“Do you have any idea what you just agreed to?” Torvald’s mother said, her voice tinged with exasperation. They were sitting in the rooms their family shared in the castle, where she’d practically dragged him the moment the meeting ended. They were nicer than a Guard Commander’s family could normally hope for, owing in no small part to the woman sitting in front of him. If she didn’t hate politics and intrigue so much, his mother might have been running this city by virtue of her birth alone.

“I agreed to do whatever the Goddess demands.” Torvald said vaguely. Ruzinia had given him an answer, sure, but the exact meaning of it hadn't been clearer to him than anyone else. Still, he knew whom he served. That was good enough for him.

His mother scowled at him, but her tone was pleading. “You have no idea what you’re walking into – you’re getting the wrong sort of attention! It’s bad enough that you became a paladin to Ruzinia and saved the city, now you’re getting thrust into the middle of a multinational negotiation to reactivate the Invigilation! This is dangerous, Torvald.”

“The conclave?” Torvald frowned. “I thought you’d be more worried about the fighting if Noruk gets his way. I would have to go, you know.”

“Fighting? No,” she scoffed. “Your father and I always knew you’d be a fighter. You could never turn your back on a bully. That was fine, mostly. You know who your enemies are in a fight. I’m talking about politics! The family barely knew you existed a few weeks ago, with your father being a commoner. Now, with this, they’re going to take an interest. They’re going to try to draw you into their games. They'll want you as a tool.”

“Mom,” Torvald protested, “it’s fine! What can they even do? We're not going to Teres, and I’m a paladin. Everything will work out as long as I follow the will of Ruzinia.”

“Politicians don’t respect the will of the gods!” she said seriously, leaning forward and meeting his eyes to lend weight to her words. “They are manipulators, and they’ll find a way to get what they want. They work with priests and paladins every day, and you have no idea what you’re doing!”

“Of course I do!” Torvald retorted. he couldn't help but feel annoyed at the accusation. “I studied court and temple procedures during my schooling, and I got great marks! You’re worrying over nothing.”

“Oh Valdy,” his mother said, shaking her head as she sat back. “Listen to me. You learned what you might need to know as a guard commander or low-ranking priest. But you’re going up against diplomats and noble courtiers with a lifetime of experience. The family, maybe Renias himself, will probably send a legitimator to handle you, since you’ll be officially acting on behalf of the temple, not Besermark. Technically, you're already considered a foreign agent.”

Torvald blinked. “What do you mean? I’m a Beseri citizen – the king is my second cousin! I work for the government, and I don’t need handling! What on earth is a legitimator?”

“This is exactly what I was talking about!” she replied, glaring at him. “The Invigilation has its own rules and protocols. They’re mostly ceremonial nowadays, but that doesn’t mean they’re not important! The temples acted on their own across the entire former empire for centuries to fight warlocks and their demons and who knows what else. The temple of Noruk even had its own armies! Did you think the government would just let them march around the country without oversight?”

Torvald shrugged, but didn’t respond. He had thought that. Who would try to tell a god what to do? That was crazy!

“Priests who act in the name of the Invigilation have a special independent status, but that also comes with strings. You need a legitimator – a government representative – to accompany you on Beseri soil. They’re required to report on your activities, advise you and ensure that you act in the best interests of the government. A legitimator who could manipulate their charge to pursue their quest in just the right way could reap enormous benefits for themselves or their families. You’re at a huge disadvantage, because you don’t know these people.” She rubbed at her face with both hands. “One of the reasons I wanted to move here was to get away from all the intrigue and backstabbing. We made it, too! And now you’re going to walk right back into it.”

That… well, that did sound dangerous. Torvald didn’t want to play politics. That was part of the reason he’d gravitated toward the worship of Ruzinia. Ruzinians didn’t play games, they just went wherever the trouble was and intervened, no questions asked. He needed a way to nip this in the bud, to avoid playing the game, if he could.

“Can I influence who it is?" he asked. "Who chooses the legitimators?”

“Normally, the legitimators are selected by the King in Teres or the Duke of Norhold, since that’s the usual port of entry for priests coming in from Madzhur. Count Narald has the right, in this case – you’re in his territory. The family might still send someone, though. They're going to want to get involved.”

Torvald frowned thoughtfully. “What happens if I already have one? Will the king just overrule the count?”

“Maybe,” his mother said uncertainly. “Though doing that would be an insult to Narald, since it would imply that the count isn’t acting in the best interest of the kingdom. Still, if Renias takes a personal interest…”

“Alright,” he said, subdued. “What do I do?”

“The count could pick almost anyone, in theory. Like I said, it’s seen mostly as a ceremonial, nowadays. Normally, the king liked to give these kinds of postings to relatives or favored servants as a way to honor them and give them an easy job. Mostly. When I was young, an Illurian priest of Balarian came to preach in Besermark and claimed his rights under the Invigilation. Grandpa Erivern appointed his youngest brother as a legitimator to punish him for embarrassing him in front of the Kallrixian ambassador a few weeks earlier.”

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She chuckled darkly at the memory. “Your great-uncle Olias hates traveling and religion, both. He had to follow a priest of Balarian all over the country for three years and listen to him preach about the dangers of demon-summoning. The old bastard deserved it, though. He’s an insufferable drunk and a lecher. Anyway, it’s not so complicated. You just need to get ahead of the politics on this. Your father can recommend someone reliable to the count for you who will watch your back and do the job properly. I can put a word in directly with the count tonight or tomorrow at the latest. He can’t fault me for wanting someone reliable to watch over you. We just need to do it before the guilds get involved, or this is going to get a lot more complicated.”

“Wait,” mused Torvald, “it can be just a regular guard? Do you think I can get one of my colleagues?”

***

Uriah trudged along, just one more man in a seemingly endless line of ragged refugees heading east—toward Halfbridge. Far more people had made it out than he’d originally expected. They said the Duergar had come up underneath them in the center of the city and set the entire place on fire in a matter of minutes. They hadn’t bothered to chase the runners from the outskirts. Five days later, though, they were still looking over their shoulders.

Yesterday, they’d reached the headwaters of the Uvner watershed and now the road ran along a stream that Uriah knew would grow into a rushing river when it met up with another, larger stream a day’s march from here.

He could turn south and follow the river back to Halfbridge. Ed had wanted to fight those evil little shits. From what he’d heard, the Underkeepers had fought them. No, they’d crushed them. Rumor had it that they were even forcing Duergar prisoners to rebuild the parts of the city they’d damaged.

The military wouldn’t take him as a war mage, not unless they were desperate. But Ed would.

But... he’d had a few days to think about it, now. He was tired, and he’d seen far too much. If he followed that other stream north for a few days, he’d reach a large farming town named Henfelden, where nobody had ever seen an actual demon, or heard tell of any strange gray-skinned dwarves.

Well, they would have heard by now, but it was that sort of place.

Pa was getting old now, and Sephus would be taking over the family business. He could go and help—water the fields and hire out to the neighbors. Hell, he knew more about moving manure around than your average farmer would ever bother to consider.

It wasn’t much, but it would be honest work.

Soon, he would have to make a decision.

***

Bernt flipped another pyromancy manual closed and placed it on the growing stack beside him before flipping open the next one, a bestiary describing the creatures of eastern Kallrix, near the southern border of the Phoenix Reaches. Today was his first day off since the battle, and it was his first opportunity to finally do some serious research. He’d already been here for hours, but so far he hadn’t found anything that looked like a solution.

He’d known that there were hundreds of different specific investiture materials out there for every specialization a mage might care to pursue. Still, it was different to actually read about them all. Fire-resistant ferns that grew near Gobford, burning venom from an exotic insect in Sehesh, a type of fog from Miria that gradually raised the ambient temperature according to the caster’s will. There was even a type of mold that grew down in the Depths that would spontaneously ignite a few days after infecting a host, spreading highly infectious spores for miles around the victim. The only wizard mad enough to build an architecture that included it had been executed for war crimes, according to the footnote.

When Bernt had arrived, he’d asked Hallan about materials that might bridge the gap between his sorcerous investiture and his more traditional one, but the librarian had only shrugged. “What does it even mean to have a sorcerous investiture? Why does it work at all? It’s an academic blind spot. You’re the one who’s going to have to answer these questions.”

Despite that unhelpful pronouncement, the librarian had taken to the problem with enthusiasm. He’d pulled out every book and scrap of knowledge he knew of regarding pyromancy, as well as a few that described a variety of creatures with magical abilities.

These were especially interesting – monsters like wyverns or giant fire salamanders clearly had some kind of sorcerous abilities, so there had to be something to learn there. Unfortunately, it was clear that they used these to cast spells, just as he did. There were no materials to use there. The only somewhat promising entry featured a beautiful rendering of a roaring lion called a blazemane. If it had an actual burning mane, then maybe he could use that as an investiture material. But then what? Would he get permanently burning hair? That seemed like it would be worse than useless, even if it worked as a way to form an augmentation.

Frustrated, he slammed the bestiary shut and sighed, tiredly. He didn’t have to find some kind of perfect material. He could still do as Pollock had suggested and just use a normal one. If it didn’t fuse into an augmentation, he would simply have to learn to develop the different portions of his mana network independently. Of course, that would present a new problem: learning how to grow his sorcerous investiture. That, and it would take even longer to become a real magister.

The travelogue of Finnerixes contained a few hints, but he wasn’t sure they would apply. The savage sorcerers of the Mirian interior didn’t start out with a sorcerous mana network. They ate the hearts of fae creatures to ignite some kind of central point they called the Dan-Chin and then somehow guided its overflowing energies into creating a new network for them. Bernt’s experience had been nothing like that, and he had no intention of eating an intelligent creature to get on the same page.

If only Jori was here. He knew she consumed souls to achieve a similar effect as those sorcerers, but she could at least tell him what it was supposed to feel like. There hadn’t been time to talk about it before the Solicitors had forced her to leave. Besides, he just missed her. She had a way of looking at the world that made everything seem a little brighter. The part of his mind that connected him to the imp was dull, barely giving him a sense of her existence. Still, that he had any connection left at all was a comfort.

A connection.

Bernt sat bolt upright, nearly dropping the book. How could he have been so stupid!? It had been right there the entire time. Setting the book down carefully, he rushed out of the small study room and to the front desk.

“Hallan, I’ve got an idea! Do you have any texts about familiar bonds? Not the manual, I need theoretical analyses, maybe experimental notes if you have any.”

Hallan looked up from the book he was reading at his desk with a quizzical expression. “Bonds? Why?” Then his eyes lit up in understanding and he scowled. “Dammit Bernt. No! It was a terrible idea at the academy, and it’s still stupid now. You are not putting a familiar bond on an elemental. How would that even help?”