The duchal court of House Vellgard was not built for war, it was built for envy.
Vaulted ceilings arched like the ribs of a giant serpent, polished to a mirror sheen. Glass inlaid floors reflected sunlight filtered through alchemical prisms. Guards lined the walls in perfect posture, their halberds ceremonial, their eyes dull from hours of stillness.
Corvin walked the marble path to the throne dais as if it were any other alley.
The human courtiers flanking the chamber murmured behind silk fans and jeweled collars. He could hear them all clearly through surface thoughts:
"That's him, Raven." "He doesn't even bow." "How does a man like that keep his hands so clean?"
Duchess Yvanna Vellgard lounged upon her glass throne, draped in wine colored velvet and layered jewelry. Her gaze was sharp, her posture imperial.
"Corvin Blackmoor," she said, drawing out his name as though tasting it. "Your reputation moves faster than your shadow."
Corvin remained still. His face unreadable, arms loose at his sides.
"I expected someone... hungrier."
He smiled faintly, almost politely.
"You confuse noise with appetite, Duchess."
Yvanna leaned forward, lips curving in a dismissive smile.
"Let's speak plainly, mercenary. There is a target. A noble with considerable security, a fortress estate on the western ridge. He has been a thorn on my side for a long time. I want him dead. Make it quiet."
Her tone dropped to one used with subordinates. Commanding. Detached. She was sure the elf will get himself killed in the attempt. This was a way of communication between the nobles of the Gilded Dominion. Sending assassins after each other the tell them they are dissatisfied. An expensive way of communication.
Corvin tilted his head slightly.
"An estate with arcane wards, private battlemages, and psychic seals. All for a pouch of coin and a verbal nod of approval."
Yvanna's smile remained, eyes half lidded. "You'll be compensated."
He stepped forward once. Close enough for her to feel the weight behind his words.
"You presume I trade in coins. Let me offer clarity, Duchess. I trade in certainty. I do not serve. I deliver outcomes. Hopefully you'll remember that."
The chamber went silent. The guards flinched, just slightly.
Yvanna's gaze sharpened, but then she scoffed, dismissive.
"Just kill him."
Corvin turned and walked away as though the court had never existed.
--
The estate of Lord Merrowdane was built like a fortress.
High walls of enchanted basalt ringed sprawling gardens, servant quarters, armories, and the main keep itself. A heavy tower of warded stone and iron shuttered windows.
It was designed to withstand sieges, arcane bombardments, even minor planar breaches.
It was not designed for him.
Corvin observed for two full days without moving closer than the tree line.
From the treetops, through mist and branch, he scanned the perimeter like dust across the fields, latching onto outer guards, cooks, gardeners.
Surface thoughts gave him everything.
Guard rotations. Shift changes. Meal preparation times. Location of wells. Contents of food stores.
By the end of the second night, he knew the estate better than some of its servants.
On the third night, he moved.
He approached under cover of darkness, slipping through the killing fields beyond the outer wall using the stealth he learned from the dark elves in Veilthorn. This way he has muted sound, smell and presence itself.
He passed two sentries. They never blinked.
He entered through a servant's arch, bypassing the alchemical wards by timing the null zones known only to the ground staff. Knowledge gained effortlessly through telepathic probes.
In the kitchens, he introduced a fine particulate blood curse into the spice racks, the dry meats, the barrels of flour.
In the well, he traced a sigil of subtle rot beneath the main water seal.
By dawn, symptoms appeared.
Fever. Delirium. Madness.
By the second night, the house was a death camp.
Guards staggered against each other, coughing blood and bile. Stewards shrieked prayers to deaf gods. Battlemages tore open their own arcane seals trying to purge nonexistent curses, accidentally breaching their own lifeforce.
Corvin moved among them like mist.
The treasury vault cracked open easily under the weight of a dying keymaster's failing wards.
He looted meticulously: Every coin, every enchanted item, and every storage ring.
High tier artifacts designed to store libraries, workshops, armories, all peeled away and tucked inside his growing inventory.
Corvin walked the empty halls in silence.
Jewels. Tomes. Contracts. Hidden documents. Sealed vaults. All stripped.
By the time he left, the estate was hollowed like a shell. A phantom fortress without a master. And he, he had acquired enough gold and enchanted storage rings to buy a duchy.
The guards who patrolled the region later found only corpses, strangely preserved.
No one could trace the killer.
And those who whispered of the Raven now did so with lowered voices and fearful eyes.
--
The second meeting took place in a smaller hall, one meant for confidential discussion rather than spectacle.
This time, Corvin wasn't summoned by formality. He was requested.
Duchess Yvanna Vellgard awaited him with a new tone, still polished and proud. But stripped of overt condescension. She sat straighter. She chose her words with greater care.
Seated beside her was a woman cloaked in an iridescent shimmer, her presence subtly wrong to the eye. Bending space around her like heat over stone.
The Space Mage.
Yvanna gestured to the chair opposite them. "Corvin. I have reviewed the outcome of your last engagement. Impeccable, terrifying and untraceable. Even I would not know who was responsible if it wasn't me who asked for the deed."
Corvin sat without responding.
"Forgive my earlier tone," she said. "I underestimated the... depth of your methods."
Corvin tilted his head slightly. "Underestimation is a form of blindness. Not a trait one should indulge, especially in governance."
Yvanna exhaled through her nose. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Well said."
She nodded toward the cloaked figure.
"This is Kaelyn. She's here as... reassurance."
Corvin's gaze shifted to the mage.
He didn't speak.
Instead, he released a single spore, feather light, brushing along the woman's cloak. No reaction. No shiver. No ward flared.
He sent the first latch.
F+ Space Magic.
A whisper of gravity distortion, of phase shift calculation entered his mind. He masked his absorption beneath surface silence.
Another spore.
E+ Space Magic.
Spatial anchoring, perimeter folding, short hop gate theory.
A third.
D Rank.
Corvin blinked once. If thirty percent of her Space Magic affinity is D rank, her affinity should be around A or A+.
The world felt thinner. He could now feel empty spaces where reality was loosely bound. He had gained the innate ability to store and fold matter. A personal dimensional space.
Kaelyn didn't flinch. Her mind was sealed, but her perception had not evolved beyond Arcanist level. She sensed nothing.
Yvanna studied Corvin carefully. Her next words were cautious.
"What kind of Elf you are, I do not know, nor do I wish to be your enemy. But I must know.. If you can do this to them..."
"What would happen if I turned on you?" Corvin finished.
He stood slowly.
"Then your throne would remember how fragile it is."
He turned to leave.
Behind him, Kaelyn finally looked up. Her eyes followed him until the door shut.
"He's not normal," she murmured.
Yvanna swallowed hard, still staring at the now empty seat.
"No." she said her voice a whisper. "He is not."
--
Months passed. A dozen nobles were dead.
None were declared assassinated. There were no blades, no poison, no scandal. They died of strokes, heart failure, collapsed lungs, mysterious arcanic seizures. One reportedly fell asleep during a symposium and never woke up the curse was not identified till now.
To the untrained, these were tragedies.
To the highborn of the Gilded Dominion, these were messages.
House Vellgard moved quickly.
The Duchess gave no public speeches. No proclamations. But her agents, well dressed merchants, politely armed emissaries, and velvet gloved Arcanists. They began arriving at neutral houses and minor courts.
And they were received.
Because the alternative was silence.
In drawing rooms and in high walled gardens, the noble elite whispered a new word:
"Raven."
No face, no origin, nor any allegiance other than the Duchess. This new entity was pure result.
A ghost that killed like a god and vanished like wind.
The Duchess remained distant.
Publicly, she mourned her colleagues. Privately, she gained three strategic trade routes, exclusive glasswork distribution contracts, and six pledges of neutrality from houses that once plotted her removal.
Only one house refused to bow.
House Malvaran.
Old, proud, armed with their own seers and record keepers. They did not believe in ghosts.
They believed in evidence and they began to investigate.
--
The Gilded Dominion had always known death.
But never like this.
In the span of five months, the governing bodies, the entire leadership structures of rival duchies collapsed without a single open conflict.
Each target was precisely chosen: governors, high magistrates, military captains, trade consortium leaders, political envoys.
Each death was methodically engineered: poisoned meals, cursed heirlooms, silent suffocations, and a sabotaged silencing ward that severed a council in half.
Their mansions and family estates were systematically looted. Vaults were emptied. Artifacts vanished. Every mage loyal to these houses, from Adepts to full Arcanists, disappeared without a trace. Hundreds died within short three months.
Witnesses, when there were any, spoke of black feathers drifting through the shattered halls.
Black raven feathers was left behind at every site.
A calling card, a warning and a signature.
House Vellgard said nothing.
By the third duchy's collapse, lesser houses began swearing loyalty to Duchess Yvanna in fearful waves. She didn't need to make demands. Fear did her speaking for her.
The political map of the Gilded Dominion rewrote itself in silence.
And at its center stood the an Elf.
Duchess Yvanna, emboldened but cautious, sent a polite letter requesting his presence for tea.
When the servant delivered the note, hands trembling and voice brittle, Corvin accepted with a smile that never touched his eyes.
--
The garden was immaculate. Not a leaf out of place, not a petal fallen onto the glass tiled walkways. The air smelled of sweetened citrus, a stark contrast to the tension that rippled beneath the perfect facade.
Duchess Yvanna Vellgard sat under a silk draped pavilion, her posture impeccable, her smile brittle at the edges.
Across from her sat Corvin.
And beside her, positioned carefully, was Kaelyn the Space Mage.
Corvin's gaze flicked lazily over the setup.
He noticed the subtle shimmer between himself and the Duchess. A folded space, like the haze of heat over a summer road. A defensive veil, ready to snap shut if he moved too quickly.
Servants lingered at the edges of the garden, pale and tense, while two soldiers, both tasters sampled every plate and cup before anything reached the Duchess or her mage.
Corvin smiled politely, a thin razor of amusement beneath the expression.
Fear had set a proper table.
Yvanna inclined her head slightly, voice smooth but edged.
"Corvin... Raven. Allow me to offer my deepest gratitude for your... contributions."
She gestured lightly, a flick of manicured fingers toward the distant banners Gilded Dominion, now bearing Vellgard's crest.
"There is no opposition left. House Malvaran has declared neutrality. The minor houses scurry to align or vanish. My domain has tripled with the lands of the fallen."
Her smile tightened.
"I am, by all but formal declaration, the queen of the Gilded Dominion."
Corvin said nothing.
The silence spoke louder.
Yvanna took a slow sip of wine, after the taster nodded and then placed the cup down with calculated grace.
"Your contract, our initial agreement, has reached its natural end."
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"I would propose a new arrangement. Longer term. More... mutual."
As she spoke, Corvin's eyes shifted to Kaelyn.
The Space Mage's own eyes widened slightly. The first crack in her composed mask.
She had seen it, felt it.
Space affinity.
Whether major or minor, it wasn't clear but it was enough.
Enough to know that the man before them was more than whispers and feathers.
He was a storm in hiding.
--
Kaelyn's hands rested lightly in her lap, her fingers calm, her breathing even outwardly.
Inwardly, her thoughts raced.
She had seen it.
The telltale warping of light and distance. The subtle, almost imperceptible fold in space when the Elf shifted his weight, the ambient mana bending to him as if acknowledging a deeper command.
Space affinity.
Within five months, the man called Raven had devastated Duchess Yvanna's political opposition without raising an army, without inciting rebellion. He had simply... removed them.
And yet here he sat, smiling faintly as Yvanna proposed an extended contract.
Corvin's reply had been casual, almost disinterested.
"No contract necessary," he said. "If you require my services again, you know how to find me. On another topic, I do believe your highness will honor the the first agreement,"
Then he had stood, bowed slightly, mockingly, Kaelyn thought and left the garden with the poise of a man who had never once doubted the outcome of any encounter.
Kaelyn's mind raced, tracing old lessons, ancient warnings whispered behind sealed Academy walls.
She needed answers.
And she would find them.
--
Kaelyn had not always been free mage.
She was born in the Holy Verranate, the theocratic kingdom where faith ruled blade and blood alike.
Women were deemed second class citizens. Fit for prayer, for childbearing, for silence. Even those rare women born with magic were often cloistered in isolated convents, their powers regulated, tamed, or snuffed out.
Had her father not been a minor noble with distant relation to the local Baron had her mother not been a master at navigating court intrigue Kaelyn would have been in a forgotten chapel now.
Instead, her family spent everything to smuggle her beyond the kingdom's faith walls.
To the east.
To the Iron March.
The militaristic kingdom cared little for birth or gender. Only for strength, discipline, and results.
Kaelyn enrolled in the Cindrel Academy, where the weak washed out and the gifted were molded into weapons.
It was there, during a routine examination, that her space affinity was discovered.
From that moment, her life diverged from her peers'.
Specialized training. Private tutors. Heavy restrictions. Constant surveillance.
She had learned early, anyone with affinity over Space, Time, Void, Gravity, or Aether had to be registered, monitored, and, if necessary, neutralized.
And now?
Here, in a fragile garden of a dominion stitched together with blood and fear, she had met another. Another space touched.
An elf who bore the same dangerous mark.
But who moved without leash or chain.
Kaelyn's decision crystallized.
She would write to her old mentor at Cindrel Academy.
Magus Arthen Vaelor.
If anyone could guide her understanding or warn her how dangerous Corvin Blackmoor might truly be it would be him.
And so, late that night, Kaelyn penned a letter beneath flickering mage light, signing it with a hand that trembled only once.
--
The Nexus Bastion shimmered under heavy aether currents.
Five months had passed since the High Inquisitors scoured Thalasien.
The continent now lay battered, scarred by failed hunts, political sabotage, and suppressed terror.
In the Circle's grand hall, the sigil of concord burned dimly.
The Elven Arbiter, Solen Vaen'thal, stood tall as he addressed the council.
"The anomaly threat, after exhaustive investigation, is concluded. No credible entity remains. The Verdant Shroud disturbance has been traced to wild magic remnants from the Sundering."
"The investigation is finished."
A stir went through the chamber.
The Human Arbiter, Gareth of the Iron Mantle, frowned deeply.
"Absence of proof is not proof of absence, Vaen'thal," he said evenly.
The Feralis Arbiter growled low, voice rough with disdain.
"The hunt should continue. Wild magic does not move as cleverly as what we pursued."
The Demon Arbiter's laughter rumbled, bitter and sharp.
"Convenient to close the book now that the pages have burned, hmm?"
Solen Vaen'thal met each gaze calmly.
"And yet," he said, voice like steel drawn against ice, "absence of proof is not proof of existence either."
"We will not waste another year chasing phantoms."
The Circle paused, tension hanging heavy.
The Aetherborn delegation said nothing. Their presence flickered faintly, unconcerned with mortal disputes.
At last, by unspoken agreement, the decision was made.
The anomaly investigation would be closed.
The report would declare:
No anomaly survived.
Events traced to "wild magic remnants" sealed after the Sundering.
Thus, the disaster across Thalasien would be buried beneath bureaucracy and formal closure.
The Circle adjourned with frozen smiles.
The world turned.
And somewhere beyond the edges of planes and pride, something old and evolving continued to grow stronger.