Elias stepped through the gate, and the world changed—not with sound, but with pressure, the kind that sits behind your ribs when something terrible waits ahead. The prison wasn't just stone and steel—it was a wound carved into the earth, breathing despair through its rusted bones. Chains clung to walls like dried vines in winter, and hooks reached outward like fingers desperate to hold pain. But none of it mattered. Because there
—struggling to rise, not broken but barely standing—was August. Shackled hands trembled at his sides, his slender body wrapped in shadows and dried blood, his legs shaking under weight no boy should ever have born. Behind him stood the masked man—grey-cloaked, silent, faceless—Caldris Rheyne's ghost sent to protect, watching like judgment made flesh. And when August's eyes locked onto Elias, something impossible flickered inside them—hope, raw and shining through disbelief. He took a step. Just one. Then another. And Elias—gods,
Elias—moved faster. His limbs screamed from battle, his ribs bruised, his lungs heavy with blood, but he moved with the certainty of someone who had crossed through hell only to reach this single moment. They were mere inches apart. Inches from undoing all that had been shattered. And August—torn between fury and joy—smiled through his exhaustion, a light too bright for such a grave. But just as Elias reached out, just as fingers nearly met—fate struck. From the shadows behind,
Kellian Vesper appeared like vengeance uncoiled. His blade sank into Elias's side with brutal grace, and Elias gasped—not for himself, but for August. His hand caught Kellian's throat mid-turn, and with a guttural roar, he slammed the assassin across the chamber. The impact cracked stone. Kellian did not rise. But Elias staggered, blood pouring from his wound like red silk, pressing his palm to his ribs, trying to keep his soul from slipping out. And August—August stood frozen, throat burning, lips parted, but no sound emerging. His voice had drowned in exhaustion. Still, he whispered, "Elias," and that whispered carried more love than a hundred screams.
Elias tore a strip from his own shirt, wrapping the wound in silence, but August was already there. He crossed the space on trembling feet, pain etched in every step, until they were face to face. And then—at last—he broke. August, who had not shed a tear when he was four and found his parents dead. August, who did not cry through fevers or chains. August, who had only gritted his teeth through every hell
let go. His tears fell like rivers unblocked, sliding down his pale cheeks in silence and fury. His voice cracked like old glass.
"Why did you come?" he stammered, each word laced with agony. Elias pressed his hand harder to his side, his expression more worried for August than for the blood that soaked his ribs. "Don't cry," he murmured. "Not for me." But August wasn't listening. He turned to the masked man, voice hoarse and sharp. "What are you doing Help him."
The masked figure obeyed without a word, slipping his arm beneath Elias's arm, steadying him. His grey cloak brushed the ground like stormclouds chasing thunder. August followed closely behind, tears still flowing, wrists red and raw, ankles marked where the shackles had bitten deep. His back ached, his body bruised, but none of it mattered. He was watching Elias.
Only Elias. Together, the three of them descended the ruined hall. Shadows stirred at the edges. Eyes watched from unseen corners. But they did not stop. At the manor's edge, just before the waiting carriage, another figure appeared—an assassin with wild brown eyes, unskilled but desperate, stepping forward like a thrown die. Before he could strike,
the masked man turned, swift as lightning drawn from the sky, and deflected the blade. He shoved Elias gently into the carriage, nodding once to August.
August climbed in after him, clutching Elias's hand like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Two cloaked figures—their garments ash-white and storm-grey—took the reins, and the carriage surged forward, wheels cutting through rain like fate uncoiling.
Behind them, steel clashed—mask against fire. Inside, Elias let out a low laugh, soft and strained. "You should've seen your face," he whispered, trying to tease the boy who trembled beside him. August's fist—weak, shaking—pressed lightly against Elias's chest. "Why Are You Laughing You Bastard," he muttered, though his voice thick with tears. Elias smiled through blood.
"It's alright," he said. "I don't feel pain anymore." But when August leaned into him—when his head rested on Elias's shoulder—Elias hissed sharply. August jerked back, eyes wide, and more tears spilled.
"You lied," he said, voice breaking again. "You said it didn't hurt—but it does." Elias turned his head, reached up with a bloodied hand, and cupped August's cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just wanted to make you smile."
August turned his face away, tears glimmering like glass in firelight. He said nothing. He didn't have to. His pain was written in every broken breath. And Elias—though fading—watched him like he was something holy. For even bruised and crying, August was still the most unshatterable thing he'd ever seen.
The carriage thundered through the rain-soaked roads like a coffin fleeing fate, the wheels carving deep into the dirt as the forest whispered curses behind them. Inside, the world had narrowed to a heartbeat and a hand
August's fingers curled tightly around Elias's, pressing that blood-slicked palm against his own cheek as if warmth could be borrowed, as if it might coax his soul to stay tethered a little longer. Elias slumped beside him, the color draining from his lips, breath shallow, like a candle flinching in the wind. "You fool, bastard" August choked, tears streaking down his face, hot and furious.
"You said you wouldn't do anything stupid." His voice cracked, folding under the weight of betrayal and love so sharp it left bruises.
"You promised…"
But Elias, ever the liar, only gave the faintest smile—soft, pained, the kind that tried to comfort even as the world frayed at its seams. His eyes fluttered halfway open, their green dulled but still searching for the boy he would bleed for, again and again.
"Hush,"
Elias whispered, voice like torn silk. "I'm here… I'm not going anywhere." But August wasn't a child, and he'd seen enough dying to know how the lies wore different costumes. "No," he snapped, voice trembling, raw. "You're lying. Why are you closing your eyes?"
Elias tried to answer but the words melted before they could rise. His breath was slowing, drifting like fog toward the sea. Still, August held his hand tighter, pressing it harder to his cheek,
smearing blood across pale skin like war paint made from love. "Please," he whispered now, his voice shattering
. "I'm sorry…
I'll listen from now on. I'll eat everything. You can feed me, I'll let you… I won't be stubborn anymore, I swear it—just don't go."
The tears fell faster, staining Elias's coat, his chest, his throat, as if August was trying to drown the wound itself.
"Don't go, Please I Beg You don't go, don't go—" He rocked slightly, not even realizing it, clinging to Elias's hand like a lifeline pulled taut between two cliffs. Elias exhaled faintly, his lips twitching toward another smile.
"It's alright…" he murmured. "It's just a little rest. I'm still with you, August." But his head dipped further, shoulders slackening, and the light behind his eyes began to dim like the sun slipping beneath a storm. August shook him, desperate now.
"No," he rasped. "You don't get to rest. Not now. You said you'd stay." And still Elias smiled—because that was what Elias did. Even while breaking. Even while slipping away. He gave August one last look, soft as twilight. And August, trembling, drenched in grief and rain, leaned in and whispered with a voice made of splinters, "Please don't disappear." But Elias had already gone quiet.
August didn't care that his tears had soaked through Elias's sleeve, didn't care that his breath came in jagged gasps that hurt to swallow. He pressed Elias's hand harder to his cheek, as if he could breathe life into it, as if the pulse beneath the skin might answer him and say I'm still here.
But Elias was too quiet now, too still, and that smile—soft and distant—clung to his lips like a lie he meant with all his heart. "Don't close your eyes," August begged again, his voice rising, desperate and raw, stripped of all pride. "Don't do this to me. Not after everything. You hear me? I'm not letting you go." But Elias didn't answer. The silence was deafening. Outside, thunder grumbled like a god with a slow, cruel hand. Inside, August shattered. His tears came harder, wild and unrestrained,
not like the quiet sorrow he'd taught himself all his life, but like a storm cracking open the bones. "Please," he whispered, rocking slightly, forehead pressed against Elias's temple,
"please, God, please—I never asked for anything. I never prayed when they died. I never cried when they were taken. But I'm praying now—please, don't take him from me." His fingers trembled as he clutched Elias's hand tighter, as if anchoring him to this world by force.
"Let us reach… let us reach before it's too late. Let him hold on until the door opens. I'll give anything, anything, just let me keep him." He tried to keep his voice steady, but it cracked again, and again, until it was nothing but breath and agony. "I'll be good. I'll stop fighting you. I'll eat, I'll sleep, I'll stop being a burden, just—just let him stay."
Still Elias did not stir, but his warmth hadn't yet left him completely. And so August held on, as the carriage tore through the wet woods toward Blackwood Manor, each jolt of the wheels a cruel heartbeat counting down. August refused to let go. He clung to Elias like he was the last thread left tethering him to the world—and maybe he was.
His sobs were quiet now, but constant, like rain against glass. His lips moved against Elias's bloodied knuckles, murmuring prayers too broken to finish. And still, he whispered, again and again, "Please. Just a little longer."