Night reigned over the Midlands, weaving a dark tapestry as a black carriage, drawn by a striking pair of blood bay stallions, rattled to a stop outside the Mottled Bear Inn. Above, the moon and stars held court in a clear sky, unmarred by clouds, casting their silvery gaze down upon the world below. Together, they painted a haunting tableau of light and shadow, draping the land in an otherworldly glow. The stallions held their heads high, snorting softly as wisps of breath escaped their flared nostrils, forming ghostly puffs that hung in the crisp evening air like the whispers of long-forgotten spirits.
The Mottled Bear Inn loomed like a weary sentinel, its two stories of timber and stone sagging under the weight of countless storms and the passage of years. Its weathered exterior bore the scars of time—faded paint peeling like memories—but it stood resolute, a promise of shelter to weary travellers. Inside, the beds were generally free from the creeping infestations of fleas and lice, a small mercy in a world that knew little of comfort. The inn’s cook, who had appeared as seasoned as the inn itself as the Inn itself, bore a talent for transforming simple ingredients into decent fare.
In the darkness, two oil lamps flickered at the entrance, casting a golden glow that danced like wraiths upon the mud-streaked ground. To one side, a modest barn stood, its door slightly ajar, revealing shadows that hinted at the presence of livestock. Despite the persistent muck of spring’s thaw, the yard remained surprisingly tidy, a testament to the stableboy’s diligence.
As the driver brought the carriage to a halt, an outrider mounted on a great destrier, black as the void between stars, rode past and reined in at the inn’s stable yard. The soft, muddy ground squelched beneath his worn leather boots as he dismounted, the chill of the night biting through the fabric of his cloak. Storm-grey eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the yard and the encroaching darkness from beneath the hood that sheltered him from the cool evening air.
The scent of damp earth and manure mingled with the rich aroma of burning wood wafting from the inn’s hearth, a balm against the lingering chill of early spring. Here in the Midlands, winter had only recently released the land from its icy grasp and the evening air still carried a biting edge.
The driver hopped down from his seat, striding towards the carriage door, while the blood bay stallions, perfectly matched and regal, stood as still as statues. Only the steam rising from their flanks betrayed them as living beasts, their breath mingling with the night.
The door of the black carriage swung open, and the Lord of Nightfall stepped into the cool embrace of the evening air. Standing tall, Viktor Helston stepped down onto the muddy ground, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the breeze, revealing the glint of steel at his side. Shadows danced at the edges of the inn’s flickering lanterns, and for a moment, the world fell silent, as if holding its breath.
“Seems the stable boy is asleep on the job,” muttered the cloaked outrider, a shadow among shadows.
Unlike the blood bays who remained statuesque, the black destrier beside him snorted and pawed impatiently at the mud, eager for a warm stall and an evening meal.
Muffled voices floated from the inn’s main hall, accompanied by the soft rustle of horses shifting in their stalls. Clearly, the Mottled Bear was open for business.
Six months ago, the last time they had passed this way, the grounds had been just as muddy and the air just as cool. Winter had been looming on the fringes then, waiting for its chance to claim the land. On that journey, the Lord of Nightfall and his guardian companion had been on their way south to the capital of Voltaine, to the grand Emphyeral Hold and the court of King Edryk Vhalorex.
Now, for the second time in under a year, the Lord of Nightfall was returning home—to the Vale of Shadows, to Nightfall itself.
Duty called Viktor Helston back, for a dark spectre haunted his lands. A monster, he had been told. A beast that slayed without mercy and left its victims torn apart. One which the lords he had left in charge had proven woefully inadequate in its demise. He could not bear the thought of any more of those living under Nightfall’s shadow succumbing to the same gruesome fate.
With a careful glance around the desolate stable yard, he turned towards his driver, only to find the Val ‘Rhayne disappearing into the depths of the barn, a dark wraith among the shadows.
“Leave this to me,” Kastiel’s voice echoed, laden with a foreboding tone that Viktor recognized all too well—a tone that often heralded trouble. But fatigue weighed heavily on him, and he found himself too weary to intervene.
The road north that connected the capital to the Vale of Shadows had once been a major trade route. As such, the state had kept it well maintained. With the closure of the Synder Forest’s borders, the route lost its significance, and the state ceased its maintenance. Years of neglect had transformed the path into a treacherous maze of washouts and deep ruts. Each jolt and jarring motion of the carriage wore him down, leaving him exhausted and sore.
“M’lord, would you like me to follow him?” Trystan asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Viktor could hardly fault his young driver for his hesitation, for he had once felt it, too. Most folk did when faced with the Val ‘Rhayne. At least for the first while. Kastiel was not inherently terrifying—though he could be, when the mood struck him. No, it was more the effect he had, like the sudden confrontation with a childhood hero, revered and formidable. Viktor himself had grown up on tales of the Val ‘Rhayne, curled at the feet of elders by flickering firelight, each story casting a long shadow in his young imagination. To encounter such a figure in the flesh was daunting, to say the least.
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After a brief pause, Viktor shook his head, dismissing the thought. “No, thank you, Trystan. Best you tend to the horses for now. It won’t be long.”
As if summoned by his words, a piercing shriek erupted from the barn, shattering the evening stillness. The terrified shriek from the barn had unsettled Trystan, but Viktor remained unfazed. This was nothing new for the Lord of Nightfall, whom had been in company with the Val ‘Rhayne for over two decades now.
Moments later, the stable boy scuttled out from between the barn doors. Kastiel followed at a measured pace, and beneath the shadows of his hood, a slight smirk tugged at his lips—a glimmer of mischief that hinted at the ancient knight’s unpredictable nature. As he returned to his mount, the night thickened around them. Shadows followed the Val ‘Rhayne like light followed the sun.
“Forgive me, m’lord!” stammered the stableboy, his voice quavering like a leaf in the wind. “We’ve had no new patrons since midday.”
Viktor held up his hand and gently silenced the boy. No older than his young driver, the boy’s pimpled and pocked face was pale with fright. Clearly, there was no need to punish the boy any further, the Val ‘Rhayne had done enough.
“There’s no need for forgiveness. Just show my driver where the horses can be placed for the night and ensure all are well fed. Only the best of fed,” said Viktor.
“Of course, m’lord, of course! I’ve saved a few of the best bales from last fall’s harvest. Kept them good and dry I did. No dust or mould, m’lord,” said the stableboy, glancing over at the waiting horses. The massive destrier eyed him and pawed at the muddy ground once more.
“Thank you, that will do. And a portion of whatever the cook had prepared this evening for my driver,” said Viktor.
“Of course, m’lord! Tonight’s a venison stew,” said the boy. This time he drew himself a little taller, “Shot the deer myself. Just this morning.” There was more than a hint of pride in the stableboy’s tone.
“That will do, thank you.” said Viktor.
“Shall I take one of the horses?” the lad asked, a little uncertain as his eyes darted over the imposing figure of Kastiel’s destrier.
Viktor shook his head. “No need. Simply show them where the horses can bed down for the night.”
The Lord of Nightfall smothered a smile. Kastiel’s mount, Eskilarr, was just about as notable as his rider. And arguably older. Truth be told, not even the Val ‘Rhayne knew how old the Nightmare was. Only that they had met each other in the Ever-burning.
To look at him now, one might easily mistake the Val ‘Rhayne’s mount for a destrier, the prized steeds of the knights of the Midlands, renowned for their towering size and formidable strength in battle. Eskilarr stood proudly, a dark silhouette against the fading light, his glossy coat absorbing the twilight like a shadow made flesh. Taller than Viktor’s blood bay stallions by more than a hand, he possessed an imposing presence.
His nostrils flared as he inhaled the crisp night air, and his long, flowing tail danced like a banner in the wind. The lower portions of his legs were adorned with black feathering, soft against the starkness of his massive, shod hooves. Yet, for all his imposing stature, that was where the similarities with other destriers ended.
Eskilarr was no mere warhorse; he was a creature of the Ever-burning; a Nightmare. Beneath the dragon shaped headstall, eyes of ember burning brightly against the night, gave away his true nature. As they stood there, a light began to glow within the Nightmare’s chest. It was something the stallion did when he was excited; either by the prospect of battle. Or food.
“Of course! Right away, m’lord!” The stableboy bobbed his head, relief washing over his features as he turned to lead Trystan toward the barn, the blood bay stallions following calmly behind the driver. Kastiel followed closely behind with Eskilarr, who moved with a predatory grace, eyes glinting red as embers beneath the dragon shaped headstall.
As they vanished inside the barn, light spilled into the inn’s courtyard like warm honey, illuminating the damp cobblestones and casting flickering shadows that danced upon the weathered stones. The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing the Headkeeper of the Mottled Bear Inn—a burly woman, stout and solid, with a wild bramble of thick, curly red hair piled atop her head like a crown of thorns.
“Good evening, m’lord,” she called, her voice warm yet commanding, echoing the sturdy nature of the inn itself. “Care to come in for some warmth? I’ve just pulled a fresh batch of stew from the hearth, and the fire is crackling like the tales of old.”
Viktor’s gaze softened, the weight of the night easing slightly under her inviting presence. “Stew, you say? That sounds like a welcome respite.”
“Then step inside before the chill claims you, my lord,” she urged, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mirth and challenge. “You may be lord of Nightfall, but even shadows seek the comfort of fire.”
The first taste of ale was still fresh upon his tongue when the messenger burst into the Mottled Bear, a flurry of anxious energy dressed in the king’s livery. The boy’s eyes darted wildly around the tavern’s dimly lit main hall, flickering over the soot-stained beams and rough-hewn tables, before finally settling on Viktor and his companion, the Val ‘Rhayne.
The horses had been cared for, their coats brushed and their bellies full, before the men sat down to tend to their own stomachs. Just as the stableboy had said, for dinner that night, the Mottled Bear’s cook had a hearty roasted vegetable and venison stew. Two trenchers of crusty bread, generously filled with the stew, awaited for them in the tavern's main hall.
The cuts of vegetables were thick and generous, while the meat was a little tough and gamey. The deer must have been an old one. But there were mugs of rich, dark ale to wash it all down.
Viktor suppressed a groan when the boy locked eyes on him. Beyond the tavern’s dusty windows, he could make out the boys’ mount. A finely bred horse, well lathered from its travels. The boy must have set quite the pace to catch them.
“Well, so much for the Vale of Shadows. Seems the beast will have to wait,” Kastiel muttered over his own mug of ale.
The Lord of Nightfall did not need to crack open the rolled piece of parchment the messenger handed him with trembling hands. He already knew exactly what it said; return to court. Immediately.