The morning had turned colder than it should have.
A pale wind crept through the cracks of the old halls of Blackwood Manor as Elias stepped through the west wing beside Giles, the carved doors opening one by one like secrets finally allowing themselves to be heard.
Giles walked with urgency, his gloves clutched in one hand, his breath fogging in the air. "His name is Darveth. He served under Lord Everheart for years—saw lands that were never drawn, passed paths that never bore names. If anyone would know Elarith Vale, it's him."
Elias said nothing, but the way his jaw was set—tight, unreadable—spoke more than words. Every second August was gone bled through him like sand through glass. He did not pace. He did not flinch. He moved forward like a promise.
They arrived at a stone-boned building tucked behind the old observatory, its door carved with spirals—ancient, Khyronian. A quiet man sat within, eyes milky with age but sharp in focus. His name was Darveth. His presence felt older than dust.
Darveth didn't rise when they entered.
He simply watched them from behind a veil of silence, until Giles stepped forward and offered a bow born of respect.
"We're looking for the road to Elarith Vale."
A pause.
Then, softly—too softly—Darveth replied, "That road is not found. It is remembered."
His voice sounded like it had once belonged to someone who spoke to mountains.
"I remember," he continued, "but memory alone is not enough. Not now. You'll need proof. A name cannot open what time has buried."
Elias stood still. Then, slowly, his hand moved to the pocket inside his coat.
The key.
Ancient. Blackened with time. Given by Caldris Rheyne in secret.
He held it out, palm open, the metal gleaming faintly beneath the flickering light.
Darveth's breath caught.
And for the first time, he truly looked at Elias—not as a stranger, but as a bearer of trust long buried.
He nodded once.
Then again.
And turned to his silent subordinates.
No words passed between them. Only gestures—swift, fluid, like old soldiers recalling rituals from long-forgotten wars. The two younger men disappeared into the back chamber, and the sound of latches being undone echoed like bones being rearranged.
Moments later, they returned with it:
A long, narrow box. Carved from aged yew wood. Bound in iron.
The kind of box that should never be opened unless one knew exactly what it held.
Darveth placed it on the table and slid it forward.
"I never passed this to anyone. Not in all these years. Not even when I was offered gold, or titles. But the man who entrusted me with it… he believed this key would find the right hands."
Elias nodded once, accepting the weight.
"No roads will guide you," Darveth added, his voice low. "Only this."
They said no more.
They did not need to.
Outside, the wind had shifted.
---
Back at Blackwood Manor
The journey back was silent. Not heavy. Just full. Full of things not yet spoken. Full of names buried in dust. Full of the ache that builds when something long lost begins to be found.
By the time Elias returned to the manor, the sky was the color of blue steel. He took the box into the study where August's presence still lingered—his chair untouched, his scent still faintly soaked into the leather-bound volumes on the shelf.
Elias placed the box on the table.
Its lock was delicate.
The key slid in like breath returning to lungs.
And the lid opened.
Inside—nothing ornate. No fanfare. Just what was promised.
A map.
Drawn by hand. Lines faded. Corners frayed. But real.
And enough.
Elarith Vale wasn't marked in bold letters or symbols. It hid along a broken edge of coast, where no roads reached, nestled between cliffs marked only by black ink scrawls. But Elias understood. The terrain was readable to those who'd learned to look between the lies.
And now, he knew.
It wasn't far.
Not nearly as far as he feared.
He turned, voice steady but edged with something dangerous.
"To the servants," he called. "Prepare the carriage."
And in his eyes, green and sharp as a blade drawn under moonlight, there lived no hesitation.
Only fire.
The wheels of the carriage groaned against the gravel path, heavy with distance yet to be traveled.
Above, the sky had grown darker by the hour—not storm-dark, but something quieter. A mourning veil drawn across the heavens. The kind of sky that did not rage but remembered.
Elias sat within the carriage, alone.
He had not spoken since the box was opened. He had not needed to.
The map now lay folded beside him, tucked into a leather satchel alongside several carefully chosen weapons—knives of varying length, a slender sword with a pale grip that once belonged to August's father, and a pistol etched in silver, the kind designed for killing something more than just flesh.
He traveled like a man not going to war—but to a reckoning.
Every jolt of the carriage was a pulse beneath him. Every mile, a stitch being pulled tighter.
His eyes remained fixed on the blurred view outside the window—endless trees passing like soldiers too old to march. The world shifted around him, but Elias did not shift at all.
There was no music in his silence.
Only purpose.
---
Somewhere ahead, beyond roads even maps had forgotten, August was waiting.
And not with hope.
No—Elias knew him better than that.
August would not cry out. Would not beg.
He would bleed quietly, suffer beautifully, and hold fast behind that iron will until the very end.
But Elias would not let that end come.
He leaned back slightly, the worn leather seat creaking beneath him, and closed his eyes only for a moment. The vision came unbidden.
August—standing in the firelight, brows drawn in concentration, ink staining his fingers. Or that blush—so rare, so fleeting—when Elias's hand had lingered just a little too long on his.
That blush had undone him.
That blush had become the anchor to all this madness.
He opened his eyes again.
And exhaled.
Not to calm himself—but to keep from tearing the walls of the carriage apart in his need to move faster.
Outside, the trees grew denser. Wilder. The road narrowed, twisting like a secret not yet fully told.
The driver called back, "We're nearing the end of the known path, my lord."
Elias answered with a nod, already unlatching the satchel at his side.
He would go on foot from there. He already knew it.
The Vale would not welcome wheels or horses. It would demand silence and sacrifice.
He had both.
He checked each weapon. Quick, practiced motions. The way one might polish memories.
The map was already burned into his mind.
> "Wait for me," he whispered beneath his breath, not knowing if the wind might carry it across miles.
"I'm coming."
The carriage slowed.
Branches clawed at the windows like hands trying to pull him back.
But Elias had already gone too far.
And ahead of him, wrapped in shadow and thorn, lay Elarith Vale.
The sky above Elarith Vale never brightened.
It remained in a state of twilight—neither day nor night, as though the heavens themselves refused to witness what unfolded beneath them. Wind moved through the black pines in whispers. Not rustling—whispering. As if the trees gossiped about what was to come.
Killian stood atop the stone terrace, high above the prison chambers where August now hung like a torn banner on a wall.
The air was sharp here, scented with iron and rain. Below, the mountain's spine curved downward into a maze of ravines—each one older than war itself.
And here… here sat the Master.
A figure never fully seen, only known by voice and silence, cloaked in something heavier than time. He did not need to command. His satisfaction was a pressure in the air, an unseen weight pressing on every breath.
Killian's red eyes narrowed as he watched the crow's circles above Elarith vale.
"The victim," the Master had said, "has taken the bait. He walks toward death dressed in devotion."
Killian said nothing then.
He rarely spoke unless silence had been properly carved first.
But even he, ruthless and poised, could feel it now—the trap had closed. Elias was coming. Predictable. Noble. Controlled by love.
Killian turned slightly, his cloak rustling like the sound of a blade sliding through silk. He thought of August—how he had withstood the whip, how he bled without begging, how his lips curled even in agony.
Beautiful, Killian had thought at the time. But pointless.
Defiance was a candle. Eventually, it burned out.
It amused him.
No—it thrilled him.
Killian walked slowly down the corridor now, boots clicking against ancient stone. His shadow stretched long against the flickering torchlight, a serpent curling beside him.
The guards stationed at the threshold of the Master's Hall stepped aside without command.
He entered.
And there, seated among shadow and gold, was the Master of Elarith Vale.
Nothing in the room moved except the breath of fire from a brazen hearth, and the quiet crackle of logs that burned without scent.
Killian bowed his head only slightly. Enough.
"He is coming," he said. "just As you command."
A smile, thin and cold, pulled across the Master's lips.
"Let him come. Let love blind him. When the heart is full, the neck bows easier to the blade."
Killian's eyes flickered with something unreadable—neither joy nor revulsion.
"And the boy?" he asked.
"August is merely the bait. What we need is Elias broken. Not dead. Not yet."
The fire snapped as if punctuating the cruelty.
"You will handle him, Killian. Do not disappoint me."
The assassin bowed once more.
"I never do."
Outside, thunder murmured in the belly of distant clouds.
The Vale prepared itself like a predator licking its teeth.
And far below, where stone met shadow, August stirred in chains, unaware that every step Elias took was bringing him closer to the edge of something far more dangerous than death.