The following morning, Gwen flew Elvia and herself back to London to meet Walken. Once the shellshock passed, she came to a nerve-pinching acceptance of her new reality— that she had once again indulged in what Petra had remarked as gluttonous masochism.

On the one hand, she felt happy. Deliriously happy, like Bacchus drunk-charioting after a Friday grape binge. On the other, she felt disturbed, like an insomniac wondering whether they'll ever lay with Hypnos again. The high was nice, but she had been burned before. What would be the cost of overreach this time? An Icarian descent, perhaps— first celestial, then meteoric.

Then _SPLAT_!

For now though, with the intoxicating scent of Evee in her arms, it was easy to dismiss the Leviathan of love parked off the coast of Brighton, floundering in the shallows. Perhaps that was why she had declined Walken's offer of a free Teleport to London. The old dog's interrogating gaze aside, she had to post-process the consequence of her choices.

She had told Evee that she loved her for her simplicity.
But now, with Elvia so invested, she felt that their relationship had become anything but simple.

She had told Evee would make her special.
But not like this.

Then what? Her mind demanded her hypocritical self. _What does Gwen Song want from Elvia Lindholm?_ Should Evee remain as a virgin handmaiden?

But that wasn't it either.

Within her pocket dimension, Caliban rested fitfully.
Suddenly, Gwen felt a novel desire to strangle something soft.

"Gwennie, what's the Summon Familiar ritual like?" Elvia yawned, breaking the monotony of constant locomotion.

Glad for the distraction, Gwen did her best to recollect the first time she'd met Caliban and Ariel. She was fifteen, and she had no idea that her Master had pumped a Magister's treasure trove into a tier 1 Spell designed initially for novices. And so, like a little fool, she had gone with the flow without a second thought, letting her imagination run wild.

"Are you aware of how the spell works, Evee?"

"I understand the theory."

"Good. Okay. So, after you mix your mana into the circle, the Mandala does all the grunt work. You'll feel a distortion in the Material Plane— but since Sen-Sen is here already, I guess that part's not important."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Then, here's going to be a tugging feeling in your chest. Your Astral Soul is going to feel like it has been prodded, or pushed. That would be your Familiar's Ego. Again, Ariel and Caliban were both infants then, so there wasn't anything to dominate. Sen-sen's willing— or it better be— so all you need to do is let it come into your Astral Body."

Gwen paused to find the right words.

"For Caliban, the exchange was more explicit. Cali was a ball of hunger demanding a pound of flesh to keep it manifested in the real world. Ariel was easier, I wanted a companion to counter Caliban, and so it came without compulsion. Again, with Sen-sen, I don't know if you'll have trouble controlling it or not, what with its age and lineage."

Elvia inclined her chin. "I'll do my best."

"I know you will."

She sped up, concurrently ensuring that her shield kept the buffeting wind at bay. If she had been a lesser Mage, she would have long been OoM had she simultaneously maintained Flight and the desired to keep their clothes unruffled.

And with the disappearing distance, the taste in her mouth grew bittersweet.

After tonight, she told herself, Evee would return to her classes at Nightingales and practicum at GOS. Gwen herself would be confined to Cambridge, likely in a dungeon with a train of tutors each eager to bludgeon knowledge into her brain. Other than the rare weekend, she would see her healer twice, at best thrice a month, assuming their timetables aligned.

Would she be sad? Gwen wondered, fearful of the strange relief scratching the inside of her ribcage. She had only two weeks to spend with Elvia, only now, it felt like a lifetime.

After an eye-watering meal at the Tower of Tandoori, Gwen and Elvia arrived at the Tower of London. At lunch, Elvia spoke at length about her brother and her family and how Gwen's Long Range Message Device had been a godsend in keeping contact with her lost kin. Gwen reciprocated by speaking at length about Percy's burgeoning talents in Shanghai, about his girlfriend Mei, and their contributions at Shenyang.

Finally, just past three, they arrived at the Shard. As it was nine hours before the Big Ben tolled in the new year, the administrative staff had made the lobby both festive and inviting.

Though the desks were as busy as ever, Walken had paid good CCs for the Tower's time, affording unmolested transit from the marbled anterior to the Shard's multi-dimensional interior. Unlike Sydney's maze of gravitation platforms, the state of the art Shard utilised a system of Teleportation Circles to securely, and discretely, transfer Mages to their desired destination. As the unofficial capital of Spellcraft in the Britannic Mageocracy, the Shard's mastery of dimensional magic was a cut above its central continent cousins.

"You must be Magus Song and Miss Lindholm." A wizened Magister in a crimson artificer's robe, studded with Glyphed pockets, led the pair into his workshop. Bespectacled in gold, the man's wild hair was a proud badge indicating his profession as a master of the Enchantment School. "I am Magister Gilbert Rendfrey, Senior Enchanter here at the Shard. Magister Walken is already inside."

On the exterior, the Shard resembled a minimalist blade of glass, crystal and steel. It's interior's "interior", however, was tailored to each Magister's taste. As Gwen's party would be borrowing Magister Rendfrey's studio, they entered a smoky abode studded with magical bric-a-brac, with exotic materials lining the walls and spilling from every cabinet.

A vision of Walken, prone on his stomach, soon appeared behind the threshold, halfway levitating from the floor, painstakingly etching the Greater Familiar Mandala with a sizzling inscriber.

The chamber itself was atypical of the spacious sub-spaces popularly utilised for discrete experimentation. Once inside, the volume of the room rapidly expanded until it was almost the size of a modest warehouse. The air was crisp, and barring the unsettling grey-space near the edges, there was even a temperate ocean breeze, smelling faintly of morning brine.

For Gwen, the disorientation lasted only a second.

"Eric," Gwen greeted her Magister, sulky at how hard Angie's father was willing to labour.

It took Walken a good ten seconds to realign himself. The Magister was in good health, but he was no longer spry.

"Gwen. Elvia."

“Magister Walken.” Elvia curtsied.

"We have a problem." Walken wiped his hands on a bit of cloth. "Rendfrey?"

"Mmm… yes, we appear to be the victim of an inventory oversight." The Magister touched a guilty finger to his beard. "It rarely happens, but it does."

"What's missing?" Gwen examined the room.

"Dragon blood, actually." Rendfrey adjusted his spectacles. "We have decided to proceed nonetheless because Magister Walken informed me you have access… to live samples?"

Gwen turned to examine the sheepish Walken.

"Audrey and I invested a lot of CCs to get this done as soon as possible," the Magister explained. "Hiccups were anticipated, I would imagine. We should consider our selves in luck that the missing ingredient is readily available."

Gwen masticated Walken's words. "… do you mean Golos?"

"Unless you happen to have a vial of something more sanguine," Walken said. "You haven't been very forthcoming on Golos' origins."

"You'll get the whole picture once you start your job," she acknowledged his concern. One by one, her thoughts flittered through Ayxin, Ruxin and Golos. Of the trio, asking Ayxin for a pint was unthinkable. Ruxin might be willing to part with his blood if given enough incentives, while Golos, as Walken had guessed, was a malleable target. "So I am to summon Golos?"

"I should mention the ritual does not necessarily need Dragon Blood," the Enchanter raised a hand. "Magister Walken is testing my hypothesis."

"We need a resonating medium to act as the catalyst," Walken quickly explained. "Your Ginseng is very old, and bred in close vicinity to the Yinglong, or so you said. Without sacrificing sacred blood to shackle the Ginseng's ego, Elvia may not be able to access that part of its lineage."

"You mean, the part Angie needs," Gwen clarified for her researchers.

"Undoubtedly." Walken raised both hands in defeat.

Gwen's lips pursed.
To her, a committed father was a foreign thing.
But for now, their interests aligned. She wanted Elvia to gain as much benefit from Sen-sen as possible, and agreeably, Walken wished to maximise the potential of Sen-sen being able to produce a panacea. Since she wanted Walken's loyalty, it was only fair that she met her future executive halfway.

"Right, where do I set up?"

"Just over there" Rendfrey appeared entirely enthralled by the exchange. "A Thunder Wyvern with a mythic bloodline? I haven't felt this excited since we started processing Griffin Blood!"

London.

The Shard.

For the first time in the history of the Britannic Mageocracy, the city played host to a scion of the Yinglong.

"You want my blood?" Golos breathed down at Gwen and Elvia's face, sending their hair flying all over.

"Just a litre or two," Gwen covered her nose. "You've got plenty to give. Just look at the size of that gut. Not much exercise at Ruxin's?"

"You've reneged on your promise," Golos sulked, his scales and spinal feathers bristling in turn. "I smell the scent of death on you fresh as a fat Eel-kin. You've been having fun. Did you eat another Wyrm?"

"A foreign worm," Gwen nodded. "It was disgusting. All slimy and earthy, very gamy, you won't like it, trust me. How's your brother?"

"He awaits your promised hoard."

"On that front, we're on track." Gwen felt a vague camaraderie with the Wyvern she hadn't seen for a week, like meeting a companion from the past after a lengthy absence. "How's Phelara?"

"Still brooding. Ruxin has a keen interest in her homeland. Big brother wants to know when you're going back for the Da-peng."

"In good time," Gwen promised. "Best let sleeping birds lie for now."

"Hmm…" Her Wyvern huffed at Elvia.

"Greetings, Lord Golos," Elvia beamed. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Sen-sen, say hi."

"SEN!" The Ginseng fell on its face, performing a kowtow. "Sen! Sen!"

"Mmm…" Golos' nostrils flared. He sucked in the air around Elvia, then licked his tongue, tasting her presence. "And something else as well, the old one?"

Gwen knew that Golos had a better nose than most, but the lizard's present perception was impressive beyond all comprehension. "Very nice, Golos. Not only does your nose detect magic, but it also detects Essence?"

"Not all beings that can be eaten should be eaten," Golos announced wisely. "Ruxin says this is because you never know when someone's progenitor decides to eat you in turn."

"Wise lad, that Ruxin. Did you catch up with Ryxi lately? I asked about Lulu before."

"Missing your Kenshi mate already?" Golos' laughter came in rolling waves. "She was a feisty one. Ryxi says she's a handful."

"Gogo..." Gwen was glad that Elvia could not speak nor translate Draconic. "Just as not everything can be eaten, you should also learn the difference between friendship and fornication. For example, we're friends, right?"

Golos leaned in closer.

"I wouldn't want to mount you anyway." The Wyvern huffed snot over her chest. "Too old."

Elvia stared on innocent while Walken choked, then began to cough uncontrollably.

Gwen pushed the massive, reptilian face away. "Thanks, Gogo. That makes me rest easier at night. Now pass me a pint, you sleazy slug."

The Wyvern appeared hesitant.

"I can compel the root," he offered, simultaneously unfolding its massive wings. "Sen! In the name of thy creator— _TYRTROL!"_

"SEN!" Sen-sen turned over to show its belly, then laid flat on the ground— a root on chopping board, awaiting inevitable dissection.

Gwen's cutting-finger itched. Give her another hundred grams of pure, unadulterated Sen-sen for her future cache of Maotai and the Dwarves shall be dancing in the palm of her hand.

"See?" Golos grinned, looking more smug than usual.

"Walken?" Gwen turned to her Conjurer.

"Rendfrey, what do you think?"

"With all due respect to Lord Golos here." Rendfrey appeared wholly impressed with the Wyvern's amiable performance thus far. "I am ill-equipped to comment. Dragon-tongue is not Spellcraft. The direct alteration of reality through force-of-will is a higher tier of study than mortal magic, I fear."

"Blood it is then." Gwen turned back Golos. Pointing to his wings, she made a cutting motion with her hand. "You want to do this— or me?"

"Bah—" Golos extended his neck until a particularly thick part presented itself. "Take it from here, Calamity, between the feathers— wing wounds itch."

"Good boy." She stroked the Wyvern again to show her approval. "Keep this up, and maybe we can go for a stroll in London, get you some genuine Chicken Tikka Masala from the Tower of Tandoori."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Golos sniffed her lips. "Intriguing. I have scented something familiar near Ruxin's abode, though only on the plants."

"I strongly advise against that— " Walken interjected. "Outside of this pocket dimension, I am afraid Lord Golos is going to fare very poorly indeed. Assuming he can resist the resonance given off by the city's four-dozen Shielding Cores, the Griffin Guards shall subdue us within the minute, and then we'll be in gaol, all of us, with her Majesty's Cabal blanking our minds."

"… the shop does take out." Gwen tapped the golden vestibule against Golos' electrum scales. "Eric. How long are we going to be here?"

"That depends on the subject," Magister Rendfrey indicated to the quivering Sen-sen, quivering and ready to meet its maker. "And of course, the subject's master."

"Calamity, I shall not be denied this Chicken Tikka Masala you speak of—"

Gwen passed a smidgen of Void between her fingers.

"GAAAARGH—!"

"Bosh! How the hell else am I going to get through your bloody diamond-armour?" Gwen tapped the vessel filling with dark, potent blood. "Look at the size of that neck of yours. That incision was a centimetre thick, tops. Your bleeding's already slowing."

"Your wounds are most irksome." Golos nudged her again until Gwen almost lost her balance. "I demand recompense."

"If it's not too much trouble. I'll tell an Apprentice to bring up this Tandoori fellow," Magister Rendfrey volunteered. "It's no bother if Lord Golos desires it. Him being most accomodating and courteous. I'll pay, of course."

"If you insist, Magister." Gwen moved over to Walken's Mandala with the heavy jug of still-bubbling blood polluting the air with a stink of rust and iron. "Fair warning, Gogo eats just as much in his human form."

"A humanoid morphic field! Astounding!" Magister Rendfrey rubbed his hands together. "Come! I shall give you my Apprentice's Message Glyph. Use Giles as you see fit. Magister Walken! Shall we?"

Walken took possession of the austere vessel of dragon blood. On the levitation platform, a host of ingredients already churned within an automated ink-blender. When Gwen's eyes wandered over the interior, her Magister helpfully obliged. "Asphodel, Hippogriff's Bezoar, Lionfish Core, Eye of Ash Newt, Coral Pearl Dust, Fireseed, Ice-laced Rocksalt and ingot of True Silver— am I missing anything?"

"That's all, Eric." Rendfrey applauded his fellow Magister. "It's a shame you've chosen not to take up alchemy proper."

The addition of Golo's blood prompted the keg of inscriptor-ink to simmer for a half-minute before the concoction settled. Though the smell was foul, the gathered could sense the palpable power of the blood-laced gloop swirling within.

Meanwhile, Magister Rendfrey thrice-confirmed the Mandala's every wand-stroke. "Miss Lindholm, if you would take your Spirits— both your Spirits, into the circle's midst, we may begin."

"Yessir."

"Now. Are you _completely_ certain neither of your creatures will subsume the other? Don't say I didn't warn you," Rendfrey spoke as he coaxed the admixture from the pot with the length of carved yew that had been hanging by his side. Into the grooves of the base granite, the liquid seeped, lighting up with the silver-sheen of Conjuration as it touched the Mandala. "There's no crying over spilt milk if one— or both, perish as a result."

Elvia's eyes widened.

"You got this," Gwen gave her healer an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. She possessed absolute confidence her friend would succeed. "Golos is here to help as well. Sen-sen should prove no trouble."

"Kiki!" The Alraune showed its determination by flexing its tendrils. "Kiki!"

"Sen!" The Ginseng followed Elvia obediently into the middle of the Mandala, waddling as it went.

"Alright!" Gwen finished inscribing the Message to Rendfrey's Apprentice. After today, her Evee would never be underestimated by the Mageocracy, or anyone, ever again. "Let's get this show on the road! Evee, your ascension is at hand!"

Elvia sat in the lotus stance, trying her best to relax both body and mind.

To her left rested her Alraune Spirit, waving gently against the invisible breeze. To her right, held captive within a triple-layer of Octogramic Warding, sat Sen-sen, staring at her with its eyeless face.

"The Circle's powering up!" came a warning from her present and future partner. "Start probing Sen-sen with your mind! Reach out and try to envelop him with your Astral Body!"

Elvia closed her eyes and shut out all distractions. A healer's concentration was different from that of a Combat Mage. A Cleric's focus was inward-facing, generating an immutable sense of calm that drove away all unnecessary stimuli. Drawing upon that third-sense now, she sharped her insights until Sen-sen came into direct focus.

Around her, the Mandala burned, igniting the Dragon Blood.
Within the swirling world of conscious and the subconscious, Elvia's world imploded.

The bonding had begun.

"Sen-sen— come."

The physiology of an NoM, lacking the reactive motes of mana that made one's body near-transparent to the diagnostic magic of a healer, was a dull and uninspiring affair. Comparatively, a Mage's body, depending on their expertise, could appear as a well-lit network of conduits, beneath which she could see the vessels of the body ferrying forth the lifeblood from the central mana organs— the brain, the liver, the heart. Gwen's interior, when Elvia had sought to satiate a forbidden curiosity, was a whirling network of Lightning and Void, criss-crossed in every which way and yet running in perfect parallel. It shamed her that, in the Frontier, she had been flooding Gwen with raw Positive Energy to stimulate her body's healing potential. In those dark days, it was little wonder that they emerged from every battle utterly exhausted and craving the sweet embrace of slumber.

As for Sen-sen, the stowed vitality crammed within the root's tiny body was akin to diving into a celestial cluster. Within, she needed to locate Sen-sen's Spirit, and with sufficient will, overpower the Ginseng's ego.

Deeper and deeper she dived, headlong into the nebula until, from that strange, metaphysical firmament, she began to tumble, limbs akimbo, falling and falling without end.

A growing panic took hold.
Something was wrong.
This was not at all what the Spellcraft theory had prescribed, nor what Gwen had foretold.

"AEEEEEE!" Lacking the means to fly, and missing her partner's guiding hand, Elvia's mind tumbled through the Astral world. "Gwennie!"

" _Tyrtrol vur qe Meagea_!" Golos spat forth a mouthful of volcanic Vindaloo. Draconic— with its forceful, plosive tones, wasn't exactly the best language for simultaneous speaking and eating. " _O-rigato dout Navnik Zhren_!"

A spot of curry sizzled against the burning Mandala.

Gwen's nose twitched.

"Lord Magister," she quietly enquired of their hired aid. "Vindaloo doesn't impact the efficacy of Mandalas, does it? Elvia won't bond to curry, I hope."

"I certainly hope not!" The Magister had taken one sniff at the oriental concoction, then backed away from the tubs of sludge-like spice. Adjusting the Arcane Eye embedded into his spectacles, he quickly confirmed his hypothesis. "Imagine the scandal. We would have the owners on stasis in a heartbeat! 'Tower' of Tandoori indeed!"

"Golos is certainly enthused…" Walken's voice took a tone of concern. His eyes glowed with the light from a Glyph-studded spectroscope. "Your Ally is feeding the Mandala— you know, usually, an expenditure of Essence comes at a drastic cost to the caster."

"Good on Gogo for giving it his all." Gwen did her best via her Detect Magic. "Sen-sen might not have the brains, but it IS five centuries old and bred for Dragon-chow. Evee's just recently eighteen. I imagine there's quite the existential difference to be balanced out. Kiki as well is at least half a century old. What a rout, eh? I'd like to see her competitors bitch now."

"True, and our Mandala is holding steady," Walken remarked. "You've tamed your pet Wyvern in ways we cannot begin to comprehend. In the future, you may wish to volunteer some of your methods with the Bestiary section of the Tower. The Griffin Tamers, in particular, have considerable trouble pinning down alpha specimens. Once the birds get a taste for human flesh..."

Walken made a chopping motion with his hand.

"Caliban— I mean— 'I' can be very charming..." Gwen had never clarified the precise particulars of how Golos came to fear her, nor would she share it. For one, her prideful Wyvern might rampage if Humans started giving him looks of pity. "There's not much to it. Golos is just a big ball of raging Draconic testosterone. He eats, shits and fucks. How hard can it be to satisfy that?"

"All Dragons have hidden depth," Walken warned her. "No pool insufficiently deep can hold a Water Dragon, that's an oriental saying, I believe?"

Gwen looked over at Golos stuffing his face silly with naan and globs of curry, having the time of his life.

"I'll keep an eye out," she answered sceptically. "Say, do you know any Dungeons, parks or Wildlands hereabouts that's Planar Ally friendly?"

_WHOOMP!_

Through the displacing dust, Elvia found herself alone and atop a blasted building torn to smithereens by the force of a recently passed AoE.

The city below, a silhouette foreign to her memory, smouldered as though a rolling wave of coal-fired lava had erupted from the earth's core. Screams, thick as the steam, filled the air, joining the barrier sirens to form an unholy requiem of death and destruction.

"What…" Elvia circulated as much mana through her conduits as she was able to muster, concurrently calling on Kiki and Sen-sen.

As expected, her Spirits failed to make an appearance.
Where could she be? Caught in an illusion?
If so, which city now boiled below?
Elvia focused on empowering her vision. There wasn't just fire; there was water as well. No city with skyscrapers and avenues like that should be so inundated by the sea.

" _SVA DRONG ANNYO!_ "

A shrill, soul-piercing shriek resounded across the horizon. Elvia's gaze followed the howling gale to see a moving, shifting, quadruped silhouette roving through the oily, aubergine atmosphere. Rippling waves of black-red ash fell from the blue-dark like October snow, smothering the city with its suffocating gloom.

A _Dragon?_
A BLACK DRAGON?

Her heart seized.

"Calm Emotion!" Elvia weaved the subconscious Clerical sorcery through the air. The spell failed to manifest, though she did feel calmer for the placebo. Momentarily, the charcoal creature pierced through the cloud bank.

"… Ariel?" There was no mistaking it. The stag horns, the stout body, the lion's claws and the rear hoofs she had molested so often, as well as the goldfish's fantail.

A Kirin. An ashen Kirin shrouded by malevolent vapours of Negative Energy.

Her body began to shiver. If that was Ariel, then where was Gwen? If that was Ariel, then what of Caliban?

She scanned the city below.

Presently, the milling mass of dark motes continued its onward march. There was an awful familiarity about it all, the way it flowed and ebbed, reached out with tendrils to test the distance, tasting the direction in which it spread.

_Undead!_ Elvia's mind was now in full revolt. Millions of Undead! A whole host of them— enough to swallow a capital!

Why was she in the midst of this horrid vision?
Where's Sen-sen?
“Gwen?” She called out. “Gwennie? Where are you? Lord Golos? Magister Walken?”

"Evee…" a voice answered her from behind.

Elvia spun.
When finally her mind caught up, her lips parted with incomprehension.

"P-Percy?"

The boy— or perhaps she should say, a young man now, appeared wiser than his years.

"What are you doing here?" Elvia's head abruptly filled with conspiracy. What if, for example, she and Gwen and everyone had fallen under the Curse of a malignant Hag's nightmare. Or if there was a wide-scale terrorist attack on the Shard? "Where's Gwen?"

"The great _Saviour Song_ is getting ready to deploy her Shoggoth," Percy's tone was churlish and provoking. Closer, the young man's salt-encrusted armour crumbled. With a grunt, he dispelled the upper layer, revealing a shrivelled body speckled with combat-damage. "Tianjin is gone, I am afraid. They're letting Gwen clean up. This time tomorrow, there'll only be a husk of a city left."

"She's using her Shoggoth?!" Elvia gulped. "I need to get to her! Why am I here of all places? Why is there Undead here in Northern China?"

Percy appeared confused. "Don't worry— Lulan's with Gwen. Sis told us to wait for her here, at the Observatory, don't you remember? The city is overrun. The PLA is in full retreat. Beijing Tower's not coming. There are nine million souls down there ready to join the Undead Tide from Pyongyang. The Party won't let that happen, not with the Forbidden City a day away."

"Jesus Christ." Elvia glanced at the carnage below. She could just make out pockets of fighting. A Squad of PLA Golems, burning blue with jets of exhaust, laid down lines of radiant fire into the avenues of the flaming city. Where the dark swarm retreated, a dozen tendrils emerged, each led by howling Wraiths and screeching Death Guards riding monstrous drake-steeds the size of semi-trailers. Behind the line of spluttering Golems, the city's fleeing defenders— an endless multitude of crying, churning civilians, scrambled over one another. "Percy, how did this happen?"

"The cult of Juche, how else? But enough questions— I am badly drained—" Percy stumbled forward.

Without thinking overmuch, Elvia caught the young man in her arms. "Are you alright?"

"Does it look like I am right?" Percy's cheeks appeared sallow, his eyes, now that the young man was closer, she could see that his eyes had the lustre of dead fish.

"Sorry. I'll heal you now."

"My gratitude is boundless." Percy placed a hand around her shoulder, using her body as support. "How's Richard? Did he make it?"

"Richard? What happened to—"

_CRACK!_

A booming roll of thunder snapped across the heavens.

From the impenetrable dark clouds, a meteor rapidly fell, a white-scaled body clad in living lightning— though much diminished and missing one wing. Together with the tumbling mass of its sleek, elegant figure was a deluge of corrupted blood, carapace and spellfire.

"Lord Golos!" Elvia's eyes went wide. "Is— is GWEN there? Fighting?"

The Ashen Kirin re-emerged in hot pursuit.

" _JAKA, shio sia Irlymi Wharac sva sia KILITH!_ " Hearing the Kirin's croaking voice was like having claws scratching the inside of her skull. Her skin crawled. It almost sounded like the monstrous being was speaking in their general direction.

" _Axun, sva Drong Annyo_ ," answered a voice an inch away from her neck.

Elvia snapped her face around to see Percy's eyes grow suddenly cruel.

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe.

"I am sorry, _Evee…"_ The boy who was Gwen's brother gripped her neck with one hand, the other pressed against her abdomen. Unbidden, her mana, her vitality, all the warmth from her body drained away. Negative Energy hammered her brain, nullifying all thoughts into the consistency of soup, preventing her from conjuring of even the most rudimentary of spells.

GWEN! Elvia wanted to awake from the nightmare. The sensation, the pain, the fear, the soul-crushing feeling of life drain, none of it felt like an illusion.

"… but it was a matter of time before Gwen finds out about Uncle Jun..."

"Uuuuerrggk…"

"... and I think we both know Sis well enough to guess her mad dog antics..." Strangely, Percy's eyes were not focused on his victim, but the flickering, dark horizon, denying her the final dignity of having her murderer stare her down. Acutely, she felt her flesh turning to crystalline salt. The agony, in a clinical sense, was beyond the sensory limit of her nervous systems. "So this isn't anything personal. If anything, I'd call it self-preservation."

Reflected in Percy's eyes, Elvia saw a great tendril descend from the churning heavens. It was the Shoggoth, and it had arrived to undo all the follies of man.

_GODS! This can't be real! None of this is real!_ An internal voice howled in desperation. _By the Nazarene! WAKE UP!_

Her eyes snapped open.

There was light, and once her pupils adjusted, she saw rock formations bustling with pine trees that grew like sinuous serpents—all around her, cloud banks and rolling seas of mist cascaded down calico granite cliffs. From the burning city, she was now floating listlessly through a stone mirage.

She raised her head.

Amongst the vague, mystical mountains, a mutton-jade rise pierced the heavens, shrouded in toiling cumulonimbus, cracking with blue-white lightning.

Her heart ballooned until it was on the verge of bursting. Was this the domain of Almudj? The fabled Unformed Land? The air here was different— the atmosphere was so thick with mana that she felt it permeate her mortal lungs.

The clouds parted.

A singular eye— cobalt and emerald and enormous beyond all comprehension, appeared and disappeared into the uncertain fog.

"GWEN!" Elvia called out, her spine growing rigid with alarm. There was no way this was Almudj. Here was a whole other Mythic, the one from Gwen's stories, one with whom she should have no discernible business.

"Thou art at a crossroads, companion of the Calamity..." a great, booming voice toiled in the recess of her head, filling her skull with its presence. Her host was enormous, stretching from peak to peak, coiled about the landscape as a roaring river. "Little Ginseng, O seed of ruin, thou shall choose which grain shall grow, and which shall wilt and rot..."

The Mandala sizzled out.
Within the confines of her Divination-infused vision, Elvia's mana presence doubled— perhaps tripled in intensity. It wasn't so much a matter of volume, as per Gwen herself, but density and purity. For a mid-tier Spirit and a mundane Conjurer, a significant boost in Affinity was expected. In Elvia's case, her transformation was transcendent.

"How is it?" Gwen turned to her betters for an answer, her basic knowledge insufficient to offset her anxiousness.

"No need to fret. I believe we have achieved our goal." Magister Rendfrey clapped his hands happily. "Most importantly, without incident! Without even a single contingency Glyph tripped! My word, Magus Song, are you certain your companion doesn't have a little mystical Essence in her?"

"Maybe she does. Evee's special," Gwen smugly replied, relieved that Almudj has Evee in her sights.

"No doubt. No doubt." Rendfrey nodded without refrain. "The diagnostics from our venture should serve the Tower well, I think. Dual-Spirits! And using only a Seventh-Circle Mandala following a classical Margulis-Gessner cross-modulation! I just knew the Dragon Blood would do the trick. Ah, but do not let me detain you— here comes our future saintess!"

Within the dissolving circle, Elvia emerged from the cascading sheets of silvery Conjuration, her complexion as pale and oily as lambswool. The girl was soaked in sweat, her blouse diaphanous enough for Gwen to materialise a towel.

"Evee!" Gwen approached without hesitation. "My God! You must be exhausted."

"I am alright." Elvia raised a dainty, trembling hand. "Gwennie, look at what I've got— Sen-sen!"

Her healer squeezed the Ginseng in her arms.
The Cleric's cheeks flushed crimson.
The air around Elvia shimmered.

"SEN!"

Gwen's body froze, not just at the sight of Elvia looking so radiant, but out of bone-deep, primal instincts ingrained into the genes of her ancestors. Walken as well, stiffened and grew pale, while the jubilant Magister Rendfrey sunk to his knees and whimpered.

"… Oops," her healer quickly relented. "That's enough, Sen-sen. Sorry everyone, I am not sure how to use him yet. Gwen is going to have to coach me."

"Sen!" Sen-sen attempted to wiggle out of Elvia's arms.

"Kiki!" Her Alraune slapped the Ginseng across the mid-section. "Kiki!"

"Sen-sen..." Sen-sen quailed before the bulbous floral Sprite.

Gwen waited for her jaws to re-hinge, forcing through Almudj's Essence so that ligament by ligament, her muscles warmed up. Next, it took all her courage to make her next enquiry. "Evee… is that— Dragon Fear? What the hell did you do?"

With a subtle gesture, her healer released her root vegetable from the Material Plane. After a final, relieved "Sen!", the Ginseng disappeared into its newly-formed pocket dimension. When Elvia gazed back, Gwen's healer appeared taller somehow, more dignified.

"You said you would make me special." Elvia's blushing face was such a juxtaposition against the sphincter-crunching horror Gwen had just endured that she suffered from whiplash. "Now— I am."

Gwen licked her lips, her tongue parched, her mind tabula rasa. Gods, Evee was beautiful— and terrifying.

"Are you... not pleased?" Elvia cocked her head. "But..."

For several seconds, the silence in the room grew thick enough to be sliced.

"Hahaha…" Golos' abrupt, interrupting laughter crowded the room like the stink of a suffocating, Draconic-curry fart. "So you've chosen. Well done, _Moxt Myvish_."

Gwen's brows furrowed as her Translation Stone performed its terrible divination.

"Little… S-sister?" She spun around toward Golos.
She knew it! She just knew it was too good to be true!
Gogo, an accommodating, considerate drake?
There was no such thing as a free lunch!
Fucking Golos, helping out, making Sen-sen obey!
She couldn't possibly be angry at Evee, so all she could do was steer the freight train of her anger elsewhere.

"GOGO! EXPLAIN YOURSELF! OR I SWEAR TO EVEE, _YOU'LL BE EATING CURRY OUT OF A TUBE!"_


"Gwen, NO." Elvia's svelt figure interposed itself between Golos and the impending eruption of ultraviolence.

From raising the hand of God, Gwen found herself suddenly diminished.

"Evee, step aside." Her voice grew low and loud like impending thunder.

"Gwen. No." Elvia's response was accompanied by Kiki crawling up her arm to sit on one shoulder. Before Sen-sen, the Alraune had proved too heavy for the small-framed healer. Now, that was no longer the case. "This isn't Lord Golos' problem."

"The hell it isn't!" Gwen growled. "Gogo! You know what you did! Get your ass over here."

"For aiding your mate in attaining her heart's desire?" Golos lacked even the barest token of repentance. "Upset that I satisfied where you could not, Calamity? You should be thankful for our 'sister' receiving what you had left disappointed."

"Our? Is Ruxin a part of this? Is Ayxin?" Her mind furiously worked through the list of Dragons who might traffic Elvia against her. "Is your _fucking_ father involved?"

"You overstep," Golos snapped back, leaking Dragon fear in the manner of an upset puss dissuading predators. "Calamity, watch yourself."

"Gwennie!" Elvia stomped her feet, her blue eyes flashing with annoyance. Usually, Gwen would have remarked that her healer's upset made her all the more adorable. With Sen-sen, however, a truly upset Evee was a catastrophe.

_Fuck!_ She ground her teeth. She knew she should have diced the little Ginseng fucker for spice when she had the chance. "Evee, you're not yourself, that's the Essence talking. Why this? Almudj is big enough for both of us."

"Almudj is Almudj. And just as it knows its mind." Elvia's golden hair streamed as she spoke. "I know mine. You're not Almudj's sock puppet, and neither am I."

"Evee, seriously." Gwen wanted to reach out, grab Golos, and wring the Wyvern like a wet rag until all the blood and poop oozed from every orifice. Her Evee! Her poor little Evee! Look at what they did to her beautiful Evee! "Don't do this."

"I am serious, Gwen. Dead serious." Elvia approached, leading with her eyes and her small, glistening mouth.

Gwen took a step back. "Evee…"

"Or are you saying my choice doesn't matter?" Elvia's accusation snapped like a whip. Elvia's irises were blue, so blue that they hurt Gwen's eyes. "Must you choose for me? Must a higher power choose for me? For all of the Nazarene's divinity, Father Maxwell says the Almighty gives us free will. Do you deny what I've chosen for myself, Gwen?"

"Evee, I didn't say that."

"Then a little respect would go a long way, I think." Elvia's words crammed Gwen's tongue back down her throat. "Gwennie, you can't just get mad at Gogo without asking why."

Gwen wanted to say "of course" she could; as a grown woman, she could do and say whatever the fuck she wanted. But she kept her mouth shut because she could see in Elvia's eyes she would have to bypass her healer first.

"You going to hide behind Evee, Gogo? A big Wyvern like you?" She tried a different approach.

"I see you squirm, Calamity." The Wyvern appeared to be enjoying himself. Why the fuck wasn't her Wyvern an idiot at a time like this? "Haha! As Father said, there is a foil to everything! As water is to fire! Metal to wood! So you are helpless against our Moxt Myvish! She's your Argonite!"

Argonite being the draconic equivalent of kidney stones, or so Golos had once overshared.

Gwen felt her face grow hot. She was so pissed off she could feel the Lightning encircling her irises, empowered by a feverish desire to make Golos into a Caliban sock puppet.

"Your hypertension is at a dangerous level, Gwennie." Elvia reached out with a compassionate hand. Gwen stood her ground. If she gave in now, what precedent would that set for Evee? For her stupid drake?

"Calm Emotion!"

Soft and gentle streams of mana flooded Gwen's conduits, bathing her in lukewarm water. The anger that had simmered against her throat and made her voice hoarse suddenly abated. Unbidden, her heart-rate slowed, and the depth of her breathing grew shallow. Without biting her tongue, she would have moaned.

"God damn it, Evee…" She breathed out, deflating as her rage died like Golos double-teamed by Big Birds. "What am I going to do with you."

"A hug would be nice." Her healer was inches away. "There's still five hours until midnight."

As commanded, she hugged her healer, allowing the sickly sweetness to envelop her annoyance like raw honey. The girl's soulful presence was akin to the milk of paradise.

"Hee." A pair of prying eyes interrupted her revelry.

"What are you staring at?" She snapped at her leering Wyvern. "Fuck off, Gogo. Go back to Ruxin and tell him I am very cross with you. Next time, if there's a next time..."

"Ingrate hag," Golos grumbled. Languishingly, he stepped back into the Summoning Circle. Momentarily, the Wyvern's humanoid shape flashed blue and white, turning Rendfrey's workshop quicksilver before his material body dis-corporated across space and time.

A precious silence descended, accompanied by the stink of curry.

"Miss Elvia…" Walken gently raised his voice, understandably impatient. "If I may ask…"

Her healer left her arms.

"I believe Sen-sen's leaves can be crushed and infused within Miliberg's Remedy-All Tonic to suppress Angie's condition," Elvia acknowledged Walken's concern. "Gradually, her constitution will improve, though I am unsure how many dosages it may take. May I recommend you take her to GOS, where I work, and put up a slate for Angie?"

"Yes, that's satisfactory." Walken nodded. "Thank you, Miss Lindholm. I'll do that tomorrow."

Unused to her assertiveness, Elvia's face grew scarlet. "Think nothing of it, Magister Walken, you've been such an indispensable help to Gwen and myself. It's I who owe you a favour."

"Hahaha..." Walken too, wilted under Elvia's sincerity.

The corner of Gwen's left eye twitched.

"... And my most sincere apologies, Magister Rendfrey." Elvia bowed to the owner of the workshop. "I haven't gotten used to Sen-sen's power yet."

"No problem, not at all." The now-recovered Rendfrey mopped his forehead. "The old heart isn't what it used to be. Dragon Fear! How exhilarating!"

"Allow me." Elvia raised a hand, "Peace be upon you, Magister. Aid!"

A golden halo encircled the Enchanter for a split second, disappearing as quickly as it appeared, suffusing Rendfrey's face with unbridled vitality. Straightening his back and neck, the Magister suddenly stood taller.

"Oh my." Magister Rendfrey inhaled and exhaled with great enthusiasm. "My girl, we need to get you to a Cog-Chamber! I insist, and I shall pay! What I wouldn't give to see your biometrics!"

Thanks to Walken's glib coaxing and a promise of favours from Rendfrey, the party of four arrived at a rotund Cog-Chamber.

Gwen wetted her lips at the intimate familiarity. The Cognition Chamber which they now occupied was the same as the one Henry had used to teach her, a memory that made her chest sore. How strange it was that the shoe was on the other foot— that she now plumbed Elvia's potential, while Evee stood in her place, wondering what lurked inside her Astral Body.

"Shall we recluse ourselves?" Gwen applauded Walken's foresight to offer the girls privacy. Different from biometric readings, the matter of one's Astral Soul was deeply personal.

"Please." Elvia bowed her head. "We shall soon be done, Lord Magisters."

Walken and Rendfrey exchanged a look.

"Of course, of course. Let us waste no time. You girls wanted to see the New Year's fireworks, yes?" Rendfrey added regretfully. "You won't want to miss that! What a wonderful occasion to celebrate with a show of colour! That said..."

"Rendfrey!"

"Yes, yes..."

"Operator, you may begin," Gwen announced to the general air once they were alone.

The air thrummed.
The distance disappeared.
The mirrored lake interior manifested.

And upon that illusory, parallel plane, a divine presence dawned.

"Holy shit, Evee…" Gwen had never seen Elvia's post-Sydney Astral Body, and so could not comment on Elvia's Affinity before Sen-sen's capitulation. To her knowledge, Elvia was gifted, but not so talented as to receive an invitation to Nightingales without Gunther, placing the girl at an Affinity apex of four-on-five at best. For Sydney, such an Affinity was well above average. In the Mageocracy's heartland, the benchmark for receiving the esoteric craft of Faith-weaving demanded purer talents. "What am I even looking at?"

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"There's so much mana..." Her healer's untainted, joyous excitement was turning Gwen's bones to jelly.

"Sen-sen! Kiki!"

Elvia's Spirits appeared beside her.

"ARRUGH!" In the Cog-Chamber, one's eyelids only worked marginally. Gwen had only felt such blinding, stabbing pain once before— when Alesia decided to show off in front of Henry and had seared their newest sister's retinas. This time, it took several circles of Essence to adjust to the lumen range.

"Kiki! Kiki!" The Alraune bathed in the light from her mistress, visibly growing taller and plumper. As for the blasted Draconic Ginseng, it fed its mistress a steady stream of raw mana through their Empathic Link, their conduit so thick as to distort the illusory space conjured by the chamber.

"What do you think?" Elvia twirled, or not, Gwen couldn't tell because Elvia was a stadium flood-light. In ripples, Positive Energy rolled out from around the girl's feet, brushing up against Gwen's heels like thick, heavy water.

Without a word, Gwen stepped from her Mary Janes and stood upon the Cognition Chamber's chilly floor, barefoot and bare-legged. Visibly, the outward ebb of Elvia's Positive Energy, that golden nectar of mana, began to swirl about her vague Void and electrified Lightning. Where their Astral Body's edges met, she saw for the first time, the outer walls of her energy-hungry aura absorbing Elvia's pearlescent motes of life.

The pleasantness was indescribable.
The tactility of Evee's Positive Energy halo was different from the violent consumption and the cresting climaxes offered by Caliban's Consume. Her healer's blessing was, Gwen blushed, a thing of womb water, a gentle envelopment that made her calm and sleepy and docile. For someone like herself, who subsisted on Almudj and lived each night as the patron saint of insomnia, the temptation to simply drown herself in Evee's chamber of the sea was all too real.

"Does Sen-sen have a combat form?" Gwen changed the topic. "Does Kiki?"

Elvia shook her head. "Kiki is still young, though she could be used if I need battlefield control. As for Sen-sen, I don't think I can command it's full power, at least not yet. Can you teach me how to use Dragon-Essence?"

There existed not a single ounce of desire within the entirety of Gwen's being that wanted to pass on the knowledge Ayxin had imparted.

"Gwennie?" Elvia's imploring eyes pulsed with star-fire.

"… sure." Gwen folded like a napkin. "It's largely instinctual though, all I can teach you is the meditation and a general idea of how to wrangle the impulse."

"Thanks, Gwennie. Let me finish up for the sensors."

With a final word, her healer's Astral Body turned supernova, bathing the room in light, casting behind Gwen a dancing line of macabre shadows, writhing like uncertain Calibans, eating away at the fabric of space and time.

London.

New Year's Eve.

Near midnight, the Thames lit up with vibrant Illusions and cacophonic Evocation. From behind the gargoyles lining the upper strata of Nightingale College, Gwen sat with her healer resting against her shoulder. Around the pair, their Familiars ran free: Kiki and Sen-sen paced around the rooftop, Caliban played pillow against her back, and Ariel drifted like a carefree cloud.

Though the eclectic, floral atmosphere was heartbreakingly evocative, Gwen's heart grew heavy, and not just with the weight of her Evee.

She had wanted a stronger Elvia.
She had fancied her Evee to be special, unique, a cut above the rest.
That was why, unsure of what else she could offer Evee, she had given Elvia crystals, bling, and Spirit.

But not like this.

Gwen understood what it meant to be the victim of the Yinglong's Draconic Essence. She knew all to well its intoxicating effect, the powers it offered, the way it bolstered her confidence to supernatural heights. She also knew that the Yinglong's Essence came at a cost—and that cost was a little snippet of one's self, the portion that was doubtful, cautious and meticulous.

"Sen!" Sen-sen wiggled back and forth, terrified and yet intrigued by the height, enjoying its restored limbs. Sulkily, Gwen observed that within its tiny body rested a reservoir far more significant than what Gwen herself had accessed, and now its resources were Evee's to abuse as the healer saw fit.

"Kiki!" the Alraune Sprite appeared more humanoid than its prior incarnation as well. It's leg tendrils were more limb-like and less akin to green caterpillars. It even had a little waist to go with its bulbous upper body, shaped like a rare stargazer lily.

And though Elvia had placated her unrest with a darting peck on the lips, a sourness remained, like sugarcane left fermenting for too long.

Was it because Elvia was no longer hers alone?
Or was it because Elvia had pledged herself to a different patron?
Over-possessiveness was poison, Gwen had learned the lesson from Dr Monroe, but she just couldn't shake the feeling that a precious thing had been denied. It was a perception that, if she had to vocalise her dissent, was akin to having one's stock portfolio two-grand short of a million, missing that sweet seventh digit.

A great cheer rose from below. The hospital staff, those soon to be on duty, took the opportunity to share the joy of entering a new year.

"Cold?" Elvia adjusted her head so that she rested yet more of her body on Gwen's torso. "Here, I'll warm us up."

A gradual heat transferred from Elvia's body to hers. With hyper-tier Affinity, Walken had said; unusual things happened to a Mage's Astral Body. With her Affinity to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning, much of her body chemistry had been affected. As for the Void, that she was alive and well was itself a miracle of modern Spellcraft.

With Evee, with the addition of TWO spirits, one Sufina's wily Junior, the other a Ginseng masochist, had gone beyond even that. Earlier, when the script from the Cognition Chamber spat out its numbers, both Magisters had steadfastly denied the accuracy of its numeric output.

"An Affinity of FOURTEEN?" Walken had raised a brow before passing the data slate to Rendfrey. "Well done, Gwen. We have coaxed a Celestial Archon from the Positive Plane. Our next step should be to call the Church of England and tell them we recovered the long-lost Spirit of Saint Cuthbert. Your knighting ceremonies are next week."

"A hyper-tier Cleric would cause a wave with the Vatican, what with their anointed saints and all." Rendfrey chuckled nervously, mopping sweat from his brow. "So er… we agree to keep this between us for now?"

"Yes." Walken passed the data slate back to Gwen. "The instrument isn't made for measuring twin-Spirits. I shall go and lodge Elvia's Spirit Registration with the Tower. We can leave the specifics for later. No doubt, there will be questions for Miss Lindholm shortly. Best leave this to the state's Clerical apparatus."

"When you get back to Great Osmond Street," Gwen likewise warned her healer. "Try not to bring back the dead accidentally."

"Like you?" Her healer's lips were coy.

Walken coughed.

Gwen recalled shivering then. The Magisters had downplayed the fact, but she could see on their faces the beginnings of trouble which none of them was equipped to forestall. Perhaps that was why her nerves remained frayed even now.

Had she, in her haste, in her love, in her all-consuming desire for Elvia's elevation, bypassed the threshold of theoretical Spellcraft? Had Elvia, the recipient of best intentions, accidentally ascended into quasi-Godhood? She had wanted Elvia to be unique.

But not like this.

_Christ Almighty_! Gwen fought back a morbid impulse. Like the fabled Victor Von Frankenstein, what had she created?
And the bleeding Draconic Essence!
Had the Cog-Chamber even taken _that_ in to account?

GODS! What would Yue say when she found out?
What would their oldest friend do to her if she found out how badly she had mangled Evee's body? Thinking of Yue erupting with the fire and fury of a fully-formed Tandy, Gwen's limbs grew covered with goosebumps.

"Gwen, you're shivering again." Elvia remained oblivious. What was the healer thinking? Gwen wondered. Probably how many more Blessings she could give at the Isle before she was OoM. Her healer's selflessness could be infuriating at times. "How's that possible? Between Almudj and my Bless, you can't be ill."

"I am just…" Gwen licked her lips. Evee's hot waterbottle aura was making her a little dizzy. "… so happy, is all. The fireworks, this city, everything's just so beautiful."

"It is, isn't it?"

"It is…"

_Bung! Pa—Pa—Pa—BOOM!_

A floral display in the form of a peace lily, white-hot and glimmering with mana, showered the pair with their multi-coloured light.

A cheer broke out all across the riverbank, welcoming the arrival of 2005.

One supernova.
Two supernovae.
Three supernovae in quick succession.

"Happy New Year, Gwennie."

"Happy New Year, Evee."

Little Evees, each at a fraction of the healer's Cog-Chamber luminosity, erupted all over London's skyline, turning night into day.

January 1st.
Morning.

With her nostrils still hinting at her healer's heavenly redolence, Gwen left her healer's college for Cambridge. In her immediate future, she would return every few days in the first week of January. Her precious hours, however, would be for business, such as at the Isle of Dogs, or to check up on Evee's progress with Draconic meditations.

A new year.
A new beginning.

Back home, on New Year's Day in Australia, most families opted for a spring clean, meaning every window and door of every house would be open, littering the lawn with trash from the last twelve months.

In London, with the temperature below six and snow up to the ankle, there was no such bustle. The magically inclined families would mostly be recovering from their food coma, lazing about in cosy houses with logs of inscribed yew burning gently, drawing in heat from the Elemental Plane of Fire.

The NoMs, if they were well-provisioned, would have something to celebrate as well. If not, then as little body heat should be expended as possible in this trying time.

Feeling affected by the view, she circled the blanketed city as it slept. The fallen snow had obscured the city's Districts, hiding the unseen suffering lurking in its industrial borders. When Gwen did a lap around her demesne, the children waved at her. For her subjects, the sight of the sorceress in her out of season dress had become commonplace. Now, with their bellies full of SPAM and the streets cleared of mud and refuse, the kids had excess energy to burn.

Gwen waved back, happy that the mud of Mudchute, salt of the earth had gained a little reprieve. When she circled the farm, Wally the caretaker gave her a smart salute, then commanded the dogs to give a great howl as she passed. It was a simple gesture, but one that made her well-pleased, a feeling that juxtaposed her prior oppression.

Was this Noblesse Oblige? She wondered. What had begun as sophistry to suck up to the old Magister was now manifested in reality. If her Master was alive right now, would he be weaving a garland of praises for her head, and would he be praising her with fatherly hugs and kisses?

It was difficult to believe sometimes; when she stepped back to take it all in, of all that had happened and what was soon to transpire. What began in Sydney as a vague desire to survive comfortably had morphed into a chimeric monstrosity with more heads and tails than she could count. At first, plunged into the inky, Spellcraft sea, she had blundered onto her self-driven quest out of jaw-clenching reflex. Like Pac-man acting on instinct, she had consumed foe after foe without overthinking, desiring only to live her second life freely.

Promptly, she entertained a dangerous thought. She had time, and indeed, the capital to do an "Hai Song". With what she had amassed thus far, she could retreat to Sydney, take up a side-gig clearing out Mermen or difficult and dug-in monsters to bide her time. Barring that, she could even find a cushy, laid-back position within the CCP if she so desired— although that might piss off Percy.

The point was that she could— but would not— be Hai's daughter.
She had made hard promises to too many people whose lives now depended on her maintaining momentum. That, and she was caught up in the undertow of things bigger than herself.

Gwen sped up.

She felt trapped. An ironic emotion, seeing as she was blasting across the English countryside at over a hundred kilometres an hour, an austere member of a select Cabal with the clout to go wherever they pleased. Wanting to leave the feeling behind, she pumped more and more mana into her spell, shrinking the radius of her barrier so that she could feel the whistling wind scraping against Gunther's double-glazed shield.

She had been reborn into this world, free, in a fashion.

Now?

Now she had the legacy left her by Master, Henry Kilroy, compounded by her siblings' promises to hunt down Sobel. She had the burden of Tonglv's success and the rise of her family's fortunes in Shanghai. Elsewhere, she had Mayuree and Marong in Myanma, and dragons dreaming of Centurion and Legion. There was also the IIUC's aftermath, Lady Grey's patronage, the Isle and its expectant folk, the printing press, the promise of Deepholm.
Evee's rebellion.
For all her freedom, she was everywhere in chains.

Unconsciously, Gwen upped her velocity once more.
Far below, confused farmhands waved at the rumbling contrail of mist and snow, unsure of whether this New Year's omen signalled weal or woe.


"Gwen, come in."

A smiling member of the student-staff opened the oaken doors to Lady Grey's office at the Master's Lodge.

Inside, Gwen was surprised to find the Victorian room curtains billowing, flooding the solemn office with stark, wintery light.

"Head Mistress Loftus." Gwen bowed as soon as she entered. An arcane Quadro stood with Maxine, as for their identity, she could hazard a guess that they were her tutors. "Milords, Sirs and Madams…"

There were two men and two women, and they instantly refocused their attention to catch Gwen in the crossfire of their imperious gazes.

"Your instructors," the Lady affirmed Gwen's suspicions before turning to the austere group with a nod. "Magisters. Please introduce yourselves to our principal contributor in bringing England's Dwarves back into the fold. I am sure you are as eager to begin your moulding of our Void Mage as she is eager to learn your spells, so please— help yourselves."

The first to tribute was a middle-aged gruff with a self-suffering demeanour. The man's hair, what was left of it, was slicked back and parted in the three-quarter style popular with military men.

"Nils Kott." The Mage's speech carried a Germanic inflexion. "Abjuration, Warding and Enchantment specialist. I will be instructing you on the creation, maintenance and disruption of Spells and Mandalas."

"Sir." Gwen delivered a heart-warming smile.

Her instructor appeared unmoved.

"… Major Kott comes to us from Ludwig-Maximilians Universität. He is on loan in exchange for one of our own. Gwen, say hi to one of the top Abjurers of München," the Lady kindly bridged the awkward gap. "I asked for the Major because he has extensive combat experience. It wouldn't hurt to ask him about the Luftwaffe's much-lauded Undead Purges carried out in Romania. Major Kott led the spearhead operation."

"Sir!" Gwen saluted.

The Major dipped his chin.

Without pause, her next tutor, an enthused individual, younger than Kott, presented his very English self. Fair of skin and dark-haired, the sorcerer sported the atypical pale irises of a Mineral Mage.

"Magus Song, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Maxwell Brown, of the King's Browns, from Lynn. Though I do hold the title of Viscount, I sincerely hope that you and I could be on first name terms."

Gwen and the instructor shook hands. True to his disclosure, the Viscount's fingers were warm and clammy.

"I shall be your instructor in Adaptive Spellcraft theory. My speciality is meta-magic, and I currently teach Spell Theory over at Emmanuel's. With your Omni-talent and my knowledge, I hope there will be deeper profundities with which we can plumb. Once our new Meister— That is, Magister Wen from Fudan arrives, she will be joining us in expanding the hitherto untapped potentials of Void Magic. I will also be advising your cousin, Miss Kuznetsova, on her thesis."

"Petra will be lucky to have you, sir. What manner of a caster are you, Magister Brown?"

"Myself?" Brown's grin grew broad. "I would fancy myself an Omni-Mage like yourself, Miss Song, although I was originally a Transmuter. My curiosity during my youth led me astray, I am afraid. I am no good in combat, though I hope with the aid of Magister Kott here, our endeavour may yet persevere."

"It's my pleasure to be under your care, Sir."

"The same! The same." The manic researcher withdrew with a face full of undisguised anticipation.

"Kareena Patil," the next instructor presented herself. This one had immediately attracted Gwen's attention. She was the only other Indian subcontinent magic caster Gwen had seen outside of Taj, and Gwen had met more than her fair share of Mages by now. With her creme latte complexion, the woman's age appeared repressed, revealed only by the subtle crow's feet around the edge of her olive eyes. "I'll be taking your Transmutation to the seventh tier, assuming your potential is genuine."

If Magister Brown had given a fiery introduction, then Magister Patil's was a cold one.

"Dame Patil has been kind enough to divert from her duties at Lucy Cavendish," Lady Loftus intervened before the atmosphere grew colder. "There is scant a more accomplished sorceress in Cambridge when it comes to Spellshaping."

"No need, Maxxie, to hide the girl's inexperience. I have seen your transcripts and your essays from Fudan, Miss Song. So much raw power without the understanding of the metaphysics that empower the phenomenon is a dangerous thing. Rarely have I felt such agony watching a sorceress trounce her way through an IICU." Kareena Patil remained aloof despite Lady Grey's kind intervention. "If you find my judgement too harsh, then prove me wrong in the months to come."

"I won't disappoint, milady." Gwen bowed again.

"I would hope not." Patil shrugged. "It's not my CCs been burnt."

"I am last then," spoke Gwen's final instructor, a woman in her forties with the bearing of someone from a period film. "My name is Keridwen Le Guevel, for the duration of your stay in Peterhouse and until my dismissal— I shall be your Illusionist, as well as your instructor of etiquette, speech, and decorum."

Gwen looked up at the Lady, who masked a smirk behind her flawless complexion.

"Raw power," Keridwen stated abruptly. "Must come with dignity. I have heard of your peerless duelling exploits and have extensively studied your actions during the IIUC, Miss Song. Sufficient to say, if you wish to one day marry into the most august of Europe's families, you will need to perform considerably fairer than your prevailing circumstances have prescribed. My mission is to ensure that you look well, present well, and keep well so that your prospects remain undiminished."

At the word "marry", Gwen's brow broke out in dismay. It was well, very well— that Elvia was not present to give her opinion on that matter. Thus far, other than the very confused Walkens of Brighton, she had not told anyone of that particular inclination.

"Yes, ma'am." She relented for now. With Evee's present condition, her buyer's remorse was as acute as ever. She loved her healer as a Dwarf loved Mithril, but now there was a Dragon-sized chasm between the pair.

"Great! And finally, you have one more instructor— me." Lady Grey stepped out from behind her desk. "From now until you are capable of enrolling and keeping up with Cambridge's classes— I shall be your chief tutor. I will inspect your progress fortnightly, and we shall have guidance sessions per fortnight so that you may ask me questions discrete from your instructors."

"No discretion is needed!" Magister Brown appeared shocked. "Gwen, I will give you my all."

"What's a Magister without a secret or two?" The Lady hand-waved the Viscount's concern. "Now, fair instructors, you may leave us. Gwen and I shall commence our first session. Peterhouse thanks you for your morning."

Her instructors shuffled out.
Servants shuffled in, laid down tea, then were gone again.

Gwen sat in front of her patroness, shy as a lamb in her black and white pleated dress.

"An august lot," Lady Loftus began.

"I am in your debt, milady."

Lady Loftus motioned for tea, and to Gwen's amazement, the tea set obliged.

"Think nothing of it. The most important thing about learning Spellcraft isn't having access to the best spell instructors, spellbooks or tutors. Rather, one is required to know the right questions to ask. To that end, let's begin with the fundamentals so you won't embarrass yourself later. Amuse me, War Mage, what Frontier nonsense have they taught you about the Imperial Spellcraft System?"

"The IMS began as an internationally ratified methodology for practising arcanistry first pioneered by Jean-Philipe de Périgord at Saint-Cloud," Gwen's recall was as expert as the vagueness of her historical understanding. "Later, Meister Wolfgang Maximilian of Berlin expanded the system during the unification. The Mageocracy was a late fosterer that vastly expanded Spellcraft during the hey-days of Pax Britannica, peaking just before the Great War. The controversy is that we appropriated the system from the central powers despite refusing to participate in its inception."

"Now that's an amusing bit of history." Lady Grey drew in the scent from her Earl Grey, a tea named after one of her ancestors. "The accuracy is wanting, I fear. Tell me, child, as a guest of the Red Keep, what have the Dwarves told you? I know the Deepdowners mention this fact at every turn."

"Hanmoul said Humans stole the structure for the IMS from the Seven Ancestors."

"They're not wrong." Lady Grey's lips curled with amusement. "Though theft is such a strong word. One may as well steal the concept of colour! Magic, sorcery, arcanistry— SPELLCRAFT— Gwen, is the observance of that which governs the hidden laws of nature— the rules that bind together this fabric we call the Prime Material Plane. Anyone sufficiently observant enough, or possessed of an earnest desire for discovery like Magister Brown, is going to uncover its rules sooner or later. So no, I would not venture to say who stole from who. The foundation was volunteered, at any rate—"

"Elves? Ma'am?"

"That's right. Now there's something you don't read in your Frontier manuals. Gwen, you've been studying Spellcraft, in a manner, but you've never tapped into its source. Take my Earl Grey, for example, you've drunk it all your life— but have you seen Wildland Keemun? Have you ever touched the flesh of the bergamot that gives this tea its unique scent? Did you know a change in the rainfall changes the flavour? Or drying out the soil fortifies the scent?"

Gwen shook her head.

"And so it goes with Spellcraft. In time, as you grow into a finer sorceress than you are now, you will inevitably meet our benefactors who centuries ago sowed the seeds, I suppose, to see what will grow. Mind you, I am speaking only of the IMS. Long before the Hvítálfar gifted their unique, esoteric understanding, magic was studied in enclosed Enclaves and hidden Cabals, consisting of Wizard Circles, Witch Covens and Warlock Conspiracies. And of course, we mustn't forget the Vatican— though that's another sarcophagus altogether."

"The Hvítálfar?"

"Indeed. It is what the High-born call themselves."

"Ma'am." Gwen could barely contain the excitement in her voice. "Are you saying Elves taught us sorcery?"

"No," Lady Grey bid Gwen curb her enthusiasm. "And nor is it 'Elves'. Our allies are a fringe group of forward-thinking radicals, and what they engendered was the beginnings of something no Demihuman could conceive, the 'rise' of Humanity. Can you imagine, Gwen, that though there are now billions of humans dwelling upon the Prime Material Plane, we were once the runt of Terra's litter? The most impoverished of the sapient races?"

"Is Spellcraft Elven?" Gwen did her best to digest the Lady's words, but her focus remained steadfast locked onto Elven matters.

"I see Henry's education has heavily favoured pragmatism," Lady Grey patiently commented. "Practice without context, how flavourless that must be, dear."

"I didn't mind it." Gwen stopped to retrieve a sweet biscuit.

"Just as well then. I doubt your other tutors would be as inclined as I am. They're used to older, more knowledgable pupils. Anyhow, to continue, let us begin with antiquity. No, Spellcraft isn't Elven. Humans always possessed their own magic. From the ancient rule of the First Dynasty to the Israelites' uprising against Ramses II, rare individuals in history have appeared with "Talent". Have you not heard of the Greek heroes of antiquity? Hercules? Hector, Perseus, the wily Illusionist Odysseus? The indomitable Transmuter Achilles? Doesn't it make your blood boil, child, to think that despite our not so distant history, explosions of raw Human talent had germinated empires stretching far beyond our means? Ancient magic, Faith magic, and... Necromancy... evolved entirely on its own, surprising even the Hvítálfar."

"The Elves…" Gwen reiterated.

"Yes, yes." Lady Grey smiled. "As for Elven intervention, there exists no lack of circumstantial evidence. That said, the Hvítálfar's schemes are beyond human history, if simply because the original contractees, their children, and their scions, had less life in them than the lowest Träälvor. Where the Hvítálfars have interfered in history, we have only ruins to tell the tale. For instance, Sumeria's rise to power hinted heavily at the involvement of the Fair Folk."

"Sumeria... Gilgamesh? I thought that part of the world consists of nought but Elementals and Black Zones?"

"Indeed." Lady Loftus took a sip to wet her lips. "Present-day academics believe the Mesopotamian intervention by the Hvítálfar may have to do with the growing potency of the Eleventh Dynasty and the rise of the Canaanites, who by now had developed a potent form of Faith-craft. Do you know of Enkidu?"

"The man-bull."

"Right. Gilgamesh's constant companion, was a being 'created by the Gods' to interfere with the urban King Gilgamesh's conquest. From what we know of the noble Elementals residing in the Babylonian basin, Enkidu was likely a simulacrum of sorts— a Flesh Golem created by the Archon of the Elementals, Ishtar, keeper of the Sacred Plains. According to the surviving manuscripts, the Golem was peerless in combat and all but resistant to magic. If so, how could a fledgeling King defeat such a being created from the raw magic of creation?"

Gwen's brain bloated from the flood of information. Elementals, deserts, ancient history, Faith Magic, Spellcraft— But then again, wasn't that the nature of history? The chronicle of Humanity was by nature an interwoven web of causation, tottering from one tragedy to the next, with kingdoms rising and falling like sandcastles at high tide.

"From the Epic of Gilgamesh, the poets speak of a companion of the King— a 'temple maiden' called Shamhat. She left his side, alone, mind you, to tame the Golem with her demi-divine body. In the desert, she made love to the creature for seven days and seven nights, until the Enkidu's angst abated."

"… how lewd."

"Poetic epics, much like our popular vid-cast, frequently whets its audience with high appeals to low appetites." The Lady laughed, pointing to Gwen's exposed ankles. "Have you seen your IIUC broadcasts? I am afraid not even the highest institutions of learning is above titillating the audience for ratings."

Gwen hid her cringe with another biscuit.

"Anyway," the Lady continued. "Enkidu has no gender. It's a golem. It has no genitals. Elementals do not reproduce as we do. It is neither male nor female. How does one make love to that?"

"… the Epic's composers must have had an incredible imagination."

"Haha… indeed. Of course, now we have confirmation that Shamhat was a Ljósálfar, an acolyte overseeing the Sumerian Sects. Our Hvítálfar herders wanted to see if our tenacious selves, capable of populating the harshest of habitats, could be a war potential against Ishtar."

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

"We were the Elves' spell fodder?" Gwen stated incredulously. "But…"

"And therein lies the Hvítálfars' dilemma. Humans, up to a certain point, whether now or in history, are easily steered, at least at first. Unlike the other races, say the Dwarves, with their ageless tradecraft, or the Green-skins, with their versatile mutability, or the Mermen, unparalleled in their propagation, what Humans excel in— is _chaos."_

"Chaos?"

"Raw, unmitigated, chaos— which we shall call innovation, invention and experimentation." The Lady's face grew flushed. "That's the beauty of our race, Gwen. Humanity can neither be contained or controlled. We proliferate regardless of the circumstances. With the meagrest aid, the slightest of hints, the most fragile seed of knowledge, we can bring about great booming Towers that defy distance to suck the marrow from Terra herself! Our benefactors may have withheld the true knowledge empowering magic— but Humankind overcame! The Dwarves sold us their Runecraft for food and materials, so we mimicked their Mandalas! The Mermen's attacks revealed the abundance of resource in the ocean, so now we harvest their kin, year on year!"

The Lady paused for effect.

"It is undeniable that modern magic and its foundations were never ours. Yet, it is without a doubt that we Humans are the legitimate successors of Spellcraft as it now exists. Human magic lacks nuance, as the Hvítálfar would say, and stability, so say the Dwarves— but it's ours. Only in our hands, does it flourish, do you see?"

"I do." Gwen felt as though passing through a threshold. "To surmise, the methodology of magic is akin to language, right? Incantations are the words moulding the mana, invocations its grammar, its resultant metaphors and synecdoches are the spells we shape. IMS— is arcane linguistics, for Humans. And like English, it is constantly evolving. Though its origins are myriad and rooted all over the world— from culture to culture, race to race, its semantics remain coherent enough to communicate every idea, from the simplest order to the most empathic Ode. What the Elves had begun, and we Humans propagated, is now a common and accessible linguistic system for all Humanity to tap into sorcery, heedless of racial and cultural backgrounds!"

Lady Loftus carefully lowered her tea. "Brilliantly surmised. Very concise. No wonder Henry saw something special in you. You're not just beauty and brawn, my dear! What a dangerously brainy little kitty you are."

"Why isn't this common knowledge?" Gwen asked. "I feel embarrassed to be so delayed. Not even Master was forthcoming, and he taught me Dimension Door out of his very own Spellbook."

"Oh, there's much you will need to un-learn. Since you mentioned Spellbooks, let's move onto that. The Grimoire, as you know, is a fundamental aspect of the Tower System your Master set up. The spells contained therein are accessible by anyone with the CCs and the talent, a pillar of the Mageocracy's centralised infrastructure. Had you stayed on the Frontier, you would have spent your whole life collating CCs to purchase the spells crafted by your betters. But now— furnished with proper access to the source of Spellcraft, you may compose your own. A spell, when deconstructed, is merely an arcane syntax, as you have interpreted."

Gwen understood what her matron was saying. Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man Magic Missile, and he'll roast squirrels for life. Pre-written spells were rote learning. True Spellcraft was academia.

"Another question?" The Lady was enjoying herself.

"I do." Gwen had been fermenting one since last year. "I have a question regarding Affinity. Is it possible for a Mage's Affinity to exceed 10?"

The Lady cocked her head ever so slightly. "Worried about Miss Lindholm?"

Gwen's eyes grew wide and innocent. How did her patron discover Elvia's talent so quickly? What did the Lady know?

"I take the Familiar ritual was successful?"

"… Yes, ma'am."

"I see." Maxine Loftus grew contemplative. "I suspected that at some junction, I will have to raise the topic of Miss Lindholm with you, though if you are acquiescent, I am more than happy to discuss the dilemma now."

"Dilemma, ma'am?"

Lady Loftus carefully stirred the sugar. The tea set added the milk, though she did not take up the fragrant beverage. "First, let us address the matter of Miss Lindholm's undeserved Affinity. It is NOT fourteen. Magister Rendrey and Walken are right in suggesting that the script is in error. Miss Lindholm's original talent is admirable but common. Even with her Alraune, she remained merely impressive. Unlike you, her ascension would not be for another decade or two, or five, not until the Alraune matures— whereupon she shall make a passable Combat Cleric."

"Is Kiki not... suited for Evee?"

"Why would it be? Let me be honest— the Alraune is wasted on her. I know a dozen students, Prime Mages like your Master Henry, who're still waiting to discover their life-long companions."

"Oh…" Gwen felt her heart prickle.

"Of course, the nature of Spirits and their acquisition is less predictable than the English weather. No amount of longing will gift them with Miss Lindholm's fortune."

Fortune? Gwen felt guilt lick her insides. If Sufina hadn't gotten to Evee, Yue and Whetu in time, she would have shipped three desiccated carcasses back to Australia.

"An excess of fortune, however, is a terrible thing," the Lady stated ominously. "I understand you have transactions with members of the Ordo Draconis, dear. What I don't understand is why you would offer up your dearest friend to be a 'Vessel'."

"A… 'Vessel'?" Gwen felt cold sweat soaking her dress. "What do you mean, ma'am?"

"A Vessel, an Essence holder, a—" Lady Loftus appeared to study her face to see if she was lying. When Gwen's guileless orbs spoke of complete earnestness, her House Mistress grew incredulous. "Oh, dear… You didn't know?"

"I…" Gwen bit her lower lip. "I've sort of just blundered and blasted my way through obstacles thus far."

"Goodness gracious. I take back what I said earlier." Lady Loftus raised a hypercritical brow. "You understand YOURSELF to be a Vessel of the Mythic that resides in Ayers Rock, do you not? Your brother-in-craft was as forthright as he could, but as you know, Henry was a deeply private individual."

"Ma'am, do you know about Almudj?"

"Should I know about Almudj?"

Gwen grew silent.

"Gwen." The Lady's tone grew serious. "I am your custodian and patron. Peterhouse has thus invested so far, two Senior Magisters and a Meisterhood, not to mention countless favours. For your instruction, I may be giving up much more. In return, it is your responsibility, your very purpose, to live up to mine— and Henry's— expectations. You must make up for what Sobel destroyed."

"And what is that?" Her tone grew low and agitated.

"Do you recall what you told Henry?"

"A deterrent," Gwen recalled her grandstanding.

"Correct. Peace through the threat of absolute destruction— mutual if it must be. Wars are coming, kitten. We will need your talents in the days to come to prevent another Sydney."

"You can't be serious." Gwen gulped. They were tottering from crisis to crisis, and she could hardly catch her breath. "With who?"

"With whoever wishes to threaten our cities. The Mermen, the Undead in Eastern Europe and North Korea, the savage Demi-humans of the steppes, the Elementals East of the Fire Sea; Spectre's shadow. We have been at peace, in a manner of speaking, for three decades, Gwen. Do you know how bloated the Empire has grown? How overtaxed the Communists have become? How ravenously the Americans plundered the New World? Humanity is a simmering vessel, and without the means to vent…"

The magic kettle whistled.

"… We have strayed." The Lady sighed. "Back to the matter at hand. You are a Vessel, by definition if nothing else. Miss Lindholm is a Vessel. Each Vessel wishes for certain boons when they take on their agreement with their respective Mythics. You wished for life— I assume, to offset the Void ravaging your body; and Miss Lindholm wished for unparalleled proficiency in her profession of choice."

"So, the Affinity isn't because of Sen-sen—" Gwen almost bit her tongue. "That's the Ginseng… from the Mythic's sanctuary."

"The Ginseng is the conduit," Lady Loftus clarified. "The more profound the conduit, the more conducive the contract. I wonder, what was your conduit?"

"So Elvia…"

"Is no more improved than she would have been otherwise. Assuming the girl began with an Affinity of 4, I would place her Affinity at 8— a tragedy, considering what two Plant Mages could have achieved with the same opportunity. Think, Gwen; the Mageocracy has missed a chance to produce two facsimiles of Henry. Why didn't you listen to Ollie? Or Mattias? They're right, you know. One wonders why you take your senior's advice for nought. Had you made the right choice, two Great Houses would defend her to the last heir, while she could have remained simple and sheltered."

Gwen said nothing. Her mind was too numb to respond.

"Now, thanks to your generosity." Lady Loftus' criticism was without mercy. "Miss Lindholm will have to make up to us. A Mythic's Vessel makes the rarest of Mages, you of all people should know. Why else are you special? How many Void Mages may use Void Magic with impunity? Who can do what you can do, at your age? You've put Miss Lindholm in a precarious position, Gwen."

"What will happen to Elvia?"

"Once her talents are verified." Lady Loftus was once again studying her face. "Your friend will be transferred into the Order of the Bath, where she shall work toward becoming a Knight Companion."

The colour in Gwen's cheeks rose several degrees. "No way. A Knight's Companion…"

"... Is a title and a Rank, denoting membership in the Order of the Bath. There exist only twenty-four official posts otherwise." Lady Loftus sighed wistfully. "Good grief. The dangers of ignorance."

"Sorry." Gwen was still reeling from the idea that she and Elvia were "Vessels". Why hadn't anyone told her before? Then again, who in her orbit had been an expert on Draconic vassals? Ayxin of course— but the Dragon Princess owed her nothing. If anything, their mutual admiration for Jun made them natural competitors. "Ma'am, is this common knowledge?"

"Nothing involving Dragons can be common. In this regard, we have only hearsay. A better instructor than I... might know more."

Gwen tried to regulate her breathing.

"Which brings us to an unpleasant topic of conversation." Lady Loftus drew a Glyph in the air. The windows slowly swung inward, leaving the room utterly silent but for the crackling of the inscribed yew logs. "Gwen, can you clarify what your intentions are with Miss Lindholm?"

"Protect her with everything I've got, Knight or no Knight," Gwen stated.

"… I mean as a companion."

"Oh… OOH." Gwen's lips made an "o".

"Always check for crows on your outings…" Lady Grey pointed outside the window, were a pair of crows, ubiquitous in London, sat opposite the French windows. "Or use your Portable Habitat. Why in God's name would you do that sort of thing in plain view, when there's still light? At least wait for nightfall."

"Ah…" Gwen choked on embarrassment. She doubted her conversation with Elvia would have gone nearly as well if they had discussed it in the privacy of the Habitat's bedroom.

"It was just as well they were my Crows, and not Ravenport's."

"Oh thank God…" The unceasing revelations had made her quite breathless. "That said, milady, am I to understand you've been spying on me?"

"Firstly." Lady Loftus raised a finger. "It is not my business to question how you spend your time, or with whom you find your fun. What I loath is your lack of discretion."

"Understood." Gwen lowered her eyes. "I shall be cautious next time."

"Secondly." Lady Loftus raised a second finger. "Being a Vessel completely complicates one's political capital."

Gwen grew silent. She empathised with her patron's position— but what about Evee? Had she inadvertantly fucked her friend sideways?

"Thirdly, should Miss Elvia elevate herself— and she shall— that will mark her as an Exalted of The Most Honourable Order of the Bath, a bearer of its burnished sun crest. Her duty means she shall not have you or anyone as a carnal companion. Should she renounce celibacy, her position and the Relic she bears—"

"And what if Evee doesn't want to enter the Ordo?"

"So long as she is a citizen of the Mageocracy, a healer, and a Vessel, what has been squandered will not be squandered again."

"She can't refuse?" Gwen's tone grew menacing.

"Why the upset? It's not as though you can deny your future Magisterhood." Lady Loftus remained unfazed. "The Mageocracy will not risk either of you slipping from its grasp; your extinction would be a preferable alternative— that or Stasis."

"If I may be so ungrateful." Gwen fought back the death-chill in her chest. "May Elvia and I leave for the New World? I have received offers from them as well if you must know."

"Of course, and endure WORSE terms? With folk who don't harken after Henry, who don't care for your companions? What would Gunther think of such ungracious behaviour? Not to mention Miss Lindholm, with her ordinary talent, would not survive a year in the Protestants' Lutheran Seminary. They'll break her like a bare-back heathen on the wheel. If you wish to cut and run, Gwen, I would recommend China. Naturally, we would withdraw our Magisters, and Wen's Meisterhood will be rescinded. But I am sure the Godless Communists would welcome a Void Mage."

Now that the Lady's sweetness was spent, Gwen realised that Maxine Loftus was far from gentle and beyond terrifying.

The Lady's candidness, however, was refreshing.

"I understand." Gwen nodded. "My enquiry was… academic."

"And my advice merely hypotheticals." The Lady smiled. "Remember, whatever you wish for Miss Lindholm, think of your own future as the herald of our cause— consult someone… Richard perhaps, or Gunther, if you find us oldies wanting. Don't let either of your Affinities— or your patron, decide for you."

"I understand." Gwen took a deep breath. "… out of curiosity, Ma'am, just how much of my condition do you know?"

"How much do you wish to divulge?"

"I'd prefer none."

"Then leave it at that. Didn't Henry say that Magisters and secrets all go together like Dragons and Virgins? It comes with the title, dear."

"One last thing, if I may be so forward— society and nobility aside, what would the Tower, the Mageocracy even, perceive of my… indelicacy with Miss Lindholm?"

The matron of Peterhouse smirked. "It's not all doom and gloom, Gwen. Let me conjure a Greater Image for you. As you are now? You will lose a significant portion of your freedom. Later, if you graduate a Magister of the Middle Faction, most if not all will turn a blind eye, as your worth far outweighs the trouble of censure. And if and when you become a Tower Master, even the Grand Master of the Order of the Bath will grin and bear whatever you wish to do with their Companion. He may even see your affection as a leash, well worth a sullied Companion. Beyond that..."

Maxine Loftus took a deep breath.

"… there are two endgames. If you become a great bower for the Mageocracy as Henry was, then truly, there are very few shackles to your freedom other than those of your own making— family, Apprentices, favoured folk. If you become its vorpal sword— as Sobel was meant to be, then who would dare question anything you do?"

"I see." Gwen rested both trembling hands on her knees. "Thank you, Maxine. For being so sincere with me. In the same vein, may I know more about my Master? I know so very little about him."

"You may." Her patron willed away the tea tray. "But our present lesson is at an end. I have business elsewhere. Do remember that the IIUC's final results will be out in a fortnight, so plan your London outings accordingly. Heed well my advice, child. Speak to your 'friends'. If you feel depressed, go and see the sights in Cambridge. Also, ask Keridwen to change you into something more official. You are, after all, a Cambridge celebrity…"

London.

Nightingale College.

The first medic-call of the year sounded across the courtyard of the research building. Though not a principal port of call in London, the teaching hospital does cater to patient overflows arriving from combat zones all over the Mageocracy and its territories.

Deep within the hospital's bowels, the Teleportation Circle linking it and the Shard flared Mithril and quicksilver, pulsing in tune to the siren's wail keening after the hospital's skeleton staff.

A physician in customary white, stained with congealed gore, appeared beside a gurney to greet the rush of nurses and doctors stationed since the evening. Promptly, the incoming physician drew a Glyph in the air.

"Magus Joseph Carmichael, requesting triage handover to Nightingales!" the transferring doctor called out. "The patient is Magus William Fitzgerald, Code Orange, suffering from acute pulmonary obstruction due to quasi-magical diffusion of the alveolar. Currently, the patient has a situ Weiss-Hermann portable Ventilator implanted via trach. Pharmacology reports 5mg of Prilosec per alchemy cycle, catalysed by 1mg of Stirgenix. Potion injectors are infused with 12mg Ipratropium infused with 30-70 Wyvern serum."

The receiving practitioner caught the glowing Glyph.

"Magus Derek Hope, initiating handover." Hope took one scroll through the data slate and deflated. "Jesus... are you serious?"

"Yes. Acute trauma of the left lumbar, punctured lung, poison, and Arachnid Hex, tier 4-5."

"Active?"

"Repressed, for now."

"Christ, he's sixty-four? Multiple combat tours… old injuries— the Boer Conflict, the Ashantee War— That's two decades ago. How the hell is he still standing? Why was an old vet like that still serving in Ireland?"

"Don't ask me." Doctor Carmichael shook his head. "We're barely keeping the floor open over at Dublin at the moment. I hear the staging zone on the Isle's a bloodbath."

"Dare I ask why Magus Fitzgerald has arrived at our teaching hospital rather than Black's or Royal Alfred's or Cambridge?"

"I don't. Do you?"

The room grew uncomfortably silent.
The gurney's diagnostic magic beeped.

"Not at all." Hope swore internally. The patient, as far as he could tell, was a political case. For various reasons, the older generation of combat vets possessed bodies insensitive to magical healing. Some of them had wounds from Hexes that no longer existed, thanks to the Mageocracy's extreme prejudice during the Beast Tide. Others had scar tissues both inside and out, piling on top of damage decades in the making. Nonetheless, any hospital that allowed a "War Hero" to die received a black mark. To send such a patient to a teaching hospital to allow the younger physicians to test their mettle under the pretence of triage, was a way to preserve the reputation of the Great Hospitals.

"Who's rostered right now?" Magus Hope turned to his team of nurses. "In the Emergency, I mean."

"Doctor Lindholm and Witherspoon," the machine-nurse replied without hesitation. "Ser Witherspoon is a fine physician, and as for Doctor Lindholm, she's the one with the reputation, sir, she's why Lady Astor did the shakeup last year."

"Director Aston— do you mean the trouble maker who got herself a pledged Knight of St Michael by sucking eggs?"

"Yessir."

"Hmm…"

"I should go." Doctor Carmichael returned to the circle. "I assume our patient will receive your utmost duty of care? He is, I should remind you, a holder of the Gallant Cross. There aren't too many Maguses with that sort of standing left in London. The home office will not be pleased."

The portal flared.

With Carmichael fled, Hope turned to his attendant. "What else do you know?"

"Not much. Doctor Lindholm has recused herself from Lady Astor after the Director returned to Cliveden. She is also a close associate of Lady Rothwell, though only the SRC President and not the family. Beyond that, I do not believe she has any sponsors. Oh, she also chums with one of the Frontier contestants from the IIUC, the Void Sorceress."

"You seem to know an awful lot, Marie."

"It's common knowledge in the ward, sir. After she stirred up all that trouble with Lady Astor and got Nancy and the girls removed from GOS, here at Nightingale, we've kept an eye on her."

On the gurney, the diagnostic displays began to issue the inevitable warning signs. As expected, the alchemical infusions were failing.

"Very well." Hope acknowledged the time for deliberation and discussion was over. "Put him with Miss Elvia. Send her an assistant as well. Tell her to do her best— and that she won't be held accountable even if the Magus succumbs to his natural condition."

"She won't?" The nurse appeared disappointed.

One glare from the Magus was enough to wilt his nurses' questioning eyes. The stupidity of these waifs was beyond comprehension. Were they afflicted with Enfeeble Minds from birth?

"Go now!" Hope barked, tapping his slate to confirm the transfer. "And don't forget to tell Miss Elvia we have the utmost confidence in her ability to apply her training."