A cold sweat ran down Ophelia’s back.

She was used to getting into bad situations. Being an A-rank sword saint didn’t exclude her. On the contrary, it only drew her towards them. Mostly because she sought them out. 

Other A-ranks were probably better about that than she was. 

They probably got their ranks because they were cautious, patient and diligent, whereas she got hers because of her connections. 

Ophelia knew all the right people. 

Specifically, the right ones to kill.

Connections were amazing. 

Still, even if she was hypothetically patient and diligent about doing things, it wouldn’t have helped. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time was the hallmark of the strong, and she was pretty much up there with the best of them.

Ophelia could take most things to the head and come out fine. 

Totally, completely fine.

She’d been bonked with clubs, hammers, swords, spears, arrows and most recently a wall. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with her as a result. Because strangely enough, she agreed with the other elves. She really hadn’t changed. 

And that suited her just fine. 

Because she was perfect the way she was. 

She didn’t need or appreciate the constant hints. After all, being told she had not changed was just saying she needed to change using the exact same amount of words. And Ophelia had never been happier to be who she was. 

Because if she’d become like the rest of the elves, then she’d probably be cackling with the rest of them as they followed the old bozo. 

Ophelia still remembered him from her time in the forest. 

He wasn’t anything close to being a king then. He was just a hermit. Sure, he had an official title. Archdruid of the elves. But he was a weird one. And since druids were given a lot of leeway for all the naturally weird things they did, that meant he was really, really weird.

Even so, she never would have expected him to go digging around the dirt until he had enough mud on everyone to accept him as king. It didn’t concern her, of course. Except it actually did. Since she was now in a prison of vines conjured by him. 

Which was a huge problem. 

It had a nice hammock, sure. And a chandelier which was only a little bit tasteless. Plus there were buckets for all sorts of things. But it was still a problem. And that’s why a cold sweat ran down her back. Because of all the buckets to surround her, one was now missing the most important thing.

“I’m sorry,” she said towards the waiting pair of ducks. They opened their beaks eagerly, but to no avail. “That was it. The last of the grapes are gone.”

The ducks looked at her in disappointment. An expression she mirrored perfectly.

After all–

That really was the only reason she was here.

“Well, it’s been fun, but I don’t think we’re getting refills. You guys had enough of the fine dining lifestyle yet?”

The ducks quacked at her, clearly not ready to settle back to picking their own grapes from vines. She nodded in understanding. But even though she spoiled them, she had to put her foot down as well. At least once every now and again. They couldn’t always have their way.

“We’re not staying any longer. Remember, we made a promise. This is just a break. I know you guys miss your pond. But grapes aren’t a substitute for ponds. Yes, that’s right. Even these horribly sour ones. Now, are we all packed?”

She waited for the dissent. None came. 

Ophelia nodded. They could be a bit childish at times, but that’s what she liked about them. In the end, they were too friendly to put up much of a fuss. As soon as the next pond came their way, she’d let them float around a bit.

Meaning an escape was required first.

That wasn’t a problem of course. Sure, there were no keyholes anywhere. But she didn’t need a key to escape a prison, even if it was one made of vines.

She just needed her sword.

Or lacking that, something sharp.

Or lacking that as well … something blunt enough that whatever she hit would erode before her tool did. And she had just the thing.

Thus, hopping out of her hammock, Ophelia declared her stay in the Hotel de Vines over. It was time to continue her trip to S-rank stardom! 

With a smile, she leaned down and scooped up Duck A. It gave a tiny flap of its wings, but quietly accepted its role with dignity.

After all–

This was hardly the first time.

Thus, Ophelia held Duck A towards a bundle of vines … then began to pick at it with its beak.

A very blunt, unsharp and slightly bendy beak. But even if it bent, it wouldn’t break. Everything else, though?

They most certainly did.

“La la laa laa …”

Ophelia hummed to herself as she went about whacking Duck A against the chosen bundle of vines. 

They may be made out of magic and ego, but Duck A was made out of … whatever Duck A was. 

She still hadn’t quite worked it out, but then again, she never tried very hard to find out, either. What mattered more to her than what was underneath was what was on the surface. And on the surface, Duck A was a friendly duck.

In short order, the first strands of vines broke away. The rest was simple. A contortion act and a bit of praying and cursing in equal measure was followed by her tumbling out. 

And with that, her time at the heart of Elven Conspiracy #1528151 was over. 

If she was lucky, it’d be another century before she was involved in Elven Conspiracy #1528152. Really lucky. Because if elves loved anything, it was violence, bad plans and trees. All in that order. 

She spent approximately 30 seconds kicking over the furnishing in her makeshift princess’s tower before she found her sword. The rest she didn’t need. She was a light traveller. Meaning everything she needed, she’d find on her travels. Well, not find. But be given. Freely and willingly. By the chests, drawers and shelves in shops. 

Satisfied she had all that was needed, she turned around and placed her hands on her hips, smiling down at her ducks.

“Role check!”

The ducks waited.

“Duck A?”

Quack, quack.

“Duck B?”

Quack, quack.

All present!

With her thoughts already on the future, she skipped her way past the locked wooden door now magically unlocked with the power of her elbow. Then, she headed down the flight of steps and out towards the freedom she’d missed as soon as the grapes had run out. 

There were just a few problems. Or rather, one very big one.

“A dragon,” came the floor shuddering voice. “You see correctly. There is a reason I am called Eucian of the Stars. And it is because I do not simply peer into the night. I traverse it.” 

Before her, the backside of a very large dragon was in front of her. 

All black scales and claws and jagged horns. And most probably a lot of fire. But even with the voice all booming and big, she could tell who it was. That old bozo didn’t spend all those years digging up secrets and nice garden patios for nothing. He needed to bribe and extort. Sometimes through threatening with old skeletons in the closet. But mostly so he could pull stunts like this. 

A dragon!

And he was filling up the entire space, wings and head scraping against the ceiling. And that was fantastic. Because Ophelia had been looking for a dragon! She didn’t really know if a bozo dressed up as one would count, but she’d let others decide that!

Then, Ophelia peeked towards the other problem.

Long, fancy hair that was straight despite the fact a dragon was now breathing on it. And a face that was pretty and very unbothered despite the fact a dragon was now breathing on it. And a sword in hand which was as bright as her own despite the fact a dragon was now breathing on it.

It was … her!

Ophelia immediately went from peeking mode to hiding up the stairs mode.

She had so many questions to ask. Almost all to do with how the human girl could still smell so nice despite all the travelling she clearly did. 

Ophelia couldn’t believe she was here. The very one who’d introduced her into a pillar. Which really hurt. Not so much her head, but her heart. She was still recovering from the embarrassment. And until she’d attained her S-rank badge, she wasn’t wasting their fateful re-encounter here. 

She had it all planned out. After disappearing for a few months, maybe a few years, she’d come back with a brand new set of armour, maybe some goons at her beck and call as she went around doing just enough trouble to get everyone’s attention while hiding her identity. And then when this girl appeared, so would she, standing atop a rooftop with the moonlight behind her as she jumped down so they could whack at each other. Now that was fun. Cliche, sure, but Ophelia didn’t knock the classics. As someone whose only enemy was boredom and her bed hair, living up to the rivalry she’d set up was her greatest joy. 

She had no interest in ruining it now.

“Wyvern. Dragons have four legs. Wyverns have two. Ergo, you are not a dragon.”

Plus, she didn’t want to bother her.

Ophelia had no clue why the girl was here. Only that she was really good at winding the old bozo up. Each time he was called a wyvern, she could see the embarrassment which neither dragons or wyverns had the cheeks to be able to show. 

But as hilarious as it was, she couldn’t stay. 

Fortunately, Ophelia was more than a beautiful, single elf in the local area. She was a mysterious femme fatale of the shadows. And her [Presence Concealment] was only matched by … she looked behind her, checking to see if Duck A was still there. 

It wasn’t.

Panicking, she swished around, her gaze immediately drawn to that huge tail. Duck A had waddled beneath it, hoping to watch proceedings from a duck eye’s point of view. 

Ophelia groaned. She ushered the less curious Duck B to follow, then swiftly tip-toed away from the stairs. Angling herself out of view, she hid behind the dragon’s, no, wyvern’s one set of  legs, before leaning down and picking up Duck A. 

It opened its beak, but remained quiet as Ophelia shook her head. 

Planting Duck A beside Duck B, Ophelia motioned for both to silently follow with a finger held to her lips. Then, she expertly used all her years of subterfuge, thieving and housekeeping knowledge to drop to her hands and knees before crawling around the edge of the room, tumbling between furniture when the insults reached a high point. 

As she knew without asking, the old bozo was up to no good. That fountain of blood really didn’t surprise her. It was pretty tame considering what she’d known druids to do. And that girl? She was definitely here to stop him. And Ophelia couldn’t wait to see how. 

From a distance where human eyes couldn’t see, that is.

“I care nothing for the fae. Do not presume that means I fear them.”

Quack, quack.

“Shhshhshh.”

Ophelia shook her head as Duck A’s eyes did the thing again. Every now and again, it’d flash with a blue which pierced the soul. And had it not been for the banner they were hiding behind, she was pretty sure each and every gaze would have been drawn towards it.

Instead, she waited until she heard a great scoff. 

Taking advantage of the dismissive glance away which came with it, she zipped free and acrobatically threw herself through the gap between the wyvern’s tail and the doorway. Two pairs of fluttering wings followed after her.

Immensely proud of her ability to not ruin somebody else's scene, Ophelia smiled to herself upon the floor. And also at the pair of shoes in front of her. 

Very neatly polished shoes, too. 

Black and very sensible. Shoes which really didn’t suit any environment outside of a tidy office or somewhere with clean wooden floorboards.

Her eyes looked up at a creaseless uniform, and at a young human mage scribbling away onto a scroll of parchment using nothing but her fingertip to direct the ink with. A talented mage too. Jotting down ink without a quill was tough. There was no spell for that. It was some kind of precision guided channelled conjuration spell. 

But then again, receptionists of the Adventurer’s Guild were usually powerful mages.

A uniform which was instantly recognisable the continent over. Which was strange. Because this definitely wasn’t an Adventurer’s Guild. 

The receptionist paused in her scribbling, then glanced down at the confused elf. Without blinking, she promptly offered a polite smile as well as her hand. 

“Good evening, would you like assistance?” she asked, her tone clear despite its low volume. 

Ophelia shook her head. 

“No, I’m good. Sorry, I almost hit you.”

“It’s my fault. I’m in an awkward spot.” The receptionist kindly stepped to the side. “Are you leaving the tower?”

“Yep, I’m off now.” 

Ophelia gave a hurried nod as she went to brush past the receptionist. 

“–Because you’re not a dragon. If you were, you’d know that there’s a reason all princesses sleep in towers.”

And then she paused. 

Replaying the words she just heard several times in her head, she promptly turned around, tip-toed back to the door and peeked through the gap above the wyvern’s tail.

Straight and shiny hair. 

Permanently nice smell. 

Unruffled clothes.

Gloating laughter. 

And her own clockwork servant. One who casually turned around at Ophelia’s gaze, before offering a smile and turning back. 

A princess! 

Suddenly, everything began to click. 

The way she looked, the way she acted … and her swordsmanship skills, were they a royal fencing form? But she’d never known one as crazy and sloppy as that! 

Excitement filled Ophelia’s mind, her cheeks flushing as she clapped her face. 

A princess! 

That … changed something? Maybe?

There were definitely ways she could get her attention if she was a princess. But it also made setting things up harder. And if killing each other didn’t work out, they’d have to settle with marriage, and that meant Ophelia had no choice but to be S-rank. There was no way royalty would settle for less … right?

She really didn’t know too much about how that worked. 

Ophelia turned to the receptionist, who after hearing the news … showed no reaction. She merely continued to scribble, writing at a pace no more hurried than when she was tallying the number of cats rescued this week.

“Hey, did you hear that?” 

“Hmm?” 

“That adventurer says she’s a princess. Is that true?” 

“My apologies, but I’m not at liberty to disclose personal information regarding our members.”

“Oh, well, say she is a princess, do you think S-rank is the minimum criteria for non-royalty to get hitched to her?”

The scribbling paused as the receptionist looked up in thought. 

“There are documented cases of royalty marrying S-rank adventurers. But I cannot say whether it’s the rank itself or the associated land and noble titles that are frequently rewarded with it which opens the possibility of marriage.”

Ophelia groaned. 

She didn’t want to become nobility. Then she’d have to laugh like them too.

Still, that was a problem down the line. She needed to get S-rank first. Both murder and marriage required that. And so she did something she’d never done before in her life.

She gave a moment of thought towards the old bozo.

“Hey, would a wyvern count as a dragon when it comes to grading?”

“Typically, no. Though they share many aesthetic similarities, dragons are widely seen as the highest grade of danger available. Wyverns are not.”

“Aww.”

“However, there is no set grading. Powerful wyverns and young dragons may overlap for the purpose of distinction. And while wyverns are below the class of dragons, it is highly probable that defeating one would be a significant endorsement regardless of which ranking system was being used.”

“Really? That’s great! What about one that’s also an archdruid in wyvern form while empowered by a forbidden blood fountain?”

“That would be graded higher than a regular wyvern, yes.”

Ophelia instantly turned around, hand to her hilt. 

As soon as she did, she heard a foot gently tap the ground. And then both she and the receptionist were promptly sent tumbling through the air.

Even so … she could hear a scroll of parchment being neatly scribbled on.