The manor's great doors groaned like beasts disturbed from slumber. Wind howled through its hollow halls, dragging whispers and dust along the marbled floors where no warmth lived. Darkness stretched long across the stone—fingers of silence clawing for something it had once held.
Elias stepped into the breath of the abyss.
In his hands: the sword. Not just any blade. The sword of Raden Everheart—August's father. A relic of vengeance and memory, carried now by the one who dared call August his heart.
Boots echoed against the stone. His cloak trailed behind him like a storm held by thread. He had come not to speak. But to end.
Across the grand hall, Kellian stood— sleeves rolled, gloves tight, his crimson eyes gleaming like rubies scorched by hate.
"I see you've come dressed for grief," Kellian murmured.
Elias did not answer. He only drew the sword.
The steel hummed like a song lost to time, each edge a verse of fury.
Kellian smirked. He stepped forward, the candlelight licking at the gold edges of his cloak. "Tell me, Elias," he cooed, "how did he taste in pain? Did his silence break in your arms? Or did he keep that for me?"
The blade rose.
Elias roared, voice cracking like thunder. "What did you do to him?!"
Kellian's smile widened. "I gave him the medicine of his own taste."
The words hit like acid. Elias lunged.
Steel met steel.
The manor trembled.
They collided in a blaze of silver and shadow, blades screaming against one another, fury singing from each slash. Elias fought not like a soldier—but like a lover betrayed by the gods, striking not just for vengeance—but for every whisper August had ever held in trembling silence.
Kellian was faster, but Elias was stronger.
Their blades danced beneath chandeliers, cut through dust that had not stirred in years.
Elias struck for the night August had collapsed in fever. He struck for the wound bandaged by trembling hands. He struck for the memory of August's blush—so easily shattered, so cruelly stolen.
Kellian parried with smirks, with whispers.
"You never knew how deep it ran. The boy carries poison in his blood."
Elias answered with steel. He drove Kellian back, crashing through a column, the hall echoing with the fury of the fallen.
Stone cracked. Blood splattered.
But Kellian only laughed. "You're bleeding. Does it hurt, hero?"
Elias turned. "Not like he did."
They fought beneath the gallery of ghosts— portraits of lords long dead watching in silence. The sword of Raden Everheart cut through the memory of legacy, each stroke rewriting a name into the future.
Kellian spun, slashing low— Elias blocked, countered— struck— steel met skin— a line of red bloomed across Kellian's ribs.
The assassin hissed. "So this is what love teaches you."
Elias gritted his teeth. "It teaches you what's worth dying for."
Their boots skidded across broken marble. Paintings fell from the walls—glass shattering like bones. Every breath burned. Every movement screamed.
And still they danced.
Kellian twirled his blade, "He begged, you know. For you. Not for life. For you."
Elias lunged with the wrath of a kingdom undone. Their blades locked at the hilt, breath against breath.
"Then I'll bring him back."
Kellian shoved him away— a kick to the chest, a roll backward, a flourish of silver.
They collided again near the staircase, the sword of Everheart catching the edge of Kellian's jaw. Blood spilled down his collarbone. Still, he laughed.
"You can't save what's already been broken."
Elias's voice dropped to a growl. "Then I'll make the pieces holy."
The storm outside mimicked the one within. Thunder boomed. Lightning danced across stained windows. Rain streaked like tears across glass.
And they— They fought like gods fallen from favor.
Clash. Parry. Strike.
A kick to the knee. A punch to the ribs. A gash across the brow.
Time became meaningless. The world narrowed to two hearts beating in fury.
Kellian staggered. Elias followed.
"Tell me where he is!"
Kellian spat blood. "Say please."
Elias drove him into a pillar. The stone cracked. Their blades clattered away. Fists now. Bone against bone. Grief against guilt.
They tumbled down the steps, a mess of pain and breath, until Kellian straddled him. A dagger drawn.
"You lose," he hissed.
Elias's hand closed over the hilt of a fallen sword— And with a surge— Steel flashed— Kellian reeled back.
Elias rose like thunder made flesh.
"This doesn't end until he's in my arms."
Kellian wiped blood from his lip, smiled like a devil finally impressed.
"Then come and take him."
And again—they charged.
Their fight spilled into the great hall. Into the chamber of mirrors. Through the broken music room where August once touched piano keys in secret.
Glass broke. Wood cracked.
But Elias would not fall.
Because August still waited.
And Kellian could not stop the storm now.
They clashed beneath the arch of firelight, and it seemed as if even time could not end them.
For theirs was the war of sun against shadow, love against legacy, and neither would yield until blood turned to ash and a name was spoken with hope again:
August.
Their blades met again—steel on steel, a clash not of warriors, but of fates long entangled. Kellian twisted, cloak flaring like wings torn from angels, his crimson gaze fixed and cruel. Elias followed, not with finesse, but with fury honed by love. Every step he took cracked marble beneath him. Every strike was a memory sharpened to a blade.
"You bleed beautifully," Kellian rasped, blood slick on his teeth. "Is this what he saw in you? This ache, dressed as devotion?"
Elias answered with silence—his blade arced high, then low, forcing Kellian back through a veil of dust and ruin. The chandelier above groaned and collapsed in a flurry of crystal, a rainfall of broken light that sparked around them like stars born from violence.
They fought through shadowed corridors where ghosts lingered in portraits, their painted eyes watching, unmoved. Elias moved like a storm unwilling to die, muscles screaming, side torn open, but still—he rose. He always rose.
Kellian struck again, a dagger now, slicing toward Elias's ribs. The pain was real, white-hot, but Elias didn't flinch. He gripped his sword with blood-slick fingers and drove Kellian backward—into a shattered pillar, into the very bones of the manor that once belonged to August's father.
"You fight like you've already lost," Kellian breathed, laughing. "Like someone who thinks love will carry him home."
"No," Elias growled. "I fight like someone who remembers."
They locked blades again, closer this time, breath mingling like steam in the cold air of the crypt below. "You'll never reach him," Kellian hissed. "He's deeper than you can go."
"I'll bleed my way through if I have to." Elias twisted, disarmed Kellian with a sudden sweep, and the dagger flew, clattering into the dark.
Kellian stumbled back, holding his side, smiling even now. "So this is what love makes of you."
Elias advanced, step by burning step. "It makes me relentless."
Then—with one final strike—he shattered the last of the blade Kellian held. The assassin fell to one knee, coughing, laughing through blood. "He's waiting. But not for you."
Elias didn't reply. He turned toward the hall beyond, every heartbeat in his chest pulsing one word: August.
The storm outside screamed, thunder roared, but Elias moved forward into the silence where memory breathed. He was bruised, cut, exhausted. But his resolve was untouched.
Because somewhere ahead, in the dark behind doors yet unopened, August waited. And Elias, half-broken and burning, would find him—no matter how many monsters waited between.
Elias ran.
Through the left wing first—dust rising with every stride, doors thrown open with fists trembling from pain. Room after room, empty. Shadows yawned but gave no answer. The walls here were colder. Old beds, cold fireplaces, books scattered like forgotten prayers.
"August…" he breathed, voice rough, hoarse, desperate. Nothing. No footsteps. No warmth.
He turned.
The right wing next—his shoulder bleeding, his breath shallow, but he did not stop. Broken banisters. A shattered mirror. A piano missing its keys. And still—no sign of him. No sound but the rain tapping at the windows like fingers too late.
Then—
A door.
At the end of the hall.
Not just a door, but a gate—iron and massive, wrapped in chains.
Or it had been.
The chains now lay undone. Uncoiled. Abandoned on the floor like dead serpents. Elias stopped.
His heart struck once.
Then again—louder.
Harder.
He stepped forward. Slowly. Every breath heavy. Every nerve awake.
The air near the gate was different. Stiller. Older. Like something sacred or broken slept behind it. The scent—damp stone, rust, and something faintly sweet beneath it. Familiar.
"August…" he whispered again.
No reply. But the silence felt watchful. Waiting.
Elias's hand gripped the edge of the gate. Blood smeared the handle as he pushed it open. It groaned—a low, tired sound—then creaked wider.
Darkness waited beyond. But not empty.
Something had moved here.
Recently.
With legs shaking, Elias stepped through. His wound flared, bright with pain, but he ignored it. His body was failing. But his will wasn't.
Down stone steps.
One by one.
Deeper.
He could feel it now.
A pull.
A truth.
A heartbeat that didn't belong to him—
but answered every beat of his own.
He reached the bottom.
And there,
at the end of the prison—
half-hidden in shadow and gold light filtering through cracks—
was a figure crumpled on the floor, white hair tangled like moonlight, breath faint but there.
Elias dropped to his knees.
"August."
The name left his mouth like a vow.