...Corvis
Darkness. Not the comforting embrace of sleep, but a suffocating void, absolute and impenetrable. Then, a figure coalesced in front of me.
I saw a girl. She floated, or stood, in the nothingness, a single point of definition. Pointed ears, sharp and elegant, marked her features. Gunmetal long hair, a shade echoing storm clouds or cold steel, tied in neatly cut braids that framed a face both youthful and unnervingly solemn.
And her eyes... teal eyes. Not the vibrant turquoise of tropical shallows, but the deep, enigmatic teal of ancient glacier ice. She was looking back at... me?
Her gaze wasn't curious; it was intense, searching, laden with a sorrow I couldn't comprehend.
Recognition flickered in those teal depths, a spark that ignited a nameless dread within me. I saw her opening her mouth, lips forming words lost in the vacuum. But I heard no sounds coming from it. Silence pressed in, heavy and accusing.
Around, apart from her, everything was dark.
Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at the edges of my consciousness. What was happening? This wasn't a dream; it felt like a memory trying to surface through layers of tar, or a message sent across an impossible gulf.
Why was I seeing an elf—a lesser? The designation came automatically, ingrained, yet it tasted wrong on the phantom tongue I didn't possess. She wasn't just a lesser. She was... important.
A name hovered, elusive, just beyond the reach of my frantic thoughts. Tes...? The fragment dissolved before it could solidify.
———
My eyes snapped open suddenly. The crushing darkness vanished, replaced by a dim, vaulted ceiling high above.
I looked up and the ceiling, high and dark, arched like the ribs of some colossal stone beast. The shadows clung thickly to the ribs of the vault, reminding me of... what? A sense of oppressive grandeur, of ancient power held in check by cold stone.
To my right, stained glass windows erupted in a riot of colour as the weak light of dawn pierced them.
Deep blues, blood reds, sickly greens, and oppressive blacks formed intricate, unsettling scenes and made the light of the morning sun filter through, casting fractured, kaleidoscopic patterns across the cold stone floor and the rich, dark fabrics draped around the massive bed I laid upon.
Was the name I was trying to find gothic architecture? The term surfaced, precise and clinical, a label for this oppressive, intimidating beauty.
"Corvis, my boy. Are you feeling better?" The voice was a deep, resonant baritone, yet layered with calm and an underlying almightiness.
It washed over me, simultaneously soothing and setting my nerves on edge. I turned my head, a stiffness protesting in my neck.
I turned my eyes to see a man... tall with smooth grey skin, like polished basalt, stretched taut over a powerful, lithe and imposing frame.
He stood beside the bed, radiating an aura of power that made the vast room feel impossibly small. He had red eyes, not the warm crimson of rubies, but the cold, predatory gleam of fresh spilled blood under moonlight.
Black hair fell straight and sharp to his neck, framing a face of harsh, aristocratic angles. And two impressive black horns swept back from his temples, protruding from the side of his head, stark symbols of his otherness, yet undeniably part of him.
Power incarnate. Danger incarnate. Just my Dad.
He caressed my cheek. His touch was cool, the smooth grey skin surprisingly soft, yet it carried the weight of mountains. His fingers traced my jawline, an intimate gesture that felt profoundly intimidating even though I yearned for it.
His eyes held... worry and concern for me? The expression was meticulously crafted, the red depths softening infinitesimally, the lines around them tightening with simulated care. But beneath it, deep within those bloody pools, laid something colder, sharper.
"Corvis, tell me how are you feeling." He demanded, but gently. The gentleness was the velvet glove over the iron fist. A command so well disguised as concern.
Confusion warred with a terrifyingly deep-seated instinct. Who was this man? The title screamed in my mind: High Sovereign Agrona Vritra. Dad. The contradiction was an intense headache. What was happening? My mind scrabbled for purchase.
I don't remember.
"Dad?" The moniker escaped my lips before thought could intervene, raw and instinctive. It felt right, a fundamental truth etched into the marrow of my body, yet simultaneously a horrific betrayal of something deeper, something screaming silently within.
"What... happened?"
Dad smiled. It was a slow, deliberate unfurling of lips, revealing perfectly white, slightly sharp teeth. As he looked up at the ceiling, perhaps avoiding my searching gaze, perhaps contemplating the vaulted stone.
"My boy, you will make me go mad out of worry!" He exclaimed, the deep voice booming with joviality. Laughing the matter off his shoulders. The sound echoed, hollow in the oppressive space. Although I had the impression that smile didn't reach his eyes.
"You were leading the people of Alacrya to conquer that barbarous continent of Dicathen..."—Dicathen... a continent inhabited by lessers and nothing else, yet I felt something akin to longing at that name—"...and you almost fell in battle."
"Fortunately Cadell rescued you in time." Dad said shaking his head. A gesture of paternal exasperation.
I... was fighting a war? The concept felt alien, repulsive. Strategy, tactics, mana manipulation—these I understood intrinsically. But conquest? Subjugation?
Why should I fight a war in a continent different from Alacrya? A core belief, unshakeable and profound, rose within me: I would never invade a foreign country. Never.
The conviction was bedrock. Yet... if Dad said so it must have been true, he never lied to me at least. The conflict was excruciating. My own deepest conviction warred with the absolute authority of the figure before me, the figure I instinctively called 'Dad'.
And... Cadell? The image of the Scythe, cold and superior. Being saved by a lesser, truly the epitome of failure that I have always been. The self-loathing thought surfaced, sharp and bitter too familiar to be false.
Yet Dad was looking at me like I was the most precious thing in the world, right? The contradiction was maddening. The cold calculation in his eyes versus the gentle hand on my shoulder, the booming laugh, the words of concern.
Which was real? Both? Neither? Was I going crazy?
"Sorry Dad, I didn't mean to fail you." The apology tumbled out, automatic, servile. Why was I apologizing for something I didn't even remember? It felt like groveling.
Like appeasing a god whose wrath was terrifyingly real. If I didn't remember it it means I messed up pretty badly... right? The logic was circular, trapping me in guilt I hadn't earned for actions I couldn't recall.
It was like I had two people battling inside me, one wanted to do nothing but cry and be comforted by Dad asking for forgiveness. The other refused it, a true Vritra never shows weakness. A true Vritra doesn't have weaknesses.
"Don't worry Corvis." Dad said reassuringly. His hand squeezed my shoulder, the cool strength both comforting and confining. "What matters is that you are safe, my boy."
'My boy.' The possessive term echoed. Safety. It felt like a cage, but one that I liked—as long as I would be with Dad nothing could go wrong, I could stop worrying for everything: I just needed to rely on him.
Dad was a scary person, he was an evil person. The knowledge surfaced, cold and hard, a shard of truth piercing the fog. I knew that. Yet... he loved me. The counter-argument was visceral, emotional, rooted deep in this body's conditioning.
He loved me Corvis Era—Vrit... what was that? The name fractured. Eralith? Vritra? Which was I? The conflict spiked into a sharp headache.
"Dad I don't feel quite right." The admission was a whisper, torn from the confusion. I said scratching my head—where my horns are... my fingers met only soft gunmetal hair, the pointed tip of my ear. I don't have horns, what am I saying? The thought was absurd. Of course I had horns. I was a Vritra. Agrona's son.
Why did my hand keep expecting ridges that weren't there? Why did the absence feel like a phantom limb?
My words caused Dad's eyebrows to twitch. A minuscule movement, a crack in the perfect facade. For a second I swore he wasn't looking at me like his son, but like an experiment he failed. The red eyes sharpened, piercing, analyzing. Assessing stability, cohesion. A scientist observing a potentially flawed specimen.
No, what was I saying? The self-correction was immediate, frantic. Dad loved me and as always done. He looked over me since I was kept as a pet in Epheotus, disguised right under Kezess' nose. The conditioning reasserted itself, smothering the terrifying glimpse of truth. Love was the shield, the justification, the chain.
He recovered swiftly, the paternal mask sliding back into place. He placed a hand on my shoulder and said: "It's okay Corvis, rest for now."
"When you will feel better I will send a servant to bring you to me." A summons disguised as an invitation. His presence receded, the oppressive weight lifting slightly as he moved towards the massive, ornate doors.
The silence he left behind wasn't peaceful; it was heavy with unanswered questions and the lingering chill of his performance.
The moment the door thudded shut, a strange energy surged through me—part restlessness, part desperate need for grounding. I stood up. My legs felt shaky, unfamiliar, as if learning to walk again—where was my cane?
The room was vast, opulent, yet sterile. It screamed power, history, and coldness. I moved to the window, drawn to the fractured light. The stained glass prevented much of the view beyond, turning the world outside into a blur of distorted colour.
But high above the kaleidoscope, piercing the false dawn depicted in the glass, I could clearly see the snowy high peaks of the Basilisk Fang Mountains which surrounded Taegrin Caelum.
I knew everything about Taegrin Caelum... the knowledge flooded in, unbidden, vast and intricate. I knew it so well that I could probably walk around blindfolded and still find any room without getting lost.
The layout unfolded in my mind's eye: the labyrinthine research levels deep below and the dungeons, the opulent reception halls, the austere training arenas, the hidden passages known only to... whom? Something not even the Scythes or the Sovereigns could do given the humbling vastness of Taegrin Caelum.
This knowledge felt intimate, hard-won, yet I had no memory of acquiring it. I knew everything about Dad's fortress, every secret, every room, every material used to build it. I knew it like my pockets even places where Dad wouldn't want me to be. The thought was intrusive, dangerous.
Why did I know the location of Agrona Vritra's private soulforge? This knowledge wasn't just theoretical; it felt lived. However I didn't feel at home. Why? The dissonance was profound. This was the seat of my father's power, my birthright, filled with knowledge I possessed down to the molecular level.
It felt like a museum of someone else's life.
Driven by a need for concrete reality, I walked to the bathroom connected to my? bedroom. 'My?' The hesitation was telling. The bathroom was as opulent as the bedroom, all dark marble and gleaming silver fixtures. I leaned on the sink, the cool stone surface a shock against my palms and looked at myself reflected on the mirror.
Light bloomed from an intricate artifact above the mirror, casting a clear, unforgiving illumination.
The face that stared back was... mine. Undeniably. My features were all there. Gunmetal hair, long and slightly messy from sleep, the colour stark against the grey skin I expected but didn't see.
Pale, elven skin. Slightly too pale and with a few bruises due to my foolish, stupid inability to take care of myself.
Teal eyes,the same deep, glacier teal as the girl in the void, wide with confusion and a dawning horror. Bags under my eyes, always due to my incompetence to even sleep properly.
Pointy ears.
Why did I look like an elf? The question screamed silently in the reflection's eyes. I was a Vritra of that I was sure, the conviction a burning core within the confusion.
Vritra blood sang in my veins, power thrummed under my skin, the knowledge of high ascension mana theory was second nature. But I was also sure that this body was mine and it has always been mine. The certainty was absolute, rooted in physical sensation, in the memory of this face aging from childhood.
Two irreconcilable truths: Vritra Asura. Elven body.
"Despite everything it's still me: Corvis... Vritra." I repeated to the mirror.
Corvis... Vritra. Why did the surname feel like a shackle? Why did 'Corvis' alone spark a flicker of... green forests? A loyal beast's warm fur? However the name Vritra spoke of... brotherhood? Strive to accomplish the limits of Meta-awareness.
It spoke me of countless hours done carving runes, building weapons, researching materials and making theories.
"Am I having body dysphoria?" I asked aloud, grasping for a rational explanation. A disconnect between mind and form. But it felt deeper. It felt like a disconnect between soul and circumstance.
I tried to focus my mind, seeking clarity, seeking my memories. But the pathways were murky, blocked. The only things that were clear were mana theories and everything related to Dad's researches and work.
I was his research assistant as well as his son after all. The role defined me, filled the void where personal history should be.
I felt a slight ache at my mana core. Instinct took over, bypassing the confusion. Instinctively I closed my eyes and checked on it breathing in and out in a steady manner. The core pulsed within my solar plexus, a dense sphere of swirling silver energy, vibrant and potent.
I was on the verge of breaking into the white core stage, the threshold palpable, a pressure building behind the silver light. Taegrin Caelum was helping me with that.
The ambient mana here was thick, potent, saturated with Dad's power. Being inhabited by an Asura like Dad made everything easier. The proximity to his power acted as a catalyst, a constant pressure forcing refinement.
But I was an Asura too... The thought surfaced again, clashing violently with the elven reflection. Yet I had the body of an elf.
Everything seemed so contradictory yet it seemed seamless in my mind like it was the correct order of the world. The cognitive dissonance wasn't painful anymore; it was settling into a terrifying numbness. The contradictions were facts. Facts didn't argue. They just were.
Dad loved me, yet he was terrifying and felt wrong at times, like he wasn't exactly my Dad, the Agrona Vritra I respected and loved so much. I knew Taegrin Caelum intimately, yet it wasn't home. The numbness was more frightening than the confusion. Acceptance of the unacceptable.
Disgusted, I splashed some cold water on my face. The shock was bracing, scattering the thoughts momentarily. There was no time to waste in frivolous matters like this.
Dad needed my help in his Legacy Project and I was the only one who could help him with that. The thought was a lifeline. Clarity. Duty. This, at least, I understood.
The intricacies of soul transference, the manipulation of Fate's golden threads, the containment of apocalyptic power—these were problems I could solve.
When I exited the bathroom, the transition from the bright, reflective space back to the dim grandeur of the bedroom felt like stepping onto a stage. And there was my audience. I saw a servant bowing to me. Deep, abject obeisance, forehead nearly touching the cold stone floor.
She was one of the many Alacryans employed in Taegrin Caelum—the best Alacryans in their respective categories and one of the few lessers who were directly governed by Dad. Her uniform was impeccable, dark grey and silver, denoting high status within the servant hierarchy.
"Lord Corvis," she began, her voice carefully modulated, respectful to the point of reverence. "The High Sovereign has assigned me to you."
Information flooded my perception without conscious effort. She had a slight Truacian accent, the rounded vowels and soft consonants distinct from the sharper cadence of Central Dominion.
She was probably from an Highblood—the subtle quality of the fabric of her uniform's trim, the precise, economical way she held herself even in the bow, the flawless enunciation beneath the accent.
Given her cured mannerisms and corrected speech to match the one of Central Dominion. She had trained rigorously to serve in the heart of Vritra power.
From the almost imperceptible twitch in her right eye—both were closed as she bowed—a micro-expression lasting less than a heartbeat. It was clear she was feeling anxious. Profoundly so.
Being given a task by the High Sovereign of Alacrya was like having a direct order from the king of the gods by the Alacryan populace, be them nobles or not.
Since when have I been so... insightful? The question echoed. This wasn't just deduction. It was instantaneous, holistic understanding. Since I was a kid I always had vast amounts of knowledge, but that was thanks to Meta-awareness: total understanding of the world, but only theoretical.
I lacked the empirical aspect of knowledge... yet now, just by looking at this woman I... knew her. Knew the tremor of her hidden fear, the pride buried under servitude, the specific Highblood from Truacia based on the accent's regional nuance. It was like I had centuries of experience spent observing people and meticulously studying them, yet I didn't have any memories of it.
The knowledge was just... there. Integrated. A ghost in the machine of my mind. Romulos? The name surfaced, accompanied by a wave of profound, inexplicable grief that vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me more unsettled.
I was going to be seventeen in 46 days. The fact surfaced with startling clarity. A birthday. And I hoped Dad would throw a party, just me and him. The desire was childish, wistful, cutting through the cold intellect. A private celebration. His undivided attention. Proof of his love, separate from the Legacy Project, separate from my utility.
I have always wished to not be an only child... loneliness echoed in the vast, silent room. And in the back of my mind I had like a voice saying me that having a sister would have been the best thing ever.
Someone to share the weight of this existence, the confusion, the terrifying love of Agrona Vritra. A younger sister or maybe a twin... the image was vivid, warm—shared laughter, secret understanding, a bond unbreakable by the fortress's cold stone. Not an older one that wouldn't have been as good as the former two.
The thought was oddly specific, tinged with a faint, inexplicable resentment. Why not an older sister? The answer wasn't knowledge; it was pure, irrational feeling.
The servant remained bowed, a silent statue of apprehension, waiting for my command. I looked at her, seeing the intricate web of her life and fears laid bare by this unnerving insight, and felt only a profound, echoing loneliness in the heart of the most defended fortress in the world.