Corvis Eralith
The damp, ancient breath of the Elshire Forest filled my lungs—loam, decaying leaves, and the sharp tang of pine. Three months. Three months spent immersed in this emerald sanctuary, the rhythmic thump of my cane against mossy roots and packed earth becoming as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Grandaunt Rinia's cottage was my anchor, a haven of quiet wisdom and, thanks to Berna's insatiable appetite, perpetually dwindling fruit stores. Only the stern summons from Aldir, arriving like clockwork every week, could pull me back to the Castle's stifling politics and watchful eyes. Those brief returns felt like surfacing for air in a drowning world before plunging back into the vital, solitary work.
The work wasn't just refining the new aspect of Beyond the Meta—the short, combat-focused foresight that was the foundations of my abilities as a seer.
It was birthing something new. Something born from desperation, Grandaunt's guidance, Romulos's unnervingly enthusiastic collaboration, and the dense, resonant ebony of my cane. Rhabdomancy.
The name felt right, heavy with ancient echoes. It wasn't just a crutch anymore, nor solely a conduit for Accaron's shattering vibrations. It was a divining rod, attuned to the currents of intent and location flowing through the world, amplified by my own focused will.
Pinpointing the direction of whatever I could hold clearly in my mind—a person, an object, a concept. And for that, Meta-awareness was the perfect fuel. An endless reservoir of precise, vivid images to focus the seeking power. It wasn't omniscience, not the terrifying, life-draining foresight of a true Seer peering years ahead. This was practical. Immediate. A survival tool forged in the quiet heart of the forest.
"I genuinely cannot wait," Romulos mused, his spectral form coalescing beside me as I paused near a giant, gnarled oak, leaning lightly on the cane. He wasn't sneering, not mocking the process. There was a genuine, almost ghoulish anticipation in his voice.
"The look on my Dad's face… the great High Sovereign Agrona Vritra… witnessing his most problematic obstacle on this continent consulting a walking stick like a backwoods fortune teller? Priceless." He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that held… amusement? Not malice. Not this time.
The shift was subtle, but profound. Over a year now. A year since that day in Xyrus' dormitory's basement, crafting the mana-contact lens that shattered my world and bound me to this ancient, eclectic ghost.
Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. Constant proximity, shared struggles, the forging of forbidden magic… it had sanded down the sharpest edges of our antagonism. He still was Romulos Indrath—arrogant, casually cruel, viewing lessers as tools or curiosities, trying to sway me to Agrona's side. But the relentless psychological warfare had eased.
Sometimes… he just joked. Like now.
"Oh yes, I love you too," he added, the familiar sardonic edge returning as he caught my sidelong glance. I simply scoffed, shaking my head. Very fun, Romulos. The retort was almost automatic, lacking its old heat. It was… tolerable. Sometimes, disturbingly, even companionable in its own twisted way.
Rhabdomancy joined my arsenal. Beyond the Meta for the split-second dance of combat. Mirage Walk for becoming a ghost in the shadows. Together, they crafted a superhuman awareness of my immediate world. And now, layered upon it, the first stirrings of Berna's Beast Will.
It had manifested subtly just days ago—not the earth-shattering strength or gravity manipulation yet, but the senses. The world exploded into sharper focus. The rustle of a vole burrowing meters away, the distant cry of a hawk riding thermals invisible to my eyes, the complex tapestry of scents—damp bark, fox musk, the faint sweetness of hidden berries – all washed over me with startling clarity.
It was like stepping from a dim room into dazzling sunlight, a sensory feast I hadn't known I craved.
I raised the cane, the cool silver pommel firm in my grip. Time for the test. Not a beast, not a hidden object. A person. Albold. The image formed instantly in my mind: earnest eyes, perpetually cropped hair, the lanky frame of an elf more comfortable in the forest shadows than courtly halls.
My… best friend. Before I met Grey. Before everything our relationship fractured.
"Tsk—" Romulos made a dismissive sound. "Grey isn't your best friend. That's Fate's clumsy stitching talking. The only real emotion there is because you are probably because of Sylvie… well, she's Sylvie. Incomparable."
His distaste for Fate was a constant, corrosive undercurrent. While I railed against the burdens thrust upon me as the 'Thwart,' I still struggled within Fate's framework, trying to steer the current towards the least terrible outcome. Romulos? He hated it. Loathed its design, its inevitability. My divination magic fascinated him precisely because it felt like a potential chisel against Fate's prison walls—a futile hope, perhaps, but one he clung to with fierce, secret intensity.
Fate was Fate. A grim truth.
"Let's find your erstwhile guard," Romulos declared, steering my thoughts firmly away from metaphysical quagmires. Sure thing, I thought back, a flicker of dry amusement touching my mind. Wouldn't want to distress the delicate sensibilities of the mighty Romulos.
He huffed, a sound remarkably like Berna when mildly annoyed. "Bah. You really don't want to see me in a foul mood, Corvis. Trust me on that." I shook my head, dismissing the threat—it was part of our rhythm now—and focused.
I swept the cane slowly in an arc. Albold was hiding, that was the game. And he was good. Assigned to Captain Auddyr's division guarding the treacherous border with the Beast Glades, he'd apparently channeled his old rebellious streak—not deserting the army of course, but disobeying direct orders to stay put.
Auddyr, a stickler for discipline forged in the fires of the Second War, had been ready to bury him in the most miserable, remote posting imaginable. Only Grampa's intervention, citing some nebulous 'protective detail' for me—despite Berna and Grandaunt being formidable guardians already—had saved him. Now, he was here, my designated quarry.
The cane trembled faintly, then stilled, pointing northeast. The pull was weak, distant. Rhabdomancy had a range, roughly a kilometer, and Albold was pushing it. I started walking, the forest floor soft beneath my boots.
Romulos, why is hide-and-seek the pinnacle of training you devised for a Seer? The question hung in my mind, half-exasperated, half-genuinely curious.
"Perhaps I could have devised something more… grandiose," he conceded, drifting alongside me like a shadow made of mist. "But there's a certain exhilarating simplicity to it. And it trains everything you're trying to fuse: the broad seeking of Rhabdomancy, the hyper-local focus of the Beast Will senses, and let's not forget the good old-fashioned physical exertion you fleshy lessers seem to require constant doses of."
His tone was dismissive, but the underlying logic was sound. How thoughtful, I projected, heavy with sarcasm. The cane twitched in my hand, vibrating more insistently, pulling me slightly right. Albold was moving. Clever.
I activated Beyond the Meta. The vibrant greens of the Elshire muted into shades of grey. Mana signatures bloomed—the gentle pulse of plants, the skittering energy of small forest creatures, the dense, ancient power of the trees themselves. But no Albold. He was a yellow core, yes, but his talent wasn't raw power; it was stealth. He could dampen his signature, fold it into the background noise of the forest like a master weaver blending threads.
Mirage Walk, which I had painstakingly taught him, made him a ghost. I could teach it to others… The thought flickered.
"The Thyestes Clan would flay you alive for disseminating their 'sacred' technique to the rabble," Romulos finished.
I pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the Beast Will. Closing my eyes briefly, I drew on Berna's senses. My own eyes snapped open, now reflecting Berna's luminous green, the tips of my gunmetal hair, tied back in a practical tail, shifting to a warm hazel.
I lowered the high collar of my steel-grey uniform, the better to taste the air. The world exploded. The rustle of leaves wasn't just sound; it was direction, texture, intent. The scent palette deepened exponentially—pine sap, decaying fungus, the musk of a deer herd passing hours ago, the faint, metallic tang of distant water… and underneath it all, the unique, slightly woody, sun-warmed scent that was Albold.
I filtered, focused. Birdsong—irrelevant. Wind sighing through the canopy—background noise. The creak of a branch… there. Faint, deliberate. Not natural settling. My cane confirmed, vibrating strongly now, pointing towards a dense thicket of holly and young ash.
I moved silently, Berna's senses guiding my feet over treacherous roots and loose stones. Walking through this sun-dappled section, searching for a friend in a game, suddenly jarred against a memory seared into my mind by the novel: the invasion. Elenoir burning. The screams. A visceral shiver, cold as grave soil, traced my spine.
I'd stationed Auddyr at the border, fortified the approaches… countermeasures laid. But the memory was a fresh wound, a reminder of the fragility beneath the forest's tranquil surface.
Crack.
A dry twig snapping, sharp and deliberate, came from the direction the cane vibrated towards. Simultaneously, the cane jerked in my hand, swinging wildly to my left. Albold was on the move. Counterattack. We'd added rules to prevent stagnation. If the hider struck the seeker before being seen, he won.
I pivoted sharply, bringing the cane up like a fencer's guard, pointing it where the new pull emanated. It vibrated intensely, a constant hum against my palm. Then the pull shifted—right, left, high, low. Albold wasn't just moving; he was dancing, weaving through the undergrowth, trying to scramble the signal, to break my focus.
Clever. Beyond the Meta showed nothing but the forest's ambient mana. He was still under Mirage Walk, a phantom.
"Calm, Corvis," Romulos's voice cut through the rising pulse in my ears. He sounded almost… coaching. "Fluster is the enemy. Use the senses. Berna entrusted you with them. Disappoint her… disappoint me… and we shall have words."
I took a deep, steadying breath, drawing in the forest through Berna's senses. Green. Hazel. Focus. Sight, sound, smell… there. Not a sight, not a scent. A sound. Faint. The whissssh of something small cutting through the air, coming from the direction the cane still vibrated towards. Not magic. Something physical. I ducked instinctively.
A glob of sticky, amber-colored resin splattered against the oak trunk behind where my head had been. He was using my concoction—the non-toxic tree glue I'd made for Grandaunt to mend pots! Against me! A grudging smile touched my lips. He was taking this seriously. Resourceful.
Annoyed, but impressed, I stomped the base of my cane hard into the soft earth. Accaron. A controlled pulse of vibration, not destructive, but disruptive. The forest floor erupted. Leaves, twigs, moss, and loose soil shot upwards in a localized geyser, creating a swirling, obscuring cloud around me.
A smokescreen of dirt. Within it, I focused solely on Rhabdomancy, shutting out the visual chaos, trusting the pull. The cane trembled, pointing unerringly northeast again, through the haze. Gotcha. I exploded from the cloud, augmented legs propelling me upwards in a single, powerful leap, landing lightly on a thick branch ten feet up. Below, partially obscured by ferns, I saw a flicker of movement, a distortion in the light.
"Found you, Albold!" I declared, lunging forward, hand outstretched to grasp the shimmering air where I knew he was.
My fingers closed on empty space.
A fraction of a second later, Berna's hyper-acute hearing picked up the softest scuff of a boot on bark… behind me. I whirled, heart lurching, but it was too late. A finger tapped my shoulder blade, light but definitive.
I froze. Slowly, I turned.
Albold materialized as if stepping from behind an invisible curtain, Mirage Walk dissolving. He was breathing hard, sweat plastering strands of hair to his forehead, his chest rising and falling rapidly. A triumphant, slightly exhausted grin split his face.
"You made me sweat, Your Highness!" he panted, leaning against the tree trunk for support. "Maintaining that… that technique… Mirage Walk, right? It's… gods, it's exhausting!"
"...Yes," I admitted, unable to keep the petulant pout off my face. Defeat. By Albold. Using my tricks. The sting of surprise warred with a strange, warm relief.
He pushed off the tree, the grin softening into something warmer, more familiar. He stepped closer, ignoring protocol, and slung an arm around my shoulders in a gesture that belonged not to a Prince and his guard.
"Come on, Corvis," he said, his voice still breathless but filled with genuine awe. "From the coreless kid I sparred with back at Zestier—the one who pushed himself until he dropped, who nearly killed himself trying to keep up—to this?"
"Standing here now… with the greatest genius Dicathen has ever seen? It's… incredible." The admiration in his voice wasn't sycophantic; it was the raw, honest wonder of someone witnessing a friend achieve the impossible.
The frustration melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through my chest, unexpected and profound. The forest, the game, the lingering scent of resin and sweat, the weight of Albold's arm—it was a moment stripped of thrones, wars, and spectral burdens. Just two friends in the woods. A genuine smile, small but real, touched my lips.
———
The familiar path back to Grandaunt's cave felt suddenly alien, the dappled sunlight through the Elshire canopy turning cold and brittle. Albold's easy chatter died mid-sentence as we rounded the final bend. The sight at the clearing near the cottage froze my blood.
Grampa Virion stood rigid, his face etched with lines deeper than I'd ever seen, the usual warmth replaced by a stony dread. Beside him, Aldir loomed, his presence oppressive, the third purple eye on his forehead fixed on me like a judgment. Berna hovered behind the Asura, her massive frame tense, intelligent green eyes wide with shared alarm.
Grandaunt Rinia stood silently on her cottage porch, her gaze locking with Grampa's—an entire conversation of shared history and grim understanding passing in that single look. The air crackled with unspoken catastrophe.
What was happening? The question screamed silently in my mind, a cold fist closing around my lungs. My grip tightened on the ebony cane, my knuckles white as I instinctively leaned more weight onto it, the polished wood suddenly my only anchor in a world tilting violently.
"Corvis," Aldir's voice cut through the suffocating silence, deep and resonant, devoid of its usual detached calm. "Perfect, you are here." His third eye seemed to pierce through me, searching for… readiness?
"W-what is happening?" My voice emerged strained, barely a whisper against the roaring dread in my ears. The tension coiled in my muscles, ready to snap.
Grampa stepped forward, his voice gravelly, each word falling like a tombstone. "The invasion has started, Corvis." The words landed with physical force. "The Alacryans are in Dicathen. One of our smaller battalions… ambushed in a dungeon." He paused, the weight of the next words pressing down on us all. "No survivors remained."
No. The denial was a silent, visceral scream. No, no, no! It was too soon! The carefully laid plans, the fortifications unfinished, the precious, stolen moments of peace with Tessia, my parents, Grampa himself—all ripped away. I needed time!
"Corvis." Romulos's voice sliced through the rising panic in my mind. It held no mockery, no venom. Just a stark, grounding clarity.
The icy wave of terror receded slightly, leaving a chilling numbness. I met Grampa's anguished gaze, then Aldir's impassive scrutiny. I couldn't fall apart. Not here. Not now.
With a stiff, almost imperceptible movement, I nodded. No words. None were adequate. None could hold the magnitude of the horror.