Gwen emerged from the lecture wholly impressed by the breadth and depth of knowledge demonstrated by the resident scholars of Cambridge. What imprinted on her the most was how the lecturer scholar framed each point of expertise with history and context, often from a multitude of cultural-racial perspectives.

Though seemingly dry, these leys of reference acted as vectors within her mind, linking hypothesis and speculation to attain a new elucidation of the role she may yet occupy in the event of aiding Sufina's ascension, leaving her hungry for more.

Once the lecture was over, a few brave freshmen approached Gwen to say hello and offer notes. Gwen replied with big smiles and handshakes, thanking them for their welcomes. On their Message devices, they exchanged contact details, making sure to flair their Colleges and professions.

When others saw that the Class VI War Mage was amicable to such exchanges, a small line formed to greet her, only dispersing when one of the Beadles appeared to growl at the students, scattering them so that the next lecture could carry on.

Once she extricated herself, Gwen made haste for Emmanuel College, where she was now late for her appointment with Gracie Hillbrook. Lucky for her, she had the privilege of flight.

"Gwennie!" Gracie looked up from the data slate she was studying. "How was Singapore? Did you finish your quest?"

"Things got somewhat complicated." Gwen checked the laboratory for signs of their instructor. Wen was missing as well, though that was because the soon to be Meister was touring the Colleges, giving lectures on the physiology of the Void Element. "Where's Maxwell?"

"Lecturing." Gracie yawned, replaced the data slate, then took up another. "I am sorry to hear your quest didn't go as planned."

"Things seldom go as planned." Gwen shrugged. "But it'll sort itself out. How are you feeling?"

"Never better." The Void Illusionist passed her a slate. "My Elemental Affinity is almost at tier 5 now. The lower-tier spells take much less effort, and the drain on the higher-tier spells isn't nearly so taxing."

"That's wonderful." Gwen had a look through the specs. "How's Conjuration coming along?"

"I've got the theory pat-down." Her Void-afflicted compatriot paused. "I expect tier two isn't out of the question by the year's end. Forgive my rudeness Gwennie, but no luck on your Master's Familiar spell?"

"None-what-so-ever." Gwen shook her head sadly. "Sorry to disappoint, Gracie."

"I am already beyond thankful." The young woman motioned to her data slates. "I'd never thought I'd prove useful, much less have a chance at using my talents. It's all thanks to you."

"No need to be humble with me; you're the one who endured." Gwen thought of the ashen Gracie after Gwen had muddled up an overzealous Essence Tap. That particular experience, Gwen figured, was one that aptly suited the hyperbole of 'worse than death'.

"Have you settled into your classes for the trimester?" Gracie asked. "As a graduate of sorts, I can help."

What the girl meant was that she had spent almost six years listening to lectures and studying the various courses Cambridge had to offer while serving as the college's resident guinea pig. Though her practical theory was unimpressive, Gracie was a capable administrator and scholar, even if somewhat bookish and unlearned. For the Void Sorceress who had not expected to live past thirty, academia was where she excelled.

"I am taking Advanced Astral Theory and History, Foundations of Politics and International Relations, Contemporary Issues in Government and Frontier Governance, and finally Politics, Peace and Persistent Prosperity," Gwen recounted her courses.

"No sorcery lessons?"

"I'll be taking those privately, paid by CCs, though I'd rather attend practicals," Gwen clarified. "Are you keen to come along? Jean-Paul said he's all in if we're going to adventure somewhere. All we need is a Cleric and an Abjurer."

"If you've got something in mind, I am in." Gracie nodded vigorously. "After Michaelmas?"

"Between that and Lent," Gwen agreed. "I am thinking of volunteering up north, in Ireland."

"Where Miss Elvia is stationed?"

At Gwen's behest, Gracie and Jean-Paul had both met Elvia. As expected, the happy healer was wholly unaffected by the Void casters' Negatively aligned presence. When both grew enamoured with Elvia, Gwen affirmed a hypothesis where Negative Affinity Mages had a predisposition to enjoy the company of those with highly positively-attuned Elements.

As for Gracie's well-placed speculation, Gwen could only laugh. "Or maybe the Murk. I feel a bit guilty for leaving it entirely to the Adventurers. I want to visit Hanmoul, as well."

"The Dwarves would like that. I think Richard would like that too. More than going up to Ireland." Gracie paused. "I believe you told me the higher-ups told you to stay away from Ireland?"

"Ahahaha, that's right." Gwen disguised her awkwardness with a smile. "Well, if you don't need a top-up, then I am off to see Dede, care to join me?"

The sorceress shook her head. "I have to finish these before Supervisor Brown gets back."

"Is it weird that we study under Max?" Gwen remarked. "While he studies us? And that's our graduation thesis— how to survive and prosper as a Void Mage?"

"At least with Sir Maxwell as our Super, we're free to do as we please." Gracie possessed far more grace than Gwen. "And he's expert enough at everything to teach us what we need."

A fact that was mostly true, Gwen conceded. Peculiar as the duck-rearing Magister was, Maxwell Brown came as advertised, an expert in more or less everything, a self-taught Omni-Mage in name and an ambitious magical discoverer of yet untamed frontiers.

"Suit yourself." She looked around the laboratory once more, her eyes bouncing from instrument to instrument. "Alright, I'll be going."

Cambridge.
Emmanuel College.

The enormous form of Dede the duck floating serenely on the school's now-infamous pond drew furtive glances from the freshmen who tiptoed by, some going as far as to weave illusions to hide their presence.

Others walked taller, having already paid their tithes for the month, and so laughed and jeered at the juniors who confusedly retreated from the brimming waters.

"QUACK!" the drake roared, sending a ripple of water to lap at the pool's edge. With only two powerful strokes, it approached the sedge and parted the stalks, drying itself as it waddled toward Gwen.

"Hey, buddy!" Gwen patted the duck on the head. Compared to nine-months ago, Dede was now the size of a small horse or at least the height of one. Though he hadn't received an official weighing, some suspected the duck possessed a good ten stones of pure avian sinew and muscle beneath its vibrant feathers. As for the mallard's strength, Gwen had once seen Dede fish a work Golem that had lost control at the fish docks out of the water.

In recent months, Dede had taken up crashing Mage Duels whenever they were held in the open, often subduing both contestants before extorting from them HDMs. When the students complained, they were told that the duck was a vital experiment the Magisters of the College were carrying out and if they wished their HDMs back— they should at least be strong enough to best a duck. Naturally, the instructors forwent the fact that Dede was now at minimum at the seventh or eighth tier, requiring a Magus-lead party of Single-School Mages to subdue.

"Quack!"

Gwen fed the duck a drip of her Essence. "You won't believe what happened."

"Quack? QUACK! QUACK!"

"Yep, didn't go well at all. Getting the Scale back just got crazy complicated."

"Quack?!"

"I know, I am disappointed too." Gwen sighed, finding solace in stroking the duck's back, wondering with a small mote of paranoia if that's how Almudj felt when dealing with her.

"Quack!" Dede flapped its wings.

"Oh?" Gwen looked up toward where the duck had gestured. "Your friends are back?"

Above, she saw a host of crows, or perhaps Jackdaws. Once their eyes met, the dark-feathered avians quickly alighted around the duck, forming a circular murder.

"Caw-Caw!" The leading bird was familiar to her, for the bird was near twice the size of the other Crows and had a keen intelligence about its eyes. "Caw! Caw!"

Dede placed a wing over the raven.

"You've become good friends, eh?"

"Caw!"
"Quack!"

Ambivalent as to whether she should learn 'Speak with Animals', a second-tier Divination spell that took significant energy to master, she released her Familiars to benefit from the Empathic Link.

"EE! EE!"

"SHAA!"

Across the pool, the group of freshmen that had been gawking at her gasped, some in horror, others in barely contained excitement.

"Hello!" the raven bobbed its head.

"So." Gwen made sure her skirt was tucked before she addressed the bird. "You're not Mage, are you?"

"Nay!" The answer was no. When the Crow first began to talk, it almost blew Gwen's mind. When it appeared the Crow only knew how to say a dozen words, she had grown immeasurably disappointed.

"Sure you're not a Familiar?"

"Nay!" the raven replied with a negative.

"So you're a wildling, here in London?" she knelt to inspect the raven once more, checking its leg for bands or Storage Rings. "And you don't work for a Mage?"

"Ya! Ya!" The raven hopped closer, its eyes were as bright as polished Mithril, with both irises the colour of quicksilver.

"What a beautiful bird." Gwen struck out a hand and slowly inched toward the raven. The raven leaned in and allowed the sorceress to pet its feathers. Its feathers, Gwen noted, had a metallic sheen, but the section around its neck and belly were incredibly soft and felt good to touch.

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"Quack!" Dede approved of her acceptance as she stroked the bird.

"Alright, alright." Gwen calmed Magister Brown's favourite duck. "Here—"

She gathered a mote of Essence.

"Ya!" The raven took the mote, grew suddenly stiff for a few seconds, then danced happily by hopping about here and there, performing a little dance. All around them, the murder cawed, some flapping away, others joining in some unholy ritual by fanning their tail feathers. To Gwen, her goal was to give Dede a friend and companion. Originally, she had thought Dede would have picked one of the female ducks for apparent reasons. As it turned out, Dede was more of an inter-species fanatic with exotic tastes, not unlike a North Shore trust-fund kid with yellow fever.

"… Just a mote." Gwen patted the duck. "We don't want Max in a huff now, do we? Your mate's going to live a long time, Dede. And she'll have no enemies that can outfly her."

That last part rang true, for she had seen the enhanced raven in flight. Thanks to her Essence boost, the bloody thing was a streak of Void-coloured lightning.

Having now reported to both sorceress and duck at Emmanuel, Gwen's errand concluded.

Outside the college, Gwen checked her Message device. Seeing that both Petra and Richard had not responded, it was safe to assume the two preoccupied and she would be enjoying her butter chicken alone.

Like herself, her family members' new lives at Cambridge had been full of enterprise.

Petra, for instance, had taken up with the Dwarves, learning directly under Yossari after receiving the college's benediction for extra-curriculum credits. In the months that she had remained in London, she had not only picked up a fan club but also made a name for herself as the researcher of the Nephrite Spellcube, a systematic spell-stowing system surging in popularity among the junior Mages studying Enchantment.

Hers was a much-desired outcome that aligned with Petra's original objective, for her Magus Thesis' submission was the founding of an "Enchantment-based Spell-storage System that increased the Versatility of Enchanters". Through her improvements to the project initially began by Wen, Petra's patented Spellcubes were now longer-lasting, easier to maintain, and more adaptable in the number, type, and Meta-magic they could capture. That an Enchanter could, upon taking on the mantle of a Spellcube user, replicate five-to-six instances of her party's spells, or begin the adventure with a trove of healing, restoration, detoxification and detection spells would also significantly improve the quality of life for Adventuring Enchanters— a Mage Class infamously restricted to either item-combat or illicit Mind Magic. The Spellcube, in Petra's words, wouldn't make Enchanters frontline fighters— but it would make Enchanters the most versatile School of Magic outside of Transmutation and Conjuration.

But there was a caveat. Aside from needing an enormous VMI and a high Affinity, copycat spells lacked the intricacy of the original. For instance, an untrained Illusionist still had little to no control over the manifestation of an Illusion. Likewise, upper-tier Transmutation like Investitures and other polymorphic spells used by Mages without Affinity in Transmutation would end in spectacular and horrific deaths. Even Divination, when used by a non-Diviner, could drive a Mage insane with its flood of voices and thoughts, just as anything beyond essential healing of wounds by unguided application of pre-condition flow of Positive Energy would hasten a patient's demise.

Petra's unannounced goal, however, was something Gwen understood to be quite controversial— the creation of Spellcubes that could be used by Non-Mages. It was with great irony that her cousin's unnatural ambition had its origins in Magister Wen, whose altruism gave way when a Void Sorceress fell into her lap.

Whatever the case, Petra's goals were clear and within reach, and that was something to envy.

Conversely, Richard's two trimesters at Cambridge saw the Conjurer take to London's social scene like a fish to water. Perhaps it was because her cousin had been reared by Prince's into the Old Boys' culture, or maybe he was simply that charismatic, Richard was already a junior vice-chair in one of King's oldest societies, with the motto being "All the King's Men", or "The most Exclusive Society of the Kinsmen"; both of which reeked of obnoxiousness.

Of late, her cousin had passionately advocated her visitation of one of their stag parties, promising a bevy of men lusting to enter her service at the Isle of Dogs. To Gwen's knowledge, Richard wasn't joking either. To date, at least twenty of the junior staff at the Isle of Dog's various projects were members of King's College. If the trend continued until the Isle's final phase, she might very well be the figurehead of a newly formed "Old Dog's Club."

For this reason, Gwen had felt the temptation to humour her employees. But then, inevitably, she thought about Evee still slogging through blood, shit and Spellfire in Ireland and the sheer hassle of having to smile and nod and pretend to listen to someone talk about their family or their magic as they licked her over with their eyes. When she thought of that, even her half-hearted interest waned.

On the sorcerous front, Richard had finally surpassed a major Conjuration milestone, reaching the seventh tier of expertise by mid-September. Concurrently, with his Abjuration skills bottlenecked at five, her cousin considered between picking up Transmutation or Illusion.

For a Water Mage, Transmutation was a staple School of Magic that offered everything from Advanced Spellshaping to body-morphic magic. On the other hand, even without Transmutation, Lea, Richard's Undine Familiar could double as a gateway, leaving Richard to exercise the School of Illusion. The latter's advantage was that water, being a soft-Abjuration element, benefited most from obfuscation, evasion and deflection rather than erecting hard-shield after hard-shield like Earthen, Crystal or Dust Abjurers.

Other than that, Richard had taken out a small loan from the family bank, AKA "Gwen", to purchase an apartment in the Isle of Dogs.

"Here is my home now," the land-owning Mr Huang had said with a smile. And Gwen had felt secretly very happy indeed.

And so, inspired by her cousins, Gwen readied herself for the attainment of her long-promised slice of personal paradise, a domain she could mould as she saw fit to recreate some of that nostalgia from her long-lost homeworld.

Peterhouse.
The Old Court.

From her dorm, Gwen primed her body for the nine hectic weeks of tutelage that would culminate in a slew of assignments and examinations. Thankfully, for the first year, the course content of her chose subjects of governance were all case study reports, wherein during her second year, she would have to engage in active field surveys. Of her courses, therefore, it was only Advanced Astral Theory and History that consisted of a written examination. That said, with her Essence-enhanced memory and her grandmother's Ioun Stone of Clarity, she felt confident her grades should satisfy.

As for her remaining waking hours, she continued intermittent lessons with her tutors, as advised by Lady Grey, as well as her monthly meetups with her House Mistress to discuss concerns, progress, and to enjoy High Tea. Though the Marchioniness did not offer the selfless devotion of her Babulya, Gwen steadily received her bi-weekly dose of human affection.

Overall, her planning had paid off. With the Westferry Print Works handed to Lorenzo and the Isle of Dogs presided over by Eric Walken and a growing battalion of NoM auditors, she had time to focus on academics and personal development, researching her Master's Tomes for other forms of potentially degenerate arcanistry.

Shockingly, her planned peace lasted six weeks.

Then, one cold November morning, while she and Gracie burned vitality and mana in the belly of an advanced Cognitive Chamber, trouble came calling in the shape of a Dwarf and a reporter.

Her callers were Yossari Vildrenbrandt, Alchemist Master of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth and Dominic Lorenzo, who after hearing the Dwarf's request deemed it best that he accompanied the Master.

"Gwen." Yossari was in a right tiff; her face was the colour of at least six slammed steins of finest stout. "Greetings from the Murk, Lass. I've got a Message from Lady Hilda. Think yer got sometime fer us?"

"Always." Gwen bid Gracie to take a break, then mopped the sweat from her excited face with a towel. When Gracie asked if she should leave, Gwen bid the girl stay. Glancing at Lorenzo, she then addressed her Dwarven ally. "You look atrocious. Has something terrible happened?"

"Aye." The Dwarf's shoulder's drooped. "A Deepdowners duo, newly arrived from Bavaria, has detained Hanmoul and Hilda. They're livid that she opened up the Murk to Human Adventurers and want to rescind the treaty we signed with the Shard. Hanmoul's people tried to reason with them, but they've got the Citadel rightly rilled up. The Guildhall's split in our favour— for now, though I don't know fer how long if the Iron Guard's Captain and our Deepdowner is absent from the council. Yer've met our nobles, haven't ye? Bunch of self-serving Murk rats!"

"I thought we're doing well down there." Gwen cocked her head in mild confusion. "I mean, casualties are a thing of course, but you guys are down to the Deep Murk, aren't you? New Citadel and all that. More progress in a year than three decades."

"Tis true." Yossari appeared sheepish. "The Deepdowners though, they would rather we never pierce the Murk at all than to do it with Human help."

Conservatives, Gwen acknowledged with a frown, were as a species the same all over the world, superseding even the boundaries of the Planes.

"Wait up." Gwen stopped the Alchemist. "If those buggers ain't from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth and the Murk's under path is still being cleared, how the hell did they get over here to London?"

"Using the Murk's upper strata Keystone Gates," Yossari explained. "They exist still, it's an old magic belonging to the Deepdowners. These Keystones work so long as Deepholm stands, that's also how we know our Ancestor's Halls still stands stalwart against the lurkers in the dark."

"But they don't connect to Deepholm?"

"Not anymore."

Gwen considered her Alchemist's words. "Well, I am all for doing you favours, if you know what I mean."

"Aye, I know yer mean the Fabricators." Yossari despaired. "Suppose that's why they took Hilda. They said she broke the Code of the Engineseers and the Artificer's Laws laid down by Haj-Zül Brumdahr by sending the Engines and their Seers to the surface and allowing their secrets to be studied by infidels."

"They don't think I am owed a Debt of Haj-Zül?"

"Not really…" the Dwarf's face grew scarlet. "They want to pay you off with Crystals, as they do with the subterranean Draconids around Deepholm."

"Does it look like I need Crystals?" Gwen growled in a manner no less menacing than Ruxin.

"It's not as though Dragons need Crystals either," Lorenzo reasoned. "In the eyes of these old, deep-down Dwarves, we Humans are no less prone to purposeless hoarding."

"… I'll concede that point." Gwen rolled her eyes. "So, what do you want an outsider like me to do. Void these bastards and bring Hilda back?"

Gracie, who was drinking her water, suddenly choked.

"That is ill-advised!" Lorenzo interceded. "Gwen, you'd start a war between Bavaria and the Towers there. If you murder those Deepdowners, either the Shard gives you up, or there will be a multi-front civil war with the Murk."

"Somehow, I doubt that." Gwen passed the possibility of such a conflict through a mental filter. "That would mean we'll be fighting the Murk Dwarves, and the Murk Dwarves have far more to benefit from siding with us than with the Deepdowners. As long as the Dyar Morkk isn't made accessible, no one's going home— meaning they'd be risking their current 'home' for the sake of a few expatriate preachers who can't even get them to their real homes. In my opinion, unless the Citadel Council gets taken over by religious fanatics, there's no way they'd choose all-out war."

"Aye, well said, lass." Yossari appeared immensely impressed. "But there are fanatics fer sure; the only question is how many. We were thinking, how about a demonstration of yer powers like the one that so impressed Whurforlüm and Hilda? These Deepdowners, they've lived in their world of crystals and minerals for so long, they have no idea how powerful yer kin can be and how necessary yer all are in reconnecting us to the Dyar Morkk."

"You say 'convince','" Gwen made a gesture like Caliban menacing prey in its spider form "Do you mean like this?"

"Nay, not threatening the Murk rats." Yossari put up both hands. "Yer can frighten them by aiding us Purge a Dweller Den—" The Dwarf's bushy brows then wiggled. "— Yer could also diplomacy them with yer juice."

Gracie's eyes grew as wide as hen's eggs.

"Mistress Yossari." Lorenzo cut in. "Our young lady isn't that kind of sorceress."

"She means Essence Maotai," Gwen assured Lorenzo that Yossari had the best of intentions. "Get em licked and they'll give Hanmoul and Hilda back?"

"If they can't be convinced even then." Yossari's expression grew dangerous. "Guildmaster Ironførge's patience isn't infinite. We Dwarf's don't lust after warring— but if war sits on yer like a flatulent Greenskin..."

Gwen mulled over this piece of information for a moment more, matching in her mind what knowledge she had gained about the Dwarves in her many months at Cambridge.

"Yossari, I think it's got to be something else," she said. "The stakes are too high for these Deepdowners if they're just here to bugger with our Adventuring arrangements. These full-plate maniacs travelled via the surface, the very Vadam thing they hate just to tell the Red Citadel 'no humans'? That's ridiculous."

"Lass, I wouldn't hide anything from yer." Yossari's voice took on a serious tone. "If yer suspicious, there's no obligation ter come. We're 'mates' whether yer wants ter help Hilda or nay."

"Of course I'll help," Gwen told the Dwarf. "My Void Mages and I need a good stretch after so much time cooped up inside the Cog Chambers. Lorenzo, what's your take on this? How about you, Gracie?"

"I think it's good publicity," Lorenzo said. "That said, you might have to ask for some favours from Lady Grey or Astor. They're both involved with parliament, have business with the Dwarves, and possess direct access to Lord Ravenport. The Duke of Norfolk is in charge of the Foreign Affairs Office and will have a far better lead on why these Deepdowners are here now of all times."

"Dickie, eh?" Gwen realised she hadn't thought about the man for some time. Such was the peace offered by London that her mind focused only on her studies— that and the act of rolling her investments to fleece the City of London of tax incentives. "Gracie?"

"I am happy to help," the girl said nervously, though her eyes were bright and anticipatory. "I've always wanted to go on an adventure outside of London."

"Nice. I'll go and see Lady Grey then. Yossari, you want to come?"

"I shall await yer decision at the Printing Press." Yossari shook her head. "The lidless cave here makes my head spin. It's worse than the knife ear's forests. There'll be rewards, Gwen— if you succeed, Lady Hilda will owe yer a great deal, and her family tapped into rich seams in Deepholm."

Gwen laughed, as did Lorenzo. More than Crystals, both knew how urgently Gwen needed those Fabricators to keep up the speed of development on the Isle. Without the Dwarves' aid, her projected timetable would stretch out by three-fold.

"Alright." She patted the Alchemist on the shoulder. "We'll get to the bottom of this, Yossari."

"Aye, lass, I knew we could count on yer!" Yossari gave her a big hug around the waist. "Can't wait ter see the look on those blasted Deepdowner's faces when yer deploys yer beasties!"


Evening descended on the Isle of Dogs.

In the not so distant past, not a single soul would stalk the streets of Millwall at midnight lest they were fleeing from a muddy mugger or a vermin-infested hostel. Now, there was an enormous flow of folk, both Mages and NoMs, loudly meandering their way through the boisterous stalls.

Unlike the usual markets catered toward farmers selling their produces or Mages who sold Enchanted trinkets, the "Millwall Night Market's" focus was unsanitary comfort cuisine of all kinds catering to the twenty-four-hour construction schedule. Once past the entryway, the smell of coffee wafted through the frigid air, joined by the ambient scent of newly installed heating elements blasting the crowd with diffused radiance. Past the beverage stands positioned for quick sales, the town's favourite street foods lined the first few rows, luring in customers with the scent of sizzling bacon and melting sour cream on steaming potato. Deeper inside, the sound of fryers turning raw fish into crispy fingers of delectable white flesh joined the glooping of hot soup pouring into waxed cups. Pie stalls by the dozen, each no larger than a van, sold an array of baked goods from the home kitchens of the residents, adding to the income of sons and husbands who invariably worked on the construction site.

On this evening, while the Isle's insatiable mistress looked into the possibility of an incursion into the Deep Murk, Richard Huang, Eliot Cox and Luka Spencer relaxed after a long day of labour.

Thanks to Richard's connections, the duo, together with others from King's, worked to complete internships in the most-advertised private infrastructural development district in London, one that expanded exponentially thanks to the aid of Dwarven engineering overcoming both shell and mud. Each of the Mages had already survived the baptism of combat; what they needed now to qualify as administrator Maguses was the experience to assuage the scepticism of their Cambridge Supervisors.

Of their present meal, Richard had ordered the Fishermen's Pie, a local delicacy made by an old matron over on Tiller's Road who usually sold out before her cart could make it past the ferry. Naturally, Richard had charmed the baker, and so she habitually reserved a pie for the "nice young man" on Thursdays. Eliot stuck true to Fish and Chips, being a faithful Londoner. Finally, Lukas settled for a plate of farm to table sausages swimming in greasy gravy, a decision he now regretted because the stall owner, a Mr Dobson, was better at selling bangers than he was at making them.

Presently, the trio was watching the locals put on a shit show.

The street theatre involved a party of security officials, likely not from Millwall, Mudchute or Cubitt Town, albeit outfitted correctly, having a chat with the dubious sausage-seller.

"Don't be a bore, Dobson, the Late Night Opening Surcharge is 3 HDMs, clear as day," shouted the leading Mage, a Transmuter of sorts with a wand knocking by his knees. From the smoke-ring at its tip, the man was no stranger to using it. "You know the drill."

Dobson, the purveyor of Luka's mystery meat, appeared wholly indignant. "Bollocks, ye lot collected th' late-night supervision fees just yesterday! I gave ye two HDMs!"

"Who told you to open past midnight?" The Transmuter had a face that only a mother could love, and that's assuming the mother was an Orc. "You know this."

"I did not!" The owner moved a hand over to the tongs that had been sitting in oil.

"Oi, oi." Another fellow, a Fire Mage from the looks of the mana carelessly leaking from his body, lit up a finger with a mote of fire. "Don't get testy now."

"You're charging what, a quarter LDM for a plate of sausage." The Transmuter dipped a digit into the bubbling gravy without fear for the heat, stirred the watery sauce, then watched the oil drip. "And that's not even including mash and whatever this slop might be. Is that even potato? It looks like flour..."

"That's good feeding, that is!" Dobson was indignant. "At that price, that's cutting me own throat!"

Richard's lips curled.
Luka pushed away his plate.
What puzzled the trio was that these "Security" wore the blue-black uniform of the locally contracted guards looking after the labourers and workers flooding into the Isle of Dogs.

"I didn't know thugs wore uniforms," said the Ice Mage to his companions.

Gwen's cousin let loose a low snigger. "Where've you been, Luka? It's only natural that the biggest thugs wear the flashiest uniforms."

"What are these guys? They look like the guards the boss hired."

"They're from the private security firm Magister Walken engaged to keep an eye on the NoMs," Richard said. "Sentry Holdings? They're certainly taking some liberties."

CLANG!

A tray of gravy struck the floor, flooding the cold night air with the delicious smell of melted fat swimming in a savoury soup. Somewhere, a crow cawed, likely offended by the sound and smell of spilt offal.

"Jesus, Dobson, the amount of lard in that thing." The Transmuter lifted both hands. "Bloody slippery, eh? Just slipped off the cart. You should secure the load before you hurt someone and cause some damage. If that happens, it'll be another 8 HDMs. I mean, look at your stall, there are a dozen health violations at least."

The stall owner's face turned the colour of duck liver.

Besides Richard and Eliot, Luka stared in horror at his half-eaten, sawdusty bangers.

"Should we do something?" Eliot nudged Richard. "This isn't going to do the Isle any favours."

Richard told his friend to hang on.

"Fine. Here." Dobson appeared to have made up his mind. Reaching into his apron, he produced a stack of greasy LDMs and threw it down in front of the Transmuter in a fit of frustration. Perhaps it was by choice, or maybe by chance, but the stack of bundled paper and crystals landed in the still dissolving pot of lard.

"Pick that up, NoM." The Transmuter's expression lost the amicable, mocking mirth. "Do it now."

"Just leave me alone," the stall owner growled. "I am trying to make an honest living here, ye bastards—"

CRASH!

Before the man could finish, the Transmuter-in-uniform launched a kick that sent the cart of profane sausages surging forward until it struck the rail preventing visitors from falling into the Thames. The top half of the cart snapped off entirely, breaking free from the frame to tumble into the river, sending the bangers downstream to poison unlucky fishes.

"Consider that an official warning," the Transmuter said to the sausage sizzler with a scowl, his face full of sadistic satisfaction. "Next time you sell meat that comes from God knows, we'll be less lenient."

The stall owner took a deep breath. Richard could see Dobson was shaking from head to toe as though he was the one that had just taken a dip in the Thames and not his sausage cart. He could fight, of course; the hot air of courage was free. Unfortunately, against a team of Mages, he would be slitting his own throat.

"You can't do this," the man said quietly. "The Devourer won't allow it."

The hoodlums broke into scattered laughter. "We're the security here, old man. If you want to file a complaint, you can take it with Mr Smithen. Now pick up those crystals and clean them."

"You think you can do whatever you want…" the sausage seller spoke as though in a trance. "You're wrong, here is the Isle of Dogs."

The Transmuter's patience evaporated.

But before the man could loosen his shock wand, one of his companions held him back with a pat on the shoulder. "Mr Dobson is free to do business, or not, Jared. Don't over-complicate a simple thing."

The Transmuter shrugged off his friend. "Count yourself lucky, NoM."

The stall owner had more mouth to deliver, but the older man who spoke up silenced him with a look. "I think that's enough, Mr Dobson. As we said, the Isle of Dogs isn't a good place for NoMs, not anymore. There's good money to be made if you choose to leave, and a businessman has to spend Crystals to make Crystals. I hope you understand how fleeting opportunities can be."

Dobson's eyes remained downcast. The Evoker retrieved the money with a Mage Hand, cleaned the LDMs and notes, then stowed the lot. "Sell your home, go to Greenwich, find a wife and pray one of your kids Awakens. That's the best you can hope for."

With the theatre now at an end, Eliot turned to Richard. "Who is this Smithen?"

"I am assuming the guy running the security company looking after the Millwall Market." Richard dabbed the corner of his mouth. "But how does someone this dirty get past Walken? Or is our Magister complicit? Nah? A few HDMs? Even ten-thousand HDMs, wouldn't be worth Walken's meagrest effort. The situation stinks like overnight oysters if you ask me."

"What're are you thinking?" Luka's tone grew worried.

"Something very entertaining." Richard grinned. "As for now, they've won my curiosity."

An hour later, the trio from King's lurked outside a recently refurbished apartment converted into a commercial unit for office space, listening-in via Richard's Familiar and a Scry Scroll. After watching the same crew shakedown a dozen stalls, they now had a decent idea of the men's modus operandi.

Outside the converted residential building, signage depicting the logo for the "Sentry Holdings" was displayed prominently. There were even flyers they could take from a concrete box transmuted into the stonework. To the residents, on the surface at least, the security firm appeared entirely legitimate.

Inside, on the second level, Lea hovered in her mist form, invisible and silent, observing the events inside the soddy office.

"Here's our take for the evening, Sir." The Transmuter emptied his Storage Ring of LDMs, notes and HDMs onto a countertop presided over by a burly Mage in an ill-fitting suit.

"That much?" The man whistled. "That's a lot of sparkles for a food market run by NoMs."

"Their clients are mostly Mages," Jared explained. "Transmuters, Conjurers, Enchanters, white-collars and builders. The Devourer pays well."

"Any trouble?" The man known as "Smithen" cocked his head to study his underlings. "No one spoke up?"

"Nothing so far." Jared slapped his chest. "We're all battle-hardened, Sir. A single look from one of us and those desk jockeys would go soft at the knees."

"You were not followed?"

"We triple-checked," the older Evoker assured their leader.

"Good. Do be careful you don't run into the Devourer, and stay away from the Dwarves."

"Goes without saying, Lieutenant."

The man growled.

"Sorry, James," the Transmuter apologised. "Force of habit."

Smithen rapped the table with his knuckles. "There's too many Crystals here."

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Too much?" Jared appeared puzzled. "If anything, they've got more."

"Take too much, and their business won't survive." Smithen materialised a cigarette. Beside Jared, their Fire Mage ignited the fag's tip with a slick flick of the wrist. "We're shearing sheep... You're butchering them."

"… Sorry, Lieu— Smithen." Jared half-saluted before he stopped himself. "Shall I return the money?"

"No need, but stay low for a bit," Smithen declined. "Tell the men to stand down for a few days as well, take some rest and relaxation. If you want to work, reinforce Team Two and Six while they clear out the rest of the undesirables in Sector Seven, Canary Lane. I want the whole street sealed and sold by the end of the month. Is that clear?"

"Too easy, Sir," another voice commented from behind their leader. "This beats hunting monsters any day. Who'd have thought there's so much HDMs in civilian property development."

"Watch your mouth," Smithen snapped at the voice from the back. "You better get your mana conduits wired together, Cater, or someone is going to take a giant shit on you one day."

"Sir! Yessir!" The man saluted while the other laughed.

"Dismissed."

With the conversation over, Richard commanded his Undine to withdraw, concurrently terminating one of the several Scrys he just happened to have stowed, because that's what any respectable Mage would have on their person at all times.

"Thoughts?" he asked the others. "Act natural; we're just passersby."

"Military Unit? They look like a platoon to me. Not a Mage Flight, maybe grunts returning from the Frontiers?"

"It's not unusual for ex-military Service folk to work security," Luka agreed. "Bit unscrupulous though."

"You fellers don't see what they're doing?" Richard regarded his two bookish companions. "They said they're trying to get the NoMs to sell their properties."

"So?" Elliot appeared puzzled. "All the NoMs are trying to sell at the moment."

"You think those folks are buying land at the market rate?" Richard snorted. "I bet they can turn around tidy profit auctioning those properties. After all, if all the NoMs are selling, then the market's oversaturated, but if you can hold onto a few to push back redevelopment, there's a lot that suddenly comes into play."

His companions made faces of elucidation.

"Okay, are you going to… deal with them?" The hesitation in Eliot's voice was because after working beside Richard for nearly a year, he and Luka had come to acknowledge a particular side of the talented Mr Huang. When it came to his cousin, the Water Mage was a two-legged Dire Hound.

And like a good hound, when it came to their Master's property, Richard Huang was the sort whose cruelty attained apex inspiration at the slightest provocation. For instance, during the earlier months of the Isle of Dog's excavation, the trio of Questing Mages had caught a group of river thieves stealing construction supplies.

Within hours, Luka and Eliot saw their friend in a whole new light. It was like another Richard whose heart was as black as his jet-like pupils suddenly rose to the surface and took command.

The same afternoon, the formerly tight-lipped thieves gave up their contacts, after which a root-network of dealers, traders and dodgy drafters was exorcised from the parkland expansion project. Later, Richard had even received a commendation from Scotland Yard and a personal endorsement from Magister Walken.

"My public practice of Magic Licence is too low-tier to deal with these." Richard regretfully shook his head. "Besides, if it's just some corrupt employees, I can drag them before the Arbitrators. Our little theatre troupe there has higher ambitions, or so it seems."

"If they're all ex-Military Mages, then yes." Luka nodded. "Typically, Mage units are broken up and sent to different cities and Frontiers specifically to prevent this sort of thing."

"You have to admit, it's a novel way to farm HDMs," Elliot agreed. "Fleecing NoMs is one thing, but gutting them out of their homes? Who'd have thought such a thing was so profitable?"

"Something to be nipped in the bud then." Lea materialised behind Richard, hugging her Master by the neck and making the two Cambridge Mages blush with her teasing eyes. "Lea says Smithen keeps a Storage Ring full of documents. Probably the accounts to show his employee lest these army dogs eat more than their allocated fill. For now, let's find Dobson and gather a few more witnesses for Magister Walken before he slits his own throat out of desperation. If we're going to clean house, I want the place scoured down to the foundation."

Cambridge.
Peterhouse Deer Gardens.

"Would a mere ten days of absence suffice?" Lady Grey replaced her cup with a clink. "The Dwarves are inviting you into the Deep Murk; there are horrors there rarely documented with abilities beyond what the Bestiary has recorded."

"Which is why our team will be a good fit," Gwen replied with complete confidence. "Caliban is extremely versatile, and I can bore through the ground with its Wyrm form if the need calls for it."

"Don't fret. I am not opposed to your desire to give our Dwarven allies a helping hand, nor doubting your abilities." Lady Grey answered with the pose of a swan. "Can you concurrently pass your semester though? Even with an extended exam block?"

"Not a problem," Gwen promised. "I'm well ahead on my governance courses, and I should be able to catch up on missed lectures for Planar Theory through recordings. As for Spellcraft— I need field practice, anyway."

"Recordings?"

"Some of my new friends have volunteered to Lumen-cast the Lecture. Magister Andrews has consented on account of my work with Magister Brown."

"Of course." Lady Grey nodded. "New friends are good. Who will you be taking with you?"

"Myself, Gracie and Jean-Paul," Gwen said. "I am bringing Richard as our Abjurer and Petra as our utilitarian member. Except for Richard, we all need to put in some field exercises and collect statistics for our spells."

"Your Cousin, the Mind Mage?"

"Yes, but she hasn't use Mind Magic for a while."

"MM is a useful skill to have." Lady Grey smiled serenely. "Very well, how do you hope to keep Gracie safe?"

"I'll borrow a Golem Suit if I have to, but I think we should be fine." Gwen recalled Gracie sweating in her comically ungraceful armour. "Unlike our unfortunate compatriot-Adventurers, we've got upper-tier Contingency Rings and, with the new Forward Operating Base they've erected, we should have working Divination Towers as well."

"What manner of Monsters will you be anticipating?"

"Elemental creatures of the Murk, of course— but Aberrants as well. Maybe Cali's getting a new form soon."

"That would be a troublesome encounter for an adventuring party."

"Less so for us," Gwen laughed. "Between Jean-Paul and me, we've got something upward of twenty Hounds and three Familiars. Richard's has Lea on double duty Abjuration as well. Together with the Dwarven Iron Guards, we're a veritable expedition, hahaha…"

Lady Grey chuckled politely, though her steel-coloured eyes remained wholly serious. "Don't underestimate the Murk, dear. The Dwarves' military is no less than ours. Theirs has been a generational struggle, and I don't see why the addition of three Void Mages would make their task any easier."

"Noted," Gwen answered thoughtfully. "I'll be careful."

"One more thing." The Marchioness of Ely waited for Gwen to settle before making her point. "If you wish to put the Dwarves into your debt once more, it will need to go through the Foreign Affairs Office. We can't have rogue War Mages haphazardly pulling their weight in the Murk now that official diplomatic ley-lines have been ratified. Put in a report through Ollie at least. Have you spoken to Dickie of late? Or has Dickie found someone to speak to you?"

"Not at all." Gwen lifted a brow. "Does the Duke of Norfolk have business with me?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Lady Grey chuckled. "He's been asking about you."

"Er…" Gwen felt the sheer fabric on her back grow suddenly clammy. "Any reason? I haven't Consumed anything or made any significant asset acquisitions. Is this about the tattooed Mermen? That's not my fault."

"Tryfan wants to know when you'll be visiting." The Lady smirked. "Their Chief Warden, Eldrin, was expecting you as early as March, and then you simply disappeared."

"The Hvítálfar? What do they want now?"

"They did give you access to your Master's abode, dear. And you came home laden with loot, no? There's the Accord, of course, though that's hardly important if like Gunther, you plan to stay well away from the central continent. That said, you're not Gunther or Alesia. The foundation of your Void resistance, alas, is married to the quintessence of that which the Elves hold dear. Moreover, thanks to Sufina's offer, you would have to consult with our long-lived friends sooner or later. Perhaps it is wise to lend them an ear?"

"… Right. And what's Dickie's part in this?"

"He's our liaison," the Marchioness reminded her. "As a part of his duties, Lord Marshall Ravenport oversees the Department of Foreign Affairs. Not as an elected official of course, but as an overseer of sorts for the Crown's interests."

"And Her Majesty is interested in this?"

"The House of Windsor is a stakeholder, yes." Lady Grey inclined her chin. "So I would take every precaution. You've done a great deal very quickly, Gwen. All the more reason to step lightly, because the more you've gained from the Mageocracy…"

"…The more I have to lose."

"And the more your allies and family has to lose," the Lady affirmed her fears. "Life anywhere involves 'give and take'— what you need to remember, Gwen, is that if you are to give— then don't be shy when the time comes to take… neither the Elves, the Crown, or the Shard are tight-fisted when the need is dire."

"I think I understand," Gwen returned the Lady's inference. "How do I schedule a meeting with the Elves?"

"You have an outstanding invitation to Trawsfynydd," Lady Grey reminded her. "Shall I leverage a favour for you? Some support from The Shard and the Duke for your second visit to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth could do wonders for publicity even if you need nothing else."

"Please." Gwen grew glad she came to visit her mentor. "Thank you, Milady."

"It's what Henry would have wanted." Maxine Loftus willed away the tea set. "And it's the least I could do for someone who has turned my dog kennel into some of London's most desirable new addresses."

When an ecstatic Gwen arrived at the Isle of Dogs a day later to find Richard, she was instead invited into the Bunker by her cousin for a meeting with her Executive Officer.

Together, the two relayed the antecedents of a dastardly ploy to undermine the Isle of Dog Redevelopment Project's betterment of the local NoM's finances.

"… so it seems they're from the Militant Faction." Eric Walken swirled the Devonshire tea to mix in the milk. "And they're here with two express purposes. One, to make a quick snatch and grab off the local NoMs, and two— to sell our leases to bidders from their Faction, likely with some goal of achieving a measure of influence within the Lease Holder's voting council."

"Not surprisingly, the Barlow Group is providing the funds," Richard appended Walken's explanation. "And I have it on good word that the Exeters are involved in the upper echelons of this infiltration program. Do you have a feud with them?"

"I don't even remember their first names," she explained.

Once the heat drained from her brain, Gwen tried to make heads and tales out of the hidden crisis that now afflicted her regional development project. The idea that someone somewhere would seek to profit from her deeds was entirely within expectations. In her mind, so long as potential profiteers tapped into the crystal seam without endangering her operations, then she would welcome the competition. What Walken and Richard uncovered, however, was no different than some carrion grubs digging at the roots of her HDM tree!

"So, you want to deal with the Dwarves first, or deal with this?" Richard asked. "Magister Walken has some ideas."

"Eric?" Gwen's voice was icy. "Your advice?"

"That depends on your thirst for satisfaction." Walken eyed the young sorceress within whose body swirling motes of Void-tinged mana rose and fell. "How vengeful are you feeling, and how high do you want this petition to go?"

"First, I want to nip this in the bud," Gwen said, repositioning her legs to relax her waist before her body grew over tense. "With extreme prejudice."

"Alright." Walken replaced the porcelain. "You want to Void the thieving hand privately, humiliate the culprits publicly, or both."

"Both."

"I had a feeling you would say that," Eric Walken remarked drily. "Very well, I propose we allow our perpetrators to hang themselves first— after that, we'll make a big stink and go after their employers."

"Explain yourself."

"The Militants are trying to coerce land from the NoMs to resell," Walken explained. "But we handle the contracts. First, we'll add a clause to all future contracts especially outlining the voiding of a lease with stiff penalties when it is obtained through unscrupulous terms, such as intimidation. I've included something similar in Section 11 already, though, with help from my associates from the Shard, we can ensure the new clause is well-shielded from all litigious enquiries. After that, I'll have the auditors go over the sales and record every transaction, where the HDMs are coming from, where they're going and so on."

"At the same time," the Magister continued. "I'll have these military thugs tagged and their dealings put on file. The NoMs might suffer for now, but we'll do our best; informing NoMs of our plans would not do them any favours— it may endanger them instead."

"Agreed." Gwen nodded. "We can make it up to them after."

"That's right," Walken agreed. "Through evidence-gathering, we'll build an internal case, and then I'll have an Arbitrator we can trust at the Tower set up a case file. I've spoken to Lorenzo, and he says Cabal Number Five might be interested as well, considering the Isle is an infrastructural project for the City of London and any time the military tries to tap into civilian coffers, the Crown grows very upset indeed. Officially, England can't have Mages going around fleecing NoMs of their hard-earned luck. A narrative like that, if left to fester for long enough, would be akin to dismantling the Commonwealth."

"But we're putting the story on the METRO anyway." Gwen's grin grew cruel. "Since we're both the victims and the investigators."

"Oh, of course," the Magister smiled with teeth. "The best way to get those in power to move is to embarrass them— not enough to enrage, but just enough to nudge them in the right direction. When their reputations are at stake, you'll be amazed how fast those sluggish politicians can move."

"… Speaking from experience?"

"That's uncalled for." Walken rolled his eyes. "But I am sure you can imagine the fallout when Lorenzo puts the title 'Rob the Poor and Feed the Rich— Militant Greed Knows no Bounds.' on every paper in London."

Gwen licked her lips. "How do we know it's the Exeters behind this?"

"The offending military units 'retired' here to London come from Militias under the control of their House, mostly returning from the Niger Delta," Richard explained. "That and I think they're taking an extra cut on top of whatever the Barlow Group is trying to accomplish— typical entitlement if you ask me."

"Their infiltration is my responsibility," Walken apologised. "The security company came as recommended, and the other areas they patrolled reported positive outcomes. I'll be questioning Magister Vorne when the time comes and give you a proper answer."

"No one reported the coercion?"

"The Night Markets enjoyed a low level of criminality," Walken said. "Of course, now we know why."

"Yeah, all the criminals went out of business once the mob moved in." Gwen rolled her eyes. "How do we want to deal with this in the future? I have a feeling this isn't going to be an isolated occurrence."

"We'll use this incident as a public warning," Walken said. "Go and build up some momentum with the Dwarves, get your name circulating through the paper again. When you return on a chariot of infamy once more…"

"… We'll close the net." Gwen cackled wickedly. "New headline— 'Rats out to Play when the Mistress is Away.'"

Richard laughed. "And afterwards, we should deal with these Militants in public out of righteous anger in defence of our NoM citizens. If anyone else wishes to fleece the IoDRP, then they should beware of our Devourer who descends with dark hair. For though she brings Crystals, she also eats men like air!"


_Khorok Umgor_ , or the "Obsidian Caverns" in the Lingua Franca employed by Humanity, was the deepest established Murk outpost from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, some two hundred meandering kilometres from the Citadel's gates.

Presently, it served as the forward operating post of Red Peak's push into the Dyar Morkk, the low-ways by which the Earthen folk had for generations travelled to and from Deepholm. In recent months, they had come close— very nearly piercing the Murk to touch on the vast earthen veins hollowed out by the Axis Mundi's flow of ultra-dense energies. The Dwarves' rapid progress was because the "deep" held many treasures considered priceless up on the lidless world. Take, for example, the veins of Orichalcum that appeared now and then, long hidden by the tectonic shifts of Terra's crust. Only the Dwarves knew how to safely tap the maximum volume of raw metal from the golden ores to sell at-cost to the Adventurers who then returned to the surface with loot worth a dozen times their salary and employ.

Despite its dangers, the Murk was an untapped treasure trove providing secretive and rare ingredients that the sorcerous casters of Himmseg desired. Take, for example, the peaceful but deadly Myconids, whose spores and stems made for potent potions of illusion and fantasy, or the Core of an Evil-Eye, an apex predator as ancient and intelligent as Dragons, only aberrantly twisted by the energies of the sub-spaces between the Elemental Planes. Both were prime examples of death and danger for the wayward Adventurer— but should a Mage be successful in their suit, they were also career-making feats that would set a Mage for life.

Then there were the Aberrant beings, malformed things with pallid skin and no face, with only a mouth of yellow teeth and acidic saliva. Some say that they used to be lucid and native inhabitants of the Murk before the Black Dragon destabilised the Planes, others say they had always existed but hid in the grey spaces between the Astral and the Elemental. Either way, these creatures unique to the Murk offered little in the form of usable, salvageable material, but at the same time possessed indescribable abilities wrought of raw chaos, propagated by survival.

Sometimes, they appeared as ravening swarms in the tens of thousands as bulbous, Gob-like "Gibberlings" with arms and legs and no eyes, roving from place to place, eating and evolving until they attained their full humanoid form. When left unchecked, they melded into a Behemoth, a misshapen titan of spindly legs and fleshy carapace crawling its way up from the depth, smashing Golems and crushing the Citadel's etched walls. Most Aberrants, when they died, had their swollen-body erupt into toxic ichor, making fallow an entire region and forcing its inhabitants to relocate. For this reason, both in appearance and behaviour, the Aberrant creatures of the Murk belied Human logic and Dwarven attempt at subjugation.

Khorok Umgor, therefore, was an absolute necessity for both Human and Dwarven expeditions into the Murk, for this far down, the only light and food suitable for consumption was what the pioneers could bring on their persons or in their rings. Even water became a rare resource because once delineated from the Elemental Plane, what could be conjured consisted only of sulphuric sludge that had to be neutralised and distilled.

And it was here that Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt, scion of Varekan-Kül, Bringer of the Lumen, was made hostage by her ambitions. For many months, her gamble on Human ingenuity had paid its dividends in rare Earth minerals. Understanding both Humanity's drive and its greed, she had told the Guild to sell all collected ore and mineral back to the Adventurers at cost, ensuring that the next wave to arrive would be twice as greedy and ten-times in size.

And for a quarter of an earth-cycle, that had worked.

Unfortunately, just as the expedition progressed close enough to the first ley-stone of the Dyar Morkk, the Keepers of Umgor èron Varèkan arrived to throw a wrench in the Golem's gearbox.

As with her and Ebren, the senior Deepdowners came as a pair.

But Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh were far older than herself and her partner and held much higher positions in the hierarchy of the Keepers. Their Citadel, Umgor èron Varèkan, the "Cavern of Enlightenment", was one of the sacred places of learning built and maintained by the descendants of Gul-Zūh, the chief arithmetician among the Seven Ancestors. Within its vaulted halls were kept the holy rites of Machine-Life that gave vigour to the Dreadnaughts, the Dwarves' most capable defenders.

Hilda wasn't sure if Zairic and Zethoag arrived because they had felt a shift in the Elemental Plane of Earth that signalled the Red Citadel's imminent success, or if they had come to execute some nefarious design— but the pair did assume near-immediate control thanks to the all-too-willing nobles.

That, Hilda confessed, had been her misgiving.

With Gwen's intrusion unbalancing the status quo, she had pushed the Nobles and left them little to no dignity, heaping upon them the shame of the Citadel's stagnancy. Unlike those greedy Murk-Dwarves, she had endured enough— if she had to be daring, or as Ebren would say, radical, then so be it.

That was what had set off the nobles— that and her giving away the extraordinary resources the Humans had uncovered so that the Nobles wouldn't have an excuse to stay and loot. For losing their lode, the greedy, entitled cogs must have felt her actions were personal.

_Clang! Clang-Clang!_

"—Skrrrrrark!"
"SKAARRRRRR—"

Outside the newly built keep, the sound of claw scraping on metal and spells erupting on carapace continued to fill the outer courtyard with a choir of ultra-violence.

Her Iron Guards, supported by the Human Mages, fought with heart and soul against the aberrant, spindly creatures of maimed flesh as they scaled the walls designed to form a killing field for Spellswords and ranged spells. Fire, Ice, Lightning, Magma, all forms of raw elemental power smashed into the pallid bodies of the jittering beasts dashing madly for the warm flesh sweating inside the sealed cavern.

Though they were trapped inside Khorok Umgor and cut off— Hilda reminded herself— they were far from helpless.

Concurrently, deeper within the keep, the Foundry Engines continued their work, chewing up the cavern's interior and spitting out girders of iron to grind out the resources the Citadel's defenders required to keep fighting.

So long as their numbers kept up, help would arrive and a bigger, better defended Forward Operating Base would be there to greet their allies. That or they would eventually dig their way to safety.

_CRASH!_

The gates toppled, though that too was within the Engineseers' designs. Within the "shattered" wall, its metal plates were interlinked by woven cables that instantly ensnared the maddened Behemoth making its entry, turning its body into a living stopper that prevented its allies from skittering past.

"FIRE!" came the cry of Dwarven Captains stationed in the inner courtyard. "Lancers, Concentrated Fire! Drain yer batteries then prepare fer Hand-ter-Hand!"

The Golem-suited Iron Guards opened up with both the Spellwords on their arm and mounted on their back, turning parts of the mesh-gate contraption red-hot while other spells pierced the Aberrant Behemoth with missiles of mote-sharp obsidian spikes.

_BOOM! BOOM—BOOM!_

The Magma Missiles, each etched with explosive runes, erupted into ten-thousand jagged splinters, shredding through the creature's innards and taking the animals behind it with equal gusto.

"They're retreating!" The Citadel's Diviners broadcasted from the Møsvian's Chamber of the Watch down in the fort's belly. "Clear the field! Ready for another wave! Human Mages, go and rest. Iron Guards, check equipment and replace your ammunition! Take the injured down to L3 Infirmary. Repairs at Station L2!"

Hilda looked away from the projection of the battle on the wall and back to the ancient map in front of her.

More than the fight, she was frustrated by her kin. Why did Zairic and Zethoag show up now of all times, and why are they so desperate to stop the Red Citadel from rejoining the Dyar Morkk? She could understand their ire, but even so, to leave an entire Battle Group isolated and unprovisioned?

_Ding!_

"Captain Bronzehorn," she answered the Missive. "Battle Report."

"The Human casters are burnt, and we're short on Magma crystals," came the voice of Ebren in her Communication Crystal. "Quartermaster Legg says the excavation isn't keeping up and our fuel supply's near critical. The seams here are suitable for settlement, but not for protracted combat."

"I see…" Hilda had no solutions against hard arithmetics. She and Ebren could escape this hell if they wanted, but that would mean abandoning the five hundred or so of her Kinsmen here, including at least forty of Hanmoul's most elite Iron Guards, and the sixty-odd Mages who had taken up semi-permanent residence in the Murk.

For now, the Deepdowner could only hope that her allies arrived before they had to fight the Aberrants hand-to-hand, gauntlets to claw.

That— and something smarter didn't lurk in the Murk, awaiting its chance.

The work residence of The Duke of Norfolk, Lord Marshall of Britain and its military forces, rested between the Chief Whip's Office and the Clerk's Chamber, generously lit by a waist to ceiling window overlooking the Old Palace Yard. Though the suite itself was large, it was made small by the portraits of Ravenport Patriarchs of the past, each a holder of the title. In the centre of the abode, seated upon the thumb-thick carmine Ursa skin-rug, sat an enormous desk both physically and metaphysically representing the imposing weight of the Office of the Earl Marshall, eighth of the Great Officers under the Crown.

To the suite's right was a series of perches, richly lacquered, upon which several quasi-magical ravens perched, relics of an earlier age without Divination Towers and now acting as the eyes and ears of the Goddess of Secrets bunkered below Westminster.

Above the fireplace, another relic of days bygone, a set of ornate armour, triple-Enchanted from under-layer to polished cuirass, set below a Helmet of Truth Seeing, besides of which sat a Shield of Warding and a Smiting Hammer still stained with oxidised gore from the Spellfire Treason of 1605. The bloodstain was said to belong to one of the chief conspirators, and though validity could no longer be obtained, the story remained.

It was in this august office now that its holder, Mycroft Ravenport, pondered the overzealousness by which Morrigan executed her duties of late, lacking complaint and possessed of a hyperactive efficiency that made him wonder if he had accidentally left out pints of blood, possibly after a nasty paper cut.

For his next appointment, he was to consider a request from an old colleague, the Marchioness of Ely, one of the several surviving lines with a lineage as ancient as his own. Hers was a history based on academia, a testament to the foresight of the first Marquis of Ely; the man who leased the bulk of his lands to a group of despondent scholars fed up with the peasantry of Oxfordshire's calls for witch-hunts.

The matter was regarding a pet project of hers and his— Gwen Song of Cambridge, who was revolutionising the Mageocracy's methodology of weaning future Void Mages.

Through a series of serendipitous encounters, the sorceress had survived then acquired a means to hybridise Shamanistic sorcery and Svartálfar Essence magic into the Imperial Magic System, utilising her bricolage-Affinity to enable what no Void Mage had ever attempted— to share vitality with a bound subordinate. The experiment carried out with Gracie Hillbrook was a gamble, but one that came to fruition when the Illusionist could finally practice spells of her own accord. It meant that future Void Mages, should they risk having a small chunk of their Astral Body "Consumed" by Gwen Song and added to the Devourer's burgeoning Body of Essence, would no longer fear self-annihilation. With enough practice, they too could attain the Affinity equilibrium required to utilise sanctioned Necromancy for sustenance.

As for Maxine's present petition, their sorceress was going to the Red Citadel of the Dwarves to accrue favours, and she wanted him to make it official.

Arguably, a tier 6 War Mage should not saunter their merry-own self into war zones for personal favours, but Gwen Song was a private citizen with the designation of a War Mage and not the employment of one. It meant that though the girl might be restricted from many things, she was not by law forbidden from acting. The girl was still green— an honorary Magus and a city-killer, but laughably, a pupil.

But a "student" with a net-worth measured in millions of HDMs— Ravenport cautioned himself. And the war potential of an upper-tier Magister-led platoon, and she possessed enough connection to Elves and Dwarves to take a walk in their abodes and be welcomed for it.

Unbidden, his head throbbed.

Barely a year had passed— but in his mind, it felt like he'd been hearing about the girl for a decade. Indeed, she made the back pages more often than not, and the METRO was more than happy to its mistress in the public eye. In the beginning, he imagined that the lass would be bound by her investments in London, only now she appeared to be dragging the city into the next century by sheer will, brutalising the toes of anyone who barred her path.

"Caw!" A raven shook him from his gently disquieting reflection. "Caw! Caw!"

"Tell the Blackrod to send her in," Ravenport informed the raven. The bird bobbed its head, then snuck back into its cubbyhole. A moment later, the heavily stained doors opened with a yawn, revealing the Blackrod in his plain sable robes, stepping aside just in time to unveil a girl wearing far too little for winter.

"Magus Song." The Duke of Norfolk made the motion for her to enter, his brow creasing a little. "Welcome to the Marshall's Office."

"Milord Norfolk." The girl curtsied expertly, waited for himself to grow comfortable, then sat.

This show of manners surprised Ravenport, more so when her poise and stance proved nearly faultless. Someone had done a very miraculous job with etiquette, he thought. There was a world of difference between this and the girl who had eleven months ago stepped into his car with half-a-mind to duel him.

Unfortunately, English modesty had yet to infiltrate the Frontier lass' fashion sense. Invariably, it was impossible to avoid the unnecessary volume of flesh the girl left exposed underneath her grey tartan skirt; a sight made poignant by the visitor's chair deliberately placed apart from his table. In his eyes, though the girl was fully covered from neck to waist in a charcoal blouse, it was a feign modesty that made her lower limbs positively exhibitionist. If Charlene had ever worn something like this— they would likely need to have a stern word in private.

Nonetheless, the Void Sorceress did well to distract him from his worries. As a Negative Energy Mage himself, he was unused to seeing their kind so hale and healthy, lacking the pale-pallid hue of faux-Undeath.

Fighting an innate sense of fatherly disapproval, he met the girl's vivid and demanding irises.

"Do you know our plans for the Red Keep, Magus Song?" He decided not to waste time on pleasantry. Maxine was unlikely to reveal to the girl the topics discussed in the House of Lords.

"I was not informed," the girl said. "But I could guess."

"Can you now?" Ravenport's fingers joined to form a contemplative wedge. "Do tell."

"I imagine London dreams of integrating the Red Citadel's resources into its transport infrastructure through direct trade and sharing of technologies and Spellcraft." The Devourer made her hypothesis. "Now that the Dwarves are once again roaming the surface, they've become a problem. A capital city can't rest easy knowing that a major military force lies within Teleportation range of the city, so the threat has to be neutralised through either hard or soft power."

"Not bad." Ravenport mulled over her answer and found her insight satisfactory. "A bit bookish and oversimplified, but sound."

"… Did I miss the complications caused by the Shard's Factions?"

"You did," the Duke of Norfolk acknowledged the girl's quick-wittedness. "Indeed, the Factions have their special interests, and it is difficult to find a compromise when ideology comes into play. That said, sometimes it is best to let things happen naturally, and just as you brought the Dwarves into our fold, so you should bring them closer. I am aware that you are acquainted with one of their Deepdowners?"

"I am."

"And was this intentional?" Ravenport allowed his pleasure to show. "You do know that speaking to one is ' _Vadam_ '."

"Yep. Ollie told me."

"Ollie?"

"Ollie Edwards."

"Ah, Magus Oliver Edwards. A promising young man." Ravenport recalled the reports composed by the sleep-starved Illusionist. He also recalled the elfin young man with a bright future had a dire case of balding, which was a rather strange ailment, considering the resources Cambridge candidates could access.

"How did you commune with one so amicably?" Ravenport asked, curious as to how the girl managed the feat.

"… I rather not say." The girl's cheeks took on a hint of colour. "The circumstances were not proper."

"Curious… this Deepdowner is female, yes? Hilda, first daughter of Grand Engineseer Kül and Matron Hildenbrandt, each the respective heir of their ancient Houses."

"Right. But that's the first time I've heard of it," Gwen readily confessed.

"Heard of?"

"Her name."

"You don't know the Deepdowner's name?"

"Not her surname. I called her Hilda or Hildy…"

Ravenport didn't know whether to be impressed or disgusted; after nine months of reports on the girl, however, he felt a strange kinship for her bumbling tomfoolery, which somehow always seemed to turn out alright.

"I see." He took a moment to compose himself. "In your opinion, 'Hildy' is open to the Mageocracy's intervention in the Murk?"

"Absolutely." Gwen nodded. "She's a conservative, but she's fully aware of why the Red Keep hasn't made progress in thirty years. As things stand, they're losing more Dwarves than they're breeding from their limited population to the expeditions, so it's either eventual annihilation or taking a gamble that Human greed can push through the dark to tap into the Dyar Morkk."

"The Dyar Morkk." The Duke of Norfolk leaned forward. "The veins of the Elemental Plane of Earth from which transit can be made safely across the planar boundaries, utilising no additional advanced Spellcraft or Magitech than mechanised transit and if one had patience, one's own feet. It's a resource in which the Mageocracy is very interested."

"It'll reduce infrastructural costs for transportation and Teleportation by ten-fold." The girl nodded. "But it belongs to the Dwarves, does it not?"

"A crude way of putting it." Ravenport crossed his fingers once more. "Understand this, girl. A natural resource doesn't 'belong' to anyone by right. The owner is merely he or she who has the power to keep it."

"Are you telling me to rob the Dwarves?" The girl looked shocked.

"The Dwarves have lost the right to the low-ways," the Duke explained with patience. "Think, for example, of our predecessors over in Italy. Rome in the days of Augustine possessed the largest network of roads anywhere in the western world— but when the Holy Empire contracted, what do you think happened to those same roads?"

"Abandoned?"

"Appropriated," Ravenport said. "They became the arterial highways of trade between the splintered nations of the bygone Roman Empire, each section owned and maintained by feudal lords for their benefit only."

"I can see the benefit, but the Dwarves are going to go ham…" the girl appeared hesitant. "I mean, I understand why us using it is better than letting it rot. But then again, how are you going to help me if I say yes?"

"I will officialise your visit as a War Mage." Ravenport put his plan into motion with complete awareness of the risks he took. "The Crown will prepare official documents. You'll be going into the Murk to save our citizens and stabilise the region for safer adventuring, as well as lend a hand to your personal friends, Hilda and Hanmoul. With an official sponsorship, no one in the Red Citadel, not even their Deepdowners will dare detain you or prevent you from taking necessary action to 'protect our kin'. Whatever atrocities or mistake 'our' Warmage might make, I shall shoulder— whatever gains you make, conversely, will be to the benefit of the Mageocracy."

"Diplomatic immunity, eh? And what if I start a war?"

"Impossible, unless you raze the guildhall or Consume the Deepdowners in plain sight."

"… are you saying…" The girl's eyes widened, a reaction that pleased Ravenport. He felt a small satisfaction, like observing the first carvings of an intricate sculpture taking place. "I could do away with one in an alleyway? Chomp-Chomp?"

"The Dwarves have their factions as well." Ravenport laughed. "The Deepdowners have their place at the heart of Dwarven society, but the perils of power are the same anywhere and everywhere. Their priests of knowledge aren't living in the vaulted halls of Deepholm, and yet they still wish to rule? It's terrifying how ignorant conservatism and tradition can be."

The Devourer gave him a strange look. "I see. I'll take your advice into account. Anything else?"

"Yes, actually." Ravenport cleared his throat. "Gwen, can you please report to Trawsfynydd at your earliest convenience?"

"… Why?" the girl dared to ask.

"You are expected."

"They can't come to see me?" The girl huffed. "I am busy. Tell em I've got Dwarves to help."

"If you wish, I can arrange it so that Master Warden Eldrin comes to see you." Ravenport could see the girl's stubbornness. However, as a father to a very wilful daughter, he understood young women and their rebellious phases. "In that case, the state will be involved, and hours of the unnecessary ceremony will transpire before you speak in private. By private, I mean that your topic of discussion will be on the record."

To Ravenport's surprise, his intimidation did not appear to have the effect he was anticipating. Instead of baulking, the girl crossed her legs, took a few seconds to unwire her brain, then smiled. "Say I do the Office of the Duke a favour and go see the Hvítálfar, what's in it for me?"

The Duke of Norfolk held back on stating that it was her duty. "And what does our Devourer desire?"

"I need a favour for the future," Gwen said. "It's not much, and I promise it will be to both our benefits."

Ravenport studied the girl's intelligent eyes, trying to read past the swirling mana turning her irises a brilliant shade of amber and green. A trap? The girl wouldn't dare, and Maxine wouldn't allow it. Even if the girl succeeded in inconveniencing him temporarily, his retaliation wouldn't be something she could handle, at least not without leaving the Mageocracy for good.

"I am willing to entertain the idea," Ravenport confessed. "But the Office of the Lord Marshall does not draw blank cheques. Can you clarify?"

"Well, you know me." The girl smiled infectiously. "I am an ideas person, and so I have great ideas involving an alternative way of funding a Divination Tower network. I am confident it will work, and my investors will shoulder all fiscal responsibilities, at least until we have a working example, at which point the Mageocracy may wish to buy-in. What I want, Dic— Milord Ravenport, is a nod from you at the right time so that I can be left alone to make it happen. If you can do that for me, then I promise you that you and the Grey Faction will have first dibs on investment opportunities."

"A communication… business?" Ravenport tried to imagine such a thing. "You want to compete with the Towers?"

"I could tell you, but then we'd be business partners," the girl said calmly. "Our trust is fragile. I am still recovering from the trauma caused by your son."

Ravenport ignored the contraction in his chest.

"Never get personal," he warned the girl with a pearl of silent wisdom becoming of his station. "There is an unspoken rule of engagement among the nobility, and that's you never go after one's family. Once you cross that line, any conflict that might see resolution becomes a free-for-all unto the destruction of one party or the other. It's why your cousins can enjoy every opportunity at Cambridge and why your healer's free to do as she wishes."

"… noted." The girl must have realised she had misstepped. "It's nothing personal. I apologise for my ill-humour."

"Nothing personal?" Ravenport once more studied the girl, searching inside himself for some sympathy that might have emerged over the months. What he found, the Duke of Norfolk realised— was wariness. He couldn't read the girl, not entirely, which against a teenager was an absurd prospect.

Yet, here she was, an enigma in an immodest dress— a Void-filled silhouette with unplumbed depth.

"I mean, we are not personally acquainted," the girl said. "We've spoken less than a dozen times, and you promised you wouldn't hold Edmund against me. I wouldn't say our interactions are entirely positive."

"Hmm." Ravenport wondered if he should have held that particular Sword of Damocles over the girl, but chose concession for now. Whatever happened, he would have to see if she could indeed work a second miracle and usurp the Dwarves' secret passageways for the Empire's use. For the Mageocracy, whose primary transportation involved slow-travelling ships and absurdly expensive Teleportation Circles, even the bones of what the pre-Beast Tide Dwarves could manage was a boon. "I can't promise you anything until I see a clear picture of your Divination Towers."

"Then how about this?" The girl grinned. "If I need you to stand behind me for a matter that's entirely legal and within your jurisdiction. If and when 'it' happens, promise me that you will pursue the matter reasonably and to its natural conclusion."

Ravenport scanned his mind for Morrigan's most recent reports. "The matter with the Exeters?"

"... are you spying on me?" The girl furrowed her brows suspiciously. She glanced at the Ravens.

"Caw! Caw!" The birds protested.

"I see." The Duke of Norfolk considered the pros and cons, weighing each outcome within his mind. "That's acceptable."

"Great, then I am off to see the Elves after my exams."

The Duke nodded.

"When are you leaving for the Red Peak?"

"Whenever the documents are ready," Gwen said. "That and we're waiting for Jean-Paul to receive the green light from Mevrou Bekker."

"I see." Ravenport put his hands together, a sign that they were done. "Good luck delving the deep. You will have the Shard's support, as well as the Foreign Office's official sanction. Just remember, if you renege on duties or act overtly out of self-interest, there will be punishments."

"Yep." The girl stood. "Goodbye, your Grace."

"Caw! Caw!" The ravens called from the loft's entryway.

"See ya later, Mori."

And just like that, the girl was gone.

Ravenport sat at his table, balancing the Dwarves, measuring the Elves and thinking of Void Mages, his mind drowned with possibilities the Mageocracy might entertain shortly. There was the matter of the Exeters as well— But of course, if the Militants are stupid enough to leave behind evidence, and if Walken were to act as the prosecutor, it would be unprofitable to stand in the way of 'public' justice.

At some point, he looked up at the raven pruning its feathers and felt a strange disquiet.

_Mori?_ Ravenport suddenly felt an icy suspicion stabbing at his chest. Had the girl called his raven Mori?

"Mori!" The ravens cried out, parrying their beaks against the hardwood, appearing entirely innocent and unknowing. "Mori! Mori! Mori!"