The night had fallen into a silence too grave, the distant echoes of battle already swallowed by the shadowed streets, leaving behind only the aftermath of violence. The air still bore the acrid tang of steel and blood. Within that lingering hush, Stellan Grimshaw stirred faintly, his lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks as he attempted, against reason, to straighten himself upright. His body trembled with the effort, each breath a shallow protest.
But Cedric Montrose, wounded grievously himself, pressed a firm hand to his beloved's shoulder, forcing him gently back against himself with support of the carriage side. His voice, though hoarse and lined with exhaustion, carried the imperious authority that only desperation could give.
"Do not strain yourself, Stellan. Stop this at once."
Stellan's eyes, dark and glimmering with fevered fatigue, lifted stubbornly to Cedric's. His voice was faint, threaded with both weakness and concern. "You are injured far more than I. Do not let me rest upon you, Montrose, I may worsen your wounds—"
But Cedric silenced him with a look that brooked no defiance, his lips drawn into a line of fierce resolve. "It is not for you to decide. You will remain still."
Near them, the servant—an austere figure clad in a grey cloak, his black-and-white mask obscuring all expression—stood watch in silence. Yet something within his guarded gaze betrayed a fleeting tremor. For in the tableau of two souls clinging to one another despite blood and ruin, he glimpsed a shadow of his own past: a memory long suppressed, a pair of figures different in name but alike in devotion, locked in the same fragile struggle between life and death. He shook his head once, dispelling the ghost, resuming his silence as was demanded of him.
Then, from the obscurity of the street, a new presence made itself known. Footsteps, steady and deliberate, heralded the arrival of Caldris Rheyne. The master of Khyronia himself emerged, his figure shrouded in a dark mantle that seemed to drink the moonlight. His piercing gaze fell first upon the two broken young men, then upon his servant, as though demanding a wordless report.
"Who was here?" His voice cut through the night like tempered steel.
The servant bowed, turning his masked face towards his master. His words, calm and grave, resounded with finality. "Master—it was the Eclipse Elite again."
Caldris's jaw tightened, his eyes lowering with an unspoken weight. "So be it. Move them at once. See to their safety."
The younger spies who had lingered nearby, their presence half-hidden in the shadows, exchanged looks of unguarded astonishment. For in that moment they beheld the master of Khyronia—an elusive sovereign whom most had only known through whispered tales—standing before them with the authority of a figure both feared and revered.
Yet all Cedric saw was Stellan fading. Again his beloved's head sagged against his shoulder, his eyes heavy with the pull of unconsciousness. Cedric, though pale and bloodied, refused to allow despair into his tone. He cupped Stellan's face, shaking him lightly, desperation searing through his words.
"Do not close your eyes, Stellan!"
"I am… tired," Stellan murmured faintly, his lips barely moving. "Could I not sleep… just for a little while?"
"No," Cedric answered, his voice breaking against his will. "You cannot."
He turned abruptly to the servant, whose every action was bound to his master's will. "He is losing consciousness—the blood does not cease. Do something!" His grip on Stellan tightened as though he could bind life into him by sheer force of will.
Caldris's voice interjected, measured, assured, yet carrying an edge that allowed no doubt. "Nothing fatal will come of this. The wound lies shallow—it bleeds freely, but it will not claim him."
At his command, the servant stepped forward without hesitation. With a gentleness that belied his stern form, he pried Stellan carefully from Cedric's arms and laid him upon the side of the carriage. Cedric protested instantly, his voice sharp with panic.
"No—help him first! Leave me. If something happens to him—"
But his protest was cut short as Caldris's cold certainty fell again: "Nothing shall happen to him."
The servant then turned to Cedric, who resisted the aid with clenched teeth. When he was lifted, a hiss escaped him, sharp and involuntary, though he masked it swiftly with rigid pride. Once lowered to the carriage seat, Cedric attempted words of gratitude—or perhaps defiance—but they dissolved upon his lips as Caldris himself entered.
The master carried Stellan with surprising ease, lowering him beside Cedric upon the seat. A pang of unease struck Cedric at the sight of another man holding his beloved, yet pride and circumstance forced him to swallow it. He was in no state to stand, no state to claim. All that mattered was that Stellan yet breathed.
Caldris spoke low to his servant, his commands crisp. "Drive them to Thornleigh's Palace. They must recover—the matter will wait until their strength returns."
The servant bowed low, then with swift obedience mounted the coachman's perch. The true driver lay slain, but the loyal hand of Caldris seized the reins without faltering. The carriage jolted into motion, wheels striking sparks from cobblestones as it thundered into the night.
Inside, Cedric held Stellan close, one hand pressed to his bloodied temple, refusing to release him. Silence lay thick between them all, but Cedric's heart echoed with one truth alone—that his beloved still drew breath. The villains could wait; vengeance could wait. For now, only the fragile miracle of survival mattered.
The carriage jolted forward, iron-rimmed wheels striking sparks upon the cobblestones, its lanterns swaying with spectral light as it wound its way through the winding streets. Within, the wounded were entrusted to the care of the masked servant, yet without—upon the world's shadowed ledges—another figure had already claimed the night.
Caldris Rheyne did not remain confined within the carriage, nor could he. For a man bred in silence and sharpened by shadows had no patience for idleness when the scent of his enemy lingered upon the air. Even as the vehicle swayed toward the Thornleigh Palace, Caldris leapt lightly from its side, his boots scarcely making a sound as they kissed the roof of a nearby dwelling.
There, against the canvas of a silver-scarred sky, he paused. The wind caught at the hem of his dark cloak, unfurling it like a standard of war, while his eyes — scanned the labyrinth of the city beneath him. Every alley was a vein of darkness, every corner a mouth waiting to conceal death. His gaze didn't followed the path of the carriage, nor in the brief flare of torchlight he saw it bend to the Thornleigh road.
he did not descend to follow like a mere guardian. He belonged not to the path of men but to the canopy of rooftops, the kingdom of slate and stone, where shadows were his allies and silence his command. With one breath drawn deep into his chest, he stepped forward, and his form dissolved into motion.
He was an assassin, after all, though few alive dared to whisper it. The grace of his movement was uncanny, as though he were no longer flesh but shadow poured into human shape. He crossed the roofs in strides that should have been impossible, his body a silent specter drifting across chimneys and ridges. The world below slept unaware, yet above, Caldris moved with the inexorable purpose of a falcon circling prey.
At intervals he paused, the night's breath ruffling his hair as his eyes narrowed to shards of obsidian. Each pause was not hesitation but calculation—an art of anticipation where he measured the unseen dangers that might lurk in the alleys below. The Eclipse Elite had already left their mark upon this night; their presence could never be taken lightly. If Samuel lingered still, or if others trailed in secrecy, then Thornleigh's gates might not be the sanctuary Cedric Montrose believed them to be.
Once more he vanished into motion, his silhouette merging with the slanted lines of rooftops, moving faster than the turning of a clock's hand. He could not wait upon the carriage. Waiting was death, and Caldris had never been patient with death. He pursued the night itself, his speed matching the tempo of his own heartbeat, as though the city were his hunting ground and he its silent sovereign.
Thus he left the swaying carriage behind, its wheels echoing through the stone streets, and became one with the shadows that carried him forward—into the unlighted depths of the night where enemies and destinies alike awaited.
Within the dim interior of the carriage, silence reigned save for the creak of wheels and the muffled rhythm of hooves upon the cobblestones. Cedric Montrose sat stiffly, one arm bound across his ribs as though sheer will might still the pain that gnawed at him. Yet the wound mattered little beside the pale figure that lay at his side.
Stellan Grimshaw—his Stellan—rested with fragile breaths, lashes trembling faintly against his bruised skin, a scarlet line marking his brow where Samuel's cruelty had struck. Cedric's gaze lingered upon him with a weight he could neither quell nor explain, and in that stillness, thoughts rose like spectres unbidden.
The masked figure—yes, the one who had stood between Samuel and his triumph—there had been a strange recognition in Stellan's eyes before his strength had failed. It had been fleeting, a flicker only, but Cedric had not missed it. Did Stellan know that assassin? And if so, how? Was it some shadow of his past, a bond concealed before he had ever entered the spies' fold? Or had it been woven in silence long before Cedric had known him?
Cedric's hand tightened upon the carriage bench, his knuckles white in the lantern glow. A sting of jealousy mingled with dread—what ties could bind his beloved to a man who moved in darkness, who bore the cloak of an enemy? Yet the answer lay beyond him now, sealed behind Stellan's closed lips.
He turned his gaze again, softer now, upon that pale and weary face. A thousand questions pressed within him, yet none could break forth. For at that moment, beyond the window's frame, the towering gates of Thornleigh Palace loomed nearer, their lanterns blazing like beacons to the wounded souls returning home.
Cedric sat watchful, his body weary, his mind unyielding, his eyes fixed upon the pale figure sprawled at his side. Stellan stirred fitfully, lashes quivering, his lips moving in fractured whispers that bled from dream into air.
A shadow passed across his countenance, and suddenly the calm was broken. His mouth trembled, words torn from the chasm of nightmare. "I—I will not… I will not do it… I am sorry…" The plea shivered, scarcely a voice at all, but heavy as a confession wrung from some old torment. His slender frame recoiled, twisting as though unseen hands bound him again, dragging him back into a cruelty long past yet still alive within his sleep.
Cedric's brow furrowed sharply, his heart gripped with an unfamiliar anguish. He leaned closer, his gaze storm-dark, and in that moment Samuel's smirk rose unbidden in his thoughts. What had that monster wrought upon his beloved, that even in unconsciousness he trembled thus?
Then, as though to anchor himself against the abyss, Stellan's hand shot out. His fingers seized Cedric's cloak with a desperate strength, clutching the dark fabric so fiercely it seemed he feared to let go—as though to release it were to surrender himself once more into Samuel's merciless grasp.
Cedric froze, then slowly covered that trembling hand with his own, steady, resolute. He bent his head near, whispering words low yet firm, "He shall not claim you. Not while I draw breath." His tone was a vow, forged not of duty but of love, and though Stellan's dream-tossed lips could not hear it, Cedric spoke as if the very night itself bore witness.
Upon the driver's perch, the masked servant held the reins with unerring steadiness. The clatter of hooves and the groan of wheels did little to drown the muffled voices from within—the broken whispers of one, the low, fervent vow of another. He heard, yet he did not stir, nor grant the smallest glance behind. Silence was his law, discretion his creed. What passed between them was not for him to weigh. Thus he rode on, a shadow bound to service, his stillness more eloquent than speech, his presence no more intrusive than the night itself.