The Demonic Realm, however, is a domain of such concentrated malevolence that the Arkdreadnoughts cannot risk entry. Within those lightless borders, they are neither the solitary airborne predators nor the pre-eminent aerial artefacts. Any breach of that sovereign abyss carries a risk that is deemed absolute.
Any unsolicited breach of the Demonic Realm serves only to incite the Demon Legion into a state of unbridled fury. Should a mortal horde trespass upon those profane borders, they face not merely a violent repulse, but the relentless pursuit of ten million demon beasts cascading from the abyss—a traumatic lesson etched into the Arkflame consciousness through a century of demon war.
The calculus of such an incursion is fraught with peril; historically, only a Warlock or a high-tier demon hunter would dare the crossing, committed to a solitary gambit where survival is predicated on a self-sustained extraction, bereft of any support from the rear echelons.
Despite the mandates tethering him to the fortress, Seraph could not divest himself of the impulse to excise the remaining Crawler and undead cadres. He possessed the clinical certainty that failure to achieve total liquidation now would only invite a resurgence of the plague in the cycles to follow.
The young man remained a stationary sentinel upon the ramparts of Ragguard, his frame unmoving for hours on end.
Firstly, this vantage point was scoured by incessant gales and saturated with a staggering volume of residual mageia—the atmospheric sediment of a century of slaughter. By maintaining a vigil at the precipice of the battlefield, he could enter a state of mageia meditation, augmenting his internal reserves simply by inhaling the ambient energies of the front.
Secondly, his position atop the curtain walls granted him an unobstructed gaze into the Ancient Battlefield and the lightless horizon of the demonic frontier. From this height, he could discern the shifts of the demon beasts from a vast distance. Should the legion attempt a secondary siege upon Ragguard, he stood ready to deliver a definitive, terminal resolution to the conflict.
[SKREEEEEEEE—AHHH!]
A piercing shriek rent the firmament directly overhead. As Seraph craned his neck toward the zenith, he beheld a Snow Eagle—a formidable avian of some seven feet in stature—beating its pinions as it descended toward his vantage point.
The concussive downdraft from the creature's pristine, alabaster wings scoured the ramparts of Ragguard with sudden violence. Even the veteran sentry forces stationed nearby were nearly upended by the gale, forced to drive their polearms into the masonry to maintain their footing against the atmospheric surge.
Seraph retreated a single pace to afford the beast a steady landing space.
With a final, heavy beat of its wings, the mageia avian perched upon the stone embrasure, its expansive span momentarily cloaking fifteen feet of the wall in shadow. Tethered to its powerful talons were several postal parcels and a reinforced scroll-cylinder.
The young magis did not approach the delivery immediately. Instead, he withdrew to the nearby commissary and retrieved a sizeable fish—nearly the length of a grown man—which he cast before the predator.
The Snow Eagle snapped up the offering with clinical, predatory efficiency. In a display of anatomical defiance, the beast consumed the entire carcass in two massive gulps, despite the prey being nearly equivalent to its own mass.
Such is the immutable protocol of cohabitation and service regarding the mageia beasts of Laurasia.
Given that a Snow Eagle must transit nearly the entire kingdom's airspace, they strictly eschew hunting for sustenance during their tenure of service. It is the absolute mandate of the recipient to provide appropriate nourishment upon the creature's arrival.
Consequently, a universal, unwritten law of the postal echelons dictates that the recipient must furnish two specific repasts: the first upon the successful delivery of the missive, and the second prior to the bird's return transit, ensuring sufficient caloric reserves for the long-haul flight back to its origin.
Failure to furnish the required repast to a mageia beast of the postal echelons forfeits one's right to the consignments it carries; indeed, should fortune fail, the courier may well initiate a predatory strike against the negligent recipient.
Once the ritual of nourishment was concluded, the Snow Eagle remained stationary, emitting a bright, staccato shriek—a clinical signal of its consent for the young man to access the parcels.
Seraph closed the distance, extending a finger to touch the mageia wax seal upon the cordage securing the bundle and the scroll-cylinder. At his contact, the wax dissolved into the ether, allowing the bindings to unfurl with fluid grace.
The young man reached out to catch the small parcel as it descended, while the missive drifted upward to hover before his eyes.
Postal transits within Laurasia consist of both mundane and mageia classifications; such a consignment is frequently protected by an encryption-seal, rendering it entirely inaccessible to any unauthorised party. Upon the rose-pink envelope now suspended in the air, the four-leaf clover emblem was struck with absolute clarity.
Seraph secured both the mageia letter and the parcel with profound tenderness. He retreated into a private chamber, his preoccupation with the Demon Legion utterly dissipating into the background.
The interior revealed a modest dormitory, furnished only with a bed, a desk, and essential provisions—the sequestered quarters he had occupied throughout his tenure at Ragguard.
Seating himself at the desk, he set both items down, pushing the parcel aside with indifference.
With frantic speed, the young man seized the rose-pink missive. Though the exterior bore no script—as was the custom—the four-leaf clover seal, identical to the locket resting against his chest, served as the definitive signature of Lenora.
The moment he breached the wax seal, the first sensation to saturate his senses and permeate his entire frame was a delicate fragrance—a scent as subtle and evocative as nature itself.
The fragrance of Lenora was not the cloying, aggressive scent of a perfumer's concoction; rather, it was a subtle essence that transported him to the midst of a garden under the silvery moonlight of days gone by. It possessed an ethereal quality, akin to the scent of a midnight full moon—velvety, soft, and profoundly tender.
Pressed within the folds of the parchment was a Pink Rose Anastasia, maintaining the sentimental tradition of a solitary bloom accompanying every missive she despatched.
Yet, this particular Pink Rose Anastasia was a specimen of mageia, mirroring the extraordinary gift of their previous correspondence. Even now, the flower pulsed with an iridescent luminescence that scoured the shadows and the stagnant air from the young man's quarters. Its very presence spoke of a vast value and a multifaceted utility in the higher arts of mageia.
A mageia bloom was a rarity of the highest order, requiring the meticulous cultivation of a master magis of the verdant path. That she had surrendered such a treasure to him for a second time—without a heartbeat of hesitation—filled him with a complex unease at the sheer weight of her devotion.
"Shouldn't you have stayed by your mistress's side, little one?" Seraph whispered to the sentient blossom.
He toyed with the petals with a teasing finger, and upon receiving only silent radiance in return, he unfurled the parchment to attend to Lenora's heart.