As the evening’s revelry faded, Viktor slipped away from the confines of the Emphyeral Hold. The towering doors groaned in protest as they shut behind him, sealing the warmth and noise of the grand halls inside.

  The haunting sound of his cane striking against the stone followed him as he stepped out into the night. Pausing at the top of the half-stair leading into the courtyard, Viktor cast a baleful gaze at the dark sky. His lips twisted in a slight wry smile as his breath misted in the cold air.

  The world had transformed while he was trapped indoors. A thin lay of snow blanketed the surface of the courtyard and the parapets of the outer walls. The moon’s glow danced faintly across the untouched expanse, lending an otherworldly beauty to the scene.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, exhaling a cloud of frustration.

  Viktor drew in a breath, the crisp air biting at his lungs. He leaned lightly on his cane, its raven-shaped handle cool beneath his gloved hand, as his eyes traced the scene before him.

  Large, feathery flakes drifted lazily down, pirouetting on invisible currents before settling on stone and earth alike. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled softly, its melancholy note carrying through the still night. A shiver crept along Viktor’s spine, and he tugged his coat tighter, warding off the night’s chill.

  A snowfall this late in the year was rare, but not unheard of. But, as far as Viktor was concerned, it was just an extra little insult to injury. Even now, with the worst supposedly behind them, this final snowfall felt like a deliberate affront—a mocking reminder of all he had endured.

  The winter past had not exactly been the easiest. Not just for himself, but for the entire kingdom of Voltaine.

  As it turned out, Viktor had returned to his homeland just in time to experience one of the worst winters in living memory. Temperatures had plummeted to depths that even the oldest among them could scarcely recall, and snow had piled so high it seemed to claim dominion over the land.

  For Viktor, born of this unforgiving land, the season had been a bitter but familiar trial. But for Kastiel, his companion from the temperate Old Kingdoms, it had been a near-unbearable ordeal. The Old Kingdoms had never known snow, not once in the two decades Viktor had spent abroad. The sight of even a single flake would have been a novelty there.

  Viktor had borne the endless cold with the resigned pride of one accustomed to the elements, but Kastiel had not been so stoic. For a man of few words, Kastiel had found plenty to say about the damned cold. His complaints had been frequent and colorful, punctuated by pointed suggestions that they return to the Old Kingdoms at once.

  But they hadn’t left. Viktor had stubbornly refused to abandon Voltaine. And they had survived. The biting winds, the seemingly endless snow, the dreary monotony of winter—they had endured it all. Grumbles and gripes and all.

  For a moment, he stood there against the sprawling backdrop of the ancient hold, watching as they swirled around the towering battlements and parapets of the Emphyeral Hold, a final swan song from a particularly harsh winter that had long overstayed its welcome.

  A swan song…or a slap in the face, Viktor mused.

  Just then, as he watched the flakes tumble from the cloud covered skies, a wave of exhaustion rolled over the Lord of Nightfall. Today had been a long one, and he found himself yearning for the comforts of Helston House. His bed more specifically.

  Viktor’s gaze drifted to the far side of snow-dusted courtyard below, where his black carriage waited in the warm glow of torchlight. The blood bay stallions shifted restlessly in their harnesses, their breath steaming in the cool air. He longed for the comforts of Helston House, for the sanctuary of his bed and the fleeting reprieve of sleep.

  The snow fell around him in a silent dance, and Viktor found himself rooted to the spot, unable to look away from its morbid beauty.

  "Ten years," he murmured to himself, the words a fragile wisp of sound in the stillness. "Ten years away, and this is the welcome I get."

  Perhaps, after 10 years, this was what he deserved.

  The wind picked up, sharper now, pulling at his coat and threading through his silver-streaked hair. Viktor closed his eyes, letting the cold nip at his skin.

  When he opened them, his expression hardened, the vulnerability vanishing behind the practiced mask of the Lord of Nightfall. He tapped his cane once against the stone, the sound crisp and decisive, before descending the stairs toward the waiting carriage.

  After the first few steps into the waiting courtyard, Viktor cursed silently when he felt just how treacherous the snow, wet and melting, had made its surface.

  Fortunately, as much of the court resided within the apartments available in the Emphyeral Hold, there were few courtiers out here to witness any falls.

  Viktor winced, his fingers curling around the raven handle of his cane, as the pain in his knee flared up.

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  The cane had become both a crutch and a constant reminder of his vulnerability as it struck the cobblestones with a steady rhythm. An unwelcome metronome that echoed his mortality with every step.

  “Trying to break the other leg, I see,” came a low voice from the shadows, the words laced with teasing familiarity.

  Viktor didn’t flinch or pause, though most men would have started at the sudden intrusion.

  Decades of Kastiel’s stealthy tendencies had inured him to such things. The Val ’Rhayne was a constant presence, even when court politics and the king’s own orders kept him officially at bay.

  “The Ascended claimed another one,” Viktor muttered, his scowl deepening as he navigated the treacherous path across the courtyard.

  Kastiel emerged from the shadows, his dark cloak swirling around him like liquid night. The torchlight barely touched his angular features, casting them in soft relief. His voice, smooth as silk and threaded with the accents of far-off lands, replied, “A pity she was born here. The Gift runs strong in her.”

  “I couldn’t stop it,” Viktor said, frustration evident in his clipped tone. His strides were purposeful but cautious, the wet cobblestones demanding respect if he wished to avoid another humiliating fall.

  Kastiel’s steps were soundless as he kept pace, his movements so fluid they seemed effortless. His affinity for darkness was more than mere skill—it was a birthright, a whisper of his ethereal lineage from his mother, the Lost Star. “No, you couldn’t. Nor could anyone else. For now.”

  A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, sharp and unforgiving, tugging at Viktor’s coat and setting Kastiel’s cloak to billow. He continued, his tone infused with wry humor, “Will you slow down? I’m not eager to face your housekeeper’s wrath if you fall again. I never thought my demise would come at the hands of an overprotective woman armed with a pot, but here we are.”

  That earned a faint smile from Viktor, and though he didn’t stop, his pace eased. “Aida did make her opinion on the matter quite clear, didn’t she?”

  “She didn’t just make it clear. She delivered it as a proclamation,” Kastiel said, his wry smile evident in his voice. “And for the record, that woman terrifies me. I’ve stared down armies, Viktor, but her glare could level a battlefield.”

  Viktor snorted softly at the idea of one of the greatest warriors in the realm being taken down by a pot wielding housekeeper.

  Normally, Viktor would have taken up residence in the private apartments reserved for him within the Emphyeral Hold when staying in the Capital City. But Viktor hadn't felt at ease in a court that he no longer recognized.

  Kastiel’s banishment from the Hold following his run-in with the Ascended had only solidified Viktor’s decision to relocate to the Helston House—a sprawling manse nestled beyond the Hold’s walls.

  The two men walked in companionable silence for a moment, the stillness of the night broken only by the distant toll of a bell and the faint crunch of snow beneath their boots. Behind them, the towering spires of the Hold loomed against the star-speckled sky, ancient and unyielding.

  As Viktor and Kastiel made their way across the high-walled courtyard of the Emphyeral Hold, their boots passed over a series of intricate runes carved deep into the living rock that formed a perfect arch stretching across the courtyard’s expanse.

  The purpose and meaning of the runes was a mystery, like so much of the Hold itself— relics of an age long forgotten.

  The pair paused beneath the towering archway of the Hold’s massive gatehouse. Viktor leaned heavily on his cane, his thumb absently tracing the sapphire eyes of the raven carved into its handle. The repetitive motion offered a sliver of focus as his thoughts meandered into darker territories.

  A few steps away, Kastiel stood wrapped in his dark cloak. His sharp, green eyes scanned the capital city below, taking in the sprawling cascade of rooftops, flickering torches, and wisps of chimney smoke trailing into the cool air.

  Viktor’s gaze drifted to his companion, lingering on Kastiel’s unchanging face.

  Time had left its mark on Viktor; fine lines around his mouth and eyes, grey streaked through his dark hair, and there was an ever present weariness.

  Kastiel, by contrast, was untouched by the passing of ages. His bronze skin retained the warmth of youth. Thousands of years old, and he looked no more than a man of mid-thirties.

  Two decades had passed since they first met, yet Kastiel appeared exactly the same—a living testament to his otherworldly heritage.

  Viktor sighed softly, his breath a faint cloud in the chill air. “You haven’t changed,” he murmured, the words observation rather than a complaint.

  Kastiel continued to survey the sprawling city below them, his ageless face remaining calm. Stoic even. “And you have,” he replied, the words carrying neither pity nor judgment—only acknowledgment.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Viktor said, his lips curling into a wry smile.

  For a fleeting moment, an expression crossed Kastiel’s face—something subtle, almost imperceptible. It was not pity. A little sadness perhaps. An awareness of the passing years and the toll they exacted on his companion. Viktor had noticed it more frequently of late, as if even Kastiel, with all his agelessness, was not immune to the weight of time when it came to others.

  Viktor shifted his gaze to the city below, his thoughts descending into familiar shadows. The carefree youth he had once been—the young man who roamed the sun-scorched hills of the Old Kingdoms without a thought for the future—was gone. That version of himself had been buried beneath the crushing weight of titles, regrets, and losses too numerous to count.

  Now, the memories of his younger self lingered only as a phantom, haunting the edges of his mind. It didn’t demand his attention or rail against him like the other demons he carried. Instead, it whispered softly of what might have been, taunting him with unfulfilled dreams and freedoms lost to time.

  The steady clatter of hooves on cobblestone broke through his reverie. A dark carriage, pulled by a pair of blood bay stallions, rolled up to the gatehouse. Trystan, the master of horse, guided the animals with practiced ease, the torches lining the courtyard casting flickering light over their sleek forms.

  Kastiel gestured toward the carriage, his cloak shifting again in the breeze. “Shall we? I’d rather not give Aida another reason to lecture me about letting you wander about in the dark.”

  Viktor’s lips twitched in a faint smile, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. “Fair enough. She is a rather fierce little thing, isn’t she?”

  “Certainly a temper I am not interesting in testing,” Kastiel replied.

  Viktor chuckled softly. Without another word, they stepped into the carriage. Tapping the carriage roof with his cane, the horses began their steady descent into the city, their rhythmic strides and the gentle creak of wheels blending into the quiet of the night.