Devils Tied By A Flower

Caelum Avernal stood at the edge of the field, his gaze fixed on the Crimsonvale camp. His guards had taken their positions, vigilant in their silent observation of the enemy territory. Yet, his thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in a question that refused to leave him. Why do I care? Why am I even thinking about her?

The Devil of the North clenched his jaw, trying to banish the image of Seraphina Crimsonvale cradling the child with uncharacteristic gentleness. It was a distraction he neither wanted nor needed. Seraphina was his enemy, the thorn in his side, and nothing more. Yet, the sight of her holding Lyra stirred something within him—a curiosity that felt perilously close to care.

She's just a rival. A thorn. And thorns are meant to be removed, he thought sharply, but the conviction behind his inner words wavered.

Across the camp, Seraphina lay awake beneath the stars, her cloak draped over Lyra's sleeping form. The child's soft, even breaths were a quiet rhythm in the stillness of the night. Seraphina's crimson eyes, so often filled with fire and defiance, now held a strange softness as she watched the girl sleep.

Her mind drifted to a past she rarely allowed herself to revisit. Memories flickered like faint embers: a younger Seraphina, standing alone in the halls of Crimsonvale Manor. The walls had always seemed so cold, so unforgiving. Her parents, the late lords of the house, were figures of immense power but little warmth. They had raised her to be strong, to embody the unyielding will of Crimsonvale. Love was a luxury they could not afford to teach her.

She had grown up learning that the world was a battlefield, that trust was a weapon to be wielded carefully, and that attachments were liabilities. Yet here she was, holding a fragile child who trusted her implicitly after mere hours. The contrast was almost laughable.

Why do I feel this way around her? she wondered, her fingers brushing a strand of Lyra's silver hair from her face. There was an ease in the child's presence that Seraphina could not explain, a quiet comfort she hadn't realized she needed.

Lyra stirred slightly, murmuring in her sleep, and Seraphina's heart tightened in a way she didn't recognize.

From his vantage point, Caelum observed the scene once more. His sharp eyes caught the faintest traces of emotion on Seraphina's face, something unguarded and vulnerable. The sight unsettled him.

Turning on his heel, he stalked back to his camp. His mind was a tempest of conflicting thoughts. He had come here because of "The Sovereign's Repose"—this fleeting respite from duty was a time when the empire's most formidable figures, the lords of House Avernal and House. Yet the unexpected presence of the child had shifted his focus. Was her survival here a mere coincidence, or something more sinister? And why did Seraphina seem so drawn to her? Now, another question gnawed at him, one he couldn't ignore. Who is Seraphina Crimsonvale beneath the armor of her title?

Back at the Crimsonvale camp, Seraphina's thoughts continued to drift. She remembered the first time she had been given the title of the Crimson Wraith. It had been after a particularly brutal campaign, one that had cemented her reputation as a ruthless and unyielding leader. She had worn the moniker as a badge of honor, a shield against the world. But now, sitting under the stars with a sleeping child in her arms, she felt that armor crack, just a little.

She looked down at Lyra and whispered, "Why do you trust me so easily?"

The child didn't respond, of course, but Seraphina felt the weight of the question in her chest. Perhaps it wasn't Lyra who had to answer it. Perhaps it was herself.

The stars above twinkled softly, indifferent to the inner turmoil of the two lords who, despite their rivalry, now shared a quiet connection through the mysterious child who had woven herself into their lives. The night carried on, but the seeds of change had been sown, and their roots were beginning to take hold.