Virion Eralith
The polished surface of the oval council table reflected the grim faces gathered around it, catching the weak afternoon light filtering through the high, arched windows. Dust motes danced in the beams, incongruously cheerful against the heavy silence.
"After the recent success at the Wall," I began, my voice rougher than intended, scraping against the quiet, "and the confirmed death of an enemy Retainer, coupled with the defeat of a Scythe…" I paused, letting the weight of those accomplishments settle, though they felt hollow shells without the crushing fear that had preceded them. "...we can now discuss the next stages of the war."
My gaze swept the table. Corvis sat rigidly at my right hand, his posture impeccable, his face a mask of composed intensity. Gone was the boy who used to be afraid of everything surrounding him; in his place sat the Vice Commander, forged in fire and burdened by secrets I could only guess at.
Across from me, Buhnd leaned heavily on one gnarled fist, his eyes sharp beneath bushy brows, watching, waiting, his usual joviality buried deep. Blaine Glayder sat opposite Alduin and Merial, his expression carefully neutral, but a flicker of unease betrayed him whenever his gaze brushed Corvis. Priscilla, beside him, looked pale, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the recent losses etched around her eyes.
"Shouldn't we wait for Lord Aldir to return?" Blaine ventured, his voice cutting the heavy silence. A reasonable question. A hopeful one. My heart clenched. Corvis's cryptic letter, delivered during his desperate flight, had planted a seed of terrible premonition.
Before I could formulate a measured response, Corvis spoke. His voice was calm, clear, cutting through the hopeful uncertainty like a shard of ice. "The Asuras won't return to Dicathen."
A collective intake of breath. Priscilla's hand flew to her mouth. Alduin's knuckles whitened on the armrest of his chair. Merial's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Even Buhnd straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing.
"Vice Commander Corvis," Buhnd rumbled, his voice a low bass note of reason in the stunned quiet. "No one here doubts your word. But… details, lad. We require details."
"Of course, Elder Buhnd," Corvis inclined his head, the movement precise, respectful, yet devoid of warmth. "As you know, we captured an enemy Scythe. Nico Sever."
"Through interrogation, we learned the Asuras staged an attack on Agrona Vritra's life." A ripple of shock went around the table and I felt a shiver in the way Corvis said the name of the enemy leader, with too much familiarity.
"They failed." The finality in those two words was crushing. "Consequently, the treaty between the Vritra Clan and Epheotus has been… reconsidered. Epheotus is now explicitly prohibited from offering Dicathen any further assistance." He delivered the sentence like a judge pronouncing a death sentence. Calm. Unflinching. Devastating.
"The gods…" Priscilla whispered, her voice trembling, her face ashen. "...left us?" The words were a plea, a child's bewildered cry in the face of abandonment. They echoed the hollow terror settling in my own old bones.
"Yes," Corvis confirmed, his gaze sweeping the Council, meeting each pair of horrified or grimly accepting eyes.
"And that reality," he continued, a new, sharper edge entering his voice, "means I can now propose to this Council something I could not before, due to Lord Aldir's presence and oversight."
There was a subtle shift in him then. Not just the strategist, but the revolutionary.
Gods, boy, I thought, watching him command the room. When did you become this? It started subtly years ago, with his bold proposals—the 'Corvis Laws' that chafed against tradition but proved their worth as the population rejoiced and chanted the name of Corvis Eralith.
But now… Now, standing before the assembled rulers of Dicathen, revealing the abandonment by our celestial patrons and poised to unveil a defiance of their very design… He moved with an unnerving certainty. His gestures were economical, potent. His eyes held a depth of knowledge and a chilling resolve that seemed… borrowed.
Or perhaps honed in a crucible I hadn't witnessed. It was as if a mantle of absolute conviction had settled upon him, guided by an unseen, relentless hand. It was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling.
"As the Council has surely observed," he began, pacing slightly now, his voice resonating with quiet authority, "the Lances possess a singular, critical flaw." He paused, letting the statement resonate. "Their power is stagnant. Frozen."
"Even when I provided them with replicas of Asuran Weapons—artifacts I personally crafted to augment their combat effectiveness—their inherent strength remained capped. Unchanged."
He stopped, turning fully to face us. "Everyone… except Alea Triscan." A murmur went through the room. Alea's recent, meteoric rise was undeniable. "The one formerly known as the weakest Lance," Corvis stated, a hint of vindication in his tone, "is now a burgeoning star of power for Dicathen. There is only one explanation." He leaned forward slightly, resting his knuckles on the table.
"The artifacts bestowed upon the royal families by the Asuras, generations ago by Windsom Indrath… they contain a fatal flaw. Not an accident, but a deliberate design. A seal. It blocks the natural growth of a Lance's core. It chains their potential, ensuring they remain powerful weapons… but never rivals. Never threats."
Silence. Thick, disbelieving silence. Then Blaine Glayder surged forward in his seat, his face flushed. "Wait! Are you saying… you broke the seal on Lance Triscan?" His voice was a mixture of outrage, disbelief, and a dawning, terrible hope.
"Exactly," Corvis confirmed, his gaze locking onto Blaine's. There was no triumph in his eyes, only cold, hard fact. "I did it years ago. Secretly. And I could not replicate it for the others," his voice lowered, becoming dangerously soft, "both because of the ever-watchful eyes of the Asuras upon us…"
He paused, letting the implication hang.
"...and because of a certain king signing a capture order that forced me into the shadows, hindering my work and endangering countless lives."
He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The accusation, delivered with icy precision, was a whip-crack in the chamber. He glared at Blaine. Not with the hot anger of a wronged youth, but with the cold, assessing contempt of a commander recalling a strategic blunder that had cost dearly.
This was the uncharacteristic vengeance that chilled me. My Corvis, who forgave everything, who championed second chances… where was that boy now? What shadows had etched this coldness onto his soul?
Blaine paled, recoiling as if physically struck. The memory of his fear-driven order, his distrust of the prodigy prince, hung heavy and sour in the air. Priscilla placed a trembling hand on his arm. Alduin's expression was granite. Merial's eyes held a complex mix of understanding for her husband's past fear and sorrow for the rift it had caused.
"We understood the point, Vice Commander," I interjected firmly, my voice cutting through the thick tension before it could curdle further. I coughed, a deliberate break in the fraught atmosphere.
Corvis immediately straightened, the fierce glare vanishing as he turned towards me, inclining his head in a brief, respectful bow. The mask of the statesman slid back into place, seamless and unnerving.
The meeting droned on, descending into the necessary, soul-numbing of bureaucracy, logistics, and the grim mechanics of war under the shadow of divine abandonment. Plans were laid for unsealing the Lances, resources allocated, strategies debated. But my focus kept drifting back to my grandson.
The cold fury I'd glimpsed in Corvis's eyes, the calculated strike at Blaine… that was a different kind of tremor, deep within the foundations of the boy I thought I knew. The war outside was monstrous enough.
Corvis Eralith
"Thanks for speaking on my behalf to the Council," I said to Romulos as I took back control of my body. I rubbed my eyes as my sight refocused.
"Oh, don't worry. Did it work? Do you feel more rested?" Romulos asked me.
I have done all of this because I was feeling rather tired after what happened with Nico, and seeing that I had a meeting with the Council an hour later I let Romulos take the reigns for a while and he once again gave me control back.
No, it didn't work I am still sleepy... I need some rest. Without much words I headed back to my room, ready to fall on my bed and sleep.
———
The fist hammering against my door was a detonation in the fragile silence of my quarters. "Vice Commander!" The guard's voice, raw with panic, shredded the remnants of sleep. "Emergency! Immediate!"
Adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded my veins, banishing the heavy stupor in an instant. My body moved before conscious thought—rolling from the bed, bare feet hitting the icy stone floor. The formal attire discarded before laid neatly draped over a chair.
Each movement was precise, automatic, a soldier's ingrained response overriding the disorientation. The door swung open to reveal the guard, his face pale under his helm, breath fogging in the chill. The sky outside was still the deep orange of evening. I had barely an hour of restless sleep.
"What's happening?" My voice was calm, a deliberate counterpoint to his agitation, though my mind was already racing, scanning possibilities—breach? Retainer attack? Betrayal?
"The Alacryan navy, sir." His words hit like a physical blow. "Sighted approaching the northern coast. The Elenoir Kingdom."
Elenoir. My home. Not the expected western approach, past the fortified ports and the minefields I'd spent months meticulously seeding across the Dicathean Sea. Mines designed to cripple any massed fleet before it reached our vulnerable western shores. Damn.
News from the Dicatheous had gone dark from our western scouts for weeks. I'd assumed Agrona's shadow networks, not… this. A colossal reroute. A feint that had become the main thrust.
"Take me to the Council. Now." The order snapped out, devoid of hesitation. The Castle corridors, usually echoing with distant activity, were a tomb at this hour. Our footsteps were the only sound, sharp and urgent on the flagstones. The portal gate hummed with activation, the disorienting lurch of spatial displacement, and then…
…Cold, salt-laden air slapped my face. The scent of pine and damp earth—uniquely Elenoir. We stood on a cliffside north of Asyphin. It felt like home. The visceral familiarity warred with the chilling sight before me. Captain Auddyr, his weathered elven face grim, snapped a salute.
"Prince Corvis. You've arrived." Beside him stood Aya, her usual composed elegance strained, eyes shadowed with worry.
"Your Highness," she murmured, her voice tight.
I barely acknowledged them, my gaze locked on the horizon. Sunset was bleeding into the sky, casting long, bruise-colored shadows over the churning grey sea.
And there, emerging like a nightmare made manifest, were the ships. Hundreds of them. Not the lumbering troop carriers I'd expected, but sleek, predatory silhouettes—Alacryan warships, their hulls cutting through the waves with terrifying purpose.
A vast, silent armada stretching towards the vulnerable coastline, towards the ancient trees of the Elshire Forest behind us.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the ominous silence of the approaching fleet. This cliff… I hadn't stood here since I was eleven, when Grampa showed me the strange Djinn ruin. Now, it offered a front-row seat to invasion.
"Captain Auddyr," I forced my voice steady, turning to the veteran. "Repositioning? The coastal defenses?" My mind was already overlaying tactical maps onto the scene.
"Division repositioned as per contingency plans, Vice Commander," Auddyr reported, his voice gravelly but firm. "Barriers raised, the mage crews at stations. But…" He hesitated, the unspoken 'but' hanging heavier than his next words. "Scouts report significant enemy movement pushing inland from the Beast Glades border. Attempting to pierce the Elshire Forest directly."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Not just the coast. They were striking at the forest heartland simultaneously. Agrona wasn't just attacking Elenoir; he was dissecting it. Testing its resilience from land and sea.
"Understood," I said, the word clipped. My brain felt like a war room ablaze, scenarios flashing, colliding, being discarded. Why here? Why now? Why bypass the mined west?
Because he knew. The realization was a bucket of ice water. He knew about the mines. This wasn't a change of plan; it was a calculated demonstration.
Look, Corvis, I see your toys. I bypass them effortlessly. What else do you hide?
Agrona wasn't merely targeting Elenoir. This was his gauntlet thrown down. His 'final challenge' wasn't a singular battle; it was a masterstroke of pressure. Attack the homeland of the Vice Commander, the heart of the elves, and force a diversion of resources.
While we scrambled to defend the north, what of Darv? Its long southern coastline was suddenly horrifyingly exposed. A third wave could be striking there even now, exploiting the vacuum.
"Impressive," Romulos's voice drawled in my mind, devoid of its usual sarcasm, carrying a note of genuine, chilling admiration. "I second your reasoning, Corvis. Very smart. Ruthless efficiency. Classic Father." His approval felt like a brand.
I always knew Agrona wasn't fighting a war; he was playing chess—a game—sacrificing pawns to checkmate the king. And Elenoir was the sacrifice he dangled before me.
I took a final, long look at the approaching doom. The ships weren't the overwhelming, horizon-filling horde described in Arthur's journey. This was… precise. Surgical. Agrona hadn't delayed his navy because of logistical issues or my mines sinking his fleet.
He'd held them back, refined their deployment, waiting for this moment. Waiting to unleash a coordinated, overwhelming assault from three vectors simultaneously: north against Elenoir, south against Darv and through the Beast Glades into the Elshire Forest.
He wasn't just invading; he was demonstrating the utter futility of our defenses, the totality of his control over the board.
Fine, I can work with these odds.