Corvis Eralith
Another month passed in the blink of an eye, spring surrendering to summer with the quiet inevitability of seasons turning.
The days grew longer, warmer, more golden—each sunrise spilling through my window earlier than the last, each sunset lingering on the horizon as if reluctant to release its hold on the world.
In that month, I discovered something I had never expected to care about: religion.
Not whatever religion of my past life, which I had abandoned and forgot about along with everything else when I died.
Not the worship of gods I now knew to be real, and terrible, and my enemies. But the faith of my people—the beliefs that shaped Elenoir, that gave meaning to the turning of seasons and the cycles of growth and decay that defined elven existence.
The Verticil, it was called. Not quite a religion in the human sense, not quite a philosophy. Something in between. Something uniquely elven.
I had never bothered to learn about it. The novel hadn't spent time on such details—Arthur Leywin wasn't the religious type, and by the time he was old enough to care about such things, he was too busy killing gods to pray to them.
But I was learning, slowly, that the world I inhabited was far richer than the pages that had described it.
The seasons, I discovered, were central to elven faith. The elves didn't worship the seasons themselves directly, they worshipped the cycle, the eternal turning that guaranteed life would always find a way.
It was beautiful, in a way. And it made me wonder what my people would think if they knew that the gods—the Asuras of Epheotus or the Vritra of Alacrya—were not benevolent caretakers of that cycle, but its greatest threat.
I pushed the thought away. Today was not for such darkness.
"Grandpa, where are we going?" Tessia's voice pulled me from my reverie as we left the Royal Palace, trailing behind Grandpa like two ducklings following the adult.
His long-sleeved vest today was a lighter shade of green than the one he had worn during the Greysunders' visit, the color of new leaves rather than deep forest.
His arms were linked casually under the large sleeves, a posture of relaxation I rarely saw in him.
"It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it, Little One?" The tease was gentle, familiar.
"Yeah..." Tessia narrowed her eyes at his back, her suspicion almost comical on features so young.
I was curious too. Today was supposed to be a training day—I had been planning to sneak away to the Hallowed Hollow, to continue absorbing the last traces of mana from the Phoenix Wyrm's core.
I could feel myself approaching a threshold; the solid stage of the orange core was close, so close I could almost taste it.
Next week, I planned to attempt the absorption of the Beast Will itself.
But Grandpa had appeared before I could escape, sweeping Tessia and me away before Alea could do anything to help. Now here we were, following him through streets I had never explored, toward a destination I couldn't guess.
The sun was warm but not unpleasant, its filtered light painting dappled patterns on the cobblestones.
Above us, the canopy teemed with life—birds of every color, squirrels of every size, butterflies whose wings seemed spun from liquid gemstones. The Elshire Forest claimed the sky and the highest branches, leaving the ground to elvenkind.
We crossed Elf Court, the vast square before the Royal Palace that served as the true heart of Zestier. From here, the main street radiated outward like the trunk of a tree, branching into smaller arteries that fed the city's districts.
A cul-de-sac, my mind supplied—the word surfacing from memories of another life.
"Are we going to the portal?!" Tessia's excitement bubbled over, but Grandpa shook his head.
"No, Little One."
Portal Plaza was far—last time Alwyn and I had explored Zestier, we had stumbled upon it by accident and spent nearly three hours walking back to the palace on our short legs.
I still shuddered remembering Mom's expression when we finally returned. She had been furious. And terrified. And furious about being terrified.
So if not the portal, where?
Past Elf Court, we entered a cozy alley that felt worlds away from the bustling square. The sounds of the city were still audible—distant, muffled, like memories of noise—but here, in this narrow space, a calming stillness prevailed. It was the kind of place that invited quiet reflection, that made you want to lower your voice and simply breathe.
On either side, classical elven buildings rose in multiple levels, built into the trunks of four massive Watchful Willows. Their architecture was seamless, organic, as if the trees had decided to grow into homes rather than the other way around.
And at the center of the alley, a line of bright cypresses stretched toward the canopy. But these were not the cypresses I remembered from Earth—these trees blossomed with azure rose-like flowers, their petals catching the light like captured pieces of sky.
"Wow!" Tessia stopped, breathing deep. The air was thick with fragrance—the flowers, yes, but also the subtle sweetness of ripening fruits and the ever-present green scent of the forest itself. "Grandpa! Where are we?!"
Grandpa chuckled, that warm, rumbling sound that always made me feel safe. His hand descended like divine judgment upon Tessia's head, ruffling her perfectly combed gunmetal hair with casual affection.
"You like this, eh, Little One?"
Tessia nodded, not even trying to salvage her hairstyle. "Yeah... I might like this..." She attempted a princess-like expression, but the smile breaking through ruined the effect completely.
"Grandpa, what's so special about this place?" I asked. It was beautiful, yes, but Virion Eralith wasn't the type to bring us somewhere simply for beauty.
There was always purpose beneath his actions, even when he pretended otherwise.
"Honeycomb Promenade." Grandpa's voice softened as he spoke the name. "This street was renovated by your grandmother."
"Grandma?" Tessia and I spoke as one, the word echoing between us.
Lania Darcassan. I knew her name from the novel, from a few scattered mentions by Great-aunt Rinia and Dad and the quiet grief that haunted Grandpa's eyes from time to time.
But I knew nothing else—nothing of who she had been, what she had loved, how she had shaped the elf standing before us.
"Yeah..." Grandpa's smile remained, but his expression told a different story. Loss lived behind those eyes, old and familiar but never forgotten. "Come on, we're here for a particular place!"
Tessia and I exchanged a glance—the kind of wordless communication twins develop when they spend enough time together—then hurried to catch up.
I had learned, in these past weeks of exploration, that "promenades" were what elves called the pedestrian-only streets in residential areas.
Carriages were forbidden here; only foot traffic was permitted, giving these thoroughfares a peaceful, unhurried quality that matched the elven temperament.
At the end of Honeycomb Promenade, tucked into the scenery with the quiet confidence of something that knew its own importance, stood a structure unlike any I had seen in Zestier.
It was elegant, temple-like, its marble walls matching the Royal Palace and other government buildings. Sweeping teal roofs curved like unfurling leaves, catching the light in ways that made them seem almost alive.
Slender towers rose at intervals, their arched windows open to the air, allowing wind and filtered sunlight to pass freely through the halls.
Open colonnades and curved terraces completed the effect—a building that didn't impose itself on the forest but grew from it, belonged to it, was it.
And at its heart, supporting the structure like a spine supporting a body, stood a tree.
It was modest compared to the Watchful Willows—mere fractions of their size. But what it lacked in height, it made up for in majesty. Its leaves were gold and bronze, caught in eternal autumn, showering the courtyard below with amber foliage that never seemed to diminish.
The branches stretched above the rooftops, claiming space that belonged to no other tree, and the light that filtered through them was warm, honeyed, sacred.
"Grandpa, what is that tree?" I asked, genuinely awed.
It was Tessia who answered, her voice carrying a certainty that surprised me. "That's an Evergold Rowan!"
Grandpa's eyebrows rose. "Oh? And since when are you an expert botanist, Little One?"
Tessia sighed, an exaggerated sound of long-suffering patience. "A boy from House Sylwerih spends most of his time talking to me about trees. It's very boring."
A pause.
"But that doesn't explain why we're here!" Tessia and I spoke simultaneously again, our voices merging into a single exclamation of impatience.
Grandpa threw up his hands in mock surrender. "One at a time! I can't even tell which of you is talking!"
I felt my cheeks flush. Tessia pouted magnificently.
"So you don't love us, Grandpa?" The question was delivered with such perfect innocence, such manufactured hurt, that I stared at my sister in amazement.
Since when was she such a master of words? She barely knew half the vocabulary she was using!
"It was a joke! Of course I can tell you apart!" Grandpa's defense was immediate, almost panicked. "Let's not do this in front of a temple of the Verticil, please."
"Verticil?" Tessia's attention shifted instantly, her theatrical hurt forgotten.
This time, I had the answer. "The religion most of our people practice." I paused, considering. "Though I'm not sure it counts as a proper religion, exactly. It's more of a doctrine or a philosophy."
I hadn't studied much about the Verticil myself. I could read—had taught myself in those early years when literacy was my only advantage—but finding time to read anything beyond maps and quick booklets was impossible.
Training consumed my days. Sleep consumed what little remained. And if I started sleeping even less than I already did, I feared Alea would teach me a lesson I wouldn't forget.
"Don't trouble your little mind with words you don't understand." Grandpa's hand found my head, ruffling my hair with the same affection he had shown Tessia.
He still saw me as a child, a silly kid blabbing adult words without comprehending them. And coming from him—from Grandpa—that was a gift.
"You brought us to a temple?" Tessia's boredom was palpable. A four-year-old's attention span, even for a future queen, had limits.
"Yes." Grandpa took our hands, his grip warm and solid and reassuring and we headed inside.
Inside the Verticil's temple, the world outside ceased to exist.
The sounds of Zestier—the distant bustle of markets, the chatter of pedestrians, the ever-present whisper of wind through leaves—were completely muted, swallowed by the stones that formed these walls.
A handful of elves occupied the space, their presence unobtrusive, almost reverent. Some conversed in low murmurs beneath the Evergold Rowan's amber canopy, their words lost to the hush.
Others approached the marble pedestals encircling the tree's base, making offerings with gestures that spoke of personal ritual rather than priestly mandate.
Seeds. Flowers. And for those seeking something more symbolic, decorative apples carved from precious stones or polished woods.
Tessia walked silently beside me, her usual boundless energy temporarily subdued by the temple's atmosphere.
Her teal eyes roamed the space, taking in details I knew I would have to ask about later—the way the white marble reflected the Evergold Rowan's golden light, the carvings that traced elven history along the walls, the sense of age that permeated everything.
Grandpa led us toward the great tree, his pace unhurried, his expression unreadable. Elves smiled as we passed, bowing respectfully without interrupting their quiet activities.
There was no hierarchy here, I realized—no priests, no priestesses, no religious officials of any kind. Another reason I struggled to classify the Verticil as a proper religion. It was more like... a shared understanding.
House Eralith, I had learned, served as the closest thing elvenkind had to religious authority. It was a powerful tool—the implicit divine endorsement of royal rule I knew was technically true—but one my ancestors had wielded with remarkable restraint.
As far as I knew, no Eralith monarch had ever used faith as a weapon against their people.
Grandpa produced a decorative apple from his sleeve—a gleaming white marble sphere polished to mirror brightness, shaped with such precision it could have been mistaken for the real thing at a glance if it wasn't for its colour.
He approached one of the pedestals, and I looked away, giving him privacy for whatever ritual he performed.
Tessia's attention had found a different focus.
Forest Hounds. A small pack of them lounged on the lower branches of the tree, their grey wolf-like forms draped over limbs with the casual grace of creatures utterly at home in their environment.
Antlers sprouted from their heads—delicate, branching structures that would have looked absurd on any normal wolf but seemed perfectly natural on these mana beasts.
"Grandpa, what are monsters doing here?" Tessia's voice cut through the quiet, innocent and unguarded.
Grandpa coughed—a sharp, deliberate sound—and placed a hand over her mouth before she could continue. Not angry, I noted. Just... correcting.
"Little One." His whisper was gentle but firm. "Forest Hounds are considered very, very important creatures by many elves."
Holy animals, I translated internally. Or something close enough.
"I see..." Tessia's eyes narrowed slightly as she regarded the Forest Hounds.
The beasts raised their heads from their resting places, returning her gaze with calm curiosity. There was challenge in my sister's expression—that fierce spirit that would someday make her a formidable warrior—but the Forest Hounds simply wagged their tails and yawned, utterly unimpressed by the tiny princess's scrutiny.
My attention drifted to the small bookshelves lining one wall of the temple. Elves moved among them, selecting volumes, reading in quiet corners, returning books to their places with casual ease.
A public library. Inside a temple. The combination was unexpected, fascinating, and absolutely intriguing.
I approached, reaching for a tome on a shelf just beyond my grasp. My fingers stretched uselessly, finding nothing but air. I jumped. Nothing. I considered climbing, but something told me desecrating a temple with my grubby little hands would not end well.
I glanced back at Tessia and Grandpa. Grandpa stood before the Evergold Rowan, his posture still, his expression distant—lost in memories I couldn't share, thinking thoughts I couldn't guess.
Tessia, meanwhile, had begun circling the great tree, carefully avoiding the Forest Hounds that sprawled lazily on its branches. They watched her pass with half-lidded eyes, more cat than wolf in their languid indifference.
I returned to my futile attempts at reaching the bookshelf, frustration building with each failed stretch. Then a weathered hand reached past me, plucking the tome from its shelf with casual ease.
"Are you looking for this, Your Highness?" An old woman smiled down at me, her face creased with age and amusement, offering a leaf-bound volume that felt impressive in my small hands.
I nodded, clutching it to my chest. "Thanks."
She chuckled softly—the universal sound of adults finding children adorable for reasons the children never understand—and shuffled away, leaving me to my reading.
I opened the book, and my enthusiasm immediately curdled.
"Myths of Elenoir: Until Dragons Come."
Of course. Of course dragons still featured prominently in elven mythology. Grandpa himself had mentioned it in the novel to Arthur, though he'd never elaborated.
The Asuras had shaped this world in ways its inhabitants couldn't begin to comprehend. Their shadows fell across everything, even here, even in this peaceful temple dedicated to a faith that had nothing to do with them.
I started reading anyway, curiosity overcoming distaste—
"Psst. Corvis."
Tessia's whisper cut through my concentration. I looked up, annoyed, ready to wave her away.
She was holding something. Something that made my heart stop.
A beast core. Green and brown, striped with white, pulsing with the unmistakable energy of condensed mana. It sat in her palms like the most natural thing in the world.
"Tessia!" The exclamation escaped before I could control it. "Where did you find that?!"
I reached for it instinctively, needing to feel its weight, to assess its power, but Tessia snatched it back, clutching it to her chest with a smug expression that would have made me laugh any other day.
"This is mine!" She hugged it possessively. "The Forest Hounds bestowed it upon me! Their princess!"
I stared at the mana beasts. They stared back from their branches, watching Tessia with expressions of calm interest.
In the canon timeline, some Forest Hounds had helped Tessia too—but I had always assumed Arthur's presence had been the catalyst. I thought it was only because of him—who saved them too from the same slavers that took Tessia—that those Forest Hounds helped them.
I was wrong.
And then—
Mana.
A surge of mana, raw and uncontrolled, erupted from Tessia's small form. I felt it before I saw it—the sudden pressure in the air, the familiar wrongness of power being born. Her mana core. She was awakening.
"Corvis! Tessia!"
Grandpa's voice thundered across the temple, and for once, the thunder was faster than the lightning it accompanied.
His hands closed around me, pulling me back, shielding me from the implosion of mana that marked a conjurer's awakening—the same phenomenon that had announced my own emergence at age two.
Tessia stood at the center of the storm, her eyes wide, her body trembling as power flooded channels that had never held it before. The temple's visitors stared in wonder. The Evergold Rowan's golden leaves showered down around her like benediction.
And I—I watched my sister awaken five years before she was supposed to.
Tessia Eralith
After I tried to absorb mana from that strange orb—a beast core, I heard Feyrith call it once, back when he was comically bragging about his vast knowledge of the Beast Glades—everything changed.
I felt the awakening process complete itself without me doing anything at all. One moment I was standing in that beautiful temple, the Forest Hounds watching me with their mysterious eyes, and the next...
I woke up here.
In my bed.
A cold towel rested on my forehead, slightly damp and strangely comforting. My toys surrounded me in a protective semicircle, as if someone had arranged them to keep me company while I slept.
The chubby frog doll—the one that reminded me of my first pet, the one I always grabbed when I was confused—was clutched tightly in my arms.
I looked around, trying to piece together what had happened. I felt... tired. A little bit, anyway. But mostly I jist felt fine. Perfectly fine. So why was I buried under what felt like every blanket in the entire palace?
The hearth crackled in the fireplace, flames dancing merrily as if it were the middle of winter instead of summer. I was dying of heat in here!
"Mom! Dad! Grandpa!" I called out, struggling against the mountain of blankets tucked so tightly around me I could barely move. "Help!"
Wait. Mana!
I closed my eyes and tried to do what Alwyn had shown me—to push mana through my body, to make myself stronger and faster.
Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. I tried again. Still nothing.
I'm a conjurer!
The realization hit me like a bucket of cold water. Conjurer. Not an augmenter like Grandpa, like I had always dreamed. I wanted to be just like him—to fight with my own strength, to be powerful and amazing and him.
But conjurers did something else. They shaped magic outside themselves, not within.
I stared at the ceiling, my thoughts spiraling. The logs that supported it were beautiful, I realized—polished and smooth, intertwined with a branch of the Watchful Willow that had grown through the very structure of the palace. I had never noticed before how lovely it was.
The door slammed open.
Dad burst in, his eyes so wide I feared they might fall right out of his head. I had never seen him like this—Dad was always serious, always reserved, always the perfect king.
But now? His crown was missing. His long ceremonial mantle was absent. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he had run all the way from wherever he had been.
It was the funniest thing I had ever seen.
"Tessia!" He rushed to my side, his hands hovering over me like he was afraid I might break.
"Dad!" I exclaimed, momentarily distracted from my blanket prison. "Why am I covered in more blankets than there are leaves in the entire forest?!"
Dad opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The King of Elenoir, master of diplomacy and statecraft, stood completely dumbfounded by his four-year-old daughter.
Mom appeared behind him, chuckling softly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, I noticed—had she been crying? But her smile was warm and genuine.
"Oh dear, we were just very worried." She moved to my bed and began peeling away the layers of blankets with efficient movements. "You should have seen Elder Virion when he returned to the palace. I thought he might tear the doors down."
"Where are Grandpa and Corvis?" I scrambled to my feet on top of the bed, suddenly full of energy now that I was free. "I want to show them my magic!"
"Tessia, don't stand on your bed!" Dad's voice was sharp with concern. "You could hurt yourself."
I puffed out my chest indignantly. "I am a mage, Dad!" I announced, as if this explained everything. "M. A. G. E. Mage! Mages don't get hurt!"
Mom pressed a hand to her mouth, barely containing laughter. Dad just stared at me, his usual monotonous expression slowly sliding back into place. He sighed—that long-suffering sigh parents everywhere have perfected over generations.
"Yes, Tessia. We know."
We know? What did that mean? Weren't they going to shower me with praise? Weren't they going to declare what an absolutely amazing, brilliant, wonderful genius their daughter was?!
"And?" I demanded, waiting eagerly for the accolades I clearly deserved.
Mom gave Dad a soft nudge with her elbow. They exchanged a look—that special look parents have when communicating without words—and then spoke in unison.
"We are very proud of you," Mom said warmly.
"You should have been more careful," Dad said firmly.
"Alduin!" Mom elbowed him harder.
"What? It's not like I'm going to love my daughter any less just because she's a mage!" Dad looked genuinely confused by her reaction. "She's still my daughter! That hasn't changed!"
Mom placed her hand over his mouth, cutting off whatever else he might have said. "Don't mind this fool of a father you have." Her smile was so genuine, so full of love, that I couldn't stay annoyed. "We are beyond proud and beyond happy for you, Tessia."
I nodded magnanimously, accepting their apologies.
"Now." I crossed my arms, the picture of royal authority despite my bedhead and rumpled nightgown. "Where are Grandpa and Corvis?"
Dad's expression shifted slightly—a flicker of something I couldn't quite read. "Your grandfather is looking after Corvis."
A/N:
Corvis took only half of Arthur's role in TBATE's world. The other half—that of the power fantasy MC—was taken by Tessia.
Edit (24/03/2026):
Discarded the plot line of the Hallowed Hollow's Beast Will.