The ropes bit into August's wrists every time he shifted. He had been struggling for so long that the fibers felt like a second pair of bones—tight, unyielding, irritating his pride more than his skin.
He wanted to stand.
He wanted to breathe.
He wanted to show Elias that he was not so fragile that he needed to be bound like a stolen parcel shoved under a desk.
But Elias had tied him deliberately, efficiently, with a smirk August could still hear even with the gag in his mouth.
Outside, the early noon murmured with new footsteps.
Three silhouettes gathered beneath the manor's veranda as the early–noon sun blazed overhead. Their obsidian cloaks shifted in the warm breeze, silver and gold embroidery gleaming like molten serpents coiling along dark fabric. Daylight carved sharp, unwavering shadows beneath their feet—an unsettling contrast, as if such figures belonged to moonlight yet dared to stand boldly under the sun.
Kellian Vesper exhaled sharply, irritation already twisting his features.
Elysian Nevan stood to his right, whip coiled at his hip like sleeping lightning.
And Samuel—youngest, most reckless—was spinning his double-edged blade with gleeful arrogance.
Kellian glared at him.
"If anything goes wrong this time," he snapped, "I swear I'll strip you of your title."
Samuel smirked. "Oh? Really?"
His blade's twin ends gleamed as they rotated—two knife points connected by a slender spine, forged to spin like a deadly compass. "This time, I won't show any mercy to anyone."
"Tch." Kellian's jaw clenched.
Elysian sighed. "Both of you—focus. We're not here to measure who's stronger or who has the larger ego.
Samuel opened his mouth to bite back—but then vanished.
Not stepped, not moved—vanished, the air folding behind him like a curtain.
"You reckless bastard!" Kellian barked, eyes flashing.
Elysian placed a calm hand on Kellian's shoulder.
"It's all right. It's time."
Kellian jerked his gaze away, a faint color rising on his cheekbones.
"You too. Take care of yourself," he muttered, too low for pride.
Elysian smiled—then disappeared as smoothly as Samuel.
Kellian exhaled, rolled his shoulders, drew his blade…
…and stepped into the manor.
INSIDE THE MANOR
Lady Katherine was in the west chamber, calmly reading with her legs crossed and her posture immaculate.
Her angel—August—was recovering.
Her worries had settled.
And Everin, poor emotional Everin, was still at her feet with tears dripping down his cheeks as if they were diamonds he was being forced to produce.
She sighed. "Everin, darling, you mustn't cry like a child."
He cried harder.
"Everin." She reached forward and tugged his ear gently. "Stop before you dehydrate."
"You all mock me…" he sniffed.
"You came here without telling your parents where you were going."
He pouted. "I don't want to go back."
"But your parents—"
"They'll eventually know where I am," he muttered, rolling his eyes.
He didn't finish his sentence.
A faint shadow slid across the chamber wall—soundless, amorphous, cold as a serpent gliding on marble.
Lady Katherine's head lifted slowly.
She stood in one fluid motion and pushed Everin behind her, one hand subtly reaching into her bun. The gold hairpin she pulled free glinted—beautiful, elegant—
—and secretly forged into a razor-sharp hell blade.
"Who is there?" she barked.
Everin blinked. He had no time to even understand.
A blade shot toward her head—silent, lethal.
Katherine twisted, caught the attacker's wrist mid-air, and flung the blade aside with a metallic shriek.
"Too weak," she hissed.
Everin's jaw dropped.
"A-Aunt… what was that?!"
She placed a hand over his mouth.
"Quiet."
He stiffened instantly.
Her eyes sharpened. "I said—who is there?"
A figure stepped forward, emerging from the shadows with deliberate calm.
Elysian Nevan.
"Well," he said with mild amusement, "I didn't expect a woman move elegantly yet strongly."
Katherine's grip tightened—on her blade and on Everin.
Her gaze dragged over the cloak—black as obsidian, shimmering with silver and gold embroidery.
Recognition struck her like a blow.
"You…" Her voice lowered, deadly. "You're one of them."
Elysian lunged. "You know the Eclipse Elite member too well."
Katherine's memory flashed—her brother, her sister-in-law, drowned in blood, The fury that never died erupted like a storm.
"Everin—down."
He ducked instantly.
Katherine sprinted forward in red heels that clicked like fire against the floor, then she leapt, and appeared behind Elysian with effortless agility.
Elysian's brows rose.
He dodged the first strike.
And the second.
And the third.
Everin trembled—but he wasn't scared. He was enthralled.
"Aunt—you can't fight him alone!"
"Everin." Her tone cracked like ice. "Do not step between us."
He froze.
Katherine's teeth clenched. She had waited years for this.
The Eclipse Elite had shattered her family once.
They would not take anything else from her.
Not August.
Not Everin.
Not Elias.
No one ever again.
She lunged again.
BACK IN THE STUDY
Blood dripped from Elias's palm, trailing to the wooden floor in a thin crimson thread.
The weak Eclipse Elite member he fought had managed to cut him—but Elias struck back harder.
The assassin staggered, clutching his ribs
—and vanished before Elias could reach him again.
"Damn it…" Elias ground out, breath shaking with pain.
He went straight to the desk.
Underneath, August was writhing like an infuriated cat in a sack.
Elias crouched, sighed, and began untying him.
August's eyes blazed the moment the gag came off.
"You—bastard! What if they'd done something to y__!"
He stopped, as he avert his gaze.
"He wasn't strong enough," Elias said curtly.
"But—!"
Elias didn't finish.
The arch Window blew open.
Kellian entered with a slow stride, blade glinting like a razor dipped in moonlight.
His crimson eyes locked onto Elias.
"Still dazed, hmm?" Kellian's voice curled with mocking warmth. "It's been days."
August's breath froze.
Kellian's cloak—black, heavy, embroidered in silver and gold—
He didn't move.
His throat went dry.
Kellian tilted his head with a grin.
"Hello, Elias."
Elias turned, saw the obsidian-haired man with cruel red eyes.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
Kellian laughed. "Still unaware of your own life. Pathetic."
August tried stepping in front of Elias—only for Elias to gently push him back.
"You can't fight him!" August whispered harshly. "He's dangerous—he's too strong—!"
Elias's mouth twitched. "What do you mean? He's literally weaker."
Kellian lunged.
Elias didn't even think—he grabbed August by the waist and flung him behind a chair like he weighed nothing.
Steel clashed with a shriek, sparks lighting the dim study as Elias caught Kellian's strike mid-air.
Kellian's smile widened.
"You forgot your memories… but not your instincts."
Their blades collided again.
And again—
Movements sharp, fluid, almost inhuman.
Steel clashed, sparks flickering. Elias leaned in with a crooked grin.
"That blade of yours—does it do anything besides wobble?"
He parried with a graceful twist.
"Watch closely. This is how a real weapon moves."
Kellian's jaw clenched so hard it trembled.
Kellian snarled, offended. "You dare to mock me?"
August, once again discarded, pushed himself up—jaw set, eyes cold.
This time…
He would fight too.
Meanwhile the hallway trembled with echoes of collapsing bodies.
One by one, Eclipse Elite guards dropped at the masked man's feet—felled by nothing more than the flick of his wrist or the silent sweep of his blade. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just ruthless precision carving a path straight through the manor.
Lirael stood behind him, breath caught somewhere between awe and dread.
He had known the masked man was strong.
He just hadn't expected this—a phantom in a grey cloak, moving as if gravity owed him favors.
A final guard collapsed. Dust drifted.
Then Samuel stepped through the tall arched window.
He landed gracefully on the marble, twin blades glinting—one in hand, one sheathed at his hip. The morning light turned his obsidian cloak into molten shadow.
Lirael blinked, heart hammering.
The masked man's head tilted, sensing something sharp slicing through the air.
A throwing blade—aimed straight for Lirael.
Before Lirael could gasp, the masked man blurred forward. His shoulder slammed into Lirael's chest, spinning him out of harm's way. Steel rang against flesh.
The masked man didn't flinch.
"Y-you… got hurt," Lirael whispered, eyes wide.
"It's nothing," the masked man replied, voice cool as midnight steel.
Samuel clicked his tongue. "Now now… we will fight. Since I'm finally allowed to face you."
Allowed.
As if this duel had been reserved.
The masked man stepped in front of Lirael again, grey cloak fanning out like a shield. He tilted his head, as though growing bored already.
"You all make it very easy," he said quietly. "I've lost the count of how many I've put down."
Humiliation flashed across Samuel's face. His jaw knotted.
He lunged.
The masked man welcomed him with a smirk hidden beneath the mask. Steel clashed—one blade against two—but the masked man fought with a single hand, movements fluid and economical. His pierced shoulder didn't slow him; in fact, he barely acknowledged it.
Samuel struck again. And again.
Nothing landed.
The masked man sidestepped, parried, and angled his blade with insulting ease.
A shallow chuckle escaped him. "Is that truly all you've got?"
Samuel's nostrils flared. Shame burned his ears.
He grabbed his second blade—a longer one—and its edge shimmered beneath the noon light. He lunged in a burst of speed.
Now the hallway filled with smoke and dust.
Their blades carved streaks of silver through the dimness.
Still, the masked man remained unbothered. Unmoved.
"How many more of you are there?" he asked, voice flat.
"None of your business!" Samuel spat, hurling himself forward again.
But in the next breath, Samuel was thrown backward—slammed into the wall by a single, brutal kick.
The masked man advanced.
He looked like a sentinel forged from shadow and will, blade raised not in fury but cold, inevitable judgment.
"I don't think you're anywhere near my level."
He drew back his sword to end it—
Samuel vanished.
The masked man turned sharply.
For the first time, something cracked in his composure.
Lirael stiffened, breath shaking. A thin line of red gathered at his throat, but he didn't cry out. He didn't pull away.
He simply looked at the masked man, eyes wide but steady.
The masked man's heart stopped. Then it hammered.
"You dare," he growled, voice low and trembling with a fury he never allowed himself, "lay a finger on him—"
"Don't… mind me," Lirael whispered, voice trembling but courageous.
Samuel leaned his head against Lirael's shoulder, pressing the blade deeper just to prove he could. "I like lovers who ruin each other's lives. It's so… poetic."
The masked man's emerald eyes blazed from behind the mask. Pure, unfiltered rage. His grip tightened around his blade until his knuckles whitened.
He took a single step forward—
Then froze.
Because Samuel's blade pressed harder, drawing a darker line of blood.
For the first time in the entire battle, fear—not for himself, but for Lirael—rooted him in place.
He stepped back, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth might shatter.
A storm gathered behind his mask.
A vow.
A warning.
"Touch him again," he whispered, each word sharp enough to cut stone, "and I'll end your entire bloodline."
Samuel smirked.
Samuel pressed his forehead harder against Lirael's shoulder, his breath a cold whisper slithering down Lirael's spine.
"I like destroying beautiful ones," he whispered, voice low and venom-sweet. "Just to see how far their lovers fall."
Before Lirael could twist away, Samuel's lips brushed the side of his throat—slow, deliberate. Not affection. A humiliation dressed as intimacy.
Lirael jerked, breath catching. He could endure the pain, but this—this violation—sent a tremor through him.
The masked man froze.
His eyes widened beneath the steel of his mask, emerald irises blazing like cracked glass catching fire.
"You dare—"
He surged forward, but Samuel sank his teeth cruelly into Lirael's neck. A violent warning.
Lirael flinched, a small sound breaking from him. Blood trickled down his collarbone.
The masked man's boots screeched against the stone as he stopped short. His entire arm trembled—not from injury, but from pure, volcanic fury.
Samuel's tongue slid over the blood, a wicked smile curling.
"You soldier… you should know better not to mock our speed."
A low growl rumbled from behind the mask. "I know plenty. But whatever you are—" His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "—it doesn't count."
Samuel laughed, head thrown back, mocking and triumphant.
"Oh, dear. Look at him," he purred, dragging the flat of his blade across Lirael's throat. "How Pathetic he is for you."
He gripped Lirael's chin, forcing his face upward as if presenting a prize.
The masked man's stance stiffened. Something dangerous flickered through him—something that never surfaced, not even in battle.
Lirael's jaw locked, eyes flaring with humiliation he refused to show.
Samuel smirked, leaning in, drinking in the masked man's helpless rage with shameless delight.
"You see? He breaks beautifully."
Lirael clenched his jaw, refusing to look at Samuel, refusing to give him anything.
The masked man took one step forward. Then another.
"Let. Him. Go."
Samuel only tilted Lirael's chin higher, pressing closer, lips brushing dangerously near the fresh wound.
"You really hate that I touch what's yours, don't you?"
That did it.
The masked man moved—
not with anger, but with certainty, with the kind of speed that cracked the air itself.
Because Samuel, in his arrogance, had become far too entertained…
far too busy flirting with what was never his to claim.