As the afternoon sun cast elongated shadows across the blackstone walls of Raven’s Nest, the keep hummed with quiet tension. Corvin stood in his study, where tall arched windows filtered golden light across ancient tomes, shifting star charts, and softly glowing arcane crystals embedded in the shelves. The silence was meditative. Then, a precise knock echoed from the door.
"Enter," Corvin said, not needing to look up.
The thick oak door opened and Magus Thaelys Silvernight of the Umbral Synod stepped through. Clad in ceremonial dark indigo robes woven with violet runes and the faint shimmer of a soulbinding sigil on her collarbone, she carried herself with both grace and the cold discipline of a Synod trained Magus. She bowed deeply.
"Your Grace," she greeted, her voice silky but formal.
"Please," Corvin gestured to the high backed chair across from him. "Sit."
She did so without hesitation.
"Tell me, Magus," Corvin said, folding his hands together, eyes narrowing slightly, "do you know why I left the Obsidian Gate and made my way to Argyll?"
Thaelys maintained her posture. "I do not know the exact reason, Your Grace. Only that there were disagreements between you and the Triarch."
"Disagreements," Corvin echoed, his tone nearly amused. "Yes, let’s call it that. We had an accord and they wished to bottle it."
"The Synod does not intend to repeat their mistake," Thaelys replied smoothly. "I come with authority to grant nearly any request. It would be unwise for the Obsidian Gate to lose a Planarch, particularly one whose actions have already reshaped entire powers."
Corvin nodded slowly, studying her expression.
"Then let me test your readiness, Magus. How many of your agents are lurking around my domain right now?"
She didn’t flinch. "Twenty one, Your Grace. None closer than the outer wall. They’ve remained cloaked. But we are well aware that such cloaking holds no power against you."
Corvin gave the faintest smile. "Correct. And that awareness is what will keep them alive."
A beat passed. Then his voice turned colder, the room seeming to still with it.
"You will settle here in Raven’s Nest, Thaelys. Send word to the Obsidian Gate. Tell them they may deploy a minor force here. No more than two dozen Shadows and twenty Magi. Nothing beyond that."
She bowed her head slightly. "It will be done."
"As for any formal agreements, those will be addressed later. Perhaps. But understand this clearly: I will not be registering with the Human Forces for the upcoming Planar Invasion. Nor will I be registering with the Synod, unless I see a reason to. I simply choose my own course."
His eyes burned faintly with bluish aetherlight.
"The Synod has no claim on me. And if they attempt to assert one again..."
He let the sentence hang, but the implication coiled like a serpent between his words.
Thaelys’ voice was quiet but firm. "Understood, Your Grace. We will tread with utmost care."
"See that you do. Treason is an offense I do not forgive. And shedding Elven blood is not beneath me, if warranted."
Her throat tightened, but she nodded with unshaken poise. "Your message will be delivered unaltered."
"Good," Corvin said simply, and waved a hand. "You may leave."
Thaelys stood, bowed once more, lower this time and exited in silence, her thoughts spinning. The Synod would need to treat this man as if walking a blade’s edge. Why would the Triarch be on such terms with such a person she couldn’t understand. Nor was she high enough in the Synod’s hierachy to know the existance of the Hexarchy. Yet this Planarch, he was no longer an asset. He was a storm.
Alone again, Corvin turned back to the window, watching the ravens circling lazily in the distant sky. A slight smirk tugged at his lips.
"Now," he murmured, voice dry, "let’s hear what the ’tree huggers’ have prepared for me."
He returned to his seat, gaze distant but sharp, as he awaited the arrival of Magus Kelorien Hearthleaf of the Aurelian Dominion.
Magus Kelorien Hearthleaf entered the study in the quiet grace typical of the Aurelian Dominion. Her long, gold threaded robe shimmered faintly as she stepped forward, the hem whispering over the polished stone floor. She bowed lightly, a formal gesture of respect rather than submission. Corvin, seated behind his carved obsidian desk, motioned wordlessly for her to sit. Once she did, he leaned back slightly, his fingers laced before him, and spoke.
"Tell me, Magus," he began, his tone refined and deliberate, his Elven lilt unmistakable, "why should I register under the banner of the Aurelian Dominion?"
He did not wait for a reply, his words continuing like the slow pour of aged wine.
"For eons, our people have stood across from one another. Not in the full fires of war, no but in cold, silent disdain. Each century brings with it its skirmishes, the sanctioned bleedings that pass for tradition. Our shared disdain for the humans and our vigilance against the demonic tides are the few grounds where we meet as kin. The Feralis we see beneath us, the Aetherborne we revere, for they are guards of Verthalis while we claim to be her children."
He paused briefly, his eyes narrowing. "But the Arbiters do not care. To them, a lance from Thalasien is simply Elven. Dark or High, it is all the same."
He lifted his chin slightly, the weight of his stare like a blade pressed against Kelorien’s composure.
"So tell me, Magus Kelorien, why should I register with your faction?"
The silence lingered for but a breath before Kelorien spoke, her voice composed, elegant, and respectful.
"Your Grace," she said, bowing her head slightly once more, "you speak the truth of our history, cold and veiled, dressed in protocol, but rarely warmth. I do not deny our centuries of silent conflict. However, it is precisely because of this legacy that I speak now."
Her gaze lifted to meet his. "You are not merely a Planarch now. You are an Elven Planarch. You are a convergence of bloodlines, ideals, and powers. Dark Elven by lineage, The Aurelian Dominion recognizes that."
Corvin arched an eyebrow as she continued.
"We do not ask for your allegiance out of entitlement, but because we believe there is harmony to be found between reason and might. The Silent Aurora watches you, as does the Mother Tree herself. If you are to wield your power with purpose, let that purpose be reflected not in shadows or vengeance, but in balance. In unity, however tentative it may be."
There was a silence then, long and weighted.
Corvin studied her with unreadable eyes before finally speaking. "I will wait for your response to my offer."
He stood slowly, his height and presence pressing against the room like gravity itself. "Know this, I will not register under the Human banner. That much is certain. Nor do I yet pledge to the either faction of my kin. I grant you leave to settle a contingent within Raven’s Nest. A small force. Magi, scholars, whatever blend of steel and intellect you deem suitable."
He moved toward the tall windows overlooking his domain. "But make no mistake, Magus. This is not alliance. This is observation. We shall see what your Dominion does to earn more."
She stood, understanding the meeting was concluded.
"As you will it, Your Grace."
And with that, she left, the door closing softly behind her. Corvin will wait for her reply.
Marshal Vos sat in the study of the Iron March’s envoy manor, a modest but strategically placed estate nestled atop one of the southern border hills. The manor, fortified more for function than grandeur, stood as a quiet sentinel on the edge of Iron March territory. It wasn’t adorned with tapestries or gilded fixtures like the noble estates of Goldhaven, but its walls bore the stoic weight of discipline and the legacy of campaigns past. A fitting place for a man who had spent more time in war rooms than ballrooms.
His study was cluttered with parchment reports, intelligence scrolls, half burned candles, and a neglected cup of blackroot tea that had gone cold hours ago. Steel gray eyes flicked from line to line of a new report. One penned by the scout team recently freed from the former Verrenate. He read their words slowly, then read them again.
"No soldier drank. None gambled. We heard no laughter, no idle chatter. They stood, walked, and operated as one. It was as though they were hollow men, crafted for war alone."
Vos leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed beneath furrowed brows. The discipline they described bordered on the unnatural. Even among the Iron March, where control and hierarchy were sacred such behavior was rare, if not impossible. There was something wrong in those lines. Something off. Something that sent an old veteran’s instinct ringing through him.
He tapped the parchment lightly, deep in thought. Could it be the trauma of their captivity clouding their memories? Perhaps their memories were changes,Synod was famous with their mind readings after all. Or had Corvin Blackmoor assembled something far more precise and far more terrifying than a normal army?
A sharp knock interrupted his contemplation. The door opened to reveal a familiar figure, one of his old comrade and now aide, a retired soldier from Vos’ border command days. The man entered with practiced precision, saluted with crisp formality, and spoke with subdued urgency.
"Marshal, a message from Goldhaven."
Vos took the scroll and immediately noted the seal. Not the standard mark of the Dominion, but Queen Yvanna’s personal seal, a sigil rarely used, and only for matters of great urgency. His gut clenched.
He broke the wax and read.
Each word dropped like a stone.
He whispered it aloud, the syllables tasting like prophecy.
The parchment trembled slightly in his grip as he placed it down.
A Planarch. Not just a title, but a seismic shift in Verthalis’s balance of power. One didn’t negotiate with Planarchs. One didn’t summon them, threaten them, or ignore them. Planarchs were the nearly the top of arcane evolution, being only a step away from the rank of Arbiters. Beings wielding magic not as a tool, but as an extension of their will.
The Archdemons of Nefrath were Planarchs. That alone was why no nation dared invade their lands. When Planarchs fought, maps changed. Continents cracked. Even the gods watched with caution.
And now, one sat in Argyll.
One who toppled the Holy Verrenate and held titles from both the Umbral Synod and the Gilded Dominion. And he was no puppet. He served no council. No crown. Only himself.
Vos exhaled, his mind racing through possibilities. If Arbiter Gareth so much as raised a blade or spell against Corvin Blackmoor, the repercussions could be apocalyptic. Gareth might drag Iron March into a war it would not survive.
He rose to his feet with a slow, measured breath.
"Prepare the carriage," he said to his aide. "We depart for Raven’s Nest within the hour."
"Understood, Marshal."
As the man turned to carry out the order, Vos returned to the desk, seized a fresh parchment, and began composing a coded letter to Blackspire Bastion. His quill moved quickly, each word urgent:
"To the High Command,
Cease all covert and direct operations involving Duke Corvin Blackmoor immediately. Any further provocation risks the wrath of a Planarch. I repeat, Planarch. Treat this as a Class A magical threat. Disregard at your peril.
Signed, Marshal Ilren Vos"
When he finished, he sealed the message with the Iron March’s crimson wax and handed it off with military precision.
"Send this via relay. I want confirmation of delivery within the hour."
And with that, Vos moved toward his own carriage. Not out of duty or politics.
Because a storm had landed in Argyll. One cloaked in shadow, born of a dead elf’s corpse, and crowned in black feathers.
And if the Iron March didn’t tread carefully, it would be the second to fall beneath its wings.