The Corvidae

Alric Varn

A massacre. That is what Alric ran away from. Alric considered himself to be quite skilled with the blade, yet he had never seen someone fight like that, and it was something he could never forget. That purple skin, those horns, and the way that halberd cut through his men, one after another. He had no time to count, but from what he saw, he estimated that out of the thousands of men positioned at Branwick, only a few hundred came back.

The General wanted to address something, and so everyone was being called to Cervus's Hall, the military might of Lucia. The survivors of Branwick and the rest of the army stood in the echoing chamber of Cervus’s Hall. A stage with a lone podium stood, with a golden stag head gleaming on the wall behind, crowned with laurel. The walls of the building were made of a light-cream coloured stone. The Lucian General slowly stood forward to address his people.

"I'm sure that you all know that we have lost, both at Branwick and at Brindlewood." Alric's thoughts stirred like a sudden wind through dry leaves. Brindlewood too? Had their commander lied to them? Told them they had secured one front, just to keep morale high before sending them to die at the other?

"The battalions of Branwick. The garrison from Brindlewood. What should have been a solid defense and a solid attack both crumbled. Not from cowardice. Not from incompetence. We let our victories and our long years of peace weaken us. I’ve read your reports. I’ve seen the wounds and the eyes of the men who brought them back. But I believe in my soldiers, I believe in you."

His voice hardened. "But I do not stand here to mourn. I stand here to remember and to prepare. Lucia has endured worse. And Lucia will endure this. From this moment forward, you will not fight alone. You’ve earned rest. But there is no time for it. Our forces are depleted. Our cities are uncertain. The Senate has authorized a contract with The Ivory Vanguard; they will now bolster our military ranks."

There were whispers around the hall. The Ivory Vanguard? They called themselves a private military organisation, protecting with their contracts. Just a fancy way to say mercenaries.

“Yes. Mercenaries. Some of you will not like it. But we need swords in the field, and they have them. Zadale pushes forward, and we bleed. But we will not break. From this day, every soldier, every blade, every whisper of intelligence is vital. There will be missions: sabotage, scouting, and fortification. A message has gone to the Mages’ Guild. Another to the Southern Watch. We will recover."

He takes a pause. "That is all. You will be sent your orders shortly." He steps back. The hall is quiet. Then, a few fists pound on chests. A few boots stomp. The fire reignites in their eyes. It is faint, but it's growing. They will not lose.

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Alric walked alone through the quiet, narrow streets of Lucia’s inner district, his footsteps echoing against the pale stone as dusk began to swallow the sky. The chaos of Branwick still throbbed behind his eyes; the blood, the screaming, that devil with the halberd. But here, all was still. It was his first time experiencing a losing battle, actually seeing his friends be slaughtered, not knowing if any of them survived - if Kael survived. Especially one of such capacity.

He passed shuttered homes and dimly lit shops until the buildings disappeared, and he was greeted with something older, quieter. He passed shuttered homes and dimly lit shops until the buildings gave way to something older, quieter. The shrine stood at the edge of a quiet square, half-wrapped in ivy and shadow. It was small, humble, and partially sunken into the ground like a grave. A single archway marked the entrance with an upside-down torch engraved in it. This was an old altar, dedicated to the goddess Morith, the matron of death. Faint runes were etched into its surface, some of them still visible beneath a layer of moss and decay. They read: “Death is a peaceful act, if not disturbed. One cannot stop it, only delay. Infinity is relative, and even the brightest constellations eventually flicker out to cold nothingness…” The rest of the inscription had eroded with time, the final lines too fractured and faded to decipher.

Alric would come here often, to mourn those who died in war, to pray that the goddess would make their souls rest easy. He noticed a small creature next to the shrine, a raven. It tore at something with its sharp beak, jerking its head with rhythmic precision. The sound of tearing flesh was soft but distinct in the silence of the grove. The raven paused. Its beady black eyes fixed on Alric, unblinking. Then it gave a low croak, deep and rasping, before returning to its meal, as if unbothered by his presence.

"I thought you'd be here."

The raven took flight with a flutter of wings, vanishing into the canopy. Alric turned at the voice, a flicker of alarm in his chest, followed swiftly by relief. He had assumed Kael dead, lost in the bloodbath of Branwick. But there he stood, the familiar face of his half-elf friend, pointy ears and all.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A small smile crossed Alric’s face as his eyes drifted to Kael’s left shoulder, where a fresh bandage peeked from under his cloak.

"What happened?"

"A burning arrow," Kael said, his tone casual. "Hurt like hell, but it's patched up. They told me to stay off the field for a week. Though I’ll have a cleric take care of it tomorrow, and it'll be good as new."

"At least you're alive."

"Did you come here to pray for me?" Kael asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"I figured you’d died. I didn’t see you at Cervus’s Hall."

"I slipped out before the meeting. Needed a little walk. Then I arrived here, thought you might come here at some point."

Alric nodded. A quiet settled between them. It wasn't awkward, but a stillness only old friends could share. He turned back to the altar, and Kael stepped up beside him, lowering himself onto the stone bench.

From his pocket, Alric pulled out a torn, dirtied piece of cloth. He held it gently. "One of the farmers," he explained. "An arrow took him through the chest. This was torn from him, I guess. Found it in my hand when we were retreating. Don’t even remember picking it up." He placed the fabric into the brass offering plate beside the altar. A straw doll, a pendant, a faded ribbon. All left by Alric from past battles. Each one a life, a memory, a prayer.

It had become a ritual of his; after every battle, he would return with a belonging of the fallen. Civilian or soldier, it didn’t matter. If he couldn’t save them, he could at least remember them. He brought his hands together in a clasp, head bowed in silent prayer. Kael followed without a word. They prayed, not for victory, not for vengeance, but for peace. For those who would never return.

The silence was broken by Kael. “How are you holding up?”

Alric didn’t respond at first. His eyes were still locked on the front of the altar, though he wasn’t really seeing anything. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I wasn’t expecting so many of us to die.”

“We’re at war, Al.” He used the nickname like he always did, in a familiar, grounding manner. “That’s just how this works. You only thank the gods it wasn’t you.” Kael let out a quiet sigh. “You’re a good soldier. Better than I’ll ever be. You proved that back at the academy. Don’t let that go to waste."

Alric opened his mouth as if to speak, but he knew Kael was right. "Yeah," he replied softly.

After a while, Kael rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his trousers.“I’m heading home to get some rest,” he said, rolling his shoulder gently as if to remind himself of the bandage. “I’ll stop by Zalathor’s shrine tomorrow and let one of the clerics take a proper look at the wound.” He gave Alric a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t think too much about it, Al. We’re still breathing. That’s more than most can say.”

With Kael gone, Alric just sat there in front of Morith's altar. The wind whispered through the trees, stirring the ribbons and feathers others had left in offering. He looked down at the brass plate beside the altar, the torn cloth he’d left resting gently among the other tokens of the dead. Alric leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the stone. The words etched into it, ancient and eroded, echoed in his mind. He’d lived. Others hadn’t. And now he sat here, offering nothing more than silence and a scrap of cloth, hoping that somehow, that was enough. But he knew Kael was right, and all they could do now was honour the dead. He closed his eyes and whispered softly, almost inaudible: “Watch over them, O divine goddess. If you must take us all eventually… let them be the first you cradle gently.”

Suddenly, the wind shifted as Alric picked up a soft fluttering sound. He looked up just in time to see a small, pale bird made of folded parchment move in his direction. Alric recognized it instantly; he'd seen it before. Lucia’s enchanted paper birds used to dispatch orders across the realm. The bird would fly to the recipient and unfold in front of them to reveal the content inside. This one did the same, as it hovered a moment, wings shimmering with silver ink, before gliding onto his lap and unfolding itself in a single graceful motion.

He brought the parchment closer to his face to read it properly.

To: Alric Varn of the 3rd Lucian InfantryFrom: Command Office, Cervus’s HallSeal Authorization: General Caldus

By order of the High Command, you are hereby ordered to report to the East Gate of Lucia at first light tomorrow. You have been selected to join a joint strike team composed of Lucian regulars and operatives from the Ivory Vanguards.

This unit’s objective is to investigate a Zadalyn forward outpost recently discovered deep within the Ironwood, a forested region near our northeastern border. This outpost is unlike traditional military encampments. It is neither fortified nor expansive, but is highly defended and unnaturally concealed. Scout reports indicate persistent magical interference.

Several reconnaissance teams have failed to return.

You and your strike team are to infiltrate the area, determine the purpose of this installation, and, if possible, dismantle any magical infrastructure or arcane constructs being developed within. If destruction is not feasible, retrieve any intelligence or artifacts that can confirm the nature of Zadale’s operations.

Your personnel file states about your upbringing in the village of Demetrios, near the east riverside. Your knowledge and early familiarity of that location might come in handy to some extend. Your cooperation is expected. Your presence is required. Failure to comply will be treated as desertion of post.

—Signed,Caldus OrienGeneral of the Lucian Army

He folded the letter and looked back at the shrine. The offering plate sat still, quiet under the torchlight. Alric gave a small bow, more of a habit than devotion, and turned to leave. It was getting darker now, by the time he reached Barracks Ward Three, a sectioned-off zone dedicated to military personnel, he’d have just enough time to get a good rest for tomorrow.