Corvis Eralith
The air inside the Wall tasted different. Not the damp earth and pine of Elenoir, nor the perfumed, charged atmosphere of the Castle's command centers. It tasted of grit, sweat, iron, and something else—the faint, acrid tang of distant smoke and the tang of the battle, carried on a wind that never truly stopped blowing across this colossal fortification.
Below, the sheer scale of the Beast Glades stretched like a roiling, infected sea, perpetually shadowed. Above the inner floors, the sky was a bruised canvas, perpetually twilight under the Wall's immense shadow.
"It's good to be the three of us together after so long since Grey departed for Epheotus," Tessia said, her voice a bright counterpoint to the grim surroundings, "even if it's only for a few days."
She walked between Grey and me, her gunmetal hair catching the dim light filtering through high arrow slits. Sylvie, a compact ball of white fur and watchful intelligence, perched atop Grey's head like a living crown. Her presence was a constant, comforting hum against the oppressive weight of the Wall.
A flicker of warmth, fragile as a candle flame in a gale, stirred within me. Together. After the isolation of command, the bloodshed of Burim, the suffocating responsibility, this simple act of walking alongside my sister and my best friend felt… human. Precious.
Grey, clad in the simple yet elegant brown and white uniform that had become his signature since returning, offered a quiet smile that reached his eyes, a rare sight.
"True," he murmured, his gaze sweeping the bustling thoroughfare we traversed. "It's really a good thing to be back." His hand brushed Tessia's, a small, unspoken connection that spoke volumes. Seeing them like this, the easy intimacy, the shared understanding forged in fire and separation, eased a tension I hadn't fully acknowledged in my own shoulders.
It was a testament to Tessia's strength, her maturity forged in the crucible of protecting others, including me, her perpetually burdened twin. And Grey… he had learned to let her in, to express the depths he once guarded like state secrets.
The Wall itself was a marvel and a monstrosity at the same time, just as I remembered from the fragmented descriptions inside The Beginning After The End.
Less a fortress, more a vertical city carved from defiance. Shops spilled goods onto narrow walkways, the clang of smithies battled with merchants' cries, the smell of roasting meat mingled with the sharp scent of oiled leather and ozone from active furnaces and kitchens.
Soldiers in varying states of readiness rubbed shoulders with provisioners, healers, and the grim-faced civilians who serviced the war machine. Stairs, countless stairs, wound like stone serpents up and down, connecting the myriad levels—barracks, command posts, infirmaries, armories, mess halls—a labyrinthine testament to dwarven engineering and desperate necessity. It was the beating heart of Dicathen's defense, a society clinging to the edge of annihilation.
"I need to meet with someone and reorganize some of the Wall's management," I said, the words feeling like a betrayal of the fragile peace. The Vice Commander's mantle settled back onto my shoulders, heavy and cold. "I will reach you later."
"But, Corvis!" Tessia protested, her voice regaining a hint of the playful insistence I remembered from Zestier. "I want you to meet my team!" Where was the mature, battle-hardened commander? For a moment, she was just my sister, eager to share her world.
I couldn't help a small, genuine smile. This, the easy teasing, the shared history untouched by war, was our sanctuary. "Well, I have people to meet too, just so you know," I retorted playfully, falling back into the familiar rhythm.
Tessia stuck her tongue out. Grey rolled his eyes, a long-suffering expression that held deep affection. Sylvie chirped softly on his head. The sight was so absurdly normal amidst the martial backdrop, it squeezed my heart. This banter, this uncomplicated sibling dynamic, was our lifeline, a way to remember who we were beneath the titles and the trauma. Who knew if it was coping or defiance? It simply was.
Leaving the warmth of their company felt like stepping back into a blizzard. The corridors of the Senior Captain's headquarters were colder, quieter, smelling of polished stone, parchment, and the faint metallic scent of worry.
I knocked once, a perfunctory sound, and entered Tristan Flamesworth's command room without waiting. Authority needed to be asserted, especially here.
"Senior Captain Flamesworth, Captain Kelris, Captain Cruwer," I greeted crisply. The three figures around the large strategy table snapped to attention. Tristan, his posture rigid, face a carefully neutral mask; Albanth Kelris of the Bulwark Division, steady and pragmatic; Jesmiya Cruwer of the Trailblazers, her fiery energy barely contained.
My decision to bypass the odious Trodius Flamesworth and elevate his estranged, capable son hung unspoken in the air. Our agreement—his competence and loyalty for my backing in establishing his own legacy, House Peacemaker, after the war—was the bedrock of this uneasy alliance. We'd buried the past where my fugitive self and his duty had clashed. Now, we were bound by necessity.
"Vice Commander, what an honour," Tristan said, executing a precise bow echoed by the others. His eyes, sharp and assessing, held none of the old hostility, only focused respect. "To what do we owe the visit?"
"And to think the first time you met him he tried to capture you," Romulos mused, a spectral spectator leaning against a bookshelf only I could perceive. His tone held dark amusement. I ignored him, my focus on the strategic map etched onto the table.
"I would like to hear the most recent developments around the Wall, directly," I stated. "Beyond the radio summaries."
Albanth Kelris stepped forward, his voice calm and measured. "The Bulwark Division maintains garrison as per Council directives, Vice Commander. The corrupted beasts press relentlessly, waves crashing against stone. However," he added, a note of cautious observation entering his tone, "the enemy troop activity has noticeably diminished in aggression compared to previous months. Fewer probing attacks, less coordinated magic."
Before I could process this shift, Jesmiya Cruwer interjected, her voice crackling with impatience like a live wire. "If it's possible to ask, Vice Commander, I'd like to know why the Council doesn't order a counterattack!" She gestured forcefully towards the map. "With my Trailblazer Division bolstering the garrison and the enemy seeming… hesitant… it's the perfect moment to push back! To reclaim ground! This stalemate grinds us down!"
Her passion was a tangible force. Her point, on the surface, was valid. Aggression demanded response. But a cold dread settled in my stomach. Diminished aggression? From Agrona? It felt like a predator playing with its food, lulling us into complacency.
Appetizer, Romulos's term echoed grimly in my mind. Agrona savored suffering, orchestrated despair if it served his objectives. A counterattack now could be walking straight into a meticulously laid trap.
"Captain Cruwer," Tristan began, his voice hardening with a warning glare, but I raised a hand, stopping him.
"Captain Cruwer isn't wrong to seek decisive action," I said, meeting her fiery gaze. I needed her trust, her understanding, not her resentment. "The Council is acutely aware of the strategic opportunity your presence represents, and the frustration of the stalemate. However," my voice lowered, emphasizing the gravity, "I must remind you we face an enemy wielding warriors of near-godlike power. Scythes. Retainers. Recklessness isn't courage; it's suicide. Our defensive strategy," I gestured towards the massive structure around us, "has proven its effectiveness. It has preserved lives, Captain, buying Dicathen the time it desperately needs."
I saw the protest die on her lips, replaced by reluctant acknowledgment, though her jaw remained clenched. Albanth simply gave a thoughtful nod. The defensive doctrine was a bitter pill, but survival demanded swallowing it.
"Now," I continued, the atmosphere shifting back to tense professionalism, "if you may excuse Captains Kelris and Cruwer, there is a specific topic I wish to discuss with Senior Captain Flamesworth."
The two captains saluted and withdrew, Jesmiya casting one last, frustrated glance at the map. The door clicked shut, leaving Tristan and me in the heavy silence of the command room.
He sank into his chair, the mask of command slipping slightly to reveal the weary determination beneath. "Prince," he said, using the older, more personal title, "what might you desire to discuss?"
"Tristan," I leaned forward, resting my palms on the cool stone table. The question was direct, born of deep suspicion and the memory of betrayals yet to come. "Are you keeping someone on Trodius, like I asked you to do?"
His eyes narrowed, understanding the gravity. "I have. My sister, Senyir, as well as a small detachment of soldiers loyal directly to me, not the Flamesworth name. I rotated observers to minimize bias or predictability. They report any movement, any communication, any deviation from his… enforced retirement at the estate near Etistin."
"And?" The single word hung heavy. Anything? A whisper? A meeting? A signal? If Trodius was the traitor facilitating the Burim attack, the portal breach… I needed proof. I needed leverage. I needed to stop him.
"Nothing." Tristan's answer was flat, final. "Nothing that drew even a flicker of suspicion. He plays the chastened lord, confined to his estate, tail firmly between his legs. He receives no unusual visitors. His communications are monitored—mundane complaints, financial matters, nothing subversive." He spread his hands slightly.
"He seems… genuinely broken, Prince. Or a master dissembler."
Fuck. The curse echoed silently, violently in my mind. If not Trodius, then who? The mole remained a phantom, a chilling uncertainty gnawing at the foundations of our defenses. The Burim attack felt less like an isolated raid and more like a symptom of a deeper, festering wound within our own ranks.
"Thank you for your time and diligence, Tristan," I began, the words tasting like ash. "I leave y—"
The door slammed open with enough force to rattle the heavy wood in its frame. Albanth Kelris stood framed in the doorway, his usual calm shattered, face pale. Jesmiya Cruwer pushed past him, her eyes blazing with urgent fury. "Vice Commander! Senior Captain!" Albanth's voice was a strained shout.
Jesmiya cut him off, her words sharp and fast as daggers. "One of our deep reconnaissance units—sent through the southern tunnels into the Beast Glades three days ago—has gone dark! Vanished! Only one survivor made it back… barely! He reports…" Her voice hitched, raw with horror. "He reports the entire squad… nearly two hundred soldiers… mages and non-combatants… slaughtered! Annihilated!"
The air in the room turned to ice. The map, the strategies, the suspicion about Trodius—all vanished. Two hundred lives. Snuffed out. Deep in our territory.
"Well, well," Romulos's spectral voice cut through the shock, a low, chilling whistle of genuine surprise. "Someone's making a statement."
Silence, you sadist! I snapped mentally, the fury white-hot and immediate. But beneath the rage, a colder, more terrifying dread took root. This wasn't random beast aggression. This was targeted. Brutal. Efficient.
"Bring me to the survivor," I commanded, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. The Vice Commander was fully present now, cold focus overriding the shock. "Immediately. We need to understand exactly what happened."
———
The infirmary near the southern gate stank. Not just of antiseptic and blood, but of terror. A thick, cloying miasma of panic and pain hung in the air, clinging to the rough canvas walls. The survivor lay on a cot, swathed in bandages, shivering uncontrollably.
He was young, too young for this horror, his eyes wide and vacant, darting around the room as if expecting monsters to leap from the shadows. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps. He wasn't just injured; his mind was shattered.
"Kid, you can't enter, i—" A flustered guard's voice protested from the tent entrance.
I knew. I felt him before I saw him—the familiar, contained storm of mana, the quiet intensity. "He's with me," I stated, cutting off the guard and Jesmiya's burgeoning protest before it could form. "Make him enter."
Grey stepped into the tent, Sylvie a tense ball of white fur on his shoulder, her eyes immediately locking onto the trembling soldier. The atmosphere shifted palpably. Suspicion, cold and sharp, radiated from Jesmiya Cruwer. Albanth looked wary. Tristan's expression was unreadable.
"Grey's assessment here will be invaluable," I explained, meeting Jesmiya's hostile gaze directly. "He is our best source of information on Alacryan capabilities… as he is from Alacrya."
The silence that followed was absolute, thick enough to choke on. Jesmiya's eyes narrowed into glacial slits, the distrust hardening into something venomous. Albanth's posture stiffened. Even Tristan's mask flickered. Grey didn't flinch, but I saw the minute tightening of his jaw, the way Sylvie's hackles rose slightly as she stared defiantly back at Jesmiya.
"Corvis," Grey said, his voice low and dangerously calm, "did you really need to say that?"
"Yes," I replied, unwavering. The truth was a weapon, and we needed every edge. "If my suspicion about what did this is correct, I will need your specific insight to understand who we are dealing with. Lives depend on it." I turned back to the survivor, my voice softening, forcing calm into it. "Soldier. Can you recall what happened? Who did this to your unit?"
Tristan leaned in, his voice gentle but firm. "Take your time. Tell us everything you remember."
The young soldier flinched, his eyes rolling wildly before fixing on a point somewhere beyond the tent wall. His voice, when it came, was a broken whisper, thick with unspeakable horror.
"We… I was… returning… from the last marker… scouting a supply route…" He swallowed convulsively. "It… it came out of the shadows… like… like the Beast Glades spat it out…"
"Don't fret," I urged, keeping my tone low, steady. "Just tell us."
"It was… a beast…" He shuddered violently. "But… not like the corrupted ones… bigger… smarter… Crueler… A hulk… covered in… dark scales? Armor? It… it laughed…" Tears streamed down his grimy face. "It laughed while it… while it…" He choked, unable to continue for a moment. "Maimed… tore… Captain Renn… he just… splattered… like a bug…" He gagged.
"Magic… horrific magic… black spikes… everywhere! Growing from the ground… from the air… impaling… shredding…" He covered his face with trembling hands. "It played with us… like skittles… like we were… food…"
Blood Iron. A Vritra-blooded ability. This wasn't just a beast. This was sentient evil.
"Do you remember anything specific about it?" Grey asked, stepping closer, his voice devoid of judgment, only focused intensity. He knew this enemy landscape far better than any of us. "Anything at all? A symbol? A weapon? The way it moved?"
The soldier lowered his hands, his eyes wide with remembered terror. He stared at Grey, perhaps seeing something in his calm that offered a sliver of anchor.
"Horns…" he whispered. "Like… like a bull… huge… curved… black as night…" He shuddered again. "And… eyes… hungry… cruel… He… he talked… called us… 'playthings'…"
The description punched the air from my lungs. A cold dread, deeper and more absolute than anything Burim or Augustine had evoked, flooded my veins. Not a Retainer. This signature brutality, this specific description of horns and sadism…
Grey went rigid beside me. I felt the surge of mana, not active, but a visceral reaction, a storm held barely in check. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. His jaw locked. The hatred that radiated from him wasn't just anger; it was a deep, abiding, personal loathing, colder and sharper than any battlefield fury.
"Dragoth…" The name escaped Grey's lips, a low, guttural snarl that seemed to drop the temperature in the tent by ten degrees. It wasn't just identification; it was a curse, a promise of vengeance.
I was on my feet instantly, the cot scraping harshly against the stone floor. The name echoed in the stunned silence, heavy with mythic dread. Scythe. Not a scout, not a raiding party. A Scythe. Agrona's executioners, beings of legendary, devastating power. Here. At the Wall. Slaughtering our soldiers for sport.
The fragile world of strategic meetings and patrol reports shattered. This was an escalation. A declaration.
"Captains!" My voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the paralysis. "Prepare all defenses! Maximum alert! Contact the Council immediately! We have a Scythe operating within striking distance of the Wall! All available Lances are to be dispatched here with utmost urgency! Now!" The orders tumbled out, sharp, desperate.
The word 'Scythe' hung in the air, sucking the sound from the room. It wasn't just a rank; it was a specter of annihilation. In a year of grinding war, we'd faced soldiers, beasts, even powerful mages.
But the Scythes? They were bogeymen, whispered legends of power beyond comprehension. And now, Dragoth was here. Why? In the original plot, only Nico and Cadell had taken the field, and sparingly. Why deploy a Scythe now? Against a patrol? It felt excessive. Ominous.
"Dad is raising the stakes," Romulos purred, his spectral form materializing beside me, leaning in with predatory interest. His amusement was a razor against my nerves. "He wants to see how you manage this, Corvis. How your little mind handles one of his best toys."
The implications crashed over me like a collapsing glacier. The mole, possibly still active, a traitor within our walls. And now, a Scythe, a being capable of leveling sections of this mighty Wall single-handedly, lurking in the Beast Glades, tasting our blood.
Marching? Was he marching right now? Was this the prelude to the hammer blow Agrona had been holding back?
I gulped, the sound loud in the sudden, terrified silence of the infirmary. The survivor whimpered, curling in on himself. The captains stared at me, their faces pale masks of dawning horror. Grey's eyes burned with cold fire, fixed on the entrance to the Glades as if he could see the monster through the stone.
The war machine I had meticulously maintained, the roles I played, the cold calculations… they felt terrifyingly small, terrifyingly fragile. This wasn't just another battle. This was Agrona turning his gaze fully upon us.
This was the end of the appetizer.