Book 2: TO&FQ Chapter 26 -38 (RAW) Compiled (Patreon)

Chapter 26 - Demonstrations

Pitching is the art of instilling fear.

- Sandy Koufax.

The trick to great fashion lies in daring to be different—distinctive enough to command attention, yet never so bizarre as to invite ridicule. This unspoken rule of standing out but not alienating is as true in the animal kingdom as it is among civil society, and for most people, it poses a tricky balance. But for the young girl studying her reflection in the full-length mirror, had she been wearing plain cardboard, she would have still outshone the stars in the sky.

By now, her mind and spirit had fully merged into her new body. She marveled at the exquisite harmony; the sweet, untouched innocence woven seamlessly with the bold, provocative curves of burgeoning womanhood. Seraphina could easily see how such beauty and form could stir a man’s deepest instincts, making him ache to both shield and devour her in the same breath.

Her choice of attire was of paramount importance for the upcoming event. The First Year Ball was set to act almost like a debutante ball for Lady Seraphina de Sariens, heir to the Sariens Duchy and the almost-queen-in-waiting. Whispers would follow her every move, so each detail had to be meticulously chosen, from the cut of her gown down to the choice of her shoes.

Even her hair would be cause for rumour. To have cut so short was almost unheard of for a highborn lady. The Lady de Sariens had orchestrated a quiet rumor campaign through the staff in “Milly’s” company, letting the whispers spread far and wide: Seraphina’s bold haircut was a gesture of solidarity with the common folk. In addition to this, she was the only noble willing to sell grain at a fair price since the fires, further fueling her status among the common people.

She smiled to herself as her fingers ran across the cloth before her. Master Wilforte’s skill with fabric and needle was unparalleled. He had presented two of his finest creations for the occasion: one, a striking red gown with alluring, exposed shoulders; the other, a pastel pink piece that clung to her form before flaring in the Empire style, a high slit tastefully revealing her shapely legs. Seraphina wondered if that boldness might teeter on the edge of improper, though a wry smile suggested she relished the idea.

Delicate black kitten heels had already been decided on. Black was the new black. And black, after all, was elegantly versatile. She recalled with amusement the ungainly strides of Meridian City’s ladies, teetering on their heels which had just become a new fashion. The young girl was determined to demonstrate just how effortlessly such footwear could be worn by someone with true poise.

“What do you think, Eloise?” Seraphina asked, glancing at her lady-in-waiting. The doll-like girl wore a carefully schooled expression, but there was no hiding the anxious flutter of her long lashes.

“It is rather bold, Lady Seraphina.” Eloise’s voice was soft as she twisted a loose raven-dark strand between her fingers.

“Good,” Seraphina purred, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “I intend to make quite the statement. Now, Eloise—the red or pink?”

Eloise took a breath, weighing her words. “If I were choosing for myself, I’d lean toward the pink. But for you… if you truly wish to stand out, the red dress will be dazzling. Perhaps pair it with a fur wrap to give just a hint of your shoulders instead of baring them completely?”

A faint frown shadowed Seraphina’s otherwise perfect features as she mulled over her lady-in-waiting’s suggestion. “Yes,” she conceded with a graceful nod. “A little fur to ward off the autumn chill—and, as you said, it would go wonderfully with the red. Why thank you, Eloise.”

Her hand drifted up to her short blonde hair. With a decisive, final glance in the mirror, Lady Seraphina de Sariens allowed herself the smallest smile. Tongues would wag and hearts might flutter—exactly as she planned.

***

The rest of the week passed without much incident. A steady cycle of lessons, practice, and more lessons. What little free time she had was spent assisting Miriam, answering letters, and doing assignments—though she steadfastly refused to call them homework, lest the word itself invite that evil from her old world.

Haze was also doing well, her mastery of the Chordrelle growing by leaps and bounds in one of the cultural centers of Aranthia. What was a bit disconcerting was the fact that she had acquired a taste for the finer things in life and had asked for an increase in her stipend. An increase that Seraphina ultimately approved of when she found out that Haze would be playing at the ball.

And, of course, she practiced her new Crystal Magic whenever her limited mana allowed. The spell itself was rather disappointing: it summoned only a pinkish shard of crystal that, at best, a generous liar might call a dagger. Naturally, she avoided practicing in the Dullstone-lined rooms of the tower—that would have been both silly and a waste of time. Instead, she practiced whenever and wherever she could spare ten points of mana. The repetition, while tedious, proved surprisingly fruitful. Not only did she manage to raise the spell to level two, but after one of her afternoon naps, she finally acquired the much-needed skill: Mana Regeneration. She almost leaped for joy when she found out after having taken a nap to restore her depleted Mana via the Rest skill.

As for the Crystal shards, with no real use for them, she simply fed them to a very enthusiastic Cornelia, who seemed to enjoy them immensely for reasons Seraphina couldn’t begin to guess. Then again, Cornelia enjoyed eating most things.

With the creature growing at a rapid pace, Seraphina could no longer conceal her. She was forced to file the necessary paperwork for permission to keep a familiar on school grounds. Ordinarily, this would have been a slow and bureaucratic ordeal, but a generous donation towards rebuilding one of the Academy's wings, coupled with a demonstration of Cornelia’s obedience, expedited the process.

Seraphina still remembered when Cornelia had been small enough to carry everywhere. Now, however, the serpent had grown to the size of a very large python. One might expect such a creature to cause quite a stir in the dormitories, but the girls had quickly accepted her presence. This culture, unlike her own, had no real prejudice against snakes themselves, and a white snake in particular was seen by some as a messenger of the Divines.

They all knew the white serpent belonged to Seraphina and were well aware that Cornelia was the reason pests had been reduced to a comfortable zero. In fact, Seraphina had even caught some of the girls sneaking food to the greedy serpent after discovering she could eat just about anything.

Checking in on Frest, she found him settling into his role as a teacher—perhaps a little too well. She had to remind him that he was there primarily to protect her interests. To her surprise, she’d even seen him strolling through the gardens from time to time with Miss Templeton, of all people.

Seraphina had no real love for her homely homeroom tutor, but even she thought Daniella could have done better than Frest. The young noblewoman couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if Daniella were to ever learn of Frest’s rather dubious background. 

After all, she was almost minor nobility.

And now the day had dawned for the ball. Truth be told, a guilty part of her was actually looking forward to it. One undeniable perk of this world was its abundance of attractive men—a deliberate design choice she had insisted upon, not for selfish reasons, of course, but because beautiful people sold products. Anyone who thought otherwise was simply a loon.

The ball was scheduled for that evening, which meant she still had a full day of school to endure. Excitement buzzed through the corridors, and students chattered incessantly whenever teachers weren’t around to silence them.

However, there was one class in which no idle gossip would be tolerated: Magister Belfrost’s “Basic” Spell Theory. The atmosphere in that room was oppressive as he surveyed them like a drill sergeant.

“Now,” he said, strolling up and down the rows, “I trust you understand why the mastery of your Path is called Control? To deny but also accept and command!”

A boy in the back timidly raised his hand.

“Yes, Peter?” Belfrost snapped.

“Petrio, sir,” the boy corrected. “I don’t know about that, but I was just wondering… what is your Path?”

Belfrost grunted. “Peter is a good, strong name. As for me, I mastered the Wind and the Wave—Air and Water.”

A collective gasp filled the room. Mastering even one element was rare enough; mastering two was practically legendary. Especially the Wind, the most dangerous of all that brought with it swift madness. Several students marveled at having such an elite teacher, but Seraphina was unsurprised. She knew exactly how the Magister had managed it: the man was predictably cheating.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” Belfrost continued. “I want to see the fruits of your practice. Show me what you’ve managed to do in a week.”

He scanned the class, then barked, “You! Melissa!”

“It’s Melisiandre, sir…” came a soft reply.

“Is your name worthy of the annals of Aranthia?” he countered acidly. “Is the useless thing that is your name so important? Just show us what you can do, Melissa.”

The poor girl looked ready to cry, then shook her head in sudden determination. She began to chant, and Seraphina almost smelled fresh earth, felt the dampness of forest loam. The girl continued, and vines sprouted from her hands like serpents, blooming into flowers.

“Nature,” Belfrost remarked. “Not bad for a new whelp. But you take too long to find your magic. Focus your control; fill it with your intent. Be cautious, though… do not surrender to the gentle Green.”

Shyly, the girl smiled at the praise. Belfrost moved on, testing each student’s progress. Most only managed to manifest a bit of their element, to which he responded with disapproval. Then it was Fleur’s turn. She summoned a small ball of water, though it wavered in shape. At Belfrost’s urging, she tried firing it at a clay target, only for it to fall short of the mark. Still, the Magister saw potential and pushed her until she nearly fainted.

“Only by pushing yourself can you achieve true progress,” he proclaimed, nodding in self-satisfaction as it were he who had accomplished something great.

Next up was Este Lize, the Living Saint of the Silver.

“You claim to be blessed by the myriad Paths,” Belfrost said, his words weighted with meaning and portent. “The Cardinal himself says you are a prodigy. but you must prove you can command so many wild servants at once. Come, child. Show me. What color shall your magic take?”

Este Lize offered a demure bow, her pale features painted, with what Seraphina recognized as, false serenity. “I will do my best,” she said. “Though I doubt my gifts compare to my peers.”

Seraphina found the girl’s feigned humility quite simply infuriating.

Este Lize began to speak to Mana, and the world answered. Seraphina watched, reminded once again of the dangerous rival set against her. As the story’s main character, Este Lize possessed a “cheat” skill, allowing her to master the world’s elements with consummate ease.

She called first to the mercurial Wind. It whipped around her in a localized whirlwind, making everyone’s robes flutter. In her words, Seraphina heard the storm’s restless spirit, its longing to be unbound. But Este Lize didn’t stop there; she next summoned raging Fire—simultaneously, no less. Her chant rose to a crescendo, and in fusing these two wild elements, she shaped Lightning, the element of the Withered Tree of Heaven.

A crackling sphere of lightning formed around her.

“Show me the flower of destruction it can bring!” Belfrost roared, eyes gleaming with a hungry fervor. “I must see it!”

Este Lize regarded him with a look of mild disgust but obliged, aiming the ball of lightning at a target dummy. White lines shot forward with a deafening thunderclap, blasting the target to pieces. Debris flew in all directions, but Belfrost’s Wind barrier shielded the class.

“Amazing! I have never seen such Control in one so young,” he breathed in genuine awe.

Seraphina ground her teeth, the hussy had learned how to Dual Cast. She wasn’t meant to be able to do that until well after the Academy arc.

“Your words are too kind, Magister. A fluke, truly,” Este Lize replied with a slight curtsy. It was the only movement Seraphina found flawed: too quick, her posture off.

The rest of the class ooh-ed and ahh-ed.

“Magnificent,” Belfrost declared, rubbing his chin. “I doubt anything else today will compare. Though we do have one more who has yet to show us their progress… de Sariens! Your turn.”

“You may be my teacher,” Seraphina replied icily, “but I expect a certain degree of decorum, Belfrost.”

He laughed dryly. “Such bold words for one so weak in her Path. And it is a weak path, at that. Will you run to your parents? Do you think their wealth and power can shield you here from your own failure? You failed when you chose Crystal. And, I will remind you, you’re not the first spoiled brat I’ve taught.”

That was enough. Seraphina’s anger reached an icy, implacable point. “A word with my mother would be more than enough, Magister,” she said, each syllable laced with raw venom. “Not even you, in all your arrogance, could stand against a Pillar of the Kingdom. And I am her true daughter.”

In that moment, the young girl meant everything that she said.

Belfrost blanched. Fear flickered in his eyes, and Seraphina knew she had him. She didn’t want to use her mother’s name as a bludgeon, but the man had earned it.

“Very well, Miss de Sariens,” he said, deflating. “Show us your great power.”

She ignored him and summoned magic in a heartbeat, with no incantation or words of power. In her hand was Crystal made manifest, shimmering with lethal clarity. In a graceful motion, she kicked up a leg, perfectly straight, then brought it down, throwing the jagged crystalline blade with stunning speed. The projectile streaked across the training hall, flying on the wings of her cold fury, and slammed into its target. The dummy disintegrated in a thunderous spray of shards. The walls behind it, made of sturdy Dullstone, cracked beneath the shard’s raw, explosive impact, leaving a ragged hole in a section of wall.

Both Belfrost and Este Lize stared in stunned silence. Seraphina met their gazes coolly, fighting back a satisfied smirk.

You have learned Power Throw (lvl.1)

You have learned Crystal Dagger (lvl.3)

“This was surely a fluke,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose I surprise myself sometimes.”

Chapter 27 - Partners

A lucky ballista bolt shot from atop one of the border forts was able to fell one of the lesser dragons from the sky, piercing it through the heart. The bespelled adamantine tip punching through inches of rock hard scale and thick muscle. The mages of Arastia ecstatic having acquired a vessel of indomitable power poured all of their magical might into the dragon’s now still corpse. 

Slowly, like a grave flower blossoming the dark energies flowed into the great lizard’s cadaver sloughing now rotting flesh from thick pristine white dragon bone. A new nightmare was born, arising with the stench of a freshly turned grave and all the majesty of the winged tyrants of the sky. The first Bone-Dragon Vizzeks came into existence with a roar and the howl of a thousand lost tortured souls.

- On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar, circa 103 AC.

Seraphina sat before her vanity mirror in the late afternoon light, its polished surface reflecting a youthful face marred with worry. Eloise stood behind her, carefully running a comb through Seraphina’s short, golden hair. Her mother had been right, it had looked better long.

Eloise, with her own raven-dark hair cascading down like a waterfall, studied her mistress’s reflection. A faint crease of concern flickered across her face. Under normal circumstances, she would have lightly teased Seraphina for fretting over something as trivial as a ball. But this was hardly a trivial matter anymore—Seraphina’s very reputation at the Academy seemed to hang by a thread.

It had all started with a problem that should have been straightforward: Seraphina, a noble and a natural center of attention, had never wanted for suitors. Not including her personal Knights, for she did not count them as they were a given, plenty of gentlemen had rushed to offer themselves as her escort for the upcoming Academy ball. Yet Seraphina had politely turned them all down, holding out hope for a single name: Velens. His invitation was supposed to come, of course. He was the only one whose presence at her side made sense politically, not to mention, if she was perfectly honest with herself, the perfect representation of aesthetic ideal.

But the news broke like a thunderclap, delivered with false sympathy by her plump “friend,” Michelié de Montan, who took her aside after classes. The de Montan girl could scarcely hide her delighted glee at carrying such a sensational tidbit of gossip. From her she had found that Velens had asked the commoner Este Lize to the ball as some grand reward for Este’s heroic assistance in the Meridian City relief efforts. 

Heroic efforts my left foot, she though to herself. And if Michelié knew that meant that no doubt the entire Academy knew.

Velens himself came to her, offering an explanation laced with excuses. He claimed he had been pressured by others into honoring Este Lize, who had shown courage during the city fires. Yet he did not look the least bit regretful. Seraphina could practically see the flicker of excitement in his eyes when he told her. The nerve of him! The smugness! It stung her pride beyond measure, leaving her reeling with fury and dismay.

Now her predicament felt dire: she had already refused a lineup of potential escorts, and no one of suitable status remained unspoken for. The most useless gowns and jewels in the world were the ones without a matching partner on one’s arm. Even the middling Water Mage, Fleur, had managed to secure a date—some count’s son who was hardly remarkable but, at least, still a count’s son. Yet here Seraphina stood, thoroughly humiliated and alone—the daughter of one a Duke, no less. For the first time, she felt utterly powerless. In that moment, her feelings became one with the original Seraphina whose body she now inhabited.

Eloise set down the comb for a moment, trying to catch Seraphina’s gaze in the mirror. A pang of pity filled her. She had never seen Seraphina look so defeated. Despite this, Eloise could not resist letting a small, impish comment slip from her lips. The tease bubbled up before she could stop herself, even though she knew it might land her in hot water. She needed to put the spark of fire back in her mistress.

“You know, Lady Seraphina,” she began carefully, “you did say once that we didn’t need men.”

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed, the dangerous spark returning to them. “No,” she corrected, voice low and taut, “those were not quite my words. I said we did not need men to choose our roles for us.”

“So you say, Lady Seraphina,” she replied with a knowing smile.

Eloise began brushing again, running the comb through Seraphina’s hair in slow, deliberate motions. The silky strands glided against the ivory, calming the tension, if only a little.

“Now, then,” Seraphina prompted, exhaling as she fought for composure, “who are you going with?”

A mischievous smile tugged at Eloise’s lips. “I made a promise to Sir Gravens,” she replied lightly, feigning nonchalance.

“Come now, Eloise.” Seraphina’s tone was edged in a brittle sort of disbelief. “You can’t be serious. Your choices here will affect your future, and he’s only a Knight…”

“Oh, my! You’re sounding like an old lady!” Eloise teased, lifting one dark eyebrow. “Besides, remember we are all supposed to set aside our titles and statuses within the Academy’s walls. He’s…” Her voice lowered with a touch of excitement, and she leaned forward to whisper, as though sharing a guilty secret. “He’s very handsome and his eyes!”

For a moment, Seraphina forgot her humiliation. A small, wry smile found its way onto her lips. “I dare say he is,” she admitted, recalling Sir Gravens’s strong features and gallant bearing. “This might be the time for a little fun, after all. You’re only young once, I suppose.”

“There you go again, sounding like an old lady!” Eloise teased, letting out a soft giggle that finally coaxed a small but genuine laugh from Seraphina.

Their shared laughter drifted through the still air of the dressing room, softening the edges of Seraphina’s bruised spirit. She might not have the perfect date, the perfect fairy-tale entrance, or the guaranteed political advantage she had planned for. But in that fleeting moment, with Eloise’s laughter washing over her and the soft brush strokes gliding through her hair, Seraphina felt just a little less alone.

Seraphina glanced at her beloved pet serpent, Cornelia, curled up on the velvet bedspread in a torpid little heap. The lines of the creature conveyed a sense of deep, dreamless rest. Under normal circumstances, Seraphina would have felt a wave of calm simply by placing her palm on the amulet around her neck and focusing on the bond that she and Cornelia shared. Yet today, no matter how hard she tried to reach the creature, Cornelia was far too lost in slumber to stir or respond.

With a weary sigh, Seraphina tried to draw comfort from the sight of her pet’s peaceful repose—but her own irritation at the unfolding events refused to settle. She found herself wishing, for perhaps the first time in this world, that she could just hide away from it all.

“You know, I do not think I want to go,” she murmured, her voice betraying a heaviness she rarely allowed herself to show. Eloise looked at her mistress, her mouth forming a perfect “O,” but before she could respond, a small knock echoed from the door.

“Come in! By that knock I know it’s you, Milly!” Seraphina half-shouted in exasperation, pinching the bridge of her nose as she prepared for yet another disturbance.

Sure enough, her maid Miriam, shuffled in. She paused to readjust her slightly askew spectacles, wiping them on the hem of her apron as though to steady herself. “Err…you have a guest downstairs, milady,” Miriam said, chewing on her lip in nervousness.

Seraphina’s brow knitted. “Who is it, Milly? Spit it out.” Her patience was wearing thin, and it showed.

“It’s Hughes, milady,” the maid replied after a short gulp. “He… He said you promised to help him with an assignment of all things.”

Seraphina flicked her hand dismissively. “Tell him to go away. I am not in the mood!” She had no interest in trivial schoolwork, least of all now.

“At once, milady,” Miriam answered obediently, bowing at the waist. She had begun to back out of the room when Seraphina suddenly lurched upright, as if seized by a new thought.

“Actually! Wait!” Seraphina’s cheeks colored slightly at her outburst, but she recovered with a regal toss of her short golden hair. “I will receive him in the lounge. Tell him to wait. I need to make myself presentable.”

Miriam hesitated, glancing uncertainly at her mistress’s flustered expression, but she bowed her head once more. “Very well, milady,” she said, then vanished into the corridor to relay Seraphina’s change of heart.

As soon as the door shut, Eloise stood and approached Seraphina, her doll-like features creased by a skeptical frown. “Lady Seraphina, you can’t be serious,” she whispered..

Seraphina arched a perfect golden eyebrow, her lips curling into a slow, cunning smile. “Why, Eloise, beggars cannot be choosers,” she replied, her tone somewhere between resignation and delight. “And I do believe Hughes will be perfect.”

Eloise drew back slightly, confusion evident in her wide, tilted eyes. “I don’t quite understand… He’s a commoner.” 

Like you were not too long ago, Seraphina muttered in her mind.

“Precisely,” Seraphina purred, as though that very fact made him even more desirable for her plan. “It makes things less political, you see. Besides, Hughes asked me some time ago, before all this business, if I would attend the ball with him. And, I, of course, accepted his invitation over Velen’s.” A glimmer of triumph lit her eyes, making Eloise swallow hard.

“Oh… I see,” Eloise murmured, the truth dawning on her. She studied Seraphina’s face, seeing at once the renewed spark of mischief in her gaze.

Seraphina squared her shoulders, already imagining the scene. If Velens could cause a stir with the lowborn Este Lize, then Seraphina could make an even more pointed statement by choosing Hughes. She glanced again at Cornelia, still curled up in a contented coil on her bed, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around them. A faint smile tugged at her lips. She did not know what Velens had been planning, but two could play at that game.

Chapter 28 - Entrance

“Never be the first to arrive at a part or the last to go home and never, never be both.”

- David Brown.

Hughes perched himself on the edge of a plush seat, his back painfully straight as he tried, and failed, to appear at ease. A steaming cup of chamomile tea rattled softly in its saucer beneath his trembling fingertips. He could scarcely believe his fortune. To be in Lady Seraphina’s sitting room, enjoying tea at her invitation, felt like the stuff of impossible dreams. Of course, it wasn’t precisely the Lady herself who poured the tea—her maid, Miriam, did the honors with an expert’s grace and skill—but Hughes allowed his mind to gloss over such trivial details. He had seized upon the certainty that life rewards those who take a bold chance, and here he was, living proof.

He cleared his throat, attempting to control the quiver in his voice. “You look… very lovely, Seraphina,” he managed, feeling the words stumble from his mouth. 

The moment he spoke her name so plainly, the two attendants, her lady-in-waiting and Miriam, visibly bristled at the bold informality. In contrast, Seraphina’s expression remained as flawlessly serene as a becalmed lake lake. Of late, she had grown accustomed to Hughes addressing her in that casual manner, and it had grown into a practiced indulgence.

In the back of his mind, Hughes knew that any complimentary remarks on her beauty was probably futile. He could only imagine how many times she had been praised, courted, and lauded for her exquisite looks. The boy needed something fresh, something that would stand out.

Gathering his courage, he tried to quickly follow up. “I mean, well you are too, but that dress you’re wearing—it’s quite beautiful. Did you… did you make it yourself?” 

Even before the words fully emerged, he cringed internally at his poor delivery. In addition, he knew how absurd it was to ask a highborn noble if she had personally tailored her gown. Still, the words had fled his mouth now, and there was no taking them back.

To his surprise, Seraphina’s face lit up, a small but radiant smile curving her lips. “You think so?” she said lightly, reflecting on how, at the very least, Hughes had a keen eye and good taste. “I designed the cut myself for less formal occasions—something simple, easy to move in, yet still rather striking.” She flicked her gaze appraisingly over him, then added, “Which leads me to my next point… what do you intend to wear to the Ball tonight?”

“The Ball?” His brows knitted together in confusion, heart pounding as it dawned on him that he had given no thought to the evening’s festivities. “I… I wasn’t planning on going at all.”

Seraphina shook her head, an indulgent yet faintly impatient sigh escaping her. “That will not do, Hughes, because I expect you to escort me this evening.”

She was quickly coming to the conclusion that she had been given very poor clay to work with—the type of clay that was likely to crack or bend out of shape in the fire of the kiln.

“Escort… you?” The words stuck in his throat, and he forced them out with a croak. His mind whirled, eyes widening.

She arched a delicate brow. “Yes. You do remember asking me about a week ago, don’t you?” she teased, pouting her lips in mock disappointment. “You were so gallant, so earnest in your request… I simply could not say no, but it seems you’ve forgotten all about it.”

A bolt of cold sweat formed at Hughes’s temple as he realized his memory had betrayed him. How could he have possibly failed to recall such a monumental occasion? He both cursed and praised his fickle mind. In any other situation, discovering such a lapse in memory would be horrifying, but in this instance, it was as if fate had graciously rewritten the story of his life to grant him the chance many would die for. He had apparently asked Lady Seraphina de Sariens, the most dazzling, most sought-after girl in the kingdom, to accompany him to the Ball, and she had said yes.

“Yes, of course,” he blurted, striving for a polished tone that he could not quite master. 

Even as he spoke, his imagination roamed far ahead. He pictured an entire future with her—managing her sprawling estates, raising two or three bright-eyed children who would surely inherit her poise and beauty. It was so easy to get swept away in the fantasy that he nearly forgot Seraphina was still talking.

“Which brings us back to the matter at hand,” she said, tapping a manicured finger against her saucer. “You must find something suitable to wear. I can’t very well have you on my arm if you show up dressed like a pauper.”

Her words stirred him from his reverie. “Of course,” he responded, his voice awkwardly stiff as he attempted to disguise his mounting excitement. Hughes felt as if he was floating in a dream.

Seraphina gestured toward the door with a languid wave. “Milly will escort you into town. You simply must find proper attire—and quickly. Milly, do take Ibn with you as well; you’ll likely need someone to carry your purchases. It will be good for him.”

Her maid Miriam narrowed her eyes, as though silently questioning Seraphina’s judgment. Nevertheless, she dipped her head in a shallow display of obedience, then stepped forward, her posture rigid. Before Hughes could utter a word of thanks or confusion, Miriam seized him firmly by the arm. The contrast between her polite smile and the iron grip on his elbow was startling.

“This way, Master Hughes,” she said through gritted teeth, giving him a not-so-gentle tug. “Time works against us.”

As he allowed himself to be guided, almost dragged, across the threshold, Hughes could not help but cast one last, longing glance back at Lady Seraphina. She sipped her tea, a faint smile playing on her lips, and offered him a graceful, encouraging nod that made his heart flutter. He felt as if he were walking on clouds, convinced that fate had spun a fantastic tapestry, and he had somehow waltzed into the center of it.

There were simply some fates that should not be fought against.

***

It was far from a perfect solution, but for something pieced together at the last minute, it would have to suffice. At least Seraphina had the small benefit of having been seen with Hughes a few times already, making the whole thing slightly more believable.

Now that he was fitted in proper attire, Hughes looked passably presentable. His new ensemble featured a lavish doublet of deep lazuli velvet, sleeves puffed with shimmering satin panels, and ornate brass cuffs securing them neatly at the wrists. Beneath that, a slim waistcoat embroidered with delicate golden thread peeked out at the collar, offering a subtle regal flourish. Matching trousers tailored close to the leg and tall, polished leather boots completed the outfit. The overall effect was bold yet refined—an attention-grabbing triumph of high fashion that pleased Seraphina greatly. Hughes, meanwhile, found himself mostly thankful that such a wardrobe, which would cost an ordinary peasant two years of labor, was simply being provided to him.

Yet for all of his fine clothes, it irked Seraphina that Hughes still appeared so… painfully ordinary. She could already imagine the storm of gossip that would inevitably follow. Still, on the one hand, showing up with a boy who was clearly beneath her rank might deter the usual flock of fawning admirers. But, on the other, it most certainly would undermine a lot of her social status, especially in the eyes of the likes of Rashana and that insufferable tubster, Michelié. Seraphina could almost already hear their delighted jibes, and it grated on her nerves.

Still, she reminded herself, this was precisely why she had chosen Hughes rather than attending the ball alone. He posed no threat, and he seemed entirely lacking in guile. Above all, he was comfortably under her thumb. It was still a shame that not a bit taller or wider of shoulders…

At least Eloise understood her predicament and the harrowing choice she’d had to make. However, hopefully, with a little luck and some well-placed counter rumors, the student body would be led to believe that Seraphina had chosen a commoner over the Crown Prince of her own accord. Let the scandal swirl around Velens instead of herself.

She had even excused her Knights from their usual “covert” security detail for the evening, hoping they would enjoy the festivities themselves. At this point it was more or less an open secret that the boys were her protectors. Besides, if there was any danger tonight, it would likely be someone spilling their drink on her gown rather than an actual threat.

Seraphina also remembered, with faint amusement, that there were no age restrictions on alcohol in this world. Drinking was perfectly acceptable, even at a young age. In her past life, one could marry younger than the legal drinking age; an illogical situation that never ceased to baffle her. 

Tonight, she intended to indulge heavily, enough to forget all the vexing details of her new reality, if only for a few hours. And if fortune favored her, enough to wipe out the memories of the evening altogether.

And so the three of them waited. They sat in the common room—Seraphina’s private sitting area, really, since none of the other girls dared intrude there—while Desdemona and Eloise departed to the ball with their respective escorts. The young de Savant was on the arm of some lord’s son whose name Seraphina could not recall, though she remembered he had notably trim figure, his hose hugging a remarkable bottom. Eloise, luckier by far, accompanied the dashing Sir Gravens. Seraphina felt a pang of envy at the thought of how blissfully radiant those two must have looked walking away together. She sighed, if only Gravens were a little higher on the social ladder…

She allowed her mind to wander briefly to Sir Gallant, a knight in the King’s service with a truly handsome looks and form. For him, she swooned in her mind, Seraphina would quite easily forgive the large difference in rank between them. As it was in her old world and life, that was the problem with being so high a rank; the pool of suitable partners dwindled rather rapidly. Wasn’t he teacher here now?

A quiet question from Hughes brought her back to the moment. “Why are we waiting, Seraphina?”

“Timing, dear Hughes,” she explained, her gaze lingering on the white fur draped across the settee. Fashioned from the pelt of the formidable Kronir of the north, it was a precious rarity. She unconsciously touched the spot at her thigh where a hidden stiletto lay strapped. “One doesn’t simply appear at a ball, and one certainly does not arrive on time. One makes an entrance.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Hughes ventured, his confusion quite apparent.

“You don’t have to,” Seraphina replied, the smile on her face as sweet as spun sugar. “We’ll leave in half a turn of the glass or so.” She noted Miriam’s withering glare at Hughes , but decided to ignore it. Seraphina knew precisely when she wanted to appear, fashionably late.

The three settled back into an uncomfortable silence until Seraphina finally rose with a graceful swirl of skirts. It was time.

***

With her heels, she and Hughes stood at nearly the same height as they made their way to the Great Hall—the same place where Seraphina had once delivered her address to the student body. Tonight, it had been transformed into a splendid banquet and dance hall, illuminated by the glow of Zajasite sconces high on the walls.

Long tables lined the edges of the vast space, bearing an array of lavish dishes that seemed more like miniature works of art than just food. Intricately carved ice sculptures glimmered at intervals, capturing the dancing light and reflecting it in brilliant shards. Clusters of aristocratic students formed small social circles around the room, their embroidered silks and glittering jewels rustling and flashing every time they moved. Toward the far end of the hall, Seraphina spotted Haze Finleigh in a green gown, playing a lively jig with a band of musicians, the music mingling with the hum of genteel laughter.

As Seraphina and Hughes stepped through the great swinging doors and across the threshold, the chatter in the hall subsided, as though the entire gathering paused to watch their entry. Seraphina lifted her chin, offering a regal smile and an elegant adjustment of the fur at her shoulders. A wave of excited whispers swept through the crowd as she held their attention.

She was unaware of the sharp looks Hughes was drawing from several of the young men, who glowered at him with thinly veiled envy. Even those accompanied by charming escorts of their own couldn’t help but glare at the seemingly average young man at Seraphina’s side. Yet Hughes, oblivious to most of the glances, felt only a rush of awe at the sight of it all and the breathtaking young noblewoman leaning ever so slightly against his arm.

Chapter 29 - The Ball

Dance is the hidden language of the soul.

- Martha Graham.

The sea of silk and satin parted as Seraphina advanced on Hughes’s arm, murmurs trailing them like the rustle of taffeta. Fans fluttered, heads dipped, and every fleeting expression—envy, curiosity, disdain—was carefully catalogued behind her calm smile. Zajasite crystal chandeliers scattered prismatic light across the marble floor, but even their brilliance seemed to dim when Crown Prince Velens stepped forward to intercept her.

“Seraphina,” he began, striving for effortless grace.

“A pleasant evening to you, Your Highness.” She swept into a curtsy so flawless it felt like a rebuke, while Hughes managed a shaky half‑bow beside her.

Velens’s laugh rang hollow. “There’s no need for ceremony tonight.”

“As I am frequently reminded,” she answered, gaze lowered but voice edged with frost. “If you’ll excuse me, I still have many other guests to greet.”

Before he could reply, silver‑haired Este Lize—radiant in a gown and brimming with brazen confidence—slipped to his side and looped an easy arm through his. “There you are, Velens! I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me.” Her smile pivoted to Seraphina, dazzling and predatory. “Oh, Lady Seraphina! How wonderful that you could attend.”

Seraphina’s pulse hammered. “Well, then if you will excuse me…” she replied lightly, eyes narrowing as the music faded to a distant throb.

Este tittered, the sound like breaking glass. “No need for that! This is the first time we have exchanged words, don’t tell me you are already scared of poor old me. I heard from Velen that you could fight a bear bare-handed and you are fleeing already? How droll!”

“I believe Este is only teasing,” Velens interjected, cheeks flushing with uneasy guilt.

“Teasing?” Este echoed sweetly. “Rather like when someone tried to ‘help’ the other day and caused such a charming scene. I’m still recovering from the laughter of being assaulted by a mob. I do not know how much you gave that little girl to say such things.”

Seraphina closed her eyes and when she spoke next, her voice was velvet stretched over steel. “Velens, this is the third time you have allowed me to be mocked in public, to suffer baseless accusations. Tell me plainly—are you merely amusing yourself with this girl and her fanciful tales? That, perhaps, I might forgive.”

The prince’s grey eyes faltered, sliding away from her.

A brittle smile curved Seraphina’s lips. “Tell me she’s just another pretty distraction you can’t keep your hands from? I am generous, Velens, but unlike our self‑proclaimed ‘Saint’ here, my forgiveness has limits when so openly flaunted in public.” The space between them yawned wider than any ballroom floor, and every whispered breath in the hall seemed to hang on what he would say next.

Velens shifted uneasily between the two young women, looking very much like a man who had stepped onto a dueling piste without a blade.

One by one, more of the ball's attendees began to drift ever closer, drawn in like sharks to blood in the water. It was the kind of spectacle no one dared to miss.

“I would never — I mean, of course I respect you both,” he stammered, one hand half‑raised as though he could physically separate the sparks leaping between their gazes.

Este Lize with her fine gown that she wore with the tell-tale signs of those unused to fine things, tilted her head toward him, then back to Seraphina. “You talk of respect? Respect, is it? Ah, my prince, you have such interesting definitions.”

Seraphina’s smile was all polite porcelain. “Oh, I merely find it fascinating that someone who never even sat the Meridian entrance examination is standing here tonight. The Church’s purse strings must have pulled harder than I realized.”

A hush rippled outward. Este’s brow arched. “The Church sponsored me, yes. But shall we count how many titled families ‘donate’ new wings to the Academy so their heirs can stroll through the gates untested?” She gave a bright laugh. “Really, Lady Seraphina, if favoritism is a sin, your pedigree is practically a confession booth.”

Several common‑born students snickered; a few nobles bristled. The young noblewoman just laughed, covering her mouth slightly. It was true that her family did donate for a new wing at the Academy, but, well… Seraphina’s test results spoke for themselves. 

The blonde girl’s eyes narrowed. “I only question whether your… patrons understood the standard they were lowering.”

“Lowering?” Este echoed, amusement glittering. “Darling, they raised it. I was accepted because I can shape Azuryte Flame—a magic so rare most professors have only read footnotes about it. And, I can command all of elements. Talent, not gold, earned my place.”

She lifted her hand; a faint cerulean spark flickered across her fingertips before she snuffed it out. Gasps and murmurs swelled.

Velens cleared his throat. “Este, perhaps we—”

“Let her finish, Your Highness,” Seraphina said, voice smooth as chilled wine. “I admire the confidence. But raw power without refinement is like a street performer juggling torches—spectacular until the blaze gets away from them.”

Este’s smile thinned. “And refinement without purpose is but a useless piece of display, a gilded cage. I’d rather set the sky on fire than polish its bars. And, talk of refinement, Seraphina, did you coach your escort … ” she flicked a glance at Hughes, “ …on which fork to use, or do you trust his natural instincts?”

A few upper‑form nobles chuckled. Hughes flushed crimson.

Seraphina stepped forward, her heel clicking like a rapier tip on marble. “I would sooner stand beside a man of humble origin and honest heart than someone who wears resentment like fine clothes. Or, for that matter, a philanderer.”

Still, part of Este Lize’s barb had struck true. Seraphina felt heat rise to her cheeks, but held her poise. All her life people had tried to keep her in place. To be more. To be anything than what she wanted to be. 

“And, one should be careful, Este Lize when you talk of Fire. Fire has a habit of spreading—often to those least prepared. And, the recent fires were caused by magical flames, or so they say. But, then again, what would I know in my gilded cage?”

This caused some more scandalous tittering as the accusation threaded its way through the crowd.

“Then perhaps Meridian should ensure its halls aren’t built of dry straw,” Este shot back, looping her arm through Velens’. A declaration of outright war if there ever was one. “Come, Vel, I promised you the first dance.”

She guided him toward a growing knot of students and curious nobles who greeted her with cheers. Their circle widened around her like ripples in a pond.

Left in the sudden vacuum, Seraphina exhaled slowly. The group Este Liza had surrounded herself with were the scions of various staunch royalists, if her memory served her right. Block-headed warhawks and bigots who wanted to go back to the old ways. Still, she had a feeling that she had won that encounter, if only on points. Este Lize, she felt, had not made any friends with some of her comments.

Hughes touched her elbow. “Are you all right, milady?”

“I am fine,” she answered stiffly. Across the hall, Este twirled beneath the chandeliers, each spin making the silver-haired girl’s smile ever wider. Velens’ laughter—her Velens—floated with her on practiced feet to the music.

So. The silver-haired girl wished for a contest of talent and popularity? Very well.

Seraphina’s gaze swept the room, mind already stitching a counter‑offensive. The musicians… her Bard Haze Finleigh… the untouched delicacies… the beckoning dance floor. An idea kindled.

“Hughes,” she murmured, “tell me, can you dance?”

“Not very well, I am afraid.”

Este Lize’s waltz spun to its final cadence, and she dipped before the Crown Prince with something that only aspired to be a curtsy. Her knees bent at uneven angles, her back wobbled a breath too long, and the hem of her plain gown brushed the marble like a nervous broom. 

Talent and power she did not deserve, she had. Beauty she possessed in spades, silver hair catching every lantern‑flare, yet grace eluded her the way court etiquette eludes a cow. So common, Seraphina thought, the word tasting of bitter ash. Then a sharper realization cut in: perhaps the clumsy deference was deliberate, a carefully stitched costume meant to tug at Velens’ errant heart and rouse his endless urge to rescue.

The music had scarcely faded when the trollop raised her hands, fingers splayed as though plucking invisible strings. A hush rippled through the hall. Threads of air coiled around her wrists, whirling into miniature cyclones that siphoned moisture from the very atmosphere. In the next blink, fountains of water burst forth—crystal arcs that unfurled into lace‑fine fractals, each droplet catching the Zajasite light and scattering it into prismatic shards across the ceiling. Gasps bloomed like fireworks; students craned for a better view, awash in rainbow mist. To Seraphina, it was nothing more than a village fair trick—parlor sorcery puffed up by scale and stage—but the crowd drank it in as though witnessing the birth of a new constellation.

And there stood Velens, awestruck, rainbows dancing in his gray eyes, utterly oblivious to the strings being wound around his princely wrists.

“I see… If you cannot dance, then I shall sing,” Seraphina told Hughes, nodding to herself.

This would be a different kind of magic—one that pierced the heart and soul instead of merely delighting the eyes. It would be a performance with weight, an appeal for justice now that the battle lines were drawn. For Seraphina knew she had something that Este Lize did not, and could never, possess. She had made it so.

She stepped onto the floor, and every gaze in the Great Hall followed her. Her “friend” Michelié de Montan drifted closer like a sly tugboat, wearing a devious smile.

“Seraphina, what just happened between you and Velens?” she asked with faux concern.

The young noblewoman answered with the faintest smile and walked on.

She approached the musicians, whose elegant but lifeless tune filled the air. Haze Finleigh strummed her master‑crafted Chordrelle, looking thoroughly bored.

Seraphina raised a hand, and the players fell silent as if a goddess had spoken. The hall hushed with them.

“Haze, I will sing now. You and the others must follow me as best you can,” the girl demanded.

“But, Lady Seraphina…” Haze adjusted the brim of her oversized hat.

“Must I sing unaccompanied?” Seraphina arched a brow.

“The others… they do not know your music.”

“Then let them listen. They may join when they can. But you will accompany me.” The young girl looked at the rest of the band. “Listen with your hearts, not just your ears; if even a spark of music lives in you, you will find the way.”

“As you wish, Lady Seraphina,” they said at once.

Haze struck a tentative chord, and the first notes floated out like sunrise over still water—gentle, gold‑rimmed, full of promise. Seraphina inhaled, letting the hush settle deep into her lungs, and began to sing.

Her opening phrase was soft as breath: a single line of yearning. A shiver passed through the crowd as they stilled whatever it was they were doing, forgotten now in this solemn moment. The song spoke of a distant shore where two souls, parted by war and winter, promised to find each other again when spring returned. It was simple, almost childlike in its faith, yet each word carried the gravity of prophecy.

Then something impossible happened.

A second voice—hers, yet not hers—slipped beneath the melody, threading a low harmony that vibrated through marble and bone alike. The Covenant’s power had awakened, weaving strands of the very Divine into her voice. 

Michelié de Montan, so quick with mischief and quick to mock, forgot her smile and simply stared, lips parted, eyes reflecting the dancing light.

Seraphina moved through the second verse, voice and echo twisting together in a braid of sound—first yearning, then blooming, then exultant. Now the musicians had found their muse and added their music to hers. Even the great tapestries depicting ancient battles on the walls of the grand hall seemed to soften, their bloody reds mellowing to rose and dawn.

Across the hall, Este Lize stood rigid, goblet frozen midway to her lips. The crimson wine within began to quiver, as if humming in resonance with the song. Seraphina saw her rival’s knuckles whiten and felt a fierce thrill: the lines had indeed been drawn, and tonight they would bend toward her.

She let the bridge swell, eyes half‑closed, remembering the first time she had heard the melody—sung by her mother on a storm‑tossed night, when thunder rattled shutters and love alone felt safe. The memory flooded her notes with gracious gold; the harmony rose higher, blossoming into a third line—a ghost‑soprano that hovered like a lark above. Three voices now, weaving past and present and possibility into a single, radiant chord.

The final chorus and outro arrived not with fanfare but with surrender. It seemed as if the music itself became a physical thing, settling on shoulders, hair, and the clasped hands of a captivated audience. Wherever the notes landed, they left a warmth that lingered like an answered prayer.

No one applauded; the moment was too sacred for such noise. Instead, the hall exhaled as one, a shared breath of awe.

Seraphina opened her eyes. Este Lize lowered her goblet, face pale, and turned away as if she had seen a ghost of the past.

As the last notes peacefully faded, Hughes looked at her with worship in his eyes. “That was truly beautiful, Seraphina.”

“I know, darling—it was meant to be.” She smiled and cast a glance toward the dancers. “Now, I believe I’d like a turn about the floor.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” She arched a brow. “Or shall I find someone who will?”

Victory, Seraphina thought, was sometimes as gentle as a song. Gentle, but powerful enough, she believed, to catch grey eyes that had so recently turned away from her.

Chapter 30 - Masks

A man without ambition is dead. A man with ambition but no love is dead.

- Pearl Bailey.

Seraphina felt Hughes’s hesitation ripple through the clasp of his gloved hand, so she flashed him a reassuring smile before whisking him into a daring promenade. Skirts fanned around them like petals caught in a playful breeze; each spin left Hughes half a heartbeat behind, his shoes skimming the polished marble a shade too late. The musicians quickened the tempo, a lilting waltz cascading into a dizzying whirl of triplets, and the hall’s lights scattered across Seraphina’s golden hair.

She sensed Hughess’s rhythm falter again, one misplaced step, then another. Rather than let the stumble bloom into embarrassment, Seraphina drew him close, pivoted, and subtly claimed the lead. Her posture shifted, light yet commanding, guiding his feet with a gentle pressure of fingertips and a confident sweep of her hips. 

Hughes blinked, cheeks flushing crimson, but he surrendered to her effortless control. Together they traced elegant figure‑eights across the floor as Seraphina took the male parts of the dance flawlessly; every turn became smoother, every dip, and flourish more assured.

As the final chord shimmered into silence, Seraphina executed a flourishing twirl that sent her partner spiraling like a dervish. She released Hughes at precisely the right moment, allowing him a dignified half‑bow while she sank into a deep curtsey. Applause erupted—an enthusiastic thunder at the lively and elegant display. 

Many hopeful dance partners stepped forward, eager to claim the next dance, but Seraphina raised a slender hand and laughed softly. 

“My friends, I fear the dance was quite a bit more vigorous than I thought it would be,” she said, voice warm yet resolute. With practiced grace, she slipped past the disappointed cluster, collected a flute of chilled wine from a passing servant, and turned back to Hughes.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, still catching his breath. “I—I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I must have embarrassed you.”

Seraphina’s emerald eyes sparkled above the rim of her glass. “Nonsense. Everything has its place and role.” She tipped the flute toward him in salute. “You followed admirably once you let me lead. It suited you.”

It was deeply satisfying for Seraphina to watch hero worship and admiration blossom in the boy’s eyes. Gracefully, she covered her mouth as she sipped her drink—a refined gesture that was customary for fine ladies of this land. From the corner of her eye, she caught two distinct gazes fixed upon her: those of Este Lize and the Crown Prince. Desire flickered openly in the Prince's expression, almost embarrassingly transparent, as if he were about to salivate at the sight of her. Este Lize, however, looked distinctly shocked, a reaction Seraphina found also thoroughly pleasing. 

It would serve the hussy well to realize that true worth extended beyond mere magical prowess—there was simply no substitute for impeccable breeding and social grace. Indeed, Seraphina mused confidently, hers would be an exceptionally challenging act to follow.

She took another thoughtful sip of the wine. Though somewhat too fruity and sweet for her sophisticated palate, it was unquestionably excellent in quality. Lost in the spectacle of other dancers swirling elegantly across the ballroom floor, Seraphina soon realized she had consumed a considerable amount yet felt no in the slightest bit tipsy. Eloise and Gravens, moving in perfect harmony, appeared positively dazzling, eliciting a pang of envy in her heart. And she, regrettably, was saddled with Hughes.

"That's your sixth glass, Sera," Hughes observed nervously, clasping his hands together in front of him.

"Oh, is it?" she replied lightly, draining her glass and signaling for another. "I must say, it goes down delightfully well—not particularly strong, yet very flavorful."

"If you say so…"

"Seraphina, darling! There you are!" Desdemona's radiant voice cut through, her long, dark-brown hair cascading in elaborate curls around her shoulders. 

Trailing behind her was a strikingly beautiful young man, his delicate features nearly feminine in their loveliness. His hair matched Desdemona's shade exactly, complemented by soulful black eyes framed by luxuriantly long lashes and lips soft enough to appear perpetually on the verge of a pout. Such looks were wasted on a man, Seraphina thought to herself.

Desdemona clinked her glass playfully against Seraphina’s, her cheeks flushed with merriment and fine drink. Seraphina inwardly smirked; Desdemona was so predictable, always eager to flaunt her latest acquisition.

The de Savant girl sniffed lightly, arching her eyebrow with a teasing expression. "Oh, I see you're sampling the family vintage! How do you find it?"

"Wonderful," Seraphina replied with practiced graciousness. "It's youthful yet rich and remarkably full-bodied." She offered an indulgent smile. "But, dear, you absolutely must introduce me to your charming companion."

Desdemona rested a casual, possessive hand on Drevan’s shoulder. "Seraphina, this is Drevan. Drevan, meet Seraphina de Sariens."

The beautiful young man bowed deeply, sweeping an elegant gesture before speaking. "Drevan de Selais, milady. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner."

"Charmed," Seraphina murmured, extending her hand gracefully.

"The honor is entirely mine," Drevan responded gallantly, kissing the air just above her offered hand.

"Desdemona has always had exquisite taste… in art," Seraphina remarked playfully, her eyes lingering appreciatively. "You've certainly done well for yourself, my dear."

"Oh, calling him a work of art might be slightly excessive," Desdemona laughed, her curls bouncing merrily. "Still, he isn't bad for a country lad."

Seraphina raised an intrigued eyebrow. "A country lad?"

"Indeed," Drevan replied modestly. "My father's lands lie quite far from the capital and are primarily renowned for pottery—nothing particularly glamorous. We simply excel at turning dirt into beauty."

"Don’t be fooled by his humility," Desdemona interjected brightly. "Selaisian pottery is sought after everywhere, and Drevan himself has crafted several remarkable masterpieces at his tender age. He is very skilled with his hands."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Seraphina agreed smoothly, exchanging amused glances with Desdemona as they both shared a knowing laugh.

Meanwhile, Hughes stood quietly to the side, clearly desperate yet unable to join the conversation as those above his social station discussed matters entirely beyond his grasp.

Hughes cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot before venturing into the conversation. "You know, I once tried my hand at pottery back home," he blurted, his voice overly bright with forced cheer. "Ended up with something that looked rather like a squashed pumpkin, I'm afraid."

Drevan raised one perfectly arched brow, his full lips quirking with mild amusement. "A squashed pumpkin, you say? Perhaps you were better off leaving such delicate artistry to others. I hope you did not at least try to eat it!"

Hughes’s cheeks burned bright red, embarrassment flooding his expression. He opened his mouth to reply but could only manage a sheepish stammer.

Seraphina swiftly interceded, placing a gentle hand on Hughes's arm. "Oh, but Drevan, even the greatest artisans must start somewhere," she said lightly, her voice as soothing as silk. "Why, I believe my first embroidery attempt resembled little more than a nest of tangled threads."

“Just a little ribbing. My first work at the age of four did, as your ‘companion’ has so amusingly said, also ended up much like a squashed pumpkin. Squashed pumpkin, I do so love the turns of phrases that commoners have.” Drevan laughed softly, eyes glittering with renewed charm as he inclined his head toward her. "I am sure, Lady Seraphina, you could transform even the humblest stitches into the height of fashion."

Turning his gaze toward Desdemona, he flashed a smile equally dazzling. "And Lady Desdemona, I can only imagine the artistry of your first efforts—no doubt refined from the very start."

Desdemona laughed musically, tapping Drevan playfully on the arm with her fan. "You flatter me excessively, Drevan. But don't think I've failed to notice your eyes straying. You should save such sweet words only for me."

Drevan shrugged elegantly, unabashed. "I merely appreciate beauty wherever I find it—much like Selaisian pottery, each piece unique, yet each captivating in its own way."

Seraphina glanced toward Hughes, offering an encouraging wink. "Indeed," she agreed graciously, "for true appreciation lies in the eye of the beholder, does it not?"

“Precisely so,” Drevan affirmed, leaning slightly toward Seraphina, his voice lowered into a whisper that carried easily across their small circle. “But I must confess, Lady Seraphina, there is a distinct pleasure in discovering hidden beauty—perhaps even more than admiring that which is plainly displayed.”

His gaze lingered meaningfully on her face before drifting smoothly to Desdemona, whose lips twitched upward with amusement.

“How very poetic and racy,” Desdemona teased, gently brushing Drevan's sleeve. “Careful, Drevan, or you'll have us all convinced you're far more philosopher than artisan. Or simply just a philanderer!”

Drevan chuckled easily, turning his dazzling smile fully upon her. “And you, Lady Desdemona, are both a piece of art, an artist, and, I dare say it, an entire school of philosophy.”

Seraphina hid her laughter by covering her mouth and taking another elegant sip of wine. Drevan certainly knew how to charm; yet, his manner bordered dangerously close to impropriety—something she suspected Desdemona found delightfully enticing. She herself was mildly intrigued but felt a faint caution tugging at the edge of her curiosity.

Nearby, Hughes shifted uneasily, clearly feeling out of depth amidst the sophisticated repartee. To soothe his discomfort, Seraphina touched his arm lightly.

“Hughes, dear, would you be so kind as to fetch me another glass?” she requested softly, her emerald eyes warm with reassurance. “Something perhaps a bit less sweet this time.”

“Of course,” Hughes replied quickly, visibly relieved to have a task that justified his absence. He bowed awkwardly before slipping away toward the refreshment tables, nearly colliding with a passing servant carrying a tray of canapés.

“An earnest fellow,” Drevan remarked mildly, eyes following Hughes’s retreating form with mild amusement. “Though perhaps a touch overwhelmed in such vaunted company?”

“Simplicity and earnestness are undervalued, I find,” Seraphina countered gracefully, her voice gently reproachful, even as her lips curled into a playful smile. “There is a sincerity in them that polished charm can often conceal.”

Drevan's expression shifted subtly, genuine appreciation replacing practiced flirtation. “As you say, my lady. I will inscribe such words in my next piece… and into my heart.”

It was really too much. Seraphina took a moment to find her center, reminding herself that she was dealing with hormonal adolescents. Beautiful adolescents, but adolescents nonetheless.

Desdemona tapped Drevan's shoulder lightly with her fan, feigning exaggerated offense. “Do mind yourself, Drevan. Or I shall begin to suspect your attention wanders too easily.”

“Never, Lady Desdemona,” he assured quickly, turning to her with mock gravity, his dark eyes sparkling. “To wander implies aimlessness, while I assure you every glance is quite deliberate and premeditated.”

Seraphina laughed softly, taking another sip from her flute. Drevan, for his age, was skilled indeed at flattery and swift thinking on his feet. Still, despite his obvious charms, she found herself more amused than genuinely captivated. Seraphina found him undeniable like a piece of art, a piece of art that was to be admired from a distance and not touched. Yet there was undeniable enjoyment in watching him play with Desdemona, weaving compliments with practiced ease.

She was startled from her observations by Hughes's return, the young man holding a glass filled with a pale, golden liquid.

“I hope this suits your taste better,” he offered, presenting the flute as though offering a rare treasure.

Seraphina accepted it graciously, sipping delicately. The crisp dryness of this selection was infinitely more pleasing. Unfortunately, like her last previous vintage, decidedly lacking in kick. “Perfectly chosen, Hughes. Thank you.”

He flushed slightly with pleasure, glancing shyly at Drevan. “Perhaps I should fetch something for you as well, Master Drevan, and you, Lady Desdemona?”

Drevan raised a dismissive hand, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Most kind, but unnecessary. I fear I’ve indulged enough this evening,” he effused before turning to Hughes. “And apologies to you, my fine fellow, if I have caused you any offence. Another drink might loosen my tongue beyond what propriety allows, and I might make a blunder from which I may never recover.”

Desdemona tilted her head teasingly, smiling into her glass. “But, is that even possible, Drevan? I think you may have stuck your foot in it already.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted with mock solemnity, “for even the most graceful dance can stumble if steps become careless.”

Seraphina raised her glass in agreement. 

Hughes quietly smiled beside her, looking content to watch the dance of words rather than stumble through another.

***

It took every ounce of Xuzu of the Bloody Tower’s self-control to maintain the mask of bland ordinariness he had so carefully cultivated. Never before had he experienced such a tumultuous storm of emotion, not once in all his sixteen harsh years of existence. Humiliation had always been a close companion, an endless poison he had been forced to ingest alongside the countless lethal concoctions administered to him and his fellow apprentices.

Yet never had Xuzu felt this overwhelming urge to strike someone down, this burning frustration at being unable to openly showcase his true skill and power before such an insufferable, effete fop as Drevan. This pampered noble would not have survived even a single, grueling hour within the merciless confines of the Bloody Tower. Of that, Xuzu was certain—no, he corrected himself silently, not Xuzu. He was Hughes now. He must embody Hughes completely.

Even as polite conversation passed between him and the southern peacock, Hughes quietly tallied the number of times he could have effortlessly killed him. Fifty-nine methods had presented themselves clearly, though only three of those would have permitted a safe escape from the grand ballroom afterward. Again and again, Hughes envisioned vivid scenarios of humiliation and death for Drevan de Selais, or at the very least breaking those arrogant hands that had dared to caress Seraphina—tearing apart those insolent lips that presumed too much. Beneath Hughes's calm façade, his blood roiled with suppressed fury.

To steady himself, Hughes silently recited a mantra of the Bloody Tower. He did not dare whisper it aloud, of course, but within the chambers of his mind, he clung to it fiercely. As he did so, he reflexively practiced relaxing and flexing every muscle of his body one by one. A mastery of control.

He reminded himself of his true heritage: he was a giftling prince, shaped and tempered by the cruelty of the Tower yet never truly broken. He was a knife honed to perfection, a potential usurper chosen by destiny itself should the Emperor ever betray the Mandate of Heaven.

Once, Hughes had scoffed at the very idea of love, dismissing it as fanciful poetry woven by wandering minstrels and shallow court musicians. Yet, from the very moment the Asura, Seraphina, had shattered the Bloody Tower's agents when they had stormed her Meridian manor, his heart had belonged to her. Ever since she had thrown him through that window, glass shattering like crystalline tears, Hughes had fallen utterly and irrevocably in love.

In that moment of freefall, as time stretched infinitely between sky and stone, he had glimpsed beauty beyond mortal comprehension and reached an epiphany that pierced him to the soul. Hughes finally understood why mortals worshipped storms and the fire mountains: for the awe-inspiring beauty and terror embodied in such forces of nature.

Soon after, it felt as though even the Ancestor Gods themselves had plucked at his string of fate, guiding him inexorably toward Seraphina. The Tower elders had commanded him to watch and observe the world of Seraphina de Sariens, daughter of the Oracle Beast, knowing his mixed heritage would allow him to infiltrate where pure-blooded agents would fail. To Hughes, these orders felt like divine decree, a command from Heaven itself.

Despite the relentless indoctrination, the ceaseless attempts to mold him into a mere pawn and weapon of the Tower, Hughes had always kept a part of himself hidden and free, never truly loyal to the Tsusdaenglou, the Bloody Tower. But now, for the first time, he found himself willing to devote every fiber of his being to another. Only the bitter dread of rejection restrained him from revealing his true identity.

Pretending to drink from his crystal glass, the Shadow Prince Xuzu, son of the Emperor Erdian, knew, deep in his heart, that he could never hope to capture the heart of Lady Seraphina de Sariens. But perhaps—just perhaps, if the fates were merciful—Hughes might stand a chance.

Chapter 31 - A Wizard’s Staff

“We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and private: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship.” 

– C.S. Lewis

Dawn speared through the cracks in Seraphina’s velvet drapes, lazily stabbing at the darkness behind her eyelids. A dull throb pulsed between her temples, and her tongue felt as though it had been traded for cotton.

Fragments of last night glittered in her mind: a dizzying whirl of dances, more than one handsome stranger’s smile, Desdemona’s teasing laughter, and far too many crystal goblets refilled with deceptively mild wine—no doubt diluted by the wary faculty to keep the ball from descending into riotous chaos. She even recalled dragging a laughing Desdemona and Hughes onto the floor for one last waltz as the warm buzz settled over her.

Across the room, Eloise snored softly in the opposite bed, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders proof that Sir Gravens had returned them both safely after the revels. At least Seraphina had not done anything irrevocably scandalous—she hoped.

She chewed a few of mint‑sharp Payana leaf—this world’s equivalent of all‑in‑one dental care. Payana was ubiquitous across the continent, growing just about everywhere. The young girl then scrubbed her teeth with a soft-bristled brush at the porcelain sink. Clear water gushed from the tap; that this “fantasy” world had made such advancements in plumbing still amused her. Amused, but more importantly, was grateful for. The thought of using a primitive toilet and bathroom facilities horrified her. All these advances in sanitation were probably why the population in cities like Meridian, despite its quasi-medieval setting, were rather dense. 

In the mirror, a flushed but undeniably lovely girl stared back: no cosmetics, yet beauty clung to her like morning dew on rose petals. Had she looked so fresh at sixteen in her previous life? The thought vanished with a splash of cold water.

Though officially a holiday, Seraphina saw the day for what it truly was: precious, uncut time. She slipped into a light shift, cinched a loose robe around her. Taking a bunch of her latest correspondence and letters with her, she padded to the dormitory’s common room—her private kingdom now that, save for her small circle, most students were too awed or wary to intrude.

The headache pressed on, a petty tyrant demanding tribute. Enough. She gathered the golden threads of magic, whispered the litany of the Heal spell, and felt the spell cascade through muscle and sinew. Knots eased, the ache dissolved, and even the grit in her joints melted away. Any Temple Priest witnessing such casual use of a miracle on such a mundane problem would have dropped dead of apoplexy, she ruefully thought.

The young girl only smiled, stretching like a cat. She did not care in the least what the Priests would think. And, right now, she felt right as rain and ready to tackle the world. Hopefully, before the rest world decided to tackle her.

A satisfied smile curved her lips—the latest reports from one of her ventures were overwhelmingly positive. A sizeable band of dwarves, both young and old, had trekked from Bronzegate Hold, enticed by promises of riches hidden beneath the Sarien Duchy’s hills, close to the forest held by the Fae. With some help from her mother, they had already begun exploring and prospecting those slopes.

The younger dwarves, however, harbored a pronounced dislike for their ancestral language of Runes—an ideogrammatic language designed for exclusion and elitism rather than inclusion and egalitarianism. Mastery of Runes marked one’s education and status; the most fluent in Runes occupied the loftiest posts in Dwarven society. Conservative by nature, dwarves placed tremendous value on words, especially the written kind.

That tradition now faced an unexpected challenge. The new generation of Dwarves had embraced Trade—the continent’s lingua franca—as a simpler alternative. Their mountain strongholds could no longer remain sealed off; relevance demanded engagement with the wider world. And so, for better or worse, every contract written in Trade chipped away at ages‑old isolationism.

For Seraphina, the immediate effect was welcome: all correspondence with the Dwarven explorers arrived in contemporary, if somewhat blockish, Trade instead of antiquated Runes—a net positive in her view as it meant she did not need to hire a permanent translator.

Idly twirling the feather of her quill, she debated whether the moment was ripe to drop a hint about potential Mithril deposits in the Fae forest—“Saint’s Silver,” as common folk called the rare and most precious metal. Fae magic had polluted the very soil, seeping into the local soil and transforming ordinary bauxite into an ore that could be refined into enchanted aluminum, Mithril. In her former world, she would have killed to hold its patent.

Ultimately, she decided to tell the Dwarves about “a few rocks” she had spotted in the river meandering through the forest—just enough to stir their greed and set their picks swinging. If they still proved hesitant, she could always buy shares in a new mining venture and send them to prospect there herself.

Perhaps she would even provide the dwarves with a few human “apprentices” drawn from her orphanages; the idle children eating her out of house and home could use real work experience. That idea, however, was for another day.

She folded the missive, slipped it into a scented envelope, and sealed it with wax. Later, she would ask Miriam to dispatch the letters—formal documents would travel overland, while more urgent and critical notes and instructions would leave by bird in coded form.

***

A week drifted by without incident—save for one delicious morsel of gossip. According to Seraphina’s contacts in Camellia Class, Este Lize had remained cloistered in her room for seven full days, pleading sickness. Seraphina smiled; it served the little hussy right for reaching above her station.

Within her own circle, Ibn enjoyed a welcome break from bookwork, taking a few tentative steps down the adventurer’s path at Seraphina’s insistence. Brushes with genuine danger, she reasoned, would stiffen the boy’s spine. And, more practically, it would furnish Eloise with fresh reagents for her Alchemical experiments.

Frest, meanwhile, had truly slipped comfortably into his new teaching post, instructing second and third‑year students at the Academy. Yet his habit of spending every spare moment with Seraphina’s mild‑mannered homeroom tutor, Miss Templeton, was beginning to grate. He could chase all the skirts he liked, but did he have to drool so openly over that dormouse of a teacher? It was, in her estimation at least, rather embarrassing. Perhaps Seraphina should find something suitable to keep Sir Ferdiad Frest properly occupied.

Eloise, for her part, seemed to be thriving in Academy life. When she was not buried in magical theory, she was flitting from tea‑party to tea‑party, and she and Sir Gravens were often spotted having a turn about the Academy gardens.

As for the less human members, Cornelia was growing at an alarming rate. This was not helped by the Academy staff insisting on giving her the vast amount of leftovers from the kitchens. A white snake is considered a divine messenger, a herald of great fortune; the bigger the serpent, the richer and greater the blessing. With vermin all but vanished from the Academy grounds, Cornelia’s prestige only climbed. It was almost a pity, then, that Cornelia was not a snake at all.

Miriam, as usual, was struggling with classes despite keeping her grades above a pass. Really, was running a company, managing a charity, attending full‑time courses, and serving as Seraphina’s maid so very arduous? Seraphina had done as much in her previous life while maintaining a thriving music career. If she could manage, why couldn’t Miriam? Ever helpful, Seraphina was always ready to correct her maid’s every misstep, surely making the useless girl’s duties far easier.

Love, too, seemed to hover about her bespectacled maid: lately Miriam had fended off an impressive queue of would‑be suitors—every one of whom she had, of course, refused.

With a wistful sigh, Seraphina admitted she would very much like to fall in love herself. Oh, how wonderful it would be to simply abandon caution and drift with the current. Yet such surrender would mean death, or worse, a life of obscurity and mediocrity—outcomes she would never, never tolerate.

These and a dozen other thoughts swirled through her mind as the blonde girl half‑listened to Magister Belfrost expound on the virtues of a mage crafting his or her own staff. She wished Eloise’s schedule would have allowed her to join her in this class, for then at least she would have someone to share this torture with.

“With a staff at hand, you can summon and focus your arcane much faster, shaping your will with far finer precision,” Magister Belfrost intoned, sweeping his hands with a dramatic motion. “That is why the material you choose is of paramount importance. You must—”

A hand shot up. Seraphina’s classmate Fleur, cheeks pink with nerves, cleared her throat.

“Yes, Fleur?” The Magister’s smile was a razor. “Your question must be pressing indeed if you feel compelled to interrupt.”

“M‑must we really craft a staff?” she ventured. “I heard it takes part of your soul. Imbuing … a piece of your soul into an object sounds rather like witchcraft.”

Belfrost snorted. “How predictably provincial. That is the sort of peasant superstition choking true progress in the Arcane. I suppose the Church’s grip is still iron out in the countryside, so perhaps you are not entirely to blame.”

A haughty chuckle rippled through the class—until Seraphina de Sariens’s voice cut through, silken yet commanding. “Actually, Magister, though she could have perhaps used a different turn of phrase, Fleur’s concern is valid. You’ve listed the benefits of a staff, but what of its drawbacks? After all, I myself have seen more than a few Mages without a staff. They are hardly unheard‑of.”

She already knew the answer, of course. But watching a classmate spoken down to by this pompous oaf irked her noble pride; every student in Wisteria, in her view, were her subjects and she their gracious queen.

Belfrost’s jaw tightened. “Very well. A staff accelerates casting, but it also channels your growth down a narrower path.” He laced his fingers and began pacing. “Rely on it too much and you may master only a single branch of your repertoire—much as a Seal does, though a Seal is far cruder, a temporary crutch.”

A boy at the back, a member of Carnation, raised a tentative hand. “But, sir Magister, surely Seals burn out or become inert after one cast, don’t they?”

Belfrost skewered him with a glare. “I was getting to that. Seals, as you know, are paper talismans inked with a novice’s elemental essence. They teach you how the weave feels—training tools, nothing more. A staff, however, endures and can cast far beyond the rudiments.”

Seals were arcane shortcuts—training wheels of sorts for fledgling mages. New Mages upon their Path would inscribe their spells onto them and rely on their power until they could weave magic unaided. Beyond that purpose, they were useless: each Seal could conjure only the most basic of spells, and only its creator could cast magic from the Seal.

Seraphina allowed herself a small, knowing smile. She had vaulted past the Seal stage entirely; manifesting Crystalline magic had become child’s play for her.

“Now, back to disadvantages,” the Magister continued. “There persists a superstition: pour part of your soul into the staff, lose or break the staff, and you’re crippled—a mage hollowed out.”

“And that,” Seraphina supplied sweetly, “is why most of us may craft only one staff in a lifetime.”

Belfrost gave a grudging nod. “That was the old theory, yes. However, a second staff is possible, but crafting it is exponentially harder—an ordeal few care to attempt.” His voice dipped, half‑muttering the admission.

“I believe I shall forgo staff‑making, Magister,” Seraphina announced, her green eyes determined.

The Magister’s eyebrows shot up, exasperation warring with resignation. “Very well, Lady de Sariens. It is a personal decision—but mark me, your growth may suffer. I expect you to keep pace despite this… and your earlier unorthodox choice of magic.”

Seraphina put forth the full power of her monstrously high Charisma attribute into her response. Her smile blossomed, radiant and disarming. “Your warning is duly noted. Yet perhaps the staff is merely another crutch—one I intend to outgrow. You yourself, Magister Belfrost, do not use one.”

For a heartbeat, Belfrost simply inclined his head, conceding nothing yet forced to yield.

“Now,” he barked, spinning toward the rear of the hall, “those willing to forge a Wizard’s Staff, attend!” With a flourish, he whisked the velvet cover from a long table.

A collective gasp escaped the students. Ironwood polished to a wine‑dark sheen lay beside rods of bronze, bars of meteoric iron veined in silver, lengths of living bamboo, gleaming hickory, even hollow cylinders of rune‑stitched marble. The assortment looked less like mere materials than relics looted from half a dozen forgotten empires.

“None of these is universally ‘best,’” Belfrost declared, eyes glittering. “The right choice is the one that resonates with you and your Element. Instinct must be honed to a razor’s edge—so first, clear your minds.”

A chorus of groans. They had practiced the Zen-like meditation drill until it bled into their dreams.

Seraphina, however, fluttered her long lashes in private amusement. When you were the center of the universe and the axis of existence on which everything spun, shutting out the world it turned out was rather effortless. 

Chapter 32 - Undergarments

Mined in scant handfuls from the deep tunnels beneath the Dwarven Hold of Bronzegate, the midnight‑black ore yields pure Adamantium only after punishing labor and ruinous expense. Though less rare than Mithril, its brutal weight keeps it impractical: wealthy adventurers settle for a razor‑thin plating, and modern forges temper and alloy it with steel, yet even then, only the strongest can bear it. Near‑indestructible, the Empire of old forged the metal into the infamous ‘Sinner’s Shackles’ for the vilest criminals deemed unworthy of the mercy of death. Thus Adamantium, or ‘Sinner’s Shackles’ remains the dusk‑forged counterpoint to Mithril’s revered ‘Saint’s Silver.’”

- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.

Melisiandre was a most stringent, exacting teacher. The moment she saw how much raw Strength Seraphina carried in her lithe frame—far more than Aranthian higher society ever expected of a “fair‑sexed” noble—she resolved to test every inch of it. She knew precisely when to push, when to scorn, when to dangle the next challenge just out of reach. What the girl needed was not coddling but an obstacle worthy of her will, because her very life might depend on it. Melisiandre owed that much to one of her oldest friends: to forge Anaselena’s daughter into something the Bloody Tower itself would think twice about hunting. Kellan had taught her the basics of the battlefield, Melisiandre would teach her how to survive on and off it.

Seraphina was almost masculine in her fighting style, full of bravado and flare, which in her teacher’s opinion did not suit her. At the end of the day, a man fought to win, but a woman fought to survive.

“One more lap! Flat‑out this time—this is no stroll through the gardens, little lady!” she barked, amber‑steel eyes flashing.

Seraphina’s jaw tightened as though she might snap back, but she swallowed the retort and burst into a sprint. A newly gained point in Constitution served to somewhat mollify her and smoothed the sharp edge of her temper.

She was heartbreakingly like her mother, and that resemblance still stirred old memories in Melisiandre’s chest. Though now married and mother to four lively children of her own, she had never quite lost that first, bittersweet and silly crush on Anaselena. Seraphina moved with the same effortless grace, a younger mirror of Anaselena.

Yet there was one crucial difference. Anaselena could afford to fight recklessly, trusting her gift of Sight to weave her safely through every possible future. Seraphina fought with equal ferocity and recklessness, but had none of that clairvoyant net beneath her. Rumors claimed she “knew things no one should,” yet Melisiandre’s instincts said otherwise. Whatever spark lived in the girl’s green eyes, it was not her mother’s Sight.

Anaselena had once confessed that seeing a thousand futures meant living them, too; in that sense, she was far older than her years. Seraphina carried only the faintest echo of that facet of her mother. Yes, she had the poise and carried herself in manner far beyond her years, but lacked the deep Wisdom that having such her mother’s gift would have brought her.

So Melisiandre drove her harder than any pupil before. If the Sight would not shield Seraphina, skill and grit must. And if the lesson required blood, sweat, and even a few tears, then so be it—she would hammer the girl into the survivor her mother needed her to be.

It was almost as if Anaselena had seen this day would come.

Only the faintest hint of sweat clung to Seraphina’s brow as she thundered over the chalked finish line. She did not slow; Melisiandre would have scolded her for that in what she thought was a most annoying voice. Unbeknownst to her teacher, the girl had been holding her breath to make the exercise somewhat of a challenge; her immense Constitution trivialized most of the tests of endurance. Now, the blonde noblewoman braced against a wooden post, doubled over and dragged in a ragged breath. The crisp morning air tasted of iron and effort. Deeper in the Academy grounds, songbirds trilled their morning chorus obliviously. Here, only discipline answered them.

“Good,” Melisiandre said, neither praise nor condemnation, merely a measurement. She flicked an hourglass that pinned time like a butterfly. “A bit faster than yesterday. Improvement—but not enough.” A leather satchel thunked at Seraphina’s feet. Within it lay bands of almost pure, ruinously heavy Adamantium, each weightened further with rune-etched spells. “Strap those to your wrists and ankles.”

Adamantium was extremely expensive, and ensorcelled Adamantium doubly so, but Melisiandre would spare no expense for this particular student. The older woman owed almost all of her current happiness to the advice and suggestions of the girl’s mother.

And so, Seraphina did so without comment; defiance wasted breath best saved for the next drill. The stones turned even her powerful limbs to lead, yet she squared her shoulders. Melisiandre’s eyebrow rose—approval, almost invisible. “Forms, first sequence. Begin!”

Weighted or not, Seraphina’s body remembered the dance. She flowed through low sweeps, pivoted into spear thrusts, rolled her shoulders into back‑fist strikes that cracked the still morning like whiplash. Each motion finished in perfect guard. Or so she thought. From nowhere, Melisiandre’s cane rapped her outer forearm—sharp and precise. “Lazy elbow. Again.” Another rap across a calf. “Ground your stance.”

It was of some note that the golden-eyed woman was teaching Seraphina some of the stolen forms taken from the Bloody Tower, the agents of their sometimes enemies, the Empire. For it was better to know the blades in your enemy’s arsenal.

Pain flashed; will hardened. Seraphina repeated the sequence. The weights tugged at her like ghosts seeking purchase, but she fought gravity to a draw. A bead of crimson slipped from the cane‑cut on her arm. She ignored it.

Melisiandre circled, predatory. “Pain is ever a harsh instructor, but it can be like those weights, too. Sometimes one must ignore. Wisdom will teach you when. Remember that.”

The young girl had to use a greater portion of her will to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the cringey cliche. This was another humiliation she would add to her list against her “teacher.”

She tossed a practice blade—a solid length of hardened oak. Seraphina caught it awkwardly, palms stinging. With no countdown, no salutation, Melisiandre lunged the instant the hilt touched Seraphina’s fingers.

Wood clashed, sparks where iron kissed iron. Melisiandre’s style was a storm broken into steps: a low cut to draw a parry, wrist‑snap feint into an elbow, pivot‑heel sweep to topple a careless stance. Seraphina yielded ground in a staccato retreat, training shoes skidding across the floorboards, until instinct snarled: Enough. She batted aside a thrust, twisted under Melisiandre’s arm, and aimed a point‑blank strike for the ribs.

The master twisted like silk on the wind; Seraphina’s blade found only air. A flying knee smashed against her sternum—controlled and with clinical precision—and the girl sprawled onto the hard wooden floor. Breath whooshed from her lungs; the ceiling reeled overhead, a steadily growing familiar vision.

Melisiandre placed the tip of her practice blade just above Seraphina’s throat. “You commit too early. A perfect opportunity is a lie—it vanishes the moment you trust it.” She offered a gloved hand. When Seraphina clasped it, Melisiandre hauled her up with surprising gentleness. “Again.”

The word weighed more than the Adamantium shackling her limbs. Yet Seraphina straightened, drew a steady breath, and nodded. Resolve hardened behind emerald eyes—no mystical foresight, no prophetic certainty, only raw determination stoked to white heat.

Morning’s light spilled through the high windows of the training hall, gilding master and resistant pupil alike. Melisiandre allowed herself a fleeting, private smile. The Bloody Tower would learn never again to attack another innocent student of the Academy. For even the foundation stones of the Tower could crack under enough hammer strikes, but tempered steel endures. Adamantium would endure. And this girl, she vowed, would shine brighter than the finest blade ever drawn from a furnace.

“The weights stay on,” she said, stepping back and throwing her another practice weapon. “Second sequence. Begin.”

***

Slipping into the steaming rose-scented bath coaxed the ache from Seraphina’s muscles. After a full day of study and grueling drills, the silken water did not quite bring satisfaction, but it did grant a fleeting sense of contentment. Of course, Melisandre—her golden‑eyed tormentor—had known exactly which buttons to press, needling Seraphina to the edge of fury yet never letting the dam burst. Only this bath could lower the steady boil to a gentle simmer. It had simply been a lesson in the infuriating.

Sinking lower into the bath, she blew a lazy trail of bubbles across the surface, cataloging her hard‑won gains: two full points of Strength and a staggering three points in Dexterity. One more push and she would crest the next level.

Rising half out of the water, she ran a finger through her golden hair. It was growing out again, and—for the hundredth time—she debated cutting it. Short locks gave her a tomboyish look she did not entirely dislike, yet she secretly envied the other girls and their flowing tresses. Still, some classmates had begun copying her hairstyle, certain it was the secret to her success. It was ever the fate of greatness to be emulated in such a way.

After toweling off and electing to skip dinner, she slipped into light lounging clothes. Back in her shared room, she saw her roommate deep into a book, yet there was an odd look about her. Perplexed, Seraphina took it upon herself to tap Eloise’s shoulder. The doll‑like girl looked up from her book, worry clearly etched across her delicate features.

“What’s wrong?” Seraphina asked, giving her lady-in-waiting a weak smile.

“It’s most strange, my lady… A few pairs of underclothes have gone missing. Some of them, my own mother even made for me…”

Seraphina pursed her lips. “Servants sometimes misplace things; have no fear, we will replace them.”

“But, milady, it keeps happening,” Eloise murmured. “And…”

A sharp glint flashed in Seraphina’s eyes. “Though I would not put it past some of the common muck here, I doubt any of the Academy’s more… deviant sorts could get past Cornelia. My dear pet would notice an intruder lurking about and long before they reached our door.”

Indeed, Cornelia, now dieting on kitchen scraps, had grown into a monstrous guardian. Only a fool would trespass into her domain unnoticed. And, not only that, but the serpent's senses were second to none, and the creature had not reported anything of the like to the young noblewoman.

Cornelia is the best, the lazy serpent echoed in her mind through the power of her necklace.

“Still,” Seraphina conceded, stroking her massive pet’s head and enjoying the feel of the smooth scales. The giant serpent’s crown now covered the entirety of her thighs, Cornelia’s golden eyes the size of tennis balls. “I will ask the other girls if they’ve had anything vanish. And, if there were any other instances of things being misplaced. Best to be sure about these things. I will make sure that someone is thrown out on the streets if it is the servants' fault.”

“No… Lady Seraphina. You needn’t go to such lengths for me,” the small girl said with a long, drawn-out sigh. “I will simply have to make do.”

Seraphina placed a small finger on Eloise’s lips, silencing her. “It is exactly because it is you that one must do these things,” she said with her best smile.

The blonde girl had to admit that she did really like Eloise. It was a joy to dress her up in all manner of wonderful things. Since she had Seraphina’s previous features, it felt almost as if she was dressing up an alternative version of herself. Not to mention that Eloise was, in Seraphina’s opinion, a work of living art. The young girl was a reminder of her perfection of the old world

But this underclothes issue was yet another problem for the ever‑growing pile. Some days, she wanted to scream: Why must she mend everyone else’s messes when there was no one to fix hers? Didn’t Seraphina de Sariens get to have a white knight to solve everything? 

“Enough fretting,” she said, forcing a smile. “Desdemona gifted us some lovely tea. Would you care for a cup?—Miriam!”

Silence. No hurried footsteps. No door suddenly bursting open with a meek “milady” shortly after. It was disconcerting.

“Where is that girl?” Seraphina hissed through her teeth.

Eloise thought for a moment. “Remedial classes, I believe.”

“Remedial? Surely she isn’t that hopeless.”

“She asked me for help with a few things,” Eloise admitted with a shrug.

Seraphina folded her arms. “What an utter inconvenience. It makes me wonder why I keep her around at all. I am most vexed by this.”

“Well… I could try.” Eloise’s voice was tentative. “Brewing tea can’t be too different from mixing a potion.”

“Oh, sweet Eloise. Tea is more than just steeping leaves for exactly the right length of time and temperature—it’s the setting, the placement of every saucer, and cup—it’s the spirit and the art.”

For a moment, just the tiniest fraction of a second, Seraphina realized just how much she relied on her maid. Realized then quickly dismissed the inconvenient truth.

Eloise’s gaze hardened with quiet resolve. “If Miriam can manage it, so can I.”

Seraphina sighed, conceding gracefully. “Very well—let’s see what you can do.”

Chapter 33 - A Call to Adventurer

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

- T.S. Eliot.

If Seraphina was feeling generous, yesterday's tea with Eloise had been a passable affair. It had tasted alright, but something was missing. Perhaps it had been the selection of cakes and biscuits, the temperature of the brew… or something. Still, Seraphina did her best to show her gratitude, complimenting the girl on brewing it excellently.

The girl looked at herself in the mirror. Seraphina stared back.

The name now fit her like a velvet glove, soft yet unmistakably her own. It still amazed her—how effortlessly her mind had stitched itself into this new tapestry. The memories of her old world lingered like half-faded photographs: visible, within arm’s reach, but receding in importance with every sunrise.

She raised a hand to the looking-glass. The girl reflected there—long lashes, golden blonde hair, and a figure that was ripening day by day—was no lie. Every curve and contour had become a part of her, and no longer could she presume that she was only playing the part of Seraphina de Sariens. She was Seraphina de Sariens, through and through, and she sensed that prying too deeply into the metaphysics of that truth would only invite existential madness. Besides, there was something far more practical to occupy her. A problem that she could solve.

Miriam, sweet, timid Miriam, was floundering. And if her maid’s scores continued to sink, Seraphina’s own reputation would undoubtedly follow. That was a problem she could, and would, solve.

Seraphina’s tone turned flinty as she addressed the reflection of the girl hovering behind her.

“Milly.”

“Yes, milady.” Miriam clasped her hands over her apron, brown eyes wide with apprehension.

“I hear your academic marks have… slipped.” The words dropped like stones into still water.

“I am having some difficulties, milady,” she murmured, cheeks coloring.

Seraphina pivoted, silk slippers whispering against the carpeted floor. “That simply will not do, will it? You struggling, it makes me look as though I’m working you to the bone. Tell me—am I overburdening you with tasks beyond your limited abilities?”

“Of course not, milady!” Miriam blurted, dread pressing her shoulders.

“Come now, honesty is healthy.” Seraphina’s voice thawed into a feline purr. “Clearly you have too much on your plate. I shall alleviate the load… Hrmmm by granting you an assistant.”

“An… assistant, milady?”

“Indeed, Milly. Consider me in a generous mood.” A playful arch lifted Seraphina’s brow.

Miriam swallowed. “May I ask who you had in mind?”

“Why, Ibn, of course—once he returns from whatever he is doing with the adventurers. Probably chopping at some monster or another. I was thinking that we can’t have him growing any more feral than his lineage already allows.”

“Ibn?” Miriam’s voice cracked. “Isn’t he rather young for—”

“I am certain he can count to ten. You will teach him the rest until he’s truly useful. Think of it as an investment—time and effort now for ease later.”

The “suggestion” landed on Miriam’s shoulders like a fresh crate of sugar-glass confections. Training a raw boy inside a burgeoning sweets empire—one soon to leap onto foreign shores—was no small duty. And Ibn, in her private estimation, was no razor-edged intellect. But refusal was not an option.

“Of course, milady. Thank you for your consideration,” she said, forcing a smile.

Seraphina’s answering grin was blinding. “You’re very welcome, Milly. Now, with that settled, see that you rise to the occasion. We wouldn’t want the other students in our class to start whispering that you’re… slow, would we?”

“Yes, milady,” Miriam managed a curtsey, though her knees trembled. 

“And, Milly. Hughes is coming later. You may sit in and take notes if you promise not to glare at him all the time. I think he might be of some use to me later.”

“As you wish, milady. But…”

“What is it?” Seraphina replied with a small huff.

Miriam’s face was a picture of baffled confusion. “I can’t see how he would be useful to you. There is nothing special about him at all!”

“That is exactly why, Milly. That is exactly why,” the young noblewoman said, smiling at her maid.

“But, I…”

“You don’t understand. Yes, I know. But, that is why I am the master and you are the servant, Milly.”

And with that, Seraphina turned back to the mirror, content; the reflection smiled, and the immediate future shifted subtly into new and sharper focus. The future she could control.

***

Seraphina was doing her best to cheat against this world, turning her encyclopedic memories of The Maiden of the Wisterias to practical advantage. In her old world, she had practically memorized every frame animation, hit-box, parry timing, and scrap of frame data each of the significant characters possessed; surely she could reproduce some of those techniques without the assistance of the in-game trainers like the golden-eyed Melisiandre de Vallieres.

Thus, she practiced alone in the training hall during the small hours, imitating moves whose true meanings she did not truly understand. Afterward, she would sneak back to her rooms and feign sleep, careful not to wake Eloise; it would never do to be caught working hard. Everything had to look effortless—effortless and perfect, the very ideal she pursued in all things.

Seraphina was extremely averse to working hard—an aversion that ironically drove her to put in considerable effort. Her logic was simple: by becoming exceptionally good at something, she could ensure that future tasks of the same vein required minimal effort, freeing her from unnecessary exertion.

Little did the girl know that she was touching on a very profound and ancient wisdom.

This reality of Zed Valize, however, proved unkind. Her efforts yielded almost nothing, only a single-point rise in Dexterity—an improvement she might just as easily have earned by taking up embroidery and needlework.

Unbeknownst to Seraphina, she was being watched. Her Knights, together with her Page Ibn, had been taking dawn shifts to guard her, yet she was so intent, so doggedly determined, on acquiring a new technique that she never noticed.

Meanwhile, the world’s story was splintering away from its once-fixed course. Control slipped from her grasp; her knowledge and gift for foreseeing events grew ever less reliable. Wiping her face with a towel, she tallied ways to gain more immediate strength. Influence, temporal power, and wealth she possessed, but she needed raw physical and magical power to stand against that glorified hussy—the so-called “Living Saint.”

If the world was changing, she would cling to what remained of the predictable. Of course! There was always the thing in the library, she realized. In all of her frantic busyness, spinning so many plates, she had let that option slip from her mind. It was proof that even the great Seraphina de Sariens could err. It, she suspected, lay untouched by all of the external and growingly unpredictable events.

Or if worse came to worst, she could always visit another one of the Shrines of the Old Ones. Or two, if it came to it.

Almost skipping back to the dormitory, she hummed a tune she had composed so long ago and stooped to sniff the pink roses blooming ardently along the way. How vibrant the world seemed when one had purpose! How brilliant it was to be so young. 

Still skipping, she flew up the dorm’s main flight of stairs three or four steps at a time. “Milly!” she called the moment she alighted on the second floor.

Her maid burst out, a sleepy Desdemona in her shift peering past her.

“What is it, Seraphina, at this ungodly hour?” the de Savant girl yawned in a most unladylike manner.

Miriam merely bowed low, bracing herself for the worst. She had endured such storms before, and she would endure this.

“We are going on an adventure!” the blonde announced.

“You are? Well—good luck. I’m going back to bed; a lady needs her sleep,” Desdemona murmured, turning away.

Seraphina was faster. She caught her arm with a gentle but firm grip.

“Come now, Desdemona, you aren’t of the boring sort. We’re going on an adventure,” she repeated, emerald eyes alight. “We’re going to complete a Trial.”

“No, Seraphina. That sounds dangerous. We pay people for that—it sounds like work,” Desdemona protested. “That sounds quite like the sort of thing that common people enjoy. Surely we can…”

Leaning close, Seraphina whispered, like a lover, her grip tightening. “Don’t you crave excitement? The Desdemona de Savant I know is no wallflower. Something to set your blood running so near the full moon. You’ll come, won’t you? Sir Gravens is coming too, you know… ” She let his name dangle like delicious bait.

A light squeeze sealed the bargain. Desdemona shivered and nodded; Miriam bit down on her lip in protest or jealousy.

“Milly,” Seraphina said, releasing her friend.

“Yes, milady.” The maid straightened like a cadet on the parade ground, barely suppressing an urge to salute.

“Have Gravens attend me, and fetch Frest. He’ll be in the teachers’ quarters—unless he spent the night drinking. If so, dose him with healing potions and have him come here in full gear. And have my lazy page Ibn ready my equipment.”

“I don’t suppose I am getting any gear for this adventure? I heard these things can be dangerous,” Desdemona asked, excitement creeping in. “I do believe I will need to prepare.”

“Why, an early breakfast seems quite reasonable,” Seraphina replied with her most radiant smile.

The de Savant girl frowned. “That’s not quite what I meant.”

“Oh, you don’t need weapons or armor to be deadly, Desdemona dear. They would simply get in your way. You are a rose with very, very large thorns,” Seraphina said, meeting her gaze. “Those thorns are nothing to be ashamed of.” She whispered the last in a low voice.

Desdemona bristled, then subsided. She understood, in that very instant, that Seraphina truly knew her family’s secret. The de Savant felt the first spike of fear. Was it true? Did Seraphina truly have the Sight? she thought to herself secretly.

“And, Milly—call the brothers.”

“The brothers, milady?”

“Giles and Krayton, you dolt.”

“But where will I find them?”

Annoyed, Seraphina wagged a finger. “That is for you to discover. Your job is to turn my simple wishes into reality. Is that clear?”

“Yes, milady.”

“First, though, have the kitchen send up breakfast. One of the scullions will most likely know where the brothers are. Sometimes I marvel at my generosity, guiding people down the right path,” she sighed theatrically.

“By your command, milady,” Miriam said, curtsying before hurrying off.

With her course set, Seraphina’s earlier malaise vanished in an instant. “Well, Desdemona, it’s early, but we must get you into something suitable. My lady-in-waiting can help.”

“You know, Seraphina, I wasn’t excited before, but you’ve certainly piqued my interest,” Desdemona giggled.

“Oh—a word about Gravens,” Seraphina whispered.

The de Savant girl grinned. “You haven’t claimed him for yourself?”

“No. One doesn’t do that with the help—and even if I had, I’d share.” She laughed behind her hand, and Desdemona joined her. “But Eloise has been strolling with him in the gardens. And more than once at that!”

“Has she? I can hardly blame her; he’s rather handsome. I’d probably do more than take a stroll about the gardens!” Desdemona commented saucily.

“That he is. It’s one thing I like about you—you appreciate the aesthetically pleasing,” Seraphina said.

“Why, thank you, Lady de Sariens,” Desdemona replied with mock formality, giving Seraphina a perfect curtsy that would not have been out of place at the King’s Court.

“And you are most welcome, Lady de Savant,” Seraphina answered, mirroring the gesture perfectly. For a heartbeat, she forgot the decade or so of experience that separated them and was simply a fifteen-year-old girl again.

A moment later, a soft laugh escaped them both, their hands rising delicately to cover their mouths.

With a handful of well-placed words, Seraphina had drawn another ally fully into her inner circle. Mere child’s play, given Desdemona’s naturally high Affinity with the villainess. Now, she merely had to rope Eloise into this latest venture.

She hoped Eloise would not be too put out being awoken at such an early hour.

Chapter 34 - I have a dream

We must build national unity, build all revolutionary forces, into one powerful wave to sweep away our main enemy, political imperialism and economic imperialism.

- Sukarno.

“Thank you for joining us this evening, Presidential Candidate Myeong.” The host, Ms. Hyemi Han, offered a practiced smile, the studio lights glimmering off her pearl-white blazer. Her sleek chestnut bob framed a poised, confident face; subtle contouring and a wine-red lip completed the picture of modern broadcast polish.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Myeong Mirae replied, her voice warm, her radiance effortless. She wore a midnight-blue hanbok-inspired jacket tailored to accentuate her slim waist, its silver embroidery catching the light each time she moved. A single ivory hairpin held back her long raven waves, giving her an air of composed strength softened by an almost disarming grace.

Hyemi leaned forward, genuine curiosity brightening her dark eyes. “Candidate Myeong, your late entry has electrified the nation. What compelled you to step onto the presidential stage?”

Mirae’s smile gentled; thoughtful bronze flecks danced in her gaze. “Korea is at a crossroads. We can choose a future of unity, transparency, and reform—or we can stagnate. We can invest in the young and the future, or keep to the old ways. My years steering the Myeong Group showed me exactly where the system breaks down. I felt bound, morally bound, to act.”

The path to power lay in her being a traitor to her class. The billionaire class… well, in her case, the multi-billionaire class. The country needed a future, and it was being eaten up by the obscenely rich. She would offer up those monsters as sacrificial beasts on the altar of egalitarianism. Mirae would cut herself, and deeply, if it meant that she was the only one left standing.

Hyemi nodded appreciatively. “Recent polls show you breaking records for favorability, and turnout forecasts are sky-high, especially among the under-thirties. How do you read that enthusiasm?”

“People recognize authenticity,” Mirae answered, posture straight but unpretentious. “They want a leader who tells them the truth and shares the fruits of prosperity—their prosperity.”

“And you insist that taxing the ultra-wealthy is the path to that future?” Hyemi’s finely penciled brows rose.

Mirae inhaled. “I have been poor, and I have been rich—”

Hyemi couldn’t resist: “Your recent memoir shocked us all. No ‘silver spoon’ after all!”

The corner of Mirae’s mouth tightened, but the smile held. The previous Mirae would have never made such a move; instead, she preferred to hide the truth about her humble origins. This Mirae, on the other hand, was willing to use anything. Even the highly edited, romanticized version of the truth. 

“Indeed. My journey lets me ask a simple question: who bleeds more? Twenty percent from someone scraping by, or eighty percent from someone obscenely wealthy?” she asked of the presenter.

Hyemi attempted a light laugh. “Some argue such rates would smother entrepreneurship. Still, others say that the very rich would just simply leave. Your response?”

“A society without a thriving middle and working class has no future. I will build a world… a Korea where paths prosperity exists without devouring the weak. The old nobility in the West called it noblesse oblige. For those with power and wealth to give back and protect. Wealth does not easily pack up its bags and leave. There is something about one’s home that is sacred. And, these taxes do not target those who made their wealth from their labor, but rather those who have assets. Those assets are here in Korea, and we can tax the elite.”

A frown crossed the presenter's face. “But critics call that hypocritical—you are the elite, after all. And others fear handing vast sums to the government. A government that can be best described as less-than-efficient”

Mirae crossed her long legs, lacquer-black heels flashing, and let out a melodic laugh behind perfectly manicured fingers. “Should the people choose me, I will be the government. And doubt my fiscal skill? That’s like doubting a surgeon with the scalpel. My companies succeed because I run them with discipline—I will govern the same way.”

“That is quite the powerful claim to make.”

“A claim grounded and based upon my past record.” 

Hyemi’s curiosity sharpened. “Still, why risk everything? Why go this far?”

“A duty to the country that forged me,” Mirae said simply, sincerity like steel beneath velvet.

The host shifted, new territory ahead. “To this day, you remain acting president of the Myeong Group—a chaebol entwined in every aspect of our daily lives. How will you address conflict-of-interest fears?”

“Transparency, Ms. Han. On election night, I resign every executive post and place my holdings in a blind trust. The people will see exactly where every won goes.”

A final, gentler probe: “You also face scrutiny over your mother’s defection from the North. Some doubt your allegiances…”

Mirae met the question head-on, chin lifted. “I am the daughter of a woman who sought freedom and the proof that this peninsula can transcend its divisions. My life is a declaration that gender, birth, and background do not limit one’s ability to serve their country.”

Hyemi allowed herself a genuine smile. “Beautifully put, Candidate Myeong. Thank you for your candor—and speaking of bold moves, you’ve hinted at reopening talks with Pyongyang…”

The red studio light blinked, new questions loading. Mirae’s poised silhouette against the glowing backdrop suggested a woman ready and hungry for power.

***

The rival factions struck both openly and in secret. Yet Mirae had prepared for this long ago. Backup suppliers were secured, new routes mapped, unexplored markets primed. The assault showed up on her dashboards like an annoying bookkeeping error—nothing more.

The board complained. They were elderly directors who had no appetite for risk, blind to the fact that her single, decisive play would rewrite the entire rulebook. The share price moved a fraction, but that was the extent of it. And, what did heavy taxes matter if you were the last megacorp standing in the nation—then the region, and eventually the world?

She chuckled under her breath.

Rule here was almost too easy. No right to it was granted by birth, but with all the wealth and power she had, she might as well wear a crown. Her predecessor had squandered that privilege the moment she convinced herself she had already won at the game of life; Mirae knew there was always a higher summit to claim.

And the luxuries, thousands of them, were just wonderful. Even just going to the toilet was a pleasure! She grinned, pleased she had tricked her other self into going to Aranthia, that monster-ridden land of treacherous magic and zealot priests. No, thank you.

“Miss Myeong, we’ve identified the security-breach culprit,” reported a staffer in a black cap. The badge on his chest read Kim Min-jun.

“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” she said smoothly.

Several rivals had even tried open warfare, forcing her to stay on the defensive—for now. She could not yet afford public scrutiny. Of course, once she won the election, she had people in place to arrest all of those who conspired against her. It would be like a public execution in the town square. A cathartic moment, the people would have their pound of flesh.

Mirae’s smile sharpened. “You have footage and full details? You have him in custody at one of our sites?”

Kim consulted his tablet. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sometimes, a well-handled shield could cut deeper than any sword.

“Excellent. I’ll deal with him myself—after my fan-club address.”

“As you wish,” he replied, bowing formally.

Heels clicking, she strode down the corridor. Two suited guards swung the next set of doors wide open.

The great hall was packed wall-to-wall with men, thousands upon thousands of them, faces upturned to the spotlight like worshippers at a midnight mass. Lights bathed the area, burnishing every eager gaze with a molten halo. When Mirae stepped onto the dais in a pearl-white power suit, the entire sea of bodies surged forward, as though gravity itself had shifted around her.

She shot a clenched fist overhead. “Unification!”

The single word detonated. A roar answered—deeper than thunder, hot enough to vibrate the steel roof trusses. These were the true diehards of Mirae’s Fan-Club, men who had memorized every verse she ever sang and treated her comeback concert–turned-campaign announcement as a holy revelation. The second coming. They had mourned when she walked off the stage years ago; now they hailed her as a goddess returned.

Useful, devoted, and already trained. Conscription had taught every one of them how to march, to shoot, to die on command. Where others saw a fan base made up of disenfranchised youth, Mirae saw a loyal legion of fighting age.

And legions needed wars.

While ministers and armchair pundits preached restraint, she envisioned shock-troops outfitted with bleeding-edge kill drones and encrypted comms storming the 38th parallel before the global powers even finished drafting their condemnations. Fire would rain from above as 6th-generation fighters flew on the wings of the storm from secret mountain bases. Let the old guard wring their hands; she would lop off the snake’s head and hold it aloft as proof that timidity had died with the previous century.

Blood would flow—of course it would. Peace had never been bought with anything else, and she preferred the invoice paid in someone else’s red coin.

Mirae paused at the clear-crystal podium, letting the echo of their chant coil around her like a living serpent. It filled a dark part of her heart with satisfaction. Somewhere high above, a camera rig hummed, recording this historic moment for posterity.

Election night was tomorrow, and everyone had seen the writing on the wall. It was time to prepare the nation for its marching orders.

She drew a breath that tasted of ozone and electric promise, allowed a slow, dangerous smile to blossom, and leaned into the microphone.

“My brothers,” she began, her voice a velvet blade, “The time is almost here! Are you ready to make history?”

“

The path to power lay in her being a traitor to her class. The billionaire class… well, in her case, the multi-billionaire class. The country needed a future.

Chapter 35 - The Realm of the Four Gods.

“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”

- André Malraux. 

The librarian peered over the rim of her silver spectacles, one eyebrow arched high. “Is that truly appropriate attire for a library, miss? This is most irregular.”

Seraphina tapped the steel helm tucked under her arm and flashed a playful grin. “You’d be surprised how often heavy tomes have been falling on heads of late. One can never be too careful.” She swept a hand toward the pair behind her. “Besides, we came straight from combat classes. No time to change, isn’t that right, Teacher Frest?”

Inside, Seraphina whispered a silent prayer, hoping that her extremely high Charisma would allow them to pass this test.

“Quite so, Lady Sera—er, Miss de Sariens,” Frest replied, adjusting the sword belt that still clinked at his hip.

The librarian’s lips pursed, but her tone remained gentle. “This is most irregular, but not against the rules. Please conduct whatever business you have quickly; some students are attempting to study.” She nudged her spectacles higher, the silver chain glinting. “And next time, please leave all the extra equipment outside. I doubt you will have need of them here.”

“Of course. Your patience is an example to all,” Seraphina said, her smile as radiant as a fresh sunrise. She glided past the desk, inclining her head just ever so slightly. It was times like these that she could not quite understand why she bothered worrying at all in the first place. Things were just so easy.

“I’m terribly sorry for the disturbance,” Miriam murmured, ducking in a hasty bow before following her mistress.

The towering shelves formed a canyon of wood, parchment, and leather. Dust motes danced in the shafts of amber light from tall windows as Seraphina marched down the central aisle, her armored boots thudding against ancient oak floorboards. At last, her gaze locked onto a hulking volume: The Realm of the Four Gods.

She casually hauled the heavy tome free and dropped it onto a nearby table with a resounding thunk. Bound in thick, mottled leather the color of dried blood, it bore a fist-sized gem set in its cover like a staring eye. If memory served, the hide was, regrettably, human. A subtle glamour rippled over the surface, a distraction ward meant to make unaware passersby see nothing at all. Unfortunately for the book, this glamour did not work on people who knew of the book’s existence.

“This,” Seraphina announced, fingertips splayed across the gem, “is a doorway to a Trial. I mean to step through.”

“A Trial? In the Academy library?” gasped Eloise, her lady-in-waiting, blue eyes wide beneath her lace cap. “What is such a thing doing here?”

Frest took a nervous half-step backward. “I, ah, suddenly recall urgent business in the staff room—”

“You’ll have plenty of time to chase Miss Templeton’s skirts later,” Seraphina snapped, not looking up. For some reason the thought of Frest chasing her homeroom tutor made her annoyed.

“We are not—Daniella and I are not like that!” Frest sputtered, cheeks blazing crimson.

“Oh, Daniella, is it?” Desdemona drawled, a musical laugh escaping from her pretty lips. “You play a dangerous game courting a fellow member of the faculty.”

Gravens kept his handsome features perfectly schooled in a picture of serene indifference throughout the exchange.

Seraphina’s smile sharpened. This tome had been left to fester and marinate in the background energies of the library for a very long time. More than a few Mages of the past had added their ambient energies to it, or so the lore of the game dictated. The crystal pulsed once, as though answering her heartbeat, and the air above the book shimmered with a purple haze—an invitation only the daring would accept. It was the gate to a secret Trial, an optional part of the game. The rewards from which… were significant. 

In the game, for balance reasons, the Trial was made for the protagonist to face alone, but Seraphina had no intention of indulging in such reckless heroics. That sort of nonsense was beneath her.

“Positions,” she commanded, her voice as crisp as shattering glass. “Frest—beside Eloise. Desdemona with Sir Gravens. Giles, Krayton, Milly—with me .” She arranged them in positions, filling invisible party slots she envisioned, each name locking into place like a chess piece.

The rag-tag company shuffled forward. Giles and Krayton, twin mountains clad in travel-worn mail, stationed themselves behind Seraphina like walking ramparts. Miriam, scared and tremulous, worried at the hem of her robe. Then men had bulging satchels that clinked with potions, Zajasite lantern-stones, and rope—every contingency accounted for.

Seraphina let her gaze sweep across them, reading the uncertainty stitched around every mouth. Unacceptable.

“If we’re separated,” she announced, letting the words bite, “pair with whoever’s nearest and head toward the smoke and the screaming. We will rendezvous there. Follow my plan to the letter and this will feel like a Sunday stroll. Now, remind me—who’s today’s enemy?”

“The ones from your sketches?” Desdemona whispered, more affirmation than question.

“Exactly.”

“Can I keep one?” Eloise chirped, ears perked.

“Of course, my dear,” Seraphina allowed, giving her a forced smile. “Any other questions?”

None. Only the hush of coiled anticipation.

“Good.” She pressed her palm to the crystal. The young noblewoman felt she was missing something. “Oh, yes, I believe in you all…”

Sound fled. A note resonated, vibrating marrow. Power—hungry for hope and terror—drank greedily from their collective pulse. Violet mist coiled up their legs like ghostly ivy, numbing skin and stealing warmth. Desdemona’s resolve buckled; she half-turned to bolt, but Gravens’ gauntleted hand anchored her, steel calm over quaking shoulder.

Reality lurched. The library stretched, snapped, and shattered into shards of starlight. Time spun and stalled, a coin flipped in the amethyst void.

When the light died, seven figures stood beneath an autumn’s sky—and the Trial began.

They stood in a small forest clearing where several massive trunks lay toppled, the saplings that would one day replace them still unborn. Seraphina’s gaze swept the scene as she hurried through a headcount—everyone was present. Three possible starting points existed for this Trial; sheer luck had kept the party together.

Overwhelmed by the moment, Desdemona lurched toward a nearby bush and began to retch.

“Milly, see to Lady de Savant,” Seraphina ordered, her voice clipped. “It won’t do if she is not herself.”

“At once, milady,” the maid replied, rifling through one of the brothers’ packs for water and a handkerchief.

While Milly tended Desdemona, Seraphina assessed the rest of her party. Already slowing us down, she thought with an impatient tut. Why did I bring her at all? I must have been out of my mind.

She turned a slow circle. Trees—nothing but more and more trees. She knew their destination, yet the “how” of getting there eluded her.

“Frest,” she called to the former bandit-turned-knight, “which way is northwest?”

Frest shaded his eyes, gauging the sun’s angle. “That way, milady.”

The towering brothers, Giles and Krayton, nodded in agreement.

“Excellent. Ladies and gentlemen, that is our heading.” She clapped her hands. “Come along—chop-chop!”

***

Trudging through the undergrowth, Seraphina could not help but question the Trial’s starting point. Why force everyone to enter through the book in the library? Surely she could have slipped the book out, trotted to the stables, and brought a few horses along for the journey. Of course, the game likely enforced some arbitrary limit, like an arcane radius on the tome—carry it too far and it would probably detonate in a burst of eldritch confetti. She had made the best call she could with the facts she had. Still, part of her wished she had tried; seeing a pair of horses wedged between the reading desks and shelves would have been worth the reprimand.

Also, it didn’t help that the large sword she rested on her shoulder sometimes got in the way of low-hanging branches.

Seraphina would worry about the limits of “The Realm of the Four Gods” later, when she sent Ibn to clear this Trial. Perhaps she would even get him to do it in the “normal” way, after all, the boy needed some challenge in his life.  However, for now, it seemed they had either arrived before the scripted events of the dungeon or had simply wandered off-course, because no column of smoke marked a burning village.

Almost as if the world took offense, a shrill scream split the air. Whoever was yelling clearly was not enjoying the conditions in their present life.

“A cry for help! Finally, at last, we are getting close. So off we go!” Seraphina declared, pointing toward the direction of the scream. “Desdemona, scout ahead.”

“Is that altogether wise, milady?” Gravens asked, his handsome brow creasing with worry.

Desdemona rested a hand on his arm, earning a withering glance from Eloise. “I shall be quite all right,” she said, hesitant but firm. “I have… certain abilities.”

“The lad’s right,” Frest added, rubbing his chin. “It isn’t proper to send a girl off alone. I’ll scout ahead instead, milady.”

It seemed that knighthood was rewiring Frest’s brain—Seraphina had little use for an overly chivalrous Frest who went about saving damsels in distress. Probably him trying to show off for Miss Templeton. She needed to nip this in the bud before it spoiled his “unique” properties.

“Are you questioning my orders?” Her tone turned glacially cold. “I know exactly what Desdemona can do. She is far more capable than she appears.”

“Not at all, milady.” Frest shrugged, his voice brushing the edge of insolence. “Only offering my view of the situation. After all, Lady de Savant is unarmed. Should we not at least…”

Seraphina held up a dainty hand. “She will do much better without a sword or dagger. It would just get in the way,” she explained, turning towards her friend. 

“Then by all means, Desdemona.” Seraphina’s smile turned warm as summer. “The sooner we finish this Trial, the sooner I can savor one of your teas.”

Desdemona nodded, slipped into the thicker undergrowth, and vanished behind a broad oak. Gravens moved to follow, but Seraphina’s icy glare rooted him in place.

“That would be boorish of you. Give a lady her privacy, Sir Knight.”

Gravens looked like he had been slapped.

There was a rustle, then the crash of something large plowing through brush in the direction of the scream.

“I do hope Desdemona controls herself,” Seraphina murmured. “Though a little rampage might help loosen her up—she’s been rather tightly wound of late.”

The rest of the party simply stared at the heir to the Sariens Duchy.

“What exactly is Lady de Savant’s… special talent, milady?” asked one of the brothers—Giles, who, Seraphina noticed, had grown stockier since arriving in Meridian; both brothers’ faces looked a touch rounder.

She let a thin, cold smile curve her lips. “A lady is allowed her secrets. Desdemona would not appreciate prying.”

Still, their uneasy expressions made even her worry.

“Truly, she could probably clear this entire Trial by herself if she’d stop holding back,” Seraphina huffed by way of explanation.

The original Seraphina could relate to Desdemona. In fact, that was probably why they had such a high affinity with one another. Seraphina had spent years drilling herself to restrain and hide her certain unnatural Strength. Perhaps in much the same Desdemona had been taught to also hide certain aspects of her Change. This Seraphina, however, cared little for such theatrical self-denial. In herself and in others.

“But what lies ahead, Lady Seraphina?” the doll-like Eloise asked. “What caused that scream?”

“Oh, just an invading army tormenting an NPC—” Seraphina caught herself; these people would never grasp gaming nomenclature. “—a hapless village. Desdemona can travel much faster than us, but it would be rude to let her handle everything. Let us hurry along.”

“Yes, we should aid those villagers! It is a Knight’s duty!” the noble Sir Gravens exclaimed.

“Remember,” Seraphina said, almost conversationally, ignoring her Knight’s outburst. “None of this is actually real. The Divines set this Trial as a test for us mere mortals to prove our worthiness.” Part of her had to perform mental gymnastics even to say so—wasn’t this whole world arguably unreal? An unreality within an unreality?

“So, Frest.” She gestured to his heavy crossbow. “No need to fret about friendly fire on anyone outside of our group.”

Frest flashed a wry grin. “Never worried much before either, milady.”

“Excellent.” Seraphina turned on her heel. “Now—let’s save some villagers before Desdemona goes a bit over the top.”

Chapter 36 - The Dragon Turtle

“Invincibility lies in the defence; the possibility of victory in the attack.”

- Sun Tzu.

Seraphina’s party ran at a light jog, it would do them no good to arrive to a potential fight tired. Only the blonde girl wore a full harness of brigandine and platemail, her ridiculous Strength and Constitution making the ensemble as cumbersome as an evening dress. However, without horses the men had chosen to wear half plate or chainmail.

The party found Desdemona looking listless and bloody, surrounded by quite a number of broken, dead bodies. Some of which, Seraphina wryly observed, had more than a few chunks taken out of them.

Desdemona really did look like she was in an almost post-coital daze. It was of note that she was also not naked, her red dress just stained and sticky in parts with a different crimson.

The rest of Seraphina's party, quite justly, a bit out of place and horrified at the spectacle. 

But Seraphina had already seen her fair share of horrors, her strong mind capable of compartmentalizing anything and everything. And, when faced with a beast you could only show strength.

She lifted her chin proudly and addressed the de Savant girl. “Have you had enough fun? Got it out of your system, darling?”

Desdemona blinked, growling for a moment before she coughed in embarrassment and gave her friend a small nod.

“Where are the rest of the villagers, my dear?” Seraphina asked, coming closer and placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

Desdemona looked up at her, eyes slowly focusing on the blonde girl. “They all ran away while these were distracted,” she answered pointing to the bodies of soldiers clad in eastern-looking armor.

Seraphina breathed an internal sigh of relief. If the de Savant girl under the throes of her transformation had killed or injured some of the villagers it might have affected their completion rewards.

“You did very well, Desdemona. I just knew you had it in you,” Seraphina replied with a pleased smile.

She really had done exceptionally well. Desdemona, having dealt with this initial encounter in such a lightning-fast fashion, gave them some float time to clear the trial early without bothering to protect the other villages.

This would be over before even her best predictions. It was time for a speed run clear.

Were this a game, Seraphina would have been tempted to target the mini-bosses before going for the head honcho of this Trial. But she was the leader and responsible for this group; she would not risk even her pawns needlessly.

She would have Ibn do that instead.

The time now was for a deception. Eloise, who upon the next part of her plan hinged upon, had to have sufficient Charisma to pass a few checks coming. Seraphina hoped that the added bonus of her being in the same party would be enough.

“Collect as much of the usable gear as possible. We are now going to be Lady Eloise’s, now Lady Mingtian of the Seventh Circle of Earth’s prisoners. Boys, you are to be her auxillae escort. Lady Mingtian has strange, eccentric tastes that way. Do not do anything more than a surly grunt,” she ordered, addressing her group.

“That's all well and good, milady, but if we are her auxillae then surely we don't need to don these poor people's gear?” Sir Frest asked annoyingly, losing him a few points in Seraphina's eyes.

She frowned. He did have a point, but the young noblewoman did not like being second-guessed. And more importantly, did not like admitting her mistakes. “It is to add some veracity to the whole thing,” she replied airily. “Now, get changed and see if you can wrangle us some horses,” she suggested to Giles and Krayton. 

Dutifully, the brothers wandered off.

“Lady Seraphina, I understand that to conquer this Trial, we must ultimately defeat the Empire’s general. But you told us it would happen on the battlefield—after we rescue a few villagers from the Empire’s brutal chevauchée tactics. That’s when King Elidion I is supposed to arrive, just in time to force the Empire into open combat—and compel the general to face him directly. Then we basically do something you called a ‘kill-steal,’ correct?”

“Yes, but thinking on it again, all of that sounds rather messy and I fear will take up far too much time. I would rather be back in time for tea, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, yes…”

“And, participating in a battle is much more dangerous than this plan. All sorts of things can go wrong you know,” Seraphina said with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“And… you do know all we need to do is get Desdemona or I within throwing distance of the General’s tent one way or another. According to the histories, he was quite the collector of foreign concubines, he simply will not be able to resist.”

Desdemona frowned at this. 

“Not you, darling, me,” Seraphina stated proudly, slapping at her breast. “That’s how we will get into camp. Men can overlook all sorts of gaps in their logic when they are faced with the objects of their desire. And… the men of his camp will know well of their leader’s desires…”

“You are betting quite a lot on your beauty there, Lady Seraphina,” Frest quipped.

“Shouldn’t you be helping the brothers wrangle some horses. You used to be good at that weren’t you? Especially the ones you didn’t own,” replied Seraphina icily.

Frest instead of replying just gave her a quick salute before running off to join wherever the brothers had wandered off to.

***

The men and women under Seraphina’s command moved with practiced efficiency. After donning their newly acquired equipment and scrounging up a few serviceable mounts, they gathered in the village square. The ground was still damp from rain, and the air hung heavy with the scent of ash and blood.

To their surprise, a handful of survivors had begun to crawl out from hidden basements and root cellars—faces smeared with soot, eyes wide with disbelief at the sunlight they thought they’d never see again. Some wept openly. Others knelt in the mud, murmuring thanks or prayers in trembling voices. A hunched old man gripped Seraphina’s gloved hand with a reverence she found unsettling, while a young mother pushed forward to press a dried bouquet into Eloise’s arms, her eyes brimming with tears.

In exchange for one of Seraphina’s earrings—a fine ruby set in gold—and a solemn vow of vengeance, the villagers provided tack and supplies for the horses. They would not accept any money for the horses and just asked her to return them. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Still, Seraphina shook her head as she watched them bow and scrape. Had their survival not influenced the dungeon’s reward calculations, she was not entirely sure she would’ve bothered. It was a grim thought, and she pushed it aside.

These people, she reminded herself again, were not real. Perhaps they had been real once upon a time, but these were mere memories. Remembrances given tangible form to help test those who challenged a Trial.

Was treating them as humans also part of the test?

Now fully outfitted and mounted, the party was ready for the next, and hopefully final, stage. The dice would have to be cast—though technically, it was Eloise who would be rolling them.

Seraphina swung onto a dun-colored mare with practiced grace. Her hands were bound loosely in front of her, and her helm was hooked at her hip like an ornament. Her greatsword, too recognizable to display openly, had been swaddled in layers of cloth, its deadly profile disguised beneath the wrappings.

Desdemona, similarly bound and mounted, rode beside her. The pair of comely Aranthian noblewomen were roped together and tethered to Sir Frest’s mount by a leading rein, giving the appearance of captured prizes rather than commanders.

The rest of the group completed the deception. The men wore a mismatched array of Aranthian and Imperial armor, giving them the rough-hewn look of veteran mercenaries—dangerous, unsavory, and well-paid. Eloise, in her usual blend of modern Aranthian flair with classical Imperial elegance, completed the minor illusion. She looked every inch the eccentric noblewoman: imperious, unpredictable, and entirely convincing as the leader of this motley escort.

Seraphina cast one final glance across the square, meeting the eyes of each of her companions. She offered them a crooked smile before fixing her face into an expression of rebellious defeat. The young girl had a part to play, and all her life she had always played her roles well. Even if she detested playing the part of someone who had lost.

***

Travelling in a north-easterly direction through a lightly wooded stretch of land, the party kept a rapid clip on their borrowed horses. Leaf-dappled sunlight flickered across the column like a stuttering lantern, illuminating the rough disguise of patched armour and knotted ropes. Both she and Desdemona rode upright and steady despite their bound wrists, their posture regal enough to pass for dignified captivity. Here and there, the trees thinned, revealing jagged ridgelines to the north—territory the Imperial army was said to occupy in force before the war of Jade and Steel.

They had not gone more than a league when Seraphina’s mare flicked an ear and snorted a warning. Moments later, four riders appeared between the trees ahead. They wore the lamellar breastplates and peaked helms of Empire light cavalry, green-black lacquer dulled by travel grime. Their mounts fell into a wary trot, forming a loose chevron that blocked the trail. At the apex rode an officer no older than twenty, moustache wispy, shoulders squared as though parade-ground drilling could shield him from a world of ambushes.

Frest reined up, doing an admirable impression of a mercenary captain whose nerves were forever frayed. Seraphina let her gaze slip half-lidded, chin tilted at just the angle to suggest defeated hauteur. Beneath the veneer her mind whirred—four scouts, light armour, sabres at the hip, cheap iron spear-heads. Easy prey. One whisper to Desdemona, one feint from Frest, and the forest floor would bloom crimson.

She almost gave the order. But, the empire’s scouts were worth pennies in experience; their deaths might even penalise negotiation routes or trigger an alarmed patrol. And, it would slow them down. Besides, Eloise was already nudging her sorrel horse forward.

The officer lifted a gloved fist, barked a challenge in the Empire tongue—a string of crisp, tonal syllables that was basically an archaic form of Mandarin. Seraphina’s lip twitched. Of all the grand cultures the developers could have invented, they’d taken the laziest shortcut: file off serial numbers, change a few words here and there, and call it “Imperial.” Oh, and they added a bit of Latin here and there, the lore being that a legion had once been transported from their world to this one. 

It had irked her every time a character mispronounced a fourth-tone word, and the game subtitles had insisted it was ancient and dignified. However, it basically meant that Seraphina could understand the exchange.

Eloise answered smoothly in the same language. As much of a daughter of the Empire as she was Aranthian, her accent was impeccable. She opened her fan, a swirl of indigo and silver. At once, the scouts’ attention riveted to her like iron filings to a lodestone. She offered the officer a shallow bow, commending them on their duties for reclaiming this land for the glory of the Empire. She then spoke quickly, framing their presence as Eloise looking for glory on a path to Heaven. The words ransom and noble hostages glittered in the air like coins tossed onto a tavern table. Fortune had favored this Lady Mingtian, and she wanted to gain more honor by offering the general her war prizes of foreign flesh.

The officer’s scepticism wilted under that barrage of polite flattery and private greed. If this noblewoman found glory under the eyes of Heaven, then so would he by association. He motioned for his men to fan out, eyes narrowing at Seraphina and Desdemona. For a moment he picture himself mastering these Aranthian whores then thought better of it. 

As for the girls, they played their roles to perfection—backs straight, wrists tense against the rope, faces carved into masks of reluctant submission. One scout rode up to inspect the bundle that concealed Seraphina’s massive greatsword. Eloise glared at him, daring him to tug loose the cloth strips. He reconsidered with visible unease; the seeming captives radiated too much presence to be ordinary spoils.

While the scouts conferred in hushed tones, Seraphina’s gaze drifted to the treeline, measuring arrow angles and stride lengths out of habit. Four corpses, thirty heartbeats, her inner tactician noted. But the alarm would echo farther than steel can fly. She exhaled, forcing the calculation away. This was a mission of deception, not carnage—at least not yet.

Eloise returned at a trot, the officer riding beside her, chin lifted with the self-importance of a dog freshly awarded a ribbon. “Captain Chong has graciously offered to escort us directly to Lord Marquis Ma’s field camp,” she announced in broken Aranthian, voice pitched just loudly enough for the scouts to recognise the deference but none of the mockery, to the Seraphina’s men. “Our… escorts will ensure we suffer no further indignities on the road.”

Seraphina offered Sir Frest a quick look, silently appending—not yet. The party fell in behind the Imperial riders. As they set off, Desdemona leaned close, whispering from the corner of her mouth, “I assume we’re still alive because murder was not quite necessary? Let me… run wild. Please…”

“Restrain yourself, a sword without a sheath is useless,” Seraphina replied, though the words tasted sour. Secretly, she agreed with Desdemona and would have much preferred lopping off the escorts’ heads. She had never liked letting potential threats get so close to her. Still, the living could open doors locked to a corpse.

Their new escorts kept a brisk military pace, rattling off occasional remarks in that pseudo-Mandarin dialect. Seraphina caught most of the phrases—references to siege engines, supply wagons, complaints about the Count’s impatience for gathering his “prizes” for his hareem back home, which could only mean the two “Aranthian nobles” now riding behind them. She filed the intel away, even as irritation simmered. If her developers insisted on plagiarising Earth cultures, they really should have at least hired decent linguistic consultants.

The forest thinned to scrubland dotted with flinty outcrops. Ahead, banners snapped above a rise—crimson silk stamped with the gold-thread dragon of the Empire. And beneath it was Lord Marquis Ma’s heraldry, a stylized tortoise with a serpentine neck. Drums rolled like distant thunder. Seraphina straightened in her saddle, allowing a flicker of anticipation to spark behind her feigned defeat. The board was set; the pieces were advancing. All that remained was to decide when to strike the blow that would cut off the head of this odious serpent.

Chapter 37 - The Lecher

“Lust and greed are more gullible than innocence.”

- Mason Cooley.

Head held high, back straight as a lance, Seraphina was the very image of a captured noblewoman who still clung to her dignity like armor. Her expression, serene yet defiant, was that of one expecting ransom. Behind her, Desdemona mirrored the posture of her lady, but barely. The hunger in her eyes, that feral gleam, told another story—a beast caged only by willpower and the unspoken terror of disappointing the golden-haired aristocrat before her.

They drew stares. Soldiers lined the path like gawking townsfolk at a gallows march—most were green peasant levies by the way they held their spears, their armor hanging off them like borrowed costumes. A few veterans loomed among them, silent and grim-eyed, but the newer-looking troops outnumbered them by a mile. Blacksmiths labored nearby at clanking mobile forges, their soot-smeared faces lit orange by flame. One of the younger craftsmen, too distracted by the girls, drove his hammer down onto his own thumb with a sickening crunch, howling and swearing as he dropped the twisted piece he had been working on.

She had to give it credit; the Empire’s language was definitely suited for cursing.

At the head of their escort strutted Sergeant Zhao Genshu—a creature who embodied the word "ratty" so perfectly it might as well have been tattooed on his forehead. His beady, narrow eyes glinted with opportunism, and his buck teeth jutted out like he was always halfway to gnawing something. However, he walked now with the swagger of a man who believed he had conquered a kingdom. Genshu grinned wide as he waved at his comrades in the camp, puffing his chest with the self-importance of one who had personally captured the Aranthian noblewomen for his general’s hareem or ransom.

They marched on through the heart of the camp until they reached their destination: a crimson pavilion emblazoned with the coiled image of a dragon turtle. The heavy silk walls shimmered in the sun, ominous and regal. Before the entrance stood two guards—silent statues clad in lacquered black armor, their halberds cruel and archaic. The blades, etched with jagged runes and glimmering script, seemed to hum with latent menace. Even in rest, the weapons gave the impression of slicing through the very air around them.

Their escorts dismounted, and Sir Frest and the brothers helped the girls down from the horses. Sir Gravens looked very worried, it took everything he had not to draw the sword at his waist. He was fearful, but not in fear for his life, but for his lady and his lady love.

Sergeant Genshu conferred briefly with the guards, their unreadable gazes sweeping over Seraphina and Desdemona. No words were exchanged—just a pair of nods, curt and cold.

“I will summon the Great General Ma,” Genshu declared as though reciting from a holy text. With a theatrical sweep, he pulled back the silk flap and vanished into the tent’s shadow.

They waited. Time stretched in the waiting, each second sharpening the tension like a knife across a whetstone. Seraphina sat astride her horse, a storm boiling beneath her calm exterior. The rope strained to constrain her. Patience thinned. 

Just as her temper reached a flashpoint—just as she considered bursting out of her bonds and carving a path through anyone foolish enough to stand in her way—the tent flap stirred.

And as if summoned by her very dark thoughts, the general emerged.

General Ma emerged from the pavilion like a lustful storm disguised in silk and lacquered steel. He was a rotund man clad in gleaming red lamellar armor, its lacquered plates like bloodied scales, and beneath it, a brocade tunic shimmered with black and gold patterns of clouds and waves. His face was round, eyes narrow and calculating, crowned by a meticulously oiled mustache that curled like the tails of a calligrapher’s brush—his chin otherwise clean-shaven. At his hip hung a curved saber in a lacquered scabbard adorned with an ornate dragon turtle motif, its jeweled eyes gleaming, its shell etched with exquisite detail—a weapon and proclamation both. 

He moved with deceptive grace for a man of his shape, and as he stepped forward, the soldiers around him straightened, instinctively bracing under the weight of his authority. The general’s gaze danced over the girls lasciviously, and he smiled, undressing them with his eyes.

He leered at the girls, eyes glinting like oil-slick puddles, before sweeping into a florid bow toward Eloise. “Ah, I do not believe I have been graced with your introduction. A thousand humble apologies, for you have presented me with a gift fit for emperors.”

“Heaven guides and wills,” she replied, voice smooth as water jade. “I am Lan Mingtian of Clan Onyx, at your service, Lord Ma. It is a singular pleasure to bask, at last, in the light of your greatness.”

Ma’s head dipped a mere finger’s breadth—just enough to acknowledge without insult. “Yes, yes, a rare honor indeed for one of a Clan Minor.” His fleshy hands rubbed together greedily. “You have brought great face upon yourself and every ancestor scratching for recognition below the Heavens.” He savored the words, then asked, voice dirty enough to stain a stranger’s clothes, “Their names?”

“A de Sariens and a de Savant,” Eloise answered, a picture of cultured serenity. “We caught them fleeing their estates—precisely as foreseen. Aranthians remain tragically predictable.” She offered a demure tilt of her head. “If it pleases Your Excellency, how shall you employ them for the Empire’s glory?”

Ma’s laughter boomed like a war drum. His tongue darted across cracked lips. “Ah, a little cultural exchange, of course. The golden one will grace my harem; let the other lords gnash their teeth with envy. The darker rose I shall ransom—after allowing her to savor the Empire’s… Yang virtues.” His grin curdled into something reptilian. “Naturally, Lady Mingtian, you will receive a share of the spoils.”

Seraphina, jaw clenched, whispered to Desdemona behind her, “Play along for now. When you’re alone, please tear him limb from swollen limb.”

Ma clapped his hands twice. “Bring the brown-haired jewel to my inner tent.” His sausage-like finger swiveled to Desdemona. “Sergeant Genshu—you have served me well. A talent of silver for your unquestioning zeal in your duties.”

Genshu slammed a fist to his breastplate and bowed until his greasy ponytail brushed the dust. “This soldier is unworthy of such bounty.”

“Yes, that you are!” Ma guffawed, a sound thick enough to curdle milk. “See to my orders: the brown-haired one within, the golden one afforded her own guarded pavilion.”

“Lord General Ma, a single request,” Eloise said, lips frozen in a doll’s perfect smile.

“A request? I am generous today.” His gaze slithered down her form. “Perhaps you would join me in instructing the Aranthian in Empire values, Lady Mingtian? Perhaps she is also in need of Ying energy.”

She swallowed a tremor. “Your offer is most generous, but I crave merely a brief discourse with the blonde prisoner—to glean what scraps of intelligence she may conceal.”

Ma waved a pudgy hand. “Granted, granted. But do not blame me for the wind’s howl or the rain’s hammering.”

“I shall weather both,” Eloise murmured, bowing with stiff grace.

The guards obeyed at once, ushering Desdemona—firm yet courteous—through the crimson curtain. A grin, sharp as broken glass, flickered across Seraphina’s lips: Ma will be lucky to leave that tent with anything left attached. The bounty of experience from his death or no, sparing herself his touch was worth the sacrifice.

Servants, galvanized by barked orders, poured from the pavilion like ants from a disturbed nest. Tables and finely made chairs appeared, arranged beneath fluttering silk banners. Miriam, as if by instinct, leapt to assist, unloading baggage and stacking supplies with brisk precision.

Then lumbered a matron of terrifying girth, looking half human and half bear, brandishing a ladle like a cudgel. “Lord Ma’s broth scalds unattended,” she groused, superstition thick in her country drawl. “The wind shifts ill when foreign women are in the camp of war.” Her small eyes raked Seraphina. “What does His Excellency see in your kind? Wild branches grafted to a noble tree only sap its strength. And your man-armor—ridiculous! We shall strip it and clothe you in proper womanly garb, lest chaos reign—”

Seraphina’s vision narrowed to a lethal point. Her greatsword lay a scant stride away.

From inside the pavilion erupted a bestial howl—Desdemona’s battle cry, raw and echoing, a clarion that tore the air in two. Rage burst Seraphina’s restraints. The bear-woman’s tirade ended mid-syllable as an armored fist punched through rib, lung, and spine in an explosion of viscera.

You have slain a human. 10 experience earned.

It was more mercy than she deserved for her insults, Seraphina mused, would have been slower. Grabbing her weapon and ripping it free from its swaddling, she charged at the soldiers who had welcomed her into their camp. Limbs flew, arterial spray painting the air crimson. System messages cascaded—cold numbers tallying a harvest of meat and fear.

Above, the sky fractured—spiderweb cracks revealing brilliant white beyond the false heavens. The Trial is collapsing. Desdemona had already felled Ma, draining the bubble of reality of its stabilizing energies. With a snarl, Seraphina triggered Dash and hurtled toward one of the general’s elite guards.

She seized the warrior’s halberd by its black haft, pivoted him like a siege engine, and faced the camp proper. A roar built in her lungs, magic intertwining with wrath, before exploding outward.

Wail of Judgment rippled across tents and men alike, a sonic scythe mowing flesh from bone.

You have learned Wail of Judgment (lvl.3)

You have slain a Human. 56 experience gained.

You have slain a Human. 10 experience gained.

You have slain a Human. 11 experience gained.

…..

…..

Lines of text blurred until the system finally rewarded her for her gamer’s greed.

You have reached level 18.

3 unassigned attribute points.

1 unassigned skill point.

The counter began its countdown. She kicked the elite guard’s corpse off the weapon's shaft—his fingers still locked in a death grip—and allocated her gains without hesitation. All three attribute points were put into Intelligence, and the skill point into Mana Regeneration. Not because she needed to be any smarter, she told herself, but because she needed the Mana. Or so she justified to herself.

Fixing her eyes on the other remaining elite guard, she tried to use Wail of Judgment again, but the spell resisted her summons. The spell was on cooldown, she realized blithely.

So she prepared to kill the guard the old-fashioned way. Or, a more stylish way, at least. A crimson Crystal Dagger blossomed in her palm. With a flick of her wrist, it streaked toward the remaining guard. Yet faster still flew Sir Frest’s quarrel that pierced him through the eye, even as her crystalline missile exploded his chest. Even in death, his corpse clung to his precious magical halberd.

You have slain a human. 28 experience gained.

Damn stupid Frest and his kill stealing. She cursed, but there was no time to fume. The world groaned like a ship breaking its keel. Seraphina hurled the halberd to her maid, shouting “Catch, Milly!” before she blasted forward again with Dash, taking a large chunk out of her Stamina as she used the skill on its cooldown.

Distracted, Miriam left an opening—and the soldier she was fighting seized upon it, driving his blade straight through where a human heart would be. It should have been a killing blow. Unfortunately for him, Palisa Slugs kept their vital organs in very different places. With an annoyed grunt, Miriam dropped her cudgel, caught the thrown weapon just in time, and swung it in a wild arc. The improvised strike connected with a satisfying crack, caving in the maid’s would-be killer’s skull.

The twins carved a butcher’s toll beside Sir Gravens, whose blade sang to madness as he fought to protect his lady and his lady love. Nearby, Eloise rippled the Earth itself into treacherous waves, tripping the panicked reinforcements that were already far too late to even matter.

Seraphina’s gauntleted fingers closed round the polearm’s ebon haft just as light shattered everything—prismatic, deafening, divine. Everything fractured like broken glass as a celestial hymn echoed in marrow and soul.

They had done it. They had absolutely shattered the Trial of “The Realm of the Four Gods.” It was just a shame that cameras and such devices had not been invented in world yet to record all of her glory.

Chapter 38 - Human Relationships

I can stand him not loving me; I can’t stand him loving her.”

- Lang Leav. 

The world snapped back together like a shattered mirror, making itself whole—fractals shimmering, flattening, and at last resolving into ordinary space. Glass that a heartbeat ago had exploded into lethal shards flowed in reverse, reseating itself in flawless panes with a crystalline sigh. When the last motes of brilliance faded, Seraphina found herself back in the library, a lingering echo of The Realm of the Four Gods fading from existence.

You have completed a Divine Ordeal.

You have completed The Realm of the Four Gods.

You have received 2000 experience points.

You have received Gift: Legacy of the Dragon Turtle

You have gained 1 Luck.

You have gained 1 Wisdom.

You have reached level 19.

3 unassigned attribute points.

1 unassigned skill point.

You have received Artifact: Serpent’s Coilband.

The message burned across her vision and faded, leaving her blinking at the hush that followed. Her legs wobbled—neither fatigue nor fear, but from sheer excitement and incredulity. They had accomplished the impossible, and the world itself had rewarded her.

A plain gold bracelet, narrow as a kiss of sunlight, lay in her palm—too simple by half. Yet beneath that innocent sheen coiled a secret power as ancient as the Serpent God who first dreamed of deceit. Her pulse hammered when she felt the artifact stir, a phantom scale sliding beneath the metal. Mine. She clasped it shut around her wrist; the band shrank to fit, cool and possessive. It was something that she desperately needed.

Eyes danced across the notifications and changes to her Status, finding the Legacy of the Dragon Turtle. It was a boon that increased her Luck and Constitution and granted her some resistance against both Water Magic and Physical Damage. Favoring symmetry for its elegance, she allocated two of her free attribute points into Constitution, and one into Strength. As for the free skill point, she, as was her wont of late, assigned it to Mana Regeneration.

Seraphina straightened, masking the thrill racing along her nerves with a veil of cold, noble composure. To anyone watching, it must seem this triumph was merely the ordained result of her command… and for most of her companions, that illusion held. Awe gleamed in the eyes of those new to the Trials.

But one pair of eyes shone not with awe or surprise, but with hungry, liquid fire.

Desdemona.

The de Savant girl’s cheeks were flushed a dangerous rose, her lips parted as though she breathed sweeter air than the rest of them. No blood marked her, no tear marred her crimson dress—yet something violent and primal coiled just beneath that silk skin. The storm of stimuli—the disgust, the terror, the rapture—had wound her nerves too tight. Now the cord snapped.

With a savage, predatory grace, she closed the distance to Gravens. One heartbeat, he was merely blinking, his hand opening and closing as if in disbelief at the order of events; the next, he was engulfed, Desdemona’s arms flung about his neck, her soft curves slamming against hard steel. His shock and protest dissolved beneath a kiss that was no maiden’s offering but a devouring claim—wet, urgent, molten with the heat of rut and battlefield hysteria.

Gravens’ hands trembled mid-air, torn between propriety and primal instinct. The clash rang through his frame like struck iron. His eyes fluttered half-open; then, perhaps for Eloise’s sake, they squeezed shut altogether. Or, perhaps in denial. A part of him could not deny the feelings that stirred within him at such an open declaration.

A delicate gasp cut the charged silence. Eloise, doll-perfect lady-in-waiting, delicate fingers to innocent lips. Her dark eyes brimmed with stunned betrayal and something far more fragile. Tiny and immaculate beside the tableau’s raw carnality, she looked like a porcelain figurine set before a bonfire.

Even Seraphina’s own cheeks burned scarlet at such ardent a display. She flicked her gaze aside, heart drumming louder than any war-beat. Control the stage, Sera. Regal indifference slid back into place like a mask of polished ivory, but the scene seared her peripheral vision—the clench of Desdemona’s fingers in Gravens’ hair, the quiver of his shoulders, Eloise’s silent tremor.

At last, Desdemona drew back, eyes half-lidded, lips gleaming—a predator partially sated for the moment. Gravens staggered as though struck, breath ragged, while Eloise’s eyes clouded, a single tear tracking its way down her cheek.

Seraphina cleared her throat, voice velvet-smooth yet edged with command. “Enough.” One word—cool water on fevered skin. Desdemona’s gaze snapped to her captain; after a defiant heartbeat more, she released Gravens and stepped back, chest rising and falling like a bellows as she sashayed away.

The hush that followed felt as brittle as spun glass. In Seraphina’s chest, exhilaration still roared—but now it tangled with a rising sense of foreboding.

Desdemona’s defiant posture, her complete lack of remorse, was the final straw for Eloise. With a trembling hand covering her eyes, she fled the library, tears trailing in her wake.

Irritated, Seraphina touched her new bracelet, a self-comforting gesture. Its plain gold surface was warm—almost alive. The magical artifact was power dressed in plain gold..

“We will talk about this later,” she said coldly, her voice flat. She passed her massive sword and gauntlets to her maid, who accepted them with a small squeak.

Desdemona's lips curled in a mocking smile. The blonde noblewoman felt a sudden, fierce temptation to strike her.

“Sir Frest, escort Lady de Savant to her rooms. Miriam, check out The Realm of the Four Gods and get the kitchens to make us a warm meal. The rest of you—wait in the common room of my dormitory,” Seraphina ordered, already turning on her heel to pursue Eloise.

As she passed Sir Gravens, she paused only long enough to shake her head. Her disappointment was plain. In her eyes, his stock had greatly fallen. To make matters worse, the Trial had also chosen to reward Gravens with an artifact—a heater shield fashioned from what appeared to be a metallic turtle shell, its rim adorned with the sinuous form of a serpentine dragon.

It did not take long for Seraphina to find her lady-in-waiting after asking one of the gardeners. The small girl was seated alone, staff across her lap, looking heartbreakingly small in a secluded corner of the rose garden just outside the Academy library.

A small plaque gleamed on the bench beneath her—a cruel twist of irony. It read: Donated to the Academy by the de Savant Family.

Seraphina plastered a warm smile on her face. “Eloise…” she began, placing one hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder while offering a handkerchief with the other.

She would explain Desdemona’s erratic behavior later; for now, the doll-like girl needed comfort, not excuses or explanations. Seraphina gave her a few minutes to collect herself.

“Oh, Lady Seraphina, I’m just so sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” Eloise muttered, her eyes a painful shade of red. “I’m just so sorry.”

“Now, now, darling. Don’t say that,” Seraphina soothed, running a hand through Eloise’s hair. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Just… Sir Gravens said so many sweet things, and I thought he meant them. Then seeing him with… her… with that—”

Seraphina shook her head, meeting her friend’s gaze. “Don’t say something you’ll regret—no, especially here, where she can neither hear nor see you. You are not such a petty soul. Desdemona is your friend, and even you can see she isn’t quite herself.”

“Then what was… that?” Eloise hissed.

“Will you truly let a boy come between you two?”

“No, but… Gravens. I’m not a greedy girl, yet Desdemona can get any boy she wants—”

Seraphina laid a finger on Eloise’s lips. “Desdemona wasn’t herself. I know it, but I cannot tell you her secret—that is simply not my place—but let us just say that she was not fully in control of her faculties. Perhaps one day she will explain it to you herself if you can manage to forgive her.”

The blonde girl gave her a weak smile. “And Eloise, we’re all slaves to our desires, whatever they may be, but we cannot let them master us all the time. Desdemona was at her limit; it was a miracle she controlled herself as well as she did.”

Eloise snorted. “Gravens is handsome, but he’s not that handsome… Still, if what you say is true, then Desdemona really likes him. Deep inside that is.”

“Eloise, my dear—half the first-year girls, and quite a few seniors, like Gravens,” Seraphina said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m attracted to him, too. But would it help to know that in that moment literally anyone else would have done, and Sir Gravens just happened to be closest?”

“Really… then it’s not entirely Sir Gravens’s fault?”

This conversation wasn’t going quite as Seraphina intended; she didn’t want to defend Gravens, only to prevent future friction between Desdemona and Eloise—Desdemona’s family was powerful.

“Well… you could say that, but it definitely wasn’t Desdemona’s fault.”

“But all I can see is Desdemona kissing him!”

“Then file that image deep in the back of your mind. Forgive her. Extreme, life-and-death moments affect people strangely. Frest loses himself in his cups, and Milly goes off somewhere to sulk for a long time. Now, Desdemona’s expression is simply more carnal than most, that’s all.”

“But… do I have to forgive Sir Gravens, too?” Eloise asked weakly, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief.

“That’s entirely up to you, my dear. Still, it’s rather telling that he didn’t chase after you…” Seraphina added, prompting another burst of tears.

Of course, she omitted the fact that she had ordered everyone to wait in her dormitory’s common room. That’s right—join yourself to me, the de Sariens girl thought darkly. When the time is right, I’ll choose your future partner to suit my needs. You are wasted on a mere household Knight.

Seraphina hugged Eloise and patted her shoulder, holding her until the sniffles subsided.

“Now then, it’s been a long day for all of us. I think a cup of tea is in order!” she said brightly.

“As long as it isn’t Desdemona’s,” Eloise retorted.

The heir to the Duchy of Sariens gave her lady-in-waiting a mischievous smile. “Oh, don’t worry about her—I’ve sent her to her room for her bad behavior.”

The girls laughed together, sharing a private moment.

“I do hope you’ve made sure she isn’t missing dinner, too,” Eloise said cheekily.

Seraphina’s smile softened. “I’m sure, darling, that can be arranged.”

***

Time had indeed flowed much slower inside the Trial of the Goddess, Seraphina decided as she finally collapsed onto her canopied bed. The silk coverlet rustled as she slipped in beneath the covers. There was still a tension about her shoulders, and her brain hummed with leftover adrenaline. Across the room, Eloise was already fast asleep, but in her dreams, the poor girl tossed and turned, her dark hair fanning over the pillows like a splash of ink. 

Seraphina sighed; debriefing her followers after the Trial had been a quite the chore. Each of them had insisted that the Goddess herself had “blessed” them—NPC speak for basically saying that they had gotten stronger.

A hiss announced Cornelia’s arrival. The massive white serpent slid from beneath the bedframe, scales glimmering opalescent in the crystal light. She lifted her wedge-shaped head and rested it on Seraphina’s stomach with a possessive weight. Seraphina stroked the broad skull, fingertips bumping over bone ridges.

“You are getting far too big,” she muttered, voice rough with fatigue. “And lazy.”

Not lazy, Cornelia replied, the words slithering straight into Seraphina’s mind like cool water. Just hungry.

“And greedy to boot.” Despite herself, Seraphina smiled. “But I wouldn’t trade you for all the crowns in Aranthia. Eat, grow—give me more serpent to love.”

The forked tongue flicked, tasting the air, brushing her cheek with ticklish affection. Only then did Seraphina notice a knobby white bump down Cornelia’s neck—the telltale sign of an approaching growth stage. Wonderful; everything and everyone around her was really growing up. 

Womanhood had come late to this body, but it had come in full force nonetheless. Seraphina replayed Desdemona’s passionate kiss in her mind, imagining guiltily what it would have felt like if it had been her. She would have probably slapped Gravens for his temerity, she decided.

With a groan, she slid the Serpent’s Coilband from her wrist. She rather liked the magical object, not for its inherent power, but its rather plain and understated elegance. Still, she had to do this. Gripping the band with her fingers, she forced it wider—magical metal protesting, then yielding—until it was just large enough to slip over the serpent’s neck. It settled snugly against the scales.

Sir Gravens, at least, had been well compensated for his small part—his new shield was a powerful magical defence. Seraphina could not help wondering, a stab of envy twisting in her gut, what prize Desdemona herself had received for slaying Lord Ma. Probably something ridiculous—something Seraphina herself could have used. But that had been the plan: let Desdemona top the loot table so Seraphina could bank on second place to get the Serpent’s Coilband. In hindsight, she could have simply negotiated a trade or demanded it from her afterward. Oh well, too late now.

What’s this? Cornelia asked, coiling around to touch the band.

It is something that will let me take you everywhere, Seraphina answered through the link, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.

How do I eat it?

You don’t, you ridiculous creature. Don’t even think about it!

The serpent tried to retreat, feigning innocence, but Seraphina caught her behind the jaw. “Oh no, you don’t.” She exhaled sharply, pinning stray hair behind her ear. “All right, let’s at least test the thing. Try to be—oh, I don’t know—be smaller.”

Cornelia coiled tighter, looping herself into a spiraling knot. Seraphina opened her mouth to clarify—then froze. The Coilband glimmered, arcs of faint golden light sinking into glossy scales. Inch by inch, Cornelia’s massive body compacted, shrinking like cloth in scalding water.

Everything’s bigger! the serpent announced, astonished.

“That’s not it, you silly snake.” Seraphina scooped the newly miniaturized reptile to her chest, the weight now scarcely no longer than a half a pace. “You’ve gotten smaller, that’s all.”

Yet in that moment, as she cradled the pulsing coil of scales to her chest, some of the day’s exhaustion finally melted—a brief, quiet victory.