Lirael stood alone in the dim hush of his guest chamber, one palm braced on the cool stone wall as the last echo of power shimmered faintly under his skin. His breath trembled. His pulse stuttered.
And his tears—
those weren't ordinary.
They glowed faintly on his fingertips, like shards of moonstone caught in motion.
He stared at them, bewildered. How long… how long have I carried this? A rare gift. A rarer curse. An inheritance he'd never been taught to fear.
But that stranger—
the one who whispered as though he knew the marrow of Lirael's soul—
he had recognized it instantly.
Why?
How?
His thoughts, as always, drifted back to Martin.
Martin who had vanished a century ago.
Martin whose laughter still flickered through Lirael's hollow ribcage.
Martin who loved his Dorian.
Martin who had died the simple, mortal way—naturally, quietly—leaving Lirael to live on, soaked in sins and loneliness.
Immortality had never felt so much like punishment.
His eyes glistened again, but this time he forced the tears back. He inhaled, long and steady, then wiped his face and straightened his embroidered collar.
When he stepped out of the chamber, he wore a small, delicate smile. A mask. But a convincing one.
Meanwhile, — Stellan Grimshaw & Cedric Montrose in Thornleigh's palace.
Stellan sat at the edge of the room, head wrapped in snowy bandages, his violet eyes following Cedric like a lost star trailing a sun. Cedric's gaze, however… was fixed on anything except him.
A window latch. A chair leg. The ceiling molding.
Anything.
Stellan swallowed, then approached with slow steps.
"Montrose," he murmured, voice soft but trembling. "Why are you avoiding my gaze?"
Cedric didn't turn. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe, for all Stellan knew.
"Montrose," Stellan repeated, more fragile now. "Look at me. Please."
Nothing.
His lips quivered. "If you don't look at me, then… I—"
"Do whatever you want," Cedric cut in, sharp and careless.
Stellan froze.
His eyes widened—hurt, disbelieving—then something reckless sparked inside him.
He tore off his bandage.
A hiss of pain escaped him, but he stood tall, defiant.
Cedric didn't look.
But curiosity eventually pried one eye open—
and the moment he saw blood against Stellan's pale temple, Cedric's entire body snapped tight. His expression hardened, darkened, sharpened.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he barked, grabbing Stellan's wrists.
Stellan's voice cracked. "Since you don't care about me—then what is the point in living?"
Cedric clenched his jaw, furious and frightened. "Stellan—stop. It's okay. I was kidding."
Stellan sniffled, clearly not convinced.
That was when Theophilus Thompson stepped into the chamber.
He stopped dead at the sight: Stellan—beautiful, fragile, half-bandaged—clinging to Cedric like a drowning man grasping the nearest shore.
"Stop that," Theophilus scolded, voice pinched. "It will get infected."
Stellan didn't move.
Cedric's arm curled instinctively around him—
too proud, too smug, too victorious.
Theophilus blinked twice. "Is… this truly necessary?"
Stellan only tightened his grip.
Cedric's smirk grew unbearably satisfied.
"Should… should we go back to work now?" Stellan whispered shyly.
Cedric cleared his throat. "No. You need to rest. Or—it's fine by me. You can rest as long as you want."
Stellan reached up with innocent fingers and—mistakenly—pressed right into Cedric's bandaged torso.
Cedric hissed. Loudly.
"See?" Stellan said, eyes wide. "You need rest too."
Cedric grimaced, but managed a teasing murmur. "Too naughty…"
Stellan blushed so hard he practically glowed.
"I—I'm not naughty."
Theophilus cleared his throat again—louder this time, full physician authority.
"If your… conversation has ended, may I speak now?"
Neither of them looked at him.
Stellan still clung to Cedric. Cedric still basked like a cat in a ray of sun.
Theophilus fought jealousy with every strained breath.
"His Grace wishes to see you tomorrow," he said stiffly.
Cedric nodded. "Got it."
"And Grimshaw," Theophilus added, "please stop ruining the bandages I spent thirty minutes wrapping."
Stellan didn't even hear him.
The physician sighed, defeated, and left the chamber.
Cedric looked down at the head resting against his chest.
Stellan's lashes fluttered faintly, brushing Cedric's shirt. His breathing was soft, shaky, warm against Cedric's ribs.
Something in Cedric's chest tightened.
Without warning, Cedric slid an arm under Stellan's knees and lifted him effortlessly.
Stellan yelped—tiny, startled, adorable. "Montrose! You're hurt—put me down. I can walk."
Cedric smirked. "As long as you're near, I don't feel any pain."
Stellan frowned, worried. "But your torso… it's still hurt."
He poked the bandaged area again. Cedric winced and hissed.
"See?" Stellan insisted. "It still hurts."
"Too naughty," Cedric breathed again, trying—failing—not to smile.
Stellan's blush deepened. "I am not naughty."
Cedric carried him to the narrow bed and lowered him gently onto it, his movements uncharacteristically soft.
Stellan blinked, shy and confused. "Montrose… it's morning. We shouldn't sleep."
Cedric lay beside him, one arm draped protectively over Stellan's waist.
"Day and night don't matter," he murmured. "All that matters is you."
Stellan opened his mouth—to scold, to protest, to blush further—but exhaustion swept over him like a tide. His eyes closed before he could form a single word.
Cedric looked down at him—at the boy already asleep against his shoulder.
For a moment, Cedric forgot his own pain entirely.
He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to Stellan's forehead.
"Sleep," he whispered. "I've got you."
And for the first time since the injury, Stellan looked utterly, peacefully safe.
Across the city of darkness.
The wind skimmed along the razor-thin edge of the roof, cold enough to bite. Samuel dangled one boot over the abyss, leaning back on his palms as though gravity were merely a polite suggestion.
Behind him, Elysian stood like a marble sentinel—still, precise, carved from winter itself. His white eyes were fixed on Samuel's slouched figure with the usual cocktail of disdain and long-suffering patience.
Samuel exhaled dramatically. "Where is that jerk?"
Elysian's voice remained cool, unbothered. "Which one? You specify too little."
Samuel groaned. "Fine—I'm sorry. Where's Kellian?"
"On a mission," Elysian replied, gaze unblinking.
Samuel's brows shot up. "What mission? The one he wouldn't let me join?"
"Yes," Elysian said simply. "Since you were too weak to kill those spies."
The words cut clean, like a scalpel. Samuel's mouth twitched with the sting of humiliation.
"I was just… having a bit of fun," he muttered. "And then he appears out of nowhere—"
"Always excuses," Elysian interrupted with the graceful annoyance of a man who had heard this story one thousand times already.
Samuel's jaw tightened. But he didn't argue. For once.
The roof fell silent except for the gentle hum of Vale's distant lanterns.
Then—
A ripple in the air. A shift in the shadows.
Kellian landed with a soft thud, the silver-and-gold lining of his cloak catching the last hints of twilight. His crimson eyes swept across the rooftop, sharp enough to cut through fog.
"Elysian." His tone was all business. "I've heard that boy—August—has somehow recovered."
Elysian stiffened. "What?"
"It's true," Kellian said. "He's better. Somehow. We must keep an eye on him."
Elysian's icy composure cracked. "Impossible. The poison was too potent. It should have killed him slowly, agonizingly. There is no way he could survive."
"We don't know how it happened." Kellian's gaze darkened. "But we need to watch him closely."
Elysian pressed two fingers to his temple, genuinely rattled. "Unbelievable…"
Kellian's attention slid sideways—to Samuel.
Samuel lay back on the tiles, arms sprawled lazily behind his head like he owned the entire Vale.
Kellian's irritation sharpened instantly.
"What are you doing here, you jerk?"
Samuel sat up, stretching like a cat. "Whatever I do and wherever I sit is none of your business."
Their gazes collided—
obsidian against scarlet.
Darkness meeting fire.
And instantly the air trembled with hostility.
Samuel stood, taking one deliberate step forward. "You're too full of yourself, you know that?"
Kellian's lip curled. "Better than you. You can't even complete a single mission without me cleaning up your mess."
Samuel's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Say that again."
Elysian finally snapped.
"Enough."
Both turned their heads, simultaneously blaming the other with synchronized indignation.
"He started it," Samuel barked.
"He provoked me first," Kellian countered.
Elysian pinched the bridge of his nose. "I swear by the Vale, the two of you are going to drive me to an early grave."
Samuel folded his arms. "At least you'd die beautifully."
"That is not comforting," Elysian muttered.
Kellian huffed. "Stop fooling around. The situation is shifting. August recovering means someone interfered with our work."
Kellian's cloak rustled as he stepped closer to the roof's edge, scanning the horizon where the human world shimmered faintly in the distance.
"We're missing something," he murmured. "Someone helped him. Someone powerful."
Samuel perked up. "Like… who?"
"We will find out," Kellian answered. "And when we do, we will report it immediately."
Elysian folded his arms behind his back. "And until then… we watch. Quietly. Unseen."
Samuel groaned. "Which means? Surveillance? Again? I hate surveillance."
Elysian's voice chilled. "Do you want another failed mission on your record?"
Samuel glared. "You're lucky you're beautiful. That's the only reason I'm not fighting you."
Kellian snorted. "Fight? You? Please."
Samuel took a half step forward, eyes flashing. "Say that again, crimson-eyes—"
Elysian snapped his fingers sharply. "Both of you. Stop."
Now meanwhile in khyronia;
Caldris Rheyne sat alone in the dim chamber, the air heavy with incense and old secrets. His chair creaked softly as he leaned back, fingers brushing the crimson ring on his hand—blood-red, ancient, warm as if remembering the one who once wore it.
He lifted it to his lips and pressed a silent kiss upon the stone.
"I promise you," he whispered, voice low and trembling at the edges, "I'll avenge you. No matter how long it takes."
A shift in the shadows.
A figure materialized behind him—long cloak, black as spilled ink. The masked man knelt, bowing his head in reverence.
Caldris did not need to look to feel the presence settle around him like a cold ripple.
"How is everything progressing?" he asked.
The masked man straightened slightly.
"Master… August has recovered completely."
Caldris froze.
His breath hitched—barely, but enough to crack the room's stillness.
"What did you say?"
"He is Recovered," the masked man repeated, a smile hidden beneath his half-black, half-white mask. "Entirely. There is no remnant of poison left in his body."
For a heartbeat, Caldris simply stared at the floor, as though the world had shifted beneath him. Then he exhaled slowly, shakily.
"Good…" His voice softened to something fragile. "Too good. I'm… glad."
But confusion tugged at his chest.
"How? The poison should have lingered for weeks. How did this happen?"
The masked man bowed lower, weaving the lie without a single falter.
"A priest, Master. A skilled one. He tended to him."
Caldris nodded, accepting the explanation without suspicion. His relief drowned out the need for deeper questions.
"All that matters," he murmured, "is that August is safe."
The masked man lifted his head. "Should I begin patrolling the Blackwood Manor?"
Caldris blinked. "For what reason?"
"Master," the masked man replied, voice smooth, "our enemies surely know by now that August has recovered. They may attempt to infiltrate the manor again. If they come too close… there is a solid chance we can capture them with minimal effort."
Caldris considered it, rubbing the red ring again. His mind worked through the possibilities, the dangers, the simmering rage that never quite left his bones.
"You're right," he finally said.
He rose from the chair, the long coat he wore sweeping behind him like a stormcloud.
"Take as many people as you need. Surround the manor. Guard it from every angle."
"Yes, Master." The masked man bowed deeply once more.
A swirl of shadows replaced him as he vanished, dissolving into the hallways of Khyronia like a phantom called back to the hunt.
Caldris lowered himself back into his chair, slower this time. The weight of his vow pressed against his shoulders.
He closed his eyes and whispered to the empty room, to the memory tied to the ring on his finger:
"I'm sorry, my beloved… but I am not far from our enemy anymore."
The chamber swallowed his words, leaving only the echo of vengeance simmering in the dark.