Chapter 19: Veins of Ash and Wine
Twilight melted over the high spires of Velcrest like molten velvet, draping the capital of Ederlan in a dusky haze of lavender and gold. The twin moons, still pale against the deepening sky, blinked through the clouds like half-lidded eyes watching the noble heart of the realm settle into evening ritual. From the skywalks that crisscrossed between towers to the domed manses carved into the hillsides, lanterns of hovering crystal flared to life—each one flickering with a soft hum of contained aether. The night of the Grand Wine Offering had come.
In the northern heights of the city, nestled into a spiraling bluff above the polished obsidian streets of the Ember Ring District, stood the Celestial Manor—a relic of ancient days, its walls traced with silverleaf vines and glyph-etched columns, crowned by the blooming crescent of House Durell's crest. Here, under a balcony veiled by flowering velvet creepers, Elias von Durell leaned against the railing in silence.
He wore no ceremonial robe yet, only a loose white silk shirt, unfastened at the neck, and black trousers tucked into high obsidian-leather boots. His eyes scanned the city, but his thoughts were elsewhere—entangled in prophecy, in whispers of political upheaval, and in the heavy scent of what tonight's ceremony would demand.
Behind him, a servant moved like a shadow, placing a carved glass decanter of duskberry wine on a nearby table. Elias didn't turn.
"Tell Velena she need not rush," he murmured.
The servant gave a shallow bow and left.
Not ten seconds later, the door creaked again—this time followed by the deliberate sound of high heels clicking against blackstone tile.
"I rushed anyway," said Velena Maristelle.
She emerged in an indigo evening gown slit nearly to the hip, her silver-blonde hair bound in a crown braid, skin luminous in the lanternlight. Her figure, sculpted and deliberate, moved with the grace of a trained diplomat and the allure of a siren.
"I assume you didn't dress yet because you were hoping I would do it for you."
Elias turned at last. "A man can hope."
Their eyes locked.
She stepped close, laying a hand on his chest. "You're tense."
"It's the night."
"Is it the ceremony… or the possibility of assassination during it?"
"Yes."
She laughed softly and kissed him—first lightly, then deeper, her fingers curling at his collar. When they parted, her voice was quieter. "The Circle of Wives will be watching us tonight."
"Let them," Elias replied. "Let them see I'm not as tame as my birthright suggests."
---
The Silver Spire, an ancient construct of elven-glass and hollowed duskstone, rose like a spear of frozen wind in the center of Velcrest. Within its halls, nobles from across the kingdom gathered in shifting clusters—dukes and viscounts, merchant-lords, house scions, and foreign emissaries.
Painted ceilings depicted the gods' old wars. The polished floors reflected the wide variety of attendees—some dressed in crimson battle-sashes, others in ethereal robes stitched with metallic thread. The women of House Yl'shara arrived in violet lace veils. House Harven's men, tall and blue-eyed, wore wolf-pelt mantles over golden cuirasses. And trailing behind a trio of foreign mages, a slave-girl of the Severed Sands walked barefoot, her body painted in gilded prayer lines.
"Do not stare," Velena whispered, catching Elias's glance.
"I'm not. I'm cataloguing."
"You'll make a fine spymaster if you ever tire of seduction and swordplay."
"I'd rather not choose."
---
The wine offering itself began as the sun vanished fully behind the western peaks. A horn of lapis and dragonbone called out the hour, and golden wine—fermented from duskberries that grew only during eclipse years—was poured into the offering basin.
Each noble present offered a single sip and a personal truth, whispered into the basin's rim. Truth magic, fueled by the wine's ingredients, rendered lies impossible.
When Elias stepped forward, all fell silent.
He lifted the goblet, held it before the basin, and said, "I was born under a false omen. I intend to reclaim it."
Gasps from a few elders. Whispers. Someone dropped a fan.
The sip was taken. The ritual passed.
---
But then came the rupture.
A boom like cannon-fire split the eastern wing. Screams followed—then light: red, blinding, violent.
"GET DOWN!" shouted a guardsman.
From above, crystal shards rained. Masked figures in black and violet descended on ropes, blades drawn. The Chain of Oracles had come.
Elias dropped his ceremonial cloak, drew the twin daggers hidden in his boots, and threw himself over a screaming noblewoman. Velena was already weaving sigils of binding wind.
Steel clashed with spell. Blood smeared marble.
Elias stabbed a masked man through the thigh, twisted, and yanked—shattering the femur.
"Protect the basin!" cried one elder.
Too late. One of the intruders poured something into it—a black fluid that hissed and smoked. The basin cracked.
A dying man whispered, "The blood-marked heir… walks again."
Elias turned to Velena. Her lips were stained crimson. "It's begun," she said.
---
The chapter end