Book 3: Chapter 8 – Real Estate [Part 2]
Book 3: Chapter 8 - Real Estate [Part 2]
The ethnic cleansing and minor genocide of the woods of the Fae’s unnatural presence proceeded at a most agreeable pace.
With Tia’s magic bound and broken, the flames took hold in earnest. They spread like judgment, greedily devouring the trees and underbrush, sending plumes of smoke curling into the sky. The fire itself seemed to sing, high and keening, as it drove the Fae from their groves and hollows.
When the smoke finally began to thin, the dwarves came. They marched with purpose, urged on by vengeance and the lust for Mithril. What the fire had not destroyed, they would. The surviving Fae met them in the blackened clearings, a pitiful force of Satyrs, half-burnt Treants, stubborn Dryads, and now and then, a desperate Pixie flickering in the ash-heavy air. But scorched and weakened, they were no match for fresh forged dwarven steel and runes etched deep with purpose and hatred. Only when aided by the magic of a craven Pixie did the Fae offer anything close to resistance. But even those moments of struggle were fleeting.
Seraphina was not foolish enough to send Tia against her kin, no matter how much hatred the little creature nursed in the shadows of her heart. No, the girl fought them herself—but not with the sword. Her voice was the true weapon, laced with magic and her own deep malice. When her Mana allowed, she used Wail of Judgment. Her song shattered the minds of Dryads, stunned Satyrs in place, and left them open for the dwarves to hack apart like so much firewood.
Experience piled upon itself. Soon enough, her conquest of these woods netted the girl an increase in her Wail of Judgment spell.
She had given orders to collect the wings of fallen Pixies, delicate things torn from their dead or dying bodies, to be used in Eloise’s Alchemical craft. Extremely rare, their uses were myriad in the concoction of wonderful elixirs. The bodies she would have ground to a fine paste for a morning topical for her skin. The lingering magic would help her complexion positively glow.
A part of her, curious in the cold, clinical way of scholars, considered keeping a breeding pair of Fae. But the thought passed. Wild things were best culled when they served no clear use. Such creatures had no place in her vision of Aranthia.
As a simple precaution, she had quietly instructed her pet Cornelia through the power of her Beast Lore Amulet to gobble down Tia the moment the creature showed even a whisper of treachery. One could not fully trust a traitor, after all, especially one who had once been bound to a recent enemy.
And so, the slaughter ran its course. The woods echoed with the death cries of ancient things as the Fae were driven from root and hollow, scattered like leaves in a storm. Unless they found another place to bind themselves, they would fade, wither, and die. That suited Seraphina’s purpose just fine. In life, for there to be winners, there also had to be losers. This was but part of the natural cycle of things, the end result of her obvious superiority.
Lifting her skirts clear of the blood-soaked earth, Seraphina walked among the corpses and the crackling limbs of dying Treants. The dwarves were still at work, putting down the wounded one by one.
She made her way to the Fae Pool, the heart of this stronghold of nature.
It lay in a clearing, a black mirror of water, still and dark as midnight, though the sun shone gloriously above. She knelt at its edge and laid a pale hand upon the surface. Ripples fanned outward, and with them came a tingle, like the brush of something most ancient across her skin.
Here it was, the true heart of the forest, the source of the Fae magic that bound them and stopped their existences bleeding into the Beyond. Beneath the water, she felt it. Another Shrine of the Old Ones, beneath these deep and still waters, whispering secrets only the desperate or the damned might listen to.
She did not need its power. Not yet. But the pool called to her all the same, its voice sweet and strong, promising dominion, promising transcendence. The sweet seduction of its notes was almost as strong as her own. Another might have listened. But Seraphina’s will was iron, and she would not seek its power yet.
Instead, she would have the Fae Pool drained in time. Let the dwarves bottle the water and sell it to foreign lands where the eccentric would pay gold for the magic of dying things. Even more wealth beyond imagining lay at her fingertips.
And beneath the soil, where root and ruin met, slumbered veins of Mithril. Ancient ores that had absorbed millennia of raw magic. There was enough in these woods to make her house rich beyond counting. Beyond kings.
A heavy step crunched the ash behind her.
“Lady Seraphina,” said Tam, the dwarven captain, bowing slightly. “The cursed Fae folk have been driven back. The day is ours.”
She did not turn. “Thank you, Tam. I can call you Tam, yes?”
“Milady,” he said with a grin in his beard, “you could call me anything you please, and I’d bless your shadow for it. You’ve made history this day. You’ve honored the bargain beyond what we dared dream. Ask what you will, and we shall see it done.”
Seraphina stood, her reflection still rippling in the black pool.
“I might have a few things I need done, Master Tam,” she said, her eyes gleaming with avaricious promise. “I trust I can rely on your people’s skill.”
***
Far from prying eyes, deeper still into what remained of the old forest, Seraphina performed her work in secret. There, where ash met burnt moss, and blackened trees still smoldered, she commanded her serpent to grow.
Cornelia obeyed. The Hydra expanded, scales creaking and flesh stretching until she towered nearly thirty paces tall, a coiling, monstrous creature that dwarfed some of the ancient trees around her.
"Owww!" the serpent wailed within her mind, voice pitched high with pain.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Seraphina muttered aloud, tugging one of the great white scales free with a sharp twist. Across their bond, she felt the pulse of resentment, dark and simmering.
“Would you rather I be dead, or give me a few of your precious scales?” she asked, voice saccharine. “You may choose only one.”
There was a pause, then a sulky, “Alright… but can’t you be gentler? That hurts.”
“A bit of pain is good for you. Builds character. I’ve spoiled you far too much already,” she said, her tone clipped. “Now hold still. A little pain from you now spares me a great deal later. Besides, you don’t want to end up useless like Milly, do you?”
“No. I don’t want to be useless like Milly,” Cornelia hissed softly.
Good. It was always wise for those above to stoke and foster rivalries between those below.
One by one, she plucked the gleaming scales free, stacking them carefully upon the cart the dwarves had provided. They were alabaster white, with the faintest blush of rose at the edges—beautiful things, almost delicate to the eye, though thick and tough enough to turn the sharpest of steel, or to be honest, even armor-piercing rounds. Each was the size of a small desk, and though they could not hold a sharp edge, they were flexible, resistant to magic, and, most importantly, capable of minor self-repair when fed Mana and suitable materials. Hydra scales, of course, worked best.
Seraphina had grand plans for them.
A suit of armor, fashioned by dwarven hands, etched with their ancient Runes of Warding and anointed in the names of their Forge-Gods. It would gleam like moonlight and turn aside death itself. Such was the tribute the dwarves owed her.
When the last scale had been taken, Cornelia shrank back to her smaller form, coils tightening around herself in a sullen heap. Seraphina murmured, absently casting Heal upon her pet.
Then, singing a soft tune, she began trundling the loaded cart toward Undertown. The song she sang had yet no name—only fragments and half-verses, but it echoed sweet and cruel in the dying woods.
Here and there, in the shadows of scorched groves and ruined glades, a few of the braver Fae still lingered. They watched her pass with silent loathing in their eyes, but made no move to strike. They knew well enough what she was now. The serpent coiled at her neck was threat enough, but worse still was the girl’s voice—clear, commanding, and stronger than any Spellsinger left in these woods.
They let her pass for they had no choice.