The mageia gate and the heptagonal circle unfurled to grant Seraph entry. The hum of arcane forces and the rhythmic click of celestial machinery harmonised into a macrocosmic melody. The Grandmaster's chambers remained a stunning simulacrum of the universal clockwork; starlight glittered amidst the abyss, and planets maintained their eternal orbit around a central sun.
Most mageia wielded by the common magis were tethered to the elements or basic support; the Ancient Arcanus required to manifest such a celestial replica was of a complexity far beyond ordinary reach. It was a lost art, a remnant of a primordial era that had vanished two millennia ago.
Most artefacts forged by human hands are singular manifestations of craft, each bearing a distinct nuance that separates it from the next. They possess a unique character, existing as the sole iteration of their kind in the world. Even those common artefacts mass-produced in great quantities, which appear to emerge from a singular mold, are nonetheless works of art; a keen eye can always discern the minute, divergent strokes of the artisan's hand.
Should the Stormcloud Citadel ever fall to ruin, the vast array of ancient mageia artefacts fashioned a millennium ago would vanish into the void, impossible to replicate. These lost secrets are the very quarry that countless rune architects pursue, scouring the archaic ruins of the world to reclaim the forgotten mageia arts. Indeed, the vocation of the treasure hunter has become a pursuit no less esteemed than that of the demon hunter.
As Seraph advanced into the heart of the chamber, the macrocosmic simulacrum gradually dissolved. In its stead, the familiar arrangement of the sofa and the magisterial desk reclaimed their positions.
Eldra sat entrenched behind her desk, her features set in a mask of grim focus as she signed various documents. Numerous scrolls hovered suspended in the air, unfurling themselves with a spectral autonomy to allow her to peruse them without a single touch. The space surrounding the Grandmaster felt like a theatre of the wondrous.
"Take a seat," Eldra said, her voice hollow. She remained tethered to her work, not deigning to cast even a fleeting glance his way.
The young man moved to the chair before her desk and sat without hesitation.
In the very heartbeat he settled, Evelyn entered the room in a hushed silence, bearing a service of coffee and chocolate biscuits.
Seraph turned his gaze toward the girl; she caught his eye with a fleeting, sidelong glance, as though a silent communion passed between them, unspoken and absolute. In that shared stillness, they locked gazes without a word of greeting or any outward sign of impropriety. Yet, a soft roseate flush bloomed upon her cheeks amidst the silence, her eyes darting away for no discernible reason.
Eldra remained buried in her scrolls, seemingly oblivious to the pair's bashful conduct. The hovering sea of parchment acted as a partition, shielding the Grandmaster from the peculiar expressions flitting across their features.
With a mask of indifference, Seraph reached for the coffee service Evelyn proffered. However, the moment their fingertips brushed, a sharp spark of static hissed between them—a sudden, biting discharge that caused both to recoil in startlement.
"Ah!" Evelyn let out a stifled cry, her grip faltering as the cup canted dangerously.
In a heartbeat, the coffee surged forth, drenching Seraph's white cloak. The dark liquid blossomed across the pale fabric, leaving a stark, unsightly blemish that defied concealment.
"O-oh no! I... I'll go get something to wipe this! Just a second!" Evelyn blurted, retreating toward her quarters in a frantic blur.
"It's no matter..." Seraph managed, though the scalding heat of the brew continued to bite against his chest.
Eldra deigned to look up for a fleeting second, her eyes sweeping over the pair. She regarded the youthful commotion as a trifle, a mere distraction from the gravity of her tenure. She dipped her quill once more, the rhythmic scratch of feather against parchment resonating through the chaotic air of the chamber.
Evelyn scurried back, pressing a towel against Seraph's frame. She rubbed at the fabric with a desperate fervour; yet, though she succeeded in drawing out the moisture, the dark stain remained obstinate. The blemish clung to the white cloak with a grim permanence, as if etched into the very fibres of the mageia garment for all eternity.
"What am I to do...?" the girl lamented, redoubling her efforts. She scrubbed at the white mageia fabric with a desperate, punishing vigour.
'It's a mercy my mending was finished moments ago,' Seraph mused grimly. 'Otherwise, she might well have fractured a rib with all this fervour. At this rate, the cloak will be torn to shreds before the stain even thinks of yielding.'
Evelyn's clumsiness remained a steadfast constant, an erratic force of nature. Even now, in her frantic state, she inadvertently trampled upon Seraph's boots multiple times.
Eldra, her patience finally hitting its limit, deigned to intervene. "Seraph! Take off the cloak. I'll provide you with a fresh garment. As for the soiled one, give it to Eve; let her see to the laundering."
"It's a trifle, Grandmaster. I can easily leave it for the housemaids later," Seraph tried to decline, a flicker of apprehension in his voice.
"You will surrender it to her," Eldra insisted, her tone brokering no argument. "She caused this chaos; it's only right she bears the burden of fixing it."
The girl chimed in swiftly, "I can do it! I promise, on my honour, I won't singe the fabric!" Evelyn asserted with misplaced confidence.
Upon hearing her vow, a cold dread coiled within Seraph's chest. This was a bespoke mageia cloak, a recent acquisition he was loath to see reduced to charcoal so soon. Yet, pinned beneath the dual, unyielding gazes of the two women, he found his defiance crumbling.
Reluctantly, Seraph divested himself of the cloak and handed it to Evelyn. She snatched the garment with a predatory speed and vanished into the sanctuary of her chambers.
The young man settled back into his seat, his posture stiff with unease as he addressed the Grandmaster.
"I'm no guest of high standing. I've no wish to impose on her. There's truly no need for her to perform such menial service for the likes of me," Seraph said, his discomfort palpable in the stifled air.
Eldra remained silent for a heartbeat before she deigned to answer.
"I have never compelled her to serve tea or coffee to any guest—indeed, she has never performed such a service for anyone before. She hasn't even seen to the laundering of my own garments. Ordinarily, I find myself quite unable to command her; she is a creature of absolute liberty, pursuing only what she desires," Eldra remarked, her gaze boring into him.
Seraph found himself bereft of words.
"What business have you with me, Magister?" he asked, desperate to pivot the discourse.
"Sanctus harbours no prejudice against the half-blood—why then, do you shroud your true nature from me?" Eldra inquired, her voice chillingly devoid of emotion.
"I am no half-blood! I bear no demonic crystal upon my chest! You may verify it this very instant!" Seraph practically bellowed.
Having endured the scrutinising glares of the Farvin sentries and the townsfolk who looked upon him as if eager to vivisect him, his patience for such slander had hit rock bottom. He could not suffer his own superior to be swayed by such wretched fallacies.