Chapter 47 - The Calamity from the Skies [Part 2]
Passing through the lush fronds and verdant foliage of tropical plants from lands distant, they arrived at the concealed entrance just after midday, as the noonday sun blazed fiercely through the Academy's glasshouse dome. The air was thick with the heady scent of warm, resinous sap and the sweet, faintly musky perfume of exotic blooms, all mingling in a sensory tapestry.
Seraphina pressed her gloved fingertips to a precise sequence of Zajasite crystal lights, each milky-blue crystal flaring momentarily at her touch. With a soft, mechanical sigh, a segment of marble flooring tilted open, revealing a narrow stairwell spiraling into darkness.
Seraphina descended first, the hem of her dress brushing the cold stone, her escorts forming before and behind her. Sir Ferdiad Frest, all steel edges and quiet menace, took the lead at her side. The armored footsteps of the Knights echoed down the passageway as they pierced their way through this ancient place.
The air was musty and stale, a contrast to the ardent life of the jungle. They were a few people short as Miriam was busy with emergency measures and acquisitions, while Sir Galio Gravens had been sent to find and protect Eloise. All of them, save for Seraphina, were heavily armed and armored in the full panoply of war. They made for a very intimidating party.
“I have learned to keep my doubts private when it comes to your knowledge of things, milady,” Frest murmured, voice low enough that it barely carried to the ranks behind them. He swept a thick cobweb aside with one gauntleted hand, sword ready in the other. “But you are certain the Dragonslayer lies hidden beneath this place? Legends tend to be poor sources of the truth.”
Seraphina’s answer came wrapped in a cool smile. “In all legends lies a kernel of truth, but in this one, Sir Frest, they are most certainly rooted in fact. Besides, I seldom gamble on unknowns, and rarely without stacking the deck.” Her confidence was a torch, as bright and as constant as the crystal lights they possessed.
They pressed forward. Moisture beaded on the ancient stones, and every breath tasted of earth and forgotten incense. Carved alcoves lined the walls, each containing a marble bust or a copper death mask—solemn effigies of headmasters from centuries past. A distant and forgotten time. Their hollow eye‐sockets gleamed in the torchlight, as though silently judging the students and wayward teacher who dared disturb this subterranean sanctum. A shiver of déjà-vu rippled through Seraphina; the last time she’d had “adventures” underground had been far less than pleasant.
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There was a sudden gust, the type that would have snuffed torches of mundane flames at once. However, expensive Zajasite lights did not suffer such weaknesses, and Seraphina was once again glad that she did not have to suffer as the common adventurers did.
The party’s azure lights revealed more of the crypt’s macabre décor: weather-stained sarcophagi etched with fading sigils, chains of blackened silver draped like garlands between statues of stoic archmages, and floor tiles inlaid with star charts that glittered faintly beneath the dust of the years.
Despite the relative chill, Seraphina felt Cornelia shiver, her pet and familiar sharing in her excitement. Ahead, the corridor widened into an archway barred by a monumental stone door. On its surface writhed a mosaic of scaled wings and coiling flame. It was the unmistakable sigil of an ancient Dragonslayer order—or the Mercenaries’ Guild as they were known in this time. At that sight, the hardened Knights inhaled sharply. They knew not doubt their mistress, but to see proof of a legend with their very own eyes was another thing entirely.
Seraphina let the hush linger, savoring the tension like the first sharp note of a symphony. Then, with a decisive nod, she addressed her company. “It seems that this time there was no need to fend off the unquiet dead.”
“This time? And unquiet dead?” her Knight Filippe asked, a tad confused.
She waved airily at him. “I had thought that crypts would stir and whatnot and the dead would rise, that sort of thing,” she answered with deliberate nonchalance.
“Oh, this is the part where you leave me. Make your way to Mage’s training halls. The Wards and the Dullstone will protect you and should be safe,” she added as if she were ordering a light lunch.
Frest’s expression tightened. “With respect, Lady Seraphina, I can not leave you here alone. I am responsible for your safety,” he warned.
“This is a direct order. What I do now goes beyond such orders. What I must do, I must do for the good of the Kingdom. It is my duty first and foremost as the future mother of this nation,” she said sternly, iron in her ringing voice.
Against all reason, her words steadied the men, their armored fists tightening instinctively on the hilts of their weapons in a silent salute to this unexpected display of pure noblesse oblige. In that moment, she embodied not merely a noblewoman but the very essence of a true monarch, and they felt it in their bones. Seraphina was fairly certain she caught the glimmer of womanish tears in their eyes, though it could have been nothing more than a trick of the Zajasite light. Before her Charisma and such a direct command, even the doubtful Sir Frest could only shake his head in silent capitulation. To defy her command now would be as futile as opposing the inexorable flow of the River Aran.
“As you command, milady,” Frest murmured at last, his voice taut with the weight of acceptance.
“Oh, and do be careful on your way back. The dead are not always keen on letting living company go,” she added with a cheery smile.
