Corvis Eralith
The weight of command felt less like a mantle and more like leaden chains today.
News from the southern front wete a grim counterpoint to the fragile victories we'd scraped together. The Alacryan navy, its true might finally revealed, wasn't just probing Elenoir's northern coast—it was also hammering Darv with terrifying ferocity.
My strategic relocation of troops felt like bailing out a sinking ship with a teacup. The sheer scale of the force committed to Darv… it twisted the knife of my earlier assumptions.
Was Elenoir merely bait? A feint within a feint? Agrona's mind remained a labyrinth of shifting shadows, each turn revealing deeper, more unsettling layers.
Trying to anticipate him was like trying to grasp smoke; the more I focused, the more elusive and terrifyingly complex his designs became. A familiar, icy frustration settled in my gut.
"Don't get down, Corvis," Romulos's spectral voice chimed in, an unwelcome commentary track to my spiraling thoughts. He materialized leaning against a nearby pillar in the Barbarossa's hangar, arms crossed, observing the frantic activity with detached amusement.
"Grandfather Kezess himself has been flailing against Dad's schemes for centuries. And what does the mighty Lord of Epheotus have to show for it? A trail of failed assassins and a treaty written in coward's ink."
His tone was light, almost mocking, but there was an undercurrent of something else—grudging respect?
"You're doing better than the self-proclaimed god of gods. Consider that."
That's fundamentally different, Romulos, I shot back mentally, my fingers tightening on the high, stiff collar of my steel-grey uniform. The fabric felt constricting, a constant reminder of the role I was forced to play.
Kezess doesn't care about Dicathen. Lessers are insects to him, casualties in a celestial pissing contest. He sends killers not to protect, but to maintain a stagnant, self-serving status quo.
His inaction isn't failure; it's calculated indifference.
The distinction mattered, even if the result—Dicathen bleeding out—felt agonizingly similar.
Romulos sighed dramatically, a ripple passing through his insubstantial form. "Fine, fine. Philosophical nuances. I merely sought to bolster morale. A futile endeavor, it seems." He pushed off the console, drifting closer. "So, where does the grim-faced strategist who doesn't know the word optimism lead us now? More paperwork?"
The barb was expected, but my focus was already shifting. Agrona is escalating. Retainers were bad enough, but Scythes… Nico was a captured anomaly. If he committed fully and not against me… the thought sent a chill down my spine.
Mordain can't ignore this. Not anymore. The decision crystallized, cold and hard.
Romulos froze mid-drift, then materialized fully in front of me, his obsidian eyes wide with genuine surprise, then sharpening into predatory interest.
"The Hearth?" he breathed, a slow, unsettling grin spreading across his draconic features. "Now that is… unexpectedly intriguing."
He leaned in, his spectral height still imposing despite my own growth. At sixteen, I'd finally surpassed most people my age, but Romulos's remembered form radiated an ancient, predatory stature.
"Oh?" he purred, noticing my involuntary flicker of discomfort. "Is my little brother feeling… vertically challenged? How delightfully mortal."
The mockery was laced with something colder, a reminder of the gulf between his existence and mine. It made my skin crawl.
"Let's be off then," he continued, the grin turning feral. "No Aldir breathing down our necks. No Windy lurking in the shadows. Finally, a chance for a proper family reunion with dear Uncle Mordain."
I hope this goes well, I thought, the sentiment heavy with unspoken dread. The logistics alone were fraught. Traveling openly with Berna, I didn't know if that was enough.
The Barbarossa… arriving in a war machine forged from Dicathen's desperation wasn't exactly a gesture of peaceful intent.
Bringing Grey and Sylvie felt like a gamble, a necessary vulnerability. They were my anchors, yes, but also potential complications in a situation demanding the utmost delicacy.
Trust was a luxury we could ill afford, yet it was the only currency Mordain might accept. I only hoped that bringing Kezess' granddaughter together with a Vritra-blooded human wouldn't create challenging difficulties.
"Uncle Mordain is… fundamentally decent," Romulos offered, his tone uncharacteristically neutral as he paced beside me, a flickering shadow only I could see. "A relic of a gentler time, perhaps. His flaw is profound isolationism. He sees the rot, smells the blood on the wind, yet chooses to barricade himself within his sanctuary, mistaking neutrality for wisdom."
It was the closest Romulos would ever come to criticism tinged with… not affection, but perhaps a sliver of exasperated recognition.
I found them in the hangar bay, dwarfed by the looming, dormant form of the Barbarossa. Grey stood like a sentinel carved from obsidian, his usual stillness radiating a deeper tension. Sylvie, perched on his shoulder, spotted me first.
"Uncle!" she chirped, launching herself through the air in a streak of silver and white fur. The impact against my chest was small but solid, a warm, living counterweight to the spectral chill of Romulos. She nuzzled against my uniform, her familiar presence a balm against the hangar's industrial cold. I met Grey's eyes over her head.
"How are things?" I asked, my voice deliberately low, keeping the question general but knowing exactly what burdened him. "With Nico, especially."
The Council, reluctantly swayed by my insistence and Grey's quiet, haunted testimony, had granted Nico a week's reprieve from the dungeons—confined, mana-restricted, monitored, but not caged. A fragile concession. And the fact that he was not under Agrona's control anymore would make him less of a risk.
Grey's gaze dropped for a fraction of a second before snapping back, harder. "He doesn't speak. To anyone. Just… stares. Or ignores." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of rare frustration. "I don't know what to do, Corvis. Words… they feel useless. Hollow. I'm not ready for this."
"You did what you could," I said, the words feeling brittle even as I spoke them. Meaningless platitudes in the face of such profound fracture.
"Sometimes… the wound needs time. Space." It was a feeble offering, a bandage on a gaping wound. The silence stretched, thick with shared helplessness.
Grey's eyes flickered then, landing on the sleek, black suitcase in my left hand, my right gripping the worn pommel of my walking cane for balance and grounding.
"What's that for?" he asked, curiosity cutting through the gloom. "And where exactly are we headed that requires luggage? A diplomatic summit in a warzone?"
A flicker of grim amusement touched me. "This?" I hefted the suitcase. "It contains the… fruits of Wren Kain's generosity. The supplies you retrieved for me. I've sorted, analyzed, and prepared them. Alchemical potential requires precise catalysts."
To demonstrate, I focused, channeling a sliver of mana. The suitcase vanished into the dimensional pocket of one of my storage rings, then reappeared in my hand a heartbeat later. "Modified storage enchantment. Self-contained, stable enough for ring transit."
Grey's brow furrowed. "You've deciphered their use? Alchemical magic… that's interesting, but it sounds a bit volatile."
"It's o ly an hypothesis for now," I corrected. "But theories require testing and controlled environments are preferable." I anticipated his next question, the adventurer's instinct flaring. "We're going to test it in a dungeon. One called Hollow's Edge." I paused, meeting his gaze squarely. "Doubt you'll find it in any Dicathen Guild ledger, 'Oh S-Class Adventurer'."
"Hollow's Edge?" Grey's confusion was palpable.
"Because it's not of Dicathen in a way," I stated, my voice dropping lower. "Not truly. Its current guardians are the Asclepius Clan of the phoenix race."
"Asuras?" Grey breathed, his body tensing visibly. Sylvie, still nestled against my chest, let out a low, protective rumble. "Here? On Dicathen's soil?"
"Remember my assessment of Kezess?" I asked, the memory of Epheotus's oppressive grandeur and Kezess's chilling, detached cruelty flooding back.
Grey nodded, his expression hardening before he replied.
"Yes, I saw it with my own eyes when I was in Epheotus. A dragon-shaped Agrona, minus the overt theatricality. Utterly amoral. Utterly convinced of his divine right."
"What about him?" Grey pressed, sensing the connection.
"Not all Asuras kneel to the Indrath... and not all of them are Vritra and Sylvie." I explained, gently stroking Sylvie's head. Her answering chirp vibrated against me, a small surge of defiant warmth that felt suspiciously amplified by Romulos's silent presence.
"I am loyal only to my loved ones!" she declared, fierce and pure. "I will protect you, Grey, and Tessia, forever!"
"The Asclepius Clan is one such group," I continued. "And unlike the Vritra, fractured under Agrona's… unique leadership, they are unified. Purposeful. And they are not alone." I took a breath, knowing the next revelation would strike deep. "Within Hollow's Edge, sheltered by the Asclepius, dwell the survivors. The remnants of the Djinn race. The Ancient Mages."
"The Ancient Mages?!" Grey's voice was sharp with disbelief, then dropped to a horrified whisper. "The architects of Xyrus City, the Castle… the Relictombs?"
The implications crashed over him. His next words were barely audible, laced with grim understanding.
"The ones Kezess slaughtered?"
"The very same," I confirmed, my own voice turning brittle, edged with a harshness I couldn't suppress. "Pacifists, they call themselves. But it's more than that. It's… passivity. An absolute refusal to take arms. A refusal to fight back, even when the blade was literally at their collective throat."
The Djinn's choice had always baffled and infuriated me. I understood pacifism as an ideal, a rejection of violence. But theirs seemed less a philosophy and more a surrender, a willing extinction. How could they? The question burned. I, too, had once recoiled from violence.
But faced with Agrona, with Kezess, with the annihilation of everything I held dear… pacifism felt like complicity. Like handing your executioner the axe. My knuckles whitened on the cane's pommel.
But what could the Djinn do? They planned to use Fate to block the rift between the Old World and Epheotus, but they failed. And with that plan failing only slaughter remained for them.
Sensing the sudden storm within me, Sylvie lifted her head, placing a small, warm paw directly over my heart.
"Corvis," she murmured, her voice filled with gentle concern, cutting through the rising tide of anger and frustration. "You are nervous. Your heart beats like a drum."
The simple observation, filled with innocent worry, punctured the building pressure. I closed my eyes for a second, forcing a slow breath. The hangar's cold air, smelling of oil and ozone, filled my lungs.
"I always am, Sylvie," I admitted, the truth raw and simple. The weight of command, the labyrinth of Agrona's plans, the gamble we were about to undertake, the ghosts of the Djinn's choices—it was a constant, humming tension beneath the surface.
"Let's go."
With a graceful leap, Sylvie landed lightly on the hangar floor. A ripple of violet light cascaded over her miniature form, expanding, reshaping.
In moments, her majestic dragon form filled the space before us, scales gleaming like the night sky, powerful wings folded neatly against her flanks. She lowered her great head, offering her back.
The journey to the Hearth, to Hollow's Edge, to answers and allies we desperately needed—and perhaps to uncomfortable truths about survival and sacrifice—began not with a fanfare, but with the silent, determined beat of dragon wings carrying us towards the unknown.
I casted Rhabdomancy on my cane, imagining the Hearth's description from the novel and we took flight, my cane acting as a compass for Sylvie.
———
The tip of my cane suddenly dipped downward with an insistent pull.
Rhabdomancy.
The subtle vibration traveled up the shaft, humming against my palm—not a warning, but a confirmation. A fissure, hidden in the gloom ahead.
We stood far from the war's consuming roar, leagues from the scarred Wall, the embattled Elshire Forest, or the bleeding coastlines of Darv.
Here, deep within ancient, indifferent hills and slopes, the air tasted of dust, deep earth, and a silence so profound it pressed against the eardrums.
"Down there, Sylvie," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper yet echoing strangely in the cavernous space. The magnificent amethyst dragon tilted her great head, her luminous golden eyes reflecting the faint ambient mana like miniature stars. With powerful beats of her wings she began her descent into the jagged maw revealed by my cane's guidance.
The transition from the open, starlit mountain pass to the subterranean embrace of Hollow's Edge was jarring. Cool, damp air replaced the mountain chill, thick with the scent of wet stone, ozone, and something older, drier—the smell of deep time and forgotten power.
Landing with surprising grace on the uneven rock floor, Sylvie shimmered, shrinking back into her familiar fox form. She shook herself, sending motes of violet light dancing in the gloom.
Instinctively, I withdrew Dagonet from its sheath at my hip.
The obsidian blade felt cool and reassuringly solid in my hand. Without hesitation, I drew its razor edge across my palm. A sharp sting, the coppery tang of blood mingling with the subterranean scents. A single, crimson drop welled up.
A familiar pop, like displaced air snapping back, sounded beside me. Berna materialized, her massive form a comforting, solid presence in the oppressive darkness. Her great head nudged my shoulder, a low rumble vibrating deep in her chest—a sound of inquiry and profound relief.
"Here you are, girl," I whispered, pressing my forehead briefly against her dense fur. The familiar scent of pine and earth clung to her, a grounding anchor in this alien place. "Told you I wouldn't leave you behind."
Sylvie, with a chirp of pure possessiveness, immediately launched herself onto the apex of Berna's head, claiming her customary throne amidst the thick fur.
Grey's gaze, sharp and analytical even in the dimness, swept over Berna, then back to me. "Are you certain bringing her won't be interpreted as a threat?" he asked, his voice low but carrying clearly in the cavern's acoustics. "Isn't a Guardian Bear a but too much? Especially considering you are already bringing me and Sylv."
"Guardian Bears exclusively defend their bonds," I countered, though the uncertainty gnawed at me. "Her presence should signify protection, not aggression. A testament to peaceful intent."
Should. The word felt brittle. Mordain might understand, but Evascir? The Djinn refugees? Their perception was an unknown variable in an already perilous equation.
"And if they ask how we found this place?" Grey pressed, folding his arms. His posture radiated readiness, Dawn's Ballad a silent promise at his side. "'My Grandaunt was Mordain's disciple' might sound conveniently vague to beings who value their secrecy above all else."
"Grandaunt Rinia's connection is genuine," I insisted, though Grey's point landed with uncomfortable accuracy. "And the alternative..." I trailed off, the grim reality settling heavier.
"If Agrona conquers Dicathen, how long before his Wraiths sniff out this sanctuary? Neutrality won't shield them from his hunger for knowledge, for power. For control."
A memory from the novel emerged, the image of Cecilia, a weaponized Legacy unleashed upon this fragile refuge, sent a fresh wave of cold dread through me. Was I rationalizing? Using the Hearth's vulnerability as leverage for the help we desperately needed? Probably.
But the threat was no less real for being self-serving. Without Aldir, without some leverage, even Mordain's compassion might not be enough.
"We need allies, Grey. Desperately. And they need warning."
Grey's eyes held mine for a long moment, the silence stretching taut. Finally, he gave a single, curt nod. "Lead on. I am right behind you, like always."
We plunged deeper into the fissure, the rough-hewn passage widening into a proper dungeon corridor. The air grew colder, the darkness more absolute until, as if triggered by our presence, ancient sconces flickered to life along the walls.
Ghostly blue flames danced within intricate, vine-like metal holders, casting long, shifting shadows that danced like restless spirits.
The light revealed the detritus of ages—scattered bones, some disturbingly large, bleached white and lying amidst shards of pottery and rusted metal. Berna's low growl vibrated the stone beneath our feet, a primal warning. Grey's hand rested on Dawn's Ballad's hilt, his gaze scanning every crevice, every patch of deeper shadow.
"There could be mana beasts here," I murmured, my voice echoing slightly. "Ebon Scourges. And the place us guarded by a Titan named Evascir."
"Understood," Grey replied, his voice flat, focused. Dawn's Ballad slid free with a soft, deadly hiss, its pale blade catching the eerie blue light.
We navigated the bone-littered corridors, the oppressive silence broken only by our footsteps and the crackle of the spectral flames. Tension coiled tighter with each step. Then, the passage ended abruptly before a colossal set of doors.
They weren't carved from stone, but from a wood so dark it seemed to absorb the light—ancient, petrified heartwood, dense as iron and radiating a faint, passive resistance. Intricate geometric patterns, reminiscent of Djinn artifice but subtly different, covered their surface.
"Yeah..." I murmured, my mind racing. Fuck. The combination. The specific sequence required to open them without triggering defenses was lost to me. My knowledge hit a frustrating blank wall here.
Grey's sharp eyes caught my hesitation. A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips. "You don't know how to get inside, right?" His voice held a rare note of amusement, cutting through the tension. "Corvis the All-Knowing... isn't so all-knowing after all." Heat rushed to my face. Damn it.
"Pfft, fine Corvis," Romulos's spectral voice chuckled beside my ear, materializing leaning against the impassive door with insouciant ease. "I suppose even your formidable intellect has its limits. Time to improvise. Think like that guy... MacGyver. Resourceful fellow."
How do you even know who MacGyver is? I shot back mentally, momentarily diverted by the absurdity.
"Perks of haunting your consciousness," he shrugged, a spectral grin playing on his lips. "Sometimes I browse your memory archives for entertainment. Fascinating, the fictions Fate put in your head. I wonder what you will turn into reality with magic." His gaze drifted pointedly to the black suitcase I carried.
MacGyver... The spark ignited. Hijacking the spell was faster than guessing the combination. I knelt, placing the suitcase on the dusty floor. The latches clicked open with satisfying precision.
Inside, nestled within custom-cut foam, layid the treasures gleaned from Wren Kain's enigmatic cache—vials of iridescent liquids, crystalline powders humming with contained energy, chunks of unidentifiable ore that pulsed with a slow, deep light.
My fingers, guided by instinct and Meta-awareness, bypassed the obvious reagents and closed around two specific vials: one containing a viscous, mercury-like silver fluid, the other holding a deep, unsettling indigo sludge that seemed to writhe in its container.
"You are going to use my Anti-Matter with... alchemy?" Romulos sounded genuinely astonished, his spectral form straightening. "An inspired, if terrifyingly reckless, fusion. But you lack the inherent decay mana affinity! And you didn't bring Mother's core; I can't take control of your properly to assist without harming you..."
I ignored him, my focus absolute. My hand dipped again, retrieving a smaller vial, perfectly spherical with a stopper of pure silver. Within it swirled a liquid the color of a cosmic body—a deep, violent violet that seemed to suck the light from the air around it. This, Romulos. This is the key.
"Vritra's Horns!" Romulos breathed, genuine shock replacing his usual sarcasm. He drifted closer, peering at the vial. "Venom from a Voidcrawler. Found only in the deepest, most corrupted chasms of the Vritra Clan's former territories in Epheotus. The extraction alone... Wren Kain must have risked his neck for this. His interest in your potential borders on obsession."
Obsession or investment, I thought grimly, I won't question the gift. The implications were staggering, but now was not the time. Berna let out a low, warning growl, the fur along her spine bristling. Sylvie, perched atop her, hissed, her tiny form radiating palpable tension, golden eyes fixed on the violet vial. The sheer wrongness of the venom permeated the air, a chilling counterpoint to the dungeon's ancient stillness.
"Corvis?" Grey's voice was tight with confusion. "What is that?"
"Venom," I stated, my voice carefully level despite the thrumming energy in my hands. "Incredibly potent. I need it to catalyze a... dissolution solution. For the spell binding these doors."
With meticulous care, I unscrewed the silver cap. The air hissed faintly as the seal broke, releasing a scent like ozone and crushed insects. Using a pipette crafted from mana-conductive crystal I put in the suitcase, I drew a single, glistening drop of the violet horror.
One drop. Enough to decay a house. I deposited it into a waiting beaker of pure, conjured water.
The drop didn't dissolve the liquid; it unraveled it completely, spreading tendrils of violent purple that turned the water opaque and sent faint, sickly vapors curling upwards.
Following the intricate dance visualized by Meta-awareness, I added a single, perfectly formed grain of salt as a crystalline lattice to channel and focus the chaotic decay energy.
The beaker itself was my own design, the glass subtly layered with microscopic channels mimicking the mana-siphoning weave of my uniform, designed to contain and direct the volatile reaction.
I held the beaker aloft. The mixture pulsed with contained malevolence, the violet light casting grotesque shadows on the ancient doors. I could feel the mana within the doors reacting—a low thrum of defensive energy rising in response to the threat. With a sharp flick of my wrist, I hurled the beaker. It shattered against the dark wood with a sound like cracking ice.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, the intricate geometric patterns on the doors flared with angry crimson light. A low, dissonant hum filled the corridor, vibrating the bones. The crimson light pulsed, fought, then began to fray. Like threads pulled apart, the magical weave holding the doors sealed unraveled before our eyes.
The crimson sputtered, dimmed, and died.
With a groan of protesting timber and stone that hadn't moved in centuries, the colossal doors shuddered and slowly, inexorably, swung inward, revealing a deeper, colder darkness beyond.
"It... worked?" Grey breathed, staring at the open maw with a mixture of awe and profound unease. He glanced at me, a new kind of respect warring with disbelief in his eyes. "You conjure stranger magics with every passing day, Corvis. Alchemy blended with decay... it defies categorization."
"You complain about creativity, Grey," Sylvie chirped from her perch, nudging Berna's ear with her nose, "yet you have Corvis right here! Why not learn something new?"
A flicker of a smile touched my lips despite the tension. "I'd be happy to help for as long as you need Grey," I said, retrieving Dagonet and sheathing it, my gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the threshold.
"But later. Right now... be ready." The air escaping the opened chamber carried a new scent—stale, ancient, and carrying the faint, metallic tang of powerful mana.
"Beyond the Meta," I whispered, activating the ability. The world sharpened, gained layers and turned grey. Mana currents became visible streams; the solid stone revealed subtle stress fractures; the air vibrated with the echoes of distant movement.
Berna's Beast Will merged seamlessly with my senses, amplifying the tactile feedback from the ground, extending my perception through vibrations. We stepped into Hollow's Edge proper.
———
The ebon scourges were upon us almost immediately.
Hulking nightmares of matted, shadow-black fur, they moved with unsettling silence despite their size. Their heads were eyeless, faceless domes save for a single, gaping maw lined with yellowed tusks like broken rusty daggers, set below three twisted, bone-white horns.
They oriented themselves through vibration and scent, lunging from side passages and crumbling archways with terrifying speed.
Foresight. A fraction of a second before the nearest scourge lunged, I saw its trajectory. "Left flank, low!" I barked. Berna, a mountain of fury, didn't hesitate. She met the charge head-on, her massive paw swinging with bone-crushing force.
CRUNCH.
The scourge's horned head caved in like rotten fruit under the impact, its body slamming into the wall with a sickening wet thud before sliding down, lifeless.
To my right, Dawn's Ballad became a blur of teal light. Grey flowed through the attackers with lethal grace, his blade singing as it cleaved through matted fur and thick bone. One scourge fell in two twitching halves. Another lunged at his back.
Slamming the butt of my cane onto the stone floor I activated Accaron. A focused pulse of disruptive energy, tuned to the scourges' sensory frequency, rippled outward. The attacking beast stumbled mid-lunge, its head swinging disorientedly, its coordination shattered.
Berna capitalized instantly, crushing another scourge under her bulk. Grey spun, Dawn's Ballad flashing, decapitating the disoriented beast. I hurled Dagonet, the obsidian blade coated in high-frequency disruptive vibrations. It struck a scourge squarely in its gaping maw. The vibrations resonated through its skull.
CRACK-POP!
Its mana core, nestled within the thick bone, shattered like glass.
"Corvis!" Sylvie wailed from Berna's head, her voice thick with reproach. "You shattered the core! That's the tastiest part!" She pounced on the nearest fallen scourge, her tiny form glowing as she efficiently extracted an intact core from its chest cavity, gulping it down with a satisfied chirp.
"Corvis is just trying to help, Sylv," Grey called out, a breathless laugh escaping him as he parried a claw swipe and drove his blade into another scourge's throat. The momentary absurdity of Sylvie's complaint amidst the brutal fight was a strange balm.
For ten frantic minutes, the corridor echoed with snarls, roars, the crunch of bone, the hiss of Grey's blade, and the thud of Berna's impacts. We fought as a unit, a well-oiled machine honed by shared battles and desperate trust.
My foresight and Berna's seismic sense guided our defense, Grey's sword and Sylvie's opportunistic core-hunting mopped up the offense. Finally, the last scourge fell, twitching, to the cold stone. Silence descended, heavier now, thick with the coppery scent of blood and the ozone tang of spent mana.
Then, a roar shook the very foundations. Deep, guttural, filled with primal challenge. It wasn't a beast's cry; it held an ancient, terrifying intelligence.
Berna's answering roar was instantaneous, a thunderous declaration of defiance that vibrated in my chest. She planted herself squarely in front of me, fur bristling, massive head lowered, a living bulwark.
"Evascir," Romulos murmured, his spectral form flickering with intense interest. "And his companion..."
Grey instantly shifted into a defensive stance, Dawn's Ballad gleaming with gathering light. "Hold!" I commanded, placing a restraining hand on Berna's massive shoulder. Her muscles were coiled steel beneath my touch.
"They are... potential allies. Or at least, not immediate enemies." The words felt like ash in my mouth. Hope was a flimsy shield against a Titan.
"I am suddenly significantly less sure of this plan," Grey stated, his eyes fixed on the darkness from whence the roar had come, his voice tight.
"Just trust me, Grey," I said, the plea raw. "We need allies. Dicathen needs them." The weight of that need pressed down, immense and terrifying.
His storm-grey eyes met mine, holding for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity. The silence screamed. Then, the faintest relaxation in his shoulders. "You know I will follow you, Corvis. Everywhere." The simple declaration, devoid of hesitation, was a lifeline.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the corridor. Each impact resonated through the stone, a drumbeat of immense power. Torches flared to life further down the passage, revealing two colossal figures emerging from the gloom.
One was Evascir. Towering, easily eight feet tall, his physique was a testament to raw, ancient strength barely contained. He was clad in armor that seemed forged from the cave itself—plates of dark, unpolished stone interlocked seamlessly. His head was shaved, revealing a scalp etched with intricate, glowing blue tattoos.
His eyes, a startlingly clear swept over us with unnerving intensity, lingering longest on Berna. Recognition, sharp and profound, flared in those depths, followed by a flicker of something unreadable—sorrow? Anger?
Beside him stood his Guardian Bear. Mahogany fur streaked with bold black markings, it matched Berna in sheer mass and primal presence. Its intelligent eyes, a deep, earthy brown, assessed Berna with wary curiosity, then fixed on us, radiating protective vigilance.
Looking at Berna Evascir said:
"Selene?" Evascir's voice was a deep rumble, like boulders grinding together. It wasn't a shout, yet it filled the corridor effortlessly. The name hung in the air, charged with ancient history.
Berna growled, a low, dangerous sound deep in her chest, her massive body shifting subtly. It wasn't aggression, but a profound discomfort, a denial. She edged closer to me, her flank pressing against my side, a silent declaration.
Evascir's gaze snapped from Berna to me. The intensity was staggering, a physical weight.
"You are bonded with a lesser now, Selene?" The disbelief was palpable, laced with a complex brew of emotions I couldn't decipher.
"That means..." He trailed off, leaving the terrible implication hanging—the fate of her previous bond.
Before the fragile tension could snap, before Evascir could voice his conclusions or Berna's discomfort could erupt, before Grey could raise his blade in our defense, a new presence manifested. It wasn't dramatic; it was as if the air simply stilled and accepted him.
"Calm, Evascir." The voice was calm, melodious, carrying an effortless authority that instantly diffused the brewing storm. It flowed like clear water over stone, soothing and ancient.
"Uncle Mordain!" Romulos's spectral whisper was a gasp of pure, unadulterated surprise and something akin to longing.
Beside the imposing Titan, Mordain Asclepius materialized. He wasn't tall like Evascir; his stature was regal yet unassuming. He wore simple robes of undyed linen that seemed to shimmer with their own soft light and golden feathers.
His hair was a cascade of marvelous orange, framing a face of serene, ageless beauty with feather-like marking on the side of his face.
Eyes the color of sun-warmed honey regarded us with profound wisdom and a gentle, piercing curiosity. He radiated an aura of immense, quiet power, yet it felt nurturing, like sunlight on stone.
His gaze swept over us, lingering for a moment on Sylvie perched wide-eyed on Berna's head—recognition of her Indrath heritage clear in his ancient eyes—before settling on me. A small, genuine smile touched his lips, warm and disarmingly kind.
"You must be Rinia's great-nephew," he said, his voice resonating with a warmth that seemed to push back the dungeon's chill. "Corvis Eralith. We have much to discuss."
His eyes held mine, acknowledging the suitcase at my side, the walking cane, the tension radiating from Berna and Grey, the spectral echo only I could perceive. He saw it all.
"Please," he gestured gracefully towards the deeper passages, illuminated by the torchlight he commanded. "Let us speak somewhere more... appropriate. The air here carries too many echoes of violence."
Grey moved instantly to my right. Sylvie scurried down Berna's flank and onto his shoulder, her tiny form radiating protective vigilance. Berna fell into step beside me, her discomfort still palpable but overlaid now with a wary curiosity.
As we followed Mordain and Evascir—whose eyes were still on Berna—deeper into the heart of Hollow's Edge, leaving the carnage of the ebon scourges behind, Romulos's voice echoed in my mind, filled with a rare, almost giddy astonishment.
"Well, little brother," he murmured, his spectral form walking unseen beside me, his gaze fixed on Mordain's retreating back. "This visit... has just become infinitely more complex, and infinitely more fascinating, than even my most extravagant anticipations. The threads of fate weave a most intricate tapestry indeed. It seems our bear friend has an interesting past and Uncle Mordain seems to have been expecting you."
The weight of possibilities, of ancient secrets and desperate hopes, pressed down as we walked into the unknown sanctum of the Lost Prince.