The heavy obsidian doors of the Magic Tower slammed shut, sealing Eveline and the Archmage within the chronal distortion. Seraphina stood alone in the sudden silence, the violet sky pulsing like a bruised vein above her.
She didn't have a moment to breathe. The shadows at the edge of the Tower's clearing shifted, and three figures in the jagged, bone-stitched robes of the Order of the Final Breath emerged. Unlike the common cultists, these were "Silent Sentinels"—assassins whose bodies were reinforced by forbidden alchemy.
Seraphina drew her sword. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that betrayed her lack of experience. She had practiced relentlessly for a year, but a year was a heartbeat compared to the decades of training a Holy Knight possessed. Her grip on the hilt was sweaty, and her stance felt dangerously narrow.
The first assassin lunged. Seraphina parried, but her timing was off by a fraction of a second. The force of the blow didn't just vibrate up her arm; it nearly disarmed her. A curved black dagger grazed her shoulder, slicing through her silk dress and drawing a thin line of burning crimson across her skin.
She fought with the jagged, panicked efficiency of someone who knew she was outclassed. When the second assassin dove at her, she didn't perform a graceful counter-attack; she threw herself into a messy roll, her knees scraping against the gravel.
"Dammit!" she hissed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. As she scrambled to her feet, she felt the heavy, layered fabric of her formal gala gown snagging on her boots, nearly tripping her as she tried to pivot. "I knew I shouldn't have worn a dress!" she shouted into the wind, her voice a mix of fury and frustration.
Every move felt heavy. She managed to drive her blade through the ribs of one attacker, but the effort left her wide open. The third assassin's blade bit into her thigh, the silk of her skirt tearing and staining dark with blood. She was bleeding from a dozen small nicks, her vision blurring from the sheer physical toll of the encounter.
Bleeding and exhausted, Seraphina began to retreat toward the Palace path. But as she reached the treeline of the forest surrounding the Tower, she noticed something that stopped her cold.
The assassins weren't pushing their advantage. Despite her being wounded and vulnerable, they weren't chasing her toward the city. They were circling back, forming a defensive line around a dense, gnarled thicket near the Tower's base.
"They aren't trying to kill me," she realized, pressing a hand to her bleeding shoulder. "They're trying to move me away. They're guarding the forest."
Ignoring the fire in her leg and the restrictive weight of her ruined gown, Seraphina pivoted. She didn't head for the safety of the Palace; she dove straight into the dark undergrowth. The assassins let out a low, guttural hiss—a sound of genuine alarm—and pursued her with a ferocity they hadn't shown before.
She pushed through the briars, her dress tearing into rags, her face stung by thorns. In the center of the grove, she found the source of the rot.
It was a Living Siphon—a massive, pulsating mass of blackened vines wrapped around a white-stone altar. The vines weren't just glowing; they were throbbing with the stolen life force of the city below.
Fout more Sentinels stepped out from behind the ancient oaks. They saw her blood-soaked sleeve and her shaking hands. They saw a girl who had barely mastered the basics of the sword, standing between them and their Master's Great Work.
Seraphina shifted into a low combat stance, her weight balanced precariously on her injured leg. She was terrified, her muscles were screaming, and she knew one more mistake would be her last. But as the violet light of the altar illuminated the blood on her blade, she didn't look like a fragile Duchess. She looked like a woman who had already seen the end of the world and refused to let it happen again.