Dark Parasyte
Chapter 34: They Had No Script for This

Chapter 34: They Had No Script for This

Vaelorin didn’t speak as he turned, his heavy robe trailing behind him like a river of midnight silk. Corvin followed silently, their footsteps echoing across the polished obsidian floor, each step falling like a whispered ritual. Instead of exiting through the great arched doors of the Triarch’s hall, they veered toward a smaller, shadow wreathed door behind the central throne. Half concealed by embroidered banners depicting the Dark Mother’s trials and triumphs, it shimmered faintly with old magic.

The darkwood door bore ancient runes etched so finely they seemed like veins in the grain. As they drew closer, the sigils pulsed with awareness, briefly illuminating the narrow alcove. Vaelorin pressed a single hand to the surface, and without a word, the door opened inward, exhaling a breath of cold, ward heavy air.

They stepped into a narrow stone corridor. Its walls, smooth and seamless, radiated the hum of layered containment wards woven into every block. Faint lights flickered overhead, suspended in crystal nodes, glowing a faint violet. The passage twisted gently, winding downward with subtle precision, as if bored directly into the bones of the fortress.

The deeper they went, the heavier the air became, thick with age, power, and secrecy. It was not just physical descent. It felt like falling into the hidden mind of the Synod itself.

For two minutes they walked. Neither spoke. The silence was not awkward, it was reverent, almost ceremonial, and thick with unspoken calculation.

Eventually, they arrived at a broad set of double doors unlike anything above. Carved entirely from polished obsidian, the twin gates were etched with silver, forming the image of a woman veiled in cascading runes. Her expression was serene and sorrowful, and her eyes, opal inlaid, flickered faintly as though watching.

Vaelorin turned, his expression unreadable. "The council behind this door requires your soulbound oath," he said, voice lowered, almost ritualistic. "You are not to speak of this place, its occupants, or its existence. Not through voice, thought, spell, writing or deed. Do you accept the binding?"

Corvin met the Archmagus’s gaze steadily, without hesitation. "I do."

A ripple of blue light passed over him like a sheet of silk, sinking into his skin as the oath wove itself into the structure of his soul. It settled there unseen, but unbreakable.

Vaelorin nodded. He raised both palms to the doors, pressing them flat against the carved obsidian. Slowly, the massive gates parted with a deep, groaning whisper, revealing a chamber carved in pure blackstone.

The space within was vast and circular, shaped like a sanctum untouched by time. Columns of onyx and violet crystal lined the edges, glowing faintly with internal light. The air shimmered with suspended sigils, runes of silence and magical concealment.

Six seats rose from the stone floor, arranged in a crescent. Two rows, the first with four, two to the left and two to the right, forming a symmetrical arc. Each bore a different sigil etched in metallic script, designating one of the Archmagus of the Hexarchy.

Opposite the entrance, elevated slightly above the others, stood two imposing thrones. They were carved of darksteel and voidglass, engraved with constellations and flowing glyphs. Upon them sat two robed figures, the Planarchs. One male, silver haired and unreadable. His gaze was focused on Corvin, a clear shock in in eyes; one female, her expression both serene and sharp.

As Corvin stepped forward into the chamber, a soft psychic tendril reached for him. It was faint, an exploratory caress against the edges of his mind. Subtle, skilled and silent

Corvin’s mental defenses were not just strong, they were watchful. His awareness snapped around the intrusion like a vice.

Without missing a step, he turned toward the second seat on the right side of the chamber. A cloaked Archmagus sat there, expression suddenly wary. Corvin’s eyes locked with his, gaze cutting as broken crystal.

Corvin’s voice, when it emerged, was cold.

"Try that again," he said flatly, "and even your soul will not know the meaning of rest."

The words echoed in the chamber like a curse.

The Archmagus stiffened, visibly taken aback. His fingers tensed around the armrests, eyes flicking toward the Planarchs as if to confirm what he’d just heard. A moment passed. Then another. His lips parted, perhaps to scold or perhaps to excuse his action, but he found no words.

The Planarchs said nothing. They merely watched, unblinking.

Vaelorin moved without comment to his seat on the left among the four lower thrones, his expression unreadable. The remaining three Archmagus, none of whom Corvin met before remained still, their gazes fixed on him now with a mix of caution and curiosity.

Corvin stood alone in the center of the chamber, relaxed yet unmoving. His hands were clasped behind his back, his stance unassuming but his eyes told a different story.

There was no fear.

Only warning.

--

While tension slowly escalated within the chamber of the Hexarchy, far above and unaware, Kaelyn waited. She was lodged in the formal guest house of the Obsidian Gate Fort. An ancient structure wrapped in cold elegance and unforgiving stillness. Even with letters of request and protection from two major academies, she had spent eight days in enforced stillness, watching time slip away.

Eight days of being ignored.

Eight days of these zealots claiming they were ’searching’ for Corvin among the tribal regions.

She knew better. The Synod’s reputation was known even beyond the borders of the Gilded Dominion. A living nightmare for foreign envoys, especially humans. Torture didn’t need chains when endless bureaucratic silence did the same work.

But Kaelyn was not one to bend easily. And today, she decided, would not be an exception.

Dressed in a formal dark azure robe embroidered with golden glyphs, she descended from her quarters and crossed the short courtyard path to the fortress. The gates loomed like a monument to stillness, flanked by two Dark Elves clad in black and violet armor, unmoving and impassive.

As she approached, one of them turned his head slightly.

"Why are you here again, human?" he asked, voice dry as desert wind.

Kaelyn didn’t flinch. "Duchess Yvanna would like an update about Dark Elf Corvin Blackmoor’s whereabouts."

The guard studied her for a second too long, then smirked faintly and gestured toward the gate. "Go on in."

Kaelyn narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like that smirk. There was something vaguely amused about it, as though she’d walked into a joke she didn’t know. She couldn’t have known that this was the same guard Corvin had pranked not long ago.

Inside, the corridors of the Obsidian Gate were no kinder than the elves guarding them. Shadows slithered along the walls, too fluid to be tricks of light. Or perhaps it was just her nerves, twisted by eight days of endless waiting.

She entered the familiar hall again, the audience chamber where the Triarch held court.

This time, there were only two figures present. The central, elevated seat stood empty.

The female elf seated on the left looked up calmly. "What is it you want envoy of the Gilded Dominion?"

Kaelyn offered a polite nod, repeating her now routine request: "I ask again for an update on the location of Corvin Blackmoor, on behalf of Duchess Yvanna of the Gilded Dominion."

Kel’Mara, seated and poised, regarded her for a long moment.

Then, without ceremony, she answered, "He will be available to meet you tomorrow at noon."

Kaelyn blinked. She hadn’t expected that. No resistance. No dismissal. Just... acceptance.

The male elf seated beside Kel’Mara let out a faint chuckle. The shadows in the corners stirred, as if responding to her thoughts.

Maybe, Kaelyn thought, they really could read minds.

--

Planarch Selyndros was old, so old that even many elves had forgotten just how far his memory stretched. He had lived through centuries of upheaval and silence, long before the schism that split their people into High and Dark, back when elvenkind still walked unified beneath the endless canopies of Thalasien. He had been young once, an apprentice with ink stained fingers and bright eyes, sitting cross legged while his mentor recited the old tales beside a hearth built of living stone.

He remembered those stories vividly: accounts of the Origin Elves, also called the Sylvan. Ancient. Unbroken. Their mana had not pulsed, it had breathed, organic, fluid, alive. They could commune with the earth, command growth and decay, shift the seasons in localized spheres, and shape life as an artist shaped clay. Their spirits were woven into the essence of Verthalis herself, the ley lines and wild groves recognizing them as kin.

According to his master, they were the only ones, besides perhaps the Aetherborn who truly belonged to the world. Yet even the Aetherborn were more elemental echo than soulbound flesh, distant in a way the Origin never were. The Sylvan Elves had been earthbound divinity.

And now, before him, stood Corvin Blackmoor.

Not merely powerful, also Impossible.

Selyndros studied him in silence, eyes narrowing as each second fed into a growing suspicion. The structure of Corvin’s presence, his posture, his resonance, the way the ambient mana subtly bent around him... it was not a mask. It was heritage. Bloodline.

It was Selyndros who finally shattered the weighted silence.

"The Archmagus may have overstepped," he said, casting a glance toward the cloaked figure who had attempted the mental intrusion, "but that matter is secondary now."

His voice, though calm, held undercurrents of reverence and urgency.

"Tell me, Corvin Blackmoor. Do you know your lineage? Your parents? The root of your bloodline?"

Corvin’s gaze slid to meet the Planarch’s without hesitation. His expression was neutral, but there was a flicker of something harder beneath it, like ice forming just under glass.

Rather than provide answers, his voice broke through the chamber, sharp as a dagger’s edge.

"Is this how the this council welcomes its guests?" he asked, his tone deceptively quiet. "Violate their minds, and then interrogate them as though courtesy were never expected?"

His words echoed like a challenge hurled into sacred ground.

The atmosphere turned brittle, thick with tension so sharp it could cut. Even the ever burning runes etched into the walls seemed to dim slightly, responding to the shift.

Before Selyndros could offer a reply, Dhaelora, the second Planarch leaned forward in her elevated seat.

Her presence surged like an incoming tide. Cold. Controlled. Furious.

"Do you understand where you stand?" she said, her voice laced with disdain. "You are not addressing common peers, nor some provincial court."

"You stand in the presence of the Hexarchy. The silent hand of the Dark Mother. Her will, rendered in judgment and fire. You will speak with respect, or you will not speak again."

Her eyes burned, not with rage alone, but with insulted sanctity.

Corvin merely raised an eyebrow. He did not blink nor did he flinched.

In truth, he barely listened. For while the council postured, his spores finer than dust had already begun weaving their way through the chamber. Unseen. Unsensed. He did not need to raise his hands or summon incantations. It had already begun the moment he walked in.

The spores moved with purpose, seeping into the thrones of the three seated Archmagus. Sifting their memories, cataloging their affinities, rifling through personal histories as if peeling open brittle books. He wasn’t just learning names.

He was absorbing structure.

And as it unfolded within him, Corvin gave the faintest scoff.

Then he turned back to Selyndros, eyes calm and blade bright.

"So this is the truth behind your thrones," he said. "Symbols wrapped in illusion. Titles given weight only by those willing to kneel beneath them."

The words struck like hammer blows. One of the unnamed Archmagus shifted in his seat, knuckles whitening as he gripped the carved arms. Another, a woman with glyphs etched into her cheek, narrowed her eyes to slits.

But Corvin remained still. Poised. A storm in waiting.

His hands were relaxed, but his presence was a blade unsheathed.

And Selyndros, for all his age and memory, saw something terrible and magnificent in that stance.

Not a challenger.

A relic.

A memory made flesh.

A Sylvan Elf returned to a world that had burned its forests for stone.

And the Hexarchy, mighty as it was, had no script prepared for this.