TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 11 (RAW)

Chapter 11 - The Limit

The only way to discover the limits of the possible is to go beyond them into the impossible.

- Arthur C. Clarke.

Though he hid it well, Sir Frest had been less than agreeable about this whole outing. Miriam had found him sour and silent, casting dice in the barracks with his old comrades. He had only just settled in, and in his mind was now being dragged off to another “adventure” once more at the young noblewoman’s whim. 

Still, he had gathered up an escort of a score of Knights, enough to ward off an attack by brigands but not enough to be a threat to any local lord. In short, he had done his duty. After all, Frest had not pledged to the line of the de Sariens, but to the Lady Seraphina herself.

And so Seraphina’s party left the de Sariens' estate, stopping at an inn in a village just before twilight, a smudge of warmth just beyond the reach of the Sarien castle town’s shadow. The innkeeper, a balding man with a crooked smile and a spine bowed from years, recognized her at once—the golden girl of the duchy, the Lady Seraphina herself. He bowed so deeply his knees cracked and refused her coin with trembling reverence. 

“An honor, my lady,” he said, eyes fixed on her boots.

But Seraphina, well, she pressed him gently, then firmly, and in the end, the man accepted payment—if not for her, then for the others in her entourage. Seeing her looking slightly put out, he wisely did not argue further.

The next day, they continued their little journey. The road to the lumbermill dragged on in dull shades of gold and brown. Endless fields rolled like old quilts left in the autumnal sun, and the woods whispered nothing new. Even the birds seemed to grow bored of their own songs. The only break in the tedium came from the Fae creature, Tia, an invisible wisp of curiosity. She plagued Seraphina with questions about everything and anything outside the forest she had been bound to. Questions eventually even led to topics about grain, livestock, the price of bread, the purpose of taxes, and, more curiously, the means by which one might avoid paying them.

At first, Miriam thought the girl had gone quite mad. But then the quill began to float, scribbling midair in no hand she could see. Ink stained the parchment, and the stain widened until Miriam had no choice but to believe—or at least pretend to.

The mill itself was nestled deep within Count de Viserac’s lands, a man whose name left a taste like spoiled milk. Fortunately, the Count had been called to Aran. Seraphina breathed easier for it. Another supper at his estate would have been a sort of punishment she was not sure she would have been able to stand.

But his absence did not mean that his rough justice slept in his territory. As their carriage creaked through a hamlet near the mill, the sounds of panic and pleading halted their progress. Seraphina leaned forward, hand raised, and ordered the driver to stop.

In the field beyond, a man lay bound, his limbs stretched taut between two teams of oxen while a band played to accompany his suffering. His scream was loud enough to be a counterpoint to the music around him. Around him, a cluster of villagers watched and jeered. The execution had the air of festivity about it. Justice, Count de Viserac’s kind, was being served.

And executions, in this barbaric realm, were just another form of entertainment for all the family.

Seraphina watched, her face unreadable. The law was the law, they would say. But law, she had come to learn, was often just a knife in a velvet sheath to be wielded more often than not for the benefit of those in power. 

Eventually, the oxen proved stronger than flesh. Sinew tore, bone cracked, and the man’s final scream bled into the evening air. The musicians did not lay down their pipes. Vendors, sniffing profit, set pans on glowing coals, and the sweet sting of grilled onions drifted across the field.

“Milly, buy me four teams of oxen,” Seraphina said. A small smile tugged at her mouth, a hint of her old spark surfacing.

The maid blinked, wide‑eyed yet careful. “If I may ask, milady, what use have we for so many beasts?”

Seraphina folded her hands, voice smooth as cream. “We shall diversify. The children leaving our facilities will need honest work. Animal husbandry will suit them.” The lie slipped from her tongue as easily as breath.

***

All of the lumber mill's staff had come out to greet her, and Miriam introduced the Lady Seraphina as the charitable “sponsor” of the “training program for the Aranthan youth” that they ran here. 

The oldest of the bunch, the senior manager of the mill, looked barely past seventeen, though he carried himself with the stiff-backed pride of a man twice that. He was slight of frame, with calloused hands. His hair, the color of old straw, was tied back in a short tail, though several strands had come loose to cling stubbornly to his brow. A thin scar traced his jaw, the sort earned not in battle, but perhaps from a snapped timber or a poorly judged swing of the axe blade.

Seventeen, she noted ruefully, was an age in this world when most would possibly have been married and finished their apprenticeships. It was a far cry from the modern Korea that Seraphina had originally come from. At seventeen, most children with even a shred of ambition would be diligently studying for their upcoming tests that would define the rest of their lives.

But despite the youth in his face—smooth cheeks, a dusting of freckles, and eyes too earnest for such a brutal land—he stood with practiced formality, and his general attire was neat, if a little plain.

“Greetings, Lady Seraphina,” they all chorused together.

Seraphina had been told that her picture was in every Bottledworth Confectioneries’ facilities, and in every prominent position..

“The name is Daylen Voles, milady. I am understanding that you wish for a tour?” the senior manager asked.

“That is indeed correct, Master Voles,” she replied neutrally.

Seraphina noted the tremor in his voice as he greeted her, and the way his eyes darted to Miriam for cues. A child forced to manhood, thrust into responsibility in a world that did not wait for boys to grow up.

And the young lady needed their youth, their still-impressionable minds, if she was to forge them into the worker drones she required—those so thoroughly indoctrinated they took satisfaction in a hard day's work, some even coming to equate toil itself with pleasure.

Daylen stepped forward and gestured toward the nearest large building, a squat structure of timber and stone. Above its entrance hung a wooden sign, weathered by sun and sawdust, emblazoned with the facility’s motto in bold, carved letters: “Work shall make your mind free.”

"If it pleases you, come this way, milady. We'll begin with the main sawmill."

As he led Seraphina and Miriam through the facilities, Seraphina observed the workers closely. Boys and girls, some barely reaching her waist, others on the cusp of adulthood, moved with practiced efficiency. Daylen explained each section clearly, pride evident in his voice.

Inwardly, the young girl smiled to herself. I really am a force for good. She had given people like him purpose and employment.

"The main sawmill here processes the timber," he began, indicating the large structure filled with rhythmic sounds of saw blades biting through wood and the scent of freshly cut lumber. "We've improved efficiency greatly. Most workers here and apprentices are from Bottleworth's Confectionaries’ orphanages or facilities. As you can see, they've adapted well to discipline and schedules."

He pointed to a nearby shed, stocked neatly with tools. "Over there is the maintenance hut. Older apprentices learn tool repair and maintenance there, skills they can carry anywhere."

They passed another building, from which rose the warm aroma of fresh bread and stew. "That's the communal kitchen and dining hall," Daylen continued. "All workers receive hearty meals. We insist on nutritious fare to keep up their strength and development."

Seraphina caught sight of a line of modest cabins arranged around a clearing. Daylen followed her gaze and nodded, "Dormitories, milady. They are simple but warm. Most apprentices share quarters, though senior workers like myself have private rooms. Discipline is strictly maintained."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "There are occasional runaways, but they rarely go far. Most return willingly, knowing they're safer here than alone."

His earnest gaze met hers, seeking approval, perhaps afraid he'd spoken too much. Seraphina smiled faintly, her eyes glittering. "You've done well, Master Voles."

Daylen straightened, pride swelling visibly. "Thank you, milady. We strive each day to repay the faith Bottleworth's Confectioneries has placed in us."

As the tour concluded, Seraphina watched the workers resume their tasks without hesitation, like clockwork. Yes, she thought, her investment was already bearing fruit, and with some sense of triumph, she realized her vision was becoming a reality, unencumbered by such trivial things as “labor laws” or basic health and safety “regulations.”

“Now then, Milly, find us a place to stay for the evening while I cut down a few trees,” declared the young noblewoman, a playful spark in her eye. “I believe I can render them a little assistance as payment for such a wonderful tour.”

“Cutting trees? I mean… err… at once, milady,” Miriam replied, bowing quickly before scurrying off to carry out her mistress’s command.

“Sir Ferdiad Frest,” Seraphina called.

“Yes, Lady Seraphina,” he answered, stepping forward.

“See if you can find me an axe, and fetch my gloves from the carriage, if you’d be so kind. Miriam will handle the lodgings.”

“It shall be as you command,” he replied with a nod, then turned on his heel and went to do as he was bidden.

It was time to see if she could grind a few attribute points and a new skill.

***

Sir Ferdiad returned with a heavy two‑handed woodsman’s axe and Seraphina’s worn leather riding gauntlets. She thanked him with a brief nod, then strode past the timber stacks to a stand of old pine. Sunlight caught the edge of the blade, flashing like a beacon. The millhands slowed their work to watch.

Seraphina planted her feet and swung. The first tree shuddered as if struck by a siege ram. One stroke bit halfway through the trunk. The second stroke finished it, and the pine toppled in a sigh of needles. She did not pause; she stepped to the next and the next, muscles bunching beneath her dress. Chips flew in bright arcs, peppering the air around her. Sweat barely dampened her brow, and her breath never hitched. In the rhythm of labor, she felt the knots in her mind loosen, each crash of timber a welcome hush against the clamor of it all.

You have learned Axes (lvl.1)

You have gained 1 Strength.

Within an hour, a score of trees lay in neat rows. She took a moment to survey her work and thought that it was good. Then she heard it: a low, irritable grunt.

A Forest Bear, broad‑shouldered and heavy with autumn fat, lumbered from a hollowed oak. Its black eyes fixed on her, hackles rising. The millhands called warnings, but Seraphina merely tilted her head.

She dropped the axe, the tool suddenly unwanted. Some things were best delivered in a visceral, more personal manner.

The young girl inhaled and called upon the magic coiled within her chest, within her soul. No sound crossed her lips, the Silent Casting skill subverted even that, but the air quivered all the same. The Wail of Judgment burst outward, a sound without sound, striking the Forest Bear like a hammer no one could see. It lurched, ears flattened, vision swimming.

Seraphina closed the distance in a blur. Her first kick snapped upward, cracking the bear’s muzzle and snapping its head back. Without pausing, she pivoted, driving her heel into the beast’s temple. A final downward spinning axe kick followed, hammering its skull into the earth. Bone gave with a wet crunch, and the beast twitched once before stillness claimed it.

You have slain a Forest Bear. 60 experience gained.

You have learned Improved Unarmed (lvl.1).

She exhaled, the faint echo of the spell fading from her blood, and smiled with a deep satisfaction after the little frisson of excitement. She knelt down and began to feel along the bear’s pelt, gauging its size. It would make a fine cloak for her winter collection, or perhaps a gift to one of her underlings, depending on her mood. Real fur would never go out of fashion.

Behind her, Daylen and the apprentices stared, caught between awe and fear. Seraphina straightened, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.

“Bring some stout poles,” she called, voice calm as cool swordsteel. “Have this animal dressed and ready for the pot. We will not let good meat go to waste. Have the fur sent to the tanners.”

“At once, milady,” Daylen answered.

The young workers scattered to obey while Seraphina turned back to the fallen pine she had first marked. There was still a forest of trees to fell before dusk, and smashing them down, she had decided, was the best balm for any lingering unrest in her soul.

***

The local inn was what Seraphina could only say was “rough” lodging if she was being kind, which was rare. It was the sort of place that teachers would describe in a positive light as “character building.” The Royal Stag was little more than a sagging collection of timber and wishful thinking. Its crooked sign, a faded stag swinging on rusty chains, squealed whenever the wind shifted. Inside, the air smelled of spilled ale, damp straw, and the thin smoke of a hearth that refused to draw properly. The common room’s floorboards bowed like old ship planks, groaning beneath every boot. Candles guttered in iron sconces, throwing uneven light across scarred tables and benches polished to a greasy shine by decades of elbows and spilled stew. 

The rooms above were similarly rough: mattresses stuffed with coarse straw, threadbare blankets that barely reached the edges, and shutters that rattled like dice in their frames. Even so, Seraphina chose this rough lodging gladly. Each draughty corner and lumpy bedroll was preferable to another hour under her mother’s roof.

All of these negatives, however, paled before the very idea of staying under the same roof as her mother. Had she remained, Anaselena’s presence might have driven her to a berserk fit, a contest she could not hope to win, for her mother’s power outstripped her own by miles. Here, at least, the only battles were the harsh environment.

After a breakfast of lumpy oat porridge, with Miriam watching Seraphina in stark surprise as she somehow managed to shovel it down, the young noblewoman left the inn. 

A pale sun climbed a cloudless sky, painting the pasture in thin golds, as the young noblewoman went to inspect her latest purchases with Miriam and her escort following closely behind her. Beyond a low stone wall, Seraphina stepped among her newly purchased cattle and felt the soil and cut hay crunch faintly under her boots.

The Aranthian cows towered over any she had known in her old world. Broad of shoulder, they bore hides the color of iron-rich clay mottled with soot-black patches. Coarse hair bristled along their napes like the half‑formed manes of warhorses, and each head carried a pair of sweeping horns arched high and proud. Their eyes gleamed dark and steady, unconcerned by the chill, and their breath rolled from wide nostrils in slow white billows.

Slabs of muscle rippled beneath thick skin whenever the animals shifted their weight. They moved with a slow power, hooves pressing deep prints into the earth. These creatures were bred for dragging felled timber and turning mill wheels rather than filling milk pails; they stood closer in spirit to the ancient aurochs than to placid dairy cows.

One bull, a truly colossal beast scarred across the flank, lifted its head to regard her, the morning light catching along the sweep of its horns. A low, rumbling breath rolled from its chest, more statement than challenge. Seraphina returned the gaze, appreciating the raw strength coiled within its frame. In that cool, clear moment, she understood why the locals were proud of these oxen.

Hired hands moved quickly, coaxing the great Aranthian cattle into two matched teams. Links of blackened iron rattled as thick execution‑chains were draped over the animals’ necks, their cold weight starkly reminiscent of yesterday's execution. Hooves thudded and scraped against the earth while lowing rumbled like drums beneath the autumn sky.

Seraphina de Sariens stepped forward and seized both chains, one in each gloved fist. This was the first time she had ever willingly sought true challenge. To test her true limits. Until now, every contest had ended in easy victory, her monstrous Strength and power unchallenged. Yet her mind flashed to the towering shadow of her mother, Anaselena, a reminder of how small her own might truly was. Determination narrowed her vision to the task before her.

“Are you certain this is wise, milady?” Miriam asked, her voice thin but steady. Seraphina answered only with a slight nod of her head, green eyes fixed on the teams before her.

Sir Frest tried next, jaw tight with concern. “Milady, please—are you sure?”

“If the worst happens, I can always let go,” Seraphina replied, though even she tasted the lie. Pride would sooner break bone than allow her to release these chains. She rolled her shoulders once. “Now, start them moving. I do not want to die of old age before we are done.”

Frest nodded curtly. “You heard the Lady de Sariens—get them started!” he barked.

The handlers tapped the flanks of the lead beasts with poles, urging them on. The cattle bellowed and leaned into the chains, muscles bulging under clay‑colored hides. The iron links snapped taut with tension, and Seraphina felt their first testing pull. She bowed her knees, planting her boots, tendons standing out along her forearms like new rope.

The cattle dug in, hooves tearing clods from the pasture. Seraphina’s arms trembled, a fine vibration travelling from wrist to shoulder. She exhaled slowly, then pulled. Chains clinked, metal against metal, as the teams stalled inches at a time. Sweat trickled down her brow, stinging her eyes, and her ribs began to ache with the effort of measured breathing.

Again, the handlers urged the oxen, their shouts cracking through the chilled air. The beasts answered with deeper lows and a renewed surge. Seraphina’s boots slid half a pace, gouging furrows in the turf. She ground her heels, summoned fresh Strength from burning muscles, and fought the tide.

Moments stretched like drawn wire. Every heartbeat felt loud in her ears, every lungful of air turning to fire. Yet the chains did not slip from her grasp. She held on, shoulders bunching, her body straining under tension.

Across the field, the workers fell silent, witnessing something rare: a small girl pitted against the relentless power of two living engines bred for toil. Breath rose from girl and cattle alike, mingling in pale clouds that drifted toward the brightening sun.

It was no longer a contest of sudden blows but of measureless endurance—a test of whose reserves would empty first. And though her Stamina ebbed with every second, Seraphina’s resolve only hardened, cold and bright as tempered steel.

You have gained 1 Strength.

You have gained 1 Constitution

The young girl smiled wickedly as she continued her struggle against the beasts and herself.