[color=red][b][center]the High Reaches of Magnagrad, Capital and Home of Lord Varya[/center][/b][/color][hr]

Father Ilya walked steadily along the steel walkways of Magnagrad's highest roads. He wore the full official uniform that his new title of Inquisitor had earned him. Not a single accessory was out of place, and not a single stain could be found in the cloth. He was doing his best to once more be the picture of High Society: his head was held high even though his stomach sunk low. His shoulders held back while he was reluctant to move forward. His steps steady despite his heart attempting to race. 

It had, indeed, been years since Ilya last walked these pristine roads, where the lamps burned pure Omestrian Ether and not a single road corner lacked a work of public art. However, he was at no point lost. His destination was impossible to miss from the city's top - the sixth tallest building piercing the sky's thin, frigid air: the Bjornlie Tower of Glass. 

Though not entirely composed of the uncommon material, every outer wall of every floor above Magnagrad's cold surface was thoroughly composed of glass. In addition, the stairs leading to the tower's front door were lined with trees of steel, hand worked to elegantly twist into branches which, in turn, clasped stained-glass orbs delicately engraved to resemble ancient fruits such as Oranges and Plums. The door itself was twelve feet tall and inlaid with silver and gold, depicting the Titans with their swords locked in combat. It was before this grand image upon that grand door that Ilya finally paused. He took his time to mentally brace himself and muse over the image: it was uncommon to depict the Titans instead of Lord Varya, and less common still to depict them in even combat, instead of Ice's victory. It implied a sort of equality that ran slightly counter to what Lord Varya's priests taught, and had made the Bjornlie Family the talk of High Society for a solid week. Father Ilya Bjornlie took a strong breath and finally acknowledged the two guards at either side of the large door.

"Please let Mr. and Mrs. Bjornlie know that their son has arrived. I'll be in the Front Hall."

[hr]

It was with a hug apiece and warm congratulations that Father Ilya Bjornlie was welcomed home by his parents. It was not long before they had settled in to lunch and Ilya needed consciously remind himself that various things would be taken care of by the servant staff. He kept his rifle with himself, the only affect he had brought aside from outfit paraphernalia, which were left by the front door as appropriate. His posture was fine and manners polite. They all drank water and ate expensive food - small sandwiches, composed of bread, lettuce, and ham, sliced perfectly into four triangles. Each cost as much as a factory steel worker could earn in a month. Father Ilya took three triangles to sate him, while his mother selected two and his father chose four. His parents were beaming, yet their eyes seemed somewhat sad. 

His mother, now fifty-one, had proud grey hair in a large, long braid down her back. Her eyes were as blue as Ilya's, and the wrinkles on her face seemed somehow clean and dainty. Her lavender dress matched the stained glass in her spindle earring, which swayed a bit as she began to speak at last.

"Dearest Ilya. I know we've said it already, but welcome home. You have made us [i]very[/i] proud."

"Indeed!" Mr. Bjornlie chipped in. "We both know you are made of stern stuff, but I must admit we were relieved when you finally graduated unharmed. Even some of my military friends shy away from the exercises in the Red Seminary, but you have surpassed it all! Both the physical, which anybody who knows me would not be surprised by, and the magical!" 

While it was true that Mr. Bjornlie was quite capable in his youth, and it was true he was not now unhealthy, it could not be denied that Mr. Bjornlie would no longer be able to complete a standard military training routine, let alone a day at the Red Seminary, for the amount of excess weight on him. If the grey on his mustache and slowly receding hair were any indication, he would never be able to reach that level of fitness again. This was, of course, nothing Ilya Bjornlie had planned to bring up. Instead, he said his thanks and began to move the conversation forward. 

"Thank you, Mother, Father." Ilya said, with utmost calm and a smiling nod to each of them. "It was by no means easy, but I have learned a great many things. In combat, in magic, and in life." He paused, taking a sip of water to help keep his words deliberate. "For instance, it had not occurred to me there would be many non-Varyan students as well. I suppose I expected a few Lanostran students, and a T'saraen or two, but it was my Omestrian colleagues who truly surprised me." He took his time to take a solid bite out of his first sandwich wedge. Savoring the texture of the bread, the bitterness of the lettuce, and the rich flavors and feeling of ham. Ilya chewed slowly and kept his eyes on his food while his ears awaited the reply.

It came with a distinct lack of a glance and the fractional hesitation he expected. “The idea is to gather the best of the best, loyal or not. Public documents tend to leave out that last part due to how receptive students are to the words of Varya when surrounded by its fullest glory.” Mrs. Bjornlie assured her son. “So other peoples are accepted quite readily. After are, it would hardly service Lord Varya if people with the talent and need to ascend were turned down.”

“Myes, but please, let us speak of each other and not of businesses and practices. I’m afraid your mother and I have enough of those in our daily life,” Mr. Bjornlie chipped in. “Now I understand that you kept at using a rifle in the Seminary. I simply must know how that has gone, since I do not believe I can recall seeing any Inquisitors with more than a token sidearm. Must’ve thrown them for a bit of a loop, eh?” 

There was the deflection Father Ilya had anticipated. It was for the best if he let off the pressure here. It would be a poor thing to damage his relationship with his parents now, especially with how thin they seem to have worn after all these years. So, if it was a story his father wanted, it was a story he would receive. Ilya deftly snatched one from his pre-approved list, and launched after a short preamble.

“Well I wouldn’t say I caused them much trouble, but I’m almost certain none of the other students had so much as touched a gun before our first day of practice with them! I was told off on day one for flipping the safety to start practicing while the others were still fiddling with their first bullet! I wish you could have both seen looks I got when…”

[hr]

A good hour later all three Bjornlies had lightened up somewhat, and the sun’s slow descent had begun to cast its muted glow upon the table where the servants at the door had brought in hot water to replace the pricey sandwiches of before. Sticking closer to the family tradition of eating their own meals like common men and women, this was accompanied bits of sweetened tack meant to be an economical treat for venturing soldiers and some of the poorer folk deep within Magnagrad, where food may need to keep long, and snow had no chance of accidentally ruining it. Better could be afforded easily up here, but luxury dampens ambition and resolve, so the rules were made when Ilya’s mother inherited her family’s slowly crumbling business and married the military man who now ran it beside her. 

Mr. Bjornlie was affably rambling through a story about how he had anticipated (and definitely not been privy to the cause of) a short-term ether crisis three year ago, and how a quarter of the city’s elites had been scrambling to buy his cleverly built stockpile, so they could keep running their countless luxuries and distractions. When he began to finish off, declaring how, as a loyal and intelligent man he had sold the Omestrian ether only to the Church and ISA, Father Ilya knew it was time to step forward with his request. But first, he needed to beat around the final bush.

“That reminds me. As circumstance would have it, I wound up paired with two Omestrian students for a regular part of my training” he said, narrowly avoiding a lie. “I was quite astounded at first, as in some areas they were not keeping up with me, but I was keeping up with them. Consistently, too. Their talents were as extraordinary as any I’ve seen before or since, and it got me thinking a bit about how they got there.” Father Ilya paused for a beat before continuing, continuing to a point he had weaved in after hearing his mother talk about merit before Lord Varya. “Omestrian ether is incredibly powerful, but although those partners held great reserves, I could not agree with anybody who would say they could best serve Varya under a pump. Their talents would be utterly wasted. As such, I would like to propose an idea.” 

This was the penultimate moment of truth. His trajectory was clear to them now, and they were caught in a loose, social catch 22. Though Ilya had not outright said his plan, he clearly intended to release some number of Omestrian slaves to the Red Seminary, or potentially more locations. However, they could not simply turn down a proposition without hearing the details, especially not from someone as esteemed as their own son. Even though this was “private,” the Bjornlies had not risen so far in High Society by ignoring the servants so many considered invisible. Those mouths could talk, and Ilya now possessed a small handful of trivial secrets he could scatter if he so wished. Once they agreed to listen, his request would be too reasonable, too small a cut into their massive profit margins. Refusing, though, would be a significant drop in reputation, leaving them only the option to agree. 

“Oh, don’t worry son. We invite some folk from the Red Seminary to check up on the slaves every three years. I believe we have someone visiting in two weeks, don’t we love?” Mr. Bjornlie replied smoothly.
Father Ilya’s face was pleasantly surprised, but his mind balked. He had arduously mapped well over a hundred ways this conversation could go, and accounted for countless complications and contingencies when visiting the facilities – which would have all needed to happen tonight, and calculated exactly how many shaken students the Red Seminary could handle him delivering out of the blue before leaving for El, as well as what qualities would best serve those he chose. But he had completely failed to anticipate that his actions may be redundant. This was to be his statement. His declaration that any could be recognized before Lord Varya, and implicitly that any could be recognized before himself. Aside from earnestly believing so himself, Ilya wanted a positive thing to be the public’s last memory of himself should he never return from El, and had long needed to somehow make clear to his peers where he now thoroughly stood on the societal issue of the Omestrian people. 

He did some quick mental math. He had spent twelve years in the Red Seminary, and these checks were done every three years. That left the last inspection before he left either right before he departed at the age of nine, or when he was six. That explained how he had not known – Father Ilya’s parents had not judged right to whisk him away on a trip to the pumpworks until he was seven.

His attention snapped back to the conversation just in time to miss Mrs. Bjornlie mentioning the name of the Father who usually came to peruse the slaves, but quick enough to hear her mention that she was fairly certain one of his fellow graduates this year had been taken away around fifteen years ago. She naturally could not recall their name, and sincerely hoped they had made it through the training process. 

It was not too long before Father Ilya excused himself, thanked his parents profusely, and gave each an affectionate hug. Well wishes were distributed, and he was on his way, suddenly without a plan for the next twelve hours. By the time he had reached his quarters, he resolved to not dwell on the issue, leave the question of who once was his family’s property aside for now due to irrelevancy, and instead return to musing and planning about the vision he had received at his Culmination. Indeed, it seemed not nearly so much a message as a prophecy, and both necessity and novelty in their own right were able to make Father Ilya plan and project endlessly around that one scene until it came true.