Virion Eralith
The heavy oak door of my study clicked shut behind Camus, sealing me in a silence that pressed like damp velvet against my ears.
Moments ago, Alduin and Merial's faces had mirrored my own fragile relief—news from our spies (the word still tasted like grit on my tongue, a betrayal of the unity we'd sworn to forge) confirming Corvis had escaped another Tri-Union ambush. Sapin's military. Led by a Flamesworth.
Our cheers had been sharp, desperate things, echoing in the chamber, only to die almost instantly, choked by the crushing reality that followed: my thirteen-year-old grandson, heir to a kingdom crumbling under treachery, was still alone. Still hunted. A child navigating a continent turned predator.
Camus's words echoed: "If he doesn't wish to be found, he won't be." Alea and Aya, our finest, had scoured the wilderness like ghosts and found nothing but silence and wind. And now, the first tangible whisper in weeks spoke only of his evasion, of a desperate flight three days past.
Hester's grim confirmation about her nephew Tristan leading the hunt twisted the knife. That Corvis slipped his net… it spoke of a terrifying, hard-won cunning that no boy should ever need to possess. Pride warred with a grief so profound it hollowed my bones.
Poor, poor child.
Then, Camus, waiting in the study's hushed gloom. The envelope. Simple parchment, unadorned, yet it seemed to radiate a dangerous energy in his steady hand.
"It's from Prince Corvis." The words struck me like a physical blow, stealing my breath. "He made it arrive... to Asyphin... through a series of mailings... sent it to me... for you."
The logistics were a marvel, a testament to a mind forced into impossible ingenuity. My old friend's quiet departure left me alone with the weight of that envelope.
My fingers, usually so steady, trembled as I took it. The paper felt flimsy, yet heavier than any crown. I sank into the worn leather embrace of my armchair, the familiar scent of old paper and woodsmoke doing nothing to soothe the storm within.
Emotions surged—thick, choking, a tumultuous sea threatening to breach the dam of decades of kingly composure. Tears, hot and unwelcome, blurred my vision even before I slid a careful finger beneath the sealed flap. Corvis... alive. Thinking. Reaching out.
My gaze drifted to the smooth, palm-sized orb resting on my desk beside a stack of neglected reports. A memory artifact. Lania's laughter, captured in sunlight from a lifetime ago, seemed to shimmer just beneath its crystalline surface. I had found myself touching it often these bleak weeks, seeking her strength, her unwavering light in this suffocating darkness. A phantom scent of her favorite blossoms seemed to fill the room.
"I really hope," I whispered, the sound raw and broken in the stillness, my thumb brushing the cool curve of the orb as if seeking her blessing, her guidance, "I can save our grandson, Lania. I have to." The plea was to her memory, to the ghosts of better times, to any benevolent force that might still listen in this unraveling world.
The seal gave way with a soft, final snick. Unfolding the single sheet within felt like uncovering a sacred relic, fraught with perilous hope. The familiar, slightly uneven script—his script—swam before my tear-filled eyes. The first words struck deep speaking solely to the terrified, grieving grandfather within:
———
Dearest Grampa,
The ink feels thick and clumsy on this scrap of salvaged parchment, the quill a rough shard compared to the smooth instruments of Zestier. Yet, these marks carry more weight than anything else I might have penned in my whole life.
I sit now, hidden deep within the bones of the Grand Mountains, the only sounds Berna's soft snores—the bear mana beast I found here—and the howling wind above that mirrors the tempest inside me. Writing to you… it's an anchor in this sea of fear and loneliness.
Please forgive the tremor in the script.
Grampa, the words clot in my throat, thick with longing. There is nothing—no treasure unearthed, no power unlocked, no fleeting victory over the scum preying on our borders—that I desire more than to be sitting beside you in your study, the scent of old paper and thenhearth smoke filling the air, listening to one of your stories.
To see Mom's gentle smile, hear Dad's steady voice, feel Tessia's fierce hug. The ache of that absence is a painful wound, deeper than any blade could carve. But the shadows circling me are too dark, the vipers within our own Council too venomous, for me to risk bringing that darkness to your doorstep. Not yet.
You and Mom and Dad… you're clever. You must have sensed the rot festering at the heart of the Tri-Union. The fractures aren't just political squabbles; they are chasms carved by a hand from beyond our shores.
From Alacrya.
I don't know if you have confirmed its existence or its ruler yet, but I must speak it plainly: Alacrya is real, and its master is Agrona Vritra.
I pray this letter finds only your hands, Grampa. If it falls into the wrong ones… the knowledge it holds could shatter the foundations of everything Dicathen believes. Please, when you finish reading, burn it. Let the truth exist only between us, and in the ashes.
You wonder, I know, why? Why the Council turned on of their own princes, a child? It's not some petty plot against the Eralith line, not merely elven prejudice.
It's far more profound, far more terrifying. Agrona Vritra, a Basilisk Asura of the Vritra Clan, is the architect. He is the poison in our soil. The strange, aggressive mana beasts? His corruption. The shadows twisting minds in the Council? His influence.
Dawsid Greysunders and the treacherous Elder Rahdeas are his direct puppets. The dwarven king whispered in Blaine Glayder's ear, swayed him with promises or threats. The Dicatheous… it sailed into a trap, Grampa. Alacrya will capture it, not to parley, but to replicate it. To build a fleet for invasion. (But know this: I have a seed of a plan for that ship. A small hope, but it exists.)
Agrona wants me. Specifically. And I know this for two reasons, both shattering.
The first: another Asura came to me in Xyrus City. Windsom his is name. He hails from Epheotus, the land we call the realm of the gods. He offered… protection. A pact.
If I became their piece on the board, Epheotus would ensure my survival, even amidst the fugitive status Agrona's machinations forced upon me. He implied safety, not freedom. Don't let this alarm you unduly for my sake—the Asura of Epheotus are mostly bound by their accords, however cold.
My immediate danger, in their view, is mitigated. But the cost of their protection… that remains unseen. (And yes, Grampa, I knew Sylvie was Asura long before Windsom confirmed it. Grey's bond is far more than she seems and I already know you understood it.)
The second reason… this is harder. This is the core of my fear in telling you, the secret I've clutched to my chest like a live coal since childhood. Fate itself touched me, Grampa. Not divination, not foresight—Meta-awareness. A knowing. A torrent of knowledge about things I shouldn't, couldn't, comprehend.
It's not always clear, not always controllable, but it's undeniable. I knew about the artifacts—the ones that forged our Lances, the white cores and I unsealed Alea's one as they are just blocking the true potential of us lessers. I knew war was coming, inevitable as the tide, long before the first whispers reached the Council chambers.
I see glimpses… fragments… of your future in this war, Grampa. You lead the Tri-Union as Commander. The weight you carry… the losses you endure… Grampa, it breaks you in ways I saw even as a small child clinging to your leg.
Since the moment I arrived in this world, carrying this cursed knowledge, my deepest, most secret wish wasn't for power or glory. It was to spare you that pain. To lift even an ounce of that crushing burden from your shoulders.
And I have failed. Spectacularly. I am too weak. Too young. Too naive. Too inexperienced. Too foolish. Too useless to change the tide bearing down on you. The guilt of that failure is a constant companion, colder than the mountain wind.
I have tried, Grampa. Gods know I've tried to share this weight. I tried with Grey—Arthur Leywin even though you don't know this name. He escaped Agrona's clutches in Alacrya. We became friends swiftly, bound by shared secrets and a terrifying future only we truly glimpsed.
He was… is… an anchor.
I tried with your friend Headmistress Goodsky. Cynthia. An Alacryan spy who turned her back on her homeland for us. But a curse, a geass laid upon her by Agrona himself, strangles the truth in her throat.
I tried with Alea. In a moment of desperate candor, she confessed her loyalty already lies with me, even above Dad. The memory of her trustful eyes are another anchor for me. And Tessia… my brave, fierce Tessia… she stumbled upon shards of this truth. The fear and confusion in her eyes… Grampa, the guilt of dragging her into this nightmare, of shattering her world, is a wound that never heals.
But none of them… none… are you. You are the pillar I have leaned against since I could walk. Your strength, your wisdom, your unwavering love… you are the person I have looked up to with absolute, unshakeable faith. That is why I must trust you now, with everything. Even if it risks the foundation of that trust. Even if it terrifies me more than any assassin.
You must have a thousand questions screaming in your mind. Let me try to anticipate some:
The Threats, they are many, but I will try to list them all.
Beyond Dawsid, Rahdeas, and Blaine, beware the Spymaster Draneeve (Agrona's subtle knife in the shadows) and the Retainer Uto (a Vritra-blooded monster stronger than any Lance). Uto… I have a plan for him. A dark one. To end him and… harvest what he is. Olfred Warend? Loyal only to Rahdeas, his godfather. Watch him closely.
Our Allies.
I know you've reached out. Elder Buhndemog Lonuid, steadfast as the mountains. Elder Hester Flamesworth. Elder Camus, wise and discreet.
And the ruin… the one in the Darvish desert, like the one north of Asyphin we visited together. That ruin is our last sanctuary, Grampa. If the war turns against us… if everything falls… it must be secured. I intend to see it myself soon, though the path is fraught. And Tessia… my heart aches to see her, to reassure her before the storm breaks. I dream of slipping into Xyrus when the semester ends… but don't count on it. The risk is too great, for her and for me.
Now, I need to tell you the trickiest oart. Epheotus and Kezess—the asuran leader.
Windsom presents Epheotus as our saviors, promising victory against Agrona. He likely sees me as the perfect pawn for Kezess Indrath's designs. And I will play that role… for now. Because we need their power against Agrona's tide.
But understand this, Grampa, with every fiber of my being: The Asuras of Epheotus are not our allies.
Kezess Indrath is a tyrant. His motives are inscrutable, his methods ruthless he already killed so many lesser races. He views us as tools, even as expendable as Agrona does. If the unthinkable happens… if the choice becomes kneeling to Agrona or kneeling to Kezess… know this: I trust Agrona more.
He is monstrous, but his desires, his rules, are something I can potentially navigate, leverage, because I hold something he desperately wants and cannot simply take.
Something tied to the very core of my being and this Meta-awareness. This isn't treason; it's the bleak calculus of survival when faced with two existential devils. I confess, I don't know if this cold reasoning is truly mine, or if it's the whisper of the devil sharing my mind, the fragment of Agrona's bloodline that resides within me, trying to sway me.
The lines blur in the silence, I am so afraid. I fear I am slowly losing myself Grampa.
Grampa, I write this partly to pour out the poison in my heart, to pretend, for just these precious moments, that I am speaking to you across the desk, not shouting into the void. Partly because the isolation… the constant vigilance… the weight of knowing… it threatens to unravel my sanity thread by thread. But mostly… mostly, I write to beg for your help.
There is no man in this world I respect, admire, and love more than Virion Eralith. That is why I kept this silence for so long. I was terrified. Terrified of the pain this knowledge would cause you. Terrified of seeing the disappointment, the fear, the doubt in your eyes. Terrified that this truth would fracture the bond that means more to me than any crown. But we are too deep in the shadow now, Grampa. The luxury of secrets is gone.
I need you to go to Grandaunt Rinia. Immediately. Her divinations… they are flawed where I am concerned. The Meta-awareness disrupts Fate's weave around me; her visions cannot account for it.
Whatever path she sees, whatever desperate act she is preparing based on those flawed glimpses… it will lead her into mortal danger. Please, Grampa. Stop her. Protect her. She is walking towards a cliff she cannot see.
The next time we meet… I fear I will be unrecognizable to you. The boy who roamed in the palace gardens, who soaked up your stories, who dreamed of peaceful forests… he is being worn away.
Each day is a battle against paranoia sharp as any dagger. Fear is a constant companion. The loneliness… it's a vast, echoing cavern. The exhaustion isn't just of the body, but of the soul.
I kill to survive, I scheme in the dark, I bargain with devils and dread the gods. I see the darkness settling into my own reflection. I am becoming something harder, colder, forged in desperation. I do it to protect you.
To protect Tess, Mom, Dad, Grandaunt… all of Dicathen. But Grampa… I need you. I need your strength. Your wisdom. Your unwavering belief, not just in our cause, but in me, even as I change. You are the lighthouse in this gathering storm.
I love you, Grampa. With all the fierce, terrified, hopeful heart I have left.
I love Tessia. My brilliant, brave sister. Protect her.
I love Mom. Her kindness is a memory that sustains me.
I love Dad. His steady presence is a fortress in my mind.
I love Grandaunt Rinia. Her fierce spirit, even across the distance I foolishly kept.
I am afraid, Grampa.
Terrified down to my marrow. Some mornings, the weight of it all pins me to the rough hammock I sleep on. The fear whispers that I'm not strong enough, not clever enough, that I will fail you all.
But I get up. I push forward. Because I have to. Because you taught me what it means to stand, even when the ground shakes.
Forgive the smudges. The mountain air is cold, and my hands won't stop trembling.
Your Grandson. Always, Corvis.