Elsewhere…
(Vale of Eternal Night — The Inner Vale: The Primordial Core)
At the heart of the Nyxvalis Supremacy sat the Primordial Core.
A crystal spire at the very centre of the Vale, its hues of blue and violet bleeding starry light from its surface. Every edge curved into geometrical perfection. How? No one knew. No force, not even fire, could shake that thing, let alone crack it.
Above it hovered a single crescent sphere. Suspended. Silent. It drew from the moon itself, feeding the Vale that quiet, luminous glow which had endured for millennia. To shatter it would be to shatter the Vale.
If one could even reach it.
Its openness was not arrogance. It was certainty.
Within that certainty, a figure moved.
---
His cloak hung heavy from his shoulders—dark, layered fur of some unnamed beast. The Black Attendants lining the corridor went down in bows at his passing. Heads lowered. Eyes averted.
His armour was pale. Grey—not dull, but muted. His features refined, sharp, deliberate. A faint trace of beard along his jaw. Ash-blonde hair kept short. Pale green eyes still. Watchful.
Highblood? No.
Not even close.
Sir Garrek Ashford.
The Pinnacle Blade. Or, as others whispered—the Highblood Killer. A knight personally groomed by the Patriarch. Now seated in the most damning position within the Clan.
The First Dark Moon.
Every Nyxvalis possessed one—a chosen vassal, knight, or consort. A substitute. A shadow. A necessary absence made flesh. But the First Dark Moon—the Vice Patriarch—was not meant for someone like him. By custom, it belonged to one of the Three Heavens. The favoured. The destined. The next to ascend.
Not a human.
If he could even be called that. A monster who had carved his place by mounting bodies of purebloods and bearers. No one was eager to test him; only hopeful he'd live out his human years and die.
Wherever he walked, respect followed. Not offered. Imposed.
As he approached the Patriarch's office, another figure crossed his path.
Elder Myra.
She looked as she always did. Tired. Measured. Unmoved by the weight of where she walked. Her hands adjusted the folds of her gown as she passed. A faint nod—respectful. Measured.
He returned it. Just as faint.
Then continued to the door.
He knocked once and waited. His gaze followed the retreating form of the Elder.
How curious.
"Enter."
The voice came from within.
The door handle turned. Garrek entered—a single, smooth motion carrying the door open behind him.
The office was well furnished. Measured. Intentional. A pelt rug spread across the floor. A curved white oak desk stood at its center—lined with essential instruments and neatly arranged documents.
Behind it—August.
The refracted light from the all-crystal wall behind him cast shifting hues across his figure—fractured colours breaking against an otherwise immovable expression.
His braids were undone. Black hair bound loosely at the nape. A silk shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Sleeves rolled. A quill rested in his hand—moving steadily across the page.
Far too casual for the authority he held.
His gaze did not rise.
"I assume this is something important," he said, his hand never pausing in its work.
Garrek bowed once. Then approached.
"Indeed, Patriarch."
His hand slipped into his coat. A letter emerged—placed carefully upon the desk.
August's gaze drifted to it. Brief. Unhurried.
"The Blood Trial," he said.
"Correct."
"Yes, Patriarch."
There was a slight edge beneath Garrek's voice now—an insistence.
"The High Roa has just left," August continued, as though finishing a thought already in motion. "She came to sell me the Council's version of events."
A faint pause.
"How… persuasive they believed it to be."
Silence lingered.
"Is there something else?"
"The location—the Plains of Barbel. The Council is forcing a mass exodus out of the Vale."
Garrek's voice remained measured.
"Even now, the gates are overwhelmed. There's been commotion. Minor skirmishes since morning. Vale guards and officials are stretched thin."
A pause.
"And with the Vale's attention fixed on the boy for the past moon…"
His gaze sharpened.
"Disruption is not just likely. It is inevitable."
August said nothing.
"If an ambush occurs—or any sudden escalation—on those abandoned plains…"
That was when August's gaze finally lifted.
"What is your request, Ashford."
"We stop this Trial."
A beat.
"Here. And now."
"Denied."
The word landed clean. Absolute.
A flicker—brief, bitter—crossed Garrek's expression.
August reached into one of his drawers. Produced a document. And slid it across the desk.
"Thirteen seals," he said lightly. "Unanimous."
Garrek went still.
Understanding settled in. Heavy. Cold.
To overrule it—would mean fracture. Not resistance.
His gaze narrowed.
"Then relocate it," Garrek pressed. "Within the Vale. The Second Outer Blade—"
A step closer.
"Or another controlled environment. Somewhere we can—"
August's hand stilled.
"Pardon the interruption, Ashford," he said. Flat. "I will be direct."
"I am not particularly interested in this ordeal."
"Not the setup."
"Not the boy."
"Not what happens at midnight."
"I have a mountain of responsibilities to attend to."
A faint pause.
"Dealing with those fossils is not among them."
"Not today."
He drew another document forward. Blank. And began to write.
"The Vale does not revolve around me."
A stroke of the quill.
"Nor you."
"It reacts."
"To action."
The quill stopped. August lifted his hand. Drew a thin line across his finger. Obsidian blood welled—then fell. One drop. Precise. The Patriarch's seal.
He pushed the document forward.
"And since you are so interested in taking action—"
"Here."
Garrek took it. Silently.
Acting Patriarch — Garrek Ashford.
The weight of it settled instantly. Not authority. Burden.
"Do as you please."
August leaned back slightly.
"For as long as you need."
A beat.
"Now—"
He gestured toward the door.
"If you would."
Garrek bowed once. Then turned. And left.