“Madam, please! For your safety—”

Luitgarde Maryem was closer to 90 than 80.

“Please do not touch the artif—”

Luitgarde Maryem was mortal.

“Please, madam, they're dangerous!”

Luitgarde Maryem let all concerns fall to deaf ears as she continued her vigorous shaking of the glass box in her hands, while eight of Beuzaheim's elite hollow core guards watched in abject horror.

Nothing happened, so she returned it to its pedestal.

‘Deal with it as you may’, that useless prick Baldur had said—and deal with it ‘as she may’, Luitgarde would. This was the fruit of her confrontation with him, and though it may be little compared to the full breadth of his schemes, it was a start.

This vault had been abandoned for who knew how long, completely forgotten by the time her father had taken the position of chief, before Luitgarde had even been born—and it was most certainly not the source of all the expensive items Baldur had been passing around.

On the flip side, this place should have been an incredible discovery, to be shouted from the rooftops, thanks to its historical value alone.

Had Baldur cared, that was.

The idiot had denied her request for experts to be sent in. If nothing else, they could have weighed in on his claims. Sealed as it had been, the vault was remarkably well preserved—to Luitgarde's untrained eye, at least—so there was potential, nonetheless.

Or there would have been, if anyone whose talents lay beyond innkeeping and freestyle jousting had been allowed to take a look.

No, it was just Luitgarde and far more guards than anyone could possibly need for a stroll through an ancient vault. She would have suspected Baldur sent them in to spy on her—paranoid prick that he was—were it not for the fact that they were simply too inane.

Him hoping something did happen—with the guards too incompetent to do anything—was a likelier scenario. Hollow core guards would be no match for some ancient horror.

But if they had anything other than inflated attributes to their name, they might have noticed the place was so manaless it almost hurt to be in, and Luitgarde was not even a mage!

She took a step forward, examining another pedestal. Each seemed to contain a different trinket from some time in the past, though she could not read the remnants of the text some bore. Its script was unrecognizable.

The display that made her opinion on the place flip was the one she found next. It was larger than her bed and caked in dust. Luitgarde almost summoned a cloth from her inventory to clean it, before she remembered there were people here she could annoy—if they wanted to avoid that, they should not have been Baldur’s men.

“Clean this for me, please.”

The guard who had stepped forward and started to wipe the dust off screamed, jumping back.

Naturally, Luitgarde took that as her hint to see what the fuzz was all about. If it scared a guard, it was probably interesting.

And interesting it was… just not good.

It was a corpse. An honest-to-the-Devils corpse.

That was around the point where she started considering just setting this place on fire. Baldur certainly would not care—though he might still use that as an excuse to complain, actually.

Luitgarde wrinkled her nose. “I need a moment. Ensure I remain unbothered.”

One of the guards was glancing at the others, almost one by one, then tried to meet her gaze as he spoke. “Madam, Heinrich and I will go secure the entrance while the rest continue protecting you. We will make sure no undesirables get anywhere near this vault.”

Little did they know Luitgarde would not have lost a wink of sleep if robbers dismantled the place after she was done with it.

Baldur deserved it.

The vault probably deserved it too.

Luitgarde scrunched her nose up in disgust again. Mere feet to the left, a partially mummified, partially skeletonized body lay in that pedestal behind glass.

She had read enough books by otherworlders to understand what a mummy was, but it was not something that should exist here. Everything about it reeked of unnatural events.

And many other pedestals were of that same size.

What sort of freak has a hoard like this? Wave take this glass-obsessed maniac!

And why was everything in glass boxes anyway? She could see the contents of most of them after a simple cleaning, so it did nothing for secrecy! And while her initial hope that ripping the glass from the pedestal would help had been squashed by the glass being a full cube, the fact remained that it took little effort to yank it free from the pedestal.

Unless some additional function had been lost alongside the vault's mana, this all did nothing to deter would-be thieves. The glass could not possibly be making the objects that much heavier, either.

A tracker of sorts? Lost to time, perhaps.

Luitgarde reached for the glass of another pedestal—one far too small to contain a body, just to be safe. As with the others, she shook it, and to her surprise, the bottom snapped open, allowing a crystalline sphere to fall from it.

She put the glass back in its place and knelt to grab the object. Its center mimicked the shape of a smaller, red circle, with orange and yellow streaks coursing through a blue expanse that bordered on purple. It was an uneven gradient, clouded in some spots, but undoubtedly stunning.

The Devil of {Sunset}

Huh. Luitgarde had not expected a result when she tried to identify it.

Could that have been what the glass was doing, keeping her from identifying the objects?

Perhaps I should consider taking mementos of some of these. Luitgarde eyed the larger pedestal. Except for that thing, keep that thing away from me.

At least the sphere would serve for such purposes. It was stunning enough, though Luitgarde had never considered how there might be a Devil of {Sunset}. Of course there was one—every Affinity out there had a Devil, just as they all had a Saint. Silly her.

It seemed like an odd way to depict one, though—they were usually depicted as icons or objects that represented their power. This was quite the potent depiction, however, as it refused to go into her inventory. Her pocket would have to do.

As she continued to shake the pedestals, she was disappointed to find nothing else seemed eager to escape its prison and fall into her hands. What a shame.

Next up were some paintings on the walls, the least confusing part of the vault.

At least those were not also behind glass seemingly unbreakable by human hands. Luitgarde poked the canvas as she examined its image. Quaint. But what in all the waves do not touch is this supposed to be?

She was staring at one that showed a humanoid figure walking upside down while another seemed to chase it. Streaks of black and white paint were scattered all over the place. And that was the one painting she could make any sense of at all, with the rest being far too abstract for her.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Luitgarde huffed. Though she appreciated the find, she had expected something more damning—beyond the fact that there was literally no real furniture or empty rooms in here, nowhere Baldur could have gotten those pieces from.

“Madam, The Fire is mere hours away,” a guard said as he moved closer to her. “You are to return to the manor at once for your safety.”

Luitgarde did not like his tone. She had not punched any guards in recent memory, but there was always room for additional enrichment on her schedule.

Still, if she did, finding a way to ruin access to this place was the least she could do to keep anyone else from having to deal with the trauma of seeing those mummified abominations, and that might be difficult to do if she started a fight right now.

Refusing to acknowledge the man, Luitgarde headed for the exit and started spewing random phrases she thought might be relevant to the matter, at once. “Pack it up, boys. You heard the man. The night waits for no one. Do not tarry!”

She noticed them exchanging glances as they followed her outside, but kept looking forward. The mayor’s eccentric sister-in-law was to be treated as an unhinged but harmless creature, after all.

“Oh, bully, we’re outside!” Luitgarde cheered once outdoors. “Look away for a moment, I need to relieve myself.”

She walked into the deepest bushes she could find without waiting for an answer, shifted her form to that of a younger blond woman, and ran back to the entrance.

They had locked up behind her, which suited her just fine. She suspected the place’s problems might stem from a lack of mana, and she would fix that before she left. Gripping the lock, she started to accrue [Toll] as quickly as she could, pushing ambient mana through her body and into the metal. The best part of growing old was how [Toll] capacity never stopped improving.

Luitgarde could not help the smile that formed on her lips as lines started to light up on the door, the pattern growing more complex by the second. Her accrual of [Toll] ended abruptly, as the lock no longer accepted any mana.

The lock and chains were now superfluous—even she could sense the place’s original defenses were back up. And most importantly, removing this lock would no longer be enough for Baldur and his men to return to the vault, though they would certainly try.

Somewhere, a locksmith would be inconvenienced, but that was a fine price to pay for successfully starting shit. She tried not to giggle as she imagined Baldur questioning his men about what happened, only to learn they could not take any of the endless artifacts she had left relatively untouched.

Luitgarde—in her usual, admittedly genuine form—returned to the guards through the bushes, muttering something about leaves. The carriage had not been left too far from this path, so it was mostly a matter of getting on and trying not to get crushed by how overcrowded it was.

It did not help that one of the guards was eagerly telling another about how he had some bulbous swelling in his arm, and his wife was nagging him about how he should get it checked out, which he refused to do.

Luitgarde’s suggestion that they acquire a scalpel and find out what was wrong was not well received.

Only once she was alone in her chambers did she allow herself to cackle like a maniac, no doubt fueling a full batch of new rumors about her state of mind. It suited her just fine.

As she went to rest for a few hours, Luitgarde could have sworn the crystallized sunset on her nightstand looked like it was glowing. She shrugged and closed her eyes.

Luitgarde had always had an overactive imagination, after all.

----------------------------------------

Theodosius had had enough. No more would he waste away listening to what his father said—unfortunately for him, his dramatic exit had been delayed. As he sat unmoving on the corner of the room, he suppressed the urge to sigh in relief—the Saint’s lecture was almost over. He did not hate Khaiman Khödan personally, so much as he hated her for what she represented. The Saint of {Vanagloria}, at the helm of their ilk, was practically the face of Sainthood.

Beyond that, he found her somewhat amusing, but as someone who had been unlucky enough to have to study under the Saints for most of his life, Theodosius had more than a bit of resentment built up for them as a group.

“Before we go, Susanna, did you want to say something?” Khaiman asked, her head on her chin as she sat on that throne-like chair of hers. His father had once gone to complain to her about the wrongful impressions her owning a throne might give, and had returned with his tail between his legs, or so the expression went. “What is it?”

Theodosius had not known Susanna for long—she was the Saint of {Lightning} and relatively new—but he already pitied the woman. Anyone who actually thought bringing matters to Khaiman’s attention was a good idea had clearly never seen what happened when people tried.

“Indeed, Lady Khödan,” Susanna stepped forward, bowing before the other woman. “I wish to bring up the matter of my dead Champion, who has yet to resurrect.”

That admittedly got Theodosius’s attention—he had not intended to listen in on this in the first place, but he had been in the middle of sneaking out when people started showing up, and he was thus stuck. Perhaps this would make this waste of time a little bit worth it.

“I see. What seems to be the issue?”

“He has yet to resurrect, Lady Khödan.”

“And? He must have died again. That is hardly something I can fix, Susanna.”

“I… I admit it is possible, but I doubt this would be the case. He was strong. I had plans for when he made it here, had people on their way to pick him up. He would not have simply died.”

The look Khaiman gave the lesser Saint was one of either confusion or pity—perhaps both, Theodosius had never been great at telling that type of thing apart. “Young Champions think the world of themselves—you should have sent people sooner. I will have resources set aside for you to summon a new one ahead of schedule, if that will calm your weeping heart.”

“With all due respect, Lady Khödan,” another Saint interjected. This one was a man wearing a robe, one Theodosius did not recognize. “This is far from the first Champion to have died and not come back around the area of Beuzaheim.”

“Have you considered not summoning any more Champions near the area, then?”

“It’s a perfect starter area, though,” Susanna countered. “Most people there are mortals. No other city in the Principality can match it in terms of resources, while also being relatively safe.”

“Wait, this Champion you were babbling about died in what you yourself would label the safest city in the Principality?” Khaiman had straightened her back, silver eyes blazing. “Again, I can hardly fix the problem of your Champions being stupid.”

“We suspect there is something or someone out there, purposefully killing them,” the male Saint interrupted again, hands clasped behind his back.

Theodosius had to hand it to the guy—he had balls.

“I’m sorry, you think someone’s going out of their way to kill Champions?” Khaiman blinked. “They are Champions. Even if someone wanted to, they could hardly ever compete with them. Let alone in a place that, by your own admission, is simply full of mortals.”

Theodosius could not help but notice the phrasing she had used twice now. Khaiman had probably not even known about the place before they’d brought it up first.

“We suspect—”

“The matter is closed, say I!” Khaiman huffed. “Meeting adjourned. Do not waste my time again. My mood is fouled beyond measure already.”

The scribe sitting next to them perked up, adding something else to his notes without lifting a finger—it was probably some specialized Skill at play. “And so, the meet—”

“Yes, I said what I said!”

Poor man. Theodosius had learned at quite the young age that all who served the Crown and the Saints had to put up with a lot. It was why he had made it his life’s mission to at least not be as bad as them.

“Worry not,” the other Saint told Susanna in a whisper—if the hidden Theodosius could hear him, chances were, so could Khaiman. “I will see what I can do.”

The rest of the time he spent waiting felt like a blur. Most people filed out of the room immediately, fearing Khaiman’s wrath, but a few took longer. The Saint herself had yet to move, but even if she remained, Theodosius felt a single person would not be difficult to hide from as he left.

He simply needed to finish crossing this room, then he could enter the nearest passageway. Freedom would follow.

There had been no need to take the hood he now wore, as most of what its enchantments did could be achieved with his own Affinities, but he felt multiple layers of protection would be the only way to go about this.

The time came soon enough—to his surprise, even Khaiman eventually stood up and left. It was quite the boon, and Theodosius did not waste a single second more, already moving. He could hear his heart in his ears as he walked in the darkness, one destination in mind. There was a loading area where the merchants that brought the last few orders would be, and they would be leaving today.

I better not have missed it.

His gripes might have been minor, but he had made up his mind by now.

As whiny as it sounded, Theodosius was tired of how unfair everything was. That feeling flared up sometimes, especially whenever his father came around to speak of, oh, how proud of him he was.

He had few friends—somewhat unavoidable for someone of his status—but he had been around them enough to know something was up. The academy was a messy place, his teachers all using different methods. Theodosius could not make heads or tails of it, as Miss Walker would say. But when the biyearly progress report was given to the parents, his friends all got rewards. Special dinners or outings, gifts, anything, and they would gush about it when the academy got back in session.

What did Theodosius get? ‘You are performing as expected, son. Excellent job.’

That was it. No gifts. Nothing! Inside, he raged. It was unfair. For years, he had worked hard to be at the top of his class. Anything less than a perfect score was a failure in his books.

When he was littler, it was about making his father proud. Yes, it was expected. But how was it fair when others were rewarded for doing well?

However, Theodosius was well into the age where he could think for himself—something he was incredibly proud of. That meant he got a little more leeway on making decisions. He was quite sure that was what it meant.

So what was he to do? Keep taking it?

No, absolutely not. Theodosius was leaving. Someplace out there, he would be appreciated. Besides, he deserved a vacation. If his performance would not get him one, he would have to take care of the matter on his own.

And if anything happened, he could always just teleport back home, as that stupid Trait he had been forced to add enabled.

So, without a word, Theodosius snuck into one of the wagons the merchants were loading boxes into. He was still small enough that he could fit between one box-tower and the tarp covering quite comfortably.

He smiled to himself. Whenever his absence was noticed, people would be so freaked out, nevermind how they never appreciated him while he was around. Theodosius felt giddy just imagining it.

This will show them!