“I am Sir Henry of Mostenstein, your humble wandering knight,” I said, keeping my voice level and deliberately unthreatening. “I witnessed a civic disturbance, and intervened to prevent further damage until authorities arrived.”

  That was, of course, what I thought I said.

  “You will address me as Sir Henry of Mostenstein, knight errant, unbound and acting. I observed a hostile aetheric entity breaching warded civic space, endangering civilians and degrading infrastructure. I intervened. The creature remains alive because I allowed it to. It waits here because I judged this ground acceptable. I recognized Conclave authority and yielded the moment it arrived—belated though that arrival was. Had it not, the matter would have been resolved without need for your pointless intervention.”

  Great. Ceralis’d just insulted their entire organization.

  What even was an ‘aura’? I pulled the description up.

  I skimmed the description, already regretting it. This wasn’t how strength was supposed to work. Not through people thinking I was being deliberately threatening when I was just trying to get through a sentence intact. I didn’t like that Ceralis thought my forced intimidation was a game.

  But if this was the game I was stuck with... I’d be an idiot not to learn how to play it.

  Vaalor’s uncovered eye narrowed. The containment field around the leymire did not change, yet the marsh reeds bowed as if pressed down by a sudden weight.

  He said, still in his calm voice, “You speak lightly of intervention. The Conclave has ensured the safety of thousands across this district alone. The Conclave has sealed breaches before civilians ever knew they existed. The Conclave has contained, neutralized, erased creatures from record so cities could sleep without knowing why.” He took one measured step forward. “We arrive when escalation would otherwise be necessary, especially when independent actors have the tendency to overreach their authority.”

  Silvermane did not care. She lowered her head, snorted, and began nosing through the marsh grass at her feet, testing a clump with her teeth as if this were an excellent time to see whether wet reeds tasted any different from dry ones.

  I lifted one hand, slow and careful. “Chief Investigator, I meant no disrespect—”

  “—yet where,” my voice continued smoothly, betraying me, “was this vaunted vigilance when the perpetrator shattered three wards, traversed two trade streets, and reached a marsh boundary unopposed? The Order teaches that authority is proven by action, not by arriving late to annex the consequences of someone else’s resolve.”

  Curse you, Ceralis, you scripture-cherry-picking, sanctimonious brass-polisher of a daemon.

  Vaalor glowered at me. “Choose your next words carefully, ‘Knight’,” he said quietly. “You are standing in the space between professional restraint and institutional memory.”

  Ah, blasted. I was today years old when I learned ‘Intimidation Battle’ was a thing.

  I heaved a sigh. Fine. My aura was Lv. 10. As long as I got Vaalor to not actually do anything else but talk, this was already decided.

  I simply looked at him, activating my Silent Authority. Immediately, I could see my gaze overwhelming his, and the way he was forcefully forcing his single eye to not look away from me.

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  Vaalor did not look away.

  That alone was impressive. Good. A professional.

  “You mistake restraint for absence,” he said at last. “The Conclave does not scramble after every loose anomaly like frightened villagers with bells. We choose when to act. Control over theatrics. Had we arrived moments later, the outcome would have been identical—minus the unnecessary spectacle.”

  “Identical,” I echoed. “An interesting claim, considering the creature was contained, unharvested, and waiting politely when you arrived. I find it reassuring that your procedures now align so closely with mine.”

  Vaalor’s eye twitched. “Do not mistake coincidence for coordination,” he said. “The Conclave anticipated this outcome.”

  “Ah,” I nodded. “Then I’m pleased to have fulfilled your expectations in advance.”

  A murmur rippled behind him.

  “We account for variables,” Vaalor continued stiffly. “Independent actors are... statistically inevitable.”

  I replied, “Such is because I am an inevitability.”

  Silvermane chose that moment to wander two steps forward and sniff Vaalor’s boot.

  Neither of us acknowledged it.

  “You operate without oversight,” Vaalor said. “Without mandate.”

  “Correct,” I said. “It’s very efficient.”

  “You lack authorization.”

  “I compensate with results.”

  “You undermine institutional order.”

  “I streamline it.”

  One could not win an intimidation battle by being insufferable. One must dominate.

  Fine, Ceralis. Take the wheel.

  “You presume,” he said carefully, “to lecture the Conclave on consequence.”

  I tilted my head a fraction.

  “No,” I replied. “Question my methods, and the consequences will arrive before the question finishes forming.”

  Vaalor scoffed. But he said nothing.

  “This is not a conversation. This is a forecast.” I leaned in just enough that my shadow crossed his boots. “You question me, and clerks three districts away will wake up uneasy, unsure why their hands are shaking while they stamp reports they haven’t written yet. You will brief your superiors, and you will not use my name. You will say ‘the Knight’ instead. And nobody will dare say a word, will dare breathe at the mere mention of me. From that day on, whenever a Conclave clerk hears plate armor shift in the distance, they will double-check their ledgers. You will circulate a memo advising caution. It will be revised six times. Each revision will be less specific than the last. Eventually it will read only: ‘If encountered, do not escalate.’ And long after this incident is archived, footnoted, and buried, the trembling will remain—because no one will remember what I did... only that the Conclave once decided not to find out.”

  What am I even saying? This is over a leymire. A FERRET.

  For a moment, he—Chief Investigator of the Conclave, master of calm procedural dominance—looked small.

  “Enough,” he said in a lower voice than normal. “This... forecast has been registered. We are here for the leymire, and for no other... distractions. Your participation will be recorded. The Conclave will note your initiative, and rewards appropriate to such initiative will be considered.”

  Even as he spoke, I could feel the lingering heat of my aura, the recoil of his professional pride against the avalanche I’d unleashed. I knew it would take weeks for the internal memos, the whispers among clerks, the careful footsteps in the halls of the Conclave, to settle back to normal.

  Vaalor moved toward the leymire, careful, controlled, but not without a glance back at me. He did not speak of my methods again.

  The representatives of the Conclave surrounded the leymires, lifted the creature, then carefully maneuvered it onto a suspended sigil-platform. Within moments, the creature was gone.

  Vaalor produced another parchment from the folds of his coat. “Sir Henry of Mostenstein, the Conclave recognizes your initiative and the containment of the leymire. Accordingly, you are awarded two thousand Kohns.”

  I felt it immediately: a rush of pride, warmth in my chest, a beam forming in my mind that threatened to lift the visor off entirely. Two thousand Kohns! That was a full day’s work in a Low Tier 2 dungeon!

  “However...” Vaalor continued.

  Now that didn’t sound good already.

  Vaalor said, “Deductions. Five hundred Kohns for property damage—specifically, the vendor whose citrus stock you pulverized.”

  My beam faltered.

  “One thousand Kohns for destroying a cart. Four hundred Kohns for collapsing the wedding inventory crate,” Vaalor continued. “Sixty Kohns for scaffolding damage. Two hundred Kohns for the laundry line, creatively rearranged. And ten Kohns for lamplight disruptions along the leymire’s path, bringing your net balance to one hundred and seventy Kohns owed to the Conclave.”

  Silvermane snorted beside me.

  I could feel the temptation, faint but persistent: my aura still radiated, my gaze still commanded. One intimidating glare, one choice word, and the Conclave would surely reconsider. Yet, I was a knight of Saint Merin, not a debt dodger. I reached into my pouch, counting out the exact coins, and paid in full, silently, without comment.

  If Anabeth had been here, she would have done exactly what I could not: she’d have parleyed, bargained, upsold our help, and negotiated a reduction for the ‘cart incident.’ Probably she’d have gotten the Conclave to pay me for damages averted, simply by eloquence and insinuation. A thousand Kohns for a cart? Too much. That was Anabeth logic. But I was not Anabeth. I was Henry.

  I shoved the last coin into their clerk’s hand. Before leaving, Vaalor added for a final time, “Mr. ‘Knight’, next time you witness such disturbances, leave law enforcement to the Conclave. Have a good day.” He gestured to his follower, and they left before I could nod.

  I let out a slow breath, brushing my hand down Silvermane’s neck. “Well,” I murmured, “that’s that.”

  It was then, from around a bend in the path, that Anabeth reappeared. Her stride was uneven, a hand pressed to her stomach, and a laugh, half-cough, half-giggle, tumbled out.

  “Ah… stomachaches,” she said, waving vaguely. “They tend to linger for a longgg time, don’t they?” Her grin widened. “Say... were there other people here?”

  “Yes, there were,” I said.

  Anabeth wobbled a little, still grinning, still holding her stomach. “Ah... well, I—”

  She would not leave this to theatrics. I had quite enough of her attempts at evasion.

  “No.” I raised my hand. “You will answer me now. Who are you, and why are you evading authorities?”