Corvis Eralith
The sterile, echoing and elegant corridors of the Castle felt suffocating after the raw carnage of Burim. The scent of ozone, minerals and blood seemed etched into my skin, a phantom presence beneath the crisp linen of my formal attire.
I mechanically adjusted the silver cufflinks of my formal attire—cold, precise anchors in a world tilting on its axis. The Council debriefing had been necessary, clinical: portal coordinates confirmed, Ramseyer's unit neutralized, Burim secured.
Words on parchment, devoid of the screams, the weight of Augustine's terrified eyes, the hollow thud of bodies hitting stone. The guilt of letting her escape on purpose, the pragmatic voice screaming wrong choice, was a leaden cloak I couldn't shrug off.
"Sir." The guard's voice cut through my grim reverie as I neared the wing housing my quarters. I halted, turning. His posture was rigid, respectful, eyes avoiding direct contact. "The Trailblazer Division has returned to the Castle."
My breath hitched. Tessia. The thought was a spark igniting in the cold ashes of post-battle numbness. Burim, Augustine, the weight of command—it all receded, replaced by a desperate, clawing need to see my twin sister, to confirm she was whole, breathing. Alive.
Grampa and Grey would be informed, familiarity, protocols and everything else dictated it, but I needed to be there first. Now.
"Understood," I managed, the word clipped, betraying none of the sudden urgency. I pivoted sharply, abandoning the path to solitude, my polished and elegant shoes clicking a rapid, discordant rhythm against the marble floor as I headed for the central teleportation nexus.
The Castle, a marvel of Djinn engineering and their forbidden mana and aether technology, hummed with contained power. Designed as the strategic heart of Dicathen, its network of portals linked every major stronghold, a vital artery for troops and intelligence.
But its grandeur was ill-suited for triage. Stepping into the vast receiving chamber adjacent to the active portal gateway was like walking into a different kind of battlefield. The air hung thick with the coppery tang of blood, the sharp sting of antiseptic, the cloying sweetness of healing salves, and the low, persistent symphony of pain—groans, whimpers, the rasping breaths of the wounded.
Doctors and healers moved with harried efficiency between rows of makeshift cots, their faces etched with exhaustion. Orderlies ferried supplies. The Castle wasn't a hospital; it was a waystation for the broken, a place where only the critically injured or the vital personnel came directly. Tessia, leading her own team inside Trailblazer Division, qualified on both counts.
My entrance caused a ripple. Soldiers stiffened where they could, offering ragged salutes. Nurses paused mid-task, their weary eyes widening slightly. The whispers started, a susurrus of hope and awe:
"The Vice Commander..."
"Prince Corvis..."
"He's here..."
I wasn't clad in the stark, functional grey of my battle uniform, the persona of the soldier-hero who wielded impossible power. I stood before them as the Prince, the lawmaker, the architect of the Corvis Laws—the edicts that brought annual celebrations, abolished slavery, regulated the Tri-Union to protect the smallfolk, funded schools, and built the very shelters that now promised safety to displaced families.
The weight of their gazes, laden with expectation, gratitude, and raw vulnerability, pressed down on me like physical stone. I felt like a fraud. The man who had just let a Highblood flee, who carried a dragon's sardonic commentary in his skull.
I swallowed hard, the action feeling like sandpaper in my dry throat, and forced my expression into a mask of calm authority, a reassuring presence they desperately needed. I owed them that façade, at least.
"Pfft. You are thinking too much about it," Romulos materialized beside me, a spectral figure only I could perceive, leaning against a marble pillar with infuriating nonchalance. His usual smirk was in place. "They should be honoured merely to stand in your presence. You are the only bulwark against their annihilation and Dad starting to treat this war seriously."
Not everyone has an ego as big as the Castle, Romulos, I retorted inwardly, the bitterness sharp. They see a symbol. They don't see the cost, the compromises, the blood on the hands beneath the cufflinks.
My gaze swept the chamber, scanning the bandaged limbs, the pain-etched faces, searching for familiar ones amidst the sea of suffering. Relief washed over me, surprisingly potent, as I spotted the Twin Horns.
They were battered, bruised, Angela sporting a nasty gash on her forearm being tended, Adam leaning heavily on Durden, but they were alive. The phantom image of Adam's lifeless body from the novel's trajectory—a sacrifice to save Helen—flashed before me, a cold dread I hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment of reprieve. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, too smooth, too controlled, as I approached their cluster. They stiffened, turning as one.
Confusion flickered across their faces—Helen's sharp eyes narrowed, Durden's large brow furrowed, Adam blinked owlishly. They saw Prince Corvis, Vice Commander, not the ragged, mana-starved kid they'd found mining inside a dungeon years ago, saved only by Romulos's frightening intervention. That kid felt like a lifetime ago, a different person wearing my skin.
"Vice Commander!" Helen Shard recovered first, snapping a crisp salute, surprise warring with ingrained discipline. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" Her voice was rough, strained.
The others followed suit, Jasmine Flamesworth's keen gaze lingering on my face. A spark of recognition ignited in her eyes, cutting through the deference. "Wait…" she murmured, stepping forward slightly. "You… you're the kid we found in that dungeon… the one with the bear."
Her words hung in the air. Durden's eyes widened. Adam's jaw slackened. Angela paused in having her arm bandaged, looking up sharply. Helen's professional mask cracked with astonishment.
"Yes," I nodded, a ghost of a genuine smile touching my lips despite the surrounding misery. "It's me."
"No way!" Adam blurted, his hand instinctively going to his forehead in disbelief before Durden elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Ow! Hey!"
"Adam! We are still in front of the Vice Commander!" Durden hissed, his own face flushed with embarrassment, before turning back to me, his expression softening into profound gratitude. "Vice Commander… we… we never truly had the occasion to thank you, properly, for whatever incredible trick you pulled back then to get us out. So… thank you." His voice was thick with sincerity.
"We wouldn't be standing here without you."
The acknowledgment, simple and direct, unexpectedly pierced my carefully constructed reserve. It was a reminder of a debt owed, a life saved before the mantle of Prince and Commander weighed me down. "You saved me first," I replied quietly. "The debt runs both ways."
We spoke for a few minutes—stilted at first, then easing into a fragile camaraderie built on shared peril. They updated me on their recent patrol, the skirmishes, the near misses. The normalcy of it, the mundane heroism of their survival, was a balm against the existential dread of Agrona and Kezess.
Then Angela, ever observant, gestured towards a group of soldiers nearby who were watching our interaction with respectful distance. "We should introduce you to our former members who rejoined us to help in the war. They couldn't sit idle while Dicathen bled."
Former members? A prickle of foreboding ran down my spine. I followed her gesture, and the world seemed to narrow. Standing slightly apart, helping an injured comrade to a cot, were two figures whose faces were etched into the deepest strata of my borrowed memories of the novel and Romulos's consciousness.
Reynolds Leywin, his build still strong but his face bearing new lines of worry and fatigue. Alice Leywin, her kind eyes shadowed with the same weariness, a resilience etched into her posture. Arthur's parents.
"Alice. Reynolds." Romulos's voice echoed in my mind, stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was a raw whisper, imbued with a startling depth of nostalgic affection and the same complex, conflicted ache that surfaced whenever Arthur was mentioned. It felt like watching a storm cloud flicker with unexpected sunlight.
Helen stepped forward. "Vice Commander, these two are Reynolds and Alice Leywin. They've been dear friends of ours for a long while. Fought alongside us years back before… well, before life took them down a quieter path." She smiled warmly at them. "They heard the call and came running."
Reynolds and Alice straightened as Helen introduced them. Their eyes, meeting mine, held the same respectful deference as the others, tinged with the natural wariness common folk held around royalty. "Vice Commander!" they said in near unison, bowing respectfully.
The bow felt like a dart in my chest. Arthur's parents. Bowing to me. In the novel, they'd joined the war out of a desperate sense of responsibility after Adam's death. But Adam stood bruised but alive beside me.
Why were they here now? The answer was obvious, yet it twisted something inside me. They weren't here because of a specific tragedy; they were here because the war was everywhere, gnawing at the edges of their quiet life. They were here to protect their home, their future… their daughter. Eleanor. Where was she? The question screamed in my mind, amplified by Romulos's sudden, intense focus.
"Ask them about Eleanor," Romulos demanded, his mental voice tight with an urgency that bordered on panic. The brotherly protectiveness he showed Sylvie was magnified here. "I need to know she is safe."
"And before you ask anything," he added swiftly, sensing my unspoken question about his intensity, "it's because she is Arthur's sister. Was. His blood. And… she manifested pure mana potential, Corvis. Untapped, yes, but the spark is there. Similar to Sylvie. Similar to… us dragons, in a way. I took an interest. She must be safe."
His explanation, part sentiment, part scientific fascination with potential, only added layers to the complex knot of emotions tightening in my chest.
"There's no need to bow, please," I said quickly, the words tumbling out, my hands rising in a placating gesture that felt utterly inadequate. The formality grated.
How was I supposed to be with them? The Vice Commander? The Prince? The stranger who knew their son that never was in this reality, knew their daughter's potential, knew the dangers that hunted their bloodline? Meta-awareness warred violently with the present reality, with the tired, brave couple standing before me.
I grasped for neutral ground, a question that wouldn't betray the turmoil. "Can I ask you," I began, my voice carefully modulated, "why you left the Twin Horns party in the first place? From the little I saw when I… encountered them years ago, they always struck me as a remarkably well-meshed group." It was flattery, deflection, a way to stall while I wrestled with the need Romulos voiced.
"Oh, what a flatterer you are, Vice Commander," Angela chuckled softly, the tension easing slightly.
Reynolds answered, his voice warm with reminiscence despite the setting. "We moved for a quiet life, Sir. Settled down. Me and Alice," he reached over and squeezed Alice's hand, a simple gesture radiating deep affection, "got married soon after leaving the Twin Horns." He paused, and a genuine, proud smile touched his weathered face, momentarily banishing the shadows. "...and we were blessed with a fantastic daughter."
"A daughter?" I asked, feigning polite interest, the perfect mask of the Prince inquiring about his subjects. My heart hammered against my ribs. "Is she… safe?" The question escaped before I could fully temper it, the concern Romulos radiated bleeding into my tone.
The effect was immediate and devastating. The proud light in Reynolds's eyes dimmed, replaced by a profound regret. Alice's breath hitched, her hand tightening on Reynolds's. Her eyes, meeting mine, shimmered with unshed tears. The cheerful facade of proud parents crumbled, revealing the raw anguish beneath.
"It's… it's been the hardest choice of our lives," Alice whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She looked away, composing herself with visible effort. "But… Dicathen needs all the help it can get. Every hand matters."
She drew a shaky breath, forcing strength into her words. "Thanks to your laws too, Vice Commander…" She met my gaze again, a flicker of genuine gratitude amidst the pain. "...we made sure she had a safe place to stay. One of the shelters… it's secure, well-run. We know she's… she's cared for." The tears welled, threatening to spill. She fiercely blinked them back. "For the time being."
The shelters. My shelters. Built as part of the Corvis Laws, a systemic solution born of a genuine, abstract desire to do good. Now, they were holding Arthur Leywin's little sister. The abstract collided violently with the personal.
The weight of their sacrifice—leaving their child behind to fight for the world she would inherit—slammed into me. The guilt over Augustine warred with a new, fierce surge of protectiveness. Romulos's silent tension in my mind was a palpable force.
The offer came unbidden, propelled by a complex whirlwind: Romulos's demand, my own gnawing guilt over choices made and lives altered, the visceral image of Eleanor alone in a shelter while her parents bled on the front lines, and the simple, desperate desire to enact some tangible, uncomplicated good.
"I can have her moved to the Castle," I stated, the words firm, decisive, cutting through the heavy silence. "Immediately."
Reynolds and Alice stared at me, stunned into silence. The Twin Horns, sensing the profound shift in the conversation, subtly melted back, giving their friends space.
"Here," I continued, the rationale spilling out, practical, undeniable. "She will be safer than anywhere else in Dicathen. The Castle's defenses are paramount. She'll also be able to see you much more easily—the portal network makes travel instantaneous. If you worry about her growth, her education…"
I gestured vaguely around the grand chamber, "...there are many children of noble families residing here already. Tutors are available for all disciplines, magical and mundane. Former Director Goodsky of Xyrus Academy visits frequently; she takes a special interest in ensuring the children feel settled, supported."
I listed the benefits like a strategist outlining advantages, but the core was a raw, almost frantic need to fix this one thing, to shield this fragment of Arthur's legacy, to offer these brave, suffering parents a sliver of peace.
Reynolds looked utterly floored. He opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down, his jaw working. I knew that look. The pride of a man who always provided, struggling to accept help, especially of this magnitude, offered seemingly without cause.
"Vice Commander," he began, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, refusing to meet my eyes, biting his lip. "I… I cannot express the… the profound kindness of your offer. But…" The refusal hung unspoken, tangled in pride and disbelief.
Alice, ever perceptive, placed a gentle hand on his arm. She looked directly at me, her eyes searching mine, not with suspicion, but with a deep, bewildered vulnerability. "We would never doubt your honesty, Prince Corvis," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly.
"Never. But… why? Why such… such incredible generosity? To soldiers like us?" It was the question hanging in the air, the question Romulos would mock, the question my carefully constructed persona couldn't easily answer.
The truth—I know your son was a hero in another life where he existed, I carry the ghost of his bond, and protecting your daughter feels like the only untainted good I can manage—was impossible. I grasped for the nearest acceptable truth, a partial one that resonated with the man who owed them his life years ago.
"The Twin Horns saved my life," I stated, meeting Alice's gaze squarely, my voice gaining conviction. "Helen, Durden, Angela, Adam, Jasmine… they pulled me from the dark. This," I gestured, encompassing the offer, "is the least I can do to repay that debt. To ensure their friends, their family, has peace of mind while they fight for us all." It was serviceable. It held the weight of honor, of obligation fulfilled. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was a truth they could accept.
Alice and Reynolds exchanged a long, silent look. A conversation passed between them in the tightening of hands, the softening of shoulders, the shared release of a breath they'd been holding. When they turned back to me, the wariness had melted into something akin to stunned gratitude, laced with profound relief. Tears finally escaped Alice's control, tracing clean paths through the grime on her cheeks. Reynolds's eyes were suspiciously bright.
"Then," Reynolds said, his voice thick but strong, straightening to his full height, "we boldly accept your generosity, Vice Commander." They bowed their heads again, not in formal deference this time, but in deep, heartfelt respect.
"Thank you," Alice whispered, the words heavy with emotion. "Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts."
Yes! The exultant thought burst through the layers of guilt and calculation within me. It was a small victory, a single point of light in the encroaching darkness. Eleanor would be safe. Truly safe. Away from the reach of Alacryan raids or betrayals.
The Castle was a fortress. And… a spark of genuine warmth ignited. To make her feel better… I could introduce her to Berna. The image formed—the massive, gentle Guardian Bear carefully interacting with a wide-eyed little girl.
Berna wasn't Boo, Eleanor's bond, but she possessed a deep, nurturing protectiveness, especially towards the young and vulnerable. It would be… good. Pure. Uncomplicated.
As I gave them instructions on how to arrange the transfer, a fragile sense of rightness settled over me. It didn't absolve the guilt of Burim, the moral compromises of war, or the burden of command. But for this moment, for this family, I had used the power, the privilege, the cold calculus of my position, not for strategy or vengeance, but simply to shield something innocent.
To be, perhaps, in this one small way, the kind of person I admired. The kind of person I desperately wanted to be, beneath the titles and the dragon's whispers and the blood on my hands. It was a flicker of hope, fragile but real, in the long, dark struggle to remain human.