Corvis Eralith
One moment, the deep, verdant embrace of the Elshire Forest, muffled and sacred, the scent of damp earth and ancient magic thick in the lungs.
The next, we stepped onto the windswept moorland bordering the northern cliffs. The forest's protective canopy vanished, replaced by a vast, open sky the color of tarnished pewter, pressing down on an expanse of coarse, resilient grass that rippled like a grey-green sea under the relentless caress—or rather, the buffeting—of the salt-laden wind.
And what a spectacle it was. We stood on the crumbling edge of the world, it seemed. Below, sheer chalk cliffs, blindingly white against the churning grey-blue of the sea, plunged hundreds of feet into chaos.
Waves, born from distant storms, marched in relentless, foaming legions only to hurl themselves with suicidal fury against the unyielding rock. The impact was a tremor through the ground beneath my feet, a continuous, thunderous symphony of destruction and endurance—water shattering against stone, over and over, sending plumes of spray high into the air where the wind snatched them away.
The vista struck a chord deep within my fractured memory. The rolling grassland, the dramatic white cliffs plunging into a tempestuous sea… The White Cliffs of Dover.
The name surfaced with startling clarity, an image from a geography book or a documentary flickering to life. A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped me before I could stifle it. Ironic, the thought screamed silently.
I can't remember my own name, the faces of my parents from that life, the sound of my own voice… but I remember a damn postcard view of the British coastline? The absurdity of it was a sharp, cold knife twisting in the gut of my lost identity.
Grampa, standing beside me, his beard streaming like a silver banner in the gale, glanced over. "Funny isn't a term I would use to describe these cliffs," he rumbled, his voice competing with the wind and waves, "but sure, it's an… interesting perspective."
My eyes drifted to Elder Camus. He stood equally still, facing the tumultuous sea, the gale-force winds screaming around us. Yet, astonishingly, not a single strand of his long, silver hair stirred. It lay perfectly still against his shoulders and back, as if encased in glass. The chaotic wind simply… parted around him, acknowledging his mastery, flowing like a respectful river around an immovable stone. It was a silent, profound display of control that left me awestruck.
Grampa noticed my rapt attention. He nudged Camus with an elbow. "Camus," he said, his tone a mix of chiding and amusement, "could you not use magic so blatantly in front of Corvis? It's a bit… showy."
Elder Camus turned his head slightly, the blindfolded face registering genuine surprise. "Virion, the boy clearly perceives the currents. It requires no core to feel the wind's absence." He paused, and though the sash hid his eyes, I sensed a thoughtful assessment. "But very well." Almost imperceptibly, the absolute stillness around him softened. A few strands of hair now lifted gently, dancing in the breeze like everyone else's. It was a concession, small but significant.
He knew I lacked a core—such a fact would be immediately apparent to one so attuned to mana flows. Yet, he didn't treat me with the cautious pity or veiled disappointment I have encountered. He didn't see a broken prince, just… me. Corvis. And while the world often judged worth by the color of a core, I found a peculiar, unexpected solace in his matter-of-fact acceptance.
Handicapped? In the grand, brutal scheme of Alacryan invasions and Asuran machinations, perhaps. But here, now, facing the ancient sea with these two, it felt… irrelevant. Commoners lived without cores every day. It was only among nobility that it became a crippling shame.
My gaze swept back across the imposing cliff face, searching for any sign of the promised entrance. "Where is it?" I called out over the roar. "The entrance to the ruins?"
Elder Camus turned fully towards the precipice, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Beneath the waves," he stated simply.
"Beneath the—?" My question died in my throat. Before I could voice the obvious logistical nightmare,
Camus moved. His arms swept out in a wide, elegant, undulating arc, palms facing the turbulent sea below. No grand incantation, no visible surge of mana, at least to me, just pure, focused will channeled through decades of mastery.
The wind, already fierce, obeyed. It coalesced, compressed, becoming not just air, but a solid, invisible battering ram. A focused gale, sharper than any blade, slammed downwards with terrifying force.
The effect was instantaneous and breathtaking. A cluster of large, seaweed-draped boulders near the cliff's edge, which I had dismissed as a natural formation, shuddered violently.
Then, as if pushed by a giant's hand, they began to roll, gathering speed down the steep, treacherous slope towards the churning shoreline. They crashed onto the wet sand just as a massive wave surged in.
Instead of crashing unimpeded, the wave met the newly deposited barrier. Water exploded upwards and sideways, momentarily held back, revealing—for a precious few seconds—a dark, arched opening in the base of the cliff, half-submerged in swirling foam and retreating water.
"Buhnd really devised a smart access," Grampa remarked, nodding with gruff approval as the waves immediately began reclaiming the entrance, the boulders now acting as a partial breakwater. "Subtle, when you know the trick."
"Surely better than Hester's plan," Elder Camus retorted dryly, already moving towards a narrow, perilous-looking path I hadn't noticed before. It was carved precariously into the cliff face itself, descending steeply towards the now-hidden entrance.
A single, thick rope, weathered and salt-stained, was anchored to iron stakes driven into the rock, offering the only handhold.
Grampa gestured for me to follow Camus. As I gripped the rough, damp rope and took my first tentative step onto the slippery, uneven path, the sheer drop to the roiling sea yawned beside me. My boots scrabbled for purchase on the wet chalk. Adrenaline spiked, cold and sharp. Below, the waves boomed like distant cannon fire, each crash sending a fine mist of salt spray onto my face.
Ahead, Elder Camus descended with the unnerving, fluid grace of a spider, his steps sure, his connection to the air currents making the vertiginous drop irrelevant. Grampa followed, steady as a mountain goat, decades of experience etched into his confident movements.
And then there was me. Heart hammering against my ribs, knuckles white on the rope, every muscle tensed against the pull of gravity and the roar of the void beside me. The difference was stark, humbling.
———
The final steps echoed dully in the vast, hollow silence as we emerged from the narrow passageway into a circular chamber. The air here was cold, stale, and carried the faint, mineral tang of deep earth and undisturbed centuries.
It felt… incomplete. Grand in scale, yet starkly bare. Smooth, seamless stone walls curved upwards to a ceiling lost in shadow. The faint light filtering from the tunnel entrance behind us barely penetrated the gloom, revealing no carvings, no runes, no artifacts.
Just emptiness. It resonated with a haunting familiarity—the sanctuary beneath Darv's desert, as described in the novel, but scaled down and stripped bare. A blueprint abandoned, a symphony composed but never played.
A chilling thought crystallized: Unfinished. Snuffed out. Like the Djinn themselves. My gaze swept the barren expanse, a scholar's instinct warring with a rising tide of frustration.
"Grampa," I asked, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness, "how long have we been walking for?" The question wasn't idle curiosity. It was a probe, a test against the lore I carried. If this place echoed the Darv sanctuary's properties, time itself should warp around magical potential.
To my senses, the journey through the winding, featureless corridors had felt fleeting, perhaps thirty minutes of focused, anxious traversal. But for Grampa and Camus, both radiating the potent energy of silver cores… their perception should be markedly different.
Grampa paused, stroking his beard as he considered, his eyes scanning the empty chamber with a practiced, slightly disappointed gaze. "Two hours?" he mused, then glanced at Camus. "Maybe a touch less? The path winds more than it seems for sure."
Elder Camus, standing like a statue, gave a curt nod. "I agree. We should turn back. The light fails swiftly on the cliffs, and navigating the path that leads back to Asyphin in darkness is… unwise."
Two hours. The confirmation hit like a blow. My theory solidified: Unfinished, and therefore flawed. The temporal distortion was present, a ghost of the intended function, but muted, inconsistent. The Asuras hadn't just destroyed the Djinn; they had interrupted their work, leaving this place a hollow echo, a tomb for ambitions never realized. The bitter taste of wasted potential filled my mouth.
How could this help me? A bolt-hole, perhaps, if disaster struck and the Darv sanctuary was compromised. But that was a contingency, a shadow of a plan, not the key I desperately sought.
"Corvis?" Grampa's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. He'd moved closer, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's on your mind? You've been quieter than usual since we entered."
The observation hung in the cold air. I met his gaze, the words forming with a certainty that surprised even me. "Time here flows differently." I stated it plainly, a fact pulled from the chasm between my perception and theirs.
The effect was immediate. Grampa's eyes widened, genuine astonishment breaking through his usual gruff demeanor. Beside him, Elder Camus gave a sharp, involuntary cough, his head snapping towards me with unnerving precision despite the blindfold.
"That's… really a unique theory, Prince Corvis," Camus murmured, his voice laced with a newfound respect, tinged with disbelief. The use of my title felt significant, an acknowledgment of the insight, however strange its source.
Grampa recovered faster, stepping closer, his hand instinctively gripping my shoulder. "Is that why you asked about the time? How long did it feel to you?"
"Thirty minutes," I answered, my gaze drifting back to the oppressive emptiness of the chamber. "More or less."
Thirty minutes of hopeful tension, collapsing into this crushing void. My eyes raked the smooth walls, the flawless floor, searching for any anomaly, any hairline crack, any whisper of hidden purpose the elders might have missed. Nothing. Just cold, perfect, useless stone.
Without the ability to sense aether, to influence it, I was blind in a realm where sight was everything. I remembered the artifacts in the Darv sanctuary—lamps fueled by aether, doors woven from possibility. Here… dust and silence.
"It's all here?" The question escaped, sharper than intended, laced with a frustration I couldn't fully suppress. "Just… this chamber?"
Grampa's chuckle was warm, a deliberate counterpoint to the chilling disappointment. He ruffled my hair, the familiar gesture both comforting and somehow amplifying my sense of inadequacy.
"Sorry if I didn't bring you to an ecstatic dungeon full of glittering treasures, Corvis!" he teased, his eyes crinkling. "That's precisely why Camus and I kept this quiet. Fascinating architecture, yes. Proof of ancient, advanced builders, certainly. But practically? It's almost empty. A curiosity, not a cache."
Of course. The logic was undeniable, practical. The elders, burdened with protecting a kingdom, wouldn't waste resources on a beautiful, empty shell.
They had the far more functional sanctuary. They had its potential. They didn't need the ghost. The bitter pill was that I did. I needed anything—a scrap of knowledge, a dormant artifact, a hidden inscription—that could alter the terrible calculus of the future.
"Fine, let's head back," I sighed, my voice heavy with unspoken frustration. Turning away from the quiet desolation of the place felt like abandoning something, like conceding to a fate I refused to accept. Perhaps there were more sites like this one—hidden sanctuaries, refuges meant to shelter those who survived once the war was lost. But I would not allow that future to take shape. No matter how slim our chances, no matter how impossible victory seemed, I refused to yield.
Our footsteps echoed against the stone corridor, filling the silence with a rhythmic cadence as we made our way back to the surface. But then—just at the periphery of my vision—I saw them.
Thin, delicate threads of yellow light, luminous and ethereal, barely noticeable at first. They wavered, shifting and flickering like strands of woven fire, stretching between the cracks of reality itself. With every step, they multiplied, curling through the air, dancing with purpose.
I blinked, expecting the illusion to fade—but instead, the golden filaments expanded, tangling themselves around me like unseen hands reaching from the unknown.
A strange pressure built in my chest, a whisper of something vast and incomprehensible looming just beyond my grasp.
"Grandpa? Elder Camus?" I called out, my voice breaking the eerie stillness. No response.
The golden strings thickened, weaving together like a celestial tapestry, filling every inch of the world around me. The corridor, the walls, even the air itself—everything blurred, swallowed by the luminous threads.
I was alone.
The silence stretched, waiting, pressing down upon me like an unanswered question. My breath hitched, my pulse thrumming in my ears. This isn't normal. This isn't magic. This is something else.
And then, as though invoking something sacred—something forbidden—my voice barely above a whisper, I murmured:
"Fate?"
The strings of light pulsed, shifting, unraveling in response to my words.
And then, a voice—calm, patient, as though it had been lingering just beyond the veil, waiting for this very moment.
"Corvis Eralith, the Thwart. I have been waiting to speak with you."