Corvis Eralith
It took me a while to come up with a new exercise to practice mana control like I had done with Ars Aquamorph when I was younger.
That technique—which had once consumed hours of my childhood, shaping water into spheres and pyramids and octahedrons until my core ached and my vision blurred—was now too easy.
No matter what kind of shapes I gave my water bubbles, no matter how intricate the patterns or how precise the transitions, it no longer challenged me.
I had mastered it the way a musician masters a scale, and now I needed something new. Something that would push me the way Ars Aquamorph had pushed me when I was four years old and terrified of everything.
So I relied on my second strongest magic: Ars Ariamorph. My wind magic.
While my genetics told me wind should have been my true forte—Grandpa was the greatest wind mage of Elenoir, Tessia was specialized in wind magic far more than her plant affinity, and Dad too, despite being far from a remarkable mage, was a wind mage—it had always been water that came most easily to me.
Both me and Tessia had already surpassed or matched Dad's light red core stage years ago, but that did not change the fundamental truth of my affinity.
Water was my element. Water was what I understood. Thanks to Avicenna's precious observations and my own reasoning, I could safely assume it was the river—the Truce-Waters, the Warworn Rapids, the endless current that had swallowed me and spat me back out more times than I could count—that made me so much better at water magic.
And speaking of currents I was currently in the same small inner park where the Dungeon Crawlers had departed for their first unraveling.
The park was empty at this time of day—early morning, when the last traces of winter still clung to the air and the sun had barely cleared the canopy of the Watchful Willows.
We were in the early days of spring, and in the morning it was still a bit too cold for most people to enjoy a walk. They preferred to remain at home, wrapped in blankets and warm clothes, before starting their days.
But I did not have that luxury. I did not have time to wait for warmer weather, for gentler conditions, for the world to become convenient. The clock was still ticking, and I still had so far to go.
I held my wand-cane in my right hand, feeling the familiar weight of it, the way the wood seemed to hum against my palm. It had been crafted for me years ago, in Asyphin, by artisans who did not know they were making a weapon for a prince who could not stop dying.
It was resonant with mana in ways that most weapons were not, attuned to me in ways that I did not fully understand. I tossed it to the ground, and with a brief use of mana and Ars Ariamorph, my faithful wand-cane began to float over the ground.
I stood over the shaft of my wand-cane, both feet above its length, and supplied mana to conjure wind currents to keep it afloat.
The wood trembled beneath me, unsteady, uncertain. I wobbled, nearly lost my balance, and caught myself with a sharp intake of breath.
Flying was the realm of white core mages. It required huge quantities of mana and insane control over it—control that I did not have, quantities that I could not yet access.
For that reason, if I managed to make my wand-cane fly—not just hover, but truly fly, carrying me through the streets of Zestier like a Petaldrift carried passengers down the Winetail—I would not only gain a new way to travel.
I would practice a magic that would help me greatly with refining my technique. Every wobble was a lesson. Every near-fall was a chance to adjust, to adapt, to become something more than I had been.
I tried to steady myself over my wand-cane. Like a ship in the middle of a storm, my wand-cane was shaking, bucking, trying to throw me off.
I focused, and I activated Manasonar in tandem with the wind magic propelling the wand-cane, making all of this possible.
I needed as much awareness about my surroundings as possible. If I could not see—if my eyes were fixed on the ground beneath me, on the wand-cane beneath my feet—then I would hear. I would feel. I would know where every obstacle was, every person, every potential disaster waiting to happen.
I floated a few centimeters above the ground of the park, risking falling at any second. My muscles were tense, my jaw clenched, my entire body screaming at me to step off, to stop, to retreat to solid ground where I could not fall.
But the wand-cane held. I was floating.
Then, with Ars Ariamorph, I tried to push myself forward.
I made a few meters before I nearly fell. The wand-cane wobbled, tipped, and I had to step down from it and balance myself on the cobblestones, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"One step at a time," I told myself, and the words were as much for Berna as they were for me. She was watching me with curious eyes, her massive head tilted, her green eyes tracking my progress with this "Wind Surfing," as I had decided to call it.
She did not understand what I was trying to do—not really—but she trusted me. She always trusted me. And that trust was a rope I clung to in the dark.
I stepped back on the wand-cane. I balanced myself on it, my feet finding the right positions, my weight distributed evenly. With Ars Ariamorph, I conjured a gust of wind that could sustain both me and the cane at my feet.
The magic flowed through me, responsive, eager, as if the wind itself was glad to be used for something other than combat.
Just like the current of a river, I said in my head, the image clear. I was learning to surf with my wand-cane, only instead of water and waves, I had to surf on the air currents conjured by me. The river had taught me to float. The river had taught me to surrender. Now I would teach myself to fly.
I gave a new push to the wand-cane, and I made more meters. The path led back to Riverwine Racine, the main artery of the Bough of Riverside Yard, and I followed it.
Berna padded behind me, her gait short as I was moving forward very, very slowly. She could have outpaced me in seconds, but she did not. She stayed with me, matching my pace, her presence a warm, steady comfort at my back.
But I was traveling by wand-cane. Not even a single part of my body touched the ground. I was levitating a few centimeters above the cobblestones. It was not flying—not yet, not really—but it was the next closest thing.
I remembered Arthur's words in the novel, when he achieved the white core level and flew for the first time. How amazing it felt, he had said. How freeing.
And while this was nowhere near flying amongst the clouds, higher than the canopy of the Elshire Forest, I still felt that same emotion. The same exhilaration. The same wild, impossible joy of doing something that should have been beyond me.
I closed my eyes and used Manasonar. My senses traveled outward through my sound magic, like ripples made by a pebble falling inside a pond. The feedback was immediate, detailed, overwhelming.
I knew Riverwine Racine by heart—I had walked it a hundred times, studied it on maps, memorized every building and every intersection—and thanks to Manasonar, I had a real-time feedback of everything that was happening, everything I could not see with my eyes.
I arrived in the street. On my right was the Winetail River, packed with Petaldrifts and other sleek boats typical of the elven "navy."
Merchants called out to one another, their voices carrying across the water. Soldiers of the Leafguard stood at attention along the shore, their silver armor catching the morning light. Petaldrifters navigated the crowded river with practiced ease, their poles dipping into the dark water.
Visitors to the Royal Capital—both elven and dwarven—packed the shores of the Winetail, their faces bright with the excitement of being somewhere new.
On my left stood the homes and shops of the working class of Zestier, the people who made the Bough of Riverside Yard their home. The buildings were modest compared to the grandeur of the Queen's Grove, but they had a charm that the palaces and estates of the nobility lacked.
They were lived-in. They were real. They were the Zestier that most people never saw, the Zestier that I had come to love.
I passed in front of the Unraveler's Company and waved my hand to some familiar faces I recognized. They waved back, confused perhaps by the sight of their prince floating past on a wooden cane, but they waved nonetheless.
I was their prince. I had given them something to be proud of. And they loved me for it, in the simple, uncomplicated way that commoners loved royalty who remembered their names.
As I started to feel more comfortable with this way of travel, I decided to speed up my wand-cane. The wind responded, strengthening, and I felt the cane beneath my feet grow steadier, more stable.
"Berna, keep my pace!" I exclaimed as I conjured stronger winds to carry me. I crouched slightly on the wand-cane, lowering my knees, and my traveling speed increased. The buildings blurred past me. The faces of the people I passed became smears of color and shape.
"Sorry!" I exclaimed as I passed between two people I did not even have time to see in the face.
They shouted something behind me—surprise, perhaps, or anger—but I was already gone, already moving, already lost in the rhythm of wind and wood and will.
I moved my body and the wand-cane to the right, Ars Ariamorph following the movements of my body, and I dodged a soldier of the Leafguard I had once seen with Lenna Aemaris. He stumbled, caught himself, and shouted something I did not hear.
"Make space!" I shouted, alarmed, as I saw a group of people walking along Riverwine Racine approaching. They were old, their backs bent, their steps slow. They could not get out of the way in time. They would not see me coming.
But they noticed their prince shouting. They made space as I asked, pressing themselves against the walls of the buildings, and let me pass through them like a speeding bullet.
I felt the wind of my passage ruffle their clothes, saw their faces turn to follow me, and I was gone before they could react.
I smiled, excited, as I felt the wind through my gunmetal hair. The sounds of the Vedette Grove meshed together—the calls of merchants, the laughter of children, the distant clang of the Grand Nectary's forges—and I was part of it, part of the city, part of the life that pulsed through Zestier's veins.
I looked behind me. Berna was following, carefully avoiding people as if she was an ice skater—elegant and agile despite her frame towering over everyone.
Her paws barely seemed to touch the ground, and her green eyes were fixed on me, watching, waiting, ready to catch me if I fell.
I turned my head back in front of me immediately.
The gate connecting the Vedette to the Queen's Grove loomed ahead: Ivorypass Door, that was its name. Its white stone gleamed in the morning light, and the Leafguard soldiers stationed there stood at attention, their spears gleaming.
I want to go through all of the Queen's Grove and arrive in Elf Court, I decided, the thrill of my speed inciting me. I had never traveled this fast through Zestier before. I had never seen my city from this perspective—a blur of color and sound and life, all of it moving around me, all of it alive.
"Corvis Eralith passing through!" I yelled at the Leafguard soldiers guarding Ivorypass Door.
They recognized me—luckily—and let me through, and I did not need to halt my run. The gate swallowed me, and I was in the Queen's Grove.
I passed through one of the main streets of the Canopie. The estates of the Sister Houses rose on either side of me—Chaffer and Auddyr and Grephin and Ivsaar and the others—their walls white, their gardens green, their windows dark.
"Hi, Feyrith!" I greeted the scion of Sister House Ivsaar, the oldest friend of Tessia. He was standing at the gate of his family's estate, dressed in one of his over-the-top suits, his wand-sword at his hip.
"Your Highn—" Feyrith began, his hand rising in greeting, his mouth opening to launch into one of his eclectic greetings.
But I was far past him before I could hear him finish his sentence. His voice faded behind me, swallowed by the wind.
I continued to speed through Sprout City, undeterred. I had studied my hometown for most of my life, finding it one of my favorite topics to read about. I knew almost everything that was ever documented about it—its history, its architecture, its hidden corners and forgotten stories.
But now, speeding through it at high velocity, I felt like I was learning it anew. My studies of Zestier had truly been useful, but they had not prepared me for this. For the way the city came alive when you moved through it like a bird. For the way the buildings seemed to lean toward you, curious, welcoming. For the way the people smiled when they saw their prince flying past on a wooden cane.
As long as Manasonar was going to alert me about nearby people so that I would not crash into them, I could move as free as a bird through the arteries of Zestier. The sound magic pulsed outward from me in steady waves, and I felt the echoes return—the shape of the street, the presence of the people, the location of every obstacle and every opportunity.
I started to slow down only when the Royal Palace began to be visible in the distance and the noise of Elf Court reached my ears. The wind eased. The wand-cane beneath my feet grew steadier, calmer. I was almost home.
And... stop! I halted myself, blocking Ars Ariamorph and thus stopping the wind magic fueling my wand-cane's thrust.
I made to step down and touch the ground of Elf Court, but I did so when I was still too fast. My feet hit the cobblestones at an angle, my balance failed, and I fell.
I rolled over the stones of Elf Court for ten meters at least, my body tumbling end over end, the world spinning around me. Luckily, I instinctively augmented my body with mana, so I did not feel the full repercussion of my fall.
"Prince Corvis!" A voice called to me in a rather chastising tone—one devoid of affection and full of professionalism and the worry of a doctor seeing one of their patients being hurt.
Alanis Emeria. The pediatrician of me and Tessia. The woman who had helped Mom during our birth. She was passing through Elf Court when I came speeding through it like a bullet of wind, and she had seen everything.
"I am fine," I said, standing back on my feet from the prone position I found myself in. My clothes were scuffed. My pride was bruised. But I was alive.
"What were you just doing?" Alanis Emeria asked—no, demanded. Her posture was rigid, her pink-blue eyes meticulously looking at me, cataloging every scratch, every scrape, every sign that I had been doing something foolish.
She took me by an arm and looked at my bruises. Her touch was gentle but firm, the touch of someone who had spent decades learning how to handle fragile things.
"Did I not order you to rest after your recent sickness?" Alanis asked me, and I heard the anger beneath her words. Anger at a child who would not stop pushing himself past his limits.
"I... I do not have to follow your orders," I said, and the child in me was the one speaking. The part of me that was tired, that was frustrated, that was sick of being told to rest when there was so much work to do.
Alanis coughed. "Actually, King Alduin has ordered me to force you to rest if necessary," Alanis explained. Her voice was calm, professional, but I saw the worry in her eyes. "And Elder Virion has told me to ask some guards of the Royal Police in case you are not willing to comply."
"Are you serious?" I asked, and I heard the disbelief in my own voice.
"I am a professional, Your Highness," Alanis said. "And also your medic. Now return to the Royal Palace."
I clicked my tongue, but I did as she said. I did not want members of the Royal Police dragging me back inside, and especially I did not want all of the people present in Elf Court to see.
I had just made a fool of myself enough with that failed landing from my wand-cane. However, Wind Surfing seemed a very efficient means of transportation. At least that experiment was a success.
I walked back toward the Royal Palace, Berna at my side, Alanis following behind me. The morning light was stronger now, warmer, and I could feel the city waking around me.
—
"No, Little Prince. That is not how you do it." Master Kamiel's hands were on mine before I could react, correcting the position of my fingers on the Almondling he had brought with him.
Being forced to remain at home meant I had much time to recuperate the lessons I had not attended with my music teacher. But rest was a foreign concept to me. Rest was the thing that happened between deaths, between resets, between the moments when the river released me and I opened my eyes.
So I let Kamiel come, and I let him teach, and I pretended that this was enough.
"That is not how I do it?" I echoed, frustration bleeding into my voice. "Master, I am playing the Almondling how it is supposed to be played."
To prove my point, I made an accord. The notes rang out clean and true, technically perfect, exactly as the sheet music demanded. But Kamiel Rennoux shook his head, his ginger hair swaying with the motion, his dark brown eyes fixed on my face with an expression I could not read.
"Yeah, technique... technique... we do not need that here." He waved his hand dismissively, as if technique was nothing more than a bothersome fly he could shoo away. "We need passion. Like I always tell you: do not let your logic cloud your heart. Especially when you are playing an instrument. Whatever that is."
I rolled my eyes, the gesture automatic, almost childish. "Is that what you tell Alea?" I asked, and I heard the edge in my own voice. " 'Do not listen to yourself, Alea, and trust me'? Something like that?"
Master Kamiel chuckled, the sound warm and unaffected. "Nice joke, Nice joke, Little Prince," he said.
Then he turned to look at Berna, who was sprawled across the floor of my room, her massive head resting on her paws, her green eyes tracking his every movement.
"How are you doing, bear?" He asked, and Berna glared back at him. There was no hostility in her gaze—not quite—but there was something that might have been suspicion. "You do not seem to like me very much."
"You wrote a song about a Beary Bear, and now everyone thinks that Beary Bear is Berna!" I protested, and I heard the defensiveness in my voice. "Of course she is mad!"
Berna is a Guardian Bear. Forged by gods to stand beside gods. A bulwark against the Vritra, a creature of stone, flesh and magic. Not the protagonist of a child's tale. That was what I wanted to tell Kamiel. But of course, I had to stop myself.
"Let us get back to the lesson," I said, and while I continued to play the Almondling, my fingers finding the chords automatically, my mind wandered.
I wondered about what kind of music the Djinn had developed. They had been a civilization of artists and philosophers, of people who had built structures that spanned continents and filled them with knowledge that the Asuras had murdered them to suppress.
Surely they had filled the Faircities of Dicathen with songs that no currently living ear had ever heard.
I would have to ask Avicenna later.
After Master Kamiel left—giving me more tips on how to practice my music, his voice fading into the corridor as he called out a final farewell—I sat back on my bed.
Despite everything that made Kamiel Rennoux who he was—the eccentricities, the flamboyance, the hopeless pursuit of a woman who would never love him back—he was a very good teacher.
I took Avicenna's Vaultlamp from my storage ring. I held it up to the light from my window, watching the way the sun caught the white veins that ran through the blue surface, and I felt the weight of what I was holding. A remnant of a murdered people. A voice from a world that had been erased.
'Peace to you, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice greeted me almost immediately, warm and patient, as if he had been waiting for me to call. 'What a pleasure it is to hear from you once again.'
"Peace to you too, Avicenna," I replied, and the words came easier now, more natural.
'You greeted me in the way of the Djinn, Justiciar.'
"Sorry," I said, and I felt my cheeks flush. "I did not mean to sound disrespectful."
'Disrespectful? No, no. Quite the contrary, Justiciar. I am more than pleased to hear that the traditions of my people still live on in someone like you.' Avicenna's voice was warm, almost fond. 'Now, is there something you wish to know from me?'
"What kind of music did your people make?" I asked.
The question seemed to catch him off guard. There was a pause, a moment of silence that stretched longer than the others, and when he spoke again, his voice was different. Nostalgic.
'What a peculiar and unexpected question you ask me right now, Justiciar. But if that is what your desire for knowledge requires, I will try to satisfy it, despite my limited knowledge of that field.' He paused again, gathering himself. 'The music of the Djinn varied much between Legal Bodies—our nations—but there was always one thing in common with all of them: improvisation.'
"Improvisation?" I repeated, surprised. "Really? I did not expect your people to be ones for improvisation."
'But that was the case, Justiciar. The music of my Legal Body, Ramdad—on the eastern side of the continent the Asuras call Dicathen—was a music that meshed together the styles of the west, where the great Faircity of Zhoroa of the Pillars rose, and those of the continent the Asuras call Alacrya.' Avicenna's voice was animated now, caught up in the joy of sharing something he loved. 'You know of the existence of Alacrya, right?'
"I do," I confirmed, though the word tasted like ash. Alacrya. The continent of my enemies. The home of the Vritra and their Scythes with the army that would one day come to burn everything I loved.
"But how did you call those continents?" I asked, redirecting the conversation.
'Alacrya was known as Mausoleia by us, and Dicathen as Focularsa, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice carried the particular pride of someone sharing something precious. 'Those names meant, respectively, "Museum Eternal" and "Cradling Fire."'
"That is very interesting," I said, leaning forward, caught up in his explanation. "But why those names?"
I did not notice Coco entering through my open window, her small form flitting through the gap and perching on a beam of the ceiling. I did not notice Berna's low complaint at Coco's presence—this one more jealous than anything else, a soft rumble that vibrated through the bond between us.
I was too focused on Avicenna's voice, on the worlds he was opening, on the history that had been buried and forgotten and was now being given back to me, piece by piece.
'You seek meaning in everything, Justiciar. That is the way of the Djinn.' Avicenna's voice was approving, almost proud. 'Mausoleia was where my people undertook the greatest and most ambitious of our Lifeworks. On Mausoleia, we accomplished the Lifework of all Djinnkind. The life project of every Djinn that has ever existed: the Grand Library of Mausoleia, where we archived all our knowledge on aether, its Articles, and Peace. Every single bit of Insight my people has ever gained over aether is located there, in the Grand Library. All Djinnic Aetherology—the study of aether—is archived in the Grand Library.'
He means the Relictombs, I said in my head. The deadliest place in this world, after the personal courts of Agrona Vritra and Kezess Indrath themselves.
'As for Focularsa,' Avicenna continued, 'well, that name was given because it was there that Djinnkind was born. Dicathen—as the Asuras and probably your people too call it—that was our home continent, where the warmth of Mordain and its fire cradled the first Djinns.'
"How did you reach that other continent?" I asked, my mind racing.
'Through our Manatech, Justiciar.'
"Could you explain more about Manatech and Aetherology?" I asked, leaning forward, hungry for more.
'With pleasure.' Avicenna's voice was steady, patient, the voice of a teacher who had been waiting a very long time for a student who was willing to listen. 'Our Lifeworks were divided into two branches: Manatech and Aetherology. Just like knowledge is divided into fields of study. Every Djinn chose one of the two specializations for their Lifework. And as the names suggest, one revolves around the communion with mana, the other with aether.'
"I have one last question," I said, my voice careful. "Where is the great Lifework of Manatech? The Relict—the Grand Library is the Lifework of all Djinnkind, but it is clearly a Lifework of Aetherology from what you just explained. Or so I understood."
'That is not wrong, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice took on a saddened tone, the warmth fading, replaced by something heavier. 'However, my people were wiped from the face of Pax Coronata before we could finish our second communal Lifework.'
I hummed, the sound low in my throat. The weight of what he had said settled into my chest, pressing against my ribs.
"Thank you for everything, Avicenna," I said, and I meant it.
'Thank you for speaking with me, Justiciar.'
Once again, I put the Vaultlamp back inside my storage ring. I raised my head and finally saw Coco, perched on a beam above me, her golden eyes fixed on my face.
"You have been watching me this entire time?" I asked.
Coco nodded.
"Did you know about them?" I asked the Asura in disguise, and while I knew the answer, I wanted to see what answer she would give me. "About the Ancient Mages?"
Coco flew from the beam onto my bed, landing softly on the quilt. She nodded again, hopping closer to me, brushing her feathers against my hands.
"You miss them, do you not?" I asked.
Coco shrugged herself, a small, almost human gesture that I had seen her make a hundred times before. But this time, I understood it differently. She was not just shaking off a question. She was shaking off memories. Shaking off grief.
"I have chosen the dungeon we are going to visit with Tessia and Alwyn," I told Coco as I moved to the desk of my room, where I kept a copy of a detailed map of Elenoir and the Beast Glades.
It was covered in notes and markings—the locations of discovered dungeons, the territories controlled by the Adventurer's Guild, the borders between nations and the no man's lands where no one held sway.
I spread the map out on the desk, weighing down the corners with books, and pointed to a spot in the southern part of the Elshire Forest. "This one. The Colour Timberland. It is a D-Class dungeon, so it will not be difficult at all for us. Moreover, it is mainly a mana beast den."
The Colour Timberland was located on the southernmost part of the Elshire Forest, just before the Beast Glades began in earnest.
It was quite close to the border with Sapin, but seeing how it was perfectly within Elenoir's territory, it was immensely rare for Adventurers to explore it. The Adventurer's Guild had no claim there.
The human parties that raided elven hamlets near the border—the pillagers that both Albold and Ashton had told me about during our travel to the Sea Den—would not risk crossing into sovereign elven territory for a mere D-Class dungeon.
Coco chirped in confirmation, hopping onto the map, her tiny claws leaving prints on the paper. She studied the location I had indicated, her head tilting, her golden eyes sharp.
"If all things go as planned, we are going to depart next week," I continued. "Alwyn said he still wants to finish the new set of lessons Grandpa prepared for him, and Tessia has a playdate this weekend with some of her friends."
At the mention of that playdate, Coco gave a strange chirp—something between a trill and a huff. Tessia had probably pestered her about it for hours, demanding that Coco attend, demanding that Coco sit on her shoulder and look regal while she entertained the children of the other noble Houses.
I smiled at the thought, at the image of my sister bossing around an Asura who could level the palace if she chose to.
I closed the map, rolling it carefully, tucking it back into its case.
Then I heard a familiar knock on the door.
"Your Highness." Alea's voice came from behind the door, measured. "There is a letter for you. From Elder Rahdeas of Darv. You know."
I looked at the door, at the shadow of her feet visible beneath the crack, and I felt the world shift around me. Elder Rahdeas did not write letters, not to me at least.
"Bring it in," I said, and my voice was steady, but my heart was not.