Dark Parasyte

Maybe it was not the brightest idea to consult Kaelyn, the hopelessly romantic space mage about her own tangled feelings toward Corvin. This was what Valyne kept telling herself as she sat alone in her chambers, head in her hands. The advice Kaelyn had woven into her mind was nothing short of disaster: scenes drenched in overblown passion, suggestions bordering on absurdity, and instructions that seemed better suited to a bawdy play than real life. The worst part? Valyne could not chase the images away. Each time one surfaced, her cheeks burned hotter, darkening to crimson.

Kaelyn needs professional help, she thought miserably, groaning into her palms. She jolted like a startled kitten when a knock came at her door.

"Come in," she managed, voice shaky.

A maid entered, bowing politely. "Magistra, you've been summoned by the master."

The words struck like a thunderclap. Valyne's heart leapt into her throat, panic flooding her as if Corvin somehow already knew of the ridiculous fantasies flooding her head.

The maid tilted her head. "Magistra… do you require a healer?"

Valyne spun toward her sharply. "No, no healer. I… I need to get dressed," she muttered hastily. Her hands fumbled at her wardrobe, pulling silks and robes, discarding each choice in a frantic blur. One moment she tried matching delicate undergarments to a regal robe, the next she dismissed them entirely, mortified by her own thoughts. Finally, she settled on powder pink underwear and a white robe traced with silver embroidery. Elegant, simple, and yet her blush deepened all the more.

She left her chambers with hesitant steps, moving through the halls as if sneaking to meet a secret lover. When she reached Corvin's study, the heavy door opened by itself, his telekinesis at work, she was sure. Valyne entered meekly, hands clasped in front of her, gaze lowered. She dreaded him glimpsing her thoughts.

A low chuckle pulled her eyes up. Corvin reclined with lazy grace, a smile curling his lips. "Are you not going to welcome me back?" he asked. "Or do you expect me to pluck the words from that lovely mind of yours?"

Valyne panicked, her words spilling out in a rush. "No, no, don't pluck my mind! There's nothing there, I promise. Nothing at all! Nothing that Kaelyn planted like some arcane virus."

Corvin's smile widened. He had been reading her since the moment the maid entered her chambers. The images Kaelyn had conjured were absurd, half erotic fantasy, half comic exaggeration but they amused him far more than they should. Perhaps he ought to send Kaelyn a fruit basket for her efforts.

"Come," he said smoothly, beckoning with a hand. "I won't bite… unless you want me to." His words were laced with amusement, and he savored the way her innocent expression shifted wildly, enthusiasm giving way to embarrassment, desire tangled with fear.

He rose from his chair, his steps slow and deliberate as he circled her. His presence loomed, his aura pressing in, though his touch when it came was deceptively gentle. His fingers brushed through her platinum blonde hair, caressing the silk strands. Leaning close, his lips nearly brushed her pointed ear as he whispered, "Tell me, what are you thinking, my dear?"

Valyne's voice came soft, trembling. "Please… do not bite me."

Corvin's amused breath warmed her skin as he straightened, placing his hands on her delicate shoulders before turning her to face him. He tilted her chin upward with a single finger, gazing down at her as if studying a jewel. His lips brushed feather light kisses at the corners of her cherry red lips. Slowly, deliberately, his kisses trailed down her jaw to the pale curve of her neck. She tilted her head, surrendering, granting him greater access as shivers coursed through her.

"Tell me," he murmured between kisses, his breath hot on her skin, "what is it you want?"

"I… I want to be close to you," she whispered, her voice faltering under the weight of sensation. "Not because it is my duty… because I want to." Each word grew fainter as his lips and touch unraveled her composure.

He lifted her easily, carrying her as though she weighed nothing, and settled onto the large sofa with her straddling his lap. His mouth claimed hers again, his hands roaming her waist with deliberate slowness. Between breaths, his voice came low, probing: "Are you loyal to me, my dear… or are you loyal to the Synod?"

The question froze her, breath catching. Corvin pressed further, his eyes locking hers. "If you saw me act against the Synod's will, would you report me?"

Her head shook before she even realized it, instinct taking hold.

"Good," he murmured against her lips, his smirk dangerous and intimate all at once.

Corvin's lips pressed more firmly against Valyne's, deepening the kiss until her breath came in short, uneven bursts. His hands moved with a steady assurance, tracing the delicate line of her back, the soft fabric of her robe yielding under his touch. Every motion seemed designed to coax her from fear into surrender, replacing hesitation with warmth. Valyne's fingers curled instinctively into the folds of his tunic, clinging as though afraid he might vanish if she let go.

He pulled back only slightly, enough to look into her wide turquoise eyes. They shone with nervousness, but also with a growing spark of trust and desire. His voice was low, tender, carrying the weight of both command and comfort. "You are safe with me," he whispered. "Every thought, every feeling, you don't need to hide them."

Valyne's heart pounded in her chest, her cheeks flushed a deeper red as she tilted her head up again. She kissed him this time, soft at first, then with a little more certainty. Corvin answered with patience, letting her set the pace, his smirk softened into something that carried genuine affection.

The study of her innocence became his focus, her trembling laughter when his lips brushed her ear, the sharp inhale when his hands cupped her waist, the way her composure melted with every gentle kiss. He did not rush. Instead, he savored, letting her know with every gesture that her presence, her choice, mattered to him more than any order from the Synod ever could.

When he lifted her into his arms once more, Valyne did not resist. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breath warm at his neck. He carried her with an ease that made her feel weightless, and when the shimmer of teleportation faded, they stood within the privacy of his bedchamber. The air there was softer, perfumed faintly with cedar and spice, the hearth crackling gently as though the room itself had prepared for them.

He lowered her to the bed with care, brushing a strand of platinum hair from her face. She looked up at him, lips parted as though to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, her hand reached for his, fingers intertwining, her touch trembling but deliberate. Corvin bent down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead before returning to her lips.

Their laughter mixed with sighs as the moments stretched longer. Every whisper, every stolen glance became part of a rhythm all its own. Valyne's nervousness slowly gave way to a quiet eagerness, a soft glow in her expression that made her beauty all the more radiant. Corvin, watching her, could not help but smile in return.

The night became theirs, romantic, tender, filled with closeness that spoke louder than words. Whatever games the Synod has in mind, whatever politics awaited, in that moment there was only the two of them, and the unspoken promise in the way their hearts beat together.

--

While Corvin enjoyed the gentle beauty of his skittish magistra, Magus Laevior sat hunched over his desk, quill scratching furiously. His report to Silent Aurora was blunt and urgent, carried away through a spatial tunnel as soon as the ink dried. The weight of his failure pressed down on him as he wrote, every stroke of the quill a reminder of the shame he now carried. The wait for a reply was brief, barely twenty minutes and when the silver edged parchment appeared once more, Laevior's heart sank as he read.

Magus Kelorien was ordered to remain. Laevior and the three magistras were to return immediately. Silent Aurora would dispatch another envoy in their place, along with new magistras. The message carried no softness, no space for excuses. Every mistake carried consequences, and in the Aurelian Dominion, failure was a debt that never went unpaid. Laevior sighed heavily, his pride stinging as he realized his return would mark him in the eyes of his peers as careless. He began his preparations slowly, each movement heavy with dread. With a grim expression, he informed Kelorien of the decision, already dreading the walk of shame back to the Starlight Arcanum, knowing whispers of his humiliation would reach the halls before he even set foot within them.

Far away, beyond the endless waves of Veilborn Expanse, in the northern reaches of Thalasien, the capital of the Aurelian Dominion rose from the ancient forests. Aeloria, the living city, its towers carved from colossal trees and its bridges of silverwood stretching like threads through the canopy, seemed timeless. Birds of silver plumage flew through its high arches, and glowing crystal lanterns illuminated the walkways even at dusk. Within its heart, whispers passed through the halls of power, carrying news of Laevior's failure. Whispershade, the elusive leader of Silent Aurora, pondered how best to salvage the fragile connection with Planarch Blackmoor. He paced a chamber lined with living vines that curled up polished pillars, his sharp mind turning over every possibility. To lose the Raven's trust now could shift the balance of power across Thalasien.

At length, Whispershade composed a careful missive. It was sealed with shadow and silver, then dispatched to the leader of the Dominion himself, Planarch Aranthil Vaenlor, the White Thorn of Aeloria. The words within were precise, every phrase chosen with care. Whispershade explained the failed maneuver, Laevior's removal, and the dangerous line they now walked. He urged the Dominion's ruler to appoint a new envoy, one of unquestionable authority. An Archmagus who could represent their people without error, accompanied by three magistras chosen from the most exalted High Elven bloodlines, paragons of purity and beauty. He stressed the importance of choosing women whose presence alone would command respect, as much symbols as they were emissaries.

At the end of the missive, Whispershade added the most important detail: Arbiter Solen's direct orders. No politics. No spy games. Only trust and sincerity were to be shown. This was not a play for power, but a chance to secure the Raven's trust and bloodline. If the Arbiter was ordering them to do so, there was no place for any other maneuvers. In the growing storm of the invasion, trust of Corvin Blackmoor was worth more than any scheme.

--

Planarch Aranthil Vaenlor, the White Thorn of Aeloria and supreme leader of the Aurelian Dominion, sat upon his living throne carved from the roots of a thousand year old silverwood tree. The throne was alive, its veins pulsing faintly with green light, as if the forest itself lent him strength. His expression was outwardly calm, regal as always, but beneath that mask his thoughts were restless, sharpened like blades by the endless tide of news washing across Verthalis. The balance of power was shifting faster than ever, and every message carried more urgency than the last. He knew well that every choice he made now would ripple across centuries.

Their estranged cousins in the south, the Umbral Synod remained as secretive as ever, a people bound by veils of shadow and ancient oaths. But through all that secrecy, one truth had become clear to him: Corvin Blackmoor could not possibly be the only Planarch raised among them. There had to be another, hidden from all but the most cloistered councils of the Synod. The thought lingered like a thorn in his mind. And yet, even if such a figure existed, the Synod's suffocating tradition of silence was a double edged blade. They would never risk revealing another Planarch, not even in the face of invasion. That knowledge was both a comfort and a concern. Corvin, whether he wished it or not, would stand as the sole figure of their people before the world and in that role, he was no longer just an asset to the Synod, but to all Elvenkind.

For Aranthil, it should have been good news. But custom and circumstance bound him as surely as any chain. As leader of the Dominion, he could not abandon his throne, not now, not with storms gathering in the South. Reports from Nefrath were nothing short of horrifying: five of the seven Archdemons destroyed, their domains left in ruins, their legions scattered to ash. Not a single corpse, not a single witness. Entire bastions of horror erased as though they had never existed. It could only mean one thing, a new Archdemon was rising, a predator powerful enough to devour its rivals whole. Pride had taken Envy, that much was known, but Wrath, Sloth, Lust, and Gluttony had simply vanished. Erased from the world. Something far stronger now stalked their place, and Aranthil felt the shadow of that power gnawing at him like a slow hunger, larger and more dangerous than any mortal army.

And yet, chaos always opened doors. Humanity had already lost nearly thirty percent of its strength in the fighting. Demon legions were tearing one another apart. The Feralis tribes, for all their savagery, had never been a true threat to Elves, and they never would be. Against the Dominion's hosts, the disciplined, unshakable phalanxes of High Elves and the Umbral Synod's legions of killers who fought in silence and shadow, no human power could stand. Only the Aetherborn remained true contenders, the firstborn of Verthalis, whose power was carved into the bones of creation itself. And Aranthil, for all his pride, was no fool. He would not waste strength challenging them. He would bide, and strengthen, and prepare.

He exhaled slowly as he unfolded the letter from Whispershade once again. The words were sharp, precise, and heavy with consequence. At their heart rang the voice of Arbiter Solen Vaen'thal, a command as clear as if the Arbiter himself stood in the chamber: No politics. No spy games. Only trust. Solen's decree was absolute, and within the Dominion, no one questioned an Arbiter's will. Corvin Blackmoor, the Raven, must be met with sincerity alone. Every subtle trick, every half spoken scheme would only end in disaster. If they were to gain his trust, it had to be offered openly, stripped of manipulation.

And so Aranthil summoned the one person he knew could walk that line. "Send for Archmagus Seliorna Elyndrel," he commanded, his voice carrying through the halls of Aeloria. Seliorna, called the Songwoven Flame by her peers, was a figure both feared and admired. Among the brightest stars of the Starlight Arcanum, she was a master of lightning and fire, bending the raw fury of the storm and the blaze into disciplined art. Long midnight hair framed her ageless face, while eyes the color of frozen lakes gleamed with sharp intellect. She carried herself with a poise that made others stand straighter, and her station in the Aurelian Arcanum granted her both political weight and battlefield authority.

She was, in every sense, diplomat and weapon both, precisely what was required. To her would fall the responsibility of choosing the magistras who would accompany her. They would need to be paragons of bloodline and beauty, chosen from the most exalted houses of High Elven nobility. Their purpose was not seduction alone, but representation: to stand as symbols of Dominion's grace and power, without undermining the fragile trust Solen had demanded they nurture.

Aranthil leaned back against his throne, his hand brushing across his brow as he waited for her arrival. The silverwood creaked faintly under his weight, as though the tree itself sighed with him. He knew the meeting would be long, fraught with tension, and heavy with consequence. But such was the burden of leadership. In this age of rising shadows, with demons devouring themselves and humanity bleeding out its strength, the future of Verthalis rested on every decision. And for all his pride, the White Thorn of Aeloria knew the truth: one wrong word, one false step, and the fragile bridge to the Raven would splinter. And if that happened, all of Elvendom might pay the price.