The wheels of the carriage groaned to a halt before the gates of Blackwood Manor, its iron archways standing like mournful sentinels beneath the smothered moon. The hour was late, and winter's breath coiled through the trees like pale serpents, devouring warmth with a merciless appetite.
Seraphim stepped down first, his polished boots crunching against frost-hardened gravel. Without hesitation, he turned and extended a gloved hand toward the carriage, his silhouette tall and noble beneath the weight of a fur-lined coat that whipped in the wind like a banner of storm-born authority.
From within the dim-lit carriage emerged Katherine Virelle, her slender fingers slipping into her husband's grasp as if seeking both balance and solace. She descended with measured grace, her long coat—a snowy pelt of white fox—billowing softly around her ankles like drifting clouds of silence.
Her silver hair, so eerily akin to August's, was drawn into a tightly wound bun, though stray wisps had escaped to dance like whispered moonlight against her cheeks. Beneath the weight of her hood, her tangerine-hued eyes blazed not with pride, but with a mother's disquiet—each moment steeped in gnawing dread, every breath a battle against the sickening unknown.
She did not speak, for words would crumble under the weight of her worry.
How is he?
How is my little angel?
The question seared through her mind like a rosary of thorns, unspoken but deafening. The cold bit at her skin, but it was the ache in her chest that left her trembling. And Seraphim, ever the stoic sentinel at her side, wrapped her hand in his—fingers interlaced not merely from duty, but desperation.
The manor loomed ahead, darkened but breathing. A house that had once echoed with laughter now stood silent, as though holding its breath until the truth within its walls could be endured.
Katherine drew her coat tighter, the wind pulling at her veil as she stepped forward into the hush of that haunted place—where somewhere, her child, her August, lay fevered and fragile like a fading flame in a glass lantern.
The great doors of Blackwood Manor swung open with a solemn groan, as though the house itself stirred from slumber to greet the weight of her return.
Katherine Virelle did not wait for announcement nor invitation. Her steps cut through the sea of startled maids like a blade through silk—purposeful, unyielding. She moved not as a guest, but as a storm breaking through parlor stillness, her ivory furs trailing behind her like a winter comet. Her heels clicked softly against marble, the hem of her coat whispering secrets to the cold-stilled floor.
There was no halting her now.
She could not bear it.
Each second she did not see her child—her August—gnawed at her ribs like wolves in winter. And behind her, matching her stride with quiet resolve, came Seraphim, his dark coat fluttering with the echo of restrained urgency. His worry was etched deeply into the corners of his mouth, a crease of dread rarely worn by the man known for unshakable calm.
"Giles," she called, her voice sharp yet trembling—cloaked in command, pierced through with fear.
A rustle answered her. From the far hall, the old butler appeared as if summoned from the shadows of the manor itself. His eyes widened the moment they fell upon her—a flicker of disbelief breaking through his usual restraint. Katherine Virelle, in Blackwood Manor again. And not alone.
"My lady…" he breathed, bowing low, though his voice nearly faltered.
Seraphim stood behind her, silent but ever-watchful. The weight of his worry lingered in the air like cologne left too long in a closed room.
And just then, from behind Giles, another figure emerged.
Lirael.
He bowed deeply, his golden robe trailing like a sunbeam caught in dusk's grasp. The glint of moonlight struck his long blond hair as it swayed softly across his shoulder. Those magenta eyes—always composed, always distant—burned now with a gentler light.
"My lady," he said, solemn as a priest invoking holy rites.
Katherine barely nodded in return, her throat constricted by a fear she could not speak aloud.
"How is my August?" she asked, her voice breaking like glass beneath velvet.
Giles lowered his head, shame and sorrow written in the tight lines of his mouth.
"He is still not awake, my lady."
The breath left her body in silence.
Without further word, she swept past them both, her movements swift but not careless, driven by something deeper than mere urgency—by the terror that lives only in the hearts of those who have already buried too many.
Her boots whispered against the hall rugs, echoing louder in her ears than thunder. Her fingers trembled at her sides as she ascended the familiar stairs, the bannisters like old bones beneath her touch. Each corner of the manor was heavy with the past—rooms where August once toddled barefoot in white linen, where his laughter had once woven itself between the curtain folds and chandelier light.
And now—
Now he lay somewhere behind those heavy chamber doors, his breath flickering like a dying flame in a storm.
Katherine's heart thudded—a slow, terrible rhythm that struck her ears like war drums. Her little angel. Her last light. So fragile, so breakable in a world that had already taken too much from him.
And she could not—would not—let it take more.
Not again.
Not while she still drew breath.
The hallway fell silent behind her.
Katherine stood before the chamber door, one gloved hand hovering inches from the wood, her breath catching in her throat like a prayer half-spoken. She did not need to knock. This was her child. Her blood. And yet, she paused. Not out of hesitation, but reverence. Reverence for the silence within—an unnatural hush that wrapped around her like mourning cloth.
She knew he would not be alone.
She knew someone would remain at his side, as faithfully as the moon to the tide.
And it could only be him.
Elias.
Had she not told him—implored him—that August must be protected, come hell or high water? Then why? Why had it come to this? What wicked force had slipped past Elias's guarded shadow and laid her child low?
The door creaked wide beneath her hand, groaning like a ship's mast straining against stormwinds. The room beyond glowed in amber gloom—dim candlelight licking the walls, throwing long shadows across the floor like mourners reaching for a body not yet cold.
And there he was.
Elias.
Seated by the bed, elbows resting on his thighs, his posture burdened and hollow. His dark head hung low, strands of ink-black hair clinging to his brow as though reluctant to leave him. He looked up as she entered, but there was no flicker of recognition. Only the vacant bewilderment of a soul unmoored.
Those green eyes—once sharp with youthful mischief, once alight with love beside August in sunlit fields—now held her with the gaze of a stranger.
And still, he did not rise.
For in his bones, he knew he had failed.
Her gaze slipped past him. To the bed.
To her angel.
August.
He lay amid pillows white as mourning lilies, his skin a shade too pale to be called living. A sheen of sweat glazed his temple, and his curls clung damp to his brow. His lips, near blue, parted only slightly with each shallow breath—each one sounding like a leaf crushed beneath snow.
He had been changed. Someone—Elias, no doubt—had placed him in an ivory lace nightgown, soft and light as old prayers. The high collar framed his delicate throat, where the faint flutter of his pulse still dared to beat.
Katherine's knees gave beneath her as she rushed to the bedside.
She sat upon the edge of the mattress, her fur coat falling open like a shroud, and reached one trembling hand toward his cheek. Her fingers met skin chilled and soft, far too soft. Like parchment, like ashes.
Her voice cracked like glass underfoot.
"Oh… oh, my poor thing."
She leaned forward, pressing her brow gently to his, Her lips moved in a whisper only the candlelight could hear.
"My dear, fragile thing. Aunt is here now. No one—no one shall dare lay hand or harm on you again while I yet draw breath."
But August gave no answer.
His body remained limp, his breath uneven. He did not stir.
Tears slipped from her lashes, one by one, tracing down her cheeks like pearls torn from a broken necklace.
Her voice, thick and trembling, filled the hush.
"First them… now you," she breathed, her words scarcely more than mist in the candle glow.
Her hand left August's cheek to clutch the lace at his collar. As if holding him closer might pull him from the clutches of whatever shadow he now drifted through.
She turned, then—slowly, like someone remembering they were not alone—and her gaze locked upon Elias.
He was half-risen, guilt carved into every line of his jaw, his broad shoulders tense with the desire to flee. But her voice stilled him.
"No. You will not leave."
He froze.
Katherine rose from the bed with aching grace and crossed to him, each step slow and silent as snowfall. When she stood before him, her tear-bright eyes searched his face.
"How?" she whispered.
He looked away.
"How did this happen?" she asked again, louder this time, her voice shaking with more than sorrow now—shaking with fury, with disbelief, with betrayal.
But Elias had no answer.
His silence was not indifference. It was torment.
His hands, those hands that had carried August down the corridors like something precious and breaking, now hung useless at his sides. His jaw clenched, his throat worked. Still, no words came.
Because he did not know.
He had not seen the shadow slip in. He had not heard the poison being poured. He had failed.
Katherine watched him a moment longer, then her expression shifted—not softening, but seeing. Seeing the war in him. The ache. The confusion. The guilt.
August had not stirred.
The candle's flame shivered.
Outside, the wind began to howl once more against the tall, aching windows of Blackwood Manor. And within, a mother in all but name stood watch at the bedside, the quiet sentinel of a boy too long hounded by fate.
And Elias remained—still and silent.
Still there.
High above the shivering chimneys and rain-slicked gables of Blackwood Manor, two shadows stood cloaked in night's embrace—figures carved from dusk itself, statues of sin draped in cloaks blacker than raven's wing, threaded in silver and gold like constellations stitched into malice.
Elysian stood still, his posture sinuous, serpentine with ease, the wind curling around his figure like a worshipper. His eyes—silver, sharp, and luminous—held no remorse, only the glitter of mischief veiled in moonlight. He leaned ever so slightly into the arm that circled his waist, where Killian Vesper held him—too close for war, too soft for cruelty. And yet, they had just conjured both.
"So," Killian murmured, his breath ghosting against the shell of Elysian's ear, "how did you poison him?"
Elysian's lips curved into a long, twisted smile. A smile that did not belong on anything living. "It was easy," he replied, his voice low, silk over razors. "I slipped in like a prayer no one heard. The kitchen—unguarded. I stirred the poison into his milk myself, not a soul glanced twice."
Killian exhaled, a sound half scoff, half laughter. His crimson eyes gleamed like garnets in fog. Boredom warred with fascination on his face—always serious, always too composed—but when Elysian stood in his orbit, something warmer flickered beneath his cold-blooded elegance.
Comfort. Dangerous, seductive comfort.
He pressed Elysian tighter, fingertips brushing the hilt of hidden daggers as if to remind the world—this softness was earned through blood.
Below them, Blackwood Manor dozed under the weight of pain.
And within its heart, August lay limp upon snow-colored sheets, breath shallow, lips pale, the poison threading through him like a lullaby of death.
Above, the assassins watched, and the stars watched them.
Unmoved. Unforgiving.
Unfolding fate.