The iron bound door swung open with an ease and silence that belied its true weight. Alve could faintly sense the spellwork maintaining the wooden monolith's balance and hinges.

Some of those enchantments doubtless reinforced the already substantial barrier. But it would likely take the journey-mage another decade of immersion in the arcane to perceive such things clearly under his own power.

The chamber beyond was little different from the study he was provided. A resident mage automatically garnered status surpassing all but the most accomplished non-arcane laborer.

Light from a narrow barred window near the ceiling reflected off the hairless scalp of a man who did surpass Alve in both status and accomplishment. His position and associated wage would be more than sufficient to remove any balding or even complete absence of follicles.

Alve had to assume the appearance was a purposeful choice. It was effective in making an already hard bone-structure intimidating even on a frame two feet shorter than the mage.

“Close the door.” Alve obeyed. The door sealed and he slid into the padded chair before the desk.

The outpost’s manager returned the ornate pen to its rest and turned his attention to Alve. “What do you think of him?” Alve leaned back and considered the question.

“That man is either a genius con-artist with an impressive grasp of spell-theory or a master-mage. Unless he has a monstrous talent for arcane perception.” Alve faintly made out the word monstrous repeated under the older alma’s breath.

“Do you think it is an act?” The implications to the question were apparent.

“It wouldn’t make any sense. Pretending to be a man known to have no formal training and openly exhibiting deep awareness of spellwork would be an incompetent disguise. I cannot imagine a person with a cover story like that being so adept at mimicking genuine ignorance.” It truly was strange.

Alve would swear Rekon had never cast a spell or even heard the most basic terminology before pestering everyone with any arcane training in the outpost. It was no small feat to show the mistakes and tripping points of a completely green apprentice-mage.

“If that man is a twenty year graduate, he is also a god of deception with questionable planning skills.” Alve was not sure what to think about Rekon.

The Rillan had been on the edge of death when Alve first saw him. They had little contact with each other at first. But once the refugees’ amnesiac leader was up and about he seemed omnipresent.

He was surprisingly charming. A kind of almost childish fascination with whatever Alve said made their interactions both tiring and never tedious. And it always felt like Rekon was truly listening and engaging with every word.

But there was something unsettling about the way he carried himself. A fluid grace slipped into his motions, only diminished when he thought he was being watched.

And the way Rekon looked at people made hairs rise down Alve’s spine. It was like he was only half looking at the person, and the other half was looking into them.

Not looking the way an empath might see a person’s true character. But the way a vivisectionist might study the workings of an animal on their table.

A huff from the manager broke Alve from his reflection. “Rekon couldn’t magic his way out of a wet paper bag. That was no deception. Not unless he was hiding a mage college up his ass for the entire T’narg campaign.”

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Alve did not miss the reference to the bloodiest conflict between the northern va’id and Rillan to date. A conflict Alve would not expect a Rojin patriot to be involved with. Let alone be familiar with the behavior of a specific Rillan officer.

“Are you saying he isn’t Rekon?” Alve decided to ignore the implications. It was best not to question the clandestine actions of the kingdom, lest you become one of them.

“It is not the Rekon I knew. The question is if something happened to him or something took his place.” The choice of something over someone implied a sinister possibility.

“Saræ insists he is an average middle aged man, as alma as any other.” Copying the appearance of another person perfectly required a more experienced flesh-mage than most cosmetic procedures.

But it was costly, not inaccessible. And Saræ did not have Rekon’s health records to compare against. She could only confirm his internals appeared as expected for an alma in his sixties.

“The Rillans are finally sending a retrieval party.” The man tapped an envelope on his cluttered desk.

Alve ignored the abrupt change of subject. “I noticed Ane on my way in. How long do we have?” The reedy courier passed Alve while leaving the main fortress.

The two men did not acknowledge each other. Alve because he did not care about the custom and Ane because he already knew that.

The outpost was distant enough from the kingdom proper to make couriers infrequent. But it was notable that Ane had arrived ten months before his usual schedule and two weeks before the next expected courier.

“We don’t need to do anything.” Alve pursed his lips at the response.

“We don’t need to do anything about a potentially hostile imposter with unknown abilities or motives?” The incredulity was mostly hidden. Yet Alve still received a sharp glance.

“You are not to do anything to the unidentified entity with unknown abilities and unknown motives. One who has so far shown no sign of hostility.” The message was clear. Do not shoot the tarasque.

“There are ways of dealing with these situations. Ways that minimize risk to my facilities and staff.” Alve relaxed.

He only knew hearsay and fringe conspiracy about how such things were dealt with. But it was hard to spend a decade in the Royal College without realizing that magical rogues and their creations would take more than the crown’s common forces to regulate.

A journey-mage could only do so much harm. Someone like Alve might dismantle the defenses of a rural township or command a bandit group by raw power. But he would ultimately be nothing more than a larger scale version of any other criminal.

A master-mage was a different matter. Alve had known many between senior students and his instructors. But there was a gap of more than scale between Alve and them.

An apprentice-mage learned magic. A journey-mage understood magic. But a master-mage was magic.

Alve could craft a ward to react to a sword swinging at his neck. A master-force-mage would sense the kinetic energy in the sword and its wielder. Then they would mulch both into a slurry of flesh, bone and metal fragments. All without moving a muscle.

Someone like that could never be stopped by mundane methods. And force magic was one of the most direct and least insidious disciplines.

Only a few people each century managed to continue beyond master-mage. That was both sociopolitical and a matter of aptitude.

There was a reason a 30-year-mage was not simply a mage who remained in study for a third decade. It meant a mage had achieved proficiency above a master-mage proportionate to the gap between a master-mage and journey-mage.

The testing criteria was complex. Alve did not entirely understand the methodology. But the few times Alve had been in a room with a 30-year-mage made his skin crawl.

There was something wrong with them. The way they spoke. The look in their eyes. As if the material world was less real to them than the arcane forces within everything. It was concerningly similar to what Alve sometimes glimpsed in the man presenting himself as Rekon.

“So we do nothing?” Alve’s de facto boss sighed.

“We watch, and we report anything we notice. The necessary process has already started.” He punctuated the sentence by picking up his pen and returning to his work.

Alve had reported to the man long enough to recognize the nonverbal dismissal. He slid his chair back and stood.

“And if he becomes a threat to our facilities or staff?” The response was given without looking up.

“Than I expect you to deal with it as any other threat.” Alve nodded before pushing the door open and closing it behind himself.