TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 4 (RAW)

Chapter 4 - A Return to Normalcy

Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself. 

- George Bernard Shaw.

Dawn broke over the broken ruins of Milani Village, its pale light filtering through the shattered shutters of Gaellan’s house. Seraphina stirred in the narrow bed, her eyes opening to the quiet that had replaced the village’s once-lively hum. The room, small but lovingly kept, was a ghost of its former occupant, the now-dead Mina. There was a polished elm chest under the eaves, a braided rug dyed in sunset hues, and a quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant chirp of a lone bird, as if the world itself mourned the carnage of the previous day.

Seraphina sat up, her muscles aching and a little stiff. She wondered to herself how she ever managed to live for such a long time in such… accommodations. After a moment’s thought, the girl chalked it up to her raw grit and resilience

The emerald amulet rested heavy against her collarbone, its pulse a steady reminder of her reclaimed identity. She swung her legs over the bed’s edge, bare feet brushing the cool floorboards, and stood, stretching to ease the stiffness. Her gaze fell on a small hand mirror on the dresser, its surface catching the morning light. Levine had bought it for her, she recalled. She picked it up, studying her reflection: short blonde hair, matted with ash and blood, framed a face hardened by rage and purpose. Her eyes, once soft as Mina’s, now burned with the intensity of Seraphina de Sariens, heir to Aranthia.

She set the mirror down and opened the wardrobe, its dark wood creaking. Inside hung an assortment of clothing. Mina’s more delicate dresses, she disregarded. Instead, Seraphina selected a simple brown traveling dress, its fabric sturdy yet unassuming, with a modest cut that allowed for ease of movement. She dressed quickly, the practical attire grounding her in her new reality.

Hunger gnawed at her, and she descended the creaking stairs to the kitchen. The hearth was cold, its embers grey and lifeless. In the larder, she found a basket of apples, their skins glossy in the dim light, and a wheel of cheese wrapped in cloth. She sliced the cheese with a knife, its sharp tang mingling with the sweet bite of an apple. As she ate, memories of Mina’s disastrous attempts at cooking flickered—burnt bread, spilled stew—and a wry smile crossed her lips before she pushed the annoying feeling of nostalgia down. That girl was, of course, now gone.

With breakfast finished, Seraphina turned to preparation. She needed supplies for the first leg of her journey. She intended to go to Troyes, a town she vaguely recalled from the game. In Gaellan’s study, a cluttered room with shelves of ledgers and maps, she rifled through drawers. A leather pouch, hidden beneath a stack of papers, clinked with silver coins—twenty, by her count, a small fortune by the standards of a commoner. 

She pocketed them, ignoring a twinge of guilt. Gaellan had no use for them now, and she justified that this was not theft but payment for services rendered. On the desk, she found a worn map of the region, its parchment just starting to yellow. Troyes was marked to the northwest, a day’s ride along country roads winding through forests and fields. A bit further was Meridian, her final destination. She traced the route, committing it to memory, then rolled the map and tucked it into her belt.

Before leaving, she gave the house one last thorough search, hoping to find something useful. In the study, an old waterskin alongside a leather satchel hung by the door. She slung both over her shoulder without hesitation and moved on. A trinket—a carved wooden bird—caught her eye on a shelf, but she left it, unwilling to carry reminders of this awful place. Returning to the kitchens, she loaded up her bag with some food for the road.

Stepping outside, Seraphina was greeted by the sight of Cornelia, her three-headed hydra, coiled around the house like a living moat. The beast’s alabaster scales glinted in the dawn, her six yellow eyes half-lidded. The village beyond was a wasteland: charred timbers and scattered debris. A stray dog whimpered in the distance, the only sign of life Cornelia had spared.

“Cornelia,” Seraphina called, her voice firm but soft, “time to go. Make yourself small.”

The hydra hissed, a triune chorus of compliance, and her massive form shimmered. In moments, she shrank to the size of a large snake, her scales smooth and cool. Cornelia slithered up Seraphina’s leg, slipping under her tunic and wrapping around her torso, the hydra’s heads nestling against her chest for warmth. Seraphina shivered at the touch but welcomed the familiar weight, the amulet pulsing in sync with Cornelia’s presence.

“Where’s a horse?” the young girl asked, stroking one of Cornelia’s heads.

The Hydra’s central head lifted, sniffing the air. “There in the large green bit with stuff around it,” she rumbled, pointing with its snout toward the back of the house. The other heads nodded in agreement, their tongues flicking.

“That is called a paddock,” Seraphina corrected primly.

The noblewoman followed the direction, her boots crunching on ash-covered ground. The paddock, a simple enclosure of split logs, held a single horse—Ember, the very mare she had calmed at Arnell’s smithy. Ember grazed calmly, her chestnut coat gleaming in the sunlight. As Seraphina approached, the horse raised her head, ears pricked.

Seraphina sent a mental command, “Be still, Ember.” 

The mare’s eyes softened, her body relaxing as the amulet’s power took hold. Ember stood motionless, allowing Seraphina to enter the nearby stable. Inside, she found a saddle, its leather worn but sturdy, a bridle with a simple bit, and a halter. She carried them to the paddock, her movements practiced despite the years lost to amnesia.

She placed a saddle pad on Ember’s back, then the saddle, tightening the girth with care to avoid pinching. The bridle came next, the bit sliding into Ember’s mouth as Seraphina adjusted the straps. She checked the stirrups, ensuring they were the right length as Kellan had instructed her long ago, and tied the waterskin and satchel to the saddle. Satisfied, she mounted, settling into the saddle with a sense of purpose. Ember responded to a gentle nudge, trotting out of the paddock and onto the country road leading northwest.

The road wound through fields and forests, the landscape a stark contrast to the village’s ruins. Golden wheat swayed in the breeze, and birds flitted among the trees, their songs a mockery of the destruction behind her. Seraphina’s thoughts churned as she rode, the amulet’s presence against her heart a reminder of what she had endured. 

With some time on her hands, the girl decided to review her Status.

[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl.26)

STR:

DEX:

CON:

INT:

WIS:

CHR:

LCK:

51

28

54

32

12

42

31 [36]

Health:

Stamina:

Mana:

Experience:

1033/1033

93/93

19/19

308/9539

[Skills & Proficiencies]

Swords

(lvl.5)

Bows

(lvl.3)

Crossbows

(lvl.4)

Throwing Weapons

(lvl.2)

Dodge

(lvl.3)

Improved Critical Hit Mastery

(lvl.1)

Improved Riding

(lvl.3)

Monster Taming

(lvl.4) [lvl.1 Improved]

Herbalism

(lvl.2)

Daggers

(lvl.5)

Unarmed

(lvl.5)

Rest

(lvl.5)

Power Strike

(lvl.4)

Slings

(lvl.4)

Polearms

(lvl.1)

Medium Armor

(lvl.3)

Heavy Armor

(lvl.2)

Blind Fighting

(lvl.5)

Stealth

(lvl.1)

Dash

(lvl.2)

Power Throw

(lvl.1)

Dual Wield

(lvl.3)

Club

(lvl.2)

Spells & Magic

Heal

(lvl.5)

Silent Casting

(lvl.3)

Wail of Judgment

(lvl.3)

Crystal Dagger

(lvl.5)

Mana Regeneration

(lv.4)

Crystal Spear

(lvl.1)

[Gifts]

Strength of the Old Ones:

+25 Strength

Resilience of the Old Ones:

+25 Constitution

Legacy of the Dragon Turtle:

+1 Constitution, +1 Luck, +10% Water Resistance, 10% Physical Resistance

An hour or two later, the rhythmic thunder of hooves broke her reverie. A group of twenty horsemen approached, their polished armor glinting fiercely in the sunlight, and their banners snapping proudly in the breeze, emblazoned unmistakably with her family’s crest—a spray of wisterias on a red field.

At the forefront rode Sir Frest, his distinctive armor gleaming proudly, taken as spoils from a fallen Royal Guard. His stern bearing and confident posture were immediately recognizable even from afar.

A cheer rose from the men as they drew close enough to recognize their lady, relief clear in their voices. Frest spurred forward at a steady canter, and his riders fell neatly into formation behind him.

Seraphina reined in Ember, her eyes wary but expectant. Frest dismounted fluidly, bending into a respectful bow, as the rest of his men formed a disciplined semicircle behind him, their faces a blend of respect, curiosity, and relief.

“Lady Seraphina,” Frest greeted, voice roughened by days on the road but warmly genuine. “Thank the Goddess we've found you unharmed.”

She raised an eyebrow, allowing her irritation to slip through. “Took you long enough, Frest. I would like to say that I have been managing quite well without you, but I have been quite put out. Quite put out indeed.”

Behind Frest, a few men exchanged amused glances; one even suppressed a chuckle before quickly regaining his composure under Seraphina’s icy stare.

Straightening, Frest offered a contrite smile. “My deepest apologies, my lady. The countryside is infested with small Dragons—Wyrmlings, we've started calling them. They've made the roads and the countryside most perilous. Just yesterday, we nearly lost Sir Gracys to an ambush…”

Seraphina glanced sharply skyward, recalling vividly the Wyrm-drone she had encountered earlier. “Wyrmlings?” she echoed skeptically. “Surely they can’t be that formidable?”

“With disciplined men and strong steel, they're manageable,” Frest conceded with a respectful incline of his head. “But they’ve wreaked havoc upon farmsteads and villages. Only yesterday, we were forced to defend Gordes. We feared the worst—that they'd reached you first.”

Seraphina felt a reluctant warmth at his obvious concern, but concealed it behind a lingering scowl. While Frest had played the hero, she'd faced horrors far darker.

Still, a part of her was undeniably glad he had been the one to find her.

“Your father has sent search parties everywhere, defying even your mother’s wishes,” Frest continued hesitantly, glancing at his men for support. Several nodded grimly. “Just the other day, Lady Anaselena had a vision that directed us to this region. It appears her gift served true again.”

“I see,” Seraphina said softly, irritation melting slightly. “Then we ride to Troyes. It's the nearest semblance of civilization. We will rest there for the night.”

Frest straightened proudly, signaling his men into formation. “As you command, my lady. I'll dispatch a rider to the nearest Royal Post immediately, so your father may be informed.”

She inclined her head briefly in agreement.

The group rode onward, Frest close at her side and his men forming a disciplined protective ring. As the path broadened, passing farms and scattered hamlets, peasants halted their chores, staring warily at the armored procession. Many recognized her family’s crest; others were transfixed by the serpent heads of Cornelia peeking curiously from Seraphina’s tunic. She ignored the stares, thoughts already moving ahead to sleeping in a proper bed.

Eventually, Frest broke the silence, cautious but undeniably curious. “Milady, what actually happened? Mere hours after leaving you, we saw an enormous Dragon soaring in the skies, just like the old tales. Some claimed a red giant knight engaged the creature. Others mentioned a terrible monster in the nearby woods. Yes, even adventurers from Meridian had been sent to slay the beast.”

Seraphina carefully spun a tale, stretching Frest's belief but never crossing into outright impossibility. His men murmured incredulously at first, some shaking their heads discreetly behind their leader's back, but they fell silent as Seraphina’s compelling presence took hold. Frest himself never showed doubt, listening intently and occasionally nodding, admiration plainly evident in his expression.

Of her encounter in the village, she merely commented cryptically that villagers had found her after a river mishap. As for the "monster" in the woods, she dismissed it casually that it must have been just a larger-than-usual Wyrmling. Her account of defeating Balalazanga, however, drew audible gasps, their eyes wide with amazement and disbelief.

At times like these, she was extremely grateful for her ridiculously high Charisma attribute. It just made life smoother. It certainly made for a more palatable tale than the massacre that had actually happened.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Frest finally spoke, his voice cautiously intrigued. “So, Lady Seraphina, what’s the plan from here? If we could somehow reclaim the red giant...”

“Yes, I suppose,” she said slowly, thoughtfully stroking one of Cornelia's heads. However, her thoughts lingered on the lost Scepter of Wisdom, a potent tool if she were able to reclaim it.

“The giant could indeed be valuable,” she admitted. The girl knew full well, however, that without fuel it was all but useless. “But I believe there’s even greater opportunity in recovering the Dragon’s corpse.”

“And you know where it fell, milady?” Frest asked with cautious excitement.

“I am the daughter of an Oracle, and I faced and defeated the beast myself, Sir Frest,” she snapped dryly, earning her a wince from Frest. “You tell me. And have your man also carry a message to my maid Miriam: instruct her to acquire the Calabrian Bogs. It’s worthless land and should cost no more than a pittance.”

Frest blinked once, then simply nodded, suppressing a small smile. The man was just glad that his Lady was back and was up to her usual shenanigans. “Of course, Lady Seraphina.”

They continued onward, the rhythmic clopping of hooves filling the silence as the sun descended gently toward the horizon. Soon, the spires of Troyes rose before them, silhouetted warmly against the fading daylight.

At a checkpoint, they encountered a portly merchant vehemently arguing over tolls with an exasperated guard. Frest calmly intervened, his measured authority quickly resolving the dispute. The merchant hastily retreated, recognizing the heavily armed riders behind the knight.

The sturdy stone walls and bustling gates of Troyes soon loomed into view. Guards, quickly noting the familiar crest, waved them through without question. Within, the narrow streets overflowed with merchants enthusiastically hawking wares, children darting and laughing, and the air was thick with the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet wine. Seraphina felt an unexpected sense of relief at returning to civilization, modest though it was.

Frest guided them to a well-appointed inn, its sign proudly depicting a golden stag. Dismounting, he turned respectfully toward her. “My lady, the guard recommended this establishment highly. Shall we stay here tonight?”

“Yes,” Seraphina replied, sliding gracefully from Ember's saddle. “Arrange lodging for myself and your men.”

“As you wish,” Frest bowed again, signaling the innkeeper—a wiry man whose eyes flickered nervously at the impressive entourage—to come forward. 

With the servility common to his station, the innkeeper led the highborn lady to her room. Inside, Seraphina settled in, took off her shoes, and lay on the bed with Cornelia nestled comfortably around her. She lay there for a few minutes before she got up to peer from the window at the lively street below.

Seraphina had never thought this day would come, that she would be almost grateful to return to the Academy. She felt a small spark of determination fill her now that she was almost back to where she belonged.