After leaving the estate of Count Emual or what was left of it, Corvin turned his attention to his newly granted domain.
At the heart of a vast valley stood a massive fortress: ancient stone carved from forgotten veins of bedrock, its silhouette already dominating the ridgelines. Nearly a kiloter south, the shore of Duskwell Reach shimred under the moody light of the overcast sky. The shore, stretching nearly three kiloters wide, lapped restlessly against the broken cliffs and coves. The waters marked the southern end of Argyll and the northern edge of distant Savaryn, as nad in the old maps of Verthalis. The winds carried salt and the distant calls of seabirds, occasionally drowned by the thunder of crashing waves.
The first thing Corvin did was summon his Covenant Bound rn and rmaids, figures of eerie beauty, scaled strength, and cold obedience. He ordered them to create a sanctuary in the deeps, a haven beneath the crashing waves where their kind could dwell, breed, and be reborn. Without a word, they vanished into the dark surf, singing to the currents as they descended. Their forms shimred, vanishing beneath the surface like myths returning to legend.
He turned to the land next.
With a heavy breath the ground trembled. Corvin’s earth magic surged outward in concentric waves, groaning through stone and soil. The valley answered like a living thing. Great sheets of bedrock were pushed upward from the crust, rising with the slow inevitability of ancient titans. The first wall rose from the valley floor like a monunt to siege itself: forty ters tall, twelve ters thick, forged not from quarried blocks, but from fused strata, seamless and unbreakable. Moss and dirt fell away as the ramparts ford with terrifying precision. They encircled the periter in exact geotry, no gaps, no breaks.
Then ca the second, an inner bastion coiled protectively around the massive castle. Slightly lower at thirty ters but just as wide, it stood like a clenched jaw around a crown of shadow. Once finished, warding started for reinforcent and obfuscation. Obsidian veins crackled along the walls’ surface, weaving through the rock like molten glass.
But his greatest eyes would not be stone.
Corvin hunted the skies next.
Ravens.
Dozens beca hundreds. They ca in waves, flocks descending from the cliffs and forests beyond, drawn to him by his own ravens calls. They circled, landed, watched. One by one, he bound them. Ritual by ritual, until their black eyes shimred faintly with tethered arcana. With each new binding, his ntal lattice expanded. Corvin could feel their vision as threads along his spine, hundreds of eyes from dozens of angles, every heartbeat transmitting through the web.
They would be his spies.
His sentinels.
As the envoy of the Iron March was on his way, riding in tight formation, the ravens doubled in number.
Then tripled.
They lined the walls. They perched in rows along the battlents. They flew in slow circles above the roads leading in. Marshal Vos would know before he reached the gate that sothing was watching. Sothing old. And patient.
The skies darkened not from clouds, but from wings.
Two hundred ters below the castle, deep beneath the rock, Corvin placed the final array in what was the main point of his dominion. The chamber pulsed with silent power. Walls etched with glowing lines, ritual circles layered one atop another like a magical engine built for death.
There was no entrance. No stair. No tunnel. Only teleportation could reach this place.
Here, beneath the earth, he was crafting sothing new, sothing monstrous. A virutic strain of undeath, experintal and arcane, designed to elevate his Covenant Bound beyond the limits of common necromancy. Magister, Magus, Archmagus. War Mages born from death. Their minds would remain intact, capable of spellwork, strategy, and perhaps, if successful culmination of his and other victims war experiences.
His goal was clear: to forge the most devastating army Verthalis had ever seen. The said army being ford of undead was irrelevant.
He had nearly completed the fourth glyph circle, layered in obsidian dust and soul, when a ripple passed through his mind.
A whisper struck, not words, but image and intent. His ravens had spotted movent. The Iron March envoy had crossed into the outer approach.
Corvin exhaled quietly.
"Keep everything as it is," he said.
Bob gave an approving grunt that sounded like gravel breaking underfoot. John, still too clean faced to look like the others, bowed slightly.
"As you wish, master."
Corvin lingered a mont.
He looked at John, not at the magic binding him, but what lay behind his eyes. He still hoped for more. For sothing deeper than obedience. For mory. For... self.
But there was no ti.
With a deep sigh, Corvin vanished in a shimr of shadow.
He reappeared in his throne room. The stone still slled of newly raised earth. The tapestries had not yet been hung. Shadows crawled along the ceiling where sconces flickered weakly, barely pushing back the dim.
He summoned his Elves, thirty High and another thrity Syond to man the keep, to watch the gates, to welco guests. They bowed in silence and fanned out with the grace of dancers and the discipline of soldiers.
From among them, he selected twelve of the most graceful female elves and assigned them as maids. Their purpose was simple: to project elegance, not submission. Their dresses were understated but refined, their hair pinned in traditional styles that spoke of both heritage and function. It would not be a warm welco. No elf will ’welc’ humans with smiles.
--
Marshal Vos had known ceteries quieter than this valley.
As his convoy neared the towering walls of Raven’s Nest, an unsettling weight settled over them all. He had seen fortresses, many in his years as Commander of the Southern Defense Line, but none like this. The silence was too controlled. The stillness too absolute. It wasn’t peace. It was precision as if the air itself is a serpent coiled and waiting for prey. A chill threaded down his spine, and not from the mountain winds.
And the ravens.
Their numbers had grown with every mile. Now they perched along the parapets and outcrops in dense rows, eyes following the convoy like black beads strung on invisible threads. Vos felt them before he saw them. They didn’t caw. They didn’t flutter. They just... watched. Rows upon rows, motionless and silent, like they had been waiting.
When the carriage door opened, he stepped down carefully, adjusting his cloak against the rising breeze. Before him, six elven guards stood in perfect formation at the great gate. Their armor was obsidian, trimd and featureless. Neither High Elf elegance nor Synod’s edge. They were unreadable. Designed for intimidation, not allegiance.
Then the seventh appeared.
An elf in neutral toned robes stepped forward, bowed with polite formality, just enough to be recognized, not enough to humiliate. His face was calm, his eyes emotionless. Vos marked it.
Elves rarely bowed to humans. Even the ones who worked alongside them could barely mask the disdain. This one showed none. Not deference, just the absence of insult. Vos filed it away. He couldn’t decide if it was diplomacy or indifference. Perhaps both.
They were escorted through corridors of black stone. The halls were richly decorated but oddly silent. Statues stood in corners where sentries might stand. Even in the castle Ravens were everywhere. Drapes hung like silent witnesses. Every step echoed longer than expected. Candles burned with still flas. Every detail looked new, untouched, as if prepared for guests, but not for welco.
They entered a grand eting chamber, cold but regal.
And there, seated, composed, statuesque was Corvin Blackmoor.
Vos paused a step longer than he ant to.
The man, no, the elf was imnse. Taller than any Vos had seen, fra cut from the sa material as the walls surrounding him. His long silver hair was tied back tightly, not a strand out of place. His eyes were the color of freshly forged steel, edged in sothing colder. There was sothing predatory in his stillness, sothing that suggested he was less a nobleman and more a storm given form.
This was no soldier of fortune. No courtly ornant. This was a sovereign, forged by fire, sharpened by silence.
"Duke Blackmoor," Vos said, inclining his head with professional gravity. "Marshal Vos of the Iron March. I co to offer congratulations on your... recent elevation, and to speak on the matter of recent events in the North."
Corvin smiled, a narrow thing that never reached his eyes.
"Marshal," he said smoothly. "Welco to Raven’s Nest. I hope the journey was kind."
He gestured toward one of the stone backed chairs. Vos sat. So did Corvin. The chairs scraped lightly, echoing in the massive chamber.
A mont passed, then the maids entered. Elves, uniformly graceful, dressed in clean lines and muted tones. They set trays of wine, tea, dried fruits, and rich slling coffee before the two n, then exited without a word. Their eyes never once rose above the level of the trays they carried.
Vos took his first sip, still watching the Duke.
"I couldn’t help noticing," Vos said, voice mild, "the number of ravens around and even within your domain... In so cultures, they’re considered ons of ill fate."
Corvin chuckled softly.
"Superstition, Marshal," he said, eyes glinting. "To , they’re just another kind of bird. Beautiful. Loyal. Precise. And more honest than most n."
Vos nodded, not in agreent, but acknowledgnt. He let the silence stretch, then offered his next line.
"I’m sure the late Count Emual would have appreciated that perspective."
Corvin’s eyes sparkled faintly.
"Poor man," he said, tone just a shade too light. "Being murdered in your own estate, it’s tragic."
Vos didn’t blink. "Of course. Though I believe the record states it was a natural passing."
Corvin held his gaze. "And yet we both know how rare true peace is in this world."
The conversation moved, but the ssage was delivered. Vos had tested the waters. Corvin had acknowledged the storm.
Vos leaned forward slightly. "Our intelligence suggests you led the rebel army that razed Verranus. We’d like to clarify Iron March’s position on the matter."
Corvin gestured. "Please."
Vos spoke plainly. "Iron March holds no alliance with the fallen Holy Verrenate. Their thods, slavery, indoctrination and cultural erasure earned them many enemies, and little sympathy. We are not here to avenge them."
Corvin inclined his head. "Then we begin from common ground."
Vos continued, "However, we do have concerns. One: the release of our scout team, taken along the eastern ridge during the chaos. Two: the status of the remaining rebel forces. We’d prefer not to discover them raiding our northern border."
Corvin’s smile returned, warr now.
Even as Vos spoke, Corvin had already slipped past the man’s ntal defenses. Not fully, Vos had training, discipline but enough to read mood, motive, and flickers of mory. His mind was firm, not sharp. Rigid. Predictable. A soldier’s mind. Loyal, straightforward, pragmatic.
Corvin spoke evenly. "The Holy Verrenate made enemies of every race they enslaved. The Elvenkind. The Feralis. Others still in hiding. They mistook our patience for weakness, and their arrogance blood. Pontiff Malcheron, I assure you, died still believing he was divine."
Vos gave no reaction. But inside, he filed the line away. Confirmation: Corvin had led the host, killed the Pontiff, shattered the Verranate.
"As for the so called rebel army," Corvin went on, "they are scattered across the forr kingdom like leaves after a storm. I do not command them. Not anymore. I do not care where they end. If they wish to die on your borders, they will. If they wish to vanish into the woods, they will."
He paused.
"What matters is this: for them to threaten the Gilded Dominion, they would first need to cross your lands, Marshal. That makes you the first line of defense. Not ."
Vos studied him. Corvin t the stare without blinking.
"I am not your enemy," Corvin said. "Not now. Not unless I’m made one. If Iron March chooses to respect my position, I believe fruitful cooperation may follow."
Vos raised an eyebrow. "Cooperation such as...?"
Corvin leaned forward slightly. "I hear your northern lines are growing thick with reinforcents. And your southern ones, facing the true rebellion are beginning to stretch thin."
It was not an offer.
It was a warning.
Leave be, the Raven was saying. Or feel the wings beat elsewhere.
Vos nodded slowly.
He had received the ssage. In full.
And what’s more, he understood it.
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