Metaworld Chronicles

Gwen left the meeting with the Lord Marshall of England with a spring in her step.

Her good mood was well-deserved, for the solution to the refugee problem had presented itself on a silver platter, with partial funding and additional concessions to be plated on a later date.

She also counted herself as incredibly lucky—for she had not expected that The Shard would be so generous as to regift the juicy jujube that was Shalkar al-Jadeedah to herself. In her books, the region was at least within the top thirty of the Mageocracy's better-known Frontiers for exporting exotic produce and one of the five regions to produce Elf-blessed Wildland fruits.

The pessimistic Gwen wanted to know why no one else wanted a slice of the recovering region's sweet meat.

The optimistic Gwen chose to be more logical. The region's "Speciality" was established by her efforts—especially through the bond she had established with the indigenous Demi-humans in the Horse Lords and the Rat-kin. Furthermore, the lynchpin holding the flywheel together was the Hvítálfar, and she had also been responsible for that.

To govern, one must hold the reigns. While the Horse Lords could be coerced and the Rat-kin intimidated, the Hvítálfar made plans and moved events at their leisure. What would happen to Shalkar if the Elves suddenly withdrew their support? What if someone angered the Elves? Profits were profits, but who would want to test the mettle of the mysterious agreement known as The Accord?

Ruling the region would be akin to dancing on Warding Glyphs.

But she was different.

Tryfan shared history with her Master, Henry Kilroy. She was also known, for lack of a better term, to the ancient beings whose bodies weighted down the World Trees.

If the Saviour of Shalkar stepped on the Hvítálfar's toes—she could receive a stern admonition.

But if a Faction-aligned Magister misstepped, the fallout could obliterate the very existence of their careers.

She knew what she had to do to kickstart the region. Unfortunately, the manpower she had on hand was now at a steep premium.

Walken's Bunker crew, including the Chinese administrators gifted by Ruxin, were inhumanely overworked. Elvia's Ordo members were also swamped to their necks by the influx of refugees needing aid and support. The IoDNC's staff also had both hands, and Mage Hands full of work generating profit to keep her operations lubricated. The METRO was short-staffed from the beginning and remains as such even now.

Usually, she could borrow men from her mentor, the Lady of Ely, but the Marchioness had also rolled up her sleeves to help with efforts on the Isle of Sheppey. Lady Astor, likewise, had taken off her expensive slippers to venture knee-deep in Humanitarian efforts, offering up the lower estate of Cliveden to families with only women and children.

The Dwarves had been far less impacted by the changes in climate on the surface—but their utility was elsewhere. The loan of the Fabricator Engine alone would require three dozen of their number, including the guards. As such, until the repopulation of the Dwarven Citadel swelled that number to the tens of thousands, she would have no spare hands.

Her thoughts had weighed in so heavily that she had completely missed the polite presence of a young man with his signature Roman nose who had split from his party to accost her at the Old Palace Yard.

"Magister Song!" her fellow Magister finally gave up on polite patience when she was almost close enough to touch.

Gwen looked up, meeting the smiling face of Thomas Holland. "Oh… Oh my God. Sir Thomas! I didn't see you there."

"Yes, I am not usually very noticeable." The orange-haired, lanky heir to the Golden Blood gave her an awkward laugh. "Do you have a moment?"

Gwen's immediate reaction was to decline, but she had enjoyed her stint with Thomas Benedict Holland and felt safe speaking to a nobleman who was indebted to her. Besides, she wasn't much looking forward to informing Walken that Christmas was cancelled. Hopefully, the Magister's stiff upper lip would remain firm, and he wouldn't return home to bawl out his eyes to his wife and child regarding his bosses' ruthless abuse.

Before she could answer, their encounter was interrupted by the navy-haired mirror image of Thomas, led by a sour-faced Poins.

"Tom." The lesser brother did not feel the need to address Gwen, which was just as well. "We're on our way to a meeting. What is this?"

"It's my business. You go ahead." Thomas gave his brother a smirk that made Gwen suppress her smile. When Poins did not go away, Thomas tiled his head disapprovingly. "Why the gloom, Poins? Think of it as a rare opportunity. Take care of matters without me looking over your shoulder for once."

The twin appeared lost for words. From Thomas' tone, which left no quarter, Gwen took it to mean things had not gone down so well since the pair returned from the Northern Expedition. After all, one now possessed a Draconic Steam Spirit, and the other still had his ice Sprite. Their performance metrics would have been incomparable.

The ire on Poin's face immediately transferred from his brother to herself. The predictability was like the London weather.

If Poins had been a young lady, Gwen felt "she" would have slapped her for seducing her brother in public. Alas, a brotherly love built on the inheritance of generational wealth was both more intimate and far more complicated.

"I know a place nearby." Thomas guided her past his indignant brother. "Shall we?"

"Let's." Gwen allowed herself to be led a safe distance, then gifted Poin's party with a quasi-curtsy more flippant than courteous. She could imagine the upset even as she left, though Poin's opinion mattered so little that as soon as they exited the Old Courtyard, she forgave his offensive existence.

Outside, dull clouds and condensation made the Thames as depressing as the crisis faced by the Mageocracy's administrators. Thomas remained true to his promise, leading her with small talk until they arrived at the embankment, where he commanded a private corner of an open-air cafe through a sizeable HDM crystalline chip.

For the first time in a long while, a man pulled out her chair and bid her to sit.

Gwen sat.

Thomas ordered for the both of them, then sat opposite, enjoying the view.

"Something on my face?" Gwen didn't feel her tartan skirt and cream blouse was anything the Sun Herald might position for publication on the third page.

"Your face is indeed in my thoughts, for I am considering how thankful I feel," Thomas spoke through his pearly whites. "For the Dragon Turtle. As you might have heard, our Expedition breached the World Tree's Pocket Plane in the north, where we had the unthankful task of dislodging Zodiam's Brass Legion shock troops."

"I know of it." Gwen grimaced with sympathy. "I am sorry, Tom. That couldn't have been easy."

The man nodded. "We lost good men and women there, fighting on behalf of Tryfan. Friends I've known since my university days. One of them, Lord Everton, attended the IIUC with me. Lord Mycroft tells me they came to your aid?"

"They did." Gwen sensed Thomas' unease. "Our knife-eared friends did not come to yours?"

Thomas shook his head.

Gwen had no comfort to give. From her conversation with The Bloom in White, she had gathered that this Accord was an agreement in which Humanity committed its resources—including Humanity itself—to perform mutually beneficial biddings. From the viewpoint of a hegemonic power broker, having the Humans expend lives and resources in servicing the Axis Mundi was itself a process as important as the maintenance itself.

That Thomas' Northern Expedition succeeded at a cost was the intended outcome.

Thankfully, the tea and coffee arrived with a two-tier selection of shortcakes.

"Again. I am sorry," Gwen said, the only thing that was thoughtfully appropriate.

"We did our duties." Thomas helped her with the dessert. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting to ask you about that. I just wanted to thank you for the timely gift of the Dragon Turtle. Thanks to Zippy, we managed to break through the Fire Elemental's blockade without catastrophic losses. With my original Spirit, I could not begin to imagine whose faces I wouldn't see again."

Sensing the strands of Draconic Essence encircling the Steam Mage's aura, Gwen reached over and gave the man a pat on the back of his hand. "Don't be. We're comrades in a war zone. I did what I imagined was best. I should be glad it turned out so well. Imagine if Zippy had been a dud. Where would we be now?"

Thomas returned her modesty with a wry spot of laughter. "A weight has lifted from my shoulder now that we've spoken."

There was a pause.

The Steam Mage met her eyes with a familiar intensity.

"Magister Song. Would you mind if we met some other time? For leisure, if you will."

Gwen had gone on enough dates in her past life to know what was coming. Still, the confession from Thomas elevated her heart rate. The last time someone had been so bold and brazen had been the unfortunate Jackaroo Tako back in Sydney.

And though she had a rather unhappy feeling Saint Evee might egg her onward, Gwen felt nary a ripple in her heart of hearts.

"I'd love to." She prepared her poker face to deliver the gentlest of letdowns. "Ever since Auckland, I've known we'll be good friends, so there's no need to be so formal."

Thomas' uptake was instant. With natural nonchalance, the young man withdrew his presence back into his chair. "That warms my heart, Gwen. In all honesty, I merely wished to make a case. Given it a year, we shall forever be politely acquainted, and whatever distance that might grow intimate would forever remain remote."

"Oh? And why is that?" Gwen asked out of curiosity. Thomas Benedict Holland appealed to her. He was, thus far, a solid choice—even if he wasn't hers. Nobility was nice, but she hated its restrictions. For some of Tom's stature, a spouse as capable and well-provisioned in politics as himself wasn't a wife, but a business partner, with a marriage akin to a merger.

"I've several partners prepared for me by the House." The young man hid nothing. "I could find a spouse—or one will be provided. An heir must be produced, as—"

"—The Golden Blood of Henry must flow," Gwen finished for the young man. "I genuinely appreciate the sentiment, Thomas. Sorry I had to disappoint you. Besides, would your father accept a wildcat if it came to it? You're not Poins the spare, you know. Charlene is far more suitable for you."

"A part of the appeal is to see the old man squirm." Thomas laughed. "The Expedition has opened my eyes somewhat to the you-know-what with Tryfan. The world no longer seemed as bright and promising as it did in my youth."

"Your youth?" Gwen burst into laughter. "You're twenty—?"

"—four," Thomas replied.

"A bit young for the future to be dull, don't you think?"

"Duller, now."

Gwen felt a blush coming on. "Now you're teasing me."

“I am.” Thomas’ eyes lingered.

Gwen sipped her tea.

The two made some other inconsequential small talk to dispel the unexpectedly cosy atmosphere.

"I should attend to business." Thomas politely drained his cup, then returned his fine china to its matching plate. "Poins might be signing the House way, for all I know. If father complains, you're to blame."

"I take full responsibility," Gwen stood as the Steam Mage rose.

The two shook hands.

"Good luck in Shalkar," Thomas said. "When I am able, I'll visit. Give our Faction a good deal on the food stock."

"You're welcome." Gwen allowed their handshake to linger. "But do wait a few months while I set things up."

Watching the young noblemen go, Gwen steeled her heart.

Then, her hardened heart abruptly reminded her befuddled brain that she did have another enquiry. A part of her wanted to give the man his peace, but a woman's needs had to be met.

"Thomas—!" She called out, cringing that she had not remembered her need earlier.

With a face full of hope, the young lord abruptly turned, twisting his body so that he faced her with all the dramatic poise of an Austenian climax.

"Milady?" Thomas came striding back. There was a bit of steam that leaked through the aether.

Gwen felt terrible, but she had to ask. The Militants were the only Faction with decades of experience colonising new Frontiers. That meant they had access to some of the most experienced administrators for regions having undergone pacification.

"I need men," she began.

Thomas froze in his tracks with an expression of horror.

...and women…" Gwen pushed through, not allowing her Freudian slip to lubricate further misunderstandings. "Thomas, I am in dire need of administrative staff with experience in building Forward Operating bases, as well as managing logistics of Frontier construction. I'll be starting up a new settlement near Shalkar, either on top or close to the Dwarven Citadel there… and for that, I need men and women."

Thomas appeared… to deflate.

There was a moment where the man stared into the middle distance as if seeing through her into the aether.

And then he snorted, and his angular features softened.

"Will they be fighting?" he asked.

"Not to my knowledge," Gwen said. "And not if I can help it."

"Then I will ask our Veteran's Unions if any are willing to work as expatriates," the Steam Mage promised with a nod. "Will that satisfy?"

"There's a signing bonus of one-tenth of their negotiable wage, paid once they arrive," Gwen immediately followed up. "The new entity, once set up, will also offer stock and land options to any employees who remain after three months. Healthcare will cover all on-site injuries, with additional care packages for long-term employees. Assuming a large number of the Veteran's Union joins the new city's construction and management, I'll allocate a portion of profits to the Veteran's Fund, the same which the Barlow Group depleted. Prospective members can apply at the Bunker. I'll have the staff set up a registry."

The sudden switch to business Gwen must have given Thomas whiplash, for the Steam Mage merely nodded like a shellshocked soldier emerging from an Undead trench.

"I'll be… going, now?" the man muttered. "May I?"

"See you around, Thomas." Gwen could only repay the chap by giving him her best smile. Something more tactile, like a kiss on the cheeks, would only further a futile hope.

From the heart of the Bunker, Eric Walken, Central Operating Officer of the IoDNC, threatened to quit, muttered, mumbled, then called for a dozen impromptu meetings to meet their CEO's demands.

Gwen quietly closed the door to her COO's spacious office, originally a multi-storey work and rest space for herself, now gifted to her chief wage slave.

As she proceeded down the long corridor with its abstract art pieces, she wondered how her Master might measure the state of Eric Walken today. Would Henry laugh and be amused? Or would the old dreamer berate her for trapping his old rival in a salt mine?

Secretly, Gwen suspected Walken loved the work.

The man had dreamed of a position such as this all his life, with various Factions begging for funds or investments, where his pen stroke brought smiles or tears. Within the IoDNC, Walken enjoyed far more freedom than Factioneers. Whenever a conglomerate's interests were offended, he pointed the finger at herself, then announced that he was merely a paper pusher, pushing the will of the Devourer of corporations.

From an isle with a few pups, the Norfolk-Dog conglomerate was now a snarling Dire Wolf, eyeing the wild dogs ranging its docklands for its next meal.

Of course, that was merely the facade Gwen had wanted to establish. In truth, she saw little merit in subsuming the locals. The real money, as it had always been in this world, was buried in the Frontiers.

Primary agriculture.

HDM mining.

Rare materials.

And the value of the people themselves.

Across the Atlantic, the New World proved that old empires were either paralysed or in decline. In its place, a pragmatic, more ruthless breed of Humanity grew fat on the narrative of destiny manifest. Comparatively, her city in the sand would be a grand experiment—one with a simmering pot lid of tensions kept in place by the threat of the Shoggoth. Would the newly arrived refugees labour with the Rat-kin? Would the Horse Lords, who saw anything with two legs as food or spoils, acclimatise to a decade without rampant war and destruction?

More importantly, how long would the boon of life in the region last?

When she thought about it, Gwen suspected not even the Elves fully understood the dynamic of the Axis Mundi, much less their foes. Did the hands of Spectre even understand the consequences of their prodding? Could they conceive that the chaos they sowed in the regions of interest would counteractively create hospitality and wealth for areas previously barren?

She had no answers, though the long corridors of the Bunker offered an excellent ambience for self-reflection. When she finally breached the lobby's upper deck, her Essence-infused mind had already constructed a general framework for the many labours in the coming months.

"Magister Song."

"Ma'am."

"Good afternoon, boss."

Greetings arrived as she passed her employees, dressed in formal work attire as Walken had demanded. They did not find offence in their CEO's fashion, for such was the culture of the Bunker subscribed at orientation.

Below the encircling cubic balcony, the multi-storey, Brutalist lobby split into the Bunker's various sections, with the central structural pillar acting as the arrival place of a dozen levitation platforms, besides which the Teleportation Circles flared and crackled. The Bunker was her building—all of it, from the lobby to the depth that connected the Dyar Morkk, was an extension of the efforts she had heaped upon the Isle of Dogs.

If a house by the bay was the Australian Dream, then what was this?

It was a dizzying realisation, one the Gwen of the past would have struggled to conceive.

Thankfully, she was a busy woman.

With style, Gwen willed her Message device into being.

"Richard," she spoke into the Glyph. "Ask if Magus Williams is willing to spend some time in Shalkar al-Jadeedah. A Dwarven Citadel needs restoring, meaning unlimited access to the Fabricator, assuming he can snuggle up to Petra and the Dwarven posse. If he can rope more alumni into aiding our city-building from the States, I'll work on placing him in the same team as our Fabricator Engine."

"No worries. I guess you're done with the meeting? And the date?"

"What date?"

“A hidden garden rendezvous vis-a-vis, involving a steamy noblemen”

"Very funny, Dick," Gwen berated her cousin, smiling at passersby even as her cousin stoked her paranoia. "Do restrain yourself, especially around Elvia. When Caliban wakes up, you'll be my first sparring partner."

"I quake," the teasing voice returned with a laugh. "But of course. Our CEO's indiscretions are safe with me."

"One of these days—" She waved at another batch of workers as she made for the exit. "What did Magister Brown say about those spells I requested?"

"Good tidings," Richard replied. "Mass Flight has been booked at The Shard for tomorrow. He's also found an Oxbridge instructor willing to part with a unique variant of Force Cage capable of cladding its surface with attuned elements. Both will be undertaken in Greater Cognisance Chambers for convenience and cost. The Magisters will attend your tuition thrice a week for two weeks."

"That's fine," Gwen found the outcome agreeable to her timetable. Having her teachers come to her was an additional cost, but she had the CCs to spare, especially if Morden's crew wasn't keen on making her life easy. "I am going to see Lady Maxwell and Lady Astor about our new project. I'll elaborate later, but I've been assigned to Shalkar, and we'll be building a new city with the Dwarves returning there. Our logistical preparations have between two to three months to mature."

Richard whistled, then took a deep breath. "Whoa—You're thinking of housing the refugees there?"

"Hypothetically," Gwen affirmed. "Can you arrange a work dinner with the others? Once I gauge the investors and stakeholders better, we'll start on the preliminary reports."

"Of course," her cousin's voice reverberated through the glowing Glyph. "Milord Governor—your wish is my command."

Scotland.

Suilven.

Slylth Alexander Morden sat brooding in his Dragon-wood study chair, scanning the letter from The Shard like a lizard obsessed.

He had sliced the Mithril-laced letter open with a transmogrified claw, expecting a simpering response as to why their applicant deserved to study for several weeks in the Tower of Elements.

When he had opened the letter and read the first line, however, Slylth felt a strange emptiness, like the void had invaded the interior of his Astral Body.

"Application Withdrawn" was the immediate phrase he noted in the paragraph of pasted niceties. The text wasn't even addressed to him.

The designation had been a cursory "To whom it may concern," and the signature wasn't even from the girl, but some random Magister from her office.

Confused, Slylth had turned the letter upside down, then back to front, wondering if something else might fall out.

When it became clear that his Draconic ability to comprehend all languages did not fail him, Slylth grew silent.

Only two beings have criticised, ignored, and instructed Slylth in all his centuries as an egg-consciousness and his years in the Prime Material. One was his mother, Sythinthimryr, the greatest of the Ancient Reds, the Flame of Life that burns eternal in the heart of Carrauntoohil.

The other was the Magi Morden, who rolled his eyes, humoured him, or put an end to his tantrums in the early years of his adventure with a stern Power Word.

A part of him wanted to know who this damned Gwen Song was to deny him—but Slylth was too wise a wyrm to throw a tantrum. After all, he had seen the lumen casts of the female's Shoggoth, and he did not wish to invoke his mother's aid nor her annoyance.

A fight with a Shoggoth was likely to bring both.

Another part of him grew more intrigued than ever, forming within his Draconic soul a deep-seated desire congealed from curiosity, impulse and jealousy.

Why had Ancient Illaelitharian praised this female? What was her true connection to the Old One? The more his mother cautioned Slylth, the more he wanted to raid the Death Hornest's nest for their sweet honey.

With a glare, the letter from the Shard turned to cinders.

Perhaps, it was time for Slylth Alexander Morden to venture out into the world and make himself known.

His only hope was that his mother had better things to do than to keep tabs on a wayward boy.

London.

The Isle of Dogs.

Elvia Lindholm, Knight Companion of the Order of the Bath, was taking a bath.

The bath house was a communal one, and though she had access to a private Pocket Dimension similar to Gwen's pocket house, the Ordo taught its members to exercise humility whenever possible and to set an example for their juniors.

The weather was beyond humid, and the communal hall set up for the members of the Ordo to cleanse their bodies and souls of impurities was sanctified only by the generous incense from the blessed sandalwood. Through this act of communion, the sisters of the Ordo mime the humility of the Nazarene, who had bathed the feet of his apostles to foster brotherhood.

The act of absolution served another purpose—for it was the condition through which a believer may fully immerse themselves into the canonical prayers, a necessary ritual that unlocked a Faith-Caster's access to the collated mythical energies of their order.

"Kiki—" Elvia's floral Sprite did the work of her Master's hands, ensuring that every evidence of sin was erased.

Within the same chamber, Elvia's Ordo companions, both the lesser acolytes and the Senior sisters, observed one of their youngest with an awe that bordered on reverence.

A part of their admiration was spiritual, for Companion Lindholm was a perfect Poor Soldier of Christ, an exemplar of their Ordo.

The other was a sense of pity, for their sister was painfully captivating. Hers was not a fairness that spurred men into launch ships; rather, Elvia had come to possess a heart-breaking demureness, a constant sorrow that, paired with her seemingly infinite charity, made their chests sore with unbidden longing to see her smile a little more.

Not that they hadn't seen Companion Lindholm smile.

When Elvia's secular friend-for-life would come to visit, the girl would bloom like a vivified Kiki, her face suddenly coming alive. That was the Elvia they had all hoped to see, though perhaps, the rareness of her happiness made those moments all the more precious.

"Mother Superior, please excuse me." Elvia bowed her head toward a silver-haired healer meticulously working the grime from her nails. Rationally, the bathing was meant to be purposeful, meticulous, and not aided by floral Sprites. "My absolution is complete. I shall now seek the lord's guidance."

Mother Superior Francis Fitzroy was the leader of the men and women the Ordo had leased to Gwen as a part of her charitable works on the Isle. As the chief acolyte under Rectress St Claire, the senior Cleric had been sent as a sign of goodwill. As a sister on the cusp of Sainthood, the Mother Superior's presence alone was enough to quell all dissent from the local parish's ranks, thereby gifting the Isle of Dogs unfettered access to a large body of volunteers hoping to bath in her good graces.

"Go." The senior Cleric did not comment on Elvia's hasty ritual. Instead, she delivered a soothing benediction in Latin, praying that Elvia would find peace.

Alone, Elvia dressed, choosing her surgeon's garb in case an emergency interrupted her meeting.

Once her hair had been netted and bundled, she exited the prayer baths built into their dockland Chapter House, now sitting among pre-fabricated houses and camps, and made for the chapel. When the Ordo had sent its men and women, her Gwen had been very accommodating in asking her Dwarven allies to construct a modest chapel out of sandstone in the gothic style of the Ordo. When the Ordo's Master had arrived to inspect the progress of their work on the Isle, he had been both dismayed and delighted by the unexpected sight of a three-storey, permanent Chapter House with his Ordo's emblem beside the ubiquitous logo of the IoDNC with its hound and raven heraldry.

Elvia shuffled past the prayer hall, now almost always full of believers displaced from the Frontiers. Her goal was not the hall, though she was scheduled to lead the choir in the evening.

Outside, Mathias would follow on her heels like a shadow. Within the Chapter House, the Knight chose the gift of privacy, instead retreating to the barracks to wait on her call.

Her object was the confessional, a claustrophobic chamber ensorceled with Faith Magic and contained within a Seal of the Confessional. There would be no Divination here, not without shattering the Seal and toppling the chapel.

As a result of the Chapter House's limited space, the confessional was a modest specimen, one frequented by the Ordo's many Clerics to vent their frustrations and indiscretions after their administration of the refugee tide.

Tucking her locks behind her ears, Elvia ducked inside, pulling the heavy drapes around them so that only light from the stained glass above made their faces visible.

The presence awaiting her gave off a fatherly and sympathetic aura.

"Knight Companion Elvia Lindholm greets the Seneschal."

"In this sanctified place, I am a mere priest," her Seneschal sounded serious as always. "And you may unburden yourself onto me. How fares the visions, child?"

"They are frequent, Father."

"Are they troubling the sweet balm of sleep?"

"Somewhat," Elvia replied. "But it is not the visions that disturb me."

"I see... so the moment of reckoning draws nigh?"

"The Lord of the Mount is stirring from his slumber," Elvia's voice quaked even as she suppressed the near-religious recollection of awe she had felt for her Patron's true form. "His youngest now bears his mark as well as the others. Lord Ayxin will soon be blessed with fruit. What has been foretold has come to pass."

"The ancient one has expressed his readiness?"

"For the Unformed Land, yes..."

"And are you, our dear daughter… ready?"

The Seneschal's question was delivered with the tenderness of a Healing Word.

Opposite, Elvia felt her Seneschal's kindness as a physical blow to her diaphragm. "Tis a cross only I can bear. I am not opposed to it."

"Child." Ashburn's plea turned melancholic. "I am not one to question the Faith of a Knight Companion. However, I, as well as the Rectress, Mother Superior Fitzroy and a plethora of others in the Ordo, have grown very fond of our little Saintess. With enough Faith, we can divert the course or at least turn its purpose awry. Is that not acceptable to you?"

Elvia felt the temptation. Faith Magic was powerful. It was the origin of magic, tempered by will and desire. From its very inception, it was different to the sorcery of destruction wielded by Gwen, made consume so that win or lose, the gainful produce of the living were diminished. Unlike Spellcraft, Faith Magic was an equilibrium where life and death bisect. What the Seneschal was offering was a solution—but one she feared more than any other.

For one to be saved, another must pay the price.

But how could she ask another to pay?