Romulos Vritra
Corvis was a ghost in his own flesh, a hollowed-out shell clinging to consciousness by sheer stubbornness after the spell we'd unleashed. Yet, even half-dead, drowning in the echoes of his own devastating spell, he'd yielded control to me.
For Sylvie. Corvis sacrificing his precious rest so I, the specter he harbored, could oversee his niece's training.
I stood within Corvis's battered frame, observing Sylvie with an analytical eye that swiftly morphed into grim satisfaction. Uto's obsidian horn, pulsing with the residual, potent decay magic was the key. Sylvie coiled around it, a small, white-scaled fox utterly focused, her being a vortex greedily consuming the dark mana.
It wasn't elegant, not by Epheotan standards. It was primal. Necessary. Grandfather Kezess's 'training' had been a pathetic farce—deliberate hobbling, no doubt on that.
The thought ignited a familiar, cold fury. Keeping his granddaughter weak, dependent and separated from her Vritra-blooded bond?
A petty, predictable move from a being terrified of contamination, of losing control. His ego, as fragile as spun glass—like he always has been. Taci Thyestes's dying fanaticism echoed suddenly in the vaults of my memory.
"For Lord Indrath, may he reign forever under the Golden Sun!" The words, gasped with blind devotion mere moments before my Anti-Matter unraveled his very essence, tasted like ashes.
Even facing oblivion, he hadn't glimpsed the rot beneath Epheotus's facade. A pang, sharp and unexpected—not regret for Taci, but a fierce, protective hope that Corvis would one day bring his scalpel to that stagnant pantheon.
I held no loyalty to those hollow gods. I have never held any loyalty to beings so far below myself. And now... Sylvie was the only kin in this world who mattered after I betrayed my Dad.
Then, I felt it. A seismic shift within the torrent of dark mana Sylvie absorbed. The chaotic energy was being refined, forced into alignment with her draconic core. The air crackled, thick with potential.
She wasn't just stabilizing; she was awakening. The lesser term fit—a caterpillar breaking its chrysalis, blind to the wings it was about to unfurl.
A blinding, pure white light erupted from her miniature form, incandescent and fierce, banishing the balcony's shadows. It was a detonation of potential made manifest. Instinct, raw and unbidden, screamed.
We stood on a windswept cornice, a sheer drop into cloud and void mere inches away. Sylvie, lost in the agonizing, ecstatic throes of metamorphosis, was utterly vulnerable.
My hand—Corvis's hand—shot out. Not a calculated move. Pure, reflexive protection. Fingers closed on the brilliant, coalescing light where her small shoulder should be. The contact sent a jolt of searing, pure force through Corvis's numb nerves, a shockwave that momentarily drowned the exhaustion.
But that also meant... Corvis needed to be present. For her. The mantle of consciousness slipped from my grasp like water, relinquished not by choice, but by the undeniable imperative of the moment.
I faded back into the watchful shadows of his mind to witness the potential discussion with that fake claiming to be Agrona Vritra.
Corvis Eralith
The world snapped back into focus with the violent abruptness of a slamming door. One moment, the comforting oblivion of exhaustion; the next, the biting chill of high-altitude night air on my face, the dizzying vista of clouds churning far below the Castle's balcony edge, and the disorienting sight of a small figure crumpled on the stone floor.
My head throbbed, a drumbeat of residual agony from Darv, my core still a hollow, aching void. Blinking against the moonlight, I registered the girl: small, maybe eight or nine, with wheat-colored hair cascading over the shoulders of a simple black robe, two small, obsidian horns curving gracefully from her temples.
She was massaging her temples, golden eyes squeezed shut, face contorted in the discomfort of radical adjustment.
"Sylvie?" The name scraped raw from my throat. I crouched, wincing as muscles screamed protest, my hand hovering uncertainly.
She flinched at my voice, blinking owlishly, those familiar, ancient eyes now set in a startlingly young, elfin face.
"Hi, Corvis," she murmured, her voice higher, softer, yet carrying the same underlying resonance. She tried to push herself up, limbs uncoordinated, and stumbled.
My hand shot out, catching hers instinctively. Her skin was warm, real, utterly alien in this new configuration. Relief warred with a deeper, chilling dread.
"Agrona won't linger long now that Mother's seal on Sylvie is shattered," Romulos's voice cut through the fragile moment, sharp as shattered glass. "Steel yourself, brother. Your great game approaches its final move."
You're disturbingly calm about this, I shot back, the anxiety coiling in my gut like a nest of vipers, momentarily overriding the bone-deep fatigue.
Adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded my veins, a temporary, treacherous lifeline.
"S-sylvie," I managed, tightening my grip on her small hand, anchoring her—anchoring myself. "How are you feeling?"
The question felt absurdly inadequate. Grey needed to know. But if Agrona seized control now, in front of him, with Sylvie so vulnerable… the image was a knife to the heart.
Suddenly, the small figure in my grasp stiffened. The subtle tremor of adjustment vanished, replaced by an unnatural stillness. Her hand, warm a moment ago, felt cool, detached.
Slowly, deliberately, she straightened, a puppet pulled by unseen strings. Her head tilted back, then swayed side to side with a stiffness that was utterly wrong, a predator testing unfamiliar limbs.
The golden eyes, when they met mine, held none of Sylvie's warmth, only an abyssal, calculating chill.
"Even among my father's vast repertoire of invasive spells," Romulos commented, his mental voice laced with disgust that felt… personal, "this remote puppetry is particularly vulgar. Harmless to the host, perhaps, but grotesque. Especially when it's my sister."
I forced my spine straight, meeting that chilling gaze.
"Agrona," I stated, layering Romulos's sardonic cadence over my own voice, but it only felt pathetic. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but frankly, we're past introductions."
The figure—Agrona wearing Sylvie like a macabre suit—laughed. The sound, emanating from Sylvie's throat, was chillingly wrong, a distorted echo of childish innocence perverted.
"Ah, dear Corvis!" He spread Sylvie's small hands in a gesture of mock magnanimity. "So sharp! I do appreciate a civil conversation. Especially with an anomaly like you. Truly, you are the most fascinating specimen this lesser world has ever coughed up."
"Did you get lost on your way to Grey?" I pressed, feigning boredom, masking the frantic calculation beneath. Play to his ego. Make him think I dismissed his focus. "He's usually the star of your monologues."
"You mean King Grey?" Agrona scoffed through Sylvie's lips, a dismissive wave of her tiny hand. "A blunt instrument. Useful once, now obsolete. He far exceeded his shelf life the moment you entered the picture."
The casual dismissal of Grey sent a fresh wave of cold dread down my spine. It wasn't anger; it was the chilling disinterest of a scientist discarding a petri dish.
"No, Corvis. This audience is for you, and you alone. Your presence here, tending to my daughter in her ascension… it confirms what I've suspected. You are unique. Transcendent, even, in your own… limited way."
"Get to the point, Agrona," I snapped, the facade of calm cracking. "Your theatrics are tedious."
"Corvis!" He chided, Sylvie's face adopting a parody of hurt. "You misunderstand! I'm not here as the Sovereign of Alacrya, breathing fire and demanding fealty. Think of me as… a colleague. A fellow scholar of the arcane, intrigued by a peer." He leaned Sylvie's body forward conspiratorially.
"I've been a fan of yours for a long while, you know?"
The absurdity was staggering. A fan? Romulos's spectral form beside me flickered violently, his face a mask of raw, conflicting emotions—fascination warring with revulsion.
"He's playing you, Corvis. Like a finely tuned instrument." He commented with a roll of his eyes.
"Of course," I forced out, my voice tight. "I'm sure you're simply dying to discuss mana theory over tea."
"Precisely!" Agrona beamed through Sylvie, the expression unnervingly bright. "I've kept a close eye on you, Corvis Eralith. Ever since Grey used a portal to flee my loving embrace."
"At first, I wanted my renegade anchor back. But then…" He paused, a master of dramatic tension, savoring my dawning horror. "…I discovered you. The coreless prince. The boy who shouldn't be able to feel the wind, yet taught his sister Mana Rotation at the tender age of eight."
The revelation stole my breath. He'd been watching since childhood? Spying on Tessia's lessons? The violation was profound, intimate.
"Trivial, you might think," Agrona continued, Sylvie's head tilting. "Mana beasts do it instinctively. But to teach it? To impart that profound understanding to another lesser? That requires a conceptual grasp deeper than most adult Asuras possess. My late wife, Sylvia, took days to instill it in Grey deep below Taegrin Caelum. You… you simply knew it."
"Get to the point!" The words tore from me, raw with rising panic. The carefully constructed narrative of my life, shielded by Fate's supposed design, was crumbling under his knowing gaze.
"The point, dear boy," Agrona sighed, Sylvie's posture shifting to one of exaggerated patience, "is that killing you would have been the path of least resistance. Simple. Efficient. But an anomaly like you? A self-taught savant bending reality's rules before puberty? You were far too interesting to discard. I wanted to see what you'd become. Imagine my delight!"
He leaned Sylvie closer, those golden eyes boring into mine, devoid of any warmth, only cold, scientific hunger. "So, instead of eliminating you at ten—long before old Kezess finally twitched in your direction—I let you grow. I watched. I studied. And I even sent you a little… gift."
A cruel smile touched Sylvie's lips.
"Nico. Did you enjoy disposing him? Grey must have appreciated the closure, though I doubt he'd admit it."
Binman. The word surfaced, a shield of contempt. "Using me as your garbage collector? As your binman? Even for you, Agrona, that's a new low."
"Binman!" Agrona laughed, Sylvie's body shaking with the unnatural mirth. "I adore that! Fits Nico perfectly. Discarded refuse." Beside me, Romulos choked back a snicker before his face twisted in self-recrimination.
"Sorry, Corvis. Truly," he muttered, the apology genuine amidst the horror.
Agrona waved Sylvie's hand dismissively sighing in disappointment. "But alas, time is fleeting and I can't overstay much longer, and you seem… unappreciative of our little intellectual discourse. So, let's conclude our business."
The playful scientist vanished, replaced by the icy Sovereign. "Surrender, Corvis Eralith. Yield yourself to me, and I spare Dicathen. Withdraw my forces. Leave your precious forests and kingdoms intact. I've already demonstrated my… restraint and well-meaning, haven't I?" Sylvie's gesture encompassed the night.
"Elenoir suffers far less than Darv and Sapin, does it not? A little incentive."
Our victories in Elenoir, the lighter casualties… they weren't luck or superior tactics. They were bait. Calculated mercy to make this offer seem credible. A monstrous card played with cold precision.
I looked to Romulos. His spectral face was grim, resigned. He gave a single, slow nod. No surrender. Never. The resolve solidified, cold and hard.
"No," I stated, the word flat, final. Mocking his 'generosity'. "I decline your… mercy."
Agrona sighed through Sylvie, a sound of profound disappointment. "Pity. Such potential, wasted on sentiment." He leaned forward, Sylvie's small face inches from mine, the golden eyes gleaming with malevolent certainty.
"Then you leave me no choice but to escalate. The game is over, dear Corvis, but I have to say I had fun. Now, I mobilize everything. Every Scythe. Every Retainer. Every Wraith under my command, even the Ascenders currently exploring the Relictombs which, as I wouldn't be surprised if you knew, are far stronger than your strongest adventurers. Alacrya's full might descends upon your little, lesser, continent."
He paused, savoring the impact. "I will capture you, Corvis. Your tricks are clever, your foresight… intriguing. But your emotions?" Sylvie's lips curled in a sneer. "They are your fatal flaw. I will burn the Elshire Forest to cinders. I will shatter Zestier's spires and drag your parents before you in chains. I will break your grandfather, your friends, your people."
Each threat was a hammer blow, shattering the foundations of my world.
"And when you are utterly broken, devastated, devoid of hope… I will use you. You and Grey. Perfect anchors. And your dear sister Tessia?" The name hung in the air like a death knell. Sylvie's face adopted a look of mock sympathy.
"She will make an exquisite vessel for the Legacy. A final, poetic period."
The world tilted. Anchors. Using me? Using Tessia? The sheer, monstrous ambition of it stole the breath from my lungs. Color drained from my face, leaving me cold and numb.
"Bluff," I choked out, the word a desperate shield against the encroaching horror.
"Bluff?" Agrona chuckled, Sylvie shaking her head with patronizing amusement. "Consider, Little Prince. What will dear old Kezess do when he sees me unleash such… dedicated resources solely to acquire you? Will h risk yet another futile attempt on my life? Or,"
Sylvie's eyes narrowed,
"will he simply obliterate Dicathen from the world—maybe killing most of my forces in the process—rather than let it, and its fascinating prince, fall into my hands? He might even whisk you away to Epheotus—a cage, serving the butcher of your people."
He paused, the final barb delivered with chilling precision. "Or perhaps… he'll discover your little secret. Your 'Meta-awareness'. Imagine what he would do with that."
The name. Spoken aloud. By Agrona. The last bastion of my hidden self, my only perceived advantage, was laid bare. The shock was absolute, a punch in the gut that drove all the air from my lungs. Fate's protection was a lie. My deepest secret was known. I was naked before this monster.
"You have one hour, dear Corvis." Agrona declared, Sylvie's body straightening with finality. The playful tone vanished, replaced by absolute, glacial command. "Cadell will await you at Zestier Palace. A gesture of goodwill—you obviously know the location. Fail to appear…"
Sylvie's small hand mimed a knife slicing a throat.
"Your parents die. Slowly. And my promise to raze your world? Consider it activated."
Abruptly, the chilling intelligence vanished from Sylvie's eyes. The puppet strings cut. Her small body went limp, crumpling like a discarded doll. My arms, moving purely on broken instinct, caught her before she hit the stone.
I held her—warm, breathing, terrifyingly vulnerable—but my mind was elsewhere.
Agrona had just dismantled the architecture of my existence. He knew everything.
My deepest secret was exposed. My family, my home, Tessia… all were pawns in his monstrous game, with me as the coveted prize.
The weight of it crushed down, an avalanche of despair burying the adrenaline, the resolve, leaving only a hollow, echoing void where hope had once flickered.