The Fraud and The Pommel

“He is correct. The presence of an unannounced royal from Noston is a matter for the King’s court. We cannot accept.” He still had one burning question. “How did you even get here?”

Ura didn’t answer. She gave a single, indifferent nod.

“Understood,” she said, her voice completely devoid of emotion. “I will leave.”

She was just… leaving. No argument. No threat. She was accepting their command.

And in that moment, Olomyar’s mind went into overdrive, calculating the catastrophic fallout of his own victory.

Wait, he thought, a wave of cold dread washing over him. She’s just leaving? She has Tier 5 magic. An Obsidian-rank staff. She’s loyal to Anna. We just declared this impossibly powerful, unidentified royal mage an enemy and ordered her out of our sight.

“Wait.”

The word stopped Ura in her tracks. Destrian and Zebril looked at him, confused.

Olomyar’s forced smile was gone, replaced by a look of intense, frustrated calculation. “Perhaps… I was too hasty,” he began, his mind scrambling to reframe the situation.

“To have a mage of your caliber wandering the kingdom during this crisis, with no official standing… it would be irresponsible.”

He looked at Zebril, then back at Ura. “Captain Zebril’s initial proposal, while unorthodox, has… strategic merit. It would be better to have an asset of your power where we can see her, under a defined, official role, than to have her as an unknown element outside our walls.” He took a deep breath, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

“The offer to instruct our mages… stands.”

Ura, who had been halfway to the door, turned back slowly. A small, knowing, and incredibly irritating smile touched her lips. She understood perfectly well that Olomyar had just outsmarted himself, and she was going to enjoy it.

“Alright,” she said, her voice a placid, agreeable hum.

“Show me the way to the mage training ground then.”

The words, so simple and accepting, sent a fresh wave of dread through Olomyar.

The training grounds, he thought, his mind racing in panic.

Destrian, however, was beaming.

“Excellent!” the Titan King boomed. “This is a great boon for the knights! A Tier 5 instructor! Our mages will be unstoppable! Don’t worry, I will tell the queen and king.”

“That would be an inefficient use of information, Captain Destrian,” Ura said, her flat, logical voice cutting through his enthusiasm.

Destrian looked at her, confused. “What do you mean, my lady?”

“Your King has spies in his court. Other kingdoms have spies watching him,” Ura explained, “To officially announce my presence is to reveal your strongest new asset to all of your enemies, and all of your allies. You should treat me as your ace.”

She looked from Destrian’s baffled face to Olomyar’s grim one.

“And it is always a bad move to show any side your most powerful card before the final hand is played.”

Ura gave a small, indifferent shrug and turned to follow Zebril, who was gesturing stiffly towards the corridor that led to the mage training grounds. Destrian and Olomyar followed a few paces behind.

They had only taken a dozen steps down the stone hallway when it happened.

Olomyar surged forward. He used the heavy, weighted pommel of the ceremonial dagger at his belt and slammed it into the back of Ura’s skull.

There was a sickening crack, and the small witch’s eyes went wide with shock for a split second before rolling back. She collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, a pool of dark blood beginning to form in her brown hair.

“What is the meaning of this, Olomyar?!” Destrian roared, his hand instinctively going for a sword that wasn’t there, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

Olomyar stood over the unconscious girl, his expression one of triumphant, manic vindication. He kicked her limp form lightly with the toe of his boot.

“The meaning,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt, “is that I do not allow unverified threats to wander freely in my barracks!” He pointed a shaking finger at the bloody, motionless witch.

“See?! She’s weak! A true Tier 5, an ‘immortal’ wielder of an Obsidian staff, would have a passive shield that could stop a catapult! She would have sensed my intent a kilometer away! Yet she goes down from a simple blow to the head like a common tavern wench!”

He sneered. “She is a fraud. A liar with a powerful toy she doesn't know how to use properly.” He barked an order to the guards who came running at the commotion. “Take her to the Hiraeth Cell. Full magic suppression restraints. Now!”

“Stop this madness, Olomyar!” Destrian bellowed, stepping in front of the guards. “You’ve just assaulted a royal from a foreign kingdom! This is an act of war against Noston! And you call her a fraud? We all felt her power! What do you think will happen when this ‘fraud’ wakes up in one of your cells?!”

“She is a spy, a liar, or both. My first duty is to the security of this kingdom, not to diplomatic niceties with a girl who refuses to even identify herself! She will remain in that cell, where I can question her, until I know exactly what she is.”

“You are making a grave mistake,” Zebril said, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “This will only enrage Lady Anna. We cannot afford to make an enemy of her.”

“Then she should not associate with spies!” Olomyar snarled.

Destrian looked from his paranoid Vice-Captain to the unconscious girl being lifted by the guards. He was the Head of the Knights, but Olomyar oversaw internal security. To physically stop him would be to start a civil war within the barracks’ command structure.

“Fine,” Destrian said, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet. “But when she wakes up, and when Lady Anna learns of this betrayal, the consequences will be on your head, Vice-Captain. And I swear on my honor, I will not stand in their way.”

As the guards moved to lift the unconscious witch, Olomyar lunged forward. He snatched the Obsidian staff from the floor and then reached for Ura’s robes, intending to search her for any hidden identification or weapons.

“Stop!” Zebril swatted his hand away with her gauntlet, “That is enough, Olomyar! Have you no decency?”

She knelt beside the small, bleeding form of the girl, she looks mad.

“I will do it. You have done enough.” Her hands moved, patting down Ura’s pockets and robes. She found nothing. No royal seal, no guild card, not even a single coin. Just a perfectly ordinary young woman. Zebril then gently turned Ura’s head, her brow furrowing in concern at the gash on her scalp. The blood was real, matting her brown hair.

“These wound needs tending,” she declared. She turned to two of her own trusted sergeants who had arrived. 

“You two. Take her to the infirmary first. Have the medic stitch that cut. Then, and only then, you will escort her to the cell.” 

“No one else is to touch her. Understood?”