“Lady von Degurechaff,” Sigismund Dijkstra began, watching as the young sorceress wrote in a book, sitting behind a desk in her office. As she had not had enough time to properly furnish the place, the office was sparse, with the oaken desk and Degurechaff’s chair being the only furniture present.

  The cold walls of the harbour tower - Degurechaff’s tower - did not make the place any more welcoming.

  As one of the few people who had seen some of the other rooms in the tower, Dijkstra knew enough to be happy with the arrangement.

  The woman stopped, putting her quill away, before raising her head. Her piercing blue eyes met his own azure, “Yes, Sigi? I thought we’d already covered the messenger constructs?”

  Dijkstra suppressed a frown. Indeed, they had. The ‘Aviary’ would be built in Marnadal on account of Tanya’s new duties, a fact which Philippa Eilhart used to bludgeon him into reluctant silence. He still felt confident in his conclusion, but alas, Eilhart did not think his arguments convincing. Dijkstra had to admit that Degurechaff’s latest rampage had made him second-guess himself as well.

  He mulled over the idea of just hitting her with Philippa’s likely misconception, before dismissing it. Whether he was right or wrong, he very much doubted such insubordination would be tolerated, especially this early into his career. And, unfortunately, in this type of work, being relieved of duty could have very lethal consequences. It was simply not worth the risk, at least not yet.

  “I have a message from Lady Eilhart, and a smaller matter that has come up regarding the, ah, training task you gave to our fledgling agency,” he began.

  The young sorceress perked up, “Oh?”

  “Certain remarks made by King Foltest during one of his court sessions have made their way to His Majesty, King Vizimir II, who has received them with much displeasure,” he spoke, delivering Philippa’s message. An important one, if Eilhart’s perception of the young girl was true. Irrelevant, if his own was.

  Though he did not know the details, he knew enough to fill in the blanks. Vizimir had never gotten over Foltest rejecting the Redanian king’s daughter in favour of an incestual marriage with his own sister. An animosity which Foltest did not reciprocate, apparently accepting of Vizimir’s reaction.

  Until his sister-wife died last year.

  “Interesting,” Degurechaff responded, no hint of any sort in her voice, “And the task?”

  “The girl likely has,” he paused, thinking of the best phrase to use, “magical talent.”

  Degurechaff’s eyes sharpened, “Likely?”

  Dijsktra coughed, “Two of our agents reported possible subconscious use of telekinesis, but neither they, nor I or Baron Eylembert, are particularly versed in the Art. She is also not managing well without her father.”

  She hummed, “Continue watching her, and,” she paused, “Send her a monthly stipend from my pay, enough to maintain her current lifestyle. Say it is from a friend of her father’s.”

  Dijkstra raised an eyebrow.

  “With my newfound duties in Marnadal, I can’t devote my attention to this now, but it’d be a waste to leave her be,” she explained, “Besides, you are still recruiting, are you not?”

  Dijsktra froze for half a second before nodding. She must have meant the Cintran agency. Having a low-stakes mission to rotate new recruits on was useful, and this way, the manpower wasn’t completely wasted. A small favour, all things considered. It’d be a lie to say that he or his boss were not interested in what the sorceress was up to, making it largely a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  “Should the girl be looking forward to your attention?” He asked.

  Degurechaff frowned, “Once my new position is stabilised. It should be feasible for me to sponsor her attendance at Aretuza.”

  Dijsktra raised a brow, “That is quite generous of you.”

  The sorceress shrugged, “I am sure the girl would be correspondingly grateful to me for providing her with a new beginning.”

  Monck sat in his cell, manacles on his hands, staring at a rat, transfixed. The creature sniffed around before its beady eyes found his. The two stared at each other for a moment before the rat scurried under the door of his cell.

  The man stared after it. The door was made of heavy wood and reinforced with metal, with little to no gap underneath, but the stone floor of the prison underneath it was damaged, leaving enough space for an enterprising rat to squeeze through.

  Monck didn’t like it. He had tried to fill the gap with dirt and crumbled stone, but the rat had come again regardless, digging through.

  Its eyes seemed too intelligent. Mocking.

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  The prisoner shivered. He dared not get close to the animal, but the idea of that woman staring at him from behind the beady eyes of the rodent unsettled him greatly.

  What would she do were he to harm one of her familiars?

  Would she order him tortured? Executed?

  Or would she come personally, to do something far, far worse?

  That’s when he heard steps from the outside. His gaze immediately went to the door as the footsteps thundered in his ears.

  ‘Armoured,’ his mind produced, having heard similar footsteps countless times in his life. But why was a knight here?

  When the footsteps stopped right in front of his cell, his breath caught.

  The clinking of the keys might as well have been the loudest sound he had ever heard.

  Then, agonisingly slowly, the door opened, while Monck watched with wide eyes, which somehow grew even wider once he spotted the dark figure entering his cell.

  Death had come to his cell, staring at him with blue eyes from behind a skull-shaped helm.

  “Monck,” the figure spoke in a disturbingly familiar manner.

  He pressed his back into the wall as he realised who exactly was standing in the cell with him.

  “I have a proposition for you,” a voice resounded from behind the skull-shaped helmet, though he stayed silent.

  “Your daughter has not been doing so well without you,” she continued, making him freeze.

  Was this how heroes felt in stories when offered a hand by a devil? Unfortunately, Monck was no hero.

  “Is she all right?” He croaked, his throat dry from disuse.

  The figure in dark plate nodded, “So far, but her savings will run out soon. No one wishes to pay a child a fair wage,” she said, her voice growing disgusted by the end.

  What would happen afterwards went unsaid. Either his Marianna would starve, or worse, try her luck with the one trade all young girls were readily accepted in.

  Monck shivered again. Both options would likely lead to her death.

  “What do you want,” he rasped.

  “A life for a life,” the sorceress spoke sinisterly, “For your crimes, your sentence is death, making your life forfeit in any case. I would allow you to spend it better. Without support, Marianna will likely follow you into the grave. I am willing to provide this support.”

  Monck’s brows creased, “You want to… kill me?”

  "I wish for your help and cooperation in the development of a novel spell, Monck, alongside your obedience. Death is a possible, though undesirable, outcome. Permanent changes to your body are certain, ones you will likely find unwanted, even if they will strengthen you. In exchange, I will ensure your daughter has access to housing, food and opportunities to better her life, be that through vocational or other education, until your daughter reaches both self-sufficiency and adulthood. Should everything go well, then I will support her for as long as you serve," she explained, "However, I would never subject you to such a thing without your consent."

  Though he could not see her face behind her helm, he could imagine the sinister grin surely present on her face. His head spun at the seemingly generous terms. In some ways, better than he could have ever hoped. In others...

  “A,” he licked his lips, “a novel spell?”

  She nodded again, “Have you, by any chance, heard of witchers?”

  Monck had, “The, uh, mutants? You want to turn me into one?”

  It was a strange offer and not one he expected to receive in a thousand years, but his first thought was that he had expected worse.

  “Not exactly,” she said, pausing slightly, “Witchers, while a novel and effective measure at the time, are not what I need. I do not need self-sufficiency, nor do I care about visual presentation. I want an advantage.”

  The sorceress scrutinised him, “Well?”

  Monck did not like what he heard at all, but what options did he have?

  “I accept.”

  For Marianna.

  Her eyes glowed in excitement, “Excellent.”

  The man found the change disconcerting, flinching away when she reached for his manacles, though the sorceress paid no mind, swiftly inserting a key and freeing him, before pulling out a scroll from somewhere and offering it to him.

  Monck took it gingerly, his eyes glazing over at the content. He could read, as he had been taught in his youth, but most of the words went over his head. When he raised his eyes, the sorceress had somehow produced a quill and ink, offering it to him with a smile that reminded him of a hungry wolf.

  He signed.

  “Follow me,” she commanded, before turning her back towards him and marching out of the cell.

  More than a little baffled, Monck obeyed.

  “We will be departing for Marnadal in a few days, and you will undergo the procedure there, after I am done preparing. Considering our arrangement, you will be left mostly free for this time. Should you attempt to escape, support for your daughter will be withdrawn, though her watchers will stay. The same goes if you speak of our arrangement to anyone. Understood?” She turned her cold eyes towards him.

  Monck nodded twice.

  The sorceress hummed, “I suggest you enjoy yourself until then.”

  “No!” Pavetta gasped in horror, staring at her magical auntie with wide eyes while gripping the fur of the panting dog tightly.

  “It is just for a little while,” Auntie Nya tried to reason.

  Viki turned her furry face towards the princess, tilting it questioningly.

  The child released the dog, walking in between it and her auntie and stared at the sorceress imploringly while clasping her hands,“Please please please please pleaseeeee.”

  Her aunt’s eyes softened as she beheld the totally-not tantrum, “I will bring Viktoriya with me when I come to check up on you. A big girl like you should be able to manage for that long.”

  Pavetta mulled it over, “Viktoriya, and Vooren,” she spoke, nodding to herself.

  Tanya blinked in surprise, then shook her head slightly, “As long as Matron Gera is happy with your progress.”

  The princess pumped her fist. Gera was easy.

  Complete and utter victory. Her mother would be proud.