The crimson steward
The chamber swallowed sound like a tomb.
Caelan stood alone in its center, surrounded by stone and shadow. The floor beneath him was a vast disc of spiraling silver and blood-red obsidian, etched with symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking. The ceiling above soared into darkness, vanishing beyond the reach of the crimson lanterns that burned with smokeless flame.
Here, the night did not fall.
It ruled.
Behind him, Lady Seraphyne Viremont remained silent — still and regal, a statue in war-forged silk. She had brought him through the obsidian corridors of the inner palace without a word, past arched windows that looked out upon stars that felt too close, too watchful.
This was not a throne room. Not in the human sense.
This was a chamber of witnessing. Of ancient rituals and older laws.
A hush fell as an unseen door opened.
From the far side of the spiral floor, a figure emerged — robed in flowing crimson and gold. Every thread shimmered with silent authority. The figure's long white hair spilled over shoulders like silver riverlight. A blindfold of dark crimson silk covered their eyes, and upon it was embroidered a golden sigil: an eye, closed and weeping.
Caelan instinctively held his breath.
The figure moved with serene, impossible grace, their footsteps making no sound. When they came to a halt before him, they bowed their head slightly and spoke — and the chamber listened.
"I am Velrath, Steward of His Radiance, the Crimson King. I speak with his voice, by his will."
The voice was neither male nor female — cool, melodic, like the sound of falling snow over stone. It carried no threat, yet held the weight of something that did not need to threaten.
Caelan found his voice. "Where… where is the King?"
Velrath tilted their head ever so slightly.
"You are in His presence, though He speaks not in mortal tones. The King has watched your coming. And He remembers."
At that, twelve tall, robed figures stepped forth from arched alcoves high along the perimeter — the representatives of the Count Clans. Each bore a unique sigil on their chest: fangs, thorns, stars, wings, serpents. Their eyes glowed faintly. They did not speak, but stood in formal witness.
Caelan's throat felt dry. "What am I doing here?"
Velrath turned slightly. From beneath their sleeves, they raised a hand — long fingers, marked with silver rings and inhuman grace.
The spiral beneath Caelan's feet pulsed with crimson light.
"Your name," Velrath intoned, "was lost to the waking world. But not to the Dusk."
The floor shimmered. Images unfurled like smoke rising from a deep chasm — a battlefield soaked in blood and starlight, a tower crumbling into the sea, a woman in silver-white armor kneeling with a hand pressed to her chest.
"You are Caelan Duskwither," Velrath said, as if speaking the name to the world itself.
A shiver ran through Caelan. The spiral on his chest burned faintly in response.
Velrath stepped closer. "Your blood remembers what your mind has forgotten. You are the echo of a bloodline once believed broken. You are the herald of the spiral rebirth. The King's will is not to crown you, nor claim you."
They paused.
"But to acknowledge you."
The chamber dimmed.
Then, from behind the veil of shadow that crowned the far wall — a tall, silent throne emerged. It was carved from a single black stone veined with red crystal, high and angular like a shard of night. Upon it, something sat. A figure, cloaked in darkness and stillness, half-seen, never fully visible.
Caelan could not see his face.
But he felt it.
Kael Noctaryn. The Vampire King.
The progenitor.
Velrath turned to face the throne and bowed, lowering their head until their blindfold touched their clasped hands. The Count Clans followed suit in unison — a wave of reverence that made the air itself feel thick.
And then Velrath spoke again, their voice suddenly deeper, older — as if echoing from a well of eternity.
> "The mortal bearer of the spiral stands before you, my King. His blood remembers. His soul has crossed the Veil. He awaits the judgment of dusk."
A silence followed. Not empty — but full. Charged.
Then a voice filled the hall.
Not from Velrath.
Not from the King.
But from everywhere.
"Let him walk the Dusk. Let him learn. Let the blood see what it has forgotten."
Caelan staggered slightly as the voice echoed through his bones. The spiral beneath him flared once, then dimmed.
Velrath rose, composed as ever.
"His Majesty grants you leave to remain in Noctisfall. You are not prisoner. Nor prince. But guest."
They turned, and for the first time, Caelan thought he saw something beneath the blindfold — the faintest flicker of light, like a sliver of starfire behind closed curtains.
"The city will test you. The blood will call to you. And in time, the King shall speak again."
Caelan didn't know what to say. So he simply whispered, "Why me?"
Velrath smiled faintly — the barest movement.
"Because the Veil broke for no one else."
Seraphyne stepped forward then, placing a gloved hand on Caelan's shoulder.
"Come," she said, cold and commanding as ever. "There is more of the city yet to see. And the King's patience is not infinite."
They turned and walked from the chamber, the spiral dimming behind them, the throne folding once more into shadow.
And though Kael Noctaryn had not moved…
Caelan could still feel the eyes of eternity watching him.