The potent, acrid stench of urine clung thickly to the damp, frigid air of the dungeon. Three levels deep in the permafrost beneath Belmhor Castle, the stale atmosphere pressed down like an invisible hand, choking out anything remotely human. In these oppressive confines, fear unraveled men to their basest selves. It stripped away pride, courage, and pretense, leaving only trembling flesh and broken spirits.
Kreig was no exception. He stood bound, gagged, and soaked in the shame of his own making, his body quivering with equal parts cold and terror. A damp trail down his leg and the soiled rags beneath him bore testament to his unraveling. Once a man of fiery conviction, now he was nothing more than a shivering heap of flesh, eyes wide and pleading in the dim torchlight.
Across from him, Greyson, son of the Iron Spire, perched casually on a crude wooden stool, his posture deceptively at ease. Yet every inch of him radiated control—a predator at rest, but only just. His bastard sword rested across his lap, the well-worn leather of the grip catching the faint, flickering light. To the untrained eye, it might seem an ordinary hand-and-a-half sword, but those who knew the maker’s mark etched just above the twisted crossguard would think twice before crossing its wielder.
“You were a hard man to find, Kreig,” Greyson began his voice a calm baritone that carried the weight of something darker. “But lucky for me—and unlucky for you—you don’t seem to have many friends up here. Not surprising, really. Sanctuary burners don’t tend to win popularity contests.”
Kreig flinched at the words, his muffled cries little more than incoherent whimpers against the gag forced between his split lips. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, where Greyson’s earlier impatience had left its mark.
“Save your strength.” Greyson’s tone was almost kind—mockingly so. “Those knots binding your wrists and ankles? They’re constrictor knots. The more you fight them, the tighter they’ll get. A Healer taught me that. A daughter of the Tempest, she was—a true marvel at saving lives. Funny, isn’t it? A Healer's knotwork will be the death of you. I find it almost poetic in its justice.”
He gestured lazily with the blade, its edge glinting as he pointed to the leather thongs digging into Kreig’s flesh. Blood oozed sluggishly where the bindings had bitten deep, and the man’s hands were already swelling to a sickly purple.
“See that?” Greyson continued, leaning forward, his imposing bulk casting a long shadow over the trembling man. “The color of your hands is the first step. Next, they’ll go black. That’s when the flesh starts dying. It won’t be long after that before we’ll have to lop them off. Imagine it—a Hand of the Ascended, no hands. Quite the irony, wouldn’t you say?”
Kreig let out a muffled scream, his entire body trembling as panic overtook him. Greyson let the sound linger, bouncing off the cold stone walls, carried to the ears of unseen prisoners in nearby cells. Their silence was heavy—weighted by shared dread.
The knight tilted his head, considering the broken man before him. “Do you know why I’ve come all this way, Kreig? Why I bothered coming to the frozen arse-end of the world?”
Another muffled sound escaped Kreig, a pathetic attempt at a response. Greyson’s lips twitched into a humorless smile.
“Is that a no?” he drawled. “Let me enlighten you. There are a few reasons, really. I do enjoy the cold. The ale up here is some of the finest in the world. And the women...” He let the sentence hang, his grin sharpening. “But mostly, I came for you.”
Kreig shook his head violently, tears streaming down his face as he tried to shrink away.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Greyson said, his voice hardening. “You know what you’ve done. Burning Sanctuaries while Healers slept inside? That’s your grand legacy? That might earn you some accolades back among your Ascended ilk. But here?” He leaned in, his eyes dark and unyielding. “Here, it makes you a monster. And monsters get exterminated.”
Beyond the cell door, the faint shuffle of boots on stone signaled the arrival of company. A soft clearing of a throat brought Greyson’s attention to the shadowed figure in the hall. Liandris, his Harbinger companion, stood waiting, her presence a silent reminder that time was slipping away.
Greyson exhaled slowly, disappointment flickering across his rugged features. He preferred his justice slow and deliberate, savored like a fine wine. But Kreig? Kreig wasn’t worth the vintage.
“Well, it seems fate has spared you my usual... thoroughness,” he said, rising to his full height. The dim torchlight seemed to ripple across his blade as he hefted it with ease. “But don’t worry, Kreig. Your time’s still up. Beyond that door is a Harbinger ready to sing your soul into the afterlife. And I promise you, my friend, the Gates are far less inclined toward mercy than I am.”
The bound man shrieked against his gag, his muffled cries escalating into incoherent wails. Greyson stepped closer, his towering frame blotting out what little light remained.
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“Ready to meet the Gates of Judgment?” he asked, his voice low and mocking. “No? Too bad.”
In a swift, practiced motion, Greyson raised the bastard blade. The arc of steel caught the faint light as it descended, a cold, final punctuation to Kreig’s existence. His muffled scream turned to silence, save for the faint sounds of blood dripping onto the frozen stone floor.
Greyson wiped the blade clean on the ragged edge of Kreig’s tunic, his expression impassive. He turned toward the doorway, where Liandris waited.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said gruffly, sheathing his sword. “Take what time you need.”
Without another glance at the lifeless body slumped in the bonds, Greyson strode into the corridor, the darkness of the dungeon swallowing him whole.
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For all their years together, the Val ‘Rhayne, his most staunch companion and self-proclaimed guardian, remained in many ways an enigma.
Even now, months later, Viktor remained in the dark about the precise nature of Kastiel’s confrontation with the Ascended. Whatever had transpired, its aftermath had been severe enough to lead to Kastiel's permanent exile from the Emphyeral Hold.
The memory of that day, five months past, surfaced unbidden in Viktor's mind. He had been sitting at his father’s desk, sifting through stacks of parchment—the last his father had likely reviewed—when Kastiel had entered abruptly. Accompanying him were half a dozen Emphyeral Guards, their pike staves glinting menacingly as they pressed close to Kastiel’s back.
“Well, that did not go as expected,” Kastiel had remarked, his tone almost bemused, as they stepped into the apartments within the Emphyeral Hold reserved for the Lord of Nightfall.
In his exhaustion, Viktor had barely registered Kastiel’s explanation the first time, his attention drawn instead to the grim expressions of the guards.
“Excuse me, we have to do what?” Viktor had asked again, his voice betraying his incredulity.
“Leave. Or at least, I do. He didn’t say anything about you,” Kastiel had replied with a shrug, as though banishment were an inconvenience rather than a condemnation.
The dozen guards awaiting them outside the apartments lent immediate credibility to Kastiel’s words. With no ceremony, they were indeed escorted from the ancient hold. Or at least the Val ‘Rhayne was, Viktor had simply followed. Whether out of loyalty or curiosity, he could not say.
For the first time in his life, Viktor felt a grudging gratitude toward one of his more infamous ancestors. Nearly two centuries prior, Cathal Helston, a Lord of Nightfall with a penchant for scandal, had commissioned Helston House, which now served as Viktor’s refuge beyond the walls of the Emphyeral Hold. Evidently, his ancestor had been a man eager to put space between the woman he was married to, and the woman he loved. But not so much distance to be terribly inconvenient for him.
Helston House, a confection of light and glass, perched in the Gates upper tier of the capital city, just outside of the walls of the Emphyeral Hold. Within its bright halls, Viktor had claimed a singular sanctuary: the study, designed by Cathal himself. Unlike the rest of the house, the study bore the unmistakable weight of Nightfall’s somber nature.
Dark wood paneled the walls, its polished surface absorbing the dim light. Heavy drapes cloaked the windows, sealing the space in secrecy. A grand ebony hearth dominated one wall, its flames casting flickering shadows that danced across the spines of ancient tomes lining the shelves. A sturdy oak desk stood at the room’s center, flanked by a high-backed chair studded with copper rivets.
On this night, the study’s hearth crackled warmly, its light playing across the rich amber liquid swirling in Viktor’s tumbler. He watched the firelight refract through the crystal, as though answers might rise from the depths of the glass.
“Have there been any further whispers about our old friend, the Battleborn’s, sudden return to An’Shar?” Viktor asked, his voice a quiet rumble beneath the flicker of the flames.
Kastiel leaned back in his chair, his untouched drink balanced casually in his hand. The ice in the glass clinked softly, a sound like distant bells. “There are always whispers,” Kastiel replied, his tone even. “But Dominik keeps his reasons close. I doubt even his closest advisors know the full story.”
Viktor nodded absently, his thoughts drifting back to his own travels across the Old Kingdoms. The memories came in waves: the first time he had crossed the Sea of Fallen Stars, a young man of eighteen filled with awe at the great ports of Epili and the arched palaces of An’Shar. It had been a journey of discovery, of wonder. He had met Kastiel in the Chamber of the Dream, forging a bond that would shape his life. He had seduced Nileyna, his future wife, while marveling at the golden wines of Vraycia, their cups raised in the sprawling vineyards beyond the city’s great walls. His children had been born under the burning sun of Pathan. The world had felt vast and full of promise.
The second journey, years later, had been a stark contrast. The demons he had sought to escape had followed him across the sea, relentless in their pursuit. What once had been a world of wonder became a refuge turned prison. Through it all, Kastiel had remained at his side, steadfast and unwavering.
Now, with the King’s demands binding him to the capital, Viktor found himself relying on Kastiel once again. “The Vale still requires our aid,” he said, his gaze fixed on the fire. “The King will not allow me to leave, but you are free to go as you will.”
Kastiel’s expression remained inscrutable, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight.
“If it is truly a monster terrorizing the Vale, then I know no better to hunt it down. And if it is a Harbinger…” Viktor’s voice grew softer, the weight of his words heavy with unspoken fears. “You are the best I can send to save them.”
For a long moment, Kastiel said nothing, his gaze remaining on the fires dancing in the hearth before them. Then, with a faint nod, he lifted his glass and took a long sip. The silence between them was not empty but filled with understanding—an unspoken agreement forged over years of shared trials.