Corvis Eralith
The cobblestone streets of Sworchester pressed in, a narrow canyon lined with weather-beaten timber and stone buildings. The air smelled of damp earth, forge-smoke, and baking bread—a small town clinging to the edge of the Bladeheart domains. But the usual quiet hum was fractured.
"Prince Corvis!"
The shout startled me. A burly man in a leather apron stood outside a smithy, hammer forgotten in his hand, his face split by a wide, earnest grin. Heat crawled up my neck.
"Long live Prince Corvis!" Another voice, shriller, from a young woman leaning out of an upper window, waving a flour-dusted hand.
Awkwardly, I raised a hand in return, a stiff, abbreviated gesture. My attire—practical, steel-grey combat uniform, scuffed from travel, utilitarian and made for combat—felt glaringly out of place amidst this sudden, bewildering adoration.
This wasn't the crisp azure coat and silver accents of the Council chamber, the costume Romulos had crafted for political theatre—thinking about it he helped me design bith my uniform and my formal attire.
"You are welcome I have a certain characteristic style you know?" Romulos said full of arrogance.
The cheers of the people around me continued. This was raw, unfiltered gratitude directed at the Laws. My Laws. The 'Corvis Laws', proclaimed a month prior—a name Windsom had undoubtedly whispered into Aldir's ear, a branding exercise as transparent as it was effective.
"Windy wants Dicathen's people to see you as their hero," Romulos's voice slithered into my mind, thick with disdain. He materialized as a spectral barrier between me and Alea, his black elk horns stark against the overcast sky.
Berna, walking solidly by my side, let out a low, jealous growl, her massive head swivelling towards the intangible and unseen annoyance. "So Epheotus can claim you as their chosen puppet later. Pathetic."
"The people really love you, Your Highness," Alea murmured beside me, her voice warm with genuine approval. And I did like it. The visceral proof that the welfare measures, the abolition plans, the focus on protecting the common folk mattered… it sparked a fragile warmth in my chest.
But it was instantly tainted by the cold knowledge Romulos voiced. I was a figurehead. An ant building its hill under the indifferent, calculating gaze of giants. Every project, every hard-won concession in the Council, every ounce of influence I scraped together… it existed only because Kezess Indrath, for reasons I couldn't fathom, allowed it. The warmth curdled into a familiar, bitter ash.
We reached the Bladeheart Institute, its imposing stone facade a stark contrast to Sworchester's humble buildings. The second most prestigious sword academy in Dicathen, trailing only the legendary Lanceler Academy. Its courtyard was a wide expanse of packed earth, echoing with the rhythmic thwack of wood on wood and the shouted commands of instructors. And there she was.
Claire Bladeheart. Eighteen years old, yet already radiating an authority that belied her youth. She moved among a group of students—most barely older than myself—correcting stances, demonstrating a fluid riposte with a wooden practice sword.
Her movements were economical, precise, a blend of grace and contained power. The last time I'd seen her was in the frantic, fear-charged days before fleeing Xyrus City, almost a year lost to survival and steel. Seeing her here, whole, focused, teaching… it eased a knot of worry I hadn't fully acknowledged I carried.
"We should wai—" Alea began, her instinct for politeness kicking in. But it was too late.
"That's Lance Alea!" The shout, full of awe, cut through the training din like a clarion call.
Instantly, the orderly courtyard dissolved into chaos. Students dropped practice swords, abandoning their drills as they surged forward, a tide of youthful excitement crashing towards Alea. Claire, caught mid-instruction, turned, her expression shifting from focused intensity to wide-eyed astonishment as she recognized the white-haired Lance being engulfed by her starstruck class.
"Hi Claire," I called out, my voice feeling small against the sudden clamor.
She tore her gaze from the mob around Alea, her eyes finding mine. Surprise flickered, then recognition, then a complex mix of warmth and playful accusation.
"Prince Corvis!" She pushed through the edge of the throng, leaving Alea to fend off questions about mana signatures and legendary battles with strained politeness. Claire offered her hand, her grip firm and calloused. "It's been way too long since we last saw each other." There was a hint of reproach in her tone, quickly masked by a smile.
"I am glad to see you are doing alright," I said, meaning it. The controlled chaos of the courtyard, her clear command over her students—it spoke of a resilience I admired.
"Thanks for concerning yourself about me," she replied, a teasing glint entering her eyes. "But knowing the magnanimous Corvis, perpetually juggling continents and wars, I'm sure you're here for something terribly important."
I shook my head, a small, genuine smile touching my lips despite the lingering bitterness. "Actually, I just wanted to check on you." The simple truth felt surprisingly good to voice. "After… everything that happened in Xyrus… Tessia mentioned you'd become an assistant instructor."
I nodded towards the still-buzzing group around Alea. Berna pressed her massive head against my hip, a comforting warmth. "Looks like you got promoted."
Claire followed my gaze, a flush of pride colouring her cheeks. "Oh, yes! Full instructor now. Though," she added, looking back at Alea who was patiently explaining something about defensive stances to a rapt audience, "you really had to bring a Lance with you, didn't you?" Her tone was mock-scolding, but her eyes shone with the same hero-worship as her students.
"In my defense," I protested lightly, scratching Berna behind the ear, earning a rumbling purr, "she insisted. I was perfectly happy with just Berna for company."
Claire's gaze dropped, sharpening. She wasn't looking at my face anymore, but at my hands resting on the cane. Specifically, at the intricate, barely visible lines of the Against the Tragedy runes visible where my sleeve rode up slightly. Her playful expression softened into something more serious, more searching.
"Are those new tattoos of yours?" she asked quietly. "They look… complex."
I flexed my fingers on the cool ebony. "It's actually a… system," I explained, the words feeling inadequate. "A way to fuel my body. After I… developed my mana core." I tapped the cane lightly on the packed earth.
"Though my awakening wasn't exactly… standard." The understatement hung in the air—the coreless prince suddenly radiating mana, bound to a terrifying asura spectre, wielding forbidden arts.
Claire's eyes widened. She took a half-step back, reassessing me completely. "So the mana signature I was feeling… it wasn't just some artifact you built or those tattoos? It's a core?!" A disbelieving laugh escaped her.
"You never stop amazing, do you? Coreless to core-bearer… how?"
"Thanks," I mumbled, the praise warming me despite my self-consciousness. I shifted my weight, the familiar ache a grounding counterpoint. "It's… a start. I still have a lot to learn, a lot to figure out."
The cane felt solid, real. My connection to Accaron, to the vibrations thrumming just beneath the surface of the world, hummed reassuringly within it.
"Always playing the modest one," Claire snorted, shaking her head. The awe was still there, but overlaid with her familiar competitive spark. "Well, now that you've got a core and new fancy tattoos," she gestured towards my hands, "you owe me a demonstration, Prince of Change."
Her rapier, resting in its scabbard at her hip, seemed to gleam with invitation. "You still use a sword, or…?" Her eyes flicked pointedly back to the cane.
I hefted the ebony walking stick, its silver pommel cool against my palm. The pulverized sound-beast core within the varnish seemed to resonate faintly. "I use this," I stated simply.
Claire's lips twitched. She bit down on a laugh, clearly fighting the impulse to find it ridiculous. But she saw the certainty in my eyes, the way my grip tightened not with uncertainty, but with familiarity. Respect warred with amusement, and respect won.
She nodded slowly, a glint of challenge replacing the humour. "Oh. Well then. Be my guest, Corvis." She swept an arm towards the designated duelling ground, a clear area of hard-packed earth marked off at one end of the courtyard.
———
While Alea valiantly tried to extricate herself from the adoring throng of students—answering questions about mana techniques and battles with patient grace, though her eyes kept flicking towards us with protective concern—Claire and I moved to the duelling ground.
Berna settled nearby, a silent, watchful mountain, her intelligent green eyes fixed solely on me. The excited chatter of the students formed a buzzing backdrop, but within the marked circle, the air grew still, charged with anticipation.
Claire faced me, the playful instructor replaced by the focused duelist. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her slender rapier. With a smooth, practiced motion, she drew it. The blade caught the grey light, a sliver of deadly silver.
It wasn't just steel; it was an extension of her heart and soul, honed by years of dedication to the Bladeheart legacy.
I took a slow breath, centering myself. Mana flowed through the Against the Tragedy lines, a familiar, vital current. I didn't need the cane for balance now, not with this level of augmentation flooding my muscles, reinforcing tendons, compensating for the damaged pathways in my legs.
I activated Beyond the Meta. The vibrant colours of the world leached away, replaced by stark greys. Mana signatures bloomed like ghostly flowers—the vibrant swirls of the students, Alea's powerful, controlled light, Berna's deep, ancient glow. And Claire.
Her core burned a bright, focused yellow, dense and potent, hovering on the very cusp of Silver. She was close. Very close. A prodigy indeed.
"I hope this is going to be fun for you too, Corvis," Claire said, her voice low and steady, her eyes locked on mine. She settled into a classic Bladeheart stance, light on her feet, rapier held forward, point unwavering.
"The one wishing you fun should be me," I replied, mirroring her focus, my cane held not like a crutch, but like a staff, angled slightly forward. My stance was different—grounded, centred, drawing strength from the earth itself through the cane's point of contact.
"Don't get your hopes too high. I have never been a good swordsman." The admission was honest. Grey's brutal lessons had been about survival, efficiency, exploiting weakness—not the elegant art Claire embodied.
"Even after all Grey's lessons?" Claire countered, a hint of her earlier teasing returning. "I don't believe it for a second. Though," she added, her gaze flicking to the ebony cane, "a walking stick isn't exactly the traditional definition of a sword." There was no mockery now, only genuine curiosity and the thrill of the unknown.
"Tradition is overrated," I murmured, a ghost of a smile touching my lips.
Claire nodded, accepting it. She stepped forward, closing the distance. Not to strike, but to initiate the ritual. "Touch blades," she instructed, her voice formal now, echoing the centuries-old customs of her house.
I extended the tip of my cane. Not steel, but dense, enchanted ebony, capped with silver. It met the gleaming point of her rapier with a soft, resonant tink.
The sound, small in the vast courtyard, felt immense. It was a connection, an acknowledgement, a formal declaration. The students near Alea fell silent, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
We held the contact for a breath, two. Her eyes met mine, holding a world of respect, challenge, and the simple joy of crossing blades with a friend.
Then, simultaneously, we stepped back. Ten precise paces, measured and deliberate, the packed earth firm beneath our feet. The buzzing of the crowd was gone, replaced by a profound, watchful silence. Alea stood free now, her arms crossed, a small smile on her face. Berna's gaze was unwavering.
Claire settled back into her stance, rapier gleaming, her core blazing brightly in my greyscale vision. I grounded myself, the cane a solid anchor, the vibration mana within me humming, ready to be shaped, amplified, unleashed through the conduit of ebony and silver. The air crackled, thick with unspoken history, newfound power, and the pure, simple tension before the first move.
The air crackled, thick with the ozone scent of Claire's wind-wreathed fire and the damp earth churned beneath our feet. She wasn't just fast; she was a tempest given human form.
A dual-elemental augmenter—fire and wind—honed since childhood in the Bladeheart traditions, her rapier wasn't just a weapon; it was a lightning rod channeling her ferocious affinity.
She launched herself forward, not with a fencer's lunge, but a warrior's charge, the rapier held rigid, tip aimed like a lance seeking my heart. This wasn't the controlled sparring of memory or the desperate, uneven struggles against Tristan.
This was Claire unleashed, a force I had never witnessed in the novel's pages before her core was shattered. The potential radiating from her core, blazing on the cusp of silver, was staggering. She will be an incredible soldier during the war, the thought flashed, a cold, tactical assessment laced with dread.
"If you say so," Romulos purred, his spectral form materializing just beyond the duelling ground's edge, a viper observing a fascinating struggle. "Then I want to see you sweat, Corvis. Truly sweat. It's been too long since I witnessed you in a proper, brutal fight."
Sadistic monster, I thought, the venom sharp and internal. His answering smile was a slash of pure satisfaction in the periphery of my greyscale vision.
Claire was upon me, a blur of motion amplified by wind, the rapier's point a silver star hurtling towards my center. Instinct, honed by Tristan's ambush and countless hours refining Accaron, took over. I pivoted sharply to my right, planting the ebony cane tip deep into the packed earth like an anchor.
Not a block, but a conduit. Accaron. A focused pulse of vibration, not a destructive wave, but a localized tremor, rippled outwards from the point of contact. The ground beneath Claire's leading foot bucked subtly, a disorienting jolt that disrupted her flawless charge.
Her mana signature flared brighter as she instinctively pumped more mana into her augmentation, stabilizing herself, but the split-second hesitation was all I needed. I wrenched the cane free and flung myself further right, the rapier's lethal kiss whistling past empty air where my chest had been.
Metal met dense wood with a sharp crack as Claire recovered instantly, her blade whipping sideways to clash against the shaft of my cane. The impact jarred up my arm, a testament to her augmented strength. She wasn't relying solely on speed.
"How is Princess Tessia doing?" Claire asked, her voice surprisingly steady despite the exertion, her eyes locked on mine over the crossed weapons. The question, casual yet probing, felt incongruous amidst the kinetic tension.
"She's nearing your core stage," I grunted, shoving back against her pressure, feeling the vibration mana humming within the cane, ready. "Silver's close for her too."
I disengaged abruptly, stepping back and slamming the cane down again. This time, earth mana surged through it, not vibration. The packed dirt in front of me erupted upwards, forming a thick, crude wall of compacted soil between us.
"Other than that," I added, voice raised slightly over the rumble of earth, "she's taking lessons. Under an asura." The admission tasted bitter-sweet. Aldir. Protector a mentor… and agent of Kezess.
"Under an asura?" Claire's voice held genuine astonishment, laced with a hint of that same awe I'd seen directed at Alea. The earthen wall trembled. "I really guess you Eralith twins are something else."
Then, a low hum built, a convergence of howling wind and roaring flame I could feel through the barrier. With a sound like tearing silk, the earthen wall exploded inward, shredded by a corkscrewing vortex of fire and wind coiled tightly around her rapier's tip. Embers and dust rained down around her as she stepped through the breach, unscathed, rapier leveled anew.
"Yeah," I conceded, resetting my stance, cane held defensively. "My sister is a prodigy." The truth, simple and undeniable.
Claire's gaze sharpened, a flicker of something unreadable—disappointment?—crossing her face as I didn't include myself. She knew my history. The coreless prince. The sudden, inexplicable awakening.
She didn't know about Meta-awareness, the stolen roadmap of fate that was my only real edge. My strength wasn't talent; it was desperate, borrowed foresight and the monstrous legacy bound to my soul. Luck, dressed in the rags of effort.
Our weapons met again in a flurry—the rapier's silver flashes against the dark wood and silver pommel. Crack. Thud. Scrape. It was fast, intense, yet… controlled.
We were telegraphing, probing, respecting the boundaries of a friendly duel. A dance, not a death match. Claire pressed, her movements a fluid blend of Bladeheart precision and elemental fury, fire licking at the edges of her blade, wind lending her footwork unnatural speed.
I parried, deflected, used Accaron to disrupt her footing or create momentary barriers of vibrating air, always moving, always grounded by the cane. It was exhilarating, a genuine test against a peer, yet underscored by the unspoken knowledge that neither of us would unleash our true, potentially lethal capabilities.
"You know," Claire panted, disengaging after a particularly swift exchange, a playful glint returning to her eyes despite the sweat beading her brow, "the guy who claimed he's 'not good with a sword' is holding his own remarkably well… with a cane."
Before I could retort, she coiled like a spring. Wind mana visibly condensed around her legs. She exploded forward, faster than before, a feint high followed by a blindingly fast, low thrust aimed at my leading knee.
Instinct screamed dodge left! But as I moved, something shifted in my Beyond the Meta vision. Not mana, but… motion.
I saw two Claires.
One, a fraction of a second ahead, was already completing the thrust, the rapier's point hovering terrifyingly inches from my eye. My heart seized. Yet… I felt nothing. No pressure, no impact.
Simultaneously, the real Claire, vibrating with yellow intensity, was still mid-lunge, her blade just beginning its deadly path towards my knee. The disconnect was nauseating.
I reacted purely to the immediate threat I could feel—the real thrust. Accaron! A focused vibration barrier erupted from the cane, centered on the path of her real blade.
It wasn't a solid wall, but a zone of intense, disruptive resonance. Claire gasped as her rapier hit the invisible field; the blade didn't stop, but its trajectory warped violently, scraping harmlessly off the vibrating air beside my leg with a jarring screech.
She stumbled back, eyes wide with shock, not just at the defense, but at my seemingly impossible anticipation.
What was that? Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through me. I scanned the greyscale courtyard frantically for Romulos. He stood near Berna, who was watching intently, head low. The asura spectre merely shrugged, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
"Maybe you're finally cracking, Corvis? Seeing double? Though, granted, madness was always part of the package." He chuckled, the sound grating in my mind. Utterly useless.
Claire recovered, resetting. She feinted left, then drove straight in, a complex combination of thrusts aimed at my shoulder and hip. Again, the duality. The phantom Claire executed the moves flawlessly, a heartbeat ahead. The real Claire followed, her movements mirroring the phantom's exactly, but lagging.
It wasn't an illusion. It was… premonition. A visual echo of intent, a split-second glimpse of the immediate future based on her current momentum and mana flow.
"Divination magic?" Romulos breathed, his spectral form snapping upright, all traces of mockery gone, replaced by intense, fascinated scrutiny. His voice vibrated with a scholar's hunger.
"Now this is fascinating! Corvis, don't block the phantom! Anticipate the real one based on the shadow! Move before she commits!"
His instruction cut through the panic. Anticipate. Not react, but predict. As Claire's phantom lunged for my shoulder, I was already shifting my weight, the cane moving not to parry the ghostly blade, but to intercept the space where the real rapier would be an instant later.
Accaron hummed, not as a barrier, but as a localized shockwave directed at the point of future impact. Crack! The vibration met the real steel as it arrived, perfectly timed, deflecting the thrust with jarring efficiency.
Again, as the phantom flicked towards my hip, my cane was already sweeping low, vibrating intensely, meeting the real blade's path and knocking it wide with a resonant thrum.
"The guy who said he's not good with a sword," Claire repeated, breathing harder now, confusion and dawning respect warring in her eyes, "is now parrying my blade… almost like he is reading my mind?"
She launched another attack, faster, more intricate. Phantom and real. I moved, guided by the fleeting afterimage, my cane a blur of dark wood intercepting real steel with unnerving prescience. It felt less like fighting and more like conducting an orchestra where I already knew the next note.
But with each successful prediction, a cold, insidious fatigue began to seep into my bones, deeper than mana depletion. A subtle draining, like sand trickling from an hourglass hidden within my chest.
How? The question screamed in my mind. Was it Beyond the Meta? This perception felt different, deeper, more invasive than seeing mana signatures. It felt like… peeking. I took a desperate gamble.
With a surge of will, I deactivated Beyond the Meta.
The greyscale world dissolved into colour. The vibrant blues of Claire's uniform, the green of the distant pines, the warm brown of the earth—it rushed back. And with it… the phantom Claire vanished. Only the real Claire remained, her next thrust coming at normal speed, unheralded by any spectral preview.
The sudden loss of foresight was jarring, like stepping off a cliff. I barely brought the cane up in time, a clumsy, reactive block that sent a jarring shock up my arm. The advantage, the eerie prescience, was gone.
"Oh," Romulos murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement and profound interest. "Now you're truly using divination, little Seer. Peeking behind Fate's curtain… how delightfully forbidden."
The implications crashed over me like an avalanche. Divination. Not just sensing mana, but seeing moments ahead. And Romulos's reaction confirmed the worst: it was a path fraught with peril, a magic that siphoned not mana, but life.
If Grampa found out…
A wave of profound dizziness washed over me, coupled with that deep, unnatural fatigue. It wasn't feigned. The colour seemed to leach from the real world again, not from mana-sight, but from sheer, cold terror and the cost already extracted.
"Claire!" I gasped, raising my free hand, palm out, in surrender. My voice sounded thin, strained. "Let's… let's stop." I swayed slightly, bracing myself heavily on the cane, its familiar support suddenly vital again. The vibrations within it felt muted. "I… I don't feel well."
The playful challenge vanished from Claire's face, replaced by immediate concern. She lowered her rapier instantly. "Corvis?"
Before she could take a step, a blur of silver and white shot past her. Alea, abandoning the students entirely, was at my side in an instant, her Lance's speed terrifying.
Her hands, strong and steady, gripped my shoulders, her eyes scanning my face with laser intensity. "Your Highness!" Her voice was sharp, commanding, stripped of its usual calm. "What is it? What are you feeling? Where is the pain?"
I leaned into her support, the dizziness intensifying for a moment. Shame warred with the chilling fear. How much could I say? How much dared I say? Romulos watched, a predator observing trapped prey, his spectral smile wide and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Nothing… serious," I managed, avoiding Alea's piercing gaze, focusing on the scuffed leather of her boots. The lie felt thick on my tongue. "Just… dizzy. Spent."
I took a shuddering breath, the truth clawing its way up, too dangerous to keep entirely contained. My voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, meant only for Alea's ears, thick with dread. "I fear… I fear I just used divination magic…"