The Time of Whispers - an era etched in the annals of Midlands’ history, when soft murmurs drifted through the verdant valleys and dense woodlands that embraced the majestic mountain ranges. Elusive whispers that seemed to rise from the very abyss of the mountains’ depths themselves. For millennia upon millennia, the Children of the Darkness communed with their towering guardians, their voices melding seamlessly with the shadows that clung to the stone.

The great, towering Sentinel Trees of the Synder Forest, their gnarled branches arching overhead, as those who walked beneath their vaulted canopies bore witness to the slow transformation of the mountains. Gradually, the rugged mountain faces took shape, sculpting the Ancient Holds as they stand today, monuments to a time long past. Ancient and unyielding, they stand as sentinels over this primordial land, their granite faces etched with the secrets of time. Each a witness to the passing ages.

Then, on a bright mid-winter’s day, as heavy snowflakes descended to blanket the Midlands, an unnatural stillness enveloped the valleys and foothills. In that hushed moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. No living soul could say what befell the Children of Darkness, nor why their whispers ceased or where they vanished; only that one day they were simply gone. Had it not been for the enduring presence of the Ancient Holds, those mountain dwellers who could mould living stone to their will with naught but a murmur, their legacy might have been swept away by the winds of time, leaving no trace in the annals of history.

And thus, an era that began with whispers faded into a deep, resounding silence.

The learned men and women of Voltaine’s Azure Tower who spent their lives sitting in dimly lit rooms, heavy heads on aching necks bent over ancient scrolls of fraying parchment or the weathered pages of thick leather-bound books, studying the written words penned in ink through glass spectacles perched upon the tips of their noses, could tell you little of those who had come before. Even hundreds of years after man first set foot in the Midlands, the ancient holds remained largely an enigma. Much like those whose whispers had brought them into being.

Four hundred years past, during the reign of King Fhalkyn I Vhalorex, when the Azure Tower was still a tomb, the king called for deeper studies into the very structures the people of Voltaine now claimed as home. Thus, from this royal decree, the sect that would one day don the blue robes of the Azure Tower was born.

Marcus Sillious, a man described as eccentric by those who knew him, would be forever remembered as one who danced upon the fine line separating infamy from illustriousness. He often wrestled with the boundaries between what he termed passion and what had truly become obsession. For Sixty-five years, Marcus delved into the secrets hidden within the halls and chambers of Voltaine’s ancient holds, striving to uncover their mysteries and grasp their powers. If he was not traversing the living stone corridors, he was lost in tomes filled with their lore

In his youth, Marcus had journeyed far and wide, even beyond the borders of the Kingdom of Voltaine, seeking fragments of knowledge about the ancient holds. Yet as time took its toll and his once-strong joints became unwilling companions for such travels, he found himself increasingly ensconced within the great libraries of the Emphyeral Hold. There, he meticulously transcribed the wealth of knowledge he had gathered, pouring his heart into what would become his magnum opus, *The Whispers in the Mountains*.

This tome, now said to rest under lock and key by royal decree, forms part of the King’s private collection in the grand library of the Emphyeral Hold—the same library from which its author would ultimately leap to his death from a high window, a tragic end to a life spent chasing shadows in the stone.

Rumour was that the madness Marcus had spent his entire life a single step ahead of finally caught up with him. Some said it was when he realised that all his life, his sixty-five years of study, had culminated in a book no longer than a dozen pages with admittedly larger than average writing and rather wordy phrasing. Others said it was something he had learned about the ancient holds that finally drove the man mad. Which, if either, was true had never been proven for only the King had access to the book now.

Not that Mae Franecture ever needed a tome filled with the inked ramblings of a madman to know the ancient hold of Nightfall as intimately as she did. No, her understanding sprang not from dusty pages, but from a lifetime spent in the company of its shadows and whispers.

As HeadKeeper of Nightfall, Mae was descended from a long line of women whom the ancient hold had chosen to bond with. For as long as the Lords of House Helston had served as Lord of Nightfall, the women of Mae’s lineage had served as it’s Keepers. Nightfall was not just a place to her; it was a living entity, a partner in her very existence.

And it had abandoned her.

When she woke this morning, Mae did as she had done every day for the past year. In the darkness of the early hours she lay in silence, her eyes shut tight against the encroaching day and her mind reaching out. Her thoughts spiraled down into the void that Nightfall had become, reaching out with the tendrils of their bond. Yet, as with every day for the past year, the silence was deafening; nothing reached back to her, only the cold emptiness where connection once thrived.

Then came the sharp pang of longing, a cruel reminder of what once was. Mae envied the Lord his escape, often pondering whether leaving Nightfall had brought him the solace he sought.

Not the physical structure. No, that was still very much intact. The massive black stone walls, with their twisted spires and dark-pitched roofs that clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers, remained steadfast against the backdrop of the mountain ranges in the Vale of Shadows. It was the intangible essence that made Nightfall more than mere stone and mortar.

And Mae missed it terribly.

Now, its absence left a hollow ache within her. The walls stood as silent sentinels, but without that mysterious spirit, they felt cold and lifeless, mere remnants of what once was.

After she cleaned herself, Mae resolved not to sulk over the Hold’s lingering silence. Instead, she threw herself into her day’s work with fervour. As the Lord of Nightfall, seated in the second most powerful position in the Voltaine Empire, was often called away—sometimes for months or even years—much of the Hold operated on a bare minimum.

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With the Lord absent, the household was managed by a skeleton crew: Gerald, the lean and weathered groundskeeper; his plump, cheerful daughter Henna, who always lent a hand to Mae; and Thomas, the shy, awkward stable boy. Only a handful of rooms remained open, while the rest of Nightfall was shuttered, draped in dust covers and left to await the Lord’s return.

This meant Mae had little to oversee beyond the daily chores that needed attending—sweeping, dusting, reorganising—and by midday, her tasks were complete. Yet, instead of resting, she felt a restless energy. She sent Thomas to the nearby market for supplies and set about preparing a feast for the remaining staff, determined to infuse warmth into the otherwise empty halls of Nightfall.

Long after Gerald, Henna, and the quite stable boy, who blushed whenever the groundskeepers daughter smiled at him, had excused themselves from the table, their bellies too full, their heads too drowsy and their eyes too heavy to continue on any longer into the evening, Mae and her mother sat by the hearth in the large kitchens of Nightfall, enjoying its warmth.

Painfully arthritic joints may have brought about a premature end to Janna’s reign as Head Keeper of Nightfall, but they had not taken away the bond she shared with the ancient hold. This early into the spring, the lingering chills of winter’s winds still came at night to the people of Voltaine so tonight Mae had started a small fire in the kitchen's hearth. Janna had stoked it into a roaring blaze.

“Have patience, my dear. Nightfall will return to you when it’s good and ready, yes, hmm,” said Janna over her cup of herbal tea.

Mae let her mother’s words reverberate in her mind. As she sipped her tea, its warmth spread through her, a fragile comfort against the chill of uncertainty. Her gaze was drawn to the flames, twisting and leaping within the hearth, their chaotic dance a reflection of the turmoil brewing in her heart.

A strange thought crept into Mae’s mind – what if this new Lord was the very reason Nightfall had not returned to them? What if Viktor’s second departure had cut so deep that the castle itself, a living entity, had turned its back on him at the moment he was called to serve? The weight of that possibility hung heavy in the air, thick as fog. Mae felt a chill seep into her bones, the gnawing fear that Nightfall’s heart might still harbour resentment, its spirit unwilling to welcome back a wayward son.

Without needing to glance over, Mae could sense her mother, Janna, deep in slumber, lulled into the realm of dreams by the gentle embrace of the hearth’s fire. The soft snores drifting from the depths of the chair beside her were a comforting reminder that Janna was at peace, content enough to let the world fade away. It was a reassurance that Mae would not disturb her, not now.

As she navigated the dimly lit halls, her mother’s words echoed in her mind, each syllable a lingering spectre guiding her steps toward the chamber reserved for the Head Keeper of Nightfall. The stone walls seemed to absorb her thoughts, the shadows whispering secrets of the past.

The disappearance of Nightfall had wrought its share of misfortunes, one of the most profound being the loss of that inexplicable light. In its absence, the shadows loomed larger, heavy and oppressive. Yet, perhaps by design, the Hold had been constructed to endure such trials. Mae often fancied that the ancient Children, those whispered spirits who had once communed with Nightfall, understood the depths of the fortress’s soul and had foreseen these moments.

Wall sconces brimming with flickering torches lined the stone corridors, their flames dancing like forgotten hopes. Great hearths and countless braziers, all hewn from the living rock of the mountain itself, were generously scattered throughout the Hold's chambers. They stood as steadfast sentinels against the encroaching dark, illuminating not just the physical space, but the lingering echoes of warmth and solace, both inside the mountain and out. In this, Mae found a flicker of comfort; the very essence of Nightfall, though absent, still held a presence, watching over them in the flicker of flame and the whisper of stone.

With a heavy sigh, Mae undressed, casting aside the day’s garments and tossing them into the waiting hamper for the morning wash. She slipped beneath the cool sheets, the fabric a familiar embrace, and turned toward the darkened space beside her.

This was far from the first time Nightfall had retreated into itself. In truth, it occurred with such regularity that those who shared a bond with the ancient hold could predict its ebb and flow with unsettling ease. Mae understood, without question, that Nightfall not only comprehended the weight of grief but also felt it keenly when a connection was broken. As a toddling babe, nestled against her mother’s skirts, Mae must have sensed the shift in the air as the Hold withdrew, retreating deeper into the mountain from which it had been hewn, mourning the severing of a bond by the cruel hand of death.

She had been but three years old when Lady Coretha Helston—the Raven-Eyed Lady, as many affectionately called her—had succumbed in the throes of childbirth. Even in her tender years, Mae felt the sorrow reverberate through the stone, an echo of loss that intertwined with her own innocence. Nightfall had mourned alongside them, its ancient heart grieving the passing of one so beloved, a bond unmade that left an indelible mark upon both its walls and the souls who called it home.

Nightfall had retreated into itself to grieve the departed, but not so deeply that Mae could no longer sense its presence. The distance lasted only a few days before the ancient hold emerged once more, vibrant and resolute. This had left a young Mae bewildered when Mason Helston, Viktor’s grandfather and former Lord of Nightfall, met his end in a hunting accident, mere months after Lady Coretha succumbed in childbirth.

This time, the Hold withdrew much further, sinking into a silence that nearly eclipsed Mae's awareness, and it remained hidden for months on end. In her confusion, she turned to her mother, who swiftly illuminated the matter: the depth and duration of Nightfall’s mourning were bound to the strength of the ties forged in life. Lady Coretha, a child of the Old Kingdom, had never been able to form the bond that Nightfall so yearned for, no matter how fiercely it wished to claim her. Thus, when she died, the Hold did not mourn her loss as it would have for one of its own.

But the daughter lost alongside her—though her life had flickered like a candle's flame—had been born of the mountain’s essence, a true child of Nightfall. In embracing her, the Hold had claimed her as part of its very soul, and in her passing, it mourned with a depth that resonated through the stone, a testament to the bonds of love that, once forged, could never be truly forgotten.

Over the years that would follow, there would be more losses and more withdrawals of Nightfall’s presence. And, just as her mother said she would, Mae got used to Nightfall’s patterns. Never had the ancient hold caused her any worry, for she had always sensed its presence before. No matter how deep it went, it never truly left her. This time was different.

Callum’s death had weighed heavily on them all, and Mae understood the toll it would take on Nightfall, whose bond with the former Lord had been particularly profound. So when the Hold retreated into itself, she felt a familiar ache, though what startled her was the depth of its silence, as if the very stones had sealed themselves away, leaving no trace of their presence.

A year. A full year had passed since that day, and Mae sighed again. There was no flicker of hope to grasp, no whisper of reassurance that Nightfall would return. With her eyes closed, she reached into the darkness, sending her thoughts spiralling into the depths of the Hold, yearning for any sign—any flicker of life that might reveal it was still there, still watching over them.

But only hurt and disappointment welled within her, boiling into a tempest of pain and frustration. *Come home,* Mae cried out into the void of her mind, her heart breaking with the weight of her longing. *Come back to me!* The words echoed in the silence, a plea swallowed by the shadows.