Having spoken her piece, the girl hurried back into Eldra's chambers, vanishing from sight. The young man stared at her retreating figure amidst a silence that offered no answers.
As Seraph turned to depart, the mageia portal swung open once more. Evelyn rushed out, her expression fraught with sudden panic.
"Seraph!" she cried out, as if terrified he'd already vanished.
"I forgot to give you this!" Evelyn shouted, thrusting something forward with both hands.
A blaze of crimson light surged, seemingly casting the golden sunlight out of the sentry tower's highest floor. A wave of heat radiated from the artefact. Within the girl's grasp lay a flame-red Sceptre, its haft roughly half a metre in length, crafted to fit perfectly within a hand's grip.
The entire object was of a searing, flame-red timber—a Sceptre hewn from mageia wood. At its crown sat a Rubyflame gem, as large as a clenched fist, pulsating with a rhythmic glow. The length of the shaft was intricately etched with ancient mageia glyphs of exquisite craftsmanship. Deeply engraved at its centre was its true name, radiating a raw, formidable power. Yet, for all its majesty, the sheer elegance of the piece suggested it had been fashioned for a lady's hand rather than a man's.
"What is this?" Seraph asked, bewildered.
"This is the Rubyflame Sceptre! An ancient artefact of my House, the Arkcrimsons. It's a token of my heart for you to keep close—whenever you wield this Sceptre, it's as if I'm following you, venturing into every peril by your side!" Evelyn spoke, her face flushed a deep crimson.
"A family heirloom? I truly can't accept a treasure of such magnitude," Seraph said, his voice grave.
He attempted to push her hands back, yet the young man was given no chance to refuse.
Evelyn rose upon her toes, tilting her head to capture his lips in a swift, fleeting kiss. Before he could utter a word, the girl had already bolted back into the chamber.
The kiss had been as brief as a dragonfly skimming the water's surface. Seraph stood dazed, barely registering the contact, but by the time his senses returned, the Rubyflame Sceptre was already gripped firmly in his hand.
"Naughty girl... I'll see you punished when I return," Seraph whispered, boarding the mageia lift to depart.
Upon the face of the young magis, a faint, unwitting smile flickered.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
Seraph made his way back from the High Healer's residential zone in the deep of night.
After delivering the news of his enlistment in the Bloody Hunting to Marina, the young man had spent the better part of the day providing solace, struggling to stem the tide of her tears.
Not only had Seraph let the official schedule of the Bloody Hunting slip his mind, but he had also entirely neglected to inform Marina of his enlistment in the year's most harrowing purge.
Upon hearing the grim tidings, Marina was struck with profound shock. Though she had never personally taken part in a Bloody Hunting, she had served through the Demon Hunting Seasons of Arkpolis on numerous occasions. Having been deployed alongside warlock circles as a High Healer, she understood the visceral lethality of both the Bloody Hunting and the broader hunting seasons better than most.
The Bloody Hunting, however, was far more intricate and perilous than the standard seasons, for it demanded a singular, haunting condition: the challengers must face the dark alone.
In contrast, the Demon Hunting Seasons held across Arkpolis and the various territories of Laurasia were not restricted to solitary missions. Indeed, they were governed by almost no formal constraints at all.
Whether operating as a cohesive unit or a lone wolf, any demon hunter could secure a contract; the only caveat for those in groups was the inevitable division of spoils and bounties gathered from the cities they defended.
Yet, during the most recent season she had joined, Marina's own party of ten had seen only six return alive. Even with the strength of a collective, the survival rate during a standard demon hunt remained appallingly low.
In certain years, the Bloody Hunting claimed the lives of more than half its participants. These grim statistics served as a testament to the absolute lethality of the trial Seraph now faced.
Marina had spent hours trying to dissuade Seraph, imploring him to abandon the Bloody Hunting. She maintained that if he waited but a few years more—until his mageia rank had matured and his strength solidified—he could return to the hunting seasons then. In her mind, the young magis would command the battlefield with a potency and a survival rate tenfold what they were today.
When he remained unswayed, Marina dissolved into inconsolable weeping, intent on storming Eldra's sanctum to force the Grandmaster's hand. To her, he was more than a mere childhood companion; he was a fixture of her soul she could not bear to lose to the abyss.
Seraph had intervened, barring her path and refusing to permit such an outburst. In the end, she'd been confined to her chambers, submerged in sorrow for the duration of the day. It fell to him to offer solace, tethered to her side as he dried her persistent tears. Only when the girl had finally succumbed to exhaustion and drifted into a fitful slumber was he able to retreat to his own quarters.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
Seraph returned to his bedchamber and refrained from striking a light. He harboured a particular affinity for the gloom; within the shadows, his senses sharpened, granting him preternatural clarity and a profound sense of peace amidst the absolute silence.
Through the window, the lunar glow spilled inside in a soft, pale amber, bathing the room in sufficient radiance that a mageia candle was unnecessary.
As he moved to seat himself upon the bed, his gaze fell upon a rose-pink envelope resting atop his bureau.
Seraph retrieved it and began to read, his movements fluid and devoid of surprise—as though the appearance of such correspondence within his private sanctum had become a mundane nightly ritual.
The rose-pink parchment bore no script upon its exterior. There was only a sigil of a four-leaf clover, pressed firmly into the cooling wax.
The envelope was torn open, releasing a natural floral fragrance that drifted into the air of its own accord. The scent diffused throughout the entire chamber, purging the stale air of the bedroom and replacing it with a vibrant, gentle aroma of the wild. The mere opening of the seal seemed to breathe a peculiar life into the grey, monochromatic room.
As Seraph withdrew the letter, he discovered a Pink Rose Anastasia tucked within—a most precious mageia flower.
The Pink Rose Anastasia was a bloom notoriously difficult to cultivate. Its petals spiralled into a form both exquisite and noble; the outer layers were a virginal white, while the inner heart glowed with a soft pastel pink. This delicate grace rendered the Anastasia a peerless bloom within Laurasia.
Nature stood firm in its self-crafted mysteries; mageia flowers typically manifested only where they chose to grow in the wild. Due to their singular nature, humans were almost entirely incapable of cultivating such flora, ensuring that mageia herbs and potions commanded exorbitant prices.