TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 8 (RAW)

Chapter 8 - Real Estate

When crims begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.

- Bertold Brecht.

When the winds turned, it became a simple matter to burn the woods.

Barrels of pitch were brought to the young noblewoman, their sides stained and seeping. Seraphina herself tossed one after another into the brush, smiling as the black filth splashed across the undergrowth and tree trunks like spilled blood. Sir Frest, ever the faithful knight, handed her a torch. She took it without ceremony and flung it into the darkness.

It landed with a dull hiss and sputtered out. Seraphina frowned.

Another torch. Then a third. The fourth caught. A soft crackle became a roar. Fire danced along the branches and slithered up trunks like a hungry thing. Smoke billowed. The sky began to darken.

“A shame,” Seraphina said, brushing her hands together, “that we shall see no profit in lumber. But, such is sometimes the cost of certain ventures.”

“Yes, Lady Seraphina,” said Frest flatly. 

Though he could not see the advantage of burning down these woods ruled by the Fae. How could one ever hope to defeat a foe older than the land itself. However, he had long since learned not to question the girl—not after seeing what she could do and the fact that she almost always had an answer to every question. And, there was something in her voice, in her gaze, that turned every objection into a weight tied to the tongue.

“Of course,” she continued, “a fire, especially a natural one, the Fae will put down in time. But this is not about burning down these woods, at least all of it. This is about time and distraction. These fires will buy me time enough to break the final seal…”

Her words trailed off as a shimmer appeared in the air.

Then, with a sound like a sigh, a creature emerged from nothing. It was small, barely the size of a child’s doll, bedraggled and pale. Its wings were not the delicate, iridescent gossamer of storybooks but bat-like and dark, the hide stretched thin over bony veins. Its face was narrow, elfin, with one eye slitted like a lizard’s.

Frest drew his sword in a blink.

“Mercy!” cried the creature, its voice shrill and high. “Mercy, I beg you!”

Seraphina raised a hand. Frest hesitated, though he did not sheathe his blade.

“You are Tia,” Seraphina said, as if naming a summoned servant. “Warder of these woods.”

The creature froze. “Yes. That’s—I mean, how do you—?”

Seraphina tilted her head. “You were the Seal. Bound to the barrier. Forced to guard the ones who made you suffer. They called it honor, but it was duty in chains, wasn’t it?” She took a step closer. “I know you, Tia Losfarren Al Thormaigh. I see you. But why do you protect them?”

“Mortal,” the Pixie stammered, her wings drooping. “They are my family. Please. We have done you no harm. And… And… how do you know these things?”

Seraphina smiled, slow and cruel as she ignored Tia’s question. “And yet they’ve done you harm. What do you call someone who works without rest, without reward, without love? They made you less than a servant. They made you a thing. Bound your soul to their will, to the Barrier of the Lost. And now, they would see you die to buy themselves more time.”

Tia’s silence was an answer more honest than any words could ever be.

“They chose you because you were different. They feared you. Mocked you. And now, they offer you up like a lamb at the altar.” Seraphina’s voice softened, twisting the knife. “They want you to die, Tia. Your death will empower the barrier, separate it from all perception. You know this.”

Sir Frest, ever the dutiful knight, stepped forward with caution thick in his voice. “My lady… tales of the Fae are riddled with deceit. They trick, they mislead. Is it wise to bargain with such a creature?”

Thank you, Frest, for being so wonderfully predictable, she thought to herself.

“I can be trusted!” Tia’s voice cracked. “I have never broken my word. Please. What must I do?”

Seraphina’s smile widened, slow and predatory. A hidden Charisma check had been passed, and the girl knew it.

“Let me in,” she said softly. “Let me end this. I will release you from your chains. I will give you freedom—and more. I will give that which you kind desires the most, I will give you a grand purpose.”

Tia turned away, her clawed hands trembling. “But… they will all die.”

“Yes,” Seraphina replied coldly. “But you will live. Either way, I will not be stopped. This land is mine. The Goddess herself favors me, and not even the Fae can defy the will of a Divine. So choose, Tia. Choose yourself, or choose those who spat on your very being. Ask yourself if you are willing to sacrifice yourself to people who never cared for you.”

“I…” The Pixie’s voice was barely a whisper. “I want to live.”

“Good,” Seraphina said with satisfaction. “Then lower the rest of the barrier. And sign this.”

The noblewoman gestured, and from behind her came Miriam, pale and composed, bearing parchment and a feathered quill of feather on a velvet tray.

“What… what is it you wish for me to sign?” Tia asked, eyes wide.

“Some agreements,” Seraphina said. “Simple ones. Nothing special. We call it an ‘employment contract’ and an NDAs.”

“Endee-ays?” whispered the tiny Fae.

Words were shackles to creatures like Tia. Spoken or written, they had power. Seraphina’s clauses were wound tight as a noose, binding not just action but thought, leaving no space for interpretation or mischief. If the Pixie resisted, the cost would be great.

Tia took the quill, almost as tall as herself, with shaking limbs. It looked absurd in her grip, yet she signed using her wings to flutter about.

“So,” the creature asked, voice quivering as she lowered the magical barrier, “this is to be my purpose now? What happens… next?”

Seraphina’s smile returned. This time it was not cruel, it was simply final.

“Now,” she said, “you look away, while I exact justice. Know then also, that I can be merciful.”

***

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 the 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 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 millenia 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 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 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.

They had no choice.