The midday sun beat down with a sweltering intensity, setting hearts to thrumming like the rhythmic strike of war drums. As Seraph and Marina paced toward the Central Arena, a multitude of voices—both from within the Sanctus and from the world beyond—rose to hail the young magis. The clamour echoed through the central fortress, many offering their fervent support for him to uphold the honour of the Sanctus Sanctum. To be the cynosure of such a crowd was a phenomenon Seraph had never endured, a stark departure from the obscurity of his past.
Even Marina found the transition jarring. She felt, with a burgeoning ache, that the young man beside her was outstripping her, growing more distant with every passing heartbeat. It was a source of quiet dread; she remained torn between a longing for the simplicity of their shared past and the uncertain promise of this new, formidable evolution.
"Have you truly set your mind on duelling that man?" Marina asked for the hundredth time, her voice laced with persistent anxiety.
Seraph couldn't recall every word of her fretful discourse, but he was certain she'd asked that very thing a dozen times since daybreak.
"It's a mere sparring match, the sort Arkflame has long held in high esteem," Seraph replied, his tone dismissive. "It's a tradition that facilitates a rapid tempering of my strength—why does it cause you such distress?"
"But... this Arthus..." Marina hesitated.
"What of the man? Is there some peculiarity I should heed? He's nothing but a knight possessed by a lunacy. Do you have some prior acquaintance with him?" Seraph asked, his brow furrowing.
"No acquaintance... yet whispers have drifted from the Highmaster's circles," Marina answered. "They say this Arthus is a noble of significant standing."
"I half-expected you to claim he was a three-headed, six-armed scion of some demonic lineage," Seraph remarked dryly, trying to diffuse her dread with a touch of grim levity.
He cast a sweeping glance over the thousands congregating around the Central Arena. Had Arthus not been a noble of considerable weight, there would be no rational explanation for such a multitude of outsiders to be privy to an informal bout, let alone their deliberate presence within the Sanctus.
"It is far graver than that!" Marina countered, her anxiety escalating. "High-ranking magis with ties to the Royal Court have whispered... that Arthus might well be of the Arkflame bloodline!"
The more she spoke, the deeper the shadows of doubt grew within her. Marina, though possessed of a boundless kindness, was a creature tethered to her worries; she navigated existence with meticulous caution. Her entire life and her vocation as a High Healer were dedicated to the absolute mitigation of risk.
This steadfastness had allowed her mageia to evolve as smoothly as a mountain stream, growing in safety and grace. Her prestige as a healer served as a testament that the path she had trodden was the correct one.
"That was among the possibilities I'd already considered," Seraph noted, his gaze lingering on the distant citadels.
"He delivered the challenge of his own volition. If I am compelled to inflict grievous harm upon a royal scion... he has no grounds for reproach. Furthermore, you will be stationed at the arena's edge, prepared to intervene. I fail to see the calamity. Or, should it be I who suffers a crushing defeat and finds himself broken—" Seraph paused, turning to her with a faint, knowing smile.
"I trust you would see to my mending and not forsake me, would you not?" he asked with a teasing lilt.
Ordinarily, Marina offered the world only a mask of gentle compassion and mercy.
When they found themselves secluded from the world, her mask of clinical serenity would often fracture. She would pout; she would flare with a sudden, sharp temper; she would be stubborn, or fretful, or perhaps even a trifle pedantic. Yet her concern for Seraph was a boundless well, a depth of devotion no other soul had ever been permitted to witness.
Her endearing reactions often tempted Seraph into a playful goading, a quiet sport to coax the girl from the healer, just so he might see her true self once more.
"You're quite insufferable!" Marina declared, her displeasure palpable.
She fell silent for a heartbeat, her gaze softening. "Regardless of whether you prevail or suffer defeat... no matter how the tides of time alter you... nothing will ever sway my heart," she whispered, the words so thin they were barely intended for his ears.
The moment the confession left her lips, a roseate flush bloomed across her cheeks. Her sky-blue tresses brushed against her crimson face, framed by the gilded light spilling over the Jewel Hill and the mountain mists that clung to the galleries. She radiated an ethereal charm; though no mortal in Laurasia had truly beheld the Angelic host, and though she lacked the ivory wings of legend, Marina stood at that moment as the very image of a celestial goddess.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
High noon arrived, the sun's heat stoking the fires of anticipation.
Arthus stood at the heart of the arena, arms folded across his chest, his golden eyes seething with a mounting irritation. He glared at the young magis who ascended the sands with a maddening composure, while Marina took her station at the arena's perimeter, assuming her dual mantle of arbiter and healer.
The knight had been rooted to the spot for hours, encased in opulent, heavy gold plate armour befitting a royal sentinel. It was a mercy that the Jewel Hill air remained crisp and cold, else he might have succumbed to the swelter of his own panoply before a single blow was struck.
"You're late!" Arthus bellowed, his voice cracking like a thunderclap.
"I'm nothing if not punctual. It is high noon to the second. Look for yourself," Seraph countered, pointing a finger toward the zenith. "My mageia allows for a more precise calculation than a knight's intuition, it seems. No need for gratitude, of course—I simply saw fit not to squander your time further."
Seraph's retort was a calculated barb, designed to prick the other man's sanity.
"You've laid claim to Sophia's heart, yet you hold it with callous indifference!" Arthus bellowed, his voice booming across the expanse. "You've shown her not a shred of devotion! You never returned to tend to the girl who loved you; you've forsaken her to wither in cold neglect. You are a wretch of a man!"
Upon hearing this, Marina's head snapped toward Seraph, her features twisting into a mask of absolute displeasure. Her eyes were a tempest of unspoken interrogations, a churning tsunami poised to crush the young man beneath its weight. Had her gaze been the crushing depths of the sunless sea, the young magis would have perished a dozen times over.
The Central Arena of Sanctus was itself a gargantuan mageia artefact. Suspended above the sands were massive crystals, projecting the clash to every spectator in every tier with a clarity that made them feel as though they stood at the very precipice of the duel.
Furthermore, every exchange between the combatants was caught and amplified by the mageia acoustics, ensuring that every syllable resonated across the stands. Thus, it was not merely Marina who bore witness to the accusation.