Corvis Eralith
I sat by Grandpa's left on one of the many balconies overlooking the grand circular ballroom below.
The room was a masterpiece of elven architecture, an oval expanse where sunlight filtered through a vaulted, windowed ceiling that reminded me less of a structure and more of the canopy of an ancient tree.
Which made sense, really—this building, like all structures in Zestier, from the humblest home to the Royal Palace itself, was seamlessly incorporated with the living trees of the Elshire Forest: pines, oaks, spruces, firs, birches and the towering Watchful Willows.
Even the burgeoning dwarven market, which was quickly becoming its own distinct district separate from Zestier's commercial centre, had begun to adapt to this organic aesthetic.
By Grandpa's right, seated with a stillness and professionalism that made me wonder if she had been replaced by a statue or was sick, was Tessia. She held herself like a queen already, back straight, hands folded, expression carefully neutral. I almost laughed. Almost.
This was the ballroom of House Ivsaar, and below us, a spectacle would soon unfold in honour of the Greysunders' visit—a competition between young elven prodigies, showing off their talents for our dwarven guests.
The music swelled and ebbed, performed by musicians on their own separate platform in the corner of the room. Other platforms ringed the ballroom, laden with dining tables where both dwarven and elven nobility sat, awaiting the culmination of the youth exhibition.
Lunchtime approached, though I found it difficult to call it such given the elaborate nature of the proceedings.
Through the gaps between platforms, butlers and maids wove intricate paths, serving delicacies from the bountiful banquet offered by the Elshire Forest.
The dwarven nobility, accustomed to depending on Sapin for much of their imported food—or so I understood from my fragmented and scarce knowledge of Dicathian economy—offered appreciative compliments and thanks with each new dish.
Their wonder at elven abundance was genuine, and I filed that observation away for future reference.
Speaking of dwarven monarchs, I had been watching them since they arrived in Zestier. Dawsid and Glaudera Greysunders sat on the platform closest to the central stage, alongside my parents at the main table.
I studied them with the intensity of a scholar deciphering an ancient text, trying my best to appear merely curious to any outsider who might notice my attention. In reality, I was attempting to determine if I would one day need to plot their assassinations.
Not that I could tell just by looking of course.
Dawsid's greed was legendary, just by sight I could tell—his beard alone probably contained more precious metals than most commoners would see in a lifetime, each strand woven with intricate jewelry that caught the light and held it hostage.
Glaudera matched him in opulence, her robes and thick hair so heavy with embroidery they looked uncomfortable to wear. But greed didn't equal treason. Greed didn't mean they were already Agrona's puppets.
They're involved, I reminded myself. Everyone in Dicathen is involved in Agrona's plans, whether they know it or not. The question was whether they were active participants. Willing tools. Knowing traitors.
That, I couldn't determine from a balcony.
The music paused as Dad raised his wine-filled glass and tapped it with a knife. The tiny ting echoed through the ballroom, commanding attention with remarkable efficiency. All conversations ceased and all eyes turned toward the King of Elenoir.
"Today," Dad began, his voice carrying that perfect blend of authority and warmth that made him such an effective ruler, "we meet not as strangers. We meet not the Kingdom of Darv as a third party in a war against Sapin—"
There was the slightest hitch when he mentioned Sapin. A micro-expression, gone in an instant. But I caught it. And I saw Grandpa grimace almost imperceptibly beside me.
What are you thinking Grandpa? I asked myself.
"—but we meet as partners. We meet as neighbours who have decided to collaborate, to trade, to connect with one another through ways of magic and commerce."
Dad paused, letting his words settle over the gathered nobles. Then he continued, his voice growing warmer, more personal.
"Never in all history has a Greysunders and an Eralith met in one of their own kingdoms. Always, it was Xyrus City that hosted such meetings. But not today. Today, Zestier—Elenoir, elvenkind—warmly welcomes Darv and its people. And I, as King of the Elshire, can only be spokesman of such a sentiment."
The applause that followed was genuine, if carefully modulated for diplomatic propriety. Tessia shot up from her seat beside me, clapping with an enthusiasm that bordered on theatrical.
"Grandpa! Grandpa! Dad was amazing!" she exclaimed, her earlier statue-like composure completely abandoned.
Grandpa ruffled her hair with the easy affection of a grandfather who had long since stopped pretending to be stern. "He is my son, after all." The jest was there, but beneath it, I caught the worried glance he shot toward Dad. Brief. Subtle. But unmistakable.
What are you thinking, Grandpa? I couldn't help, but make the question again.
Dawsid Greysunders rose, clearing his throat with a sound like rocks tumbling downhill. He set down the elk leg he had been devouring—because of course he had been eating during Dad's speech—and spread his arms in a gesture of expansive welcome.
"Thank you for your words, King Eralith!" His voice boomed through the ballroom, lacking Dad's refined modulation but possessing its own rough charm. "Truly good and kind words! I am left speechless!"
Only his wife laughed at his self-deprecating joke. The rest of the room offered polite smiles.
Despite everything—despite the greed, despite the potential treason, despite the layers of political calculation I was constantly performing—I had to admit there was something undeniably kingly about Dawsid Greysunders.
It wasn't in his manners, which were crude. It wasn't in his bearing, which was casual to the point of disrespect. It was something else. A weight. A presence. The absolute certainty of a man who had ruled for decades and never once doubted his right to do so.
To truly impersonate a ruler you needed some kind of pride or arrogance, or both, after all.
My gaze drifted, searching for familiar faces in the crowd below. Alea moved through the servitude, her maid's uniform rendering her invisible to the nobles she passed. She was positioned close to my parents' platform, ever watchful, ever ready.
And there—Olfred. He stood near Elder Rahdeas, his posture rigid, his expression carefully neutral. I had caught sight of him once since the Greysunders arrived, when the dwarven delegation had first emerged from Zestier's central portal.
He hadn't acknowledged me, and I hadn't expected him to. But seeing him now, standing beside the man who had made my plans possible, stirred something complicated in my chest.
Aya and Mica were absent, of course. The other Lances—one elven and one dwarven—remained hidden or weren't present at all. It was a calculated move, a way to protect the monarchs without revealing all their pieces on the diplomatic board. .
I also noted that Olfred was positioned with Rahdeas, not with the Greysunders. And when Dawsid spoke, when that booming voice filled the room, I watched Rahdeas's expression carefully.
Disgust. Poorly hidden and genuine.
That's... unexpected.
I had always assumed, based on the novel's portrayal, that Rahdeas was cut from the same cloth as the Greysunders. Ambitious. Calculating. Willing to sacrifice anything and anyone for power.
But the look on his face as he watched Dawsid hold court told a different story. There was history there. Bad blood. A rift that went deeper than political maneuvering.
Or maybe I was reading too much into a single expression. I didn't know the dwarf well enough to judge. I barely knew him at all, but even then what I knew from him came from a narrative told through the perspective of those who had all reasons to hate Rahdeas.
I was reminded once more that reality was far more complicated than a story.
"Speaking of generations to come!" Dawsid's voice boomed again, pulling me from my thoughts. "We are all here to see the youth of Elenoir in all its glory, am I right?"
More than kingly, he gave off the aura of a very talkative showman. A carnival barker who had somehow inherited a kingdom.
The party resumed after Dawsid's words, the selected youths beginning their displays on the central platform. It reminded me vaguely of something from the novel—an interracial tournament that had been planned in Xyrus City.
It was only thanks to that tournament that the access to Xyrus City from Elenoir was granted, letting Arthur return to his family after years in Zestier.
But I had never heard of that tournament happening in this timeline. Was it another divergence? Another consequence of Arthur's absence? Or had it simply not been mentioned yet, scheduled for a later date?
Thoughts for later, I told myself. Focus on now.
"The dwarf king is strange." Tessia's whisper startled me. She had drifted to my side, her earlier enthusiasm for Dad's speech giving way to more critical observation.
"What do you mean?" I kept my voice low, matching her conspiratorial tone.
She shrugged, a gesture that somehow managed to be both childish and regal. "Just a feeling. He's not like Dad!" The pride in her voice when she mentioned our father was almost painful in its purity.
"You'd say that about anyone if you compared them to Mom and Dad," I pointed out.
"That's because it's true." She pouted, that expression she had perfected over four years of getting exactly what she wanted from every adult in the palace. "Mom and Dad are the best. And I'm going to be exactly like them when I'm Queen."
Queen. The title sat naturally on her, as if she had been wearing it all her life. And she would, someday.
I had already decided to abdicate long ago, to let her have the throne she deserved while I worked in the shadows where I was most effective. She would be a perfect ruler. I just had to ensure there was an Elenoir left to rule when that day came.
Grandpa looked at us with an expression of fond amusement, his earlier worry momentarily forgotten. He opened his mouth to say something—probably a joke at our expense—when a knock sounded at the door to our private balcony.
The door opened, and another old elf stepped through. His white hair was slicked back with military precision, his face carrying a stern expression that softened into a smirk as soon as he saw Grandpa. He was familiar, though it took me a moment to place him.
"Virion." He extended his hand, and Grandpa shook it with the easy familiarity of old comrades. Then his gaze shifted to us, and he offered a respectful nod. "Your Highnesses."
"Jarnas," Grandpa replied. "Long time no see."
Jarnas. The name clicked into place. Jarnas Auddyr. An elven mage and captain during the war in the novel.
The novel had never mentioned that he knew Grandpa personally. But it made sense, didn't it? What elf of high military rank wouldn't know Virion Eralith personally? Former king. Greatest military mind on the continent.
I studied Jarnas as he exchanged quiet words with Grandpa, noting the way he held himself, the calluses on his hands, the alertness in his eyes even in this setting of peace and celebration.
Tessia squeezed my hand, and I looked at her.
"You're thinking too hard again," she whispered.
"...I am," I whispered back.
Grandpa and Jarnas—Mr. Auddyr? Captain Auddyr? I still hadn't decided how to address him in my mind—walked toward the edge of the balcony, their footsteps soft against the polished spruce wood.
I watched them move with the easy familiarity of old comrades, two warriors who had shared battles and borne witness to each other's scars.
"Do say, Jarnas. Your own grandson is going to participate, isn't he?" Grandpa asked, his eyes fixed on the dueling platform below.
I rose onto my tiptoes, straining for a better view. The current match featured two elves around middle-school age, their movements more choreographed than combative.
They circled each other with the grace of dancers, wooden blades tracing elegant arcs through the air. Technique without power. Form without force. No mana enhanced their strikes; this was pure skill, the foundation upon which all martial prowess was built.
"That's right." Jarnas Auddyr confirmed with a nod, his hands folded behind his back in a posture of relaxed attention.
Like Grandpa, he wore a dark green vest with long sleeves that widened slightly at the wrists—simple, elegant, minimalist. The uniform of retired warriors, perhaps, though I suspected neither man truly knew the meaning of retirement.
The thought struck me then, as it had so often in this life: I knew so little about elven culture. About my own kingdom.
The novel had provided scarce details, and my time in this world had been consumed by preparation, by planning, by the endless calculations of survival. I knew the shape of future wars but nothing of the festivals my people celebrated.
I knew the names of traitors but not the name of songs my mother hummed while she pampered me and Tessia. I knew Zestier existed, but I had never truly seen it—not the way a child should see their home.
The current match ended to polite applause, and two new figures stepped onto the central stage. I recognized one immediately—Albold Chaffer, the heir of House Chaffer.
He moved with the controlled precision I had witnessed in his family's courtyard, his wooden sword held at an angle that spoke of countless hours of practice.
The other boy was unfamiliar. He had hair black as a raven's wing, pulled back into a long ponytail that swayed with each step. His features carried the same stern expression I had observed in Jarnas, softened only slightly by the roundness of youth.
Both boys wore ceremonial training robes, pristine white fabric tailored tightly to their bodies, allowing perfect freedom of movement while maintaining an appearance of elegant formality.
"I assume you trained your grandson yourself." Grandpa's arms rested on the balcony rail as he studied Albold and the other boy with the appraising eye of a master.
"Ashton is a true prodigy." The pride in Jarnas's voice was subtle—almost imperceptible—but I caught it. Even someone like him, carved from the same stoic stone as his grandson, was not immune to family bonds. "I am sure you would find him a worthy pupil, Virion."
"Bah!" Grandpa waved his hand in dismissal, the gesture almost violent in its refusal. "I don't train brats anymore."
Which makes the fact that you trained Arthur Leywin in the novel all the more remarkable, I noted silently.
"Still, I am of the opinion you should consider it." Jarnas spoke with the respect of a soldier reporting to a superior and the conviction of a seasoned warrior who knew the worth of another.
There was no groveling in his tone, no desperate plea—just the calm presentation of a strategic recommendation.
Below, Albold raised his weapon. It was a long sword, similar to a katana in its curvature but broader across the blade. Not heavier, though—the proportions were different.
A strange amalgamation of katana and claymore, I noted, drawing on the memories of earthen weaponry that still lingered in the depths of my mind.
The other boy—Ashton—held another weapon. It resembled a halberd but lighter, its design fusing the reach of a pike with the devastating cutting power of a battle-axe.
Elven weaponry was fascinating. Perhaps I should try learning one again. My earlier attempts at swordsmanship had been laughable, but that was before—before the Red Gorge, before the Phoenix Wyrm, before I had started to understand what fighting in this world truly meant.
The duel commenced, accompanied by the orchestra's fitting music. Tessia watched with an expression of mild curiosity, her head tilted slightly as she studied both combatants.
"Elder Jarnas." Tessia's voice carried that perfect blend of childish innocence and royal authority she had mastered so young. "What is your grandson's role in House Auddyr?"
"He is the second-in-line for the title of Lord, Princess." Jarnas turned to address her with the same measured respect he had shown Grandpa. "After his older sister."
I seized the opening her question had created. "What are those weapons?" I pointed at the wooden replicas in the boys' hands.
Jarnas frowned slightly. Before he could respond, Grandpa patted his shoulder with amicable familiarity.
"A Courtblade and a Branchberd." Grandpa's explanation was patient, thorough. "House Chaffer and House Auddyr are the respective masters of those weapons among our people. Centuries of technique refinement, passed down through generations."
I nodded, filing the information away even as I watched Albold and Ashton exchange blows below. The Courtblade and Branchberd moved in perfect counterpoint, each weapon's strengths and weaknesses highlighted by the other's presence.
It was beautiful, in a way—a dance of death rendered safe by wooden edges.
"Is your grandson a mage?" Grandpa asked. His tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"He awakened at nine, two years ago." Jarnas's chest swelled slightly—that almost-imperceptible pride again. "About that, I am certain Ashton would be perfect to teach His Highness about the Branchberd, should the Prince be interested."
I opened my mouth to respond—to deflect, to decline, to do anything other than commit to a path I hadn't chosen—but Grandpa spoke first.
"You have never been very subtle about politics, Jarnas." The words were light, almost joking, but I caught the edge beneath them.
"Is there a reason for subtlety between us?" Jarnas's counter was immediate, confident.
Grandpa shook his head slowly. "I suppose not. But no." He looked at me, then at Tessia, his expression softening. "I have no say in my grandchildren's education. Alduin made that very clear."
Something flickered in Grandpa's eyes. Pain? It was there and gone in an instant, but I caught it—a shadow passing behind the goofy smile he wore like armor.
What was that about? My mind raced through possibilities. My grandmother, Lania? But that didn't make sense—her death had been long before our birth, a tragedy but an old one.
"With all due respect to His Majesty." Jarnas's voice carried the weight of someone about to say something he knew might be unwelcome. "With the first Eralith princess born in an age, it is only natural for the male heir to embrace military pursuits. And House Auddyr is the best at that."
I blinked, thoroughly confused. I glanced at Tessia, but she was focused on the duel below, seemingly unaware of the political currents swirling around us.
There was clearly something I had missed—some piece of elven politics, of Eralith family dynamics, that the novel had never mentioned.
Grandpa's response was sharper than I had ever heard him. "Cut your proselytism, Jarnas. It doesn't suit you."
"I was only saying what you yourself think, Virion." Jarnas's voice remained calm, unruffled. "This behavior doesn't suit you either."
Grandpa's jaw tightened. I saw his teeth grind together behind closed lips. Then, very quietly, very deliberately: "Not in front of my grandchildren, Jarnas."
The old soldier bowed his head—not in submission, but in acknowledgment. "I apologize." He straightened, then turned to us, offering a respectful nod. "Your Highnesses. I wish you a pleasant day."
He left without another word, his footsteps fading into the sounds of music and polite applause from below.
I looked at Grandpa. For just a moment, his expression was raw—dissatisfied, frustrated, hurt. Then the mask descended, and his goofy smile returned like the sun emerging from behind clouds.
"You'll hurt your neck if you keep looking up like that, Corvis." He reached down and lifted me onto his shoulders with the effortless strength of a warrior who had never truly stopped being one. "Is this better?"
From my new vantage point, the duel between Albold and Ashton continued below. They moved like water, like wind, like the perfect expression of centuries of martial tradition.
But my mind wasn't on the duel.
What had just happened between Grandpa and Jarnas? The Eralith family I knew from the novel had seemed so straightforward—tragic in the end, yes, but uncomplicated in their tragedy.
A grandfather who had lost a wife, a son and daughter-in-law. A granddaughter who had been possessed.
A commander who had tragically lost a war, a continent and his homeland.
But this—this suggested depths I hadn't suspected. Politics within the royal family. Tensions about succession and gender and military tradition. A grandmother whose death might not be the only wound in Grandpa's life.
Somewhere in the depths of my mind, the clock kept ticking toward midnight. But for the first time, I wondered if the greatest threats to my family might not all come from across the ocean.