"I have heard," Seraph began, his voice cutting through the stillness, "that your prowess in flamus affinity is quite formidable."
The mind of the young theorist had scrambled to find a new thread of conversation, desperate to dismantle the mounting awkwardness.
"You were aware of that?" Evelyn's eyes ignited with a sudden brilliance.
Her emerald orbs shimmered with a mageia-born pride, a flicker of genuine delight dancing within them.
"I heard your innate affinity lies solely with the ventus element... a fine and versatile element, certainly. But my fire will not be outmatched by yours!" Evelyn asserted, her chin lifting with a defiant grace.
Her voice had shifted, the previous bashfulness evaporated, now spirited and laced with a sharp, competitive edge that seemed to vibrate in the small room.
The moment the discourse veered toward the intricacies of mageia, a sudden vitality flooded back into the cramped quarters. The girl's countenance brightened instantly, her skin seemingly radiant with a newfound, inner glow. It was as if mageia were the only dialect in which Evelyn felt truly fluent, the only language that didn't trip over her tongue. The mere mention of her element had transformed her from a clumsy maiden into a creature of embers, one who evidently thrived upon the prospect of rivalry and the intoxicating heat of a duel.
"At present, I am somewhat adept in the fire element as well... though it does not yet rival my command over the wind," Seraph replied, his voice a calm, steady chord.
He extended both palms, upturned and steady. Without intoning so much as a single, whispered glyph or tracing a sign in the air, a miniature sphere of flame and a swirling whirlwind manifested simultaneously upon his hands. He had summoned them in absolute, haunting silence. The mageia flame flickered gently, like a dancing child preening for an audience, while the tiny cyclone cast a refreshing, biting chill through the air. Such exquisite finesse in control—this threshold of near-silent mastery—was a height he had once only dared to dream of in his darkest hours.
"You possess an affinity for two elements?!" Evelyn exclaimed, her voice thick with an incredulous astonishment. "That is impossible! A magis gifted with dual affinities! Flamus and Ventus—the rare Flamewind resonance! Such a blessing is exceedingly rare in our age. Why did you not apprise Granny and the Council sooner? They would have been driven into a total frenzy! The High Council would have committed every resource at their disposal to bolster your ascension!"
While most magis could, with enough study, dabble in various elements, the raw mastery required to summon two distinct forces simultaneously—without being rent asunder by the conflicting internal pressures—was a feat few could ever hope to mirror.
Evelyn could weave wind and other elements herself, yet she could not manifest them in such perfect tandem as Seraph did now before her very eyes. What she beheld was nothing short of an mageia miracle. She nearly bolted upright from her seat, her excitement so palpable it was as if this extraordinary prowess were her own victory to celebrate.
"Though I command dual affinities," Seraph continued, his expression remaining unshakeably calm, "my mana reserves have always been tragically sparse. For years, even my primary wind element was severely constrained by my own fragility. It is only recently that my power has begun to evolve with such staggering velocity, finally allowing the fire to rise as an equal to the gale."
"But a dual-affinity magis grows with far greater celerity if granted proper patronage! I will tell Granny about this at once!" Evelyn replied, her spirit soaring with the possibilities.
"Then I must thank you in advance. You are most kind, Evelyn," Seraph answered with an unfeigned sincerity that caught her off guard.
"You..." Evelyn faltered, the sentence dying in her throat as she looked at him.
"What is it?" Seraph inquired, his curiosity piqued by her sudden hesitation.
"Do you... do you find the flame to be unsightly?" Evelyn asked, her voice now softer than the dying embers in a winter hearth. "I mean... a girl as coarse as a wildfire, devoid of any traditional gentleness... one who is the very antithesis of Marina?"
"You?" Seraph countered, his features clouded by a distinct lack of comprehension. "You possess a vibrant charm entirely your own, Evelyn. You are brimming with vitality and strength. It is a beauty of a different, more formidable order entirely. Why would you ask such a thing?"
Curiously, his blunt, honest response caused Evelyn's countenance to flush a deep, burning crimson, plunging her into another momentary silence. Her tresses already resembled a wildfire dancing with a mageia-born aura; now, with the bloom of a rose upon her cheeks, her entire being seemed like a living, breathing flame.
"I heard word of your departure on a perilous mission..." Evelyn said, pivoting the conversation with a frantic haste to hide her embarrassment. "And the dark rumours that you single-handedly eradicated a goblin horde numbering in the hundreds."
"Quite so. The initial intelligence failed to disclose that their numbers reached such heights. Caught in an ambush, I could not evade a violent confrontation," Seraph recounted with a clipped, professional brevity. "Fortuitously, my stratagem proved effective, and now that the task is concluded, I have returned."
"Few among our magis could contend with hundreds of goblins unaided. A magis wielding such formidable power would typically have reached the rank of Warlock or beyond by now... Are the whispers true, then? That you are of demon kind—a half-blood?" Evelyn asked, her voice laced with a heavy, fearful hesitance.
As she spoke, she scrutinised his face from every conceivable angle, leaning in close as if her wide eyes might discern some hidden deformity or a jagged demonic glyph etched deep into his skin.
"It is patently false!" Seraph replied, his patience finally fraying under the weight of the accusation. "I am human, without question! Though I am an orphan, my lineage is clearly inscribed within the ancient annals of Arkflame! Furthermore, there is no demonic crystal embedded within my chest! You may feel for yourself if you doubt my word!"
The young man harboured a profound, icy loathing for the accusation of being a half-blood. Such cursed lineages were oft-reputed to possess a savagery indistinguishable from that of a common beast or a true demon; they were eternal pariahs, reviled by both races and never truly finding a hearth to call their own. Ultimately, they were driven to the jagged fringes of the world, lingering in the desolation of the wilds to endure a life of absolute, soul-crushing solitude.
Seraph detested demons with a cold, relentless fury; to be slandered as one was a stinging affront to his very identity. He would not suffer the world to harbour such a grotesque misconception of his nature.
A demonic crystal—a jagged, hexagonal artefact—was the telltale mark of the abyss, manifesting upon the sternum of any demon or half-blood tethered to demonic fel. While not an absolute rule, the magnitude and dark radiance of such a crystal typically waxed in direct proportion to the malignant power surging within the host.
Piperclowns, for instance, bore these crystals upon their chests. However, Seraph had surrendered the entirety of those carcasses, crystals included, to the Sanctus. It was the very reason his promotion to the rank of magis had been met with a rare, unanimous decree from the Council!