The phrase spread the way a good habit did. Quietly, then all at once.
In the Ministry atrium, a clerk straightened his collar as a pair of visiting Centaurs passed, then offered a small, precise nod. "Mater Magica Aeterna." The Centaurs answered with the same phrase. They walked on afterwards.
Corvus watched from the mezzanine balcony. He kept his hands behind his back, fingers still, posture easy. He had expected the young to take it. Youth loved banners and clean words. The surprise was the old.
Arcturus came to stand at his side.
"They embraced it," Arcturus muttered.
Corvus watched a pair of Unspeakables cross the floor.
"It resonates with their origin," Corvus answered.
Arcturus tilted his head. "The so-called progressives may not agree."
Corvus let his gaze drift to the far side, where a small knot of witches stood near the notice board, reading a new circular about housing allocations in North Africa. One of them looked up, met Corvus's eyes, then looked away. Her mouth tightened. She still answered the greeting to the man beside her.
"They do not have the numbers nor the force behind them. Soon they will adapt or be the new radicals." Corvus answered Arcturus's concerns.
The Minister's mouth twitched. He nodded. Corvus was turning into a sharper leader by the day.
A messenger owl cut across the atrium. It circled once, saw Corvus, then corrected and landed on the rail a few steps away. The parchment tube was sealed in black wax.
Corvus took it, split the wax with a nail, and read.
Rita's hand was recognisable. Short lines and a light flattery. She reported exactly what she had seen in Hogwarts, in the settlements, in the old manors that pretended to hate the Ministry while quietly obeying it. The greeting, the phrase, the way, even house elves had started using it among themselves as a mark of belonging.
"The magicals needed a banner that did not belong to one race, nation or even a house. Not even ours. It needed a thing that could be spoken by anyone with or without a wand. It needed a phrase a vampire or a werewolf could say without choking."
"How sentimental of you," Arcturus said, and made it sound like a complaint.
"I am practical." Corvus leaned forward slightly, eyes on the atrium. "This gives them one word to answer with when the world asks what they are."
"And the world will ask." Arcturus's gaze sharpened. "It already is."
Corvus turned his head, a fraction. "Which is why the next name is not ours."
Arcturus gave him the space to collect his thoughts.
Corvus slid the tube into his inner pocket, petted the owl and watched it fly away.
"GAIA."
The syllables sat in the air between them.
"You want the Mundane side to have its own banner," Arcturus said.
"They will not kneel to Mother Magic," Corvus replied. "At best, they will choke on Latin and claim it is a spell. Let them have a name that reads like a committee and sounds like an idea."
Arcturus's eyes narrowed. "And you chose a name that invites every clergyman on the planet to bark about idols."
Corvus's mouth curved. "They bark either way. This at least gives them a target that is not a child with accidental magic."
"This world needs a structure, and I am shaping it."
"And does your structure have rules?" Arcturus asked.
--
The aircraft's cabin was quiet in the way government cabins usually were. Only reports, newspapers and some folders.
John Major sat by the window and pretended not to watch the escort jets. He had learned to ignore the theatre.
Rimington sat across from him, a pen in hand, still writing even after the briefing had ended. McColl sat to Major's left, jacket off, sleeves rolled, eyes on the folder marked GAIA FOUNDATION SESSION. The stamp on the corner was new. It was a Nordic symbol of the World Tree.
Major turned a page and found the part that mattered.
GAIA was not a flag. It was an apparatus.
Four pages described the governing body in plain language. Whoever wrote it had done the work.
A Council of States, one seat per member state, the head of government or an appointed deputy. Decisions by qualified majority, veto only for declarations of war and admission of new members. A Secretariat to do the boring things that kept empires alive, staffed by civil servants who are not secretly ruling over the council. A Treasury Board for shared budgets, with an audit office that answered to the Council, and not to any single capital.
Under it, the General Staff. Major's eyes paused there.
A unified command structure, but not a unified army. Each state would assign a portion of its forces under GAIA. Standardised training blocks. Shared logistics. A doctrine manual that banned improvisation as a virtue.
The selection of generals was the sharpest part.
No hereditary appointments. No party loyalty. A board of officers from seven different states, plus a civilian chair.
Major looked up.
"They are trying to make NATO without the Americans owning it," he said.
Rimington did not stop writing. "And without the old assumptions."
McColl tapped the next section with a knuckle. "The Unit."
Major read.
THE UNIT DIRECTORATE.
They refused to use the words that made people reach for scripture. Not once the words of witches, wizards or magic.
Mana was the term used to describe a unique form of energy discovered by the scientists of the Unit. It could only be accessed by a small portion of the population, those marked by a rare mutation. Mana was more than just power. It was a resource, a field, and a force that could shape the world.
A member of the Unit was a person who could interact with this energy.
The Directorate was designed as a cage with a velvet lining.
Members of the Unit were subject to strict procedures: they were searched, registered, trained, and formally assigned by the Unit's own designated division. They were the black box of GAIA, a system shrouded in secrecy. Their chain of command remained equally mysterious. A separate General was to be appointed to oversee operations, and every deployment required this individual's explicit authorisation.
Major could almost hear the arguments that paragraph would create.
"They are becoming bold," he said, voice low.
"Indeed," McColl replied. "We have all seen what they can do."
Major's gaze returned to the page. The Directorate insisted on one thing in bold print.
NO UNAUTHORISED CONTACT WITH THE UNIT
Major's mouth tightened. He had watched a nation bleed itself over private militias more than once in history books. He did not want to live through it again. Yet not only himself, but every state would know what the Unit is in essence. The Magicals were leaving their shells.
He sighed; there were not many options. He turned the page.
Economy.
A shared market for critical goods, energy, food, and medical supply chains. A central clearing system to keep currencies stable without forcing a single currency on states that still clung to pride. An infrastructure corps to rebuild ports, rail, and power networks in Africa first, then elsewhere. The phrase is repeated in three different sections.
MERIT-BASED APPOINTMENTS.
It was a knife aimed at every cosy sinecure in Europe.
Rimington finally looked up. "The venue is the Hofburg. Vienna."
Major nodded. He had expected Vienna. Neutral ground, old stone and polite rooms with a history of being used for decisions that ruined lives.
McColl leaned back. "Historically important enough that everyone will feel watched by dead men."
Major did not smile. "We will be watched by living ones, too. Hopefully, they will be visible."
Rimington's pen paused. "The Unit will be there."
Major's eyes stayed on the paper. "How many of them?"
"The memo says twelve," she replied. "For security."
Major exhaled slowly. Twelve was a number chosen on purpose. Enough to matter. Not enough to look like an invasion.
He closed the folder and rested his palms on it.
"I think it is Lord Rosier's doing. He seems to be the mastermind behind what the magicals are doing back at home," he said.
McColl's eyes narrowed. "You speak his name like he is a policy paper."
The aircraft dipped slightly as it began its descent.
Major looked out at the grey cloud layer and thought of Stonehenge. Of dragons appearing like a lesson, then disappearing like a threat. Of a falcon delivering terms like a judge delivering a sentence.
Vienna waited below. A palace built by emperors. A room prepared for prime ministers.
And a new body called GAIA, ready to pretend it was only administration.
Major adjusted his tie and sat a little straighter.
He would walk into the Hofburg as the representative of Britain.
He would walk out, if he was careful, as one state among many, inside a machine that did not care about pride.
That was the price of peace.
--
John Major cleared the last security cordon and stepped into the Hofburg's inner corridor with Rimington on his right and McColl a pace behind. Austrian officers checked badges with stiff politeness. British close protection stayed close enough to be seen, far enough to avoid looking like a parade.
Major's gaze caught on the men at the doors.
SAS, in the plain clothes that never fooled anyone, watched the corridor with the same bored patience they used in Belfast. Across from them, a German detail in dark suits carried themselves like they still had a border in Berlin. GSG 9 by the shoulders, not by the tie. A French team stood near the marble steps, quiet and compact, GIGN in everything but the patch. Italy's GIS blended better than the rest, which made them easier to notice once you knew what to look for. Spain's GEO lingered near a window, hands empty, eyes sharp. Portugal's GOE took the far corner and refused to move.
Then the Turkish men walked past with no attempt at subtlety. Tall, broad, close-cropped hair, the posture of soldiers who had learned manners without losing the habit of violence. Their liaison officer wore a suit, but the men behind him did not. Bordo Bereliler. Major had seen enough briefings to recognise them without needing a label.
It all made sense.
What did not make sense were the twelve waiting inside the antechamber.
They stood in two lines, six and six, rifles slung, sidearms locked on their thighs, boots planted with the confidence of people who did not expect anyone to test them. The shortest was above two meters, even before the kit. Their faces carried the same calm, not the calm of boredom, the calm of men trained to keep their pulse low while things burned. They wore no insignia that matched any national uniform.
The Unit.
Major had seen the leaked footage a dozen times. The cameras always shook at the wrong moment, always cut away just before the point. In person, the scale did not need a camera. The rifles looked like rifles, but the metal caught light in a way that made his eyes slide off it. Rimington noticed it as well. Her attention stayed on hands and angles, not on the shine.
Major looked for the sticks.
Nothing.
No wand visible anywhere, no carved handle in a boot. The twelve carried only what a soldier would carry.
A door opened. An Austrian protocol clerk waved them in with the strained smile of someone hosting history against his will.
The council chamber had been rearranged into a broad oval. Flags stood in disciplined rows, and translators waited behind glass with headsets already on. Major took his seat behind the plaque marked UNITED KINGDOM and laid his folder down. He did not open it yet. He watched the room fill.
Helmut Kohl arrived first among the Western Europeans, heavy steps, heavy presence, a man who had outlasted crises by refusing to blink. Jacques Chirac followed with a polite nod that reached Major's face but not his eyes. Romano Prodi moved with academic neatness, as if the room were a seminar and not an autopsy of the old order. António Guterres spoke quietly to his aide, then looked up and took stock.
From the north, Gro Harlem Brundtland entered as she had never cared whether a room liked her. She did not waste time on greetings. She sat, placed her pen parallel to her papers, and stared at the central lectern.
Boris Yeltsin arrived with a Russian entourage that made the Austrians visibly tense. Major watched the men around him, not the President himself. Alpha and Vympel did not announce themselves either, but they carried the same weight as the members of the Unit.
From Ankara, Süleyman Demirel represented Turkey with the patient expression of a man who had seen governments rise and fall and had learned to treat both as weather. His advisers did most of the talking, but his eyes did not miss anything.
Heydar Aliyev sat for Azerbaijan with an unreadable face, the sort of face that had survived the Soviet system and come out sharper. Nursultan Nazarbayev took his place for Kazakhstan, calm as stone, hands folded, waiting to see who would overreach first. Saparmurat Niyazov arrived in Turkmenistan with theatrical certainty and the kind of entourage that only exists around people who demand it. Turks sat next to each other, either as a practised habit or as a message to the rest.
Ghana's Jerry Rawlings was there, neat and direct, as if he had walked into a military briefing and refused to pretend otherwise. Egypt's Hosni Mubarak sat a little apart, not a member, not a guest, something in between, a man who had decided independence was safer than belonging.
The Persian delegation did not look like an old regime. No clerical robes, no slogans. A woman chaired it with a plain suit and a folder thick enough to be a weapon. The plaque read PERSIA.
When the doors finally closed, the room quieted without anyone asking.
Austrian staff brought the charter forward. No speeches about brotherhood. No sentimental nonsense. The papers were read, amended, and initialled. Major found himself appreciating the lack of theatre.
The first dispute arrived on schedule.
Russia wanted weight, not just a seat. Yeltsin's foreign minister leaned into the microphone and spoke in measured phrases about contribution, about geography, about the eastern frontier that would now be held under one banner. The translator kept up, barely.
Kohl answered without raising his voice. Germany would contribute more funding than most states could imagine. Germany would contribute industrial capacity. Germany would not accept a structure that turned GAIA into a mask for an empire.
Chirac tapped his pen once, then pushed for a compromise that sounded like French moderation and smelled like French leverage. Votes were weighted by contribution, but capped so no one could own the table.
Major watched the angles. Britain had lost the luxury of sitting above Europe and pretending it was separate. He took the offered lane.
He turned the discussion to mechanics.
GAIA would function as a federal council, not a parliament. Each state would retain its internal government, laws, and courts. GAIA would control external defence, shared borders, and strategic infrastructure. Trade policy would be aligned. Customs would be unified. Currency was left deliberately vague, a promise postponed.
The military structure came next.
A portion of each state's forces would be seconded to GAIA command. Not volunteers or symbolic platoons. Real brigades, real air wings, real naval assets. The units would remain national on paper, but their operational control would pass to the GAIA General Staff for theatres outside home territory.
Demirel's adviser leaned forward and asked the question everyone avoided. Who commands, and who obeys.
A shortlist appeared on the screens. Not names, roles. The Chief of Defence Staff of the United Kingdom. The Inspector General of the Bundeswehr. The French Chief of the Defence Staff. The Russian Chief of the General Staff. Turkey's Chief of the General Staff. A rotating seat for smaller states.
Meritocracy, written into the charter with teeth.
Candidates would be nominated by national staff, screened by a joint board, and then voted in council. Removal would require a supermajority. No permanent king in uniform.
Major caught Rimington watching him. She had that look that meant, you are signing away the levers you used to pretend you owned.
He signed anyway.
The economy followed.
Guterres pushed for a development bank that could move reconstruction money into Africa without drowning it in bureaucracy. Prodi wanted agriculture and logistics treated as security, not as afterthoughts. Rawlings spoke once, short and sharp, about ports, rail, and food, and the room listened more than it had for the Europeans.
The Unit framework arrived at the end like a knife placed on the table with careful courtesy.
The Unit is hereby established as an independent GAIA asset, separate from the conventional army and beyond the ownership of any state. Its deployment shall rest exclusively with its Commanding Officer. Protected under GAIA law, incitement against the Unit shall constitute sedition.
Major heard the word sedition and felt his jaw tighten.
Chirac's mouth twitched, almost a smile, as if he had found a way to pass a domestic law through an international charter.
Brundtland cut through the posturing.
She stood, walked to the lectern, and did not ask permission.
The reality remained clear: each representative was fully aware of the Unit's magical nature. Accordingly, they offered no objection and consented unanimously to its independent status.
-
Norway's voice filled the room with the tone of someone used to being right and disliked for it.
She spoke about fossil fuel markets collapsing under coordinated policy. She spoke about stability. She spoke about energy independence that did not depend on pipelines crossing three borders and ten egos.
Wind, hydro, and grid integration, not as a slogan, as a plan.
She proposed a timetable. She proposed a fund. She proposed a GAIA standard for electrification and transport. She proposed that the Alliance stop acting like oil was a birthright and start treating it like a lever to be dropped.
Russia's delegation stiffened. Niyazov's adviser whispered something that made him scowl.
Then Kohl nodded once.
Chirac followed.
Prodi scribbled notes and lifted his hand for the microphone.
Major looked down at his own papers, then at the ceiling for half a second, then back to the table.
Britain backed it.
The clause passed.
Generals were assigned after that; the first GAIA General Staff was set in place with the careful compromise of people who intended to survive one another. Nobody looked satisfied. Nobody looked ready to walk out.
As the meeting broke for a short recess, Major left his chair and walked toward the windows, needing movement more than air. Through the glass, he saw the courtyard below.
The twelve members of the Unit stood where they had stood before.
One of them shifted his weight. The movement carried the quiet certainty of a man who could break a door with his shoulder.
Major felt the same thought circle back again.
No wands.
No symbols.
Just soldiers.
Rimington joined him and kept her voice low.
"Whatever they are," her eyes stayed on the courtyard, "they are not here to decorate a treaty."
Major watched them for another heartbeat, then turned back to the table.