The Ashford child wept silently, her small frame trembling with restrained sobs that seeped into the suffocating stillness of Voltaine's grand court. Large, heavy tears left glistening streaks down her perfect cherub cheeks, pausing briefly to dance upon her trembling chin, before falling to dampen the pristine satin pillow on which she knelt up on the raised dais.
Around her, the nobles of Voltaine, and some from beyond, gathered to bear witness, their faces masks of polite indifference, though their discomfort was betrayed by the restless shifting of silk and brocade.
High above, in the grand hall's vaulted ceiling, columns shaped to resemble trees branched out, reaching for one another to form the arches. The stonework was so exquisitely detailed that one might imagine hearing the whisper of leaves stirring in an unfelt breeze.
Yet there was no comfort in the beauty of the hall for the child who knelt at its center, clad in a gown of blue and white silk adorned with delicate lace. She quivered beneath the weight of countless stares, her fate hanging in the oppressive silence.
No one moved to comfort her. Tradition forbade it. The court of Voltaine had mastered the art of detachment, leaving the child to endure the monstrous ritual alone.
Seated front row to the proceedings, Viktor Helston, Lord of Nightfall, observed the scene with a calculated calm. His dark eyes lingered on the small, trembling figure—a mere five years old, yet carrying herself with a dignity that put many of the assembled lords and ladies to shame.
Beside him, Lady Dalia Ashford, the child's mother, fought a losing battle against her grief. A woman of Illumascan descent, her fiery spirit was muted now, reduced to stifled sobs that wracked her slender frame. Her husband, Lord Ashford, sat rigid and pale, his hand gripping hers in a futile attempt at reassurance. Both bore witness to their daughter's torment, trapped by duty and fear.
Guilt coiled like a serpent around Viktor's chest, tightening with every breath. Not that he let himself show it, keeping his face carefully schooled in a mask of civility. As the second most powerful man in the kingdom, he could do nothing to intervene. Not here. Not now. The Ascended had ensured that.
Just then, the heavy stone doors at the far end of the hall, opposite the dais, groaned open and all eyes turned as the Ascended entered, flanked by his entourage.
Draped in resplendent azure robes, embroidered with gold runes that shimmered with unnatural mage light, he moved with a deliberate grace. The Voice of the Risen god hid his face behind a mask of azure lacquered wood, embedded with more runes in gold.
As much as it bothered Viktor to admit it, there was no denying the Ascended's presence truly seemed an embodiment of divine authority.
Behind him, the Seneschals followed in solemn procession, their deep, sonorous chants filling the vaulted chamber. The sound reverberated through the hall, a chilling harmony that seemed to seep into the walls themselves, making them hum with an almost sentient awareness.
Viktor's lip curled ever so slightly. The Ascended loved his spectacle, a performance of power that the King not only tolerated but celebrated. The court had become an arena of theatrics, and though the nobles watched in silence, Viktor could see the weariness in their eyes, the thin cracks of impatience forming beneath carefully composed exteriors.
The child remained motionless as the Ascended ascended the dais, his steps slow and measured. Her tiny hands clenched the fabric of her gown, her knuckles stark white against the pale silk. Yet she did not flinch, even as the shadow of the Ascended loomed over her.
When he raised his hand above her bowed head, the air shifted. A weight, ancient and suffocating, pressed down on the room. Lady Ashford let out a sharp gasp, quickly muffled against her husband's shoulder. Her anguish was a blade slicing through the brittle calm.
Viktor turned his head slightly, his voice low but commanding. "Dalia," he murmured, his tone steady as steel. "Take heart."
But his words were ash in his mouth. For all his power, Viktor Helston knew this: he could no more stop what was about to happen than he could stop the tide from rising.
Her tear-streaked face snapped toward him, her grief sharpened into fury. "Take heart?" she hissed under her breath, low enough not to disrupt the ceremony. "While my daughter kneels at the feet of that monster?"
"She will rise again," Viktor replied, though the bitterness in his voice betrayed the conviction of his words. The lie sat heavy on his tongue. "As we all do."
Lady Ashford's glare pierced him as though she were seeing him truly for the first time. Her lips quivered, but she said nothing further. Instead, her gaze returned to her daughter, kneeling like a sacrificial lamb at the center of the court. Her silence screamed louder than any words.
The ceremony dragged on, the chants rising and falling in haunting cadence. Viktor's hands tightened on the armrests of his chair when the Ascended finally stepped forward, the silver ceremonial collar gleamed in his hands, delicate and deceptively beautiful. It caught the light as though mocking the somber mood of the hall.
When the Ascended bent to fasten it around the child's slender neck, Viktor's stomach churned.
Collaring was an ancient practice, born of the Dragon Lords of Draci, long buried with their fallen empire. Its resurrection by the Ascended and his Risen God was a cruel perversion.
The collar was no mere adornment—it was a leash, a symbol of absolute control. It held the ability to sever the wearer's ability to channel the Great Gift, cutting off their connection to power, leaving them utterly at the mercy of the bondholder's will.
The Ashford girl's tiny shoulders trembled as the cold metal touched her skin, her breath hitching audibly. She did not cry out, though her lips quivered with the effort. Viktor's chest tightened. Strength in one so young should have been admirable. Instead, it was a tragedy. No child should need such resolve.
As the Seneschals chanted the final prayer, Viktor felt the weight of his own complicity press down upon him. He'd returned to Voltaine not to witness this, not to be a part of the the Ascended's games. Yet here he was, front and center for a spectacle he had neither the power nor the will to stop.
When the ceremony concluded, and the Ashford child was led away, but the tension in the hall did not fade.
Viktor felt the King's gaze before he even looked up. It bore into him across the grand expanse of the court, a palpable challenge. When the King rose, his voice rang out like a blade cleaving through the murmur of whispers.
"My lords and ladies," he declared, his tone cold and precise, "let this be a reminder: loyalty is not a choice, but an expectation." His eyes swept over the crowd, settling on Viktor with unmistakable intent. "Even for those who have been gone too long."
The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Viktor did not flinch under the King's scrutiny. His expression was a mask of indifference, his dark eyes unyielding.
The Ashford child may have been the focus of tonight's ritual, but the message had been meant for him. And Viktor Helston, the Lord of Nightfall, understood the game had only just begun.