The metal unwound. Threads emerged from the tip of my gauntlet, so thin they bordered on invisible, flowing like silver vines before settling into a slow, hypnotic motion.

  How does a skill this garbage look so elegant?

  Anabeth sucked in a sharp breath. “I–I’ve never seen armor capable of bending itself like that. It’s as if it’s thinking.”

  They’re just strings. They barely pull. I could snap these with a bad angle and a bad day.

  I spoke anyway. “Behold,” I intoned, “You do not witness strength. You witness unraveling. They are the seams of the world itself. Mountains do not crumble because they are struck. They crumble because their structure is persuaded. Walls fall not by force, but when their purpose is forgotten. I do not tear reality. I remind it that it was assembled.”

  Yikes. My reassemblance of reality had a one-minute timer. This was such a waste of Aura Points.

  I rumbled, “Behold, the release.” Then my hand gripped into an iron fist. The threads ceased to exist. They were simply gone, severed from motion, scrubbed clean of their presence.

  I spoke once more, “The Ferrum Overlord does not allow the world to remain unraveled. What is exposed must be returned.”

  Anabeth nodded in awe. “A–again,” she whispered, barely breathing. “Please—just once more. If I could only see how the threads—”

  “Silence,” I bellowed. “The Ferrum Overlord does not repeat himself. What is revealed twice becomes spectacle. What becomes spectacle is no longer power.”

  Anabeth bowed so hard her forehead struck the ground. “Of course. Yes. Yes, Almighty Overlord. I would never—never presume. Once is already more than legend allows.”

  She hesitated, then lifted her head just enough that one eye dared to look upward. “M–my lord. When you commanded us to retrieve the Five Artifacts of Saint Merin… was it so that you might… empower the Ferrum Justice?”

  “Put your head back down this instance!”

  Her forehead immediately struck the stone. She blurted before thinking. “I—yes—of course—down—very down—apologies, my lord, I was merely attempting to realign my skull with the approved angle of submission.”

  I thundered, “How dare you presume that the Lord’s power is so small it requires amplification. They are vessels, so that puny mortals do not perish the moment they attempt to lay their hands upon the Lord’s power.”

  Anabeth pressed herself flatter to the ground. “Forgive me. I forgot myself.”

  Then I realized one thing. The sound of Durand punching the other golem had ceased to exist.

  What had Durand been doing?

  I turned to see the little golem waddling back toward us. The other golem was nowhere in sight. It had probably been annihilated. Good that it didn’t bring more witnesses.

  Somewhere beyond the trees, metal rang against metal.

  Anabeth tilted her head just enough to peer sideways from beneath her fringe. “Are you gracing this lowly follower with another demonstration of your boundless authority?”

  Hoofbeats answered her.

  “I heard footsteps here. Come!”

  Footsteps? Those weren’t our footsteps. Those were Durand’s.

  Great.

  Shadows burst from the treeline, resolving into riders, then into men. At least twenty, maybe more, fanning out to encircle us. At first, I thought they were city officials, or the magi from earlier, but then I remembered no magi rode on horsebacks when they could just fly. No magus rode when flight was cheaper than feed, faster than hooves, and quieter than panic. More importantly, no sanctioned caster could arrive without paperwork, which was probably why the instructor from earlier hadn’t followed us. Combat magic outside designated dungeons required permits, seals, and a witness roster thick enough to choke a registrar.

  These men had only leather, scavenged steel, and the confidence of people who believed numbers were a substitute for authorization.

  One rider broke from the ring and trotted forward at an easy pace. “Well now,” he called, lifting a hand in greeting, “didn’t expect to find anyone out here. Thought this stretch was quiet.”

  His eyes never left Silvermane, who was snorting near a tree trunk. Then the pannier strapped behind it. Then the ox horns lashed to the saddle.

  Durand had disappeared once more. The little rascal! It’d brought trouble to us then just removed itself altogether.

  “Road’s been hard on us,” he went on. “Our supplies went missing and the animals got spooked. Things… happen.” He shrugged. “Figure we’d ask neighbor to neighbor before anyone gets hurt.”

  A few of the others laughed.

  “You’ve got plenty,” the rider said, nodding toward the ox horns. “And that’s a fine horse. Be a shame to see it panic.”

  Anabeth finally stopped bowing and stood.

  The rider said, “And, ah… strange little ceremony you got there. Looks private.” His smile widened a fraction. “If you want to be left alone, best way is to travel lighter. We’ll help with that.”

  Help.

  Right.

  I was standing still and Anabeth was kneeling. They were here because we looked alone and weak.

  But we were anything but.

  Anabeth stepped forward before I could stop her.

  Oh no.

  I thought she was about to go full Durand and unleash a thaumaturgic disaster on these poor bandits. Yet, there was… nothing. She simply brushed the dirt from her robes, lifted her chin, and puffed out her chest like a ceremonial pigeon.

  No magic. Only confidence.

  Oh. That kind of overkill.

  “Gentlemen,” she said brightly, “I would strongly advise you to reconsider.”

  Oh.

  A few of the riders snorted. One of them spat into the grass.

  Anabeth clasped her hands at her chest. “Do you have any idea who you are standing before?”

  Magnificent...

  The lead rider chuckled. “Looks like a man in armor and a girl who talks too much.” The ring laughed.

  She continued, “Standing before you is the one who unthreads mountains, who returns the world to order when it dares misalign. You arrived during a demonstration, which is already more mercy than most receive. If you leave now, quietly, and without attempting to ‘borrow’ anything, you may yet keep all your limbs. Possibly even your horses.”

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  I winced. Of all the ways this could have gone, my herald choosing religious escalation was not one I’d budgeted Aura Points for.

  All I wanted was peaceful de-escalation. Naturally, the bandits chose the opposite.

  Steel rasped in near-perfect unison.

  Sabers slid free of scabbards—curved, balanced, well-maintained. These were professionals who hunted soft targets and tested legends with metal. Sabers were especially common out in the Westris outback, favored by mounted patrols and outlaw companies alike: forgiving on horseback, deadly in a sweep, useless to farmers and priceless to men who made a living deciding who got to keep their belongings. When forts downsized or dissolved, these didn’t get turned in, so they were rather cheap on the black market.

  The lead rider lifted his saber in a lazy salute. “Unthreads mountains, does he?” he said, amused. “Funny thing about mountains. Never seen one bleed. Now boys… box them in.”

  They approached.

  Anabeth’s chest stayed puffed, and she didn’t draw any aether.

  “Don’t say I haven’t warned you,” she said, brightly.

  Saints preserve me.

  Five of them peeled off toward Silvermane. One drifted toward her flank, another toward the shoulder, two more pacing just outside her kicking range. The fifth stayed back, coiling a rope around his forearm. They knew what they were doing.

  They watched her ears more than her hooves. Silvermane lashed out anyway, hoof cracking into a man’s thigh with a wet thump. He went down with a sharp cry, but another stepped into the space he’d vacated without thinking. A loop of rope slid low, aimed for the pastern, and Silvermane swung her head toward me, furious.

  Do something, she communicated.

  Fine; fine. I’ll do something.

  I simply looked at the man in front. That was all it took.

  He pitched out of the saddle, hit the ground, and didn’t even have the dignity of bracing for it.

  Then I stared at his horse. It hollered.

  The sudden absence of will in the reins sent it into a blind panic. It reared, then bolted straight over the fallen rider. It trampled over its own rider as it vanished into the brush.

  No one laughed this time.

  One of the riders kicked his heels in and broke from the ring, saber raised. Seemed like a brave guy.

  Please, let it work on him.

  He charged.

  I turned my head and met his eyes.

  The horse locked first. The man tried to shout. Nothing came out.

  They stood there together, rider and mount, caught in the instant before action, suspended like a diagram in a training manual.

  I hadn’t told them to stop. They had simply understood.

  It’s just that easy? Maybe... I could get used to this.

  “I have warned you, gentlemen, that you stand before the axis upon which consequence turns, before the will so absolute it unravels action without motion and breaks charge and courage alike by thought alone, before the Chosen One whose mind does not command reality but corrects it. So?” Anabeth spread her hands, invitingly. “Who wishes to be next?”

  The leader’s smile finally cracked.

  He stared at the frozen rider, silent for a second. Then his lips curled. “Cheap tricks,” he growled, spitting into the dirt. He lifted his saber and snarled, “Men! At once! He can’t do that to all of us!”

  Thirteen of them surged forward. Thirteen on one, and they’re calling me cheap?

  I said, “Halt.”

  Horses screamed and skidded to a stop. Men froze, muscles locked in poses they hadn’t chosen. One stumbled forward another step and stopped so abruptly his teeth clicked together hard enough to draw blood.

  Nearly all of them halted. Some of the men whimpered.

  “I do not need to touch you,” I continued. “Your spines already know where they belong. Your courage is borrowed. Your momentum is borrowed. Your fear arrives now.”

  Several simply collapsed. The rest unmounted and scrambled back toward the treeline as if chased by something only they could see.

  The clearing went quiet.

  Men lay where they had fallen, twitching or staring. Only one man remained standing.

  The leader.

  He’d already dismounted. Veins stood out along his neck and temples, darkened to an ugly greenish hue, pulsing hard enough to see. Sweat ran freely down his face, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. They were bloodshot.

  Whatever was left of his will, he was burning it all at once. I must commend his mental fortitude for surviving even Chained Intimidation. Nobody had managed so without lacking a brain or being named Anabeth.

  “Try me,” he snarled through his teeth.

  I regarded him for a long second, then said, “Run.”

  The sky split directly in front of his face. Lightning tore down with a concussive crack that felt close enough to peel thought from bone.

  The man screamed.

  It was thin and undignified. He spun on his heel and bolted. The sour smell of urine hit a heartbeat later as his terror overwhelmed what little dignity he had left. He ran blindly, sobbing, flailing his arm and throwing his saber sideways.

  Then Anabeth stuck out her foot.

  He left the ground entirely, hit face-first with a meaty crack, and slid a good two feet before coming to a stop. His eyes rolled once, then crossed. He went limp.

  “Ah,” she said pleasantly, “flight was clearly the correct choice.”

  I glanced at the unconscious bandit, then at the empty treeline, then at the scattered remains of what had once been an ambush.

  “You will remind me to stop letting you talk first,” I growled.

  She beamed.

  Across the clearing, beyond the churned dirt and scattered men, the two stone golems were still going at it.

  In front of me, Anabeth had already knelt beside the fallen leader. She pried his fingers loose with surprising strength and lifted the saber, turning it this way. “Oh, don’t look so troubled, my lord,” she said breezily. “They were bandits. This was inevitable, really.” She tested the blade’s balance with a flick. “We’re not stealing. We’re retrieving from criminals.” She squinted at the hilt, then gasped. “Oooh. This weapon is rare.”

  I placed one hand against my forehead. I’d wanted none of this to happen.

  The clearing looked empty at first glance, but then I detected several glowing items. Seven items that were either useful or could be sold for a few hundred Kohns each, left within arm’s reach, because I’d spoken three sentences with conviction.

  Anabeth hummed to herself and leaned over one of the prone men. She slipped two fingers into his coat pocket, fished around, and pulled free a small stone dangled from a wire loop. “Oooh!” she chirped. “Limberstone. Fancy.”

  I lowered my hand just enough to see her skip across the clearing toward me, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. “Do you know what this does?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “Reduces joint strain, improves flexibility, and prevents tendon shear under stress. Very popular with duelists and vault-runners and illegal to sell without a charter.” She smiled brightly. “Worth a small fortune regardless.”

  She glanced back at the scattered bodies, then at the faint glow still outlining half a dozen other objects.

  “Say,” she continued, tilting her head, “this is a very efficient arrangement.” She gestured broadly. “Bandits accumulate forbidden artifacts. The Ferrum Overlord arrives. Their resistance is corrected. And what should not have been taken is returned to proper custody.” She nodded to herself, satisfied with the logic. “Order restores itself. But only if the lord desires, of course! What do you think, my lord?”

  Silvermane snorted from afar. A downed bandit twitched next to her. She kicked him on the head, and he returned to being static.

  I ran a hand down my face. Maybe trying to be reasonable was the real inefficiency here. I should just embrace my inner villainy and optimize.

  Should Henry use his aura more?