The wind, which had been churning in a chaotic gale, suddenly died. The grassy plains ceased their swaying and fell mute. Everything stood paralyzed, like a beast holding its breath.
Seraph scanned the surroundings with cold, indifferent eyes. He vaulted from the steed's back with swift precision. They were still a great distance from Vespass, yet the young man refused to gallop toward the gates.
"Withdraw. Keep your distance from the tower," Seraph commanded. "Do not approach until you hear my call. Watch for humans, demons, and all that crawls between. Wait for the completion of my mission, then we depart together."
The Lilacorn offered no retort. She remained deathly still, her bright, wide eyes tracking the young man's every movement.
"Ventus Aura!"
[Swoosh!]
Once the spell was cast, Seraph launched himself, treading upon the tips of the tall grass and bolting toward the Sentry Tower.
The young magis soared through the gloom, leaping across treetops and fields without ever deigning to touch the soil. All was silent, appearing devoid of any anomaly—yet such profound quiet was a harbinger of a far deeper terror.
Seraph hurtled through the viscous dark toward the eastern face of the Sentry Tower. It remained a void—bereft of torchlight, stripped of any pulse of life. The watch-fires upon the ramparts had been choked out, left unlit. Even as the young magis reached the threshold, the silence held, as absolute as the heavy gates of Balyon.
The young man did not linger for a welcome. He caught the crown of a nearby tree, vaulting over the battlements in a single, fluid motion. Within the dual towers, he was the sole engine of movement, a pale wraith intruding upon a chasm of shadow.
Landing upon the stone walk, the young magis stood rigid, his breath a thin ghost in the air. He began the incantation immediately.
"Flamus Shellux!"
[Humm…]
A shield of crimson fire ignited before him. Typically, an aura spell would merely coat the skin in a faint, shimmering laminate; however, this blazing buckler cast a fierce radiance forward, serving as a makeshift torch.
Seraph stood atop the ramparts. High above the tower's crest, a lustreless crystal lay shrouded in shadow, while a bloated, full moon cast a macabre, sanguine glow across the firmament. At this moment, the only radiance cloaking his form was that eerie, blood-red light; every omen pointed toward a descent into calamity.
Because the Sentry Tower had been engineered to straddle the main gatehouse, a small postern door allowed entry from the battlements.
Seraph waded through the gloom to breach the door. Beyond the walls of Vespass lay the vast, undulating grasslands, yet every blade of grass now stood petrified. The wind had vanished. No insect chattered; no night-bird called. The strike of his leather boots echoed with the violence of a hammer against a drum, a solitary heartbeat in a place where life had been extinguished.
The young magis pushed the side door open. The aged wood groaned, a piercing shriek that suggested years of neglect or a sudden, violent abandonment.
The young man stepped into the Sentry Tower, his feet leaden. A stench of putrefaction and the copper tang of gore lunged at him, a physical force attempting to drive him back. The scent of blood was so thick within the stone walls that he could taste the iron upon his palate and the back of his throat. A wave of nausea rolled over him.
The interior was filled with a scene of profound sorrow and loss. Hundreds of human forms were present, commoners and travelers alike. There were children, the elderly, men, and women.
Their hands were bound, left to hang in a pitiable state. It was clear they had suffered greatly. Pools of blood had gathered upon the floor, a dark, visceral presence that filled every corner of the chamber. Seraph's boots could not avoid it. Every soul was gone; they had perished long before any help could arrive.
Seraph surveyed the scene, a wave of intense emotion igniting within his soul. His heart constricted with grief and anger. The protective flames swirling around him intensified, manifesting his silent rage. This harrowing tableau brought back memories of his own parents' passing, a nightmare he could never escape, now etched even deeper into his mind.
In the tower's center, more forms hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling. The young man moved towards them as if in a trance; though they were gone, a desperate instinct compelled him to bring them down, to grant them a final dignity.
Suddenly, the shriek of a carrion bird pierced the air from without. A frantic, chaotic commotion erupted – the sound of short, heavy footfalls drumming in a rhythmic frenzy, accompanied by a thickening, foul musk.
The windows lining the Sentry Tower were shattered inward with violent force. The wood splintered, the crash echoing like thunder within the hollow chamber. Hundreds of goblins came pouring through the breaches.
[Skree! Chakk-rah!]
A hundred goblins surged into the Sentry Tower with violent haste. They screeched in shrill, piercing tones, mocking the folly of the humans who had once more stumbled into their snare. They bared their fangs, flaunting the prominent tusks upon their lips. They brandished their jagged clubs with savage, boastful fervor.
Goblins were demon minions serving under the Demon Legion. They were a primary sub-species of the Mirkcap, sharing numerous physiological traits with their kin.
The goblin was a low-tier demon, possessing a small yet thickset frame. It resembled a bipedal warthog, though its defining feature was the small horn protruding from its forehead, identical to the Mirkcap! From its maw, sharp tusks jutted out on either side. None of them reached the shoulder of an adult human.
The goblin possessed a barrel-like chest and short, stunted legs. Its skin was a dark, murky grey. Its fur was the colour of burnt umber. These hairs grew exceedingly long, cascading from its head and trailing along the ground like a heavy tail. The appearance of this goblin cloak was indistinguishable from that of a Mirkcap.
The goblin possessed a physique far more robust than the Mirkcap, granting it high physical resilience. However, they remained vulnerable to spells and possessed remarkably low mageia defence. Though their burnt-umber fur wove itself into a brown goblin cloak, it lacked the infused mageia found within the garments of the Mirkcap.
While the goblin cloak could be sold in the market due to its ability to repel wind, rain, and snow, it was not classified as an artefact and fetched nowhere near the price of a Mirkcap's hide.
Nevertheless, the remains of every goblin held a value nearly equal to that of the Mirkcap. The goblin's bones—its claws, tusks, and jawbones—were exceptionally hard and razor-sharp.
Various anatomical components of the demon were highly sought after for use in potion ingredients, alchemical constituents, arrowheads, and mageia weaponry. Their hides were sufficiently thick to be fashioned into leather armour; even the heads of the goblins were popular trophies, destined to adorn the walls of various estates.
This meant that the entire carcass of a goblin, and indeed every type of demon, could perpetually be traded in the market. Certain kingdoms went so far as to establish the export of demon parts as a primary industry.
A demon's physique was saturated with latent mageia power. Consequently, their bodily fragments often yielded immense utility and value. Countless demon hunters were prepared to wager their lives for the chance to hunt and sell these creatures.