Lucas Wykes
The sheer audacity of that up-jumped gutter rat, Draneeve, still curdled my thoughts like spoiled milk. Me. Lucas Wykes.
Reduced to a cog in his grandiose, end-of-semester spectacle? A "large-scale attack on the city"? Childish theatrics. And his orders, delivered with that infuriating, condescending smirk as he mangled my name into that bastardization, "Lukiyah"?
As if I were some common foot soldier? His plan was crude—sow distrust between the races, use the Academy itself as kindling. Pathetic. Yet… necessary. For now.
And here, the only sliver of usefulness in this entire tiresome charade: that coreless mongrel prince, Corvis Eralith. His pathetic flight, his fugitive status declared across the Tri-Union… oh, it was delicious.
Pure, unadulterated fuel poured onto the simmering resentment between the human students and those pointy-eared elves and stunted dwarves. Watching their smug superiority fracture, replaced by suspicion and whispered accusations whenever an elf walked by… it was a petty satisfaction, true, but satisfying nonetheless.
They were all pests, ultimately. Stepping stones. Fuel for the fire that would first consume Grey—that jumped-up commoner dare defy me? Humiliate me—and then, inevitably, Draneeve himself. That deranged cockroach, thinking a little borrowed power gave him the right to command me, a Wykes? He'd learn. They all would.
Justice wasn't some abstract ideal; it was power, absolute and unquestioned, wielded by me and me only. Their only worthwhile function was to die screaming, fueling my ascent. Anything less was an insult to my bloodline.
Which made this current farce all the more intolerable. Trapped in Professor Glory's insipid "Team-Fighting Mechanics" class, forced on this juvenile field trip into some nameless D-Class dung heap or of it had a name I didn't care to remember.
A D-Class dungeon! The sheer indignity of it scraped against my pride like gravel. I was an A-Class adventurer, certified! This… this was an insult, a waste of my considerable talents, suitable only for the common rabble and the pathetic noble weaklings who populated this Academy. Watching them wide-eyed, chattering about "adventure" like children discovering a mud puddle? Pathetic. Utterly beneath contempt.
But the true, crowning indignity? Glory, that sanctimonious bitch, forcing me into a team. With him. Grey. That commoner stain who dared raise his hand against me. And his elven whore, Tessia Eralith, draped in her borrowed authority. And two other nobodies—that gangly vice-president, Clive, and the perpetually nervous Roland.
Five of us, crammed into this damp, echoing cave entrance, forced to listen to the princess debrief us. Her, appointed leader by the whim of the weaklings. The sheer gall.
I leaned against the cold, damp cave wall, radiating disdain, as Tessia outlined her precious little plan. Her voice, that grating mix of forced authority and elven superiority, washed over me.
"...Grey," she began, "since you excel at close combat, you'll take point as vanguard." As if the brute had any finesse beyond swinging his slightly decent sword like a club.
"Clive and Roland," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the two sycophants, "you'll flank Grey. Cover him. Even if a beast or two slips past, maintain the formation." Sacrificing positional integrity for the sake of the commoner hero. Typical sentimentality.
Then she turned those luminous, arrogant eyes on me. My fingers twitched with the phantom sensation of wrapping around her throat, squeezing until that haughty light died, forcing Grey to watch. A warm, dark thrill pulsed through me. Soon, Draneeve. Soon. When Xyrus burns, she's mine.
"About you, Lucas," she started, that infuriatingly calm Student Council President mask firmly in place. "Stay in the center. We'll adopt a diamond formation—"
I cut her off, my voice dripping with icy contempt that shattered her rehearsed speech. "Yes, Princess," I drawled, the title laced with venomous mockery. I pushed off the wall, deliberately turning my back on the entire pathetic ensemble.
"Spare me the tactical genius. This isn't some grand campaign, it's a glorified kindergarten outing. Hardly the stage for your desperate attempts to locate that cowardly runaway brother of yours." The barb was deliberate, aimed to shatter that porcelain composure.
The air crackled. I felt the shift before I saw it—a subtle tightening of her shoulders, a fractional hitch in her breath. There it is. "What did you say about Corvis?!" Her voice snapped, sharp as a whip crack, though she visibly fought to keep it level, clinging to her precious grace. Good. Let the cracks show. Let the elven ice melt into something… hotter.
Tch. Disappointing. I had hoped for tears, perhaps a satisfying loss of control. Instead, she clung to her facade. I rolled my shoulders, a deliberate display of nonchalance, ready to twist the knife further.
"Merely stating facts, Your Highness. Coreless. Fugitive. Coward. The Tri-Union seems to agree. Pity the Eralith line seems so prone to… deficiencies."
"Lucas, that's enou—" Clive, the vice-president, started, his voice tight with misplaced authority.
But Grey, the commoner, intervened. "Clive, leave it." His voice was calm, infuriatingly so. He didn't even look at me, his gaze fixed past us, deeper into the cavern. "He's just baiting for some attentions. Ignore him. We have bigger concerns."
Just baiting? Ignore me? White-hot fury licked up my spine. How dare he dismiss me? Reduce my words to mere provocation? The insolent gutter rat! Playing the stoic leader, the reasonable one. Coward tactics! Exactly what I would expect from his ilk. He knew challenging me directly here, now, would expose his weakness. Pathetic.
He pointed, his finger unwavering. Following his gesture, I saw them: two lumbering, tusked mana beasts snuffling and grunting as they rounded a bend in the tunnel, beady eyes fixing on our group. D-Class fodder. Barely worth the mana it would take to incinerate them.
A sneer curled my lip. Let the "team" handle it.
They existed to be crushed beneath my heel on the path to greater things, not to be fought as equals in some pointless exercise. I folded my arms, a statue of disdain amidst the sudden tension, watching the impending, tedious skirmish with utter boredom.
Their struggles were beneath Lucas Wykes.
Corvis Eralith
The final bolt of lightning, conjured from the strained reserves of Against the Tragedy, lanced through the damp air with a crackling hiss.
It found the fleeing slaver mid-stumble, a desperate figure scrambling towards the treeline of the Elshire Forest. He convulsed, a brief, grotesque puppet jerked by invisible strings, then collapsed into the churned mud near the camp's perimeter, smoke curling from his clothes.
Silence descended, heavier than before, thick with the coppery reek of spilled blood, the tang of spent magic, and the lingering stench of fear and despair that clung to the captives like a shroud.
We were a dozen kilometers south of Eidelholm, nestled just outside the Elshire's protective mist—this had been a perfect hunting ground for human parasites preying on my people. Close enough to Sapin's porous border for quick escape, yet conveniently isolated. My clearing of bandit nests along this frontier had thinned the predators, but evidently, not eradicated the rot.
An elderly elf, thin and trembling, his wrists raw from crude shackles, stared at me with eyes wide not just with residual terror, but dawning recognition. "Y-your Highness?" he stammered, the title a fragile, dangerous thing in the open air.
Bandits kidnapping elders now? The depravity curdled my stomach. They targeted the vulnerable, the defenseless, stripping them not just of freedom, but of dignity.
"Call me Outis," I corrected him, my voice low and firm beneath the shadowed hood of my steel-grey uniform and the high collar. I knelt, the damp earth soaking into my knees, and carefully worked the lock on his restraints with a sliver of mana-infused wire. The metal clicked open.
"Knowing anything else," I met his weary gaze, "will only endanger you, Elder." The truth hung heavy between us. My name was a death sentence, a beacon for Agrona's hunters and Tri-Union bounty seekers alike. Outis was a shield, however flimsy, for both of us.
"Yes, your—" he caught himself, swallowing hard. "Outis." The correction felt like a small victory, a sliver of safety granted.
He rubbed his freed wrists, the simple act radiating profound relief. Berna, a comforting monolith a few paces away, contentedly crunched on some pilfered hardtack, her presence a grounding anchor. An impulse, born of weeks of isolation and the raw vulnerability in the elder's eyes, seized me.
"Actually, Elder," I began, my voice softening despite the urgency thrumming beneath my skin, "may I ask you a favour?" The request felt immense, a gamble with his safety.
"Of course," he replied instantly, his voice gaining strength, imbued with fierce gratitude. "I will do everything that is within my reach." The sincerity was a balm, a stark contrast to the brutality I'd just enacted.
"Thank you," I murmured, bowing my head slightly. The gesture felt inadequate, but necessary. "I would like you to send this letter." I withdrew a sealed parchment from a storage ring, its surface blank but for a subtle mana seal I ad crafted.
"Make it reach Asyphin. To Elder Camus Selaridon." Sending it directly to Zestier, to the palace, was unthinkable. The risk was astronomical—for the messenger, for my family, for the fragile network of trust.
But Elder Camus, a respected figure, discreet and wise… he was a conduit I could trust to get a message to Grampa personally. A lifeline cast across the chasm of my exile.
"Consider it done, yo—Outis," he affirmed, tucking the letter carefully inside his worn tunic with reverence. His use of the name, deliberate and protective, warmed a cold place within me. I offered him a rare, genuine smile—a flicker of the prince beneath the fugitive's armor—before wishing him a swift and safe journey home. He melted into the trees, a fragile hope entrusted to the uncertain path.
Romulos materialized beside me as the elder vanished, his spectral form shimmering with disdainful amusement. "Finally," he drawled, "sentimentalities concluded. Efficiently, for once." He surveyed the smoldering camp, the cooling bodies.
"Your mastery over Accaron improves. The defensive field is tighter, less wasteful. And the decay acceleration with For the Catastrophe... promising. Imagine its potency," his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with dark anticipation, "when we augment it with genuine Vritra horns."
You sound disturbingly excited, I sent back, my mental voice flat as I began systematically looting usable supplies—rations, basic healing salves, intact weaponry. Practicalities overrode disgust.
"Excitement is a mortal indulgence," Romulos sniffed, though his spectral eyes gleamed. "But efficiency? That is paramount. Cadell's horns would be ideal. Whether he murdered Mother in this iteration or not…" A flicker of something ancient and cold, deeper than hatred, crossed his features. "...he remains an abomination. A lessuran usurper parading as a Scythe. Only I possess the right to stand as Dad's true right hand. Cadell must be… executed."
I thought you had some camaraderie with the other Scythes? I probed, stuffing dried meat into a sack. Agrona's inner circle dynamics were a mystery I needed to unravel.
"Bah." Romulos waved a dismissive hand. "Tools. Expendable assets. Dad utilizes them, as he utilizes all things." His tone shifted, becoming analytical.
"Cadell, Nico, Dragoth… they were repulsive, each in their own tedious way. Melzri and Viessa… sufferable. Tolerably competent. Seris," a ghost of something resembling respect touched his spectral lips, "despite her treacherous leanings, possessed a certain… intellectual rigor. A passable conversation partner on occasion. Before her inevitable betrayal, of course."
You're opening up, I observed, a wry note entering my mental voice. This was more than he'd ever volunteered.
"If you had inquired previously, I would have answered," he stated, his usual arrogance returning. "My relationship with the Scythes was functional. Transactional. On a good day."
He watched me pile salvaged gear. "But dwelling on past irritants is unproductive. Are you quite finished playing scavenger? More camps await the tender ministrations of Outis."
I see, I replied, shouldering the heavier pack. Anyway, let's get moving. Plenty of vermin left to clear. The rhythm of the hunt, the grim necessity, was settling back over me.
"You sure do—"
Berna's low, rumbling growl cut him off. It wasn't her usual alertness; it was deeper, laced with primal unease. Her massive head snapped towards the rocky slopes leading deeper into Sapin territory, her green eyes narrowed, ears flattened against her skull. Every muscle in her powerful frame tensed.
"Our bear friend senses something… unwelcome," Romulos murmured, his spectral form solidifying slightly, his gaze sharpening in the same direction.
Ice water flooded my veins. An ambush? The thought screamed through my mind, cold and sharp. Was this whole camp… bait? Had they left these elves, including the elder, chained and terrified, just to lure me?
The calculated cruelty of it stole my breath. Who would be so monstrous? Agrona's agents? Tri-Union zealots? My hand instinctively flew to the hilt of my dagger, Beyond the Meta snapping the world into stark, colorless mana-flow.
The grey-scale vista revealed them instantly. Dozens of mana signatures, clustered and advancing purposefully from the higher ground. Humans. Soldiers. Organized. And among them, one signature burned brighter, fiercer than the rest—a dark, pulsing Yellow Core. Not the chaotic flicker of bandits.
Berna shifted, positioning her immense bulk squarely between me and the approaching threat, a low, continuous growl vibrating in her chest. The memory of the corrupted gnolls, the sudden betrayal from the very walls, was raw in her eyes—a mirror to the dread coiling in my own gut.
Yet, where she radiated protective fury edged with fear, a strange, chilling calm settled over me. People. Not mindless beasts. People could be reasoned with. Intimidated. Outmaneuvered. Chaos was my ally.
Surrender wasn't an option, but perhaps… bloodshed could be avoided. The innocents were gone. Only Berna and I remained.
"Prince Corvis Eralith of the Kingdom of Elenoir!"
The voice rang out, clear, authoritative, and utterly unexpected. It cut through the mountain air like a blade. From behind a jagged outcrop on the slope emerged the figure commanding the Yellow Core signature.
Tall, pale skin contrasting sharply with long, jet-black hair tied neatly in a ponytail. Sharp, intelligent dark grey eyes scanned the camp, settling on me with unnerving focus. A small, distinct birthmark sat beneath his right eye. Recognition slammed into me with the force of a physical blow.
Not from the novel's main narrative, but from fragmented memories, whispers, Jasmine's own haunted past. Tristan Flamesworth. Jasmine's older brother. The former prodigal heir of House Flamesworth. The commander who once guarded Sapin's border with Elenoir before the Tri-Union swallowed it whole.
Hunting hound. The realization was bitter ash in my mouth. Had the Tri-Union pressed him into service? Offered honors? Threatened his family? Or was this a Flamesworth grasping even more power by capturing the elven fugitive prince?
He stopped, flanked by soldiers in Sapin livery filtering out from the rocks, forming a loose but effective semicircle, weapons ready but not yet drawn. Tristan's posture was rigid, professional, devoid of the sneering cruelty I associated with Agrona's pawns, but filled with a cold, unwavering determination.
"You are under arrest," he declared, his voice carrying effortlessly across the distance, "by the authority of the Tri-Union." His gaze held mine, unflinching. "Surrender peacefully, and no harm will come to you or your… companion." He gestured minimally towards Berna, acknowledging her presence. "You will be treated with the dignity befitting your royal station."
He paused, letting the offer hang in the tense air. Then, his voice hardened, the steel beneath the formal tone becoming unmistakable.
"Resist…" His hand rested meaningfully on the pommel of the elegant sword at his hip. "...and we are authorized to utilize whatever force is necessary to subdue you." His grey eyes locked onto mine, devoid of malice, but filled with the implacable resolve of a man carrying out his duty. "Short of killing. The Tri-Union desires you alive, Prince Eralith."
The weight of my true name, spoken aloud in this desolate place, felt like chains snapping shut. Before me stood not just soldiers, but the brother of the woman who had once fought beside me, who had shown me unexpected kindness.
And he was here to drag me back to a fate worse than death. The calm I had felt moments before crystallized into a razor-sharp focus. Berna's growl deepened into a snarl. The air crackled, not just with the remnants of my lightning, but with the terrifying potential of Accaron humming on my skin, and the hungry, corrosive promise of For the Catastrophe waiting beneath.