Corvis Eralith
The afternoon sunlight streaming through Grampa Virion's office windows felt incongruously bright, painting warm rectangles across the deep burgundy rug and glinting off the polished mahogany of his massive desk. I sat slumped on one of the plush velvet sofas, the silence thick and heavy, punctuated only by the rhythmic scratch-scratch of his quill and the soft rustle of parchment.
Mountains of paperwork surrounded him—scrolls, ledgers, hastily scribbled notes—a physical manifestation of the monumental task of implementing the 'Corvis Laws' across a fractious continent. The name still felt alien, a brand imposed by Windsom's calculated benevolence.
While the laws bore my conceptual stamp and my name, their acceptance, their lifeblood, flowed from Grampa's tireless workd, my parents' diplomacy, Elder Buhnd's pragmatism and prestige over the dwarven lords, and even the grudging, self-interested cooperation of the Glayders.
Blaine's initial resistance, rooted in noble privilege and a distasteful sense of inherent superiority, had eventually yielded to the cold logic of survival. Yet, witnessing the sheer volume of work required to translate ideals into reality was a sobering counterpoint to the cheers in Sworchester.
My mind drifted, a habit nurtured by the quiet and the gnawing unease beneath the surface. The novel's depiction of Dicathen's development had always felt… shallow. Arthur's reforms and Gideon's inventions were crucial, yes, but they were bandages on a festering wound.
They addressed symptoms, not the deep-seated rot of inequality and despair that Agrona could exploit like poisoned honey. Fear of the Vritra's blades might force compliance, but it bred resentment, a brittle loyalty easily shattered. True unity, the kind that could withstand the coming storm, needed a foundation stronger than terror.
It needed hope. People needed lives worth fighting for, not just dying against. Homes, food, dignity—these were the true bulwarks against Agrona's insidious promises. My laws aimed to build that foundation, brick by painful bureaucratic brick. But the silence in this room, the sheer weight of the undertaking, felt oppressive.
"Corvis," Grampa's voice cut through the contemplative quiet, though his eyes remained fixed on a dense financial report. His brow was furrowed, etched with lines deepened by responsibility. "You're being unusually silent over there. Is something troubling you?" The question was gentle, but it landed like a stone in still water.
Apart from literal everything? The litany flashed through my mind, sharp and immediate. The spectral viper coiled in my consciousness, whispering temptations and threats. The forbidden divination magic I had accidentally unleashed, its cost a chilling drain on my very life force, a secret that could shatter the fragile trust in this room.
The crushing weight of knowing Agrona's gaze was fixed upon me, a puzzle piece in a game I barely understood. The constant, low-grade thrum of pain in my legs, a physical echo of the attack that had nearly killed me. The suffocating knowledge of the war looming on the horizon, a tidal wave threatening to drown everything.
Yeah, Grampa, just serene as a mountain lake.
"I just don't want to disturb you, Grampa," I managed, forcing my voice into a semblance of calm. "Looks like you've got enough to wrestle with."
He finally looked up, setting his quill aside. A warm, proud smile softened the lines on his face. "Ah," he chuckled, the sound rich and familiar. "And here I feared the coy and shy Corvis had been permanently replaced by that commanding Prince who held the entire Council rapt." He gestured towards the stacks of documents.
"This? This is the easy part, compared to facing down Blaine's bluster and nobles's glare. You had to see your parents afterwards, especially Merial. She looked like she might burst with pride." His tone was light, teasing, but the underlying pride was a tangible warmth in the room.
"I agree with Virion," Romulos's voice slithered into my ear, cold and incongruous. He materialized sprawled on the sofa opposite, his spectral form absorbing none of the sunlight, his black elk horns stark against the warm wood paneling.
"That performance wasn't Corvis Eralith, the recovering princeling. That was the authoritative Corvis Vritra, Sovereign of Dicathen." He let the title hang, poisonously seductive.
"Had a certain ring to it, didn't it?" His lips curled into a devilish smirk. "All you'd need is a pair of suitably imposing black horns, and the picture would be perfect. Dad might even be flattered by the imitation—that would be lovely don't you think?"
A visceral shiver, cold as grave soil, traced its way down my spine. His words were casual, almost playful, yet they resonated with a terrifying plausibility. Was it merely another barb, designed to unsettle? Or did he glimpse some dark potential I refused to acknowledge?
His smile widened, confirming it was both—a truth wrapped in torment, crafted specifically to watch me squirm. He delighted in the internal conflict, the corrosion of my self-perception.
Desperate to escape his insidious presence and the chilling path his words suggested, I turned back to Grampa. Any topic, even the most painful, was safer than Romulos's psychological dissection.
"Grampa," I began, my voice slightly hesitant, "may I… ask you something?" The weight of the question felt heavier than I intended.
He leaned back in his high-backed chair, the leather creaking softly. His gaze, usually sharp with strategy, softened into open affection. "Of course, Corvis. Ask away. What secrets does your old Grandfather may hold that intrigue you today?" His smile was kind, inviting.
The novel had treated Lania Darcassan, my grandmother, as little more than a footnote—a tragic backstory motivator for Virion and Rinia. A name, a reason for grief, but no substance.
Now, with the unsettling echo of divination prickling at my senses, a magic tied to foresight and sacrifice, and the whispers of aetheric insight making me able to use it thanks t Meta-awareness brushing against my ma a core, I felt an inexplicable pull.
Who was she? What legacy, beyond sorrow, had she left? Was the flicker of the 'Seer' I'd stumbled upon a dark inheritance?
"Grampa…" I took a steadying breath, my fingers tightening on the cool silver pommel of my cane. "What kind of person… was my Grandmother?"
The effect was instantaneous. Grampa's warm expression froze, then dissolved into a profound, weary sadness. His shoulders, usually held with regal bearing, slumped almost imperceptibly. He didn't look angry, just… weathered, as if the question had blown open a door to a room filled with memories both cherished and agonizing.
He exhaled slowly, a long, resigned sigh that seemed to carry the weight of decades.
"Your Grandmother, huh?" he murmured, his voice roughened by emotion. He turned his gaze towards the window, watching the clouds drift past the floating castle, their shapes morphing like fleeting thoughts.
"You're right," he conceded softly. "You have every right to know. Tessia too. Especially after… after how little we've spoken of her." Guilt tinged his words, a regret long held but rarely voiced. "We focused on the living, on the threats… perhaps we shielded you both too much from the past."
I remained silent, offering only a small, understanding nod. Interrupting felt like sacrilege. This was a sacred space he was entering, fragile and raw.
"Lania…" A soft, almost reverent smile touched his lips, transforming his face momentarily. "Lania was like… like trying to describe the sun itself. Not just its light, but its warmth, its constancy, its life-giving force." His eyes grew distant, seeing not the clouds, but a memory.
"She had a radiance, Corvis. Not just beauty, though she possessed that in abundance—a kind of fierce, elegant grace. It was… her spirit. She was kindness incarnate, yet never weak. Fiercely intelligent, with a wisdom that seemed to cut through pretense. And talented…" He paused, the ghost of pride flickering. "Her control over water mana… it was like watching art in motion. Fluid, powerful, yet always purposeful."
His voice hitched slightly. The joy of recollection warred visibly with the old, deep ache of loss. I felt a pang of useless longing. What if? What if I'd been born earlier? What if I could have stood beside her, learned from her? What if my borrowed foresight could have somehow warned her, altered that fatal path?
"Corvis, don't." Romulos's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and uncharacteristically devoid of mockery. It held a raw urgency that startled me. He wasn't lounging now; his spectral form was tense, his red eyes fixed on me with an intensity that bordered on warning.
"Don't waste your spirit chasing phantoms of 'what if' for those you couldn't save. I…" His voice faltered, a crack appearing in his usual arrogance. He looked away abruptly, the black horns seeming to droop. "...I made that mistake. With my Mother."
The name hung between us, heavy with unspoken grief—Sylvia. He offered no more, retreating behind his familiar mask, but the raw pain in that brief admission was a shocking vulnerability. He understood this particular torment.
Grampa, unaware of the spectral exchange, continued, his gaze returning to me, filled with a startling clarity. "You know, I don't recall if I ever mentioned this properly… but Lania… she was very much like you, Corvis."
The comparison stunned me. Like me? The fractured prince, the vessel for an asura, the wielder of forbidden sight?
He gestured vaguely, encompassing my posture, my presence. "Tessia… she's got my fire, my impulsiveness from youth, channeled into her formidable will. But you…" His eyes searched mine, seeing beyond the surface.
"You have Lania's quiet strength. Her burden. She… she carried knowledge, insights, sometimes… foresights… that weighed on her heavily. Things she felt she couldn't share, couldn't burden others with. She tried so hard to protect me, to protect everyone, from the shadows of what she perceived." His voice thickened.
"Just like you try to shield us, bear your struggles alone. Before I became King… she was my anchor, my light in the complexities. And in both cases…" Regress washed over him, profound and heartbreaking. "In both cases, I couldn't truly lift that burden from her shoulders. I couldn't… protect her when it mattered most. I failed her. And with you…"
The raw confession, the echo of his perceived failure, shattered something within me. I pushed myself up from the sofa, ignoring the protest in my legs, and crossed the space between us. Without a word, I wrapped my arms around him.
He felt solid, real, yet trembling slightly with the weight of his memories and regrets. He stiffened for a fraction of a second, then his arms came up, strong and steady, returning the embrace. One large, calloused hand came to rest gently on the back of my head, a gesture both protective and seeking comfort.
"I never blamed you, Grampa," I murmured into his shoulder, the words thick with sincerity. "Not for Grandmother. Not for… anything." It was the truth. My anger, my fear, was directed at Fate, at Agrona, at the impossible situation, never at him.
He let out a shaky breath, patting my back. "I know, kid. I know you don't." He drew back slightly, holding me at arm's length, his eyes, bright with unshed tears, searching my face.
"But a part of me… a foolish, guilt-ridden part… wished you did. Wished you raged at me for not being there when that you were being hunted, for not protecting you better from everything, for the years you suffered coreless. Maybe I subconsciously craved the punishment, the anger I felt I deserved for failing Lania." His grip tightened slightly.
"But you… you forgave Lance Bairon, even after he nearly killed you, even after what you did for Xyrus Academy. You spoke in that Council chamber not with vengeance, but with a vision for all of Dicathen." He cupped my face with one hand, his thumb brushing my cheek.
"You have it, Corvis. That same… aura Lania carried. A quiet certainty, a profound empathy hidden beneath the reserve. It makes people feel… calmer. Safer. Hopeful, even in the dark. You are a genuinely good person, Corvis. Lania would have adored you. Been so fiercely proud."
"Thanks, Grampa," I whispered, forcing the words past the lump of hypocrisy lodged in my throat. The warmth of his words, his absolute belief in my inherent goodness, felt like a brand. He saw the light, the echo of Lania. He didn't see the fractures, the darkness coiling within, the forbidden power that tasted of life itself.
"We are monsters, Corvis," Romulos's voice was a cold, matter-of-fact counterpoint in my mind, devoid of its usual taunting edge, resonating with a grim certainty. He had reappeared, leaning against the window frame, watching the embrace with detached interest.
"Freaks of nature, sculpted by Fate itself. Not heroes, not saints. Instruments forged in the crucible of cosmic imbalance, destined to enforce a brutal order with an iron fist. Monsters cleaning up the messes gods and kings leave behind."
As Grampa held me, pouring his love and misplaced admiration onto the image of the grandson he believed me to be, Romulos's chilling pronouncement settled into my bones, cold and undeniable. Looking over Grampa's shoulder, meeting Romulos's unnerving, ancient gaze, I found no argument within myself.
Only a bleak, terrifying agreement. The good person Grampa cherished was a carefully constructed facade. Beneath the princely attire, beneath the cane and the laws and the fragile hope, resided something else. Something forged in borrowed knowledge, bound to a vengeful ghost, and now touched by the perilous, life-draining sight of a Seer.
Yeah, the thought echoed silently, resonating with Romulos's grim assessment. Monsters. The sunlight streaming into the office suddenly felt cold, failing to reach the shadows gathering deep within.