Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The Magic Tower officially hangs the sign of a democratic republic, but in reality, it's run as an oligarchy dominated by a small group of power players. However, the factions steering the Magic Tower's political scene aren't political parties—they're academic schools of thought.
That's because a significant portion of the citizens making up magic society are mages who can wield magic themselves, and each school has its own vision and manifesto, functioning like pseudo-parties. In short, what drives magic society's politics and propels the Magic Tower forward isn't ideology or doctrine, but knowledge and scholarship.
Elemental School, Shamanism School, Astrology School, Alchemy School, Summoning School, Illusion School, Spirit School, Necromancy School, Radiant School, and so on.
Ever since the war with the Church, three schools have risen to dominate magic society and claim the top spots: the Elemental School, the Shamanism School, and the Astrology School.
The Magic Tower revolves entirely around these three schools. The people living in that society reverently call them the "Three Great Schools" or the "Trinity," laden with respect and awe.
Even the heart of the Magic Tower—the area where the Oracle, the Council, and other government institutions are concentrated—is called the Trinity. No further explanation is needed about the massive influence these three schools wield over the Tower.
And right now, one of them is standing before my eyes. No, make that our eyes.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Francesca Lanieri, administrative officer of the Secretariat."
Francesca Lanieri gave a light bow with a composed expression.
"Due to circumstances on our end, it seems we've kept our distinguished guests waiting far too long. My regrets."
"Not at all. Thanks to your consideration, we were all quite comfortable. If anything, we're the ones who should be grateful."
The alchemist who introduced herself as a Secretariat officer wore a brooch emblazoned with the symbol of the Elemental School. The uniform-like work attire issued to public officials marked her official status. The cape draped over her shoulders proclaimed her a mage, and the faintly glowing emblem securing it proved her affiliation with the Elemental School.
It wasn't all that surprising, given that one of the founders of the Elemental School was an ancestor of the Lanieri family.
Francesca Lanieri wasn't dressed up to the nines; she had simply attired herself in a manner befitting the unspoken etiquette of magic society for our meeting. But even so, her appearance was too striking to dismiss as merely "appropriately formal."
Deep purple hair, purple eyes. Slightly upturned eye corners. Sharp, keen gaze. Skin so clear it seemed transparent. Overall, she gave off a vibe somewhat similar to Veronica's—especially in how her features were so distinctly defined. In that sense, Francesca Lanieri projected the polar opposite image of Camilla or Lucia.
Francesca Lanieri exchanged greetings with everyone, her face lit with a friendly smile.
"May the blessings of heaven be upon you. It's an honor to meet you, Saintess."
"It's an honor to meet a seeker of wisdom and truth. Please, feel free to call me Lucia."
"How could I dare? But since the saint permits it, I am grateful."
We hadn't brought a dedicated interpreter, but thanks to the translation artifacts, light pleasantries flowed without a hitch.
If I had to point out something unusual, it was how Lucia and Francesca Lanieri addressed each other with titles fitting each other's protocols—elevating one another just so.
It was a fresh shock, one that made me forget all about the artifacts' performance. Given the strained relations between the Church and the Magic Tower, I'd half-expected them to use nicknames like "Syngman Rhee" or "Kim Il-sung." But both Lucia and Francesca coolly stuck to proper etiquette.
Probably because there were no onlookers in the room. Or maybe both women were just pros at wearing masks.
Anyway, I was relieved there were no journalists around—until it was finally my turn.
"Pleased to meet you."
I took Francesca Lanieri's outstretched hand and greeted her in her native Patalian.
"Good morning. Nice to meet you, Officer."
"...You speak Patalian?"
"I've got friends over there."
Francesca Lanieri looked mildly impressed.
"Impressive."
Seemed like speaking her language left a good impression; her face brightened. She shook my hand slowly.
"I have a feeling we'll get along just fine, don't you?"
"At least language won't be a barrier."
"I hope so."
Her hand, clasped in mine, felt much colder than I'd expected.
*
It had taken just over two weeks to finally meet Francesca Lanieri.
I figured the delay stemmed from the political rivalry between the Magic Tower and the Church. Protocol and security issues ultimately boiled down to their unique relationship, after all.
And yeah, that was spot on. The Foreign Ministry texted real-time updates daily, and Veronica called with the latest—how could it not be?
The root of it all was a pride clash between the Church and the Magic Tower.
But Francesca Lanieri claimed the delay was her fault.
"The handover dragged on, so I couldn't meet you sooner. I apologize."
Truth be told, no one in the room was clueless about the real reason for the postponement. Camilla might be excused as a three-month tourist (more like an illegal overstayer), but Lucia was a Church power player as a saintess, and both Francesca Lanieri and I were public servants from the Magic Tower and Abbas.
We all knew better. Yet Francesca Lanieri, fully aware of the truth, shouldered all the blame herself.
"I had so much work; I should've wrapped it up faster, but here we are."
Lucia and I nodded calmly. When someone insists it's all on them, what can you say?
We weren't one-day acquaintances; we'd be colleagues for months, maybe years. When your future teammate wants to avoid drama from the get-go, the polite thing is to play along.
"That happens. We fully understand your situation, Officer."
"Thank you sincerely. And please, call me whatever—formal or casual, public or private."
With all the political and historical baggage set aside, the conversation flowed in a warm, congenial atmosphere.
"Well then, how should I address you all?"
"Just our names should be fine. If everyone's okay with that."
"I'm good."
"Me too."
"Then please, feel free to call me Francesca from now on."
Francesca Lanieri smiled softly. The small talk eased everyone in, making the ensuing conversation smooth as silk.
Ironically serene, considering the Church and Magic Tower's history of ripping each other apart.
I sat quietly, watching the group chat. Not that I had nothing to say, but my mind was on Fabio Verati, who'd show up later. No room to jump in.
As I sipped the tea some sprite-like critters had brought, my eyes met Francesca Lanieri's.
"...Huh?"
"Something wrong?"
"Oh, no... your eyes just..."
"My eyes...?"
Francesca Lanieri tilted her pansy-like irises and smiled.
"Did something get in them?"
Under the room's stares, I snapped back and covered.
"...No. Must've been a trick of the light."
"Care to share what you saw?"
"...Nothing."
Weird.
"Guess I saw things for a second."
Her eyes had definitely glinted.
*
After the brief hiccup, I excused myself with everyone's understanding.
Bad form in a formal setting, but today's circumstances allowed it.
The courtesy visit was important but meaningless—no elected pols schmoozing (Lucia aside), no foreign or defense ministers hashing out 2+2 talks. Nothing to infuse with significance.
But as the saying goes, dreams mean less than their interpretation; people weigh meaning over facts.
So folks fixated on the meeting itself, not the content or intent.
From that angle, my real stage wasn't beside Camilla—it was elsewhere.
Hence, the press room.
"Yes, Chief. Sending the article now."
"Senior, go with 8 instead of 3. A little tweak, and it's perfect for the front page—full layout, faces all clear."
"Hold on, affiliation? Secretariat? That's under the Oracle's ops division. Link it to the Church cabinet announcement—picture writes itself."
The makeshift press room buzzed like a beehive, set up for smooth coverage.
International desk reporters hammered out stories with interpreters and translators, lines snaking along walls to send them out.
"Brutal. Absolutely brutal."
Atmosphere-wise, like the Iksan press room during a North-South summit.
Packed to the gills, even though I wasn't here for work. But summoned, so mission accomplished, right?
I scanned the chaos, then grabbed an Abbas paper article to shield my face.
"These rats are having a field day."
I muttered so low it'd pass for internal monologue.
But it wasn't. A reply floated back over my shoulder.
"Not just the press is busy, though?"
"We're always busy. When are we not?"
"Get fired, or the country collapses."
Sophia, disguised as a Patalia international desk reporter, tossed a self-deprecating jab.
I'd heard only cleared press got in, thanks to Tower security. Seeing an intel officer flashing a badge? Shaky trust.
"Why the look?"
"This place safe...?"
Sophia jerked her chin at the entrance wordlessly.
Two cape-clad mage cops checked IDs on incoming reporters—anti-intrusion wards against disguises and illusions.
Statue-still sentries eyeing passersby gave me chills, but Sophia shrugged it off with a grin, flashing her badge.
"Even magic won't get you in. Building's under full authority lockdown. No badge, no entry."
Well, badges don't guarantee everything, but close enough.
Sophia smirked. I nodded at her press pass.
"That real?"
"What, think it's fake?"
Brag much?
Anyway, safe enough. I shook my head and read an article aloud.
"'Clergy and Mages Unite: Spring for the Cabinet and Oracle?' What the hell?"
"What else? Newspaper fodder."
"This is tabloid trash..."
Improved Church-Tower relations? Bullshit.
Stuffing Heresy Inquisitors into the saintess's entourage for intel networks, then hyping a casual Lucia-Francesca meet as "thaw"? Laughable.
I gaped in disbelief; Sophia grinned mischievously.
"People's imaginations... richer than ours, huh?"
"Imagination? Delusions."
"Tomato, tomahto."
Scratch-scratch.
Pencil on paper.
"So, why's our attaché here? Not press."
"You called."
Sophia smiled faintly, closing her notepad. She propped her chin, smile lingering.
"Met Francesca yet?"
I nodded at the photo.
There I was, sandwiched quietly between the three.
"Had to do the rounds. Couldn't bail."
Today's event: zero agenda, just faces and future vibes.
But the stars' glamor drew eyes.
"Overhyping a simple hello."
"Saintess meets mage? Fair. And Francesca's no ordinary mage."
Francesca Lanieri. Officer in the Secretariat—right hand to the Oracle running the Tower's engine. Too connected to dismiss as "just a mage."
Lanieris trace to a Founding Father; they've produced legendary mages and Oracle councilors aplenty. No one saw her as average.
Sophia agreed.
"Without family drama, she'd be engaged to politico-elite by now. Pedigree, skills, looks... Merlo. Your take?"
"Officer? At least Grade 5. Noble daughter, top pedigree, civil servant. Suitors galore."
Prime Oracle council pick too. Family issues sidelined her, but a rival imperial noble's fall (house collapse) vaulted her back in.
Still, Abbas Foreign Ministry rated her influence middling next to a Lushan Federation shamaness (priest dad) or Kien conglomerate heir.
And from my spy lens, the Lanieri scion—from Oracle-pumping dynasty—getting backbencher treatment? All because of National Security Agency watch.
Public security offender's kid—under surveillance since preschool age. No freedom of movement.
Rough life.
But Sophia, here to surveil Francesca, brushed off such trivia.
She grinned as usual, teasing.
"Looks-wise?"
"Why bring that up here."
"She's hot. Reports won't say it—be honest."
"Like I'd trust a spook."
"Harsh..."
Sophia persisted. Too dogged for a joke; déjà vu crept in.
I caved.
"Hey. You think I went gaga over her face?"
"Who knows...?"
"Cut the 'who knows.' We're past secrets—spit it out."
Sophia suspected I'd fallen for Francesca's looks. Politely, love-struck; crudely, pussy-whipped.
Hell, that's why she dragged me here now.
No anger, though. National Security sent her to dig exactly this.
I did the same, just different seat.
So out came a gripe, not gripe.
"Secretariat's key spot, offender's kid—sure. But a Grade 5 wielding real power? Paranoid much."
"Could be Oracle council yet."
"Yeah, right."
I sighed, turning away. Sophia crossed her legs, dangling a foot lazily.
"Who knows...?"
Soft, humming murmur.
"Can't predict people."
Protagonist illustration is out! Same as the cover, courtesy of "ChiliConCarne". All copyrights belong to me.