The Time of Whispers - an era etched in the annals of Midlands' history, when soft murmurs drifted through the verdant valleys and dense woodlands that embraced the majestic mountain ranges. Elusive whispers that seemed to rise from the very abyss of the mountains' depths themselves. For millennia upon millennia, the Children of the Darkness communed with their towering guardians, their voices melding seamlessly with the shadows that clung to the stone.
The great, towering Sentinel Trees of the Synder Forest, their gnarled branches arching overhead, as those who walked beneath their vaulted canopies bore witness to the slow transformation of the mountains. Gradually, the rugged mountain faces took shape, sculpting the Ancient Holds as they stand today, monuments to a time long past. Ancient and unyielding, they stand as sentinels over this primordial land, their granite faces etched with the secrets of time. Each a witness to the passing ages.
Then, on a bright mid-winter's day, as heavy snowflakes descended to blanket the Midlands, an unnatural stillness enveloped the valleys and foothills. In that hushed moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. No living soul could say what befell the Children of Darkness, nor why their whispers ceased or where they vanished; only that one day they were simply gone. Had it not been for the enduring presence of the Ancient Holds, those mountain dwellers who could mould living stone to their will with naught but a murmur, their legacy might have been swept away by the winds of time, leaving no trace in the annals of history.
And thus, an era that began with whispers faded into a deep, resounding silence.
The learned men and women of Voltaine's Azure Tower who spent their lives sitting in dimly lit rooms, heavy heads on aching necks bent over ancient scrolls of fraying parchment or the weathered pages of thick leather-bound books, studying the written words penned in ink through glass spectacles perched upon the tips of their noses, could tell you little of those who had come before. Even hundreds of years after man first set foot in the Midlands, the ancient holds remained largely an enigma. Much like those whose whispers had brought them into being.
Four hundred years past, during the reign of King Fhalkyn I Vhalorex, when the Azure Tower was still a tomb, the king called for deeper studies into the very structures the people of Voltaine now claimed as home. Thus, from this royal decree, the sect that would one day don the blue robes of the Azure Tower was born.
Marcus Sillious, a name both celebrated and whispered with caution, answered the call. The man was a paradox—equal parts genius and madman. For sixty-five years, he devoted his life to uncovering the secrets of the Holds. He wandered their living stone corridors, his feet tracing paths carved by unseen hands, and lost himself in the lore of their existence.
Time and age eventually tethered him to Voltaine's libraries. There, among the labyrinthine stacks of the Emphyeral Hold, he poured his obsessions into The Whispers in the Mountains, his life's work. The tome, shrouded in royal secrecy, lies locked away in the King's private collection. Only whispers remain of its contents—and the tragic end of its author, who leapt from the library's heights to his death. Madness, some say, finally claimed him. Others insist he learned a truth too great to bear.
Not that Mae Franecture ever needed a tome filled with the inked ramblings of a madman to know the ancient hold of Nightfall as intimately as she did. No, her understanding sprang not from dusty pages, but from a lifetime spent in the company of its shadows and whispers.
As Head Keeper of Nightfall, Mae bore a title steeped in generations of unbroken tradition. She descended from a long line of women whom the ancient hold had chosen to bond with. For as long as the Helston House had ruled as Lords of Nightfall, the women of Mae's bloodline had served as its Keepers, stewards of the fortress's secrets and its silent soul.
To describe her connection with Nightfall was to attempt to explain the inexplicable, to give shape to a bond that was as innate as breath and as intricate as the threads of a spider's web. The hold spoke no words, at least none she or her ancestors had ever heard. Yet, no words were needed. Nightfall communicated in a language older than time itself—a pulse of understanding, a current of emotion that hummed in her bones. It was as if she could feel the heartbeat of the ancient stones, sense the shifting moods of its weathered walls. The bond was not one of mastery or servitude but of companionship. Nightfall was no mere fortress to Mae; it was a living presence, an extension of her soul, a partner in her existence. It watched over her as she watched over it.
And now, it had abandoned her.
The void left in its absence was like the hollow ache of losing a dearest friend—not sudden, not sharp, but slow and insidious, a creeping emptiness that hollowed her from within. Mae's nights were restless, her dreams plagued with the cold silence of stone where once there had been warmth and understanding. Her waking moments were no better, each step through the ancient halls feeling alien, unfamiliar. Where she had once been able to sense the hold's emotions—its quiet contentment, its wary vigilance, even its rare bursts of joy—there was now only an unyielding, impenetrable stillness.
Mae pressed a hand against the rough hewn stone of the keep's inner wall, searching for even the faintest flicker of recognition, a glimmer of the bond she had known all her life. But there was nothing. Her palm tingled with the chill of the unresponsive stone that had once been warm and inviting, and her throat tightened as despair gnawed at the edges of her composure.
"Why?" she whispered, her voice barely audible in the cavernous silence. The word was a plea as much as a question.
The walls, once so alive, offered no answer. Mae pulled her hand back as if scalded, her chest tightening with the weight of betrayal. For centuries, the bond between Keeper and Nightfall had endured. It had been unshakable, eternal. And now, when she needed it most—when shadows deeper than any she had ever known loomed over the hold—it had slipped away, leaving her adrift.
At first, Mae believed she understood the hold's silence. When Callum Helston died, the loss reverberated through Nightfall as though the very stones mourned. The hold had withdrawn into itself then, a familiar reaction to the severing of a strong bond. Such a retreat was not unusual; the ancient fortress had always been deeply attuned to the Lords of House Helston, and its connection to Callum had been particularly profound. But that had been over a year ago. Grief fades, even for a hold as old and sentient as Nightfall. Never before had it vanished so deeply—or for so long.
Mae wrestled with the crushing sense of loss as she prepared for the day. The emptiness where the hold's presence should have been left her feeling unmoored, as if a vital piece of herself was missing. She resolved not to dwell on it. Grieving over Nightfall's lingering silence would not restore the bond. Instead, Mae threw herself into her duties with relentless fervor, determined to distract herself with the rhythms of routine.
Nightfall, vast and imposing, operated at the barest minimum in the absence of its lord. With Viktor, its new instated lord, taking up residence in the capital, the ancient Holds once-bustling halls, which had hosted grand banquets and echoed with the voices of generations, now stood largely silent. Only a skeleton staff remained to tend to the sprawling fortress.
Gerald, the weathered groundskeeper with hands as rough as the ancient stones he cared for, was a constant presence. His daughter, Henna, brought a welcome brightness to the gloom, her cheerful laughter a rare sound in the quiet corridors. Then there was Thomas, the shy stable boy whose unspoken crush on Henna was as obvious as his awkward attempts to linger in her presence.
With so few to oversee, Mae's responsibilities were light—sweeping, dusting, tending to the fortress's many forgotten corners. By midday, the chores were complete, but rest eluded her. To combat the restlessness that pressed on her, Mae sent Thomas to the market and busied herself in the kitchen, preparing a feast for the small household. The act of cooking, of creating something warm and tangible, was an anchor against the intangible emptiness.
That evening, after the meal, the others excused themselves, their bellies full and their eyes heavy with sleep. Mae and her mother lingered by the hearth in the great kitchen, where a small fire crackled, its warmth defying the lingering chill of early spring nights. The blaze cast long shadows on the stone walls, dancing like ghosts of the past.
Janna, Mae's mother, sat in her usual chair, her hands resting in her lap. Though her body was frail now, her spirit remained unyielding. Painful arthritis had forced her to retire as Head Keeper long before her time, but her connection to Nightfall had not diminished. It was woven into her very being, a constant presence that resonated in her every thought and breath.
Janna leaned forward, poking the fire into a roaring blaze. The flames illuminated her lined face, making her sharp blue eyes gleam with a wisdom hard-earned. "Have patience, my dear," she murmured, her voice soft yet steady, like the echo of the hold itself. "Nightfall will return to you when it's ready."
Mae clung to her mother's words, but doubts gnawed at her. A strange thought had begun to creep its way into her mind – What if it wasn't about time or patience? What if this new Lord of Nightfall was the reason the hold had turned away? Viktor Helston had abandoned the fortress not once but twice, both times for over a decade. He had not even returned to bid his father a final farewell. Mae's mind turned over the possibility, reluctant yet unable to let it go. What if his departure had cut so deeply that even the ancient hold—timeless and enduring—had withdrawn in grief and anger?
The weight of that possibility hung heavy in the air, thick and unyielding. Mae's chest tightened as though the ancient stones of Nightfall pressed against her, their silence more oppressive than any sound. A chill crept into her bones, not from the night's lingering cold but from the gnawing fear that the hold's very heart might harbor a lingering resentment, its spirit unwilling to welcome back a son who had abandoned it.
The fire in the hearth crackled, its warmth casting an amber glow that softened the edges of the shadowed kitchen. Dancing flames sent flickering shapes across the walls—ghostly figures that teased at the edges of Mae's unease, transforming the still room into something alive with quiet, watchful movement. Beside her, Janna had surrendered to sleep, her frail frame sinking deeper into the embrace of her chair. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, punctuated by soft, even snores, brought a fleeting sense of peace.
Mae moved with quiet purpose, retrieving a thick woolen blanket from a nearby bench. She tucked it carefully around her mother, smoothing it over Janna's bony shoulders with the tenderness of habit. The sight of her mother's face, softened by the serenity of slumber, was both comforting and achingly fragile. Mae lingered a moment, watching the firelight play over Janna's features, tracing the fine lines of age etched into her skin.
Finally, Mae stepped away, her footsteps muffled by the worn stones beneath her. The corridors of Nightfall stretched out before her, both familiar and vast, their walls lined with sconces that held flickering torches. The flames cast uneven pools of light, their shadows dancing in rhythms that seemed both random and deliberate.
The disappearance of Nightfall had wrought its share of misfortunes, one of the most profound being the loss of that inexplicable light. During times when the spirit of the Hold was present, mysterious lights filled the corridor with warmth. Now that it was gone, that light too had vanished.
In its absence, the shadows loomed larger, heavy and oppressive. Yet, perhaps by design, the Hold had been constructed to endure such trials. Mae often fancied that the ancient Children, whose whispers had formed Nightfall, understood the depths of the fortress's soul and had foreseen these moments and had the forethought to place the braziers, hearths, and sconces that were scattered generously through its halls.
Mae entered her modest sized chamber, the room a quiet refuge against the enormity of the hold. The room bore the quiet, understated elegance of a space long lived in. She moved through the familiar ritual of undressing, folding the weariness of the day into the small, deliberate acts of preparation. Her garments fell into the waiting hamper, her body sinking moments later into the cool embrace of her bed. The sheets, worn soft by years of use, were a comfort that steadied her racing mind.
As she lay beneath the heavy blankets, Mae's gaze turned instinctively to the empty space beside her, a habit she had formed over countless nights. That space had once held Nightfall's presence—an inexplicable sense of companionship that had soothed her even in the darkest hours. Now it was nothing but a shadowed void, its absence a wound she could not name.
Her eyes fluttered shut, her mind reaching for the hold in the quiet, yearning way one might search for a lost friend. She sent her thoughts spiraling into the emptiness into the depths of the void, a single plea rising from her lips, barely audible over the faint whisper of wind against the stone.
"Come home," she whispered, the words trembling on the edge of sound before the shadows swallowed them whole.
Silence answered her, as it always did. A silence that felt deeper, older, and more deliberate than the mere absence of noise. Mae tightened her grip on the blankets, her heart heavy. The darkness around her was vast, but in it, she held onto the flicker of hope that somewhere, somehow, Nightfall still heard her.