The moment the heavy gilded helmet slid over his head, the thief knew the rumors of cursed prophecy were true. He’d had no choice, of course. The tiny stone vent he had squirmed through to enter the temple was far too narrow to allow him to cradle the stolen treasure in his hands, and he’d be damned if he failed in his task because the tether came untied from around his ankle.

He was fully wedged down the escape route when he heard a soft whisper against his ear.

“Stealing from the gods’ temple, hmm?” The thin voice reverberated slightly as though reflected against the polished metal. It was low, androgynous, and annoyed. 

The sound halted Carrick Stone dead in his incremental tracks as he wriggled toward freedom. 

“Shit.” The thief’s arms were extended over his head, fingers clawing into the rock for purchase. The confines of the tunnel made it impossible for him to reach his head. The backs of his hands slapped against the walls as he attempted impossible contortions of his arms, just to be sure. 

“Great. So, I’m cursed?” 

Truly cursed objects were rare. Over the last twenty-five years, most of the hags responsible for such enchantments had all gone the straight-and-narrow, peddling minor magics or sworn in service to a lord or local constabulary. The rest had been yoked under severe limitations or eradicated by their reformed sisters, their spells broken one by one. That he should stumble upon an actual cursed item was outrageous ill-fortune. 

“You? I am the one forced to suffer yet another genius who donned an enchanted helm.”

“Just hold off on any prophecies until I can pull this thing off.” Carrick resumed his grueling climb, inching his body toward the opening ahead. It wasn’t far; just a few meters more and a short drop to the alleyway. Then he could tear the helm from his head and the voice would be gone.

“You’ll be caught, you know.”

Carrick did not respond, but his teeth clenched hard. If the rumors of the helm’s enchantment were true, then its words had doomed him. He was certain to face a reckoning in the alley. 

The thief didn’t stop. And he didn’t speak again, lest he prompt another ill omen.

His fingers curled around the edges of the opening, then his palms. He edged forward and his forearms passed. Once his elbows were clear, he pulled his torso free. Clinging to the edges, his hips and legs followed until he could drop feet-first to the packed-dirt of the alley below. To either side and behind him were the tall ivy-clad walls of the temple building. The wall at his back featured several filthy openings—the exit point for various refuse chutes that emptied into a deep pit of putrid contents. 

The corridor was deserted. No armed guardsmen stalked the dark corners, no militiamen stormed from the main street

Carrick released a sigh of relief. Then he tried to remove the helmet. It was stuck tight; no amount of tugging would get it loose. As he struggled in vain, he heard the soft scrape of steel against leather. Pausing in his efforts, he looked up and realised he had been wrong. 

Soft moonlight gleamed upon the polished armor of a pair of templar knights as they stepped into the entrance of the alleyway. In perfect unison, the knights lifted their shields, short swords raised in a high guard as they approached. Carrick’s hand dropped to his hip on reflex to the place where his own sword would have hung had he not removed it in anticipation of the tight air vent he had used to enter the temple. Pressing his lips into a tight line, the thief took a step in retreat and his heel slid ominously  on the lip of the trash pit behind him. His eyes darted frantically around the alley. Other than the narrow passage he had just exited, there was no escape. 

A resigned breath released the tension in his mouth as Carrick put up his hands. It wasn’t as though he could deny his crime with the damning evidence stuck upon his head.

~

An hour later, Carrick sat dejectedly in one of a line of barred cells in the lower level of the temple. He had been brought at once before an acolyte, whose sleep-heavy eyes had widened in horror to see their prized helm affixed on Carrick’s head. Now, as he understood it, he awaited the attention of the High Priest who would authorize more extreme measures.

Carrick had a good idea what that might entail. Which meant he had precious little time to find an alternative way of removing the helmet if he had any hope of keeping his head.

Every rumor the thief had ever heard of the helm was carefully inspected for the hundredth time. It was said to speak prophecy to its wearer, and see what it foretold made real. But what if he could make it speak false? Or an impossibility? Might its magic be broken?

“Hey,” Carrick whispered, eyeing the guards to ensure he wasn’t overheard. “Are you there?”

“Obviously.”

“Say that the keys to this cell appear in my hand.”

“I am not a wish-granter.”

“I know that. Just say something that couldn’t possibly happen. Anything.”

“Per the helm’s enchantment, I am not able to speak words that cannot be, or that I do not believe with certainty. No one would believe a helm of prophecy that spoke falsely.”

Per the helm’s enchantment. Carrick noted the peculiar phrasing. And what was that bit about belief? Was the helm sentient? Did it have opinions?

“Fine, then prophesize something you believe, and I will try to alter or subvert it. There has to be a loophole.”

“Inaccurate. Sometimes magic is absolute.” Carrick would swear the helmet’s voice was growing more robust. “Especially magic so highly prized by temple priests.”

“Just say something I can act upon.”

“You do not command me, thief. I am Zygo Mycota, sorceress of the Great Mycelium. Your words do not now and never will compel me to obedience.” 

Carrick was stunned. None of the information he had received about the Templar Helm of Prophecy had mentioned some sorceress. 

“You’re who? Is this not the  Templar Helm of Prophesy?”

“It is. I put the blasted thing on ages ago. Now I am reduced to stating the obvious to the bafflement and awe of whomever dons the helm. Some trickster’s idea of a good joke, I suppose.” The voice was definitely louder now, speaking right in his ear.

A witch, trapped by one of her own foul breed’s cursed enchantments. Under different circumstances, Carrick would have found the situation wholly satisfying. Magic-workers as a class were phenomenal blow-hards, riddled with avarice and pride in their power. That one should fall victim to that hubris felt like justice. Very likely the witch’s blood boiled to be held captive by magic she had tried to harness for herself. She probably couldn’t bear to believe it.

Carrick began to have an idea.

“So, you put the helm on, and its enchantment trapped you, and now you are the helm?” the thief goaded, feigning confusion. 

“No, I am not the helm.”

“But you are trapped by the helm. It is using you to be its voice. Its puppet. It owns you.” The metal seemed to buzz around Carrick’s ears. The fine hairs on the back of his neck lifted, and he felt a quiver of fury charge the air even before the voice spoke again.

“I am owned by no one and no thing.” The irate hiss rattled Carrick’s bones, chattering his teeth. 

“Except the Templar Helm of Prophecy,” he continued, undaunted. “Isn’t templar magic sort of pooh-poohed by sorcerers? It must chafe to be under its yoke.” 

“Templar magic is feeble compared to the powers I harness.” The voice of the helm was now quite large, almost booming. Carrick cringed as it shuddered through him. 

“Prove it,” Carrick challenged.

There was a moment of immense pressure atop Carrick’s head, as though the helm itself was the thumb of a giant pressing down upon him. The force grew, and a chilling shriek like the howling of a gale shuddered in his ears. Carrick bowed under the onslaught, his hands grasping at the base of the helm and frantically pushing upward to relieve some of its weight.

In a sudden release of energy, the helmet shot off Carrick’s head, crashing into the stone wall of his cell with a clatter. At the same moment, the weight on his head toppled forward to land with a thump and a jangle of flailing limbs onto his lap.

Carrick scuttled away, withdrawing his legs, and the figure slipped onto the floor. She sat up at once. 

Her skin was green, dark and verdant as a pine forest, dappled here and there in lighter colors like filtered sunlight through branches. Strings of beads and amulets draped around her neck, spilling over her plain homespun blouse. The worn leather belt cinched around her heavy skirt was hung with pouches and small vials, and every one of her long-nailed fingers was encircled by rings. The witch’s scarlet eyes narrowed as they landed on him.

A shiver of primordial dread raced through Carrick, leaving the tips of his fingers chilled as blood redirected to his thundering heart and the flight muscles in his legs. His entire being resonated with the fundamental certainty that the figure now sharing his cell could unmake him with a word.

And he had really pissed her off.

“See, you’re free,” Carrick gasped between shallow breaths, putting up his hands appeasingly. “You’re welcome.”

The witch cocked her head at him, her dark lips twitching as a deep crease appeared along the side of her nose. She seemed about to reply when they both were distracted by the screech of the barred prison grate. A templar knight ducked under the low entry, filling the only exit from the cramped cell.

A flash of gold in the corner caught Carrick’s attention and he snatched the helm from the ground. The thief did not yet know a way out, but he was determined he would not escape without his quarry. 

As he righted himself, Carrick was startled to find a green arm extended before him as its attached palm slapped upon his chest. The witch shoved. Although she was slight, the force of the push sent him reeling backward. Carrick braced to slam against the stone wall of the cell or tumble to the ground. 

Instead, he kept falling. 

Carrick’s first impression was that a hole had formed in the stone floor of the cell. But as he fell past the stone, the prison around him disappeared, replaced by clear skies and a wet, salty breeze. His feet touched the solid surface of a wooden deck and his weight settled. He stood for an instant, fully righted on a sailing ship. But the witch kept pushing, and Carrick’s body fell again, this time through the deck until the ocean spray was replaced by a faintly musty smell and tall shelves rose on either side of him, illuminated by dim light and stacked with books. The witch did not let up, her hand firmly planted on his chest as she stepped forward, sending him reeling into another destination. Carrick continued to fall backward, propelled by her hand, and the witch walked beside him, as though she were strolling through the turning pages of a book. 

Carrick was certain he would be sick. The revolving horizon, paired with flashes of color, and light, and scent, and sense of place turned his stomach. He could no longer rightly tell which way was up.

“Stop.” The word was a groan on his lips and sounded like it came from far away.

Without warning he stumbled, his feet splashing through shallow, murky water. The sudden return to an upright position was short-lived. Carrick’s vision spun and he fell over. Slipping only once, he shoved himself into a seated posture with a spray of stinking, tepid water.

“What did you do to me?” Carrick was breathing hard, coughing as his stomach threatened to empty itself.

“You’re free.” The tartness and satisfaction in the witch’s tone told Carrick everything he needed to know about how his earlier assistance had been received. “You’re welcome.”

Carrick didn’t notice he had somehow managed to keep hold of the helm until he felt it shift in his lax grip. His fingers tightened at once and he lifted his head, training unfocussed eyes on the green blur that loomed over him. For a beat they looked at one another, each holding tightly to the helm and neither willing to relinquish their grasp.

“I found it first,” the witch said, looking down her wide nose at him. This argument was not what Carrick had expected. The threat of imminent doom lessened, enough to embolden him to reply in kind.

“And if it weren’t for me, you would still be trapped in it.”

“My words released us—”

“And mine provoked you to action.” 

The witch was quiet as she considered this, then tried again.

“Why do you want it? You are not a magic-user, not a templar, not even an alchemist. Just a thief. If it is a reward you seek, I have gold.”

“I don’t want money.” Carrick began to wonder if she had exhausted herself with their escape. It had certainly been a phenomenal display of power. 

The witch did not look convinced, but tried to reason with him a third time. “You don’t seem the type to seek a Helm of Prophecy, especially not one paired with a curse. If it is an enchanted item you want, I can make something far more useful to you.”

To his bafflement and relief, Carrick was becoming gradually more confident that he was not about to be transformed into a slimy crawling thing. “You’ll not sway me with promises of magic,” he said. “My task is to retrieve the Helm.”

“Tasked with retrieving an enchanted Helm from the gods’ Temple? You work for the Crown then. A knight perhaps? You have the build.” 

Carrick said nothing, but the witch’s eyes gleamed knowingly. 

“It is a strange sort of enchantment,” she continued, turning the gilded helm over so that it twisted in Carrick’s grip. “The helm alters reality with a word and directs events at its wearer’s choosing. But its power is limited by belief. That alone reeks of templar magic. The curse, however, is some trickster’s addition no doubt. When I was trapped within, I could not knowingly speak falsely, but at your provocation, I was able to adapt reality to my own prejudice. No king, nor temple priest should claim such a thing.”

“But a witch should?” 

Zygo’s eyes narrowed. “I will destroy it.” At the thief’s dubious look, the witch’s frown deepened. “I was trapped for decades, knave. Do you think I would play with magic that had ensorcelled even one such as myself? That could alter the very structure of magic? This was a cleverly crafted thing, but it was ill done. It should be unmade.”

“Your kind loves nothing so much as powerful magic. And an enchantment that empowers its wearer to remake reality sounds like a prize trophy for a witch,” Carrick accused. “I agree that it should be purged. And I cannot leave it in your hands.”

Again there was tense silence between them. Carrick wished fervently for his sword, or some other weapon. A witch could be slain like any other being, given proximity and opportunity. He was certainly close enough, and since she hadn’t yet ensorcelled him, he had an opportunity as well. How long it might last was unclear. He clenched his fist, wondering if he would be quick enough to snap her neck if she began an incantation.

But the witch didn’t move. She watched him as warily as he eyed her, as though she were also reluctant to strike first.

“Perhaps we can come to an agreement,” Carrick suggested. 

The witch’s expression was thoughtful. One long, dark nail clicked against the numerous rings on her free hand as she ran her thumb along her knuckles. The movement made Carrick wary, but he took a deep breath, reminding himself that spells could not manifest from nothing.

“What do you propose?” the witch asked.

“Come with me.” The words left his lips before he thought better of them. “Deliver the helm to the Crown. For the past twenty-five years, King Torren has sought powerful enchanted objects to be purged from the kingdom. If your intentions for the helm are pure, come with me and break the helm’s enchantment in service to the crown as a show of good faith.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To earn a contract. It is no secret that King Torren’s current Royal Sorceress seeks to be released from contract. Sorcerers from across the realm are vying for the position.” 

“And how am I to trust the purity of your king’s intentions? If I allow you to complete your mission, will he truly relinquish the power of the Helm? Worse, if I accept his contract, what might he seek to use my power for? Only charlatans seek patronage from the Crown.”

Carrick lifted his chin, scrutinizing her carefully. “How long were you trapped in this thing?” 

The witch lifted one shoulder. “Hard to say. Three, maybe four decades. Its last wearer donned the helm twenty-six years after I had been trapped. What year is it now?”

“You have been trapped for a long time,” Carrick began slowly. “The world is not as you remember it. Magic-workers must be licensed and face strict limitations. The consequences for infractions are severe. That magic you performed in our escape? The power you leveraged to break the Helm’s enchantment? Practicing that caliber of magic is unlawful except in service to the Crown or Temple or by special permit. Those who repeatedly scorn the law are considered threats to the realm and are destroyed.” Carrick paused significantly, then continued in a softer tone. “The realm will not suffer the whims of an unsworn sorceress.” 

The witch’s brow furrowed, and she looked away. Then her lips twisted into a slow smile. 

“I’ll pass on your offer. If you won’t let go, I suppose you can hold it while I dissect the enchantment. It may get messy. Sorry about your fingers.” 

Carrick’s stomach lurched and a panicked sweat dewed on his skin. The hairs on his arms raised and he felt the prickle of some unnatural charge in the air. It seemed her power hadn’t been exhausted. Whether some strange mercy had spared him, or she’d simply played nice to lull him into false security he couldn’t say. It was all too apparent that he was out-weaponed and out-played.

“Do you hate the idea of service to the Crown so much?” he tried, desperate to return to negotiation. 

“I hate the idea of service to anyone. There is great magic to be done. I don’t have time to perform parlor tricks for a King.”

“No, what you don’t have is license to perform great magic. Consider this a warning, witch, as a favor for breaking me out of the Temple cells and as a mercy for the entrapment that you’ve suffered—if you continue to practice unlawful magic, the King’s Royal Sorceress, the Great Bog Witch Mag herself, will know of it. She will be sent with a contingent of knights to subdue or destroy you. You will answer for it, even if I am too disassembled to know it.” 

Carrick closed his eyes, preparing for the worst. Nothing happened, and after a moment he peeked cautiously. 

The witch’s scarlet gaze stared back at him, assessing.

“Did you say Mag?”

~

Several gut-wrenching moments later, Carrick’s feet planted solidly on packed earth. The circumstances being less fraught, he was grateful to have walked behind the witch this time as she flipped them through a pinwheel of destinations. Reassured by their mutual grip on the helm that he would not be left behind somewhere, he had opted to close his eyes. This had reduced the dazzling visual effect, but not the sense of utter wrongness that accompanied this mode of travel. 

Carrick blinked, taking in the dark surroundings, low shelves, and stacked crates and barrels of some manner of store room. The witch proceeded confidently for the door and Carrick followed as the helm tugged between them. Neither had been willing to let it go, even after the witch had grudgingly agreed to his terms. Her abrupt change in tune had been undoubtedly tied to the utterance of Mag’s name, and Carrick dearly hoped that this was good news. Something told him that it wasn’t.

The door led to a short set of stairs opening into a shared corridor with several wooden doors set into the wall. The bustle of street traffic and shouts of proprietors could be heard, and as they turned sharply out of the corridor and onto the main street, he recognized the colorful tarpaulins, mobile carts, and stands of the market district of Solumn’s Tide at once. Carrick looked over his shoulder as the witch led him onto the bustling street, making note of the shops facing the street—a book binder, wine seller, and a cobbler, and a faded painted sign overhead showing a pair of sprites dancing a jig around a bottle. It was all the detail he could note before the crowd swallowed them.

“What were your instructions upon completing your mission?” the witch threw over her shoulder as they wended through the busy streets. Carrick was not as familiar with the streets of Solumn’s Tide as the court rarely rested there, but he seemed to recall their current trajectory would lead them toward the city receiving hall.

“Return to the Barracks and report to the Knight Commander.”

“I knew I smelled a knight,” the witch said smugly. “We’re not doing that. How can I have an audience with Mag?”

“Common citizens can petition the court for an audience. That can take several weeks, depending on the number of petitioners.”

“What about uncommon citizens?”

Carrick lifted his eyebrows and made a scoffing sound. “We agreed to fulfill my task, which requires I report as instructed. I am not going to aid you in skirting protocol because you feel it’s beneath you.”

“I don’t recognize the authority of your court or its protocol,” the witch clarified. “But very well. Take us to your Knight Commander.” Something in her tone worried at Carrick’s instincts. He did not like her being so agreeable.

Carrick took the lead, directing them now toward the Royal Barracks where the Knight Commander held offices. 

“Sir Carrick.” The Knight Commander’s terse greeting held only the slightest inflection of surprise as the older knight looked up from a partially-written missive on his desk. He set down his quill and removed a small set of rimless spectacles that had been balancing on his nose, setting them aside. “You weren’t expected back for another tenday.” Sir Ector’s eyes traveled slowly to the glimmering helm caught in the knight’s hand, and then beyond as another figure entered his offices. His typical stern expression darkened further as he appraised the green-skinned apparition. “And who else do I have the honor of receiving?” The witch met his careful assessment with her own unflinching crimson stare.

“A witch, Commander,” Sir Carrick explained quickly. “Seeking the same relic as I. She claims intention and the means to unravel the magic upon it. After witnessing her skill firsthand, I am inclined to believe that she can. Her intervention was…opportune for the success of my assignment.”

The Knight Commander’s heavy brow did not relax, but the tension in his forearms loosened. He clasped his hands before him on the desk, one finger tapping absently against his knuckles and dipped his head cordially at the witch.

“The Crown thanks you for your cooperation, Madam…?” The witch continued to gaze at Sir Ector patiently. She did not supply a name. 

“Mycota,” Carrick said lowly, carefully forming the unusual name the helm had spoken. The witch’s lips twitched into a tiny smile, and she still said nothing.

“Madam Mycota, the Crown thanks you,” Sir Ector continued. “Kindly relinquish the helm to Sir Carrick and we will see you fairly repaid for your efforts. I will personally see to it that any misuse of magic is reviewed favorably.” 

The humor faded from the witch’s face, reverting to the cold patience of before. “I will release this helm once I’ve spoken to Mag. Not before.”

Sir Ector’s tapping finger stilled. He was quiet for several moments, observing the witch. After a moment, he moved, sitting back against his heavy armchair. His broad shoulders shifted back, thick forearms resting on the armrests of his seat. The older knight fit in well among the heavy, rustic hardwood furniture of his office. Solid, durable, inflexible. 

The witch, for her part, was unperturbed by the Knight Commander’s palpable displeasure, and persisted with her unaffected stare. A soft clicking was the only sound in the room as the witch ran her fingernail back and forth across the numerous rings on her hand. 

With every small tick of sound, the prickle of tension at the base of Carrick’s skull wound tighter. Recollections of the enchantments he had so far seen the witch wield came to him in vivid clarity and detail.

“Lord Commander, it would be prudent to summon Mag. Madam Mycota was confined within—”

“Do not share my business, knight,” the witch interrupted. “The Knight Commander and I understand one another just fine.” 

Carrick pressed his lips together with an irritated huff, then continued unabashed. “Commander, Madam Mycota was invaluable to the helm’s recovery, and has requested review for the position of Royal Sorcerer. In repayment for her aid, she has been offered expedited consideration. Mag should be summoned.” 

The Knight Commander’s gaze met Carrick’s significant look. He cleared his throat then folded his broad frame back over the desk, taking up the discarded quill. “Very well,” he grunted. “Paul!” The Knight Commander’s squire stepped nimbly into the entryway. “Send for the Royal Sorceress and notify me when she arrives. Madam Mycota may wait in the training yard.” 

~

The knight and the witch had been waiting in the training yard for nearly an hour. After his singular attempt to offer her water had been received with a slow inclination of her head and a baffled scowl, Carrick had promptly given up on any attempt at conversation. His fingers flexed around the Helm, the joints protesting loudly at the tight fist they maintained. Carrick was just musing whether he could attempt to switch his grip when an ear-splitting caw like some enormous bird had him whirling toward the source of the sound, stance wide and defensive.

“Mycota!” The grating sound manifested into a name, and the witch at Carrick’s side turned to look as well. When she saw who spoke, her lips pulled into the first full, unabashed grin to grace her features yet. Carrick noted that her second and third incisors on each side, top and bottom, were pointed and sharp. Madam Mycota—Carrick also noted the pronunciation, which he had truly butchered—gazed with unmistakable fondness at the approaching hag as she hobbled down the steps. 

As she reached the paved courtyard, Mag raised her walking stick overhead, waving it around in frantic delight, her mouth open in a gap-toothed cackle. “The Mycelium wakes! Zygo, my sweet polyp!” 

“Mag.” Zygo Mycota met the Royal High Sorceress, pulling her into a one-armed hug—the other gripped the helm tighter as Carrick pulled back on it gently. One crimson eye glared back at him over her shoulder and Carrick pretended to be intently focused on two fellow knights sparring across the yard.

“Thank the powers you’re here! Where have you been?” Mag’s wrinkled hands cupped Zygo’s cheeks. 

“Here and there,” Zygo answered, gracing the hag with a fond smile. 

“Mmm,” Mag nodded. “And what’s all this then?” The Royal Sorceress gestured with her stick at Carrick and Zygo and the Helm between.

“Disputed scope of authority.”

“Ah, yes. That reminds me.” Mag pulled back, rummaging in her cloak and pulling out various odds and ends of increasing size and improbability. Finally, she removed an elaborate rolled scroll, waving it toward Mycota. “Here you are, then. Just make your mark there somewhere. Read it first, of course. Don’t go signing things you haven’t read. That ought to clear things up. Yes. Well, that’s settled. Off I trot.The bog calls me home, girl.” Mag patted Zygo’s cheek, making affectionate clucking sounds before turning and starting to hobble away.

Carrick had missed a step. Somewhere in the last few moments he would have sworn Mag had simply handed her contract to Madam Mycota. He knew that couldn’t be right. And yet, now the Royal Sorceress—former Royal Sorceress—was walking away and Mycota was cracking the wax of the royal seal to peruse the scroll’s contents. Carrick floundered for something to say that would lend credence to the abrupt development, but was saved by the arrival of the Knight Commander. Sir Ector had apparently caught the end of the exchange as well, and thankfully retained his power of speech. 

“What’s all this?” Sir Ector demanded. His head turned sharply toward Mycota as she twisted a thin silver band on her pinkie finger and the scroll rose into the air, unfurling before her. “Mag, is that—? You can’t just—”

“What?” Mag paused, turning back to squint at them.

“What of the King’s approval?” 

Mag waved this off and turned back around, shouting to be heard as she slowly shuffled off. “The King has deferred to my expertise in this matter. He won’t do better than the Great Mycelium. You can tell him I said so. Come find me if Zygo turns it down. It will take me a day or two to pack my things. Zygo, darling spore, come and see me once you’re done here. We have much to discuss.” The ancient sorceress muttered something unpleasant and tapped her gnarled stick against the ground twice. There was a faint popping sound and the hag was gone.

The two knights turned their heads in unison to gaze at the remaining witch. The contract hovered in the air before her. One green digit followed the path of the words and every now and then she would make a face, scratching out some word or phrase, once or twice an entire clause. At last she seemed satisfied. Opening a pouch at her waist, she removed a bit of wax. After rolling it between her fingers a few times, it softened, growing tacky and malleable. She lifted the hand holding the helm and pressed the wax into an ornate signet ring on her middle finger. The wax liquefied at once. Carrick and the others watched, transfixed as Zygo Mycota pressed her seal into the King’s—heavily redacted—contract. 

“I believe that puts this under my purview.” Zygo lifted the helm significantly and gave it a good yank. Carrick let it go, flexing fingers stiff from the long-static position. Still stupefied by the proceedings, the knight looked to his commanding officer for guidance. Sir Ector appeared just as baffled and the two watched as Zygo Mycota twisted the little silver band again. The contract rolled itself tightly before Zygo snatched it out of the air and stuffed it into her belt. 

“Now, I suppose I should meet the king,” she said, dusting off her hands so the rings on her fingers clicked and clattered together. Without a backward glance, Zygo Mycota gripped her heavy skirts in her hands, lifting them a few inches as she started across the courtyard and toward the tiered steps leading into the palace.