I willed my voice into the solemn cadence of someone who had stared into the abyss of bureaucratic indifference and lived to annotate it.
“Selfish bureaucrat. Your maps serve kingdoms,” I said. “Mine will serve the people who don’t get a choice! The knights of Saint Merin, champions of the defenseless, uphold a duty far above crowns and councils! We do not chart borders for glory, nor measure lines for prestige! We map to protect lives! To prevent calamities before they strike! To give the lost, the helpless, and the unwary a fighting chance! It is our duty to share the maps for the mass!”
I did NOT plan for my voice to get that pompous, but I did have limited control over how Ceralis presented my intent.
Documented what?
The chartmaker raised a finger, pointing toward the far wall. “Documented, you say? Perhaps you should familiarize yourself with these,” he said.
Following the gestures, my eyes fell on the wall. Charts, maps, and meticulously annotated scrolls covered every inch: outbreaks, quarantined towns, famine zones, floodplains, and the slow, patient paths of every plague the kingdom had suffered in the last century. Royal Commendation for Cartographic Service, Order of Lines and Measures — Gold Class, Stopped a Civil War by Redrawing a Border Accurately, one of the scrolls said.
I gulped.
“See here?” he tapped a cluster of tiny red circles that mapped the spread of a fever that had claimed an entire valley. “Every line on these maps was shared only with those who held office. I have served these councils, these kingdoms... but I myself have also documented the failures, the consequences of selfish mapping.”
I see now. No point trying to intimidate a man who had proof of decades spent saving lives. In fact, I even felt a deep, quiet admiration for the diligence, the patience, the sheer moral rigor of this atelier. Here was someone who had taken the same principles I’d sworn to uphold as a Knight of Saint Merin: protection, vigilance, and service; the sacred vows I had repeated to myself in empty halls, and actually lived them out. This was a dutiful man, who—
Wait a minute. Duty.
I could use that angle; the 22nd teaching of the Knighthood: Knowledge hoarded is a sin; knowledge shared is duty.
But Ceralis couldn’t possibly say anything that resonated with people. It was holding me back. I had to reclaim my voice.
Three lines. That was nothing. I’d written shopping lists longer than that. I needed density—impact—something that could shove open the atelier’s ears before the counterargument slammed shut.
The first line must open the door. I stropped my voice into conviction that finally sounded like me, not Ceralis’ theatrical rendition. “Master Atelier, you and I serve the same purpose: lives safeguarded through knowledge, as you record the past so others may survive the future—exactly the creed Saint Merin carved into our order’s bones.”
That got him to turn toward me. He was listening now. I need to wedge the door wider.
“And because you understand that duty better than any council clerk, you know this truth: a map locked in a vault saves no one, while a map shared is a thousand lives you’ll never have to mourn.”
His brows rose. He hadn’t said anything back, but I knew I had gotten his attention. The problem was, I had one line left, and there was no way I could convince him to assist me in sketching my map in such a short window.
Which meant it would have to be weaponized. But not for him.
I angled my body toward her just enough to imply conspiracy.
“Lady Anabeth,” I said in a commanding enough tone, just the way she liked it, “you naturally have a good instinct for cartography, so why don’t you tell our good master here about your deep desire to see this knowledge properly used, perhaps by beginning with a clean, accurate sketch of the local vicinity?”
Anabeth brightened instantly, the way a sword brightens when it realizes it’s about to be swung. She clasped her hands behind her back and spoke with newfound purpose, “Master... ah—your name, sir?”
“Derevin,” he replied, wary but polite. “Master Derevin of the Royal Atelier of Lines.”
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She lit up. “Master Derevin,” she repeated, “it would be an honor to learn from someone with your record. Your plague mapping alone was remarkable, truly. But you see, I’ve been studying the inconsistencies of local topography reports, and it’s become quite clear to me that an updated vicinity chart is absolutely essential.”
Meanwhile, I received a new update from Ceralis.
That was all I needed to see. If a little practice let me speak longer, or wait less between uses, then I wasn’t just regaining my voice—I was upgrading it.
“Essential, you say?” Master Derevin asked Anabeth.
“Oh, extremely,” Anabeth said with scholarly certainty. “Critical, I daresay. I am ashamed to confess, we nearly got lost on the way in. And if we educated navigators struggled, imagine the hazard posed to ordinary townsfolk!” She gasped softly, disastrously. “Master Derevin, people could be wandering into unstable escarpments. Or flood-runoff paths. Or—Saints preserve us—unmarked bogs.”
The atelier paled, as only a cartographer confronted with the threat of an unmarked bog could pale.
As Anabeth launched into a surprisingly articulate explanation of topographic inconsistencies, Derevin leaned in, fully absorbed.
This was, of course, the ideal moment for Durand the stone golem to attempt murder.
The little stone menace toddled innocently near Derevin’s leg before suddenly veering ninety degrees with the purposeful momentum of a battering ram discovering religion. Its trajectory aimed directly at an ink shelf stacked with precisely arranged vials.
I nearly choked.
Not here. Not in the Royal Atelier of Lines.
Without thinking, I lunged.
My hand clamped around Durand’s rocky shoulder a heartbeat before he collided with centuries of cartographic supplies. Unfortunately, Durand’s arm swung, and its stone elbow slammed straight into my ribs. I instinctively shielded them with my own elbow, just in time for impact.
A lightning bolt of pain shot through my entire torso.
I didn’t yelp, but only because the agony momentarily disconnected my soul from my body. I spat blood on my visor. Every nerve in my side screamed. My vision sparked.
Durand looked up at me with a blank, utterly unrepentant expression, like a giant boulder pretending innocence after rolling over a colony of ants.
Then the little menace toddled off in some other dangerously whimsical direction.
I inhaled carefully, as inhaling normally hurt. How could a thing so small and anatomically incorrect deal so much damage? It must’ve been imbued with a ridiculous amount of aether from its summoner. This was all Anabeth’s fault.
Master Derevin glanced over and gave me an annoyingly disapproving look. Then he returned immediately to Anabeth, nodding along as though nothing of significance had occurred.
The disrespect.
He didn’t even know I had just saved his ink shelf.
And not merely the shelf. With the force of Durand’s swing, I had likely saved the vials, the table, and possibly the entire cartographic wing of the kingdom from a catastrophic ink explosion.
I clutched my ribs, trying to stand upright with whatever dignity remained, while Derevin leaned closer to Anabeth’s latest point about ‘map gradient expertise.’
Ah. Anabeth was still convincing him.
In fact, she was in full momentum now. “If someone of your expertise supervised even a preliminary sketch, the safety impact would be immediate. Think of it: one clean, accurate vicinity map preventing dozens of needless injuries. It would be a practical extension of your legacy of service. A continuation of your life’s work.”
Derevin stared at her, then closed his eyes and cleared his throat. “I must admit the local map had been rather outdated. Particularly in the northern sectors, where reduced foot traffic has allowed the terrain and aetheric topology to drift more rapidly than anticipated. There have been multiple reports of disorientation, incomplete route recollection, and, regrettably, incidental losses of metallic equipment due to localized magneto-resonant anomalies.” He paused. “I suppose a preliminary sketch would be... reasonable. For public safety.”
Anabeth beamed, bright enough to light the whole atelier. “Excellent! Sir Henry, do join us. Your tactical eye would be invaluable for a proper vicinity sketch.”
Join them? Me? Absolutely not. If I touch a quill now, I’ll disgrace not only myself, but this entire sacred room. I’ll draw one crooked line and Master Derevin will collapse from professional anguish. My ‘tactical eye’ is only useful when the eye remains firmly unaccompanied by my hands.
Yet, the wording of the task was merciless in its clarity.
I had to be the one to produce a map. Fine; then there was no shirking, no shortcuts. I would honor the task the Knightly way, with precision, diligence, and the care owed to every life potentially guided by these lines. I’d make my map a good looking one. And for that, I’d observe the master at work, and pray no one handed me parchment prematurely.
Derevin had barely turned back to Anabeth when Durand resumed his usual pastime: wandering with the lethal aimlessness of a baby battering ram. I watched it drift toward a precarious pyramid of inkstones (I had no idea why the Master felt the need to arrange them in a pyramid) and nearly felt my ribs shriek in advance.
What to do; what to do?
I scanned the room for anything—anything—to soften his edges. A sheath? A harness? Divine intervention?
Then, Ceralis intervened with a... quest.
100 EXP? That was quite a generous reward, fitting for a highly hazardous task like this.
Now I really had to stop that little menace.
Who wins in a fight?
