Chapter 420: Honour Among Thieves

Ophelia the Snow Dancer’s mini-arc. 4/4.******

Beneath the Kingdom of Tirea, the walls of a hidden shrine shuddered.

Dust, debris and loose material drifted from the ceiling as the foundations of the world groaned. But this was no natural tremor which shook Lady Lumielle’s refuge.

It was something far worse.

Dwarves desperately fleeing.

“Move! Move yer stony backsides!”

“Look menacing, he says! How do we look menacing against that?!”

“Stop waddling! Sprint, darn you! I’m not losing my beard over this!” 

“Where’s the exit?! … My … My eyes still hurt, I can’t see anything … !”

Abandoning their weapons and shields, the dwarves showed their famed teamwork by ensuring they all fled at exactly the same time. Elbowing and tripping as they went, they poured through the only exit, widening it in the process.

Ophelia had no idea why.

Snow was such a beautiful thing. 

And here beneath the surface, it was as rare as an elven maiden’s smile.

“[Winter’s Shroud].”

The snow swirled around her like a tempest.

It was enough to send her silver hair fluttering and the shadows fleeing. But if not that, then there was also her sword, its gleaming tip poised to strike at anyone brave enough to remain.

Only a single dwarf took up the challenge.

Velstric the Black Thane stood alone amidst the sweeping snow and the rolling goblets.

Despite this, he betrayed not a flicker of disappointment over the lack of loyalty by his henchmen. 

His expression was of mild curiosity. A merchant’s favoured guise as he pretended not to be intrigued by the whirlwind of gleaming snow, the weapon shining like a star and the strength of a sword saint famed for her cooking, sewing, cleaning and stabbing skills.

“Underpaid hirelings these days, huh?” he said, brushing the snow from his beard. “You can dress a thug as a soldier, but in the end, they’re still the same good-for-nothings who answered a suspicious advert for easy crowns in the back of a tavern.”

Ophelia smiled.

“They should’ve become miners. The pickaxes would help them escape.”

“A pickaxe is sadly unneeded for that. The sight of you wielding Lady Lumielle’s gift seems more than enough. It is, after all, a work of unrivalled craftsmanship. Why not give it a swing?”

Before Ophelia could answer, a knife swept towards her.

She obliged by shattering it in half, before raising her sword again for the dwarf who threw it. 

Strangely, he wasn’t already joining the fleeing crowd. He unsheathed a pair of daggers instead, twirling them as easily as a back alley entertainer.

“You’re going to need a lot more than that,” said Ophelia, offering honesty as payment.

The dwarf gestured at the floor, littered with the weapons of his footpads.

“Well, then I suppose I can begin making a start.”

His smile was the only warning he offered.

With a sprightliness that betrayed his stocky figure, he leapt over a fallen pew.

Paying no heed to the maelstrom of snow, the blinding light or the long hem of his scarlet robes, it was an attack with the enthusiasm of a drunkard hopping over a bar. His daggers cleaved at her, one hoping to hook away the waiting sword while the other went to reshape her face.

He found only the air. And also her reply.

As Ophelia turned to the side, she swept her sword towards the dwarf’s side. He met the awkward angle with half a deflection, his fine robes finding the rest. 

Ignoring the graze that appeared, he sought to punish Ophelia’s delicate feet with his boots. She hopped away as the stomp came, then again as she was pursued by a pair of swinging daggers, the dwarf rushing to catch her backfooted.

She pirouetted upon her heel. The dwarf surged past, almost stumbling before swinging around, daggers crossed to catch any sword at his back.   

Poomph. 

He found only a wooden pew instead, courtesy of Ophelia’s soles.

Using his daggers to shield himself, Lady Lumielle’s furniture broke around him in a hail of splinters. He bore it without even a grimace, too busy watching the brightly illuminated sword. 

Ophelia thrust between the crossed daggers. But instead of finding the dwarf’s face, she was left to nod as her opponent clamped the hilts of his weapons together, holding her sword in place.

The Black Thane smiled as Ophelia gave her sword a little wriggle.

“Ah, dwarves, elves and violence,” he said in an approving tone. “Just like the good old days, huh?”

“Hey, I’m not old enough to know what the good old days even are.”

“Neither am I. But doesn’t stop us from admiring a time when our ancestors didn’t shy away from openly murdering each other. You lot getting kicked out of the Fae Realm was awful. It’s been awkward ever since.”

“That’s a filthy lie. Elves have always been awkward. That’s our thing.”

Ophelia swiped her sword upwards, forcing the crossed daggers apart. 

She then offered a nod, having already measured the strength of her opponent.

Her verdict–yawn.

The dwarf was impressively agile, yes. And despite wielding two weapons, he was also disciplined. His reactions spoke of an experienced combatant. But he was still more a brute than a duellist, used to sweeping aside alleyway rogues than anyone with actual training.

He was C-rank, perhaps.

Competent. Better than average.

And that meant not a fae count, not a princess, and not Ophelia.

“So, you know you can’t actually stab me, right?”

The dwarf gave a small chuckle.

“Indeed, I’m fully aware. As proficient as I am, my skills were taught by the drunkards in Knife’s Row. I never had the luxury of an elven swordmaster.”

“You’re lucky, then. They spend so much time meditating that the first thing you learn is how to check for a pulse. And even then, you can never be sure.”

“Still a better lesson than what One Tooth Norrie taught me over my first taste of whisky. Fortunately, while I’ve still little in the way of martial expertise, I’ve acquired something far better now.”

“You mean the guys with the crossbows behind me?”

The Black Thane immediately threw one of his daggers. 

It swished by Ophelia’s cheek, continuing past the shrine’s exit and embedding itself into the wall outside. The group of dwarves sneaking up to defend their employer promptly fled once more.

“Even better,” he said, wagging his remaining dagger like a finger. “I am incredibly wealthy.”

Ophelia waited.

“... Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Okay. Well, so was the last guy I worked for. It didn’t help. In fact, I’m pretty sure he still owes me.”

“All that means is we’ve different definitions of wealth. For most, it’s owning a permanently stocked bar. But for me, it’s the ability to purchase from trolls without once needing to haggle. And when you prove yourself a generous customer, they prove to be equally generous merchants in turn.”

Suddenly, one of the many rings he wore burned as bright as embers.

“[Nightingale Waltz].”

Ophelia blinked.

And then the dwarf was gone.

With all her instincts as an S-rank sword saint, she swept her sword to the side, just about managing to redirect a slightly notched dagger from making a scratch where it wasn’t needed. 

Even so, a single strand of her hair fell down.

Suddenly alert, she narrowed her gaze, her attention fully on the dwarf now standing on the opposite side of the shrine. She watched as he casually twirled his dagger, taunting her with a look of amusement and whatever boast was to come.

“A ring said to be owned by The Masked Gentleman. And while that point is up for debate, the effects of this item are now. I’ve now enough dexterity to snip away at your hair and all you could do is accept my middling barbershop skills. Quite unsporting, no?”

Ophelia stared at the glowing ring, her elven eyes barely able to perceive the sheer quantity of magic exuding from it.

Then … she sighed with relief.

“Oh, phew. That’s all this is.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I expected worse.”

The Black Thane raised an eyebrow.

“You should consider being more indignant, Snow Dancer. I’ve just neutered your swordsmanship. And that’s with a single piece of jewellery. I have more.”

“Sure. But it’s not like you could beat me normally. And all leaders of generic criminal organisations are the first to run from me. I figured you had to fight really scrappily or something. But empowering yourself with troll artifacts is so much less gross than spitting in my eyes.”

The dwarf shrugged.

“Nothing is off the table,” he said, pretending not to be disappointed with the lack of fawning. “But I save my most desperate gambits for those who deserve it. And despite your reputation, I see nothing which warrants it so far.”

Ophelia didn’t need to see the blur of motion to predict it.

The fresh glint of the remaining dagger gave him away. Yet as fleetfooted as the approaching dwarf was, the fact remained that Ophelia was faster.

All of a sudden, the minor snowstorm swirling around her extended in every direction, blanketing the hidden shrine. The dwarf wasn’t spared. He paused as the snowflakes hardened, the icicles assailing his face and gathering upon his beard. 

That was enough.

“Hear the echoes amidst the illusion. One step whole. One blade divided.”

Ophelia lunged with her sword. Nor was she alone in doing so. 

“Snow Helix Form … 4th Stance. [Mirage Dance].” 

She’d told the truth, after all. 

This guy needed more than just a few daggers.

Amidst the white squall, all that could be seen for a single moment was her smile … and for anybody with eyes on the back of their head, the identical smiles worn by her mirror images, their gleaming swords sweeping to meet where a dwarf was expected to withdraw.

“[King’s Domain].”

Instead, he rooted his feet to the ground.

The next moment, every mirror image shattered into fragments of ice, leaving only Ophelia’s sword driving towards him. He chose neither to evade nor to parry it. He simply reached up and caught it, the blade drawing not even a trickle of blood as he effortlessly held it in his grip.

The Black Thane nodded, his eyes alight with admiration.

“Hm. Impressive. I can almost feel a graze on my hand. The trolls told me that shouldn’t be possible.” 

“Yup. Trolls say troll things. You never know what you’re getting. But don’t worry. Give me a moment and I’ll make sure everything’s working.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you will. But I’ve quite a few trinkets, and I’ve no wish to impose.”

“That’s fine. I’ve got time.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t. My allotted recreation break has sadly come to an end. And so must this meeting, entertaining as it is.”

The dagger duly came.

Except Ophelia had no need to avoid it. It wasn’t aimed at her. 

With a fracturing crack, it cleanly struck the gemstone embedded in the hilt of her sword.

Ophelia blinked at the innumerable fissures as the dwarf kindly released his grip on the blade.

“Hey! I thought this was a treasured dwarven thing!”

The Black Thane shrugged.

“I already have plenty,” he said simply. “And while I would have legitimately paid for this, in truth, I did rather expect and hope for the opportunity to test my recent purchases from the trolls instead.”

“Sure. But I don’t see why you’d break it.”

“I broke it because it’s more than decoration. The Heart of the Forge, you see, actually refers to a cluster of arcana crystals used to fuel our forges until everyone realised that mages paid significantly better than warriors. The grade of the crystals is the absolute highest, with each sliver containing enough magical energy to greatly empower whatever staff or, yes, sword it’s attached to.” 

“I still don’t see the point. If you just wanted the sword to be less bright, all you had to do was poke the thing out. I was going to do the same.”

The dwarf chuckled.

“I didn’t break the gemstone to diminish the sword’s magical properties. I broke it so that it would cause a volatile uncontrolled reaction.”

He gestured towards the damaged arcana crystal.

Far from diminishing, it only started to grow brighter.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Snow Dancer,” he said with the world’s shortest bow. “Thank you for indulging me in my whims. And also the chance to complete a contract. As expected, when others fail, I need to do it myself. The ensuing explosion and burial is a bit much, but nothing quite screams an advertisement than something elaborate enough to be spoken about in all the bars.”

The Black Thane wore a smile of content. He raised his hand.

“[Arcane Teleport].”

He then waited to be whisked away.

When he wasn’t, he looked down at his pinky, before slowly returning his gaze to Ophelia.

She held up a plain silver ring between her finger and thumb.

“Yoink,” she said, putting it on.

The dwarf narrowed his eyes.

His gaze went between the ring he no longer wore and the exploding sword tossed between his feet.

“... Did you know it was my ring of teleportation?”

“Nope. But it was the cheapest looking thing you had. I figured it must be the most important.”

“I see. How astute. Are you certain you don’t wish to be hired?”

“Yep,” she said, as her ducks hopped into her arms. “I’m a busy elf. [Arcane Teleport].”

The last thing she saw was a tired sigh.

What came next was a blur of colours as passages beyond sight opened up to her.

She felt herself pulled through the foundations of the world, until a heartbeat later, the sight of blurry soil was replaced with a finely decorated chamber and a buffet table filled with platters of food only a princess could name.

Ophelia blinked, now finding herself standing at the table’s head.

A table occupied by lots of dwarves.

They stood up and raised their weapons. Those who had none raised their dinner knives instead.

Ophelia glanced at the chair behind her, then sat down. She placed her ducks on her lap and flicked her wrist towards a servant with a tray. 

“I’m ready for the dessert menu.”