An Archmage Among Adventurers

Lord Ryven sat alone in his study, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows over the ancient, leather-bound books that lined the shelves. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. Outside, the late autumn wind howled through the stone walls of the manor, and a steady rain pattered against the windows.

He welcomed the quiet. In Greymire, silence was a rare commodity, and in silence, Ryven could think clearly—strategically.

His thoughts had been consumed for days now by one name: Ellie Liddell.

It had begun like so many other rumors. A few stray tales drifting down from the northern mountains about some adventurer pulling off a miraculous rescue.

Normally, such whispers would have passed unnoticed. Adventurers came and went, filling taverns with their exaggerated tales, hoping to barter favor or coin for feats they’d barely accomplished. But Ellie Liddell’s story was different. Her name had reached him in the manner of a creeping shadow—quiet, elusive, but persistent.

The reports were inconsistent, details muddled. Some claimed she’d rescued a team of adventurers trapped by a blizzard, while others swore she had faced down a beast in the wilds, something older than anything Ryven had ever heard of.

What troubled him, though, was how quickly the legend had taken root. What had begun as whispers was now spoken in reverence—fear, even.

And it was fear that Ryven understood best.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as his eyes narrowed at the fire. He had met Ellie once, briefly, when she had come to accept the task he’d offered: clearing the ancient ruins to the east.

Something had been preying on his people. A few reports had reached him—strange sightings, livestock disappearing, strange markings carved into trees in the deep woods. None of it could be dismissed, not when it touched his lands, his rule.

She had seemed… unimpressive at first. Quiet. Her gaze had drifted, more to the floor than to him, as if she didn’t quite belong in her own skin. No bravado, no arrogance. But it wasn’t that which had lingered in Ryven’s mind after she left.

It was something else—something far more dangerous. Her confidence was hidden, buried beneath an awkward exterior, but it was there. And she’d proven it already.

Ryven was no fool. He had seen capable fighters, but Ellie was different. There was a power in her, whether she knew it or not. And that power wasn’t just in her sword arm or her spells—there was something more. He had learned to trust his instincts when it came to people like her. Misfits, outcasts—they often possessed the rawest, most untamed talents. And Ellie Liddell had something that had drawn him in, something beyond her reputation.

His eyes flickered as the fire shifted, drawing his attention back. The people believed in her, yes, but more than that, Ryven believed in her.

“She’ll survive the ruins,” he murmured to himself, his voice low, assured. “She has to.”

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Enter,” Ryven commanded.

The door opened silently, and a figure cloaked in shadow stepped into the room. The flicker of the fire revealed a pair of piercing eyes beneath the hood, though the face remained obscured. The figure moved with the practiced ease of someone used to being unnoticed—someone who knew the art of staying hidden.

“You’ve news?” Ryven asked, leaning back in his chair but never taking his eyes off the visitor.

The figure bowed slightly. “Of Ellie Liddell,” came the raspy voice from beneath the hood. “She’s reached the ruins. The town already speaks of her victory.”

Ryven’s lips twisted into a thoughtful frown. “They’re too eager to praise her.”

“True,” the figure replied. “But their faith in her is real. More real than fear.”

The word "fear" hung in the air between them for a moment, and Ryven’s fingers tapped thoughtfully against the desk. He glanced at the fire, the warmth casting a strange light on his expression—neither fully harsh nor soft. He was pragmatic, after all. Ruthless when needed, but he was not the kind of lord to waste resources—especially not valuable ones like Ellie.

“She’s capable,” Ryven said finally, almost as if convincing himself further. “She may not look it, but there’s more to her than what she shows. I’ve seen people like her. They hide their strength, not out of weakness, but out of necessity. It’s how they survive.”

The cloaked figure shifted slightly, as though considering the implications of Ryven’s words. “And if she does not return? What then?”

Ryven smiled faintly, though there was little warmth in it. “If she doesn’t return, it means the threat is far worse than we imagined. But I’m not concerned about that. Ellie Liddell will return. And when she does, she’ll be stronger. They always come back stronger when they’ve faced the abyss.”

The figure remained silent, watching him, waiting for instructions. Ryven stood, crossing the room with slow, measured steps. His hand drifted to the sword mounted on the wall, his fingers brushing over the hilt, as if drawing strength from the cool steel.

His family’s power had been forged in times of great uncertainty, in the midst of war and chaos. He knew how to recognize those who could thrive in such environments, and Ellie, despite her quiet demeanor, would thrive.

“She’s not like the others,” Ryven continued, his voice low but steady. “She’s useful. But more than that—she’s dangerous. She doesn’t even realize it herself, but that’s what makes her valuable. If she survives the ruins, I’ll make sure Greymire remembers her as its savior.”

“And if she becomes a threat?” the figure asked, a note of caution in their voice.

Ryven’s hand gripped the hilt of the sword, tightening for just a moment before releasing it. He turned back toward the fire, his expression unreadable. “Then I’ll deal with her as I deal with all threats.”

There was a long pause before the figure nodded and stepped back toward the door. As they reached for the handle, Ryven spoke again, his tone softer, almost contemplative.

“She’s not a threat… yet. And perhaps she never will be. We’ll see.” His gaze flicked back to the fire. “But if she truly is what I think she is, then I’ll have more than just a pawn in this game. I’ll have a queen.”

The door closed with a quiet click, leaving Ryven in the flickering half-light of his study. He turned back toward the fire, his mind slipping from Ellie and the ruins to a much larger threat. Velsorin.

Their neighboring kingdom had always eyed Lorthraine, always tested the borders, and Greymire—his city—would be the first to fall if they tried again. They had before. Ryven’s jaw clenched at the thought. Greymire, so close to that cursed border, wasn’t just his home; it was the shield that protected the kingdom.

He couldn’t let it become a battlefield. Not again.

That was why Ellie mattered. If she returned triumphant from the ruins, if she could give the people hope, it might be enough. They needed to believe in more than just his leadership—they needed a symbol, something to rally behind. And if Ellie could be that symbol, then she wasn’t just a tool to keep Greymire quiet. She could be something more.

The fire crackled as he stepped closer, its warmth licking at his skin. This wasn’t about ambition or some petty power play. This was survival. When Velsorin came, and Ryven knew they would come, they would see Greymire standing strong, united, unafraid. And Ellie, whether she knew it or not, might be the key to keeping them from breaking.

He watched the flames for a long moment, his thoughts swirling like embers, always returning to the same truth. For the good of Greymire, for the people he had sworn to protect—he would use every tool at his disposal. Even her.