The young man planted a heavy boot on the traitor's chest, levelling the Rubyflame Sceptre directly at the bridge of his snout to kill any thought of escape.
"Hypnofalum." Seraph's voice was a frigid rasp.
As the liturgy was loosed, an indigo luminescence bled from the Sceptre, enveloping the Necromancer in an abrasive, hypnotic veil. Norak suffered a violent spasm; his bulging eyes gradually rolled back as the mandate of the sleep-curse took hold. He was forcibly plunged into an abyssal unconsciousness by the young magis's Art.
General Leonis and Rosalyn watched the resolution with heavy hearts.
"Is he... is it over?" Leonis asked, his voice a hollow lament.
"No... he's only sleeping," Seraph stated with iron-clad gravity. "Order your men to haul this Necromancer to the deepest oubliette. I'll need his testimony once this night is over."
"Right! I'll—"
[ROOOAAARRRR!!!!]
The coordinated howl of several hundred Crawlers erupted in a single, deafening roar.
Some clung to the heights of the sentry towers.
Others paced the ridges of the rooftops.
Many prowled the pitch-black alleyways.
A few remained perched atop the mangled remains of the townsfolk.
Scores watched from the edge of the firelight, their eyes fixed and predatory.
The moment Norak was silenced by the mageia slumber, every Crawler within the Ragguard Fortress reacted with near-instantaneous fury. Their collective snarls were directed toward the main square, their focus shifting with lethal, singular intent toward the young magis who had dared to take down their master.
Observing the shift in the tactical landscape, the young magis pivoted to reinforce the containment of the traitor.
"Sealcarcerus!" Seraph loosed the liturgy with urgent finality.
Spectral mageia chains manifested from the very ether, coiling around Norak's bestial frame with constricting speed. The bonds cinched his limbs and torso in an absolute embrace, ensuring that no struggle could effect a breach of his captivity.
The young man turned his glacial eyes back to General Leonis.
"HASTE! You must lock Norak's body within the deepest vaults of the fortress. Bind him with every precaution available; make sure he finds no loophole for escape," Seraph commanded with clinical gravity. "Find sanctuary for yourselves afterward. I'll act as the anchor for their malice, drawing the swarm's focus until the fortress is reclaimed. Do not break cover until the threat is extinguished!"
"I'll get Rosalyn to safety and entomb Norak in the oubliette," Leonis declared with martial resolve. "But I'm coming back to stand beside you! I'm the General of the Ragguard host; I won't forsake my oath to this soil!"
"Then you need to get your strength back... I suggest downing a Power Potion before you step back into this slaughterhouse," Seraph advised.
"Don't waste your breath on me! Rosalyn, get back!" Leonis barked, his voice strained with desperation.
He began to drag the dead weight of Norak across the flagstones, gesturing for the girl to follow.
"But I want to stay... to fight the demons beside my Master," Rosalyn murmured, her voice a mere shadow of its former self.
Blood continued to weep from the wound in her ivory neck, saturating her small frame in a crimson shroud. Her face was as ashen as parchment; between the ravages of the demon curse and the visceral trauma of the betrayal, she teetered on the edge of collapse.
Her vision was a blurred grey, and simply staying on her feet required a Herculean effort of the spirit. Yet, even in her ruin, she longed to keep the vigil beside her Master.
The young man offered no verbal reprieve; instead, he closed the distance with a measured stride and handed a Healing Potion to the girl, his features softening into the faint flicker of an amber-warm smile.
Upon seeing the crimson vial in his grasp, Rosalyn accepted the mercy without a shred of protest. She drained the alchemical draught with frantic necessity. Though the Minor Potion was small, containing only a few drops of concentrated herbal essence, its efficacy was absolute—especially for a soul whose endurance had been so cruelly tested.
The potion couldn't instantly erase her trauma, yet as the liquid went down her throat, a scarlet luminescence flared within her veins. The bleeding from her neck stopped in mere heartbeats. Her vitality flickered back to life; though she was far from a full recovery, the deathly lethargy that had threatened to snuff out her consciousness began to recede.
"Get to the sanctuary, now," Seraph commanded, his voice a paternal balm. "Don't let your father's heart wither with worry. Tonight you need to rest. Once you've got your strength back and you're fit for some mischief again... then we'll stand together on the battlefield."
Throughout their time together, the young magis had taught the girl a wealth of mageia Arts and hunter-tier techniques. Though he had never said it aloud, he saw Rosalyn as nothing less than his own apprentice. The intensity of their training had forged a bond of absolute trust between them.
Rosalyn searched his eyes, and finding an unshakeable sincerity there, her own face broke into a defiant smile.
"Count on it! I'm going to make sure I surpass even your power in the coming cycles! Next time, I'll be the one acting as your Sentry!" she proclaimed.
The girl's irrepressible spirit coaxed a low chuckle from Seraph's chest.
"Ha... I'll be waiting for that day," he replied, his composure momentarily lightened.
With that final word, the pair turned to follow General Leonis, retreating toward the Governor's chambers hidden within the heart of the fortress.
In that singular, breathless pulse, a hundred obsidian shadows converged from the city's edges, their movements a coordinated tightening of the noose. Their collective surge toward the heart of the fortress resembled a terrestrial tide of death, drawing every predator into a lethal focus.
This abrupt withdrawal of the Crawler horde left the survivors—those hunkered in underground vaults and lightless sanctuaries—in a state of bewildered reprieve. The slaughter that had saturated the Ragguard stones suddenly ceased as the Legion's vanguard abandoned their scattered prey.
The young magis propelled himself into the firmament with fluid, predatory grace, as if hoisted by an invisible hand toward the midnight sky. He came to rest upon the apex of the highest sentry tower overlooking the main square, his white cloak snapping in the biting gale.
"Argovus!" The spell of the Third Eye was unleashed.
A spectral eye manifested upon his brow, granting him a mageia perception that pierced the mantle of the dark. Seraph swept his gaze across the four hundred Crawlers converging on his position from every direction—a sea of obsidian sinew sworn to ensure he did not see the dawn.
"Four hundred Crawlers... combined with the casualties from two days ago, the tally hits nearly five hundred," Seraph mused, his mind a clinical engine of strategic calculation. "According to Arkflame intelligence, this should be the absolute limit of their strength on the Western frontier."
The young man surveyed the encroaching swarm, his heterochromatic eyes glinting with a frigid, lethal static.
"Fine by me," he whispered into the frost, his voice a sepulchral rasp. "You're saving me the trouble of hunting you through the muck... come on then, let's finish this."