I did not depart Europe immediately. I had to report to the Witches before embarking on my next journey. Upon my awakening on the first day, I made contact with Witold. As a suzerain, it was my duty to inquire about the well-being of my wards. Upon discovering that my immediate presence at the Citadel was not mandatory and that some members of the Order's leadership were traveling throughout Europe, I delayed my visit until everyone I needed was present at the Order's headquarters.
"Hello, Witold," I said, shaking the hand of the Witcher whom I had appointed as the leader of my Order in my absence. He was the most powerful of his kind, and there was no one else who could have taken on such responsibility.
"Congratulations on your new status as a family man," I continued, "but there is something I need to make clear. The person I call Witold — known in the Order as Wold — is the son of Alzur, who created a chimera in order to allow his child to perform magic. After Alzur was poisoned, as I suspect the Vatican was responsible for killing the Archimage, there were few skilled magicians in the Vatican who could defeat even the Archimage together. However, it was not necessary; everything was accomplished through poison. In general, once the Archimage — or any powerful master, for that matter — is gone, things for Witold and his companions, who have also undergone the initiation, have not gone well. They have been pursued throughout Christian Europe, hiding from the Church, and they have settled in Norway, where they have been in hiding for decades.". Upon their arrival, they were immediately met with recognition and esteem. After all, paganism was still prevalent in the lands inhabited by the Scandinavians, with Christianity making only tentative steps and seemingly achieving some degree of success. While the aristocracy had been baptized, as soon as they set foot on a drakkar or knorr, or engaged in land battles, they abandoned their Christian virtues, calling upon the gods Odin and Thor.
Norway in those days was a land of turmoil, home to a myriad of creatures ranging from packs of feral, dehumanized werewolves to ice dragons and draugrs. Witold and his comrades traversed these lands, but within the span of fifty years, all of his companions had perished. Engaged in a perilous pursuit, each day brought forth battles and encounters with diverse magical beings.
As Witold's son decided to return to the mainland, his true identity remained concealed from those around him, and he assumed the identity of Vold.
It took him several years to reach the Citadel. The clerics had a firm grip on all approaches to the stronghold, and all portals to the territories near the Citadel were closely monitored. It was only later that he was able to open mothballed and hidden portals known to no one; thus, the order had a base and a secure refuge. And the locations of these undisclosed exits were guarded by a vow of secrecy.
He could not conceal the truth about himself from me, the archmage and the most powerful mentalist. Thus, I learned his true history and origin within days of our meeting. And he proved to be the most powerful of his kind, for the ritual his father had left for initiating witches had been amended, and he received a budget version of it, so to speak — an economy class.
"And greetings to you, Svyatozar," the big man said, running his hand through his luxuriant beard, now unbound rather than braided, "I have been married for three decades."
I will not even inquire as to who your chosen one might be. Might I offer my congratulations on your joyous paternity, or have I arrived too soon?
It would be more precise to say, whose chosen one Olaf is. He told me of Agnieszka, his pupil, and her affection for Witold. Witold rescued her from the clutches of the Inquisition when she was but a nine-year-old child, bringing her to the Order. Later, he assumed responsibility for her care and imparted to her all the knowledge, abilities, and wisdom required for their arduous vocation.
From the moment Agnieszka became aware of her feelings for her mentor and savior as she entered adolescence, she never lost hope of bringing her beloved and esteemed teacher into her life. Once she had the opportunity to bear children, she secured his affection and made him hers. Well done indeed!
I was already intrigued by the prospect of whether they had children, and if so, I yearned to catch a glimpse of them. They are destined to produce extraordinary offspring. Witold is a paragon of his species, and Agnieszka is an unparalleled sorceress, and the product of their love shall embody the finest qualities of both parents. It does not require clairvoyance to anticipate this. As a devoted wife, Agnieszka shall eagerly await the arrival of her child, desiring nothing but its well-being. And I am aware of the favourable disposition of the world towards true witches, and how readily it responds to their genuine emotions.
"I can!" the giant boomed, towering over me by half a head. At six feet and six inches tall, I am no small fellow, but Witold stands at six feet and ten inches — Agnieszka dotes on our Lubawa, who is now two years of age — and all was said with a pride that was tinged with boastfulness and adulation, directed simultaneously at his beloved woman and his child. His very appearance and demeanor proclaimed that this intellectually gifted man had assumed a heavy responsibility and would bear it to the end of his days. Every fiber of his being, from his senses to his intellect, his will, his body, and his spirit, was focused on the annihilation of these creatures.
But what do I behold now? A spouse who has finally attained the marital bliss he once denied himself. Amongst my vassals, there is none more honourable, yet they are all men of sound judgment. Despite being persecuted and denounced by the populace, they have not forsaken their voluntary duty to confront threats to humanity, albeit they have renounced it for this cause, having undergone initiation and ceased to be fully human.
Among the Witchers, there were no casualties. For each of them, it was a deliberate choice they made after undergoing the harshest of apprenticeships. They had ample time to realize that the path of a Witcher is bereft of all romanticism and chivalry. It is a grueling task, for which one will still be reviled by fools, and be subjected to the constant oppression of societal prejudice should one cease to be fully human. Racism has existed since the dawn of humanity, with most humans seeing others as amusing creatures or food.
"Congratulations, and I shall certainly pay you a visit; I am eager to behold your precious creation!"
"I must procure suitable gifts for them. After all, they are not merely members of my order and my vassals but its leaders and my closest confidants. Therefore, I must acknowledge their significance and demonstrate my regard for their lives and happiness."
"Very well, my lord. You are welcome. Everyone is assembled. Should I convene a meeting and gather all the leaders?"
"Yes, if you please. I am keen to hear your report on the state of affairs in the order. Alfonso has provided me with much information, but it is only the surface-level knowledge. Witches have historically been adept at safeguarding their secrets, and the inner workings of the order have remained concealed within the confines of the citadel, unknown to the outside world."
Not even ten minutes had elapsed when my erstwhile associates congregated in the assembly hall. Witold, Agnieszka, Markus, and Olaf were all present. As far as I could discern, nothing had changed. We sat around the table, which had been replaced with a new one. Whereas it had formerly been round, it now was rectangular. Naturally, I assumed the position of authority at the head. Once I had established a distinct hierarchy with a clear pecking order, the table underwent a transformation.
As soon as everyone had taken their seats, Witold seized the opportunity to speak once I had assumed my position.
Over the course of time, our brotherhood and sisterhood have grown substantially. We now number six thousand two hundred and thirty-six enlightened individuals. Of this total, seven hundred and twenty-three are minors.
Two thousand three hundred and twenty-one of us are witches, with three hundred on permanent duty guarding the citadel and two hundred residing in the rock shelter. The remaining members are engaged in various crafts, industrial activities, and other economic pursuits. Among us, there are already thirty-three grand masters and six hundred and twenty-one scale magic masters of Sumerian caliber.
I was already rubbing my palms together in anticipation (who's good, I'm good), and I did not need to enquire about the other shelter.
Rocky Haven is a land and fortress bestowed upon us by the Church in perpetuity as a token of gratitude for our eradication of the vampire menace to humanity. The late Cardinal Amati played a pivotal role in this, advocating in Rome for the expansion of our Order, which now numbers over three thousand members.
Indeed, my dear comrade passed away forty years ago, leaving me bereft of words. The cardinal and master of the Order of the Creator, Vencenzo Amati, is buried in Venice, in the crypt beneath the church bearing his name — Svyatozar the Protector.
Now, let us turn to the report from my vassals. As the question of the magical realm's retreat into obscurity arises, it is imperative that we strive to remain as inconspicuous as possible in the mundane world. Our lands, including Rocky Haven, exist within the magical realm. When bestowed upon us, these lands were uninhabited.. Once, this place was a bastion of the Roman Empire in a realm of magic, inherited by the Vatican. However, during the decline of the Empire, the legion stationed here was withdrawn, leaving the fortress and its surrounding territories unguarded, and the gateway connecting this realm to the earth was sealed.
Witold nodded to Olaf, then continued his narrative. "In the absence of knowledge about the situation in this land, due to the sealing of the gateway in the year 511, our first expedition consisted of three hundred seasoned members of our fraternity.
No, it was an excellent idea to take charge of the Order and transform them into a new breed. For the Order, any Witcher is first and foremost a sibling, and only then a fellow tribesman. This approach proved to be the correct one. The situation required immediate attention. The fortress was occupied by a powerful lich and undead forces.
The lich, an ancient Roman sorcerer, had once served at Rocky Haven, but after his natural death, he was buried in the local cemetery as he hailed from an unprivileged background and had spent his life in service to the legion. With the fortress abandoned and neglected for an extended period, the lack of appropriate care for the magical source upon which the Rock Haven thrived led to its wild reclamation, which is quite understandable.. As this reservoir of magical power was part of the imperial domain, it was not bound to any specific lineage, and the authority to manage the source and its enchantments was bestowed through an artefact typically resembling a broad medallion, which was attuned to the unique aura of a designated mind.
Following the deactivation of the source, its arcane energy awakened Victor, the lich whose rebellion brought about the resurrection of all the legionnaires buried in his vicinity. It was fortunate that Iolanthe, a member of our expedition with exceptional intelligence and the gift of death magic, was present. She was able to overcome Victor and subjugate the rest of the undead, preventing a potentially catastrophic confrontation.
During his millennial existence as a lich in Victor's stronghold, he had not only summoned infernals, but also raised the corpses of magical creatures that once inhabited the area and were slain by his minions. The undead army numbered over three thousand, with a third possessing extraordinary abilities and magical powers.. After the lich had been subdued and the source of its power in the fortress had been neutralized, the lich itself and all its undead minions were bound as guards, making the subsequent mopping up of the surrounding areas a relatively simple task, with no casualties or even wounded among our ranks.
I cannot recall any mention of Death Witches in the ranks of the Witches, so she must be a recent addition. Her name is quite lengthy, and I will need to investigate her background and origins. Brother Marcus, who took the floor next, was a welcome change from his usual sarcastic and unkempt demeanor. Throughout my interactions with Witold and Olaf, Marcus remained silent and did not display his usual fiery temperament.
In the present day, Rocky Haven has evolved into our training facility. We have additionally erected greenhouses, cultivating a diverse array of beneficial and rare flora. Some of these plants remain with us, catering to the requirements of the Order, while others are sold to the Vatican and the Potions Guild.
Over the course of the past six decades since we acquired ownership of Rocky Haven, we have fully restored the fortress and all adjacent structures, significantly expanding and modernizing them. Last year, we generated an income of one hundred and twenty thousand gold coins from the sale of materials. This year, we plan to establish mandrake, pegasus, and hippogriff farms within Rocky Haven. The local graveyard adjacent to the fortress has awakened a death spring, ideal for this purpose. The mandrakes, by absorbing the energy of death, will mitigate the necrophonic influence around the source and contain its negative impact on the surroundings. Currently, barriers serve this function.. Iolanthe has been entrusted with this project as our most powerful sorceress with the requisite talent. I cannot discern the inflection in the pronunciation of her name, Iolanta. Perhaps she has found domestic bliss?
A century ago, there existed no witch by such a name amongst you. Who she is, whence she came, and how she came to be amongst you — these were the questions I posed to Marcus. Yes, I had already delved into his mind and discovered that Iolanthe was his spouse. However, since all witches possess formidable occlumency barriers, it was not possible to delve deeper. Moreover, each witch in attendance bore mind-protecting artefacts. Judging from the fact that all of them share a similar design and appearance, it appears that one of the witches is responsible for their creation. How delightful!
In the year 1607, the order received a commission to eradicate the proliferating Wolokolaks, which had somehow managed to infiltrate the realm of the mundane from the magical realm, where they had begun to torment the local peasantry. The local sorcerers were unable to handle the situation on their own, as Marcus acknowledged with a degree of disdain towards sorcerers.
Me and twenty of my brethren set forth on this mission. For a span of approximately one month, we engaged in this task, and in one village, amidst the rubble of a devastated dwelling, we discovered a twelve-year-old girl, battered and bleeding. We rescued the child, having slain the last of the pack's adults in that village. After reporting our findings to the client and receiving our remuneration, we returned to the citadel, bringing Iolanthe, the girl, with us.
Five years later, she underwent her initiation and became a witcher. She has been my wife for the past three decades. Marcus attempted to maintain composure, but I was still able to discern his emotions.. Marcus was filled with an overwhelming love for Iolanthe, coupled with a profound sense of pride at possessing such a precious gem. These emotions emanated from his being with such intensity that even someone devoid of empathy could not help but feel their presence. In a world where hearts and cupids flew around, Marcus's spirit would have been the epicentre of all affection.
"Then why is she not here with us?" Marcus wondered, "She will soon be responsible for her own project. Mandrakes are not like violets. I must see her in person."
As I spoke, Olaf gestured with another artifact that all present shared the same origin. The moment I finished my words, the doors to the meeting chamber opened, revealing a woman of extraordinary beauty.
A raven-haired beauty with eyes as dark as the depths of an abyss, crimson lips, a classic Roman profile, and alabaster skin, she was petite, standing barely over a metre and a half in height, yet exuding an air of grace. Her movements were not rushed, but rather appeared to flow like mercury rolling across a surface. Oh, what a vision!
Her demeanour suggested a strong will, with a hint of mischievous sparkle in her gaze. Judging by the way she moved, it was clear she was adept in the use of weapons, and proficient with both hands.
As she glanced around the table, where the entire leadership of the Order sat, including her husband, she appeared surprised to find that the seat at the head had been taken by a stranger, while Witold, who presumably had occupied it before, now sat at my right.
Without uttering a word, she waited for someone to enlighten her as to what was transpiring. It was Marcus who took the initiative.
"Sire, allow me to introduce my wife, Iolanta. Iolanthe, meet our sovereign and head of the Order, Svyatozar Zmiev."
Now I was granted a closer inspection and a precise, impeccable curtsy, a gesture that harkened back to four centuries past. Mages can be so quaint, and if I am correct in my assumption, it was imbued with the grace of the oldest and most noble house. It was executed with consummate skill, yet it appeared as though she had to recall the motion with haste. Her curtsy conveyed volumes. Had she joined the Witches at the tender age of twelve, such knowledge and dexterity would have been acquired outside of the Order. From where else could a village maiden acquire such proficiency?
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Iolanthe Peverell," I began. "Svyatozar Zmiev!"
This was intended to serve as a testament to my hypothesis. The young woman visibly flinched as I rose from my seat, taking a few steps toward her and uttering the name of those infamous necromancers. Her eyes widened with surprise and apprehension, confirming my suspicion.
"Leave us all," I commanded. "I require a private conversation with Iolanthe."
Only Marcus hesitated briefly, compelled by the authority of my command. He had no choice but to comply. Despite his desire to remain, he could not afford to disobey.
Had Iolanthe been merely the wife of my vassal, I would not have been able to request such a thing of him. However, since she is both a Witcher and my personal vassal in the same capacity as her husband, it was within the confines of our suzerain-vassal relationship.
In private, I inquired of her:
"Now that there are no others to hear us, I seek to understand how the daughter of a family renowned for its ancient magical lineage found herself in the Scottish village, barely alive amidst the ruins."
She stood before me, her lips pursed, her head tilted so that her bangs obscured her eyes. Then, with a resolute gesture, she raised her dark gaze to mine, where tears were gathering, and began to share her tale, her memories bearing the weight of pain.
I could not believe the extraordinary gift that had been bestowed upon me. When Alfonso brought me up to speed, he informed me that a noble family of dukes and one of the cornerstones of Albion's enchanted aristocracy, the Peverells, had been disrupted on the Tin Islands.
And now I discover that I have a vassal in my service who bears the blood and the magical gifts of this illustrious lineage. The Peverells' unparalleled mastery of death magic signified their membership in the primary branch of the family, yet there are no younger branches remaining, having long since splintered off centuries ago.
When I was but nine years of age, my father passed away, leaving me as the sole caregiver for my eldest brother, who was fifteen years my senior. With my father gone, I assumed the role of head of the household, but it felt as though he had been replaced by a stranger. My brother was frequently absent, spending time with others and engaging in excessive drinking and extravagant spending.
I attempted to advise him that such behavior was not befitting of our family name, but he paid no heed to my words. At the age of ten, my brother returned home in a state of inebriation, collapsing on the floor of the drawing room. Through the haze of alcohol, he informed me that I would soon be married to Lord Flint, whom he had bet against, with my own hand serving as the wager.
This memory brought a wave of anguish, causing her face to pale even further. However, she shook off the momentary weakness and, recalling her transformation from a vulnerable young girl to a powerful mage and witch, steeled herself and continued her narrative with renewed determination.
For a full week, I languished in a state of despondency and heartache, but on the morning of the eighth day, after learning of my impending fate, I awoke with a renewed sense of purpose. Determined to find a means of avoiding this unwanted union, I turned to the solace of the library, where I immersed myself in the study of arcane texts.
After a month of diligent research, amidst the dusty shelves, I unearthed a solution from the labyrinthine Talmuds. The "Veil of Morena" ritual promised concealment, shielding the practitioner from detection by any means, whether through magical divination, blood kinship, or even by name. My mind was made up: I would flee my home.
The ritual was known as «The Veil of Morana». How intriguing, were the Peverell family descended from Russia? Yet they proclaimed their origins to be from Scandinavia. But why not? Indeed, it is possible that they first arrived in the Scandinavian Peninsula from Russia, and after residing there for some time, migrated to the Tin Islands.
It is difficult to determine exactly how many years ago they departed from Russia, as the history of their lineage in England spans two and a half millennia. They reached the Tin Islands prior to the arrival of the Roman legions. Such a fascinating story.
"Yes, it is," she replied. "Is it so significant?" She seemed a little taken aback that this was what had prompted my inquiry.
I was familiar with a death magic spell, thanks to Morgana's tutelage, called the "Shroud of Hel," which allows a necromancer to momentarily hide their presence from detection. However, the Veil of Morana, it must be a relic of their ancestral lore, and given the rumors of the Avatar of Death's blood running through the Peverell veins and their affinity, it is plausible that Iolanthe's concealment rite was permanent or at the very least, of great duration.
"Not now; we shall revisit that point later. Continue with your narrative. I am listening intently."
I bestowed upon her a benevolent smile, emanating a sense of tranquility and goodwill from within my mind. And it proved effective. Despite her outward appearance, which resembled that of a newly forged and formidable Valkyrie — as befits a Witcher — her inner self was fraught with turmoil; it pained her to revisit her past and revive an old wound. My gentle touch brought about a respite from her tension and despondency, allowing her to relax. With a nod, she acquiesced to my desire for her to continue her narrative, once again transported back to the past.
I awaited for my brother to emerge from his latest bout of intoxication, to slumber, cleanse himself, and embark on another round, so I descended to the ritual chamber and performed the Veil of Morana ritual at the appointed hour. Little did I realise that I would forfeit my powers along with it.
As soon as the chilly shroud that had enveloped me during the rite dissipated, my housekeeper, Tilly, appeared before me, tears in her eyes, and with a voice filled with remorse, took me by the hand and led me, weak as a babe, from the manor to a crossroads near Inverness city.
"What do you want, child?" I asked. "How else could the magic have hidden you? Only by cutting off access to your powers, blood, and other spiritual layers, so that no one could find you." Once she was cut off from the world, the manor's magic ceased to see her as someone entitled to be on the estate. Throughout her story, she stood before me, and now I suggested we take a seat, and she continued to reveal herself to me.
I became unconscious in a strange place, in the deepening twilight, clad in a ceremonial robe, in the autumnal chill, and utterly spent. I did not regain consciousness until a week later. A kindly elderly couple, returning from the city to their country home after a day of shopping, found me lying there. It transpired that I had fallen ill with a severe cold while resting on the rough Scottish stones, clad only in a thin linen garment, and throughout this time, this benevolent family nursed me and provided me with remedies, despite my delirium. I remained with them for half a year, until the village was besieged by Wolfsbane, and I, at that very moment, was inside the house. Before I could react, the structure collapsed under a powerful blow, trapping me beneath a beam, causing severe damage to my leg.
Indeed? Come now! How intriguing! I had not yet cast my spiritual gaze upon her, but upon doing so, I could discern nothing. And this could prove to be problematic.
"Tell me, Iolanthe," I inquired, "are you aware that the veil still shrouds you?" She nodded in affirmation. "Can you lift it or remove it?"
Had she regained access to her magical abilities, she must have discovered the mechanism of the spell she had cast through the ritual.
After Marcus had rescued me from the ruins, and once I had arrived at the Citadel, having learned of my brother's demise, I underwent the Witcher initiation rite, no longer concerned about being pursued. The initiation ritual's effects on me and the Veil of Morana were uncertain. After becoming a Witcher, I gained control over my magic and learned to activate and deactivate it at will.
And then, having uttered those words, she unveiled herself, and I was somewhat taken aback by the harmonious interplay between the initiation rite of the Witcher and the Veil of Morana.
It is worth noting that before me stood a veritable master in terms of power and knowledge, for her magical acumen was both well-structured and tranquil, and she possessed a potent gift for necromancy, albeit somewhat less pronounced abilities in maleficence and blood magic. However, what truly caught my attention was the presence of her "Me", a unique superstructure of the soul, akin to a spiritual artefact, attached to the seventh layer of her soul. Since becoming a witch, Iolanta had commenced the process of forming the eighth layer of her soul, and thus, her "Me" now occupied a position between the eighth and seventh layers.
And I am certain in my understanding, albeit without the formalities of scholarly inquiry. It is difficult to state with certainty in such a case, but I surmise that the «Veil of Morana» is now irrevocably linked to Iolanthe's identity. Judging by its intended purpose, it is plausible that this ritual served as the foundation for the invisibility cloaks that the Potter lineage inherited.
I must engage her in a diagnostic ritual sequence and delve into the intricacies of this phenomenon, with the goal of later crafting a similar amulet for myself that can conceal my own presence. This is a pursuit I eagerly embrace!
"Iolanthe, prepare yourself for the fact that within the next few days we will be embarking on a journey to England, where you will assume control of the clan and bind the clan altar," I said.
Seeing the reluctance in her eyes, I felt compelled as your liege to protect you from the potential consequences of magic itself. Should you fail to accept your role as head of the clan soon, you may be subjected to severe punishment from the forces of magic. The nature of this punishment remains uncertain, but it could take the form of a family curse, or even render you incapable of bearing children. Thus, I advise you not to resist.
The fact that you will lead the family does not obligate you to do more than provide heirs. I trust you have no objections to this? The formidable warrior, who had previously defied my wishes, transformed into a bashful child, twirling her head in a comical manner. Her expression, with its evident reluctance and the charming blush on her cheeks, added to the humorous atmosphere in the presence of the "fearsome" death mage and commander of the undead army.
"Well, that's quite satisfactory. You and Marcus were wed according to the ancient rite, I presume?"
Another affirmative nod. Excellent. He will accompany us to England as well. You will present him as your consort at the altar, making him your equal, and your future offspring will be legitimate Peverells. All is proceeding smoothly, but I must visit the rite chamber beneath the Citadel, where I have installed twenty artefact altars that ensure the induction of Witches. As they contain my illusions, and all inducted Witches have passed through their hands, they possess accurate data on all my new vassals. Are there any others of interest?
By the way, it is to these altars that new Witches pledge their allegiance, which is possible because these illusions are a part of my ethereal shells. There are many advantages to being fae!
As I contemplated this, a scheme began to take shape in my mind. Why not? Hmm. Yes, that is an excellent idea indeed!!!
What have I come up with? The answer lies right before me. An unsuspecting young woman, orphaned after the passing of her last family member, has emerged as the primary heir to the family legacy. It is already a troubling trend among noble families to ostracize squibs. Foolishness! To cast aside one's own bloodline and kinship will certainly not foster love among such mages within their own magical clans. Were she of sound mind, she would surely enlighten these simpletons that squibs are not magically disabled. They are, rather, the result of attempts to purify ancestral magic of embedded curses.
Squibs possess an inactive core, yet they do draw a small amount of neutral mana from their surroundings, which is subsequently expelled, circulating through their magical pathways and cleansing their dormant core. Thus, neutral mana gradually but inevitably washes away the ancestral curses of an uninitiated mage from their seventh shell.. Should it prove impossible to accomplish the task in the initial generation, the endeavor continues with their progeny. Ultimately, the Squibs give birth to sorcerers who embody the unadulterated magic of their lineage. While these individuals may not possess extraordinary power, their lack of a functional core in their parents and ancestral lineages precluded the development of their magical abilities. Their offspring, the child-sorcerer, may not exhibit exceptional potential, but they are free of "tainted blood" and have paired with a partner, a powerful sorcerer with ancestral gifts from their father's lineage, ensuring their lineage remains unblemished by curses.
How could the very essence of truth become perverted in the not-so-distant future, so that what was once white became black, and what was black became white?
When the true-blooded descendants of mudbloods were called by such names and subjected to all manner of oppression and ridicule, those who had returned to the magical world bearing the crystal-clear legacy of their ancestors?
Yes, they were indeed magically weaker than their kin who had not left their clans and maintained a connection with their ancestral sources. Yes, their minds were less acute, and their seventh sense was inferior to that of their magical-world counterparts. Yet, they represented a genuine opportunity for the health and strength of the entire clan.
To integrate them into the younger branches first, to select a suitable pair, and then, upon the birth of their children, to unite them with the heirs of the clan — this would allow, in the next generation, after the acceptance of the children of squibs into the fold, a high probability of casting off the curses that had taken root in the very foundation of the clan.
But as the American proverb goes, which has yet to be born in the local context: «The sheriff don't give a damn about Negro problems!». You cast it aside, we shall pick it up. And in a couple of hundred years, half of the heads of families with legitimate seats in the European House of Lords will be among my subjects.
A most promising idea indeed! Let us not delve into the Order's far-reaching plans for the future, but let us consider their current efforts in searching for squibs across Europe. The process is not particularly arduous. There are already numerous witches, and we have fully met the demand of European society for protection against threats such as monsters and mystical manifestations.
However, hunting and slaying are not the only pursuits available. By establishing their own production facilities and farms, they can demonstrate their capabilities. It is essential to puzzle out the tactics of their operations, for it appears that they deliberately target squib children and bring them into the fold of the Order. Regardless of the method employed, it is now possible to easily acquire children from their parents for mere coins, even silver, given that there is always a war, famine, or other calamity, such as a landowner gone wild and imposing excessive taxes that leave ordinary citizens destitute.. Cities are teeming with homeless individuals, among whom I am certain there are numerous children who have been abandoned by their so-called "noble" and "pure-blooded" families. The space for such children is vast, and there are ample resources available to remove them from their current circumstances.
Even the fact that witches now serve as a sword and shield for the Vatican allows us to enlist the assistance of church officials, including cardinals, in the removal of these children. Any member of my order has the unrestricted right to meet with any high-ranking ecclesiastical figure if they deem it necessary. However, the Pope must always be approached through the head of the order.
It is necessary to coordinate this matter with the Inquisition and the Order of the Creator, as they also recruit novices from among such children and adolescents. However, given the large number of orphans in the world, I am confident that there will be little difficulty in resolving this issue with the other parties involved.
Now is the time to emerge from the trance of contemplation, during which my consciousness was accelerated as I formulated my plans. I must return to Iolanta and summon the others to the hall, for we must discuss this matter tonight.
"Now that you and I understand the situation, let us gather the others. There is much I have to share, and you will be joining us in this discussion. You are now a part of the leadership of the Order!"