Seraph lowered the letter slowly, his countenance clouded with melancholy and a fracturing heart.
The contents of Lenora's missive were a tempest of emotion; the rose-pink parchment seemed a physical manifestation of the girl herself—so imbued with her soul that her face almost shimmered upon the page. It was the raw sentiment of a lady, conveyed with both courage and sincerity.
Yet the young man bore the sharper sting of pain, for he knew, with chilling certainty, that he could not grant Lenora's desire.
Earlier that morning, upon departing the Grandmaster's chambers, Seraph had made haste to pen a reply. He'd informed Lenora that he wouldn't be attending the season of the hunt in Balyon, despite her previous entreaties—and despite the solemn promise he'd once sworn to her.
The girl had even written with pride of her culinary finesse, claiming that even the Royal Chefs of Arkflame had offered their commendation. Lenora had set her heart upon preparing a feast of confections for the young man to sample. Furthermore, she'd mapped out a journey through every corner of Balyon, intending to lead him to her private sanctuary—a place she'd unveiled to no soul but him.
Yet, he had been bound to a singular mission by the Grandmaster, mandated to partake in the Bloody Hunting; thus, he was compelled to refuse Lenora once more. In this hour, Seraph was acutely aware of his own failings—it was he who had let the schedules relayed by Eldra a month prior slips his mind.
The young man could feel the torrent of anxiety and resentment surging through every stroke of her quill. Nevertheless, he truly couldn't accede to Lenora's wishes this time.
For when one weighed the stakes, while the defence of individual cities during the hunting season was indeed of grave import, the Bloody Hunting was a different matter entirely.
It was a deployment to the very fringes of Arkflame, tasked with purging the demonic horde swarming from the Outer Marches—the true demonic territories. Though no small number of demons manifested from hidden dens to strike at the various cities of Laurasia, the hordes assailing the realm's borders were vastly more numerous. Furthermore, their potency far outstripped the creatures besieging the towns; a mere demon minion at the frontier could rival the strength of a Goblin Chieftain.
Thus, the preservation of the realm's critical points lay primarily at the borders, where the majority of the ancient battlefields were situated. This was the catalyst for every human kingdom to establish the Bloody Hunting—or similar grand-scale purging operations—during the annual season.
To stand in defence of the frontier was, by extension, to safeguard the entire kingdom. The strategic weight of the two missions sat worlds apart, defying any simple comparison.
Therefore, were Seraph forced to choose between aiding Lenora in the defence of Balyon and the Bloody Hunting, he would choose the latter without a moment's hesitation.
"Sigh... I truly am a rogue to her. Once the Bloody Hunting concludes, I'll have to offer my atonement. I can only hope the frontier yields some wondrous, exotic bloom Lenora has yet to behold. Failing that, I'll have to fly to Elfheim and pilfer a mageia flower simply to earn her forgiveness," Seraph murmured, tracing the parchment with a pang of heartache.
The young man deliberated for a fleeting moment before retrieving a private tome from his shelves. Upon opening it, the four-leaf clover locket remained exactly where he'd left it, shimmering beneath the faint moonlight the instant the covers parted.
He withdrew it with care, polishing the surface with a tender touch before prising the locket open. Beneath the mageia glass lay a vibrant green four-leaf clover; the lunar rays caught the specimen, casting a series of mysterious, crystalline reflections.
"I'd intended to restore this locket to Lenora one day... but if she learns it's followed me into the Bloody Hunting... perhaps her fury might soften when I return it at our next meeting. I only pray the Goddess of Fortune doesn't mock me for donning such a trinket," Seraph whispered to the silence.
The young man secured the four-leaf clover locket around his neck. As he layered his heavy magis robes over his chest, the piece vanished from sight. From the exterior, none could discern the presence of the exquisite heirloom.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
The following dawn broke with a sombre pallor.
The Bloody Hunting missions were conducted in numerous phases. Each year, the objectives of the contention shifted, never repeating; they were dictated entirely by the genus and the sheer number of demons manifesting along the frontier.
This year, the Demon Legion had dispatched hosts of low-tier demons to assault multiple fronts, directing a particular venom toward the western frontier. For a decade without reprieve, demonic forces had sought to breach the western borders and northern reaches of Arkflame with relentless frequency.
Both the north and west were scarred by the greatest concentration of ancient battlefields; however, the western flank served as a vital artery connecting to various other human kingdoms. At these strategic junctions, overlapping Ley lines and historical carnage had coalesced into massive ancient battlegrounds. Often, the demonic miasma saturating these expansive slaughter-fields would bleed outward, reanimating the fallen or corrupting the local fauna into savage demonic beasts.
After spending a month engaged in demon-hunting missions within Arkpolis, Seraph had found it impossible to evade the pursuit of Sophia—and by extension, he could no longer shun Arthus.
The Capital was Arthus's domain; to remain embedded in missions there for so long was no different from loitering daily before the man's very gates. Though the young magis had striven to refuse any further duels, he had gravely underestimated the Prince of Flames' resolve.
Once Arthus learned that Seraph had entrenched himself within Arkpolis, he returned to challenge the young magis every single day. No matter how many times he was rebuffed, he never wavered, renewing his challenge by the hour and trailing Seraph through every narrow alley and wynd. Even when Seraph stood motionless atop the Great Clock Tower of Arkpolis, Arthus remained at his side, never ceasing his attempts at parley.
Eventually, Seraph realised that his refusal was severely sabotaging his operational efficiency. The young magis finally relented. He conceded to a single duel per day against the flame-wielder.
As their duels grew more frequent, the rivalry of the heart shifted into an unexpected bond, occurring so subtly that neither truly marked the transition. These contests did more than merely unite two incompatible temperaments; they forged their combat prowess, allowing their strength to ascend in staggering bounds.
For Seraph, progress remained a steady, measured climb. Yet it was Arthus who displayed a startling, meteoric rise.
During their first encounter at the Sanctus Sanctum, though Seraph had declared a draw, those who bore witness knew the young magis had been overwhelmingly superior. However, the more they clashed, the swifter Arthus refined his techniques and mageia bladecraft, until his strength drew level with Seraph's own. In their more recent bouts, the Prince of Flames had even managed to claim victory on several occasions.
Furthermore, Arthus finally grasped the true nature of the bond between Sophia and Seraph.