Chapter 38 - Human Relationships
I can stand him not loving me; I can’t stand him loving her.”
- Lang Leav.
The world snapped back together like a shattered mirror, making itself whole—fractals shimmering, flattening, and at last resolving into ordinary space. Glass that a heartbeat ago had exploded into lethal shards flowed in reverse, reseating itself in flawless panes with a crystalline sigh. When the last motes of brilliance faded, Seraphina found herself back in the library, a lingering echo of The Realm of the Four Gods fading from existence.
The message burned across her vision and faded, leaving her blinking at the hush that followed. Her legs wobbled—neither fatigue nor fear, but from sheer excitement and incredulity. They had accomplished the impossible, and the world itself had rewarded her.
A plain gold bracelet, narrow as a kiss of sunlight, lay in her palm—too simple by half. Yet beneath that innocent sheen coiled a secret power as ancient as the Serpent God who first dreamed of deceit. Her pulse hammered when she felt the artifact stir, a phantom scale sliding beneath the metal. Mine. She clasped it shut around her wrist; the band shrank to fit, cool and possessive. It was something that she desperately needed.
Eyes danced across the notifications and changes to her Status, finding the Legacy of the Dragon Turtle. It was a boon that increased her Luck and Constitution and granted her some resistance against both Water Magic and Physical Damage. Favoring symmetry for its elegance, she allocated two of her free attribute points into Constitution, and one into Strength. As for the free skill point, she, as was her wont of late, assigned it to Mana Regeneration.
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Seraphina straightened, masking the thrill racing along her nerves with a veil of cold, noble composure. To anyone watching, it must seem this triumph was merely the ordained result of her command… and for most of her companions, that illusion held. Awe gleamed in the eyes of those new to the Trials.
But one pair of eyes shone not with awe or surprise, but with hungry, liquid fire.
Desdemona.
The de Savant girl’s cheeks were flushed a dangerous rose, her lips parted as though she breathed sweeter air than the rest of them. No blood marked her, no tear marred her crimson dress—yet something violent and primal coiled just beneath that silk skin. The storm of stimuli—the disgust, the terror, the rapture—had wound her nerves too tight. Now the cord snapped.
With a savage, predatory grace, she closed the distance to Gravens. One heartbeat, he was merely blinking, his hand opening and closing as if in disbelief at the order of events; the next, he was engulfed, Desdemona’s arms flung about his neck, her soft curves slamming against hard steel. His shock and protest dissolved beneath a kiss that was no maiden’s offering but a devouring claim—wet, urgent, molten with the heat of rut and battlefield hysteria.
Gravens’ hands trembled mid-air, torn between propriety and primal instinct. The clash rang through his frame like struck iron. His eyes fluttered half-open; then, perhaps for Eloise’s sake, they squeezed shut altogether. Or, perhaps in denial. A part of him could not deny the feelings that stirred within him at such an open declaration.
A delicate gasp cut the charged silence. Eloise, doll-perfect lady-in-waiting, delicate fingers to innocent lips. Her dark eyes brimmed with stunned betrayal and something far more fragile. Tiny and immaculate beside the tableau’s raw carnality, she looked like a porcelain figurine set before a bonfire.
Even Seraphina’s own cheeks burned scarlet at such ardent a display. She flicked her gaze aside, heart drumming louder than any war-beat. Control the stage, Sera. Regal indifference slid back into place like a mask of polished ivory, but the scene seared her peripheral vision—the clench of Desdemona’s fingers in Gravens’ hair, the quiver of his shoulders, Eloise’s silent tremor.
At last, Desdemona drew back, eyes half-lidded, lips gleaming—a predator partially sated for the moment. Gravens staggered as though struck, breath ragged, while Eloise’s eyes clouded, a single tear tracking its way down her cheek.
Seraphina cleared her throat, voice velvet-smooth yet edged with command. “Enough.” One word—cool water on fevered skin. Desdemona’s gaze snapped to her captain; after a defiant heartbeat more, she released Gravens and stepped back, chest rising and falling like a bellows as she sashayed away.
The hush that followed felt as brittle as spun glass. In Seraphina’s chest, exhilaration still roared—but now it tangled with a rising sense of foreboding.
Desdemona’s defiant posture, her complete lack of remorse, was the final straw for Eloise. With a trembling hand covering her eyes, she fled the library, tears trailing in her wake.
Irritated, Seraphina touched her new bracelet, a self-comforting gesture. Its plain gold surface was warm—almost alive. The magical artifact was power dressed in plain gold…
“We will talk about this later,” she said coldly, her voice flat. She passed her massive sword and gauntlets to her maid, who accepted them with a small squeak.
Desdemona's lips curled in a mocking smile. The blonde noblewoman felt a sudden, fierce temptation to strike her.
“Sir Frest, escort Lady de Savant to her rooms. Miriam, check out The Realm of the Four Gods and get the kitchens to make us a warm meal. The rest of you—wait in the common room of my dormitory,” Seraphina ordered, already turning on her heel to pursue Eloise.
As she passed Sir Gravens, she paused only long enough to shake her head. Her disappointment was plain. In her eyes, his stock had greatly fallen. To make matters worse, the Trial had also chosen to reward Gravens with an artifact—a heater shield fashioned from what appeared to be a metallic turtle shell, its rim adorned with the sinuous form of a serpentine dragon.
It did not take long for Seraphina to find her lady-in-waiting after asking one of the gardeners. The small girl was seated alone, staff across her lap, looking heartbreakingly small in a secluded corner of the rose garden just outside the Academy library.
A small plaque gleamed on the bench beneath her—a cruel twist of irony. It read: Donated to the Academy by the de Savant Family.
