Corvis Vritra
Sleep was a cliff edge. I'd clung to it for three precious hours, a desperate, shallow dive into oblivion haunted by fragmented nightmares —red eyes gleaming in stained glass, violet cages humming, the phantom scent of Berna's fur dissolving into the air.
Waking was a violent return, like being dredged from icy depths. My body protested instantly—limbs heavy as stone, eyes gritty, a dull ache pulsing behind my temples where the Asuran mind strained against its mortal vessel.
One hour. One hour before the ritual.
Instinct, honed by desperation, propelled me. My hand shot out, scrabbling across the cold obsidian of the nightstand. I checked on Ji-Ae's gem and grabbed it. The smooth, cool surface met my palm.
Simultaneously, my own runes—Against the Tragedy—pulsed on my skin. Not just activated, but synced. A deep, resonant throb beneath the surface, violet light momentarily flaring along the intricate patterns etched into my being.
It wasn't just a connection; it was an integration. A chill, distinct from the room's ambient cold, snaked down my spine.
'Good morning, Thwart.' The voice wasn't heard; it was felt. Resonating within the pulsing runes, echoing in the bones of my skull. Ji-Ae's tone was crystalline, devoid of warmth, purely functional.
'I hope your plan is ready.' The implication hung heavy: because mine hinges on it. Then, the casual detonation: 'I took the liberty to synchronise this fragment of my consciousness with your peculiar runes.'
The implications slammed into me, driving the last vestiges of sleep away. That declaration was both frightening and welcomed. Frightening, because it meant I had a powerful and vastly knowledgeable Djinn Remnant tied to my very being.
Not just housed in a crystal, but woven into the metaphysical fabric of my primary defense, my signature spell. Her consciousness wasn't a passenger; it was part of the engine.
On the other hand, welcomed, because that integration offered unparalleled potential—instantaneous access to her knowledge, seamless coordination, a fusion of insight and Djinn intellect that could be devastatingly effective.
If I failed her expectations... The unspoken consequence crystallized with icy clarity. She could perfectly track me for Agrona. Not just report; guide. My ultimate shield could become my homing beacon.
I... didn't think about it. The oversight was staggering. A critical vulnerability exposed in the eleventh hour. Hubris? Or the sheer, grinding exhaustion of juggling too many existential threats? Romulos would have scoffed at the lapse. She took me perfectly by surprise.
A masterstroke from the ancient consciousness.
No matter, I forced the panic down, Romulos's cold pragmatism rising like a tide. I would easily find a way to free myself from this in case of need. The logic was sound, a lifeline clutched tight.
Against the Tragedy, differently from the runes both Djinns and Alacryans use, is erasable. I could dismantle it, purge the embedded fragment, sever the connection. The knowledge was a shield against the immediate terror, but the act itself felt like contemplating self-mutilation.
Where is Dad? I projected the thought towards the pulsing gem, towards the consciousness intertwined with my runes. Silence. Thick, echoing silence. I asked again, but no answer came.
The synchronicity wasn't telepathy. We weren't connected mentally it seemed, even though she could still speak with me in my mind. A one-way street. Her voice could resonate within the structure she'd embedded herself in, but my thoughts remained my own.
Or maybe this fragment was too weak for such a feat.
It didn't matter now. Time was the enemy, not Ji-Ae's silent monitoring. Not yet.
I forced myself upright, the world tilting momentarily. Splashing icy water from the basin onto my face provided a jolt, a brief illusion of alertness. The face in the mirror was still me, still Corvis Vritra.
I exited my room and looked around the corridor. The gloom of Taegrin Caelum was profound, the high vaults lost in shadow, the mana-lights dimmed to a somber glow. The direct route to the laboratory beckoned, a path I could walk blindfolded. I could go to the laboratory I was awaited directly, but that would show that I knew about Taegrin Caelum.
Knowledge beyond what a newly arrived "son" should possess.
"Lord Corvis." The voice was like gravel dragged over bone, cold, devoid of inflection. It sliced through the silence, causing my blood to freeze in my veins. Every muscle locked.
Slowly, turning my head, I saw him. Cadell. The Scythe emerged from a deeper pool of shadow near my doorway, a specter of decay and arrogance.
"The High Sovereign has sent me to guide you to his position." The words were formal, clipped. "Follow me."
Disgusting lessuran. The thought roared up from the depths, pure, undiluted Romulos. How do you dare to even say the title of my Dad. The image of Sylvia, Romulos's mother, flashed—vibrant, powerful, extinguished by this creature's blade.
The hatred was a white-hot brand, searing my insides, urging me to lash out, to incinerate him where he stood with power I didn't possess.
Calm down Corvis, I commanded myself, the internal voice trembling with the effort of suppression. If everything goes as planned you will be out of Taegrin Caelum soon as so would be Lady Dawn and the vessel of the Legacy.
Grey, I really hope you listened to me and reincarnated Cecilia with Nico. The plea was desperate, a prayer flung into the void.
No, I am sure you did. I miss you and Tessia so much.
After Romulos, Grey was the person I trusted more in this world. More than my Grandfather, more than myself.
Grandfather... the title felt formal, distant. I really started calling him like that instead of Grampa? The linguistic shift was a tiny fracture in my identity, another piece eroded by the Vritra persona.
I gulped silently, the sound loud in my own ears, following behind Cadell. His back, straight and imperious, was an insult I had to endure.
The silence stretched, oppressive. Cadell moved with predatory grace, his footfalls unnervingly silent on the stone. I needed to play the role, to probe.
"Scythe Cadell," I began, pitching my voice to sound earnest, slightly awed, retaking the cloak of the clueless son of Agrona, not the Vritra heir as cunning as his father and brother. "What happened after you rescued me in Dicathen?"
"The war efforts are proceeding as intended by the High Sovereign." Cadell's reply was a stone wall, cryptic. Utterly devoid of information. "Lord Agrona has plans for you to rejoin the war too, Lord Corvis,"
"He has great expectations."
Me joining the war against my people? The thought was a physical revulsion. Tch—Agrona was smart. Diabolically so. He knew that if he showed me to the people of Dicathen like his own trophy he would win most of the Dicathians.
The Corvis Laws, the infrastructure I built, the trust I'd earned—all weaponized against them. The title of Vice Commander, bestowed by Aldir and Windsom to make me Kezess's puppet, would now make me Agrona's ultimate propaganda tool. It was turning against them. The irony was savage.
Too bad I didn't want to be neither's puppet, not even my Dad's.
Corvis, what are you saying? The internal voice was smooth, persuasive, dripping with paternal concern. I asked myself—no, it's the spell again! The insidious conditioning, worming its way through my fatigue.
I don't have to listen! Romulos's defiance surged, a counter-current. But the conditioned voice persisted, sweetly poisonous: Corvis, Dad only wants the best for you, he wants you to be Sovereign of Dicathen!
No! The denial was a silent scream, fueled by clarity and Romulos's fury. Agrona wants me to transform Dicathen into his second farm of lessuran soldiers to wage war against Kezess!
No, even worse! The deeper horror surfaced. He wants to use Dicathen as a no man's land between him and Kezess! A buffer zone, a scorched earth battlefield where continents would clash, which would turn my home to a wasteland!
Desperate for concrete information, I tried again. "Does that mean the war isn't won yet?" I asked, injecting a note of hopeful curiosity into my voice, trying to probe more information.
"As I said," Cadell repeated, his tone flat, final, "the war is following the High Sovereign's expectations."
Frustration warred with gnawing anxiety. I didn't exactly know how much time passed between Romulos taking control of my body and I awakening in Taegrin Caelum.
A lifetime compressed into a nightmare. How much could Alacrya conquer in at least two days with all the Scythes? The answer was a cold fist closing around my heart. Most of Dicathen. Elenoir fallen? Sapin crumbling? Darv raided? The thought was suffocating. It had to be a bluff, a psychological ploy.
Studying Cadell's back as we walked, a detail snagged my attention. Beneath the immaculate black metal of his armour, his shoulder moved with a slight stiffness. And the residual mana signature… it was subtly wrong there.
Bruised, frayed. Badly healed from a bludgeoning strike. My Meta-awareness parsed the data instantly. The type of damage… the lingering aura of shattered force… between all the Dicathian fighters the only one who could do such a thing was Chul with Suncrasher. A fierce, savage joy bloomed within me, instantly smothered.
I repressed a smirk. So, the h had landed a blow. Chul beat the shit out of you, huh Cadell? The silent taunt was a small, burning ember of defiance in the encroaching dark.
Then, Cadell spoke again, casually dropping the bomb. "However, we conquered the Kingdom of Elenoir and started harvesting its materials." The words landed like physical blows. Elenoir. My home. The ancient forests, Zestier, the Eralith Palace… Harvesting. The word was a desecration.
"The High Sovereign has ordered some to be sent to you as a gift." A gift. Trophies of genocide. My stomach lurched.
I remained silent for a second. Inside, a maelstrom raged—grief, fury, disbelief. Elenoir? No, this must have been a bluff. A cruel test. Dad must have told Cadell to try and provoke a reaction from me. To see if the conditioning held, if the "son" cared about the land of his birth.
I didn't have any other source of information so Cadell was the only one I could hear war news from. The isolation was terrifying. Agrona controlled the narrative absolutely.
The mask had to hold. Perfectly. I forced my breathing steady, my expression blank. I didn't show any reaction, just a nod. Then, layering the Corvis Vritra persona thickly, taking perfectly the role of the Corvis Dad expected, I added, my voice carefully modulated to sound strategically pleased: "This means the northern part of Dicathen is ours."
"Are we already building new portals to send the rest of the army?" Feigning eagerness for the next phase of conquest.
"The High Sovereign doesn't consider necessary wasting more resources on Dicathen," Cadell replied, his back still to me. "The continent will fall with the next attack led by you, Lord Corvis."
The pronouncement was absolute. My role was confirmed. The spearhead of the final assault on my own people.
The statement hung in the oppressive air. I didn't know what to do about this information. Was it truth, designed to demoralize? Or a lie, designed to test my resolve? Was it a lie to test me? A genuine report?
The ambiguity was torture, gnawing at my nerves, feeding the constant undercurrent of fear. Every piece of data was suspect, every word a potential trap.
It was useless torturing myself on that. I clung to the core of my plan, the only anchor I had. I trusted Grandfather and Grey were more than capable to lead Dicathen in my absence. Virion's decades of experience, Grey's cold brilliance and indomitable will as well as his own experience as a King.
Not that they ever needed me actually, the bitter thought surfaced, laced with a familiar, corrosive insecurity. They could need Corvis Vritra, but Corvis Eralith.... he was a failure.
A failure who had abandoned them. A failure whose existence were now being used against his homeland. A failure loved by too many people.
The laboratory doors loomed ahead, massive and ornate, pulsing with contained power. The end point of this walk. The starting point of the endgame. I needed to proceed on my plan. The mantra solidified.
With Lady Dawn free, Dicathen would have Lord Mordain's help. The Hearth entering the fray was a game-changer. And Dad would lose at the same time the Legacy and part of Ji-Ae.
As Cadell reached for the door mechanism, a final surge of Romulos's defiant spirit, fused with my own desperate resolve, crystallized within me. As Corvis Vritra I would fix all the mistakes I did before Romulos gave me his monolithic gift.
The polished marble doors sighed open, revealing an amphitheatre carved from the solid structure of Taegrin Caelum. The air itself hummed, thick with sparks of mana I didn't even need Beyond the Meta to see—the sterile tang of profound violation.
Magical lights, ensconced in wrought iron sconces as black as voidstone, cast stark, unforgiving illumination onto the central stage: a slab of flawless white marble that looked less like an operating table and more like an altar.
My boots echoed with terrifying finality on the steps leading down, each sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. This was the heart of Dad's ambition, the anvil upon which Fate itself was being forcibly reshaped.
My escape hinged on chaos, on Ji-Ae replicating the disorienting rip of a Tempus Warp, flinging the vessel of the Legacy and me hopefully into the same desolate ruin where Arthur had clawed his way back from defeat at the hands of Cadell.
I needed to take the keystones for him pieces meant for Grey, shards of understanding to wield Fate itself, needed to be gathered.
Dad stood bathed in the cold light, his grey skin luminous, his horns stark against the gloom. He was conducting a symphony of blasphemy, his fingers dancing over controls that pulsed with stolen power, pulling at the very seams of reality to momentarily bully Fate into compliance.
And I saw it. I saw it all.
The audience wasn't empty. It was packed to the spectral rafters. Golden threads, thin as spider silk yet impossibly tall, stretching three meters towards the unseen ceiling.
Strings of pure aether, woven from the fabric of possibility, invisible to all but the Thwart… and perhaps Ji-Ae, with her Djinn insight into the aether's flow.
They weren't the Mouth of Fate, not sentient judges.
They were mindless conduits, drawn here like iron filings to a magnet, standing sentinel, ready to funnel the Legacy's power across the abyss between worlds. Bones with countless, empty golden eyes, all fixed unblinkingly on another aspect of themselves—on me.
The weight of that collective, indifferent gaze wasn't judgment; it was an immense, crushing fact. My existence acknowledged.
The more Dad worked, the more threads materialized. They crowded the tiers, overlapping, shimmering, a forest of golden light where there should have been empty seats. Why so many? The answer vibrated in the charged air. Because of us.
Me, the Thwart, Fate's own... tool. Him, Agrona Vritra, a lynchpin in some cosmic design even my Meta-awareness couldn't fully map, a design absent from the novel's pages I remembered.
The sheer density of Fate's presence should have been comforting, a sign I was moving with the current. But the cold fury in my gut was absolute. If this current swept towards drowning Tessia, Granfather Virion, Dicathen…
I would defy the river. Defy my creator. Defy the golden eyes.
"What are you looking at, my boy?" Dad's voice cut through the hum, smooth as obsidian, pulling me from the vertigo of the golden gaze. Lying felt pointless, a childish defiance beneath the weight of what shimmered before us.
"The golden threads of Fate," I answered, my voice sounding strangely calm in the vast chamber. His crimson eyes, usually so controlled, flickered with genuine, predatory curiosity. The Basilisk scholar momentarily eclipsing the High Sovereign.
"And tell me, Corvis," he probed, stepping slightly away from the machine, his full attention a physical pressure. "How do they look?"
"Ethereal strings," I murmured, the description surfacing unbidden. "Made of golden fabric. Like… solidified light given form."
"And can you wield them?" The question was casual, almost idle, but the intent behind it was razor-sharp. Could his anchor command the threads? I managed a hollow laugh, an echo of his own practiced joviality.
"I would like to," I admitted, the yearning for that power—power to solve everything—a genuine ache beneath the layers of defiance and fear.
"But it seems… beyond my reach. Sorry, Dad." The apology was automatic, the conditioned response of the son he'd crafted. Only Grey was meant for that. My purpose was to clear his path, to make it possible.
"Your presence here is what makes this possible, my boy," Dad corrected, his voice softening with that terrifying paternal warmth.
"Stop apologizing." The command was gentle, yet absolute. "Cadell. Bring the vessel."
My gaze snapped from the golden forest to the shadowed archway opposite my entrance. Cadell wasn't guarding me anymore. He emerged like a wraith coalescing from darkness, and beside him…
The world tilted. The hum of the machines, the pressure of the golden gaze, the cold dread coiling in my stomach—it all receded, replaced by a sudden, terrifying silence within my own skull.
She walked with a grace that seemed incongruous amidst the sterility and menace. Eyes—soft, yet burning with an intensity that belied the anxiety tightening her features—the colour of garnets glimpsed through deep water. Red, but not the predatory gleam of Dad's or Cadell's.
A warmer, fiercer red, like embers banked beneath ash. And her hair... A cascade of the deepest ocean blue, long, wavy, and meticulously arranged. It wasn't vanity; it was armor, preparation for an honor that was in reality a life sentence.
Caera Denoir.
Why her? The question screamed through the sudden void in my mind. Seris Vritra's protégé? Here? In the belly of the beast? Reason clawed its way back through the shock. Dad wanted someone brought to Taegrin Caelum? No Highblood, no Scythe, no Sovereign could refuse him.
Another explanation surfaced, cold and heavy: Fate. Just like Arthur, Sylvie, Tessia… Caera was woven into the pattern. Inside the Fourth Relic's illusion, one of Arthur's fabricated lives… Cecilia had worn Caera's face there.
Then the final, crushing reason: she was perfect.
Around the correct age, latent Vritra blood—though her horns were hidden: her secret still held—an Alacryan body free of Beast Will complications. The ideal vessel, comfortable for Cecilia, perfect for the Legacy's growth, perfectly controllable by Dad.
"High Sovereign," her voice, clear despite the undercurrent of tension, the edge of fear expertly masked but not entirely hidden, echoed slightly in the chamber. She bowed deeply, the motion fluid but stiff.
"It is an honor for Highblood Denoir that I was given this chance to prove myself for Alacrya." The words were rote, the sentiment hollow.
"Caera Denoir, please," Dad's voice was suddenly honey-warm, avuncular, his posture radiating relaxed charm. He waved a dismissive hand. "There's no need to bow."
I saw the flicker of surprise in her garnet eyes, the slight widening. Arthur had noted this too in his first interaction with Dad—Agrona's unsettling ability to shift into disarming sociability. I loved that too. The traitorous thought surfaced, a shard of the son I'd been forced to be.
We were similar, weren't we? No. The denial was a mental snarl, fueled by Romulos's icy fury. This is the precipice. Don't let the spell drown you now.
Her gaze, searching, wary, then fell upon me. An elf. Standing beside the High Sovereign of Alacrya. Confusion, then dawning recognition—she knew of Dicathen, of elves, likely from Seris. My existence here was an unanswered question in her frightened eyes.
"Oh, this is Corvis," Dad said, his smile widening, effortlessly including me in his performance. "He's my assistant, my right-hand… and my beloved son."
The endearment, wielded like a weapon, struck its target. I saw Caera's subtle intake of breath, her reassessment of the pale, pointy-eared figure beside the god-king.
"Please, Caera dear," Dad continued, his tone light, beckoning her towards the marble altar. "Step closer. I don't bite." His chuckle was a dry rasp in the silence.
As he laughed, I felt it. A subtle shift in the forest of golden threads. A collective sigh, a reorientation. Like compass needles finding true north, they began to drift, silently, inexorably, towards Caera. The ritual was initiating.
Now. The command screamed through every fiber of my being. Hesitation was death—hers, mine, Dicathen's. It was suicidal, a gnat attacking a hurricane.
Time shattered.
Every shred of mana in my silver core ignited, a supernova detonating in my solar plexus. My body became a blur, propelled not by thought, but by desperate instinct towards Caera.
I immediately pulled all my mana into casting Accaron: Romulos' absolute mastery fusing with the experience of my own spell and Meta-awareness' guidance.
A visible wave of concussive vibration erupted outwards, a sonic boom contained within the chamber, designed to shatter concentration, disrupt delicate machinery, and crucially, mask the subtle signature of Ji-Ae's intervention.
The response was instantaneous. Not just from Ji-Ae, but from the fortress itself. A searing, silent tear in reality ripped open beside the altar, a vertical wound of pure, blinding white light—the Tempus Warp portal.
Simultaneously, from deep below, a colossal, grinding CRUNCH reverberated through the very bones of Taegrin Caelum, shaking the marble underfoot. Lady Dawn, unleashed. The diversion was catastrophic, beautiful.
"Sayonara, Agrona," I breathed, the words tasting like ash and defiance. The smile that touched my lips wasn't joy; it was the rictus grin of utter, reckless insanity.
His reaction wasn't shock, or rage, or even betrayal. It was… annihilation. The paternal mask vaporized, revealing the primordial predator beneath. His eyes, fixed on me, held a depth of cold fury that stopped my newly pounding heart.
Not anger at defiance, but the focused intent of a god swatting an insolent insect. The sheer, utter finality in that gaze was the most painful thing I'd ever seen.
He didn't move. He didn't gesture. He didn't react.
A spike of Blood Iron, darker than the void, longer than my forearm, materialized from nothingness directly in front of my chest. It wasn't thrown; it simply was, born of pure will and lethal intent.
Impossibly fast. Impossibly precise.
It punched through the shimmering shield of vibrations I'd generated like it was tissue paper. It aimed to pierce my heart, then Caera's behind me, pinning us together in death.
There was no blocking it. No dodging.
This was Asuran power, absolute and contemptuous. Dad wasn't just letting me go; he was erasing us.
Agony exploded in my chest. White-hot, consuming. I had a fraction of a fraction of a second, an eternity compressed. My only thought: shield her. My body twisted, a futile attempt to interpose myself more fully, my arms coming up in a pathetic, instinctive barrier against the unstoppable.
Then, Fate blinked.
The forest of golden threads reacted with the implacable force of a law of physics reasserting itself. Threads directly in the spike's path dissolved it.
The Blood Iron spear ceased to exist within the space those threads occupied, unraveling into harmless golden motes that winked out before they touched the floor. The threads that had been drifting towards Caera snapped taut, forming an ephemeral, shimmering barrier between us and Agrona for the barest instant.
Is this what they call Plot Armour? I thought humourless.
The agony remained—the phantom impact, the terror, the sheer violation of the attack—but the killing blow vanished.
Mana around Caera reacted subconsciously—a deep, potent violet I recognized instantly as awakened Vritra power. A shield started to form, a desperate defense born of instinct and training.
But before her shield could fully manifest, before Dad could unleash his next, inevitable obliteration, the blinding white maw of Ji-Ae's portal snapped shut around us.
The last thing I saw was the operating theatre, the golden threads snapping back to their upright positions as if nothing had happened, and Agrona's face—not furious, but chillingly, utterly still.
The marble, the lights, the machines, the terrible golden audience… all vanished, replaced by the gut-wrenching dislocation of spatial transference.
The pain in my chest flared anew, a searing brand left by the near-death and the violent passage.
We were falling, tumbling through chaotic non-space, Taegrin Caelum gone, the future a terrifying, golden-tinged void. And pressed close, her garnet eyes wide with shock and dawning horror, the scent of ocean-deep hair filling my senses amidst the stink of abrupt teleportation, was Caera Denoir.