A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

Krakow is burning.

I wish I could have seen the city before the mob and before the persecution. Even now, the Saint Mary’s Basilica rises from the ashes around it, clad in its late Gothic glory. Ochre stone offers a counterpoint to the blood-stained snow and its many tiny windows seem to glare at the two pyres beneath. The stench of fear, offal and roasted meat saturates the air of the main market square. A few stalls lay crushed to the side.

Behind us, the convoy moves. The feet of mortals splash through the disgusting sludge. They are scared. They have a right to be scared. As the city master told us, a difficult time is upon them.

I keep an eye out for danger and remember our short interview with Tadeusz, Krakow’s resident Lord. He had given brief instructions to Anatole and then gone off to handle yet another crisis.

I was not spared a single glance.

It is, I believe, the first time that I remain anonymous in a gathering of vampires. I find the experience curious and refreshing. In America, I was always the local Devourer or Sephare’s pawn or Constantine’s apprentice. Here, I am but a faceless agent in a group charged with handling a crisis. I do not bring my reputation, network, or enemies with me. The uniform I wear replaces all those considerations. I am expected to follow orders and fulfill the mission, nothing more. The Knights handle those who pursue hidden agendas with extreme prejudice, not that I would have one considering that I have never been involved in Eneru politics beyond ravishing Torran.

I am but a cog in the great machine. Another cloaked figure, armored in leather and covered in weapons.

In fact, the only person with whom I have past grievances currently leads our mission. Though technically he may not give me direct orders, Anatole is still above me in the hierarchy. Lars leads the squad. I assume that the powers that be decided to see if we could let go of our enmity for the sake of the mission, a test of professionalism perhaps. After all, he merely tried to murder me twice for the crime of not being dead and got exiled from America as a result while I am guilty of brazenly walking around not being dead. A gray area, to be sure.

I consciously unclench my jaw and gesture to the side, not that it is needed. A mortal could hear the trampling ruckus of a band of looters approaching us. They come from the south, where the strange Wawel castle stands, alongside the old royal road. Perhaps someone saw us pass by and alerted them. Greed is a powerful motivator when faith condemns the current owners.

We are currently escorting three carriages filled to the brim with crates and other valuable goods. Tadeusz has decided to relocate for the sake of his followers but he will not abandon his precious belongings unless he has to. At least a dozen mages and assorted help stumble from within our protective cordon. The mages are useless. You would think that someone who can bend the world to their will would be able to take care of themselves, but when said power relates to dreams or making plants grow fast, survivability suffers. I can hardly complain. I find dream-witches particularly tasty.

We keep heading north, out of the square and through the old streets now dotted with the occasional frozen bodies. The cart’s wheels clatter on the frozen pavement. For a moment, I think that the looters will give up the chase but even mortals can hear us from five streets away and it does not take long before their ‘outriders’ notice us. Men in dirty urban clothes, most of them young, hurry after us. I see the glint in their eyes, that manic anticipation of the hunt. I do not sympathize with it. My anger does not stem from the imbalance of power between marauding bands and fleeing refugees. It is the hypocrisy that infuriates me. At least, debased highwaymen know why they kill. Those younglings lie to themselves, committing acts of utmost savagery under the dizzying influence of fanaticism. They do not truly understand what they are doing. They will wake up in a week thinking themselves virtuous for ridding the world of devil-worshippers. Or at least, some of them will.

There is an art to breaking mobs.

The first thing to remember is that not all mobs can be broken, not without overwhelming force. Like a great beast, some will riot and bite when subjected to pain. Such is not the case here. Only a people beset by hunger or some deep-seated, enduring injustice will rouse itself to revolutionary heights. The marauders facing us are what happens when nine-tenths of a population realizes that it can feed on the remaining one with impunity.

The second thing to remember is that, although mobs do not have a true leader, they have people who steer. We quickly find him. He is a blond-haired man wearing a leather apron with a cross sewn on it. He brandishes a blood-stained cleaver and yells imprecations, agitating the men behind him.

My first knife finds his forehead which explodes like a melon. Blood and brain-bits rain over the rest in a crimson cloud.

The third thing to remember is that being in a crowd is like being drunk, and that nothing wakes them up quite like pain and death. Lars wisely allows two seconds to pass and for the headsman, minus the head, to fall down before throwing his first javelin. It skewers a student and a baker. They squeal abominably. I walk forward.

The group dissolves.

They run back in disarray. A few of the folks at the back only trot, still unclear as to what exactly happened. The sight of death has not quite yet hit home.

I glare at one of them and our eyes meet. He is wearing a cross and the taste of ash and sunlight caresses my lips, an eternal warning. No matter. Power is a crutch. I do not need Charm to intimidate.

As the man watches, I grab the mewling student by the neck and lift him enough for the stragglers to see Rose’s blade go through his sternum. They run. I quickly return to formation.

Our path continues north. We only come across a smaller group of looters and they run away after one look at our numbers. Soon, the tower above the Florian gate appears. We are close.

Someone placed a few crates on the way. It only takes Lars and Phineas a minute to move everything without reducing it to kindling. We cannot afford the noise.

Phineas hisses playfully and the mortals squirm. Delectable. Bah, I must concentrate. I pat on the caravan master’s shoulder and we go on.

A few minutes later, we reach the rendezvous point. Other carts are arrayed in a column under the watchful gaze of Team Aspen. There are corpses on the ground, signs that some enterprising pillagers tried their luck for the last time in their lives. Anatole has very little patience for transgression, real or imagined.

Anatole shows clear distaste as he looks at Esmeray’s sulking form, her arms crossed and gaze averted.

“Or at least I assume that this is what she meant, given her failure to master our language. In any case, you will make contact with them and investigate the Barbican. Esmeray mentions a… foul smell. I think. Investigate while we bring the caravan to safety, but do not engage unless the matter is urgent.”

Lars salutes.

For one moment, I am left to wonder why the experienced team is on guard while the novice team is sent scouting but it is the exact doctrine. Escorting the coven is the priority. Getting rid of our target is a secondary objective, hence why we were sent on the task.

The squad plus Esmeray returns to the city. Somewhere to the northeast of the square, the red glow of distant fire illuminates the sooty sky. Dark ash falls around us in a slow-dance hail.

“Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter,” Lars comments laconically.

“Any chance that the fire reaches here?”

“Unlikely. The wind blows in the other direction and it will snow soon.”

Esmeray turns into a wolf and takes the lead. She prefers her wolf form, unless specifically asked not to turn. Her lithe, dark shape guides us around blockades and through small passages. At times, we take to the roofs. Standard practice is to avoid doing so too much, as those who expect vampires will keep guards above ground. I maintain that most folks never look up but what do I know?

We spot the Barbican very quickly, a squat, circular fortress situated close to the Vistula river. It is… smaller than I expected. Many small windows adorn its light brown walls and several tiny towers with pointy roofs pop from above the thick walls like exquisite, tiny decorations on a boring cake. Esmeray does not stop. She leads us to a thicket of trees nestled between two tall houses. The only access has been blocked by debris, except for a tiny opening which we do not take. I can smell blood and sweat in the air even through the ever-present, acrid stench of smoke. We take to the roofs and lean in, even Esmeray who apparently can scale vertical surfaces with her paws.

Below, we find a small patch of earth, a back garden of sorts. Half a dozen mages look around, gloved hands clenched on sabers and war scythes. I count around four guns. Another five gather around a pair of people quite busy bleeding to death. Their piteous cries are muffled. They are prey.

I am quite fascinated by the color of the blood on their weapons.

I assumed that this was common knowledge. I give them a short lecture on spheres and the new alignment, as well as portals and the only world mankind has discovered so far.

“It sounds like a shithole, pardon my French,” Phineas says, in English.

Like a single man, the squad lands on the pavement in silence. The sentries yell and fall back. One of them takes out an antiquated pistol and waves it around.

The group of mages is quite diverse now that I see them. I would wager that a few of them are foreigners, and my suspicions are confirmed when one of them points an accusatory finger at me and bellows in German with a proper Hannovrian accent.

“Mein Gott! You! Have you not done enough already? Have you finally come to finish what you started? Is my life so abhorrent to you?”

My fellow squad members do not stare, though I know they want to. We have to look deadly, and we do. The mages huddle in a pathetic herd.

I study the man who submitted me to such a venomous address. A bushy blond beard, plastered by sweat and grime. Manic brown eyes. A scar on his cheek.

I have no idea who he might be.

No idea at all.

“Are we acquainted?” I finally ask, in German as well.

“Kennen wir uns? Kennen wir uns? Are you mocking me, vampire?” he screams, finishing in English again.

“...No.”

This is terribly awkward.

“Are you telling me that you are here so far away from your lands, in the city where I fled to, and that you come in my hour of darkness not to feed off my misery but by happenstance?”

This time they cannot resist. Even Lars raises a brow.

Augh. Such an uncomfortable situation.

“Yes, or rather, we are meeting by happenstance. I have no memory of you.”

And that is truly strange, as my captured Rosenthal essence should at the very least give me a hint.

“You destroyed my life! Killed my friends!” he spits, as if it made everything obvious.

“You will have to be more specific as I have destroyed many lives and killed a lot of friends,” I suggest.

“You wiped out most of my crew!”

“Again, not specific enough.”

“How can you vampires be so arrogant? Do our lives mean nothing to you?”

I cast a furtive glance towards Phineas. Why do mortals ask such rhetorical questions when the answer is both unpleasant and obvious?

“We masters have had many foes throughout the years. They are dead and we are not,” I try to explain diplomatically. His face scrunches. Perhaps I was not clear enough?

“For you, the night you lost your friends was certainly harrowing, but for me, it was business as usual. I do not even remember you.”

“AAAAAAAARG!”

What is wrong with him?

“Questions?” the man screams. “Why would I ever help you?”

“Ahem,” our fearless leader says as he takes a step forward. So far, the other mages have watched out the exchange with absolute confusion, so much that they have not yet noticed that one of the wounded has passed.

“Good people of the Raclawice Brotherhood and associated mercenaries, we are here to deal with reports of an otherworldly threat manifesting as, and I will have to quote, ‘hounds the size of bulls with their heads split open’. You may report all relevant information to me. Should you be reluctant to do so, you will share all relevant information to her.”

This is my cue. I manifest Rose and, with the flick of the wrist, crack her like a whip. The delicate links coil like a deadly obsidian snake while the blade whistles. Our little hosts take a collective step backwards.

A few courageous souls vociferate in Polish, but their betters speak in hushed tones and soon they cross themselves. Muttered prayers hiss in my ears like nails on a chalkboard.

To my surprise, they rally around a squat, old man who fills them with the fire of faith in an old bleating voice. They all wear crosses. Charm is of no use.

The man I apparently offended tries in vain to reason with them. With one last amen, spells fuse. We engage them.

The following melee is short and disappointing. While Gabrielites know to hide behind their crosses and physical shields, peppering us with bullets and prayers, those men charge bravely. They die bravely as well as we close around them like the jaws of some great predator. Knives and javelins skewer them. Our blades tear them apart. They die with dignity, with furor, but still, they die. It does not take long before I grab the last combatant by the neck and feed off him. One part of my mind rejoices at a rich bounty while the other tries to follow the ongoing conversation. Indeed, three of the fighters have decided not to join their brethren in their collective suicide. The offended man is one of them.

“Please, we do not wish to fight,” another pleads in German.

“That is most wise,” Lars says while cleaning his blade on a fallen scarf. “Now tell us about the hound things.”

“Oh, this is worse than that. Much worse.”

“How so?”

“It’s not just the hound things, sir, it’s the beings that lead them.”

Ah.

This might be highly problematic.

“They came from the portal and… they had those gems…”

“Hold on, man, start from the beginning,” Phineas says as well. Esmeray tilts her head. She doesn’t speak German.

“Right, the beginning. Of course. It all started when I was hired by the Raclawice Brotherhood a month ago. They paid us, that is the two other people here as well as a few others, to help them in their endeavor. They paid… very little but the market for mercenary work is chaotic right now, what with all the governments cracking down on us.”

“Focus please.”

“Yes. The Raclawice Brotherhood had a plan, one they did not trust us with and for good reason. You see, they kept talking about the price to pay for betrayal. We thought that they were going after a rival organization, but apparently, they wanted to go after Poland itself.”

“For turning on the mage population?”

“Yes. The Brotherhood was always made out of disgruntled fanatics. They opened a portal using a pilfered book and planned to bait the denizens of the world beyond — the hounds you mentioned. I… thought those were demons for a while.”

“I wager that you found more than hounds?”

“Monsters in human skins! Or at least, some mongrel line of white man and Mahometan and Persian perhaps! The gate had been opened for a few hours and the Brotherhood was patiently capturing one specimen after another, through the clever use of nets, when disaster struck! I, wanting nothing to do with this treachery, was on guard duty. I saw everything! One moment, the other side had nothing but dreary lands. The other, those strange men were filing out! They were all bald and wearing white cloth and strange metal armors. Some of them had gloves that shone green and red, like nothing I had ever seen. Like a star came down from heaven. But those were demonic tools because no sooner had they arrived then they started mesmerizing or manipulating or I cannot know for sure, but the mages could not move and they placed collars on them and dragged them away! I hid in the promenade inside the walls and watched. They dragged their prisoners through the portals! They were treating people like animals!”

“And you did not act?” Lars asks with a hint of disapproval. The man merely shook his head.

“There was nothing to do, dark one. Any man they approached stopped moving completely. They could not resist…”

He is telling the truth, I am sure of it.

Lars finishes debriefing the mage while I find a secluded spot and cast a communication spell. Snow melts and gathers into the watery figure of Team Aspen’s Vestal.

“Yes?”

I succinctly relay the information we gathered. Anatole’s face soon replaces that of my interlocutor.

Lars orders the mages to stay where they are and we make for the roofs again. The Barbican remains strangely silent and, just as Anatole expected, a scouting party finally leaves its monumental gate. The group of intruders is made of three middle-sized hounds with collars held by three men holding gun-like weapons. They are indeed all bald, of a strange ethnic group and their attire is curious. They wear metal armors of excellent make, but under that I can see frayed white threads of poor quality. They are led by a man wearing even more elaborate armor. He does hold above his gauntlet a sphere of the most vivid, iridescent green I have ever seen. It looks so breathtaking that I commit the sight to memory for a future painting. The spell shines like a beacon with the dreary background of the smoldering city.

We observe the intruder’s progress.

What impresses me the most is the confident arrogance they display. Anyone with a hint of sense would realize that they are in a habitation center, and not grow overconfident. Even we tend to hide, but not them. They stroll down the street with the giddy ferocity of victors in a defeated city. I see the greed in their eyes as they slowly walk the district. Sometimes, one of them comments on something in a guttural tongue and the others snicker.

We do not act. I am part of a hierarchy now, and the decision to engage is not mine to make. I also understand why Knights are never deployed near their home territories. Were this scene to happen in Marquette, blood would have been shed already.

Anatole finds us quickly. He knew where we were thanks to Esmeray’s report. After a quick assessment, he decides on a plan of action.

Mannfred wears the heaviest armor among us. I have enchanted leather but he has plates and chainmail, also reinforced, and a heart protector that could stop one of my bullets. With his shield, he is the most likely to survive being immobilized. He is also extremely stubborn, which will help with any mental effect if applicable.

Most importantly, Anatole is too valuable.

I highly suspect that Anatole knew that the straightforward Mannfred would take his place.

Our two teams easily surround the scouting party as it walks down one more deserted street. A signal and Mannfred falls out of view. He walks from behind a wall with his sword clearly shown. He truly looks like a Spanish knight from the days of yore, up to the ‘honorable to a fault’ approach.

The invader with the sphere scoffs and makes a snide remark, leading to hilarity among his subordinates. They approach Mannfred like bullies. The Vanguard stays put.

The invader lifts his gauntlet and his shiny armor reflects the iridescent hue. Mannfred freezes in his tracks. He stumbles.

One of the men takes out a collar from his belt, but the mage barks a warning and he steps back. Mannfred takes a step forward.

Something is very wrong. I feel it in the air, a domineering draw. The mage pulls on the energy around him. At his feet, the colors grey out.

Mannfred lets out a terrible roar. The three guards release their hounds which race forward. We all drop. For an instant, I think that Mannfred will be bitten, but then he charges forward with all the speed he can muster.

We are still in the air when his enchanted sword goes through the sphere. It explodes in a blinding kaleidoscope of colors. Vitality washes over me.

I have never tasted something so pure. This is the true nature of what we draw from blood. I shiver under its heady taste, but it soon fades. Mannfred is not impacted. His sword takes out the mage’s head next.

As soon as I hit the ground and move forward, I know why. The liberated vitality has settled over the area, healing it to an extent, but it feels wrong. The fabric wrinkles like peeled skin pushed back over a wound. There will be a scar. A step forward and the terrible feeling of violation intensifies.

Those… those curs!

They are stealing our world, its very life! DEFILERS. How dare they do such a thing?! It is monstrous. Unnatural!

Is it because their world has so little life that they have been forced to harness it? Unbelievable. I stand by a panting Mannfred while the rest of both teams make short work of the hounds. They capture the three guards as well, breaking their limbs through their armor. The would-be invaders scream and show some delicious terror.

“Mffflgrn!” the owner protests.

She tears off her victim’s helmet.

Soon, the answer becomes obvious. The captives spasm. Blood runs from their eyes and ears. We step aside, but it appears that whatever killed them will not affect us. Lars kneels by a body and uses a knife to unclench his jaw. The maxilla breaks with a ghastly crunch.

How very pedestrian of them. And here I thought that their arrogance would translate. Ah well, it rarely does.

We stop at that declaration. We are hunters. Cattle are a necessity, but only an ersatz of the real thing. Those who rely too much on cattle are frowned upon and they taste bland. The very idea of harvesting a crowd for their vitality… to adopt a systematic approach to what should be an exciting event… I can only consider it with the most visceral disgust. Only empty shells would be left of the sacrifices.

Oh, I will. The restrictions on accepted doctrines is simply appalling. I was more effective when I was alone, and I did not have to wear this highly flammable, flimsy leather cuirass either. Bah, this is what I chose and their traditional training is without a match. Focus on the prize, Ariane, focus on the prize.

The two squads move carefully. We progress in the shadows of the bridge near the Barbican’s entrance and then in the angle between the rectangular entrance and the circular main body. We spot several sentries but they do not notice us while we are so close. Most of them stare away, towards the fires.

We scale the sheer wall and end up on the roof. The main structure of the Barbican is circular, open-roofed and hollow. The central court is quite small. Less than fifty people could fit in it, standing, much less now that it is cluttered with crates and foes. A handful of soldiers in metal armor mill about around a dozen lounging hounds. Soldiers come from and disappear into nearby alcoves lit by lanterns, but the main attraction is down center: a portal several yards across, and before it, two casters.

And before them, a skeleton.

I can barely believe my eyes. While all the soldiers are close enough to human to pass as one, the creature crawled out is some sort of nightmarish depiction of a mummified titan from the dawn of time. It is dead. It has to be dead. Its skin sticks to its bones and it has empty eye sockets that shine blue in the darkness. I have no idea what we are contending with.

The thing moves. It tilts its head up.

The eyes look up. I shoot it.

A monstrous shield, a latticed half-dome, rises from the ground. It cuts a man in two as it closes around the skeletal form.

I shoot one of the casters. The bullet hits him in the eye through the helmet and he topples backwards. Lars’ first javelin smashes against the skeleton’s protection with no effect but the next one kills the second caster. Those are heavy javelins, each one a heavy piece of steel and silver designed to go through shields and flesh alike. Despite his armor, the target is skewered through the sternum. The weapon ends up planted in the ground like a gore-covered pennant.

We have serious problems though. I grab Lars by the scruff of his neck as the warning in my head turns into a screeching crescendo. We dive. Behind us, the roof of the Barbican explodes.

All of it. Over a distance of fifteen yards. It just… disappears into a shower of rock and splinters. The skeleton had… moved its hand.

It hit me then, the nauseous feel of the world flayed to its very fabric to fuel this creature’s spell.

This will not stand.

KILL IT NOW.

I run down the wall and hit the ground in a dead sprint. No spells, it would be useless. Rose erupts like a coiled cobra and strikes the shield. It barely shimmers. The cover and its occupant are eating the world alive. Team Aspen slaughters the helpers and hounds while Lars and I engage the targets. Phineas and Esmeray attempt to flank it.

I feel its attention settling on me like a heavy yoke. Its mere gaze has weight, the sort of pressure the truly old ones have. I do not bend.

The world dies around us.

That is the best way I can find to describe it. The world dies and the last surviving servants of the creature fall dead. We stand inside of a gouge in the world’s fabric, a necrotic wound on a healthy body. The lack of life chokes me in a way that only the loss of Dalton had done before, though it had been more painful by an order of magnitude. The shield still holds against our relentless assault, but it weakens.

The monster lifts a boney finger and one of the two spheres the casters discarded pops out. Power and life erupt from the broken tool. It grasps it and raises its hand. The temperature drops just as I use Rose’s teeth against the surface of the shield.

Magic is weakened here, I can feel it. Any spells I throw may be captured. What it cannot take is essence. It certainly tries, but just like with the Herald, our nature is too alien for drain spells to work on us. I pour as much power as I can from the Watcher’s gift in my blade and run around it. The shield groans and wavers. Team Aspen joins the fray.

The creature sighs something in its strange tongue and the temperature drops precipitously. Blood freezes and flesh cracks. Flakes form on my brows. It does not affect us. We do not mind the cold.

The shield wavers. For the first time since the battle started, the creature moves faster. Its fingers form a mesmerizing pattern as it grasps for the second sphere, only to find that it is gone.

I saw it happen. Esmeray picked it up in her maw and fled. Smart girl.

The shield groans once more. The creature turns to the portal and makes to leave, but not before gesturing.

While my instincts did not warn me against the cold spell I felt coming, they urge me now. I grab Lars and dive to the side, imitated by most of team Aspen.

Fire brushes over us, an explosion so powerful that my ears pop and my eyes bleed. I try to jump back to my feet and stumble. There is a blue flash from somewhere behind. Screams. The creature is trying to go through the portal. Oh, I think not. NOT SO FAST.

A roar and my aura explodes. Bad. I grab the power as it leaves me and pull on Rose. Her thorns wreck through the shield. Anatole is here, smashing into the protection with his twin soul blades.

The shield breaks apart with a crystalline shatter. Dark roots rise from the floor and whip at the fleeing foe’s legs. It stumbles. That is enough. Just as power leaves me and a deep fatigue fills my limbs, the rest of the Knights fall on the fallen creature with utter savagery. I can no longer follow their movements.

The portal closes. Beyond it, I spot a few invaders and one shackled Polish mage amid a small camp. They look on with absolute disbelief at the spectacle of the creature being torn asunder. For one moment, I consider trying to kill them before giving up. There are too many of them and I do not have enough bullets. And I am not about to go through that collapsing gate.

It closes. Team Aspen steps away from the body just as the last roots disappear in a flash of light. They are missing a member. I turn around to see a discarded war hammer near a pile of ash.

Damn.

The survivors have not escaped unscathed either. Mannfred apparently covered their Vestal as his shield-bearing arm bears the marks of the attack. Silence returns to the Barbican. Nothing remains alive save for us.

Team Willow leaves knowing the reason why Anatole asked for privacy. I am forced to leave through the gate since I can barely walk, and I settle to wait near the bridge. As I leave, the cold that had permeated the air fades and so does the deep feeling of wrongness that came from the wound in the world. Interestingly, that feeling fades as life surges to replace the lost fabric. It will heal, in time. I suspect that it will take a while.

Team Willow returns. Aisha goes to sniff around while the other two sit by my side, knowing me to be vulnerable. Their presence is familiar and it comforts me almost as much as having my loaded gun in my hand.

We keep quiet as we mull over the encounter. I cannot even fathom the consequences of this meeting. The invaders clearly had the mentality of raiders and their magic is powerful, so powerful that local mages can do nothing against them. Mundane humans should also be enslaved by the mesmerizing sphere. If the invaders find a way to open a portal from their end… I dare not imagine the consequences. Even if we find a way to contain them, their presence will be taken by the mortals as a sign of the end of times or some such nonsense. Or as something that the magical population called upon them.

We need countermeasures. We need a slurry of countermeasures. And we need explosives. I must contact Loth and Constantine.

Team Aspen leaving the area interrupts my thoughts and we are sent to pile up the hound’s bodies to burn them. The corpses of the intruders are collected while we wait for Knight reinforcements. This is a major crisis after all. I find myself being the useless one for the rest of the night.

Over the course of the next two days, we grab every proof we can to be transported by train. The unrest wracking through the cities makes our task much harder, but we finally manage to board the train back. Our only saving grace is that low temperatures prevent the bodies from rotting. The nightmare begins when we return. Knights, as it turns out, have an overabundance of protocols and this is especially true when we have had a loss.

I had not expected that hurdle.

We are debriefed and cross-examined by the hierarchy, though not in an aggressive way. We have to write reports on the events. Even after all is said and done, I find myself struggling to find an interlocutor.

I grumble in assent. I expected it. As someone who has played an active role in the Accords these past few decades, I have grown used to my own position. Now, I have returned to being nothing more than a cog in the great machine that is the Order. I regret the loss of agency and the lack of access to a shared information network.

The decision to contact Constantine and my other allies is an easy one, but the execution is made delicate by the complete lack of infrastructure. The Knights have magical means of communication. Unfortunately, they are reserved for internal messaging, and without dedicated tools I would be hard-pressed to even reach Loth. I am forced to send my letters by train and hope that they will cross half of the world to their final destination like some sort of Neanderthal. Could they not install a telegraph at the very least? Ugh. I shall suggest this later.

On the second week of January, I receive an unexpected visit from Mannfred. He sits in front of me at the table of Team Willow’s base and makes a rather shocking proposal.

Oh yes, I have not annoyed Marlan enough with all my questions, let me rock the boat a little more. I should refuse.