Magic is a strange dichotomy of will and reason.

  At its heart, magic is bending the world to one’s will. A spell comes into being because a caster tells the world to create, modify, or destroy. Summoning is pure intention, a plea cast into whatever exists between realms and the being that presides over that space.

  However, that will has to be expressed through reason. Ideas are broken down into coefficients and variable, bridging the gap between fleshy bodies and unfathomable forces. If humanity ever decides to worship anything but itself again, it’ll be those numbers, the unbending, ever-constants of the world.

  Though the more I study magic, the more I understand those supposed constants aren’t so unbending. Spells are meant to translate our will to the world; that implies that there is a level that doesn’t need translation. Most would naturally and rightly assume that means pure affinities, but just because someone is born possessing the natural conclusion to mastery, doesn’t mean make it a goal that can’t be reached with hard work.

  Or so I’m forced to acknowledge as I watch Bell juggle rocks with just her mind.

  “As you can see, my summoner,” Geneva says, her sweet voice possessing a lecturing tone, the lilt and intonation that draws attention yet threatens to bleed into one amorphous sound. “The ‘control’ variable is incredibly versatile. It allows you to directly connect with your spell, allowing for minute and spontaneous changes without rewriting the entire spell. There are schools of thought that argue that it is the only true variable needed and all others are essentially crutches for the weak.”

  “But it has to have weaknesses,” I state, though my tone invites her to elaborate.

  Which she does with a swinging tail. “Of course, it has many limitations. Firstly, the mind of the caster. While a constructed spell will activate and resolve at the greatest speed allowed by the power put into it, a ‘controlled’ spell moves at the speed of the caster’s thoughts. For creatures of exceptional intelligence, that is an advantage, but for most—”

  “Not so much.”

  “Indeed. Secondly, there is a problem of strain. There is more to existence than a vessel. Mana moves through us. Where does it come form? What anchors something that cannot be touched to our physical forms? Whatever it is, it is what allows us to use magic. And the less you rely on coefficients, perhaps the less you rely on the crutches given to us by creation itself, the more that part of you is strained. It presents much like the effects of manastrain.”

  “Meaning trying to control your spells yourself will put you on the ground, fast.”

  “Speed depends on mastery, as always. Whatever that part of us is, it can be trained, like a muscle, though very slowly. Perhaps there are techniques to assist in learning, but I have never encountered one. I have lived for a very long time, practicing all the while, and I don’t dare try to free control my spells. The best I can manage is augmenting my spells with it.”

  I hum as I digest her words, motioning for Bell to stop her demonstration. The small lecture came about after me encountering the notations on the control variable while going over the spells she provided for me to practice. Thorough as she is, she annotated her beginner spells with more advanced variants, giving me the next steps to practice and, perhaps more importantly, clearly demonstrating what separates an average caster from a great one.

  “Should I be practicing this?”

  “Of course. The sooner you start, the faster you can train your spirit, or so I prefer to call it. I recommend doing it for less than ten seconds a day.”

  “Really?”

  Pink eyes blink innocently. “Unless you would like to suffer from a horrendous headache and nausea for the rest of the day.”

  “Ten seconds, got it.”

  A knock interrupts the lesson.

  “Enter.”

  “My lady.” Earl stops just inside the door, ducking his head respectfully. “Lady Teppin has returned. I have settled her in the great room.”

  “Alright.” I set down my spell notes. “You two, you’re dismissed for now, though I want a report on the classes later.”

  “Of course, Lou.” Bell leaps into Geneva’s outstretched arms, the succubi making an unnervingly adorable picture. I follow behind him, making faces at the imp peeking over the disguised don’s shoulder until we split off, my smile fading as I think about the lady waiting in the front room.

  Weeks ago, I sent the previous Lord and Lady Teppin to the capital and Rosentheim, two cities where the rich and notable gather. In hindsight, I can admit being a bit…erratic sending the noble couple off to spread my tale of woe. Their mission was to prevent other nobles from sticking their nose into my business and getting more people killed, but, thinking about it, it was an impossible ask. What could they do to stop anyone with ideas? The best they could do was make fools of themselves, proud nobles reduced to running errands for the woman who kicked them out of their home.

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  I think I just wanted them, nuisances that don’t have the ability to be called enemies, out of the place I lay my head and expect peace. Out of the city, so there’s one less variable to consider.

  It was pure happenstance that I found an actual use for Lady Teppin. The city needs food and she happened to be in the bread basket of the kingdom, an agricultural tyrant unrivaled by any territory. There are rumors that the city overflows with food, so much so that even the rats are fat and happy. An exaggeration for sure, but if there is any place that can spare the grain, its Rosentheim. I sent word to the anxious mother that her sentence would end if she found a merchant willing to make the trip to Quest to barter, with scandalous freedom to make enticing promises. Unsurprisingly, she succeeded.

  I find her embracing her daughter, tearily stroking Leena’s head while her younger daughter endures the attention with tightly shut eyes. I can tell from the trembling in her petite frame that she wants to give in to the comfort, to cry in her mother’s arms as she did on the day she realized her family was under the power of a villain, at least in her eyes. But she holds firm, pulling out of her mother’s arms and smoothing out her dress. With an admirably stalwart heart, she centers herself with a deep breath before turning to me. Heard me come in, huh? “Good afternoon, Lady Tome.”

  Her greeting causes Lady Teppin to jump and turn. A part of me, a small part, feels a touch of guilt seeing the fear in the woman’s eyes. Another part of me enjoys it, the part that revels being the strong party. Most of me doesn’t know what to do with it and wants nothing to do with it.

  She courtesies, deep and proper. I almost tell her not to bother with the formalities but think better of it; having a set of rules to play by, imagining she understands me, might put her at ease. That’s how Father tried to sell etiquette to me, as a way to protect myself from the bigger, meaner predators in the capital.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Tome.”

  “Good afternoon. Thank you for returning promptly. Sit. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “Before you refuse out of propriety, you are a guest. This is the bare minimum for a host.” There’s still hesitance in the her downturned lips so I turn to an easier target. “Leena? Refreshments?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “…that would be greatly appreciated,” Lady, no, Madame Teppin says, her tone as careful as a bull walking over glass.

  “It’s nothing I can’t spare. Sit, please. Make yourselves comfortable.” The Teppin women take a couch together and I sit across from them, doing my best to be less overbearing without sinking as low as to curl into myself; that reminds me too much of darker days. “Tell me about this merchant.” Her message was rather vague in details.

  For good reason, or so her twitching fingers tell me. “Yes. After receiving your message, I attended a banquet held by the Grainger family. I’m sure my lady is aware, but they are widely considered the second richest family in the kingdom. Not even Marquis Guiness dared to challenge their iron grip on agricultural trade in the kingdom. Aside from food, they also deal in leisure goods and sponsor several eateries.”

  “Uh-huh.” Big nobles. Lots of money. Lots of food.

  “Like the Guiness, the family handles matters of inheritance through merit. Because of that, the many heirs are always searching for opportunities.”

  “So, this Wendell is a Grainger heir.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes tell me he’s more than that, perhaps not in a good way. I don’t imagine a well-respected man being the source of such anxiety.

  “Whatever it is, just say it. I have to meet him anyway.”

  “…the stories about the destruction of the city have been grossly exaggerated, as well as my lady’s…temperament. Few are willing to enter what such a…volatile situation.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. If she steps around the topic anymore, she’ll be circling it. Does she think I have no idea what they’re saying about me?

  “I don’t take Wendell is known for his daring nature and compassionate heart?”

  “No. He has a reputation of preying on misfortune, either consequential or manufactured.”

  The worst kind of merchant, a man who profits off the dead and dying, huh. Suppose he thinks our desperation makes us easy marks. And in a way, it does. If our goal is to entice trade back to the city, we can’t afford to offend the first merchant to brave our walls.

  That is, if we’re all playing by the rules he recognizes. Whatever he has planned, it won’t matter once he’s here.

  “Relax,” I tell the woman clearly concerned that I’ll look down on her choice. “You did good.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” She looks at me with hesitance, tone careful. “My lady said this would be the last task you had for me…”

  “I don’t intend to go back on my word. You’re free to go. Ah, have you heard about the crown’s, uh, decision? Regarding your family.”

  Her deferential mask cracks, a severe frown turning down her lips for a moment before the anger is replaced by heavy exhaustion. “I’m aware that we’ve been stripped of our titles and labeled traitors. My husband…he wrote a letter.”

  Saints. The Teppin have been labeled traitors to the crown. I didn’t think about it much, but her tone makes me think about the consequences of that; they can’t let traitors walk around. Even if the accusation is only meant to serve an agenda, appearances demand punishment.

  That letter…it wasn’t to tell them that he’d found them a house in the capital, was it? More likely the previous lord was informing his family that, once again, forces beyond his control had him dancing to their tune. Being forced to wear shackles has to be a lot worse than cleaning the house in a dress. Maybe. Some men’s pride has no equal and Lord, no, Mr. Teppin strikes me as a prideful man.

  Still, he doesn’t deserve this. The black mark of treason can darken the futures of his descendants for generations. Right now, everyone knows it’s a ploy, but truth is a funny thing. If enough people push on it, it can bend into any shape.

  “Well, you’re free to take whatever emergency fund your family put away.” I vaguely wave at the house. “I’m also willing to buy your estate.” I don’t care for the house, but it won’t do for the ruler of the city to live in anything less. Besides, the privacy it offers is nice. “It’s enough for a fresh start anywhere you want, though I suggest staying away from big cities. Maybe change your names.”

  “Sound advice, my lady,” Madame Teppin agrees, almost cheerful as she contemplates her freedom.

  “Wait!”

  Leena calls out, standing up and away from her mother, her youthful features flat and stern as she meets my gaze.

  “My lady, is it possible to remain in the city?”