Chapter 7: Olin the Strict

Chapter 7: Olin the Strict

No one moved.

Not a word. Not a breath. The only sound was the slow hiss of steam rising from the floor where the beast had bowed.

The six-legged monster, this furnace-built horror the Guild could barely contain, stayed motionless. Lowered. As if waiting.

Walter gave it a nod.

And with a small, almost polite huff, the creature rose.

It didn’t lunge. It didn’t roar.

It turned.

Claws clacking gently against stone, it ambled back toward the shattered containment doors. And then—as if on cue—stepped back inside the cell.

The glyphs, still flickering with residual heat, sputtered… then lit. The cell sealed.

Walter turned and casually padded back across the room.

Forten and Alden stood frozen, still behind the half-finished registration desk. Alden’s mouth was slightly open. Forten was gripping the desk so hard the skin over his knuckles had gone pale.

Walter climbed back up with the help of a nearby chair, hoisted himself onto the table, and sat.

Politely.

Like nothing had happened.

“Did…” Alden began. “Did he just—”

“I don’t know,” Forten said.

Walter nodded, his stubby paws weighted down by his lap as he shakes his stubbier legs casually at the edge of the table.

The silence stretched. A few clerks stared, wide-eyed. One trailblazer had dropped her glyph slate entirely. Even the containment scribes near the back just stood there, blinking.

Then, from near the records desk, a junior clerk finally found his voice. “That… that wasn’t registered. That’s not a bonded. That’s…”

He trailed off, unable to decide if he was supposed to panic.

Another trailblazer whispered, “Did it just command a Class-Seven?”

No one moved.

Then, slowly—too slowly—a nervous spellweaver began to raise a containment glyph. Another followed, murmuring a ward. Not aggressively. Just in case.

Walter blinked.

Forten stepped in front of him, hands raised. “Wait—he didn’t do anything wrong. He—he just waved.”

The glyphs continued to spin.

And then—

A sound.

Not magic. Not a roar.

Just a slow, even tap.

Tap.

Tap.

A cane.

Walking on stone.

The volume dipped. The wards faltered, one by one, flickering like they’d been caught misbehaving.

From the far end of the Guildhall, a figure emerged.

Old. Cloaked. Lean.

His coat looked like it had weathered more campaigns than it had stitching left. A faded insignia clung to one shoulder, looking older than most of the clerks in the room. Around his waist, a belt fastened with a curved, metallic sigil—once the collar of a bonded beast long gone. Not lost in battle, but to age itself. Olin had never bonded again.

He didn’t wear armour, but there was something about the way he moved that suggested he’d never needed it. He walked with a cane—not for support, but for rhythm. He forgot it more often than he used it, but never forgot anything else.

Hair white as first snow, tied back in a leather loop once dyed black.

Eyes tired, but sharp enough to read a room before it spoke.

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Olin the Strict.

Some said he’d once faced down a bonded that broke three Ascendants before breakfast. Others whispered he’d refused the Trifecta twice already—not out of modesty, but boredom.

He didn’t walk with ceremony. He walked like the noise annoyed him.

And the room quieted in self-defense.

With a simple wave of two fingers—absentminded, almost lazy—every glyph in the room shut off.

Circles collapsed. Wards fizzled. The floating spells, the defensive chants, the rising magic—gone.

Snuffed like candlelight.

He sighed, the kind of sound that came from a man who’d missed the good part of his tea.

“You’re all making too much noise,” he said.

Somehow, the Guildhall managed to get quieter.

Olin stopped walking. He scanned the scorch marks on the floor, the still-flickering glyphs, the unconscious caster being carried out on a stretcher—and finally, the sealed containment door at the far end of the hall.

Then he looked at the bear.

Sitting on a table.

Swinging its legs.

He exhaled through his nose. Just once. Sharply.

“You summoned me,” he said, voice flat, “to suppress an Embermaw.”

No one dared respond.

“You activated full containment protocol,” Olin continued, voice like worn steel. “Issued an Ascendant-level alert.”

He let the words hang. Then added, flatly:

“Interrupted my tea.”

A pause.

“It was a gooberry tart.”

He glanced toward no one in particular, as if this somehow made it worse.

“And it was still warm.”

One of the junior trailblazers, desperate to be helpful, piped up. “We can warm it up for you, sir.”

Olin turned his head—just slightly.

“… Won’t be the same.”

The trailblazer shrank behind his ward.

Olin exhaled again, the old fury flickering just behind his eyes, then slowly redirected his gaze to the cluster of glyph-holding scribes. Most of them now looked like they were reconsidering their entire career paths.

His eyes drifted to the scribes, to the trailblazers still holding half-formed defensive glyphs that were now fizzling in their palms.

“And what I find instead,” he said, each word cool but edged like old iron, “is a beast already back in its cage… and all of you pointing glyphs at a toy bear.”

He tapped his cane once on the stone.

Harder than necessary.

Some of the trailblazers flinched.

Olin turned toward the table.

Walter sat upright now, ears perked just a little, stubby paws folded in his lap.

Olin studied him. Long. Quiet.

The air didn’t feel tense—just alert.

Forten held his breath. Alden was trying to become part of the furniture.

Finally, Olin spoke.

“You’re not a construct.”

Walter blinked once.

“You’re not Ascendant-bonded.”

Walter shook his head, then wiggled his toes over the edge of the table.

Olin stared at him for a beat longer. His brow furrowed—not with confusion, but with intrigue.

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet Embermaw—the same Embermaw that incinerated two Ascendant candidates last year—bowed to you.”

Walter gave a short, modest shrug. Like what can you do?

Olin stared for a beat longer.

Then—unexpectedly—he snorted.

Just a breath of laughter, worn down by years, but undeniably real.

The tension in the Guildhall shifted.

Not gone. Not even eased. Just… redirected.

Because anyone who’d worked here long enough knew: When Olin laughed, reality stayed intact.

Walter gave a little nod and a wave of his paw. Go on. You can go back now. Everything’s fine.

He then pantomimed sipping tea.

Olin blinked at him. Then actually smiled.

It was small. Private. But definitely there.

He looked back at the room. Then to Walter again.

“Alright,” he said. “Who’s responsible for this one?”

He didn’t need to be answered.

Because just then, his eyes flicked—barely—to Forten.

And he felt it.

Something faint. A thread.

Like static on skin, or a name remembered before it’s spoken.

His gaze narrowed.

“You,” he said, turning fully to Forten now. “What’s your name, kid?”

Forten hesitated.

“Uh… Forten,” he said. “Just Forten.”

Olin tilted his head slightly. “You a Trailblazer?”

Forten shook his head. “Tried. Took the Initiation a few years back. Name didn’t even make it on the board. I was overlooked.”

There was a small, awkward beat.

Then a voice—far too fast—piped up from the clerk line.

“Not overlooked, sir,” the clerk blurted. “Administrative error—we’ll sort it out. He can try again. There’s precedent, and he also broke the—”

Olin raised his hand without looking away from Forten.

“I’m not talking to you.”

The clerk went dead silent.

Olin studied Forten again.

Then glanced at Walter.

Then back at Forten.

“A beast like this,” he said, almost to himself, “bonded to someone with… No training. And… no glyphs?”

He shook his head. Not with anger. Just surprise.

“Shame.”

A whisper moved through the scribes. Then someone said it, just loud enough to carry:

“Wait… that’s Byrin’s kid? Crested Byrin?”

Forten turned toward the clerk pool, brow furrowing. “You knew my father?”

Olin finally looked away from Walter. He stared at Forten—really looked. Then squinted, as if seeing something he hadn’t expected.

He sighed, slow and quiet.

“Crested Byrin. Haven’t heard that name for a while now.”

Another pause.

“He was good. Better than most. Could’ve made Ascendant if things had gone differently.”

A beat.

“Not that it matters now.”

Olin’s eyes flicked to the floor. Just briefly. Then back to Forten.

“Shame,” he said again.

Olin looked at Walter one last time, then turned to Forten.

“And what exactly are you doing here?”

Forten blinked as he pointed to Walter. “Registering him. Tried to, anyway.”

Alden, still not fully recovered, added weakly, “Bonded declaration. Just standard Guild form.”

Olin glanced at the half-scorched kiosk.

Then back at Walter. Then Forten.

“Right,” he said.

He turned toward the clerks.

“Approve the registration.”

There was a collective intake of breath. A few mouths opened in protest—but no words came out.

“But sir,” one finally managed, “he doesn’t even qualify—there’s no trace, no registration, no training clearance, no—”

“I said approve it.”

The words weren’t loud. Just final.

Another clerk tried, nervously: “We’d have to open a new record to—”

“Then open one.”

“But he’s not even a Trailblazer…”

Olin turned to walk away.

He didn’t wait for agreement. He didn’t explain. He simply decided.

And the Guild did what it always did when Olin the Strict made a decision: It obeyed.

Silence stretched a little longer than it should have.

Walter kicked his legs over the edge of the table, like this happened all the time.

Forten leaned slightly toward Alden.

“… Uhh, who was that?”

Alden didn’t answer at first. Just stared after the retreating figure.

Then muttered, “You don’t want to know.”