Corvis Eralith
The air of Etistin City hit me, thick with the scents of baking bread, horse dung, and the distant tang of the sea—a stark, welcome contrast to the cloistered, tension-laden atmosphere of the Castle all they way in the Beast Glades' sky.
Yet, the simple act of walking through it felt like a precarious negotiation. The polished black cane in my hand wasn't just an accessory; it was a stark, humbling anchor, a constant, rhythmic tap-tap-tap against the cobblestones that marked my progress and my limitation.
Each step sent a dull ache radiating from my ruined body, a phantom echo of the torture backlash of Anti-Matter and my abrupt core manifestation, a grim reminder that even mana couldn't fully knit shattered bone and ravaged nerves back to seamless perfection.
The fear was a cold stone in my gut: would this be my constant companion? The alternative—permanent, crude mana augmentation meant only for battles—felt like a surrender, a violation of my body's own rhythm, a constant, unnatural buzz beneath the skin. Unthinkable.
"Did Lord Aldir need to send such an escort for me?" I protested, the words sharper than intended, born more from frustration with my own frailty than genuine annoyance at the company. Berna, a comforting, solid presence of fur and loyalty at my left, radiating quiet vigilance, was more than enough.
"I am not entirely defenseless." The assertion felt hollow even as I said it. My magic was potent, yes, but my body was a liability, a cracked vessel even if it was far stronger than ever. We hadn't even truly journeyed; stepping through the castle portal directly into a discreet Etistin alleyway bypassed any real travel risk.
"I actually insisted on accompanying you, Your Highness," Alea declared from my right, her voice light, almost musical, punctuated by an innocent smile that didn't quite reach the subtle tension around her eyes.
I rolled my own, a familiar gesture between us that held layers of unspoken understanding. Her insistence wasn't just protocol; it was loyalty, perhaps a touch of lingering guilt. She had been my shadow, my confidant, long before the betrayal and the hunt.
"Anyway," I redirected, focusing on the path towards Gideon's newly established lab—a necessary relocation after the inferno that consumed Xyrus. The rhythmic tap of my cane became a metronome for the conversation.
"How is your core developing?" It had been nearly half a year since I'd shattered the insidious seal the Artifact had placed, the one that had artificially capped her potential at White Core. A small act of defiance against the Asuras, a crucial investment in Dicathen's strength.
Alea walked beside me, her posture relaxed but her gaze constantly scanning, a Lance even in civilian guise. "After the first weeks of... unsettling stillness," she admitted, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features, "I am finally seeing improvements, Your Highness." The discomfort wasn't about the core.
It was the unspoken weight between us—her perceived failure during my darkest days. She blamed herself for not finding me, not rescuing me from the shadows and the knives. She shouldn't.
If Grandpa Virion was the pillar of wisdom I respected most, Tessia and my parents the heartstrings love tugged hardest upon, and Grey the unwavering anchor I relied on in the storm… Alea was the bedrock of trust. My silent partner, the keeper of secrets, the one whose loyalty felt as immutable as the mountains.
Speaking of secrets…
"Finally! Are you delivering my version of the Acclorite?" Romulos's voice slithered through my mind, a phantom presence coiled around my thoughts. His initial reaction when I had synthesized the replica Acclorite in my hidden Grand Mountain workshop—a place I desperately needed to revisit—had been… petulant. Possessive.
He'd easily admitted he didn't truly care about the original formula gathering dust, yet the idea of sharing his 'lesser' creation rankled his ancient, colossal ego.
"Don't get strange ideas," he interjected sharply, sensing the direction of my musings, his phantom form coalescing briefly in my peripheral vision, leaning arrogantly against a passing bakery's signboard only I could see.
"I don't care a wit for the wellbeing of the other lessers. I only care about yours." The admission, stark and chillingly sincere, landed like a physical blow. It wasn't loyalty; it was a terrifying, obsessive possessiveness.
A shiver traced my spine, cold despite the sun. I deliberately didn't probe that statement. Prying could mean Romulos 'helping' me forget in ways that involved mental harrassing. Some doors were best left firmly barred.
"Alea," I said, my voice dropping slightly, the city noise a useful cloak. With a thought, I withdrew three small, rhomboid pieces of purple rock from the spatial storage ring on my left index finger. The Acclorite—my Acclorite—pulsed faintly with contained potential against my palm.
"I want you to keep one." I extended the smallest piece towards her. "Give the other two to Aya and Varay. Discreetly. Utterly discreetly."
Alea's sharp intake of breath was audible. Her eyes, usually so composed, widened fractionally as she carefully, reverently, took the offered pieces. Her fingers traced the cool, impossibly smooth surface. "Your Highness… what is this?" Her whisper held awe and a dawning comprehension.
"Asuran weapons," I confirmed, the words heavy with consequence. Her breath hitched again, but shock wasn't the dominant emotion; it was a fierce, understanding intensity. "I made these. While I was… away."
I lifted my left hand, turning it so the faint, almost imperceptible outline of my own embedded Acclorite rhombus was visible beneath the skin of my palm. A subtle warmth radiated from it.
"They're made with a… special formula. Seeing the other Lances still have their mana cores sealed by the artifacts that will accelerate the Asuran Weapon's growth even faster."
The unspoken challenge hung in the air: hiding them from the watchful eyes of the Asuras. But the beauty was in the plausible deniability. It wasn't stolen Epheotian Acclorite; it was a replication.
And Wren Kain IV, that eccentric, brilliant Asura weaponsmith… his unexpected friendliness, his appreciation for ingenuity, was a tiny shield. He might even find it amusing, a point in my favor.
Alea's gaze shifted from the Acclorite in her hand to my face, a complex mix of gratitude, incredulity, and something warmer, more playful, surfacing. "You are giving me a great many gifts, Your Highness," she murmured, a genuine, soft smile touching her lips.
"First, you unshackle my core, unlocking paths I thought forever closed… and now you gift me a fragment of divine weapon?" She shook her head slowly, the smile turning gently teasing. "I am deeply flattered, truly… but perhaps you should save such grand gestures for girls closer to your own age?"
Before I could formulate a coherent protest, she smoothly crouched down in front of me, her eyes level with mine despite my standing position. Her hand, cool and gentle, reached up and stroked my cheek with startling tenderness.
The world tilted. Heat exploded across my face, rushing from my neck to the tips of my ears. My mouth opened, but only a strangled, incoherent babble emerged. Damn these traitorous adolescent hormones! Fourteen loomed, a hormonal tsunami crashing against the fragmented, nearly non-existent memories of my supposed 'past life'.
That past offered no armor against the sudden, overwhelming rush of embarrassment and a confusing flutter in my chest. Alea was… Alea. Trusted. Vital. Almost like… but not like that! My mind short-circuited.
"I—I didn't mean it that way!" I finally managed to splutter, the words too loud, too defensive, only deepening the mortifying flush. Beside me, Berna, ever attuned to my distress, let out a low, rumbling growl, her paws slightly raised as she fixed Alea with a protective glare.
"I'm fine, Berna," I mumbled, patting her head reassuringly, though my voice was tight. Desperate for escape, I turned my back sharply on Alea's amused expression—her soft chuckle felt like needles on my burning skin—and started forward with as much speed as my cursed leg and cane would allow, the tap-tap-tap now frantic against the stones.
"Let's just… get going. Gideon's waiting."
"Truly," Romulos's voice dripped with disdain, his phantom form now lounging insolently on a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the street, visible only to me. He leaned forward, chin resting on his hand, looking not at me, but up at the sky with an expression of profound boredom. "What a shameful display of emotional incontinence. Mortal biology is so… messy."
As we walked, the heat in my face slowly subsiding, replaced by a familiar, grounding focus, Alea examined the Acclorite piece she held. "How… how does one use this Asuran weapon, Your Highness?" Her tone was back to business, though a hint of her earlier amusement lingered.
"You integrate it," I explained, grateful for the technical distraction. I held up my left palm again. "Insert it into your body. I chose my left palm. The Acclorite… it bonds with you. It draws ambient mana, adapts to its wielder, becomes a part of you." I watched her absorb the information, her sharp mind analyzing the implications, the risks, the power.
Alea nodded, her expression turning serious, resolute. She studied the small rhombus intently, turning it over in her fingers, feeling its weight, its latent energy. Then, without hesitation, mirroring my own act of faith and necessity, she pressed the Acclorite against the palm of her right hand.
———
The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of my cane against the worn cobblestones finally ceased as we stood before the reinforced steel door of Gideon's new laboratory. It loomed in a quieter district of Etistin, a fortress of intellect amidst the city's bustle, a far cry from the charred ruins of his Xyrus sanctum.
Each knock I rapped against the cold metal sent a faint vibration jolting up the cane and into my protesting legs—a constant, unwelcome companion to every movement. The fear whispered again: lifelong crutch, or the unnatural buzz of permanent augmentation? Neither option felt like victory.
The heavy door creaked open, revealing Emily Watsken. Her green hair was slightly frazzled, her glasses fogged from the contrasting temperatures, but her eyes widened instantly behind the lenses.
"Prince Corvis! What a surprise! I... I'll fetch Master Gideon immediately!" Her voice held its usual flustered energy, but there was a newfound confidence beneath it as she gestured hastily behind her into the surprisingly ordered chaos within.
"Hi Emily," I said, stepping over the threshold, the cool, metallic scent of the lab replacing the city air. My gaze swept over her, a wave of relief washing through me, momentarily dulling the ache. "I'm glad. Truly glad to see you unscathed." The memory of Xyrus burning, mana beasts rampaging, flashed unwanted—Emily trapped in that inferno.
A genuine, if nervous, smile touched her lips. "Yes! Thankfully, Claire arrived before anything... truly awful happened." Her eyes sparkled with sudden, fierce enthusiasm.
"And that machine! Prince Corvis, you must see Master Gideon's face whenever he talks about it! The way you just... crashed down from the sky in it! He practically vibrates!" She beamed, the near-death experience momentarily forgotten in the face of artifice wonder.
Taken by her fervour, Emily did something unthinkable for the shy girl I'd first met at the Academy: she grabbed my hand without hesitation. Her grip was warm, strong with the callouses of constant tinkering, and she pulled me further into the lab. It was... unnervingly tidy. Tools hung in precise rows, components sorted in labelled bins, blueprints rolled neatly in stands. A far cry from Gideon's usual hurricane of genius.
"I guess this is your doing?" I remarked, nodding at the organised space, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself. Emily's blush was answer enough.
Turning my head, I addressed Alea, who stood near Berna. The bear was sniffing the air with deep interest, her large nose twitching towards a bin labelled 'Thermal Components: NON-EDIBLE'.
"Alea, could you keep a watchful eye on Berna? Prevent her from deciding the city's nut vendors need raiding? She has an... enthusiastic appreciation for anything remotely fruity or nutty." Berna rumbled softly, almost in protest, but nudged Alea's hand gently. The Lance nodded, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, her gaze already tracking the bear's potential targets.
"Master!" Emily's voice rang out, startlingly loud in the metallic space, as she practically slammed open the inner workshop door. The transformation from flustered assistant to assertive artificer was startling—and heartening. "Prince Corvis is here to visit us!"
"I am working here!" Gideon's familiar, gravelly bark echoed from within, thick with irritation. He spun around on his stool, goggles pushed up onto his forehead, grease smudging his cheek. His eyes, sharp and perpetually bloodshot, landed on me. The irritation flickered, replaced by a weary sort of recognition.
"Oh. Hi, Prince. Glad to see you… upright." The words were gruff, but the sentiment, buried deep, was genuine. Yeah, Gideon, I thought inwardly, the phantom ache in my leg pulsing, I'm glad too. Surviving multiple near-death experiences in a few months does tend to make one appreciate being upright.
"Anyway," Romulos's bored drawl slithered through my mind, his spectral form materialising leaning insolently against Gideon's main workbench, invisible to all but me. He examined a complex gear assembly with disdain. "Why are we wasting precious moments in this lesser's glorified scrapheap? Get to the point."
Business. Always business, overshadowed by the ghost only I could see. Taking a steadying breath, ignoring the phantom and the persistent throb in my leg, I met Gideon's gaze.
"Gideon," I said, my voice firm, cutting through the workshop's ambient hum of machinery and mana. "I think it's time we started what we discussed. Back at our first meeting."
Gideon blinked, his brow furrowing in genuine, frustrating confusion. He scratched his head, leaving another grease streak. "I don't remember. Sorry, Prince. Council's got me jumping like a scalded gremlin. Non-stop demands."
Emily leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Master Gideon's been officially tasked with fortifying the castle defences. Urgently. The Council… they're quite insistent."
Ah. The Castle. Our supposed impenetrable fortress. The future headquarters of Dicathen's command. A grim memory, sharp as a knife, lanced through me—not my memory, but the knowledge: Alduin Eralith, my own dad, holding open the gates for the Alacryan invaders.
The image, cold and horrific, made my throat tighten. I swallowed hard, forcing the visceral dread down. The castle was vital, shielded by ancient Djinn magic… but history whispered of betrayal from within. Its walls felt less like protection and more like a future tomb.
"I think you noticed the Barbarossa," I said, shifting the focus, the name itself carrying weight. "After all, you were the one who transported it to the castle vaults for me." I saw the exact moment it clicked. Gideon's distracted irritation vanished.
His eyes, suddenly razor-sharp and blazing with the fierce light of pure intellectual hunger, locked onto mine. The schematics, the Council demands, the messy lab—all faded into irrelevance. He straightened on his stool, the weary engineer replaced by the visionary artificer.
He didn't need to speak. The intensity of his gaze, the sudden stillness in the workshop, the way Emily held her breath beside me—it was all the confirmation needed.
"You," he stated, the single word thick with anticipation, "have my undivided attention."