Dark Parasyte

Blackspire Bastion stood like a jagged spear against the storm lit skies of Iron March. Its towers loomed with grim resolve, and today, it was preparing for a guest unlike any other. The Human Arbiter himself, Gareth of the Iron Mantle. The citadel’s usual cold welcome was even colder than usual, laced with a tension so thick the guards dared not meet his gaze.

Gareth was furious. His steps echoed like thunder through the war chiseled halls of the Grand War Chamber as he entered, each step laced with silent rage. The last meeting of the Circle of Arbiters still burned in his memory. It had been an insult, a staged mockery. None of the other Arbiters had taken the fall of Holy Verrenate seriously. Over twenty thousand trained soldiers, gone. Erased from Verthalis like a dropped torch into snow and the others had the gall to scoff or remain silent.

The Demon Arbiter had smirked. The Feralis Arbiter grinned with teeth exposed like a predator at rest. The Elf, Solen Vaen’Thal, had made his jabs with polished cruelty. And the Aetherborn? They hadn’t even commented. Worst of all, the High Arbiter hadn’t even graced the council with his presence. Seeing a human kingdom’s demise below his attention. A silent message that spoke louder than any condemnation.

Of course Gareth knew the unspoken truth, the policies of the Verrenate regime, especially its slavery of Feralis and Elves as "heretics" and "subhumans" had long drawn ire. But still, it was a human kingdom, and it had fallen. He did not expect solidarity or sympathy. But he was not expecting derision either. The smugness. The mocking stares. The clear pleasure on that dragonkin’s face. The quiet, knowing glances passed between the others as if he had somehow deserved the loss. As if humanity had it coming.

And he blamed one being for all of it.

Corvin Blackmoor. The Raven.

The so called Elf Duke of Raven’s Nest. He wasn’t even a High Elf. He was worse, Synod. A walking abomination of dark secrets and veiled allegiances. His entire existence was an affront, a shadow that moved beyond Gareth’s reach. Not even Solen, for all his elven pride and smug superiority, had been able to extract straight answers from the Synod about Corvin’s identity. That alone set Gareth’s teeth on edge.

This Raven was wielding power far beyond his station, shattering kingdoms like they were rotting branches. And worse yet, the world was watching and letting it happen.

Now, Gareth sat at the seat of he the Grand Marshal in Blackspire, flanked by the commanders of Iron March. Below the obsidian pillars and flickering war banners, he listened as each officer gave their report. Field movements. Regional instability. Refugee waves from the north. Rising tensions that no one dared name aloud.

Then came the voice of Marshal Ilren Vos.

The retired soldier stepped forward, posture still disciplined despite his age. "I met the Elven Duke, the so called Raven myself," Vos began. "He is... composed. Sharp. Calculated. Politically aware. His domain is well guarded, fortified by both strategic position and high walls. Number of his forces are quiet low but efficient. Especially considering the geographical advanteges his domain has. I believe he plays the long game. We are not dealing with a warlord. We are dealing with a planner."