The Emphyeal Hold stood as it had for centuries.
Hewn directly from the living rock of the mountain it crowned, the Hold was a marvel that seemed born of both craft and magic. Its outer walls, sweeping battlements, towers, and spires stretched skyward as if striving to pierce the heavens.
The grand central keep loomed at the heart of it all, its pale grey, faceted walls were streaked with veins of dark granite and glittering quartz that caught and fractured the first light of dawn into a cascade of ethereal brilliance.
Viktor’s cane struck the worn flagstones with a rhythmic cadence as he moved through the Hold’s corridors, each strike sending faint echoes rippling through the still air. The living stone walls and floors of the Emphyeral Hold, unlike his more primal Nightfall, had been polished to such a smooth sheen he could see his figure silhouetted in them.
Above him, mage lights glowed softly in recesses carved into the vaulted ceilings, casting a pale luminescence that guided him on his way. No one knew precisely how these lights functioned, but their unfaltering glow illuminated the passageways within the mountain’s heart.
Despite the ache in his knee, Viktor walked with purpose, each step steady and deliberate. His jaw clenched against the pain, though he maintained a mask of passivity.
For the first time in his life, his weaknesses were on display for all to see. It was a feeling he was finding difficult to adjust to, especially as it was now before a court filled with strangers, or worse.
The cane in his hand was not merely a tool of unfortunate necessity but a piece of artistry, crafted from blackwood and iron. Its handle, wrought into the shape of a raven, bore intricate details: feathers etched so finely they seemed to ripple in the faint glow, and sapphire eyes that caught the light like shards of a twilight sky. The design honored the ravens of the Valley of Shadows—creatures whose piercing cobalt eyes set them apart from the common raven.
There was also a slight irony in the fact that it had been a gift from Kastiel.
At this early hour, Viktor was largely alone, for the most part, as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors toward the Chamber of the Council of Nine.
The vast halls stirred only with subtle signs of life. Guards stood as silent sentinels, their armor gleaming in the ethereal glow, while the slippered feet of household staff whispered over stone as they hurried about unseen tasks. The nobles, cocooned in their luxurious chambers, remained blissfully unaware of the quiet machinery that kept their world turning.
When Viktor crossed the threshold into the Grand Hall, he paused to take in its haunting beauty. Even after countless visits, the space still left him breathless. Here, the Hold revealed its ethereal soul.
Massive columns shaped like the ancient Sentinel Trees of Synder Forest lined the chamber, their carved trunks and branches reaching toward the vaulted ceiling. The leaves, so finely etched they seemed to quiver, cascaded in patterns that caught the light in a way that gave the illusion of life.
For a fleeting moment, Viktor imagined the rustle of a phantom breeze stirring those stone leaves, an echo of the verdant world that had once existed beyond the Hold’s walls.
Legends whispered that the architects of this place had not relied on tools but had shaped the mountain itself with their voices alone, bending stone as easily as a potter molds clay. Standing amidst such flawless mastery, Viktor found it easy to believe in the truth of those tales.
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The emptiness of the chamber amplified his solitude. Even the faintest sound—the shuffle of his boots, the soft tap of his cane—was swallowed by the vast silence.
He paused before one of the towering columns, his gaze tracing the delicate carvings that transformed cold stone into the likeness of ancient Sentinel Trees. Each etched leaf seemed poised to flutter at the faintest breath, a masterpiece of illusion and detail.
The emptiness of the chamber seemed to amplify his solitude. Or at least he thought himself alone until a voice emerged, slicing through the stillness.
“My lord of Nightfall, good morning, and bless the Risen Day.”
The voice startled Viktor, and his hand reflexively tightened around the raven-shaped handle of his cane. The sharp edge of the sapphire embedded in its design pressed into his thumb, grounding him as he turned toward the voice.
A figure emerged from the shadows near the entryway, stepping into the glow of mage light. He wore the familiar armour of the Blood Guard, the sigil of House Vhalorex etched boldly across the breastplate. The figure reached up, unfastening his visor with practiced ease.
As the polished steel lifted, the man’s face was revealed—clean-shaven, his skin kissed by the sun, with short black hair that framed sharp, symmetrical features. But it was his eyes that commanded attention: piercing, steady, and filled with a quiet, unyielding confidence.
The man was no ordinary guard. He was Lennox Solantis, a member of the Blood Guard—an elite cadre of warriors who stood as living extensions of the king’s will. They were more than soldiers or guards; they were protectors of the royal blood. Handpicked by the crown and molded into weapons of precision and resolve.
Selection into their ranks was grueling, requiring mastery of arms and an unwavering loyalty that could not be swayed by even the fiercest storms of temptation.
Lennox’s reputation as the Quickblade preceded him. His speed was said to be unparalleled, his instincts sharper than the finest edge. Among the Blood Guard, he was a figure of both fear and admiration.
“Good morning, Lennox,” Viktor said, his voice laced with dry humor. “Must you always materialize from the shadows at this ungodly hour?”
Lennox allowed himself a faint smile, his expression softening. “Apologies, my lord. Old habits die hard.”
The lilt of Lennox’s Vraycian accent tugged at something deep within Viktor—a melody of familiarity wrapped in foreign charm. It brought back memories of Nileyna, his estranged wife, and her vivid tales of the verdant hills and vibrant festivals of Vraycia. Those stories, once a source of warmth, now carried a bittersweet sting, stirring echoes of what had been lost.
“If you’ll permit, my lord,” Lennox said, breaking through Viktor’s thoughts, “it would be my honor to escort you to the Chamber of Counsel.”
Viktor hesitated briefly, studying Lennox with the same calculated intensity he applied to everything. Among the twelve warriors sworn to protect the royal bloodline, Lennox was the only one Viktor trusted.
“Very well,” Viktor said at last, inclining his head, his grip on the cane relaxing.“But for the love of the gods, stay out of the shadows. I’ve had enough surprises for one day.”
Lennox inclined his head, his faint smile softening his otherwise serious demeanor. “As you command, my lord. I’ll endeavor to walk in the light.”
Lennox fell into stride beside Viktor as they made their way toward the Chamber of Counsel. The rhythmic tap of Viktor’s cane and the measured clink of Lennox’s armor echoed through the vast corridors, a duet of resolve and purpose as they advanced through the ancient halls of the Emphyeral Hold.
Together, they crossed the vast hall, the measured rhythm of their steps blending with the muted echoes of the throne room.
“What’s the mood among the council?” Viktor asked.
Lennox’s expression darkened. “Tense, my lord. Whispers from the Old Kingdoms have reached the court. There’s talk of the Battleborn.”
Viktor’s brow furrowed. “What do you know?”
“Little, beyond the fact that it troubles the King deeply,” Lennox admitted.
Viktor sighed, the knot in his chest tightening. The echoes of change reverberated through the realm, but in the silence of the hold, they felt closer, sharper—like a blade waiting to fall.