London.
The Isle of Dogs.

Richard Huang, General Manager under Executive Officer Eric Walken, carefully studied the city's reporters as they piled toward Millwall's old dock, one of the few industrial structures that survived Gwen's remodelling for its utility in unloading construction materials.

How like a gaggle of geese they seemed, Richard observed from behind his ensorceled spectacles, watching the men's and womens' anxious faces while around them, the hazy smog of spring lingered, clinging to the last vestiges of an unusually long winter.

"Mister Huang. Miss Kuznetsova." A few of the journalists greeted him as he and Petra took their place near the front.

Compared to the reporters from the Sun and the Telegraph, the folks from the METRO could make an appointment with their boss sorceress back at the Bunker, and so they stood about smoking and joking, huddling for warmth and coffee.

"There they are!" someone called out from the left, an NoM dockhand who, like the hundreds of others, wanted to be the first to witness the Devourer of Shenyang's return, as well as the rumoured Rat-kin that accompanied her.

For the working NoMs of the city who were free from the intrigue and politics of sorcery, such a sighting would provide for many a conversation after dinner with the family and with their mates, told and retold with more fabulous embellishment each time until "Strun" was a nine-foot-tall demon rat with horns, holding a staff with a screaming bell, leaking emerald Void Essence as he befouled London's holy ground with his vermin-phage.

"Lea, let me borrow your eyes." Richard tapped into the Empathic Link between himself and his Undine, channelling the Spirit's vision as she floated above the Thames' placid channel. If indeed this Strun was as monstrous as the reports suggested, then he would have words with Gwen about picking up more strays on her adventures. In Shanghai, Lulu had thankfully turned out for the best, but Richard had always suspected Lulan's transformation was a product of serendipity over choice. Later, when they picked up Golos out of the blue, Richard had felt equally impressed as he was alarmed, for the creature's prowess came with the enormous baggage of a Mythic bloodline, one toward which Gwen favoured turning a blind eye. Even if her uncle Jun was ploughing Ayxin's fields like Garp in Shalkar, until the unlikely event of a harvest, there was no guarantee that the Yinglong was on the same team as her family— or China— or Humanity for that matter.

While he organised his thoughts, Lea obliged his request. Momentarily, Richard's eyes became covered by a cataract-like pane as his Greater Empathic Link took over his senses.

"I'll never get used to that." Petra, tall and regal in her officious pants suit, remarked beside him. As agents of the LoDRP, they were Gwen's second and Walken's immediate subordinates; and whether because of trust, talent or nepotism, it was only natural that they were the ones to greet their returning CEO. "Didn't your Lecturer warn you to use Possession sparingly? It'll screw with your head if you're not careful."

Richard laughed, his voice hollow and unreal. "Lea knows her boundaries, as do I. Ah— I see them now. Gwen's looking presentable as always, dressed for business. I see Elvia and Mathias— a little more coffee-coloured than when they left— and there's the rat."

"Is it as monstrous as the papers say?" Petra also appeared anxious; despite seeing the images, they all knew Strun was no ordinary "Rat-kin".

"Nothing like what those paper pushers are selling." Richard chuckled. "No, it's a noble specimen if you ask my opinion. Ah, she's stroking its head— typical. And it looks like it's enjoying it."

He was not surprised because Gwen stroked everything from Caliban to Golos to Evee, a Knight Companion of the Bath.

Petra shook her head. "We still haven't figured out how that damned menace of a duck fits into all of this, and she's picked up another one?"

"It's ugly—" Richard spoke again, this time in the tone used by Lea. "Ariel's cuter. It's only marginally better than Cali."

Petra shivered. Visibly, the Mind Mage's skin broke out in goosebumps. "Christ, Lea—"

"Lea, don't speak through me." Richard's voice returned to his own. Aware of just how creepy it was for Lea's sweet, seductive voice to emerge from his lips. "A pet it might be, but it's Soul-linked to the Afaa al-Halak. Presumably, it's near un-killable with conventional means. The report said it could perform Demi-human sorcery within the Conjuration and Transmutation domain. Shadow Teleport coupled with innate Haste— Don't you think that's interesting? Besides, we both read up on Soul Tap. Suffice to say, we can trust the rat to have Gwen's best interests at heart."

"Yes, I supposed Strun could be worth befriending and studying." Petra puckered her unconsciously pouty lips, then signed. "On another note, I hope Gwen can put an end to the fiasco with the Barlow Group. It's taking far too much time from my research with Master Vildrenbrandt. The Dwarven Runesmiths are around, but the Greybeards can't stay away from the Citadel for long, especially with what Gwen found in Shalkar."

"The Pale Priestess Giveth, and the Pale Priestess Taketh." Richard stole a line from the scriptures he'd been taught since his formative years at Prince's. "Can you blame her for introducing you to the opportunity? Even if Yossari has to return, what's not to say you could visit the Citadel next time as a Cambridge scholar? Didn't you hear that even Dwarves from central Europe went to see her in Shalkar? All she has to do is ask. In Germany, the Ancestral Forge is supposed to rival the one in Deepholm in size, if not history."

Petra nodded, appearing more considerate of the mess their cousin had left them. "I suppose when the Dyar Morkk is reconstructed, there'll be new opportunities for contact with our allies in the Murk."

"Assuming we don't dredge up what the Dwarves are fighting and regret ever digging past the earth's crust." Richard laughed, then turned once more to the arriving barge, willing Lea to float closer. On the forefront of the barge, their oblivious cousin appeared in deep thought, unaware that he and Petra had shouldered the work she had abandoned at the Isle of Dogs with unorthodox methodologies.

For a man who fancied himself as the Majordomo of Gwen's future Tower, his work in matching wits with the Barlow Group was good practice for prodding the elasticity of Gwen's sphere of influence. As for the exercise of his talents, there had been many opportunities of late, as their opposition consisted of ex-Military Mages now living on civilian paychecks while lacking civilian understanding of Londons' innate rules.

After he had put a stern word to the first few instances of Barlow Mages coercing the locals into cheap sales or forcing them to "hold out" against the LoDRP's land acquisitions for expansion, the Barlow's "employees" actually approached him in person. As a civilised magic wielder, Richard recalled feeling floored by the audacity of the act. He knew from his father, a slum lord in Sydney, that there were dark dealings in real estate and that money made men lose their minds. Still, for him— a Cambridge Magister candidate, one promoted to King's College by Lord Mycroft Ravenport to receive a "personal visitation" was nothing short of astounding.

Naturally, he persuaded the men to leave in the friendliest, most bedraggled terms.

Ever since their initial discovery of Barlow's thugs harassing Mister Dobson of his dubious sausages fame, matters had escalated to a degree even Richard had not anticipated.

With Gwen gone, he one night found three men waiting for him just outside Millwall, where Gwen's leased domain under the Marchioness of Ely ended and the privatised land bought by the Barlow Group began. He approached them, an innocent pedestrian following his weekly routine to return to Cambridge via the Shard's underground Teleportation Circle, a simple man enjoying a simple stroll along the Thames.

"There's the villain," one of them said. "The torturer."
"The fiend!" Another had the gall to badmouth Richard as they moved into formation to cover his escape routes.
"How the tables have turned! Bastard."

Richard had no idea what they were talking about, for all he had done was encourage the ex-service members to confess their sins in front of a Lumen-recorder of their own volition. Richard did not see himself as possessing the kindness of his cousin, but in his opinion, his lawful treatment of these unlawful folk was kindness in itself. Against some other Mage, say Lulan— there's no regenerating limbs from mince.

"Hope you enjoyed making Joyce suffer, scum— now it's your turn." The men, Richard recalled, were very talkative.

He recalled putting up both hands in protest because he wasn't a man of senseless violence. Joyce might have pissed herself, but no harm came to her in the end, and the lass left with all her limbs and her health.

"Gentlemen, before you protest— You do realise this is Greater London—" Richard was kind enough to offer a warning. "And that I am a member of Cambridge, while you fellows—"

He readied a spell as he feigned panic. In all likelihood, the men were not on any official employment rosters. Men who performed the rough deeds at the behest of more competent men in darker suits seldom had monthly salaries deposed into the Bank of England.

"— are Rogue Mages, drowned men walking."

Then he gave the men his most convincing, brightest smile, something Gwen would do if she were in his shoes.

The men— one Conjurer, an Evoker and an Illusionist, were not happy. They attacked, evidently trained in pack tactics, meaning the Conjurer immediately attempted to ensnare Richard with Chains of Ice. At the same time, the Evoker unleashed a volley of meta-magically enhanced Aerial Missiles to disable his limbs. The true killer was the Illusionist, who stuck him immediately with what looked like a Nauseating Visage to prevent Richard from conjuring his Spirit.

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

They were trying to take him alive— which to Richard was as stupid as skinny dipping in a lake with an Undine.
Why hadn't the men ambushed him without a word? Richard could guess at the psychology at play. The thing with these ex-Frontier soldiers, he self-remarked, was a particular emphasis on thuggery. Perhaps they were used to being better equipped, organised and planned than their foes, or mayhap they still thought they were dealing with a belligerent civilian— but didn't these men have superior officers to guide them? At the very least, they should research his magic. For a year now, Richard had spent no small amount of effort marketing them to the university, particularly to the Senior Chair in Conjuration at King's, who then took on a personal interest in developing Richard's skills as a Spirit Mage.

Therefore, unfortunate for the men with nefarious intentions, their victim's body had shuddered as if struck, then turned to water.

Naturally, the men froze in their tracks.

Elemental Avatar was upper-tier sorcery from the School of Transmutation. On paper, Richard was a dedicated Spirit Conjurer with a dash of Abjuration. Perhaps that was why the thugs had been so confident in carrying out their attack, knowing that Creature Mages were weak on their own if their Spirits were yet to manifest.

What they didn't know was that Richard's Affinity had reached such a state of efficiency that, combined with the rare supplementary items he'd acquired through Mia's trade channels, he could keep the Undine manifested at all times, so long as he wasn't OoM or unconscious. That and his Affinity uniquely offered access to Elemental abilities specific to his Undine.

Thereby, in a desert, Richard might have had some trouble with the thug trio, having to resort to fleeing from their assaults before he could find justified ways to squeeze out information from their lungs like water from a sieve.

Unluckily for the thugs, Richard wasn't one to bank on luck— but the bank of the River Thames. And when beside a body of limitless water not already infested with Elemental beings, there was very little an Undine and a Spirit Conjurer with Affinity above the eighth tier could not do.

Once freed, Richard firstly hailed for help using a panic device for the Shard's VIPs, one that both provided his location to the Tower and the Municipal Police, while simultaneously alerting the Bunker of his whereabouts. It was a part of his thrifted loot from looking after the Dwarven delegation at Westferry, one in which he had put in two extra orders, one for himself and the other for Petra. He chose not to thrift one for Gwen, as anyone foolish enough to waylay a sixth tier War Mage of the Void Element could only hope that enough of their body was left for identification.

The siren compounded his foes' confusion, catching them flat-footed in a moment of paralytic indecision between fleeing for cover and continuing their assault— leaving enough time for Richard to pump his liquid mana into Lea, instantly elevating the placid Undine into the fury of a suddenly-appearing summer squall.

Reflexively, the Conjurer Dimension Doored away.
The Evoker raised a Fire Shield that was instantly extinguished.
And the Illusionist enacted an Expeditious Retreat while leaving behind several well-made Mirror Images to confuse Lea.

Richard allowed the men time to reconsider their strategy as they scanned the area for his whereabouts. Little did the men know that he was now imbued with Lea's Elemental Dispersion and that without a large scale Evocation from a Fire-based Element scorching a whole block of the city, he could not be ferreted forth. It was all a part of the stratagem he had set up before taking on the Barlow Group— and if indeed he could bait them into burning a block of NoMs to root out a ratty Water Mage, then he was more than happy to send a recording of "Spectre" working for the Barlow Group to the Shard, or Dominic Lorenzo.

While the men cursed and grumbled, Richard had bid his time by thinking about what was still left at the King's cafeteria at this time of the night. More than likely, the Salisbury steak was gone, but he was on good terms with the maids and so could coax up a plate of SPAM-stuffed toasties if need be.

After a few indecisive seconds, the men had made the wiser choice of a withdrawal, knowing that Arbitor Mages should be Teleporting into the area. In a way, Richard could guess why the Barlow Group chose to strike now, for Magister Walken had worked out a reduced rental deal in one of Gwen's new skyscrapers for lease to the Greater London Metropolitan Police. It was offered at a loss— but Gwen was more than happy to get on the side of the City Guard if it meant their uniformed presence could sit on the Barlow Group like an anvil on the canvas of their villainy.

Besides, Walken had reasoned that there was nothing quite like having a secondary Police Headquarters in the local vicinity to encourage the remaining NoMs to sell their leaseholds and move to greener pastures. Though the adage went that the innocent had nothing to hide, there was something naturally oppressive about jackbooted Mages with Wand slung by their thighs that made even the most obedient NoM sweat like oven-roasted capsicums.

Just as the last man rounded the corner, Richard had struck. Within a split second, the air around the man grew impossibly thick with moisture, catching the Conjurer off guard. Before his friends could help and the man could erect his Mage Shield, a Water Tomb enveloped the ex-serviceman and dragged him a dozen feet backwards.

At the same time, a frazzle of silvery light on the other side of the docks indicated the arrival of Richard's "rescuers," meaning the Mages could do little more than continue to flee.

Richard applauded their quick decision. For now, the goons' nightmare was over. Later, they would envy the fate of their happily arrested companion, for Lea had marked the men for a late-night visitation.

When the Officers had arrived with their Wands drawn, they found Richard waving at them all friendly-like. Once he introduced himself as one of the executives of the LoDRP, he explained that he was walking home when "One" vagabond attacked him for his HDMs and Storage Ring. Though caught by surprise, he was undaunted by the ambush, which led to their present meeting.

To the attentive officers, Richard voiced his fears that his assailant would unduly escalate to harm civilians in their attempt at daylight robbery; ergo, he had to entomb the villain for the safety of the NoMs in the area.

Richard refused their apology and commended the Officers on their prompt arrival, informing them that their Commissioner of the Arbitrators, Magister Hollyhock, was his alumni. And that he would be delighted to read about their exemplary work in the METRO newspaper.

The Officers thanked Richard, then took the speechless man away, sparing the Conjurer a lengthy date with the beautiful Lea.

An hour later, he and Petra had paid one of the men a visit in their homes. As for which one— Richard flipped a coin, a charity that surprised even himself.

In the man's run-down apartment, however, Richard felt astounded by the audacity of the bloke's arrogance, for the men dared to work as mercenaries for the Barlow Group and still had the gall to return home after such a blunder. Was the Militant Faction that unaware of its position? Richard wondered. Or were these simply expendable bodies? Over the months, Lorenzo's stories had reported more often than not on the dire straits of the Militant Faction, which was why the Barlow Group was so desperate for quick money— but for their recruitment to be so lax and unselective? They must genuinely be short on HDMs.

Thankfully, Petra had a quick chat with the man in a way that only a Mind Mage with her unearthly allure could achieve— via veiled threats delivered with great diplomacy. If it were up to Richard, a simple Water Tomb, a loved one, and a kitchen timer would conclude matters in a manner of minutes.

Once they received their confessions of who had given the order, for what purpose and at who's behest, the pair left the man's family some HDMs to leave the city until it was safe, then Richard made his way to Cambridge and Petra to the Bunker to report to Walken.

The encounter was only one of the many incidents that occurred while his cousin was gone, but watching Gwennie's pale face drifting into view, the incident stood out to Richard as a cute conversation he would share with Gwen— once he edited a few bothersome details.

In any case, their portfolio against the Barlow Group had grown significantly as the bidding war escalated from frowns to sneers to public shouting matches and finally to underhanded thuggery. Now that his cousin had returned, the other side would likely intensify their pressure. Their boss, Walken, wanted to put down their foot and close the chapter as soon as possible, even while the novel chugged on.

Therefore, with a heart full of anticipation, Richard Huang, Magus of Prince's College, looked toward the barge as it parted the misty morning. He enjoyed working for his cousin. He had always said that he would repay Gwen for all she had done, only that his achievements so far were merely interest and not principle.

"CAW!"

With Lea's vantage, he was the first to see and hear the incoming flock.

"CAW— CAW— CAW—!"

A murder of crows, over a hundred in number, was roving toward them like the glove of some unseen hand. Among them was a splendid drake— a Mandarin Duck the size of a mini-sedan, sailing through the air with the arrogance of a miniature Golos.

"Christ!" Richard swore in surprise while Lea cooed with delight. How is Dede not being shot down by the Griffin Knights patrolling London's airspace? Dede was a harmless jester, but who in London would know that this duck who could peck through sheet metal and lift a hundred kilos of loot from the fish market was harmless?

The crows?

Richard suspected the crows. If Gwen's information was correct, these weren't the naturally occurring urbanite avians of the metropolis, but sorcery-tainted, Spirit-linked eyes from the Tower of London. Assuming Dede had managed to befriend such a flock, it was then reasonable to think that a line of communication to the Guards of the Royal Griffin Stables at least existed.

"CAW— CAW— CAW—!"

"Look there!" Someone in the reports' pit shouted, amazed by the sight of the approaching murder.

"They're not coming here— are they?" Someone trembled, making Richard wonder if he had something to hide. "Why are the Tower's eyes coming here?"

On cue, the birds turned toward them.

"CAW— CAW—!"
"QUACK!"

When the murder reached the space overhead, they swerved around the invisible body of Lea, leaving no doubt that these weren't your everyday birds but ones imbued with the means to read the flow of mana and sense the invisible.

Below, the concussed and confused dockhands aided the barge's arrival, tossing ropes and catching lanyards.

Gwen was the first to descend, appearing with a constipated expression of dismay at the enormous duck's illicit appearance in London. All around the sorceress, the crows began to swarm overhead, creating the spectacle of a giant, black funnel.

"CAW— CAW— CAW—!"

The ear-splitting sound of the crows' cawing was like Petra casting a dozen Mind Spikes at once, making those weak to the noise cower while others covered their ears, grimacing and wincing and swearing under their breath.

Still, the crows came, relentless in the bell beat of their fluttering wings. As they passed overhead like a thundercloud, Richard could see that these birds were enormous, each possessing wing-spans more akin to that of sea eagles. Round and round, they flew above his cousin, who appeared resigned to her fate as the press took their Lumen-recordings, a sorceress with a rat, standing on the lip of a cargo barge while a hundred crows aligned around her, alighting on every pole and canopy.

"QUACK!" The duck landed with a metallic thud, thuggishly waddling toward her until it stood beside the rat.

The rat, naturally sensing that the duck was its senior, stepped back.

Nodding, the duck struck out its head to be stroked.

Without words and still stunned by the crows, Gwen obliged.

"CAW— CAW— CAW—!"

"CAW— CAW— CAW—!"

"CAW— CAW— CAW—!"

Richard ordered the Undine to mute the clamour as the inner dock of Millwall once more filled with the sound of crows and their crude, cruel laughter gleefully cramming every cranny and crevice.

His cousin really did have a knack for making an entry. In fact, he could already see tomorrow's headline—

"Kennel Mistress of the Dog Returns, Crows forwarn of Calamities to Come!"


London.
The Isle of Dogs.

Adjacent to the thrumming warehouse housing the multi-storey print-engine of West Ferry, a visiting Mage or a labourer seeking work would find the infamous and imposing visage of "The Bunker", a multi-tier building with six "meagre" storeys above the Thame's waterline.

Constructed by the Dwarves via the secretive means of their runic Fabricator Engine, The Bunker served as home to the IoDRP's headquarters. From the entryway, one entered through its obsidian-glass foyer into a large, hundredth-scale display of the Isle of Dogs, constructed in minute detail and updated weekly to reflect the changes brought by the corporation to the ex-industrial region.

Past the imposing frontal facade, the visitor was then imposed upon by the polished concrete ceiling meeting the reflective dark marble, cascading as a static waterfall. Further in, within aesthetic, art deco alcoves nested the Levitation Platforms, each with their irrespective tubes delving some ten storeys deep, descending into the shell and chalk stratum of London's underground until it struck the igneous bedrock.

Currently, of the sixteen tiers of office space, only seven levels were in active use. The foyer with the model and open room mimicking the Dwarven Guild Hall was one, while underground levels four and five were slated for Gwen's small army of accountants. The sixth and seventh underground tiers initially had been empty. At Gwen's behest, however, she had remodelled the linked-stratum to have artificial sunlight, plants and a mock-nature scape, creating a break room for her employees. She had conceived of the notion after observing Ruxin's indentured servants, such as those from Tonglv who had wronged her in Shanghai, looking like they may prefer oblivion— albeit not without Ruxin's release. Once the sceptical Dwarves completed the section, both they and the Bunker's employees found respite from their endless labour under their ever-burgeoning workload, opening Magister Walken's mind to whole new levels of micromanagement, such as controlling how employees spent their leisure time to increase productivity.

Of the upper storeys, the tallest section overlooking the docks served as a boardroom for general meetings. Expectantly, its floor to ceiling glass canopy offered an unobstructed view of Mudchute Farm to the left and Surry Quay to the right. The vista wasn't a million HDMs, considering the scattered semi-urban industrial landscape, but the water view gave the observer a soothing sense of unobstructed space nonetheless.

When asked if this was the foundation of her Tower by Yossari, Gwen replied that there was no way a second Tower could exist in London, considering that she had to compete with the original "Tower of London" and now on top of it, the "Shard".

If and when she came into a personal floating, phallic-shaped fount of sorcery, it would likely be somewhere akin to Shalkar. In that instance, her first task would be to bring together the scattered communities of Humanity there to establish a foothold. In her Cambridge history classes, she had been informed that the first Towers, conceived none other by Magister Henry Kilroy before the Beast Tide, were built for that specific purpose. The fruition of Kilroy's plan had been a lucky break for Humanity.

Through the use of its strategic-class Planar Suppression and ley-line tapping Tower Cores, regions overrun by Elementals and Monsters were quickly quelled, and Humanity's major population centres preserved.

The notion of "Zones" was then established and written into Spellcraft and geopolitical canon. And in this way, the world had come together to salvage what remained of man's civilisation from the brink of oblivion and even prosper.

Meanwhile, the Wildlands continued to be bastions of unpredictable danger. Outside a Tower's domain, safety was merely a question of divinable risk. Even Green Zones like the Royal National back in Sydney could turn, as Almudj had demonstrated, from a verdant source of HDMs and produce into a cataclysmic battlefield in a matter of days, assuming that a monster of sufficient tier and power could slip through the Shielding Stations.

Ergo, the easiest and riskiest way for anyone to become a Tower Master was to strike out and mark one's territory, sanctioned by their state and other stakeholders. Likewise, to encourage adventure over complacency, a "future Master" with sufficient clout and sorcery was expected to leave their Tower, as a young Dragon might the home of their Patriarch, unless they were the heir apparent, as Gunther was to Henry. Instead, they would strike out to pacify the region, then appeal to the Mageocracy or whoever was their governing body to erect a Tower and serve as its Master— usually until they were dead or replaced.

Such was the Mageocracy's way— and also a core reason why Walken had preferred schemes over actually founding a Tower of his own.

When Gwen had reasonably asked about the Americans and how they went about their Tower building, her Empire-minded tutors had scoffed at the Capitalists and their notion of Manifest Destiny. They had explained that the "Wildland West" was excess, constrained anarchy, and unfettered capitalism transmuted into a nation of self-aggrandising entrepreneurs. Gwen took the hostility to mean that her tutors disapproved of the United States until one of them intimated that there were yearly expeditions of London's triumvirate college Magisters been lured overseas with the promise of power and position— only to face the reality that the USA was a place where one was "free" to succeed or fail.

"A nation of individuals," one of Cambridge Magisters had duly informed her. "Take that however you will, but it's certainly not a Commonwealth for 'common' wealth."

Gwen felt she understood the lesson better than her peers. London was a society built on the tried and true step ladder of classism called the Chain of Being. It was why the British Mageocracy found their cross-continental cousins' buccaneering attitude bewildering and yet strangely thrilling. In London, there wasn't anyone who acted like the industrial magnates in the States, not even the Queen, whose position was derived from the Church and was in service to the Crown, its people, and Noblesse Oblige.

In the Commonwealth, men like Jonathan Gilt of the Ether Engine or Henry Ford of the assembly line did not become living mythoi but bookends with individual annotations in the appendices of history. In England, not even Gwen's Master, the preserver of Humanity, had wielded a perverse amount of political influence. In the USA, however, such men transcended mortality to become living embodiments of human potential, inspiring countless others to create like-minded empires where the greatest profit for the greatest many was the greatest virtue in a nation where the free market was democracy distilled and the quintessence of personal freedom.

For this reason, Gwen greatly desired to visit the continent, mindful that she had promised to take Tao when the opportunity next came about. For now, she had to secure her bases and establish the foundations of her empire. Therefore, with smiles and an air of triumph, she came into the top-level boardroom with her Rat-kin in tow to greet her staff and board members, most of whom were new faces recruited by Walken over the last year.

"Ma'am—"
"Miss Song—"
"Madam—"

A chorus of greetings passed from every door and corridor as she strode by, inflating her ego and each praise stroking the Lightning Element inside her Astral Body, setting it to purr like a tickled Tom.

In the open boardroom, Walken awaited her from the head of the long, oval table, on which Gwen could see scattered newspapers with headlines from her arrival a day ago. After feeding the birds with her body, she had felt compelled by Dede to take a quick jaunt with Richard back to Cambridge to speak to and report her findings to the Marchioness of Ely. At Peterhouse, Maxine had received her gift of the Khan's Golden Scroll Case with the greatest joy, kissed her on the forehead, then thanked her for her service not only to the Mageocracy but to Humanity itself.

"Gwen, you are Henry's Apprentice. There is no doubt!"

The matchless praise was one which Gwen had not at all expected, and it had set her face aflame until she had to introduce Strun to her Boss, and then Brown and Gracie, who came to greet her as soon as news of her arrival reached the college.

Gracie and Strun appeared to instantly bond with a friendliness that bellied their differences in gender, language, culture and species, which Gwen suspected had something to do with the fact that both were Soul-linked to her Astral Body and thus, connected by a compulsive spiritual resonance.

After a long supper regaling her tale and asking Strun to speak of his people to a wide-eyed crowd at Hall, the rat received a suite beside Gwen's private abode for the night. Later, Petra and Richard had joined her for an extended late-night conversation. In detail, she had told them of her suspicions surrounding the Dyar Morkk and the wonders wrought by Tryfan and as a result of Sanari's Druidic crafts. Petra especially demonstrated a hunger for the knowledge of the Elves that lit up her pale-crystal irises like a cat's in the dark, with Gwen laughing and promising that the next time an opportunity arose, she would invite her cousin to share in the bounty. Richard then regaled her with an unusually morbid "funny story" about his investigations into West Ferry's competition with Canary Wharf. The punchline was proof of the goons hired by the Barlow Group, backed by the Militant Faction and antagonists like the Exeters. As for the method of Richard's discovery, though Gwen could see that her cousin was in the right, Dick's casual cruelty continued to make her skin crawl. Even his reassurances like "No worries, there was no harm done, and everyone walked away in one piece" didn't stop her from having a rash of goosebumps.

In the morning, after signing paperwork and pre-filled forms written by Petra to report the success of her Magisterial expedition to the Steppes, she had left the rest of the bureaucracy to Magister Brown, then returned with haste to the Isle of Dogs.

"Welcome back, Calamity." In the Bunker's conference room, Walken's face was full of fatherly warmth.

The Magister and sorceress embraced, offering courtesy kisses to one another's cheeks.

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"Boss." Lorenzo shook her hand.

Gwen hugged the man anyway. "Thanks for the article."

"It's my pleasure to expose your corrupt self," Lorenzo smirked. "Did it have the intended effect?"

"We won't know until trouble comes calling." Gwen smiled sheepishly. For the sake of the METRO's reputation, she had asked Lorenzo to do a few hit pieces on their owner and founder, doubly serving as an ironic humblebrag to bolster Shalkar's reputation.

With the amount of staff now involved in the upper management, the handshakes took some time. Afterwards, Gwen urged Strun to repeat the performance of his Desert Epic at Shalkar, this time for the starry-eyed crowd at the office. When finally all curiosities were satisfied, she laid out the new work arranging an import and export division for Shalkar for her fresh-faced managers. Without pause, all of them promised that Strun's people would never starve again.

Then, finally, it was time to settled down and discuss the "Executive" business at hand.

With a sweeping gesture from Walken, the rest of the staff was politely cleared out, Strun included, leaving only Gwen, Walken, Lorenzo, Richard and Petra. In the future, Gwen wondered, would Mayuree, Marong, and perhaps Ruxin also join them in the chamber?

Walken, who had by now mastered his version of her patented "PowerPoint" Illusion sorcery, hand-waved the room into darkness.

"Right, let's not beat around the bush." The Magister conjured into being a pyramid of cascading headshots, together with a map of their holdings. "I do believe the time has come to call in your favours, Gwen. We're ready to push for Canary Wharf."

"The acquisition of south dock is completed?" Gwen glanced at the vista outside, though it was the wrong side of the docklands. In her memory, acquisition and discovery of the Isle had run into a brick wall. "I thought it would take until June."

"The timetable is no longer certain, despite our best efforts," Walken conjured up details of the development proposals. "As you can see, we need South Dock and the old Warehouse District to connect the Pinnacle building between Canary and Millwall and to provide underground access within walking distance to the Marsh Wall Underground. The alternative is to build the Pinnacle where we've already submitted plans for the Millennium Harbour. We can use the land south of the dock as well, but as you know— we've promised the City of London that we would not impede onto Sir Magister McDougall's Memorial Park. To move the monument would cost us goodwill and a great deal of political capital. Richard can tell you more."

"Dick?" Gwen looked to her cousin.

"The Barlow Group has succeeded in acquiring the suites here— here— and here— and more." Richard nodded at the Magister, turning several annoyingly disjointed blocks scarlet. "Unlike the others, these were sealed and delivered, all legal and willing sales with no undercuts."

"How?" Gwen furrowed her brows. "Did we not offer enough money?"

"Not everyone's eyes turn green when it comes to profit." Walken snorted at her remark. "These owners supported the Militants. That's not so surprising, is it?"

"That IS surprising, actually." Gwen signed. "I maintain that we didn't offer enough. Everyone has a limit. Now it's going to cost us more."

The others pondered her train of thought in silence.

"I see. Nonetheless," Walken said. "The Barlow Group now refuses to sell said suites. They'll BUY our share, though— even above the market value. Presumably, they're trying to starve us out of Canary Wharf, but their management does not know our finances as well as we know their backers, so there's that. Either way, the status quo is that we're at a standstill."

"Buy our land? They're dreaming." Gwen puckered her lips in annoyance. Before Shalkar could turn a profit, a significant amount of HDMs had to be invested and passed around, which meant anything delaying the construction and the sale of her waterfront developments raised the risk of her business losing liquidity. "Alright, so what's the plan?"

"Richard, if you will elucidate our employer?"

"We go for the jugular," Richard pointed to a few of the unfamiliar faces in the hierarchal pyramid of the Barlow Group's Executives. "The Barlow wants to delay our projects, so we'll pay them back likewise. That's Wilbur Elliot Marriott, Ex-Magister and now renowned Hotel magnate. Beside him is Jonathan D. Nassar of the Hilton Group."

"Marriott and Hilton Holdings?"

"— Yes, and the joint-holders of the Waldorf Astoria properties. Your friend, Lady Astor, has a sizable stake in the ownership as well."

"Alright." Gwen studied the faces of the men in their late forties. "Elaborate."

"They're going to build hotels on Canary's land holds or at least convert their new constructions into free-standing hotels. They're quite determined, as we all know how hard it is to find land to build anything in central London. For both groups, the Isle of Dogs is a great opportunity for our American friends to make a foot hold."

Gwen did indeed know, for the presence of both Westminster Chapel, Buckingham Palace, and other historical structures meant that the central CBD area forbade super-structural constructs that may "overshadow" these important historical and symbolic edifices. It was one of the reasons why Dwarven construction, with its underground emphasis, enjoyed such popularity among London's developers.

Yet, until "The Devourer of Shenyang" had transformed the industrial wasteland of the Isle of Dogs from trash to treasure, it had simply not occurred to London's developers that a private enterprise with HDMs and foresight could convert cheap, affordable land into high-demand infrastructure. Of course, not all developers had Gwen's accountants, a block of leasehold as grand as the Marchioness of Ely's Millwall, Cubitt and Mudchute, or the means to materialise an additional subway line via Dwarven Magitech.

"Over the last few months, Pats and I have collected more than enough material for the Old Bailey," Richard pointed to Walken's Storage Ring. "There's no doubt that these—"

The young man pointed to a few more faces Gwen had not seen before. "These are the ones giving orders."

"You have proof?" Gwen asked. "Irrefutable proof? Did you steal the Barlow's Mercenary ledger?"

Richard laughed.

"There's more than enough correlation," Walken chided her scepticism. "When forty fingers and countless witnesses all pointed toward these men, a definite pattern emerges. We've been cautious, you know. We pressed charges when the opportunity arose, but we never pushed the envelope. As a result, I think the Barlow Group believes we either lack the evidence or are too afraid to challenge them openly. Whatever the case, we've stowed enough circumstantial and financial evidence. For this reason, we're counting on you to make sure we get a favourable judge."

"How am I going to do that?" Gwen snorted. "I am a Magus, not a Marchioness. I am not even a Magister yet."

"Ravenport owes you, as do Astor," Walken replied with complete confidence, alluding to her accomplishments since arriving in London. "You said he wanted you to go pay lip service to the Elves, and you did. Not only that, you did the Elves at Tryfan a great favour, or so you say, which means you did our Duke of the Foreign Affairs an even bigger favour. He could refuse, of course, but what kind of precedence would that set? Is it not said that a Ravenport always pays his debts?"

Gwen's flawless brows furrowed.

"You want me to talk to Dicky to repay a hypothetical favour— and that favour is to appoint a biased Inquisitorial Arbitor of the High Court to investigate these claims?"

"Yes," Walken nodded. "Problem?"

"No," Gwen mockingly moved a few inches away from the old schemer. "You know, Eric, you're downright nasty. What's the end game?"

Walken chuckled, his eyes glinting with sadistic malice. "My friends in the Grey Faction have been visiting me of late, now that there's HDMs to be made. They've told me that the Militants have all but lost the land war in the Niger Delta against the Lycanthropes— something about inability to discern between locals and the foe, not that they're any different down there in the Black Zone. Within months, all their mining efforts are going to go up in smokes, meaning their loans will be due very soon."

Gwen made an "o" of appreciation with her lips.

"They've been paying the interest, but once the income ceases, their assets will be on the auction block by September. If they manage to buy our land and can thus build their hotels, it would mean both the Marriott and the Hilton Group would extend their golden fingers to prop up the facade of Barlow's financial stability— but if we were to mire them in a legal battle, and destroy their reputation— and then leak their financial position through the METRO, accuse them of hiding their insolvency—"

Gwen winced at Dominic Lorenzo, her smiling Chief Editor. "I don't think our METRO ought to be used like that."

Unlike politics, a good business was built on a foundation of arithmatics. While businesses built on air could float, their failure would be no less catastrophic than the lofty heights they reached by means of rumours and heresay.

"It's fine if it's the truth," Lorenzo interrupted her. "We're not pretending to be anything we're not. Nor are we being selective about what's been reported. If the IoDRP were to sink to similar methods, you could prime a Void Bolt at my head, and I would still pen the editorial."

"Of course, aren't you the courier who delivers the truth that sets the masses free?" Gwen's chest grew a little fuzzy with warmth at finally meeting a member of her cabal with the right moral compass.

"Guilty as charged," Lorenzo roared with laughter. "Well said, Boss. Shall we go ahead?"

Gwen's lips formed a red line, woeful at the fact that this world had never really understood the allure of an open media, not that hers had been fair nor free. Still, she had to be wary because the Fourth Estate of public opinion was a powerhouse no single person should control, even if her METRO were doing its best to bring about a fairer view of the world for the uneducated. She also felt glad that her labours were now bearing fruit— between West Ferry, the Isle of Dogs, and Shalkar, the gospel of profitable philanthropy she had birthed was now punching above its weight. That said, Gwen understood her venture as a balancing act on a tightrope between two precipices. One wrong move— and one would fall below into the avaricious ocean of the free market, becoming feed for the glinting, pearly teeth of the golden-eyed, gilded Sirens below.

"That said, the problem is Shalkar." Walken watched her face as he spoke. "We need those funds."

"To acquire Barlow's properties when they collapse? Isn't this a bit too soon?"

"Yes, wasn't that your plan? To eventually strip our competitors and cannibalise their profitable divisions?" Walken affirmed her hypothesis. "I don't think Shalkar will be as profitable as Canary Wharf. It's folly to pursue the er, 'good will' too deeply."

Gwen understood her Executive's concern. It was God-given that a Faery Dragon in hand was worth two in the Wildlands. However, there was a whole race of Rat-kin in Shalkar awaiting the deliverance of her angel investment. Their Centaur "allies" had also been promised a share in the profits to purchase food and fodder for their Golden Pavilion and replenish their numbers. Her Executive was correct that there weren't immediate profits in Shalkar, but the man didn't see the whole picture.

"We need Shalkar, and not just for profit," she waited until Walken delivered his conjecture on the first quarterly report before speaking once more to refute her officer. "If anything, the true treasure isn't the Barlow's lands, but a favour from Tryfan for when we finally get to tap into our 'real' business."

She reached into the folds of her dress and removed what looked like a leaf the size of her palm. Then, with mock ceremony, she placed the thing before her peers.

"This is mine," she announced with confidence. "Or at least, it is mine to use as I see fit— until such time that I am not."

Eric Walken, Magister, furrowed his brows. The man had left London early to seek his fortunes in Australia, the one place where trees and Elves were exceedingly rare, and so knew not what Gwen had presented.

"Gwennie." Petra gulped, her clear irises aglow with diagnostic mana. "Is that what I think it is?"

Walken blinked as puzzle pieces fell into place. "An Ilias Leaf? Did y-you take a Leaf from a WORLD TREE? And then you brought it here?"

The unspoken question that followed, Gwen could see, was likely "Will the Elves burn down West Ferry to get it back?"

"It's not THAT special." She stepped back, wiggling her shoulders in glee at their reactions. "That said, THIS, ladies and gents, is a transdimensional, cross-Planar communication device! This— if we can crack the code, will be the foundation of a new Magitech that will change commercial communication— forever!"


"Petra! Put the _leaf_ down! No—don't infuse it with mana!" Walken's warning reverberated across the boardroom before Gwen's sorcery-obsessed cousin tapped into the illicit herb. "That bloody thing is said to be an extension of Tryfan's will! It doesn't like strangers."

Doesn't like strangers? Where have I heard that before? Gwen cocked her chin at her Executive, feeling second-hand embarrassment that her Master's contemporary would say something so ignorant. Then again, unlike herself, Walken did not repeatedly rub shoulders with Hvítálfar from the arboreal pocket planes. Instead, her peers remained firmly planted in the "secular" world of mortal Magisterial concerns, like taxes, assets, corporate hierarchy, and an endless, cyclical acquisition of wealth and power.

"It's perfectly safe," Gwen assured her cousin. "As I said, it's mine until the original owners say otherwise."

"Gwen." Walken's worrywart expression reminded her of their fight in Fudan. "You're sure? A Hvítálfar keepsake is no trivial matter!"

"It's fine," she repeated herself. "Even Strun's folks have pawed it many times. Sometimes I even leave it with Stian, their Elder. Sanari seemed cool with it."

Petra returned the Ilias Leaf to the table, licking her lips like she'd gone a week without Maotai.

"Sanari as in your _immortal_ Druid Hierophant?" Walken's voice rose an octave.

"I don't know about immortal," Gwen felt an unexplainable queasiness as Walken spoke the word. She became reminded of Golos, his toothy maw split from chin to chin, telling her that these "mortals" wouldn't understand the likes of them. According to the Mythic scion, the tyranny of time touched "us" not in the same way, meaning Gwen should be wiser in choosing her battles, such as that mortal foes perished with time and that only a Dragon's hoard was eternal. "But yes, that Sanari."

Walken sighed as if suddenly exhausted. He looked around the room, then approached a cabinet, opening the double doors to reveal rows of amber liquid in crystalline bottles.

"Anyone else needs a drink?"

"I'll have one," Petra was never one to turn down booze.

"Me three," Richard glanced at the jade treasure on the table. "This is news to us, Gwen. You mentioned that Tryfan gave you one of their tokens of trust. But I assume this is something special."

"It's amazing enough you are rubbing shoulders with Elves," Petra added. "But to receive something like this—is a little excessive."

"Forgive my ignorance." Gwen received a clinking glass of Scottish blue label from Walken. "This was given to me without ceremony, not unlike Master dropping off a Ring of Storage. Can anyone elucidate for me why you're all so shocked?"

Indeed, not even the Inquisitor from the Order of the Bath had reacted with such hyperbole as her companions were now putting on display. Compared to the disregard of her daily use of it in Shalkar, the cognitive dissonance made her feel like she was missing the punchline to a joke.

"Well, I only know from hearsay," Richard replied first. "My folks at King's thinks that the Elves elect members of the Mageocracy to serve as their ambassadors, a role that offers access to their vaults of knowledge, the 'original' Elemental sorcery that served as the inspiration for the IMS system. No one knows how to become one of the Chosen, only that a token of membership is a magical leaf from the Tree of Tryfan."

"Which is itself a rare and hidden piece of knowledge," Walken was calmer now, that or his face had grown numb from the alarm. "As for the Hvítálfar, what can I say? I have to wonder just how much of what you've told us is illicit knowledge beholden to Tryfan and the Tower. Didn't anyone tell you not to speak of such secrets so openly?"

"Er… no?" Gwen gulped. Indeed, there had been neither a request nor a Geas to constrain her spread of the knowledge itself. Likewise, it wasn't as though she wanted to disseminate Tryfan's secrets like some conspiracy—she merely wanted to impose upon her officers the importance of retaining Shalkar and the goodwill of the Elves so that they would allow the leaf to be studied.

"Professed ignorance isn't a valid cause for acquittance," Walken warned her. "Speak no more of Tryfan in public. Didn't Henry teach you this?"

Gwen shook her head.

"To my knowledge, he was historically connected to Tryfan, correct?"

Gwen nodded.

"And yet he didn't speak a word to you or the Council of Ten in Oceania. You didn't even know about Trees, Dragons and the Hvítálfar while in Sydney."

"... I guess you have a point." Gwen grew silent, choosing to refrain from blurting out she had told Ollie everything, as well as Jean-Paul, which meant Meister Bekker likely knew. Her House Mistress as well had received a full debriefing over cupcakes and Darjeeling. Was the "Leaf" her knowledge to dough out? Or was Walken correct, and she had presumed too much? "I promise I won't be giving lectures on the topic in Oxbridge."

"I hope you're right." Walken touched a palm to his face, scratched his forehead, then drank the glass in one gulp. "Maybe we're just rubes from Australia. Else, you've just pulled us into something we're all going to regret sooner or later."

The Accord. Gwen wondered if Walken had an idea, but to speak of it may dig her in further.

Walken put down his cup. "Let's move on. What do you hope to achieve with this Ilias Leaf?"

"Okay." Gwen picked up the leaf with one hand. "Did you know that this operates not on mana, but Essence Sympathy? It uses the Axis Mundi of the World Trees' innate Essence to allow instantaneous communication—"

"Before you continue," Walken groaned. "Are you confirming for us that Tryfan's Great Tree is a World Tree? The very ones from Planar Theory taught by Addison Andrews, first Chair of Cosmology? Are we mortals supposed to know this?"

Gwen pursed her lips. There was that word again. Mortals.

If Ruxin were here, the concurring Thunder Dragon would inform her that, of course, "Mortals" were mindful of "keeping up with the Joneses". Walken especially was in no small part motivated by his need to prove to his wife that she would not be a crone before their family reclaimed its deserved influence and prestige.

"Look." Gwen opened both hands in exasperation like a splayed bird. How was she to know which juicy bits of knowledge were subject to sorcerous info-sec? Was Sanari supposed to lean over, all conspiratorial-like, and asked her not to speak the magic words? "How can I explain the necessity of privileging Shalkar without the proper context? Should I ask you to trust me?"

"Do we not?" Walken looked to Richard, Petra and the smiling Dominic. "Isn't that why we're all here?"

"I don't mind knowing," Richard said. "Nor do I mind the alternative. Eric is right. We trust you to make the best judgement for all of us. If you believe Shalkar is a necessity to please the immortals at Tryfan, then it must be true."

"I, for one, want to know," Petra said without pause. "But the choice is yours. I trust you to know best."

Gwen felt a sudden strain on her shoulders, like a dozen pairs of hands pressing down at once. "That's a lot of responsibility."

Dominic snorted with infectious delight. "Isn't that what a Tower Master is? A walking avatar of responsibility? When you make a judgement, Gwen, folk will prosper or perish, live and die by your wisdom. Yet how many of those carrying out your will would know your reasons? Would you want them to know? Even in the METRO, our Editors don't question why certain stories run over others. Beyond their journalist integrity, any organisation must abide by a hierarchy of knowledge. If all of us here knew the exactness of Tryfan's ploys, could we act with one mind? We're not a Stygian Swarm-Mind! Is our Devourer of Shenyang so naive to believe that deep down, we don't have individual interests and needs at heart?"

Gwen watched her companions, once more feeling a fuzzy warmth in her chest engender from their kindness. To someone who had received her pot of gold in a corporate setting, the professed notion of loyalty dawned as strangely incongruous. Wasn't a corporation a joint-venture of mutual profiteering? What kind of company had such selfless employees with such zeal—such faith?

"Fine." Gwen raised both hands in surrender to the gaze of her peers. "No more explanations. I'll make the call."

She paused to consider the pieces on the board and the resources she had on hand.

"Shalkar has to commence as soon as possible," she spoke after a minute. "I've promised Strun and his people, as well as the Golden Pavilion, that they would have no want of winter fodder. Tryfan is likewise expecting a significant infrastructural injection from 'the Humans' after their gift of the quasi-magical Wildland produce from the World Tree—and I don't think it's wise to disappoint them. Added to this is a certain promise I had made to the Order of the Bath to soothe the region by bringing profitable philanthropy as sustainable development. For these reasons, we must ensure that there are no delays in transforming Shalkar— as people's lives and a grander narrative of Planar stability lies in the balance. To surmise, we please the Hvítálfar, make money hand over fist, profit-share with the locals, and build infrastructure while unifying the locals against the Elementals. It's a one Magic Missile many birds situation."

The others accepted her judgement as promised.

"Now for the Barlow Group." Gwen again took a minute to piece together the puzzle in her mind. "Eric has said that the Militants' levy will soon break as their failures in the Niger Delta flood over. Assuming we aid their collapse by release the news of their larceny in fleecing the NoMs, as well as help their victims seek redress, it should be mid-June before their finances begin to crumble. To this end, I shall go and speak with the Duke of Norfolk and ask for this favour of mine."

She took a deep breath.

"Concurrently, this means that come June—our coffers would lack the sufficient liquidity left to compete in Barlow's sell-off. The volume of capital remaining would be barely enough to initiate the construction of Millennium Wharf. In that time, our competitors would attempt to cannibalise Barlow or even attempt to continue what Barlow had created as a stumbling block for us. It means that our primary goal for the IoDRP must shift from attack to defence—that we must purchase, at whatever the price, the specific properties preventing us from signing off on the Pinnacle."

"I'll take care of it personally," Walken promised, glancing at Richard, who gave the man a look of understanding. Besides the Magister, her other companions murmured their agreement.

"But that's a scenario we could avoid," Gwen continued. "We are short on liquidity. For a non-Mageocracy project, I can't ask for a loan from Mayuree. The conditions of our IoDRP as set by the City of London forbade us from overt foreign direct investment. One alternative is to sell our shares to interested parties like Lady Astor, but not if she also has to draw her funds from overseas, such as from her American allies. Likewise, it would be nice if Peterhouse could invest, but I don't think a commercial office suite will pass muster as educational enrichment for the college."

"Who else has the volume of liquidity we require?" Walken considered her analysis. "We're talking several million in initial deposits. That or enough clout to defy the conditions set by the city."

"I was thinking someone from the Grey Faction." Gwen tapped the table. "Since I have to go and see Lord Ravenport, why not offer him a slice of the action as well? Bring him over to our side of the Thames? Eric, didn't you say that the Ravenport Estate bought shares in the IoDRP?"

"You would invite an old ghoul into your bedroom?" Richard's lips curled in protest. "What would the Sun Herald say about your sugar daddy? Will you feed the beast that mocks your flesh?"

Gwen chided her cousin for his choice of words with a stare full of razors while beside them, Lorenzo broke into an uncontrollable cough, likely expelling the scene from his head.

"His Estate was involved, not the Duke personally, and I'd wager it was done as a favour to show support for your House Mistress, Maxine," Walken hypothesised with a tone of doubt. "But you're right. Of all the prominent Grey Faction members in London, House Ravenport alone should have scant problems withdrawing funds from the Norfolk Trust. To invest in the betterment of London is part and parcel of why the fund exists, and we're a household name in that regard. Also, what's the bet his office already knows how profitable our venture has become?"

"Right—and we get to rope in a vested ally against the Militants," Gwen said. "If he has so much to gain, maybe I wouldn't need to expend my favour after all. Shall I visit Westminster now? Strike while the Dwarven ingot is hot?"

"I don't think you should visit him in the Office of the Earl Marshall to exchange favours." Walken gave her a pondering look. "There's such a thing as decorum— and the Queen's Cabal."

"Fine. Should I waylay Mycroft on his walks? He's famous for his Victoria Garden strolls, isn't he? The Sun said he's quite approachable. I could be like 'Whoa, Dickie, fancy seeing you here, got a minute to make a million Roo-bucks?'"

Dominic almost doubled over. "Gwen, the Sun published that to irk him. Lord Ravenport hates nothing more than to be interrupted during his walk."

"How about asking your House Mistress to invite the Duke over for tea?" Richard suggested, masking a smirk.

"Great idea, Dick." Gwen gave the man a thumbs up. "Okay, that's solved then. We'll reallocate the funds of the IoDRP for Shalkar effectively immediately and leave just enough float to keep our pre-planned projects commissioned. Meanwhile, I'll try and sniff out our new investor."

"We should ready an article for when you succeed," Lorenzo was full of conviction. "You and Lord Ravenport, eh? We'll need to print extra-thick editions. Think he'll be amicable for a lumen-shot on the front page?"

"Not willingly, no." Gwen glanced at the papers on the table, then grinned half-jokingly, sticking out her hip with a hand on her waist. "But I suppose there's no news like bad news to spread the good word. Guess I'll dress up?"

"We commend your sacrifice, O Priestess of Pale Flesh," Richard intervened before Walken could deliver a more fatherly, conservative advice. "You owe it to the people of London. And for the girls making a living on Page Three."

"Their obsession with your appearance is a weapon you should use abuse more often," Petra affirmed her banter with complete seriousness. "If you can get your opponents flustered or distracted, there's no better way to negotiate."

"I don't think Lord Ravenport is going to fall for something that shallow." Walken extricated himself from going with the flow just in time. "But I digress. You're not Angie, and you're old enough to decide for yourself."

"I'll send out the request now." Gwen made a move to leave, but then Walken deft intercepted her exit. "Yes, Eric?"

"Excuse me, but you're not going anywhere yet. It has been three months, Magus Song." Walken expression twisted with sadism. "You have no idea the amount of paperwork we have had to put on hold in your absence, so now that you're here, don't expect to leave until it's audited, signed and delivered!"

The reply from Mycroft Ravenport, Duke of Norfolk, came in the form of an invitation held in the beak of an oversized Tower Raven.

"CAW—!" What may or may not be the entity called "Mori" that had befriended Dede dropped off the letter a week later while Gwen and Gracie made their rounds with Magister Brown.

Gracie's progress had been admirable, and after a few days, Strun no longer instantly drew a host of Freshmen seeking to hear the stories of Shalkar first-hand. The rat and her duck, as well, had hit it off without a hitch, forming the unusual silhouette of sorceress, duck and rat strolling on the lawn of Emmanuels, connected by an intangible, mystical bond only she could comprehend.

"The crest of the Ravenport family." Gracie recognised the embossed Coat of Arms of demi-Lion in gules and tri-point argent resting on Gwen's palm. "You have business with the Duke?"

"Literally." Gwen studied the elaborate heraldry, wondering what hers should look like if she received a peerage—maybe she should have a foreground of Kirin in Azure, with Cali in sable, over a shield of obsidian and lightning, with a dog-headed crown for the isle.

"To the Esteemed Magus Gwen Song of Peterhouse," The invitation's cover was floridly inscribed in gold ink.

She broke the seal with a push of her thumb and was surprised when the wax melted away at her touch. The invitation inside, however, made her think twice.

"To the lauded Magus Gwen Song

We cordially invite you to our house to discuss proposals pertaining to the Isle of Dogs. The family has heard much about your exploits, and we are greatly looking forward to meeting you in person. If you may accommodate afternoon tea tomorrow, we shall be expecting your presence.

Yours sincerely.

C. Ravenport.

"C?" Gwen looked to Gracie. "Who is C? Mycroft's wife?"

"Charlene, from Lucy Cavendish," Gracie answered at once. "She's now Lord Ravenport's youngest after his son passed away."

Edgar!—or Edmund, or whatever he called himself. Gwen frowned almost on reflex. The bastard.

"Remind me, how many kids does he have?"

"Lord Ravenport's oldest child is Quinn, from King's College." Gracie appeared to know the famous family well enough to rattle off the names without pause. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I've never spoken to them, but Quinn was famous for participating in Cambridge's winning IIUC team during his third year, and Charlene recently graduated Summa cumme Laude from Cavendish. Her speech on the greater inclusion of NoMs in upper-tier sorcerous education caused quite a stir within the faculties. Many are questioning whether her view represented Lord Ravenport's stance or if she's striking a different tune to bolster her career."

"Quinn, Lucy—" Gwen had no desire even to say the last name.

"Quinn, Charlene and Edmund," Gracie said the E-word. "Word goes that Edmund died after he went out on a rebellious streak on his own, even had associations with certain unmentionables. As a result, there wasn't much ceremony over the young man's passing. That said, he wasn't nearly as talented as his siblings. I think he went to King's, but I've never heard anyone speak of him."

The idea that Edmund, villain extraordinary, could have a life of his own had never occurred to Gwen, and now she suddenly felt strangely depressed.

But then again, it wasn't as though she murdered Edmund or that he had not deserved his fate.

Banishing the unhappy thought, she pocketed the invitation.

"Decorum indicates a prompt declaration of your attendance," Gracie reminded her. "The invitation is Enchanted. Merely speak your reply and set it loose."

Gwen whistled, her mind alive with fantastic visions from Pottermore.

"I'll be there tomorrow," she informed the bird.

"CAW!" The raven took to the skies with a caw and a flutter.

"I guess it's too much to buzz my Message device," Gwen watched the bird become a speck upon the blue-grey horizon.

"Of course." Gracie rolled her eyes. "You're a business leader and a Magus, and this is the household of the Lord Marshall, Gwen. You're not meeting for coffee after exercising your Familiars at the arena! They're receiving you at the Chelsea Estate as well, imply it's a private affair. How exciting, Gwen! Afternoon tea at the Ravenport's!"

Gwen nodded, then withdrew her Message Device and punched it to summon Dominic Lorenzo. "Dom, I'll be going tomorrow at noon—yeah—yep—sure. Do you know where that is? It's at the Chelsea compound belonging to House Ravenport. Yes? Well, I don't, so we'll go together maybe?"

She hung up.

Gracie looked scandalised. "Gwen! That was a private invitation! For tea!"

"Right, where were we?" Gwen ignored the warning, then pivoted Gracie to their prior conversation. "Let's keep testing Brown's plans to muster forth a Familiar. Cali's a cutie now, but my god, those early days were pretty sketchy when it came to vitality usage, and lord knows what you're going to summon without my Master personally drawing his Familiar spell."

Ken Peterson, Son of Peter Peterson of Unit 11, District 2, Bugsby's Way, Greenwich, stood in the thrumming carriage of the London Underground, not daring to breathe or achoo.

In one hand, he held a bundle of the latest METRO, which he was responsible for distributing.

Over yonder, standing tall in a tartan grey pencil skirt and a loose-fitting blouse, was the very sorceress currently gracing the front page of the paper in his hand.

The sorceress looked the same as in the Lumen-pics—but the real-life version made his knees knock. Ken had worked the Underground in various capacities of late and had seen his share of Magisters, Lords and Ladies, but never had he seen any human being so—in his limited vocabulary, unreal.

The "Pale Priestess", Ken recalled the title the Rat-folks had given the Saviour of Shalkar. Was indeed pale—especially the eye-drawing part of her—as pale as the rumours that she wasn't entirely alive.

Bathed in the yellow, tungsten-etched Day Light globes of the subway's interior, the "Priestess" was simultaneously the most alluring vision of femininity he had ever beheld, while also exerting such an aura of devastation that even he, an NoM, recognised her monstrous nature as The Devourer of Shenyang.

There were other passengers as well, all sitting well away from the standing sorceress, even going so far as to cram up against one end of the carriage, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, unwilling to avert their gaze while simultaneously terrified that she would stare back.

Why was the Mistress of the Isle of Dogs catching the subway? Ken wondered, fighting to keep his innards from turning into scrambled eggs. Another voice in his mind reminded him that the sorceress had done much for the NoMs of London and that his fellow paper sellers from Mudchute had assured him that the "Missus Boss" was approachable—but dared he risk her appetite?

He wanted to look away, but his eyeballs refused to leave the imposing visage. He felt a forbidden attraction, an unbidden desire to fall to his knees and mutter a prayer of sorts. Of course, that would take him below the sorceress' hemline—an exciting prospect for maybe a few seconds before her Devourer-ship would summon a horned, demonic rat to vivisect him on the carriage floor.

"Hello." A voice spoke to him. It took Ken several seconds to realise it was the boss of his bosses' bosses that now addressed the label on his shirt. "Ken, can I ask you a few questions?"

The folk standing close to Ken took a few steps back.

Ken gulped. Even if he were to die, he wished he could have told the story to his mates at the Greenwich Publican in person.

"S-sure," he couldn't help but stammer an agreement, for the girl came closer, and the clicking of her heels sounded a thousand times more intimidating than his landlord's wife tapping at his door with a wand, asking for the month's rent.

"How long have you worked today?"

"I was out since six, yer Devourer-ship."

The sorceress' expression grew strangely rigid. "When do you conclude work?"

"After the afternoon rush, at six PM, yer Devourer-ship."

"How much are you getting paid?"

Ken squinted. Money was a sensitive issue. Dare he lie? He did not. "One LDM per hour, same as the others, yer Devourer-ship. It's good money for us folk who joined the press early."

"Please, just Gwen—" The sorceress confirmed his worst fears by making a contemplative face. "When do you get paid?"

"Fortnightly."

"Where do you live?"

"Greenwich."

"With family?"

"Yes, yer Gwen-ship. I got me ma and pa, me missus, and a little feller."

"Is your wage enough to live on?"

"Me old woman also works at the Print Works, cleaning and such," Ken added, hoping to the Nazarene this was not a tax audit. If so, he certainly had not seen a tax script in his life and would have to flee at the first opportunity. His neighbours had said they send tax criminals overseas to penal colonies like Australia, where the flesh-eating Roos are three meters tall. "So yes, we've enough to live on."

"Is junior attending school?"

"Yes, Greenwich Public."

The sorceress seemed pleased. "Do you like working for METRO?"

Ken seriously considered his answer. "I wouldn't work for any other, Miss, on account of the food."

"The food?"

"The soup kitchen gives the early-risers packed lunch," Ken indicated to his assigned Dwarven-made storage capsule, a simple device operated by an HDM that stowed several hundred copies. "Better than me mum's Sunday roasts, I tell yer. Especially when they make the buttery chooks, greases yer gullet, it does. Where am I going to find another job that offers free chow?"

"Ah yes, the butter chicken." The sorceress nodded in appreciation. "Have you run into any trouble on deliveries? How was it resolved?"

Ken confessed that he often ran into problems, growing more comfortable now that he wasn't turned into a newt and swallowed. "Them schoolboys from the Grammars are the worst. They try and fiddle with the box even when I tell them not to—and they say nasty things about yer Devourer-ship. Also, I want to thank yer that we're not selling the papers but giving them away. Else I reckon we be robbed daily. Er—and thank yer for putting in a word with the Biters, Miss."

"Ah, the Arbiters give yer a hand?"

"They're nice ter us paper pushers," Ken concurred. "Since yer paper writes nice things about them, unlike the Sun and the Tele."

"That's good to hear. Where are you going now?"

Ken looked at the sorceress strangely. "Nowhere, yer Devourer-ship. Here is my carriage. I pass out papers, like this—"

He gave out a paper to a Mage beside him. Smiling nervously, the Mage took it with a nod and an audible thank you. Realising that the politeness was because of the sorceress' presence and that she wasn't about to add him to her Swarm of Teeth, he quickly gave out the entire bundle under his arm, with each of his recipients loudly declaring their appreciation for his hard labour.

"It's not usually this easy." Ken grinned at the girl. "Thank yer, yer Devourer-ship."

The Pale Priestess smiled. "Alright, can we have a picture together?"

"Ah—" Ken's mind blanked out.

The sorceress sidled up beside him, making his hair stand on end as her blouse brushed the rude fabric of his shirt with the stitched words METRO lined across the chest and back. A small, warm hand reached his rough, calloused palm and slid into the space between his thumb and index finger, sending a jolt of vivifying electricity to course through his body. A man materialised from the crowd with a camera, then took a flash-recording of the two of them standing side by side.

By the time his mind returned to the Prime Material, the sorceress was gone, and the carriage was full of new faces.

"Mate, you're giving out the METRO or not?" a voice asked him.

Ken blinked, worked his body as a golem-automation, then returned to ponder a quintessential thought—would any of his mates at the Publican even begin to believe him?

That—and how many LDMs he could fleece from the buggers, providing that he and the bosses' bosses' boss would appear on the new week's edition of the METRO, sharing a handshake, just like the big-wigs in uptown.