The Cindrel Academy loomed over the jagged cliffs of northern Iron March, a silhouette more war citadel than school.
Its black iron towers pierced the sky, and its halls echoed with the clash of drills and the hum of structured magic. Here, magic was not celebrated. It was regimented. Refined. Weaponized.
Students, whether they wielded humble flames or manipulations of gravity were trained as soldiers first, assets second.
Discipline was survival. Weakness was treason.
Above all others, there stood the forbidden divisions: Space, Time, Void, Gravity, Aether.
Those born under such dangerous signs were not viewed as students.
They were classified, registered, monitored and in extreme cases controlled.
Unless they chose another path, the Soulbound Accord.
An ancient oath sealed in blood and binding magic, swearing to never participate in planar manipulations. Those who submitted could leave the Academy's walls but would forever carry invisible chains, bound by their own oaths.
Kaelyn had been among them. She was able to wield her Space affinity for storage or non military teleportation, but never for planar operations.
Now, her message, laced with curiosity and precision, arrived on the desk of Magus Arthen Vaelor.
Vaelor stood in his austere study, a room stripped of luxury, adorned only with tomes, soul wards, and maps inked in sigils.
The letter from Kaelyn was short, factual:
An unknown figure, an Elf.
Operating within the Gilded Dominion.
Displaying tangible Space Affinity.
Was this elf trustworthy?
Did her mentor know which Academy he was graduated from?
Vaelor's jaw tightened as he read. The implications were too dangerous to dismiss.
With mechanical precision, he summoned his scribe and composed a missive, sealing it with mana threaded sigils.
To Magus Laevior Sindareth, Starlight Arcanum, Thalasien:
Is Corvin Blackmoor listed among Elven graduates?
If not, which academy trained him? Or was he from the Synod?
Who served as his mentor?
Every detail mattered.
Vaelor prided himself on his knowledge. He knew nearly all of the active Space Mage mentors across the continents. Any unfamiliar name would quickly be flagged.
He sealed the mana line and sent the letter hurtling across planes.
The benefit of being a Space Mage was that he could have opened a gate instead of a simple corridor and spoke face to face with his old colleague if not for the strict restrictions on cross continental teleportations and the mana net woven across each and every continent to monitor such activities. Especially without Circle authorization.
Turning back to his maps of future projections, Vaelor took a deep breath.
For the first time in years, he placed a new marker:
A single black feather.
Pinned squarely into the heart of the Gilded Dominion.
--
The banners of House Vellgard flew over three quarters of the Gilded Dominion.
Trade routes bent knee. Merchant guilds bent lower. The minor houses, stripped of their champions and alliances, whispered only obedience.
Duchess, no, Queen Yvanna Vellgard ruled in all but formal title.
And yet, she had not declared it.
She sat in her private solar, bathed in the gold drenched light of late afternoon, staring at a simple iron crown resting on a velvet cushion.
A crown unclaimed.
Memories from old histories stirred in her mind, warnings scribed in blood.
The last time a woman claimed sovereign rule within the Dominion, the Holy Verranate had declared it an affront to their sick gods.
The theocracy of the Holy Verranate tolerated no true power in female hands.
In their lands, women could not own property, could not cast spells without supervision, could not sit on councils. Even noblewomen were shackled by ceremony and expectation, reduced to breeders and ornaments of their husbands' ambitions.
Yvanna's lip curled in disdain.
Those relics of rotting faith would not accept her reign quietly.
If she declared herself Queen, she risked a crusade.
She risked another "holy war" launched not by righteousness, but by jealous, impotent and fearful zealots cloaking ambition behind corrupted divine law.
And yet, she could not afford to delay forever.
The Gilded Dominion needed a sovereign. Trade pacts needed signatures. Borders needed guarantees.
And deterrence...
Deterrence needed a face.
Her mind turned inevitably to one name.
Corvin Blackmoor.
The Raven.
No army had broken her rivals. No battalion had seized their holdings.
Only him.
Cold, silent and absolute.
Binding him by chains was folly.
Binding him by coin was insulting. Especially after her soldiers confirmed the empty treasuries of the targets he took down.
Binding him by respect on the other hand perhaps was possible.
If she could offer him something rare: autonomy, influence and legacy.
If Corvin could be convinced to stand as her unseen sword, her deterrent against the old faith and its war banners then even the Holy Verranate might think twice.
Yvanna exhaled slowly, tapping one crimson fingernail against the untouched crown.
The game was not over.
It had only just begun.
--
The borderlands of Iron March stretched before him, harsh, windswept, bristling with the scars of old wars and the greed of new ones. Negative side of ambitious military raised morons was each and every one of them thinks they knew what is best, and it shows on the bloody history of this continent. It was not different from Earth to be honest. Corruption, ambition, dishonesty. Humans, or more precisely organic life forms were all the same. Was it the thinking ability, being a social creatures, or was it in the nature of life it self to be greedy little bastards? He could not say.
Corvin moved through the broken plains toward Drakenvault, the last fortress city before the no man's lands of rebellion.
The road was quiet, save for the thudding steps of caravan guards and the low rumble of supply wagons. Yet Corvin walked alone, he was one of the guards, accepted the job from the guild branch after his meeting the Duchess. Now he was blending seamlessly into the dusty horizon as the rear guard of the caravan.
He let his senses stretch out, brushing across the minds of the scattered travelers with ease. A constant, silent sweep now second nature.
As the city came into view, he turned inward, summoning his Status Screen with a thought.
[Status]
Name: Corvin Blackmoor
Race: Dark Parasyte (Awakening Stage)
Level: 94
Attributes
STR: A
END: A
AGI: A+
INT: S-
WIS: S-
LCK: A
Magic Affinities
Water, Fire, Earth, Wind Magic: A+
Dark, Lightning, Psychic, Blood Magic: B+
Space Magic: D+
Skills
Shadow Siphon: Can now siphon Spellwright level targets without alerting them. Testing required for Magister level targets.
Telekinesis: Effective range 300 meters; precision control down to fine grains, lifting capacity up to 300 kilograms.
Telepathy: Effective range 500 meters; advanced threading and emotional layering.
Blood Manipulation: Effective on Spellwright and lower level entities.
Personal Space: Size, 1000 cubic meters.
Contents: Masses of gold coins, enchanted artifacts, high tier storage rings, heirloom weapons, ancient scrolls. The collective wealth of a dozen fallen houses.
Corvin dismissed the glowing pane and allowed himself a thin smile.
The Gilded Dominion had been a feast.
He walked now with the quiet might of a minor kingdom tucked in his very soul.
Each skill was sharper, faster.
His mind moved in layers.
Where once his telekinesis had lifted blades and stones, now he could manipulate the battlefield. Shifting sand into blinding curtains, launching boulders with surgical precision.
His telepathy had matured beyond mere listening. He could now implant emotional echoes, weave threads of doubt or calm like a bard strumming unseen chords.
His blood magic, still young, still feral whispered of deeper possibilities: disease vectors, cursed blood rituals, battlefield wide plagues.
And then there was Space Magic.
New and needed as sliced bread.
Already he could feel it, a trembling in the bones of the world when he willed it. A folding of distance. A promise of gates unopened.
In the echoes of tje memories he had siphoned from Kaelyn's mind, he had seen glimpses.
Space Mages stepping from one point to another in an instant.
Others opening rippling gateways through folded dimensions.
True teleportation.
The range, stability, and energy cost all depended on the level of the affinity.
Corvin's Space Affinity was still embryonic, D+ in Rank. It already increased one rank since he obtained it.
And if he wanted to unlock its true potential, he needed more.
More rare affinities.
More arcane elements.
More pieces of the cosmic puzzle hidden within this fractured world.
He had time.
And the patience of an immortal predator.
Corvin's lips curled slightly as he approached Drakenvault's gates, grim towers looming beneath banners of black and red.
Soldiers in heavy armor moved along the battlements. Mages in regulation robes monitored the incoming traffic with scrying stones and passive detection arrays.
Corvin's cloak stirred in the desert breeze, and the guards barely spared his documents a glance.
A ghost among mortals.
He entered the city without fanfare, without resistance.
The Raven had come to Drakenvault.
--
The reply from Starlight Arcanum arrived wrapped in layers of enchanted silk and mirrored sigils.
Magus Vaelor unfurled the letter under the heavy wards of his study, scanning the elegant script with a deepening frown.
No record of Corvin Blackmoor among High Elven graduates.
No enrollment, mentorship. Nor was the last name linked to any High Elven bloodline.
The implication was immediate, and troubling.
Vaelor wasted no time. Formal inquiries could be evaded. Records could be falsified.
The Dark Elves of the Synod, however, were not known for cooperating. If answers were to be found, they would have to be pried from behind their obsidian doors.
Thus, a physical envoy was dispatched. A trusted Seeker from the Starlight Arcanum, trained to survive diplomacy without the safety of parchment and signatures.
It would take time and patience. Dealing with Synod was always a hassle.
Vaelor penned a secondary missive, concise and grim, addressed back to Kaelyn under Duchess Yvanna's seal.
"Preliminary conclusion: Subject 'Corvin Blackmoor' has no record among the High Elven academies. Likely origin: Dark Elven Synod. Estimated threat assessment: High. Immediate caution advised."
The message bore no signature.
Kaelyn read the missive in her private chamber.
Danger, she had expected, but not of the Synod. Those zealots were lunatics in best of their days.
Now confirmation weighed heavy in her chest.
That evening, cloaked in folded space, Kaelyn bowed slightly before Queen Yvanna in the marble clad sanctum of Vellgard Hold.
Yvanna listened without interruption, her face carved from polished stone.
When Kaelyn finished, Yvanna's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the arms of her throne.
"Summon them," she said, her voice cold and clear.
Three names were called.
The three recruiters, two Arcanists and a Magister who had ventured to other continents months ago, were summoned.
Magic users held status even above some minor nobles; even kings tread lightly around them. Yvanna knew she could not simply command them, but she could demand answers.
Yvanna's voice cracked like a whip across the marble floor.
"Tell me," she said. "Where did you find the Raven? What do you know of him?"
The first Arcanist, a lean man with hollow cheeks, stepped forward and bowed stiffly.
"Your Majesty, we did not seek him directly. We heard of him through our 'channels' during his work in Veilthorn. Dozens of assignments completed flawlessly, without witnesses."
The second Arcanist, a woman with storm grey eyes, added, "Each task executed with precision beyond anything we had seen."
Finally, the Magister, older and carrying more weight than the others, stepped forward. He bowed slightly with the unshakable calm of a man familiar with storms.
"According to the guild records, he has Lightning affinity, that is all the confirmed data about him other than his efficiency of course. This very efficiency is beyond doubt the reason of our current situation. The results, Your Majesty, speak for themselves. Without his intervention, you would not sit as the effective Queen of the Gilded Dominion today."
The court held its breath.
Yvanna's gaze sharpened, but she said nothing more.
The three recruiters remained standing, the weight of the Raven's shadow stretching long behind them.
--
Reaching the Dark Elven Synod had been an ordeal in itself.
The envoy, a slender High Elf in formal robes marked with the sigils of diplomacy had traveled for weeks through dangerous, mist laden passes and fractured leyline trails.
And even then, he had waited seven days outside the obsidian gates of the Synod's dark citadel before a response came.
When the black doors finally parted, a pair of Dark Elves clad in veiled shadows and etched armor led him inside.
Every step deeper into the Synod's heart was a step into a world of silence and menace.
He could feel the eyes, countless, watching from the hollow arches and the living murals that seemed to shift with faint breath.
Some of the veiled figures, assassins, unmistakably.. let their sharpened gazes fall openly upon him. He had been trained not to flinch. Still, he felt the itch between his shoulder blades, as if a dozen invisible knives were poised an inch from his spine.
Why do the High Elves tolerate these lunatics? he thought bitterly.
The thought barely formed when a whisper, silk and venom breathed into his mind:
"Tread carefully, envoy... In these sacred halls, no secret survives the gaze of the Dark Goddess's children."
The envoy stiffened but kept walking, heart hammering. Behind him, faint cackles slipped through the air like knives wrapped in laughter.
Finally, he was brought before a trio of Dark Elves seated on black thrones, two Magus and a single Archmagus cloaked in veiled shadows.
The inquiry was made formally.
A name: Corvin Blackmoor.
The Synod representatives listened without expression.
At length, the leading Magus spoke, voice smooth and cold.
"We shall consult the tribal registries. Wait."
It was a lie, of course.
All Dark Elves born with rare elemental affinities, especially Space, Time, Void, Gravity, or Aether were already bound, marked, and archived under Synod law and Circle decree.
The envoy was dismissed to a sterile room with a single bed and a desk, where he paced restlessly under the weight of unseen scrutiny.
Once the doors sealed, the lead Magus turned to the shadows.
"Find him. Everything."
The command rippled into the void.
Minutes later, the shadows returned, swift and silent.
Records from Veilthorn. Whispered accounts of silent deaths. Caravan raids. Noble collapses. Mercenary contracts executed with supernatural precision. Last known location Gilded Dominion.
Corvin Blackmoor.
Unknown origin.
Unknown allegiance.
Deadly beyond measure.
The gathered Magi and the Archmagus conferred in low tones.
"Shall we inform the Arcanum?" one Magus asked.
The Archmagus's voice was decisive.
"No. First, we find him. First, we speak."
Orders were given.
Five of the Synod's finest 'spies' trained in dark magic and silent war were dispatched toward the Gilded Dominion.
Their mission: contact Corvin Blackmoor.
If possible, recruit him, there was no order for 'if not'.
--
The Mercenary Guild in Drakenvault was a fortress within a fortress.
Built into the stone walls of the inner city, its heavy blackwood doors bore the scars of countless battles and magical sieges. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of steel oil, burnt parchment, and ambition.
Corvin moved through the hall like a wraith, his cloak trailing no sound. The posted contracts fluttered under mage lamps, desperate ink scratching desperate bargains.
One caught his eye.
"Priority - Frontline Reinforcement."
Location: The northern rebel held provinces.
Objective: Assist loyalist Iron March forces in suppressing the remnants of a failed coup.
Target: General Varreck Duran a former High General who, believing the central throne of Argyll weakened by the lack of High King, had attempted a secession.
He had failed, but not completely.
Several towns and fortresses had rallied to his banner, and his forces now bled the loyalists daily across the borderlands.
Worse, whispers spoke of mercenary companies, rogue mages, and even dark cultists bolstering the rebellion.
The reward was high, the risk, higher.
Corvin plucked the contract from the board and approached the Guild registrar, a scarred human with the weary look of one who had seen too many battles bought and sold.
He glanced up, froze for half a breath, and then nodded sharply.
No questions.
The assignment was stamped, sealed, and added to the silent weight Corvin carried.
He left the Guild without ceremony, feeling the thread of destiny pull taut inside him.
His level was already pressing close to the threshold.
One more battlefield. One more blood soaked harvest.
And he would evolve.
Not just stronger, something new. Something unseen in Valtheris for ages.
Corvin smiled thinly under the dying light of Drakenvault's crimson banners.
War awaited.
And he would answer it with silence and ruin.
--
The stamped assignment letter was still warm in Corvin's hand when he approached the Iron March army recruitment office.
The building was utilitarian, stone walls, iron strapped doors, and rows of soldiers moving in and out like clockwork.
Inside, a recruitment captain, a burly man with a scar bisecting his beard, barely glanced at Corvin before snapping out orders.
"Unit Thirteen. Caravan escort and battle reinforcement. Deployment to the frontlines at Fort Redmarsh. Move."
Fort Redmarsh.
A battered stronghold sitting on the edge of the Gloam Wastes. A cursed, fog ridden no man's land where Varreck Duran's rebel forces had dug in stubbornly.
The fort was three day's forced march southeast from Drakenvault, nestled between the half ruined city of Stonewell and the fractured plains beyond.
The frontlines were fluid, shifting daily as loyalist and rebel forces clashed.
Corvin found Unit Thirteen assembling outside the eastern gates.
Thirty mercenaries, clad in battered gear but moving with the restless precision of killers.
Twenty humans, most with the lean, hungry look of battlefield veterans.
Among them, ten stood apart:
Eight Magic Users, ranging from Adepts to Arcanists.
Two Spellwrights, their robes marked with runic thread, their eyes weary and sharp.
The remaining ten were not human:
Four Feralis: three Wolfkin, their scents sharp with predatory tension; and one Lionkin, broad shouldered and silent.
Three High Elves: elegant, aloof, their armor pristine even now.
Two Aetherborn: one Fire elemental, whose hair shimmered like molten glass, and one Earth elemental, whose skin bore the grain of stone.
The Aetherborn were young, by their standards. Barely a few centuries into their immortal lives.
No one spoke.
Silence ruled as they moved, weapons checked, sigils tightened.
Yet Corvin watched them all.
Measured them.
Weighed them.
Every heartbeat, every aura, every flicker of restrained magic.
Potential prey.
Potential weapons.
In time, perhaps both.
The march began under a slate grey sky, boots grinding into dust and cracked stone.
Unit Thirteen moved east, toward Fort Redmarsh.
Toward war.
And Corvin, unseen and unchallenged, moved with them.
A predator among hunters.
A godling among men.