As Corvin continued refining his knowledge and expanding his magical affinities within the halls of the Arcanum, trouble far more mundane, yet equally dangerous was beginning to fester across the sea. In the heart of the Gilded Dominion, another envoy had just arrived at the palace gates, bearing the unmistakable seal of the Holy Verranate.
The letter was ornate, trimmed in gold and sealed in crimson wax, but its message stank of condescension and veiled threats. Duchess Yvanna Vellgard sat on her throne, posture perfect, features carved from ice, as the Verranate priest-ambassador read aloud the 'invitation.' His voice was slow and soaked in that sanctimonious confidence only the devout truly mastered.
They were once again demanding her submission. Not in words that named war outright, but in language so carefully woven with doctrine that it couldn't be mistaken for anything else. She was to abandon her claim on the throne of the Gilded Dominion and pledge herself to the divine laws of the Gilded Vessel. That, or she and her people would be forced to bear the burden of a crusade.
It was the third such envoy in just three months.
To the Holy Verranate, her position was inherently offensive. A woman with political power, ruling without the approval of the Patriarchal Sanctum, was considered a walking blasphemy. Their doctrine left no room for ambiguity. Leadership belonged to men chosen by divine sanction, and women were to be silent, obedient, and ruled. Her defiance wasn't political, it was heretical.
Yvanna's knuckles whitened as she tapped the armrest of her throne, nails drumming on polished marble. Around her, the nobles and advisors remained silent. They had seen this scene play out before, and they knew better than to interrupt her storming thoughts.
She dismissed the envoy with a cold nod. The robed man bowed with mock humility and left the chamber with the self-satisfied look of someone who believed they had delivered a warning from heaven itself.
Yvanna rose.
She paced the wide circular floor of her council chamber, tall windows behind her letting in the soft golden light of late afternoon. Her heeled boots clicked sharply on the inlaid stone, echoing off the domed ceiling. In her mind, the words of the letter twisted into a threat. One that might become real if she didn't act swiftly.
Her capital, Viremond, stood like a crown jewel of the coast. The sea shimmered behind its walls, and trade flowed like blood through its veins. Every major city in the Gilded Dominion, Cymoril, Brayvine, Dorethel all of them had a port, each tied together by gold and sea routes. Only the inland border to the Iron March was lined with stone and steel. Fortresses there were old, sturdy, and never meant for expansion, only to hold the line.
She wondered, bitterly, if those forts would soon face a crusading army.
Perhaps, she mused, the Verranate would be less eager to provoke her if she had magic strong enough to back her defiance. A Magus would give them pause. An Archmagus might make them rethink entirely. But she had neither. Her court boasted talented mages, yes, but none powerful enough to rival the clergy's purifiers or crusader commanders.
She had heard the rumors. Of even greater beings than Archmagi, Planarchs who moved the ley lines themselves, Arbiters who passed judgment with the force of natural law. But those were myth. Legends passed between scholars and old soldiers. Not allies a duchess could summon.
No, there was only one person she knew of who has the power that might help.
Corvin Blackmoor.
The arrogant elf who walked like a noble and fought like a monster. The one who had strolled into her court months ago and left it changed. He had told her, plainly, that she'd know how to find him again if she needed help. That alone had stung her pride.
But now she needed him. Desperately.
Yet Corvin was like mist, here one moment, gone the next. Powerful, elusive, and impossible to bind. She had already dispatched her agents to Eldrithas, hoping to trace whispers of him through the Mercenary Guild. They carried only one instruction: find the Raven.
She hoped they would find him without the need to deal with the Synod. There was no positive outcome for any envoy who travels to the Obsidian Gate.
And she hoped he would come.
Because the holy men of the east were growing bold. And if they were not stopped, they would soon come with fire.
--
While the Gilded Dominion waited for a response and the Holy Verranate sharpened its theological axe, another storm was gathering in a much darker corner of the world. In the molten, smoke choked hellscapes of Nefrath, Archdemon Korvath the Proud burned.. figuratively and literally.
His palace smoldered with cursed fire, his rage so great that even the demonic rock beneath his feet cracked with each step. His legions stood on edge, weapons in hand, their commander's fury mirrored in their eyes. Korvath's mind was ablaze with betrayal. Three of his Dark Sovereigns slain. His elite psychic legion, annihilated. His wrath had direction, and it pointed squarely at Archdemon Velkoth the Envious.
Ravathos the Gray had played his part perfectly. Whispers were planted. Clues forged. Shadows redirected. Korvath was already convinced the only possible perpetrator was Velkoth. Tension brewed on a continental scale, and war between two Archdemons now balanced on a knife's edge, promising destruction that would spill into neighboring regions if left unchecked.
Meanwhile, in the cool halls of the Arcanum, far from the infernal chaos of Nefrath, Corvin continued his quiet campaign of mastery. He siphoned with precision. He studied with purpose. He practiced with lethal grace. Every moment was a step toward deeper understanding and deadlier execution.
Nareth of House Vaelion, once foolish enough to provoke him, had now fully bowed to the weight of his legend. Their public apology, even though was not wanted by Corvin, published in both magical community and Umrbaxis Arcanum channels, sent waves through noble circles. The aim was clear: to ensure no Raven would ever perch on their rooftops. Their humiliation became a cautionary tale told from academy halls to council chambers across Umbraveyn.
Details flowed like wildfire: Nareth's house arrest, the compensation in gold, the official apology penned and signed by Magus Varyel Vaelion. The whispers painted a picture of inevitability that crossing Corvin Blackmoor meant ruin, no matter your house, title, or magical rank.
Archmagus Vaelorin, who had been monitoring Corvin's progress at the Arcanum, was no longer uncertain. He privately believed Corvin had already ascended to a power level equal to, or exceeding, an Archmagus. A rogue force, not bound by oath or law. A weapon with no sheath and allegiance.
The Council of Six began to take more than passing interest. Reports from Umbraxis grew more frequent. Once only watchers, the councilors now read each dispatch with layered intention.
The Synod was pleased.
His actions in Argyll, where he stabilized Gilded Dominion which destabilized the relation between north and south edge north factions, and in Nefrath, where Korvath's Psychic unith perished under his hand, aligned neatly with the Synod's larger goals. He had served their interests without being asked, a chess piece who moved of his own accord, but always in the right direction.
Now, they were ready to test his utility with more intentional force.
They would send him to Savaryn, the fractured continent of the beastkin.
There, he would carry out a delicate and brutal mission: to eliminate a Jackal-kin warband, then frame a rival tribe, adding to the internal conflict between tribes and hopfully ignite a war among the Feralis. The goal was clear, break unity among the beastkin let them slay each other before the Pioneer team returns. Thus reduce their total power systematically without ever being suspected.
The Synod remembered too well what had happened in Thalasien not long ago. During the initial signs and 'search' of the anomaly, the Circle of Arbiters, those self declared keepers of balance, had dared to send Innquisitors. Their action had allowed foreign agents, humans, demons, and Feralis alike to infiltrate Elven lands without resistance.
The Arbiters had permitted a flood of sabotage, quietly excusing it as part of the search for anomaly.
The result?
Chaos.
Not only Inquisitors even High Inquisitors were dispatched. They raped minds, silenced any Elf they found 'suspicious'. Riots tore through Elven cities. Targeted assassinations, decapitated promising leadership.
The Synod had not forgotten.
And they had not forgiven.
Especially not the Elven Arbiter who had started this disaster by reporting and 'anomaly' He should have come to Synod. Instead he endorsed the neutrality decree. That single decision had cost them too much.
Sooner or later, Synod's enemies will pay.