In the frost-bitten reaches of Khyronia, within the fortress of Caldris Rheyne, the air was thin and bitingly cold. Master Caldris paced the length of his obsidian-floored study, his brow knitted into a permanent furrow of agitation. He was a man who measured time in blood and influence, and currently, he was running low on both.
"Where is he?" Caldris muttered, his voice like grinding gravel. "What is taking them so long?"
The heavy iron doors groaned open, and the Masked Man stepped inside. He moved with a subtle hitch in his stride, the dark grey of his cloak swirling like a storm cloud. He did not bring the captive Caldris had demanded. He did not bring a member of the Eclipse Elite to be interrogated or broken.
Caldris stopped his pacing, his eyes sharp and expectant. He had hoped for a pawn to lead him to the Eclipse Master. Instead, his servant returned with empty hands.
The Masked Man dropped to one knee, his head bowed in a gesture of absolute, albeit forced, submission.
"Were you unable to catch them again?" Caldris demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Or are you scheming against me, Huh?"
The Masked Man's voice was steady behind the metal of his visor. "Forgive me, Master. The situation was... unexpected. They were too many this time. The Eclipse Elite sent their high-ranking killer's—Samuel was also present."
Caldris sighed, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. He leaned back against his desk, the anger giving way to a weary frustration. "Enough. Their numbers are growing."
He looked down at the armored figure. "Did anyone get injured? Did you fail to protect the household?"
The Masked Man exhaled slowly, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple behind the mask. He thought of the blood-soaked floor of the Blackwood study. He thought of August's shredded chest and Elias's poisoned heart.
"No, Master," the Masked Man lied, his voice like iron. "I protected all of them. They are safe and sound."
Inside the mask, the man's face flushed. He wasn't thinking of the political fallout or Caldris's wrath. He was thinking of the golden-haired youth he had left behind in the manor. He was thinking of the way Lirael's golden tears had healed his own shoulder.
Safe and sound, he repeated to himself.
He had left his beloved in a house of tragedies, but he had left him with a promise—the white jasmine tucked into his hair. The Masked Man's heart hammered against his ribs. He swore to the shadows that if he survived this game of kings, he would return. He would tear Lirael away from his servitude. He would make the immortal his queen.
"Very well," Caldris said, waving a hand in dismissal. "Go. Tend to your armor. We move at dawn."
The Masked Man bowed again and retreated, his mind miles away, anchored to a single flower in a blood-stained manor.
Back at Blackwood Manor, the silence of the study was shattered by a violent gasp.
Elias bolted upright on the chaise lounge. His head snapped to the side, his eyes wide and wild with the residue of a nightmare. In his mind, he could still see it: August's face, pale as bone, streaked with tears and blood. He could still feel the phantom sting of the blade that had surely ended the boy's life.
He clutched his chest, expecting to feel the black veins of poison or the jagged edges of a wound.
There was nothing. His skin was smooth. His strength was absolute.
He looked around the empty study. The carnage had been cleared, but the memory of the assassin's mercy—or lack thereof—was etched into his soul. He remembered the blade splashing into August's torso. He remembered the feeling of failure that was heavier than any armor.
He stood up abruptly. He didn't feel pain, but he felt a visceral, aching void in his chest. His memories were still jagged, like broken glass, but one truth remained clear: August was the center of his world.
"I have to find him," Elias whispered, his heart thundering with a terrifying urgency.
He didn't know why the boy mattered so much, or what bond had been forged in the blood of the attack, but he knew he couldn't breathe until he saw those eyes open.
In the upper chambers, Lirael worked with frantic, silent efficiency. He pulled a thick silk duvet over August's body, carefully hiding the area where a catastrophic wound had existed only an hour ago.
He drew a shaky breath, his hands still trembling from the weight of the golden magic he had dispensed.
He walked to the door and pulled it open.
Lady Katherine was waiting. She looked as though she had aged ten years in a single night. When she saw Lirael's face, her tangerine eyes filled with a desperate, agonizing hope.
"He is out of danger," Lirael whispered, offering a soft, weary smile.
Katherine didn't wait. She swept past him like a whirlwind, her silk skirts hissing against the floor. She rushed to the bedside, her hands hovering over the boy who looked far too pretty, far too fragile for the violence he had endured.
Everin followed, stopping beside Lirael. "How?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "How is my cousin?"
Lirael lowered his head. "He is strong, Lord Everin. He is out of danger now."
Everin didn't look at the servant. He moved toward the bed, his focus entirely consumed by August. Lirael felt a pang of invisibility, but he welcomed it. He needed a moment to breathe.
Lirael caught his reflection in a far mirror. He froze.
In the chaos, he had forgotten the white jasmine flower. It was still there, tucked behind his ear, a stark and beautiful contrast to the pallor of his skin and the exhaustion in his eyes.
A deep, unmistakable blush crept up his neck. He reached up with trembling fingers and took the flower out, holding it as if it were made of spun glass. He remembered the Masked Man's touch—the reverence, the gentleness, the promise of safety.
He stepped out of the room and move towards the balcony, needing the cold air to cool the fire in his cheeks. He pressed the flower to his lips, his heart fluttering in a daze that felt more like a fairy tale than the brutal reality of the manor.
Does he truly see me?
Inside the room, the air was thick with Lady Katherine's grief and devotion. She collapsed onto the edge of the bed, her hand resting on August's forehead. She began to kiss his face over and over, her tears wetting his pale skin.
"My boy," she sobbed. "My poor, beautiful baby."
She looked up at Everin, her eyes flashing with a fierce, protective madness. "No one will dare to lay a single finger on my baby ever again. I will burn this kingdom to the ground before I let him bleed another drop."
Everin watched her, his own heart aching. "Will he be alright, Aunt?"
"He will," Katherine vowed, her voice turning cold and sharp. "He is my angel. He will listen to me. He has always listened to me, even when he pretended to hate my rules. He knows I am the only one who can keep him safe."
She turned back to August, whispering endearments into his ear, her love a suffocating shroud.
"Sleep, my angel. Your aunt is here. The world can scream at the gates, but they will never touch you again."
The hallway of Blackwood Manor was a blur of shifting shadows and flickering candlelight. Elias moved through it like a man possessed, his boots striking the marble with a frantic, uneven rhythm.
His breath was shallow, his mind a fractured mosaic of that final, horrific moment in the study: the glint of the assassin's blade, the spray of crimson, and the sight of August—his August—collapsing like a broken lily.
He didn't feel the phantom itch of the poison that should have claimed him. He didn't feel the soreness of a body that had been on the brink of death. He felt only an all-consuming, glacial terror.
"Elias!"
A soft, melodic voice cut through his panic. He skidded to a halt, his hand instinctively flying to the hilt of his sword. Lirael was standing there, his magenta eyes wide with a mixture of shock and profound relief.
"You're alright," Lirael breathed, stepping toward him. "Thank the Heavens, you're—"
Elias didn't wait for him to finish. He didn't offer a greeting or a sign of recognition. He moved like a storm, closing the distance between them in two strides. He ignored Lirael's welfare entirely, his voice a guttural, desperate rasp.
"Where is he?" Elias demanded, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "August. He was... the blade... he was injured. Tell me where he is!"
Lirael reached out, his movements soothing. "Easy, Elias. Easy. August is alright. You don't need to—"
Before the sentence could leave his lips, Elias's hands shot out. He seized Lirael by the shoulders with a ferocity that bordered on violence. The sheer force of the grip sent a jolt through Lirael's frame, causing the delicate jasmine flower he was holding to nearly slip from his grasp.
Lirael gasped, his back hitting the cold stone wall as Elias loomed over him, a mountain of desperate, protective energy.
"Don't lie to me!" Elias roared, his fingers digging into the fabric of Lirael's tunic. "I saw it! I saw the metal tear through him! Take me to him, or I swear—"
"Calm down!" Lirael shouted back, his own voice rising in a rare display of firmness. He looked into Elias's emerald eyes and saw the raw, jagged edge of a soul that had been ripped open. "If you don't believe me, then follow me. I will let you see him with your own eyes. He is sleeping. He is alive."
Elias's grip didn't slacken immediately, but the murderous fire in his eyes flickered. He searched Lirael's face for any hint of a cruel deception. Finding none, he finally let go, his hands shaking as they fell to his sides.
"Take me to him," Elias whispered, the command replaced by a plea. "I need to see him. Now."
Lirael sighed, a sad, knowing smile touching his lips. He saw the bond—the invisible, tethering cord that pulled the knight toward the boy. "Follow me. He is in his chamber."
Miles away, beneath the jagged peaks of Elarith Vale, the atmosphere was a dark, intoxicating mirror to the manor's grief. The underground hall was awash in the glow of violet torches and the scent of expensive, wine.
Kelian sat sprawled across a black velvet chaise, the picture of predatory elegance. His crimson eyes were bright with a dark, triumphant spark. Across from him, Elysian sat perched on the edge of a vast obsidian table, his silver hair catching the dim light.
In the corner, Samuel stood like a gargoyle of resentment. He clutched his wine glass so tightly that the stem groaned, his knuckles white against the dark liquid. Every time Kelian spoke, Samuel's jaw tightened.
"Did you see it, Samuel?" Kelian drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "Did you see how the Master looked at me? He knows who truly carries the weight of this Elite. He knows who delivers the killing blow."
Samuel didn't speak. He simply turned his head away, his eyes burning with a silent, poisonous jealousy. He was the one with the bandages; Kelian was the one with the crown.
"We wouldn't have won without you, Captain," Elysian said softly, his grey eyes settling on Kelian with a warmth that felt like a quiet treason in this cold place.
Kelian felt a sudden, uncharacteristic flush creep up his neck. He stood abruptly, clearing his throat and setting his glass down on the table with a sharp clack.
He turned to Elysian, extending a gloved hand.
"Would you like to dance with me?"
Elysian blinked, his breath hitching. Behind them, Samuel's glass finally shattered in his grip, the wine spilling like blood over his hand. Elysian looked down at his bandaged leg, his expression hesitant.
"Thanks for asking, Captain... but you know my leg is still—"
He didn't get to finish. Kelian stepped into his space and pulled him forward. Elysian winced as his weight shifted, but the pain never came. Kelian caught him, pulling him flush against his chest, allowing Elysian to lean entirely on his strength.
Kelian's hands slid down to Elysian's waist, his grip firm and possessive.
Kelian didn't answer with words. He swung Elysian into a slow, rhythmic swirl, the moonlight from the high vents catching the silver of Elysian's hair and the obsidian-black charcoal of Kelian's. When Elysian's balance faltered on his injured limb, Kelian caught him perfectly, lowering him in a deep, sweeping dip.
They were inches apart. The moonlight reflected in Kelian's crimson eyes, making them look like glowing coals. For a fleeting second, Elysian saw it—the stoic Captain, the cold assassin, was blushing.
Kelian dragged him back up with a swift, powerful motion.
"It's enough, Kelian!" Elysian gasped, using the man's name so assassin can calm down.
The name acted like a spark to tinder. Kelian's smirk returned, dark and tender. With one fluid motion, he swirled Elysian around and pinned him back against the vast obsidian table. He leaned in, his face hovering just a breath away from the pulse point of Elysian's throat.
Elysian's eyes went wide. He felt the heat radiating from the man, the scent of leather and cold steel. He pressed a trembling hand against Kelian's lips, his voice a stuttered mess.
"Wait... isn't that... isn't that too early?"
Kelian didn't pull away. He took Elysian's hand, his gaze never leaving the silver-haired boy's eyes, and pressed a lingering, slow kiss to his palm.
Elysian's breath hitched, a soft, involuntary groan escaping his lips. The sound seemed to surprise Kelian, but it did not stop him. His eyes darkened, his focus narrowing down to the boy beneath him. He leaned in again, the distance between their lips vanishing as the celebration roared on around them, oblivious to the secret blooming in the dark.