The frozen wilds of Gravenreach whispered with a deathly calm as Caelan returned from the ancient cavern where he had unearthed the sleeping homunculus. Seraphine walked silently beside him, never tiring, her crimson eyes reflecting the dull gray sky like burning coals beneath glass. In her hand she carried her longsword with casual grace, though it had not left her grip once since the moment he had placed the Runic Heart into her chest.
The days after their encounter had been quiet but filled with purpose. Caelan had already been deep within the cavern, its jagged black rock walls humming with an unnatural pulse of magical energy. Hidden within these ancient stones were clusters of mana stones, their faint shimmer masked by shadows and layers of dust. Seraphine, her senses honed beyond human limits, detected their presence effortlessly, guiding Caelan through the winding paths to the richest veins like a predator drawn to prey.
With her uncanny strength and precise movements, she assisted Caelan in harvesting the stones—no tools necessary, only blade, hand, and raw power. The stones were volatile in their raw form, faintly glowing a deep cerulean and humming with restrained potential. By the time they had filled two sacks, Caelan knew their worth would far exceed what any neighboring territory could hope to match.
"This," he said, brushing snow off his gloves as he looked at the mana-rich cache, "is how we rise. Not by begging the Empire to remember us—but by forging something it cannot ignore."
Seraphine nodded, unspeaking. Her expression never changed, though her eyes always followed his. Like a shadow trained to respond only to its master.
They made their way back slowly, the sacks of mana stones strapped together and dragged across the snow on a makeshift sled. Snow thickened as they crossed into the outer reaches of Velmire village. He expected calm, perhaps the usual weary stares of hungry villagers.
But what greeted him instead was fire.
Smoke poured into the sky in thick plumes, staining the clouds with soot. As he and Seraphine reached the final rise overlooking the ridge where his manor had once stood tall, Caelan's stomach dropped.
The manor was ablaze.
Timber cracked and collapsed under its own burning weight. Flame licked across the roof like some hungry beast. And outside—on the path, in the fields, even in the gardens—villagers stood with torches and crude weapons. They were looting the supply wagons, ripping open crates meant for spring stores, smashing glass jars of preserved fruit and pickled meats.
Caelan slowed, lips drawn tight as he observed the scene from the tree line. Seraphine stopped beside him, her hand resting lightly on the sword by her hip.
His voice was low. "They're tearing apart everything I built."
Closer to the flames stood the woman he had once trusted—Mirelle. Her ash-gray hair was bound in a braid, and her cloak—charred around the hem—snapped in the wind. She stood with villagers surrounding her, giving them orders as she motioned toward what little remained of the manor's stone frame.
But she was not alone. A tall man in heavy leathers, trimmed in red, stood at her side. Caelan narrowed his eyes.
"Stoneveil colors," he muttered. "Braedon's men."
Seraphine's eyes followed his gaze. "Target identified. Hostile."
"Not yet," he said. "We need to know more."
He moved closer, sticking to the forest edge, until the sounds of broken crates and drunken laughter reached his ears. The Stoneveil captain—he recognized the sash now—was giving orders to armed soldiers, their insignias clear. They were not just here to burn. They were here to claim.
Seraphine tilted her head. "Do you wish me to eliminate them?"
Caelan exhaled slowly, watching the chaos unfold. "Not yet. But get ready."
He stepped out from the trees and walked calmly down the slope.
Several villagers froze when they saw him. Murmurs rippled through the looters like wind through leaves.
Mirelle turned, her eyes widening for a split second before hardening.
"You returned," she said, her voice as calm as ever.
"And you set fire to my home," Caelan replied evenly. "Not the welcome I expected."
"It's nothing personal," she said.
"Oh, I'm certain it is."
The Stoneveil captain stepped forward. "Baron Caelan of Gravenreach, you are hereby relieved of command. By decree of House Solmere and the authority of Baron Braedon. This land is no longer yours."
Caelan chuckled darkly. "You come to my doorstep with fire and steel, thinking I'll just hand it all over? This is the Northern Duchy, not the Eastern. Only the Duke of Virelandt or the Emperor himself has the authority to remove me."
The captain straightened. "We expected you wouldn't. That's why we brought an army."
Caelan turned to Seraphine. "Show them what you are."
She stepped forward. No need for dramatics—her presence alone shifted the air. Her sword hummed faintly, and black tendrils of aura licked at the snow, melting it in a radius around her feet.
The villagers backed away instinctively.
"What in the gods' name is that woman?" someone whispered in horror, their voice trembling as they stepped back from the black aura spiraling off Seraphine's frame. Her black hair fluttered as tendrils of anti-magic shimmered around her, distorting the air and unraveling weak enchantments in a radius. Her gaze remained fixed, unblinking, on the captain.
Mirelle's expression twisted as she saw Seraphine fully—her jaw slackened, breath catching in her throat. First came recognition. Then disbelief. And finally, fear. Her lips parted, but no words emerged at first.
"That—she wasn't—she wasn't with you before," Mirelle stammered, taking a step back despite herself.
"She's now," Caelan said coldly, stepping forward. "And she's more than enough to put down traitors."
Varrek looked at Seraphine's sword arm, then to the icy ground that had melted in a radius around her. His lips pressed into a hard line. "We were told you had no forces. No knights. No army."
"You were told wrong."
"She stands with me now," Caelan said, his voice lowering. "And so does the reckoning."
An arrow flew.
Seraphine caught it mid-air.
Then, she moved.
She didn't run—she surged. One slash, and a man was down. Another flinched, tried to flee, and she was on him in a blur. Not killing—just maiming, disabling, crushing morale.
Caelan drew in a breath and stepped forward as panic spread.
"I gave you work," he shouted to the villagers. "I gave you food, heat, safety. And you sold me for lies."
No one met his gaze.
Only Mirelle did. "You were never meant to rule. Someone hated you enough to ensure you'd never rise."
"And so you lit the world on fire," Caelan said, his voice quiet yet razor-sharp.
Meanwhile, Varrek drew his blade, thick and broad, the edge notched from years of brutal use. His stance was grounded, boots sinking into the snow-packed ridge. "Stand back!" he barked to his men. "I'll deal with her myself."
His sword shimmered faintly with a dull brown glow—stone affinity. As his mana surged, the earth responded. Jagged stone rose from the ground in a defensive wall, angling outward like teeth of a buried beast.
Seraphine stepped forward, the aura around her humming lower, colder. Her black hair whipped behind her in the wind, her red eyes glowing with a silent intensity.
Varrek didn't wait. He lunged forward, slamming his blade down to crack the frozen ground. From the point of impact, stone erupted—spikes rushing toward Seraphine like grasping claws.
She moved, not with speed alone but grace honed in a forge older than war. Her blade flashed, slashing one spike in half while her feet twisted between the gaps with impossible timing. She closed the distance in heartbeats, steel ringing as their swords clashed.
Varrek growled, pouring mana into his arms, his blade gaining weight, density. He struck again, this time sideways, trying to break her guard with sheer brute force.
Seraphine met the blow with one hand on the flat of her sword, redirecting the impact to slide past her shoulder. Her eyes never blinked. A thin shimmer of distortion rippled around her—anti-magic nullifying any enchantments on his blade. Runes along his gauntlet flickered… and died.
"What are you?" he snarled, staggering back.
Seraphine didn't answer. She stepped into his guard with perfect timing, delivered a spinning kick to his ribs, and sent him crashing to the ground. Stone pillars rose to protect him instinctively, forming a shell as he scrambled upright.
He slammed his palm into the earth. A shockwave burst from the ground beneath them—an attempt to unbalance her.
Seraphine stood through it, the shockwave evaporating as it touched her aura. The snow melted into steam around her. The magic faltered.
"No," Varrek gasped. "No—it's not possible."
"You've already lost," she said coldly.
She dashed forward again. Varrek swung desperately, summoning a wall of jagged earth between them. Seraphine didn't stop. Her sword glowed with voidlight, black aura eating through the rock like acid through parchment. She carved through the barrier, dashed across the remnants, and with one elegant motion—
—sliced clean through his wrist.
His sword clattered to the ground. Blood sprayed from the stump of his arm.
Varrek collapsed to his knees, screaming. "Mercy! Gods, please—"
"There is no mercy," Seraphine whispered. She raised her blade again.
Caelan stepped past him, eyes fixed on the burning remains of his manor. "You came to kill me. Burn my home. You deserve worse."
Varrek sobbed, clutching his ruined arm.
Caelan gave Seraphine a small nod. "End it."
There was no cry of pain. Only a single sound of steel cleaving flesh.
Then silence.
The flames behind him grew higher. The snow hissed beneath the heat. And Seraphine returned to his side, her blade now bloodless but her eyes aglow with death.
Gravenreach had burned.
But Caelan remained.