You sigh, and turn your horse along the dirt road to Kelham. You have a duty.
---
The Headman is a tall man, still muscled despite his advancing years, and well used to getting his way. But he sees the robes and the hat and the sword and the paperwork. He bows and stammers and welcomes you to the humble village of Kelham, and what could it do for such an august and powerful figure? What he doesn't see is you.
He doesn't see the face of the girl that he dragged into the village square fourteen years ago, screaming for her to be burned; her mother and father had stood and watched and said nothing as the villagers started to gather firewood. Then someone arrived who argued, the single man that served as law enforcement in Kelham, who said that there was laws. That the girl had done no crime with her magic; that she hadn't harmed anyone nor raised the dead nor summoned creatures, only made a toy horse neigh. And the man that had once fought and bled for Stirland placed a hand on the hilt of his battered sword, and he insisted.
Two weeks later, of living in that man's spare room and not seeing another human being and asking every day if her family had asked about her, and they hadn't, nobody did... two weeks later, answering the summons that had been sent to Wurtbad, a man by the name of Magister Regimand had arrived in the town, and demanded to see the child blessed and tainted with magic, and took her away to learn to control and cultivate the blessing and curse of magic.
The Headman is still standing there, awaiting your answer, not daring to ask again even as the silence drags. And then you talk of law enforcement, and are told they have none, not since six, seven years ago when bandits got the last one, and though the news hits you like a punch in the gut you simply nod and tell him that watchmen will be sent to oversee Kelham. And he thanks you, and you leave.
You spend some time looking down the even fainter dirt road leading off the village square, that you knew would lead to a too-small farm and too-busy adults and too many children and, somewhere, maybe, a carved wooden horse that had once been made to neigh.
And then you leave. Never to return.
Not if you could help it.