Corvis Eralith
The low fire crackled in Grandaunt Rinia's hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the worn wooden floorboards.
The scent of pine resin, damp earth, and the herbal tea Grandaunt brewed hung heavy in the air, a comforting counterpoint to the lingering phantom smells of smoke, ozone, and decay that still haunted my senses. Outside, the peaceful night in the Elshire Forest breathed—a symphony of nocturnal insects and rustling leaves—a deceptive peace after the roaring hell of Xyrus.
Dad's voice broke the comfortable silence, his gaze fixed on Berna. The massive bear sat placidly near the hearth, methodically cracking nuts Grandaunt had offered from her pantry with surprising dexterity in her huge paws.
"Your bear companion is very interesting, Corvis," he observed, his tone carrying a mixture of paternal warmth and lingering, unspoken worry. He watched Berna not with the apprehension one might expect towards a guardian beast, but with a quiet respect, perhaps seeing in her steadfast presence a reflection of the protection he wished he could have provided.
I leaned back into the worn cushions of the couch, the warmth of the fire seeping into bones that still felt brittle, hollowed. "I know," I replied, my voice softer than intended. My eyes traced the familiar contours of Berna's powerful frame, the firelight glinting off her dark fur. "She's been… more than helpful. Very."
The understatement hung in the air. Berna had been my anchor in the echoing loneliness of the mountains, my silent sentinel, a source of grounding warmth when the cold calculations of survival threatened to freeze me solid. She'd been my only confidante when Romulos's voice became too much, the only living proof that connection, simple and profound, still existed.
The unspoken specter of Olfred hovered. I braced myself, waiting for the inevitable question, the judgment, the awkward navigation of the fact that I'd killed a Lance, a dwarf, regardless of his treachery. But it never came. Mom, seated beside Dad, her hand resting gently on his arm, seemed content to simply watch me, her eyes filled with a relief so deep it bordered on sorrow.
Dad focused on Berna, perhaps unable, or unwilling, to shatter the fragile peace of this reunion with grim realities. They knew about Rahdeas's betrayal, the Greysunders' execution—Windsom would have conveyed the necessary facts.
The avoidance wasn't denial; it was a desperate, shared yearning to shield this moment, to pretend, just for a few stolen hours, that the world wasn't teetering on the brink of a war that would make their own past conflicts seem like skirmishes. They wanted to protect their son, not from punishment, but from the crushing weight of the horror yet to come. The thought tightened my throat.
"Come on, Corvis, we are going to have fun," Romulos's voice slithered into my thoughts, jarringly bright against the quiet solemnity. I rolled my eyes internally, a familiar reflex. Fun in Romulos's lexicon usually involved cosmic-scale manipulation or psychological torment.
As I shifted slightly, a sudden, sharp twinge lanced through my side, radiating from the spot where Bairon's lightning had struck. It wasn't the agonizing fracture from before, but a deep, bone-aching soreness, coupled with a chilling emptiness where the torrent of Anti-Matter had briefly raged. I winced, my hand instinctively pressing against my ribs beneath my tunic.
"Probably you just need rest," Romulos offered, his tone shifting to a dismissive practicality. "It might be just the stress… the exhaustion from weeks of exile and near-death experiences. Cumulative strain." His explanation felt flimsy, an attempt to brush aside something he didn't fully understand or didn't want to acknowledge.
You never told me you were a doctor, I shot back, the mental retort edged with a fatigue that went beyond the physical.
"It's just a speculation," he conceded airily, the phantom sensation of him shrugging his shoulders a faint pressure in my mind. "The Mourning Pearl should have handled it."
I picked up the chipped ceramic cup Grandaunt had given me earlier. The tea inside was still warm, fragrant with chamomile and something woodsy, uniquely Rinia. I took a slow, deliberate sip.
The warmth spread through my chest, a tangible comfort, momentarily easing the chill that seemed to have settled deep within me since unleashing that forbidden power. It soothed the raw edges of my nerves, a small balm against the vast, looming dread.
I knew this respite was fleeting, a calm eye in the hurricane. But for Tessia sleeping upstairs, for my parents radiating quiet love across the room, for Berna's steady presence, I would cling to it. I wanted to enjoy these hours. The ache for Grampa Virion's gruff presence was a pang. He should be here, sharing this fragile peace, his weathered face a testament to survival.
Yet, a creeping sense of déjà vu unsettled me. The setting—Grandaunt's cottage, the crackling fire, the shared tea, the sleeping forms of my parents now gently slumped against each other on the opposite couch, lulled by the warmth and exhaustion—it felt unnervingly familiar. Suspiciously familiar.
Like a scene lifted straight from the narrative confines of the novel I desperately tried not to be bound by. My gaze snapped to Grandaunt Rinia. She sat in her rocking chair, her old eyes, sharp and discerning even in the dim light, already fixed on me. She had been waiting.
"Corvis, before you—" she began, her voice low and raspy, carrying the weight of centuries.
I cut her off, the words tumbling out with an urgency born of long-suppressed guilt and newfound resolve. "I am sorry, Grandaunt." The apology felt inadequate, a pebble dropped into a deep, dark well. "I've avoided you… all my life."
I saw the flicker of surprise, then profound sadness in her eyes. "I don't know how much Grampa told you… about… everything I seem to know. But I think… it's better to tell you in person." I took a shaky breath, steeling myself. "And whatever you're seeing now, with your aether arts, with your divination… stop. Please. It won't work. Not with me existing."
Silence stretched, thick with the unsaid. The only sounds were the fire's crackle and Berna's rhythmic crunching. Then, slowly, deliberately, Grandaunt Rinia rose from her chair. Her movements were stiff, bearing the weight of her years and the burdens she had shouldered.
She crossed the small space between us. I braced for reproach, for the cool distance I'd always sensed from her, a distance I'd mirrored and amplified. Instead, she stopped before me and opened her arms.
It was hesitant, almost awkward. In thirteen years of my life, I couldn't recall a single time I'd hugged Grandaunt Rinia. She'd always been Tessia's confidante, the mysterious, slightly intimidating seer to my eyes. I'd built walls, mistaking her reserve for disapproval, her burdened silence for indifference. And that distance, I realized with a jolt of shame, was my fault. My fear, my secrets, my self-imposed isolation had pushed her away.
Tentatively, I leaned into the embrace. Her arms, thinner than I expected, wrapped around me. She smelled of dried herbs, old parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of aether. It wasn't Mom's enveloping warmth or Dad's fierce protectiveness; it was different. Frayed, weary, but undeniably real. A connection long neglected, finally bridged. She rested her cheek against the top of my head for a moment, a gesture so simple yet shattering in its tenderness.
"Corvis…" she murmured, her voice thick with an emotion I couldn't quite name. She pulled back slightly, her gnarled hands coming up to frame my face, her thumbs brushing over my cheekbones with a gentleness that belied her age. Her gaze searched mine, deep and unfathomable.
"Whenever I looked into your future, I saw nothing, but a coreless prince living a normal and quiet life, but..." she stopped herself and diverted the topic
"You really look a lot like your father when he was a boy…" A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "But your eyes… the way you hold your shoulders when you're determined… you remind me so much of your grandmother." The mention of my grandmother, a figure lost to history before I was born, sent a strange jolt through me—a connection to a past I never knew.
"What do you mean by… a normal life?" I pressed, needing to understand the failure of her sight where I was concerned.
Her expression clouded. "Every time I sought glimpses of your path, Corvis," she confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I saw… nothing remarkable. A coreless prince. Duties. Perhaps scholarly pursuits. A life confined within the expectations of Elenoir's court. Peaceful. Ordinary."
She shook her head slowly, a trace of bewildered frustration in her eyes. "I never foresaw Xyrus Academy. Never saw the fire in your spirit that defied your corelessness. Never saw the target on your back. Never saw you fleeing for your life… or saving Tessia with power that felt…" she hesitated, searching for the word, "...alien. You moved, Corvis, and the path I saw dissolved like smoke. You consistently did the opposite of what the threads showed me."
The confirmation was chilling, yet liberating. "I think that's a good enough reason," I said gently, taking one of her weathered hands in both of mine. Her skin was paper-thin, mapped with veins and the marks of time, yet her grip was surprisingly firm. "To not trust those threads anymore, Grandaunt. Not where I'm concerned. Not where the future we choose is concerned."
I took a deep breath, plunging into the deepest confession. "If Grampa told you about… what I know… about the paths Fate seemed to weave… then you know I saw your end too." The words felt like shards of glass in my throat. "I saw you dying. By the hands of an Asura. Taci Thyestes."
The name hung in the air like a death knell. Grandaunt Rinia didn't flinch, but a profound stillness settled over her. Her gaze turned inward, distant, haunted. Recognition flickered in the depths of her ancient eyes. Not surprise, but the grim confirmation of a shadow she'd glimpsed, perhaps fought against, in her own fragmented visions.
"Taci Thyestes, huh?" she murmured, the name a dry rustle of leaves. The silence that followed was heavy with the unspoken knowledge of a fate she'd struggled against, a fate I'd just named.
"Corvis," she breathed, her voice thick with an emotion that blurred the lines between sorrow and fierce affection. "Little Corvis." Her hand tightened on mine. "You carry the weight of worlds in that young mind. Knowledge that would break seasoned warriors. Virion…"
Her voice caught. "When he came to me after reading your letter… I have never seen him like that. So heartbroken for the burden crushing you… yet so fiercely, radiantly proud. Proud of your courage, your resolve… the love that drives you, even when it terrifies you." She cupped my cheek again. "He was happy, Corvis. Truly happy, because you trusted him with your truth."
The image of Grampa, burdened yet proud, brought fresh tears to my eyes. I blinked them back. "So?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, filled with desperate hope. "Will you stop? Will you stop burning your life away thread by thread, vision by vision?"
Her gaze held mine, unwavering. The struggle was visible—the seer who had defined herself by the burden of foresight, who had wielded her power like a shield against disaster, even as it consumed her.
The woman who hated divination for stealing her sister, yet embraced it as her only weapon. She looked down at our joined hands, then back at my face, searching for something. Resolve? Absolution? Finally, she nodded, a single, decisive movement.
"I will, Corvis. I will try. To help… another way." The admission cost her. It was the relinquishing of an identity, a purpose forged in fire and sacrifice. It was an act of trust—in me, in the uncertain future, in the possibility that her knowledge and experience could be enough without the crippling burden of prophecy.
Only I could truly grasp the magnitude of that surrender. In the novel's cold plot, Rinia Darcassan was a tragic figure: consumed by her art, mistrusted, dying alone for a truth no one else could see. But this wasn't a novel. This was my Grandaunt. The woman who smelled of herbs and old books, whose embrace was hesitant but real, who chose to step away from the precipice of her own foreseen demise because I asked her to.
I would make sure her path diverged. She deserved more than a footnote in someone else's tragedy.
"Actually, Grandaunt…" I began, the idea crystallizing, a practical step born of the trust we were forging. "There might be a way you can help me. A way that uses your wisdom, your connections, not your life force." I glanced towards the window, as if expecting Windsom's starry eyes to be watching.
"Probably now is the best opportunity. Grey's in Epheotus… Sylvie with him. The Asuran gaze might be less focused here for a time." I met her expectant gaze. "I need to speak with Mordain Asclepius."
Her reaction was immediate and profound. Her spine straightened, her eyes widening fractionally before narrowing with intense focus. "Master Mordain?" The name was spoken with a reverence reserved for legends, yet layered with deep-seated wariness. The leader of the lost Phoenix Clan, guardian of the Hearth—a figure of immense power and isolation.
"Yes," I confirmed, keeping my voice low. "While they can't openly join the war against Alacrya without endangering the Hearth… Mordain can still help me. Knowledge. Understanding. Perhaps… resources not bound by the same constraints." I saw the questions forming in her eyes.
"I know where the Hearth is, Grandaunt. I know how to find the path." Her breath hitched. "But Windsom mentioned instructions coming. Asuran instructions. I need to wait for those, move only after they've delivered their demands. To avoid… drawing their direct attention to where I'm going."
Strategy, caution—lessons learned the hard way.
She studied me for a long moment, the firelight etching deep lines of contemplation on her face. The seer was gone; the strategist, the survivor, remained. Finally, she nodded slowly.
"That's reasonable. Prudent." She reached out, her hand resting gently on my arm. "Corvis… you know the precipices you walk better than I ever could. You've seen the chasms. I won't insult you with warnings you've already etched into your own soul."
Her gaze softened, filled with a fierce, protective love that startled me. "But you spoke of blame… of feeling distant from me." She squeezed my arm gently. "That burden was never yours alone to carry. The fault… the distance… it rests with me too. I saw the shadows around you, the weight you bore even as a child, and I retreated into my own burdens, mistaking your silence for indifference."
Her voice thickened. "Listen to me, Corvis. You are a child. A child carrying a burden no soul, young or ancient, should ever bear. But you are not alone in carrying it. Your family…" Her gaze swept the room – to my sleeping parents, towards the ceiling where Tessia rested, to Berna watching us with quiet understanding, and back to me, "...your family stands with you. We are your anchor. Never forget that."
The words landed like a physical embrace, warmer than the fire, stronger than the lingering ache in my side. It wasn't just reassurance; it was an oath. A recognition. A claiming. The walls I'd built, brick by lonely brick, didn't crumble; they simply became less necessary. The burden remained, vast and terrifying, but the weight felt… shared.
A small, genuine smile touched my lips, the first unforced one since stepping out of Windsom's portal. "I have always known, Grandaunt," I whispered, the truth resonating deep within my weary soul.
"Always."