Dark Parasyte

The meeting with the High Elves unfolded like a carefully orchestrated duel of wits, stretching beyond two hours into a meticulous dance of maps, ink, and veiled barbs. The sprawling oak table was buried beneath overlapping charts and parchment, every stroke of the quill a strategic thrust, every polite smile a shield masking centuries of rivalry. Courtesies were exchanged with the precision of a formal blade dance, and beneath the polished diplomacy, subtle contests for advantage played out in gestures and inflections. Eventually, a resolution took shape: the Aurelian Dominion's permanent envoy would construct and occupy a stately manor in the northwest quadrant of the inner wall, close enough to the castle to signal status, yet distant enough to maintain a semblance of deference. When discussions turned to trade corridors, military accords, and ceremonial precedence, Corvin reminded them, with patrician composure, that as Planarch he could not be seen favouring one faction. His suggestion to consult with the Umbral Synod envoy carried a faint gleam in his eyes. An invitation as much as a provocation.

Their departure was a performance in itself. Cloaks of deep silk whispered along the polished stone floors as they withdrew in stately formation, each step as deliberate as the centuries old pride they embodied. Corvin's attention was just returning to matters of his choosing when a raven's echo intruded, carrying the image of an Iron March carriage rolling toward his gates. He sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for a man who saw his carefully ordered day unravel into a parade of political obligations. Did they all imagine that a Planarch's sole occupation was to host their endless processions?

The arriving Marshal Vos found the gates already charged with tension. Vaelorin the Black and his shadow clad retinue faced Laevior Sindareth's High Elven delegation in a tableau of mutual disdain. No words were exchanged, yet the silence hummed with centuries of grudges, every measured breath a warning. Sindareth greeted the Archmagus as a Magus. Vos, long practiced in the delicate art of defusing powder keg diplomacy, stepped from his carriage with deliberate calm. One firm clearing of his throat sliced through the heavy air like a blade through silk.

He bowed first to the Synod, honouring the Archmagus with deference, then turned to grant equal respect to the High Elves. "A rare day indeed," he remarked with wry poise, "to see both courts of Thalasien gathered at the same threshold without the air thick with quarrel, or spells." The silence that followed was taut as drawn bowstrings. Only after a long, weighted moment did both parties grant permission for him to pass, their movements slow, ceremonial, and utterly devoid of concession. As Vos was ushered inside by a butler, the High and Dark Elves turned away toward their respective wings, their eyes still locking in brief flashes like the gleam of unsheathed steel glimpsed in the dark.

--

Marshal Vos followed the butler through the echoing, vaulted halls of Raven's Nest, each measured footfall resonating with the knowledge that he was about to stand before a Planarch, one whose name alone was enough to inspire both awe and dread. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, the cold stone walls lined with silent, watchful statues and the subtle flicker of mage light. When they reached the grand meeting chamber, the butler pushed open the massive doors with ceremonial care, revealing Corvin seated in composed stillness, eyes closed, exuding the aura of a predator conserving its strength before a strike.

Vos advanced with the deliberate formality his position demanded, bowing deeply. "I bring the congratulations of the Iron March on your ascendance to the rank of Planarch, Your Grace," he declared, his voice even but his pulse betraying the tension beneath.

Corvin's eyes opened slowly and locked on to Vos with a precision that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone to the marrow. He inclined his head in acknowledgment and gestured toward a seat. Silent as shadows, maids glided in with refreshments, their every movement flawless and deliberate. They vanished without a whisper, leaving the air heavy with expectancy.

Before Vos could speak again, Corvin's voice slid into the stillness, calm, aristocratic, yet heavy with unspoken weight. "Before you deliver your message, Marshal, allow me to clear the shore. I am aware of Arbiter Gareth's machinations and of his visit to Blackspire Bastion. What I wish to know is this, will you be the next Verrenate?"

It was not shouted, nor was it laced with overt menace, but the question landed with the precision of a blade at the throat. All the while, Corvin's mind was quietly walking through the Marshal's thoughts, sifting memories, drawing truths to the surface. Since the visit of the Aetherborne envoy, he had refrained from touching them, but every other emissary who had entered Raven's Nest had been examined and siphoned without their knowledge. Marshal Vos was no exception.

The bluntness of the question caught Vos off guard. He steadied himself with a slow sip of wine, meeting Corvin's gaze squarely. "No," he said with deliberate firmness. "No, Iron March will not be the next Verrenate. It is true Arbiter Gareth of the Grey Mantle has 'visited' Grand Marshal, and I suspect you have already uncovered more than I could tell you. But I can assure you, Your Grace, we have no intention of becoming pawns in his designs."

Corvin inclined his head slightly, then, without breaking eye contact, gave a subtle hand signal. A covenant bound Shadow materialized from thin air, bowing deeply at his side. The sudden appearance drew a flicker of surprise from Vos, the silent message behind it unmistakable, Corvin's reach extended into every corner, even into the unseen.

"You heard the Marshal," Corvin said evenly to the Shadow. "Suspend the plans accordingly." There were no plans nor even a slither of any planning about Iron March in Corvin's mind. Yet there was no need for Vos to know it. With all the political meetings filling his time, his patience was running thin.

The figure bowed once more and faded from sight, leaving no trace he had ever been there. Vos understood the meaning perfectly: Corvin's power was not just in magic or might, but in the invisible network that served him without question.

With the point made, Corvin's tone lightened just enough to signal the shift. "Now that we have a clear understanding, Marshal… please. I am listening." Rest of the meeting with the Marshal was pure political maneuvers veiled in goodwill from the Human side. After sending the human envoy Corvin ordered a grand feast in honor of the dignitaries residing with the castle.

--

The dining hall's atmosphere was a carefully contained storm, thick with centuries old grudges dressed in velvet civility and underpinned by an unspoken readiness to pounce. Corvin sat at the head of the table like a conductor before an orchestra of grudges, his posture deceptively relaxed yet radiating the kind of authority that made every subtle shift in his expression matter. The faintest curl of amusement ghosted his lips, as though the entire evening was a performance staged purely for his amusement. No formal political subjects had been broached, but the tension was palpable, woven through every clink of crystal and polished silver, every courteous phrase honed with double meanings sharp enough to cut flesh.

High and Dark elves exchanged their traditional arsenal of veiled insults wrapped in the most refined diplomatic phrasing, their voices honey smooth but their eyes burning with the dangerous light of old feuds. Each word was chosen like a blade, each smile a calculated feint. Synthara, regal and predatory in her stillness, seemed intent on feeding the flames. Her gaze lingered on Corvin far longer than politeness required, her words languid and deliberately weighted with suggestion, each movement, be it the slow, deliberate swirl of her goblet, the sensual tilt of her head, or the faint quirk of her lips crafted to stake an unspoken claim. Her open invitation to re convene on the last topic of domination she argued with Corvin 'in private' was nearly the last drop on an elven beauty tense nerves. Across the table, Valyne's turquoise eyes were a storm barely held at bay, her flawless features betraying flickers emotions bordering of jealousy, wounded pride, and reluctant fascination. Corvin drank in every microexpression as if savoring a rare vintage, letting her turmoil season the wine on his tongue.

Kaelyn, oblivious to the silent knife fight playing out around her, plunged cheerfully into treacherous waters. Her exuberant but hopelessly inaccurate declarations about Thalasien's history and the enduring friction between High and Dark elves drew thinly masked smirks and predatory glances from both factions. At last, Vaelorin's patience frayed to breaking. He turned to her, his expression a work of amused cruelty, voice a ribbon of silk wound around steel. "You are barred from the Obsidian Gate for the foreseeable future, human. Not until you pasee a written exam on Elven History and Geography of Thalasien." he said with the precision of a duelist's strike. Laevior nodded in satisfaction tho the decleration. Vaelrin added, "I still question why I didn't arrange a 'small happy accident' during your last visit. But then again..." he leaned back, the smile on his lips more threat than warmth, "..it's never too late."

Kaelyn's eyes widened, but before she could fashion a retort, Valyne leaned in close, her whisper cutting sharper than any public rebuke. "For the love of the Mother, shut your mouth, Kaelyn. Do you want to share my misfortune of creating a global crisis?" The words, heavy with the memory of her own disastrous slip, the dinner where she had unintentionally exposed Corvin's Planarch status hung between them like the tolling of a warning bell.

Synthara observed it all with feline satisfaction, her smirk deepening as though the clash of egos, the stoking of jealousy, and the snapping of tempers were pieces on a game board she had long been waiting to play. Corvin's eyes moved slowly over the gathering, his gaze deliberate, savoring the exquisite mix of politics, hostility, and personal amusement. To him, this was no burden, it was a masterfully staged play in which he alone held the script, and everyone else merely played their unwitting parts..