The road leading away from Blackwood Manor was a river of silver steel and churning mud. The Valemont soldiers, once the pride of the northern territories, moved with their heads bowed, the rhythmic clatter of their armor sounding like a funeral march. They were retreating—not from a superior army, but from a phantom.
The thundering of a single, powerful horse broke the monotonous rhythm of the march. Cedric Montrose pulled the reins so hard his stallion reared, its hooves pawing at the damp night air. His face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes scanning the dejected faces of his troops.
"Report!" Cedric bellowed, his voice cutting through the wind like a whetted blade. "Where are you going? The battle is at the manor, not on the road!"
The lead soldier halted, his hand trembling as he offered a salute. "The assassins have vanished, Commander. They retreated back into the shadows before we could encircle the perimeter. We scoured the grounds, but they are gone. It's as if they were never there."
Cedric's jaw clenched so tightly the bone threatened to snap. He looked back toward the silhouette of Blackwood Manor, his mind a labyrinth of suspicion. "Vanished," he spat, the word tasting like bile. "They strike at the heart of the Everhart line and then evaporate like morning mist."
He turned his horse around, his cape billowing behind him like the wings of a predatory bird. "There is no point in entering a house of ghosts. If the threat is gone, our duty lies at the palace. He command his troops, Retreat! Back to Thornleigh!"
The soldiers hesitated, exchanging bewildered glances. To abandon the manor now felt like a dereliction of duty, but Cedric's authority was absolute.
"Move!" Cedric commanded. "They have escaped for now... but their shadows will not stay hidden forever. I will find the hand that pulls their strings, and I will sever it."
The column of steel turned back, leaving the manor to its secrets, while Cedric's mind began to weave a new, more dangerous web.
In the subterranean depths of Elarith Vale, the roar of the celebration was a dull thud against the heavy stone walls of Kelian's private quarters. Here, the air was different—scented with expensive sandalwood and the faint, metallic tang of cleaned weaponry.
Kelian entered the room, his hand firm but surprisingly gentle as he led Elysian inside. The silver-haired assassin stumbled slightly, his injured leg protesting the movement, but Kelian caught him before he could fall.
With a fluid motion, Kelian steered him toward the bed. The mattress dipped significantly as Kelian pressed him down, leaning over him until Elysian was framed by the dark charcoal of Kelian's hair and the vastness of the obsidian room.
Elysian felt a tremor of trepidation race down his spine. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was an Elite, a man who had faced death a dozen times without blinking, but this—the intimacy, the vulnerability—was a battlefield he had never set foot upon.
"Captain..." Elysian whispered, his voice hitching.
Kelian didn't answer with words. He reached out, his thumb caressing Elysian's chin with a reverence that made the boy's breath stop. Slowly, almost painfully so, Kelian tilted Elysian's head back, exposing the pale, pulsing line of his throat.
"You are beautiful," Kelian murmured, his crimson eyes burning with a fire that wasn't born of bloodlust.
He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of Elysian's neck. The sensation sent a swarm of butterflies erupting in Elysian's stomach. He gasped, his hands clutching the silk sheets.
"It... it tickles," Elysian stuttered, his face flushing a deep, radiant pink.
Kelian pulled back just an inch, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You are so naive, Elysian. For a man of the shadows, you are surprisingly bright."
Elysian pouted, his embarrassment flaring into a small spark of defiance. He expected Kelian to continue, to claim the prize he had earned in the eyes of the Master. Instead, Kelian climbed onto the bed and lay down beside him, keeping a respectful distance.
Elysian blinked in the dim light, his confusion evident. "Aren't you... aren't you going to do it?"
Kelian laughed softly, the sound low and musical. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of silver hair behind Elysian's ear. "When your leg is healed, we will try. But not now."
Elysian's blush deepened until his ears burned. "I am an Elite assassin, Kelian! Not some fragile porcelain doll. I can handle a little pain."
"I know what you can handle," Kelian replied, his voice turning serious. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. "But I don't want to be the cause of it. Not tonight."
Elysian huffed, turning his back to Kelian and facing the cold stone wall. "I am not some fragile girl," he muttered, though his heart was swelling with a warmth he couldn't explain.
Kelian didn't let him stay distant for long. He moved closer, wrapping a strong arm around Elysian's waist and pulling him back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of Elysian's shoulder, breathing in the scent of rain and adrenaline that still clung to elysian.
Elysian gasped at the sudden contact, his body stiffening for a second before melting into the embrace. The wall of muscle behind him felt like the only safe place in a world filled with knives.
"I am sorry, dear," Kelian whispered into his skin. "But I cannot bring myself to hurt my beloved. Even in the name of pleasure."
Elysian wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he wasn't beloved, that he was just a weapon. But the words died in his throat. He felt the steady beat of Kelian's heart against his back, a rhythm that promised a safety he had never known in Elarith Vale.
"Fine," Elysian murmured, his eyes fluttering shut. "If you don't want to... then it's fine."
"Goodnight, Elysian," Kelian whispered.
"Goodnight... Captain," Elysian replied, his voice drifting off into the onset of sleep.
Outside the door, the Eclipse Elite continued to feast, drinking to the death of the Everhart, and the glory of the Master. But inside the room, the Second Rank had forgotten the world. He didn't care for the obsidian throne or the Master's praise. He cared only for the silver-haired boy in his arms, the only light he had ever found in the dark.
Meanwhile The heavy mahogany doors of August's chamber creaked open, admitting a sliver of light from the hallway. Elias didn't walk in; he stumbled. His cape was torn, his armor was stained with the soot of the battle, and his eyes were hollowed out by a grief that had aged him a decade in a single hour.
He ignored Lady Katherine, who was weeping silently by the hearth. He ignored Everin, who stood like a statue of disbelief. His entire world narrowed down to the bed at the center of the room.
There, propped up against silk pillows, sat August.
August's skin was still the color of expensive parchment, but his eyes—those sharp, terrifyingly intelligent eyes—were wide open. He was watching Elias with a faint, mocking tilt of his head, as if he hadn't just been gutted by an assassin's blade.
"Are you too shocked, Elias," August whispered, his voice raspy but steady.
The sound of August's voice acted like a physical blow. Elias's knees gave out. He crashed to the floor by the bedside, his gauntlets clattering against the wood. He reached out with trembling fingers, hovering just inches away from August's chest, afraid that if he touched him, the vision would shatter into ash.
August reached out and caught Elias's chin, forcing the knight to look at him. "Listen to me. The world believes we are dead. The eclipse elite has gone back to the elarith Vale, My aunt will prepare the funeral shrouds to sell the lie."
"From now on We are ghosts, Elias," August hissed, his voice dropping to a cold, melodic edge.
Elias took a shaky breath, his emerald eyes—the royal mysterious eyes—hardening. The grief was being replaced by something much more dangerous: a quiet, focused rage.
"What do you want me to do?" Elias asked.
August smiled, and for a moment, he looked exactly like the mastermind Morvane Eldrith feared he would become.
"I want you to stay dead," August commanded. "We will leave Blackwood tonight. And head straight. It is time to finish the job."
The candlelight in August's chamber flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows against the velvet hangings.
The air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the lingering, metallic ghost of blood.
August sat upright, his frame looking fragile against the ivory sheets, yet his eyes possessed a terrifying, predatory clarity.
"Auntie," August began, his voice a low, melodic rasp that brooked no argument. "You will begin the preparations. We need a funeral. A grand, weeping spectacle that the whole of the our enemies will hear about."
Lady Katherine froze, her hands trembling as she clutched a silk handkerchief. Her tangerine eyes welled with fresh tears. "But dear August... if—if something were to happen again... if they find out you are alive while I am burying an empty casket... how am I supposed to breathe? How am I to protect you?"
August's gaze shifted to Elias, cold and analytical. "Now is our only chance. If our enemies believe we are mere corpses rotting in the Everhart vault, it buys us the one thing gold cannot: time. Time to move unseen. Time to uncover every serpent hiding in the tall grass."
Elias, who had been standing like a silent sentinel at the foot of the bed, suddenly stepped forward. His emerald eyes flashed with a mixture of awe and simmering frustration.
"But how can you go on a mission in this state?" Elias demanded, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "You can barely draw a full breath without wincing. You couldn't yield a single blade, let alone defend yourself against the Elite!"
August turned his head sharply, a movement so swift and imperious it silenced the room. A ghost of a smirk played on his pale lips.
"I am at least better at reading their intentions than you are at hiding yours, August countered. "I do not need a blade to win a war. I need the world to look left while I move right. I need my intellect, which—unlike my chest—is perfectly intact."
Everin, who had been hovering in the corner like a forgotten ghost, stepped into the light. His face was pale, his hands nervously fiddling with the lace at his cuffs.
"Can—can I join you?" Everin asked, his voice hopeful yet thin.
"No."
The word was barked in perfect, accidental unison by both August and Elias.
Everin flinched as if he had been struck, his face reddening with a mix of shame and petty irritation. He shot a vitriolic look at Elias, whose massive frame seemed to take up far too much space in the room.
"I can't let you go alone with this... this gorilla," Everin spat, gesturing toward Elias. "August, look at him. He's a brute. He has the social graces of a landslide."
Elias's eyes glinted with a dangerous, feral fury. He straightened his back, his shadow looming over Everin. "What did you just say, you little brat ?"
Everin ducked behind Lady Katherine's skirts, though he continued to sneer. "Obviously, I said a gorilla. And you are one. A big, hulking, brainless beast who let my cousin get stabbed in his own study."
"Enough!" August snapped, his voice cutting through their bickering like a shard of glass. He cleared his throat, the effort causing a momentary wince of pain.
"The path is set. Everything is clear. Elias and I will depart under the cover of the new moon. Aunt Katherine will stay behind to perform the fake death of the Everhart heir and his primary protector."
Katherine remained hesitant, her heart warring with the cold logic of her nephew. She knew August's mind was a labyrinth of Machiavellian schemes, and she knew she could never truly say no to him. Even if she was dying inside at the thought of him leaving, she could not bear to make her "angel" upset.
She walked toward the bed, her silk skirts hissing against the floor. With a tenderness that seemed to melt the ice in the room, she leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to August's forehead.
August flinched. A deep, vivid crimson flooded his cheeks, clashing with his deathly pallor. He looked away, his jaw tightening in sheer, boyish embarrassment.
Elias stood by, momentarily paralyzed by the sight. He had seen August as a mastermind, a victim, and a ghost—but seeing him as a smothered nephew was a revelation that felt strangely intimate.
"I am not a child, Aunt," August grumbled, trying to push her gently away.
Lady Katherine ignored him, placing a warm hand on his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "In my eyes, you are still that small baby, August. The one who used to hide in the jasmine bushes and play around this manor until your knees were stained green. You can wear the crown of a mastermind all you like, but to me, you are still mine."