The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Alright, Magdara, one last time now.”

The problem was fivefold. First, Damean-Marcirian border tensions had been on a steady gain for decades, even moreso following the Keld Vassalization and the Capitulations of Derieka. Second, the crown had not supplied Fort Armhalt with enough troops to successfully defend Partition Fifty-Seven from the brunt of a full Marcirian push. Third, the troops that were stationed at Fort Armhalt were skittish, on edge, both itching for a fight and not at all prepared for one at the same time. Fourth, their enemy across the partition was engaging in large-scale movements of forces, but Damean intelligence was at best vague and at worst wrong regarding the aims of these movements. Fifth, Partition Fifty-Seven was utterly unremarkable, utterly useless, and still, utterly essential.

“No... no, we can squeeze that down.”

The problem was threefold. First, the ranks and leaders, both Damean and Marcirian, were tense, and that tension meant trouble for a contested international border. Second, the Marcirian Empire was possibly preparing a full assault of Fort Armhalt to claim the territory of Partition Fifty-Seven, an assault which the Damean forces there stationed seemed unlikely to withstand. Third, the Fifty-Seventh was dangerous, deadly, and still, inconsequential.

“Concise. Think concise, Magdara.”

The problem was twofold. First, the Kingdom of Damea and the Marcirian Empire had been waging a staring contest for ninety six years, only it was a staring contest with swords, spears, and sorcery, and both sides’ eyes were badly watering now. Second, Partition Fifty-Seven was the last stretch of contested border, the last weak link in the chain that held Ephaos’ two largest nations from tearing each other’s throats out, and while both desperately wanted to mend the stretch and fuck off to somewhere of more tactical importance, Marcir might in the next several days smash the link and the chain both into fine little shards with which to gouge out the eyes of Damea, then gut her like a fish.

“But we could do the same,” Magdara hissed between her teeth, filling the empty room with her vented frustration. “That’s the problem.”

No, the problem was simple, though it couldn’t be so simply expressed on the letter she’d been attempting and failing to draft.

The problem was the Fifty-Seventh. The problem was No Man’s Land.

Partition Fifty-Seven was the official name for the ten mile wide stretch of land, running north to south along the border between the Kingdom of Damea and the Marcirian Empire. Damean nobles, generals, kings and cartographers had all insisted for years that that line should be three miles east of the place where Magdara Seilund was, at that moment, trying to work through the problem.

Marcirian emperors and functionaries had, for years, politely informed them that the opposite was true. Which was why Magdara was sitting in this small chair, in this small study, in this small building, in this small fort, instead of within a similar room in a similar fort three miles to her east.

Marcir controlled that one, squatting just askance of the imaginary line that the Dameans claimed marked the end of their proud kingdom. Damea controlled this one, perched just within the imaginary line that the Marcirians claimed marked the end of their proud empire.

And in between...

No Man’s Land. Three miles across, ten miles wide. Grassy. A few fields of rock. A scraggly tree here and there. Not especially fertile, no discernible mineral deposits to speak of beneath it. No tactical importance. No value in ownership. Merely the byproduct of a century’s worth of bad blood and worse politicking.

And now, if the mounds of dispatches cluttering Seilund’s desk were to be believed, the Marcirians were thinking of doing something about that. There were reports. So many reports. The one consensus that could be drawn was that the Empire was moving forces near their fort. But... Couldn’t tell if they were coming. Couldn’t tell if they were going.

Ordinarily, that would have been easy to discern. Send a few more scouts, assess the troops and materiel being transported, make a simple judgement. Yet they had already done this. Scouts were sent, trusted ones, all of them, and they came back with differing reports. Some clearly indicated more on the way. Some argued for soldiers going out. Others said it was both, still more said nothing was happening. The worst of it all was that Magdara could feel the magic rolling off that fort, even from three miles away. It was thick. It was strong. And were she a gambler, she would bet that it was manufacturing that deception, deluding their spies—but without definitive proof or pretense, there was nothing she could do about it; any action she could take would be construed as an act of war. They did not have the luxury of time in which to uncover it all. Something was happening, and it would happen soon.

Was an attack on its way? Was the Endless Empire so thirsting for new conquest that their might would sweep across the Fifty-Seventh, sending her and all her compatriots to some much kinder hell than Fort Armhalt?

Were they pulling out? Were those worshippers of a single, smiling god so tired of posturing over thirty square miles of nothing that they would withdraw, opening to her and all her compatriots some new hell to navigate?

Was it merely a feint? An apparent weakness intended to draw her troops into some devious trap in the midst of that blasted terrain?

Or were both sides going to blink, beat each other senseless somewhere in the middle, then return to the staring contest next week?

That last sounded far more likely than the others.

No matter the outcome Magdara foresaw, no matter the intent behind the Marcirian movements... any action would end in more dead Dameans. And she had already seen too many dead Dameans from her small chair in her small study in her small building in her small fort.

No Man’s Land was the problem.

The solution, Magdara thought, was quite simple. But though she was an arcanist, she had not yet devised nor heard of any means through which she might destroy said thirty square miles of nothing and wipe No Man’s Land clean from existence.

And she had searched thoroughly. Many times.

It would be so simple if she could just raise a mountain, drop it and cut off the border, or toss the land a hundred miles away so that its void would fill with a great lake, but no power she knew of could do such a thing.

There would be some other solution. It would not be found staring at an uninformed, unhelpful, seemingly unwriteable letter. And it would not be found staring at the other communiqués smothering her workspace. And it would not be found staring at the map on her wall, pinned with blots of red for the forces of her Kingdom, pinned with blots of purple for the forces of their Empire. And it would not be found in her hands, as they covered her eyes, and not in her breath, as it shuddered deeply into her lungs.

“Magus General?”

And it would not be found in the lilting voice of her apprentice, either. Magdara composed herself before she lowered her hands, and her eyes opened to take in the woman standing across from her in the small room. “Sepphina,” she said, as a smile rose onto her lips.

Her most recent apprentice. Tall, only a few inches shorter than Seilund herself, and only having seen nineteen winters. She wore her height well, unlike the awkwardly-fitting traveling coat around her shoulders, the breeches on her legs that left a good two inches showing above her ankle. Wire-thin spectacles on her nose. She wasn’t the youngest apprentice an arcanist had ever taken, but, still younger than most.

“Magus General,” her apprentice said again, inclining her head in a small bow. And with the motion, her long braid of white came tumbling into view. Like a large sign, daubed with letters in the brightest paint saying, ‘I am not one of you.’

She had Deriekes blood. It was obvious, to anyone who looked at her, and it would be a permanent stain against her. It already had been—Magdara had seen her studies at the University, read her papers, pored through exams... her work was as brilliant as the color in her hair, as inspired as the nation of warrior-poets she drew her ancestry from. And yet it was for this same reason, Magdara suspected, that Sepphina had been graded with such harshness, examined through the most critical lens.

The name Sepphina Bagni in the ledgers was not at the top of the Great University’s class of young mages, nor even in the top ten, where arcanists were most heavily encouraged to draw their apprentices from. But behind the name, the hair, the studious and quiet exterior, was potential. Power. Genius. Of a sort that Magdara had not yet succeeded in coaxing out, much to her frustration. Years of abuse from peers and instructors had taught the girl to keep her head down, an instinct she clung to even now, when strength, cleverness, and creativity were needed far more than abject servitude. She was naturally quiet, and that was endearing, but the reservedness was hampering their work.

“Magus General?”

The arcanist blinked, and her eyes refocused to meet the pale stare of her apprentice. “Yes, Sepphina?”

The girl said nothing, only proffered a small tray of silver held between her hands, laden with two saucers, two teacups, and one teapot. And of course, a smile on her lips.

And it was then that Magdara noticed the smell, nearly as warm and stifling as the feeling in her throat, quickly swallowed down. “Come,” she motioned her apprentice forward.

“You seem distracted, Magus General,” Sepphina said, setting down the tray as Magdara cleared a space for it.

“It shows, then?” the arcanist sighed.

“It does. And it’s...?”

“Still the same. They are moving, we do not know why.” It was a nightly tradition. The apprentice would brew the tea. The master would serve it. Green today, Seilund smelled it as she tilted the modest pot into each small cup. “I was trying to draft a recommendation.”

“Trying?” Sepphina raised a white brow as she took her cup in her hands.

“Failing,” Magdara chuckled, sipping at her own. “Worse, it will likely be my opinion which will sway the officers to one decision or another.”

“Yours alone? But you’re...”

“Yes?”

Her apprentice swallowed. “You’re only a Magus General.”

Seilund nodded. “And yet?”

She could see the thoughts working within Sepphina’s mind. The girl was quiet, even seemed aloof to many from her attitude. But it wasn’t shyness that bade her to silence, nor superiority, only observation. An intense focus that could rise over her face at any moment. Were Magdara not fifteen years her senior, she might’ve flinched away from it.

“A Magus General is not an officer, however much the title may imply,” her apprentice began. “The only official powers that you carry are in the movements of magi and those things you need to expedite your work as an arcanist.”

“You wound me, Sepphina.”

“I am not finished,” she said around a grin. “You have no formal posting nor military rank... and yet you are closer to the crown than even the true generals. They see the royal seal on your letters, they see how many you send and receive, and they’re treated to far fewer.”

“True.”

“And you do control the magi. Not alone, not entirely, but I think that they all look to your tower for guidance and instruction, not to the command tents.”

“True.”

“And even the rank and file know of...”

“Hm?”

“Th-they know of you, miss.”

Magdara chuckled. “They have names for me, you mean?”

“... yes,” Sepphina admitted, looking off to the side.

“Go on. I’m certain I’ve heard worse.”

She swallowed. “Metal Mags?”

“That’s new. I like the sound of it.”

“The Armored Arcanist?”

“Oh, please.”

“Steely Seilund?”

“Sepphina, are you merely listing the positive names they’ve prescribed me?”

“... yes.”

A smile broke on both faces. “Are there more good titles, or crass ones?”

“Good, miss. Though...”

“Of course,” the arcanist quickly spoke, “then that’s all I need to know.” She could see the blush on her apprentice’s cheek, and she knew what was about to leave those lips. ‘There are more suggestive names for you than for any other, Magus General,’ or something to that effect. She could hear how they would be said. She could already see how that blush would deepen. And she could already feel a tingling in her own skin, at the thought of Sepphina uttering some of those names she remembered so clearly from her own days as a student.

“O-of course.” The girl all but hid behind her teacup, draining it ’til she could swallow nothing.

Magdara took the chance to finish her own. “And what of the ranks? You’ve been out on survey the whole day. What have you heard, how are they feeling?”

Sepphina took a moment before responding. “Anxious. They haven’t seen the dispatches... but they know that something is happening. Angry. Eager, maybe too much... but mostly, miss, I think they are tired.”

Seilund knew the sensation very well. She was tired, too. But Sepphina went on, and each word resonated more deeply still. “Tired of patrolling this side of the Fifty-Seventh. Tired of stepping into the open once a week, just to make a couple hours’ show that we can. Tired of having to watch their steps, watch their backs, watch everything they can with an enemy always three miles away.”

“Do you think that they still trust the leadership?”

“Yes, but... only so far.”

“Meaning?”

Sepphina met her gaze. “Meaning we’re only one misstep from losing them.”

“One stray foot ends up on a sappers’ circle...”

“No more confidence,” her apprentice nodded.

And no more soldier, except for an explosion of blood and gore, the arcanist thought. Our sappers have planted so many mines that we’ve lost count, and theirs’ve doubtless done the same. Magdara didn’t elect to share this bit of morbidity and focused on the lesson instead. “No more morale. And no more morale means...”

“... no more cohesion.”

Seilund’s arms crossed over themselves. “Meaning?”

“... meaning that when a fight does come, because one always will, they will not be... not unready, but they will not be able to see it through.”

“Go on.”

“We can have all the training and arms and numerical superiority we need,” Sepphina said, “but if we form our walls of shields and forests of pikes, and they are not resolute, we will be beaten. If even one soldier is scared, dropping their weapon or fleeing when struck, the rest will follow. We’re bleeding out morale even now, when all our scouting forays have to be accompanied by magi to find the traps within the partition. The soldiers and the mages don’t get along, everyone blames everyone else for any mistake... it keeps getting worse, miss, and it will break one way or the other in a fight.

“A battlefield is won with control, with discipline, with a mass of people all thinking and acting as one. That is cohesion, and cohesion needs morale, and morale needs confidence in the officer telling a woman not to run, not to drop her shield when her shoulder is impaled. Because something bigger than themselves is at stake. They must see that, they must believe that, they must feel that, or they will be crushed.”

The arcanist nodded. “Spoken like a true daughter of Deriekes.”

Magdara could easily understand why Sepphina had little pride in her ancestry. She didn’t need to see the blush in her cheeks, the rigidity of her shoulders, the sudden hardness across her stare to read her apprentice’s embarrassment, even her humiliation. Derieka was once powerful and legendary, yes, but now they were subjects of Marcir. Had been, since Magdara’s grandparents were young. The Deriekes offered themselves up in service to the Endless Empire, rather than be demolished, and now they were thought of as worse than dirt. Of course mentioning it had been a mistake.

But what could be said?

Magdara was a student of history. An adherent to the treatises and epics and poems written by centuries of Deriekes soldiers, tacticians, and generals. What they were at present was a shadow of their past selves, their genius lost, wasted in an Empire that had little use for flowery tactics and clever deceptions. Sepphina only saw the waste, letting it taint the glory of those legends, making her legacy worthless.

But what could be said?

That she’d selected her apprentice because of the humiliating lineage running through her veins? That wasn’t... it was true, but it wasn’t the point. Sepphina had potential. And it didn’t just come out of her blood. Magdara didn’t know where its source was, because the protocols of apprenticeship still prevented her from even mentioning her work as a spellcrafter to her student, much less having her help in it. And she couldn’t suss out the source from conversation because, well...

Sepphina had only been her apprentice for two months. She was bright, she was cordial, but she was never casual. They had never spoken of her emotions or feelings, only those of soldiers and magi and those needing a Magus General’s guidance.

Well, not never.

The flushing Seilund saw in this moment looked the same as that night, two weeks into the apprenticeship. The stiffness of the shoulders was the same as the stiffness of the knocking against her chamer’s door. The quiver in her lip was like the trembling of her fingers, holding a letter from a lover, freshly dampened with tears. The distantness of the stare was the same. Just less wet than it had been.

She had sat with Sepphina, held her for hours as cracking words turned to weeping turned to whispers and turned back once more. Most romantic liaisons at the Great University did not survive an apprenticeship. Haleria couldn’t stand the distance, the waiting, the loneliness—so many platitudes for Sepphina, ones she still clung bitterly to.

What sounded sweet to the apprentice, though, had sounded sour to the master. Magdara had seen enough such letters, heard enough such lies told to her own face. Sepphina had merely been crumpled up and tossed away. It was no wonder her apprentice felt so inadequate. It made Seilund’s blood boil.

But what could be said?

She couldn’t voice her indignation, couldn’t give words to her protectiveness, couldn’t coddle her apprentice and tell her it was all okay, singing her to silence with vain hopes. She couldn’t provide Sepphina with anything meaningful to throw herself into, anything to prove her worth, anything for her to take some measure of self-pride in. Just lessons, dutifully absorbed. Just errands, dutifully ran. Seilund didn’t know how to fix it, how to make her apprentice see her own potential, or skill, or strength, or any of it. Sepphina wasn’t the only one feeling inadequate.

At least their stares had come apart. At least the color in her face was calming, her breathing leveling, her eyes blinking away their tension. “You have the outpost’s latest report?” the arcanist finally asked.

Sepphina only nodded blankly. She reached into her leather satchel and procured the sheaf of white papers, setting them on the desk before rising and reaching to take the tea tray.

Magdara’s hands closed around her apprentice’s wrists. Warm to the touch, though they stiffened. “I’ll take care of it, Sepphina,” she said softly.

“Alright,” the girl replied.

“Is there anything that you need?”

She shook her head.

“Alright.” Magdara let her go, and smiled. “Get your rest now, Sepphina. You’ve had a long day.”

Her student did smile in return, small but genuine, bowing briefly before turning for the door. Seilund sighed to herself. Perhaps she could talk to Sepphina about it, see where her feelings lay, see what could be done. Maybe there were more duties she could pass on, even if they were menial, or small projects she could set her apprentice loose on. She’d have to review the apprenticeship contracts, the papers from the inquisitor, there had to be some way she could...

Her brow furrowed. Glancing, she saw that Sepphina was still standing there, hand closed around the doorknob, body unmoving. She was about to speak up, but it was her apprentice whose voice sounded first. “Something I forgot,” she said slowly.

“What is it, Sepphina?”

“Someone... someone’s downstairs.”

“What, in here?”

Sepphina shook her head slowly while she turned. Her eyes had that distant, thoughtful look once more, as if it was a challenge for her to recall. “No, they... in the guard house. I saw her as I was returning.”

Magdara’s fingers laced together. “Saw who, Sepphina?”

The girl blinked, as though it should’ve been obvious. “The fateseer, miss.”

“A fateseer.”

“Yes, she’s just outside and—”

“Sepphina.”

“... yes?”

Magdara sighed. “There is no such thing as fatesight. You’ve been taught this in your studies.”

Her apprentice frowned. “... well I know I was taught that, but she said she was going to speak to you tonight.”

“I have no appointments, Sepphina, and I would never schedule one with a purported fateseer.”

“But she came all this way—”

“From where?”

Again, that confused look. “From Marcir.”

“From Marcir?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, miss,” Sepphina sighed in frustration. The arcanist held her tongue. “She came over the Fifty-Seventh and spoke directly to the guards. They’re treating her as a prisoner, or a hostage, or... something, I’m not certain, but I spoke to her...”

“And what, she read your palms? She measured your aura? She told you that we’d have this very conversation?”

Her apprentice went quiet. “... yes, General, she did. She told me that you would be reluctant, and that you wouldn’t believe, but that it was alright because...” Another hesitation. “Miss, she spoke in strange language...”

“Easy, Sepphina. Just tell it to me slowly.”

She gulped. “It may be an act. She implied a knowledge of the Marcirians’ movements, and an intent to communicate it to you.”

“An informant?”

“I-I think so, General.”

Critical information, delivered from the hands of the enemy at the hour when it was needed most, by a carrier who simply traipsed over No Man’s Land without a care? It smelled like a trap. It smacked of deception.

But there was a chance. And Magdara needed to take chances to find her solution for the Fifty-Seventh.

“Where is she?”

“I’ll have her brought up,” Sepphina said quickly. And then she paused once more, hand on the doorknob, looking cautiously toward her mentor. “Miss, I...”

“You’ve done well.” Magdara smiled. “Thank you. You can go now, Seph.”

“Thank you, ma’am—” Her apprentice’s face paled, then brightly flushed, as her ears made sense of the name they had heard. “M-miss,” she stammered, on her way out the door. “Thank you, M-Magus General..”

And then it was shut, and Seilund was alone. She exhaled.

Something’s gotten into her. That much was clear, as cups went on saucers went on tray went onto the waist-high wall of shelves which surrounded her entire study.

Something about that fateseer? No, it wouldn’t be something so simple. Sepphina was clinical, brilliant, not superstitious.

Merely my choice of words? Perhaps, but... she’d seemed more on edge than could be explained by just that. Something else. Something obvious, something she was missing...

... something staring her in the face. Magdara stood behind her desk, staring at the wall, looking at her own reflection stretched by the curve of a mounted shield. Her shield. At its right, her blade. At its left, her breastplate. And above, her helmet. All of it gleaming, polished by her own hand, painted with strokes of Damean red. All of it once used in battle.

Though the shield hadn’t come off the wall in years. The breastplate even longer, she wasn’t sure if it could even fit her anymore. She wore the robes of a magus now, reflected by the round shield, white with red facing out, red with white facing in; and before she’d trained as an arcanist, she had fought as one of the magi. Not in a robe, not from the backlines—no, she wore her plate, her helmet, her cuisses. She held no staff, instead her shield, her sword and her spear.

She was thunder in their foes’ ears, lightning in their eyes, striking quickly and terribly, vanishing even faster. Setting swathes of insurgents aflame. Coating barbarians in the frost of their own northern lands. And she was also protection. She was a ward against magic, a beacon against fear. She was one shield and one voice among many. She was morale. She breathed cohesion.

Things had been so much simpler then. A line to march forward in. Enemies in plain sight to be cut down. Men and women on her left and right, those who would’ve laid down their lives for her, those she’d done the same for. They were comrades, they were allies, and they were one.

And in her reflection, who did she see now?

A soldier without a line? A general without a rank? A magus without a fight? A teacher without a classroom? An arcanist in a soldier’s robes, without a tower, a real tower?

Steelbound Sorceress, they’d called her. Eyes like a storming sea, hair like midnight.

Magus Bulwark. Hard flesh and muscle, skin like newly burnished armor.

Angel of the Line. A beautiful body, a clear mind, the one who would hear the soldiers, the one who would protect them, the one who would never let them fall.

It was hard to see any of it now. Her eyes were tired. Her hair fell long, with faint streaks of silver clouding over the night. Her flesh was soft, her muscles atrophied as she’d spent a decade honing her mind instead. Far from polished, her skin looked tarnished.

Men and women alike stole glances at her soft lips, her ample chest, her generous hips, her long sable locks, her deep ebony complexion, her flashing blue eyes, her tall and sturdy legs... at least, that was how she had looked years ago, when she still fought, before she had taken up the serious study of sorcery. That was how she had been serenaded beneath the moon.

What did they see now? They would whisper about her, but what did they say?

She had not lain with anyone in some time. Was it her face, always looking too stern? Was it the dull gray amidst the luster of her hair? Was she still a beauty to be gossiped about, or was she now like some tawdry painting, traced over for so many years that the only ones fit to admire her now were the most debauched, the most rakish, the most desperate?

She was developing a new field of sorcery, new ways of creating magic, powerful spells and experiments and studies, guiding a fortress to better efficiency, but was her mind clear?

Did she hear her charges? Did she protect them? Did she raise them up?

Did she even have anyone to save?

Sepphina. Sepphina was her charge. Sepphina was the one she had to hear, the one she had to protect, the one she had to...

“No,” she whispered to her reflection. Sepphina was strong, she didn’t need rescue. She had potential—she needed nurturing. She was ingenious, but needed room to grow, space to develop into the great sorceress Magdara knew she could be.

And all this had to be handled with utmost care, of course, as Sepphina had a very powerful infatuation for her mentor.

Magdara didn’t need to hear the shyness when her apprentice responded to the name ‘Seph.’ She didn’t need to see the blush when their bodies came close together in the midst of magical training. She didn’t need to notice the glances, the states, the lips wet by a delicate tongue. She didn’t even need to know of Haleria, her apprentice’s former love.

Of course, she had still done her research, as soon as she’d heard Seph utter the name. She had scouts at her disposal, eyes and ears within the capital and the University. It was no challenge for them to detail how unperturbed Haleria now seemed, broadly smiling each day, holding hands with a new, young, certainly brilliant woman. And, as Magdara still did not need to know, Haleria was tall, hard-bodied, dark-haired, wide-chested, dark-skinned, deep-eyed... in many ways a near-perfect match for the arcanist herself, in her younger days.

The infatuation was obvious to anyone with eyes.

But Magdara didn’t need to know any of this, because the written admission of that as-yet unspoken, as-yet unaddressed desire was sitting beneath three books in the second drawer of her private chamber’s desk under lock and key.

Magdara didn’t need to know any of this, because on the ninth page of that private communiqué, transcribed by magical means and stamped with the seal of Royal Inquisitor Sesriel Caldure, the words were printed plain as day.

‘Inquisitor Caldure:

“Sepphina, could you recall for me the earliest moment that you can remember having sexual thoughts toward the Magus General?”

Aspirant Bagni:

“Yes. [pause] It was the first time she spoke to me, after the contests for the apprenticeships.”

Inquisitor Caldure:

“Sepphina, could you recall for me what those first thoughts were, after she spoke to you, after the contests?”

Aspirant Bagni:

“Yes. [pause] I fantasized about kissing her and being touched by her. Her lips and her voice were so beautiful.”

Inquisitor Caldure:

“Sepphina, could you tell me if you’ve experienced fantasies like that one, kissing your master and being touched by her, since then?”

Aspirant Bagni:

“Yes.”

Inquisitor Caldure:

“Sepphina, could you tell me how those fantasies make you feel?”

Aspirant Bagni:

“Yes. [pause] They make me feel good.”’

There were over thirty pages in that four-week-old transcript. Many of the questions had been innocuous. Many of them had been nonsensical. Some of them had clearly been meant to test her loyalties, her sympathies, her honesty and dedication. And throughout, here and there, were questions like these ones.

And every single answer was drawn out by magical compulsion. The honest truth, the complete truth, pulled out whole and untarnished from Sepphina’s deepest thoughts. She had known the interrogation was coming, she knew now that it had happened. But from Magdara’s questioning, all her apprentice could recall was a friendly woman with dark hair, a lot of questions she didn’t quite care about, and a magical light that didn’t quite make sense.

Mind magic. The work of the inquisitors, one of the only places it had any business being employed. Magdara had studied it, she had studied nearly all kinds of magic. She knew enough of it to develop spells and enchantments of the mind for her own experiments. As little as necessary, and no more, her teachers had said, and she’d followed that lesson for years now. People who worked magic on the human mind could easily become twisted, deviant, cruel, and she needed to be above even the possibility of that.

What she did not know enough to discern, from ink on pages, was how Seph had said those words. An empty monotone, that the magically entranced so often fell into? A dreamy slurring around a blissful smile? A breathy, needy sigh? Had she been bewitched at all, outside her apparent calm and honesty? Was she sitting upright, not motionless and staring, not slumped and lolling, but tall in her seat, with her hands folded as she patiently, readily divulged her deepest and darkest secrets?

And in each of those pauses? Simply the slow workings of a quieted mind, the steady recollection of long-hidden memories... or something else? Something much more physical, something that would require the unclasping of her fingers? Inquisitors worked with strange, shadowed methods. Seilund thought back on her own inquest, tried to recall what she had been asked, and immediately decided that the past was the past and that there was no point thinking so hard about something so inconsequential.

Just like last time she’d thought about it. And the time before. And... and there was no point thinking so hard about something so inconsequential.

And so she had settled for reading, rereading, and rereading again the transcript of Seph’s that she had been provided. Her apprentice was still under review, had been for the whole two months thus far. Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary in the text; were her attractions enough of a risk for the crown to take her away?

It was a waiting game. Until the inquest was finished, Magdara could only review, and observe, and report on the process, while Sepphina would watch, and learn, and chafe under the lethargy of it. Until the inquisitors gave permission, Sepphina was only an aspirant, a candidate, still awaiting approval to know the deeper secrets of her teacher’s work.

And though it had been two weeks since she had opened that drawer and moved those books and stared at those pages, it had only been two nights since she had last lain in bed and fought very, very hard to keep herself from finding that ninth page and doing to herself what she had done to herself on the very first night it was in her hands.

She had a duty. She had a responsibility: to help Sepphina grow, to realize her potential, to polish and refine and make of her a better student than studies and lectures alone could. Her student had a desire, but that did not mean she could allow herself the same.

But Sepphina’s feelings were still meaningful. Not only because truth magic had drawn out her deepest thoughts, put them on a page to be read, but because she felt something, deep inside herself; something which those probing remarks and strange questions couldn’t entirely divine. It wasn’t mere attraction. It was admiration.

When Magdara shook her head and looked at herself once more, she was seeing age. Wear. Lined face, greying hair, weary expression. Weakness. She saw no angel or bulwark in the shield’s mirror-like surface.

But when Sepphina looked each day, that was who she saw. That was who Magdara was. The one whose name never left a pair of lips in the University halls. The one whose skill with a focus was rivaled only by her skill with a blade. A legend. A master. A mentor. And to live as an apprentice in the shadow of a set of expectations so monolithic, not just of her master’s legacy, but of her heritage’s... Magdara understood.

She knew that her apprentice was brilliant, but she needed space to shine. She needed to see that she could. She needed to see herself through a lens of her own, not that of her professors, or of those who stared and scowled at her mane of white hair.

The evaluation would have to be finished, yes, only then could she move past paperwork and menial advisement. She would set the apprentice to work on the patterns, as soon as possible. Teach her the principles, teach her the complexities, see if she could even develop some of her own. See if she had a taste for a field position, or a larger role in tactics, or...

Patience, she told herself. The time would come. Sepphina would need meaningful challenges, and she would meet them, exceed them.

The arcanist turned away from the mirror. There was a rumbling beneath the earth, a war trying to set itself free. She didn’t know if she would stop it, or if she would be the one to start it. She didn’t know what to make of it, what to decide, how to lead the soldiers, if she even should. Her apprentice’s observations were correct: the exterior had changed, the setting had shifted, but Magdara was still herself—the sorceress, the bulwark, the angel. She could be that again. She would be that again. For Sepphina, for the soldiers, for the nation... and for herself.

She still had a line to fight on, a single challenge to oppose, a single enemy to run through. The Fifty-Seventh. A thorn that she could, that she would deal with, as methodically and furiously as she had dealt with anything in her way before.

And if danger was approaching, lurking in her fortress and stepping into her tower, Magdara would face it armed.

Her hands reached out, almost tentatively. The scabbard came off the wall first—she hated to mount it separately, but its ornamental placing served to intimidate as much as to please the eye. Or you’re just getting old, soft, and lazy, she chastised herself, and you’re justifying improper care of your weapon either way you shake it.

Long like the weapon itself, made to fit its edge as snugly as it did the shoulder of her robe. Secure. And then her sword. Three feet of steel, humming against her palms, between her fingers. One hand on the blade, one hand on the grip, her lips pursed to blow a light gust over it, making it sing, pushing away what few motes of dust had gathered since the morning, while awakening the magical enchantments carved into every inch of it. Square-shaped runes ran up one edge, long and twisting lines ran down the other, all of them glowing with a familiar, invigorating purple hue matched by the round amethyst set into its pommel.

She slid the blade down the length of her sheath, and setting her palm to the stone, felt its warmth, the presence of the arcane focus spilling itself into her mind. Widening her senses, honing them, as she whispered a mantra, a litany in the ancient and magical tongue. Spell after spell, one for acuity of sense, one for celerity of thought, more and more—and the wards. Many, many wards, enchantments drawn over herself to protect body, mind, sight, anything and everything that could be defended from a magical assault. A fortress of her own making. Secure.

Not that she expected much of a fight from the figure sweeping into her study. Sepphina entered first, bowing briefly with a murmured “Magus General,” before stepping to the side to admit the visitor.

And to admit a flood of magical energies. The arcanist wouldn’t have needed her spells and sharpened senses to feel the breadth of the fateseer’s aura as it filled the whole room, bristling warmly through the gooseflesh on her neck.

But by contrast... the woman herself stood of average height, of average build. An average face, average blond hair swept into an average bun. Besides the magic, everything about her seemed average, and utterly at odds with the splendor of her flowing green robes, patterns of gold thread swirling across them. And between two plain earrings, silver and set with black stones, was a bright emerald gaze, as unusual and perplexing as the aura stretching off of her. Like a bubble, large, tense and rippling at the surface, but hollow within.

But another contrast. Magdara’s energy was a wall. A fortress: impenetrable, impregnable, but also a tool, a weapon even in its unfocused state, probing the newcomer’s magical power. It was no wonder Sepphina seemed unfazed by the fateseer’s magical presence—the thickness of Magdara’s power could have been, with a thought, crushing, or suffocating, or any number of more physical sensations. At present, it would merely have been distracting to anyone but herself.

Their guest didn’t seem to notice, though. “Thank you, child,” she said to Sepphina. Her voice was as plain as her figure.

The apprentice bowed toward the fateseer, nearly deep enough to make her braid graze against the floor. Magdara saw, for only a moment, the excitement in Seph’s eyes, smile and blush, before it was muted, contained—she turned to her mentor, offered a stiff, perfunctory bow, then slipped out from the room.

It shouldn’t have felt strange. The transcript had certainly explored Seph’s preferences in detail, and the Marcirian was not unattractive, merely ordinary. And yet there was still a pang of envy, at no longer being the sole object of her apprentice’s affections.

A pang which was dismissed, as soon as the door was closed. Their eyes met. Magic intensified in their stares—warm, thick, muggy like a cloudless summer day. For all of Magdara’s pokes and prods, the fateseer didn’t flinch.

Didn’t flinch until Magdara snapped her fingers, and every shred of paper in the room sprang into the air at once. Sheets and books and ledgers flew in a flurry, finding their shelves, following the hundred lines of magic that Magdara drew without breaking a sweat. Even the tray and teacups all found nooks to hide in.

“You call yourself a fateseer,” she spoke casually, amid a torrent of fluttering pages.

The green-robed woman gulped, managed to stand firm as pages deliberately skirted just past her arms, hair and legs. “That is a title I have been given, by those who have seen my gifts.”

The arcanist set a hand on the back of her chair as the last of the papers settled in their places. Smirked. “Then what do you call yourself?”

The kind, easy smile once more. “Reina. Reina Fassouth.” She gave a deep, gracious bow, before standing tall again. “And you are the Magus General, Magdara Seilund.”

An ordinary name for such an ordinary soul, she thought, before replying, “I am.”

“The royal arcanist, of whom they speak much about.”

They? Magdara didn’t give it much further thought. With another snap, every cabinet in the room shut itself at once, making the fateseer start at the sound. “I heard you’ve come a long way to seek me out.”

“I have.”

“From Marcir?”

“Oh, General, I have traveled across many more lands than the Marcirian Empire,” Reina said around a perfectly ordinary, perfectly white grin. “The coasts, the mountains, places deep within the earth...”

“And this time?” Seilund asked, an edge in her voice.

The fateseer faltered before composing herself once more. “From Marcir, yes.”

“Crossing the Fifty-Seventh could’ve gotten you killed.”

Reina’s head tilted, just barely. “Fifty-seventh?”

“Apologies,” Magdara said, taking her seat and looking up. “The borderline, between our fortresses. Contested territory.”

“Crossing was no danger to me, Magus General.” Reina glanced toward the chair Seph had so recently occupied, but Magdara chose not to acknowledge it. “Fate has led me to this meeting, as it has led me through all things,” the fateseer went on.

And here we go, the arcanist chuckled, mentally rolling her eyes.

“The stars shone bright some weeks ago, and I foresaw their message clearly.”

“Of course.”

“Even the song of the rivers, the ebbing and flowing of the tides, saw fit to guide me to this very moment.”

“Naturally.”

“You face a great decision, Magus General.”

Magdara blinked. That was the only sign she gave of her surprise at the fateseer’s unexpected knowledge, and her years of training kept her next words thick with measured calmness. “I am a high-ranking official on a fortress of strategic significance. Every day I am facing great decisions.”

“True,” a smile, a wave of the hand, “and your studies of the arcane must certainly hold many decisions of import.”

“This is true, as well.”

“But the choice of which I speak is different,” Reina said. Something, perhaps nerves, perhaps curiosity, made Magdara reach out, magically through her surroundings. The drawers and cabinets were all sealed, their enchantments untampered with. Her own wards were steady, and the fateseer’s hollow aura had scarcely moved at all. She didn’t even seem to notice the warm pulse of the scan that Magdara felt in her bones. “This choice has been on your mind, you have weighed it heavily.”

“I can little ignore decisions of any weight,” Seilund replied. “You’ve come to offer counsel in some matter?”

“No, General, I’ve come to offer my gift.” The fateseer’s hands moved, then hesitated in their drift toward the satchel at her waist. Magdara eyed it, Reina eyed her, and both felt the prickling of contained power, the implicit magical threat posed by any arcanist. “May I?” Reina asked, with a nervous twinge.

The woman was either an informant or a hack. She had enough magic to make it across No Man’s Land, past the traps and mines and other who-knows-whats out there, but nowhere near enough to fight or deceive Magdara in any fashion. She would have information, or she would have more nonsense. The only question was whether it would be worth the arcanist’s time.

After a long moment, she judged that it was at least worth listening for a few moments more. She gave a short, beckoning wave, and the fateseer glided forward into the seat before the desk. Reaching both hands into her bag, she produced a small, silver stand, curving around a wide circular aperture. She set it on the table between them. Completely devoid of magic, a simple piece of metal.

And then.

Tingling on the hairs of her legs, on the underside of her chin, on the knuckle of her left thumb. The fateseer’s hands had closed around an object, drew it up to where it could be seen: a sphere, the arcanist could tell, concealed though it was beneath a black cloth. Magdara didn’t need her eyes to know that it was precisely nine point seven three inches in diameter, and didn’t need her sense of touch to know that it weighed two feathers less than four pounds, and slightly more with the shroud draped around it. Her magical awareness had locked to it instantly and analyzed every facet of it before it had even come into view, for it was not the mere tool of a charlatan; it was a mystic focus.

Reina brought it forward, slowly as Seilund’s scanning probed further, discerning its make, the enchantments carved on its surface and cast within its depth. The fateseer set it onto its metal support, a perfect fit, then removed the cover.

Quartz. Clear. Hollow. A few impurities across the transparent surface, lines of darkness and lightness. Hair-thin bands of gold were woven through its surface, wrapping about the crystal like thread, each one bearing finely graven runes; for binding the focus to the fateseer, for enhancing its power, for making its magical energies more pliable.

Whatever energies it held, at least. Two of the gold rings bore some spell of delusion, disguising and masking its purpose, and while Magdara could easily recognize these, pushing past those barriers might’ve provoked the focus’ owner. Even in these circumstances, it would have been... well, rude. Instead, she sat back, content in her knowledge of focus-craft, while her aura slowly combed through the many enchantments, finding nothing amiss. Quartz was more of an amplifier than anything else, and the construction served to empower those golden bands which bore the real magical strength.

A crystal ball was, also, unbearably cliché. “Impressive,” Seilund said dryly.

“This?” the fateseer chuckled, as she stowed her shroud and set the stand and sphere dead center on the table between them both. “This is merely a tool, my lady, to better share what I have seen with others, those lacking of my gifts.”

Gifts. Magdara couldn’t stop herself from a snort.

“Something the matter, Magus General?”

The arcanist looked up, and smiled faintly. “I’ve never yet entertained the pratings of a fortune teller.”

“You do not believe,” Reina said, without any ire, only the resignation in a sigh, as if she’d known it already.

She very well should have known it already. “I do not,” Magdara shrugged. “I am a forger of spells, a scholar of all mystical studies. Fatesight has ever been beyond even the most powerful sorcerers. I’ve seen the writings of my fellows, those who’ve tried for years, decades to predict the chaos of magic and life. To tell fortunes, to portend the future.”

“And?” the fateseer asked, still patient.

“Nothing, as I’m sure you know. There has been not one confirmed case of a true spell of fatesight being invoked. The only measure of progress has been in divination, scrying, knowledge of the present and, to a minute extent, knowledge of possibility. Never any knowing of what will be, only of what might.”

“Even from as far as my homeland, I have heard many stories of the works of you arcanists,” Reina nodded. “And while this divination, these works and attempts you deem unsuccessful, may be performed with the utmost Damean excellence, they are not the same as my gift.”

“More than merely Dameans have tried, for centuries now, to see the future, to know it, to change it. You’re saying that you’ve mastered this art, where so many others have failed?”

“I am saying,” Reina murmured, “that I will show you.”

A humming, a vibration rippled through the fateseer’s aura. Magdara turned her attentions down to the sphere, where Reina was likewise focused, her hands caressing either side of it. A light scan, unnoticed by Reina in the midst of her concentration, showed it was a spell being conjured, one without words, only motions and thoughts. Forming together, twisting within the crystal ball, and only shapeless for the current moment. “Show me what, exactly?” the arcanist asked.

“The visions I have seen, the knowledge I have been granted through my gift.”

“The information that made you cross a border covered in sappers’ circles without an escort?”

“The visions which have made my journey urgent, General.” Her voice was strained, as though the spell she prepared in her hands was too taxing to keep her calm around. “I foresaw myself making the crossing, and indeed, I did. I have seen these words we exchange, and indeed, we are exchanging them.”

Magdara sighed.

“You do not believe.”

“It’s not meant to offend.”

“It does not, and yet?”

Seilund gritted her teeth. “And yet I tire of speech on future and fate when I have been provided gabbling as assurance and nothing as evidence.”

The fateseer looked up. Green eyes, soft and deep, and that patient smile once more, growing more infuriating by the instant. More magic. The sphere humming between her hands, holding a spell contained. “May I?” she intoned.

Magdara sighed again. And yet, as loud as it was, the sound was drowned out by the ringing of steel, by magic churning in the air, by light flashing across sharpened edges and glowing runes, and by the thump of a very enchanted and very deadly broadsword dropping against wood. One hand on the pommel, feeling the amethyst stone, the other flat across the blade, feeling those enchantments she had etched into it herself. Warmth, power, comfort, all surrounding her at once. Secure.

“Fine,” the arcanist said simply, after Reina had taken her long moment to swallow and stare at the sword, “so long as you know that I do not gladly suffer those who dawdle away my time and patience.”

“I think that we are in accord,” the fateseer murmured, clearly feeling the weight of the much stronger focus bearing down on her awareness, the sorceress’ magical ability towering over her own, “and I hope that there will be no need for... that.”

A grin came to Seilund’s lips. “Didn’t foresee this part?”

The woman recovered her composure. “Certain sights are cloudier than others, my lady. I aim to show you the clearest.” Magic, tickling again, and both looked to the crystal ball. “It is ready.”

“Ready?” Magdara questioned.

“Ready for you to peer within. My gift, these visions, it does not make itself known to all, no, it often only shows itself to...”

Reina went on and on with her prattling. Magdara largely ignored her, focusing on the orb between her hands, where something far more interesting was occurring. The energy pooling within the sphere was taking form, given shape by a spell twitched out on the fateseer’s fingertips. Slowly, between the pulses of her scanning magic, Magdara remained only a moment ahead of the sorcery’s growth as it spun out from the center, whirled about, coalesced, and...

And it was there, and it made sense now that it was visible, in the open. A cloud. Or some kind of fog. It didn’t matter, of course: it was an illusion. A simple, facile bit of magic, only disguised by the sphere’s amplifications and enchantments. Just a ghost of an image, all of its meager power held within the crystal ball. What had she thought it would be, some portal to a future unknown? Magdara gave a short laugh, directed at herself, at her momentary credulity.

“... and in so doing we may perhaps... yes, my lady, have you seen something within the depths?” She sounded irritated.

Another chuckle. “No,” the arcanist shook her head, looking into the fateseer’s eyes, “I’ve simply figured out your trick.”

“There are no tricks, my lady, this is—”

“A spell of illusion.”

“Yes,” Reina muttered, “this is true, my lady, but I must implore: my gift has yet to make itself known, and you are only witnessing the medium through which it will make manifest the intricacies of...”

Again, the ramblings. Seilund put out another scan, another buzz of warm energy—the illusion was completely contained, entirely visual. Reina was channeling it, maintaining it through an open connection to her focus. She would be able to manipulate it, but it wouldn’t grow beyond sight, or beyond the bounds of the quartz encasing at all.

... and Reina was still speaking. “... and you must be as comfortable as possible for this gift, my lady, you must feel totally at ease before it can be seen, you understand?”

In other words, I’ll only provide you the intelligence once you’ve played along with my game. It was too perfect a torture. “Yes, I understand completely.”

Reina smiled her kind smile. Then something shifted in the fog, and Magdara felt obliged to look down and proceed with the charade. “Tell me what you see,” the fateseer whispered.

The arcanist briefly rolled her eyes. “Clouds. An illusion of fog.”

“An illusion, yes,” Reina admitted once more, “but there is still more.”

Reflexively, Magdara put out a scan. There was nothing else. Just meaningless chatter, just...

“You are suspicious,” Reina said, pulling the arcanist’s awareness back to the words and fog, away from the magic surrounding them both.

“You’re observant,” Magdara said.

“What have you to worry about, Magus General?” the fateseer asked sincerely. “I am but a traveling vagrant, while you are a mighty arcanist, safe within your tower, no?”

“You are a stranger speaking of strange magic.”

“This is true. But... you are aware of all of my magic, are you not?”

Magdara hesitated. Did she know about the scanning? Had she felt all those observations? She hadn’t shown it... more nonsense babbling. That had to be it. Magdara was an arcanist, and her magic was as subtle as could be. “Of course,” she replied carefully.

“You have seen the illusion for what it is, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Magdara gave another brief nod, before the clouds moved, the hum of magic growing stronger... Again, hesitation. If she knows about the scans... there’s no reason not to continue, the arcanist thought. If she knows, she accepts them and can’t stop them, or hide from them—and if she doesn’t know now, she won’t notice ever. The scan revealed nothing new, of course. But it still made her smile.

“And you know that you are safe, yes?”

“Yes.” She very much did.

“And you know that I am not a threat to you, of course?”

Obviously. Magdara chose to nod, rather than voicing her disdain.

“Then,” Reina said quietly, “surely you have already noticed your relaxation, my lady?”

The arcanist blinked, shaking her eyes off the swirling fog for only a moment. She cast another scan, twitching her thumb over her blade, but felt nothing but the illusion, but the gooseflesh running over her sides. There were no extrinsic magics, no spells she hadn’t yet observed... and yet she still paused.

“Your breaths have come evenly for quite some time now,” Reina’s voice reminded her.

Had they?

“It only makes sense, whilst you’re feeling so safe, yes?”

She did suppose that was true.

“You can make certain of your safety before even saying ‘yes,’ if you like, my lady.”

A scan. That reassuring warmth, thrumming through her wards and walls, checking them all: her senses, intact, her awareness, intact, her memories, everything was safe. Secure. “Yes,” she said, as she smiled in what felt like triumph.

“Very good, my lady, and you are now aware that you are getting comfortable, yes?”

A scan. Just for safety’s sake, making sure that the warmth she felt in her arms and legs was of her own making and not another’s. She was relaxed, yes, and it wasn’t Reina that had made her so. She was in control. She was secure. “Yes.”

“And you have been looking deeply, focused intently, staring into the midst of these simple illusory mists, yes?”

A scan. She had, and that was all it was. Simple fog, simple clouds. “Yes.”

“That must mean they are very easy for you to watch, yes?”

The spell was cast again, as easy and simple as the mist she was staring into. “Yes.”

“That must mean they are very relaxing for you to watch, yes?”

Her fingers danced once more, to the tune of that warm pulse of magic, head to toe. “Yes.”

“That must mean you will follow it even more closely, as it changes its form, yes?”

The monitoring was unconscious now, just another wave of relaxation washing over her. “Yes.”

“Then look, my lady.” The clouds were shifting, churning faster, as her eyes strained to see even deeper. “It is taking form, yes?”

The magic behind the mist remained constant, only warping, the power distributing this way and that, almost faster than she could keep up with. “Yes,” she said, when she was certain she was secure.

“Allow me to guide you, my lady. Allow me to show you, you want to see what my gift will show, yes?”

“Yes.” That was what she needed. That was what the dance, the comfort, the wards, the security, all of it was for.

“Then you see, now, how the thick gray is rising like a wall before you, yes?”

“And you see, here, how the lightness is falling like snow, gathering on the ground beneath your feet, yes?

“And you notice how the haze grows above you, filling the skies above your mighty, safe fortress, yes?

“And you feel the wind, don’t you, Magdara?”

She hesitated, her lips open to say the words, her fingers poised to cast her spell.

“You see how it beats past the walls ahead of you, yes?

“You see how it blows flakes of snow around you, yes?

“You see how it pulls the clouds along above you, yes?

“You see all of this, Magdara, and so too you feel it, yes?”

The battlements shuddering, within the sphere. Flakes of snow, tiny little wisps of clouds whipping past her, inside the quartz. Clouds, fog, rushing past her head, swirling within the crystal ball.

“What do you feel, Magdara?”

“Cold,” she whispered.

“Scan my magic once more, would you?”

She did.

“What do you see, Magdara?”

“Only the fog,” she answered. She didn’t need the scan to see it, so clearly within the sphere.

“The fog, so very thick, yes?

“And the wind, so very cold, yes?

“Chill, it is, blowing through your robe, yes?” Clear, thick, cold, and chill. She felt it all.

“As though you are not wearing a robe, yes?” And she was surprised by it, but she felt as though she should not have been.

“As though you are on the grounds, yes?” Because Reina sounded so certain. So very sure.

“Where are your feet, Magdara?”

“In the snow,” she answered. And the scan reminded her of how deep her breathing had become.

“Where is your body, Magdara?”

“Beneath the walls,” she answered. And the scan showed her just how heavy her eyes had become.

“Where is your head, Magdara?”

“In the clouds,” she answered. And the scan told her how deep, soft, and smooth Reina’s voice had become.

“You feel the wind and the cold everywhere, yes?” It was new to her, relying on her magic so strongly, denying her ordinary senses.

“And if you are surrounded by wind, you are surrounded by mist, yes?” They were just too busy, too focused on the mist, its scent and sound and taste.

“And if you are surrounded by mist, where are you, Magdara?”

“In the sphere,” she answered. The scan brought her ears back out from the sphere, for only a moment, long enough to hear how surprised she sounded. And how unsurprised.

“And how do you feel, my lady?”

“Cold.” A shiver in her spine.

“And?”

“Secure.” Her hand gripping the pommel.

“Secure. Cast your spell for me, Magdara, feel how nice it is?”

Warm. Full and deep. Like the sound of Reina’s voice. “Yes.”

“Feel how secure it makes you, yes?”

“Yes.” Hands relaxing on the sword.

“And where are you secure?”

Body relaxing in the chair. “I am secure in the mists.”

“You are secure in my spell, Magdara?”

“I am secure in your spell.” Senses relaxing in the sphere.

“You are secure in my visions, Magdara?”

Mind relaxing in the mists. “I am secure in your visions.”

“So good, so very, very good. Cast your spell. Feel your security, my lady, feel your comfort, warm all over you like a blanket against the chill, now that’s lovely, yes?

“You know that you are secure in these mists, in my spell, in my visions, Magdara. You know that you are secure because you feel that blanket, you feel that protection, that proof that my spell is contained, that my visions and you are contained in the sphere, yes?

“Very, very good, so good, Magdara. Where are you?”

“In the snow. On the grounds. In the fortress. In the winter. In the mist. In the sphere.”

“You understand completely, and you are so secure, yes?

“Doing so very well, my lady, to follow my gift, to know what I have to share... but this is not all. The vision is changing, the mist is swirling about you. The walls are lowering, the clouds are clearing, and in their place... what do you see?”

Red. Stark against all else, staining snow. Blood. Not just blood. Helmets, armor of soldiers, armor in red. Not just soldiers, fire. Fire. So much fire.

“Cast your spell, Magdara, tell me that you are secure, tell me that you are safe in the mist.”

She was secure. She was safe in the mist.

“But there is danger all about you. You are in the sphere, you are in the mist, you are in the winter, still, and you are in the fortress, on the grounds, in the snow, but there is danger. Something has happened. Do you know what?”

She did not.

“Do you recall why I am here?”

She did.

“Tell me.”

To help her decision.

“Which decision?”

The answer for No Man’s Land.

“And what are these visions meant to show you?”

The answer for No Man’s Land.

“And this answer is...?”

Bad. Dangerous. Horrible. Death. Chaos.

“Shhh, shhh, cast your spell, my lady, cast your spell and feel your blanket, feeling your warmth, yes?”

Yes.

“You want to move away from that chaos, yes?”

Yes. So much.

“Then look. Look deeply. Tell me what you see, as the mist transforms once more.”

White. Then gray. Not just one wall. Four. A floor, a ceiling. Red, but not death. A fire. A hearth. White, a bed, sheets, a pillow. Browns. Wood. Comfort. White...

“White what, Magdara?”

White hair.

“Now who could that be?”

Seph.

“Sepphina, yes?”

Yes.

“And she looks so happy, doesn’t she, Magdara?”

Yes.

“She looks so very pleased, so very fulfilled, doesn’t she, my lady?”

Yes. Staring, smiling, blushing, and...

“And?”

And naked.

“... she is naked, isn’t she, Magdara. Are you naked, too?”

Yes.

“Do you like being naked before Sepphina?”

She liked being naked before Seph.

“And you like Seph being naked before you?”

She liked Seph being naked before her.

“Now how could this come to pass? What might your Seph need for this vision to be real?”

Responsibility.

“Hmm? Go on, my lady.”

Seph needed responsibility. Needed to know she was valued. Needed to know she was cherished. Needed a way to rise above...

“Above expectations, yes, Magdara, nice and secure for me once again, you can cease now. Seph has a great many expectations on her, a great many burdens to bear. I know this, for I have seen it, in your visions and hers. I know this, for my gift has shown to me the paths before you both. They can converge, Magdara, what do you need to be for this?”

A mentor?

“Not only that, but...”

A lover?

“Mm, yes, and...”

A hero.

“Yes, Magdara, yes. You were a hero, weren’t you? Seph sees this, doesn’t she?”

Yes.

“What did they call you, Magdara, how does she know you?”

Steely Seilund. Magus Bulwark. Angel of the Line.

“That is what you must be, Magdara, that is what she must see, that is what she must aspire to be. And in this... what does the vision tell you of this?”

Her body in armor. Her hand with a blade. Seph on her arm. The Fifty-Seventh, gone. No more blood. No more fire. No more war.

“You can do this, can’t you?”

Yes.

“You must do this, mustn’t you?”

Yes.

“What will you do, to make this vision into truth?”

Anything.

“You will do anything for this, yes?”

Yes.

“You must trust me, and trust my visions, yes?”

Yes.

“You must trust my words, you must follow them, yes?”

Yes.

“Then... You must prove that trust. You must lower your wards, make yourself open, put down your shield, to lift your blade, to lift your blade and have your answer. You have your blanket, you have your security, yes?”

Yes.

“Casting your spell, and you know that you are safe with my mist, yes?”

Yes.

“Lower just one for me, won’t you? Won’t you feel how amazing that is?”

Yes.

“Why not one more, my lady? Doesn’t that feel like a relief?”

Yes.

“One more, then... keep going, Magdara... forgetting those spells... focus on your warmth... on that one spell you need... on my visions, showing you all you need... bare yourself to me, Magdara... bare yourself to the world... so good, so very good... and now?”

And now...?

“Now, Magdara,” Reina’s voice, a whisper right in her ear, “you sleep.”

Mist churned, and fell away. Heat and warmth flared on her forehead. A touch, a whisper, a breath, and everything was darkened.

Magdara couldn’t recall walking up the stairs. And yet, she was in the hallway that held her quarters.

She wasn’t sure why she passed her own room. And yet, her feet saw fit to carry her to another door.

And it wasn’t until her fingers closed around the knob of Sepphina’s chambers that she blinked, and looked at what was in her right hand.

“Ah,” she murmured. “Of course. Something I forgot.”

She knocked three times on the door. Quick, light footsteps behind it, and it opened with the thunk of a latch.

“Magus General?” Seph stared up at her from behind her round spectacles. Her hair was out of its braid, falling past the right side of her face with her bangs. Falling like snow, down, down to her sheer nightgown.

“Seph,” Magdara said, her eyes returning to her apprentice’s. And yet her apprentice wasn’t meeting her stare. She was gawking, her eyes were nearly bulging from their sockets as they swept down the arcanist’s neckline...

It was only then that Magdara remembered. Her robe was loose, by just a few inches. Seph was drinking up the sight of her dark cleavage as if parched.

Then her eyes were up again, her face flushed. “How may I...?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes,” Seph said instantly, and moved with as much meekness as quickness to pull open the bedroom’s wooden door. Magdara swept in after her, glancing around... the last time she had entered, the room was barren, and Seph was a novice recruit. Not much had changed. The bed was neatly made, white, the walls were blank, gray, the hearth was crackling, red, the floors and chairs were wooden, brown...

The arcanist blinked. Stared. Her fist clenched around the scroll in her right hand. Then she shook her head, and strode to the desk in the corner. A small book lay open, a manual on runes. “Studying?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Y-yes, miss.”

“Come,” she beckoned with a finger, felt Seph approaching apprehensively to her side. Her left hand was behind the girl’s back, between her shoulder blades, gently nudging her closer to the desk. And her right hand spread the roll of parchment over the table. “Tell me what this is.”

She saw Seph looking, leaning, squinting... then gasping, turning, her eyes wide and wild. “M-miss Seilund, this is, this is your work...”

“And?”

“A-a-and I’m not allowed to see this!” She tried to turn, but Magdara held her still.

“Seph.” The arcanist whispered softly, “This is important to me.”

“I-it’s your work,” she said bashfully, “and I’m...”

“You are my apprentice.”

“... yes, but, the evaluation, I’m an aspirant, I can’t...”

“You can, Seph.” Hands were on her apprentice’s shoulders, squeezing them gently. “I have given you little chance, little room at all to prove that you are what I know you are.”

“... what is that...?”

“A brilliant student. A burgeoning apprentice. A very skilled, very clever, and very beautiful young woman.” Seph was bright red. But her light, cloudy eyes didn’t waver from Magdara’s face. “I am tired of waiting, Seph. I believe that you can do this, not because of your blood, not because of your training, not because of my mentorship, but because of you, yourself. I believe that you are ready.”

Her apprentice swallowed hard. “And you want me to... to look at it?”

“Yes.” Magdara released her hands. Pulled out the seat, beckoned Seph to sit, gently, as she was pushed toward the desk. Hands back on her shoulders, massaging bare flesh and straps of silk alike. “These are the fundamentals of my work.”

Seph was staring down at the parchment, at the lines, diagrams drawn in ink, runes precisely placed and measured. “They’re equidistant,” she observed in seconds. “These runes, around in a circle, they... they’re all the same distance from each other, the same distance from the center...”

Magdara nodded silently, brushing past gooseflesh, working through shivers. “Go on,” she urged.

“They’re all different words, but, they’re synonyms?”

“What do they say?” she whispered into Seph’s ear.

A long finger was pointing, tracing around the circle, naming symbols as it passed them. “Concentration... focus... clarity... direct... converge... meld... sharpen...” she hesitated, on the last. “... join?”

“Centralize.” Magdara had knelt, her face so close to the warmth of Seph’s cheek. “Say it for me.”

“... centralize,” her apprentice all but moaned.

“And the mark in the center...?”

“It’s a magus...” her eyes widened, “a magus... m-miss Seilund, this is...”

“Tell me,” the arcanist breathed.

“This is... a pattern,” she swallowed, “like an enchanter’s circle, but, not graven into stone, it’s... made out of minds.”

“Keep going.”

“The... the eight in the circle, they wouldn’t even have to be magi, they could be simple soldiers, all they’d have to do is focus on that one word, they’d, well, they’d embody that word, they’d think it and feel it and, well, with the others thinking that way, and the magus controlling... not them, but, not like magic of the mind...”

“Slowly, Sepphina. Slowly.”

“... all humans are magic, aren’t they?”

“Unless you’re counting those Sohn Murian bastards,” Magdara chuckled, “yes, we all are.”

Seph giggled with a lovable nervousness. “Well, then it’s obvious, isn’t it? A pattern like this, it’s for amplifying, isn’t it? Focusing the power of the magus, strengthening their spells, all while focusing the soldiers that surround them, tapping into the magic they don’t even need and, using that to both power and lead, and...” Her apprentice grinned, turned her eyes to the arcanist. “And to ensure their cohesion.”

“Did I not tell you that you were ready?”

Seph let out another laugh, painted by her blush and absolutely adorable. “You did, and... and I did it.”

“You did it,” Magdara nodded.

“... I did it,” Seph whispered. “... and you’re...”

“Proud of you, Sepphina. Immensely.” Her apprentice somehow blushed brighter. “Much has been expected of you. By me, yes,” Magdara felt the warmth in her own cheeks, “but also by many. And you have proved yourself, always. And now you can do more.”

“More?”

“More,” the arcanist nodded. “You will help me in my work. I will aid in your study of it. And together...”

“T-together?”

The arcanist smiled. “Yes, Sepphina.” She found the girl’s hands, clutched them in her fingers. “Together.”

Seph nodded slowly.

And the words floated, up from memory, up from mist, onto Magdara’s lips. Something she’d forgotten. “Do you know how it begins?”

The eyes of her apprentice unfocused. Gray, hazy, glassy before a long, heavy blink. “S-something I forgot,” she murmured.

“Tell me.” The words out of her mouth, distant.

Nervous, but calm, Sepphina spoke. “You... you kiss me.”

And Magdara slowly nodded, her own eyes seeing a layer of mist.

“You... strip me.”

She saw this, too. In the visions. In the sphere.

“You lay with me.”

A pulse of warmth all over her body, her breath ragged and hot in her throat.

“You pleasure me.”

A need, slowly building, growing in her mind. “Yes,” Seilund whispered. “I’d forgotten... and now I remember.”

“It is as the fateseer said.”

“Yes.”

“I had forgotten.”

“So had I.”

Their stares met once more. Mist cleared. Eyes widened. Two bodies stood, fronts so close together, a finger lifted beneath her apprentice’s chin, tilting her face up, and up. The other hand pulled away the spectacles, letting the cloudy, gorgeous eyes into the candlelight.

“... I’ve never seen you without these,” Magdara murmured.

“... I should like them back, miss...”

“Why is that?”

Seph swallowed. “B-because I should like to see you clearly.”

Seilund chuckled softly. “What do you say, then, Seph?”

“... please?”

“Please...”

“... please, Magus General?”

The arcanist shook her head, and slowly replaced the glasses onto Sepphina’s nose. “Magdara.”

Seph hesitated, then nodded. “M-Magdara.” The hand left her apprentice’s chin, and pulled them a step closer together. She cleared her throat, and said it again, “Magdara?”

“Yes, Seph?” Her breath was hot. Her robe was loose, but still, so very tight.

“... would you kiss me?”

Seilund laughed once more, and her arms pulled their bodies front to front. “Yes, Sepphina, I think that I will.”

Magdara’s face was only a few inches from her apprentice’s own, and so, it hardly took any effort for the older woman to lean in, and softly, very softly press her lips to Seph’s. Both felt the shape of the other’s smile, the second kiss shared even more gently. Seph’s head darted back, but Seilund held her close, loving the warmth of her apprentice’s contoured body against her own. “A-another?” Sepphina asked sheepishly.

“Please.” She met the Magus General’s mouth again, and then again, and by the sixth kiss, her inhibition was falling away, and her breath was coming in endearingly labored panting as she leaned into Magdara. On the eighth, their mouths held together, eyes shut, slowly touching and caressing each other’s tongues. And then again, and again, before Magdara pulled back for air, her heart pumping.

“Are we...” Seph began, “is this...?”

Seilund silenced her with a kiss, and a moan as her lips pulled away once more, as her hands squeezed the girl even tighter. “This is fate.” It had been foretold.

The misty clarity in Seph’s eyes showed she felt it, she recalled, she understood it. Deeply. “Then... you’ll strip me?”

“Sepphina, there is nothing I would enjoy more, in this moment.” There was nothing else she could do.

“You mean that...?”

“I want you,” the arcanist well-nigh growled between kisses on her apprentice’s cheek and neck, making her moan while strong, calloused hands found lace after lace of the gown she wore, pulling them loose one after another. “I want this.”

“I-I’ve wanted this for...”

“Months,” Magdara grunted, nibbling at a collar, halfway down the ridges of Seph’s spine.

“Gods, yes,” she moaned, and her hands found their way into her mentor’s long, thick dark locks, twisting through them, tugging them, playing and shivering their way across her scalp. “S-since I met you I...”

“Couldn’t stop fantasizing,” she murmured into Seph’s ear, “wanted to see how many of those other nicknames were true...?” Seph nodded against her, Magdara’s hands were kneading her rear. “Which ones are you thinking of now, hmm? Steel-tongue? Feather-chest, perhaps?” At her apprentice’s giggling, Magdara snickered. “They’re soft, yes, but really, feathers are an exaggeration...”

Seph drew herself up. “C-could I feel for myself?”

Magdara blinked. Released her arms, her grip, letting the slip dangle loosely off her student’s body. She took a step back, spread her arms, and stretched her robe a little looser. “I would enjoy nothing more.”

She had been shown this, too. They both had.

Sepphina took two moments to stare at Seilund’s chest before darting forward, both hands gripping the edges of her robe to pull it apart, the front fluttering wide open, as she marveled. Seilund looked, too. She was naked, beneath. From the base of her neck, past the swell of each breast, into the curls above her sex, the sturdiness of her thighs, down to her toes. Naked.

“Something I’d forgotten,” she muttered, then moaned as Seph nearly tackled her backwards, sending both toppling to the bed as hands landed, rubbed, squeezed, pinched, grabbed roughly all over her front. She couldn’t deny, it was the hottest she’d felt in years, but she wanted to savor this. “Slowly, Seph,” she cooed, easing her apprentice’s hands to delicacy, shimmying back and onto the bed as both sat, side by side, naked.

She looked into Sepphina’s eyes, saw the amazement, saw the wonder. Saw the heat, there, saw her hunger. And in that moment, one thought screamed above the rest. “I need to lay with you.”

The student obliged, if reluctant to release her master’s chest. She crawled backwards, placing her head on the pillows of her small bed, staring down her lithe, thin body, to where Magdara was setting herself between her legs. Her dark fingers drifted forwards, brushing gently, softly, teasing out shudders through Sepphina’s thighs, lingering only short, aching moments across her wetness. “You want this...?” she murmured up to the face lit red in the snow.

Seph nodded. And no more words were needed. Magdara inched closer, breathing deep of her scent, kissing on her mound and feeling those beautiful shivers. She leaned closer, lower, first teasing with lips, then stroking, long and slow along her labia. And then within. Piercing inwards, exploring, searching. And with a long, low moan, felt through Seph’s body, finding.

Magdara breathed hot against her, flicking her tongue in slow swirls. Sepphina panted, gasped from above, and the arcanist never took her eyes off the bespectacled face. She needed to pleasure her. She needed to fulfill her dream, fulfill their fates. It was inevitable. It was inexorable. It was foretold. She had no choice, bound as she was to the truth she so very, very much desired to make whole.

She did not need to think on choice, on agonies, on lives that could be lost. She did not need to play the decider, out of place, always a hair’s breadth from chaos. She did not need to be a magus, to feel once more the single-mindedness of purpose. To feel the adoration of her charge. To feel the bliss, the simplicity of having one order to heed, one vision to follow, one dream to realize. It was something she had forgotten. And now it was known.

There was nothing else. There was only this moment, only her pleasure and Seph’s, only the bed beneath them, only the scent and taste and sound of sex.

There was nothing else. Only the future that she was building, in this perfect moment, in the twist of her tongue, in the squealing of Sepphina’s climax.

There was nothing else. Only the concert and cohesion of their bodies and minds in tandem, in step with a will that was not their own, a truth that they could only service, not resist.

They were destined. Destined to come, and come once more. Destined to kiss her way up the trembling, melting body of her apprentice. Destined to lock their legs together, lock their lips together, wrap their arms around in the warmest, softest embrace. Destined to murmur and whisper their ways into sleep. And destined to arise the next morning and do it all again.

There was nothing else. It had been foretold.

And in those next days, no Damean advance was made. A letter drafted by Magus General Magdara Seilund advised patience and prudence, and cries for action were swiftly quelled. No Marcirian advance was made; for troops were indeed moved, away from their fortress and to the north-east, to bolster the defense against a new Sel’haiat running wild in the desert. Days later, the first waves of fresh reinforcements began arriving, and soon the twin fortress was fully occupied and stable yet again. As stable as two military bases could be, in such a time. The line of Partition Fifty-Seven did not move.

Gossip swirled around the stranger often sighted near the Magus General’s quarters, although no one questioned her right to be there. More curiously still, no one seemed to have more than a fleeting memory of how or when she first began to appear; some say that she walked across the barren, trapped landscape from the Marcirian side of the border, although this was unlikely, since no record of her entry or capture was ever made in the outpost’s ledgers.

The gossips did not, however, whisper of Sepphina Bagni, of how close she now stood to her mentor, of hands lingering too long on shoulders, of matching smiles, of long, deep stares, and of an undefinable, purposeful certainty in both sets of marching steps.

None suspected. As had been foretold.