TBATE: Corvis Eralith

Virion Eralith

The quiet of my study, usually a sanctuary for contemplation, felt different these weeks. Lighter, somehow, yet threaded with a profound, bittersweet gratitude.

Since Tessia flew the nest to chase her adventurer's star, the space she left behind hasn't just been filled with silence; it's been filled with Corvis. And gods, it's been a gift I didn't realize I owed him—a debt accrued over years of unintentional neglect.

That strange, almost precognitive aura that clung to him as a baby, the one that set my nerves on edge and whispered of Lania's tragic end… it has faded, dissolved like morning mist in the afternoon.

Yet, my focus remained stubbornly on Tessia. Was it her vibrant eagerness for every spell, every sword form I could show her? Or was it Corvis's quiet personality, his gaze always turned inward, wrestling with thoughts far beyond his years, that subtly pushed me towards the easier connection?

A cowardly part of me, perhaps, feared the echo of divination I thought I saw flicker in his young eyes. Lania's fate… a ghost I couldn't exorcise, a failure that made me flinch from the very notion of similar power blooming in my grandson. Subconsciously, I erected walls, keeping him at arm's length, terrified history would repeat itself on my watch. The shame of that realization still burnt, a dull ember in my chest.

Tessia's departure was a necessary jolt. It forced me to stop behaving like a frightened child clinging to the familiar. I finally confronted Corvis. Not with accusations, but with a hesitant openness, a willingness to simply be present. And the transformation… it humbled me. In these past two months, a weight has visibly lifted from his shoulders.

The frantic, almost self-destructive training sessions—the ones that left him pale, trembling, and Alduin and Merial white-knuckled with worry—have ceased. He has stopped battering himself against the immutable wall of his missing core. The sheer, quiet courage it took for him to reach that acceptance… it leaves me awestruck. Proud didn't begin to cover it. It was a deeper, fiercer emotion, a profound respect for the resilience of his spirit.

Instead of fruitless struggle, he has turned his formidable mind towards what he could shape. He always possessed the bearing of the perfect Elven Prince—poised, thoughtful, carrying an innate dignity. But he wore it like a borrowed robe, never seeming truly invested. Now? Now he engaged in it.

He shadowed Alduin in council meetings with wlven nobles, his questions piercing, his understanding of statecraft unnervingly mature for a boy still a month before being twelve. He absorbed complex treaties and intricate resource reports with a focus that defied his age, offering insights that sometimes leave even seasoned advisors blinking.

This newfound confidence faced its sternest test at the recent conclave. A gathering of Dicathen's royal families is always a pressure cooker, thick with centuries of wary tradition, fragile alliances and past conflicts.

For Corvis, naturally reticent and missing Tessia's vibrant shield, it was an ordeal. The shyness was palpable, a slight stiffness in his posture, a measured economy in his words. Yet, he endured. He observed, he listened, he offered concise, considered opinions when pressed.

But beneath that composed exterior, my old eyes saw something else. A flicker of something sharper than mere discomfort. Paranoia. It was subtle, masterfully controlled, but it was there. Especially around the Greysunders, and to a lesser extent, the Glayders.

A fraction too long assessing a glance, a micro-tension when certain topics arose, a wariness that went beyond the natural reserve of an introvert thrust into a political viper's nest. It wasn't just shyness; it was a deep-seated suspicion. And why wouldn't it be? His limited interactions with non-elves have been… fraught. Human slavers, the calculating faces of rival royals… hardly the ambassadors to foster trust.

The thought that this brilliant, brave boy I am finally truly connecting with might grow into an isolationist, fostering resentment in the heart of Elenoir's future leadership… it chilled me.

"Unity isn't a luxury, Corvis" I recited to myself. "It's our only hope for survival."

But I won't let fear dictate this second chance. I had a plan. The key lied just a month away, with his and Tessia's twelfth birthday. Xyrus Academy. It was open to all races now, a crucible where young minds from across Dicathen could be forged together. He needed to see the people, not just the politics or the predators. He needed friends, companions who were not elves, who challenged his worldview simply by existing alongside him.

I've already spoken with Cynthia. Her response surprised even me. Before I could fully plead Corvis's intellectual merits, she was already considering offering him a place under her direct tutelage—coreless or not.

Was it Tessia's impassioned lobbying from afar? Perhaps. But Cynthia is no fool swayed solely by sentiment. She saw it too. She sas the incandescent spark of his mind, the strategic depth, the charisma waiting to be channeled.

She recognized the sheer, foolish waste it would be to deny that intellect the finest academic crucible on the continent, simply because it wasn't fueled by mana. Her willingness is a validation, a beacon of hope.

Corvis Eralith

The quiet hum of focused thought filled my chamber, a stark contrast to the thoughts vibrating within my head.

Meta-awareness.

Fate's term echoed, cold and precise, yet the reality felt like sunlight finally breaking through a lifetime of fog. It wasn't just knowing the plot, the twists and turns of the perfect instance—a term I clung to for structure, though its rigidity still felt somewhat alien. It was deeper, fundamental. It was understanding the why behind the how. The physics of mana flow, the biological triggers for core development—knowledge woven into the fabric of my being, absorbed when I crossed the void.

The proof sat not in my own spirit, barren of mana, but in Albold. Good, solid, uncomplicated Albold. My loyal guard, a capable warrior, but limited by conventional training. Using him as my canvas had been illuminating. Explaining the principles—the precise mental focus needed to stabilize the mana through his veins, the subtle shift in breathing to enhance it, the visualization of movements that textbooks barely hinted at—yielded results far faster than traditional drills.

I could teach. Not just recite, but illuminate the hidden mechanics of magic itself.

Yet, the elation curdled into a familiar, heavy frustration. What now? The question echoed in the silence. Teaching Albold, Tessia… individuals who trusted me implicitly, who saw past the prince or the manaless individual to the person… that was one thing.

"Training our soldiers… raising the collective magical strength of Elenoir…" I murmured aloud, pacing the worn rug. The strategic potential was undeniable, a force multiplier Dicathen desperately needed. But the reality crashed down like a portcullis.

Who would listen? An eleven-year-old boy, prince or not, declaring he could revolutionize magic instruction? Without a wisp of mana to demonstrate, without the gravitas of Arthur's prowess to humble the arrogant? Mages were notoriously prideful, protective of their hard-won skills.

They wouldn't kneel to theoretical brilliance whispered by a child. They would scoff, resist, dismiss me as a delusional royal playing scholar. Humility wasn't a lesson I could force like Arthur had, fists crackling with lightning or any other element.

The logical pivot was invention. Creating tools, artifacts… something tangible. The absence of Arthur meant no early Dicathean voyages to Alacrya, no accidental delivery of technological blueprints to the enemy. That was an advantage.

But invent what? My mind raced through possibilities—communication devices, defensive wards, mana-efficient weaponry. Yet, each path glinted with peril.

After another of my secret talks with Alea I thought about recreating the Lance artifacts. The very thought sent a chill down my spine. Such power would be a beacon for unwanted eyes. Kezess Indrath's gaze, distant but all-seeing, would inevitably lock onto its source.

A coreless elven prince crafting artifacts jealousy kept by the Indrath? I would be signing my own death warrant, painting the largest target imaginable on my back and dragging Elenoir into its apocalyptic destruction years early.

Survival demanded obscurity, at least for now.

A wave of claustrophobia, thick and suffocating, pressed in. The ornate walls of my chamber felt like a gilded cage, the weight of knowledge a physical burden.

"Is there anything I can do," I whispered, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence, "that actually helps without painting a target on my back? Even if I'm not the primary target and Agrona would never suspect me…" The image of a collapsing building, a stray spell, the indiscriminate chaos of war flashed before me.

"...I could still die in the crossfire. Useless. Pointless." The despair was a far too familiar ache in my new life. Knowing how to build a fortress didn't help if revealing the blueprint got you killed before laying the first stone.

The frustration, the sense of spinning wheels while the avalanche gathered momentum, became unbearable. I needed air, movement, space to think beyond these confining walls.

"I will go for a walk!" The declaration burst out, startling even me. I pushed back from the desk and went to roam around the palace.

———

Lost in thought, I wandered out of the palace, my feet carrying me aimlessly through the towering embrace of Zestier.

I found myself walking along one of the massive branches that stretched outward like nature's great bridges, supporting homes on my left while opening to a breathtaking view of the city on my right.

Below, the main road sprawled beneath me, woven between buildings that coiled around ancient trees, their branches linking together in a vast, interconnected web.

The architecture of Zestier was something out of a dream—every structure harmonized with the colossal trees, as if the city had grown into them rather than being built upon their bark.

Even the smallest of these ancient giants required at least fifty people to encircle, their roots sinking deep into the earth like immovable sentinels of time.

Stone-paved roads wound seamlessly beneath the raised branches, dividing neighborhoods with practiced grace. Homes rested high above, cradled within the trees' embrace, while shops and industrial buildings remained at ground level, ensuring visitors from other cities in Elenoir would not have to climb to navigate Zestier's streets.

These trees, so ancient they predated even the Elshire Forest itself, had always fascinated me. Their sheer presence spoke of lifetimes beyond comprehension, their silent wisdom embedded in the whisper of rustling leaves. And yet, the thought of them reduced to mere fuel for Alacryan forges sent fury boiling through my veins—a rage that threatened to consume my every thought.

With a deep breath, I forced myself to move, descending one of the winding staircases that led from the elevated branch back to the main road. Life carried on below, the people of Zestier absorbed in their daily routines, unaware of the storm that will devour us.

A sharp pinch on my ear startled me, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned, already knowing who it would be.

Alea stood there, shaking her head in mock disapproval, her lips curled into a teasing smirk.

"Your Highness, are you once again trying to escape your parents' embrace?" she mused, amusement flickering in her eyes.

She was the only one who dared to joke about my desperate attempt to find Arthur when I was five—the only one who never saw it as mere childish rebellion or reckless escape. Alea understood it in a way that few others could. Even if she didn't grasp the full truth—how or why—it was clear she saw my actions for what they truly were in a frightening way in some cases.

A matter of security for Elenoir.

Then, as always, she asked me about my use of Divination magic. And, as always, I confirmed it. But even in those moments, even with the unspoken truths lingering beneath the surface, I would never reveal what I truly was.

That I had lived another life. That I was the Thwart—a secret far more dangerous than mere reincarnation.

Yet despite knowing that I concealed something from her, Alea never betrayed me. Never once did she tell my father.

It was baffling, really—how her loyalty to me outweighed even her duty to the King.

It wasn't an act of rebellion, nor was it truly defiance. Her artifact bound her by blood to the royal family, forcing unwavering allegiance. And yet, in her own silent way, Alea still chose me.

If everything followed the path set by canon, she would die in just two years… two years. Time had slipped through my fingers far too quickly, the weight of that realization pressing down on me like an unrelenting tide.

"Well then, are you planning to spy on me?" I asked Alea, my tone teasing but my thoughts elsewhere.

"Oh no," she replied with a smile, the warmth in her eyes undiminished. "I just saw you and thought I'd say hello, Your Highness."

Classic Alea. Always lighthearted, always grounded in the present—even when I knew the future would soon steal her away.

I waved goodbye, turning back toward my path, when something caught my attention—a lone elf walking along the walkway. A bird mana beast perched on his shoulder, its keen eyes scanning the surroundings, sharp and watchful. Likely his bond.

I didn't know why the sight stirred something deep within me. It was an inexplicable reaction, a jolt of urgency that rushed through my veins. But then—like a flicker of lightning—clarity struck. A revelation so profound, so pivotal, that it could change everything.

The Beast Corps.