Once Arthus was gone, Sophia's strength simply evaporated. She collapsed onto the floor, crystalline tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. The trembling in her gaze betrayed a harrowing, soul-deep pain.
She made no sound. No sobs, no lamentations—her lips remained tightly sealed. The hall fell as silent as a gravestone. She looked like a paradox of shattering fragility and iron-willed stubbornness.
Seraph felt his headache mount; of all the devastating weapons he feared, a girl's tears reigned supreme. He approached her slowly and extended his handkerchief.
Sophia lifted her head, accepting the cloth to silently dab away the salt. Every movement was agonizingly slow, possessed of a strange, haunting elegance. Time itself seemed to decelerate, the theatre hushed as if purged of every living soul.
"You're lying... to your heart, most of all. You love him," Seraph spoke softly, yet his voice carried the weight of absolute certainty.
"You should go," Sophia countered, her voice trembling like a fraying thread.
"Who is he?" Seraph asked, his curiosity finally surfacing.
"It's safer if you don't know," she whispered, the words barely audible.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"You can't help me... no one can help us." Sophia turned away, shunning his gaze.
"You're strong," Seraph said with genuine concern. "But carrying the weight of the world alone isn't a virtue. You should let yourself lean on someone."
"Lean on someone?" Sophia let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "That's the very condition I'm forced to endure."
"Sigh... I'll take my leave for today. You can contact me if you need urgent assistance," Seraph stated, turning his back to her.
"Can't I contact you just for fun?" Sophia asked, a playful edge returning to her voice despite the tears.
"I have no desire to be misunderstood by that fool again... but fine. Do as you wish," Seraph said, already striding away.
By the time he emerged from the theatre, the afternoon was in full bloom. The sun beat down with a fierce, ripening intensity. All around him, the streets teemed with crowds; laughter and vitality flourished on every corner of the commercial thoroughfare.
Yet, Seraph felt as though the sky were somber, cloaked in a mist lonelier than any he'd seen before.
"Since I'm already in Arkpolis... I might as well head to the artefact district," Seraph declared to the empty air. "Today, I'm going to buy out their stock until the merchants plead for mercy."
He tried to force a sense of brightness into his tone, seeking to bolster his own spirits. He knew all too well that sorrow was a spreading plague, and he refused to let it take root.
Seraph tried to project an aura of radiance, seeking to bolster his own spirit. He understood with grim clarity that sorrow was a spreading plague, and he refused to let it take root within him.
He knew nothing of the history between Sophia and that flame-haired man, yet the profound lamentation in her eyes had stirred a deep sympathy in him. He had no desire to interpose himself between them; thus, he resorted to the act of commerce to purge the lingering gloom from his mind.
He traversed the commercial thoroughfares, where every street was lined with massive emporiums. The masses were engaged in a feverish bustle of trade, their voices a cacophony of bargaining—the very heartbeat of the city. But before long, a shout erupted from behind, chasing his heels.
"Hey! You, the white-haired one!" a voice bellowed with unrefined coarseness.
Seraph turned. Arthus was sprinting toward him. The young magis stopped to engage him.
"Why have you been tailing me?" he inquired, his expression clouded with suspicion.
"Do you truly not know, or are you just feigning ignorance!" Arthus barked, his tone aggressive.
"If this is about Sophia... I'll state this with absolute clarity: I have no connection to her whatsoever. Between us, there is nothing but the matter of a mission. I happened to rescue her brother—which was my duty. I am a stranger to her. Whether you believe me or not is your concern," Seraph declared, turning his back to stride away.
"I don't believe you!" Arthus roared.
"That..." Seraph answered softly, without looking back, "is your own tribulation."
Arthus rushed forward, matching his stride until they were walking side-by-side. "Let's settle this with a duel! If I win, Sophia must be mine!"
"A woman isn't an object to be handed out like a prize," Seraph declared, never breaking his stride. "Besides, from what I overheard, your problems run deeper than romance. I have no desire to get tangled in a mess that you haven't even figured out yourselves. If you want her heart, use sincerity and earn it. But leave me out of this—"
"If you win, I'll give you gold!" Arthus persisted, throwing out offers in rapid-fire.
"..." Seraph ignored him, advancing in silence.
"I'll give you treasures! Gemstones!"
"..."
"Mageia Artefacts!"
"..."
"A castle! I'll give you a castle!"
"..."
"Nobility! A seat in the Royal Court!"
"..."
"Handmaidens! As many as you want!"
"..."
Arthus bellowed until his voice grew raspy, but he received not a single response.
"What is it you want then?!" Arthus demanded, his frustration hitting a breaking point.
"There is nothing I want from you," Seraph answered with chilling indifference.
"If you refuse to duel me, then you've conceded! Sophia's heart belongs to me by default!" Arthus shouted, his voice laced with desperate provocation.
"I don't claim to know her heart. I'm not sure if she loves you—but she certainly doesn't love me. So keep your tribulations to yourselves and leave me out of them," Seraph replied stoically.
"You!! How can you call yourself a son of Arkflame while running from a duel like a coward!" Arthus roared, thrusting a pointed finger at the young magis.
"You're noisy... Could you please lower your voice?" Seraph answered, his face a mask of sheer exhaustion.
"I'm never letting you go!" Arthus bellowed, matching him step for step.
He was a man of immense confidence and a thunderous voice; his ordinary speech was a roar to anyone else. His constant shouting drew the gazes of the masses, yet he didn't care. To Arthus, the rest of the world was of no consequence.
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