Rooted in the Earth: Sanctuary

The Ashford child cried throughout the entire ceremony, her sobs muffled in the polite, painfully silent manner that the ladies of Voltaine's court had mastered. Silent tears rolled thickly down her perfect cherub cheeks, pooling on the satin pillow where she knelt before the King and Queen, along with the rest of the Voltaine Court. 

High above her, columns shaped to resemble trees branched out, reaching for one another to form the arches. Carved so finely, one could almost swear they could hear the wind rustling through the stone leaves. 

Dressed in a delicate gown of blue and white silk, adorned with intricate lace, the child quivered uncontrollably as she knelt upon the plush pillow, awaiting her impending fate. 

The silence in the grand hall of the Emphyeral Hold was broken only by the rustling of the gathered nobles shifting uncomfortably in their seats. A sea of watching eyes bore into the child, yet no one dared approach her. They stayed back, bound by tradition, leaving her to face the monstrous ritual alone.

As the second most powerful seat in the kingdom of Voltaine, Viktor Helston, the Lord of Nightfall, had been seated in cruel proximity to the proceedings. The Ascended himself had ensured his place, placing him beside none other than Lord and Lady Ashford—the child's parents. 

Viktor's dark eyes lingered on the tiny figure trembling in the center of the court. At only five years of age, this child already conducted herself with more dignity than most members of the court. 

Beside him, Lady Ashford struggled to maintain composure. Unlike the child, her grief found no such restraint. Dalia Ashford, native of the fiery Illumascan lands, trembled with each muted sob she tried to suppress. Her husband, grim-faced and silent, clasped her hand, his own trembling slightly despite his efforts at stoic reassurance.

Viktor forced himself to keep his expression neutral, though guilt coiled tightly around his chest. 

The Ascended, ruler of the Azure Tower and Voice of the Risen God, had turned Voltaine's court into a theater of power and despair, and no one could escape their role—not even him.

Then came the spectacle.

The heavy wooden doors of the grand hall groaned open, spilling golden light across the polished stone floor. The Ascended entered with his entourage. The high priest was robed in resplendent azure, his raised hood shadowing his masked features. 

The Voice of the Risen God moved slowly with deliberate grace. His azure robes, made of the finest silk and embellished with runes in thread of gold, whispered with every step. Behind him, the Seneschals filed in, their deep, sonorous chants reverberating through the vaulted chamber until it felt as though the very walls hummed with their devotion.

Viktor's lip curled slightly. The Ascended always made an entrance, and the King allowed it, encouraged it, even. For the court of Voltaine, grand spectacles were no longer a rarity but a ritual. Yet Viktor could see the weariness creeping into the crowd, the way some of the older lords shifted in their seats, their patience wearing thin.

The child did not flinch as the Ascended walked up the stairs to the dais and approached, though her tiny hands clenched the fabric of her gown so tightly her knuckles shone white. When he stopped before her, his hand hovering above her bowed head, Viktor felt the air shift, heavy with the weight of something ancient and unseen.

Lady Ashford let out a sharp, choked gasp, muffled quickly by her husband's shoulder. Viktor turned his head slightly, his voice a low murmur. "Dalia," he said quietly, though it carried the weight of command. "Take heart."

Her tear-streaked face lifted to him, a flash of fire in her grief-stricken eyes. "Take Heart?" she hissed under her breath, low enough not to disrupt the ceremony. "While my daughter kneels at the feet of that monster?"

"She will rise again," Viktor said, though the bitterness in his own voice surprised him. "As we all do."

Lady Ashford stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. Then her gaze flicked back to her child, and her lips pressed into a trembling line.

The ceremony dragged on, the chants rising and falling in haunting cadence. When the Ascended finally placed the ceremonial collar—a delicate band of gleaming silver—around the child's slender neck, Viktor's stomach turned.

The act of Collaring was an old one. As old as the Dragon Lords of Draci. It had also died out with the Dragon Lords when their empire collapsed nearly a mellenbia ago. That was, until the Ascended and his Risen God brought it back into style. So to speak.

The Ashford girl's shoulders stiffened at the cold touch of the metal, and her lips trembled, but she did not cry out. Viktor admired her strength, though the thought made him sick. No child should need such fortitude.

Delicate and beautiful as it was, the necklace that took the place of a Collar, was intended for just that. To leash its wearer to whomever held the bond, and controlled the wearer's ability to connect with the Great Gift that gave them power. 

As the Seneschals chanted the final prayer, Viktor felt the weight of his own complicity press down upon him. He'd returned to Voltaine not to witness this, not to be a part of the God King's games. Yet here he was, front and center for a spectacle he had neither the power nor the will to stop.

When the ceremony concluded, and the Ashford child was led away, but the tension in the hall did not fade. He could feel the King's gaze boring into him, even from across the expanse of the court.

The King stood, his voice booming across the hall, cutting through the whispers. "My lords and ladies, let this remind you all: loyalty is not a choice, but an expectation." His gaze swept the crowd before lingering on Viktor. "Even for those who have been gone too long."

The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Viktor met the King's gaze without flinching, his own expression a mask of cold indifference.

The Ashford child may have been the focus of tonight's ritual, but the message had been meant for him. And Viktor Helston, the Lord of Nightfall, understood the game had only just begun.

A great feast followed the ceremony. Viktor found himself seated once more beside Lord Ashford. The Keeper of the Vaults wore a mask of indifference, though his food and wine went largely untouched. 

Lady Ashford has long since excused herself to attend to their daughter. An only child, Menala Ashford had been a long-awaited gift to her aging parents. That she had also been born one of the Gifted, with the ability to draw from the river of magic that flowed beneath their feet, should have been yet another blessing. And would have been, in any other place in the world. But not here in Voltaine. 

Here in Voltaine, they Collared their magic users. Though that was perhaps better than the fate Healers and Harbingers were met with. 

It was late in the evening when Viktor finally excused himself from the table and made his way through the stone corridors of the ancient Emphyeal Hold. 

As he walked, the sharp flare of pain in Viktor's knee flared to life, twisting and biting like a dagger. His grip on his cane tightened, the iron raven's sapphire eye cool and sharp against his palm. He exhaled through clenched teeth, steadying himself. 

Pain was an old adversary by now, a constant companion he had no choice but to endure. Each measured step forward was a small battle, his cane striking the stone with a deliberate rhythm that masked the weight it carried.

The voices of the court ebbed and flowed, a distant hum as Viktor focused on moving forward. Then, cutting through the din like a blade, came a crystalline voice:

"My Lord of Nightfall!"

Viktor turned his head, and there was Zeven Haeldryn, striding toward him with an energy that bordered on defiance. The Arterian ambassador's lean, small frame was wrapped in sharp Voltainese tailoring, a crimson tunic, and leather leggings. 

The bold choice of attire, paired with the ambassador's pale silver hair and striking blue eyes, marked him as an outsider even here in the kingdom's most opulent hall.

"Ambassador Haeldryn," Viktor greeted, nodding curtly. Reflexively, his fingers flexed around the raven's head of his cane, anticipating the verbal combat that often accompanied the Arterian Ambassador's presence.

"And Lady Aine," he added with a softer nod to Zeven's wife. Her hand rested protectively over the swell of her belly, her white hair cascading around her delicate, though visibly tired, face. Aine was a picture of composure, though her tension was betrayed by her tight grip on her husband's arm.

"My lord, may I accompany you?" Zeven asked, his tone casual, though his expression hinted at anything but.

Viktor hesitated. In another time, another place, he might have welcomed Zeven's company. They shared certain convictions—ones they would never dare speak of in this court. But the weight of the Nightfall legacy bore down on Viktor like a yoke. He couldn't afford the luxury of idealism, not now.

"Of course," Viktor said, at last, resuming his careful steps.

As they walked, Zeven's voice dropped to a low murmur, though his words carried enough edge to cut through the ambient noise. "I trust this night finds you well, my lord."

"Well enough," Viktor replied evenly. "And you?"

"Oh, splendid," Zeven said, a sharp smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Though I find it difficult to enjoy the pageantry of chains and collars."

Viktor suppressed a sigh, though the corners of his lips twitched upward. Zeven was as outspoken as ever, unafraid to voice his disdain for the ceremony they were about to witness.

"I suppose it's all a matter of perspective," Viktor offered the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "Some would call it a sacred bond."

"A sacred bond?" Zeven's voice rose slightly, drawing the attention of nearby nobles. His tone dripped with derision. "A shackle masquerading as a blessing, you mean? I had once thought better of the seat of Nightfall."

Viktor came to a halt, fixing Zeven with a measured stare. "Careful, Ambassador. The winds of dissent can turn to storms in this court. Words have weight, and they carry consequences—especially here."

Zeven's ice-blue eyes met Viktor's without flinching, a fiery intensity smoldering within them. "And what would you have me do, my lord? Bite my tongue while children are Collared, their gifts stripped from them to serve a god I do not recognize? I will not stand silent while our birthrights are stolen in plain sight."

"You speak as if silence were the only other option," Viktor replied coolly. "There is power in choosing the right moment to act. Here and now, surrounded by those who would see your defiance as treachery, is not that moment."

"And if not now, then when?" Zeven pressed, his voice rising again, drawing more curious glances. "When the chains are fully fastened? When the collars are tightened, and there's no one left to resist? The court's silence is complicity, and I will not be part of it."

Lady Aine stepped forward then, her hand resting gently on Zeven's arm. "Husband," she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet urgency. "Perhaps it is best to save these words for another time."

Zeven's expression softened briefly as he glanced at her, his hand covering hers in a gesture of reassurance. "Fear not, my love. If not now, when? If we do not speak the truth, who will?"

"And what will your truth cost you?" Viktor interjected, his voice low but sharp. "Your standing? Your influence? Your family's safety?" He glanced pointedly at Aine's belly, his meaning clear. "Your defiance may be righteous, but it risks far more than you."

Zeven's smile turned wry, his gaze holding Viktor's for a long moment. "My standing matters little," he said, his tone laced with quiet resolve. "For I leave Voltaine on the morrow. Aine and I will return to the Everwinter. I have heard news that you, too, leave this cursed place."

The Ambassador waved his hand to gesture to the ancient halls of the Emphyeral Hold. 

To that, Viktor nodded ever so slightly, "Indeed, you have heard correctly. I leave on the morrow as well. There are some matters I must attend to in the Vale."

"A Harbinger, I heard." Zeven's pale eyes narrowed at Viktor ever so slightly, "I hope you shall do the right thing, by us all, should the rumors prove true and you find her."

Viktor refrained from glancing about them to see just who was listening in on their conversation. Such talk was a danger to them all. The Harbinger included.

"You have my respect, Zeven," Viktor said at last, his tone softer now. "But tread carefully. Even the most righteous storms can leave ruin in their wake."

"Perhaps," Zeven replied, his expression hardening. "But some storms are worth the price."