Dark Parasyte
Chapter 59: The Beginnings Are Fragile

Chapter 59: The Beginnings Are Fragile

While Corvin was working deep beneath Raven’s Nest on a new virutic strain meant to elevate both living and undead to Magus and potentially Archmagus levels, the rest of Verthalis churned with its own tremors. Far beyond the South of Argyll, past the mist veiled Sea of Duskwell Reach, across the heart of the Veilborn Expanse, a vast and storm riddled ocean bordered by Thalasien to the northeast, Argyll to the northwest, Nefrath to the southwest, and Savaryn to the southeast, was the ancient fortress of the Void Expanse, the seat of the Circle of Arbiters. There, power spoke and judgment echoed across continents.

The chamber itself was cavernous, lined in stone and rimmed with obsidian balconies, pulsing faintly with arcane resonance. Suspended above the round table of judgment, a swirling globe of Verthalis rotated slowly, crackling with tiny veins of energy that marked recent political or magical upheavals. Today, the North of Argyll and Nefrath glowed with crimson heat.

Malzarek, the demon arbiter, looked weary for the first time in decades. His immense shoulders sagged ever so slightly. His crimson eyes, which once burned like coals, flickered dimly. The toll of Nefrath’s internal war had found even him.

Gareth, the human arbiter was unmoved. His posture was straight backed and soldierly. Gray streaks marked his temples, but his expression was cold and resolute. A long scar cut across his cheek like a claw’s signature, an old wound from the wars with Feralis decades ago.

Solen Vaen’Thal, arbiter of the Elves, lounged like a king in leisure. His robes were immaculate, woven with moon thread sigils. His long silver hair was pulled into a simple braid, and his luminous eyes sparkled with mockery.

Vhyra Scaledclaw, Dragonkin of Feralis and voice of the wild Savaryn, reclined in her seat. Her scales shimmered with shifting hues of deep azure under the mage lights of the chamber. Twin frilled horns arched back from her skull, wrapped with golden cords bearing the etched names of her ancestors. Her long tail flicked lazily under the table, and her clawed fingers occasionally drummed a slow, pleased rhythm on the table’s edge.

Malzarek’s voice, gravel and fire, cut the silence. "Korvath the Proud has slain Velkoth. North of Nefrath is now a crater of burning ash and crumbling strongholds. The surviving hordes scatter, the other Archdemons send their vultures. It is chaos."

Solen arched a brow, smirking. "Ah, Hell eating its own again. Comforting, really. You are nothing if not predictable."

Gareth didn’t react. "Holy Verrenate has fallen," he said, cold and clipped.

A pause.

Then, the grin spreading across Vhyra’s elongated snout said more than words. Her golden pupils narrowed in delight, and her scaled chest rumbled with satisfaction.

Gareth’s hands clenched. "They fell to a rebel army. Not an uprising or peasant revolt. A structured, strategic strike. The soldiers were their own. Coordinated, led by.. an elf." He turned his sharp glare to Solen. "You will account for this. At least twenty thousand Verrenate troops, gone. Civilians flooding Iron March borders, bringing unrest and panic."

Solen clasped his hands. "And how tragic that your civilians are not made slaves, they should be treated like the they treated other Races. But I do share your pain, the slavers have been dethroned. Truly, the world weeps."

Gareth leaned forward. "This isn’t politics, elf. It’s escalation. This... Corvin blackmoor of your ilk has disrupted the North."

Solen smiled like the moon behind clouds. "You mean to say: a single elf dismantled a kingdom, using it’s own soldiers. Honestly your kind has not changed from the times where you ancestors were hariless monkeys. Then perhaps you should send him a crown."

He turned to Vhyra, tilting his head. "Of course, my Lady Scaledclaw, I would never compare might of Feralis to the apes Gareth’s ancestors once were."

Vhyra let out a low, rolling chuckle. "None taken. Though I’d wager those same apes might’ve more tact, more grace than some of Argyll’s habitants."

Solen inclined his head. "High praise."

Gareth struck the table with a clenched fist, sending sparks flying. "Enough. This isn’t a performance. The north is unraveling, and this... Raven must be weighed."

Vhyra’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Our kin has returned from the fallen lands of the slavers. This Blackmoor, this Raven, he freed slaves. Burned their cities, temples and capital to the ground. Disrupted an old power structure and vanished behind Dominion borders. I heard he is a noble of the Dominion now. Sounds less like chaos... and more like efficiency."

Solen added, "He’s ours, by blood. I would like to know with what exactly are you trying to condemn an Elf."

Gareth growled low. "He has destabilized half the continent. We can’t afford your elven pride or your Feralis romanticism."

"And we can’t afford your short sighted paranoia," Solen snapped back.

Vhyra held up a hand, claws glinting. "Let us not pretend this is sudden. Verrenate has been rotting for years. The infestation has only been removed."

Malzarek stared into the glowing map of Verthalis. The crimson glow pulsed stronger.

"We watch," he said finally. "We wait. But not for long. This elf is an omen."

The chamber fell into tense silence, and Verthalis spun slowly above them. Now the highest seats of the planet was aware of Corvin.

--

Valyne woke up in her new room with a frown etched so deep it might as well have been carved by a runeblade. Yesterday was still a sore point in her memory. An emotional outburst in the throne room wasn’t exactly her proudest moment. Maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t have exploded like that. Then again... no. She was right. She ’was’ right. Absolutely, categorically, righteously correct. She decided to have the breakfast with Kaelyn.

She sighed and dragged herself out of bed. The room was nice, absurdly nice, in fact. Polished marble floors, soft silk sheets, elegant furniture carved in what she suspected was smug noble fashion. There were fresh flowers in a vase, and a small enchanted lamp glowed softly by the writing desk. All of it felt like overcompensation for what she assumed would be endless daily torment.

Grumbling under her breath, she threw on her robes, fastened her belt with the half hearted elegance of a sleep deprived Aether mage, and marched into the corridor with all the regal wrath of a woman with a kife destroyed by a cursed Elf.

The first thing she did was ask one of the castle guards where Kaelyn’s room was. The answer was confidently incorrect. Why in all the hells was Kaelyn’s room on the exact opposite end of this gods damned bird infested fortress?

Three wrong corridors, four staircases, one spiral turret, and two overly smug ravens later, she asked again. Wrong again. Again. Four times in total she was given directions, each one more misleading than the last.

"Even his guards are cursed," she muttered, stomping through what she hoped was the final hallway. Every turn looked the same. Every corridor whispered of symmetrical spite. "I swear the birds are watching me. Judging. Laughing."

Eventually, after what felt like an entire expedition across the mountain sized keep, one which required more arcane stamina than a battlefield she reached Kaelyn’s door. She was sweaty, tired, fuming, and thoroughly done with this day, even though it had barely started.

She knocked. No answer.

She waited.

Knocked again.

Still nothing.

That’s when her mind, decided to betray her. A sudden flood of apocalyptic imaginings crashed in. What if she’s been kidnapped? What if the ravens pecked her to death like that idiot count in her sleep? What if she tried to teleport and exploded herself inside out?! What if Corvin decided diplomatic guests make good ingredients?!

Without further hesitation, she shoved the door open like an invading warlord.

There, in the soft golden morning light cascading through the tall arched windows, lay Kaelyn. Completely intact. Very much alive. And most infuriating of all, still asleep. Tangled in blankets. Smiling.

Wearing what could only be described as a diplomatic nightgown disaster. Lace. Silk. Too much leg. Possibly summoned from the Plane of Flirtation. Valyne swore the ensemble was designed to cause international incidents.

She froze. Her eye twitched. Her fists clenched and unclenched.

Kaelyn stirred, blinked herself awake, and yawned like a cat who had absolutely no idea an apocalypse had nearly unfolded at her door. "Oh, Valyne... good morning. Is it time for breakfast already?"

Valyne’s voice came out in a whisper so dangerous it could’ve sliced granite. "You... you’re fine?"

Kaelyn nodded cheerfully, oblivious. "I slept great! These beds are amazing. I dreamed Duke Corvin and I were.."

"Don’t. You. Dare," Valyne interrupted, turning on her heel like she’d just witnessed a war crime. "Get dressed. We need to talk. Urgently. Before I set this room on fire out of principle."

Kaelyn blinked, utterly unfazed, and reached for a second nightgown, why she had two was a question for a darker, more tragic time.

Valyne stormed out and leaned against the hallway wall, pressing her hand to her forehead. Her pulse was still racing. Her nerves frayed. She took several deep breaths.

"This castle is cursed," she muttered to herself. "Definitely cursed. Probably possessed. Might burn it down one day just for the closure."

From inside the room, Kaelyn called out, "Do you prefer lavender or mint tea? I’m feeling mint today."

Valyne walked away in silence, muttering about how this mission was going to give her wrinkles and as if hearing her muttering a raven cawed. It was laughing to her misery..

--

Corvin stood deep within the confines of his subterranean laboratory. Arcane runes flickered and pulsed across walls of smooth obsidian and rune forged steel, casting eerie light over the lab’s central platform where a half dismembered corpse twitched under the influence of the latest virutic strain. He was feeding magical energy through crystalline amplifiers into the humming containment pods. He didn’t look up, even as Bob and John stood faithfully at his sides.

Bob was humming. Or rather, making a noise suspiciously close to a rumbling purr that only vaguely resembled a melody. Meanwhile, John was speaking slowly and clearly, as though repeating mantras to a particularly stubborn student.

"Yes," John said. Bob echoed, "Yesss."

"No."

"No."

"Maybe."

"May...bee?"

"Good."

"Gooood."

Corvin couldn’t help but glance up with a faint smile as he adjusted a brass regulator. "If you teach him to say ’congratulations,’ I’ll start paying you again."

John’s glowing eyes pulsed faintly. "Compensation is meaningless, Master. But I will attempt it."

Corvin’s amusement faded as he looked at John for a moment too long. There was still pain in that gaze. The faint outline of who John had once been, his friend, his brother. Necromancy had claimed many things, but not that fragment of a memory. The voice was altered, but the cadence, the stubborn dignity, those were same. A reminder and a burden. Corvin felt a flicker of guilt. Of all the souls he had twisted, John’s had weighed him the most. A memory should not be this heavy he muttered.

He returned his focus to the experiment.

Three containment cylinders hissed and churned. Inside, reanimated corpses floated suspended in fluid, each undergoing a different phase of his latest virutic strain. Sigils etched into the glass flickered with unstable energies.

The goal was simple to describe but monstrous in scope: to force magical evolution in the undead. Rather than have them ramain in whatever magical rank they have may it be at Adept or Magister, he wanted an army of casting undead. Some even capable of Archmagus tier spellwork. It would be a revolution in warfare. No attrition, no fatigue, no dissent. Only mastery.

One corpse, a former apprentice was convulsing, blood boiling inside his veins. The strain had taken him too far, too fast. His head detonated with a sickening pop, painting the inside of the cylinder crimson.

"Failure," John noted stoically.

"Brilliant observation," Corvin muttered, marking it in a black bound journal.

The second corpse a former Novice Arcanist, glowed faintly. Its body had stopped convulsing hours ago. It had stabilized at Arcanist rank, just where Corvin wanted. "Subject 47. Sustained cognitive elevation. Retained spell pattern memory... for now. Begin resonance test at Phase Two."

"Yes?" Bob asked, surprisingly coherent.

"Partial," Corvin replied. "Still unstable under stress conditions. Might fracture when forced to multitask casting matrices."

The third corpse, once a full Spellwright, had devolved into a feral creature. Spikes of Ice jutted from its back, it’s main affinity clearly went out of control. It had developed aggressive instincts and cast random bursts from its hands before screaming in a profanities Corvin has not heard before. The strain had amplified its latent magic too rapidly, breaking the tether that kept it docile and turned him to a foul mouthed subject. Corvin incinerated it with a snap of his fingers, flames swirling like vipers around the shattered pod.

"Too much residual will," he said. "Can’t override the soul fragment. Need to refine the suppression glyphs. Maybe integrate mnemonic erasure alongside mana dampeners."

He leaned back against a pillar, rubbing his eyes, fatigue catching up to him. A series of arcane projections floated above his workstation, showing simulations, arcane graphs, and soul stability equations.

John handed him a towel. "You’ve been down here for over twelve hours, Master."

"I’ve wasted more for the strains you had mate. I do not have time. The Synod will come, John. The Arbiters, Iron March, High Elves, hell, even Aetherborn might crawl out of their reefs. People always come when they smell power."

Bob grunted. "No mate."

Corvin grinned despite himself. "Spoken like a true philosopher."

He stared at the glowing corpse in the middle chamber, the one that worked. A faint violet aura pulsed around it. The subject had begun whispering fragments of incantations in its sleep state.

"This... is the beginning. And beginnings are fragile."

He turned toward his ritual forge. He would need more subjects, Human, Elven, Feralis and Aetherborne. Purer aetheric filaments, He wondered if Valyne could or would work for him. He will perfect the strain. The next version was already forming in his mind, piece by piece, equation by glyph.

"Let’s begin again."