The Lord of Nightfall and the Blood Guard moved purposefully through the vast expanse of the Grand Hall, their measured strides echoing in the cavernous space. Above them, the intricate latticework of the vaulted ceiling rose high into shadowy obscurity, an engineering marvel that seemed to defy gravity. The final pair of stone branches arched gracefully overhead, their leaves etched with such painstaking detail that they appeared to tremble in the faint draft coursing through the hall. Torchlight flickered along the walls, casting fluid patterns across the polished grey stone floor, as though the hall itself were alive, breathing with ancient memory.
As they approached the last corridor before the Council Chambers, Lennox, ever the sentinel, slowed to a halt. His armor caught the dim light, the embossed sigil of the Blood Guard momentarily gleaming like liquid fire. He planted his feet firmly, his gloved hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.
"It is here that I will leave you," Lennox said, inclining his head in a gesture of both respect and concern. "May fortune favor you today in the counsel, my Lord of Nightfall."
Viktor paused, turning to meet Lennox's gaze. The torches illuminated the sharp lines of his face, casting half of it in shadow and giving him an almost spectral quality. A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth, softening his otherwise austere expression.
"I, too, hope the council chooses politics over cannibalism today," Viktor replied, his voice tinged with sardonic humor. The faint upward quirk of his brow added a dry, almost conspiratorial edge to the remark. "Thank you, Lennox. Good day to you."
Lennox hesitated briefly, then allowed himself a faint smile, a rare crack in his disciplined demeanor. With a subtle step back, he seemed to dissolve into the encroaching shadows, his movements so fluid and silent they resembled the departure of smoke. The fading echo of his boots was the only evidence he had been there at all.
Now alone, Viktor took a measured breath and turned toward the final stretch. The still air around him carried a weight, as though the mountain itself held its breath. The echoes of his cane against the stone floor sounded louder now, each measured tap reverberating like a countdown.
Ahead lay the Chamber of Counsel—a stark departure from the awe-inspiring opulence of the Grand Hall. Here, there was no grandeur, no artistry to inspire wonder or pride. The chamber was carved directly into the mountain's living rock, its rough-hewn walls untouched by decoration. The unpolished stone bore a rugged, primal beauty, that reminded Viktor keenly of the dark stone halls of Nightfall, his place of birth and now Seat of Power. The air was cooler here, carrying a faint, earthy scent that spoke of the mountain's depths.
At the heart of the chamber loomed a massive stone table, its surface pale and unadorned save for the wear of countless hands and centuries of debate. Around it stood high-backed chairs, each carved from the same unyielding rock, their austere design a reflection of the chamber's no-nonsense purpose. They seemed less like seats of power and more like the thrones of judges presiding over some ancient trial.
Dominating the far wall was a sprawling map carved in painstaking detail. Rivers meandered like delicate veins across its surface, mountain ranges jutted like jagged scars, and kingdom borders were etched with the precision of a cartographer obsessed with accuracy. The sheer scale of the map dwarfed the room's occupants, a constant reminder of the vastness of the world beyond these walls—most of which many in the room had never experienced.
Of all the people in all the Kingdom's he had encountered during his time abroad, those who called Voltaine home were some of the most narrow and close-minded he had ever met. Much of which he now attributed to a lack of experience with the world at large.
Viktor crossed the threshold, his cane striking the stone in a steady, deliberate rhythm. The air seemed to grow heavier the further he ventured inside. Around the table, six of the nine lords on the counsel were already assembled, their postures stiff with tension despite the carefully neutral expressions they wore. Each man's eyes flicked toward Viktor as he entered, assessing, calculating, measuring his every step.
The silence in the room was palpable, the kind that carried an undercurrent of suppressed conflict. Viktor paused briefly, his gaze sweeping over the room. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes, sharp and discerning, cataloged every detail—the taut set of shoulders, the faint crease in a brow, the tight clench of a jaw. These were men accustomed to power, yet today, unease flickered behind their masks of control.
"Good morning, Lord Helston," came a voice from the far end of the table, opposite where the King would sit, deep and resonant, effortlessly commanding attention. It belonged to Crown Prince Fhalkyn Vhalorex, who sat with the composed ease of a man accustomed to command. "I am glad you were able to join us."
Fhalkyn's presence filled the room with the quiet certainty of power. His tall, broad frame reflected the strength of his lineage. Of the two brothers, Fhalkyn reflected their father's image, the former King of Voltaine, the most. Thankfully, in his temperament, he took after their mother, the cunning and astute Dowager Queen, Vaemyrra Vhalorex.
His neatly cropped dark copper hair lent him an air of precision, a man who balanced discipline with an inherent charisma. Yet it was his eyes that drew Viktor's attention—piercing and intelligent, tempered by a glint of warmth that softened the edges of his commanding demeanor. They stood in stark contrast to the cold, unrelenting gaze of his elder brother, the King.
"Good morning, my prince. My lords," Viktor replied, inclining his head in a slight bow. His gaze swept the room, an invisible tether connecting to each face in turn.
What he found was a tableau of restrained hostility and political poise. Lord Stephen Rheese, the barrel-chested master of Greyhaven, another, much smaller, mountain hold on Voltaine's southern border, sat like a statue carved from stone, his arms crossed and his lips pressed into a thin line of disdain. He didn't bother to conceal his animosity, his sharp blue eyes following Viktor with the unrelenting scrutiny. Others were less overt—nods here, neutral expressions there—but the undercurrent of tension was unmistakable.
As Viktor approached his seat to the King's right—a place of honor that felt more like a trial bench—Lord Rheese chose his moment to strike.
"Thought to run off home, Lord Helston?" he said, his voice sharp and deliberate, like the first thrust of a duel.
Cannibalism it shall be, Viktor mused inwardly, suppressing the urge to sigh. He had been expecting this. Nor could he entirely fault Rheese for his hostility. The Lord of Greysky was a man rooted deeply in tradition and honor, as immovable in his principles as the mountains of his domain. Were their positions reversed—if Rheese had vanished for over a decade, only to return and reclaim lands and titles without so much as a whisper of explanation—Viktor imagined he might harbor similar resentment.
Pausing, Viktor turned to meet Rheese's challenge head-on, his dark gaze unflinching. "My presence is required in the Vale, yes," he replied, his voice smooth and devoid of any sharp edges. It was an answer, but not a justification—an artful deflection that offered neither ground nor ammunition.
Before the tension could escalate further, Fhalkyn intervened, his voice cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade. "Enough," the prince commanded, his tone carrying an authority that brooked no argument. His gaze, sharp as steel, pinned Rheese in place.
Rheese leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening. "No doubt," he muttered, though his voice carried. He refused to surrender without one final jab. "Though I do find it peculiar that the Vale of Shadows suffers not one, but two crises. Strange, is it not, that such misfortune seems to dog its lord?"
The insult landed like a dagger slipped between ribs. Viktor's jaw tightened, his features hardening briefly before he forced them back into a mask of measured neutrality. A single breath steadied him, though his knuckles whitened momentarily on the polished head of his cane. Before he could respond, Fhalkyn's voice rang out again, sharper this time.
"I said enough," the prince repeated, his gaze shifting to encompass the entire table. The tone left no room for dissent, and a heavy silence fell over the chamber.
To Viktor's left, Lord Ashford, the Keeper of the Vaults, inclined his head in a polite but perfunctory nod. Thin and wiry, he seemed to wilt under the weight of the room's tension, his pale features betraying no opinion. Across the table, Lord Everard lounged with the casual indifference of a man confident in his position. Draped in silken robes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight, he traced the rim of his goblet with one finger, his languid posture a mask for watchful eyes. Beside him, Lords Westmyre and Leighton sat with expressions of careful neutrality, their loyalties buried beneath layers of courtly decorum.
The strained silence was broken by the groan of the chamber doors, which swung open to admit Lords Marin and Petry. Their entrance carried an air of arrogance, the pair laughing softly at some private jest. Marin, younger and bolder, dropped into his seat with a casualness that bordered on insolence, his boots finding the edge of the stone table.
"Well, my lords," Marin drawled, a smirk curling at his lips. "Any idea why our king dragged us here at this ungodly hour?"
The insolence was short-lived. Fhalkyn rose from his chair with a fluidity that belied his size, crossing the room in a single swift motion. With a sharp motion, he knocked Marin's boots to the floor, the force reverberating through the table. "Show some respect," the prince snapped, his voice low but carrying an edge that froze the younger lord in place. "You sit on the Council of Nine, not in a tavern."
Marin's scowl was muted by the prince's commanding presence, and he offered no retort. His chastened demeanor was soon overshadowed as the chamber doors opened once more. This time, the atmosphere shifted palpably.
The King entered, his presence like the tolling of a great bell—impossible to ignore, resonating through the room. Draped in a regal purple tunic adorned with intricate silver embroidery, he moved with the unhurried confidence of a man who expected the world to align to his will. His golden crown, studded with sapphires and emeralds, gleamed in the torchlight. His piercing gaze swept across the room, pausing briefly on each lord before he spoke.
"I have been informed," the King began, his voice deep and measured, "that the Battleborn has halted his advance on Tindragal and now marches back toward An'Shar." His hands, strong and weathered, rested on the cool stone table as he leaned forward slightly. "For two decades, we have watched this so-called child of the gods toy with the Old Kingdoms. We have seen the rise of Toltaria and heard whispers of the God Kings' return. And now, on the brink of victory, he turns back. Why?"
His gaze settled on Viktor, sharp and penetrating. As if commanded by the unspoken weight of the King's focus, every other lord followed suit, their eyes locking onto the Lord of Nightfall. The weight of expectation, suspicion, and intrigue settled squarely on his shoulders.