A Rather Concerning Divergence

Corvis Eralith

The ancient path swallowed our footsteps, the mossy earth soft and yielding beneath our feet. Ahead, Grampa moved with the quiet surety of one who knew these woods as intimately as his own breath.

Around us, the Elshire Forest breathed back. Not the tame, managed greenery near the palace, but the wild heart of it. The trees were like great, gnarled sentinels, their bark etched with millennia, soared upwards, branches weaving almost resembling a cathedral ceiling high above.

The inside architecture of gothic cathedrals were inspired by trees if I am not wrong, I thought as I observed the trees.

Sunlight, strained through countless leaves, fell in shattered beams of liquid gold, painting the air itself. And within that air, there was the magic mist that reigned ober the forest.

It wasn't fog, not really. It was a luminous haze, born from the very essence of the ancient trees, swirling in eddies of soft silver and ethereal blue. It clung gently to the ferns, danced around exposed roots, and filled the spaces between the massive trunks like living breath.

Walking through it, breathing it in—cool, damp, carrying the scent of rich earth, decaying leaves, and something else, something vibrant and old—a profound sense of peace settled over me, deeper than mere quiet.

It was an anchoring. A belonging. This, the whispered rustle of countless leaves, the cool kiss of the mist on my skin, the sheer, silent presence of the ancient wood… this wasn't just scenery. It was recognition. A bone-deep certainty clicked into place: I am an elf.

Not the human memories I carried like faded photographs, but fundamentally, irrevocably elf. The forest didn't just surround me; it resonated within the core of me, a silent song I suddenly realized I'd always known the tune to, even if I'd forgotten the words.

The sheer, quiet rightness of it made the frantic struggles of my early years here suddenly make terrible, poignant sense.

I was only five years old, lost and terrified in a pointless search… yet I survived for days in this vast, untamed expanse. Far from the palace, far from any familiar landmark, I had felt… not safe, but not utterly forsaken.

Now, understanding bloomed. For an elf, being lost in Elshire wasn't the death sentence it would be for a human. The forest wasn't just indifferent geography; it was… a shelter. A dim awareness, perhaps the land itself whispering on a frequency only its children could hear, had guided tiny, stumbling feet, offered water in hidden hollows, berries that weren't poison. The bond wasn't active protection, but a passive acceptance, a baseline understanding between kin.

Yet, that very thought, that profound sense of belonging, sent an icy shiver chasing the warmth down my spine.

The future, dramatic and unforgiving. The knowledge of what awaited this place, gleaned from pages that now felt horrifically inadequate, was a cold stone in my gut.

Reading about the elves losing Elshire had been a tragedy, yes. But standing here, feeling the forest's ancient pulse beneath my feet, smelling its vital breath, seeing the mist curl like a protective spirit around Grampa's familiar figure ahead… the sheer, gut-wrenching violence of that loss crashed over me anew.

Humans… humans adapt. They rebuild. They colonize. Earth proved that perfectly. They carry their concept of 'home' within, portable, transferable. A lost city is mourned, but another rises.

For elves? Adaptation was possible, survival elsewhere feasible, yes. But the bond with Elshire… it wasn't symbiotic—the forest, ancient and powerful, didn't need us. It was deeper, more fundamental.

Parental, yes. That was the only word that fit. The forest was the progenitor, the cradle, the constant. Its roots were our roots, its whispers our first lullaby. To lose it wouldn't just be losing territory; it would be a severing, an amputation of the soul. The very ground beneath us, this air we breathed, was part of our identity.

Its destruction wouldn't just displace a people; it would fracture the essence of what they were.

"Liking the panorama?" Grampa's voice, warm with a familiar, slightly teasing lilt, cut through the heavy silence of my thoughts. He had stopped, turning to look back at me, his sharp eyes missing little. Hehad seen me standing there, dwarfed by the ancient trees, lost not just in admiration, but in the weight of realization and dread.

I blinked, the luminous mist swirling around his boots. "Yes," I breathed, the word thick with unspoken emotion. The panorama was breathtaking, but it was so much more than that. It was home in a way bricks and mortar could never be.

"But…" I hesitated, needing to anchor myself back in the present, in this stolen moment of peace with him. "Grampa, where are we going?" The question felt small against the vastness around us, yet necessary.

He chuckled, a low rumble like distant thunder, and placed a hand dramatically over his heart, feigning offense. "Oh, are you doubting your grandfather?" The exaggerated hurt in his voice was pure Grampa.

"Patience, kid. We are going to a special place." He winked, a spark of mystery in his eyes that momentarily pushed back the shadows of the future. "A place these old woods keep close to their heart."

A special place. Hidden within the embrace of Elshire. The thought sparked a fragile curiosity, a counterpoint to the dread.

As we moved deeper, the filtered light intensified the twilight illusion, turning the path ahead into a tunnel woven of living shadow and emerald light. The silence deepened, broken only by the sigh of the wind high above and the soft crunch underfoot. The forest felt watchful, ancient, and strangely… expectant.

The familiar, comforting murmur of the ancient forest began to thin, replaced by a distant, rhythmic hum—the unmistakable pulse of communal life. The air shifted, carrying faint traces of woodsmoke, baking bread, and the earthy scent of livestock, alien yet intriguing after the deep forest's pure, mist-laden breath.

The colossal trees reluctantly gave way, revealing glimpses of sun-dappled rooftops nestled within a vast clearing. Asyphin. The name surfaced in my mind, a footnote in the vast, tragic narrative I carried.

"Grampa, we are near the city of Asyphin, right?" I asked, the sounds solidifying into distinct shouts, the clang of a smithy, the laughter of children.

He glanced back, a flicker of pride warming his stern features. "That's right. Sharp ears. I see you're taking your lessons seriously as always, Corvis." His praise, though simple, landed warmly.

Asyphin—one of Elenoir's northernmost sentinels. Barely a city and more a determined town clinging to the edge of the wild Elshire Forest. I recalled its scant mentions in the novel, a place of quiet obscurity… until the storm arrived.

Seeing it now, bathed in the gentle northern light, its vulnerability struck me anew. Peaceful, yes, nestled far from Sapin's intrigues and the Beast Glades' perpetual threat. A peace as fragile as spun glass, destined to shatter.

"Elder Virion!" The voice, sharp with disbelief, sliced through the ambient noise. A young elf guard, his uniform practical wool and leather, starkly different from the palace guard's ornate plate, stared wide-eyed.

He snapped into a rigid bow.

"It is an honour to have you and His Highness here in our town!" His awe was palpable, tinged with nervousness. His Highness. The title still felt ill-fitting, a heavy mantle draped over my perceived inadequacy. This town, so remote, likely saw royalty only in tales. Grampa's presence alone was an event and here I was next to him, dwarfed by both his stature, his magic aura and his own prestige.

Seeing Virion Eralith in a town like Asyphin was probably like having world-wide celebrity in a remote rural village on Earth. Grampa waved a dismissive hand, his usual gruff affection surfacing.

"There's no need for all that excitement, lad. Stand easy. I'm here to visit Camus." The name landed like a pebble in a still pond.

Camus Selaridon. The image surfaced instantly—not the weathered elder I might meet, but the fierce warrior-mage described in the novel, one of Arthur's crucial mentors in the war's brutal twilight.

To encounter such a figure now, before the world burned… it felt like touching history while it was still breathing.

The guard straightened, eager. "I am going to get Elder Ca—"

"We are going alone," Grampa cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument, yet not unkind. "Keep to your duties." The authority in his voice was effortless, the weight of centuries of command.

"Yes, sir!" The guard saluted, still radiating stunned respect as we moved past him into the town proper.

The transition was abrupt. Sunlight, no longer filtered by the forest canopy, felt almost harsh. Buildings of smooth, pale wood and grey stone lined neat paths. Faces turned our way, expressions shifting from curiosity to startled recognition, then deep bows.

The weight of their deference pressed on me—I was accustomed to Zestier's people who saw me, Tessia or Grampa roaming the streets almost daily, certainly I was not ready for this. But I was glad that the people seemed to love the royal family.

I moved closer to Grampa, my anchor in this sudden exposure. As we walked down the main path, the scent of herbs drying in windows mingled with the damp earth smell clinging to our boots.

Turning to Grampa, my voice low amidst the quiet stir we caused, I asked, "You brought me to visit a friend of yours?" Confusion knotted my thoughts. A social call, however intriguing given Camus's future significance, seemed an unlikely reason for this journey.

What purpose could this serve for me, the grandson struggling to find his own place?

A knowing glint sparked in Grampa's eyes, a hint of the conspirator beneath the elder statesman. "Also that," he conceded, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "But there is something else, Corvis. Something I believe will… ignite that keen mind of yours." He paused, lowering his voice further, drawing me into his confidence.

"Me and Camus… we uncovered something. An ancient ruin, hidden within the cliffs along the northern shore."

A ruin. On the northern shore of Dicathen. The word echoed in the silent chamber of my foreknowledge. Nothing. Absolutely nothing in the novel mentioned such a thing. A fissure in the established narrative?

My pulse quickened, a scholar's fervor momentarily eclipsing my anxieties. Interest, sharp and immediate, flared in my eyes.

"Ruins? Were they built by our ancestors?" The question was instinctive, probing for the familiar history of Elvenkind.

Grampa shook his head slowly, his gaze intense, watching my reaction. "Think further back, Corvis. Much further. How much have you learnt about the ancient mages?" The smirk was back, challenging, expectant.

The mental leap was instantaneous, staggering. The Djinn!? The silent shout reverberated through my skull. Here? In Elenoir? A sanctuary like the one in Darv, buried beneath our soil?

The implications detonated within me—a cascade of possibility, danger, and world-altering potential. This… this could change everything! Knowledge, power, leverage against the looming cataclysm… it shimmered like a mirage.

Outwardly, I schooled my features, erecting the familiar wall of the diligent, but limited, prince. "I know they were the ones to build Xyrus City," I offered, the lie smooth, rehearsed by necessity.

How could I tell him I knew the Djinn were the creators, the betrayed, the secret heart of the conflict between gods? That knowledge was a death sentence. The Djinn's genocide was the trigger to Agrona's exile to Alacrya and Kezess' proxy war against him.

Grampa nodded, accepting my limited answer. "Correct. But we believe their legacy extends far beyond a single floating city. Scattered remnants… secrets… lie buried across our continent." His gesture encompassed the town, the forest beyond, the unseen cliffs.

"The place I'm taking you to… it is one such remnant. A piece of that lost world."

Excitement warred instantly with cold, practical dread. "Wait," I interjected, the protective instinct for my family flaring. "Isn't that dangerous? And shouldn't Dad know about this too?"

Grampa chuckled, a low rumble. "Bah! Your Father is neck-deep in politics and border anxieties. Besides," he added, his tone shifting to reassuring confidence, "me, Camus, and a few other… discreet friends… have already explored the initial chambers. It's stable. Quiet. Not some monster-infested dungeon crawling with peril."

He placed a firm, warm hand on my shoulder, his eyes holding mine. "Do you truly think I would bring my precious grandson to a place that held genuine danger?"

For now, the traitorous thought whispered. For now it might be safe. But if the Indrath, those god-like beings whose darkest secrets was built on the Djinn's genocide, were to discover it… The risk was incalculable. The potential fallout catastrophic. Yet… the knowledge. The sheer, staggering possibility it represented.

My curiosity wasn't just piqued; it roared, a dragon awakened by the scent of hidden truth. It was a siren song I couldn't ignore. Every deviation from the novel's doomed path, every scrap of forgotten lore, was a potential lifeline. The differences with canon were widening, fundamental.

And any information, especially this, could be the weapon, the shield, the key I desperately needed to save my family.

———

The weathered wooden door of Elder Camus's cottage creaked shut behind us, sealing us into a space that smelled of dried herbs, aged parchment, and the faint, clean scent of ozone—the hallmark of potent wind magic.

The Elder stood near a hearth where no fire burned, his figure lean and upright despite the years etched into the lines around his mouth. The sash covering his eyes was stark against his pale skin and white hair. Yet, he turned towards me with unnerving precision the moment I stepped inside.

"Is this your grandson, Virion?" Camus's voice was dry leaves rustling, yet resonant with focused power. Though blind, his awareness was absolute; the subtle currents of air in the room were his eyes, his fingertips, painting a picture more vivid than sight could offer.

Stepping forward, I automatically settled into the posture drilled into me by Mother's relentless etiquette lessons. Years of royal expectation straightened my spine, softened my expression into respectful neutrality.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Elder Camus," I said, my voice carefully modulated. I dipped my head in the precise angle reserved for esteemed elders, a gesture of deference that felt both familiar and strangely hollow. "I am Corvis Eralith."

A low chuckle escaped Camus, a sound like pebbles tumbling. He tilted his head slightly, not towards Grampa, but towards the space where Grampa's mana signature should pulse.

"You and Virion really aren't that much alike in regards to greeting people," he observed, a wry amusement lifting the corners of his lips. Though the sash hid his eyes, the lines around them deepened with knowing humor. "Such formality. Like a miniature statue carved from ice."

Grampa huffed, clapping a hand on my shoulder, the familiar warmth a brief anchor. "He took that stoic attitude straight from Alduin," he retorted, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "His father's influence runs deep in that regard. Courtly manners over boisterous charm, every time."

Camus nodded slowly, the air around him shifting minutely as if tasting Grampa's words. "I see. Well, Virion, I assume you're not here solely for reminiscence and to parade your princely grandson?" His tone shifted, becoming more direct. "The ruins? Why bring the boy? It's hardly a sightseeing spot."

Grampa's hand remained on my shoulder, a grounding weight. "Corvis possesses a mind far keener than his years suggest," he stated, his voice losing its teasing edge, turning serious, almost proud. "He has a scholar's curiosity, Camus. Geography, history… the deeper roots of things. This place…" He gestured vaguely towards the unseen cliffs. "It sparks that curiosity in him. I thought he should see it. Learn from it."

Learn from it. The words resonated with terrifying potential. As the two elders lapsed into an easy exchange about recent events—I found myself adrift. Their conversation was the comfortable murmur of deep history, a language of shared centuries I couldn't fully comprehend.

Is this how children feel when adults are talking? I wondered, the flow of their words washing over me like a distant river. Excluded, yet intensely aware of the vast, unspoken understanding flowing between them.

The detachment was a gift. It gave me space to plummet back into the chasm of my own thoughts. Djinn ruins. The words were seismic. What was this place? If it required aether to access, like some mythical lock, then this journey ended here, a frustrating dead end. But what if… a colder, more thrilling thought surfaced. What if it was like a Relictomb? A shard of ancient power embedded in Dicathen itself? The possibility was dizzying, terrifying.

No. The rational part of my mind clamped down hard. If Relictombs existed here, untouched, undiscovered, it would have been known. That part of the narrative remains unchanged, a fixed point in the collapsing starfield of canon. The certainty offered little comfort. The very existence of this ruin was a deviation, a crack in the foundation of the future I thought I knew.

"Let's get going," Camus's voice cut through my internal maelstrom. He moved towards the door with a fluidity that defied his blindness and apparent age, the air parting smoothly before him. "The light fades quickly near the cliffs. I would prefer to return before the forest embraces the full dark."

The finality in his tone snapped me back. Grampa gave my shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze. As I fell into step behind the blind Elder, with Grampa a solid presence at my back, the cottage and the mundane world it represented fell away. I will find it soon, the thought pulsed within me, a drumbeat against my ribs.