"Yes," the young man says, after too long a pause, his mouth twisting in surprise at his own words. "I hear you."

That slight confusion Kirill recognizes; it's the oddity of first speaking by translation magic a language you could not speak without it, hearing your own intent find expression in different sounds than the ordinary ones. Not Aldan; then; they speak Imperial in Aldor. From farther than that.

"It is an honor, my lord hero," he says. "This land is Daggermark, and it is our custom when our kingdom faces terrible perils to conduct a great ritual, which calls to our aid a hero who can save us."

"It is an honor to answer your call, noble one of Daggermark! I stand ready to face whatever peril threatens your kingdom. Speak plainly—tell me of the danger your lands endure, and together we shall forge a path toward peace and prosperity once more."

"The holy and honorable gods shine on you," he says immediately, because that's always a good thing to say by reflex. He was really expecting to need to do more - persuading. "Daggermark is a small kingdom, long independent," for some definitions of both of those words, "and a peaceful and prosperous one, thanks to the wise reign of our king, Hemedais, by whose command you were summoned here today, and who is pleased to place you in command of our forces, and name you as his heir, if you can save us from the peril which in this day bears down upon us. For our neighboring kingdom is ruled by a cruel tyrant, who has impoverished his own people and seeks to impoverish ours, who has banned the churches of the holy and honorable gods from his land, and cheated the Abadarans -" is this landing, he feels like he really has quite a good pitch for someone concerned with peace and prosperity -

The young man's brow knits in focused consideration, clearly weighing Kirill's words carefully. He adjusts himself again, more deliberately this time, managing to rise onto one knee with a certain uncertain grace. His eyes, sharp now despite their initial confusion, sweep around the sumptuous room before settling back on Kirill with thoughtful intensity.

"This tyrant you speak of—tell me his name," he commands softly, an edge of steel threading into his voice. "And tell me also, plainly and without adornment: what manner of armies he commands, and what strength our own forces hold."

Yes, he was getting to that part - Kirill bows his head obediently. "His name is Razmir. He is a powerful wizard, though he prefers to have it said of him that he is a god, and it is the policy of Daggermark to acknowledge his godhood. For a long time that was sufficient to keep us from his notice, but now he has done enough damage in the land he rules that he is looking abroad, and our spies have it that he is looking here."

The young man's eyes narrow slightly at the name, a flicker of something crossing his face—recognition, perhaps, or at least the acknowledgment of a dangerous challenge.

"So this Razmir calls himself a god," he murmurs thoughtfully, pushing to his feet and standing, finally, upright. Though his balance is still tentative, there's a steady confidence beginning to gather around him, his stance straightening in subtle defiance of his earlier collapse. "Then we will teach him the humility of mortality."

He looks Kirill firmly in the eye. "Tell me of your armies. What strength do we have at our disposal, and how many brave souls are ready to march against Razmir?"

" - he's an archmage, my lord," Kirill says, because that seems like the fundamental misunderstanding here, and then hastens to answer the question anyway lest he seem like he's challenging his new commander's judgment. We have two thousand trained soldiers—well-disciplined, but not numerous enough for an open war. Our spies and assassins are unparalleled, and through them we've always secured our survival. But Razmir commands many more men. And...those adventurers who can leave have mostly left, except the ones who can Teleport, and -"

The summoned hero takes this in with a solemn nod. He paces a short distance, movements more confident now, as if testing the ground beneath his feet.

"Then we will not face him openly," the hero says finally, turning back to Kirill with decisive authority. "Your assassins and spies—how deeply have they infiltrated Razmir's realm? Do we hold any foothold there, however fragile?"

"It is not hard to infilitrate Razmiran, my lord, but it offers little guidance as to his plans and little opportunity to disrupt them." Kirill is at this point fairly distracted by the summoned hero's nudity, of which he is apparently wholly unselfconscious. He keeps his head bowed. "His priests are obsessively, maniacally loyal to him, and they get their orders by magic. He doesn't have...advisors...that we know of." He looks appropriately sheepish about this. "Archmages, you know - actually, my lord, if you could tell me a little of your own history, I would know more of what local context I ought to provide you."

"I am called Theron," he replies steadily. "In my homeland—Ithos—I commanded forces much like yours, though perhaps larger. I've fought tyrants, monsters, and yes," he smiles faintly, "even archmages who thought themselves divine."

Theron moves closer, speaking more quietly now, intent and earnest.

"If Razmir is truly an archmage masquerading as a god, then our first move must not be armies clashing openly. We strike where he least expects—through his arrogance, through the shadows you command. I will need to speak to your spies directly. We will craft our plan from what they know."

He pauses, thoughtful. "But first, good Kirill—tell me plainly: what precisely do you require of me? A general, a spy, or a blade in the dark? For each will bring victory, but each in a different way."

Kirill feels oddly as if he is dreaming. It wouldn't be surprising, actually, for him to dream of the ritual, which has consumed all his attention for seven weeks straight. It's something about the way the man speaks. Confident, commanding, but also -

- what????

"My lord," he begins, and then cannot think how to possibly non-fatally finish the sentence. "....may I humbly beg you tell me how you previously defeated an archmage who thought themselves divine?"

"Archmages who name themselves divine often surround themselves with illusions, Kirill. Illusions of invulnerability, immortality, power unending—but illusions, nonetheless. The key is never to strike at the illusion itself but at the foundations beneath it. Their power lies in belief; strip them of that belief, make them mortal before the eyes of their followers, and their strength crumbles."

He folds his arms thoughtfully, his gaze distant as though re-living battles past.

"The last such mage called himself Lyranos—Voice of the Eternal Sun, lord of a city-state called Thalavar. His temples filled with worshippers, his priesthood fanatically loyal, much as you describe Razmir's followers. But gods do not bleed, Kirill. I ensured that Lyranos did. Not in battle—no, that would only feed his legend—but in front of his priests, his citizens. One careful blade in the right place, witnessed by those whose faith held him aloft. His believers abandoned him overnight, the priests turning on each other as their 'god' fled.

Razmir will be no different. If his priests are beyond reason, we do not reason with them. We shatter their illusions. Find me a crack in Razmir's facade—a weakness in his cult, an apostate among his priests, or simply a gap in his defenses—and I will show you how swiftly belief falls apart."

His eyes sharpen as he fixes Kirill once more.

"Now tell me truly: does such a weakness exist?"

"I apologize most profusely, my lord. I'm wondering if it's the - translation magic built into the ritual - only, I think Razmir might be a different kind of archmage who calls himself a god than that."

"Perhaps the translation magic has led us astray, then. Explain plainly, please. When you say Razmir is a 'different kind' of archmage claiming godhood, what precisely do you mean? Is his magic inherently divine? Has he transcended mortality somehow—or is it rather that his power is absolute, his worshippers numerous beyond counting?"

"No, my lord. It's that -  I presume he gets some power from his worshippers or he wouldn't be so obsessed with the having of them, but if we killed them all he'd just be - the archmage he was when he took over Razmiran in the first place. If we bleed him enough he'll wake up in another body, or regrow in his coffin like a creature of the night - I don't know, my lord, and I am very glad to hear of your great triumph over Lyranos, and I know that the ritual called you here rightly, but -" If you tell the King that you will destroy Razmir by puncturing his image before his followers he'll kill us both and be right to.

"Ah. That kind of archmage," he murmurs. "An archmage who has moved beyond mere claims of divinity into true undeath—or immortality through darker rites—requires different tactics indeed. Your caution is well-founded. My past experience with those who merely pretended at godhood will only partly aid us here. But there is always a weakness, even for beings who cheat death. Such creatures rely on something—an artifact, a phylactery, a hidden altar, or a secret ritual—something tangible, however well-guarded. Destroy or defile it, and their immortality becomes frail once more."

And then it's clear. It's something in the confidence with which he observes that if Razmir is a lich they will need to find his phylactery, as if this might be the incredible wisdom for which for a kingdom's ransom they summoned this man from a land they've never heard of.

The summoned hero is a charlatan.

They are all going to die. 

"Right you are, my lord," he says.

"I will need to learn more about how Razmir maintains his immortality. Is it known what magic sustains him, or where his true vessel lies hidden? Does anyone in Daggermark hold even a whisper of rumor—however uncertain—that might point toward his secret?"

"In your great and varied experience of archmages pretending at divinity, my lord, have you run into any such creatures? Where did they tend to hide their immortal souls?"

"In truth, Kirill, the archmages I've faced before were arrogant mortals, not true immortals. But in Ithos we have legends, ancient accounts of those who pursued such terrible power. If Razmir has truly found immortality beyond death, then yes—I have heard of such creatures.

In legend, these undying archmages hide their souls—or a shard thereof—within a phylactery, a vessel of power. Usually something precious, heavily warded, and hidden far from prying eyes. A gemstone, a reliquary, even something mundane enough to escape suspicion entirely. I’ve heard of hidden chambers beneath towers guarded by horrors, amulets worn openly as a sign of false divinity, mirrors enchanted to trap souls, or rings passed down quietly through bloodlines. They guard these fiercely, because if destroyed, their souls become vulnerable once again.

Has there been any rumor, any story, no matter how trivial it seemed, about an object or place Razmir values above all others? Even the most obscure whisper could reveal where his immortality lies."

Kirill closes his eyes. Judge, he thinks, I've been an honest man, or more honest than most of them, and I've served my king, and I died doing my duty. 

"My lord," he says, "I don't think you've ever so much as fought a wizard who can teleport, and 'he keeps it in his favorite amulet' is the kind of story they tell about liches in places where they don't have any liches."

"I see," he says, quietly, without defensiveness. "No, Kirill, in Ithos true liches exist only in myth—or if they exist still, none have tested themselves against me.

"You are right. If Razmir can teleport freely, and if he's truly achieved lichdom or something akin to it, then any simple hiding place would indeed be naive. His immortality will be buried deeper—secured by wards, traps, and protections far beyond mere legend. My experience has not prepared me for that directly.

Yet the principle remains: to defeat him, we must learn how he sustains his immortality. And if we can't know it yet, we must force Razmir to reveal it himself."

Theron's voice grows more decisive, controlled confidence returning.

"Then, Kirill, since you clearly know Razmir better than I do—tell me plainly: What do you believe is his greatest vulnerability? You know more of him and his methods than I; your instinct here matters deeply. Is he prideful enough to make mistakes when provoked? Paranoid enough to betray his own secrets through overreaction?"

Those were fighting words, gently deflected in the same infuriating tone without even the implication that Kirill should retreat from them. Theron doesn't think he can take Kirill in a fight.

That's - well, it's convenient for Kirill, who is still breathing, but it also makes the whole situation even more baffling. The ritual is supposed to send someone who has powers sufficient to save them. The ritual text actually made it sound like this was guaranteed, though he knew full well it was no guarantee against an enemy archmage. An extremely powerful idiot who is convinced he's a genuis general would be - not a surprising result. A ...random man who speaks as a hero out of legend but -

He's dead already, by Razmir's hand if not this man's. It's freeing. "Theron, before we speak more of Razmir, tell me, are you a swordsman?"

"Yes. Though that is not all I am. I am best with a sword—trained formally, tempered by experience in war, duels, and worse. If your question is whether I'm skilled enough to fight an archmage blade-to-spell, I would say I am—but I wouldn't willingly rely on blade alone against -"