Chapter 178 Saintess Ceanna Travels To Steele Family Mansion

While Alaric indulged in the sensual delights offered by his women at the Steele Family mansion, a grim shadow was lengthening across the lands beyond. The demonic incursions, initially dismissed as isolated incidents, were escalating with alarming ferocity. Across the Eloriath Kingdom, and especially in the territories surrounding the demon-infested Verdant Dawn Academy, the tendrils of demonic influence were spreading like a malignant blight.

Noble houses, once secure in their ancestral domains, found their lands overrun, their banners torn down and replaced with grotesque demonic sigils. Guild territories, bustling hubs of commerce and craftsmanship, fell silent, their workshops and marketplaces transformed into desolate ruins haunted by shrieking horrors. Ancient forests, once vibrant with life, twisted into shadowy labyrinths, their paths choked with demonic corruption and the stench of decay. Even the dungeons, long considered controlled challenges for aspiring adventurers, erupted with unprecedented demonic surges, spewing forth waves of monstrous entities that overwhelmed local defenses.

The neighboring Jorailian Kingdom, Eloriath’s traditional rival, fared no better. Reports trickled in of vast swathes of Jorailian territory succumbing to the demonic onslaught, their once-proud armies struggling to contain the tide of darkness unleashed by a series of devastating dungeon breaks. Panic and despair began to grip the hearts of common folk and nobles alike, the whispers of impending doom growing louder with each passing day.

Within the gilded halls of Eryndal, the capital of the Eloriath Kingdom, King Thaleon paced restlessly, his brow furrowed with grim worry. Each messenger that arrived brought tidings more dire than the last, painting a bleak picture of his kingdom crumbling under the demonic assault. On this particular day, the news was especially galling.

A royal herald, breathless and dust-stained, knelt before the King, his voice trembling as he delivered his report. “Your Majesty,” he stammered, “news from the western territories… the Lytton Noble House… fallen. Overrun by demons. The guild territories bordering the Whispering Woods… lost as well. And… and the reports from the Jorailian border… they speak of… of entire cities besieged.”

King Thaleon’s hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white against the polished wood of his throne. “By the Radiant Heavens,” he muttered, his voice heavy with despair and fury. “How much more must we endure? How much more of our land must be devoured by these… these abominations?”

He turned to Saintess Ceanna Paxton, who stood serenely at his side, her silver hair gleaming like moonlight, her golden eyes radiating an unnerving calm amidst the mounting chaos. “Saintess,” the King exclaimed, his voice laced with frustration, “I can no longer stand idly by! We must dispatch our forces, immediately! We must reclaim what has been stolen, avenge our fallen, and drive these demons back into the abyss from whence they came!”

Ceanna Paxton regarded the King with an unwavering gaze, her expression composed, almost detached. “Patience, Your Majesty,” she advised, her voice soft yet firm, a soothing balm against the King’s rising anger. “Hasty action now would be… unwise.”

King Thaleon stopped his pacing abruptly, turning to face the Saintess, his royal composure momentarily cracking, revealing the raw emotion beneath. “Unwise?” he retorted, his voice rising in incredulity. “Saintess, with all due respect, this is my kingdom we are speaking of! My people who are suffering! Perhaps in your distant lands, such losses are mere abstractions, but here, these are lives, homes, our very heritage being ripped away! I cannot simply ‘be patient’ while demons feast upon my realm!”

Ceanna Paxton remained unperturbed by the King’s outburst, her serene gaze never wavering. “Your Majesty mistakes my counsel,” she replied, her voice even, devoid of offense. “I understand your righteous anger, your paternal concern for your kingdom. But I assure you, the Radiant Church is deeply invested in the well-being of all creation, Eloriath included. My advice stems not from apathy, but from strategic foresight.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle, then continued, her voice taking on a more persuasive tone. “Scattering our forces piecemeal, sending small detachments to reclaim isolated territories, would be a futile exercise in attrition. The demons are numerous, their ranks swelling with each passing day. We would bleed ourselves dry in a series of fragmented skirmishes, achieving little of lasting consequence.”

King Thaleon’s anger began to subside, replaced by a grudging curiosity. He knew the Saintess possessed a wisdom that transcended mere martial strategy, a divine insight granted by her connection to the Radiant Heavens. “Then what do you propose, Saintess?” he asked, his voice now laced with a weary resignation. “Are we simply to surrender our lands, to cower behind our city walls and watch our kingdom crumble?”

Ceanna Paxton’s lips curved into a faint, almost ethereal smile. “Far from it, Your Majesty,” she stated, her golden eyes gleaming with a quiet intensity. “I propose we gather a force unlike any Eloriath has ever witnessed. A grand coalition, encompassing every faction within your realm – the noble houses, the knightly orders, the mage guilds, the trade unions, the ranger conclaves, every able-bodied warrior, mage, and healer willing to stand against the encroaching darkness.”

King Thaleon stared at her, his initial skepticism slowly giving way to a flicker of hope. “A grand coalition?” he repeated, his voice laced with a mixture of awe and doubt. “Such an undertaking would be… immense. The logistics alone…”

“Indeed, it would be a monumental endeavor,” Ceanna Paxton acknowledged, nodding her silver head. “But necessity dictates ambition. We must not merely repel the demons, Your Majesty. We must purge them. We must strike a decisive blow that will cripple their forces and shatter their momentum.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a more confidential tone. “And for that, we must concentrate our strengths, not dissipate them. The blessings that I and the priests of the Radiant Church can bestow are potent, Your Majesty, but their efficacy is… diluted when spread thinly across multiple battlefields. If we are to maximize their impact, we must focus our divine energies, concentrate our holy power.”

Ceanna Paxton straightened, her gaze sweeping across the King, radiating an unwavering conviction. “Gather your legions, Your Majesty. Summon your banners. Assemble your knights, your mages, your warriors from every corner of Eloriath. Let them converge upon Eryndal. For when we march forth to meet the demonic hordes, I shall lead the entirety of the Radiant Church’s priesthood, every acolyte, every priest, every high cleric currently within your capital. Together, we shall envelop the battlefield in a radiant aura of divine energy, bolstering our forces, weakening our foes, and ensuring a victory that will echo through the ages.”

King Thaleon listened, his initial resistance melting away under the Saintess’s compelling vision. He could see the strategic brilliance of her plan, the sheer power of a unified, divinely blessed army striking at the heart of the demonic incursion. Hope, a fragile ember, rekindled in his weary heart.

“A grand coalition,” he murmured again, this time with a newfound determination, his gaze hardening with resolve. “Yes. Yes, Saintess, you are right. We shall prepare. We shall gather our forces. We shall unleash the might of Eloriath upon these demonic invaders, and we shall reclaim our kingdom, inch by bloody inch, if necessary!”

While King Thaleon began to issue royal decrees, setting in motion the mobilization of his kingdom’s forces, Saintess Ceanna Paxton remained within the palace, a figure of serene calm amidst the growing storm of war preparations. Yet, even in her tranquil composure, she was not immune to the petty dramas of courtly life.

The three princes, King Thaleon’s sons, had become a persistent, if unwelcome, fixture in her days. Each prince, arrogant and entitled in his own way, had fallen prey to Ceanna’s undeniable beauty, their princely ambitions momentarily eclipsed by a fervent desire to win her favor.

Prince Borche, the eldest, heir to the throne, was a boisterous, swaggering figure, accustomed to command and immediate obedience. He attempted to woo Ceanna with grand pronouncements of his future power and clumsy displays of forced charm, convinced that his royal status alone was sufficient to capture her attention.

Prince Radoslav, the second son, was more subtle, more cunning. He approached Ceanna with flowery compliments and veiled promises of political influence, attempting to appeal to her intellect and ambition, believing she would be swayed by strategic alliances and whispers of power behind the throne.

Prince Krunislav, the youngest, and perhaps the most brazen, adopted a more direct approach. He showered Ceanna with lavish gifts, extravagant jewelry and exotic silks, his attempts to impress her with material wealth bordering on vulgarity, confident that her beauty could be bought and possessed like any other prized object.

Ceanna endured their clumsy advances with a patient, almost weary grace. She observed their petty rivalries, their transparent attempts to undermine each other in their pursuit of her favor, their utter obliviousness to the gravity of the situation facing their kingdom.

‘Fools,’ she thought, her golden eyes hardening with a flicker of disdain, quickly veiled behind a polite smile. ‘While demons ravage their lands, while their people suffer and die, these princes squabble over… me. Are all men so easily blinded by mere physical form? So utterly devoid of true vision?’

She sighed inwardly, a weariness settling upon her spirit. Disappointment, a familiar companion, pricked at her. She had hoped for more from the royal scions of Eloriath, for leaders capable of rising to the challenge, for minds focused on salvation rather than self-indulgence. Instead, she found herself surrounded by vanity, arrogance, and a shallow pursuit of fleeting pleasures.

Yet, Ceanna Paxton was nothing if not pragmatic. She understood the currency of influence, the subtle power dynamics of courtly life. If these princes, in their foolish infatuation, could be manipulated to serve a greater purpose, then she would not hesitate to use them. A faint, calculating glint entered her golden eyes, quickly masked by a serene smile.

She maintained a cordial facade with each prince, offering polite conversation, accepting their clumsy compliments with a gracious nod, never encouraging their romantic delusions, but never outright rejecting them either. She walked a delicate tightrope, balancing diplomacy with detachment, aware that even these flawed individuals held a certain degree of power, a power she might yet need to wield in the coming conflict.

It was not just the princes who were captivated by her presence. King Thaleon himself, despite his royal duties and the weight of his kingdom upon his shoulders, was not immune to Ceanna’s allure. His interactions with her were always respectful, always measured, but Ceanna sensed a certain… admiration in his gaze, a subtle undercurrent of something more than mere royal courtesy. However, unlike his sons, King Thaleon’s focus remained firmly fixed on the looming demonic threat, his desire to protect his kingdom eclipsing any personal inclinations.

Amidst the whirlwind of courtly distractions and war preparations, Ceanna Paxton’s keen intellect had become intrigued by whispers of a remarkable artifact originating from within the Eloriath Kingdom itself. The ‘Phone,’ it was called, a device of unprecedented communication capabilities, crafted by none other than Alaric Steele, the young master of a minor noble family.

The audacity of such an invention, conceived and realized within this relatively unremarkable kingdom, surprised Ceanna. In the heartlands of the Radiant Church, they too possessed communication artifacts, relics of ancient craftsmanship, but their range and clarity paled in comparison to the descriptions she had heard of the Steele Family’s ‘Phone.’

‘A communication device that can transmit voices across vast distances, instantaneously?’ she mused, her brow furrowing in thoughtful contemplation. ‘Developed by a mere noble scion? It is… remarkable, if the reports are to be believed.’

The implications of such technology, especially in the face of a demonic invasion, were not lost on Ceanna. Swift, reliable communication across vast distances could revolutionize warfare, logistics, and coordination, offering a significant advantage against the chaotic, unpredictable demonic hordes.

A new purpose began to form in Ceanna’s mind, a strategic imperative that transcended mere battlefield blessings and divine interventions. If Alaric Steele, the genius artificer behind this ‘Phone,’ could be persuaded to lend his talents and his creation to the war effort, the tide of battle might be turned decisively in their favor.

‘I must meet this Alaric Steele,’ Ceanna resolved, her golden eyes gleaming with a newfound focus. ‘A mind capable of such innovation, combined with the might of the Radiant Church and the armies of Eloriath… together, we might truly stand a chance against the encroaching darkness.’

As word spread through the palace that Saintess Ceanna Paxton, the luminescent beacon of the Radiant Church, intended to grace the Steele Family’s humble mansion with a visit, a ripple of excitement and anticipation coursed through the court. And amongst the most fervent recipients of this news were the three princes, Borche, Radoslav, and Krunislav.

Their princely rivalry, already inflamed by their shared infatuation with the Saintess, ignited into a full-blown conflagration. The prospect of Ceanna venturing beyond the palace walls, and the opportunity to accompany her, became a prize worth fighting for, a chance to demonstrate their devotion, their chivalry, and their princely worthiness in her eyes.

Each prince, in his own arrogant fashion, assumed he would be the chosen escort. Borche, as the eldest and heir apparent, believed it his right by birth. Radoslav, the cunning strategist, plotted to subtly maneuver himself into her favor, subtly undermining his brothers’ chances. Krunislav, ever the impulsive hedonist, simply declared his intention to accompany her, assuming his princely charm and lavish gifts would naturally secure his place at her side.

Unbeknownst to Ceanna, a silent, unspoken competition erupted amongst the princes, a frantic scramble to position themselves as her protectors, her guides, her chosen companions on this unprecedented excursion. Their petty squabbles, their transparent manipulations, their oblivious self-importance, were a source of both amusement and exasperation for the Saintess, a stark reminder of the shallow vanities that often plagued even the highest echelons of power.

As Ceanna prepared to depart the palace, her mind focused on the strategic potential of Alaric Steele and his remarkable invention, she remained blissfully unaware of the princely entourage that was rapidly assembling in her wake, each prince determined to claim his place by her side, their personal ambitions momentarily overshadowing even the looming threat of demonic invasion. The journey to the Steele Family mansion, she suspected, would be anything but uneventful.

~~

The week-long journey to the Steele Family mansion proved to be a study in contrasts for Saintess Ceanna Paxton. The royal convoy, befitting her esteemed status and the accompanying princes, was lavish and comfortable, yet the journey itself was far from serene. The three princes, Borche, Radoslav, and Krunislav, transformed the royal procession into a mobile stage for their relentless, and often comical, attempts to court her favor.

Prince Borche, true to his boisterous nature, saw the journey as an opportunity to showcase his ‘princely’ virtues. He regaled Ceanna with endless tales of his (often embellished) hunting prowess, his (questionable) military strategies, and his (undeniable) royal lineage. “Saintess Ceanna,” he would boom, his voice echoing through the carriage, “you must understand, as heir to the throne, I am accustomed to command! This demon incursion? A mere trifle! Once I ascend, I shall personally lead the charge and crush those infernal beasts beneath my heel!”

Ceanna would offer a polite, noncommittal smile, her golden eyes betraying none of the weariness she felt. “Indeed, Your Highness,” she would reply, her voice measured, “such decisive leadership would be… invaluable.” Internally, she sighed. ‘Invaluable for driving your kingdom further into debt with your extravagant pronouncements, perhaps,’ she thought dryly.

Prince Radoslav, however, adopted a more subtle approach. He attempted to engage Ceanna in intellectual debates, quoting obscure philosophical texts and offering convoluted political analyses, hoping to impress her with his supposed erudition. “Saintess,” he would begin, leaning closer, his voice conspiratorial, “have you considered the geopolitical ramifications of this demonic surge? It could destabilize the entire region, creating a power vacuum that… a shrewd ruler might exploit.”

Ceanna would listen patiently, her expression serene, her mind already miles away. “Fascinating, Your Highness,” she would murmur, her tone carefully neutral. “Your insights are… certainly thought-provoking.” Her inner monologue, however, was less charitable. ‘Exploit a demonic invasion? Is that truly the extent of your princely ambition? To see opportunity in the suffering of your people?’

Prince Krunislav, true to his hedonistic inclinations, focused on showering Ceanna with gifts and orchestrating lavish diversions along their route. He presented her with rare flowers, exotic fruits, and even attempted to stage impromptu performances by traveling troupes of musicians and dancers, all in a desperate bid to capture her fleeting attention. “Saintess, beautiful Saintess,” he would gush, his voice dripping with syrupy charm, “allow me to present you with this humble token of my… admiration. And tonight, we shall dine under the stars, with music and wine, a respite from the… tiresome journey.”

Ceanna would accept the gifts with a polite nod, her smile unwavering, her golden eyes remaining coolly detached. “How… thoughtful, Your Highness,” she would reply, her voice betraying none of the profound boredom she was experiencing. ‘Flowers, jewels, and empty flattery,’ she mused inwardly. ‘Is this all these princes believe a woman of intellect desires? Their shallowness is… breathtaking.’

Despite the princes’ persistent attempts to monopolize her time and attention, Ceanna remained focused on her true purpose: reaching the Steele Family mansion and meeting Alaric Steele. She utilized the journey to meditate, to refine her divine energies, and to mentally prepare for whatever she might find at their destination.

As the convoy finally crested a low rise, revealing the sprawling estate of the Steele Family nestled in a verdant valley, a subtle shift occurred in the atmosphere, a palpable change that sent a ripple of unease through Ceanna’s carefully maintained composure. A strange energy, subtle yet distinct, began to prickle at her senses, a discordant note in the harmonious symphony of the natural world.

At first, she dismissed it as mere atmospheric anomaly, a trick of the light, a fleeting sensory illusion. But as they drew closer to the mansion gates, the sensation intensified, growing stronger, more insistent, until it could no longer be ignored. A cold tendril of unease snaked down her spine, a primal instinct screaming at her to be wary.

The energy was… familiar, yet profoundly wrong. It resonated with a power that was undeniably divine, a force that echoed with the very essence of creation, the same energy that flowed through her own veins, the lifeblood of the Radiant Church. But twisted, corrupted, tainted with something… heretical.