The gates of Elarith Vale groaned open like the mouth of a slumbering leviathan, and the carriage passed through the threshold with a hush that fell over even the wind. The stone walls that surrounded the stronghold bore scars from centuries, dark with forgotten soot and clawed with moss that never saw the sun.
Inside, the air changed — thicker, older, too still.
August, blindfolded now with a strip of black silk pulled tight across his eyes, felt the world shift around him. Hands gripped his arms—one rough, the other colder—and his bound ankles were forced to move in staggered steps across uneven ground. Gravel crunched. Iron moaned.
A push came from behind.
The man whose fingers had felt August's bite pressed his palm against his back and shoved, hard. "Move, swan," he growled, mockery soaked in venom. "Time to cage the songbird."
August stumbled forward. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste the red—he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him falter.
He counted steps in silence. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
Down a stone incline, the air grew damp. The scent shifted—old metal, damp rock, mildew. Something else, too. Like rotting flowers laid long ago at the graves of those who never left.
They stopped.
August heard keys. A scrape. A thick bolt being pulled back.
Then came the echo.
He was guided inside.
It wasn't a chamber.
It was a cage.
A room carved not for living but for containment. No windows. No light save for the sputter of wall sconces, their flames coughing against the wet stone. Shackles hung from opposite sides of the wall like arms of some grotesque crucifix. Chains dragged on the floor, the metal stained dark and old with use.
One of the men whispered something to the other — laughter followed. Dry. Cruel.
August was led to the center.
His hands were unbound — only for a moment.
Then the true chains came.
Cold cuffs—forged from blackened iron laced with fine veins of silver—were clamped onto his wrists and locked into the wall behind him. They pulled taut, just enough to keep him from lowering his arms fully, just enough to let fatigue crawl in like insects beneath skin.
The silk was finally removed from his eyes.
Light stabbed him.
And then the room came into view.
He did not gasp. He did not shudder.
But his breath paused in his throat, as if it, too, was afraid.
The walls were lined with scratches—some made by nails, some by blades. Some written in languages long abandoned. Rusted manacles clattered in the windless air. Chains dripped moisture from no known source. There was no bed. No table. No comfort.
Only iron. Stone. Bone.
This was no cell.
This was punishment.
The man August had bitten approached him, smug and slow. One gloved hand extended, and with one finger — just one — he tilted August's chin upward.
"Still so pretty," he murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "But not for long."
His eyes glinted with glee.
"Your suffering," he whispered, "starts now".
The room was a wound beneath the world.
A chamber not built, but bled into existence, where stone sighed like old gods and chains hummed with the breath of forgotten souls. No light dared to bloom here—only the sickly shimmer of silver, stretched taut from wall to wall, binding August like a captured star.
He stood in the hollow of the world's throat, a figure draped in quiet defiance. His wrists were jeweled in manacles too cruel for beauty, his ankles kissed by metal thorns. A silken blindfold had once veiled his gaze, but it was torn away, revealing not fear—but fire choked in smoke.
Stillness reigned, thick as prophecy.
Then: a sound.
Footsteps.
Not the rhythm of rescue. No. This was the thunder of judgment—two storms in contrast. One thundered forward like an executioner's hymn. The other barely touched the ground, like a whisper that always knew how the story ended.
Killian entered, wearing night itself, his cloak dragging like the curtain before a final act. Behind him came Elysian—his silence not absence, but a blade hidden in satin.
August didn't lift his head. But his spine remained a silver pillar of pride.
Killian's eyes were the color of promises broken long ago.
He did not speak. He measured August like a tapestry—looking for where to cut.
And then, with no trumpet of warning—he struck.
A kick, swift and brutal, landed like an earthquake in August's ribs. The boy folded, chains singing like mourners. Air fled his lungs. Pain etched itself like ink across his skin.
Yet he did not break. He did not scream.
Only dust swirled in reply.
"Leave," Killian said, his voice quiet and sharp—like silk pulled taut around a throat. "All of you. Now."
And they obeyed. Elysian, too, casting one final glance—unreadable, distant, yet lingering longer than a shadow should.
Alone now, the walls closed in like closing wings.
Killian approached, not like a man, but like a verdict. He grasped August's hair and lifted his head, forcing eyes of smoke to meet the tempest in his own.
"You think," Killian growled, "that being desired means being spared?"
He leaned close. His breath was fire doused in wine.
"You're not the prize. You're the altar. The thing we must ruin to summon the storm."
August smiled through blood-glazed lips.
"And still," he whispered, "you'll kneel when the storm comes."
That smile was the match.
Killian ignited.
A slap—sharp and precise—marked August's cheek like a scar of thunder.
But no tears came. No retreat. Only a look that could make kingdoms wither.
"You don't even know what you're worth," Killian spat.
"You're a page in someone else's prophecy."
"I know what I am," August replied, voice gravel and velvet.
"I am the chapter that bleeds, but does not burn."
Another blow. Another spark. And yet the fire did not consume him—it crystallized.
Killian grabbed his chin, forced it upward.
"I will erase every ounce of that faith from you."
August met him with smoke-grey eyes that didn't flicker.
"Then bring ink," he said. "Because I will not fade."
Killian's grip faltered. For one breath, he was still. Then he turned, cloaked in thunder.
He did not leave out of mercy. He left because he was losing the silence.
August hung there still—battered, yes. But beneath the bruises bloomed something brighter.
Not victory.
But unbreakable defiance.
The door closed behind Killian with a cold finality. It echoed not like wood meeting stone—but like judgment slammed shut.
August's breath came in sharp, uneven tugs. The metallic tang of blood lingered at the corner of his lips. He didn't speak. Didn't groan. Just hung there, half-suspended by silver shackles that groaned under his weight.
The silence in the chamber pressed down again, heavy as centuries.
His head bowed—not in surrender, but restraint. If he raised it too soon, the anger might overtake him. And anger was a dangerous thing here. Not because it made him weak. But because it would make him visible.
And August had survived this long by knowing when to vanish.
He clenched his fists—slowly. The skin around the manacles chafed, torn, and raw. Still, he twisted his wrists, tested every link. No give. No relief. But he kept moving, like a clock refusing to stop.
Tick.
Turn.
Grit your teeth.
Stay awake.
His thoughts drifted—not to escape, not yet—but to Elias.
Where was he now?
Did he even know?
August squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Elias smiling beneath warm candlelight rose behind his eyelids. His voice. His steady hands. The way he looked at August like he wasn't broken. Like he was worth saving.
And now?
Now he was shackled in some cruel version of a dungeon, hidden inside a mountain that breathed cold into its stones. He was a message. A warning. A piece in someone else's cruel play.
But even in this prison carved from nightmares, he knew one thing:
He won't let Elias come
And until then—
He will endure. He will somehow find a way