Night enfolded the Midlands in a cloak of deep silence, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind through the trees or the lone howl of a wolf on the hunt. From the darkness emerged a black carriage, its lacquered surface catching and distorting the moonlight like a phantom gliding across the earth. Blood bay stallions drew it forward, their coats gleaming under the cold gaze of the stars while their black points faded into the darkness. Their breaths rose in frosty plumes, curling upward before fading into the crisp spring air, and their hooves struck the ground with a measured cadence that announced their presence long before the carriage halted outside the Mottled Bear Inn.
The inn loomed in the moonlit clearing, weathered but unbroken. Time had worn its timbers to a silvery gray and chipped at its once-bright paint, but the sturdy building stood firm against the years. Flickering oil lamps flanking the door cast long, restless shadows over the damp, rutted yard. A modest barn to the side gaped open like a dark mouth, the faint shuffling of animals within punctuated by the soft clink of harnesses.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, an outrider astride a black destrier approached. The horse he rode was no ordinary mount; its massive frame seemed to absorb the faint light, its coal-black coat an abyss that defied the moon's glow. Beneath its skin, a faint ember-like radiance pulsed with otherworldly energy, and its fiery eyes glowed in the dark. Eskilarr was a Nightmare, a steed born of shadow and flame, a creature of legend—much like his rider.
The outrider dismounted with practiced ease, his boots meeting the muddy ground with a muted squelch. His cloak swirled around him like smoke, and his storm-grey eyes scanned the courtyard, sharp and unyielding beneath the shadow of his hood. Without a word, he turned and made his way toward the barn, his figure melting into the gloom.
As the outrider investigated the barn, the carriage’s driver, hopped down and made to open the door for his passenger.
The carriage door creaked open, and the Lord of Nightfall emerged. Viktor Helston stepped down, his imposing frame cutting a stark silhouette against the night. A dark woolen cloak swayed around him, revealing glimpses of armor beneath and the gleaming pommel of a sword at his side. His sharp features were etched with weariness, though his bearing betrayed none of it. He cast a measured glance at the inn, its familiar, battered charm stirring memories of a journey half a year past.
Kastiel, the outrider, reappeared at Viktor’s side, his voice dry and laced with mischief. “Stable boy’s asleep, I take it. Shall I do the honors?”
Viktor’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Don’t frighten him too much.”
Too late. Kastiel had already disappeared once more into the barn, and moments later, a piercing shriek shattered the night. A gangly stable boy burst into the yard, his face pale as milk and his eyes wide with terror. Kastiel followed, smirking faintly as shadows clung to him like an old friend.
“M-my lord!” the boy stammered, bowing so hastily he nearly toppled over. “Apologies—I’ll see to your horses right away!”
Viktor raised a hand, silencing the boy’s frantic apologies. “No harm done. Show my driver where to stable the horses. Feed them all well, and see they’re comfortable for the night.”
The boy nodded fervently, his eyes darting nervously toward Eskilarr, whose fiery gaze seemed to bore into his soul. “Y-yes, m’lord.”
“And ensure my driver has as many plates of whatever the cook is serving tonight.” Viktor glanced at his driver who had busied himself unhitching the horses.
“Venison stew, m’lord” The boy paused momentarily, and held himself up proudly, “Shot the deer m’self yesterday.”
“Good,” Viktor nodded, “Now please, see it done.”
“Yes m’lord! Of course, m’lord! Right away.” The boy repeated himself and set off in a hurry.
Viktor watched as the boy scurried toward the barn, leading the blood bays with Trystan, the driver, close behind. Kastiel and Eskilarr followed at a leisurely pace, their movements mirrored in one another and were as fluid and predatory as ever.
Just then, the inn's heavy oak door creaked open. Framed in the warm light spilling from within stood the innkeeper, a stout woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. Her fiery red hair was tied back, and her hands were planted on her hips as she assessed the new arrivals.
“Evening, m’lord,” she called, her voice warm but firm. “Fire’s hot, stew’s hearty. Care to warm yourself?”
Viktor inclined his head. “A most welcome offer.”
The common room enveloped him in warmth and the rich aromas of spiced venison and woodsmoke. Conversation faltered as he entered, but Viktor paid no mind to the curious or wary glances cast his way. He accepted a mug of dark ale from the innkeeper and settled at a scarred wooden table, the heat of the fire soaking into his weary bones.
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Kastiel joined him not long after, his hood remained lowered just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones and a glimmer of amusement in his stormy eyes. The trencher before him—a hollowed loaf of bread filled with stew—was met with approval, though his attention never strayed far from the room’s other occupants.
Before the quiet could fully settle, the door burst open again, admitting a young messenger clad in the royal colors of Voltaine. His chest heaved with exertion, and his face was streaked with sweat and grime. Viktor’s gaze flicked to the boy’s lathered horse, tethered just outside, and back to the trembling youth clutching a scroll bearing the king’s seal.
The boy staggered forward, his voice cracking. “M-my lord, a message—from the King. It’s urgent.”
Kastiel smirked, swirling his ale. “So much for the Vale and the beast. Eskilarr is not going to be happy about this.”
Viktor silenced him with a glance before taking the scroll. Breaking the seal, his eyes scanned the sharp, commanding scrawl of the King.
Return to court. Immediately.
The fire crackled in the hearth, and the room buzzed with distant, muted chatter. For a fleeting moment, Viktor allowed himself to savor the warmth, the sense of stillness. But like all such moments, it dissolved as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind the weight of duty—and the shadow of what awaited him.
*****************
“Back to the lion’s den,” Kastiel muttered, his voice low but edged with the usual sardonic bite. It was the kind of tone that turned tension into something almost palatable as if his words were a blade that could cut through the fog of unease. “Shall we see what fresh hell awaits us this time?”
Viktor’s lips curled into a wry smile, though it felt more like a grimace beneath the weight of his thoughts. “I fear I already know.”
The sunrise clawed its way into the sky, painting it in hues of blood and fire. Tendrils of mist clung to the lowlands, ghostly and persistent, as if reluctant to yield to the dawn. The chill of the morning pressed against the carriage windows as the iron gates of Nyvelion came into view. They loomed tall and unyielding, a fortress of blackened steel against the awakening light.
The guards, clad in the resplendent silver and cobalt of the city guard, stood sentinel. Their gazes flickered briefly to the crest of Nightfall embroidered on the carriage’s side before they stepped aside with practiced precision, saluting as the heavy gates groaned open.
The cobbled streets of the capital stirred with the rhythm of morning life. Merchants hauled their wares to market stalls, the creak of carts and the slap of reins mingling with the soft murmur of early risers. The scent of fresh bread wafted from bakeries, blending with the faint tang of smoke from chimney fires. Children darted through the growing bustle, their laughter punctuating the air like birdsong.
Viktor leaned back against the plush cushions of the carriage, though their opulence was little comfort against the storm in his mind. His fingers tapped idly against the head of his cane, the faint metallic clicks matching the jostling cadence of the wheels over uneven stones. The summons from the king was explicit: his presence was required at court, immediately. There was no room for delay, no pretense of choice. He wondered, not for the first time, what perilous game awaited him behind the gilded walls of the Emphyeral Hold.
Across from him, Kastiel shifted in his seat, his restlessness a near-tangible presence. The Val ‘Rhayne, with his lean frame and sharp features, seemed more akin to a caged predator than a passenger. His silver eyes caught the dim light filtering through the carriage’s window, glinting like molten steel. Viktor noted the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—a scowl, or perhaps a grimace. Kastiel despised the capital. Viktor had thought him mad for joining the carriage instead of riding Eskilarr, but he suspected the Nightmare’s foul mood had something to do with it. The beast’s hooves had dragged sullenly behind them, the great horse clearly displeased to be denied the open roads back to Nightfall.
Beyond the windows of their carriage, the jagged peaks of the Shaladaar Crest rose high above them, crowned with caps of lingering snow. There, perched among the cliffs, was the Emphyeral Hold—a fortress that seemed carved from the mountain itself. Its towering grey walls and battlements cut a stark silhouette against the fiery sky. Much like his own Nightfall, the ancient Emphyeral Hold was a relic of the Time of Whispers, an age shrouded in mystery, when the voices of those now gone filled the valleys.
The capital city began to climb up the side of the mountain, its winding streets growing steeper as they approached the Emphyeral Hold.
Kastiel’s voice broke the heavy silence. “Chances are the invitation wasn’t meant for me, hm?” His tone carried the faintest smirk, but his eyes betrayed the sharpness of his perception.
Viktor snorted softly, his smile laced with weary humor. “No, I doubt it was. Unless, of course, you’ve found a way to endear yourself to the Ascended?”
Kastiel chuckled, the sound as dry as old parchment. “I suspect that ship not only sailed but sank—somewhere off the Storm Coast if memory serves.”
A faint flicker of curiosity crossed Viktor’s face. “Someday you’ll have to explain what happened.”
“Someday,” Kastiel echoed with a crooked grin, though his eyes grew distant for the briefest of moments.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the great gates of the Hold. Kastiel wasted no time stepping out, the heavy door groaning as he swung it open. The bracing morning air greeted him like an old adversary. He strode toward Eskilarr, who had finally caught up.
Viktor lingered a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the imposing gates and the sprawling fortress beyond. The dark stones seemed to whisper secrets older than memory, their weight a reminder of the shadows that had once ruled this world.
Somewhere within those walls, Edryk awaited him—the boy who had been his closest friend, now a king shaped by power, intrigue, and the silent machinations of the Ascended. A figure cloaked in light yet steeped in shadow, whose influence had turned the court into a labyrinth of ambition and betrayal.
The driver’s voice pulled him from his reverie. With a sharp tap of his cane against the carriage’s roof, Viktor signaled the stallions forward. The road ahead was steep, the journey long, but there was no avoiding it now. The lion’s den awaited.