"I'm bound by an urgent mission, you idiot. I've got no time for your childish games!" Seraph growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rasp that usually signaled a brewing storm.
"I'm not playing! I'm deadly serious! If you don't give me your word to face me today, I'm not letting you leave my sight! I'll follow you to the gates of Helheim if I have to!" Arthus declared, his misplaced resolve reaching its absolute, stubborn zenith.
Seraph drew a ragged, burning breath, attempting to douse the flames of a temper that threatened to incinerate his mind.
"Do you have the slightest, goddamn inkling of the madness you're committing?!" Seraph hissed, leaning in close to keep the exchange from prying ears; the humiliation was already clawing at his throat like a wild animal.
"I am challenging you!" Arthus repeated, draped in a cloak of misplaced gallantry and iron-headed steel.
"Fine! But not now—absolutely not now! I've got a crisis to attend to, one that involves lives other than your bruised ego! The duel is going to have to wait until next week!" Seraph forced the words out through gritted teeth, his jaw aching from the tension.
"You've given your word! I seek no unfair advantage. Once your mission is concluded, I'm coming back tomorrow to claim our duel! Do not think you can hide!" Arthus announced, dictating the terms with a finality that made Seraph's head throb.
"AGREED!" Seraph barked, lunging past him before the man could utter another syllable.
The young man's pace was now frantic, a desperate flight from the absurdity of the situation. He feared that if he remained in that man's presence for even a single second longer, the blinding migraine Arthus induced would cause his very veins to rupture from the pressure.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
Seraph thrust the Mission Hall doors open with a violent, echoing shove. Before the chime of the door-bell could even begin to fade, Sadir's voice lashed out from the depths of the room, sharp and expectant.
"Seraph!—Who the hell were you quarrelling with just now? I could hear that racket from across the hall," Sadir asked, his brow furrowed in deep, tired suspicion.
"Merely a madman who's lost his way. Pay him no mind, he's harmless, mostly," Seraph replied with a dismissive, biting curtness.
"Good! Because I need you to help me resolve a crisis of immense, terrifying proportions," Sadir stated, his urgency so palpable it seemed to thicken the air between them.
"The Vespass Sentry Tower mission? I read the plane," Seraph said, trying to regain his composure. "It appears dire, certainly, but that outpost is several towns away. Why act as though the fire is already at your own doorstep?"
"You've only just reached the rank of a fully-fledged magis... there are depths to this world you've yet to fathom," Sadir said, his voice dropping to a low, jagged edge. "Sanctus is indeed the premier Sanctum of Laurasia, but that status carries a monumental burden. Should a Sentry Tower or a human citadel crumble, our territory recedes instantly. The Demon Legion's domain expands to fill the void. The closer that demonic fel creeps toward the Capital, the easier it becomes for them to raze Arkflame in a single night. This peace you take for granted... it's a sandcastle. Exquisite, but utterly fragile."
Sadir leaned in, his eyes burning. "Do you understand now? If a single Sentry Tower is unmade... not a single home in the surrounding lands stays safe."
"Then why not dispatch a warlock? And what of the Arkflame soldiers? What are they doing?" Seraph questioned, his suspicion rising.
"The Arkflame soldiers are doing well enough simply surviving the undead swarms! As for the warlocks... hmph." Sadir let out a hollow, guttural laugh.
He gazed at his junior with a touch of pity for his naivety and lack of experience.
"Tell me, how often do you actually see a warlock within the Sanctus?" Sadir asked, his voice flat.
"Hardly ever," Seraph replied.
"A warlock is a magis of at least mid-tier rank. Some are more formidable than a highmaster. Their operations are classified at the highest level. Their duty is to penetrate the demon realm and dismantle their hives directly. Most don't even return here to collect orders. They are the true vanguard, fighting a shadow war to prevent the Demon Legion from initiating a total conflict. Every year, they fall in numbers like dying stars. Do you understand now whose blood allows you to live so securely within these walls?"
Sadir's voice wasn't loud, yet every weighted syllable exerted an uncanny pressure that seemed to stifle the very air in the Hall.
"I want to be a warlock!" Seraph declared with absolute conviction.
"Hmph. Not everyone is forged for such a life. I myself could never endure the demon wars. Perhaps in another century, you might still be struggling to reach the threshold of an elite magis. You must ascend to the rank of magister before you even dare dream of it. For today, your duty is to destroy the goblin burrows beneath the Vespass Sentry Tower and ensure our frontier remains inviolate!"
With those words, he extended the Sanctus Scroll for the defence of Vespass.
"Succeed in this simple task first. If you falter at a low-ranking mission, discard all thoughts of becoming a magister, let alone a warlock. I say this for your own sake."
"I'm certain I can do it," Seraph refused to yield.
"I pray that's the case... I truly do," Sadir whispered, the words carrying the hollow echo of a man who'd seen too many hopeful boys never come home.
The hall fell into a suffocating silence as the weight of Sadir's revelation settled between them.
Sadir broke the quiet, his tone shifting to the pragmatic. "I've arranged a mount for you. I presume you can handle a horse?"
"I can. I completed the Beast-Rider curriculum some time ago," Seraph answered with confidence.
"Then make haste to the Wandering Horse. It's a stable under a long-term contract with the Sanctus. For any future missions, their services are at your disposal. While they lack high-tier avians, their steeds and warhorses are more than sufficient for long treks into high-risk territories. In any event, it beats trekking on foot and greeting every beast on the road before you've even reached your mark!" Sadir advised.
"Understood," Seraph said, turning to depart.
Just as he reached the threshold, Sadir's voice snagged him like a hook.
"Wait! You've a ventus affinity, haven't you?" Sadir exclaimed, as if a sudden realisation had just struck him.
"I do... why do you ask?" Seraph turned back, his brow furrowed.
"Then, tell me—do you dare to ride an Arion?" Sadir asked, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light.
The sly grin spreading across Sadir's face suggested he had just identified a fresh victim for a grand experiment.
"I've never mounted an Arion... Are you suggesting I take a mageia steed for this mission?" Seraph asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
The Arion was no mere animal; it was a mageia steed—a pack leader of wild horses capable of weaving mageia into its very stride. It was the undisputed sovereign of warhorses. Upon the back of such a mageia beast, or any high-velocity avian, the rider was subjected to a relentless, punishing gale born from the creature's supernatural speed.