The wind howled like a mourning specter as Vaidvelis and his retinue rode toward the monolithic blackstone fortress of Hel’s Order. The eastern road was a treacherous path of frost-crusted stone, flanked by jagged cliffs and gnarled trees and stumps that stood as skeletal remains of a long-dead forest. The sky above was a deep iron-gray, the sun a mere pale smudge in the heavens, its light devoured by the oppressive presence of the citadel ahead.

  The retinue rode in near silence, their presence a stark contrast against the desolation surrounding them. At Vaidvelis’ right was Sarvok, a gaunt, hollow-cheeked man clad in segmented armor of silver and steel, his face perpetually masked by a heavy hood. The blade at his hip was etched with silent runes of detachment, meant to sever souls from their earthly chains. He was the envoy’s guardian.

  To Vaidvelis’ left rode Ismara, a woman draped in midnight-blue robes, her face partially obscured by a veil embroidered with symbols of the Umbral Society. She was a black mage, a master of destructive spells and curses. With every slow clink of the charms that hung from her attire, it was as if dark energies sparked out.

  The last of his company was Ralvar, a dour-faced scribe who rode hunched over in his saddle, wrapped in thick layers of black wool. His hands, gloved in ink-stained leather, gripped a thick tome bound in gray hide. He was not a warrior but a guild-chronicler, tasked with recording the proceedings of the meeting with meticulous precision.

  As they approached near the fortress, its presence became all-encompassing. Carved into the very face of the obsidian mountain, its towers and parapets jutted outward like jagged fangs, its immense gates a testament to its impenetrability.

  Vaidvelis urged his steed forward, his silver hair catching the wind. His runic robes, marked with the sigils of the Umbral Society, shimmered subtly, as if woven with the remnants of old spells. Around him, the air pulsed with unseen forces—spirits bound in anguish, their whispers pressing against the veil of reality, straining against his control but never slipping free. It was the quiet, deliberate restraint of a man accustomed to walking the edge of another realm, wielding its power without letting it consume him.

  His breath escaped in misted exhalations as the party reached the foot of the fortress. The great black gates loomed before them, riveted with veins of polished bone, their surface inscribed with the sacrificial oaths of Hel’s knights.

  A piercing, unnatural wail echoed across the valley as the gates remained closed, a sound neither wholly alive nor entirely dead, controlled wraiths were encircling them. The air around them thickened, a weight pressing upon their chests as if unseen hands sought to still their breath.

  Then, with a mechanical groan, the gates parted and the wraiths dissipated.

  ----

  The interior of the fortress was strangely colder than the world outside though not in a physical way, but blanket of discomforting nakedness was conjured in the mind. Blackstone walls stretched into vaulted ceilings adorned with carvings of Hel’s chosen—grim, armored figures frozen in obeisance to their goddes. The flickering light of pale witchfires cast elongated shadows that stretched across the grand entrance of inner bailey.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  At the threshold stood Lord-Bailiwick Malthren. Clad in blacksteel armor adorned with bone motifs and polished obsidian gems, his presence was as unyielding as the fortress itself. His enclosed thorned helmet, designed to obscure all but the faintest glimmers of his hollow eye sockets, gave him a visage of grim judgment and the unliving discipline of a Hel-knight.

  “I bid thee welcome, envoys of the Umbral Society,” Malthren intoned, his voice a measured thing of iron restraint. “I am Lord-Bailiwick Malthren. Though, I know not what you have come for. If it is regards to trade, then our patience is as thin as the frost upon the stones. The Velvet Syndicate should have sent its own to do its bickering, not a proxy.”

  Vaidvelis dismounted, his boots clicking against the polished black floor as he stepped forward, his retinue close behind. He inclined his head with the barest measure of courtesy. “Lord Malthren, I come bearing much news. Our western lands are in a period of... great change—firstly, there is no Velvet Syndicate to speak of anymore, truthfully. What remnants exist of the merchant lords shall be swept away at this rate. Indeed, the Unholy Alliance itself is dead and gone, dissolved by its own factions.”

  Malthren did not move, did not so much as incline his head at the revelation. He merely watched, silent as a tomb, waiting.

  Vaidvelis continued, “As the turmoil has unfolded, a new power has formed in the west—the Dark Host. We seek to establish a new alliance that will grant us the freedom to operate unimpeded. No more than that, to finally expand our frontiers. In return, we offer our combined strength and a covenant to maintain most of the prior treaties we had, as the collapse of our old trade networks has left both our coffers empty I'm sure.”

  Malthren’s fingers curled slightly against the pommel of his great bonesword, its hilt bound in grave-cloth. “A new covenant, you say. And the collapse of the unholy alliance?” His voice remained cold, but there was a thread of calculation beneath it. “And what guarantees do you provide that any of what you say is true?”

  Vaidvelis met Malthren’s gaze unflinchingly. “My lord,” he said, his voice measured, “guarantees are not carved in marble nor etched in obsidian, but they are forged in blood and bound by necessity. Certainly, you could not have missed the reports of missing shipments already, even if the merchants seek to hide this development lest they incur your wrath.”

  The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken tension.

  “Besides,” Vaidvelis continued, “as a representative of the Umbral Society, I have the legal right to demand a council with the Seers in regard to crisis, and I intend to use it here and now—with or without your consensus.”

  A flicker of something passed beneath Malthren’s helm. Irritation, perhaps. Or grudging respect. The Knights of Hel’s Order were bound to the laws set out in the treaties, their authority undeniable. It was not a demand he could easily refuse.

  “Legality you might have,” Malthren intoned, his voice as frigid as the stones that held his fortress together. “But I maintain the authority to bar any from this fortress if I believe their intentions to be fraught. So again, I ask—what proof do you offer that your words will not turn to naught?”

  Vaidvelis reached into the folds of his dark robes and produced a small obsidian vial filled with a swirling, pale-blue liquid. “This is the Tear of Algae,” he said softly. “An elixir distilled from an ancient ritual known only to me. Its magic wraps a victim in such despair that they cannot resist but succumb to an inevitable death.” He turned the vial between his fingers, the light refracting in ghostly patterns along the walls. “A single-use weapon, but potent. If used on a worthy target, I am certain the Order can appreciate its value.”

  Malthren stared at the vial, the soft light reflecting against his helm. A long silence passed before he finally exhaled through his nose, the faintest echo of a sigh. “At least you have something to present to the Seers, then.”

  He turned, his armor clanking as he gestured toward the fortress depths. “Fine. Come along. I shall walk you to the council.”

  As Malthren signaled to a knight at a mechanical lever, the great iron-bound gates groaned further open, and the path into the heart of the fortress beckoned.