Book 3: Chapter 11 – The Limit [Part 2]
Book 3: Chapter 11 - The Limit [Part 2]
The local inn was what Seraphina could only say was “rough” lodging if she was being kind, which was rare. It was the sort of place that teachers would describe in a positive light as “character building.” The Royal Stag was little more than a sagging collection of timber and wishful thinking. Its crooked sign, a faded stag swinging on rusty chains, squealed whenever the wind shifted. Inside, the air smelled of spilled ale, damp straw, and the thin smoke of a hearth that refused to draw properly. The common room’s floorboards bowed like old ship planks, groaning beneath every boot. Candles guttered in iron sconces, throwing uneven light across scarred tables and benches polished to a greasy shine by decades of elbows and spilled stew.
The rooms above were similarly rough: mattresses stuffed with coarse straw, threadbare blankets that barely reached the edges, and shutters that rattled like dice in their frames. Even so, Seraphina chose this rough lodging gladly. Each draughty corner and lumpy bedroll was preferable to another hour under her mother’s roof.
Indeed, all of the negatives truly paled before the very idea of staying under the same roof as her mother. Had she remained, Anaselena’s presence might have driven her to a berserk fit, a contest she could not hope to win, for her mother’s power outstripped her own by miles. Here, at least, the only battles were the harsh environment.
After a breakfast of lumpy oat porridge, with Miriam watching Seraphina in stark surprise as she somehow managed to shovel it down, the young noblewoman left the inn.
A pale sun climbed a cloudless sky, painting the pasture in thin golds, as the young noblewoman went to inspect her latest purchases with Miriam and Seraphina’s escort following closely behind her. Beyond a low stone wall, Seraphina stepped among her newly purchased cattle and felt the soil crunch faintly under her boots.
The Aranthian cows towered over any she had known in her old world. Broad of shoulder, they bore hides the color of iron-rich clay mottled with soot-black patches. Coarse hair bristled along their napes like the half‑formed manes of warhorses, and each head carried a pair of sweeping horns arched high and proud. Their eyes gleamed dark and steady, unconcerned by the chill, and their breath rolled from wide nostrils in slow white billows.
Slabs of muscle rippled beneath thick skin whenever the animals shifted their weight. They moved with a slow power, hooves pressing deep prints into the earth. These creatures were bred for dragging felled timber and turning mill wheels rather than filling milk pails; they stood closer in spirit to the ancient aurochs than to placid dairy cows.
One bull, a truly colossal beast scarred across the flank, lifted its head to regard her, the morning light catching along the sweep of its horns. A low, rumbling breath rolled from its chest, more statement than challenge. Seraphina returned the gaze, appreciating the raw strength coiled within its frame. In that cool, clear moment, she understood why the locals were proud of these oxen.
Hired hands moved quickly, coaxing the great Aranthian cattle into two matched teams. Links of blackened iron rattled as thick execution‑chains were draped over the animals’ necks, their cold weight starkly reminiscent of yesterday's execution. Hooves thudded and scraped against the earth while lowing rumbled like drums beneath the autumn sky.
Seraphina de Sariens stepped forward and seized both chains, one in each gloved fist. This was the first time she had ever willingly sought true challenge. To test her true limits. Until now, every contest had ended in easy victory, her monstrous Strength and power unchallenged. Yet her mind flashed to the towering shadow of her mother, Anaselena, a reminder of how small her own might truly was. Determination narrowed her vision to the task before her.
“Are you certain this is wise, milady?” Miriam asked, her voice thin but steady. Seraphina answered only with a slight nod of her head, green eyes fixed on the teams before her.
Sir Frest tried next, jaw tight with concern. “Milady, please—are you sure?”
“If the worst happens, I can always let go,” Seraphina replied, though even she tasted the lie. Pride would sooner break bone than allow her to release these chains. She rolled her shoulders once. “Now, start them moving. I do not want to die of old age before we are done.”
Frest nodded curtly. “You heard the Lady de Sariens—get them started!” he barked.
The handlers tapped the flanks of the lead beasts with poles, urging them on. The cattle bellowed and leaned into the chains, muscles bulging under clay‑colored hides. The iron links snapped taut with tension, and Seraphina felt their first testing pull. She bowed her knees, planting her boots, tendons standing out along her forearms like new rope.
The cattle dug in, hooves tearing clods from the pasture. Seraphina’s arms trembled, a fine vibration travelling from wrist to shoulder. She exhaled slowly, then pulled. Chains clinked, metal against metal, as the teams stalled inches at a time. Sweat trickled down her brow, stinging her eyes, and her ribs began to ache with the effort of measured breathing.
Again, the handlers urged the oxen, their shouts cracking through the chilled air. The beasts answered with deeper lows and a renewed surge. Seraphina’s boots slid half a pace, gouging furrows in the turf. She ground her heels, summoned fresh Strength from burning muscles, and fought the tide.
Moments stretched like drawn wire. Every heartbeat felt loud in her ears, every lungful of air turning to fire. Yet the chains did not slip from her grasp. She held on, shoulders bunching, her body straining under tension.
Across the field, the workers fell silent, witnessing something rare: a small girl pitted against the relentless power of living engines bred for toil. Breath rose from girl and cattle alike, mingling in with the morning’s air.
It was no longer a contest of sudden blows but of measureless endurance—a test of whose reserves would empty first. And though her Stamina ebbed with every second, Seraphina’s resolve only hardened, cold and bright as tempered steel.
| You have gained 1 Strength. You have gained 1 Constitution
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The young girl smiled wickedly as she continued her struggle against the beasts and herself.