Nyvelion, the capital of Voltaine, sprawled majestically across the foothills of the Shaladaar Crest, its white stone walls gleaming like polished ivory beneath the noonday sun. The city's signature blue-tiled roofs cascaded in a graceful series of terraces, spilling down the slopes like a shimmering waterfall. At the base of this stone river, the mighty Mhy'Larr River spread its arms wide, welcoming Nyvelion's vibrant energy as the highlands surrendered to the vast lowlands. Here, where the currents met the heart of commerce, lay the docks—a bustling artery of life and trade, where Voltaine's pulse beat strongest.
By the time Viktor and Kastiel reached the waterfront, the day was already in full swing. Though Nyvelion's docks were dwarfed by the sprawling seaport of Maelstrom Bay, which crouched beneath the imposing shadow of the Storm Tower, they held their own kind of splendor. The piers, built from sturdy stone and weathered wood, jutted into the river like the fingers of a giant hand reaching for the horizon. Their pilings disappeared beneath the rippling, sun-dappled water, which lapped gently against the structures—a soothing rhythm that contrasted sharply with the frenetic activity above.
The docks were alive with sound and motion. Laborers swarmed like ants over the quays, their shouts and grunts blending into a cacophony of urgency. Barrels and crates were stacked precariously in every direction, some marked with the sigils of distant lands, their contents promising wealth and wonder: bolts of shimmering silk from the Hadean coast, fragrant spices in tightly sealed jars, and gleaming weapons forged by master smiths from the Old Kingdoms. Gulls wheeled and screamed overhead, their cries cutting through the din as they circled hungrily above the workers' lunches.
The Mhy'Larr River, vast and steady as a god's hand, provided the depth and breadth necessary for ships of every kind. Great vessels lined the stone quays, their masts rising like skeletal forests against the backdrop of the city. Some bore the scars of long journeys—their hulls weathered, sails patched, and rigging frayed—while others gleamed with the pristine elegance of royal craftsmanship, their polished wood and bright pennants announcing their status with every snap in the breeze.
Viktor squinted against the sunlight, his sharp eyes scanning the maze of ships and workers. The scene reminded him of Epili, the great port city of the Old Kingdoms across the Sea of Fallen Stars. Though smaller, Nyvelion's docks pulsed with the same chaotic blend of purpose and pandemonium. He adjusted his cloak and moved purposefully, his stride slicing through the bustling crowd. Kastiel followed closely, his steps easy but precise, the confidence of a man accustomed to both battle and intrigue.
Viktor moved purposefully through the chaos, Kastiel matching his stride with an easy confidence. He let his gaze sweep the horizon, searching for a particular sigil.His allies in Voltaine were pitifully few, a reality underscored with each passing council meeting. Yet among those who dared to stand beside him, Lord Ashford was a pillar. Guil Ashford had risked much to forge an alliance, and though the exact purpose of today's meeting remained unclear, Viktor knew it would be no trivial matter.
At last, he spotted the sigil he sought—a proud, towering ash tree, its branches spread wide against a backdrop of gray. The banner snapped in the river breeze atop The Windswept, an ash-gray ship whose elegant lines and sharp sails stood out among the other vessels.
"This way," Viktor said, his voice cutting through the din. Kastiel gave a short nod, his keen eyes darting to the surrounding faces, always vigilant. Together, they wove through the throng of dockworkers and merchants until they reached the ship. A gangplank stretched before them, and a stout man with bushy brows and a gleaming bald head stood at its top, his sharp eyes narrowing as they approached.
"Good morning," the captain greeted, his voice rough but polite. "Lord Ashford is expecting you. We'll be setting sail without delay."
Viktor inclined his head, offering a brief but respectful nod. Kastiel followed in begrudging silence.
As The Windswept glided smoothly into the wide expanse of the Mhy'Larr River, the clamor of Nyvelion's docks receded, replaced by the steady creak of timber and the rhythmic lap of water against the hull. The morning sun cast its golden rays across the shimmering surface, and a faint mist clung to the riverbanks, where ancient willows dipped their branches into the currents like offerings.
Viktor leaned against the railing, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon. The crisp breeze tugged at his cloak, carrying with it the mingled scents of fresh water and distant pine. Behind him, Kastiel stood rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
"You look as though the river might rise up and swallow you," Viktor remarked, glancing back with a faint smirk.
Kastiel's scowl deepened, his grip on the railing tightening. "The Val'Rhayne were not made for water," he muttered.
Before Viktor could respond, the cabin door creaked open. Lord Guil Ashford emerged, his thin figure draped in a gray cloak that mirrored the ship's hull. His sharp features softened momentarily by a smile, though his eyes carried a storm of urgency.
"Gentlemen," Ashford greeted, his voice quiet yet commanding. "If you'll join me below, we have much to discuss."
Closing the cabin door, "I trust you understand the need for discretion," Lord Guil Ashford said in a low voice, his tone clipped but not unkind. He swept his cloak aside as he took a seat at the small table, motioning for Viktor to do the same. The decanter of amber liquid in the center remained untouched, though the tension in the room might have tempted lesser men to reach for it.
"I suspected as much was required when you suggested we go for a sail on the river," Viktor said as he moved further into the cabin.
The cabin was modest but meticulously crafted, its polished mahogany furnishings gleaming in the dim light of a single oil lamp. Maps of Voltaine and its neighboring territories adorned the walls, their edges curling slightly from age. A decanter of amber liquid sat untouched on a small table, the tension in the room so palpable it seemed to weigh down the air itself.
Ashford gestured for Viktor and Kastiel to sit. Kastiel declined, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he stood near the door, his gaze sweeping every corner of the room.
"When this ship was built," Ashford began, settling into a chair, "my father insisted the cabin be soundproof. Little noise gets in—or out. A necessary precaution, especially now, when the Emphyeral Hold seems to hear every whisper."
Viktor took a seat, folding his arms as he leaned back slightly. "Indeed, that does seem to be a growing concern."
"Now, to the matter at hand," Ashford began, taking a seat and motioning for Viktor to do the same. His voice dropped further, barely louder than a whisper. "The king's ambitions grow bolder by the day, and this latest scheme borders on madness."
"Madness is not uncommon in Edryk's court these days," Viktor said, folding his arms as he leaned back in his chair. "But you wouldn't summon me unless it was something far worse."
Lord Ashford's lips pressed into a thin line, the weight of his words evident even before they left his mouth. "He intends to Bond the Tempest."
For a moment, the room fell into a heavy silence. Viktor stared at Ashford, disbelief flickering across his face. Then he laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "He truly thinks to subjugate one of the Daeude? Tell me, does he plan to harness the sun while he's at it?"
In the annals of history, Collaring—or as it was now euphemistically called, Bonding—was an ancient and controversial practice. It had its roots in the era of the Dragon Kings, a time when the rulers of the old empire sought to cement their dominion over all forms of power, both mortal and magical. Back then, they at least had the decency to name the act for what it was: Collaring.
Following the collapse of the Dragon Kings' empire, the practice fell into obscurity, viewed with both disdain and dread. For centuries, it remained a relic of a bygone age—until the arrival of the Ascended, the so-called Voice of the Risen God. With the Ascended's rise to influence, Collaring was not only resurrected but also repackaged under a more palatable name, presented as a necessary measure to "protect" the people of Voltaine.
The process of Collaring, or Bonding, was as invasive as it was insidious. At its core, it was a ritual designed to subjugate a magic user, binding them to the will of another through the placement of a finely wrought Collar—a piece of enchanted jewelry deceptively styled as an elegant necklace. Far more than an ornament, the Collar was a powerful tool of domination. Through its enchantments, the one who held the Bond gained the ability to monitor the magic user's presence, track their movements, and, if the bond was strong enough, sever their connection to the earth, cutting them off from the wellspring of magic itself.
Magic users, known for their ability to draw upon the natural currents of power flowing through the land, were rendered powerless by the Collar's influence. It was an act of profound cruelty, robbing them not only of their agency but of the very essence of what made them whole.
The Ascended had masterfully reframed this oppressive act as a benevolent safeguard, a means of bridging the growing divide between commoners and those gifted—or cursed—with magic. In a time of growing unrest, where mistrust and fear of magic users ran rampant, the promise of the Bond was seductive. It was, the Ascended claimed, a way to "level the playing field," ensuring that no magic user could ever pose a threat to the stability of the kingdom.
By royal decree, all individuals born with the gift of magic—or those seeking refuge within Voltaine's borders—were required to undergo the ritual of Bonding. The bonds themselves were centralized under the Ascended's control, ensuring that every Bonded soul was ultimately answerable to him alone. To the people, this was presented as a sign of divine providence: the Risen God's will manifesting through the Ascended to bring order to the chaos.
But not everyone accepted this grim new reality. The High Sanctuary, a revered bastion of healers and a refuge for the wandering Harbingers, openly refused to comply. They saw the truth behind the ritual—the suppression, the control, the theft of autonomy—and resisted. Their defiance was met with swift and ruthless reprisal. Under the Ascended's orders, the sanctuaries within Voltaine were razed, and its inhabitants—those who healed the sick, nurtured the wounded, and guided the lost—were hunted to extinction within Voltaine's borders.
What had once been a barbaric tool of empire was now a cornerstone of the Ascended's vision for the kingdom. Beneath its polished veneer, the Bond was as dehumanizing as it had ever been, a relic of tyranny cloaked in the guise of salvation.
That their King would even think to allow the Ascended to Bond with the Tempest was a depth of insanity that even Viktor did not think Edryk capable of.
"This is no jest," Ashford said sharply, his expression grim. "The Ascended has convinced him it can be done. He believes the power of the Risen God will not only bind her but also bend her to his will."
"The Ascended," Viktor muttered, his disdain evident. "That snake whispers poison into his ear, and Edryk laps it up like a starved hound. What does he hope to gain from this lunacy?"
"Control," Kastiel interjected from the doorway, his voice a low growl. He took a step closer, his shadow stretching across the room. "If Edryk succeeds, he wouldn't just rule Voltaine; he'd control the seas. Every kingdom reliant on trade would kneel—or suffer the consequences."
"It may give him control over the seas, but for how long?" Viktor frowned, "This will undoubtedly anger the Battleborn. Dominik will not be keen on one of his fellow Daeude being Collared."
The Lord of Nightfall's jaw tightened as the weight of their predicament pressed down on him. The legends of the Daeude—Children of the Old Gods—rose unbidden in his mind. These were beings bound to the fabric of the world itself, tethered to a cycle of death and rebirth, faited to never remember the life that came before.
His grandmother's voice, soft yet unyielding, echoed in his memory. The earth trembles at the birth of a Daeude, she had told him when he was a boy. Those words, once part of the myth and wonder of his youth, now carried a foreboding weight.
And now, there were three. The birth of each had reverberated through the world like distant thunder, stirring prophecies long thought dormant. Viktor's thoughts turned grim as he considered the truth of their situation: one of these beings—the Tempest—was within their grasp.
"Indeed, that is my fear as well," Guil said, "Though he may have returned to An'Shar, thus far, the Battleborn has been occupied with his need to conquer the Old Kingdoms. And, with any luck, when he marches forth once more for An'Shar, he will be contented with the reunifation of Toltaria. But to Collar the Tempest will surely draw his eye to us."
"That is to be certain, but if the Ascended is successful in Collaring her, he will surely use her control over the seas to sink any fleets the Battleborn might sail," Kastiel said, "And to march an entire army to the Midlands would near a decade. If not more."
"First the destruction of the sanctuaries and now this," Viktor leaned forward, his tone sharp. "When is this insanity to take place?"
"Just over two moons time. The King intends for it to be a part of the Queen's name-day celebrations," Lord Ashford sighed softly. "The court will ride out for the Storm Coast a week prior to the event."
"He intends to Collar the Tempest in her own home, no less!" Kastiel laughed harshly.
"Indeed," Guil replied, his voice heavy with irony. "The Storm Coast, where her essence is strongest. The Ascended believes the Risen God's influence will override her domain. If it weren't so dangerous, it might almost be laughable."
Kastiel ran a hand over his face, a mix of exasperation and thoughtfulness clouding his features. "The Tempest isn't some petty spirit or mortal sorceress. She is the power of the sea incarnate, wild, and unfathomable. Not to mention this will undoubtedly anger the other Daeude. Edryk's hubris will doom us all."
Lord Ashford nodded. "And still, the king presses on. His faith in the Ascended is unshakable, and he is too enamored with the promises of glory to see the danger. Queen Taitianne may sense it, but she treads carefully. Publicly opposing Edryk could cost her everything."
"What of the Crown Prince?" Viktor asked, his eyes narrowing. "He's managed to curb Edryk's excesses before."
Ashford hesitated, then shook his head. "The Prince hasn't been informed—yet. The King plans to keep this quiet until the court departs for the coast. The Queen overheard Edryk's conversations with the Ascended and thought it prudent to warn me."
Viktor rose slowly from his chair, his movements measured but purposeful. "You've risked much in telling me, Ashford," he said, his voice steady. "But we both know this cannot be allowed to happen."
Ashford stood as well, his gaze locking with Viktor's. "The Ascended Collared my daughter. My only child. I stand with Voltaine—its people, not the Ascended nor even the King. Edryk's ambition and blindness is a fire threatening to consume us all. My house may be loyal, but I am not blind. If this madness proceeds, we'll be facing the wrath of gods and mortals alike."