"Did you know Sobel? Elizabeth Sobel?" The voice of Viscount Mowbray, overseer of the Crown's fortunes in Hastings, remarked over the dull roar shaking the grandstand. "I met her once. I was a student. It was just after the Beast Tide, during the period Henry Kilroy ventured from baronage to baronage, persuading our parents to join the then Middle Coalition."

"I met her aunt when the Sobel Estate still existed—after she left," replied another voice, this one older and a little dreamy from the recollection. "As for the sorceress, all I recall was that even as a young woman, Elizabeth was—"

The voice grew thoughtful.

"Beautiful?" Lady Astor was quick to draw attention to the man's recollection.

"Ravishing," another voice agreed. "And dreadfully frightening."

"I recall attending a function with Lord Kilroy once. I must confess that never had I felt such a desire for fresh linen than after a meet and greet with his bride-to-be," another voice, senior but jovial, remarked with a mixed tone. "Kilroy bid her show Father what a Void Sorceress may do—or would do if we held out against her wishes. That said, for all the terror, the demonstration was—strikingly performed."

"And now we've come full circle—" A fourth gestured to the stadium with his flute of Pinot gris, all the while looking over the shoulder of his conversation partner, the ever-lovely widow of Astor. "Courtesy of the very same Henry Kilroy."

"Lord knows the Mageocracy could use another Sobel," the first voice, that of the Viscount, remarked for the benefit of Lady Astor.

"Gwen's a good girl," Lady Astor assured the rest, her revealing attire sparking scandalously to catch the listening Mycroft. "She's willfully obedient. Isn't she, Dickie?"

The Lady raised her glass.

Mycroft returned the favour with a minute gesture of his own.

Left to ponder the Lady's oxymoronic riddle, the crowd's gaze paused on the Duke but did not dare to linger lest he vented his displeasure. As the Mageocracy's premier Lord, the Marshall of her Majesty's forces and the keeper of the crows, every muttered syllable of his opinion mattered. Thereby, though Mycroft knew of his fellow nobles and their burgeoning curiosity, he chose silence.

As for the "Sobel" in question, he could only guess her true purpose.
Was the girl's growing love of London calculated obedience?
Or was it, perhaps, malicious compliance?
Turning away from his audience, the Duke traced the edge of his glass with a vacant, wandering digit, then looked for the girl among the crowd. If nothing else, at least in his officious capacity, he could not fault Gwen's performance.

Without a doubt, the girl's ability to transform the situation in Shalkar was a far better demonstration of her potential than her ability to devour a Chinese city. After all, any Tower worth its weight in HDMs could level any of humanities' tier-II metropolises, as well as the warrens of Demi-human Gnolls, Greenskins, or the shoal-homes of Mermen. Yet, for all the Mageocracy's potential power projection, Shalkar's unprofitability had festered on the campaign map for three decades until the girl shattered the status quo and brought questionable change.

The point then, Mycroft countered, was whether the "new" Shalkar boded well for the Mageocracy or if Gwen had merely set up the stage for a more significant, deadlier conflict a decade later.

Below, the crowd grew abruptly silent.

For the third match, the transmuted terrain was a northern peat bog, meaning the entire array of combat took place in a field of stunted, rotten trees and sticky silt that could swallow a Mage wholesale. Knowing Benedict Thomas' skillset, Mycroft could say that Team Exeter's streak of luck remained uncontested, an occurrence that was rapidly growing suspicious, for the heir's powerful "bomb" spells worked wonders in open space, and his gaseous form performed similarly well. Comparatively, there were few advantages Thomas' opponent could observe, owed to a skill set that favoured enclosed spaces.

If so, by what craft would the girl slay the drake of Exeter? Mycroft amused himself with a dozen projections. What wild magics would she show the world?

With a sharp chime from the Adjudicator, the battle began.

For the first few opening seconds, both Thomas and Gwen warily sensed one another from opposite ends of the fields while subtly powering up their defences. For Holland's heir, the defensive choice was because Thomas knew of the absurd offensive the girl could mount while possessing uncertain confidence he would suffer her Void-strikes as well as she in surviving one of his explosions. More than likely, the youthful Magus was betting on his superior knowledge in Spellcraft, likely anticipating an opportunity to Counter Spell the girl into submission.

As for the girl, Mycroft understood as soon as she opened up with invocations made infamous by her predecessor, Elizabeth Sobel.

Unsurprising to the Duke, the first and foremost of the girl's protection spells was Bone Armour. It was an Abjuration sorcery that was sure to raise brows among the genteel class of Arcanists whose ancestors had perished fighting the same magic. The girl's Signature Spell was a sanctioned variation modified by Kilroy for his wife, expending the Cores of monstrous creatures rather than drawing power from the negative energy emanated by the living dead. As the final syllable fell into place, a phantom ribcage appeared, then quickly faded into the aether, forming a protective scarab shell around the girl.

The reagent, Mycroft chuckled, would be the Core of a Death Worm, a rare prize for many but hardly worthy of note for one who had cleared out a whole region's worth of the Elemental vermin.

From the way her audience reeled from the mute rings of enervating Void washing over the east side of the arena, Mycroft guessed the girl had spared no expense and was readily tapping her vital stores. As the Core's energies grew depleted and Void-tainted mana enveloped the original Necromantic manifestation, NoMs too weak to expel extreme vertigo became ill or sick, dropping their overpriced sausages in a bun, which in the Duke's opinions, was a blessing in disguise.

After her first showcase, the girl's Mage Shield shimmered brightly before abruptly turning the colour of jet, enveloping her body so wholly as to form a perfect, obsidian egg. From the surface, micro-portals to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of the Void bit into the Prime Material in the manner of teeth making rents in black silk, leaving gaping, gasping gashes that bled a thick, ebony ink.

But it wasn't ink that drooled from these axe-wounds in space-time.

Instead, what emerged were the signature denizens of the Void, what Cambridge's researchers had dubbed Abyssal Lampreys.

Like a dark flood, torrents of the Void-things slithered into the deep mud of the swamp-scape, instantly disappearing as they made for the general direction of Benedict Thomas, whose Astral Soul burned with vitality and raw elemental energy.

On the other side of the arena, Thomas' face twitched as he lifted into the air, forgoing the cover offered by the shrubbery for fear of Gwen's lampreys suddenly emerging underfoot as Umzokwe had done. With a wave of his hand, the signature crystals that housed his unstoppable offence materialised, all six of which were armed and compressed with enough power to crack Gwen's egg.

By now, it was clear the girl was not playing by the usual rules of Spellcraft, nor was her Spell List one knowable even by a Senior Scholar of the arts. This underestimation of Gwen's unorthodox Arcanistry, Mycroft felt, would not be the first of Thomas' mistakes.

Had—he supposed, Jean-Paul provided the necessary fright for Holland's heir to second-guess charging and attacking Gwen with an Alpha Strike?

Perhaps if Thomas had searched deeply in the vaults for details of Sobel's sorcery, both recent and in the past, he would have gained some insight into Gwen's myriad tactics. Unfortunately, much like the reports from Shalkar, Ravenport also possessed the key to that particular chamber of knowledge, from which he allowed only the vaguest of details to escape.

Nonetheless, once the Steam Mage realised the full implication of Gwen's strategy, he immediately abandoned the "reactive" nature of his crystal arrays to move to the offensive. With a serpentine hiss of displaced steam, Thomas Holland slipped through the gaps of the Prime Material, then reappeared within two dozen meters of the girl, orchestrating a Dimension Door almost thrice the distance of an average Mage.

"Don't die, Magus Song," the heir delivered an audible and courteous warning, then invoked the translocation magic that would force upon Gwen the unbridled fury of Elemental Steam.

The mud below Thomas exploded before he could finish his haughty exposition.

Leading the way were eight lamprey heads, each the size of a compact sedan, faceless and featureless, slick of skin and utterly devoid of features but for their puckering, teeth-lined maws salivating for noble flesh.

The ambush came as a surprise for many of the repulsed audience, but not for its studied magic users nor Gwen's opponent.

Changing his gestures midway, two of the crystals dematerialised, then reappeared among the Void Hydra's heads.

BUNG—BUNG—!

Clouds of superheated steam rang out, followed by deadly waves of shattered shards composed of congealed force.

The three heads closest to Thomas turned to dark mist as the vital forces holding together the stitched, stygian flesh of the Lovecraftian aberration failed, instantly liquifying into obscure splatters. The rest of the faceless appendages stayed the course, only to be caught up in the second explosion, sending shattered bits of mangled flesh flying in every direction to splatter the Walls of Force.

BUNG—! A third explosion erupted near Gwen's Dark Egg, momentarily peeling back the obsidian layer of Void, but not enough to prevent the egg shell from regenerating near-instantaneously.

A few finger twitches summoned the rest of Thomas' cataclysmic crystals, bringing the remainder close to the abode built by Gwen to shield her body from Holland's relentless assault.

For a frozen second in time, the crowd collectively held their breath, hoping that the Void Sorceress would teleport out of harm's way.

She did not.

Mycroft's eyes widened by several millimetres.

The finale was a staggered triple-blast, a walking barrage of unadulterated destruction that sent the Force Generators into agonised whinnies and the stadium to shake on its foundations. The super expansion of steam grew so enormous that a section of the upper wall released a panel to depressurise the battlefield's interior, rocketing a sky-plume into the blue yonder.

A few seconds passed, possessed only by the hiss of escaping steam from the self-repairing barrier. Two thousand pairs of questioning eyes turned to the All England's matchmakers. Atop the arena's cubic fence, the Chief Adjudicator remained mum as he conversed telepathically with his team in the Divination room.

Then, in the obscured depth of the steam-filled arena, something moved.

More explosions, smaller now and possessed of far less pent-up energy, erupted here and there, adding to the confusion felt by the spectators.

Mycroft scanned the scene, contemplating if he should command a direct mind tap into the Divination Array in the control room when his thoughts grew suddenly disrupted by the sight of an enormous something slamming heavily against the barrier.

"SHAA— SHAA—" came the ear-splitting, sphincter-clenching cry from Gwen's netherworld fiend, now girthier than a semi-trailer.

From the section pressed against the wall, the audience could see that it had been suppressed by an empowered and maximised Bilby's Hand. For a creature without organs, however, the crushing constriction of the famous force spell did little in discouraging the monster from lashing out with dozens of pink tentacles. Before Mycroft could even scoff, the Hydra-thing tore itself in half from the waist, then launched itself back into the steam.

Simultaneously, as the arena's mechanisms did its best to vent the excess fog preventing the paying audience from seeing the titanic battle, those closest to the deadly theatre realised the mud and silt that formed the peat bog were now squirming with living, writhing masses of faceless lampreys.

Another explosion engendered somewhere within, weaker than Thomas's failed coup de grace moments earlier. As a tide of hungry mouths, the obsidian slosh of creatures moving toward the battlefield's centre once more splashed against the Walls of Force, decimated but not defeated, dividing and regenerating even as the shards of force sliced and diced their bodies.

A portion of these creatures, perhaps frenzied or confused by the chaos brought by the undulating battlefield, sensed the vitality outside and were actively trying to bypass the barriers to get at the spectators.

"SHAA—! SHAA—!" A cry from their brood leader was enough to refocus the lampreys' attention, making Mycroft marvel at just how intelligent the creature Kilroy had wrangled for the girl had grown.

Above the battle, the arena's whirling vortexes into the Elemental Plane of Air finally performed their duty, drawing the excess steam as remaining smidgens of doubt drained from Mycroft's mind. Whatever Gwen's faults may be, Charlene had cultivated a reliable partner to elevate her political debut into London's circle of power, and soon, her crops would yield grain.

"SHAA—!" Another blood-curdling shriek from the singing Hydra revealed that it and its brood were now pursuing a hovering Holland across the battlefield with extreme prejudice. As a leaping, frolicking mass of faceless worms with lamprey mouths, the churning black swamp water rose as living tendrils to ensnare the skating Mage as he dodged the clumsy assaults.

Not far, Gwen's Elemental Swarm was shepherded by an enormous Hydra with all seven heads, each one flawlessly regenerated, working in tandem to swat Thomas from the air like a gnat.

Now and then, Thomas would unleash a wave of superheated mist or erect a spontaneous Blade Barrier to dissuade his pursuers. Still, any such measures lasted only a few seconds before the creatures came on again with renewed force.

Whenever Thomas attempted to close in with the girl, she would Dimension Door away, creating a deadly game of cat and mouse—only the cat was being chased by face-eating heartworms bigger than itself.

When not dodging the diminished steam explosions, Gwen stood in the many corners of the arena, directing her conjured critters in the atypical manner of a Creature Mage. As for how she had survived Thomas' killing blow—Mycroft's ensorceled eyes gathered a few clues from her Crow Skin battle dress.

The girl's hair was matted and damp, and her face was streaked with the residue from the foetid swamp water. Her armour as well showed not only signs of having been covered in the silt and mud but also showed white streaks where the shards of force had scored her body.

Correctly, Mycroft deduced that the girl was never in her "Dark Egg" but must have slid out with her swarm into the mud, thereby ratifying her bedraggled, beaten state.

For sure, the cloudy, brackish water provided by the arena was a significant natural barrier against the force of Thomas' explosions. There were risks as well, for the shallowness meant she had less luck against the force shards that accompanied the deadly eruptions.

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Thereby, Benedict Thomas Holland had not only failed to recognise the girl's sorcery but also failed to account for the girl's grit—for he could not have imagined that a sorceress of such infamous vanity would dive headfirst, without shielding or protection, into filth and decay without a second thought. Then, while hidden beneath the shielding mass of her Void-critters, she would direct her swarm while risking dire injury, possessing such confidence in her body and the craft of her Dwarven allies as to risk mortal injury.

That was, Mycroft supposed, Gwen's proposed tactic to Charlene. So long as she survived Thomas' spearhead assault and kept him on the move, it was impossible for a Vessel recognised by Tryfan to run OoM against a thrice-expended opponent.

While the crowd cooed at Thomas' growing frustration and diminishing mana reserves, Mycroft observed his fellow VIPs in the grandstand.

Lady Astor remained her haughty self, loudly informing the others that a "mere" Holland could not possibly defeat her chosen ally. The other nobles, the unhappy few with ties to the Militant Faction, no longer shared her amusement.

In a way, Mycroft felt sympathetic. If Thomas, one of the best of their current generation, was to lose—could his inferior brother then secure a victory? Poins was always the lesser one, the shadow. A man of inferior charisma seldom upheld as the Houses' heir apparent.

If Poins were to lose, the loss in House Holland's reputation, not to mention the loss of their planned portion of the IoDNC, would simultaneously place an unpleasant financial burden upon the Faction. To force the girls, and in particular, Charlene, into a corner, the Militants had tapped the forbidden fruit, the Veteran's Pension. Though the understanding was that the IoDNC's antagonism had brought the fund into ruin, the reality remained that all annuities had to be paid when the bills came due.

To renege on the pension may publicly draw ire toward Gwen and Charlene's investments, but no one holding the actual reigns of power could be similarly fooled by the Telegraph and the Sun. From the very outset, the Militant's ploy had been allowed to play out simply because players like Ravenport had habitually stayed away from the money-grubbing politicking of the Factions.

That said, the moment the Magecracy's public trust eroded. The exact instant the Veteran's Fund was to fail the Mageocracy's ex-soldiers, as opposed to the political theatre of a delay and distraction, heads would roll, and estates liquidate—because it was better to feed the culprits to the dogs than for the Crown to frown.

But if Poins were to win, these men and women would also grow wary. For a decade or more, they had upheld Thomas and neglected Poins, and the reversal of the God-ordained hierarchy was no less desirable.

"Shit—" someone muttered, replacing his flute of wine and losing all appetite. "It's over."

While Mycroft amused himself with the possibilities, the battle below concluded in the only manner possible for a man unwilling to bet his life—with Thomas putting up both hands as Caliban intimated the possibility of a deep-tissue massage with its tentacles.

Clearing his throat, the heir beckoned the lumen-recorders to capture his following words.

"I must confess, good lady, that you have gotten the better of me."

The concession was clear and precise, and the girl chose not to pursue the matter.

With one hand, she swept back her matted hair, motioned her creatures to retreat, then turned from Thomas as though the man was no longer relevant. Holland's response was to smile at the audience, shake his head with great seriousness, then exercise a loser's right to solemn silence.

Gwen, meanwhile, hovered toward the grim-faced Poins, who had been watching a few meters from the transparent panes.

"Shall we continue while I am still winded and recovering?" she said to the remaining Holland, loud enough so that the stadium's vox-casters could transmute her voice. "You won't get an opportunity like this again."

The remaining twin's face visibly twitched.

"I would not dream of taking such an advantage," Poins replied, half-hissing his retort, looking away from the Lumen-recorders pointed directly at his face. The BBC, however, would not allow such discretions to ruin their faultless broadcast. Both on the vid-caster in the stadium and piped into the Mageocracy's homes, all bore witness to the irony of the man's "honour".

Mycroft suppressed a snort.

Who would fight Gwen now? The Void Sorceress had found an unlikely affinity for the swampland, not to mention she had a nest of monsters slinking in the murk, awaiting their next victim. To refresh the battlefield would wipe away the proceeds of her vital and mana expenditure while fighting her immediately in her "winded" state would mean facing her already-conjured creatures. It was a fool's choice to challenge her directly, but also an unmitigated confession that one could not meet the girl head-on.

Only once she had established her superior position did Gwen turn to Thomas to shake the man's hand with her muddy digits.

"All the best with Poins," Thomas said with a measured voice. "He has always had a place in his heart for you."

"I'll be sure to answer him with all my heart." Gwen's grin was serene like the smile of a Hammerhead Mermen. "I only hope Poins will appreciate my complete sincerity."

Unsurprisingly, the conversation that followed in the grandstand was entirely dominated by the demonstration of Void Magic.

A few of the older members who had been young men and women during Sobel's reign might have recalled the Majesty of her craft, but few of the gathered had seen Void sorcery exercised in the degree of a sixth tier War Mage.

For more than a year now, Cambridge had been unambiguous in their ambition of reviving a School of Magic thought lost when Elizabeth Sobel reappeared as a Rogue Mage of the Wildlands. And now, with the girl's victory over House Holland Divi-casted across the Mageocracy's domains, new interest in the previously abandoned endeavours would surely arise. Ironically, the Faction most inquisitive for Gwen's unique craft, the Militants, had thus far received the least access to the university's data. Comparatively, the Middle and Gray Factions possessed the data—but were proverbial Hydras, possessing too many heads to focus on effectively using the knowledge.

A significant point of resistance from those with interest had been the fact that all such Void Mages would effectively be "God Mothered" by Gwen's Soul Tap to "guarantee" their survival, a process that neither the Factions nor Gwen herself found agreeable.

To have a contingent of Sobel-type soldiers under the thumb of the Factions had been a long and cherished Dream of the Mageocracy while it worked with Henry Kilroy. However, to have such a contingent beholden by Geas to one woman who wasn't particularly tied to any House, family or Faction was an outcome no one desired.

Presently, a crow alighted on his shoulder.

"Well?" Mycroft's mouth moved without sound.

"The Exeters are not very creative," Mori's sultry voice chittered from between the crow's ensorceled beaks. "As you suspected, milord, one of the technicians has been skewering the odds for the Militants."

"Is it obvious?"

"He's allowing the randomisation to go ahead," Mori spoke with disdain. "But has limited the choices to terrain favourable for the Exeters. That's why the Adjudicators have yet to send their man downstairs."

"I see." Mycroft watched the battle preparations below, with his daughter and the girl exchanging whispers. "What's next?"

"Volcanic, Tundra, Arboreal and Cloudscape."

"All very good for a Smoke Mage," Ravenport agreed. "And not so convenient for our hellion."

"Shall I inform Magister Jerribeth of the All England?" Mori's tone grew vindictive. "Perhaps, after the match has begun so that the boy can be shamed and disqualified?"

"Now, there's a curious thought." Ravenport leaned closer toward the glass.

After her prior performance, Gwen's reentry ensured that both NoMs and Mages erupted into jubilant waves of witless cheering as their refreshed and radiant idol returned with Caliban singing its horrid jingle on her right and the magnificent Kirin cooing on her left.

"Magus Song!"
"Mistress of the Dogs!"
"ARROOOO—"

The spittle-conjuring fervour, Mycroft supposed, was only to be expected. It had been so long since London played host to such a spectacle of rare magics, ensuring that win or lose, the matches will be the topic of a hundred debates for years to come, possibly even informing textbooks as exemplars of extraordinary sorcery.

Many would also recall that she was a Frontier sorceress so that in the bout's aftermath, eyes would turn to Sydney, now the domain of Gunther Shultz, with renewed vigour and hope. Likewise, other Tower Masters would look to their citizens in their tier-II cities and wonder if they had missed similar opportunities to raise a new Arch-Mage and colleague, furthermore altering the balance of power.

Indeed, Mycroft conceded, Gwen was a girl who personified the winds of change, whether she willed it or otherwise, leaving no doubt that as an asset, she was equal parts wonder and danger.

"Mori," Mycroft affirmed his unorthodox expectancies as Gwen's opponent took to the stage, with the audience receiving the man with what can only be described as a silent sympathy. "Tell the Adjudicators to deploy Map Code 2351A. Explain that this is a favour from me to absolve them of troubles to come. Explain very clearly that they are absolutely within their right to refuse, just as I am completely confident in providing the evidence necessary for a change in their board members."

Without delay, the crow fluttered past the door, zipped through the long corridor outside, then was gone.

"Trouble, milord?" Lady Astor, who had been watching him, approached out of incurable curiosity.

Ravenport smiled. "I have duties elsewhere," the Duke noted. "I shall leave congratulating Gwen to allies such as yourself."

"You are not staying for the final match?" Lady Astor's exquisite brows rose an inch.

"Charlene is in good hands," Ravenport replied as he summoned the waiter to take his drained glass. "And you are too."

Lady Astor's eyes formed two mischievous half-moons. "I have just realised I should have placed another hundred thousand on Gwen."

"You should have bet the bank." Mycroft fought down the desire to scold the American. Mixing business, pleasure, profit, and ego was a very unhealthy habit, a dire lesson he would one day teach Charlene and perhaps the girl as well. "I bid you good fortune, Lady Astor."

"So long, Dickie." Lady Astor looked thoughtful, then added something unintelligible to her farewell. "Next outing, it'll be my shout!"

Edward Poins of House Holland, descendent of the Duke of Exeter, deeply suspected his brother had lost on purpose.

When Thomas returned, his shoulders slouched and his gleaming armour caked with mud and scored of Void-scars, his forsaken sibling had given him one of his characteristic sunny smiles and bid Poins take on the courage of their ancestor.

Thomas! Defeated! Poins tried to say something scathing, but his mind had gone blank.

For one, he knew that if Thomas wished, the man could fight like the devil himself, possessing no remorse, mercy or control should he unleash the full potential of his power, which was enough to break down the Walls of Force and drown the stadium in blood-boiling steam. Being his brother, he knew for a fact that Thomas had better tricks up his sleeve, possessing more capabilities than the brute force demonstrated by his maiming of the Void Mage and his destruction of the girl's "Caliban".

Poins also knew, for instance, that like himself, Thomas had a unique skill, one involving polluting their steam or smoke with Spirit-tinged element energy imbued with their Astral Essence so that, should their opponents inhale even a little bit of their "motes of force", they could be incapacitated then and there. This secretive "Dire Haze" was a skill that few outside the inner circle of House Exeter knew, for every enemy that had fallen to the Signature Spell had either perished or were absorbed into House Exeter as a House Guard.

The problem for Poins, alas, was that Thomas was supposed to be the one pushed to the brink! Thomas, who had only lost a handful of duels in his entire life, and never to a woman, and never to a Frontier Mage, was chosen by fate to expose their craft and draw their father's ire!

But then what did the thrice-blasted Thomas do?!
He fought the damned girl as though she were some filly he had to impress, and not even down to the last mote of mana! Or to his death! Watching his brother's smug retreat, Poins felt as though he should take a gamble and strangle his Steam-aligned sibling. How dare the man? How dare he put such a burden on his shoulders? Wasn't Thomas the heir apparent? Wasn't Thomas supposed to be the pillar of House Exeter? They were the inheritors of Henry's Golden Blood! Scions of the Argent King! What would the world think? If Poins also lost, who would take the heaviest blame? Knowing their father, Thomas would receive a stern word and be sent to some forsaken Frontier, but for Poins—

Edward Poins felt goosebumps crawl up his forearms and neck.

"Milord, your armour is ready." The House Armourer beside Poins informed him that his seals, straps and Enchantments were in peak condition to square off against Lightning and Void.

Steeling his spine, Poins took a deep breath, then made his way up the dais toward the duelling platform.

It was fine. Poins said to himself.
Everything was going to be okay.
The girl proved more potent than he had expected—or could have imagined—but she was still just a Frontier sorceress. He would kite her around the battlefield, obfuscate himself to avoid the brunt of her power, then via the advantage of his incorporeal Avatar—he would make her suffer. Marriage? Poins acknowledged that there would be little chance for amicability after a battle of the degree he imagined. But that was fine, even if he maimed the girl, Thomas' agreement with the Ravenport's heir remained intact, and that should be able to secure the funds necessary to get his father's Faction out of the foxhole. All he had to do was win.

Opposite, the girl appeared, generating a tidal surge of cheers, hoots and howls, enough to shake the bleachers. Conversely, his arrival was supported only by a few ragged hurrahs from the Militants.

Poins realised a split-second later that the betting odds must have swung to the girl's favour. If so, how many of those in the crowd had engaged in horse betting against the Militants? If he recalled, the odds had begun in House Holland's favour, meaning a good number of those cheering on his side were howling for her victory because of the tangible gains his loss entailed. As for those who had pinned their hopes on the Exeters—that would be yet another point of complication for their father.

The arena shimmered.
Transmutation modules buried into the struts and the arena's stratum thrummed with flowering mana, altering the landscape underfoot. First came the igneous stones, growing in size until they arched overhead. Then came the slick moss and lichen that spontaneously grew into place as the light dimmed, forming a tightly packed subterranean tunnel like those in the Dwarven Murk.

Poins felt the pit of his stomach drop.
What the hell was this?
What was this landscape even? A cave? A cavern?
Where were the volcanic steppes? Where was his Cloudscape?

It took a few minutes for the enormous transmutation to complete, settling into a long tunnel in the manner of a mining shaft or vein. The midsections, nested against the walls of force, allowed the audience views into the tunnel's interior. As a whole, the tube consisted of seamless blocks of volcanic rock made slick by cavernous slime and subterranean growth.

Poins turned his eyes to the Adjudicator but could not read the hawk-nosed man's expression.

An enclosed battlespace?
He knew well that the roulette of the arena's battle settings possessed such a setting.
But why the fuck was he in it?
Here in the smooth-bored tunnel, there was nowhere to hide! How could a Smoke Mage even begin to take advantage of their craft in such a space? Even if he flooded the tunnel with smoke, wasn't the girl capable of kilometre-wide Maelstroms?

"Contestants! Ready yourselves—" The Adjudicator was relentless. "BEGIN!"

The signal rang before Poins could think of a legitimate reason to protest.

"God damn it!" Poins swore, then wove into place his Avatar of Smoke, transforming instantly into a slipstream of slinking fog to assail the girl at the other end of the tunnel. If he could make it to the girl in time—if he could smog her and ensure that she inhaled a lungful of his motes of force, then he could subdue the bitch, bring her to heel—

Poins stopped.

He fought off the wave of vertigo wash over him, then realised he could and should go no further.

There was no longer the girl or the path in the direction that he needed to go.
There was, however, a mouth—a three-storey tall, circular mouth filled with teeth in concentric, diminishing rings, flexing and undulating as they invited him toward the hot-pink hole in the middle, one that regurgitated globs of Void-matter in viscous spurts. Poins felt his cheeks twitch once more. Both above and below, the creature's slick body had crammed the cavern to its absolute capacity, making it impossible for him to pass.

Or rather, he could choose to pass by entering the creature's gullet, taking a tour through the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Void, then hopefully emerge through the creature's colons to assault its owner in the manner of a treacherous fart. Unfortunately, impressive as that possibility may be, Poins dared not assume that the Void fiend even possessed a dietary tract, and he was not diving headfirst into oblivion. If anything, should the heir of the Golden Blood perish in such a comical way, Poins had a feeling the family mausoleum may spontaneously burst into flames.

Once more, he studied the strange "setting" of the battlefield conjured by All England's technicians. This blasted tunnel! If he were to find the prick responsible, he would wring the man's corpse like a rag! Blood and oath! Didn't Thomas pay off one of them?
Poins felt a raging fury encompass his mind like hot, cinder-filled smoke.
Who the hell was responsible for this travesty?
Was it his brother?
What would Thomas gain by his loss?
Try as he might, Poins could not get his rage-addled mind to focus on the possibilities. He felt like a bear, a God damned, baited ursine on a spit! And the bitch, the bitch was the hound set loose so that he would be made a spectacle.

But bear or bitch, as an Exeter, he would have to fight the cause.

"CINDER STRIKE!" a little more loudly than he'd liked, Poins tested the waters, sending a shrieking torrent of howling smoke, imbued by this Cinder Elemental toward the gnashing maw that even now inched closer. Unusual for its archetype, the Elemental Blast unique to his Spirit was capable of physical and mental damage, owing to the Cinder Spirit's relative closeness to Elemental Ash. Those struck by the blast would first suffer uncontrollable nausea, then become overwhelmed by despair, making his ray-attack an unmatched combination for sneak attacks.

As expected, the cinder tore through the repulsive flesh of the "Caliban" creature with ease, punching a hole deep enough to hide a Mage who might be into that sort of thing. Despairingly, Gwen's creature lacked the politeness even to feign agony, choosing to instead push ahead without flinching from an otherwise mortal injury.

Drawing from the wealth of experience he had gained fighting Vermin Tides in the horn of Africa, Poins quickly wove together another spell, a more potent variation of Cinder Strike that consumed six times the mana. Very quickly, with fingers dancing like that of a fierce pianist, he wove the Mandalas into place, generation three focusing arrays that would elevate the Elemental Fire under his control.

"Hellfire Bolt!"

Three dazzling rays of jet black smoke, each the length and girth of a Hoplite's spear, tore through the open space, shrieking like aggrieved banshees, their passage punctuated by phoenix trails of toxic Elemental Ash.

His pride and joy connected with a wet squelch, instantly consuming the flesh of the Void beast. Unlike the Cinder Strike, the Hellfire Bolts struck, corroding the meat as their latent energies expended.

Caliban howled, writhing and sending spittle spraying all over, though because the damned fiend had been doing that already, Poins had no idea if it suffered or if it cared at all for the supposedly mortal injury. Likewise, Poins had no idea how well the girl was connected to her Familiar. In his experience, any other Creature Mage of her calibre should be squirming in agony from the transmuted pain of Elemental Ash corroding one's living flesh. But a Void Sorceress? Would a girl with Void Mana running in her conduits even care for the caress of Ash?

Tapping deep into his reserves, he conjured a second set of Hellfire lances, each bearing his hope and dreams, smouldering the air as they smoked with malicious execution.

In front of the huffing heir of House Holland, Caliban continued to advance, a living glacier of flesh with a puckering, tentacle-pink orifice in its centre, beckoning Poins with its sussurating, Siren's wail.

"Shaa—"
"Shaa— Shaa—"
"SHAA— SHAA— SHAA—!"


Gwen wondered if Elizabeth Sobel, her predecessor, would have looked more svelte, fabulous and in control if placed in the same predicament.

When to her complete surprise, the final battlefield manifested as a sealed mining shaft commonly found in the Murk, her mind had instantly turned to the same tactic the Earthen Wyrms used to devour their prey—to lead with one's mouth and hope for the best.

Without delay, she had relented an unearthly volume of her stowed vitality, tapped into Almudj's blessing to supplement her needs, then near-emptied Caliban's internal stores to make the match truly interesting for the last Holland.

Her one regret was that contestants couldn't see the lumen-projectors outside the arena, for she would have truly enjoyed the expression Poins must have made when he realised the only way through Caliban was via its puckering, salivating orifice.

That was because Caliban's Void-tinged slime formed a near-vacuum seal of the tunnel, so much that were it not for the various vents built into the complex Force Barrier Mandalas, she doubted her "Mongolian Death Worm" would have possessed any mobility.

Her only inconvenience was that Caliban's rapid expansion had quickly forced her into a hilariously compromised position against the wall had she not put up a double-glazed Shield to protect herself. However, once she had settled herself, Gwen had time to foment her next move, which was to put a conclusive exclamation mark to the question of what weight she wielded in London.

"Ariel—" She called forth her purring, furry Kirin, fully stocked up on her Almudj's Essence over the last few days and choked full of the most vital Wildlands Creature Cores Charlene could provide. "You ready to impress?"

"EE—EE!" Ariel proved an eager participant, having spent the whole fight pent up in its Pocket Dimension, watching Caliban hog the spotlight. Now, its glowing horns of solidified lightning glowed with the power of a small power plant in semi-meltdown, ready to deliver its mistresses' displeasure to the man cornered by the business-end of its sibling.

With a dainty gauntlet resting on the head of her pet, Gwen willed forth the lion's share of Almudj's Essence, transforming Ariel wholly so that the crowd rose into wild whines of awe-inspired jubilation. Ariel, who was already an impressive chimaera before it took on Gwen's Essence boost, reformed into a radiant demi-Dragon with unquestionable semi-divinity. From its eighteen-point stag horns to its slender, serpentine neck covered with fish-scale patterned fur, it was the closest thing many Londoners had ever seen of a "true' Dragon-kind.

"EE—EE!" Ariel pawned the air with its immense mittens, all the while stomping the ground with its lightning-charged hooves, leaving behind horseshoe-shaped imprints of molten silica. The light of the plasma sparking off Ariel's fur to sizzling the Walls of Force was such that the generators near the pane where girl and Kirin hid bulged and warped as the sheer volume of otherworldly mana radiating from Gwen's Familiar seared their observer's weeping retinas.

Mid-transfusion, Gwen felt an invisible, empathetically driven bolt of Ash-tinged fire drilling into Caliban, growing until it felt like someone had pricked the inside of her skull with a needle. For a creature with no organs and arguably no nerve endings, Caliban was insensible to pain, which meant whatever Poins was doing had to be doing some real damage to tickle her insides.

"Ouch—" Gwen reflexively gritted her teeth as she touched a hand to her temple. A younger Gwen would have grown distracted, but an experienced masochist like herself managed to brush off the pain through sheer force of will. That said, there was nought she could do to dismiss the strange side effect of Elemental Ash, a feeling akin to injecting anaesthesia into her emotional centres.

Activating her Link Sight, she saw the vital form of Poins, burning like a miniature sun with limbs, tossing bolt after bolt of dark energy from his hands into Cali's maw like a man angrily feeding Dede breadsticks.

With each blast, the numbing sensation intensified, permeating Caliban's body, bleeding the accumulated effect into her Astral Soul.

Gwen guessed that the Ash-tinged smoke spears must be one of those prized secretive magics of the Hollands, meaning it was probably a good idea to prevent her opponent from reaching the full potential of his rare art.

"Bloody oath—" She fought down her nausea. "Alright, Ariel, it's time to lend Cali a horn or two."

She gave Ariel one last pat on the head, then dematerialised her Kirin to recombobulate her Familiar closer to Caliban's mouth, all the while ensuring that an eruption of tentacles from Caliban's howling, angry maw would shield the suddenly-appearing Kirin.

"Don't die, Magus Holland." Feeling a little cheeky, she decided to echo the words Thomas had delivered only ten minutes earlier, then followed up with an exclamation that dwarfed anything the Steam Mage had thus far demonstrated.

Then, Gwen began the famous invocations her audience had been waiting for in the grandstand, a phrase made infamous by her enthralling IIUC highlights.

With deliberate emphasis, her lush lips formed the perfect syllable to begin her spell, followed a few seconds later by the sound of reverberating thunder from down under.

Edward Poins Holland felt a buoyed sense of hope when, after six consecutive Hellfire Bolts that drained his Cinder Spirit and deadened his mind, the worm creature's advance was halted, and its undulation dulled.

To the observers, the young man was arguably deserving of the reputation attributed to his House, for Poins was a walking avatar of smog and ash, appearing and disappearing as his body displaced between the Prime Material and the Para-Plane of Smoke. Both of his hands, now imbued with the residue mana from his Hellfire Blasts, glowed with smouldering Elemental Ash, igniting the clambering particles surrounding his body as they dissipated, leaving phoenix trails of flaming embers.

Had the fiend finally run out of vitality? Poins' mind grew hot with visions of victory as he shook the corrosive particles of ash from his insensible fingers. The girl had fought his brother, and now she had conjured a full-sized Death Worm from Mongolia. Surely, her mana and vitality should have struck rock bottom? If he were to dispatch the worm, would the sorceress then appear? He wasn't in peak condition himself, but he felt confident he had the necessary spells on hand to hinder the bumpkin the moment her pretty face showed herself.

His plan was simple, for he would obfuscate her senses with phantoms conjured from Elemental Smoke—then he would Cinder Blast her defences to keep her on the back heel—then, as a masterstroke, he would permeate her Astral Body with enough Elemental Ash to render her senseless. At that point, she should be reduced to nought but a moist oyster on his plate!

But what of her retaliation?
There was a saying, Poins recalled, that one could not raise Manticore cubs without venturing into a Manticore's lair.

Elemental Smoke could not rival Dust for its absolute ability to withstand all forms of damage, but what he did have in abundance was the ability to warp and dodge incoming spellfire. Likewise, while Thomas, his brother, focused on offence, he possessed a more rounded suite of powers, including a Signature defence spell taught by Holland's Captain of the Guard, Smoke Ward—a form of Abjuration that emphasised diverting incoming attacks through a dispersed field of deflecting force shards. These were excellent against consumption-based powers like Void. Additionally, what gave Poins his absolute confidence was his House Armourer's Enchantment of Greater Protection against Lightning, built especially into his suit for the occasion after two months of planning and foresight.

And if his offence should fail?

Poins had already polluted the surrounding air, or what's left of it, with particles of his and his Spirit's Essence, readying the battleground for a Dire Haze should events turn southward for the never-setting sunset of Exeter.

To snatch victory from the jaws of seeming defeat! Could there be a sweeter moment for a heroic Scion of the Hollands? What would his brother do? What would his father say? And to have the girl confess to her willingness to be a marriage candidate? It was a delicious thought, even if the prospect made him a little afraid.

"Hellfire Bolt!" The final bolt cratered the creature's face deep enough for him to see its charred, pink interior.

To his pleasure, "Caliban" then ceased its movement entirely, making victory feel so close he could almost taste it.

Ding! The subtle chime of the Adjudicator's message channel bloomed besides Poins' ear. For a second, Poins wondered if enough Elemental Ash had permeated the girl to make her give up the fight.

"Don't die… Magus Holland."

Instead, what came across was a passed-on missive that was seductive, husky and sweet all at once, with implications no kinder than a hatchet to his ego. It took Poins another split-second to realise she had spoken the precise words used by Thomas before his failed alpha strike.

Instantly, Poins' mind filled with nagging doubt. He would have written off the mockery without his brother's words, but now, he wasn't so sure.

What did the girl mean by it?
Were Thomas and the Ravenport's heiress in cahoots?
They had, after all, known one another since he and his brother were at Eton and Charlene at Cheltenham. Compared to himself, his brother had always been the popular one, the one who the girls at Cheltenham had pined after, and the heir that caught their father's and mother's eyes.

Taken as such, was the girl's mockery a warning passed on by Thomas against his ambitions? Poins had been the one who suggested taking the girls on to usurp their wealth and gain their bloodline. Yet, hadn't Thomas agreed to it? Hadn't his brother put the measures in place to take advantage of the Barlow Group's feud?

The more he thought about it, the more he sensed a terrifying logic piecing together.

Unfortunately for Poins, there existed only a split-second between Gwen's warning and the miniature sun now blooming like an electric flower. More so than ever before, he felt like the baited Dire Bear their father had made them fight in their youth, trapped in a makeshift arena to be pommelled and pelted by Elemental Steam and Smoke, only to regenerate and be subject to the same torture the next day.

But even the vividness of that recollection fell suddenly behind Poins as every memory muscle in his body activated to form a deflection field around his Avatar of Smoke.

"EE—EE!" Came a cry of dire cuteness inside the glowing halo of scintillating plasma.

The Kirin! Poins refocused his thoughts at once. The Void fiend must be spent, meaning if he could defeat the Kirin, then the girl had no choice but to face him in person, exhausted and OoM.

"Cinder Bolt!" Poins launched himself as a jet of smoke toward the back most section of the battle arena's makeshift tunnel, all the while launching no less than three bolts at the iris-searing vision of the hazy Draconid. His attacks flew true, but just as his assault was about to connect, a flurry of flesh in the form of tentacles formed a wall of meat in front of his quarry, eating his attacks before falling apart in agonised sections of smouldering, ash-tingled chunks.

Poins felt his spine freeze.

"BARBANGINY—"

There was no need for an open broadcast, for Poins heard the sound as clearly as the ionising air near the Kirin as it lowered its head.

There was a brief lull, two blinds of the eye as Poins shifted into defence, then his world turned irrevocably emerald and white.

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In the All England's arenas, the barriers were bolstered by multi-core Aether Engines and imbued with anti-magical Mandalas should the battle Mages grow too passionate in their search for victory.

When finally the spell the Adjudicators had been waiting for began to manifest, the All England's technicians had readied every safety mechanism available to the century-old establishment as contingencies.

However, when the living, forking emerald lightning struck out in ten-thousand filaments like a distended tree of life and the Divination department's instruments swung past orange into the scarlet, Magister Yvonne Jerribeth knew the audience was in real danger.

"Deploy the Anti-Magic field." Her voice cut through the alarms like a hot knife, stern and unquestionable. "Award the match."

Her employees obeyed without delay, synchronising movements as they activated the intricate mana-draining Mandala built under the Transmutation layers. By Allenberg's Theory of Planar conservation, it was impossible to eradicate mana itself—though it was entirely possible to deploy Arcanistry in such a way that undesired mana manifestations could be shunted elsewhere, such as into the limbo of the Astral Plane, or perhaps into the Elemental Plane of Air.

The decision proved correct, for the Magister could visibly see the Walls of Force warping from the excess energy. Despite the contestant's employment of what could only be an upper-tier Spirit, neither the beast nor the girl had considered mitigating their power output, conceivably because of their confidence in the All England, but more than likely out of neglect. Whatever the case, Magister Jerribeth breathed a sigh of relief when the walls re-established their structure, accompanied by the slow fall of indicators on the Aether Engines' heat levels.

"Make the announcement," she said to her staff as she teleported away, her mind still half-lingering on the "compassion" given by Lord Ravenport and full of fury for the Hollands that had compromised her perfect tenure. "I'll personally certify the outcome."

It took almost a minute for the mana from Ariel to thoroughly flush from the battle arena, leaving Gwen standing in a field of broken stone and molten debris beside a half-cooked Caliban quivering with delight and a Kirin mewing with haughty pleasure.

When her eyes doubly scanned the battlefield and could not locate her opponent, the pit of her stomach dropped.

FUCK—was the first thought in her head. Had she overdone it? Had the Devourer of Shenyang officially screwed the Royal Corgi?

Just in case, her eyes scanned the arena once more, each pass engendering in her a growing degree of paranoia.

FUCK—FUCK—FUCK—

Visions of all-out total war flashed across her frontal lobe.

Had she atomised Poins? Reduced man into his primordial elements?
Perhaps Poins was hiding in a pocket dimension like Jean-Paul?
But that wasn't possible either, for all it took was a persistent disturbance like a lightning field, and Poins would be ejected and disorientated—and then doubly atomised.

For assurance, she glanced at the sidelines, only to see a jubilant Charlene with both hands balled in a gesture of victory.

Charlene's lack of panic calmed her somewhat. After all, Poins wasn't the true heir, or was he? The Exeters have got an heir and a spare, and the "spare" was the spare for a reason.

"MAGUS SONG—THE VICTOR!" The declaration from above reverberated, likely hoping that she could acknowledge the fact. Gwen was vaguely aware that the Adjudicator had announced the outcome several times already, though her present worry was more so for the trouble at hand.

At any rate, the crowd wasn't clapping, and Gwen could only guess why.

"Umm…" Gwen turned her face toward the Adjudicator awaiting her acknowledgement. "If I may ask, good Sir, where's Magus Holland?"

The hawk-nosed Adjudicator's eyes locked onto Caliban.

"Cali?" Gwen turned to her Familiar.

The rapidly regenerating Caliban gave her a look only a half-cooked sausage regrowing its sheep-intestine exterior could manage.

"EE—EE!" Ariel protested loudly, pawing the air and stomping its feet. "EE—!"

"SHAA—!"

"EE—EE—!"

Gwen's eyes widened. "HE DID WHAT?"

According to the impression from Ariel, the very brave and very decisive Poins knew instantly that he was in a world of hurt, at which point he realised there was only ONE place where he could shelter from utter annihilation.

"CALI!" Gwen shrieked despite herself. "Spit it out!"

"SHAA—" Her creature refused to comply, or rather, its faceless mien was very expressive in insisting it had nothing in its maw.

"God damn it," Gwen growled at her Familiar. "Cali— not now! Spit it out! We need him alive! What if you get sick?"

"SHAA—" Caliban shook its head indignantly.

Before Gwen could compel the creature with her will, a part of Caliban's healed flesh began to bulge. Poins then thankfully erupted from her Familiar's side and rolled onto the floor with the unpleasant pop of a suddenly rupturing pimple. The impromptu birth made Gwen wince, for the man was covered in Void-tinged slime, and were it for his full-cover armour, there would certainly be a layer of Poins that would remain mingled with her dearest Caliban.

"Milord Poins." She gritted her teeth. "Are you..."

Before she or the crowd could comment, the man leapt onto his feet and made a fighting stance. The Exeter was even halfway through a nasty sounding invocation when a female Adjudicator materialised in front of Edward Poins with a disapproving glare and a Wand of Nullification in hand that would focus the anti-magic Mandala's power where she willed.

Invariably, the crowd's excited low rumble now grew from a quiet thrum to a thundering roar, then to shrieks and howls.

Upon seeing the newly materialised Adjudicator, Poins popped his helmet and shrunk the thing behind his sweat-soaked hair to protest his loss. Meanwhile, Gwen could only feel supremely impressed by the man's quick thinking. To hid in Caliban—it was the same thing she had done to the Elder Sand Wyrm, only she had minutes of foresight and planning, while Poins had a fraction of a second. To dive with complete confidence into a creature composed of Void was a feat that no average Mage, even an experienced one, could begin to entertain.

For this reason alone, Gwen felt enough respect for Poins to gift him the mercy of dignity.

"No, Master Poins, withdraw now and accept your loss. I shall not ask twice."

Whoever spoke had both power, authority and very little patience.

"The victory is yours, Magus Song." The platinum-haired woman turned to her. From her bearing and a vague impression of her face, Gwen could guess that she must be Magister Yvonne Jerribeth, the Master of the Arena. "Even if Master Poins should defeat you now, I will not certify his victory. You have won. That result is both unequivocal and final."

"Thank you." Gwen gave the woman a curt nod, then offered her hand to Poins, who stared at her extended digits as though they were Caliban's beckoning, phallic tendrils.

Several more seconds passed before the man could restore the full extent of his faculties, after which he moved with the grace of a struck Golem to take her palm and shake.

"You… tried to kill me," Poins intimated, his voice low and private. "I concede, but tell me—was it Thomas who put you up to this?"

Gwen's smile froze, more so from confusion than from shock. Had Caliban's interior driven the man insane? Or had Ariel's shock therapy reduced his IQ to the lower double digits? Whatever the case, with the crystalline eyes of the Lumen-casters gazing upon her, Gwen felt it best to ignore the man altogether and to stay away from this particular Exeter in all future interactions.

"You're alive, so I certainly wasn't trying." She smiled back with a snarky glint of her pearly teeth. "Had I truly wished it, you'd be trying to find your way out from the Quasi-Plane of Caliban's gullet."

"I see," Poins answered cryptically, his face inexplicably relaxing. "Thank you for the honesty, Magus Song."

"Sure." Gwen withdrew her hand, then gestured to the podium. "Shall we?"

"My brother will take care of that." Poins gave her one last look, his gaze as hungry as it was wary. "Enjoy your victory, Magus Song. So long as you continue to refuse the Militant Faction, I am sure we'll meet again under less happy circumstances."

"Then I very much look forward to my future profits." Gwen parried with ease, then turned on her heels to join Magister Jerribeth, who concluded the post-match shit-talk by giving Poins a curt nod.

She and the chief referee then rose into the air until they were surrounded by spectators on all sides, leaving Poins' lonely self to retreat to the Exeter's sidelines. When she looked down at her opponent, she felt suddenly struck by a strange sadness, for the Hollands had already withdrawn, leaving only a token House Guards to receive Edward Poins.

Was this the intra-politics of these supersized families? Gwen wondered, hoping that she and her companions would never amount to such bitter bickerings, no matter her success.

Closer to the grandstands, a platform was readied for the victors, where she reconvened with the mummified Jean-Paul, whose body and dignity was held in place by Aiden Rothwell's Faith Magic, and Charlene Ravenport, whose eyes glanced more than once at the faces behind the panes. Perhaps a little mockingly, John Williams, the NoM pilot, was behind them, cheering on Gwen with big, hyperbolic waves of his hands.

Her match, unfortunately, had no crystalline cup nor a platinum trophy to act as its proverbial cherry on top. Yet, Gwen felt as though she was levitating as the crowd undulated with their praises of "Magus Song!" and "Mistress of the Dogs!", together with a subset of spectators howling "Ariel!" and "Cali—Cali—Cali—"

Was Evee watching the show? She wondered as she gingerly exchanged hugs with the men, then clasped Charlene's hand.

Together, the girls raised their hands to the air, drawing another round of resounding cheers that would be broadcasted around the Mageocracy and its second-tier capitals.

"As this isn't the International Duelling Competition, there isn't a speech prepared," the regal-looking Magister Jerribeth explained. She waited until the girls separated, then shook each of their hands as the officiating proprietor of the All England.

Glancing at the side of the now absent Exeters, she gave a disapproving shake of her head, then returned her attention to the girls.

"Just as well—" The Magister sighed. "Your competitors have chosen a dignified and quiet withdrawal, so it's now up to you. Please address your ardent fans, Magus Song and Milady Ravenport."

In the distance, hovering Lumen-recorders focused on the girls.

"I had complete faith in Gwen," Charlene gave the screen a rare grin, flashing her teeth and her steely grey eyes, showing the world that not all members of House Ravenport were born stern. "And that faith has been tested and proven sound. In my capacity as a Ravenport, I believe our partnership will continue to blossom for many years yet."

The Senior Adjudicator gave an approving nod, then waited on Gwen to deliver her piece.

Gwen took a deep breath.
The defeat of the Exeters was something she could not have imagined a year and a half ago. Yet, here she was, standing on a podium while the Nobles fled with their pinions between their legs.

Reflexively, she wanted to thank her Master, who even now slept the eternal sleep in Sufina's abode, not to mention Alesia and Gunther. She also desired to credit her Babulya, Uncle Jun, Yeye, Richard, Petra and Opa, whose contributions were instrumental to where she stood today.

She very much wanted, a little cheekily, to say hello to Percy to embarrass him on an international level.

Then there were her mentors and seniors in England, her dearest Lady of Ely, her team of tutors, Magister Brown, and the men and women who made her progress in Void-craft possible.

A tiny part of her even entertained the idea of embarrassing Dickie with a wink and a thank you to pay him back for the fright and fear.

But to express such sentimentalities now would be a troubling confession, one that would give away her connections and those who were close to her. Instead, she had an image to maintain and a portfolio to cultivate; with the victory here, she would be freed from the desirous eyes of London's high society, transforming herself into their equal, whether they admitted it or otherwise.

Thereby, she knew well what to say at a junction as crucial as this.

"Thank you, Magister Jerribeth." Gwen bowed her head before turning again toward the crowd and the audience with a similar show of humility, drawing coos of affirmation. "All I can say now—"

Gwen raised her voice by a dozen decibels.

"—Is that the Isle of Dogs will issue new Ordinary Shares in the coming weeks for Phase IV of our development! Be you NoM, Mage, Magus or Magister, join us today on the Isle as we rebuild London for a better, brighter future! Don't miss this opportunity because it won't come again, at least until our next project!"

Understandably, the crowd broke into new waves of hysterical cheering, not unlike a ravenous beast biting the bait out of jaw-clenching reflex. For ones invested in the isle, the Mages were likely overjoyed that their stocks and properties would see a sudden growth spurt. As for the NoMs associated with the IoD, they had little idea what Gwen spoke of but understood that somewhere therein was the implication for more jobs, better employment, and open opportunities.

Besides her, Magister Jerribeth stared at her with a dumbfounded expression of disbelief.

When the crowd's baying did not cease for another thirty seconds, Gwen turned to her companions with an awkward smirk. "Maybe I should have gone for a more traditional conclusion?"

To her shock, it was Charlene who launched herself in the most un-Ravenport manner imaginable, closing the space between them until she embraced Gwen in a big hug with her spindly arms, then affected a smile that could only belong to a psychedelic purple cat from a Demi-Plane.

"I wager you just doubled our earnings this quarter!" Charlene's inspirited voice chimed with the jingle-jangle of HDMs. Ravenport's daughter looked toward Gwen, then to the cameras, the toward her again before she spoke once more. "Thank you, Gwen. I know we're mutual beneficiaries, but still, I wanted you to know that I fully appreciate what you've done for me. I struggle to think another aspirant would again manage a debut with so much... freedom."

Shocked at her partner's sudden display of sisterly affection, Gwen felt a little smothered by the unusual intimacy. Yet, when the young woman parted from her a few seconds later and resumed her usual, stoic self, she savoured the lingering scent of soft lilac blossoms.

"Do you have anything else to say, Magus Song?" Magister Jerribeth gave a slight cough, her undisguised aggravation as cold as her frozen smile at the antics of Gwen and her upstart kin. "The All England is a busy venue, you understand, and there's much to clean and prepare."

"Then we shall take our leave, Magister Jerribeth." Gwen bowed toward the venue's visitors once more, as did her fellow compatriots.

As they descended to the sound of shattering applause, Gwen hovered backwards to address each of her companions in turn. "Alright, guys and dolls—Are you ready?"

"Ready for the future?" Charlene joked, her mind likely already thinking of her quarterly financial report for the Norfolk Fund.

"For what?" Jean-Paul was his usual clueless self.

Gwen nodded toward Ser Rothwell, who she hoped did not subscribe to a Vow of Alcoholic Temperance. She also nodded toward their new camp follower, the somewhat desperate looking John Williams, for she had questions for the man that only he could answer.

"For the after-party, of course." Gwen flashed her Storage Ring, feeling with complete certainty that there could only be one way to conclude their day. "Tonight! Unlimited Essence-Maotai! We drink until we drop! Or burst! Or until Jean-Paul regrows his hair!"


"What are the chances the Barlow Group isn't going to withdraw their bullshit?" Gwen asked the oval table and its assemblage of face-palming, head-aching folks recovering from Maotai. The night had been long, for Jean-Paul had not grown out his hair despite her best Essence and now resembled a naked mole-rat. At first, Gwen suggested that Jean-Paul would perhaps own the new "look", like a cute pug. Unfortunately, now as bald as Bezos, Jean-Paul appeared more reptilian than ever, so much that the casual observer would question his Demi-ancestry. "Charlene! What do you think?"

"Gwen, for the love of Evee, lower your voice," Richard remarked with a wince. He and Petra had joined them shortly after they retired to the Bunker, where they had left early from their labours to celebrate the victory of their cousin over the Empire's elites. "We can all hear you, but right now, your words are bouncing around inside my skull like Clarion Calls."

"You could always put the twins' incompetence in the METRO." Petra motioned with a casual wave. As one with principally Russian blood and trained to drink professionally instead of responsibly, her cousin was better fortified against magical booze than Richard. "Besides, these things take time, don't they? I doubt the Veteran's Association can 'order' their protestors home like dogs."

"I think it'll take a few weeks, so have patience," Charlene's answer emerged from a mound of silken black cloth wrapped around her head to block out the light. "Ooo— my insides feel like a thousand crows taking flight at once."

"You young people..." Walken, who had abstained from the drinking and left early for his family, shook his head disapprovingly. He Maged Handed across another jug of water from the hidden fridge, warmed it with a snap of his fingers, then refilled glasses for the sufferers. "Gwen, perhaps you should reconvene later? The Barlow Consortium will take time to collapse, by which time we'll have the advantage in their fire sale."

"Alright— alright—" Gwen relented, lamenting that her lightweight companions could not combine workaholic lifestyles with an alcoholic one. Unlike the Dwarves who drank until they blacked out and then returned to work as refreshed as a clear winter morning, her humans were ill-suited to hard-boozing life.

Now forbidden from raising her voice, she turned her attention to the papers of the day, delivered by a hungover Lorenzo first thing in the morning before escaping to his office to "sleep off" the overtime. The latest METRO had been printing as early as midnight, having primed the print run prior, awaiting only the details of her victory. On its cover, an unsoiled Gwen stood beside Charlene, flanked by Aiden and Jean-Paul, while somewhere below in a separate panel, there sat the haggard images of the twins in their moment of defeat.

Comparatively, there was an image of her in filthy battle armour on the Telegraph's cover, being hugged by Charlene Ravenport and editorialised by the headline "BIRDS OF A FEATHER". On the Sun, there was a flattering but far more terrifying visage of her in full Void-mode, half-covered by her Dark Egg while hundreds of hungry mouths wept from her obsidian shell. This one, Gwen marvelled, had the gall to use the headline, "I AM BECOME DEATH". It was an apt and eye-catching front page, though Gwen wasn't sure who the audience for such an allusion would or should be.

Nearer the back pages, she scanned the Editorial section of the Sun, where a Magister by the name of Lawson Ashbridge of the Middle Faction delivered his lauded opinion on the matter of Void Mages.

Seeing that her companions continued to resurrect their kidneys, she quickly scanned the article.

**The Legacy of the Void**

> In 1979, one month after the Invasion of the Indonesian Peninsular and the harrowing victory of the Mageocracy at Singapore city, a Void Mage made history as the first sorceress to conduct a raid of extinction on a Coral Fortress.
>
> Though the Military had not kept records of the sorceress' exact actions, eyewitness accounts considered the outcome optimum for Great Powers with the luck and resources to constrain a War Mage of the Void persuasion.
>
> The end to the Coral Sea War was so spectacular, the destruction so complete, that the Mermen Royals from the Seven Kingdoms who managed to flee withdrew their forces and sued for a ceasefire, putting a ten-year halt on the incursion of the Mageocracy's territorial waters.
>
> Drunk on success and irrespective of the secrecy surrounding the Void Sorceress known as Elizabeth Sobel, the Tower Council of our yesteryears then grew adamant that the "War on Humanity" mandated the use of extreme military means. It was a hasty decision—one advocated by Lord Henry Kilroy, architect of the Tower and its subsequent Councils, from which the Mageocracy had lacked the legal and conceptual legitimacy necessary to measure the methodology of Void users, thereby gifting Sobel far greater moral liberty than should have been allowed.
>
> As wars grew in human cost in the years to follow, Sobel quickly became an infamous stopgap measure for the Mageocracy's stretched forces. By official counts, under the tutelage of Kilroy, his spouse conducted no less than four hundred separate operations throughout her tenure, all the while unquestioned by military tribunals.
>
> History has told us how Sobel faired, and now we stand at that same junction.
>
> Void Magic is not a modern invention. Documents on Void Mages, mainly surviving ones, had existed for aeons in the Mageocracy's records. Sobel's creatures, these "Hydras" that we have all witnessed on Magus Song's Lumen-casted duel, are likewise not unknown knowledge. What differentiates the Void Arcanist from their fellow War Mages, who are often in the thick of battle, slinging spellfire and weathering a host of counterspells and returned artillery, is their unique constitution, one that had to be survived to be useful.
>
> However, this does not mean that the caster is indomitable. Of all Negative-aligned elements, there is none more prone to self-harm than Void, and this is a proven fact made evident by Elizabeth Sobel's mental decline to madness. Sobel did not enjoy her victories in the post-war peace but had revelled so long in war and mass destruction that she was no longer capable of living in society. Her insatiable battle lust eventuated in her defection to the Others, to Spectre, and inevitably, her cold-blooded murder of Lord Kilroy, a man whose loss had invariably diminished the Mageocracy.
>
> Gwen Song has now demonstrated the same aptitude as her predecessor. However, in stark contrast to the case of her Master's spouse, the sorceress has left no secret un-probed by Cambridge's most remarkable minds. Thanks to Magus Song, new methods developed by the Mageocracy's Magisters have ensured that almost all Void Mages willing to fall under the wing of the "Void Mage Union" would see their survival guaranteed, ushering in a new era of Spellcraft development. For those who still doubt the viability of Void Sorcery, I must say that…

Gwen noted that the rest of the article gave enough facts to appease the public's paranoia but wasn't heavy on details. The Magister, a "Marshall", was a proponent of her craft, though a wary one, a perfect metaphor for the state of her current branding in the public eye.

Inexplicably, as she replaced the paper on the table, a surge of tidal sentimentality struck like one of Caliban's vital euphorias.

Had she done it?
Had she overturned the PR nightmare on Void Mages left by Sobel?

According to the papers, she had.

The abrupt realisation made Gwen's chest constrict, and her fists tighten with crushing nostalgia. Back in Sydney, when she had first Awakened, the very notion that she could stand in public as a Void Mage was unthinkable. Back then, even a Master of Henry's achievements had been diminished by Sobel's fall from grace, swept up in a tsunami of atrocities into the shit creek of conspiracy.

Even now, in her storage ring, she had stowed her little hand-written notebook her Master had made for her. In it, Henry had explained his grand plan to make her lauded, cherished, famous, then venerated by the Mageocracy to normalise her life as a wielder of the Void.

And now— she has succeeded—and exceeded all of her Master's benign designs. Not only were Void Mages once more in the public eye, but Caliban would soon be popular enough to warrant an action figure.

But where was Henry to applaud her success?
Gwen couldn't help but feel as though she had crossed some threshold, only to turn her head and see that behind her were nought but emptiness.

Despite living among trustworthy allies, holding enviable power, and possessing more wealth than two lifetimes, She would still wake up sweating at night, dreaming of that strange vision she had in her Yeye's prison. There, in that alternate reality, she had not perished but instead grew into her Void powers as Elizabeth had, culminating in the destruction of Sydney, Blackwater, her Master, her family and her friends, all by her hand.

She felt a sudden desire to speak to Elvia—though that longing too, now lost the simplicity it once possessed.

"I won't worry so much as to make a face like that—" Charlene gently coughed, pulling Gwen from her internal revelry with a confident smile. "There is no possibility of Exeter the Senior to renege on the deal his sons made in public. If they're truly unrepentant, we shall appeal to the Crown, which would diminish House Holland's ethos so drastically that no amount of Golden Blood would matter. The aristocracy lives and dies by their word, Gwen. Take that away, and you're left with two-bit landlords."

"But do you think we can coax them to tackle their debt with more urgency?" Gwen distracted herself by returning to the matter at hand. "Our stock price isn't going to float on magic alone. We need the protests to end so our employees can get back to work. That and sell off five per cent of our soaring float to fund our purchase of Barlow."

"I am sure Lord Exeter is working out a deal right now," Charlene's bloodshot eyes spoke with hungover confidence. "I mean, if I were him, I would want the matter resolved as soon as possible so we can all move on. Hell, he's probably talking to the Barlow's management right now, I hope."

Gwen nodded. Indeed, once the dust settles and the IoDNC comes to possess Canary Wharf's titles, there will be a significant remodelling of the final phase's plans for London's premier new CBD, the Mages' dream and, as advertised, the "only place to be".

London.
Westminster.
Morrigan observed the unusually gloomy room.

Mycroft Ravenport, Marshall of England's armed forces by hereditary right, sat brooding in his ancestor's armchair, his jubilant mood despoiled by a report that had arrived with a set of unanticipated guests.

Opposite, grim-faced and dour, sat the stern visage of Marshall Lawson Ashbridge, present and actual Marshall of the Mageocracy's Special Aerial Divisions. Unlike Mycroft, the Marshall was an active military Mage, one whose facial scars were badges of pride, made poignant by a singular, magical eye that had replaced the original taken by the will of God.

Adjacent to the pair, the present spokesperson for the Militant Faction, Lord Francis Holland of House Exeter, stood nursing a glass of Mycroft's finest highland whiskey, awaiting his opinion on the matter.

"Honoured Sirs." Her honeyed voice, sombre and subservient, materialised in the office of the Duke of Norfolk as a crow bearing a parchment.

Gingerly, her Duke unfurled the fabric, revealing a radiant, singular leaf about the size of one's palm, one with veins that glowed with an inner, eerie light. Mycroft cupped the leaf for a few moments, silently feeding it his mana until Mori sensed his mind joining with the trans-Planar link between London and the space-spanning tree at Tryfan.

The others shifted uncomfortably.
Though all three were adherents to the Accord, her Master's role was far more involved than his compatriots.

"Great Bloom," Mycroft audibly voiced his thoughts. "By the Accord, the Office of the Marshall answers thy summon. With me are Marshall Ashbridge and the Duke of Exeter. Together, we speak for the Factions."

"Marshall Mycroft, Marshall Ashbridge, and Lord Holland," came a voice that was no longer inside her Master's head but widely audible via some unknowable sorcery on the Llais Leaf. The tone was regal, but the ageless nature of the petal-pink voice inspired in the listeners a longing they had not known existed. "Indeed, Tryfan has dire need of your services."

"By the Accord, we are at your service," Marshall Ashbridge returned with care, his magical eye swivelling to scan their surroundings. "Insofar as our duty demands it."

"Dearest Bloom, is the matter regarding Shalkar?" Francis Holland, the Duke of Exeter, spoke with a hint of sardonicism. Her Master had scheduled the man for a meeting earlier to extend Charlene's demands, which would explain the hot-headed Duke's animosity. "Did the Elemental Sea boil over as a result of the girl's irresponsible actions?"

Her Master shot his lordly compatriot a disapproving look, as did their fellow Marshall.

"On the contrary, your Magus Song has exceeded expectations," the rebuttal from the Llias Leaf left no uncertainty as to Tryfan's opinions on the Gwen. "Though our Warden could be less kind about your failed efforts in the equator, Lord Holland. You have extracted the promised wealth, but the region's Planar stability has fallen into utter disrepair."

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

Her Duke did not bother to hide his smile, while Ashbridge merely shook his head.

"We would have fixed it had someone not pulled out the rug from under us and absconded with our funds." Francis Holland amazed Morrigan by continuing to accuse him without a hint of embarrassment. "That said, how can I be of service?"

"If my Lords would recall," the voice continued. "Many moon cycles ago, Magus Song found evidence of a mass exodus from the Elemental Sea. An entire Brass Legion had evaporated from our southward expedition, easing the Khitani's passage as we sought to contain the elemental rifts."

Mycroft and the others voiced their acknowledgement.

"Once our Wardens had cleared the way through to the deep Murk, Arch-Warden Eldrin implemented means to track the Brass Legion through their cross-Planar jaunt. A few human days ago, Tryfan received its answer, uncovering the whereabouts and actions of the Emir's Elemental Legion."

Mycroft inclined his chin in thought while the other two voiced their enquiries.

"This would be Zodiam the Ursine?" Holland furrowed both bush brows.

"A dangerous existence to all mortal life," Marshall Ashbridge agreed. "Enlighten us, O Bloom. What did they do?"

"The Legion under Prince Zodiam." The voice remained calm, though the Llias' ability to enforce empathic emotions remained in place, giving even Morrigan a feeling of woe and worry. "Amassed an attack on the northern conjunction of elemental crossroads, in the First Seat of Frost."

The Marshall and the Exeter gazed at her Duke, whose profession involved intimate knowledge of foreign titles for landmarks.

"By which you infer the northern pole?" Mycroft clarified for his companions. "Where the Frost Flower of Lhîweth, may her Bloom be eternal, reigns over the White Reach?"

The room grew suddenly silent.

"Does the Frost Flower of Lhîweth still bloom? Are Tryfan's cousins of the north safe?" Mycroft continued, his heart pounding so hard that Mori could feel her organs quicken.

"We can mobilise within the week if need be," Marshall Ashbridge spoke. "Sixteen Battalions, half of which are Aerial Battle Wings."

"You can try to mobilise, but the reality is that we're taxed beyond belief." The Duke of Exeter rebuked the Marshall. "These will be sixteen very tired and incomplete Battalions."

"Unfortunately, Emir Zodiam was only a part of the threat," the voice continued, softening as it solicited undue pity from the men. "His forces were joined by Dauphiness Nin Gak of the Seven Kingdoms and a Great Shoal of Mermen. Additionally, the aftermath indicates that the rogue Lich hiding in Siberia had also joined them."

"A Shoal! At the pole?" Francis Holland's eyes grew visibly wide. "That's not possible. It's too cold. The Undead I can envision, but a living, breathing Shoal?"

"They're there to invade, not to live," Ashbridge interrupted the unbelieving Holland. "Besides, maybe the Brass Legion warmed them up? The better question is, how in the Fire Sea are the Elementals surviving near the poles? They would expend Essence at a rate far higher than they can sustain."

Morrigan licked her beaks.
The secrets here were delicious beyond belief.

"Hence the Lich—" Mycroft said dryly. "The Mermen brings the bodies. And the Necromancers will have their troops—then I assume the Emir can burn the tree at his leisure. I can see it working, milady—but have our foes succeeded? This happened months ago, correct? you are merely surveying the aftermath?"

"Correct. For now, I shall inform the Mageocracy that the Frost Flower of Lhîweth still lives and that the Great Oak of Lhîweth still stands," the voice said. "However, the Grove is severely destabilised, and the Frost Wyrm Laelitharian has perished—"

"—By the Nazarene!" Francis Holland could not appear to hold back the growing malice in his voice. "Great Lady, if you're preparing us for the Third Beast Wave, please get to the point. Every minute matters if we need to mobilise the entirety of the Mageocracy. We live short and expendable Human lives, but lives nonetheless."

"Francis! Hold your tongue!" Mycroft barked down the Duke Exeter. "Great Bloom, please forgive my unlearned companion. As you were saying—the Wyrm Laelitharian is defeated, but the Great Tree stands?"

"Indeed," the voice returned. "From what our estranged cousins in the Seat of Forest were willing to divulge, the siege began with a great rush of frail bodies against the Rime Wardens of Lhîweth, an endless tide of flesh and bones that continued for days, exhausting its defenders and their sorcery and piling enough filth against the Great Tree to overwhelm its perimetry wards. In the aftermath, the Necromancers raised the dead, growing into their power with so much haste and vastness that the Lich among them raised a legion at his leisure. This second battle proved far more difficult than the first, utterly draining the Rime Wardens of their numbers—at which point they then had to face Zodiam's rested Brass Legion."

The men listened to the simple words streaming from the leaf, doing their best to envision a battle that would have pulverised even the best defence the Mageocracy could mount—a key reason why disruption and diplomacy was a core strategy for the Empire's survival.

"The Emir's elemental Essence had only grown since the Fire Sea's opening, and it was there and then that Zodiam expended the stowed power he had amassed for thirty sun-cycles. As with his previous success, a temporary portal into the Plane of Fire formed from the spent Essence of his Legion, momentarily dispelling the Planar Wards our cousins had perfected over millennia."

There was a pause.

"The concerted effort was enough to draw forth the Great Wyrm Laelitharian, upon whose wrath the Brass Legion was spent, and the Great Undead Shoal dispersed. Though it was neither Nin Gak nor Zodiam that brought low the Great Guardian of Lhîweth."

"There's yet another foe? One that can take down a Mythic Guardian Wyrm?" The Duke of Exeter's expression was like a thunderstorm. "And you expect us to throw bodies at this thing?"

Morrigan sensed her Duke's mind sifted through the numerous reports he had received over the last six months to a year, perceiving that an answer that had been long-hidden now revealed itself.

"Spectre?" he said at once. "Sobel?"

Her Duke did not mention the Outcast, the Elf that had eluded Solana's Arch-Warden since before the Empire had made its first colonies. In any case, if Sobel and Spectre were involved in an attempted murder of a World Tree, a rogue Elven mentor could not stray far from the plot.

"Your wisdom serves you well," the voice approved of his conjecture. "Indeed, the Emir and the Dauphiness were aided by our old foes from Spectre, with our sorceress acting as the instrument by which they bypassed the Great Tree's defences and thus, lured Laelitharian from the Wood Womb. Fed by the Great Shoal, she battled the exhausted Wyrm, then consumed enough of the Guardian to enforce its temporary retreat."

Morrigan instantly thought of Gwen and the report of how she had devoured the Mongolian Death Worm. A Void Mage grew potent with every battle—not so strong as a fully functioning super-structural Tower—but enough to overwhelm a low-tier city. He would love for the Mageocracy to mount an expedition to hunt the woman down, but the cost in lives and materials for such a protracted jaunt into the Wildlands was unthinkable. The Mageocracy had too many fires everywhere and not nearly enough water.

"This is all very overwhelming and mythical." The Duke Exeter took a deep breath, then annoyedly scratched his beard with one hand. "But let me confirm something—will there be a Third Beast Tide? I require a definitive answer, O Bloom."

"I cannot profess to divine the forever shifting future—" the voice said. "However, unlike the madness of Vynssarion, Laelitharian shall return to the Tree Womb to be reborn. It will take a century or more, but so long as Lhîweth stands, so Laelitharian shall remain sane."

"Thank God for that." The Duke turned to Mycroft with an unamused grin. "Nonetheless, we all know that our Militant Faction has been humbled of late. Perhaps the Grey Faction would like to volunteer a portion of its obscene profits this time?"

Morrigan could see from the Duke's overt display that the man was very keen to change subjects from the matter of his sons' debt and disgrace to something that would expend the lives and wealth of families other than the Exeters. Yet, despite the man's loathing for the Accord and what the Hvítálfar might represent in the complex geopolitics of the Mageocracy, the Elves rarely raised the stick without presenting an overwhelmingly large carrot. As a result, the Accord was to the Militants like flames to a cloud of Moon Moths.

"What would you have us do?" Her Duke spoke to the leaf. "If indeed the foes are beaten back, for now."

"Tryfan lacks the means to pursue a protracted campaign." The voice grew stern and regal. "Regardless, we endeavour to aid our cousins in stabilising the region, and you would know the difficulty of such a task."

Morrigan watched her Duke glance at his contemporaries. Ashbridge gave him an affirming nod from the Middle Faction, while Holland's silence could arguably be taken as tacit agreement. Even without an actively maintained portal such as in the Fire Sea, the slow-healing of the World Tree would ensure that all manners of Elemental Creatures now flowed from the primordial chaos of their Planes into the Prime Material. "Pruning" of these creations would hasten the Tree's ability to restore stability to the region while leaving them unchecked to breed and fight would prolong, or at worst, create a second Fire Sea, eventuating in a wholly preventable Beast Tide.

"I will inform our allies in the central continent and commit the necessary troops from our end as a show of sincerity," Mycroft spoke for the trio present. "Will we see trouble from the Rime Guards?"

"Our best Druids are already there—though you will find the Frost Flower of Lhîweth no friendlier than before. Thereby, please take the utmost care in the region and avoid incursions into the Seat of Frost at all costs."

The Duke of Exeter scoffed.

"Fairest Bloom. Though we are fully capable of reining our Mage Flights, we cannot be responsible for the actions of Rogue Mages." Ashbridge raised a point that her Duke would have brought up himself. "With the opening of so many Elemental Rifts at once, the absurd volume of Crystals growing in the region would reach an astronomical rate, drawing scum from all over the world."

"Indeed, and though her Rime Guards are spent, the Frost Flower is fully capable of defending her realm—" the voice returned. "Her wrath in this difficult time would additionally be multiplied by her grief. Her Grove burns, but our dearest cousin remains one of the Eldest, and as such, possess powers within the seat of her home unrivalled even by your Towers…"

"That's just great." Holland heavily placed his glass on the side table. "In addition to Spectre, we now need to hunt down and kill the looters. But if we get too close to the looters running after the loot, the Frost Flower will annihilate our troops. Meanwhile, we need to hold back a developing Beast Tide in a Black Zone with no supplies while arresting and killing our kind. All of this is very easy, I am sure, for a Hvítálfar to envision."

"The Mageocracy will be amply rewarded." Her Duke refrained from shaking his head as the High Priestess of the Elves affirmed the statement the Holland's patriarch hoped to hear. Thankfully, Morrigan bobbed her beak disapprovingly in his stead. "For the next year, your Mageocracy will receive the finest materials from Tryfan, magical instructors, and our craftsmen will be at your service in Trawsfynydd, and our Hierophant Druids be ready to assist your plantations. As a gesture of goodwill, we will also double the allotment for Rejuvenation treatments."

"That's very generous." Her Duke did sound happier upon hearing the seemingly overwhelming terms of trade. "Is there anything else, Dear Bloom, that you wish to inform us?"

Against the men's expectation, there was a long pause.

"Until the rifts are repaired, and Lhîweth stabilises..." The voice replied evasively. "There will be changes to the challenges you already face, and through these trials, Humanity will learn first hand the importance of maintaining the Accord, more so for your sake than ours. Your commitment, composed of your will and your willing sacrifice, will dictate the conditions of your children and their children's lives."

"Is that a threat?" The Duke Exeter stood to address the Llias Leaf, an act that Morrigan found utterly ridiculous. "Should we clap and sing as we send our children to their death?"

"Francis! Sit down!" Her Duke forced the man back into his chair with a wave of his hand before turning to the Bloom. "Speak out of turn again, and I'll call in your Faction's outstanding loans!"

Mycroft's warning didn't matter, for the connection from the leaf waned, then faded, leaving the three men once more alone in his office, joined only by an eye-twinkling raven.

"I assume," Marshall Ashbridge spoke after a minute of contemplative silence. "That the Bloom isn't talking about war casualties? What's going to happen then, Mycroft? Why did she mean by our children?"

If Solana were Morrigan's old self, Morrigan reasoned, she would have meant the children had to be offered up as tasty morsels.

"When the Fire Sea first opened," Mycroft reminded his militant cousins. "We lost innumerable people and cities. We didn't know at the time, but the portal's emergence had also changed the climate in the region, desertifying the tablelands. You've never heard of the famine there because all of our colonies had been eradicated or evacuated. Every place from Baku to Ashgabat was abandoned."

"So?" The Duke shrugged. "The Hvítálfar seemed fine with the Fire Sea wreaking havoc. What makes this any different? We have no colonies on Greenland."

"According to Gwen's reports," Mycroft spoke to the growling Duke, whose face turned even sourer as he mentioned the girl's name. "The famine shifted the entire population of Centaurs northward, the Rat-kin southward, and was the key culprit responsible for the instabilities there. Tens of million Demi-human lives were lost and were they not, we would have experienced a localised Beast Tide. Either way, this is a problem that she had profitably resolved for the Mageocracy by opening up grains trade for the Khitani and facilitating Elven crops for the Rat-kin."

Morrigan nodded her beaks. She liked Strun, who reminded her of the warriors of old that used to inhabit her isle.

"What does the Middle Faction have to say about this?" The Duke of Exeter turned to their third companion. "Trading with monsters? Enriching rats? Building a vermin tide of her own? That's not very Middle Faction, is it now? Lord Kilroy never condoned such a thing, not in my memory. Besides, did the Fire Sea change anything in our part of the world? It didn't. I want to see Mycroft try to convince the public that their sons and daughters will die for the cause of some sprout, one without bearing on our colonies."

Marshall Ashbridge appeared to give the matter some thought before he spoke. "Norfolk, you know as well as I that the girl has our support, but Francis is correct in that she may have gone too far. Did you know Gwen had cultivated a religion in her name? There are rumours from the Ordos that she had quite the Faith reading, which isn't bad if we offer her that particular route. I am not going to stand in your way—but know that we in the Middle Faction have high hopes for Kilroy's Apprentice, especially as Gunther refuses to return to Europe, and the alternative is Alesia. I must likewise agree with Francis on the matter of Tryfan's request—we really can't afford a longitudinal conflict, not without drastically taxing our coffers."

"The girl is free to act as she chooses." Her Duke regarded the pair, his countenance so genuine Morrigan almost cawed with laughter. "Her friendship with Charlene has no input from me, nor am I in any way involved in Lord Holland's scion's self-sought consequences, humoured as I am at the outcome. And you know my position on the Accord. I am confident Tryfan speaks the truth, even if we're unwilling to commit ourselves. As for the cost—"

"Maybe an arrangement can be reached." The Duke of Exeter straightened his jacket. "Mycroft, may we speak in private?"

"We—" Her Duke paused for a brief second, his mind branching out across a dozen scenarios and outcomes in a mere moment. Sensing Mycroft's old tricks, Morrigan fluffed her feathers with delight. "—may not. Nor do I wish to waste time on your family, Francis. These are our children's debt and gain, not yours nor mine. We have an impromptu, long-term campaign ahead of us, milords. Let's not allow such trivialities to distract us from duty."

As the voices moved from Gwen toward trivial matters of logistics, Morrigan transferred her consciousness from the room elsewhere to the Isle of Dogs, where her favourite Essence spigot was taking a walking with her cousins, soaking up the adoration of her employees.

What had the High Priestess of the timeless ones meant, Morrigan wondered, by that Humanity would learn the true importance of the Accord? What would happen if Humanity failed to commit "voluntary" sacrifices to healing the Grove of Lhîweth? What had the weather to do with any of it, and why had the Hvítálfar intimated as such?

It was a riddle, one that reeked of secrecy, her favourite treat. Perhaps, Morrigan wondered as her murder spread its wings and dove down toward the girl—someone who had been to Shalkar and came back the Rat-kin's saviour would be capable of providing an answer!