Regarding these mandates, the Magis of Sanctus are the most expensive guild in all of Laurasia. Their fees are astronomical—so exorbitant that common folk can scarcely dream of meeting them. Indeed, hiring a Magis could lead a small village to utter financial ruin. Consequently, only the most perilous and grave missions ever find their way to the gates of the Sanctus Sanctum.
It is not every day that a city is besieged by a demonic horde. Should Balyon remain free from further undead incursions, it would be for the best. Seraph himself had no wish to see Lenora or the townsfolk in harm's way; he could never bring himself to hope for another assault. In truth, the day a Magis is no longer needed by a city is the only true sign of peace upon Laurasia.
"If I... if I were to send word by letter, from time to time... would you mind?" Lenora whispered, her voice so faint it seemed meant only for the wind's ear.
Her bashfulness was impossible to conceal. Her hands, clasped tightly together, trembled as she gripped her skirt, as if fighting to restrain the surge of excitement within. Every line of her posture betrayed a girl breathlessly awaiting an answer.
"Of course," Seraph answered, his voice softening with a rare warmth. "If I find a moment's peace between mandates, I'll do my best to write back."
"Truly? You mean it?" Lenora gasped, the word torn from the very depths of her soul.
In her excitement, she instinctively drew closer, her fingers brushing against Seraph's before entwining with his. It was a gesture of pure, unvarnished sincerity, utterly devoid of artifice.
"It's... it's no trouble at all," Seraph stammered, his pulse quickening. "I only hope I don't become a nuisance—or give your parents any cause to regret their hospitality." He averted his gaze, finding it far safer to fixate on the rose-pink silk of her tresses than to meet those earnest, searching eyes.
"Never! They could never feel that way!" Lenora proclaimed, her heart overflowing.
From that moment, the invisible barriers between them dissolved. Their conversation shifted, becoming fluid and natural as they traded stories of the lives they'd lived. Their hearts drew closer in a gradual orbit, unbeknownst to either of them. The deep reaches of the night drifted by, marked by the gentle sigh of the wind against the blossoms—just as their friendship began its slow, inevitable bloom.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
The golden dawn arrived with a somber radiance.
Seraph bid his farewells without delay. Lenora stood at the iron gates, her eyes shimmering with tears that threatened to spill over. She remained motionless, watching until his silhouette vanished beyond the horizon. Long after he had faded from view, she lingered there, anchored by the memory of the night.
Though Horolf had offered a prized warhorse as a parting gift, Seraph had declined. He felt a mount would only hinder his pace, and he had no desire to accept such opulent offerings without a proper cause.
Seraph tore through the Forest of Gems, cutting straight through the wilderness rather than sticking to the high road. He moved with a predatory grace across the towering canopy; his ventus mageia made him weightless, granting him enough speed to spit in the face of gravity. The gale lashing against his face tasted of absolute freedom.
As he neared the Sanctus domain, the distant spires of the Stormcloud Citadel beginning to crest the horizon, Seraph found himself drifting—caught in a fleeting moment where Lenora's face and the tender weight of their promise shimmered in the quiet chambers of his mind.
Then, the abyss struck back.
Three raven silhouettes burst from the gloom. The viridian glint of tempered steel flashed with lethal intent as poisoned blades lunged for him with ruthless malice.
"Ventus Shellux!"
The spell surged from raw instinct. Before Seraph could even process the ambush, a jade shield snapped into existence, detonating against his assailants.
[Boom!]
The explosion thundered through the woods, sending flocks of roosting birds into a panicked flight, their screeching alarms echoing through the timberland.
The mageia shockwave sent the shadows sprawling. Yet, they displayed a harrowing agility, somersaulting in mid-air and finding purchase against the trunks. The violent winds lashed the treetops, the canopy swaying with a terrifying fervor. It was then that Seraph's eyes narrowed in recognition.
"Mirkcap!" he hissed, his voice cold.
The Mirkcap was a subspecies of goblin—but these were born of a true assassin bloodline.
They looked like common goblins at first glance, with withered, elder-like faces and gnarled ears. But their skin was a pallid, deathly grey, as if it had never felt the sun. They possessed razor-sharp claws and powerful jaws, but their most defining trait was the singular, wicked horn sprouting from the center of their foreheads.
What truly set them apart from common goblins was the long, raven fur. The pelt was so tangled and matted it could never be unraveled; instead, the fibers wove themselves into a natural, pitch-black mantle. This shroud draped from head to toe, leaving them eternally cowled in shadow.
A common goblin might have brute strength, but the Mirkcap was far from frail. Each one possessed power roughly equivalent to a Hyghul. Though categorized as low-tier, their true danger wasn't in their muscles, but in their terrifying aptitude for stealth.
The Mirkcap was a creature born solely for the art of the kill. They were masters of masking their demonic miasma and suppressing their demonic fel. Most demons gave off a pungent, overwhelming stench that betrayed their location long before they struck. This innate decay made assassination nearly impossible for most—leading to the evolution of specialized breeds like these, the executioners of the demon world.
The Mirkcap was among the most feared of these killers. Despite their modest strength, their mastery of concealment made them a lethal threat to any traveler. They lacked the putrid odor of their kin, rendering scent-based detection useless. Even warlocks and seasoned commanders had fallen to their blades; as such, their threat rank was appraised with grim gravity.
There was, however, a single boon to be found in such a deadly encounter. The black mantle that swathed a Mirkcap was a prized natural artefact. To demon hunters, it was known as the 'Mirkcap Cloak,' and it was highly coveted for its rare properties.
The Mirkcap Cloak was a rare prize, bearing neither toxins nor any trace of demonic corruption. Humanity could don these pelts without fear of taint. Furthermore, the raven fur was incredibly resilient, tough enough to shrug off low-ranking spells with ease.
Such a natural artefact required no further refinement; once harvested and cleansed, it was ready for use. This utility made it a coveted treasure among men, and even high-ranking magis were known to favor the Mirkcap Cloak for their travels.
Due to its value, the Mirkcap Cloak was a high-tier prize, often turning these sable assassins into the hunted. Should demon hunters uncover a Mirkcap den, they would strike without mercy, forcing the creatures to live as eternal nomads in the shifting shadows.
[Swish!]
The ventus shield had scattered the trio, but they remained unscathed. Not a shred of fear flickered in their eyes. In a blurred motion, the three demons kicked off the trunks, lunging back at Seraph and denying him any window of respite.