Dark Parasyte
Chapter 54: Tea, Trade, Envoys and Threats

Chapter 54: Tea, Trade, Envoys and Threats

It took Corvin two days to raise his soldiers and travel to Goldhaven.

By then, his army had swollen to a staggering twenty one thousand. Holy Verrenate, what little was left of it had been most generous in defeat. Corvin might have even muttered may their gods bless them if he were in a more theatrical mood. After all, it was their priests, purifiers, paladins, and soldiers now marching under his banner, silent and Covenant Bound. Entire battalions had been reduced to obedient revenants. Even their famed sunforged armor had not withstood the tide of death.

He had shifted into an air elemental just beyond the charred remains of Verranus. The capital, once sanctified with towers of alabaster and gold, now stood broken, scattered across the fields like discarded relics. Looted to the last coin, razen to the last house. The scent of ash still clung to the wind, mingling with the faint traces of sanctified incense and scorched cloth.

Chain teleportation carried him over the Iron March. From above, he noted the increased presence of Iron March soldiers peppered along the northern border. Clean rows of armor, long lines of fortified camps. New towers had been erected hastily, and supply caravans crawled along narrow roads. "Tempting." He muttered, imagining for a moment to add these gentleman as well to his club of undead.

Trying to tighten their defenses, Corvin guessed. Good luck to them. He let the wind carry him higher, cloacked remain unseen, close enough to read the worry in their formations. The scent of fear traveled well at altitude.

He didn’t stop. Goldhaven rose on the horizon after couple of hours, pristine, arrogant, gilded. A jewel untouched by war.

At the palace gates, he shed the elemental form and the cloaking spell. Magic shimmered away like mist in the morning.

The effect was immediate. Four guards, blades already half drawn, froze mid step before rushing forward in recognition. There was no questioning, no hesitation. They bowed, hastily straightened, and escorted him through the marble halls without a word. The silence of his passage spoke louder than any welcome.

The throne room doors opened with the groan of ancient gold hinges.

Bobles of the Gilded Dominion sat in both sides in velvet and ornament, posturing with still shoulders and furrowed brows. The sudden silence rolled like pressure through the air. Conversations died mid sentence. Eyes widened with a flicker of unease. At the far end, on a throne, Yvanna waited, crowned at last.

She was framed by sunlight spilling through high glasswork, her presence magnified by the diadem and her stillness. A queen in full regelia.

Corvin stopped at the foot of the stairway.

He bowed slightly, nothing more than a gesture of form. Just enough to acknowledge the room, yet not surrender to it.

"Your Grace," he said.

His voice carried.

"I believe some news must’ve reached you from the North. I do hope you liked my gift. It’s a bit more permanent than your average tribute. Even Pontiff Malcheron was inclined to agree with me on this."

He smiled, smug, knowing. He was talking about Verranus. About its fall, its desecration. It was no mere conquest, it had been a message written in fire and blood.

A breath caught somewhere among the nobles.

Murmurs stirred across the chamber like birds startled from roost: "Did he just say Pontiff Malcheron?", "Permanent? Gods... I heard the city was razed?", "Is he boasting about destroying a holy city?", "And he sounds proud of it..."

A few of them leaned closer to each other, lips moving behind jeweled fingers, while others stiffened in their chairs as if the very air had turned colder.

Yvanna didn’t flinch.

Her expression held firm, regal, yet something flickered in her eyes, a trace of fear, calculation, perhaps approval. Or caution. A ripple of thought moved behind her gaze, weighing what sort of man had just walked through her throne room.

She leaned back slightly, one leg crossing over the other, fingers resting on the carved lion head armrest.

"You’ve been busy," she said. Her voice was smooth as ever, but lower, heavier. "It seems Verranate will not be sending envoys any time soon?"

Corvin’s smirk widened.

"It seems not," he said in a tone that held both amusement and a strange, quiet sadness.

The court stilled.

And just like that, his message was delivered. Not just to Yvanna, but to every seated noble in the room and by tomorrow to all the parties these nobles report back, this is what happens to those who stand in his way.

--

Yvanna remained silent for a moment, eyes narrowing with thought. Then, with a single nod, she motioned to a nearby servant. The chamber waited, every breath held in subtle expectation. The rustle of silk and the faint clink of signet rings filled the pause.

She rose from her throne and descended the grand steps with a regal grace that silenced even the murmurs. The folds of her robe whispered against the polished stone, a rhythmic hush with every step. Two knights, cloaked in white and gold, moved to flank her as she stopped before Corvin. Despite the difference in height they stood proud, their helms glinting beneath the chandeliers.

In a voice that echoed with formality and iron, she declared:

"Corvin Blackmoor. By my authority as Queen of the Gilded Dominion, I name you Duke of the Raven’s Nest. The lands, title, and honors accorded to your station shall follow."

A ripple passed through the hall, swift and sharp.

Nobles stirred, not with applause but with discomfort. Whispers flared behind velvet fans and jeweled sleeves. The title of Duke was no minor gesture. It placed Corvin just beneath the throne, a position few held especially after what the he had done and none received lightly. A handful of nobles leaned toward each other, exchanging hushed disbelief. One lady dropped her fan entirely.

Some recoiled at the audacity. Others bristled at the implications. In the Gilded Dominion, nobility was entwined with wealth, with trade, with guilds and banks. But Corvin was no merchant. He bore no ledger, swore to no merchant prince. He was not one of them and that frightened them more than they dared admit.

A man rose with deliberate stiffness.

His face, long and narrow, bore the expression of someone smelling spoiled wine. Arrogant. Sharp jawed. His violet coat was lined with golden chains, each one more ornamental than the last. His rings clinked as he adjusted his cuffs.

Count Emual.

"Yes, Count Emual," Yvanna said calmly, motioning for him to speak.

The Count bowed with stiff precision, chin tilted high.

"Your Highness," he began, tone polished and laced with offense, "may we, the nobles of your court know what reason prompted such an... extravagant honor? Bestowed upon an ’outsider’."

He gestured delicately with two fingers, though the word outsider struck like a poisoned dart, he was questioning why an Elf holding such a high title.

Before Yvanna could speak, Corvin inclined his head slightly and raised a hand.

"Your Grace," he said, "if I may be permitted to answer the Count’s concern myself?"

Yvanna gave the barest nod and returned to her throne, her jaw tight. The hem of her gown swept behind her.

Inside, her stomach turned. She knew Corvin. Not truly, but enough to know this could end with Count Emual’s ruin. Not political but a real ruin.

Corvin turned to face the Count, his smile slow and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the kind of smile predators wore before they pounced.

"Count Emual, I presume," he said.

The Count gave a rigid nod, already sensing the atmosphere turning against him. The faintest twitch in his jaw betrayed his anxiety.

Corvin took a single step forward.

"I would be delighted to visit you... And any other concerned noble personally, to elaborate on my... contributions to the Dominion. I did so before and would like to repeat the practice to remember the good memories."

Gasps were barely stifled. A few nobles shifted in their seats. Two actually stood up and quietly stepped back from where Emual stood, as if proximity itself were dangerous. One whispered something to his companion, who immediately paled.

Everyone knew of those ’contributions.’

They knew the name Raven, they knew the black feathers, blood soaked estates.

Not for what he said, but for what was left unsaid in his wake. They remembered the destruction of the House of Reavers at Gray Hollow. The Crimson Pact vanishing in the Vale. Both Duchal houses. The quiet silence that followed his passage across territories too proud to kneel. They remembered the black black feathers in places no raven had ever nested and the cities that bowed shortly after.

But none of them, none knew the truth behind those deeds. Only the smoke, and the stillness that came after.

Count Emual flinched. Just barely.

Still, pride held his spine straight. His voice returned, this time with a tremor he couldn’t quite hide.

"We respect, of course, your service, Lord Corvin. But the titles of this realm are not awarded like favors from a coin purse. Tradition-"

"-Must evolve," Corvin interrupted smoothly. "Or it breaks."

His gaze cut through the Count like a scalpel.

"But I admire your concern for tradition. Truly. I will make sure to discuss it with you in detail... at your estate. Personally."

Another silence swept the room. This time heavier, denser.

Duke Malvaran, seated three chairs down from Emual, had gone pale. A bead of sweat traced a path along his temple. He glanced around as if calculating his exits, his fingers tightening on the armrest like a man about to be judged.

One of the younger nobles whispered, barely audible, "He’s going to kill him."

Yvanna remained still on the throne, her hands clasped in her lap. She did not speak. She just hoped Dominion will not be affected, also she started to count the houses which could replace House Emual.

--

Yvanna just wanted to sleep.

Surprisingly, granting a noble title to Corvin had gone smoother than anticipated. Only one noble, Count Emual, had been bold or foolish enough to voice protest. Corvin’s thinly veiled threat of a personal visit had done the rest. Since then, no noble had dared so much as mutter a complaint in her presence.

Still, she knew silence could be a prelude to schemes. And that thought made her temples throb.

A day had passed since the confrontation. That morning, she was informed of an important visitor, Marshal Vos, the Iron March’s long retired general and now their appointed envoy. A man of age and honor, known for his discipline and clarity. They had worked together during the Treaty of Goldhaven, years ago, and again days before her coronation. While they’d never been allies in trust, they had always been honest. At least in Marshal’s side. As she was not ’always’ honest.

She greeted him with a warmth reserved for old warriors. "Marshal Vos," she said. "It’s good to see you again."

"Your Grace," he replied with a smile. "Allow me to congratulate you on behalf of the Iron March. May your reign bring peace, and may that peace be enduring."

"You honor me," she said. "And I hope for the same."

Yvanna led him through the palace, down into a private salon, one of the secured council chambers outfitted with warded walls and sound deafening enchantments. No servants lingered long in rooms like these. Discretion was woven into every stone.

After the initial pleasantries, tea was poured. Silver trays held dried fruits, glazed almonds, and wines. Once the servants withdrew, the atmosphere shifted subtly.

Vos took a long sip from his cup, cleared his throat, and leaned forward.

"Your Grace," he began, "let me speak plainly."

She nodded, setting her cup down.

"Verranus is no more. Holy Verrenate has fallen. We know the Gilded Dominion has never held warm ties with them, but their collapse, especially so violently and so completely, raises three pressing concerns for the Iron March."

Yvanna met his eyes without blinking.

"I’m listening."

"First," he said, counting on his fingers, "do you know how, why, and by whom Verranus was razed?"

A pause.

"Second," he continued, "we’ve heard through our channels that an Elf operated within the Holy Verrenate’s borders. One who left a trail of devastation in his wake. Coincidentally, we’ve also learned that you recently granted a Dukedom to an Elf within the Dominion. While Iron March respects your internal affairs, we must ask, are they the same individual, is there a chance this Elf will attck Iron March?"

Yvanna didn’t respond immediately. Vos gave her time.

"And third," he said, voice quieter now, "what is the Gilded Dominion’s position regarding the territorial integrity of the former Verrenate lands? Because chaos is rising in the north of Argyll, and if there is no plan, the Iron March may be forced to make one."

A long moment passed.

Yvanna took a measured sip of her tea, set the cup aside, and replied with careful calm.

"We do not know how, per se the ’how’ Verranus was razed. It’s fall was swift and shrouded in mystery. But we have strong reason to believe the Elf in question had... personal grievances with the Holy Verrenate’s doctrines. Their eagernes to use slavery on ’infidels’ did not make them an easy party in diplomacy with our neighbors across the seas."

Vos’s brow arched slightly.

"As for the Elf," she continued, "we know of one by the name Corvin Blackmoor. A Synod Elf. He has worked with the Dominion numerous times in the last months especially and has proven himself in matters of great significance. We found his contributions considerable enough to elevate him to the rank of Duke. He has no reason and plan to our knowledge to have any relation with March. If you would like you are welcome to visit him as well. Allow me to remind you just be ’kind’ around him, as he might be sensitive."

Vos remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Yvanna folded her hands over her lap.

"Finally, the Gilded Dominion has no intention of interfering with Iron March’s sovereignty. On the contrary, we would prefer to be part of any plan your devises regarding the lands of the former Verrenate."

"You mean to say," Vos said slowly, "that the Dominion is interested in partitioning the north?"

"I mean to say," she replied, "that the north is too unstable to be left alone. We would rather bring order together, than chase it after others have claimed it."

Vos looked down at his tea, swirling it gently.

"Specifically," Yvanna added, her tone still composed, "the Gilded Dominion holds vested interest in stabilizing the former port cities along the western coast of Verrenate. The trade routes there have long been neglected under the former regime, and the harbors are strategically valuable, not just to us, but to anyone who understands naval influence in Argyll."

She leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. "We would propose joint administration in the short term, perhaps eventual stewardship under Dominion guidance. If Iron March has other areas it considers of higher priority, we are more than willing to coordinate to avoid any unnecessary tension."

Vos’s gaze lifted slowly. "So it’s trade you want."

"Trade, and the power that flows with it," Yvanna said without apology. "The chaos left by Verranus is fertile ground. It can either grow order, or feed disorder. We’d prefer the former. With allies, if possible."

The conversation was just beginning.