Volume 3. [RE: And Corvis Came to Arms]
Arc 10. "The Legacy's Gamble."
Corvis Eralith
The Hearth was gone. Or, better to say, I was gone from the Hearth.
The warmth of the Nexus Garden, the light of phoenixfire, the laughter of my flock—all of it had been ripped away, replaced by this.
The neverending storm of golden threads that was Fate howled above my head.
A non-wind swept across the Atoll with a force that should have rattled me like the Warworn Rapids, that should have torn me apart and scattered my pieces across the river.
But it didn't. For reasons I could not fathom, I remained standing. I remained whole. I remained.
I stood on The Atoll's beach, and the river everywhere around me was chaos.
Everywhere I looked, I saw a nightmare made water.
The calm, crystalline surface I had walked across for many times was gone. In its place was a roiling, churning mass of liquid that was boiling, boiling because of rage and desecration.
Ships, long and sleek like the Petaldrifts of the Winetail, wooden caravels like those I remembered from Earth, but also massive vessels of steel, carriers and oil tankers that had no business existing in this world were tossed about like toys.
I watched an enormous cruise ship, its hull designed to cross oceans, get jolted into the air like a child's teddy bear caught in a tornado.
Its metal skin peeled open like a mere tin can with a sound that congealed whatever was in the veins of my Soul-Body.
Noises of sirens and alarms bellowed like crazed aurochs, their cries making my ears ache even though I wasn't truly corporeal.
The sound was too loud, too close, too full of human terror.
Was this the effect that a reincarnation—a true reincarnation, one from another world to another—had on the river?
Cecilia was being reincarnated. Fate was screaming that in my mind with no words, just raw, undeniable certainty. Agrona was reaching for her, reaching for the Legacy he had been seeking for centuries.
And it was the river who was paying the price.
"What do you want me to do?!" I screamed at the sky, one arm raised in front of my face to shield myself from the wind and the water.
My voice was devoured by the infernal noise of the storm, swallowed by the havoc that raged all around The Atoll.
I felt like a lonely lighthouse during a hurricane. I felt like its keeper, watching the wrath of nature be unleashed around me, powerless to stop it, able only to bear witness the wrath of the world.
"How is this even possible?!" I demanded of Fate. "Arthur does not exist! How can Agrona have his anchors?!"
I closed my eyes. The wind was harmful to them, even though I wasn't corporeal right now. My Soul-Body, the body of Eralith Asclepius in his twenties, tall and strong and perfect, shivered from a cold that was not of the flesh.
"Fate! Tell me something!" I shouted into the wind.
Finally, REtrocurrent gave me an answer. A flood of Insight crashed against my mind, violent and unwelcome.
Agrona Vritra is defying Fate. This is the effect on the river. On the substrate of the world.
The rafts. The ships. The boats. The vessels. The caravels, the carriers, the cruisers—all the watercrafts that could or could not exist, currently being compacted into a tornado across the river. They were the consequence of such a thing.
By reincarnating a soul as dangerous—as powerful—as that of the Legacy, Agrona Vritra was opening a hole through the fabric of reality itself.
Differently from the novel Fate does not want the Legacy to be reincarnated, I understood. And yet the Lord of the Vritra Clan is doing it anyway.
How? The question screamed through my mind. How can Agrona defy Fate in such a way? How can he wield it? Only its Arbiter and Arthur Leywin were supposed to ever be able to accomplish such a feat!
I was sent flying backward. My back crashed hard against the sand, which now felt more like concrete—unforgiving and unyielding.
I moaned in pain—fake pain, phantom pain, the memory of pain—as I forced myself back to my feet; but the wind was too strong, and I was forced to look up at Fate from a bent position, my body bowed like a reed in a gale.
"What can I do?!" I demanded, my voice cracking. "I am your Arbiter! That is my role, isn't it?! To stop the Legacy! To... to make sure Peace is stewarded!"
And just as I demanded it, REtrocurrent flooded me with more Insight. The last of my powers surfaced from the depths of my mind, rising like a leviathan from the deep:
"REstringify," I declared to the sand below my bent form.
The Arbiter's authority over the Edict of Spatium; the power over Fate's threads. The cords that were present in all beings—in some more, in some less—that tied all beings to their destiny.
I gulped as realization hit me, harder than every punch I had ever received, sharper than any sword that had ever cut my flesh. If I wanted to stop this, I had to sacrifice my own threads.
I had to win a "tug-of-war" over the Legacy using myself as the rope.
That was the reason for this Soul-Body. For Eralith Asclepius's whole existence. He, as the son of Mordain Asclepius, and I, as the Arbiter, together were made of enough strings to accomplish such a thing.
In other words, I had to die. Forever. Sacrificing what connected me to the river so the Legacy would not descend.
"Why can't you do it?!" I screamed at Fate, tears streaming down my cheeks. I didn't want to die!
I loved my life. I loved Tessia, and Mom, and Dad, and Grandpa, and Alwyn, and Berna. I loved the morning light filtering through the windows of the Royal Palace, and the smell of the Elshire Forest after rain, and the taste of Asyphinian Goldens. I loved being alive.
"You are the strings themselves!" I shouted. "You do not want this either!"
No answer came. Only the storm, growing worse and worse. New things emerged from the depths of the river—ships I did not recognize, made of unknown materials that challenged my understanding of the world. The Legacy was getting too close.
I dried the tears under my eyes. I stood up, fighting the storm.
You wanted to do something truly impactful to help this world your entire life, Corvis, I told myself. This is it. For once, do not feel sorry for yourself.
I raised my hands. The golden threads obeyed me: both those coming from my body and those coming from Fate. They coiled around my fingers like living golden worms, warm and responsive, eager to serve.
I took a deep breath.
And I pulled.
The sound of my own being tearing echoed in my skull, louder than the storm, louder than the sirens, louder than my own screaming heart.
The Legacy shall not cross the river, I am sorry Cecilia; I really hope this works for you too.
Lavinia Vritra
The skull of my mother was beautiful, even in death. Even as just bones.
The ivory curve of her dragon horns, the delicate architecture of her snout, the hollow sockets where her eyes had once burned with the light of the Indrath—all of it was preserved, pristine, a monument to the life I had ended with my own hands.
I had taken her Beast Will. I had watched the light fade from her eyes and now, here in this chamber deep below Taegrin Caelum, her skull served as an altar for something she would have abhorred.
Deep underground, far beneath the black spires of Taegrin Caelum, was where the Legacy would be reincarnated.
Inside an "Awareroom," as the Djinn called it—a place where aetheric Insight could be obtained more easily than anywhere else.
This particular Awareroom was Father's creation, built from the ashes of the one that had once belonged to the Djinn woman Ji-Ae Zhoroa of Sandand.
A Djinn Remnant, a Vaultlamp, whose consciousness and knowledge Father had harvested in his early days in Alacrya, extracting everything useful and discarding the lesser.
The room itself was a monument to Vritra's power.
Tall ceilings soared overhead, supported by massive pillars carved with motifs that spiraled upward like serpents—true Basilisk architecture, ancient, proud and hungry.
The walls seemed to breathe, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the beating of my own heart.
Windows that looked out onto the eternal darkness of Taegrin Caelum's dungeons emanated colored light into this ritual chamber.
These windows were made of mana crystals, arranged so precisely that they depicted scenes from Alacrya's mythology: the Vritraism, the religion that the lessers under Father's control prayed to with desperate, worshipful fervor.
Almighty Vritra was depicted across these windows.
The Basilisk With No Horns. The Father of Men. My grandfather, Saytanel Vritra, whose name I heard spoken only by Father and Uncle Khaernos and whose legacy had shaped everything I was.
At the center of this room, raised upon a pedestal of obsidian, was the skull of my mother. And above that skull, tainting its holiness, was the lifeless Vessel of the Legacy.
No, I reminded myself. She was Indrath. She was not holy.
Father had personally crafted the body himself, spending the last months finishing it, making it ready to house the Legacy's soul. Every curve, every feature, every subtle detail had been sculpted by his hands—hands that had shaped the destiny of continents, that had unravelled the secrets of life and death.
Now the Vessel lay motionless on the altar, a doll waiting for its animating spirit, and I could not look away from it.
The silence in the Awareroom was deafening.
Usually, I was accustomed to the silence of Taegrin Caelum—the silence that no lesser serving Father dared to interrupt with their petty squabbles or meaningless chatter.
So why was I worried now? Why did I fear the Legacy? Did I fear she would replace my place within Father's heart? No. Not all the power of the Legacy, nor a body crafted by Agrona Vritra himself, would change the fact that she remained lesser.
Just like the two ants that awaited Father in this place alongside me: Grey and Nico.
I denied them even a glance. They were both kneeling, their heads bowed, knowing better than to obstruct Father's work. But they were happy. I could feel it radiating from them like heat from a forge—a disgusting, pathetic happiness that made my blood curdle.
How did they dare to be happy? Happiness was Vritra's holy right, and only His to possess. They were not of Vritra.
Hands clapping—a sound I was used to associating with Uncle Khaernos, with his theatrical entrances and his applause—echoed through the Awareroom.
"Everyone, thank you for being here today in this place where history is made," Father said.
He walked along the altar upon which my mother's skull was placed, his fingers grazing one of her curled dragon horns with a tenderness that made my stomach turn.
His red eyes were fixed in amusement on the Legacy's empty Vessel, and his smile was the smile of a predator who had already won.
Grey and Nico looked up, their eyes fixed on Father. I wanted to pin them to the ground with my King's Force for this outrage—for daring to lift their gazes to him without permission—but I couldn't.
Father would not approve. Why was I being treated as their equal? I was Vritra! My blood boiled in my veins, demanding that I stop this madness, that I remind these lessers of their place. My blood had not roared like this since after Father told me to kill my mother.
That memory surged through me—the look of betrayed love in her eyes, the moment her soul slipped away and I was left alone with her Beast Will burning inside my core.
"Lavinia, attention please." Father's voice was soft, teasing, and I turned my head immediately, forcing the song of my blood into silence. I would not disobey. I would not disappoint. "As I was saying..."
"Nico and Grey." Father continued, his gaze sweeping over the kneeling lessers. "The day you have fought for so long has finally come. I believe I should at least voice my... satisfaction with your progress."
I churned inside, watching Father speak to those two lessers as if they were worthy of his attention. They did not even make a word in response—too cowed, too awed, too terrified to speak in his presence. As they should be.
"Hey, you should have learned by now that I do not bite," Father said, and then he did something that made my blood run cold. He sat on my mother's skull. He sat on it as if it were a common chair, crossing his legs, leaning back on her bones. "Please, you are free to speak."
"Agrona." Nico spoke—it is High Sovereign to you, lesser—and his voice cracked with emotion. "Are you sure that Cecilia will be alright? Did you not mention the dangers the Legacy might face with a Basilisk body? And what about the shock of being attuned to mana like an Asura?"
"Nico." Grey silenced his friend, his voice tight with warning. "The High Sovereign has planned for everything."
Nico scoffed at Grey. The audacity. The absolute, unforgivable audacity of scoffing in front of Father. My hands ached to tear out his throat.
"I was not speaking with you," Nico said to the other lesser.
"Do not trouble your little head about these problems, Nico." Father waved a hand dismissively, as if shooing away a fly. "We have Lavinia for that."
"Me, Father?" I asked, surprise bleeding through my carefully maintained composure. I had not known I had a role in this. I thought Father simply wanted me to witness his triumph, to stand at his side as he reshaped the world.
"Why, of course." Father jumped from the skull, his robes swirling around him, and turned toward the Vessel. "Relinquish Sylvia's Beast Will to the Legacy when she awakens."
My eyes widened. "Mother's Beast Will? To that lesser? Father, I do not—"
"Lavinia." Father's voice was as calm as ever, but my blood sang a different tune—a warning, a command, a threat wrapped in silk. "Did I stutter?"
"No, Father." I bowed my head, my teeth grinding together. "I will do as you command."
It did not matter if I did not agree. It did not matter if I did not understand. Vritra's design was unfathomable, and I was no one to go against it.
"Good, good." Father smiled, and the warmth in his expression made my chest ache with a desperate, pathetic need for his approval. "Shall we begin? Lavinia, make sure Grey and Nico do not get hurt."
Father raised his right hand. Decay magic began to coalesce above his palm, gathering into an erratic globe of darkness and corruption. The power of it pressed against my skin and I felt my own Vritra blood sing in response—recognizing its master, its source, its god.
Then, from this globe, dark chains began to sprout.
They extended like hungry fingers, reaching outward, shaking the Awareroom around us as Taegrin Caelum itself moved to obey its absolute master. The walls groaned. The pillars trembled. The very stones seemed to hold their breath.
Everything shook. The windows depicting Almighty Vritra turned, shifting to show a scene of apocalyptic proportions—a flood that would devour the whole world if it were real.
But Father controlled it. Father was the flood. Father was the end of all things.
The chains—thousands now, a true storm of decay magic—turned and turned in the Awareroom.
They spiraled around the altar, around the skull, around the Vessel, and I felt something immense pressing against the boundaries of reality. A soul.
Grey and Nico watched with wide eyes, their faces pale, their mouths slightly open. They were in awe of Agrona Vritra's power. As everyone should be.
And then—it was gone. The soul entered its Vessel before I could blink, slipping through the chains and the decay magic and the screaming fabric of reality itself.
The Vessel gasped for air.
"Cecilia!" Nico and Grey shouted as Father flapped his hands as if to brush dust from his palms, entirely unmoved by the miracle he had just performed.
"Welcome back to life, Cecilia." Father gestured for the lessers to stand back and wait, then walked in front of the lesser girl.
Was this the Legacy? This frail, gasping, confused thing in the body of a Basilisk she did not belong to? This was the entity that was supposed to rival the greatest Asuras in history in power? She seemed so small. So fragile. So utterly insignificant.
"W-what... I..." the Vessel mumbled, her dark grey eyes blinking in confusion.
"Cecilia! It's us! Nico and Grey!" Nico called, his voice cracking with desperate hope.
"Silence." Father stood in front of the Vessel, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. "You need to get used to your new body: it's very different from that of a human. But I have something that will help you. Lavinia, quickly. Relinquish Sylvia's Beast Will, or the Legacy will consume her from within."
"Y-yes, Father." I walked to the altar, each step heavier than the last. I looked at the Vessel—at Cecilia, as this lesser was named.
She looked like most Basilisks in their Narmanakayas: black hair, pale skin, eyes a shade of red, though hers were dark grey. She had four black horns curling upward, two starting from above her temples and two from behind her ears.
I reached out and touched her forehead. I relinquished Mother's Beast Will—the power I had killed for, the inheritance I had bled for—and I cursed this lesser in my mind.
But the Beast Will refused to attach itself to her. It recoiled, pulling back, sliding away from her skin like water off oil.
I felt Father's hand on my arm as he lowered it. Fear gripped my chest like a vice. Do not be disappointed. Do not be disappointed!
Father's hand went to his chin. He tilted his head back, his red eyes fixed on the ceiling. "How unexpected. That was truly, truly unexpected."
He turned his back to the Vessel and walked away from the altar.
"Agrona, what is happening?" Nico asked, but Grey was already moving—already walking toward the Vessel, ignoring Father completely, his hands reaching for her shoulders.
"Cecilia!" Grey called, shaking her. "I am here! We are here! Nico come!"
"But I admit that was also a bit of..." Father looked at the windows depicting Almighty Vritra, and his voice dropped to something almost thoughtful. "Intense. Or, admittedly, kind of awesome."
I remained stunned, my eyes darting between Father speaking to Almighty Vritra and his lessers—his two, now three—experiments, with Nico and Grey now both helping the other lesser girl who wore the skin of a Basilisk like a stolen dress.
"What a waste of your precious science, Father," Father said with a sigh, making to exit the Awareroom.
Before he left, he cracked his fingers.
Spikes of Bloodiron surged from the Vessel's body.
She screamed, a sound of pure agony, raw and desperate, as she was impaled from the inside. The spikes tore through her new flesh, her new skin, her new Basilisk body, and blood poured down the altar and pooled at my feet.
A scream that made even me shiver, dread coiling in my gut like a serpent. What had Father just done? Why had he done it? The song of my blood hummed a melody of dread, low and thrumming, and I could not make it stop.
Nico and Grey shouted, but I did not hear them. I could only hear the song. I could only feel the cold. I could only watch as the Legacy bled.