Dark Parasyte
Chapter 55: A Natural Passing

Chapter 55: A Natural Passing

There was a silent tension smothering the Gilded Dominion.

It seeped into stone walls, crept beneath the hems of velvet cloaks, and clung to every polished corner of Goldhaven’s opulence. Whispers roamed the marbled halls like ghosts. never loud, never confirmed, but always present. Servants moved faster. Doors were closed more gently. Eyes watched the shadows now, longer than they watched the throne.

It had been days since Corvin Blackmoor was named Duke of Raven’s Nest. With the lands surrounding it folded into his fief, the elevation had already caused unease. But unease turned to something colder when the news of Count Emual’s death swept through the court.

Not merely dead, erased.

His estate, once bustling with generations of relatives and of minor nobility, servants, scribes, and guards, had become a graveyard of silence. There were no survivors. Not one soul.

No screams had pierced the night. No fires. No clash of steel. The gates remained locked. The patrols had seen nothing. And yet, by dawn, it was done.

The Count himself was found in his study.

Seated, as though reading. Still dressed in his house colors, though his robes were wrinkled from the collapse of his spine. His face, twisted in absolute terror, had frozen into a grotesque mask. His eyes had been gouged, the sockets caked in dried blood. Three ravens perched silently nearby, on shelves, on the desk. Their beaks glistened. They had eaten. One stood atop the Count’s own signet ring, unmoving.

And still, not a single wound upon his flesh explained how he died.

No trace of poison. No burn of glyphs. No whispered spells lingering in the aether. Corvin had ended Emual and all his kin and left behind no trace save dread.

The recordkeepers of the Dominion, when called, did not ask questions. They did not summon mages. They did not write hypotheses. They scribbled the event down as a "natural passing" of the Emual bloodline.

And the court agreed.

They agreed unanimously. Eagerly, even.

No one wanted to dig deeper. No one wanted to know what had truly happened.

Because everyone already did.

Corvin had not been seen since the day he stood in the throne room. Not once. But his shadow lingered all the same. It was in the way conversations cut short when his name was mentioned. In the way guards flinched at the sound of wings. In the way a single raven, sighted above a noble’s estate, caused two families to cancel a banquet.

The nobles had grown quiet.

Those who once bristled at the Queen’s favor now spoke only in compliments. They wrote letters of loyalty, delivered gifts to Raven’s Nest by proxy, and made generous donations to Military units of the throne. Every word was polished, every movement deliberate. The court became a stage of dancers hoping to avoid the eye of the dark bird watching overhead.

Everyone wanted to be invisible.

Everyone wanted to survive.

And Yvanna..

Yvanna was celebrating.

Publicly, at least. She praised the "stabilizing presence" of the new Duke in council sessions. She toasted expanded trade through Raven’s Nest even when it does not need to. She was giving cuts through the trade made not only through his lands but even near it’s borders. She ensured Corvin’s name appeared in every royal dispatch, decree, and ribbon cutting.

But behind the silken curtains of her private chambers, she sat longer in silence. She drank her wine slower. She read Emual’s death record again and again, as if it might change.

She had read what was left of the Count. She had read the part about the expression, mouth frozen in a scream, eyes gone, fear etched so deep it survived the body. She had watched the recordkeepers lie with hollow voices and dead eyes. She had listened to the silence in the council chamber after they sealed the report.

She had known, from the moment she raised Corvin to nobility, that she had bound her fate to something that did not play by the rules of thrones and courts.

He was not a politician. Not a merchant. Not a noble in disguise.

He was a storm given skin. A reckoning dressed in black feathers.

And all she could do, was never give it reason to turn against her.

She only hoped to never cross it.

--

Marshal Vos had worn many uniforms in his lifetime, starting with scout leathers to ending in general’s armor, and now, the diplomat’s robe. It hung uncomfortably on his broad frame. He had never trusted silk.

He had served as Commander of the Southern Borders for over thirty years, guarding the flanks of the Iron March against both beast and man. His sword had dulled on demon bone. His orders had crushed more rebellions than the public knew existed. And yet, as he rode under the faint morning haze toward Raven’s Nest, he found himself uncertain, not as a soldier, but as an envoy.

The mission was simple in words, complex in truth: locate Corvin Blackmoor. Confirm his role in the collapse of Holy Verrenate. Determine his threat level. Engage accordingly.

Iron March did not believe for a moment that Corvin was just another merceneray, nor did they care about his new title of Dominion noble, Duke or not and neither did Vos.

What truly caught his attention, however, were the others on the road.

He had passed three separate envoys within the last day alone.

The first wore sun threaded cloaks and armor patterned with starlight sigils. Aurelian High Elves. Imperious and unmistakable. Vos had exchanged minimal courtesies, and their disdain radiated like heat.

The second group bore obsidian trim and bore silent eyed guards. Synod emissaries. It was a sight to see. Not every ’human’ was lucky enough to see Synod Elves. Generally they arrive under cloack, yet not these. These were not veiled, not hidden. As if they wanted it known they had arrived.

He muttered a quiet thanks to the gods for the ancient grudge between High and Dark Elves. Had their people been united, they would have ruled half of Argyll by now. Maybe all of it. Discipline of the High Elves and underhanded tactics of the Dark elves were a nighmare no one needed.

The third was a royal convoy of the Gilded Dominion. Guards wearing Dominions coors were escorting it. Vos had seen enough political maneouvers in his life to know when something was made in desperation. It seems the newly crowned Queen was trying to keep her relation with this bird of prey close.

And all of them, though from different cultures and carrying opposing philosophies, were heading to the same place.

To the Nest.

But that wasn’t his concern today. His concern was a single man.

A man named Corvin Blackmoor.

The reports were vague, or perhaps deliberately so. Raven was his codename. Officialy he was of the Synod. Yet if he was why was there a Umbral Synod Envoy on the way. He was also a mercenray... Whomever has prepared this report clearly was not sane enough to believe someone of this calibre of power could be a mercenary.. The same reports detailed this ’Raven’s’ handiwork over the Gilded Dominion thourgh the campaign of the Queen. The last enry was the death of Count Emual. Officialy it was a "natural" occurrence. Vos had seen the unofficial report however. A full estate gone. No survivors. Not even a dog left howling.

And Corvin said nothing. No claim. No denial. No performance.

That told Vos more than words ever could.

Standing against such a man, former mercenary or not took courage. Or idiocy. Possibly both.

But in his long years holding the Southern Line, Vos had learned one unshakable truth:

The most dangerous weapons in this world never needed to raise their voice.

And Raven had already spoken. Once. Through silence, death, and shadows. Now the world was listening.

Vos straightened his back in the saddle as the road narrowed. High Black walls welcomed them. They were not thre before. It seems this little bird has some strong Earth Mages under his command he thought. They passed the outer walls, they passed the inner walls. Raven’s Nest loomed in the distance like spears rising from black earth.

He would meet the storm.

As a soldier. As a man who had seen wars start with less.

And he would decide whether Iron March needed to build a bridge, or a wall.

--

Valyne was a proud Synod.

Not just proud in the way most Synod born mages were, but genuinely insulted by being ignored. She was beautiful, full moon reflected on still water kind of beautiful. She was brilliant, certified Magistra, expert in three magic schools, with a dangerously high affinity for Aether and water. Even though water was not as offensive as the other elements she was proud of her affinities. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she had even suffered through a full diplomatic posting in a human kingdom without melting anyone’s brain, which in her opinion was a greater act of restraint than most battles.

So the fact that Corvin Blackmoor, that cursed elf had not even bothered to visit her while he was in Goldhaven was a crime of taste, tact, and tactical idiocy.

She hadn’t been hiding in some rat filled alley. She’d been in the palace. In the royal guest chambers. Given by the Queen herself. Where was the courtesy? The protocol? The knock at her door? It wasn’t as though she expected fanfare.. well, perhaps a small herald with wine but still, even a respectful message would have sufficed.

Now she was on a convoy, bumping along a trail toward the lands of Duke Blackmoor, with Kaelyn of all people. Kaelyn, who embodied unchecked optimism and magical obsession in equal measure. A girl who treated mastery of Space magic like an extra dessert at a banquet: exciting, reckless, and definitely loosemouth.

Valyne sighed and muttered something in Old Elven that translated roughly to may your ears rot and fall into your soup. It helped. A little.

A Synod Elf, accepting a noble title in a human kingdom. How absurd. How vulgar. Elvs were the child of Verthalis. Elves stood higher compared to Humans, Feralis and Demons. She still hadn’t forgiven him for that. Titles came with chains, Corvin should have known better. And yet, there he was, basking in land, power, and the adoration of half the Dominion like some brooding statue of vengeance.

The only saving grace was that Sir Shadows, the creepy ones hiding under her pillow or bed or wardrobe had given her full permission to do whatever was needed to convince Corvin to return to the Synod. Officially, that meant diplomacy. Unofficially? She wasn’t above pouring ice cold water over his brooding head until he remembered where he came from.

She had read the reports, of course. Several times. Annotated them. Raven of Verranus. Raven of the Dominion. Raven, bringer of quiet devastation.

She had crossed out most of the insults in her notebook after that. Not all. Some barbs were worth keeping. After all, if Corvin insisted on acting like an ancient mountain god crossed with a tactical siege engine, someone had to keep him grounded.

Kaelyn, by contrast, was practically glowing with excitement.

She wasn’t delusional, at least not entirely. She knew who Corvin was. What he’d done. She’d read the same reports. But the idea of being close to that kind of power was intoxicating. She’d never admit it aloud, but it thrilled her in ways lecture halls never had. And Queen Yvanna had ordered her personally to stay close to him. Observe and report. She added another one, learn if she could.

"Maybe he’ll let me study his spellwork," she whispered, again, for the eighth time since breakfast. "Not teach, of course. Just... permit me to watch? Document? Hypothesize? Maybe even publish?"

Valyne glanced at her sideways. "Publish? Please. The only thing he’ll let you publish is your obituary."

Kaelyn smiled nervously but kept her chin up. "He’s not that bad. Just... terrifying. Majestically terrifying. Like a really polite volcano."

Yvanna’s command had come with that calm, gentle finality that meant failure was not an option. Kaelyn understood that. She also understood that the Queen probably considered her the only one disposable enough to risk close contact.

She just prayed there wouldn’t be another nightgown related diplomatic incident. That one still haunted her dreams. And the worse part? She wasn’t even wearing the nicer one.

Valyne, meanwhile, was adjusting her gloves and making a mental notes to keep her tone civil. She adjusted her hair and robes. If she was going to be ignored again, she’d at least look spectacular while it happened. Maybe next time she’d bring a scroll of illusions that shouted NOTICE ME in glowing glyphs. Or maybe a dragon. Dragons got attention.

And if Corvin still didn’t come to her?

Well.

She needs to prepare plans for that too.