Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

Kaelus, the Reaper of the North, was a master of ice and shadow.

His magic was designed to slaughter, to freeze the blood in his enemies’ veins, to shatter armor and bone.

It was an inherently destructive, violent force.

He had never used it to heal.

He had never used it to soothe.

Closing his eyes, Kaelus forced his racing heart to slow.

He dug deep into his mana core, bypassing the violent, stormy layers of his power, reaching for the absolute finest, most delicate threads of his frost magic.

It was like trying to thread a needle while wearing iron gauntlets.

The concentration required was immense; one slip, one surge of emotion, and he could accidentally freeze her fragile internal organs.

A soft, pale blue mist began to emanate from his hands.

He released her wrists, trusting that the sudden, intense chill would distract her from the invisible itching.

He placed his massive, frost-covered palms gently on either side of her burning, sweat-slicked face.

Hiss!!

The moment his icy magic made contact with her skin, Seraphina gasped, her spine arching violently before she slumped backward into the pillows.

”Cold,” she whispered, her frantic thrashing slowing to a weak twitch.

”I know,” Kaelus murmured, keeping the flow of magic steady, calculating the temperature to the exact decimal.

He moved one hand from her cheek to rest gently against her chest, right over her furiously beating heart.

He let the soothing, numbing frost seep through her clothes, sinking into her overheated core. ”Let the cold take it. Let the winter hold you. You are safe in the snow, Mushroom. The monsters cannot find you in the blizzard.”

He spoke nonsense, whispering old Northern lullabies he hadn’t heard since his own mother had died in the frozen wastes three decades ago.

He poured every ounce of his willpower into maintaining that delicate, freezing equilibrium.

It took hours.

The sun outside the heavily draped windows dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and black.

The magical lamp in the room flickered softly.

Slowly, the frantic, jagged rhythm of Seraphina’s breathing began to smooth out.

The invisible itching seemed to subside as the frost numbed her overstimulated nerves.

The sickly pallor of her skin didn’t entirely fade, but the heavy, cold sweat stopped.

Finally, her small hands uncurled.

Her head lolled to the side, pressing into the silk pillow, and the deep, heavy rhythm of exhaustion claimed her.

She fell into a deep, unconscious sleep.

Kaelus did not immediately remove his hands.

He stayed kneeling by the bed for another ten minutes, terrified that if he broke contact, the agony would return.

When he finally pulled his hands away, his arms were trembling from the sheer magical exhaustion of maintaining such absolute, microscopic control over his destructive mana.

He slumped back, resting his broad shoulders against the edge of the mattress.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a collapsing mountain.

He looked at the child lying in the bed.

She looked so incredibly small.

The massive pillows threatened to swallow her completely.

Her face was still drawn and pale, her lips lacking their usual pink hue.

The chaotic, joyful energy that had defined her existence just hours ago in the market square had been completely extinguished, leaving behind a fragile, broken shell.

A profound, suffocating wave of frustration washed over Kaelus, quickly mutating into a dark, blinding fury.

Why?

His tactical mind, the engine that had won him countless wars, spun into overdrive, desperately searching for a target, an enemy, a reason.

Could it have been the cake?

Kaelus’s violet eyes darkened, his fists clenching so hard his leather gloves creaked.

Poison.

It was the most logical answer.

The Imperial Court was infamous for slow-acting, untraceable toxins.

A drop of nightshade extract in the raspberry preserve.

A pinch of crushed manticore bone in the spun sugar.

He imagined the baker at The Golden Stag.

He imagined dragging the man out into the cobblestone street by his hair, freezing his limbs one by one until he confessed who had paid him to lace a child’s dessert with agony.

He would burn the restaurant to the ground. He would salt the earth it stood on.

But logic intervened in his mind.

If there had been poison in the cake, his own heightened senses would have detected it.

The Bastion’s silver cutlery was enchanted to tarnish in the presence of toxins.

Seraphina had eaten the cake with a silver fork.

It had remained pristine.

Furthermore, poison did not cause the spiritual terror he had witnessed.

Poison caused vomiting, bleeding, and organ failure.

It did not cause a child to beg for something to be ’taken out’ of her soul.

So, if not the food... what of the company?

Kaelus turned his mind toward the only other variable in the equation.

Marquess Julian Myer.

The man had walked onto the balcony, smiled, and Seraphina had dropped her fork.

She had gone catatonic with terror the moment he tried to wipe her hand.

Did he cast a spell?

Did he deploy a curse?

Kaelus ground his teeth together.

It was impossible.

He was the Archduke of the North.

His sensitivity to mana was unparalleled on the continent.

If Julian Myer had gathered even a fraction of a spark of hostile mana, Kaelus would have felt the shift in the air pressure.

If Julian had attempted to weave a curse, Kaelus’s own dominant aura would have shattered it before it reached the table.

Moreover, Julian had absolutely no motive.

The Marquess was a pacifist, a man who built hospitals and hoarded grain for the winter.

He was a political moderate who avoided conflict.

Why would he risk the wrath of the Reaper by cursing a random, newly adopted orphan in the middle of a public restaurant, right under Kaelus’s nose?

It was strategic suicide.

Julian was not a fool.

The sheer inexplicability of the situation was driving Kaelus mad.