Chapter 117: He is Alive

Letting out a small, contented sigh, her dark core purring happily, completely satisfied with its meal, leaving the Archduke to his dramatic, utterly futile quest for revenge.

The extraction from the subterranean catacombs beneath the Verdant Gate had been a nightmare, executed with the efficiency that only the Black Bastion could muster.

Duke Kaelus von Nacht had not permitted the convoy to return to their encampment on the edge of the jungle. The moment the forty traumatized children were successfully hauled to the surface, blinking against the humid night air, the Archduke had issued a series of rapid, uncompromising commands that essentially resulted in the Vanguard commandeering the largest and heaviest fortified establishment in the entire city.

The Emerald Crown, a massive, four-story luxury inn constructed from reinforced ironwood and enchanted stone, had been entirely bought out. Kaelus dropped a heavy leather pouch containing enough coins to purchase a small fleet of ships onto the innkeeper’s desk, ordered every other patron to be evacuated, and turned the building into an impenetrable military bunker.

Sir Lucas, his scarred face grim and entirely devoid of its usual wry humor, had personally overseen the sealing of every window on the ground floor. Sir Boris and Sir Gallahan had established a rotating, heavily armed perimeter that extended a full block in every direction.

No one entered, and no one left, without the explicit, terrifying gaze of the Northern knights falling upon them.

The primary reason for this absolute lockdown was sleeping in the master suite on the top floor.

Seraphina von Nacht had not stirred since she slumped against Kaelus’s chest in the underground hoard.

Her Supreme Dark Core, having engorged itself on the toxic mana of the pulverized Trickster, had plunged her small body into a state of hibernative stasis to process the monumental influx of energy.

But there was a secondary, equally urgent reason for the Bastion’s occupation of the inn.

The ten-year-old merchant’s son, the boy whom the demon had violently pulled through the iron bars and bitten, was, miraculously, still breathing.

When the knights had reached the boy on the obsidian dais, they had expected to find a corpse. The amount of arterial blood that had painted the white stone pillars had been catastrophic.

But they had underestimated two things: the resilience of youth, and the freezing perfection of Kaelus’s magic.

During the chaos, before Kaelus had even fully processed the fact that Seraphina was holding the demon hostage, the Archduke’s subconscious battle instincts had flared. A surgical pulse of his glacial mana had swept across the dais, flash-freezing the boy’s torn neck and shattered sternum, instantly halting the hemorrhage.

Furthermore, Seraphina’s gravitational interference had interrupted the demon’s feast seconds before the creature could sever the boy’s major arteries completely.

He was clinging to life by a thread no thicker than a spider’s silk.

Kaelus had taken one look at the pale, broken boy, the child whose horrific assault had pushed his daughter into a state of feral, world-ending rage, and made a silent vow.

’That child will not die. Not under my watch. Not after what she did to save him.’

The Emerald Crown’s grand dining room had been converted into a high-tier trauma ward.

Kaelus had dispatched riders to every corner of the Verdant Gate, mobilizing every certified healer, alchemist, and holy cleric in a fifty-mile radius. He did not ask for their assistance; he demanded it, offering sums of gold so astronomical that local apothecaries were practically tripping over themselves to reach the inn.

Dr. Thorne, the Bastion’s gruff, one-eyed chief medical officer, had taken command of the assembly of healers, utilizing their combined magic to slowly knit the boy’s shattered bones back together and regenerate his torn flesh.

For twelve hours, the inn was a hive of tense, bloody, desperate labor.

And for twelve hours, Kaelus von Nacht sat in a high-backed chair beside the massive four-poster bed in the master suite, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Seraphina’s chest, refusing to sleep, refusing to eat, waiting for his daughter to return to him.

When Seraphina finally opened her eyes, the world outside the heavy, velvet-draped windows of the master suite was bathed in the dim, golden light of late afternoon.

Her awakening was not accompanied by the sluggish, heavy molasses of her previous coma. This time, she felt surprisingly, incredibly light.

Her body felt rested, her muscles humming with a strange, boundless, buzzing energy that she couldn’t quite identify. The heavy, dark mana that usually sat like a quiet, dormant stone in the center of her chest felt vibrant, polished, and perfectly aligned.

She blinked at the ornate, painted ceiling of the unfamiliar inn, her mind completely blank for a fraction of a second.

And then, the dam broke.

The memories did not return as a slow trickle; they crashed into her consciousness with the violent, horrific force of a tidal wave.

The heavy, sickening smell of old copper and rotting meat. The metallic CLANG of the Trickster’s cane. The horrific, wet tearing sound of flesh. The arterial spray of hot, red blood splashing across the polished white pillars. The boy’s gargling, desperate screams as his sternum snapped.

Seraphina violently shot up in the bed, her small hands flying to her mouth, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing from her throat.

Her soul violently recoiled. She had seen violence in movies, read about gore in fantasy novels. But absolutely nothing could have prepared her for the visceral, sensory reality of a child being eaten alive three feet in front of her face. The cruelty of the demon, the pathetic, helpless terror of the caged children... it was a nightmare etched permanently into the inside of her skull.

"Seraphina."

The voice was low, smooth, and infinitely grounding.

Kaelus was instantly beside her. He had crossed the room the moment her breath hitched. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his massive frame blocking out the ambient light of the room, casting her in his safe, familiar shadow.

He wasn’t wearing his armor; he was dressed in a clean, soft, dark linen shirt, his raven hair slightly messy from running his hands through it.

He didn’t ask if she was okay, didn’t offer empty platitudes.

He reached out and pulled her firmly into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around her trembling shoulders, pressing one large, warm hand against the back of her head.

"Breathe, Mushroom," Kaelus murmured, his voice rumbling directly against her ear. "You are not in the dark. The monster is gone. You are safe."

Seraphina pressed her face against his chest. She didn’t cry, didn’t hyperventilate. But hot, silent tears began to rapidly soak into the fabric of his shirt.

She wasn’t crying because she feared the demon. She knew the demon was gone. Her core had already digested him.

She was crying because she felt a crushing, suffocating wave of guilt.

"Papa," Seraphina whispered, her voice cracking, her small fingers curling tightly into his shirt. "The boy. The boy with the nice clothes. The monster hurt him. He hurt him so bad."

"I know," Kaelus said softly, resting his chin on her hair, holding her tighter.

"I was too slow," Seraphina sobbed, her intellect warring with the child’s emotional capacity, producing a cocktail of self-blame. "I was hiding. I tried to hide my magic so the clown wouldn’t look at me. If I hadn’t hidden... if I had just used the shadows the second he walked in the door... the boy wouldn’t have gotten bitten. I let it happen. I just watched."

The confession shattered Kaelus’s heart.

He understood the survivor’s guilt.

It was the same, toxic, corrosive poison that had eaten away at his own soul for fifteen years after he watched his father’s Vanguard fall in the Glacial Abyss. The infinite, agonizing loop of ’if I had only been faster, if I had only been stronger.’

Kaelus gently grasped her shoulders, pulling her back just enough so he could look directly into her tear-filled, dark eyes. His violet eyes were entirely devoid of coldness, burning with a fierce, unyielding sincerity.

"Listen to me, Seraphina von Nacht," Kaelus commanded softly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You are six years old, trapped in a cage surrounded by anti-magic runes, facing an entity of the Abyss. The fact that you survived is a miracle. The fact that you fought back is a testament to your unparalleled courage."