A great feast followed the ceremony. The King and Queen sat atop the dais, overlooking the hall and the gathering of royals and nobles. Edryk was draped in his usual regal purple tunic adorned with intricate silver embroidery. A golden crown, studded with sapphires and emeralds, rested atop his golden head.
Beside him, his Illumascan Queen looked a stunning purple gown to match, though she favoured a much more simple and elegant crowd of a slender band of gold nestled amongst her styled ebony hair.
The guests’ tables were arranged along the walls, leaving the center of the chamber open for the evening’s entertainment.
At the table closest to the dais, Viktor found himself seated once again beside Lord Guil Ashford, the Keeper of the Vaults. Though Guil’s expression remained composed, a mask of practiced indifference, his mostly untouched plate and the way his fingers barely brushed the rim of his goblet betrayed him.
Lady Ashford had excused herself earlier, retreating to tend to their daughter.
The festivities began with a demonstration of raw, mesmerizing power.
The first sign of the night’s entertainment came as the great doors at the far end of the chamber creaked open. A collective murmur rippled through the diners, quieting to breathless anticipation as a witch entered. She was tall and graceful, her hair a cascade of fiery red. She wore a shimmering green gown that clung to her form like the leaves of an enchanted forest. Around her neck was a collar of beaten silver, gleaming coldly under the dimming mage lights, a silent proclamation of her captivity—and her power.
The witch moved with unhurried poise to the center of the hall. The lights dimmed further until Viktor could barely discern her silhouette. Deep, resonant chants from the Seneschals filled the air, their haunting tones reverberating like the echoes of a distant storm. And then, the witch began to sing.
Her voice was achingly beautiful, raw with power and sorrow. It seemed to pierce the air and burrow into his very marrow. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise just before the hall erupted in a violent explosion of fire.
Gasps turned to screams as a wall of flame surged outward, racing toward the crowd with terrifying speed. Heat licked at Viktor’s skin, but no pain followed. The inferno stopped just short of touching anyone, held at bay by some unseen force. The wall of fire shimmered for a breathless moment, then receded as swiftly as it had come, coiling back toward its source.
When the flames ebbed, they revealed the witch standing exactly where she had been, her head tilted back, eyes closed, and arms spread wide. Her feet were planted firmly on the stone floor, as if she were rooted to the earth itself.
As the Seneschals' chanting swelled to an unearthly crescendo, the fire rose again, this time spiraling into the vaulted ceiling. The flames shifted and shaped themselves into figures and scenes, a vivid tableau painted in living fire. The witch wove a tale of conquest—the triumph of the Azure Tower and the Risen God over the Sanctuary. The flames danced and roared, recounting the devastation with unnerving beauty, their light flickering across the rapt faces of the court.
When the story reached its end, the fire dissolved into embers that drifted softly to the ground, vanishing before they could touch the stone. The Seneschals' chants faded into silence, replaced by a smattering of hesitant applause that swelled into a thunderous ovation.
Viktor did not clap. He watched the witch instead, noting the faint, knowing smile that graced her lips. It wasn’t a smile of gratitude or pride—it was a warning. The initial explosion, the fiery spectacle, hadn’t been necessary for her story. It had been deliberate, a veiled threat to the court.
All that held her power in check, Viktor realized with a chill, was the collar of beaten silver around her neck. That fragile restraint was the only barrier between this room and utter annihilation.
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It was late in the evening when Viktor finally excused himself from the table, his footsteps echoing through the dim stone corridors of Emphyeal Hold. The flickering mage lights cast jagged shadows against the ancient walls.
A sharp, familiar stab of pain lanced through his knee, twisting and biting like an iron fang. He gripped the raven-headed cane tighter, the sharp sapphire eye pressed into his palm offering a small distraction. Pain had long since become a companion, its presence as constant as the ghosts of his past.
He exhaled through clenched teeth, forcing himself onward with the deliberate rhythm of his cane striking stone. The murmur of the court behind him faded into a distant hum until a sharp, crystalline voice cut through it like a blade.
“My Lord of Nightfall!”
Viktor turned, his gaze narrowing as Zeven Haeldryn strode toward him, his steps purposeful and charged with an energy that bordered on provocation.
The Arterian ambassador was a study in contrasts—his sharp Voltainese attire in deep crimson accentuating his long pale silver hair, sun kissed skin and piercing white-blue almond-shaped eyes, marking him as both bold and unmistakably foreign.
"Ambassador Haeldryn," Viktor greeted, nodding curtly. His grip tightened slightly on the raven's head of his cane, anticipating the familiar verbal sparring that often followed Zeven's arrival.
“And Lady Aine,” he added with a softer nod to Zeven’s wife. She stood quietly by her husband’s side, her white hair a cascade of silk against her crimson gown. Her hand rested protectively over the gentle swell of her belly, a picture of grace shadowed by fatigue.
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“My lord, may I accompany you?” Zeven’s tone was light, but the challenge in his gaze was unmistakable.
Viktor hesitated. In any other place, beyond the borders of Voltaine, he would have welcomed Zeven’s company, even sought his counsel. But he had to trade carefully in this court.
Unfortunately, Zeven, with his unabashed opinions, mostly regarding the Ascended and his Risen God, had made himself a black sheep at court long before Viktor had returned to the Midlands.
“Of course,” Viktor said at last, his voice neutral. He resumed his measured steps, the cane’s steady rhythm masking the effort behind each one.
Viktor knew he had to trade carefully. He did not wish to insult the Ambassador, for in truth he agreed on a great many points, but he could not yet risk becoming even more of an outcast at court. Not yet, at least. Not until he’d regained the former strength of the seat of the Lord of Nightfall.
Despite only coming up to Viktor’s shoulder, Zeven fell effortlessly into step beside him, “I trust the night finds you well, my lord.”
“Well enough,” Viktor replied evenly. “And you?”
“Oh, splendid,” Zeven said with a tight smile, his words laced with sharp edges. “Though I confess, the grandeur of Collars and control holds little appeal.”
A flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of Viktor’s mouth, though he quickly suppressed it. Zeven’s tongue was as sharp as ever, unflinching in its disdain for the court’s theatrics.
“I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective,” Viktor said, his words cautious, almost bitter. “To some, it is a sacred bond.”
“A sacred bond? Did we both witness the same display in there?” Zeven’s snorted loudly, and waved his hands to gesture courtiers that filled halls, “They may not have seen that display for what it truly was. But I think you and I both saw the truth. Felt the truth.”
“Indeed, I suspect we both saw what we needed to see,” Viktor kept his eyes and focus on his path through the crowds. Many curious, and some not so curious, eyes followed them as they passed.
The Ascended will hear of this, Viktor thought.
“So coy. You’re father was far more liberal with his speech. Far less…guarded,” Viktor could hear the taunting smile on Zeven’s face without needing to look, and had been willing to over look the slight until the Ambassador followed it with, “I’d hoped for better from the seat of Nightfall.”
Viktor halted, turning to face the ambassador. The flickering torchlight carved sharp lines into his features, his voice low and deliberate. “Careful, Ambassador. The winds of dissent are fickle in this court. Words have weight here—and consequences.”
Zeven’s smile didn’t falter, though his eyes darkened with something deeper—defiance, perhaps, or resignation. “And yet, my lord, I have found that silence bears its own price. One I am not willing to pay.”
The Arterian Ambassador met Viktor’s gaze without flinching, and for a moment, they stood locked in a silent exchange.
In all the parts of the world he had travelled to, in all the eyes he had looked into or upon, it was the Arterian’s that had the most haunting eyes by far. Almond-shaped, the whites pale as frost, with irises of the faintest blue, and fringed with lashes that reminded Viktor of frost. They seemed to pierce through flesh and bone, reaching for something unspoken.
“Speak your truths carefully, Ambassador,” Viktor said, his voice low but firm, conscious of the curious glances flickering their way. “What you say will not remain here alone.”
“And do they not deserve to hear it?” Zeven countered, his tone sharp yet composed.
Viktor’s jaw tightened as Zeven’s unrelenting gaze bore into him, defiant and unyielding. He spoke again, quieter now, his words meant for Zeven alone. “There is power in waiting for the right moment to act. Here, surrounded by those who would twist your defiance into treachery, is not that moment.”
“And if not now, then when?” Zeven pressed, his voice rising just enough to prick the ears of nearby nobles. His lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “When the collars grow to tight? When the suppression turns to slaughter? You saw the warning as I did. Will you wait until it’s too late before you act? The silence of this court is complicity, and I will not stand among the cowards.”
A soft voice cut through the tension like a balm. “Husband.”
Lady Aine stepped forward, her movements graceful despite her obvious exhaustion. Her hand came to rest gently on Zeven’s arm, her expression a mixture of concern and quiet urgency. “Perhaps these words are best saved for another time,” she urged, her tone measured but pleading.
Zeven’s hardened expression softened as he turned to her, his hand covering hers in a brief but tender gesture. “Fear not, my love,” he said quietly. “If not now, when? If we do not speak the truth, who will?”
“And what will your truth cost you?” Viktor interjected, his tone razor-sharp yet devoid of malice. His eyes flicked to Aine’s rounded belly—a silent but pointed reminder of the stakes. “Your standing? Your influence? Your family’s safety? Your defiance may be righteous, Zeven, but it risks far more than yourself.”
For a moment, Zeven said nothing. Then a wry smile tugged at his lips, though it carried none of his earlier fire. “My standing means little,” he said, his voice quieter now, weighted with resolve. “For tomorrow, Aine and I return to the Everwinter. This grand hold will have one less voice of dissent.”
He gestured to the ancient stone walls surrounding them, his disdain evident. “Perhaps even the last voice of dissent.”
“Then I wish you and Lady Aine the safest of travels,” Viktor nodded and offered the ambassador’s wife something of a sympathetic smile. While he knew little of Lady Aine, he understood after only a short time in the Ambassador’s presence, that it would take a woman of considerable inner strength and patience to deal with Zeven.”
“My Lord of Nightfall, I hear that you too depart in the morning,” Lady Aine said, gently patting her husband’s hand.
Viktor inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the statement. “You’ve heard correctly. I, too, depart on the morrow. There are matters I must attend to in the Vale.”
Zeven’s pale eyes narrowed, his gaze cutting through Viktor like winter’s chill. “A Harbinger, they say,” he murmured, his words a thread of ice laced with warning. “I trust you will do what is right for us all, should the rumors prove true.”
Viktor resisted the urge to glance around, mindful of any prying ears. Such talk was perilous—for them, for him, and most of all, for the Harbinger.
“You have my respect, Zeven,” Viktor said at last, his voice softening. “But tread carefully. Even the most righteous storms can leave ruin in their wake.”
Zeven’s expression hardened again, his eyes narrowing as if weighing the risks against his principles. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice as cold as the lands he called home. “But some storms are worth the price.”
For a moment, their gazes held, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Then Viktor turned, his cane striking the stone floor with a deliberate cadence as he continued down the corridor. Behind him, Zeven remained still, his hand still resting over Aine’s.