The ranks of the Sanctus Sanctum were already thinning, a slow, silent attrition that felt like a cold draft through the halls. Every year across the fractured continent of Laurasia, more demon hunters and magis vanished into the absolute dark, lost to the very abyssal horrors they spent their lives hunting. Even the elite, those whose names were whispered with reverence, weren't safe from the encroaching shadows. Every life extinguished was a festering wound dealt to the world itself, a loss of knowledge and light that could never truly be replaced.
Seraph hadn't been particularly close to Rohtas, but their paths had crossed a thousand times in the vaulted corridors of the Sanctus. They'd shared nods of acknowledgment over old scrolls and heavy silence in the mess hall. To see a familiar face fall to the demonic was a haunting, visceral pain—a reminder that in this world, death was not a stranger, but a constant, breathing companion.
But he couldn't afford to drown in useless grief. Not now. He forced his muscles to unlock, stepping away from the cold remains with a jagged breath.
Not far off stood a second, smaller altar, its stone slick with the copper scent of blood. Upon it lay a boy, no older than thirteen, lost in a deep, unnaturally heavy slumber. Seraph pressed his calloused fingers to the boy's throat, his heart hammering against his ribs with a desperate, frantic flicker of hope. Then, he felt it—the faint, rhythmic thrum of life against his skin.
"Hah!" Seraph exhaled, a ragged sound of relief escaping his lips. "He's alive. Finally... at least one soul made it out."
The strange boy remained in a state of deep, undisturbed respiration, like an unawakening prince adrift in a sea of slumber. He slept soundly, utterly oblivious to the fact that the world outside had nearly collapsed into ruin, as if the miniature battlefield that had just concluded belonged to another realm entirely.
Even amidst the blinding heat of combat, Seraph had maintained a constant, protective distance from the two forms. He'd exerted his utmost will to ensure no stray mageia struck near them—first, to allow a cursory assessment of their state, and second, to guard them against the devastating collateral of his own spells.
The young man had noted from the onset that Rohtas appeared long bereft of breath, his spirit already departed. Yet, the boy's body still clung to the stubborn rhythm of life. Upon closer inspection, every grim hypothesis held true.
The boy's pale flesh was mapped with complex curse spell inscriptions drawn in fresh, tacky blood. Rohtas, too, was covered in similar demonic markings, though his were carved by the cruel, jagged edge of a blade. Those deep incisions had wrought grievous wounds and critical trauma; the sheer scale of the injury and the resulting exsanguination had likely claimed his life within minutes.
The demonic inscriptions upon the boy, however, were merely traced in gore. His body bore no other lacerations, no sign of the blade's bite. All the blood belonged to another—harvested, most likely, from Rohtas himself in a perverse ritual.
Seraph swiftly withdrew a mageia scroll from beneath the folds of his cloak. He scrawled a frantic message and cast it into the air, his lips moving in a quick, sharp incantation.
"Epistavolare!"
[FLASH!]
A brilliant white light surged from his wooden staff into the parchment, imbuing it with purpose. The paper folded itself with mechanical precision into a letter-plane, and in the blink of an eye, it soared upward, driven by the mageia command it had received.
The letter-plane was a reliable, short-range communication spell. The construct could glide with unerring precision toward its intended recipient, though its flight path was limited by the very nature of its magic. Such distance depended largely on the raw mageia power of the caster, typically restricted to the confines of a single building or the immediate, visible vicinity.
Seraph had dispatched the letter-plane directly to the fortress of the Lord of Harmody. Once the Lord had parsed the urgent missive, he'd be bound by protocol to deploy a swift rider to relay the message to the Sanctus Mission Hall—an indirect, yet necessary channel to reach Sadir.
The magis possessed swifter, more exotic conduits for correspondence, of course. Most relied on the dispatch of avians, while others utilised expensive communication artefacts and specialised mageia. Certain beasts, capable of wielding such forces, were classified as avian messengers.
Various species of mageia birds—majestic eagles, sharp-eyed hawks, silent owls, and cunning ravens—were tamed by the Hunter Association to serve as tireless messengers. Other institutions, such as the Sanctus Sanctum, could likewise procure these beasts for their own high-priority operations.
However, Seraph hadn't brought an avian on this particular mission—an oversight born of haste. He was thus forced to rely on alternate means to establish contact with the Lord of Harmody.
The enigmatic magis's assault on the Red Piperclown troupe had triggered a massive explosion in the city's heart. Amidst the chaos and the infectious panic of the masses, numerous terrified townsfolk had already alerted the Lord to the incident.
From the moment Seraph had shouted his challenge before the Red Piper gates, the public realised a magis of Sanctus was purging a demon nest in their midst. Upon receiving the initial reports, the Lord of Harmody had merely deployed his officials to cordon off the perimeter, observing from a respectful distance without interference.
Not every magis was approachable or benevolent, after all. When a Sanctus magis undertook a demonic mission, the laws of Arkflame granted them the absolute authority to act as they saw fit. Every mission was quasi-official; to obstruct a magis was tantamount to provoking the Arkflame Royal Court itself. Thus, maintaining a respectful distance while supporting the mandate remained the most prudent course of action for any local lord.
When the Lord finally received the mageia letter, the details within left him utterly stunned. While demons infiltrating human populations was no novelty in this dark age, every soul entering Harmody underwent rigorous screening.
The seven clowns of the Red Piper had indeed been scrutinised by the sentries, just like any other traveling troupe; yet, they'd found not a single anomaly. To have a demon nest festering within the very heart of the city was a revelation of catastrophic, terrifying proportions.
Soon, dozens of cavalrymen thundered through the cobblestone streets. The Harmody sentries cordoned off the entire block, ensuring no curious soul could breach the perimeter. Nine enigmatic forms, shrouded in heavy, dark cloth, were moved under strict military escort.
Following closely behind two of the shrouded figures was a mysterious young man draped in a heavy cloak. Whispers rippled through the townsfolk that the youth in the grey hood was the magis who had saved them. Though his strikes had been perhaps too ferocious—nearly bringing down the neighbouring structures—the citizens knew instinctively that the resolution of this nightmare belonged solely to him.
The townsfolk and travellers did not dwell on the terror for long; with the demons purged, a fragile safety had returned. As the chaos subsided, life reclaimed its rhythm, and the city of Harmody was swiftly revitalised by the echoes of music once more.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
Seraph paced the silent corridors of the Stormcloud Citadel. After traversing multiple cities and enduring a full day of brutal combat, evening had finally descended, bruising the sky into a deep, dark violet. These past few days had bled away faster than any before; the young man felt as though he'd faced more peril in this brief span than in the entirety of his life combined.
The magis of Sanctus were creatures of the twilight. The Sanctus surged with a peculiar, restless energy during the gloaming hours, becoming a hive of activity long after the sun had surrendered to the horizon.
Within those vaulted halls, they pursued their own ends with a quiet intensity. Many trained in mageia athletics, their movements sharp and practiced; others were buried in ancient, heavy grimoires, searching for lost truths. Some shared games with companions, while others hurried through the sprawling basilica on errands only they understood. Each lived according to their own stubborn will.
Peace reigned within the Sanctus, as it always had. The shadows of the outer world rarely breached the formidable bulwarks of the Stormcloud Citadel.
'I want that too,' Seraph mused, his eyes drifting shut as he leaned against the cold stone. 'A life of genuine tranquillity. But after that godforsaken Piperclown… every time I close my eyes, I see my parents. I see the blood.'
He knew the peace here was an illusion, a thin veil over a world that was slowly being devoured. And as long as he drew breath, he'd be the one standing in the breach.