The return to court was faster than expected. Not because anyone hurried us, but because there was nothing left to inspect. The village had done what it could. The rest was no longer within its control.

  When we reached the palace, the atmosphere had noticeably changed.

  People spoke more quietly.

  They looked more closely.

  And they fell silent when I entered a room.

  The king did not receive me in the throne room.

  He received me in the council chamber.

  A lower room. Fewer banners. Fewer fire pits. More faces. The mage took a seat beside me. Advisors, nobles, and guards were spread throughout the room, as if they had already marked their positions.

  “Report,” said the king.

  I stepped forward.

  “The village was prepared,” I began. “Not through planning, but through instinct. The village elder evacuated early. As a result, there were no fatalities.”

  A murmur passed through the room.

  “The village is still damaged,” said a man to the king’s right. Finely dressed. Too confident.

  I looked at him. Fixed his face in my memory.

  “Damaged buildings can be replaced,” I said. “Lost people cannot.”

  The man snorted. “You are relativizing.”

  “No,” I said. “I am distinguishing.”

  The king raised a hand.

  “And the dragon?” he asked.

  “The dragon is a real threat,” I said. “But not an unpredictable one.”

  Unease spread.

  “There is a lack of defined responsibility,” I continued. “At present, it is not established who decides in such a situation, who informs, who evacuates, and who is accountable.”

  “We have heroes,” someone interjected.

  “Heroes are not a structure,” I said. “They are a reaction.”

  The man to the king’s right stood up.

  “You come here,” he said sharply, “make demands, shut down the palace, block measures against the dragon, and now you want to explain to us how to govern our realm?”

  I looked at him.

  “I am explaining,” I said calmly, “how to limit damage.”

  “You are a foreigner!” he shouted. “A nobody!”

  Silence.

  The king rose slowly.

  “If the gods had not summoned you,” he said evenly, “you would no longer be alive.”

  The sentence hung in the room.

  I took a slow breath.

  “That is possible,” I said. “But at present, I am here.”

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  Several people flinched.

  I opened my notebook.

  “Until responsibilities are clarified,” I said calmly, “I will not address the dragon.”

  Silence.

  “You refuse?” asked the king.

  “I set priorities,” I said.

  The man to the right stepped forward.

  “You are playing a dangerous game.”

  I looked at him.

  “No,” I said. “I am preventing one.”

  The king raised his hand.

  “Enough.”

  He studied me for a long moment.

  “You will remain,” he said at last. “For now. But every further step you take will be observed.”

  I nodded. “That is acceptable.”

  The man to the king’s right looked at me as though he had just lost something.

  I left the room.

  Behind me, the voices immediately resumed their whispering.

  I opened my notebook and wrote:

  Responsibilities unclear.

  Resistance open.

  Time window limited.

  I underlined the last point.

  Order had never possessed infinite patience.

  The decision was not made immediately. It never was.

  After the audience, days passed in which nothing happened—at least nothing visible. Measures were announced, but not implemented. Discussions were held, but not concluded. Responsibilities were named, but not accepted.

  It was the most dangerous state.

  Not stagnation.

  But suspension.

  And in this suspended state, people began to draw their own conclusions.

  The intrigue did not begin openly.

  It began properly.

  First, I heard that my presence “raised questions.”

  Then that my recommendations were “insufficiently reviewed.”

  Finally, that I was “acting outside my jurisdiction.”

  The word appeared more and more frequently.

  Jurisdiction.

  Ironically.

  No one spoke to me about it.

  They spoke about me.

  Servants grew terse when I entered a room. Guards looked away. The council scribe wrote more slowly whenever I stood behind him, as though every word required careful consideration.

  The mage was the first to address it openly.

  “They are gathering voices against you,” he said when we met in the arcade. “Not officially. Not yet.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “Several. Mostly those who would lose influence if your proposals were implemented.”

  “Then that is to be expected,” I said.

  He looked at me as though I had just said something na?ve.

  “They are questioning your legitimacy,” he continued. “They say you have no formal authority. That you are blocking decisions that harm the realm.”

  I stopped.

  “Have you seen the village?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then that is not an argument,” I said.

  The mage rubbed his temples. “Politics does not work that way.”

  “Damage doesn’t either,” I replied.

  That same evening, I was not summoned to the council.

  Instead, I received a message. Written. Sealed. Properly worded.

  The High Council requests a statement regarding your role, your mandate, and the extent to which your actions align with the will of the Crown.

  I read the text twice.

  “This is a vote of no confidence,” I concluded.

  The knight who delivered the message nodded.

  “Unofficially.”

  “Of course.”

  I sat down, took out my notebook, and began to write.

  Not emotionally.

  Not defensively.

  Factually.

  The following morning, I appeared before the council again.

  The man to the king’s right was present once more. This time, he did not even attempt to smile.

  “You are blocking measures against the dragon,” he began without preamble. “You are undermining authority. You are destabilizing the realm.”

  “I am structuring,” I said.

  “You are delaying!” he shouted.

  “Deliberately,” I replied.

  A murmur swept the room.

  “You are endangering lives!”

  “No,” I said calmly. “I am reducing risk.”

  The king raised a hand.

  “It is alleged,” he said slowly, “that you are placing yourself above the will of the Crown.”

  I nodded. “I am.”

  Silence.

  “I am not placing myself above the Crown,” I continued. “I am working ahead of it. Preventively.”

  The man laughed harshly. “Do you hear yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very clearly.”

  I opened my notebook.

  “Since my arrival,” I said, “there have been no deaths caused by the dragon. Evacuations are effective. Supply is functioning. Panic has decreased.”

  “Coincidence,” someone growled.

  “Coincidence is statistically unlikely,” I said.

  The king looked at me for a long time.

  “You are forcing me into a position,” he said at last, “in which I must decide.”

  I nodded. “That is the purpose of responsibility.”

  The man to the right stepped forward.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with feigned concern, “this man destabilizes your rule.”

  The king remained silent.

  I looked at him.

  “If you remove me now,” I said calmly, “the measures will collapse. Not out of malice – out of uncertainty.”

  “And if I keep you?” the king asked.

  “Then you will face resistance,” I said. “But fewer deaths.”

  Silence.

  The king closed his eyes briefly.

  When he opened them again, he said:

  “You will remain. For now.”

  The man to his right went rigid.

  “But,” the king added, “every further step you take will be observed. One mistake—and you are gone.”

  I inclined my head slightly. “That is acceptable.”

  As I left the room, the mage stepped beside me.

  “You have made enemies,” he said quietly.

  I nodded. “That is unavoidable.”

  “Why do you seem so calm?”

  I looked at him.

  “Because intrigues are predictable,” I said.

  “Disordered conditions are not.”

  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.