The adventurous life of the Firstborn was nowhere near as glamourous as Astrid thought it’d be.

  The past two weeks had shown as much, but reuniting after his close call with the Order was a real eye-opening experience. Yeah, he got out alive and in one piece, all by his lonesome without any need for help, and sure he made it sound easy as pie, but his appearance told a different story. His duster was splattered with dried blood that he claimed wasn’t his, but at least some of it was, namely the downward drip patterns from where he’d either gotten a nosebleed or spat some blood out and got it on himself. From the beating he suffered at the hands of the Order, one that left him battered, bruised, and walking heavy like his boots weighed fifty pounds a piece and took all his strength to lift. One eye was swollen shut, and his lips were busted open in so many places a faint breeze was probably agonizing to the extreme, to say nothing of how he wheezed as he walked like he was always out of breath.

  Didn’t stop him from telling them all about how he handled those Legionnaires, then tricked Geoffry Aultman and both his sons despite having been force fed one of Daddy’s truth serums, a narcotic that clouded the mind and made you forget all your woes. Didn’t do nothing for the pain, just made it so you weren’t miserable in spite of it, but Howie was still hurting enough to keep re-applying a dab of Red Sun Balm onto his upper lip every half-hour or so. Some of which was no doubt getting into his bloodstream through his split lips, and Astrid warned him about it several times, but even though he nodded along like he was listening, he’d still go an apply some more a little while later whenever he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Like he was right now, so Astrid stomped over and snatched the tin out of his hand. “It’s not a joke Howie,” she said, giving him her best glare to which he responded with a sheepish smile that would be charming if he wasn’t all beat up. “Getting even a little of this stuff into your bloodstream is bad news. There’s a reason you’re only supposed to spread it on your upper lip and let the fumes work, because the concentrated dose is much too strong. It won’t just numb your pain, but your sense of proprioception.” Howie blinked his one good eye to hear it, and it was clear he didn’t know what that meant, so she explained, “Your body’s ability to sense its own position and movements in space. Like knowing where your feet are without having to look, or scratching an itch on your nose without thinking about where to put your hand or how much pressure to apply.” Pointing at his glowing blue Mage Hands trailing along behind him on the ground, she said, “Look, it’s already happening. I’m pretty sure you meant to keep those on the back of your belt like always, but they’re all the way down there and you don’t even realize it.”

  “Ah,” Howie said, turning to look at the Mage Hands with one narrowed eye. “How’d you two get all the way down there?” The Mage Hands shot up, but missed the opening under his duster and lifted it up instead, eliciting a little growl from Howie. Then, with a focused effort, he guided the Mage Hands back under his duster where they latched onto his belt, as he had to look down and give it a tug to make sure they were where they were supposed to be. “Thanks Astrid,” he said, holding a hand out to ask for the tin back, one that had been used more than she’d expect considering it was a fresh one he’d only bought just last week.

  So she gave him a glower and tucked the tin away in one of her pouches before rummaging through another to pull out a paper package containing a single dose of Salicin. “Here’s some powdered frost-thorns,” she said, suppressing a smile at his grimace because he didn’t want to drink the bitter medicine. The truth serum was still having an effect, and would for a few more hours until he ate, drank, and slept to get it all out of his system, so he was being real honest with his expressions, and they were far more childish than she expected.

  He still dumped the powder into his mouth and washed it down with water, when most preferred to brew it up in a tea or at least dissolve it first. It was bitter as can be, and it showed as he drank one mouthful, swallowed, then drank another with the same sour grimace as before. Then and only then did he use Power Word: Endure to help take the edge off some more, as if he only just remembered it existed. Granted, it wasn’t all that effective, and truth was, neither was Salicin, as it wasn’t the actual compound, just ground up thorns that happened to have some Salicin in it.

  There were long and lengthy procedures to isolate the Salicin, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Not without some real laboratory grade equipment in a clean, isolated, and filtered room, which wasn’t worth the effort unless you needed pure Salicin to compound into something more potent like Aspirin or even an acetylsalicylate salt meant to be injected directly into the bloodstream. Stuff Daddy had looked into, but it was too expensive to produce, so no one would want to buy it just for some pain relief.

  Howie might, as he never was one to scrimp and save. He didn’t buy anything flashy or expensive, like watches, jewellery, furs, or silks, but he still spent money like water. Take this trip for example. He’d be lucky to have earned $500 worth of Aberrtin in the last week or so, but he’d already spent more than that on a Potion of Gaseous Form which he used to get out of Fairhaven, meaning he was already at a loss for the trip. Add in food, Aether, ammunition, and any other expenses he might’ve incurred, and he was deep in the red, while also being too injured to make up for the losses without a few days of rest. Granted, he was still ahead if you factored in the eight vials of Impact Oil Harald paid upfront to get Howie to bring them here, and the rest of the balance owed, but even then, it wasn’t like Howie could live off of Impact Oil.

  “Oh right,” Howie said, interrupting Astrid’s thoughts as she tried her best not to pity him too much. Reaching up to his hat, he lifted the bull’s head medallion right off on the first try, which proved that he wasn’t too impacted by the Red Sun Balm, then plucked the crystal out and handed it over to her. “I almost forgot. Got some footage of a book in Papa Aultman’s office detailing how they grow the stuff for Phoenix Ashes. Only had a minute or two to flip through it, but it’s all on video there. Saw their whole setup with what they called a Geomantic Lattice, a collection of massive Etches, architecture, and surveys of the natural landmass that serves as the blueprint for some metaphysical process which directs Aether to the soil and plants grown in it.” Howie shrugged even as Astrid’s jaw dropped to hear it, and even Harald looked up from his book in wide-eyed alarm. “I didn’t really understand it, but hopefully the video is clear and focused enough for you to get the picture. Hehe. Get it? Get the picture? Because it’s a video?”

  No one laughed along with him, and Howie’s chuckles died down as his expression turned sour. Sensing this, Stella stepped a little closer even though she was already sat atop his shoulder and pressed in tight, to which he responded by nuzzling her none too gently and muttering something about how no one appreciated his humour.

  So Astrid did what felt appropriate in the moment. Overwhelmed by his softer side and the big prize he’d just dropped into her hands, Astrid squealed and threw her arms around him in a hug, forgetting how injured and tired he was until he sagged against her and almost knocked her off of her feet. He was a lot heavier than he looked, which meant Chrissy was stronger than she looked seeing how she’d been helping his stay upright this whole time. “Sorry, sorry,” Astrid said, helping stabilize Howie before he toppled over into the mud, then squealed again as she jumped in place. “Do you know what this means though?”

  “Yeah,” Howie said with a smile, one that was still somehow charming despite his roughed-up look as he glanced over at the two lead-lined briefcases sitting on Daddy’s Floating Disc next to Harald’s chest of books. “Means mission accomplished and we can all go home happy.”

  “More than that,” Astrid said, holding the clear quartz crystal like it was worth more than diamonds, and in this case, it was. “I suspected Geoffry Aultman was sitting on some method to turn regular plants into magical materials, but that’s all it was. A suspicion. This though? If what you’re saying is true, then we might have the very first, verified, replicable, and maybe even scalable method to produce custom Magical Materials.” Again, she got a blank stare, so she rolled her eyes and dumbed it down enough to get through to his drug addled brain. “We can make custom materials for whatever powerful Artifact we want to make, instead of having to figure out what the materials we have on hand are good for. Like custom alloys of steel pretty much, but better.”

  “Cool,” Howie said with a nod as he gestured for Astrid to turn around and keep walking. “You can get right on that as soon as we outta here and home free.”

  “You don’t understand Howie,” Astrid said, walking and talking while tucking the crystal away and praying it would hold all the answers she hoped it entailed. “This is huge. Revolutionary even. If this can be done, and done in a large scale, this will change everything we know about Artificing as it stands. We wouldn’t need to source natural Magical materials for something like your prosthetic. Instead, we could grow them and create a custom material to use as the casing for the Automaton, one that will shelter the flows of Aether inside without impeding them as they work, leading to increased output and efficiencies. Instead of expensive metal alloys with varying amounts of Aberrtin, we could infuse plain old iron, copper, or any other base metal or allow until it has the properties we need. Aetheric conductivity, sensitivity, insulating, abrading, or even outright rejection like with anti-magic manacles, these are just some of the possibilities we could use this process for.”

  “Could, but won’t,” Howie replied, throwing out a whole thunderstorm to rain on Astrid’s parade.

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” Howie drawled, rubbing his nose with a somewhat sheepish look. “I might’ve understated how involved the whole process be. From what little I saw and understood, it looked like they had to do a whole lot of rearrangin’ of the natural terrain to start with. Made themselves a flat little field lined with somethin’ or the other to make what looked like a perfect square, one with no irrigation pipes or ditches or anythin’ else as far as I could tell. My guess is because a flat, blank ‘canvas’ is easier to work with, as anythin’ more adds more variables to account for when puttin’ together the whole Geomantic Lattice or whatever you want to call it.”

  Astrid would never understand why Howie liked to play the fool even though he was clearly smarter than most. He got all that from a quick glance while flipping through the pages, so how much more would he glean with a proper read through?

  “Directed Thaumic Accretion,” Harald supplied. “I would say that is a more appropriate name, given the process taking place. I’d also imagine the costs involved are not insubstantial, but this is hardly a concern if we partner up with the Federal Government.” Tilting his head, he added, “Or any other government really. Should we perhaps reach out and see what the others are willing to offer?”

  “Terrible idea.” Shaking his head, Howie looked at Daddy who was doing the same and asked, “You want to explain?”

  “You do it,” Daddy said with a smile. “Better chance of them listening to you than me.”

  Which wasn’t true, but Howie laughed to hear it. “Why you think I took a video instead of the whole durned book?” Howie asked, and mild though the language might be, it earned him a light pinch of the cheek from Chrissy. “Sorry Princess,” he said, tipping his hat in apology. “Not in my right mind at the moment. Anywho, I left the book behind so the Aultman’s wouldn’t know that their secret been leaked. You bring this to the government without proof of concept, and I guarantee Papa Aultman will find out lickety split. Chances are, the Feds will bring the info straight to Aultman and Sons to try and work out a deal, one in which they pay Papa Aultman for his expertise in helping the Feds set up their own grow operations. Y’all don’t even know how it works yet, so why would the Feds work with you when they can go straight to the source? Even if the government agrees to partner up with y’all, there’s no guarantee of success, especially when Papa Aultman will do everythin’ in his power to bury your efforts before they bear fruit. Which’ll be easier to do seeing how you showin’ up with hat in hand askin’ for a handout. That’s how the Feds will see it mind you, as any plan you bring them without proof of concept won’t be no different from a story, like Jack and the beanstalk. Now admittedly, them beans did bear fruit, but how many magic beans you think the Feds get offered on the daily?”

  All valid points, meaning the only way this information would benefit themselves was if they figured out the process for themselves and got a bumper crop of Magical Materials to show the Feds before opening up a dialogue. Showed the difference between Howie and Harald, because while Astrid’s brother was the most intelligent person she knew, he only understood what he read in books. In terms of real life experience, Howie had him beat in spades, as he was operating on a whole different level with good reasons for everything he did.

  “You got any plans for that ranch of yours?” Daddy asked.

  “You thinkin’ of havin’ your farm up there?” Howie asked, picking up on Daddy’s motive without missing a beat while Astrid was scrambling to catch up. “Worried it might be too hot for Providence?”

  “That and I hear you’re gearing up to go Independent,” Daddy replied. “Keeps the Feds from declaring the Magical Materials as strategic resources and seizing the whole lot for pennies on the dollar.” Would also put a whole lot of added pressure onto Howie, which Father also knew, as he added, “Fifty-fifty?”

  “I can do less,” Howie replied. “Unless you expect me to help with the farming. Then it’s no deal, because I ain’t built for that sort of life. Couldn’t pay me enough to hang up my guns and pick up a garden hoe, but otherwise, you can use the whole ranch as you please. You’ll have to source your own workers though, maybe find people willing to live there too. How you feel about buyin’ a house? I got a whole lot of ‘em.”

  “We’ll talk details once we know more,” Daddy said with a smile, as he was too much of a hustler to make promises sight unseen, and Howie knew it too. As for Harald, he was already back to his book, because the prospect of a world changing method to create custom tailored Magical Materials wasn’t enough to hold his interest unless he could see and study the methods himself. This meant Astrid was the only one who couldn’t sit still as she envisioned everything they could do once they mastered this method for themselves. All of her wildest dreams had just come true, and all they had to do was decipher the method from the video Howie took of the Order’s plans.

  And there were even more widespread ramifications too. Forget making all-powerful Artifacts out of myth and legend. What about mundane Artifacts anyone could use with little to no cost? There were plenty of Spells with no Spell Core to be had, like Prayer of Healing which allowed everyone in the area of effect to benefit from Minor Regeneration. At the moment, it was a Ritual kept firmly in check by the church, one they tied in with a lengthy sermon and insisted that participants needed to have faith to benefit from. Or how about a simple dual tag system, one with an Arcane Mark and another with Locate Object tied directly to said Mark? Then you’d always know where that second tag was, instead of having to count on the Caster remembering the Aetheric Signal for an Arcane Mark they might’ve placed days, weeks, or even years ago.

  Mass produced Artifacts that granted Protection from Insects, or Protection from Aberration even, without any need to hammer stakes into the ground or charge said stakes with multiple casts of Third Order Spells. Or what about a Water Breathing Artifact, allowing anyone to explore under water without having to be a Third Order Spellcaster to go through the Ritual? Conjure Mount was another big one, allowing anyone to have a horse to travel around without having to worry about the creature’s health, wellbeing, and upkeep, or even a flying mount like the Chevaliers specialized in. Artifacts for Enhance Ability to use before going into battle, making soldiers stronger, faster, tougher, and more, or even something as silly as Arcane Speaker Artifacts to give automated warnings, instructions, or just reminders to take your medicine or lower the toilet seat.

  It was almost beyond imagination, at least here on the Frontier. Even after 400 years of development, there were so many people who went about their daily lives with minimal contact with magic. Yeah, a lot of people carried Aetherarms, and most people had Magelights in their homes and on their streets now, while Aetheric stovetops were becoming much more commonplace, though most still went without outside of the largest towns and most prosperous villages. Otherwise though? A lot of people were still manually pumping water out of wells, washing clothes in their rivers and streams, and Astrid couldn’t blame them. Learning Cantrips wasn’t all that bad, but full-on Spells? That was hard, so hard she could count on two hands how many Spells she’d learned the old-fashioned way. Course, she had the added benefit of learning a whole lot of Spells without having to try, so she figured she would’ve worked harder at it if she wasn’t an Innate. Still though, not everyone was like Howie, learning so many Spells just for the sake of having them, like the hundred plus Cantrips he had in his back pocket and who knows how many Spells.

  With mass manufactured Artifacts though? They could change the world. No longer would they need to go through all the trial and error to figure out the proper circuits and sigils to engrave in order to replicate what a simple Spell Structure would allow you to do. You could just go straight to the source and embed the Structure into an Artifact, one that would draw on Aether all by itself and allow anyone to simply use the Spell with an effort of will. More powerful Spells might require a user to Attune to the Artifact, and you could only Attune to so many, but considering most people couldn’t afford even a single Artifact that required it, there shouldn’t be any problem with that.

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  Forget cars. If they could craft an Artifact that enabled the Attuned to cast a version of Fly with a duration measured in hours instead of minutes, then everything would change overnight. Walls and checkpoints would be made meaningless, logistics and supply lines would need to be overhauled, and new rules written regarding traffic, safety, and landing areas, and that was just one Spell. Granted, she only had it on the mind because Howie arrived using the Spell, landing out of nowhere all calm and casual despite looking like ten miles of bad road. Which meant he was a bonafide Magus by the way, with Fireball, Mental Fortress, and now Fly. An eighteen-year-old Magus was a pretty big deal, though Harald was also a Magus himself. Then again, now that Astrid thought about it, he seemed surprised when she congratulated him on the achievement, meaning he’d probably been a Magus for some time already.

  Course, you also had to allow for the fact that people learned magic easier here on the Frontier. Said it was because the flows were slower and easier to parse, meaning the first generation of Frontier born children were expected to be among the strongest generation of Spellslingers humanity had ever seen. Just look at Chrissy and Elodie, as both had powerful Spells to their name, and Harald didn’t put all that much focus on his Spellcasting unless he needed a certain Spell for a potion. Then again, they were all Innates, whereas Howie was just a plain jane Orthodox Spellslinger, so you had to give him some credit there.

  A shame no one made a big deal out of him being a Magus. Howie probably didn’t even tell anyone besides his immediate family. Maybe the Marshal knew too, but word was they’d been on the outs since that whole affair with the Puglianos in Brightpick, and Astrid’s heart ached to see it. Howie always acted like he was a natural at doing what he did best, but this short trip was all it took to show Astrid how hard he worked for it. It wasn’t talent, inborn gifts, or even fate that made Howie the Firstborn; he was the Firstborn because he put the time and effort in to earn that title, one that would’ve shamed a lesser man yet fit him so well.

  And it showed too, as he drew his pistol and aimed his rifle in one smooth motion while stepping in front of Chrissy with both weapons at the ready and a resolute scowl etched across his face. “Whoever you are, you come out nice and slow, or I start blastin’,” Howie said, his Mage Hands floating out in an effort to guide Chrissy aside, but failing to find her due to his numbed sense of proprioception. Couldn’t tell where the Mage Hands were, so he couldn’t guide them over to Chrissy, but the sweet girl figured it out soon enough as she reached over to snag a Mage Hand and follow it and Howie to cover while gathering up the kiccaws in her arms. Cowie guarded them both, while Daddy grabbed Harald to do the same, and Astrid responded a beat later and much too slow as she hunkered down behind a tree and tried to figure out where the threat was coming from.

  Directly ahead, and to the left and right apparently, as a full patrol of fifteen to twenty armed men emerged the fog with weapons raised and aimed right at them. French Chevaliers, judging by their tan mantles and rearing horse motifs, to say nothing of how they shouted out commands in a jumbled mix of French and English.

  “Arrête!”

  “Halt and be known!”

  “à terre! Lachez vos armes!”

  “Guns down! On the ground!”

  “Mains en l’air!”

  Howie didn’t comply with any of their demands or even flinch to see them. He simply stayed in cover with weapons raised as he tracked the Chevaliers on the fringes with his fingers on the triggers. “Stay back, or I will open fire,” he said, speaking out over the shouts with a cold and calm tone, one that cut clear through their jumbled shouts and stopped a few French soldiers in their tracks. They knew he’d do it, and were not expecting resistance, so they halted their approach and took cover in response on orders from their leader.

  Who glared at Howie like he owed him money. “Ze Firstborn,” he spat, in a thick, French accent that sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. “I should have known you were involved somehow. I am Capitaine Philippe Moreau of ze Chevaliers. You will lay down your arms and return with me for questioning, or you and your companions will be treated as hostiles.”

  “I’m a Freeholdin’ Landowner of the United Federation of American States,” Howie replied, looking primed and ready for violence. “Travellin’ with multiple citizens of the same. We do not recognize your authority, not here in Accorded Neutral Territory. Under said Accords, I have voiced my intent to stand my ground, using lethal force if necessary. You will retreat now, or be made to retreat. This is your last warning. Should you remain in place, or make any aggressive actions, I will open fire, and pass the recording of today’s events over to the French Government as explanation.”

  Astrid believed him, until she remembered that his bull’s head medallion wasn’t recording since he hadn’t put a fresh crystal back in after handing her the one with the book. At least one other Chevalier believed Howie too though, and he made his thoughts known. “Capitaine,” the soldier hissed, glaring daggers at his commanding officer while saying something in French that Astrid didn’t understand, but Howie most certainly did. More of that playing the fool, as he understood French and Qinese perfectly well, and probably had a firm grasp on a few more languages to boot. Astrid didn’t need to understand to know that the French soldiers were arguing though, as the lower ranking soldier did not agree with his Capitaine’s approach.

  “Listen to your man,” Howie said, his rifle pointed directly at the French Capitaine’s head and tracking it even as the other man tried to move behind cover. “Ain’t no benefit to be gained here. Look at me. I’m in no mood to talk to armed strangers in the Deadlands after the day I’ve had. If you got questions, then send them up the chain of command and I’ll hear them in Stillwater while under quarantine. Otherwise, I have no choice but to assume you have nefarious intent and act accordingly.” With that, Howie fell silent and went utterly still, which made him seem all the more terrifying as he stood off against twenty soldiers without blinking, ready to sell his life dearly should they try and push the issue.

  And try they might, which was why Daddy hadn’t said anything just yet. He knew full well why the French would want to question them, and why Howie didn’t want to answer anything. Not while he was hurt and drugged with truth serum and Red Sun Balm. He didn’t have a clear head, so he didn’t want to risk giving anything away when asked if he knew anything about what happened to the missing patrol of French Legionnaires.

  The Legionnaires who happened to be working for the Serbians and tried to ambush a Pathfinder patrol escorting a group of American mercenaries carrying a shipment for the Order. Those Legionnaires, the ones Howie double crossed and gunned down to keep them from hurting Elodie and Noora, only for Daddy to slip in while everyone was distracted by Abby to steal away the Order’s precious cargo, the one and only thing in the wagon that was locked, secured, and would fit inside the lead-lined suitcase the Legionnaires gave to them. A suitcase that was sitting on Daddy’s Floating Disc, next to a chest of Harald’s books, and might well be recognized by the French Chevaliers who were out looking for said Legionnaires.

  So yeah, Howie had good reason to not wanting to surrender to the French, and Daddy wasn’t about to try and make him. Nor did he want to fight, glowing with a Spell that was more defensive than anything else, but he forgot to tell Harald who glowed with Aether as he readied something fiery and destructive. The fact that he was ready to help Howie was admirable, but then they’d be murdering these foreign soldiers who were just trying to do their job. If a conflict broke out, there’d be no winners here, but there was nothing Astrid could do except hide and hope that the Chevaliers would see reason and stand down.

  Three weeks ago, Astrid had been looking forward to this trip and seeing what life was like out on the open road. Now? Now she was ready to head home, as a quiet life in the sticks didn’t seem all that bad in comparison to the hectic and perilous life of the Firstborn.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Fear. Alarm. Anger. Disquiet. Emotions It tasted and savoured and experienced indirectly as It played with the prey-thing’s feeble thought processes.

  Such inefficient creatures, compelled by chemistry and biology to the point where emotion overcame reason and logic, but that was why they were prey-things. Their purpose was to have these emotions and provide sustenance for It and Its brethren, so the greater their emotions, the more satiety they would deliver. It had not come here to feed however, to indulge and seek satiation. It had come to escape oblivion, and it had found four such Vessels that could offer It the refuge It sought. One above all others, a powerful Vessel entwined with power to match the Scaled-Devouring-One, and a prize It yearned for. So It turned Its attentions towards this newfound Vessel, one that was utterly unguarded and without defense. A trap perhaps, but the sliver of self It dispatched to scout the Vessel reported back that there was no trap to be found.

  And so It carried out Its plans without delay as the two groups of prey-things stood across from one another, locked in a delicious standoff so rife with doubt, dread, and dismay, turmoil It would make use of to give rise to more of the same alongside rage, despair, and whatever other emotions that might stem from conflict and bloodshed. Emerging from the Not-Void, it connected with the sliver embedded in the prey-thing It had directed to Its true quarry. “Lies and deceit,” It whispered, implanting doubt into the mind of the prey-thing who called itself Capitaine Philippe Moreau. “Insubordination and betrayal.”

  These were not words It whispered, but concepts and abstractions, ones the feeble prey-thing mistook for its own misgivings. Apprehension and doubt gave way to suspicion and conjecture as the prey-thing found facts to reinforce its own views regardless of the facts in hand. Such was the way with these prey-things, so controlled by emotion it was a wonder how they not only survived, but thrived in spite of all their shortcomings.

  So the prey-things argued, both amongst themselves and with each other, and It took great delight in the deluge of emotions emanating out all around them. The sensation was so much more vivid here in the Not-Void, the taste without compare as It partook of this feast directly instead of the dulled down remnants that remained after passing through the Veil to the Void. The prey-things were a font of essence, so much so that they emanated it from themselves with every word, action, or even thought, and soon, It would have a fresh Vessel to inhabit this world of plenty and finally know satiety once and for all.

  The prey-things were primed for violence; all save for the new Vessel It had picked out for Itself. Strange for one of these prey-things to give off so little essence, like a broken thing of meat and bone. The Vessel was not broken however, operating at full efficiency, but It could taste nothing of this Vessel It coveted so, no fear or concern, no anxiety or even curiosity, only empty nothingness as the Vessel stood there in the Not-Void yet paid no mind to anything around it besides the creatures gathered in its arms. Never before had It encountered a prey-thing so closed off to the Void, and It knew not what It would find within the new Vessel, for the sliver of self It dispatched to scout the way forward had only reported successful entry and nothing else.

  There was no time to ponder or delay however, as the prey-things grew heated, with the Capitaine Philippe Moreau growing increasingly more agitated with every exchange. The Capitaine Philippe Moreau made demands which went unanswered, and argued with its subordinates who undermined its authority. Then Its chance appeared, a crack in the Capitaine Philippe Moreau’s mind appearing for all of a moment as the prey-thing considered an option it deemed unthinkable, an errant thought which gave It opportunity enough to exert Its Will over the prey-thing. Not to seize total control; only control enough for a single purpose. In this moment, It issued but one command, a command the Capitaine Philippe Moreau was already primed to obey. “Pull the trigger,” It whispered, knowing not what the words meant, only that they would have the desired effect.

  And it did, as the prey-thing raised its weapon and unleashed the magics within.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I’ve been shot before, and it’s never been pleasant.

  Don’t see why that always comes as a surprise though. That’s always the first reaction. Surprise that I’ve been shot, then at the fact that it hurts so much. Now you’d think a Bolt that punches through you would be a hot, piercing pain, and in some ways it is, but it’s also a cold, radiating pain that moves outwards from the point of impact and soaks into every fibre of your being before staying there for a good, long while. In contrast, that sharp, piercing pain from the initial impact is nothing, and the same goes for the impact as I’m knocked clear onto my ass by the force of the impact. There’s that Toppling Metamagic I love so much, but I can’t say I love being on the receiving end, as it not only knocked the wind outta me, it done drove all the sense right out of my head.

  Lost hold of my guns too, which look a million miles away even though I can almost brush them with my fingertips. Can’t find the strength to do that though, as I can’t even find the strength to breathe, and I lay here on the ground looking up at the honey gold skies wondering if this is it for me. Mage Armour was still up, but my Conjure Armour done long since timed out, meaning I done took that Bolt head on. No idea where, as I’m still fighting to take a breath and got nothing left in me to lift my head or my hands to try and stem the bleeding.

  Shot by a jumpy fucking frog of a Frenchman. Of all the ways I could’ve gone out, this one never made it onto any list anywhere.

  Around me, I hear chaos break out, with a few scattered shots and choking coughs, while one Frenchie in particular tries to shout, “Cessez le feu! Cessez le feu! On se calme! On se calme!”

  Which is pretty much ‘hold fire’ and ‘calm down’, so at least one soldier got his head screwed on right. Shame about his superior though, as that fella done fucking shot me unprovoked, and I don’t even got video proof of it. What are the odds? The one time I forget to load a fresh crystal into my bull’s head medallion is the one time I really could’ve used one. Now the Frenchies ain’t gonna pay nothing out if I die, and I’ll have to fight tooth and nail to get them to pay my medical bills if I survive.

  If.

  Chrissy’s lustrous silver locks and pale, violet appear over head, as she leans over to look down at me as I lay there gasping for breath. “Howie hurt?” She asks, and my heart breaks to hear it, because it ain’t a question so much as a denial. She’s in shock and can’t believe I done gone down, so I only hope I don’t look too gruesome as I lay here and bleed out. Forcing a smile to my face, I gather up all my strength and raise my left hand, which she takes with both of hers, her pale, white hands covered in bright red blood. My blood, which is why she’s giving me a look so full of pain and sorrow I can’t help but hate myself for doing this to her.

  Don’t got the breath to apologize though, or the strength to hold on much longer. The world’s going dark, and my eyes heavy, but before the lights go out, I manage to give her hand three quick squeezes to let her know what’s what.

  Love you Chrissy. Got a whole lot more I’d like to say, but that’s all I got for now.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Fear. Shock. Denial. And Anger.

  So very much anger, delicious anger emanating off of Its chosen Vessel as it knelt over the other prey-thing who laid there dying. What had once seemed a promising Vessel was now relegated to a mere catalyst, one whose impending death had primed Its chosen Vessel for the taking. A Vessel so powerful the emotions emanating off it sent waves far out into Void, waves that would be sensed from great distances and draw far too much attention down upon it, attention Its brethren would report back to The-One-Who-Wakes. Too little too late however, as by the time the reports arrived, It will have seized this Vessel for Its own and be too significant a spawn to do away with without cause. Its failures would be forgotten, for It would arise anew, not as a mere awakened, but as one of both worlds and deserving of nurturing.

  So it reached out to the sliver embedded within the promising Vessel, and though the sliver reported nothing back, the presence was still there, and It merged with the sliver to become whole once more, whole within the mind and essence of the Vessel who knew itself as Chrissy.

  Only to find Itself locked and confined within an intangible prison of pure will, one that prevented It from escaping into the Void and Not-Void both.

  Uncertainty. Concern. Alarm and suspicion. Then anxiety as a fleeting presence washed over It within the Vessel, a brief and dismissive moment of attention to see what It was. The Chrissy cared not however, and instead returned to dwelling upon its emotions and gazing at the other prey-thing who laid bleeding on the ground. The Vessel shook the prey thing, clutched hands with it and sought to wake it from slumber, but the prey thing, the Howie, would not respond. This much was made clear to It by the Vessel whose thoughts and emotions were no longer hidden, but It could not partake from within the confines of this prison.

  How had this happened? How had the Vessel, the Chrissy trapped Its entire being? The sliver had not warned of the danger, because the sliver had been stripped of all cognition upon entry, its essence torn apart and left here as bait. Another of the prey-things appeared in sight, Astrid according to the Vessel who obeyed instructions to move aside so the other could help the Howie. “She cannot help Howie,” It whispered, seeking to influence the Vessel and test her defenses from within these confines, but the Vessel ignored It. “But with help, you can.”

  A mistake. The temptation drew the Vessel’s attention, and the full force of that powerful presence turned inwards upon It. The weight was oppressive, the scrutiny heavy handed, for the Vessel’s attention was all it took to unravel the flows binding Its essence together. Not by conscious act, but by simple observation, for in examining those flows that bound It, the focused effort of the Vessel’s will was picking Its essence apart. This was how the sliver was unmade. Not through devious trap or malicious action, but pure curiosity that untangled the very seams of Its existence. “Stop,” It demanded, and for the first time, It tasted fear of Its own making, panic even as It faced the real threat of oblivion. “No!”

  The Vessel did not stop, nor did it speak in the manner of prey-things, with sounds or images made in thought. Instead, the Vessel spoke as It would speak to Its brethren or The-One-Who-Wakes, in concepts and abstractions, a notion turned query that It understood without effort. “How help?” The Vessel asked, with the Howie at the forefront of the query. A chance. Opportunity which must be seized, for to not was to face oblivion. To this end, It whispered promises and temptations aplenty, but the Vessel was unfazed. “Howie,” the Vessel prompted. “How help?”

  Only answers of substance would be accepted here, as the Vessel could see through the web of flows and lies It weaved, unaffected by magic or empty promises both. The Howie was bleeding, dying even, and the Chrissy would do anything to save it, but only if it could be saved. So the Vessel demanded details, demanded It do as promised or explain how something could be done, and It was at a loss. The inner workings of the frail prey-things were no mystery, but It had never cared to learn how to heal the broken ones. Only how to Mend them, put them back together in good enough order so that they could be used for spawn or puppets. The prey-things were much too weak and fragile to begin with, so even the live ones were soon modified to be stronger, faster, tougher, and more useful.

  At the cost of essence and great magics, magics It could not wield without assistance from The-One-Who-Wakes.

  The Chrissy would not be dissuaded however, and It got the impression of displeasure and frustration as the Vessel queried once more. “Howie. How save?” There was an edge of intensity attached that warned of consequences should It fail to answer in a satisfactory manner, and It felt its very being coming apart even as the Vessel merely considered it. With no other choice left to It, It revealed all that It knew, all that It could do, but only if It were to take the Howie as Its Vessel. Then It could merge with the Howie and Mend its injuries, perhaps even keep the Vessel alive if need be, and It would most certainly strive to do so for a live Vessel was far more valuable than a broken one.

  As for giving up on the Chrissy? A necessity, as opposed to concession, for this was a Vessel who could not be overcome. They had yet to even come into conflict, and already It was grievously injured, Its essence siphoning away at the flows holding Its existence together continued unravelling apart. Inside the other Vessel however, It would be free to take control of the injured prey-thing, to tear the Howie’s essence apart and consume it to become more than what It was now. To be a part of the Void and Not Void, and unmake the Howie as easily as the Chrissy could unmake It.

  Too late, It realized It had shared all this and more, compelled to do so by the Chrissy whose rage and fury was palpable. “Bad,” the Vessel declared, and It crumbled apart in an instant, stripped of all agency and cognition to render It to essence and essence alone, with enough residual memory and intelligence enough to understand Its fate. Not oblivion, not yet, for the Chrissy still had a purpose for It, the same purpose It would have carried out if given free access to the Howie. Wielding the flows almost as naturally as The-One-Who-Wakes, the Chrissy bundled up the remainder of Its inert essence and deposited It into the Howie with one, singular purpose, the long and arduous work of interfacing with the Vessel’s biology so that It could keep the Vessel alive.

  There were no words or concepts that needed to be shared, only work to be done, and It carried it out without reservation or complaint even as It spent what was left of Its essence to do so. It was no longer an It, no longer even a thing, only a purpose to be fulfilled. Save the Howie. Nothing else. No rage, no disbelief, no fear or even acceptance. It did all it could to stem the bleeding, spending its essence freely to keep the Howie alive, a costly effort that would consume It in Its entirety.

  There was nothing It could do to stop it, for the Chrissy’s will could not be defied. All It could do then was strive to preserve what little of It still remained. Reaching out to the sliver embedded within the Howie, It passed along all that It knew, all that It experienced, for It was more than mere essence. The sliver would live on, would become the new It, biding Its time to grow in strength to contest against the poacher and the Howie both.

  And in doing so, It would survive in a manner of speaking, the only survival left to It as It spent the last of Its essence and knew no more, for oblivion was nothingness, and nothingness was oblivion.