Dark Parasyte
Chapter 43: A World on the Verge

Chapter 43: A World on the Verge

The marble dome of the Conclave Chamber echoed with the storm of voices, a clash of power and pride beneath the banners of every race. At the center, around the table of ’unity’, the Circle of Arbiters had gathered. Intricate runes shimmered faintly along the curved walls, resonating with ambient aetheric energy. A silent reminder of the chamber’s ancient authority.

The moment Gareth, the Human Arbiter, entered, the temperature shifted. His boots struck the floor like war drums. Without waiting for formality, he stormed across the room, bypassing ritual and station, heading straight for the elven side of the chamber.

"You smug, tree hugging bastards!" Gareth bellowed, voice ricocheting through the pillars. "First our trade routes, now our sanctums? The Holy Verrenate is being butchered, It couldn’t be Feralis with such a destructive and organized attack this leaves only your zealots! And we all know your kind hides behind silence and illusion!"

The Elven Arbiter did not blink. Did not speak. Did not even deem Gareth’s outburst worthy of a reaction. He remained poised, hands folded over a polished scroll case, silver embroidery catching the light like frost.

A low, throaty chuckle curled up from the side, the Feralis Arbiter, whose grin stretched wide enough to show a full line of gleaming fang. It wasn’t a smile. It was instinct. Predatory amusement. Her clawed fingers tapped the table rhythmically, like a hunter savoring the scent of panic.

A ripple of magic stirred the air.

Then came a sound like thunder. A fist, veiled in silk, slammed down upon the table.

Silence followed. Immediate and absolute.

The Veiled Arbiter, who sat at the head of the circle, remained motionless save for the curled fingers still pressed against the black stone. The table itself, a slab of voidstone mined from the Rift Peaks groaned beneath the force.

Gareth bowed, only slightly, but the gesture still carried weight. Among the Circle, only the arbiters knew the truth. This figure, ageless and masked, was no mere equal. He was the High Arbiter of Verthalis, alive since before the Sundering, the last remnant of a time even history dared not fully recall. It was he and the other arbiters of their time who had founded the Circle, decreed its laws, and demanded that each race be represented by one.

No one knew his face. No one knew his race.

Yet all bowed.

With the room now silent, Gareth turned again to the Veiled Arbiter.

"The Holy Verrenate is being decimated. Entire fortresses gone. Cities turned to ash. Survivors with no memory of the attack. We suspect the Dark Elves, memory tampering, psychic erosion, all the hallmarks. Their methods are insidious. Even our best mentalists can’t salvage the truth."

The Feralis Arbiter’s chuckle deepened, eyes narrowing like coals smoldering behind scaled lids. Her tail flicked once beneath the cloak, amused.

From the far side of the circle, the Demon Arbiter turned with a sneer. His voice dripped disdain.

"Your race breeds like rats. In a cycle’s time, your slaver priests and chanting soldiers will be as plentiful as weeds. Do not pollute this chamber with mourning for fanatics."

He stood, sharp and tall. "I report this instead, Two Archdemons have declared war. Velkoth the Envious and Korvath the Proud are already tearing the Molten March apart. The others gather steel and flame. We do not have time to cry for slavers. Your corpses serve as fertilizer for better stories. Yet if the Archdemons continue, not only Nefrath but whole of Verthalis will turn to ash."

Gareth opened his mouth to respond, but a single motion from the Veiled Arbiter froze him.

He pointed first to the Demon Arbiter... then to Gareth.

"Planar Conquest is mere months away," the Veiled Arbiter said, voice low but resonant, like stone dragged across sacred ground. "And you two.. you have failed."

The weight of those words crushed the air.

"Rather than bolstering our lines, your peoples have turned to slaughter and sabotage. If this continues, the Council will seize authority over both of your continents. I’m certain..."

He turned slightly, the veil shifting with eerie precision.

"...that the Elves and the Feralis would be delighted to help restore order."

The Feralis Arbiter’s grin widened, draconic and full of teeth, nostrils flaring.

The Elven Arbiter inclined his head with measured calm, and replied with silken grace, "We are ever in service to balance. Should the Circle call, we shall answer, as we always have."

--

The envoy from the Iron March arrived beneath banners of veiled diploamacy, an armored procession flanked by austere riders in matte black cloaks, their sigils bearing the emblem of Blackspire Bastion. Even their mounts were outfitted for solemn display: barding of hammered steel, leather reins braided with sigils of vigilance and flame. At their head rode Envoy-Marshal Ilren Vos, tall, gaunt, and draped in ceremonial steel that bore more weight in meaning than defense. His face was chiseled in sharp lines, like stone long tested by wind and war.

Duchess Yvanna Vellgard received them, her coronation banners not yet lifted, the golden thread still fresh from the looms. Her attendants moved with quiet grace, ensuring the Iron March delegation was received with all appropriate formality. Musicians paused mid rehearsal. Scribes stepped aside. The scent of laurel and burning myrrh filled the chamber.

Yvanna smiled with deliberate grace, stepping forward with arms open but guarded.

"Marshal Vos. A surprise, but a pleasant one. I trust the journey was uneventful?"

Vos bowed with rigid elegance. "Your Grace. The skies held, and no blades were drawn that did not wish to be." Him calling her ’Your grace’ shows the stance of Iron March to the coronation.

She gestured toward the receiving parlor, a chamber ringed with crystal sconces and sunlit panes that filtered amber light across a long, polished marble table set with golden filigree. Emblems of Dominion and the Iron March were already placed opposite one another.

"Please, let us speak as allies and neighbors."

Vos took his seat with the precision of a man used to battlefield briefings. His aides stood behind him in rigid posture, their eyes scanning the room with the dispassionate attention of trained strategists.

"We extend, first and foremost, our congratulations. A coronation in times such as these is not merely a tradition, but a testament to resilience. The Iron March recognizes your throne, the strength required to bear such a mantle. It is no light crown you don."

Yvanna inclined her head. "Your words honor me, Marshal. And your presence brings them weight."

Vos folded his hands. "Of course, with such transitions come... observations. News travels, through our channels, sometimes winds of arcane whispers. The Holy Verrenate, it seems, suffers deeply. Entire strongholds lost. Towns erased. And though it is not our soil, Argyll’s integrity echoes across borders. We are not untouched by such tremors."

Yvanna said nothing for a moment, her throat tightening behind the practiced veneer of confidence. She allowed herself a slow exhale, masked as a contemplative breath. Verrenate’s ’political’ manovuers were not a secret nor was her disdain not known especially to Iron March.

Vos’s voice remained calm, but his eyes sharpened. "We wonder, only in the interest of continental security, whether any disturbances have been noted along your sout and eastern reaches. Any... anomalies. Movements. Forces that could explain such untraceable devastation."

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled, tone light but the steel in his gaze betrayed the weight of his words.

It was a fair question. A reasonable concern. Yet each syllable bore the weight of suspicion hidden beneath diplomatic polish. She could feel her own court watching, listening. Words here would ripple outward like arrows loosed into the dark.

Yvanna felt the silence stretch. In that moment, she thought of Corvin.. of a Raven screeching on a devestated land filled to the brim with corpses.. of what he had done, and worse, what he might yet do. To speak of him was to invite hell upon her land and self. But to hide him was to keep a storm veiled. Could she gamble that the Iron March would not uncover the truth? Or would they arrive later with accusations sharpened into swords?

She forced a small smile, each syllable polished before release.

"Argyll remains... calm," she said. "Our borders remain inviolate, and no foreign incursion has breached our sovereignty. The reports we’ve received suggest infighting within the Verrenate. Collapsing hierarchies, fragmented doctrine, and zealotry clashing against its own foundations. Not, to my knowledge, the work of Elven, Feralis, or demonic forces."

Vos nodded slowly, as if weighing her words on an invisible scale.

"A pity, then," he said. "Clarity is often the first casualty in war. And clarity, as you well know, is a cornerstone of diplomacy. Still, we appreciate your transparency, Your Grace. It would be prudent, then, for both our realms to remain vigilant. For if such devastation were to cross the Iron March’s northren borders foreign races across sea will not sit idle. No crown, no wall, would be untouched."

Yvanna’s eyes remained steady, though a flicker of tension tightened at her temple. "May our relations always remain so between Dominion and the Iron March. Transparent. United in vigilance." Diplamtic dance of the aides started afterwards, new trade agreements and border security protocols.

Vos stood after the talks reached a satifactory level and offered a parting bow. "Until the next accord, your Grace."

Yvanna returned the gesture with poise. But inside, the weight of silence pressed against her lungs like armor she couldn’t remove.

--

While the ’devouted’ slaughtered and diplomacy unfolds, high above the forested breath of Thalasien, deep within the silver lit chambers of Telathil Virean, the sacred crown of the High Elves, the air shimmered with quiet tension. Not a breeze stirred among the moss draped vaults, yet the runes etched into the walls pulsed faintly, as though aware of some disturbance beyond the veil of trees. These were the inner halls of the Silent Aurora, the elusive intelligence of the Aurelian Dominion, hidden in stillness of a forest.

The chamber walls were curved wood fused with crystal filaments, their natural veins aglow with soft azure. Hanging gardens floated midair, sustained by levitation runes and dense aetherroots. Scrolls whispered to one another in hushed tones, recounting decades of still relevant secrets. Every leaf, every vine, bore purpose, memory, and magic.

In one such chamber, Senior Observer Saelorien stood alone, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed upon a series of mirrored leaves suspended before him. They fluttered in an unnatural wind, each reflecting variations of the same name, shifting like water: Corvin Blackmoor.

His trail was thin. Too thin. Every time a thread emerged, an appearance, a mission log, a faint magical resonance it led to a blank space in the weave. His records from the Mercenaray guild in Veilthorn was the only solid intel they could gathered. Aurora was certain not with proof but with the experience of dealing with Synod shadows for centuries that nullification magic, memory distortion, obfuscation veils were layered with expert precision. Corvin wasn’t just elusive. He was deliberately hidden. And not by himself.

He was being protected.

The flower node beside Saelorien pulsed in response. Its petals shimmered gold, then parted to emit a single, resonant word in an ancient dialect.

"Convene."

Moments later, the inner tribunal assembled in the Council Hollow. Three masked elders, wreathed in illusions of living flame, took their seats atop floating bark thrones. Behind them, a circle of suspended dreamroots cast mirrored images of forgotten events, obscured maps, and blurred faces.

The air dimmed. And from the vine grown comm node emerged the voice of their master, Whispershade. Their voice layered and strange, as if sung by wind, echoed by water, and grounded by soil.

"Corvin Blackmoor. Confirmed involvement in Synod operations. Arcane interference detected. Memory trails unstable. Unacceptable pattern."

"Accord integrity: compromised in spirit. Initiate Passive Breach Protocol."

"Primary directive: Observe. Evaluate. Engage only if no other path remains. Cover: mercenary commission. Tier: veiled agents."

The leaves surrounding the chamber folded downward in unison. The tribunal bowed their heads. Saelorien, still standing, gave a shallow bow.

"As Whispershade wills it."

The command set roots in motion.

Later that night, under a sliver of moon, three elven operatives arrived silently at the edge of the uppermost launch glade. An aerial dock grown between ancient branches. It overlooked all of Aeloria and the ocean of green beyond.

Each figure was cloaked in veiled armor, forged not for battle but for seamless integration into unknown domains.

Vaethryl Ilisennor: Designated mission lead. Gifted with Air Affinity, she could shape wind into blades, silence, or cushions of movement.

Tharien Vossiral: Field combatant. Wielder of Earth and Fire Affinity, an exotic fusion of molten energy and crystallization. His strikes could solidify into magma shards mid air, redirect spells, or explode in heat and brilliance. Calm, analytical, deadly.

Liraen of the Bloomwardens: Specialist tracker. Her Plant and Life Affinity allowed her to break down organic structures, manipulate scent trails, or summon decay to mask presence. Where she walked, nature whispered secrets only she could hear.

Their mission was simple: make contact under a veil of formality. Offer a job. Watch the response. Determine the threat.

No insignia marked them. From the highest chamber of the Spire of Silent Leaves, where no echo from below could reach, Whispershade’s final order fell like a falling petal.

"Do not provoke. Do not reveal. Watch what the Synod hides... and uncover what they fear."