Devils Tied By A Flower

The cool night air carried with it a faint rustle of leaves, the occasional cry of nocturnal creatures, and the steady crunch of Caelum's boots against the soil. The Devil of the North walked with purpose, his keen violet eyes scanning the remnants of the orphanage and its surrounding grounds. Every corner, every shadow, every whisper of the night was scrutinized with the precision of a seasoned tactician. Yet, nothing yielded answers. The silence was hauntingly impenetrable, and the mystery of the child's solitude remained unresolved.

As Caelum approached the perimeter of the Crimsonvale camp, he paused. His guards, stationed at intervals around the makeshift boundary, stood alert, but their posture betrayed a subtle unease. A faint glow from the campfire cast flickering shadows across the field, illuminating a scene he had not expected.

There, at the center of the camp, was Seraphina Crimsonvale. She sat on a makeshift bedding, the silver-haired child cradled against her chest. Lyra had burrowed into the crimson fabric of Seraphina's cloak, her small frame rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. Seraphina's crimson eyes, often sharp and unyielding, were softened as she gazed down at the child, her hand lightly stroking Lyra's silvery hair. It was a tableau of tenderness that felt almost out of place in the presence of the Crimson Wraith.

Caelum's breath caught, his steps faltering. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the unlikely image before him. The sight stirred something unfamiliar, something he could not name. Seraphina Crimsonvale, holding a child with such gentleness? The thought was almost laughable, yet there it was, undeniably real.

The guards and knights of the Crimsonvale house seemed equally unmoored by the scene. They exchanged furtive glances, their usual stoicism cracking under the weight of this unexpected display. One of the knights, stationed closest to Seraphina, appeared particularly baffled, his hand gripping his sword hilt as though grounding himself in the face of this anomaly.

Caelum's sharp eyes caught the subtle reactions, but his attention quickly returned to Seraphina. His thoughts raced. Is this the same woman who has wielded fire and steel against me? The same woman who once vowed to see my house fall? The dichotomy between the warrior he knew and the figure before him was unsettling.

As if sensing his presence, Seraphina's gaze lifted, locking onto him. For a fleeting moment, something akin to vulnerability flickered across her face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual guarded expression. She adjusted her cloak around Lyra and spoke, her voice low but carrying across the quiet night.

"Enjoying the view, Avernal?"

Caelum straightened, his expression unreadable. "You've surprised your men. And me."

Seraphina's lips twitched into something that was almost a smirk. "I'm full of surprises."

He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You've never struck me as someone who—" he gestured faintly to the sleeping child, —would do this."

Her gaze hardened. "And you've never struck me as someone who would concern himself with what I do in my camp."

For a moment, the tension that defined their interactions threatened to return, but it was diffused by a soft murmur from Lyra. The child stirred slightly in Seraphina's arms, her tiny hand curling against the fabric of her cloak. Seraphina's attention immediately shifted back to the girl, her movements gentle as she adjusted Lyra to a more comfortable position.

Caelum's lips pressed into a thin line. "She seems attached to you already."

"Children aren't as difficult to win over as lords," Seraphina replied, her tone faintly teasing but her focus still on Lyra. "She's just a child, Caelum. Not a puzzle to solve or a threat to neutralize."

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned away. "If only life were so simple," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

The night carried on, and while the Crimsonvale camp settled into relative quiet, Caelum's mind remained restless. As he resumed his patrol, his thoughts were uncharacteristically divided. The image of Seraphina holding Lyra, a picture of care and warmth he had never associated with her, refused to leave him. It was an enigma as perplexing as the child herself.

The Devil of the North continued his solitary watch, the weight of unanswered questions heavy on his shoulders. But now, among those questions, was a new one—one he was reluctant to acknowledge: Who is the real Seraphina Crimsonvale?