Corvis Vritra
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the minute scritch-scratch of the mana-infused stylus against the nascent crystal lattice. The blue gem, barely the size of my thumb, pulsed faintly on the workbench, a cold, fragile star in the dim light.
Memories of my time as Outis resurfaced. For a second I imagined Berna sleeping and Romulos making comments. I shook my head vigorously.
Fatigue was a physical weight, pressing down on my shoulders, blurring the edges of my vision, making the intricate runes I etched waver.
My hands trembled—a fine, almost imperceptible tremor born of exhaustion and the constant, low-level thrum of terror that was my baseline state in Taegrin Caelum.
"Corvis, what are you doing?" The voice was sharp, familiar, laced with that characteristic blend of aristocratic impatience and underlying concern. It echoed perfectly in the hollow chamber of my mind.
I imagined Romulos asking me that—the thought twisted into a pang of profound, unexpected grief. I would have never imagined I would miss that voice in my head so much.
His presence had been a constant, a sharp-tongued anchor in the storm, a brother-in-arms sharing the cramped psychic space. Now, the silence left by his sacrifice was a vast, echoing void, amplifying the loneliness of the cage I was held in.
The ache was dulled, yes—smoothed over by the pragmatic, unyielding shell of his personality that now reinforced my own, and momentarily numbed by the terrifying, seductive warmth of Dad's approval. But it was there, a constant, low throb beneath the surface.
The container for Ji-Ae's fragment, I replied to the phantom, the words forming silently in the quiet space where Romulos used to reside. The answer felt inadequate, a technical response to a question probing something deeper: the sheer, terrifying isolation of this path.
I started to wonder when the next iteration of the Thwart would appear. The thought surfaced, cold and clinical, a product of Romulos's ingrained understanding of our nature.
Would it be soon? Years? I was starting to feel lonely, the admission surprising in its rawness, even if that ache was dulled both by Romulos' personality and... Dad. The juxtaposition was jarring.
The defiant ghost of my brother and the monstrous, beloved shadow of my captor—the twin pillars holding up my crumbling sanity. I wanted to laugh.
As for what I was really doing, the stylus moved with meticulous, if weary, precision. I was making a crystal to contain part of Ji-Ae's consciousness. The structure was delicate, a lattice designed to resonate with Djinn mama signatures, capable of holding a sliver of that ancient immense mind.
It wasn't much, I acknowledged grimly, surveying the small, glowing core. Ji-Ae deserved a masterpiece, a palace of crystal and light. This was a functional shack, hastily assembled. Only five hours remained before the Legacy reincarnation.
The deadline loomed like a guillotine blade, each tick of an unseen clock a hammer blow against my resolve. And I wanted to sleep at least three to avoid collapsing while doing it. The calculation was brutal.
Collapse wasn't just failure; it was catastrophic exposure. Causing not only my plans to fail, but Dad suspecting why was I in that state. A silver-core elf pushed beyond breaking point by secret machinations?
He'd dissect the reason with ruthless efficiency. Sleep wasn't indulgence; it was a tactical necessity, a desperate bid for functional coherence.
The workbench was a testament to Taegrin Caelum's terrifying abundance. Taegrin Caelum, as I already said, was a true treasure trove. Precious metals gleamed dully. Mana-conductive alloys hummed with latent power. Rare crystals refracted the low light in mesmerizing patterns.
It had all kinds of materials I could think of, resources that could build empires or forge weapons of terrifying power. And I was allowed to access them all—the privilege was a double-edged blade.
Surely a trap made by Dad, a way to observe my choices, gauge my interests, see if I strayed towards forbidden knowledge or suspicious projects. But also something he could use to his advantage.
My innovations, born of Meta-awareness and Romulos's knowledge, could be co-opted, refined, turned against the very world I sought to protect. He was farming my intellect.
For that reason I was making two separate projects. The mental division was a strain, but necessary. Deception required layers. Thanks to the Asuran mind Romulos left behind I could focus perfectly on two projects at the same time. It was like splitting my consciousness—one stream flowing visibly on the surface, the other buried deep beneath, shielded by the first.
I worked most of time on building some storage rings from scratch and recreating the spatial suitcase for my alchemical magic—the movements were practiced, almost automatic. Shaping the mental bands, inlaying the minute runes for dimensional stability, reinforcing the spatial matrices within the polished obsidian case.
These were useful tools, yes, but more importantly, they were plausible. Things I would proudly show Dad like a dutiful child boasting his drawings to a parent—the image was sickening, yet vital. Let him see the "son" tinkering, channeling his brilliance into harmless utility. Let him be pleased.
I alternatively focused on finishing the crystal for Ji-Ae's fragment. Deep within, shielded by the busywork of the storage artifacts, my true focus honed in on the delicate blue gem.
Etching the final, crucial runes that would allow consciousness transfer and containment, ensuring the lattice wouldn't shatter under the weight of Djinn thought. This was the lifeline, the key to the next phase.
It was a small blue gem roughly the size of my thumb which I would encase in my suitcase so to use Ji-Ae also as a storage manager—practicality mixed with necessity. When I would be in the Relictombs I would have access to far more advanced Djinn technology and with Ji-Ae's help I would be able to rebuild most of the equipment I left on Dicathen.
A mobile library, engineer, and strategist, all contained within a thumb-sized crystal nestled in a suitcase I used for my alchemical magic. The absurdity of it almost made me laugh—if laughter wasn't a forgotten luxury.
"Should you think about the relics in the Relictombs right now?" The imaginary Romulos piped up again, his tone dripping with sarcastic practicality. Focus on the cage you're in, not the one you're jumping to.
Oh, I thought it was you who wanted to go to the Relictombs so much, I shot back internally, a flicker of the old, familiar banter warming the cold edges of my mind for a millisecond. Planning the escape was the only thing keeping the terror at bay.
"I am not Romulos, Corvis," the hallucination retorted, its voice suddenly flat, devoid of the brotherly undertones. "I am your hallucination of him."
The stark pronouncement landed like a blow. It was just the ragged edges of my mind, fraying under pressure, conjuring comfort where none existed.
Then, another voice, lower, warmer, infinitely more dangerous. "My boy, shouldn't you rest?" The sound froze the blood in my veins.
Was I imagining Dad's voice too now? The sleep deprivation was gnawing deeper, blurring the lines between vigilance and paranoia. Sleep really was a problem. A fatal one, if it made me hear things that weren't there.
Driven by a spike of pure adrenaline, I turned around to face the hallucination, bracing myself for the empty air. My breath hitched. My face paled. It wasn't empty air. Dad. Real Dad.
Looming on the frame of my door. The sheer, silent power of his presence filled the room, a physical pressure. His smooth grey skin seemed to absorb the light, the black horns stark against the dimness. His red eyes, sharp, inquisitive, looking at my desk. And that half-smile... it made me want to hide beneath my bed like a pathetic child.
Dad was scanning the scattered components, the half-finished storage rings, the glowing crystal, the spatial suitcase. He hadn't knocked. He never knocked.
Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to short-circuit my already overloaded brain. Ji-Ae hadn't alerted me. The silence screamed implications. That could mean two things.
One: she didn't desire to help me that much and wanted to test me further, to see if I could improvise under Agrona's direct scrutiny. Or two, far more terrifying: Dad was suspecting even her and somehow bypassed her sensory.
The thought that he could move unseen even by the fortress's omnipresent intelligence sent a fresh wave of icy dread through me. I was playing chess against a grandmaster who might be cheating with invisible pieces.
Instinct, honed by terror and Romulos's ingrained sense of theatrical deception, took over. "I am building some storage rings!" I exclaimed, pitching my voice higher, injecting a note of startled innocence, feigning the surprise of a child caught doing something he shouldn't be.
I gestured vaguely at the metal bands. The crystal pulsed innocuously beside them. Dad laughed. The sound was rich, warm, perfectly calibrated—the indulgent father amused by his son's industriousness.
It did nothing to ease the cold knot in my stomach.
"You should have asked me for some," he chided gently, stepping fully into the room. His movements were silent, predatory grace disguised as paternal concern. He approached the workbench, his presence shrinking the space.
His gaze swept over the components, missing nothing. Taking one of the storage rings, he held it up to the light. I have only made three of them, I noted internally, but I didn't need ten like I used to since I left Xyrus all those years ago—three plus the spatial suitcase would suffice.
"They are well made," Dad observed, his voice holding genuine, if clinical, appreciation. His fingers traced the runework. Then, his eyes then landed on the suitcase. The larger, more complex item. "And what's this for? A storage suitcase?" The question was casual, but the red eyes were sharp, probing.
Before I answered, he acted. Dad tried to put the suitcase inside one of the storage rings. A test. The spatial paradox—attempting to contain a dimensional space within another one—was a known limitation, a puzzle few lesser mages even considered. There was a faint shimmer, a resistance in the ambient mana.
"Like I thought," he chuckled, the sound holding genuine satisfaction this time. "You tried to bypass the paradox of having more storage items inside one another and it worked." He set the suitcase down, examining the ring again with renewed interest.
"Good job boy, good job." The praise was like warm honey, thick and cloying.
He understood that feature by a simple glance, scary. The casual display of his intellect, his effortless comprehension of complex spatial mechanics, was a chilling reminder of the chasm between us. Yet a conflicting pride took over me after his praise. It surged, hot and unwelcome, a traitorous bloom of warmth in my chest.
"Thank you, Dad!" I said, the words escaping with an earnestness that surprised even me. The gratitude felt real, a product of the deep, poisoned well of affection he'd cultivated effortlessly.
He turned, the paternal mask softening further. He looked back and ruffled my hair. The cool touch of his grey fingers sent a jolt through me—part revulsion, part desperate, childlike craving for the comfort it pretended to offer.
"Now sleep, boy," he commanded, the warmth laced with undeniable authority. "I want you to be well rested both for your wellbeing and for our project." He emphasized our, weaving the word like a spell, binding me to his purpose.
"I wouldn't want to force you to sleep."
The veiled threat was exquisitely delivered, velvet over steel. The unspoken consequence of disobedience hung in the air, colder than the stone walls. The choice was stark: obey and maintain the facade, or resist and invite immediate, catastrophic scrutiny.
Driven by a complex storm of fear, affection, and strategic necessity, I hugged Dad. It was an impulsive gesture, the frightened child seeking solace, the dutiful son performing expected affection. My arms wrapped around his lean frame, my face pressing briefly against the cool fabric of his tunic.
"I just want to make you proud," I whispered, the words thick with a sincerity that terrified me.
The taste of those words was bittersweet. Which part of me spoke? The fractured Corvis Eralith clinging to any paternal figure? The ghostly echo of Romulos's desperate love for the father he remembered? Or the insidious residue of the mind spell, reinforcing the obedient narrative?
I didn't know, and the ambiguity was a fresh wound. But I felt bad for Agrona Vritra. The thought was a shocking counterpoint. If only I could make him change. The impossible wish flickered—not just for my survival, but for the brilliant, broken being beneath the monster.
To salvage the ghost of the Agrona Romulos loved.
But even then, Agrona Vritra had too many enemies. The reality crashed down. All the world was against him. Dicathen, Epheotus and even one of his own Scythes: Seris. And now, his son too. The final betrayal was already in motion. There was no path to redemption, only mutually assured destruction or total victory. The hug felt like an act of mourning.
As he disengaged, I asked myself the question that popped in my mind while I was working on the crystal and the storage items. Why did Agrona make me his son with the spell? He understood minds, understood vulnerabilities. I knew perfectly that one of my most fatal flaws was affection.
He exploited it masterfully. But for that he would have simply needed to make himself my only family. An Uncle, an adoptive parent, everything. Not my Dad specifically.
The title carried a unique weight, a primal resonance. Did he crave the role? The devotion only a son could offer? Was there a twisted, lonely part of him that wanted this performance, not just as manipulation, but as a grotesque simulacrum of the bond he'd lost with Romulos? Or was it simply the deepest hook, the most unbreakable chain?
I was probably overthinking it and it was just a trick from Dad to tighten his control over me, Romulos's cynicism reasserted itself. Occam's Razor—the simplest explanation was usually the most brutally correct.
But I really wanted to think that he desired to be my Dad. The need was pathetic, a vulnerability laid bare. He said he was my fan, no? The memory of his words in the garden, before everything shattered, offered a fragile thread of hope.
Was that the kernel of truth beneath the layers of manipulation? That hope, however, didn't have enough proofs or motives behind it. It was a wish, not a strategy. A weakness, not a strength. It was Corvis Eralith, not a rational person's thought.
"Rest boy," Dad said from the doorway, his silhouette framed against the dim corridor light. "I am proud of you."
The words, delivered with a smile before he turned and vanished, were the final, exquisitely crafted blow. They settled over me like a leaden blanket, heavy with false warmth and implicit threat.
With a sigh that felt like it came from the depths of my exhausted soul, I tidied my desk. The storage rings gleamed on my fingers—three bands of cold metal, symbols of my deception. Putting the storage suitcase inside one of them, I then did the same for Ji-Ae's gem, the small blue crystal holding the potential for salvation or doom.
Placing it on the desk waiting for her to fill it with a fragment of her consciousness. The silent plea hung in the air.
She would probably wait until Dad started his preparations for the ritual to not draw his attention, I reasoned, clinging to logic. So I had plenty of time to catch on my sleep. "Plenty" was a relative term. Three hours. A blink. A reprieve.
I stumbled towards the massive, cold bed, the luxurious sheets feeling like a mockery. The room, with its vaulted ceiling and stained glass, felt less like a prince's chamber and more like a beautifully appointed tomb.
As I sank onto the mattress, the world tilting with exhaustion, a final whisper echoed in the hollow space where my brother used to be.
"Goodnight, brother." The imagined Romulos sounded softer now, the sarcasm replaced by a weary fondness.
Goodnight, brother, I replied silently into the crushing darkness, the words a fragile bridge across the void of his absence. Then, consciousness surrendered, dragging me down into a sleep haunted by red eyes, violet cages, and the chilling echo of a father's praise.