's existential prospect to evolve her pet. "How about Caliban?"

"Assuming its dormancy does not impact its Affinity boost…" Brown pulled the script through his fingers. "Ah, there it is—6.33 for your base Affinity, and Caliban is adding… my God… a whopping 1.3—for a total of 7.63. That's an ENORMOUS growth, Gwen. Since your Lightning is already there, you should know that the difference between tier 6 and 7 are magnitudes apart."

Gwen exhaled. With Caliban in its current state, she had suspected that there would be significant growth on the part of her partner. After all, the Necromancy Cabal was the single largest "feast" Caliban had the pleasure of imbibing.

"We'll have to run tests… a lot of tests…" Brown appeared like a giddy child on Boxing Day. "And finally… yes, I did suspect this. Your VMI, young Magister, is now registering over 500. Five hundred and _three_ , to be precise. Congratulations, Gwen. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, you are now counted within the top ten percentile of all Magisters in the Mageocracy. How does that make you feel?"

"Good?" Gwen answered from the changing room, switching back to her jean-blouse combo. Her clothes, one of her remaining innocent passions, were now a year out of date and potentially polluted. When she had the opportunity again, she would have to take Petra, Lulan and Gracie to raid Harrods for the latest and the greatest. Arguably, a woman of largesse like herself could take the ISTC down to Le Bon Marché Rive Gauche in Paris, though having Military Police escort her shopping spree was excessive even for Magister Song.

"Would you wish to know why your readings are ending with .99?" Brown asked when she emerged, one hand dexterously tying her voluminous hair and the other browsing through a spare data slate held with a Mage Hand.

"I do." She had wondered about that.

"You lack the Spellcraft to push past the meniscus of Affinity growth." Brown tapped the top of the data slate. "Are we on the same page?"

"My spells are too simple to facilitate a breakthrough?"

Brown raised his hands to make the sign for _six_. "At its most complex, you've got Maelstrom and Blade Barrier for Evocation. You have no spells at the sixth tier for Conjuration beyond Planar Ally. What of Transmutation? The highest order of spells you've mastered is Sympathetic Life-Link at the fourth tier. Your... Necromancy is ironically doing better than five other Schools of Magic thanks to Soul Fire..."

"I see…"

"It's a little incredible and also insulting to know that you're knocking on the door of the Seventh-Tier, and you don't have a single Seventh-tier spell." Brown pinched the bridge of his nose, then extended a hand to count by the fingers as if labelling fruits for a toddler. "Elemental Eruption, Dimensional Jaunt, Force Cage, Prismatic Spray, Elemental Avatar, Adaptation, the options are almost limitless. Between your three principal Schools of Magic, I can scarcely imagine what the future holds."

"I see…" Gwen gulped. "Keep in mind my Affinity is a condition, not a natural talent. Let's take it slow. I don't envy a misfire or mana feedback from the seventh tier."

"Fine. Even so, new spells like Elemental Examiner and Hellfire Scorcher at the upper sixth tier would augment your current firepower against the type of foes you regularly challenge." Brown shook his head. "Yes, I know, the spells beyond the sixth tier are rare, of course, and expensive, but so are you."

"Yes," Gwen conceded that her tutor was right. "I need new spells. And more lessons."

"That you do." Brown sighed. "This brings up our next problem. The world is burning as we speak—according to you. Do you have time for more lessons? "

Gwen sighed as well. "No."

Brown looked her up and down, then cocked his head. "Then we must maximise your time before you're sent off on another assignment. Evocation, Transmutation and Conjuration, hmm—say, have you ever heard of Morden's Blade?"

Gwen nodded. She had not only heard of the spell but had seen it employed first-hand by none other than her Master's wife.

"Considering your lack of specialised giant slaying spells, I would look toward Scotland and see if you can solicit the spell from the Greyhawk Citadels of Suilven. For the foes you had faced—Dragon Turtles and whatnot, there's nothing more efficient than a non-strategic Tier 7 slaying spell. Unfortunately, those Fomorian-slaying Scotsmen are not very friendly toward us, considering their stance on independence—"

_Morden…_ It was still a moment of wonder to Gwen that The Bloom herself had confided in her of her Master's true origin as the direct descendent of Archmage Morden. According to the ageless Hvítálfar, the current IMS, or _Imperial Magic System_ , was born from Henry forcibly donating his grandfather's legacy to the Mageocracy, erecting its Towers and instructing its future generations. If a scion of Kilroy was to approach the scions of Morden to ask for Signature magic…

Gwen drew a deep, uncertain breath.

She wanted the spell that Sobel used and had lamented its absence in her Master's treasure trove of Necromancy notes. To swing the same blade to cut down Elizabeth's Spectre allies and gut her plans from chest to groin...would be _sublime_. Nothing short o that could absolve the limitless misery she had been forced to witness—forced to _triage_.

In that case, what was the harm if she wished to purchase a copy of a spell her Master would have one day taught?

At best… she deeply suspected there wouldn't be a discount. At worst... what could Henry's family do other than deny her?


Scotland.

Suilven.

The Greyhawk Citadels.

Within the grand hall of the Tower of Elements hung the world's first and largest man-made orrery.

It was here, in the heart of Spellcraft, that Arch-Mage Morden pierced the Astral Planes' veils to fathom the Prime Material's stratum. For the citadel's students, the orrery has always been the centre of its quasi-magical decor, a wonder that, through overexposure, had grown mundane.

It was also a wholly accurate depiction of the present state of Astrophysical cartography, a fact of pride for the Greyhawkian students, who would regale every visitor with the fact that their orrery was handcrafted by Morden centuries ago.

Arch-Mage Morden!

A being of legend whose achievements brought about modern Spellcraft. Yet, if one questioned the college's custodians on Morden's contemporary relevance, the speakers' tones would grow reticent.

Situated atop the heart of Assynt's cnoc-and-loch landscape, the citadel's history was as complicated as its encircling cliffs, bluffs and lakes.

The first was the press-printed truth, in which Morden's descendants opened Morden's theorems to the rest of the western world, ushering in the age of the Imperial Spellcraft System. Thanks to it, the _Magic of Industries_ came to be, first revitalising the wayward empires of Humanity, then leading them into the pitfall of Necromancy. Yet, despite setbacks, the net gain of the IMS was self-evident, as Humanity had clawed its way to the top of the food chain and established the most widespread race of terrestrial _beings_ to inhabit terra's continents.

The second was a tale known only to its direct inheritors—that Morden did produce an heir with his aptitude—only to have the heir sell out the Tower's secrets for some fantastical dream of utopia. From this _heretic_ —this traitor of blood—came the Towers, each an inexact copy of Morden's peerless citadel, tethered together by terra's ley lines like ramshackle ships huddling in the face of an eternal storm.

Within these rare halls of the Greyhawk Tower, its Magisters, the custodians of Morden's knowledge, now debated.

The matter was regarding the heretic's Apprentice, a young woman named Magister Gwen Song of Sydney, whose home Tower was The Shard. Her origins made her British in their eyes, and no true Scotsmen would allow a British Magister the easy luxury of plucking an upper-tier sorcery of Morden's make like cabbage from a market.

Dean Ross McKay, Master of the Tower of Elements, believed that the girl was an investment which could mend the unhappy politics between the the "Free City" of Suilven and The Shard.

Magister Sebastian Moore, of the Morden purists, led the coalition which opposed having any association with the Scion of the Heretic, lest more of the Tower's hearth treasures be embezzled from its vaults.

Magister Cora Hogg, responsible for modernising the Tower's interests in the epoch of the Mageocracy, argued that the spells requested by the heretic's Apprentice should be delivered—but the costs should be paid both by its user and in concessions from The Shard. After all, they were sharpening a sword that would never directly benefit Suilven, while their spells could only be given away once.

The recently appointed Student Council President—Slylth McAllister Morden, was the final member of note who observed the paralysed debate.

With great deliberation, the young man slowly leaned toward the Dean's ear and whispered his wishes.

Visibly, the dispassionate Dean, who had grown tired of the ceaseless dissension, straightened his ancient spine.

The others ceased their minutes and waited for the Dean to speak.

Their gaze also fell upon the youthful Slylth, a boy of sixteen summers.

That the Dean would give weight to a child's words was a bit ridiculous for an institution as steeped in tradition as Suilven, but the boy was a Morden. A _Morden_ who appeared as if from thin air, but one verified by the surviving members of the bloodline and given ethos by the word of a Demi-God.

The "Demi-God" in question was Alexander Morden, the sixth generation of his line, the last Magi of the Citadel. Since the Pan-European War, the century-old Magi had slumbered in his domain deep within the Dungeon-Citadel of Greyhawk, seldom sensible to the mortal matters of the real world.

Four years ago, with the boy's arrival, the citadel's administrative staff had received a rare edict from the citadel's Dungeon depth.

_"This is my Scion. Pay heed to him as you would a fruit of mine loins."_

There was no doubt where the proposal came from, though the message was both cryptic and nonsensical. However, none in the citadel questioned it, for the Divination had come straight from the horse's mouth.

Thankfully, the boy was as advertised. As would be expected of one from Morden's line, Slylth was a natural Mage, talented beyond comprehension, possessing no barriers to any particular Schools of Magic except for a genuine dislike for Illusion and Divination.

A Fire Mage, the boy also possessed Affinity for Elemental Magma and Radiance. Without a doubt, this particular "Morden" was a triple-talented genius of the century that any institution would jealously guard with militant zealousness.

Additionally, while one would expect the young man to be aloof and uninterested in the college's business like many of Morden's research-obsessed scions, the lad proved charismatic and ambitious.

Within months, he had won the support of the student body. His studies had grown just as quickly. Having begun elementary magic in the first year, the boy mastered multiple tiers of sorcery in Evocation, Transmutation and Abjuration within the first two trimesters, allowing him to graduate from the role of an Acolyte within six-month of his admission.

By his second year, Slylth was ready to quest with his seniors, providing his party with greater firepower than a military Mage Flight.

Now in his fourth year, there was little doubt the college was grooming Slylth for leadership, envisioning a future where, once more, a "Morden" shall lead the Greyhawk Citadel's attempts at finding independence from the Commonwealth.

The Dean spoke once more. "The _heretic_ has been judged by his sins—and so ends our grievance with him. Be it weal or woe, we cannot alienate his young Apprentice as we did the heretic' first. That was a regret we never rectified. Magister Song has done great things and brought fortuitous warnings for future tidings. Though we cannot accept her as our own, her service should be rewarded."

Magister Sebastian Moore, his white beard bristling with unhappiness, appeared unmoved. "She is a _Void Mage_. We've seen how the heretic's pet has impacted the world. Who can say it was for the better? Humanity may appear powerful, but this _front_ of power is a Japanese screen—as thin as the Mageocracy's overstretched resources, which shrink as we speak. Now, we no longer share the land with the other races—the Mageocracy, be it here or in the New World, are festering sores on a weak, dying king."

"Again, Sebastian, you speak as if our home is afloat on the aether streams of the Ethereal Plane, untethered to the Prime Material. Whatever feelings our people possess for the theft of our craft and knowledge, we are loci to the Axis Mundi. The growth of the outside world has benefited us well. When was the last time we suffered a great defeat against The Wild Hunt? How many students of yours have perished against the Fomori in the last decade? A dozen? No more than you can count on both hands. How many of our generation are left, in comparison? Do you realise we can count that number with both hands as well? _Why is that,_ I wonder?" The retort from Magister Cora Hogg was enough to keep the conservative Magister's bile contained.

"Well said." The Dean motioned for the speakers to rest. "On another note. I think this is a matter best dealt with by the next generation. Slylth suggests we meet the girl to gauge her mind and mettle. Our Slylth is a prodigy, and by all accounts, so is their young War Mage. Perhaps they will have a more meaningful conversation than we old men and women, hmm?"

The two Magisters regarded the smiling young man with the ruffled, rusted hair. There was very little likeness to Morden there. For one, the man wasn't losing a single strand of his hair, while the Arch-Mage was as powerful as he was bald.

The young man gave them a pleasant smile. Having seen the boy grow into a young man over the last half-decade, his lecturers found themselves unable to disappoint the sunny fellow, feeling like a refusal was akin to kicking a grinning wolfhound.

"That's settled, then." The Dean clapped, signalling the end of their emergency meeting. "I leave the matter of Magister Song in the capable hands of our young Magus."

London.

The Isle of Dogs.

In an epoch few still recall, the Isle of Dogs docklands once played home to a great influx, and then exodus, of refugees. When the Kingdom's domains in the west fell to the Wild Hunt in the Beast Tide brought on by Vynssarion Coal Eyes, a quarter of Dublin had to be evacuated lest the city fell in its entirety. The operation, dubbed the Dublin Exodus, took the effort of every merchant, naval and private vessel the nation could muster.

For Magister Gwen Song, now hovering mid-air, she was reminded of another time, another world, of Syrian refugees traversing the Mediterranean in the hundreds of thousands, of the lone boy whose body washed up in the surf.

But the city was no longer willing to cut these ships the necessary slack.

In July, the nation's attitude toward these Frontiersmen and women had been sympathy and sorrow. These were, at their core, citizens of the Mageocracy. They had worked their meagre lives in their mundane ways to provide the resources necessary to keep the Mageocracy's great gears oiled and turning, and now it was time for the citizens to open their hearts and wallets.

Gwen understood very well that the attitude was buoyed in part by a misunderstanding caused by Gunther. When Sydney fell, many refugees came to London and other European cities willing to take their quota. When Gunther reclaimed Sydney, eradicated the Mermen, made peace of a kind and began to transform Sydney into a tier 1 capital, the displaced Australians returned to their homeland and brought relatives and friends.

Ergo, when the climate-related catastrophe began, even the conservative papers fielded the narrative that these refugees would be settled somewhere in the Kingdom and then happily return to their homelands once the fires died down.

Come October, when the promise of the un-intrusive de-materialising refugees failed to occur and, in fact, resulted in MORE ships than formerly predicted, the Sun Herald and the Telegraph found their audience.

_Refugees and soaring crime!_

_Rogue Mages assault the NoMs locals!_

_Low-skilled Sorcerers from the Frontier are taking the honest jobs of our home-grown lads!_

Perhaps it was because she had experienced it all before.

Perhaps it was the power, wealth and influence she now wielded as a sanctioned Magister.

She was supposed to be an objective observer, but Gwen felt mired by the scene below.

In her old world, the same sights had seemed so removed. She was in Sydney, the beach was hot, and the azure ocean was cool. The "boat people" of the world were far away, existing as phantasms on the daytime telly.

Now, they were underfoot, the marching, milling thongs of miserable faces from the Mageocracy's everywhere, each worse worn than the next. The splendour of London was blinding to most of them; this idea that a utopia existed so close when their whole lives had been toil and survival.

"Richard," Gwen asked the stoic figure beside her, equally drinking the sight below in silence. "How many more placements do we have left?"

"The IoDNC prepared Fifteen thousand spaces, mostly for women and children, on the Isle of Sheppey. Beyond that, I do believe the Marchioness' generosity will reach its end. Currently, there are _twenty thousand plus_ refugees taking shelter."

It took Gwen several seconds to realise she'd been gritting her teeth. "How's Elvia's sanctuary?"

Her poor Evee had thrown herself into the crisis like a martyr to a pyre. They were not a kilometre separated, yet she hadn't seen Elvia other than in mass-blessing ceremonies.

"Overcapacity by half." Richard's tone remained unaffected. "We can manage with our resources, but it isn't a long-term solution. The Ordo's additional manpower won't last past the next shipment."

Her cousin's words were a harsh reality and a new experience for Gwen. In business, in a successful acquisition, she rarely worried about the dispossessed workers. Those with marketable skills would take their severance and find better work within weeks. Those with outdated abilities would take a pay cut. As for those without the means, they were never meant to be a part of a lean, operational corporation with thirsty shareholders.

Unfortunately for all, these sad boatloads were not companies, stocks, or parcels of profitability. They were losses in the most drastic and obscene manner imaginable.

Having studied her share of NGO documentaries, Gwen knew her "dock" side of the catastrophe was already a model effort in sifting the refugees from London's shores. Taking her experience from Shalkar, she immediately summoned the Mage-power necessary to process the merchant vessels whose protocol had been to save all stricken ships at sea.

At the docks, a small platoon of Ordo Clerics had energised the tired mobs with "Bless" and "Mass Healing Word", affording them the health and morale to line up and be registered by the government clerks sent to record the influx. Elvia's soup kitchen had tripled its temporary hires, paying premium wages to local bodies to mass-produce soup, rice and bread batches, further fortifying the survivors' patience.

After the new arrivals were sorted into NoMs and Mages, each group went their separate ways. The Shard had a special holding area where the Mages would be given further testing, questions, and jobs and placements. The remaining NoMs were given to fate—meaning understaffed government agencies—or were abandoned to the designs of privateer charities like Elvia's religious entity or Gwen's pragmatic camps.

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

Somewhere within the city's myriad power brokers, she was certain that Humanity's more destructive instincts, like in Blackheath, were on full display—though that was not her duty or jurisdiction, at least for now.

"Should we land among the new arrivals?" Richard asked.

Gwen shook her head. Even if she did land for a photo-op, what would that prove? The METRO was already doing its utmost to garner charity and support, fighting the Telegraph tooth-and-nail to paint a brighter picture than the Sun Herald could conceive.

But she could not promise these folk a brighter future.

Here in this dark valley, there is only loss.

The loss of social and economic capital.

The loss of political capital.

And the loss of human dignity.

These folk, who had homes and futures months ago, now crowded upon the merchant ships like humanoid snails, carrying their life's proceeds in a new place that imagined them akin to a temporary rash that would go away with a soothing balm.

A day earlier, when desperation had overthrown hope and unrest was at hand, she had sent Lulan with her leftover contingent of Shadow Mages to keep the peace. The idea of a private militia did not sit well with her, but nothing quite inspired discipline like Lulan standing on the upper dock, shading the agitators with floating slabs of humming iron.

For now, the new refugees obeyed the curfews put in place.

But like their predecessors from July, boredom will take root.

Then desperation.

Followed by anger.

In economics, the situation was a death spiral.

Jobs required industry.

Work required homes.

Homes require space.

Spaces had to be secure.

Security required costs.

Costs required jobs.

And every process must generate profit to create a cycle of sustainability. _And_ an uncertain volume of refugees _must_ be abandoned out of the unempathetic, statistical logos of resource limitations.

And despite all of this, she had other interests that must be pursued, lovely distractions that would take her away from the headache below as easily as her Flight.

Food, opportunity, home, none are luxuries, not even for the NoMs of London. With time, the meagre kindness of the nation would appear as cruelty, ignorance, and neglect.

_DING!_

Her rumination was disrupted by the timely arrival of a golden Message chime, implying that a reply had come from an application submitted to The Shard.

_"Magister Song. My name is Magus Slylth Morden of Suilven Tower. We have received your application for the instruction of our signature magic, Morden's Blade, and the elemental-shifted variation of Force Cage. Your application is a welcome sight. However, due to the sensitive nature of the spells requested, we would require you to attend in person at the college so that we may assess the eligibility of our gift to its new wielder. Additionally—"_

Gwen stopped the message right there.

"Fuck that noise," Gwen said to Richard with a sigh. "The damned application already wasted three hours of my time, and they're charging almost four hundred Contribution Credits for the baseline variation, a thousand for the real deal. That's a decade's worth of CCs for the average Magus. Now they want to waste more of my time."

Her time, considering the physical manifestation of human misery below was at an absolute premium.

Her CCs were plentiful after Shalkar—and there remained a great deal to do.

"Perhaps your reputation precedes you," Richard smirked. "After all, you told me there's beef between Morden's folk and your Master."

"The price was _clearly_ marked. This reeks of politics." Gwen growled. She performed mental math and concluded that her next few weeks would be hellish enough without tomfoolery from her Master's long-lost _relos_ in Scotland. "Well, if they're not keen to receive CCs to keep their Tower afloat, _screw 'em_. Give Magister Brown a buzz. I'll prepare for Mass Flight."

The _Mass Flight_ she desired wasn't the variety used to buff a Mage's party with the ability to ride Elemental air. Her application, processed by Maxwell, was for the genuine article, a mass-expenditure Transmutation that drained an upper-tier caster's mana pool to bring _Lesser Flight_ to as many users as possible for up to twenty-four hours. Whatever her future might hold—Gwen deeply suspected that London's immediate concerns would be stabilising the anarchy in its far Frontiers, which meant the mass mobilisation of men and women, both magical and mundane.

As a War Mage more than likely leading the charge, she had a very important takeaway from her six months fighting the Undead: _aerial mobility_.

So long as air superiority could be maintained—it was the singularly most useful effect any campaign commander could muster. Be it attack, defence, or retreat, nothing else trumped the means to engage or disengage at will.

Most Mages distrusted the viability of air transport due to Magical Creatures interfering, but who was she? Magister Song was a privileged arcanist waiting on her new mini Yinglong! And her Ariel could equally dominate the skies! From experience, she was confident very few magical creatures would dare challenge her Draconic posse if they asked _nicely_.

And on that front, she had placed an open order for a Draconic Core for Ariel, making a wink and a nudge at Ruxin through Mayuree's House of M. There was no small volume of guilt involved there as well, for the price which a nine to tenth level Core from a pure-blooded Lightning Elemental of the Draconic persuasion could field enough HDMS to keep ten thousand refugees fed for three months.

She was rich—but her means were a late-stage capitalist's, not the self-sacrificing poor soldier ethos of Elvia's brethren. Her hypocrisy was self-evidently Beckettian, but luckily, Gwen possessed enough awareness to choose the modern man's method of boxing the absurdity and throwing away the box.

"I think we've spent enough time here. Eric has the overflow under control, and there's enough in the coffers for contingencies." Gwen felt tired despite her wealth of Essence. "What's next?"

"You have a meeting with Magus Williams of Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy. His appointments have been pushed back, though you said you wanted to visit the matter vis-a-vis. It's regarding the Ilias Leaf?"

"Ah." Gwen recalled that she had left a sizeable volume of HDMs with the young man at the beginning of the year. Banking on his expertise in interfacing with Dwarven magi-tech, the research fellow from the US had promised a report on the viability of interfacing with the leaf. "I almost forgot he existed."

"It isn't urgent, I hope." Richard looked for a place to land. Gwen followed. She could fly as she pleased, but that was paid for with CCs and prestige. "Magus Williams is often absent. I hear he has thrown himself body and soul to the Dyar Morkk project."

"Maybe Gracie can pick up the report. We're keeping the research confined to Cambridge for now..." Gwen mulled the matter. As much as she wanted Project Legion off the ground, she doubted a wealth of investors would exist when the market remained so volatile.

The two had not touched the week-old asphalt for more than two seconds when another Message, this time in the form of a familiar face, made a low dive over the crowd, carried by Aria Ravenport.

In her gunmetal House uniform, the Mage reminded Gwen of a woman wearing a movie prop used for a Bond villain's lair.

"Magister Song—!" the woman cried out before she was even close, perhaps fearing that Gwen would teleport away. "I bring a Summons from the Office of the Lord Marshall. Milord has consulted with The Shard, and your official posting has been organised!"

"Hi, Aria." Gwen waited until the woman was close enough for them to shake hands. They had been co-workers, Aria had been her secretary in Auckland, and the two shared enough history to use their first names. "You've come straight from Westminster, then? No crow-mail? That would have sufficed."

"It's a formality to hand-deliver important requests." Aria's intelligent eyes hesitated. "Gwen. The House Master wishes to speak to you regarding your placement personally."

"I hope it's a good one." Gwen had a good feeling that any politeness from Ravenport meant a worse outcome.

"Sorry, Gwen. I am not privy to that information." The young woman barely stopped herself from habitually bowing her head. "Are you able to attend to the Master now?"

_Could she?_ Gwen wanted to say no.

She had a scientist to see.

Duties at Cambridge.

A charity to facilitate.

Spells to route learn.

And her own NGO to mould into shape before it collapsed under its weight.

_Should she?_ Gwen considered the cost of leaving the Lord Marshall of The Britannic Mageocracy waiting. She and this Mycroft were on _curious_ terms, one neither of them had expected. She was good mates with the daughter—but there was no denying she compelled the son's technical suicide.

_Life..._ Gwen determined...could be very strange.

Westminister.

The Office of the Lord Marshall.

In perhaps, the most unusual greeting Mycroft had ever seen, his guest entered with a prim bow and a loud "Milord Mycroft", then instantly turned to feed his bird something deeply suspicious.

"Caw-caw!" Morrigan's avatar performed what could only be described as a jig and a dance before settling down on the backrest of the guest chair, perched over the girl as though _they_ were partners, not he and his blood-bound Celtic Mythic.

"Aria, you may leave now." The Lord Marshall willed away his aide before allowing himself several seconds to recompose a professional demeanour. The informality of their meetings was fine in private but not something he wanted others to witness. As an afterthought, he sent his aide another Message. "Aria, do tell Millie to prepare a _generous_ tea. Our Void Sorceress does not take well to meetings without refreshments."

Across the table, his guest smiled at his hospitality, masking her acute mind behind a facade of guileless youth. Looking at the vibrancy dripping from the girl's carefully crafted mien, he wasn't surprised that Holland's heir was now under her thumb.

"Magister. Thank you for coming on such short notice," Mycroft began. "Though the notice was short, the decision had been deliberated since before your present stay in London. We have designated a post that we believe is as beneficial to you as it is to the Mageocracy, meaning you have our full support in logistics and resources."

"Thank you." The girl placed her hands on her thighs. Unlike the first few times they had met, her attire was finally prim and professional, though it still bothered Mycroft's fatherly endorsement for subfusc. Comparatively, in vid-casts of her operation, he had thoroughly applauded her choice of the crow-skin battle amour. "So, where would the Mageocracy want me?"

"Before we delve too deeply." Mycroft placed both hands on the table. "Allow me to thank you on behalf of the City of London. Taking the overflow of refugees from our hands has given the Royal Navy significant breathing room to reorganise. As you know, the Northern Expedition is ongoing, as are our Frontier efforts to withdraw our battle lines."

"Think nothing of it." The girl waved a hand, then tickled his crow. "From your hesitance, shall I conceive that I am receiving a Tower in the next few weeks? Something stout and small for beginners, perhaps?"

Ravenport could not help but raise both eyebrows.

"Magister. Do you possess yet another Core the likes of which your Brother-in-craft harvested?"

"Did the Tower manage to do anything with the Kraken Core we recovered?" the girl retorted. "That could work, for a regional Tower, surely. It was the size of a Dwarven Dust MK II unit."

"The Core was polluted beyond recovery," Ravenport replied without batting an eye. "We purchased it out of academic interest, and the barter price has been paid. If you wish it back, will you return the HDMs and other rare materials the Tower has provided?"

"Ha." The girl shrugged. "I am using those HDMs to blunt the attack on your coffers. If anything, I should apply for a tax rebate."

The two sat smiling at one another for a bit more, then the tea arrived, and both took on more serious manners.

After the secretary retreated, Mycroft felt the moment was ripe. "We're sending you back to Shalkar." He cut straight to the chase.

The girl grew incredibly silent.

For Mycroft, this was not a good sign, for he associated the girl Mage with pretentious verbosity and nonsensical sayings. The Foreign Affairs Ministry and the Internal Affairs bureau had both signed off on the girl's appointment—and for a graduate Magister, there was no refusing their placement, especially their first.

However, few Magisters began their careers as a War Mage returning from the South Pole, bearing a badge of approval from an ancient Mythic and receiving an acknowledgement of praise from the _tree-side_ of The Accord. The girl was also rich beyond compare, which naturally attracted political clout from the hungry nobility who wanted a piece of her pecan pie. She had also circumvented the impassable barriers between the Factions so that certain members of the Militants, Greys and Middle Factions saw her as one of their own.

If a Magister like that decided she didn't want to be away from the centre of power, who could teleport them against their will? The Shard would not renounce her credentials, nor would it simply leave her to rot—in a time of chaos and need, politics was an expensive and foolish waste of resources.

Shamefully, Mycroft felt his palms sweat a little.

"You have an established base in the region," Mycroft continued as if unaffected by her silence. "Magister Oliver Edwards has been struggling with the political situation there. However, the Shard could not fathom a better Regional Administrator than yourself, as you command the respect of the Khanate and have significant control over the Rat-men tribes. Now that the region is experiencing a genesis, we require a capable hand with logistical and commercial acumen to extract as many resources as possible before the seasonal boon is concluded."

The girl's eyes remained fixed on the floor.

Mycroft quickly shot his raven a telepathic request for clarification.

_"Don't look to me,"_ came Morrigan's reply. _"Her actions are as comprehensible as those Necromantic Glyphs from Egypt._ "

"There is also the matter of the Dyar Morkk you discovered near Shalkar," Mycroft continued, keeping his momentum. "The Dwarves hope to connect to that particular network section within the next two months. The Dwarven city there—hollowed and burnt as it is—needs to be recovered, its dead consigned to the Hall of the Ancestors, and its vaults reopened. The ones responsible will be the Germanic tribes from the Central Continent, though I am confident your alcohol-based virtues should readily tame any confrontations. As a down payment, Berlin has contributed significantly to the endeavour despite the region being a Mageocracy Protectorate. If and when the Dyar Morkk beside Shalkar is connected to central Europe, the trade and development possibilities are endless."

Mycroft concluded by leaning back in his chair. He had said enough. Anymore, and he would begin to feel like a used Wand salesman.

Finally, the girl spoke. "… Ollie is in Shalkar?"

"Magister Edwards never left."

"Wasn't he a provisional one?"

"We authorised his Magistership and gave him an assignment."

The girl winced sympathetically. "How's his hairline?"

Bewildered, Mycroft looked to his raven.

"Caw?" The raven shrugged. " _Why would I know?_ "

The room fell silent. Mycroft hoped Magus Edwards' hair wouldn't be a point of contention.

The girl sighed.

Mycroft sighed. He had hoped to avoid their next step, which was the slow coercion of the girl through her relations, applying gradual pressure until she bent enough to touch base with The Shard's demands. In his opinion, such a waste of goodwill and capital was a loss for both parties.

He studied the girl, searching her body language for a point of hesitation or weakness.

Suddenly, the girl looked up.

Strikingly, her eyes were twin jewels that sparkled with what Mycroft swore were glittering HDMs.

"I want…" the girl spoke with certainty, making his arm hairs bristle. "I want the Dyar Morkk operational in under two months. After that… I want you to send me the overflow of refugees from London, with transit and provisions and a promise to return home if their homeland can be recovered. The first allotment must be skilled labourers and Mages. After that, the others. I also need a continuation on loaning the Fabricator Engine. The city will pay."

"What…" Mycroft instinctively sensed an enormous pitfall in the girl's suggestions. Refugees? What was the girl hoping to do? What could a multitude of vagrants, all displaced from the Frontiers, hope to accomplish in an Orange Zone? "What are you proposing?"

"A _city_ …" the girl's grin was Draconic.

"A city?" Mycroft's mind sowed only doubt—but he was then reminded of Shalkar, the Isle of Dogs, and the Antarctic.

"Yes, a new city!" The girl's confidence was infectious. "We'll build it! A _Shinning City in the Sand_ , a new Silk Road's trade hub, where Demi-humans and Humans all work together for the golden pursuit of prosperity and profit!"


Gwen left the meeting with the Lord Marshall of England with a spring in her step.

Her good mood was well-deserved, for the solution to the refugee problem had presented itself on a silver platter, with partial funding and additional concessions to be plated on a later date.

She also counted herself as incredibly lucky—for she had not expected that The Shard would be so generous as to regift the juicy jujube that was _Shalkar al-Jadeedah_ to herself. In her books, the region was at least within the top thirty of the Mageocracy's better-known Frontiers for exporting exotic produce and one of the five regions to produce Elf-blessed Wildland fruits.

The pessimistic Gwen wanted to know why no one else wanted a slice of the recovering region's sweet meat.

The optimistic Gwen chose to be more logical. The region's "Speciality" was established by her efforts—especially through the bond she had established with the indigenous Demi-humans in the Horse Lords and the Rat-kin. Furthermore, the lynchpin holding the flywheel together was the Hvítálfar, and she had also been responsible for that.

To govern, one must hold the reigns. While the Horse Lords could be coerced and the Rat-kin intimidated, the Hvítálfar made plans and moved events at their leisure. What would happen to Shalkar if the Elves suddenly withdrew their support? What if someone angered the Elves? Profits were profits, but who would want to test the mettle of the mysterious agreement known as _The Accord_?

Ruling the region would be akin to dancing on Warding Glyphs.

But she was different.

Tryfan shared history with her Master, Henry Kilroy. She was also _known_ , for lack of a better term, to the ancient beings whose bodies weighted down the World Trees.

If the _Saviour of Shalkar_ stepped on the Hvítálfar's toes—she could receive a stern admonition.

But if a Faction-aligned Magister misstepped, the fallout could obliterate the very existence of their careers.

She knew what she had to do to kickstart the region. Unfortunately, the manpower she had on hand was now at a steep premium.

Walken's Bunker crew, including the Chinese administrators gifted by Ruxin, were inhumanely overworked. Elvia's Ordo members were also swamped to their necks by the influx of refugees needing aid and support. The IoDNC's staff also had both hands, and Mage Hands full of work generating profit to keep her operations lubricated. The METRO was short-staffed from the beginning and remains as such even now.

Usually, she could borrow men from her mentor, the Lady of Ely, but the Marchioness had also rolled up her sleeves to help with efforts on the Isle of Sheppey. Lady Astor, likewise, had taken off her expensive slippers to venture knee-deep in Humanitarian efforts, offering up the lower estate of Cliveden to families with only women and children.

The Dwarves had been far less impacted by the changes in climate on the surface—but their utility was elsewhere. The loan of the Fabricator Engine alone would require three dozen of their number, including the guards. As such, until the repopulation of the Dwarven Citadel swelled that number to the tens of thousands, she would have no spare hands.

Her thoughts had weighed in so heavily that she had completely missed the polite presence of a young man with his signature Roman nose who had split from his party to accost her at the Old Palace Yard.

"Magister Song!" her fellow Magister finally gave up on polite patience when she was almost close enough to touch.

Gwen looked up, meeting the smiling face of Thomas Holland. " _Oh… Oh my God._ Sir Thomas! I didn't see you there."

"Yes, I am not usually very noticeable." The orange-haired, lanky heir to the Golden Blood gave her an awkward laugh. "Do you have a moment?"

Gwen's immediate reaction was to decline, but she had enjoyed her stint with Thomas Benedict Holland and felt safe speaking to a nobleman who was indebted to her. Besides, she wasn't much looking forward to informing Walken that Christmas was cancelled. Hopefully, the Magister's stiff upper lip would remain firm, and he wouldn't return home to bawl out his eyes to his wife and child regarding his bosses' ruthless abuse.

Before she could answer, their encounter was interrupted by the navy-haired mirror image of Thomas, led by a sour-faced Poins.

"Tom." The lesser brother did not feel the need to address Gwen, which was just as well. "We're on our way to a meeting. What is this?"

"It's my business. You go ahead." Thomas gave his brother a smirk that made Gwen suppress her smile. When Poins did not go away, Thomas tiled his head disapprovingly. "Why the gloom, Poins? Think of it as a rare opportunity. Take care of matters without me looking over your shoulder for once."

The twin appeared lost for words. From Thomas' tone, which left no quarter, Gwen took it to mean things had not gone down so well since the pair returned from the Northern Expedition. After all, one now possessed a Draconic Steam Spirit, and the other still had his ice Sprite. Their performance metrics would have been incomparable.

The ire on Poin's face immediately transferred from his brother to herself. The predictability was like the London weather.

If Poins had been a young lady, Gwen felt "she" would have slapped her for seducing her brother in public. Alas, a brotherly love built on the inheritance of generational wealth was both more intimate and far more complicated.

"I know a place nearby." Thomas guided her past his indignant brother. "Shall we?"

"Let's." Gwen allowed herself to be led a safe distance, then gifted Poin's party with a quasi-curtsy more flippant than courteous. She could imagine the upset even as she left, though Poin's opinion mattered so little that as soon as they exited the Old Courtyard, she forgave his offensive existence.

Outside, dull clouds and condensation made the Thames as depressing as the crisis faced by the Mageocracy's administrators. Thomas remained true to his promise, leading her with small talk until they arrived at the embankment, where he commanded a private corner of an open-air cafe through a sizeable HDM crystalline chip.

For the first time in a long while, a man pulled out her chair and bid her to sit.

Gwen sat.

Thomas ordered for the both of them, then sat opposite, enjoying the view.

"Something on my face?" Gwen didn't feel her tartan skirt and cream blouse was anything the Sun Herald might position for publication on the third page.

"Your face is indeed in my thoughts, for I am considering how thankful I feel," Thomas spoke through his pearly whites. "For the Dragon Turtle. As you might have heard, our Expedition breached the World Tree's Pocket Plane in the north, where we had the unthankful task of dislodging Zodiam's Brass Legion shock troops."

"I know _of_ it." Gwen grimaced with sympathy. "I am sorry, Tom. That couldn't have been easy."

The man nodded. "We lost good men and women there, fighting on behalf of Tryfan. Friends I've known since my university days. One of them, Lord Everton, attended the IIUC with me. Lord Mycroft tells me _they_ came to your aid?"

"They did." Gwen sensed Thomas' unease. "Our knife-eared friends did not come to yours?"

Thomas shook his head.

Gwen had no comfort to give. From her conversation with The Bloom in White, she had gathered that this Accord was an agreement in which Humanity committed its resources—including Humanity itself—to perform mutually beneficial biddings. From the viewpoint of a hegemonic power broker, having the Humans expend lives and resources in servicing the Axis Mundi was itself a process as important as the maintenance itself.

That Thomas' Northern Expedition succeeded at a _cost_ was the intended outcome.

Thankfully, the tea and coffee arrived with a two-tier selection of shortcakes.

"Again. I am sorry," Gwen said, the only thing that was thoughtfully appropriate.

"We did our duties." Thomas helped her with the dessert. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting to ask you about that. I just wanted to thank you for the timely gift of the Dragon Turtle. Thanks to Zippy, we managed to break through the Fire Elemental's blockade without catastrophic losses. With my original Spirit, I could not begin to imagine whose faces I wouldn't see again."

Sensing the strands of Draconic Essence encircling the Steam Mage's aura, Gwen reached over and gave the man a pat on the back of his hand. "Don't be. We're comrades in a war zone. I did what I imagined was best. I should be glad it turned out so well. Imagine if Zippy had been a dud. Where would we be now?"

Thomas returned her modesty with a wry spot of laughter. "A weight has lifted from my shoulder now that we've spoken."

There was a pause.

The Steam Mage met her eyes with a familiar intensity.

"Magister Song. Would you mind if we met some other time? For leisure, if you will."

Gwen had gone on enough dates in her past life to know what was coming. Still, the confession from Thomas elevated her heart rate. The last time someone had been so bold and brazen had been the unfortunate Jackaroo Tako back in Sydney.

And though she had a rather unhappy feeling Saint Evee might egg her onward, Gwen felt nary a ripple in her heart of hearts.

"I'd love to." She prepared her poker face to deliver the gentlest of letdowns. "Ever since Auckland, I've known we'll be good friends, so there's no need to be so formal."

Thomas' uptake was instant. With natural nonchalance, the young man withdrew his presence back into his chair. "That warms my heart, Gwen. In all honesty, I merely wished to make a case. Given it a year, we shall _forever_ be politely acquainted, and whatever distance that might grow intimate would forever remain remote."

"Oh? And why is that?" Gwen asked out of curiosity. Thomas Benedict Holland appealed to her. He was, thus far, a solid choice—even if he wasn't hers. Nobility was nice, but she hated its restrictions. For some of Tom's stature, a spouse as capable and well-provisioned in politics as himself wasn't a wife, but a business partner, with a marriage akin to a _merger_.

"I've several partners prepared for me by the House." The young man hid nothing. "I could find a spouse—or one will be provided. An heir must be produced, as—"

"—The Golden Blood of Henry must flow," Gwen finished for the young man. "I genuinely appreciate the sentiment, Thomas. Sorry I had to disappoint you. Besides, would your father accept a wildcat if it came to it? You're not Poins the spare, you know. Charlene is far more suitable for you."

"A part of the appeal is to see the old man squirm." Thomas laughed. "The Expedition has opened my eyes somewhat to the _you-know-what_ with Tryfan. The world no longer seemed as bright and promising as it did in my youth."

"Your youth?" Gwen burst into laughter. "You're twenty—?"

"—four," Thomas replied.

"A bit young for the future to be dull, don't you think?"

"Duller, now."

Gwen felt a blush coming on. "Now you're teasing me."

“I am.” Thomas’ eyes lingered.

Gwen sipped her tea.

The two made some other inconsequential small talk to dispel the unexpectedly cosy atmosphere.

"I should attend to business." Thomas politely drained his cup, then returned his fine china to its matching plate. "Poins might be signing the House way, for all I know. If father complains, you're to blame."

"I take full responsibility," Gwen stood as the Steam Mage rose.

The two shook hands.

"Good luck in Shalkar," Thomas said. "When I am able, I'll visit. Give our Faction a good deal on the food stock."

"You're welcome." Gwen allowed their handshake to linger. "But do wait a few months while I set things up."

Watching the young noblemen go, Gwen steeled her heart.

Then, her hardened heart abruptly reminded her befuddled brain that she did have another enquiry. A part of her wanted to give the man his peace, but a woman's needs had to be met.

"Thomas—!" She called out, cringing that she had not remembered her need earlier.

With a face full of hope, the young lord abruptly turned, twisting his body so that he faced her with all the dramatic poise of an Austenian climax.

"Milady?" Thomas came striding back. There was a bit of steam that leaked through the aether.

Gwen felt terrible, but she had to ask. The Militants were the only Faction with decades of experience colonising new Frontiers. That meant they had access to some of the most experienced administrators for regions having undergone pacification.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I need men," she began.

Thomas froze in his tracks with an expression of horror.

...and women…" Gwen pushed through, not allowing her Freudian slip to lubricate further misunderstandings. "Thomas, I am in dire need of administrative staff with experience in building Forward Operating bases, as well as managing logistics of Frontier construction. I'll be starting up a new settlement near Shalkar, either on top or close to the Dwarven Citadel there… and for that, _I need men and women._ "

Thomas appeared… to deflate.

There was a moment where the man stared into the middle distance as if seeing through her into the aether.

And then he snorted, and his angular features softened.

"Will they be fighting?" he asked.

"Not to my knowledge," Gwen said. "And not if I can help it."

"Then I will ask our Veteran's Unions if any are willing to work as expatriates," the Steam Mage promised with a nod. "Will that satisfy?"

"There's a signing bonus of one-tenth of their negotiable wage, paid once they arrive," Gwen immediately followed up. "The new entity, once set up, will also offer stock and land options to any employees who remain after three months. Healthcare will cover all on-site injuries, with additional care packages for long-term employees. Assuming a large number of the Veteran's Union joins the new city's construction and management, I'll allocate a portion of profits to the Veteran's Fund, the same which the Barlow Group depleted. Prospective members can apply at the Bunker. I'll have the staff set up a registry."

The sudden switch to business Gwen must have given Thomas whiplash, for the Steam Mage merely nodded like a shellshocked soldier emerging from an Undead trench.

"I'll be… going, now?" the man muttered. "May I?"

"See you around, Thomas." Gwen could only repay the chap by giving him her best smile. Something more tactile, like a kiss on the cheeks, would only further a futile hope.

From the heart of the Bunker, Eric Walken, Central Operating Officer of the IoDNC, threatened to quit, muttered, mumbled, then called for a dozen impromptu meetings to meet their CEO's demands.

Gwen quietly closed the door to her COO's spacious office, originally a multi-storey work and rest space for herself, now gifted to her chief wage slave.

As she proceeded down the long corridor with its abstract art pieces, she wondered how her Master might measure the state of Eric Walken today. Would Henry laugh and be amused? Or would the old dreamer berate her for trapping his old rival in a salt mine?

Secretly, Gwen suspected Walken loved the work.

The man had dreamed of a position such as this all his life, with various Factions begging for funds or investments, where his pen stroke brought smiles or tears. Within the IoDNC, Walken enjoyed far more freedom than Factioneers. Whenever a conglomerate's interests were offended, he pointed the finger at herself, then announced that he was merely a paper pusher, _pushing_ the will of the Devourer of corporations.

From an isle with a few pups, the Norfolk-Dog conglomerate was now a snarling Dire Wolf, eyeing the wild dogs ranging its docklands for its next meal.

Of course, that was merely the facade Gwen had wanted to establish. In truth, she saw little merit in subsuming the locals. The real money, as it had always been in this world, was buried in the Frontiers.

Primary agriculture.

HDM mining.

Rare materials.

And the value of the people themselves.

Across the Atlantic, the New World proved that old empires were either paralysed or in decline. In its place, a pragmatic, more ruthless breed of Humanity grew fat on the narrative of _destiny manifest_. Comparatively, her city in the sand would be a grand experiment—one with a simmering pot lid of tensions kept in place by the threat of the Shoggoth. Would the newly arrived refugees labour with the Rat-kin? Would the Horse Lords, who saw anything with two legs as food or spoils, acclimatise to a decade without rampant war and destruction?

More importantly, how long would the boon of life in the region last?

When she thought about it, Gwen suspected not even the Elves fully understood the dynamic of the Axis Mundi, much less their foes. Did the hands of Spectre even understand the consequences of their prodding? Could they conceive that the chaos they sowed in the regions of interest would counteractively create hospitality and wealth for areas previously barren?

She had no answers, though the long corridors of the Bunker offered an excellent ambience for self-reflection. When she finally breached the lobby's upper deck, her Essence-infused mind had already constructed a general framework for the many labours in the coming months.

"Magister Song."

"Ma'am."

"Good afternoon, boss."

Greetings arrived as she passed her employees, dressed in formal work attire as Walken had demanded. They did not find offence in their CEO's fashion, for such was the culture of the Bunker subscribed at orientation.

Below the encircling cubic balcony, the multi-storey, Brutalist lobby split into the Bunker's various sections, with the central structural pillar acting as the arrival place of a dozen levitation platforms, besides which the Teleportation Circles flared and crackled. The Bunker was her building—all of it, from the lobby to the depth that connected the Dyar Morkk, was an extension of the efforts she had heaped upon the Isle of Dogs.

If a house by the bay was the Australian Dream, then what was this?

It was a dizzying realisation, one the Gwen of the past would have struggled to conceive.

Thankfully, she was a busy woman.

With style, Gwen willed her Message device into being.

"Richard," she spoke into the Glyph. "Ask if Magus Williams is willing to spend some time in Shalkar al-Jadeedah. A Dwarven Citadel needs restoring, meaning unlimited access to the Fabricator, assuming he can snuggle up to Petra and the Dwarven posse. If he can rope more alumni into aiding our city-building from the States, I'll work on placing him in the same team as _our_ Fabricator Engine."

"No worries. I guess you're done with the meeting? And the date?"

"What _date_?"

“A hidden garden rendezvous vis-a-vis, involving a steamy noblemen”

"Very funny, Dick," Gwen berated her cousin, smiling at passersby even as her cousin stoked her paranoia. "Do restrain yourself, especially around Elvia. When Caliban wakes up, you'll be my first sparring partner."

"I _quake_ ," the teasing voice returned with a laugh. "But of course. Our CEO's indiscretions are safe with me."

"One of these days—" She waved at another batch of workers as she made for the exit. "What did Magister Brown say about those spells I requested?"

"Good tidings," Richard replied. "Mass Flight has been booked at The Shard for tomorrow. He's also found an Oxbridge instructor willing to part with a unique variant of Force Cage capable of cladding its surface with attuned elements. Both will be undertaken in Greater Cognisance Chambers for convenience and cost. The Magisters will attend your tuition thrice a week for two weeks."

"That's fine," Gwen found the outcome agreeable to her timetable. Having her teachers come to her was an additional cost, but she had the CCs to spare, especially if Morden's crew wasn't keen on making her life easy. "I am going to see Lady Maxwell and Lady Astor about our new project. I'll elaborate later, but I've been assigned to Shalkar, and we'll be building a new city with the Dwarves returning there. Our logistical preparations have between two to three months to mature."

Richard whistled, then took a deep breath. "Whoa—You're thinking of housing the refugees there?"

"Hypothetically," Gwen affirmed. "Can you arrange a work dinner with the others? Once I gauge the investors and stakeholders better, we'll start on the preliminary reports."

"Of course," her cousin's voice reverberated through the glowing Glyph. "Milord _Governor_ —your wish is my command."

Scotland.

Suilven.

Slylth Alexander Morden sat brooding in his Dragon-wood study chair, scanning the letter from The Shard like a lizard obsessed.

He had sliced the Mithril-laced letter open with a transmogrified claw, expecting a simpering response as to why their applicant deserved to study for several weeks in the Tower of Elements.

When he had opened the letter and read the first line, however, Slylth felt a strange emptiness, like the void had invaded the interior of his Astral Body.

" _Application Withdrawn"_ was the immediate phrase he noted in the paragraph of pasted niceties. The text wasn't even addressed to him.

The designation had been a cursory "To whom it may concern," and the signature wasn't even from the girl, but some random Magister from her office.

Confused, Slylth had turned the letter upside down, then back to front, wondering if something else might fall out.

When it became clear that his Draconic ability to comprehend all languages did not fail him, Slylth grew silent.

Only two beings have criticised, ignored, and instructed Slylth in all his centuries as an egg-consciousness and his years in the Prime Material. One was his mother, Sythinthimryr, the greatest of the Ancient Reds, the Flame of Life that burns eternal in the heart of Carrauntoohil.

The other was the Magi Morden, who rolled his eyes, humoured him, or put an end to his tantrums in the early years of his adventure with a stern Power Word.

A part of him wanted to know who this damned Gwen Song was to deny him—but Slylth was too wise a wyrm to throw a tantrum. After all, he had seen the lumen casts of the female's Shoggoth, and he did not wish to invoke his mother's aid nor her annoyance.

A fight with a Shoggoth was likely to bring both.

Another part of him grew more intrigued than ever, forming within his Draconic soul a deep-seated desire congealed from curiosity, impulse and jealousy.

Why had Ancient Illaelitharian praised this female? What was her true connection to the Old One? The more his mother cautioned Slylth, the more he wanted to raid the Death Hornest's nest for their sweet honey.

With a glare, the letter from the Shard turned to cinders.

Perhaps, it was time for Slylth Alexander Morden to venture out into the world and make himself known.

His only hope was that his mother had better things to do than to keep tabs on a wayward boy.

London.

The Isle of Dogs.

Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion of the Order of the Bath, was taking a bath.

The bath house was a communal one, and though she had access to a private Pocket Dimension similar to Gwen's pocket house, the Ordo taught its members to exercise humility whenever possible and to set an example for their juniors.

The weather was beyond humid, and the communal hall set up for the members of the Ordo to cleanse their bodies and souls of impurities was sanctified only by the generous incense from the blessed sandalwood. Through this act of communion, the sisters of the Ordo mime the humility of the Nazarene, who had bathed the feet of his apostles to foster brotherhood.

The act of absolution served another purpose—for it was the condition through which a believer may fully immerse themselves into the canonical prayers, a necessary ritual that unlocked a Faith-Caster's access to the collated mythical energies of their order.

"Kiki—" Elvia's floral Sprite did the work of her Master's hands, ensuring that every evidence of sin was erased.

Within the same chamber, Elvia's Ordo companions, both the lesser acolytes and the Senior sisters, observed one of their youngest with an awe that bordered on reverence.

A part of their admiration was spiritual, for Companion Lindholm was a perfect Poor Soldier of Christ, an exemplar of their Ordo.

The other was a sense of pity, for their sister was _painfully_ captivating. Hers was not a fairness that spurred men into launch ships; rather, Elvia had come to possess a heart-breaking demureness, a constant sorrow that, paired with her seemingly infinite charity, made their chests sore with unbidden longing to see her smile a little more.

Not that they hadn't seen Companion Lindholm smile.

When Elvia's secular friend-for-life would come to visit, the girl would bloom like a vivified Kiki, her face suddenly coming alive. That was the Elvia they had all hoped to see, though perhaps, the rareness of her happiness made those moments all the more precious.

"Mother Superior, please excuse me." Elvia bowed her head toward a silver-haired healer meticulously working the grime from her nails. Rationally, the bathing was meant to be purposeful, meticulous, and not aided by floral Sprites. "My absolution is complete. I shall now seek the lord's guidance."

Mother Superior Francis Fitzroy was the leader of the men and women the Ordo had leased to Gwen as a part of her charitable works on the Isle. As the chief acolyte under Rectress St Claire, the senior Cleric had been sent as a sign of goodwill. As a sister on the cusp of Sainthood, the Mother Superior's presence alone was enough to quell all dissent from the local parish's ranks, thereby gifting the Isle of Dogs unfettered access to a large body of volunteers hoping to bath in her good graces.

"Go." The senior Cleric did not comment on Elvia's hasty ritual. Instead, she delivered a soothing benediction in Latin, praying that Elvia would find peace.

Alone, Elvia dressed, choosing her surgeon's garb in case an emergency interrupted her meeting.

Once her hair had been netted and bundled, she exited the prayer baths built into their dockland Chapter House, now sitting among pre-fabricated houses and camps, and made for the chapel. When the Ordo had sent its men and women, her Gwen had been very accommodating in asking her Dwarven allies to construct a modest chapel out of sandstone in the gothic style of the Ordo. When the Ordo's Master had arrived to inspect the progress of their work on the Isle, he had been both dismayed and delighted by the unexpected sight of a three-storey, permanent Chapter House with his Ordo's emblem beside the ubiquitous logo of the IoDNC with its hound and raven heraldry.

Elvia shuffled past the prayer hall, now almost always full of believers displaced from the Frontiers. Her goal was not the hall, though she was scheduled to lead the choir in the evening.

Outside, Mathias would follow on her heels like a shadow. Within the Chapter House, the Knight chose the gift of privacy, instead retreating to the barracks to wait on her call.

Her object was the confessional, a claustrophobic chamber ensorceled with Faith Magic and contained within a Seal of the Confessional. There would be no Divination here, not without shattering the Seal and toppling the chapel.

As a result of the Chapter House's limited space, the confessional was a modest specimen, one frequented by the Ordo's many Clerics to vent their frustrations and indiscretions after their administration of the refugee tide.

Tucking her locks behind her ears, Elvia ducked inside, pulling the heavy drapes around them so that only light from the stained glass above made their faces visible.

The presence awaiting her gave off a fatherly and sympathetic aura.

"Knight Companion Elvia Lindholm greets the Seneschal."

"In this sanctified place, I am a mere priest," her Seneschal sounded serious as always. "And you may unburden yourself onto me. How fares the visions, child?"

"They are frequent, Father."

"Are they troubling the sweet balm of sleep?"

"Somewhat," Elvia replied. "But it is not the visions that disturb me."

"I see... so the moment of reckoning draws nigh?"

"The Lord of the Mount is stirring from his slumber," Elvia's voice quaked even as she suppressed the near-religious recollection of awe she had felt for her Patron's true form. "His youngest now bears his mark as well as the others. Lord Ayxin will soon be blessed with fruit. What has been foretold has come to pass."

"The ancient one has expressed his readiness?"

"For the Unformed Land, yes..."

"And are you, our dear daughter… _ready?_ "

The Seneschal's question was delivered with the tenderness of a Healing Word.

Opposite, Elvia felt her Seneschal's kindness as a physical blow to her diaphragm. "Tis a cross only I can bear. I am not opposed to it."

"Child." Ashburn's plea turned melancholic. "I am not one to question the _Faith_ of a Knight Companion. However, I, as well as the Rectress, Mother Superior Fitzroy and a plethora of others in the Ordo, have grown very fond of our little Saintess. With enough _Faith,_ we can divert the course or at least turn its purpose awry. Is that not acceptable to you?"

Elvia felt the temptation. Faith Magic was powerful. It was the origin of magic, tempered by will and desire. From its very inception, it was different to the sorcery of destruction wielded by Gwen, made consume so that win or lose, the gainful produce of the living were diminished. Unlike Spellcraft, Faith Magic was an equilibrium where life and death bisect. What the Seneschal was offering was a solution—but one she feared more than any other.

For one to be saved, another must pay the price.

But how could she ask another to pay?