Corvis Eralith
Tessia's face was pressed so firmly against the carriage window that I half-expected to see an imprint left behind when she finally pulled away.
Her breath fogged the glass in small, excited clouds as her eyes—those teal mirrors of my own—drank in every detail of the city unfolding around us.
We had just emerged from Asyphin's portal, that ancient Djinn gateway that linked this northern city to Zestier's beautiful Portal Plaza.
The transition was always disorienting—one moment you were in the heart of the Royal Capital, surrounded by the familiar scent of Watchful Willows and the distant murmur of Elf Court; the next, you were here, in a city that felt simultaneously familiar and utterly foreign.
The carriage that carried us was a magnificent thing, drawn by a pair of Elenoi Highcolts—those elegant cousins to the sturdy Darvish Highcolts I had ridden with Olfred on our journey to the Red Gorge.
Yet where the Darvish breed was shaped by endurance and the harsh discipline of rugged lands, their counterparts from the Elshire Forest seemed wrought for grace and swiftness.
Their forms were lean and long-limbed, every movement fluid and deliberate. Short coats, smooth as silk, shimmered with the pale sheen of moonlight upon still water.
Their eyes were strikingly bicolour—one a deep woodland green, the other a clear cerulean blue—while their flowing manes carried soft threads of pale gold that caught the light like sunlit leaves.
They moved with an uncanny elegance, trotting as though guided by some silent rhythm. Each hoof struck the cobblestones in perfect measure, their gait light, poised, and almost hypnotic—less the stride of beasts of burden than the measured dance of creatures born from forest myth.
Inside the carriage, the seating was arranged for comfort and family intimacy. Mom sat between Tessia and me, her arms draped over both of us with the casual possessiveness of a mother who still couldn't believe her children were growing up.
Across from us, Dad sat beside Grandpa, their postures mirroring each other in ways that spoke of shared blood and unspoken understanding. And between them, wedged into the space like a wren determined to nest in an eagle's aerie, was Rinia.
Great-aunt Rinia. The only person in this world who knew what I truly was.
Even now, even after all these months, I couldn't think of her as family. Not really.
The knowledge she carried—the weight of my secret—stood between us like an invisible wall. She had looked at me when I was barely three years old and seen straight through to the reincarnated soul within. And she had said nothing. She had simply watched, her eyes holding secrets I couldn't begin to fathom.
I tried to focus on the book in my lap—"Myths of Elenoir: Until Dragons Came," the same volume I had discovered in the Verticil's temple—but concentration was impossible.
Every few seconds, Tessia's hand would grab my arm, yanking me toward the window to point out some new wonder she had spotted.
"Corvis! Look at that building!"
"Corvis! The trees are different here! They're like spruces, but enormous!"
"Corvis! Do you see the sea? Can you see it yet? I can't see it from here!"
"Dad, where are we going?" I asked, partly for the information and partly for the excuse to look away from my book without seeming to abandon it entirely.
Tomorrow was our birthday, and I needed to know our lodgings if I was going to execute my plans.
"We'll be guests of an old friend of your grandfather," Dad replied. He nodded toward Grandpa, who sat across from us with Rinia wedged between him and Dad.
"Grandpa's friend?" Tessia's head whipped around from the window so fast I worried for her neck. "Grandpa has friends?"
The laughter that erupted in the carriage was sudden and genuine. Even I felt my lips twitch. The fact that Tessia seemed completely sincere—that she genuinely appeared surprised by the concept of Grandpa having friends—made it all funnier.
"That surprises me too," Rinia added dryly, her tone suggesting she found the whole situation endlessly amusing.
Grandpa crossed his arms in exaggerated indignation. "And what makes you say that, Little One?"
"You always spend time with me and Corvis..." Tessia pointed out, which wasn't entirely wrong. Since her awakening, Grandpa had been practically inseparable from her.
"I was with Jarnas just recently!" Grandpa protested.
Tessia shrugged, utterly unconvinced.
Rinia raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting to something more knowing. "Jarnas Auddyr?" She looked at Grandpa with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Between you and that elf, I don't know who is more dense. No wonder Tessia didn't think of him as a friend of yours!"
"You're certainly one to talk, hag." Grandpa's retort was immediate, almost reflexive. "Weren't there stories about an old evil hermit in the hamlet near where you live?"
Rinia's arms crossed, her expression utterly unshaken. "If those stories were true, I would make sure everyone thought it was Virion Eralith who cruelly expelled that poor, charming old lady to live alone in the Elshire Forest."
Grandpa shook his head, and Rinia's lips curved in a satisfied smirk. Watching them bicker was like watching two siblings—which, I supposed, they were, in a way.
In-laws, connected through Lania, through the grandmother I had never known. Her death must have drawn them closer despite their obvious differences. Grief did that sometimes. Forged bonds between people who might otherwise never have found common ground.
"Who is this friend?" I asked, genuinely curious now.
"Camus Selaridon," Mom explained, her voice carrying that gentle warmth she reserved for introducing us to new things. "He was once a very influential courtier in your grandfather's court, back when he was king."
Camus Selaridon. The name resonated in my memory, dragging up fragments from the novel. He had been one of Arthur's many mentors, a silver-core mage who had taught the protagonist about wind magic and combat as a conjurer.
In the war—the Second War, the one between Sapin and Elenoir, not the later Alacryan invasion—he had lost both his wife and his sight. A tragedy that had shaped him into the elf Arthur would later meet.
"Selaridon?" Tessia's brow furrowed. "I've never heard of that House."
"House Selaridon has always been an outergrove noble family," Dad explained, his teacher's voice emerging as it always did when Tessia asked about court politics. "Elder Camus is something of an exception—he rose to prominence through merit rather than inheritance."
Outergrove. The elven term for countryside, for the lands beyond the cities.
But Elenoir's countryside was nothing like the farms and fields of Earth. Here, the "rural" areas were pastures near the Grand Mountains, where herders raised mana beasts for wool and meat.
They were hunting grounds, where harvesters gathered the bounty of the Elshire Forest—fruits and vegetables, wild game, fish from the countless streams.
It was a different kind of rural, but the principle was the same: life outside the great urban centers.
Tessia nodded, already turning back to the window, her brief curiosity satisfied. Her face pressed against the glass once more, steaming it with her eager breath.
I took the opportunity to look properly at Asyphin.
The difference between this city and Zestier was immediately obvious. Sprout City was a true metropolis, a sprawling marvel seamlessly integrated into the heart of the Elshire Forest.
Its Watchful Willows towered like living skyscrapers, their branches supporting homes and businesses for hundreds of elven families. The Royal Palace alone occupied an entire grove of those ancient trees.
But Asyphin, so far north, had different giants. The Watchful Spruces.
They were as massive as their Zestese counterparts—easily rivaling the Willows in height and girth—but their form was entirely different.
Where the Willows had broad, spreading canopies and leaves that wept toward the ground, the Spruces rose in perfect conical majesty. Their branches swept upward, catching snow in winter and providing shelter from the coastal winds.
Needles instead of leaves. Cones instead of flowers.
I had learned, in my months of quietly studying Elenoir's natural wonders, that the Watchful Trees were unique. They were called the only true mana plants of Dicathen—not because other plants couldn't hold mana, but because these trees accumulated it, stored it, breathed it in ways that transformed their very essence.
Just as all animals in this world were technically mana beasts—though only those dangerous enough to threaten people received official classification—all plants existed on a spectrum of mana sensitivity.
But the Watchful Trees were different. They were special. Their ability to contain and channel mana, despite lacking cores, was the foundation of elven architecture, elven society, elven life.
It was also, according to the common explanation, why elves awakened earlier and more frequently than humans or dwarves and also why our lives were longer.
We lived our entire lives surrounded by these gentle giants, breathing air thick with ambient mana, sleeping in homes built into living wood. The trees themselves nurtured us, whether we knew it or not.
I looked out at the Watchful Spruces, at their dark green needles and massive trunks, and wondered what secrets they held. What memories they carried. What they had witnessed, over the millennia, of elven history.
The carriage rolled on, carrying us toward Elder Camus's estate, toward birthday celebrations and family time and, for me, toward the next step in a war no one else knew was coming.
But for now I let myself watch the scenery with my sister, and pretend that the only thing ahead of us was a happy birthday and a peaceful vacation.
The Elenoi Highcolts came to a halt before a Watchful Spruce that soared into the canopy above—easily fifty meters tall, its massive trunk rivaling the great Watchful Willows of Zestier.
But where the Royal Capital's trees would have supported multiple structures, entire tenements woven into their branches and trunk, this Spruce hosted only a single home at its base.
The contrast between Zestier and Asyphin had never been clearer. Space here wasn't the luxury it was in the overcrowded capital.
With a smaller population and the Elshire Forest thinning as it approached the coast, there was room to breathe. Room for a tree to simply be a tree, without carrying the weight of a city on its branches.
The house before us was modest by royal standards—a two-story structure built into the Spruce's base, its walls curving to embrace the trunk like a child hugging a parent.
Sloped ceilings promised extra room above, but compared to the Chaffer estate in the Canopie, it was practically a cottage. And yet there was something beautiful in its simplicity, in the way the tree had grown around the home, roots and wood intertwining until it was impossible to tell where nature ended and architecture began.
The door opened and Camus Selaridon emerged.
I recognized him immediately from the novel's descriptions—the sash over his eyes, the loose robe similar to Grandpa's but far more unkempt, as if he had long ago stopped caring about appearances.
He moved with the confidence of someone who had long since adapted to blindness, his steps sure despite the lack of sight.
"Camus!" Grandpa strode forward, and the two old friends clasped hands with the easy familiarity of decades. "Thanks for hosting us on such short notice."
"You could have given me more warning, you know?" Elder Camus's tone was half-annoyed, and I felt Tessia tense beside me.
"Tessia?" I whispered.
"He doesn't show Grandpa enough respect," she observed, her eyes narrowing at the blind elder.
Mom pinched her cheek gently. "Respect your elders, young lady. Especially a friend of Elder Virion."
Tessia pouted, her protest dying in a murmured, "S-sorry..."
Elder Camus and Grandpa exchanged a few more words before the blind elder turned to face our family. His sightless gaze swept across us with an accuracy that suggested his other senses more than compensated for his lost vision.
"King Alduin, Queen Merial." A nod. "Prince Corvis, Princess Tessia." Another nod. Then his head tilted slightly. "And is that you, Rinia Darcassan? It's been so long since we last met that I struggle to recognize you."
Rinia gave his shoulder a noisy pat. "What do you mean? I'm still as charming as in the good old days."
"Definitely the same," Elder Camus hummed, and I caught the faintest smile on his lips.
We followed him inside. Tessia carefully avoided looking at him, despite the blindfold covering his eyes—as if she feared he might somehow see her staring.
The interior was dim, lit only by the few windows facing outward. No artificial light sources disturbed the peaceful gloom, and the effect was strangely calming, as if we had stepped into a space outside of time itself. We gathered around a large table on the ground floor, the wood worn smooth by decades of use.
"I apologize for the lack of preparation," Elder Camus said as he took his place at the head of the table. "If Virion had warned me earlier, I would have made proper arrangements for the royal family."
"This trip was rather rushed for us as well, Elder," Dad replied. "We hadn't planned to visit Asyphin at all, but the children wanted to see the sea for their birthday."
"Speaking of the sea!" Tessia's voice cut through the adult conversation with the unselfconscious enthusiasm only a child could muster. "Where is it? I only see forest everywhere!"
I shared her curiosity. Elves had no true navy, no ships built for open water. Our vessels were slim and agile, designed for the fast rivers that crisscrossed the kingdom—not for the vast, unpredictable sea.
"There's a large beach about an hour north of the city center," Elder Camus said, his sightless gaze somehow finding Tessia despite the impossibility. "From what I hear, it's quite beautiful this time of year."
"We'll go tomorrow, Tessia," Mom promised. "Is that acceptable?"
My sister nodded vigorously, her earlier suspicion of Elder Camus forgotten in the excitement of impending beach adventure.
Aren't you forgetting to ask someone? I thought wryly. But it didn't matter. Where Tessia went, I would follow. That was simply how things were.
Now I just needed to find an opportunity to ask about dueling canes. Discreetly. Casually. As if a five-year-old prince asking about weapons was the most natural thing in the world.
I filed the problem away for later consideration and let myself be drawn into the flow of conversation around me. Rinia, Grandpa, and Elder Camus traded stories of the past, their voices weaving a tapestry of memories that spanned decades.
Mom and Dad listened with the particular attention of those who had grown up hearing these tales, occasionally adding their own childhood recollections.
For a moment I was just a boy, listening to his family laugh, waiting to see the sea with his sister for the first time.
And the thought that I had been the one to suggest this trip—that my selfish mission had given my family this moment of peace—eased something in my chest. A guilt I hadn't realized I was carrying, loosening its grip just slightly.
Maybe I deserved to be Corvis Eralith after all.
Alduin Eralith
Aunt Rinia's hand on my shoulder pulled me from the last fragments of sleep, her finger pressed to her lips in a gesture that needed no translation. Dawn was still away, the room wrapped in darkness so complete I could barely make out Merial's form beside me.
Today. Today Tessia and Corvis would be five.
The thought settled in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward, touching places I kept carefully guarded. Five years. Half a decade since I first held them, since I first felt the terrifying weight of fatherhood settle onto shoulders already burdened by a crown.
At times I feared I didn't show them enough love—that the kingdom consumed so much of me that only scraps remained for the people who mattered most. At times I feared I was leaving Merial to carry parenthood alone while I administered, adjudicated, ruled.
But amongst the many regrets that haunted my quieter moments—the decisions I couldn't take back, the words I couldn't unsay—this wasn't one of them. I ruled justly. I protected my subjects, my family, my kingdom from danger. From them. From humanity.
But today, as I said, was not for politics.
Today was for my children.
Merial stirred beside me, and together we slipped from the room, following Aunt Rinia's silent guidance down the stairs. The house was still, wrapped in that peculiar quiet that precedes dawn, when the world holds its breath waiting for light.
Elder Camus was already on the ground floor, attempting to impose order on the chaos he called home. Aunt Rinia had worked miracles yesterday, but the old warrior's house still left much to be desired. Dust clung to surfaces.
Trinkets accumulated in corners. And I wanted perfection for my children's birthday.
"Merial, keep an eye on the children," I whispered. "You know Corvis sometimes has trouble sleeping."
Lance Aureate had reported this to me—my son's restless nights, his troubled sleep. The two of them had grown close, which was understandable given Corvis's friendship with her brother. It was also... convenient. One of my Lancea watching over my son so frequently was a commodity I wouldn't refuse.
"Elder." I approached Camus, keeping my voice low. "Let us handle this. We shouldn't disturb you in your own home."
Camus waved me off, continuing his work. "It's past time I cleaned this place anyway. And it's unfit for a king to dirty his hands with dust."
"For a wind mage, you live in quite a mess, Camus!" Aunt Rinia's whisper was somehow both quiet and scathing, her hand waving through a cloud of disturbed particles.
"Hate to admit it, but the hag is right," Father added, and I bit back the automatic response that rose to my lips.
I never liked him calling Aunt Rinia that, but it was their way—a playful exchange they had maintained since before my birth. A give and take my mother had also loved.
No. I wouldn't think about her today. Today was for the living.
"Alduin." Father's voice softened. "Go to Merial. Dawn is near. Wake the children together."
I nodded and climbed the stairs, leaving the three elders to their preparations.
Merial stood before the twins' door, her hand resting on the knob but not turning it. The pose was familiar—I had seen her like this countless times, caught between anticipation and the desire to preserve a perfect moment just a little longer.
"It's still deep night, Merial."
She turned, and even in the darkness, I could see the sheen in her eyes. "I know. I just... I can't wait, but I also can. My babies are already five. Soon they'll be six, then seven, and before we realize it, they won't be babies anymore."
I crossed the short distance and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close. She fit against me the way she always had, the way she always would. "My mother used to tell me how much she wished our long lifespans also meant we could be children longer. So she could have kept me as her baby for more time."
Merial's breath caught. "That sounds like Elder Lania."
"It does."
We stood there, holding each other, letting the weight of generations press against us. My mother, gone too soon. My children, growing too fast.
When the first hints of gray began to lighten the horizon, I let the mask slip. The one I had worn for so many years, the one that had become my true face—I set it aside, just for this moment. Just for them.
Merial's hand found mine. Together, we turned the knob.
The door swung open, and light from the approaching dawn spilled into the room where our children slept.
"Happy birthday!"