The Emphyeral Hold loomed against the sky like a titan risen from the earth, its formidable silhouette casting an imposing shadow over the rugged landscape. Towering high above the valley floor, the castle’s great grey stone walls appeared almost monolithic, their surfaces unmarred by the passage of centuries, standing defiant against the relentless battering of wind and rain.
Sister to his own Nightfall, the Emphyeral Hold was nearly four times the size. Perhaps even large, when considering the numerous deep passages carved back into the mountain that had long since been sealed off.
Beyond the inner great gates, past the external walls, the approach to the Emphyeral Hold opened up onto a massive courtyard plateau, hewn from the very mountainside itself. Great braziers lined the edges, their iron frames twisted and ornate, though unlit in the early hours.
This expansive area, flanked by towering cliffs that seemed to cradle the fortress. And it had to be traversed on foot. Trystan and the carriage could only take Viktor so far as the inner gate before the landscape prevented the horses from taking them any further.
Already a small crowd of courtiers trickled into the Emphyeral Hold as Viktor made his approach, their hushed conversations melding into a soft murmur that echoed against the towering stone walls. Most would already be inside. The ancient hold was more than large enough to accommodate most, if not all, of Voltaine’s courtiers. Viktor’s choice to live in Helston house beyond the great hold’s walls was his own; if a little aided by Kastiel.
At the midpoint of the grand courtyard expanse, a striking row of ancient runes sprawled across the stone floor, their worn surfaces whispering of secrets and spells long forgotten. The arch of runes connected the two walls like a bridge crossing in front of the great entryway, its inscriptions curling and twisting in intricate patterns that seemed to shift subtly in the dim light. Though the true meaning or purpose behind these carvings had faded into obscurity, they were steeped in an aura of reverence, a reminder of the mountain’s enigmatic history.
Inside the hold, the crowds gathering for the ceremony grew thicker as Viktor approached the Grand Hall, a sea of faces buzzing with excitement and anticipation. The vibrant colors on display in the crowd painted a lively tableau, but beneath the surface, Viktor sensed an undercurrent of tension. This was no ordinary gathering.
Thus far, all Collaring ceremonies had been hosted within the grand halls of the Azure Tower, a bastion of the Ascended and the domain of his Risen God. Today, however, marked a significant departure from tradition; this was the first time the King was allowing for such a ceremony to take place within the Emphyeral Hold.
Viktor’s intuition prickled. He suspected there was more to this decision than merely the Ashford child. While she was undeniably gifted, possessing talents that even Kastiel found remarkable, there had been others far stronger who had undergone the ritual in the hallowed halls of the Azure Tower. The Ashford child was a means to an end, and Viktor was certain the King was using this ceremony as a test run—a way to gauge the response of both the populace and the Ascended before he brought the Tempest to the capital.
As he continued onward, a sudden jolt of pain flared in his knee, shooting through him like a bolt of lightning. Viktor grimaced; it felt as though an unseen hand had clamped down on the joint, twisting and squeezing with fierce intensity. The ache gnawed at the edges of his resolve, a sharp reminder of his frailty.
Viktor gripped his cane tighter, the iron raven cool against his palm as the sapphire eye nipped at his flesh. He inhaled deeply, willing himself to push through the sensation, to reclaim control over his own body. Until he could see out the administrations of a Healer, this pain was a part of him, an unwelcome companion that he had to learn to navigate. With each strike of the cane against the stone, he steeled himself, determined not to let it define him. Nor was he keen to let others here see any further into the weakness already on display.
Just then, a loud crystalline voice called across the hall.
“My Lord of Nightfall!” Zeven Haeldryn, the Ambassador from the Arterian Kingdom in the northern reaches of Everwinter, emerged from the gathering crowds and made his way directly to Viktor.
Though not tall in stature, the ambassador’s presence commanded attention, radiating a confidence that made it impossible not to take notice. This morning, as he had for all the Collaring ceremonies he had been made to attend thus far, Zeven had cast aside the traditional ceremonial robes of his homeland. Instead, he opted for the sleek lines of Voltainese court fashion, garments tailored to perfection, with sharp cuts that highlighted his lean frame.
In the past, he had informed Viktor that he refused to soil the traditional ceremonial garb of Arteriac for proceedings that weighed heavily on his conscience. His voice had held an edge of defiance when he declared, “I will not drape myself in the symbols of my culture only to stand in the shadow of injustice.”
A dark crimson tunic clung to his athletic frame, its tailored fit enhancing the graceful movements of his agile build. Paired with leather leggings that whispered of both elegance and practicality, the fabric shimmered subtly under the hall's flickering torches, drawing the eyes of the onlookers like moths to a flame.
The Ambassador's small retinue trailed behind him: a contingent of guards, several advisors, and his delicate, yet heavily pregnant wife. His entourage mirrored his choice, a deliberate departure from the expected, each member dressed in similar attire.
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Zeven’s pale silver hair framed a face marked by sharp features, the kind that seemed carved by the glaciers of his homeland. His piercing ice-blue eyes glinted, hinting at the chill that resided deep within the heart of Everwinter. As he stepped closer to Viktor, a hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips, a knowing expression that suggested an awareness of the intricate web of undercurrents swirling around them.
Suppressing a sigh, Viktor came to a stop, bracing himself for what was to come.
"Lord and Lady Haeldryn," Viktor replied. Reflexively, his fingers tightened around the iron raven handle of his cane.
"My lord, may I accompany you on your journey to the grand hall?” asked Zeven casually in a manner that belied his tone.
In another life perhaps, Viktor would have welcomed the Ambassador’s company. Truth be told, he admired the Arterian and found resonance in many of his sentiments, particularly his disdain for Collaring—a practice Viktor himself found abhorrent. They could have been allies, united by their convictions, standing against the rising tide of oppression that threatened their world.
But the precarious position of his ancestral seat weighed heavily on Viktor’s shoulders, the looming spectre of his family’s legacy casting a long shadow over his aspirations. The burden of history, of loss and betrayal, left him wary and circumspect. He could not afford to risk everything on ideals alone; the stakes were far too high. The brutal reality of court politics demanded a delicate balance, one that often put him at odds with those whose convictions he shared. At least for the time being.
“Of course, Ambassador. I welcome the company,” replied Viktor and set off once more towards the grand hall.
‘I hope this day finds you well," Zeven smiled, though Viktor noted it failed to reach the Ambassador's eyes.
Haunted eyes, Viktor thought to himself as he peered down at the Arterian Ambassador. Viktor had travelled far and wide, but the Arterian’s never failed captivated him. Their white hair, reminiscent of winter snow, contrasted beautifully against their warm, golden-tan skin, creating a striking visual that turned heads as they passed, yet it was their eyes that held Viktor's fascination. Those blue irises, so pale they almost melded into the white around them, seemed to hold the weight of a thousand winter nights, each one etched with unspoken sorrows and secrets.
"Indeed, as with you, ambassador," replied Viktor.
"Thank you, my Lord of Nightfall. But you see, I have difficulty enjoying a declaration of ownership,” Zeven stated, loudly enough that those around them would hear.
He might actually be one of the least diplomatic diplomats I've ever met, Viktor mused, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Zeven’s words cut through the air, drawing the attention of the assembled courtiers with an ease that spoke of his confidence and disregard for the usual decorum.
From the moment of his arrival, Zeven Haeldryn had been one of the loudest voices in the crowd, unafraid to make his discontent known. He had not hesitated to express his views on King Edryk’s decision to allow the Ascended—and by extension, the Azure Tower and its Risen God—to Collar any mageborn or witch-born within Voltaine.
Viktor felt more than a little sorry for Zeven’s petite, white-haired wife. The Ambassador’s wife looked more than a little uncomfortable, and it was not just because of the swell of her belly beneath the gown of forest green silk cut in the Voltainese cut currently favored by the ladies of the court. Lady Aine Haeldryn had always made pleasant company during her time amongst the Queen’s ladies, despite the fact she received many cold shoulders for her husband’s outspokenness.
"I suppose it's all a matter of perspective, Ambassador. Some may see this as a sacred bond." replied Viktor, fighting not to choke on the words himself.
"A sacred bond, hm? Is that what we’re calling it? More like a shackle masquerading as a blessing. I had once thought better of the seat of Nightfall," Zeven continued, his voice a smooth edge that sliced through the thickening tension in the air. “Yet here we are, standing on the precipice of what could very well be our undoing and those with the power to pull us back remain idle.”
Viktor’s jaw tightened slightly, and he felt the heat of indignation rise within him. He forced a calmness into his expression, carefully crafting his words. “Ambassador, you tread a dangerous path. The winds of dissent can turn tempestuous very quickly. You may find that your opinions, however well-founded, might not be welcomed by all.”
“Ah, the ever-diplomatic Lord of Nightfall, warning me to watch my tongue,” Zeven retorted, an eyebrow arching in mockery, the corner of his lips curling into a sardonic smile. “But tell me, what would you have me do? Remain silent while the true ways are threatened? While the gifts of the gods are abused by a king who seeks to collar our magic like common livestock?”
His voice was a piercing arrow, each word laced with a fervor that stirred the air between them. The ambassador’s pale blue eyes blazed with indignation, a tempest of emotion barely contained within his lithe frame.
One more, Viktor tightened his grip around the iron raven of his cane, feeling the cool metal press into his palm—a grounding sensation amid the rising tide of emotion. “There is a time and a place for rebellion, Ambassador. A public ceremony, surrounded by the very nobility you seek to rally against, is not that time.”
“Perhaps not,” Zeven acknowledged, his icy blue eyes narrowing slightly. “But then, when will the time come? When the collars are fastened and the chains are in place? The court’s silence is deafening, Viktor. It speaks volumes, and I refuse to be complicit in this farce.”
Just then, Lady Aine moved up beside her husband, the tension palpable as she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Zeven, perhaps it is best we save such discussions for another time,” she murmured, her voice soft but edged with urgency.
“Fear not, my dear,” he said, the Ambassador’s face softened for a moment, resting his hand lightly atop hers, the gesture one of tenderness and affection. “If we do not speak the truth now, when will we? Better to shake the foundations of this so-called ceremony than let it proceed as if nothing were amiss. I will not stand silent.”
“Nor should you,” Viktor interjected, almost forgetting himself in the desire to defuse the tension. “But understand that words have weight in this court. You risk not only your standing but also the well-being of those who depend on you, including your wife and unborn child.”
"My standing? It matters not any longer," Zeven said, the smile that graced his lips reminding Viktor of a wolf baring its teeth. "For I depart for the north within the week. My wife is descended from those born to magic. Her aunt bears the gift. I will not risk my child being Collared to please a God we do not recognize."