Night enfolded the Midlands in a cloak of deep silence, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind through the trees or the lone howl of a wolf on the hunt. From the darkness emerged a black carriage, its lacquered surface catching and distorting the moonlight like a phantom gliding across the earth.
Perfectly matched blood bay stallions drew it forward. Their black-tipped ears twitched at unseen things, and their breaths rose in ghostly plumes, curling into the crisp spring air before fading. Each strike of their hooves echoed with an eerie, deliberate rhythm, an unspoken herald to their arrival. The carriage slowed, finally rolling to a halt outside the Mottled Bear Inn.
The inn stood resolute, a timeworn sentinel against the encroaching years. Its silvery gray timbers were worn smooth by rain and wind. Moss clung stubbornly to its thatched roof, while flickering oil lamps mounted on either side of the door cast restless shadows that danced over the damp, rutted yard. To the side stood a modest barn, its doors gaped like a dark mouth from which came the faint rustle of animals.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, an outrider emerged from the shadows astride a massive destrier—a beast that seemed forged from a nightmare. Larger than any destrier, beneath its coal-black coat, a faint ember-like radiance pulsed within its chest. Its fiery eyes burned from beneath the shadows of its dragon-shaped barding, and its breaths hissed through flared nostrils like smoke from a forge.
The outrider dismounted with a muted squelch of boots in mud. His cloak billowed like a living shadow, revealing fleeting glimpses of armor forged with intricate, spectral patterns. Beneath the shadow of his hood, sharp storm-grey eyes scanned the courtyard. Like a wolf scenting the wind, he strode toward the barn, vanishing into the blackness as if it welcomed him home.
As the outrider disappeared into the dark, the carriage's driver descended with quiet efficiency. With a small bow, he reached for the door. The latch clicked, and the carriage door creaked open.
Viktor Helston, the Lord of Nightfall, stepped into the cold embrace of the dark. The night seemed to hold its breath, the very air thickening as though in reverence. He moved with a deliberate elegance, his tall frame wrapped in the flowing folds of a long black coat that stirred lightly in the wind. His features were sharp, every line etched with a fatigue that failed to mar his commanding presence.
His pale eyes, cold as winter's dawn, swept the inn with a calculating gaze. The battered structure stirred memories of a journey not long past—memories that now rose like ghosts to brush against his thoughts.
The outrider reappeared at Viktor's side, his steps silent as a shadow. "Stable boy's asleep on the job. Time someone reminded him of his duties."
Viktor's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. "Kastiel, try not to terrify the poor lad."
Too late, for Kastiel had already vanished into the barn. Moments later, a piercing shriek ripped through the quiet night. Viktor barely raised an eyebrow as a gangly stable boy came hurtling into the yard, pale as moonlight, his wide eyes darting around in terror. Kastiel followed at a measured pace, smirking faintly, the flickering lamplight casting his tall frame in shifting shadows that seemed to cling to him like old friends.
"M-my lord!" the boy stammered, bowing so quickly he nearly toppled over. "I—I'm sorry! I must've nodded off! It won't happen again, m'lord, I swear!"
Viktor raised a hand, halting the boy's frantic apologies. "No harm done. Show my driver where to stable the horses. Ensure they're fed well and made comfortable for the night."
The boy nodded vigorously, his gaze flitting nervously toward Kastiel's mount, Eskilarr, whose ember-like chest pulsed faintly in the dark. The creature's fiery eyes bored into him, and he swallowed hard. "Y-yes, m'lord. Right away."
"And make sure my driver receives a meal—whatever the cook is serving tonight." Viktor glanced toward Trystan, who was already busying himself with the horses. "As many servings as he needs."
"Venison stew, m'lord," the boy said quickly, standing a little straighter. "Shot the deer m'self just yesterday."
"Good." Viktor nodded. "Now see it done."
"Yes, m'lord! Of course, m'lord!" the boy babbled, scurrying off to the barn with one of the blood bay stallions in tow. Trystan followed with the second, while Kastiel and Eskilarr trailed behind, their movements eerily synchronized.
As Viktor turned back toward the inn, its heavy oak door creaked open, spilling warm light into the yard. Framed in the glow stood the innkeeper, a stout woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. Her fiery red hair was tied back, and her hands rested firmly on her hips as she took in the scene.
"Evenin', m'lord," she called, her tone warm but edged with authority. "Fire's roaring, stew's hearty. Care to step in and warm yourself?"
Viktor inclined his head. "Your hospitality is most welcome."
Inside, the common room wrapped him in warmth and the rich scent of spiced venison and wood smoke. Conversation faltered as Viktor entered, curious and wary eyes following him. Ignoring the scrutiny, he accepted a mug of dark ale from the innkeeper and settled at a scarred wooden table near the fire, its heat seeping into his weary limbs.
It wasn't long before Kastiel joined him. The outrider pulled back his hood, revealing disheveled dark hair, angular cheekbones, and skin perpetually sun-kissed despite the northern chill. His storm-grey eyes gleamed with amusement as he dug into the trencher of stew placed before him.
"Not bad," Kastiel remarked, tearing off a chunk of bread. Though his demeanor remained casual, his gaze flickered now and then toward the room's other occupants, watchful as ever.
Viktor sampled the stew. It was thin, with a few tough chunks of venison and root vegetables floating in the broth. The deer must have been old, but it was sustenance enough for the moment.
Before either man could fully relax, the inn's door burst open. A young messenger stumbled inside, clad in the royal colors of Voltaine. His chest heaved with exertion, and his boots tracked mud across the floor as he clutched a scroll bearing the king's seal.
The boy's voice trembled as he addressed Viktor. "M-my lord, a message—from His Majesty. It's urgent."
Kastiel leaned back in his chair, swirling his ale. "So much for the Vale. I suspect Eskilarr will be thrilled about this." he said dryly.
Viktor frowned softly, his fingers brushing over the seal before breaking it. "Indeed. It seems the monster will have to wait another day."
His pale eyes scanned the parchment, taking in the sharp, urgent scrawl of the King's hand:
Return to court. Immediately.
"Back to the lion's den," Kastiel muttered, his voice low but edged with the usual sardonic bite. It was the kind of tone that turned tension into something almost palatable as if his words were a blade that could cut through the fog of unease. "Shall we see what fresh hell awaits us this time?"
Viktor's lips curled into a wry smile, though it felt more like a grimace beneath the weight of his thoughts. "I fear I already know."
The sunrise clawed its way into the sky, painting it in hues of blood and fire. Tendrils of mist clung to the lowlands, ghostly and persistent, as if reluctant to yield to the dawn. The chill of the morning pressed against the carriage windows as the iron gates of Nyvelion, capital of Voltaine, came into view.
The guards' gazes flickered briefly to the crest of Nightfall embroidered on the carriage's side before they stepped aside, saluting as the heavy gates groaned open.
The cobbled streets of the capital stirred with the rhythm of morning life. Merchants hauled their wares to market stalls, the creak of carts and the slap of reins mingling with the laughter of street children, darting through the growing bustle. The scent of fresh bread wafted from bakeries, blending with the faint tang of smoke from chimney fires.
Viktor leaned back against the cushions of the carriage, though they were little comfort against the storm in his mind. His fingers tapped idly against the head of his cane, the faint metallic clicks matching the jostling cadence of the wheels over uneven stones.
The summons from the king was explicit: his presence was required at court, immediately. There was no room for delay, no pretense of choice. He wondered, not for the first time, what perilous game awaited him behind the gilded walls of the Emphyeral Hold.
Across from him, Kastiel shifted in his seat, his restlessness a near-tangible presence. The Val 'Rhayne, with his lean frame and sharp features, seemed more akin to a caged predator than a passenger. His silver eyes caught the dim light filtering through the carriage's window, glinting like molten steel.
Viktor noted the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—a scowl, or perhaps a grimace. Kastiel despised the capital. Viktor had thought him mad for joining him in the carriage, after all Kastiel referred to it as a rattling death cage, instead of riding Eskilarr, but he suspected the Nightmare's foul mood had something to do with it.
The great beast had made it very clear he was displeased to be denied a return to Nightfall.
Beyond the windows of their carriage, the jagged peaks of the Shaladaar Crest rose high above them, crowned with caps of lingering snow. There, perched among the cliffs, was the Emphyeral Hold—a fortress carved from the mountain itself.
Its towering grey walls and battlements cut a stark silhouette against the fiery sky. Much like his own Nightfall, the ancient Emphyeral Hold was a relic of the Time of Whispers, an age shrouded in mystery, when the voices of those now gone filled the valleys.
The capital city began to climb up the side of the mountain, its winding streets growing steeper as they approached the Emphyeral Hold.
Kastiel's voice broke the heavy silence. "Chances are the invitation wasn't meant for me, hm?" His tone carried the faintest smirk, but his eyes betrayed the sharpness of his perception.
Viktor snorted softly, his smile laced with weary humor. "No, I doubt it was. Unless, of course, you've found a way to endear yourself to the Ascended?"
Kastiel chuckled, the sound as dry as old parchment. "I suspect that ship not only sailed but sank—somewhere off the Storm Coast if memory serves."
A faint flicker of curiosity crossed Viktor's face. "Someday you'll have to explain what happened."
"Someday," Kastiel echoed with a crooked grin, though his eyes grew distant for the briefest of moments.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the great gates of the Hold. Kastiel wasted no time stepping out, the heavy door groaning as he swung it open. Viktor lingered a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the imposing gates and the sprawling fortress beyond.
Somewhere within those walls, Edryk awaited him—the boy who had been his closest friend, now a king shaped by power, intrigue, and the silent machinations of the Ascended. A figure cloaked in light yet steeped in shadow, whose influence had turned the court into a labyrinth of ambition and betrayal.
The driver's voice pulled him from his reverie. With a sharp tap of his cane against the carriage's roof, Viktor signaled the stallions forward. The road ahead was steep, the journey long, but there was no avoiding it now. The lion's den awaited.