The carriage rocked gently as it rolled along the winding road, the sound of hooves rhythmic and distant beneath the velvet silence inside. August sat in the corner seat, one hand gloved and resting on the window sill, the other lightly clutching the armrest. His eyes stared through the slightly fogged glass, watching the blurred outlines of trees and distant fields. Though his posture was disciplined, there was a faint tremor in his hand—subtle, almost imperceptible—betraying the pain that still pulsed in his lower back.
The ride was long, and silence ruled it. Tillemont, the butler his aunt had assigned, sat across from him, perfectly upright, his narrow face unreadable. The two soldiers rode outside on horseback, their shadows occasionally flickering past the window like specters.
August leaned back slowly, allowing his head to rest against the cushioned seat. He thought of Elias—of the way his voice had sounded just before the carriage pulled away, concerned, rough-edged, unspoken words tangled in his throat. silent presence.
The estate they were traveling to belonged to his cousin's family. It was perched in a northern district of the province—cold in temperament, colder in politics. His cousin, whose name was Everin, was known for his beauty and his insufferable pride. But the meeting wasn't with him. It was his father—Lord Castellan—who had called for August.
August closed his eyes briefly, trying to keep the growing ache in his spine at bay. The letter from Khyronia's master still replayed in his mind. A masquerade. In ten days. Hosted by the very man who held strings connected to Killian, Elysian, and the assassins that haunted his past.
His conversation with Elias earlier felt distant now, like a scene behind a curtain.
"You think Killian and Elysian will be there?" Elias had asked.
"He knows they'll come," August had answered. "That's why he invited us. He wants all his shadows under one roof."
And they would go. They had no choice.
But first—this meeting. This political dance.
As the carriage slowed and turned onto a long gravel path, the outline of the estate came into view. High gates of black wrought iron, shaped like coiled serpents, opened slowly at their approach. Beyond them stood the estate: grand, cold, with towers and steep gables like the spires of a half-forgotten cathedral.
August stepped out with practiced ease, ignoring the sting in his spine. Tillemont was already at his side, murmuring to one of the guards. The soldiers dismounted and followed silently.
Inside, the halls were wide and dimly lit, lined with oil paintings of scowling men and distant-eyed women. A servant led them to a waiting chamber with high arched ceilings and furniture too stiff to be welcoming. August remained standing.
Moments later, the doors opened and in swept Everin.
He was as Handsome as the rumors claimed—tall and lithe with honey-gold hair tied back in a silver clasp, wearing a robe lined in fox fur. But it was the expression on his face—sly, knowing, touched with disdain—that drew August's immediate irritation.
"Cousin," Everin said, voice rich and amused. "You look pale. As always."
August didn't flinch. "And you look pleased. As always."
Everin laughed softly and turned, gesturing lazily. "Come. Father is waiting in the west wing. But do walk slowly—I've just had the floors waxed."
August followed without reply, Tillemont shadowing him at a distance.
Lord Castellan was a tall man with a gaze like cut obsidian and a presence that filled the entire room without raising his voice. He was seated behind a large desk, fingers steepled, and did not rise as August entered.
"You're early," he said.
"I prefer silence before politics," August replied.
Castellan gave a faint nod. "I admire that. Most young men fill silences with noise. You fill them with watchfulness."
There was a long pause. Then the man gestured to the chair before him.
"We'll speak of what matters. The nobles of the southern coast are divided. They don't trust the Khyronian influence spreading north. They fear... foreign design. You, however, are uniquely placed. You've danced with their shadows and survived."
August's eyes narrowed. "You want me to speak on your behalf?"
"I want you to remind them that not all alliances must come at the cost of pride."
"And in return?"
"You'll have my protection during the masquerade. Discreet, but effective."
August leaned forward slightly. "You know what what is this gathering about, don't you?"
Castellan's smile was thin. "I know enough."
The conversation continued, winding through details, promises, and veiled threats. August navigated it with the care of a man walking a blade.
By the time he left the chamber, the weight on his shoulders had doubled.
He returned to the guest wing, escorted by Everin, who now walked with his hands tucked behind his back, a knowing gleam in his eye.
"So, he's roped you into his web, has he?" Everin asked, glancing sideways.
August didn't answer.
"I do wonder," Everin added, voice low, "how long you plan to keep walking on this line before it cuts you."
August stopped before the door to his room. "As long as I must."
Everin tilted his head. "You'll be at the masquerade?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll see you there. Don't wear silver—it washes you out."
With that, he walked off, laughing softly.
August stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. The silence felt heavier here. He crossed to the window and looked out toward the distant hills.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
Tillemont entered with a silver tray and a letter. "This arrived from the capital, my lord. It bears Khyronia's seal."
August took it without a word. The letter was short—an update.
Killian and Elysian have been seen in the port cities.
They are watching. Waiting.
Ten days remain.
He folded the letter carefully and stared out the window again.
And so the game moved forward—silent, deadly, beautiful as a blade.
That evening, as the shadows grew long, August sat by the fireplace, shoulders hunched slightly, a warm glass of milk on the table beside him. He had sent for ink and parchment but had yet to lift the quill. Instead, he stared into the flames.
A soft knock interrupted the quiet again. It was Tillemont. "A message, my lord. From Elias."
August's breath hitched slightly. He took the note.
'You said not to follow. So I won't. But if anything happens, if the wind shifts wrong I'll know. And I'll come for you. Don't pretend to carry this alone.' "E"
August stared at the words.
For the first time since arriving, his fingers trembled.
He tucked the letter into his coat, near his heart.
The fire cracked louder.
He would sleep, rise, return.
And whatever waited next, he would face it—alone or not.
But for now, the shadows curled just outside the light, and he kept watch.
August will remain in the room for hours until a soft knock on the door will distract his load's of thought's it was his butler assign by his aunt lady Katherine "My lord the supper. is ready
August will slowly lifting from his spot and the butler tillemont will escort august to a luxury dinning hall
The grand dining hall of the Valemont estate was alive with flickering candlelight that danced across the polished wood and the high, arched ceilings. Heavy tapestries hung along the walls, their rich hues muted in the dim glow. The scent of roasted pheasant, fresh herbs, and spiced wine filled the air, wrapping the assembled family in an ornate cloak of tradition and power.
August entered quietly, his footsteps soft on the thick woven rugs. Everin was already seated at the table, his posture casual yet alert, a faint smirk teasing the corner of his lips. Lady Mirensa, their mother, radiated quiet grace, her sharp eyes watching August with a mixture of appraisal and something else — perhaps a cautious hope. Castellan Valemont, towering and formidable, presided at the head of the table like a statue carved from stone and iron.
"August," Everin greeted smoothly, his voice carrying the faintest edge of sarcasm. "You take your time. I began to wonder if you'd forgotten your way here."
August met his cousin's gaze without flinching, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips. "I wouldn't dare be late for a family feast."
Mirensa's eyes flicked between them. "The road south must have been... demanding."
"It had its challenges," August admitted, sliding into his seat beside Everin. "But the journey was necessary."
The servants moved quietly, placing plates of richly roasted pheasant, steaming root vegetables, and freshly baked bread before each guest. Goblets of deep red wine gleamed in the candlelight, though August chose to sip only from a glass of clear water.
Castellan's voice cut through the murmurs, firm and authoritative. "The south grows restless. Unrest is no longer distant; it creeps closer to our borders."
Everin leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with something sharper than concern. "The rumors about the Eclipse Elite remain troubling. Their assassins may still move among us like ghosts."