Blaine Glayder
Dawsid Greysunders' fist slammed onto the polished mahogany of my desk, the impact cracking the wood's veneer like the fragile veneer of our alliance. Dust motes danced in the shaft of afternoon light, disturbed by his fury.
"What do you mean Flamesworth didn't capture Corvis Eralith, Glayder?!" His voice, thick with dwarven gravel and outrage, scraped against the high walls of my private office.
The report lay between us, a single sheet of parchment bearing Tristan Flamesworth's precise, unyielding script. A testament to failure. My own fingers tightened on the carved arms of my chair, knuckles white against the dark wood. Calm. Project calm.
"His report," I stated, forcing my voice into a flat, neutral plane that belied the acid churning in my gut, "states he and his unit were decisively defeated. Corvis escaped." Each word tasted like ash.
Declaring the boy a fugitive… it had been the only lever strong enough to pry him from the protective grasp of Master Gideon's infuriating intellect, Director Cynthia's shadowed power, and Elder Virion's desperate, grandfatherly fury. He was the heir to Elenoir, a walking political catastrophe, and the key they demanded.
The guilt was a constant, gnawing companion, sharper than any blade. It wasn't about the boy's being guilty or not—a fiction I'd helped weave. It was about survival. Mine. Sapin's. Or so I told myself in the long, sleepless watches of the night.
But lately… a darker resentment festered. Xyrus City, my city, the jewel of Sapin… I was starting to see it not as my domain, but as a seething hive. A hive buzzing with whispers, with hidden sympathies, with humans who looked at their king and saw a traitor, while defending an elven prince.
The betrayal wasn't just political; it was personal. It scraped raw against the very notion of loyalty I'd built my reign upon. They choose an elf over their own king. The thought was a poison, eroding the foundations of my resolve. The guilt was bad, yes, but this burgeoning hatred for my own people… that threatened to consume me whole.
"Then send your Lances!" Dawsid roared, spittle flying. His face, florid beneath his beard, was inches from mine. The scent of dwarven ale and forge-smoke clung to him. "He won't be patient for eternity, Blaine! You know this!"
He. The word hung in the air, colder than the mountain winds whistling outside. The unseen god across the sea, whose will Dawsid channeled like a terrified conduit. The one who had demanded the Dicatheous sail, plunging us into this abyss a month ago.
The one who asked us about everything Corvis Eralith has done in his whole life. Whose patience was as fathomless and terrifying as the ocean itself.
His interest for an elven child was even scarier. Impossible to understand.
"I cannot send my Lances after a child, Dawsid." My voice remained level, though the effort sent tremors through my core. I met his furious gaze, a spark of defiance flickering amidst the dread. "Why don't you handle your own dirty work?" The barb was deliberate, a desperate lunge to shift the crushing weight off my shoulders.
Dawsid recoiled as if struck, then his fury redoubled. "I sent Olfred, damn you! If I dispatch Mica too, those scheming Dwarven Lords will scent blood! They'll have my throne before the week is out!" His fear was naked, a mirror to my own.
We were kings drowning, clinging to the wreckage of our authority, each knowing the other's precarious hold. His dwarf lords plotted; my human nobles where loyal, but not the people. Comparisons were meaningless in this shared cesspool of treachery.
Since the fugitive decree… the silence from Curtis's quarters had become a physical ache. My own son. The boy I had raised to rule. Now, walls erected, conversations clipped and cold. Somehow, in his isolation, that elven prince had forged a bond with Curtis that I, his father, could not. The sting of that failure was a fresh wound layered over the others.
"Olfred is already en route," I said, the words heavy with exhaustion. I gestured towards the door, a dismissal as much as a plea. "He will deal with it." Alone. The unspoken word was a fragile hope. All I wanted now was the burn of strong whiskey, the blessed oblivion it promised, a temporary escape from the crown of thorns digging ever deeper. "He is capable."
Dawsid glared, his chest heaving. The air crackled with unspoken threats, the weight of his displeasure almost as tangible as our mutual master's.
"If he escapes again," he hissed, each syllable sharp as flint, "you will send your Lances too, Blaine. Or answer for the failure directly." He didn't wait for a reply. Turning on his heel, he stormed out, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence.
Alone. The weight of the desk, the room, the kingdom, pressed down.
My hand shook as I reached for the decanter. One failure reported. One Lance dispatched. The whiskey promised nothing but a temporary numbness, a small death before the next wave of dread crashed over me. I poured, the crystal clinking a fragile counterpoint to the crushing silence.
Corvis Eralith
The world narrowed to the man writhing beneath my boot, the air thick with the ozone stench of spent lightning and the chilling, silent hunger of the Soulfire eating at Tristan Flamesworth.
He arched, teeth gritted against the agony that wasn't fire, but an insidious unmaking—a cold vacuum leaching vitality, not warmth. His yellow core aura, once a proud beacon, flickered erratically like a guttering candle in the face of this entropic tide.
Through Beyond the Meta, I saw the beautiful, intricate lattice of his mana pathways fraying at the edges where the Soulfire clung.
"It hurts, right?" My voice sounded alien to my own ears, flat and devoid of triumph. The sole of my boot pressed firmly against the pulse hammering in his throat, a reminder of the fragile life held in the balance.
"Answers, Tristan Flamesworth. I want them. And I don't want your death. A mage of your caliber… Dicathen will bleed without swords like yours when the storm breaks."
His grey eyes, wide with a pain beyond the physical, snapped to mine. Not fear, precisely. Horror, yes. Disbelief. And beneath it, a spark of furious defiance.
"Reports…" he gasped, the words ragged, fighting the Soulfire's icy grip. "...paint Outis as a ruthless killer. Slaughtering bandits like insects. Caring only for elves."
The accusation stung, not because it was entirely false, but because it reduced the grim necessity to something monstrously simple.
"I kill those who deserve it," I countered, the words sharp. "Bandits are a cancer. They serve no nation, heed no law, prey on the weak for greed, not survival. They are pure, distilled evil. Egoism given fangs." I leaned down slightly, the shadow of my hood falling across his face. "But this isn't philosophy. What I want is simple, Tristan. Information. And your silence."
Hey Romulos, how long? The thought was urgent. Before the Soulfire consumes him?
A spectral sigh echoed in my mind. "Given the pathetically weak decay you currently wield? Perhaps an hour. Maybe less if he panics and feeds it with his own frantic mana. Such a waste of potential." There was a strange detachment in his voice, but also… disappointment? Not in Tristan's suffering, but in the limitation.
I met Tristan's pain-glazed eyes. "I won't kill you," I reaffirmed, the promise feeling heavy, dangerous. "But letting you walk free, knowing what you know, after you tried to deliver me to Dicathen's true enemies… that's impossible."
My dagger materialized in my hand as I swiftly drew it, cold steel glinting dully in the fading light. I held it poised, point down, directly over his solar plexus—the nexus, the anchor of his mana core.
Pure, unadulterated terror flooded his gaze then, eclipsing the pain. The core wasn't just power; it was identity, purpose, life for a mage raised in a house like Flamesworth.
"You will tell the Council nothing beyond your defeat," I stated, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "My capabilities? My resources? These remain secrets buried with the bandits." I paused, letting the threat sink in, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse against my boot.
"But I will tell you a secret, Tristan. One far more dangerous. I no longer fear its spread. It's a weapon against my enemies, not me. Not directly." I leaned closer, my voice barely audible over Berna's low growl nearby as she kept watch. "The Council—Blaine Glayder, Dawsid Greysunders—they plot with the ruler of the continent beyond the sea. The one 'discovered' months ago."
Confusion warred with the terror and pain in his eyes. He remained silent, listening.
"That continent is Alacrya. Its ruler is Agrona Vritra." The name hung in the air like a curse. "It was his order Dawsid followed to hunt me. Glayder is complicit. They've sold Dicathen for promises whispered in the dark."
I saw the implications crash over him. Knowledge was a death sentence. By telling him, I had painted a target on his back as surely as if I'd branded him.
"That's why," I pressed, the intensity in my voice rising, "we must stand together. Why I purge the rot like these bandits. War is inevitable, Tristan. Inevitable and brutal. I refuse to waste a blade like yours, forged to defend this land, because your father is a traitor waiting to bare his fangs."
I deliberately emphasized the name. "Trodius Flamesworth will betray Dicathen, just like the Council. But you…" I locked onto his eyes, searching for the hatred I knew simmered beneath the surface. "...you don't want to follow him down that path, do you?"
"Oh, attempting bribery now, Corvis?" Romulos murmured, a flicker of dark amusement returning. "How delightfully… pragmatic."
Tristan flinched as if struck. "Don't…" he choked out, the Soulfire making his voice a rasp, "...call Trodius my father. That man… is arrogance… weakness… selfishness… incarnate." The venom in his words was pure, undiluted by the agony.
A sliver of hope. "I see reason in you, Tristan," I said, pointedly omitting the cursed surname. The dagger tip didn't waver. "If you despise House Flamesworth so utterly… prove it. Be loyal to Dicathen. To the Tri-Union it was meant to be. Help me forge peace from the coming chaos. Help me protect our home." The plea felt raw, desperate. An offer thrown across a chasm of mutual distrust.
Time stretched, thin and brittle. The only sounds were Tristan's ragged breaths, Berna's watchful rumble, and the distant cry of a hawk. If he refused… the dagger would plunge, not to kill, but to shatter the core's connection, leaving him alive but broken. A fate arguably worse than death for a mage of his standing. If he accepted… I'd withdraw, vanish, remove the Soulfire from afar. A gamble on his honor.
"You… offer no choice, Prince Corvis," Tristan gasped, his eyes hard despite the pain. "Threatening my core… is not the foundation of trust." The defiance was back, tempered by a chilling pragmatism.
"It's more mercy than most in my position would grant," I countered, the truth bitter. "You will live either way. Only you choose how."
He managed a humorless, pained smirk. "This magic… You speak of war. How do you know?"
The evergreen lie, polished by necessity, slipped out. "I am an elf. My grandmother possessed potent diviner blood. Visions… they come. Unbidden. Unreliable. Sometimes… they require no core."
The half-truth settled. He didn't scoff. The sheer impossibility of my power perhaps lent credence to the impossible source.
"Tristan," I pressed, the name deliberate, an appeal to the man, not the heir. "Help me bring peace. Justice. Don't let Agrona Vritra stain our soil. I need minds like yours. Military minds. For the war that is coming." Slowly, deliberately, I withdrew the dagger. The implicit offer hung in the charged air: accept, and the Soulfire lifts.
His gaze met mine, searching, weighing. Then, the defiance solidified into rejection. "You offer no dream, Prince. Only threats wrapped in idealism. If you were older… perhaps…" He shook his head minutely, a spasm of pain crossing his features. "But you are right. Trodius… damaged something fundamental. I refuse."
FUCK! The mental scream echoed as, with a surge of desperate, furious willpower fueled by Yellow Core reserves I'd underestimated, Tristan wrenched against the decaying Soulfire. Romulos was right—my decay was too weak!
Beyond the Meta flared, my left hand snapping out, Accaron vibrating to strike like an entropic spear, aiming to pin his mana flow. But he was fast. Preternaturally fast when cornered. He rolled, the Soulfire flickering violently but not extinguishing, evading my strike with inches to spare.
"Berna! Don't let him escape!" The command ripped from my throat. The Guardian Bear, a brown avalanche of protective fury, launched herself after Tristan, who was already augmenting his legs with fire, streaking towards the rocky slopes like a comet fleeing its own demise.
"Well, well, O Diplomat Corvis!" Romulos's mockery was sharp, but beneath the usual sardonic edge, I felt it—a pang of genuine, unexpected sadness. "Negotiations… terminated." He mourned the lost potential, the squandered asset.
Yeah, I thought grimly, channeling chaotic mana into a crackling bolt. No wonder Trodius feared him. This one… he could have been a Lance if it wasn't for Bairon or Varay and he was a silver core.
Beyond the Meta tracked Tristan's desperate trajectory. I loosed the bolt—not to kill, but to disrupt, to slow. It struck near his feet, exploding rock and dust, throwing him off balance for a crucial half-second. Berna, magnificent and terrifying, closed the gap.
A massive paw slammed down, not to crush, but to pin. He hit the ground hard, Berna's immense weight settling over his legs, a low, warning growl vibrating against his spine. One wrong move, and bone would shatter.
I was beside them in moments, dagger back in hand, the cold steel hovering over his solar plexus once more. My hand trembled. Slightly, but visibly. "You didn't leave me a choice, Tristan…" The words tasted like ash. "I can't risk you hunting me. Not with what you know. Not with your core intact."
Crippling it felt like sacrilege. For a Flamesworth, even one who despised the name, the core was everything. It was the crucible in which Trodius had forged his worth. To shatter it wasn't just maiming; it was annihilation of the self.
"You tremble, Corvis," Romulos observed, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, devoid of mockery. "Despite the steel, the decay, the hard choices… you remain fundamentally… soft. Too good for the crucible you've chosen."
Shut up! The mental retort was a snarl, born of frustration and self-loathing. It's not about good! It's about… waste! I looked down at Tristan, pinned, defeated, but unbroken.
His eyes held no plea, only a grim acceptance and simmering fury. He wasn't a bandit. He wasn't evil. He was a weapon aimed by traitors, a potential ally turned enemy by circumstance. Killing him was unthinkable. Leaving him whole was suicide.
Crippling him… it felt like a sin against the very magic that defined this world.
"I won't take your core," I declared, the decision crystallizing amidst the turmoil. A compromise carved from desperation. "But I cannot trust you with its power."
Crouching beside him, under Berna's watchful gaze, I placed my right hand flat against his sternum, directly over the core's pulsing center. Against the Tragedy flared on my forearm, its intricate patterns glowing faintly. I focused, pouring Beyond the Meta's analytical precision into the act. Not to destroy. To drain.
I had tried it before, in fleeting moments of combat—the desperate, near-impossible act of stealing another mage's mana mid-flow. It was like trying to siphon a raging river through a straw while standing in the torrent.
Even with Beyond the Meta's sight, the sheer volatility, the innate resistance of the core, made it agonizingly difficult. Now, with Tristan pinned, core exposed by his struggle and the Soulfire's weakening, I pushed.
It wasn't gentle. It was a violation. I felt his core buck against the intrusion, a wild, furious beast resisting capture. His body spasmed, a choked gasp escaping him. Sweat beaded on my brow as I wrestled not just his mana, but the chaotic, fiery nature of it, forcing it through the conduit of Against the Tragedy.
It burned, not with heat, but with the raw, discordant energy of stolen power. Mana flooded my reserves—potent, turbulent, tasting of ash and defiance—but the process was agonizingly slow, physically draining, a battle of wills fought on the microscopic battlefield of his mana channels.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I felt the core dim, not broken, but emptied. Drained down to the dregs. Tristan slumped, panting, his skin pale, his eyes hollow with exhaustion and the profound violation of being magically ransacked. The vibrant Yellow Core signature was gone, replaced by a faint, flickering ember.
I stood, swaying slightly from the effort, the stolen fire mana churning uneasily within me. I met his gaze, seeing the dawning horror of his powerlessness.
"Live, Tristan Flamesworth," I said, my voice rough. "Live, and choose your path when your strength returns. But follow me again…" I let the threat hang, heavy and final.
Without another word, I turned. A gesture to Berna. She released him, giving a final, rumbling growl of warning before falling in beside me. We vanished into the shadows of the foothills, leaving the commander of Sapin's border forces laying broken and empty on the bloodied earth, the chilling silence broken only by his ragged breaths and the fading echo of our retreat.