Esme was an abysmal teacher. And that was putting it lightly.

She instructed too much, too little, much like her useful ideas on the knighting business. She struck a pose, then went on to explain all the forces of the universe had gone into the balance of which, all the theories, moral implications, past assumptions, future indications, and sundries. She swept aside Cordelia’s clumsy strike which took all the effort of the latter to deliver without skewering herself in the process, then went on to articulate in minute details how it was ill-advised to overcommit, how a more mindful grip and angle of wielding her weapon would keep her from tiring her arms out needlessly, that there was an anecdote at one time or another when her brother...

“For all sake’s sake!” Cordelia cried out exasperatedly, heaving as she leaned on the sword. “I don’t think all this information is helpful at all, can’t I just learn in practice?”

It was already a suspicious thing to spar with their steel in this untended garden. As yet there had been no curious passers-by to call over the guards, but she misliked staying out here so exposed to unwanted attention. Esme, on the other hand, was relishing every moment of the little exercise. She had picked this place out of the way with very little foot traffic. All the same, only a wall separated them from the residents of the surrounding house.

“You don’t know that,” the girl pointed out, “and don’t lean on your sword so, you will hurt the blade.”

“I have seen you stab yours in the ground a million times!”

“But I do not lean on it. And certainly not in the middle of combat. And Cordelia, some physical training is in order, but some theories in the meantime can help too.”

“For my part,” she complained, “I don’t know what use there is in those complicated theories and me not knowing how to swing the accursed thing right. Can’t you just show some basic strokes, just to defend myself?”

“Don’t insult your weapon,” Esme wagged her finger. “And nay, prevailing parrying is for masters of the craft who can afford to draw out a fight against tricky opponents, trusting to their stamina and efficient movements to tire out their foe or look for an opening. For a perfect amateur, it’s better to strike quickly, unpredictably, and hope against all hopes you can catch your opponent unprepared, neutralizing or somewhat maiming your opponent, in the combat opening...”

She went on.

For Cordelia’s part, she had great doubt mere theories would be able to bridge the gap between their abilities. Nor did she care to listen to this lecture for another hour or so just to point out the differences. Mostly because she already knew. Such differences, after all, had been neatly put into easy to interpret information. A new insight she had gained since becoming the Agathos Daimon. Her Perception had improved and so were the feedbacks of her forked tongue. Now she could view other people’s information even as her own, if only the barebone version of which.

image [https://i.ibb.co/bPb8tXS/CS-5.png]

ESME

ORDER: -

RACE: Human

Alignment: Neutral Good

Attributes:

Might - B

Masteries - A

Endurance - B

Spirit - S

Perception - B

Charisma - D

Leadership - E

CLASS: -

There was no need to put in any other perspective, she could not compete with Esme in any areas that mattered for combat. And who knew how long it would take for her to train up her attributes, if they could even be trained up after all. Did the World Serpent not say an einheri’s growth is not as nature’s intent? And yet the devil oft says a great many things.

But even if she had cared to, obtaining more hearts before tomorrow was out of the question. She must make do with what was available. Now, from the first glance at the dark tablet. The most remarkable growth had been her Endurance, which though lower than Esme’s still, should serve her well in the incoming troubles. Everything else - Might, Masteries - were abysmal as before. Only her Perception had improved. All this was at the expense of her Charisma, which had dropped, lessening even more the chances she could charm her way out of this.

And these were the baseline, but they played only one part of her arsenal.

“Esme,” she said, cutting the girl off mid-lecturing, which had become a necessary habit to converse with this girl. “I want to try something else, if you don’t mind.”

“What?”

“A certain... art I was taught as a child for self-defend. I mislike using them, but just in case of exigency, you know. And it’s nothing evil, if that worries you,” she added hastily, suspiciously. Lying certainly had proved somewhat trickier than before.

The girl frowned, unsure of how to respond. “Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Attack me on my mark - and pray, on my mark I say, not at your fancy - bear with me.”

Despite already knowing what she would pick, Cordelia had not committed till this moment before this first trial run.

Even now she considered her options.

There was the almost useless Snakeling Poison, which had not worked even once since her coming to this world. And of her repertoire before her new racial stage this was the only one usable in combat.

There were things that came with her new stage, to be sure, as an Agathos Daimon now. A new racial ability had replaced the snakeling’s and relegated the latter to the list of common powers, which thankfully, seemed to have occupied its own slot in addition to the six she had earned from consuming the hearts. This perhaps implied that she would retain all racial abilities even after moving to a new stage, but that wasn’t important right now.

The matter of import was how her new racial ability appeared equally useless.

Household Protector: within the boundary of the user’s home, all wards and other magical defenses in the area are strengthened.

The Agathos Daimon was supposedly a race of lesser spirits who grant their protection to the common folk’s home, and though this followed in line with the hearts she had consumed to advance into this stage, and perhaps a few magnitudes better than something which eats babies to gain powers or something, it was still, all things considered, decidedly useless.

After all, she had not a home. And though it might prove somewhat a useful power once she and Esme had entered the keep and Sir Kamaric’s service, the rub right now was how to achieve that in the first place.

And so, putting that aside, she had a list of powers to choose from. A dozen all told. Most of which upon unlocking would open the availability of many others corresponding to each. There the system presented another layer of complexity. The powers are separated into archetypes, and within each archetype, some abilities could only be accessed when two or three others of the same category had been chosen as requisite. This follows that by sticking to a particular archetype, and investing all she could in its powers only, she would sooner reach more potent powers than spreading her selection across the board. Three of them, namely:

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Poison. Metamorphosis. Mesmerism.

The first one was self-explained, Metamorphosis dealt mostly with the ability to alter oneself’s physical appearance, and Mesmerism enables the user to influence the mental states of others.

Even at first glance, it was immediately obvious which one she would like to stick with between the three. Poisoning is hardly an honorable method of fighting, but she was not Esme and did not care about such things. The second for now she found the uses limited. And the last one’s implied usages were nasty to say the least, even though her first chosen power - Camouflage - had come from this category.

But she was going to spread her selections. For she found that to be the only sensible thing to do in this situation. Far from needing to become powerful, her immediate need right now was to keep the Maiden alive as long as possible, so that the girl may eventually fulfill her destiny. And with the whole world of feys aiming for them, she must be mindful of the fact her foes were going to vary greatly in powers and methods. As a limited skillset could be easily overcome, she must be able to respond to as many situations as possible, and that means, this being the running theme, she must keep her options open. Thus eventually she would dip her toe in all three archetypes. And she was going to keep withholding her choices for as long as possible.

For now, however, so that her plan might come to fruition, she must make her first choice.

Archetype: Poison. Power: Sedative Miasma.

“Come!” she cried, giving Esme the signal.

What did she feel about danger? How had she faced it thus far? Certainly with an intense desperation not found in a spar between friends. But that mentally would not do. This was training for the real thing where a simple mistake could cost her life and get her skewered through. Scant heed enough she had for her own life, but she had a goal to live now. A purpose to give it her own.

Her senses grew keen, the world turned dull, muffling the town’s afternoon clamor, and robbing even the smell of nearby cooking dinner, so that all her attention was focused on her opponent, the whistling of Esme’s blade as it soared swiftly through the air. She brought her sword to bear, yet clumsy was her parrying attempt. Still it was a fierce attempt, belying the harmless nature of a practice.

Had she not been cornered so many times since coming into this world? Did not she know to fight back? Cordelia snarled, twisting her blade.

Even Esme’s subtle change in expression was perceived, and knowing it was the right moment, she unleashed the miasma. A scent only Cordelia could perceive pervaded the air, spreading faster than the attacker’s second charge

When the steel clashed, she did not yield, though the unrelenting might of the strike should have been double, thrice her ability to withstand for a split second. And she did not yield. Crucial that she did not. Her grimace hardened as she realized the impact was not as terrible as she had expected. As though Esme had pulled back at the last moment. As though the girl was confused by her intensity.

“What’s wrong?” the blonde drew back, aghast, “Are you all right? I did not-”

Cordelia flicked her blade quickly. A strike with little strength behind it, aiming only to catch the other party off guard. Even then by all accounts, Esme should have been able to block it effortlessly. Only she did not. The blonde’s sword arm slacked fatally to the other side, twitched untimely, leaving her completely exposed.

The edge of Cordelia’s blade grazed ever so slightly Esme’s belatedly raised vambrace. At once the blonde dodged away. Still it was a fact Cordelia had managed to connect a strike against a vastly superior opponent. An opponent who she had little hope to survive past the first strike in earnest combat.

“Well, I won,” she declared.

“You grazed my vambrace,” Esme cocked her head to the side, “and we are not competing.”

“Well, I did catch you off guard.”

“Because you were...” Esme trailed off - she could not quite describe it. “I didn’t want to hurt you... and you looked like you were hurt, scared, and I just... could not be willed to fight, I supposed.”

“Many factors were at play,” Cordelia said with conceit, “that I was not an enemy, that it was not real combat, that you thought I was hurt... but under normal circumstances, you would not let yourself be open so, I don’t think.”

“No...” Esme frowned, “So say you this was your self-defense art.”

“Something like that,” she gave a half-truth, or most of it. “A kind of trick to defuse the situation. I doubt it would be overly of help on something hell-bent on cleaving you in half. Far more effective when your opponent doesn’t care all that much.”

“That doesn’t sound all too useful in a real situation,” Esme said, her eyes still full of doubt.

“It has its uses,” Cordelia said. She did not tell Esme about the most important aspect of this power, though she had hinted at it. The significant thing was not that the power could somewhat calm a target’s aggression, but its doing so without the target knowing, even after the fact. Vital that the effect seemed natural enough to be mistaken for some inner psychological process, and not by an external influence.

“Well,” she said, sheathing the sword. “It’s time we were going home. I have a letter to deliver before it’s dark.”

“Eh, so soon?”

An hour had passed.

“Well, fine,” the blonde sighed. “You did say you had that important thing to do.”

All that was left was to put the plan in motion, now that she had practiced the last key component. She fetched the letter in short order, and made her second trip to the keep. Without flowers to scatter this time, she gained the gate before the last of daylight had faded. Yet for all this haste, the seneschal from before had already been waiting for her approach. Clearly her warning last time had left the desirable effect on the man, seeing that her approach had so promptly summoned his presence.

In some ominous terms, she hinted at a dark knowledge contained in the letter, enough to send the seneschal into deeper confusion and suspicion. For a moment, the man seemed to want to detain her. But a quick dose of Sedative Miasma sufficed to remove her from their aggression. There was not even a need to use Camouflage.

Hardly five minutes had passed before Cordelia was quickly descending the slope, knowing what was disclosed in the letter would effectively put the keep in chaos for the coming hours.

“Your plan,” said Mastema on her way back, “And I mean the glaring flaw in your plan, mistress, unless you are not aware of the general laws of...”

“Can you not already read my mind?” she said. “Just wait and see.”

“Well, aren’t you confident.”

She was in a good mood, it was true. Suddenly she stopped in the middle of the street. It was getting quite dark, and by all accounts she should hasten back, hating the night that is the domain of the feys. But she could not help it. For the first time since coming to this world there was a change to her psyche. There were uncertainties still, but already she was feeling a world better than that morning before all hell had broken loose, when she had stepped outside the inn without a destination. It was different now, and there was in her a purpose, the means to do it. It was the feeling of for the first time being in control of the situation, somewhat. A plan had been underway.

As though for all her life she had taken only the wrong turns without anyone around to point out her error, and now, for the first time, there had been something that seemed right, despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary.

She had supper that night knowing it would be her last at that inn, should all go right. And she stayed up long, lying with her eyes staring at the old beams. Anxiety for tomorrow’s event rolled in her stomach.

In the morning, she, Esme, and all the inn’s patrons, were roused by a great clamor at the front door.

With her mangled bed hair and half-open eyes, Esme went to the window, and frowned. “There’s a contingent,” she reported.

“A what?” Cordelia asked, already wide awake. She slid down from the bed and went to the cold basin.

“Men-at-arms. I wonder what they want. Some went in.”

Cordelia began to get dressed. “Why don’t you get your weapon? And change too. We are leaving soon.”

“Do you mean...?” the blonde scowled, realization dawning on her sleepy head.

“Aye, they’re here for me.”

It did not take long for a hand to rap on the door to their room. A somewhat reluctant voice squeezed in: “Is a woman of the name Cordelia in there?”

At the door was a frightened innmaster and two men in livery. Hushed conversations had circulated the establishment and already the hallway was cramped with curious patrons, providing a backdrop to Cordelia’s own turbulent, overexcited and on-edge mind. Her hand which was placed on the door still quivered almost violently. No one noticed. Behind her, Esme was fixing with haste her leather plates. Before her, the eyes under helmets gazed back with anxious stiffness.

One of the men-at-arms coughed, regaining his composure. “You are Cordelia?” he asked, wearing the look of someone who could not quite fit the image of the person he was seeing with what he knew her to be.

“That I am. I suppose Sir Kamaric sent you?” She felt Esme coming behind her, fully on guard.

“Aye, missus,” he answered, almost too mannerly, “You are summoned to answer for the murder of a town guard. Straight away.”