Corvis Eralith
The lingering warmth from Alice and Reynolds's stunned gratitude, the fragile sense of having done something purely good for someone, someone like Eleanor, evaporated as I scanned the chaotic triage chamber the room has turned into.
My focus narrowed, a hunter seeking one specific quarry amidst the wounded and weary. Tessia. Where was she? The Trailblazer Division's soldiers were accounted for, the initial wave processed. She had to be here.
And then I saw her. Relief, sharp and sweet, washed over me. She stood near a row of cots, her posture straight despite the weariness etched around her eyes, her gunmetal hair catching the harsh chamber lights. But the relief was instantly tempered by a familiar pang of... not jealousy, but a bittersweet awareness. Grey had gotten to her first.
He stood before her, a stark figure amidst the grime and suffering. Since settling permanently in the Castle after his return from Epheotus, he'd been issued a uniform—simple lines of white and rich brown, elegant in its understatement, devoid of ostentatious decoration.
It suited him perfectly, mirroring his own contained power and quiet demeanour. He looked less like a soldier and more like a knight returned from a mythic quest. And Tessia… she looked at him like he was her anchor in the storm, his princess—literally.
He moved first, stepping forward, his arms opening. Tessia met him without hesitation, melting into the embrace, her face buried momentarily against his shoulder. His arms closed around her, not just holding, but sheltering. They held each other, a small island of profound connection amidst the sea of pain.
Grey's expression, usually guarded, was open, vulnerable, filled with a fierce tenderness reserved solely for her. Tessia's shoulders, which had carried the weight of command and combat, visibly relaxed within his hold. They looked… right. Fated.
Bound by something deeper than circumstance, whether he was Arthur, Grey, or the amalgamation of both. Seeing them together, the palpable current of happiness flowing between them despite the surrounding despair… it eased a knot of worry I hadn't fully acknowledged. Grey, who had once been a fortress of bottled emotions, was learning to express his care, his love, for her, for Sylvie, for… perhaps even for me. And Tessia blossomed under it.
It meant I was fulfilling my role as the Thwart. The thought surfaced, a cold, clinical assessment against the warmth of the scene. Preserving the possibility of their happiness. A dry, derisive snort echoed in my mind.
"Pfft." Romulos snorted.
What? I challenged Romulos silently, the warmth turning brittle. Have you had some secret problem about the relationship between Arthur and my sister in your life? Other than helping Agrona take Tessia's body away from her, of course?
The memory of Romulos's explaining me his involvement in Agrona's Legacy project—the violation of Tessia's very being—was a fresh wound, a constant source of icy anger beneath the surface of our uneasy alliance.
"No, nothing like that," Romulos replied, his spectral voice unusually subdued. His manifested form beside me wasn't looking at me, or at Grey and Tessia. His gaze was fixed intently on Sylvie, perched contentedly on Grey's shoulder, her vulpine form radiating quiet joy at Tessia's presence.
His expression was unreadable, a complex mix of… observation? Longing? Something ancient and inscrutable. His focus on Sylvie felt intense, almost possessive, yet strangely protective. It was unnerving.
However it wasn't exactly Sylvie what he was looking at, he was staring at nothing in particular Sylvie only an anchor in whatever hell he was planning or reminiscing.
I rolled my eyes, a physical manifestation of my exasperation. Thankfully, no one in the bustling chamber paid attention to the Prince seemingly reacting to thin air. Whatever cryptic draconic agenda Romulos harbored, it wasn't my immediate concern. My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar, gravelly voice behind me.
"Are you spying on your sister and her boyfriend?" Virion Eralith, my beloved grandfather, stood there, a wry smile playing beneath his meticulously groomed white beard—grown longer, more patriarchal, since the war began. His eyes, though twinkling with affection, held the deep weariness of command.
A flush of embarrassment heated my neck. "No," I protested, perhaps a little too quickly, turning to face him. "I was just searching for Tessia. But I… got sidetracked. Met some people who helped me when…" I trailed off, the words catching. "...when I was a fugitive."
The memories surfaced—the desperation, the fear, the gnawing isolation. It wasn't a pleasant topic, even though confronting that darkness had ultimately forged a deeper, more honest bond between Grampa and me.
His expression softened, the teasing replaced by understanding and a touch of lingering regret. "Oh really?" he said, his voice gentler. "I would like to thank them personally. After all, they did what I was supposed to do." He tried to lighten the mood with his characteristic gruff warmth.
"They've gone," I said, shaking my head slightly. "I arranged something to thank them already." A flicker of curiosity passed over his face—what did you do, grandson?—but he didn't press.
A soft brush against my knee made me look down. Sylvie, her white fur almost glowing, rubbed her head against my leg. I scooped her up, her familiar weight comforting. Predictably, Romulos's spectral form shifted its intense gaze to my arms, his expression softening into something almost… peaceful? Contemplative? It was disconcerting.
"Weren't you with Grey and Tessia?" I asked the little fox, stroking her head.
Sylvie let out a soft, almost exasperated sigh, looking pointedly towards the couple still lost in their own world, oblivious to the groans of the wounded, the bustle of healers, the lingering scent of blood and antiseptic.
"Yes," she murmured, her voice a tiny chime. "But I think I should give them some space." She raised her paws in a helpless little shrug.
"Do they realize they are in the middle of a triage camp?" I whispered, incredulous despite myself. Sylvie just shook her head again, her vulpine features conveying a world of weary patience.
Watching them, the intimacy undeniable, a stark contrast hit me. Grey and Tessia were closer, more openly connected, than Arthur and Tessia had ever been at this point in the fractured plot I remembered. And they had known each other for less time. The observation was clinical, detached.
"That's because your sister isn't a kid," Romulos interjected, his tone analytical, observing the scene with draconic detachment. "She is much more mature than she has ever been for all the time I knew her. Circumstances forged her differently."
He wasn't wrong. Our entire lives, Tessia had faced adversity head-on. She hadn't shied away from danger, venturing into the Beast Glades with Grey.
She had shouldered responsibilities, and now commanded troops, endured hardships I could only imagine. She had been strong… for me. When I was broken, hopeless, helpless, drowning in my own weakness and despair, Tessia had been my rock.
Even before that, since we were toddlers and I was a reclusive scared, depressed and stupid kid who didn't recognise himself as Corvis Eralith, she had instinctively tried to shield me, to absorb some of my pain, my burdens.
Her strength wasn't just innate; it was honed in the fires of protecting her twin. Seeing her find happiness, genuine and deep, with Grey… it was everything I wanted for her. So why did it leave this faint, hollow ache?
"And what about you, huh, Corvis?" Grampa's voice pulled me back. His teasing tone was back, but gentler now. He nudged my side playfully. "I am more than glad to see my granddaughter so happy. Truly, it lightens this old heart. But what about my grandson?" He gestured subtly towards the oblivious couple. "Seeing that must stir something, surely?"
No. Grampa, please don't start. The internal plea was almost a scream. I looked away sharply, suddenly fascinated by a scuff mark on the polished marble floor. A wave of profound discomfort washed over me, hot and prickling.
The idea of romance, of personal entanglement amidst this relentless war… it felt alien, frivolous, impossible. No, me finding love felt impossible.
"We are in a war, Grampa," I stated, the words falling flat even to my own ears. It was the shield I always raised. The ultimate justification for everything, including the suppression of my own humanity.
Grampa's expression shifted. The teasing glint vanished, replaced by a profound, weary understanding. He placed a gnarled hand on my shoulder, the weight heavy with shared burdens.
"And that, my boy," he said, his voice low and serious, "is precisely why you need to find ways to distract yourself. To find moments, however small, that aren't about the next battle, the next casualty report, the next impossible decision."
He sighed, the sound carrying the weight of centuries.
"I know, Corvis. I know from bitter experience how war can drain you. It can hollow you out until nothing remains but the weapon. That's why I gave up the throne of Elenoir to your father. I saw what it was doing to me… what it was turning me into." His gaze held mine, intense and compassionate. "Don't let it consume you whole, Corvis. Not before you've truly lived. I am old and I have lived a fantastic life, especially since you and Tessia were born. But you Corvis... you are sixteen."
Distracting myself? The phrase echoed hollowly in the cavern of my mind. What did that even mean? What space was there for distraction when my nights were fractured by memories that stole my breath? When the phantom scent of burning battlefields I sent on fire woth the Krakatoa or the echo of a dying soldier's gasp could trigger panic that clawed at my throat, leaving me gasping in the dark?
When the weight of decisions made—letting Augustine flee, sending soldiers to their deaths, the sheer, bloody calculus of survival—pressed down until I felt my ribs might crack?
And what were my distractions? My hobbies? I searched my life, a frantic inventory that yielded… nothing. Training sessions with Albold? Brutal, necessary drills focused solely on honing my lethality, refining the weapon I needed my body to be.
Developing weapons for the Barbarossa or other projects with Gideon and Emily? Visits to Etistin were strategic, overseeing the Beast Corps production, the nascent train prototypes—all tools of war. Meetings with the Council? Endless strategizing, resource allocation, damage control. Thinking about new magic interactions? Pushing the boundaries of Accaron, Rhabdomancy, refining Beyond the Meta and Against the Tragedy… all to gain an edge, to kill more efficiently, to make Dicathen survive.
Even the times spent with people I cherished felt tainted, repurposed. Berna's comforting presence was my guardian, my protector in battle. Grampa's wisdom was counsel for a commander. My parents… interactions strained by my position, by the secrets I still carried, by the war that overshadowed everything.
Training sessions with Kathlyn and Curtis before they took their own commands? They were lessons in leadership, in combat coordination. Grey's return, our reunion… what had we done? Talked strategy, then plunged straight into the fire at Burim.
The realization hit me with the force of Berna's roar. It wasn't just that I had no hobbies; it was that everything I did, every interaction, every thought, every breath, was filtered through the lens of war.
I wasn't living a life. I was maintaining a war machine. I was the fuel, the engineer, and the weapon itself. Prince Corvis, Vice Commander, the Thwart, the strategist, the artificer, the warrior… they were all roles, functions, components of the machine.
Where was Corvis? The elf who has always sketched intricate rune designs just for using them in the war to come? Coevis, Corvis... he was buried beneath layers of duty, trauma, and the relentless pressure to be the solution, the shield, the sword.
I looked down at my hands, clean now, meticulously groomed, the silver cufflinks gleaming. But in my mind's eye, I saw only blood. I saw schematics not for art, but for destruction. I heard not laughter, but the screams of the dying and Romulos's sardonic and sadistic commentary.
I was a construct of necessity, a sentient engine of conflict, polished and presented in a formal uniform, standing in a chamber of suffering, watching my sister find a sliver of peace I couldn't even conceptualize.
Grampa's hand on my shoulder felt less like comfort and more like the weight of an expectation I was failing—the expectation to remain human in a world determined to grind us into dust. The war machine whirred on, efficient, relentless, and terrifyingly empty.