With matters settled and the countdown begin, the paper pushers of the big three in London now returned to their machine caves of ink and mechanisms to hammer out tomorrow's headlines. To counter the Sun and the Telegraph, the METRO made an exception to release a Special Edition, a run paid entirely at the expense of the METRO itself. The overt publicity was part of Charlene and Gwen's stratagem, for the public hungered for the new and unusual, leaving no possibility that their rivals would not answer the call.

The second the METRO's men returned from the girls' luncheon, the Dwarves were ready, the engine greased, and the rolls of paper primed. All around the isle, its NoM army had been fed, briefed, and injected full of vim and vigour by a passionate speech from Lorenzo. He had explained that their Mistress of Hounds was fighting on their behalf and that her victory or loss would determine their future livelihoods. The result was a resounding furore only the oppressed could enact when their daily bread was on the line.

Two hours later, still-hot copies of the new editions reached the usual paper handlers and their friends and family as well, and anyone who held a stake in the development of the Isle of Dogs. Mages, NoMs, even Dwarves, Dede and a flock of idle Tower Crows took their share of the METRO, then disseminated the svelte visage of the girls and the smug Exeters across every transit node in London and beyond so that even in the misty town of Swansea, tongues soon wagged for the BBC to broadcast the duel.

For the participants, the unintended impact of the operation was the spontaneous creation of camaraderie. For once, the Mages, NoMs, the skilled and unskilled, the professional and the working class on the Isle of Dogs grew united in a singular love for their Mistress.

By the next edition of the Sun, all news of the continued protests at the Isle of Dogs had been erased from the frontal lobes of the forgetful public as every front page, willingly or otherwise, now lauded the Ravenport girls, with the Exeter Twins somewhere behind the pair with their heads half-cropped.

As organised by Charlene, the national broadcaster then contacted the pair, who happily gave permission for the bout to be recorded for posterity and to be transmuted "live" through the Mageocracy's Divination channels. As for their opponents, Gwen needed no foresight to guess that they would not turn down the opportunity even if they had the intent or means to do so for fear of appearing weak or unsure.

What remained then was the settling of their third number.

In observing the Lumen-casts of the Exeter's prior bouts provided by Charlene, House Holland's ability to match skill to boast was without doubt. "Poins" was a Smoke Mage with a wicked twist, for the boys excelled in the usage of the sorcery of "Force" or the telekinesis of "pure" mana. Force Cage—Wall of Force—Missile Swarm—Bilby's Hand—Morden's Blade—these were the arcanistry that served as the backbone to the usual arsenal of obfuscation utilised by a Smoke Mage. In a live bout, it was near-impossible to position "Poins"—a noted Evoker-Illusionist, who Charlene suspected may also be a dabbler in Mind Magic.

Comparatively, "Thomas" took after Gunther in his approach to arcanistry. The Illusion magic used by Thomas was a source of wonder, visually wreathing the young man in a nimbus of obfuscation, not through insidious shadows, but blaring, retina-searing light. The Force magic used by Thomas were likewise more potent and possessed of far more damage potential than the subtlety preferred by Poins.

In viewing a rare recording acquired by Charlene, Gwen winced as she positioned herself as Thomas' opponent, shrinking in horror as her mana rapidly drained from the endless assault from superheated steam and jabbing shards of Force, held immobile by an invisible Iron Maiden while waiting for her inevitable, impending demise.

For the twins, Force Magic and Illusion was their privilege, one that shored up the weakness of the Smoke and Steam Elements, something Gwen had initially sought to overcome by inviting "Iron Slab" Lulu to London for an exchange program. However, from her research, Lulu versus Force Magic would result in a war of attrition. And if Gwen had to favour a victor, she had no doubt two boys born with True Silver spoons in their mouths would fair better than an abused Sword Mage from Huashang.

"Nonetheless, you ARE suited to fight Thomas," Charlene observed over her Darjeeling. "Bone Armour for the Force Shards, and Void Shield for the Steam."

Presently, the two sat on Emmanuel's infamous Drake Pond lawn, joined by a duck, a crow and a rat. While Gwen had fancied a picnic, Charlene had her butler and a team materialise a table, chairs, and even sunshade in addition to the cakes, tea and ices.

"I could take both, just not at the same time." Gwen touched a hand unconsciously to her chin. "Ariel is highly resistant to the miasma of Smoke and near-impervious to poison and debilitation. Cali is nigh-indestructible so long as I prime my vitality stores. Considering we last met in the arena a year ago, they probably think it's possible to dismiss the Familiars and stun me into submission. What they don't know is that since visiting Tryfan and surviving Shalkar, I've learned some extra things about Creature Magic from a very generous source."

"Abjuration isn't their strong suit, but they could have a true Abjurer as their number three," Charlene remarked. "And we've already discussed your weakness against Mind Magic."

"Yes." Gwen nodded, her lips tight at the recollection of unhappier times. "We would still win, I think. You might have to pry Cali off the brothers, though, or the Mind Mage foolish enough to sever my Empathic Link. In that scenario, your Relations Officer is going to be working overtime."

"Mistress! Please let me fight." Strun fell on all fours, causing Dede to quack in protest. "I'll repay you with my life."

"There's no need," Gwen reminded the rat for the tenth time. "Strun, you'll be not only fighting the Exeters but taking the glory from someone on our side who will be dying for the privilege. I don't anticipate that I'll lose by any means, so why should I risk your life?"

"But I am your… Kaglhesh," Strun muttered a word which Gwen understood to mean "One who shields," but really, considering the context of the Rat-kin's warring traditions, "One who lived as fodder".

"I'll consider it," she relented. She wasn't against having Strun fight, considering the Rat-kin shared her vital stores and had an excess of lifeforce from Garp. The problem was that without Garp in London, Strun's limitless regeneration was severely handicapped, meaning she wasn't about to risk her Rat-man without the surety of victory. Likewise, even if Strun won, she doubted London's high society would very much like seeing one of their brightest disembowelled by the teeth of a Mongolian Death Worm via a "rat".

"QUACK!" Dede flapped its wings.

"I'll consider your proposal too." Gwen gingerly placated the raging duck.

"Mori," Charlene addressed the crow in their midst. "Any news?"

"CAW—"

"I guess that's to be expected." The girl shrugged. "I guess Father would have found out by now, but we're not being given that privilege."

"Daddy not helping?"

"I am fighting to show my independence, after all," Charlene said. "Father's right not to intervene. What if the Exeters chose to do the same? Neither of us wants to cross the unspoken line. If our Fathers were to fight, they certainly wouldn't need us as fodder."

"True that," Gwen concurred. "So, to surmise?"

"I don't mind Richard, though your cousin's Sprit could range from absolutely crushing to completely useless. Remember, the fight order is randomised, hence the blind matches."

"So, we can trust the organisers at the All England to make things truly random?"

"If we can't trust the Royal Accreditation League, then who can we trust?" Charlene's reply held more sardonicism than truth. "The League has too much to lose to favour one side or the other."

In the girls' hypothesis, there were a few troublesome archetypes House Holland could easily access that made the pair wary. The first was a Faith Caster from the Order of St George, whose monster-hunting naturally positioned them as allies to the Militants and whose Knight-Captain was a close relative to House Holland. To bring one of the Clerical Battle Mages would wag tongues but wasn't absurd enough to offset the bout's credibility.

In that case, Gwen would undoubtedly have something to worry about, for her Necromancy faired poorly against Faith Magic, and her Void Element performed just as poorly against Faith-laced Radiance.

On their end, Charlene had her own "Knight" to call upon, one with an actual grievance against the Militants. Likewise, there was also Elvia to consider. Though she had not seen Elvia taken to a deadly bout, Gwen possessed enough knowledge of Draconic lineage and Faith Magic and enough understanding of Sen-sen and Kiki to know that her little Evee was now a legitimate contender. What Evee lacked more than anything, Gwen guessed, was viciousness.

In her mind, Force Magic was strong, but could it best the strength of the Yinglong distilled into a root vegetable? Likewise, just as offensive Faith Magic possessed natural advantages against Spellcraft, Elvia's defensive magic and vast vital and mana arrays made her Shield of Faith a bulwark against all danger. Additionally, it wasn't as though a Cleric of the Ordo, even a junior one, could be poisoned or gassed, or even swayed by Mind Magic, as Gwen might. Besides, should anyone delve into a Vessel's mind, Gwen was sure that a disgruntled snort from the Yinglong would explode the head of the Mind Mage like an overripe melon. In that regard, the Dragon's possessiveness for its Vessel was far more potent than Almudj, who was more of an absent father.

Barring a Faith Caster, whoever they picked, the possibility of fighting a legitimate Mind Mage was a significant concern. If Petra was anything to go by, Mind Mages were specially bred through Affinity and talent, and most would have achieved an early peak in their craft by their twenties. In addition to looking svelte or suave, they additionally possessed another form of sorcery as their "cover", just as Petra had her Enchantment. For all Gwen knew, she could be fighting an Abjurer in a battle of attrition, or in the worst case, a skilled Quasi-Elemental Illusionist, who could momentarily disable her with a Feeble Mind or Sensory Jolt.

"I could requisition a capable Mind Mage of our own," Charlene noted over her sugared tea. "Then again, I don't know how useful that would be. The Exeters possess excellent training against Mind Magic. You've been taught to shield against such attacks as well since your arrival, haven't you?"

"More or less." Gwen nodded. "Petra's very helpful in that regard. That said, it's not my forte."

"It's a shame Gracie met you so much later in life. A Void Mind Mage with Illusion? Now that, I wish to witness! Which is why I do think Jean-Paul can work," Charlene said. "If you can give him and his pet some of your Serpent Juice, his 'Usurp' should be able to counter anything the Exeters pick on their end. At the same time, I would be astonished if the student-scion of Meister Bekker of Pretoria could even be influenced by spells not cast by the most senior of Mind Mages. Besides, the boy is chomping at the bits to help, not to mention his Meister will owe us a favour, win or lose."

"I suppose," Gwen considered Charlene's proposal. Firstly, a persistent goal of her work in London was to promote the "Void Cabal". Secondly, when she had asked Jean-Paul, the bloke was more than eager to have her back. Though Angela Bekker had shrugged, her silent consent nonetheless indicated the duel was a good way for Jean-Paul to shore up his "stud" credentials.

Charlene replaced her cup. "Alas, that's how things stand. Quite exciting, no? The thrill of the game is as riotous for us as it is for the spectators. So many variables and outcomes! Now you can see why Duelling is a favourite pastime from Avalon to the New World."

Gwen concurred, for her fingers had been tingling with Elemental Lightning in anticipation.

"What I find curious is that the most important thing is information security," she said. "You said we don't have to settle until the day arrives?"

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"Three hours before the match, according to the Duelling Association's rules, yes," Charlene affirmed her understanding. "There's an art to the process. I'll take care of that, of course. Until then, we'll have our numbers on standby."

"Then I propose Jean-Paul, on my part. Elvia's Ordo is never happy when she becomes involved in secular conflicts," Gwen said, fighting the urge to see Elvia kick-ass with the fear that she could be shamed or injured. "Jean-Paul will be happy to be on standby. What do you think? Should I recruit Lulan? As far as I know, she's still training with the White Serpent of Huangshan and performs regular Purge Quests on behalf of Tonglv. I don't know how you're going to get her to London, though?"

Charlene raises a brow. "Did you forget who I am? Who my Father is?"

Gwen conceded that indeed, the Duke of Norfolk who looks over the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would not have trouble rubber-stamping a temporary Visitation Permit for one medium-tier Mage from China. For Gwen, whether Lulu fought or otherwise wasn't so much the point as the prospect of seeing an old friend. The duel was an excellent excuse to get Lulan to come and see the world and open up her horizons, with the only shame being that Kuso would have to stay behind to continue his work with Tonglv.

Still, she refrained from the impulse.
Lulan was the type to fight to the death, and Gwen had no idea what she would do if that happened.

"And on my end." Charlene pointed to the list she had earlier produced. "Make a choice, I suppose. Either way, I can provide both my Champion and our number three if I call for it. Likewise, if you're worried, I can detour by Queen's College and pick up our Mind Mage."

On the list were rows of names Gwen had heard of only in passing, within which three made her shortlist.

Glenn Roswell was the IIUC Captain of Charlene's generation, a Mineral Mage Abjurer-Conjurer with a skillset similar to Lulan, except that the man used a Draconic-crystal Spirit that manifested "Dragon Glass".

Alexis Perry, a woman in her twenties, was akin to Gwen possessing a Class V War Mage status. Dubbed the "Little Scarlet", she was a Radiant sorceress in possession of an Efreet Sprite she harvested from the Elemental Sea. If they were to employ Alexis, the strategy need not involve anything more than sitting back to watch the foe melt.

Her eyes fell lower down the list, then stopped at a line Charlene had circled.

Unlike the prior two, Aiden Rothwell was a name she had previously heard from Elvia. The young man was the grandson of Evee's Rectrix, a direct descend serving at the Ordo of the Garter. The Word was that he recently returned from the Niger Delta with a big bone to pick. In the Delta, the Militants had absolved all operations and progress made by the Ordo in their Mission of "Mercy", then wrote them off as collateral. In the makeup of their team, Aiden would play a role opposite that of Jean-Paul, being a supporter, disruptor, Cleric, and damage soaker all-in-one. Unlike Elvia, Aiden was a Faith Caster through and through, capable of a variety of magic unique to his Order's eldritch secrets.

Usually, an ancient Ordo like The Garter would not allow their young Knights to participate in petty politics. Considering the circumstances, the connections, and the stakes in the case of Lady Charlene Ravenport, however, the Rectrix of the Order of the Garter had given consent.

"Very well, I'll ready myself and Jean-Paul on my part."

"And I'll bring Glen, Alexis, and Aiden to be finalised on the day." Charlene struck out a hand.

The girls shook once more.

"Do we need to coordinate anything else?" Gwen breathed out. Since the earliest morning, they had played out hundreds of scenarios, giving her the type of headache usually constrained to tax auditing.

"No. But if you wish to know more, you know where to find me." Charlene rose from her chair and signalled for men to begin the cleanup. "See you on Saturday, Magus Song. Let's hope that for all the effort we've committed—the outcome is both proportional and worthwhile."

London.
The All England.

In the days of yore, the All England had been set up as a club for the Nobility to practice their duels without deadly injury to either spectators and contestants. Over the century, its practices had been borrowed, improved and adapted by Duelling Clubs worldwide to become the "Oxford" standard.

After the Great War against the Masters of Unlife, the traditions saw further development in the New World, where the cities had not been ravaged by a decade of spellfire and decay. In their peculiar, extravagant way, the Americans added terrain transmutation, larger arenas, more robust spell allocations, and the allowance for pre-duel buffs to add to the spectacle.

Many of these wonders adopted by the "Harvard" style of Duels ultimately flowed back into England, forcing the organisers to embrace the advent of randomised terrain, environmental conditions, and allowance for double barriers and, thereby, higher tiers of magic. Consumables remained taboo, while craftables were allowed if personally inscribed and designed by the duellist, except for personal defence items solely for self-preservation.

On the day of fate, the spectators filled into the All England's second Duelling Arena in droves, having waited at the gates since the earliest hour. Most were the well-to-do Mages here for their usual entertainment, though curiously, the bookies observed an inordinate number of NoMs compared to the All England's usual demographic of patrons.

Though Gwen herself would not know the totality of it, her and Charlene's duel with the Exeters had been circulating among the NoMs under their employ as a sort of existential duel determining the future direction of their livelihoods. Far from caring about bloodlines or corporations, what the NoMs who read the METRO had garnered from Lorenzo's craft was that here was the battle of the Progressives and Conservatives. One advocated for keeping the non-magically aligned folk in idle squalor. Conversely, the Gwen represented the forces that would see the NoMs have a "Fair Go".

Thereby, for any who was able to save and spare a ticket for the All England, they did so, acting out a divine duty as witnesses to the making of history.

The arena, therefore, possessed an unusual and boisterous mood, one that had not gone unnoticed by the powers that reside above the duelling ground, above the commentator's podium, and even above even the private suites, where the Duke of Norfolk had cancelled his meetings for the day to attend.

When Gwen and Charlene re-emerged from the registrar's office to a shower of silvery lumen-bulbs, they were joined by Jean-Paul Bekker, scion and Apprentice to Meister Engela Bekker of Pretoria and London Imperial. Beside them stood another young man who appeared the Void Mage's polar opposite, the sunny and blonde-haired Sir Aiden Rothwell. Unlike Jean-Paul's all blacks, the man wore his signatory Garb of the Garter, consisting of a plumed hat, velvet cape and Christ's Cross gules on an ivory shield, casting the Knight in a striking light beside his haughty-heeled mistresses.

For the onlookers, however, it was the girls who truly stood out.

Charlene took once more to the unconventional pants suit favoured by the continental female Magisters in Paris, appearing simultaneously severe and svelte with her smoky eyes and imperious aura of command. She would not be fighting and so had chosen to impose and impress with her presence instead.

Moreso than Charlene, Gwen's new garb had the tongues of the Magisters and Maguses wagging at once.

Stepping into view, Gwen appeared in a form-fitted armoured battle suit forged from what appeared to be crowskin.

The girls didn't know it, but the eyes of her observers were already wandering from the girl to the upper observatory where the Duke of Norfolk surveyed the events below with a critical eye, their minds ripe with confirmed suspicions.

Who else in London had access to magical feathers of such quality and in such rich blackness that when struck by the light, the feathers appeared to consume the motes of Radiance?

For the girl to show up wearing a suit of enchanted feathers could only mean one thing—that the rumours were accurate and that at least once, Lord Ravenport had forgotten to send a Footman as a stand-in. To the crowds' knowledge, there were only so many Tower Ravens of such magical quality in existence, and to harvest only the best feathers for the creation of such garb would require the sacrifice of more Ravens than their minds dared entertain.

Meanwhile, Gwen bathed in their misunderstanding, well-pleased that she had upped the nobles in a game of items. According to the Runemasters at the Printworks, Yassari and a whole platoon of craftsmen had spent hundreds of hours working out a method to preserve the unique attributes of the Da-Peng feathers. As a result, her new suit possessed several logically improbably properties relating to the primordial foes of the Draconic races.

The foremost was its imperviousness to damage, meaning Gwen need not worry about an attack perforating the suit to injure her innards. To this end, Yassari had delivered a warning that while the armour was impossibly sturdy, it did not defy the laws of energy conservation. Should Gwen be struck by Golos' barbed tail, she would not become Swiss cheese, but her body would nonetheless suffer enough blunt-force trauma to induce organ failure. It was why MKII Dwarven Golems favoured disposable reactive shells more than the older stubborn, immovable Dark Iron variants.

Secondly, the suit was well suited for agility, possessing incredible weight should she strike or charge an opponent while simultaneously being weightless in flight. The paradox was so strange that even now, Yossari's folk could not reproduce its properties and could only mark it down as a chaotic, primordial trait of the Da-peng derived from the Age of Dragons, where the birds hunted lizards for food and sport at a time when the Seven Ancestors yet recorded the rules of the world.

The third property of her new suit was gobsmacking, albeit useless in the duel. She was nigh "impervious" to the magic of common Dragons. As to the degree of her immunity, Yassari said that there was no way for the Dwarves to test the item without letting the crow out of the coop, but they were confident even Golos' breath would slide off the feathers like Magic Missiles off Dede's back.

Finally, the fourth property was one to which Gwen felt rather proud. Her item was unique, for having the suit made involved both hunting the Da-peng that lived within the Wall of Woods in Amazonia AND having the connections to a Citadel's Heart Forge. When Gwen had registered her ownership with the Shard, the Magister there informed her that she could loan the item out at an exorbitant price should she wished. Of course, she didn't need the money—which meant the only means to borrow the suit would be in CCs or through bartering favours.

Therefore, dressed in her snazzy new suit, it was with buoyant confidence that Gwen looked forward to ripping the Exeters a new one, knowing that wardrobe malfunctions would now be a thing of the past.

At the threshold of the Duelling Arena's entrance, Gwen could already smell the excitement outside in the thousands of bodies eagerly awaiting the emergence of the contestants.

Beside the foursome, the Assistant Adjudicator received the signal, then bowed toward Charlene and Gwen.

"Miladies. The authority has been given, and you may commence at your leisure."

Gwen took a deep breath, then inhaled the buzz of excitement now sweeping over the crowd like a droning mana thrum. "Charlene?"

"I am ready." Her partner smiled. "Magus Bekker? Sir Rothwell? Are you ready?"

"At your service, Milady." The Knight's voice was bright and charged with anticipation. "Victory or death."

"I will not fail." Jean-Paul's expression was ashen, possibly from his pre-game preparations but more likely from stage fright.

"Very well." Gwen took the first step forward. "ONWARDS!"

Lord Mycroft Ravenport stood a perfect distance from the invisible Wall of Force acting as a fail-safe from potential debris, gazing downward at the arena where his daughter, his "love child", and their two camp-de-aides entered.

That Charlene and Gwen were now Witches of the same Cabal had been well within his expectations, been that Charlene had taken NoMs as her political unicorn, while the girl had an obsession with NoMs since Australia. The cost of the union had been a portion of the Norfolk Fund, though Mycroft was happy to pay it, as tethering the girl to the Mageocracy's interests had been his plan from the very beginning.

What he had not anticipated was how quickly the girls would confront their natural enemies in the conservative Militant Faction, nor had he expected the girls to march forward with such momentum. A part of him felt relieved, for Charlene could then truly stand on her own and wash away the stain that Edmund had brought upon the family. His second wife as well, could finally shut up and return to holding her head with haughtiness. Concurrently, another part of him, the invariable part that remained the father to a little girl in happier times, couldn't help but feel like he should secretly snuff the idiotic twins like two fragile candles in the dark. To have designs on Charlene! The shamelessness was dizzying, for not even their father had dared broach the subject.

But to shelter his Manticore cub meant Charlene would never come of age nor stand on her own. If Kilroy's Apprentice could crawl from the Frontier to stand in the All England, then why shouldn't his daughter, possessed of nobler blood and more significant resources, manage the same if not greater?

Slowly, Mycroft's eyes drifted across the Duelling Arena toward the west entrance, where already, the Exeters were cracking jokes and giddy with glee at the trap they had laid for the girls.

Besides the men were their invitee from the New World, a young man who had demanded to come to London because he had heard that the Dwarves here were sharing their knowledge of Golem making Magi-tech.

To his knowledge, the Militant Faction had arranged the man's entry into London. However, the young man likely did not know that the woman responsible for the Dwarves coming out of the fold had no relations to the Militant Faction and were, in fact, a stalwart antagonist to the Faction's interests.

Beside the threesome on an enormous levitation platform sat the young man's war engine, a murderous machine made for a singular purpose, designed from the Mana Core to its fibrous pseudo-sinews to hunt the most dastardly of Magical Beasts.

Were he to disregard his role as a father, Mycroft would feel impressed by the Militants' and their multi-pronged ploy.

Foremostly, there were no Mages in London who knew how to fight an MK III Centurion Custom with its variable array of Spellswords, Wands and warding magic. Likewise, the number of Mages in London who could confess to having ever fought an American Golem Engine vis-a-vis and one-to-one could be counted on one hand.

Yet, since the young man had "made" the suit himself and were its chief designer, the All England had grudgingly allowed it. Indeed, such inclusions were not uncommon in the International Inter-University Competition, though rarely did anyone other than the Americans field such outlandish items that were useless in cramped Dungeon and across the vast tracts of the Wildlands.

Secondly—Mycroft licked his lips in mild frustration—had any Mage of the girl and her friend's calibre ever fought an NoM? One that could potentially best them should they allow the slightest slip? If he were in Gwen's position, he would protest and demand that the Exeters show their honour as scions of Spellcraft. To make a Norfolk duel an NoM? The very idea made his skin crawl. And in addition, there was a potential of loss? In that case, Mycroft would abide by nothing less than tearing the Golem apart and reducing the pilot to a screaming, shrivelling husk while he stared impassively at the twins who dared to insult him.

But for his daughter, who purportedly supported NoMs?
Or Gwen, whose softness was as infamous as her Void Sorcery?

Indeed, Mycroft had to concede with a grudging, silent growl—that for once, not all the brains had been bred out of the Golden Blood of Henry.


When Gwen imagined the confrontation with the Exeters in the arena, she had envisioned the Hollands to emerge with a mysterious Mage in a cowl, ready to trounce her with Abjuring Mind Magic laced with Faith.

What instead appeared not only gave her pause but made Charlene and her companions likewise open their mouths.

“A Centurion Golem Suit?” Jean-Paul looked toward her, astonished by the spectacle of a metallic, bipedal machine almost four of his Captain stacked stiletto to shoulder. "They're fielding a War Golem against us? Is that legal?"

"If the All England has allowed it." Charlene was quicker on the uptake. "Then it must be. Gwen, I think we're going to have a problem, and the Centurion is only going to be a part of it."

Gwen concurred, for her Divination had already illuminated both her eyes with a pale, shimmering nimbus. It wasn't what she could see that was the problem—but what wasn't there. "Christ Almighty. Their number three, he's an NoM, isn't he?"

Charlene nodded. "As Non-Magical as they come, and I am fairly certain that's 'Magus' John C. Williams. He's an NoM Golem Maker from the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy."

Besides the pair, Sir Rothwell's hand took on a tighter grip around the pommel of his Holy Sword. His weapon's superior enchantments were disabled for the bout, though the Faith circuitry that enabled his magic remained active.

Gwen both sensed the Knight's apprehension and felt his displeasure. In the prideful Faith Mage's eyes, going toe-to-toe with an NoM was a grave insult not only to himself but to his Ordo and his mistress.

Or was it perhaps, Gwen noted the Knights' grip, the sword on Aiden's belt?

Among the challengers, Rothwell's signature Spellsword most logically resembled the NoM's war engine—though such a conjecture would be disingenuous. When a Knight of the Garter graduates from his service as a Squire, he is given a Mithril Spellblade forged by the Dwarves, as per the grand narratives governing the Ordo's mythoi. Flame quenched in the blood of drakes, this Relic of the Garter is then tempered by the Knight's Faith and being, becoming a part of the Knight's blood and flesh. The blade was a tool—but it was also a part of the Knight's animus and tied irrevocably to his Astral Soul.

Yet, even so, the rules forbade Aiden Rothwell from utilising the Holy Sword's full potential, and therefore his full potential, despite the stakes in the credibility of his Ordo.

Comparatively, the "tool" crafted by the Magi-tech scholar and NoM pilot was a tool in the simplest sense of a hammer or a wench. "John" could swap out ten suits and not break a sweat. Yet, because the rules had made allowances for artificers, he was nonetheless a legitimate contender.

Across the field, the Golem roared into life in the manner of a living beast.

Gwen had to remind herself to be alert but not alarmed. From the looks of the thing, it was a Centurion model, which wasn't uncommon. However, other than the frame, any similarities between this and the machines she saw while fighting the Triffidus ended at the chassis.

The main difference was the removal of the artillery Spellsword on the bipedal walker's shoulders, vastly improving its agility and overall balance. In its place, both pauldrons sported what looked like anti-personnel Spellswords mounted on articulating pivot joints. Its armour was also thinner to account for the lack of recoil from the original Spellsword, having been transformed from the geometric cubism of the MKII design toward aesthetic curves with an organic semblance. The pilot's cockpit, an upscaled version of the Dwarven Strider's central capsule, was now vertical, allowing the pilot to be housed standing upright, simultaneously serving as a protective womb for its NoM passenger.

Its main armaments, Gwen noted, were two variants of Spellswords she had never before seen on either Imperial or Dwarven Golems, placed just under the wrists of the machine, below three-clawed talon-fingers that looked to be equally dangerous in their cruel way. Finally, where the Centurions of the Royal Scots forsook a "head" for a Divination array, this particular model possessed a vicious, masked helmeted head that resembled an armoured, retro-styled CCTV camera. Judging from the Conjuration and Evocation motes leaking from the cyclopean ocular implant that formed its "eye", she also suspected that it was capable of ray-magic of sorts.

The "tool" aside, she had to agree that the Exeters had pulled out the rug from under them.

First, considering the optics they had arranged for the duel, neither she nor Charlene had any desire to fight an NoM, much less maim or slay the man outright in his cockpit. Likewise, she had no idea if indeed the Exeters had a better network than Charlene's borrowed crows, but even if they won, there was only shame in besting an NoM. In that regard, they were already at a disadvantage.

Then there was Jean-Paul, who had no qualm against fighting or killing NoMs, but whose spells were arguably diminished if he was incapable of triggering Astral feedback through his Usurp and Consume abilities.

"The bastards…" Her partner bit her lip in frustration. "Not that I am doubting your abilities, Gwen, but—"

"Yeah," Gwen concurred. "This isn't looking very good for us, nor is it going to look good, win or lose."

"There's that," Charlene sighed. "And then there's something else. I fear my information security wasn't up to snuff compared to the Militants. I mean, I had anticipated the fact, but for them to field an actual NoM in a Centurion engine?"

"I'll not falter," Sir Rothwell spoke up beside the women. "Even without harming the man, I shall endeavour to defeat them. Besides, I with the blessing of our Lord and Saviour, I may not face the man."

"The Knights of the Garter have all sworn a Cardinal Oath weaved into their Faith Magic," Charlene explained to Gwen. "They're hunters of monsters or Mages who are monsters. Against the innocent and in particular, powerless NoMs, they're sworn to do no injury."

"That's admirable." Gwen nodded. "But yes, that's going to be awkward."

"Especially as there isn't 'malicious harm' as per the competition, and I don't think competitive intent to injure accounts for the Oath."

Sir Rothwell sighed at Charlene's words.

"And knowing your Lord and Saviour." Charlene twisted her lip. "This is likely your trial, Sir Rothwell."

The Knight, perhaps acknowledging Murphy's Law, inclined his chin in silence.

"I have no qualms facing the man," Jean-Paul said helpfully. "Perhaps if I fought him first?"

"We're drawing straws," Charlene reminded the Void Mage. "But yes, I would prefer it if you fought the Golem, badly matched as you are."

The foursome continued to watch as the crowd made gushing noises at the mechatronic wonder. From an upper dais where the commentator would soon be seated, the All England's officious Adjudicator emerged with a black box armed with anti-magic, within which were slips of enchanted paper likewise enchanted with anti-Divination Glyphs.

"But you know what? Our hope isn't lost." Charlene willed a crow to descend on her shoulder while doing her best to ignore the pair of eyes staring down from somewhere in the VIP platform. Standing beside her, Gwen felt envy for Charlene, a daughter with a father who cared, even if that care was judgement.
"CAW!"

"Mori," Charlene informed the bird. "Find me information on this, John C. Williams. I want to know why he's working for the Militants and what an American NoM hopes to achieve in England."

"CAW!"

"Give Mori ten minutes, and we'll know what makes the NoM tick." Charlene turned to her with confidence, then gestured to the dais, where the Captain of the twin's team, Thomas, awaited their representative. "Till then, shall we?"

Bathed in the watchful gaze of some four thousand spectators and likely millions more on the BBC's lumen-casts, The Devourer of Shenyang stepped up beside Benedict Thomas Holland to shake the man's hand.

"Ladies first, as always." Thomas bowed after the fact, inspiring smiles and laughter from the grandstands.

Gwen bowed her head in turn, as per decorum, then reached out with an armoured glove into the box. As her hand passed the exterior, she felt the magic of her armour grow dull—though not annulled— then quickly withdrew a mysterious Glyph of no particular meaning.

Holding the lottery ticket aloft as though she was the heroine of a story about ripening corn, she showed her ticket to the cheering crowd.

Thomas followed, withdrawing a different coloured Glyph.

More slips soon followed, alternating between the two.

The Adjudicator, a man with the face of a hawk and a nose worthy of a Royal Griffin's beak, then held their slips aloft.

"THE FIRST BOUT—" The man's voice effortlessly reached every inch of the stadium. "Sir Aiden Rothwell of the Order of the Garter will challenge our guest from the New World, the Artificer John Charles Williams!"

Gwen felt her heart sink.
Charlene was right in that God worked in mysterious ways, and that indeed, this would be a duel to test the Knight's conviction in the most taxing ways.

Across from her, Thomas Holland gave her a handsome smile that was neither mocking nor hostile. "Good luck," the man said. "Milady, I hope to meet you in the arena. There, we will communicate with our bodies and our lives on the line. Win or lose, I promise you that the best is yet to come."

"Likewise." Gwen withdrew with a heavier step despite the innate Flight built into her new suit. She had hope for Sir Rothwell, but his Trial of Steel wasn't a matter of skill, but a battle of the Knight's existential Credo, that of honouring the promise he had made to Charlene and the very oaths powering his Credo. That—and the fact that the Knight would be soloing a literal machine.

"Indeed, the Nazarene works in mysterious ways." Sir Aiden Rothwell had just finished a short prayer when Gwen returned with confirmation of the worst-case scenario. For their team, the order was Sir Rothwell, Jean-Paul, and then herself. For the Exeters, it was the NoM, Thomas, then Poins.

"I will endeavour to pass this trial, Magus Song, Milady Ravenport."

"There's no—" Gwen was about to act on her feelings of pity for the Knight when Charlene cut her off with a smile.

"—go forth, Sir Knight," the young Ravenport commanded her champion. "Perform what your heart and your Faith desires. Think nothing of win or loss, only what is right."

With the guise of a Knight headed for his last duel, the Faith Caster relaxed his armour, bowed toward them both, the crowd, then briskly made his way onto the dais, where a whole section of the opposite Force Wall had been disabled to allow the entry of the Centurion MK Custom.

The first battle would occur in a desert-scape, with half of the enormous duelling field transmuted into broken urban cover. Unfortunately, the Ordo of Garter had little interest in "cover", and neither did the towering Golem Suit.

"Anything from the Crows?" Gwen sidled a bit closer to Charlene. She didn't usually feel the butterflies, but now a whole host was nesting in her chest.

"Soon." Her partner hid her agitation far better than Gwen herself. "Soon…"

Mycroft Ravenport dismissed the specifications submitted by the twins to the All England and felt strangely conflicted by the practice of allowing NoMs to create such mechanisms of destruction.

In the past, the Mageocracy had, as the Americans did, dallied in the possibility of arming their NoMs with magical weaponry so that a Beast Tide could be beaten with the same tactics of numerical superiority.

If a Human city was to fall, the proponents of the Militant's industrial complexes had argued, and a million would perish, wouldn't a hundred thousand men and women armed with Wands sent to repeal the tide be a better option?

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Logically and on a practical level, the arithmetic of the victor was undeniable—but the cost was still staggering to behold, and there were more significant complications as well.

As a student of not just history but the hidden history of the Mageocracy, Mycroft knew very well the consequences of giving such armaments to NoMs, even if the NoMs were incapable of recharging the mechanisms of their mana-limited weaponry. Yet, even so, rebellions and revolts in the colonies spoke very loudly of what happened when a shepherd realised too late that his sheep now possessed sharpened horns long enough to gore and pin him to a tree.

If nothing else, hadn't the Mageocracy lost the New World by virtue of the Americans arming their NoMs? Hadn't these same NoMs, together with the Mages who empowered them, then enslaved a continent and its native people?

CLANG!

Mycroft's thoughts were punctuated by the sound of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object somewhere in the arena, each blow buoyed by loud cries of appreciation from the jubilant crowd. When Mori had approached him earlier on Charlene's behalf, he had given consent out of sheer curiosity to see what his daughter and Henry's hellion would do with the information once the battle began.

Whatever the case, the Knight from the Order of the Garter was no stranger to fighting giant monsters, though this had to be the man's very first time fighting an active war machine. As a descendent of the Rothwells, the young man was an admirable specimen worthy of Charlene had he not been sworn to chastity—and now that talent was on full display.

Wreathed in a halo of Faith, the young Rothwell was an avenging Angel. His armaments of Faith, sword and shield, were each-endowed with the protective magic of his belief in the Nazarene, both shedding a retina-searing volume of Radiance.

With each incandescent cry, the Knight showed the crowd the same despair the enemies of the Ordo and the Magical Creatures he hunted would face—an unstoppable Sword of Holy Fire shedding enough mana per second to power a villa.

It was unfortunate then that the NoM's Magi-tech creation had been specced to withstand blows from Gwen's monstrous minions, not to mention her hyper-tier lightning, the one she called "Barbanginy" in the tongues of the Australian natives. He knew not whether the All England had taken the machine's fuel consumption into account. Still, from the looks of it, the bright-eyed young Williams had equipped the Centurion with enough HDMs to last an hour of hyperactive operation.

For its defence, the Centurion used what looked like a double-layer of shielding formed from overlapping Walls of Force, the same used by the arena, creating a geometric "skin" over the machine's exterior. Such a cover wasn't perfect, of course, and there would indeed be gaps—but his opponent was a warrior of might and, as such, inherently failed at the necessary perception checks.

After another dozen "Clangs!" that reduced the terrain to rubble and sand to silica, Sir Rothwell encircled the machine on angelic wings of Radiance and fire, testing the Golem's weakness. So far, his attacks had kept the thing on the defensive, preventing the machine from acting. All around the stadium, the NoMs appeared delighted that one of their own was standing up against a Faith Caster—but Ravenport knew that the Knight was likely testing to see if he could disable the machine to avoid killing the pilot outright, an act that would go against Rothwell's Sanctified Vows, the violation of which would disempower years of accumulated Faith.

A few seconds after Sir Rothwell's tactical retreat, the Golem's Spellswords spontaneously burst into technicolour. If the Knight were fighting another Mage, their opponent would have recognised the act of compassion from the lowering of magical output and the non-lethal manner of the Knight's assault—but John C. William was both an NoM and an academic, and therefore terribly suited to understanding the Knight's true intentions.

Without so much as the courtesy of announcing one's spell, the weapons fired.

From underneath the gauntlets emerged a dazzling array of colours, each a different element tied to a mixture of Evocation, Transmutation, and Conjuration magic. A "Prismatic Spray" was the name of the original spell, a Magister-tier, complex sorcery that applied multiple magics at once to one's opponent, making it almost impossible to resist.

Simultaneously, from the cyclopean eye atop the Golem came a green beam of Disintegration at full tilt, not at all diminished in its lethality, pulsing at twice the girth and output of what would be expected of a seventh-tier Transmuter.

While the crowd burst into a riotous clamour, the two swivelling units on the machine's pauldrons revealed themselves to be Greater Sonic Suppressors, upscaled from hand-held units into industrial variants capable of knocking out Manticores.

In total, what Sir Rothwell's underestimation had netted him was a greeting in the form of twin Prismatic Sprays, two Sonic Stuns set to the maximum setting and a Ray of Disintegration.

Would the girl be able to withstand such a combination?

Had Gwen not demonstrated her perfect Affinity for Kilroy's Necromancy and bested a Balefire, Ravenport felt he would soon attend a wedding. Inherently, the very idea of pitting a singular Mage against a Golem Suit was an absurd idea only the Americans would consider fair. Though inflexible in its configuration and useless in certain terrains, even a regular Centurion could simultaneously release a cluster of three Firestorms at a range of a kilometre or more. At the same time, its close-range systems could simultaneously replicate the firepower of a dozen mid-tier or three upper-tier Mages.

"SHIELD OF FAITH!" Without a split-second of delay, the signature Faith-burning shielding of the Clerical Ordo covered the entirety of Sir Rothwell's body. Faith, unlike Spellcraft, was an ancient form of magic that differed significantly from the thieving of power from the Elemental Planes. With enough Faith, the very rules of reality itself could be suspended for a split-second, and that power was now what sustained Sir Rothwell from the combined onslaught of the Centurion's brutal assault.

Mycroft Ravenport shook his head.

The Knight was a textbook example of why Mages should avoid fighting Golems.

In his bravery, courage, and dauntless power, Sir Rothwell chose to "tank" the Golem while considering his next move.

For a Faith Caster, it was the correct thing to do, as mana exhausted far quicker than Faith, and most Mages using tier six and seven spells would soon be OoM, or their mind would grow too taxed to continue without long periods of rest.

What Sir Rothwell's Prismatic-blasted head had forgotten was that he was fighting a machine. Unlike a Mage, the Centurion MK Custom was a murder engine
fed on fuel that was good for another hour of total output and could be swapped out for spare tanks for as many hours as the metal remained intact.

Unless the Knight could use his Faith Relic's true power—but could not because he did not forge, design—nor enchant the Spellblade, he would not penetrate the overlapping, mana-draining Force Carapace of the Centurion.

Impressive as Aiden could be, the Exeter had checkmated Charlene's champion both psychologically and in their liberal interpretation of the rules.

His daughter's suite, therefore, was certainly not off to a great start.

"CAW—CAW—!"

Charlene thanked the crow as she retrieved what looked like a data crystal in its grip and slotted the thing into her Magitech iPad. The illusory projections that lit up her worried eyes were offset only by the splendiferous blasts of rainbow light from the arena, cut with bursts of orange Radiance broiling the thrumming Walls of Force.

Beside her, Gwen did her best to catch up with Charlene's speed reading.

"Gwen." Ravenport's daughter finished the twenty-page document in a matter of moments. "Is Master Yossari, or someone of her rank here in the arena? Or can be freed to attend?"

"Yes, why?" Gwen had to re-organise her thoughts from the scrolling mass of words messing up her eyes. Whatever was happening to Sir Rothwell on stage wasn't at all helping her concentration; one entirely spent thinking about how she would overcome the Golem when it came to her turn. Unlike the Knight, there were means and methods available to her that were denied to Sir Rothwell that she hoped would beat the machine. Even so, the sheer volume of destructive spellfire filling the arena was at giving her goosebumps all over.

"My father had decided to give us a hand from his Ivory Tower," Charlene spoke while glancing at the VIP viewing platform. "The report says that John C. Williams is the grandchild of Jonathan Charles William, originally from North Carolina. They are descended from famous Wand Makers holding hundreds of weapon patents in the US. John recently graduated with Honours from the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy. He's in London because…"

Gwen noted the triumph creeping up on Charlene's otherwise expressionless face.

"… He's here to seek access to Dwarven knowledge to complete his Thesis on the integration of Dwarven Golem Interface for Human Use. To my knowledge, Dwarves are rare in North America, something about having lost an ancient grudge with the Greenskins. Maybe that's why he thought he would try his luck here?"

While the stadium rocked with the sound of explosions, Gwen's mind likewise made a complete revolution. "Okay, so why the hell is he fighting us? The Dwarves are our friends. They're working with ME, with the IoDNC specifically! Not the Militants!"

"Exactly," Charlene said. "I think the twins had the boy roped up by promising him access to you, and therefore the Dwarves."

"So…" Gwen's mind immediately swivelled toward the same conclusion as her partner. If the twins wanted to play silly buggers, then two could play that game.

"This fight…" Charlene remained stoic. "Is likely over, despite Sir Rothwell's best efforts. However, would you mind having a word with John? Perhaps ask Yossari to come along?"

"Of course." Gwen raised her Message Device to her ears, then left a polite but immediate summon for her friend and ally, Master Yossari Vildrenbrandt of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, Master of Alchemy and the diplomatic attaché to the Dwarves currently serving out their "debt" in London. "Ten minutes enough? I'll have Walken teleport them over."

"More than enough" Charlene nodded. "Sir Rothwell's sword might be neutered, but his Faith Armour has plenty of Radiance left before its OoM."

The first bout, much to the delight of the audience, lasted well over thirty minutes.

The pyrotechnical exchange that framed the contest between the Knight of the Garter and the NoM pilot in a suit of his forge and design was a genuine and satisfying opening for the escalating stakes to come.

Comparatively, for the Duke of Norfolk, once the flow of the battle established, his interest waned. As a rule, Knights were powerful individual units, but their rigid doctrine, a necessary component of Faith Sorcery, seldom left room for wonderment and surprises. Ergo, try as the Rothwell boy might, the limitations placed on his items, together with the torturous vow of non-violence against NoMs, ensured that the man was mechanically incapable of overcoming the Centurion MK Custom.

For those in the know, the spectacle was a gloomy one, for here was proof that the NoMs' true lack was merely equipment and that should they be given capital, resource and time, the reign of the Mages may indeed be shaken off its foundations.

Of course, the manufacturing process of Magi-tech items would ensure that no NoM could create such monstrous war engines in any volume. Even ten-thousand NoMs working together would have no means to best an Elemental Spirit old enough to produce a Core that could power the Aether Engine bringing life to the Golem, nor could NoMs harvest the thousands of rare ingredients and materials necessary to forge its Ferro-sinews, runic platings, mana-converters and actuators.

Yet, just as Mycroft's mind wandered toward the Mageocracy's policies, his daughter and the girl made their move.

Coupled with a trio of Dwarves Ravenport recognised as the Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt, a Master Runesmith with the moniker of Danmurim the Glum, and a new Engineseer on exchange to the Shard, Gwen walked the distance between the two camps to approach the twins.

Was this what his daughter had planned for the data on the NoM? Ravenport felt a smile touch the corner of his mouth. And to have Henry's hellion carry out the dirty work? It was a very Charlene thing to do, an act within which he could find no fault.

Below, all eyes were once more on Gwen. "Crossing the field" via its perimeter was permissible by All England's rules, though such unorthodox disruptions were nonetheless perceived as unfavourable and impolite. If the combatants were influenced unduly by the interruption, the Adjudicator could force one side to forfeit the match.

"Interesting," Mycroft heard himself murmur with satisfaction as the battle below slowed its hectic pace. As anticipated, with the Dwarves and Gwen in full view, the NoM's sequential firing of his weapon systems lost its tempo, giving the Rothwell boy unexpected breathing room.

The other guests elsewhere in the VIP, especially the posse surrounding the flamboyant Lady Astor, burst into speculation and clamour.

Below, the Adjudicator, likely favouring Sir Rothwell, signalled that the match should continue even as the NoM grew infinitely distracted. Unfortunately for Gwen's team, the Knight's code prevented Aiden from taking advantage of a one-sided challenge, meaning he chose to wait out the curious distraction offered by their crow-clad Captain.

"Mori." Mycroft motioned for one of his crows. "What are they saying?"

"CAW— CAW—"

Mycroft couldn't help but broadly grin as the bird delivered the exchange verbatim.

Gwen, in her unique way, had asked the Dwarves to deliver an ultimatum to the Exeters and the NoM in the Golem Suit, who had to be listening through his Magi-tech instruments.

"We nay hold our debt ter the Mageocracy nor The Shard." the Dwarven Master was backing up Gwen's assurance that only her allies, and those close to her, would gain any form of access to patented Dwarven Magitech, or had any hope of studying in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. "Mistake nothing, lads. Our wee Lassie here' the holder of the Debt of Haj-Zül, she's a friend to Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, Bringer of the Lumen and our venerated Deepdowner. If yer thinks ter bargain with our favour, forget it—I declare it here and now that yer kin are Vadam!"

"If you've trouble with Dwarven," the girl added with a subtle toss of her hair. "I can clarify."

On the duelling field, the steaming Golem had all but grown silent, just as the twin had grown silent.

Once more, the Adjudicator signalled for the fight to continue.

"If you've nothing else to promise to Mister Williams, then I shall return to camp and meet you in the duelling arena with my Dwarves and our patented Magitech."

The girl turned, exposing her back and the backs of her Dwarven partners to the Exeters. Would the twins retaliate? Mycroft had no doubt they were burning with shame, but the very idea of attacking a lady with her back turned, in public, and flanked by the Mageocracy's Dwarven allies was unthinkable. If the twins did act, Mycroft felt, he would have burst into impolite laughter right here and now, spoiling his reputation.

When no riposte came, the Duke of Norfolk counted the seconds it would take for the match to take a dramatic turn. Would the NoM possess the necessary honour to continue the fight now that his investment in the twins turned out to be lies and deception? Or would he turn as the British weather did in autumn? After all, Williams was in Britain to pursue the advancement of his craft— honour? What was 'honour' to an academic in pursuit of knowledge? Would such a thing weigh more than air?

Within the span of a dozen breaths, the Golem grew inert, then with the hiss of escaping air, the cockpit opened, and Mycroft got his answer.

"I forfeit." The sandy-haired Artificer within held up both hands as he dismissed the dizzying array of Glyphs hovering all around him. "I need to speak with Magus Song, now. If you would direct me, Sir Knight, er— to the lady who handles worms—"

Opposite the inquisitive, red-faced NoM inventor, the Knight of the Garter appeared in physical agony.

The humanity! Ravenport chuckled. The Knight wasn't at all used to dealing with NoMs. If he had guessed, as Mycroft did, what the man was liable to do after Gwen dropped that Abjuring Circle of Clarity on the twins, then he would have forfeited first to preserve his honour. Now, the Knight would be given an undeserved victory, the dishonour of which would take months of penitence to absolve.

While the confused crowd slowly caught on that the fight was over, the Adjudicator announced the victory in Charlene's favour, then cleared the arena.

Watching the agitated NoM, the dejected Knight, the haughty Gwen and his smiling Charlene, Mycroft could only say that while he was pleased, the proceedings were a right mess of spontaneity, poor planning, and on-the-cuff spell casting.
What if the NoM could not heed or had not listened in to Gwen's Dwarves?
What if, God forbid, the NoM was honourable?
What if the Exeters had retorted that, once Gwen was married to one of them, access to the Dwarves was merely a matter of time?
What if Sir Rothwell denounced her here and then?

If the girls wanted to be Tower Masters, the Lord Duke of Norfolk shook his head— they still had a long way to go.


"Sir, are you sure certain 'doping' is allowed?" Gwen remarked to the hawk-nosed Adjudicator, whose eyes glowed with equal parts regret and Divination at Umzokwe's feeding habits. Behind the man, the crowd in the stadium shared the man's fascinated horror. Beyond that, Gwen had no doubt wealthy viewers watching the scene at home were likewise having second thoughts about buying hi-resolution Lumen-projectors.

"I'd like to have a stern word with anyone who would dare protest. I mean, New World John over yonder fielded a God-damned Centurion Custom." Charlene's eyes stared daggers at their reserve bench, where the pilot, academic and Wand Smith simmered with agitation, waiting for the match to end so that he could apologise to Gwen for joining the "wrong side".

Previously, the Exeters had allowed their man to go, possessing neither the spontaneous wit to rope their pilfered Magi-tech Smith back into the fold or the clout to detain a named Academic from MIT in public. Perhaps, Gwen thought, the Exeters hadn't given up after all—though private vengeance had to be served with clandestine subtlety, for her METRO would report that the Hollands had cheated an NoM to waylay a Knight.

Unfortunately for Charlene, the advantage Gwen had gained was lost when, upon his return, Sir Aiden Rothwell communicated without recourse his inability to continue the bout lest his Faith was despoiled by dishonour. For Gwen, who had not taken the man's self-righteous Credo into account, Rothwell's decision to "pull out" came as a disappointment. In her eyes, it was with great luck that they had snatched up a victory from the jaws of defeat, only now she was left with a half-hearted apology.

Still playing the serene sorceress, Charlene steered her aside, then bid the Knight a job well-done and that House Ravenport would remember the Ordo's favour. To save the man face, she then begged the Knight to speak to his duelling partner, explaining that they were both victims of the Exeters' deceit. In conversing with the NoM, she assured the man, their mutual victimhood would absolve him of the guilt assailing his Faith.

Afterwards, for their pre-game prep, Gwen helped Jean-Paul get ready by fattening Umzokwe. As for their opponents, Benedict Thomas prepared by suiting up in a grimly visaged padded cloth plate with the help of his aides.

"Shuu—shuu—shuu—" Besides Gwen, with visible susurrations from its undulating sinews, Jean-Paul's Familiar convulsed with pleasure.

From the silence that engendered, she could only wonder if the world was ready to face the debut of an albino Umzokwe the size of a horse, undulating and glistening with grey-tinged slime as its semi-translucent body pulsed with secret juices secreted from her ungloved hand.

For Gwen, the feeding was no different from Ariel or Dede taking their daily vitality tax. For her observers, the uncanny sight of the dozen hot-pink tentacles slithering from Umzokwe's maw with a life of their own to wrap Gwen's hand and forearm was a sight many would never forget.

Was it because Umzokwe made no other sound other than the sucking and slurping? Gwen pondered the optics while the tendrils massaged her hand, lapping up every mote of viridescence. Disparate to the sensual, Lovecraftian horror of Caliban, Umzokwe forced the observer to be inundated by an aversion that stemmed from carrion and rot, entropy and decay.

Not far, a red-faced Jean-Paul shivered, likely benefitting just as much from her gift to Umzokwe.

"Enough?" Gwen implored the giant leech while thinking of Garp and Strun, the latter being commanded to watch the match from the Bunker lest he "leapt in" to defend his Priestess. As much as she wanted to fill Jean-Paul, only her Soul Tapped sycophants could receive the total dose of her benediction. To Soul Tap Jean-Paul as she had done for Gracie, however, was out of the question.

With the sound of a stubborn plunger unsticking from a bathroom bowl, she yanked her arm and hand from Umzokwe's writhing, squirming interior, sending a splatter of semi-clear juices across the Adjudicator's Oxfords.

Jean-Paul wordlessly handed her a towel to mop up the excess while the leech cooed and rubbed up against the sorceress.

The crowd collectively regained the ability to breathe.

Then finally, with a word from the Adjudicator, the man professed that the spectacle was over, simultaneously announced their next bout—that of "Magus Jean-Paul Bekker" against "Lord Benedict Thomas Holland".

Mycroft Ravenport waved away the guests who had approached him, then returned his attention to the match below.

Unlike the bout with the Golem, the fight between Meister Bekker's Apprentice and a member of the Exeter Clan drew the full attention of the VIP section in the upper viewing platform. For the upper crust observers of London, the matchup was an age-old debate between the "Power of the Old Blood" against the "Upstarts of Spellcraft."

Mycroft himself did not subscribe to the prideful contest. However, as one of England's oldest families, he knew well there was a time when Spellcraft was not the universal norm of magic. In the epochs before the Great War, generations of their Ancestors had coasted to victory and triumph through discoveries of blood that boiled with arcane power unique to humanity.

To the spectators in the grandstand, the Exeters represented the preservation of old magic—or at least a facsimile of that which was lost. Theirs was a talent that could seldom be reached by academic discovery. Instead, their power came from distilling the blue blood of nobility as an Alchemist might search for True Gold. Modern Spellcraft, to the Exeters, was not the foundation but bright plumes of feathers that adorned the knights' helm, an essential catalyst, but hardly the base upon which the family had carved out its bloody fortune.

Conversely, Jean-Paul Bekker was the quintessential representative of a Faustian arcanistry taken to its natural conclusion through experimentation. For those familiar with Bekker's published work, Jean-Paul resulted from the Meister's attempt at recreating the raw talent of Elizabeth Sobel, the champion-turned-villainess who made her mark during the Beast Tide. Jean-Paul's powers did not begin with divine intervention, as per the scions of Henry Dawn Star, but in an orphanage of bastards. His was a talent that, like his carrion Familiar, was distilled rapidly from a systematic selection criterion of the survival of the fittest, moulded by the Meister in the manner of a Necromancer Flesh Grafter until he could stand toe-to-toe against the peerage.

The irony did not escape Mycroft Ravenport. Nonetheless, for the spectators, theirs was a contest that differed significantly from the debate of whether NoMs could be given magical arms. What he saw instead was the ideological contest between the old families and the new scholars who vied for supremacy to see who was the advent of the Mageocracy's magically-driven future. A conflict that was now played out in earnest.

"Scald!" Thomas was the first to cast. There was no "Ladies first" against an opponent so visually unappealing.

The crisp, final syllable erupting from between the Steam Mage's lips spontaneously engendered a mass of superheated vapours to flood the transmuted battlefield, framed to resemble the interior of a "catacomb" type Dungeon.

The randomly generated setting held both advantages and disadvantages for the contestants, a fact appreciated by the spectators, who could only grimace as the last bout all but smashed through the terrain with brutal disregard.

On the Hollands' side, Thomas proceeded with care, flooding his surroundings with the Element of his calling, not only obscuring his body but transforming bodily into an incorporeal form.

Opposite, the audience bore witness to Umzokwe's swiftness as it slithered through the gaps of the catacombs to discretely approach the Steam Mage, forcing its slimy body into impossible cracks too small even to fit a hand, much less a monstrous worm with the girth of a draft horse. Likewise, Jean-Paul himself wove together skins of protective sorcery, covering himself from head to toe in a dense membrane.

Would Thomas' Elemental Avatar survive a Void Usurp? Mycroft suspected the rest of the VIPs had just as much anticipation for the encounter, for Jean-Paul's display had another purpose—the demonstration of "stable" Void Magic to the public.

In recent years, even with Cambridge's publications, Void-based Arcanistry still carried the baggage of its misunderstood reputation for self-destruction and instability.

The bad reputation was because, during Sobel's prime, her hound master had kept details of the Void Sorceress on a tight leash, offering little to no elucidation for the academic community. Conversely, thanks to Gwen, dozens of institutions among the three Factions now looked forward to the Second Renaissance of Void Arcanistry, hailing for a dire herald to correct the record.

Momentarily, the two forces met.

Starkly different to the brutal power of the Golem and the glimmering honesty of Faith Magic, both Void and Steam were subtler in their offence. To the stadium's right, Jean-Paul wove into place a miasma of seemingly living Void particles, something of a Morden's Living Shroud, to separate from his body. For the unlearned viewers, the sorcery was something akin to a conjured creature, likely in the form of a Nightshade or a Spectre.

On the other hand, Thomas' steam merely hinted at hiding a creature of sorts, which Mycroft knew to be the Steam Spirit Theranos, an acquisition that had cost the Militant Factions both lives and favours. As one who knew the history of the modern Mageocracy in its entirety, the Duke of Norfolk could only wonder at the cost of such vanity. Both Holland and Bekker were invariably not "self-made" as, say, Gwen or Kilroy had been, and both had spent excessive volumes of resources to develop their wards. If so, could the boys' ascension even be considered a boon to the Mageocracy? Indeed, if the NoM had demonstrated anything, it was that the resources spent making his Centurion Custom a reality was a far cheaper alternative than the blood, time, effort and affront to nature paid to try and re-capture living lightning in a bottle.

A shattering HISS—! Interrupted Mycroft's thoughts. Below, the conjured forces of Void and Steam had found one another.

Jean-Paul's miasma of jet instantly contracted in the form of a living thing, shrieking as Thomas' steam rapidly expanded to envelop and annihilate the amorphous mass of animated ink. Yet, just when it appeared to be overwhelmed, the nebulous Void-form swirled onto a spontaneous vortex. The effect, Mycroft could guess, stemmed from an impressive remote casting of "Usurp", Bekker's Signature Sorcery based upon the infamous Maelstrom utilised by Elizabeth Sobel.

Instantly, the superheated steam was sucked into the swirling black mass, which then rapidly expanded as it made for the rough whereabouts of Benedict Thomas, ignoring the obfuscation of the Mage's body within his sea of steam.

Ravenport observed the others marvelling at the versatility of Void Matter as an element.

Unfazed, the older Exeter twin waited until the mass came closer, congealing itself into a solid force once more in the manner of an Earthen Wyrm, coiling its body to strike—

Then Thomas uttered the final words to the masterful arcanistry of his Clan.

"Force Cage!"

No sooner had the final invocation materialised the magic did a contracting cage of force, perfectly crafted on each side with panes of pure kinetic energy, enclosed the tenebrous blob of Void ink. There was a rebellious thump from within the "Box", then a flash of dull silver as the Abjuring mana of an upper-tier Dismissal manifested.

The crowd cheered. However, Ravenport could see that Jean-Paul Bekker's actual assault had yet to begin. While Thomas busied himself with the remnants of the Void-ooze, the Void Mage was readying himself for a multi-pronged combination assault.

Umzokwe, that horrid leech-creature from the Void, finally slithered into place, then burst from a loosened pile of transmuted stone, making a bee-line for Thomas. Simultaneously, it violently ejaculated a sizzling torrent of what looked like putrefied offal, the stench of which Mycroft could only begin to imagine from its eyeless face.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Infused Blast!" Came an instantaneous riposte from Thomas, wasting not a split-second before the sixth-tier artillery-class sorcery manifested in its "Quickened" form, waylaying the incoming leech with a superheated battering ram of scalding, rapidly expanding vapours.

The sticky ejecta was the first to meet the column, instantly displacing into deadly splatters that sizzled the Walls of Force. The clash appeared surreal, but from what Mycroft knew, there were no less than three spells involved in the "Infused Blast". First, there was a ram of pure force giving the blast its battering prowess. Next, the dispersing ram sent shattered shards of force all over the body of Umzokwe, scoring, blistering and rupturing its skin, thirdly cooking the creature so spontaneously that the stadium collectively winced at the second-hand agony.

Umzokwe landed with a thud, recovering even as liquified flesh slid from its body in sheets. What was more disturbing was that renewed flesh, glistening and unharmed, then instantly regrew as it continued its assault.

The unnatural sturdiness of the supernatural creature, Mycroft could see, was likely a product of the girl's handiwork, something of a boon associated with her Mythic-connection as a Vessel. After Shalkar, there had been significant interest in the girls' latent talents. Were it not for his intervention and those in the Middle Factions who felt indebted to her Master, there would have been no peace for the possessor of such a power. That said, Mycroft did not doubt that like her Master, Gwen was someone whose predilection for morning dips meant they could not help but stir up the reposed mud.

As with the earlier meeting of Elemental and Void, the leech now reached the Avatar-body of Thomas' making.

Knowing what's to come, Mycroft steadied his breath, then counted to three.

BUNG!

On two—there came the discordant clamour of superheated steam filling Umzokwe, who was using its tentacles to envelop the Exeter's scion—what it received instead was a rapid expansion of compressed gasses so violent as to create a visible shockwave.

The Walls of Force shook, taking the brunt of the explosion, instantly misting over as the barrier generators cranked their dynamos to overdrive. For a second, it felt as though the stadium had itself leapt into the air. In the commoner's stands, the NoMs screamed, unused to such displays of power. Conversely, the Mages sighed with appreciation and awe, for the blast continued to expand for several seconds before the resultant pressure escaped into spatial vents connecting back into the Elemental Plane of Air.

In a lesser duel, the pressurised air would have wounded or incapacitated Thomas' opponent. Fortuitous for Gwen, Jean-Paul was no ordinary opponent, nor had his training been less gruesome than the trials of war which House Holland set for its young successors.

When the steam cleared enough for the spectators to see, they saw that Jean-Paul remained standing, clad from head to toe in a shroud of Void Matter so that he resembled a humanoid, bipedal Umzokwe. Had the Creature Mage withdrawn his Familiar? Ravenport wondered with some surprise, or was this another form of magic that Bekker had recently developed for her boy?

He had his answer in the next moment as Jean-Paul failed to manifest a renewed leech but instead leapt into thin air, dematerialising as though a slit through the Prime Material had swallowed him whole.

An Astral Jaunt! Mycroft felt his heart stir for the first time since the battle began.

Unlike Gwen and her peers' Blink or the Dimensional Doors, Astral Jaunt was a wholly different form of transposition. Rather than drawing on existing theory from the School of Conjuration—an Astral Jaunt directly created a spontaneous Pocket Plane around the user, transporting them through their Elemental Plane to appear where the user willed. It was a higher-tier form of Arcanistry that did not leave behind mana signatures or required Divination markers that would give one's position away.

Nearer the other side of the now shattered catacombs, Thomas condensed into enough of a humanoid form to inspect the work he had wrought. To his satisfaction, there wasn't enough of Umzokwe to be found, having been wholly vaporised in the cataclysmic eruption of superheated air and water expanding from the Force Cube he had created to withhold its destructive glory. Thomas' spell was one of the Steam Mage's Signature sorcery—although the arcane construction possessed no official name and was born from mechanical motion created from control and talent. Curiously, Mycroft recalled the rumour that Thomas had conceived of the notion while observing NoM Magi-tech crafters in America, when an Ether Engine exploded, unleashing enough compressed, liquid mana to flatten the garage and make "In-N-Out" of its engineers.

To create the "bomb" that Thomas had used, a Mage in control of Elemental Steam only needed to compress their element into a pin-point form, then use Spatial Conjuration to create a "container" of force to constrain the power. The greater the compression, the more layered the "box", the more destructive power the bomb possessed.

For this reason, though the secret of Thomas' craft was an open one, only a hand of the Exeters specific to the line had managed to reproduce it. For most, the dearth of compatibility and skill meant they could not create a manifestation of sufficient destructive potential.

Whatever his opinions on the Hollands, Mycroft had to admit that the result was an impressive form of controlled chaos, of anarchy in a box unleashed, worthy of a leader in the Mageocracy's new generation. It was also a counter to "Usurp", the Signature Spell of the Void-School of Arcanistry, for the Void Mages' corruption ability would run face-first into the panes of force, which would then trigger the explosion.

Despite his pessimism, Mycroft stifled his anticipation, for he still wished his daughter luck.

Meanwhile, from a slit below and beneath the Steam Mage, Jean-Paul's retaliation emerged from a rent in space-time.

The wonders of Astral Jaunt!
With it, a Mage could remain hidden in his Pocket Dimension of Void, ignoring the chief limitations of barriers and even solid walls or floors, key weaknesses of Dimension Door and Blink!

"USURP!"

Not one, but two rents in the Prime Material materialised, dissipating the Elemental Steam inundating the space around Thomas. Within a split-second, the drained mana field bloated the orbs of tenebrous Void, then—

The next stage of the Usurp spell-line was the release of stolen mana in the form of a nova-type Void blast titled by Bekker as "Implosion".

To counter the effect, Thomas likewise unleashed hell.

The similarities between the ultimate effect of both Thomas and Jean-Paul's spells did not escape Mycroft's amusement. For the majority of the stadium's audience, all they could see was the sudden meeting of twin forces, one dark and one light.

Void and Steam. Two elements of extreme rarity, with Steam only marginally more common than its opponent. Within the protected barrier of the duelling area, the abstract phenomenon of a rapidly expanding force meeting its opposite.

For the average Mage, there were no words to describe the jarring interaction other than a kind of tempest-tossed mutiny, a concurrent clashing of elemental chaos. The sound that engendered from the enclosed space, a chest-thrumming drone, was both the wail of a high-pressure system and the shrieking of air and water rapidly disappearing into the Void.

How could mortal bodies sustain such injury? Survive such an assault? When the steam cleared, the crowd had their answer, and Mycroft had his prediction ascertained.

Jean-Paul was a talented lad who cared little for his safety in completing a task he deemed sacred—but there were barriers that a Mage could not overcome with conviction alone. In that regard, Mycroft felt his daughter did possess rotten luck when it came to the ticket draw.

Perhaps, pitted against Poins, Jean-Paul's subversive sorcery would have had a natural advantage. Facing the overwhelming power of Thomas' boxed Steam Eruptions, however, there wasn't the concentrated mana of Fire, Earth or even Water to steal. Conversely, the naturally nebulous nature of Elemental Steam, especially in the hands of a true maestro, was an effective counter against the corrosive nature of Void.

The clincher, Mycroft had anticipated, was a case of "if" Jean-Paul's creature could survive the bomb and thereby regenerate to harry the Steam Mage while the Void caster fought at a distance. To then close the space and meet Thomas head-on was a move that took immense courage, or masochism, which Jean-Paul possessed in equal measure. In regular combat, no Mage worth their salt would dare to fight a Steam Mage vis-a-vis, considering their all-pervasive Element and its ability to negate hard-point defence and cook one's opponents alive.

Now, Meister Bekker's ward lay on the floor, oozing viscous globs of Void from blurry burn-wounds that would require an upper-tier Regeneration. Amazingly, the man was still conscious, a true testament to his ability to withstand agony.

Above the panting young man, Thomas was forced out of his Steam Avatar and floated a safe distance away from his opponent, with bits of his armour becoming corroded as he too tried to control his uneven breathing.

All around the two, the transmuted landscape had nearly disappeared. In a real catacomb, both would have likely perished from the imminent collapse of the passageway.

The close encounter of the deadly kind, Mycroft wagered, had possessed more intimacy than Benedict Thomas predicted. To underestimate Jean-Paul, whose deeds had been overshadowed by Gwen's achievements in the IIUC and elsewhere like Shalkar, was a mistake the boy would not make again. In hindsight, Mycroft wondered if the Void Mage had intended Umzowke to be a sacrificial lamb so that the Steam Mage would let down his guard and allow the Void Mage to get closer. If Mycroft himself had entered the battle with perfect knowledge, he too would have needed the means to offset Thomas' advantage, forcing an encounter so that, at the very least, there was a possibility of victory.

Incredibly, Jean-Paul forced himself to stand.

The stadium collectively winced, then inhaled agonised breaths as sheets of what appeared to be skin mixed with magical matter slid from Jean-Paul's body.

The resilience of a Void Mage! That vitality! The irony wasn't beyond Mycroft's understanding, but still, he felt impressed by the fact that Bekker's ward was not only alive but fully functioning.

"Finish me," the crow on his shoulder reported back as Jean-Paul's saying. "Or we continue."

All the while, the boy was regenerating with the likeness of a Mud Element Salamander. Visibly, the wet flesh hardened, the jelly-like flesh congealed, then little by little, mobility returned to the man's body. At this display, the other nobles and Magisters around Mycroft expressed their approval. Usually, the flesh was weak, and the mind was strong, and that itself was praiseworthy. Now, the Void Mage had shown that both his flesh and mind possessed enough elasticity to survive this and a more significant crisis. Whatever Bekker had achieved, even if her creation did not reach the level of Sobel's tier of destruction, she had nonetheless created something to rival the Noble Houses.

Even if Jean-Paul could not best the Holland's scion today, the nobles present would be reminded that the Void Mage had been picked from a runt's litter. Unlike the Hollands' Golden Blood, he was an urchin survivor, a bastard of no origin and history. Therefore, if enough energy and time were spent scouring the masses for men and women like Jean-Paul, and if Bekker could capture that lightning with a bit of aid from Henry's hellion, then there should be good reasons for new funding among the Meisters' circles.

But there was another caveat as well.
Jean-Paul wasn't the only Void Mage.
He wasn't even the best Void Mage, for all knew that the greatest was behind.

"Jean-Paul, return!"

As Mycroft had anticipated, the girl did not abide by Jean-Paul's sacrifice. Continuing would result in a tie—something Jean-Paul had likely counted on by betting his life, for his maiming would directly provoke Meister Bekker, a figure of considerable influence in the Militant Faction. In that regard, the Void Mage's misfortune was that their Captain was a creature prone to soft-hearted empathy and compassion.

"No, I can keep fighting."

"I wasn't asking, JP. Get the hell back here, now."

Mycroft felt an upwelling of disapproval in his chest.
A compassion that inspired loyalty was an admirable quality in a leader but arguably limited when one aspired to be a Tower Master. As history foretold, those who survived the trials of serving a Tower Master would not look upon their leader with awe but with a gnawing sense of jealousy and loathing. If all had paid the price in blood to erect the Master's Tower, then why should one woman stand at the apex, possessing all—when themselves were left only with the dregs?

Shalkar, it seemed, was perhaps kinder than Mycroft had anticipated. Like a good Spellsword, the girl needed further tempering to cleanse her pretty head of the remaining impurities.

Didn't Singapore say they had trouble with an emerging Mermen tribe that collected SPAM cans with Gwen's likeness? Mycroft could only marvel at what comedy of errors could engender such an occurrence, but the Malaysian archipelago could teach a good lesson in necessity. There were other fires elsewhere as well that could do with a touch of Shalkar. The Adriatic Sea, for instance, had reported a resurgence of Mermen raids from the Seven Kingdoms, an occurrence echoed by reports from the Aegean. If history could be trusted as a marker, all of it pointed to the eventual resurgence of a Mermen Beast Tide: one that, with careful pruning and management, could be delayed for decades or absolved entirely through stirring up civil conflicts in the deep sea.

Then there was the matter with the Dwarves and the Elemental Sea—though he would prefer to keep the girl out of the Murk for a time.

While Mycroft pondered plans for the girl, the Adjudicator below announced the match in Thomas' favour, then bid the contestants return to their corners. Despite a grilling from Gwen, Jean-Paul refused to yield to the infirmary and chose to stay as a wrapped mummy on the sidelines. Once more, with her characteristic indecision, the girl relented to the guilt trip.

On the Hollands' side, Benedict Thomas retreated to his corner to be stripped of his damaged armour for a new suit, all the while replenishing his reserves by taking the maximum allowance of mana potions in-between matches.

Charlene glanced for the umpteenth time toward the grandstand, then approached the girl, at which point the two conspired for their final chance at victory. Through the eyes of Mori, Mycroft listened to their conversation.

"What do you think? Can you handle Thomas?" Charlene was asking the girl.

"He's tired, and he's shown his trump card, so yes." The girl nodded with confidence. "Jean-Paul's done a good job."

"He's done no less than Sir Rothwell," Charlene agreed. "What's your approach?"

"I've got a plan to play it safe and wear him down," the girl said. "Whatever he's doing uses an enormous amount of mana, while I've got Conjuration for days. Besides, I am not sure how Caliban or Ariel will take that bomb blast. I am sure Golos could tank it, but it isn't as though I could ask for an hour or two to draw the Mandala."

"Nor would London appreciate the sudden appearance of the Scion of the Yinglong." Charlene's mood, it seemed to Mycroft, was more relaxed than he had anticipated, likely because of her confidence in Gwen, which Mycroft shared. For one, he knew for a fact that the Militants had not received the complete and unabridged report from Shalkar, for he was the one who had withheld details such as her relation to Tryfan and the full extent of her connection to Mythic beings like the "Snake" and the Yinglong, or her curios acquisition of "Faith".

"So." The girl stretched her gauntlet-covered fingers, flexing the wonderous crowskin that made even Mycroft desirous. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Indeed, Mycroft mused as the girl signalled the Adjudicator to open the next match, giddy for the interesting times ahead for the Exeters of House Holland.