Let us in, whispered the voices in the darkness, curling around his mind like smoke from a dying flame. Let us in!
The storm on the fringes of his mind roiled like dark clouds gathering in a tempest. Shadows twisted and churned. A deep rumble rolled through the distant recesses of his consciousness, reverberating like the growl of an ancient beast awakening from slumber—a familiar omen heralding the return of the demons that haunted him. Lightning flickered in the depths of his thoughts, illuminating memories he wished to forget, sharp and jarring against the encroaching darkness.
Let us in, Their raspy tones clawed at his consciousness, scraping like nails against a frost-rimed windowpane, an insistent, jarring melody.
His demons could always sense when he was weak. They knew the haunts of his mind better than he. They could sense the cracks in his resolve, the moments when his inner defences wavered like a candle flickering in a storm. In those fragile instants, they circled closer.
Let us in! The demons called, their voices a chorus of temptation and pain.
Voices whispered from the depths of the storm, soft yet insistent. They beckoned him, drawing him closer to the edge, where the darkness churned with an almost sentient hunger.
Let us in! We miss you. We need you. Their voices tore at his heart and soul. But he could not give in to them. Not now.
Soon, my loves. I promise, he murmured, feigning strength he did not possess. Have patience. But deep down, he knew the truth: patience was a luxury he could scarcely afford, and the shadows were ever hungry.
Viktor Helston awoke alone in the darkness of his study. The dying flames in the large black stone hearth flickered weakly, casting flickering shadows that danced across the warm, wood panelled walls. Aida or Kastiel must have tended to it at some point during the night; without their care, only cold embers would remain.
As he struggled to shake off the remnants of sleep and chase away the fading dreams, Viktor scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. A low groan escaped him as he felt the bristled growth of a beard beneath his fingertips. He would need to shave before returning to the Emphyeral Hold this morning, lest he present himself as a ragged wraith rather than a lord.
While Viktor came to grips with the day that loomed before him, a gentle rap echoed against the heavy wood of his studies door.
“Enter,” he called, his voice thick with sleep, unwilling to leave the comforting embrace of the high-backed leather chair.
The soft voice of Aida, the Headkeeper of Helston Manor, drifted into the room. “Good morning, my lord. May you rise with the Dawn. I’ve laid out your clothes in your chamber, and when you’re ready, a warm breakfast awaits.”
Viktor cleared his throat, his voice still gruff. “I will be down for breakfast shortly. Please inform Trystan to have the carriage ready.”
“Of course, my lord,” Aida replied, a hint of warmth in her tone. “And the lad has already hitched the horses. Early riser, that one.”
“Indeed, he is. Thank you, Aida. That will be all.” Viktor dismissed her gently.
The gentle click of the study door closing echoed in the stillness, leaving Viktor once more enveloped in the shadows of his own thoughts, the flickering fire casting long, restless shapes across the walls.
Viktor’s body groaned in protest as he attempted to rise, a less-than-gentle reminder that he no longer bore the resilience of his youth. Gone were the days when nights spent on hard beds in military encampments or beneath a star-strewn sky could be easily dismissed. As he stood, pain surged in his knee, and the Lord of Nightfall reached for his cane—the weight of it now as familiar as his sword had once been, a relic of both support and memory.
As Viktor walked through the cold, white stone halls of Helston House, the sound of his blackwood cane echoed behind him, creating an eerie atmosphere. To this day, Viktor still questioned if Nightfall hadn’t had something behind his fall in the courtyard. The ice patch he had slipped on had been unseasonably late into the year. By then, most every other trace of the past winter had already long since melted away.
As he made his way through the cold, white stone halls of Helston House, the sound of his blackwood cane echoed ominously behind him, each tap a heartbeat in the hushed silence. His thoughts drifted back to Nightfall.
Even now, Viktor couldn’t shake the suspicion that Nightfall itself had played a hand in his misfortune. Certainly, the copious amounts of alcohol he had indulged in had played their part—he bore that fault squarely on his own shoulders. But the ice patch on which he had slipped seemed too conveniently placed and far too early in the season.
The ancient hold was displeased with him, that was for certain. Nightfall had made that much painfully clear when it refused to rise from its abyss for him. But was the hold's ire so deep that it would seek to harm him?
The sound of his blackwood cane striking the marble floors echoed off the cold manor walls as Viktor made his way towards the master chambers.
In the master’s chamber, Aida had meticulously set up the room for Viktor. The fire in the hearth had been carefully stoked into a gentle blaze, filling the room with a comforting warmth. On the edge of his plush bed, she had placed his clothes perfectly arranged.
Placed atop a stone table in the middle of the chamber, before the warmth of the fire, was a large, shallow bowl of warm water, emanating a soothing steam. Aida had set a soft, neatly folded towel off to the side of the bowl, and atop it rested a fresh soap bar with notes of a deep, earthy fragrance, a gentle boar hair brush, and a straight-edge razor blade. The blade’s wickedly sharp edge glinted dangerously in the fire’s light.
Sometimes Viktor wondered if the Headkeeper of Helston House could read his mind.In contrast to her elder sister Mae, the Headkeeper of Nightfall, Aida’s devotion to her lord was remarkable, and she appeared genuinely delighted to have life back in the house.
For breakfast, Aida had prepared boiled oats, thick and rich that stuck to his ribs and warmed him from the inside, drowned in fresh clotted cream, roasted walnuts and apples, baked with cinnamon and cloves, and sweetened with a hearty drizzle of the golden honey brought in all the way from the hives of Epli, one of the eight Old Kingdoms.
Viktor had quickly bolted down the rather generous portion she had served him, knowing full well he would clear any plates put before him, and took his morning coffee to go.
Ever ready, Aida awaited him at the main door, deftly helping him into his heavy wool cloak while softly chiding him for not eating a larger breakfast, her voice a blend of concern and affection as he stepped into the encroaching darkness of the early morning hours.
The cool night air rushed to greet Viktor, sending a shiver racing up his spine despite the comforting weight of the cloak she had wrapped around his shoulders. As he emerged from the manse into the modest, walled courtyard, the shadows seemed to deepen, cloaking the world in a solemn hush.
Beyond the gate on the far side of the small courtyard, his young Master of Horse, Trystan Forsyth, had the black and silver chased carriage drawn by a pair of perfectly matching blood bay stallions ready and waiting.
Clad in the dark livery of the House of Nightfall, Trystan looked perfectly at home in the driver's seat, his lightly lined coat offering a measure of warmth against the chill of the night air. For a fleeting moment, as he huddled beneath his heavy cloak, Viktor felt a twinge of envy for the younger man—not merely for his ease in the cold, but for the unburdened life that still lay ahead of him, a life free from the weight of duty and the haunts of the past.
With only two flickering lights burning at either side of the main entrance, the courtyard remained a realm of shadows in the early morning hours.
Viktor's grandmother, the late Lady Sellena Helston, had been a woman of many talents, but none surpassed her gift for storytelling. His grandmother had had the ability to transport her audience to different worlds and times, as if they had stepped through a threshold into the very heart of her narratives.
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On the far side of the courtyard, the Val 'Rhayne stood sentinel beside the open door of the carriage. His dark, heavy woollen cloak was drawn tightly against the chill, casting him further into the shadows, and for a fleeting moment, the ancient warrior resembled the terrors that had once danced through Viktor's childhood nightmares—creatures conjured by his grandmother's voice during those long, frigid winter nights. But Viktor knew better now. Kastiel, the son of the Lost Star, was far more dangerous than any of the ghastly fiends or monstrous beasts that had haunted her tales.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Viktor's blackwood cane struck the cobblestones of Helston House's courtyard, each dull thud reverberating through the still morning air as the Lord of Nightfall made his way to the waiting carriage. In days not long past, that sound would have unsettled him, a stark reminder of his own mortality—a truth he had skillfully sidestepped during his youth and for much of his adult life, if he was honest with himself.
The iron smith who forged the cane's raven handle had chosen sapphires of the deepest, clearest blue, their facets glimmering with a beauty that belied their sharpness. As Viktor walked, the edge of one sapphire dug into his thumb, sending a jolt of pain that offered a welcome distraction from the dull ache in his knee. His body, a patchwork of scars, stood as an undeniable testament to the arrogance of his youth. Each mark was a reminder of how perilously close he had danced with death, and how many times Kastiel had drawn him back from the abyss.
The Val 'Rhayne had stood steadfast at his side, whether the battle raged on blood-soaked fields or within the tumult of his own mind. Years had slipped by, and Viktor had long since lost count of how many times he owed his life to the ancient warrior. For a time, he had felt almost immortal, buoyed by the presence of a protector so formidable. But that felt like a lifetime ago now.
Kastiel may be many things: a man of several thousand years, one of the greatest warriors to tread the realm, yet even he had his limits. Viktor suspected that keeping a blindingly drunk middle-aged man from slipping and twisting his knee in the very safety of his own castle wasn’t quite what the Val 'Rhayne had envisioned when he proclaimed himself the guardian of the Lord of Nightfall. It seemed a petty task for a being forged in the crucible of ancient battles, a far cry from the grand tales of valour and honour that followed Kastiel like a shadow. Yet, here they were, the weight of duty pulling them into the mundane, and Viktor couldn’t help but feel a wry amusement at the irony of it all.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
“Yet another beautiful, crisp morning,” Viktor remarked cheerfully as he approached the carriage.
From beneath the folds of his dark cloak, Kastiel's steely grey eyes bore a look that would have made most men wither beneath its intensity. Others might have mistaken the ancient warrior's demeanour for anger, but after years of shared battles and quiet moments, Viktor recognized it for what it truly was: sulking.
“No,” Kastiel replied, his voice flat and unyielding. “I am not enjoying this. Not even a little. Why your kind chose to settle these Midlands remains a mystery to me. They should have left it to the Forest.”
In all the years he had known Kastiel, subtlety had never been the man’s forte. Over the past winter months, the son of the Old Kingdoms had made his disdain for the Midlands' weather abundantly clear, and he relished the opportunity to remind Viktor of it at every turn. “Give me the word, and we’ll be ready to leave by morning,” Kastiel would often say, a promise cloaked in the weight of his impatience, eager to escape the chill and gloom that hung in the air like a shroud.
Not that Viktor could blame him. This winter had been particularly cruel in the Midlands, the temperatures plunging far below the norm and lingering in their frostbitten grip. Snow had fallen thick and heavy, smothering the land in a relentless white shroud.
Viktor should have foreseen this; after all, the Val 'Rhayne was born of the Old Kingdoms, emerging from the searing embrace of An'Shar's desert sun. The cold was a stranger to him. To listen to Kastiel, it was like a bitter foe that clawed at his bones and clouded his spirit. It was a stark contrast to the world he once knew, where heat danced like a living thing and the air shimmered with life.
When a shiver crept up Viktor's spine, cutting through the layers of his heavy cloak, he found it increasingly difficult to argue with Kastiel’s point.
“Now correct me if I am wrong, but if I remember old Thom’s teachings, the choice to come to the Midlands had not been entirely theirs,” Viktor said through a soft grunt as he climbed up into the carriage.
The sleek and modestly designed carriage swayed gently as Kastiel effortlessly vaulted inside, settling into the seat opposite Viktor. As the ancient warrior reclined against the plush upholstery, he seemed to melt into the shadows, until it was but a suggestion that he might be there.
Viktor thumped his cane against the roof of the carriage, signalling to Trystan to set off.The black and silver carriage rattled onward through the grand gates of the upper tier and along the cobblestone streets, making its way towards the Emphyeral Hold.
Nyvelion, the capital of Voltaine, had seen its white walls, blue roofs, and cobblestone streets stretch and sprawl over the centuries, flowing gracefully down the foothills below the southern peaks. The city cascaded from terrace to terrace, descending until it met the banks of the mighty Mhy'Larr River, where the waters converged with the highlands.
As one ascended through the terraces, the walls grew ever whiter, the roofs ever bluer, culminating at the gates of the Emphyeral Hold—an imposing fortress that stood as the heart of Voltaine and the proud home of King Edryck Vhalorex. The very mountain stones of the Hold seemed to pulse with history and power, a testament to the legacy of those whose whispers had long since grown silent.
“It’s a shame that child was born here,” Kastiel's dark, smooth voice broke the heavy silence that lay thick between them.
The ancient warrior needed no further clarification; they both understood whom he spoke of. The Ashford’s daughter. At just five years of age, the girl had begun to come into her own, unveiling her remarkable gift even as it sealed her fate—a sentence to the Collaring. It was a cruel irony, one that twisted in Viktor’s gut.
Collaring was a relatively new practice, birthed under the reign of the Azure Tower and the Risen God. It claimed to shield the innocents of Voltaine from the dangers that magic users had come to represent in the eyes of the fearful. The act itself was deceptively simple: a Collar placed about the throat of the magic user.
Each Collar could be fashioned in any design, yet all bore the requisite “blessings” of the Ascended. Once fastened, it served as a dam—a barrier between the user and their power. For the most part, this dam remained open, allowing magic to flow freely into the witch or mageborn as desired. But should they ever “go rogue,” the Ascended possessed the unsettling ability to sense it from anywhere in the realm. In an instant, they could close the dam, severing the connection and plunging the user into an abyss of helplessness, their gifts snatched away like a candle extinguished in the dark.
“Lord Ashford is, understandably, distraught, and his lady wife is beside herself,” Viktor sighed. “But there is little they can do. According to the king, no gifted—royal blood or otherwise—will be spared.”
“Edryck’s hatred of magic users is plunging this kingdom into chaos,” Kastiel replied, his voice calm and almost detached, as if he observed the turmoil from a distance that Viktor could not. The ancient warrior’s words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the storm brewing on the horizon, one that threatened to engulf them all.
The Ashfords had been among the few to welcome him back to Voltaine, their hospitality a light in the gloom. To see such misfortune befall their family gnawed at Viktor’s conscience, a festering wound that reminded him of his own impotence. He knew all too well that he, and therefore the seat of the Lord of Nightfall, was too weak, too vulnerable to effect any change in the unfolding tragedy.
“This is my fault, Kastiel. I was gone for far too long,” said Viktor, the weight of it pressing heavily on his shoulders. “And the innocents of this kingdom are paying the price for it.”
Nearly fifteen years ago, Viktor had fled Nightfall and the realm of Voltaine, desperate to escape the demons that haunted him. Yet they pursued him relentlessly—across the churning depths of the Sea of Fallen Stars, through the thick jungles and barren deserts of the Old Kingdoms. No matter where he sought refuge, they followed like shadows, ever at his heels, reminding him that true escape was a fantasy as elusive as the winds of fate. There was no sanctuary from their insistent whispers, no corner of the world where he could find peace from the spectres of his past.
And now, an entire kingdom hung in the balance, teetering on the precipice of collapse, all because he could not confront his own demons. The weight of that truth pressed down upon him like the oppressive heat of a summer sun, suffocating and relentless. Each moment that passed felt like a silent judgement, the fate of Voltaine entwined with his own failings.
Kastiel snorted softly, a sound laced with both amusement and reproach. “There is no denying that the power of the seat of Nightfall has waned, and for that, you bear some blame. But do not presume to shoulder this burden alone. That, my friend, is an act of selfishness. Much more is at play here than your own failings. Even at its zenith, not even the Lord of Nightfall could alter the course of fate.”
He paused, his gaze piercing, as if seeing through the veil of time itself. “Humans are but threads in an endless tapestry, bound to weave their patterns of rise and fall. It is the nature of your kind to repeat their errors, to stumble and recover, to bask in glory only to crash into despair. To rise and to fall is the very essence of humanity.”
In the darkness of the morning, Viktor cast a baleful glance at his ageless companion, but the warrior simply shrugged his broad shoulders and leaned back into the seat behind him, closing his eyes. The silver buckles of the dark leather armor glinted dully in the pale light of the city’s street lamps, their shimmer catching the fleeting glow that filtered through the open windows. In that moment, the warrior exuded an air of indifference, as if the world beyond held little interest for him—a stark contrast to the tumult that churned within Viktor's mind.
A silence settled between them, heavy and contemplative, as they continued onward. The rhythmic thud of hooves against cobblestones filled the air until Trystan reined in the two blood bay stallions before the towering walls of the Emphyeral Hold. He brought them to a stop just long enough for Kastiel to leap out with the grace of a shadow.
“I’ll wait out here. Don’t need to get anyones under robes getting in a twist this early in the morning,” Kastiel said sardonically. With that, he melted into the labyrinth of shadows cast by the flickering lanterns.
Once more, Viktor tapped against the carriage wall, and with a rattle of wheels and a clatter of hooves, they set off again, the carriage rolling through the grand gates and into the ethereal courtyard of the Emphyeral Hold.