Geffen is a magical city which rests on top of yet another magical city. Being a stronghold of mages and wizards and thus overflowing with elemental powers, standing still on the ground sometimes caused one's hair to stand on end. It was due to the tendrils of magic rising up from the ancient stone slabs that made up the groundwork of Geffen's streets.

An acolyte wearing a biretta slightly larger that the standard issue walked down the magic-laden streets, his eyes—slightly obscured behind his stray hair—wary as he watched people deal with their day-to-day lives with magic. Some tourist children from Amatsu were watching a magical show by one of the friendlier magicians, her hat producing cuddly animals and party favors instead of destruction, which was the general theme of all Geffenian magic.

There were also local children who played Magician’s Cards, wherein their decks produced miniature versions of the monsters that existed throughout Rune-Midgard and battled other children’s deck creatures.

The acolyte also lazily eyed one senior knight who went through the west gate carrying a carefully-wrapped blade. People searching for spells or enchanted antiques often came to Geffen, and it was not very unusual also to see occasional magical backlashes happening on people not much knowledgeable on handling magic.

Aerandir, who was so used to elemental magic's presence, had a different reason why the small hairs at the back of his neck were standing. It was because of the cold aura that overflowed not from the city's magical history, but from Glast Heim, the abandoned stronghold that lay nearby to the west of the Geffenian basin.

I hate Geffen, thought Aerandir as he buried his hands in his pockets, his breath starting to mist with the setting cold of dusk. This place stinks of death, and no amount of wonderful gadgetry or magic can hide it.

With good reason. Geffen rested on top of another magical city, which sank into the ground centuries ago. Once inhabited by elves, ancient Geffenia was a city gifted by the gods, until a forgotten offense caused them to earn the wrath of the celestial beings, killing the entire elven population.

Power-hungry humans took advantage of the tragedy and built a new city upon the rubble and the elfin corpses, freeloading on the strong elemental magic emanating from what was left of Geffenia.

Of course, humans forget, thought Aerandir as he reached the arched gateway to one of the city’s prominent mansions. We even forget the sin we were born with.

A large throng of onlookers crowded outside the gate, and in the midst of the chaos caused by curious bystanders pushing their way forward was a defiant Kafra employee, her arms crossed and her once-delicate brown tresses disheveled with stress. "No one goes beyond this point!" she cried, at her wit’s end.

He finally managed to make his way through the crowd, hearing murmurs which hinted at them wanting to get a piece of the latest high society scandal and gossip fodder.

“I need to get inside, Miss Rumika,” said Aerandir amongst the din of spectators.

“Hey! It's that useless acolyte!” whispered someone sotto voce. “I heard from my cousin that he does nothing but read all day! He can't even perform healing spells!”

“I heard that the Order's Guildmaster hired him as a personal slave...”

Aerandir flushed, struggling to keep his calm. Okay, slow down, he told himself. 'Cause they're right...

The hired assistant noticed him. “I can’t believe it,” Rumika sighed loudly and shook her head. “No, I can’t let you through. Especially you. Miss Dastonia is in undue stress right now—”

“Please,” Aerandir pleaded. “I—”

“Dammit stupid boy, don’t stand in the way!” one voice behind him cried out. “I can’t afford to miss seeing Venris—”

Closing his eyes, Aerandir counted backwards from ten to one in a futile attempt to salvage his patience and said, “Yes, I have business,” he enunciated in clear and loud tones, making sure that everyone heard him. “I am a boy for hire, 'cause that's what I do best. I fact, Lady Venris is one of my favorite clients! Anyone interested?”

That caught their attention, and shifted their bewildered gazes towards the strange young acolyte. He was only in his sixteenth or seventeenth year, his awkward-looking biretta perched on his ruffled silver hair, looking for the entire world like a world-weary teenager suffering the usual hormonally-induced teenage problems. There was one significant thing missing though. The boy lacked the least desirable aspect of teenage confusion, which was the farming of pimples and other related curses.

With that said, the boy could be described as handsome.

Rumika narrowed her eyes as she said slowly, as if the words were alien to her, “And you have business with Miss Venris…?”

“I’m sure I have spoken something to that effect,” said Aerandir, and added for good measure, “I also do a mean…Sonic Blow.”

A pregnant pause loomed over the crowd, and most of the people began eyeing the boy with pity and regret. An acolyte inept—and a good-looking one at that—claiming to do the Assassin’s Sonic Blow could only mean one thing.

Someone murmured, “He’s too young to suffer like that,” and yet another one said “A holy servant? What's Priesthood coming to?” The rest of the people either shook their heads or looked at him with disgust.

For some reason my self-esteem is gone, Aerandir thought glumly. At least, they did shut up.

“Let him in,” said someone from the opposite side of the gate. Aerandir peered through the wrought-iron fence and saw Leon Cross, one of the Generals of the Schwarzwald Elements; the Paladin gave him a wry grin that told Aerandir he overheard his outburst, and let the scene drag on to his own enjoyment. “He is with me, Miss Rumika. I called him to check on Lady Venris.”

“Check? Hah!” guffawed one bystander. “For all we know the only good he can do is to awake Lady Sleeping Beauty with a kiss!”

“More than a kiss!”

“Shut up!” growled Leon. “I don't feel so good right now, so if you want to be fodder for my bird you can just say one more word! Yeah?”

“Disgusting,” said Aerandir to himself. And to Rumika, who he could not help but feel a little sympathy for but took another snipe on her nonetheless, “I guess I am done advertising my services now?”

The Paladin ushered him in, and what awaited Aerandir inside were indeed the large bejeweled chandeliers and luxurious wall-to-wall carpeting, furniture laid with gold leaf and antique vases that he imagined he might see behind the closed doors belonging to a nobleman. But there was one thing which made the interior significantly different from all the others.

The mansion was in pieces. A curtain panel was torn in half from the bottom up, numerous vases and crystals were smashed and scattered across the floor in glittering pieces, and Aerandir saw a sofa hacked and smashed by what could be a heavy blade.

He could now imagine what it was that attracted the intense curiosity of the crowd.

“Good thing you came here in short notice,” Leon whispered to him. “That this happened to her, of all people...it creeps the heebie jeebies out of me.”

“What…happened here?” was all Aerandir could say. A movement from the far corner of the room caught and held his gaze. He paled at what he saw.

A woman in her late twenties lay slumped against the wall, her long tresses covering her face. She was utterly pale, and her torn white diaphanous dress and platinum hair did not do much to improve her complexion. She was shaking, albeit slightly. A High Priest was holding her, both of them silent.

“Lady Venris Dastonia is under a spell,” said Leon to Aerandir, “she lost her reasoning and tore her place apart.” It was evident by his tone that he did not really know exactly what had happened. “Is she doing better, Father Havelock?”

Havelock shook his head. “She did calm down, but hasn’t spoken anything since you went out,” he murmured as he stroked Venris’ hair. He paused and added, “But I do recall these kinds of symptoms. I believe that she has been touched by an enchanted blade.”

Aerandir acknowledged his leader's presence with a slight nod. While the High Priest bore himself with such pious dignity that he seemed to have achieved an ephemeral state, the slight creases on his face and the grey streaks on his hair betrayed his fatigue and emotional strain. It surprised the neophyte that his Guildmaster proferred himself to fulfill the Order's duties, but Aerandir bore a slight suspicion that he chose to keep to himself.

“Which one?” asked Leon tersely, ill at ease.

“I am not sure,” said the High Priest, brooding over the lady's prone form, almost caressing her in the most subtle of ways. “Victims of magical blades—those which affect minds—are supposed to be unconscious, but Lady Dastonia went to a rage, and she’s still awake.”

A heavy sigh came out of Venris’ slightly parted lips, as if punctuating his point. One of her hands feebly reached out to her crimson-tipped Muramasa, but Havelock quickly snatched her hand back and Leon pushed the heavy sword away from her with his heel.

“No way am I going to touch that blade,” said Leon. “That one is definitely cursed…” his voice trailed off.

Aerandir snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “You’re thinking that what happened was because of that sword? That she was cursed?”

Several years have already passed since the boy last saw her, when she was still one of the Swords of Prontera, when she still used the monicker Sevrin Astergarden in order to draw attention away from her real name. Lady Dastonia saved his life once when he was still a small child, back when the Rune-Midgard was about to be torn to pieces.

But what Aerandir could not forget was the way she endured the Muramasa’s curse and used the weakness to her advantage; the demon of the blade who was supposed to have impeded her movements eventually became her servant.

The Muramasa could not have done that to her.

“No, that’s impossible. I saw her use it once,” he said, his voice distant. “She was adept in using that blade.”

“I agree, as a matter-of-fact,” said Leon grudgingly. “She swore off the blade and her duty as the Sword of Valor's Captain years ago. She does not have anything to do with the Muramasa after she dropped out of the King’s Service.”

“But she kept it, nonetheless,” said Havelock, giving a wry look at the sword. “Good luck to all three of us in finding out what really transpired here. What do you think, Brother Aerandir?” he asked, turning to the ashen-faced boy. “You knew Lady Dastonia once, years ago. Was she always like this?”

“No.” Young Aerandir knelt down to where Venris was laying and, with one hand, tucked the stray hair that was covering her face. Two blue eyes, hazily defiant, stared back at him. “I do not know whether or not you remember me, Lady,” he said solemnly as he put his other hand over his heart, “but I do not forget kindness. I swear by the Cross that I will break the spell.”

Havelock thought it was interesting to notice that the acolyte did not grasp the crucifix of his rosary around his neck, as he said his Oath to the Cross.