With the library looted, Gwen moved on to the smaller rooms, choosing not to overthink.

In her Master's bedroom, she packed away the ornate, hand-carved Elven four-post bed, an enormous fibrous mattress, a dresser, the wardrove, bedstands, two chests of sheets, and countless bric-a-brac once belonging to the couple. These, she figured, could be used to catalyse Divination Magic for finding their owner. There were also dozens of dresses, distinctly Elven in design, as well as pants and suits in the same style worn by the male Elves Gwen had seen in Trawsfynydd.

Comparatively, the guest rooms proved spartan, with little more than empty decor.

When she finished, all but one Storage Ring had been filled to the brim.

Standing in the library, she looked around the room once more.

"… fuck it."

With a gesture and a series of invocations, she conjured a Void Chakram and sliced the hinges securing the portrait of Sobel. Before the painting struck the hardwood floor, Gwen stowed the offending masterwork.

"Ariel! Cali! Come back!" she dismissed the dogs and recalled her Familiars, hoping Sanari wasn't too peeved that she had taken the better part of three hours.

Outside, she found the Hierophant-Initiate engaged in meditation.

When she approached, Sanari's blonde lashes fluttered open, revealing the High Elf's golden irises.

"Are you ready to return to Trawsfynydd?" the Druid enquired, unfazed by Gwen's liberal use of her time. "I fear your sorcery here has caused a disturbance in the District."

"If I am that unwelcome, then let's go." Gwen took a long, lingering look at the real-life Elfhome, fairest of all realms, a metropolis of tree-homes born from the dream of a World Tree. She had finally gotten her glimpse at the Elves of this world; only they weren't the world-weary Lothlórien-kind or the xenophobes of Mirkwood. Beneath the cordial surface shown to outsiders, the Elves of Tryfan harboured an unfathomably cold conspiracy called the "Accord".

Was anyone in London willing to snitch on her host? Gwen mulled with ambivalence. Or would she have to wait to join the Accord one day and be bound by its enigmatic stipulations?

To her disappointment, her return journey down from the Sixth District of Tryfan involved the shortest possible route. From the overhanging branches, Sanari conjured a Tree Striding portal—

And an eye-blink later, Gwen stood in the town square of Trawsfynydd, unceremoniously ejected from the home of her hostess.

Sanari shut the portal behind them, then addressed her with cautious politeness. "Magus Song, shall I escort you to your cabin?"

"Actually." Gwen turned to her guide unapologetically. By now, all desire to explore the holiday town had vanished from her mind. On her digits, the rings' contents were burning red-hot on her fingers, the anxiety melting a hole through her stomach. "Sanari, could you be a dear and shout me a Portal back to London? I have urgent business with my siblings-in-craft."

Sanari blinked in surprise. "Leaving so soon? You are a cherished guest. Lady Solana made that very clear."

"I know, and I am very grateful." Gwen bowed her head slightly. "Please give the Lady my apologies. The matter is urgent."

"Very well." The Druidess willed into being another portal, entwining the vines to form an arched trellis of wood. "Which direction? I can take you as far as the edge of Snowdonia."

"Then put me beside Bangor." Gwen did her best to conjure up a mental map. "They're still cleaning up Triffids. I am sure there's a Teleportation Circle there I can use."

"I do hope you will return to us soon." Sanari activated the portal. She paused for a moment, as if listening to some distant voice, then nodded at her guest. "The Bloom in White says you are forever welcome. If you have more questions about Lord Kilroy or the Accord, Arch-Warden Eldrin would be your point of contact, as will I."

"Tell her Grace I am thankful for her generosity and wisdom." Gwen bowed in the Tree's general direction. "Please do not hesitate to ask if I may be of service to Tryfan. May her bloom never wilt."

"May her bloom be eternal." The Elf made the sign of the blooming flower with her fingers. "I shall await your return, future associate of the Accord."

"Yes, that would be nice." Gwen bequeathed Sanari her most business-like smile before stepping through the threshold. "If I ever find out what it is."

London.
Westminster.

Deep under the parliamentary building, a long-imprisoned Sprite, once a worshipped Demi-being, vicariously watched the world through her Crows. The world she once knew had changed much since her incarceration, so much that any other old God would have perished from confusion and irrelevance.

But not so Morrigan, once Mór-Ríoghain, the foretelling phantom; she who guards the secrets to victory; the crow who is one and who is three. In the past, she had guided the Welkin, the people of the sky and the sea in that land now mapped as Ireland, bringing her folk to victory at Magh Tuireadh, leading the sons of Nemed unto the promised land. There, she taught them the hidden tongues of the Fey and the Álfar so that together with the Tuatha Dé Danann, their coalition would triumph over the Fomorian hordes.

Oh, how she missed those days of glory! Lo! How she longed for the past, where she had slaked her thirst with foe-blood and adorned herself with gore, bathing in the violence directed by her hand.

But all that seemed so distant now, so indistinct that Morrigan could only vaguely recall her abduction by the King called "Hal". Bested by the young monarch's demi-divinity, she had howled as his Crusaders slaughtered her folk and pillaged the home of their flower wives and daughters.

After which, she had suffered the same fate— a fitting end for a Goddess who guided the 'fate' of the red-haired berserkers bawling her name. Without ceremony, her totem was uprooted and moved to London, bound and tied and smothered under the weight of a body of faith powerful enough to banish her ego at a whim.

After that, for aeons, Morrigan had stared into the darkness, knowing nothing of the world's secrets, existing for no purpose other than as a myth to frighten children to bed.

Until one day, she saw the light, as well as her first Ravenport.

"Serve," the man spoke in the old tongue. "Or fade forever."

The old Gods were not like the new ones, haughty and prideful and impassioned by martyrdom.
The old Gods were honest and human and full of desire.
And so Morrigan chose service.

In the beginning, from what she once knew of the followers of the Nazarene, Morrigan had expected a graceless, tedious epoch of servitude. What she received instead was a trove of secret knowledge so vast and so limitless that were her anima not bound to the bedrock of Westminster's holy sanctums, her powers would grow a thousand-fold.

Just how many secrets could one Kingdom hold?

For three centuries, Morrigan laboured in the deep dark, commanding the crows occupying the Tower of London, plumbing the Mageocracy's secrets, growing so bloated on conspiracies that her natural curiosity had grown blunted. Even for a Goddess, the Information Age was a tiresome thing.

Very recently, she had found a new bauble. Her Master, the latest head to adorn the Ravenport line, had directed her eyes toward a rare individual who possessed enough intrigue to warrant her full attention.

A second Sobel.

In the same manner that a Vampire Noble of the Eastern Reaches could measure the vitality of a being at a glance, Morrigan, as per her portfolio, could taste the depth of a being's secrets like a connoisseur savouring aged wine. Though her ability to warp fate had been siphoned from her, she could see the threads of destiny wrap around the girl like a vortex of Void.

From Gwen's accostment by Mycroft to her adventures in Merthyr Tydfil to her elevation of the avian known as Dede, Morrigan had kept her murder of crows close to the Mageocracy's cherished specimen.

The girl's talents were exceptional, and what's more, her body possessed an Essence of one older than even Morrigan— what's more, she freely gave it without care. At the thought of the sorceress' sweet elixir, Morrigan wetted the petals of her scarlet-hued lips.

She couldn't directly interact with the girl. That would break the Geas placed on her by the scions of Norfolk. But a Goddess of mysteries could be very slippery if she wanted to be— especially when she and her contractor shared the same desire to plunder the girl's secrets.

Down in the catacombs under Westminster, a thousand trained Diviners busied themselves filing the lastest missives into the crystal-storage that served as Morrigan's stark temple.

"Go to Mycroft, sweetie," she instructed the closest crow to find the Duke of Norfolk. "Tell him that the girl has returned from Elfhome with more secrets than when she'd entered, and that a missive has arrived from the Bloom in White, expecting his presence within the week."

At Bangor, Gwen took advantage of her privilege as a Class VI War Mage to commandeer the Teleportation Circle to return to Heathrow's ISTC before rerouting to Peterhouse at Cambridge.

There, she flew directly to the Master's Lodge, informing the door keep of her arrival and that she had to make immediate use of the college's LRM Device.

Inside, she proceeded to the private conference room, stopping only to ensure that Lady Grey was not seeking an audience, or that the device was in use.

Presently, it was Tuesday, 1735 in London, meaning it was 0835 in Sydney. The time to call was perfect unless her overworked Brother-in-craft was already in an important meeting.

The brass-bound device blinked, begging her patience, then a green crystal projection indicated that a connection had been made, after which Gunther's chiselled mien came into view.

"Gwen?" Her Brother-in-craft wore a broad smile. "This is certainly an unexpected pleasure. You're calling from Peterhouse?"

"I am." Gwen wasted no time. "I don't know if this Message is secure, so I am going to make it vague and short. I just got back from the Tree of Tryfan after looting Master's century-old home. I've picked up clothes, effects, STUFF, Sobel's old slippers, the works. They're burning a hole in my pocket, but I don't know what to do with them. I NEED you or Allie here to sort through this stuff with me."

To emphasise her desperation, Gwen made full use of her expressive eyes.

Gunther's comprehension was immediate. "How much did you find?"

Gwen held up both hands. She had two Storage Rings on each hand, as well as her looted original.

"Okay, I'll come to London," Gunther said after a moment. "Expect me soon."

"Just like that?" Gwen expressed shock at her Brother-in-craft's composure.

"Tower Masters have diplomatic immunity against such inconveniences," Gunther explained. "Give me an hour to clear matters here in Sydney. I'll arrive before midnight. Can you inform Maxine?"

"I shall," Gwen promised.

"Good. I'll meet you at Peterhouse. For now, go and find Lady Grey. You can trust her with anything relating to Henry. But don't leave the lodge nor speak of this to anyone else."

"Understood. Will Alesia join us?"

"No, as a War Mage like yourself, her travel restrictions take time to lift." Gunther shook his head. "See you soon, little sister."

"See you, brother." Gwen smiled at the sound of the endearing title.

The projection died.

Gwen closed the device, took a breather, then opened the double doors. Immediately outside, she saw the gentle face of the Lady of Ely sitting by the study lounge, sipping a cup of tea with a flawless display of grace and poise.

"Your Ladyship." Gwen bowed slightly. "I have returned from Trawsfynydd."

"In less than forty-eight hours?" the Lady's brows formed the universal symbol for scepticism. From the hint of agitation in Maxine's voice, Gwen guessed that the Marchioness was likely wondering if she had provoked the Elves in some way.

Gwen gestured to the conference room. "Your Grace, can we speak in confidence?"

"Of course, did something upset you?" The Lady's sense for intrigue was vorpal. "Ollie, perhaps."

"Oh shit, Ollie!" Gwen realised she had completely forgotten about her Praelector. "Er, yes. The matter is regarding Ollie."

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

Lady Grey sighed. "Alright, I can spare a few minutes. Millie?"

Grey's attendant maid bowed her head.

"Push my schedule downward one quadrant. If need be, cancel Lord Braxton's petition. I'll let you know if more time is required."

"Yes, ma'am." The maid read the situation well. Taking command of the entourage, she led the Lady's aides away from the chamber.

Gwen waited for the Lady of Ely to enter first before turning her back and closing the double doors with a click.

From the lodge's two-storey french windows, she could just make out the murder of crows sitting outside, chattering away with their long-drawn "Awwwwws."

Gunther Shultz, first of Henry Kilroy's Apprentices and the Master of Sydney Tower, arrived without pomp. His detour through Heathrow was the only indication that one of the foremost combat Mages in the Mageocracy had dropped into its capital, sending London's various agencies into a frenzy.

His departure from Sydney had been hasty but not without contingencies in place. As the inheritor of Kilroy's most troubling Apprentice, Gunther knew well that a day on which he had to drop everything to Teleport to Gwen's side was inevitable. Even before Gwen had left for China, he had already arranged an army of aides-de-camp to take over his day-to-day duties.

If anything, the test for his secretaries had arrived later than he had imagined. Knowing Ravenport's interest in his Sister-in-craft, and the matter with Edgar, he had anticipated a head-on collision with the Duke of Norfolk. Likewise, the paranoia of Gwen maiming London's blue-bloods had been eating him for some time.

When instead, their prideful princess took the abuse and turned the other cheek for the Exeter twins, Gunther knew the girl he had saved at Blackheath had finally grown up.

Take the present matter, for example. That Gwen did not overreact but calmly returned to Cambridge, then contacted him without delay was a sign of growing wisdom. If so, he could feel at ease, for as her foster sibling, the guilt that came with lacking means and time to guide Gwen personally had gnawed on his conscience.

That was why, when the double doors to the conference chamber at the Master's Lodge opened, Gunther felt immense pleasure at seeing Gwen seated like a lady beside the peerless Marchioness of Ely, compiling a list of the Grot's spoils.

"Gunther!" Gwen lost all lady-like pretence at once, her eyes instantly swelling with moisture.

Gunther allowed the indiscretion, feeling a brotherly joy when the girl dove like an overgrown pup into his open arms.

"Holy hell, I missed you so much." The girl dug her face into his shirt. "Thanks for coming, I can only imagine how crazy your schedule must be."

"It's only been a few months." Gunther grinned despite himself. "From the sounds of it. You're the one who's being busy. Master had a Grot at Tryfan, eh? He never mentioned it."

With some effort, he pulled the clinging girl from his torso.

"Aunt Loftus." He bowed from the waist. The Lady of Ely was as he recalled from their last meeting many years prior— wise and prideful, but also gentle and patient.

"No ceremony." Maxine hand-waved his courteousness. "We're close enough to dispense with all that— and you're a Tower Master now. How about that? The sullen boy who Henry used to bring to dinners is now the Master of millions and the governor of Oceania. The old man would have been proud as punch, Gunther."

"I'd still prefer being Master's Paladin." Gunther felt his chest constrict. "That said, some Paladin I turned out to be. If I had taken greater care…"

"Nonsense!" The Marchioness was as sympathetic as she was tender. "Sobel was a debt that only your Master could have repaid. The fault was Henry's if anyone's at all. If he lived to know that you, Alesia and Gwen would now bear his burden, he would be horrified."

Gunther understood the Lady of Ely as another victim of Henry's untimely passing. In the past, Maxine had been a ward of Henry's like himself; a favour Henry had to repay— though Gunther had always suspected that the famous Marchioness held more than just daughterly affection for the man who sheltered her. Similar to Gunther, Henry had hand-reared Maxine Loftus to prominence amidst the troubled years of her hotly-contested inheritance.

"I can see why you called." Gunther shifted his attention to the mess presently occupying the enormous table. At a glance, he caught the familiar hand-writing of his Master, scribbled here and there over the loose manuscripts. The one closest to him looked at least a century old, hand-composed in the letterbox composition the Tower's Grimoires now imitated.

He retrieved a wayward parchment.

**Corpse Explosion**
Evocation
Casting Time: 20 Major 7 Minor
Range: Medium
Components: Material, Somatic
Duration: Instant
 _This copy originates from transcriptions of The Book of Coming Forth by Day. As per the original, this IMS variant offers a near-instantaneous Evocation that draws out the Negative Energies inhabiting a creature after death, creating an eruption of flesh and bone. For the base invocation, see the excerpt attached in Appendix 1C. My colleague, Zulkir Xash Tarn of Cairo, is credited with the base spell's spellshaping add-ons. For chained, empowered, split, repeated and maximised modifications—_

Seeing Henry's annotations, Gunther felt awash with nostalgia.

"Interesting choice of research Master was exercising." Gunther replaced the page. "It's not all like this, is it?"

"It's all useful," his Sister-in-craft interpreted for him. "Lady Grey said she would help register any research that is compatible with the Tower's policies."

Gunther turned to their mutual compatriot with polite scepticism.
The Lady nodded, affirming the girl's hopeful tone.

He picked up another parchment.

**Bone Shield**
Conjuration
Casting Time: 7 Major 2 Minor
Range: Self
Components: Core, Somatic
Duration: Long
 _The durability of this classic Necromancy spell relies on the material used. Creatures of a higher tier create more substantial barriers than beings of a lower tier. Furthermore, this modified variation is capable of reproducing some of the elemental or physical properties the creature held while alive._

"Would the Tower accept these?" Gunther envisioned Gwen in battle with blocks of bone behaving as reactive armour. In the past, he had fought Skelemancers before. As Creature Conjurers, these summoners were among some of his least favourite foes. Where a Soul Flayer was physically weak to his near-instantaneous beheading, Bone Mages could block his Radiant Lances with Negative-infused armour and shields.

"I think Gwen should be in the right. Most of these are old manuscripts that predate the ban," the Marchioness explained. "Such things exist, here and there, in private collections and libraries. We even have an assortment here in Peterhouse, though untranscribed and useless for Void Magic. If the Shard's willing to accept them into the Grimoire for Gwen to use, then there shouldn't be a problem."

"I wouldn't accept this," Gunther gave his opinion. "Not in Sydney. That's a slippery slope if I am not mistaken."

"Just as well we're in London, then." Lady Loftus pulled up another sheet. "The researchers here are hungrier and more forgiving. We're already sanctioning Necromancers under a cultural pretext, so no point disparaging the spells. Oh, bosh! Don't give me that look, Gunther. We're doing this for Gwen. Here, read this."

The Lady of Ely passed over a leather binder.

Gunther's fingers glided over the rough, skin-like parchment. Where ordinary Spell Books used paper made from Elder-wood sap, Necromancers preferred more exotic materials.

**Essence Tap**
None Assigned
Casting Time: 243 Major
Range: Medium
Components: Verbal, Somatic
Duration: Instant
_By invoking the True Name of a creature or Demi-human, the caster may forcibly usurp a portion of its Essence. This Essence may be stowed via the means of a Soul Well (See Appendix 2B), or be used as a spell component by a practitioner of Soul Sorcery. For a surviving target of a successful Essence Tap, secondary effects range from becoming stunned, falling comatose, to losing control over one's corporeal form. For the original invocation, see Soul Tap (Appendix 3A)._

"Interesting, no? That's Svartálfar Essence magic," the Lady said. "With some tinkering, its something Gwen could use to increase her capacity and to diversify her skill set."

"I can see that," Gunther remarked to Henry's old ally. "But isn't Gwen receiving instruction from Cambridge?"

"In conventional Spellcraft and spell theory, yes," Lady Grey said, taking the book from his hands to add to the pile slated for submission. "But your sister needs a unique Grimoire of specialised sorcery to supplement her unique physiology. We can't have her subsisting on an impoverished spellbook. You've gone through the spell-making route, Gunther. Do you remember how long it took for Henry to develop your Signature spells?"

"I was hoping the university could take care of that for Gwen," he said.

"Maxwell Brown, among others, will indeed be taking care of it," the Lady said. "Don't fret. We'll make sure these spells are safe for Gwen's use. I doubt you'll like the alternative, such as borrowing Meister Bekker's work. That would demand certain sacrifices on Gwen's part."

Gunther recalled the pasty face of the skinny young man. Though he held no feelings for the hopeful scoundrel, he snorted. "Gwen's too good for him."

"Aww," his sister cooed. "Don't say that, Gunther. Jean-Paul's a good bloke. He's better than he looks."

"Are you close?"

"Closer. We're forming a Void Mage coalition," Gwen boasted. "I think I'll call it the Cabal of the Void. Besides, JP is kind of cute-ugly?"

Lady Grey chuckled. "Stop teasing your brother. I am sure he has someone suitable in mind for his sister. Do you, Gunther?"

"I wouldn't dare." Gunther kept a straight face. "Gwen, do you have a companion in mind?"

"Nope. I'll give it another decade." The girl turned red as a beetroot.

Lady Loftus gave a knowing smirk before reintroducing him to another stash of spells she had categorised. "These are the spells nearest to completion. Henry developed them for Sobel."

Gunther took the half-dozen scrolls and read through them one by one, noting the standouts.

**Hydra**
Conjuration
Casting Time: 20 Major 7 Minor
Range: Medium
Components: Verbal, Somatic
Duration: Until dismissed
This spell will manifest what Elizabeth calls "The Hydra", a creature— or perhaps a portion of a larger "animal" that exists inside the Void that endlessly regenerates if there is enough vitality. We do not know its actual property, nor if the creature is intelligent. When made material in the Prime, the eyeless creature resembles slugs. However, by my observation, the physiology appears closely related to deep trench lampreys found below the Sea of Java. Perhaps they hail from the same source? We know nought about the Void and its properties due to how rarely it naturally materialises. For now, this spell will summon one to six of the things, with no discernible way to control how many slip through the portal. What we do know is that these are voracious worms of perpetual hunger, capable of partially sustaining themselves. Elizabeth says that she can command them to perform rudimentary tasks. Does this mean they can be tamed?

**Void Fire**
Evocation-Conjuration
Casting Time: 30 Major 51 Minor
Range: Close
Components: Verbal, Somatic
Duration: Varies, Channelled
 _This spell creates a caustic Void flame that grows in size as per the Evocation original, Caustic Flame (See Appendix 1A). This combination of invocations creates a heatless fire formed of Void particles that replicate when made to consume living flesh, particularly high-vitality targets. I intend this variant to be the base spell to a family of new invocations. If one can reduce the consumption rate of the channelled mana, it may be possible to create a hybrid, self-perpetuating Negative Demi-element with the property of Druidic Wildfire or a Djinn's Fire Curse._

**Desolation Aura**
Evocation-Illusion
Casting Time: 60 Major 21 Minor
Range: Medium
Components: Verbal, Somatic
Duration: Channelled
 _We've experimented with intensifying the psychological and physiological effects associated with Void manifestations to create an aura field that incapacitates enemies in a large circumference. Presently, in this variation, those caught within melee range suffer Negative Drain sickness._

"Your Master's collection was enormous," Lady Loftus commented while Gunther read. "We found old Magic that the Elves forbade as well. How curious that the old man had kept it in the Grot at Tryfan of all things."

"How old?"

"Old." The Lady gestured to a few volumes bundled in vellum and threaded with silk. "There's a half-translated copy of the Papyrus of Hunefer from the third Dynasty which any High Priest would give their Ibis heads to possess. Henry's annotated the contents. It's over there, take a look…"

Following the Marchioness' direction, Gunther retrieved the wrapt copy of hand-written notes. Gingerly unfurling the old paper, he quickly scanned the contents.

"Is this the wrong scroll?" He turned to the Lady. "There's nothing here."

"Read the first line." Lady Grey wore an anticipatory smirk. "Fourth page."

"The Papyrus of Hunefer: A disambiguation by Sir Richard Karl Lepsis… edited by Henry Kilroy."

"Give it to Gwen to read," the Lady said. "Gwen— read Gunther's page."

Gunther passed the bundle over, noting how much more grown up the girl now seemed. With the pages in hand, Gwen's intelligent eyes scanned the content, and then she began to read.

"Okay, it says… Soulfire Strike, er… no School, untranslated, range is Medium. 'This ancient form of Necromancy ignites the Essence tied to the caster's physical body, or a prepared source, to create Soulfire. A large enough volume can ignite the Astral Essence of all beings within its radius."

"Really?" Gunther took the parched from the girl's hands, then read the lines carefully. In his eyes, the text remained a dry-reading of history.

"Detect Magic—"

Nothing.

"Tongues—" He activated another Divination staple.

Still, he saw nothing of note.

"True Seeing!"

There were three layers of illusion on the scroll, but no spells.

"How are you reading this?" he asked the giggling girl.

Gingerly, Gwen pulled her blue-dark hair into a ponytail, revealing to him a slender neck with three Ioun Stones embedded against the ridge of her spine.

"Master's Translation Stone?"

"That's right." The corner of Maxine Loftus' mouth curled. "What an ingenious method! The residual magic from the inscription overpowers the illusion, so it's undetectable. The illusion itself requires the Ioun Stone to translate, so even knowing there's an illusion there wouldn't help."

"Master had his ways." Gunther patted Gwen on the head, making her cover her neck. "What else are you hoping to submit?"

"I found a spell that 'conjures' Wraiths by using the Essence from recently deceased Magical Creatures. There's another one that 'restores' a companion, I think, from death. That one's Egyptian in origin. It says the spell was intended for a cat…"

Gunther didn't know whether to be offended or appalled. "That's unquestionably Necromancy."

"There exist sanctioned variations already," Lady Loftus reminded him. "We'll let the Shard's prudes judge for themselves. Either way, something like this must be registered to prevent future troubles. You know how pedantic they can be about unsanctioned spellbooks."

Gunther grunted, feeling ambivalent about the Lady's nonchalance.

"Henry also dabbled in Demi-human Shamanic magic." Loftus pointed to another pile. "Those were also hidden. They look like they're derived from the Greenskin Totemcraft from the Middle period. Henry's research into Void sorcery did not discriminate between sources."

"There's this spell." Gwen's green eyes gleamed. "It's amazing. Through this ritual, you ingest a potion mixed with blood from your mates. When active, the spell pools the collated vitality of the whole group. In the original, the weakest member of the party dies when the group takes damage or loses vitality— but Master made it so that it is possible to redirect that damage to the strongest member of the group. He was trying to utilise the spell so that the drain from Void Sorcery could be spread out and mitigated. I think it can be altered so I can use Cali's vital store instead."

"You're putting yourself in danger," Gunther noted with a frown. "Magic like this offer endless temptation."

"I should remind you, Gunther, that Gwen is the hope of all Void Mages in the Mageocracy," Maxine defended her ward. "Besides, she's been doing just fine, despite these temptations. Her new spells could be the beginning of a solution to resolve the vitality problem of other Void Mages. You know the University has been trying to find a reliable method for a long time. Henry's trove isn't something to be buried. Some of these spells Gwen can hoard, others we have to share. Whatever the case, there won't be another opportunity to mitigate decades of research like this."

"So, Necromancy from the Great War, Shamanism from the Steppes, _Svartálfar Druidism_ , Egyptian Death Rites..." Gunther pointed to the rest of the unsorted stash. "What else?"

"We also found Eastern Witchcraft and Sanguine Thaumaturgy." Gwen's eyes watched him pleadingly, hoping for his acceptance.

"Blood magic?" Gunther's mind conjured forth some very vivid, and very unpleasant memories of hard-fought campaigns in Eastern Europe, where most of the surviving Necromancers from the Great War had holed up in their irrespective strongholds. "Do you mean Vampiric Thaumaturgy?"

"There's a spell that utilises vitality to make expendable barriers, kind of like Bone Shield, but much more subtle," Gwen hastily spoke. "The crazy part is that you don't have to expend your vitality— you can use your foe's, like from Magical Creatures and such. Master was researching another one called the Sanguine Mantle—"

"… I know that one." Gunther sighed at the girl's excited face. "It's a horrible spell that creates an armour of blood that crystallises and hardens around the user's body. It also heals the caster's wounds by replenishing their vitae."

"Only now Master's made them accessible through the IMS!"

"Impressive, yes." Gunther bit back his immediate rebuke. "But the implication..."

"Master said that Magic was a tool." Gwen's expression spoke of her great expectations. "He said 'It's the spell of the heart that murders, not the spell of the hand'. Do you remember that one, Gunther?"

"I do," Gunther recalled the old man's aphorism.

"If these spells can be made viable through the IMS," Gwen said slowly. "And the Shard is fine with me using them; then they're just tools. Like Master said, 'It's the abuse of magic' we should fear, not its 'use.' Master left us these spells, and I am in dire need of a unique Void Grimoire. I think Master would have taught me these invocations anyway. I—"

"Do as you will." Gunther halted his sister's tirade. He did not need to be convinced, for he had no doubt his Master would have left the bulk of his research to Gwen, as she had supposed. "What you practice is your freedom, sister, and my job isn't to act as a gatekeeper. That said..."

Just to drive the point home, Gunther hardened his gaze with a mote of Radiance. "In Master's absence, I shall act as the disciplinarian. If you abuse his legacy..."

He left the rest unsaid.

"I won't disappoint you, Gunther," the girl promised.

"I know you won't." Gunther patted her head once more, wondering what Alesia would have said in his place. "Use Master's legacy well, little sister. When the time comes, you'll be the one to take back everything he ever gave to Sobel."


Gwen spent the next two days resting and relaxing with Gunther, touring an endless stream of cafes by the Thames, their conversation meandering from familial to foreign with complete ease. When she begged for updates, her brother was happy to humour his little sister.

Foremost of her Australian connections was Surya, who after Sydney's siege had transformed his art-ranch into a refugee camp. For her Grandfather, Gunther was happy to report that the old artist was back to his old trade, this time creating erotic artworks inspired by her summoned monstrosities.

Comparatively, Alesia possessed no such leisure. Sydney's outer regions continue to be a mess and she and her team, whose members the Scarlet Sorceress had retrieved from Yue, ceaselessly snuffed out fires on a Frontier where every flora and fauna preyed on Humanity.

When Gwen asked after Yue, Gunther informed her that Gwen's former schoolmate, the "Violent Sorceress" had founded another team together with Whetu and Rona Manaia, the quarterling Captain of Auckland U. As with Alesia, Yue engaged in an endless stream of errands under Sydney Tower to earn the CCs and HDMs necessary for improving her craft.

"You mean violet sorceress?" Gwen asked.

"No."

"... Right."

"I sometimes wonder if Yue's your Changeling double," Gunther mused to himself. "She's been walking the path Master had originally planned for you. Learning from us, performing quests, building a team and gaining accolades in Australia. That said, what you've managed for yourself, sister, be it arcanistry or industry is nothing short of astounding. I am in awe."

"Speaking of Changelings." Gwen reacted to the familiar word, "The Elves said I might be one. Does the term mean what I think it means?"

"I would assume so. Master had the same thought, though other than your Essence, you lack all the signs."

"What signs?"

"Talk in tongues, lunar morphic instabilities, speak with animals, visitations from Spirits, drift off into dreamscapes for prolonged periods, growing a horn..."

"Ha!" Gwen snorted. "I've done the occasional 'Dreaming'."

"A Fey dreams because they dream of home. They certainly don't dream about running Towers and making Crystals," Gunther remarked drily.

Gwen laughed out loud, half-covering her mouth as Le Guevel had instructed. Beside her, Gunther caught her infectious mirth, drawing eyes from other patrons.

Gwen grinned. She relished the looks of envy when strolling with her Radiant German Adonis, especially with her arm hooked inside her brother's elbow. She could only guess what the Londoners thought— but took pleasure at their lip-biting and eye-popping. Savouring the intimacy, she then relayed to Gunther everything that had transpired, beginning with Ravenport, then Lady Grey, her tutors, Ollie, Walken, Jean-Paul, Petra, the Dwarves, the Elves, and her new "servants" from Tonglv.

Out of her assemblage of ambivalent foes and allies, Gunther's concern was unexpectedly not for Ravenport, but for Ruxin, the now-official Master of Manipur, Kachin and Nagaland.

"I have yet to conspire with True Dragons." Gunther mulled over her clingy retelling until his coffee had to be re-heated with a glare, Superman-style. "More than when we first spoke, what surprises me is your presumed familiarity. Ayxin is a half-human Dragonkin, so her motivations I can sympathise. Golos isn't a worry if you think Caliban can subdue him— but Ruxin is a five-century old Asianic Dragon, I wouldn't trust it any more than I'll trust our western Chromatics."

"A reasonable caution," Gwen's response was cheeky. "Though as Ruso's financial manager, I reckon our connection is arguably more reliable than if we were, say, in an amorous relationship. Ruxin and I, we're bound by mutual profit. If he betrays me, his future as the undisputed king of crystal mountain will be in jeopardy. Where I need his money to grow, he needs me to grow his money. Our trust is forged by links of pure HDMs."

"I see. Then why did you say the Yinglong is wary of you? Are you leading Ruxin astray?"

"Ha! I wish. Naw, it's worse than that..." Gwen grimaced.

With some pain, she carefully explained her meeting with Elvia, the mistake she had made in giving Elvia Sen-sen, and the present strain of their friendship. Considering that Gunther was the closest thing she had to family outside the Songs, she left no leaf unturned and no closet locked.

Gunther listened with an attentive ear, commenting when he desired clarity.

"So, thoughts?" Gwen concluded with Elvia disappearing into the crowd. "Re: Evee, I mean. Who do you think is at fault?"

"To assign fault is childish— I think you and Miss Lindholm should remain each other's support." Gunther's unreserved acceptance was equal-parts unexpected and daunting for Gwen. "Love is hard. It took me a long time to comprehend and accept Alesia's feelings— considering I watched her 'mature' from an angry, psychotic adolescent who wanted the world to burn into the lauded Scarlet Sorceress. As such, I'll refrain from giving Romantic advice. Heck, even if Master was here, I doubt he could help, especially if he had stayed single for..."

"A hundred and fifty years?"

"After which he fell for Sobel. I do think, however, that you owe Miss Lindholm an apology."

"Why?" Gwen's tone grew sullen. Of all her people, she had expected Gunther to be on-side.

"Is it so hard to understand? I speak for Yue and Alesia when I say that your power trajectory is nothing short of monstrous, sister." Gunther gave her a side-long stare. "For all of us, this is a wonderful thing, and if Master were alive, he'd be quaffing Golden Mead with joy— but have you considered how hard it is for your friends and allies to keep pace with your accomplishments?"

At Gunther's words, Gwen felt the uncomfortable click of some terrible box opening inside her chest.

"I can't speak for your cousin Petra, or this girl, Lulan that you've befriended, but I can tell you with complete confidence that your growing authority has put a lot of pressure on Yue. For myself, a parallel would be Allie. For instance, I've known for a long while that she trains herself ceaselessly because she doesn't want to be a burden if she wishes to stand beside me. Though it may seem arrogant to say so, I doubt there are many casters in the Mageocracy that can match my prowess. Don't you think that puts particular insecurities into Alesia's head?"

"I guess…"

"What's worse, you and Yue came from the same school. She was your better, then equal for some time. Now, not so much. That's why she's been questing night and day. She knows that she can't ever be as good as a Void Mage, just as Alesia's Fire will never best my Radiance. Why do you think I consented to give Yue Allie's Nightmare? I know exactly how your friend feels, Gwen, though I fear you haven't given the matter much thought, considering the expression you're making right now."

"Fuck… you're right. You're right." Gwen felt her throat constrict as Gunther kicked out her legs and set her to dangle. "Shit, so in the end, I AM the asshole."

"Now— Elvia. You're telling me that this girl loves you, and has professed to have loved you for several years. She's a healer— a lauded position in Sydney, sure, but hardly special compared to a Void Sorceress, especially not one with a Shoggoth. In London, where you can have as many healers as you desire, she's less than nothing. I can only imagine how Miss Lindholm must feel while watching these Magisters and Magus' heads spin as they dance to your every whim. So why should you be shocked when she's offered a way to level with you— to be your equal, to become 'special' as you are? How else is she going to stay beside the love of her life and not have her place taken by a better cast of supporting Mages?"

Gwen groaned, her face alternating between hues of red.

"That's reason number ONE to return to Miss Lindholm. Now, let us not forget this Yinglong." Gunther patted her head, perhaps wondering if he'd gone too far. "Do you recall the saying, keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer? Elvia Lindholm happens to be both, so that's reason number TWO."

"Okay, okay, I'll visit her Convent." Gwen fell back against her chair, completely helpless; her limbs had lost all strength and sensation after that asphyxiating rude awakening. "Gunther, you'd make a wonderful shrink."

Her Brother-in-craft studied her face, pondering her Gwenism. A moment later, he gave up and instead offered her a fatherly grin.

"I'll shout." He drained his chai. "Let's go. Didn't you want to show me the Isle of Dogs?"

On the isle, she showed Gunther what she had achieved with the Dwarves, introducing her Brother-in-craft to Master Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt and her team of crafters tuning up her printing presses, squealing when Gunther started to speak in fluent Germanic-Dwarven.

While touring his sister's future propaganda rag, Gunther spotted Dominic Lorenzo advising the NoMs. Their eyes met, then with an unspoken understanding, the two men convened, leaving Gwen to contend with her stout companions. When they returned, they gave one another firm handshakes, then returned to their prior occupations.

"What did you talk about?" Gwen burned with curiosity.

"You know Dominic's a Ghost, or something like it, correct?" her Brother-in-craft asked.

"More or less. Allie said as much. Is that going to be a problem?"

"Not until you're a problem, but he'll advise you before that happens. For now, he's volunteering to be your canary."

"Aww, that's sweet."

Gunther shook his head.

They patrolled the two-storey printing towers. Yossari had been using her unique skills to create ink for the rolling presses.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Gwen said proudly. "Did I do good?"

"I hope you'll do some good," Gunther chortled. "A word of advice, though. No matter what happens, you cannot disparage the House of Windsor. As little as they're involved in open politics— when they do…"

"Righto," Gwen promised. "May her Majesty's bloom be eternal."

Gunther gave her a strange look.

After that, Gwen prepared her body for an awkward meeting she had been anticipating for some time.

"Magister Walken." Outside, across from the canal of the outer dock, Gunther stood stiffly opposite the man partially responsible for their Master's death. With Henry as a hot topic of late, the atmosphere grew instantly stifling.

"Lord Shultz." Eric Walken's lips appeared parched. Gwen had given her business partner the head's up, and the old fox had consented; still, finding closure with Gunther was no easy prospect.

"Eric has been helping me with just about everything," Gwen affirmed once more for Walken's benefit. "From the IIUC to the Isle of Dogs. He's been indispensable."

Her Brother-in-craft looked at the silent Walken, then extended a hand. "Thank you for saving Gwen's life, Eric."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"No, no, it is I who should thank Gwen for the opportunity. My wife and children are in her debt as well." Walken shook the ex-Paladin's gesture of forgiveness. "I couldn't say it the last time we met— but I am truly sorry, Gunther."

"Then let us not speak of it again." Gunther released his grip after a moment. "Gwen has forgiven you. Alesia has chosen not to dwell, and my feelings were never as pronounced as theirs. If you're going to be Gwen's associate, I would prefer a genial relationship."

"I see. I am happy with that." Walken tested their new friendship. "Cheers."

"No worries, Eric," Gunther replied in Australian.

"… That's it?" Gwen felt the tension drain from her chest. "No punch up? Not even a spell?"

"Your Brother-in-craft isn't so childish, unlike someone we know." Walken took a jab at the beaming girl. "What good would hysterics do for either of us?"

"Master Walken is right," Gunther agreed. "You would do well to learn from him, little sister."

"From an old villain like him?" Gwen turned aside. "More like he's learning new tricks from me."

Walken pretended not to hear. "How long will you be staying, Gunther?"

"Not long. I'll be returning tonight," Gunther explained. "Just so you both know. I've given some of Sobel's items to the Sixth Cabal. Mostly her old, intimate things. Though Sobel should have anti-Divi arrays in place, I doubt she expects someone to source her intimates from two-three decades ago. Spectre's been quiet of late, as have the Merman and the Saurians, and that worries me. There are reports of their activity up in Greenland, near the Arctic circle."

"There's nothing there but snow and Elves," Walken said.

"I am sure London's investigating," Guther returned. "Maybe the items will help."

"Imagine if we manage to catch her thanks to Master's preference for French negligees..." Gwen smirked.

Of the looted memorabilia from their Master's wife, Gwen had decided to gift Gunther the lot except for six dresses which she kept out of curiosity and spite. She couldn't help it. With no immediate desire to return to the Elves, her concern for Elven-couture had out shone her loathing for Sobel. When Gunther appeared uncomfortable, Gwen grew adamant that fashion was without sin. Besides, she had answered; the offending articles appeared hardly worn, if ever.

"Why do you suppose the old cat's so deranged?" Gwen said. "Why is she so deadset on dragging us into the undertow?"

"If you don't mind a self-evident answer," Walken helpfully chimed in. "Here's an axiom. Where there's an old-world order, there will be folk wanting a new world order. Its the way of things."

"But why?" Gwen stood beside the two men gazing out at the Thames. "What does she want? Better pay? Bigger house? Tower by the sea? Rarer dresses? Fresher seafood? Another husband?"

"Speak for yourself?" Walken chortled. "If only it were so easy to tame Sobel."

"I think Elizabeth wants do undo our Master's work," Gunther spoke after listening to their banter. "She was his partner. During the Beast Tide, they were putting out fires and quashing monsters while he tuned the Factions and raised the new Towers. Perhaps she thinks that Master used her— or that by destroying his legacy, she'll finally find closure."

"Say she succeeds, and then what?" Gwen frowned. "Does Sobel enjoy being hunted and hounded and never knowing a day of peace? How crazy do you have to be to give up all foreseeable pleasures to feel better about being rejected by a husband who took offence to you eating the locals?"

"It takes great conviction," Walken replied to her rant. "To succeed the state of power Sobel has attained, and to enact her tier of atrocities. I doubt creature comforts are what moves her."

Gwen sighed. "What I'd give to take a stroll in her head."

"You'd probably go mad," Walken said. "Sobel's insane, no matter how you twist it. She was willing to put a whole city to the sword to get at Henry."

"Did Master never speak of Sobel to you, Gunther?"

"Not in detail, no." Gunther shook his head. "Never mind the past, little sister; the die is cast, and our fatal collision is now written in the stars. Even if Master turns out to be a Lich King who raised Sobel, it doesn't change our quest nor our conviction. As soon as your education finishes, or if we discover the woman's hermitage— you, Alesia and I shall go on the offensive. We'll pursue her to the ends of the earth."

This time in the afternoon, the Thames stank of mana miasma.

When Gunther spoke again, his face was that of an Ex-Paladin. "Excuse my Dwarven, sister, but for Master and for Sydney, be it the bitch or Spectre, BOTH must burn."

The same evening, Gunther returned to Sydney as foretold, refuting Gwen's suggestion that her brother should stay for a short, impromptu holiday. It was a lost opportunity Gwen lamented, for she had been looking forward to seeing Elvia's Knight lose his damned mind when Gunther casually turns up for dinner at the Tower of Tandoori.

At Heathrow, hugs were had, though Gwen dispensed with tears and sighs. If she missed Gunther enough, it was a simple matter of taking a week off and burning three to four thousand HDMs, pending her Teleportation route.

As for herself, she returned to her usual schedule— now with additional sessions of tuition with Dede. In Emmanuel's Old Court, with Maxwell Brown beside them, she came to know that thanks to Lady Grey and Gunther's involvement, the Shard had delivered its judgement in record time.

Most important was the decree that all recovered spells regarding the late Magister Kilroy would now belong to her, who was his rightful heir. All future magic thus derived from her Master's research would be marked as such, with the royalties going toward the siblings-in-craft.

As for her haul from the Elfin Grot, the Shard had divided them their irrespective Restriction Classes to stifle their spread.

First, baseline invocations such as Hydra, Void Fire and Desolation Aura possessed no restriction as they were Void specialities and were no more dangerous than other magic used by Negatively-aligned Mages.

In contrast, Class I Restricted spells applied to Bone Shield, indicating invocations with dubious origins re-tuned for ethical applications. There was still much work involved, for the originals were derived from pre-war Death Magic and used human components. For Gwen to safely utilise magical materials and non-human substitutes, the ethics board had to approve a Tower variant.

Different to Class I, Class II Restricted spells applied to all sorcery with ethically ambivalent applications, with Cloud Kill as a prime example. The exchange of these spells was strictly controlled by the Tower, with every user requiring registration via unique mana signatures. For Gwen, these included her future "Abjuration" spells such as Sanguine Barrier, Mantle and Armour, both of which still had to pass muster before a variant that utilised Magical Creature as ingredient emerged.

Of Class II spells, Flesh Stitching and what Maxwell dubbed as "Death March" landed on the watch list. Both derived from Shamanic mysticism, these arguably necromantic spells worked best with "willing" allies and so complicated their viability. Of the two, Death March was the nominated subject of Maxwell's paramount research, with Gwen and Gracie as volunteers to test if she could share some of her boundless vitality with the weaker sorceress.

For her selfless actions, Gwen's reward was Enervating Orb, a spell derived from Void Enervation. With sufficient Spellshaping, she could deploy the Signature Void spell in its fifth-tier Evocation-Conjuration configuration. It would be her first individual Signature Spell, for only she was uniquely equipped to stomach the initial cost of the exorbitant manifestation.

Analogously, Class III restrictions applied to the Essence Sorcery sourced from Svartálfar Druidism, likely because of pressure from the Hvítálfar. Of her current list of candidates, these included Essence Tap and Soulfire, spells that were useful to a uniquely positioned "Vessel" such as herself, but otherwise useless to the Mageocracy's Grimoire. Categorically, Henry's unfinished Essence Magic was pigeon-holed between the School of Evocation, Conjuration and Transmutation, seeing as its invocations and Glyphs drew heavily from similar Affinities used in Necromancy. As for her potential practice of these spells, the Shard had declared it private enterprise. These spells solely belonged to Gwen, and she was responsible for their upkeep and secrecy. If her variation of the sorcery disseminates, then the Tower would soon be knocking on her door.

There was also a selection that became outright outlawed.

These sat between Class IV and V, with IV being a slippery slope spells like "Raise Companion", and Class V spells being "Conjure Wraith". Even when Maxwell argued the case that Gwen was arguably a trustworthy individual— being tied to the House of Loftus and Shultz, the Tower chose to err on the side of caution. Without cause for cultural or religious exemptions and extraordinary adventures, the Shard asserted, these spells should remain untaught. The Tower's sole responsibility was persecution with extreme prejudice in the event of abuse.

"Why not just confiscate them?" Gwen demanded. "Leaving it with me seems irresponsible."

"Regulating secrets is a fool's errand," Maxwell explained mirthfully. "The Shard is happy enough to know who to find if people in London start raising their dead pets."

"So I am bearing the burden alone? That's stupid. So much for Transparency."

Brown laughed. "Transparency is insurance. Who would be foolish enough to declare their collection of old Necromancy Grimoires only to practice said sorcery in public? It pays to have the benefit of the doubt when it comes to the Tower's Enforcers. Our Paladin, Horace Marshall of Knightsbridge, is no less zealous than your Brother-in-craft. You would much rather the man accost you at the door than crash through your window on his Griffin."

"Quack!" Dede concurred, adding brevity to their conversation. "Quack! Quack!"

"Agreed." Maxwell Brown patted the duck on the back. "It's not going to be an easy few months ahead, Gwen. Are you certain you can keep up the pace? You've got the isle, and now all these new spells."

"I'll manage somehow."

"Well, I trust you know best." Brown shrugged. "You did say your Druidic Essence substituted sleep, right?"

A day later, after Gwen convened with Keridwen Le Guevel for Illusion classes, her worldly tutor produced some extracurricular reading for her to digest, namely the latest edition of the Herald Sun.

"Gwen dearest. You're famous all over again."

Gwen remained stoic as Le Guevel had taught. There was no mistaking the image of her posing in her Shen-teī suit splashed across the front page. Behind her was a panoramic spread showing the Shoggoth sprawled across Anglesey. At the bottom, there was a candid image of her looking fresh at a coffee shop with a male companion. Gunther's face was blurred out.

"TRIFFIDUS EXTERMINATUS" screamed the headline in eye-watering scarlet. "The Mageocracy's new Void Sorceress a veritable one-woman-unnatural-disaster," announced the first bleed out. The next bleed declared her "A double-edged blade" and a "clear and present danger to all foes of the Mageocracy".

She flipped to the double tabloid spread.

"Woe for the Orientals," read the next title line. There was a picture of Golos looking smug, below which was a line-up of her newly acquired "Indentured Servants", and an article speculating with surprising accuracy about her "trafficking" with Dragons.

Le Guevel next directed her attention to the editorial section, where no less than six of London's influential Magisters gave their opinions on her performance. Two praised her as a beacon for the Militant Path, while three condemned her for such callous demonstrations of power that would frighten allies and incite enemies. Only one critic was concerned that her Shoggoth could impact trade relations.

"I see that no one has mentioned Shoggy folded after several dozen artillery rounds," Gwen remarked sarcastically.

"Playing up your abilities to sell papers gets the blood boiling," her tutor said. "And playing you down gets the public frightened and weary, so they buy more papers."

"What do the others say?"

"See for yourself." Le Guevel displayed the other spectrums.

The Telegraph proved marginally less obnoxious than the Herald Sun, while the Guardian appeared to be firmly against her brazen deployment of the Shoggoth.

"So I am now a darling of the Militants?" Gwen snorted. "And the Middle Faction's against the whole thing?"

"The Middle Faction is fragmented." Le Guevel's smoky eyes studied her face. "Few sit truly in the middle like our Lady Grey."

"And the Grey faction?"

"Any conflict they chose to support is usually quite profitable," her tutor reminded her. "Unprofitable wars seldom start in times of peace. Just think about the Isle of Man. If the island was a Black Zone like the Elemental Sea, you might be able to drag the Militants into the fray with calls for Human supremacy. Conversely, the Greys will fight you to their death with lofty calls for peace and respect for Demi-human sovereignty."

Gwen shuddered at the mental gymnastics required for such a thing.

"But that's not your problem, at least not yet." Le Guevel laughed. "Now let's see this new spell of yours, shall we? Void-based Illusions, how exciting!"

Six months.

That's how much time Gwen had left before her commencement at Cambridge if she were to enrol in the Michaelmas Term.

Her remaining bridging period was adequate, given CCs and Crystals heaped on her person by Peterhouse.

In Maxwell Brown's words, enrolling in Cambridge wasn't an issue, for her backing was stout enough to overcome even the strictest, most cynical proctor. Instead, it was for her benefit that she must reach a level of Spellcraft expertise that matched the elite attendees so that she may blossom into a true Cambridge Magister.

Echoing this point of view was Kareena Patil, who parroted that anyone hoping to supervise ten-thousand rubes and their surviving the Wildlands must possess no blind-sides.

In this regard, the duties of any Magister worth their salt was unending and multifarious. If a Frontier lacked an Enchanter of sufficient talent, who would maintain the Filtration Mandala? When the Shielding failed or faltered, where will she find an Abjurer of the fifth tier to repair the circuits? Could she maintain the Militia's equipment, or reconfigure Wands necessary to repel a particular type of foe? How about if a Wyvern ate their Divination Tower? Or their construction Golem was damaged during transportation? Or the crystal-powered mana barrier failed? What of the Thinking Engine used by her administrators to stow data on her citizens? How does a Magister urban-plan without the plans?

And there were non-magical problems as well, from finance to accounting to economics, to agriculture, Demi-human lore, law both Human and Non-Human, and NoM husbandry galore, all of which were covered by the courses she would be completing from Michaelmas onwards.

To the common folk who were the salt of the sea and the muck of the mire, Patil declared, a Cambridge Magister was a superhuman being; the apex of Humanity.

Of course, in reality, no Magister could single-handed perform the tasks she had nominated—be it under their talent or through peers they've met during the period of their education. There were limitations to both magic and human resources that prevented Humanity from colonising parts of the world hostile to their presence.

"Which is why every institution dreams of fielding an Omni-Mage." Patil's amber eyes critiqued her in the manner of a Crufts' judge watching a blue-ribbon pooch struggling to fetch. When she next spoke, Gwen could sense the uncertainty oozing in-between the Transmuter's exotic accent. "And if it takes a Void sorceress usurping talent from her lessers..."

Her tutor left it at that.

The point was, Gwen had a distance to go.

Whatever the Magister's opinion, she understood that her arrow had now left the quiver. Her path was set; her aim and faculties clear and present. Knowledge, arcanistry, crystals, property, Magisterhood and Evee, she expected to consume them all.

Gwen inhaled until her ribs ached.

Six months was neither long nor short.
If only there was a spell called "Training Montage".


London.
Westminster.

Morrigan, Ravenport's Keeper of the Kingdom's secrets, watched the world through avian eyes. Within the Raven's Loft, below the Shard, her murders plotted far and wide.

In the beginning, the ravens at the Tower of London were actual ravens—intelligent Corvids bred to deliver messages in the age before Message spells. When Morrigan took over the loft, her immediate desire was to rid the Tower of its ravens and replace them with her crows. Considering the Ravens' symbolic importance, however, she chose to subsume the ravens, for unlike her wild and often unruly crows, these were quasi-magical Corvids purpose-bred to be resourceful, resilient, and immensely adaptable to arcanistry.

Over time, after a century or so, Morrigan had interbred the normally warring species to create a new breed both amiable to her possession and adaptable to the Tower's ancient sorcery. These new hybrids had proven such a success that Mages had even taken to studying their particular physiology for Polymorphic purposes, resulting in some rather unsavoury rumours of Ravens knocking on doors, demanding entry.

The Duke of Norfolk, arguably the busiest man this side of the Thames, had been missed of late by his equals in the House of Lords. It was an absence that his peers understood to be the imposition of power, for if one wanted to carry weight in parliament, one also had to shoulder the burden.

As the Lord Marshall of the Kingdom, the nation's problems were his problems.
In the colonies, old mutinies were spiralling out of control within the Niger Delta.
Across the Suez and the Senai, ancient grudges flared, as they wont to do every decade.
In the United States, men with insatiable appetites for industry eyed the untapped resources of the Elemental Sea.
Elsewhere, almost two years past Sydney's tragedy, the ghost of Spectre was once again haunting the Mageocracy's peace.
At home, there was the sustained popularity of the Labour Party as the people grew tired of the Tories and their ties to the warmongering blue-bloods.
These and a myriad of problems were why Mycroft Ravenport had all but given up going home to his estate and had taken up semi-permanent residence in the Westminster Building.

As well, against the mounting stacks of reports requiring his attention, yet another duty added to his rising hypertension— the unshakable feeling that the Devourer of Shenyang would pull a fast one.

Presently, Morrigan had two murders alternating their observation of Gwen Song, adding endless entries to the file entitled the "G.Song Field Observation Journal". It was an impressive undertaking, even for a Sprite fed on data, for each of the entries possessed ties to associated files, records, memos and reports gathered by the Mageocracy's Fifth Cabal and Sixth Cabal.

**24th of February 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse.
_The subject fed the duck called Dede again. The creature has wiles to influence the Void Sorceress. Mayhap the Devourer is attracted to Drakes? See Memo DD-3221.32.121._

**Saturday 26th of February 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs.
 _The subject has met with Dominic Lorenzo, Sixth Cabal Agent WCD.FZ42302 and two NoMs who are known to the Ministry. Internal files indicate the individuals are Victor Verne of Villers-Cotterêts, a French Novelist, and Iris Robertson of Dublin, runner-up in the Toby-Booker Prize a year prior. Initial findings indicate that the topic of interest appears to be Mockingbirds. Mockingbirds, from the Family Passeriformes and the Genus Mimidae, are an invasive quasi-magical species with known ability to mimic speech to the degree that their vocalisation is almost indistinguishable from humans. See Bestiary Link P224.M22.358.33._

Ravenport paused to ponder the report.

Mockingbirds?

For a man steeped in secrets and veiled truths, Ravenport sometimes found Kilroy's Apprentice puzzling beyond good sense. Take this Mockingbird, for example. Logic would dictate that the Void Sorceress had concluded experimentation with the duck, and was now moving onto more useful avians to modify. If so, more than a member of the Mimidae, wouldn't a hyper-intelligent member of the Corvid family be a better candidate?

Say Gwen Song succeeded in breeding an exceptionally intelligent Mockingbird. What then? Who would she imitate? Who could she fool with something as primitive as animal mimicry?

Mycroft did not have answers, and so could only await the passage of time to see what eggs the insidious scion of Kilroy was hoping to lay.

**Sunday 27th of February 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs.
 _Iris Robertson received an apartment from the subject in Millwall for the duration of Project "Mockingbird." Initial observations suggest the NoM composer is working on a propaganda piece. For surveillance notes and projections, see Data Crystal DB.2331.424.121.9._

Morrigan's crows had managed to gain access to the NoM's apartment through knocking on the window and scaring the woman witless.
Once Ravenport processed the pictures in his mind, he sat back to think, puzzled by Gwen Song's enterprise.
In the crows' captured vision, he saw an apartment overspilling with notes. From his reading of the loose annotations, the NoM was trying to piece together a picture of injustice. The story was set in Australia, and it involved a family of Mages with two children, with the father characterised as a Tower Arbiter in the hard-wrought period just past the Beast Tide. Ravenport knew the period well. Folks were famished, Demi-humans ran rampant, and most resources were portioned for the magic-wielding citizens. Yet, within the story, it was an NoM chambermaid who taught the prodigious young sorceress "Allie" her life lessons, with the Radiant brother "James" as her ally and protector. The general complication, Ravenport discerned, was about a kind-hearted NoM accused of seducing a female Evoker suffering from war fatigue. When said NoM was put to trial for a crime he did not commit; the kids helplessly watched an innocent man perish, learning a harsh lesson of the real world. There was no dialogue as of yet, nor much of the text composed, only a skeleton.

Ravenport pursed his lips. He was beginning to see that the story was about Kilroy, Alesia and Gunther, though as to the validity of the fictive biography, not even Morrigan could verify.

But the characterisation of this "Finch" fellow was undoubtedly Kilroy.
Was this then a re-writing of history? Mayhap an attempt to shift Kilroy's past to twist public opinion? More than anyone, Ravenport understood just how many secrets Henry Kilroy possessed. After all, his father was the one who had introduced him to Kilroy.

Once more, all he could do for the moment was wait.

A few days later, another report landed on his desk.

**Tuesday 1st of March 2005**
Cambridge, King's College Training Field, Outer Court
 _The subject has been invited by members of King's College to tour the grounds, accompanied by Instructor Maxwell Brown and Richard Huang. Several male pupils soon expressed interest in the subject, exhibiting a desire to mate. The Void Mage Jean-Paul Bekker, student and ward of Meister Engela Bekker of London Imperial, was used to deter interest. One of the subject's amorous admirers then challenged Magus Bekker to a duel, after which, in the subjects' words, the Void Magus "wiped the floor" with his challenger. Magus Bekker has expressed interest in the subject's genetic potential._

Ravenport smiled.
Stag-duels were an honoured sport among the young nobility. He too was an able contender in his youth, and it was through such duels that he had met his first wife. Much like Bekker, Ravenport had also entertained the potential of introducing his children to the Void Sorceress. His eldest, however, was married and with children of his own. His second, Richmond, was seven years Gwen's senior. Edmund was dead, murdered by the sorceress' means, and as for Charlene, he doubted the prideful lass would want to associate with a peer responsible for her brother's death.

Sighing, Ravenport moved on with his work.

**Wednesday 9th of March 2005**
Cambridge, Emmanuel College
 _The duck has received another dose of Essence. It is now nothing short of monstrous. See Memo DD-3221.32.122._

Ravenport sighed again. Why was Morrigan so obsessed with the duck? He would have to warn the Sprite. Such a fixation was unhealthy and unprofessional.

**Monday 14th of March 2005**
London. Outer region.
 _The subject has left London city, travelling two hours via Southend-on-sea to Battle. The rationale for leaving Cambridge appears to involve secondary observation target, the Draconic Vessel Elvia Lindholm. On route, subject encountered a roving band of Redcaps native to High Weald looting vineyards at Chapel Down. Following a brief engagement, all hostilities were extinguished. The subject was awarded a dozen cases of reserve Cabernet Sauvignon by the surviving owner, who recognised her. It would appear the sorceress is not against imbibing alcoholic beverages mid-flight. A penalty notice has been logged._

**Monday 14th of March 2005**
Battle Abbey, Battle
_The subject has arrived at Battle Abbey and joined Elvia Lindholm, shepherded by Rectrix Theodora St. Claire of the Somerset Rothwells. The Rectrix has displayed displeasure at this one's duty. The murder was withdrawn as a result._

Ravenport pondered the significance of the Rectrix's reaction. The Order of the Bath, as with most of the Ordo under the control of the Crown, served their unique creeds and purposes independent from the government. In ancient times, the Ordos' principal purpose was the recovery of Faith Relics. With the onset of Modernity, the power of the Ordos waned, becoming elite Military units under the Crown's express command.

The Rectrix belonged to no Faction and seldom cared for politics. It was, therefore, wisest to leave the abbey well alone.

 **Monday 21st of March 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
 _Magister Eric Walken has summoned subject to attend. Observation indicates that the security forces on the Isle of Dogs have captured a group of looters who previously damaged the equipment belonging to the METRO Printing Press. The men had been in hiding and were discovered when locals reported engine components in one of the men's homes. Magister Walken sent Mr Tu, now working under the Isle of Dogs, to retrieve the NoMs, John Green, Nathan Green, and Julia Deng of Millwall. The subject has asked the men to return the looted parts of the press without fear of penalty and has offered them atonement in exchange for service. Scotland Yard reports no such record of the theft. PD.343.767.32.5._

Ravenport processed the timeline of events in his head, then frowned. That Gwen had asked the men to return the looted parts of the press in exchange for service was disregarding due process and highly unorthodox. Likewise, that the NoMs on the Isle of Dogs reported to the Dwarves at the press rather than offices from Scotland Yard, inferred Gwen to have obtained significant trust in the local populace.

Either way, it was something to mull.

**Thursday 24th of March 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse.
_The Subject's Abjuration has reached the fourth tier of expertise._
 _The Subject's Transmutation has reached the fifth tier of expertise._
 _The subject's Enchantment has reached the third tier of expertise._
 _The subject's multi-modal talent has reached the fifth tier of expertise._

**Thursday 31th of March 2005**
Cambridge, Emmanuel College
 _Magister Roslyn-Marie Wen and Magister Maxwell Brown submitted spectrometric data for Void Enervation. Without complication, the subject has successfully recreated the Necromancy fifth-tier sorcery "Enervation" in its Void variant. The lodgement was as follows:_

**Enervating Orb**
Conjuration-Evocation
Casting Time: 180 Major 63 Minor
Range: Medium
Components: Verbal, Somatic

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Duration: Channelled

_This variant of Void Enervation is derived from "Enervation", with credit for the original conversion going to Magister Henry Kilroy. This variant is the brain-child of Magister Maxwell Brown, Roslyn-Marie Wen and Magus Gwen Song. Through focusing on manifesting Void Mana, an orb is created at the designated location which radiates an aura of Void. Within its Affinity-based area of effect, affected targets become suppressed, paralysed, and drained, suffering both material and immaterial damage. A portion of the spell's damage, both in terms of vitality and mana, will be redistributed through the converted Necromantic Glyphs into life-force. Current drawbacks include casting complications, stationary manifestation, incompatibility with most Spellshaping, and high initial cost in vitality. The original spells' Negative Drain has been minimised for the Tower's consideration. Initial tests carried out on Magical Creatures have demonstrated the viability of Void-Necromancy. Enervating Orb has been designated as a Class II Restricted Access spell._

Ravenport tapped the table.

"Morrigan, get me all the spectrometric data."

The Sprite obliged, reappearing moments later with a thick stack of scrolls.

Void-Necromancy! The Duke of Norfolk allowed the words to roll back and forth on his tongue. To a significant degree, the Mageocracy had always known that Soble dabbled. Their lenience had always depended on the fact that a firm hand had held the leash— until the bitch grew crazed. To this day, no one knew what had gone down in Hungary. As an architect of the Tower System, Kilroy possessed a level of privacy like no other. Even now, the locals believed the killing spree was the work of a risen vampire Countess called Elizabeth Báthory.

If the girl would take a similar path, would there be a similar outcome? But the girl was a Vessel as well, and a Lightning Mage. She did not need to hide her power either. If anything, Ravenport mused, the girl had become a celebrity.

It was a move he applauded, consequently enabling Ollie Edward's prodigious ability to muster certifications and councils approvals. Be it family, fame or fortune, all three required investments, and like the roots of the Elves' World Tree— that which provides shelter and safety also binds and constraints.

**Saturday 2nd of April 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
_Professor Victor Verne, Chair of Contemporary Literature at Sorbonne, CR.221.903.22.0 has returned to London with a manuscript for the subject._

Currently, Ravenport sat in his private study, listening alarmedly to his Sprite ranting about a book.

"The first of however many volumes," she declared with pride. "Is magnificent! It starts at sea..."

Ravenport had anticipated espionage.
At the very least, he was expecting Necromancy or an equally forbidden tier of sorcery to be smuggled into London by the NoM professor.

Instead, the man wrote a book on Gwen's orders.

"The subject says that this story was initially told to her by Kilroy." Morrigan's excitement was making Ravenport's scalp crawl.

According to his Sprite, what the Void Sorceress had commissioned was the tale of a Mage living in Napoleonic France with the name of Francois Picaud. The manuscript related that Francois was a talented young sorcerer who found success in the navy. Following the imprisonment of Bonaparte, he returned to Paris to marry his childhood friend and fiancée, the extraordinarily beautiful Mercedes. However, on their wedding night, Royalist Mages burst into the banquet and dragged Francois away, accusing him of spying on the French Crown for the English and plotting the Emperor's return.

Horrified by the accusation, Francois fought with all his might until he was subdued by the Royalist and taken to an island prison, the infamous Château d'If. There, he met the imprisoned Court Sorcerer of Napoleon, the Hvítálfar Elementalist Gaeardir, who was his cellmate. Over the next seventeen years, Gaeardir, who knew he would die, taught Francois everything he knew, including the location of Napoleon's hidden treasure, which he had planned to use in the event of a counter-revolution against the First Restoration.

"And then! Francois, using his new command over Arcanistry, escaped the Island! He dug up Napoleon's SECRET treasure at a place called the Isle of Monte Cristo..."

Morrigan's cheeks were flushed, painting her lips a ruby red.

With a feeling of ill omen, Ravenport listened to the story of a man driven by rage, now unfathomably rich, returning to a now peaceful and restored Paris. There, Francois disguised himself as an Englishman with Elven Glamours and visited his old home. There, he discovered that the night he lost Mercédès was no misunderstanding, but a plot orchestrated by three men he knew. The first was his fellow sailor in the French Navy, Douglas, a man who made his living selling magical contraband, and who was exposed and expelled by Francois. The next was his best friend and fellow sorcerer, Ferdinand, from whom he won Mercedes. The final member of the trio of plotters was Prosecutor Gerald, who had used the opportunity to gain a promotion.

Now, seventeen years later, all three men were prominent figures under the restored Monarchy. The scamp Douglas was now the wealthiest man in Paris. Gerald had become Chief Prosecutor of the High Court and Ferdinand a Count thanks to his military achievements. What's more, Mercedes, who Ferdinand had taken on Francois' wedding night, had borne the Count an heir in a son— Alberto de Morcerf.

"And so... Francois, burning with desire for revenge, emerging from the balefire of hate and vengeance as the Count of Monte Cristo, hell-bent on tearing apart the happiness of every man who was responsible for his imprisonment! First, Francois arrived at Venice, where the children of his targets, Alberto, Frank and Vivian, were enjoying the Masque Festival—"

"... and then?" Ravenport swallowed. A man in his position very much enjoyed a good revenge story. Also, if the story rang true, he would have to consult with his French counterparts. A treasure left by Napoleon? Such a trove was rarely without a companion. No Emperor would ever place their eggs in a single basket.

"... that's it." Morrigan licked her lips. "That's all he wrote."

Ravenport could see the madness in his Sprite's eyes. Had he given her too much blood of late? She was becoming very emotional, and very human— both qualities he did not desire in an assistant.

What frankly puzzled Ravenport, however, was why this particular tale exist. Unlike the Mockingbird, what was the purpose of this?

**Tuesday 5th of April 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
_The subject has met with Jean Paul's master, the honourable Meister Engela Bekker, formerly of Pretoria. Unfortunately, Meister Bekker has prevented all meaningful observation._

**Monday 11th of April 2005.**
Cambridge, Emmanuel College.
_Magister Brown and Wen have succeeded in formulating the spell originally dubbed Death March. See the annotation below._

**Sympathetic Life-Link**
Evocation-Enchantment-Transmutation
Casting Time: 243 Major
Range: Close
Components: Verbal, Somatic, Ingredient
Duration: Channelled
_A spell derived from the rites utilised by Greenskin Totemcraft commonly seen in the wake of a Greenskin Beast Tide. For the original invocation, see appendix 4b. A significant complication in the application of this spell is the need to attain Essence sympathy between its users. For Demi-humans and Magical Creatures with Cores, components possessing Essence, such as heart blood, can be consumed by the caster to grant sympathetic resonance. As Human Mages lack the means of materialising Essence, unorthodox methods such as Essence Tap in appendix 1a will replicate the effects. Post "Master" and "Thrall" Essence-Exchange, the spell activates. The parallel conduit established between caster and the follower creates a "Vital Bridge" which allows for the transfer of Positive or Negative Mana between them. With consent, the caster may receive both Negative and Positive Energy from the Thrall. However, the Thrall may only receive vital energy at the caster's discretion._

"... Further testing will take place on the 18th of April," Ravenport read out loud. He understood why the Tower had allowed such an abusable spell to pass muster. If Gwen Song could indeed share her vitality with a fellow Void Mage, then enough training without fear of sudden extinction could mean eventual control over one's craft. It was an innovative proposal, one that he very much looked forward to seeing in practice.

**Thursday 14th of April 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
_The subject has returned to Battle to visit Magus Elvia Lindholm. Outside the Cloister, the subject managed to consume three times the same volume of food as the Knight-Initiate. If this unnatural gluttony continues, it may be cause for concern. Additional investigation was not possible due to interference by the Rectrix._

**Monday 18th of April 2005.**
Cambridge. Peterhouse.
_The Subject, Gracie Hillbrook, Magister Brown and Magister Wen have succeeded in manifesting Sympathetic Life-Link. However, shortly after, Gracie Hillbrookwas hospitalised for treatment. A report from Magister Brown can be found at RP.550.31.1._

**Thursday 21st of April 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
_The subject has gathered a large group of NoMs from the surrounding dockside to offer them "gainful employment". The details of the position appear to involve the propagation of the publication known as "METRO". A total of three hundred and forty-one NoMs have subscribed to " an opportunity you cannot afford to miss." It would appear their new duty involves handing out newspapers at particular places along the Metropolitan railway line. Each NoM has been armed with two hundred copies of this "London Metro", with multiple individuals standing guard near the exits of the underground from Queen's Park to Liverpool, down to Westminster and West Brompton._

As soon as Ravenport saw the memo, he left the office for a brisk walk.

As the Sprite had suggested, the damned things were suddenly everywhere; be it abandoned on park benches, littered on the sandstone floors of the pier, or flying through the air whenever a particularly robust wind blew.

Quickly, he approached the Westminster tube station. Sure enough, he spotted two NoMs standing outside, bowing and scraping.

"Free paper, Sir!"

"Free paper, Ma'am, no charge."

"Please take a gander, milord, its free."

To Ravenport's horror, people took it.

One of the NoMs caught him staring.

"Milord! Free paper, Sir?"

Ravenport took the paper without looking the man in the eye.

"You look awful-familiar, Milord," the NoM grinned at him with pearly teeth. At the very least, the girl had the sense to pick the clean and better-dressed workers for the posher stations. "You the Prime Minister?"

"That's Magister Blaire." Ravenport shook his head, then quickly retreated to the privacy of Parliament Square Garden.

Now that he could take a "good gander", Ravenport felt his jowls twitch.

"THE PRICE OF PROGRESS," read the headline, prefaced with an image of the Void Sorceress in a pale teal dress that Ravenport recognised as an Elven treasure. The sorceress stood in what looked like Peterhouse, near the formal Hall, with her hand resting on an ornate brass lion. The girl was beautiful, Ravenport had to admit, and could see why so few refuted the paper. For the working folk, there was nothing quite so titillating as a pretty sorceress promising to devour the Mageocracy's enemies.

The article itself contained an interview with Gwen, written by Dominic Lorenzo, Chief Editor of the METRO. It detailed her operations on the Isle of Anglesey with a riveting account of the personal cost of practising Void sorcery from self-harm to ailments, to historical examples of temporary insanity caused by its Negative Drain. The picture it painted, Ravenport twisted his lips as Morrigan's crows cawed overhead, reading over his shoulder, was one sympathetic to the additional images of the pretty, pale-skinned sorceress looking a picture of pity in her shoulder-less dress. Lorenzo's tone made him curious, for it contained a distinct air of nationalistic martyrdom.

Was the agent helping the girl in the genuine sense? Ravenport wondered. Or was the agent trying to cement the girl to London, as had been instructed?

Other articles in the second and third pages covered news of the week, surmised by the editorial team of the Metro to be easily ingested. The headliner for the "News in Brief" section was one Ravenport loathed.

"Blaire Polled to Win in May," it said— as if he needed another reminder of the ill-will the Militants had injected into the voting public.

It was followed by other eye-catching titles such as "Blame Game Continues in Westminster", "Duke of Norfolk says Application of Force Necessary and Proportionate in Niger Delta", and "Beast Tide Break over Sfax after Earthquake", "Coastal City Besieged" and a Global News segment with images from Friday with "Merfolk Swarms Mississippi after largest Hurricane in Decade — Are Elementals to Blame?".

Past the news were articles surmising the latest in Magitech, followed by an opinion column on said politics and sorcerous developments. With a special section dedicated to the applications of Void Magic by Magister Maxwell Brown of Cambridge.

In the middle segment of the METRO, Ravenport found the source of the paper's income. There were hundreds of boxes, currently empty, under tags such as Employment, Magitech, Education, For Sale, with marked fonts in black and red stating "PUT YOUR AD HERE" and "SELL YOUR ITEM HERE" and "TRADE YOUR GOODS HERE" and "OFFER YOUR SERVICES HERE", together with contact details.

Quickly, he flipped to the back section.

Ravenport's brows furrowed. There were strange headlines the likeness of which he had never seen on any paper, be it the Herald Sun, the Guardian, or the Telegraph.

"Employment for NoMs on the Rise!"
"Mage jailed after Unprovoked assault on NoM Family."
"Heads and Tales— How this Liverpool Father found his purpose."
"The best pubs this side of West Side."
"Non-Magical Mother of Four gives up Secret to raising Four Mages."
"Horror at Mansfield, NoM Employee mauled by escaped Magical Pet."

There were even recipes! For NoMs!
"Pot Pie for Under Five Quid."
"Spring Salads you can harvest from your local garden!"

The more he read, the more puzzled he became.

NoMs? Ravenport cocked his head like a bird's. A newspaper for NoMs? He had an inkling after all these weeks observing the girl, but still, the excess effort exerted for the Mageocracy's arguably second-class citizens puzzled him. Was this information warfare? Was the girl plotting a mutiny? Was this Communism?

He turned the page.

"CAW! CAW! CAW!" The crows watching him from the tree began to flock and dance.

"The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexander Dumas, Chapter One," read the tagline.

The first instalment had only four chapters.

"Caw!" Morrigan's crows began to crow blue murder. "Caw! Caw!" Her crows murdered the cheap paper, beating their wings in a frenzy.

Ravenport flung the paper away from him, only to have the pages torn to shreds by the enraged crows. "CAW! CAW! CAW!"

**Wednesday 27st of April 2005**
Cambridge, Emmanuel College
 _The duck has received YET ANOTHER dose of Essence. Petition for the duck to join the murder. See Memo DD-3221.32.125._