Corvis Eralith
The transition from the damp, earthy silence of the tunnel to the roaring inferno of Burim made my heart skip a beat. As we stepped from the concealed entrance, the cool air vanished, replaced by a choking miasma of smoke, ozone from magic alien to Dicathen and the coppery stench of fresh blood.
The screams—raw, terrified, agonized—slammed into my senses like I just hit a wall. My cane, an extension of my divination magic through Rhabdomancy, had been guiding us towards the fleeing citizens, the safest path.
Now, as the full horror of the Alacryan assault registered, I shifted its focus. The polished wood jerked violently in my hand, snapping backwards with such force it nearly wrenched my shoulder. The unseen currents of danger, the malevolent intent of the invaders, had become the new lodestone. The path to safety was gone; now it pointed only towards conflict.
Grey's voice cut through the din, sharp and focused despite the chaos. "It seems we need an elevator." A grim smirk touched his lips, the kind born not from humor but from the grim necessity of the moment. He didn't hesitate. The air around him crackled as he activated Realmheart.
His eyes blazed with deep, shifting hues, seeing the world not as stone and air, but as a tapestry of pure, vibrant mana like my Beyond the Meta, but better. He raised a hand, fingers coiled around Dawn's Ballad, and drew a perfect, glowing circle of teal energy on the cavern floor beneath us.
The complex lines of Against the Tragedy etched across my skin flared in response to the sudden surge of ambient power, a low hum vibrating through my bones. The air within the circle shimmered, then solidified into a disc of pure force.
"Good idea," I acknowledged, my voice tight. The descent was swift, unnervingly smooth. Grey deactivated Realmheart almost immediately, the brilliant light fading from his eyes and skin, leaving behind only the intense focus of a warrior conserving his strength.
The silence between us during those fleeting moments of descent wasn't empty; it was thick with shared understanding, with the unspoken calculation of tactics, with the grim anticipation of what awaited below. Words were superfluous noise in the face of the symphony of suffering rising to meet us.
Burim unfolded beneath us like a scene from a nightmare painted in fire and shadow. From our vantage point, high above the main cavern, the scale of the assault was brutally clear. It wasn't the overwhelming tide of a full invasion force we had expected.
"This doesn't seem an army," Geey observed, his gaze sweeping the chaotic pockets of fighting below. With Dawn's Ballad in his hand, its teal edge catching the hellish light he pointed at our enemies. "It's more of a single unit." His tone was analytical, but the tension in his shoulders spoke of ready violence.
My own focus narrowed instantly, drawn like a compass needle to a figure radiating command amidst the slaughter—a woman directing the assault with cold efficiency. Recognition slammed into me with the force of one of her own spells.
Augustine of Highblood Ramseyer. The name surfaced from the meticulous metaphorical dossiers contained in my mind from the memories of the novel, a footnote among Agrona's ambitious nobility.
Romulos's voice, a familiar, sardonic whisper in the labyrinth of my mind, piped up, "Oh, you remember the names of Alacryan nobles? Just by knowing one you are doing better than I have ever had." There was a faint note of surprise beneath the mockery.
Somehow I am not impressed about it, I retorted flatly. My hand tightened around the hilt of Dagonet, the Acclorite dagger that had formed seamlessly from the violet stone in my palm.
As my fingers closed on the grip, a subtle awareness bloomed—not words, but an identity, a flicker of sentience inherent to all Asuran weapons. Dagonet. The name resonated with a quiet certainty. Its consciousness felt cool, sharp, predatory.
"I wonder what Agrona's plan is by sending only these soldiers," I mused aloud, my gaze locked on Augustine. "Even if this side of Darv is uncovered, it doesn't make much sense."
A probing strike? A diversion? Or simply the arrogance of a Highblood seeking easy glory? The uncertainty was a prickling irritation beneath the immediate need for action.
The platform touched down with a soft thud on a rocky outcrop overlooking the main plaza. Below, the remnants of the Burim guard were making a desperate, doomed stand. Without a word, without needing one, Grey and Sylvie—a streak of white fur on his shoulder—launched themselves towards the embattled dwarves.
Their movement was pure, lethal intent. My path was singular. I stepped off the platform and plunged downwards, gravity and purpose pulling me straight towards Augustine Ramseyer.
The world snapped into hyper-focus. Beyond the Meta activated, flooding my perception with data. Augustine: she clearly categorised as a Caster, radiating potent mana centered around manipulation and force projection.
Her immediate guard: a Striker, lean and fast, mana concentrated in his limbs; a Shield, bulkier, his energy forming a dense, protective aura around himself and partially around Augustine. Standard Alacryan squad tactics.
The future unfurled in a split-second cascade thanks to my seer abilities—the Striker lunging, blade aimed at my throat; Augustine already weaving a spell, magical energy coalescing.
I flowed with the foresight. A subtle shift of weight, a half-turn, and the Striker's blade sliced empty air where my neck had been. Simultaneously, my free hand snapped up, Accaron vibrating through my palm.
Not a solid shield, but a focused field of high-frequency oscillations. Augustine's bolt of force struck it. Instead of a concussive blast, there was a sharp, discordant screech as the spell disintegrated against the vibrating barrier, dissipating into harmless sparks. The backlash vibrated up my arm, a jarring buzz in my bones.
I didn't pause. My momentum carried me towards the Shield. A flick of my wrist, and Dagonet left my hand. It wasn't thrown like a clumsy knife; it flew true and straight, humming faintly, a shard of hungry darkness aimed at the Shield's center mass.
I wonder why it had such a... strange ability, the detached part of my mind questioned, even as I acted. The ability to recall it from any shadow felt uniquely suited to my fighting style, yet oddly specific.
"It is because of the decay mana you used before developing your core and your insight over my beloved Anti-Matter," Romulos supplied, his tone almost proprietorial. The void hungers. It resonates with the spaces between. The explanation clicked, unsettlingly logical.
The Shield reacted predictably, throwing up a shimmering barrier of hardened mana. Dagonet struck it with a sound like shattering glass. The shield held, barely, but the impact staggered the Shield, his focus consumed by defense.
My left hand, already vibrating with Accaron, became a weapon. I stepped inside the Striker's guard as he recovered from his missed lunge. No flourish, no wasted motion. A single, precise thrust, vibrating fingers piercing leather, flesh, and bone with sickening ease, finding the frantic pulse of the heart beneath.
His eyes widened in shock, then glazed over before he hit the ground. The efficiency was brutal, clinical. Alacryan troops, stripped of their element of surprise and faced with someone who understood their structure and weaknesses, were indeed vulnerable.
A glance confirmed Grey's progress. He moved like a storm incarnate, Dawn's Ballad a blur of teal light. He wasn't using Realmheart or his decay arts, relying on pure swordsmanship augmented by his formidable magic strength.
Alacryans fell before him, their unfamiliar magic splashing harmlessly against his preternatural reflexes or shattering against Sylvie's protective bursts of aether—she didn't care about the treaty between asuras which should prevent her from interfering.
Grey was a whirlwind of controlled destruction, confirming the tactical advantage we held. Yet, the sheer number pouring from side tunnels—two more squads converging on my position—meant time wasn't on our side for a clean sweep.
Augustine, momentarily stunned by the swift elimination of her guards, was recovering, her face contorted with fury and fear. More Alacryans surged towards me. I slammed the tip of my cane onto the stone floor. Mana surged through it, amplified and focused, again I activated Accaron.
A visible ripple, a wall of concussive vibration, erupted in a semicircle before me. The charging Strikers slammed into it like hitting solid granite. Bones cracked audibly; bodies were thrown back. The Shield accompanying them grunted, bracing against the force, his own barrier flaring.
"Is it proper for an Highblood such as yourself to interrupt a guest? Lady Augustine Ramseyer?" I called out, my voice cutting through the groans of the fallen and the distant clash of Grey's battle. I allowed a cold smirk to touch my lips. The psychological warfare was deliberate. Unbalance her. Make her question.
"You invited yourselves. The least you could do is observe the formalities."
While the vibration barrier held the immediate attackers at bay, I refocused on Dagonet. It hummed in my hand, eager. I coated it again in Accaron, the blade blurring with high-frequency energy. This time, I added a subtle twist of wind mana—not a gale, but a focused acceleration.
A sharp thrust, enhanced. The blade became a streak of darkness. The Shield in the second squad, still recovering from the vibrational wall, had no time. Dagonet punched through his shimmering barrier like it was smoke and buried itself to the hilt in his chest. He looked down, astonished, then crumpled as the vibrations shattered his bones.
Stalling was working. Grey and the surviving dwarven guards were carving through the main body of Ramseyer's unit. But Augustine was gathering her wits, her eyes darting towards an escape route. We needed to end this. Now.
"I think it's time for the trump card, Corvis," Romulos murmured, his voice devoid of its usual teasing edge. It was a statement of necessity.
I couldn't agree more. As I saw a Striker lunging at me from the side before he even did it, I sidestepped, letting his blade whistle past. In the same fluid motion, I drew Dagonet's edge across my own palm. A sharp sting, a bead of crimson welling.
"Berna," I whispered, the word carrying the bond, the plea, the summoning. "We might need help to liberate Burim faster."
The air beside me ripped. Not a portal, but a violent displacement of reality. One moment, empty space; the next, towering, primal fury incarnate. Berna, my Guardian Bear, materialized. Her massive form, fur the color of hazel nuts, seemed to absorb the cavern's dim light.
Her arrival was heralded by a roar that wasn't just sound—it was a physical force. It slammed outwards, shaking loose stones from the ceiling, rattling teeth, flattening the remaining Alacryans near me who weren't already down. Dust plumed. The very air vibrated with her primal challenge.
The effect on the Alacryans was instantaneous and profound. Shock, raw terror, replaced battle fervor. These were soldiers, perhaps veterans, but facing a creature of legend, a force of nature summoned from nowhere? Panic set in. I saw Augustine's face pale, her calculated composure shattering. She turned and ran, scrambling over debris towards a side tunnel.
Good, but she won't be able to run away. The thought was ice-cold. I need to know about Agrona's plans. "Berna, clear the path!" I commanded mentally. The great bear needed no further instruction.
With another earth-shaking bellow, she surged forward. Stone mana flared around her massive forepaws, encasing them in jagged, spiked gauntlets of living rock. A Shield tried to block her path; her stone-clad paw swept down, shattering his barrier and crushing him beneath in a single, horrifyingly efficient motion.
She was a juggernaut, carving a path of devastation through the remaining Alacryans, her roars echoing like the doom of their ambitions.
I left the carnage in Berna's wake and pursued Augustine. My earth affinity responded to my urgency. I slammed my palm against the cavern wall as I ran. The stone groaned, then surged upwards and outwards, forming a thick, seamless barrier of rock, sealing the tunnel mouth she was desperately scrambling towards.
She skidded to a halt, whirling to face me, trapped. Her chest heaved, eyes wide with terror, the arrogance completely stripped away. The soldier of Highblood Ramseyer was just a frightened woman cornered.
"I... I know you," she babbled, breathless, pointing a trembling finger.
"Oh, are you already famous, Corvis?" Romulos purred, the amusement back, laced with a dark curiosity. "I bet Dad is a fan of yours by now. He might have told his soldiers about you." The idea of Agrona speaking my name aloud, sent a fresh chill down my spine, quickly buried under necessity.
Behind me, the sounds of battle were diminishing rapidly—the clash of steel replaced by the heavy thuds of Berna's strikes and the diminishing cries of overwhelmed Alacryans. Grey's work was nearly done.
"How did you manage to get here?" I demanded, my voice low, cutting through her panic. "The portals. Where are them, Augustine?"
She clamped her mouth shut, pressing her lips into a thin, defiant line. The Highblood training reasserting itself. Death before betrayal.
I took a step closer. The air felt thick, charged. "I won't torture you," I stated, my tone devoid of inflection. "Because a friend of mine knows certain mind spells that would make even your beloved High Sovereign applaud him."
The reference to Romulos was deliberate, a calculated threat. Since when did I refer to him as a friend? The thought was a flicker of unease. I hadn't learned those spells. The very concept, ripping into someone's mind like Agrona did… it revolted me. But the cold pragmatism of war whispered: kf I needed to, I would. Without hesitation. The conflict churned sourly in my gut.
"Augustine," I said again, watching her flinch violently at the sound of her own name being said again. I softened my tone, a deliberate manipulation. "I don't have anything against Alacryans such as yourself. You are not my enemies. So help me end this needless bloodshed. Tell me where the portals are."
"Liar!" The word was a shriek, ripped from her throat, raw with terror and sudden, venomous recognition. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide with horrified understanding. "You—you are the monster Scythe Seris warned us about! You are the Devil of Dicathen! The High Sovereign's justice will get you!"
Seris. The name hit me like a physical blow. Huh? What does Seris have to do about this? My carefully constructed interrogation wavered. Seris Vritra. She a potential ally, no she was an ally by definition our goals aligned perfectly.
She was the lynchpin of any hope for undermining Agrona from within. Had my actions, the brutal efficiency, the sheer body count aboard the Barbarossa, turned her against me?
"Well, you are butchering Alacryans like cattle with the Barbarossa," Romulos observed with chilling detachment. "Even if they are just the scouts of the army, you have probably caused more casualties than Alacrya has ever seen in such brief engagements. Seris surely doesn't like that."
Fuck. The expletive burned in my mind. He was right. Horribly, pragmatically right. In my drive to protect Dicathen, to strike back, I'd become exactly the nightmare figure Agrona would want his soldiers to see—a ruthless, indiscriminate killer.
The cornerstone of my fragile, desperate plan felt like it was crumbling. But it wasn't like I could let Alacryans do what they liked while my people were at risk! The defense roared within me, fueled by images of Xyrus, of the broken bodies in Burim's streets.
"It's war, Corvis," Romulos stated, his voice devoid of judgment, merely stating a fact as immutable as gravity. Yes, but for you this war is a fun game with Agrona, I snapped back, the fury sudden and white-hot. For me, it's about the lives of my family!
I forced the rage down, locking eyes with the trembling Highblood. "Augustine," I repeated, the name a weapon now. Her resolve visibly crumbled further. "Where are the portals you used to arrive here in Burim?" I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, intimate and terrifying. "If you tell me that, I promise you will return safely back… to your cousin, to Valen."
The effect was instantaneous and profound. Her breath hitched. All color drained from her face. Valen Ramseyer. Not just a cousin for her, but a brother in all but direct relationship. The one vulnerability I could clearly use against her. Her eyes darted, not in calculation, but in pure, desperate fear for him. The Highblood facade shattered completely. She was just a woman terrified for someone she loved.
"S-south," she whispered, the word barely audible, torn from her as if admitting it caused physical pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at me. "South east… six kilometres from here."
The information felt true, wrung from genuine terror. Good. That was precise enough. Rhabdomancy could pinpoint it from there. I gave a curt nod, the promise hanging heavy in the air. My gaze flickered past her, towards the plaza.
Berna, sensing the immediate threat was neutralized through our bond, was padding towards me, her massive form radiating calm power now the frenzy had passed. Grey was crouched beside a figure—a dwarven girl, injured but alive.
Recognition flickered—Doradrea Oreguard? A face from both the novel and Xyrus Academy, from a simpler time. Irrelevant now. Survival was the only curriculum.
My attention snapped back to Augustine. The promise. The pragmatic voice screamed to kill her. Eliminate the witness, the commander. But the look in her eyes, the raw fear for Valen, the sheer exhaustion of the endless calculus of death…
"I am going to let you escape, okay Augustine?" The words left my lips before the conscious decision was fully formed. Her eyes snapped open, impossibly wide, disbelief warring with desperate hope. I too was surprised at myself.
The urge to justify it rose—letting her live might mitigate Seris's view, however slightly. It was a flimsy rationalization. Mostly, it felt like shedding one small stone from the crushing weight of guilt I carried.
For a fleeting second, I considered ordering her to contact Seris in exchange for her life. But the absurdity struck me. A Scythe wasn't approachable by an Highblood, especially one fleeing a defeat. It would only get Augustine killed and achieve nothing.
"Use your spellform," I whispered urgently, gesturing subtly towards the sealed tunnel. Berna, tuned to my intent, let out a low, rumbling growl and took a deliberate step towards Augustine, a convincing show of menace.
Accaron. I sent a subtle pulse through the air, a focused vibration aimed past her, striking the rock barrier I'd created. It wasn't a shattering blow, but enough to crack it significantly, creating the illusion of her desperate escape route. Dust showered down.
I turned, raising my voice to carry, projecting authority. "Stop!" The few city guards who had started towards Augustine halted, confused. My gaze swept towards Grey, thankfully still focused on Doradrea. "The wellbeing of our people is way more important than a single enemy!" The words tasted like ash. A necessary lie to sell the ruse.
Augustine didn't hesitate. A complex pattern flared on her back—her spellform, an emblem. Wind mana surged, swirling around her. With a final, terrified glance at Berna and me, she turned and bolted through the cracked opening I'd provided, vanishing into the dark tunnel beyond.
Silence descended, heavy and thick, broken only by the moans of the wounded and the crackle of distant fires. Berna padded to my side, nudging my hand gently with her massive head, a silent question in her deep eyes.
"Do you think this has been the best choice?" Romulos asked, his voice laced with genuine, almost academic intrigue, devoid of condemnation or approval.
I watched the dust settle where Augustine had vanished. The weight of Dagonet in my hand, the scent of blood and burnt ozone, the fading echoes of screams. The faces of the Alacryans I'd cut down without a second thought flashed before me.
No, I retorted flatly, the word echoing hollowly in the cavern of my own mind. At all. I should have killed her.
The cold certainty of it settled over me, another layer of grime on an already stained soul. Mercy felt like a luxury we couldn't afford, a dangerous gamble in a war where the only rules were survival and the terrible cost of every choice.
I turned my back on the escape route and walked towards the survivors, towards Grey, towards the consequences of letting an enemy go. The victory in Burim felt hollow, paved with compromises that chipped away at something essential within me.