TO&FQ Book 1: Chapters 22-30 [Edited] (Patreon)

Chapter 22 - Matters of the Heart

Nothing makes a woman more spiteful than unrequited love.

- Miranda Devine.

Seraphina finally had a moment to herself, which was a rare luxury these days. Seated by a grand window overlooking the sprawling gardens and swaying wisterias, she delicately nibbled on a waffle drenched in syrup. So lost in thought was she that the sweetness barely registered as her thoughts drifted. Her eyes took on a distant gaze as she reviewed her Status, the ethereal words shimmering in her mind’s inner vision.

[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl.14)

STR:

DEX:

CON:

INT:

WIS:

CHR:

LCK:

37

18

17

21

10

40

13 [18]

Health:

Stamina:

Mana:

Experience:

266/266

44/44

13/13

422/1540

[Skills & Proficiencies]

Swords

(lvl.3)

Bows

(lvl.3)

Crossbows

(lvl.4)

Throwing Weapons

(lvl.1)

Dodge

(lvl.3)

Critical Hit Mastery

(lvl.2)

Improved Riding

(lvl.3)

Monster Taming

(lvl.2)

Herbalism

(lvl.1)

Daggers

(lvl.5)

Unarmed

(lvl.5)

Rest 

(lvl.2)

Power Strike

(lvl.1) 10

Slings

(lvl.2)

[Spells & Magic]

Heal

(lvl.3)

Silent Casting

(lvl.1)

[Gifts]

Strength of the Old Ones:

+25 Strength

A faint smile touched her lips. Overall, she judged herself to be in a formidable position regarding her growth and progress. Training with Kellan had honed her physical abilities, slowly but surely. The grueling sessions left her muscles aching, but it was a satisfying pain—a reminder of her progress—short-lived one at that, given her judicious use of the Heal spell. Unfortunately, she had yet to gain the Mana Regeneration skill.

She had also entrusted Ibn to Kellan’s tutelage, commanding that he teach the boy everything he knew of the blade. 

“I entrust the boy to your not too gentle care, Armsmaster Kellan,” she had said with a smile that was all steel at its core. “Be sure not to spare the rod, nor the whip of love. Teach him everything a good Aranthian boy must know. Perhaps then he might rise above the limitations of his people and his lowly station.”

Though the red-eyed Hazagadami boy remained silent, and Kellan somewhat reluctant, Seraphina's undeniable charm and Charisma left them little choice. In truth, the old man secretly delighted in molding new talent, and his feigned resistance crumbled quickly.

However, Ibn's muteness worried her. He communicated only with nods and feral grunts. That simply could not do. She could not have in her service a page who refused to speak. She resolved to address this soon; after all, it was simply quite rude.

Giles and Crayton, ever eager to please, had been teaching her the art of the sling. They rolled dice each morning to decide who would have the honor of instructing her, their competitive spirits amusing her. Once she mastered the basics, she had her maid Miriam dash about the gardens while she launched small rubbery balls at her, ones crafted from the dried sap of a local tree.

Miriam's shrieks echoed through the estate every time a projectile found its mark. Seraphina could not help but smirk at the thought. Perhaps, the maid's Dodge skill had improved by day's end. She viewed the training as harsh, but necessary.

Eloise, too, was making strides. She could now encase small parts of her body in thick earth—a rudimentary form of the Golem Armor that high-level Geomancers wielded. It was far from perfect, but it could absorb a blow or two. More importantly, she was beginning to sense the subtle vibrations of the earth beneath her feet—a budding tremor-sense that could prove invaluable.

However, Eloise had been distraught upon seeing Seraphina's new hairstyle. As expected, she wailed and protested, aghast that Seraphina would alter her appearance for a "little Hazagadami rat." She would bear Ibn great animosity for the foreseeable future. The de Laney girl could not possibly fathom the grand future Ibn held—assuming Kellan could unlock his potential, much like the trainers in the Church had done before.

Which reminded her of yet another problem on the distant horizon. The matter of Este Lize the Deliverer—the Living Saint, the Savior of the Silver. Currently an orphan under the Church of Avaria's protection, she was currently beyond the reach of Seraphina's claws. It irked her endlessly. Este Lize was her destined rival, the one who could unravel all her plans. But for now, all Seraphina could do was wait and prepare. She had already stolen one of Este's future assets, turning Ibn to her side, which was much like capturing a vital piece in a game of Shogi.

Idly, she toyed with her newly acquired jewelry. The bracelet adorning her wrist, Arvan's Luck, glinted in the morning sunlight. The plus five to her Luck attribute was going to aid her greatly in the future, and every advantage counted.

Time was ticking. In just a few days, the next major event would unfold. As if scenting her thoughts, her mother, Anaselena, had informed her that Crown Prince Velens would soon arrive to court her and formalize their engagement with a wedding contract. His entourage was expected any day now.

Anaselena had regained much of her former radiance, a change that had not gone unnoticed by her father. The storm that had loomed over their household seemed to have passed, at least for the moment.

Mixed emotions swirled within Seraphina at the mention of Velens. Her heart had fluttered when her mother spoke his name—a remnant of the original Seraphina's deep affection for the prince. Tall, handsome, and charming, he was every woman's dream. The perfect blend of solid masculine strength, a dash of mystery, and a hidden vulnerability, he ignited protective instincts she didn't know she possessed. Thinking of him made her feel both elated and tormented. 

It did not help that the studio had crafted Velens to her exact specifications—he was, quite literally, the man of her dreams. However, her new reality was a cruel one.

Her eyes hardened, the warmth replaced by a steely resolve. It was a love that could never be. He had betrayed her—would betray her—the original Seraphina at least. He had shattered her heart in the most tragic way possible in a cascade of betrayals that had driven her to open a door to the Old Ones in despair. He had been her light and joy, only to plunge her into darkness.

True, those events had not yet transpired, but to her, they were as real as the rising of the sun. Women were not always logical; they didn't need to be. Logic was a tool, but one that was useful only when guided by emotion, and her emotions were a storm, swirling with love, hate, and now a thirst for retribution.

Seraphina took a deep breath, steadying herself. The future was hers to shape, and she would not fall into the same tragic spiral of that innocent girl. Not again. She had been brought here for a reason, and still had a few days to make a few last spots of self-improvement.

Her mother had been hiding something from her, testing her, wanting to see if she had anything to say on the matter. Perhaps, Velens’ trip to the Sariens would not turn out as the Duchess or the Crown Prince expected, she thought with a small smirk.

“Lady Seraphina,” interrupted a high voice, bringing her back from her dark thoughts of future plans.

She smiled at the owner of the voice, Eloise. “Apologies, I was just distracted for the moment. I was thinking about Velens.”

Eloise’s face darkened for just a fraction, her smile faltering.

It was time to make things clear with the girl. To set things where they stood. “Velens will never love you, Eloise. Could never love you,” she corrected softly. “Despite all of your family’s wealth, your own beauty, and your natural sweetness. Can you not see this?”

The dark-haired girl gripped the edge of the tablecloth in repressed anger. “I… I… know. I could never be good enough for him compared to you, Lady Seraphina,” she said, her voice catching as her eyes began to mist.

Seraphina reached out and clasped Eloise's hand gently. "No, that is not true. You would be wasted on him," she murmured, a sad smile touching her lips. "I don't say this to be cruel, but the perfect Velens doesn't even love me. That man is in love only with himself."

Lifting the girl's chin, she gazed into Eloise's dark eyes. "The kingdom would have me marry a man I do not love—a man I do not want. I will not deny that there is a certain amount of… attraction, but Velens will bring me only heartache and sorrow, and that fate I will not allow for you. For you... or for myself."

Eloise nodded slowly, confusion clouding her features. "But... but... if you do not marry Velens, how will you become queen? Isn't that what you want? What any of us would want?"

Seraphina's smile deepened as she tenderly patted Eloise's dark hair. The poor girl did not yet understand that there were many ways to skin a cat.

"Eloise, I will marry for love, or I will marry for myself. I will not let someone else dictate my fate. I must be true to who I am," she declared, her eyes gleaming with determination. "Now come, let us finish our morning meal. We have a hunt later, and you will be joining me."

"I... I will?" Eloise gasped, shocked by the sudden change in plans.

Seraphina answered with a knowing smile, giving her a gentle pat on the cheek.

Chapter 23 - The Hunt

The berry of the Galebush is sweet and nutritious, attracting fauna and adventurers alike. However, unless thoroughly cooked, the seed will sprout within a few hours spontaneously, causing an almost certain and gruesome death. This is likely a mechanism to provide the new seedling with fertilizer for the next part of its life cycle. 

If the being somehow survives the ‘sprouting,’ they will slowly turn into a volatile and strange chimera of plant and animal. One such creature was the infamous Sun Bear of the Duskdown Forest, which terrorized the local territories for many years before a group of Knights Penitent brought it down.

- Monsters of the Mortal Realms by K. D. Fidditch.

Seraphina stood tall, one hand lifted to shield her eyes from the morning sun's piercing glare. The light was dancing on the forest’s edge, painting a picture of serene wilderness that belied the chaos within. Somewhere in the woods, a cuckoo, or this world's peculiar equivalent of it, sang its relentless chorus, its cries echoing above the clamor of beaters crashing through the underbrush.

As a noblewoman, Seraphina was no stranger to the privileges her rank afforded. Chief among them? The luxury of delegating the less savory aspects of a hunt. Today, the men scouring the woods at her behest were a motley crew: off-duty soldiers from her father’s barracks enticed by the promise of fresh game and a handful of low-ranked adventurers from the local guild, who were lured by coin and the vague promise of future favors.

Seraphina would be damned if she had to go running about in the woods in search of her prey.

She allowed herself a small, private smile even as her lady-in-waiting Eloise shifted uneasily beside her, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the shaft of her winged boar spear. Eloise’s tension was palpable, but Seraphina felt no such unease. Today was a good day. All was well in her world.

The two brothers Crayton and Giles did what they did best, looming imposingly, and Seraphina doubted that any vicious wildlife would dare approach them.

Her confidence was bolstered further by the weapon she held, a modified sling of her own design. It was a simple but elegant construct. By harnessing her Power Strike skill, Seraphina had unlocked the potential to hurl projectiles with devastating force. Though her skill level was still modest, she had adapted to it —creating a sling capable of launching multiple stones from an oversized pocket. Paired with her monstrous Strength, the weapon was a force of nature, its destructive potential rivaling that of a modern weapon.

The testing grounds bore silent witness to its power: they were scattered with shattered archery targets and miniature craters where once-sturdy posts had stood. She had yet to perfect her accuracy, but the results were promising enough. A deft figure-eight motion, timed with precision, sent stones flying with savage speed. For now, it was enough, and it made up for lack of accuracy. Still, she made a mental note to experiment with slingstaffs when time allowed.

The men had given her wary glances when she arrived, her unconventional weapons slung at her hip. After all, a sling was a commoner's weapon, and it was hard to learn to shoot with any accuracy without a lot of practice. Skepticism flickered in their eyes, but they wisely kept their thoughts to themselves. No one openly questioned a noble, especially not one as capable and commanding as Seraphina. They were going to do their part, and she was going to reward them well. That was the bargain.

The clamor of the beaters grew louder, and Seraphina’s smile widened in anticipation. The hunt was truly beginning now. Stretching her limbs, she prepared herself, her fingers brushing the smooth stones nestled in the barrel beside her. The first wave of smaller game burst from the trees—rabbits, rodents, and other desperate creatures scrambling for escape and freedom. They were at the edge of her maximum range, but she had plenty of ammunition. Why not start early?

With calculated precision, Seraphina loosed her first volley. She refrained from activating Power Strike—its ten Stamina cost was steep, and she preferred to conserve herself for larger prey. Even so, the stones flew with lethal speed, striking earth and bark with resounding thuds, or felling creatures outright where they connected.

You have slain a Woodswise 5 experience gained.

You have slain ??? 10 experience gained.

Not bad, she mused, a whimsical smile playing on her lips as notifications scrolled across her vision. A fleeting thought crossed her mind about making a clever remark on slaying animals with stones, but nothing witty came to mind. No matter—they were dead, and that was enough.

The Woodswise, small to medium-sized rodents endemic to the region, were no great prize. Also, because she could see and knew what one of the creatures was, the system of the game, if this was indeed a game, told her what it was. Cute creatures, perhaps, but today they were nothing more than meat for the stew pot.

The young girl tried to think of something snappy once more. A Laur in the hand is worth four in the bush. Hrmm, killing ten Woodwise with one stone? She vaguely recalled that Este Lize had kept one as a pet. 

Her musings were cut short as a new threat emerged—a Tree Laur, its massive reptilian form slithering forward on four powerful legs. Behind it came a surge of other creatures, both furred and scaled, driven into a panic by the beaters. Seraphina’s lips curled in anticipation as she prepared another volley, this time activating Power Strike.

The stones flew like meteors, propelled with savage speed and power. The Tree Laur took the brunt of her assault, several stones striking with enough force to pierce flesh and shatter bone. It collapsed in a heap, its reptilian bulk twitching as the reality of its death had yet to take it. The notifications followed swiftly.

You have slain a Tree Laur 50 experience gained.

You have slain a Giant Treesnake 20 experience gained

You have slain a rabbit 5 experience gained.

Now this was more like it. Seraphina laughed, a clear, joyous sound that rang across the battlefield. The rush of experience filled her, a heady sensation that spoke of her growing power. Her smile widened into something wild and unrestrained, a grin known only to those who relished the chaos of a fight.

Beside her, Eloise bit her lip, casting a worried glance at her lady. The brothers exchanged looks but said nothing. They were accustomed to Seraphina’s moods, and this, at least, was a familiar one.

Satisfied, Seraphina swiftly reloaded her sling, already preparing for the next wave. She would continue until the woods were emptied of game, or else until she had gained a fresh level. Today was her day, and the hunt was hers to command.

*****

By the time she was a few points shy of the next level, things were still going smoothly—quite swimmingly, actually. 

Until, of course, they weren't. 

A great roar issued from the edge of the forest, signaling that a challenge was at hand.

From the tree line a mountain of flesh, fur, and monstrous plant burst forth—a fearsome creature with a decidedly ursine aspect. A great bear appeared the size of a small barn, with razor fronds and thorny vines whipping about it, it was a dire melding of animal and plant. A true Wild Brother of the woods had come.

Now, this could be worrying, thought Seraphina, as the creature—or monster, more accurately—fixed its clouded yet baleful eyes upon her. Its movements were wooden but still swift as the bear loped towards her.

Normal animals... yes, she could handle those.This one,however, might well prove difficult.

"Everyone, we are making a withdrawal," she declared. "Go now and get help!" she shouted, trying to hide the panic in her voice.

Her entire retinue turned tail almost immediately, not wanting to face the great bear. The fact that they voiced no objection irked her a little. Cowards, the lot of them, she thought as she watched them rush off.

However, a bear, despite its bulk and size, was a fast animal, and could easily run them down. Seraphina was flagging, her stamina dropping precipitously; she had just enough left for one last Power Strike.

Loading a single large stone, she took time to orient herself and judge the distance to the bear. Thanks to her having slain perhaps half of the forest's creatures, her Sling and Critical Hit Mastery skills had both risen a few levels, not to mention the organic gain in Dexterity. The sling felt more natural to her now, and she had learned to lead her shots.

She stood almost perfectly still, just concentrating for a moment. The wind ran through her now-short hair, playing with her golden strands and carrying the scent of spilled blood and death. This moment was a challenge; of that, there could be no denial. Pressure mounted as she began to swing her weapon, building up speed as she prepared to release.

The young girl pictured where the bear would be, her mind and body making subtle calculations before she let loose with all her might in a Power Strike. The missile flew with a vengeance, but at that very moment, the bear chose to stand on its hind legs and let out a great roar. The missile missed its intended target, the creature's head, and instead smacked into one of its front legs.

The creature bellowed in pain, and Seraphina knew then that this beast was out of her league. A chimera of beast and plant, such a monster had resilience beyond that of a normal animal. It would take more than stones, no matter how fast or powerful, to bring this creature down.

The adventurers in the woods would be useless, as they were all far too low-ranked; the guards of her father would be simply speed bumps for a creature like this. It galled her, but there was only one person nearby who had the raw physical might and skill to stand up to such a creature.

“PAPA! PAPA!” Seraphina shouted as loud as she could before the girl started to exhaustedly run to catch up with her entourage. Her features were burning with red-hot shame as the words left her mouth.

But even as she fled, her mind had already begun crafting justifications. After all, men were placed upon this world for such reasons. It was not her responsibility to fight every battle herself. It was their duty to protect a beautiful girl like her. Still, she could not help but feel a tad dismayed at the turn of events.

Luckily for Seraphina, the beast was injured by her blow, and its rush had been reduced to a fast amble. A glance at her status showed she had only about two Stamina left, and it showed as her breath grew labored and her speed waned. The odds were not in her favor as she continued her flight back to the castle. Next time, she would make sure to bring a Stamina potion, even if she knew that drinking one was basically swallowing early cancer.

This was it, she thought to herself as the bear started to ever so slowly catch up. Her Stamina was depleted now, and her limbs felt like lead weights. Every breath was a trial, but she continued to push on. She cursed herself for thinking such dark thoughts, and a fire was lit.

However, no matter how great a will is, it is no match for the raw facts of reality. Reality has never cared for the feelings of men, or women, lest it was backed up by power.

But a power was coming; for, summoned by her voice that could be heard as far as into the castle town, a warrior was coming. Anatoli was a doting parent, and would not leave his only daughter so far away from his protective gaze. He would be, no doubt, just coincidentally patrolling his realm near the place where Seraphina would be hunting.

It was this that Seraphina had been relying upon, banking on; however, she had never thought such a dire situation would come about.

Anatoli galloped to her rescue upon a dark brown war horse with a long hunting lance under his arm. He was trailed by his household knights who had bows and lances. 

But, instead of swooping his daughter up in his arms and whisking her away, he continued to charge, a devilish grin on his face as the tip of his lance was pointed at the Wild Brother. 

Seraphina almost screamed in frustration but continued running away to safety for a few more seconds, panting all the while. She glanced back to see that her father had stuck his lance, the weapon’s haft splintering upon impact, into the bear’s chest and was circling away. The household knights kept their distance and peppered the creature from a distance with their arrows and bolts, but the writing fronds around the bear pushed away many of those missiles and acted as a briary shield.

She paused, wanting to see how this fight would continue, not to mention the fact that she was going to be getting experience points for this as long as she did not stray too far away from the combat zone.

The fighting men of Sariens had engaged the beast, leading it away from Seraphina. Giles, Crayton, and Eloise had returned by her side now that the knights and her father had come.

Chapter 24 - The Fighting Duke

A man who exhibits unkindness toward the creatures beneath his care will inevitably cultivate a hardened spirit toward his fellow humans. Thus, by observing a person's treatment of animals, we can discern the true nature and virtue of his heart.

- The Human Question by Gideon de Salavia 378 AC.

Seraphina leaned forward, panting and drawing deep breaths, her hands resting on her knees as she allowed her Stamina to recover slowly. She pointed at the monstrosity her father was battling, its roars serving as a backdrop to her words.

"Eloise... assist the knights... and my father," she ordered between heavy breaths, addressing the doll-like girl.

"But, Lady Seraphina... by doing what?" Eloise asked, only a hint of nervousness in her voice.

Heavens forfend, why did she have to think of everything? Seraphina thought wearily. 

"Distract it with your magic... throw something at it... do something... anything, really. Just stay far back... and buy me... some time... to catch my breath. Giles... Crayton... escort my lady-in-waiting..." she managed to say.

Frustration welled up in the blonde girl as she found herself helpless at such a critical juncture. She had misjudged her foe gravely.

The two men-at-arms nodded grimly. Eloise, unable as she was to disobey a direct order, went to do as she was told. Almost daintily, she advanced toward a beast nearly ten times her size and weight.

She continued hearing thewhistle of arrows and the soft thuds of their impact. The beast was clearly growing tired; its fronds and whip-like vines were moving ever slower. This meant that more and more arrows were hitting their mark, but its thick layers of muscle, fat, and fur mitigated most of the damage.

They were running out of arrows, though that little detail did not concern her father much. The big man had dismounted, unwilling to risk his expensive mount against such a beast—or, perhaps, simply wanting to test his mettle without an unfair advantage. The bear, as if sensing a challenger, ignored the household knights and turned its full attention to Anatoli. Her father let out a great roar, savage joy woven into the cry, and drew a heavy cavalry saber from the scabbard by his saddle.

Anatoli was not wearing the full harness of war, but he was still armored in a coat of heavy mail. Such armor would protect little against the impact from the beast's paws, but it would be protection enough against the other thorny appendages, not to mention sharp teeth and claws. Almost skipping in joy towards his opponent, the man went to fight the great bear.

Anatoli moved with a surprising grace, given his bulk, his heavy cavalry saber held confidently in his massive hand. The monstrous bear, an unsettling fusion of flesh and flora, let out another deep, resonant growl. Thorny vines whipped around it, lashing out like serpents with minds of their own. 

The knights on their mounts formed a circle around the two combatants, slinging their bows behind their backs and gripping their spears tightly as they rested in their stirrups. Their stance was not one of intervention but of containment, ensuring the beast had no route to escape. They understood their lord's love for the thrill of battle well—offering aid would only insult his skill and courage.

The bear lunged forward, its vines snapping toward Anatoli with lethal intent. He sidestepped the first strike, the thorny tendril slicing through the air where he was standing mere  moments before. With a swift motion, he brought his saber down, severing the vine. A thick, green sap oozed from the wound, and the creature roared in pain and fury.

Anatoli laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the trees. "You'll have to do better than that!" he taunted, his eyes gleaming with excitement, not caring that the beast could not understand his words. It clearly understood the intent behind them, though, as the bear responded by rearing up on its hind legs, towering over him. 

Seraphina saw that the leg she had injured has more or less already recovered due to the monster’s unnatural Constitution. The monster crashed down with immense force, the same newly-healed massive paw aiming to crush him. Anatoli rolled aside just in time, the ground shaking beneath him from the impact.

He sprang to his feet, thrusting his blade into the bear's side. The creature howled, swinging its other paw toward him. Claws scraped against his chain mail, the metal rings deflecting the worst of the blow, but sending him stumbling back. The beast pressed its advantage, vines and claws striking in a relentless barrage.

The Duke regained his footing, parrying another thorny vine with his saber and ducking under a sweeping paw. He stepped inside the bear's reach, delivering a powerful kick to its knee. The beast faltered, and he seized the moment to slash at its shoulder, cutting deep into muscle and sinew.

The bear's movements became more erratic, its injuries slowing it down. However, it fought on, driven by a deep primal instinct. Thorny vines writhed around Anatoli, one wrapping around his wrist. The thorns bit into his flesh, drawing blood. 

A solid ball of Earth, conjured by Eloise, struck the beast squarely on the head, momentarily distracting it and causing its control over its thorny appendages to falter.

Gritting his teeth, Antoli yanked hard, pulling the vine taut before slicing through it.

"Enough games," he growled, his patience wearing thin. He charged forward, evading the bear's desperate swipes. With a fierce shout, he plunged his saber into the creature's chest, aiming for its heart. The blade sank deep, and the bear let out a guttural moan. Its eyes met his, a mix of rage and resignation in its cloudy eyes.

But the Duke was not finished. Releasing the hilt of his embedded saber, he drew back his massive fist. Muscles tensed, he delivered a crushing punch to the bear's skull. The force of the blow echoed like thunder, and the beast's head snapped back. Bones cracked under the impact, and the light faded from its eyes as it collapsed to the ground. Its vines wilted and died as the light of life and vitality left the creature.

Silence settled over the circle. The knights loosened their grip on their weapons, awe evident on their faces. Anatoli stood over the fallen creature, chest heaving, blood trickling from the cuts on his wrist. 

You have slain a Galebush Wild Brother. 300 experience gained.

A satisfied smile spread across the Duke’s face, mirrored by his daughter's expression—a look he mistakenly took for pride. In truth, Seraphina's smile stemmed not from admiration for her father's achievement but from the experience points she had just earned from the creature's demise.

As quickly as she could she assigned all of her free attribute points to Constitution; never again would she be caught lacking in Stamina. As for her Skill point, she put that into Heal.

One of the knights brought the reins of the Duke’s warhorse to him. "A remarkable victory, my lord," he said with a respectful bow, offering him some clean cloth to wrap around his wrist.

Anatoli stemmed the bleeding at his wrist with the cloth before he retrieved his saber, pulling it from the bear's chest with a firm tug. He wiped the blade clean on the grass and the beast’s fur before sheathing it. "It was a worthy opponent," he acknowledged, glancing around at his men. "Let this be a reminder that Strength and courage prevail over any beast."

The big man was met with a roar of approval. 

The man basked in the praise as a lizard would bask in the sun. He looked toward where Seraphina stood watching, her lady-in-waiting by her side. Catching her gaze, he gave a reassuring nod. His daughter gave him a forced smile in return.

"Prepare the bear," Anatoli commanded his men. "We shall take it back and make use of every part. I daresay that his coat will make for a fantastic rug. Tonight, we celebrate!"

The knights moved to comply, half of their number starting the construction of a makeshift sled to transport it. The air was filled with renewed energy, the tension of the battle against nature giving way to the fevered industry.

As the sun cast its golden rays, seeming to frame the victorious hero in its light, Anatoli approached Seraphina. "You see, my daughter," he said, his voice softer now, "there is no challenge too great if you face it head-on."

She smiled up at him, her expression a fixed smile. "I know that well enough, Father." Inside, she rolled her eyes at the banal piece of wisdom.

He chuckled, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "It was nothing a bit of steel and determination couldn't handle." His eyes drifted back to the bear. "Though I must admit, that was one of the more… unique foes I've encountered."

He lifted his daughter as if she were no lighter than air, ignoring her mild shriek of protest. “We will return to the castle and have a feast! You have done well this day, my little huntress!” he declared to all those present, before putting her down.

“Giles! Blow the horn and summon the men back! We need to get these carcasses back to the castle!” ordered the girl indignantly now that her father put her down. 

Inwardly she seethed at the casual humiliation she had endured in front of the men. She was no child!

Chapter 25 - Correction

A good education can change anyone. A good teacher can change everything.

- Unknown.

The evening meal grew into a veritable feast as the castle prepared for some impromptu celebrations. Local craftsmen had been invited to process the animals, rendering meat from bones and preparing hides. A few townspeople had volunteered to help in exchange for a good meal of fresh forest game. Indeed, the castle had taken on a most festive air.

Seraphina, seeing an opportunity, spent that time ingratiating herself with the local dignitaries and common folk. Her charm was almost magical, making everyone she spoke to feel that they were the center of the universe. However, while people found her company delightful, the same could not be said for her. Her social batteries were draining swiftly as the evening wore on.

"Why did they have to invite half the town to what should have been a simple dinner?" muttered Seraphina to herself as she nibbled on another piece of meat. 

Another problem with adolescence was her almost ridiculous appetite. She could eat anything, and it seemed to simply disappear. Was her stomach some sort of bottomless pit? Was this the true gift of the Old Ones?

The bard Haze Finleigh had been invited to join the celebrations, and he played his music, strumming his strings and lending an air of true wonder to the proceedings. Thankfully, no one had asked her yet to sing, which would have been really too much for her. Yet, at the same time, she was annoyed that no one had recognized her.

Next to her, Ibn was fidgeting silently in his seat. Despite Seraphina's and Catherina’s efforts, the boy had yet uttered not a single word since she had taken him in. The young girl had initially thought that this was some form of childish rebellion, but then she was forced to admit that it might be rooted in something deeper.

The young noblewoman spent some of her time instructing him in proper manners, including the correct use of cutlery. It had been difficult, but recently he no longer used the utensils to hack apart his food or as impromptu toys. However, his elbows were currently on the table, and a light smack on the head corrected that. He looked as if he was about to cry, but a stern look from the girl dissuaded him.

Ibn himself had mixed feelings toward the beautiful blonde girl. A swirl of emotions—half-forced adulation, honest respect for her Strength, deep-seated resentment, and his love for his departed mother—created a conflict within him. Strangely, this resulted in the boy almost worshipping her.

Eloise and Mili delighted in the music, clapping along to the raucous, bawdy tunes. The blonde girl watched them, shaking her head at how much they seemed to enjoy it—far too much, in her opinion.

The true stars of the evening, however, were the Duchess and the Duke. They danced together under the watchful eyes of the gathered crowd, her father surprisingly light on his feet. What must it be like to live with a woman who can see the future? she wondered. The crowd erupted in applause as the couple finished their joyful performance. In response to this, her father ordered the cellars opened and drinks distributed to the people, a gesture that was met with roars of approval and unrestrained cheer.

Though the evening seemed perfect, Seraphina could not ignore the pang of annoyance simmering beneath her composure. Her parents had stolen much of her thunder. This was supposed to be her day.

*****

Preparing for an impromptu feast was one thing, but cleaning up afterward was quite another. Here and there, drunken revelers lay sprawled across the castle grounds. With the help of the grumbling men-at-arms who had not been allowed to join the festivities, Seraphina took it upon herself to clear them out. These duties were usually assigned to the eldest son once he came of age, making him a sort of master of ceremonies. Though the men said nothing, their demeanor made it clear they acknowledged this, gaining the girl a little bit of standing in their eyes. Also, leaving them there would have set a bad precedent—and offend her sense of order and aesthetics. The girl was also trying to see if she could trigger a quest, but alas, she had no such luck.

One such reveler was the boy Ibn, fast asleep with a tankard of beer cradled in his arms. It seemed that some irresponsible lout had introduced him to the joys of the local vintages. As the girl saw it, a frown marred Seraphina’s otherwise flawless features. She worried over how to correct this budding flaw—there was already so much about him that needed fixing.

She ordered two guards to carry the boy back to the servants' quarters—gently, of course. With that chore crossed off her list, Seraphina allowed herself a moment to relax. Exhausted from the day’s trials, she decided to retire to her rooms. If she could find a servant, she would ask for a bath to be drawn. Washing her hair would have to wait until tomorrow—thankfully, short hair made maintenance a much simpler affair.

*****

Now, at last, she had time to focus on her next challenge: fixing the boy. Why on earth was Ibn mute? In the game, he had a lot of dialogue—voiced dialogue, no less. It defied everything she thought she knew. Had Este Lize, the heroine of the story, faced this kind of problem? If Seraphina did not know for certain that Ibn would grow into someone important, she might have been tempted to foist him back onto Este Lize. A quick delivery to the fortress-monastery where her rival currently resided, accompanied by a sharp note, would have solved just about everything.

But of course, that was not an option. It would have been like handing her opponent a loaded gun. No, Seraphina de Sariens was going to persevere. The honored role of educator, it seemed, was yet another role she would have to take on. Truly, the world never appreciated her sacrifices.

She summoned Ibn to the pantry near one of the dark, cluttered basements where odds and ends were stored. It was just time for brunch, and Seraphina had arranged a small table for herself and Eloise to enjoy a light meal. Like Seraphina, Eloise was seemingly always hungry. Well, they were growing girls—there was no helping it.

Ibn’s eyes widened at the spread of steaming pancakes, rolls, and freshly made jams and creams. His lips parted in overt hunger. Seraphina smiled and stood, taking him by the hand.

“Would you like some, Ibn?” she asked gently, her tone almost maternal.

Eloise, seated nearby, smirked knowingly. She had a fair idea of what Seraphina had planned for the boy. Corrective measures, if she remembered it right. Swiftly, she schooled her expression into a warm smile that mirrored Seraphina’s own.

The two girls shared a private laugh, as if enjoying a joke only they understood. Meanwhile, Ibn stared longingly at the feast, his hands clenched at his sides in an impressive show of restraint.

*****

"Well, Ibn, all you have to do is say that you want some—just one word," Seraphina taunted, a delicate hand covering her mouth as she stifled a giggle. Her eyes glittered with a mix of mischief and intent.

She knew full well that nothing physical was preventing the boy from speaking; in the game, he had plenty of dialogue—perhaps half a book's worth of romantic drivel about his unrequited love for the Saint of Silver, Este Lize. Seraphina had concluded that the boy was simply being stubborn, and that simply wouldn't do. Even if he hated her for a day, he would thank her later. After all, she had his best interests at heart.

Besides, judging by the way he looked at her, Seraphina surmised that the feelings Ibn was supposed to develop for Este Lize had somehow been transferred to her. Was it like imprinting in birds? Had the lad fixated on her for some reason? If so, it was laughably pathetic—but endearing in its own way.

"Oh yes, Ibn, just say, 'I would like some, please,' and you can have as much as you like," added Eloise playfully, her gentle words masking a sharper edge.

The boy could only nod desperately, his pride cast to the wind. He really, really wanted those pancakes. For a moment, he imagined their sweetness; the aroma of warm syrup and freshly baked bread was already wafting toward him, clouding his judgment.

His stomach rumbled loudly, echoing in the quiet room—a plaintive plea that made the girls' smiles widen.

"It seems your little tummy is much louder than your words," Seraphina observed, her pleasant smile unwavering.

Thinking this was an invitation, Ibn stepped forward, reaching out with trembling fingers toward the tempting feast laid before him. This, of course, was a grave mistake; he had sorely misjudged the golden heir of the Sariens.

Like a viper striking, Seraphina's hand darted out, her fingers gripping his wrist with surprising strength. His eyes widened in shock, a mix of fear and betrayal flashing across his face as he instinctively tried to pull away. Realization dawned—he had been baited and trapped.

"Please, stop struggling and come with me," she insisted, her voice soothing yet commanding. The juxtaposition made him hesitate, his resistance faltering.

Without a shred of gentleness, Seraphina led him toward the shadowed doorway of the basement. With a swift motion, she pushed him into the darkness. It was only a small drop; he'd probably be alright, she assured herself. After all, she could just heal any permanent damage later.

Ibn scrambled to his feet in the pitch black, panic rising as he rushed toward the door just as it began to close with a slow, ominous creak. The unoiled hinges groaned, a sound that seemed to echo his despair. He banged on the heavy wooden barrier, but in vain,, his fists thudding dully even as he heard the decisive click of a lock sliding into place.

"You won't be getting out of there unless you say a word—a real word in any language!" Seraphina's voice drifted down to him, muffled yet unmistakably smug.

A strangled sound escaped his throat—a mewl of fear and desperation.

It was an immediate improvement, but not quite what Seraphina was looking for.

"As I said, little Ibn, you'll be staying there until you learn—or relearn—how to speak. Remember, any word will do! Just shout it out!"

The boy continued to make animal-like noises, his panic intensifying in the suffocating darkness.

Now it would be a test of patience—and mercy. The thing was, Seraphina possessed little of either.

"Oh, Ibn, I heard the scullery lads say that the rats down there can grow as big as small dogs—and they're very hungry," she called out, her voice dripping with feigned concern. "I wouldn't want to stay down there too long. You never know—they might start feeling a bit peckish."

Her cruel, callous laugh echoed as she turned away, leaving him enveloped in darkness and fear.

*****

Was it a minute or an hour? Time blurred into an endless stretch as Ibn pounded on the heavy wooden door, his small fists growing sore with each strike. The pain eventually forced him to stop, and he leaned against the unyielding barrier, panting, his breaths ragged and shallow.

Just a few inches away, on the other side of the door, lay freedom. He could hear the muffled voices of the girls outside, their conversation punctuated by occasional laughter. Each word was a reminder of how close—and yet utterly unreachable—that freedom was.

Ibn's heart pounded in his chest, each beat louder than the last. The oppressive darkness pressed in on him from all sides. In his imagination, he swore he could hear the chittering of the promised rats. He sank to the cold, damp floor, his hands trembling as they brushed against rough stone.

"Please," he whispered hoarsely, the word barely audible even to himself. It was the first time a word had formed into a sound on his lips in as long as he could remember. He thought he felt something furry crawling next to his foot. Fear clawed at his throat, threatening to choke him.

Above, Seraphina paused, her ears catching the faintest hint of a plea. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a satisfied smirk. "Did you hear that, Eloise? I think our little bird is trying to sing."

Eloise leaned against the door, her expression a mix of curiosity and mild concern. "Perhaps we've pushed him enough, Lady Seraphina. He is just a child."

Seraphina shot her a sharp glance. "He needs to learn, Eloise. Coddling him won't do any good. Besides, a little incentive has never hurt anyone."

Back in the darkness, Ibn squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside him. The thought of rats gnawing at his feet sent a shiver down his spine. Gathering every ounce of courage, he forced himself to speak again.

"Please," he repeated, louder this time, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space.

Seraphina's eyes widened ever so slightly. "There it is again," she remarked, a hint of triumph in her tone. "He's getting there."

"Maybe we should open the door," Eloise suggested softly, a pang of guilt tugging at her.

"Not just yet," Seraphina replied firmly. "He needs to do better."

Ibn took a deep breath, his hands clenching into fists. Images of his past flashed through his mind—the warmth of his mother's embrace, the laughter of friends long gone. "Please... let me out," he called out, his voice cracking.

Seraphina's smile deepened. "Now that's more like it," she said. She moved closer to the door. "What was that, Ibn? I couldn't quite hear you."

"Let me out!" he repeated, desperation seeping into every syllable.

Eloise placed a hand on Seraphina's arm. "He's done what you wanted, Lady Seraphina. That’s enough now."

Seraphina considered for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin. "Very well." She stood up with a sigh. Getting the rusty iron key, she unlocked the door, pulling it open to reveal the boy standing there, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" she said, her tone deceptively gentle. “Good, I see that you did not cry.”

Ibn stared at her, a mix of relief and wariness etched on his face.

"Now, come along," Seraphina continued, extending her hand. "We wouldn't want your pancakes to get cold."

He hesitated before taking her hand, his small fingers curling around hers tentatively. The boy was drawn to her as a moth to a flame.

As they walked back to the table, Eloise trailed behind, her gaze fixed on Ibn. "You're a brave one," she murmured softly.

Seraphina glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, he'll be braver still by the time I am done with him. Much braver," she promised.

They reached the table, and Seraphina gestured grandly. "Go ahead, Ibn. You've earned it."

He sat down slowly, eyeing the food with a mixture of hunger and uncertainty. Picking up a fork, he took a small bite. The sweetness exploded on his tongue, a stark contrast to the bitter experience he had just endured.

"Is it good?" Seraphina asked, her chin resting lightly on her hands as she watched him intently, her gaze sharp and unwavering.

He nodded, swallowing before speaking. "Yes... thank you."

She smiled, a genuine one this time. "You are very welcome."

Eloise daintily settled into her seat, observing the two of them. Perhaps there was more to Seraphina's tough methods than met the eye.

Chapter 26 - Paintings & Cookies

To be a good man is to live with virtue and integrity on the hardest of roads. 

- A Quassian aphorism.

A few more days passed swiftly. Now that Kellan's lessons were not quite as draining as before, Seraphina and Eloise found themselves with ample time in the afternoons to pursue their own interests. For Seraphina, this meant indulging in some light reading followed by hours of putting Eloise’s face onto canvas. Yes, she had time to pursue a hobby—of all things. She had considered creating a self-portrait, but dismissed the idea as far too narcissistic.

But this was no mere pastime. The young de Sariens planned to use Eloise’s portrait to match her with a suitable noble of middling rank. If she did say so herself, her work—though amateurish compared to the greats—was leaps and bounds ahead of the current norm in terms of technical detail. Not only was Seraphina able to capture Eloise’s physical likeness with near-photographic precision, but she also infused the painting with the emotional and psychological nuances of the girl, giving her a smile that echoed the enigmatic allure of the Mona Lisa.

As Seraphina's brush danced across the canvas, a quiet intensity filled the room. Each stroke was deliberate, each shade meticulously chosen—not just to immortalize Eloise’s beauty, but to weave a narrative that was going to serve Seraphina’s purpose. The soft afternoon light cast long shadows, and for a moment, the weight of her ambitions seemed to add to the depths of her strokes.

"Hold still, Eloise," Seraphina whispered, her eyes flickering with a mix of determination and irritation. "This portrait must be perfect."

Eloise glanced at her, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. "You seem... different today, Lady Seraphina."

"Do I?" Seraphina replied softly, a faint smile curling her lips. "Perhaps it's the light."

As the final touches were applied, she stepped back to admire her work. The likeness was uncanny, but more importantly, the portrait radiated an allure that was impossible to ignore.

"It's done," she announced, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eloise stood and moved to her side, eyes widening as she took in the image. "It's... it's stunning!" she squealed in delight. “Thank you, oh thank you!”

"Yes," Seraphina agreed, her gaze fixed not on the canvas but on future horizons. "Now then, Eloise, there is something that you can help me with."

*****

Seraphina also made sure to check in on Ibn’s martial progress. The boy, once his little problem had been sorted out, was swift to learn. Kellan, a man usually stingy with praise, had even remarked that the boy had quite the potential. That was certainly a stamp of approval.

Seraphina and Eloise had taken it upon themselves to teach the boy to read. It was a difficult concept, and he simply could not seem to grasp it at first. At first being the operative phrase. Once Seraphina introduced some "motivation", one in the form of light food deprivation and a thin, sharp cane that inflicted pain but did little damage, the boy quickly learned his letters. However, unfortunately, he soon developed a slight stammer. A shame, for he had just learned, or relearned, how to speak. Having taught the boy the greater part of the basics, she left him in Eloise’s more gentle care and instruction. She had instructed Eloise to teach him his numbers as well.

“I don’t know why you’re going to all this bother teaching a lad like that his letters and numbers,” mumbled Catherina in the kitchens. “Not to mention why a girl like you has suddenly taken an interest in learning how to make cookies.”

It had come as quite a surprise to the matronly woman when the daughter of the Duke came into her kitchen, demanding that she teach her how to bake cookies, of all things. It was not something that someone of Seraphina’s noble birth and station would have normally taken an interest in. However, the woman had known the girl since she was a babe in swaddling cloths, had changed her when she soiled herself, and thought of her almost as another of her own children. She could deny her nothing. Who could not love such a perfect and beautiful child? Catherina, in her heart of hearts, could have sworn the Duchess had partly named Seraphina after her.

Little, of course, did Catherina know that Seraphina was doing all of this mainly for the sake of a few low-hanging points of experience. Also, she was trying to make a required item that would seal Ibn to her forevermore. If she was able to make this, then the Saint of Silver, Este Lize, would never be able to snatch Ibn away from her.

What was hers was hers, and was going to remain hers.

These were her thoughts as she attacked the cookie dough, mixing it into a fine consistency. The game's system did not include any skills unrelated to fighting or combat, which meant that she could not gain skills in "Cooking," for instance. However, menial tasks such as this still netted her some experience, and the timing  for clearing the forest of the local fauna once again with another great hunt was not right.

If the price of earning eternal loyalty from one of the realm's future strongest swords was just a few handmade biscuits, she was more than willing to pay it. It was also important that the serving staff saw her making them, as they would spread the word that Lady Seraphina had personally gone out of her way to do so. The servants were always chattering about this and that. Also, it was not a good thing to base something as important as this on a lie.

She wiped a smudge of dough from her brow, only making it worse. Catherina grabbed a towel and forcefully wiped her face. Seraphina endured the treatment, as she needed Catherina's help with the next step: putting the biscuits into the blazing oven. There was no way Seraphina was stepping anywhere near that monstrosity responsible for feeding half the castle.

So she let Catherina place them into the oven alongside some other pastries. The woman turned over an hourglass and promised Seraphina she would take them out once they were done.

Chapter 27 - Plotting, Cookies, & Banditry

"Diversity has never been the strength of the Empire; it is tolerance. For how else could we govern a realm, nay realms, of disparate peoples? In the Empire, all are citizens, all are equal and bound by the same laws that govern all."

- Emperor Thaddian IV.

One of the wonders of holding such a privileged position was being able to watch people practically hop to do your bidding in hopes of currying favor. One of those cases was, for instance, Seraphina having armor made and delivered to her swiftly. It was most convenient.

Not so convenient, however, was trying to squeeze into armor tailored to Seraphina's previous measurements. Standing amidst Eloise's elegantly decorated chambers, she felt the constriction intensify, especially around her chest, where Miriam was tightening a strap of the brigandine. Her things were being squished, making things a bit uncomfortable; she was growing and maturing far too quickly.

Eloise sat down tentatively on the edge of her ornate bed, concern etched on her delicate features. "Are you certain this is truly necessary?" she asked softly.

Seraphina took in a deep breath, allowing Miriam to secure the final strap. With a slight grimace, she turned to her lady-in-waiting. "It's something I anticipate, though I'd be pleasantly surprised if it doesn't occur," she replied. "Besides, think of this as an outing—a practice for the future when we might have to go on campaign. Why else do you think Kellan has been training us?"

Concern deepened in Eloise's eyes and her pretty frown crossed her face. "I thought you said it was for our self-defense, in case we found ourselves in trouble..."

"Exactly, and the best defense is a strong offense," Seraphina pressed on, overriding the girl's protests. "It is our duty as subjects of the Crown to ensure the heir to the Kingdom of Aranthia is protected!" she declared, sweeping her arms in a grand gesture.

Internally, Seraphina was of two minds about the whole affair. Her mother had told her that Prince Velens was now journeying to the Sariens Duchy to formalize his engagement to her. Naturally, things would not proceed so smoothly.

For one, a group of ‘bandits’ was set to ambush the Crown Prince's entourage. These so-called bandits were actually disenfranchised peasants who had formed an anti-monarchist faction. They were supported by nobles and wealthy families who had lost prestige and power when Elidion ascended the throne. These disgruntled nobles, in turn, were secretly backed by the Empire, which sought to destabilize its rival and neighbor, Aranathia. Notably, by accepting sponsorship from the Empire, Eloise's family was likely aligned to a degree with the anti-monarchists.

Taking in the de Laney girl as her lady-in-waiting, she had undoubtedly prompted the current royal family to try and secure their ties with the de Sariens sooner and more concretely than with a mere verbal promise. No doubt, this was why the Crown Prince was rushing to her father's estate to formalize the engagement.

But why was she helping Velens at all? The answer was simple. The bandits would fail, leading Velens to escape. However, he would be wounded and fall into a river, only to be carried downstream and found by Este Lize. She would, in turn, nurse him back to health. It was so clichéd and trite that it annoyed Seraphina to no end. “Who had written such a plot?” she wondered.

A part of her was tempted to aid the anti-monarchists. With Velens gone, one more potential obstacle would be removed. The problem was explaining her actions to both them and her own followers. It would get messy. Then, of course, there was the option of doing nothing and letting fate play itself out. But to Seraphina, that was not an option at all.

So she decided she was going to save the princeling—not because she had any feelings for him, of course, but to prevent his fateful encounter with the witch. It was also an opportunity to cover herself in glory and have Velens indebted to her. Two birds with one stone, as it were. Still, she knew she would have to deal with him in the future. In one way or another.

For a moment she envisaged a future scenario: the beautiful girl who saved the heir to the Kingdom only to be betrayed later… it made for a powerful narrative. It made for a just casus belli.

Seraphina shook her head, pulling herself from the thought. The girl glanced around Eloise's room, noting that the girl had taken up the study of Alchemy at her suggestion—suggestions that Seraphina herself had been given by her mother.

"Earth magic combined with Alchemy—the fruits of the dark soil and hard rock will serve you well, my daughter. You should learn of these things," her mother had mysteriously declared over breakfast one fine morning.

Unwilling to dirty her own hands with chopping up herbs and mixing monster bits, she decided to have Eloise learn Alchemy instead. She had expected the girl would need some persuading, but Eloise was overjoyed at the mere suggestion, the mere idea, of being allowed to study Alchemy—a realm typically dominated by men.

And that had been all it took to get Eloise experimenting—just a quick purchase of a few dog-eared books from the cranky local Alchemist Jurgens and some nice words of encouragement to the girl. In the space of just a few days, the girl's dressing table and nearby environs had been transformed into a chaotic workspace, strewn with scattered notes and various alchemical instruments. She would have to get the servants to help tidy up this place.

While Eloise was still processing Seraphina's declaration, a hesitant knock sounded on the door.

The lady-in-waiting moved to answer, but Seraphina beat her to it. "Come in!" she called.

Though the black-haired girl might have felt ruffled by the display of dominance, she hid it well, a natural smile still fixed on her face.

Ibn entered hesitantly, his demeanor as tentative, as if he were stepping into a lion's, or a monster's, den. He gave the two girls a weak smile, uncertain and anxious about what the next few minutes might entail. Slowly, he closed the door behind him, a slight tremble visible in his movements.

"What is it that you... er... um... wish of me, Lady Seraphina?" Ibn asked with the utmost caution.

Lady Seraphina de Sariens stood with her hands on her hips, gazing at the boy with emerald eyes as hard as granite. "Why, Ibn, with that attitude, I'd suspect you've done something wrong!" she remarked, laughing prettily at his discomfort.

"No, no, Ibn," she said, patting his head as if he were a cute dog, even scratching under his chin. "I wish to reward you."

The boy blushed under her attention, any negative thoughts he had of her melting away like wax under a hot sun.

"This is a little something I made... I hope it's to your liking," Seraphina said with a sweet smile, retrieving a small parcel wrapped in pink ribbons from Eloise's cluttered dressing table. She moved with care, so as not to disturb the array of alchemical equipment—alembics, calcinators, retorts, and other miscellanea.

Ibn's eyes fixed on the parcel warily, as if it were a poisonous snake.

"Oh, don't be such a baby, Ibn. I just made you some cookies!" the blonde girl laughed. "Open it up, have a bite, and tell me what you think!"

Ibn gulped nervously.

"Oh yes, Ibn, do tell!" Eloise encouraged, touching his shoulder.

For a moment, he felt as if he'd been lured into an ogre's lair. Under their expectant gazes, he could do nothing but open the parcel, revealing perfect golden cookies. Of course, he'd heard stories of the Fae and their tricks with food—it was probably all an illusion, the biscuits' true nature being something like coal.

He reached for a cookie, closed his eyes, and took a bite. A subtle explosion of flavor blossomed in his mouth. He could taste rare Caru nuts, coarse wheat flour, and a creamy texture all intermingling to create perhaps the best cookie he'd ever tasted—not that he'd had many cookies before.

And that was fortunate, for Seraphina had ensured these were the exact type of cookies Este Lize had made for Ibn in the original story. The cookies he was eating now were not made by her directly—her first batch had been unsatisfactory, so she'd delegated their creation to Catherina—but in spirit, she had made them herself. 

*****

Seraphina knew she needed a different sort of mount to face the upcoming challenge—something that was a weapon in its own right. And that was her father’s warhorse, Kicker.

In other words, the Aranthian equivalent of an expensive sports car.

She could not help but smirk wryly at the unimaginative name her father had bestowed upon the stallion. Duke Anatoli had a remarkable lack of creativity when it came to naming. Kicker, a destrier bred for war, was a towering sixteen hands of raw muscle, intelligence, and aggression. His coat was sleek chestnut, gleaming under any light, and his mane flowed like a dark river. An aura of barely restrained power surrounded him; the stallion looked every bit as dangerous as his reputation suggested. The beast was infamous in the stables for biting stablehands and delivering kicks that had sent more than one groom to the infirmary.

Veteran stablehands had tried to warn the young Lady Seraphina about the devil in horseflesh, their eyes wide with genuine concern. They whispered tales of his viciousness, of how even the bravest among them approached his stall with trepidation. They insisted that Kicker allowed no one but the Lord Duke Anatoli to ride him, but Seraphina would have none of it.

After all, the key to improving Skills in this world was novelty, and what could be more novel than riding a new horse—especially one as formidable as Kicker? With her features set in lines of determination, she strode purposefully toward the stall, her boots echoing against the cobblestone floor. The scent of hay and leather filled the air, but beneath it lurked the metallic tang of challenge.

She reached the stall door and paused, locking eyes with the snorting warhorse that fixed her with his dark, intelligent gaze. The moment stretched—a silent battle of wills. The stallion pawed the ground, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling beneath his glossy coat.

Steeling herself, she entered the stable with an air of authority, her hard emerald eyes never leaving the stallion. Kicker snorted, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her with suspicion. The space between them was tense, crackling with an unspoken challenge. It was as if the very atmosphere held its breath, waiting to see who would make the first move.

"Enough of this nonsense," she muttered, stomping her foot hard against the stable floor with all her considerable Strength. The impact reverberated through wood and stone, causing the walls to tremble and dust to drift from the rafters. Kicker shied back, startled by the sudden quake, his nostrils flaring wider as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Panic flickered in his eyes, but there was something else—a spark of recognition. The scent of the girl carried traces of his master, the Duke, giving him pause.

But the hesitation was fleeting. Instinct and training kicked in; the stallion prepared to rear up and lash out at this impudent human. Muscles coiled like springs, ready to unleash fury. Before he could strike, however, Seraphina moved with all her considerable speed. Her hand darted out like a striking viper, delivering a firm slap to his muzzle. The sharp crack echoed in the confined space. The shock of the action froze him, and in that moment, she seized his forelocks, pulling him down with a Strength that belied her slender frame, forcing him to the stable floor.

The proud warhorse trembled, his fierce spirit warring with an unfamiliar feeling of submission. Seraphina's grip was unrelenting, but not cruel, and her calm gaze kept boring into his own. Her breath was steady, her heartbeat unwavering—a stark contrast to the chaos raging within him. Against all the odds, the warhorse wanted to bolt and flee from this horrid situation.

Slowly, Serphina’s other hand produced something small and sweet. A sugar cube was forced into the horse’s mouth, then another. Kicker hesitated, his confusion palpable, but the sweetness overwhelmed his resistance. The granules melted on his tongue, a simple pleasure cutting through his turmoil. By the fifth sugar cube, fear and aggression melted away, replaced by cautious curiosity.

"You're a good boy," she said softly, her voice honeyed but edged with sharp steel. The tone transcended language, transcended species, and Kicker understood. There was praise in her voice but also a dire warning. He recognized the authority, the strength, the unyielding will.

The stallion snorted, a low whinny escaping in reluctant assent. He would obey—for now.

"That's better," Seraphina murmured, releasing her hold on his forelocks. She stepped back gracefully, allowing him to rise. The tension between them had shifted, and as she rubbed his muzzle, Kicker felt something strange—a forgotten sensation from his youth. Happiness. Pure, unguarded joy at this little human's regard. Even animals, it seemed, were not immune to the girl’s unbridled Charisma.

For the first time in years, the warhorse felt pride not born of dominance but of connection. Seraphina smiled, her touch gentle now as she admired his Strength and beauty. Kicker, for all his fire, found himself lowering his head to her, an unspoken truce forming between them. He quested for more sugary treats from those delicate porcelain hands, his massive frame seeming almost docile.

"Good boy," she repeated, her smile widening. "We are going to do so many great things together, you and I."

With a fluid motion, she swung herself onto his back with ease, mounting the mountain of horseflesh bareback. The warmth of his body radiated through her, the power beneath palpable. With a soft kick, she guided him to start moving.

As they emerged from the stables, the sunlight glinted off Kicker's fine coat. Together, they made an imposing sight—a warrior princess and her warhorse, both exuding an aura of raw physicality and strength.

"Have Kicker saddled with half-barding. I will be leaving within half an hour," the blonde girl commanded the gaping stablehands from atop her mount, her voice firm and carrying. The stablehands exchanged astonished glances before scrambling to obey.

Chapter 28 - The Ill-made Knight

Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

- Franz Kafka.

He was in the throes of joy and despair. How could such a simple thing bring  all these emotions about? His employer, Myeong Mirae, the de facto president of the most powerful conglomerate in the country, had remembered his name.

It was a small thing, yet the greatest of things. Mirae was famous for not remembering anyone unless they were significant. He had observed her over countless hours; his entire life's focus was her. Added to this was an amalgamation of other details, like Mirae no longer doing her morning yoga routine, or the fact that she had taken up completely new hobbies like fencing and archery and had excelled at them almost immediately. Not to mention her recent interest… in gambling. From casinos to underground fights, he had accompanied her to all of these places.

He understood her, perhaps in ways that she did not understand herself. His mistress had changed, and he had a feeling she was not the same.

He opened the door to his home, taking off his shoes before throwing his coat onto the small brown leather sofa. He took a deep breath, drinking in the reinvigorating aura of the place. The man's small apartment was a shrine to her existence. Nestled in a quiet corner of the city, the space was dimly lit by soft, ambient lights that cast a warm glow over the walls adorned with her images. Every inch was dedicated to Mirae. High-quality prints of her magazine covers, candid photos he had taken from afar, and posters from her old world tours covered the walls like wallpaper.

On a polished mahogany shelf rested framed items he treasured most. Among them were delicate pieces of her clothing—silk scarves, lace gloves, and even her small clothes—that he had meticulously collected over the years. He had retrieved them from her discarded belongings, taking great care to ensure no one noticed their absence. 

There was a crumpled note she had discarded, now smoothed out and encased. A piece of her creative thoughts, it bore her elegant handwriting—a list of song lyrics she had been working on. He had salvaged it from the trash, seeing poetry where she had seen only refuse. Words that were for him alone. Each item was a part of her story, fragments that he alone had the privilege and the right to cherish.

His collection extended to more conventional memorabilia: signed autographs, limited-edition merchandise, and every version of the game her subsidiary company had released, The Maiden of the Wisterias. He owned them all on every available platform. Not because he enjoyed games, but because possessing them felt necessary to complete his devotion. Rumors swirled on social media that one of the characters was based on Mirae's likeness. It was all not because he was a common pervert, as society might label him; that was not the reason he accumulated such treasures; no, it was because he truly loved her. What he felt for her was no mere lust—it was a profound passion that only poets could begin to describe. It was deep. They were meant to be together, and this was no mere obsession.

Since he was a boy, before her rise to fame when her songs had captured the world, he had loved her.

They had been classmates and neighbors in elementary school, two lonely souls who found solace in each other's company. His own mother had been violent and Mirae's mother was no better, often being absent or lost in a drunken stupor. This left the poor angel to fend for herself more often than not. 

He remembered how he had taken her hand, and together they would escape to the nearby park while her mother lay passed out; he remembered the gentle rustling of leaves overhead as they played beneath the old maple tree. They shared secrets and dreams, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of the city. No matter how the others had tried to bully him for being friends with the dark and gloomy girl, he had been her confidant, her protector during those times. Her rock. Those memories were etched into his heart, forming a bond that, for him, could never be broken.

Mirae belonged to him. Only to him. Then she had moved, her mother running away from the creditors that were hounding her. She left his world and in that one fell swoop, his world had been destroyed.

They say a love born in youth is destined to fade, but theirs defied that notion. He felt they were bound by a thread of fate—delicate as a gossamer cobweb, yet unbreakable as a thick cable of steel. 

And Sung Sang-woo was not easily broken. The destruction of his world had given him something that people in this day and age searched for blindly with both hands. Motivation. 

He had sworn that day so long ago that he would find her and become a man worthy of her. Her Protector. He would become her knight.

To that end, Sang-woo would have to become the best of the best. Had become the best of the best.

He took a deep breath, centering himself as he pulled himself back from thoughts of the troubled past. He was happy now. Fate had led him back to her.

The man moved to the kitchen area, the one small space in his apartment that was relatively devoid of Mirae-focused goods. 

He could have lived in a more spacious apartment; indeed, he could have resided on the estate itself. His salary was generous, bolstered by the smart investments gleaned from the privileged information he accessed by being close to someone who could move the nation. But a smaller space allowed him to focus on what was important. There was a profound elegance in simplicity. Besides, living in the main house carried the risk of the other staff misunderstanding his devotion to Mirae.

His eyes turned to another picture of his love. Mirae, of course, had her critics—those who could not fathom the workings of a goddess. They called her cruel and callous. Inhuman. They simply could not grasp the perfection that was divine, limited as they were by their tiny minds. Gods were above such things, such human flaws. A storm did not care what lives it disrupted, yet it possessed a fierce natural beauty all its own.

Sang-woo pulled out his laptop and booted it up. Mirae’s public relationship staff, and they were legion, could not fight the darker war on her behalf. There in the hidden places of the world wide web, Mirae’s champion resumed his own battle behind the screen, unleashing verbal fire on the online trolls who dared to sully Mirae's name. His fingers flew across the keys, determined and sure.

Yet, he felt troubled as he read vicious comment after vicious comment. Rumor after half-baked rumor. It caused him to pause and think. Lately, unease had begun to creep into his mind. Mirae was changing in ways he could not quite comprehend. The woman he had devoted his life to seemed different—her habits altered, her routines disrupted. Yet, when he tried to pinpoint the discrepancies, they slipped through his fingers like smoke. Why?

He continued his war for a few more hours before sleep called to him, for even the mightiest of warriors must rest.

******

The next morning, as Sang-woo pulled the car up to the grand entrance of the estate, he watched her descend the marble steps with her usual grace. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the morning light, her black hair flowing elegantly over her shoulders. Her secretary, Hana, followed closely, tablet in hand, listing off appointments.

"Good morning, Miss Myeong," he said, opening the car door for her.

She paused ever so slightly, her doll-like features turning toward him. "Good morning, Sang-woo," she replied, her voice smooth but distant. “Take us by the river before we go to the office. I want to pass by the new apartments.”

As they navigated through the bustling streets, he stole glances at her through the rearview mirror as they approached the Han river. She was reviewing documents on her phone, her eyes focused yet somehow detached. Summoning his courage, he decided to test her subtly.

"Miss Myeong," he began cautiously with a wide smile, "I was thinking about your very first concert. The song 'Promise the World' still moves me every time I hear it."

It was the first step Mirae had taken to get a voice that simply could not be silenced, censored, or brushed under the carpet like her mother had been. Years later, a paternity test would rock the very foundations of the country and pave the way to her meteoric rise to power.

She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Yes, 'Promise the World, a fine song,'" she echoed. "It was a pivotal moment in my career."

Hana mumbled some inane words of praise that he ignored.

Mirae’s words were correct, but there was something mechanical about the way she said them—as if she were reciting facts rather than reminiscing. There was no spark of nostalgia, none of the warmth one might expect when recalling a truly significant personal achievement. Clinical.

He felt a chill run down his spine. "Do you remember how the audience lit up with glow sticks? It was quite the sight."

She nodded lightly. "I recall the sea of lights. It was... inspiring."

Again, the response was appropriate, yet devoid of genuine emotion. As if she were an actor in a play. If he were to put a finger on it, it was as if she had read about the event rather than lived it. Not to mention… there was something off with her choice of words.

He tried once more, smiling slightly. "And that little girl who gave you the handmade necklace backstage. You wore it for the rest of the concert."

For a brief moment, a flicker of confusion crossed her eyes before she composed herself. "Yes, the necklace. It was a touching gesture."

Behind her thick-framed glasses, Hana's expression tightened ever so slightly. Like him, Mirae's secretary knew her mistress's history all too well. He had cultivated a casual intimacy with her; she was a reliable source of information. Beside the radiant Mirae, Hana seemed almost plain, yet she possessed an allure all her own. He grinned to himself—Hana always wore her dark brown hair in a tight bun, and he was probably the only man who had seen it cascade freely. The secretary harbored a fierce jealousy toward Mirae, yet was also somewhat infatuated with her employer.

He knew that no such event had taken place, and, most likely, so did Hana. There had been no little girl, no necklace. Though he had not been in her service at the time, he had been there, watching her every move from a distance. She had not caught his fabrication, and her acknowledgment felt hollow. Perhaps she was merely distracted, responding automatically without giving it much thought.

They arrived at the corporate headquarters, a vast edifice of capitalism and the center of Mirae’s empire. He opened the door for her, and she stepped out without a word, surrounded by bowing executives. Her secretary, clutching a bundle of files, trailed behind.

*****

That evening, he returned to his small fortress and oasis in the city, the weight of uncertainty pressing upon him. Surrounded by her images and possessions, he sought solace in the familiar. He traced his fingers over the glass frames that held her garments, feeling a connection he could not find elsewhere.

He sat down at his cluttered desk, illuminated by the soft glow of a single lamp. Opening an old notebook, he began to jot down his observations, meticulously noting every inconsistency, every subtle change. The pages were dedicated to her—the nuances of her expressions, the cadence of her voice, the way she tilted her head when deep in thought.

Flipping back through the pages, he noticed a pattern. The changes had begun shortly after she took up fencing and archery. Activities she had never shown interest in before, yet now excelled at effortlessly.

The worried man recalled stories from his childhood—tales of spirits and otherworldly beings that could inhabit a person's form. Could it be that his Mirae had been replaced? Or had it been aliens? The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. It would explain the disconnect he sensed.

Determined to uncover the truth, he devised a plan. He was going to gather more evidence, observe her more closely. If she had been taken over by another entity, he would find a way to bring her back. But was he mad for imagining such a thing in the first place?

The next day, he paid extra attention to every detail. As he drove her to various meetings, he tactfully engaged her in conversation, carefully selecting topics only she would know intimately.

"Miss Myeong, do you remember visiting the orphanage last year? The children were so delighted," Hana remarked gently.

Mirae glanced up, her expression unreadable. "It was a fulfilling experience," she replied with a faint smile. After a brief pause, she added, "Yes, it was in Guryong Village."

She seemed lost in thought. "We had Guryong Village demolished first, to make way for an orphanage," she half-murmured.

The details were indeed correct, but there was something slightly off. His heart sank. The pattern was clear—she knew the facts of her life but lacked any personal connection to them.

*****

That evening, after dropping her off, he lingered at the estate under the guise of performing maintenance on the vehicle. He watched from a distance as she moved through the well-lit rooms, her silhouette passing by the grand windows.

He made his way to a side entrance, slipping smoothly inside. A faint smile played on his lips as he passed the housekeeping staff, their hushed, excited whispers trailing in his wake. He paid them no mind, letting the familiarity of the halls soothe his nerves. Each step brought him closer to her private study, the one place where answers might finally await him.

The study was immaculate, every item placed with precision. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on a leather-bound journal resting on a large desk made from fossilized wood and inlaid with mother of pearl. His hands trembled as he opened it, revealing pages filled with Mirae’s elegant handwriting.

He flipped through it… finding nothing strange…  nothing of note. Then it hit him like a lightning bolt: she would have never written her thoughts down in a physical journal.

Quickly, he made his way back home and, in the solitude of his sanctuary, he prepared himself for the challenges ahead. He was going to delve into the unknown, face whatever forces had taken her, and restore the goddess to her rightful place. For his love was not a mere obsession—it was a devotion that transcended reason, a bond that even the supernatural could not break.

*****

Sang-woo’s suspicions only grew as the days slowly turned into agonizing weeks. Mirae’s responses, her actions, even her presence—everything about her felt slightly off. Like a puzzle where all the pieces fit but the picture was wrong. Yet, he was determined. A knight does not question his quest; he charges forward, metaphorical sword drawn, no matter the odds. He would save Mirae.

*****

The day it happened was like any other. Sang-woo had just opened the door for Mirae at a charity gala, her presence commanding the room as always. The cameras of the press hungered for her, lenses snapping like wolves' jaws, desperate to devour every fragment of her radiance. She wore a flowing gown of midnight silk, the fabric catching the light like dark water.

The charity gala was opulent, a temple to excess, and the city’s elite were its supplicants. Chandeliers dripped with light, laughter tinkled like glass, and the wine flowed as freely as the empty compliments. Mirae moved among them with practiced ease, a raven gliding through doves. She spoke in low, measured tones, her beauty a weapon as effective as any weapon had ever been.

Sang-woo’s sharp eyes caught a figure moving through the crowd—a man whose presence rippled against the gala’s smooth surface. His suit was unremarkable, his tie the wrong shade for the occasion, but it was his eyes that betrayed him. They burned with the smoldering embers of old pain and fresh rage.

The man’s focus was unyielding, his gaze fixed on Mirae like a predator stalking prey.

Sang-woo shifted closer, the instinct of a bodyguard and his military training overriding all else. He saw the man’s hand dip into his jacket and knew before he saw it what was there. The Daewoo K5 emerged—a pistol too familiar, the weapon of an officer. Sang-woo’s breath caught and saw it for what it was, the death promise.

“Your greed killed her!” the man roared, his voice raw as a wound. “She trusted your poison, and it took her! Yuna, my Yuna!”

Mirae turned, her head tilting just so, her expression calm, almost curious. Even as the barrel of the gun rose to meet her, she stood unmoving, porcelain and marble all at once.

Sang-woo did not think. Knights do not think when their duty calls—they act.

He moved between them, his steps swift, his body interposing itself as the man’s finger pulled the trigger.

The gun’s report tore through the gala’s fragile mask of civility.

Pain hit Sang-woo like a hammer, spreading outwards from his chest in a wave of fire and ice. His knees failed him, the world tilting as he sank to the ground. Mirae did not scream. She did not flinch. She simply watched, her eyes cold and calculating, her mask unbroken even as his life seeped out onto the polished floor.

Through the haze of agony and the growing dark, Sang-woo looked up at her one last time. In her gaze, he found no gratitude, no grief—only a distant acknowledgment, as though he were but another pawn removed from her board.

Darkness swept him under, cold and absolute.

*****

When Sang-woo opened his eyes, he was no longer at the gala. He found himself in a stark, white room where the walls stretched endlessly, glowing faintly as if lit from within. The air was silent, thick with an otherworldly stillness.

He sat up abruptly, his hand instinctively reaching for his chest. There was no blood, no wound—just a strange emptiness.

"Am I... dead?" he whispered into the void.

The room offered no answers, only oppressive quiet.

"Is this the afterlife?" he murmured, rising unsteadily to his feet.

He turned, and behind him stood a figure—a woman with flowing black hair and eyes as dark as the abyss. She resembled Mirae, but something about her was different. Mirae, for all her beauty, was not quite this... voluptuous. This woman radiated an aura of power, and her gaze pierced straight through him.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling.

The woman smiled faintly, her features shifting and becoming fluid. Was that his mother? Her smile held all the warmth of deep winter.

"You may call me Iasis, the Mother," she answered in a tone both wistful and mocking. Tossing her head, she let out a long, drawn-out sigh, playing with a strand of ebony hair. She held his gaze and he felt the full force of her scrutiny. "I see… You fancy yourself a Knight in your heart of hearts, yet you know nothing of the real war to come."

Sang-woo's heart raced. "What do you mean? What is all of this? Where is Mirae? Is she safe?" he asked desperately.

The woman tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Safe? No. But she is where she must be, and so are you. This is a place where a choice must be made."

Her words sent a chill coursing through him.

"Your devotion has brought you here, Sang-woo. Now you must decide—will you continue to follow blindly, or will you see the truth for what it is? Or will you, instead, choose to rest?" Iasis intoned.

As her words echoed in the vast emptiness, Sang-woo felt the weight of his past, his choices, and his unwavering loyalty pressing down on him. It could not end here.

"Please, just take me to her, or at least tell me where she is..." he begged, falling to his knees. "Please, if you are a goddess or if this is my judgment, give me a chance. I will do anything."

"Oh, you will, will you?" the strange woman purred, her voice throaty and seductive. "I wonder, will that twisted heart of yours lead you down the same path? Will you find what you are looking for? Will you be able to save what you hold dear? You are most fortunate that your Resonance wishes for oblivion and you wish for life. This will make things easier."

Her expression grew serious, her voice now filled with deep gravitas. "If you will bear my Mark, first... you must choose."

Just as he was about to voice another question, his vision exploded into stars as a wave of disorientation washed over him. When his senses cleared, he found himself holding a tablet—an honest-to-goodness stone tablet inscribed with archaic runes and symbols. Against his will, his fingers traced the script, and it offered him a choice. A choice he knew in his bones was based on all of his experiences.

As Sang-woo's fingers glided over the ancient tablet, images began to materialize around him, swirling like mist before solidifying into vivid scenes. Each scene depicted a different path, a different destiny—each one a reflection of a facet of his soul and an aspect of the life he had left.

The word Pugilist appeared on the surface of the stone, and he became a bare-knuckled fighter standing alone in an arena, his muscles coiled like steel springs. The crowd roared as the fighter dodged blows with fluid grace, every punch a symphony of power and precision. Sang-woo felt the raw physicality resonate within him, reminding him of countless hours spent honing his body into a weapon. He remembered the tenets of Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-Control, and Indomitable Will. But this path was not for him, and so he rejected it.

The words across the stone surface changed, shifted to form the words, Rogue. Sang-woo emerged from the shadows—a figure cloaked in darkness, slipping unnoticed through enemy lines. Daggers gleamed under the moonlight as the Rogue dispatched foes with silent efficiency. The thrill of stealth and cunning strategy stirred memories of covert missions, where one wrong move could mean the difference between life and death. But, just like Pugilist, it was not the correct choice.

Again the words shifted, and the word for Warrior appeared in a language he did not know but could somehow read. He became an armor-clad figure who wielded a massive weapon that cleaved the very air. Charging into battle with a roar,  he was unafraid of the onslaught before him. Leadership, bravery, and sacrifice—all values Sang-woo held dear—manifested in this vision.

Wizard was the next word. He became a scholarly figure surrounded by towering bookshelves filled with arcane tomes. This vision was superimposed over him studying in front of a screen, long hours in the pursuit of the perfection of knowledge to pass the national exams. With a wave of his hand, he summoned elemental forces, weaving spells that bent reality itself. Knowledge is power, a voice whispered, and Sang-woo felt a pang of longing for understanding the mysteries that eluded him. There was power here, true power, but it was not him. He could sense the madness behind its call.

There was chaos as the words struggled to form, Barbarian. A force of nature unleashed. Wild, untamed, wielding primal fury as its weapon. He fought not with strategy but with sheer will and overwhelming strength. Sang-woo recognized the raw emotion, the unbridled passion that sometimes simmered beneath his disciplined exterior. But he would need control if he was to accomplish his mission.

The word for Knight formed. He stepped forward, a shining figure adorned in ornate armor and bearing a shield emblazoned with a noble crest. As a Knight he stood tall before a besieged castle, protecting the innocent and fighting for justice. In the Knight's reflection of the Knight’s blade, Sang-woo saw his own reflection staring back at him. There was no resonance, but it was what he had always wanted to be.

"Choose," Iasis' voice echoed, softer now, almost gentle. "Each path is a fragment of who you are, yet only one of them is the one you can walk."

Sang-woo's mind raced. Each option called to him, representing different chapters of his life and different skills he had mastered. But his heart knew only one true path.

"I choose the Knight," he declared firmly, his voice echoing.

"Then so be it," Iasis said softly. "Your choice is made, and your path is set. As long as you bear my Mark, seek your heart’s desire, you will find it."

The white room began to fade, dissolving into darkness, and he found himself lying on cold, grimy cobblestones. The stench of sewage and smoke filled the narrow alley, where refuse piled against aged stone walls slick with moisture. Dim light from the evening sun struggled down here, casting long shadows that muddied his vision.

A sharp pain jolted him to full awareness. He looked down to see a rusted knife lodged in his chest, his heartbeat pounding around the intrusive metal. Panicked, he looked around… against all of his training, and the greater part of common sense, he grasped the hilt with trembling hands and pulled.  The blade slid free, and to his astonishment, the wound began to close—slowly but steadily.

Breathing heavily, he stood up unsteadily. His clothes were unfamiliar; a simple linen tunic, breeches, and worn boots caked with mud and dirt. Distant sounds of a bustling marketplace reached his ears: vendors shouting, cart wheels creaking, horses neighing. 

"Where am I?" he whispered, his breath forming a mist in the chilly air. 

Only silence answered him.

The reality of his situation sank in—this was not his world. Was this the afterlife? He remembered dying, the round hitting his chest where the knife had been lodged… which was real?

Insanity threatened to claim him. He racked his mind searching for a point of reference. Searching for anything, searching for a name.

"Lost, are we? A noble lad like you been out slumming," a gruff voice asked from behind. “I can hel…”

He felt the threat laced in the words and acted before thinking. Spinning around, he drove the knife into the stranger’s chest. The man—a dirty peasant, or perhaps a common criminal—gasped in shock. For good measure, he stabbed him again. And then, just to be sure, he struck a third time.

A strange message flashed across his vision, but he ignored it.

“Sir! Sir!” A shout echoed from somewhere nearby. He tensed, bracing for another fight. But the tone was not threatening.

Footsteps approached, and a young voice called again. This time, unfamiliar memories rose in his mind, whispering that the voice belonged to someone he knew: his Squire.

The boy came into view—a young man just shy of adulthood, his round cheeks still carrying traces of baby fat. He was stocky but not overly so, and his face was flushed from exertion.

“What happened, sir?” the Squire asked breathlessly.

An unbidden whisper in his head told him that this one’s name was Alain. “The peasant attacked me,” he replied in a gravelly and deep voice that was not his.

“Yes, sir. Evil things,” Alain agreed with a nervous nod, his head bobbing like a puppet’s. “It is good that you exacted the King’s Justice. As is your right, of course,” he added hastily, noticing the confusion on his master’s face.

“Check him,” the man commanded. “See if he carries anything of value to compensate for my… distress.”

Though his name eluded him, his purpose did not. Somewhere in this strange, new world, his lady waited for him. She was his purpose. He took a steadying breath, allowing the weight of responsibility to settle on his shoulders. 

If this was the path to her, he would walk it without hesitation.

Chapter 29 - The Rescue

The age of chivalry is not yet dead, merely forgotten.

- by Unknown.

Riding her father's warhorse, one gloved hand gripping a halberd resting in a lance cup, was an entirely different experience. Unlike the smooth gait of her own palfrey, every powerful stride of the massive steed surged beneath Seraphina like a tempest. The raw strength of the horse between her thighs stirred something within her—a thrill she had not felt in ages.

If her calculations were correct, they were now nearing the spot where the Prince would soon be ambushed by ‘bandits.’

Behind her trailed her honor guard: Sergeant Frest and the two brothers, alongside her lady-in-waiting, Eloise, and her maid, Miriam. That was more than enough to handle a few lowly brigands. Convincing them to set out without a full squadron of her father's men-at-arms had been the true challenge. She had brushed their concerns aside, insisting that speed was of the essence, her raw Charisma quelling their doubts. In truth, it was because she needed as much experience as possible and venturing out with a large number of men would have robbed her of much of that.

They traveled along a paved road that once wound through gentle farmlands. Now, the idyllic fields had given way to dense forest; towering trees stretched their gnarled branches overhead, casting the path in dappled shadows. Gradually, Seraphina began to hear it. The distant clash of steel and the sound of men dying pierced through the rhythmic clatter of hooves.

She raised her gloved hand, signaling for her small party to halt. Timing was everything; she had to intervene at the most opportune moment. It would not do for the Prince and his retinue to be insufficiently grateful—or, worse, to blame her father for allowing bandits to roam his lands unchecked. So she deemed it prudent to wait a moment longer, allowing the horses and her party to catch their breath.

Sergeant Frest nudged his mount beside hers, his expression caught between a grin and a frown. "So, milady, seems we've found the trouble you were seeking. You didn't have a hand in arranging this, did you?"

Seraphina met his gaze with icy calm. "And if I did?"

He shrugged lightly. "Not my affair. I serve and obey, milady."

She sighed softly. "I had no part in this ambush, but I intend to put an end to it."

"And... how did you know?" Frest pressed.

"Still doubting me, are you, Frest?" she replied, a hint of challenge in her voice.

"Mi… Milady Seraphina," Miriam ventured cautiously, "perhaps the Corporal, I mean Sergeant, is simply concerned. Shouldn't we leave this to the Prince's guard? If it is the Prince... Not that I doubt you, of course..."

The two brothers nodded at this.

"Eloise," Seraphina commanded, cutting Miriam off, "you will stay back and support Frest and me with your magics. The two brothers and Miriam will protect you." She dismissed her maid's apprehension with a flick of her eyes.

"I'm not certain what kind of help Miriam will be..." Eloise murmured.

"Another body between you and a crossbow bolt is always useful," Seraphina said coolly, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Eloise could only shrug her delicate shoulders, while Miriam's face paled with worry.

"Don't fret about Miriam," Seraphina added. "She's much tougher than she appears. It would take more than a bolt or two to send her across the Shallow River. We advance—slowly." Indeed,  not only did a Palisa Slug have the ability to assume a human form, but it also possessed an exceptionally high Constitution.

The former heir to a conglomerate had spent so long in this world, her memories entwined so closely with her new body, that the local nomenclature came naturally to her now. More than that, she was beginning to think of herself as Seraphina.

But that was neither here nor there.

They ventured forth, the clamor of battle growing louder with every second. Seraphina caught sight of a few rough-looking men locked in combat with the Prince’s guard. The guard was fighting desperately, valiantly protecting a carriage. It could only be the royal carriage, for it was adorned with intricate carvings of mythical beasts and glimmering gold trim and bore the kingdom's crest proudly on its doors. 

As she had foreseen, the Prince had chosen to travel ahead of the main body of his royal train, eager to settle the matter of his formal engagement swiftly.

Seraphina was not sure whether to feel irritated or flattered by his haste. Was it his eagerness for her hand, or merely a desire to get this business over with so he could return to his life of indulgent idleness? She shook her head, dismissing the thought. What she had not expected, however, was the sheer number of bandits attacking the beleaguered guards.

This was not a simple ambush or attack—it reeked of planning, of intervention. It reeked of her mother’s meddling.

The Royal Guard, among the finest in the kingdom, was composed of the spare scions of the noble families of Aranthia. Usually third or second sons, many were former adventurers of the Gold or elite army veterans. Ostensibly the best of the best, they now looked on the verge of being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of men on horse and foot arrayed against them.

Except for one man.

At the center of the fray was a lone island of martial might: an armored warrior clad in the white-gold armor of a Royal Guard officer, his plumed open helm revealing a visage of cold focus. Mounted atop a midnight-black warhorse that nearly rivaled her own Kicker, he fought like a force of nature. His heavy cavalry saber swung with the power of an angry god, smashing through shields and crushing helmets with such force that the blade might as well have been a heavy warhammer. Men fell left and right beneath his blows as he brained them, cut, stabbed, or simply cleaved bandits in two with calculated abandon. Where he rode they were shattered, smashed down by his strong arm, or trampled under the ironshod hooves of his horse.

The young girl felt her heart quicken, but she was unsure whether it was the adrenaline coursing in her veins at the prospect of battle… or something else entirely. She advanced at a fast trot, Sergeant Frest covering her reluctantly. 

Seraphina began to spin her sling in a figure of eight, letting a swarm of stones loose into the melee. The stones were indiscriminate, punching through bandits and smacking against the heavy plate of the royal guard alike. Half a moment later, Frest let loose a bolt from his heavy crossbow, felling a bandit on foot.

You have slain a human. 30 experience gained.

You have slain a human. 30 experience gained.

You have slain a human. 55 experience gained.

Let the harvest begin, she thought, a sly smile tugging at her lips as she reached into her saddlebag. Using the enlarged cup, she scooped out more stones, her fingers steady despite the chaos around her. Once again, she spun her sling in a practiced arc and unleashed another volley of death into the fray.

You have slain a human. 20 experience gained.

You have slain a human. 25 experience gained.

You have slain a human. 30 experience gained.

You have slain a horse. 10 experience gained.

This time a horse went down along with its rider, its death song high and keening. The bandits had taken notice now and eyed her as a true threat. What was meant to be a simple operation had turned into a complicated mess with the emergence of this new problem that Seraphina represented for them.

A small group of bandits on horseback, clad in an eclectic mix of armor and gear of various quality, wheeled around to face her. Breaking away from the main force, they charged toward Seraphina and Frest, intent on cutting them down.

Across the battlefield, the warrior atop the midnight-black steed turned his gaze toward the approaching bandits. Even from a distance, Seraphina could almost feel the icy, focused intensity in his aura—a passion so cold and unyielding it bordered on the mechanical. 

Indeed, he was a machine honed for war.

With his monster of a mount, he pushed past the general melee and also headed in her direction. Seraphina hastily loaded another heavy handful of stones. She was still not used to Kicker’s gait; the bumpiness disrupted her aim. However, at this range, she only needed a rough guess to hit the bandit horsemen approaching her. Hedging her bets, she instead aimed for their mounts.

They fell amidst screams, rolling horseflesh and clashing limbs. The warrior continued onward, jumping over the scrum and decapitating a bandit who had the temerity to get up. Thinking he considered her a threat, Seraphina started to shout that she was a friend and ally... but the man's attention seemed elsewhere. As he drew close, their eyes met for the tiniest fraction of a moment, but it seemed to her that the moment stretched. She saw with almost perfect clarity that he had a face that could have been chiseled from marble—features both hard and soft, which could have been called beautiful or handsome depending on the angle. Eyes the color of deep sapphire... Then time rushed back, bringing everything into stark focus.

And then she saw it—the true object of the warrior’s attention: the other pincer of the bandits' attack, another group heading toward where Eloise and her escort were. The girl’s attention was entirely focused on her chanting, on her entreaty to the very Earth, and Seraphina could only hope that she had noticed this new threat. 

Her maid Miriam seemed almost animalistic, at times dropping to all fours as she charged the new threat. She fought with unyielding ferocity, her cudgel carving arcs that shattered bones. Unfazed by the wounds inflicted upon her, her monstrous Constitution allowed her to endure the blows without faltering. When her weapon was knocked from her grasp, she seized a broken sword, its pitted edge still dangerous enough. Her relentless efforts were buying the girl precious moments.

But even the monstrous Palisa Slug could only hold so many people at bay, and some of the bandits managed to break through.

Against all reason, it looked like the peerless warrior had chosen to come to Eloise’s rescue instead of defending the Crown Prince. The new group of bandits numbered a score or more, and it was doubtful that he, no matter how skilled, would be able to fend them off all at once.

However, it did not seem that such fickle things as the odds being against him would stop him from trying. Her breath stilled for a moment as she watched him charge the new group on his horse. Her heart went out to him, and she felt torn. The logical part of her mind demanded attention, and, though she wanted to pay it no heed, she was forced to listen.

The dashingly handsome man had all but abandoned his post, and now the other Royal Guards were most definitely in hot water.

She needed to stop gawking and focus on her mission.

“Frest, it is time that we save the Prince. Stay back and engage with that crossbow of yours, and harry their flanks. Once they break, go back and help the others,” Seraphina commanded. “Kill as many as you can. Retreat if you feel that your life is endangered.”

“I would think just being here puts me pretty much puts me in danger, milady. I feel very endangered, right now,” he responded acerbically. 

“Well then, you had better fight well, Sergeant. I believe in your skills and courage. Show the Royal Guard that it is talent and experience that makes a true warrior. Try not to cross the Shallow River,” she smiled at him, digging gently into Kicker, urging him to full charging gallop as she hooked her sling and drew her halberd from the lance cup.

Behind her Sergeant Frest almost preened in raw pride, before his eyes took on a dangerous glint. He would fight! Damned if I was going to let a slip of a girl show me up, titanic Strength or not, the cynical former bandit thought to himself.

As Kicker thundered forward, Seraphina's heart pounded in rhythm with the horse's hooves. The road was a whirlwind of chaos—clashing steel, anguished cries, and the thick scent of blood filled the air. Her eyes locked onto the royal carriage ahead, besieged by a swarm of bandits.

An arrow whizzed past her ear, but she didn't flinch. Raising her halberd high, she let out a fierce battle cry with the full power of her voice. So loud was her roar that it seemed to momentarily halt the fray. Bandits turned just in time to see her sweeping arc slice through their ranks, the sheer force of the blow sending them reeling.

You have learned Polearms (lvl.1)

You have slain a human. 30 experience gained.

From behind her, Frest unleashed a succession of crossbow bolts. Most of the bolts found their mark, causing confusion among the enemy. "Keep them off balance!" Seraphina shouted, her voice cutting through the din.

She charged deeper into the throng, wielding her halberd one-handed in a blur of deadly motion. Despite her relative inexperience with the weapon, its weight and reach gave her an unexpected advantage. Her raw Strength more than made up for that. The speed and power it lent her blows made sure these crushed through any defense her enemies could offer, and, where skill or experience failed her, the valiant Kicker protected her with savage bites and kicks at men on foot or other lesser horses. The raw Bandits fell back, unsure how to counter this whirlwind of steel and determination.

Reaching the royal carriage, she dismounted in one fluid motion. The door was barricaded from within. Without hesitation, she gripped the handle and tore the door clean off its hinges with a roar. Inside, Prince Velens stared at her, eyes wide with a mix of shock and relief.

Seraphina's gaze locked onto Velens, and for a heartbeat, the chaos around her faded into silence. The Crown Prince was exactly as he had been in the game—a figure pulled from the depths of her imagination. His shoulders were broad beneath his fine cloak, hinting at a strength honed from years of wielding sword and shield. However, his frame remained lean and long-limbed, suggesting an effortless grace.

His short hair fell in waves the color of gold, a touch darker than her own. It framed a face so striking that it seemed almost unfair—a beauty wasted on a man. High cheekbones cut sharply above a strong, clean-shaven jaw. His nose was straight, and his full lips held a perpetual hint of a grin, as if he knew secrets the world had yet to uncover.

But it was his eyes that held her captive in that moment—eyes the deep grey of a coming storm, holding an angry depth. They were the eyes of a young man who had seen too much and yet not enough. Eyes she had seen so many times before, and her heart felt another tug. The treacherous thing! she thought, biting down on her lower lip.

"Seraphina! What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, his voice trembling an octave higher than usual. Despite herself, Seraphina almost laughed.

"There's no time to explain. We have to get you to safety," she replied, extending a bloodied hand. “I guess you had best come with me if you want to live…” 

When she saw his almost tangible reluctance, she decided to change tack. “Actually, stay there for a bit–it might be a bit safer,” she amended, slightly annoyed.

Chapter 30 - The Man in Black

“Timing and arrogance are decisive factors in the successful use of talent.”

- Marya Mannes.

More experience for her then, Seraphina thought gleefully, placing the remains of the carriage door back. The chaos outside had escalated, the melee having now become a whirling storm of steel, blood, and shouts. This was the sort of encounter that, in the game, would have heralded the appearance of a boss character or some other significant twist. But here, her role was different—she was the supposed antagonist of this tale, after all. The rules might not apply.

Gripping her halberd tightly, Seraphina threw herself into the fray. She slashed and stabbed wherever an opening presented itself, chipping away at the bandits’ numbers while the Royal Guard rallied. Nearby, Sergeant Frest was maneuvering with practiced precision, his heavy crossbow cracking with lethal efficiency. Each bolt he fired seemed almost clairvoyant, striking foes Seraphina had not even noticed in the melee.

Suddenly, her path was blocked by a towering figure—a bandit leader, judging by his cleaner, slightly embellished armor and the malicious grin plastered across his face. He was enormous—not quite her father’s height but nearly as broad—and he was carrying a massive battle axe that glinted menacingly. It was a weapon that had seen combat, its blade pitted and worn but deadly sharp.

“This is going to be fun,” he sneered, hefting the axe with ease.

“Get behind me,” Seraphina muttered instinctively before remembering the Prince was still in the carriage, far from harm. She tightened her grip on her halberd, irritation flickering in her eyes.

The bandit leader, whoever he was, wasted no time. He swung his axe in a powerful arc that could have felled a tree. Seraphina leapt back, but the blade nicked her armor, sending sparks flying and shaving a chunk off her Health. Seraphina’s boots skidded, yet she found her balance at the last instant, weight settling into a practiced guard. Her ribs ached beneath the dented cuirass, and she noted that her Health had dropped by twenty points. Grimacing, she countered with a thrust aimed at his chest, but he deflected it with practiced ease, laughing as if this were merely sport.

You have learned Medium Armor (lvl.2)

You have learned Heavy Armor (lvl.1)

Oh well, there was always a silver lining to these things, she thought ruefully as she laughed. Rolling her shoulders, she steadied her breathing, hearing the clash of steel all around her.

“You’ll have to do better than that!” he taunted, almost spitting at her perceived taunt.

From somewhere, a crossbow bolt whistled through the air like a hunting falcon, punching through the mail at his shoulder and embedding itself deep in the bandit leader’s flesh and bone. He roared in pain, momentarily distracted, crimson spraying across the forest floor. Seraphina did not hesitate—she surged forward, driving the butt of her halberd into his gut with enough force to make him double over, breath exploding from his lungs in a wet gasp. With a swift upward swing, this time channeling every ounce of her Strength into a Power Strike, she cleaved through him, steel cutting through ribs with a grisly crack. The leader fell, nearly bisected, his axe clattering to the ground, echoing through the forest like a final, mocking knell.

You have slain a human. You have gained 100 experience.

More for the pot, Seraphina mused, already contemplating where to allocate her points when she leveled up.

The death of their leader sent shockwaves through the bandit ranks. Without his bellowed orders and imposing presence, their morale crumbled. The Royal Guard seized the momentum, their renewed vigor driving some of the bandits back into a retreat. As always, no one wanted to be on the losing side when the tide of battle turned.

Seraphina fought on, her training and raw Strength carrying her through where her less-polished and very much mediocre Skills might have faltered. She was glad that the development team had not emphasized balance for the player experience. 

For a moment, it seemed like victory was within her reach. But, just as relief began to settle over her, an eerie, guttural laugh echoed from beyond the shadows of the trees.

The sound froze everyone in their tracks. Emerging from the shadows of the ancient forest, a cloaked figure stepped forward. His dark robes seemed to writhe, as though alive, and his eyes glowed with an unnatural, malevolent light from beneath his dark cowl. He raised a hand, and tendrils of shadow began to rush outward, wrapping around fallen weapons and corpses like slinking serpents.

“Do not think this is over…” he hissed, his voice a rasp that carried easily over the battlefield. “You cannot escape me so easily. I’ve only just begun to play. My revenge will be had this day… I will delight in your torment!” he promised.

“Who are you?” Seraphina demanded, her halberd held at the ready. Whoever this was, it felt almost like a pantomime in its banal cliches.

“Names are of no consequence to those who are about to die,” the figure replied. “But if you insist, you may call me Shade.”

It took all of Seraphina’s formidable self-control to stop herself from rolling her eyes at him. She wanted to do nothing more than slap him around for his stupid audacity.

The mysterious man raised his hand higher, the shadows around him intensifying, coalescing into monstrous shapes that loomed menacingly. A dark song could be heard, one tinged with notes of oblivion, as Mana formed into the physical realm.

Just as the tension reached its peak, a crossbow bolt suddenly embedded itself squarely in his forehead. The figure froze, his glowing eyes dimming before he collapsed onto the dirt with a dull thud.

If this was supposed to have been the ace in the bandit’s side, then it had been truly badly played.

Sergeant Frest lowered his crossbow, his expression neutral as he trotted up beside her. “Dramatic types,” he muttered, sliding another bolt into place with practiced ease. “Always needing an audience. There’ll be time for speeches once the job’s done.”

As he scanned the battlefield, his eyes landed on a bandit writhing on the ground, clutching a wound. Without hesitation, Frest dismounted and approached. With the detached efficiency of a man completing a mundane chore, he plunged his blade into the bandit’s neck. The motion was fluid, deliberate—done with the same care and effort as someone folding a shirt.

He stood, wiping his knife clean on the bandit’s tunic, and turned back to Seraphina as if nothing had happened.

Seraphina exhaled, rolling her shoulders. “Well, that was certainly anticlimactic,” she agreed. I  wanted that experience! she thought to herself greedily.

“Let’s finish this off and save the day, I guess,” the young girl said with a sigh. There were, after all, a few warm bodies left that could be converted into numbers to help her with her next level up.

“Right behind you, milady!” Frest answered with his usual grin.

She turned her attention back to the remaining bandits, ready to end this fight once and for all.