Corvis Eralith
"Your Highness." Alea's voice cut through the oppressive silence of the cavern, sharp as a honed blade.
Gone was the playful Baroness; this was the steel core of the dutiful Lance. Her posture was rigid, eyes scanning the shattered golden pillars and the scattered debris with lethal intensity. The tension radiating from her was a physical force, thickening the damp air.
Obviously she's on alert. The thought was grimly redundant. The ruined portal didn't just suggest danger; it screamed it from every fractured surface, every lingering thrum of alien power to us Dicathians, that still vibrated faintly in the stones beneath our feet.
Its violent destruction only amplified the terror. It wasn't an accident, not a cave-in. This was deliberate. Calculated. Someone powerful—Alacryan or otherwise—had not only built this hidden dagger aimed at Elenoir's heart but had then shattered it. And that someone was still out there. A phantom enemy operating unseen within Dicathen's borders, burying secrets deeper than this mountain.
"Your Highness, we have to go. Now." Her hand clamped onto my shoulder, firm and unyielding. Not rough, but imbued with an urgency that brooked no argument.
I opened my mouth, a protest forming—Just a moment! Let me look! Let me understand!—but the words died unspoken. What could I do? What power did an eight-year-old, manaless prince possess against this? Tessia mirrored Alea's urgency, her small fingers tangling in my tunic, tugging insistently.
Her eyes, wide and reflecting the unnatural glow of the broken portal, held pure, primal fear. The adventurous spark in her was utterly extinguished.
Helplessness washed over me, a bitter tide threatening to drown my resolve. Out of options. Again. Staring at the ruin, my mind raced, grasping for any actionable insight. I knew its origin: Alacrya. Its state: deliberately destroyed.
Logic dictated at least two players: the builder and the destroyer. Allies? Enemies? Was this sabotage, or a change of plan? The questions multiplied, terrifying and unanswered. With a final, agonized glance at the shattered gateway—a monument to a hidden war already raging—I let Alea steer me away, Tessia clinging to my other side.
The climb back felt endless, the cave's darkness now feeling like a suffocating shroud rather than a path to answers. Tessia didn't utter a single complaint about the abandoned picnic. The silence between us was heavy, filled only by our ragged breaths and the crunch of gravel underfoot. She understood.
The childish adventure had collided head-on with a chilling, adult reality both of us—despite my meta knowledge—didn't entirely comprehend.
Back at Zestier's sun-drenched splendor, the contrast was jarring, almost obscene. Alea bowed stiffly, her usual warmth absent.
"I bid you farewell, Your Highnesses." Her eyes met mine for a fleeting second—a look laden with unspoken warnings and a promise of imminent action; she suspected me. She would be heading straight to Alduin. The secret was out, or at least, this fragment of it was. The slow-burning fuse I had been desperately trying to track had just ignited.
The walk through the palace gardens felt surreal. Butterflies flitted, flowers bloomed, birds sang. Normalcy mocked me. Alacrya was here. I already knew they were here even before I was born, but...
The realization was a cold knife twisting. Had my presence changed anything? Or was this simply the hidden truth of the timeline, now violently revealed? Of course it changes things! The internal scream was desperate. Every deviation wasn't just a ripple; it was a potential tidal wave erasing the fragile map I clung to.
The portal's existence proved the enemy's reach was deeper, their operations more insidious, than even the novel had hinted at. And without Arthur Leywin? Without the Paragon wielding Aether, without the Lances freed from Kezess's shackles? The strategic assessment was brutally clear: Impossible.
Dicathen couldn't match Alacrya's magic, their Relictombs-forged artifacts, their legions of Vritra-blooded mages and Scythes. Victory, as defined by driving them back, was a fantasy. My goal shrunk, refined by cold despair: Limit the casualties. Save who I could.
Protect my world—this palace, these people—even if the continent burned. It was a grim, desperate calculus.
"Corvis! Tessia!"
Grampa Virion's voice, warm and familiar, boomed from a shaded arbor. He waved, his usual smirk in place. But it faltered instantly as he took us in. We must have looked like ghosts—pale, wide-eyed, dust-streaked, the carefree energy of our departure utterly drained. His smile vanished, replaced by sharp concern. He strode towards us, his keen eyes missing nothing.
"What storm clouds have you dragged in this time?" he asked, the attempt at his usual teasing falling flat. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently tilting Tessia's chin up, then mine. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I blurted out, the lie automatic, brittle. A reflex born of the overwhelming desire to shield him. To preserve, for just a little longer, the illusion of peace in his eyes. But Tessia, shaken to her core, needed solace. Her voice trembled as she looked up at him.
"There was something… Grampa… something creepy… deep in the cave we went in… broken… golden…" she stammered, struggling to articulate the horror.
No, Tessia, don't—
The panic surged. But then, like cold water dousing the flame of my fear, a stark truth crystallized: Why am I hiding this from him? Virion Eralith wasn't just my grandfather; the future Commander of Dicathen's united forces. He needed to know. He deserved to know. This burden was his to bear by right and responsibility.
Yet, the reason for my hesitation was agonizingly clear, a physical ache in my chest: I didn't want him to bear it. I didn't want to see the crushing weight of a continent's survival settle onto those shoulders, watch the laughter lines around his eyes deepen into trenches of worry, see the vibrant spirit dimmed by the relentless pressure of impossible choices and inevitable loss.
I wanted to protect him from the coming storm. But the broken golden pillars in the dark were a brutal reminder: the storm wasn't coming. It was already here. And my silence was a luxury we could no longer afford. The knowledge sat like a cold stone in my gut as Virion's gaze, sharp and demanding, locked onto mine, seeing right through my pathetic "nothing."
The tension coiled in my chest like a spring, waiting for the inevitable impact—the sharp question, the piercing gaze that would strip away the facade of "Corvis Eralith" and see the interloper beneath. I braced myself for suspicion, for the cold weight of scrutiny I felt I deserved.
He knows. He must know, I thought.
Instead, Grampa Virion's arms—strong, familiar—simply wrapped around both Tessia and me. He pulled us close, his embrace not a cage, but a shelter. The warmth of it was a physical shock, melting the icy dread that had gripped me since the cave. He rested his chin gently atop my head, his voice a low rumble, soft as summer thunder yet carrying the bedrock solidity of mountains.
"Let us adults shoulder this burden," he murmured, the words vibrating through his chest and into mine. "You two… just keep being kids. Explore. Laugh. Get into the kind of trouble that washes away with sunlight."
There was no judgment in his tone, no hidden probe. Only profound tenderness, an unwavering acceptance that felt like absolution. To him, I wasn't an enigma, a vessel of forbidden knowledge. I was just Corvis. His grandson.
A fragile, disbelieving smile touched my lips as I buried my face deeper into his worn tunic, Tessia's smaller form pressed securely against my other side. The sheer, unexpected relief was dizzying, a balm poured over raw nerves. He trusted me. He loved me.
Not the construct, but the flawed, sometimes secretive boy standing before him. The burden of deception, heavy as lead, lightened infinitesimally.
Yet, beneath the warmth, a sliver of unease remained. He needed to know about the portal, but how to explain my knowledge without shattering this fragile trust? The answer crystallized with sudden, desperate clarity: Divination. It was a gift as erratic and personal as a fingerprint among elves.
Grandmother Lania had wielded it, Grandaunt Rinia was practically defined by it. It required no blazing core, only the elusive spark of insight flickering in the soul's depths. My "visions" could be fragmented, symbolic, terrifying—flashes of golden ruins in dark places, whispers of hidden daggers within our borders. It perfectly excused the source of my terrifying foresight. Diviners weren't understood; they were simply accepted, their pronouncements often cryptic burdens.
Yes, I thought, the plan solidifying like ice forming on a still pond. If pressed… if the origin of my certainty about the cave becomes a question… I saw it. In a waking dream, a fractured glimpse of shadow and shattered gold. It wasn't a perfect lie, but it was plausible.
It was a shield woven from the very fabric of my elven heritage, a way to protect them from the terrifying truth of my origin while still arming them against the future. The guilt of the deception pricked at me, a tiny, sharp thorn hidden within the rose of Grampa's embrace, but the necessity of it felt like armor. For now, in the circle of his arms, I could breathe. For now, I was just his grandson, safe.
Alduin Eralith
Alea's report laid heavy in the air of my private study, a tangible chill that seeped into the very stones of Zestier Palace long after she'd vanished back into the shadows.
The confirmation—not just suspicion, but proof—of an active portal coming from an unknown source buried deep within Elenoir's sovereign soil, practically on Sapin's doorstep… it sent a tremor through the bedrock of my understanding.
We had known for years, through scouts and information that areived to our shores, of another continent. A distant, theoretical threat, a shadow on the far horizon. But this? This was a dagger plunged into our flank, hidden in the dark. The chill wasn't just fear; it was a profound violation.
My fingers tightened on the armrest of my chair, the polished wood cool against my palm. They were here. They have been here. While we bickered, while we mourned, while we rebuilt… they were carving gateways beneath our feet. The implications were a labyrinth of nightmares, each corridor leading to potential invasion, sabotage, or worse.
That chilling revelation was the anvil upon which today's meeting was forged. Now, seated at the heart of the main chamber of the palace—a soaring, ancient hall where light filtered through stained glass depicting millennia of elven history—I faced the monarchs of Sapin and Darv. King Blaine Glayder, his posture rigidly correct, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Queen Priscilla beside him, her expression one of composed alertness, a mind like a steel trap hidden behind regal poise.
And across the immense, rune-carved table, King Dawsid Greysunders of Darv, a tough dwarf of muscle and long beard, radiating impatience like heat from a forge. The air hummed with unspoken tensions, the weight of centuries-old prejudices and fresh, shared terror pressing down. The formation of the Tri-Union, a dream of unity debated for years, was no longer a lofty ideal. It was a desperate necessity, hammered into shape by the discovery of that shattered golden horror. This meeting was to weld the final seams.
"King Eralith," Blaine Glayder's voice cut through the formal silence, precise and devoid of warmth. "This… portal. Who was its discoverer?" His gaze was direct, assessing.
I felt no particular animosity towards Blaine; he had ended his own father's warmongering, securing the fragile peace we now clung to. Pragmatism, perhaps cold-blooded, but effective. Yet, trust was a currency I spent sparingly, especially with humans whose kingdoms had bathed Elshire in elven blood just barely a generation past and traded my people as slaves like they were cattle.
The memory of my mother's still face, seeing her unmoving body on the her bed… it was a scar that ached, even now. Prejudice blinds, I reminded myself, the mantra bitter on my tongue. Survival demands clarity.
"The discovery was made by one of the two white cores sworn to the service of the Eralith line," I replied, my voice level, betraying none of the internal storm.
Revealing Alea or Aya now, before the Tri-Union's foundations were unbreakable, was an unacceptable risk. Their identities were among Elenoir's most closely guarded secrets, our final, hidden bulwark. Precaution, born of bitter experience, was the only true shield a king possessed. A lesson, I thought with a flicker of grim frustration, my own impulsive son seems determined to ignore.
Corvis's usual recklessness echoed uncomfortably in my mind.
Queen Priscilla leaned forward slightly, her keen intellect focusing like a lens. "Should we then assume the presence of similar portals beneath Sapin? Or Darv?"
Her question hung in the air, heavy with implication. How deep does the rot go?
Dawsid Greysunders let out a derisive snort that echoed in the high chamber. "Bah! Empty worry, Queen Glayder! Darv's roots run deep and true. Our miners know every vein, every fissure. No foreign magics squatting in our dark places!"
His confidence was as solid and unyielding as the tunnels his people ruled, but it rang hollow to me. Dwarven pride was legendary, often blinding. The Greysunders clung to power partly through tradition, partly through fear instilled by their own formidable white core servants—a necessity, I suspected, for a dynasty whose bluster often outweighed its administrative grace.
"Respectfully, King Greysunders," I interjected, keeping my tone neutral but firm, "the portal was found precisely between Elenoir and Sapin, buried deep. Its builders clearly sought secrecy, not spectacle. To assume Darv is immune would be… unwise. Vigilance, coordinated vigilance, is paramount for all our realms."
The thought of more hidden gateways, potential invasion points scattered across Dicathen like malignant seeds, was a strategic horror.
The discussion finally pivoted to the core purpose: binding our nations. Negotiations, usually protracted dances of concession and posturing, possessed a new, grim urgency.
Agreeing to abolish inter-kingdom tariffs was a relatively simple economic concession, a lubricant for the machinery of alliance. But the true test, the symbolic heart of the Tri-Union, was the next point: opening the hallowed gates of Xyrus Academy to qualified youths of all three races.
I watched Blaine Glayder closely as the proposal was laid out. Xyrus was Sapin's jewel, a bastion of human magical tradition. Allowing elves and dwarves—especially elves—to walk its halls, learn its secrets… I had anticipated fierce resistance, rooted in generations of distrust and human exceptionalism. Priscilla's expression remained unreadable, but Blaine…
I saw the flicker in his eyes.
Not defiance, but calculation. The image of that shattered Alacryan portal, a silent, golden accusation hidden in the dark, was clearly seared into his mind as well. The existential threat looming over all their borders, over the future of his own children, was a stark reality that dwarfed ancient animosities. He exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance with Priscilla. A silent understanding passed between them.
"The integration of Xyrus Academy," Blaine stated, his voice carrying a new, decisive weight, "is… a necessary step. For the strength and unity of Dicathen."
The concession, delivered without the expected battle, was both a relief and a chilling confirmation. The enemy dagger at our throat had succeeded where decades of diplomacy had struggled: it had forced the walls to lower. The Tri-Union would be born, not solely from hope, but from shared, bone-deep fear.
We were forging an alliance in the shadow of a hidden enemy, and the cold metal of that truth settled around the chamber like a frost.