Chapter 6 : Lordling of Frog Town

It is said that the flow of animus—the invisible current of magical essence—courses through every living thing in the realm. A gift from Argaile, the Celestial of Life, it pulses through the bones of the earth and whispers through the branches of trees, bathing the world in quiet radiance.

To most, animus is life itself. It nourishes crops, fuels breath, and sings in the stillness of every forest glade and river bend. It moves through beast and bird, human and elf, even the stone beneath their feet. It is not bound to one race, nor is it held by blood or creed. The Celestials bestowed it upon the realm in equal measure—yet only a rare few, the awakened, are able to harness its full potential.

Those lucky enough to stir their inner flow find themselves changed. Their eyes open to unseen energies. Their breath synchronizes with the rhythm of the world. And through that harmony, they are able to conjure wonders—spells that bend light, call flame, or manipulate time itself. Enchantments that bind steel, mend flesh, or weave illusions.

As the Ancient once said… “Animus isn’t just magic as It is memory. It is will. It is the realm itself remembering what it means to be alive”

In the Realm of Erubius, where the flow of animus pulses through all living things like blood through a beating heart, the art of spellcraft has long evolved beyond incantations whispered in the dark. It has structure now—form and function born of centuries of study. At the center of this refined magic lie two fundamental elements: the Chanting Ring and the Caelus Core.

The Chanting Ring is the first sign of awakened magic, a luminous double-circle that materializes in the air beside the caster when animus is summoned for spellweaving. Ethereal in form, it shimmers and turns with unseen gears, as though responding to the rhythm of the caster’s very soul. In the center of this ring, engraved in radiant glyphs, appears the symbol of one of the Five Celestials—most commonly the sigil of Artheons, the Celestial of Creation and Order, whose mark has long represented the guiding principle of balance in all magical pursuits.

Yet no two chanting rings are alike.

The hue of the ring shifts, not by choice, but by the emotional state and inner nature of the caster—an involuntary confession of spirit.

Some burn crimson, vivid and furious, betraying anger, obsession, or a flame of resilience too stubborn to be extinguished. Others shimmer with a tranquil azure glow, a sign of inner patience, calm, or a clarity that borders on the divine. Rings shaded green pulse with deeper currents—envy, fear, or sometimes a distant, painful longing that refuses to fade. The yellow ones, though rarer still, bloom like sunlight on still water, whispering of love, acceptance, and quiet contemplation.

There are more colors still, shades rarely seen, each revealing the unseen truths of the heart.

But while the Chanting Ring reveals intent, it is the Caelus Cores that define purpose.

Caelus Cores—small, radiant spheres of arcane energy—drift in slow, deliberate orbit along the outer edge of a mage’s chanting ring. Each core represents a distinct magical intent, a concept made manifest: fire, frost, force, growth, and countless more. They do not speak, yet they carry the weight of meaning, resonating with the caster’s animus like silent notes in an unseen symphony. Some mages select them through scholarly precision, others through instinct alone—but all must master the delicate harmony they require.

To craft a spell is to compose music from these lights.

A typical spell might call upon two or three such cores, weaving them into a simple but effective pattern. One might conjure a flurry of razor-edged ice shards by combining the core of Wis—the essence of cold—with Ertos, a core that embodies motion, and Galeas, the signifier of multiplicity. When combined, these three yield a wide-ranged barrage that rains down frozen pain upon several enemies at once.

Another more familiar spell calls upon Faghar, the fire core, and Trosk, which shapes the spell into a burning orb. This union produces a classic incantation known throughout the realm: the fireball, a staple among battle-trained mages and warlocks alike.

But power comes at a cost. The more cores a mage binds into their chanting ring, the greater the strain on their control. Spells composed of two or three cores are considered stable and common. Four is a mark of complexity, requiring both skill and nerve. And five? That is the threshold of legend—a domain reserved for prodigies, or the dangerously foolish. In the hands of a master, such spells can reshape the battlefield. In the hands of the unworthy, they tear the spellcaster apart before the magic ever reaches its mark.

Elliot watched Serena with weary eyes as she launched into yet another layered explanation about animus conversion, her fingers sketching invisible glyphs in the air, her voice sharp with certainty. Words like “harmonic channels,” “core attunement,” and “glyph resonance” tumbled from her lips in a stream of academic fervor.

After that massive flare of an incident, Elliot and Serena flee the scene, traveling all the way to the edge of the city, where they stay hidden, until further notice.

It was small eatery with flowery theme, remote, and far from crowd, a perfect place to seek calmness for a while. At least that’s what Elliot is expecting, turns out this small little place of him has transform into an Orias Academy classroom, with Serena and her endless lecture.

It was all a bit much.

He knew the basics—chanting rings, caelus cores, how one’s awakened animus flows into spellwork. His own animus had stirred within him when he was still a child, wild and untamed. He wasn’t ignorant. But hearing it all dissected from a sorceress’s point of view, with theories piled on top of metaphors and ancient etymology, made his head throb.

Wait… the cores had meanings? Since when?

He resisted the urge to groan aloud. Somewhere deep within him, a voice howled: It’s animus conversion. It’s not that deep!

Serena didn’t notice his suffering. Or perhaps she did, and simply didn’t care.

“Each core represents a wordless intent,” she continued, brushing a stray lock of coppery hair behind her ear as she walked ahead of him. “It’s not just about what you want to cast, Elliot, it’s how you ask the world to respond. Magic listens, but it listens in feeling. That’s what most warborn like you never bother to understand.”

“Oh, sorry,” Elliot muttered under his breath. “I must’ve skipped class the day they taught feeling the world’s emotions.”

But sarcasm didn’t ease his confusion. He frowned. Because despite all her impressive babbling, there was still one thing Serena hadn’t explained. One very important thing.

How in the flaming pit of abyss did she summon a massive blue colored flare with what she swore was just a basic fireball spell?

That thought stuck with him like a splinter. No matter how many caelus cores she listed, or how many floating diagrams she conjured with that smug gleam in her eye, none of it answered that.

At last, Elliot had enough. His patience, already stretched thin like brittle glass, finally cracked.

"This is getting out of hand," he muttered to himself, lifting a hand sharply to cut through Serena’s relentless monologue. Her words came to an abrupt halt, mid-sentence.

“Se—Serena,” he said, forcing a smile that was equal parts polite and desperate, “hi, Elliot here—just a friendly interruption from the corner of the room. Forgive me, really, but… what in the actual flaming void are you talking about?”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“You still haven’t explained,” he continued, voice rising with each syllable, “how your supposedly simple fireball spell turned into a blue baby sun that killed three gryphons isntantly”

The silence that followed was brief, but thick as tar. Serena’s expression soured instantly, like he’d just insulted her entire bloodline.

“I am explaining it to you,” she snapped, folding her arms. “Maybe if you stopped interrupting me and actually listened—”

“Oh, no no no,” Elliot shot back, taking a step forward, frustration flaring in his eyes. “Don’t twist this around. All you’ve done is lecture me like I’m some wide-eyed apprentice from your academy. Newsflash: I don’t need a history lesson on the Celestials—I need to know how your ‘tiny spark’ exploded into a miniature sun god!”

Serena’s nostrils flared, jaw tight. “Because you need to understand the basics, Elliot!” she barked. “I can’t explain advanced spell-weaving if you don’t grasp what makes a spell tick! The explanation you’re clawing at lies in the advanced theory—”

“I don’t care about the theory!” he threw his hands up. “I care that you almost turned us into ash, and you’re standing there smugly drawing diagrams in the air like we’re in some bloody lecture hall! Just give me the short version”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t care about the theory? Fine. Then enjoy being surprised the next time someone rewrites the fundamental laws of animus and drops it on your head.”

“Better than dying confused!”

They stood facing each other, the night wind rustling between them like a silent referee, the faint hum of ambient animus still clinging to the air after Serena’s last demonstration.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The stars above blinked in their cold indifference, and the wind whispered low through the grass around them.

Then Serena exhaled—slow, sharp. Her voice came out barely above a whisper, fragile as glass.

“My animus flow is… chaotic.”

Elliot blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My animus flow,” she said again, louder now, more bitter. “It’s chaotic.”

He furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“You wanted an explanation?” she snapped, eyes flashing with a hint of fury. “There you go.”

He tilted his head, still not grasping the weight behind her words. “I’m still not following.”

And then, the dam broke.

“I can’t control my own animus, alright?!” she barked, her voice trembling at the edges. “It’s cursed. Wild. Like a river with no banks. One moment it’s calm, the next it’s flooding everything. It spills over when it shouldn’t, dries up when I need it most. Sometimes it flows backward. Backward, Elliot!” Her fingers clawed at the air as if trying to seize something invisible and untamed. “It’s completely unpredictable… and I— I can’t control it.”

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With that, her voice gave out. She dropped into a crouch, squatting low to the ground, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her face, flushed and tight, turned toward the dirt. She didn’t want to be seen—not like this. Not as a graduating sorceress whose deepest secret was the very thing that made her a mockery in her own eyes.

Elliot stood in silence, watching her. The pieces finally clicked together. The overexplaining, the academic deflection, the endless string of theory—she wasn’t just lecturing to show off. She was stalling. Hiding. Avoiding the one truth she couldn’t bear to admit.

Her voice, when it returned, was softer now—exhausted.

“I can craft the chanting rings. I know the caelus cores by heart. I can channel the right emotions to color them, to shape them. But when it comes to converting animus into spellwork… that’s where it all falls apart.” She gave a hollow chuckle, no humor in it. “Every time I cast something, it’s like flipping a coin with a thousand sides. Either it works too well and turns into some uncontrollable catastrophe, or it fizzles out entirely and ends up casting… I don’t know, a gust of warm air. A bloody fart of magic.”

She buried her face deeper into her arms.

Elliot slowly knelt beside her, the firelight from their earlier casting still flickering faintly between them. There was nothing mocking in his eyes now—just quiet understanding.

“I get it,” he said at last. “You’re not reckless. You’re scared.”

She didn’t answer, but the smallest nod tugged at her shoulders.

“If that’s the case,” Elliot said, his voice gentler now, stripped of its earlier frustration, “why didn’t you just say so? Why bother bombarding me with all those fancy academy explanations?”

Serena looked up from her crouch, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes tinged with a reluctant fire. “Isn’t it obvious?” she muttered. “I’m a graduate of Orias, Elliot. A sorceress. Admitting something like this…” Her throat tightened. “It wounds my dignity.”

Elliot let out a soft, knowing breath, a faint smile curling the edge of his mouth. “Ah yes, of course it does. The pride of the prodigies,” he said with a teasing warmth, but his tone remained kind.

He knelt beside her, resting one elbow on his knee as he looked out over the field, the moon casting silver across the blades of grass. Then he glanced at her again, eyes steady.

“You know,” he began, “there’s this old saying my mother used to tell me. ‘A blade sharpened too fast will chip before it cuts.’ I never understood it as a kid. Thought it was just her way of telling me to slow down and stop being an idiot. But I think it’s more than that.”

Serena lifted her eyes slowly, listening.

“You’ve got more power in you than most mages will ever touch in their lifetime,” he said. “You’re not broken, Serena. You’re just… carrying too much of it all at once. And no one ever taught you how to let it breathe. To let yourself breathe.”

She stared at him, unmoving, her expression unreadable.

Serena let out a small chuckle, brushing the dirt from her skirt as she stood upright again. “Funny thing is,” she said with a wry smile, “that’s actually the reason why Professor Callthrop sent me to Mr. Barrenworth in the first place. She thought… maybe—just maybe—he might be the last person alive who could teach me how to deal with my mess of an animus.”

Elliot raised a brow, half in amusement, half in disbelief. “Wait, you mean that guy? The walking bonfire that smells like freshly burned wood?”

Serena snorted. “Exactly him.”

She said it with a sort of reluctant fondness, as if Elliot’s oddly specific description, while absurd, somehow perfectly captured the essence of the man.

“He’s actually… incredible,” she admitted. “Despite that gruff, rage-fueled exterior, the man’s a master of animus flow. Not just skilled, Elliot—masterful. He’s so precise with it, so in control, that he can convert animus into fire without even forming a chanting ring. No cores, no incantation. Just raw will.”

Elliot’s expression shifted, curiosity overtaking his skepticism. “Wait—seriously?” he asked, his voice rising a touch. “That wasn’t just some parlor trick? In the tavern, when he nearly flambéed my face... I didn’t see a single glyph. No ring. Nothing.”

“Exactly,” Serena nodded, her eyes distant now, as if remembering her first lesson under the flame-scarred veteran. “He just willed it. Pulled the fire right from his animus like it was a thought, not a spell.”

Elliot blinked. “How the hell is that even possible?”

Serena shrugged, though the gesture was less dismissive and more reverent. “One of the Realm’s many mysteries,” she said softly. “If anyone knows the answer, it’s probably Artheon himself… or sealed within the stars.”

For a long moment, the two stood in silence, the wind tugging softly at their cloaks, the embers of their earlier argument now reduced to a gentle warmth.

Then Elliot murmured, “I mean... as far as terrifying supervisor go, at least you got the interesting one.”

Serena laughed again, light and tired. “Terrifying is putting it mildly. The man once turned an entire river to steam just to prove a point.”

Elliot winced. “Yeah, and I thought you were dramatic.”

Serena smiled sideways at him, brushing her knuckles against his arm in mock offense. “Shut up, Elliot.”

“No, you shut up,” Elliot shot back without hesitation, his tone sharp and sudden.

Serena blinked, caught off guard. “Whoa—okay, first of all: rude. Second of all: inconsiderate. After I bare my soul to you—tell you the ugliest truth about myself—you have the audacity to fire back with a heartless ‘shut up’? Wow, Elliot, what a—”

“Sshhht!” Elliot hissed, cutting her off with startling intensity.

Before she could finish the sentence, his hand shot out and pressed firmly over her mouth. Serena’s eyes widened in alarm, her breath catching as her entire body froze. Her brows furrowed, her gaze flashing to his, silently mouthing a frantic, What?? What is it?!

Elliot didn’t respond. His eyes narrowed, scanning the space around them, head tilting slightly like a hound catching the scent of something foul in the wind. Then, in one fluid motion, he reached to the side—fingers wrapping around a small, ornamental knife lying atop a cluttered table.

Serena barely had time to register the movement before he turned, arm snapping to the left.

Thunk!

The blade sang through the air and buried itself deep into the wooden wall with a violent thud.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then—something began to shimmer. A faint distortion in the air, as if heatwaves were bending the space just inches from the blade. The illusion thinned, until it revealed the form of a grotesque, winged creature—no larger than a crow. A frog-like thing, with leathery wings and bulging eyes now glazed with pain. It let out a high-pitched screech, its body writhing around the embedded steel.

Serena recoiled instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.

The creature spasmed, limbs twitching, wings folding in on themselves. And then—with a final croak—it withered into a curl of shadowy dust, vanishing into the silence it had disturbed.

Elliot lowered his hand from Serena’s mouth slowly. “We got uninvited listeners, apparently,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the blackened scorch mark where the thing had been.

Serena blinked, stunned. “What… what was that?”

“No idea,” Elliot replied, his voice calm but cold. “But it wasn’t eavesdropping for fun.”

Serena approached the wall with an almost childlike bounce in her step, the hem of her robe swaying as she moved. “Oho? Would you look at that,” she murmured, crouching beside the creature’s rapidly fading remains. “Now that’s… interesting.”

Elliot stepped up behind her, arms crossed, peering over her shoulder. “Interesting how?” he asked. Then, before she could launch into one of her trademark lectures, he added flatly, “And please… in normal human language.”

Serena threw a sharp little huff over her shoulder, clearly miffed. “Fine. Simple terms then.” She pointed down at the half-charred corpse embedded in the wood. “It’s a boulder frog—a minor creature, harmless on its own, but good at camouflage. Uses a skin shimmer technique that bends the light around it. Hard to spot unless you're really paying attention.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow, arms now dangling loosely at his sides. His expression said it all: Go on.

Serena tilted her head, brushing a finger along the scorched edges of its wing. “But this is what caught my attention.” She reached out and delicately turned the creature over with a flick of her fingers. Beneath its belly, now exposed, was a faintly glowing mark—an engraved ring, within which a crescent moon was sliced clean through by a vertical line. The symbol pulsed faintly with residual animus.

Serena’s breath hitched. “It’s a familiar…” she said quietly, eyes narrowing.

Her expression darkening. “That’s the Mark of Obedience—This thing belong to someone. Someone gave it purpose. It was sent here…”

“…to watch us,” Elliot finished grimly, his voice dropping into a tense whisper.

The two of them stood still for a long second, the weight of that realization settling between them like a sudden fog.

He glanced back at the spot where the creature had died, “Think whoever sent it is still nearby?”

Serena’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If they are, they now know we spotted their eyes.”

Elliot sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great. That’s exactly what we needed. Spies with wings.”

Serena gave a half-smile. “Well. At least they’re small.”

Meanwhile, in a forgotten quarter beneath the city—deep beneath the stonework and shadows—there lay a chamber carved from obsidian and ruin, the air thick with animus residue and old dust. A low ceiling of jagged rock loomed over a shallow basin where water stretched out in a perfect ring around a lone pedestal. Atop it, cross-legged and cloaked in silence, sat Corrin.

He flinched suddenly, eyes snapping open as if struck by lightning in his dreams. His gaze dropped to the floor beside his knee.

Twelve tiny figurines of burnished brown glass lay in a circle—delicate, frog-shaped, faintly glowing. But one of them was gone.

No. Not gone. Shattered.

“Oh no…” he whispered, voice cracking with sorrow. “Tom-Tom… no…”

With trembling fingers, he gathered the broken shards, holding them as if they might still be warm. He cradled the ruined familiar like a dying friend, the glow flickering out in his palms.

“Damn you… mysterious hooded guy,” he growled, voice sharp with grief. “How dare you slaughter my sweet, sweet Tom-Tom! He was loyal! He was gentle! He never asked for this!!”

A broken sob tore from his throat, followed by a dramatic slump of his shoulders. A few tears spilled down his cheeks—okay, maybe more than a few. His breathing grew shallow, uneven, and his face twisted with hopelessness. A smile curled across his lips, but it was hollow, crooked, and altogether unwell.

“Heh… guess I’ll just die now,” he whispered bitterly, slumping further onto the pedestal, letting the glass shards fall from his fingers into the water below.

Then, a ripple.

A dark spot stirred at the surface of the surrounding pool, like ink blooming in clear water. Corrin’s eyes twitched toward it, and the faint spark of recognition lit in his pupils.

He straightened, tense. “What? No, don’t give me that look,” he barked toward the pool as if it had spoken. “How could you still be optimistic?! Tom-Tom was the best I had! He was stealthy, silent, a true master of sneaky hops!”

Another ripple.

Corrin stood now, hair a mess, eyes wide and wild. “He snuck through a barracks full of guards once and left no trace! And this guy—this guy—he just threw a knife and took him out in one shot?! I didn’t even feel the kill signal! That’s not fair! These people are monsters!!”

He clutched at his head, scratching his scalp as though trying to dig out the chaos inside. His pacing picked up, boots sloshing through the shallow water. “I mean what’s next, huh? They start talking to animals? Breathe fire from their elbows?! Curse my family tree?! I’m done!”

He paused suddenly, breath catching, staring again into the swirling dark of the pool. A shimmer of a voice echoed from the deep—one only he could hear.

Corrin's shoulders slowly dropped.

“…Don’t patronize me.”

Corrin lay sprawled atop the pedestal, limbs limp and spirit crushed, floating somewhere between despair and a melodramatic breakdown. The silence of the chamber, broken only by the occasional ripple in the water, hung thick around him.

“Woah woah woah, who said that?? Where?”

Then—like a bolt of inspiration lanced through his skull—he jolted upright, back snapping straight as a board, eyes alight with sudden realization.

“Wait… what did you just say?” he gasped, snatching one of the glass figurines from the circle. “Jammy, slow down—slow down! You’re chirping like a cracked rune stone, I can’t keep up!”

He held the figurine up in his palm, squinting at the faint glow flickering in its little glass belly. His face contorted with hyper-focused intensity, lips parted as if reading silent runes. And then, inch by inch, his expression shifted—from confusion, to disbelief, to outright panic.

“WHAT?!” he bellowed, nearly dropping Jammy. “Wai-wai-wait… are you serious?! Are we even talking about the same thing here?! This isn’t some goblin prank, is it? This is real?”

For a long, strained heartbeat, he sat frozen, pupils trembling, mouth agape. He looked as though the weight of the world had just drop-kicked him in the chest.

“…Uh-huh,” he muttered numbly, nodding like a broken marionette. “I did not see that coming.”

Then the pool shimmered again, darker now, as if an unseen current had grown impatient.

“Hey! Stop yelling at me, I’m processing here!” Corrin snapped, standing abruptly and pointing at the shadow in the water. “Yes, I heard you the first time! I know what this means! Don’t bark orders at me, I’m already getting up, look!”

He scrambled to his feet in a flurry of motion, hurriedly collecting his remaining figurines and stuffing them with great care into the many hidden folds of his robe.

“I'm going! I’m going!” he shouted, halfway to the steps already. “But I can’t just storm into Master Arkesh’s chamber with glowing eyes and babbling lips, they'll think I’ve been chewing sun moss again!”

He paused at the base of the stone staircase, then turned back toward the pool for one last remark.

“Oh, and Buffo?” he called out warily. “Please, please don’t start—What? Im not nagging? Im just—we’re talking about boundaries—”

The surface of the pool rippled violently, and Corrin threw his hands up in surrender.

“Fine! Not nagging! Just—ugh, whatever, have it your way.”

He stomped up the stairs and flung the heavy stone door open with a resonating slam, the echo bouncing through the subterranean halls like an omen.

The familiar bickering could wait. For now, Corrin had something far more terrifying to face than Buffo’s questionable habbit. The news Jammy had delivered… if true, meant one thing:

The situation had just escalated from bad—to cataclysmically worse.