The hallway was a tunnel of suffocating shadows. The Masked Man stood there, his pulse thundering against his ribs as he held Lirael. His embrace was desperate, a silent plea against the fragility of life. He had almost lost him to Samuel's filth, and the terror of that near-miss left him trembling beneath his armor.
Lirael, however, was the first to break. He gently disentangled himself, his fingers brushing against the raw, red mark on his own throat where the assassin had gripped him. He looked up at the masked visor, his luminous magenta eyes searching.
"I am fine," Lirael whispered, though his voice was brittle. He averted his gaze, sensing the Masked Man's suffocating worry. "You... you should check on the others. We are not the only ones who bled."
The Masked Man exhaled a jagged breath, the metal of his gorget rattling. He knew the truth of those words. With a stiff nod, he stepped back. "I must. Stay close."
They moved toward the study, but the hallway was already a scene of frantic, disorganized grief.
Everin emerged from the study first. His face was a mask of salt and gore, his eyes hollowed out by shock.
In his arms, he carried August. The boy looked smaller than he ever had, his head lolling against Everin's shoulder, his ivory shirt now a heavy, sodden weight of crimson.
Lirael gasped, slamming his palm against his mouth to stifle a cry. He had seen death before, but the sight of August—the vibrant, defiant soul of the manor—reduced to a pale ghost, was an arrow to his heart.
He moved to step forward, to offer some comfort or aid, but the Masked Man's hand shot out, iron-strong, catching Lirael by the elbow.
"Don't," the Masked Man rumbled.
Everin didn't even look at them. His gaze was fixed on the stairs, on the chambers above. "Step aside," he commanded, his voice dead and cold.
The Masked Man obeyed, pulling Lirael into the shadows of the wall. He watched the young Lord Valemont carry his cousin away, a funeral procession for a boy who was still technically breathing.
But as the hallway cleared, the Masked Man's attention shifted to the study. Lady Katherine was there, her silver hair disheveled, her voice barking orders at the soldiers.
"Lift him carefully!"
The soldiers moved with heads bowed, their armor clanking in a rhythm of shame. They were lifting Elias onto a chaise lounge.
The Masked Man froze. His jaw dropped behind his mask. He had expected August to be the primary casualty—he had not anticipated Elias collapse. If Elias was down, the world was truly ending.
Lirael followed him into the room, his breath hitching. He knew Elias's strength; if the knight was unconscious, it meant he had fought until his very soul was spent.
"Forgive me, my boy," Katherine was whispering, her hand stroking Elias's sweat-soaked cheek. "I won't let anything happen. I promise."
The manor physician arrived, breathless and clutching his satchel. He knelt beside the chaise, his face darkening as he saw the black veins spidering from Elias's wound.
"He is poisoned," the physician muttered. "If he is not treated this instant, it will take its toll."
"Whatever you do," a voice boomed, cutting through the physician's panic. "It will not heal him."
The Masked Man marched into the center of the room, his aura radiating a terrifying, absolute authority. Lady Katherine stood up abruptly, her eyes narrowing in a mix of suspicion and hope.
"You? Why are you here?" she demanded.
The Masked Man offered a perfunctory, rigid bow. "My Master sent me to intercept the Elite. I am too late for the battle, but not for the aftermath."
His eyes never left Elias. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists. He strode forward and, with a brutal lack of ceremony, shoved the physician back.
"What are you doing?!" the physician barked.
"Saving his life," the Masked Man hissed. "Go outside. Your tinctures are water against this toxin. I know what is required."
Katherine stepped between them, her brow knitting. "He is my august knight. I need to make sure he—"
"We do not have time, your ladyship!" the Masked Man shouted, his voice cracking with a hidden, fraternal desperation. "Every second you argue, the venom nears his heart.
"Out! All of you!"
The room went still. Katherine searched those emerald eyes—eyes that felt like a haunting mirror of the man on the chaise.
"I believe you," she whispered, her intuition overriding her caution. "Everyone, follow me. Now!"
The doors clicked shut. The silence that followed was heavy with the scent of copper and the ticking of a clock that was running out of seconds.
The Masked Man turned to Lirael, his hands trembling. He grabbed Lirael's wrists, his grip tight—not out of malice, but out of a terrifying necessity.
"Lirael," he rasped. "I need you to shed tears."
Lirael blinked, his magenta eyes wide. He understood. His immortality was a radiant curse, his beauty a trap, but his sorrow... his sorrow was the only medicine powerful enough to purge an everything.
"Hurry," the Masked Man urged. "We cannot waste more time."
Lirael nodded, closing his eyes. To weep for others was hard, but to weep for himself was easy. He allowed his mind to drift back, back to the marble floors and the cold, hollow nights of his previous life.
He remembered the laundry tubs. The steam, the lye, the way his hands were raw from scrubbing the fine silks of a master who viewed him as less than a hound.
He had tried to hide his beauty. He had tried to be invisible. But his immortality made him radiant; it made him a beacon for the hungry and the hollow
His master, a man of ten wives and a thousand cruelties, had appeared behind him. A heavy hand caught Lirael's wrist, stopping the chores.
"Master, please..." Lirael had whispered, turning his head away.
"Nah-uh-uh," the man mocked. He caught Lirael's chin, forcing him to look up. "I've been waiting all morning for this."
The man's tongue swiped over his lips, a serpent's gesture. "Take it off."
"But Master—"
CRACK.
The slap sent Lirael's head snapping to the side. His cheek burned, but his heart felt colder.
"Do you have my permission to speak?" the master growled.
Lirael shook his head, his eyes becoming hollow. He had believed in humans once. He had believed that love was a test. But this was not a test; it was a desecration.
He slowly began to undo his servant's tunic. His pride was a thin veil, and it was falling. His long, blonde hair, usually tied back, spilled over his shoulders like a golden curtain, fanning across his bare back and chest as he stood exposed on the cold marble.
"Truly," the master breathed, his face flushing pink with lust. "I have ten wives, and none are as beautiful as you."
Lirael clutched his own elbows, trying to shrink, trying to disappear. The master moved forward, grabbing the back of Lirael's neck to expose the pale, pulsing line of his throat.
"Please don't," Lirael whimpered as the man's hot breath hit his skin.
"You are defying me?" The master's voice turned sharp. He shoved Lirael down.
The marble was freezing. It bit into Lirael's skin as the man pinned his wrists above his head. He looked up at the ceiling, at the ornate carvings of a house that held no mercy.
He endured. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, knowing that the only thing he truly owned was the sorrow that was now welling up in his chest.
The air in the study thickened, vibrating with a low, celestial hum. Lirael's entire body convulsed, a violent tremor racking his slender frame as the weight of his memories transmuted into something physical.
His eyes stung with a searing, holy heat.
Then, the first drop fell.
It was not clear salt water; it was a ribbon of molten gold, shimmering with an ethereal luminescence.
Before the tear could even reach the silver floor, the Masked Man moved with the speed of a striking viper. He caught the liquid light on the pad of his thumb, his gloved hand steady despite the storm raging in his chest.
Without a word, he pried Elias's jaw open and pressed the golden moisture onto his tongue.
The effect was instantaneous. The black, necrotic veins of the poison recoiled as if burned by a branding iron, retreating from Elias's heart and vanishing into the skin. The jagged, ugly gashes on the knight's torso began to knit together, the flesh weaving itself back into wholeness.
The Masked Man let out a long, ragged exhale of relief. and whispered into the silence: "Nothing will happen to you.
Lirael stood there, gasping for air, his face flushed with the ghost of his past. The golden tracks on his cheeks were a testament to a pain that spanned centuries. He stood up abruptly, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
"What about August?" Lirael asked, his voice a raw, hollowed-out sound.
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned toward the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. The Masked Man rose to follow him, his emerald eyes lingering on Lirael's retreating back. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of sorrow for the blonde youth.
He knew what it took to produce those tears; he knew the dark, cobwebbed corners of the soul Lirael had to visit to find that golden grief.
The moment they stepped into the hallway, Lady Katherine intercepted them. Her face was a landscape of maternal agony.
"How is he? Speak!" she demanded.
Lirael averted his eyes, unable to meet her gaze while his own were still damp with the nectar of his curse. "He will be fine by tomorrow," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
He walked past her, a ghost in the corridor. The Masked Man followed, his heavy boots echoing the frantic rhythm of the manor's pulse.
"Where is August's chamber?" the Masked Man rumbled.
Lirael merely nodded, a silent command to follow. The Masked Man watched the way Lirael moved—defensive, hunched, as if trying to shield a body that had already been broken a thousand times over.
He realized then that without this man, neither August nor Elias would survive.
Inside August's chamber, the atmosphere was one of chaotic despair. The air smelled of vinegar, stale sweat, and the iron scent of a life leaking away.
The physician stood over the bed, his hands shaking as he stared at the brutal, gaping wound in August's chest. The boy had lost so much blood that the sheets beneath him were no longer white, but a heavy, sodden maroon.
Everin stood at the foot of the bed, his face buried in his hands. He was sobbing like a child, his shoulders shaking with the realization that all the Valemont gold and steel could not buy back his cousin's life.
The door slammed open.
"Everyone outside," the Masked Man commanded. "We know what to do."
The maids gasped, dropping their basins, and the physician bristled, his ego clashing with the intruder's authority. But the Masked Man didn't argue; he moved with a terrifying, singular purpose, physically shoving the staff out the door.
Lirael stood by the chaise, his eyes still shimmering with those dangerous, golden tears. Every time the memory of the cold marble floor and the Master's touch flickered in his mind, his heart lurched, and a fresh drop welled in his eyes.
"I... I won't go!" Everin cried, clutching the bedpost. "I won't abandon my cousin!"
Lirael stepped forward, placing a gentle, trembling hand on Everin's back. "Young Master, believe us. If we do not take action now, something far more dangerous than death will take him. Please."
The Masked Man turned his visor toward Everin, his voice a low, threatening growl.
"Go. Now."
Everin flinched, the sheer power of the man's aura breaking his resolve. "I... I won't wait long," he stammered, before stumbling out into the hall.
The door clicked shut, sealing them in the room with the dying boy.
"Now, Lirael," the Masked Man said, his voice softening into something almost reverent.
He stepped toward Lirael and reached out, his finger grazing the corner of the Lirael eye. Lirael flinched, a sharp, involuntary recoil that spoke of years of unwanted touch. His eyes grew wetter, the gold spilling over his lashes.
The Masked Man sensed it—the sudden, sharp spike in Lirael's defensive energy—but there was no time for questions. He turned to August.
He pressed his finger, coated in Lirael's golden sorrow, into August's mouth.
The reaction was like a lightning strike. August's body arched off the bed, a violent spasm racking his frame as the celestial energy flooded his system.
The deep, mortal wound in his gut began to hiss and steam, the tissue regenerating at an impossible speed. The color returned to his lips, shifting from a deathly blue to a faint, living pink.
"Finally," the Masked Man whispered, leaning back.
Lirael took a staggering step away, collapsing into a chaise longue. He tried to wipe his eyes, his movements frantic and ashamed.
"Thank God," Lirael echoed, his voice breaking.
But as he tried to hide his face, a gloved hand caught his wrist. Lirael flinched again, his breath hitching in a terrified stutter.
"What... what are you..."
The Masked Man didn't let go. He used his other hand to catch the last of the golden moisture from Lirael's lashes. Then, with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his iron-clad exterior, he dragged his finger down the side of Lirael's neck.
He touched the purple, angry bruise where Samuel had gripped him.
The skin beneath his finger smoothed instantly, the mark of the assault vanishing as if it had never been.
Lirael's gaze dropped. He felt a wave of crushing shame wash over him.
He pulled his hand back, his posture becoming stiff and defensive once more. The Masked Man watched him, his emerald eyes narrowed behind the visor.
He could sense the shift. Lirael wasn't just tired; he was retreating into a fortress of his own making. The man who was an immortal beacon of light was suddenly shrouded in a very human, very dark shadow.
The Masked Man knew then that while the wounds of the flesh were healed, the wounds of the memory were still bleeding.