TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 32 (RAW)

Chapter 32 - Undergarments

Mined in scant handfuls from the deep tunnels beneath the Dwarven Hold of Bronzegate, the midnight‑black ore yields pure Adamantium only after punishing labor and ruinous expense. Though less rare than Mithril, its brutal weight keeps it impractical: wealthy adventurers settle for a razor‑thin plating, and modern forges temper and alloy it with steel, yet even then, only the strongest can bear it. Near‑indestructible, the Empire of old forged the metal into the infamous ‘Sinner’s Shackles’ for the vilest criminals deemed unworthy of the mercy of death. Thus Adamantium, or ‘Sinner’s Shackles’ remains the dusk‑forged counterpoint to Mithril’s revered ‘Saint’s Silver.’”

- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.

Melisiandre was a most stringent, exacting teacher. The moment she saw how much raw Strength Seraphina carried in her lithe frame—far more than Aranthian higher society ever expected of a “fair‑sexed” noble—she resolved to test every inch of it. She knew precisely when to push, when to scorn, when to dangle the next challenge just out of reach. What the girl needed was not coddling but an obstacle worthy of her will, because her very life might depend on it. Melisiandre owed that much to one of her oldest friends: to forge Anaselena’s daughter into something the Bloody Tower itself would think twice about hunting. Kellan had taught her the basics of the battlefield, Melisiandre would teach her how to survive on and off it.

Seraphina was almost masculine in her fighting style, full of bravado and flare, which in her teacher’s opinion did not suit her. At the end of the day, a man fought to win, but a woman fought to survive.

“One more lap! Flat‑out this time—this is no stroll through the gardens, little lady!” she barked, amber‑steel eyes flashing.

Seraphina’s jaw tightened as though she might snap back, but she swallowed the retort and burst into a sprint. A newly gained point in Constitution served to somewhat mollify her and smoothed the sharp edge of her temper.

She was heartbreakingly like her mother, and that resemblance still stirred old memories in Melisiandre’s chest. Though now married and mother to four lively children of her own, she had never quite lost that first, bittersweet and silly crush on Anaselena. Seraphina moved with the same effortless grace, a younger mirror of Anaselena.

Yet there was one crucial difference. Anaselena could afford to fight recklessly, trusting her gift of Sight to weave her safely through every possible future. Seraphina fought with equal ferocity and recklessness, but had none of that clairvoyant net beneath her. Rumors claimed she “knew things no one should,” yet Melisiandre’s instincts said otherwise. Whatever spark lived in the girl’s green eyes, it was not her mother’s Sight.

Anaselena had once confessed that seeing a thousand futures meant living them, too; in that sense, she was far older than her years. Seraphina carried only the faintest echo of that facet of her mother. Yes, she had the poise and carried herself in manner far beyond her years, but lacked the deep Wisdom that having such her mother’s gift would have brought her.

So Melisiandre drove her harder than any pupil before. If the Sight would not shield Seraphina, skill and grit must. And if the lesson required blood, sweat, and even a few tears, then so be it—she would hammer the girl into the survivor her mother needed her to be.

It was almost as if Anaselena had seen this day would come.

Only the faintest hint of sweat clung to Seraphina’s brow as she thundered over the chalked finish line. She did not slow; Melisiandre would have scolded her for that in what she thought was a most annoying voice. Unbeknownst to her teacher, the girl had been holding her breath to make the exercise somewhat of a challenge; her immense Constitution trivialized most of the tests of endurance. Now, the blonde noblewoman braced against a wooden post, doubled over and dragged in a ragged breath. The crisp morning air tasted of iron and effort. Deeper in the Academy grounds, songbirds trilled their morning chorus obliviously. Here, only discipline answered them.

“Good,” Melisiandre said, neither praise nor condemnation, merely a measurement. She flicked an hourglass that pinned time like a butterfly. “A bit faster than yesterday. Improvement—but not enough.” A leather satchel thunked at Seraphina’s feet. Within it lay bands of almost pure, ruinously heavy Adamantium, each weightened further with rune-etched spells. “Strap those to your wrists and ankles.”

Adamantium was extremely expensive, and ensorcelled Adamantium doubly so, but Melisiandre would spare no expense for this particular student. The older woman owed almost all of her current happiness to the advice and suggestions of the girl’s mother.

And so, Seraphina did so without comment; defiance wasted breath best saved for the next drill. The stones turned even her powerful limbs to lead, yet she squared her shoulders. Melisiandre’s eyebrow rose—approval, almost invisible. “Forms, first sequence. Begin!”

Weighted or not, Seraphina’s body remembered the dance. She flowed through low sweeps, pivoted into spear thrusts, rolled her shoulders into back‑fist strikes that cracked the still morning like whiplash. Each motion finished in perfect guard. Or so she thought. From nowhere, Melisiandre’s cane rapped her outer forearm—sharp and precise. “Lazy elbow. Again.” Another rap across a calf. “Ground your stance.”

It was of some note that the golden-eyed woman was teaching Seraphina some of the stolen forms taken from the Bloody Tower, the agents of their sometimes enemies, the Empire. For it was better to know the blades in your enemy’s arsenal.

Pain flashed; will hardened. Seraphina repeated the sequence. The weights tugged at her like ghosts seeking purchase, but she fought gravity to a draw. A bead of crimson slipped from the cane‑cut on her arm. She ignored it.

Melisiandre circled, predatory. “Pain is ever a harsh instructor, but it can be like those weights, too. Sometimes one must ignore. Wisdom will teach you when. Remember that.”

The young girl had to use a greater portion of her will to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the cringey cliche. This was another humiliation she would add to her list against her “teacher.”

She tossed a practice blade—a solid length of hardened oak. Seraphina caught it awkwardly, palms stinging. With no countdown, no salutation, Melisiandre lunged the instant the hilt touched Seraphina’s fingers.

Wood clashed, sparks where iron kissed iron. Melisiandre’s style was a storm broken into steps: a low cut to draw a parry, wrist‑snap feint into an elbow, pivot‑heel sweep to topple a careless stance. Seraphina yielded ground in a staccato retreat, training shoes skidding across the floorboards, until instinct snarled: Enough. She batted aside a thrust, twisted under Melisiandre’s arm, and aimed a point‑blank strike for the ribs.

The master twisted like silk on the wind; Seraphina’s blade found only air. A flying knee smashed against her sternum—controlled and with clinical precision—and the girl sprawled onto the hard wooden floor. Breath whooshed from her lungs; the ceiling reeled overhead, a steadily growing familiar vision.

Melisiandre placed the tip of her practice blade just above Seraphina’s throat. “You commit too early. A perfect opportunity is a lie—it vanishes the moment you trust it.” She offered a gloved hand. When Seraphina clasped it, Melisiandre hauled her up with surprising gentleness. “Again.”

The word weighed more than the Adamantium shackling her limbs. Yet Seraphina straightened, drew a steady breath, and nodded. Resolve hardened behind emerald eyes—no mystical foresight, no prophetic certainty, only raw determination stoked to white heat.

Morning’s light spilled through the high windows of the training hall, gilding master and resistant pupil alike. Melisiandre allowed herself a fleeting, private smile. The Bloody Tower would learn never again to attack another innocent student of the Academy. For even the foundation stones of the Tower could crack under enough hammer strikes, but tempered steel endures. Adamantium would endure. And this girl, she vowed, would shine brighter than the finest blade ever drawn from a furnace.

“The weights stay on,” she said, stepping back and throwing her another practice weapon. “Second sequence. Begin.”

***

Slipping into the steaming rose-scented bath coaxed the ache from Seraphina’s muscles. After a full day of study and grueling drills, the silken water did not quite bring satisfaction, but it did grant a fleeting sense of contentment. Of course, Melisandre—her golden‑eyed tormentor—had known exactly which buttons to press, needling Seraphina to the edge of fury yet never letting the dam burst. Only this bath could lower the steady boil to a gentle simmer. It had simply been a lesson in the infuriating.

Sinking lower into the bath, she blew a lazy trail of bubbles across the surface, cataloging her hard‑won gains: two full points of Strength and a staggering three in Dexterity. One more push and she would crest the next level.

Rising half out of the water, she ran a finger through her golden hair. It was growing out again, and—for the hundredth time—she debated cutting it. Short locks gave her a tomboyish look she did not entirely dislike, yet she secretly envied the other girls and their flowing tresses. Still, some classmates had begun copying her hairstyle, certain it was the secret to her success. It was ever the fate of greatness to be emulated in such a way.

After toweling off and electing to skip dinner, she slipped into light lounging clothes. Back in her shared room, she saw her roommate deep into a book, yet there was an odd look about her. Perplexed, Seraphina took it upon herself to tap Eloise’s shoulder. The doll‑like girl looked up from her book, worry clearly etched across her delicate features.

“What’s wrong?” Seraphina asked, giving her lady-in-waiting a weak smile.

“It’s most strange, my lady… A few pairs of underclothes have gone missing. Some of them, my own mother even made for me…”

Seraphina pursed her lips. “Servants sometimes misplace things; have no fear, we will replace them.”

“But, milady, it keeps happening,” Eloise murmured. “And…”

A sharp glint flashed in Seraphina’s eyes. “Though I would not put it past some of the common muck here, I doubt any of the Academy’s more… deviant sorts could get past Cornelia. My dear pet would notice an intruder lurking about and long before they reached our door.”

Indeed, Cornelia, now dieting on kitchen scraps, had grown into a monstrous guardian. Only a fool would trespass into her domain unnoticed. And, not only that, but the serpent's senses were second to none, and the creature had not reported anything of the like to the young noblewoman.

Cornelia is the best, the lazy serpent echoed in her mind through the power of her necklace.

“Still,” Seraphina conceded, stroking her massive pet’s head and enjoying the feel of the smooth scales. The giant serpent’s crown now covered the entirety of her thighs, Cornelia’s golden eyes the size of tennis balls. “I will ask the other girls if they’ve had anything vanish. And, if there were any other instances of things being misplaced. Best to be sure about these things. I will make sure that someone is thrown out on the streets if it is the servants' fault.”

“No… Lady Seraphina. You needn’t go to such lengths for me,” the small girl said with a long, drawn-out sigh. “I will simply have to make do.”

Seraphina placed a small finger on Eloise’s lips, silencing her. “It is exactly because it is you that one must do these things,” she said with her best smile.

The blonde girl had to admit that she did really like Eloise. It was a joy to dress her up in all manner of wonderful things. Since she had Seraphina’s previous features, it felt almost as if she was dressing up an alternative version of herself. Not to mention that Eloise was, in Seraphina’s opinion, a work of living art. The young girl was a reminder of her perfection of the old world

But this underclothes issue was yet another problem for the ever‑growing pile. Some days, she wanted to scream: Why must she mend everyone else’s messes when there was no one to fix hers? Didn’t Seraphina de Sariens get to have a white knight to solve everything? 

“Enough fretting,” she said, forcing a smile. “Desdemona gifted us some lovely tea. Would you care for a cup?—Miriam!”

Silence. No hurried footsteps. No door suddenly bursting open with a meek “milady” shortly after. It was disconcerting.

“Where is that girl?” Seraphina hissed through her teeth.

Eloise thought for a moment. “Remedial classes, I believe.”

“Remedial? Surely she isn’t that hopeless.”

“She asked me for help with a few things,” Eloise admitted with a shrug.

Seraphina folded her arms. “What an utter inconvenience. It makes me wonder why I keep her around at all. I am most vexed by this.”

“Well… I could try.” Eloise’s voice was tentative. “Brewing tea can’t be too different from mixing a potion.”

“Oh, sweet Eloise. Tea is more than just steeping leaves for exactly the right length of time and temperature—it’s the setting, the placement of every saucer, and cup—it’s the spirit and the art.”

For a moment, just the tiniest fraction of a second, Seraphina realized just how much she relied on her maid. Realized then quickly dismissed the inconvenient truth.

Eloise’s gaze hardened with quiet resolve. “If Miriam can manage it, so can I.”

Seraphina sighed, conceding gracefully. “Very well—let’s see what you can do.”