Aldir
The polished marble table stretched before me like a frozen river, cold and unyielding beneath the diffuse light filtering through the chamber's high windows. I sat at its central apex, the fulcrum of the crescent, a position of observation and judgment.
To my left, the human monarchs: King Blaine Glayder, his broad frame radiating a bluff, practical energy, and Queen Priscilla, sharp-eyed and contained, a coiled spring of wariness when looking at me.
To my right, the elven monarchs: King Alduin Eralith, his regal bearing etched with deep, paternal worry he fought to mask, and Queen Merial, her stillness a testament to formidable control, though her eyes held a mother's silent storm.
Flanking them sat the dwarven representative, Buhndemog Lonuid, his craggy face a map of resilience and newfound responsibility, a symbol of the fragile unity Dicathen's lessers were forging.
Beside me, Virion Eralith, the future Commander of the military forces of Dicathen I personally chose because of his experience as former elven king.
The air hummed with latent tension—Bairon Wykes, the human Lance, crackled with barely leashed lightning and simmering disdain for the youth about to enter, while Mica Earthborn, the dwarf Lance, sat like at the end of the room avoiding to look at me after our first encounter.
Corvis Eralith's request for this audience hadn't surprised me. Windsom's reports painted him as a uniquely pliable instrument: brilliant for a lesser, yes, but ultimately shaped by awe, fear, and a deeply ingrained respect for hierarchy—the perfect conduit for Epheotus's will. A tool.
Lord Kezess Indrath's designs for Dicathen required such tools. Yet, the central enigma remained, a thorn in my otherwise clear understanding: why Agrona Vritra? Why would the Sovereign of Alacrya, orchestrator of continent-spanning schemes and enemy of Epheotus for centuries, fixate his gaze upon this coreless elven prince if it wasn't for the Mourning Pearl Windsom gave him?
He commanded legions of lessuran abominations, humans with asuran blood in their veins which wielded powers that dwarfed anything Dicathen could muster. Corvis, even acknowledged by the eccentric Wren Kain IV as a lesser craftsman of note, was… insignificant on that scale. A pebble.
Why divert resources, risk exposure, for a pebble? The logic evaded me, a dissonance grating against my centuries of strategic calculus. Yet, despite the mystery, a cold pragmatism acknowledged the truth: this 'pebble' represented one of Dicathen's best chances for survival.
His mind, his drive, his unsettling capacity to bend circumstance… they were assets. Pawns, however perplexing their selection, had their uses.
The heavy doors swung open silently. Corvis Eralith entered.
The transformation was immediate and arresting. Gone was the fugitive's tension, the artificer's utilitarian focus. He moved with a newfound, deliberate poise, an almost unnerving stillness radiating from his core.
But it was the attire that truly marked the shift. He was clad not in the battle-stained grey I had seen glimpses of, nor the simpler garb of a student, but in the formal language of elven aristocracy, reinterpreted with a sharp, almost alien elegance as if it was from another world entirely.
A coat of startlingly light azure wool, the hue of glacial ice under a clear sky, was tailored to perfection, nipping sharply at a waist made slimmer by hardship before flowing into precise tails. Silver thread, subtle yet undeniable, traced the edges like captured moonlight.
Beneath it, a blindingly white shirt with high collar and silver gear-etched buttons. Dark blue trousers fell cleanly to polished black shoes. His gunmetal hair, usually bound, now fell freely, shorter, framing a face that seemed harder yet cleaner and more harmonic.
And in his hand, not clutched, but held with casual authority—an ebony cane. I recognized the craftsmanship, the faint resonant shimmer in the varnish hinting at its true nature as a focus medium.
Today, it wasn't a crutch; it was a scepter, a deliberate symbol of grounded power. Respect, Windsom's assessment echoed. He understood the performance. He was playing the part exactly as a lesser seeking an audience with his betters should. But the eyes… the eyes held a watchful depth that belied the perfect subservience of his posture.
"Thanks for accepting my selfish request," Corvis stated, his voice clear, modulated, devoid of the youthful tremor I might have expected. He offered a respectful, shallow bow, his gaze finding mine first, waiting.
The unspoken question hung: permission to proceed? I granted it with the barest incline of my head, a silent command observed by all.
He stepped forward, not to the table's edge like a supplicant, but to a point where he could address the crescent, his cane tapping once, firmly, on the marble—a punctuation mark.
"I wished to present to the Council," he began, his tone calm, assured, "a new project addressing a perennial weakness observed since the dawn of Dicathen." He paused, letting the gravity settle.
"Logistics in war."
His choice of historical reference was pointed, mature beyond his years. "Since the days of the first war between Elenoir and Sapin," he stated, naming the ancient conflict between elf and human as a simple, brutal fact, devoid of recrimination but heavy with implication, "the vulnerability and strain of overland supply routes to the front lines have been a critical flaw."
He turned slightly, his gaze encompassing Buhndemog. "Thanks to Darv now finally reclaiming its rightful voice within this Council," —a deft acknowledgment of the dwarf's presence and the recent political shift— "we possess a unique opportunity. We can leverage the unparalleled skills of Darv's miners to construct a network of subterranean supply arteries."
He spread his hands slightly, a gesture encompassing the unseen depths. "Tunnels, fortified and hidden, impervious to enemy raids, weather, or…" he let the pause linger, "...internal dissent."
King Blaine leaned forward, his brow furrowed with practical skepticism. "Miners?" His voice was a rumble. "A monumental undertaking. Wouldn't it be more efficient, especially before open conflict, to utilize earth mages? Or," he added, the word dropping like a stone, "slaves? Existing resources."
It was a blunt, if predictable, objection. Blaine Glayder was no grand strategist, but he understood cost and resource allocation. He saw manpower as a commodity. Yet, I watched Corvis closely. This was anticipated. The slight tightening of his fingers on the cane's silver pommel was the only sign.
"That," Corvis replied smoothly, turning fully to face Blaine, his voice losing none of its respectful cadence but gaining a layer of steely resolve, "brings me to the second, and intrinsically linked, topic I wished to discuss."
He took a deliberate breath, his gaze sweeping the table, lingering briefly on his silent parents, on his grandfather's impassive mask, on Bairon's simmering glare.
"War, Honored Council, inevitably brings not just battlefields, but widespread poverty and starvation. Fields lie fallow as farmers fight or flee. Trade routes collapse. Prices soar. Desperation takes root." He let the grim image settle. "To maintain the unity of Dicathen—our greatest strength against Alacrya—we must intervene proactively. We must prevent our own people from crumbling beneath the weight of the war machine."
Lance Bairon Wykes couldn't contain himself. He barked a short, derisive laugh. "War brings opportunity," he countered, his voice cold, laced with a hostility barely veiled by protocol. His eyes locked onto Corvis with palpable contempt. "New workshops are built, contracts, wealth flows. Necessity drives innovation. Weakness is purged."
The chamber's temperature seemed to drop. Alduin's knuckles whitened on the armrest. Merial's gaze became flint. Virion remained still, but his eyes narrowed fractionally. Corvis, however, didn't flinch. He met Bairon's glare head-on.
"No." The single word cut through the tension like a blade, spoken not with heat, but with the chilling finality of absolute truth. "That is preposterous. And naive."
The insult hung in the air, stark and deliberate. Bairon stiffened, mana flickering visibly around his clenched fists, a low growl forming in his throat. I raised my hand, a silent command that froze the Lance mid-reaction. My gaze remained fixed on Corvis. This was no panicked retort; it was a calculated strike.
Corvis didn't wait for further challenge. His voice remained level, analytical, devastating in its clarity. "War concentrates wealth and opportunity, Lance Wykes, but only for the few. The noble houses who fund the armies, the merchants who secure the contracts. Meanwhile, the common people—the farmers, the artisans, the laborers—bear the brunt. They die on distant fields, leaving families destitute. They starve in cities choked by inflation and disrupted trade. Vacant workshops lead to scarcity. Scarcity breeds inflation. Inflation fuels desperation. It is not innovation, but economic stagnation, followed by crushing depression."
He paused, letting the economic dissection sink in, then shifted, his tone becoming quieter, more dangerous.
"Consider this, Honored Council: what does a parent do when they cannot feed their children because the market for their craft has vanished, swallowed by the war effort? What does a slave, driven beyond endurance in mines or fields to fuel that same machine, think when the enemy approaches? What if the Vritra," his voice dropped, emphasizing the name, "present themselves not as conquerors, but as liberators? Offering bread, freedom, an end to their suffering?"
The silence that followed was profound. It wasn't just the absence of sound; it was the vacuum left by a detonated assumption. Blaine looked stunned, then deeply uneasy. Priscilla's sharp eyes widened with dawning, horrified comprehension. Buhndemog nodded grimly, the plight of the exploited resonating deeply.
Alduin closed his eyes briefly, a father's pain warring with a king's dread. Merial's mask remained, but her stillness was that of a drawn bowstring. Virion's jaw was set, understanding the brutal truth laid bare.
Blaine found his voice first, spluttering, red-faced. "Blasphemy! To suggest our people would turn traitor! And to imply such weakness in front of Lord Aldir—an insult to Epheotus's protection!" His outrage was genuine, born of fear and a shattered worldview.
I spoke before the tension could spiral. My voice, calm and resonant, filled the chamber, cutting through Blaine's bluster. "Prince Corvis makes a salient point." All eyes snapped to me.
"Unity is not merely a military alignment. It is forged in the hearts and bellies of the people. Desperation is a weapon our enemy is adept at wielding. The unity of Dicathen, as previously affirmed by this Council, is paramount. Ignoring the vulnerabilities Prince Corvis highlights would be strategic folly."
My endorsement, however pragmatic, was a seismic shift. Windsom saw a respectful pawn. I now saw a strategist who understood the war's true terrain—the lesser spirit, ground down by hardship. He hadn't just presented a problem; he'd framed it in terms of survival, weaponizing Dicathen's own potential weakness against itself.
Emboldened, Corvis proceeded. He outlined his vision with meticulous detail, transforming the abstract threat into concrete policy. Total and final abolition of slavery—not framed as morality, but as removing a volatile element and unlocking productive potential.
Council-subsidized public works—the underground network was the first, creating jobs for displaced miners and laborers. Grain reserves. Price controls on essentials. Support for war widows and orphans. He called it a "welfare state," a term both utilitarian and strangely compassionate, designed explicitly to "bolster morale and loyalty to Dicathen." It was a comprehensive shield against the societal rot he predicted.
Throughout, he faced questions, challenges primarily from Blaine and Bairon—now seething in silent fury. Corvis answered each with unnerving composure. He cited historical precedents of unrest, economic principles, the cold fact of manpower retention.
He was respectful, always acknowledging the speaker's title, but his arguments were unassailable, delivered with a quiet, relentless authority that silenced further bluster. He referenced Darv's miners not just as diggers, but as skilled engineers crucial to the subterranean network's viability.
He turned the initial, seemingly modest proposal of tunnels into the foundation stone of a vast societal restructuring. The cunning was breathtaking. The supply route wasn't just a tactic; it was the trap for his true agenda—safeguarding the populace to safeguard the nation.
When the final vote was called, the unanimity was staggering. Buhndemog's "Aye" was fervent. Priscilla, seeing the political and economic necessity, concurred with Blaine, who, chastened and outmaneuvered, grunted his assent. Alduin and Merial, pride warring with profound relief, added their voices. Virion's affirmation was firm. Even Mica gave a curt nod.
Only Bairon remained rigidly silent, his vote implied by lack of dissent, his eyes burning holes in Corvis.
As the session closed and Corvis offered another precise bow before withdrawing, the cane a final symbol of his transformed presence, I remained seated. The marble felt colder. Windsom had seen a useful messenger. I had witnessed something far more complex, far more dangerous.
The respect was there, yes. The performance for my benefit was flawless. But the mind behind it… the strategic depth, the understanding of power dynamics, the sheer, chilling pragmatism wrapped in the guise of princely duty… It wasn't just impressive for a lesser. It was reminiscent.
The calm authority, the ability to see ten moves ahead, the effortless command of the room… it echoed the shadow of Kezess Indrath himself.
Not the power, but the mindset. The perfect pawn had just demonstrated he was a player in the game of chess between Epheotus and Alacrya even if he seemed perfectly on Epheotus' side.
And I was left grappling with the unsettling question Windsom had ignored: if Agrona saw this in the boy, what game were we really playing? The pebble had just dropped, and the ripples threatened to become waves.