'The sentries might have jumped the gun a bit... but it clearly stems from a desperate need to protect their hearth and home. To keep a domain thriving this close to the demon realm... Horolf is no fool. He knows precisely what he's about.'
"I appreciate the welcome," Seraph said, his tone measured. "And I must apologise for not checking in before heading to the cave. The intel suggested the situation was critical. I felt it best to deal with the threat first and talk later. My haste might have seemed... a bit abrupt."
"Ha! Think nothing of it!" Horolf declared, his voice thick with genuine gratitude. "It's Balyon that owes you, Lord Seraph. Those mines are the lifeblood of our forges—not just here, but for the whole of Arkflame. Their closure was strangling us. You haven't just cleared a cave; you've saved our very livelihood."
"It was my duty. No thanks are necessary," Seraph replied. He produced the mission scroll and held it out. "My report."
Horolf took it, but Seraph continued before he could speak.
"Check it at your leisure, but keep in mind the scroll only covers the basics. You'll need your own scouts for a proper survey. But you have my word: I've wiped out every demon in that valley. If so much as a stray remains, send for me. I'll come back and finish the job properly."
Horolf accepted the scroll and opened it for a true inspection. He did not merely glance over it with indifference; his posture shifted into one of intense scrutiny, poring over every mageia glyph inscribed upon the parchment.
They remained standing before the threshold, but as Horolf delved deeper into the parchment, a heavy hush fell over the assembly. Seraph and the handmaidens maintained a respectful silence; the entire estate grew deathly still.
Seconds later, Horolf's face split into a wide, exuberant grin. He looked up, radiating pure ecstasy, and erupted into a boisterous laugh before clapping Seraph on the shoulder in a firm, grateful embrace.
"My deepest thanks! Truly, my deepest thanks!" Horolf proclaimed, his admiration laid bare. "You can't imagine the misery those undead brought us. You arrived just as we were about to go under!"
"I only did what was required," Seraph said, already feeling the weight of the day catching up to him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to call it a night—"
"My dear!" a woman's voice interjected, sharp and clear. "Where on earth are your manners? Why is our guest still standing on the doorstep instead of joining us for dinner?"
All eyes shifted toward the space behind Horolf. Two young highborn ladies had been silently observing the exchange from the rear. They were young—likely sisters—with features so similar they might have been cast from the same mold. The only difference was the elder, who stood a head taller and carried herself with a more mature air. Seraph had sensed them long ago, but he hadn't cared to look; his focus remained detached from his surroundings.
Horolf appeared to be in his late thirties, while the two maidens behind him looked no older than eighteen—still in the bloom of their youth.
In truth, Seraph had assumed they were sisters; it hadn't even crossed his mind that the youthful woman could be Horolf's wife. He cast a sharp, sidelong glance at the Governor, silently judging the man's penchant for such a young consort.
"Quite right! I've been most uncouth indeed!" Horolf declared, beaming. "Lord Seraph, allow me. This is Ophelia, my wife. And behind her is Lenora, my only daughter!"
"Daughter?!" Seraph blurted out, his voice cracking with a volume he rarely—if ever—permitted.
The sudden outburst from the normally stoic magis drew every gaze. The assembly watched him in stark bewilderment.
"Indeed... Lenora is my daughter. Is something the matter, my lord?" Ophelia inquired, a subtle, knowing smile playing on her lips.
'Thank the Moon Goddess... if it weren't for this twilight, everyone would see my pathetic, flaming face,' Seraph thought, ducking his head until his silver hair veiled his features.
'If it wouldn't look so damn suspicious, I'd pull my hood down and vanish right now! I pegged Lenora as a sister—but mother and daughter? Who in their right mind would expect Ophelia to look like her twin? I ought to pluck these useless eyes out and toss them in the gutter. I want nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole, if only so I could flee back to the Sanctum!'
"It's nothing! The light—the sun's gone, you see!" Seraph stammered, pivoting the subject with clumsy haste. "I wouldn't dream of intruding on your meal. I really must be off—"
"Lord Seraph, it's the night of the full moon!" Ophelia countered, her warmth radiating like the hearth itself. "Every Silver Lunar, we dine in the gardens. We're just about to sit down. If you aren't in a desperate rush, do grant us the honour of your company. I've already seen to it that a room is prepared for you."
"This is a time for kin..." Seraph attempted to deflect, his gaze fixed firmly on anything but them. "I have no wish to impose on your family."
The warmth of a family was a treasure Seraph had long ago lost to time and tragedy, a bridge burned that he could never cross again. He knew its value and yearned for its light; the last thing he wanted was to shatter the peace of another's home.
"Do we offend you, my lord?" Ophelia's question struck him like a barbed arrow.
Her smile didn't waver, but behind her, Lenora's expression withered into a somber mask.
"It's not that... Fine! I surrender. I'll take you up on that dinner." Seraph finally gave in to the inevitable.
They led him into the gardens. The grounds were sprawling, every tree manicured to perfection, their branches reaching out into massive, sheltering canopies.
But it was the flowers that truly claimed the landscape. A sea of blossoms carpeted the earth, drawing swarms of butterflies that danced in the twilight air. Seraph even caught sight of tiny fairy, no larger than a palm, flitting behind the flowerbeds—shy, fluttering shadows watching him from the safety of the trunks.
As they walked, Seraph realized Horolf was a man of boundless magnanimity and easy charm. He had the spirit of a merchant prince, a man who could talk his way into any heart or ledger. His vision was sharp, his competence undeniable.
It matched everything Captain Durmark had said. For decades, Balyon had been nothing more than a quiet hub for the flower trade, nowhere near the industrial giants of the realm. But since Horolf had taken the seat, he had accelerated the city's growth at a breakneck pace. In just a few short years, he had turned Balyon into a sprawling metropolis—the very beating heart of Arkflame's prosperity.
Balyon didn't just feed a torrent of mageia ore into Arkflame; it was a titan of industry, a preeminent bastion for grain exports and the finest perfumes in the realm.
Horolf's administrative brilliance was legendary. Rumors often whispered that he was a clandestine scion of the King or held some shadowed tie to the throne—though no one could ever prove it. Seraph had heard the tales for years, but only tonight did he see the man behind the myth with his own eyes.