The air in the inn remained heavy with the smell of displaced ozone, but it was quickly overtaken by the cold, metallic scent of Nilfgaardian steel. The scout didn't leave; he paced the floor like a caged wolf, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword.
"Tell me again," the scout barked at Elsa, his voice echoing in the terrified silence. "The boy. The one who was sitting there. What did he look like? Don't leave out a single detail if you value your tongue."
Elsa stood her ground, though her hands drifted nervously toward a rag. "He was... small. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Pale. But it was his eyes, Master Soldier. They weren't like ours. When he looked at the light, they had a gold fleck in them—like polished coins from the South. And his hair... dark as a raven's wing, but fine, like a noble's."
The scout froze. The blood drained from his face as he processed the description. "Gold flecks... and the hair of the Imperial House..."
He staggered back, a look of pure shock crossing his features. "By the Great Sun... it's him. The rogue. The one our Seers called the 'Ghost of the Golden Sun.' We thought he was a myth—a bastard of the bloodline who mastered the Refined Chaos and fled the City of Golden Towers before the census could even record his name. He's one of the most powerful mages in the Empire, a master alchemist who refused to serve the White Flame."
The patrons exchanged wide-eyed, terrified glances. To hear that this child was a renowned master who avoided his own Emperor—that he chose the mud of White Orchard over a throne—filled them with a strange, cautious pride.
"He's the one we've been tracking," the scout hissed, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. "He ignored every summons, vanished from every trap. He's a priority asset."
Finding no more answers and realizing he was outmatched by a boy who could teleport at will, the scout spat on the floor and stormed out, his horse's hooves thundering into the night to find a messenger. A collective sigh of relief swept through the room. They were glad; if a man that powerful wasn't on the side of the Black Ones, perhaps the North had a chance.
Then, the air cracked.
With a flash of white light, Corvus materialized exactly where he had stood before. He didn't look bothered. He didn't even look around. He simply reached into his Spatial Pouch, pulled out a fresh vial of Catalyst, and set his cauldron back on the table.
"He's back!" a woman gasped, clutching her Melitele medallion.
Corvus ignored the commotion. His UI was already calculating the next batch.
------
[REAGENTS DETECTED: OAKEN TEA + CATALYST]
[CRAFTING QUEUE: OAKEN SALVE x40]
[STATUS: NEUTRAL / IDENTITY COMPROMISED]
------
"The scout is gone," Corvus said without looking up, his hands glowing with that steady, amber light as he began the reduction process. "But now he knows who I am. That means the Vanguard will be here by dawn. If you want to live through the night, stop talking and start drinking the tea I told you to make. I need to finish these batches."
He poured the remaining Oaken Tea into the bubbling pot, the catalyst turning the liquid into the thick, life-saving sludge of an Oaken Salve.
"You're... you're that Nilfgaardian prince they're looking for?" Elsa whispered, leaning over the bar.
"I'm a chemist," Corvus muttered, his eyes fixed on the emerald vapor rising from the cauldron. "And right now, I'm the only thing standing between this inn and a Sanity collapse."
******
The emerald steam from the cauldron curled around Corvus like a living shroud. As he stirred the thick Oaken Salve, the tension in the inn reached a breaking point. Elsa and the others stared at him—not as a strange boy, but as the "Ghost of the Golden Sun," a prince who walked the mud of the North instead of the marble of the South.
"Why?" Elsa whispered, her voice trembling. "If you are truly of the Imperial Bloodline, why are you here? Why hide in a cellar when you could lead armies against the Tearing?"
Corvus paused, his hand glowing with the amber light of Refined Chaos. He looked up, and for the first time, he didn't look like a weary chemist. He looked like a King.
"Because my family doesn't care," Corvus said, his voice ringing with a cold, absolute conviction. "The court in Nilfgaard watches the violet sky and sees an opportunity for conquest. They see a horror unleashed in the North and think only of how many scorched acres they can claim once the screaming stops. But a true royal—a true sovereign—cares for his subjects. And to me, humanity is the subject."
He added the final drop of Catalyst, the mixture hissing as it stabilized.
"I believe in a true Meritocracy," Corvus continued, his eyes burning with a golden light that seemed to pierce the very walls of the inn. "Prosperity and progress should be earned through innovation and the mastery of the world's laws—not by the lazy plunder of one's neighbors. My family builds their 'paradise' on the backs of the broken. I will build mine on the foundation of Logic and Alchemy."
The patrons stood frozen. They had heard kings speak of glory, and priests speak of gods, but they had never heard a prince speak of merit.
"That is why I avoid them," Corvus muttered, turning back to his jars. "I will not set foot in the Royal Castle, nor will I answer the White Flame's summons, until my mission is complete. I am in a race against time. The Tearing is not just a storm; it is a Sanity Collapse that will swallow the Continent if it isn't sealed."
He stood up, his small frame casting a long, imposing shadow against the hearth.
"When this mission is done," he promised, his voice a low thrum of power, "I will return to Nilfgaard. And I will turn that Empire and every land it has touched into a true paradise. Not through the sword, but through the Gnosis of true progress. Until then, I am no prince. I am the Architect."
------
[MISSION UPDATED: THE ARCHITECT'S VOW]
[NEW OBJECTIVE: REACH THE CORE OF THE TEARING]
[MORALE BOOST: INN PATRONS ARE INSPIRED]
------
The villagers looked at their mugs of Oaken Tea, then back at the boy. For the first time since the sky broke, they didn't feel like victims. They felt like witnesses to a new era.