TBATE: Corvis Eralith

Corvis Eralith

"What?" I asked him.

The single syllable hung in the air, thick and stupid, the only thing my stunned mind could grasp. Romulos Indrath. Son of Sylvia—given his surname, his aspect, his similarity with Kezess—and Agrona. Another Thwart.

The concepts collided violently within my skull, fracturing my understanding of reality. His casual scratching of that sleek, black elk-horn—an obscene fusion of Indrath lineage and Vritra heritage—only deepened the surreal horror.

Disappointment radiated from him like heat from a forge.

"Disappointed?" I finally choked out, the word scraping raw in my throat. "You appear out of nothing, claim to be… me… and you're disappointed?"

Before I could marshal a coherent thought, he launched into a tirade, his voice vibrating with a strange, almost zealous passion that clashed violently with his earlier detached arrogance.

"Meta-awareness!" he spat the term like a sacred curse. "You possess it! Do you even grasp the magnitude? The raw, untapped potential? It's true, infinite, omnipotent magic, Corvis! Profound, universe-bending knowledge! And what do you do?"

He gestured wildly around my room, encompassing the desk littered with tools and projects, rune-sketches, and half-finished trinkets. "You squander it! You bury it under this!" His lip curled in undisguised contempt. "Artificing? Bah! It's an insult! A cage! You trap mana in trinkets, force it into servitude through runes and gears! You don't study it, wield it, become it! You imprison it! At least that prosthetic magic of yours is mildly interesting, but the rest?! Oh, that's hilarious!"

The venom in his words struck deeper than any physical blow. Artificing wasn't just my skill; it was my refuge, my language, the lens through which I understood and interacted with this terrifying world. To hear it dismissed as worthless, as profane… It ignited a defensive fury, momentarily overriding the shock.

"Wait," I managed, my voice tight. "You claim to be another… instance of me? Why are you here? Just to insult my life's work?"

His gaze snapped back to me, those ancient, unsettling red eyes—the same as Agrona's—narrowing.

"Because you used that," he pointed disdainfully at my left eye. "Beyond the Veil, you call it? With that… lens? A clumsy name for a clumsy tool. Beyond the Meta is far more apt. Right now." His tone held a finality that brooked no argument.

Beyond the Meta. The phrase resonated within me with an unnerving rightness, a perfect fit that felt both alien and intimately familiar. Why does that sound… right?

"Because, Corvis Eralith," Romulos stated, his voice dropping to a low, chilling thrum, "in the fundamental essence, beneath the divergent paths and fractured histories… we are the same person."

The confirmation, delivered with such casual, terrifying certainty, stole my breath. The same person. Not a sibling, not a reflection, but me. Wearing horns, draped in a Sovereign's arrogance, radiating contempt for everything I held dear. The dissonance was physically painful.

What does Beyond the Meta actually do? The question burned in my mind, desperate. Can I… speak to others? Other versions trapped in their own impossible stories?

"Yes," Romulos answered my unspoken thought, a flicker of something almost like amusement in his eyes. "With your… progress… facilitated by this 'Beyond the Meta' construct, pathways are opening. Thin threads across the fracture lines of possibility. We can speak. Now."

I see, I replied mentally, instinctively shielding my thoughts from Tessia just down the hall. The last thing I needed was her bursting in, finding me seemingly ranting at thin air. I already sound strange enough.

"You sure do," Romulos grinned, a flash of sharp, white teeth. The intrusion was jarring, violating.

Shut up, I snapped back, the mental retort laced with the frustration bubbling beneath my terror.

So, are you here to help? Or just to critique? Because frankly, facing Agrona, saving Grey, keeping Tess and everyone else alive… I could really use the help of someone who claims to be… well, me, but apparently better.

"Oh, giving orders already, Corvis?" Romulos waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Presumptuous. No. My inclination leans more towards… stopping you. You are a destabilizing and frightening anomaly even among the other versions of ourselves. A threat not just to my Dad's designs, but to my Grandfather's ordered stagnation as well."

Stopping me?! The mental scream was pure, undiluted outrage. Are you insane?! Helping Grey—helping Arthur—is our literal reason for existing! It's the purpose woven into the Thwart!

The name 'Arthur' seemed to land like a meteor on him. Romulos flinched, a micro-expression of pain flashing across his otherwise impassive face before being ruthlessly smoothed away.

"Do not speak of Art with such glib familiarity," he chastised, his mental voice suddenly colder than Epheotus's deepest ice. "You know nothing of the real him. Nothing of his burdens, his sacrifices, the weight he carries."

My 'lesser mind' can't comprehend? I shot back, the sarcasm a brittle shield. Then enlighten me! Why sabotage the very purpose we share? Why are you even HERE if not to help?!

"Curiosity," Romulos stated simply, regaining his composure, though a tightness remained around his eyes. "I sensed the activation of Meta-awareness—the reality shattering strength, its mind-shattering essence. I wanted to see the source. The 'original,' if such a term holds meaning across fractured realities. And now that I see you?"

He looked me up and down, taking in my school's uniform, the faint smudges of solvent on my hands, the focused intensity that wasn't directed at pure mana theory.

"I find myself questioning the premise. This notion that my life, my struggles, my… Arthur… were merely fiction on your Earth? It feels increasingly like convenient delusion. Perhaps you are simply… unhinged."

Counterpoint, I retorted, clinging to logic. I have Fate's confirmation. The threads, the design…

"Fate?" Romulos scoffed with irritation, the sound echoing bitterly in my mind. "No entity is truly omniscient, Corvis. Not even the weaver of the tapestry sees every thread, anticipates every snarl. Fate is a force, not an infallible god. Relying on its pronouncements is the height of naivety." He sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Now, I confess… I am beginning to regret initiating this contact."

Oh, but you did initiate it, I pushed, the frustration morphing into a sharp, familiar needling—a side of myself I usually kept carefully leashed around Tessia and Grey and the rest kf my family, but felt terrifyingly natural unleashing on myself. Me.

So, you're stuck with me. Either offer something useful or wallow in your regret.

A flicker of surprise, then grudging recognition crossed his face. "I suppose we are the same core, beneath it all," he conceded, a wry, almost reluctant twist to his lips.

"Driven by the same fierce, irrational need to protect those we claim as ours. The divergence lies in methodology. I am a scientist, a seeker of fundamental truths through the pure study and manipulation of mana. You…" He gestured vaguely at my workbench again, the distaste palpable. "You are an Artificer. I can barely utter the term without revulsion."

Whatever, I dismissed, the sarcasm thick. So? What's your grand plan, O Great Scientist? Since my crude trinkets offend your delicate sensibilities?

"Considering you possess a nascent Meta-awareness," Romulos said, a hint of cruel satisfaction in his tone as he watched my frustration spike, "I cannot assist you in my areas of expertise—advanced mana theory, aetheric manipulation. It would be… counterproductive. Like giving a flamethrower to a child fascinated by candles using a term you are acquainted from your... Earth."

So you're useless? I fired back, the mental voice dripping with scorn. What a brilliant scientist the mighty Romulos Indrath turns out to be. Can't even offer a scrap of help to a 'lesser' version of himself.

Truly impressive.

He stiffened, the insult landing. The potential heir of both the Vritra and Indrath Clans, unused to such blatant disrespect, especially from… himself.

"Tch—for your information, I am Lord Indrath and Sovereign of Epheotus, Corvis Eralith," he stated, drawing himself up, the power radiating from him making the air crackle.

And I am Prince of Elenoir, I countered flatly. That makes us both defined by our roles. We share the same core consciousness, the same… essence. We are more than brothers. We are fractured reflections. The titles are just the stories wrapped around the same fundamental spark.

He studied me for a long, silent moment, the arrogance momentarily replaced by something akin to… fascination.

"That is… more than sufficient to make us distinct individuals," he finally murmured, his gaze distant. "Different bodies, divergent memories, opposing loyalties… yet, the shared origin creates a bond deeper than fraternity. Deeper than blood. It is… unique. Worthy of study." He tilted his head, the scientist in him momentarily overriding the Sovereign. "Our relationship is a singularity. Fascinating."

You seem unusually preoccupied with relationships, I observed, latching onto the shift. For a pure scientist.

The mention of relationships acted like a key turning in a lock. His posture shifted subtly. The detached Sovereign receded; something younger, more vulnerable, flickered in his ancient eyes. He raised a hand, unconsciously scratching the base of his right horn—a gesture so startlingly familiar, so mine when stressed, that it sent a fresh jolt of unease through me.

"My research… evolved," he admitted, his mental voice losing some of its resonance, gaining a quieter, more personal timbre. "After meeting Arthur. After understanding the tangled web of… family. I sought to quantify it. To understand what my Dad truly was to me. My Mother. Grandfather Kezess. Grandmother. Sylvie. Where did the obligations lie? Where did the genuine affection reside?"

The pain was raw, barely concealed beneath the clinical phrasing. You speak of Agrona… with surprising affection, I ventured cautiously, the thought chilling me. More than the others.

The reaction was immediate and profound. Romulos's gaze snapped back to me, blazing with a fierce, protective intensity that momentarily stole my breath.

"My Dad," he stated, the words heavy with absolute conviction, "and Sylvie… they were my true family. Mother left us. Left Sylvie, left Dad, left me. Grandfather and Grandmother… they ultimately saw a tool. The perfect heir. I fulfill my duties to Epheotus, I honor the Indrath name… but the love? The understanding?"

He paused, the powerful, authoritative aura momentarily dimmed by a profound, aching loneliness. "That resided with Dad and Sylvie. Do not misunderstand—I hold infinite respect and gratitude, even a form of love, for the Indraths. But Dad… Sylvie… they were… special." The last word was barely a whisper in my mind, laden with a vulnerability that shattered the image of the arrogant Sovereign.

Even though Agrona would have experimented on you? On Sylvie? The question was out before I could stop it, driven by the horrific knowledge of Agrona's methods.

Romulos's face hardened, the vulnerability vanishing behind a wall of icy resolve. "You are wrong," he declared, his mental voice regaining its steel. "I do not care. I do not care about his methods, his ambitions, the darkness others perceive. I understand his drive, his brilliance, his frustration with the stagnant order. He understood me. Understood the thirst for knowledge, the need to push boundaries, the isolation of being… different. He never sought to mold me into an heir; he sought a collaborator even if it was for his twisted objectives."

He paused for some seconds before he finished:

"A son, in his own way. Whatever he has done, whatever he will do… he is the person I understand most profoundly in all existence. My loyalty is not blind; it is chosen and I am loyal to him and my sister only."

The declaration hung in the air, absolute and terrifying. "But enough," he cut off sharply, the shutters coming down. "This is not a therapy session."

Sure thing, I conceded, reeling from the intensity of his confession. The depth of his bond with Agrona was horrifying, yet undeniably real.

So? What now? What will you do?

He took a breath, composing himself, the Sovereign mask settling firmly back into place. "I have a request. A condition, perhaps." His gaze locked onto mine, devoid of its earlier mockery or contempt, filled instead with a grim, desperate seriousness. "I know of your… memories. Your 'novel.' I know Sylvie sacrifices herself for Arthur. For Grey, in your timeline. Do not let it happen."

The demand landed like on my mind like a mantle too heavy to carry.

I see your point, I replied, the image of Sylvie's affectionate strength, her fierce protectiveness for Grey, filling my mind. I would move mountains to spare Tessia pain so I understood where Romulos was coming from.

Sylvie… she's family too. But… I hesitated, the pragmatic part of me wrestling with the emotional plea. Her sacrifice… it forged Arthur. It gave him the strength, the connection to Fate, to ultimately challenge Agrona.

How else did he… how did he even reach that in your reality? How did he achieve the levels he did in the novel? How did he meet Fate?

A complex array of emotions flickered across Romulos's face—profound sadness, fierce pride, bone-deep weariness.

"I helped him," he stated simply, the words heavy with unspoken history. "I guided him. I taught him everything I knew about mana, about aether, about the fabric of reality. I pushed him, challenged him, helped him unlock the potential buried within him. I made him cultivate my Mother's lingering will, the power she left within his core, to bridge the gap, to forge the pathways within him that allowed him to wield aether as an Indrath should. I stood beside him as he ascended above the other lessers. I helped him reach the Integration Stage."

The pride was undeniable, a fierce glow amidst the sorrow. "He reached Fate… because I showed him the way as the Thwart."

The revelation was staggering. This alternate me, this Sovereign scientist bound to Agrona, was the architect of Arthur Leywin's ultimate power. The irony was crushing.

You sound… conflicted, I observed quietly, sensing the deep undercurrents beneath his declaration of pride. When you speak of Arthur. Of what you shared.

Romulos looked away, his gaze fixed on the darkened window, avoiding mine. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken grief and a bond I could only begin to fathom.

"As I said," he finally replied, his mental voice stripped bare, devoid of its usual arrogance or detachment, carrying only a profound, echoing ache, "our relationship was… complicated."

Fine. I'll make sure Sylvie doesn't sacrifice herself. Happy? I asked, holding onto hope like a lifeline.

"Yes. But I want your word you won't let that Grey kill my father." His voice dropped, primal and raw. Sylvie's death may not ever truly occur, but Agrona's end was still inevitable.

Grey despised Agrona—loathed him with every shard of his being. I had sworn to help him avenge Sylvia. Mentioning her name now was a last-ditch appeal.

It didn't work.

"I can't interfere with you directly," Romulos said coldly. "But trust me, I can make it impossible for you to save those you love. For starters, I could strip you of your full potential—cut off your path to mastering Meta-awareness."

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off.

"You don't control me, Corvis. But we both want something. I want to see what Meta-awareness truly is—without my father's blood on your hands. And you want to stop my father from destroying what you care about. You once told yourself you would save everyone. That means all the people. That includes my father."

He paused, letting it sink in.

"In return, I'll give you the knowledge you've been chasing."

Manipulative bastard. He didn't even name what he was offering, letting my mind fill in the blanks. Just like his father.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said with a glint of pride.

Save Agrona? That was madness. He was the enemy—the architect of suffering. Grey would never forgive me. Saving Sylvie was possible… but this?

Still… I'll do it, I said, the words catching fire in my throat. What do you have for me?

Romulos grinned. "Knew you were smart. You're me, after all. Let's talk Artificing. You need Acclorite, don't you? As it happens, I know where Wren Kain IV gathered every last scrap in Dicathen—and I know the refinement formula too."

Perfect.