The air inside Blackwood Manor, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the electric charge of violence, was suddenly pierced by a sound that did not belong.
It was a whistle.
Sharp, dissonant, and chillingly precise—a perfect, eerie mimicry of a crow's call, yet amplified to cut through the clash of steel like a physical blade.
Every member of the Eclipse Elite froze in perfect unison.
It was not a pause of hesitation, but of disciplined acknowledgment.
The signal.
In the corridor, Samuel, battered and breathless, heard the call.
He was cornered, his back against the peeling wallpaper, the Masked Man looming over him like an avenging deity. The Masked Man's fists were clenched, his aura radiating a terrifying, incinerating heat. He intended to tear Samuel apart, limb by limb, for the defilement of touching Lirael.
Samuel's lips curled into a smirk, blood staining his teeth.
"Well, duty calls," he drawled, his voice rasping.
Before the Masked Man could deliver the fatal blow, Samuel moved. He didn't just run; he evaporated into the shadows, a blur of obsidian motion that defied the eye.
He leapt backward, defying gravity, and vanished into the labyrinthine gloom of the upper hallways. He was injured, yes—ribs cracked, lip busted—but he was Elite. Pain was merely information, and the mission was over.
In the drawing room, Lady Katherine stood amidst the wreckage of her confrontation.
She was breathless, her chest heaving, her hairpin dripping with Elysian Nevan's blood. She was prepared to lunge again, to pin this intruder to the wall and demand answers.
Then, the whistle echoed.
Elysian, who had been cornered near the arch window, suddenly relaxed. The tension drained from his shoulders. The predatory focus in his eyes shifted to a cool, detached amusement.
"Our work is done," Elysian stated, his voice smooth, devoid of the strain of combat. "No need to pretend anymore."
Lady Katherine froze. The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
Pretend?
Her auburn eyes widened, the realization crashing down on her with the weight of a collapsing ceiling.
"You..." she breathed, the color draining from her face. "You were stalling."
Elysian offered a small, polite bow, a mockery of courtly manners. "Precisely."
In a blink, he was gone. He vaulted through the broken arch window with a grace that made him look weightless, disappearing into the garden's foliage.
Katherine didn't chase him. She didn't look at the window. A scream of pure, terrified realization tore from her throat, internal and silent, as she spun on her heels.
August.
She was here, fighting a diversion. And August was alone in the study with Elias.
She sprinted. She abandoned all decorum, her heels clicking like frantic gunshots against the marble floor as she tore out of the drawing room.
In the hallway, Everin was frantic, his eyes darting around the chaos. The Valemont soldiers, trained and loyal, instantly formed a phalanx around their young lord. Shields raised, swords drawn, they created a wall of steel.
"Protect Lord Everin!" the captain bellowed.
But there was nothing to fight. The shadows were empty. The Eclipse Elite had vanished like smoke in a gale, leaving only the dead and the silence behind them.
High above the chaos, on the slate roof of a neighboring estate that overlooked the Blackwood grounds, the wind whipped violently.
Samuel materialized from the shadows, landing in a crouch. He stood up, groaning theatrically, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the tiles.
Kelian was already there. He stood motionless, a statue of dark judgment, his arms crossed over his chest. His breathing was even, his clothes surprisingly clean despite the carnage he had just wrought.
He looked at Samuel with cold, reptilian eyes.
"Pathetic," Kelian muttered.
Samuel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression twisting into annoyance. "What did you say?"
"If you listened carefully," Kelian said, his voice a low, dangerous monotone, "maybe you wouldn't be this defeated."
Samuel rolled his eyes, pushing his messy, obsidian-black hair back from his forehead. "Huh. I got a good time. That masked guy... he has some serious issues."
Kelian ignored him. His gaze was scanning the perimeter, his brow furrowed. The cold mask of the assassin cracked, revealing a flicker of genuine anxiety.
"Where is Elysian?"
As if summoned, a figure emerged from the lower parapet. Elysian climbed up, but his movement was hitched, uneven. He was limping.
Kelian's heart, usually a cold engine of war, lurched violently in his chest.
He moved. It was not the movement of a killer, but of a desperate man. In a heartbeat, he was at Elysian's side, his hands hovering, afraid to cause more pain.
"Did... did you get hurt?" Kelian asked, his voice losing its steely edge, replaced by a raw, frantic worry.
Elysian leaned against a chimney stack, offering a tired, yet dazzling smile. "Yeah. But it's nothing."
Samuel watched from a few feet away, leaning on his own knees, catching his breath. He watched as Kelian, the Ruthless, the Second Rank, bent down with agonizing gentleness.
Kelian inspected Elysian's leg. The fabric of his trousers was torn, revealing a nasty, jagged gash where Lady Katherine's hairpin had struck deep. Blood welled sluggishly.
Kelian's hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from a sudden, volcanic rage.
"They dare..." Kelian hissed, the sound vibrating in his chest. "They dare to lay their hands on you?"
Elysian looked down at the top of Kelian's head. He saw the fury radiating off his captain, a protective heat that threatened to burn everything in its path. He needed to diffuse it.
"It's nothing serious, Captain," Elysian said softly, placing a hand on Kelian's shoulder. "It's just a mere cut."
Kelian stood up slowly, his eyes burning with a crimson fire. He turned his head, his gaze locking onto Samuel, who was watching the scene with a raised eyebrow.
Samuel, realizing he was interrupting a moment, quickly turned his head, pursing his lips and beginning to whistle an off-key tune, feigning total ignorance.
"What the hell are you staring for?" Kelian barked, the venom in his voice enough to wither a plant.
"I didn't see anything!" Samuel exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a surrender gesture. "Nothing at all!"
"Get the hell out of here," Kelian growled.
Samuel made a dismissive "Hmph" sound. Fighting with Kelian when he was in this mood was pointless—suicidal, even.
"Fine, fine. Don't have to tell me twice. You two lovebirds enjoy the view."
Kelian didn't even watch him go. His world had narrowed down to the man standing in front of him.
He turned back to Elysian, his expression softening instantly. The transformation was jarring—the monster replaced by a man. He reached out, his gloved fingers grazing Elysian's cheek.
There, too, was a cut. A thin, red line marring the perfection of Elysian's face.
Elysian leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second. "It will heal. It's just a small cut, Kelian."
"They will pay," Kelian vowed, a dark promise spoken to the wind.
Elysian opened his eyes, offering a reassuring look. "Did you finish the mission?"
Kelian nodded, his demeanor shifting back to professional efficiency, though his hand lingered near Elysian. "I finished them. The boy... August... he is dealt with."
Elysian raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Already? You are efficient as always."
"Our mission is done," Kelian confirmed. "Now, all we need to do is inform our Master."
Elysian let out a long breath, the adrenaline finally fading, leaving behind the throbbing ache in his leg. He swayed slightly.
"Captain," Elysian whispered, his voice laced with a rare vulnerability. "I... I can't walk straight."
Kelian's eyes widened. He looked at the leg, then back at Elysian's face. The request hung in the air, intimate and trusting.
A flush of color, a deep, unmistakable crimson, crept up Kelian's neck and settled on his cheeks. The stoic assassin coughed, clearing his throat awkwardly, trying to regain his composure.
"Of... of course," Kelian stammered, his voice losing all its menacing timbre. "Let me... let me carry you back."
Elysian smiled, a genuine, warm expression that lit up the gloomy rooftop.
Without another word, Kelian stepped in. He swept one arm under Elysian's knees and the other around his back, lifting him effortlessly into a bridal carry.
Elysian wrapped his arms around Kelian's neck, resting his head against the captain's chest.
For a moment, they were just two figures against the grey sky, bound by blood and a bond that went deeper than their creed.
Then, with the silent power of the Elite, Kelian stepped into the void. They vanished completely, leaving the Blackwood Manor and its tragedies far behind.
Back in the manor, the silence was deafening.
Giles, the loyal servant, burst into the hallway leading to the study. His chest was heaving, sweat pouring down his face. He had run past the confused soldiers, past the weeping maids, driven by a singular, terrifying instinct.
He reached the study door. It was ajar.
He pushed it open.
The smell hit him first—iron and death.
"Master August?" Giles whispered, his voice trembling.
He stepped inside.
The sight that greeted him stopped his heart.
The room was destroyed. Bookshelves shattered, furniture overturned.
And there, in the center of the carnage, lay Elias and August.
Elias was slumped on the floor, unconscious, his body a map of violence. And next to him...
Giles choked back a sob. August lay in a pool of his own blood, his beautiful ivory shirt soaked crimson. He was still. So terrifyingly still.
"NO!"
Giles's scream tore through the manor, a sound of pure, unadulterated grief.
Moments later, heavy boots thundered down the hall. The Valemont soldiers, led by their captain and followed by a terrified Everin, crowded the doorway.
They stopped.
Everin pushed through soldiers. He saw the room. He saw his cousin. He saw the blood.
"August?" Everin shout.
The soldiers lowered their weapons, removing their helmets in a slow, respectful wave of realization. The silence that followed was heavier than any battle cry.
The Eclipse Elite had struck. And they had left nothing but ruin.
Or so it seemed.
Because in the growing cold of the body, a single finger on August's hand lay curled, a testament to a will that death itself had yet to conquer.
The spell of silence shattered.
Everin, usually the picture of Valemont composure, broke into a sprint. The distance to the center of the room felt like miles, a nightmare corridor that stretched endlessly.
He collapsed to his knees, sliding through the slick, crimson pool. He didn't care about the ruin of his clothes. He gathered his cousin into his arms, pulling the limp, heavy weight against his chest.
His voice cracked, a raw sound of unadulterated panic. He shook the boy gently, his blue eyes swimming in a deluge of tears, blurring the horrific reality before him.
"Please... Look at me!"
Giles, pale as a sheet, moved with the frantic, jerky motions of a man in shock. He scrambled toward Elias, his knees scraping the floor. Trembling fingers pressed against the knight's neck, searching, praying.
A beat. Another.
Thump... thump.
Faint. Threadbare. But there.
"He is alive," Giles whispered, the air rushing back into his lungs.
But then, his gaze turned. He looked at the Young Lord in Everin's arms. He saw the devastation of the stomach wound, the catastrophic loss of blood. His hope died in his throat.
"Is... is he..." Giles couldn't finish the sentence. The horror was too absolute.
Everin didn't hear him. He was trapped in a loop of denial, rocking back and forth, shouting August's name into the void.
Then, the doorway darkened.
Lady Katherine arrived.
She didn't walk; she stormed, a force of nature fueled by terror. She shoved the armored soldiers aside with a strength born of hysteria, her usual grace abandoned.
"What happened?!" she demanded, her voice high and brittle.
Her heart was a frantic percussion against her ribs, a drumbeat of dread. She stepped past the wreckage of the bookshelf.
Then, she stopped.
Her world tilted on its axis.
She saw him. Her little August. Her pride. Her boy. He was not merely injured; he was bathed in blood, a broken doll in Everin's trembling embrace.
The blood in her veins turned to ice. A glacial dread seized her limbs, stealing her breath.
She staggered, her legs giving way. She fell, not with elegance, but with the heavy, crushing weight of a mother's grief, landing hard beside them.
"Au... August?"
Her voice was a stammering whisper, a ghost of her command. Her hands hovered over him, afraid to touch, afraid to confirm the coldness she sensed.
"My boy... what happened?"
She reached out, cupping his face. It was ashen, the vibrancy drained away. Smears of red stained his pale skin.
"My dear August... open your eyes, dear. Please."
Her gaze traveled down. She saw the source. The ivory lace of his shirt was destroyed, shredded by the raw violence of the blade. The wound was massive, a gaping maw of mortality.
Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. The horror of it—the brutality—was beyond comprehension. This wasn't a duel; it was a butchery.