Chapter 50 - A Return to Academia [Part 1]

  The closing pages of a courtesan’s are that of a withering flower. Beautiful color and fragrance are forever soon lost, with nobody caring to spare the once subtle bloom a second glance. For youth flies as fast as the fleeting clouds, and fortune passes without lingering.

  - Verses from the Flower Quarter of Al-Lazar by Unknown.

  It did not take long for Seraphina to recover from her momentary lapse of control. After all, she had endured far worse in both her current life and her previous one. Unlike an ordinary teenager, Seraphina possessed the mental fortitude to weather such trials with a certain degree of composure.

  Despite her resilience, her feelings toward her mother remained complicated. It was not love—at least, not in the way most would define it—but something akin to affection was perhaps growing within her. The unfamiliarity of this fierce, one-sided bond unnerved and confused her. Seraphina had never experienced such raw, overwhelming displays of emotion before, and it left her both scared and deeply unsettled.

  Disgusted with herself for her fleeting vulnerability, she spent the remainder of that day immersed in a flurry of activity. Her quill danced across parchment as she wrote a cascade of letters in her elegant, flowing hand. Most were crafted to further her ambitions: polite seasonal greetings to barons and counts, or subtle threats to those over whom she wielded influence. Others were dictated to her assistant, Miriam, focusing on the management of her burgeoning candy business in the capital.

  Seraphina’s enterprise was thriving, thanks in no small part to her friend Rashana’s connections. Through Rashana’s family bank, Seraphina had secured a rare and highly illicit substance—the Dust of Al-Lazar. This highly addictive substance, used sparingly, became the secret ingredient in her candies. The trace amounts included in her recipes were not enough to trigger the drug's true effects, but they ensured her confections were irresistible to all who tasted them.

  Over the next few precious days, reports flooded in, confirming the success of her creations. Her boiled candies were a sensation across Aranthian society, beloved by both commoners and nobles alike. However, the skyrocketing demand strained her factories and farms to capacity. Seraphina needed more cheap, semi-skilled labor to sustain her growing empire. After pondering the issue for an afternoon, she devised an inspired solution.

  With calculated precision, she arranged for the purchase of an orphanage in the capital. Bishop de Francey, eager to rid the Church of the financial burden it represented, sold the facility for a nominal donation. Seraphina wasted no time repurposing the orphans, putting them to work in her factories and fields. In her view, she was turning idle children into productive members of society, giving them a purpose they would otherwise lack. A solid fifteen-hour workday, she believed, would quickly mature them and toughen them up for the world at large. Efficiency and discipline, she told herself, were the keys to improving Aranthian society.

  Eloise, one of her most trusted allies, contributed to this success by developing new flavors for the candy line. Among them was Seraphina’s personal favorite: Valny Fruit Crunch. Life was progressing astonishingly well despite the recent setback.

  *****

  After her morning yoga practice with Ibn, Seraphina sat under the gazebo, surrounded by the vibrant wisterias of the garden, their blossoms still in full bloom despite it being so late in the season. Alone, she sipped tea and read a small book of poetry—one of her secret indulgences. She paused, blushing slightly at reading a particularly lurid verse. Wanting to wash away such thoughts, she began to sing a soft, lilting melody. Her voice, sweet as honey, lured a chorus of birds to her in droves.

  Once the birds were within reach, she attempted to communicate with them directly. However, their simple minds, driven by basic needs like food and survival, proved challenging to influence. Still, with the aid of her song and small morsels of food, she managed to coax a few of them into following basic instructions. Her patience for the endeavor, however, was short-lived. With a small huff of frustration, she dismissed the feathered flock. Before they scattered, she caught one of the slower birds, feeding it live to her grateful pet serpent, Cornelia.

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  Perhaps, she mused, creatures with higher intelligence—like her darling Cornelia—would be more worth her time.

  Later, she made a quick stop by the kitchens, procuring some fruit from Catherina, the doting servant who was almost a second mother to her. Then, walking briskly to the stables, she sought out her father’s warhorse, Kicker. Without the need for reins or harness, the massive stallion followed her obediently, lured by the promise of a ripe Valny fruit in her hand.

  Using small chunks of the fruit as an incentive, Seraphina guided the fearsome horse through a series of intricate tricks. Her magical necklace heightened her connection to the animal, allowing her to feel the stallion’s affection—though it was tied as much to her gifts of fruit as to her commanding presence. She was pretty sure that, if she commanded it, Kicker would gallop through fire for her. This, of course, was her rightful due and with a long-suffering sigh, the young girl wondered why people could not be quite as simple.

  Satisfied with her experiment, she led Kicker back to the stables. The stallion followed her meekly, as docile as a lamb, despite his reputation for stubbornness. The stable staff, watching in stunned silence, were still utterly mystified by how the young girl had completely enthralled the notoriously unyielding warhorse.

  *****

  Even with the improvements she had made to the carriage, the ride could still be bumpy at times. Yet, compared to the long-haul coaches used by most commoners and minor nobles, it was positively luxurious—designed as it was from the start for a royal passenger.

  This time, at her parents’ insistence, her escort had orders to make no unnecessary stops. They prepared a detailed itinerary and required both Seraphina and the newly knighted Sir Frest to swear they would follow it. Thus she had been given very, very little leeway to further her goals along the way.

  It was Seraphina herself who had recommended the then-Sergeant Frest, extolling his chivalrous deeds to secure her father’s blessing. Though initially reluctant, the Duke Anatoli could not refuse his daughter for long. When the Duchess gave no objection, he granted Sir Frest one thousand and twenty acres of land, with the obligation to provide twenty men-at-arms in wartime and pay a modest tax in peacetime.

  As heir to the Sarien Duchy, Seraphina was given the distinct honor of knighting him herself.

  Seraphina had stood at the center of the keep’s courtyard, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow across the assembled crowd. Regal banners fluttered in the breeze, each bearing her house’s sigil, and the air buzzed with hushed anticipation. Many of the townsfolk had gathered to witness an extremely rare event: a knighting ceremony for a man of the most humble origins. An ornate wooden platform served as the focal point, draped in crimson cloth. Brass trumpets rang out a triumphant fanfare, echoing off the high walls.

  Frest, dressed in the freshly polished armor of the Royal Guard, knelt before Seraphina with both humility and palpable excitement. His gaze remained fixed on the carved stonework beneath his feet, conscious of the beautiful figure looming above him. Seraphina herself radiated quiet authority that belied her young years. Her ceremonial cape, stitched with intricate gold thread, billowed gently behind her, and in her right hand, she grasped a slender sword whose blade gleamed with razor-sharp promise.

  She began reciting the ancient oaths, her voice measured and resolute, each syllable laced with the power of her voice. The courtyard fell silent save for her words, every onlooker transfixed. With a slow, deliberate motion, Seraphina lowered the sword, pressing the flat of the blade lightly against Frest’s right shoulder, then his left, completing the formal rite.

  As she finished dubbing him, the flat of her blade touching his shoulder, she uttered the words that the common-born man had only ever dreamed of hearing in his wildest childhood dreams. Since the first time he swung a stick and decapitated a weed as a child, he had wanted to one day become a knight.

  “Arise, Sir Ferdiad Frest,” she intoned, the very smallest of smirks on her lips.

  She had given him what he wanted more than anything else in the world—not wealth or power, but the position and respect of his peers. With that single act, much like she had done with the warhorse Kicker, she had secured his loyalty for life.

  Seraphina sighed wistfully at the memory. There had been something in Frest’s eyes—a look that reminded her of her mother Anaselena’s gaze, yet was somehow entirely different. Frustratingly, she could not put her finger on what set it apart. With another soft sigh, she turned her attention to the carriage window, taking in the sweeping view of Academy City, Meridian.