Metaworld Chronicles

October.

The Royal Docklands.

Mycroft Ravenport, Lord Marshall of her Majesty's men at arms, stood stoic as a Gargoyle sentinel on the battlements of the Royal Docks as blanketing mist drifted over the placid steel waters.

He was a picture of fatigue, and though the Good Lord had himself rested on the Day of Sabbath, there was no such solace for a father who had dearly missed his youngest child.

Therefore, Mycroft Ravenport, Patriarch of the Ducal House, stood in the rain, sorting data in his weary mind as the tugboats took their time to coast the Royal Raven into its assigned dockyard.

The past half a year had taken a toll on himself and the Office of the Lord Marshall. In the manner the girl had prescribed, inexplicable planar disasters were unfolding all over the Mageocracy's domains, stretching their resources as fine as gold beaten to airy thinness, so much that certain sectors had to be foregone entirely.

For example, the Militants' ambitions in the Nigerian Delta were now entirely abandoned to disorderly climate change, with all reserves rerouted instead to shore up essential infrastructure in Port Saīd, the Suez Canal, and most importantly, Gibraltar. The loss of new Frontiers was difficult but inevitable, and without the Mageocracy's tacit support, allies who wished to remain could only fend for themselves—arguably an impossible endeavour. Many gentries had to sell property—and in direr instances, auction daughters to industrialists to repay their debts.

Comparatively, the softening of the Greys' attitudes toward House Holland meant that their particular branch of the Militant families had returned to respectable profitability, especially with the Isle of Dogs Norfolk Conglomerate transporting the Houses' goods.

More recently, the Mageocracy's official stance had been to condense its armed forces from the Horn of Africa to the Coral Sea east of Australia, buying itself time to adjust to what the girl had foretold to be a decade of uncertainty—assuming optimal management of the Elemental incursions throughout the Prime Material. With the data from both Polar nodes now officialised by the Shard, little doubt remained as to what Humanity faced, even if they knew not what awaited them. Still, their allied nations took to the revelation with the typical Human impassivity of denial, opportunism and learned apathy.

Thankfully, the rulers of Albion knew not to take the matter lightly… and that inaction would invite calamity on a scale the naysayers could scarcely begin to imagine. They were lucky, for dissonance to the other Empires of the Prime Material, a rare nod and a word from House Winsor was all it took for Westminster to make plans and pass budgets.

From the mist, with ponderous slowness, the thrum of the tug boats bringing home the Royal Raven emerged, bringing with it the enormous silhouette of the battle barge.

"Miles," the Duke of Norfolk addressed an aide as the swirling mist meandered. "Does our ship look haggard to you? Moreso than anticipated?"

"If you would recall, milord." The aide with a name leaned in closer. "Milady had reported from Singapore that they've been rescuing distressed ships from Mermen Tides. The Dwarves have been cannibalising the ship's materials to mobilise their impromptu flotilla. There had been four fleets since Antarctica, first from the Coral Sea, then the Bay of Bengal, and finally through the Red Sea. In Eritrea, the Royal Raven was delayed by the September insurgency in Asmara and had to defend the Shielding Station on the coast."

"The lycanthropic rebels have spread to the cotton coast?" Ravenport recollected the foreshadowing reports. "Hmm... yes, I do recall. Charlene did say they were investigating a gate into the Dyar Morkk there on behalf of Lord Hanmoul's crew. The results were…?"

"Sound. The Dwarven Transit node has been recovered, milord. Likewise, Cotton exports have been partially restored thanks to the young Miss' intervention. Though for how long, we're unable to estimate. Last week, our Diviners documented that the Demi-human tribes are currently in a continent-wide mass migration, following the shifting wet band in central Africa."

Mycroft considered his aide's studied information. The Royal Raven's state of disrepair was one of necessity and choice, having spared much of its materials for the rehabilitation and construction of sites and ships during its long journey from the Antarctic to the East Coast of Australia, then threading through the Bay of Bengal until finally, it squeezed through the Suez Canal to sail past the Tyrrhenian Sea. At the Rock of Gibraltar, the Royal Raven had restocked and resupplied just enough for the final leg of the arch through the North Atlantic.

"I see. I'll take it from here, Miles."

"Yes, milord." His team of crow-black suited aides retreated far enough to remain un-intrusive.

Though Ravenport had told Charlene that he would personally receive her, the arrival of a Carrier Class Cruiser was nonetheless attended by thousand-odd workers, dozens of Golem units, various military officers of the Royal Navy, and reporters from the city's major papers. Behind the official thong were the crew members' family and companions, including the impatient faces from the girl's Isle of Dogs.

The foremost of the news rags was the METRO, owned by the ship's infamous War Mage, now triumphantly returned from her trial, leaving no doubt about her credentials. By now, the METRO's circulation, though not its profitability, has far exceeded the Sun and the Telegraph, making many in the House of Lords nervous about its influence among the unlearned masses.

Almost a year ago, Shalkar had been a test, and the girl had proven resourceful beyond doubt.

The Southern Expedition had been a different test: one that stressed the girl's resources to their utmost limits.

From the report released by the Oxbridge Magisterial Committee to the Shard, the girl's connexions had been revealed as both transcontinental and trans-Planar, far beyond the means of even London's most well-connected Magisters. Her's were different to the Shard's most senior Magisters, whose ties were tethered to Humanity and its cities.

How did the girl reach this point? The Duke knew, of course, but the results remained astounding.

The girl had trafficked with not one but TWO of the Blooms who governed the Axis Mundi and was on speaking terms with at least THREE Mythics, two of whom predated the civilisation of Humanity. Even on paper, the print stretched the imaginations of the common Tower Mage.

And, according to Charlene's transmissions, the Scion of the Yinglong who "hung out" with the girl as her Planar Ally had now taken on the form of a true-blooded, four-legged Draconid. In the Bay of Bengal, when the girl had sent her Shadow Mages home to Myăma, the newly minted Thunder Dragon had decimated a Shoal of Mermen before the Royal Raven could bring its Dwarven artillery to bear. By his daughter's accounts, the Wyvern-turned-Dragon would now be in "Isolation Training" with its elder brother, the Thunder Dragon Ruxin, ruler and partner to the Mageocracy's efforts in Nagaland.

What the girl's newly revealed circumstance entailed, therefore, was the acknowledgement that mere favours and promises of influence and wealth were no longer enough to keep her lashed to the Shard. Like the Tower's Meisters and its rare Magi, the leash that held the reigns of men and women like Gwen must be woven with Mithril and Orichalcum, then custom-fitted to be comfortably flexible.

Which meant the Mageocracy would soon need an escalation.

For any other, a tried tactic would involve the uncomplicated application of matrimony. To be wedded to the family of an influential Duke or Marquess, or in the most ardent of circumstances, an off-shoot of the royal House itself, was the norm.

However, for a child of Kilroy, and considering the girl's ties to the Lindholm lass, that option was so far into the aether as to never return. Coercing the girl was also not an option, considering her connections to Gunther Shultz, now Master of the Mageocracy's most resource-rich and stable Frontier.

And in thinking of Shultz, Mycroft was forced to remind himself that the girl had claimed responsibility for the erasure of a Cabal of Necromancers that may or may not have had a Lich among them. Sydney Tower's Morning Star had verified the bounty. According to Gunther, there was a Lich—though its phylactery was not recovered. However, as none thought it wise to question the Lord Master of Sydney, they agreed to his terms.

The reward was almost a quarter of a million HDMs.

But the money was no object. What worried Mycroft was the girl's ability to subsume her victim's innate "Affinity" for certain genres of arcanistry. Sooner than anticipated, he feared, the Towers may very well be welcoming its next Master, a sorceress capable of wielding Omni-Magic, furthermore complicated by her "unnatural" Affinity for Humanity's oldest original Spellcraft—Necromancy.

Even with certain details omitted, the report had shaken the upper echelons of the Shard. To address their concerns, Mycroft Ravenport had informed them that any hope of stifling the girl's growth was a ship that had set sail with the Royal Raven. Now, like the matter of the changing climate itself, they were in a position to steer the gunport away and toward their foes. Should they truly feel threatened, scuttling the ship would first involve the Hollands, who now stood firmly in her court—with success meaning, at best, the offender would face the Morning Star; at worst, the ire of Tryfan and thereby, infringe upon The Accord.

When questioned, Mycroft's advice for settling the girl had been to offer a term similar to that of her erstwhile Master; the same Gunther Shultz had been provided. While retaining her services, she must be given a land to rule—an ideal Frontier that was both pivotal and far away enough from the centre of power to keep her fruitfully employed. A place that was both out of reach of the conspiring power brokers of the Mageocracy and yet close enough to obliterate should the necessity arise.

A place like the newly established Orange Zone of Shalkar al-Jadeedah, a Frontier burgeoning with potential, bordering no significant bases of power, with no Human cities, with Black Zones to the south, Orange Zones to the north, and Purple Zones to the West, was perfect. As a location forged from elemental instability, does it not make the ideal home for one whose professed ambition was to establish a Tower and whose work would invariably be tied to the Accord?

Morrigan had reported that most of the Lords were in favour, while a minority ardently opposed the rise of a second Henry Kilroy.

The Duke of Norfolk would have liked more time to mull over the situation, though the ship's noisy docking procedures now took precedence over the recollection.

As the transforming hulls slid apart, then unpacked themselves like intricate origami into loading bays, a miasma of smells flooded the shipyard. Old oils, alcohol, engine grease, the outpouring of excess mana from HDMs slabs, spirits, unwashed Dwarves, thrumming Golems, liquor, and what could only be evaporating firewater poured over the Royal Docklands, making the shore crew recoil.

"Father!" the nightingale voice from the gangway was enough to dispel Mycroft's desire to vacate the dockland for the odour-controlled air of Westminster.

Charlene Ravenport, looking like a half-wilted flower, her once luminous hair matted and dull, drifted ashore, striding through the air to land in his open arms. She had not used her Dust sorcery much, though their family's Spellcraft had been used, meaning months of rehabilitation would be required to restore her health.

Behind his daughter, he could see the rest of her crew, including the girl in question, her cousins, the Chinese Daoshi, and the various children of his contemporaries who had chosen to follow Charlene on what had initially seemed tomfoolery. According to Charlene's reports, seventeen of those children would not return—though that number was more optimistic than Mycroft could have hoped.

After allowing his daughter to soil his heirloom Draconic-cashmere coat with the unmistakable stench of Dwarven quaffing, he kissed her oily cheeks. A moment later, he allowed her to slide from his embrace before facing their pet War Mage.

"Magister Song." Ravenport extended a hand. "You are truly worthy of that title now, Magister. Cambridge has informed me that your official inauguration will be in a few days."

The girl shook his hand with a firm grasp.

How strange it was, Ravenport pondered, that only a few years ago, when the girl first arrived, he had taken her into his car to speak to her. She had seemed so frightened then, like a lamb staring in horror at an abattoir. Now, the young woman not only shook his hand but appeared no more impressed by the gesture than if she had purchased a club sandwich.

Others would deem the inoffensive nonchalance offensive in itself—though Ravenport understood all too well. When one has met Dragons and Blooms aplenty, mortal relations and titles just felt so… temporal. When one's mind dwelled upon the fabric of the Prime Material itself, competition among the Peerage felt as bland as a cup of poorly brewed English Breakfast.

Still, it was good to remain grounded.

The Axis Mundi was a big-big thing. To move it alone was futility, be it Gwen Song, Spectre, the Elemental Princes or even the Blooms and their Dragons.

Around them, the lumen bulbs of the recorders flashed and flashed again, taking stock of the moment in which the Duke of Norfolk personally received the Royal Raven's crew. As a result of the image, Mycroft was sure: stock prices would rise, others would fall, and backroom deals would bisect like criss-crossing fungi.

Mycroft exchanged cursory words with the girl, and the two parted for their businesses. He would return with Charlene to the manor, where his child could clean up, dine, and then relate the tale of their return from the Antarctic.

As for the girl, Mycroft imagined that she would be burdened by her bid to return the Dwarves to their homes, simultaneously transporting the Golems and the Fabricator Engine back to the Isle of Dogs. Also, the Royal Raven had to be unloaded of its loot of the world, though that would be the duty of lesser men and women in service to either Charlene or the girl.

With a casual wave of his hand, Mycroft dismissed the reporters. Those who disobeyed were sternly reminded by his aides that the Duke of Norfolk did not ask twice. With another gesture from a signet ring, he opened a portal—one that directly led to the Teleportation Circle under Westminster, from where he would immediately access home. It was a privilege few could afford and rarely exercised, though this much was the least he could do for Charlene. Later, in the wake of her triumphant return, her career as a Ravenport would begin in earnest.

Before he stepped through, with one foot in the aether, he watched the girl command her men, at which point his thoughts inadvertently strayed a little to his youngest.

The fatherly part of Mycroft swallowed the hollow void in his heart.

As for the Duke, the Lord Marshall was already kilometres away, thinking of how he might broach to the Shard the subject of the girl's next assignment.

Unlike the privileged daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, the orphaned War Mage Gwen Song had only herself to work to an early death upon her return to Albion's shores.

First and foremost, naval transportation of the Golem units she had loaned with Hanmoul's Iron Guards had to be safely extracted and delivered to the Isle of Dogs. Her rationale dwelled on the newly built Dyar Morkk Node Station the Dwarves had established for the Isle, a part of the evolving negotiations The Shard and Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth had hammered out as a result of the increased dangers in sea-ferrying goods.

As for her nest egg, the Isle's development had reached the fourth phase, with new skyscrapers and shopping complexes rising all over the old docklands.

Eric Walken, who was himself worked to the bone, had a small mountain of papers for her to review and stamp. His core grievance was from developers jealous of Elvia's soup kitchen and orphanage, which remained a part of the Isle's core complexes sectioned out for charitable works, now bisected by an enormous riverside park Gwen jokingly labelled "Mansfield", charitably free for all to visit.

However, even with Walken's memo minutes droning on like a hive of angry bees, Gwen understood her priorities.

As soon as the Dwarves were on their merry way and Lorenzo's folk had taken over, she lifted into the air with her Omni-orb aloft, willing it to guide her to her heart's desire. Against a dreary, windy sky, her crow skin flapped, slicing through the air with effortless grace.

"Young WOMAN!" Eric Walken's voice howled from below. "Return at once! The Marquess of Ely is waiting for you to attend her welcome-back party tonight! The Shard has requested your presence to verify your reports! I need you to sign off on the audit forms!"

"I'll be back!" Gwen called to the milling forms of the folks below, some still taking pictures, others waving to catch her attention.

"You're expected at Cambridge!" Walken's hollering continued. "Seven PM at the latest! The whole faculty is expecting you! Including Gracie and Brown!"

"I'll do my best," Gwen promised through her Message device. "But I make no promises."

"Where the hell is she going?" Walken's open Message growled, barely controlling himself from setting the documents in his hands to ride the wind.

Gwen felt sorry for her old foe and instructor, for the bloke looked like he wanted to fly up and drag her back to the Bunker. Before her ground crew drifted out of view, she saw Petra give the old Magister a pat on the shoulder to calm his farm and explain why their boss was in such a hurry.

As to where Gwen was going—that was for her to know alone, for she had sent off a Message the moment they came within Divination Tower range, and only an hour ago had the response returned.

To those who were not family, she felt no need to disclose her heartfelt desire. After so long in the Antarctic and a month and more at sea murdering seafood, she was sick to the core of the life she had inadvertently chosen. To keep herself sane, she needed solace, and only one place could provide the serenity she sought to feel less like a mirrored Sobel.

Battle.

East Sussex.

Though the world was in flux, the millennia-old Monastery Fortress of the Order of the Bath remained untouched by change.

Belying the world's chaos, its Knights and Companions walked through green lawns carpeted by scarlet leaves, with windows swathed by flaming foliage, turning the cloisters a rich amber. East of Sussex, Battle was a world away from the world itself, sheltered by Faith thanks to the Ordo's most precious relics, maintaining a serenity that had remained uncontested since the victory of William the Conqueror in the eleventh century.

This year, like every other year in which their lauded Knight Companion had called the Abbey home, Battle's avenues were punctuated by endless floral blooms, some cultivated, others wild, which dressed the orderly rows of gardens in flamboyance. Additional flowers lined the stone pavements, usually bone-white and ivory, meandering through the grounds like rainbow serpents, adding colour to the otherwise sombre setting.

For those who were here to convalesce and study, the season of autumn was a rare joy before the onset of desolate winter, where snow would smother every living thing, and the trees would wear gothic.

And it was here that Magister Gwen Song, a recent returnee from the Southern Expedition, landed in her crow skins, turning eyes and raising brows from every avenue, window and battlement.

"We've been expecting you, Magister Song," the meek voice from an acolyte soon greeted her, emerging with a strained huff from tall corridors. "Our Abbotess has gifted you and Companion Lindholm privacy in the East Garden."

"Thank you." Gwen retrieved her Omni-orb, which even now was roving eastward. "I know the way."

Her guide said nothing, happy to follow the orders she'd been given regardless of Gwen's willingness to obey. Out of deference, Gwen chose patience, allowing herself to be led by the demure nun until she arrived at an entrance east of the Edenic central courtyard.

Though not a Pocket Plane, she nonetheless pierced a veil of magic before arriving at the garden's enormous interior.

Past the threshold of a pair of trellis gates, Gwen immediately caught the drifting notes of an aria, its lifting notes hanging long and lovingly through the air. Piercing the garden's row of eye-level hedges, she found her Evee in the middle of a song, addressing her Familiars in a Disney-patented manner.

Resisting the little worms bloody masticating her heart, Gwen took a deep breath and counted to ten. On her second repetition, the object of her dearest desire noted her arrival.

Evee.

Evee.

Evee—Golden and glorious, kind and wonderful, walked from the wooded shelter of the gazebo with a smile that could melt all the frost that had invaded Gwen's body from her six-month stint in the Antarctic.

Having been apart for so long, Elvia appeared more mature than she recalled, for her face had lost some of that puppy-dog cuteness. Gwen, herself provisioned by the Essence of an immortal being, knew that Elvia's maturity was not due to the tyranny of a clock hand's leaden circles. Rather, it was the stress, the woe, and the worries of the world that had taxed her dearest friend.

On route past Singapore, Gwen had visited the refugee camps in Pulau Ubin, where the islander asylum seekers had been dispossessed. From the caretaker, she had learned of Elvia's failed mission and walked among the folk her dearest Elvia had sought to save.

Within weeks, the talented few among the refugees had been plucked by Singapore's industrious Tower from the shelters, leaving only the mediocre and the NoMs to fend for themselves in a camp that made Shanghai's Districts look like five-star hotels. When the refugees had left their homes, the promise had been that they would find shelter and security from monsters—and this the city had delivered—only now, the men and women there were at the mercy of monsters wearing human skin. Some of the camps had taken on work from the city and had established a semi-autonomous council of foremen and peacekeepers. The majority, however, had descended into a crucible of vice, becoming the playthings of gangs and strongmen or officials who saw their bitter labour as tedium and insult.

For the "Faithful" who had followed Elvia, Gwen had made arrangements with the local government to ease their eventual passage into the city's economy. As for the rest—her time and charity were bankrupt—for she owed them nothing. Her only motivation was that, should Elvia return someday to witness the end of her Ordo's goodwill, she would be less sad knowing that most had lived hard, if fruitful, lives.

"Gwennie…" The instant their gazes crossed, her Knight Companion blossomed like an unfurling rose, her cheeks growing as pink as pippins and just as adorable.

From behind her dearest friend, Kiki and Sen-sen's inhuman faces peek out from the underbrush, still too wary of Caliban's scent to approach too close.

Gwen responded kindly, sending Ariel forth to frolic so Elvia's Familiar and Spirit could be at ease.

As for Caliban—her Void fiend had grown lethargic of late, meaning more precise instruments were needed to exactly ascertain the effects of consuming a very confused and unsuspecting Lich. One that, according to Gunther, did indeed escape Caliban's Pocket Plane gullet, only to find itself in a Quasi-Elemental Plane of all-consuming life, one that was equally partial to the digestion of Un-life. Consequently, her command over the Sanctioned Magic left by her Master had grown… an alarming prospect, but one she welcomed, especially considering what was to come.

Thankfully, it took less than a split-second for her mind to return to the sublime vision of Evee striding through the unnatural floral garden as though Alphonse Mucha had brought a secret epic to life.

"Practicing for Christmas already?" Gwen couldn't stop grinning, for her mouth had acquired a separate, happy sentience. "Evee, I've missed you so…"

"I heard…" Elvia shimmied close, then closer, until her forehead was almost at Gwen's chin.

Gwen inhaled. The scent of jasmines from Elvia's hair, likely a product of Kiki's making, made her want to confess her greatest sins.

"… that you helped Father Bambang and the others at Singapore… thank you, Gwen, truly."

"It was nothing," Gwen replied without hesitation, for the effort was truly nothing. For she who had returned successfully from the Antarctic Black Zone, uplifting NoMs was barely considered a favour by Singapore Tower. "There's going to be far more chaos to come. More refugees will soon flood into the Frontiers… I can't even begin to imagine."

"They'll need a lot of help and aid." Evee took her hand and began to guide her deeper into the garden until they were inside the dainty gazebo, within which was a nice little picnic basket, as well as plates and glasses.

"So that's why you weren't out there to greet me." Gwen felt her chest flutter. "What's the occasion?"

"To thank you." Elvia's hand squeeze her fingers. "You've done so much for us… for me, the Ordo, and the people—everywhere."

"I am doing this out of necessity." Gwen still wasn't sure whether her venture was going to be a profitable one or if she was going to be out of pocket. The Bloom in White's reward had yet to materialise. And even if it did, she wasn't sure if an Elven Monarch's payment could be meaningfully liquidated into currency. "It's just as much for myself as it is for anyone. After all, don't I live in the Prime Material? Doesn't Gunther and Alesia? You and Yue?"

"You're too modest." Elvia invited her to sit.

Together, the two made themselves comfortable. Elvia filled their glasses with wine from the abbey's private collection, and they sipped on fermented grape juice while Gwen regaled her tale of Antarctica, the Blooms, the Elementals and the Undead.

Her story drew laughter, tears, and awe and fear from her listener, who seemed very much invested in Gwen's hypothesis regarding the nature of The Accord and the role played by the Blooms and their lizards in sustaining the Great Trees of the Axis Mundi.

By the time Gwen's tale had returned to Sydney's shores with Yue's promotion, the sun was sinking into the English horizon, staining Albion's firmament a darkly brewed Earl Grey. The sweetmeats, cheeses and biscuits Elvia had brought were also depleted, signalling that they were near the end of their recess.

"I wish I could be as strong as you, Gwennie.." her soulmate stared into the depth of her oversized wine glass, her cheeks now the colour of ripe peaches. "I try, and I try… and still couldn't do it. I couldn't save them, Gwen. I took them away from the Elementals feeding on their children, only to have them abandon their homes, then leave them in Singapore."

Before Gwen could move to soothe her companion's trauma, Elvia suddenly looked up.

"I wrote a song in our time apart," her soulmate said suddenly. "It's meant to be for the Carols by Candlelight, but I want you to hear it first. Will you hear it, Gwennie?"

"Is there any doubt I would kill for the privilege?" Gwen raised both brows in defiance of Elvia's accusation that she might not be fully attentive to a song written by an angel. "Let's hear it!"

A little embarrassed, Elvia started to hum, then corrected herself a few times before finally launching into song. A few bars in, Gwen recognised it as the one the girl was practising earlier.

Calming herself, she allowed the lyrics to flow through her mind.

May I wake you before morning?

When the trees are painted amber

To a breakfast of our making

Of forgotten feelings, few remember—

Outside, the mayflies are many

Outside, the brightest blossoms unfold

Swayed by the bell beat of companionable swans

Whose hearts will never grow old

Then a cold wind blows

Winter strips the yews

A cold wind blows

Though I am warm by you

Why frets if the day was lost or won?

Or if our hours grow lean and few?

The sea may rise, and the whole world drown

Care not— for my world is here with you—

As Elvia sang, Kiki and Sen-sen came to sit beside them, as did Ariel. Like a child wondering at her finest picture book, Gwen sat entranced, enjoying the private, impromptu concert. The chorus repeated itself twice, stumbling here and there. When finally, Evee's humming drew to an end, her lips moved as though she wanted to say something truly profound.

After a few false starts, the girl shook her flaxen head.

"I…I can't… It's too hard." Evee's head hung low, moving to avert Gwen's gaze. "I can't do it. Gwennie."

"Don't be sad, Evee." Gwen replaced her wine glass. "Don't be like that. You did what you could. The Ordo did as much as it was willing. That's the fact of life. That's all we can do and all we need to do."

"You don't know, Gwennie. There's so much more I need to do." Elvia appeared to be talking to herself, or at least, to the wine. "Sometimes, I wish I hadn't chosen this path—but then I remind myself, this is what I wanted. All of this is what I had chosen for myself. Here is my sovereignty; I must lie in it."

Gwen brought the girl's head closer to her own, then kissed the soft hair, feeling the warmth transmute through her lips like a spark to tingle her insides. "Don't overthink it, Evee. Whatever it is that you need, I'll help you. As your God is my witness, I can be very helpful."

For a moment, she daringly wondered if Elvia would tilt her head back, their eyes would meet like in those old Hollywood classics, and then… everything would be alright.

But Elvia instead leaned forward, slipping from her grasp.

Elvia wiped away the excess moisture from her eyes. Her face again restored to its adorable self. "Let's finished up. Didn't you say that you had a dinner party to attend? It's almost dark. All those important people want to see you, speak to you, and seek your guidance and blessing. Wouldn't they be upset? It's an important party, right? You need to save the world."

Gwen felt the beckoning call of the Message Device on her wrist. Had she not disabled it before coming to see her Evee, the "Dings" would resemble a street percussion performance.

"O Evee…" She wanted more time with Elvia before returning to her unhappy reality. And if she was as influential as Elvia said, then she had time. "As long as you're here, the party… doesn't matter."