Virion Eralith
The weight of another dawn pressed down on my shoulders who for the first time in decades felt old, heavier than any armor I had ever worn while I was king of Elenoir.
Another day etched onto the calendar of Corvis' absence. Another day where the gnawing fear in my gut, cold and sharp as a dagger, refused to relent. Tessia's confirmation, Cynthia's weary nod—they painted a picture of a departure before the Council's vile proclamation. My grandson hadn't fled justice; he had been preemptively exiled by himself. The planned return, whatever mission had drawn him from Xyrus City, was now impossible. He was adrift in a continent that had branded him prey.
Corvis. The boy who dissected mana theory like others played with toys. The grandson whose fiercest battles were waged inside his little head, not outside. The thought of him, hunted… it twisted something vital inside me. Whoever eventually found him… they wouldn't find the quiet, intense prince meticulously compensating for his corelessness with brilliant artifice and his amazing prosthetic magic.
The prosthetic magic that seemed to awaken something inside of him, shattering the sadness that threatened to devour him.
But I was sure, I was grimly sure that if when he was found they would find someone hardened, scarred by betrayal and wilderness. Someone forced to become something… else. I shoved the image away, a physical recoil making my knuckles white where they gripped the edge of my desk. Not that.
Please, not that. Not to my dear grandson.
A bitter consolation: only Olfred Warend, the dwarven Lance, seemed actively dispatched by the Council to hunt him. The human Lances, Varay and Bairon, were ostensibly preoccupied with the insidious, unseen threats that were hidden in our continents—threats I now knew were enemy's whispers poisoning the Council chambers.
Alduin and Merial, my son and daughter-in-law, fought a desperate, silent war within the Tri-Union's gilded cage. But the Glayders and Greysunders were immovable, their determination against a thirteen-year-old boy fueled by motives I couldn't yet fully grasp, only despise. The very rules Elenoir had agreed to forge this fragile unity were now the chains binding them from saving their own prince.
The irony was a galling poison that risked to make me go mad.
"Virion?" The voice, raspy with age yet carrying an undercurrent of steel, cut through the suffocating silence. Hester Flamesworth stood framed in the doorway, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Relief, fragile but real, washed over me. She was here. My good old friends were here.
"Hester," I managed, the name rough in my throat. Behind her, filling the space with their solid presence, came Buhndemog Lonuid, a short mountain of dwarven resilience and muscles, and Camus Selaridon, my oldest friend and also an acquaintance of Corvis.
"Buhnd. Camus. Perfect. Thank you for being here, really." The simple gratitude felt inadequate, a paltry thing against the magnitude of their solidarity. These were friends forged in fires long past, the bedrock I could still stand upon when the political ground shifted treacherously.
"So," Buhnd boomed, striding in and slamming a fist the size of a ham onto my desk, making inkwells jump. "Where do we start combing the continent for the kid, eh?" His fierce grin was a welcome assault on the gloom. Old warhorse. He hadn't changed. The sheer, uncomplicated readiness in his posture, the immediate assumption of action, was a balm.
"The fact that the Tri-Union issued an official decree to imprison a child," Hester stated, her voice like ice cracking, or lighting crackling seeing who Hester was, "it sickens me." She shook her head, the disgust palpable. "Before coming, I spoke with Princess Kathyln. Even Prince Curtis is furious about this travesty surrounding your grandson, Virion." Her gaze held mine, sharp and understanding.
"Don't, Hester," I warned, the embers of my own fury threatening to blaze. The urge to tear across Dicathen myself, to sweep aside every obstacle until I found Corvis, was a physical ache. But the snakes coiled within the Council, the unknown enemy puppeteers pulling strings… they were the greater, more insidious threat.
And I felt blind, groping in shadows, while my grandson paid the price. The helplessness was its own kind of insufferable torture.
"Yeah, yeah, we're all pissed," Buhnd rumbled, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder, a gesture both comforting and grounding. "Any bright ideas on where to look? Oh, and just so you know," he added, a gruff twinkle in his eyes, "after we haul the kid back, you're buying the first round. And the second. And probably the tenth."
It was pure Buhnd—camaraderie expressed through demands for beer or any other type of alcohol, a lifeline of normalcy thrown into the storm.
"Of course," I chuckled, the sound rusty but genuine. I unrolled the large map spread across my desk, the parchment crinkling under my touch. Dicathen sprawled before us, mountains, forests, cities, borders. "We can ignore the major cities," I began, tracing a finger along the parchment. "Too many eyes, too much risk. Focus on the borders. Remote areas. Especially…" My finger tapped the jagged spine of the Grand Mountains. "Here. Seclusion. Natural defenses. The best place to vanish."
"A kid? Alone in the wilds?" Hester's sharp intake of breath mirrored the grandfather's terror clawing inside me. "Tch—we better find him fast, Virion. Before the elements or something worse does."
The grandfather in me screamed agreement. But the strategist, the man who knew Corvis's mind… "He's resourceful, Hester," I said, forcing conviction I didn't entirely feel. "Smarter than any of us gave him credit for. He wouldn't just… succumb."
"If I may speak," Camus's quiet voice cut through the tension. He had been studying the map, his expression thoughtful. We all turned to him. "If Prince Corvis wanted to be found," he stated calmly, "we likely would have found him already."
Buhnd snorted. "Pretty obvious, Camus. What's your point?"
Camus met my eyes, his gaze steady and penetrating. "From my limited interactions with the Prince… while he was, understandably, immature in many ways, his intellect… his strategic foresight… was far beyond his years. Virion knows this, yet the grandfather's heart understandably clouds the calculation." He paused, letting the truth of that sink in. "The second time I met Prince Corvis, he sought me out. To consult on the intricacies of the radio frequency modulation he was developing."
I saw the shock register on Hester's and Buhnd's faces. Hester's hand flew to her mouth. "You're saying… that child invented the most revolutionary communication device in Dicathen's history?" Disbelief warred with dawning realization. She didn't doubt Camus; she doubted her own perception of the quiet prince.
Buhnd just stared, his bushy eyebrows climbing his forehead. "So…?" he prompted Camus, his voice hushed now.
"It happened two years ago," Camus continued, his voice low and deliberate. "I can only speculate on the depth his intellect has plumbed since. Worrying about him falling prey to a simple trap… underestimates him." He gestured towards the map. "He is likely anticipating pursuit. Calculating moves several steps ahead."
My blood ran cold, then hot. I shot up from my seat, the chair scraping harshly. "Camus! Are you suggesting I just give up on searching for my grandson?!" The words tore out, raw with panic and indignation.
Camus remained unflappable. "I never said that, Virion." His calm was a stark contrast to my turmoil. "I suggest we shift our focus. Instead of solely chasing the Prince… we should monitor the hunters. Track their movements. Watch the squads the Council dispatches. Identify who else might be searching, and with what intent. By understanding the hunt, we might better protect the quarry… and anticipate where he might be forced to surface."
The logic was cold, brilliant, and utterly agonizing. It meant accepting Corvis was out there, alone, relying on his wits, while we watched from the shadows. It meant trusting his genius over my instinct to shield him.
Buhnd stroked his beard, a low rumble in his chest. "Hmph. Makes a brutal kind of sense, Camus." He looked at me, his gaze heavy with understanding. "But the call's yours, Virion. He's your blood."
The silence in the room thickened, broken only by the crackle of the hearth behind my armchair. The map blurred before my eyes. The grandfather screamed to tear the continent apart stone by stone. The Commander and former King saw the chilling wisdom in Camus's words. What if rushing headlong played into the hands of those who wanted Corvis? What if the act of searching drew more danger to him? The image of Corvis, cornered not by Olfred, but by some shadowy agent drawn by our visible search… it was a nightmare.
The conflict raged within me, a tempest threatening to tear me apart. I looked at my friends – Hester's fierce protectiveness, Buhnd's unwavering readiness, Camus's unsettling clarity. They were my council, my lifeline.
Finally, the words scraped out, tasting like ashes, heavy with the weight of a painful, necessary surrender to a strategy that felt like abandonment: "We… we will do as Camus said."
Corvis Eralith
The mineral scent of freshly carved stone, ozone from Sylvia's pulsing core, and the sharp tang of treated chitin filled the cavernous space I now called 'the garage.'
Three days. Three days spent hunched over the Swarm Leader's colossal carapace, pouring mana not just into it, but through it, weaving reinforcing patterns as intricate as lace into its very molecular structure.
The dark brown had deepened, transmuted under the relentless pressure of my will and prosthetic magic into a deep, burnished crimson, like cooling volcanic rock. It absorbed the dim light filtering from high crevices, seeming to hold a latent fire within its half-meter thickness.
Each rune I had painstakingly engraved onto its surface—geometric constellations of strength, deflection, and kinetic dispersion—pulsed faintly, a network of dormant power waiting for the dragon's heart.
Now, I stood back, wiping sweat and grime from my forehead with the back of my hand, the faint sting of the Falling Down tattoo a familiar counterpoint to the ache in my muscles. Before me, suspended in the very center of the mountain chamber Berna and I had carved, hung the nascent exoform.
Thick cables and mana-infused wires, anchored deep into the living rock of the walls and ceiling, held it aloft, allowing me access to every angle. It was a skeletal giant, cradled in a web of steel and intent.
The core was the cockpit, forged from the high-grade steel Vincent had procured—a marvel of mundane engineering now repurposed for the extraordinary. It wasn't just a seat; it was a layered shell, half-buried within the torso armor crafted from the treated carapace, half protruding forward like the prow of a ship.
The exposed section, where my head and shoulders would be, was framed by thick crimson plates, ready to be enclosed. My vision for it was clear: a darkened glass dome helmet, offering visibility while shielding my presence, another layer between the fragile coreless prince and the world that hunted him.
Even in this embryonic state—lacking limbs, head, or any secondary systems—the sheer bulk was imposing. It dwarfed me, standing easily twice my height even without legs, a monument to stubborn defiance carved from mountain and monster.
"It looks like a mecha," I murmured, the word slipping out, foreign yet perfectly fitting in the silence broken only by Berna's heavy breaths and the faint hum of ambient mana. A surge of fierce, almost paternal pride washed over me, momentarily eclipsing the weariness.
Phase one. Armor proven. Berna's claws, augmented by her own considerable strength and gravity magic, had scraped and slammed against test plates, leaving only superficial scratches on the rune-reinforced surface. It would hold. It had to hold.
"A what?" Romulos materialized beside the suspended torso, phasing partially through a support cable to rap his knuckles against the crimson armor. The sound—even if it was only in my mind—was a deep, resonant thunk, like striking seasoned ironwood. "Mecha?" His spectral brow furrowed in genuine, aristocratic confusion.
"Yes," I clarified, a wry smile touching my lips despite myself. "But technically, given its intended scale—four, maybe five meters maximum once complete—it's closer to a powered armor. A second skin of steel and spell-forged chitin. Or maybe it's an hybrid of both."
"You are inventing terminology from the fictions of your fictional world?" Romulos stared at the construct, then back at me, his expression a mixture of disbelief and dawning, unsettling respect. "I retract every prior assessment of your sanity, Corvis. You haven't merely crossed the threshold of madness; you've built a summer home far beyond it." He drifted closer, examining the intricate runework. "Though... the craftsmanship is undeniable. For a lesser."
The barb barely registered. My focus was drawn back to the embedded safety mechanism Romulos himself had suggested—a cunningly designed recess behind the cockpit seat where Sylvia's core would reside and fuel the exoform.
With a thought, a complex series of mana channels could instantly retract the core from its external power socket deep within the torso armor, sliding it seamlessly into a shielded compartment within the cockpit itself. If the exoform was breached, if escape was the only option, I could grab the core and run, denying the enemy its power.
The core of an asura… it was more than a battery; it was the literal heart of this endeavor, a wellspring deep enough to fuel even the most mana-hungry runes I had inscribed—defenses calibrated to withstand assaults that would drain an Orange core mage dry in moments.
"You know what this partially assembled atrocity reminds me of?" Romulos mused, drifting around the suspended torso like a curious ghost. "The upper torso of a titan's true form. Well, only the torso, obviously, given its current... legless state." He gestured dismissively at the void below the armored carapace.
"We have sufficient treated carapace for the limbs and head," I stated, moving towards the smaller, cluttered workshop area carved into one side of the main garage. Shelves held tools, raw materials, and partially assembled components. "Now comes the articulation. Arms for manipulation and combat, legs for mobility, a head unit for sensors and protection." I picked up schematics scrawled on treated hide.
"The cockpit visibility is paramount. The dome concept… it needs refinement. Perhaps layered glass, each stratum enchanted for different spectra or deflection…"
"Can we perhaps discuss weapons?" Romulos interjected, materializing beside my workbench, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. "This… artificial mana beast construct. I assume it won't be casting elemental lances or summoning decay fields?"
I didn't look up from the schematics I have written and now were laying on one of my benches. "Well, the primary armaments I have thought about are: a physical blade, forged for impact and channeling—a sword in simple terms. Then, a directed thermal energy projector—a focused incendiary plasma both magical and non, essentially a flamethrower. Thirdly, a kinetic dispersal weapon—high-impact projectiles, like a shotgun."
"For the secondary weapons: A grappling or utility launcher. Integrated propulsion for enhanced mobility, likely earth gravity assisted leaps and maybe a jetpack. Moreover…" I paused, tapping the diagram where the core interfaced with the torso. "...eventually, a localized spatial translocation system. A micro-Tempus Warp for tactical repositioning. All together with further runic fortifications layered over the primary armor."
"A sword I comprehend. Primitive, but visceral. Effective." Romulos waved a dismissive hand. "But what in Vritra's name are you blathering about with 'flamethrowers' and 'shotguns'? Are these more figments of your overwrought imagination?" He sounded genuinely baffled, perhaps even slightly offended by the perceived crudity.
I ignored him, selecting a length of pre-treated steel strut. The names were placeholders, concepts translated from a world of machinery and engineering to one of mana and runes. The principle—focused destruction, area denial, close-quarters devastation—was universal, no matter the world.
The how would be my challenge. Arcane projectors mimicking chemical combustion? Runic arrays accelerating dense mana pellets? The specifics could wait. The intent was clear.
"We need a name for this monstrosity," Romulos declared suddenly, floating back towards the suspended exoform torso. He struck a contemplative pose, chin resting on a spectral fist. "Silence! I demand the honor. Nomenclature is an art, and I am its master. Let me think… something evocative of its crimson menace… perhaps 'Scarlet Scourge'? 'Vermilion Vengeance'? No, no, too… obvious… to... ghetto."
A flicker of shared understanding, a resonance deeper than thought, passed between us. It wasn't telepathy; it was the eerie synchronicity of mirrored instincts, a fundamental alignment of purpose buried under layers of conflict. The perfect name surfaced in both our minds simultaneously, inevitable and absolute.
"Barbarossa I," we spoke in perfect, chilling unison.
The name hung in the cool, mineral air of the mountain built-in garage. It fit the crimson armor, the nascent power, the sheer, stubborn defiance it represented. Romulos stared at me, his usual smirk replaced by a flicker of something unsettlingly akin to respect, or perhaps just recognition of the shared madness. I turned back to the steel strut and the schematics. The torso was done. Now, Barbarossa needed limbs. And weapons to protect Dicathen.