Dark Parasyte

Vaelorin exhaled slowly, as though releasing a carefully measured breath before stepping into a duel where every syllable might draw blood. "They are part of the contingent I have brought," he said at last, his voice steeped in formal deference. "They wish to serve at your side as honorary guards. Whether cloaked in shadow or standing in plain sight, it makes no difference to a power such as yours, your first encounter with them taught us well that concealment is meaningless in your presence."

Corvin's gaze drifted to the shadow agents, and the atmosphere seemed to thicken like fog over deep water. They stood immobile, as if carved from the darkness itself, black robes merging seamlessly with the dim glow of the chamber, their masks swallowing all features and individuality. There was no twitch, no restless shift of weight, only the utter stillness of predators who could wait a lifetime for a kill. Then, as though moved by a single unseen signal, each one inclined their head in perfect unison. The Synod's most lethal assassins and spies, beings trained to vanish into battlefields, to pass unseen through locked citadels were now visibly bending toward a different gravitational center: him. Yet he was not naive enough to let a force who might report his every movement to Hexarchy. They will be put under soul bound oaths or he will have new covenant bound units before the day ends. He was leaning for the second option.

Their discipline was flawless, but Corvin could read the truth beneath the veneer. Predators instinctively acknowledge the presence of a stronger apex, and here, that recognition was absolute. The faint undercurrent of loyalty already pulling toward him was almost tangible. He let his gaze linger on them a heartbeat longer, an unspoken exchange passing in the silence, before his eyes returned to Vaelorin.

"You and the forces you bring may settle in the castle or anywhere within my domain," Corvin said, his tone calm but brooking no debate. "Choose as you see fit. Now tell me, Archmagus, what message does the Obsidian Gate carry to my halls?"

Vaelorin inclined his head with deliberate grace, choosing each motion and word as though they were weapons in delicate negotiation. "First," he began, "we must warn you, Human Arbiter Gareth of the Grey Mantle has been sighted in Iron March. We believe he seeks vengeance for the destruction of the Holy Verrenate. Second, we request you register under the Synod banner for the coming Planar Invasion, that your strength be counted among our own. Third, we ask to establish a permanent base here, a true foothold from which to operate into Savaryn, the Gilded Dominion, and Iron March. In return, we offer to place additional Shadow Agents at your command, provide trained forces to serve in your defense, and grant you access to intelligence the Circle of Arbiters would never share in public record."

Corvin regarded him in unbroken silence, the weight of his stare pressing until the air felt tighter, heavier. When at last he spoke, his voice was the polished blade of an aristocrat's wit, precisely measured, cold in its clarity, yet edged with unmistakable threat. "Let the human come if he dares. Iron March is not foolish enough to follow him; they have already seen the consequences of trying my patience. Yvanna poses no threat to us." He deliberatly used the word 'us' to disarm some of Synod's worries. "I could take the Gilded Dominion entire and she would thank me for leaving her crown standing. As for Savaryn, a Dragonkin Archmagus already resides within my walls, and I suspect our relations will be… fruitful. Your base is acceptable, bring your Earth mages and begin your work whenever you want. I can assist if you do not have them at the ready. You can settle above or below ground as you see fit Archmagus."

He leaned forward a fraction, eyes narrowing with a dangerous gleam. "But understand this, Vaelorin," This was the first time he called the Archmagus by name, he did it to clearly show where he is standing. "our association began from practicality, not loyalty. I have never betrayed the Synod, nor shown it disrespect. I cannot say the same in return." Shadows behind him shifted in protest, It was not known if this protest was for or against Corvin though. "I do not forget goodwill. And I do not forgive ill will. The latter is always repaid a hundredfold."

Without another word, he rose. The shadows moved with him, dissolving into invisibility in perfect synchrony as they fell into step, leaving Vaelorin alone with the dawning suspicion that the Synod's most elite were already beginning to look toward a new master.

--

Corvin entered his private study, the heavy oak door closing with a deliberate thud that seemed to seal the room off from the rest of the world. The chamber was dim, lit only by the glow of a single lamp and the pale spill of moonlight through a narrow window. He stood motionless at the center, feeling the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the air that betrayed the presence of the six Shadows. They were masters of concealment, trained to blend into the folds of reality itself, yet to him they might as well have been standing in plain sight.

"Reveal yourselves," he commanded, his voice a silken thread pulled taut with authority.

The air rippled, distortions sliding away to unveil six cloaked figures. Their black garb seemed to drink in the light, masks concealing all but the faint gleam of eyes. Corvin let his gaze travel over each one, studying their posture and subtle tells, before asking with calm precision, "Do you have names?"

One by one, they removed their masks and knelt, the quiet rustle of fabric the only sound. Magister Goras Olafir, broad shouldered and carrying himself with the weight of command, spoke first. "Yes, Your Grace. We serve the Dark Mother's will."

Corvin's eyes narrowed slightly. "If my actions should ever go against the Hexarchy's will, or what you judge to be the benefit of the Umbral Synod, will you report me?"

Goras's reply was immediate and unwavering. "Yes."

A smile ghosted across Corvin's lips, but it was cold and predatory. In a fluid motion, invisible force seized each of them, locking their bodies in place. Not a muscle twitched; even their breathing stilled under his telekinetic grip. He stepped toward Goras, the air between them heavy with inevitability, and with a smooth, practiced gesture, he drew a blade across the Shadow's throat. The sharp scent of blood bloomed in the air. One after another, he repeated the act, eyes locked on each victim's until the life bled from them entirely. The final death came with a wet gasp before the silence closed in again.

Crouching amidst the pooling crimson, Corvin extended a hand. Blood rose in tendrils, writhing like living things under his control, drawn together into a dense, shimmering sphere before being siphoned into a crystal phial. It pulsed faintly in his grip, potential for some future design. Within moments, the study floor was pristine, cleansed of all trace by the precision of his magic.

With a thought, he vanished into his laboratory, bringing the six bodies with him. They were laid out on obsidian slabs, and his work began after resurrecting them as covenant bound. PHS1.0 was infused first, reinforcing their physical structures to withstand brutal damage. MAG1.0 followed, saturating their cores with deep reservoirs of magical energy. Finally, ASC1.0 sharpened every aspect of their undead forms, binding power to precision. The results stood before him: unyielding revenants. Three radiated the refined presence of Magus rank, the others the honed readiness of Magisters, all far more formidable than they had been in a short while ago.

"You will move and act exactly as before," Corvin told them, his tone like the closing of a lock. "Your reports to the Synod will be what I decide, no more, no less. Illusions and half truths until I will otherwise."

As the command settled over them, Corvin allowed himself a private smile. His mind drifted to Sythara, the memory of her scent, the soft rasp of her voice, and the slow sway of her hips as she had walked away. Heat threaded through the controlled steel of his thoughts. "Now," he murmured, almost to himself, "let's see what the scent of an ally truly is."

In a flare of shadow and silence, he and his new creations vanished from the laboratory.

--

Within the grim, echoing stone halls of Blackspire Bastion, Grand Marshal Varkos Thorne convened an emergency war council under a suffocating shadow of calamity. The air was heavy with the scent of burning oil from the sconces, the flicker of their flames throwing jagged shadows across the chamber's cold stone walls. Around the long oak war table sat the Iron March's most senior commanders. General Kaelen Dros, the hardened master of the northern defenses whose weathered face carried the weight of decades on the frontier; Admiral Velcross, guardian of the eastern seas whose fleets patrolled with ruthless precision; Brigadier Venholt, the stoic commander of the southern watch and its formidable border fortresses; Colonel Ardan, stalwart protector of the western shores who had broken more than one invasion before it touched the sand; and Brigadier Lysara, meticulous keeper of logistics and internal security, her mind as sharp as any blade in the room. Each bore the marks of long service, creased brows, battle scored armor, and the quiet gravity born only from surviving wars they had no right to win.

At the center of the table lay the message from Marshal Ilren Vos, its wax seal broken and its ink still fresh. Every word bled dread into the room. An Elven Planarch, a Synod, now holding a human noble title and ruled a heavily fortified fief directly along their southern border. The implications were like the slow tightening of a noose. Varkos's jaw clenched, his voice a low rasp honed sharp by years of command. "This is a calamity in waiting. One wrong move, and we bleed on two fronts, perhaps more."

Kaelen leaned forward, the lamplight glinting off the scar that bisected his cheek. "We all know what he did to the Holy Verrenate, Marshal. Entire faiths and cities burned under his hand. If that force turns to us, the Iron March won't see the year's end."

Admiral Velcross drummed his gauntleted fingers against the polished wood, each tap a measured beat of unease. "It isn't just his rank that concerns me. A Planarch who commands such a domain, walled, supplied, and positioned as Raven's Nest is... will have influence far beyond his own borders. His reach could spread through every port and market along our coast like roots in fertile soil."

Brigadier Venholt, his voice a steady rumble from years of commanding men on the edge of war, spoke with grim certainty. "High Elves and Dark Elves despise one another, but if he stands between them as a rallying point, they'll unite long enough to crush us. It would not be a war, it would be an execution."

Colonel Ardan's gaze was hard as iron. "Gareth is 'Obsessed' does not even begin to frame it. If the Arbiter moves against this Duke, we will be dragged into his personal vendetta, willingly or not. And when they will clash, not if it is a question of when, it will be us and Gilded Dominion who pays the bill."

Brigadier Lysara's eyes narrowed, her words precise and cold. "If we move alongside Arbiter Gareth's demands against Duke Blackmoor, our supply lines will strangle before the first sword is drawn. Obsidian Gate has it's ways to bleed us. The Elves would never need to cross our walls, they could simply starve us into submission while High Elven fleets choke our harbors."

Varkos let his gaze pass over each of them, the weight of leadership a mantle pressing heavier with every heartbeat. "Then we are decided, no provocation, no open hostility toward the Duke. Whatever Gareth believes he is owed, his schemes will not be the ruin of the Iron March. If he kicks the hornet's nest, it will be our people who feel the sting, and I will not let this nation bleed out on the altar of another man's obsession. Whether he was one of us will be irrelevent."

A thick, leaden silence followed, broken only by the low hiss of the hearth. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air: the rules had changed. The Iron March now stood hemmed in between forces so ancient and vast that a single misstep could see their banners torn down and their cities ground into dust before the turning of a single season.