Chapter 37: Gratitude

And she was currently legally, magically, and blood-bound to him.

Kaelus looked at her.

She was wiping the sticky apple juice and residual dark mana off her hand onto her blue dress, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that she had just rewritten the geopolitical landscape of the Empire.

A slow, dark, incredibly smug smile spread across Kaelus’s face. It was the smile of a man who had just walked up to a gambling table with a single copper coin and walked away owning the entire casino.

"Well," Kaelus drawled, his voice rich with dangerous amusement. He tossed the broken quill aside. "It appears the Bastion will not be lacking in environmental regulation."

"Y-Your Grace," Lucas stammered, finally finding his voice. He looked terrified, awed, and intensely proud all at once. "She... the Lady is... she is a Supreme Dark Archmage! The ghosts... the shadows... the pearl almost shattered from the density!"

"I am aware, Sir Lucas," Kaelus said smoothly. He stood up, towering over the stunned knights. "It explains her... unique sight. She does not merely see the spiritual realm; she rules it. She is the natural sovereign of the dark."

He reached down and gently cupped Seraphina’s cheek.

The lingering dark mana on her skin eagerly curled around his fingers, recognizing the similar, death-soaked nature of his own aura.

"You hid this well, Mushroom," Kaelus murmured.

"I didn’t know!" Seraphina protested, looking up at him innocently. "I thought I was just weird! In the stories, the dark magic people are the bad guys who get stabbed by the hero! I didn’t want to get stabbed!"

Kaelus let out a low, genuine laugh.

It was a sound that made the knights outside shiver.

"In my territory, Seraphina," Kaelus said, his violet eyes gleaming with absolute, tyrannical pride, "the heroes do not stab the Dark Mages. The heroes bow to them. Or I remove their heads."

He turned back to the three knights crowding the door.

"Sir Lucas. Sir Boris. Sir Gallahan."

The three massive men immediately snapped to attention, their armor clanking loudly.

"The results of this test are classified beyond the highest level of Bastion security," Kaelus commanded, his voice returning to its razor-sharp authority. "If anyone asks, the Lady Seraphina possesses a mundane, mid-tier water affinity. Let them think she is a weak, orphaned pawn."

Kaelus looked back at Seraphina, who was happily reaching into the box to touch the pretty black pearl again.

"When we arrive in the Capital," Kaelus continued, a terrifying promise lingering in his words, "we will register her quietly."

’And then, I’m going to build her a Magic Tower of her own in the North. Taller than the Emperor’s spire. Darker than the Abyss.’ Kaelus thought in his mind.

"It shall be done, Your Grace!" the knights roared, their devotion to the tiny dark sovereign now absolute and unshakeable.

"Papa Duke?" Seraphina asked, holding the Void-pearl up to the light. "Since I’m a super special, incredibly precious dark magic person now..."

Kaelus looked down. "Yes, Seraphina?"

"Does this mean I get a bigger allowance for pastries?" she asked, her adult mind immediately leveraging her newfound god-tier status for optimal sugar procurement.

Kaelus von Nacht, the Reaper of the North, the guardian of the newly awakened Dark Archmage, merely sighed, shaking his head at the unconquerable gluttony of his young daughter.

"Yes, Seraphina," Kaelus conceded, entirely defeated. "You may have all the pastries in the Empire."

And as the Black Bastion celebrated the awakening of their tiny, terrifying, strawberry-loving sovereign, Seraphina smiled, knowing that her survival in this crazy fantasy world was now guaranteed.

***

The days that followed the revelation of the Void-pearl blurred together in a warm, golden haze of unprecedented indulgence.

If one were to ask Seraphina von Nacht how she felt about her current predicament, abducted by a warlord, surrounded by blood-soaked killers, and burdened with a magical affinity that could alter the geopolitical landscape of the continent, she would have answered with a single, sticky-fingered thumbs-up.

She was, for the first time in either of her lives, entirely content.

In her past life, she had been a struggling artist, a solitary existence defined by cold apartments, missed meals, and the crushing, invisible weight of being a person no one would truly miss.

She lived in a crowded city but existed on an island of isolation.

When she was sick, she made her own soup.

When she was sad, she stared at a blank canvas until the tears stopped.

She had learned early on that the world did not possess a safety net for those who did not weave it themselves.

And then she had woken up in the orphanage, a place that had merely replaced the cold apathy of the modern world with the active, malicious cruelty of a dark fantasy setting.

For five years, she had survived by being invisible, by being quiet, by being useful enough not to be thrown to the wolves.

But the Black Bastion was a different world entirely.

The men of the Northern Vanguard were monsters to their enemies.

They were walking natural disasters clad in mythril and iron, men who had waded through rivers of demonic blood and burned corrupt estates to the ground without a flicker of remorse.

Yet, to Seraphina, they were the most honest, good-hearted people she had ever met.

They didn’t hide their intentions behind polite, aristocratic smiles or play games.

Their love for the tiny, dark-haired child who had suddenly appeared in their ranks was pure and almost comically overwhelming.

It started with small things.

On the fifth day of their journey, Sir Gallahan had ridden up to the carriage window, his pristine armor covered in road dust, holding a perfectly carved wooden whistle shaped like a sparrow.

He had spent his entire night watch whittling it by the campfire, meticulously sanding down the edges so she wouldn’t get a splinter.

On the sixth day, Sir Boris, the mountain of a man who looked like he ate boulders for breakfast, had awkwardly shuffled up to her during a water break.