With Kastiel departed for the Vale, and much of the court already asleep, on this night, Viktor was alone, yet not truly. His solitude was shared with the shadows that lingered at the edges of his mind—his demons. And tonight, they would not be denied.

The room was dimly lit, only the light of the master chambers hearth casting a muted glow that glinted off the cut-glass decanter of amber liquid on the sideboard. Viktor poured himself a generous measure into a crystal tumbler, the golden liquid catching the faint light like molten fire. He took the glass in hand, its weight grounding him as he strode out onto the covered terrace that extended from his chambers.

Beyond the arched stone pillars, the city of Nyvellion sprawled down the mountainside in terraced layers. From his vantage, Viktor could see the cascade of rooftops, lantern-lit streets, and bustling terraces stretching all the way to the banks of the great Mhy’larr River, its dark waters shimmering faintly under the lights of the dockside.

The river snaked through the landscape like a vein, the lifeblood of the Midlands.

The capital's glow was a defiant stand against the encroaching night, but above, the heavens waged a different battle. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky, obscuring the moon and its court of stars. Thunder growled somewhere in the distance, a deep, resonant sound that set the air to tremble. A cool wind swept through, carrying with it the earthy scent of rain yet to fall.

A storm brewed outside, its power undeniable. But it was nothing compared to the storm within.

Viktor lifted the tumbler to his lips and sipped, letting the liquid blaze its way down his throat.

Let us in.

The unified voices weaved their way through his mind, haunting yet beautiful all at once. He could feel them, pressing against the walls he had built around his inner self, clawing at the boundaries he had fortified over years of pain and resolve.

There was a time when those walls did not exist, when his demons ruled him completely. They had driven him to depths of despair, bordering on madness. His pain and grief had nearly swallowed him up, and he had been ready to let it.

But Kastiel refused to give up on him. Or let him give up. The ancient knight had stuck by his side through it all, and not for an instant did Viktor believe he would still be alive today without his guardian.

Over time, Viktor had learned to contain his demons, to dictate the terms of their entry. It allowed him to begin to function once more. But there was always one night. One night every year when their will was stronger than his. The night they had been born.

Let us in!

The demand came again, more insistent, and Viktor’s lips curved into a wry smile as he gazed into the darkness beyond the terrace. The struggle was over before it began; he had no intention of denying them tonight.

“Alright, my loves,” he murmured softly, his voice carrying an edge of resignation and something darker—anticipation.

With a final swig, Viktor drained his glass, savoring the lingering burn, and turned back toward the chamber.

Inside, the fire in the hearth cast a flickering glow across the rich, dark wood and leather of the room. He sank into one of the high-backed chairs near the flames, the worn leather creaking faintly under his weight. The smell of sandalwood and smoke filled his senses. Here, he could feel Nileyna everywhere. Her touch in every detail of the apartments.

There were moments he dared to wonder if she ever thought of him, if she missed him at all. He didn’t deserve it, not after what he had done. Her grief for their lost twins had been as consuming as his own, but while she stayed—rooted to this place, to their ghosts, to his ailing father—he had fled, running from the weight of responsibility she never should have carried alone. He’d left her to fight battles that were his by birthright.

But tonight was not for Nileyna. Tonight was for them.

The fire’s heat licked at his skin, though it barely registered against the storm surging within him. Sinking into a high-backed chair near the hearth, the worn leather creaked under his weight. He closed his eyes, drawing a long, deliberate breath, and felt the walls he had so meticulously built around his mind begin to fracture. Cracks became fissures, and with a final, deliberate push, he let them crumble entirely.

Outside, the skies erupted with a thunderous crack, lightning tearing through the heavens as rain crashed down in torrents. The storm raged, but its chaos was a distant hum. Viktor, the Lord of Nightfall, surrendered to the flood of memories he had kept at bay. They rushed in, fierce and unrelenting, seizing him in their painful embrace.

And in their torment, he found himself whole again.

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The morning after the Harbinger was burned, Hayden found the Old Bear waiting for him in the courtyard of his father’s house. Jasper Facilious, the grizzled Lord of the wilder northern portion of the Vale of Shadows, sat astride his enormous shaggy horse, a bear's pelt draped over his shoulders. His imposing figure, with the weight of years etched into his weathered face, seemed carved from the same stone as Nightfall itself.

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Beyond the courtyard, a half dozen men waited on similarly massive mounts, their horses snorting plumes of vapor that dissipated into the chill morning air.

"Jasper has requested your presence for the hunt," Hayden's father announced, appearing at his son’s side.

Before Hayden could voice his unease, the soft clatter of hooves drew his attention to the stable boy leading his mount into the courtyard, already saddled and waiting.

Hayden opened his mouth to protest, but Jasper’s gruff voice cut through the cold air.

“You were a good friend to my son,” the Old Bear said, peering down at Hayden from his saddle. His voice was like gravel, rough and unyielding. “So I know you must want to find this monster nearly as much as I do.”

Hayden’s stomach twisted. Shit. His heart began to race, pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.

The Harbinger’s last, burning words echoed in his mind, a dire warning: the monster was after him. The idea of leaving the safety of his father’s walls, especially during the dark hours, filled him with dread, now more than ever.

“Mount up, son.” His father’s heavy hand landed on Hayden’s back with a resounding slap. Lord Dennard leaned close, his voice low and venomous in Hayden’s ear. “Don’t embarrass me, you little shit, or I’ll kill you myself.”

Heat flared in Hayden’s face as anger rose, sharp and hot. He bit his tongue, swallowing the retort that burned on its tip. With stiff movements, he took the reins from the stable boy, who quickly stepped back, and swung himself onto the bay’s saddle. The leather creaked beneath him as he adjusted, his unease growing with every second.

Jasper raised his voice, his words a command rather than an announcement. “We hunt!” He dug his heels into his mount’s sides, spurring the beast forward. The rest of the hunting party followed, hooves clattering over the cobbled courtyard.

As Hayden had feared, just like the hunt his father had led, this one turned up nothing. The first day was fruitless, despite the expertise of the northern trackers accompanying them. The second and third days were no better as they ventured deeper into the forested expanse of the Vale.

According to the Scribes of the Azure Tower, the Vale of Shadows was once filled with the great Sentinel Trees of the Synder Forest, towering giants whose eternal flames burned within their hearts. In ages past, their canopy stretched across the Midlands, from the farthest corners of Voltaine to the borders of Illumasca and Shandmire.

But centuries of relentless harvesting and clearing had reduced the Synder Forest to a mere fragment of its former glory. Now, the few remaining Sentinel Trees grew only in a thin band of woodland separating Voltaine from its neighboring kingdoms.

The Lords of Nightfall, the ancient stewards of the Vale, had long allowed the forest to regrow, hoping to restore the magic and wonder that once flourished beneath the Sentinel’s canopy. But the great trees did not return, and the magic that had once breathed life into the Vale remained absent.

What remained was an unremarkable forest of oak, maple, and evergreen, trees that whispered only of what had been lost.

Each night of the hunt, Hayden’s nerves grew more frayed. By the third evening, the shadowy expanse of the forest seemed alive with unseen eyes, every rustle of leaves a potential threat. Jasper and his men pushed onward with determination, but Hayden couldn’t shake the feeling that they were chasing shadows while something far darker loomed just out of sight.

The Old Bear and his northerners weren’t known for their warmth, yet Hayden had been surprised by their acceptance. Each night, he found himself invited to sit near the fires, always with a place beside Jasper Facilious himself. His tent, shared with Corbin—a wiry and sharp-eyed tracker with the kind of fearlessness Hayden envied—was always positioned in the camp's center.

At least here, surrounded by seasoned warriors, Hayden felt some measure of safety. If the monster came, it would have to tear through the Old Bear's men first. It was a cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

The nights followed a predictable rhythm: the murmur of voices around the fire, the occasional bark of laughter, the distant sounds of horses shifting in the dark. But on the fifth night, Hayden woke to silence.

A deep, unnatural silence.

Something was wrong. His pulse quickened, panic rising like bile in his throat as his eyes darted to Corbin’s sleeping roll—empty.

Gripping his sword tightly, Hayden forced himself to move, his limbs stiff with fear. He leaned forward, the tent flap rustling as he cautiously poked his head out. The cold night air hit him like a slap, and his heart pounded against his ribs.

The camp was gone.

Not just quiet—vanished.

The men, the horses, the tents, all of it, gone without a trace. The only figure left was Lord Facilious.

Relief washed over Hayden at the sight of the Old Bear, but it quickly gave way to a prickling unease.

Jasper stood motionless by the dying embers of the campfire, his broad shoulders draped with the familiar ruddy bear pelt. The flickering light of the fire cast dancing shadows across his face, carving his features into something almost otherworldly.

“Where is everyone?” Hayden's voice wavered, cracking under the weight of his fear.

Facilious didn’t answer immediately. He stared into the embers, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his gravelly voice was low, yet held an edge sharp enough to cut at Hayden’s very soul.

“I do not know what killed my son,” he began, the words heavy. “Nor what hunts you now. But I know this—it must do so with good reason.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, suffocating and inescapable.

Hayden opened his mouth to protest, to question, but the Old Bear moved before he could speak.

Without another word, Facilious stepped away from the fire and into the shadowed forest. The soft crunch of his boots on the forest floor grew fainter, swallowed by the darkness.

“Wait—” Hayden called after him, his voice breaking.

But Jasper did not stop.

The silence returned, oppressive and deafening. Hayden was alone, the dim embers of the fire casting only enough light to deepen the surrounding shadows. Every sound—every rustle of leaves, every distant creak of branches—set his nerves on edge.

And then he realized: he wasn’t sure if the monster was outside the camp. Or already in it.