By the time the pair finally deigned to release him, the night was well-spent. His eventual departure was secured only because Eldra remained unyielding, flatly refusing Evelyn's insistent demand that the young man remain as a guest within their chambers for the night.
At the very least, his departure was sweetened by a pristine white mageia cloak, its hem embroidered with gold—a compensatory gift from Eldra herself.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
Seraph paced along the familiar galleries, the atmosphere of Sanctus steeped in a profound, scholarly hush. Though the hour was late, the stroke of midnight had yet to fall, leaving a scattered few magis still attending to their nocturnal rites within the citadel.
The Grandmaster's sanctum sat perched at the zenith of the Mageia Tower within the central fortress; thus, the young magis was compelled to descend toward the distant wing where his own quarters were situated.
His footsteps resonated through the Great Hall with a steady, unflinching cadence. Along the vaulted walls, knight golems stood in grim formation, flanking the statues of legendary archmages from eras long past. In a shadowed corner of the hall, a stranger stood as motionless as the effigies surrounding him, looking for all the world like a newly commissioned sentinel of the Sanctus Sanctum.
The unknown knight was clad in exquisite sable plate armour, draped in a mantle of spun gold. His gaze swept the expanse with a predatory focus, as if searching for a specific quarry. The sheer aura of a master swordsman lanced from his eyes, his posture as rigid and unyielding as a bared blade. There was an alien quality to his presence, a martial grit that felt discordant within the grand halls of Sanctus, drawing Seraph's gaze irresistibly toward him.
In that heartbeat, their eyes locked, neither deigning to look away. The stranger advanced with a swift, decisive stride, closing the distance in mere seconds to stand before the young magis.
"Are you the Magis Seraph?" the knight inquired.
His voice was a bedrock of stability; though he spoke softly, the tone was a deep, resonant baritone that echoed through the Great Hall without the aid of any spell.
Every magis within the vicinity caught the exchange. They turned with a burgeoning curiosity, their whispers rippling through the air as they scrutinised Seraph with newfound suspicion.
Seraph's suspicion mirrored the unease rippling through the hall.
"I am," Seraph replied, his tone guarded. "And you are?"
"I am known as Marcell. I've come to deliver a formal writ of challenge, if you please," Marcell stated with stiff, courtly grace.
With a measured movement, he proffered a rectangular scarlet envelope, presenting it to the magis with both hands. Marcell's demeanour radiated a profound, almost reverent humility—yet it was clear this deference was not directed at Seraph himself, but born of his loyalty to the master who had penned the challenge.
"Who sent this?" Seraph asked, his voice flat.
"The Lord Arthus, sir," Marcell replied curtly.
The name confirmed Seraph's suspicions. Only that insufferable knight would persist in such a dogged pursuit. He wondered, however, how Arthus had managed to persuade a swordsman of such high standing to deign to act as a mere courier for a duel.
Seraph accepted the letter and broke the seal. His eyes swept across the parchment. Finishing, he looked up at Marcell, who stood poised for a response.
"Inform Arthus that I've not forgotten our appointment. We will meet tomorrow at noon in the Central Arena. Tell him as well—if he fears death, he needn't bother appearing! I'm entirely restored, and tomorrow, I intend to show no mercy!" Seraph declared with grim finality.
"Understood. I will relay your words to Lord Arthus without a single syllable's deviation," Marcell answered, his face an unreadable mask.
The stranger turned on his heel and departed. His stride was heavy with a sense of honed power and lethal precision, as if he were a blade already half-drawn from its scabbard.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
The Central Basilica.
As high noon approached, a cacophony of several thousand voices billowed through the Sanctus Sanctum. Seraph paced along the stone galleries of the Stormcloud Citadel, with Marina treading softly by his side as they made their way toward the Central Arena.
The young man had sought her out at daybreak to divulge his scheduled confrontation with a young knight named Arthus. Upon hearing the tidings, Marina had insisted on witnessing the bout, further volunteering her services as the field arbiter and the designated healer for the arena. Thus, as the sun climbed toward its zenith, they proceeded together toward the duelling grounds as dictated by the appointment.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
The Stormcloud Citadel comprised seven majestic fortresses, bound together by ancient arcanus and a labyrinth of corridors. Certain mageia structures even drifted suspended in the firmament, devoid of supporting pillars, connecting the upper tiers of the towers to spare the magis the tedium of descending to the foundations.
Surrounding each citadel were various locales where the magis could pursue their crafts with absolute liberty. Given that the magis of Sanctus and Arkflame were a folk possessed by a fervour for duelling, each of the seven fortresses naturally boasted multiple arenas, both enclosed and open to the elements.
The Central Arena stood as the grandest open-air amphitheatre within Sanctus, nestled at the very heart of the Stormcloud Citadel. It was a titan of a venue, possessing a capacity of fifty thousand souls, with the capability to expand its seating via mageia to accommodate over a hundred thousand should the necessity arise.
As Sanctus remained the most venerable and influential mageia association across the continent of Laurasia, outsiders frequently sought to lease the Central Arena for tournaments and festivities throughout the turning of the year.
It was a frequent occurrence for outsiders to breach the threshold of Sanctus, drawn by the monthly tournaments and athletic spectacles or the prospect of commissioning a mandate. Such was the prestige of the Central Arena that both magis and warriors from distant lands yearned to contend upon its sands, seeking to etch their names into its storied chronicles.
When no official rites of combat were scheduled, the magis of Sanctus claimed the venue for their own. They oft organised informal tourneys between the various cloisters and circles within the citadel.
On occasion, the duelling societies or mageia collectives would even orchestrate unsanctioned bouts or demonic hunting trials, inviting external magis to participate. These gatherings would swell in grandeur, escalating into events of a truly continental scale.
Each time the drums of combat echoed within Sanctus, the public would swarm the gates, their coin providing a revenue stream no less vital than the Sanctus's mandate department.
Yet, despite the lack of an official ceremony today, a staggering multitude of magis and commoners had congregated about the central fortress. Some sought to broker mandates; others wandered amidst the arcane architecture of the Stormcloud Citadel, while a significant throng had already taken their seats within the amphitheatre.
Ordinarily, the Sanctus felt desolate, its vast structural expanse housing a mere few hundred magis, many of whom were afield on duty. Even when accounting for the novices and the non-mageia staff, the total tally seldom surpassed five hundred souls.
Yet today, thousands had descended upon the Sanctus, the vast majority already entrenched within the stone tiers of the Central Arena. These were no magis of the order; even the former curs of the Kambion Group were there, sequestered and lurking amidst the throng.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧