Alea Triscan
The frigid wind screamed past my ears, a constant roar that did nothing to drown out the frantic crackle of the portable radio clutched in my gauntleted hand. A marvel, this device.
A lifeline Prince Corvis had gifted to this ungrateful continent, a symbol of the progress he championed. Now, it felt like a chain, binding me to a nightmare.
"Alea, have you found him?"
King Eralith's voice, usually a bedrock of calm authority, was frayed. Raw. The sound scraped against my nerves, echoing the frantic beating of my own heart against the white core pulsing within my chest. It wasn't a king asking a Lance; it was a father begging for his lost child—again.
"I am flying over the Beast Glades now, Your Majesty," I responded, my voice tight, fighting the wind's theft. Before launching into this vast, green hell, I had gone to Xyrus City.
To Princess Tessia. Seeing the Princess had been like staring into a mirror of shattered faith. Her eyes, usually bright with fierce spirit, were shadowed caverns of pain and suspicion. She hadn't wept; she had burned. The bond between those siblings was a tangible thing, and it had been violently stretched, perhaps snapped.
She wouldn't trust even me—Corvis... friend, his confidant, a servant sworn to his lineage—if it meant potentially leading his hunters to him. The realization was a cold knife. Her hesitation wasn't just caution; it was the agonized reflex of a cornered animal protecting its kin.
The raw anguish etched on her young face spoke of a recent, terrible confrontation, words hurled like weapons just before he vanished into the wild.
It was only Grey, that unnervingly intense blonde boy who declared himself Corvis's "best friend" with unshakeable conviction, who offered a sliver of hope. His gaze held none of Tessia's turmoil, only a chilling certainty.
The Beast Glades.
The words landed like a death sentence. This verdant expanse below me, teeming with ancient, lethal mana beasts, was no place for anyone unprepared. And Corvis, for all his impossible intellect, his prosthetic magic that defied every known limitation... he was still fundamentally coreless.
A fragile candle flame in a hurricane. His brilliance, his artifacts—none of it felt like enough against the primordial savagery lurking beneath this canopy.
"No, Your Majesty. The Beast Glades are too big to se—" My attempt at reason, at managing expectations, died instantly.
"I only care about finding my son."
The interruption wasn't imperious; it was primal. A raw howl of paternal terror transmitted through static. It stripped away the crown, the throne, leaving only the terrified core of a man facing the unthinkable loss. It echoed the helpless fury I felt churning within me.
"Of course, Your Majesty." The words tasted like ash. A wave of crushing nostalgia washed over me, sharp and sudden.
I was flung back years, to sun-dappled palace courtyards when I was ordered to find the runaway Prince. Now? Now I hunted not because he was threatened by internal monsters, but because his own continent, the very power structure I served, had turned on him. I was trying to save him from the Council's clutches, a monstrous inversion of my oath.
The announcement of the capture warrant—alive, the single concession that offered a sliver of cold comfort—had ignited Dicathen. Elven districts simmered with outrage, whispers of rebellion thick in the air. But more astonishing was Xyrus.
That lofty human city—the jewel of Sapin—tethered to clouds and progress, had erupted. Students, merchants, artificers, people whose lives Corvis had touched in mere months voiced their fury.
Gideon Bastius, the perpetually annoyed genius, was visibly upset, his frustration directed not at malfunctioning artifacts, but at the political abomination unfolding. Cynthia Goodsky, a mountain of calm power, stood firmly, silently, in Corvis's support. Yet, against this groundswell of loyalty, the adamantine stubbornness of the Glayders and Greysunders held.
Two kings, two queens, their signatures signing an order condemning a thirteen-year-old boy. And just like that, more than half the continent became his enemy. Not through conquest, but decree.
Monarchy is primitive and a cancer—it is fundamentally gambling with the lives of hundreds of people hoping a spoon fed king knows how to do his job. Corvis had said it casually once, a throwaway line over some of ours talks these last years.
I had laughed, thinking it the charming irreverence of a prince secure in his birthright. Now, staring down at the endless, hostile green, feeling the cold bite of betrayal from the highest seats of power, the truth of his words slammed into me with devastating force.
He was right.
This blind adherence to crown and council, this willingness to sacrifice one brilliant, inconvenient boy… it was primitive. Barbaric. And it was fracturing Dicathen on the eve of annihilation. This moment, this hunt, would scar our history forever. All because a child prince, burdened with foresight none believed, had dared to exist.
Alacrya. The name was a poison in my thoughts. Corvis's warnings, his fragmented knowledge of the enemy beyond the sea, crystallized into cold certainty. The Council was compromised. This reeked of the enemy's subtle, insidious venom, turning our own leaders into their hunting hounds. The betrayal wasn't just political; it was existential.
My hand drifted unconsciously to my chest, pressing against the cool metal of my breastplate, feeling the thrum beneath. My white core.
King Eralith's gift, the artifact that propelled me to the pinnacle. For years, its power had felt… settled. Complete. Now? Now it burned. A fierce, unfamiliar heat pulsed within it, not the steady glow of mastery, but the raw, desperate surge I remembered from my girlhood—when I was just Alea, fists clenched, pouring every ounce of will into a fledgling core, dreaming of strength to protect what mattered.
Corvis had shattered the ceiling of what I thought possible, not just for strength to fight for our future, but for loyalty. He had entrusted me with secrets that could get him killed, me—the weakest Lance.
And I had chosen him. My hand tightened into a fist against my core, the heat flaring in response. I trusted Corvis with my life. And I would scour every leaf, every shadow, every treacherous mile of these cursed Glades to bring him home, even if it meant turning my magic against the very continent I was sworn to defend.
Corvis Eralith
The thin, frigid air of the summit made its way inside my workshop and bit at my lungs as I blew on my left hand, the sting of the needle still fresh.
"We can consider ourselves lucky to have found this place last week," Romulos declared, his spectral form coalescing onto the rough-hewn stone chair I had shaped days earlier. His voice echoed slightly in the high, vaulted grotto I had carved into the mountain's very peak—my sanctuary, my now prison.
Lucky. The word tasted like ash. Berna, a silent, shaggy monolith of loyalty, laid curled protectively around Sylvia's Mana Core. The mana core pulsed with a soft, ethereal light, drinking greedily from the thin atmospheric mana, its glow now filling half its crystalline structure.
Her legacy, entrusted to me by Grey, felt like both a sacred duty and an unbearable weight in this exile. Berna's low, rumbling breaths were the only sound besides the wind's constant, mournful howl outside.
"Yes," I conceded, my voice flat, echoing the exhaustion settling deep into my bones. I didn't look at him. "But if they find me here, Romulos, there's no back door. No escape route. Just a very long drop."
The vulnerability of it was a constant, icy drip down my spine. Hidden, yes. The entrance masked by a painstakingly crafted mimetic carpet, the internal lights kept dim as embers. But trapped.
I heard the exasperated sigh resonate inside my skull, not just in the cave air. "Always the pessimist," he chided, the familiar edge of impatience in his tone. Then, shifting gears with unnerving ease: "Anyway, how is it going with that new Ineptrune of yours? The earth attuned one?"
My gaze dropped back to my left hand. The back was a canvas of fresh ink, still slightly swollen and raw. The design—a stylized bear, its form powerful yet contained within intricate, interlocking geometric patterns—was complete.
Beside me laid the tools: the faithful, sharp nib, the vial holding the precious, gritty ink I'd painstakingly crafted from powdered Geolus stones, imbued with the essence of the earth itself. The Acclorite piece, cool and heavy, pulsed faintly within my left palm, a constant anchor.
This new Ineptrune, Falling Down, was its intended partner.
"Will it be able to manipulate rock?" Romulos asked, genuine curiosity momentarily overriding his usual agenda.
I shook my head, flexing my fingers cautiously. The movement tugged at the fresh tattoo. "Not directly. It manipulates the earth mana. Less about shaping stone, more about… unsettling foundations. Inducing tremors. An earthquake generator, essentially." I paused, tracing the bear motif with my eyes. "For the other part, I added Berna's blood to the ink. It should let me manipulate localized gravity fields. Falling Down. Seemed fitting for a name."
"Oh, gravity magic?" Romulos sounded genuinely amused now, a dark chuckle echoing internally. "That's my specialty. Well, decay-infused gravity, but the principle holds."
"If I ever stumble upon a way to utilize decay mana arts without turning into a monster, I'll give you a call," I replied dryly, the sarcasm a thin shield against his unsettling proximity.
His presence sharpened, turning predatory. "When we kill Uto, little prince, you'll have materials aplenty. Who knows?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr. "Perhaps I'll even teach you the ability Fate bestowed upon me, as one of the Thwart's instances. A… unique form of power."
The offer hung in the cold air like poisoned smoke. Devil's temptation indeed. "So," I countered, a flicker of bitter jealousy I couldn't quite suppress rising, "being the hybrid heir of two god-like beings wasn't enough? Fate had to hand you an extra prize?"
"Hey," he shot back, amusement laced with mock offense. "Meta-awareness. You have no right to complain about unfair advantages."
"What is it?" I demanded, the question ripped from me despite my better judgment. Power was a siren song, especially now, hunted and cornered.
"Despite being a dragon-basilisk hybrid," he explained, a hint of pride colouring his mental voice, "I could inherently wield both Realmheart and Decay. Decades of research… led me to devise a singular mana art. I called it Anti-Matter."
The name itself felt cold, final. Utter negation.
"And with your Meta-awareness," he continued, the predatory edge returning, sharper now, "I'm certain you could learn it too. You just need to… realign your perspective. Pay back this continent that betrayed you in kind. Ally with Dad." The familiar refrain, the price tag attached to the forbidden fruit.
"Again?" I sighed, the weariness crushing. "No, thank you. And what makes you so certain Fate's unique gift to you could be taught to a 'lesser'?" The word tasted foul, but I used it deliberately, a shield of self-deprecation.
"Meta-awareness, duh," he retorted, his mental tone dripping with condescension. "But consider, Corvis," his voice softened, turning almost… reasonable. "You are being betrayed. Hunted like an animal. If fear of Dad holds you back… trust me. Anti-Matter would change his mind. It worked miracles for me."
"But you're his son," I countered, clenching my left hand, feeling the dual presence of Acclorite and the fresh, stinging power of Falling Down. "I am just a lesser. An insect to be crushed or used."
"Dad has never shared the other asuras'… distaste for lessers," Romulos stated, a surprising note of objectivity in his tone. Then, softer, carrying an unexpected weight: "Moreover… you are me."
The words landed with startling force. Was that kinship I was hearing from Romulos Indrath?
Before I could process it, his voice snapped back, colder than the mountain stone, erasing the fleeting vulnerability.
"No."
Needing to break the unsettling weight of Romulos's last, clipped denial, I shifted my gaze. My left palm tingled faintly, the cool, smooth disc of the Acclorite embedded there a constant, alien presence. "How long," I asked, my voice raspy in the thin air, "until this thing fully grows?" The question felt mundane, a desperate anchor to practicality amidst the swirling dangers.
Romulos, still perched on the stone chair like a phantom king, tilted his head, eyes distant as he performed some internal calculus. "At the current rate?" He finally drawled, a thumb jerking dismissively towards the radiant core Berna guarded. "Four years. Give or take. Seeing as you're funnelling every scrap of ambient mana within leagues into my mother's mana core."
Four years. The number landed like an arrow straight to my chest, stealing my breath. The enormity of it threatened to crush the fragile hope fueling me. My jaw tightened.
"Fine," I forced out, the word tasting like ground stone. "Sylvia's core has the priority." Its light, half-full now, was the key to everything else. Without it, the Beast Corps was a pipe dream. I needed that power.
Seeking distraction, a sliver of control, I focused on the fresh tattoo on the back of my hand—Falling Down.
Concentrating and using Against the Tragedy at the same time, I willed its power upwards, just above my palm. The air shimmered, groaned. Tiny, hairline fractures appeared in the empty space, like glass stressed to its limit.
It was… underwhelming. More a localized tremor than a devastating collapse. Useful, perhaps, for disrupting balance in close combat, shattering a guard, but not the earth-shattering force the name implied.
Yet. Potential, I reminded myself grimly. Potential I desperately needed to cultivate.
"You've finally found a use for Mother's core, then?" Romulos inquired, his tone a blend of genuine curiosity and something darker, perhaps possessive. He drifted closer, a shadow drawn to the light.
"Mana battery," I stated flatly, meeting his spectral gaze. "For the first exoform of the Beast Corps." The image formed in my mind—a construct of salvaged beast bone and reinforced mana conduits, animated not just by my artificing, but by the raw, deep reserves of a dragon.
Romulos's spectral form solidified slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "And how, precisely, do you plan on harvesting the requisite high-tier mana beast parts now, little prince? You're not exactly a welcome guest down there. You're wanted."
He savored the word, letting it hang in the cold air like a threat, or a sentence that would eventually make me side with Agrona.
The reminder was a cold splash of reality, but it only firmed my resolve. The fear was there, coiling in my gut, but beneath it burned a stubborn, desperate fire. "I'm too far into this to yield now," I declared, my voice gaining strength as I looked towards Berna. Her massive head lifted, intelligent green eyes meeting mine, reflecting unwavering loyalty. "We head back into the Beast Glades tomorrow."
The practicalities crashed in. The simple smoker I had rigged, its pipe snaking to the surface to vent smoke, had yielded dried rations. Against the Tragedy could condense water from the thin mountain air. Berna could hunt. The storage rings held emergency reserves. But the dwindling medical supplies… that was a sharper point of vulnerability.
The image of the elven women and kids I had bandaged three days ago, their grateful eyes, flashed before me. I had used most of what I had on them. Now, entering the Glades if I got injured… it was a risk that tightened my chest.
"Just be extra careful," Romulos murmured, his voice uncharacteristically lacking its usual mocking edge. It sounded almost… genuine.
Yeah, I thought back, the bitterness sharp and private even though he could hear it. Easy advice coming from the immortal ghost who can't bleed.