These hexagonal shards were of immense utility, serving as the premier, sought-after components in the forging of a Highmaster's scepter or the enchanted, silver-etched armaments wielded by the elite demon hunters of the crown. Consequently, a demonic crystal commanded a staggering, almost obscene price at the royal auctions. Despite the lethal, soul-corroding nature of the curse fel these abyssal creatures possessed, high-ranking magis and veteran hunters were perpetually devising lethal stratagems to harvest them from the living.
"May I truly... feel for myself?" Evelyn asked, her voice laced with a thin, trembling uncertainty.
She had never touched a man other than her own sire, and the sheer prospect of such intimacy left her wavering on the precipice of retreat. Yet, a defiant spark of curiosity—a fire inherited from her grandmother—urged her to settle the matter once and for all. She needed to know if the man before her was a hero or a monster.
"By all means," Seraph replied, his resolve steeled like cold iron.
Seated in such close quarters, Evelyn needed only to lean forward, her scent—a mix of burnt ozone and wild jasmine—filling the small space between them. She reached out, her hand trembling with a frantic, stuttering rhythm as it drifted toward Seraph's chest.
At first, her touch was merely a cautious, almost ghostly prod—a fearful grazing of her fingertips against the heavy fabric of his tunic. Yet, seeing that he remained stoic and unmoving, a statue of silent endurance, her courage began to mount. She reached for the young man's chest with a tentative dread, as though he might suddenly snap at her like a cornered, rabid beast.
Finding no resistance, she began to trace the hard contours of Seraph's torso with a greater, more desperate resolve. Evelyn pressed firmer now, her palms searching for the jagged, unnatural protrusion of a demonic crystal at his sternum. Finding nothing but smooth skin and the steady, rhythmic thrum of a human heart, she grew bolder. Her hands wandered upward to the hollow of his throat before drifting across the impressive breadth of his shoulders. From there, she slid her touch downward, grazing the lower reaches of his frame—
"Ngh—!"
Seraph suddenly recoiled, a sharp, guttural groan of agony escaping his clenched lips.
"Ah! Forgive me... have I caused you harm?" Evelyn asked, her voice tight with immediate, piercing concern. She yanked her hands back as if burned.
"It was... not of your doing... I sustained injuries whilst contending with the Kogoblin," Seraph managed to choke out, his voice strained and brittle with suppressed pain. "My ribs... I believe they are fractured. Perhaps worse."
A violent, uncontrollable tremor seized his entire frame. His teeth were clamped shut in a death-grin, his body doubling over in the chair as he fought the primal urge to collapse onto the floorboards.
Seraph had endured this harrowing injury throughout the long journey back, masking the white-hot agony even during the heat of the fray. He had told himself that provided he avoided strenuous exertion or a direct impact to the wound, he could maintain his composure until morning, when Marina might provide the necessary restorative healing.
Yet, when the girl's hand had inadvertently brushed against the fractured bone and the surrounding bruised, purpled flesh, the torment surged back with a vicious vengeance. The throbbing ache refused to subside; had Evelyn not been present within the chamber, he might well have surrendered to a blood-curdling scream.
"I'm wretchedly sorry... let me assist you to the bed!" Evelyn blurted out, rising in a state of frantic, wide-eyed agitation to offer her support.
The girl scrambled to assist, albeit with a clumsiness that betrayed her profound remorse. In her frantic bid to be of service, she practically shoved Seraph toward the mattress; however, her touch remained heavy-handed, and her spatial awareness proved dreadfully lacking in the heat of the moment.
Every point where Evelyn made contact sent a fresh jolt of lightning-agony through the young man, as if she were intent on snapping another rib by sheer, clumsy accident. He fought a desperate, silent battle to stifle a scream that would surely alert the entire Citadel.
Seraph's entire frame was a shattered map of hairline fractures and internal muscular ruptures; without the swift intervention of restorative mageia or a high-grade healing potion, he might well have succumbed to permanent infirmity—or death itself—ere long.
Evelyn, for all her fiery power, possessed not a shred of affinity for the healing arts. Her renown as Eldra's granddaughter was tethered solely to her fierce, destructive flame; in the delicate realm of nursing, her gift was surely in the negatives, capable of inadvertently dispatching the wounded to their early graves.
"I'm sorry... I've been so dreadfully clumsy..." Evelyn uttered, her voice thick with a choking contrition.
Her eyes welled with unshed, shimmering tears, her guilt rendering her momentarily speechless as she watched him struggle for breath.
"It's of no consequence... I know your intent was pure," Seraph requested, his voice softening into a whisper despite the white-hot pain. "Might you reach into my cloak... retrieve a healing potion?"
"A potion!—Of course! We must mend you at once!" Evelyn cried, her panic finding a sudden, desperate direction.
She leapt toward the white cloak where it hung suspended like a ghost against the wall. After a frantic, clattering search, she unearthed a multitude of vials. She hastily produced a dozen potions, clattering them onto the bed with such force that the glass sang, allowing the young man to select the draught himself.
Seraph gingerly uncorked a healing potion and drank, the bitter liquid coating his tongue. A faint, pulsing crimson luminescence flickered along the veins of his throat before diffusing through his entire circulatory system. Before long, the harrowing torment began to ebb into a dull, manageable throb. Though it was far from a total recovery, it was sufficient to sustain his spirit until the morrow, when Marina could see to his absolute restoration.
Evelyn settled beside him upon the mattress, her gaze tethered to every laboured, shallow movement of the grievously wounded magis. Only when a ghost of colour returned to his pallid features and the visible agony began to recede did her heart find a small measure of ease; yet, she still lacked the fortitude to meet the young man's eyes.
"Forgive me... I was the catalyst for this," she uttered, her head bowed in a heavy, suffocating cloak of contrition.
"You have my thanks... I'm quite mended now, Evelyn," Seraph replied with a gentle, weary cadence.
"Liar... it's patently obvious you're deceiving me," Evelyn countered, her eyes rimmed with a watery, painful scarlet.
"In a short while, I'll be entirely restored," Seraph attempted, forcing a thin, fragile smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Yet, Evelyn remained downcast, trapped in a relentless cycle of self-reproach, her fiery spirit dampened by the weight of her own perceived failure. In the silence of the room, the only sound was the heavy breath of a man who had survived the abyss, only to be nearly undone by a girl's touch.