FROST
Chapter 114: Perfume of Decay

Chapter 114: Perfume of Decay

Caspian didn’t bother announcing the teleport. With the baby nestled securely in one arm and Seravine clinging to his arm like a spider with no sense of personal boundaries, he snapped them both through the fabric of space and reality.

With a rush of displaced air and a sound not unlike a wine bottle being uncorked by a snobbish sommelier, they landed back on the surface—more specifically, in front of the old, huge tree they descended into.

Surprisingly, the high elf was still there. Not just loitering, mind you, but dramatically posed in front of a rock like he’d been modeling for an imaginary oil painting titled "Man With Sword, Waiting for Destiny."

Estes turned, his crimson white hair cascading behind him with a flair that could only come from someone who used wind magic solely for hair volume.

He held Caspian’s sword—the one he had demanded as "payment" for his previous assistance—cradled like it was his firstborn and also a rare bottle of elven wine.

"I’m actually really impressed you were able to—" Estes began, voice smooth, confident, and just smug enough to irritate any creature within hearing distance.

But then he paused.

His eyes dropped to the small bundle in Caspian’s arms. And blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly. Like a malfunctioning NPC processing a glitch.

Then—bam!—he dropped into a defensive stance so fast his robes flared like drama incarnate.

"What in the hell is that?!" he exclaimed, pointing the sword as though Caspian had just returned cradling a ticking bomb in swaddling clothes.

Caspian arched a brow. "A child."

Estes didn’t move. "That is not just a child. That is a—thing. An adorable, possibly soul-consuming, mana-siphoning, reality-warping thing."

"Thank you," Caspian replied flatly. "He gets it from his mother."

Seravine raised a hand. "No, not me. Wrong woman. Not this time."

Estes narrowed his eyes and took a cautious step forward. "Why is he not radiating anything? No aura, no signature, no trace of essence. It’s like... like he’s a black hole in the shape of a baby."

"He’s teething," Caspian said, patting the child’s back like that explained everything. "He probably even had pubic hairs for a few minutes—but I liked him better like this."

The child, as if on cue, yawned. A sweet, innocent little noise. Birds chirped. Flowers may have bloomed and wilted somewhere. For a split second, peace hovered.

Then Estes backed up another step, sword still raised. "Don’t let it bite me."

Seravine cackled. "Oh, you think you’re worth biting?"

"I’ve been bitten by ethereal shades, two werewolves, and a gossip columnist," Estes snapped, brandishing his sword again with dramatic offense. "I know danger when I see it!"

"Of course, Estes," Seravine rolled her eyes with all the force of someone who’d aged four decades in a conversation. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and tucked her cloak tighter across her chest. "Yes, yes. You’re very worldly. Very nibbled. We get it."

Estes narrowed his eyes—not the theatrical kind of narrow, but the calculating, almost unnervingly still kind. His gaze settled on her with an eerie focus, the kind he usually reserved for cursed relics or treacherous contracts written in blood ink.

"What?" Seravine barked, shifting uncomfortably. "You wanna fight? I know I’m topless under this cloak, Estes, but it’s not that distracting."

Estes blinked once, slowly. "First of all, ew. Second—no. I’m not staring because of that. I’m sensing... something wrong in you."

The humor drained from her face in a heartbeat. Seravine stood frozen, mouth parted ever so slightly. She had hoped to hide it a little longer, at least until the child was safely away—until Caspian no longer needed her.

Her breath hitched, barely audible. She knew the moment she’d stepped within arm’s reach of an elf, any elf, that someone would notice the shift. The change in her aura. The... scent.

It was subtle, but unmistakable.

Elves and demons shared a unique sensory attunement. Whether born of ancient magic, blood-deep rivalry, or sheer evolutionary pettiness, they could always tell when the other was fading. It hung around the afflicted like smoke that only the sensitive could smell.

"Ahh~" Seravine tried for lightness and failed miserably. "I—I fell on a pile of dead imps earlier. Messy little things. Pustules and decay, all of that. Probably what you’re sniffing."

Caspian turned to her sharply, his eyes narrowing with the full wrath of royalty and parenting exhaustion. "And you used my cloak to roll in that grotesque mess?"

Seravine gave an exaggerated shrug, unapologetic. "Recycling. It’s environmentally responsible."

"You little—" Caspian began, voice pitching high with betrayal.

"Ehhhh~" Seravine quickly cut him off, snapping her fingers and spinning to face Estes. "What about we focus on the actual reason we came back here, hmm? Our good friend, enemy, and general pain in the rear—Asmaros?"

But when she looked back at the elf, he wasn’t blinking. He wasn’t even moving.

Estes was still staring at her. Not confused. Not irritated.

Concerned.

His brows were slightly furrowed. His mouth was drawn tight. The sword at his side was forgotten. It wasn’t often that Estes dropped the performance mask, but when he did, it was like seeing an ancient tree shake in the wind.

"You can get us to Asmaros, right?" Seravine asked again, her voice cracking despite herself.

She clicked her fingers right in front of his face. "Hello? Pointy-ears? Portal now, existential intervention later?"

Estes snapped out of his trance, though slowly, and finally nodded. "Yes. I can get you to him."

"But?" Caspian asked, one brow raised.

Estes didn’t answer. Not immediately. He looked at Seravine one more time. Really looked at her. Then he turned away, cloak swirling, as he began the preparations.

"I’ll need ten minutes," he said. "And one favor, Caspian."

"Is it about a service fee again? Don’t worry, I’ll give you internal organs this time—"

"No," Estes murmured, voice quiet. "It’s about her."

Seravine froze mid-step. Caspian turned toward her slowly, suspicion knitting his brows. The silence thickened around them, heavier than the air after a spell gone wrong. And for the first time in a very long while, Seravine—sharp-tongued, shameless Seravine—looked away.

"Why?" Caspian asked, voice gentler than expected. "What happened? Is there something wrong?"

His eyes flicked between Estes and Seravine, hoping for one of them to break the growing silence. Estes, for his part, gave Seravine a long, sidelong look, waiting. Hoping, maybe.

When she said nothing, Estes exhaled through his nose. "I think you’d better ask her."

Seravine scoffed and immediately turned, striding away as if the conversation had bored her. "Nothing," she snapped. "It’s nothing. Drop it."

Caspian frowned and took a step forward, ready to follow—until a soft sound stopped him.

The baby cooed.

He looked down. The child was now pointing—no, reaching—toward Estes, tiny fingers wiggling like they were trying to snatch air. His dark eyes were locked onto the elf’s ears, as if enthralled by the very concept of cartilage.

Now that Caspian remembered it, the baby used to have pointed ears the moment he was born, but now, it became rounded.

It must have happened when he turned back to his original state, Caspian thought.

The baby cooed again, this time a little louder, the universal sound of a creature demanding attention now, preferably with snacks.

Caspian arched an eyebrow. "Huh. He’s... oddly fixated on your ears."

"I don’t like children, thank you very much," Estes said briskly, swatting at the air like the baby’s desire might physically touch him.

He made a hard turn to leave—but paused when the child suddenly radiated a bitter cold, like winter wind blowing through an ancient crypt.

Estes stopped mid-step.

He looked back, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "What do you want, boy? This sword? My dignity? A signed photo of me in my prime?"

The child responded by giggling and pointing again at Estes’ ears.

Caspian snorted. "Come on. Just let him touch your ears. It’s a rite of passage."

Estes gave him a flat stare. "Yes, because I absolutely want a magical, unknown baby breed, with snot on his hands tugging my sacred elven heritage."

He flicked his fingers with an annoyed flourish. A swirl of crimson leaves materialized and wrapped themselves into an elegant, if dramatic, diaper around the baby’s waist.

"There. He’s at least dressed like a seasonal prince now."

He leaned forward with a sigh. "Come here, you tiny demon spawn," he muttered, taking the child into his arms with a resigned elegance, as if cradling a cursed relic. "Stars above, you’re cold. What are you made of, enchanted glaciers and spite?"

The child cooed happily and grabbed Estes’ pointed ear.

Estes stiffened.

"Okay. That’s enough. Five seconds of ear fondling, and I’ve already lost fifty years of pride."

Caspian grinned, but Estes was already waving him off.

"Go. Find her," he said, not quite meeting Caspian’s gaze. "Before she convinces herself she can carry that burden alone."

Caspian hesitated, then nodded once and turned in the direction Seravine had gone—heart heavy, steps quickening.

Behind him, the baby giggled again—Estes muttering something about ’cursed parental bonds’ and ’imminent frostbite.’

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