Devil's Fruit

Chapter 8: Seris

Chapter 8: Seris

Aric Blackthorn closed the heavy oak doors of the great dining hall and turned away, his footsteps lost in the deep shadows of the ancient forest which lay about his manor. It was deep into night, and the world lay covered with a velvet mantle, yet sleep was a thing Aric had long since foregone. Rather, his spirit restless led him to the training fields he had fashioned out of pure will and uncompromising determination.

High up in the air, on a lofty bough, twin crimson eyes--unblinking, inscrutable--followed him with inexplicable immobility. The look of Seris was a mask of indifference, her presence a storm of silence hidden behind the serenity. Sweat and blood shone on the skin of Aric who forced himself through the torturous movements, every breath a struggle, every muscle protesting. But never did the expression of Seris change, her cold mask undisturbed as she watched the b****y scene below.

Minutes seemed like ages, when, suddenly, she disappeared, and, with the ease of a shadow at dusk, she vanished out of her arboreal position. She made no sound as she passed the threshold of the rear entrance of the manor, and at once heard the low murmurs that were whispering along the dimly lighted halls.

A maid was murmuring in a harsh undertone, a shard of sound in the silence, "I do not know why we linger here. He has not advanced at all. We are wasting our time.”

Another hissed, like a knife, Exactly. We are charged with guarding him, and there is nothing to say. He simply trains, and trains, and trains, like that will make a difference in the fact that he is completely useless.”

"How long do you suppose this farece will continue? I am dying to be transferred.”

Seris’s deliberate footsteps shattered the fragile quiet like a hammer blow. The maids froze mid-whisper, eyes wide and panicked as they whipped their heads toward the kitchen entrance.

“S-Seris…” one stammered, voice trembling as if the very air had turned to ice.

She did not speak a word. The coldness in her gaze alone was enough to halt rivers and silence storms. The maids exchanged a fearful glance, then bolted away, disappearing down winding corridors as if pursued by shadows.

Seris remained rooted, eyes fixed on the spot where the women had stood moments before, an unreadable statue of quiet judgment.

She had expected no less.

Within the manor’s ancient walls, only three maids lived: herself and the two now vanished in haste.

Those two were spies dispatched by the Pulses, agents planted to monitor Aric’s every breath and stumble. Though he remained unevolved, the clan’s leaders refused to leave anything to chance.

Seris had no right to complain. After all, she was a spy herself.

---

Aric Blackthorn possessed no true confidants. This truth sat heavy on his chest like a stone as real as the iron bars of his isolation. Even the three maids under his roof were informants, their loyalty pledged elsewhere. Yet he never voiced complaint.

The maids were stronger than him. He had neither proof nor power to expel them.

Nor did it matter.

What could he hide? A house tended and clean was better than one left to rot and chaos.

Seris understood this resigned acceptance better than anyone. She knew he had come to terms with the bitter truth, but her mind could not rest.

Scenes flashed before her eyes: brutal missions carved into his flesh, a battered body pushed beyond the edge of survival, eyes wet with silent tears after nightmare’s cruel visit.

Yet, through all torment, he persisted—unyielding, struggling against fate with a fierceness that set her blood ablaze.

Her heartbeat pounded a thunderous drum in her chest, fists clenched tight enough to fracture bone.

What was this strange heat gnawing at her insides?

Why was it so difficult to remain detached?

She reminded herself sternly: this was a mission. Nothing more.

Emotional bonds were weakness. She had trained to sever them before they could form.

But her grip faltered as the maid’s cruel words echoed still, a poisonous echo igniting a fierce protective flame within her.

Seris breathed deeply, drawing cold clarity from the night air.

The mission, she repeated silently like a mantra, pushing distraction aside.

With steady steps, she moved toward the bathhouse, determined to prepare Aric’s bath, to tend to the man who fought so hard beneath her watchful eyes.

---

Aric’s body finally betrayed him as dawn approached, broken and bruised beyond endurance. His limbs trembled with exhaustion, every step back to the manor a monumental effort.

But Seris’s drawn bath awaited him, steam rising like a gentle promise in the cold morning air.

He sank into the warm water, feeling the ache and pain dissolve slowly into the soothing embrace, a brief sanctuary from his relentless torment.

His sleep was shallow and brief, swallowed by the unyielding demands of the new day.

At five a.m., as the world still lay wrapped in shadow, Aric rose again—worn, but unwilling to yield.

Dressed in loose, worn clothing, he stepped into the early morning chill, muscles stiff but unbowed, heading straight to the training grounds without hesitation.

Pain was a familiar companion, a language his body spoke fluently, but he welcomed it—proof he was still fighting, still alive.

Visitors were rare at the manor, an island of solitude within the ruthless clan.

Yet today that silence shattered.

From the edge of the trees emerged a figure clad in the light crimson armor of the Blood Guardians—the elite enforcers who maintained brutal order across the western territories and served as bodyguards for those of importance in the clan.

Seris met the guard at the manor entrance, her posture cold and unreadable.

“I request an audience with the 9th Vein. The mistress has sent a message,” the guard declared, voice clipped and authoritative.

Seris’s eyes narrowed subtly, recognition flashing. This was no ordinary messenger—he was a known ally of Vira, Pulse and clan aristocrat.

“Aric is training,” she said flatly, a warning edge beneath her calm words.

The guard’s gaze sharpened with icy suspicion. To claim the 9th Vein was otherwise engaged, when the wife of a Pulse sent a summons, was a dangerous slight.

But the guard masked his unease quickly, bowing his head with formal respect.

He handed over a letter sealed with Vira’s crest and turned away, disappearing back into the forest’s shadowy embrace.

Seris stared at the letter in her hands, the cold weight of dread settling into her bones.

She did not break the seal. Her position forbade such audacity—opening correspondence meant for a direct descendant, especially one sent by a Pulse’s wife, was beyond her authority.

Abandoning her duties, she hurried toward the training grounds to deliver the message herself.

“Who sent this?” Aric asked without looking up, voice strained but steady.

Seris met his gaze, the storm in her eyes barely contained.

“It’s from Vira,” she said quietly.