My mind spiraled.

  Quick. Think, Henry, think. Think of a plausible story. Not too much, but not too little. What does she expect? A King’s Defender from the Fourth Border War? No, too boring. Too easy to poke holes. Keep it… functional. Survival-based. Yes. Survival. Feed myself, fight, stay alive. No—she expects grandeur. Summoning, steel, armor, stone… all of it. Monumental feats, not mundane scraps.

  “So?” She leaned closer, just slightly, enough that the warmth of her presence brushed against me. The scent of her, intimate and floral, reminded me of distracting things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  Summoning, steel… she smells good… the curve of that neck… no, think, think! Plausible! Grand! Heroic!

  “Sooo?” Her hand rested casually on the edge of my gorget, fingers brushing over my chin.

  “I am,” I bellowed. “The Ferrum Overlord Reincarnate.”

  What? Is that even a real title? That sounds like the fakest, most over-the-top nonsense I could possibly blurt.

  Her eyes went wide. I thought my cover had been blown. No. Too far. Too ridiculous. She’ll see through it. Abort. Retract. Pull back.

  “I… I knew it!” she squealed, voice brimming with glee. “You are exactly the same as the book described!”

  The sound of Durand punching its fellow golem resounded in the distance.

  What? What book?

  Before I could ask what book, her hand dove into her satchel, fingers moving with shocking speed. She pulled out a small volume, about the size of a hand, with a worn cover looking far too… suggestive. Front and center, a figure stood clad in impossibly ornate plate armor, posed in a way that was half-heroic, half… provocative. The man’s chest was thrust forward, fists planted on hips as if to declare dominion over the world, while one leg was cocked to the side, accentuating the codpiece in a way that no real warrior would ever strike in public. The armor looked eerily like mine.

  It might have been mistaken for a scandalous tome if one weren’t paying attention—but the title glinted plainly in gold: The Legend of the Ferrum Overlord.

  She turned to the exact page in a single motion and held it out for me to see.

  There it was. The description, in the florid, primordial-fangirl style one might expect from a heroic epic, but somehow… so specific.

  “Such is the armor of the Ferrum Overlord,” she read, her voice reverent. “No blade may pierce the mighty breastplate, for it is forged from the heart of fallen mountains and tempered with the resolve of kings. The helm, etched with ancient runes, channels the intent of the wearer’s soul, guiding every thought and strike. The gauntlets can crush the walls of fortresses as if they were made of parchment, and the boots strike with the weight of entire mountains, leaving the earth itself trembling beneath the Overlord’s step. Even the codpiece, sculpted to perfection and reinforced with enchanted steel, binds the wearer in inescapable power, for beneath it lies mortal flesh, inseparable from the armor for more than an hour. It is for this reason that the Overlord must never remove his helm, lest he be rendered vulnerable and utterly mortal beneath the impervious guise of legend.”

  She looked up at me with sparkling eyes. “Exactly like yours. When you… when we were about to kiss… you told me you’re not quite like I thought you were… I understand now! You are even greater than a Knight! You are a force of life. No, you’re greater than life itself. Oh—it must be so very lucky for any lady to have caught your eyes…” She gazed up at me with dreamy eyes like she was envisioning some made-up scenario in her mind.

  What? That is… That is… I can’t. That is impossible. That is… horrifying. She is reading my private anatomy like a manual. There’s even a lore-appropriate reason for why I can’t take off my helm.

  With great horror, I realized I’d dug myself an even deeper grave than before. The worst part wasn’t the codpiece nor the fact that somewhere in this world, a suspiciously detailed epic existed describing armor that matched mine down to humiliating structural specifics. It was her eyes.

  She believed it. And I had put that look there.

  A few minutes ago, I’d wanted—idiot that I am—to return sincerity with sincerity. She had leaned close. She had looked at me like a man. I had panicked and lied instead. Now she was looking at something far larger than a man. She was looking at a legend. And legends don’t get to be human.

  My throat felt tight inside the helm.

  I didn’t want this.

  I didn’t want to be worshipped.

  I didn’t want to be desired because some overdramatic bard described reinforced steel in anatomical detail.

  I wanted—

  What did I want?

  I wanted her to see the real me. The one who panicked, who blurted nonsense under pressure, the one who overthought, the one who nearly kissed her because he wanted to, not because some prophecy dictated it. The one that was eerily similar to her.

  But could I even walk that back now?

  Oh, and her nose was bleeding again. Of course.

  Instinct, drilled into me through survival and habit, took over. I reached out then gently pressed a fingertip against the edge of the crimson drop, trying to stop it before it ran onto her cheek—or the book.

  “Oh!” she squeaked. “Your… your hand… it’s… so precise. How could I have doubted it this whole time… I… I must record this in my notes!” She reached for a scrap of parchment in her satchel, already giddy, ready to immortalize the moment.

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  Her pencil didn’t stop moving, and she didn’t seem to give a rat’s arse about the fact that the blood had just dried on her philtrum. I kept brushing the edge of her bleeding nose, trying desperately not to make it worse. Why was she so easily excitable? I didn’t know whether that was a good or bad character trait.

  Then, her hand stopped. Her gaze lifted from the page, and her quill wavered for the first time. “Sir Knight… I-I mean… Almighty Ferrum Overlord,” she stammered, clutching her quill. “The—the book—they say… they swear… that you possess at least one hundred metal techniques, each long lost to humankind. No other soul could command even a fraction. With but a single finger, you could summon an entire army of Ferrum Constructs to march at your will…” Her cheeks flushed. “I know you’ve just been reincarnated, so perhaps some of your… exquisite power is… diminished, which is why your journey to Mostenstein is necessary. But… surely you could entertain my humble eyes with a few… select techniques? Just to… demonstrate a fraction of your… legendary might?”

  But I don’t have any! I need to buy some time…

  “Hear me, mortal fangirl. The Power of the Ferrum Overlord is not a meaningless display for idle curiosity! It is the force that bends mountains, that commands legions, that demands reverence. You do not take it lightly—lest the very stones rise against you, the air turn to iron, and the rivers boil with fury at your temerity!”

  Anabeth bobbed up and down like a marionette on truncated strings. Her knees bounced against the ground. “Y-yes! Yes! I—I understand! I—I’ll be careful! I’ll revere! I’ll—oh! Oh, mighty Overlord, please… if you would grace my eyes… just one… one technique… I promise I shall record it faithfully! I mean, I shall not record it! I’ll keep it a secret! I swear.”

  To the Aura Market it is. My 200 Aura saved up would be wisely put into use for this moment. A Level I Lightning Spell only cost 50 Aura; I could demonstrate four legendary-worthy Metal skills for her.

  I drew myself to my full height. “Just one,” I thundered, voice reverberating inside my helm until even I believed it. “And hear this well, Anabeth of ink and parchment. If a single syllable of what you witness here leaves your lips, then I will personally see to it that the offender is unmade, reduced until not a speck, not a mote, remains to mark they ever existed. Their name will be scrubbed from memory, their shadow wrenched from the earth, their bones, dust, and soul ground into nothingness—so complete that the wind itself will forget their shape and the mountains will tremble in the absence they leave behind.”

  “Yes!” She squeaked. Her eyes had gone so wide I was mildly concerned they might follow the blood and start bleeding too.

  Inside my helm, I was already frantically scrolling.

  Please. Please have something.

  The list populated.

  I nearly sagged in relief.

  They were basic—embarrassingly so—but some entries carried a small, almost throwaway annotation in pale gold script:

  Oh. Oh, that would do nicely.

  Perfect.

  I could already picture chains of steel, armor shards singing through the air, the ground trembling at my feet. Anabeth would lose her mind. The book would be vindicated. The legend would be secure.

  I reached to redeem them.

  Then I saw the cost.

  Per skill?

  I checked again.

  I’d paid fifty for Lightning. Fifty. A respectable price. This was extortion.

  Anabeth shifted, unable to contain herself. “O–Overlord? Is it… is it happening?”

  “Silence.” The word slammed out of me. “Do not interrupt unless you wish to discover how easily curiosity becomes catastrophe.”

  She went enthusiastically rigid.

  Good.

  I ground my teeth as I scrolled through the notes.

  Metal hated me. Ceralis knew it, and it was charging interest.

  I had two hundred Aura. Exactly enough for one.

  Anabeth waited, practically vibrating with reverence now. I couldn’t stall any longer.

  My gaze settled.

  I exhaled, slow and steady.

  Fine.

  All in.

  “BEHOLD!” I thundered. “FERRUM THREAD, THE BINDING SINEWS OF MY ARMOR, SHALL NOW CLAIM THE FLESH AND FORTUNE OF FATE IT TOUCHES! WITNESS, ANABETH, THE INDOMITABLE GRASP OF THE FERRUM OVERLORD!”

  I raised my arms. Threads of silvered steel slid from my armor.