Entry 71: Nimmerhold

Dear diary,
 
As I stepped through the portal into the gateroom beyond, still holding Liliana’s hand, I nearly crashed into Luke’s back. He didn’t move. None of them did. They were frozen, staring ahead.
 
The gateroom was octagonal—its walls curved like the inside of a gem, tall and seamless. Eight iron candelabras stood in the corners, each one holding a flickering flame of a different hue: violet, gold, emerald, sapphire. The air shimmered with the quiet pulse of old magic, like the room itself had a heartbeat.
 
But it wasn’t the architecture that held everyone still.
 
Three figures stood across from us, clearly only just arrived. At the center: a woman unlike any I had ever seen. Her horns swept back from her brow in elegant arcs, like a crown grown from bone. Her face, sharply beautiful, carried the faint wildness of a goat—slitted pupils, a hint of fur at her cheeks—and her gown shimmered with embroidered constellations. Flanking her were two armored guards, their full plate etched with runes and helms crowned with antlers like stags.
 
Their hands were on their weapons—but they hadn’t drawn. We had startled them. They had startled us. The room held its breath.
 
Then Gael stepped forward, palms raised, voice calm and careful. “Apologies,” he said, with that practiced diplomat’s ease. “We didn’t mean to intrude.”
 
The tension ebbed. Slowly, the horned woman raised a hand, and her guards stepped back. The moment they did, it felt like air returned to the room.
 
She stepped forward, her presence commanding without being harsh. “I am Elanna,” she said, her voice smooth as velvet over steel. “Ruler of the city of Raven.”
 
That made my breath catch.
 
Raven. A city of Irminsul. Not part of the feywild.
 
I straightened, eyes narrowing with interest.
 
Elanna looked over each of us, her gaze lingering just a moment too long, as if reading more than faces. And then she smiled.
 
“You must be the guests of honour.”
 
There was no doubt in her voice. No question.
 
We exchanged quick glances, then nodded. “That’s us,” I said.
 
Introductions followed, formal but cautious. And then Gael asked the question all of us had been dreading.
 
“What day is it on Irminsul?”
 
Elanna’s answer was gentle. Almost kind. But the words hit like a hammer.
 
“Late summer,” she said.
 
Two months.
 
We had lost two months.
 
I felt my stomach twist. The air in the room suddenly felt colder than Vivienne’s wind.
 
While the others kept speaking, I drifted into my own thoughts, replaying every decision we’d made. Two months lost to dances, to wolves, to floral bird traps. I swallowed down the rising frustration. Too late, far too late, the idea sparked in my mind: I could have offered Vivienne five years of service. Taking the burden Dadroz had refused. Bought us safety, bought us time.
 
But the thought came too late.
 
Maybe Vivienne would still come to Nimmerhold. Maybe the bargain was still possible.
 
I didn’t know. But I intended to find out.
 
It was almost like Elanna could read my thoughts. As I stood there, reeling from the weight of lost time, she tilted her head slightly and said, “It is unwise to enter the Feywild without some manner of protection.”
 
Her tone was soft, almost amused, but I felt the sting behind the words.
 
Then, as if offering a balm, she added, “Next time you choose to visit, come to me first. I’ll see you properly shielded.”
 
A spark of hope lit in my chest. Without hesitating, I stepped forward. “Could you still do it now? For the time we have left?”
 
Elanna smiled, her gaze warm and knowing. “Of course,” she said. “It’s easily done.”
 
And then—without asking for a single thing in return—she moved from person to person, gently placing her fingers on each of our foreheads. Her touch was cool, like dewdrops at dawn, and I felt the spell settle into me, anchoring me to the rhythm of time itself. Steady. Solid. Grounded.
 
I offered a quiet thank you. “If ever you need help,” I said, “you can call on us. That’s a promise.”
 
She gave a graceful nod, then turned as the great doors at the end of the gateroom creaked open.
 
We stepped forward into the palace keep—and were immediately confronted by two massive ogres clad in full plate armor. They stood like statues, blocking the hall. Elanna introduced herself smoothly, and one of the ogres gave a short bow before escorting her and her warriors down a side corridor. The other ogre stepped directly in our path, his hand raised like a wall.
 
He glared down at us, his jaw tight. “You’re lucky,” he growled, “that I wasn’t there when you so unjustly attacked Davozan.”
 
My pulse spiked. For a heartbeat, I was tempted to reply, to defend our actions, to tell him what really happened. But I swallowed the words. Not here. Not now. Nimmerhold was no place to make enemies lightly, and we were still guests—barely.
So I held my tongue, as did the others.
 
We waited in stiff silence until the second ogre returned. Then, wordlessly, they led us deeper into the palace.
 
The interior of King Ulther’s keep was a labyrinth—stone corridors that bent impossibly, spiraling staircases that climbed and descended with no sense of direction, and archways that shifted ever so slightly when you weren’t looking. It felt like the castle watched you, amused at how lost you were becoming. I tried to memorize the path, but after the third turn I gave up. There was no point. This place had its own rules.
 
After what felt like an hour of aimless wandering, the air changed. Warmer. Sweeter. Music, faint and lilting, drifted from a nearby archway, along with the scent of ripe fruit and honeyed wine. We paused, instinctively turning toward it.
 
A wide portal yawned open to our left. Beyond it, I glimpsed golden lights, spinning dancers, and silver trays glinting with food and drink. A party. A celebration. One that had clearly already begun.
 
Our escort grunted and waved us onward. “Later,” he said. “You’ll be announced in the throne room first.”
 
And so we walked on, the music fading behind us, replaced once again by the echoing footsteps and the ever-shifting stone of Nimmerhold.
 
We walked the rest of the distance in silence, the twisting corridors slowly giving way to something grander. And then—before us—the massive gates of the throne room loomed, carved from stone and veined with silver, each panel etched with scenes of ancient battles and forgotten kings. As we approached, the doors opened on their own with a low, resonant groan.
 
And beyond them lay the marvel of Nimmerhold’s throne room.
 
It was like stepping into a forest made of stone and magic. The pillars rose like massive trees, their surfaces carved into bark and branches that reached up to the vaulted ceiling, where chandeliers shimmered like fireflies caught in a breeze. Light danced across the stone canopy in shifting hues of green and gold, mimicking the soft, dappled sunlight that filters through leaves on a midsummer afternoon. It didn’t just look like a forest—it felt like one. Warm. Ancient. Alive.
 
The room bustled with activity. Servants moved in synchronized waves, laying silver platters, adjusting long tables, hanging rich fabrics that shimmered like moss under starlight. It was a flurry of preparation—for a feast clearly meant to welcome hundreds.
 
And at the center of it all was Davozan.
 
The giant stood tall and broad, directing the chaos with the calm authority of someone used to commanding attention. He was the same towering presence we had faced at the gates of Immerglade, the same enemy we had fought to earn our way into the Feywild. And yet, as he spotted us and grinned, there was no trace of resentment in his eyes.
 
He strode toward us, arms open in greeting, and gestured broadly at the bustling room. “You’re two days early,” he said with a laugh, his voice carrying easily over the clatter and clamor of preparations. “We’re still getting ready for your party.”
 
Gael stepped forward, hands raised in apology, but Davozan waved it off with a smile. “No need to be sorry,” he said. “Most of the nobles bet you’d arrive late—if at all. But I know what you’re capable of. I bet on you. And now I get to enjoy the look on their faces.”
 
Gael, ever the diplomat, bowed slightly. “And… for the incident at the portal—when we fought. I offer our sincerest—”
 
But again, Davozan interrupted with a raised hand. “Save it for the party,” he said with a wink. “That’s when you’re supposed to make your apologies.” Then he added, more sincerely, “Truthfully, I hold no grudge. I had a job. So did you. You beat me fair and square. That’s not something to be bitter about.”
 
His words caught me off guard. I’d expected hostility—at least a hint of it. But instead, here he was, smiling and welcoming, his pride intact, untouched by defeat. And somehow, that made me like him more.
 
This place… these people… they didn’t play by mortal rules. But there was honor here, strange and fey-touched though it was. And for the first time since we stepped foot in Nimmerhold, I let myself believe that maybe—maybe—we’d find a way through all this without losing ourselves entirely.
 
It confirmed what I had suspected from the start: this entire event was more of a game than a sincere celebration. A performance, carefully choreographed by King Ulther to flatter his own inflated ego. I voiced as much, half under my breath, and Davozan’s amused smile told me I’d hit the mark.
 
He leaned in slightly, his voice lower now. “I’d be careful where you say things like that,” he warned. “The walls here have ears—and some of them bite. Best not to insult the king further.”
 
Noted.
 
Still, Davozan’s welcome had been warmer than I’d expected. Genuine, even. So I turned to him, offered a small bow, and gave my apology—a real one. “For what happened at the gate,” I said, “I prefer to apologize face to face. I doubt what I’ll say at the party will be nearly as sincere.”
 
He gave a short nod, a flicker of respect in his eyes. “Then I accept it. That’s more than most would offer.”
 
I couldn't shake the feeling that, beneath all the ceremony and smoke, we’d just made a valuable ally.
 
Because of our early arrival, Davozan admitted the preparations for us weren’t fully in place yet. With a quick word to a passing servant, he saw to that immediately. Then, turning back to us, he shared more details about what lay ahead.
 
The grand party in the city had already begun, and we were welcome to explore it over the next two days. Aside from clearly guarded or locked areas, we had free reign of the city and the keep. No curfews. No leash—at least not one we could see.
 
He offered a final nod, apologizing as duty pulled him away, and left us to wait while our rooms were prepared.
 
It wasn’t long before the servant returned—and when I say rooms, I mean suites. Each of us was given a space that rivaled our entire keep back home. The doors were marked with personal weapon shields, crafted as if someone had been studying us for years. Inside, we found racks of clothing—each piece perfectly tailored to our style and measurements—as well as fresh fruit, delicate pastries, and a collection of wines and teas that smelled like sunlight in a bottle.
 
I turned to Liliana and asked her to stay in my suite while we were here. She agreed with a soft smile, and together we took the first breath of peace we’d had in days.
 
After everything—the cold, the tunnels, the yeti, the narrow escape—I welcomed the warmth of a long bath, the soft touch of clean clothes, and the quiet anticipation of what the city of Nimmerhold might reveal next.
 
For now, we had a brief moment to breathe.