Stella felt nervous the entire carriage ride to the castle, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles as she stared out the small window.

Her employer could not be called a kind man but Viktor took care of his own and he maintained his own code of conduct, though the rules were incomprehensible to others.

She hoped the guildmaster would be not gentle but merciful toward Hallvar. The hero was ignorant of national culture, let alone niche social standards of the capital. They could easily misstep and gravely insult the guildmaster.

There was no doubt in her mind why she liked Hallvar. Maybe she was quick to jump in bed with them, but Stella felt like she understood and connected with the hero’s plight.

It was different, certainly, but…

Stella grew up on a farm near the eastern border of Amnasín, just outside of the rocky landscape that designated the country’s edge. The Harnels were laborers, everyday landwise and beastmasters, growing for the survival of their family and their neighbors.

They had a small orchard; it benefitted from the cold snaps drifting down from the Staargraven twice each year. The family thrived on their land, producing fruit wines and ciders when they could. It ensured they had money for the next year, to pad out the expenses and the setbacks.

Her eldest brother planned to inherit the farm. He was just over forty, with kids who had kids. A reliable man with an earnest wife and considerate children.

Her middle brother was quieter, keeping the sheep and successfully breeding kerdunds – an ancient type of herd hounds known for their sheepish appearance, horns and wool alike.

Both of her brothers were showing signs of age. Skin tags and spots. Grey filtering into their hair, not to mention the hair falling out.

Yet Stella wasn’t.

Stella couldn’t be labeled the only daughter, the youngest sibling.

She was the elf.

She was intended to be the chance at a girl for her mother, a child who she could put in pretty dresses, to teach how to sew and cook and all the wonderful things her mother cherished in womanhood.

Her brothers did housework too, but they didn’t care for embroidery, for the crafting of lovely thread-made flowers, for the intricacies of delicate needlework.

She was the daughter her parents wanted, and she came out as an elf.

No one knew why elves happened. There were theories, of course, but nothing affirmed by the system or proven by logic.

Some guessed they were a result of a natural buildup of magical energy in the bloodline, released into a single individual like a burst dam flooding a river.

Others suggested they were actually the reallocation of magic at the time of death of a significant magical being – as if when a unicorn’s life faded at the same moment as childbirth, that’s how elves were made.

Elves were like heroes, except heroes were full of all kinds of potential. Elves were simply magically potent.

Stella knew she was lucky to be born in Amnasín, where elves were not automatically the property of the kingdom. It was an archaic practice in every magical and scholarly circle west of the Slumbering River, yet it still existed in Aestrux as a whole.

Those who would readily try to chain dragons and unicorns easily looked to the human-shaped elves as a source of power.

Stella understood Hallvar because she knew what it meant to be created as an outsider, to automatically be labeled something different. Celebrated, treated with care and caution, but an outsider, nonetheless.

The scholars at the university archives pittered and pattered over details, of course, but historical census data seemed to support the theory that there were less than 500 elves extant on the continent at any given moment. Just like the 13 dragons, elves were thought to be regulated by the system.

Nearly 18 years ago, Stella traveled to the capital for answers in her farm girl clothes and good boots. She wanted to know what elves were and why, not the half-assed answer her town could provide her. That goal was long-since dismissed, swapped instead for her role as an Archivist, a systems mage.

If she couldn’t understand elves, she would understand the system.

And she did, for the most part. She was itching to look at Hallvar’s stats and skills to see who they were as a person. All classes had a contained theme of their specialties, but no two individuals had the same class skills.

The system tailored its messages to the individual, the skill names and descriptions, even the visual-internal interface differed.

Ikraam saw flowing, gold-tinged lines that circled around their target when the general skill Lock-On was activated; Grim’s targets glowed with a red aura, as if engulfed in a blood-colored flame.

Through Stella’s subclass, she knew how to weave together attribute numbers and existing skills to suggest an adventurer’s next step.

Perhaps they couldn’t gain Foul Smite like their friend had, but the yet-named Leech’s Disarmament required more intelligence and careful application of the leech debuff, which Stella could interpret and relay.

She couldn’t tell you exactly why, but system mages knew how to lay out a path to advancement even when the person requesting help had no idea what to try. And with her magical aptitude as an elf, Stella was very good at relaying system requirements.

Most assessments provided one step with a clear goal for progress; Stella often understood three steps ahead, or three different path options.

She wanted to see Hallvar’s information specifically because she just knew that heroes had unique things in their skillsets and classes, which meant Hallvar’s tenacity and kindness would show through.

The base level assessment for system magic required no approval; Stella needed direct consent from Hallvar to see any information beyond what was displayed on the guild card.

That would come later. Maybe Stella could make it part of the date. It sounded cheesy and a little work-obsessed, but Stella could genuinely tell a lot about a person based on their skillsets.

She was still pondering the perfect beastmaster build for Hallvar’s personality type when the carriage arrived at the entry gates of Saltkrow Castle.

After naming her business with the letter for proof, Stella was sent up the long footpath to a postern gate. The massive iron lift was reserved for deliveries and royalty only; all others took the solemn walk along the rocky outcropping, dwarfed by the exterior walls and looking down upon the rooftops of the capital.

One by one she was handed off – a tired gate guard who only grunted, to an armored soldier who flirted and made declarations about elves all in the same breath, to a scrungly page who barely fit his trousers, to an uninterested mage in the library who was only eager to return to her studies, then finally to the Court Mage himself.

Ser Morozov was seated almost daintily by a practice arena made especially for mages. Stella knew this because there were no straw bales or wooden targets that could be set ablaze from stray magic.

As she watched a brown-haired woman sling tiny fireballs at a painted stone circle from her staff, Stella felt oddly naked. Should she have brought her staff too? Was it improper for a mage to visit the mage of the castle without all the accoutrements of her class?

Technically she was a Sage, not a mage, as was Ser Morozov, but the point still stood.

“Sir, a messenger.” The library mage stiffly bowed and gestured toward Stella.

She was dismissed with a nod as the Court Mage eyed Stella curiously.

“Messenger duties? Don’t tell me you’ve been demoted, my dear.”

He accepted the folded letter with the wax seal with an equal sense of curiosity. His orange stained-glass earring dangled and flickered in the sunlight as he examined the paper, tilting the folded letter to the side and squeezing it.

The edges rounded out, allowing the Court Mage to peer inside without breaking the wax. He sighed a heavy sigh, rubbing his fingers over his white, tidy beard.

“Take a seat. We won’t leave until practice is over and I tie up loose ends for the day.”

Stella obeyed the order, finding a stool in the near distance and bringing it closer to the Court Mage.

“Sir,” she hazarded, less focused on combat practice than the riddle set before her. “Excuse me for asking, but don’t you need to read the message?”

The Court Mage glanced her way, his silver-blue prosthetic eye in stark contrast with his olive-toned skin. The look was painfully sharp, as if the guildmaster himself was present.

There were no others to witness their conversation, just the practicing mage at a distance.

Ser Morozov tipped the hand holding the sealed letter back, as if offering it to the guild employee. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Confused, Stella accepted the paper. She pried open the blue-wax seal with the guild’s insignia unfolding the letter to reveal—

Nothing. It was blank.

Stella was less inclined to swearing as her housemate, but her internal dialogue ranged from what the fuck to did I waste a trip here?

Her thoughts raced as she watched the mage produce fireball after fireball. Her intelligence 20 and awareness 18 doing hard, thankless work until the answer became painfully clear.

“He sent me,” she realized.

“He sent you,” the Court Mage repeated, pleased that the girl connected the dots so readily. “In another life, my dear, I could have hired you before the guildmaster did.”

Her employer rarely gave out compliments, but over the years, she heard on multiple occasions that she was his best employee, his eventual successor.

Why then would the guildmaster send off Stella to the castle instead of simply hiring a courier or asking Zarin to do it? Even an amateur adventurer could have delivered this nothing message.

Stella was the message, a declaration of urgency to be interpreted by solely the Court Mage as only the Court Mage would understand her implicit value.

She was equal parts flattered and irritated, which she let go, choosing to watch the fledgling mage practice instead. Stella had a stubborn streak and a hearty dosing of pride – she grew up with older brothers after all – but it really didn’t matter in terms of the message conveyed.

If the Court Mage ended up back at the guild to help Hallvar and the guildmaster, that was all that mattered.

“What do you think?” Ser Morozov asked, his eye set on the practicing mage.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Stella held her tongue, pushing back a quip about how the guildmaster and the Court Mage should have a secret language or something that made it easier to pass notes in class. She knew the man was asking about the practice session.

The mage stood with her legs braced apart, holding the staff in two hands with the focus pointed toward the target. Her grip would have been better on a crossbow or something equally point-and-shoot, like all she needed to do was aim and fire.

Sometimes beginners became wary of the magic flying out of control and sought to throttle their staves into submission, lest they spontaneously combust.

Stella answered honestly. “Someone told her that mages exist only in the rearguard, and she took that to heart.”

“And how do you suggest we fix that?” the Court Mage queried, drawing her into the practice effort.

The answer was… a little stupid, enough so that Stella hesitated to tell Ser Morozov in fear of embarrassment. She pursed her lips together, which made the tips of her ears shift downward, but eventually she got over herself.

“I don’t know what the formal practice is, but my da used to work with a lot of mages – the local gravecaller and cleric, mostly.”

Her uncle was a putrescient, a landwise who worked with gravecallers and grovetenders alike to manage compost, regardless of if it was people-shaped or crop scraps.

“Advice passed from person to person ended up with me. Da set me up in front of a series of stacked stones on a fencepost and made me use a slingshot, until my long-range stance became a fluid motion, not a crossbow gesture.”

“And will that work for her?” came the Court Mage’s non-judgmental answer.

Stella hummed under her breath, analyzing the woman from her seat. “I don’t know, Ser. It worked for me because I had nothing better to do other than chores, and the slingshot became a secondary weapon.”

Hunting small game was always a useful skill to have, even if you lived on a farm.

“But if she’s from the city, she might not take to a… rural approach.”

Mages required a lot of books and expensive equipment unless they were sponsored by a local authority. Nobles who were second or third in line for their household inheritance often attempted to become mages, as it was a lucrative field.

The Court Mage agreed, though he said nothing in response. Anton was a noble himself, the son of affluent migrants from the Qhai Republic who seamlessly integrated into Amnasín society at the behest of the former Queen.

Would Stella’s methodology work? Certainly. But Cait was not from Amnasín, or Aestrux at all. Magic was foreign to her, though Cait spent hours reading upon the subject. She needed direct instruction.

“Down the walkway behind me there is a door,” The Court Mage instructed, his tone languid though it was a direct order to the elf. “-behind which is a tall cabinet tucked under the staircase. One of the staves will obey you.”

Stella did not mind the order, as she was curious what this practice entailed. Her system magic did not require a staff, so it lived at home in her room instead of getting in the way of travel behind the guild’s desks. Now, she wished she had the foresight to nab it.

The cabinet held an array of staves as promised, each set into a notched display. They were made for beginners, compiled of only the most agreeable substances – wood and bone, copper and plain glass. She tested a few with a simple spell for light, settling on an ashen wood staff with a spiraling end, copper rings dangling throughout like fancy earrings.

It wasn’t her staff, but it did obey, like a rented horse. Obedient and durable but unable to perform unique tricks.

Stella did not return to Ser Morozov’s side as she exited into the practice field, instead circling around to the practicing mage. His instructions were nonexistent but clear; the elf did not need to be told to help.

“Excuse me,” she began, waiting for the mage to take on a relaxed stance before approaching. The girl looked tired and frustrated, unable to produce more than a wisp of fire at a time. “I’m Stella, and you are?”

There was a flicker of confusion on the girl’s face. She looked at the Court Mage and back at Stella. Was she young? Stella had a hard time guessing ages, but she thought the girl was maybe 20? 19? Young and new to her own magic, certainly.

“I’m Cait,” said the bewildered Mage Hero.

She couldn’t walk down a hallway in the castle complex without a bunch of greetings being thrown at her. Most conversations began with ‘you must be the Mage Hero!’

The identities of each of the four heroes were so known that visiting nobles recognized them immediately; it was overwhelming and weird.

So, who was this elf?

The elf proceeded to walk her through a few stances like yoga poses, then showed Cait how to chain them together. The distrust of the older woman faded fairly quickly; these moves felt more natural than pointing and shooting with a staff.

When her first real fireball hit the target, Cait jumped in glee, nearly beaming at the woman. For Cait, it was… it was hard taking instruction from all these mages, harder still to listen to Leon and his idiotic ideas.

She was smart, yes. Her intelligence was her best attribute; she could read books and internalize the content easily and quickly. But, Cait was still a girl.

A girl, not a woman. Her death in the real world, as Cait thought of it, came way too early. She was supposed to start high school next year, not learn how to use magic.

It made everything so… strange here, especially with the other heroes. Cait didn’t mention her past or present age – the system said she was 17 now – because she didn’t know what that meant in comparison to the others.

She just wanted to stay quiet and out of the way until she could figure out what to do next that wasn’t being the party healer.

Leon was older, like college age. He talked like he was the biggest player in the game, though he was mostly just controlling and really self-centered. It wasn’t Cait’s business what happened to him in the real world, but she often thought it had to be pretty bad for Leon to show off this much.

The same went for Gryphon. He was better than the others because he treated Cait nicely and talked quietly when it was just the two of them. Still, it was like a pissing match every time he and Leon were in the same room, each trying to get the most attention.

From who? Sivanos? They were as quiet as Cait but stayed out of most discussions, unless it was to shut down Leon’s pressuring commentary. She knew it was a cliché or something, but Cait didn’t trust the archer. They were too sneaky and didn’t give opinions on anything.

Gryphon reminded Cait of her uncle, loud and weird but ultimately kind-hearted. Sivanos reminded Cait of her brother, the one who snapped one day and just freaking murdered her.

And Leon was just cartoonish.

So, to have a nice, friendly lady help her? Who didn’t want her to choose whether to be a healer or an elemental mage or some other weirdly named thing? That was really comforting to the teenaged Cait.

Anton took note of the interaction, considering if he could reasonably hire mages from the Adventurer’s Guild and the Arcanist Union to teach Cait without the King-Consort throwing a fit. The Queen would allow it, but Cyciphos insisted on having complete control of the heroes’ schedules and lives.

The Court Mage had already tested the King-Consort’s patience on the matter. He made his opinion on the heroes’ treatment well-known at an advisory meeting, which resulted in a direct verbal threat from Cyciphos.

Thus Anton was reduced to babysitting upon pain of death; the King-Consort was very clear that the Court Mage was to be responsible for the Mage Cait, and not an apprentice.

It was, quite frankly, boring. Anton didn’t mind helping but he had several roles to play in the castle social structure, which involved management of all mages, the library, and maintaining his role as spymaster.

The reports on his desk were not vague work to be shuffled and sorted. There was a coded missive about the Queen’s travel plans rotting away in a stack of other paperwork. The decoding would take an hour or more, then providing a cryptic response merited more effort.

Anton could do it; he had done so for years. He performed as a spy for the former, now-deceased master, and though the codices changed, the process of breaking them was a matter of intelligence and patience.

Yet, babysitting. There was a soldier stationed on the wall walk above the magic practice grounds who kept passing by, glancing down at Anton rather than at the hero. The Court Mage was no fool. Cyciphos could pay off soldiers without an ounce of stealth in their bodies, if that’s how he wanted to spend his coin.

Eventually, it was time to break for lunch. The Mage Cait was happy to eat and relax out of the sun and salty air.

However, that was Anton’s cue to leave. The heroes were due for another training session after their meals, one on geography and the politics of the heroes’ existence.

He had a few hours before Cyciphos questioned his location; the babysitting duty was an effort to actively keep Anton busy and away from his subtle work, one that could endanger the King-Consort’s bold plans.

Being discovered missing would throw Cyciphos into a rage, but Viktor rarely requested daytime meetings, so this could only be the hero issue.

Regardless, Stella and the Court Mage boarded a carriage to the guild, exchanging polite chatter between them as they rode through the streets of the capital.

It was roughly two hours after the message delivery, nearly three hours in total, but perhaps they would have rushed more if they predicted the tense atmosphere in the guild.

“Ser Morozov, we didn’t expect—” Zarin greeted the Court Mage from behind the counter, glancing between the high-ranking nobleman and the narrow hallway to the back of the guild. “I mean, we weren’t prepared to receive you, Ser. I apologize for the—”

The sounds of shouting came from the backroom, floating down the stairs into the main floor. Zarin glanced at Stella, unsure what to do. Rami looked equally disconcerted, as he sat at his desk with a pen paused mid-sentence.

“They—” Another burst of shouting interrupted the woman; this time it was vaguely discernable.

At least the fuck you was.

The Court Mage rarely visited the guild during its working hours. In fact, in the decades of association with Viktor and the guild by proxy, Anton could list on one hand how many times he’d been here with the sun still in the sky.

Therefore, while he knew of the guild staff, they did not know that the Court Mage frequently met with their guildmaster. To Zarin, this was a terrifying intervention from Saltkrow Castle.

Zarin looked to Stella for support, though she answered from her own well of fortitude. “Ser, I’m afraid the guildmaster is in another meeting. I- we can interrupt, Ser, as you have travelled this far, but I cannot guarantee the guildmaster’s… temperament.”

“How long has this been happening?” Stella asked, her voice betraying a tinge of worry.

The notable fuck you voice was assuredly Hallvar, not the guildmaster. What that meant, Stella didn’t entirely understand. Viktor was more than capable of shutting down any opposition, any aggression.

Neither he nor Hallvar seemed the type to simply… linger in a state of discontent. Not when Hallvar could wait downstairs or next door.

“At least an hour,” came Rami’s reply. “We didn’t know what to do. It drove Markus’ party to lunch instead of inquiring about a quest detail.”

“Shall we?” The Court Mage said, airily. His eye was fixed on the stairwell, his awareness picking up on details the guild staff couldn’t understand. “The concern is appreciated, but I think we will manage.”

No one attempted to stop Anton. How could they? The Court Mage outranked all of them, as close to royalty as a noble could fall by virtue of his office.

Stella trailed behind. She certainly wanted to ensure that Hallvar was safe and sound, but eighteen years working for or at the guild told her to stay out of an angry Viktor’s warpath.

They both paused at the upper landing, taking stock of the scene before them.

Viktor awaited in a precariously balanced chair near the hallway’s wall, perfectly calm and stable as he eyed Anton. He kept the chair propped on two legs as a source of amusement while waiting for Hallvar to do… anything, really.

The supposed hero stood in the center of the hall, regulation distance from a mounted dartboard at the end of the corridor. Below the target were a smattering of darts; none embedded in the board itself.

The guildmaster assessed Stella’s fluctuating mood – from worry to surprise to relief – before subtly tapping near his eye and indicating toward Hallvar.

“What if I offered you a target per hit?” Viktor suggested to the hero with a hint of a smirk. “Would that encourage you to be more successful?”

“Fates,” Hallvar swore, not questioning how the punchier Oh My God from their original dialect became substituted out by the system. “I would set you on fire if I could. Do you think I’m trying to be this bad?”

The hero didn’t look back to catch their audience, instead making a solid attempt to throw one of the two remaining darts in their hand at the board.

It missed.

Viktor didn’t miss his chance. “It’s hard to tell. You do seem rather committed to it.”

With a growl, Hallvar kicked out at the guildmaster, trying to snag the chair and unbalance the man. The chair legs thumped as Viktor easily set himself down and grabbed the stupid adventurer’s heel, pushing it rapidly upward.

It was a progression of idiocy from then on. Hallvar yelped as they lost balance and fell on their back, swearing and groaning from the surprise.

They laid back in defeat, making accidental eye contact with Stella and suddenly catching on that not only was there an audience, but it was their crush and Viktor’s husband.

“Oh, hi,” came the awkward greeting.

Anton smiled benevolently at the prone hero before sharpening his gaze for the guildmaster. “Are you quite done? Your subordinates fear you may kill the man, judging by the noise.”

The guildmaster waved a hand toward his office, as if to invite the pair in.

Unfortunately, Hallvar had become quite comfortable with the biting tone and interpreted the hint to begin the meeting as merely a taunt.

“Hang on, what if—” they said quickly, aiming their final dart at the board. A throw, and a miss. A near miss, however.

“It was closer!” Hallvar gleefully declared.

“Well done.” It was not to be mistaken for a compliment, not when Viktor spoke it in that tone. “If you are sleeping in the wild and your requirement is to almost injure an assailant, you are certainly the champion.”

Stella helped the hero to their feet; their pride was wounded, after all. Their hand lingered on her shoulder until Hallvar begrudgingly snagged the chair to follow along.

Both authorities were in their preferred places: Viktor enthroned at his desk, Anton seated so that his blind side was protected by the guildmaster. Hallvar’s contemplation of chair placement for the elf was rendered null by Anton.

“Stella, would you tend to the nerves of those waiting downstairs?”

There were multiple unspoken subtexts, although Stella obediently nodded and closed the doors behind her as she left.

First, this meeting was for Hallvar’s benefit, not Stella’s. It made little sense for her to linger when the guild staff were living under the assumption of duress. Stella’s leadership was necessary.

Second, Viktor was correct in his assessment; Anton was only partially blind. Marks aside, the lingering glances and coy touches were more than enough to fill the Court Mage in on the blooming interest between the pair.

Stella’s presence was not rejected as much as she would hear the details later from Hallvar, that was certain.

That left Hallvar with two highly powerful men.

The supposed hero cut an adequate silhouette – taller than most people, lacking muscle bulk but with a comfortable amount of weight, sturdy as Abby was once described.

Yet, even standing among the two sitting figures, Hallvar felt small. For all their antics with the guildmaster, he was powerful and now held the odd title of family. And the Court Mage held the same connection, but with the threat of the literal court, the power that came from rank and reputation.

Hallvar sat in their chair, completing the odd triangle formation of Court Mage, Guildmaster, and Some Guy.

“So, what now?” they asked, wary of the weight of the discussion.

Anton knew what was required. “We debate your future,” he replied with a serenity that was already irritating.

Shit, Hallvar thought. Not career counseling again.