Night had swallowed the world whole.
The moon hung like a half-lidded eye behind a veil of drifting clouds, and the trees stood like cathedral pillars draped in mourning. Shadows spilled across the path, thick as oil, stretching toward Elias like the fingers of something ancient and cruel.
His horse's hooves thundered against the earth, reckless in the dark. No lantern. No torch. He didn't need light—only speed.
August.
That name echoed like a wound across his chest.
> "He looked like a fairy when he was little," Giles had said. "Hair like frost. Eyes like smoke. You should've seen how Everin used to hold him."
That image hadn't left Elias's mind.
Couldn't. Wouldn't.
Now, with midnight bleeding across the sky, Elias rode like a man possessed.
Branches lashed his face. Briars tore at his boots. But still he drove forward, his cloak whipping behind him like a banner of war. His breath steamed in the cold. The wind hissed between bare branches. The world was holding its breath.
And so was he.
> What if I'm too late?
The question clawed at him, over and over, like glass dragged across raw skin.
Because August wouldn't scream.
August never screamed.
He would endure. That was his curse. That was his strength.
Just like he had as a boy—silent in suffering, untouched by mercy.
Elias grit his teeth as the forest began to thin. The distant silhouette of Blackwood's satellite estate—Everin's—rose through the mist. The manor loomed like a sleeping beast on the hillside, its windows dim, its spires like jagged teeth tearing the night.
He was close now.
Closer.
He didn't slow.
Didn't blink.
The air was sharp, heavy with pine and damp stone. Moonlight shimmered against the wrought iron of the outer gates. He saw the guards—dozing, inattentive—figures blurred by fog and carelessness.
Elias's pulse roared in his ears.
> What if he's already done something?
What if August can't fight back?
What if—
He forced the thoughts down.
They were poison.
There was no room for hesitation—not tonight.
Only one name mattered.
August.
The man who bore every wound in silence.
The man who looked death in the eye and did not flinch.
The man who might—at this very moment—be suffering in silence, betrayed again by blood.
Elias whispered beneath his breath, a vow cast into the dark:
> "Just hold on for me. I'm almost there."
The night was a curtain of ink, and Valemont Manor rose like a shadowed citadel against the stars.
The great gates creaked open without resistance as Elias approached, the silver crest of the Blackwood House glinting in the moonlight upon his shoulder. The soldiers at the gate — two stern men draped in the velvet blues of House Castellan — recognized the urgency in his eyes and wordlessly let him pass.
His boots struck the marble floors of the manor with furious purpose, each step echoing like a storm held just beneath the surface of restraint. Chandeliers flickered overhead, casting golden light across oil paintings and ancestral relics. The walls felt like they were closing in.
A familiar figure stepped forward from the shadows near the stairwell — Tilemont, the butler of Blackwood, a man with hair powdered white and a back bowed only by years of service, never by submission.
Elias halted. His voice was low, but it cut like a blade. "Where is Lord August?"
Tilemont looked momentarily startled, then composed himself with a practiced nod. "His lordship… returned to his chambers after dinner, but Lord Everin insisted on speaking further. He said they are now engaged in political matters—in his study."
A thunder cracked inside Elias, though no sound came from the skies.
"In his study?" The words spilled like poison. "At this hour?"
"My lord, I…" Tilemont faltered. "That is what I was told. Lord August appeared fatigued… Lord Everin claimed he needed rest, yet also needed discussion."
"Take me there," Elias said sharply, already moving past him. "Now."
The butler hesitated — just a moment — and then turned, his footsteps quick for a man of his years. Together, they ascended the stairs. The air thickened with each level they climbed, every corridor suffocating with velvet drapes and the scent of spiced wine and old secrets. A candle flickered violently in its wall sconce, as though it, too, sensed something wrong.
They stopped before a door — a door unlike the others. Lacquered black. Polished like a mirror. Quiet as a grave.
From inside came no sound.
Elias did not knock.
He threw the doors open.
The hinges groaned as the wood slammed against the walls, revealing a scene suspended in terrible stillness.
August — his silver-white hair soaked in dark wine that ran like blood down the line of his jaw, staining the collar of his cream shirt — stood pinned between the velvet settee and Everin, whose hands were half-gloved and undoing his own shirt with slow deliberation. His mouth still twisted with the hunger of control, the perverse calm of a man who believed the door would never open.
The spilled wine on August's head caught the light — glistening, beautiful, utterly wrong — as though a cherub had been crowned in blood.
August's hands were shaking.
Everin turned slowly, his pupils shrinking.
And Elias, in that breathless moment, looked like a wolf starved by winter.
"What," Elias said, his voice raw thunder, "do you think you're doing?"
Everin's face twisted into a mask of composed defiance. "This is none of your concern, Elias. You're not part of this house."
Elias strode forward, unbothered by Everin's protests, and without breaking stride, caught the decanter of wine from the side table. In one swift motion, he hurled its contents over Everin, soaking his silk shirt and casting a red sheen over his chest and face. It clung to his skin like blood.
Everin staggered back, momentarily stunned.
"Don't touch him," Elias growled.
He turned to August, who had dropped to his knees, trying to hold onto clarity. His breath came in ragged shudders, and his pale skin was flushed with the drug's cruel heat. Elias dropped beside him, steadying him with hands that trembled with restraint.
"August, it's me," he whispered. "You're safe now. I'm here."
August didn't speak—he couldn't. But his smoke-grey eyes flicked up and held Elias's. Not a word was needed.
"Get out," Elias snapped at Everin without looking at him. "If you come near him again, I swear to every god who walks this cursed earth—"
Everin's laugh was brittle. "You think this ends here?" he said, voice cracking beneath the pretense. "You don't understand what he is. He belongs—"
"—to no one," Elias hissed, rising to his full height. "And if you ever think otherwise again, I'll teach you what pain truly feels like."
He lifted August into his arms. The slender frame curled against him, breath hitching with heat and the remnants of poison, but still conscious.
Everin stood there, wine-soaked, watching as the man he'd tried to break was carried away in the arms of another. His hands curled into fists. But he did nothing.
As Elias left the study, Tillemont was waiting outside, eyes wide.
"Prepare a carriage," Elias ordered. "He's leaving this place tonight."
Tillemont nodded and vanished down the hall.
Elias looked down at the figure in his arms. August's head rested against his chest, his hands weakly curled in the folds of Elias's coat.
"You're alright," Elias whispered, mostly for himself. "I've got you."
Behind them, Valemont Manor's halls stretched cold and silent, but the fire in Elias's chest would burn all night. He would get August to safety. And then, when dawn came, he would return.
For vengeance.
The silence in the Valemont woods was broken only by the rushing wheels of the carriage.
Inside, August lay cradled in Elias's arms, his breaths uneven and shallow. Moonlight filtered through the velvet curtains, catching the sweat glistening on his pale skin. His body trembled, not from cold—but from the drug winding tighter around his limbs, pulling him into feverish depths.
Elias held him tighter, shifting his weight as the carriage jolted over uneven stones. "You're safe now... you're safe," he murmured over and over, as though by repetition alone he could undo what had nearly happened.
But August's head lolled back slightly. His lips parted with a faint groan. Sweat gathered at his temples, soaking into the platinum curls. A glazed film covered his eyes, lashes fluttering erratically like a bird struggling to take flight with broken wings.
"Tillemont said it was just wine, but damn him... what did he feed you?" Elias muttered, his jaw tightening. He reached for the damp cloth he had soaked moments ago and dabbed at August's forehead. The heat radiating from his skin was unnatural.
The younger lord twisted slightly in his hold, his fingers curling at the fabric of Elias's coat. The gesture—soft, seeking—ripped into Elias's chest like claws.
"Stay with me, August," Elias whispered, brushing back a strand of sweat-slicked hair. "Just relax"
August's lips moved, silent at first—then the faintest whisper: "E-Everin... the wine..."
Elias's entire body went still. He understood now. He knew.
"I swear to you... I won't let anyone touch you again."
The drug surged again through August's veins, and he gasped suddenly, arching slightly in Elias's arms. His breath hitched. A tearless sob caught in his throat. His skin burned, his body aching for release from something he didn't understand something forced upon him.
Elias gritted his teeth. He cursed under his breath and reached behind him to knock twice against the roof of the carriage. "Faster," he shouted to the coachman. "Ride like hell!"
The horses neighed, hooves pounding harder against the road.
August whimpered again. Elias caught his face, holding him gently, forehead to forehead. His voice dropped, velvet and steady. "Look at me. Just a little longer. You can endure this.
August's breathing grew harsher. Saliva slid from the corner of his mouth. His hands twitched and then reached—unseeing, unsure—before collapsing again.
Elias pulled him closer. He pressed his lips to August's temple. "Everything is gonna be fine."
Far ahead, the gates of Blackwood Manor glinted in the moonlight. Servants had already been alerted. A single lamp burned in the corridor. A healer stood waiting.
But inside the carriage, time stretched long and cruel. Elias had to bear witness to what had been done—watch August writhe in shameful silence, a porcelain figure defiled not by action, but by poison.
And still, he endured.
Still, Elias remained.
"You're not alone," Elias whispered, as the manor crept closer in the distance. "Not anymore."