The night slipped by and the following day slipped by as well before, on the early morning, the fae announced her arrival. She knew how to strike at an intriguing moment, for she ambushed me on the way to Syrune.

She approached like a violent gale, untamed fury and brutality of nature, wielded with skilful guile. Despite her sylph-like nature, with its close affinity to winds, her eyes were extraordinarily fiery, manifesting bright burning embers of a fire elemental. She brandished a scowl like an envenomed dagger, the corners of her lips twisted in a snarl dripping fresh spite.

“Magistra, what happened with Arlene?” She asked directly.

“She has volunteered to approach the Viridian Dawn Rangers,” I replied with feigned ignorance.

“I do not appreciate your method.” A still silence gathered at her words and at her commands, a strong gust of wind, sharp like invisible blades crafted from the wind itself, sliced through the surroundings. The rattling of loose windows came first, then a few paces away, a flag pole crashed. Somewhere further away the axle of a loaded wagon failed. The resulting din from the contents scattering from the lopsided wagon reverberated through a few streets.

“It is my responsibility to help her make good decisions in life. Manipulating her into making a choice runs counter to my efforts.”

“Provost, I presented her with both the options and willingly shared my own personal opinion. She made her choice,” I defended, unfazed by the fae’s display of anger. Her thoughtless boasting of the elemental powers that are hers to command might have made another flinch, but I have seen her fail and witnessed her shortcomings. Her arcane prowess does not scare me.

“She needs to cultivate decision-making capability. I have invested a lot to make sure that she willingly identifies and makes a conscious decision. Tricking her by stroking her rebellious ego, undid all my efforts,” said Vitalia. Accusation laced her contemptuous words as a slow colourless fog settled, and surrounded us, shielding us from the curious eyes of the passerby. Cerulean blue lightning raced inside her unnatural fog, jolting dangerously close.

“Would you like her to live and learn another day or compose her own threne before learning?”

The fae flinched as if stung by thousand hornets, yet her burning gaze never left. I twisted my head uncomfortably to follow her floating presence.

“I should have been consulted. Her safety is every bit important to me as it is to you. In fact, more so for me than you. She is my protege not a mercenary on my payroll,” said Vitalia, letting her callous words cut through, choosing every weapon at her disposal to throw me off my game.

For the fae, apologizing is not just hard, or impossible on egoistic grounds, but rather fundamentally impossible on the same grounds as how orc ethicists or tiefling deontologists do not exist. Given her stubborn stance, winning an argument by force of will is improbable.

“Neither of us is her mother, so let us drop this co-parenting argument. I saw her looming dangerously close, at the precipice of certain death and did what I could. Now she is safe, for a while, and you are free to impart your wisdom on her.”

Her haphazardly summoned bleak fog, slowly dissipated with penetrating rays of the sun, Her formless gown, transient in nature and ephemeral in colour, danced fugaciously as it dispersed the golden light marring her ethereal features. Slowly furrows knitted her brows, the only expression she allowed herself to reveal.

Vitalia would baptise me with fires of her fury, unleashed her wrath commanding a flood of lightning to strike where I stood, had it not been for the most unexpected arrival of Syrune. For a mage, dabbling with the very construct of multiple planes, tampering with their realities, the stygian mood of the fae did little to hinder the approach.

Harmonious footsteps echoed as heels struck against paved cobblestones, while the mage sashayed towards us. The thin layer of apprehension that surrounded Syrune did not prevent the gentle swaying in the hips as the mage increased pace to reach us. Under shapely eyebrows, stared bright emerald green eyes with anticipation. As I met the mage’s gaze, there was an untold emotion, like a clumsy tendril of hope trying to attach itself to my soul, seeking protection, comfort and more importantly validation. Like a heifer lost in the wilderness, Syrune’s longing eyes sought desperately, to connect; belong and find solace in the comfort of a herd.

“We could talk in the comfort of Mage’s collective reception hall,” said Syrune in a voice flowing like viscous dark honey.

That would be the common room. A most unlikely place for the sort of conversation I am involved in. A private room or an isolated corner in a posh restaurant would have been a more appropriate suggestion. Except, the Mage’s Collective implied wards against magical intrusions, including a very curious fae. Led by a very inviting mage and trailed by an irate fae, I was ushered unceremoniously into the common room of the Mage’s collective.

“Cyrene,” uttered the mage suddenly when I sunk into a soft leather couch.

My eyebrows shot up, at the lack of context from the mage. Confusion rolled off in waves. The solid ground under my feet seemed to swallow my very essence as a host of problems threatened to overwhelm me -- from a bloodthirsty horde at my gates to an angry fae breathing down my neck coupled with surreptitious revelations of long-buried family secrets. I looked at the mage again, calming my nerves, my nail dug deep into the soft leather of my seat.

“Cyrene,” repeated Syrune, a bit louder and with trepidation, as if that name would mean anything to me.

“That is the name I go by, I want to go by,” stammered the mage, “No, Cyrene is who I am.”

The steady current of cool and refreshing air circling the room -- maintained by meticulously woven spells sealed in arcane sigils placed around the reception hall -- did very little to calm the raising temperature of Cyrene. Tiny globules of sweat glistened on her forehead. Panic laced with uncertainty and accentuated by a tinge of coyness made her oval face blush a deep cherry red. The slender fingers of her hands, intertwined with each other, her right thumb pressing in the palm of her left hand, and her left fingers slowly massaging the back of her right hand with smooth kneading motions. The conversation was difficult, almost nerve-wracking -- even for someone who banished a group of high-level demons with the flick of her wrist.

“Cyrene, it is then,” I addressed her nonchalantly, my mind already swimming in a perilous ocean of events.

“You have no other questions, that you would want to know?” asked a disappointed Cyrene.

“I do,” as soon as the words tumbled from my lips, a rush of relief cascaded through her.

“Antilorwe and I have nominated your name as ombudsman,” but quickly corrected myself as her expression darkened at the last word, “as an external neutral arbiter to resolve and also could I get a modified plan for Colby’s flying toy. Gyrocopter is what he named it, I believe.”

Cyrene sunk low and almost crumbled on herself feeling betrayed. Her dazzling green eyes now stared blankly at the empty table in front of us. After sucking a quick deep breath, her lips opened, just a tiny bit, wide enough to throw bread crumbs, and slow and measured words strugglingly rolled out.

“You have no other questions?” asked Cyrene after freeing herself from the tenebrous tendrils of apprehension.

“Young Lady,” my voice stern and authoritative yet brought a sparkle to her big eyes, a smile bright enough to make sunflowers turn, held her cheeks, “is there something you want to say?”

Cyrene’s voice fell low to a whisper. Her well-manicured fingers crumbled the fabric of her long robe, while her heartbeat quickened. Relief quickly washed over her, chasing away the vivid apprehension that tormented her.

“You are not repulsed?” asked Cyrene.

I shrugged. Words failed me but her expectant look, with anticipation looming behind those green eyes, demanded words of validation.

“I am glad you have found your true self. You look bright, cheery and radiant with full of hope,” I added, “Under other circumstances, I would have eased you into a few social circles, but other pressing concerns demand my attention.”

Cyrene was all smile, so full of life and vitality. She brimmed with optimism and vigour. As she turned her head, slowly pushing aside her thick long hair over her shoulders, a small nerve jumped over the narrow muscles of her neck briefly, before disappearing behind her milky white skin.

“I am facing the hordes of the One-Horned Warlord, alone and I have a strategy in mind. Compact volatile explosives dropped from above. Modified Colby’s gyrocopter with some specially produced explosives is what I have in mind. Is it viable?” I asked.

Cyrene turned her head as if seeking someone. She waved the eager attendant approaching from the far side of the reception hall away, before leaning towards my direction. A delicate scent of wild jasmine, subtle and calming, wafted from her.

“You might want to call Professor Vitalia for this. I would love an additional perspective from an academician of a different field,” she requested.

For a planar mage like Cyrene, hailed as a prodigy and considered impeccable in her merits, to request the presence of the fae in such a humble manner, meant something inherently complicated and strenuous. Maybe Colby hit puberty.

We caught Vitalia conversing with a yellow-robed mage with a receding hairline as we left the reception hall of the Mage’s Collective behind us. Acknowledging our presence, she excused herself from the all-too-important conversation with the yellow-robed mage.

“Greeting of the feywild be upon you, Syrune,” said Vitalia, her calm voice still carrying the hint of suppressed authority as she continued further, “You look fine, though I must point out if you were a girl you would be the prettiest in the campus, the sort boys would flock to have a dance with.”

Hearing the fae’s words, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions rose within Cyrene, mercilessly tossing her aside like a hapless ragdoll in a feral hound’s ravenous maw. Two dominant opposing feelings writhed inside her, like twin serpents seeking control, tugging her heartstrings.

On one hand, being referred to by her old name tormented Cyrene but on the other hand, even though it was a backhanded compliment, Cyrene cannot help but rejoice and bask in compliments to her long overdue feminity.

“Cyrene, her name is Cyrene,” I cut in.

Vitalia prepared herself to deliver another of her snappy remorseless comments, but seeing the hard squint with cold steel in my eyes and my tightly clenched knuckles, she dropped whatever words that coiled in her ophidian bower mouth.

Bereft of her normal weapon of lashing people with words, her thorny brambles of insensitive comments twisting exposed hearts, Vitalia simply acknowledged Cyrene in the simplest possible way. She repeated her name, “Cyrene,” and then fell silent.

“Provost, there is a matter concerning Cyrene’s young ward and the illustrious planar mage would love the opinion of someone equally skilled in their own field like yourself,” I said calmly.

Glad to have the undivided attention of the fae, Cyrene, without paying further thoughts, started.

“Colby has been recently obsessed with the ordinance crystal of the mind flayers,” said the girl with concern.

“Isn’t that normal for every gnome?” I scoffed at her worry. But Cyrene, from the gathered moisture at the corners of her eyes and the tenor in her voice, obviously did not share my opinion.

“Colby can be hard and single-minded at times, but this is eerie. There is something else rooting inside him. Feeding on his intellect, twisting and turning inside, compulsively driving his actions,” revealed Cyrene. Her hands slowly went up to her chest, calming her restlessly heart, When it fell back smoothing the folds of her robes, the outline of her strophium, wrapped clumsily around her breasts, in a size terribly disproportionate to her tiny mounds, came into view.

Both of us saw and maintained our silence, but for different reasons. For her sake, I really hoped that she would soon find a dear female confidant to pass on the essential knowledge she needs.

“I have known Colby for a while. This is definitely different from his usual behaviour,” concluded Cyrene.

It was now my turn to be surprised as Vitalia, lowered to Cyrene’s eye level and gently placed the flat of her palm on her shoulders. In all the time that I have known the fae, she had never initiated physical contact with anyone -- not even Arlene.

“Was it from an elder brain?” asked Vitalia.

Cyrene simple nodded. Fear for her treasured golden child, held her hostage, arresting her mind from processing words.

“And how far is he into the madness?” asked Vitalia. Her casual usage of the word madness enraged me but the fact that she is the only other person knowledgeable enough to rescue the child made me summon every bit of willpower to suppress my anger.

“He claims that he could communicate with the crystal in a derivative form,” answered Cyrene,

“A derivative form? Explain” demanded Vitalia with renewed interest and more importantly with authority.

“He claims the crystal is a trove of knowledge. Except there is no beginning or end, just a collection of knowledge and when prodded with a question in an appropriate manner, it reveals an answer or parts of the answer,” replied Cyrene.

Vitalia chuckled surprising us all. Morbid curiosity and pride saturated her laughter.

“I am impressed. The young gnome might be one of his kind, a legend in his own way,” praised Vitalia. For the tight-lipped fae, to openly praise a young lad in the presence of the two of us meant that Colby probably achieved something that impressed her.

“First, Let me explain what an ordinance crystal is, that would make things simpler. Let us agree that if I were to describe something mundane like a rock; brown, hard, jagged, heavy would most likely be the potential words used. Due to the nature of our communication with words, even to describe something simple and physical like a rock needs abstract concepts, categorical terms to communicate,” she paused briefly

In the brief pause, I flicked my eyes toward Cyrene. The mage scratched her forehead with her thumb, her brain working frantically to decode the meaning behind the fae’s words.

“Have you ever wondered how our language, our writings, would have evolved, if we possessed the ability to project images directly into the other’s head, directly transmitting tangible forms than relying on constructs? What about our written records in such a scenario?”

“What I just described to you is the Mindflayer’s language and the ordinance crystal is just a book written in Mindflayer tongue. There are no special signs to interpret or form a cohesive structure. The simplest way to explain it is to imagine all the words you know, thrown and jumbled inside a narrow-necked vessel. Depending on how you roll it, words leak from the vessel. That is what the ordinance crystal is. “

“But there is a Mindflayer artefact projecting thoughts inside his head,” my voice saturated with worry.

“Magistra, I understand your concern but please be assured, the ordinance crystal was designed as a means to communicate between Mindflayers. They have the ability to receive thoughts while your gnome does not possess such abilities. You should let him entertain his whim. After all, he is simply fascinated by the crystal’s response, like a child looking at a rainbow. It is fairly harmless.” concluded Vitalia.

Despite her words, somehow, when it involves Colby, nothing is harmless. The child has an uncanny ability to invert logical conclusions.

Relieved of her stygian fears, Cyrene quickly reached out, clasped my hand tightly and said with enthusiasm, “I will try to see if I can talk sense into Colby,”

Seeing the bewildered expression on my face at her sudden action, she loosened her grasp with reluctance and said apologetically, “I was informed that girls should casually touch other girls while talking. For girly bonding.”

Where is she getting her information from? Next, she would be asking for head pats. The only silver lining; she did that with me. if it were Arlene, the ranger would have buried her head in the sand.

As I prepared to depart, to the meeting spot with Rodo and Zaehran, Cyrene cleared her throat. Anxiety twisted in her stomach and in a nervous voice asked, “Is it too much if I ask for a hug before we part?”

When I wrapped my arms around her, Cyrene went limp, almost melting in my arms. The strength in her legs gave away and her bones turned to noodles. Her heart thrummed frantically inside her. Waves of emancipated relief washed her over while a delicate emotional smile still lingered on her face.

“If feels oddly soothing,” she said between her deep breath.

As I turned to leave again, Cyrene called my name.

“I thought you would be repulsed, call me a deviant freak. A mentally ill hosting a perverted soul,” she said, “but you stood up for me before Professor Vitalia while others would have just spoken behind my back. Thank you for accepting me without prejudice.”

“Are you worried about the opinion of others?” I asked.

Cyrene bit her lower lips. Anxiety crawled inside her, threatening to fracture her from within, tear her apart and leave her a hollow shell.

“I have an army of three hundred thousand bloodthirsty creatures to face and even if I survive the ordeal, there is a Paladin and a Duke out for my blood. My only daughter has been suffering in silence, screaming for my help. I have far greater concerns in my life. Arlene has a strained family past that she could not navigate. Even her relationship with her twin sister is strained. Provost Vitalia carries the responsibility of her mentee on her shoulders. Zaehran, the ascetic, devoid of any worldly attachments, still seeks his lost folks.”

I threw my hands. Exasperation soaked me, clinging to my very words, cutting the vulnerable Cyrene deeply.

“I guess, the fact is every one of us has our own issues. Even Zelaphiel and Lothmar are busy plotting, if not against me, then against each other. If someone talks behind your back, then I guess they have nothing better to do with their lives and the opinions of such people deserve to be regarded in the same way as a speck of dust on your boots.”

And I left Cyrene alone to her thoughts.