The banquet by the hearth-fire overflowed with easy laughter. Seraph, an orphan who had clawed his way from the mire to the hallowed halls of Sanctus, knew the bitter cost of survival. His hardships had tempered his tongue, granting him the poise to hold court with anyone—from the lowliest beggar to the highest king. Because of this, the conversation at the garden table flowed with a spirited, seamless ease.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
"You're a silver-tongued devil, you are!" Horolf slurred, his voice thick and heavy with wine. "It's a crying shame, truly... if we'd been born under the same star, I'd have found no better friend than you in all the realm."
As midnight approached, the hearth-fire began to wane. Horolf had partaken in far too much spirits, descending into a drunken fog where his words stumbled over one another. Ophelia moved in to intervene, hushing his unrestrained babble with a gentle hand.
"Please, forgive him," Ophelia whispered, supporting her husband's swaying frame. "When the drink takes him, his caution is always the first thing to vanish."
"Think nothing of it," Seraph replied with polished courtesy. "He speaks with a rare sincerity. It is I who should be grateful for such warmth and hospitality."
"If you truly mean that, then it means we are friends. Lord Seraph, you must promise to visit us again—on your honour!" Ophelia's expression was radiant with hope.
"I... if my duties allow it, I may return," Seraph replied, averting his gaze as a wave of awkwardness took hold.
"You've given your word, mind!" Ophelia declared, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Now, Lenora—do escort Lord Seraph on a stroll to take the evening air, and show him to his chambers afterwards. I'll see to your father myself; he's quite a handful when he's like this."
She beckoned the handmaidens to manage her husband's swaying weight.
"Yes, Mother," Lenora replied, her voice a soft, silken melody.
Soon, the retinue supported the drunken Horolf toward the manor, with Ophelia following. But as she retreated into the shadows, she cast a lingering look over her shoulder—a smile playing on her lips that betrayed her intent to play matchmaker for her daughter.
With the household gone, the garden fell into a serene stillness, leaving only Lenora and Seraph amidst the sea of blossoms. The pair wandered side by side through the garden for a long duration, beneath the silver moonlight and the embrace of a warm breeze, yet not a single word escaped their hesitant lips. Before long, they came to rest beside one another upon Lenora's flower bed.
The night became a symphony of whispering gales and nature's breath. Midnight dew shimmered like scattered diamonds beneath the silver gaze of the moon. Faeries and butterflies took wing, darting in playful orbits around the young maiden.
A gentle breeze sighed through the garden, stirring her rose-pink tresses and carrying a heady fragrance that saturated the air. The grass swayed in a dance, and drifting petals spiraled through the sky, as if Lenora were the very center of this celestial Eden.
Lenora sat upon a carpet of lush, velvet grass, surrounded by a multitude of small, enchanted creatures. Her fingers danced among the faeries and butterflies that fluttered about her in joyous play. A young leveret and a kitten lay curled in slumber upon the folds of her skirt.
The clouds above parted, revealing the moon in its full, silver glory. A shaft of moonlight descended, bathing the maiden in its glow until she emanated a miraculous, phosphor-pink radiance. Beneath the brilliance of the lunar beams, luminous threads of mana pulsed beneath her translucent skin, flowing in time with the tides of the world.
Lenora was a maiden of tender years; through their conversation, Seraph realized she was barely a year his junior. Her rose-pink tresses cascaded to her waist, a crowning glory unique to her lineage. Each strand was as fine as the most exquisite silk—so weightless that even the faintest sigh of a breeze sent them into a shimmering, perpetual dance.
The scent that clung to her was natural and soul-binding, as if she were a goddess of the blossoms made flesh. Whether it was the result of a life spent amidst the fields or a unique hereditary gift, the fragrance drifted from her unceasingly. Even now, the scent of Lenora's flowers had infused Seraph's cloak, the very weave of his garment radiating a soft, aromatic aura.
Her complexion was a healthy, blushing alabaster. Under the silver moon, her skin seemed to luminesce, pushing back the creeping shadows. Such beauty was a rarity, a grace that few in all of Laurasia could hope to rival.
Having seen more of the world than most, Seraph was no stranger to beauty. Yet, the people of Laurasia were distinct—a convergence of bloodlines refined into a pinnacle of perfection. Their diversity manifested in a vibrant spectrum of hair and eye colors, and both Lenora and Ophelia stood leagues above the standards of Arkflame.
They sat in silence for a time, the moon their only witness. Lenora tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, stealing occasional, fleeting glances at the young magis. Her face was flushed a vivid scarlet, her tongue shackled by an overwhelming bashfulness that left her unable to utter a single word.
Throughout the meal, Lenora had been a silent observer, never daring to speak. The tapestry of the evening's conversation had been woven by the others; her own story was told not by her lips, but through the doting, prideful accounts of her parents.
"Do I... make you feel uneasy?" Seraph asked, shifting restlessly. "It's well past midnight. If you're weary, please don't feel obligated to stay on my account. I'm quite used to late nights, you see; I shouldn't want you to suffer for the sake of a guest."
"Will you be leaving on the morrow?" Lenora asked suddenly, her head bowed, though she managed a fleeting glance through the veil of her lashes.
Her voice was crystalline, with the fragile clarity of glass. It held a childlike lilt that matched her petite frame—the stature of a flower still in its earliest budding. There was something about her that made one instinctively want to shield her from the world.
"I must," Seraph confirmed, his voice firm. "I'm expected back at the Sanctum for a new mandate. The Demon Legion is spreading; I have to keep moving if I'm to hold it back."
Her gaze fell even further, her eyes clouding with a haunting melancholy. If eyes are the windows to the soul, hers were as lonely as a solitary star in a vast firmament.
"In the future..." she whispered, her eyes shimmering with a fragile, desperate hope. "Will our paths ever cross again, do you think?"
"I... I honestly don't know," Seraph replied, his voice wavering. "If Balyon stays safe from the demons, there might be no reason for me to return."
Most demons are indeed formidable, yet every city is typically shielded by its own standing army, stationed to repel marauding beasts and lesser fiends. It is only when a threat escalates beyond the reach of local steel—when a demon's power dwarfs their ranks or disaster strikes too deep—that external aid is sought. In such dire straits, they must issue a mandate to hire High Demon Hunters or Magis to contend with the horrors that exceed their own strength.