Mr. Swabber’s eyes had been drifting upward, but he quickly locked them onto Feista’s. “Uh, nothing.”

“You were going to say a Lightling. You charge more for Shadowkin.” Feista pointed a claw at the Halfling.

“No! Uh, no, I wasn’t.” The Halfling glanced up to someone behind her with a nervous smile.

“You were. Next you’ll tell me I have to wait for the paperwork to go through.”

Mr. Swabber took a step back. “No, no I won’t! I—Look… eleven hundred for the fee, one hundred giltin commission, I’ll do it right now. You’ll be done before the hour is up. Okay?” He glanced at something above Feista’s head on the last word.

“Deal!” Feista grabbed his hand and shook it. Only then did she turn to see what had distracted the financier. “Oh.”

Mrs. Hrurk stared up. An Orcess in violet and yellow silks stared down at her. The Orcess’ hair was done in long braids, interwoven with chains of green and orange beads. A small retinue of Shadowkin traveled with her, including an Orc built like a mountain fortress.

“That was finely done,” said the Orcess.

“Thank you,” said Feista nervously. Something about these Shadowkin seemed familiar.

“And thank you for giving my people a lesson on the path of the aggressive seller. I am Asherzu, Chieftain of the Guz’Varda and CEO of Warg Incorporated.”

“Ah.” Feista’s tail involuntarily tucked between her legs in the presence of the most well-known Shadowkin in Andarun. Mr. Swabber, tailless though he was, had a similar reaction; the Halfling’s cheeks flushed, and he ran off with a mumbled excuse about tracking down a candle-runner.

It took the Gnoll a moment to remember her manners and introduce herself. “I am Feista Hrurk. Um, of the Hrurk, proprietress of Mrs. Hrurk’s Home for the Underprivileged.”

“It is good to meet you, Feista of the Hrurk,” said the chieftain. “I am here with the board of Warg Incorporated, to show them how we might better negotiate on the Wall. Honor us with your time, Gnoll. Tell us of your methods while you wait for the Gnome to finish your trade.”

“I… I would be honored,” said Mrs. Hrurk, her head spinning.

“As would we. And I am sure that Izek has insightful questions for you.” Asherzu smiled at Feista, yet her tone suggested that things would not go well for Izek if he didn’t have questions.

A Goblin near the back of the group swallowed hard and stepped forward. “Uh, what fee would you have accepted had he not taken your offer?” he began.

“Eleven or twelve hundred is standard,” said Feista. “I wouldn’t have accepted above that.”

“Ah. And the commission?” piped in a Slaugh next to Izek.

Feista answered his questions as best she could, still stunned that the executives would speak to her, let alone ask her questions. She discussed her information and analysis with them until Mr. Swabber returned with drafted orders and a tall Human that wore a long coat beneath several satchels, scroll tubes, and belt pouches. On his head, the man wore a candle-runner’s distinguishing hat—a cap with a lit candle in a brass setting on the front of it.

“It seems that your trade is ready to execute,” said Asherzu, eyeing the candle-runner as he set up the small, portable desk he carried. “Your insights are wise and your knowledge is mighty, Feista of the Hrurk. I offer you my card.”

The chieftain held out a small, cream-colored rectangle with her name and Warg Incorporated’s address stamped on it.

“Uh, thank you,” said Mrs. Hrurk, patting her pockets even though she knew she didn’t have a card to offer back.

“The home you spoke of running does not seem a good use of your power, noble as it is,” said Asherzu. “I would be honored to have you at my side. Send a sprite to our office should you wish to have a new job.”

Feista was stunned. A tumult of thoughts swam in her mind, but the ones that bubbled up to her mouth were all a litany of excuses that she stammered to the chieftain; she had the pups to think of, and the people at the home relied upon her, and the renovations in the kitchen needed constant attention, and⁠—

Asherzu dismissed these concerns with a wave of her hand. “Yes, surely each of us has a destiny to attend to,” the Orcess said. “Call upon me if ever you decide to seize the one awaiting you in finance.”

“When observed from a close perspective, how can destiny be distinguished from coincidence?”

Jynn Ur’Mayan posed the question to a small, plain room crammed with desks, most of which were occupied with students in gray robes. The omnimancers-in-training took notes in small ledgers as the archmage lectured.

“Up close, fate looks like tiny connections. Moments of serendipity. Tragic accidents. And yes, coincidences large and small,” Jynn continued, pacing back and forth in front of the students. “Yet theoretically, from a distance, one could see a continuous chain running through otherwise disparate events to a planned conclusion. Time streams toward these destinations as though through grooves in the great loom, and it takes tectonic forces to change the fates of those caught in the stream. Across history, there have been few people who have tried to harness such powers.”

A student near the front of the class raised her hand. “The Order of Twilight?”

“Indeed, Miss Sabrin, to some degree.” Jynn gave a small smile. “In its heyday, our order dabbled in low magic. But they learned well not to toy with it lightly after they saw the folly of their predecessors.”

A few of the more advanced omnimancers in the room sucked their teeth and raised their eyebrows. “The Sten?” a young wizard ventured.

“Quite right, Mr. Brightstar.” Jynn stepped in front of the large table covered in a wide variety of esoteric devices, stone totems, wands of varying lengths and shapes, and a few items covered with heavy gray blankets. “According to the early work of Nephan, the Sten believed that Arth and its destiny were inexorably woven together. As water erodes a stone, so stone becomes a channel for the river, and so the river carves a canyon. The cause and the effect shape one another. Thus, the Sten believed that by shaping Arth, they could shape their fate.” From the table, the archmage picked up a small, granite totem carved in the shape of a turtle with a tree etched into its back. “They made spirit stones to attract the souls of the dead and speak with the voices of their ancestors.” He nodded toward a twisting array of copper tubes wrapped around colorful crystals. “And they crafted subtle tools to change the flow of fate, and bring them better fortune.”

“Didn’t many ancient peoples make grave markers and good luck charms?” asked a skeptical mage from the back of the class.

Jynn’s smile turned brittle as the class tittered. “Many cultures did, Miss Wardraxon⁠—”

“Wardroxan.”

“Selena,” Jynn amended. He often had difficulty pronouncing names from Faespar. “Still, there is reason to believe those made by the Sten actually brought them great fortune.”

“Before they were wiped out.” The young woman’s skepticism was evident.

“During the eons they reigned over Arth, yes,” said the archmage.

It was Selena’s turn to look nonplussed. “Even if they were fortunate during that time, how do you know it was low magic and not just random coincidence?”

“That is the question I posed, yes. Low magic is often subtle and hard to detect. But sometimes it isn’t.” He paused for dramatic effect, pulled off one of the cloths draped over a sculpture at the center of the table, and smiled in grim satisfaction as a couple of students gasped.

It looked like a copse of tiny trees, carved from black granite and arranged on a stone serving platter. Branches stuck out from the spindly trunks at precise angles and merged into others. A black sphere hovered in the center of the miniature wood, flat and featureless save for a faint blue light that glimmered at the edge of the orb. The sphere intersected the trunks and branches perfectly, so that it looked like a careless god had neglected to mend a hole in reality.

“This,” said Jynn, “is a prophetic vault. It doesn’t react to high magic, and no force can move it from its position amidst the sculpted branches. No scrying can see the inside. It has been sealed for over a week, and its contents will remain locked within, held exactly as they were until the prophecy I wrote comes true.”

“What did you prophesy?” asked Meryl Sabrin.

“‘Upon the gong, as our time in course wanes, the seeker of answers shall stand and wait, and so the vault shall open again,’” Jynn answered.

Confusion and distaste pulled Balorox Brightstar’s features toward the center of his round face, scrunching it into a puzzled scowl. “That could mean anything.”

“Exactly!” Jynn beamed. “Note the esoteric language creates plausible fulfillability, allowing for multiple scenarios where the prophecy could successfully be completed. It also creates uncertainty in the listener, which helps diffuse Novian counterforces and defend against competing prophecy.”

“Competing prophecy?” Meryl asked.

“Of course,” said Jynn. “Just as surely as wizards duel with fireballs and lightning bolts and other forms of high magic, the masters of low magic once clashed to shape the future with prophecies and counter-prophecies.”

Fifteen chairs screeched and groaned as fifteen mages in training leaned forward in their seats, drawn to powerful knowledge as moths to a lantern.