The Path of Least Resistance

Zebril’s mind reeled. “Who are you?!” she hissed, “How did you get in here?! The wards—”

The witch let out a soft, tired sigh. “My name is Blanchefleur Winthyra. You can call me Ura,” she said, her tone suggesting this whole conversation was a tedious chore. “I’m not planning to hide myself from you. And rest assured,” she added, a flicker of analytical light in her sharp, green eyes, “I’m human.”

Green eyes. Zebril froze. Every high-ranking officer in Minilon was taught to recognize the signifiers of foreign nobility.

Green eyes like that, the color of new spring leaves, meant only one thing: this girl was a follower of Dawnfield, a royal from the Kingdom of Noston. Who was Anna that a Noston royal would serve as her bodyguard?

“Anna’s… friend, huh?” Zebril finally managed, lowering her hammer slightly. “The last time I checked, I never agreed to another girl staying in my room. And that doesn’t answer my question. How did you get here?”

“I’m just here to protect Anna,” Ura said, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of harming any of the guards here. Expending the energy would be illogical.”

The answer did nothing to soothe Zebril’s soul. “How. Did. You. Get. Here?” she repeated, her voice a low growl.

Ura looked at her, truly looked at her, “Patrol routes with a seven-minute overlap, magical ward frequencies that fluctuate based on ambient humidity, and a structural weak point in the stonework on the north-facing wall. Many gaps.” She gave a small, lazy shrug. “I simply chose the path of least resistance through one of those gaps. It was… trivial.”

Zebril’s face hardened, her irritation growing. “That doesn’t answer me. Did you phase through the wall?”

Ura sighed again, a sound of profound boredom. “The specific method is irrelevant. The outcome is what matters. You should probably focus on fixing the system rather than interrogating the person who was kind enough to demonstrate its flaws.”

Zebril’s gaze drifted from the witch’s unnervingly calm face down to the staff she held loosely in one hand. It was a simple staff of polished, dark wood.

The girl smiled, noticing her stare. “Interested in this?” she asked, “It’s Obsidian rank.”

The word hit Zebril like a physical blow. Obsidian?! The highest possible rank for a magical artifact. To wield such a weapon meant the user had to be of a commensurate power level. It was a rank most arch mages of the kingdom failed to achieve after twenty years of constant, grueling training. For a girl this young to possess one…

There’s no way I’m wrong, Zebril thought, This girl… she has Tier 5 magic circuit. The purest form of magic a human can possibly have.

“If you don’t have any other pointless questions, please leave,” Ura sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. “Go do your job. Don’t worry, I won’t be a threat to your barracks, so long as no one threatens Lady Anna first.”

Zebril let out a long, shaky breath. First Anna, a vampire with a legendary talking sword and a power level that defied logic. Now this girl, a royal from Noston and a Tier 5 mage easily more powerful than the kingdom's strongest knight, Sir Nennoch, Tier 6, and leagues above her own and Olomyar’s Tier 7 abilities. Three beings of immense, world-altering strength were now sleeping in her barracks.

She turned back to the witch, her expression shifting from a shocked captain to a recruiting officer. “Lady Ura,” she began, her tone now formal and professional. “If you are to remain within these barracks, your presence must be accounted for and used. Given your… clear expertise in the arcane arts, I would like to formally offer you a position as a guest instructor for our battlemages.”

Ura looked at her as if she had just suggested teaching basic arithmetic to a rock.

“No,”

Zebril blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I refuse,” Ura clarified, her green eyes filled with a look of profound, intellectual pity. “My primary function here is to ensure Lady Anna’s safety. That’s about it.”

A sleepy, deeply annoyed voice cut through the tension from the bed.

“Shut up…”

Both women turned. Anna was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, her hair a messy tangle around her shoulders. She looked at them with the bleary-eyed irritation of someone whose much-needed rest had been rudely interrupted.

“You both are disturbing my sleep,” she mumbled.

Ura opened her mouth to explain the logical inefficiency of Zebril’s proposal, but Anna was already processing the situation with a sleepy but sharp clarity. She looked at the witch, her expression flat.

“It’s fine, Ura,” she declared, her voice thick with sleep but absolute in its authority.

“You can be their teacher. It’s more useful than you sitting in that corner collecting dust.”

Ura’s jaw snapped shut. She saw the look in Anna’s eyes. It was an order. The lazy witch let out a long, suffering sigh of profound, intellectual resignation. Her new, tedious fate was sealed.

“Fine.”

Zebril, on the other hand, stared in stunned silence. Anna, with a few sleepy, mumbled words, had just solved the entire problem, effortlessly asserting her absolute authority over a Tier 5 royal mage.

Having settled the matter, Anna flopped back down onto the pillow, pulling the blankets up.

“Maren will be back soon to watch over me,” she murmured, her voice already drifting off. “You can both leave now… talk outside…”

She rolled over, her back to them.

Zebril and a deeply reluctant Ura quietly exited the room, closing the door behind them.

Zebril now had her new, impossibly powerful guest instructor.

Ura now had her new, intensely disliked job.

And Anna, having just orchestrated a major strategic and political maneuver, was already on her way back to sleep.

The trip to Captain Destrian’s chambers was a tense, silent affair. Zebril walked and Ura trailing behind her with an air of profound boredom. They entered without knocking. Destrian and Olomyar looked up from a large map of the city, their expressions turning to surprise.

“Captain Zebril,” Destrian began. “What is the meaning of—”

“An update on our new asset’s security detail,” Zebril cut in, her voice all business. She gestured to the witch. “Captains, this is Lady Blanchefleur. She will be staying with us for the foreseeable future.” She paused, then dropped the first bombshell.

“She is a royal, from the Kingdom of Noston.”

The reaction was immediate. “From the Kingdom of NOSTON?!” Destrian exclaimed, his one hand slamming down on the table.

Olomyar’s face tightened, his teeth gritting audibly. Another one, he thought, the connection to Anna immediately and infuriating.

Another impossible variable tied to that vampire.

Before they could bombard her with questions, Ura spoke, “Lady Anna has told me to work here. I am willing to train your knights until the primary corruption threat has been neutralized.”

Zebril, wanting to justify this insane situation, added the second, more terrifying piece of information. “Her staff is Obsidian rank, Captains. Her personal magic is Tier 5.”

The room fell silent. Olomyar, as a high-tier mage himself, understood the implications far better than anyone. “Obsidian…” he whispered, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. “Beings who achieve that level are considered functionally immortal. Her name must be written in the halls of kings in Noston.” He stared at the small, sleepy-looking girl. “Who are you?”

“We require identification,” Destrian demanded, his voice regaining its authority. “Your guild card.”

Ura gave them a blank, pitying look. “I don’t have it.”

“Then a royal seal, some other proof!” Olomyar insisted.

The witch let out a long, suffering sigh, “My identity is irrelevant,” she said. “Lady Anna has given me an order. If you don’t want me, then I will just stay in one place.” She looked at Zebril.

“I will just stay in Anna’s room.”

Olomyar’s face was a carefully constructed mask of civility, a thin, brittle smile stretched over his seething anger and suspicion. He looked at the small, sleepy witch who had so effortlessly cornered him.

“Then you are forbidden to stay here,” he said, “Our official guest is Lady Anna, and her alone. A witch from another kingdom, a royal no less, is not welcome without a formal diplomatic envoy.”

“Oh?”