In the forty-eight hours since the hunters began clearing the Ragguard perimeter, they'd returned with more than just piles of demon carrion; they'd brought in a haul of wild cattle and forest game. This bounty guaranteed a massive feast, providing enough food for every soul in the fortress to join the party.
Between the food and the endless flow of ale and spirits, the atmosphere reached a state of near-perfect euphoria. Even Rosalyn had given in to the joy, dancing with a vibrant, light-footed speed around the bonfire alongside the townsfolk.
It wasn't that Seraph looked down on peace or a good time; rather, a raw, visceral loathing for the smell of alcohol had ruled his life since he was five years old.
The trauma was forged in the damp dark of a cellar—the hiding spot where he, then just a child, had crouched during a demon raid on his home. On the night his parents were slaughtered, a heavy flow of blood had seeped through the floorboards, pooling into the underground darkness where he lay. For days, the boy had been entombed with the copper stench of his family's life force.
That cellar had also served as his father's wine cellar, housing rows of fermenting casks. The sickening mix of aged spirits and fresh slaughter had created a cloying, nauseating miasma that seared itself into his mind.
Now, whenever the young magis caught the scent of fermentation, he was shoved back into that nightmare, the spectral stench of his parents' blood rising to choke him. The memory was a jagged shard embedded in his soul—a wound that gnawed at his composure even now.
Seraph didn't even need to take a drink to be undone; the mere aura of ale and spirits saturating the air was enough to trigger a violent, internal revulsion. As he sat in the shadows, every flagon around him looked less like a comfort and more like a concentrated, lethal toxin threatening to shatter his mask of glacial indifference.
The thick miasma of spirits saturating the fortress had completely killed Seraph's appetite. As his mageia grew, his need for food had dwindled, giving him a supernatural endurance against hunger; but right now, his greatest feat of strength was simply not throwing up.
The hearth fires roared in vibrant amber, the steady hiss of rendered fat dripping from spitted beef onto glowing coals filling the air. The scent of simmering pottage fought against the cloying reek of alcohol, while a cacophony of laughter, harps, and skin-drums pulsed through the night.
This festive euphoria offered a fragile veil, momentarily dulling the needle-pricks of trauma that gnawed at his heart.
Seraph sat in self-imposed exile on a weathered timber, tucked away in the shadows far from the town square. He watched the townsfolk and the sentry lovers spinning around the pyre, his gaze drifting toward a memory of someone hidden away on the distant frontier of Arkflame.
Suddenly, the heavy thud of footsteps broke his solitude. The sharp, intrusive smell of concentrated ale hit his nostrils just before a boisterous voice erupted from the dark behind him.
"Aha! Lord Seraph! Hiding in the shadows like a broody hen, I see. No wonder I've spent half the night scouring the square for you!"
A man of massive, bear-like proportions lumbered forward with friendly speed, clutching a pair of brimming flagons. He dropped his bulk onto the timber beside the young magis with such force the wood groaned under the impact.
"Norak," Seraph greeted, his voice a dry rasp of acknowledgement.
Norak was the Vice-Governor of Civil Works and Artefact Ordnance—a man of genius who had personally pioneered the latest tier of mana-cannons for the Ragguard defence. It was under his oversight that the sapper divisions had restored the fractured masonry to its full integrity in a mere forty-eight hours.
Norak was Leonis's right hand, plain and simple. Even though this bear of a man held a civilian rank and lacked any mageia power, he'd been the architect of Ragguard's grand strategy for decades. He was the most trusted soul in the fortress, possessing a genius that sat in strange harmony with his loud, friendly personality.
His time with Leonis had long since turned into a deep, unshakable brotherhood. Fifteen years ago, second only to the girl's own mother, Norak had been the first to cradle the newborn Rosalyn; he'd been her godfather ever since.
Over the last forty-eight hours, Seraph had worked side-by-side with Norak, auditing the fortress's underground tunnels to make sure no Crawler could slip through a breach. The young man had watched the Vice-Governor's tireless work on the shattered towers and walls, gaining a quiet respect for the man's mechanical soul.
"Ha! How can a kid like you just sit here in the dark?" Norak bellowed, his laughter carving a map of wrinkles across his broad face. "If I were in my prime, I'd have a girl under each arm by now! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
His point wasn't far off. All evening, a steady stream of curious maidens and town daughters had been casting longing looks at the young magis.
Unfortunately for any girl bold enough to try her luck, they weren't just met with Seraph's icy indifference, but with Rosalyn's interference. The girl acted like a guard dog, intercepting any would-be suitors and steering them firmly away from her master.
Seraph, however, didn't budge. His heart was a locked vault, already full to the brim; he had zero interest in anyone else's affection.
"After you..." the young man replied with detached brevity.
"You're a tough nut to crack, aren't you? How can a kid have such a total lack of cheer?" Norak chided, his disapproval softened by a boisterous grin. "Here! Take it!"
With a forceful shove, he pressed the brimming flagon into the young magis's personal space, practically demanding he take a drink.
Seraph stared at the massive vessel with a hollow expression. The concentrated reek of the alcohol was so sharp it stung his nostrils, igniting a flare of irritation that tempted him to swat the cup right out of the man's hand. Yet, Norak's standing in the fortress and his genuine warmth stayed Seraph's hand.
With a measured grace that remained icy and detached, Seraph pushed the flagon back.
"I appreciate the gesture... but I have to pass," Seraph stated, his tone a mask of polite but impenetrable distance.
Norak arched a brow, clearly blindsided by such a stone-cold refusal.
"Come on! The air tonight is freezing; ale and wine are the lifeblood the Goddess gives us to keep breathing," Norak insisted, his smile widening. "A drink will stoke the fire in your blood against this Northern chill. Besides, the whole city's lost in the joy—I can't in good conscience leave you here to suffer the bite of hunger and solitude!"
He pushed again, thrusting the flagon forward with dogged enthusiasm.
"I'm fine," Seraph repeated, his voice clipping the words with iron-clad finality.
"Hah... you're a stubborn one, for sure," Norak sighed, finally giving up on the drink. "At the very least, you've got to sample the Ragguard roast—it's a local specialty! A hero of your standing shouldn't be hiding in the gloom."
His voice carried the weight of a concerned elder, fretting over a youth who lacked the social graces of the court.