Tessia Eralith
The late summer sun felt like warm honey soaking through my uniform jacket as I idly scratched behind Sylvie's velvety ears.
She laid curled on my lap, a soft, purring weight, her silvery fur catching the golden light filtering through the young oak tree above the bench I was seating on. Its leaves cast dancing, dappled shadows, creating a little haven of peace right outside our dormitory entrance.
It was a stark contrast to the buzzing energy still echoing from the Tri-Union celebrations going on in the rest of the city.
"Hey Sylvie," I murmured, my voice low and drowsy, "any clue what those two are really talking about in there?"
I knew she couldn't answer, not in words I understood, but sharing the question with her felt comforting. Talking to Sylvie was always easy, uncomplicated. She tilted her head, her intelligent eyes blinking slowly at me.
"Kyu?" she chirped softly, a sound like chimes and contentment rolled into one. It made me smile. I continued the rhythmic motion of my fingers through her fur, feeling the deep vibration of her purr resonate against my palm.
She nudged my hand insistently, demanding more attention, and I obliged, losing myself in the simple, grounding pleasure of her presence.
The combination of the gentle warmth, Sylvie's comforting weight, and the sheer relief after the monumental day was dangerously soporific.
My eyelids felt heavy. The bench, the shade, the quiet hum of the Academy settling into evening… it was incredibly cozy.
Wonder what this spot will be like in winter? I mused vaguely, picturing frost on the oak branches instead of sunlight. The thought drifted away as the edges of my awareness blurred.
Just as I felt myself tipping towards a proper nap, Sylvie suddenly tensed. Then, with a soft fwump, she launched herself from my lap.
My eyes snapped open, blinking against the light. There they were. Grey and Corvis emerged from behind the corner of the dormitory, walking side-by-side. Grey carried his usual aura of contained intensity, but something felt… different.
Lighter, maybe? Less like a storm about to break. Corvis looked thoughtful, a small, unreadable curve on his lips. Relief washed over me, warm and immediate. They were back. They were okay.
"Took you long enough," I yawned, stretching languidly and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The drowsiness lingered, making my voice soft around the edges.
Corvis's familiar, slightly teasing smirk appeared. "We've just started school yesterday, Tessia, and you're already napping on the job? What a fine example you set for the Student Council President."
Heat prickled my cheeks. "Hey!" I protested, puffing out my chest a little despite myself. Pride warred with the whine in my voice. "It was Master Cynthia who practically insisted I lead the Council this year! Said it was essential for the changes theAcademy is going through or something."
The responsibility still felt huge, a mantle I was determined to wear well. Back home, I was Princess Tessia, yes. I attended state dinners, smiled politely during royal visits from Sapin and Darv.
But Corvis… Corvis was the Heir. The weight of Elenoir's future rested squarely on his shoulders, not mine. My lessons were important, but they weren't laced with the same relentless expectation.
I didn't envy him that burden, not truly. But adventuring with Grey had shown me a different kind of strength, a different way to lead. Here, at Xyrus, as Student President, it was my chance. My chance to prove I wasn't just the princess, or Grey's capable companion, but Tessia Eralith, capable of standing on her own and making a difference.
Master Cynthia believed in me. I wouldn't let her down.
"So?" I pressed, curiosity finally overriding the lingering drowsiness and the spark of pride. "What were you two discussing so seriously?" I looked from Corvis's thoughtful expression to Grey's impassive one.
They exchanged a glance—a brief, silent communication that felt both significant and intensely frustrating. Just tell me! I wanted to shout. The secrecy felt like a wall, and I hated being on the outside.
Grey was the one who spoke, his voice as calm as ever. "Me and Sylvie are going to stay in Xyrus for a while."
The announcement hit me like a sunbeam breaking through clouds. My breath caught. Corvis looked genuinely surprised too, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
"Oh really?" The words burst out of me, laced with pure, unadulterated joy. "That's fantastic news!" A wide grin spread across my face. "Have you told Master Cynthia yet?"
Grey just shrugged, a gesture that somehow managed to convey supreme confidence. "She won't argue." He probably wasn't wrong. As Master Cynthia's nephew he tended to get his way.
The possibilities tumbled through my mind. "You can also come to school with us!" I beamed, the idea taking hold with irresistible force.
Having both of them here? Corvis navigating the scholarly world, Grey… well, being Grey, but here? It felt like a dream unfolding.
"The minimum age for enrollment in Xyrus is twel—" Corvis began automatically, ever the knowledgeable.
I cut him off with a wave of my hand, my enthusiasm overriding protocol. "Master Cynthia always says 'her school, her rules.' She'll definitely make an exception for Grey!" I argued, conviction ringing in my voice.
"Besides, it's not like he needs to prove himself in some entrance exam." Grey possessed a power and maturity that dwarfed most adults I knew back in Zestier. Exams seemed laughably trivial for him.
Grey seemed to consider it. I saw his gaze flicker downwards, meeting Sylvie's upturned eyes where she now sat at his feet. A silent conversation passed between them in that shared look. Then, something remarkable happened.
The faintest hint of a smirk touched Grey's lips—not mocking, but something softer, almost intrigued. "Why not?" he said, the words slow and deliberate. "It might be interesting."
"Yes!" The cry escaped me before I could think. Pure, effervescent happiness propelled me forward. I launched myself at them, throwing my arms around both Grey and Corvis in a tight, impulsive hug.
Sylvie let out a startled but delighted squeak, wriggling happily between our legs. For that one, perfect moment all melted away. My brother and my friend were staying. We were together. And the impossible felt suddenly, wonderfully possible.
Corvis Eralith
The air in the Deviant Magic Theory classroom hung thick and stale. Professor Drywell's voice droned on, a monotonous river flowing around obscure historical anecdotes about long-dead mages who'd almost mastered some obscure variant, completely bypassing the actual mechanics I knew Grey craved.
This wasn't education; it was intellectual embalming. The most boring thing I've ever attended, I thought, the sentiment a heavy stone in my chest. My presence here was purely transactional—a favor to Grey.
He sat beside me, unnaturally still, his eyes fixed on the professor with an intensity that felt misplaced. In Alacrya, under Agrona's shadow, his training had likely been brutally efficient: decay mana arts drilled into him, base elements perhaps as a foundation.
His lighting, his ice—those chillingly potent deviants—were forged in solitude, self-taught through necessity or sheer, terrifying will. I wouldn't be surprised if the Vritra blood humming beneath his skin had unlocked more hidden affinities, whispers of power yet untapped.
Professor Drywell, however, was utterly failing to illuminate any of it.
A student near the front stammered a basic question about deviant manifestation. Drywell seized it, launching into a tangential ramble about the social impact of a famous fire-deviant mage from three centuries ago.
Desperate to placate my immense sense of boredom, I pulled out a scrap of parchment, my pencil moving almost of its own accord. Lines flowed—not runes or schematics, just abstract shapes, spirals, jagged edges—a visual sigh escaping my fingertips.
"Corvis." Grey's voice, low and precise, cut through the drone like a shard of ice.
"Yes?" I murmured, not looking up from my meaningless sketch.
"Do you know how decay mana works?" His question was quiet, focused. "Is it related to deviant magic?"
I set the pencil down, turning slightly towards him, the dull ache of boredom momentarily replaced by the spark of actual relevance.
"Technically, yes," I whispered back, keeping my voice barely audible. "Think of them as deviants… with deviants on their own. All decay mana arts originate from one of the four base elements." My finger traced an invisible symbol on the desk. "But they're corrupted, twisted. Infused with the Basilisk's essence—pure decay. It's less a new element, more a… parasitic transformation."
I saw the understanding flicker in his eyes, the connection forming where Drywell's words had failed. But then, a sharp, disapproving cough sliced through our hushed exchange. Professor Drywell glared pointedly in our direction.
The spark died, smothered by the oppressive atmosphere of pointless academia. I offered Grey an apologetic grimace and slumped back, surrendering once more to the slow torture of the lecture.
When the dismissal bell finally rang, it felt like a pardon. Students shuffled out, a wave of relieved murmurs washing through the room. I grabbed my bag, the weight of wasted time pressing down.
"See you later," I mumbled to Grey, who was already gathering his things, likely heading towards a practical session I'd strategically avoid like a plague ward. Practical magic held zero appeal when the core required to fuel it was a void.
Alone in the emptying corridor, the silence was a balm. The thought crystallized, sharp and urgent: The Helstea Auction House. Dawn's Ballad. An Asuran weapon, sleeping amidst mundane treasures.
But it wasn't just an artifact; it was a key. A key Grey could turn with his Beast Will, unlocking secrets I desperately needed to understand. Studying it myself was futile; its power was locked to anyone without Sylvia's lineage or its specific resonance.
A quick mental check of my schedule: Fundamentals of Mana Theory. The very title tasted like ash. Utterly skippable. The usual knot of guilt about truancy was absent, replaced by a steely resolve.
This wasn't rebellion; it was necessity. The theoretical foundations of mana? I lived its absence. An excuse for the inevitable inquiry? I would fabricate one on the walk over.. The path to understanding Dawn's Ballad, and through it, perhaps, a fraction of the power arrayed against us, began with skipping class.
———
The door of the Helstea Auction House swung shut behind me, muffling the city's bustle and replacing it with the hushed, polished atmosphere of wealth and discretion.
The scent of lemon oil, fresh paint, and something faintly metallic—perhaps from recently appraised artifacts—hung in the air. Vincent Helstea himself stood waiting, a picture of affable efficiency, his smile warm but tempered by the deference owed to royalty.
His immediate, personal welcome was a stark reminder of the weight my name carried. Perks of being an Eralith, I thought wryly, a flicker of discomfort beneath the gratitude. Fate's design, perhaps, but wielding this privilege always left a faint residue of unease.
"Thank you for receiving me, Mr. Helstea," I said, offering a respectful bow. The formal gesture felt necessary, an acknowledgement of the imposition. "And I sincerely apologize for arriving unannounced. My schedule at the Academy proved… unexpectedly flexible today."
And as for flexible I meant skippable.
"Your Highness, you flatter me," Vincent replied, returning the bow with practiced grace. "The honor is entirely ours. How may I be of service?" His eyes held genuine curiosity, devoid of the calculating shrewdness I often encountered.
The direct approach felt right with Vincent. Unlike Gideon, who thrived on brilliance and required careful navigation, Vincent radiated straightforward decency.
"I would appreciate the opportunity to view the Auction House's storage facilities," I explained, layering my request with plausible justification. "Having recently relocated to Xyrus, understanding the city's key trade hubs, especially one as esteemed as the Helstea Auction House, seems prudent. If it's not too much trouble of course, Mr. Helstea?"
"Of course, Prince Eralith. It would be my pleasure. Please, follow me." He gestured smoothly, leading me deeper into the building's opulent interior. As we walked past gleaming display cases and hushed appraisal rooms, a tangential thought surfaced seeing the familiar corridors: Sebastian.
Was the treacherous court mage still ensconced within the Sapin royal household? Grey's absence from the Auction House's significant 10th anniversary meant their paths had not crossed. A cold prickle of concern followed.
If Sebastian was still around, neutralizing him wasn't just about protecting Sylvie or Grey—Grey, with his Vritra-enhanced body, could certainly reduce Sebastian to paste without breaking a sweat. No, the danger was Sebastian himself. His hunger for forbidden knowledge, his inherent lack of scruples… he was a perfect vessel for Alacryan manipulation, just like the Greysunders with their greed or the Glayder with their cowardice.
The memory of his fate in the 'original' narrative—stripped of position, descending into the vile trade of dwarven amd elven slavery—sent a fresh wave of icy determination through me. He couldn't be allowed that path. Not here.
We arrived at a heavy, reinforced door. Vincent took a key from his pocket, unlocking it to reveal the cavernous storage room. The air here was cooler, dustier, thick with the scent of aged wood, forgotten cloth, and the faint, dry tang of metal.
Vincent surveyed the organized chaos—way too many shelves stacked haphazardly, crates piled high, artifacts shrouded in protective cloths—with a rueful chuckle.
"Do you require guidance, Your Highness? I confess pride in our collection's breadth, but meticulous order… let's say it has never been my strongest suit."
"Please, don't trouble yourself further, Mr. Helstea," I assured him, genuine appreciation warring with my desire for solitude. "Merely being granted access is more than sufficient. I wouldn't dream of pulling you away from your duties any longer."
The guilt of monopolizing his time nudged me, but the need to find Dawn's Ballad unseen was paramount.
"Very well. When you conclude your inspection, please do not hesitate to find me, Your Highness. With your permission?" At my nod, he offered another respectful bow and withdrew, closing the heavy door with a soft thud.
Alone, the sheer scale of the task became apparent. Vincent wasn't exaggerating. The storage was a labyrinth of forgotten treasures and mundane junk. Dawn's Ballad wouldn't be gleaming on a pedestal; it would be buried, disguised as a black rod.
I focused on the less conspicuous corners, the piles of items deemed unworthy of immediate display. The quiet was profound, broken only by the soft scuff of my boots on the stone floor and my own focused breathing.
Then, a softer sound. A sniffle. Muffled frustration.
I turned a corner, navigating stacks of crates, and froze. In a secluded nook, half-hidden by a draped tapestry, sat a girl. Long brown hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, but her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed over a faintly glowing water-attuned mana crystal clutched tightly in her hands.
Even from a distance, I saw the tell-tale glint of tears tracing paths down her cheeks before dripping onto the crystal's smooth surface.
Lilia Helstea.