The moon light its dying silver through the high arched windows, casting long shadows across the chessboard like a prophecy unfinished.
Inside the eastern parlor of Blackwood Manor, where the air always held a hush as though the walls themselves listened, two men sat in a slow, unspoken war.
Giles moved first — always — as though habit had taught him that patience was a weapon. His fingers, long and ink-stained, nudged the pearl bishop forward, the sound soft as falling ash on the ancient board between them.
Lirael sat across, one leg crossed over the other, hair tied back in a low leather ribbon. He wore no coat despite the chill — only a dark waistcoat and an expression honed from restraint. He watched the board, not Giles, with the look of a man used to outlasting the hour, not chasing it.
"You've grown predictable," he said finally, voice quiet, carved from dry wit and winter dusk. "The bishop to F4 again? That move is practically sentimental."
Giles exhaled a thin laugh through his nose. "I prefer the devils I know."
"Comforting thought," Lirael replied, lifting his rook like it weighed more than it should. "But predictable men tend to end up bleeding in very unpredictable places."
He placed the rook down with a quiet finality. A threat. A statement. Perhaps a warning.
Giles studied him.
"You always play like you're making a confession."
Lirael smiled faintly, but it never reached his eyes.
"That's because I've already sinned."
Outside, a crow called once — sharp and abrupt, slicing through the stillness like a knife tossed down a hallway.
The chessboard gleamed under the low sun, pieces arranged in a moment of false peace. Neither man moved. Somewhere, a clock struck the hour, but even that sound felt hesitant inside Blackwood.
Lirael's eyes wandered to the fireless hearth.
"There's tension in the manor lately," he said, tone casual but not careless. "Servants walk quieter. The floors feel louder. Someone's expecting something."
"Or hiding something," Giles said without blinking.
"Likely both."
They resumed play in silence. One piece. Another. A trade here, a sacrifice there. Moves that meant nothing to the untrained eye, but to them—it was a conversation in code, conducted in pawns and pressure.
And then—
A knock.
Three soft raps, like fingertips on a coffin lid.
Neither man turned. Giles said, "Enter."
The door creaked open, and a young maid stepped in, eyes wide with apology.
"Forgive me, Master Giles. There's a letter. Marked urgent."
Giles waved it forward. The maid handed over the sealed envelope, her hands trembling slightly — either from the cold, or something unspoken.
"This came. Urgently. For Lord Elias."
She offered it to Giles.
"But Lord Elias is in Khyronia," Giles said with a furrowed brow, taking the envelope. He examined the seal — wax, yes, but no crest. No signature. Just a black crescent pressed deep in blood-red.
He cracked the seal and opened it, expecting cryptic nonsense or noble fluff.
Instead, he read the first line — and stood up so fast his chair fell back.
"What is it?" Lirael asked.
Giles's hands were trembling. "It says... It says August is in danger."
Lirael frowned. "August? That can't be right. He's with Elias, attending the masquerade."
"That's what should be true," Giles whispered. "But this… this says otherwise."
He held the letter up, as if showing the truth to the room might lessen its weight.
"He is no longer where you left him.
He is in hands that do not forgive.
The boy with silver eyes will die if Elias does not come.
Tick-tock, gentlemen. The curtain is already falling."
There was no name. No place. Only dread, coiled in cursive.
Lirael stood now, face sharpened with disbelief. "It's a trick. A cruel joke."
"I thought so too," Giles replied. "But then look—"
He turned the letter over. A second note was scratched hastily onto the back:
Eclipse Elite. You know that name.
If Elias does not walk into their fire, August will be the ash they leave behind.
The silence that followed was not empty. It rang — like a dropped bell in a crypt.
Lirael's voice was hushed. "They wouldn't dare. Not in Khyronia. Not during a masquerade."
"But what if… what if the masquerade was the smoke?" Giles said, his voice cracking. "A distraction. A veil. And while everyone danced — they took him."
Lirael turned sharply, pacing. "No. Elias would never allow it. Not with August. Not now."
The room seemed to grow colder.
And in that moment, the fire in the hearth finally hissed out — a whisper of ash rising.
Lirael clenched his jaw. "Then we must go. If this is true..."
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Because it was true.
Somehow, in the sprawl of masks and shadows, August had been taken. And the one who would burn for it — if he didn't arrive — was Elias.
"Elias point of view"
The wheels turned like the ticking of a cursed clock.
Each creak of the carriage was a nail dragged down the slate of Elias's soul. He sat in the velvet-lined interior, still cloaked in his masquerade attire — now tainted with ash and regret. The golden trim of his jacket glinted dimly in the passing light, but all its shine meant nothing now.
His gloves had been discarded.
Both of his hands now pressed tightly to his face, as if trying to hold himself together.
The silence inside the carriage was suffocating. Outside, the world blurred by — old trees, fractured paths, and the fading shadows of Khyronia. But Elias saw none of it.
All he could see was August.
Not the August who wore elegance like armor. Not the August who hurled sharp words when cornered.
No—he saw the boy blushing. Softly. Reluctantly. As if warmth itself embarrassed him.
He remembered that moment:
August had turned his face away, fingers fussing with his collar, his voice quieter than usual.
"You should stop looking at me like that…"
Elias had smiled then, unable to help himself.
And now that smile haunted him like a ghost that refused to pass on.
"You should stop looking at me like that…"
He hadn't.
And now, August was gone.
Somewhere.
Taken.
Used as bait by wolves who didn't even want him—only the one who loved him.
The guilt sank deeper.
"What am I doing here?" Elias whispered into his palms. "What good am I if I let them take him?"
He lowered his hands slowly. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry — fury didn't cry. It boiled.
His fists clenched against his knees. The tendons in his arms were tight as drawn bowstrings.
"I promised…"
He had. Quietly. Wordlessly. In the way he looked at August when the other wasn't watching. In the way he stayed beside him during fevered nights, and love him, whispered his name into dawn.
And now—he was retreating.
Riding away.
Because there was a game being played, and Elias needed answers.
But every step away from August made his heart howl like something wounded and wild.
The reins outside snapped. The horses cried out. The manor would come into view soon.
And when it did—
He would demand every answer from the shadows.
But for now, he sat in the heart of a moving coffin, every breath filled with the name of the boy he couldn't protect.
"August…"
The name wasn't just a whisper.
It was a vow.
"Everin' point of view"
Everin's Solitude
The room was silent, save for the occasional whisper of wind brushing against the latticed window. Moonlight spilled in like liquid silver, catching the glint of something small, something fragile, resting in Everin's palm.
A handkerchief.
Fine ivory silk, edged in dark navy. Embroidered in gold thread, curling elegantly at one corner, the name stood out like a signature carved in flame:
August.
Everin stared at it as if it were something sacred and dangerous all at once.
He didn't move for a long time. Just sat there, elbows on knees, the square of cloth hanging from his fingers like a confession too heavy to burn.
The world spun backward—
To the laughter of crystal glasses, the warmth of candlelight, the rustle of evening coats and fine dresses.
To that evening at dinner.
August had been seated quietly, poised and aloof, as always. Every movement refined. Every word precise. A white flame in human form, distant but unforgettable.
Everin had watched him—of course he had. He always did. Like a moth circling too close to something it could never touch.
He remembered how August had dabbed at his lips with that very handkerchief. Folded it neatly when finished. Left it behind without a second glance.
And Everin—
Everin had taken it.
Like a thief.
As if by holding it, he might hold some part of the one he could never reach.
Now, the handkerchief felt heavier than iron.
"He never even looked at me the way I wanted him to…"
The words slipped from his mouth, bitter and broken, meant for no one.
He clenched the cloth suddenly—then loosened his grip, as if afraid of damaging it. His breath hitched. His thoughts spiraled.
"I drugged him."
He said it aloud.
As if saying it would split him open, make the shame pour out.
He had. Not with hatred, but with desperation. Because August would never choose him. Would never lean into his touch the way Everin had dreamed, night after fevered night. Because August's eyes were always searching for someone else.
Because of Elias.
And now?
Now August was gone. Stolen into the jaws of a place none of them understood. And Everin was here, holding nothing but a thread of memory in his hands, feeling the weight of something irredeemable.
A knock sounded gently at the door, but Everin didn't answer. He couldn't—not yet.
Instead, he brought the handkerchief to his lips. Not to kiss it, but to breathe. To feel something that still carried August's scent—orange blossom and parchment.
He let his forehead rest on his fist.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to no one.
But the room heard it.
The moonlight heard it.
Whether August ever would… that remained unknown.