The Archmage's office sat high in the Wardstone Spire, its central window a single, vast arch of magically fused obsidian that presented the world outside like a tactical map. From this vantage, he was able to see the arteries of commerce pulse along the Gilded Way and trace the distant, brooding line of the Whispering Woods.
And at the center of it all stood his desk: a slab of unadorned, black ironwood, scarred by decades of use. It was an island of controlled turmoil. To one side sat a stack of reports from the Northern Prong, the paper crisp and new. To the other, a heavy, flat communication crystal lay dark and silent.
Sitting on his central side of the desk, three days after he had sent the ravens to the capital, Quintus drummed on his desk as he sought some form of entertainment. As if sensing his impatience, his assistant, Joe, knocked on the door of the study and then let himself in.
"A reply from Imperial High Command, Sir."
"Then read it."
"I... don't have the security clearance, Sir."
"Just what came crawling out of your mouth right now? What do you mean.. you do not have.."
Quintus's drumming stopped. He looked up, then laughed, a short, sharp bark, while pointing a trembling finger at the hapless man. Maybe he was mad after all.
He retrieved the flat, engraved crystal from his desk, uttered a Word of Power, and it shimmered with blue light.
A female voice resonated from it. "Sir!"
"Find Melissa. Tell her she's fired. Then have Internal Affairs execute all the warrants verified by a magistrate. The Baron requires an escort for his conscription travels—assemble a team of scouts and Wardens." His voice was dangerously calm. "And if, in the next five minutes, Joe does not possess the clearance to read my dispatches, you can pack your things and join Melissa."
"Sir, SAP?"
"I also do not have a TS." Joe, finding confidence with each word, spoke.
"You are only in Secret!" Quintus could not have been more flabbergasted, and he felt his rage throb in his head. He really, truly wanted to strangle someone.
"I am an Archmage for fuck's sake. You know what, for the mistake of you not speaking this error, pack and go. Out!" He bellowed. "Get me a more competent replacement. Timer's still five minutes, or you pack. And ensure he has a Top Secret security clearance. No mistakes!"
Alone, he seethed. Why did they test him like this? Or maybe it was him who was pushing it all on himself and saying that it was others. Maybe he should try and find someone he hates and then, no matter the mistake, always pin the blame on him. He was here under Duke Valerius's direct command, and he would not let the empire's own bureaucratic rot compromise his mission. He had broken conventions to place himself just beneath the Baron but above all others. He would maintain an iron grip, even if he had to strangle the entire administrative corps with his bare hands.
A few minutes later, a new assistant entered—a freckled young woman whose official robes couldn't entirely dampen a curvy figure, followed by a lean, tall man with a quiet, purposeful posture. Quintus approved of the man immediately.
"Sir. Mathias."
"Read the letter," Quintus commanded, his patience a frayed thread.
Mathias didn't flinch. He broke the seal and began in a clear, steady voice.
"The Imperial High Command sends its greetings. The strategic value of the Iron Valleys has forced a reevaluation of war plans, corroborating your assessment. The control of the Ley-line was confirmed a little while after your announcement, and upon further investigation, it was discovered to be a Ley-line nexus. To this effect, a direct command has been issued for the East to prepare for a tough and relentless assault."
Quintus's eyes narrowed. A Ley-line nexus. Not just a line, a confluence. That changed everything.
"To reinforce your position, forty-five additional Battlemage teams, all Wardens, will be deployed. You are strongly advised to start immediate preparations for the Menhirs just to be ready for their arrival. Nine Theurgists will be assigned, and the number of Arcanists in the Iron Valleys will be doubled through reassignments from other regions. An Imperial Army Reviewer will be dispatched to raise the standards of the Swordsmen and synchronize the host and incoming Arcanists. Furthermore, the Menhirs will need to be upgraded to handle a sustained influx of material and personnel from the capital. Prepare for a long siege."
Mathias finished and stepped back.
Quintus stared out the window, the pieces clicking into place. In hindsight, it made sense, and it explained the enemy's mobility and their seemingly disjointed strategy. The best way of attack was obviously to launch a full-scale attack at the Iron Valleys to place a cap on the maximum attainable power by the empire while simultaneously launching guerrilla warfare at the capital to wear them down. But with the control of a Ley-line, then the reverse was the most economical way to wage this war.
And with the understanding came some solutions to many of his problems. Still, some problems had added themselves.
"Get the new and freckled one," he said, his mind already racing ahead. "Read her the sections concerning the Wardens, Arcanists, and Menhir upgrades. Then fetch me the Wall's architectural plans, the chief Arcanist for enchantments, and the head engineer. Inform the Baron I require the war council convened immediately."
His fingers twitched with a volatile mix of dread and anticipation. He could feel the wrongness in the empire's posture here, and now he had both the opportunity and the authority to correct it.
He sat, pulled out a notebook, and began scribbling furiously. After minutes, he would circle something, speak out the Words of Assertion to his communication Crystal, and then hurled whatever words came to him until the person on the other end agreed with whatever Quintus wanted.
The capital wasn't a golden city from a fable. It was a mountain of life, and it stank. From the perfumed balconies of the Sun-Spire district, the scent drifted down to mix with the smell of baking bread, which in turn blended with the odor of forge-smoke, sewage, and too many people crammed together in the Warrens below. It was the smell of an organism, layered and undeniable.
Similarly, the Department of Military Logistics didn't have a grand facade. It was a fortress of bureaucracy, a blocky, functional structure of grey basalt built into the mountain's shoulder, chosen for its proximity to the main military warehouses and the subterranean Menhir freight yards. Its windows were narrow, slitted things, not for defense against armies, but against the distraction of sunlight. The only thing that marked it as important was the sheer, relentless traffic of messengers, their boots wearing a permanent sheen on the stone steps.
Inside, everything was a nightmare. The system was getting overwhelmed with the influx of data from the clerks. Almost in unison, the High Command had suddenly decided on a shift in tactics, and so, they had to redo the fine-tuning of gear again. Thankfully, they were just changing to travelling medium. But as if to mock her relief, the burden that the imperial army had shaken off needed to be redirected to the Iron Valleys, and therefore, they had to reserialize everything. All while there was a deadline for them to find ideal distribution zones in the plains surrounding Solaris. Her wrist had groaned in pity when it learned of the news.
Still, Thalia was determined to serve in the best way that she could. Pushing herself to the limit, she scanned papers passing through her desk at an alarming speed and would frequently sign them before pushing them over. Taking a deep puff from an enchanted device, she compared the paperwork her subordinates had filed for the Battle Pack to the requests the Mage had made. She nodded when she agreed with the rejections her subordinates had made and the changes they had made to the request. She signed the paperwork and stamped the Pack. The empire could not afford indulgence.
For almost two hours, she repeated the same monotonous procedure with only slight breaks, sometimes refusing to approve a pack and returning with a note highlighting the mistake.
Then, the notice for an impromptu meeting arrived. She pushed her seat back, ironed out the small creases that had formed, picked up a pen, notebook, and walked out of the room. After some minutes of walking, she entered a vast warehouse, its cavernous space filled with the quiet dread of overworked clerks. At the front stood Lord Valerius himself.
"The Empire now favors mobility and the weight of a single, decisive punch," Valerius began, his voice cutting through the stuffy air. "To conform to the weapon that Logistics is, the following will be effective immediately: the standard pack weight for runners is increased. Their security clearance is raised to Top Secret."
A murmur went through the crowd. Valerius silenced it with a look.
"Choice of where to work or what to carry is rescinded. What the empire issues is what you will use. If you run out, you do nothing. Furthermore," he continued, his gaze sweeping over them, "selected officers will be issued Menhir rings. Their duty is to gather the empire's possessions from incapable agents."
Looting our own, Lyra noted with a chill. The rules were being rewritten in blood and iron. The empire was shedding its skin, and the new one underneath was cold, hard, and ruthless. She signed the new policy directive without a word.