Dark Parasyte
Chapter 40: A Prayer for the Dead

Chapter 40: A Prayer for the Dead

After Corvin’s departure, Kaelyn remained in place for a long moment, eyes lingering on the now empty space he had occupied. Then she turned to Yvanna, her expression thoughtful. "He’s absurdly powerful with space magic," she said at last, the words almost reverent.

Yvanna gave her a sidelong glance, brows raised faintly. "Space is not one of the elements I do understand my dear." Yvanna answered her. "You are a practitioner after all. But I never quite grasped what it means to be truly powerful with it. What exactly sets someone like Corvin apart, what might be the daily uses of this kind of magic?"

Kaelyn’s hands moved as she explained, her fingers sketching patterns in the air. "It’s not understanding Space as a concept, or weave threads to increase personal security," she said, almost breathless. "It’s about access, movement, control over presence and distance. A skilled space mage doesn’t walk through the world. they rearrange it around themselves. The way he sealed this room... it wasn’t brute force. It was precision. His control is... beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed. As far as we know his main affinity is Lightning. If he is as half as good with it as he is with Space.. He is a monster."

She began outlining examples with increasing fervor. "There’s personal storage space pockets of null dimension where you can store anything non living. Then there’s delay side manipulation, where you can stagger time or presence across spatial folds. Just the intricacy of the seal he placed here speaks volumes. It’s a level of mastery few reach. One where you feel space responding to your will like silk."

Yvanna’s expression had softened into curiosity, though she still looked mildly overwhelmed.

"Aren’t Space Mages are controlled or supervised by the Arbiters?" she asked.

Kaelyn hesitated before nodding slowly. "Yes. The apex of space magic is the ability to open or sustain planar gates. That’s the line no one dares to cross, not without oversight."

She drew a steadying breath, eyes serious now. "That’s why every mage with arcane affinity is required to swear an Oath. Soulbound, mind you. Not to violate Circle law or open a gate without sanction. It’s how the Circle keeps reality from unraveling."

Yvanna tilted her head, absorbing it all. "So, this fief he asked for... do you think he wants the privacy to test something? Like... a gate?"

Kaelyn blinked, then shook her head quickly. "No. That’s not possible. From what I know, even teleportation across continents is restricted, let alone a planar gate. This topic is heavily regulated. And if he had done something so bold, someone would have noticed. I think he’s just... subtle. And incredibly efficient."

Yvanna leaned back in her seat, eyes narrowed in thought. "Still... secrets have a way of breeding in silence. Let’s hope Raven’s Nest remains quiet.

After a short pause, Yvanna looked back to Kaelyn, her tone shifting to something more measured. "When he returns from the Verrenate, I want you to find a reason to stay close to him. Officially or not. I need someone who can observe without alarming him. Whatever Corvin is planning, I want to be the first to know if it turns from private to political."

--

Corvin stood atop a jagged ridge, where the southern tendrils of Dominion stone bled into the unforgiving terrain of the Iron March. The air was drier here, charged faintly with the scent of iron and ozone, as if the land itself remembered war. Below him sprawled the vast and fractured expanse of Argyll. A continent less a nation than a contested frontier. To the south lay the refined wealth of the Gilded Dominion, its rolling hills and alabaster cities framed by olive groves and mirrored lakes. Beyond that civility, however, rose the Iron March, the continent’s brutal spine. A wasteland of cragged cliffs, scorched highlands, and valleys choked by mineral dust, it was a crucible of conflict, long coveted and never tamed.

Northward still, behind mist veiled peaks and icy gorges, the land steeped into fanaticism. There lay the Holy Verrenate, perched like a crown of barbed thorns atop Argyll’s northern shore. Fortresses clung to the cliffs, built in solemn rows across frost lashed plateaus. Their walls were chiseled from pale granite and etched with runes of divine protection. From above, the Verrenate resembled a fan of stone daggers, all aimed outward... and like any other religius regime, inward.

With deliberate calm, Corvin began his journey. The arcane hum of space magic wrapped around him, weaving through his limbs like phantom sinew. His first teleportation jump took him two valleys north. The second leap landed him near a centuries abandoned quarry. Each time he looked down to memorize the key points. Through a series of chained spatial folds, he crossed the Iron March in less than an hour. A feat that would leave most mages unconscious or dead.

He emerged on the tree dappled foothills at the edge of Holy Verrenate territory, shrouded by early dusk and a brewing mist. The target was close.

The first fortress stood like a silent sentinel over a narrow pass leading into the core of the Verrenate. It was modest, a waypoint more than a bastion, yet home to over two hundred devoted defenders. Their armor gleamed with sanctified wax and prayer oils, and every man bore a sword engraved with scripture. Towers flanked the walls, each manned by archers wearing white plumed helms. Their banners, three scarlet suns upon pure white fields fluttered in the wind like accusations.

They never saw the storm coming.

Corvin entered without warning. One moment the courtyard lay still beneath a sky tinged lavender with evening light, and the next, shadows poured into the center like an open wound. He arrived cloaked in death, and with him came the risen. Bob, colossal and silent, descended like an avalanche, his first swing reduced a paladin captain to broken armor and pulp.

The courtyard erupted into chaos. Trumpets failed to sound. Acolytes scrambled to light the torches, but it was crushed beneath undead hooves. Undead feralis surged, winged revenants rained down from conjured clouds above, Lion, tiger, Wolf, Bear kins slaying the humans through.

Room by room, Corvin cleaned the fort. He used metal and lightning magic to slaughter. Some targets though he killed cleanly. Priests, healers and commanders. He left nothing to chance. Every wound he opened was purposeful, every death harvested. Bob dragged corpses two at a time, stacking them like cordwood to be stored later.

The garrison’s command sanctum, filled with scrolls and relics, became a trove of spoils. Corvin looted it without sentiment. Religious tomes were absorbed into his memory through siphons. Banners were burned. He even paused to admire a well crafted table, its legs sculpted into angels weeping. Ironic, and quite to his taste. Into his dimensional inventory it went.

He took everything, grain sacks, coin chests, relics, furniture, spare uniforms. Horses too, though undead steeds were already replacing most travel needs. By sunrise, the fort was a ruin. Its stonework bled down the slopes in maroon rivulets, its gates yawning wide as if pleading for mercy.

Corvin stepped onto the blood washed parapet and cast his gaze northward. There, scattered like points of defiance across the border of Iron March , lay dozens more bastions. Each one a font of raw material.

He cracked his neck and grinned.

Raven’s Nest would need corpses, yes but it would also need iron, grain, and fear. And there was no shortage of any.

--

Two days had passed since the Holy Verrenate began to bleed.

Within the sanctified walls of the High Chamber in Verranus, the heart of the Holy Verrenate, the cardinals of the Sanctified Council stood in a ring of flickering candlelight. Their faces were drawn, pale with exhaustion and rigid with tension. They had not slept. No one dared leave. Even Pontiff Malcheron, who sat unmoved upon the marble throne at the head of the hall, bore lines etched deep with fury and disbelief. His mitre sat unused on the altar steps, abandoned like so many of their certainties.

The chamber had become a tomb for faith and clarity alike.

First came the reports from the Academy of the Cleansing Flame. Purifier General Marius Velden found murdered, his throat cut, his limbs dismembered in ritualistic mockery. Then, a cascade of blood followed. The Grand Vicar of Darnoth, the Bishop of Caerholt, High Priest Brannum of Ardencross, even Flame Warden Cassiar. All dead within hours of each other, across distant cities. Their bodies burned or mutilated, their temples desecrated. The ritualistic precision of each assassination sent chills through the clergy. Holy sites were defiled, consecrated relics stolen or desecrated. Entire congregations were found in catatonic stupor, minds broken or tampered with.

No one had seen the killers. No signs of siege. No enemy banners. Only ash, whispers, and blood.

Tyranus Holric, Cardinal of War, paced like a caged beast, his armored boots ringing against the mosaic floor. His face was a mask of fury, eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness. "This is no band of heretics," he growled. "These strikes are precise, coordinated. Assassins. Trained. This reeks of Feralis, but too clean, and too wide. They have a reason at least. This leaves only the Synod! Could the infidels be in league with them?"

"Not all elves are the Synod," replied Elyndra Voss, Cardinal of Wisdom. Her tone was as taut as a drawn bowstring, her pale fingers tapping an ancient volume with anxious rhythm. "Speculation without evidence will only deepen the wound. I say we bring this matter to the Circle of Arbiters. This reeks of arcane interference. Perhaps even something worse. There are whispers of forgotten arts, psychic infiltrations, shadow weaving. We need clarity, not conjecture."

"And what would the Circle do?" snapped Thalia Corren, Cardinal of Mercy. Her voice had lost its usual warmth, replaced by a hollow edge. "Declare us weak? Condemn our handling? No, Sister. This is a trial. One we must endure and rise above. We are not children who run crying to their elders. We are the divine fire of Verthalis."

Pontiff Malcheron remained silent, hands steepled beneath his chin. His eyes were dull embers sunk deep beneath a heavy brow. He had not spoken since midnight, his voice reserved for decisions rather than arguments.

The other two cardinals sat still, newly named in the wake of their predecessors’ demise.

Cardinal of Doctrine, Garridan Morth, a scholar priest turned hardliner. His normally composed features were pale, fingers trembling around a prayer bead he refused to drop.

Cardinal of Judgment, Virelda Samhain, once a zealous purifier, now filled with barely contained rage. She had not blinked in hours, her glare fixed on an imaginary enemy just beyond the doors.

A cough broke the silence, then the sound of armored feet sprinting down the corridor. A messenger burst into the chamber, breathless, his robes stained with ash and sweat.

"Sanctified Ones," he gasped, bowing deeply, "we have new reports. Border fortresses..they are devastated."

Gasps and movement rippled across the chamber. The Pontiff’s knuckles turned white upon his staff. Every breath in the room stilled.

"Names," barked Tyranus.

The messenger unrolled a crumpled scroll, hands shaking. "Fortress Halberreach, reduced to rubble. The citadel at Thornvault, same. Greybarrow and Saint Edrin’s Hold, both abandoned, their banners defiled. Churches in Hightarn, Barrowreach, and the southern chapel of Saint Lavellan report slaughtered clergy. No survivors. No witnesses. Nothing but silence and ash."

"They’re erasing us," whispered Virelda Samhain, her voice tremulous with disbelief. "Systematically. Without doctrine. Without pause."

"No demands. No declarations. Not even a heretical slogan," added Garridan, his voice cracking. "Who are they? And why now? Not even the Synod has the audacity to desecrate holy soil without sending a message."

"This is more than vengeance," murmured Elyndra, folding her arms tightly around her tome. "This is orchestration. The hand behind this does not crave war. It seeks oblivion. An enemy that leaves no trace does not want to rule. It wants to purge. We have many enemies especially because of of the feretic and subhuman slaves we hold yet not even that demands this kind of slaughter!"

Pontiff Malcheron finally spoke, his voice like cold iron grinding on stone. "Seal the borders. Recall every Purifier regiment from inland cities. Sanctify all strongholds. Burn every fort we cannot hold. And place the outer provinces under martial law."

A moment of stillness, heavier than silence.

Then the orders began to fly. Raw, panicked, and prayer soaked. Tyranus issued military commands like a warlord possessed. Garridan muttered doctrines, hoping divine law might shield what steel could not. Virelda screamed at scribes. And all the while, the Pontiff stared into the distance, into a shadow none of them yet understood.

Beneath the chaos, dread festered.

No enemy had yet revealed itself.

And the darkness did not wait for permission to strike again.