Outside the heavy mahogany doors of August's chamber, the air was stagnant, heavy with the suffocating scent of iron and the muffled sounds of a house in mourning.
Lady Katherine stood like a marble statue, her spine rigid, her tangerine eyes glazed with a terror she refused to voice. She was the last Everhart, And the iron pillar of the line, yet she could not find the strength to turn the handle. It wasn't weakness—it was the visceral knowledge that if she stepped inside and saw the nightmare of her nephew's broken body, the last thread of her sanity would snap.
Beside her, Everin had collapsed against the wall. At twenty-four, he was a man grown, but in this moment, he was a child lost in a storm. He wept with a raw, unbridled agony, his face buried in his hands.
"I wasn't there," Everin sobbed, his voice cracking. "August... he was bleeding, and I was just... I was just a spectator to the carnage. I couldn't save him."
His butler, a man of infinite patience and quiet loyalty, moved to stand behind him. He placed a steadying hand on Everin's back, his voice a low, rhythmic murmur.
"Calm yourself, Young Master. The tide has turned. You are here now, and that is what matters. Breathe, Lord Everin. Just breathe."
Katherine heard him, but she didn't turn. Her gaze remained fixed on the door. Every knock she attempted felt like a hammer blow against her own heart. She was a mother standing at the precipice of a nightmare, praying for a dawn that felt miles away.
Within the chamber, the chaos of the world had been locked out. The light was dim, filtered through heavy velvet curtains, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor.
Lirael sat on the edge of a chaise, his hands trembling in his lap. He looked up as the Masked Man approached. Even through his own haze of trauma, Lirael noticed the jagged tear in the man's dark grey cloak—the sign of a wound that had not yet been tended.
"Your shoulder," Lirael whispered, leaning forward instinctively. "It is still injured. Please, let me help you. My tears... they can—"
The Masked Man moved with a sudden, fluid grace, catching Lirael's hand mid-air. His grip was firm but lacked the bruising violence of the assassins from earlier. He looked down at Lirael, his emerald eyes burning with an intensity that made the immortal's breath hitch.
"What did you remember, Lirael?" the Masked Man asked.
Lirael's magenta eyes widened, the light in them flickering like a dying candle. He looked away, his jaw tightening as he retreated into the fortress of his mind. He said nothing, but the way his pulse thrummed against the Masked Man's thumb told the story of a haunting.
The Masked Man sighed, a sound of heavy, metallic weariness. He lowered Lirael's hand, but he did not move away. Instead, he reached out with his other hand. Very slowly—reverently, as if touching a holy relic—he tucked his first finger under Lirael's chin.
Lirael went stiff. The touch was too gentle, too deliberate.
"Did you remember something about Martin?" the Masked Man murmured.
The name hit Lirael like a physical blow. He gasped, his head snapping back as he tried to shake the memory away. The name was a key to a door he had kept bolted for centuries.
The Masked Man didn't pull away. Instead, he allowed his fingers to trail upward, his thumb rubbing Lirael's cheek in a slow, romantic arc. It was a gesture of such profound devotion that it felt out of place in a room so recently touched by death.
Lirael's cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson. He tried to avert his gaze, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"It's painful, isn't it?" the Masked Man spoke, his voice dropping to a low, soothing baritone.
"The weight of all those years. The people who saw only the shell and never the soul."
He didn't wait for an answer. He moved forward, pulling Lirael into an embrace that was less a hug and more a sanctuary.
It was a promise of safety—the kind of "green flag" devotion Lirael had forgotten existed in the hearts of men.
Lirael's head pressed slowly against the cold, hard metal of the Masked Man's chest-plate. For a moment, he fought it. Then, he felt the man's hand begin a slow, rhythmic rub against his back, grounding him in the present.
The dam broke. Lirael began to tremble. He had been holding back the deluge for too long.
Golden tears—liquid luminescence—began to carve paths down Lirael's cheeks. They were heavy and warm, glowing with a faint, celestial light as they soaked into the dark fabric of the Masked Man's cloak.
"You don't need to fight anything alone," the Masked Man whispered into Lirael's golden hair. "You are not alone anymore."
Lirael buried his head deeper into the man's shoulder. He felt the golden tears pressing into the fabric, and beneath that fabric, he felt the Masked Man's shoulder wound begin to knit together, the pain vanishing under the touch of the immortal's grief.
The Masked Man stiffened as the healing took hold, his emerald eyes widening behind the visor. A small, bittersweet smile touched his lips, unseen by the world.
"I am sorry," he murmured.
Lirael pulled back slightly, his face a beautiful, tragic mess of gold and pink.
"Sorry? For what?"
"You shouldn't have to cry," the Masked Man said, his voice laced with regret. "Your tears are unique. They shouldn't be spent on the likes of me."
He broke the embrace slowly, keeping his gaze locked on Lirael's face. He leaned in, and for a second, Lirael flinched, the old ghosts of the "Master" screaming in his mind.
The Masked Man stopped instantly. He waited, letting Lirael see that he was not a predator. Then, he reached out and pressed his thumb over the golden streaks on Lirael's skin, wiping them away.
He brought his thumb to his mouth. Lirael watched, breathless, expecting the man to lick the magic away. Instead, the Masked Man pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the thumb that held Lirael's sorrow.
Lirael's head snapped away in a flurry of shame and heat. His heart was no longer hammering; it was soaring.
"I must go now," the Masked Man said, his tone shifting back to the professional chill of a warrior. "My Master is waiting."
Lirael heard the heavy click of boots on the floor. He looked up suddenly, desperation clawing at his throat. The Masked Man stood in the center of the room, the morning light catching the long, dark grey sweep of his cloak. The metal of his mask glinted, and his emerald eyes sparked with a new, healthy fire. He was whole again.
The Masked Man stepped closer one last time. He leaned down and, with a touch as light as a summer breeze, tucked a fresh, white jasmine flower into Lirael's golden-blonde hair.
Then, with a swiftness that defied the eye, he vanished. A shadow technique so perfect it left only a faint ripple in the air.
Lirael sat in the ensuing silence, his fingers trembling as they reached up to touch the petals in his hair. He walked to the vanity mirror, his eyes widening at the reflection.
There was the jasmine—untouched, fragrant, and pure.
"All this time," Lirael whispered to the empty room, his face burning with a fresh blush. "He had this flower... and he managed to keep it whole even while fighting."
He looked at the window where the shadow had disappeared. The moment felt like a fever dream, a piece of high fantasy dropped into the middle of a slaughterhouse. He pressed his fingers against the flower, breathing in its scent.
"Does... does he like me?" Lirael asked his reflection. "Or did he, too, want my other self?"
By "other self," Lirael meant the radiant idol the world saw. The immortal with the magenta eyes and the long, shimmering blonde hair who wore golden robes to mimic a purity he felt he had lost.
The version of him that looked like a god, even though his heart was a map of scars and marks left by a thousand selfish hands.
He looked back at the bed where August lay, breathing steadily now. Lirael realized that for the first time in a century, someone had looked at his tears and seen a person, not a potion.
Outside, the first tentative knock from Lady Katherine finally sounded. The world was coming back, but inside Lirael's heart, the shadow of a jasmine flower had already taken root.
Meanwhile, The air in Elarith Vale did not drift; it loomed. Deep within the subterranean sanctum of the Eclipse Elite, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of aged parchment, cold stone, and the metallic tang of hidden daggers.
At the end of a vast, shadow-drenched hall sat the Master.
He was perched upon a throne of jagged obsidian, his form draped in a grand, sweeping cloak that seemed to swallow the flickering torchlight. His face remained a mystery, lost within the cowl of his hood, leaving only the predatory stillness of a man who moved the world from the dark.
Kelian, the Second Rank, stood before the dais. He dropped to one knee, the movement crisp and rhythmic. For the first time in weeks, the icy tension in his shoulders had melted into a simmer of pure, unadulterated triumph.
"Speak, Kelian," the Master's voice resonated, a low, gravelly vibration that felt like grinding stones. "Did you stop the boy from spilling the truth?
Kelian's lips curled into a rare, sharp smirk. He kept his head bowed, the posture of a loyal hound delivering a prized kill.
"You wouldn't believe the harvest, Master," Kelian began, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction.
"I did not merely silence the boy. I gutted the heart of their defense. August is dead—and with him, the knight Elias has fallen as well."
A profound silence stretched through the hall, broken only by the crackle of a distant brazier.
The Master's hidden eyes—sharp as flint behind the gloom—widened. He shifted, his fingers pressing into the velvet-lined armrests of his throne. A low, dry chuckle escaped his throat, a sound of chilling amusement.
"Well done, Kelian," the Master praised, his tone dripping with a dangerous warmth. "Our mission was stalled, perhaps. But now? It is complete. The board is cleared."
He leaned forward, the shadow of his hood swaying.
"You shall have whatever you desire for this, Kelian. Name your price, and it is yours."
Kelian's eyes sparked with a sudden, hungry light. He had lived for this acknowledgment—the validation of the man who held their lives in his palm.
"Should we celebrate the night, Master?" Kelian asked, the thrill of victory coursing through him like wine.
"Indeed," the Master announced, his voice rising to fill the vaulted ceiling. "Let the Vale know! Tonight, we feast. Tonight, we celebrate the death of hope in Blackwood Manor!"
The proclamation echoed like a thunderclap.
Standing several paces behind Kelian, Samuel watched the scene with a bitter, venomous glare.
His body was a map of white bandages, the ribs cracked by the Masked Man still aching with every breath. He clutched his side, his face contorted in a mask of silent, burning jealousy. He had been humiliated, while Kelian was being treated like a god.
Beside him, Elysian leaned lightly against a pillar. His leg was still hitched, but a soft, genuine smile touched his lips. He didn't care for the power or the praise; he was simply happy to see Kelian—the man who had carried him through the night—basking in the Master's favor.
The halls of Elarith Vale began to stir with the frenetic energy of a dark festival. Wine was poured, and blades were sharpened in joy rather than malice. To the Elite, the world was exactly as they wanted it: broken.
But high above the Vale, tucked away in the flickering candlelight of a distant manor, the truth remained hidden.
Kelian boasted of a slaughter, and the Master toasted to a grave. Yet, they celebrated a lie.
They did not know of the golden tears. They did not know of the holy immortal with magenta eyes who had stitched together what the Elite had torn apart.
The boy lived. The knight breathed. And the shadows of the Eclipse were not as absolute as they believed.