Corvis Eralith
The quiet intimacy of breakfast with Mom and Dad felt like a stolen treasure, fragile and fleeting. As they departed for the Council chambers—their faces etched with a weariness that deepened each day—the vast, echoing dining hall of the Castle seemed to swallow the lingering warmth.
Duty was a relentless tide, pulling them further into the churning waters of war preparation, leaving Tessia and I adrift in its wake.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stillness. Tessia pushed her plate away, the clink of porcelain unnaturally loud.
"Tessia," I began, trying to anchor the moment, "have you heard anything from the others at Xyrus Academy?" The question felt mundane, a desperate grasp at normalcy amidst the looming storm.
The reconstruction of Xyrus City was a monumental, grinding effort. The absence of Olfred left a gaping hole in the Lances, and the dwarven representation on the Council was a political quagmire.
Rahdeas was taken care of, and so were the Greysunders: executed. Would Carnelian Earthborn push for dominance, leveraging Mica's position? Or would Elder Buhnd, representing a less centralized power, prevail? The intricate dance of kingdoms felt distant, yet its consequences pressed in on all sides.
Tessia's gaze snapped to me, sharp and unexpectedly guarded. "What are you interested about?" she asked, her voice deceptively light, but her eyes held a sudden, flinty edge.
"The girls you saved?" There was an undercurrent there, a flicker of something possessive and raw I hadn't anticipated was still there.
"No," I clarified quickly, the air thickening. "Cynthia mentioned there were no casualties, but I wondered… if you'd heard from them lately." Two weeks trapped within the Castle walls, under Aldir's suffocating 'protection,' had severed me from my connections with Vincent, Gideon, everyone.
I was a prisoner in a gilded cage, starved for connection beyond the suffocating weight of scheming and politics.
Tessia relaxed fractionally, but the tension didn't fully dissipate. "I know Emily is now Professor Gideon's apprentice…" She watched me carefully, seeking a reaction. I simply nodded; my memories from the novel had already shown me that path.
"Claire has returned home," she continued, her gaze still probing. "She's starting as an assistant sword instructor while finishing her studies under her uncle." Again, my lack of surprise seemed to register. The only divergence was Claire's intact core, a small victory.
"As for Curtis," she finished, "you already know."
"Thanks for telling me," I murmured, sensing a deeper unease radiating from her. She was picking at the edge of her napkin, a telltale sign. "Tessia… is everything alright?"
She looked down, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. "Yes. It is. I was just… thinking." A pause. "About our last conversation. No, fight. Before you left Xyrus… before they called you a fugitive." Her voice was low, threaded with regret.
"Tessia, don't worry," I interjected, the familiar guilt coiling in my gut. "It was all my fault." My secrecy, my fear, my desperate attempts to shield her by shutting her out—the burden was mine to bear.
"No!" The word cracked out, sharp and fierce. She looked up, her green eyes blazing with sudden intensity.
"I… I was angry at you, Corvis! Angry because you didn't include me! You were waging this desperate, silent war, carrying this impossible weight, and you did it all supposedly to protect me!" Her voice trembled.
"When I awakened and you didn't… I swore to myself I'd become the best mage in Dicathen. For you. So I could be your shield, your strength. I pushed myself, reached yellow core, mastered my Beast Will faster than anyone thought possible…" Her knuckles whitened on the tablecloth.
"And still… at the Academy… when Lucas…" Her voice hitched, the memory of helplessness raw. "I couldn't protect myself, let alone anyone else. I had to be saved. By you. By Grey." The admission was a whisper, laced with profound shame. "All that power… and I was useless when it truly mattered."
My heart clenched. This wasn't just about the fight; it was the culmination of a deep-seated insecurity. The Tessia of the novel had lived in Arthur Leywin's shadow, battling an inferiority complex.
My Tessia, though stronger, more mature, was staring at Grey's terrifying potential and my own impossible knowledge, feeling dwarfed, her hard-won achievements rendered insignificant. The unfairness of it was a knife twist. What could I say?
Platitudes about her future strength felt hollow, patronizing. Promises that she would be vital rang false against the visceral memory of her vulnerability against Lucas. The only solace I could offer was presence, unwavering support, but the wound felt too fresh for bandages.
"Tessia…" I began, my voice thick, searching for words that wouldn't diminish her pain or ring empty.
"Sorry, Corvis," she cut in, forcing a shaky breath, wiping hastily at her eyes. "It was childish. Let's… let's talk about something else. Please?"
The plea in her voice was unmistakable. She needed an escape hatch from the raw vulnerability. Pushing now might only deepen the fracture. Reluctantly, I nodded, swallowing my desire to fix it immediately.
"Alright," I conceded, forcing a lighter tone. "Then… what about you and Grey?" A deliberate pivot, a familiar tease to break the tension. "Has your relationship… evolved to the next phase while I was gone?"
The effect was instantaneous. Tessia flushed a brilliant crimson, all the way to the tips of her ears. "M-me and Grey?" she stammered, suddenly finding the grain of the wooden table fascinating. Her fingers twisted a loose strand of hair.
"We… we didn't talk much, not really. Not with you missing. Everything felt… suspended. But…" A small, genuine smile touched her lips despite the blush. "I think we grew closer. He was… my best confidant. The only one who understood the fear, the waiting. And Sylvie," she added, her smile widening slightly, "she teased him relentlessly through their bond, I'm sure of it. Always nudging him."
"That's good to know," I said, a genuine smirk spreading across my face, enjoying her flustered state. It was a glimpse of the normal teenage worries buried under war and responsibility.
"Corvis!" she protested, swatting playfully at my arm, her embarrassment warring with amusement. "You're supposed to be all stern and overprotective! Not… smirking!"
"Would you like it?" I teased back, leaning in slightly. "Shall I track him down in Epheotus? Issue warnings? Demand honorable intentions documented in triplicate?"
"Ye—No!" she sputtered, correcting herself, her blush deepening impossibly. "What I meant is… no, you shouldn't… it's not…" She was gloriously flustered, a welcome reprieve from the earlier heaviness.
I opened my mouth to tease her further, to bask in this moment of simple sibling banter, when it hit.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated agony ripped through my lower abdomen. It wasn't the familiar, deep ache or the sharp twinge. This was a spike, white-hot and vicious, driving the breath from my lungs in a strangled gasp. It felt like something vital was being wrenched apart from the inside.
"Corvis?" Tessia's playful embarrassment vanished, replaced by instant, wide-eyed alarm. She was out of her chair in a heartbeat. "What's wrong? Are you still suffering from your injuries?"
Her hand flew to my forehead, cool against the sudden sweat beading there. Her eyes scanned my face, now contorted, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth creaked.
"It's happening, Corvis," Romulos's voice cut through the roaring pain in my head, chillingly calm, almost detached. "But your Ineptrunes… they're interfering. Fighting the integration. Channeling the mana flow erratically. It's going to hurt. A lot."
"I—" Another wave crashed over the first, a tsunami of pure, rending agony centered where my core was violently forming. My vision blurred at the edges.
A choked sound escaped me—not a scream, but a guttural groan of pure suffering.
Cold sweat drenched my tunic instantly. I felt saliva escape the corner of my mouth as my control slipped.
This must be the worst awakening in history, I thought grimly, the absurdity flickering through the haze of pain. My body convulsed, muscles locking. I tried to push myself up from the table, but my arms trembled violently, useless.
"Let's get to a doctor, Corvis!" Tessia's voice was sharp with command, cutting through my disorientation. All traces of the flustered sister were gone, replaced by a steely resolve that mirrored Grampa's.
Her worry was a palpable force, radiating from her, but her voice, though tight, remained remarkably calm, a lifeline thrown into the storm.
"Hold onto me. Now."
Her arms slid under mine, surprisingly strong, hauling me upright despite my dead weight. The movement sent fresh shards of agony lancing through me, but her grip was firm, anchoring.
I leaned heavily against her, my head lolling onto her shoulder, gasping for air that felt like shards of glass. Her scent—sunshine and something uniquely Tessia—was a fragile anchor in the maelstrom of pain and the terrifying, violent birth of something new and unknown within me.
———
The world swam back in fragments—muffled voices, the sterile scent of herbs and antiseptic, the oppressive weight of exhaustion pressing down on every cell. My eyelids felt like lead slabs, impossible to lift.
General Aldir's voice, deep and resonant, cut through the fog: "The Mourning Pearl Windsom administered cured whatever physiological barrier prevented his body from forming a mana core."
A core. The confirmation landed like a stone in the pit of my stomach, even amidst the drugged haze. It was real. Not just an idea, but a violently erupting reality within me.
Grampa Virion's voice, laced with concern and a dawning awe, followed: "Does that mean Corvis has… gone through an awakening? Now? At his age?"
"Essentially, yes," Aldir replied, his tone clinical. "His physiology was likely too underdeveloped to sustain the process earlier. The trauma and the Mourning Pearl's intervention forced the issue. He sleeps now, a natural response to the profound systemic shock."
Footsteps receded. The door clicked shut. Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by Grampa's sigh, a sound carrying the weight of centuries. Then, a calloused, warm hand enveloped mine. The familiar, grounding touch of Grampa Virion.
"No wonder you're in such bad shape, Corvis," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. His thumb brushed gently over my knuckles.
"Lord Aldir scanned you. In just three days, your core… it's surging through multiple stages simultaneously. It's… frankly, it's frightening. Unprecedented."
Multiple stages? The thought pierced the lethargy, sharp and disorienting. Romulos! I screamed internally. Care to explain what the hell is happening?!
"Stop shouting," came the dry, slightly irritated reply. "I know marginally more than you. Against the Tragedy… it's reacting. Violently. It's not just regulating anymore; it's actively force-feeding your nascent core ambient mana. And your Meta-awareness… its insight into mana's fundamental nature is acting like a catalyst, accelerating the integration exponentially. It's quite literally brute-forcing your evolution to keep you alive."
Wait, I pushed through the mental fog, a spike of cold fear piercing the exhaustion. Doesn't that mean…?
"That you're going to be obscenely powerful by 'lesser' standards? Undoubtedly," Romulos confirmed, a hint of dark satisfaction in his tone. But it wasn't the power I was terrified of.
"Oh, certainly," he added, sensing the unspoken dread. "But you can augment yourself to mitigate the physical strain. You're becoming… well, like me, functionally. An Asura's dependency without the inherent biology. You'll need mana not just for spells, Corvis. You'll need it to breathe. To walk. To keep your heart beating at a normal pace. It will be as fundamental as oxygen."
Sadistic asshole, I thought, the venom thick in my silent voice. Gritting my metaphysical teeth, I tried to push past the crushing weakness, focusing inward. Past the leaden limbs, past the cotton-wool filling my head, I sought the epicenter of the upheaval.
And found it.
A supernova.
Centered in my solar plexus, blazing with an intensity that stole my breath even in my disembodied state, was my core. Not the faint, nascent spark I might have expected. It pulsed with a fierce, silver light. Pure, radiant, dense beyond belief.
A Silver Core. Achieved not through years of grueling cultivation, but in a brutal, three-day crucible forced by my own desperate inventions and Asuran intervention.
"It seems so," Romulos observed, his voice holding a sliver of genuine surprise. "A Silver Core foundation is… advantageous. At least you won't collapse like a puppet with its strings cut after minor exertions. The raw capacity is there."
Capacity is useless if I can't access it efficiently, I shot back, the panic simmering. I can't use Mana Rotation yet. If I don't adapt Against the Tragedy immediately, integrate it fully to manage this monstrous influx… I might as well be a breathing statue.
A Silver Core cripple. The irony was brutal. My greatest creation, designed to compensate for my lack, had now become the engine of my potential downfall. Yet, within the terror, a flicker of fierce, analytical hope ignited. The potential was staggering.
If I could harness it, channel it… Alanis. I needed Alanis. Her precision, her understanding of the Ineptrunes' base principles… she could help me reforge Against the Tragedy from an external regulator into an internal, symbiotic lattice. It could become my artificial Mana Rotation, my lifeline.
"Try to wake up," Romulos urged, his tone shifting to something resembling… encouragement? "Use augmentation. Meta-awareness will guide the flow."
The command was a lifeline. Subconsciously, guided by the ingrained instinct of Meta-awareness honed over countless hours with the Ineptrunes, I reached for the raging silver sun within me. Not to cast a spell, but for the most basic function: being.
I pulled threads of mana, raw and potent, weaving them through my nervous system, my musculature, my atrophied pathways. It was clumsy, overwhelming, like trying to sip from a firehose.
My eyelids snapped open. The world was a blur of stone ceiling and concerned elven features swimming into focus. Grampa Virion's face, etched with deep lines of worry, hovered above me.
"Corvis!" Relief warred with fresh concern in his violet eyes. "Are you feeling alright?" His grip on my hand tightened.
I tried to speak. My lips parted, my diaphragm contracted… but only a strained, airless rasp emerged. My vocal cords, like every other muscle, were paralyzed clay without the animating force of mana. A fresh wave of helplessness washed over me.
"Don't whine," Romulos chided, his voice cutting through the panic. "Remember? A month ago, a trickle of mana would have sent you into anaphylactic shock. This? This is progress. Painful, inconvenient progress, but progress nonetheless."
Gritting my teeth, I focused inward again. Augment. Meta-awareness pinpointed the necessary pathways—larynx, tongue, diaphragm.
Carefully, agonizingly slowly, I channeled a thin, precise stream of silver mana. It felt alien, invasive, yet vital. Like jump-starting a dead engine.
"I… am… fine," the words grated out, each syllable requiring monumental effort, sounding unnaturally resonant, layered with a faint hum of power.
Grampa's eyebrows shot up, disappearing into his silver hairline. He leaned closer, his gaze sharp, dissecting. "You just used raw mana to form words, Corvis," he stated, his voice low and grave. "'Fine' isn't the word I'd choose."
Determined, I shifted my focus downward. Moving my right leg. A simple flexion. Silver mana surged through nerves and muscle fibers. The leg jerked upwards, too fast, too hard, banging against the bed frame.
Moving the left leg separately was marginally easier, but coordinating both, attempting to sit up, was like trying to pilot a colossal, unresponsive Barbarossa. Muscles screamed in protest, trembling violently with the strain of channeling such potent energy for such basic tasks.
"You're augmenting yourself too heavily, Corvis," Grampa cautioned, his tone shifting to that familiar blend of sternness and underlying care—the tone he used when Tessia first tried complex wind spells. "Ease into it. Control."
He didn't understand my situation of course. "If… I… don't…" I forced out, each word a battle, the mana humming visibly around my jawline now, "...my body… doesn't… answer." The admission was humiliating, terrifying.
Grampa froze. The color drained from his face, replaced by stark, horrified comprehension. His grip on my hand became almost crushing.
"What?!" The single word was a breathless whisper, laden with dawning dread for the profound, unnatural dependency his grandson now faced.
I met his gaze, pouring every ounce of conviction I could muster into my augmented voice, trying to mask the bone-deep fear.
"Don't… worry… Grampa." The mana vibrated, making the words resonate with an unnatural steadiness I didn't feel. "This… is… good. The best… thing." I took a shuddering, mana-assisted breath. "I know… how… to fix it. Make it… efficient. Replenish… easier."
He searched my eyes for a long moment, the storm of worry and paternal fear gradually subsiding, replaced by a steely resolve that mirrored my own. Slowly, he nodded, accepting the impossible reality.
"Alright, Corvis. Alright." He squeezed my hand again, a silent promise of unwavering support. "Well, let me know if you need anything. Anything." A ghost of his usual wryness touched his lips. "And try not to make anything explode. Like… well, you know. The first time."
The memory of my disastrous early Against the Tragedy test brought a weak, almost imperceptible twitch to my own lips. Progress.
"I… might… need… Alanis," I managed. "She… knows… the basics."
"Sure, sure," Grampa said, his voice regaining some of its normal gruffness, a comforting anchor in the surreal nightmare. "She's still my secretary, after all. Just call for her when you're ready."