Chapter 445: Gratitude Ceremony (2)
The celebration unfolded in waves of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. Tables of golden fruits and roasted meats lined the courtyard edges, while nobles and knights alike exchanged chatter under the shimmering glow of crystal lanterns. Serah, though surrounded by so much festivity, gravitated to the familiar presence of her companions.
Gathered near the fountain, away from the thickest clusters of nobles, Jorin stretched out his legs with an exaggerated sigh. His torso was still wrapped in fresh bandages beneath his ceremonial attire, but that didn’t stop him from leaning back with a goblet in hand, his other arm draped loosely around Myla.
"Well," Jorin said with a grin, lifting his cup, "finally, we can breathe. No slavers, no bloodthirsty guards, no running through underground vaults. Just... wine. And peace."
"I’ll drink to that," Myla said, clinking her glass against his. She rested her head on his shoulder, a small smile tugging at her lips. "And honestly, Jorin, I think we should take advantage of this break. A vacation, just the two of us. Somewhere warm. Somewhere far from steel and blood."
Jorin’s grin widened, and he pressed a kiss to her hair. "Finally, you’re speaking my language. The thought of you and me on some quiet island with nothing but the sea... aye, I could live like that."
Elira chuckled from where she sat cross-legged on the fountain’s edge, her soft blonde hair glowing in the sunlight. "You two and your endless romance. As for me, I’m keeping it simple. A warm bed, my family’s cooking, and sleep. A lot of sleep. I’ve missed it more than anything else."
"Of course you would," Kael said, lounging against the stone rim of the fountain, his own goblet held in his hand. His green eyes had that usual glint of humor, though there was a weariness beneath it too. "As for me, well... I’ll probably just wander around until something interesting happens. Maybe join another squad for minor missions. Can’t sit still like the rest of you. Feels too weird without a blade in my hand or a target in sight."
Serah, sipping her wine, smirked faintly as her companions’ words mingled in the air. She lowered her glass and spoke, her tone calm but firm. "You all deserve your breaks. Take them, enjoy them. As for me... my time will be spent reviewing what they drag out of Drosmir. Interrogations, scraps of information, whatever crumbs he tries to barter with. That’s the only thing that will keep me occupied until the next move."
Her words silenced them for a moment. Myla gave her a half-exasperated, half-admiring look. "Only you would call information work a vacation, Serah."
Before Serah could answer, a group of nobles approached, their perfumes thick, their smiles too polished. They dipped their heads politely, some offering lavish praises.
"Lady Serah," one older noblewoman said, her voice silken but edged with probing curiosity, "such grace, such bravery. Truly, you’ve inherited your father’s flame."
Another man chuckled, swirling his wine. "And yet, for all her fire, the princess still hasn’t found a man to tame it. Tell us, Lady Serah, why is that?"
The others chuckled lightly, clearly enjoying their own boldness, though their tones carried no malice—just the idle, unnecessary curiosity of people who thrived on gossip.
Serah inclined her head, her expression poised and respectful. "My heart is bound to my duty. When the time comes for such matters, it will come. But until then, my focus remains where it must—on Solara and her people."
Her answer was simple, polished, yet firm enough to end the probing without disrespect. The nobles smiled, some nodding approvingly, others disappointed at being denied a more scandalous reply, and then drifted back into the sea of chatter.
The evening wore on with waves of greetings, praises, and shallow conversations. Serah moved through the crowd with elegance, nodding, smiling faintly, offering thanks where it was due. But amidst the laughter and chatter, a shift touched her senses.
A flicker in the air. A ripple in the flow of myst.
She stilled, her crimson eyes narrowing slightly. It was faint—so faint most would never notice it. But she knew it well. A presence she had felt before. A presence others would call dangerous. But not her.
A slow smirk curved her lips as she set her glass aside on a passing tray. Without a word, she began weaving her way through the crowd, slipping past nobles with polite nods, her eyes focused though she did not let it show.
Just before she reached the exit archway, Elira stepped into her path, tilting her head curiously. "Serah? Where are you going?"
Serah smiled, faint and composed, her answer calm and without hesitation. "I just need to use the washroom. Don’t worry."
Elira blinked, then nodded, allowing her to pass. Serah’s stride never faltered, her smirk lingering as she stepped beyond the noise of the courtyard, her mind fixed on the familiar presence awaiting her.
***
Within the city of Ilis rose a grand cathedral, a towering marvel of stone and faith, the second tallest structure in the entire city, surpassed only by the royal palace itself. Its spire, crowned with a gilded cross, pierced the skies above like a lance of devotion, visible no matter where one stood in Ilis. Even when hidden by rows of buildings and bustling markets, the tip of its spire still broke the horizon, a constant reminder of its presence.
At the cathedral’s very summit, perched high upon a gargoyle whose stony wings jutted into the night, sat a lone figure cloaked in black. The moonlight caught the edges of his attire, tracing his outline faintly against the shadows, rendering him a whisper in the night. From such a height, he claimed the city with his gaze—the wandering citizens below, the street vendors hawking their goods, and most of all, the royal courtyard where the king’s ceremony was being held.
From that distance, no ordinary man could make out details beyond shifting forms and flickers of light. Yet Marcus was no ordinary man. His eyes—deep, unyielding midnight—pierced the distance as though the city itself wished to surrender its secrets to him. He sat with one leg dangling loosely from the gargoyle and the other bent to support his arm, hair tied in a messy bun that fluttered as the wind brushed by.
"Looks like the princess succeeded in her mission," Marcus murmured, his voice threaded with a mixture of pride and humor. His gaze never strayed from the royal courtyard. "Well, of course she did. She had my advice on how to proceed, didn’t she? And I am a damn good advisor." He puffed out his chest slightly at his own words, smirking as if the night itself were his audience.
"I’d like to visit and say hi," he mused aloud, "but that’d be one terrible idea. Dark mage walking into a royal ceremony? Yeah, that’d go over real well." His lips curled into a mischievous grin. "Still, I bet she’d love to see me—though she’d put on that tough act, as always." His chuckle echoed faintly against the cathedral’s stone.
"Well, another time, maybe," he muttered as he rose smoothly to his feet, balancing with casual grace atop the gargoyle. The city spread below him, glowing with torchlight and the chatter of Ilis’s people. "Right now, I’ve got business. Need to track down that bloodwretch bastard." He stretched lightly, shifting his weight as he prepared to leap into the night.
His eyes narrowed slightly, softer for a moment as they lingered on the distant courtyard. "I’ll visit next time, princess," he whispered, turning toward the cathedral’s far edge.
But just as he reached the precipice, a voice, calm yet laced with familiarity, cut through the night air.
"Are you really planning to show up here and leaving without even saying goodbye?"
Marcus froze—not in fear, but recognition. Slowly, he turned, his midnight eyes widening slightly before narrowing with amused disbelief. Leaning casually against the stone wall stood a tall, striking woman clad in the ceremonial attire of the Solara Kingdom. Her garment shimmered subtly in the moonlight, crimson accents catching the pale glow. Loose waves of red hair cascaded down her back, and her crimson eyes, bright and piercing, gleamed with an edge of mischief.
"Well now," Marcus said, his smirk spreading as he planted his hands on his hips. "Am I the luckiest guy on Amthar, or what? You know, princess, it’s about time you admitted it—you want me." His tone dripped with mock seriousness as he gestured with a playful wave of his hand for her to approach.
Serah’s crimson eyes twitched faintly at his words, though the smirk she wore betrayed her amusement.
"I mean, think about it," Marcus pressed, voice rising with feigned earnestness. "This is the second time you’ve managed to find me—even when I had my presence completely concealed. Come on now, you can’t tell me this isn’t true love." His grin widened, teasing without mercy.
"Shut up already," Serah finally said, her voice cool yet tinged with annoyance that didn’t quite hide the faint warmth in her tone. "You’re making me regret coming here at all." She pushed herself from the wall and began walking toward him, her steps steady, graceful, deliberate.
"Oh, come on. You and I both know that’s a lie," Marcus replied smoothly as she neared. "There’s no regret in those eyes—not one bit. If you ask me, there’s something else entirely." His midnight eyes locked with hers, daring her to deny it.