Rooted in the Earth: Sanctuary

On the fifth night, the hunting party returned to Vesper, depleted in their supplies. Another fruitless hunt. No Harbinger. No monster. Not a single sign to justify their efforts.

For Hayden, the only thing the forest had offered was a growing collection of saddle sores and an increasingly foul temper.

As the sun sank below the horizon, the remnants of daylight casting long shadows across the gated courtyard of the Lord of Vesper's manor, Dennard raised his voice to address the group. 

"Resupply begins at dawn," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "You've earned a night at home. Be with your families, rest well, and return by midday tomorrow."

Hayden's shoulders sagged in quiet relief. He didn't need to be told twice.

Back in the comfort of his chambers, Hayden stripped off his filthy, sweat-stiffened clothing. The scent of mud and grime clung to his skin, a constant reminder of days spent trudging through the damp underbrush. He grimaced as he peeled off his boots, the leather caked with dirt, and tossed them aside.

A steaming bath awaited, drawn by one of the manor's servants. He sank into the water with a low groan, the heat enveloping him and seeping into his sore, knotted muscles. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to relax, the tension of the hunt dissolving in the rising steam. Yet the warmth couldn't touch the unease that gnawed at him, a cold fear lodged deep in his chest.

Five days. Five sleepless nights. Each evening in the forest had been a torment, spent huddled in a tent with his brothers, his ears straining against the night's every whisper. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a branch, had sent his heart racing. Was it the Harbinger? The killer they sought? Or just the wind?

Later, Hayden collapsed into his bed, the soft linens a stark contrast to the cold, hard ground of the forest. He let out a long, grateful groan as the down filled mattress embraced him, the exhaustion of the hunt finally catching up.

In the stillness of the dark, his thoughts wandered. Images of the girl at the market surfaced unbidden. She'd been tending a stall of herbs and flowers when she had caught his eye. Her smile, fleeting but genuine, had stayed with him longer than he cared to admit.

The memory offered a strange comfort amidst the chaos of his thoughts, though it was tinged with an ache he couldn't name. He closed his eyes, her face lingering in his mind as sleep finally claimed him.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would visit her.

"Let us in," the voices whispered, curling through the darkness like tendrils of smoke from a dying flame. "Let us in!"

The storm on the fringes of Viktor Helston's mind churned violently, dark clouds gathering in a tempest of anguish. Shadows twisted and writhed. In the depths of his thoughts, a low, guttural rumble echoed—a sound like an ancient beast stirring, its growl resonating through the recesses of his consciousness. 

It was a familiar omen, a herald of the demons that haunted him.

Lightning crackled through his memories, sharp and jarring. It illuminated fragments he wished to forget—moments better left buried. Each flicker was fleeting, yet the pain they summoned lingered, clawing at him as the storm grew closer.

"Let us in." The voices rasped, their tones harsh, like nails dragging across frost-rimed glass. Insistent. Unrelenting.

The demons always knew when he was weakest. They were intimate with the architecture of his mind, aware of every fragile corner where his resolve faltered. They lingered, watching, waiting for the cracks to widen. When his defenses flickered like a candle in the wind, they circled closer.

"Let us in! We miss you. We need you."

The words coiled around his heart. Their siren call, at once alluring and painful, threatened to drag him down into their depths.

His voice trembled with forced resolve. "Soon, my loves. I promise. Have patience."

But even as he spoke the words, they felt hollow. The demons would not wait. They were always hungry.

Viktor awoke alone, the storm in his mind replaced by the quiet crackle of the hearth. The flames in the black stone fireplace burned low, casting flickering shadows that danced across the paneled walls. Someone—Aida or Kastiel—had tended the fire during the night. Without their care, only cold embers would have remained.

Groaning, Viktor scrubbed a hand over his face. The bristle of his unshaven beard scratched against his palm. He sighed, thinking of the long day ahead and the need to shave before presenting himself at the Emphyeral Hold. A lord couldn't arrive looking like a wraith dragged from the grave.

The soft rap of knuckles on the heavy door broke the stillness.

"Enter," he called, his voice rough with sleep.

The door creaked open, and Aida's gentle voice drifted in. "Good morning, my lord. May you rise with the Dawn. I've laid out your clothes in your chamber. A warm breakfast awaits you when you're ready."

Viktor nodded, clearing his throat. "I'll be down shortly. Let Trystan know to ready the carriage."

"Of course, my lord." Her tone held a hint of warmth. "And the lad has already hitched the horses. He's quite the early riser."

"Indeed," Viktor murmured, managing the faintest smile. "Thank you, Aida. That will be all."

As the door closed softly, Viktor remained seated, the high-backed leather chair cradling his weight. The flickering firelight cast restless shapes across the room, reflecting the turmoil still brewing in his thoughts.

With a groan, he rose, his joints protesting. The pain in his knee flared as he stood, a sharp reminder of the icy patch that had felled him months ago—a patch of ice that seemed too coincidental, too early in the season to be natural. Nightfall had been displeased with him then. Perhaps it still was.

Grabbing his blackwood cane, its raven-shaped handle polished to a gleam, Viktor began his slow journey through the manor. The halls of Helston House, with their cold white stone and vaulted ceilings, amplified the rhythmic thud of his cane against the floor. Each strike echoed ominously, a heartbeat in the silence.

In the master chamber, Aida had prepared everything with meticulous care. His clothes lay arranged on the bed, the fire stoked to a welcoming blaze. On a small stone table by the hearth, a shallow bowl of steaming water waited, flanked by a soft towel, a bar of earthy-scented soap, and a razor that gleamed wickedly in the firelight.

Sometimes, Viktor wondered if Aida could read his thoughts. Her devotion to the household was unwavering, in stark contrast to her elder sister Mae, who served as Headkeeper at Nightfall itself. While Mae's service was steeped in stoic duty, Aida seemed genuinely pleased to bring life back into Helston House.

Breakfast was hearty—a bowl of thick oats laden with clotted cream, roasted walnuts, and spiced apples, sweetened with honey from Epili's renowned hives. Viktor ate quickly, bolting down the generous portion before taking his coffee to go.

As he stepped into the courtyard, the chill of the early morning air enveloped him. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, deepened by the dim light of two flickering lanterns. Trystan, his Master of Horse, waited with the carriage—a dark, elegant contraption drawn by a pair of blood bay stallions. The young man's posture was relaxed, but his readiness was evident.

By the carriage stood Kastiel, the Val 'Rhayne. Cloaked in heavy wool, the ancient warrior blended seamlessly into the shadows, his presence as imposing as ever. For a fleeting moment, Viktor thought of the stories his grandmother used to tell on cold winter nights. She had a way of weaving her words into fantastic tales, painting a tapestry inside one's mind, of legends and monsters. 

Now, after years of knowing Kastiel, Viktor understood the truth: the ancient warrior was far more dangerous than any of the monsters in her stories.

The sound of Viktor's cane striking the cobblestones brought Kastiel's gaze to him. The warrior's sharp eyes, ageless yet weary, met his with a brief nod. As Viktor climbed into the carriage, the weight of both the day and his demons pressed upon him.