Corvin stood before the Obsidian Gate, its dark arches humming with latent power. Archmagus Vaelorin the Black was sitting in his throne, cloak billowing. With measured courtesy, Corvin reported only his sanctioned victory:
"I have slaughtered Korvath's Pride's Vanguard," he intoned, voice steady. He mentioned nothing of Ravathos or the three Dark Sovereigns. Those were personal conquests outside Synod reckoning.
Vaelorin inclined his head. "Raven, your triumph is laudable. Now that you have returned, we must assess your affinities to determine your new assignments. Step forward for measurement."
Displeasure flickered across Corvin's face. Vaelorin's request breached their agreement. Corvin's eyes narrowed beneath his hood.
"Archmagus, that was not part of our covenant," he said, tone clipped. "I do not wish my affinities to be recorded or measured. If the Synod insists, I see no future for our relationship. I can return to the shadows where neither you nor another faction can locate me. The soulbound oath linking us requires ten assignments. I've completed three. There is no clause forcing me to reveal my information to the Synod."
Vaelorin's lips thinned in distaste. He knew nothing of Corvin's true breadth of affinities other than the reports from mercenary guild and estimations from the assignments, only that the ruthless efficiency of his victories had shifted power swiftly across Nefrath, and Argyll. Keeping such an agent within the Synod's fold would safeguard their advantage against rival factions. Yet he dared not break their oath. He steeled himself and offered a compromise.
"What if we allow you access to our Umbraxis Arcanum in exchange for your agreement to measure only your Space Affinity, Raven?"
Corvin concealed a swift smile. A Synod academy would be fertile ground to siphon or absorb zealous acolytes, ripe targets for his spores. He masked his eagerness with indifference.
"Explain the procedure Archmagus."
Vaelorin gestured to a row of crystalline orbs, each pulsating with elemental glow.
"Each known affinity has its orb. You place your hand upon the Space orb. Its luminance will calibrate your level. Simple and effective. Within our academy every acolyte requires to cycle through all affinity orbs to register and file for tailored training schedules."
Corvin's tension eased as he stepped toward the orbs. He surveyed them with thinly veiled amusement. The Synod planned to document every facet of his power. His patience was running thin with these extremists, but the promise of new prey held him in place.
With a curt nod, he placed his palm on the Space affinity orb. Its glow flared to life. Bright, concentrated, and distinctly purplish. A silent hum echoed through the chamber as the crystal pulsed.
The light was unmistakable. Not the pale flicker of a weak affinity, this was deep resonance. Vaelorin's eyes widened, and a murmur rose from the two Magi flanking him. According to the Synod's records, Corvin was registered under the Mercenary Guild with a primary Lightning affinity. Based on his completed assignments, it was also inferred he possessed Dark and Psychic affinities dangerous, but not unheard of.
This display, however, contradicted every expectation. Vaelorin, intrigued but calculating, stepped forward.
"Impressive. Your affinity with Space is high level. May I suggest, then, that we measure your Lightning affinity as well? Should your aptitude prove equally high, I will personally arrange for you to study under the finest masters of both Space and Lightning within the Arcanum."
Corvin offered only a slow smile. He could see the cogs turning behind Vaelorin's composed expression. This was no simple offer of mentorship. This was bait.
"Your interest is noted, Archmagus," Corvin said coolly. "But we both know the nature of offers cloaked in generosity."
And while he spoke, his mind moved. A single spore detached and latched quietly onto Vaelorin. The Archmagus gave no reaction.
One.
A second spore followed, shadow thin and undetected.
Two.
By the time the fifth dissolved into Vaelorin's system, Corvin had what he needed.
He already knew that the Council of Three, the supposed surface level leadership was exactly that: a shield. The true control of Synod lay deeper, with the Council of Six, and the mechanisms that moved the Synod from within were older and darker than he'd expected. The request to measure his affinities came from the council itself.
He smiled, not for Vaelorin's benefit, but for his own.
Knowledge was always the first harvest. And now he had taken it with another increase to his Dark, Psychic and Blood affinities thank to Vaelorin.
Corvin extended his hand toward the Lightning orb. The moment his palm made contact, the crystal flared with brilliant white gold energy, illuminating the chamber in sharp contrast to the deeper hues of Space. The intensity was immediate, overwhelming, and indisputable.
Lightning Affinity: S.
Vaelorin's lips parted slightly, eyes narrowing as the display unfolded. Magus Kel'Mara and Magus Sareth exchanged subtle glances and nodded in satisfaction. At least some of the data the Synod held on Corvin had proven accurate.
"Excellent," Vaelorin said, his voice now coated with a more tempered approval. "You will rest for a week, Raven. After that, you are expected to report to the halls of the Umbraxis Arcanum. There, your studies and formal integration into the Synod's greater infrastructure will begin."
Corvin inclined his head just slightly. Umbraxis Arcanum. A name he would remember. Another hive of talent, ambition, and unsupervised arrogance. Perfect for siphoning and maybe some hunting.
He said nothing further, his expression unreadable. But in his mind, a quiet tally began to form.
One week. Then the harvest begins.
With a full week to vanish into his own designs, Corvin knew exactly how to spend it. The Dark Magus, the necromancer whispered about in the deeper quarters of Umbraveyn, the one he learned about on his first assignment from the guild was due a visit.
He left behind the high corridors of the Synod and descended into the city's underbelly. The clean architecture gave way to obscured paths carved into the cliffs. At the base of one such path, veiled in hanging moss and jagged stone, lay a cavern mouth so hidden it seemed the land itself conspired to keep it secret.
The scent that seeped from within was thick and layered old incense masking rot, alchemical smoke stitched into marrow deep decay. Corvin spun a barrier of Wind magic to cleanse the air near his face, soft and seamless, then cloaked himself and stepped within.
Unlike the chaotic madness he expected, the cave was quiet, organized. Talismans of bone and lacquered obsidian hung from the walls, each inscribed with Lloth's symbols. No ichor streaks, no discarded corpses. Instead, the passage descended in calm, disciplined spirals.
Shelves lined the narrow corridors, filled with tomes whose leather bindings bore the sigil of the Dark Mother. Some with ink that shimmered faintly in the gloom. Etched urns held the ashes of previous works, neatly labeled. Luminent fungi bloomed in glass terrariums, nourishing enchanted boneflies.
The laboratory came gradually, not as a dirty slaughterhouse but as a sacred chamber.
A ring of undead stood at attention around a central workbench. Not mindless husks, these spoke. Low murmurs passed between them. Their eyes glowed faintly with trapped souls, some responding to unspoken commands, while others were working on magic circles, drawing runes and arranging the bodies.
On a tiered dais stood the necromancer. A tall Dark Elf in a black robe embossed with silver thread, sleeves drawn back to reveal precise brands carved along his forearms. He worked patiently with silver tools, grafting tissue onto a skeletal frame as if conducting surgery.
"My lady watches, my work perfects," he murmured. "You see now, Elarith? The weave accepts the soul if the incantation is timed perfectly."
A voice answered from a female elf, clearly an undead as it can be understood from the eerie lights in skull. Draped in ceremonial silks, her behaivor and demeanor retained the habits of high status.
"I told you not to overheat the marrow core last time, Serian. Lloth does not forgive waste."
The necromancer paused, bowed slightly. "Forgive me, Mistress."
Corvin's brow rose.
This wasn't insanity. This was zealotry shaped into elegance. And the undead woman, this "Elarith" was no creation. She was the puppeteer.
Corvin remained cloaked in shadow, careful not to disturb the air around him. He moved with predatory silence, leaning against the stone just outside the glowing perimeter of the chamber. The necromancer and his undead master continued their work, unaware of their observer.
Serian hummed a hymn to Lloth under his breath as he adjusted the bindings on a freshly imbued skeletal priest. Elarith oversaw the ritual with calm critique, correcting his gestures with precision only a soul accustomed to command could wield.
Corvin's eyes narrowed in curiosity. This was not an experiment, it was ceramony. The undead did not just obey. They conversed, participated, trying to perfect what they are doing.
Corvin began his work.
One spore.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Each siphoned a fragment of truth from Serian's mind, until Corvin's eyes widened from the weight of what he uncovered.