Following the Night of the Verdant Pyre, suspicion regarding Seraph's heritage spread like a contagion. The villagers had watched pillars of black fire roar toward the heavens, and the evidence—a staggering deluge of ash that drifted over every settlement surrounding the tower—was undeniable.
The rumours regarding Seraph's lineage spread like wildfire across the dry plains. By dawn, reports had been funnelled back to the Sanctus Sanctum, and every soul within the cloister was rife with gossip, fuelled primarily by Sadir's provocations. The veil of mystery surrounding the magis once again became the apex of discussion within the Sanctus's walls.
Eldra went so far as to dispatch a missive questioning his true nature, while Marina, though steadfast in her trust, sent a letter affirming her unwavering acceptance—regardless of his origin.
The half-demon stigma brought Seraph a monumental headache. Yet, no matter how many times he offered a clarification, those around him seemed stone-deaf to his voice.
"Yeah, yeah... you were fortunate indeed. But you won't go levelling the entire canyon, will you? The lands surrounding that dead-end vale are mountainous, with several forest-fringe settlements—" Maldrin persisted.
"I told you, I am NOT a half-demon!" Seraph roared, cutting the man short.
The young magis strode away, ignoring the lingering stares of Maldrin and the cluster of nurses from the Healing Hall who were whispering in his wake.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
The evening crept forward with a chilling touch.
Seraph arrived at the sequestered vale. Before him loomed a towering precipice, its stone face marred by a minuscule fissure that defied casual observation. Thick, coiling vines cascaded over the entrance; without a meticulous search, one would surely bypass the hollow without a second glance.
The midnight hour had not yet struck, but the young magis refused to delay his design a moment longer. He resolved to breach the sanctum the instant he arrived. If this place truly served as a goblin hive, none would evade his grasp. Even should they break for the surface, hundreds of archers encircled the cavern mouth, bows drawn taut, ready to cut down any stragglers from the broken horde.
Seraph's form was slowly consumed by the reaching shadows of the narrow fissure. Above, the sky bruised into a leaden ink, the gloaming devouring the world as the last vestiges of light flickered and died.
The sentries and archers tracked the young magis's retreating back, their hearts hammering against their ribs. The atmosphere surrounding the cavern was preternaturally frigid, thick with a macabre dread; the wilderness at dusk felt pregnant with lethal secrets. When men tread into the lightless belly of the earth, they know not what malice awaits. None among them were certain they possessed the fortitude to breach a demon hive alone; they could only watch his departure with bated breath.
As Seraph ventured deeper, he found Maldrin's warnings to be more than half-true. The interior was cramped and stifling. Without the aid of mageia, one could scarcely perceive their own fingertips. It was, in every sense, a perfect subterranean sanctum for the demonic.
Fortuitously, the passage was brief. After a mere two minutes of navigating the stone, he reached the terminus—another narrow egress veiled by a curtain of tangled vines. Peering through the foliage, he beheld the sequestered, sunless vale.
"Argovus."
"Ventus Aethus!"
[Whirr!]
Seraph intoned the spells in a breathy whisper.
Instantly, the lightless canyon ignited with the clarity of high noon to his eyes. The young man, who'd felt the onset of suffocation, was suddenly revived as the ventus spell pulled a current of fresh atmosphere into his lungs.
"The goblin brood is indeed nesting within," Seraph hissed, lurking in the shadows as he surveyed the basin. "Then I'm transforming this sanctuary into a final sepulchre for these demons."
The interior of the canyon was a vast, open expanse, its floor undulating in jagged stone waves like a frozen sea. The perimeter formed a rough, distorted oval, with the innermost reach of the vale lying directly opposite the cavern through which he'd emerged.
The canyon walls reared up in jagged, vertical precipices—the entire basin a sealed stone vault, exactly as Maldrin had forewarned. The only apertures for air were the narrow fissure through which he'd entered and a minuscule vent high above; a mere crack that barely permitted the passage of a stray breeze. Because the overhead breach was narrower than the cavern mouth, the canyon floor remained eternally starved of sunlight.
Crucially, the two openings occupied different planes, rendering the atmosphere utterly stagnant. The air was a putrid weight—cloying, rank with decay, and oppressively sweltering—exacerbated by the presence of hundreds of goblins festering in the gloom.
Seraph peered into the murk and tallied approximately one hundred demons hunkered within the hollow.
The majority of the goblins were occupied, gnashing through the severed limbs of human prey. Some lay in a stupor, their porcine snores echoing like low thunder against the stone. Others snarled and bit at one another with bestial savagery, seemingly oblivious to the fact that over two hundred of their kin had vanished two days prior and had yet to return.
The floor of the vale was a chaotic sprawl of desiccated brushwood, rotting logs, and monolithic boulders. Piles of animal carcasses and bleached skulls were strewn across the terrain in macabre disarray.
There were no structures here. No semblance of order. No hearths for the preparation of meat. The hundred-strong brood lay scattered across the earth like feral beasts, their only scrap of innovation being the tusked maces clutched in their filth-stained claws.
'There's scarce anything within this hollow to leverage for a tactical strike... wait—the cave mouth is positioned perfectly upwind. The current flows from this entrance toward the aperture above. Since this breach is broader, the draft is forced upward through that narrow vent... If that's the case, a path opens. But... will this only fuel the rumours of my demonic heritage? Ugh... I loathe the thought.' Seraph brooded, his mind a knot of agitation.
Initially, Seraph harboured concerns regarding a direct confrontation. In terms of raw strength, he stood no chance against the entire brood in a melee. However, now that a stratagem had crystallised, victory had shifted from impossible to attainable. His only dread now was the thought of the sentries weaving even more fallacious legends about his nature.
'I must thin their ranks first... and it must be through mageia that draws no gaze.'
"Ventus Spiculus." Seraph intoned, straining to keep the incantation a mere ghost of a sound.
As the syllables faded, a bolt of viridian mageia coalesced within the gloom. Though the Spiculus was but a low-ranking spell, for the purpose of silent assassination, it was peerless. Seraph peered through the dense veil of vines, locking his gaze upon the nearest mark.
"Go," the young magis whispered.
[Zing!]
The glowing green bolt sliced through the dark with lethal velocity—a hidden needle in the hands of an invisible executioner. The slender shard buried itself deep into the cranium of a goblin slumbering nearest to the entrance.