A mageia beast was a creature possessed of its own inner mageia. Though of the same lineage as any common beast, the moment such a creature manifested its power, it surpassed its kin in every conceivable metric, ascending to an elite echelon of its species. Thus, every pack leader was, by definition, a mageia beast.
Yet, the creature's power offered no sanctuary to its rider. One had to fend for oneself. To the uninitiated, mounting a mageia beast appeared no different from riding a common animal; in truth, it was a flirtation with death.
The more formidable the beast, the more potent its master had to be. A rider required the sheer authority to command the creature and the iron resolve to remain seated lest they be bucked into oblivion at breakneck speeds.
In the case of a mageia steed, any soul might attempt the mount, provided they possessed the mageia strength to weather the violent, frigid gales that whipped about the creature like a localized storm.
Consequently, only a magis with a ventus affinity held a true advantage. While the majority of the Sanctus's magis claimed a flamus affinity as their primary element, those of the wind were a rarer breed, their numbers never quite sufficing for the demand.
To Sadir, the arrival of a ventus magis to execute his bidding was akin to gaining a high-value pawn upon his board.
"I've every confidence you'll prevail! You may claim the Arion at the Wandering Horse immediately!" Sadir declared, clapping Seraph upon both shoulders as if physically transferring his own sudden surge of certainty.
This abrupt inflation of Sadir's faith left Seraph rather unsettled, yet he found himself unable to rebuff the man's enthusiasm.
"Fine," Seraph said, stepping out from the Mission Hall.
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A magis was neither a ranger nor a hunter; they possessed neither the inclination nor the temperament to rear beasts of their own accord.
Upon Laurasia, every discipline of mageia was a profound and labyrinthine study, resisting easy mastery. To crave expertise in every mageia art was to invite the folly of a scholar seeking a chair in every known science—a redundant pursuit that served only to squander one's fleeting lifespan.
The craft of taming beasts was a specialty preserved for the hunters and rangers, leading various guilds and enterprises to establish trades based upon ancestral expertise. The Wandering Horse was no different, a lineage dedicated to the breaking and training of steeds and mageia steeds alike.
The Wandering Horse commanded a vast network across the continent, with outposts flanking every city in Arkflame and Laurasia. The two primary stables of the Wandering Horse stood as twin pillars of commerce, anchored within the bustling main square of Arkpolis and the hallowed grounds of the Sanctus Sanctum, where the concentration of wealthy, desperate clientele was highest. The creatures under their expert tutelage were remarkably diverse, a living catalogue of equine power ranging from humble, sturdy donkeys and common workhorses to the battle-hardened elite warhorses and the highly coveted, shimmering mageia steeds.
The stables themselves were a sprawling, semi-open complex of weathered timber and iron, deliberately distanced from the claustrophobic bustle of other commercial quarters to give the beasts room to breathe. Upon Seraph's arrival, he found the grounds teaming with frantic activity; a thick throng of patrons and merchants were locked in the midst of heated negotiations, bartering with sharp tongues for purchase or hire.
With the attendants clearly preoccupied by the relentless press of customers, Seraph found no one to greet him—not that he cared for the pleasantries. Driven by a mounting, acidic urgency, the young man bypassed all formalities, striding with singular purpose toward the deepest, shadow-drenched recesses of the stalls.
It was exactly as he'd envisioned. Within the heart of the Wandering Horse stood dozens of prime mounts, their coats sleek and shimmering with a healthy, metallic lustre under the stable lamps. Their powerful, muscular frames were immaculate, a testament to the rigorous professionalism and tireless labour of their keepers.
The mount he sought, however, was a rare breed of mageia steed, a creature seldom found in common stalls: the Arion recommended by Sadir. Despite his own internal trepidation, Seraph had conceded to the man's grim logic. To ride an Arion was to flirt with a lethal, bone-shattering end, yet should the rider master the temperamental beast, the journey became a feat of velocity almost indistinguishable from true flight.
As Seraph reached the furthest depths of the stable, he discovered the lone Arion held within the most secluded, reinforced pen. Yet, as he closed the final distance, a sharp bark of authority lanced through the air, cutting the silence.
"Who goes there?! No one but staff's permitted within the rear paddocks!" a man's voice demanded, gravelly and stern.
Seraph turned to find a middle-aged figure standing in an adjacent stall, previously obscured from view by the high wooden partitions. It was a private paddock for a mageia steed; the man appeared to be mid-grooming, tending to the creature's coat with a meticulous, practiced hand.
"Seraph, of the Sanctus," he identified himself with a clipped, icy brevity. "I'm bound by an urgent mission and need this Arion immediately."
The young man gestured toward the beast, its coat shimmering with a faint, violet radiance, his posture making it perfectly clear he'd settle for nothing less than the best.
"A magis, then. Havek... at your service," the man said, his tone draped in a thin veil of formal courtesy yet simmering with a quiet, protective indignation. "I grasp your urgency, kid, but every human carries a curse! Your intrusion into my stalls risks tainting every beast here with that same blight."
Though Havek maintained a veneer of professional etiquette, he didn't hesitate to press his rebuke, his eyes narrowing at the intruder.
"You fret overmuch," Seraph countered with an indifferent, almost lethargic shrug. "If your steeds were as fragile as you claim, they'd have perished long ago amidst the bloody throngs of the mission fields."
"You can't just say things like that!" Havek's voice rose an octave, the sudden volume startling several sensitive mounts within their stalls.
"Before we permit the hire or purchase of any beast, we administer a herbal draught to every creature. It shields 'em from the shifting blights for a time. But these steeds haven't received their dose yet. Your intrusion into these paddocks puts 'em at unnecessary risk!" Havek pressed, his voice thick with a weary, professional exasperation.
"Enough, enough!" Seraph cut him off, fearing a lecture that might last until the sun went down. "The fault's mine, I admit it. Why the world would I want to harm your animals?"
"But I'm bound by a genuine crisis. Surely you won't squander my time with a litany of rebukes while the lives of many rest in the balance?" Seraph added, his expression hardening into a mask of grim severity that brooked no further argument.
"Then why didn't you lead with that!" Havek exclaimed, scurrying out from the adjacent stall with a sudden burst of energy.
He moved with practised, fluid haste, administering feed and a pungent prophylactic tonic to the Arion Seraph had claimed. The creature was a towering specimen, far eclipsing the scale of a standard warhorse. Her hide was a deep, lustrous violet, complemented by a thick mane of midnight-black that shimmered like polished onyx. At full tilt, these creatures appeared as a lilac tempest surging across the emerald plains.
As Havek made the final adjustments to the leather tack, he spoke without looking up, his focus entirely on the beast.
"Her name's Lilacorn. Should you find yourself without fodder, don't tether her. She's more than capable of foraging for herself in the wild. Provided she's left unknotted, she won't flee—unless you command her return, or you expire. Once the contract's severed, Lilacorn'll make her way back to these gates immediately," Havek instructed.
"Is that so? You've reared her well," Seraph remarked, a rare note of genuine appreciation softening his icy tone for a brief moment.
"Every beast's keen of mind, but Lilacorn... she understands the very breath of human speech," Havek said, making the final, tight cinches to the saddle. "Their intellect rivals our own, separated only by the silence of their tongues. If you lead her into peril, weigh your choices with gravity. I've no desire for Sanctus gold in reparations—I only wish for my charges to return to these stalls in one piece."
As Seraph drew near, Lilacorn bared her teeth in a silent, predatory snarl, her powerful frame tensing as if to lash out with a bone-shattering kick. Her muscles coiled like steel springs—a violet fury ready to snap.
Suddenly, Seraph's gaze ignited with a piercing, ethereal radiance. A localised tempest of mageia erupted from the young magis, surging outward in invisible, crushing ripples of power. The phantom gale swept Havek off his feet, sending him sprawling unceremoniously into the dirt. Throughout the sprawling stables, the horses erupted in a chorus of panicked whinnies, retreating to the furthest, darkest corners of their pens.
This was no mindless storm; it was an aura of such absolute sovereignty that even the wooden rafters seemed to buckle in silent obeisance to his will.
Lilacorn's defiance withered the instant she felt the crushing weight of the young man's power. It was as if she stood in the shadow of a primordial titan. Her head lowered, her violent tremors subsiding into a profound, unnerving stillness. The transition took mere heartbeats.
Seraph reached out, his fingers threading through her mane with a gentle, calculated familiarity. Lilacorn accepted the touch without a shred of protest, merely nuzzling the fabric of his grey cloak in a silent gesture of atonement.
Despite her towering height, Seraph vaulted into the saddle in a blur of fluid motion, seating himself with the unshakable poise of a high-tier knight.
"May I enquire as to your destination?" Havek asked, pushing himself upright while strands of hay still clung to his dusty tunic.
"Don't ask what you've no need to know," Seraph replied with cold indifference as he began to weave his mageia for the journey ahead.
"Ventus Windwalker!"
"Ventus Tailwind!"
The spells hissed into existence like striking snakes. A sudden, violent gale swept through the Wandering Horse, lashing the complex like a sudden, localised hurricane. Patrons and staff alike cried out in alarm, some tumbling to the dirt in a farcical, tangled heap. They clawed at their eyes, blinded by the sheer, stinging velocity of the air, as a choking shroud of dust masked the young man's exit.
[Neigh!]
A heartbeat later, Seraph and Lilacorn surged from the stables in a violet blur. To any distant observer watching from the walls, it appeared as though a lilac cloud had detached itself from the firmament to race across the emerald horizon. In a flash, the mageia steed vanished into the vastness of the plains, leaving only the fading echo of thunder in her wake.
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