Dark Parasyte

Solen Vaen'thal, the Elven Arbiter, sat in the shadowed grandeur of the Elven Pavilion within the Conclave Chamber, its towering silverleaf columns etched with spiraling runes that pulsed faintly with the slow heartbeat of aetherlight. The vaulted ceiling shimmered with woven wards, casting a muted glow over the polished table that stretched between him and Archmagus Lorenthis Nightshade. The Synod's appointed advisor sat with meticulous posture at the far end, his every movement measured, his dark robes an unspoken banner of his allegiance. Between them lay a gulf of history, centuries of slights, open wars, and bitter treaties between High and Dark Elves that lent a tangible weight to the air.

Solen's expression was carved from patience and steel, yet his words carried a cutting edge. "Tell me, Lorenthis," he said, voice low and deliberate, "since when has the rift between our people grown so wide that I must hear of a Planarch of my own blood from the lips of outsiders? Why has the Obsidian Gate seen fit to keep this from me? A Planarch of Lightning and Space affinities yet free from the Circle. I would like meet the mentor who agreed to his soulbound oath." He added a sharp anger in his tone.

Lorenthis resisted the urge to shift in his seat. In truth, the Synod had been as blindsided as Solen himself. Corvin Blackmoor had concealed his true progress with a mastery that defied their watchfulness, giving them no cause to suspect he was already poised to cross into Planarch ascension. To confess this ignorance outright would be to hand the High Elves a dagger with which to twist the Synod's pride. If the truth spread that the new Planarch harbored doubts, even distrust toward the Synod the Aurelian Dominion would waste no time exploiting it.

Carefully, Lorenthis chose his reply, layering each word with diplomatic poise. "Your Grace, Planarch Corvin has extended territory and granted permission to both the Aurelian Dominion and Umbral Synod to establish a permanent foothold in his domain. Archmagus Vaelorin is already in place to secure the Synod's presence. Magus Laevior Sindareth of the Starlight Arcanum sails as we speak to finalize the terms of Aurelian station."

Solen's gaze softened, but only slightly; suspicion still lingered like the chill before dawn. "If all the players are indeed present," he murmured, "then perhaps it is time I extended my congratulations in person."

Lorenthis' breath caught mid inhale. The notion alone was staggering, an Arbiter setting foot on the Human continent. By the ancient decree of the Circle, Planarchs and Arbiters were meant to stand above mortal politics, symbols of balance and law. That aloofness was a fiction in practice, but one the Circle guarded jealously. The sight of an Elven Arbiter walking the halls of a duke's court in human continent would ripple across Verthalis like a stone cast into still water. Courts would whisper. Alliances would shift. Rivals would sharpen their blades.

In Lorenthis' mind, consequences cascaded in rapid succession: the political tremors in Thalasien, the Synod's unease, the inevitable countermoves from the Feralis and Demon foes. Such a visit could be seen as favor, or worse, allegiance. And yet, Solen appeared utterly unfazed by such dangers. The new Queen of Gilded Dominion was stuck between forces far above her station it seems he muttered silently.

The Arbiter rose with the elegance of one accustomed to command, his dark green and golden robes sighing against the polished stone. His eyes fixed on some unseen horizon, as if the outcome was already written in the stars. "Make the arrangements," he intoned, each syllable deliberate, carrying the weight of an irrevocable choice. Without another glance at Lorenthis, he turned and strode toward his private study, leaving the advisor with the cold certainty that the next chapter of events had just veered into deep, uncharted waters.

--

While the political winds beyond Raven's Nest cut as sharply as any forged blade, Corvin had spent the night and the morning locked in a tempest of heat, dominance, and challenge with Synthara, the Dragonkin emissary. The hours had been an intricate dance of strength and seduction, her exotic beauty meeting his commanding presence in a test that neither wished to lose. Candlelight flickered against her scales, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the lithe, graceful form. The delicate curve of her feminine horns framed her face, elegant yet unyielding, their smooth surface a symbol of her defiance and the means by which he claimed his advantage. Who could have thought those horns will be used as handles while he was behind her shapely hips. The night became a series of escalating contests, boundaries tested and redrawn until the distinction between restraint and surrender dissolved entirely. She was right on one occasion at least she resisted him untill the moment he dominated her totally. After that point she was not a fierce dragonkin but a fiery lover.

By the time the sun approached its zenith, the pale gold light streamed through silken curtains, flooding the chamber with a warm, honeyed glow. Corvin dressed unhurriedly, his eyes lingering on the peaceful rhythm of her breathing beneath the sheets, the quiet rise and fall belying the fire he had stoked within her hours before. A faint smirk touched his lips, hopefully his scent will stay in her mind for a while as he worked hard for the sake of diplomacy. Satisfaction mingling with calculation, before he eased the heavy oak door closed without a sound.

The corridor beyond was silent, yet the faint shimmer in the air betrayed hidden watchers. Goras, leader of his covenant bound shadows, emerged partially from his cloak, voice low and precise. "The Aurelian fleet, four ships approaching the harbor." Behind him, the other five shadows remained unseen, their presence a silent wall of loyalty and lethal potential.

Corvin exhaled, a blend of amusement and readiness in his tone. "Greet them and escort them to the castle," he instructed smoothly, every syllable a reminder of his control. He moved toward the great hall, deciding that today's first meal would be a slow, deliberate brunch, a calculated display of composure amid the inevitable flurry of diplomacy.

Far from Raven's Nest, Marshal Ilren Vos's carriage thundered along hardened roads, the banner of the Iron March snapping in the wind. Inside, Vos sat in rigid contemplation, the weight of his mission pressing heavily on his mind. Fortune, perhaps, kept him hours away from the fortress; had he arrived alongside the High Elven fleet, Corvin might have passed the political storm entirely into Valyne's hands, if only to savor her reaction when confronted with such a formidable assembly of guests.

--

The ships of the Aurelian Dominion glided into the harbor with the quiet precision of a court procession, their sails catching the sea breeze like great white banners of state. At the prow stood Magus Laevior Sindareth, his keen High Elven eyes sweeping across the docks as the vessels drew near. The sight that greeted him was unexpected. A meticulously arranged reception of carriages, their lacquered wood gleaming, flanked by rows of Elven guards whose armor shimmered under the sun. Above them, the banners of Planarch Corvin Blackmoor rippled in the wind, a statement of authority as bold as it was deliberate. Laevior assumed these might be Synod soldiers placed in the Planarch's service, though the arrangement was curious, even to his seasoned political instincts.

Disembarking with measured grace, Laevior was accompanied by two Earth Magus and a Magistra. He stepped into the foremost carriage while the other magi took their places in the remaining coaches. The soldiers and attendants aboard his ships would remain until a location for the Dominion's new base was determined. As the procession began its journey through the fief, his companions exchanged quiet remarks about the formidable defenses they passed. The Earth Magi, in particular, studied the towering walls with reverent admiration, fortifications built not only to endure the worst of sieges but to do so with elegance. Glyphs and layered runic wards shimmered subtly under spells of the magi across their surface, so intricate that even these seasoned mages leaned forward to take in their detail. The orchards and farmlands were surreal. None of them could understand how did the Planarch managed to did this as it would take hundreds of life and plant magi to rise and look after such abundent lands.

Laevior's sharp gaze noted the unusual presence of human soldiers moving in disciplined harmony alongside Elven warriors. Such integration was rare to the point of unheard Laevior of, though he could not know that these were no ordinary troops, each one bound to the Planarch by covenant, their past loyalties stripped away in death.

Above, ravens wheeled and circled in patient, deliberate arcs, their black feathers glinting in the sunlight. Laevior murmured something under his breath, an old superstition surfacing, unbidden.

When the carriages rolled to a halt before the imposing gates of Raven's Nest, Laevior once again found himself evaluating the guards' bearing. Their salute was neither the stiff hauteur of High Elven protocol nor the grudging respect shown by Synod forces. It was something else entirely, recognition of status without kinship, formality without fealty.

An Elven butler approached, bowing with courtly precision. "If you would follow me, please. The master awaits your arrival."

Laevior seized the moment to ask, in his measured, aristocratic tone, who else resided in the castle. A smirk appeared on corvin's face as the buttler asked if he should asnwer through his bond, Corvin allowed and instructed him to give specific details just to see how will the High Elf will use it in the meeting. The answer surprised Laevior: Archmagus Vaelorin the Black of the Obsidian Gate was here, remarkable enough but so too was Archmagus Synthara of the Dragonkin. The convergence of such figures in one domain was unprecedented. In that instant, Laevior understood that his visit to Raven's Nest would be far more delicate and politically charged than anticipated. If both the Synod and the Feralis had sent envoys of this stature, then the Dominion's ambitions would require tact, patience, and a calculated diplomacy to secure a place in the Planarch's favor.

--

Magus Kelorien Hearthleaf stood poised at the grand gates of the meeting hall, her emerald eyes steady, her posture exuding the refined grace of a High Elven envoy. Every detail from the precise angle of her chin to the elegant flow of her robes spoke of disciplined training in diplomacy. She dipped into a perfectly measured curtsy, the kind taught in the courts of the Aurelian Dominion, her voice warm yet carefully neutral as she greeted Laevior. The Space Magic instructor of the Starlight Arcanum returned the gesture with the same level of formality, his own bearing marked by the austere dignity of an academic who had long navigated both scholarly and political halls.

As they exchanged pleasantries, Laevior inquired, with the faintest suggestion of curiosity, why Kelorien had not met him at the harbor. "We might have had the benefit of a more private exchange before our audience," he observed. Kelorien's reply was even and deliberate: "I was informed of your arrival mere minutes ago."

The statement hung between them like a subtle challenge, and both understood its layered meaning, this was Corvin's way of reminding them that nothing entered his domain unseen or unaccounted for. The quiet reminder of his omnipresent awareness carried as much weight as any spoken warning. "Synod will always be Synod," Kelorien murmured, almost to herself. "Regardless of rank," Laevior finished, his knowing smile betraying a trace of irony.

The butler, a model of Elven precision, opened the massive doors carved with ancient runes. Together, Kelorien and Laevior entered, accompanied by Magus Elandor Tharwyn and Magus Virelith Stoneweaver. Both masters of earth magic and Magistra Selayne Vaerlin, whose poise rivaled that of any courtier. Each approached in turn, bowing or curtsying, giving name, rank, and the formal salutation: "We greet the new Planarch of Thalasien."

Corvin inclined his head slightly to each, his expression unreadable, though his gaze lingered on each face long enough to convey that he was weighing their worth. With a subtle sweep of his hand, he invited them to take the velvet cushioned seats arranged in a semi circle before him. Elven maids soon entered, bearing silver trays laden with fresh and dried fruits arranged like jeweled mosaics, crystal decanters of chilled and spiced wines, and fine glass goblets that refracted the candlelight in shifting prisms.

"Welcome to Raven's Nest," Corvin said, his voice carrying the calm authority of one accustomed to command. "It is a pleasure to see one's kin where they belong, within one's domain." His gaze shifted deliberately between Kelorien and Laevior. "I am listening. What word does Aoleria send?"

Laevior's reply was smooth, her smile refined yet reserved. "Aoleria offers congratulations on your ascension to Planarch, and expresses an interest in fostering deeper… practical cooperation between our courts and your holdings."

Laevior, his tone as polished as any diplomat's, added, "The Dominion recognizes the rare position you occupy, my lord, not only in your unmatched strength, but in the uniqueness of your human noble title. Our purpose is not merely ceremonial. We seek to discuss trade agreements, coordinated military strategy, and assurances that the Aurelian Dominion will hold its place in your web of alliances."

Corvin's lips curved into a measured smile that hinted at neither agreement nor dismissal. "Then let us speak without pretense. Tell me precisely what you seek, and I shall tell you precisely what I am prepared to grant."