Seris Vritra
The acrid stench of burnt flesh and spilled blood hung heavy in the cold air of the Dicathian Kingdom of Sapin, clinging to the jagged edges of the crater I was standing on like a shroud.
Below, standing amidst the churned earth and the broken form of Uto, was Grey. The reincarnate. One of Agrona's two twisted gifts to this world. He looked up, those unnervingly cold eyes meeting mine across the rim of devastation.
He hadn't changed since I last saw him in Taegrin Caelum, not truly. Not in the way that mattered, that is.
Power radiated from him in a profound stillness, a gravitational pull that seemed to make the ambient mana itself kneel around his presence. It was the same chilling aura he'd possessed even as a kid in the heart of Alacrya, honed now to a razor's edge.
The sight, the sheer potential that came to be even outside of Agrona's cage, pulled a rare, genuine smile to my lips—a flicker of dark satisfaction. He'd grown strong. Formidably so. And he'd done it despite the High Sovereign's training, not because of him. Uto's dead body was testament enough.
"Grey," I called down, my voice carrying clear and calm over the scarred earth. "It's certainly been a long while."
He didn't flinch, didn't show surprise. Merely assessed me with that unnerving, almost reptilian calm.
"Scythe Seris," he acknowledged, his tone flat, devoid of warmth or hostility. Utterly neutral. A weapon gauging another weapon. "It's been a long while indeed."
Behind him, the obsidian-scaled dragon—Sylvie, Agrona's own daughter, bonded to this enigma—tensed, a low growl rumbling in her chest. Her golden eyes, so like her father's despite the colour yet imbued with a fierce loyalty utterly alien to him, fixed on me with primal wariness.
A flicker of Grey's fingers, a subtle shift in his posture, and the growl subsided, though the wariness remained. He soothed the asura with the ease of long practice.
"You've come a long way since you escaped Taegrin Caelum," I observed, gesturing slightly with my chin towards Uto's corpse. The Retainer of Vechor looked diminished in death, a broken toy discarded after play. "Taking your… repayment… seriously, I see."
"I am not doing this only for revenge," he stated, his voice gaining a sliver of steel. "I have much more important things to protect now."
Ah. That was a good answer. A necessary evolution for him. Back when Agrona first unveiled his reincarnated pawns—Nico Sever, consumed by the Legacy's ghost, and this one, Grey, the complete anomaly—I'd watched them both with detached suspicion.
Tools, potentially dangerous ones. I'd been near to eliminating them myself when Agrona's gaze turned towards Caera Denoir, my own charge, for his horrific Legacy project.
But Grey… Grey had been different. He'd resisted the High Sovereign's memory alterations, a feat unheard of among countless generations of Alacryans.
He'd visited Sylvia Indrath in her hidden prison, a move Agrona never knew about, thanks to my careful obfuscation. That resistance, that secret defiance, had marked him. Not as a mere tool for Agrona, but as a potential fulcrum.
A key to prying Alacrya free from Agrona's apocalyptic ambitions. His escape to Dicathen had been a gamble, but one I'd subtly facilitated. Seeing him now, standing tall amidst the wreckage of one of Agrona's pawns, vindicated that gamble.
"You've grown softer, Grey," I teased, though my tone held little humor. It was an observation, a probe. "I see you still favor the accolade I gave you to conceal your… horns."
The accolade, a masterwork of illusionary artifice I'd procured years ago, gleamed faintly against his blonde hair, hiding the Vritra horns.
"Are you here to get reacquainted, Seris?" he countered, unmoved by the barb. His gaze flicked back to Uto's hornless body. "If so, you have a rather peculiar taste in venues."
"As much as I'd enjoy reminiscing about the gloomy grandeur of Taegrin Caelum when you were still there," I replied, allowing a ghost of a smile, "my visit is rather more… business-oriented."
I saw the minute tightening around his eyes, the slight shift in his stance—surprise, quickly masked, but present. "What? Are you surprised? I thought, after everything, you might consider me… an acquaintance, at least. Perhaps even a friend."
His expression remained impassive stone. "I don't consider you a direct enemy," he conceded, the words measured, precise. "But that doesn't make me your friend. Or your ally."
The cold pragmatism was familiar, a relic of the boy raised in Agrona's poisonous court. Bad habits, forged in betrayal and survival, died hard. He'd called Agrona 'Uncle', played the obedient weapon, even as he plotted his escape. He trusted no one easily.
Especially not a Scythe like myself.
"Fair enough," I acknowledged. The time for pleasantries was over. "I am here to warn you, Grey. Agrona is marshaling his forces for a decisive assault. Not skirmishes. Not probes. A hammer blow intended to shatter Dicathen and carve a path straight to Epheotus."
I let the gravity of the statement hang. "Resistance, as things stand, will be… costly. Perhaps futile. But forewarned, you can make preparations. Mitigate the bleeding."
His eyes narrowed. The unexpected stalemate across Dicathen, the grinding halt of the Alacryan advance—even the naval forces bogged down—was unprecedented.
"And why deliver this warning to me?" he asked, the question sharp. "You are smart enough, resourceful enough, to know the strategic weight rests with Corvis Eralith."
I descended the crater's slope, my boots sinking slightly into the loosened earth. Grey didn't retreat, but his stillness intensified, a coiled spring analyzing every micro-movement. The dragon, Sylvie, watched my descent with unwavering intensity.
"That," I said, stopping a few paces away, the smell of blood and burnt earth sharp in my nostrils, "is precisely the second reason for my visit. Agrona Vritra has issued explicit, absolute orders." I met Grey's cold gaze directly.
"All Scythes. All Retainers. We are to avoid Corvis Eralith like plague. Under no circumstances are we to engage him directly. Capture is strictly forbidden."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the whistle of the wind over the crater's rim. Decades serving Agrona, studying his mind, his patterns, his ruthless and evil calculations—and this directive defied them all.
It wasn't merely caution born of Epheotus's shadow over the prince. If Agrona truly wanted Corvis, truly saw him as the threat he demonstrably was, he wouldn't issue prohibitions; he'd unleash legions of Wraiths. He'd send Cadell, Viessa, Melzri, Dragoth and their Retainers if he truly wanted to.
He'd find and then crush the Castle where the Dicathian Council resided with overwhelming force. Instead? He waited. He let Grey, his escaped 'nephew', roam free, hunted only by lesser forces.
He sent Nico Sever, already broken and useless to the High Sovereign, to be slaughtered by Corvis Eralith. Why?
The pieces clicked together with chilling clarity, forming a picture both monstrous and bizarrely logical. The Legacy. He needed anchors to bring her in our world and a host—a vessel strong enough, unique enough, to hold the overwhelming power of the Legacy's soul.
He'd tried with Alacryan vessels. He'd nearly used Caera. With Nico gone he lacked both an anchor along with Grey and a host.
And now… Corvis Eralith. An elf. Not a reincarnate. Agrona wouldn't capture Corvis. He needed him alive. He needed him intact. He needed him… primed, somehow he knew how to use him as an anchor. And the host for the Legacy? Who would be sacrificed to fuel this transfer?
Grey's expression remained guarded, but I saw the flicker of intense calculation behind his eyes. He hadn't yet grasped the full horror. "What do you mean?" he demanded, his voice low, dangerous.
Behind him, Sylvie's growl returned, deeper this time, laced with a dragon's instinctive fury. She wisely remained silent, hiding her nature, but her agitation was palpable.
"I don't know the precise mechanism," I admitted, the admission tasting like ash. "But the pieces fit with terrifying precision. Agrona's uncharacteristic restraint. His focus on Corvis Eralith as an entity to be preserved, not eliminated. His abandonment of the hunt for you, Grey, once you connected with Corvis."
I paused, letting the implications sink in.
"It mirrors his previous methodology with the Legacy the same method he made with you and Nico Sever. He isolates the anchor. He removes obstacles. He creates the perfect conditions for the transfer. He isn't just planning to conquer Dicathen, Grey. He's planning to use it. To bleed it. To break its spirit. And in the chaos, in the despair… he will make his move on Corvis Eralith." My voice hardened. "And through him and you… on the Legacy."
At the mention of the Legacy, Grey's mask finally cracked. Not fear for himself, but a dawning, primal horror. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his breath catching.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Seris," he rasped, but the denial lacked conviction.
It was the reflex of a man confronting an unthinkable truth. "Agrona can't get his hands on the Legacy. It's impossible. And I won't let him take Corvis."
"Perhaps," I conceded, the word heavy with grim certainty. "But the evidence is too damning. Agrona let you escape Taegrin Caelum without a meaningful pursuit. He gave up on you, his prized reincarnate, his Legacy anchor. Why?" I took a half-step closer, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, cold as the grave.
"Because he found another, better anchor. One already woven into the fabric of Dicathen. And you met him, Grey. Doesn't that sequence feel… orchestrated? Familiar? Somehow, Agrona has found a way to bypass the limitations. Corvis Eralith is the intended anchor for the Legacy along with you."
The color drained from Grey's face. It was subtle, a pallor beneath the grime and blood, but unmistakable. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of the teal sword at his side. The calculation in his eyes vanished, replaced by raw, chilling realization. It wasn't just Corvis he saw threatened.
"Tessia…" The name escaped his lips, a breathless whisper laden with devastating horror.
If Corvis Eralith was the anchor, the vessel designed to hold the Legacy's power… then who was the sacrificial host? The source? The soul to be ripped out and forced into that vessel?
The only other being whose connection to the elven prince was profound enough, whose life force was potent enough, whose existence was intertwined with his on a level Agrona could exploit… was the elven princess Tessia Eralith.
"I need to return to the Castle." Grey declared.
Corvis Eralith
The familiar, grounding hum of the Castle's central teleportation portal faded, replaced by the oppressive silence of the receiving chamber. The transition wasn't smooth; it felt like being violently snapped back into a too-tight skin.
The portal's residual energy crackled against my nerves, a final insult after the soul-deep exhaustion already hollowing me out. My legs buckled instantly.
Only the unwavering solidity of my black cane driven tip-first into the flagstones, and Berna's massive shoulder pressing firmly against my side kept me upright. I sagged against her, the scent of damp earth and pine from her fur a faint, grounding comfort amidst the swirling nausea and the terrifying emptiness where my mana core should be.
Hornfels' message, relayed via radio call mid-portal transit, echoed in my mind—a small, hard-won victory that felt leagues away. The cost, etched into every trembling muscle fiber, screamed its presence.
"What else did you expect, wielding a technique even the Thyestes Clan consider too much?" Romulos's voice was a jagged shard of broken glass in my already pounding skull. "A ticker-tape parade? Warm milk and cookies? No, little brother. Even with my exquisite control preventing your cerebellum from liquefying, and Meta-awareness weaving that monstrous efficiency… you dredged your core down to bedrock. Congratulations."
A pause, then the faintest flicker of something akin to appreciation.
"Though, I must admit, watching you bend reality itself into a resonant killing field? Intriguing. Perversely satisfying. So… thank you for the spectacle."
How… sweet… of you… Romulos, I managed, the mental words slurred, each one an effort that sent fresh waves of dizziness crashing over me.
Leaning heavily on Berna, my walking cane scraping faintly with each shuffling step, I navigated the familiar yet suddenly alien corridors of the Castle.
Every shadow seemed to pulse with the phantom screams of the soldiers whose hearts I'd stopped with a thought. Hypocrite. Am I a defender? Or just a different kind of monster? The weight of it pressed down, heavier than the exhaustion.
Turning a corner into a wider, moonlit hallway, a small, white-scaled form caught my eye. Sylvie. Paddling anxiously near a window, her miniature form radiating nervous energy. She was alone.
Where was Grey? Tessia was still on the Elshire frontlines… so why wasn't he glued to his bond?
"Sylvie," I rasped, the sound barely audible, rough as gravel.
Her head snapped up, golden eyes wide. "Corvis! You're back from Darv?" Relief warred with the lingering tension in her tone.
"Yes," I managed, forcing the syllable out. "Where's… Grey?" I tried for levity, a weak attempt at normalcy. "Tessia's not back… shouldn't he be… shadowing you?"
Sylvie visibly flinched. Her gaze darted away, then back, a silent conversation clearly raging across her bond. She shifted her weight, paws clicking softly on stone.
"He's… talking with Virion," she finally offered, the words hesitant, evasive. "You… you should join them."
"Something is wrong," Romulos declared, his mental voice sharpening, shedding its detached amusement.
Ignoring the protest of my screaming muscles, the hollow ache in my core, I pushed off Berna.
"Where?" The single word was clipped, urgent.
Sylvie pointed a claw towards the Council Chamber.
The walk felt endless. Each step sent jolts of pain up my legs, into my spine. The world swam at the edges. Berna stayed close, a silent, worried bulwark. Pushing open the heavy chamber doors felt like moving mountains.
"Corvis!" Two voices, sharp with surprise and an undercurrent of profound stress, echoed in the vast, dimly lit room. Grampa stood near the massive strategic table, maps unfurled like wounded beasts, his face etched with deep lines of worry that seemed carved by fresh chisels.
Grey stood opposite him, posture rigid, his usual icy calm replaced by a palpable tension that vibrated the air around him. His eyes, when they met mine, held not just exhaustion mirroring my own, but something deeper, darker—a chilling dread that instantly banished any residual fatigue-induced haze.
The rest of the Council chamber was empty, a hollow shell amplifying the tension. Mom, Dad, the others—scattered to their kingdoms, tending to their own fires. Only the three of us stood amidst the looming shadows.
Grampa rushed forward, his hand instinctively reaching for my shoulder, stopping just short as he took in my undoubtedly ghastly pallor, the tremor I couldn't suppress, the way I leaned on my cane like a crutch.
"By the gods, boy, what happened to you?"
"Later," I croaked, waving a weak hand. My gaze locked onto Grey. "What… is happening?" The question was directed at both, but it was Grey's haunted eyes I sought the answer from.
Grampa answered first, his voice heavy. "Grey here… he brings dire news. Intelligence of an imminent, large-scale assault from Alacrya. Cataclysmic in scale."
Grey stepped forward, his own weariness evident in the tightness around his mouth, but overshadowed by the fierce intensity burning in his gaze. "I defeated Uto near Ashber. Took his horns. Then… Scythe Seris approached me."
Scythe Seris... so she finally made her move, it was about time.
"It's still hard to fully credit, Grey," Grampa countered, frustration warring with deep concern. He rubbed his temples. "Why now? Why reveal this? The Asuras have been absent long enough for Agrona to have moved before. He has portals deep in the Beast Glades! Logistics shouldn't be the bottleneck!"
His strategic mind grappled with the illogical timing. He looked at me, seeking confirmation, or perhaps just shared bewilderment.
"We gave you liberty to move, Corvis, trusting your judgment on Grey's role… but this…?"
I repressed a wince. Not at Grampa's words, but at the sheer, overwhelming wrongness radiating from Grey. He was warning us with every fiber of his being. Romulos's suspicion solidified into certainty within me.
"Even as a Scythe," Grey stated, his voice low but cutting through Grampa's doubts like Dawn's Ballad through an enemy, "Seris has her own agenda. One that aligns against Agrona. I have… history with her. Reasons to believe this warning is genuine, Virion."
"You need to trust me on this."
"These chattering lessers are wasting precious seconds," Romulos snarled, his mental voice laced with genuine impatience now, cutting through my own fog. "The strategic is irrelevant! The source is terrified. Look at him! Agrona's own former weapon, forged in paranoia, is afraid. That tells you everything. I'll speak for you if you wish. Just give me the words, brother. Let me cut through this dithering."
Grampa sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of command and impossible choices. He looked from Grey's intense dread to my battered exhaustion. "The Council is scattered, drowning in their own crises. Decisions fall to us, here, now. But arguing strategy while the world burns…" He gestured helplessly at the maps. "What do you propose, Grey? A full-scale retreat? Abandoning cities? Our people?"
"A strategic withdrawal," Grey countered, his voice hardening. "Concentrate forces. Fortify defensible positions—Vildorial, key Elven strongholds. We cannot defend every mile of coastline, every frontier village, against the force Seris implied. We preserve our core strength, preserve… key assets… to fight another day. To survive long enough for…" He trailed off, his eyes flicking to me for a fraction of a second.
"For other possibilities."
"Back up plan?!" Grampa's voice rose, the Commander surfacing, fierce and protective. "Grey, there are no clean back-ups! Abandoning one city means abandoning thousands to slaughter or slavery! We are Dicathen! We stand together! We fight for every inch!"
The argument raged—Grampa's fierce, protective patriotism born of decades defending his land and its people, clashing violently with Grey's cold, pragmatic ideas forged in survival and a worldview that saw pragmatism as paramount.
Grey didn't feel Dicathian, not truly. He fought for Tessia, for Sylvie, for… me and my family. For the chance of a future, not the preservation of every present stone.
While he saw the tidal wave; Grampa saw the individual houses in its path.
My mind reeled. This wasn't the canon invasion. This was Agrona throwing off the gloves. He could be sending Melzri, Viessa, Dragoth… unleashing the full, horrifying might of the Vritra-blooded legions and their monstrous creations.
Against our current forces, even bolstered… it was annihilation. Grampa's heart was noble, his stance heroic… but Grey's brutal pragmatism held the chilling ring of truth.
Saving everyone meant saving no one. But the cost of choosing who to save…?
The nausea surged, bile burning my throat. My vision swam, the edges darkening. I gripped my cane until my knuckles turned white. Romulos was silent, radiating impatience. My emotional core screamed to stand with Grampa, to defend every life, to embody the hope Dicathen placed in... me.
My strategic mind, honed by Romulos's cold intellect, whispered Grey was right. The dissonance was pure pain, worse than the core exhaustion.
Grampa slammed a fist on the table, the sound echoing in the cavernous room, cutting through the argument.
He looked older, wearier, than I'd ever seen him and as I realized it an unwanted knot of self-loathing built in my gut.
"Enough!" His voice was hoarse but firm.
"Debating the fate of the continent with only three exhausted souls, while the rest are blind… it's madness. Folly." He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"You," he pointed at Grey, "and you," his finger moved to me, his eyes softening fractionally with concern beneath the Commander's mask, "are both running on fumes and fear. Get some rest. Proper rest. We reconvene at the first light of morning."