Corvis Eralith
Vaelmora always struck me when I visited.
For someone accustomed to the grandeur of Zestier, to the sprawling elegance of Asyphin, even to the stone-hewn vastness of Burim, an elven hamlet like this was something my mind struggled to categorize.
It wasn't that Vaelmora was small—I had seen smaller settlements during my travels across the Elshire Forest—but that it was so fundamentally different from everything I had come to expect from elven civilization.
No Watchful Trees towered overhead. No buildings sprawled around vegetal giants, their branches supporting homes and businesses and public spaces.
No noble estates rose in elegant tiers, their balconies offering views of meticulously manicured gardens. No palaces dominated the skyline, their spires reaching toward the canopy like prayers made manifest.
Just houses. Simple, classic elven homes built around humble trees that would have been unremarkable even in Zestier's most humble outskirts.
Nothing here exceeded three floors—a height that even the poorest neighborhoods of the Royal Capital surpassed without effort.
No large plazas provided gathering spaces for thousands. No towering portals, left behind by the Ancient Mages, connected this place to distant cities.
Vaelmora's sole point of interest, its only claim to significance, was its temple.
The Verticil in the outergrove held far greater importance to daily life here than it did in the cities.
Here, where mages were rare and the old ways persisted, the faith that had shaped elvenkind for millennia still breathed with genuine power.
The temple stood at the village's center, built around an Eversilver Rowan—a tree whose leaves were white as fresh snow and bark dark as winter soil, its colors perfectly suited to the season that now gripped the land.
No more than three hundred people called Vaelmora home. The nearest major city, Asyphin, lay many days away for anyone without access to magic—and in a town like this, mages were rare.
Those who awakened typically left, chasing dreams and opportunities the outergrove could never provide. They went to the cities, to the centers of power, to places where their gifts might matter.
All of which meant that I, Corvis Eralith, was quite possibly the most significant event this village had witnessed in generations.
When my family visited Grear-aunt, we never spent time in Vaelmora. It would have been a logistical nightmare—hosting the royal family required resources this hamlet simply didn't possess.
So the villagers knew of us, had heard tales of us, but had never actually seen us.
According to the Verticil's teachings—those broad, beautiful stories that formed the backbone of elven faith—the Eralith family was considered blessed by the Spring Lizard, the dragon who embodied spring, the most beloved of the four seasons.
I suspected the belief had roots in something far more literal: Windsom Indrath bestowing the Lance artifacts upon the first Eralith rulers. And if that dragon truly was Windsom then I could indeed claim to be "blessed" by him.
He had been the first being after my family to lay eyes on me when I was reborn, after all. Watching from somewhere beyond, judging, assessing, finding me unworthy of attention.
Yet.
"Prince!" An elven man's voice rang out, enthusiastic and warm.
"Your Highness!" A woman curtsied as I passed, her face bright with genuine joy.
"Prince Corvis!"
"Welcome back!"
"We're so happy to have you here, Your Royal Highness!"
"A true pleasure, indeed!"
They emerged from their homes, from their workshops, from whatever tasks had occupied them moments before. The single street that wound through Vaelmora, hugging the temple like a bear protecting its cub, filled with smiling faces and waving hands.
Every greeting was offered freely, without expectation, without the carefulness I had learned to recognize in the noble courts of Zestier.
These people didn't want anything from me. They were simply happy to see me.
The thought made something in my chest tighten.
My objective, however, wasn't the temple with its Eversilver Rowan. It was the inn—the single gathering place in Vaelmora where social life inappropriate for a house of worship could unfold. Where stories were shared and drinks were poured and the real business of community happened.
I pushed open the door, carved from the trunk of some unremarkable tree, and stepped inside.
For a moment—just a moment—I was somewhere else.
Burim. Durzek Oreguard's inn, with its stone walls and dwarven practicality. The outpost near the Red Gorge, rough and temporary, filled with adventurers who had seen too much and trusted too little.
I shook the memories away and focused on the present.
The inn was warm, heated by a fire that crackled merrily in a hearth large enough to roast a wild boar. The smell of pine needles brewing into tea mingled with something sweeter—sugar, probably, from those turnip roots the elves crushed to extract their sweetness. Wooden tables and benches filled the space, worn smooth by generations of use.
As soon as the patrons noticed me, the room stilled.
Then—
"Prince Corvis!"
The cheer that erupted was spontaneous, unscripted, absolutely genuine. Every face turned toward me, every voice joined the chorus, and I felt my cheeks flush with heat that had nothing to do with the fire.
Why? The question burned in my mind. I had done nothing for these people. Nothing to earn their devotion, their love, their obvious joy at my presence. I was simply... here. Existing. Wearing a title I had been given at birth.
But I would earn it. I would. If I couldn't shed the weight of royalty, I would carry it in a way that deserved their faith. I would find whatever creature threatened their woods, and I would remove it. I would protect them, as my family had protected Elenoir for generations.
That was the least I could do.
"Little Prince!"
The voice cut through the crowd like a blade through silk—playful, melodic, utterly unmistakable.
I turned toward the bar.
Kamiel Rennoux sat on one of the tall stools, a steaming mug clasped in his elegant hands. His long, straight ginger hair fell in two even waves by the sides of his head, framing a face that seemed perpetually on the verge of laughter.
Dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief as he watched me approach.
Master Kamiel. Of House Rennoux—one of the seven Sister Houses, the most important families of Elenoir, like Chaffer, Grephin, Auddyr and Ivsaar.
A "friend" of Alea's, which meant he had been trying to court her for years with spectacular, consistent failure. And, more relevantly, my teacher. Music, and through music, sound magic.
An Almondling rested in his lap—a string instrument typical of Elenoir, its body carved from almond wood of Eidelholm that gave it a warm, resonant tone.
It looked like a mandolin, if a mandolin had been designed by people who understood that music was magic and magic was music.
"Master." I slid onto the stool beside him, my feet dangling—I was still too short to reach the floor comfortably.
"Corvis! Don't call me that!" Kamiel threw his hands up in exaggerated protest, nearly dropping his mug. "It makes me feel old!"
I rolled my eyes as a mug of juice appeared on the counter before me, placed there by an amused-looking elf who had clearly anticipated my arrival. I took a sip. Apple. My favorite.
Kamiel was watching me with that knowing look he got when he was about to be insufferable.
"Why are you in Vaelmora?" I asked, cutting to the chase.
"Just passing through." He whistled innocently, examining his nails.
"Yeah, sure." I narrowed my eyes and took another sip.
"Okay, I yield!" He threw his hands up again, nearly knocking over his mug this time. "But! On one condition."
"I won't put in a good word for you with Alea. Or Alwyn." This was one of Kamiel's eternal strategies—win the brother, win the sister. It had not, in four years of trying, shown any signs of working.
I wondered how he would react if he knew Alea was a Lance. Which she still hadn't revealed to me, by the way. Dad clearly had no intention of telling Tessia and me about the Lances anytime soon, despite the fact that one of them had been training me in secret for most of my life.
"Is that how you repay your poor master for all the lessons he gives you?" Kamiel clutched his chest in mock offense.
"Your position is one most of Elenoir would envy." I held up a hand before he could retort. "And Dad pays you. He pays you well."
Kamiel had been my teacher since before my official awakening. Before that, he had taught me music—the theory, the practice, the soul of it. Now he taught me how to make that music into something more.
"So." I set down my mug. "Are you going to tell me why you're really here?"
Kamiel's smirk widened. He leaned toward me, his dark eyes gleaming with the particular mania that preceded his most ridiculous declarations.
"My little favorite pupil." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know who I am. You know what I do. I search for stories. For ballads. And I am here for my masterpiece! The Beary Bear!"
"For the warmth of summer, Master—" My eyes drifted upward of their own accord, a physical manifestation of my disbelief. "That doe—"
"No, Corvis." His finger pressed against my lips, silencing me. "The Beary Bear is real."
The Beary Bear. One of the most famous songs in all of Elenoir, composed by Kamiel himself years before I was born. A legendary bear that roamed the Elshire Forest, terrifying children and inspiring ballads. I had always assumed it was pure fantasy—just another of Kamiel's beautiful, impossible stories.
"Sure." I kept my voice flat. "But why Vaelmora? Of all places?"
"Because the Beary Bear has been seen here!" Kamiel's finger shot from my lips to the ceiling, then arced dramatically downward to point at the floor.
He coughed, composed himself, and turned to a boy sitting a few stools away—older than me, maybe twelve or thirteen, with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip.
"Lad!" Kamiel beckoned. "Could you tell our suspicious prince what you saw in the forest?"
The boy swallowed hard. "I-it was a huge bear! It was maiming the poor Forest Hounds like they were peaches!"
I turned to Kamiel. "Master—"
"Shh!" He held up a hand. "He's not the only one. Sir?"
He gestured to another elf, a seasoned hunter with a blonde beard and the weathered face of someone who had spent decades in these woods.
The hunter nodded grimly. "Started about a month ago. We've been wary of going out to hunt, and not just because of winter."
"Master—"
"Shh!" Another silencing gesture.
More villagers shared their stories. A woman gathering herbs had heard something massive moving through the undergrowth. A woodcutter had found trees torn apart, their trunks splintered by immense force.
A pair of lovers, sneaking away for a private moment, had seen something—they couldn't describe it, wouldn't describe it, just shivered and looked away when asked.
I let them speak, listening not to their words but to the patterns beneath them. This was real. Whatever was lurking in these woods, it was real, and it was dangerous. The claw marks I had seen this morning confirmed it.
But it wasn't Kamiel's Beary Bear. Bears were common enough in the Elshire Forest—mana beasts of various sizes and strengths, some dangerous, most not. One didn't need to invent legends to explain their presence.
When the last story had been told, I turned to Kamiel.
"Master. Can you listen to me now?"
He crossed his arms and leaned back on his stool, balancing perfectly—sound magic also helped with balance, one of the first tricks he had taught me. "Speak."
"I know there's a mana beast lurking near Vaelmora's woods. I saw its claw marks on trees just this morning."
"You see!" Kamiel exclaimed. "You confirm it!"
"Master." I fixed him with my best unimpressed stare. "It's not your Beary Bear. If it's a bear, it's just a coincidence. What does your song say? That the Beary Bear wanders all the Elshire? That it eats evil children who disobey their parents? Come on."
From anyone else, this interaction would have seemed reversed—the child being reasonable, the adult being ridiculous. But with Kamiel, this was simply how things worked.
He shook his head slowly, his expression turning thoughtful. "You should learn not to let logic cloud your judgment, Corvis."
"Isn't it the opposite?" I frowned. "Not letting emotions cloud your judgment?"
"No." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "As my student, as an aspiring musician, you can't have that idea. Logic has its place, yes. But emotion? Emotion is where music lives. Where magic lives. If you strangle your feelings with reason, you'll never truly understand what you're capable of."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he continued.
"And I'll prove it to you." His smirk returned. "By making you bring me the Beary Bear."
"I'm sorry. What?"
"Yes! Go forth, brave prince! Defeat the Beary Bear for me and the people of Vaelmora!" He threw his arms wide, nearly toppling off his stool this time. "Bring me my masterpiece!"
I stared at him.
Kamiel Rennoux was a coward. A certified, documented, undisputed coward. Despite being a mage at the light stage of the yellow core—far more powerful than he had any right to be given his complete lack of combat experience—he had never fought anything in his life.
House Rennoux had been shocked when he was employed directly by the crown. His cousin, the current Lady of the House, still wrote letters to Mom expressing disbelief that anyone would pay her useless relative for anything.
And yet here he was, sending a nine-year-old to fight a monster while he sat in a warm inn drinking pine needle tea.
"I was going to do it anyway." I rolled my eyes and slid off my stool. I drained the last of my apple juice and set the mug down with a decisive clink. "Thank you," I said to the innkeeper, who beamed as if I had gifted him a fortune.
As I reached the door, Kamiel's voice rang out behind me.
"I'll write a song just for you, Prince! The Ballad of Corvis and the Beary Bear! It'll be my greatest work!"
I didn't turn around. I just stepped out into the snow.
The village greeted me again as I passed, their faces hopeful, their blessings warm. I nodded to each of them, accepting their faith even as I questioned whether I deserved it.