Dark Parasyte

As Solen's carriage rolled to a halt before the gates of Raven's Nest, the Arbiter's golden eyes narrowed, immediately finding Corvin among those assembled. The Planarch stood tall, taller than most, composed with a presence that needed no ornamentation. His posture was regal without strain, every movement subtle yet weighted with authority, as if the stones beneath his feet acknowledged his dominion. To Corvin's left loomed Archmagus Vaelorin the Black of the Umbral Synod, robed in the severe dark robes of Obsidian Gate, his bearing exuding quiet superiority. To Corvin's right was Magus Laevior Sindareth of the Starlight Arcanum, his silver trimmed robes gleaming with the ethereal shimmer unique to High Elven craft, his expression disciplined but inquisitive.

The great carriage door opened with a metallic click, and Solen descended slowly, each step deliberate, Lorenthis following close behind with his usual shadowlike silence. The guards stationed at the gate shifted, armor glinting in the muted light. Corvin inclined his body in a bow, deep but measured, respectful without submission, a gesture acknowledging the Arbiter's title but conceding nothing of his own authority. His voice carried across the courtyard with calm resonance, steady as a river cutting through stone:

"Synod Planarch Corvin Blackmoor greets Arbiter Solen Vaen'thal."

In seamless accord, Vaelorin and Laevior lowered their heads, each bow distinct in manner. Vaelorin's was curt, clipped with the sharp precision of one who bowed only because custom demanded it, not because reverence was owed. Laevior's was smoother, more flowing, carrying the careful dignity of the High Elven courts. The guards followed suit, their armored forms moving as one, and finally Lorenthis, measured and deliberate mirrored the gesture toward Corvin, his eyes betraying nothing.

Solen responded with the smallest incline of his head, outwardly calm, though within, alarm bells tolled. The aether that shimmered faintly around Corvin was too familiar, too precise, its hue and resonance nearly identical to the bluish luminance he had only ever read and heard from the old records and his master, in the Sylvan Elves, the vanished ancestors of both High and Dark kindreds. Impossible. The word repeated in his mind, each echo louder than the last. He remembered the lessons of his mentor, the descriptions so vivid they could not be mistaken. Yet here stood a living contradiction, cloaked in power that should not exist. Corvin Blackmoor is an impossibility.

He drew in a breath, forcing composure, and let his voice emerge smooth, authoritative, the weight of centuries behind every syllable. "We meet at last, Corvin Blackmoor, also knowsn as the Raven by some. Your rise to rank of Planarch has been the most heartening tidings these old bones have heard in a century. Yet, true to their nature, the Umbral Synod cloaked your existence in secrecy until the very last moment. Only now are you revealed to us." His gaze slid to Vaelorin, his words sharpened. "Perhaps you, Archmagus, will cast aside shadows and enlighten me. My own advisor Lorenthis, prefers silence."

Vaelorin dipped his head again, but there was no mistaking the faint curl of his lip, the disdain hidden just shallowly beneath protocol. His words came crisp, wrapped in courtesy but barbed in intent. "Planarch Corvin was never harbored within Obsidian Gate, Your Highness. He walked among the nomadic tribes, far from court and city. When he swore his oath to withdraw from planar matters, he placed himself beyond record or observation." His gaze locked to Solen "We are Synod, Arbiter, unlike the Dominion, we do not chain our kin with ceaseless watch as though they were errant children needing constant correction."

The air between them tightened. Lorenthis's mouth twitched with a shadow of satisfaction, the smirk unhidden, savoring the sting Vaelorin delivered to the 'High' Elven Arbiter. Solen's gaze grew keener, a blade's edge behind his calm. He let silence hang deliberately, pressing weight upon the Archmagus and all gathered. When he finally spoke, his voice cut clean and direct: "And what of this Planarch's lineage, Archmagus? Surely even the Synod, in all its looseness, recalls bloodlines. From what roots was he grown?"

Vaelorin's answer was firm, unflinching, and final. "He is an orphan, Your Highness."

Solen turned then, his eyes resting on Corvin with a thin smile curling across his lips. It was not warmth but a gesture lined with suspicion, a testing of the ground. "To grow without kin is a hard road, Corvin Blackmoor. It must have weighed heavily upon you." His tone carried the subtle edge of disbelief, an insinuation dressed in courtesy, a challenge unspoken but understood.

Corvin did not falter. His reply was calm, his gaze unwavering. "It was difficult, Arbiter." Then, with a smooth gesture of his hand, he indicated the towering gates behind him. "Allow me to extend Raven's Nest to you. My halls are prepared to be honored with your presence."

At his command, maids hurried ahead through the gates, their dresses whispering across the stone as they hastened. The company began to move forward as one, Corvin leading with an unhurried stride, Solen and Lorenthis just behind. The air between them carried unspoken weight, disdain thinly veiled, suspicion carefully masked, and respect wielded like a weapon. Every step deeper into Raven's Nest was a step into contested ground, the silence humming louder than any spoken word.

--

The meeting hall had been prepared before the carriage even reached the gates with exquisite care, its long table stretching beneath the glow of chandeliers wrought from crystal and silver, their light shifting in subtle patterns across the polished stone floor. At the center of the table, the head chair had been left conspicuously empty, Corvin's deliberate gesture, both an act of courtesy and a statement of balance. It made clear that no one here claimed absolute primacy: not Arbiter, not Planarch. It also served as a quiet reminder that Elves themselves were divided, High and Dark, and that both halves had equal claim to this gathering.

Corvin seated himself on the left, his presence steady, Vaelorin taking the place beside him with that cold composure the Archmagus carried like armor. Lorenthis slipped in silently next to Vaelorin, the faintest of smirks curling his lips at the arrangement. Solen strode forward with measured calm, cloak trailing, his every step a projection of authority. He chose the chair opposite Corvin, his golden gaze steady and unblinking, while Magus Laevior lingered briefly, lowering his head until Solen's subtle gesture granted him leave to sit. He obeyed, sliding into the chair at Solen's right hand like a dutiful shadow.

Elven maids entered in a line, silent as specters, each bearing trays laden with bowls of fruits, decanters of deep ruby wines, and ornate dishes of carved silver and enamel. With practiced grace they set the table, crystal goblets gleaming as they poured. When all was arranged, they withdrew in unison, their steps hushed, leaving behind an atmosphere weighted with expectation and tension.

Solen reached forward with unhurried poise, selecting a slice of peach from the silver dish. At first, he believed it to have been imported from the Umbraveyn Forests of Thalasien, yet when Corvin casually noted that it had grown within Raven's Nest's orchards, Solen paused. He bit into it slowly, savoring the sweetness, his expression unchanged though surprise flickered briefly in his eyes. Only then did he speak. "Tell me, Planarch. Your farmlands, your harvests. What do they yield?"

Corvin answered evenly, his words deliberate, as if laying out facts of law. "Grain, wheat, fruit, livestock. Ores of iron and veins of gemstones. The edibles are bound with enchantments to endure through seasons, their freshness preserved. Enchanted containers carry them to the docks unspoiled. Raven's Nest does not merely feed its folk. Its wealth sustains trade and will soon sustain armies."

Solen set the peach aside with slow precision. "And yet, I hear this trade flows toward Iron March and the Gilded Dominion." His voice sharpened, though its tone remained smooth. "Why then not with your own? Why not with Thalasien? Do you look only to humans for commerce?"

Corvin's lips curved faintly. "The agreements with Thalasien are already signed. Obsidian Gate's ships will arrive, as will those of the Aurelian Dominion. Soon, my docks will bear both banners."

Solen nodded faintly, eyes never leaving Corvin's. His tone was velvet, yet it pressed like a blade against the throat. "And why, I must ask, would an Elf, be he of the Aurelian Dominion or the Umbral Synod, accept a human noble's title and claim domain in such a fashion? To us, their crowns and their beggars wear the same cloth. Why bind yourself to their shallow hierarchies?" His question was not curiosity, it was a probe, a test to draw cracks between Corvin, Synod and Dominion, to see whether Corvin's loyalties frayed at the edges.

Corvin's smile deepened, unshaken. "Because permanence was my aim. I cleared the path for Queen Yvanna of the Gilded Dominion, and in return I asked not for gold nor favors, but for a domain. A root in this land that none could dislodge. Raven's Nest is such a place, unassailable and sovereign. Within its walls, places are prepared for both High and Dark Elves. Already, with this single step, our reach extends into Argyll. Humans think themselves far from our grasp, but as long as I remain, they are not safe. They will never be safe. I am arranging similar accords with Savaryn. Only Nefrath and Atheris, for now, remains beyond my direct influence."

Solen tapped two fingers against the table, his eyes sharp, approval mingling with calculation. He let the silence linger, heavy and deliberate, before a thin smile curved across his lips. "And what of the one?" he asked softly, voice smooth but glinting with intrigue. "The girl who, through eagerness, revealed your rank to the world. I hear she still walks these halls."

Corvin gave a quiet sigh, a mere shift of breath. He gestured toward a maid. "Summon Valyne."

The doors opened moments later, and Valyne entered hesitantly, her steps light but uncertain. Her eyes were lowered, her posture deferential, yet no artifice could conceal her beauty: silver blonde hair shimmered faintly in the lights, and even her simple gown framed a figure graceful, unmistakably elven. She bowed deeply, her voice trembling as she greeted each in turn: "Arbiter… Planarch… Archmagus… Magus."

Solen studied her with a slow, approving nod, his gaze narrowing slightly as if measuring her not only by appearance but by presence. "So this is the one," he said at last. "The Aether Mage, the Elf bold enough to unveil what others would conceal. My thanks, Valyne of the Synod, for casting aside the veil. Boldness such as yours deserves recognition." He inclined his head, then with a flick of his hand dismissed her. She retreated swiftly, pale with nerves, yet her beauty lingered in the silence she left behind.

Vaelorin's eyes flared like coals, his expression stiffening, anger barely suppressed. Solen's maneuver had landed where it was meant to. The Archmagus's jaw locked tight, his silence sharp as unsheathed steel.

Conversation resumed, its pace unrelenting. For hours, the table became a battlefield of words. Solen pressed, probing for weakness in Raven's Nest, troop numbers, supplies, vulnerabilities. He questioned the Silent Aurora's and Synod Shadows movements for the security of the domain, demanded clarity on treaties, pressed on the dangers lurking among the Feralis tribes. Each thrust met Corvin's calm parry, his answers precise, deliberate, offering nothing beyond what he wished to reveal. He framed Raven's Nest not as a duchy but as a keystone of Elven expansion, a bastion through which their influence spread further into human lands.

At last, Solen leaned back, his golden gaze steady as a lion's. "A month hence, the Pioneers will cross the Planar Gate. Nefrath stirs. Wrath's loss has weakened the Archdemons, their ranks tearing each other apart. Thanks to you, Corvin Blackmoor, humanity has lost Verrenate, and with it a great potion of their armies. The balance now tilts. And so it is we, the Elves, who command the largest, most formidable army for the invasion to come. Ready your forces. We will lead this charge."

Corvin inclined his head, tone smooth, unbowed. "They will be ready, Arbiter."

"Good." Solen rose, slowly, savoring the gravity of the moment. Corvin extended his hand in invitation to remain as guest, but Solen waved it aside, his smile courteous but firm. "Another night, perhaps. My duties call me elsewhere." He reached into his robe, drawing forth a small seal marked with intricate runes. With a snap, he broke it in two. Silver fire erupted from the fragments, coiling upward. Minutes later, a portal shimmered into being, a window of light etched in shifting patterns.

As Solen stepped toward it, Lorenthis moving silently at his side, the Arbiter paused. His gaze turned toward Laevior, and his words carried both command and amusement. "Arrange for Magistra of High Elven blood to be sent here. Their beauty must be equal to the Dark Elf who the Planarch favors." His smile was edged with malice, but his tone feigned lightness. "Balance, after all, must be kept."

Laevior bowed low, his voice quiet and steady. "As you command, Arbiter."

Solen's eyes flicked once more toward Corvin, a faint smirk ghosting across his lips, as if daring the Planarch to take his words as jest or threat. Then he turned, stepping into the portal's glow. Lorenthis followed, and in a breath they were gone, swallowed by silver light.

The hall fell to silence once more. The echo of the meeting lingered, like the taste of iron in the air after a drawn blade. Every word, every gesture, had left its mark upon Raven's Nest.

--

Upon his return, Solen wasted no time. Quills scratched across parchment as he dictated with precision, his words sealed in the language of command. The letters, each bearing his personal sigil, would be carried by High Elven space magi back to the Dominion without delay. His orders were explicit, without room for interpretation: Corvin Blackmoor must have at least two High Elven mates. His bloodline is sacred. It must be secured at any cost.

The Arbiter's hand lingered a moment longer over the final seal, his mind gnawed by the weight of revelation. A Sylvan Elf... hidden, unknown, shielded for decades, now standing before him as Planarch. Such an anomaly should have never been the Synod's privilege. Had he known earlier, had the truth been revealed to him before this moment, he would never have allowed Corvin freedom, title, chance to ascend or recognition. No, he would have bound him in chains of gold and iron, locked him in sanctums beneath the Dominion.

There, Corvin would have served a singular purpose: to sire child after child, to fill the High Elven lines with the rarest of blood until his body broke and his breath failed. For the future of the High Elves, Solen would have wrung from him every drop of lineage, every flicker of Sylvan essence. It was the cruelest of thoughts, yet to Solen's mind it was necessity. The survival of their race demanded no less.

His jaw tightened as he pressed the final wax seal, watching it cool with an almost reverent stillness. He had been denied foreknowledge by Synod, but he would not be denied action. If he could not chain the Planarch outright, then he would weave chains of blood and legacy.

The missives were handed to the waiting space magi, who bowed and vanished into portals of silver and purple light, carrying with them the Arbiter's command across the veil to Thalasien. Solen did not wait for reply. The course was set. The Dominion would move with urgency. The Sylvan bloodline would be claimed, whether Corvin willed it or not.