Tessia Eralith
The first thing I did when I woke up was practice magic.
Not the kind of magic that made things float or burst into gusts—not yet. First came the awakening, the slow, patient work of coaxing my dormant mana core to life.
Alwyn Triscan had explained it to me carefully, precisely, very similar to the way Corvis always explained things—the two could be really good friends, I thought. I would have to make them meet.
I followed Alwyn's instructions to the letter, because if there was one thing I had learned from my brother, it was that details mattered.
I stretched my arms above my head, feeling the pleasant pull of muscles waking after a night's sleep.
Then I crossed to the window and pushed it open, letting the fresh morning air rush in. Spring in Zestier was my favorite season—not too hot, not too cold, and the whole forest seemed to hum with the joy of new growth.
I breathed deep, letting the scents of dew-damp leaves and night-blooming flowers fill my lungs.
Then I sat on the soft carpet with a little puff, crossing my legs and folding my arms the way Alwyn had shown me.
The carpet was so soft: Lady Elena Ivsaar—Feyrith's mother—had gifted it to me just a week ago, a thank-you for something I had done I guessed, and it was the most comfortable thing I had ever sat on.
Its colors swirled beneath me like a painting of the whole forest at sunset, rich purples and golds and deep forest greens.
Focus, Tessia! I told myself sternly. The carpet doesn't matter. The awakening matters.
I closed my eyes and began the breathing exercises. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. The rhythm became a meditation, a lullaby for my restless mind.
For the first few minutes, nothing happened. I was used to this by now—the long, patient waiting, the stubborn refusal of my body to cooperate with my desperate desire to be a mage already.
But then, as it had been happening for the past three weeks—ever since the day Corvis returned home from wherever he had gone with Albold Chaffer—I felt it.
A slight weight settling on the top of my head.
It wasn't heavy, not really. Just a presence, a warmth, like someone had placed a very small, very warm hand on my crown. It was strange, and I didn't understand it, but it also felt... right. Comforting. Like someone was watching over me while I worked.
Alwyn had explained the awakening process in detail. He said that when he got close to awakening, he had felt a sudden coalescing of the white sparks behind his eyelids.
They gathered in one place—a specific spot in his body that I remembered Corvis calling it the "solar plexus"—and then, like a flower blooming, they became a sort of ball.
I had been seeing white sparks for weeks now. Little pinpricks of light dancing behind my closed eyes, teasing me with their presence. But they were always so out of reach, scattering whenever I tried to focus on them.
How long did it take Alwyn to awaken? The question frustrated me. A month had passed since I started this practice, and still—still—nothing.
Then, like a spark catching dry kindling, I saw it.
An ignition.
It looked exactly like when the servants lit the hearth in my room. They used this strange tool called a bellows and a fuse made from a special tree that grew in the Elshire Forest, and with a few pumps, the kindling would catch and burst into flame.
That's what happened behind my eyelids now—a sudden, brilliant ignition that made me gasp.
The white sparks reacted instantly. They rushed toward the light, drawn like moths to flame, and for one glorious, heart-stopping moment, I thought they would coalesce.
I thought this was it—the moment I had been waiting for, the moment I would finally become a mage like Alwyn.
They almost made it. Almost.
Right at the precipice, right when I could feel them about to become something more, they scattered. The ignition died. The sparks fled. And I was left with nothing but the memory of almost.
"Aaargh!" I threw my hands up, shaking my head so hard my braids whipped around my face. I scrambled to my feet, frustration boiling over. "It's too tedious!"
Behind me, I heard the flutter of wings.
I turned. There, perched on the large branch that stretched toward my window—the branch that almost connected my room to Corvis's—sat the robin.
It was the same robin I had been seeing for weeks now. The same one that seemed to think it was a swallow, flying with that little flock of ordinary birds that treated it like their leader.
They were strange, all of them, but the robin was the strangest. Its breast was the color of dying embers, its eyes a golden shade no normal bird should have.
And it was smart—smarter than any mana beast I had ever encountered.
"You again?" I climbed onto my bed, then onto the windowsill, crossing my arms as I looked down at the little creature. It stared back with those golden eyes, utterly unafraid.
I had first seen them when they landed on Corvis's windowsill, weeks ago. My brother, of course, hadn't even noticed.
Corvis could be stalked by someone and never realize it if they didn't tap him on the shoulder and announce themselves. That meant it was my job to protect him. I was the older twin after all, or I thought I was. Mom and Dad never told us the answer.
The robin tilted its head at me, then... nodded.
I gasped. It actually nodded, like it understood every word I said!
"Come here." I pointed imperiously at the windowsill.
The robin chirped something to the swallows behind it. They tilted their heads in obvious confusion—they weren't nearly as smart as their leader—but the robin didn't wait for them. It launched itself from the branch and landed precisely on my windowsill, then lowered its head in what looked like submission.
I smiled and reached out, gently petting its feathered head. The warmth I felt was immediate—not just physical warmth, but something deeper, something that made my chest feel full and happy.
"Good bird," I said, satisfied.
The last pet I had owned was a frog that had immediately escaped the moment I looked away. But this robin was clearly intelligent enough to understand how privileged it was to be petted by thr princess of Elenoir.
It accepted my touch with what I could only describe as gratitude, its small body relaxing under my fingers. For a moment, we just stayed like that—me petting, it receiving—and the world felt peaceful in a way it rarely did.
Movement caught my eye. I looked to my right, toward the other Watchful Willow that housed my brother's room. There, thirty or so meters away, Corvis had just opened his window. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, his gunmetal hair sticking up in ways that would have made our mother despair.
"Corvis! Corvis!" I shouted, waving my arms above my head with enough enthusiasm to launch myself off the windowsill. The robin, undisturbed, simply hopped to the side and watched.
Corvis looked straight ahead for a moment—typical—then raised his head and found me. His face broke into that little smile he always wore when he saw me, and he waved back.
My room was higher than his, which meant he couldn't possibly see me trying to awaken. When I finally became a mage—and I would, soon, I could feel it—I would shock and amaze him.
And then, as the great and kind sister I was, I would teach him how to awaken too!
My eyes drifted to the branch the robin had been using. It stretched from the tree outside my room toward Corvis's, connecting to another branch that finished the journey to his window.
If I had magic—if I could augment my body like Grandpa or even Alwyn, make myself faster and stronger and more agile—I could climb that branch.
I could sneak to his room at night, visit him without worrying about servants or Mom finding me and dragging me back.
Another reason to awaken. Another motivation to keep trying.
I looked down at the robin, still waiting patiently on my windowsill, its head bowed in that strange, respectful way. I gave it one last pet, feeling that warmth spread through my fingertips one more time.
"Thank you for visiting," I said, because even birds deserved politeness. Then I hopped down from the windowsill and headed for the door.
Corvis Eralith
"I never realized how big Zestier was."
The words escaped me as I walked, my voice barely above a murmur. The street we traveled was secondary—narrow and serpentine, winding its way through homes built in trees far more modest than the colossal Watchful Willows that dominated the city's heart.
These were ordinary elven dwellings, nestled in branches that had been carefully cultivated over generations to bear the weight of walls and roofs. They were beautiful in their own way, humbler than the palace but no less elegant, no less elven.
"It's the capital, Your Highness." Alwyn's voice came from behind me, soft as always but carrying a steadiness that had not been there before. "I suppose there must be a reason it was made such."
"Capitals aren't always the largest cities." I glanced back at him, then returned my gaze to the winding path ahead. "It's just that this is where the Eralith seat of power is. If my family lived in Eidelholm, then Eidelholm would be the capital."
"That doesn't make sense." His murmur was doubtful, questioning—and I loved him for it.
The old Alwyn would have simply accepted my words as truth. This new Alwyn, awakened and growing into himself, dared to challenge.
I shrugged. I didn't know if it actually worked that way in Elenoir, but most medieval kingdoms on Earth had functioned on that principle. The capital was where the king was. Simple as that.
"And call me Corvis." The request was automatic by now, a ritual between us.
"Never." The whisper was equally automatic, equally ritual.
I rolled my eyes and kept walking.
Since the Greysunders' royal visit, I had made a decision. Becoming stronger remained my utmost priority—that would never change, not with the clock ticking toward midnight in my head.
But a close second had emerged: knowing my people. Knowing my home. Understanding the kingdom I was born to protect, not just as a collection of strategic assets and future battlefield locations, but as a living, breathing place with history and culture and soul.
Today was my rest day. Alea had made that clear—magical training, I realized, was scarily similar to muscular training. The body needed recovery. And what better way to rest than exploring the city where I had been born?
Zestier, I had learned, was divided into five districts called Groves. Each Grove was further split into three subsections called Boughs.
The Royal Palace, for example, was the most important Bough of the Queen's Grove—the heart of the city and the seat of political power.
The Queen's Grove's other two Boughs were the Canopie, where the noble Houses maintained their estates, and the Grand Nectary, the commercial district where merchants and artisans plied their trades.
Though there was talk, I had heard, of making the commercial district its own separate Grove. The dwarven influx was changing things, reshaping the city in ways that would have been unimaginable just months ago. Internal politics, shifting and flowing like water.
Not my concern. Not yet.
"Have you been practicing magic?" I asked, glancing back at Alwyn.
His face lit up. The transformation was startling—from quiet, watchful companion to radiant, enthusiastic boy in the space of a heartbeat.
"Yes!" The exclamation was pure joy. "I think I used plant magic yesterday! Maybe I'm going to be a deviant!"
I smiled, genuinely warmed by his excitement. An earth mage with a deviancy in plant magic—the specialty of elvenkind.
By awakening so early, he would be an invaluable asset during the war.
I caught the thought before it could fully form and crushed it.
No.
That wasn't why I had done it. I hadn't made Alwyn a mage so he could fight in some future war. I had made him a mage because he wanted it, because he deserved the chance to be more than the novel had allowed him to be, because whatever had killed him in that other timeline—whatever quiet, unremarked death had claimed the loyal friend of a prince who never existed—I would not let it happen again.
But defending himself meant defending himself from the Alacryan invasion. That was unavoidable. The war would come, and everyone with power would be forced to fight.
I was walking in the dark. Every choice I made, every divergence I created, every ripple I sent through the timeline—I had no idea how Epheotus would react.
No idea how Agrona would respond. The Red Gorge alone had been a monumental risk, unveiling a lost Djinn temple/observatory ir whatever it was, drawing attention I could only pray had gone unnoticed.
I couldn't play my hand too much. I couldn't push too hard. Or I would be discovered.
"That's very good," I said, forcing warmth into my voice. "I'm proud of you."
The reminder was necessary: I was four years old. Almost five. That meant I had less than twelve years before the war started. Twelve years to prepare, to build, to change enough to matter but not so much that I drew the wrong kind of attention.
Unless the war started earlier. Unless my actions accelerated the timetable. Unless Agrona, who had ignored Arthur Leywin until it was too late, decided that I was worth noticing sooner.
I shook my head, clearing the spiral of what-ifs, and retrieved a map from my pocket.
It was a meticulously detailed rendering of Zestier, drawn on fine paper—one of Elenoir's main exports to Darv, I had discovered—with remarkable skill.
The cartographer had somehow captured the organic flow of the city, the way it grew from and around the ancient trees, without the benefit of the advanced technology that would have made proper topography possible on Earth.
I traced the five Groves with my finger. They formed a four-leaf clover, with the Queen's Grove at the center and the others radiating outward like petals pointing to each cardinal direction.
The precision of it, the intention—building a city of this scale in the middle of the Elshire Forest, with no advanced technology, was a titanic achievement.
Magic had helped, surely, but magic alone couldn't account for this level of organization, this harmony between nature and civilization.
I knew, from the novel's scattered hints, that Elenoir was different from the other Dicathian kingdoms.
In Darv, the Greysunders ruled through fear and control—or rather, they tried to rule, their authority constantly undermined by nobles who hated them and a populace that despised them. Their Lances were more than vital; they were the only thing keeping the kingdom from tearing itself apart.
In Sapin, the Glayders faced similar noble opposition but retained the love of their people. That was why Blaine and Priscilla Glayder had survived Aldir in the novel—because killing monarchs beloved by their subjects would have created problems for Epheotus's game of chess.
But Elenoir? Elenoir was different.
I thought of Mom's gatherings, those interminable afternoons when the noble ladies visited the palace with their children in tow. Mom navigated them with the skill of a master sailor charting treacherous waters, friendly and amicable with all, never favoring one House over another.
And I—I was often reduced to their collective doll, passed from lap to lap, pinched and cooed over until I wanted to scream.
Tessia, though. Tessia was surrounded by their children. And while they certainly tried to enter her graces, while they laughed at her jokes and complimented her dresses, the way they looked at her wasn't calculating.
It was wonder. Genuine happiness just to be in her presence. They loved her, not for what she could give them, but simply because she was their princess.
Grandpa was an even clearer example. A living legend, the greatest military mind of the age, a former king—and I had watched him chat with Jarnas Auddyr like two old soldiers swapping stories in a tavern.
No formality. No deference. Just respect between warriors who had fought side by side.
Dad was harder to read. Our family guarded its privacy jealously, keeping royalty and personal life carefully separated.
But I had seen him during the Greysunders' visit, seen the way he addressed the gathered nobles, seen the way they looked at him. The kind of devotion you couldn't command, could only earn.
And the simple fact that I could walk these streets—Alwyn and I, a prince and a commoner, wandering through secondary roads without guards or fanfare—spoke volumes.
Was that the reason why?
The question had haunted me since the Greysunders' visit, since watching Jarnas and Grandpa interact, since realizing how fundamentally different my family was from every other ruling house in Dicathen.
Why was I Corvis Eralith? Why not Corvis Glayder, born into a family of schemers and politicians? Why not Corvis Denoir, raised in the shadow of Agrona's influence? Why not Corvis anything else?
Was it random? Or was there a reason—a purpose—to landing in this particular family, in this particular kingdom?
"Your Highness?" Alwyn's voice pulled me from the labyrinth of my thoughts. It was low, gentle, but carried that new strength I was still getting used to. "Are you even looking at the map?"
"Y-yes!" I startled, glancing down at the parchment in my hands. "We're in the southern Grove—Old Oak. The Bough is... Movary!"
The name felt right on my tongue. Movary Bough. A district of modest homes and winding streets, of families who would never set foot in the Royal Palace but who would defend it with their lives if called upon.
I folded the map and tucked it away, then continued walking. Alwyn fell into step beside me, and for a while, we simply were two boys exploring a city, one a prince and one a commoner.
The sun filtered through the canopy above, painting patterns on the cobblestones. The scent of blooming flowers mixed with the earthy aroma of living wood and the distant, tantalizing smell of someone's cooking.
This was my home. These were my people. And whatever destiny had thrown me into this world, whatever purpose I was meant to serve, I would fight for them.
Not because I was Corvis Eralith, prince of Elenoir.
But because I had finally started to understand what that meant.