Chapter 43: Pain

He had barked a single, earth-shattering command to his vanguard, and the mythril-reinforced carriage had thundered through the cobblestone streets of Oakhaven at a pace bordering on reckless, ignoring traffic, ignoring the startled cries of merchants, and completely ignoring the polite protocols of a visiting dignitary.

Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Seraphina was not crying.

Crying would have been a normal, expected reaction for a frightened child.

If it were one of her crying fits, maybe Kaelus could’ve handled it.

He could promise her the heads of her enemies, buy her sweets, and wrap her in velvet.

But she was entirely silent, and that silence was tearing him apart with anxiety.

Her small hands were curled into tight fists, gripping the fabric of his shirt so fiercely that her knuckles were stark white.

Her breath came in short, jagged, wet gasps, as if she were breathing through shattered glass.

She was shaking, a deep, violent, structural tremor that radiated from her bones outward.

"Seraphina," Kaelus had murmured, his voice a low, desperate rumble against the top of her head. "Breathe. You are safe. The Bastion surrounds you."

She hadn’t responded.

She had only pressed herself harder against his chest, trying to meld her tiny body into the cold iron and muscle of his armor, seeking a sanctuary that his physical strength could not provide.

The moment the heavy iron gates of the Myer estate closed behind the convoy, Kaelus had kicked the carriage door open before the wheels had fully stopped turning.

The courtyard of the estate was beautiful, lined with ancient oaks and pristine marble fountains, filled with eager, bowing servants dressed in the Myer’s signature azure livery, waiting to welcome the Reaper of the North.

They did not get the chance.

"Out," Kaelus commanded.

He did not shout.

He didn’t need to.

The concentrated density of his killing intent rolled off his body in a visible, distorted wave of dark purple mana.

The air pressure in the courtyard plummeted so violently that several of the delicate glass lanterns hanging from the trees shattered simultaneously.

"Get out of my sight. Every single one of you. Evacuate the guest annex immediately."

The servants did not hesitate.

Driven by a primal, overwhelming instinct to survive, they scattered like a flock of terrified doves, abandoning luggage carts and welcome trays, fleeing into the main manor.

Sir Lucas and Sir Gallahan, recognizing the absolute crisis in their liege’s demeanor, instantly took control.

Without needing further orders, the Black Bastion formed an impenetrable ring of steel around the sprawling, luxurious guest annex, their swords drawn, their faces set in grim masks of impending violence.

Kaelus carried Seraphina through the heavy oak doors of the annex, his boots echoing loudly on the polished floors.

He bypassed the opulent drawing rooms and the grand dining hall, heading straight for the deepest, most secure bedroom in the wing.

He kicked the door shut behind him, the heavy latch falling into place with a definitive, isolating click.

The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the late afternoon sun, but Kaelus immediately marched to the windows, yanking the heavy brocade curtains shut, plunging the room into a cool, muted twilight.

He turned to the massive, four-poster bed and gently, with a care that contradicted the monstrous strength in his arms, laid Seraphina down among the silk pillows.

It was only then, under the soft glow of a hastily ignited magical lamp, that he saw the full, terrifying extent of her condition.

"No, no, no," Kaelus whispered, a sound so foreign to his own ears he barely recognized it as his own voice.

She was drowning on dry land.

Seraphina’s eyes were squeezed shut, her small face contorted in an expression of absolute agony.

Her skin, usually a healthy, soft, pale hue, was now a sickly, translucent white, slick with a thick, cold sweat that plastered her dark hair to her forehead.

She was thrashing weakly against the mattress, her legs kicking out in jerky, uncoordinated spasms.

But the most horrifying symptom was the itching.

"Get it off," Seraphina whimpered, her voice a raw, broken rasp. "Please, make it stop. Make it stop crawling."

Her small, blunt fingernails dug violently into her own arms.

She was rubbing her hands across her skin, trying to tear off something that wasn’t there.

There were no rashes, no hives, no physical marks of poison or allergic reaction.

The skin she was desperately trying to scratch was perfectly smooth.

The pain was not on her skin.

It was beneath it.

It was in her core.

Something unusual had sent her newly awakened, incredibly sensitive Supreme Dark Core into a defensive shock.

Her mana was boiling inside her veins, trying to protect her from an existential threat that had felt like erasure.

To her six-year-old nervous system, it felt as though thousands of invisible, spectral insects were burrowing through her flesh, trying to escape.

Kaelus didn’t know the spiritual mechanics of what was happening.

He only saw his daughter tearing at her own flesh.

"Seraphina, stop," Kaelus commanded, dropping to his knees beside the bed. His massive hands reached out, gently but firmly enveloping her tiny, thrashing wrists. "You are hurting yourself. Stop."

"It burns!" she shrieked, a sound that drove an icy spike of pure terror directly into Kaelus’s heart. She fought against his grip with surprising, desperate strength, her small body arching off the mattress. "Papa! It burns! It hurts so much! Please take it out..."

Papa.

The word, screamed in agony, shattered the last remaining barriers of the Archduke’s stoicism.

The man who had sat emotionless while entire cities burned to ash felt a panic so deep, so visceral, that it robbed him of his breath.

"I have you. I am here," Kaelus chanted, his voice trembling, trembling— as he held her wrists, preventing her from leaving bloody scratches up and down her own arms.

He had to cool her down.

She was burning from the inside out.