The road to Elarith Vale stretched long and winding beneath the bruised velvet of the evening sky, where even the stars held their breath behind wisps of charcoal cloud. The carriage moved like a shadow cast from deeper shadows, its wheels whispering across the frost-kissed path, the sound lost in the hush of winter trees that stood sentinel on either side. Inside, the dim lantern light swayed with every turn, carving restless silhouettes across the worn wood walls.
August stirred.
A slow breath, ragged and metallic, scraped past the cloth gagging his mouth. His lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, eyes dazed with the weight of unconsciousness peeling back. But as the blur faded, horror surfaced—hands bound behind him, ankles tightly cinched, all with threads of silver rope that hissed with an alchemical sting against his skin. His body protested in stiff aches, bruises blooming beneath velvet layers.
He tried to move.
A pull of the wrist. Nothing. Another. Still bound.
He shifted again, testing the ropes with a quiet desperation—an elegant creature straining within a cruel snare. His breath hitched; the silver burned with the friction, lacing his nerves with fire.
And then—
Laughter.
Not his. Not kind.
"Oh, he's awake now," came a voice, low and laced with amusement. One of the Eclipse Elite soldiers leaned forward, two fingers lifting August's chin with the ease of someone toying with an expensive doll. His eyes gleamed beneath his half-mask—obsidian trimmed in dull iron—like a predator watching its prize blink open.
"Look at him. Like porcelain. Delicate, pretty... But even porcelain can shatter."
The other leaned back, boot resting lazily against the opposite seat, arms crossed over his chest as he studied August with a smirk. "He won't survive long, not when we reach Vale. Especially not with Master Kellian waiting. Mercy isn't exactly in fashion for him."
"Tch. Doesn't need mercy. He's just the bait," the first man replied, thumb grazing August's cheek with faux affection. "A beautiful offering to draw the real quarry out."
August's gaze, though dulled from the faint pulse of pain in his skull, flared with defiance. His body trembled, not with fear, but with effort—trying again, again, again to twist free, to wrench one hand out of the silver's cruel loop. The fibers cut deeper. No escape.
The carriage lurched slightly as it tilted over a slope in the path, one wheel catching against a frozen patch. The sudden jolt flung August sideways. He grunted against the cloth, his body folding inelegantly before colliding with the side wall.
The two men howled with laughter.
"Careful, little dove," one jeered, rising just enough to nudge August upright with the toe of his boot. "You'll bruise that perfect skin before the Master even gets his hands on you."
August glared at him, a flash of silver fury behind smoke-grey eyes.
"Still glaring? Even now?" the second one drawled. "He really is feisty. I almost pity him. Almost."
The carriage rocked again, slower now as the path narrowed—still hours from their destination, but close enough that the chill had begun to thicken in the air like spilled ink.
Inside, the two captors resumed their lazy conversation. One pulled out a flask, the other cleaned beneath his nails with a knife too clean to trust.
"Master Kellian's going to snap him like twine. You saw what happened in Port Royal, didn't you?"
"Oh, I did," said the other, his tone dark with memory. "And I'm betting he hasn't forgotten either. This beauty will pay the price for Elias's defiance."
Their voices droned on, casual cruelty soaked in every word.
But August no longer listened.
His thoughts were fire and frost, tumbling together in the tight confines of his bound form. The name "Elias" echoed like a drumbeat in his skull. Not out of desperation—but because he would not let Elias fall into their hands. He had to hold on. Endure. Even if the ropes blistered, even if the pain crept up his spine like ivy—he would not scream. He would not bend.
Outside, the wind howled louder. And the night deepened, waiting for the cruelty Elarith Vale had in store.
The wheels groaned beneath them as the carriage slipped deeper into the dark corridor of woods — a cathedral of bone-pale branches overhead, their arms twisted like ghosts mid-wail.
Inside, the lantern rocked gently, casting amber light across August's bound form — shoulders rigid, chin tilted in defiance, the silver ropes pulling at his slender wrists, making his pulse throb against the threads.
He was silent now, but his eyes…
His eyes were molten frost.
A storm encased in crystal.
He stared at the two Eclipse Elite across from him with such open contempt that it rattled the one with rings on his fingers. That man shifted, smirking — but it was the kind of smirk that came from unease.
"Look at those eyes," he muttered, nudging his comrade. "Sharp enough to cut silk."
The other tilted his head. "Sharp, yes. But still soft. Still noble."
Then a glint sparked behind his grin — the sort of grin that should only exist behind bars.
"What do you think his voice sounds like?" the ringed man mused, curling one hand around the edge of the seat as he leaned forward.
August's gaze narrowed. His silence thickened.
"Let's find out," the man whispered, and in one smooth motion, he reached forward and unknotted the cloth binding August's mouth.
It slipped off, like a secret pulled from lips too tired to lie.
August inhaled deeply — not in surrender, but like a blade drawing breath before it strikes.
"You—" he began, voice hoarse, beautiful, laced with venom. "You disgrace—"
But the man's fingers were already there, pressing against August's mouth, silencing the curse before it bloomed.
"Shhh," he hummed, dragging his thumb slowly across the delicate curve of August's lower lip.
A smudge of oil. A violation wrapped in mockery.
"I like this mouth better when it's quiet," he whispered.
And that was his mistake.
August didn't flinch. He didn't draw back. He didn't warn.
He bit.
The man yelped, reeling backward with two crimson beads welling on his fingertip.
"Bastard bit me!"
The other burst into laughter. "Told you he wasn't porcelain, didn't I? Pretty things can still have teeth."
The ringed man sucked at his wound, face red with both fury and something else — something closer to shame.
But August…
He didn't speak again.
He only turned his head, lifted his chin, and stared out the tiny barred window in the carriage wall — silver ropes tight, lips stained with the blood of a man not worth remembering.
He let the taste sit on his tongue like victory.
Because even in chains, even gagged and bound and trapped between shadows…
August would not break. Not quietly. Not ever.
The wind howled low across the moor, wrapping around the carriage like a warning too old to speak aloud. The sky had grown bruised with dusk, the road narrowing to a serpent's spine as the procession moved closer to the jagged gates of Elarith Vale — that cursed cradle of mist and shadows.
Inside, the lantern flickered. The wood groaned beneath the weight of secrets being carried to the slaughter.
August sat in silence again, ankles and wrists bound in glinting silver, the remnants of defiance still clinging to his lips like blood-warm velvet. The bruise of that moment — his teeth against skin — hadn't faded from the air.
And the man he bit hadn't forgotten.
He sat across from August, hunched in cold fury, the twin marks on his fingers now bandaged with torn linen and pride far more wounded than flesh.
He licked his teeth once, twice. Then, without warning, he surged forward.
The carriage jolted slightly as his boots scraped the floor. In a breath, he was kneeling before August, his voice a venomous hiss curling through clenched teeth.
"Where's your pride now, little noble?"
August didn't answer. He stared at him like one would stare at a rotting apple — something that once held form and value but now crawled with worms.
That only made it worse.
The man's hand snapped forward.
Fingers twisted into August's soft white curls like claws into lace.
He yanked.
August's head tilted sharply, neck straining, breath caught — but not a cry passed his lips. Only a hiss, and even that was quiet, low, forged of pure restraint.
"Still biting, are you?" the man spat, leaning so close his sour breath fogged August's cheek. "Still acting like you matter?"
He pulled tighter, until the delicate strands of August's hair grew taut, his scalp burning with the insult of touch.
"Tell me…" The man's mouth was at his ear now, voice heavy and poisonous. "Where's your strength now? Hm? Where's that fire I saw in your eyes when you bit me like a mutt?"
August's eyes, storm-colored and sharp, locked onto his.
There was no scream. No plea. No fear.
Only quiet wrath.
Then, with the softest, most damning whisper, August replied, lips parted just slightly:
"Still in me. Buried deep. Waiting."
That stopped the man for a beat. Just a beat.
Long enough for August to spit — not words this time, but blood.
The remnants of defiance, smeared like warpaint on his tongue.
It struck the man's cheek in a crimson arc.
The carriage grew deathly still.
The second Eclipse member sitting at the corner laughed, low and dry like a crow on gallows wood.
"Careful," he warned lazily. "You're not the one who gets to break him."
The gate ahead loomed now — twin towers carved into ancient rock, topped with statues of faceless gods. The iron doors yawned open, as if Elarith Vale itself had been waiting.
The biting man finally let go, shoving August's face back with one hand. "You're not even worth a grave," he snarled, wiping his cheek and storming to the other end of the carriage.
August breathed slowly, carefully, blinking the sting from his eyes. His scalp ached, his mouth burned. But inside his chest, something refused to yield. Something ancient. Something furious.
Outside, the gates of Elarith Vale creaked as they opened.
Inside, August Everheart's D'rosaye still burned.