Dark Parasyte
Chapter 44: Operation: Cursed Elf

Chapter 44: Operation: Cursed Elf

Valyne was starting to seriously question her life choices.

Not because she was riding into a foreign kingdom alone, or because she’d been given a mission with as many details as a blank scroll, but because she was stuck on a Synod trader ship, full of Shadows who treated personal space the way some people treated taboos: they acknowledged it existed and then wisely ignored it.

The ship itself was functional, sleek, and disturbingly quiet, like it was carved from midnight and built solely for moving suspicious goods and even more suspicious passengers. The wood groaned in all the wrong places, the crew spoke in all the wrong tones, and the entire thing smelled vaguely like someone had boiled leather and smugness into the hull.

The crew had been polite and at least helpful with luggage, silent as ghosts, and vaguely judging every breath she took. One of them had offered to carry them with the air of someone handling a moldy artifact. Another had nodded at her once and then maintained eye contact for far too long.

They gave her a room. It had a chair, a cot.

She sat down on the chair which groaned like it was dying of boredom and dropped her bag with theatrical exhaustion.

She folded her arms and glared at the wall like it owed her answers. "Why me? Out of all the children of the mother in Synod, they pick me to track down an unpredictable mercenary with the social grace of a cave troll. Couldn’t they send one of the Shadows? You know, the emotionless ghosts who apparently double as interior décor? Or, here’s a thought... someone not currently trying to figure out whether Corvin Blackmoor is a tactical nightmare." Like everyone else in the Arcanum, she as well heard the rumors of Corvin’s deep pool of forgiveness and soft heart.

She rolled her eyes. "But nooo, let’s send Valyne. She’s calm. She’s professional. She’s expendable."

Right on cue, a shadow near her wardrobe shimmered, it seems her sanity has reached it’s limits. Her fingers rubbed at her temples with the urgency of someone trying to massage reason into their brain.

"All this for one cursed elf," she muttered under her breath.

A long exhale. A sharper inhale.

"Cursed, vexing, arrogant, ...."

Valyne scoffed, searching for something more poetic to express her contempt. "Wretched, goblin souled, ... may the Dark Mother take him and wrap him in itchy robes."

Another shadow shimmered in the far corner.

"Lovely" she thought.. That was the last thought before she froze. Mid gesture. Mid glare. Her heart dropped into her stomach with a polite thud.

The figure stepped forward, his outline flickering like candlelight in fog, apparently unfazed by the fact that he was now part of what she was mentally calling Valyne’s rapidly declining privacy tour. One of the Shadows. Of course. Because why wouldn’t one materialize now, when she was finally getting into her insults?

"You are expected to find Corvin Blackmoor," he said, in the cold, lifeless tone that all Shadows seemed to use as a form of firendly communication. Must be part of their syllabus. "Deliver your message. Convince him to return as soon as possible. And all the while, stay close to him."

Valyne blinked.

She opened her mouth.

She shut it.

The shadow tilted his head slightly. "Do you have any questions?"

She shook her head with robotic stiffness, not trusting her mouth to produce anything but a scream or a string of obscenities.

"Very well."

And then he vanished. Just ... gone. No puff of smoke. No dramatic exit. Just one second present, the next probably hiding in her damn pillow.

She stood there in the now too quiet room, muscles locked, eyes flicking to every corner, every shadow cast by the lantern. She even kicked the bedpost just in case.

"Okay," she said slowly, "mental note: no more monologues. Internal commentary only. Unless I want a standing ovation from invisible creepers."

Privacy, it seemed, was a luxury. One she was not going to experience for the rest of this cursed job.

"...I should probably stop talking to myself," she muttered.

No response.

The silence was almost smug.

She sat down again. More carefully this time.

She reached for her satchel, yanked out her quill, and scrawled in her notebook: Operation Cursed Elf: Phase One, Step One: Find him to scream. Step Two: Configure new profanities.

A moment passed.

She added in small letters underneath: Also, check under bed for creepers.

"Damn that cursed elf," she sighed.

And this time, she said it in her head.

--

Corvin was, by his own flexible definition, a happy being.

Not a man, not an elf. Something else entirely and outside the labels of Verthalis. A classification issue for philosophers, confused census takers, and the occasional concerned deity. But still, in the present moment, happy nonetheless.

Velthurien had been treasure trove. Exceptionally so.

The mid sized city, once brimming with clergy, nobility, and minor temples, had become something much quieter. Twelve shrines reduced to hushed monuments. hundreds of spellcasters repurposed for more obedient work. Choirs silenced, sermons stilled. And a population... well, what remained of it now marched beneath his banner. Willingly? Not exactly. Efficiently? Absolutely.

From collapsed sanctuaries and shattered strongholds, Corvin had pulled life from death. With his inventory brimming from earlier ’acquisitions,’ and Velthurien providing fresh manpower. Over four thousand undead in total, including Holy Verrenate soldiers, Purifiers, war mages, and priests. He was beginning to feel like a man ready for expansion.

He’d earned it. Through sweat, spellwork, and a liberal redefinition of property rights.

After all, he reasoned, if the Sanctified Council was going to burn rations and destroy materials that were lawfully his, acquired via hard work, he might add.. a very very hard work and some generous late night redistribution, then it was only fair he bring his grievances directly to the capital.

Verranus.

It loomed on the horizon of his mind like a glowing beacon of bureaucracy and bad decisions. A holy city so convinced of its divine clarity that it never looked behind its walls.

Corvin intended to give them a reason.

The march began beneath a sky bruised with stormlight. The wind carried faint echoes of hymns long silenced. Corvin’s army moved with disciplined haste, and most importantly with certainty. Armored bodies that should no longer move, priests whose tongues no longer chanted, all arranged in perfect formation.

They came in waves: holy soldiers with shields engraved by sermons, clerics in gold threaded robes trailing soot, spectral paladins mounted on undead chargers whose hooves struck the earth like slow, deliberate drums. Every footfall echoed like the tolling of a bell that only the guilty could hear.

They passed by ruined villages. No one screamed.

They passed by broken outposts. No one stood.

Everywhere they passed they freed the slaves of the fanatics. Feralis, Elven and human. Corvin was not a beacon of righteousness but slavery of living beings was inherently wrong to a person coming from Earth. Not entirely bu generally...

The land seemed to hold its breath.

At their center, Corvin moved like a man attending a garden party, robes clean, eyes sharp, the faint hum of magic curling at his fingertips.

He was not in a hurry.

Why should he be?

He had the dead. He had a purpose. He had momentum.

He even had a plan.

To the Holy Verrenate, the march was more than a military threat.

It was a revelation.

That faith could fall.

That hymns could be unmade.

That the very walls they trusted to hold back the world could one day hold back nothing at all.

And that their sins, however sanctified they claim they are would one day march back in judgment.

--

The Sanctified Council convened beneath the hallowed dome of the Basilica, their voices low, their robes heavier than usual with the scent of incense and dread. High stained glass windows cast fractured light across the chamber floor, but even the sacred illumination failed to lift the weight in the room. The marble pillars, once emblems of serene power, now stood like the ribcage of a dying beast, echoing the breathless tension within.

At the head sat Pontiff Malcheron, unmoving, his gaze hollow and steeled, hands steepled beneath his chin. His mitre remained untouched on the altar steps. An abandoned relic of certainty. Around him, the Cardinals of the Holy Verrenate fidgeted, muttered, burned with a blend of fear and disbelief.

Cardinal Tyranus, the Cardinal of War, paced with the heavy gait of a soldier too long caged. His fingers twitched as though gripping phantom weapons. "They are our own," he barked, voice raw. "Marching in formation, wearing our colors. Not just foot soldiers, Purifiers, clerics, high priests. Our doctrine turned against us."

"They are not defectors," said Cardinal Elyndra Voss, the Cardinal of Wisdom. Her fingers moved across the spine of an ancient tome, too tightly. "’When the seats get corrupted the land will cry. When the outsider settles sky will tremble. They will have eyes yet will not see. They will move without will.’ These are the prophecies.. recorded eons ago. This reeks of old sorceries... By claiming to be the divine did we got corrupted.. Did the Gods abondened us..."

Cardinal Thalia Corren, the Cardinal of Mercy, stood with her arms crossed, face drawn and pale. "We’ve lost shrines, outposts, whole fortresses without a word. Our people vanish or stand still with no memory. And the silence, it’s planned. We’re not facing chaos. We’re facing retribution."

Across the room, Cardinal Garridan Morth, the newly appointed Cardinal of Doctrine, said nothing. His lips whispered prayers under his breath, clutching his prayer beads like a lifeline. And beside him, Cardinal Virelda Samhain, the Cardinal of Judgment, hadn’t moved since the meeting began. Her eyes burned, unmoving, as if staring through walls. She seemed to flinch only when the name Velthurien was mentioned again.

The silence cracked as Pontiff Malcheron finally spoke.

"We have seen heresy. We have seen wars. But we have not seen this. Not in generations. Vague mentions in prophecies does not justify, confirm or denies this rebelion. This is something else."

A tremor moved through the chamber, subtle but bone deep.

"Do we have confirmation it is not demonspawn?" asked Garridan quietly.

"No demonic aura," Elyndra replied. "No scent of corruption. These are our own. Faithful and devouted to the holy flame, et rasing their blades agains their brethren."

"Then what?" Tyranus growled. "This reeks of the Synod. Only they have the resources, the boldness."

"We have no proof," Thalia cut in. "And if we take action against them now, we will lose what little alliance remains with Argyll Iron March will not got against an enemy whom have both the disciplined legions of High Elves and infidels of Synod with their mind and Dark magics. Arbiter Gareth is furious with us. If the Circle really plans to give governance of the continent to Feralis not only us but March and Dominion as well will pay for the centuries of slavery. We are shadow of the Gods in Verthalis. No subhuman, no infidel.. Nothing will stop us. If our own is displeased and in act of rebellion we need to have a civilized dialogue under the Holy Flame."

"We can no longer afford courtesy," said Virelda at last, her voice low and frayed. "They are not sending us messages. They are sending judgment."

Pontiff Malcheron lifted a hand. The room obeyed.

"We send an envoy," he said.

"An envoy?" snapped Tyranus. "To what? Negotiate with our own?"

"To understand," Malcheron said evenly. "To observe. To witness what we face. This is not conquest. It is annihilation. And we must know the name of the reaper."

Elyndra nodded slowly. "Let it be high ranking Purifiers. They are not to interfere. Only return with clarity."

"The people are broken," murmured Thalia. "If we do not act, if we cannot speak with truth... we will lose them too. They already whisper of divine abandonment."

Even Garridan lifted his head. "We have to give them something. Answers. Purpose. Or they’ll fill the void with doubt and desperation."

The Pontiff looked around, meeting the eyes of each Cardinal. Some stared back with resolve, others with quiet despair.

"Within a week, our religious, political, and military structures have been nearly dismantled. If we do not adapt, we are lost. Cloistered prayers will not hold back an army of silence."

The decree was made. The envoy would ride by dawn.

And the Council would wait, cloaked in fear, cloaked in prayer, clinging to a doctrine that no longer protected them from what walked beneath their banners.

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