Mother of Midnight

Chapter 174 – Drakthar Fortress

With a personal escort leading them straight into the city, they bypassed the long line of merchants, travelers, and hopeful petitioners waiting for entry. There were no protests, no grumblings of unfairness—just wary glances and hushed whispers. Whether it was because Rava’s presence commanded respect or because Vivienne’s enormous, wolfish form unsettled everyone into silence, she wasn’t entirely sure. She liked to believe it was the latter.

As they passed through the massive gate and into Drakthar proper, Vivienne’s keen eyes drank in the differences between this city and Serkoth. Where Serkoth had been a place of wooden homes reinforced with stone foundations, Drakthar was the opposite—nearly every building was constructed from dark grey stone, giving the city a cold, fortress-like feel. The only exception was the rooftops, which shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, revealing themselves to be made of ceramic or some other glazed material.

It was a stark contrast, but not an unpleasant one. The uniformity of the stone structures lent the city a sense of strength, of permanence. There were no tightly-packed wooden homes that could go up in flames from a stray ember—here, everything was built to last.

Vivienne tried to recall whether stone or insulated wood was better for keeping in heat, but the sheer number of smoking chimneys suggested that the Drakthar had found ways to make their methods work. The air carried the scent of burning fuel—wood, coal, and other materials she couldn’t quite place—mingling with the crisp bite of winter.

Even with the sturdy stone buildings, she could see signs of the season's harshness. People wrapped themselves tightly in thick cloaks and furs, and most hurried along the streets with purpose, eager to get indoors. Merchants and traders haggled quickly, likely wanting to conclude their business before the cold could bite too deeply. She had to note that almost everyone was fashionably dressed. Those of serkoth had been a hardy, practical people. These people seemed to be practical too, but they sacrificed a little for the sake of fashion.

She could see why the two clans didn’t like each other already.

All the while, the presence of their escort kept the city’s usual bustle at a wary distance. People parted before them, some staring openly at Rava, others keeping their eyes locked on Vivienne. Children pointed and whispered, only to be hushed and pulled along by their parents.

Yes, she definitely preferred thinking they were afraid of her.

Looming ahead of them was a fortress that made even the Serkoth clanhome seem paltry by comparison. Towering walls of dark stone rose high above the rest of the city, layered in imposing battlements and watchtowers that stood like silent sentinels against the sky. The sheer scale of it was staggering—broad avenues funneled toward it like veins leading to a heart of stone, a center of power so heavily fortified that it seemed less like a home and more like a war citadel.

Yet, even with its immense presence, it still paled in comparison to the outer barrier that encased all of Drakthar. That monolithic wall, a true testament to the city's might, was something else entirely—something that had stood the test of time against not only rival clans but also the great, unknowable threats of the steppes.

As they approached the fortress gates, the guards barely spared them a second glance before waving them through. Their escort had done its job, and whatever message had preceded them ensured there would be no delays. Inside, the courtyard stretched wide, a vast open space lined with racks of weapons, training dummies, and barracks. Even in the dead of winter, warriors were out in force—practicing their forms, sparring, tending to their gear. The clang of steel against steel echoed in the crisp air, accompanied by the rhythmic bark of instructors drilling their subordinates.

They were led to an empty patch near the center, where the packed snow had been trampled into a slushy mess by the constant movement of people and mounts. Here, they were told to wait.

Kivvy, upon hearing that she was permitted to accompany Rava inside—as well as Liora—did not hesitate for a single moment. She bolted from the wagon with the eagerness of a woman escaping a prison, clutching her cloak tightly around her as she followed Rava toward the fortress doors, disappearing into the relative warmth of the stone halls beyond.

That left Vivienne and Renzia to sit in the snow, the cold already seeping into the fabric of reality itself.

Well, at least neither of them felt the cold.

Rava hated this place almost as much as the time she visited here with her mother when she was a pup. Back then, the halls of Drakthar had been a maze of cold stone and regal opulence, the air thick with the faint scent of incense and the constant hum of whispered power. She had been so small, and the towering figures of her clan had loomed over her, every movement grand, every word dripping with authority. She could remember how her mother had looked at her with pride as they walked through these same halls, but beneath the pride had been the faintest trace of discomfort—something that Rava hadn’t understood at the time. Now, she felt that discomfort more deeply than ever.

She appreciated the architecture of Drakthar. It was practical, sturdy, sensible. The stonework was flawless, the walls thick and reassuring, the arches soaring overhead like a promise of strength. But the moment she stepped inside, it was like all that good sense had flown away. The halls were suffocating in their excess—lined with disgustingly opulent paintings and tapestries that depicted the ‘great deeds’ of Clan Drakthar. She could almost hear the boasting in every brushstroke, every weft of thread. The towering portraits, the gilded frames—there was nothing subtle or humble about them. The images were often of the very same people who ruled the city now: cold-eyed and proud, gazing down at all who dared to step inside with an arrogance that was as thick as the tapestries themselves.

Sure, Serkoth had its share of grandiose art, but there was always a sense of restraint, a bit of practicality even in their displays of power. In contrast, the Drakthar halls seemed determined to show how much wealth they had, how much grandeur they could afford.

The Drakthar were a proud people, but there was no need to rub their power in everyone's face with every inch of their home. Every wall seemed to scream that they were more powerful, more enduring, more deserving of respect than anyone else. It was hard to ignore the layers of gold, the deep reds woven into every tapestry, carved into every chair, and encrusting the frames of mirrors and paintings. Red was expensive. Gold tarnished unless properly cared for, and yet here it was, everywhere. It almost felt like a statement—‘Look at us, we are so rich that we can waste it all on things that tarnish or fade over time.’ And the worst part was that it worked. It worked on every visitor who stepped through these doors, making them feel small, insignificant, even as they marveled at the wealth.

Kivvy and Liora flanked Rava’s sides as they made their way through the halls, the guards following behind them at a respectful distance. It felt wrong to bring Liora into this, into a den of political games and petty rivalries that had nothing to do with her. The child didn’t deserve this. Rava had enough of her own baggage when it came to the Drakthar. But it would have been strange, even dangerous, to leave Liora out in the cold, regardless of how unaffected the girl seemed by the freezing temperatures outside. But cover needed to be maintained and she was playing as the girl's adoptive mother. As to what she would do, she had the idea to claim her as the daughter of an eclipse wraith and a human. A far fetched idea but not entirely implausible. It would do for the next few days.

“Stay close, Liora,” Rava murmured, glancing down at the girl. “Remember what we talked about.”

Liora’s bright eyes met Rava’s, and she nodded solemnly, even if the idea of pretending to be Rava’s daughter seemed so strange to her. Still, the child seemed eager to please, to fit into whatever role was necessary. She didn’t understand the weight of the words Rava had said earlier, but she would do as she was told, at least for now. Rava wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, either, but it felt necessary. The Drakthar would expect a family, and Liora would need to play this part in this strange masquerade.

She hated putting that on a child.

As they continued walking, Rava couldn’t help but feel the weight of the Drakthar’s stares following them, their eyes flicking to Liora, to Kivvy, and then to her own face. They had seen her enough to know that she wasn’t easily fooled by the grandeur around her, but there was no denying that it was hard to remain unaffected. The mere presence of the Drakthar in their own home was overwhelming, and she could feel the city pressing down on her from all sides.

Kivvy didn’t say anything, but the relief on her face was palpable as she moved deeper into the warmth of the Drakthar stronghold. Her breath, once visible in the freezing air, now dissipated in the warmth of the stone walls that seemed to pulse with life. She inhaled deeply, letting the heat wash over her, and Rava could see her shoulders relax just a fraction as the oppressive chill of the outside world was replaced by the shelter of the inner halls. It was an unspoken relief, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood. Kivvy’s body, usually so rigid and tense, softened slightly in the warmth, and the tension that had been held in her posture melted away.

Rava didn’t take her eyes off the path ahead, but she couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in her companion. She didn’t say anything, though—Kivvy had never been one for idle chatter. She wasn’t the type to admit weakness, even something as simple as the need for warmth, so Rava allowed the silence to hang between them. Kivvy wasn’t the sort to let herself show vulnerability often, but Rava had learned to recognize the small signs. There was no need for words when the relief was this evident.

Finally, they reached the end of the main hallway. The space opened up into a large, imposing set of doors—dark wood carved with intricate patterns, adorned with the symbols of the Drakthar clan. The faint, flickering light of torch sconces along the walls cast long shadows, stretching out across the floor in patterns that almost seemed to move with a life of their own. The air felt heavier here, as if the very walls themselves were holding their breath.

Flanking the large doors stood two guards, both tall and imposing figures clad in the same red and gold armor that seemed to define the Drakthar. Well they would be more imposing to her if she were perhaps a head or two shorter. Their eyes flicked over Rava, Kivvy, and Liora, assessing them with the practiced gaze of those who had seen many walk through these halls. There was no immediate recognition in their eyes, but Rava knew better than to let that mislead her. The Drakthar had a way of watching without appearing to do so, their eyes always alert, always calculating. Even the faintest twitch of a hand or a flicker of hesitation could be caught by someone accustomed to this environment.

The guards moved with rigid precision, their motions practiced and mechanical as they pushed the heavy doors open. The weight of the wood and metal hinges groaned slightly in protest before giving way, revealing the chamber beyond. As soon as their task was complete, the guards stepped back into position with the same disciplined efficiency, their expressions remaining unreadable as they resumed their statuesque stance.

Rava didn’t spare them a second glance. She had no need to. Their duty was to stand, watch, and ensure order; hers was to step forward and face whatever lay beyond these doors.

The council chamber was a familiar sight, despite the years that had passed since she’d last set foot in it. For all the time spent at each other’s throats, Serkoth and Drakthar shared more than they cared to admit. The room’s layout mirrored her own clan’s in many ways—pragmatic in function, yet drowning in unnecessary opulence. A raised U-shaped table dominated the chamber, its polished surface reflecting the flickering glow of chandeliers overhead. Around it, finely crafted chairs stood in a semi-circle, each carved with intricate designs meant to boast of the long, storied legacy of Clan Drakthar.

And at the head of the table—of course—sat Kaelvar.

Kaelvar was every bit the image of a Drakthar chieftain. He was a lekine of imposing stature, tall and broad-shouldered, with a presence that filled the room even when he remained seated. His fur was a deep, stormy gray, thick and well-groomed, with streaks of silver running along the edges of his muzzle and temples—whether from age or simply the mark of his lineage, it was difficult to say. His golden eyes gleamed like molten metal, sharp and unwavering, taking in everything with a calculating intensity that made it clear nothing escaped his notice.

The scar that ran from the base of his left ear down to his jawline was a stark contrast against his otherwise pristine fur, a reminder that he had not always ruled from a chair. His clothing was as excessive as the chamber itself—rich crimson and black fabrics woven with gold embroidery, a thick fur-lined cloak draped over one shoulder. A heavy, ornate pendant hung around his neck, bearing the sigil of Clan Drakthar, a stylized fang wrapped in curling flames.

His claws were well-maintained but not dulled, and his hands rested upon the arms of his throne-like seat with a casual confidence, as if he had already won whatever battle was about to take place. His ears flicked slightly at Rava’s approach, the only outward sign of his thoughts before he finally spoke.

The most lavish chair in the room belonged to him, as was tradition. Gilded edges, fine red upholstery, and a back taller than any of the others, as if the very seat itself sought to elevate him above all others present. He occupied it with an air of self-assurance, as if it had been made for him alone. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes—sharp and assessing—gave away his true nature. He was no mere figurehead; he was watching, calculating.

The other chairs were filled with what Rava assumed were a mix of his children and chosen advisors. Some bore strong familial resemblance—his blood ran thick through Drakthar’s veins—while others had the look of seasoned warriors or political schemers. She could already pick out which of them were sizing her up, which were indifferent, and which would have preferred her dead on the spot.

She didn’t dislike Kaelvar. Not as much as his predecessor, at least. The old man had been insufferable, a relic clinging to an age long past, too stubborn to change even as the world shifted around him. Kaelvar was different. He had come into power not long after her last visit to this place, and though he was still a Drakthar through and through—prideful, shrewd, and annoyingly obsessed with appearances—he had at least made some practical choices since taking charge. He wasn’t a fool, and that was both a relief and a frustration.

Rava straightened her shoulders, stepping fully into the chamber, the doors closing behind her with a dull thud. The weight of the room settled around her, thick with unspoken expectations. Now came the part she hated most.

Kaelvar’s golden eyes narrowed as he studied Rava, fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his gilded chair. His tail flicked once, betraying his irritation before he leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “Ravanyr Serkoth and your… children? A pleasure.” The way he said it made it clear it was anything but. 

Liora clutched at the hem of Rava’s trousers, pressing herself closer, her tiny fingers curling tightly into the fabric. She didn’t say anything, but the way she edged toward Rava’s side spoke volumes. Meanwhile, Kivvy looked as if she couldn’t care less about the conversation unfolding around her, her gaze wandering elsewhere, completely detached from the weight in the air. That was just fine by Rava. The less attention drawn to them, the better.

Without thinking, she rested a paw atop Liora’s head, giving her a slow, reassuring pat. The girl barely stirred, though she nestled just a little closer.

“I hear you have information for me that was so important it needed to interrupt my schedule? We are at war, you know.” His voice carried no real anger, just that same clipped, weary frustration of a man who believed he had more important things to do.

Rava exhaled sharply through her nose. She hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but that didn’t make dealing with Drakthar politics any less exhausting. Better to go in with claws bared than be caught chewing. “The Dawn Giant has allied itself with the Sovereignty and is accompanying a force approaching here.”

The words had the desired effect. The room fell into stunned silence for all of half a second before one of the seated council members shot to her feet.

“That’s preposterous!” barked the woman seated to Kaelvar’s left. Her hands slammed against the table, her claws clicking against the polished wood. “The titans don’t concern themselves with mortal affairs.”

Rava flicked her gaze toward the woman, sizing her up with a single look. She was of average height, with a lean frame and sharp features that leaned more human than lupine—a sign of either untrained aether or youth. From the slight roundness of her cheeks and the smoothness of her skin, Rava would put coin on the latter. She was at least a decade younger than herself.

“That’s quite enough, Aeryn.” Kaelvar’s voice cut through the air with effortless authority, and the woman—Aeryn—flinched slightly before reluctantly sinking back into her seat. “The Serkoth might be brutes, but they aren’t known for being liars.”

The insult was casual, almost absentminded, like one might remark on the weather, but Rava had long since learned not to rise to such bait. If she got riled up every time a Drakthar called her kind brutes, she’d never get anything done. Still, she found herself wishing Vivienne was here with her. The diminutive woman had a blatant disregard for hierarchy and institutions that would have been amusing to watch in a setting like this. No doubt she would have had some cutting remark, all the sharper for being delivered in that sweet voice of hers. But Viv wasn’t here, and this was Rava’s battle to fight. She steeled herself and pressed on.

“My second eldest brother, Tarric Serkoth, went incognito into Sovereignty lands. Everything he has reported so far has proven to be correct,” she said, her voice steady and firm.

Kaelvar sat back in his seat, one hand idly stroking his beard as he considered her words. A slow smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tarric… I like that man,” he mused. “Only Serkoth with any real poise. Fantastic guest.”

Rava felt her tail bristle, but she kept her expression neutral. Of course, Kaelvar would say something like that. Tarric knew how to play the game of politics in a way she had neither the patience nor inclination for.

“Well,” Kaelvar continued, tapping a clawed finger against the table, “if there truly is a Titan on its way here, I do not know what our walls could do against it. Even the might of Drakthar has its limits.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, like he hated what he was about to say next. “Would your mother be open to a…” he hesitated, visibly forcing the words out, “truce? Would she take on the Titan? Drakthar is mighty, but even I will admit High Fang Korriva is a fearsome force.”

The admission was as close to an olive branch as Rava had ever heard from a Drakthar, but she wasn’t naive enough to mistake it for goodwill. No, this was pure, calculated pragmatism. Kaelvar was weighing his options, measuring risks and rewards, and if survival meant swallowing his pride and seeking Serkoth’s aid, then so be it.

Fortunately for them, that problem had already been solved—meaning Drakthar would owe Serkoth a favor.

Rava leaned forward slightly, her expression unreadable save for the glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Thanks to the generosity of my mother, that particular issue has already been handled,” she said smoothly. “We arrived in your city only after securing Vailora’s intervention. She will fight Nythara in your stead, ensuring that Drakthar doesn’t have to burn for it.”

Her lips curled into a grin, sharp and knowing. “Drakthar falling would be… inconvenient for Serkoth.” A deliberate pause, just long enough to let the weight of the statement settle. Then, with a mockery of sincerity, she added, “And, of course, for the rest of the Steppes.”

Oh dear. I think I’ve spent too much time with Vivienne.

The silence that followed was thick, the kind that stretched long enough to become uncomfortable. She let it. Let them stew in it. Let them question whether Serkoth had come as reluctant allies or calculating opportunists.

It was finally broken by a man seated to Kaelvar’s right. He bore a resemblance to both the younger woman from earlier and to Kaelvar himself—likely another one of his offspring. His tone was skeptical, probing. “That’s awfully convenient. You arrive bearing grim tidings, yet also claim to bring the solution. What exactly does Serkoth stand to gain from this?”

Rava exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, before tilting her head slightly. “Should either Serkoth or Drakthar fall, it would be catastrophic for the other, would it not?” she said, her voice carrying the air of someone explaining something painfully obvious. “While Serkoth wouldn’t be likely to fall—considering we have the most powerful champion of our age and one of the greatest exomancers in known history—Drakthar crumbling beneath the Sovereignty’s heel would be a… disadvantage for us. And for our allies.”

There was just the slightest hint of smugness in her voice. She was enjoying this far more than she expected, than she even should.

Vivienne really is a terrible influence.

She wouldn’t change it for the world.