The silence of the sanctum was not broken by a breath or a word, but by a sudden, violent snap.
The silver harp string coiled back like a dying serpent, lashing against Morvane's pale skin. A thin, bead of scarlet bloomed across his finger, yet his face remained a mask of absolute, glacial void. His expression was not one of pain, but of a profound, hollow stillness. He did not flinch. He did not move to stanch the wound.
Slowly, Morvane set the instrument aside. He rose, his black silk robes whispering against the stone floor like a gathering shadow. He stepped toward the arched window, looking down at the German landscape that lay sprawled beneath his fortress.
"I have a feeling," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic vibration. "Something is going to happen very soon."
As if responding to his command, a predatory smirk began to crawl across his features. It was a devilish, unsettling grin—a widening of the lips that held no warmth, only the jagged edge of a looming catastrophe. Outside, the sky responded with a violent convulsion.
The first crack of thunder rolled through the valley, heavy and visceral. Lightning, cold and blue, illuminated the sharp lines of his face. Morvane inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of ozone and wet stone into his lungs. He tilted his head back, his icy blue eyes flickering with a dread so profound it felt like a physical weight in the air.
He didn't just witness the storm; he invited it. To Morvane, the worsening weather was a symphony, a sign that the pieces were finally moving into the maw of his design.
Another roar of thunder shook the glass. Morvane's grin widened.
Miles away, the obsidian ship was no longer gliding; it was struggling.
The vessel tilted at a precarious angle, the hull groaning as it cut through waves that had turned from violet to a churning, ink-like black. The Atlantic fog had been replaced by a torrential downpour that felt like liquid lead.
Lirael gripped the railing, his knuckles white. He blinked through the spray, his silver-gloved hand shielding his face from the stinging rain. "August! The weather... it's worsening.
Elias stood in the center of the deck, his feet planted wide to maintain his balance against the violent pitch of the ship. His cloak was soaked, clinging to his broad shoulders. He wiped the rain from his eyes, looking toward the bow. "When will we reach the destination? At this rate, the ship will capsize before we reach any land."
August did not look up. He was hunched over the map, his white gloves pinning the parchment to a small stone pedestal.
"By dawn," August said. His voice was flat, devoid of the panic that laced Lirael's words. He turned his head slightly, his smoke-grey eyes locking onto his companions. "It will be almost there. Stay still. Do not move from your positions."
August's focus returned to the path ahead. They were not heading toward a standard German dock or a recognized shore.
According to the map, the entrance to the Dominion lay through a geographic anomaly—a place that appeared on no chart. It was a disoriented island, a fragment of land caught between the folds of reality.
The only way to see the "clean path" was through the map's arcane guidance. To any other sailor, this stretch of sea would appear as a graveyard of shipwrecks and jagged reefs.
The worsening weather was not a coincidence; it was the island's natural defense, a violent perimeter meant to discourage the uninvited.
The wind shrieked, a high-pitched wail that made Lirael wince. Lirael was having a difficult time; the sheer pressure of the storm was overwhelming his senses. He raised his elbow, covering his eyes as a massive wave crashed against the bow, drenching them in freezing salt water.
Among the three, Elias stood as the unmovable pillar. The knight noticed Lirael's struggle and August's rigid, exposed form. Without a word, Elias stepped forward. He moved with a heavy, grounded grace, positioning his massive frame directly in the path of the wind and rain.
"Stay behind me," Elias commanded, his voice booming over the thunder. He looked at August, then at Lirael, his back forming a solid wall against the elements. "Both of you. Use me as a shield."
August looked up. He stared at Elias's back—a broad, rain-slicked expanse of leather and determination. The knight's presence was a physical barrier against the storm's malice.
Lirael let out a long, shaky sigh of relief. He tucked himself into the pocket of calm Elias had created, a small, weary smile touching his lips. "Thank you, Elias," he whispered, his voice warm with genuine gratitude.
Elias did not turn around. He simply gave a sharp, stolid nod, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, his hands ready to catch anyone who slipped.
August watched the interaction. He saw the way Lirael looked at the knight—with a trust that was simple and pure. He saw the ease with which Elias accepted the role of protector.
Suddenly, the cold precision of August's mind was interrupted by a sharp, foreign sensation. It was a prickle in his chest, a narrow, bitter sting that he refused to acknowledge. His smoke-grey eyes narrowed. His lips thinned into a hard line.
He made a tiny, almost imperceptible sound—a sharp exhale through his nose.
"Hmph."
Lirael, despite the roar of the wind, heard it. He looked toward August and let out a soft, melodic chuckle. He knew that sound. It was the sound of August's pride being pricked, a small crack in the armor of his stoicism.
"What is the problem with pure discipline?" August muttered, his voice barely audible under the rain. He adjusted the map with a sharp, unnecessary movement, his gaze refusing to meet either of theirs.
Elias remained entirely unaware of the silent tension. He was focused on the horizon, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
Meanwhile at the corridors of Thornleigh Palace were a labyrinth of cold stone and flickering amber torchlight. Shadows stretched like reaching fingers along the tapestries. Stellan moved with practiced silence, his gaze fixed on the broad-shouldered silhouette of Cedric Montrose moving ahead.
He was careful. He stayed half-hidden behind the marble pillars, his breath shallow. But then, in the span of a single heartbeat, the hallway ahead was empty.
Stellan blinked. He leaned out from behind a stone gargoyle, his brow furrowed. The rhythmic thud of Cedric's boots had vanished. There was no door, no turn—just a vacant, drafty corridor.
"How...?" Stellan whispered, stepping into the open. He turned in a slow circle, his heart beginning to drum against his ribs. "How did he simply disappear?"
He shook his head, a strand of silk-black hair falling over his eyes. He began to turn back toward the darkened archway, only to find himself slamming into a solid, unyielding wall of leather and steel.
Stellan let out a sharp gasp, his hands flying up instinctively to steady himself against the chest of the man standing directly in his path.
Cedric Montrose stood like a tectonic plate—massive, immovable, and radiating a cold, focused fury. His icy gaze looked down at Stellan from a height that felt mountainous.
"I have been watching you for quite some time, Stellan," Cedric said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
Stellan felt the heat rush to his cheeks, a vivid crimson bloom spreading across his face. He tried to take a step back, but his legs felt like lead. "How did you appear just like that?"
"We both know that we are spy's," Cedric replied, his expression remaining a mask of stoicism. "And. Did I not expressly forbid you from leaving your chambers? Your head wound is still fresh."
Stellan looked down at his boots, his fingers twitching. "Look, Montrose... we are partners. If we don't work together, I'm afraid you'll find someone else. You'll find a new partner and leave me behind in this boring chambers."
Cedric's brow knitted, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle leaped. "I am trying to navigate a royal investigation," he hissed, stepping closer until their personal spaces overlapped. "I am trying to keep us both alive, and you are making it impossible."
Stellan didn't retreat. Instead, he leaned in, the scent of Cedric's travel-worn leather and sandalwood filling his senses. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gripped the center of Cedric's chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his partner heart beneath the armor.
"Can't you see?" Stellan whispered, his blush deepening as he looked up through his lashes. "I can't be without you."
Cedric's breath hitched. For a second, the coldness in his eyes flickered, replaced by something dark and simmering—a raw, unspoken tension. Then, as if snapping a spell, he grabbed Stellan's wrists and firmly shoved him back.
"Control yourself," Cedric commanded, his voice strained. "We are in the palace. Have you forgotten your sense of discipline, you idiot?"
Stellan winced, his hand flying to the bandage on his head. "Please... take care of me, Mr. Montrose," he said, his voice dropping into a melodic, theatrical quiver. "I'm afraid I'm feeling quite faint. I might fall."
Cedric exhaled a breath of pure, unadulterated exasperation. "Then why the hell did you come here? Go back to your bed and stay there before I have you chained to it."
"I... I feel dizzy," Stellan whispered.
His eyelids fluttered, black lashes casting long shadows against his pale cheeks. Without further warning, his slender frame tilted. He didn't fall to the cold stone; he leaned with a practiced, heavy grace against Cedric's chest.
Cedric let out a sharp, audible gasp of shock. His hands, calloused from years of gripping a broadsword, flew up instinctively to catch Stellan's shoulders. The heat of Stellan's body through the thin linen of his shirt was an unwelcome intrusion into Cedric's cold, orderly world.
"Stellan!" Cedric's voice was a low bark, frantic despite his efforts.
Stellan didn't pull away. He pressed his forehead against the cool steel of Cedric's gorget, his voice muffled and trembling. "Please, Montrose... don't do this to me. Don't leave me behind."
Cedric froze. He could feel the slight tremor in Stellan's hands as they curled into the fabric of his surcoat.
"Let me walk with you," Stellan pleaded, his voice gaining a desperate edge. "Let me investigate the mission. We are two halves of the same blade. If you go alone, I won't forgive you."
Cedric's jaw tightened, the bone sharp beneath his skin. He looked down at the crown of Stellan's silk-black hair, fighting the urge to rest his chin upon it. Duty was a shield, but it was also a wall.
"I have already told you," Cedric said, his voice regaining its gravelly stoicism. "You are to go to your chambers and rest. That is an order from your superior.
The word 'rest' seemed to act as a catalyst. Stellan suddenly recoiled, pulling himself back with an unexpected surge of energy. He stood tall, though his legs still looked dangerously unsteady.
He forced Cedric to look at him. Violet eyes met Olive ones. The contrast was striking: Stellan's eyes were swirling with a turbulent, emotional storm, while Cedric's remained deep, grounded, and as unyielding as an old-growth forest.
"You never care," Stellan began, his voice dropping to a bitter hiss. He turned away, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a winter chill.
Cedric felt a momentary flicker of relief at the distance, but it was short-lived.
"You never care about the person," Stellan continued, his knuckles clenching until they turned a ghostly white. "All you care about is the mission. All you care about is your sacred duty to a Crown that doesn't even know your name."
Cedric's expression remained perfectly composed, though his brow knitted into a deep, frustrated furrow. He took a step forward, his heavy boots echoing like a death knell.
"Stop making trouble, Stellan," Cedric warned. "Go back to your room and seek sanctuary in sleep, or else—"
"Or else what?"
Stellan spun around. The movement was sharp, causing his long braided hair to whip across his face. When he looked at Cedric this time, the defiance was gone, replaced by something far more damaging to Cedric's resolve.
Tears. They were visible now, shimmering like crushed diamonds in the corners of Stellan's violet eyes. One escaped, tracing a slow, shimmering path down his cheek.
"Are you going to tie me to my bed?" Stellan choked out, a sob catching in his throat. "Are you going to lock the door and leave me with nothing but the four walls and the memory of you walking away?"
Cedric stopped dead.