TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 21 (RAW)

Chapter 21 - A Clash of Gold & Silver

The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict.

- Unknown.

“Tell me,” Seraphina said softly, lifting the girl’s dirt-streaked chin so that she could stare into those dull brown eyes, “not that I need your recognition or approval, but who is more of a saint, I wonder? The one who merely speaks kind words… or the one who performs miracles?”

She poured her magic into the child, feeling the intrinsic rightness of the act. But she held back, cautious of the lure of the Covenant magic. Giving too freely would only force her to commit more “uncharitable” acts later to balance her internal equilibrium. A shame, really—for she was a generous soul by nature.

The ragged child stood gingerly, a grin spreading slowly across her face as she tested her newly healed limbs. Her eyes shone with astonishment and gratitude.

“Thank you! Thank you!” she cried, trembling in disbelief.

Seraphina made a dismissive gesture. “That’s enough. Now do as you promised. If you renege our agreement, it will not end well for you.”

A heavy look settled over the girl’s features, as though she’d only just realized that miracles always carry a price. She nodded, fists clenching, and walked away on steady legs.

Seraphina watched the scene with a detached interest, noting how her Heal spell had repaired a hundred tiny wounds in Istala’s body, yet left the child’s sour attitude untouched. Some people simply lack the decency to show proper gratitude, she mused.

Suddenly, Istala screamed at Este Lize, halting a pike’s length in front of her.

“You whore’s daughter!” she shouted, tears welling up as she pointed an accusing finger. “It was your foul magic that burned me ma and pa! They dieds screaming ‘cause of you, you witch!”

A spark of cold admiration flickered in Seraphina’s eyes. The girl’s improvised accusation was remarkably convincing. Weapons flashed in the hands of the Crown Prince’s guards, and several onlookers reached for their own blades. One figure on a nearby rooftop raised a crossbow. 

Far more chaos than I anticipated, Seraphina thought with a thrill of excitement. When this was over, the girl deserved a small bonus.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Este Lize exclaimed, reaching out to soothe Istala.

The child slapped her hand away. In an instant, Este Lize’s wiry escort tensed, lifting a sidesword in preparation to strike the girl for her insolence.

Seraphina allowed herself a small, triumphant smirk. Everything was lining up perfectly.

“They’re attacking an innocent child!” she cried, doing her best impression of a shocked commoner’s voice.

And just like that, the crowd turned dark and ugly.

A stone sailed through the air, spinning end over end before cracking against a guard’s breastplate with a dull clang. The impact echoed through the charred streets like a clap of thunder, rousing shouts and screams that seemed to come from every direction at once.

Somewhere in the uproar, someone howled, “They’re attacking a Saint!” Others took up the call, bellowing Este Lize’s name in alarm. Blades flashed, held high by men and women who moments ago had only been onlookers. That was the problem with a martial society: many people had the means and ability to use weapons.

Soldiers in the Crown Prince’s escort hastened to form a protective circle around Velens and Este Lize, their weapons ringing as they drew steel.

“Please, everyone, stop!” Este Lize cried desperately, her voice shrill.

From her vantage point, Seraphina caught a glimpse of Istala crouching low, trying to flee. The small girl’s eyes darted around, wide with mounting panic. She had clearly not anticipated the mob’s violent response. But Seraphina felt no sympathy—if anything, she found the unfolding events exhilarating.

A fresh roar thundered through the crowd as a second stone flew. This one missed its mark and instead struck an older woman across the brow. She crumpled, blood streaming down her face. A man in ragged clothes lunged forward to help her, only to be shoved aside by a burly guardsman who was trying to force a path away for the prince. The ragged man snarled, swinging a cudgel in defense. The guard’s helmet rang like a bell, and he staggered.

It was as though a fever took hold of the crowd. People trampled one another in their scramble to either get away or rush into the fray, unsure which impulse outweighed the other. Some were intent on protecting the “Silver Saint,” others were bent on punishing her perceived cruelty—whatever story they believed from Istala’s outburst. Some of course just wanted an outlet for their violence. Screams tore through the smoky air, mixing with the caws of crows still wheeling overhead.

Seraphina had read this crowd well.

Through it all, Este Lize tried to maintain calm. She moved with delicate grace, extending a beseeching hand. “Please,” she cried, voice high and clear in the din, “there’s no need for this! Listen to me—”

But her soft, pleaful tone was lost in the cacophony. A burly laborer, face streaked with soot and exhaustion, bull-rushed past her bodyguards, screaming something about “retribution” for the fires. One of the escorts, the whipcord-thin man who had nearly struck Istala, stepped in. With lightning speed, he drew a slender blade across the attacker’s forearm. The laborer stumbled back, clutching his wounded arm, eyes wild with pain. Another guard slammed him to the ground, boot on his chest.

Prince Velens tried to step forward—perhaps to quell the violence—but his retainers forced him back. “Your Highness, stay behind us!” one of them growled. A crossbow bolt whistled from a rooftop, burying itself in a random member of the crowd. Someone screamed, and a flurry of urgent shouts followed as the people spotted the hidden marksman.

Seraphina’s heart pounded in delight as the scene descended into utter bedlam. She hung back, Frest and Gravens at her sides. They both wore matching grimaces of controlled alarm, each keeping a hand on his sword hilt.

“Milady,” Frest hissed, “we should withdraw—this is getting dangerous.”

Seraphina let out a low, husky laugh. “Dangerous indeed,” she murmured, eyes fixed on Este Lize’s radiant hair, barely visible through the tangle of arms and weapons. Seraphina noted the flash of tears on the so-called saint’s cheeks. How precious, she thought. “But I wish to enjoy the view a little longer first.”

Another guard roared, smashing the pommel of his sword into a furious citizen’s face. A sickening crunch of breaking bone followed. The citizen toppled, blood gushing from his nose. His friends—or perhaps just nearby bystanders—surged forward to yank him out of the melee. The man with the crossbow on the rooftop snapped off another shot, taking out another nameless face in the crowd.

Some in the crowd simply abandoned all caution and fled, stumbling over each other as they ran. Others remained, gripped by righteous—or merely reckless—anger, throwing fists and stones at the ring of guards. A few stood frozen, pinned by indecision or terror.

Seraphina felt the press of Frest’s hand at her elbow. “We are dangerously exposed here,” he muttered, urging her to move. Gravens nodded in silent agreement.

In the heart of the tumult, Este Lize knelt to help someone who’d been knocked down—by the look of it, an elderly man with blood streaming from a scalp wound. A few in the crowd witnessed her mercy, and a ripple of confusion threaded through the chaos. Some of them, seeing her attempt to help, paused in their aggression. But the mood was too far gone—fear, fury, and the anger and violence of man can not be reined in so easily.

Above it all came the keening shriek of Istala. She’d been shoved to the ground, and she crawled over the stones of the street, calling for her dead parents. A spear-wielding guard nearly trampled her in his rush to chase down another assailant.

Seraphina breathed in, taking stock of the turmoil. The prince has been suitably punished, Este Lize is flailing in the chaos, and I have had the first course of my pleasure. She allowed herself a cold, satisfied smirk before she turned to Frest.

“Fine,” she relented with a long drawn sigh. “We’re finished here. Let’s take our leave before things truly get out of hand.”

“Out of hand…” Frest muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Seraphina felt the smallest iota of guilt. “We are taking that one with us,” she commanded, pointing to the struggling Istala.

Sir Frest nodded and barreled through the crowd, fists and boots lashing out at anyone in his path. Between blows, he cast nervous glances toward the rooftops, eyes peeled for the crossbowman. At last, he reached the poor girl and hoisted her over his shoulder as though she were a slab of meat.

“Stop! All of you—just stop!” Este Lize shouted, her voice pitched high and shaking with urgency. Mana crackled around her slender form as she chanted words of arcane power. The air hummed under the weight of her magic, building until she unleashed a dazzling blossom of fire into the sky.

It was meant to warn, not harm—but for the people of Meridian, that glowing flame was the last thing they wanted to see. The sight of fire, after their city’s devastation, only rekindled memories of pain and tragedy.

“She’s a witch!” someone in the crowd screeched. “The girl was right—she musta been the one who burned the city down!”

That was all it took to push the mob over the edge. People lunged forward, howling for blood, waving crude weapons and hurling debris. Somewhere, a terrified child screamed, and the metallic scent of fear thickened in the smoky air.

Seraphina caught Este Lize’s gaze through the chaos. Recognition flickered in the silver-haired girl’s eyes, but her escort whisked her away before she could act. At Seraphina’s side, Gravens raised his forearm just in time to deflect a careening bottle. It shattered against the crumbling wall behind them in a spray of jagged glass. With that, Seraphina and her companions pressed into a side street choked with ash and scattered rubble, leaving the furious clash of steel and screaming voices behind. Overhead, crows dove and circled, drawn by the promise of yet more carnage.

The heir to the Sariens Duchy gloated. Just as she herself had been stripped of a measure of freedom through circumstance and poor fortune, so too would Este Lize now be similarly hindered. The church’s dogsbody would no longer be able to roam the streets of Meridian without half an army to guard her.

Now safely removed from the epicenter of growing violence that she had instigated, Seraphina turned her attention to the bedraggled child who had been wrested from the crowd. The girl clung to Frest in trembling silence, her cheeks streaked with dirt and tears.

“Do you see now,” Seraphina said, her voice cutting through the child’s daze, “that your so-called ‘Living Saint’ can save no one? A few well-chosen words were all it took to peel back her façade.”

Still quivering, the girl nodded, too shocked to muster any response beyond a hollow whisper. Her gaze darted around, half expecting the mob to descend upon them at any moment.

“Your precious Este Lize,” Seraphina went on, flicking her short golden hair back with exaggerated nonchalance, “is nothing more than a propped-up nobody. People of power with far too much time on their hands use her to give the common folk a measure of comfort instead of offering any real salvation. A few kind words and gestures won’t rebuild homes or feed the starving.”

Gravens and Frest, dusty and bruised, stood behind their mistress with dutiful agreement etched into every tense line of their bodies.

“Why me?” the small child asked at last, in a voice that trembled from equal parts terror and exhaustion. “Why did you… choose me?”

Seraphina rolled her eyes. “It is always about me, me, me, and me with you people,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. “Because you were there, because you were convenient. Instead, you should be asking why the Goddess chose me to deliver this city from its downfall.”

The child swallowed hard, fear and confusion warring in her eyes. “Who—who are you?”

“Seraphina de Sariens,” she declared, head held high. “You will address me as Lady Seraphina. Remember that.”

She paused, letting the child’s fear settle into the silence, then flashed a cunning smile. “So, little one,” she purred, “since you’ve nowhere else to go, I have just the place for you. Tell me…” She leaned in, voice low and sweet. “Do you like candies?”