Corvis Eralith
I was walking back to my room in Zestier's Royal Palace, using REmould to take the appearance of Corvis Eralith—my truest self—back again.
The shift was seamless now, almost effortless, the way a fish might flick its tail and change direction in the water.
One moment I was Finn Warend, the dwarven boy who had dazzled the nobility of Darv with a copper machine and a well-placed lie.
The next, I was myself again. Gunmetal hair that fell on my shoulders. Teal eyes. Pointed ears. The face that had stared back at me from mirrors for nine years, the face that I feared was stolen, but that was mine.
The massive success that was the Gem Banquet still echoed in my chest, a warm glow that I did not quite trust. Elder Rahdeas would inform me when the next event to decide the Throneholder would happen, but I had plenty of time.
It would not occur for at least a month. A month of breathing. A month of being Corvis Eralith, prince of Elenoir, without the weight of a dwarven disguise pressing down on my features.
Now I could go on an expedition with Tessia and Alwyn. The Dungeon Crawlers would finally have Finn back without politics in-between, even if none of them knew that Finn was also the prince they bowed to.
I could continue to train my magic, deepen the bond between me and Berna, learn more from Avicenna. I could continue to work for a united Dicathen, one step at a time, one death at a time, one return at a time.
But as I opened the door to my room, the world dissolved around me.
The familiar walls of the Royal Palace vanished. The scent of wood and flowers was replaced by nothing—by the sterile, blinding yellow of a pocket dimension that had been folded into existence by aether arts I could not begin to comprehend.
I was standing in a space that should not exist, a space that had been created by the Indrath Clan and maintained by their will, and at its center, waiting for me with the patience of something that had never needed to hurry, was Windsom Indrath.
He stood in his humanoid shape, his galaxy eyes fixed on me with that particular expression that was not quite interest and not quite boredom.
He was wearing the same uniform he always wore, the same unblemished black, the same impossible fabric that seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it.
And I—I subconsciously sank to one knee, my body moving before my mind could catch up, ready to play the faithful pawn of Epheotus.
"Lord Windsom, Lord!" I greeted, my head bowed, my eyes fixed on the not-ground beneath me. "To what do I owe your visit?"
I suppressed my fear and worry. I pushed them down into the place where I kept all the emotions I could not afford to feel.
Did he discover about Avicenna? I had been extremely careful, ensuring I killed myself if I did not feel as safe as I needed, or if I said too much aloud.
The Vaultlamp was hidden in my storage ring, surrounded by other objects, buried beneath layers of metal and stone and the quiet hum of my own mana.
The Moyalembic? But it was nothing like the original Djinnic device. I had called it a Water Generator, never saying its original name aloud.
I had lied about its capabilities, had hidden a storage ring inside its copper tubes, had used my own magic to make it seem like it was producing water from nothing.
"Corvis," Windsom greeted, looking at me with those galaxy eyes that seemed to shout how superior he felt. "You have acted well. Our Lord is satisfied with your work within Darv."
"It is an immense honor, Lord Windsom," I said, ensuring I never raised my head too much. My voice was steady, my breathing controlled, my entire body a study in submission.
I had practiced this. I had rehearsed this. I had died and returned enough times to know exactly how to sound when I was pretending to be something I was not.
"I deemed it necessary to give you a reward for your loyal service to Epheotus," Windsom said.
He produced something from his uniform—a small pouch, dark and unremarkable, the kind of thing that could have held coins or seeds or anything small and valuable.
He tossed it to me like a master giving a treat to a dog, and I caught it without thinking, my fingers closing around the soft leather.
I opened the pouch. Inside were strange coins, ten of them, made of a material that looked like pyrite—fool's gold.
"These are Aethra," Windsom said. "Aethel, singularly. Also called aether stones. They are what you lessers might call coins, but instead of being used for transactions, we Asuras use them for our own mana cultivation."
He paused, and I felt his gaze on the top of my head, assessing, measuring. "I do not know what effect they can have on a lesser like you. But they will help you become a stronger mage."
His voice shifted slightly, becoming less directed at me and more like he was speaking to himself. Annotating his observations. Listing his intentions to a recorder that was not there.
"If luck is on your side, you might be able to reach the silver core with them."
Silver core. The words echoed in my skull, bouncing off the walls of my consciousness. What had taken my Grandpa decades to achieve—decades of training, of fighting, of pushing his body and his core to their absolute limits—Windsom was offering me in a handful of stones.
And these Aethra were used by Asuras for their own mana cultivation. Silver core was below nothing for them.
"I am honored for the trust you put in me, Lord Windsom," I said, and I meant it in the way a prisoner means it when their jailer offers them a slightly larger cell.
"Become Throneholder of Darv, Corvis." Windsom's voice was flat, final, the voice of someone who did not make requests but issued commands. "The Indrath Clan rewards loyalty and competence very well."
"I will not let Everbosk down," I repeated my false oath. The words were smooth on my tongue, practiced and polished, the product of weeks of repetition. "I swear it."
And with that, Windsom was gone. Unwilling to bear the sight of a lesser like me any longer, he folded the pocket dimension back into whatever aetheric origami had created it, and the world snapped back into focus.
I was standing in my room, alone, the door still half-open behind me, Berna's head raised from her spot on the floor, her green eyes fixed on my face.
I let out a breath. Then another. Then I sank onto my bed, the pouch of Aethra clutched in my hand.
—
"Your Highness, what are you doing?"
Alwyn's voice cut through my concentration, and I looked up to see him walking toward me across the gardens of the Royal Palace.
The morning light was golden, warm, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it was. He was holding a practice sword—one of the wooden ones he used for his training with Grandpa—and his white hair was damp with sweat.
I was sitting on a stone bench near the edge of the gardens, the pouch of Aethra open in my lap, a handful of the strange coins in my right hand. I had been trying to understand what they did, how they worked.
"I am trying to use these," I said, holding up the Aethra so Alwyn could see them.
The aether stones, as Windsom had called them, had the image of a dragon on one side and that of a basilisk on the other. I had noticed it immediately, had turned them over and over in my fingers, wondering.
Why would the Indrath Clan mint coins bearing the image of their enemies? Unless the coins were older than the enmity.
Alwyn sat down beside me, his head peeking over my shoulder as he looked at the coins. His breath was warm on my neck, his curiosity genuine, unfeigned.
"What are those coins?" he asked.
"They should help with mana cultivation," I said, and I gave two Aethra to Alwyn, leaving only two in my own hand. "But I am failing to understand how to use them."
I had tried to meditate with them in my hand. Nothing. I had tried to use Pseudo-Mana Rotation together with them, seeing how Asuras used Mana Rotation subconsciously. Nothing. The stones had remained inert, cold, unresponsive, as if they were waiting for something I did not know how to give.
"Maybe..." Alwyn murmured.
I saw him clench his fist the way I was doing, but instead of meditating, he cast a spell. A cluster of rocks appeared around his fist—earth magic, crude and unrefined. He shook off the magic, and when he opened his fist, the Aethra were shining with an inner purple light.
"How did you think of that?" I asked him, genuinely curious.
"A feeling." Alwyn shrugged, as if he had done nothing remarkable. "Maybe they needed to get a feeling of my mana signature directly. You surely would have thought of it too, Your Highness. I was just lucky."
I ignored the last part. Alwyn had always been too quick to dismiss his own insights, too ready to attribute his successes to chance or luck or to me. I had been trying to teach him otherwise for years, but the habit was deeply ingrained.
I did as Alwyn had done. I made my two Aethra float inside a bubble of water with Ars Aquamorph, letting the water carry my mana signature to the stones, letting them taste what I was.
After a few moments, my Aethra too began to glow purple.
"Your Highness, where did you get these?!" I heard Alwyn exclaim, but I barely registered his voice. I was too focused on what was happening to him.
However a strong pull of atmospheric mana was coming from his direction. Like a very, very strong pull, similar to Grandpa when he used magic more seriously than just playful spars or training with me, Tessia, or Alwyn.
The air around him seemed to thicken, to condense, to press inward toward his core.
"I... what is happening?" I asked, diverting the topic elsewhere. I did not want to explain where the Aethra had come from.
"I feel like the mana inside my body is galloping like an Elenoi Highcolt!" Alwyn exclaimed, and his voice was filled with wonder. "It is incredible!"
Then something happened. A strong push of mana outward, like a miniature awakening. I augmented my body in time and created a wind barrier with Ars Ariamorph to shield myself from the recoil of Alwyn's burst.
The light was blinding, sudden, and I squeezed my eyes shut against it.
"Alwyn, are you okay?!" I asked, opening my eyes after the sudden brightness faded.
"Me?" Alwyn bowed his head, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright. "Yes, I am fine. Sorry to have worried you, Your Highness."
"Don't be," I said, but I was already checking him with Manasonar, the feedback from my sound magic painting a picture of his mana core in my mind.
The dark stage of the orange core. He had jumped an entire stage in moments.
"Alwyn, you have reached the orange core," I said.
"Really?!" Alwyn closed his eyes, his face going slack with concentration. Then his eyes snapped open, and his smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds. "I see it! It is orange now!"
There was so much happiness in his voice. The slightly depressed kid he had been when we were younger had disappeared years ago, leaving only this Alwyn Triscan behind—confident, capable, finally beginning to believe that he was worthy of the gifts he had been given.
"Well done," I said, and I smiled. His happiness was contagious, a warmth that spread through my chest.
Alwyn opened his palm. One of the Aethra he had been holding was now reduced to dust, a fine grey powder that sifted through his fingers and scattered on the grass.
"Oh, it makes sense," I said.
The aether stones broke after one use. How many did an Asura consume to have a noticeable difference in their power? Hundreds? Thousands?
"I am so sorry, Your Highness!" Alwyn apologized, turning to face me, his expression stricken. "I did not mean to break it!"
"I already said not to be sorry, Alwyn," I said, but Alwyn took my hand, his grip urgent, desperate.
"No! I broke something that belonged to you, Your Highness!" His voice was rising, his eyes wide, and I realized with a start that he was genuinely distressed.
"But you broke into the orange core," I said, keeping my voice calm, reasonable. "That is a good balance, no?"
"I think so," Alwyn said, but the way he looked at me told me he was not convinced. His eyes searched my face, looking for something—disappointment, perhaps, or anger—and finding neither.
"Now can you let me try it too?" I asked.
Alwyn nodded heartily and gave me back the other spare Aethel. I changed the affinity of that Aethel from Alwyn's mana signature to mine by immersing it in a bubble of water conjured with Ars Aquamorph.
The stone glowed purple for a moment, then settled into a steady, pulsing light that matched my own heartbeat.
With all three Aethra in my right fist, I began to meditate. Pseudo-Mana Rotation was already flowing through my system, the technique I had developed when I was four years old and desperate to feed my ravenous core.
Then it was as if the mana inside me was being actively excited by something. By one of the Aethra in my hand.
I felt the mana flow through my mana veins and channels faster, more brightly, richer than ever before. My mana core answered by absorbing more and more mana from the atmosphere, drinking it in like soil drinking rain after a long drought.
And then, behind my eyelids, a crack appeared on the surface of my core. A crack that revealed a dark yellow organ beneath the orange. The Aethra were helping me break into the next color of the mana core.
I was at the latter stage of orange, teetering on the edge of yellow, and the stones were pushing me over.
Immediately, I placed my right hand on my solar plexus, right above my mana core, and tried to activate REmould.
Hopefully, I would be able to exploit my breakthrough to the yellow stage to achieve something more.
What, I did not know. But I had to try.
I could always try again. That was the gift of REtrocurrent. That was the curse of it. I could die and return and try again, as many times as I needed, as many times as I could endure.
More cracks appeared on my core, refining it to the next level. And then—I managed to open a new one. Not a crack that emitted yellow light, but one that emitted a blinding white.
Pure white.
I continued to circulate mana through my body. Pseudo-Mana Rotation carried more and more mana molecules through my system, in and out, without me needing to focus on it.
The Aethra were helping this process tenfold, amplifying every pulse, every wave, every breath.
Then my whole core became yellow. A sudden, greedy vacuum of mana, like the awakening of a conjurer, pulled at the atmosphere around me.
I felt the ambient mana rush toward me, felt my core expand to accommodate it, felt the boundaries of what I thought possible stretch and bend.
But on my now dark yellow core, there were still white cracks. I continued absorbing mana as I felt one Aethel turn to dust in my hands.
The stone crumbled, its power spent, and I reached for another without opening my eyes.
The effects of the Aethra did not seem to work anymore after I reached a new stage of the mana core. It was as if I had exhausted them, as if they had given everything they had to push me over the threshold and now had nothing left to give.
I took the remaining six aether stones from the pouch Windsom had given me and started to work with all of them at once.
Mana began to burn through my system. It was too much, too fast, too intense. My core was working at the same pace, trying to cope with the quantity of mana I was absorbing, but it was falling behind. The cracks were not growing. The white light was not spreading.
"Your Highness, are you feeling alright?" I barely heard Alwyn's voice. My whole consciousness had turned inward, focused on the battle raging inside my own body.
The cracks did not seem to continue. My mana core just could not keep up with the aether stones. And not only my mana core—I was starting to feel as if I was going into overheat from the mana circling through my body.
My skin was hot. My blood was hot. My thoughts were fracturing, splintering, breaking apart like ice under a hammer.
I felt Alwyn touch my shoulder. His hand was warm, solid, grounding.
"Your Highness, I think you should stop," he said. His voice was barely registering inside my head, a distant echo in a cavern that was collapsing around me.
I kept my hand above my solar plexus. With REmould, I was certain I could do it. I had already bypassed the natural limits of this body once, when I was two years old and had not even known what I was doing.
My head hurt. The pain was a spike driven through my skull, through my thoughts, through the fragile architecture of my concentration. I had nausea, vertigo, the overwhelming sense that I was about to pass out from mana poisoning.
But my goal was right there. Just one more push. Just one more.
Another Aethel turned to dust in my hand. Seven were left. My mana core was still at the dark yellow stage, stubbornly refusing to advance, refusing to give me what I wanted.
I heard Alwyn's voice through the ringing in my ears. He was telling me to stop. He was begging me to stop. But he did not dare to do it himself. He did not dare to pull my hand away from my core, to break my concentration, to interfere with something I was doing.
Suddenly, just as I swore I was almost combusting from the inside out, the riverbanks of my mana core broke. And water began to flood from it.
Not ordinary water. This was golden, translucent, impossibly clear—the water of the Truce-Waters, the river that ran beneath reality, the current that had swallowed me and spat me back out more times than I could count.
It poured through the cracks in my core, through the fissures in my mana veins, through the channels that had been scorched by the Aethra's power.
I gasped. A wave of Insight crashed against the shore of my mind, and I understood. I understood what I had done.
The golden water of the Truce-Waters was flooding from the river to my body through my mana core. With REmould, I had opened a leak between reality and the river.
A small one. A tiny one. Just enough to let the water through.
I tried to use Ars Aquamorph. Nothing. I could not bring that water into the outside world. It was not meant for that.
It was not water in the way that the rain that fell on Zestier was water, or the Winetail that flowed past the Unraveler's Company headquarters, or the moisture that clung to the mists of the Elshire Forest.
But I could use it to flood myself. To fuel Pseudo-Mana Rotation. To draw on the power of the river itself, the same power that had been carrying me through death and return, through failure and success, through the long, slow work of becoming something I had never expected to be.
Trucewater. The Fate deviancy of water mana.
"Your Highness?" Alwyn asked, his voice trembling, his hand still on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes. The world was sharp, clear, more real than it had been a moment ago. The colors were brighter. The sounds were clearer.
The weight of my own body was lighter, as if the Trucewater flowing through my veins had made me something more than flesh and bone.
"Everything is alright, Alwyn," I replied, and I was surprised to find that I meant it. "Everything is alright."