Corvis Eralith
The polished wood of my desk felt cool beneath my palms, a stark contrast to the frustrated heat simmering beneath my skin.
I paced the familiar confines of my room, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of my boots on the stone floor echoing the frantic beat of my thoughts.
I have underestimated everything.
It wasn't just an oversight; it was a colossal, humbling miscalculation of my own capabilities. Yes, the meta-awareness Fate bestowed was profound—an ocean of understanding deeper than any scholar's dream. I grasped the fundamental principles of artificing, the intricate dance of runes and resonance, the molecular symphonies of mana conductors and aetheric lattices, with a clarity that would leave even Gideon Bastius or Wren Kain IV breathless. I saw the blueprints of reality itself.
But understanding the map is not the same as walking the treacherous terrain.
Knowing what to do—envisioning the sleek contours of Beast Corps power armor, the humming frame of an Asuran weapon pulsing with contained might—was effortless. It unfolded in my mind's eye with crystalline perfection. Doing it? That was a chasm yawning before me, vast and unnavigable.
My hands, small and unmarked by the calluses of a craftsman, fumbled with the conceptual tools. My spirit, devoid of the mana needed to test, to feel, to interact with the very energies I sought to command, felt like a ghost trying to lift a mountain.
"Figures it wouldn't be so easy," I murmured, the words swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room. The grandiosity of my plans mocked me. Nullifying my corelessness? It was still a dream. Enhancing Dicathen's military tenfold? A mountain I stood at the base of, armed only with theoretical blueprints. The sheer scale was dizzying.
The Beast Corps armor felt like the more tangible peak. The concept was clear: integrate harvested mana beast physiology with stabilizing runic arrays over a metal cabin. I could see the skeletal framework reinforced with chitin, the muscle fibers augmented by conduits channeling ambient mana, the helm housing sensory runes synced to the wearer's core.
It was complex, yes, requiring exotic materials and skilled hands I didn't possess, but the path was illuminated. I could guide others, given the resources and artisans.
The Asuran Weapons, however… they were a different kind of abyss. Secrets jealously guarded by the asuran race of Titans. I understood the theory—weapons forged not just for a wielder, but with them, bound intrinsically to their core signature.
Then there was Acclorite. The sentient mineral that could become a Regis. That knowledge sparked a dangerous, almost heretical line of thought. What if...?
If acclorite shaped itself to the wielder's mana signature… what would happen if the wielder had no signature? In Arthur's case, when he didn't have a mana core anymore Regis became a being based on aether.
But if I, a void where mana should roar, somehow channeled enough ambient energy—siphoned, borrowed, coerced—into a piece of raw acclorite? Would it resonate with the emptiness? Would it forge something utterly alien, a weapon shaped by absence rather than presence? Or would it simply shatter, inert, mocking my coreless existence?
The crushing weight wasn't just the complexity of the tasks. It was the profound disconnect between the vastness within my mind and the stark limitations of the vessel containing it.
I was an eleven-year-old boy, soon to be twelve. My hands were small and soft. My body lacked the stamina, the fine motor control honed by decades of practice. My workshop was a desk littered with parchment and theoretical diagrams, not a forge echoing with hammer blows or an aether-lab humming with containment fields. I possessed the architect's vision for cathedrals, but I had never laid a single brick.
The meta-awareness was a double-edged sword. It showed me the summit in perfect detail but made the sheer, treacherous climb beneath me agonizingly visible. Every missing tool, every physical limitation, every gap in practical experience was highlighted in stark relief. Frustration warred with a cold, hard determination. Knowledge was power, Fate insisted.
But raw knowledge, untempered by experience, untranslated into action, felt like a library locked inside a prison cell.
I needed to learn. Not just theorize, but do.
It was clear. I have been arrogant, I needed help. Probably I was afraid of ruining this beautiful life I was having. Yes, my parents and Grampa thought of me like a little genius, a jack of all trades able to do handling State matters with extraordinary capability, but the big of my knowledge was still in my head. And I was gatekeeping it.
"I need to go to school..." I grabbed some blueprints I sketched on scrolls I took from Grampa's office—I didn't want to tale Dad's ones and Grampa's ones were just taking dust anyway—and went to search for my parents.
———
The polished marble floor of the west hallway felt pleasantly cool beneath my boots as I hurried towards the throne room where I hoped my parents where, the late afternoon sun casting long, distorted shadows through the towering stained-glass windows depicting scenes from earliest days of the Eralith family.
The vibrant blues and greens painted shifting patterns on the pale stone walls. My mind churned with plans—finding Mom and Dad to discuss potential tutors, discreet inquiries into mineralogy texts… the logistics of artificing without were truly daunting.
I have never been more glad to be born royalty.
"Corvis! There you are—I've been looking for you."
The familiar, booming voice stopped me mid-stride. I turned to see Grampa Virion leaning casually against an ornate pillar, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his weathered face. Sunlight glinted off the silver streaks in his hair. That smirk.
It was the universal harbinger of Virion Eralith Schemes™. Instinctively, my guard went up.
I narrowed my eyes, suspicion coiling in my gut. "What are you thinking about now, Grampa?" My voice was dry, wary. The memory of Djinn ruins and other interesting trips we have made these last two months were still fresh.
He pushed off the pillar, spreading his hands in an exaggerated gesture of innocence that fooled absolutely no one. "Can't a grandfather simply check on his favorite grandson?" His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Make sure you're not plotting anything harmful from your desk?"
I crossed my arms, mirroring his earlier posture but without the amusement. "Favorite? I am your only grandson and moreover Tessia isn't even here. And cut the act. Last time you pulled the 'just checking in' routine, we ended up knee-deep in ancient ruins with more than deadly accesses ."
I paused, the importance of the encounter with Fate momentarily silencing the sarcasm.
"Not that I'm complaining about that outcome, I liked going there… but don't think you can fool me with that smile. It's practically got schematics etched onto it."
Grampa chuckled, a low rumble that echoed faintly in the vast hallway. He raised his hands higher in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! Sharp as ever. I yield." The smirk widened, becoming almost predatory. He took a step closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Fine. I wanted to ask… how would you feel about attending Xyrus Academy?"
I blinked. The question hit me like a physical jolt, completely unexpected. Xyrus? The epicenter of Dicathen's magical elite? For me? The sheer absurdity almost made me laugh. Was he reading my mind?
He didn't wait for the shock to fully register. "And before you start listing the thousand reasons why it's impossible," he continued, waving a dismissive hand, "I've already spoken with Director Goodsky." He paused, letting the name hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. "She's more than happy to welcome both you and Tessia." He emphasized 'both,' his gaze steady on mine, gauging my reaction.
Director Goodsky. Cynthia. The Alacryan spy… and Tessia's Master. A slow, dawning realization washed over me, warm and incredulous. This was what Tessia had meant back before her depart, with that fierce, confident grin: "Just let your amazing sister deal with it!"
She hadn't just wished for me to join her; she had made it happen. She had convinced Cynthia Goodsky, a woman renowned for her pragmatism and high standards, to open Xyrus's doors to a mana-coreless prince. Royalty and the fact Virion was one of her greatest friends—if not her most cherished relationship in Dicathen and probably her whole life—were factors, sure, but Tessia's sheer force of will… it was an unexpected, deeply touching victory. A testament to her unwavering belief.
"Was Tessia the one who asked you to do this?" I questioned, my voice softer now, searching Grampa's face for confirmation of my sister's handiwork.
Surprisingly, he looked genuinely caught off guard. His eyebrows shot up, the smirk momentarily replaced by confusion.
"Tessia?" He tilted his head, considering. "Well, no. Though I wouldn't be at all surprised if she had been badgering Cynthia day and night about dragging her twin along." His expression shifted, becoming serious, earnest. He placed a hand on my shoulder, the grip firm and warm.
"But this decision, Corvis? This was entirely mine. Based solely on your talent. On the mind I see working behind those eyes. Cynthia agreed because she sees it too. The potential isn't just in your bloodline, boy. It's in you."
"Oh." The single syllable escaped me, small and breathless. Genuinely taken aback. I had braced myself for an argument about my limitations, for Grampa's well-intentioned but misguided attempts to 'fix' my situation.
I hadn't expected… belief. Pure, unadulterated belief in me, Corvis Eralith, coreless prince, based on my mind alone. The simplicity of it, the sheer lack of resistance I had anticipated, left me momentarily speechless.
Of course, Tessia and the Glayder heirs attended Xyrus Academy in the perfect instance—that was obvious. But me? I had assumed being manaless would erect an insurmountable wall. Apparently, Virion Eralith and Cynthia Goodsky were adept at scaling walls.
Reminiscing how the Director of Xyrus Academy made Arthur a professor when he was thirteen years old was a proof for that, but still... I was surprised.
Grampa studied my stunned silence, his gaze perceptive. He squeezed my shoulder gently.
"I know," he began, his voice dropping slightly, adopting a more cautious, understanding tone, "that you don't exactly… trust non-elves. That the meetings with the other royals have been… difficult for you."
"But Xyrus, Corvis… it's different. It's not just kings and queens playing politics. It's young people around your age. Humans, dwarves, elves, all learning, struggling and growing together. It will show you… they're not all like the royal families."
I stiffened slightly, pulling back just an inch. Xenophobic? Where had that come from? Annoyance pricked at the warmth his earlier words had kindled.
Then it clicked. My behavior at the meetings with the other monarchies of Dicathen. The barely concealed tension whenever Blaine Glayder spoke, the instinctive wariness around the Greysunders' creepy smiles.
It wasn't dislike for their races—I had lived one life already knowing prejudice was poison. It was knowledge. Knowledge of Blaine Glayder's future spinelessness, his willingness to betray Arthur, to hand over a child to Agrona for political expediency.
Knowledge of the Greysunders' deep-seated treachery.
The Glayders importance to Sapin's stability was the only thread keeping Aldir's wrath or Grampa's justice from falling on them like a mountain. Respect? For Blaine? Absolutely not. It was hard to respect a man destined to be a cowardly pawn. But racism? That was a misdiagnosis, and it stung.
"Grampa," I said, my voice regaining its edge, laced with a touch of weary annoyance. I met his concerned gaze directly.
He blinked, surprised by the shift. "Yes?"
"Could you please," I stated slowly, deliberately, "not assume I'm racist?" The word felt heavy, unpleasant. "Disliking specific, demonstrably untrustworthy individuals who happen to be human doesn't equate to hating all humans."
Agrona. Kezess. The architects of misery.
Grampa flushed slightly, realizing his blunder. He held up his hands again, this time genuinely apologetic. "I never meant it in that way! Truly, Corvis. I just… I worry. I see the tension in you around them, the distance. I thought… maybe Xyrus could ease that. Show you the other side." He cleared his throat, clearly flustered.
"S-so… what do you say? About Xyrus?"
The annoyance faded as quickly as it arose, replaced by the warmth of his original offer. He fumbled, but his heart was in the right place. He believed in me. He saw me. "Of course I want to go to Xyrus," I replied, the honesty clear in my voice. A smile touched my lips. "It was actually the reason why I was searching for Mom and Dad. To discuss… possibilities."
Grampa's face lit up, the awkwardness vanishing instantly, replaced by triumphant glee. He clapped me hard on the shoulder, nearly knocking the breath out of me.
"See?!" he boomed, the sound echoing down the gallery, startling a flock of jewel-birds perched high in the vaulted ceiling—I admired how despite being the royal residence elven architecture was still so symbiotic with nature, it soothed my mind.
"I just knew what you wanted! Your grandfather was ready to deliver the news even before you could ask for it! Anticipating your needs, that's what I do!" He puffed out his chest, the picture of smug satisfaction.
I stumbled slightly from the force of his clap, but couldn't help the laugh that escaped me. My grandfather, the mighty Elder Virion, future Commander of whole Dicathen, was, at his core, an incorrigible, lovable buffoon.
A buffoon who would cross continents for me, who would confront ancient powers for me, and now, blundered his way through offering me a future he genuinely believed I deserved. The affection that washed over me was profound, almost overwhelming.
Even before I truly considered him family—back when he was just a compelling character in a story I'd read—I had admired his spirit. The thought of that now—reducing this complex, flawed, fiercely loving man to mere ink on a page—sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
It felt like a betrayal of the deepest kind. He wasn't a character. He was Grampa. And his belief in me, clumsy or not, was one of the most real and precious things I possessed.
"There, there, Corvis," Grampa murmured, his voice filled with warmth as I unconsciously wrapped my arms around him.
"Thank you, Grampa," I whispered, my smile soft yet filled with unspoken gratitude.
No matter the challenges ahead, no matter how unforgiving the future might be, moments like this—this quiet, unwavering love—were enough to make every hardship worth enduring. In his embrace, the weight of the world felt just a little lighter, and for that, I was endlessly grateful.