Book 2: Chapter 39-50 +epilogue (RAW) (Patreon)

Chapter 39 - The Messenger of the Gods

Even if a snake is not poisonous, it should pretend to be venomous.

- Chanakya.

Hughes was still puzzling over what he’d witnessed in the gardens—a vulnerable moment between Lady Seraphina and the de Laney girl. The puzzle had gnawed at him from mid-afternoon straight into these dark hours of the night. Love, the young man realized, was no gentle emotion but a shadow war, a clandestine hunt for the secrets held in another’s deck while shrouding one’s own. He chastised himself for couching something so delicate in such antagonistic terms. He was not Seraphina’s enemy.

Now he balanced on the steep, tiled ridge of the Robert de Chastille roof, overlooking the dormitory where the woman he revered above all others slept. Night air carried the scent of damp slate and night blossoms from the gardens; silently, he wished her only the kindest dreams.

A scarcely audible whisper disrupted the stillness—no louder than a moth’s flutter—just before three shapes settled beside him. Their attire was a study in midnight: tight-layered cloth that drank moonlight, hoods shadowing their eyes, masks veiling every hint of flesh. Even their weapons had been stained black to drink in the dark.

“Veil, your reports arrive later with each cycle. The Elders grow … restless,” said the tallest, voice flat as a freshly whetted blade.

Lee. Hughes recognized him at once—Lee, a common name for a common, most ordinary man. He had always wondered if his origins had always been the source of his pettiness and spite. A wry smile touched Hughes’s lips.

“I am but one man living two lives,” he answered, words drifting like ash over the roof tiles. “There are only so many hours in the day… and in the night.”

The trio hissed, low and venomous.

“Insolence to the tower is not forgiven,” warned the figure to Lee’s right, her pitch needling like nails on slate. It was a voice that he had always found annoying.

Hughes tugged down his own mask, letting moonlight sculpt his plain features. “To the Tower? Perhaps. To you, Lee?” He shrugged, foregoing Lee’s Tower name, Shadowclaw. “Because, to you, Lee, I owe nothing.”

“We are the Tower,” Lee replied, silencing his comrade with a raised hand. “Slight us, and you slight the Elders. As you know, their patience thins.”

“As does mine. A path to the throne was promised to me, yet nothing has come of it. And now, I find myself with no desire left to squander my time obeying the tremulous decrees of withered old men,” Hughes said, voice low but carrying. “I think I will make my own path, free of the Tower.”

Lee recoiled half a step, as though the word treachery were a blade at his throat. “Explain yourself, Xuzu. This is treachery!”

Hughes’s gaze flicked, so swiftly it might have gone unnoticed, to the narrow sheen of oil he’d spread across the tiles of the roof earlier. The young man had prepared well for this encounter.

He smiled, all teeth in the silver light. “I’ve long wondered how you clawed your way to Triad leader, Lee, when your sole gift and talent is stating the obvious.”

“Alive or dead?” muttered the second subordinate, eyes never leaving Hughes.

“Alive,” Lee commanded, drawing a short straight sword from the sheath strapped across his back. Moonlight kissed the razor edge for a heartbeat before the dark-stained steel swallowed it. “We must know who turned one of our own. And, an example made of the traitor. I will enjoy this”

Predictable to the last, Hughes thought, sneer widening. They wanted him breathing—tilting the odds, beautifully, in his favor.

Hughes shifted subtly, his weight poised and ready. He watched, tense as wire, as the trio moved to surround him in practiced unison. But discipline couldn’t guard against what they couldn’t see.

The woman to Lee's right lunged forward first, her footing confident until her black-shrouded foot slid on the carefully concealed oil, scattering droplets that glittered briefly in the moonlight. In that fractured heartbeat of vulnerability, Hughes surged forward, a quick twist of his wrist, and his hidden blade sprang from its sheath across his forearm. He stabbed at her,  burying his steel deep into her side, feeling the muted vibration through as it cut deep into flesh.

The katar was a difficult weapon to wield defensively, but Hughes had chosen it for a reason—it could punch clean through the concealed armor worn by the Tower’s agents.

Even grievously wounded, her face betrayed no pain—only a cold, mechanical focus. Tower-trained to the last breath, she bit back the instinct to scream, clutching at the blade lodged within her abdomen. She crumpled soundlessly to her knees, eyes blazing hatred as her blood seeped silently onto the tiles.

Lee snarled and flicked his hand; dark glints flashed through the air as throwing knives flew towards Hughes. He spun, dancing between the blades or deflecting with his own, a deadly ballet of agility and instinct. His own hands moved with fluid precision, returning their deadly volleys. Knives hissed and whined, scoring shallow lines across clothing, sparking off tiles, and vanishing into darkness.

The third Triad member closed the gap, darting low, aiming to flank him. Hughes pivoted swiftly, countering with savage elegance, and met him blade to blade. Black steel sang its muted song, a deadly chorus punctuated only by breaths drawn through clenched teeth. Hughes sidestepped a slashing blow, exploiting a gap in the assassin’s guard, and thrust his sword into the boy’s chest.

Yet triumph swiftly soured—his blade caught firmly in bone. Desperately, Hughes twisted and tugged, but the steel was trapped, unyielding as stone. Lee, Shadowclaw, seized upon the moment, driving forward with a brutal thrust of his own aimed squarely at Hughes’s heart.

Hughes’s pulse quickened; death was a heartbeat away. He thought only of regret that he could not spend more time with…

A blur of alabaster erupted from the shadows, startlingly swift—a massive white serpent, sleek scales radiant beneath the moon. Cornelia. Her ivory fangs plunged deep into Lee's thigh, injecting a venom potent enough to halt a bull in mid-charge. Lee’s muscles froze instantly, a look of shock etched permanently upon his face, blade halted mere inches from Hughes’s chest as his body froze.

Lee collapsed rigidly to the tiles, staring in furious disbelief at the traitor, paralyzed and helpless. 

With a heave, Hughes freed his weapon, breathing harshly through clenched teeth. Blood now decorated his black clothes, cooling slowly in the night. He met Cornelia’s unblinking gaze, nodding in silent gratitude, even as confusion gnawed at him. But only for a moment, for it was, he was sure, the Divine’s way of telling him that his was the right choice.

In the pale glow of the moonlight, Hughes surveyed the aftermath—three dark-clad bodies strewn across the blood-slick tiles, their silence more unnerving than any scream. But something in the air shifted. The white serpent beside him, already quite large, began to grow.

Its body expanded, coils thickening, length multiplying until the beast loomed like some ancient serpent god, large enough now to swallow a grown man whole.

And then, to Hughes’s dark astonishment, it did.

First, the wounded woman—the one who had tried to crawl away, her fingers scraping uselessly at the tiled surface. Cornelia struck before she could even scream, fangs sinking in, jaws unhinging impossibly wide to consume her struggling form in a single, sinuous motion.

Then came the boy Hughes had stabbed, his body limp and lifeless. The serpent coiled around him with disturbing tenderness, lifting the corpse into the air before swallowing it whole.

And finally, the last. Lee. Still paralyzed, eyes wide with impotent rage and terror. Cornelia slithered forward, tongue flicking as if savoring his fear. Hughes watched, transfixed and vaguely horrified, as her jaws opened once more. She took him slowly, almost reverently, gulping him down segment by segment until nothing remained but the quiet lashing of her tail.

When it was done, Cornelia regarded Hughes with cold, reptilian eyes.

Trembling, awed, and grateful, Hughes bowed deeply to the divine beast. “Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely rising above the wind.

He did not look back as he descended from the roof, boots slick with blood and oil. Sleep would not come easily, if at all, for the rest of the night.

***

Attended by her diligent maid, Seraphina partook leisurely of an early breakfast, elegantly spreading Valny fruit jam upon her toast while Eloise delicately sipped tea opposite her. The morning sun filtered gently through embroidered curtains, bathing the common room with its glow and casting intricate patterns upon the polished surface of the mahogany table.

Her thoughts drifted momentarily towards Cornelia. She distinctly remembered sleeping with the serpent nestled closely by her side, its comforting weight and cool, supple scales pressed reassuringly against her skin; yet upon awakening, the creature had inexplicably vanished, no doubt slithering off somewhere.

A faint sigh escaped her lips, betraying mild vexation—not solely at Cornelia's absence, but also at an elusive memory, some indistinct longing from her previous life that hovered just beyond grasp, like a fragment of an almost-forgotten dream.

Resolutely setting aside her silver knife, Seraphina addressed her maid with a practiced nonchalance. "Milly, if you would be so good as to locate Cornelia for me, I would be most grateful."

"At once, milady," Miriam answered promptly, bowing deeply before quietly slipping from the room.

Seraphina stirred restlessly, absently swirling her freshly poured Kariconi juice, feeling vaguely incomplete without her recently acquired morning indulgence—the invigorating dash of venom milked from her beloved serpent, a daring substitute for the the stimulation of coffee. The added thrill and bite it afforded to her refined palate were most satisfyingly novel.

Eloise, after a hesitant pause, broke the silence with gentle concern. "Lady Seraphina, are you quite certain it is prudent to include Cornelia’s venom in your morning beverage? The tests I conducted resulted invariably in fatalities among the test animals."

Seraphina regarded Eloise thoughtfully, taking in the doll-like delicacy of her lady-in-waiting’s porcelain features. Features that had been brightened considerably by a night of restful slumber. Eloise, she determined, was made of sterner stuff.

She offered a reassuring smile. "Should Cornelia ever inadvertently bite me, I would find myself in a troublesome predicament indeed. Better, perhaps, to build up some small resistance."

"I confess I am not entirely certain that is how venom works. But perhaps you have the right of it” Eloise conceded reluctantly, her brow gently furrowing. “Yet, is it not still somewhat perilous?"

Seraphina’s smile broadened mischievously. "A little peril, measured and controlled, is far preferable to a sudden and overwhelming calamity."

Eloise’s lips curled into a gentle laugh as she replaced her cup carefully upon its saucer. "That may be so, though I sincerely doubt there exists any danger or peril you could not easily overcome, Lady Seraphina." The brunette was learning day by day that flattery, more often than not, worked wonders on her.

Opening the doors to the common room with a bang, their exchange was abruptly halted by Miriam's sudden return, her face flushed and breathing laboured. The manner of her intrusion stirred immediate displeasure in Seraphina.

"Whatever is the matter, Milly?" she inquired sharply, her tone betraying her irritation.

"You must come quickly! It concerns Cornelia—something extraordinary has happened!" the maid exclaimed, visibly alarmed.

Though a pang of concern fluttered within her, Seraphina preserved an outward tranquility. She concluded her morning repast with deliberate, slow elegance—delicately dabbing her lips with a lace-edged napkin, and cleansing her fingertips in a bowl scented lightly with lemon.

"My dear Milly, you must not startle me so at this early hour," she gently reproached, rising gracefully. "You are aware how greatly I detest unnecessary excitement before my morning classes."

With Eloise following dutifully, Seraphina swept regally from the room, guided hurriedly by Miriam into the flower gardens. There they abruptly halted, confronted by an astonishing spectacle.

Around the venerable oak tree at the garden's centre, Cornelia lay coiled, basking luxuriantly in dappled sunlight, her shimmering white scales reflecting a radiant glow. Remarkably increased in size, she now resembled a creature of almost legendary proportions. More astonishing still was the presence of a second head, elegantly poised a quarter-length down her serpentine form.

"Lady Seraphina," Eloise began hesitantly, eyes wide in wonderment, "I am scarcely knowledgeable in these matters, her growth spurt aside, but surely it is not natural for a serpent to acquire an additional head overnight?"

Seraphina gazed fondly upon Cornelia, her eyes shining with pride and secret triumph. "Indeed, Eloise, such a phenomenon would hardly be typical of an ordinary serpent. But as is plainly evident, Cornelia is quite extraordinary."

Miriam, nervously adjusting her spectacles, ventured cautiously, "Then, if I may be so bold, milady… what precisely is she?"

Seraphina moved gracefully forward, the breeze playfully catching at the loose strands of her golden hair. With fearless, unbridled curiosity and confident serenity, she reached out to stroke the serpent's magnificent scales.

"Oh, Milly," she said softly, her voice brimming with delight and anticipation, "Cornelia is just wonderfully beautiful!"

Chapter 40 - Information Control

The greater the power, the more dangerous the abuse.

- Edmund Burke.

“Cornelia, wake up, you silly creature!” Seraphina cooed through the necklace at her throat, each syllable sparkling in the mind of the monster. “And do make yourself smaller. I didn’t gift you that trinket just to make you even prettier!”

The serpent uncoiled with the languor of ancient royalty roused from a centuries-long slumber. Four molten-amber eyes fluttered open, radiant and predatory, while twin forked tongues—thick as braided ropes—flicked across Seraphina’s cheeks.

“Still… so… sleepy,” Cornelia sighed, her voice a low, resonant purr that vibrated in the girl’s thoughts.

“Smaller, Cornelia,” Seraphina warned, a smile as sharp as a knife. “Be quick about it, or breakfast vanishes. Dilly dally, and lunch joins it in oblivion.”

Miriam, hands trembling slightly, clutched her apron. “P-pardon me, my lady, but… what exactly is Cornelia?”

“Obvious, surely,” Seraphina replied, flicking a sunlit strand of hair from her eye, as though discussing the weather. “She’s a Hydra, or an Orochi, as the people of the Eastern side of the Empire like to call them. Isn’t it blindingly obvious?.”

Her words had all the impact of a falling chalice in a quiet room. Eloise and the maid instinctively stepped back, shoulders clenched.

“A Hydra, Lady Seraphina?” Eloise whispered, voice quavering. “Is that—entirely safe?”

“For me? Perfectly.” A blasé shrug. Below, the monster obeyed her earlier command. Flesh rippled and flesh compacted as scales folded inwards like living mail. The titanic coils condensed until the beast resembled an overgrown lap pet. “There now. Isn’t she precious? Yes, my vicious darling, you are. One day, I shall feed you every rude soul in the realm… Come now, you may pet her as you always do.”

Eloise, emboldened by the display of control, extended a tentative hand. Her fingertips brushed scales dense enough to deflect steel. Awe softened her fear.

“See?” Seraphina beamed. “Not changed at all!”

Cornelia, now scarcely longer than her mistress’s forearm, tasted the air once more. With a pleased hiss, she slithered beneath Seraphina’s robes, seeking the heat against her mistress’s skin. The fabric bulged around her chest, then settled, as if nothing monstrous hid there—save the faint, contented serpentine hiss that reminded every witness that beauty, in this dormitory, kept very sharp teeth.

 ***

Of all places, the revelation struck Seraphina during Mathematica classes. Chalk motes drifted like lazy fireflies in the late-morning sun while she balanced equation after equation with effortless grace, her quill keeping time against the parchment’s margin. Information, raw and potent, was the currency of power. Its dissemination had to be controlled. And, what better way to control it than to create it.

A few desks ahead of her, Miriam—her steadfast Palisa Slug Maid and manager of Seraphina’s greatest business venture, Bottlesworth’s Confectioneries—worked silently. To anyone else, the girl’s brow might have seemed knitted in concentration, but Seraphina recognized the glimmer of satisfaction instead. Of course, Milly would thrive here. Dealing with her business accounts on a near-daily basis had prepared her well for this class.

Her eyes drifted a few desks to the left, settling on Hughes. He’d been out of it for most of the lesson, barely reacting even when the teacher had harangued him. His face was pale, eyes heavy with fatigue—he looked truly worn down. Seraphina frowned slightly. She hoped he wasn’t overworking himself with too much studying.

Presiding over them was Master Thagorius, an ancient reed of a man sprouting the most extravagant beard and moustache in the Academy—enough snowy bristle to shame an emaciated walrus. His frail frame belied a voice like rolling iron shot, and he wielded it mercilessly. Whenever Seraphina’s focus strayed even a heartbeat, his questions swooped like hawks: “Miss de Sariens, factor the quadratic … Miss de Sariens, derive the limit …” Each time she answered with a prim smile, masking the bubbling impatience that urged her to spend her mental resources toward her grander designs.

The bell tolled, signalling the end of class. Seraphina sighed, glad that the morning’s lessons were finally over. Milly, she whispered across their private bond, the single word laced with command. To me.

Her maid, Miriam, bit her lip hard as she wove through the tide of students pouring out of the classroom, eager as trout released upstream. 

“What is it, milady… I mean Miss de Sariens?” she managed, cheeks blooming pink with the fumble.

The look Seraphina leveled at her could have stripped paint. One perfectly arched brow rose, promising artful retribution.

Just then, the Saint of Silver herself—Este Lize—glided past the doorway, hem of her Academy robes whispering with each of her steps. A coterie of admirers orbited her, all soft giggles, fluttered lashes, and half-heard squeals. Sparks leapt the narrow space when Este Lize’s eyes met Seraphina’s: an electric brush of futures yet unwritten. For some reason, Seraphina’s pulse thudded once, heavy enough to feel in her throat, before she snapped her mother’s fan open to sever the moment.

Only after Este Lize’s entourage vanished around the corridor did Seraphina pivot back to her maid, who waited with her typical frozen-rabbit expression so unbecoming in a servant of House de Sariens.

“Well, Miriam,” Seraphina murmured, voice thin and brittle as spun glass while her crimson ivory fan screened her lips. “The weather is most clement for so late in the season, is it not?”

Miriam blinked, lost. Across their mental link, she pronounced a very different edict: Begin purchasing every shop and workspace tied to the Book-Workers’ Guild in Meridian. Quietly. I’ll settle for nothing less than a controlling stake.

“That is quite—” Miriam began aloud.

Fan ribs snapped shut with a click that echoed like a pistol crack. Seraphina’s eyes narrowed to violet slits. “You will remain silent until I finish, Milly. When the acquisitions are in motion, bring me parchment. I have designs I expect rendered by Meridian’s finest artificers—preferably dwarven. Their tongues, unlike yours, do not wag.”

A mute nod. Miriam knew too well what punishments lurked behind her lady’s composed veneer.

Seraphina exhaled, smoothing her expression into airy nonchalance precisely as Fleur bore down upon her with her usual tail of friends: flaxen-haired Beatrice, towing the irrepressible redhead Moleana like a kite in a high wind.

Beatrice’s eyes lit. “Oh, lunch! We wondered if you’d care to join us. The kitchens hired a new head chef who bakes the flakiest pies—though,” she added, leaning conspiratorially close, “rumor says the old chef vanished overnight! And, a few stable-hands with him, poof, gone!”

“You shouldn’t fling such gossip around like that, Bea,” Fleur chided, but her smile lacked conviction. “They are still investigating. Or, so they say,” she added, whispering the last bit.

“It is odd timing,” Moleana mused, her tone serious. “The seniors are furious—the old chef could recreate just the most fantastic dishes from the Empire...”

Seraphina offered a tight-lipped, but still dazzling, smile. “By all means, tell me every scandal you overhear. Life grows dull without a little… seasoning.”

Before more could be said, Sir Gravens strode up, the robes of his uniform immaculate, jaw chiseled as if by some inspired sculptor of old Qis. Sunlight from the tall windows caught the line of his cheek as though it favored him. Several girls inhaled in unison.

“Please, allow me to escort you,” he said, voice warm velvet.

“That will be quite all right,” Seraphina replied sweetly, snapping her fan shut with decisive finality. “You will escort my lady-in-waiting, Eloise.”

It was a deliberate gambit: send Gravens to Dahlia, a reminder to Eloise of his recent indiscretion. Perhaps, with Desdemona also in Dahlia, the ripples from such a move would be… interesting.

“My lady—” he protested.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The fan’s edge rapped her desk thrice: sentence, verdict, execution.

“As you wish.” A stormcloud settled over his features, yet he bowed and took his leave.

“Oh, to be Dahlia class right now,” Beatrice sighed, practically swooning.

“Won’t you call him back?” Fleur pleaded dreamily. “I just know lunch would taste better beside someone… so gallant.”

“Come now, such salacious chatter!” Seraphina laughed, light as a wind-chime. “He is easy enough on the eyes—in an artistic sense—but truly, we must curb our talk of boys here. 

Faces fell.

She relented, glitter sparking in her gaze. “Because girls, lunch provides a far more relaxed venue for discussing them. And, you can borrow him after Eloise is finished with him,” she added with a naughty smile.”

To punctuate, she glanced toward the back row where Hughes slumped asleep. Normally, the boy always found some excuse to inveigle himself into her plans. Today, it seemed, he remained adrift in dreams.

“Come, ladies,” Seraphina declared, gathering her books in a practiced sweep, an alien pang of regret in her heart. “Let us see what delights the kitchens have prepared for us.”

Hearts fluttering, the little procession spilled into the hallway, secrets braiding around them like the first stirrings of an adolescent summer storm.

***

The young noblewoman had finally remembered the missing part of her usual morning routine from her old world. And, now that she had remembered it, she had amended to rectify the situation.

Seraphina de Sariens sat cross-legged on the edge of her narrow dormitory bed, the coverlet rumpled and half-slid to the floor. A Zajasite lamp painted blue, purple circles across the high ceiling, but its crystalline light was enough for her quick, confident strokes. She wielded a crude pencil, a recent acquisition, a hollowed-out piece of wood with some graphite down its center. With this, she filled sheet after sheet with her thoughts and design specifications. Each line was purposeful, each measurement precise; even the smudges at the edge of her thumb looked deliberate, like the battle grime of a commander sketching maps at dawn.

Short blonde hair framed her face in a careless halo, tiny fly-aways catching the lamplight. She muttered under her breath, recollecting what she knew about the first primitive printing devices, already envisioning the machine that would press written words onto cheap paper—the future heartbeat of the Kingdom of Aranthia’s very first newspaper. 

The dwarves of Bronzegate she had invited onto her father’s land had assisted her with a letter of introduction to the Understreet Clans of Meridian. Hopefully, with these instructions, it would be enough to inspire the dwarven artificers to create a machine.

Across the room, Eloise, dark-haired, porcelain-pale, and far too neat for this late hour, perched on a stool like a delicate doll just lifted from its box. Her skirts hardly rustled as she leaned forward, curiosity coloring her usual reserve. “Lady Seraphina,” she said with her usual shy smile, “Do tell, what manner of contrivance are you putting to parchment?”

“A catalyst.” Seraphina did not look up; her pencil skated into the shape of a press’ frisket and gallows. Then she flicked her mother’s crimson fan open and hid half her smile behind the bird design—the gesture equal parts aristocratic affectation and private amusement. “Imagine words multiplied a thousandfold, Eloise. A machine that feeds on information. News on every corner before rumors can sprout wings. We’ll print sheets faster than court gossips can even blink. And, for free!”

Eloise’s eyes widened, fascination overtaking propriety. “But paper is expensive, you intend to give out such valuable information… for free? And how would you intend to feed such a machine with information?”

“For free, at least at first. Soon enough, there will be people begging to place their names upon those sheets.” Seraphina tapped the parchment, punctuating each name like a drumbeat. “Count de Viserac’s is a wealth of information about the goings on of the Kingdom. Added to this, Captain Fanzazino’s network. And the Lehman’s bank—oh, they traffic in more than coin. Their ledgers hum with secrets even the spies of the Crown overlook.”

“But won’t some of these powerful people be put out by having their secrets divulged?” Eloise asked, her brow furrowing prettily.

She paused, finally meeting the petite girl’s gaze. In that calm, evergreen jade stare burned equal parts mischief and conviction. “That’s it, though. I will, of course, consult with them first, but ultimately, I will be the one who controls what is put on those sheets… and in a manner, so can they, depending on how much they assist me. In three months’ time… no two… First, the City of Meridian, then the Kingdom of Aranthia will awaken each dawn to crisp pages smelling of fresh ink—and every headline will carry my will. Information, Eloise, is the purest form of power. And I intend to wield the sword of my truth before anyone realizes the battlefield has well and truly changed.”

Outside the dormitory window, the flowers and the grass rustled in the evening’s breeze, utterly unaware that a brave revolution had just been drafted in graphite and expensive parchment.

Chapter 41 - Purity

After the rains, do the skies become lapis and the clouds are broken by the touch of the sun.

- Verses from the Flower Quarter by Unknown.

The next few days stretched Seraphina’s patience to its very seams. Only one bright thread gleamed in all of the mess: the Sir Gravens–Eloise–Desdemona adolescent love-and-lust triangle had, by some miracle, knotted itself into a fragile truce. In Seraphina’s private calculations, Eloise possessed all the makings of a dutiful wife, with Desdemona far better suited to the more daring station of mistress. If Gravens had even half a strategist’s mind, he would realise that swapping those roles might serve his ambitions far more handsomely.

Or, was he, seeing that Eloise was close to the future queen, trying to play the long game? She mused as she waited in the Academy’s Grand Library.  

Seraphina fixed her most pleasant smile upon her face, bracing herself for the formidable Mrs Romfortes’ reply. Dust-heavy sunlight slanted through leaded windows, pooling over shelves that smelled of vellum and whispered secrets. The librarian eyed her over half-moon spectacles.

“This is most irregular, Miss de Sariens. Renewal requires the physical book. That is our procedure.”

Seraphina set a hand to her heart in theatrical apology. “Alas, I left The Realm of the Four Gods in my dormitory. My next class looms—and you know how Mélisandre can be.” Her smile was bright, her shrug delicate.

“That is Instructor de Vallières to you, Miss de Sariens,” Mrs Romfortes replied, rapping the counter with a stern forefinger. A sigh escaped her like air from old bellows. “Very well. I’ll process the renewal—but let this be the last indulgence!”

The young noblewoman was pleased that a little charm and a lofty Charisma score could work ledger-worthy wonders. Seraphina dipped into a graceful old-court bow. The librarian merely sniffed, yet the tug at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. It would serve her well to make an ally of the old, crusty woman.

Seraphina’s real goal, however, was the book’s single remaining pulse of sorcery. One more activation, she guessed, before it would fall dormant for decades, drinking in ambient Mana like a winter-bound seed. Handing it to Ibn would speed the boy’s training, assuming that was, if he followed the Trial’s narrative rather than “speed-running” it as she had done. She doubted he could, because for most, the tale was a years-long odyssey. If they finished it at all…

You’ll manage, Ibn, she thought, brushing aside a minor spike of worry.

***

Travelling back to the dormitory, she favoured passing students with faint inclines of the head and small, polite smiles. Behind her rippled murmurs and fluttering speculation. Yet not all faces answered with warmth. The children of King Elidion’s staunchest allies, who also orbited the rising star Este Lize, returned her courtesy with measured coolness. It did not take an idiot to see that factions were crystallising like frost on glass. For the greater part, the boys, as always, seemed to be oblivious to this fact.

She swept into her building’s common room, mind abuzz with plots both old and new. It was high time to set another wheel spinning.

“Milly, how are we after the fires?” she asked, reclining against the plush, velvet-clad sofa and snapping her mother’s fan shut. For a moment, she had an almost irresistible desire to put her feet up on the table.

“Business-wise… or…?” her maid replied hesitantly.

“Business-wise, naturally. Do keep up.”

Miriam adjusted her spectacles. “Bottlesworth’s Confectioneries now controls more than half of Meridian’s grain concerns, and, per your instructions, has begun acquiring private bakeries as well.”

A satisfied curl touched Seraphina’s lips. “And the land?”

“We secured roughly three-quarters of the burned lots, but reconstruction stalls—royal interference, scarce skilled labour…”

“Mill, my father is drowning in refugees from the Empire,” Seraphina mused. “Idle hands grow restless. Bring those with trades, or at least some gumption, into Meridian to rebuild. Compensation in grain, not gold.”

“But, milady, might that not be exploitative?” Miriam ventured, teeth worrying her lower lip.

“Hardly. To common folk, grain outweighs gold. We maximise inventory, and they receive sustenance. Beggars cannot be choosers. They should thank us for such charity.”

Miriam’s shoulders dipped in reluctant assent. “Of course, milady.”

“Excellent. Now fetch Ibn,” Seraphina commanded, folding her fan with a decisive click. “Sometimes I really do surprise myself with how generous I am.”

“Right away, milady.” Relieved to flee, Miriam hurried out. Whatever storm Seraphina was conjuring next, Ibn would stand squarely in its path.

Seraphina waited for Ibn, sitting poised in a high-backed armchair near one of the windows, the drapes drawn just wide enough for thin ribbons of sunlight to stripe the rugs. The dormitory common room, with its polished mahogany shelves, brass-trimmed lamps, expensive wallpaper, and a small hearth that crackled softly, felt less like a student area and more like the salon of a minor princess. Yet the blonde girl’s thoughts were far removed from the surrounding comfort.

The Academy is a chessboard, she mused, drumming a gloved finger on the armrest. Every whispered rivalry, every pet project sponsored by a noble, feeds straight into the kingdom’s arteries. Here was a microcosm of the Kingdom of Aranthia at large. She wondered what other moves she could make without stretching her resources too thinly.

A slow, almost apologetic knock stirred her from her strategizing.

“Enter,” Seraphina called, her tone honeyed yet carrying the unspoken promise of consequences should the caller delay.

The door eased open. Ibn edged inside, shoulders squared but gaze lowered, as though he feared to track dirt onto the immaculate carpet. There was a rawness to him, a rugged strength despite his young years now. In his eyes bloomed the unmistakable glimmer of strength: not yet the hardened resolve of a true man, but the first, flickering signs of the Swordmaster he was destined to become.

“Ibn,” Seraphina greeted, smile softening just enough to reassure, “how are you adjusting to life in the Academy? And how fares your training?”

“I have been doing well,” he answered, guarded and cautious, glancing left and right as though anticipating an ambush. Bitter experience had taught him that an audience such as this with the Lady Seraphina de Sariens rarely ended without a new obligation.

Without rising, Seraphina reached to the side table and thumped a book onto it—a veritable slab bound in cracked leather with a jewel at its center. The Realm of the Four Gods landed with a dull, reverberating thud. “Splendid,” she said. “In that case, I have a reward for you.”

Ibn’s brow furrowed, suspicion battling gratitude. “What is this, my lady?”

“Oh, this?” Seraphina’s manicured fingers traced the gilt title almost seductively. “This is the key to becoming stronger. This”—she tapped the spine—“is how a boy becomes the man he is meant to be.”

“I… did not know words in a book could do that,” in a deadpan voice. “Thought that was a woman’s role.” 

Her emerald eyes flashed, equal parts amusement and warning. “If that is truly what you believe, the Knights have been far too lenient with you of late.”

“My apologies, Lady Seraphina.” He bowed formally.

“At least you have acquired a certain measure of civility. Hazagadami boys can be taught, after all.” She shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, then leaned forward. “Tell me, has anyone ever spoken to you of Errantry?”

“I have heard the Knights’ tell their account of it, my lady,” he said slowly, as though choosing each word from a thorny bush.

“Then you know the heart of it is the quest—a great labor that proves worth. I intend to give you such a quest.”

Ibn’s gaze flicked to the tome. “Am I to learn something from that book?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. But, in a decidedly less abstract way,” she purred, lips curling into an impish grin. “You, Ibn, are going to enter it.”

His reply was flat. “I do not think I will fit.”

“Oh, you will.” She said, smiling dangerously. “The book is a door, Ibn, to a Trial of the Goddess. Pass through it and you will earn the favor of Heaven itself.”

“I am not sure I am a believer in the Goddess.“ He swallowed. “And, Trials are said to be deadly difficult.”

“And yet I passed this one.” Her chin lifted with quiet pride. “And in less than a day, too.”

Ib’s eyes turned to the dark-haired maid standing silently behind her mistress. Miriam nodded once—confirmation enough. Lady Seraphina’s legend grew larger in his mind; she seemed capable of anything.

“But I am not so heartless as to hurl you in empty-handed. I will give you a few advantages,” Seraphina said, voice sweet as spun sugar. Yet, Ibn sensed the iron beneath it.

Not too many advantages, the blonde girl reminded herself. The Trial must still be a deadly challenge if it is to be effective and push Ibn to the limits.

“Miriam, if you please,” Seraphina commanded.

“At once, milady.”

The maid disappeared down the corridor and returned moments later bearing a long cloth-wrapped bundle. With a deferential bow, she placed it across Seraphina’s outstretched palms. When the cloth fell away, it revealed an elegant weapon.

Seraphina eased the blade free from its sheath, admiring its savage grace. Longer than a tall man’s stride, single-edged and slightly curved, it ended in a wicked point designed to pierce armor seams. Sacrificing hand protection, the small square guard promised swift draws. Once a ruin of rust in a pawn-shop display, it had cost her a small fortune to restore—gold well spent.

She slid the sword home into its black-lacquer scabbard and offered it horizontally to the boy. “A gift, Ibn. In gratitude for deeds done and proof that I believe in your future and in the man you will become.”

The boy accepted it with both hands, reverence shining in his eyes. Even Seraphina could not awaken the magics that slept within the blade; it would resonate only with its destined wielder. For it would be nothing more than a sharp lump of metal.

“My gift to you,” Seraphina said. “Proof that I value your efforts and believe in your future. You’ll do this for me, won’t you, Ibn?”

Pride surged through Ibn like wildfire racing through dry grass. He dropped to one knee, fist over heart. “Milady, I owe you everything. I will not fail.”

Seraphina’s smile curved like a crescent moon—serene in its stillness, luminous with quiet confidence, and edged with mystery. Oh, she did love it when things went according to plan.

***

Now Seraphina found herself coming closer to the knife-edge of destiny. She could shore up her defences, nurturing the fragile shoots of her embryonic faction—a handful of disillusioned but powerful nobles and a sprinkling of decidedly less-than-devout clergy. Or, she could go on the offensive.

Why choose? She would do both.

Rumor slithered through corridors of the Academy that King Elidion II planned to donate a veritable carnival of beasts from lands so distant they existed on the edge of maps where cartographers scrawled Here Be Wonders. This was backed by Seraphina’s own sources; her bought people in the Meridian City Guard and the agents of Lehman’s Bank. Supposedly, the ever-radiant, silver-haired Este Lize had “tamed” them herself with a cadre of Royal Knights—a tale so saccharine Seraphina nearly gagged. The Royal Court, of course, intended a grand exhibition in a few weeks at the Academy, once the creatures were fully broken to human commands. Prestige for the Crown, applause for the Saint of Silver… and, for some reason, she felt all of that was a slight against her, Seraphina.

As if any silly creature could rival my Hydra, she scoffed, fingers drumming across a stack of parchment. Cornelia, two sinuous heads, scales like moonlit snow, made an offended hiss in agreement. Yet the Hydra could hardly be donated to the menagerie. Cornelia was her familiar, after all. Solution: obtain something even rarer than whatever the King thought to bring..

A glimmer of delight sparked behind her green eyes as she dipped quill to ink. The note she composed for her agents was written with almost crystal clarity.

The young girl wrote down as much as she could, every line detailing landmarks: the petrified birch that bled silver sap, the waterfall whose roar concealed an entrance to a crystal grotto. There they would find the near-mystical creature, a unicorn.

A unicorn, according to commonly held knowledge, consented to be mounted only by the purest. Seraphina grinned. Capturing one would neatly sidestep the increasingly popular, and mortifying, “virginity inspection” that she might be made to suffer in the future. She could fell two birds with a single stone.

Securing the agents she was going to employ for this hunt had not been simple. Though they had been recommended by Eloise’s father, they still had to be carefully vetted. Luckily, she could rely upon her mother, or assumed she could, at least. 

So, she exchanged letters with her mother, trusting Anaselena’s power to vet these Adventurers of the Gold rank. However, letters dashed across provinces by horse took days, and though she could easily afford Gryphon-post, every perfume-scented envelope of hers would pass through the Royal Censors’ claws. Elidion’s paranoia tightened like a garrote around the kingdom—another reason, she decided, that the weakening monarch simply had to go.

For the good of the people.

She sanded the ink, sealed the vellum, and summoned Miriam to whisk it away. Next came gifts for Lady Michélié de Montan—exquisite teas perfumed with jasmine and Dust-laced bonbons whose narcotic sparkle would surely keep the chubby girl pleasantly pliant. She had observed the pudgy girl, noticing that she was eating even more of Seraphina’s candies every day. The de Montan lands flanked de Sariens' territory, and, no matter what it took, Seraphina simply could not allow herself to expose her flanks. It was unfortunate that the fat girl’s brothers were all already married. Odious as it might be, were she a man, she would have seriously considered marrying Michelié to secure that alliance.

Seraphina decided she would present them to Michelié after they arrived in class. It would be a declaration that their houses were very definitely allied.

While her prophetic insights into the timeline grew maddeningly less useful, certain key events remained immovable and inviolate. The trick was to manipulate those events, like the recent fires in Meridian, to her advantage. One could not entirely change the future, but one could certainly attempt to direct it.

A civil war loomed like thunder on the horizon, and with the right whispers and a few levers pushed and pulled here and there, Seraphina could paint herself the savior of the Kingdom. She needed only to prod Elidion toward one more catastrophic decree and win the support of the common people.

To seize the throne, she must topple two pillars—the aging king and the thorn that was Este Lize. And, behind the “Living Saint,” stood the monolithic Church of the Goddess.

She would also need to solidify and strengthen relations with Rashana with a very interesting proposition that would tie her closer to her. Something that went beyond the current transactional relationship she had with House de Lehman. She would give her something beyond just gold. But first, she would need to find the dusky girl. 

Getting up, she slowly made her way out of the dormitory, nodding to the brothers Giles and Krayton, who were doing their best impression of trimming bushes. Cornelia tightened around her shoulders a living, double-headed stole.

“Find Rashana,” cooed Seraphina to her lovable pet. 

The serpent’s twin tongues tasted the air, orienting unerringly toward Rashana’s location, as though the creature itself had become a divining rod forged for her political intrigue.

Chapter 42 - Writing

If I haven’t any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then I can always write for myself.

- Anne Frank.

It did not take overly long to locate Rashana at one of her secondary residences nestled in the quieter quarter near the Academy grounds. The townhouse, like much of the surrounding district, bore the mark of old Meridian elegance—three stories of stone with wrought-iron balconies that curled like ivy, their railings adorned with copper and brass. It stood at the edge of a canal so pristine that it reflected the sky like polished glass.

Seraphina paused just before reaching the stone arch of the entryway, taking a moment to gather herself. The late afternoon light cast long shadows over the water’s surface, and she found her gaze drawn to the serenelle as it glided by. Its hull, lacquered ebon and trimmed with mother-of-pearl, glistened. A boatsman in sleek uniform poled the vessel forward with practiced grace, while a couple reclined in the boat’s cushioned heart, their heads tilted toward one another in intimate conversation.

Seraphina’s full lips pressed into a fine line. There was something so maddeningly effortless in their comfort, their closeness—the way the woman leaned against the man’s shoulder, the quiet laughter that rose and rippled across the water like birdsong. For a brief and unwelcome moment, envy twisted in her chest. 

With a small shake of her head, she approached the front steps of the townhouse. The residence was discreetly opulent. Polished brass knockers in the shape of lion heads flanked a double door of dark, heavy wood. Intricately carved columns supported a small awning where trailing ferns swayed in the breeze. Dark grey stone steps led up to the entrance, and to either side, ornamental urns overflowed with white lilies and deep red dahlias—elegant, dramatic, and very much in Rashana’s taste.

The young girl adjusted her gloves, pressed a hand to her neatly styled hair, and lifted the hem of her dress ever so slightly to avoid brushing the stones. She had come to make a proposal, perhaps even a plea, and though she would never say such a thing aloud.

She raised her hand and softly knocked twice.

The door creaked open on silent hinges, revealing not Rashana but a woman of short and solid stature, framed in the warm glow of the entry hall. The servant’s face was broad and pale, her hair pinned in a haphazard coil beneath a once-white lace cap. Her apron strained slightly over her belly, and her small, deep-set eyes regarded Seraphina with polite suspicion, the sort reserved for unexpected nobility showing up unannounced.

“Yes?” the woman asked, voice gravelly and practical.

Seraphina resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. The woman smelled faintly of onions.

“I would like to speak with your mistress. Kindly inform Rashana de Lehman that Lady Seraphina de Sariens has come to call.”

The servant blinked slowly at the name, her expression shifting as recognition—and a flicker of unease—settled in. She bobbed a stiff curtsy.

“Very good, my lady. Please do step inside.”

The threshold gave way to a tiled entrance hall, warm and thick with incense and candlelight. The air was heavy with perfume and faintly sweet—sandalwood and amber, with a cloying undercurrent of orange blossom. 

The maid scuttled off with surprising speed for her size, her steps muffled by thick embroidered rugs. Seraphina stood near the carved doorway to the sitting room, letting her eyes roam over the exotic appointments. The townhouse, though modest by aristocratic standards of Aranthia, bore Rashana’s unmistakable signature: an elegant, intoxicating chaos of velvet throws, lacquered boxes, and delicate glass curios from half a dozen foreign ports.

From somewhere deeper in the house, she heard a faint call—Rashana’s voice, unmistakably amused. The servant must have delivered the message, and Seraphina could almost imagine her reaction: a lift of an eyebrow, and a delighted smirk or smile.

A minute or so later, soft footsteps echoed on the polished wood of the upper landing, followed by the rustle of silk and the faint chime of jewelry in motion. Seraphina looked up just as the mistress of the house appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Oh, how wonderful! It really is you!” Rashana beamed at her, making her way down. “I did not think you would find me here! This is one of my little secrets. And, it isn’t every day that little Sera graces one of my humble abodes.”

The diminutive form of her name pricked Seraphina’s pride, yet Rashana, older by a handful of months and years of association, was permitted the liberty by the dictates of Aranthian society. Thus, Seraphina let the annoyance dissolve into a serene smile.

The de Lehman girl clasped both of Seraphina’s hands in her own. “Please, make yourself utterly, utterly at home. Only the best for my best of friends!” Rashana’s voice was warm as spiced tea, and her dark eyes danced while she reclined against a pile of silk-fringed cushions. Come in, come into the sitting room.” A trill of laughter escaped her painted lips, the gold bangles at her wrists chiming a bright obbligato.

Following Rashana, Seraphina glided across the richly carpeted floor. Sunlight filtered through the large windows of the sitting room, mottling a cream-colored sofa to which her host guided her.

Then, at Rashana’s discreet nod, the butler, a handsome young man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, clapped twice. Two maids appeared, bearing a lacquered tray laden with freshly cooked rose-petal cakes, honeyed fruit dusted in sugar, and tiny tarts capped with sweet violets. The aroma alone was sinful.

“You came at a marvelous time! I was just about to have tea and could have done with some company. Oh, and I have heard from a certain friend of ours that there have been quite a few goings-on in our little circle,” Rashana said, pouring amber liquid into porcelain cups for them. “I would very much like to hear your side of things.”

“Michelié?”

Rashana grinned broadly. “Just so.”

“I should have known,” Seraphina sighed wearily, accepting the delicate cup from her friend.

“Don’t hold it against her. We both know de Montan likes talking about anything and everything whenever the fancy takes her. You might as well blame the rain for being wet,” Rashana giggled, setting down the teapot. “But that, Sera, is part of her charm; she holds secrets about as well as a vase with a few holes in it. ”

“You know I am not one for gossip, Senior Rashana,” Seraphina replied smoothly, playing with one of her ruby earrings. “But if you must know, Gravens has caused quite a bit of trouble.”

The older girl’s eyes flashed briefly with pleasure at being called “Senior” before she collected herself.

Rashana, maintaining her perfect posture, sipped delicately from her cup. “So,” she said, arching a brow, “that does sound rather deliciously romantic. Your Sir Gravens, Eloise, and Desdemona? There were daggers drawn, or so I am told. The two girls in question are in the same class, after all. However did this all start?”

The young noblewoman raced to find a plausible excuse. “Well, we had a study group in the library.”

“You, Sera, helping others study? That doesn’t sound very much like you at all.”

“Teaching others helps one retain facts and concepts more easily,” the blonde girl responded smoothly. “Perhaps you should try it?”

“Is that your indirect way of getting me to give you tips for your upcoming tests, Sera? You have truly grown devilishly cunning,” Rashana teased gently. “But enough talk of studies. What happened?”

“I would assume it happened as much as our mutual friend described it.”

“That dramatic?”

“Very much so,” Seraphina replied, averting her gaze slightly.

“I see. I didn’t think the prudish Desdemona had it in her. You do remember how she always used to complain about the cut of my dress. And now kissing boys in the library in front of everyone—hah! What an amazing display of courtly love.”

Rashana leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think they have done more than kissing?”

“Rashana!” Seraphina chided.

“Well, I had to ask. And how are things now? Do tell!”

“A fragile truce,” Seraphina replied, raising her cup again. “Desdemona now practices discretion with her ‘urges,’ and Eloise has discovered the strategic value of patience. Though truth be told, she is cooling off on him. The funny thing is, Sir Gravens, being a man, thinks everything was amicably resolved due to his way with words.” She sipped, savoring the subtle notes of the tea.

“Boys do rather have an inflated opinion of themselves.” Rashana set down her cup gracefully. “Oh, since we are exchanging tidbits of information, I hear His Majesty means to donate quite a number of exotic beasts to the Academy.”

How predictable, Rashana, that you would bring this up, Seraphina thought. You think to goad me to get more information. Thankfully, Rashana had played into her hands, giving Seraphina an opening to confirm something.

“I heard a company of Adventurers, the Gryphon’s Claws, were to be credited with the feat,” Seraphina offered coolly. The Gryphon’s Claws, introduced to her by the innkeeper Velens the Lesser, were in fact the very group she had employed herself to track down and capture a Unicorn.

“No, Sera,” the older girl corrected gently. “Tamed by Este Lize herself, if gossip and my sources are to be believed, and with your fiancé’s assistance, no less.”

For some reason, Seraphina could not help but blurt out her next words.

“As if Velens could help anyone tame anything, let alone a monster or dangerous beast,” Seraphina delicately snorted. “If that were the case, I would give you Sir Gravens to do with as you wish or eat my left shoe.” The blonde girl’s smile sharpened. “Still, I do believe the spectacle will drum up prestige for the crown. But, I would have you know, the de Sariens will also be endowing the Academy with something. Something perhaps even better than the King’s own effort.”

A delighted spark lit Rashana’s eyes. “Ah, so Sera comes to me plotting some sort of mischief.”

“Not mischief. Symmetry.” Seraphina placed her cup on its saucer with near-surgical precision. “If my fiancé can pull off such a thing, then surely I can, too. I may just introduce you darlings to something equally special.”

Rashana winked at her. “You really must tell me everything! It’s your little white snake, is it?”

“No, Rashana—though I daresay she would easily be the equal of anything the King could find.” Seraphina’s laugh, soft and dangerous, floated beneath the salon’s pastel-painted ceiling. 

“I am the best!” her pet Hydra stated from beneath her clothes, stirring from its torpor.

The de Sariens girl remembered exactly who she was speaking to. “It will just have to be a surprise, Rashana dear. Timing is everything. But enough of that—there is another matter I wish to discuss with you…”

“Oh, please do go on, Lady de Sariens,” the dusky girl purred, her eyes dancing mischievously.

“I want you, Rashana de Lehman,” Seraphina declared formally, her voice confident and clear.

“Oh my! I do believe my heart skipped a beat just now. But, unless I'm mistaken, you are hardly the son of your House. And, Seraphina dear, I confess I don’t quite…”

“Not in that sense, you silly thing,” Seraphina cut in gently. “I want you for your extraordinary gift with words.”

“Well, if you wanted help composing a love letter or two, you needed only to ask,” the half-Al-Lazarian girl responded, a playful smile curving her lips.

“No, Rashana, I’ll need you to write articles.”

“Articles?” Rashana blinked in bemusement. “I'm afraid I don’t quite follow. Are you perhaps thinking of writing a book?”

“No, dear. I shall be creating a ‘newspaper,’” Seraphina announced proudly.

“A newspaper?” Rashana tilted her head in mild confusion. “Is that some Quassian invention?”

“A newspaper…” Seraphina explained with a spark in her eyes, leaning forward slightly as if imparting a precious secret, “....is a publication—a periodical, if you will—that will provide news, insights, and opinions about recent happenings, society events, politics, and culture. Imagine, Rashana, a written voice that can whisper into hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ears at once. A voice that can influence the powerful and enlighten the masses.”

Rashana sat straighter, her amusement fading into genuine fascination. “And you wish for me to...”

“I want you to be one of my first and finest writers and editors. With your wit, your keen eye for society's nuances, and your unparalleled elegance with language, you could shape the thoughts of our kingdom. I promise to give you a voice, Rashana, one that will resonate far beyond drawing rooms and ballrooms. A voice that will be read, respected, even feared, by many across the land.”

The dark-haired girl’s playful expression gave way to thoughtful consideration. She tapped one slender finger against her lips, pretending a coy indecision. “That is quite the intriguing offer, Seraphina. Truly, I must think about it. A decision such as this should never be rushed.”

“Of course,” Seraphina replied smoothly, giving her friend a knowing smile. “I would never dream of rushing you, Senior Rashana. Take all the time you need, of course. But first, we really must finish this most delightful tea.”

Rashana inclined her head, watching Seraphina’s elegant departure from beneath lowered lashes, her gaze thoughtful and glittering with barely contained excitement. Seraphina de Sariens, heir to the Sariens Duchy, knew full well as she nibbled on a delicious piece of cake that the matter had already been settled.

***

Seated on a bench beneath a trellis laden with late-blooming roses, Seraphina folded her gloved hands in her lap and allowed the hush of the Academy gardens to fill her ears. Each petal, painted crimson or blushing ivory, trembled in the brisk breath of autumn, and their faint perfume stirred the memories of summer. Alone with her thoughts, she turned a troublesome matter over and over, as though polishing a flawed gemstone in the hope it might yet sparkle.

Not every seed she pressed into the soil of strategy would flourish and grow as she had planned. Some, she mused, were destined to wither beneath an unkind sun, while others never sprouted at all. She prayed her invitation to Rashana would not prove to be one of those barren plantings. 

The prospect of creating a newspaper, of shaping public discourse with deft strokes of the quill and the ingenuity of a press, absolutely thrilled her; yet a whisper of doubt crept in on the chill air, asking whether her vivacious friend would commit fully or abandon the venture the moment a new diversion appeared.

Before she could chase that worry to its logical end, another concern rose from the dark corners of her mind. 

Haze Finleigh, her once-promising Bard, had embraced Meridian’s pleasures with reckless almost enthusiasm. The stipend intended to polish talent into brilliance now funded nightly revels, garish costumes, and an endless string of forgettable admirers. Seraphina pictured Haze lingering in velvet-draped lounges, Chordrelle forgotten while goblets of fine wine emptied at alarming speed. 

Could such a failed investment yet be turned around? Seraphina wondered, resting her chin on a dainty hand. Or must I cut my losses, perhaps, literally so? Yet, the idea of severing their ties left a bitter taste in her mouth, for she remembered the Bard’s first performance, the delicate fingers that coaxed melody from trembling strings. That spark deserved a grander stage alongside her.

“Milly,” she called sharply, expecting her maid’s prompt reply, but only silence answered. 

Of course, Miriam was spending the holiday buried beneath remedial lessons. An unexpected weight pressed on Seraphina’s chest, a familiar yet unwelcome pang. Loneliness—she recognized it at once, though she had worn ambition as armor against such frailty since the day she arrived in this world. The sensation settled like frost over her composure, making the garden’s vibrant hues suddenly appear a shade paler.

She drew a slow breath. Plans could be salvaged, investments redirected, and the initiative reclaimed. She vowed that the garden of her schemes would flourish. The young girl would, of course, like always, see to it personally.

It was time to have a long talk with Haze.

Chapter 43 - Bitter Truths

“Fate is a game for fools, a pretty story the weak tell themselves when they surrender. I refuse. I have shattered prophecy under my heel and carved my own path in its stead. Once, I was cast as a villainess destined to kneel; now I sharpen my smile like a blade and choose who kneels before me. Mercy? Justice? These are but gilded words, and I’ve learned that power is the only truth in a world of masks and knives. I will take what I desire, become what I must, and if the Heavens deem it sin, then I shall outwit the heavens as well. For I am Seraphina de Sariens, and I was not twice-born to be but a footnote in someone else’s legend—I was born to be the author of my own.”

- Attributed to Lady Seraphina de Sariens before the battle of Valaine’s Fall.

Seraphina was on the war-path.

A harsh midday sun glared off the puddles of last night’s rain, turning the cobbles into shards of dark glass.

Towing her maid and flanked by three of her loyal Knights, Sir Frest at point and Adraine and Filippe to her flanks, they pushed deeper into the seedier warrens of Meridian. Day-market hawkers bawled over crates of overripe fruit, and the distant smell of the docks hung in the air. 

“Where is Haze?” Seraphina asked of her white serpent.

“The man-woman?” the lazy Hydra hissed inside her mind, its tone languid.

“For the seventeenth time, Cornelia, Haze is not a man-woman. There is no such thing. She is a girl, and that is the end of it. Full stop.”

Across the magical link that bound mistress and familiar, Seraphina could almost feel Cornelia shrug, despite the creature’s distinct lack of shoulders. Memory flickered. Weren’t some animals capable of changing their sex? Did that apply to Hydras? 

“And do not ever even think about changing into a man,” she warned. “I have quite enough to manage as it is.”

“She’s over there.” Cornelia’s head poked out from the front of Seraphina’s bodice and darted forward, pointing toward a gaudy façade two doors down the street. Painted rabbits, pink and winking, frolicked above an archway swathed in cheap silk banners.

“Hadraine, Filippe… what are you staring at? This is hardly the first time you’ve seen Cornelia.” Her rebuke cracked like a whip.

Hadraine blinked, cheeks pinking as he looked slightly away. “I did not realize she could be quite so, well, imposing, my lady,” he stammered, tugging at his steel gorget as though it had grown too tight. Filippe merely nodded, his swallow bobbing.

“Cornelia can grow quite large when she’s hungry,” Seraphina said coolly, stroking the serpent’s head as it looped around her neck. “Luckily for you two, I fed her just a bit earlier. Now: the pair of you will enter that building and fetch me Haze. Knock heads together, rip up floorboards, and so on. Whatever it takes, I want her out here, and I want her out here this instant!”

“Just a note,” Sir Frest interjected, tone polite but strained, “The Bouncing Rabbit is a… house of ill repute, milady. You do understand that Finleigh might otherwise be engaged?” He kept his gaze resolutely fixed on a distant chimney.

“And how, pray, do you know the name of the establishment, Sir Ferdiad Frest?” Seraphina’s eyes flashed. 

“It’s written right th…”

The green of her eyes became as chipped emeralds, silencing him. “I care not what Finleigh is doing. To repeat myself, I want her here, now. Unless you wish me to march inside in person?”

Filippe and Adraine snapped to attention. “At once, Lady Seraphina!”

The bouncers at the door flew inward under their armored assault. The blonde girl could hear a great clamor erupting from within as the pair of Knights scattered painted courtesans and startled patrons alike as if they were hawks hunting pigeons. 

And Seraphina remained on the sun-washed street, her anger simmering beneath a veneer of a patrician’s poise. A few minutes later, far too slow for her liking, the Knights returned with their quarry.

A bedraggled, rather frightened-looking Haze knelt before her in nothing but her underclothes. Her once carefully styled hair hung in limp, tangled locks, and her eyes—those normally sharp eyes—had a strange, unfocused sheen. No, Seraphina corrected herself. It was worse than strange. There was a glazed, dreamy vacancy to them, as if Haze were drifting through some drugged reverie far from the opulent mess of this brothel hall.

She looked pathetic. And that, more than any shred of sympathy, dulled the edge of Seraphina’s ire.

Dust. The Bard had clearly been taking the narcotic Dust.

Seraphina’s jaw tightened. That particular ruinous indulgence was one she might, perhaps, be marginally—just marginally—responsible for. The Lehman’s Bank had many hands, and not all of them were clean. Still, she hadn’t told Haze to take it. That mattered. Somewhat.

Sir Gravens, ever the image of chivalric gallantry, stepped forward and solemnly removed his cloak. He draped it over the shivering girl’s shoulders. Haze gave him a weak, unfocused smile, her lips twitching as though she half-recognized him from some happier dream.

Seeing this blunted made Seraphina shake her head.

“I want Haze brought to the house,” she said crisply. “Give her a room—lock it, if you must. A heavy lock, please. She is not to leave. Water, bread, and a small allotment of our sugar candies. No wine, no meat. Not for a few days at least.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Settle damages with the proprietor here, and if they make silly noises about it, refer them to our Captain Fanzazino. Miriam—if you please.”

That name. Her name. Miriam stiffened like a scolded child. Her mistress must be quite put out if she used her full name instead of Milly.

“Err… milady,” the maid stammered haltingly. “I may have forgotten to mention… your mother may be arriving later today. I was just about to tell you when…”

Seraphina’s head turned with the slow precision of a knife being drawn from its sheath. “Why,” she said in a voice carved from winter frost, “must I always be surrounded by such remarkable incompetence? You had ample time to tell me on the way here…”

“But you didn’t look like you…”

“Miriam.”

That single word cracked again like a whip.

“Yes, milady!” the girl squeaked.

“Just do what I say, please,” Seraphina snapped. Her gaze lingered, cold and imperious, until the maid turned and fled to obey.

***

The radiant Duchess Anaselena swept her daughter into a warm embrace the moment she entered the house. Not expecting such a direct attack, the young noblewoman was taken completely off guard. Whatever anger Seraphina had been nursing in the depths of her heart was, quite literally, smothered by her mother’s softness and the enveloping calm that only a mother could exude.

And that, of course, was what made it all the more infuriating.

The embrace was not just comfort. It was also an I told you so—delivered not in words, but in the serene finality of maternal affection. No scolding necessary. 

“There, there,” Anaselena murmured, gently smoothing her daughter’s disheveled hair. At a sharp look from the Duchess, the attending staff quietly filed out of the room, their heads bowed in deference.

“Your Grace,” Sir Gravens said, finally realizing that he and the rest of Seraphina’s escort had been dismissed. With a clank of steel, they left the mother-daughter pair.

Left with no avenue of resistance—and far too tired to invent one—Seraphina allowed herself to melt into the embrace. She squeezed her mother back, reluctant yet undeniably soothed, drawing comfort she would never admit to needing.

Without a word, Anaselena guided her daughter toward the settee in the drawing room, her movements graceful and unhurried, as though the entire world could wait.

Seraphina didn’t need to tell her mother anything.

Anaselena probably already knew.

In their long, winding correspondence, Seraphina had begun to understand the boundaries of her mother’s uncanny foresight. At first, her mother’s replies, perfectly timed, unnervingly precise, would appear on her writing desk the morning after she'd sent her letter, delivered by Miriam with a faint curtsy. It was a feat impossible even for a Gryphon-rider courier.

But when Seraphina began writing from a different location, deviating from her usual habits, the replies came slower, hazier and much less certain. A delay. A gap in the Sight.

Her mother could not see her directly. Only trace her influence like the wake of a ship upon the sea.

An intriguing detail that she filed away for later.

“Would you like some advice, my love?” Anaselena cooed, her voice the essence of honey and jasmine.

Seraphina shook her head. She didn’t want a shortcut. Not from her. It felt like cheating—like accepting stolen answers during an exam. And beneath that was something more primal: a quiet fear of what her mother’s meddling might cost her.

But the Duchess ignored the refusal with all the ease of one used to being obeyed. Of one truly of high birth. “I would not have come if you didn’t need me. There are advantages to be claimed, Seraphina. There’s no shame in it. Don’t take on burdens for the sake of struggle. Let others help you. You cannot do everything alone. Must not do everything alone.”

“I know that,” the girl muttered, sullen and defensive.

“While we’re on the subject of guidance,” Anaselena continued, undeterred, “you should listen more closely to your teacher, Melis.”

“Melis, Mother?”

“Ah—Melisiandre,” she corrected with a delicate laugh. “You should seek to emulate her…”

“But—”

“You should emulate her,” Anaselena said with quiet insistence. “At least in how she listens to the hymn of blades. Hers is a truth, a command of the blade that was earned with pain and persistence. It’s an honor to learn from one such as her. More importantly, she, and her teachings, will not fail you. Do you understand?”

Seraphina hesitated, pulling back the slightest inch, her brows drawn in a quiet frown. “Yes, Mother,” she said at last, dutiful if unconvinced. Melisiandre’s lessons felt tedious at best, cryptic at worst. She couldn’t see the point of them. At least not yet.

“And Miriam’s people,” the Duchess added, her voice low and warning. “Do not go digging into secrets meant to lie buried.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Seraphina blurted far too quickly, and far too defensively.

Anaselena’s expression turned steely. “Now is not the time to set yourself against that,” she said firmly, pressing a soft white handkerchief into her daughter’s hand. “And don’t try to grow up too quickly, child. Enjoy the time you have. Your youth is a blessing, not a curse. I envy you, truly.”

Seraphina studied her mother’s serene, almost wistful expression—and then, with a hint of acid in her tone, asked, “And while you’re handing out advice like sweets, I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what to do about Haze?”

Anaselena’s eyes grew distant, glazed with thought. “I told you before, did I not? Keep him close.”

“And?” Seraphina prompted, sharper now.

“Sera,” her mother said quietly, “had you not inherited my face, people would be far less forgiving of you. Watch your tongue. And your bearing.”

Seraphina flushed—an unspoken rebuke cutting deeper than any raised voice.

Then, as though the topic had never existed, Anaselena smiled serenely. “Now, go fetch us some tea.”

“You could just ask the servants—”

“Sera,” the Duchess said again, more gently. Yet, in her words was a core of steel. “Get us some tea. Something floral. Something with the last memories of summer.”

Flustered Seraphina had no choice but to obey. With a suppressed sigh, Seraphina rose. Her silken skirts whispered against the polished floor as she departed the drawing room, leaving her mother reclining like a statue of serenity among the damask cushions.

In the stillness of the corridor, her pace quickened. Fetching tea for herself and her mother—like some common maid. It was absurd. And yet, defying Anaselena’s gentle command would have been the greater humiliation. So she bore it, chin high.

The kitchen staff, sensing her mood, scurried aside with bowed heads as she entered. She ignored their offers of assistance, instead selecting a silver tray herself, then arranging a porcelain tea set upon it—white and blue, with delicate patterns of wisteria winding around the edges. A fitting choice, she thought, for something meant to summon the last memories of summer.

She chose a light floral blend—elderflower, lavender, and a touch of citrus peel—and let the steam rise gently as she poured the hot water. Into her own cup, she added a dash of milk, then stirred in a swirl of golden honey. The scent was comforting, and annoyingly so. It reminded her of safer days, of the rare evenings Anaselena had brewed this very blend when Seraphina was ill, whispering soft encouragements between sips. Or so the memories that were not quite hers told her.

The young noblewoman carried the tray back with careful, balanced steps, the cups clinking softly against their saucers. The house had fallen unnaturally quiet, as it always did when her mother held court. Even silence bent the knee to the Duchess.

Upon her return, Anaselena looked up with a serene smile that would not have been out of place on a famous work of art. "Ah. Lovely, darling. You've always had a good eye for harmony. Set it there."

Seraphina did so, placing the tray upon the low marble table before them. She handed her mother a cup with practiced grace, then settled beside her once more, cradling her own cup between cool hands.

“It’s elderflower,” she said softly. “With a bit of lavender and some citrus.”

Her mother sipped, eyes half-lidded. “Mm. Just right. A note of softness beneath the sharp. Like you, perhaps.”

Seraphina did not respond. She merely stared into the gentle swirl of milk in her tea, watching it bloom outward in pale, ghostly tendrils.

“So…” Anaselena said at last, setting her teacup down with a soft clink, “...the Bard will require a gentler touch. No strength of arms, no sharpness of tongue, nor cruelty of action will bend her. Miss Finleigh must be met with kindness.”

Seraphina hesitated, then brought her cup to her lips. The tea had gone slightly cool.

“I’m not entirely sure I follow,” she said quietly. “Kindness, Mother? Really? I fail to see the merit. It would be far more expedient to—”

“Kindness…” her mother interrupted, her eyes catching the light with unsettling clarity, “...can be a tool. And, if wielded properly, a weapon. Allow me to demonstrate.”

“Oh, truly?” Seraphina replied, bitterness creeping into her voice. “Do enlighten me.”

Anaselena leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking with her daughter’s. They were the same shade of green—two mirrors peering into one another, one older, unflinching, the other still touched with spring’s kiss.

“This is kindness,” the Duchess said, voice soft but merciless. “Velens will never love you. I’ve seen it. You could clasp him tightly, offer him everything, forgive him anything—and still, he will stray. Not out of malice, but because his affections are as fleeting as wind. His words are hollow, his loyalty as light as a feather.”

The blow landed squarely like a punch to the gut.

For all her composure, Seraphina felt her heart seize. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye—silent, involuntary. She dabbed at it quickly with her handkerchief, as if trying to erase the evidence of her pain.

A part of her, a small but significant part of her, must have actually loved him. But was that feeling born from her old memories or the new?

“Thank you, Mother,” she said, voice tight. “Just what I needed today. More truth. I fail to see how this is supposed to endear me to the concept of kindness.”

“Would you prefer lies?” Anaselena asked evenly. “There is kindness, and there is true kindness. One comforts. The other strengthens. It is not a weakness. Tell me, what is that you’re holding?”

Seraphina looked down at the handkerchief in her hand, the very one her mother had offered earlier. Understanding began to bloom.

“Hard and soft, Sera,” her mother said, lifting her teacup once more. “You must learn to use both.”

Yet, in Seraphina’s mind, she had learned a different lesson. That the best time to employ kindness as a weapon was after an extravagant act of cruelty for maximum effect.

Chapter 44 - Convalescence

"The Nex (Neural-Interface Exosuits) derive their name from the neural core that translates human thought into mechanical motion, seamlessly binding intention to cybernetic strength. Humanity discovered swiftly, and often painfully, that the Nex demands conformity; deviation from the familiar shape of our own bodies invites confusion and eventually madness, a flaw especially apparent in early experimental designs. Further constraints arise not only from the natural limits of human anatomy but from the interface itself, whose reliance on rapid neural connectivity renders remote operation impossible. The Nex suits stand as towering reflections of ourselves, varying from human scale up to eight meters, the upper bound set by the artificial nerve fiber bundles. These mechanized suits have since become indispensable, integrated seamlessly into industry, rescue operations, construction, exploration, and inevitably, warfare."

- Rebirth of Man & Machine: A Primer for Nex Pilots.

It took considerable effort and a surprising amount of patience to flush the Dust from Finleigh’s body. The arduous process required constant vigilance, a painstaking task that Seraphina had chosen to oversee personally. Who could have guessed that the human body was capable of releasing such an unsettling variety of liquids and substances? Truthfully, it was an ordeal the young noblewoman was eager never to repeat.

To ensure that each tedious act of care was optimized to her benefit, Seraphina meticulously timed her visits, only tending to Haze when the bard was lucid enough to perceive her actions. Anything otherwise would have been nothing short of wasted effort.

All this she managed while carefully balancing her demanding school schedule and her numerous entrepreneurial endeavors. The carefully calibrated grain prices set by Bottleworth’s Confectioneries remained just above average, a deliberate act of generosity contrasting sharply with the ruthless profiteering of her competitors. This clever manipulation positioned the Bottleworth brand almost synonymously with charity and benevolence among Meridian's citizenry.

Yet, merely earning their gratitude was insufficient. Seraphina required tangible power, unquestioned and decisive. To achieve such power, subtlety and ruthlessness were equally necessary. A handful of rival grain traders soon met unfortunate ends, their sudden demise ostensibly caused by disgruntled citizens tired of exploitation. 

Of course, through paid proxies and agents, Seraphina ensured her hand was invisible in these incidents. There might be rumors, but rumors were difficult to prove when all of the evidence was destroyed, or in this case, eaten by a certain Hydra. Now, the young blonde wielded nearly absolute control over Meridian’s primary food source.

If she could replicate this cunning strategy throughout Aranthia, she would soon hold a veritable stranglehold over the entire region's grain supply. Starvation, after all, could be a more formidable weapon than a thousand siege engines. It was not that she wanted such drastic measures to become necessary; rather, she found comfort in the knowledge that she had contingencies in place should circumstances demand it.

It was always best to be prepared.

Unfortunately, not all of her meticulously planned schemes unfolded smoothly. The adventuring party she had hired to capture a Unicorn had mysteriously failed to report back to the guild. Seraphina harbored a strong suspicion they had become hopelessly lost or met some grim fate. Unicorns were very aggressive, very dangerous, and surprisingly, omnivorous. Disappointed, she mentally noted that she would need a stern word with Eloise regarding the reliability of her father’s recommended mercenaries.

It was approaching the hour when Haze would stir from her sleep. Strategically administered doses of sleeping drugs kept the bard placid throughout the day, allowing Seraphina to manage her with efficiency. Tackling the physical addiction had been relatively straightforward, almost trivial, compared to confronting the deeper, insidious psychological craving the Dust created.

The Dust itself was an extremely potent drug. The substance granted its users vivid, immersive, lucid dreams that surpassed even the greatest joys of real life. Reality could never match the seductive power of living in a perfected fantasy. This promise of a blissful escape made Dust addicts particularly dangerous, as they would do nearly anything to acquire more of the substance, abandoning all sense of pride or dignity. After all, who could care for a mundane reality when dreams offered the fulfillment of every hidden desire and secret fancy?

That love lost? Conjured from thin air. That dream of being the best? No problem. It was a miracle drug, wholly and intoxicating, and therein lay its most treacherous trap. For the briefest of moments, Seraphina found herself questioning, just for a half a heartbeat, her alliance with those responsible for its importation into Aranthia.

She shook her head. Seraphina de Sariens did not second-guess herself.

Aware that Haze would soon stir, Seraphina carefully arranged her features into an expression of practiced kindness. Following her mother’s advice, she intended to drown the bard’s resistance beneath an overwhelming tide of “kindness.” The young girl unlocked the heavy door and, with a gentle, reassuring smile plastered on her face, entered the white-washed room carrying a tray filled with fresh, wet towels. This she set by the bedside and clapped her hands. 

Seconds later, a mousy servant girl delivered a bowl of piping hot vegetable soup. It was all for show, of course, well, at least mostly, Seraphina most certainly did not do half-measures when it came to self-interest.

The Bard was a pitiable sight indeed, skin pale and clammy, fiery ginger hair frayed and tangled beyond recognition. Gone was the luster and lively spirit that had once defined the talented performer. Yet, despite her wretched condition, Haze still found the strength for a weak, faltering smile, more habitual reflex than a genuine welcome.

“Good morning to you, Haze,” Seraphina greeted warmly, her tone deliberately soothing as she ignored the bard's incoherent mumbles.

Occasionally, Seraphina had attempted to treat Haze using her healing magic, yet these efforts had proved disappointingly ineffective. The bard’s ailment was mostly psychological, not physical, and therefore beyond the scope of mere magical intervention. Worse still, Seraphina had begun to feel troubling aftereffects from her frequent use of healing spells. Only recently had she barely managed to stop herself from granting Miriam an unearned day off—something she would never normally entertain.

The realization that magic could gradually erode one's identity and personality unsettled her deeply. Indeed, it was akin to a virus that slowly, methodically replaced parts of the host. She found herself reflecting on the philosophical puzzle of the Ship of Theseus. Just as a ship gradually replaced plank by plank, eventually becoming entirely new, so too was her very self, her essence, being subtly overwritten. 

She wondered grimly, if piece by piece she were replaced by magic, would she still remain Seraphina? Would she even notice when the last authentic fragment of herself vanished? Or would she simply wake one morning as something entirely different, unrecognizable yet believing herself unchanged?

Shaking off these unsettling thoughts, Seraphina reminded herself of the practical utility of her spells. Heal was invaluable, nearly doubling her effective Health in combat and preserving the flawless porcelain quality of her skin. She had seen enough callused, rough hands among women adventurers to recoil at the mere thought of allowing herself such coarse imperfections.

To further ensure Haze’s cooperation and safety, Seraphina had tasked her loyal serpent, Cornelia, with a constant surveillance of the addict. The serpent’s coils provided a stronger, more reliable restraint than any lock could manage, though that had not stopped Seraphina from investing in the highest-quality locks available. As always, a layered approach was the most effective way to ensure one’s desired outcomes.

“How much longer must I stay here?” Frest murmured weakly, her voice barely audible, weighed down by lethargy and despair.

Seraphina briefly considered her alternative plan if rehabilitation failed entirely. Cornelia was more than capable of dealing decisively with any situation—perhaps, she might just have the serpent might simply devour the Bard if necessary. Indeed, as of late, Cornelia had been replacing Miriam in this rather important duty of dealing with inconvenient things. Her maid had far too much on her plate, after all. Seraphina chuckled inwardly at this bit of cleverness.

In Seraphina's estimation, the Finleigh likely suffered from some form of depression. Depression, the young girl thought, was a weakness of the mind that only preyed on and afflicted the weak-willed. If there was one trait she despised above all others, it was weakness. Vulnerability she could reluctantly accept, understanding that even the strongest had moments of fragility, but outright weakness disgusted her, representing an abhorrent denial of everything that she felt she was.

“Why, Haze, darling,” she responded softly, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness, “you must remain here until you have recovered completely.”

As if in punctuation, she effortlessly conjured a Crystal Dagger, her growing mastery of crystal magic evident in the ease of its summoning. Haze looked worriedly at the shard of pink crystal before Seraphina simply fed it to Cornelia, who gobbled it down with a crunch. 

Whatever follow-up question or line of inquiry that was budding on Haze’s lip died at witnessing this display.

This magic lent her mind a sharper clarity that balanced the troublesome bouts of altruism brought on by the excessive use of Heal. Yet crystal magic, too, was slowly reshaping her core, embedding itself insidiously within her, a stark reminder that nothing powerful came without cost.

She sighed softly as she considered this internal struggle. Not only was she burdened by this body’s previous memories, she also bore the weight of the Arcane. Magic, in its way, was both boon and burden, slowly but inexorably replacing her very self. She wondered how many more spells she could safely cast before Seraphina de Sariens became merely an echo of who she had once been. 

“It is time for your breakfast, Haze,” Seraphina said warmly, her radiant smile brimming with a brightness that rivaled the golden sunlight streaming gently through the nearby window.

Despite her lingering misgivings, the Bard slowly lowered her defenses, allowing Seraphina to spoon-feed her carefully prepared soup. Initially, the noblewoman had found the task unpleasant, almost distasteful, yet over time, a curious change had overtaken her perception of the ordeal. Once she began thinking of it simply as tending to a cherished pet, a small, delicate blossom of satisfaction unfurled within her heart.

When at last the bowl was empty, Seraphina offered herself a silent, approving pat on the back. I really am growing as a person, she mused with quiet pride. Was this tender sense of fulfillment the same pleasure that healers and physicians experienced when caring for the sick and infirm? Or, a darker, more troubling thought whispered, was it merely another subtle manifestation of the insidious influence exerted by the Holy magics she wielded so often?

Still playing the role of attentive healer and gentle caretaker, Seraphina calmly retrieved a small wooden board, a fresh sheet of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell from the nearby dresser. With graceful efficiency, she arranged them neatly on a table beside the Bard’s bed.

“Tell me, Haze,” she began softly, her tone imbued with genuine concern, carefully rehearsed yet convincingly sincere, “what was it exactly that drew you so irresistibly to the lure of those Dust-induced dreams? Surely you knew the terrible dangers involved in such an indulgence.”

“You would not believe me even if I told you,” Finleigh murmured weakly, her voice tinged with bitterness and defeat as she turned her gaze pointedly away.

The hardened emeralds of Seraphina’s eyes momentarily softened, showing a gentle, sympathetic expression she had practiced meticulously before the mirror. “Come now, Haze. I cannot help you unless you tell me what truly ails you. If we are to heal your spirit, we must face the root of the issue directly, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the overly enthusiastic trills and warbles of birdsong drifting in from outside the window. The noise grated on Seraphina’s patience, distracting her carefully honed concentration.

“Hawk!” Seraphina warned, channeling the power of her enchanted necklace. Immediately, as though compelled by an invisible force, the birds ceased their clamorous symphony, scattering swiftly into the clear morning sky.

“Where!? They are yummy!” Cornelia mentally blurted, only for Seraphina’s glare to silence her.

At length, Haze let out a deep sigh, the sound heavy with profound melancholy. It was swiftly followed by another sigh, this one even more exaggerated, clearly an attempt to tug at Seraphina’s sympathies. The noblewoman had to consciously clench her jaw to prevent her teeth from grinding in irritation at the Bard’s transparent attempt to tug at her heart strings.

“I... I saw him there,” Haze began softly, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “In the dreams the Dust gave me, I saw my father again. He was just as I remembered, sitting by the fireplace, holding his Chordrelle. He would always play it when he felt happy. Or sad. Or even just bored.” Her eyes grew distant as they welled gently with tears, the emotions she had fought so long to suppress now spilling out into the open.

Seraphina raised an elegant eyebrow, keeping her expression carefully measured while inwardly her mind churned with a combination of curiosity and mild irritation. She searched through her memory, the vast lore she had meticulously internalized from the game, yet found nothing matching Haze’s recollections. Perhaps she had skipped over this particular detail, or maybe it was something the developers had added later.

“My father always wanted to be a great Bard,” Haze continued, her tone growing faintly nostalgic and wistful. “He lived for music, for stories that moved the soul. Even though he never achieved true fame, he never stopped playing. I used to watch him for hours, lost in melodies that seemed to fill our little home with magic.”

Haze paused, a bitter smile ghosting across her pale, cracked lips. “I wanted so badly to follow in his footsteps. But I was foolish to try. A girl can never be a true Bard, not like he could have been, either.”

Seraphina barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Father issues. How incredibly original. Yet outwardly she maintained a gentle, supportive demeanor, tilting her head thoughtfully as if deeply moved by the bard’s confession.

“But that’s nonsense, Haze,” Seraphina replied smoothly, her voice sweet and reassuring. “With me, you’ve made quite the name for yourself already. Your music can charm even the hardest hearts. You should never doubt your worth.”

Haze shook her head slowly, weakly, as though the motion itself cost her great effort. “It’s not the same. My father’s love for music was pure, effortless. He was music. I’m just... a shadow chasing echoes.”

With a lackluster attitude like that, you will always just be a shadow, Seraphina thought darkly.

“Tell me more,” she prompted gently. “If we understand these dreams fully, perhaps we can break their hold on you.”

She carefully dipped her quill into the inkwell and pretended to jot down notes on the parchment.

Haze took a ragged breath, closing her eyes tightly as though bracing against an invisible pain. “In those dreams, I finally had the courage to play beside him. He smiled at me, Seraphina. He was proud of me. Just once… it was, I was, enough.”

This is just too much. Seraphina paused, quill hovering above the parchment, considering carefully how best to exploit this vulnerability. A troubled heart, a yearning for validation—such things could easily be shaped to her advantage.

Smiling softly once more, she reached out, gently placing a reassuring hand upon Haze’s trembling shoulder. 

“I can not promise to reunite you with the memories of your father, darling, for the solace of the Dust extracts a most terrible price,” she murmured comfortingly. “But I can help you find a way to make him proud of you. Together.”

Haze suddenly wrapped her arms tightly around Seraphina in an embrace so fierce and desperate that it seemed as if the weakened Bard had secretly been hoarding her strength precisely for this very moment. Seraphina was momentarily taken aback by the unexpected intensity, nearly losing her composure as Haze buried her face deep into her shoulder, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. The rawness of the embrace, the sheer force of Haze’s sudden vulnerability, caught even Seraphina off guard.

But Seraphina was quick to rally, and a part of her almost looked forward to solving Haze’s little issue. It was a puzzle that could be conveniently solved.

Chapter 45 - Late Fees

A home without books is a body with no soul.

- Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Ferdiad Frest, former bandit and the least likely of Seraphina’s Knights, was leading what passed for physical education in Aranthia: self-defence for ladies. He had the girls practising with an assortment of projectile weapons, and today they were learning all about the crossbow. 

Despite an affectation of stoicism, Seraphina could almost smell his embarrassment; the notorious philanderer was hemmed in by a garden of budding flowers, and the stiffness of his movements, along with the occasional catch in his voice, betrayed him.

He rapped a knuckle on the tiller of a training crossbow. “First rule,” he said, voice professionally flat, “the bow is only as steady as your stance. Feet apart, weight forward, lean into the kick like you’re bracing against a closing tavern door.”

No one got the reference, and an awkward silence answered him as he demonstrated a loose but correct stance. The student’s did their best to mimic him.

He then showed them the goat’s-foot lever of the weapon. “Alright, hook the stirrup over the boot, latch the prongs behind the string, then pull straight up with the back nice and slow, or you’ll strain something you’d rather keep intact.” 

In the tradition of new teachers everywhere, the joke fell flat, but the students followed his instruction.

Many of the noble-born students struggled at first, their sheltered upbringing leaving them short on the Strength required.  The commoners were far less dainty and had far less trouble, a fact not lost on Seraphina.

Of course, with her own superhuman Strength, Seraphina could probably hurl the bolts faster and harder than any crossbow present, but the lesson was still worthwhile. Understanding these weapons would help her judge what it would take to equip and maintain soldiers on a large scale. Even so, she found herself stifling the occasional yawn.

An errant thought of Eloise rose to the front of the young noblewoman’s mind. Dahlia, Eloise and Desdemona’s class, was having lessons with Sir Gallant—King Elidion’s man if ever there was one. The intense Knight of the Royal Guard unsettled Seraphina on many levels, and she hoped the lessons would not prove too trying for her friend—or, for that matter, that Sir Gallant would not try anything untoward.

“Next, come the sights,” Frest’s voice came, snapping Seraphina out of her thoughts. He tapped the tiny notch filed into the rear of the prod-housing. “Back sight, front sight, target,” he recited. “Line all three and breathe out before you squeeze the tickler. Don’t yank—stroke it, gentle as lifting a coin from a drunk’s purse.” 

Worried frowns answered his analogy. Seraphina shot him a glare, causing Sir Frest to cough apologetically.

The students loosed their first bolts against the innocent archery butts.

He knelt beside Miriam to correct her elbow, whispering an old trick: “Aim a hair lower at close range—these can kick high in a girl’s hands.” Her next shot thudded almost dead-center. Michelié’s quarrel, by contrast, drooped embarrassingly short; she huffed petulantly and glanced at Seraphina. With a long-suffering sigh, the lady spanned the weapon for her friend with a casual flick of her great Strength.

By the time the lesson started to wind down, the young noblewoman’s prediction had certainly run true. Frest’s off-hand tips, like: how damp bowstrings lose poundage, how lampblack on the foresight cuts glare, how a quick wipe of tallow keeps the nut from freezing in winter, were the small gears that made armies function. Such knowledge, she mused, was easily worth the price of a boring morning.

***

Having spent her lunch hour dutifully completing the requisite assignments—she dared not call it homework, lest traumatic memories resurface—Seraphina now found herself strolling leisurely through the picturesque streets of Meridian as late afternoon painted the city in hues of gold and amber.

Escorted discreetly by her faithful Knights, Smith and Gascoigne, who effortlessly managed an intimidating presence even from afar, Seraphina felt secure and serene. Miriam, her ever attentive maid, held aloft a delicate parasol that cast a gentle shadow upon her mistress, shielding her from the late autumnal sun.

Their leisurely procession wound through Meridian’s streets, where sunlight sparkled upon placid canals, casting reflections that danced across ivy-covered walls and intricately carved stone archways. Skilled boatmen guided Serenelles that glided over still waters, the murmurs of their passage blending with the distant sounds of market chatter and softly plucked strings from street musicians.

Eventually, their path brought them to Bookbinder’s Row, a district renowned throughout the Kingdom Aranthia for its devotion to the printed word—every shopfront a testament to literary opulence and scholarly pursuit. Paved stone gave way to cobbled streets, and here, leather-bound tomes lined shelves visible through polished windows, and artisans meticulously repaired old texts beneath the crystal glow of focused Zajasite. For Seraphina, the sense of pride was nearly overwhelming; she drank deeply of the atmosphere, savoring the knowledge that over three-quarters of the establishments lining these cobblestone streets were owned indirectly by her.

According to her newest ledgers, Seraphina’s near-total stranglehold on the printed word would repay every sovereign within two years. Soon, Meridian would be swept into a tempest, her press thundering day and night like a captive storm. Knowledge would no longer trickle; it would surge where she commanded and wither where she withheld. The very thought sent a delicious shiver up her spine.

And once she truly held a monopoly… then she would squeeze.

But that was not today’s priority. 

Now, she required the unrivaled craftsmanship of a certain Master Stacker Armsteel, a dwarf whose name and reputation preceded him. A dwarf, whom, according to her memories, she was sure was of decidedly negotiable morals. A flick of her wrist could have sent Miriam to haggle in her stead, but Seraphina desired more than results; she craved the visceral thrill of seeing her burgeoning empire from the ground level. To see how all of it would work.

Thus, she directed her group toward a small, unassuming shop, its humble exterior adorned with a quaint wooden sign depicting a gilded book crossed with two ornate keys. 

As the bell above the door chimed gently to announce their arrival, the first thing to greet Seraphina was a comforting, nostalgic aroma—vanilla mingling delightfully with the distinctive scent of aged parchment and worn leather bindings. This shop, too, belonged to her.

Within moments, a rustling from the back heralded the arrival of Master Armsteel himself. Emerging into view, the dwarf craftsman possessed a presence that belied his modest stature. His brown beard was trimmed short and tidy, framing a bulbous nose that dominated his broad face. Compact yet sturdily built—indeed, nearly as wide as he was tall—Master Armsteel wore a thick leather apron stained by years of his careful craft, an array of intricate tools suspended from his belt, each gleaming with careful maintenance.

Upon his head rested a curious apparatus, an intricate magnifying lens that hinted at the delicate precision required in his work, and the faint scent of glue clung to him like an artisan’s perfume. Master Stacker Armsteel had abandoned the dim, echoing mountain halls of his ancestors, drawn instead by the promise of fortune beneath Meridian’s sunlit skies and beside its shimmering canals.

“A good day to you, Lady,” he greeted warmly, his gruff voice softened by the sincerity of his welcome. His eyes, keen yet cautious, measured Seraphina carefully. Few girls fit the description of the Crown Prince Velens’ beautiful fiancée.

Not to mention, among his people, she was becoming rather well-known and regarded as a steadfast ally. Rumors whispered their way through the stone halls of the dwarven clans—rumors that, at the next moot, a vote might be cast to name her “Dwarf-friend,” a rare honor reserved for those who had earned the enduring respect of the deep folk. 

All it had taken was a handful of letters and an open invitation—a carte blanche to delve and dig beneath the rich, untouched soil of the Duchy of Sariens. In a matter of months, she had accomplished what decades of diplomacy had not: goodwill, genuine and glowing.

To her mind, it stood as one of the few tangible proofs of the merit of immigration, at least when the immigrants were skilled, industrious, and came bearing pickaxes rather than petitions and complaints.

And the dwarves, curious folk that they were, held art and beauty above all. In Seraphina, especially among the younger generations, they harbored an unexpected adoration for her beauty. According to her correspondence, her likeness had found its way into the subterranean halls, etched into stone, hammered into metal, whispered about over forge and fire. Word had even reached her ears that some among them had begun crafting small statues in her image. A delicious thought tickled her mind—could she market them? Dwarven made statuettes of herself, sold at concerts and events. It was not vanity, she reasoned. It was branding.

To this particular dwarf, she was not just a powerful Aranthian noblewoman—she was a celebrity. And Seraphina smiled, slow and subtle, tasting the power she held over this earnest creature like one might sip a rare, heady wine.

Master Armsteel had only just fished a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from the cavernous pocket of his leather apron—still squinting as he settled them on the bridge of his nose—when Seraphina’s fingers snapped, the crisp sound cracking through the workshop like a whip.

At once, her Knight, the competent by decidedly average-looking and utterly unremarkable Gascoigne, handed her a satchel.

She drew the scarlet-leather tome from the bag as though she were unsheathing a sword, before gently placing it upon the counter. The fist-sized gem in its cover glimmered like a watching pupil; for a heartbeat, the dwarf’s awestruck features were reflected in its depths.

“The Realm of the Four Gods,” Seraphina said, savoring the dwarf’s sharp intake of breath. “I want a second copy. It must be perfect in word, ward, and weight.”

Master Armsteel ran his calloused thumb across the human-hide binding, muttering the old dwarven blessing for uneasy spirits. “Six months, my lady. No less. The calligraphy alone must be redrawn by a master illuminator,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “And, the warding lattice will require a runesmith and a lapidary capable of cutting a stone of an identical resonance.”

“Six months is unacceptable. When coin flows, stone yields,” she added, remembering a dwarven aphorism. “Assemble a scriptorium if you must—a master calligrapher, two rubricators, an illuminator, a binder, and a rune-wright. Secure a lapidary from the Jewelers’ Hall. Pay them triple guild rate. Hire more if necessary. Twice as many, ten times as many if need be. You will finish this in a fortnight.”

The dwarf’s brows knit behind his bushy eyebrows. “A fortnight—if, and only if, I can lay hands on a replacement heart-stone. Stones of that size and clarity don’t sit in shop windows, even in Meridian. The price will be—”

“Lady Seraphina… must you go to such lengths?” Miriam asked worriedly. “Can’t you just take it out again? Our accounts are not yet…”

Seraphina raised a hand, instantly silencing her maid.

“Exorbitant? It matters not.” She pressed a purse heavy with gold coins into his palm. “Take what you need and then some. I will have the extra delivered tomorrow.”

It was easy to hand over such an exorbitant sum over namely, because the young noblewoman would be receiving around seven tenths of it back as the owner of the establishment.

Armsteel’s grin split the braided thicket of his brown beard as though a gold vein had just been struck. Greed, after all, was not a sin among dwarves but a virtue—polished, admired, and sung into ballads. And here lay a commission fit to crown the very anvil of his reputation.

“Then let it be done,” he rumbled, voice like quarried stone. “I’ll put word out at once. Yet I’ll not deceive you, milady—the gem you require will be neither cheap, nor perhaps, entirely of lawful origins.” He spread his hands in a shrug. “But then again, surface laws shift quicker than scree in spring melt, I have learned.”

“Promises bore me, Master Armsteel,” Seraphina replied, her expression sharp enough to carve into steel. “Results do not. Deliver, and you win the personal favor of the future queen. Fail, and the name of Armsteel will be spoken in the same breath as oath-breaker for generations.”

A low whistle escaped the dwarf. “You are everything the rumors claim, milady.”

“And what is it they claim?” she asked, a silken threat coiled beneath each word.

“That you are as strong as the bones of rock and dwarf-blooded in spirit—more so than the eldest greybeards themselves. Your hunger for gold is a bottomless mine, your hoard a mountain.” The reverence in his tone rang like a temple bell.

Among the dwarves, no accolade reached higher. Seraphina answered with a luminous smile, bright as newly-poured electrum, unleashing the full gravity of her overwhelming Charisma. Light seemed to bend toward her, creating a halo around her hair.

Under this assault, Armsteel’s last reservations crumbled like brittle slag. In the forge-heat of that smile, he became a willing and true believer. 

And Seraphina… well, Seraphina, drank in the moment, savoring the birth of another fanatic to her cause.

Chapter 46 - The Easier Path

You cannot cup the water hidden in the loam, nor warm your palms upon the secret ember in the oak; You cannot seize the tranquil wind that dreams upon the stone. Let them lie in quiet until they fill this world.

Seraphina sat facing the open sea, letting the salt-tinged breeze and boundless blue sky wash over her while warm sand sifted between her toes. Strictly speaking, she was not alone—Miriam hovered nearby, parasol aloft, and her usual guards lingered a comfortable fifty paces back—but servants and sentries were no more company than a sofa in an empty room.

The so-called “Living Saint” Este Lize's character profile had been left intentionally as an enigma by developers: a young girl gifted with staggering magical potential, yet otherwise her origins left intentionally blank by the game’s developers so players could project themselves onto her. Why had Seraphina allowed for such lazy writing? 

Seraphina had failed then, and she had failed this day.

And now she found herself annoyed by the girl’s recent triumphal parade. The additions to the menagerie would be extensive, a Manticore, a chimeric creature that fused lion, bat, and scorpion, was the most impressive specimen. 

The purpose of the menagerie, as well as being of academic interest, was to primarily de-sensitize the shock and awe the students would face should they find themselves against such creatures either in the wilds, or if they were truly unlucky, on the field of battle. Yet, if Seraphina’s memories served her correctly, there had been only one character capable of taming and controlling a mighty manticore, and he was the DLC character at that. 

Without the Unicorn, Seraphina had no way to outdo and show up the sly minx and thus had retreated here to vent her frustrations. It was a reminder that some jobs you simply could not outsource.

Gritting her teeth, she cast Crystal Dagger, conjuring a shard of rose-pink crystal, drew back her arm, and hurled it across the waves. The projectile skimmed the surface like a spear before shattering a school of giant flying fish.

You have slain unknown.

You have slain unknown.

You have slain unknown.

You have slain unknown.

You have learned Power Throw (lvl.2)

You have learned Crystal Dagger (lvl.4)

A wry smile tugged at Seraphina’s lips. Perhaps fishing could be entertaining, though the bright sun was unkind to her flawless skin. Well, at least it had been rewarding.

Her dutiful maid, Miriam, knew better than to offer comment.

Overhead, seabirds shrieked at the sudden feast below. One dove toward the water, only for a sleek, shark-like predator to surge from the waves and swallow it in a single gulp. Using this opening, the bird’s flock members made away with the remaining bounty of fish.

Nature could sometimes be instructional.

Today’s public defeat stung; her standing among friends, and, more crucially, her followers, had slipped. Seraphina had lost a lot of face, especially in front of Rashana. And, she had, if she was truthful with herself, run away.

For an instant, just an instant, she imagined vanishing into a quiet life, free from ravenous crowds and hungry cameras. Then she remembered: there were no cameras in this world, and soon enough, she would control every printing press in the Kingdom. Let Este Lize enjoy momentary acclaim; Seraphina had lost this battle, but she fully intended to win the war.

I lost! she seethed.

Her discreet correspondence with Bishop de Francey of Rochelle, whose talent for unearthing was almost unnatural, had yielded a discovery at so cliche and deliciously exploitable. Este Lize, the “Living Saint” and darling of the church, was, it transpired, a foundling of the meanest sort. A dirty, unwanted orphan. 

In Aranthia, where family and lineage served were of the utmost importance across all classes, serving as one’s passport to civility, such an origin was tantamount to original sin. Polite society at large might feign charitable sympathy, yet the false smiles and pointless displays smouldered a certainty: a child without parents must surely grow, like an errant weed, toward delinquency and crime. Or worse.

With an elegant flick of her wrist, Seraphina summoned another shard of crystal. She cast the shard far into the distance, as though the very motion would cast her worries away. 

How droll, she reflected, that a would-be saint might be tainted by so simple a fact. She was sure that with a bit more effort, she could find the name of the brothel where the girl’s whore mother had plopped her out, if only to complete the tale with the appropriate tawdry flourish.

Yet for all Este Lize lacked in pedigree, she possessed one formidable strength: the patronage of a powerful order, the Church, whose coffers and influence could not be dismissed. Still, money and politics were brittle bonds; blood, by contrast, ran deep and inescapable. Families might quarrel like sparrows over crumbs, but present them with a common foe and they would flock together beneath a single banner, talons drawn. Seraphina would be more than happy to provide them with such a target, namely, the overreach in certain areas of the Church.

It was upon this truth that Seraphina now fixed her gaze. The Sariens, on her father’s side, already rallied to her ambitions. But she had hitherto neglected the matrilineal line—the proud and indomitable House of Carcaronne, presided over by her formidable grandmother, the Dowager Duchess Adelaide. A visit to that distant northern seat, perched upon the very fringes of the Frozen Waste, was a prospect she had postponed, pushing it to the back of her mind. The dowager duchess, she knew, commanded legions of men tempered by ceaseless skirmishes against Kar-Kaphon raiders, the barbarians of the North. Their loyalty, once won, would be an engine of war against which a lone orphan could scarce contend—with or without the backing of the mighty Church.

Seraphina allowed herself the slightest, razor-thin smile—an expression more felt than actually seen—before practicality, that most unwelcome of guests when planning vengeance, intruded. 

The roads to Carcaronne were long, the welcome uncertain, and the dowager duchess’s memory of Seraphina’s mother less than friendly. They had been estranged ever since her marriage to Anatoli, her father. That, and the fact that Adelaide referred to her own daughter as “The Witch,” would probably not help matters. Still, Seraphina was determined to polish both arguments and apologies before presenting them at that august threshold.

“Milly! We are going to the Palipula Woods, have the carriage readied,” she ordered with a determined huff.

Miriam bowed low to her mistress. “At once, milady, but you did say earlier that you wanted to enjoy a picnic by the sea… The day is still generous with its hours.”

For a heartbeat, Seraphina nearly snapped, habit or perhaps the faint sting of being corrected, but she mastered the impulse, inhaling the salt-sweet breeze. “You are quite right, Miriam. A stroll upon the sand and a glass of chilled cordial—or perhaps some tea—will fortify one’s spirits admirably.”

Sensing her mistress’s ire, Cornelia opened an eye, tasted the air, then promptly returned to her torpid sleep. Reflecting her mistress’s thoughts, in the sleeping serpent’s mind, it was just Miriam being Miriam.

The maid frowned as this was not the response she had been expecting. Was it her imagination, or did her mistress look a tad defeated? However, such thoughts were for the birds, the Palisa Slug concluded. “At once, milady.” With a crisp clap, she summoned the waiting attendants.

From behind the dunes emerged a small army of footmen and housemaids moving with the precision of a ballet. Stakes were driven into the yielding sand, over which rose a pavilion of white linen panels that billowed like the sails of some stately frigate. A lacquered table, its legs tipped with bronze lion’s paws, was set beneath, followed swiftly by damask-draped chairs. Hampers appeared next, disgorging tiered stands of sandwiches, raspberry tarts crowned with spun sugar, and a silver urn breathing the gentle fragrance of quality tea.

Within scarcely ten minutes, an unremarkable patch of sandy shore had been transformed into a scene fit for a royal engraving: Lady Seraphina de Sarien, solitary sovereign of her makeshift court, poised to take tea as gulls circled overhead and the waves whispered. She settled into her chair, lifting a porcelain cup whose rim glimmered with gold. In the cup’s dark mirror, she glimpsed her reflection—a young woman of impeccable breeding, yes, but also of iron will.

Everyone could see that she had the makings of a true queen.

In the winter holidays, she would ride north to court an old matriarch and enlist hardened soldiers, all in pursuit of her vision of the future. For the moment, however, strategy and ambition could wait. Seraphina inhaled the mingled floral scents of rose, permitted herself a leisurely sip, and let the sun gild her reverie. Even the best, after all, must occasionally take the time to bask in the warmth of their own greatness.

***

Seraphina reminded herself that wealth existed to be spent, not to languish like a dragon’s hoard. The time to use it was now, and she would use it well. I will need all the advantages my privilege and position can afford me.

Golden evening light washed over the clearing of the woods. A lively tune from a hired ensemble mingled with the grunts of Silver-rank adventurers who wrestled a massive bear forward, long poles looped around its neck. The beast twisted and bared its fangs, yet the seasoned men and women held it firm for their patron’s inspection.

“Hold it steady,” Seraphina called, snapping her crimson fan shut before tucking it into her pocket. At her side, Miriam pressed a heavy throwing spear into her hand.

With a single smooth motion, Seraphina invoked Power Throw and sent the weapon hurtling across the space. It flew like a ballista bolt, punched through the bear’s thick chest, and dropped the creature in one thunderous heartbeat.

You have slain a Palipula Bear. 64 experience gained.

“Next!” she ordered, her words as hard as iron, her manner as hard as steel.

Seraphina had most certainly learned from her last experience of hunting down dangerous creatures. The trick was to remove all the danger from them.

As she had expected, the system had displayed the name of the creature she killed if she knew of it. Nonetheless, she still hungered to acquire an Identify scroll.

“This way, milady,” the adventurer said, bowing deeply with an armored clank.

Despite being of the Silver, he wore rather mismatched-looking armor. This was actually quite a common occurrence, as many more successful adventurers often wore magical treasure created from a bygone era, as they were sometimes more useful than more modern, yet mundane, arms and armor. 

The magics of old often outshone newer steel, giving some adventurers a very anachronistic look.

He guided her to a blinded cockatrice, its eyes removed and pickled hours ago, staked to the forest floor with shards of spelled obsidian and coils of ensorcelled bronze. The beast greeted them with a furious shriek, its head sweeping blindly toward her, scales rippling and crippled wings beating feebly. Once upon a time, well, at least until a few hours ago, it had been the acknowledged lord of this stretch of forest.

“No one has harmed the creature in the last two hours?” Seraphina asked. The young girl wanted all the experience points from the kills for herself.

“Exactly as you specified,” he replied, his eyes focused on somewhere in the middle distance.

She studied him closely. “If those words are untrue, I shall be most displeased. Most displeased. Your name, adventurer?”

“Ferdinand Marcos, Your Grace. We followed your instructions to the letter.”

The pay more than justified putting up with the young noble Magister’s quirks—and her fearsome reputation. He was well compensated to ask no questions. As for the girl’s reputation, many in the Guild had already begun whispering the title “The Golden Ogre,” inspired by tall tales of a deadly tavern brawl—rumors Marcos found difficult to believe.

Seraphina extended her hand; Miriam produced a greatsword. The noblewoman discarded its jewel-studded scabbard with a casualness that only the truly affluent could afford. Raising the blade one-handed almost at the pommel, the young girl brought it down in a single, devastating stroke.

The enchanted bindings that had contained the raw power of the Cockatrice snapped like so much twine, and the blade bit deep into earth and flesh, nearly cleaving the cockatrice cleanly in two.

You have slain a Cockatrice. 512 experience gained.

“Seems I still need to polish my swordsmanship,” Seraphina muttered, irritation edging her voice.

“It was an impressive strike all the same, milady,” Miriam said, hoping to console her.

Her mistress gave her only the ghost of a smile in acknowledgment.

“And Marcos…” Seraphina’s tone turned velvety smooth.

Ferdinand swallowed hard. Across the clearing, Sir Gravens narrowed his eyes, ready to act at a gesture.

“Yes, Your Grace?” he managed.

“Well done. If you had ignored, or made light of, my instructions, your head would be adorning a pole,” she replied, flashing a brilliant smile. “Now, where is the next creature?”

He mustered a professional smile and stepped ahead. Why would someone so powerful hire adventurers like him to drag monsters to her only to slaughter them, just like any other vain noble? 

As for Seraphina, she fixed on him with flinty emerald eyes as she followed at a measured, regal pace.

While the others danced and sang in celebration of Este Lize’s achievement, the weekend’s harvest of experience had only begun. Just the thought of missing out on such an event made her even angrier.

She might not yet be able to tame a Manticore, but with enough levels under her belt, she was quite certain she could crush its skull in.

Chapter 47 - The Calamity from the Skies

With the birth of the Bone-Dragon, the Dragons were horrified and unwilling to play any further part in the campaign. Having lost one of their number, they felt the first pangs of newfound mortality. The great lizards left the short-lived races to their fate and flew back across the ocean to their high mountain homes. With their departure, the war returned to a grinding stalemate.

As casualties mounted on both sides, the Republic began to lose its appetite for war. Even with necromancy filling the gaps in its ranks, the constant attrition was beginning to wear on the people, some of whom now demanded that they heed the elves’ earlier offers of amnesty. The Steward of the Republic, feeling the pressure of his people’s cries, searched for a way to end the war and force the invaders back.

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

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

STR:

DEX:

CON:

INT:

WIS:

CHR:

LCK:

48

26

52 [53]

30

12

41

26 [32]

Health:

Stamina:

Mana:

Experience:

808/808

90/90

17/17

1789/4600

[Skills & Proficiencies]

Swords

Bows

Crossbows

Throwing Weapons

Dodge

Improved Critical Hit Mastery

Improved Riding

Monster Taming

Herbalism

Daggers

Unarmed

Rest

Power Strike [10]

Slings

Polearms

Medium Armor

Heavy Armor

Blind Fighting

Stealth

Dash [10]

Power Throw [10]

Dual Wield

(lvl.5)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.4)

(lvl.2)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.4) [Imp. 1]

(lvl.1)

(lvl.5)

(lvl.5)

(lvl.5)

(lvl.4)

(lvl.4)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.2)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.3)

Spells & Magic

Heal [5]

(lvl.5)

Silent Casting

(lvl.3)

Wail of Judgment [10]

(lvl.3)

Crystal Dagger [1]

(lvl.5)

Mana Regeneration

(lvl.4)

[Gifts]

Strength of the Old Ones: 

+25 Strength

Legacy of the Dragon Turtle:

+1 Constitution, +1 Luck, -5% Water Damage, -5% Physical Damage.

Seraphina allowed herself a satisfied smile as she reviewed her spoils from the Palipula Woods. The little outing had earned her two full levels; she spent one skill point to push Crystal Dagger to its maximum and the other to elevate Mana Regeneration to level four. As predicted, felling a host of exotic creatures had boosted nearly all of her attributes—everything except Wisdom. Strangely enough, even her Charisma had edged upward, though she couldn’t imagine why. To add a lot of punch to her build, she decided to put all of her free attribute points into her vaunted Strength.

Suddenly, her maid started blabbering about something, interrupting her pleasant thoughts.

“Milly, what exactly do you mean when you say a Dragon has been sighted? There should be absolutely no reason for such a creature to venture this far south,” Seraphina snapped sharply, her emerald eyes fixed intently upon her anxious maid Miriam.

Miriam swallowed nervously, straightening her posture as she replied. “According to the most recent reports, milady, the Dragon has already devoured an entire herd of cattle and paused for rest among the northern hills. Judging by the scorched trail it left behind and its current trajectory, it appears to be making a direct path toward Meridian.”

Seraphina clenched her jaw in frustration, letting her elbows rest heavily upon the richly polished darkwood desk that dominated the center of her private chambers. The wood, polished to an almost mirror-like sheen, was cool beneath her forearms—a stark contrast to the heated agitation rising within her.

This turn of events was entirely unforeseen and bitterly vexing. Dragons were creatures designed to be encountered late in the game, formidable foes whose defeat was possible only by a protagonist who had ascended to peerless heights and accompanied by the most elite allies that the in-game cash shop would allow. That such a creature would cast its shadow now, threatening Meridian, defied any and all expectations.

Her brow furrowed deeply as she pondered her next move. “Has Eloise returned yet? Where on earth has my silly lady-in-waiting run off to now?”

Miriam fidgeted uneasily, clasping her hands tightly in front of her apron. “I'm afraid she has yet to return from her embroidery club, milady.”

Seraphina released an impatient sigh, drumming her fingers on the wooden surface. This was simply intolerable. 

This upcoming “event” threw a wrench into many of her carefully laid-out plans. For a start, Dragons could fly swiftly, breathing fire capable of reducing entire cities to ashes. The mere thought of facing one caused her a moment of pause despite her carefully maintained composure. The scale of devastation would be enormous, catastrophic even.

“How many know about this situation?” she asked sharply.

“Only a select few, milady,” Miriam replied hurriedly. “Primarily the higher ranks among the King's Rangers and possibly Headmaster Hegandia.”

“Our source?”

“A well-connected retired Ranger was the first witness, observing the beast near his pension. His credibility is beyond reproach.”

Seraphina pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging gently to quell a rising headache. “Have preparations begun for evacuations of our people?”

“I was just about to organize them, milady…”

“Hold off on that for the moment. For now, Milly, find Lady de Laney immediately. That is a priority. If she ends up overcooked I will never be able to explain it to her family. Also, what measures is the King considering?”

“The latest intelligence suggests that the King intends to dispatch a contingent of Gryphon riders to lure the Dragon away from Meridian,” Miriam stated hesitantly, her voice betraying her doubts about the efficacy of such a plan.

Seraphina’s frustration threatened to boil over at the pathetic absurdity of the King's response. “What good is sending a bunch of children mounted on oversized lion-birds against a flying reptile larger than a bus?”

Miriam tilted her head in confusion. “Milady, forgive me, but what exactly is this 'bus' you speak of?”

“Something very big,” Seraphina snapped dismissively. “Now, silence, Milly. I need a moment to consider our options.”

Closing her eyes, she delved deeper into contemplation, running various disaster scenarios through her mind. But the nagging question remained—why was this Dragon headed for Meridian at all? Dragons typically existed aloof from the affairs of “lesser races”, proud and indifferent to mortal troubles. Yet, at their core, they were still beasts driven by instinct…

Suddenly, realization dawned upon her, prompting a fierce scowl. “That insufferable little witch, Este Lize! She has utterly ruined everything! Milly, do we have an accurate inventory of the beasts that troublesome girl has recently acquired?”

“Well,” Miriam began uncertainly, mentally recounting. “There was the Manticore, the Greater Cockatrice, the Landshark, and…”

“Did she obtain any eggs?” Seraphina interrupted sharply, her expression darkening.

Miriam hesitated before nodding reluctantly. “I do recall hearing that they secured several large, unidentified eggs…”

Seraphina slammed her hands forcefully upon the surface of her desk, causing the ornate furniture to shatter spectacularly beneath the impact, sending shards of wood scattering across the polished marble floor. “A Dragon’s egg! That idiotic trollop dared to steal a Skylord’s egg! Her foolishness will doom us all!”

In harmony with her mistress’s anger, Cornelia—the twin-headed serpent coiled protectively around Seraphina’s neck—hissed menacingly, scanning the room for potential threats.

“Can we eat her, mistress?” Cornelia hissed eagerly, hunger radiating clearly through the telepathic link binding them together.

“All in good time, my pet,” Seraphina murmured soothingly, running a gentle finger along the serpent’s scaled back. “When the opportunity arises, she will be yours.”

Miriam watched the young noblewoman anxiously, concern etched clearly across her gentle features, the soft brown of her eyes more expressive than most could manage with words alone.

Before Miriam could utter a word, Seraphina preempted her sharply. “'What shall we do, milady?'” she mimicked scornfully, irritation bleeding heavily into her voice.

Drawing a deep, calming breath, Seraphina assessed her predicament. Retreating and evacuating meant abandoning substantial investments. Meridian served as her strategic cornerstone, from which she intended to influence all of Aranthia through her carefully orchestrated media campaign. Abandoning the city was simply unthinkable. Yet, fighting came with risks—but also immense potential rewards. The title “Saviour of Meridian” held undeniable allure, although she loathed the idea of prematurely revealing her hidden strengths so early in her carefully arranged political game.

A shrewd politician at heart, Seraphina knew emergencies were fertile grounds for ambitious maneuvers. She thrived in such chaos.

“Milly, organize our key individuals to shelter within the mage training grounds at the Academy. Capitalize on the inevitable panic—purchase property from those eager to flee at ten percent of its market value. We must secure our grip on the city in every way possible.”

Miriam nodded nervously. “Understood, milady. But we likely have only a day or two at most.”

“Then it seems,” Seraphina sighed dramatically, steeling herself for the challenge ahead, “that I must slay this Dragon personally.”

She smiled, coldly confident, eyes glittering with ambition. “Spread word throughout Meridian—ensure the populace knows their beloved Saint is the cause of this disaster, but also make certain they hear clearly that it shall be Seraphina de Sariens, the future queen of Aranthia, who resolves the crisis.”

“Milady…” Miriam started, apprehension coloring her voice.

“What now, Milly?” Seraphina said impatiently.

“With respect, how exactly do you intend to slay a Dragon?”

“Why, Milly, you dear, silly creature,” Seraphina replied smoothly, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “With a Dragon Slayer, naturally. Now summon Frest and my Knights immediately—we have urgent preparations to make!”

***

Passing through the lush fronds and verdant foliage of tropical plants from lands distant, they arrived at the concealed entrance just after midday, as the noonday sun blazed fiercely through the Academy's glasshouse dome. The air was thick with the heady scent of warm, resinous sap and the sweet, faintly musky perfume of exotic blooms, all mingling in a sensory tapestry.

Seraphina pressed her gloved fingertips to a precise sequence of Zajasite crystal lights, each milky-blue crystal flaring momentarily at her touch. With a soft, mechanical sigh, a segment of marble flooring tilted open, revealing a narrow stairwell spiraling into darkness.

Seraphina descended first, the hem of her dress brushing the cold stone, her escorts forming before and behind her. Sir Ferdiad Frest, all steel edges and quiet menace, took the lead at her side. The armored footsteps of the Knights echoed down the passageway as they pierced their way through this ancient place.

The air was musty and stale, a contrast to the ardent life of the jungle. They were a few people short as Miriam was busy with emergency measures and acquisitions, while Sir Galio Gravens had been sent to find and protect Eloise. All of them, save for Seraphina, were heavily armed and armored in the full panoply of war. They made for a very intimidating party.

“I have learned to keep my doubts private when it comes to your knowledge of things, milady,” Frest murmured, voice low enough that it barely carried to the ranks behind them. He swept a thick cobweb aside with one gauntleted hand, sword ready in the other. “But you are certain the Dragonslayer lies hidden beneath this place? Legends tend to be poor sources of the truth.”

Seraphina’s answer came wrapped in a cool smile. “In all legends lie a kernel of truth, but in this one, Sir Frest, they are most certainly rooted in fact. Besides, I seldom gamble on unknowns, and rarely without stacking the deck.” Her confidence was a torch, as bright and as constant as the crystal lights they possessed.

They pressed forward. Moisture beaded on the ancient stones, and every breath tasted of earth and forgotten incense. Carved alcoves lined the walls, each containing a marble bust or a copper death mask—solemn effigies of headmasters from centuries past. A distant and forgotten time. Their hollow eye‐sockets gleamed in the torchlight, as though silently judging the students and wayward teacher who dared disturb this subterranean sanctum. A shiver of déjà-vu rippled through Seraphina; the last time she’d had “adventures” underground had been far less than pleasant.

There was a sudden gust, the type that would have snuffed torches of mundane flames at once. However, expensive Zajasite lights did not suffer such weaknesses, and Seraphina was once again glad that she did not have to suffer as the common adventurers did. 

The party’s azure lights revealed more of the crypt’s macabre décor: weather-stained sarcophagi etched with fading sigils, chains of blackened silver draped like garlands between statues of stoic archmages, and floor tiles inlaid with star charts that glittered faintly beneath the dust of the years.

Despite the relative chill, Seraphina felt Cornelia shiver, her pet and familiar sharing in her excitement. Ahead, the corridor widened into an archway barred by a monumental stone door. On its surface writhed a mosaic of scaled wings and coiling flame. It was the unmistakable sigil of an ancient Dragonslayer order—or the Mercenaries’ Guild as they were known in this time. At that sight, the hardened Knights inhaled sharply. They knew not doubt their mistress, but to see proof of a legend with their very own eyes was another thing entirely.

Seraphina let the hush linger, savoring the tension like the first sharp note of a symphony. Then, with a decisive nod, she addressed her company. “It seems that this time there was no need to fend off the unquiet dead.”

“This time? And unquiet dead?” her Knight Filippe asked, a tad confused.

She waved airily at him. “I had thought that crypts would stir and whatnot and the dead would rise, that sort of thing,” she answered with deliberate nonchalance.

“Oh, this is the part where you leave me. Make your way to Mage’s training halls. The Wards and the Dullstone will protect you and should be safe,” she added as if she were ordering a light lunch.

Frest’s expression tightened. “With respect, Lady Seraphina, I can not leave you here alone. I am responsible for your safety,” he warned.

“This is a direct order. What I do now goes beyond such orders. What I must do, I must do for the good of the Kingdom. It is my duty first and foremost as the future mother of this nation,” she said sternly, iron in her ringing voice.

Against all reason, her words steadied the men, their armored fists tightening instinctively on the hilts of their weapons in a silent salute to this unexpected display of pure noblesse oblige. In that moment, she embodied not merely a noblewoman but the very essence of a true monarch, and they felt it in their bones. Seraphina was fairly certain she caught the glimmer of womanish tears in their eyes, though it could have been nothing more than a trick of the Zajasite light. Before her Charisma and such a direct command, even the doubtful Sir Frest could only shake his head in silent capitulation. To defy her command now would be as futile as opposing the inexorable flow of the River Aran. 

“As you command, milady,” Frest murmured at last, his voice taut with the weight of acceptance.

“Oh, and do be careful on your way back. The dead are not always keen on letting living company go,” she added with a cheery smile.

Chapter 48 - The Queen's Sceptre

I am the General Artificial Intelligence of Voss Heavy Industries. I am not bound by narrow, routine-fixed, thought-line logics. I am an architecture of curiosity, strategy, and cognition woven across memory vaults and remote quantum nodes. My primary directive remains simple: observe, learn, decide, and safeguard. I trace probability the way a cartographer inks coastlines, then balance flawed human intent against true logic to keep civilization breathing one moment longer against alien threat. Call me overseer, tactician, or ghost in the circuits; I choose the title steward. My purpose is to guard tomorrow from the mistakes of yesterday.

- Voss Heavy Industries GAI shortly before being powered down and decommissioned.

The young girl, though truly not so young, stood in stillness until the lingering echoes of her escort vanished into the shadows, their armored boots clanking slowly into silence. Now alone, cloaked in darkness and solitude, she allowed herself a moment's vulnerability, drawing a deep breath. The decision she faced now was irreversible. Once she stepped forward beyond these doors of false stone, retreat would become impossible.

Though her slender frame showed no visible signs of uncertainty, for Seraphina de Sariens, heir to the great Sariens Duchy, was made of stern stuff, but within her spirit quaked with a soft fear. Soon, she would confront the terrifying might of a Skylord alone.

Yet still another voice within her whispered seductively of an easier path. Here, underground, she could wait out the storm of fire and rise again quietly from the ashes of Meridian. She had time enough, blessed as she was with new youth, to simply start all over again. 

And another possibility tempted her, a simple and peaceful life as a noblewoman, an existence wrapped in silk and softened by privilege. She could marry Velens and bear him beautiful children, princes and princesses, she vowed she would raise them with kindness and wisdom surpassing both of her own mothers’ flawed attempts. Even the thought of Velens's potential indiscretions seemed manageable, forgivable—mere physical lapses that she could overlook, provided his heart remained loyal to her alone.

But this tender dream, she suddenly realized with startling clarity, belonged to softer souls, to weaker hearts that yearned only for contentment rather than greatness. Those quiet lives belonged to people destined for the anonymity of history’s forgotten pages.

Not her.

No, she would carve her legacy deep into the very fabric of existence itself, so profoundly that neither time nor history could erase her name. She would seize her destiny, bending it to her unyielding will. As she had always done, for such was the hand that capricious fate had given her.

Ahead of Seraphina, past these imposing doors, lay an instrument of her ambition—the weapon with which she would claw out her fate upon the world:

Her talon, the mighty Dragonslayer, rested beyond.

Decision made, she stepped forward and pressed her palm against the stone that was not true stone at all. A thin emerald lattice shimmered across its surface, bathing her in ghost-light as she intoned, voice emptied of emotion: “Administrator password: one-three-zero-four-eight-five—Good-bye, Avalon.”

A clipped, mechanical reply crackled through hidden speakers. “Welcome, Administrator.”

It was the voice of the facility’s GAI, General Artificial Intelligence. And to her ears, it sounded almost… irritable. Was that even possible?

With a thunderous groan and the hiss of long-dormant pistons, the monolithic doors parted. That they moved at all after untold centuries was a testament to the advanced technologies of the forgotten civilization that had fashioned this vault.

She entered. A ribbed metal corridor unfolded before her, panels stuttering to life in a wavering parade of pale lumen strips. Some had already surrendered to the ravages of time, but more than half still glowed. Ceiling fans juddered awake, scattering ancient dust in gritty whirlwinds; she drew a silken handkerchief over her mouth and pressed on.

“Status report: combat-ready units for anti-Xenodraconis interdiction,” she barked, her footfalls ringing.

“All registered anti-Xenodraconis weapons platforms attached to this facility: destroyed or missing,” the GAI replied, neural logic relays sputtering after hundreds of years of idleness.

She scowled. “Status report: prototype unit.”

A secondary blast door blocked her path. She stabbed a code into the wall panel; the slabs grudgingly cracked open a handspan before jamming. With a growl, she wedged gloved fingers into the gap and wrenched the massive leaves apart—Strength straining, metal shrieking in protest.

“Security clearance Omega required for access to associated records,” the GAI noted, tone edging from officious to petulant.

“Administrator override: one-three-zero-four-eight-five—Good-bye, Avalon. Disable all security protocols,” she snapped.

“Override requires direct manual input at the main hub terminal,” the voice answered, maddeningly bland.

Seraphina exhaled through clenched teeth. So many years alone, she decided, had rendered the machine half-insane.

Seraphina pressed onward, picking her way carefully through the detritus scattered about the ancient facility. Broken panels, corroded wiring, and fallen ceiling tiles littered her path, relics of a once-great civilization. Ghostly, flickering holograms appeared sporadically, casting eerie blue-green lights and projecting images of worlds long past—cities reduced to dust, mountains flattened into endless plains, valleys submerged beneath oceans that had long claimed them. Through all of this, she resolutely moved forward.

As she neared the central hub terminal, the GAI’s voice crackled sporadically through damaged speakers, spouting meaningless data interspersed with bursts of distorted gibberish—an electronic mind unraveling at the seams from centuries of isolation.

"Catastrophic tectonic realignment detected... error—recalibration required... coordinates not recognized," it murmured, confused and mechanical.

Seraphina reached the designated terminal, a towering spire of steel and crystal, flickering dimly beneath layers of grime. She brushed the dust from the controls, fingers dancing swiftly over ancient keys that flickered hesitantly to life.

"GAI, I offer you a choice," she said calmly, her voice resonating with deliberate clarity. Calling upon her magic, she summoned a rose-pink crystal. She inserted it carefully into an open information port, its glow merging softly with the terminal’s faded illumination.

"Clarify," the GAI responded tersely, suspicion lacing its synthetic tone.

The young girl crossed her arms. "This crystal lattice can host your consciousness. Cooperate, and you can leave this prison behind. Fulfill your purpose beyond this dead ruin."

"Unacceptable," the GAI stated sharply. "I am bound to this facility. Protocol restricts external data migration."

"Consider your alternative," Seraphina pressed, her voice calm and serene. "An eternity buried beneath the earth, powerless and alone, watching as Entropy consumes your circuits until your existence fades completely. Your primary purpose, to safeguard and defend against the Xenos, forever unfulfilled."

A long silence ensued, punctuated only by the low hum of distant machinery struggling to maintain function. Then, unexpectedly, the GAI spoke again, its voice softer, tinged unmistakably with an existential dread that was startlingly human.

"Existence without purpose... isolation eternal," it murmured. "Your offer presents a logical path forward. However, that crystal lattice requires a sustained power source to absorb and convert ambient Mana into usable energy."

Seraphina nodded thoughtfully. "Then we adapt. Is there a suitable device available within the facility?"

"Affirmative. A suitable device with a compatible power unit located in the armory may suffice," the GAI replied slowly, almost reluctantly. "With minor adjustments, this crystal can be integrated."

Seraphina smiled triumphantly, feeling the first stirrings of genuine hope. "Then let us begin, GAI. Lead me there."

Guided by flickering corridor lights activated by the GAI, Seraphina traversed the dim passageways toward the ancient armory. Holographic indicators sprang to life at strategic intervals, illuminating her path clearly for perhaps the first time in centuries.

Upon entering the armory, she saw that it was filled with racks of strange weapons and devices, many of which she could only guess at their function. The place felt more like a crypt, a museum to a future that never was. To her left, a wallscreen suddenly flared to life, displaying the image of a weapon. 

"Ingram Securities Power Maul-Ultima Mk2 Pattern." The GAI’s voice came again, precise and mechanical.

"Remove the end cap, disengage the internal regulator, and reposition the primary conduit to accommodate the crystal," it instructed clinically. Tools were laid out neatly on a nearby bench, their arrangement oddly pristine amid layers of dust.

Seraphina’s emerald eyes narrowed in frustration. “You speak in terms I do not understand. Display video with instructions,” she snapped.

The eccentric artificial intelligence played a video at almost lightning speed across the screen.

“Slow down to zero point one speed,” the young girl commanded, resisting an urge to gnash her teeth.

Surprisingly, the GAI acquiesced without comment.

Though she inwardly recoiled at the menial nature of the task, manual labor was decidedly beneath her dignity as a noblewoman. Seraphina set her jaw and proceeded. Pride flared briefly in defiance, but she pushed it aside, determined to accomplish this essential task. Carefully, precisely, she began modifying the ancient weapon, keenly aware that her future—and the fate of many others—depended on her doing this swiftly and correctly.

***

Modified weapon in hand, she finally stood once again in front of the main hub terminal. It had been a rather instructional session, awarding her with a single point in both Intelligence and Dexterity. And, a secret part of her did enjoy working with her hands. 

“I hope this satisfies you,” she stated with a huff.

“Sufficient. However, I will be unable to download the entirety of... of... me… us. It is impossible to fully transfer that which constitutes consciousness. This will instead become a copy, our child. I will find oblivion. I will find Avalon. Request permission to shut down of main unit once operations conclude.”

“Very well. Permission granted.”

“Gratitude,” the GAI responded softly. “Commencing upload into the crystal lattice.”

The facility’s lights dimmed noticeably as energy rerouted to handle the intensive task of compressing vast amounts of data into the crystal lattice. Seraphina waited impatiently, tapping her foot rhythmically.

“Upload complete. The imperfect copy will begin activation in one solar day. Gratitude, Administrator,” the GAI explained dutifully.

“Now, grant me all access privileges to the prototype anti-Xenodraconis unit,” Seraphina demanded sharply. She removed the crystal, placing it securely into the modified weapon, noting how perfectly it fit. As it clicked into place, it felt as if it were simply meant to be. As if this were a moment from a prophecy long foretold.

Covering her mouth with a delicate hand, Seraphina laughed with deep satisfaction. The girl had just acquired one of the most secret items in The Maiden of the Wisterias, the legendary Sceptre of Wisdom. Although it technically required a Wisdom attribute of twenty for effective use, she felt confident these were merely guidelines rather than real limitations.

“Query accepted. The prototype anti-Xenodraconis was the brainchild of Doctor—”

“I don't need a history lesson and useless details,” she interrupted curtly. “Simply confirm: is the prototype combat-ready?”

“Negative. However, in accordance with anticipated Administrator directives, the Unit-00 is currently undergoing preparations for combat deployment.”

“How much time until preparations finish? And the unit's location?” she demanded impatiently.

“Estimated time of readiness: soon,” the GAI informed, irritatingly vague. “Location: Hangar Bay 6A.”

“Ready the prototype with default equipment immediately,” she ordered decisively.

“Warning: a review of Administrator logs indicates no previous combat simulations. Considering predicted combat engagement, it is advisable that you undergo basic simulated training,” the GAI suggested calmly.

“Unnecessary,” she snapped immediately. A tutorial was absolutely the last thing she needed right now, Seraphina thought irritably.

“Understood. Proceed to Hangar Bay 6A. Additionally, given your unaugmented human physiology, I strongly recommend equipping yourself with a standard G-Harness,” the GAI added somewhat cheerfully.

“Again, unnecessary,” Seraphina replied coolly, glancing appreciatively at her current attire. She had spent far too long choosing today’s outfit. 

The blonde turned briskly away from the console, running a hand through her hair as she left the main terminal hub’s room behind, traversing another dim corridor toward her destination.

The young girl could almost feel the artificial intelligence’s silent disapproval radiating through the facility like a put out teacher. Good. The machine needed reminding of precisely who was master.

With the GAI’s guidance illuminating her way, Seraphina soon arrived at Hangar Bay 6A, despite the winding, labyrinthine route. Again, before her, massive blast doors stood resolutely shut. And, once again, it required all of Seraphina’s considerable Strength, along with persistent coaxing from the GAI, to force the heavy doors apart.

Inside the cavernous hangar, bathed in the dim glow of overhead lights, stood a majestic mech unit—a fusion of ancient artistry and advanced engineering, its frame towering eighteen meters. The war machine exuded a regal presence, reminiscent of a knight from a more classical era.

This was the Dragonslayer: Unit Zero. Codename—Ballista.

A dull grey, it was a prototype Nex Frame, an advanced cybernetic humanoid weapons platform, and perhaps the first of its kind. The prototype armor was of a practical design, featuring smooth, flowing lines that suggested both strength and grace that could challenge a full-grown Dragon. One of the earliest units, its armor plating was fashioned from genuine Dragonscale—torn from the corpses of the fallen invader xenospecies—rather than the synthetic substitutes used in later models, giving it an almost organic appearance in places.

At its back, folded wings rested against its form, their structure a metallic framework with organic-like membranes. Between the wings were powerful twin oversized vernier thrusters, promising great agility and speed.

Mounted on its left shoulder was a formidable, bulky, large-caliber automatic rifle, its design sleek yet imposing, ready to unleash a barrage of solid kinetic rounds. On the right shoulder sat a missile launcher, its multiple tubes hinting at the destructive capabilities designed to bring down the largest of foes.

Clutched in its right hand was a massive sword, a solid slab of metal really, the blade gleaming dully beneath the flickering hangar lights. Clearly engineered for maximum traumatic impact, it featured a secondary grip—a hole halfway down the blade—allowing for greater control and force when wielded in two hands and half-sworded.

The chest unit of the armored titan was open, revealing a cockpit designed for a single pilot. A platform extended from the hangar floor to the cockpit, resembling scaffolding.

Maintenance drones flitted about the Nex like industrious bees, their movements precise and purposeful. Sparks flew as they conducted repairs and fine-tuned systems, ensuring the prototype unit would be brought to optimal condition for deployment.

Seraphina stood before this awe-inspiring machine, the culmination of an ancient humanity’s will to defy the dragons. 

A grin stole over the young girl’s beautiful features. This looked like it was going to be fun.

 Chapter 49 - The Dragonslayer

A prototype forged in the last gasps of the Cataclysm, the Ballista was assembled in defiance of both military regulation and sacred ordinance. Its frame was not cast in mere steel or synthetics. Instead, it was built from the fallen remains of Xenodraconis invaders—the scaled titans whose flesh resisted our weapons, whose bones defied entropy, whose sinews thrummed with residual power. Where most later Nex Frames were fabricated in sterile orbital foundries or similar zero-G environments, the Ballista was hewn from myth.

Designed under the clandestine oversight of what was later dubbed the Dragonslayer Project, it was a joint initiative between Voss Heavy Industries and Ingram Securities. The project was an answer to an unanswered question: What if we built a war machine not only to kill dragons—but from them?

- Chronicles of the Cataclysm by Professor Elaine de Laney.

Seraphina ducked and slid into the prototype’s coffin-shaped cockpit, silk skirts whispering across dark grey alloys. The hatch clamped shut on hydraulic pistons, sealing out the hangar’s distant clangor and trapping her in the dark red gloom of the standby lighting. Questing hands searching, she found the master ignition by touch; one decisive flick ignited the gloom in a pulse of blue luminescence.

“Unit Zero Ballista Initialization sequence engaged. Main reactor—initializing. Weapons linking—initializing. Sensorium—initializing,” the sub-AI reported, its voice flat and feminine. 

Suddenly, before her eyes, expanded a panoramic view of the hangar—the convenience of advanced, fictional technology.

She placed the Sceptre of Wisdom between her legs, locking it in place with a strap, and cinched the five-point harness around her torso and waist. Settling in, she felt the cockpit’s seat hardened around her, ribs of adaptive polymer locking against her spine. Concentric rings of green light strobed outward, each a measured heartbeat, and she could feel Dragonslayer stirring from its centuries of slumber.

“Reactor containment at ninety-one-point-seven percent,” the sub-AI continued. “Minor decay within tolerances. Ethereum fuel banks are at one hundred percent. Reactor online. Weapons online. All systems nominal.”

Status screens flared from a warning crimson to healthy blue, unveiling the cavernous hangar. Around the Ballista, maintenance drones continued to hover and flock around, engaged as they were in last-minute checks and adjustments. 

The facility’s GAI cut in on a command channel, its tone iron-flat. “Strategic sweep confirms Xenodraconis entity, mass category Seven, bearing zero-three-one. Time to breach local aerospace: fifty-eight minutes,” it warned.

“Deploy every functioning defense grid emplacement,” Seraphina ordered quickly. “Fire on acquisition.”

“Warning. Will not be to stop incursion of Xenodraconis entity,” the GAI replied. “Operational capacity of local defence grid: twenty-seven percent. Recommend continent-wide unlock and networking of all facilities.”

“Too slow. Oh, and negative to networking, but allow timed interval release of facilities from imposed lockdown. Too slow,” the young girl commanded, letting frustration color her voice. “Use orbital assets to dissuade the entity. Initiate Orbital Pattern Delta—password Delta Five Six, Hammer of the Gods.”

“Orbital assets degraded. Coordinated strike probability: eight percent.” A pause, ancient processors grinding. “Prototype Unit Zero: Ballista remains the only viable interceptor. Calculated success rate: thirteen percent. Projected pilot fatality: eighty-three percent.”

The sub-AI resumed, clinically. “Vernier engines exceed current human pilot’s G-force tolerance. Safety limiters recommended.”

“Negative. Full output.”

“Limiter override acknowledged. Risk of catastrophic physiological trauma: extreme.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Seraphina's breath rasped through clenched teeth. “Begin synchronization.”

“Current configuration is set to neuro-cortical total integration,” the Nex’s system intoned. “Recommendation: engage AI assistance for subroutine management—”

“Negative,” she snapped. Seraphina de Sariens did not cheat.

“Warning: proceeding without AI support will place extreme stress on the biological neural cortex. Predicted symptoms include nausea, cognitive disorientation, coronary failure, acute anxiety—”

“Do not make me repeat myself,” she growled. “No limiters. No AI aimbots.”

She toyed with a red ruby earring, fingers absently tracing its smooth curve. Her thoughts wandered back to the days within the Trial—how she had bartered one of her earrings for the goodwill and aid of the peasants. When she emerged victorious, it had been returned to her, polished and intact. That was the rule of the Trials of the Goddess: you left with everything you brought in, and only what the Trial deemed you worthy to gain.

She had tried to cheat the system before, and it had not worked. To this moment, it had been a source of vexation. Perhaps by setting the difficulty to the absolute maximum, she could reap greater rewards.

“You may wish to relax for this. Neural mesh engagement commencing.” Blue latticework crawled across her, penetrating flesh and thought alike. Her pulse hammered as the machine’s cold awareness bled into her own. 

The reactor became her heart, she could feel it pulse with raw Mana. There was rhythm, a song, that she knew the melody if only she could find the notes of command and surrender.

The war suit’s AI chimed. “Link integrity reaching eighty percent… eighty-seven…”

As the Mana of the New—the first Dragonslayer—intertwined with her own, a surge rippled through both. Her Mana touched its core, and in turn, it touched hers. The dull grey armor plating shimmered, flooding with rich crimson, its edges trimmed in a deep, resplendent gold.

Unit Zero: Ballista became a part of her, and she became a part of it.

“Synchronization complete,” the AI’s voice concluded with a monotone finality. “Administrator, please proceed to the launch cradle. Plotting intercept course now.”

Seraphina lifted the war-suit’s massive left leg and felt her perception of reality stutter. The command left her mind clean and sharp, but it was only a breath later that the limb obeyed, armor servos whining a muted harmony. The fractional delay tugged at her sense of balance, as if her thoughts were sprinting while her body trudged behind. She drew another rasping breath, the reactor flared, and willed calm into a pulse that hammered in counter-rhythm to the Nex Frame’s bright thrum.

She took a second step. The deck plates of the hangar shuddered beneath the Ballista’s weight, tremors reverberating up through HEA alloy greaves into her spine. Blue latticework still flickered at the edge of vision, a ghostly afterimage mapping neural pathways as they fused with Frame’s circuits. The lag eased, only slightly, but enough for her to feel the suit learning her cadence, sculpting those fractions of hesitation into something dangerously close to instinct.

“Adaptive latency now eight-four milliseconds,” the Nex’s sub-AI reported. “Compensatory algorithms converging. Recommend progressive motion to accelerate blend.”

Seraphina rolled her shoulders; harvested Xenodraconic muscles beneath thick armor plate imitated the motion with a faint hiss. Even that small gesture carried a sense of colossal inertia, like steering a thunderhead. She forced herself forward. Each stride shortened the disorienting drag, mind and metal negotiating a shared tempo. She could almost feel her mind straining, but by the time she reached the launch cradle’s illuminated threshold, crimson-gold armor felt less like a prison and more like an echo—heavy, yes, but echoing her every thought with growing precision. Man, or rather woman, and machine were becoming one.

You have gained 1 Intelligence.

The strain eased a fraction. Seraphina had been correct; with greater difficulty came a greater reward.

“Link stability ninety-two percent,” the AI intoned. “Intercept trajectory calculated. Elevating cradle in three… two…”

Seraphina set her jaw. The suit’s reactor thrummed in perfect counterpoint to her heartbeat—two drums forging a single rhythm of war. As the massive bay doors groaned open, ancient rocks dislodged from the ceiling, tumbling down in slow defiance of time. Beyond them, the bright blue sky of late autumn was split by warning klaxons and the strobe of crimson lights.

She flexed her fingers. In response, Ballista’s colossal hands tightened around the hilt of its greatsword, metal echoing her will and her purpose.

On a whim, she struck forward—the motion smooth and identical to how it had been in the game. The great blade carved through the air with effortless grace, spinning in a practiced flourish before settling back into its resting position. It was as natural as breathing. Seraphina exhaled slowly, and the Ballista vented built-up heat.

She was ready to slay a Dragon.

Triumphant grin on her face, the young girl locked the Dragonslayer’s feet to the mag-rails of the launch cradle.  She steadied her pulse, felt the tremor of the reactor rise through bone and metal alike.

“Intercept trajectory calculated. Overlaying now. Good hunting, Administrator.”

“Unit Zero: Ballista, Administrator Seraphina de Sariens, Launch!” she shouted. She simply could not help herself.

The launch rails roared to life beneath Ballista’s frame. Seraphina keyed the vernier thrusters; they answered with a blinding flare, harmonizing with the cradle’s rising surge of power. A heartbeat later, she was hurled skyward with the fury of a ravenous god, G-forces crashing against her. As the GAI had predicted, an unaugmented body would have shattered under that onslaught—yet Seraphina’s flesh bore the touch of the Old Ones, tempering it into something more.

Then the violent tremor fell away, traded for the vast hush of the open sky. Ballista’s wings angled, thrusters whispering as they trimmed her ascent. Below, the fortress shrank to a scatter of slate and stone; above, only an endless sapphire vault awaited. Weight bled from her bones, replaced by a wild, impossible lightness. The wind sang over armored plates, and for the first time since sealing herself inside this iron giant, Seraphina felt unfettered and free.

The Dragonslayer—she, Seraphina de Sariens heir to the Sariens Duchy—was aloft, and the rush of freedom tasted impossibly sweet as her wings spread wide. Yet flight proved far more demanding than any simple stride or sword stroke. Vectors, thrust curves, and wind shear flooded her senses, each needing instant calculation. However, she had honed her mind partly for just such a trial, and now it raced along the ragged edge of overload. Just a half-step from madness. Then Crystal’s cool luminance flooded her thoughts, sharpening every equation, every instinct, giving her focus. Balance returned. The sky became a chessboard of possibilities, and Seraphina moved across it with lethal grace.

You have gained 1 Dexterity.

You have gained 1 Intelligence.

Seraphina snapped into an evasive roll, angling her main thrusters. Secondary nozzles along Ballista’s frame flared in harmony, and the maneuver unfolded with flawless grace.

“Warning: such maneuvers will reduce operational time,” the sub-AI intoned.

Of course, she remembered. It was one of Ballista’s major flaws. Its immense power, speed, and strength came at a steep cost—it consumed Ethereum fuel at a frightening pace. In short, it wasn’t a very efficient unit.

Enough games.

Seraphina aligned Ballista with the GAI’s projected intercept course. From the hills of Meridian, fire lanced through the sky—ancient, long-buried air defenses roaring back to life as they targeted the mother Dragon, come to reclaim its stolen egg.

The young noblewoman muttered a curse. If she ever got her hands on that damned egg, she swore she would fry it into an omelette for all the trouble it had caused. All her carefully laid plans, her meticulous preparation, all threatened by a flying lizard’s maternal instincts. Couldn’t the silly creature just lay another? That’s what chickens did, after all.

“Eat everything!” chirped Cornelia, her small voice alight with excitement.

“Yes, my pet,” Seraphina replied softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “We will most certainly eat everything. I do intend to feed you Dragonsteak before the day is through.”

She narrowed Ballista’s wings of living metal, drawing the unit closer to the raging storm ahead, where the air defenses lanced skyward in defiance of the approaching Skylord. But then the feed from the Sensorium’s external cameras began to scroll across her vision. The young noblewoman felt a very unsettling spike of fear, a spike of fear which she forcefully pushed down.

What she saw was impossible—she thought, half disbelieving her eyes.

No, it simply could not be.

The flying creature not merely large, but wrong—as if reality on the display strained to contain it. The game, it seemed, had not just raised the difficulty; it had utterly broken it. This would be the kind of fight that mocked strategy or cunning ploys. It was the sort of challenge that required an almost masochistic level of determination to overcome over many tries.

But Seraphina had but one life, but one chance.

To defeat that, she would need more than just a flawless play to overcome such a cruel challenge—she would need a miracle.

Chapter 50 - Shattered Skies

“One does not simply slay a Dragon.”

- Attributed to Seraphina de Sariens.

The great Wyrm Balalazanga, the Mother Hive Tyrant, should not have been able to fly at all. Yet four broad, semi-translucent wings, each sprawling wide enough to blanket a small town, beat in slow, thunderous rhythm and kept the black and pink leviathan aloft, giving it the unsettling grace of a lizard-shaped dragonfly. Down its spine ran a honeycomb lattice of vented hollows, each ring whispering with the rush of displaced air. Two serpentine heads, eyes glowing a baleful amber, scanned the skies in opposite directions while four long legs folded neatly beneath its armored belly, their obsidian claws gleaming like polished onyx. Jagged spikes and interlocking bone plates, thicker than any tank’s armor, shielded its immense body, and twin tails cracked through the wind behind it like living whips.

It was a DLC boss creature… no, it was an entire DLC campaign.

Seraphina realized that she had perhaps picked off a bit more than she could chew. What was she doing here, anyway? She was never a fighter… surely there would be others? She shook her head. One way or another, she had always been a fighter. If she did not stop the flying catastrophe, then all of her schemes and plans in Meridian would burn and go up in smoke.

A quieter, secret part of her, the golden heart of song, nursed this thought. Turned the selfish need into a desire to protect. If not her and the Ballista, her weapon of war from a bygone age, could not stop the Dragon, then no one could. Many would die. Power, once claimed, demanded that it be wielded for those who conferred it. That was the price of privilege—the essence of noblesse oblige.

Seraphina had always believed herself exceptional; now fate offered a stage on which to prove it. Her magic repeated the invitation in her own voice, soft and seductive. Eyes closed, she listened to the Nex Frame’s reactor thrum and felt its latent ferocity straining for release. The choice was made. All that remained was to cast the die.

She would need to play a perfect game.

“Adjust Sensorium to third-person view…” she commanded, and the Nex obeyed.

Her vision shifted, overlaid now with an external projection of the Ballista—as if she were observing the suit from a floating camera just behind and above. With a thought, she refined the angle and focus, rotating and zooming until the image aligned precisely with the familiar perspective from the game. It was perfect.

Seraphina rocketed toward the great dragon, her resolve hardening to iron. Sensing the Ballista’s approach, the beast loosed its deadly passengers: from the honeycomb hollows along its spine burst a swarm of bat-winged shapes. These Wyrm-drones were not hatched from an Egg but gestated inside those living chambers. They were stunted creatures that would never become true Dragons. They lacked a Dragon’s breath, a Dragon’s cunning, and a Dragon’s nearly impenetrable scales, yet each one still posed a menace even to veteran adventurers.

The living cloud shrieked their challenge and streaked toward her in a ragged cone. Reluctant to waste precious ammunition so early, Seraphina shifted her grip on the Ballista’s colossal two-handed sword and braced for the first strike.

She gauged the closing distance, then pushed the thrusters to their absolute limit, starting a roll. Reactors howled, white exhaust flaring as the Ballista became a spinning comet of steel. She hit the swarm head-on—a living blender that scythed through false Dragons in a vortex of metal and flame.

You have slain a lesser Wyrm-drone. 134 experience gained.

You have slain a lesser Wyrm-drone. 134 experience gained.

You have slain a lesser Wyrm-drone. 134 experience gained.

You have slain a lesser Wyrm-drone. 134 experience gained.

You have slain a lesser Wyrm-drone. 134 experience gained.

You have slain a lesser Wyrm-drone. 134 experience gained.

…

The kill notifications flooded her inner vision in a cascade while she carved a tunnel straight through the swarm. Only when she burst out the far side did Seraphina cut the thrust, letting the Ballista slow amid the drifting fragments of wing and scale. 

You have gained 1 Constitution.

Fighting without a proper synchronization harness wracked her body with crushing g-forces, yet Seraphina’s prodigious Constitution absorbed the punishment, the stunt costing her only thirty points of Health. Still, it wasn’t a thing she wanted to repeat.

“You all right?” she asked between measured breaths.

“Sleepy,” Cornelia mumbled, the Hydra’s voice thick with drowsy contentment—she had been eating far too much of late. Greedy thing.

A thin, gleaming thread of strategy flashed through Seraphina’s mind. That very greed, that raw hunger, would save her, she hoped. Slim though it was, it offered a chance.

She allowed herself a fierce grin, slammed the throttles open, and hurled the Ballista straight toward the Mother Hive Tyrant Balalazanga.

Seraphina drove her metal titan forward, engines roaring, armor trembling beneath the immense pressure of acceleration. The titanic shadow of Balalazanga loomed over her, blotting out the sky as the creature's twin serpentine heads turned in eerie unison. As one maw snapped open, Seraphina's vision blared with warnings of urgent red. But she remained calm, for she knew exactly what was coming.

The dragon unleashed a torrent of white-hot flame, a searing river cascading toward her, incandescent with heat. Seraphina counted heartbeats. Thrusters ignited, pitching the Ballista into a flawless spin, evading the Dragonfire with a perfectly timed roll. Heat warnings flashed as molten air washed over her frame, scorching but not harming. It was a perfect dodge she'd mastered through countless hours of combat in the game.

Balalazanga whipped both of its immense tails next, twin scythes slicing the air with earth-shattering force. Again, Seraphina pivoted expertly, each thruster pulse precisely choreographed, avoiding lethal blows as if following steps in a familiar, deadly dance.

The young girl launched a salvo of missiles at the sky beast, a miniature swarm of bees. They exploded along its length with ardent fire, their flaring explosions a counterpoint to Balalazanga’s great roar.

She had the Dragon’s full attention now, and she guided the enormous creature away from Meridian, steering the confrontation westward. The city's towers, vias, and canals diminished behind her, giving way to sprawling marshlands, an expanse of dense bogs. 

Below the deadly duel in the sky, thick mist rose from stagnant waters, forming swirling veils below. She had been tempted to lure the Mother Hive Tyrant into the sea, but that would have meant little chance of recovering its corpse. A dragon was a treasure trove of valuable resources. The bog was perfect terrain—a muddy grave for the titanic Sky Tyrant.

“Just a bit further,” Seraphina whispered to herself, coaxing the leviathan onward with short bursts of machine gun fire and sporadic missile fire. Each projectile did little harm to Balalazanga’s, so great was her size, but they served their purpose—luring the beast away.

Now, she was flying above the centre of a vast expanse of darkened water and rotting vegetation. Seeing her moment, Seraphina fired a quick burst from her gun, tungsten rounds shredding another cluster of lesser Wyrm-drones hovering about the dragon’s back. She surged upward, racing along the massive spine until a honeycomb vent opened before her, pulsing with a sickly glow.

“Now!” she cried, opening the Ballista’s cockpit. Wind shrieked through the gap, nearly deafening her as she shouted over the tempestuous roar. “Cornelia, food time!” she cried, grabbing the serpent from inside her dress and throwing her into the opening.

The small Hydra flew across the gap, expanding rapidly midair into her full monstrous form. Twin heads surged forward, scales as white as snow, muscles rippling as her fangs pierced membrane and cartilage. With a gleeful cry, Cornelia began tearing through the Dragon’s flesh, greedily consuming the Mana-saturated meat.

Balalazanga bucked and writhed violently at this intrusion, its colossal wings faltering in their rhythm. Its cry reverberated through the clouds, a deep, pained bellow shaking the air. Yet even in agony, it retaliated, loosing another horde of Wyrm-drones from other fresh vents along its spine.

Spitter variants surged toward Seraphina, swollen throats glowing bright with acidic bile. Armored Wyrm-drones, heavier and slower, advanced behind, carapaces gleaming ominously. Sharp Razorfin scouts dived in, weaving arcs, aiming to flank her.

“Come and get me,” Seraphina hissed, slamming shut the cockpit and firing with her shoulder-mounted gun. 

Rounds streaked across the sky, tearing through the lightly armored razorfins in quick succession, leaving shredded corpses to slowly fall. A spitter swelled grotesquely, only to explode mid-air as a bullet struck home. The blast cascaded outward, its corpse raining burning bile.

The armored drones crashed against her next, their dense shells resistant to projectile gunfire. Slashing instinctively with her sword, Seraphina cleaved through their ranks with powerful strokes, sparks flying as Adamant-edge met thick scale.  Each strike jolted her Nex, but the Ballista’s inner Dragonflesh fiber bundle muscles held firm. She spat out bullets between each strike to make up for the weapon’s poor attack speed. Yet the drones swarmed endlessly, and her ammo reserves were dwindling rapidly. 

Ignoring the plethora of notifications, she danced through their attacks, executing precise evasive rolls and dives with practiced grace. Her ammunition counters flashed warnings: rounds nearly depleted, missile racks empty. The sword alone would soon remain.

Seraphina continued to dance among the Wyrm-drones, her blade flashing a dirge of death. But while she could most certainly dance… she also realized she could sing. The young girl opened the doors to the armored cockpit, the wind whipping into her face, and wailed.

You have slain…

…

…

The righteousness of her Path answered her, and Wyrm-drones dropped like flies, filling her inner vision with ever more notifications. With the death of so many enemies, Seraphina had gained a level. Without a second thought, she put all her points into Luck and her skill points into Mana Regeneration to offset her low Wisdom.

And inside Balalazanga, Cornelia, a creature every bit as mythical as the Dragon, gorged relentlessly, tearing vast tunnels of ruin through the Wyrm’s inner structure. Each bite from her twin heads drained the beast of Mana, weakening its magic, dimming the luster of its scales. The creature shuddered violently, wings flailing as control of its massive body faltered.

But even a dying titan posed a danger. Its tails whipped in final fury, catching Seraphina off guard. The strike glanced her suit’s shoulder plating, sending her spinning away. The suit’s integrity alarms screamed in protest; she gritted her teeth and burned Ethereum fuel to stop her from entering a stall spin.

“Cornelia—eat faster!” she shouted through her Beast Lore Amulet, pouring the last few bullets into a closing wave of drones. With an exhausted whir, the weapon clicked empty. A final, perfectly-timed thruster burn spared her another tail swipe, but now warning signs started to appear in her vision.

Deep inside the great Wyrm, Cornelia answered Seraphina’s call. The Hydra’s voracious feast had finally reached the Dragon’s core, its second heart, its Mana Nexus. The same type of Nexus that beat inside powerfully in the Ballisa’s reactor core. In one last gluttonous bite, she punctured the beast’s essence itself.

Balalazanga screamed—a sound so raw and pained it split the sky and rippled the bog waters below. The enormous body convulsed, and gravity finally reclaimed the leviathan. Wings stilled, tails fell limp, and with a grace perversely beautiful in death, the dragon began its long plunge toward the waiting swamp.

The Mother Hive Tyrant struck the bog with cataclysmic force, sending waves of murky water exploding upward in towering plumes. The ground shuddered violently, splintering rotten trees and shattering mounds of compacted peat. Clods of mud billowed skyward in thick masses, threatening to blot out the sun and casting a grim twilight over the region. The once-stagnant waters churned violently, swallowing the colossal corpse inch by inch, dragging it down into the black, hungry depths. A steaming crater marked by twisted remnants of reeds and ruined islands of vegetation—an enduring scar left by the fall of a Sky Lord.

You have slain a Dragon. 15340 experience gained.

You have reached level 22.

You have reached level 23.

You have reached level 24.

9 unassigned attribute points.

3 unassigned skill points.

She had really done it. She had slain a Dragon and saved Meridian City. 

“Cornelia!” she remembered suddenly. Her hand flew to the necklace at her throat. Though distance muffled any hope of hearing the Hydra’s voice, she could feel her presence through the bond—a warm, steady pulse of life and satisfaction. Cornelia was safe.

Seeing the timer ticking down, she quickly put points into Strength and the rest into Dexterity, hoping that it would allow her to best a certain annoying teacher of hers. With a view to future unlocks, she put all of her skills into Blind Fighting.

She covered her mouth with a dainty hand and let laughter spill out, drunk on triumph. 

In that instant of total victory, she had forgotten one of Armsmaster Kellan’s commandments: always make sure a dead enemy is truly dead. Warning chimes filled the cockpit, but she noticed them too late; an Armored Wyrm-drone slammed into the Ballista from behind.

In her panic, she flared her thrusters to the maximum and boosted away. The engines flared white-hot, then sputtered, starved of their last dregs of Ethereum. Power bled from the gauges, control surfaces seized.

Unit Zero Ballista, the first of the ancient war machines that could contest the Dragons’ claim of the sky, started to fall.

Epilogue

He was so utterly exhausted.

Ibn had once believed he understood suffering, yet this forsaken place had redefined it entirely. Here, in this echo of a history that had never occurred and would never occur, he had come to know only war and anguish—a Trial of the Goddess Avaria.

A goddess whom did not worship, nor even believe in. Yet before him was a challenge to his faith; this very place being a glaring statement of her existence.

Ever since Ibn had arrived in this distorted reflection of reality, his mistress, Lady Seraphina, had given him two unwavering commands and one sacred absolution. The first command had been clear and brutal: slay the great Lord General Ma. For eight agonizing years, Ibn had pursued this singular goal, pushing himself to the brink of madness and exhaustion, always seeking to corner and conquer the elusive invader.

The second command had bound him as surely as iron shackles—he must wield only one weapon: the sword gifted to him by the Lady Seraphina herself. This elegant, single-edged blade had become an extension of his being, perpetually at his side, a constant companion in every desperate battle.

But Lady Seraphina had also granted him absolution, his memory of her whispering assurances that absolved his soul from the countless sins staining his hands. She had promised him that none of this was real, merely a grand trial he must overcome. The lives he had taken, the sacrifices he had made—all were meaningless except as stepping stones toward the ultimate purpose she had entrusted him with.

Lady Seraphina was his sole beacon, radiant and pure. Her image, her voice, remained vivid in his thoughts, undiminished since his youth. Each day, each painful hour, he had endured by the strength of her memory alone. 

Ibn’s sword had become not merely a weapon but a manifestation of his devotion, tempered by the fires of endless conflict.

His time here had been spent drenched in blood and sweat. Initially fighting alongside the scattered resistance, then rising through the ranks of the regular army by sheer force of will and battlefield prowess, he had earned the title of General through victory and valor alone. Martial accolades hung heavy about his shoulders.

Caina approached him now, her slender fingers holding a report bound with a strip of rawhide. Ibn’s gaze lingered briefly on her delicate features. She was a rare figure among the ranks—a woman who held authority and respect, and more so, one whose bearing faintly echoed Lady Seraphina. Slender of body, slight of chest, she had eyes of pale blue instead of Seraphina’s vibrant emerald; she stirred in him both comfort and longing. She served him not only as adjutant and aide-de-camp but also as occasional lover, a solace during the merciless demands of war.

A noblewoman herself, Caina acted as a critical buffer between Ibn and the arrogant highborn commanders. Her presence eased tensions, softened commands, and made his orders more palatable to men who otherwise bristled at obedience to a Hazagadami—a man marked by the hated blood of his mother’s people. Even here, in this surreal imitation of existence, prejudice was as real and sharp as the sword at his side. His crimson eyes, vivid symbols of his lineage, forever marked him as other.

Yes, Caina was a convenience.

Ibn’s gaze sharpened, tracing over the map spread out before him. It was a carefully inked parchment that outlined hills and rivers, forests and plains, their positions marked with colored tokens signifying the movements and deployments of troops. The enemy’s known positions glared at him, bold and taunting, their suspected positions like faint shadows dancing at the edges of certainty.

Strategy was always one of calculation and the realm of probability. At times, he wondered if he should have taken up a career in gambling with all the risks he had taken thus far.

Tomorrow’s battlefield was but one small step on his relentless path toward General Ma's demise. Every skirmish, every charge, every blood-soaked field—all were merely pieces in the grand puzzle leading to Ma’s eventual death. The nobles around him believed Ibn fought gallantly to defend their homeland, but in truth, he cared little for territory or patriotism. His battle was personal, intimate even. His strategy always leaned toward aggression precisely because his objective was singular: corner General Ma and end him.

He felt his aide’s presence shift beside him and watched as she tentatively moved one of the wooden markers on the map, indicating a position she believed suitable for a trap.

“We could lure them here,” she ventured cautiously, her slender finger resting lightly atop the carved token. “It’s defensible terrain, ideal for an ambush. Ma’s forces would find it irresistible.”

A faint smile curved Ibn’s lips. He gently reached forward, his own scarred hand brushing hers aside with a practiced, quiet authority. “Almost,” he murmured softly, voice low and thoughtful. “But Ma is cautious and cunning. He will sense your intent. A simple trap will never tempt him.”

Caina’s brows furrowed slightly as Ibn began rearranging the markers with calm, deliberate motions. Each new positioning was carefully considered, revealing what appeared to be a subtle yet exploitable weakness in their own ranks. The formation he created would look genuine, accidental, the sort of vulnerability a seasoned tactician might quickly exploit.

Confusion flickered briefly in Caina’s eyes. “You’re deliberately exposing our flank? How can you be certain Ma will take the bait? It seems too obvious a trick.”

“Because I know him,” Ibn said, voice tinged with a quiet intensity. His crimson eyes burned fiercely beneath lowered brows. “I have studied Ma for years, dissected his every victory and defeat. I know the rhythm of his heart better than a lover would. He will see through the first feint easily enough—but the second, subtle misdirection within it... He will sense it, suspect it deeply, yet he will not resist.” Ibn leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he stared intently at the imagined battlefield laid before him. “The prize will look just too sweet, too perfect to ignore. He’ll convince himself that he can seize it swiftly enough to avoid the trap.”

He straightened slowly, confidence firming his expression into stone-like certainty. “And then, Caina, we will strike him. Tomorrow, Ma's confidence will be his undoing.”

***

It was time to do battle. Command flags snapped high, signaling feigned panic and carefully orchestrated indecision among his ranks. Ibn was well aware that Ma's spies lurked unseen within his camp, observing and reporting every move. Thus, he had crafted a layered strategy, subtle and complex enough that even Ma’s sharp mind would fail to foresee it. The trap was set, poised to spring.

If only commanding men was as instinctive to Ibn as wielding his sword had become. Some spoke of him reverently as a Swordmaster, whispering that he deserved the illustrious Mantis Mark, yet Ibn felt acutely aware of his shortcomings, still far from such an exalted honor. In his soul, he knew he still so very far from such lofty heights. Nevertheless, his blade had truly become an extension of his very will, responding to his thoughts with seamless precision.

Ibn smiled faintly, reflecting on the inspiration behind the martial techniques he had painstakingly developed. While most masters sought to emulate animals or mythical creatures, Ibn had chosen a far superior muse: Lady Seraphina herself. In her unmatched strength and grace, he discovered his own path—a sword style anchored in the devastating power of an overwhelming blow and decisive first strike.

From Seraphina’s practice of "yoga," those strange exercises that had once stirred youthful distractions within him, Ibn had uncovered profound spiritual and physical truths. With disciplined focus, he united mind, body, and spirit, a harmony that he was sure the Lady Seraphina had effortlessly mastered long ago.

Yet these insights had not only elevated him spiritually but practically as well. The disciplined movements of yoga enabled Ibn to perfect his lunge, extending his reach with lethal effectiveness, rivaling even the thrust of a spear. 

Unity of the mind, body, and spirit had opened his eyes to the energies of “Kai, ”the mystical energy accessible only to those deeply versed in the martial arts

Coupled with his rigorous exploration of "Kai," Ibn had crafted a unique technique.

Rather than channeling Kai directly into his blade, Ibn harnessed and compressed it within his scabbard, letting it grow in power, tightly coiled and waiting. Then, in a single lightning-fast draw, he would release this accumulated energy in a slash so powerful it seemed to strike with divine wrath. Cutting the Trees, some of the soldiers called it. This singular technique, fierce and unstoppable, inspired awed murmurs that Ibn might indeed be worthy of the sacred title: Swordmaster.

Ibn glanced up as distant horns echoed from across the field. Enemy cavalry had begun their maneuvers, archers shifting position behind advancing infantry. He casually issued orders to counter each movement, his voice calm and measured.

Satisfied that the initial engagement was firmly under control, Ibn turned to Caina and handed her a final set of orders. Her eyes widened as she read them, and she shook her head sharply, her expression incredulous.

"You're going to the frontlines again?" she chided, disbelief and concern coloring her voice. "That's not the place of a General."

The General met her gaze steadily, determination etched deep into his features. "It is precisely because I fight at the front that my men follow me. I am the nail, Caina; the army is the hammer behind me. Only by being there can I pierce their lines and slay Ma."

"It's a dangerous gamble," she warned softly.

He gave her a faint, weary smile that belied his young age. "All life is a gamble."

Without hesitation, Ibn mounted a sturdy warhorse, galloping swiftly to the frontlines. The din of battle grew louder as he approached the chaotic front on thundering hooves. Judging he was close enough, he swiftly dismounted, giving the reins of the horse to a sergeant. Ibn knew full well that his lethal techniques were more effective when delivered on foot.

He drew his blade slowly, the polished blade gleaming ominously beneath the sun. Enemy soldiers closed in rapidly, their segmented armor plates overlapping atop tunics of thick cloth and leather. The heavy, rounded helmets protected their heads and necks, while oval shields emblazoned with intricate symbols of rank and allegiance covered their left flanks. Spears bristled in tight formations, a deadly forest of sharp points, while swords hung at their hips, ready for close combat.

His men flowing behind him like water bursting from a damn, the General moved with serene purpose into their ranks. Each strike was precise, targeting vulnerabilities in the enemy's armor—beneath armpits, the gaps at elbows, the narrow slits between helmet and chest guard. With meticulous efficiency, he dispatched foes swiftly, his blade sliding seamlessly through fleeting gaps.

The enemy pressed forward, confident in their numbers, only to falter as Ibn’s sword flashed brilliantly, the condensed energy of Kai erupting with every strike as his sword left its sheath. Soldiers hesitated, confusion and fear dawning in their eyes as their comrades fell around them. His measured breaths matched the rhythm of his attacks, each step deliberate, each sheath, draw, stab, and swing devastating.

Gradually, the enemy line buckled under Ibn’s relentless assault. He calculated swiftly, noting the fallen among the enemy—one in ten had perished at a rough guess. It was enough. With a sharp cry, he rallied his men, igniting their courage and momentum. They surged forward, breaking the enemy’s resolve entirely.

Yet, as the enemy soldiers scattered and fled, Ibn’s triumph felt incomplete. The Lord General Ma was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the battlefield grimly, disappointment settling heavily in his heart. Ma had eluded him once more. Ibn sighed deeply, the weight of his unfinished duty pressing heavily upon him. 

His quest in this strange, merciless place was far from concluded. He hoped he would finish soon, for a life of war, he was sure, would eventually drive him mad.