The mage came to see me. Not officially. Not announced.

  He simply entered the room while I was sitting at the table, sorting my notes. That alone spoke in his favor. Most people here announced themselves loudly, as if they needed to justify their own existence.

  “What is it that you can actually do?” he asked at last.

  I looked up.

  “Professionally, or at present?”

  He grimaced. “You are neither a warrior nor a mage. And yet the king moves according to your words. Why?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Because I recognize problems before they escalate,” I said. “And because I can name who is responsible for them.”

  He said nothing.

  “I was a lawyer,” I added. “Specialized in construction and administrative law. Also a certified DIN expert.”

  “That means nothing to me.”

  “That is to be expected.”

  The mage sighed, then reached into his robe and produced a sphere, glass-like, milky in sheen, faintly pulsing from within.

  “Place your hand on it,” he said.

  I examined the sphere. No visible cracks. Even surface. Stable temperature.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A focus,” he said. “It shows which forces act within you.”

  I nodded and placed my hand on it.

  At first, nothing happened.

  Then the sphere began to glow faintly.

  The mage frowned, muttered something, then placed his own hand on the sphere opposite mine.

  The glow intensified briefly, then flickered.

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”

  “I hear that often,” I said.

  He concentrated.

  “You can be harmed,” he said slowly at last, “but only under certain conditions.”

  I withdrew my hand.

  “What conditions?” I asked.

  He seemed to leaf through something that apparently only he could see.

  “It appears… you can only be injured if the harm is perceived as justified.”

  I looked at him.

  “That is not magic,” I said.

  “It is,” he contradicted. “Quite clearly.”

  “No,” I said calmly. “That is logic.”

  He stared at me.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  I considered briefly how to explain it.

  “In my world,” I began, “one is generally not allowed to cause harm to another person.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “That is… remarkably idealistic,” the mage said.

  “There are exceptions,” I continued. “Self-defense. Necessity. Proportionality.”

  He frowned. “So you are saying—”

  “One may only harm me,” I said, “if it is necessary. Without alternative. And suitable to prevent a greater harm.”

  The mage was silent for a long time.

  “That makes no sense,” he said finally.

  “I hear that often as well.”

  The sphere went dark.

  The mage stepped back.

  “You are dangerous,” he said quietly.

  “No,” I replied. “I am regulating.”

  He put the sphere away, visibly unsettled.

  “The king wishes us to address the dragon,” he said at last. “You wanted a… risk assessment.”

  I nodded.

  “Then come,” he said.

  I stood, took my notebook, and followed him.

  For the first time, I had the impression that this world was beginning to take me seriously.

  The king raised no objections.

  That surprised me.

  When I explained that a risk assessment did not consist of maps and stories, but of on-site observation, he merely nodded and instructed the mage to accompany me.

  “Go and see it,” he had said. “Bring me facts.”

  I planned to do that anyway.

  We set out the same day. Not with a large escort. Not with any announcement.

  The mage rode. I walked, because the horse provided showed no visible saddle restraints, and I was not prepared to take that risk without necessity.

  “You are difficult,” the mage said after a while.

  “I am consistent,” I replied.

  The road led north, to where the dragon had last been sighted, to where smoke still hung on the horizon even days later.

  “What exactly do you expect to find there?” the mage asked.

  “Processes,” I said. “Or their absence.”

  He fell silent.

  When we saw the first charred beams, I knew the journey had been necessary. Paper could explain much. But order always began where damage became visible.

  The village was damaged, but not dead. Charred beams jutted from the remains of houses. Roofs had collapsed. The ground was blackened and baked hard. But among all this, people moved. Slowly. Carefully. But they moved.

  The village elder did not await us in a house. He stood in the square, hands folded before his body, cloak pulled too tight, as if holding something together that threatened to fall apart. When he saw us, he nodded once. Firmly.

  “You are here because of the dragon,” he said.

  “Among other things,” I said.

  His mouth tightened. “Then you are too late.”

  I shook my head. “No. Too late would have been if no one were left.”

  He looked at me sharply.

  “I sent them away,” he said quickly. “When the sky turned red. I shouted. Pushed. Some wanted to stay. Their homes. Their livestock.”

  He swallowed.

  “I forced them.”

  The mage lifted his head, as if about to speak.

  I raised my hand.

  “That was correct,” I said.

  The village elder blinked.

  “What?”

  “Evacuation in the event of acute danger,” I explained calmly. “Early decision. Clear command. No discussion. Exactly right.”

  His shoulders sagged slightly.

  “Some lost everything,” he murmured.

  “They are alive,” I said. “That is not a small difference.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

  “Then… then I suppose I did not do everything wrong.”

  “No,” I said. “You acted correctly by instinct.”

  I made a note.

  We continued through the village. Not quickly. Not in silence.

  I had them show me where the fire had struck first, where people had fled, where they had gathered, where chaos had broken out.

  “Here,” I said at last, stopping. “Here is where they should have been assembled.”

  “Why?” asked the mage.

  “Because it is open,” I said. “Because you can see in all directions from here. And because panic diminishes when people are not isolated.”

  The village elder nodded slowly. “That is true.”

  Then I smelled it. Fresh. Warm. Heavy.

  Bread.

  In one of the few half-standing houses, a woman sat at a table. Before her lay several loaves. Not beautiful. Not decorated. But orderly. Even. Cleanly cut.

  She passed them on, one by one, to those without a house, to those without a hearth.

  I stopped.

  “May I?” I asked.

  She looked up, nodded, and pushed a loaf closer.

  I examined it. Not too small. Not excessively large. Even crumb. Clean cut.

  I nodded in approval.

  “This is good,” I said.

  She looked at me, confused. “It is just bread.”

  “Bread is never just bread,” I said. “It is supply.”

  The mage stepped beside me. “What are you evaluating?”

  “In my world,” I explained, “there are standards for basic foodstuffs. Minimum sizes. Equal distribution.”

  He frowned. “You standardize bread?”

  “Of course,” I said. “So no one receives less simply because they speak more quietly.”

  The woman heard this. She paused briefly, then cut the next loaf exactly in half.

  “I’m counting,” she said.

  I smiled.

  “Very sensible.”

  I stepped back into the square.

  “Supply is functioning,” I said. “Short-term.”

  The village elder stepped beside me. “And long-term?”

  I looked around.

  “Long-term, you need procedures,” I said. “An assembly point. A signal. Responsibilities.”

  “And the dragon?” he asked.

  I looked to the sky.

  “He is a danger,” I said. “But not chaos.”

  The mage looked at me questioningly.

  “Chaos,” I added, “arises where no one is prepared.”

  I opened my notebook.

  Evacuation: functional

  Population response: sufficient

  Supply: improvised, but fair

  Potential for improvement: high

  I looked at the village elder.

  “You did something right here,” I said. “Now we make sure that next time, it is not merely enough.”

  He nodded.

  “Then tell me what to do.”

  I closed the notebook.

  “First,” I said, “we build order. Then we deal with the dragon.”

  Feel free to share any ideas for scenarios you would like to see him thrown into — especially situations where the German controller is pushed to his limits, or moments where he might despise this barbaric world and try to turn it into something different.