Maximum Intimidation Knight In a World Full of Mages

The smell of broth reached me first, savory and layered. The spices were aplenty, far too many for a common stew: cumin, star anise, a trace of pepper not from the eastern ports but the southern. In most homes, you were lucky if the broth had salt. This woman must’ve spent years learning how to work with these flavors.

She measured by scent, stirred by instinct, never once tasting but somehow knowing the exact moment to lower the flame. Was this alchemy disguised as domesticity? But I had yet heard of any alchemist summoning tiny stone golems.

If she had any art, it was probably thaumaturgy, the most dominant form of magic around Aurelienth. It was a kind of refined magic the wealthy liked to pretend was an academic pursuit rather than a license to meddle. The well-off ones always did end up in that Order. Sir Roland had once served a thaumaturge like that. The man’s house had more gold leaf than glass, and he’d insisted on hiring ‘a knightly retainer’ purely so he could boast that even his bodyguard had a family crest.

If this woman belonged to the same ilk, she hid it well.

As I waited for my dinner, I saw clay. I had never before found clay interesting in my life, but there was something misaligned about the claywork on the low shelf, shaped like a coiled serpent biting its tail. Or maybe it was just a looping tail; hard to tell with artistic endeavors. The shadows didn’t fall where they should. The distance between it and the wall seemed to stretch half a finger’s width farther than it had been, as though there was light from within the object that was interfering with the room’s geometry.

Does that thing hold any aether? Her basket has aether, and she’s a mage. Very likely her claywork also contains aether.

This must be the same quality that Ceralis’ tutorial had described. A ‘taskgiving object’ right there by the hearth, nestled among her trinkets. Of course it would be in someone else’s house. Why wouldn’t it be?

Only, it was at the far end of the room, and the woman was right there stirring her pot. So I did the next best thing: pretended to stretch, pretended to stand up, walk around, admire the shelves, and tried very hard not to look like a thief about to fondle a piece of pottery.

“Is it time for your dinnertime sparring, Ser?” her voice floated over, amused. “You seem ready to duel my furniture.”

I froze halfway through what must have looked like a particularly aggressive reach.

Think, Henry. Think. You can recover from this. Compliment the claywork. Yes! Acknowledge its craftsmanship, mention the inner aetheric quality, maybe compare it to something tasteful you’ve read about in an Archive treatise. She’ll see you as perceptive, intelligent, perhaps even charming.

In my head, the phrasing was impeccable, ‘Your artistry speaks through the medium, Lady; the serpentine curvature hints at the unbroken cycle of vitality—one rarely finds such intuitive command of resonance outside formal guild instruction.’

Flawless.

I opened my mouth. “Fine work,” Ceralis said for me. “It will die beautifully when the hammer finds it.”

I wanted to rip my own tongue out, or better—rip Ceralis from my head and strangle it with the entrails of whatever spirit made it speak.

Anabeth laughed.

Her laugh was too loud for the small room before she brought it back to restraint. “You’ve quite a sense of humor, Ser,” she said, trying to temper her mirth into something polite. “Which Order did you hail from? Quite bold of them to teach jesting along with their swordsmanship.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak. My face burned. My mind spat curses at Ceralis in every language I knew, half of which had been dead for centuries, the other half too blasphemous for polite company.

My hands felt stupid and clumsy. Embarrassment made them too hot; Ceralis made them traitorous. Still . . . Task or no task, I had come this far.

I had to touch her tail.

I set my palm on the serpent’s flank.

I did not feel anything. Yet—

[Task Completed: Taskgiving Tutorial]

[Boon: +25 EXP]

EXP: 1455/2750

Oh. It really worked. I may be something of a genius myself.

“Ser,” Anabeth said softly, with that warm, lilting composure of hers that could almost make you forget she’d caught you trying to rob her shelf, “you’ve been pacing about like a restless hound for the better part of a minute.”

I glanced over. She had turned from the hearth, spoon in hand, the steam rising between us like incense from an altar.

“Do be seated,” she continued, tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. “Even the most valiant knights must surrender to supper when it calls.”

She set two bowls on the small table—one before my empty chair, one before her own—and dusted her hands as though ending a ritual. “The clay will still be there after dinner. It won’t bite. Unless you intend to duel it again?”

I sat. Then the scent of broth reached me again, and whatever task, boon, or cursed system prompt I’d been chasing fell away.

“I wonder,” she said, voice light as if brushing dust from a shelf, “what goes through the mind of a noble armored man who looks so terribly serious all the time. Admiring the structural integrity of my walls, perhaps?”

The Ceralis had, in its infinite wisdom, saddled me with a side quest of getting to know her identity, in exchange for a Pathway.

I’d done worse for less. I’d managed to talk my way past bandits, priests, and one particularly humorless magistrate before; surely I could handle a woman with a bowl of soup. Even with Ceralis whispering its corrections through my teeth.

“Your hospitality is most . . . convenient. A pity if it were to vanish,” I heard myself finish.

What in all nine folds of the aether was that? I hadn’t meant that. I’d meant thank you.

She stared at me for a long, still moment. Then, to my mounting horror, She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palms, elbows on the table, eyes bright with the kind of interest that made lesser men run for the hills. 

[Intimidation Failed – Target Emotion: Amusement]

“What a charming way to invite companionship. You do have a dangerous tongue, Ser.” One of her legs crossed the other, idly swinging.

I opened my mouth, fumbling for something neutral. ‘You seem to have a talent for shaping stones.’

[Speech Override: ACTIVE — CERALIS: Intimidation Restructure —]

“—the sort of woman I’d like to see wrapped in linen and sealed in clay, preserved as a perfect relic; still and neat forever, so no more lies can sprout from her tongue.”

I slammed a hand so hard on the table it shook. Why did you say that? I thought, panicked and horrified. I am beyond saving now.

She stared at me, unblinking. Then, impossibly, she laughed—a short, sharp sound of delighted disbelief—and sat bolt upright as if someone had handed her a key. “Preserved?” she breathed, eyes bright. “I would never lie to you, good Ser.  I’ve never told this to anyone, but you saw through me just by looking into my eyes. Tell me, what else do you hide under those menacing eyes of yours?”

“What? Saw through you? You must have been mistaken. I—”

[Speech Override: ACTIVE — CERALIS: Threat Profile Enhancement —] 

“—have stared into enough graves to know what clings to the flesh when it refuses to decay. I didn’t just see through you. I remember the kind of soul that begs to be embalmed before it ever dies.” What am I even saying? I’m accusing her of being a necromancer!

Her lips parted, trembling in astonishment, then curved into something luminous, feverish.

“You understand,” she whispered. “You truly understand! The boundary between life and artifice; the sanctity of the preserved form! Oh, Ser, you can’t imagine what it means to meet someone who sees it.”

“See what—” I managed, voice cracking between alarm and disbelief. Ceralis intervened once again and finished my line for me, “See what lies beneath your skin when the soul outlasts the vessel,” I heard myself say. “See what struggles behind your eyes, begging to be bound before it turns to rot.”

She let out a long, shivering ‘oh’, the sort of sound one makes when they’ve just seen the solution to a puzzle they’d been living with for years. Then, softer, almost to herself, “By the saints of shale and clay, I think I’m in—”

[Romantic Interest: +5%]

[Current Interest Level: 99%]

The last word got muffled as Ceralis’ notification showed up. 

I don’t care about romantic interests! What I demand to know is whether she practices necromancy! Her words unsettle me. What if she sees fit to bind me in linen and entomb me as some . . . cursed table ornament? What if she turns me into one of those tiny running stone gnomes I saw earlier? What if those gnomes were actually living people once!

She tilted her head, blinking owlishly at my inner outburst, then beamed excitedly. “I’m sorry if I’m not quite what you’re looking for, good Ser,” she said, tone almost apologetic, “but I can’t quite embalm souls into clay, yet.”

Yet.

Every hair on my neck stood on end.

“But I am very much capable of this!” She added brightly, and before I could demand clarification, she hopped up from her seat with a sudden burst of exhilarated energy.

Her skirts brushed the floor as she darted to the corner of the room, where a humble potted plant sat basking beneath the window.

She crouched, whispered something under her breath, and began moving her hands in looping gestures. 

The soil shivered. The green leaves wilted, darkened, then stiffened as color drained from them. The pot cracked with a sharp snap, and from within rose a small boulder, roughly the size of a melon. It shook once, twice, then unfolded stubby limbs and gave a gravelly chirp.

It waved at me.

She turned back, eyes shining, utterly delighted. “Observe! This is Durand. Each summon requires a humble plant. Do extend your greetings to the noble gentleman over there, Durand!”

The stone gnome-thing lifted a stubby arm, bending at a clumsy angle, and wiggled the rock-tips of its fingers.

I stared at the waving rock construct. That’s not necromancy. That’s just . . . turning plants into stone.

Her eyes sparkled even brighter, and she bounced on the balls of her feet. “By employing these modest botanicals as a form of arcane sustenance, the enchantment fortifies itself, molding the very essence into a structure both more resilient and exquisitely enduring. But oh, oh! I’m determined to refine my spellform even further!” she exclaimed, voice tumbling over itself. “Soon, I’ll be able to petrify all sorts of dungeon slimes into perfectly formed little constructs! I have yet been allowed to experience dungeons for myself, but I am carefully cultivating my practical acumen through measured experimentation in the field.” 

“Slimes?” I said. Slimes are perfect. I can actually deal with slimes. Nonetheless, Ceralis made the single word drip with disdain.

“Yes, slimes.” Her voice deflated. “Although . . . I daresay such humble creatures are scarcely worthy of a warrior as formidable as yourself, good Sir.”

“So you require slimes,” I said slowly, “for your . . . stone construct summoning experiments.”

She brightened immediately. “Precisely!”

Hold on.

Pieces began to fall into place. She wasn’t allowed into dungeons yet, by her own admission. Her manner, her exuberance, the way she spoke of refining spellforms: she wasn’t a full thaumaturge at all. She was a mage-in-training.  And she was clearly looking for someone with field experience to escort her. The reason she disguised as a commoner was unknown, but unimportant. 

And given how Ceralis had warped my speech into a series of death threats laced with mystic insight, she probably thought I was that someone.

A veteran of tombs and cursed ruins.

Which meant—

If I played along, I might actually gain something from this arrangement. 

All I had to do was pretend to be a powerful, unflappable warrior . . . while fighting slimes.

Slimes.

I could handle slimes.

But I needed to know what my Pathway would gain me before I committed.

“Then,” I said carefully, “are you a thaumaturge in training? Speak now before I lose interest.”

She clasped her hands together as though I’d just divined a great secret. “I can never seem to hide anything from you, good Ser!” she said, voice bright with delighted surrender. “Yes—Earth-inclined, though I fear it sounds terribly provincial compared to the grander arts. But I assure you, my practice is anything but dull! I have cultivated formulae you might never have seen before! Or perhaps you have! A man of your bearing must have witnessed far stranger manifestations in his storied life.”

My voice deepened of its own accord, resonant as the grind of stone against steel. “Then you would know better than to hide your name from me, young thaumaturge.”

Her composure faltered for only a heartbeat before she straightened, chin lifting in something close to admiration. “Anabeth,” she declared.

“And your surname?” I prompted.

Anabeth’s lips curved into a sly, almost conspiratorial smile. “Ah, a lady must keep some secrets to herself, my good sir,” she replied, voice light, teasing. “Also, should you discover my full name, you would be obliged to return me to my family, and they would see fit to chastise me most severely.”

“How long have you been away from home?”

“Oh . . . it’s of little consequence. A fortnight, perhaps a month. It hardly matters.” She waved a delicate hand. “What truly matters is if you would oblige a poor magus and lend me a portion of your company?”

She’s been on a run for weeks? Maybe she’s a criminal. My mind reeled. She tilted her head, cheeks puffed in a mischievous little grin, her cherubic eyes dared me to take her seriously. She looks like a deranged criminal. I am not dealing with criminals.

[TASK: Name of the Earth-Touched — COMPLETED]

[Boon Unlocked: Path of the Earthen Aegis — Potential to resonate with ambient aether and channel it into armor, armaments, and other artifacts. RES gain now possible whenever accompanied by Anabeth.]

I froze, staring at the text as it hovered in the air like a carved rune. Channel aether . . . into my armor . . . into my weapons . . . after twenty-seven years of empty hands and wasted breath, this was the reward?

“I will rend every slime that crosses our path until none remain,” I declared. I couldn’t care less if she was a wanted criminal. No, actually, I would care. The Knight code forbade me to turn a blind eye. 

She grinned, wide and all dimples, and for a breath she looked at me with such earnest innocence I almost believed she’d never so much as pocketed a penny in her life.

How could a girl like this possibly be a criminal?