TBATE: Corvis Eralith

Corvis Eralith

Blinking, the world became clearer—the precise geometry of the Djinn ceiling resolving into the deeply lined face of my grandfather, etched with a worry so raw it stole my breath. He was crouched, his warm, calloused hand gripping my shoulder like a lifeline.

"Grampa?" My voice sounded thin, distant to my own ears.

"Corvis!" His shout was pure relief, rough with fear. "Kid! How are you feeling? Talk to me!" His eyes searched mine, frantic, seeing only the grandson who had collapsed.

"I would have warned you," Elder Camus's dry voice cut in, a disembodied presence nearby, "that dragging an eleven-year-old through ancient ruins Ll day might be… taxing, Virion." His tone held reproof, a fascinating counterpoint to Grampa's visible distress.

"Yeah, yeah, save the lecture, Camus!" Grampa snapped, his focus entirely on me. The tremor in his hand on my shoulder betrayed his fear. "You just… went still. Eyes open but seeing nothing. Then you crumpled. Can you stand?"

How am I feeling? The question echoed internally, a whisper against the roaring clarity Fate had bestowed. Lost? Never again. Adrift? No, I felt anchored now. I have never been better. The certainty was a warm, solid weight in my chest, a stark contrast to the cold stone beneath me. The cosmic burden was immense, but the crushing uncertainty? It was completely gone and replaced by purpose.

A flicker of wry annoyance surfaced. Seriously, Fate couldn't freeze time? They scared Grampa half to death. The mundane concern was almost comforting.

"I'm good, Grampa," I said, pushing myself up. My voice was stronger now, infused with a newfound steadiness that surprised even me. I met his worried gaze, offering what I hoped was a reassuring look. "Really. Just… a lot to take in down here."

It was the understatement of the century.

He studied my face for a long moment, the frantic energy slowly easing from his frame as he saw not just consciousness, but a flicker of something… settled. Something different. He sighed, a deep, shuddering release of tension.

"Alright, kid. Alright." He rose, offering a hand I didn't strictly need, but took anyway. His grip was firm, grounding. "Let's get back home."

———

The familiar thrum-hum of the teleportation matrix faded, leaving the scent of ozone and the sudden, cool embrace of palace air.

We materialized near the private wing of the Eralith family, bypassing the city's bustle entirely. Sunset painted the high windows in streaks of molten gold and bruised purple.

Alone now in my room, seated at the heavy oak desk Tessia had carved her initials into, the silence pressed in.

The quill felt heavy in my hand, a fragile thing against the immensity crowding my skull. Fate's words echoed, not just spoken, but etched: The Thwart. The anchor. The keeper of the true path. And the proof? Not some grand spell or hidden power, but the simple, undeniable fact of Tessia mastering Mana Rotation.

I had not just remembered a technique; I had understood it. Down to the quantum flutter of mana particles, the biological triggers in an elf's core—knowledge absorbed not from pages, but from the essence of this world itself, gifted (or cursed) with my arrival.

Yet, the bitter irony was a stone in my throat. This profound understanding, this meta-knowledge that could potentially rewrite destinies… was locked inside a vessel that couldn't channel a single spark.

I had traced Arthur's path meticulously, the core formation of a three-year-old prodigy, only to meet the same, impenetrable wall within my own spirit. Was I broken? Disabled? Or… deliberately crippled?

Fate's explanation surfaced: a safeguard. A cloak woven from my own manalessness. Agrona Vritra, gazing across continents with senses attuned to power, to potential threats, to the thrum of potent cores… would he even see me?

Or would I register as static, background noise—insignificant, like the chirping of insects beneath a dragon's notice?

"To the Asuras," I murmured, the words tasting like strange liberation, "I am nothing but an animal. A gnat." And in that dismissal, that utter contempt, laid my greatest, most fragile advantage. A gnat could sting. A gnat could carry disease. A gnat, unseen, could witness everything.

Moreover this confirmed Arthur's location. Alacrya. My theory solidified into chilling certainty: King Grey reincarnated in a vessel of Agrona's choosing, likely nurtured within the heart of enemy territory. My existence as the Thwart only made sense if the anchors—Cecilia's designated tethers—were being actively countered. I was that counterweight.

"I can't celebrate too soon," I whispered, the sound swallowed by the dusk-filled room. Agrona needed the Legacy, but he wasn't a man—or god—who accepted failure gracefully. If securing Cecilia proved impossible through his anchors… what then?

Obliteration. A bored flick of god-like power, reducing Dicathen to cinders. And worse… far worse… if he ever sensed the hand thwarting him, the gnat guiding events… his hunt wouldn't be for a nation. It would be for me. The Thwart, exposed. The knowledge curdled in my gut, cold and terrifying.

A soft knock shattered the suffocating silence. "Your Highness?" A maid's gentle voice filtered through the heavy wood. "Dinner is ready. Your family awaits you in the sunroom."

My quill clattered onto the parchment, leaving only an ink blot. The scheming, the fear, the crushing responsibility… it could wait. For tonight, I needed to be just Corvis.

I pushed back the chair, the wood scraping loud in the sudden quiet. "Thank you. I'll be right there."

I smiled between myself, I really wanted to spend some time with my parents.

The setting sun painted the sunroom in long, melancholic shadows, gilding the polished table where Tessia's absence felt like a void.

Only Mom, Dad, and I sat amidst the grandeur, the clink of fine silverware echoing too loudly in the space usually filled with Tessia's vibrant energy and Grampa's booming stories. He was still in the city, leaving the three of us adrift in the quiet.

Mom's question cut through the subdued atmosphere. "Corvis, where has Elder Virion brought you today?" Her voice was gentle, but her eyes held a mother's quiet vigilance, always seeking reassurance.

The truth of the Djinn ruins sat heavy on my tongue, a secret shared with Grampa, a potential source of unnecessary worry for Dad.

"We went to Asyphin," I replied, focusing on spearing a piece of venison. The rich aroma, usually comforting, felt muted. "We visited one of Grampa's friends, Elder Camus."

Servants moved with practiced grace, presenting dishes that felt like echoes of happier times. The venison, roasted to perfection. A vibrant array of Elshire fruits—summer's bounty, Tessia's favorites. Berries glistened like jewels, a painful reminder of her infectious enthusiasm for them. Then, a simple bowl placed before me: lentil soup, its earthy, familiar scent a sudden, profound comfort. Steam curled upwards, carrying memories of countless quiet dinners, a staple anchoring me to a simpler past, perhaps even a past life.

Dad watched me lift the spoon, a faint, wry smirk touching his lips. "You really eat the same things as your grandfather," he observed, the comment laced with a mixture of affection and mild bewilderment at his son's old-fashioned tastes.

Mom's soft laugh provided a fleeting warmth. "We must be thankful for that, at least. Tessia and Corvis never fought over food." Her gaze drifted momentarily, perhaps picturing the absent chaos. "Unlike poor Countess Ivsaar's children. She regaled me with tales of their dinner table battles just yesterday."

The mention of Tessia tightened something in my chest. I couldn't hold it back. "Do you know when Tessia will be back?" The question slipped out, raw with a longing I usually kept carefully veiled. I missed her fierce spirit, her unwavering presence.

Mom's smile was tender but tinged with the same ache. "She promised she'd be back before your birthday, sweetheart."

"Which is still nearly four months away!" Dad's protest erupted, his fist thumping the table lightly, rattling the silverware. The veneer of calm vanished, replaced by a father's raw, protective anxiety. "I still don't understand why I allowed her to go on this… this reckless escapade!"

Seeing their worry—Mom's quiet concern, Dad's simmering frustration—was a stark reminder of the chasm between my knowledge and their parental fears. To them, Tessia was embarking on a terrifyingly dangerous journey. To me? I knew her strength, her path.

I pictured her, not lost in the Dire Tombs facing an S-Class horror like Arthur, but navigating challenges with capable allies, growing steadily stronger, aiming for B or A-Class within a safer timeframe. As long as she had a good party. She would be fine.

It's not like she'll stumble into the Dire Tombs and find an S-Class mana beast, I reassured myself silently, clinging to the logic of the "perfect instance," pushing aside the chilling echo of Fate's warnings about divergent paths. She'll be fine.

"I hope Father doesn't bring you to meet his other friends, Elder Camus is a calm man, but some of his other old acquaintances are... unsafe for someone without a co—"

"Ouch!" The sharp sound cut through the quiet sunroom. Mom's hand had darted out, not with violence, but with the swift, precise efficiency of a mother defending her young, pinching the sensitive tip of Dad's ear. Her usually serene face was tight with protective fury.

"How many times," she hissed, her voice low but vibrating with intensity, "have we spoken about not bringing that topic up in front of Corvis?" Her gaze, locked onto Dad's startled eyes, held a depth of pain and fierce love that silenced any protest.

The unspoken accusation was clear: You hurt him.

I watched them, this familiar dance of theirs. My lack of a mana core wasn't a source of disappointment for them; it was a wound they carried, a constant, aching fear for me. They wrapped it in silence, tiptoeing around it like shards of broken glass scattered across my path, terrified that acknowledging it aloud would shatter whatever fragile dreams or peace I might still cling to.

Their love manifested as a shield, heavy and sometimes suffocating, built from the desperate hope that if they pretended hard enough, the reality wouldn't wound me as deeply.

"Mom, Dad..." My voice sounded calmer than I felt, a deliberate counterpoint to the charged atmosphere. I set my spoon down gently. "It's okay." The words weren't just reassurance; they were a declaration of hard-won ground.

"I have come to accept it." It was more than true. Where there had once been a chasm of despair, Fate had poured cold, hard certainty. Acceptance wasn't resignation; it was understanding the purpose etched into my very being.

Mom started, her name forming on her lips, "Corvis—" but I gently pressed on, needing them to hear this, to truly see.

"I was desperate, yes." I admitted, the memory of that crushing helplessness—however—was a faint echo now. "When my mana core didn't form... yes. It felt like the world ending." I met their eyes, saw the shared grief reflected there.

"And for worrying you both so much... for the nights you must have lain awake... I am truly sorry." My voice thickened slightly. "But I understand now. I can't change it. Dwelling on the 'why' or the 'what if'... it doesn't help." The earnestness in my tone was new, born from the cosmic perspective Fate had forced upon me. This limitation wasn't random misfortune; it was integral to my role, my protection.

"It just is."

Dad's shoulders, which had hunched slightly under Mom's reprimand and his own regret, slowly relaxed. A profound relief washed over his features, mingled with a father's enduring sorrow. He reached across the table, his large hand covering mine where it rested beside the soup bowl. His touch was warm, grounding.

"It's... good to hear that, Corvis. Truly." His voice was rough with emotion. "Just know this, son. Whatever path lies ahead, whatever you choose... we will always be by your side. Always."

The weight of his hand, the fierce love in Mom's still-watchful eyes, the faint scent of lentils and summer fruit—these were the anchors in the vast, terrifying ocean that awaited me in the future.

"I know," I whispered, the words thick with gratitude and a love that mirrored theirs. For tonight, the cosmic Thwart was just Corvis, cherished son, sitting at a table with his parents.

"I know."