Claire Bladeheart
The grand ballroom of the flying Castle, usually echoing with the stern commands of strategy, now hummed with a different kind of energy—the weary, triumphant thrum of celebration winding down.
The air, thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, roasted meats, spilled wine, and the faint, lingering ozone of spent mana used for spectacles, felt heavy against my skin.
Hours had bled away in a blur of forced gaiety, polite applause, and murmured conversations about tactics and loss disguised as victory toasts.
The marvelous sounds—the soaring strings, the rhythmic thump of dancing feet, the clatter of cutlery, the roar of relieved laughter—were softening now, retreating like a tide leaving behind a beach littered with exhaustion and the quiet buzz of aftermath.
Crystal chandeliers overhead cast dazzling, almost oppressive light, glinting off medals and jewelry, momentarily drowning the shadows of war that haunted every face, including my own.
My own contribution to this victory felt distant, a gritty reality obscured by the castle's polished grandeur. I'd fought on the southern stretches of the Wall, amidst the choking dust and the visceral terror of clashing steel and screaming spells.
The memory of the Alacryan push, relentless and brutal, was still sharp – the desperate hold, the moment hope seemed lost, and then the thunderous arrival. Master Gideon's ingenious constructs, like metal titans wreathed in steam, crashing into the enemy flank—the Beast Corps, a terrifying, awe-inspiring wave of coordinated exoforms made out of mana beasts and their operators.
Their intervention had been the pivot, the force that finally cracked the Alacryan resolve and sent them reeling back jn our side of the battle. We'd held. We'd pushed back. The significance wasn't lost on anyone in this room; it was the first real, undeniable victory in a war defined by grim defense and devastating losses. The relief was palpable, a heady intoxication almost as potent as the wine.
"You've reached silver core too, Claire? That's impressive." Prince Curtis Glayder's voice pulled me from the battlefield's lingering echo. He stood nearby, looking regal yet slightly worn in his formal attire, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples betraying the hours of obligatory socializing.
Beside him, Princess Kathlyn was a study in composed neutrality, her ice-blue gown mirroring the cool distance in her eyes, though a subtle tension held her shoulders rigid.
Feyrith Ivsaar III, his elven features animated with the evening's energy, chimed in before I could respond.
"Princess Tessia is also silver core! High stage, actually—verging on white core, I hear." There was a hint of pride in his voice, a remnant of our shared days on the Xyrus Academy Disciplinary Committee, where such milestones were everything.
My gaze instinctively sought Tessia amidst the thinning crowd of dancers. She moved with a newfound grace beside Grey. The sight sparked a different kind of warmth.
"About Tessia," I said, turning back to the small group, a knowing smile touching my lips. "She and Grey… they've finally stopped dancing around the obvious and embraced it, haven't they?"
Curtis and Kathlyn followed my gaze towards the dance floor's center. Tessia and Grey were no longer dancing, but standing close, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they spoke to another couple. The connection between them was almost visible, an intensity and passion that seemed to carve out a private space amidst the public celebration.
It was a different kind of victory, fragile and beautiful. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Sylvie, Grey's bond, perched precariously on the edge of a heavily laden dessert table, a large slice of cake clutched triumphantly in her little fox paws, blissfully unconcerned with the political weight of the room.
Kathlyn's gaze swept the ballroom, a subtle frown creasing her otherwise impassive brow. "I wonder where Corvis is. I haven't seen him all evening." Her voice was calm, but the observation carried an unexpected weight.
Her words struck me like a splash of cold water. In the whirl of festive noise, the press of familiar and unfamiliar faces—Council members, Lances radiating contained power, nobles from every corner of Dicathen bedecked in their finest—I hadn't consciously registered the absence.
Yet now that Kathlyn voiced it, the gap felt glaringly obvious. Prince Corvis, the architect of much of Dicathen's destiny, the figure whose strategic mind and raw power were as much a part of this victory as the Wall itself… was missing.
How had I not noticed? The celebratory air, thick as it was, suddenly felt incomplete, lacking a vital current.
"I wondered that too," Curtis admitted, folding his arms across his chest, his earlier weariness replaced by thoughtful concern. "It's… unlike him. Strategically, socially… his presence would be expected."
"Should we inquire if he's alright?" Kathlyn pressed, her usual impassivity fracturing just enough to reveal genuine disquiet. "It's highly irregular for Prince Corvis to be absent on such an occasion."
That word—'irregular'—underscored the anomaly.
Corvis was a constant, a force of nature woven into the fabric of Dicathen's defense. His absence was strange, very strange.
I'd fought skirmishes alongside the Glayder siblings, guarding supply lines and repelling mana beast surges on Sapin's borders. As royalty, they hadn't yet been thrust onto the primary Alacryan frontlines, a fact I knew chafed, especially Curtis, who burned with a quiet desire to prove himself beyond his title.
Kathlyn's withdrawal was more pronounced, a strategic decision that sat uneasily on her disciplined shoulders.
"Curtis," I shifted the topic slightly, sensing Kathlyn's discomfort, "you mentioned you were offered an instructor role at Lanceler Academy?" It felt safer, a conversation about the war's practicalities rather than the unsettling void where Corvis should be.
He nodded, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. "Yes. Given the… current stalemate, and this victory buying time, my parents deemed it more valuable for me to help train the next wave." He glanced briefly at his sister.
"Lanceler is desperate to graduate more battle-ready soldiers quickly. Foot soldiers for the… inevitable next push." The unspoken implication hung heavy: while others fight the real war.
"And you, Princess Kathlyn?" I asked gently, turning to her.
Her expression remained flawlessly composed, a mask carved from ice. "Our parents deemed my withdrawal… necessary." The pause before 'necessary' was infinitesimal, but telling. "And now that Curtis is committed to Lanceler…"
She left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was clear: her path back to active combat was effectively closed. The faintest tightening of her jaw was the only betrayal of the frustration simmering beneath that royal calm.
The final strains of music faded into respectful applause as Tessia and Grey approached our little group. They moved with a shared energy, a silent confidence that hadn't been there before they'd acknowledged their feelings.
Tessia's silver hair seemed to glow, her eyes bright, while Grey carried himself with less of the intimidating, self-contained tension, replaced by a grounded presence that was somehow more formidable.
"Oh, look who decided to rejoin the land of the conversational!" I teased lightly, the camaraderie of our shared academy days surfacing. Their answering smiles were effortless, radiant.
They were utterly, completely lost to each other, and the sight was both heartwarming and a stark reminder of what we were all fighting to protect—the simple, profound right to love and be loved.
"Glad to see you two enjoying yourselves," Curtis offered politely, though his tone held a reserve. He and Grey had never been close, even on the Disciplinary Committee.
Curtis seemed to be grappling with this new, more openly human version of the once-impenetrable figure, a shift that clearly unsettled him.
"Grey, my esteemed rival! Princess Tessia!" Feyrith interjected with characteristic enthusiasm, oblivious to the undercurrents. "We were just pondering the conspicuous absence of Prince Corvis. He seems to have vanished entirely from the festivities!"
Tessia's smile faltered slightly. "Oh, Corvis? Ehm…" She glanced at Grey, seeking a cue.
"He's on probation," Grey stated flatly, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise serious eyes.
"Probation?" The word fell from Curtis, Kathlyn, Feyrith, and my own lips simultaneously. It sounded alien, bureaucratic, utterly incongruous with the Prince we knew. "What does that mean?"
Grey rolled his eyes, the gesture conveying his opinion of the situation perfectly. "Oh, right. Well… it's a form of punishment. Means he's barred from the party." His dismissal of its importance was clear.
"What could His Highness possibly have done to warrant such… probation?" Feyrith pressed, his elven features etched with genuine confusion and concern.
Tessia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, her eyes scanning the nearby guests.
"Actually," she said, ushering us subtly towards a quieter balcony overlooking the moonlit clouds below, "me and Grey… we wanted to talk to you about that."
Once we were gathered in the relative privacy, the sounds of the dying ballroom a muffled backdrop, she continued, her voice low and earnest.
"We were thinking… of throwing Corvis a surprise party. A real one. Just us, his friends. Somewhere… normal. To remind him… to remind ourselves…" She didn't need to finish. The war had stolen so much of our youth, our carefree moments. This was an act of rebellion, a reclaiming.
A surge of pure, unadulterated delight washed over me, momentarily banishing the fatigue and the lingering unease about Corvis's absence. "Sounds perfect!" I exclaimed, perhaps too loudly, earning a shushing gesture from Tessia and a chuckle from Curtis.
"I am absolutely certain Prince Corvis would never see it coming!" The image of the notoriously vigilant, perpetually prepared prince caught utterly off guard by genuine affection was irresistible.
"Knowing him," Grey drawled, a dry smirk playing on his lips, "we'll be lucky if we don't trigger a security protocol meant for Retainers and end up dangling in mana-nets over the sky below the Castle." Only he laughed, a short, sharp sound.
Tessia nudged him affectionately. "You still have significant work to do on your comedic delivery, Grey." Her tone was light, but held a kernel of truth. "But… knowing how… thoroughly my brother plans for contingencies…" She left the implication hanging.
"You're starting to scare me," I said playfully, widening my eyes in mock alarm. Curtis shook his head, a genuine smirk finally breaking through his reserve, and Kathlyn… Kathlyn actually chuckled.
It was a soft, breathy sound, so unexpected it startled her, and she immediately raised a delicate hand to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise at her own reaction. That tiny, unguarded moment, that rare crack in her royal composure, was more precious than any victory toast.
"Wait!" Feyrith exclaimed, his face a picture of earnest alarm, completely missing the joke. "You don't mean that seriously, do you?! Are there actually traps?!"
His genuine panic was the final spark. The tension, the absurdity, the sheer relief of being young and scheming something joyful amidst the war, broke.
Laughter bubbled up—repressed giggles from Tessia, a fuller chuckle from Curtis, my own slightly breathless laugh, and even Kathlyn, her hand still covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking silently. Grey just looked mildly offended.
"That," I managed to say, wiping a stray tear of laughter from my eye and winking at Grey, "that is how you land a joke. Take notes."
Grey huffed, turning his back on us with an air of wounded dignity, though I suspected he was hiding a smile.
"Let's just go find Corvis," he grumbled, the amusement still audible beneath the gruffness.
"I think we should gather a few more," Tessia said, her eyes sparkling with the plan coming together. "Emily, definitely. Albold too. People he trusts, people who understand him—"
A new voice, high-pitched and laced with excitement, chirped from Grey's shoulder. Sylvie had materialized, a tiny smear of frosting on her muzzle.
"Are we going to have a party for Uncle?" she piped up, her golden eyes wide with delight. "I will steal the best cake for him! The one with the shiny berries!"
"Sylvie can talk?!" The question burst from me, astonishment overriding decorum. The little fox bond had always been intelligent, but audible speech was new.
But the surprise was instantly swept aside by the momentum of our conspiracy. Explanations could wait. Right now, we had a mission: to ambush a prince with friendship, to carve out a pocket of pure, unadulterated joy in the heart of a war-torn world.
Romulos Indrath
The cool metal of Corvis' cufflinks felt alien beneath my borrowed fingers. I adjusted them, a strangely intimate gesture with another man's wrists, savoring the simple act of feeling—the texture of the fine fabric, the subtle pulse of blood beneath the skin.
Drawing a deep, deliberate breath into Corvis' lungs was a luxury I hadn't realized I craved. The air tasted clean, sharp, carrying the faint ozone tang of the Castle's ambient mana and the distant scent of the sea of clouds far below.
How generous, I mused, a flicker of genuine warmth cutting through my usual cynicism. To trust me with this. A good brother, indeed.
I stood perched on the highest cupola of the Castle's tallest spire, a gargoyle carved from moonlight and gunmetal hair.
The world sprawled beneath me—Dicathen's fragmented landscape swallowed by night, the stars above impossibly bright, unpolluted by Epheotus' brilliance.
Using Corvis' body was… seamless. Effortless. The Against the Tragedy tattoo network, a masterpiece of symbiotic agony etched onto his very being, thrummed on my borrowed skin, a complex lattice converting ambient mana into life-force, into existence.
It wasn't my asuran form, not the draconic power I once wielded, but it was solid. Real. A testament to Corvis' indomitable will. A lesser being would have shattered, been reduced to a broken husk after the trauma that necessitated this body of his after he wielded Anti-Matter.
Corvis? He'd merely traded unimpeded movement for a walking cane—which he promptly weaponized and augmented into an extension of his fascinating, idiosyncratic magic. A magic I once dismissed as weak, rudimentary when I forst saw it.
Now? I saw its intricate potential, its elegant defiance of conventional power scaling. It was… engaging. Original. A language of mana I was only beginning to appreciate. And a language we will speak together one day.
But that unique spark, that beautiful defiance… it would inevitably be consumed. When Corvis finally opened his eyes—his real eyes, not the borrowed lenses I currently peered through—and embraced his Vritra nature, the delicate artifice of his current magic would burn away in the crucible of asuran power.
A necessary sacrifice? Perhaps. But it needed to be his choice. His awakening. Dad had to see him not as a weapon forged by Fate, not as a tool like so many others, but as I saw him now: family, my brother.
His son. Just as he saw me, despite everything. Agrona Vritra… my father… was a monument to loneliness sculpted by betrayal. Betrayed by his own kin, by his allies, the Indrath Clan. Betrayed by the other asura clans who feared his intellect.
Betrayed even by my mother, Sylvia, whose gentle heart I loved yet whose choices I'd grown to bitterly resent. Corvis only saw the tyrant, the architect of Alacrya's grim efficiency, the cruel god-dictator.
He didn't glimpse the obsessive scientist, the relentless researcher who sought to unravel the universe's deepest secrets, the lonely genius whose ambition curdled into something monstrous when met with nothing but rejection and fear.
He didn't see the man who, in his final moments, had whispered love to me. Who had asked me for forgiveness. Who hadn't regretted a single choice, but spending more time with me.
But I knew. I knew, with a certainty that burned in my borrowed chest, that Dad would find in Corvis not just power, but a kindred intellect, a spark of defiance that mirrored his own youthful rebellion.
They could be friends. Allies. Perhaps… family. Not just by convenience, but by understanding.
I settled onto the cold stone curve of the cupola, Corvis' body folding naturally into a position I favored centuries—maybe millenia—ago. Above, the starscape was a breathtaking tapestry, far superior to Epheotus' curated celestial displays.
I remembered sneaking away as a young dragon, drawn to Dicathen's raw, untamed beauty—the sprawling forests, the jagged mountains, the vast, untamed oceans.
Simplicity holding a profound majesty Grandfather Kezess could never comprehend. He'd always found me, chastising me for sullying the Indrath heir's dignity amidst the "lessers." How suffocating that gilded cage felt.
I absently brushed a stray lock of gunmetal hair from Corvis' forehead. Now… now I just had to wait. Observe the game unfold. See what deliciously complex challenges Dad would throw at my little brother, and relish the inevitable moment Corvis would not only meet them but transcend them, forging his own path through the labyrinth.
When was the last time I'd felt this… connected? This invested in another being's journey? Not since Dad. Not since Sylvie. Arthur. The name echoed like a mournful bell. Always Arthur. The paragon. The hero. The best this wretched world ever produced, yet the architect of my deepest sorrows and greatest achievements and joys at the same time.
My hands—Corvis' hands—clenched involuntarily on the stone.
And the thought of Grey? This Grey... he was becoming scarily similar to my Art...
No, Romulos! I snarled inwardly, the force of the thought reverberating in the confined space of our shared consciousness. He is NOT Art! This Grey was a shadow, a ghost clinging to Arthur's past life, becoming unnervingly similar, yet fundamentally… different.
Footsteps. Multiple. Ascending the spiral stairs within the spire below. Intruders. Annoyance flared, cold and sharp. I had woven a subtle layer of Mirage Walk around Corvis' form, bending light and muffling presence, making us an insignificant part of the night's architecture. I wanted solitude with my thoughts, with the stars, with the borrowed sense of being.
"Corvis! Are you up here?" Tessia Eralith's voice, laced with hopeful concern, pierced the quiet. Tessia Eralith... I have wronged her more than any other and now I felt guilty because she was my brother's sister.
"And so much for the surprise," sighed another female voice. Claire Bladeheart. A name I knew only from Dragoth's reports in my past life. I'd erased her Beast Corps detachment without a second thought, a flick of Anti-Matter reducing their clunky exoskeletons to decaying atoms.
Crude constructs, utterly insignificant next to the mechanical marvel that was Corvis' Barbarossa. Artificing… I'd always considered it a brutish mockery of true magic, a clumsy imprisonment of mana. But Corvis… he showed me its artistry. Its boundless potential for creation, not just destruction.
He wielded Meta-awareness not just for raw power, but for intricate, beautiful innovation. He saw possibilities in the weave of reality I'd dismissed as trivial. His was an art form I could admire, even envy, though I'd never admit it aloud.
"I don't think he is here," Curtis Glayder's voice drifted up. A pawn. Easily manipulated by my grandfather's agents. Insignificant. He died as a consequence of my annihilation of Etitsin when that arrogant bastard of Charon tried to impose Grandfather's will on me.
He told me that as the Heir of Epheotus I could still be forgiven if I returned to Grandfather. Idiotic.
"We've searched practically the entire Castle," Emily Watsken pointed out, her tone pragmatic. I first met her when I decided to help the Lances improve their rudimentary mana arts, she wasn't too bad for a lesser.
"True," conceded Albold's voice. An elf whose life I'd incidentally saved when I crippled and then erased Taci at the Sanctuary.
Taci Thyestes… his death by my hand, fueled by rage and grief after Grandfather… that had been the point of no return. The final step into the abyss.
"He's there." Grey's voice. Flat. Certain. Cutting through the speculation. King Grey's ghost, honed by hardship, becoming sharper, more resonant. Too resonant. A shiver that wasn't mine ran through Corvis' spine.
They emerged onto the observatory platform below the cupola, a cluster of expectant faces illuminated by the starlight. Tessia, hopeful. Claire, determined. Curtis, reserved. Kathlyn, observant. Feyrith, earnest. Emily, practical. Albold, wary. And Grey, his eyes like chips of obsidian, fixed unerringly on my hidden perch. Sylvie perched on his shoulder.
Enough hiding. I dissolved the Mirage Walk, stepping gracefully down from the cupola and through the open archway into the observatory room. Corvis' body moved with a fluidity that was mine, yet perfectly calibrated to his natural grace.
Years of observing him, studying his mannerisms, his subtle expressions, his cadence—it all flowed instinctively.
"Grey? Tessia?" Corvis' voice, modulated perfectly—a blend of mild surprise and characteristic calm. "What are you all doing here?" My borrowed gaze swept over them, projecting polite inquiry, masking the storm within.
Sylvie didn't hesitate. With a happy chirp, she launched herself from Grey's shoulder, a tiny silver comet, and landed squarely in Corvis'—my—arms.
"Surprise, Corvis!" she declared, nuzzling her furry head against his chest with pure, unadulterated affection.
Every ounce of my formidable will, honed over centuries, slammed into place to maintain Corvis' expression. A half-smile, touched with genuine surprise, softening into serene acceptance. The mask was flawless. But inside… inside, the world cracked.
I remembered the first time I saw Sylvie. Grandfather kept her existence hidden from me until Art was jailed by the lessers in the Castle of Dicathen.
I saw her in Art's arm sleeping peacefully after that disgusting bootlicker of Windsom rescued her from her cell. In that moment I just wanted to annihilate all the lessers that harmed her.
For the first time in my long, long life I didn't feel alone. More memories flooded my mind, their weight the most you can lift plus more.
"Brother! Brother! Where is Pa—I mean Arthur?" The memory slammed into me with the force of an exploding sun. Sylvie, tiny and bright, perched between my horns as I carried her back to Arthur after a grueling session with Kordri Thyestes. Her trust. Her joy. Pure and uncomplicated.
Then, the visceral terror of seeing her throw herself as a shield against Cadell's killing blow aimed at Arthur. The blinding rage that had consumed me, tearing Cadell apart atom by atom. The paralyzing fear of what would have happened if I'd been a second slower.
Later, fleeing Epheotus, a young dragon sobbing after Grandfather's cruel revelations about Dad, finding fleeting solace only in Sylvie's innocent presence before wrenching myself away, knowing I brought only danger.
And finally… the battlefield.
Sylvie's desperate, tear-choked pleas echoing as I raged against Arthur after he struck down Dad. "Romulos, stop! Please! We can fix this! We can still be a family! Please!" Her belief, even then, in the impossible.
"Corvis!" Grey's voice was sharp, an ice pick shattering the fragile pane of my control. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowed. "Are you alright? You look… pale."
I felt it. The subtle tremor Corvis wouldn't allow. The sudden chill sweat beading on his brow. The chaotic surge of grief, rage, and profound, soul-crushing loss threatening to rupture the carefully constructed facade. I needed out. Now.
Returning control would cause Corvis a mild backlash, a headache, disorientation, stuttering and confusion—manageable, but not something I could conceal here, surrounded by these watchful eyes.
I blinked, forcing Corvis' features back into the reassuring mask, layering a veneer of weary distraction over the internal chaos. "I…" I began, Corvis' voice slightly rougher than intended.
"I appreciate the thought. Truly. But… I'm not really in the mood for a party tonight." I offered Corvis' signature coy smile, the one that usually disarmed worry. "Thanks, though."
Claire tilted her head, perceptive. "How did you know that was our intention?"
The sarcasm, my own, bled through before I could fully filter it. "Really?" I raised an eyebrow, Corvis' expression shifting to mild amusement. "You're not exactly subtle. The bulging pockets, the poorly concealed picnic basket Albold is trying to hide behind his back…?" I gestured vaguely. "The air of conspiratorial excitement? It's rather obvious."
"He discovered us a bit too easily," Claire muttered sotto voce to Tessia, a hint of chagrin in her tone.
The pressure behind my borrowed eyes was building. The phantom scent of blood and decay from the memory-battlefield mixed with the clean night air. Sylvie's trusting weight in my arms was suddenly agonizing.
"I'm going to turn in," I announced, injecting Corvis' voice with a firm, workaholic finality. It was the perfect cover. Who would question Prince Corvis Eralith prioritizing duty and recovery over frivolity?
"Long day tomorrow. Lots to do." The understatement was colossal. I needed the sanctuary of Corvis' room, the quiet darkness, to relinquish control before the borrowed vessel cracked under the weight of a ghost's unbearable grief.
Get a hold of yourself Romulos Vritra.