Dark Parasyte

Three days later, Serenya too ascended to the rank of Magus, an event that unfolded during the evening meal. The moment was unmistakable, her body glowing as the light of her affinities burst forth. A green as vivid as fresh spring grass shimmered around her, the clear mark of her Plant affinity, while threads of radiant white blazed just as brightly, the unmistakable power of Light itself. Gasps rippled through the dining hall as the glow filled every corner.

Corvin was on his feet in an instant, moving to her side with the same calm authority he had shown with Valyne's ascension. He guided Serenya gently away from the long table to a clear spot in the center of the room. His hands rose, glyphs springing into existence, glowing lines of power weaving into a precise runic circle. The glyphs spun and danced around him, catching the light from Serenya's aura, creating a tapestry of magic to stabilize her core and help the surging mana settle.

Thalira's face lit up with genuine joy, her eyes wide with delight at her companion's sudden rise. A smile spread over her lips, pride and excitement plain as she clasped her hands together, watching Serenya glow like a star. By contrast, Elydria's expression twisted with something darker. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her soft blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Shock was there, but underneath it, jealousy stirred hot and sharp. She had stood beside Serenya not long ago when both their cores had been measured, and she knew exactly how far Serenya had been from ascension. For her to leap ahead now, surpassing expectations, left Elydria's stomach knotted with envy.

Across the table, Thalira's amber gaze flickered toward Archmagus Seliorna, who remained composed, though her sharp eyes missed nothing. Sensing the Magistra's look, Seliorna caught her gaze and mouthed a single word: later. Thalira nodded slightly, understanding that explanations or orders would come when they were alone.

And so, amid shining light and quiet tension, Serenya stood in the center of Raven's Nest's great hall.

--

Far to the south, beyond the turbulent waters of Argyll's coast, eastward across the blackened sea to the scorched and cursed continent of Nefrath, Arbiter Malzarek burned with fury. His presence weighed heavily on the ruined land, a vast shadow spreading over plains scarred by endless battles. For days, he had scoured the blasted landscapes, his power pressing into the bones of the earth, hunting for even the faintest trace of truth. Craters still steamed where once legions had clashed, rivers ran sluggish with blackened ichor, and the stench of burnt sulfur clung to every breath of air. And yet, five of the seven Archdemons of Nefrath were gone, erased in swift, merciless succession. They left no bodies, no remains, their bases had fallen silent, and their armies lay shattered as though consumed by some unseen hand.

The pattern was intolerable. Malzarek's mind circled endlessly around the same gnawing suspicion: that a new Archdemon had risen among them, feeding upon its own kin. Demons had always embraced the brutal truth of survival especially for their kind. Power was earned through devouring of others, and Demons had long relied on that endless cycle to ensure at least seven Planarch level beings would always stand ready. It was their sharpest edge, their cruel advantage. But to rise now, in secret, while Verthalis was so close to the hour of invasion? That was folly bordering on treachery. Some ravenous, reckless creature, drunk on its own ambition, had grown selfish enough to cripple Nefrath's strength at the very moment when the legions were needed most. Such arrogance was unthinkable, yet the evidence left him no other conclusion.

Malzarek's anger seethed hotter with each passing day. His fury was a volcano beneath the surface, each fruitless hour feeding the eruption building within. He cast his will across scorched plains and jagged mountains, extended it into the deepest hellpits and collapsed fortresses. He tore through the remnants of battlefields where shadows clung like ghosts, searching for witnesses. Still, there was nothing. Only emptiness and silence, as though the world itself had swallowed the truth.

Legions marched at his command, dispatched to scour every wasteland, cavern, and scorched lands of Nefrath. Yet even their brutal efficiency yielded no results. They returned again and again with empty hands, their numbers frayed by unrest, their commanders shrinking beneath Malzarek's smoldering wrath. His patience frayed, his temper grew darker, and the quiet spread of despair within the ranks only fanned the flames of his suspicion.

The uncertainty enraged him more than any truth might have. Still, he pressed on, relentless in his hunt. For Arbiter Malzarek could not, would not, allow such a betrayal or such a threat, after consuming at the minimum four Archdemons the culprit is strong enough to be considered a threat, to remain hidden. The invasion loomed, and Nefrath's strength had been gutted. He would uncover the culprit, one way or another.

--

While Arbiter Malzarek fumed in his volcanic rage, far to the north of Nefrath another storm was brewing, quieter, more calculating, but no less dangerous. In the shadowed halls of the Umbral Synod, Planarchs Selyndross and Dhaelora of the Hexarchy sat beneath banners of black silk, their eyes fixed on Vaelorin's latest report. The parchment glowed faintly with runes of authentication, the words within scrawled with Vaelorin's careful hand. The details were as absurd as they were undeniable. Line by line, the data unfolded: Serenya Valerith, once a timid Magistra of Aeloria, now standing as Magus in under two years. The charts tracking the expansion of her mana core glared back at them like an accusation, each percentage marked with exacting precision. And Valyne, another concubine of the Raven, ascending just weeks earlier. Two Magi in less than a month. It should have been impossible, yet the reports left no room for doubt.

Dhaelora's lips tightened as she finally broke the silence, her voice sharp but hushed as though afraid the walls themselves might carry her words. "This should not be real. In less than a month, two of his women have leapt to the next rank. The Synod has hidden many secrets, but this… this defies all precedent."

Selyndross did not speak at once. He leaned back in his chair, long fingers drumming slowly against the armrest, his silver gaze fixed on the parchment. At last, he inclined his head slightly, the gesture both acknowledgment and unease. His hand tapped deliberately against the list where the names of the other magistras were recorded. Elydria and Thalira, gifts sent by their cousins in the north. "It will not stop there," he murmured. "His resonance… his blood. The Sylvan echo runs too deep. It reshapes those nearest him. Aurelians are already on to it." The implication lingered heavily in the chamber.

Dhaelora's eyes narrowed, her mind already turning toward strategy. She turned sharply to Archmagus Yserith Vale, who stood in silence nearby, a figure cloaked in the muted violet robes of the Synod. "Find me five more," she commanded. "Magistra or Magus, no more than five, but each chosen for the purity of their blood and the rarity of their beauty. Search first among the Shadows. I want them at his side, even during the invasion. Every Magus we can forge is a weapon we need yesterday." Her tone was steel, brooking no hesitation.

Yserith bowed her head low, a single fluid movement that carried the weight of obedience. No protest, no hesitation. The order was received, and with it the unspoken knowledge that her task would shape the balance of power in the Synod.

Meanwhile, far from Obsidian Gate, in the emerald heart of the Aurelian Dominion, a similar storm of calculation brewed. Missives flashed through spatial tunnels between Whispershade of the Silent Aurora, the Dominion's generals, and their sovereign Planarch Aranthil Vaenlor, the White Thorn of Aeloria. Their council chamber was alive with quiet tension, runic seals opening and closing as each report was read and filed. Corvin Blackmoor's name appeared again and again, tied irrevocably to Sylvan ancestry. To the High Elves, this was more than coincidence. If he truly bore the echo from the firstborn in his blood, if his resonance could awaken cores and force ascension, then he was not merely a Planarch of the Synod. He was a potential living font of strength, a source of power the likes of which neither Dominion nor Synod had seen in centuries.

But therein lay the danger. The High Elves and Dark Elves circled each other warily, wolves forced to share the same prey. Both factions understood the stakes. To alienate Corvin was unthinkable, his wrath could be as deadly as his favor was valuable. To claim him entirely, impossible, he was too independent, too dangerous, too firmly entrenched in his own designs. Thus the dance began. Smiles and polite words across tables, gifts of loyalty wrapped in subtle traps, whispers of alliance meant to sway him without binding him. Each side maneuvered quietly, placing their people closer to him. Magistras, magi, emissaries. All while maintaining the mask of courtesy, as though nothing more than tradition compelled their attentions.

In both Aeloria and Obsidian Gate, leaders who had rarely agreed on anything found themselves sharing one conviction: Corvin Blackmoor, the Raven of the Synod, whose power was rooted in the bloodline of the long lost Sylvan Elves, must be cultivated. He must be bound, not by chains, but by circumstance, by loyalty, by the threads of influence woven around him. For in him, they saw not only a weapon for the looming invasion, but the chance to tilt the balance of power between Elven kind and rest of the residents of Verthalis for generations to come. A single Elf had become the fulcrum of their future, and neither side intended to yield their claim.

--

As the political winds churned wildly across Verthalis, in the grand Conclave Chamber of the Circle of Arbiters, silence reigned. The chamber itself was a masterpiece of ancient craft, a vast dome of blackstone veined with silver and gold, every arch and pillar etched with runes that pulsed faintly as though alive, restrained power beating like a second heart within the walls. The air was heavy with expectation, the hush broken only by the occasional crackle of energy building from unseen sources. At the center loomed the great portal stone, a monolith, tall enough to scrape the domed ceiling, its surface dull and lifeless, until summoned to wake.

The Veiled Arbiter stood at the forefront, his shrouded visage turned toward the massive structure. Two Arbiters stood to his left and two to his right, their expressions grim, their postures rigid, waiting for the signal. With a gesture as subtle as the twitch of a hand, the Veiled Arbiter raised both arms. Malzarek was still on Nefrath. Instantly, the others mirrored him, and the chamber stirred to life. They reached deep into their formidable reserves of mana, channeling it into carefully measured streams that poured forth in shimmering arcs. Threads of light.. emerald, sapphire, crimson, and gold spilled out and twined together, weaving themselves into the dormant monolith. The stone shuddered, groaned as if something vast and ancient was awakening within, and the very air trembled under the growing strain. Aether thickened until it hummed in resonance, vibrating through the bones of all present like the taut strings of a celestial harp.

Slowly, painstakingly, the dead stone flared to life. At first faint arcs danced across its surface like sparks, then spirals of brilliance erupted, folding in upon themselves, layers of reality pressing tight until the seams between worlds buckled and bent. The Arbiters held steady, their combined power not only feeding the newborn gateway but smoothing its ragged edges, knitting together the unstable tunnel of space between realms. Their robes snapped and fluttered under unseen winds, sweat gathered on their brows, yet none faltered. Theirs was a ritual older than kingdoms, precise and demanding, and they bore it with practiced weight.

Minute by minute the glow intensified until the portal blazed like molten silver, a swirling oval of radiant light suspended within the carved frame of the monolith. The Veiled Arbiter inclined his head, and the Circle, Elven, Feralis, Human, and Aetherborn maintained the channel, their combined will holding the fragile bridge in place. Beyond the threshold shimmered a vision distorted and indistinct, like a mirage of another sky reflected in rippling water.

The first to emerge from the roiling light was a colossal scaled foot, talons catching the glow in jagged gleams. A Dragonkin Pioneer stepped through, towering and broad, armored in plates of bone and crystal that refracted the portal's radiance. His presence filled the chamber like a sudden storm, heavy and commanding. Behind him followed three cloaked figures of the Umbral Synod, their robes whispering with latent spells, their eyes glittering like shards under light as they swept the hall with sharp, assessing gazes. Lastly, two Aetherborn crossed the threshold, their luminous bodies haloed in shifting brilliance.

The Circle of Arbiters watched, breath held, waiting for more. But the portal rippled, shuddered, and then steadied into stillness. After a tense heartbeat, one of the Aetherborn pioneers stepped forward, It's voice ringing through the chamber like a resonant chime. "There will be no others," they declared. "The rest did not made it to the portal."

The words fell like a hammer. The team of ten had been reduced to six.

The Arbiters exchanged glances, grim and heavy, before slowly withdrawing their power. One by one, the streams of light dimmed and vanished, leaving the portal to flicker with faint sparks before collapsing inward in a final implosion of radiance. With a shuddering sigh, the monolith went dark once more, its surface dull and lifeless as if nothing had happened at all.

The Circle lowered their hands, the weight of the ritual etched into their postures. Their robes settled heavily about them, and they returned to their seats, faces carved in stone like calm. The six pioneers, survivors of a year in the unknown, crossed the polished floor and took their places before the dais.

Now, at last, would come the truth about the new realm: to speak of what they had seen in the new realm, to reveal the findings that would guide the Circle's hand in the looming invasion. The chamber hushed once more, expectant and taut, as all eyes fixed on the weary but unbroken pioneers.