"So… you are not a masseuse?" Gwen questioned her attendant, now confessed to be a multi-classed Druid Hierophant-Initiate of the Tryfan Enclave.

"I am that and more, though I understand the confusion, Magus Song. It's admirable— for even the Dökkálfar with their long-lives seldom master more than one profession." Sanari's perpetual smile persisted. "And though some of our kind prefer stagnancy, I enjoy the fluidity brought by each changing cycle of service. Within the World Tree, seasons change and each year is different from the last, why should we be any different?"

"So you don't find the work demeaning?" Gwen continued her enquiry out of morbid interest, attempting to trace the sprigs and branches of Hvítálfar society. "You're an ageless being with centuries of wisdom, and you are willing to 'service' a member of the younger race? I was under the impression that 'real' Elves saw us as akin to apes... Like how we see the Mermen..."

"We have no conflict with the Mermen to denigrate them as you do." Sanari waved away her accusation. "Their envoys are just as welcome as yourself. It is true that before my time, before even Lady Solana and the Guardian came to be, your kind may have been simians, but you are not now, are you?"

For some reason, Gwen thought of the macaque queen she'd met in Burma, as well as the Water Ghosts in their sodden den.

"No," she said. "But it's still demeaning."

"Demeaning?" Sanari slowed her step to match Gwen's stride. "How so?"

"I, for one, can't imagine myself in your position." Gwen intimated that she was offended by the very notion of menial servitude, even if it was something respectable that cost a great deal of money to purchase. In her eyes, she'd rather pay with cash than cash-in her dignity.

"What a peculiar arrogance." The Druid's golden eyes regarded her with interest. "Must pride and power always occupy the same pod? In your Human Circle, does might and wealth make one superior to one's kin?"

"Not abstractly, not in a society where all have equal rights," Gwen replied with a hint of cheek. "But explicitly, prestige and power can purchase equality by the bundle."

Sanari grew confused by her Gwenism. "A contradiction, I see. Is your hypocrisy because Mages in your society are inherently superior to your non-magically affiliated citizenry? How irrational. Doesn't one engender the other? Mages don't grow on trees, I assume."

"Wait up," Gwen asked in turn. "Don't the Hvítálfar lord over the Träälvor?"

"If you mean whether the Träälvor come to us in times of need," Sanari replied. "Then, yes. Though not often. The Circle Council may grant a boon if the need is dire."

"But the Hvítálfar do not consider themselves superior to the Träälvor?" Gwen asked. "I mean, in terms of magic, lore, lifespan, power..."

"It's truer to say the Träälvor consider themselves inferior." Sanari searched for her next words. "As kin, we think of them kindly, of course, though they have their duties, just as we have ours. I would not presume to impose a Träälvor Ranger, for instance, though most would be happy to do my bidding. Likewise, among our woodland cousins, some are proud as well, such as the Keepers of the Circles. They resist the hierarchy their people revere acutely— it's a complex affair."

"I bet." Gwen took mental notes. "I like you, Sanari. You're not snobbish and self-important despite holding such a position in your society. If that applies to your people in general, then the Hvítálfar sound too good to be true. I mean, do all Hvítálfar exist in an egalitarian commune?"

"I do not think your human analogy would work," Sanari disagreed with her summation of fantasy communism. "This harmony is merely how things are. Take this notion of elevation which you prize so dearly. For our kin, the seasons turn as a water-wheel, and that which blooms shall wilt to bloom again. Why fight for the fecundity of the moment? An irresponsible desire for unnatural harvests will only poison the soil. Things fade, creatures die, trees perish. Nought exists for long but for the aeons. Our disinterest in pride and prestige isn't something we consciously pursue: it exists as the Accord; as holistic as our genesis from the World Tree."

"Like a... Great Chain of Being?" Gwen was beginning to feel that her fellow Humans had thrifted plenty of ideas from their knife-eared neighbours.

"Perhaps. It is difficult to explain to an outsider."

"I see…" Gwen attempted intellectual empathy, but lacking the necessary context, she felt like an illiterate rube trying to unpack Keynesian economics.

"The Bloom in White will be a better instructor than I, I am sure," Sanari assured her. "I am yet unlearned in the Accord. Perhaps I shall apply myself in the next cycle."

The two walked on until they reached the centre of the tourist town.

At the crossroad of Trawsfynydd's square stood the Heart Oak, so named because it was the tallest tree visible to the guests, and also because it served as the conduit between Trawsfynydd and Tryfan.

"Before we head inward. Are there any taboo subjects? Despite being an Alfarphile, Ollie's not much more knowledgable on Elven etiquette beyond trade basics. His sorcerous thesis was on Elven integration of the Imperial Magic System, not Elven intrigue."

"When speaking to the Bloom, you should be yourself," Sanari stated. "The Lady has met generations of Humanity's finest. Your genuine nature will be an important distinction."

"I'll do my best. Are we climbing the World Tree?" Gwen's eyes sparkled. "Is it true that it's a multi-tier Grot?"

"Yes. No, we will proceed directly to the Sun Sanctum," Sanari informed her.

"We're not sight-seeing?" Gwen felt taken aback.

"You are not a guest in Tryfan, not yet." Sanari's face retained its unflappable serenity. "Your talents are too peculiar to be left unchecked. Your Void beast, if left alone, will bring great alarm to our insular kin."

"Caliban?" Gwen touched a finger to her heart. "Cali is perfectly tame."

"My concern isn't for the wellbeing of our people." Sanari smiled. "Enough talk. Let us proceed."

Ahead, the branches of the Heart Tree lowered themselves, entwining until a threshold formed. Sanari incanted in Sylvan, a language Gwen could comprehend only thanks to her Master's Ioun Stone. Soundlessly, an emerald portal sprung into being in the space between the twisting branches.

"Is this Tree Stride?" Gwen eyed the portal.

The Druid extended a hand, saying nothing more.

Swatting the butterflies alighting in her stomach, Gwen arrested the Elf's elongated digits, mindful of her imminent close encounter of the Galadriel kind.

In her old world, Gwen had travelled the breadth of its cities. Inevitably, curated by Tripadvisor, she had detoured through innumerable cathedrals from the medieval Notre-Dame de Paris to the ultra-modern Catedral de Brasília, all of which had succeeded in making her cynical heart swell with wonder and worship.

Such was her immediate impression of the Sun Sanctum, the interior of which reminded her of these vainglorious edifices.

As with her visitation of the Hagia Sophia, her vision first ascended toward the Elf hall's apex, a curved, bell-shaped roof grown from warped leaves two storeys tall, joined by colossal stems to form an organic, semi-translucent octogramic dome that filtered the radiance.

From there, pillars composed of polished white oak, carved with what Gwen presumed to be narrative tapestries of Elven lore, cascaded downward as towering monoliths of ivory, seamlessly sprouting from the ground level. The floor itself was formed of soft moss, creating an overlay plusher than any carpet.

Inside, the open space was sweet with mana. Nearer the exterior, in place of curtains, Sylvan Glyphs, gentle in their channelling of latent, mysterious energies, hovered between the columns, beyond of which an unbound and uncanny vista made Gwen gasp.

The cosmos of the World Tree was without a horizon.

A little disturbed, Gwen looked away, refocusing her attention toward the temple's centre.

As with her Master's Grot, there was a tree in the Sun Sanctum's loci, a yew tree from the looks of the leaves; an expected detail, considering Britain was famous for yews, whose wood was famous for producing bows, a staple armament of the Träälvor's Ranger Wardens.

The yew tree itself was enormous, with a height Gwen guessed to be six or seven storeys and a vast circumference of two football fields. When an unseen wind passed, its verdant foliage susurrated as she and Sanari crossed the mossy underlay.

Gwen clutched the hem of her dress.

Earlier, at the Hierophant-Initiate's advice, she had forsaken her battle armour for a tunic-skirt that suited her humble purpose, a one-piece cut above the knee in crow-black with white-winged collars. For footwear, she entrusted her Mary Janes, a veteran of her many ordeals, to possess the grit and luck to see her through an Elder being's scrutiny.

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As they came closer, she noted the gentle incline of the floor and heard the music of tender water flowing beneath the tiles. The air inside the lowered depression was noticeably crisper, humid but pleasant, abundant with vital mana. Each step Gwen took, her body felt lighter, as though buoyed by new life, wearing away the lingering fatigue from conjuring her Shoggoth.

"Where is the er… White Flower?" Gwen asked of her hostess, her eyes scanning for what may be a colossal Alraune.

Sanari bowed in the tree's general direction. Gwen bowed likewise just in case. Then her host whispered something about "Bloom eternal", took a step backwards, and was away.

"Sanari?" Gwen's eyes followed the Druid until, a safe distance away, the ripple of a Tree Striding portal swallowed the Hierophant-Initiate.

"… Okay." Gwen returned her attention to the tree. "Em... Your Ladyship! I am Magus Gwen Song of Cambridge. Apprentice of Henry Kilroy. Please forgive my informality. How may I address you?"

"In your tongue, 'Your Grace' will suffice…" came a chirping voice from somewhere in the shadowy alcove.

Gwen looked up.

There was a blooming white flower sitting on a rough and pitted branch jutting from the giant yew.

"Up here, dear child." The same voice filled her head, negating the distance. "The solar wind from the Plane of Radiance is quite nice."

Gwen accepted the invitation, thinking of Ollie begging her with tears in his eyes to obey every word waggled forth by the Tongue of Tryfan. Gingerly, with great care not to touch a single leaf, she flew upward until she drew level with her interviewer.

"Your Grace—" Gwen's voice caught in her throat as her mind briefly turned white.

Solana's divinity, simply put, was on par with Galadriel, dispelling the disappointment she felt for the worldly Sanari, leaving Gwen in stunned silence for a jaw-dropping second.

Against the yew's trunk, Lady Solana sat, regal as the noblest metal, pretty as the rarest flower, so absurdly brilliant that Evee would appear as common as a clucking hen besides a dignified crane. Was it Solana's radiance? Gwen wondered, circulating both Void and Essence to dull the impact of the Demi-god's glamour.

Her effort at self-control took several breaths, gradually building in strength until the saintly aura of the Lady dimmed enough for her to rediscover her senses.

"Well done, child of Kilroy," the voice in her head whispered again. "I had expected nothing less."

Gwen swallowed.

Now close enough to touch, she could see that the Bloom in White had the same atypical features as her kin, only more pronounced. From her head, Solana's hair flowed fair and flaxen, wild and untethered as spun Mithril from her shoulders to her waist. Upon her elfin face, a pair of blazing golden irises looked out toward her impertinent guest; sagacious with experience, but tender with benevolence. Below her Grecian nose, Solana's mouth was small and petite, gifting the ageless leader an unsettling youth. Finally, past her waspish waist, from the flower-pocket of her folded dress, a graceful pair of legs dangled over the branch, ending in a pair of dainty feet, its soles tinted green with sap.

"Here." The Bloom in White patted the place beside her. "Let us take a look at you."

Gwen demurely sat.

"Don't be shy," the High Priestess spoke, this time the words issuing from her lips. "No harm shall come to Henry's legacy."

Gwen shimmed closer, wincing when the rough bark stabbed into her unprotected thighs.

"First time sitting in a tree?" Solana glanced at the bark. Without warning, her spiky saddle mutated into something with the softness of duck down. "I do apologise. Our bodies care little for creature comforts."

Gwen nodded, relieved that she wasn't about to be rubbed raw by a Mythic-class yew's envenomed protrusions. "I haven't scaled a tree since I was a child. The one time I did, my mother skinned me alive for ruining a forty-HDM dress."

"Hahaha…" Solana laughed. "How candid you are. Your Master was never one to speak his mind. Did the two of you get along?"

"Very well, strangely enough." She instantly felt a strange kinship with the demi-human deity, especially the way Solana managed to pronounce "Henry" so effortlessly and with natural ease.

"Is that so?" The Tongue of Tryfan hugged a knee against her chest, just touching the tip of her sculpted chin. "I've been well-informed of your history and your achievements, Gwen. Both from sources working for us, and from your allies. In exchange, I judge it fair that you may ask me a few questions before I seek answers for mine."

"I would like to know about my Master." Gwen wasn't one to look a gift-goddess in the mouth. "That is, please tell me about the Mage Henry Kilroy and what you know of him."

"You don't… know?" Solana tilted her head. "How curious. Henry has two other Apprentices, does he not?"

"I'll be blunt." Gwen used her hands to mime her lack of knowledge. "Master cared not for our past, and we did not ask about his. I didn't even know about Sobel— or at least not the whole story— until some psycho called Mark sent me to the slums as bait. Master occasionally waxed about his old post-Tide days, but that's about the extent of it."

"What would you like to know?"

There were so many questions simmering at her throat that Gwen took a moment to try and place the unreadable mien of the serene-looking spiritual leader of the Elves. Solana's amicability felt different from Sanari's polite caution. Where the Hierophant had the demeanour of a middle-manager, Solana felt akin to a professor overseeing a precocious pupil.

Wary of the cosy vibe they had going on, Gwen reminded herself that the female demi-human in front of her wasn't an elderly babulya, but something as old as the Nazarene, if not older, and according to Ollie, the Vessel of a tree that may have existed since tyrant lizards stalked the earth. Likewise, she had to remind herself that here was a being on another tier of existence. Even if she were to become Gwen-E-Buffett, she might not move the Bloom in White in the slightest. Here was a woman that had seen the Egyptian dynasts rise and fall, witnessed Caesar butchered in the streets of Rome and the Knight Templars burnt to smithereens by the Djinn Marauders of the Elemental Sea.

If she were to insult the Bloom in White, such a quake would ripple through the Mageocracy that England's Queen herself, armed with the faith of the Commonwealth's billion-strong citizens, would move to placate her ire— which may involve atomising their Void sorceress.

"My question." Gwen made firm her trembling voice. "Is what questions may I ask. What topics are taboo, and how much time do we have?"

"Hahaha…" Solana's trilling laughter sent the tree into a shivering sway. "Thou truly art a strange one."

"… I've been told to tread like a Träälvor ranger," Gwen confessed, laying the blame on Ollie as her mind turned. "After all, your Ladyship is the oldest and most powerful being I've had the pleasure of meeting."

"You lie well." Lady Solana's lips formed a thin line, not unlike a headmistress catching her head girl midway through a fag.

"Er…" Gwen felt taken aback by the sudden change in tone. "The most powerful Mage I know is Gunther, or maybe Master, so…"

"Half-truths? How Henry of you..." Solana touched a finger to her chin. Her holinesses' digits, Gwen noted, were without adornments; instead, she could just make out pale markings in Sylvan forming intricate floral patterns that extended up Solana's wrists like Henna, with the rest hidden by her floral tunic.

Gwen acutely felt the blood hammering at her temple. Should she just blurt her 'patron' out when she had no idea what the stakes were? Was Almudj friendly or otherwise to the Elves? If Solana replied with "Ah, old Elf-muncher, very cheeky, we lost millions to that bastard... you bitch..." Would she be fucked?

"Child..."

Concurrently, alarming thoughts of Ollie screaming "Why-why-why!" flashed through her teaming brain. Gwen agonised over her imperfect awareness. If Solana was as old as they say, shouldn't she know Almudj from the old days? Would the Mythics enjoy a once per-thousand-year meeting of the oldies, ala Golden Girls, to discuss the present state of Terra and the damned new kids on the block ruining the garden?

"Your Grace..." Gwen took the plunge. "Are you familiar with the Rainbow Serpent?"

"I know of it."

"Al—mu—dj—" Gwen uttered the syllables in the manner of a gipsy fortune teller. "Almudj!"

"A true name for mortal ears, but one I have never had the pleasure of address." The Tongue of Tryfan's confession filled Gwen with equal volumes of surprise and relief. "Perhaps Milord Tyfanevius will know. He is older than I."

The bower grew turbulent, forcing Gwen to grasp the closest branches to keep her balance.

"No matter. As promised, let us first converse about Henry." Lady Solana slid from the branch, Feather Falling to the ground with the grace of a petal bore by a gentle wind.

"Who is Tyfanevius, your Grace?" Gwen inquired, following the Lady.

"My consort and our Guardian. Do not fret, child. He's been sleeping for a long time, albeit with one eye open."

Before their feet even touched the ground, whatever forces that fed the enormous yew obeyed, germinating a table and three chairs.

"Do remove your leather garments," Solana advised. "The moss of our Sun Sanctum is a rare pleasure for the younger races."

Gwen willed her shoes and socks away, not wanting to perform the crass act of removing clothing mid-descent.

When she landed, what met her was an immense nostalgia. At once, Gwen realised that Henry likely had modelled his Grot after the Sun Sanctum, for the design of the table and the chair were the exact ones she had enjoyed, and the positioning of these familiar-looking furniture was also precisely as she had recalled. Together with the dappled garden-grove, she could almost imagine her old life revisited, only this time her instructor was an ageless Elf Queen, and Sufina, she supposed, a world-topping tree.

Solana took her seat, as did Gwen, leaving the chair of her 'consort' jarringly empty. The Elven priestess waved her hand over the table. Instantly a feat of patisseries materialised.

Gwen audibly gasped, her vision made blurry by the sheer volume of calories presented in one sitting. "Incredible! What manner of a spell conjures floral cakes? Is this high-tier Druidism?"

The Elf gave her a puzzling look, then flashed a wood-band Storage Ring by raising a hand.

"Oh…" Gwen turned as scarlet as the blossoming desserts.

"Feel free to partake," Solana commanded. "I had these prepared. Do not mind my abstinence. I ate months ago."

Gwen fought down a cheeky impulse to ask the Lady for dieting tips. Gently, she broke off a petal of crystallised sugar and delivered the morsel to her lips.

A vivid sensation of verdant vitality suffused her tongue.

"Vessel." Solana studied her with her golden irises. "Tell me what you know of Henry."

Collecting her thoughts, Gwen did her best to narrate her and Kilroy's first meeting, their conversation about the Middle Path, and her Apprenticeship. When prompted, she expanded on Marc Chandler, his sister, Elizabeth Sobel, Noosa Heads, and finally finishing with a first-hand account of Henry's demise in their desperate push to regain control of the Tower.

When Gwen finished, the immortal Elf sighed. Above them, the yew shivered, shedding a small sun shower of leaves.

"What a needless and wasteful loss." Solana shook her head with far more human emotion than Gwen had expected the Demi-God of possessing.

Gwen took another sugary petal to banish the oppressive melancholy, finding the vitality rush as therapeutic as it was intense.

Solana waited for her to finish.

"Your Master, Henry Kaine Foster Kilroy." The leader of the Elves of Snowdonia spoke after a half-minute of contemplation, dusting off the ancient history archived within her mind. "Is the eighth grand-scion hailing from the line of Morden. Do you know Arch-Mage Morden, child?"

Gwen could almost recite the biography by heart, as Morden had been one of Henry's favourite casters. "Yes. Malcolm Kane Morden, Arch-Mage. A nineteenth-century Scottish Highlander, originally from the Greyhawk Citadels in Suilven. He was the Master of a failed alliance called the Circle of Eight."

"Well done." Solana appeared pleased by her knowledge. "Continue..."

"He hunted Trolls and Giants and was... formidable as a Mage and a politician. Morden was against the English Crown and wanted Scotland's independence. In the end, he disappeared, failing to stop the English, but leaving behind numerous books and spells, and a Noble House that prospers even now..."

"Also— Morden was a signatory of the Accord," the High Priest appended her recollected biography. "A sorcerous purist, and a progenitor of the Magic you employ, not to mention the Towers you build. And of course, he was Henry's grandsire."

Though Gwen's non-monetary arithmetics suffered, she did her best. "I fear you've lost me. Do you mean Morden was Master's progenitor?"

Lady Soalan smiled.

In response, Gwen's hands grew clammy. "May I ask what year Master was born?"

"We are not familiar with the calendar of the Nazarene," the Elf spoke without a single indication she found Henry's purported age to be peculiar. "But I do recall that it was the same decade Alexandrina Victoria of Hanover took to the throne."

"But that's..." Gwen recalled from her high school propaganda class that Alexandrina Victoria was the maiden name of her Majesty, Queen Victoria. "That's... that's 1838!"


Gwen's immediate gut-instinct was to deliver the diatribe that her Master's age was "impossible!". But then she recalled Walken's gaslighting, and that her present conversation partner wasn't speaking from hearsay, but delivering a first-hand gospel.

"Though it may belie belief, your Master was unimpressive at first, though through no fault of his own," Solana's voice was melodic and pleasant. "The stability and applicability of Morden's prototype Imperial Sorcery, a method he experimented on those of his bloodline, suffered from growing pains. The Arch-Mage himself could access each of the Prime Elements, but no scion had inherited potential. For a Mage on a mission to change magic, the loss of his craft was one of his dire fears."

"What happened to Morden?" Gwen asked.

"He came to us," Solana stated the obvious. "He wasn't the first to be invited into the Accord, and he certainly wasn't the last."

"May as I ask what the Accord is?"

"You may not." Solana politely halted Gwen's line of enquiry.

"Right." Gwen wondered if she could ask why not. "Pray, continue."

"Henry began life as an unimpressive Water Mage, a noviciate in Suilven, where Morden had spell-shaped the mountain into a Dungeon. The Arch-mage ran an academy there in its depth, though most of the Acolytes were either his kin or tributes from the Scottish Clans and their Irish allies. Adolescence was a difficult time for Henry, for Morden's methods of uplifting scions leaned heavily on mutual competition and survival of the fittest. True to his brutal purpose, the Arch-Mage preferenced students whose violence and conviction was necessary for repelling the rapidly expanding Mageocracy. For this purpose, Henry's talent was late-blooming. When eventually his Affinity for chimeric-sorcery such as Demi-human magic came to light, it earned the ire of his siblings."

"Fortunate for them, your Master's predilection for pacifism ill-matched his sibling's ambitions. When he was old enough to quest away from Suilven, which I would venture to guess some two Human decades, your Master did just that. He took on the maiden name of his mother, from Clan Kilroy, and began a journey throughout the known world."

"During his aimless wandering, Henry awaken to the promised bloodline powers of his progenitor, venturing far and wide at a time when Human sorcery was still esoteric and extraordinary. From decade to decade, he lived through battles and sieges, fortunes both weal and woe, living in perpetual conflict against men, Magical Beasts, Demi-folk, and even the Elder kin on several occasions. Those tales I shall not relay, but sufficient to say, Henry survived disastrous pitfalls, betrayals, misfortunes by fire and field and near-deaths by the hundreds. Once, he was captured by Svartálfar in that lightless Enclave in Amazonia and escaped by Polymorphing into a Toucan. He rode with Centaurs in Mongolia, hunted Ogres in Zambia, drank wine with the Elemental Princes of long-perished Persia, and was for a year an indentured thrall of a Vampire in Romania. He loved to tell tales, and for us Hvítálfar who rarely ventured from our sacred Grove, his tales made him popular and welcome. With relish, Henry told us that in Jotunheimen, he met our Ljósálfar cousins, that their Grove was white and fair and touched the heavens with its pale branches. In their fair company, he fought the Storm Jötunn and drank a stolen Elixir brewed by their maidens from the gall of White Dragons. In a latter decade, he resided within the Dwarven Halls of Bavaria, helping to map the Murk, bumping his head in the underworld's rough quarries and forging a deep friendship with the master crafters of Deepholm. And of course, who could forget that Henry spent a spell in Singapore, hunting the Mermen that preyed on the fishermen there, ultimately meeting his partner, Lady Sufina."

Solana spoke without pause, her breath coming in light and full of nostalgic remembrance. Beside her, Gwen listened with rapt fascination.

"With each decade that transpired, Henry's craft grew. With each Element awakened to his Astral Soul, he came closer to becoming Morden's true heir. But of course, far from his prowess with sorcery— it was his web of alliances that made him such a threat to his siblings."

"So... the true treasure was the friends Master made along the way..." Gwen added drily.

"Well observed," Solana agreed with a heartfelt nod. "When finally Henry came to us nearer the end of Victoriana's reign, his exploits were well known among Magic users. Even our Träälvor kin on the mainland spoke nothing but praise for his aid in restoring balance to their Groves and in fending off the encroachment from the Eastern Undead. Eventually, the Council deemed Henry important enough to participate in the Accord— and so he arrived at Tryfan, as foretold."

"It was here that he met his dying grandsire, who had abandoned his worldly affairs to remain in the shelter of the World Tree, hoping to extend his life. Here in the Grot, Morden offered the 'runt' who had rejected his surname his legacy. What Morden failed to comprehend in his isolation was that among your Master's friends, most were from the Mageocracy itself, his mortal enemies. That and your Master loathed the 'might makes right ideology' espoused by Morden's remaining scions."

"Henry Kilroy's stone-hearted denial of his grandfather was what rang the Arch-Mage's death knell. It's peculiar how mortality unmakes a man. When Morden first came to us, his noble dignity was enough to fill the Sun Sanctum. On the day he expired, he was howling with rage, robbed of all sense by senility."

"In the decade that followed, Morden's succession wars rocked the upper stratum of England's sorcerous society. There's even a Dungeon named after his lost academy— Morden's Magnificient Mausoleum. Ultimately, with Kilroy aiding his friends from the Mageocracy, Morden's legacy was not only taken but integrated into Humanity's need for a way to mass-produce sorcerors— and so, the Imperial Magic System came to be."

"I beg your pardon, your Grace." Gwen raised her hand. "My House Mistress, the Marchioness of Ely, says that the Hvítálfar had a hand in that."

"The succession Dungeon?" Solana asked.

"The basis of the IMS," Gwen clarified. "Did the Hvítálfar contribute to its development?"

"Ha!" The Bloom in White chuckled. "Very perceptive, but I am afraid only a member of the Accord may know the answer to that question."

"I see… " Gwen curbed her curiosity.

The Lady remained jovial. "Understandably, Henry's donation of the priceless trove of sorcerous invocations from one of Humanity's principal Arch-Mages placed him firmly at the heart of the Mageocracy. In this way, he found a calling of sorts while travelling between Europe's institutions, pushing the idea of a unified system of magic, supported by 'Towers', as his grandsire had envisioned, to bring together humankind's magical minds. "

"Such lofty ideals naturally saw equal opposition. Henry wasn't the only one who had the idea of unifying Humanity under a common banner. In direct opposition to Henry was the Disciples of the Eighth School of Magic— the School of Necromancy."

"Holy shit— " Gwen's green eyes grew wide. "Pardon the Dwarven, your Grace; Necromancy was an official SCHOOL of Magic? "

The Elven priestess waited for Gwen to recover. "For our friends in the Mageocracy, I shall abstain from certain details. Suffice it to say, your kin's theocratic schism was the result of existential conflict between the School of Necromancy and the Primary Schools of the IMS. For the Hvítálfar, any magic that prevents natural renewal is the sorcery of heresy and blasphemy. Yet, the "Craft" endures as one of the two 'origin' sorceries of your kin, for death and the exploitation of life has always been a part of Humanity's ascension. For your ancestors, Necromancy had come as naturally and unbidden as the belief-sorcery you call Faith Magic, and indeed, the two were seldom performed apart."

Gwen took another petal of flower cake to calm her nerves, her mind reeling at the epiphanic realisation. To think that the vile sorcery she had witnessed in Northern China was not some ancient evil awakened from a tomb but the driving force of human civilisation.

"In the Great War that followed, your Master laid the groundwork for his Towers and his Path of Pacifism. Though his participation was indirect, I do not doubt that Henry suffered. In the 'war to end all Necromancy', many of his colleagues died vainglorious deaths, especially the young and the impressionable who were told to fight for Humanity. A few of his companions had to perish twice once the Necromancers reanimated them. By the war's end, millions of lives were extinguished, not even our kin were spared. In the Eastern Mainland, a dozen Groves in Belovezhskaya was turned to service the 'Craft'."

"After that, we had hoped your kin would break for breath." Solana sighed. "But Humanity is a race that feeds on death and destruction. After an eye-blink spent rebuilding, yet another conflict broke out across the continent, this time fuelled by something far more primal and instinctual."

"Geo-political escalation?" Gwen ventured a guess.

"Greed." Solana shrugged her shoulders. "With the IMS finally triumphing over both Necromancy and Faith Magic, your kind ushered in another so-called Golden Age. Post-war, many of Europe's Demi-races had been weakened by the Undead, leaving their resources ripe for plunder. According to Henry, innovations in Magitech, such as the ease offered by the supermassive sea-faring vessels, enabled mass migrations and wide-spread colonisation. Forgive my consternation, child, but your race spread into our world like a fungal infestation. If we measured the losses suffered by the denizens of Terra, your kin's imperialism would outperform the Undead by magnitudes."

"Yeah, I can imagine that," Gwen acknowledged with ambivalence. "Somebody wiser than I once said that only when the last oak has been cut down, the last fish caught, the last river poisoned, only then will Humanity comprehend that one cannot eat Crystals. I think there's a lot of sustainability management the Mageocracy needs to introduce. Corporate governance too."

Lady Solana clapped thrice in succession to express her agreement with Gwen's summation of the Human race. "During the Undead recovery, Henry took on a much more hands-on role in directing events in the outside world. His visitations to Tryfan grew less frequent as his duties grew burdensome. When war broke out again, we Hvítálfar all but closed our portals to all parties. This time, fearing for our Träälvor kin on the mainland, ultimatums were delivered to your Queens and Chancellors and Chairmen that we would break Humanity's back if a single Grove fell to your wanton appetite for conflict."

"From the fact that we're still here, I take it the warring factions took great care?"

"They did, but still, your war's brutality shook us to our Core. This time, what your kin exacted on one another made the Undead Plague seem kind in comparison. From what Henry told us, tens of millions more folk perished. Your Master, who had dreamt so long of restoring peace, was shattered by the aftermath."

"Did more of Master's friends perish?"

"Far worse," Solana said sadly. "When Henry returned to us, he was changed. Fearing for the mind of Morden's heir, I spoke in private with Sufina; the Dryad lamented that this time, the war was no longer a clash of sorcery, but resource and politics. In the course of Henry's friends murdering one another, your Master had been caught in the middle, with both sides claiming him as their own. In the end, he watched companions he had known for half-a-century perish without lending his power to either. According to Sufina, their surviving kin hated Henry for his neutrality and blamed him for their loss."

Her Master's ubiquitous melancholy flashed across Gwen's inward eye. In light of this new information, she grew tickled by the irony that she was learning more about history from an Elf Queen than any Human history book.

"I think I am starting to see where Master got the idea for the Middle Faction from," Gwen muttered to herself, shaken to her core by the possibility that one day, two people she loved might engage in a deathmatch— and that both would turn to her with desperation and demand her aid. "What did Master do after the Pan-European War?"

Solana exhaled. "Henry Kilroy did not grace the Tree of Tryfan again, not until Vynssarion's madness poisoned the Prime Material."

"Vynssarion?"

"Ancient Vynssarion is… or was, the Guardian Wyrm of the Black Sea. It was he who brought on the Beast Tide."

Gwen's fingers twitched. Finally, the culprit behind the trouble facing Humanity today had a name! And did the Bloom say "Guardian"? Did that mean the Black Dragon had the same job as her hubby, Tyfanevius? Did this mean the source of the Beast Tide was a case of Humans logging too deep and greedily, only in place of the Balrog, they found a pissed-off Dragon?

"Could I ask—"

"You may not."

"— because I am not a part of the Accord?"

"That, and because there is nought else to be said. You are likely more familiar with your Master's exploits in the wake of Vynssarion's madness," Solana stated. "Henry did return to us just once, though this time he had a young bride in his arms, a Void Sorceress."

Gwen felt her hair stand on end. "Can I ask..."

Solana waited for her finish.

"Right, Accord." Gwen leaned back, taking a moment to appreciate the story of her Master's life. Henry was a very long-lived, very busy man, but in the end, so much of his ambition died with him, bequeathed to Gunther, Alesia and herself. In that way, her Master had relived the same karmic route taken by Morden.

"Thank you for the story, your Grace. May I enquire how I may be of service?" Satisfied, at least for now, Gwen moved the conversation forward.

"We would like to verify your Patron— and its intentions," Solana said. "This is very important for our continued amicability."

"I welcome the examination." Gwen nodded. "But I hope you'll believe me when I say that Almudj does whatever it wants, whenever it wants. I am stumped in so far as communication with it goes."

"I am sure it cares for you greatly, child. Though I must ask, where or what is your Conduit? How are you drawing on 'Almudj's' Essence without it?"

"Maybe...." Gwen touched a finger an inch below her heart. She thought about her chimeric Astral Body. "Maybe… the magic was inside me all along?"

"That is not how a Vessel's contract functions." Solana appeared perturbed by her casual ignorance. "A Conduit is a token of a kinship. Where is yours?"

"A long time ago, Almudj had given me one of its Rainbow Scales…" Gwen explained how she had received the scale, then briefly debriefed the High Priestess on her apocalyptic baptism at Sydney. "… after the Grot disappeared, I had no way of seeking it out. Would Almudj know where its scale has gone?"

Gwen sighed. If only Conduit items from Mythics possessed a "Find my iPhone" function.

Over the cakes and ices, Solana studied her with her golden irises. With mindful patience, Gwen marvelled at the perfection of the Bloom in White's Demi-divine form. The Elf was so perfect that she seemed to Gwen more so a manifested ideal than a physical being.

After a brief lull in the conversation, her fellow Vessel raised a delicate hand. "I see. If there is no recourse, then we shall probe your Patron by hailing it directly. Take my hand, child."

Gwen did as was told.

The sanctum pulsed. At once, Gwen sensed the flow of life beneath the moss transmuted through her tender toes, even now digging into the plush, emerald growth. From the gathering mana, Gwen understood that the all-enveloping World Tree of Tryfan sustained not only the Sun Sanctum but the pocket plane itself.

The yew overhead grew verdant, sprouting new leaves as the vital energy summoned by Tongue of Tryfan coursed through her body, slowly forming a viridescent pool of Essence in her hand.

"Drink."

"From your hand?" Gwen's cheeks grew scarlet at the vengeful visitation of karma. To think that so suddenly, the shoe was on the other foot and that she would be the Dede. It was one thing to make a duck drink from her hand, but for herself to lap a puddle of Essence swimming in the palm of a Demi-divine goddess?

"Partake," the Elf commanded. "Tis the Elixir of life."

There was a barely a ladle's worth of Essence, though cradled in the Bloom's hands, its opaque surface appeared depthless. With her hands touching the Elf's, Gwen took a deep breath, filled her lungs until her sides stung, then dived in.

Though the collated pool was tiny, Gwen felt as though caught in the power of a receding maelstrom.

Untethered, she plunged into that viscous, viridian billabong, pushing herself deeper, stroke by broke, her cells awakening to the passage of a distant time. Her lungs grew gills, breathing not oxygen, but life itself, opening like flower petals as the skin of her bosom parted, revealing blades of tightly packed leaves, their membranes inhaling and exhaling, photosynthesising the primordial air.

Her proud white stems fused, turning tanned and sturdy, her bones metamorphosing into one strand of continuous fibre.

Oh, sweet Eden! Came the exultant thought as the solar winds rustled her leaves, filling her with an unbidden, unspeakable joy. The beauty of understanding suffused her welded spine, now one unbroken petiole, engendering an eyeless comprehension of the world, an in-sucking genesis of air and atmosphere, emerald and flamboyant; her tips just breaching the firmament and her roots digging at earth's core.

She was a part of an impossibly tall Tree.

And below its Plane-spanning bower, where its wall-like roots coiled through the squelch and peat of the world's soil— she saw the sleeping Serpent, her Guardian, her protector.

Sleek and coiled the Serpent slept in its cold dark den of no breath nor light with one eye watching the world. Its twin nostrils, clad with viridian scales in cascading hues from lime to juniper, inhaled the scent of the intruder. Soundlessly, it stirred; its colossal tongue slithered out to taste her presence. Concurrently, the ocular scale protecting its rotund orb of metallic gold slowly retracted, revealing a slitted pupil as depthless as the Void.

Tyfanevius— the name came to her in a flash.

Consort to Solana.

Guardian of the Tree of Tryfan.

Gwen recoiled from the Serpent's alien gaze, obeying an ancient reflex as old as human history.

The snake opened its mouth to speak—

_CRACK!_

From the cloudless firmament came a sound of sudden thunder, its rippling blow transmuting through every fibre of her woodland being. Across the rift of space and time, her slumbering kin had arrived to accost whatever had dared to penetrate her Astral Body.

_Hiss!_ The Serpent below the tree spat at the heavens. It did not like strangers.

_HISSAK!_ Came the reply, filling the space of no space.

From Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja, from the unformed place, free from time, free from land, where the old ones sleep, where the old songs sang the world into being, Almudj proclaimed its displeasure.

The sky split.

The earth shook.

From within the abyssal crag of heaven, a rainbow-hued head emerged, making minute the opposing Mythic.

"Stop!" Gwen screamed at her kin, though as a tree, she had no mouth with which to make the sound. "Almudj! This one's friendly!"

Almudj opened its mouth.

A salmon-pink tongue, forked and as large as Tyfanevius himself distended with disapproval.

From below, the jade-green viper performed likewise.

Their tongues touched.

"Almudj!" Gwen raised her non-existent voice. "Friend, FRIEND!"

From the heavens, the sound of rumbling thunder tolled once more.

Almudj is proper cheeky, Gwen recalled.

And Almudj did not like strangers.

Almudj will attack strangers!

"Almudj! NO!"

Gwen opened her eyes in just time to see a branch the size of a semi upturn the plush moss like a plough.

In the Amazon, she had torn apart trees and set whole hills alight with lightning. Now, in a swell of karma, she bore witness to the result of magical thunder striking the inner manifestation of a World Tree inside the sacred home of an ageless Elf she could not afford to offend.

"Arrrgh—" the Bloom in White shuddered.

While her hostess steadied herself, Gwen saw in her mind's eye a vision of London overgrown into a verdant forest, its citizens hunted by zealous Hvítálfar Wardens conducting a holy war of retribution. "One man for every fallen leaf!" the Elves would cry out. "One shire for every twig!"

She began to wonder if Ollie would prefer death over explaining to Lady Grey how World War III came to be when he allowed Gwen to visit the Grot. If she was to die here, Gwen lamented, then what a waste it was to spend so much time on the Isle of Dogs. The more fearful she grew, the more she felt hollow, her body weightless. Would Evee be sad? She thought. Would Yue or Alesia threaten to burn down Tryfan?

Opposite, Solana steadied her breathing, her hair frayed, and her appearance the spitting image of a thunderstruck goddess.

Not far, the unspent energy from Almudj's Barbanginy continued to erupt from the stricken branch, bursting into emerald fire. The wet wood, combined with the bleeding sap, sent plumes of choking smoke into the once perfect air of the Sun Sanctum.

A dozen portals flashed opened nearer the sanctum's edge.

Elven Wardens, dozens of them in that insectile carapace the Elves used for war, leapt into the fray. Some carried bows; others had glaive-wands; all were ready to render Gwen into mulch.

With complete comprehension of her present circumstance, Gwen forced her eyes to water. "Lady Solana, I am very, very sorry. Can we fix the tree? I can provide the Essence."

The Lady raised a hand.

The Wardens' advance halted.

"Leave us."

To Gwen's immense relief, the ring of death disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

"Your…" Solana appeared lost for words. Her dress was no longer pure and pale but charred at the edge where she had warded away the Barbanginy's initial eruption.

"... Almudj," The Bloom in off-white continued. "It said it does not like strangers."

"… no, it does not."

"Your Patron is old," Solana continued. "Older than when we came to this Plane. There is little wonder it cared not for diplomacy."

"Right." Gwen wasn't sure what the Lady meant, nor was she in any mood to refute her hypothesis. "Your Grace, are you alright? Are you injured anywhere?"

"Almudj is as old, older than Tyfanevius, as old as the Tree, possibly, or older…" Bemused by the outcome, Solana's brows grew knitted. "If so, where's Almudj's tree? An untethered Serpent as ancient as Lord Alumdj should possess an abode to match its stature."

"I may know the answer to that…" Gwen recalled the viper-like Wyrm coiled at the base of the Tree of Tryfan and tried to imagine Almudj doing the same. "Almudj's currently having a soak in a desert lake, sleeping off Sobel's Black Sun. It's an incredibly beautiful mass of water. Is the tree important?"

"Always. There is always a tree, child," Solana announced with reverence. "And there is always a Serpent. Do you not know this?"

Gwen searched her mind for the mythos of her old world. Despite the Nordic premise, what Solana's present invocations reminded her of was a garden, a snake and a woman tempted to take a nibble.

Feeling as though standing upon a precipice of comprehension, Gwen studied Solana's face and listened to the timbre of the Elf's vocalised monologue with the special attention of a piano tuner.

"Is… Lord Tyfanevius upset at all?" Acutely, Gwen was sure she had stumbled upon one of her present world's certainties. From just that glimpse of Tryfan's Guardian, she understood that on a fundamental level, her future enterprises as Almudj's Vessel might involve a great many Serpents.

"He was surprised, that's all," Solana said, then closed her eyes in concentration. Acutely, Gwen felt another surge of vitality suffuse the Grot. Besides them, the flaming branch doused its flames; then the soft loam split to swallow the offending waste, stitching close with a wet squelch. In less time than it took for Gwen to plead for forgiveness, the upturned moss reintegrated into the sanctum, returning the scene to one of serenity.

When she opened her golden eyes, Solana was once more without blemish.

"At least now we know your Patron isn't one to be provoked," the Elf said. "That and we now have an idea who your Patron is."

"The Rainbow Serpent," Gwen added helpfully. "From down under. Is that going to be a problem?" Seeing that Solana wasn't going to pursue the matter of her shattered Grot, Gwen re-equipped her backbone.

"Not from Tryfan. Know that you have passed an important milestone, for we now know who your Patron is 'not'."

"Who or what did your Grace suspect?" Gwen cocked her head.

Solana remained mum.

"Right, Accord. Gotcha." Gwen wetted her lips. "Milady. May I be so impertinent to ask if there's still the possibility of acquiring a trainer from Tryfan? My House Mistress was particular that there would be an opportunity here."

"You wish to receive instruction?" The Bloom in White studied her once more. "In what sorcery? Elven Elementalism? Imperial Magic? Druidism?"

"Actually." Gwen pointed to the spot where the branch had fallen. "I was wondering if there's anyone who can teach me how to speak to Almudj, or at least use this…"

She circulated the Essence brimming within her body, pooling a handful on her palm.

"You can secrete Essence Elixirs?" Solana's face lit up. "You, who lack even a Conduit?"

"To tell the truth... I can ONLY secrete Essence Elixirs…" Gwen whispered conspiratorially.

Solana extended an elegant digit from an outstretched hand, then gingerly dipped her fingertip into Gwen's brimming pool of viridescence.

Gwen took a deep breath, bracing herself for yet another Barbanginy.

Thankfully, even after the Elf withdrew, no thunderous tempest appeared to split the yew in twain.

Her hostess flushed as the vitality leeched into her body. "This is... YOUR Essence. How strange. To produce Essence without training and lacking a Conduit— I should commend Sanari. You are a Changling."

Gwen willed her face to display an ardent desire for clarification.

"I have no doubt you are full of questions," Solana answered her enquiry blankly. "And indeed, we have answers, though they are neither free nor easily obtained."

"Understandable," Gwen boldly replied, finding comfort in the debit and credit the Elf leader noted. "Name your price, your Grace."

Solana laughed. "Henry said the same thing, once upon a time. If you wish our aid, then you will have to work through the official channels. Whether here or in your world, privilege is a boon and a burden, child. I would not presume to circumvent the rules the Circle Council has established."

"What must I do?"

"For that, you should converse with our Arch-Warden in Trawsfynydd. But let it not be said that we are unkind to Henry's Apprentice. For accompanying me today, I shall gift you two favours. One— you may visit your Master's abode in the Sixth Circle and recover his things. Two— I will ask the Arch-Warden Eldrin to grant you unfettered access to the Grove at Trawsfynydd so that you may further your enquiries through service. Now, before I send you to the Sixth Circle, do you have any more questions?"

"Just the one." Gwen cleared her throat. "The Accord. It seems to me that many of the answers I seek rest within its unspeakable boundaries. How is one 'invited' to join?"

"You are observant." Solana's expression grew stern. "But let me deliver a warning. The Accord binds the present state of your world— the Mageocracy, the Frontiers and the Wildlands. It wrote the history of your kind and mine. The secrecy is as much for our preservation as it is for yours. The knowledge that comes with being bound may bring elucidation— but not happiness nor consolation. Instead, for one in your position, excess knowledge brings only ruin. Your people have a saying, do they not? _'Beware, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge. Happy is the man who believes his hamlet to be the world—'_ Do you not wish to live happily and in harmony?"

Gwen met the Bloom in White's golden eyes head-on, not deterred but stirred by the High Priestess' warning. What the Bloom in White intimated, not even Gunther or Alesia could know. If acting on the Elves' behalf meant she would get to reveal what her Master did to Sobel, then she would swallow the bitter pill in her sibling-in-crafts' stead.

"Your Grace, I thank you for your love. That said, I've always been more of a big city girl and not a hamlet-dweller..."

"Oh?" Lady Solana raised both pencil-thin brows.

Gwen steeled her nerves. "What we should fear isn't too much knowledge, your Grace. Rather, the real danger lies in knowing too little. The _illusion_ of knowledge, your Grace. THAT is the most dangerous thing of all."


Of the Tryfan Enclave, the Sixth Circle was one of the nine Demi-Planes ringing the canopy of the World Tree and Sanari's home.

When earlier the Hierophant-Masseusse had arrived to pick up their guest, she was profoundly shaken by the vision of the Void Sorceress standing beside the Bloom in White with every limb intact.

From the smell of ash in the air and the chaotic swirl of mana in the sanctum, she could guess why every Master Warden from the Seventh to the Ninth Circle had answered the breach siren. What Sanari did not understand was why the Bloom in White did not immediately reject their guest from the sacred tree but commanded Sanari to shelter Gwen on route to Henry Kilroy's abandoned abode in the outer circuit of the Sixth Circle.

"Woooow…" Beside the Heirophant-Initiate, the clueless Human cooed at the unbound vista, a scene that roused powerful emotions in the Circle's guest.

The broad avenue upon which the pair walked was the main thoroughfare through the upper district of the Circle, offering its residents an unfettered view of the lower Circles' canopy roof. The circular branch-ways ringed the circumference of the Sixth, affording space aplenty for the Circle's some two-thousand citizens. Different to the lower districts, which housed the agricultural regions of the World Tree, the Sixth Circle was the preferred residence of Elves currently undergoing their Cycle as Druids and Elementalists. As a result, its dwellings and public buildings were large and distantly placed, with vast open tracts of level growth serving as practice fields.

Their present destination was a scant-occupied quarter used by the district's most prominent casters. Within its shelter, the girl's Master had made his home a century ago, first with Lady Sufina, then with the aberrant known as Sobel.

"We've arrived," Sanari notified their guest.

From her ring, the Hierophant-initiate produced a Key Glyph specific to the late master caster's home. "Here is your key."

The gate to the courtyard stood as a silvery carving etched onto the base of an enormous banyan tree, the kind native to Lady Sufina's island. The sapling, Sanari notified her companion, was painstakingly translocated from the island home of the Dryad by her Master.

"Thank you, Sanari." The girl took the key from her hands. "Would you like to come in?"

"I do not believe that is appropriate." Sanari understood that while the Bloom in White may not consider the Grot's content important, her more worldly superiors, such as Arch-Warden Eldrin or Primarch Vulmari, would possess no such qualms. To avoid getting caught between the High Priestess' carefree generosity and her superior's curiosity, Sanari figured it was best to let sleeping Nymphs lie.

"Are there any Wards inside?" The girl played with the Glyph key. "Or guards, like a pissed-off mini Sufina?"

Sanari searched her memory for hearsay from the last century. "I am unsure, as your Master is Human. He did enjoy a constant stream of visitors, so I do not believe his sanctum is warded to cause harm. He was perfectly safe here. The Tree of Tryfan is unassailable. Even Sythinthimryr the Red would think twice about flying too close."

"That's good to know. May I use magic here?" The Void Sorceress enquired. "I'd rather play it safe and scope the place first. Master liked his secrets."

"You may," Sanari gave permission, a privilege granted by the Bloom. "Please keep your sorcery localised, especially those associated with the Negative Plane. Since Master Kilroy's extinction was confirmed, his neighbours had all relocated— that's how sensitive the Hvítálfar are to mortality. I should also note that you should scour your Master's Grot for his effects. Lady Esta, the Lord of the Sixth, has expressed her desire to purge this pocket plane into the Astral expanse."

"What? Why?"

"This is the home of a being no longer alive, and one associated with Sobel, a betrayer of the Accord," Sanari explained with patience when Gwen knitted her brows. "Please do not take offence. The same purgation is performed for our loved ones as well. Though it has been some decades since we've had a Sending."

"No Elf has died in recent memory?" the girl's tone grew sceptical. "Not even from violent deaths?"

"Conflict is not our way…"

"By which you mean…" Her guest's lips grew churlish. "You've freed yourselves from the need for conflict because us Humans are fielding for your kin to catch the conflicts before they can roost at Tryfan, quashing problems like the Triffids."

"Perhaps." Against the girls' penetrative gaze, Sanari felt her chest constrict. It was true that since the young Human Queen took power, Tryfan's Wardens and Rangers had suffered no losses.

"Is it because of the Accord?" the girl followed up. "That we act as a buffer for Tryfan?"

Sanari stopped herself short before she could blurt an answer. Was the girl baiting her? The Elf reminded herself to smile. "Magus Song, your benefactor's legacy awaits within. You have only a few hours."

"What's a few more hours to those unmoved by the tyranny of time?" The girl's grin made Sanari nervous.

"I shall stand guard to warn away wayward eyes," she declared, ignoring the Human. "Proceed with your sorcery as you please. Do make haste. The Guardian is wary of your presence."

"Thanks, I'll be done in a jiffy." The Void Sorceress concentrated, drawing crude, borrowed Glyphs in the air "Morden's Hound!"

Unbidden, Sanari felt every muscle in her over-trained body tense, her Warden's senses sending whistling flares up her spine and down her limbs, tingling her fingers. Unbidden, the Druidess' breath caught in her throat as the tendons supporting her lofty skull tightened, making visible the blue veins supplying mana and blood to her brain. Simultaneously, a dreadful sensation of free-falling forced her to brace against the rugged bark of the banyan.

Besides the child of Void, an obsidian horror, the likes of which Sanari had never thought she would behold, slinked into being from a slit in space. Half-maw and half-hound, the thing of living hunger was eyeless and faceless, akin to the pale wyrms that lived in the lightless caverns on the First Circle, languishingly feeding on the World Tree's roots.

Once birthed, the hound panted against the girl like a pup, smearing her thighs with its grey goo.

"Stay still, Buck. I'll get your buds out. Hound Pack!" The sorceress continued her unholy craft.

Nine more of the terrible beasts emerged, smaller but no less ugly.

Together, they sniffed the air around the tree, tasting its sacred spaces.

_For the love of Tryfan, please don't wander away_

, Sanari prayed to the Bloom for support of her sanity. She had no desire to corral these things, and even if she did, she wasn't sure the execution of the dogs' summoner would sit well with the Circle Council.

"Almost done," her guest assured the ashen Sanari. "Ariel! Caliban!"

When the Draconic-chimaera emerged with a flourish and an "Ee!", Sanari breathed out a sigh of relief, unsurprised that a Familiar as piecemeal-proportioned as its Master existed. When the infamous Void Worm made its appearance, her disgust returned with a two-fold dose of oppression, so acute that a desire to send a Viridian Bolt to the creature's featureless face flashed across her rioting mind.

"This is Ariel the Kirin," the girl explained, ruffling the chimaera's mane. "And this cutie is Cali. Say hi, everyone!"

"EE!" the Kirin saluted, raising a front hoof to show its proud frog.

"Shaa— Shaa!" The Void fiend opened its maw to vociferate a gut full of grey goo.

 _Was it staring at her?_

Sanari couldn't tell for the thing had no eyes, though its depthless throat did communicate a distressing hunger.

"Magus Song, please proceed inside," Sanari begged the Void Sorceress. With so many manifested clumps of Void tainting her mana senses, Sanari felt queasy, like that one time she ate greasy Human food fried in animal fat. Thankfully, the junior Void Sorceress rallied her creatures without ado, then pressed Kilroy's key against the door to invoke the threshold.

"Buck, fellers, in you go. Cali, keep an eye on them," the girl commanded her minions. "Ariel, you bring up the rear."

"I hope you find what you need," Sanari well-wished the Human sorceress before stepping away, hoping her guardianship of the girl would soon end.

"I hope so too." The girl smiled back. "Also, I am not going in yet. The doggies will give the place a once-over first, and I'll be using Ariel VR."

With patience, Gwen waited for her dogs to settle, then entered into a dimly lit interior plated from floor to ceiling with lacquered wood.

Her hounds had already sniffed through the house, using their bodies to test for traps as they slinked through the modest space in-between the clutter of furniture, which to her eyes resembled an Edwardian drama set.

The epoch of the decor made perfect sense— Gwen realised once she stepped into the Grot herself, for it affirmed the Elves' assertion that Henry had furnished his home in the period before the Great War.

Atypical of the colonial epoch, the interior of Henry's Grot-away-from-Grot was richly adorned, with wooden tapestries in carved oak stretching from floor to the two-storey ceiling, where exposed beams supported an ornate roof, beyond which lay the Astral expanse.

From the foyer, which resembled a tunnel of geometric wood stained with dark varnish, the corridor opened into a well-lit living room library.

___A library at last! Huzzah!_

Gwen's girlish heart burst into rapture.

Books! Tomes! Grimoires and volumes were lining the walls in every windowless direction! From knee-level shelves, each a meter long and as tall as the ceiling, rigid, hard-cover spines pronounced their titles. Breaking the biblio-monotony were pigeon holes; different to the shallow shelves serviced the books, these hid scrolls and parchments, sporting "X" shaped alcoves stuffed with paper.

In the middle of the living room and library sat an ecliptic assortment of couches in pastel. The largest was in burgundy, while another had lime-green floral for its fabric. Against every second armrest, tasselled table lamps sat on reading stands, with semi-translucent strings of crystal hanging from ivory shades. On the floor, enormous carpets with arcane designs stretched from sofa to sofa, marking the boundaries between areas for rest and locomotion. Facing the chairs sat a fake fireplace, fully functional from the looks of the enchanted kindling still pulsing with faint mana. On the furthermost side, a set of heavy curtains covered the wall.

Thoughtfully, Gwen approached a well-worn single-seater sofa in midnight blue, finding interest in the indent in the frayed cushion. Within her mind's eye, she could imagine a younger Henry, not so frail and possessed still of a heart, sitting there, a scroll in hand and a book on his lap, using Mage Hand to jot-down the results of his research.

"Shaa Shaa!" Caliban slithered under a dresser, emerging a moment later with a pair of slippers.

Gwen was on the verge of commending the creature when she noted from the design that these were not her Master's slippers, but ones belonging to someone with smaller, daintier feet and a predisposition for lace.

"Jesus Christ! Drop em!" Caliban recoiled, letting fall the offending footwear.

As quick as her empathic sentimentality had come, what were most likely Sobel's favourite comfy-shoes killed all nostalgia.

"Ee! EE!" Opposite, Ariel played with the drawstrings threaded through the heavy drapes. With a careless tug, it displaced the curtain, revealing the hidden visage.

A pair of unholy blue eyes stared out at the Grot's uninvited intruder.

"HOLY FUCK!" Gwen involuntarily took a step back, almost tripping over Caliban. "Elizabeth Sobel!"

It was Sobel— or more accurately, a portrait of Sobel, hung against the wall so that the peruser of the library, when seated to read, would always have its fairness within sight.

"Thanks, Master, I hate it," Gwen complained, calming herself by circulating a mote of Almudj's Essence. The portrait of Lizzy frozen in time was younger than the Elizabeth she had seen. The face was more rounded, the chin weaker and her eyes less almond and more oval. How old was Sobel during the sitting? Gwen wondered, approaching the painting to study its details.

Up close, she could see the oily textures where the hues had been expertly blended to create the semi-realistic image. From the style, she would guess that the painter must be an old master, for she had seen the same likenesses of Magisters in Peterhouse's common room.

The most striking thing about the image, other than Sobel's sultry, scarlet lips, were her eyes. The Void Sorceress' orbs were a soulful baby-blue, so blue the pigments struggled to capture their vividness. And like herself, the girl within possessed pale, flawless skin, with a hint of rose to her cheeks framed by dark hair. In their youth, they did look somewhat alike, Gwen realised, ambivalent in her discovery.

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Her Master must have enjoyed the countenance of his young wife, Gwen measured the vector between her Master's favourite chair and the portrait's gaze, vaguely aware of the implications. By the measure of years, her temptation to accept Elvia's companionship seemed like a completely natural thing in comparison.

She cast her gaze around the room.

Sanari had given her a limited timeframe, but no specific deadline.

She could drag out her stay in her Master's home, but doing so excessively would outstay her welcome. If she refused to leave, would the delay piss off this Lady Esta enough to void the abode with her in it?

Knowing the Elves' antipathy towards bereavement, she chose urgency.

From her Storage Ring, she produced three more Large Storage Rings, each a discounted item gifted to her by Marong for looting Golos' spoils. While empty, extra rings could be stowed, but once in use, they must be worn or carried on her person.

Together with her looted original, she totalled about five shipping containers of storage space. If Solana's ilk intended to purge her Master's pocket space, then it goes to reason that she should loot the joint like a bandit.

Systematically, she began with the cumbersome couches and the tables, the lamps and the rugs. Once these were packed, she started with the books, running her hand along the rails so that the volumes disappeared each by each, giving her a glimpse of the titles.

There were the usual suspects, such as Allenberg's Primer for Astral Theory, Otsu's Primer for Evokers and Goulding's Primer for Transmutation, though, from the leather-bound covers, she suspected these were rarer editions than the cardboard mass-manufactured Spellbooks she had held as a high school student.

Other volumes had portentous titles like The Netherbane Lexicon, Old Griever's Ledger, Tome of Aquamancy, Crick's Primer of Illusions, Bilby's Spellbinding, Gärsthorn's Epi-tome, Morden's Guide to Giant Slaying, Hodking's Notes on the Mysterious of the East, Oriental Magic: A Study, among which sat extra-exotic volumes that made her question why anyone would want to know Werewolve Husbandry.

Very soon, the room grew spartan but for the portrait of Sobel and a small trove of books.

"Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban reported that her hounds had found something unusual.

Beside Sobel's portrait, Buck and a buddy nuzzled a section of the bookcase she had yet to stow.

"What is it?" Gwen came close.

She double-checked the volumes the hounds were sniffing. The Void hounds possessed an indifferent sense for the olfactory, but she knew they were hyper-sensitive to mana and vitality.

She waved her hand across the tomes, filing all but one volume into her ring.

"Oh-ho?" Gwen placed a finger on the spine. "A pulley-book? How tacky…"

The book was a lever.

With a Shield spell on her lips, she took the stubby tome between her finger and her thumb, then pulled.

_Clack_

Sobel's portrait swung open on silent hinges.

"Not much of a secret." Gwen attempted to think as a younger Henry vicariously. "I guess this must be the reserved section."

Behind the portrait was another bookshelf. This one contained both leather parchments and scrolls, as well as bound volumes in ancient leather. Here, Gwen guessed, must be the collection her Master did not want to display in public. There were a dozen alcoves in all, each holding an assortment of scrolls and books. Silently, Gwen prayed to the Bloom in White, hoping she would not be finding Henry's stash of intimate photos of his wife.

With great care, she took a textured parchment from the shelve.

The contents were composed in a language she did not recognise, but as her eyes browsed the page, her Master's Ioun Stone hummed, drawing on her passive mana to divine the scroll's contents.

**Flesh Stitching**

Conjuration

Casting Time: 81 Major Invocations

Range: Visual, up to 20 metres between Familiar and Target

Components: Somatic, Thrall blood

Duration: Instant

 _This spell restores the flesh of a wounded Familiar by drawing upon the flesh of a Thrall or a subdued enemy. The supplementary target must be subdued, unconscious, or willing. Vital energy will be transferred from the target to the Familiar, restoring bodily damage as well as Essence. The origin of this spell lies with the Witch-Hags of the Northern Reach Troll Tribes. See Appendix for notation on the base invocation._

There was a handwritten note at the bottom.

"Further tests needed for Mass supplement variation."

Gwen lowered the Spell Scroll, suddenly feeling a terrible premonition. Just to be sure, she reread the description before replacing the parchment.

Unable to stifle her curiosity, she took up another.

"Void Enervation..."

**Void Enervation**

Conjuration-Evocation

Casting Time: 120 Major, 121 Minor

Range: Touch

Components: Somatic

Duration: Instant, Channel

 _Through focusing Void-aligned mana, a manifested orb may suppress, paralyse, and drain the life force of any living creature the sorcerer strikes. Once touched, the target rapidly loses vitality equal to the volume-metric input of Negative-aligned mana utilised for the spell._ _Upon channelling, the subject will continue to take on Negative Drain while a portion of the subject's vitality is transferred to the caster. The Negative Drain caused by this spell cannot be restored with basic Biomancy. A Clerical invocation such as Restoration of at least the fifth tier is required._ __

This one also had a hand-scribbled note.

"Enervation in its Necromantic form— see attached scroll— can be used to empower Undead Familiars. Empowerment of Lizzy's Brood Worms has demonstrated limited economy..."

Gwen's spine grew gradually rigid as she finished reading the notes. Cold perspiration oozed from her shoulders, covering her neck with a snail sheen of sweat.

_Conjuration? EVOCATION?_ _Wasn't this Necro—_

Touching a finger to her lips, Gwen forced herself to remain calm. Replacing the parchment, she picked up the thickest volume on the shelf.

"… Samshulael's Tome of Flesh Puppetry…" She read out loud, just to double-check with her ears what her eyes were seeing through the Ioun Stone.

Fervently, she opened the pages, hoping against hope that perhaps this was some perverted book about making conjugal aids. A dozen pages later, she found an entry with helpful diagrams.

_Poppet of Flesh_

Enchantment-Conjuration

Casting Time: 219 Major, 22 Minor, Other

Range: Close

Components: See attached Ingredients List

Duration: Persistent

_This spell details the process involved in making a servitor-ghoul (fig.1.3) with intelligence enough to serve as a serf or servant. The genesis invocation utilised for this is supplied from "Samshulael's Records of the Golem Craft of the Middle-Age Israelites, Vol.3 1892", adapted from the Tome of Creation by Arch-Mage Izikiel Shamshad._ _To begin, a Poppet is an intermediate variation of the Golem of Flesh. The caster should start by preparing a fresh corpse—_

Gwen quickly closed the book, then placed it back on the shelf.

Ardently, she commanded her overimaginative mind to calm her farm. She forced herself to recall what Professor Michio Lee had said, that Necromancy without a Necromancer was just harmless knowledge. It was no different from reading The Anarchist's Cookbook on the internet out of morbid curiosity.

She comprehended a few more titles.

So, these are Necromancy manuals; Gwen accepted her new reality with complete candidness. If so, was the possession of such knowledge a sin? Necromancy didn't raise people. People raised people. Moreover, that Void Enervation spell sounded a treat, and from the look of it, she had also found a method to heal Ariel without the need for a healer as well, a skill that could come in handy if her dearest Kirin got wounded.

As for these other volumes and scrolls; surely they're all research material? After all, her Master beat back the Necromancers with a big stick, didn't he? These must be Henry's loot!

With trembling fingers, she reached out for a volume bound in leather the colour of dried blood. There was no title, and the parchment had the texture of human dermis.

This one was only the thickness of her finger. Contained therein were mostly handwritten notes, followed by what looked like half-completed spells.

"Exsanguination…" She read. "Each creature within the radius of this spell with an open wound…"

She stopped reading to swear.

Her wandering fingers returned to another segment of the treasure trove of spells. One compartment appeared more disturbed than the others, with a few scrolls that appeared frayed from frequent access.

Gwen retrieved the top-most page.

"Void Conduit…" She read in a monotone voice. "This modified variant of the Vampiric Siphon shows promise when utilised with Evocation. Unfortunately, its vital drain has exceedingly poor economy compared to the Nosferatu original. The limitation is likely as a result of incompatibility with Major Invocations taken from Eastern Necromancy, which originated within the Orthodox Sects of Bulgaria. Without a constitution of Undeath, the life-leeching effects rack the user's body with agony as excess…"

She pulled something from the lower piles.

"A Blood Thrall, even a volunteer..."

She decided not to read-on for now.

With a flick of her hand, she stowed the lot, fearing what Solana had said about the nature of knowledge and what would happen if an ignorant rube were to leave his hamlet for the big smoke.

What are you going to do with these books? A voice in her head gently coughed. Are you going to read them? Study them?

No! Gwen replied. Okay, maybe, just to read her Master's notes. That's an Apprentice's duty, wasn't it? If there's a clue about Sobel's sorcery, it was up to her and Gunther and Alesia to find out. If the secrets here should see the light of day, then the discretion lied with her and Gunther and Alesia. They were the gatekeepers of Henry's legacy. They would decide together.

But these scrolls. Did this mean that Henry dabbled in Necromancy? Gwen asked herself. If so, was she a Mandatory Reporter? Did that duty come with the title of Magus or War Mage or whatever they're slathering her with these days? Power and privilege seldom came without obligation; should someone uncover that she had hidden Henry's forbidden trove of spells and lore, heads would roll.

Maybe her's.

Maybe another's.

Somehow, she doubted Ollie could handle something of this magnitude.

She closed her eyes to think.

When she opened them again, rationality prevailed. There was no possible way for Henry to be a Necromancer even if he tried. Her Master lacked the means— at least Elementally. When Gwen ran the fact through her head once more, applying a fine sieve to the mass of information, another epiphany came to her.

Her Master had used the Grot since before the Great War, right? The chronology of events meant that the collection had existed before Necromancy was outlawed. This stuff— all of this, the whole kit— it was necessary knowledge! As Guo would quote with a grumpy face, "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you're an idiot."

Henry had a lot on his plate, according to Solana. He had to fend off the School of Necromancy while dealing with competitors in the form of his siblings, while concurrently juggling international pressure against the adoption of the IMS and the Tower systems. Then, presumably, her Master attempted to experiment with Void Magic just like Jean-Paul's adopted mother-mentor, which naturally meant digging for the deep knowledge of the past, before magic was regimented, simplified and categorised.

_What to do?_

Gwen agonised, causing Caliban to writhe and turn and Ariel to squirm. Her dogs as well, agitated by her surging adrenaline, huffed and whined.

For the present, she boxed the lot into her Storage Ring. Leaving her Master's smoking wands for the Elves wasn't a decision she could make. Consultation with Gunther and Alesia would take precedence, and if need be, there was no proof a Void Bolt couldn't disprove.

Besides... Void Enervation sounded like one helluva boon for a Void Sorceress with a starved grimoire.