Bern awoke unlike any other city.

Quietly.

For a place so choked with people, so stuffed full of lavish life, its morning alleys were strangely empty. The many shops and storefronts and great-halls were bereft that mighty throng what had seemed so infinite yesterday, and barely a few Blessed, and perhaps a servant or two, now frequented them. Scampering about their errands. Sipping their morning brew by the streetside.

As I roused myself from bed, the city slipped into it.

Although, it might perhaps have been more proper to say that Bern never truly slept, at all, for all throughout the night I’d found myself troubled by an incessant clamour of activity. Bern, like Port Cambridge, and Talos, and most other big cities, I was coming to realize, had a certain hum about it. A buzz. Though the overbearing presence of Shards and songs no longer troubled me quite so much, the physical noise alone was plenty irritating. The ceaseless cheers and jeers of revelry expressed by a populace who wanted for nothing, and still were never satisfied stood a far cry from the peace I’d accustomed myself to back home.

To make it worse my modest manor, and Alyss’s, though luxuriant, were completely analogue; lacking any manner of noise-damping, and so I’d found it quite uncomfortable to sleep. I hadn’t had the time to train last night, either. I’d spent most the entire evening debriefing with my sorceress companion. Something that was sure to soon become a ritual, I wagered.

I’d shared with her the details of Dainsleif’s mammoth aura, and confirmed that she hadn’t seen a whisper of it, herself. She, similarly, described to me the nature of the Anglican’s Shade, which apparently took the form of a rumbling, churning, warping, light-blue mechanical engine. It made sense, given the name. Neither of us had a clue as to how it might be that a Titan gained access to the System, or Blessings, or what implications such a revelation involved.

The Slavic Lord, for his part, expressed an equally appropriate and practically unhelpful Shade in the form of a second shadow that lagged ever-so-slightly after his own. My observation of his Shard, and Gifts, revealed little of use to us, vague as they were.

Still, I was concerned about that man.

I might not have been a novice to violence, but I was to the ways of war. Very much so. Alyss was, too. And I’d bet my Noble Blessing that Niko was anything but. That worried me. Or, more accurately, it worried me for her. For Alyss. That hatred he’d shown her, despite having never met her once before…was astonishing.

And when I’d asked about it, she’d just brushed my questions away. Said something to the effect of Slavers not being welcome here. She’d said as much before, to be fair. I just hadn’t expected it to be this bad.

I was glad I’d interceded on her behalf.

My execution had been foolhardy. Reckless. I knew it. Its success was a stroke of luck, and nothing more. But still, I was glad I did it. It was the first time since receiving my Blessing I’d actually felt worthy of the Name.

I sighed, swung my legs over the soft, plush bedspread upon which I’d spent an unsatisfying night, and rubbed wearily at the sleep accumulated in my eyes. For a moment, I considered the possibility of fabricating a proto-Shard purely for the purposes of noise cancellation.

Probably not worth it.

So I simply spun up Draconic Blood instead, setting it to clear the worst of the cobwebs from my worn-out mind whilst I plodded down the stairs of my not-so-humble abode.

After treating myself to a sufficiently sumptuous breakfast, and playing a bit with Fang both in and outside my soul, I slipped on my traditional, comfortable black synthread pants and shirt, and strode outside, my hound following faithfully at my heels.

Indeed, Bern was quiet. Unusually quiet.

It was nice.

I closed my eyes, allowing the morning sun’s soothing rays to wash gently over me. I flexed my Entropy, subtly flaring each and every Shard that sat within my sea, waking them from a nightly meditation of their own. I conducted them in quiet symphony, drinking deeply of their discordant, unique harmonies.

Listening to their glorious reverberations in the song.

Pneumatic Armory set a constant basso, a low and fundamental foundation to the eldritch choir, Fang’s miniscule form echoing its rumble at my feet. Acceleration entered fast and fervic, a lightning-staccato that faded in and out of being erratically, a furious soprano that decided the melody by right of strength alone. Draconic Blood bled between the two last of all, almost humbly, bridging the gaps in seemingly-unconnected sequences, a great glue that claimed no individual glory yet held the whole orchestra together.

I savored in the peace of a singing soul and a sleeping Bern. I knew it wouldn’t last.

Soon, the giant would awake.

With one more remnant yawn, I turned about and smartly rapped upon my Aristocratic companion’s door, my ever-faithful silver hound still yipping playfully about my feet as I did so. I heard the slight tip-tapping of light footfalls rush to answer it, and couldn’t help but smile.

I was eager to see her, I realized.

Eager to see a Nycta. A Crat. A Slaver. Eager to face the future with her. To slay the Warrior.

What a joke.

But a good one, this time.

Alyss emerged dapper, impeccably groomed and polished from tip to toe. Her hair was thick, dark, and lustrous, freshly-cleaned, her lime-green eyes glimmering hauntingly by the dim light of dawn. Though I knew the sorceress to prefer a more practical garb, this morn she’d eschewed the leathers, wearing instead a set of black-green robes fit considerably more for ceremony than combat.

My grin broadened as I took her habit in.

“Ah, my fair lady,” I crooned, affecting my best approximation of a thickly-highborn accent whilst I bent deeply at the waist. “I trust our accommodations suited you well?”

With that, I performed a princely flourish, elegantly extending my hand her way.

She slapped it away and rolled her eyes at me.

“You’d better be serious today, Taiven,” she warned. “You understand what we’re walking into, here, don’t you? That little stunt with the Novikov boy…I don’t want to see that again. Okay? I don’t want to see it a second time. Okay? You understand?”

I placed a palm upon my chest.

“You have my word,” I professed, sincerely.

“I mean it, Taiven,” she scowled at me. “You promised you’d listen to me, didn’t you? Didn’t you? What good is my advice, if you won’t even take it?” She paused then, and glanced me up and down, anxiously gnawing at her bottom lip.

“I’m worried about you,” she announced.

“What?” I replied, genuinely confused. “Why?”

“That thing–what you did, yesterday–with Novikov, I mean–” She hesitated. “You…weren’t scared.” She spoke the words as if she wished for me to contradict them.

I blinked.

“That’s not true,” I protested. “I was–”

“Worried, but for me, right?” She asked. “Not for yourself. For me.” She waved a hand, going on.

“Like, if a fight broke out, you were worried that you wouldn’t be able to protect me,” she explained. “But, you weren’t worried about yourself, were you?” She pressed, insistently. “You weren’t scared.

“Even here,” she finished. “Even in Bern.”

“Uhhh…,” I muttered, eloquently.

Honestly?

She was right.

And it wasn’t that I thought myself all-powerful, either. No, nothing like that. Strong as I was, in terms of pure offensive capability, I’d no doubt at all there were those who could eviscerate with scant more than a flexed finger.

No, it wasn’t my strength.

It was my speed.

It was just…hard to imagine any way around it. Strength, no matter how overwhelming, was useless in the crawling world. If I couldn’t win outright, all I had to do was run away.

A Marble Blessed possessed perhaps ten times the speed of a mundane man. A Marble Brute boasted ten times that haste, again. And if I pushed myself to my very limits, I could move at one hundredfold that speed. Half as much, if I wished to do so without tearing myself apart. At five hundred times the pace of a mundane human. That quickly.

I could move that quickly.

I could think that quickly.

I could strike that quickly.

I couldn’t do it for very long, but what did that matter? My Entropy reserves grew larger, and more efficient, with each passing day. Even if I couldn’t kill Immortals outright, there was no way in all the Hells that they could catch me. No, the only recourse that I felt I truly needed fear was someone, somehow, managing to take me by surprise.

But with Sensory Perception and the song working in tandem, I very much doubted any would be able.

“…well?” I muttered, eventually. “You’re right. I guess. I wasn’t scared.” I quirked an eyebrow at my companion.

“But, I mean, it wasn’t like Niko was Immortal, or anything.”

Alyss shook her head.

“That’s not the point, Taiven,” she said.

“His Blessing was Minor, too,” I pointed out. “I mean, should I have been scared?”

“That’s not the point, Taiven,” she repeated, insistently. “You don’t even know him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.” She sighed, and rubbed at her forehead.

“I’m worried about you,” she repeated. “You spend so much time with your Shards. All these past months, you spend so much time with your Shards. I don’t think it’s healthy.”

She scowled down at Fang, who tilted his little head adorably to the side.

“You spend more time with them than with me,” she maintained. “And you said it yourself. The only language they speak is violence.”

I looked down at the Shard in question.

He barked at me, happily.

“Ok, fine,” I capitulated. “Fine, Alyss. I agree. I’ll be more careful. Seriously.”

“Seriously,” she echoed, firmly.

“Seriously,” I confirmed.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I promised, seriously.

She narrowed her eyes at me, suspiciously.

“You’d better,” she replied, finally wresting me and my poor Shard from her focus in favour of critically examining her flawless visage upon the reflective windows of the door, adjusting the fine black tresses that fell past her face.

She scowled sourly at her own reflection, and a few ink-black tendrils of shadow emerged from the contours of her cloak to worry about her, smoothing the wrinkles in her robes, fixing her scattered hairs back into place.

“You look simply bewitching, heir of Nycta,” I grinned, unable to help myself.

“What did I just say?” She groaned, though I noticed a curious hint of color in her cheeks.

I bent down, clapping my hands together, and Fang promptly jumped right into them, yipping excitedly at the both of us.

“See?” I requested, holding the panting hound out in front of me. “Even Fang thinks so.”

Alyss wrinkled her nose, and recoiled.

“How dare you!?” I gasped, clutching the adorable hound tight in my arms. “Fang’s breath doesn’t smell! It doesn’t, does it, buddy?” I cooed, scratching him vigorously behind the ears.

And it was true, too. His breath didn’t smell of anything in particular.

A hint of metal, perhaps.

“Don’t stick him in my face, Taiven,” the monstrous Slaver chastised me, then pensively tapped her chin. “Actually, you probably shouldn’t have him out, at all. Not on the first day, at least. It’ll only cause us more problems. And we’ve plenty enough of those, as is,” she muttered.

I gasped a second time, clamping my hands firmly over the quite oblivious creature’s silver ears, huddling him away from her.

“But what if someone attacks us?!” I cried out in dismay.

“Keep him in his sword form,” the vile Master commanded, cruelly crossing her arms in my direction. “You can take him out later, once we’ve established ourselves. For now, I don’t want the risk.”

“Poor Fang,” I sighed, cradling the adorable canine’s head in my hands, staring deep into his bone-white eyes. “She doesn’t trust you to behave. What do you say to that?”

Power here, my savage Shard thought back.

Thick. Delicious. So many scents.

A thread of shimmering silver drool dropped from his parted lips.

Soon we feast, Master.

On second thought, perhaps Alyss had the right of it, after all.

I snapped my fingers with a sigh, contorting an obliging Fang back into the form he just about preferred, anyways. No matter his newfound freedom, the wolf was, ultimately, a weapon. Nothing seemed to give him quite as much joy as when I wielded him proper.

Alyss sighed, running an final anxious hand through her hair, perfectly mussing up all the changes she’d just worked so hard to make for reasons that eluded me. She tensely strode down the steps and onto the city streets, biting a fingernail as she did so.

I fell into step beside her.

“I have to admit, I kind of hoped Caleb would be here by now,” she confessed as she walked. “What in all the Gods’ names could be taking him so long?”

“It’s only been a day,” I pointed out, casting my gaze about the few comers and goers that passed us as we walked, admiring the songs of Blessed and souring at the sight of servants. “Hardly ‘so long.’”

“I know,” she accepted, “just–well…”

She paused, for a moment.

“I wasn’t expecting it to be this bad,” she said, in a rather more hushed tone of voice. “The whole–the progressive thing, you know?”

“No love for Slavers in Bern,” I nodded. “Ironic, that.”

“And, it’d be really nice to have the Faith’s support too. You know? Caleb…why, he’s practically faultless. What with his reputation? No one would dare test us,” she went on.

“I know,” I replied.

“I thought…I thought it’d be okay. I thought I could do this on my own,” she said, quietly. “You know? But now, I’m…not so sure.”

“You’re not alone,” I said.

She glanced up at me sharply. “Hmm?” She asked.

“You’re not alone,” I repeated, mildly.

Just as she’d said to me before, back in the depths of the Maw.

“You’ve got me.”

My eyes didn’t budge from roving across the little shops and storefronts, but Sensory Perception gave me a full view of that same, strange, intense expression spreading across Alyss’s face. The one I’d seen her exhibit just yesterday, on the train.

After a moment, it shifted into a small smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re right.”

We traversed the streets of Bern, watching the city wake.

The faint blue lights of modest shoppes illuminated one-by-one, as unfathomably many pixels all comprising the earth’s greatest physical display screen. Service golems began to populate the roads and alleys in ever-greater numbers, plying to all manner of disparate tasks; serving tables and porting goods, policing passersby and offering directions, cleaning and carrying and generally supplying that endless, tireless labour requisite for such a gargantuan metropolis to function.

Then, as we transitioned from residential districts to administrative quarter, I noticed the architecture gradually shift from antique manors and quaint town houses to something bolder, gaudier, and considerably more modern. It was still classical in theme, undeniably so, sporting its fair share of stone and marble, of columns and arches. But those columns and those arches were more and more infected by smooth, Entropic cobalt, now. And while this quarter was far smaller in breadth, its individual buildings were much, much larger.

In the distant horizon, standing proudly out against the great cityscape, I noticed a set of three landmarks. To the east were a conglomerate of behemoth rectangular buildings, five of them, all rising tall above even the skyscrapers around, sprouting from the marble jungle. Back west, and a touch south, was that same glimmering, glittering sphere I’d seen just yesterday, its purpose unknown. And, finally, easterly and just beyond the five great rectangles, there was a massive cobalt spire.

It was the largest structure in all the city, likely the tallest single edifice I’d ever seen, and tipped with what appeared to be an all-glass bulb at its very apex.

Whilst the architecture shifted around us, the mood of the populace did, too.

Quaint cafes and quiet shopfronts were made invisible by the thickening throng, still minute compared to yesterday but growing more multitudinous by the minute, emerging from their impromptu slumber. They ambled wearily about the city, still affected by rest’s last remnants, and collected themselves every now and again around a number of billboards and posters that decorated the ubiquitous city lampposts and walls of the guild halls.

As we walked, I found myself perusing them.

One was cast in white-gold trim, a similar palette to that one that Dainsleif wore, and sat neatly, elegantly upon the borders of a tall, marble building.

Do YOU have what it takes?

The few. The Mighty. The Sons of Dainsleif.

Join today.

Sign up at Marktgasse 8, or visit a branch office.

Another was grim and grisly, slanted slightly in its place, notched with multiple scratches and set more towards the alley than the road. It betrayed a message of far more brutalistic persuasion, and offered nothing at all in the way of direction or instruction.

War. Wealth. Women.

The Delvers Guild.

As I gazed deeper into the alley it bordered, I caught glimpse of two worker golems, frantically scrubbing at the wall itself. Someone had managed to somehow engrave a message upon the very marbled stone of the building, in blood-red coloring, and the golems were working furiously to erase it.

HE DREAMS OF WAR

HE SLEEPS IN PAIN

Upon his waking, the world will change.

Open your eyes.

See Almqvist at the He–

The rest of the message was incomprehensible.

Finally, I saw the most visually-striking poster of them all, made of pure glass and flickering with neon-blue and deep-purple letters that seemed to dance animatedly across its screen.

~

Syren

~

and

~

Synthwave

~

Live in concert at the Distracted Globe

Each September Fri and Sat

Contact a Merchants Guild Golem, or visit any of our stands for tickets.

“Syren…” I remarked, distractedly.

“Hmm?” Alyss replied.

“Syren,” I repeated, pointing at the sign. “I swear I’ve heard that Name somewhere before.”

She glanced at it, sniffed, and shrugged. “Some sort of musician, I suppose?” She asked.

“What, you don’t recognize her?” I returned.

“Contrary to your belief, perhaps, Taiven,” she said, smirking slightly at me. “I’m not familiar with each and every Blessed in Europe. If she–”

“Reports of Balmut moving east!”

A shrill, high-pitched voice interrupted her.

It was strangely-shrieking, warbling, bumbling from one vowel to the next, inhumanly so. I turned my head towards its source and saw a golem awkwardly waving many reams of paper in its palms. Upon its face, some craftsman had placed a mask in what seemed a crude affectation of a true human’s visage, a sickly smile that served only to unsettle me.

“Moving East!” It screeched, waving its arms about. “Moving fast! Will the Emperor respond? Will he fight? Who will win? The Divine Dragon, or the Death Titan? Read all about it!”

“Oooh!” I exclaimed, raising my eyebrows and angling myself towards the bizarre creature. “How interesting-GUHH!”

I let out a cry of my own as I was, by my own bosom friend, untimely yanked away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Alyss scowled, nabbing me by the cuff.

“But–Balmut and Lung!” I protested, wide-eyed.

“Oh, for–Balmut’s not fighting Lung, Taiven,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s all nonsense.” She jerked her head the crier’s way. “He’s just trying to sell papers.”

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

“It’s a golem,” I pointed out.

“Well, then it’s just trying to sell papers,” she maintained, bullishly. “It’s programmed that way, I’m sure. Make the most outrageous statements. It’ll say a whole lot of nothing, in the end, and then you’ll have wasted your–”

“Frattol falls, and Crannoch follows!” The crude-faced creature bellowed from afar. “Foul play? Wergar cites new rifts in the REZ! Romulus threatens war! Read all about it!”

“Romulus?” She perked up, suddenly, frowning. “The Chief Delver?” She stopped her march away, hesitating for a moment, peering back at the semi-animate salesman with a begrudgingly-piqued interest.

“Since when do delvers go to war?” She muttered. I snorted.

“Oh please,” I replied. “Did you see the ones back west? They were mercenaries, Alyss. A step from bandits. Trust me, I’d bet as long as there’s money in it, they’re game.”

“Hmm,” she frowned, deeper.

“I always thought Wergar and Romulus worked together, though,” I considered, joining her contemplative stare. “Aren’t they both Wer? They serve the Coterie, in the end.”

“Not all Therians are Wer,” she murmured back. “But–you’re right. That’s…strange.”

I nodded, slowly, licking my lips.

“Soooo…” I began, “I guess we’ll have t–”

“We’re not buying one, Taiven,” she snapped.

So we made our way to the Institute, instead.

It didn’t take us long to reach it. After all, the administrative quarter wasn’t particularly large. And Niko had been right.

The Bern Institute of Entropic Arts and Sciences was impossible to miss.

It was more akin to some ancient castle than a university, in my estimation. Enough to house tens of thousands of Blessed, at the least. It rose from the earth as a series of twining spires, winding walls and mighty crenellations, all white-gold marble and chromic cobalt bleeding into and between one another.

Its architecture was a thing of beauty, but of prowess, too, for many of the spires and walls bent at unnatural and impossible angles, contorting themselves in a manner more reminiscent to living flesh than cold steel, and the great aerial walkways that bridged them together were supported, more oft than not, by nothing at all. Merely levitating in the sky. At the great-castle’s very center was that incomprehensibly-tall, glass-tipped tower I’d seen before.

And, somewhat disconcertingly, the whole place was absolutely armed to the teeth.

I couldn’t see any cannons, or plasmic shields, or defensive emplacements, or roaming guards visually, but then, I didn’t need to. I could smell them. I could hear them. Entropy was thick in the air, here, thicker than blood. Thicker than syrup. The Institute’s whole outer wall glowed bright blue in my enhanced sight, veritably keening with a choir of countless, countless runes writ small into its very architecture. I couldn’t even imagine the sheer number of crystals required to power this place.

This wasn’t a college. It was a fortress.

The Institute’s founding principle had been to unite Europe’s many powers, but clearly, whoever’d built this felt quite differently.

We joined in a faint trickle of fellow Blessed as we approached the Institute’s main gate, a massive working of black steel barred by two equally goliath golems, at least thirty feet tall apiece. They were quite different from both the serving golems I’d seen spread out across the city and the exam golem I’d faced off back in Talos, neither stone nor truly steel, instead some bizarre black-purple alloy that didn’t look runic at all, and tasted repugnantly bitter in the song.

Still, they paid us no heed as we tread between their mighty sabatons and quite immediately came upon what had to be the central Quadrangle, a single, well-manicured square of grass, perhaps one hundred and fifty meters in each dimension.

Filled to the brim with seats, benches, and bleachers, all semicircling around a great, cobalt stage.

And, of course, filled to the brim with students.

In a way, it reminded me of that first crowd of Blessed I’d run into, at the beginning of the Agoge exam. But then, these Blessed weren’t dressed for battle. They weren’t mercenaries or bandits, knights or warmongers. They were nobles. Heirs, and Aristocrats. They were young. And they were dressed for school.

They wore a broad menagerie of suits, dresses, shirts, slacks, and trim button-downs, most of which boasted some manner or other of insignia upon a lapel, or coat of arms wrapping about the breast. Some of them looked awfully interested in just looking good, whilst others seemed positively aching to clothe themselves in just about anything else. Or nothing, even.

The collective costume of Institute students mightn’t have rivaled that of the Agoge examgoers, but they more than made up for it in song.

For a moment after we entered the quad, I stilled, and simply reveled in it.

Beauty, in its purest form.

It was, they were, an ocean of limitless overlapping colors, a celestial orchestra that put my own to shame. I saw hues, and shades, and esoteric palettes I’d never imagined could possibly exist. Royal-golds more breathtaking than the grounds of the Institute upon which we stood. Black-purples more bewitching than the Eye of Terror. They were, each and every one of them, incredible in their own unique way. And there were so many.

At last, I began to feel we’d made the right decision coming here.

The Blessed were all chatting with one another, all meandering comfortably or awkwardly about the other, and even though I wasn’t a native, I could already clearly make out the lines that had been drawn in sand. Each faction of Old Europe was well represented here, and each well kept to themselves.

So much for unity.

Firstly, occupying the field’s heart, there were the Franco-Anglicans.

They wore a breadth of different colors greater in scope than any other collective representative, a smattering of blues and whites and greens and scarlets and silvers all arranged in what I could only describe as a rather ostentatious display. At their nucleus, and quite surrounded by them, were a set of three figures, one of whom was the timid Prince Price, the other two being women I didn’t recognize. William, for his part, looked altogether ill-at-ease with his current company.

And it wasn’t hard to see why.

The comportment of Price’s countrymen were, for the most part, superior, arrogant, and downright hostile. Bellicose, to the extreme. And though they carried themselves haughtily enough about, I sensed a more than a hint of sadism lain beneath their facetious dignity, and scowled at the savagery with which they treated the few poor servants scampering anxiously around them.

To their north, and very slightly east, were an assembly of gold and white and orange-garbed, rather religious-looking people whom I took to represent the Faith of the Holy Triumvirate.

In contrast to the Franks, these holy young men and women seemed to conduct themselves with a grace and temperance a touch more appropriate to their station, speaking precious little, especially when compared to their fellow clusters. Instead, most simply sat, or stood, in quiet contemplation, pausing to direct an occasional scowl outwards to any they considered particularly unruly.

The left side of the field had been made home to whom, from their relatively cybernetic garb, I could only assume to be the Goths of the Technocracy. They were the most relaxed of everyone here, by the looks of them, lounging about the various chairs and benches that’d been erected all about the field. Some were immersed in intense conversation, musing about some piece or other of suitably ultramodern technology, whilst others, startlingly, appeared to be…getting high.

Here and there, dotting or studding or wiring the tech they wore, or wielded, or boasted, I saw sparkles of that same black-purple alloy the gate guardians were made of. And, even from afar, it turned my nose.

They’d organized themselves lackadaisically around two principal figures; a pair of nearly identical-looking young adults, one male, one female. The twins, if that was indeed who they were, appeared frightfully bored with the whole ordeal, and similarly uninterested in interacting with their countrypeople.

Towards the right end of the field, and edged as far as possible from the central Frankish cluster, I saw the Slavs.

They were…quite uniform.

They all wore black, or grey, or generally dark-colored clothing. Their garb was less fancy, less showy, more heavy, thick and rough and suited seemingly for combat more than conversation. And, speaking of speaking, they did little of that, either. In fact, the mood in their camp was veritably despondent, a great number of them boasting broad circles underneath their eyes, whilst others glanced about the neighboring groups, and their own, with considerable suspicion.

Apparently all was far from pleasant on the eastern front.

I recognized Niko in short order, caught sight of him nearish one side of the melancholic collective, but he didn’t see me. Or at least, if he did, he pretended not to. And there was nobody with him. Nobody for the Slavs to center themselves around.

Piotr wasn’t here.

Prince Price noticed us at some point, and stiffly waved our way, causing his entourage to emit a number of curious, sneering glances towards us as well. I glanced at Alyss, who mildly shook her head, and so we simply made our way into the small mishmash of students who had no apparent nationality to speak of, and took our seats. Waiting for this…whatever this was, to start.

Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

As the hours passed us by, I soon enough found myself fidgeting in place, having a good deal of difficulty remaining quite so still for so very long. I could deal with songs well by now, but being in such close proximity to so very many of them, and such potent ones to boot…

It began to grate upon me.

I wanted to move. To run. To fight. To train.

To do something, anything.

Perhaps Alyss had a point.

Maybe I was spending too much time in the company of Shards.

The sorceress demonstrated nary a whisper of my own discontent, sitting instead quite peacefully and quite comfortably in place. Her eyes were closed, but I’d no doubt she was flickering in and out of her servants’ view at this very moment. Gathering information.

Best not to bother her, I thought, correctly.

So instead, I turned to the left.

A young and rather unexceptional man sat beside me. He had thick and dark-brown hair cut lamely into a bowlish drape that uniformly encircled his head, equally thick eyebrows, and a face that I could only describe as perfectly unremarkable.

Narrowing my eyes, I took a moment to observe him.

~~~

Subtle Ripple

Attunement: Somatokinesis(Ma) 17

Grain: Charismatics

Marble: Ex Nihilo

Core: Proto-Avatar

~~~

Holy shit.

He was an Immortal.

How was he an Immortal?

I hadn’t heard of him, not at all. Nothing in his name rung any bell in my mind, no matter how small. Why wasn’t he with a faction? What was he doing on his own? There were no independent Godkin at the Institute. Not students, anyway.

Just who was this man?

“Uh, hi there,” I stated, cautiously extending a palm his way. “My name’s Taiven. Taiven Tharros. Might I have the pleasure of knowing yours?”

He turned to face me, and frowned.

“Bogdan,” he announced, grimacing as he did so.

To my amazement, he cringed as he tentatively grasped my palm in his own, his grip weak and pallid, shyly working the appendage once up and down, and releasing it as quickly as possible.

“Uh,” I repeated, trying hard not to let my bewilderment show plain upon my face.

He certainly…didn’t act like an Immortal.

He didn’t demonstrate an ounce of arrogance, nor betray a hint of the overwhelming power that his Shard doubtlessly possessed.

“Bogdan…?” I prodded.

“Oh, I’d tell you my family name, but you wouldn’t know it,” he recited, quickly, in what seemed an almost practiced manner. “I’m from a small village outside Gerstaad. Upper Equity. Far from here.”

He smiled, anxiously.

“I’m not a Preacher, though, ha-ha,” he blurted, laughing hastily. “Don’t, uhm, don’t worry. I don’t buy into all that crap about the Warrior.”

He paused, nervously.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Uh, ok,” I replied. I was still watching the actions of his song.

As he spoke, it moved with him. Flawlessly. Shifting and morphing and warping in perfect synchrony with the motions of his own body, fitting him like a great big tube sock. As if the two were one and the same. That was why I hadn’t noticed it earlier. It never once trespassed the boundaries of his own flesh, and so I found it difficult to discern his emotions as I otherwise might have. I’d no more insight into his genuine character than I might have a mundane.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bogdan,” I said, smiling stiffly at the Immortal who I was now near certain was not only a Stranger, but probably also a closet member of the Devoted.

Oh, Priest.

Why couldn’t I have just stayed quiet?

“Thanks,” he replied, then hesitated. “I don’t recognize yours, either,” he added. “Could…you’re not from Equity, too, are you?”

“I’m not,” I confirmed, at which his face promptly fell. “I’m from the Cells, actually. My companion and I just completed the Ago–”

My explanation was interrupted by a sudden flurry of activity near the stage.

A series of thunderous footfalls marked the arrival of a mighty, massive golem nearly identical in make to those that’d guarded the Institute gates. It emerged from the stadium’s side alcoves and made its way to center stage, whereupon it promptly clapped its hands together, once.

The noise was like a cannon going off.

As one, the student populace rushed to take their seats upon the many chairs and stands and bleachers that had been arranged quite neatly in that semicircular pattern, and a respectful silence fell across the wide, open field.

Alyss’s eyes snapped open, and together, the two of us watched a series of figures emerge from the left and right of the stage.

The first from the right was a middle-aged man.

He was thick, barrel-chested, and boasted a beard so profoundly bushy it put even Crannog’s to shame. His jet-black hair that seemingly all Slav’s shared greatly contrasted his too-pale face, and he moved with the weight of a migrating mountain. His song was just about as thick as he was, if not more, and denser, too, sitting so heavy about his person that it almost seemed to draw in nearby light.

~~~

Murometz the Impenetrable

Attunement: Personal Pycnokinesis(Mi) 17

Grain: Precision

Marble: Temporal Resolution

Core: Photodisintegration

~~~

I recognized his Name from Nikolai’s description, and Alyss’s lessons. This was Bolemir Bogatyr, Heir to one of the Slavic Confederacy’s five Great Houses, and the Dean of War.

One of the finest living melee combatants in all the world.

“Bolemir, of House Bogatyr,” he announced, unsurprisingly, in a rumble that put earthquakes to shame. Then he stepped back, taking his place in the line. Making room for the second figure.

She was unfamiliar to me.

She was tall, lean, and well-muscled. She strode with an exaggerated swagger, as if the stage, and the city, and the ground upon which it stood, had all been built for her, and her alone. Her dress was chic and sharp and elegant. Her bright, platinum-blonde, sun-bleached hair implicated her as Frankish, and her cruel, sneering smile confirmed it.

Her song was a nest of curling, creeping, shearing thorns, and upon her breast was a insignia of a glowing, white-grey sword.

~~~

Wicked Shrike

Attunement: Xylocorruption(Mi) 16

Grain: Projectile Imbuement

Marble: Seedlings

Core: Nail of Helena

~~~

“Colette de Bathory,” she sang in a voice like shrieking knives. “House Estoc.” She performed a mocking bow before taking her place in line.

She was well dressed, this Shrike, but not nearly so much so as the one who followed her.

This man was perhaps the best-dressed I’d ever seen. He wore a tight, grey, three-piece suit and powder-blue tie that fit him just perfectly, his hair combed flawlessly to one side. Its salt-and-pepper dapples identified its owner as a man of some years, considering his Immortal status, and the coat of arms sitting pretty on his left lapel was one I recognized, too; that self-same weeping dragon that Prince William wore.

This must have been the man he’d told us about, I realized. The one who worked for his father, the Triarch. Bartholomew Piers.

I now understood why the Prince had said that nothing would get past him.

Because Dean Piers was a Master.

~~~

Gesserit Silvertongue

Attunement: Suggestion(Mi) 16

Grain: Protocols

Marble: Remnant

Core: Parasitic Phylactery

~~~

Following close behind the Anglican lord, and immersed in inaudible conversation with him, was a far younger gentleman.

He looked rather reminiscent of Caleb, actually. If vaguely. Rich blond hair. Bright blue eyes. The somewhat white but mostly golden robes that spilled off of his arms, and legs, and chest, fell to earth in great pools of liquid fabric, never quite managing to stick there. His colors distinguished him as a member of the Faith, but the crest he bore proud, that of a single golden ring with eyes all dotting along its circumference, told me little of his House or heritage.

His song was a Thinker’s, unmistakably so. It was the clicking of innumerable eldritch abaci, the ticking of meters and metronomes. It brushed phantom tendrils all about him as he walked, tasting, testing, measuring all there was to know.

~~~

Strauss the Erudite

Attunement: Statistocognition(Mi) 18

Grain: Psionic Capacitor

Marble: Psychometry

Core: Probabilistic Demesne

~~~

“Felix Astore, of the Criers,” he bowed, sweeping low and grinning up at the Anglican beside him.

“Bartholomew Piers,” the Master added.

His tone was surprisingly normal, for someone with a Blessing named Suggestion. I didn’t detect in it any song.

“I serve Triarch Price the First,” Piers said, smiling politely out at us, the first of his kindred to address us direct. “I look forward to getting to know you all.”

The final man was, at least in disposition, a deal more somber than his comrades.

He didn’t walk like he owned the stage, or the city, or the world. He kept his gaze downwards, on the ground beneath his feet. He didn’t boast the same dazzling good looks that most other Immortals shared, and didn’t dress himself in a princely manner. He was short, green-haired, brown-eyed, and wore a modest set of shirt and pants that displayed no insignia of any kind.

And yet, there was an air of quiet strength about him, all the same. His song was even more dextrous and pliant than the Immortal sitting beside me.

~~~

Exotic Amalgam

Attunement: Meta-Material Physiology(Mi) 18

Grain: Material Bank

Marble: Phase Change

Core: Adamas Corpus

~~~

“Johann Kauff,” he murmured, faintly, his haunted eyes still stuck firm to the floor. “Unaffiliated.”

His pained, soft-spoken words concluded the number of figures entering from the right, and together, they stood at attention.

Bolemir looked stoic. Colette looked bored. Johann looked fit to disappear into the ground below. The man from the Holy Triumvirate, Felix, said something to Piers, grinning as he did so, and the Anglican lord chuckled in response.

Then, the figures from the left entered.

The first marked a stark contrast to those I’d seen thus far, both in demeanor and, startlingly, in Blessed status. She was a sour, dour, scowling woman with mousy features, unkempt hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks, and nails gnawed down nearly to the bone.

And she was the only one of them to not be Immortal.

“Ada Gotsche. Shodan,” she groused, irritably, before taking her place to the left of Bolemir.

~~~

Compile

Attunement: Fabrication–Ciphic Computation(Mi) 14

Grain: Autoscript

Marble: Ciphic Battery

~~~

She was a Tinker.

Which meant that those five who’d already entered and now stood before us were the Deans of the Arts, and these were Deans of the Sciences. Compile had entered swiftly, stalking irritably to her place in line as if she wished dearly to be just about anywhere but here.

Then the next figure entered, and a muted gasp rippled out from the crowd.

Because she was gorgeous.

Absolutely gorgeous. No, more than that.

She was perfect.

Biologically, physically, aesthetically perfect. Her tresses were the color of raven’s feathers, her lips a deep, ruby red. Her every feature was flawlessly sized, oriented, placed, and chosen. Her skin had no pores, no scrapes, no scars, and no blemishes. No hair, except for on her head. No wrinkles, even where there should have been. No circles under her eyes. She had just the right amount of fat. Just the right amount of muscle. She didn’t walk, or talk, or act seductively, but she didn’t need to.

She was just…the perfect being.

It was unsettling, honestly. Uncomfortable. She didn’t really look human.

She beamed at the crowd of awestruck students, waving cheerfully as she did so.

~~~

Yaga of the Mortar and Pestle

Attunement: Fabrication-Alchemical Liquefaction(Mi) 16

Grain: Alchemical Storage

Marble: Telekinetic Liquefaction

Core: Prima Materia

~~~

“Rosmira, of House Kostyana,” she announced, in a syrupy-sweet voice, smiling at us all. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with my family’s work, da? Saved your asses more than once, I’m sure.”

There was a smattering of chuckles from the crowd, for reasons unknown to me. I’d have to ask Alyss, later.

The one who emerged after her, by contrast, looked quite unremarkable.

He appeared a serious, studious fellow, striding to the stand without flourish or embellishment. His gait was perfunctory. Professional. He wore a simple white button-down shirt, and a dark grey pair of pants. His light brown hair had been cropped short, close to his face, which was completely blank. Featureless.

Of the whole lot of them, this man was perhaps the first who actually resembled what I imagined of a professor. And, much like Amalgam, he bore no insignia of any kind.

But, as I peered closer and closer in the song, I noticed something…off about him.

His body, it looked wrong. Misshapen. His song moved about all awkwardly, unnaturally, as if it’d somehow been stapled to his form. And there was a concerning acuity lurking behind his emotionless gaze.

This was someone to be wary of.

“I am Dr. Kenneth Angstrom,” he declared without a single shift in pitch, tone, or inflection.

~~~

Helix the Unmaker

Attunement: Ribonucleic Manipulation(Mi) 19

Grain: Manual Sequencing

Marble: Ex Nihilo

Core: Meta-Gene

~~~

My eyes widened.

This was him.

This was the man who’d discovered dust’s effects on mundies. This was the man who’d doomed all mundanes to a life of wretched sacrifice. To be feeding stock for the Sword Titan.

I felt my fists clench tight together in my lap.

“Perhaps some among you are familiar with my work, as well,” he stated, gesturing robotically towards the Kostyana Dean. “I am always on the lookout for new graduate students. But, be forewarned. I take science seriously, as should you. My lectures are competitive. If you wish to work under me, know that I will accept nothing less than your best.”

He nodded, once.

“Also, I represent the interests of those who call themselves the Physiognomists.”

With that, he took his place in line.

Behind him, then, and for now the fourth time, there walked a character whom I recognized, though not from Alyss’s painful lectures, Lord Novikov’s sardonic recommendations, or the naive, excitable ramblings of the Anglican Prince.

No, this figure was reminiscent of a time much further back, back before I’d even left my home continent. From the referral Mentat had given me. At last, I’d encountered its intended recipient.

The historian meant to aid me in my quest. The one who might, just possibly, possess the answers I so desperately desired.

His skin was the color of creamy coffee, hinting at an ancestry far further east, and south, than that of his peers. His hair set him apart, too, a bright white that meant this man was an old Immortal. A very old one. And yet, he strode with a grace and elegance and canny that put his far-younger peers to shame.

Good.

Just what I needed.

Now, I just needed to figure out how to get us some time alone.

“My name is Faisal Nasir,” he said, with a slight smile. “I am unaffiliated.”

~~~

Ptolemy the Traveled

Attunement: Psychomedia(Mi) 19

Grain: Muscle Memory

Marble: Empathic Transmission

Core: Postcognitive Reconstruction

~~~

And then, there was only one remaining.

Or rather, only two.

For the last of the figures to enter left of the stage was not a single man, but two of them together, walking in an uncanny unison with one another. Once more, a disparate scatter of gasps escaped the student body that encircled us, but this time they weren’t born of desire.

They were born of apprehension. Of awe.

The two men, for all their synchrony, looked nothing like one another. Their complexion was near enough to one another, perhaps, but that was it. The first had reddish hair, cut short, whilst the other’s was long and black. The first was tall, perhaps six and a half feet so, whilst the other barely would’ve scraped my own chin. The first had elegant, waifish features, whilst the other’s were firm, squat, and square.

The first man had no eyes.

The second man had no mouth.

In place of these most vital organs, there was only a strip of plain, featureless skin. No doubt, this was what had drawn the chorus of gasps from my fellow students. And I gasped, too. But mine wasn’t a gasp of amazement, or fascination, or admiration.

It was a gasp of fear.

~~~

The Diarchy of Praxis

Attunement: Entropokinesis(Ma) 19

Grain: To See, Unblinded

Marble: To Speak, All Tongues

Core: To Pierce, the Fabric

~~~

These two men possessed the single most potent song I’d ever seen.

Save, of course, for the Sword Titan’s.

Entropokinesis towered over us all, looming gigantic over the whole stage, the whole quad, the whole Institute. Deep and sea-green and powerful, in a majesty only I could see. It stood absolutely still, perfectly silent and obedient under the control of a peerless master. It wound somehow about the both of its Hosts completely equally, belonging no more to the one of them then to the other.

And neither one of them had a Core.

They had a song, but no Core. How…how was that possible? How could that be? Everyone had a Core. It was a necessity. It was where your Shards, your Entropy, was stored. How could one exist without the other? How could one drink water, without a bowl?

“I am Circade,” the eyeless man spoke simply. “And this is Degrasi,” he gestured towards the mouthless one.

“It is our pleasure, and our privilege, to teach. To serve the Institute. To bring this one hundred and ninety-seventh year of our fine college into being.”

Circade paused.

“And now, I believe our Headmaster would like to say a few inaugural words.”

With that, the two monsters stepped back apace, making room for a final figure. I watched the left and right with bated breath, but was looking in the wrong place.

In retrospect, I should’ve known better.

The Hand never walked when he didn’t have to.

And so, with a slight popping sound that had become oh-so-very familiar to me, no matter the months that had passed by since last I’d heard it, a grey-gloved figure apparated violently upon center stage.

He clapped his metallic hands together in a great explosion of sound and force, shocking all the members of the audience, before bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“LORDS…AND…LAAAAAAAAAADIEEEEEEEEES!”

Lord Pylon, Immortal Hand of Sibyl the All-Seeing Coterie, Commander-in-Chief of the Runemakers, and the Chroniclers, and the Magnates, and the Delvers, and the Sons of Dainsleif, Headmaster of the Bern Institute of Entropic Arts and Sciences, and many other titles besides spread his arms out wide.

“SLAVS AND GOTHS!” He thundered. “FRANKS AND ANGLICANS! FAITHFUL AND WER, PROSELYTISTS AND PHYSIOGNOMISTS AND HEIRS ONE AND ALL…”

“WEEEEEEELCOOOOOME!”