Ophelia the Snow Dancer’s mini-arc. 1/4.

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Ophelia was an S-rank elven sword saint.

However, she was more than that. She was also the world’s foremost maiden.

Sure, unlike her title, she didn’t have a letter written by someone who used to be a queen confirming this. But that didn’t make it any less official.

Her credentials were everything she did.  

The way she smiled. The way she spoke. The way she wiped blood off her face. 

She was the picture of a maiden that the elves wanted the tourists to think existed. A demure beauty with shining silver hair and the uncanny ability to hold a conversation without any funeral arrangements needing to be arranged beforehand.

The neighbourhood aunties hassling her to settle down wouldn’t be nearly as dramatic if they didn’t view her current status to be especially wasteful. 

Which was annoying. But also understandable.

After all, Ophelia boasted more than just her coy innocence. 

She had hobbies.

That made her unique among all elves.

To enjoy baking, sewing and mimicking the call of a diving chimera so villagers would panic meant that she was the most interesting person ever to wander out of a forest. 

Humans could joke to her about stuff other than the next elven conspiracy and then be silently murdered for it once everyone had finished pretending not to know what they were talking about. That was unprecedented.

Most of all, however, was the fact she had her ducks.

Quack, quack.

Ophelia beamed.

Her ducks were friendly. And because they were friendly, everyone assumed she was as well. Which was correct. Unlike other elves, Ophelia was very approachable. She rarely stabbed anyone unless they deserved it, which usually meant they tried stabbing her first. Or they were at least thinking about it.

In anyone’s book, stabbing back in such narrow and well-defined scenarios was perfectly fine.

This was useful. 

Because as Ophelia sat at the bar of a roadside tavern while perusing the menu, she wondered how much stabbing was about to happen.

Quack, quack.

Just a moment ago, raucous laughter had bellowed out from within.

Now it was so silent that only the happy noises of her ducks could be heard. 

However, while a tavern reacting with stunned silence to someone as popular as her appearing wasn’t rare, it usually came with more wide open mouths and fewer beards to cover them.

She had to make do with the narrowed eyes, the creased brows and the open suspicion.

All of it by dwarves.

They took up every table and corner around her. 

Dwarves in working attire, their thick beards covered in a sheen of whatever they’d been digging. Helmets rested beside their tankards or on their laps as they stared. And while they offered no complaints, the wish for her to leave was as clear as the stares at her back.

Naturally, Ophelia yawned.

For one thing, she figured that would annoy them and she wanted to see what they would do.

But for another–this wasn’t their tavern.

“Welcome to The Wayfarer’s Rest!” said the very big lady behind the bar. She leaned across the counter and smiled. “What can I do for you, ma’am?” 

Her voice boomed with enthusiasm.

Ophelia liked her at once. Especially the scar. 

She could tell it wasn’t a blade which had caused it. The actual story behind it probably wasn’t that good. It never was. But it ran across the entire length of her cheek. And that made it almost as impressive as the battleaxe lying behind the counter.

A handy friend for any barbarian from the northern tundras. 

Even with the warmth of the tavern, she still wore a cloak of fur around her cuirass of boiled leather, ready along with her weapon to handle any complaints about her drinks. Or her other customers.

The dwarves listened.

Within moments, the sound of camaraderie filled the air as the dwarves returned to themselves. 

Laughter was joined by boasts and mocking jeers enough to shake the tiles from the roof. And with every lift of a tankard, an empty bottom found its way back on a table–all by the diplomats who would hear that Ophelia the Snow Dancer had merrily entered a tavern full of dwarves and nobody had been punched to tell the tale.

Luckily for them all, she intended to leave again.

“An order of directions, please,” said Ophelia brightly. “I’m on my way to the Royal Villa.”   

The barbarian bartender raised an eyebrow.

She studied Ophelia’s face, then looked at the fine dress being worn, still as immaculate as the day it’d been forced to soak up her sweat as she climbed a mountain several times just to appease an elderly woman with a stick.

After a moment, she slid a bowl of peanuts to the ducks sitting patiently on the stools. 

“Travelling to the home of the Contzens, eh?” she said, nodding as Duck A and Duck B took turns pecking the shells open. “Must be a fine ball you’re heading to. You look like a dancer.”

“Sure am,” said Ophelia, happy to do the mysterious woman at the bar thing even if everyone knew who she was. “That’s why I’m going. A ball. Which I’ve definitely been invited to.” 

The barbarian chuckled.

“Can’t say I’m not envious, then. That’s a more civilised place than this, I reckon. Only balls I host are attended by scoundrels, robbers and thieves.”

“That’s terrible. Thieves should all be ashamed of themselves.”

“Yeah, but you get what you can take around here. Especially since the knights drive them towards me. You’re not far off from the royal Villa. You won’t find any signs, but you just need to follow the least bumpy roads south of here. You’ll come across the place before you even realise it. Just mind the dwarves.”

“Who? These ones?”

“Nah. This lot are okay. They’ve already sat down. It's the ones still coming you need to look out for. Nobody teaches dwarves how to give way. They’ll force a troll caravan to go around them.”

Ophelia gave a tilt of her head.

There wasn't a lot which earned her curiosity these days. But so many dwarves coming together was definitely one of them. Everything they did was expensive. And that was by the standards of wealthier kingdoms too.

Somebody now had a lot of crowns to spare.

She wondered who’d been murdered. 

“Huh. It’s weird to see so many dwarves together. Who’s getting the new castle?”

“Nobody, I hope. That’d drive the last of my regular clientele away. But luckily, I imagine the opposite will happen. The dwarves are here with their pickaxes. That’ll bring business with all the folks getting away from the noise. They say it’s so bad that it’s enough to make the ground shake.” 

Ophelia hummed while she helped shell the peanuts.

Dwarves with pickaxes. They were mining in the kingdom. 

That wasn't something which happened as far as she knew. They were too good at it. The last time she was getting free food in Aquina’s court, she’d even seen that cackling duke turning them down, since they only put the Miner’s Guild out of business.

If someone hadn’t been murdered, then someone was about to be.

“Really? Are there lots of dwarves?”

“I’d say so, yeah. Seems like every dwarf on the surface is gathering together. And all of them pass through here to flip the tables. This is my third group this week. They’ll replace the regulars at this rate. Probably isn’t a bad thing, though. They drink well, talk well and pay well.”

The barbarian gave a tidy smile.

Ophelia hopped off her stool.

She returned a moment later with a handful of crowns. Plus a dwarven bolt which was definitely meant to go into something important. She placed it all down on the counter.

The payment was accepted straight into a waiting crate.

“And what would you like to order, ma’am?”

“A drunken tale,” said Ophelia, as she tossed peanuts into the waiting beaks.  

The barbarian glanced at the dwarves loudly preparing to upend her tables, then leaned slightly closer.

“... You’ll want to hear this, Snow Dancer,” she whispered with the knowing glint of every bartender happy to cause mischief. “The dwarves have been given permission by whichever bigshot owns the land to dig it up. Except I hear it’s more than just copper or iron that’s got their attention. They found a jewel.”

“A jewel?”

“Yeah. And this one’s special. The way they talk about it, it’s like they’re talking about their own grandmother. There’s an awe in the way they speak.”

The barbarian ushered Ophelia closer. She obliged, all the while her hand reached over the counter for the bowl of peanuts which wasn’t for the customers.

“I’ve heard them whispering about the Heart of the Forge.”

Ophelia perked up at once.

As someone who’d been bored enough to break into the Royal Treasury just to move stuff slightly around and force the custodians to recount everything, it was impossible not to offer her interest at something actually worth stealing.

The Heart of the Forge was definitely that.

It was a prize known to all. 

The lost dwarven treasure that trolls would sell their carriages for. A jewel said to burn with the white flames of the greatest forge beneath the ground, itself now dormant and cold until its burning heart could be returned.

A heart which also took the shape of an immaculate, pristine diamond.

If something like that was found, it definitely made sense why every dwarf and their cousin was rushing to what was really not a very exciting part of the world.

There was also a 100% chance it would be stolen.

When it was, Ophelia would definitely be blamed for it. Because whenever anything bad happened, it was her fault. Which was sometimes true.

In which case, the sensible thing was just to do it anyway.

Thus, Ophelia wore a smile more glittering than any lost dwarven treasure.

She still needed to repay all the crowns she’d stolen from that princess’s parents. She really couldn’t do anything else until that was done. She’d planned to just offer to steal a bunch of stuff from someone else for them. But this was better. Much better.

After all, Ophelia was more than an S-rank elven sword saint. 

She was also an SS+ rank maiden.

And that meant she understood what other maidens wanted.

A really shiny diamond would do.