As the two weeks of study at the academies drew to a close, and his prize of three lessons in Life, Plant, Gravity and Aether magic was formally completed, Corvin once again found himself standing before the twin spires of the Obsidian Gate. The air thrumd with ceremonial gravitas as the Triach’s figures, Archmagus Vaelorin the Black flanked by Magus Seredai and Magus Kel’Mara regarded him with cool detachnt.
His fourth trial had been laid bare: track and slaughter two Jackalkin rcenaries who had murdered nomad tribesn by poisoning multiple water sources. These attacks had been hidden behind the Inquisition operations in Thalasien. The "anomaly search" was a perfect opportunity for Humans, Demons, and Feralis agents alike had sown chaos among Elven enclaves. Now, two naless killers in Savaryn awaited a brand of swift justice only Corvin could deliver.
Without hesitation, he nodded once to the Triach and departed. His mory replayed the Space Magic lecture on continental detection rings, arcane wards woven into coastal sands to track unauthorized planar jumps. With this knowledge, Corvin navigated to the Synod’s waiting lugger, its runic prow carved from nightstone. As the vessel cut through Thalasien’s dusky waters, he rose to the deck and vanished, his form unraveling and reweaving into a swirling Air Elental.
High above the rolling clouds, the wind roared past him as he tested his first teleport. Fifty kiloters later, he materialized above the vast ocean, the water a deep blue below. He leapt again, each jump ablating distance with chanical precision: fifty kiloters to the border of Savaryn’s marshlands. There he transford into a water elental and swam through the coast of Savaryn, the jagged peaks where mountain rivers ran. He transitioned, to an Air elental. He maintained his form, gossar wings of gale and vapor, ensuring no mortal eyes could chart his passage. One of his most secret pleasures was flowing from one from of life to another. From a Water Elental to an Air elemntal from the harsh gales of wind to deepest parts of the sea. Witnessing different aspects of life in their most basic forms. On Savaryn though he was going to enrich his palette of life forms he could transform in a heartbeat.
A Dragon kin’s scaled skin or bat like wings, an Eagle kin’s clawed hands or should he now call it.. talons. He wondered how his senses of sll, sight or taste will change with each new option added to his biological arsenal. There was only one way to find. Thus he let the winds of this feral continent to move him freely. The first unfortunate soul he ca across, whom he not enocuntered yet was a ’Lamia’ but a male one? A Snake Kin, he was in love with serpentine creatures while on Earth. Especially Bush Vipers, majestic in their designs. This snake kin on the other hand was not that majestic, his scales a faded red way different then the lovely bush vipers of Earth. He hoped there were better individuals of the specin. He approached the serpentine Feralis from above and used telekinesis to hold it still. He landed and turned to his original form and started to ’examine’ the subject. It’s scales, he opened the mouth of it to check it’s fangs, to make sure it has enoguh venom. after a couple of minutes the unlucky danger noodle was absorbed and added to his transformable list of creatures.
In his new serpentine form, he was enjoying the sense of slithering on the ground. Scales instead of skin was a new senseation. His avian pets, eyes, ears and mana senses actively mapping his surroundings. His mind started to churn. His senses connected to the fauna of the marshlands. Plants acting as his extended senses, opening paths for him as the red sea splitting before Moses. As miles dissolved with exploration, Corvin’s thoughts turned to his future undead minions, a tactical pause in Savaryn could bolster his forces: he could animate a cohort of Feralis remains, Wolfkin, Lionkin, Bearkin, loyal only to his will. Such a phantom army, disguised as tribal protectors, might serve him long after these Jackalkin trials concluded. The notion tempted him, unsettling in its potential.
Yet duty called him onward. Synod lives had been lost; two must pay the price, with interest. Thus started his search with mindwalking. It did not take long to locate the territory of the Jackal kin tribes. On his way there he added different Feralis to his list. He shaped his focus like a blade, preparing his elental strikes for the coming confrontation.
--
While Corvin soared toward his potential new army of Feralis revenants, in the Elven Pavilion of the Void Expanse, Solen Vaen’thal paced before his Synod advisor, Archmagus Lorenthis Nightshade. The chamber’s obsidian walls reflected torchlight in ominous flickers as Solen paused before a carved relief depicting the Sundering.
"We sacrificed our forests, our scholars, and our living veins to that ’anomaly search,’" Solen rasped, his silver gaze icy. "Human operatives razed our enclaves, Demon legions trampled our rites, and Feralis marauders, whether complicit or not are held to task for our own sha. We have endured their trespasses." His gloved hand clenched into a fist.
Nightshade’s dark eyes glead with approving satisfaction. "Your Excellency, the Synod’s shadows are poised. On Argyll, the Obsidian Talons, our deadliest assassins are in stand by, ready to dissolve the Sanctified Council’s sanctuaries from within. In Nefrath, the Umbral Phalanx awaits your command, prepared to sow discord among Korvath’s forces and shatter Velkoth’s envy forged alliances."
A cold smile curved Solen’s lips. "Excellent. I want them unleashed with surgical precision. Let no fortress wall or hidden conclave remain unscarred. Send them in draped in my colors but masked by the night. I want the Sanctified Council questioning every shadow. And in Nefrath, let whispers of betrayal spread like wildfire, so that Archdemon Korvath suspects every envoy, even those from his own court."
Nightshade inclined his head, pleased. "It will be executed. The Obsidian Talons will infiltrate the holy sanctums, leaving relics desecrated and hierarchs horrified. The Phalanx will fracture the Archdemons’ trust, converting Velkoth’s generals against him."
Solen’s gaze drifted to the vaulted ceiling. "Let them rember: Elves are the most peace loving race, second only to the Aetherborne in their restraint. Yet cross us, and we beco winter’s breath: silent, relentless, and lethal." He turned to Nightshade. "Prepare the teams. I want departure at first moonrise."
The Archmagus’s grin was a shadow in the gloom. "At your command, Arbiter. Our vengeance will be as inevitable as dusk."
A hush fell over the hall as both conspirators acknowledged the pact of mutual ambition. Beyond these walls, the ripples of their strategy would soon crash upon distant shores.
--
Yvanna Vellgard was cursing with enough fire to peel the paint from the walls of her private chamber in Goldhaven, capital of the Gilded Dominion. Her voice, normally asured and political, now carried the clipped, venomous cadence of frustration bordering on fury.
Her envoys had returned from the Eldrithas. Again with nothing.
Not a whisper of Raven. No record of his passage. The Triarch only agreed to look for him in the nomad tribes and inform them when they got any news. The Synod’s cursed diplomatic protocols can turn even the Aetherborne into babbling bureaucrats. And now, with Holy Verranate tightening its grip on on Gilded Dominion, she could feel the circle drawing around her throat.
They weren’t just threatening her rule; they were maneuvering to steal the throne itself.
The High King’s seat, that ancient, precarious office binding the fractured human powers of Argyll had remained vacant far too long. It was ant to be balanced: one vote each from Holy Verranate, Iron March, Gilded Dominion, and the Human Arbiter of the Circle. But the Verranate, cloaked in sanctimony and sharpened steel, had begun making moves. Whispers of spiritual unfitness, of abdication through inaction, slithered into noble circles.
They wanted her off the board.
If they controlled the Dominion’s vote, two voices to everyone else’s one, they could seize the High King’s crown by consensus. No war. No declaration. Just a blessed ceremony followed by shackles in silk.
She needed a move. Fast.
"Kaelyn!" she barked.
The door to her private study opened, and the young Space Mage stepped in, head bowed respectfully but not ekly. Her silvery robes shimred in the sunlight cutting through the arched windows.
"Do you have any word from the Obsidian Gate?" Yvanna asked, her voice sharp, bypassing any pretense of politeness.
Kaelyn’s expression barely shifted. "No, Duchess. They refused to acknowledge our envoys."
Yvanna spat a curse in a language only spoken in rchant courts and cri dens.
"Can you find him? Raven," she added. "Can you do better than my diplomats?"
Kaelyn hesitated only a mont before nodding. "I’ll try."
Yvanna studied her for a breath, then slowly sat down behind her carved desk, brushing a hand through her carefully curled hair.
"I’m not asking you because I believe you can. I’m asking because I’m out of options."
Kaelyn dipped her head again, turning without another word to begin preparations.
Yvanna watched her leave, the heavy silence of the chamber settling in once more. Her fingers tapped the polished wood in uneven rhythms. She wasn’t a mage. She didn’t wield spells or spirits. Her tools were gold and influence, ink and iron.
But today, she had none of those.
If only she knew the full picture of the dark wind rising in the east. The Synod’s shadows, already in motion, slipping into Verranate holy sites, whispering rebellion into the Iron March, and seeding doubt across Nefrath’s infernal courts.
Soon, those zealots in the Sanctified Council would be drowning in their own sanctimony. Soon, they wouldn’t be able to send a letter, let alone an order.
But for now, Yvanna could only play the ga. Piece by piece, move by desperate move.
Reviews
All reviews (0)