Dorlund was in an excellent mood.

Of course, he wasn’t feeling particularly excellent before. He’d had his door blown down. 

Again. 

He could barely believe it. He’d purposefully eschewed the usual magical doors of obsidian baked in dragonfire and sealed with a magical lock which not even he himself could break should he lose the key. 

It didn’t matter. It never did. 

The fact was that if a magical door existed, then so must magical treasure to be burgled behind it. Or the logic of every thief in the known world went.

It’d taken him until he’d learned how to colour his greying beard back to a hearty black before he finally realised that stronger did not mean better. All it did was lure even better looters, robbers and even adventurers into his abode–of which that girl had been one of them.

Oh, she’d been the pick of the bunch. 

Not only breaking his door, but looking righteous about it as well. 

If he wasn’t already used to the careening ethics of adventurers, he would have booted her to the very edges of the Summer Kingdoms. 

Sadly, age and experience had taught Dorlund many things. Patience being one of them. And also the stickiness of adventurers. The last one he’d sent to enjoy a cliffside view of the Beryl Sea while dangling off a branch. He’d returned with a fine collection of seashells to sell to him.

No, there was nothing about that girl which intrigued him.

At least not until he saw what sword she held.

He recognised it. Not the blade itself, of course. He was no blacksmith. To Dorlund, fanciful castle forged swords taking up room in the carriages of troll merchants were no more distinguishable than the blades of alleyway cutthroats.

What he did recognise, however, were the enchantments.

An obscene amount. Of which most lacked practical function. 

There was the usual assortment to keep the blade immune from the effects of wear and tear. But then there were things like Mixie’s Sacred Caffeine Dissociation Ward. A highly complex spell of which its only purpose was to make a sword immune to the effects of coffee spillages. 

It was absurd. Not only was this functionally worthless, but it overlapped with the regular suite of enchantments to prevent minor damage as well. A showcase of eccentricity. And Dorlund had always been of the opinion that magic was only as good as its practical application in real world settings.

He remembered the worst of them. And so he remembered the blade. 

And he also remembered that it wasn’t held by her the last time he’d seen it.

Dorlund stopped scribbling onto his scroll as a memory swept through his mind.

One of his least pleasant ones. He winced as he thought of one of the few scars his body had ever received. He’d not expected that woman to have a temper quite so similar to a primal gorilla. But perhaps when given a magical sword, the willingness to test it also came with it. 

A curious thing, then.

Despite the blade possessing no new enchantments, its current user was able to wield it with even greater proficiency. Even now, he saw light spots in his eyes as though the sun had shone into his face. 

A terrible thing for an aberrant shadow demon. 

But also wonderful for his ongoing research in the behavioural patterns of rare and exotic monsters.

It wasn’t his plan to study any shadowy aberrations today. But research was fluid and so was his priorities. In quick order, he recorded his final observations, before finishing with a cursory glance over the legibility of his notes. He understood less than a quarter. Perfect.

He smiled in satisfaction–and then promptly realised a draft was entering his tower

His visitors had left just as they came, leaving his door shattered into a thousand fragments. 

Dorlund bemoaned the state of his tower. It wasn’t much, admittedly. But it was practical and spacious. Much more so than his formal study, crammed with so many books that he was certain one of them was multiplying when he wasn’t looking.

He needed to return. And not just to make sure books hadn’t consumed half the continent.

The scroll needed to be transcribed into his untitled compendium of monsters. His life’s work, even if he’d never spent a moment of his life purposefully working towards it. 

After all, there was little need.

The powerful were drawn to the powerful, and tonight, this included both adventurers and monsters.

He sighed as he gazed around at the strewn wreckage of his chamber once more. 

Even the candles were ruined. Flames lit by holy oils worth more than the treasuries of ancient families now wasted. He’d need to tidy it all up. And likely with more than magic too. For the smallest pieces, he’d need to resort to using a dustpan and brush.

… He could do it later. 

There were more doors in his tower. And he doubted if anyone else would be so curious as to risk his ire tonight.

Dorlund tucked the scroll under his arm. He took in a shallow breath.

“[Arcane Teleport].”

And then an almighty snap filled the air. 

The next moment, the wizard was gone.

Colours and unknown visages blended together as he swept through paths unseen by ordinary eyes. Rivers, cities and mountains parted like curtains at a speed which would have seen even the greatest of mages faltering directly into somebody’s garden wall. 

Dorlund considered himself greater still. 

Which is why–

“Hmm.”

The next sight he saw was that of his study. 

A homely thing. And thankfully not overrun with books. They were on their shelves. 

Most of them, at least.

A room which was even smaller than the chamber he’d just left. But he hadn’t chosen it for its size, but rather for its location. A permanent residence at one of the finest institutions of learning in the Grand Duchy of Granholtz, frequented by the great, the powerful and the drunk.

The Lost Mermaid Tavern.

Dorlund had a very generous room discount.

Sadly, it was far too noisy. Granholtz’s taverns were famed for many things, but civility was not one of them. Especially when academia and alcohol was involved. 

Regardless, it was the closest thing he had to home. And his boasted enough tomes laden on every shelf and toppling pile on the floor to match any great library. In these works was the accumulated sum of his research. And none of it was to be touched or removed.

An unfortunate thing, then, to find he was not alone in this room.

He frowned as he peered at the lifeless body upon his floor. 

Beneath the blackened thief’s attire, dried blood spilled from some wound which failed to be cauterised by his fulmination rune, and thus threatened the edges of his shelves. 

He’d need to make a complaint afterwards. 

Magical defences or not, he paid not only to stay, but also for housekeeping.

Stepping over the corpse, he searched for the appropriate tome on his shelves. 

He found it at once. A large compendium which he swung to the section concerning shadow demons. His amendment would be small, but important. Aberrant behaviour was rare, and needed to be documented to know if any change was indicative of something widespread or localised. 

There was much they still didn’t know about the fiends they called monsters, but Dorlund was endeavoured to chronicling it.

Creaaaak.

Providing he wasn’t disturbed, of course.

A woman in the finer years of her life burst through his doorway, her sister’s habit fluttering like a banner from the sheer strength of the magic in her hands. A golden orb of holy flame simmered in her grip as she readied to launch a sermon in the form of a swift trip to the heavens.

A moment later–

“Dorlund! You old fox, I didn’t know you’d returned! Gods, I almost turned you into a … well, that.”

The sister nudged her chin towards the partially charred corpse on the ground.

For his part, Dorlund only had eyes for the last puff of holy fire before it was extinguished. One of these days, he’d ask for the secrets of the Holy Church to be able to imbue such power amongst its sisters. And one of these days, he might actually receive an answer.

He offered a gentlemanly smile.

“Just a brief visit, no more. I’m here for my compendium. I discovered an aberrant shadow demon. Not only was its behaviour highly inordinary, but it was also undetectable by my magic. A splendid specimen. I was rather sad to see it go. I’m here to transcribe my notes.”

Sister Pomona, 3rd of the Sonnenritter, allowed her shoulders to fall. 

A sigh exited her lips. Not once, but twice. He felt both were unnecessary.

“Is that so? How very much like you, Dorlund, to suddenly teleport knowing full well the racket you’d be making. I thought someone was burgling your room.”

“And I see you rushed to see it was averted. A needless act of studiousness on your part, but one I offer my gratitude for nonetheless. I apologise if I took you away from your business in the tavern.”

“You should. My business with my wine is crucial. Do you know the number of economies which rely on my tastebuds?”

Dorlund almost considered giving a number, even if he knew it’d be an underestimate.

Instead … he was drawn to a commotion behind the sister’s shoulders.

Although the flames in her hands had vanished, the same could not be said for the other guests in The Lost Mermaid Tavern. 

A mage in scarlet threw a lance of black lightning, the magic rebounding throughout the hallway outside. It struck two of the other guests, painting holes in their chests as they fell on the spot. A moment later, the mage himself cried out as his crimson robes were set alight. Frozen flames covered his body, immune to his attempts to snuff them out as he was swiftly turned to soot.

Screams and shouts. Carnage and mayhem. Magic and smoke.

Dorlund raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Did two rival professors enter an argument about cheddar vs gouda again? If so, the barkeeper should know to put a stop to it at once. It’s really not worth vaporising each other over. Especially since cheddar is clearly superior.”

“It’s not about cheese. Not this time, at least. It’s the Cowled Magisters.”

“Well, tell them to stop. This is a tavern, not some Granholtz fighting pit. And unlike most others, I actually see a distinction between the two.”

“You can tell them. They took insult to the suggestion they could not even pour an ale, much less raise Rozinthe back to prominence. As a result, they’ve now opted to pause the process of restoring their nation to its rightful place as the hegemonic authority on the continent in order to show everyone their talent at dispensing various ales. All who disagree with the foam percentage are vaporised.”

Dorlund didn’t bother holding back his snort.

“Cowled Magisters. No matter how they cloak themselves, their lack of foresight still hurts the eye.”

“Not even the slightest sympathy with their cause?”

“There are better ways to further the cause of magic than to shovel away at its institutions every few years. Out with the old and in with the new stops being meaningful once everything is new and still continually being destroyed.”

“Perhaps they should look to the Holy Church. Why, with us, it’s always ‘in with the old’ … even when we only want to leave. My latest retirement request has been declined.”

“You’re far too admired to be allowed to retire.”

“As are you, and yet you’ve erased yourself from society.”

“An excellent thing too. If those magisters believed I was available, they’d lasso me at once.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing. Rozinthe has always been a magocracy. You assisting would simply formalise it. And grant you a bigger room in the process. One with space to add another shelf. What do you say? I hear they’re hiring.”

The sister turned to the side, gesturing outside as an amused smile played at her lips. 

A contrast to the agony upon the face of a guest now realising that [Cloud Barrier] was exactly as the name suggested. It did as much to stop a fireball as a wall of marshmallows.

“I believe I’ll pass,” said Dorlund, suffering as he failed to ignore the crass spellwork. “I’ve neither the wish nor the need to waste good seconds on seeing how Rozinthe’s secret cabal of mages chooses to make a mess of everything they touch.”

Sister Pomona smiled, then closed the door.

He wondered how much time he’d need to offer before it was socially acceptable to open his compendium and begin working. A consideration he made not only out of politeness. But in the knowledge that making the wrong estimate would hamper his ability to write considerably.

“It is a pleasure to see you again after so long, Dorlund.”

“The same with you, Pomona. I regret that my research takes me to places where contact is limited.”

“I’m aware. The last I heard, you were secluded in some faraway refuge.”

“You heard correctly. A forest in the Kingdom of Tirea. Lovely place. Quiet. For the most part. I’m rarely burgled more than once every two months. Even so, I find I’ve little time for smaller matters.”

“Smaller matters. Like ensuring I hadn’t died yet?”

The hand that’d been creeping towards opening his compendium stilled. A bead of sweat ran down his face as he thought of the correct response.

“Rest assured, I would have known immediately if you’d died. You’ve nothing to fear on that account.”

He suspected from the look he received that his words were incorrect.

Unfortunate. He could hardly know her living status if he was dead first.

A scowl later, the sister crossed her arms and leaned against the door. Neither of them were leaving anytime soon, apparently.

“You should consider an apprentice,” she said simply. “I’m certain you’d make a fine instructor.”

“I’m certain I would. Much more than an apprentice would make a good student. I’m afraid they’re more of a hindrance than a help these days.”

“You’d be surprised. There is no shortage of prodigal talent, but as is often the case, talent needs to be tempered before it can be wielded. If you offer enough time, the results will speak for themselves. Only 1 out of 100 will give you a headache to make you wish you’d returned to sinning in The Flailing Hog.”

Dorlund paused.

A scholar, a philosopher and a great wizard. As all of these things, he understood the fabric of the cosmos more than almost any, speaking a dozen languages now lost to time. But even so, he had to think as he looked at the woman’s irritated expression, her eyes turned to some unseen window.

A silence ensued, filled only by the noise of running in the corridors. And at least one person having their torso turned to powdered chalk.

Then, he cautiously coughed.

“Ahem … did something happen recently?”

The sister gave a long, drawn out sigh. Yet although her expression only became more pained, he knew at once he’d made the right query. 

After all, that expression wasn’t aimed towards him. 

“I don’t even know where to start. Frankly, I’m considering becoming a hermit myself. A problem as the heavens are far more capable of knowing where I am than people are regarding you. One of my colleagues, and my own former trainee no less, has managed to get herself arrested.”

Dorlund nodded, all the while stepping over the corpse.

He discreetly burned away some of the blood with a wave of his hand as he went. Then, he opted to take a seat upon the only chair present. He suspected this would not be swift. And as mannered as he was, he wasn’t prepared to let the vacant seat go.

“Perhaps you even saw her being dragged away in chains yourself. I sent her to Tirea, you see. And not even for anything remotely devious. Somehow that makes the humiliation even more palpable. I hoped she’d learn a bit of basic management and accountancy skills. Assisting the finances of an ailing chapel. The most peaceful and quiet job in the world. And she blew up a mine.” 

Sister Pomona placed her face in her palms, the lines on her face becoming more pronounced than anything holy magic could do to soothe them over.

“She’s always had a talent for drawing out my headaches. But this goes beyond anything I could have envisioned. I’ve no idea what was going through her mind. And can you guess the result?”

“I cannot,” replied Dorlund as his compendium slowly began to open.

“She was defeated by an adventurer. And now I’m told she’s being shipped off to some … bizarrely named island, apparently to aid in the manufacture of toiletries. It is galling. I’ve half a mind to leave her there for a decade and let my successor deal with grovelling for her release.” 

Dorlund nodded as he knew he was expected to.

In truth, he didn’t mind. It was rare to find someone who wished to have a conversation not involving robbing him of knowledge. Sister Pomona was one of them.

But maybe that’s because there was little the heavens hadn’t already told the 3rd of the Sonnnenritter. 

“... And what about you?” she asked, to the snapping of a book again. “Have you discovered any headaches of your own worth comparing with?”

Dorlund gave a hum.

“There are always headaches in the field of magical research. But unlike yours, mine are a joy.”

“Good. I’m glad to see that being a hermit has done nothing to change your candour. Even so, I must confess that Tirea doesn’t strike as the sort of place you would choose to conduct your research.”

“True. But for a small kingdom, it routinely conjures up the largest surprises.”

“Yes, overly large badgers and cattle. Really now, I see little reason why you need to play at being a recluse other than to further your own image as some aloof wizard. You can do such a thing in any decent mage’s tower in Granholtz. Somewhere you can more easily ensure I haven’t died.”

Dorlund coughed into his fist. 

Partly to hide his awkwardness around the only person who’d ever insisted on drinking games with him. But also to hide the fact that he was hardly the only recluse that kingdom had.

He decided that Sister Pomona had quite enough troubles to deal with.

Moreover, he had absolutely no desire to bring her and the entire Sonnenritter right to his doorstep. 

And they would come. All of them.

As intrigued as he was to see the ensuing results, he preferred that at least a fraction of his tower remained. And also the kingdom which housed it.

There’d been more than one reason why he didn’t wish to direct a girl who’d knocked down his door to his neighbours. Because as dark as that shadow in his tower had been, there existed things that even a sword with a hundred unnecessary enchantments could not shed light upon.

Then again, she’d managed to make that sword shine more than even its previous wielder.

Perhaps it could be brighter still.

He’d need to take notes.