“Back to the lion’s den,” Kastiel muttered beside him, a hint of sarcasm threading through his voice. The Val ‘Rhayne had a way of slicing through tension with words sharper than any blade. “Shall we see what fresh hell awaits us within?”

Viktor offered a wry smile, though the corners of his mouth felt heavy, “I fear I already know”

The sun rose slowly above the distant treeline, casting a blood-red hue across the horizon that stained the sky in vibrant shades of crimson and deep orange. A cool morning mist lingered, shrouding the low-land in a ghostly veil, as Viktor’s carriage rumbled through the great iron gates of Nyvelion, the proud capital of Voltaine. The guards, clad in the gleaming armor of the king’s watch, recognized the livery of the Lord of Nightfall emblazoned on the side of the carriage—a deep midnight blue embroidered with silver threads that glinted in the morning light. With a nod of respect, they stepped aside, allowing the carriage to pass unhindered,

As the carriage climbed the steep rise toward the Hold, Viktor’s gaze was drawn to the imposing mountain ranges that encircled them—the Shaladaar Crest. There, high above them, the grand Emphyeral Hold loomed, a sister to his own Nightfall, its towering grey walls and battlements etched sharply against the crimson sky. The ancient hold of the king of Voltaine stood defiant, a testament to ages past, where power and mystery reigned over the lands. A time long before mankind.

The deeper they rolled into the city, the cobbled streets came alive with the sounds of the common folk waking to begin their day. Merchants readied their stalls while bakers were already busy at their ovens - the delicious aroma of fresh bread filled the cool morning air. Children darted through the crowd, their laughter mingling with the clatter of hooves and the creaking of carts.

Viktor leaned back against the plush cushions of his carriage, the rich fabric a poor comfort for the burdens that weighed upon him. His mind churned with unspoken troubles, the kind that gnawed at a man’s spirit, mired in exhaustion. The letter from the king had made it clear he was required to return to court with all haste to attend a counsel meeting this very morning.

Kastiel had chosen to join him in the carriage this time, an unusual decision for a man who typically preferred the open air to the stifling confines of what he disdainfully dubbed the "rattling death cage." Viktor suspected it had something to do with Eskilarr's poor mood. He'd allowed for some rest time for the horses before returning home, but clearly not long enough for the Nightmare.

Across from Viktor, the ancient warrior shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his lean frame coiled with restless energy. A slight scowl pulled at the corners of his mouth. The Val 'Rhayne seemed about as happy as his mount to be returning to the capital.

With each jolt of the carriage over the uneven stones, Viktor steeled himself for the inevitable confrontations that awaited him. The King was no longer the boy he had once called a friend; time had carved a chasm between them, as deep and wide as the Sea of Fallen Stars that had separated their paths. Once, Edryk had laughed with abandon, his eccentricities a source of amusement rather than concern. He had been sensible and charming in his way. But that was not the Edryk to whom the Lord of Nightfall returned.

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No, somewhere along the winding roads of ambition and betrayal, that carefree prince had perished. The boy had transformed into a man, and that man had ascended to rulership, burdened by the weight of a crown that had smothered the laughter and warmth they once shared. Viktor could only wonder if the change had something to do with the man who now ruled at the king's side. A figure of light whispered about in darkened corners—some deemed him the true power behind the throne; the Ascended. Ruler of the Azure Tower and Voice of the Risen God, he was a presence that loomed large, his influence seeping into the very marrow of the court.

What dark ambitions and hidden agendas simmered beneath the polished mask?

Before Viktor could dwell further on his troubling thoughts, the carriage lurched to a stop before the imposing gates of the Emphyeral Hold. Historians and scholars from the Azure Tower often spoke of the Time of Whispers—an era long ago when powerful creatures had called forth the ancient holds. Creatures of shadow that had long since faded into silence, well before mankind ever dared to tread upon the Midlands. Their legacy lingered in the very stones of the fortress, a haunting reminder of powers lost to time, echoing the secrets that lay within these walls.

“Chances are the invitation wasn’t for me, hm?” Kastiel remarked dryly, his tone laced with sardonic humour.

Viktor offered a wry smile, shaking his head in reluctant agreement. “No, I can’t imagine it was. Unless you’ve managed to charm your way into the Ascended’s good graces?”

Kastiel snorted softly, “I suspect that ship has not only sailed but sunk—probably somewhere off the storm coast.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Someday you’ll have to tell me what transpired.”

“Someday,” Kastiel replied with a wry smile.

Without another word, Kastiel swung open the carriage door and stepped out into the bracing morning air, striding toward Eskilarr, who had dragged his large hooves, following behind them at his own pace. Viktor knew the Nightmare had been looking forward to a return to Nightfall, and felt a certain amount of guilt at denying him. The hold and the ancient horse had suited each other well.

Watching the Val ‘Rhayne go, Viktor could not help but feel a shred of envy. The ancient knight did not have to deal with such courtly intrigues. He was not required to play these games. And, after his altercation with the Ascended, he was not even allowed to enter the grounds of the Emphyeral Hold.

Six months had passed, yet the details of that altercation remained shrouded in mystery for Viktor. He could only surmise that whatever transgression Kastiel had committed was grave enough to earn him such a harsh punishment, issued on the king's orders, no less.

Viktor tapped his cane against the carriage roof and Trystan, the driver, urged the blood bay stallions into motion again, their hooves thundering against the cobbled road as they resumed their journey.