Dark Parasyte
Chapter 46: Divine Theater, Mortal Lies

Chapter 46: Divine Theater, Mortal Lies

Valyne soaked.

Really soaked. In hot water, fragrant steam, and the kind of uninterrupted silence she hadn’t known since Archmagus Vaelorin had snapped his fingers and cursed her with this mission, code named after a certain elf shaped migraine known as Corvin Blackmoor.

The Synod trader ship had not been kind to her nerves. Not with its creaky planks, overly strange crew, and Shadows that might as well have been fused to her shadow. Bath had been... theoretical. Valyne had quickly determined that bathing in the presence of invisible stalkers was not only uncomfortable, it was war crime adjacent. She had enough stalkers at Arcanum.

But now? Now she luxuriated. The water was nearly scalding, steeped in crushed flowers and salts she couldn’t name. Her muscles melted. Her thoughts, not so much. But it was a start.

After the bath came the bed, down stuffed, perfectly warm, and so quiet it made her suspicious. She slept like the dead, though with more grace.

Come morning, she feasted. Fruit arranged in impossible spirals. Cream filled pastries. Coffee infused with a hint of vanilla. Valyne nearly forgave the Triarch for a moment, until she remembered why she was here.

Dressed in a storm grey Synod robe embroidered in gleaming silver, her silver hair braided into elegant loops, she stepped into the streets of Goldhaven with the slow confidence of a woman who could dismantle your ego in three sentences.

Mission start: "Cursed Elf."

Her first stop was the Mercenary Guild. It was predictably pungent, loud, and painted in every shade of testosterone. But the second Valyne stepped inside, reality paused. Dice halted mid toss. Laughter cut off mid guffaw. A coin that had been flipped never landed. Every single gaze locked onto her.

She was used to being stared at. But this was different.

She glided through the center of the room like a ship parting stormy waters. Conversations didn’t resume. A fork dropped somewhere behind her and was not retrieved.

The clerk at the desk stared at her like he’d forgotten what female elves looked like.

"I’m looking for a mercenary," she said with sugar dipped venom. "Corvin Blackmoor. Also known as Raven."

It was as if the floor itself tensed.

A chill ran across the room. Literal chill. One of the lanterns flickered and died. The bard in the corner tucked his lute under one arm and left. Two men quietly pushed their chairs back and slipped outside like they didn’t want to be remembered being here.

The clerk raised his hands. Slowly. Carefully.

"L last we heard," he said, "he took a caravan job to Iron March. Two months ago. That’s all. We gave the same information to every party."

Valyne raised an eyebrow. "First" she said, "That’s not helpful."

And then she leaned in, her voice lowering. "Second" she added, "you know more."

The clerk’s composure cracked like dry stone.

"People say he works with the Duchess. That he handled her enemies. That no one saw them fall. Just... found their places empty. No evidence, no witness. Just black feathers. And silence."

Valyne frowned. "Black feathers?"

He nodded furiously. "It’s his sign, they say. No one even dares whisper his name in some quarters. They think it invites bad luck. They say where ever the raven perches, reaper follows."

Valyne internally scoffed. Not at the fear, at the absurdity. Ghost stories. Every city had them. Corvin probably paid a few drunks to spread rumors just for fun.

Still, an hour later, her head swam with whispered stories. Assassinations. Infiltrations. One tale described Corvin infiltrating a fortress like estate to eliminate a noble name was Merrowdane, then leaving the scene with clean boots, zero witnesses, zero evidence.

As she finally stepped back into the street, she muttered, "If this keeps up, he’ll be blamed for eclipses and crop failure."

The walk back to the Synod ship was fast. People kept their distance from her like she was a disease. Her heels clacked angrily. Her cloak snapped like judgment. She was irritated, baffled, and vaguely disturbed.

Back in her cabin, she stood in the middle of the room and cleared her throat.

"Sir Shadows?" she said. It felt ridiculous every time.

A shimmer behind her.

She spun around with a high pitched squeak entirely unbecoming of a Magistra.

The Shadow stood there. Unmoving. Unblinking. Possibly smirking in his head.

"I’ve done your lovely assignment," she said tightly. "The whole guild of merceneary is convinced Raven is some kind of apex predator wrapped in feathers and smugness. They say he’s working with Duchess Yvanna, the tales they told are superstition at best, ridiculous at worst. Which, obviously, is misinformation. Humans are trying to put mudd the water."

The Shadow tilted his head. "And yet... even after two months, they still haven’t uncovered half of what he did."

Valyne stared. "You’re saying it’s all real?"

"More real than most of the history you were taught," he said flatly.

"Even the fortress estate?"

"We do not confirm... but we also do not deny." Answered the shadow. To the organization, Corvin was one of their best. It doesn’t matter if he was in odds with the Triarch or Hexarchy. Yo them Corvin was embodiment of perfect spy, assassin and infiltrator.

Valyne closed her mouth slowly.

"You should visit the palace," the Shadow continued. "Speak with the Duchess. She’s... well informed."

He started to fade, then paused. His eyes glinted.

"And Magistra, do be careful with your thoughts around Raven. To us they were fun, he might not like them."

Before she could retort, he vanished.

Valyne stood alone. And blinked.

"Okay," she said softly, "maybe he’s just a bit more dangerous than I accounted for."

She pulled out her notebook.

"Insult revision in progress."

"Remove: ’Feathered fashion victim.’"

"Add: ’Possible tactical genius wrapped in sarcasm.’"

"Note: Ask Sir Shadows if this counts as psychological warfare."

--

Corvin crossed his arms.

"Let’s see," he murmured, "what flavor of delusion you’re bringing me today."

The envoy approached slowly, hooves crunching softly on dry grass as the twenty riders halted in rigid formation a dozen paces away. The gold trimmed banners of the Sanctified Council fluttered in the wind, crimson flame sigils bold against the pale linen. The men bore the weary determination of those who expected conflict, not dialogue.

One rider dismounted. A tall figure in Purifier armor, burnished and lined with etched prayers. He stepped forward with practiced formality, holding a sealed scroll bearing the Pontiff’s sigil. His voice rang clear, but caution edged every syllable.

"I am Purifier General Elric Harthorne," he called. "By the will of the Sanctified Council, I am authorized to speak with the leader of this force."

Corvin stepped forward, his borrowed Verrenate form straight backed and solemn. "Then you are speaking to him."

Elric paused, then unfolded the scroll with rigid fingers. "You bear our colors. You wear the armor of our legions. Your men drill in our formations. Yet no call for arms was raised. No faction claimed your banner. You came from the dark, and now you march in holy lands with steel and silence. Explain yourself."

Corvin tilted his head slightly, his tone untouched by theatrics. "What you see is the beginning of a fire. One long overdue."

Another Purifier shifted his weight. The horses behind them snorted and pawed at the ground. The clerics watched silently, hands never straying far from their relics.

"If this is rebellion," Elric said tightly, "say so. The Council will answer."

"Your Council," Corvin said, voice calm as winter, "is a cathedral built on ash. Poisoned by its own incense. It sings of purity while bleeding the faithful dry. The Holy Flame was meant to cleanse... not consume. And yet, it devours any who dare question its keepers."

A cleric stepped forward, robes marked with silver bands, face taut with restrained contempt. "Then what is your demand? Surrender? Recognition? Power?"

Elric raised a gauntleted hand to silence the cleric. "What you speak is heresy!" he hissed.

Corvin let the silence linger. It curled through the air like incense in an abandoned church.

"We want the rot to end," he said at last. "We want the Sanctified Council razed to truth. We want the screams buried beneath your halls heard again. We want the flames to burn clean. free of fear, free of manipulation, free of corruption."

Murmurs broke the envoy’s discipline. Several exchanged looks. One rider visibly tightened their grip on the reins.

Elric’s mouth was drawn in a hard line. "Then you confess. You are in open revolt against the Council, against the Pontiff, against the Divine."

Corvin allowed himself a thin, crooked smile. "I confess nothing. What you call rebellion, I name remembrance. What you fear is not insurrection, it is clarity. The fire does not care for your titles. It will consume what it must."

The tension cracked like distant thunder.

A priests narrowed his eyes. "You claim to represent the Flame while defying its shepherds. That is heresy."

"Is it heresy," Corvin replied, "to question the shepherds when they’ve fattened themselves while the flock starves? When sanctity becomes tyranny, defiance becomes holy."

Elric took one deliberate step back, scroll clenched in his gauntlet. "This meeting will be recorded. The Council will act."

"I expect they will," Corvin said.

The envoy turned with rigid discipline, mounting again as their banners dipped in a final silent gesture. They rode off in silence, a serpent of white and red vanishing into the golden dust of the plains.

Corvin stood unmoving, watching them shrink.

The wind tugged at his cloak.

Behind him, his undead army continued their dance, sharpening swords, stoking fires, tying armor, all mimicking the lives they once led.

None of it was real.

But it looked real enough to fool the living.

This wasn’t rebellion.

It was choreography.

It was divine theater, until the final curtain fell.

--

Valyne’s arrival to the palace was, by all accounts, uneventful.. at least in appearance. The guards at the main gate gave her appreciative and curious glances, their hands never straying far from their weapons, but none dared challenge the seal she carried. A Synod sigil, obsidian and silver, practically hummed with weight. Even in the gilded heart of Goldhaven, it was a symbol few had the audacity to ignore.

She was led through the palace with brisk courtesy. Marble tiled corridors gave way to sun dappled atriums, archways framed the pristine interiors. The staff escorted her with mechanical efficiency, respectful, but reserved. The kind of reception one might give to an old storm cloud politely knocking at the window.

Meanwhile, Duchess Yvanna Vellgard stood in the middle of her private receiving room, wrist deep in the nightmare of final coronation preparations.

Silks, dyes, ceremonial blades, revised oaths, the fourth version of the official crown placement sequence, it all blended into one long stretch of tension and second guessing. She wants the ceramony to be remembered for the centuries to come. A small army of attendants circled her like anxious birds, measuring, adjusting, restitching. Her head throbbed. Her patience wore thin. The weight of tomorrow, of finally becoming queen pressed down on her like armor left too long in the sun.

And that was before the knock came.

"Enter," she said, clipped and automatic, eyes still focused on the seamstress adjusting the collar of her ceremonial robe.

The servant stepped in quietly, eyes lowered, and bowed deeply before speaking. His voice was calm, but not casual.

"Your Grace," he said, "there is an elven woman at the gate. She claims to be an envoy from the Obsidian Gate."

The room stopped breathing.

The Duchess’s fingers slackened. The fabric she had just begun to approve slipped from her hands and drifted to the floor in a slow, silken puddle.

"From... the Gate?" she echoed, turning.

"Yes, my lady. She has presented formal credentials and requests an audience."

Yvanna stood motionless for a heartbeat longer. Then her jaw set.

The Synod didn’t send envoys. They didn’t do polite. If the Synod wanted something, their infiltrators will take it. If they were displeased, they send assassins and ended you. Their diplomacy came in the form of vanished ministers, ruined reputations, slit throats or poisoned wine. An official visit was not recorded at least in the last century.

And now, of all times, now with the Iron March envoy still fresh from their audience, still suspicius by her curated explanations of Holy Verrenate’s collapse, and her coronation hanging by a single woven strand, they had come.

"Kaelyn," she said softly.

The space mage turned from her reading, one brow arched. She’d been cross referencing protective wards with records from Cindrel, Starlight and Cleansing Flame Academies on daily usage of her major affinity. Naturally multitasking while the palace burned with logistics. Corvin’s show of using Space magic was still fresh in her mind.

"Yes, Duchess?"

Yvanna didn’t hesitate. "Stay close. I want someone near who can protect me or freeze time long enough for me to make the right mistake."

Kaelyn smirked faintly and closed her book. "Understood. I’ll keep the sky from falling, if you keep from stabbing anyone before the formal bow."

Yvanna almost smiled. Almost.

She turned away briefly, facing a window that overlooked the city. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides. She rarely said his name anymore, Corvin. But his shadow lingered in every decision, every sleepless night.

She had invited him in. Promised him a title. Given him land.

And now?

She wondered if the Synod had come to collect.

"Send her in," she said at last. "Let’s see what the Obsidian Gate considers diplomatic etiquette these days."

The servant bowed again and departed. Staff corrected her attire, and she moved to one of the official receiving rooms.

Yvanna smoothed the front of her robes and squared her shoulders, a practiced gesture that felt increasingly fragile with each passing moment.

She had a kingdom to ascend.

But first, she had a dark elf to entertain.