Once inside the ancient hold, the rhythmic sound of Viktor's wooden cane striking against the stone floor echoed through the empty, pale grey halls of the Emphyeral Hold. Each tap resonated like a solitary heartbeat in the hushed atmosphere, a stark contrast to the stillness surrounding him. At this early hour, the only souls stirring were the guards, standing as still as statues at their posts, their armor gleaming dully in the dim light, and a few household staff members bustling about, hastily preparing for the day ahead. They moved quietly, their slippered footsteps muffled as they hastily prepared for the day, long before the Lords and Ladies of the Voltaine court had risen from their slumber.
In this profound quietude, Viktor navigated through the shadowed corridors, his cane a constant companion, grounding him as he advanced toward the Chamber of the Grand Counsel.
The blackwood cane, a gift from the Val ‘Rhayne, was not merely a walking stick but an exquisite work of art, each intricate detail a testament to the unparalleled craftsmanship that had gone into its creation. The rich, dark wood gleamed dully in the muted light of the hall, its surface polished to a smooth finish that felt warm and inviting to the touch. The handle, forged from cold iron, was skillfully shaped by a master smith to resemble one of the majestic black ravens that roosted among the twisted spires of Nightfall.
The raven’s form was both elegant and powerful, its wings poised as if ready to take flight. Intricate etchings along the iron mimicked the delicate feather patterns of its avian counterpart, capturing the essence of the bird’s grace and strength in every curve and contour.
Ravens of the Valley of Shadows appeared at first glance to be like any other—clad in glossy black feathers and armed with sharp, formidable beaks. Yet, it was their piercing cobalt eyes that set them apart, glimmering with a depth that hinted at ancient secrets and unspoken wisdom. The master ironworker had painstakingly chosen sapphires of the deepest, darkest blue, each gem carefully embedded in the eye of the raven, echoing the stunning gaze of the real ravens that soared high above the hold.
As he entered the Grand Throne Room through the massive arched doorways, the sound of Viktor’s cane followed him, a steady metronome in a realm that felt suspended in time. The rhythmic tapping reverberated against the high, vaulted ceilings and along the cold stone walls, filling the vast chamber with a sense of solemnity. Viktor paused for a moment, allowing himself to absorb the beauty of the grand hall, for it was unlike any other he had encountered.
The true purpose of these ancient holds, now claimed by the humans of the Midlands, was a mystery that eluded even the wisest among them. His own family’s stronghold of Nightfall remained largely enshrouded in mystery, a tapestry of secrets woven into its very foundations. But what was evident was the extraordinary skill possessed by the builders of these monumental structures. Legends told that those who had created these ancient halls could shape the living mountain stone with nothing more than a whisper. As Viktor looked around the grand hall, he could easily believe such a thing.
Two rows of towering stone pillars line the main aisle. Each one was an homage to the majestic Sentinel Trees of Synder Forest. The stone trees rose high above where intricately carved branches and leaves of pale stone reached out as if whispering secrets to one another, forming archways that felt alive. So lifelike was the craftsmanship that Viktor could almost hear the wind rustling through the throne room, an eerie reminder of the vibrant life that once thrived beyond the Emphyeral Hold's cold walls.
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Save for light and shadows, the hall was empty. Or at least he had thought himself alone, immersed in his thoughts, when suddenly, a voice broke through the stillness.
“My lord of Nightfall, good morning, and bless the Risen Day.” A figure emerged from the shadows near the entryway to the Grand Hall, stepping into the light with an air of quiet confidence. It was a member of the Blood Guard, his breastplate emblazoned with the Vhalorex crest—a mark that distinguished him from the common ranks of the Emphyeral Guard. The polished armor gleamed as if freshly forged.
In the dim light, Viktor instinctively tightened his grip around the handle of his cane, a reflex akin to how he once clutched the pommel of his sword when confronting the unknown. The raven’s sapphire dug painfully into his thumb as his heart thundered wildly inside his chest.
“Good morning, Lennox,” Viktor replied, a hint of dryness creeping into his voice. “Must you always lurk in the shadows at this hour?”
Beneath the gleaming, highly polished armor of the Blood Guard was a son of the Old Kingdoms. The first time Viktor had heard Lennox speak, the unmistakable accent of Vraycia had captivated him—a melodic cadence that resonated like a distant echo of home. It was a sound he had grown fond of, and now it filled him with a deep sense of longing. Nileyna, his estranged wife, had hailed from that very land, a place rich in traditions and infused with a spirit of wanderlust—qualities that had first drawn him to her like a moth to a flame. In her stories of Vraycia’s rolling hills and vibrant festivals, Viktor had discovered a world that fascinated and enchanted him, yet those memories now bore a bittersweet weight.
The guard raised his face guard to reveal a handsome, clean-shaven face framed by short black hair, “Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Lennox replied, his voice steady and confident. “If you would permit me, it would be my honor to escort you to the Chamber of Counsel.”
Had it been any other member of the Blood Guard, Viktor would have politely declined the offer. The Blood Guard was an elite faction of the Emphyeral Guard, each warrior a master of their craft—skilled combatants trained for the highest stakes. Tasked with safeguarding the royal bloodline, they commanded respect. Of the dozen chosen for this sacred duty, only one had truly earned Viktor's confidence: Lennox Solantis, the Quickblade. With his unmatched speed and sharp intuition, Lennox had become not just a protector but a confidant, a steadfast ally in a realm where shadows lurked just beyond the light.
“I welcome the company, Lennox,” Viktor said, feeling his heart rate slowly return to normal. “But for the love of the gods, stop hiding in these damned shadows!”
Lennox gave a small nod, the clank of his armor echoing softly in the stillness. “Of course, my lord. I shall do my best to remain in the light,” Lennox replied with a faint smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to soften his serious demeanor.
Shaking his head, Viktor allowed himself a small chuckle as he turned towards the far end of the hall. The weight of the day ahead loomed large, but Lennox’s presence offered a flicker of reassurance.
“What’s the mood among the council members?” Viktor asked as they began to walk. The sound of their footsteps echoed against the polished stone floor, a steady rhythm that calmed his nerves.
Lennox’s expression grew serious, his gaze fixed ahead. “Tensions are high, my lord. There are whispers of changes brewing in the Old Kingdoms.”
“The Battleborn, I take it?” Viktor inquired, arching an eyebrow.
“Indeed, my lord,” Lennox confirmed with a nod. “Though the specifics remain unclear. All I know is that it has troubled the king deeply, which is why he insists on your return.”
Viktor sighed, feeling a familiar knot form in his stomach. “I suspected as much.”
Word of the Battleborn had reached him through the network of informants that he and Kastiel had woven throughout the realm. That the news had also reached the king was hardly surprising; the winds of change traveled fast, and unrest had a way of finding its way to those in power.