Inside the ancient hold, Viktor's cane struck the stone floor with a steady rhythm, each tap echoing through the pale, empty halls of the Emphyeral Hold. The sound was sharp and deliberate, a lone heartbeat resonating in the hushed stillness.
At this early hour, only the silent, motionless guards in their gleaming armor and the whispering footfalls of household staff disturbed the tranquility. Servants moved with practiced efficiency, their slippered feet making no more noise than whispers against the stone as they prepared for the day ahead. The lords and ladies of Voltaine still lingered in their beds, oblivious to the quiet machinery of their kingdom.
Viktor moved purposefully through the shadowed corridors, the tap of his cane his only companion, grounding him with every step as he approached the Chamber of the Grand Counsel.
The cane itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, fashioned from dark blackwood and iron polished to a silky sheen. A gift from the Val 'Rhayne, its handle was wrought of cold iron, expertly shaped into the form of a raven. The ironwork was exquisite: feathers etched with such precision they seemed to shift in the dim light, and sapphire eyes embedded so precisely they gleamed like fragments of the twilight sky. The design honored the ravens of the Valley of Shadows—creatures whose piercing cobalt eyes set them apart from the common raven.
The grandeur of the Emphyeral Hold unfurled around him as he passed through the arched doors of the Grand Throne Room. His cane's rhythm became a solemn metronome in the immense, vaulted space. High stone pillars carved to resemble the Sentinel Trees of Synder Forest lined the hall. Their branches stretched upward, intertwining to form a canopy that seemed alive. Intricate carvings of leaves adorned the branches, whispering secrets of artistry long lost to time. So lifelike was the work that Viktor could almost hear the phantom rustle of wind through stone leaves, a chilling reminder of the vibrancy that had once thrived beyond the hold's unyielding walls.
He paused, his eyes tracing the intricate details of the hall's craftsmanship. The origins of such marvels were lost to history; legends claimed the architects of the ancient holds could shape living mountain stones with mere whispers. Here, surrounded by the remnants of that mastery, Viktor could believe there was some truth behind those tales.
The emptiness of the chamber seemed to amplify his solitude. Or at least he thought himself alone until a voice emerged, slicing through the stillness.
"My lord of Nightfall, good morning, and bless the Risen Day."
Startled, Viktor's hand instinctively tightened around the raven-shaped handle of his cane. The sharp edge of a sapphire pressed against his thumb as he turned toward the source of the voice. From the shadows near the entryway, a figure stepped into the dim light.
The man wore the polished armor of the Blood Guard, the sigil of House Vhalorex engraved upon his breastplate. His visor gleamed as he raised it, revealing a clean-shaven face framed by short black hair and eyes that held a quiet confidence.
His visor caught the light as he raised it, revealing a clean-shaven, sun-kissed face. His short, jet-black hair was neat and unassuming, but it was his eyes that commanded attention—piercing, steady, and suffused with a quiet confidence.
The Blood Guard were not merely guards or soldiers; they were a living extension of the king's will and the kingdom's unyielding shield. As an elite force within the Emphyeral Hold's military hierarchy, they stood apart from the regular guard. Each member was handpicked by the king himself, with the keen counsel of Warmaster Fhalkyn Vhalorex, the crown prince and supreme tactician of the realm. Selection into the Blood Guard was not merely a matter of martial skill—though mastery of arms was a given—it required an unassailable character, a mind sharpened by strategy, and a soul bound by unbreakable loyalty to the king and his family.
Their ranks were small, ensuring every member was exceptional, their training grueling beyond imagination. It was said that to don the armor of the Blood Guard was to accept death as a certainty, for their duty often placed them at the sharpest edges of conflict. Yet they bore this burden with pride, for their oaths tied them not only to their sovereign but to the enduring legacy of House Vhalorex, whose lineage was steeped in both fire and shadow.
To enemies of the crown, the sight of the Blood Guard signified more than imminent defeat—it was an announcement of judgment, swift and unrelenting. Fortunately for Viktor, this particular guard seemed to have accepted him as an ally.
"Good morning, Lennox," Viktor said, his voice edged with dry humor. "Must you always lurk in the shadows at this hour?"
Lennox Solantis, the Quickblade, gave a faint smile. "Apologies, my lord. Old habits die hard."
The melodic cadence of Lennox's Vraycian accent tugged at a long-buried part of Viktor. He had always found the sound of it compelling—a rhythm of home wrapped in foreign charm. It stirred bittersweet memories of Nileyna, his estranged wife, and her vivid tales of the hills and festivals of Vraycia. Those memories had once warmed him but now left a hollow ache in their wake.
"If you'll allow, my lord," Lennox continued, "it would be my honor to escort you to the Chamber of Counsel."
Viktor considered the offer, noting the quiet intensity in Lennox's gaze. Of the dozen elite warriors sworn to protect the royal bloodline, Lennox was the only one Viktor trusted. His unmatched speed and keen intuition had earned the title of Quickblade—and Viktor's guarded respect.
"I'd welcome the company," Viktor replied, his grip on the cane relaxing. "But for the love of the gods, stay out of the shadows. I've had enough surprises for one day."
Lennox inclined his head, his faint smile softening his otherwise serious demeanor. "As you command, my lord. I'll endeavor to walk in the light."
Together, they crossed the vast hall, the measured rhythm of their steps blending with the muted echoes of the throne room.
"What's the mood among the council?" Viktor asked.
Lennox's expression darkened. "Tense, my lord. Whispers from the Old Kingdoms have reached the court. There's talk of the Battleborn."
Viktor's brow furrowed. "What do you know?"
"Little, beyond the fact that it troubles the King deeply," Lennox admitted.
Viktor sighed, the knot in his chest tightening. The echoes of change reverberated through the realm, but in the silence of the hold, they felt closer, sharper—like a blade waiting to fall.