TBATE: Corvis Eralith

Grey

The wind roared past us, a living thing that tugged at my clothes and whipped my hair into a frenzy, yet it couldn't touch the quiet contentment warming me from within. Below, the patchwork quilt of Darv blurred beneath Sylvie's powerful wingbeats. The rhythmic thrum of her flight, the familiar, immense presence of her mana resonating against my own, was a grounding lullaby. Then her voice, clear and resonant even above the wind, reached me, carrying that old, cherished name.

'Papa, you seem very happy.'

The word, unexpected yet deeply familiar, struck a chord that vibrated through years of struggle and separation. It landed with the weight of shared history, a defiant spark against the long shadow of Kezess Indrath.

Sylvie, my daughter in every way that transcended blood or bond, still reached for that title sometimes. It was rebellion, a quiet, stubborn affirmation of us against the cold dictates of Epheotus and the Dragon Lord who saw her as property mire than a granddaughter, saw me as a disposable weapon and Corvis as a puppet. More often now, she called me Grey.

But these moments, when 'Papa' slipped out, were precious. They spoke of a childlike trust that had weathered storms, a comfort she allowed herself only with me. They were a reminder of the tiny fox curled on a scared reincarnated king's shoulder, whispering trust into his soul. That simple word, echoing in the vastness of the sky, filled me with a profound, almost aching tenderness.

I am, I sent back, the thought infused with the warmth blossoming in my chest. The feeling had crystallized earlier, sharp and bright. Especially when we appeared in that dungeon where Tessia and her team were clearing.

The memory unfolded vividly behind my eyes. The violent, jarring transition from the oppressive grandeur of Epheotus to the claustrophobic, stinking chaos of that corrupted beast den. The shock of the fall, the immediate, brutal symphony of violence as Sylvie and I tore through the mana-twisted horrors, a necessary purge driven by instinct honed by war.

And then… the sudden stillness, the dust motes dancing in the dim light, revealing the wary, battle-ready figures emerging from the shadows. Among them, her. Tessia. The sight of her—alive, unharmed, leading her team—had slammed into me with the force of a vehicle. The shock on her face, wide-eyed and momentarily unguarded, mirroring my own stunned disbelief.

That single frozen moment, finding her exactly where I needed to find her, safe and strong… the sheer, improbable relief of it had flooded me, a wave so powerful it momentarily washed away the weight of Epheotus, the lingering dread and hate for Agrona's schemes.

It was a beacon of hope, a tangible piece of home waiting in the darkness. A smile, unbidden and genuine, touched my lips as I replayed it.

My gaze drifted from the receding landscape to Corvis, seated comfortably ahead of me on Sylvie's back. He seemed absorbed, his fingers tracing the intricate contours of a dagger resting in his palm. The weapon was a marvel of stark elegance and lethal intent.

Crafted entirely from a deep, almost liquid black metal that drank the sunlight yet held a cold, inner gleam, it reminded me of hardened steel but felt… more. The blade curved wickedly, a frozen arc of deadly potential that flashed reflections like shards of night sky. But it was the handle that truly captivated me—a strange, almost jarring fusion.

It flared subtly, ergonomically shaped, evoking the solid, reassuring grip of a pistol, yet simultaneously echoing the complex, knuckled feel of a motorbike's handlebars.

"What is that?" The question left me before I could filter it, my curiosity piqued. Seeing Corvis armed was a novelty. He'd always been formidable, but his strength laid in his mind, his Ineptrunes, his uncanny perception.

And when I tried to train him with the sword, well... Corvis wasn't the most talented swordman I have met, both lives considered. Another staggering comparison with Nico, it was his brain his weapon.

Now, with an actual mana core humming within Coevis, I found myself intensely curious about how he channeled that power. How did he fight? My eyes scanned him, noting the absence of the familiar, intricate Ineptrunes that once snaked across his skin like living tattoos.

Instead, a complex network of luminous lines now covered his entire body, almost invisible beneath the fabric of his customary steel-grey uniform. They pulsed faintly with a soft, internal light, like veins of pure mana laid bare, intricate circuits etched onto his very being. Even the distinctive tattoo that usually dominated his left eye was subdued, a mere ghostly outline unless actively invoked.

This new corporeal script was both beautiful and unsettling, a constant, visible reminder of the profound transformation he'd undergone. The dagger seemed an extension of this new reality.

"This?" He held it up, the black blade catching the light, a predatory gleam in his own eyes. "My Acclorite." The name rolled off his tongue with quiet pride.

"Acclorite?" Sylvie's massive, scaled head turned smoothly, one immense, intelligent eye fixing on Corvis, the wind whistling around her horns.

But I barely registered her question. My mind reeled. Acclorite. A term I knew intimately, associated with only one person. "You managed to replicate it?!" The exclamation burst out, laced with genuine astonishment. Wren Kain's creation was legendary, a pinnacle of artifice. I remembered vividly asking the reclusive asura about it, hoping, perhaps naively, to secure something similar for Corvis as I knew he was trying to replicate it for a long tiem.

Wren had shut me down with his characteristic gruff finality, refusing even a hint. The idea that Corvis, working alone, had not only understood the principles but recreated the effect… it bordered on the miraculous. It was a testament to the staggering intellect burning within his fragile frame. "Wren Kain wouldn't even give me the time of day about it!"

A satisfied, almost mischievous smile played on Corvis's lips. "Yes. Four pieces, in total. Alea, Aya, and Varay each have one. Fully developed." He paused, his gaze distant for a second, perhaps visualizing the formidable trio wielding his creations. "It's… different from Wren's original formula. More efficient to produce. Less… temperamental, perhaps." There was a hint of pride in the understatement, the quiet confidence of an inventor who had not just copied, but innovated.

Awe warred with a surge of affectionate exasperation. Corvis, always holding cards close to his chest. "What other surprises do you hold for me?" I leaned forward slightly, the wind tugging at my words. "Some new, never-seen kind of magic?" It was half-teasing, half-serious. With Corvis, the impossible often became merely improbable.

"Kinda." He shifted, reaching not for the dagger, but for the sleek black cane resting beside him. "Rhabdomancy."

The word hung in the air. Rhabdomancy. It felt archaic, dusty, belonging to old folklore of my old world. My brow furrowed. "You mean using a cane to do what? Find water in the desert?" Skepticism colored my tone. It seemed absurdly mundane for the elf who'd just replicated Wren Kain's masterpiece.

"The fundamental principle shares a lineage," Corvis conceded, his fingers tracing the polished wood of the cane. "It is a form of divination magic." He lifted the cane, its tip pointing downwards towards the rolling hills far below.

"We should be nearing Burim." As he spoke, the cane in his hand didn't just point; it seemed to come alive. It snapped sharply, decisively, with an almost magnetic pull, aligning itself unerringly towards the southeast, holding steady against the buffeting wind. It wasn't a guess; it was a declaration.

"The safest entrance to the city is there," Corvis stated calmly to Sylvie, indicating the direction the cane now rigidly maintained.

I stared, dumbfounded. The sheer incongruity of it—this sophisticated warrior-scholar, covered in glowing runes, wielding a replicated asuran weapon, now using a dowsing rod?

"You just did what?" I managed, my voice thick with disbelief. "Ask the heavens where to go?"

Corvis met my gaze, that familiar, enigmatic smile returning, touched with amusement at my reaction. He simply nodded. "Essentially."

A sigh escaped me, half-laugh, half-exasperation. Trust Corvis to weaponize the esoteric. My mind, however, jumped to a more practical, pressing concern. "Anyway, what about your bond?" The thought of Berna, his Bear Guardian, felt like a necessary anchor. "Is she…?"

"Bear Guardians possess a unique ability," Corvis explained, his voice regaining its usual calm assurance. "They can teleport to their bonds in moments of dire need. Given Berna's age and experience… teleporting here from the Castle will pose no significant difficulty." He paused, his gaze turning steely, looking ahead towards the horizon where Burim presumably lay hidden. "We are going to use her as a trump card."

"I like the sound of it," I affirmed, the words carrying genuine weight. Knowing that colossal force was on standby eased a knot of tension I hadn't fully acknowledged. Seeing the landscape shift below, recognizing the foothills Corvis's cane had indicated, I stood up, bracing myself against Sylvie's powerful neck.

The familiar, comforting weight of Dawn's Ballad materialized in my hand as I summoned it from the regalia on my back, the cool hilt a grounding presence. The asuran blade hummed faintly, resonating with my own mana, ready.

Sylvie banked smoothly, descending towards a nondescript, rocky hill that rose from the forest floor like a weathered knuckle. It looked utterly barren, devoid of any hint of civilization or passage. The wind's roar lessened as we neared the ground, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the scent of damp earth and pine.

Sylvie's form shimmered, shrinking with breathtaking fluidity until the majestic dragon was gone, replaced by the familiar, vulpine shape of my bond. She landed lightly on my shoulder, her soft fur brushing against my neck, a comforting, grounding weight. Her intelligent eyes scanned the hill, mirroring my own assessment.

"I don't see an entrance," I stated, my gaze sweeping the rocky outcrop, searching for cracks, seams, any sign of artifice. Instinctively, I activated Realmheart. The world bloomed into a vibrant tapestry of swirling colors—the complex, shimmering aura of Sylvie on my shoulder, the intricate, blazing network of light that was Corvis… but no telltale shimmer of active concealment magic, no hidden door revealed by the flow of mana. Just solid, unyielding earth and rock.

'Do you think Uncle Corvis did something… drastic? With his body?' Sylvie's voice, laced with concern, whispered directly into my mind. 'I… he's using mana differently now. Not just augmenting. It's… integrated. Fundamental. Like an asura uses it just to exist.'

Her observation sent a chill down my spine despite the warm sunlight. What do you mean? I asked silently, my eyes fixed on Corvis as he moved forward.

'I mean the mana isn't just flowing through him for power,' she clarified, her mental voice tight with worry. 'It's sustaining him. Keeping his body functioning. It's subtle, a constant low-level hum beneath the surface, but it's there. And without him leaning on his cane as a physical support… it's clearer. He's… powered by it. Like his runes are now part of his life-force.'

The image slammed into me, unwanted and visceral: Corvis after Xyrus. Broken. Burned. Barely clinging to life. Bairon and Lucas Wykes's faces flashed in my mind and I felt my jaw tighten, teeth grinding together. A surge of protective fury, cold and sharp, flared within me. At the circumstances, at the cost Corvis had paid and was still paying. I forcibly shook my head, pushing the dark memory away. This wasn't the time. Corvis was here. He was moving. He was fighting. That was what mattered now.

Corvis had paused near the base of the hill. His glowing runes flared momentarily brighter as he channeled mana, the intricate lines pulsing like circuitry under his skin. He didn't augment strength or speed, but seemingly used the energy to stabilize his stance, allowing him to walk unaided, his cane held loosely now, more a tool than a crutch. He tapped the cane against a section of seemingly solid rock face. The sound was dull, unremarkable.

"Here's the entrance to the tunnel," he announced, his voice calm and certain. "It's been covered by a boulder. Clever camouflage. Natural, not magical."

"I'll take care of it," I said, stepping forward, Dawn's Ballad teal blade gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The blade sang as it cut through the air, a precise, controlled arc of destruction. Stone parted like soft clay under the weapon's edge, revealing a dark, gaping maw behind the split boulder—the hidden passage leading down into the earth, towards Burim, and whatever awaited us within its besieged walls.

Corvis didn't hesitate. He adjusted his grip on his dagger, the black metal seeming to absorb the light from the entrance, and his cane, the instrument of his strange divination, was held ready. His illuminated runes cast shifting, ethereal patterns on the rough tunnel walls. His expression was focused, resolute.

"Let's get in." The simple words held the weight of impending conflict, the unknown dangers below, and the unspoken bond that had carried us through far worse. Sylvie's claws tightened minutely on my shoulder, a silent affirmation.

Doradrea Oreguard

The thought wasn't words, it was a raw, visceral snarl tearing through the panic-clogged corridors of my mind: disgusting Alacryans!

It scraped against my throat, a bitter taste of ash and blood, as I shoved another trembling dwarf child towards the relative safety of the tunnel mouth. Their small hand felt like ice in mine, their wide eyes reflecting the hellfire blooming below in Burim's heart.

First Xyrus. Burning our school, shattering our innocence. Another shove, gentler than I felt, urging an elderly woman with a limp forward. Her terrified whimper was swallowed by the cacophony rising from the city—the shriek of unfamiliar magic, the roar of collapsing stone, the guttural shouts of invaders, and the dying screams of my people.

Then war. Declared on our whole continent, our soil. My arms burned from hauling a wounded guard towards the tunnel entrance; his blood, warm and slick, soaked through my tunic sleeve.

And now here. In Darv. In this small, proud city. Why? Why always more?

"Girl! Follow the people inside! Now!" The guard's voice was a cracked whip, cutting through the nightmare din. He stood silhouetted against the mouth of the tunnel we were desperately feeding, a bulwark against the tide of terror rolling up from the lower caves.

Sweat and grime streaked his face, his eyes wide with a frantic urgency that mirrored the frantic pounding of my own heart.

"I can fight!" The words ripped out of me, high-pitched, almost petulant. They sounded childish even to my own ears, thin and useless against the monstrous reality unfolding below. Shame washed over me, hot and immediate. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper.

Fight? Like what? Like I did at Xyrus? The memory was a fresh wound: the Disciplinary Committee insignia feeling like a lead weight, the paralyzing fear as chaos erupted, the helplessness as friends almost died. I'd failed then. Failed to protect, failed to act, failed them. This was my chance. This small, doomed defense of Burim.

If I couldn't fight back now, truly do something concrete for Dicathen, then what was I? What good was this pitiful existence?

"Reinforcements will come soon!" the guard yelled back, his voice strained with the effort of projecting over the din. He turned slightly towards me, his expression a mask of desperate pragmatism. "If you defend the citizens, get them safe, you are doing much mo—"

The sentence died in a wet, choked gasp. A bolt of pure, sickly violet energy, silent and lethal, materialized from the swirling chaos below. It punched through his chest plate like parchment, exploding out his back in a spray of crimson mist and shattered bone.

His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second—wide with surprise, then instantly glazing over, the fierce light within snuffed out like a candle in a gale. He crumpled, a sack of meat and armor, hitting the rocky ledge with a final, sickening thud.

I lunged forward, a cry tearing from my throat— "NO!" —but my fingers only brushed cold air. Too late. Always too late. I stumbled, falling hard onto my rear, jarring my spine. The rough stone scraped my palms raw. The captain's vacant eyes stared past me, into the abyss.

Below, Burim was being consumed. The attackers weren't faceless hordes anymore. They were soldiers clad in dark, segmented armor, bearing strange, angular insignias that seemed to writhe in the flickering light. They moved with terrifying efficiency, flooding the three main caverns that comprised the small settlement.

They kicked in doors, dragged screaming families from their homes, cut down anyone who resisted with brutal, unfamiliar magic. I saw a dwarf woman clutching her children, pressed against the wall of their dwelling, her face a mask of primal terror. Her eyes met mine across the distance, and I saw my own reflection in them: wide-eyed, frozen, useless. Just like her.

Just like I'd been in Xyrus. A whimper escaped me, and I clapped a dirty hand over my mouth, pressing hard to stifle it, to make myself invisible, to disappear into the cold stone. I'm trembling. I'm hiding. Just like them.

Then, a voice cut through the carnage, amplified, echoing off the cavern walls with chilling clarity. It was female, coldly melodic, devoid of any empathy, yet dripping with a terrible, persuasive authority.

"Dwarves of the Kingdom of Darv!" The pronouncement hung in the smoke-choked air. "Highblood Ramseyer offers mercy and peace to those who will embrace the rule of the Sovereigns! Become the first dwarves illuminated by the will of the Great Vritra!"

The words were smooth, seductive even, promising survival, purpose. Illuminated. The term felt obscene amidst the blood and fire. Two years ago, maybe, in a Darv mire isolated and suspicious, such words might have found fertile ground. But not now. Not after the war. Not after seeing traitors like the Greysunders exposed, understanding how deeply the enemy had burrowed into our own ranks.

The dwarves here didn't just live in Darv; they lived in Dicathen. They fought for Dicathen. Darv was their home, but Dicathen was their nation, their shared blood spilled on the same battlefields. The Alacryan didn't understand. They saw only territory, not the spirit forged in shared sacrifice.

"We are Dicathians!" The roar came from below, ragged but defiant. The speaker was another guard, armor dented, face bloodied—the captain, perhaps, stepping into the void left by the dead man beside me. "We will never surrender to the enemy!" His voice cracked, but the conviction was iron.

Around him, the pitiful remnants of the Burim guard rallied. A dozen, maybe fifteen, battered and bleeding, formed a ragged line across the main cavern plaza. Their weapons shook in their hands, their faces pale with exhaustion and terror, but their stance was firm. They were buying seconds. For the tunnels. For the fleeing civilians. For hope.

"For Dicathen!" The cry went up, thin against the overwhelming enemy force, yet piercingly brave. It was a death knell, a final, desperate hymn. They charged, a wave of battered courage crashing against the dark, disciplined shore of the Alacryans.

I couldn't watch. I couldn't not act. That woman, the voice of Ramseyer, stood apart, observing the slaughter with detached arrogance. She was the key. The leader. If I could strike her… if I could just do something… My body moved before my fear could fully paralyze it again.

Pushing off the cold stone, ignoring the scream of protest from my bruised hip, I focused. Earth mana surged, clumsy and frantic, wrapping my fist in a crude, jagged gauntlet of rock. Tears blurred my vision—tears of rage, of helplessness, of sheer, unadulterated terror.

With a guttural cry that was more sob than battle yell, I leaped from the ledge, aiming my rock-clad fist straight at the Ramseyer woman's exposed back.

She didn't even turn fully. A flicker of annoyance crossed her features. A hand, clad in dark leather, gestured almost negligently in my direction.

The impact was like being hit by a runaway mana cart. An invisible, crushing force slammed into me. The rock gauntlet shattered instantly. My ribs screamed—a sickening, wet crunch echoed inside me. The air exploded from my lungs. The world became a tumbling vortex of smoke, firelight, and pain.

I crashed into the wooden wall of a dwelling, the structure groaning under the impact. Splinters rained down. Agony, white-hot and all-consuming, radiated from my chest. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream. I could only gasp, each inhalation a knife twisting in shattered bone. I slid down the wall, collapsing into the dirt and debris, the metallic tang of blood flooding my mouth.

This is it. The thought was terrifyingly calm amidst the storm of pain. I'm going to die here. In the dirt. Like the guard before. Like the defenders below. The fear from Xyrus Academy flooded back, that suffocating certainty of impending doom when the attack began. Back then, help had come. But there were no heroes coming for Burim. Only darkness, and the cold, arrogant gaze of the Ramseyer woman turning slowly towards my broken form.

Her expression held no malice, only the mild pity one might show a crushed animal. She raised a hand, energy coalescing around her fingertips. The finality of it was crushing. Failed again. Failed everyone. Failed Dicathen. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the oblivion.

Then, a sound pierced the chaotic symphony of destruction. Not a roar, not a scream, but a sharp, mechanical whirring, high above. And a sudden, impossible shaft of pure, clean light speared down through the cavern's upper vents, cutting through the smoke and gloom like a celestial blade.

My eyes flew open, watering from pain and smoke. High, high up near the cavern ceiling, a circular conjured platform of rock, sleek and sturdy, was coming down. Silhouetted stood two figures.

One was achingly familiar, yet changed. Sharper features, honed by time. Wheat-blond hair catching the stark light. A white vulpine form perched alertly on his shoulder, its eyes glowing like embers. He wore a tight black battle robe that seemed to absorb the surrounding darkness, fluid and deadly as a second skin.

In his right hand, held with casual, lethal readiness, was a teal blade that pulsed with an inner light—Dawn's Ballad, Grey. My former Disciplinary Committee colleague. But the boy, the scary boy I knew was gone.

This man's eyes scanned the carnage below with a cold, terrifying fury. His gaze locked onto the Alacryan forces, and the sheer intensity of it, the glacial promise of annihilation held within, felt like it could freeze the very magma flowing beneath Darv.

Beside him stood an elf. Tall, composed, radiating an aura of quiet, unnerving power. His uniform was a shade of steel grey, its design utterly alien—sleek lines, minimal seams, looking less like armor and more like something forged in a realm beyond our understanding.

In one hand, he held a simple black walking cane. In the other, a dagger of pure, light-absorbing darkness. Gunmetal hair framed a face of sharp angles, and his eyes… they held a calm, ancient intelligence that sent a different kind of shiver down my spine, reminding me unsettlingly of Princess Tessia's gaze. He surveyed the scene not with fury like his counterpart to his right, but with a chilling, analytical precision.

They moved in perfect, terrifying unison. No signal passed between them that I could see. One heartbeat they stood on the platform; the next, they were airborne, plummeting towards the heart of the massacre like twin comets. Grey, a streak of black and teal magic, aimed straight for the thickest knot of Alacryan soldiers.

The elf, a silent ghost, seemed to glide, his descent controlled woth wind magic, his focus fixed on the Ramseyer woman who had just moments ago held my death in her hand.

A smile touched my lips, fragile and bloody. It wasn't hope, not quite yet. It was the sheer, overwhelming shock of the impossible. The sight of familiar strength descending into the pit of despair. A lifeline thrown into a raging torrent. Grey. Here. Now.

Then the pain and the shock overwhelmed the last shreds of consciousness. The world tilted violently, the images of the descending figures blurring into streaks of light and shadow. The cacophony of battle faded into a muffled roar. The cold stone pressed against my cheek as darkness rushed up to claim me, but the final image burned into my fading mind: two figures, one blazing with cold fury, one radiating icy purpose, falling like avenging angels into the hellscape of Burim.

The beacon, impossibly bright, piercing the overwhelming dark. And with it, the faintest, most desperate flicker of belief that maybe, just maybe, we weren't abandoned after all. The smile lingered on my lips as the world went black.