"Old fool," thoughts raced through Tulila's head as she herself raced through the streets, shouldering the air aside. "Diving into the inferno again for no good reason, to save a boy who went to save a girl. I hope this time it doesn't end in a cosmic catastrophe. And I just had to pick such a favorite. He's not even your true student, Tula.

  Then again, when a witch has no children, students become something similar. Maybe even worse—a child will one day go their own way, but a student, if they survive, will follow your path, diligently repeating your mistakes. Although Ortahn has found his own, credit where it's due.

  Oh well, Tula, if everyone around is an idiot, just rejoice that you are their ministeress. Or even the empress of idiots. And let's hope some of your subjects survives."

  She found herself in a vast square a few blocks from the Chancellery, where its black tower stole most of the sky and was capable of invoking guilt even in a newborn. The perfect place to breach some protocol.

  Tulila's gaze snatched two low-ranking Chancellery witches from the crowd. They looked polished to the point of emptiness; no soul-sight was even needed. Both were strolling unhurriedly, fanning themselves with magical fans that exuded a frosty mist, even though the wind was already piercing the street.

  "Hey, low-ranks (the word scraped on her teeth like scorched sand, but what wouldn't one do for a good social scene?)! What do you think you're doing?" Tulila asked sternly and blocked their path, spreading her main arms.

  The witches flinched and bowed in unison, as if they were homunculi.

  "We... we're just taking a walk, high-rank," muttered the heftier one.

  "Ah, taking a walk," Tulila drawled, as if this had been added to the registry of state crimes just yesterday. "You look to be a true thirty years old, correct?"

  The witches exchanged a glance. The thinner one clarified, "I am twenty-six, high-rank, and she is twenty-nine. And a half."

  "Who needs the halves?" the second one hissed at her.

  "And when do you plan to produce offspring?" Tulila inquired, furrowing her brows, feigning a superior's concern. She had plenty of experience observing the like.

  The witches turned pale, as if with sudden anemia, as if the word "offspring" was an ancient curse, struck from the lexicon of Chancellery employees. If Tulila had started saying "forbidden" and "punishable," they would have felt much more confident.

  "Excuse me, high-rank, I don't quite..." the hefty one began, blinking and throwing panicked glances at the Chancellery tower, as if expecting a squad of Nephilim to descend from it for a rescue.

  "What is this?" Tulila interrupted, poking one of the witches with a magical finger.

  "This... is my Chancellery uniform?" the witch under the finger said uncertainly.

  "And what does that mean?" the teacher demanded a more detailed answer.

  "That I... I work in the Chancellery?" the witch replied, beginning to doubt her own reality. Maybe this wasn't her Chancellery uniform, and she didn't work there, and the high-rank was about to reveal the truth.

  "Correct!" Tulila rejoiced at the correct answer. "And that means you are public servants. Practically homunculi in skirts. And a colossal public duty rests upon you!"

  It was clear from their faces that this was the first time they had encountered such a concept of their station.

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  "High-rank..." one of the witches tried to say something.

  "No time for excuses!" Tulila cut her off, raising all her index fingers, becoming like a bristling forest. "There is a war in the galaxy! Are you not aware? Women must bear new warrioresses and magesses! Was there an order to 'postpone reproduction until final victory'? There was not!"

  Neither found anything to say. They stood with their eyes downcast, looking exactly like schoolgirls caught doing something shameful. It seemed to Tulila that in another moment, they would start sobbing, apologizing, and begging for time until next week to fix their little oversight.

  She glanced around the square. Passersby were carefully pretending not to notice what was happening. Nothing had changed in all her time. People here had long ago learned not to meet the eyes of authority when it began to show "initiative."

  "Here's what, low-ranks: undress," Tulila commanded in a business-like tone. "My boots got dusty on the road. Your uniforms will be excellent for cleaning them. Serve the people, in my person."

  "But, high-rank..." the hefty witch began, but her scrawny friend immediately poked her in the ribs, whispering: "Do what the high-rank says, Basti!"

  Their underwear under their uniforms turned out to be from different sets—a clear sign they hadn't planned to display it publicly today. But Fate, like Tulila, had other plans for them. The witches, blushing from head to toe, knelt and began to clumsily rub her boots with the crumpled fabric of their robes. This attracted open attention. Light-lines flickered above the heads of the gawkers—someone had begun to diligently record the event on the light-weave.

  Tulila immediately felt the space behind her densify, filling with a soul-chilling aetheric pressure.

  "That uniform is a symbol of the Chancellery, high-rank," a not-young voice sounded from on high. "You can do whatever you want with them, but do not touch the symbols."

  Tulila spun around. Before her stood the Minister of Supreme Joy. Her stone visage was impassive, only her black dress swayed in the wind. "Now that's a distraction," Tulila thought with satisfaction. "I should have started with this from the beginning."

  "Just amusing myself, 'supreme-high-rank.' I teach male mages, and it's a mentally draining activity. Periodic discharge is needed periodically," Tulila explained with deliberate casualness.

  "This is inappropriate, high-rank," the Overlordess chided her. "Your actions and your tone. I can invoke the Law."

  Tulila just shrugged, her magical limbs repeating the motion, creating an elegant cascade.

  "What can I do if I've gotten so out of hand? You'd be better off summoning the entire Chancellery; I'm quite riotous, you know."

  The Ministeress tilted her head, deciding, and then she decided.

  "No. Unleashing the Law on a high-rank will create a bad precedent. I will deal with you myself."

  Magnificent!

  "Magnificent!" the teacher exclaimed, her lips stretching into a predatory smile. "This is even better amusement."

  Tulila spread all her arms, and the air around her trembled, filling with the hiss of smelting aether. Her palms began to multiply, tracing complex, constantly changing patterns in the space. Her victims, seizing the moment, scrambled to flee, leaving their clothes at her boots. Tulila kicked the rags away with her foot, clearing room to maneuver.

  The Overlordess' will punched multiple holes in the clouds above her head, and rays of light crashed down on the square. They abruptly acquired sharp shadows and sliced through not only the morning fog but the very fabric of the city. In response, Tulila threw up a shield of condensed aether, creating a parasol against Solara. The solidified, sharp light ricocheted off it and plunged into the facade of a nearby tower. The stone masonry was obediently sliced through, and the building collapsed. From it, in a light and vapor of healing, ran an enraged woman with scales and horns, dragoness-like style, clearly not expecting such an awakening. Glancing at the situation, she understood everything perfectly and turned into black smoke, which sped away.

  "No gestures... Her spells are hard to predict. I, on the other hand, will be semaphoring like an entire army. This won't be easy," analytical thoughts flashed through Tulila's mind. But no thoughts of retreat flashed. On the contrary, the half-forgotten thrill of battle was kindling in her body with a tremor.

  "If only you were impressed by my power," the Overlordess said wistfully, "you would surrender, and I would go to the nectarium, as planned. Maybe the Ultarr waffles won't even have run out yet."

  "Oh, I need to be impressed with panache," Tulila snorted, taking a solid stance. The mad kaleidoscopes of her magical hands circled around her. "With noise, bangs, and the mandatory calling of reinforcements."

  The city took a breath, as if before a storm. Women flew away, men ran, and homunculi froze, trying to prioritize survival over service. The light-weaves twisted like wounded worms, and the stained-glass windows shattered and hallucinated from the aetheric tension.