Song vibe: The Last – Agust D

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  AUGUST

  The Apothecary, Firestone

  Saphira was far lighter than August expected. The ease with which he held her only reminded him of the weight he carried—Nox’s future. August’s thoughts warred: obey orders and keep Saphira safe, or set her down and go after Gorda himself.

  I’ve got every guard searching, the castle locked down. Saphira comes first, and when the dust settles, we plan the next step.

  The doors of the apothecary swung open, spilling the smell of smoke, herbs, and blood. August set Saphira down on the nearest bed. Her lavender hair spilled across the pillow; she stirred, her pale lips moving as she drew breath.

  Verity appeared at his side, sleeves rolled up, spectacles fogged with steam. “Hold her mouth open.”

  He lifted Saphira’s head with one hand, prising her lips apart with the other. Verity spooned in a small measure of charcoal paste. Saphira swallowed, throat working slowly with each mouthful.

  August exhaled, the tension leaving him in a single, deliberate breath. He waited until the paste reached her stomach, then pressed his palms to her abdomen. Pale light gathered under his fingers as he worked the poison—binding it to the charcoal, moving it away from the vital channels, coaxing it to where it could do the least harm.

  “Update,” he said, eyes fixed on Saphira, watching the colour return to her.

  “Rell’s gone after Gorda,” Verity replied briskly. “What do we tell the servants?”

  “Rancid food,” August said, not looking up. “But they’ll whisper anyway. Antidote ready?”

  “Almost.” Verity’s glance darted toward a simmering pot hanging over the fire. “The herbs are brewing.”

  Underneath his hands, Saphira shifted. August pulled back and quietly tucked a blanket under her chin.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, the purple in them alive. “Marigold—? Astra…”

  “They’re here,” Verity whispered.

  Weakly, Saphira pushed Verity’s spoon away. “Help them… not me…”

  “Just one more mouthful,” Verity promised.

  August paused, looking around. The brutal reality of triage unfolded before him.

  Marigold lay sprawled on the main table, her golden blonde hair matted to her temples with sweat. Felix’s hooked sword glowed faintly where it pressed against her skin, drawing out the corruption. His arms were completely black, veins ridged and trembling as he poured more and more of his lifeforce into healing his wife.

  He’ll drain his lifeforce to nothing. August thought. But Felix won’t stop—not when Marigold’s life hangs by a thread.

  Lady Astra lay pale and motionless on the next table, her face waxen, lips the colour of frost. Bako bent over her with steady, wrinkled hands, muttering spells that shimmered blue against the skin. Livia and Maxine struggled to scoop charcoal paste into Astra’s mouth, their trembling fingers smudged black, the mixture sliding uselessly down her chin.

  “What do you need now?” August asked.

  “Stop Felix from killing himself,” Verity ordered.

  August crossed the floor in quick, sure strides and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “Felix. You’ve done enough. She needs spells now.”

  Felix’s head snapped up, his eyes wild. He moved to shove August away, but August caught his wrist. “You’re no good to her dead.”

  Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers as he pressed his palms to her sternum. “Her heart’s beating. She’s breathing. Move.”

  August closed his eyes, reaching for the invisible threads of magic that ran through the room like spider silk. He slowed her digestion, redirecting the poison’s path—drawing it from the lungs and heart, binding it to the charcoal in her stomach. The faint glow beneath her skin shifted, a dim shimmer of life reasserting itself. By the time he drew back, both of his hands had darkened—a familiar price.

  Marigold’s lips twitched. A whisper of air left her mouth—more sigh than speech—but it was enough.

  “Antidote’s ready,” Verity called, stepping toward with her bowl. She spooned small measures of the thick, black mixture into Marigold’s mouth. “She’s swallowing. That’s a good sign.”

  Felix nodded numbly, the fight draining out of him as colour returned to his wife’s cheeks. He closed his eyes—whispered a prayer—and exhaled in relief.

  “She got here before Astra,” Verity said, wiping the edge of the spoon with her thumb. “Charcoal early, and your sword reversed the worst of it. She’ll heal.”

  August glanced across the room. Astra lay deadly still beneath Bako’s hovering hands, the flicker of his magic dimming.

  “And Astra?” August asked quietly.

  Verity’s glance faltered. She shook her head once. “Too late. The poison was deep before she even reached us.”

  Silence pressed in between them. The only sound was the boil of the cauldron.

  Felix’s hands curled on the table. “I should’ve—”

  “You made the right call,” August cut in. “Saphira would've died. Astra was already—”

  “Don’t,” Felix snapped, the word tearing from him like a wound. His eyes flared. “Don’t analyse it. Don’t tell me it’s logical. I chose Saphira over my wife.”

  "You followed orders." August’s jaw tightened. “Saved the Lady.”

  “And buried another,” Felix hissed, looking at Astra. His hand trembled as he brushed a lock of hair from Marigold's face. “You're not the one who has to look his wife in the eyes and justify his choices, if only I—"

  “Enough!” Verity barked. “Look—she’s breathing steady. Marigold will understand what was at stake.”

  Felix’s breath stuttered, the fury draining as quickly as it had come.

  August’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Save your strength for her recovery—and for apprehending Gorda.”

  Felix’s lips twitched—a soundless laugh, bitter and broken. “That’s your logic speaking again.”

  For a long moment, neither man moved. Then Felix’s shoulders eased, the fire in his eyes guttering to embers. Marigold stirred, a faint sound escaping her. He caught her hand, their fingers twining as he lifted it to his lips. When he looked at Verity, the gratitude in his warm brown eyes said everything.

  The apothecary doors slammed open. Rell burst in—sword in hand, dark hair plastered against his forehead, breath coming fast. “Where’s Saphira?!”

  He crossed the room in three strides, blade flashing as he sheathed it. When he reached her bedside, he seized her hand. The tension carved into his brow eased as his eyes swept over her.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Gorda’s vanished,” he declared, voice still rough from the run. “Your orders?”

  “Interrogate Quintus,” Saphira whispered, her voice raw but steady. “Find her.”

  “I’ll do more than find her.” Rell’s grip tightened around her fingers. “I’ll have her head.”

  Saphira exhaled weakly, a sad smile flickering at her lips. “Oh, Rell.”

  August turned away before the boy’s vow could earn a reply. Renatii women don’t know how to handle men—they’re always too soft, and she’s inexperienced by a league. Rell’s no better—just a kid desperate for motherly love.

  He moved to Astra’s table, feeling the air chill. He lifted the sheet and grasped her hand and wrist. Her body was still warm. He hated that—warmth with no pulse. The breath snagged in his throat before he forced it out. Not the first time I've held a hand like this...

  He followed the lingering trace of poison through her body, heavy in the gut, thicker than what he had sensed in Marigold or Saphira. She must have drunk the most tea. Arrived too slow. Her body too old.

  Slowly, he lowered Astra's hand and placed it by her side. With two fingers, August brushed Astra’s eyelids shut. He pulled the sheet over her face, exhaling through his nose.

  If I wanted this kind of intrigue, I should’ve stayed in Hyland—taken the Archmage’s seat.

  He glanced back at Saphira and Rell. She was speaking softly; her hand still caught in his. Encouragement, kindness—whatever it was, Rell absorbed it like sunlight.

  Fye. Two planets without a sun—drawn to each other, colliding in the dark.

  Nox was different. Nox was gravity—steady, relentless, pulling them all into orbit whether they liked it or not. August’s fist curled tight at his side. We need him home. We need his order.

  Then his gaze shifted to Verity. She was already moving again—hands precise, eyes unflinching, every motion efficient and necessary. Not a single wasted breath.

  Now that’s the kind of woman to have in one’s orbit.

  He caught himself and forced the thought away.

  Across the room, Saphira’s gaze had found the white-draped shape on the table. Her lower lip trembled, but she held it together, shoulders squared. Rell’s hand tightened around hers.

  Above: Rell reports back to Saphira.

  These kids…

  He crossed back to Saphira’s bedside. Rell stepped aside, reluctantly, his hand still hovering near her shoulder.

  August pressed his palm to her forehead. Vital force stable—Felix’s swords did their work. My magic held. Verity’s antidote is taking effect. He exhaled slowly. Lysander’s still with Quintus. Felix is spent. Rell’s all heart and no restraint. Someone needs to lead—show no weakness, no hesitation... no mercy.

  “My lady,” he said aloud, “have you thought of the next steps?”

  Saphira looked up at him—eyes wide, face pale but determined. She shook her head once.

  “I’ll send the silvaks—Nox first. Selwyn and Caelus can hear it from us, not rumours.”

  “Gates are sealed. She’s vanished—or she’s still in these walls.” Rell's hand found Saphira’s shoulder again. He vowed, “Saph, I’m not leaving your side. Not again. I don’t care if I don’t sleep till Nox comes back. I’ll taste your food, check behind every door.”

  Saphira nodded, her purple eyes widening in overwhelm.

  Fye, Rell. Rein in the passion. Keep it professional.

  “My lady,” August said, his tone clipped, “you're in no state to face the clans. I’ll handle Selwyn and Caelus.” He drew in a long breath. “Lysander is finding out who Quintus’ people are. Then, we clean house.”

  Saphira nodded weakly. “Thank you.” Her gaze drifted to the floor. “She was here all the time, right under our noses…”

  “Rogue mages are harder to find,” August said, voice cool and even. “But now that I know what I’m looking for, I can counter her magic. I’ll find her. Eliminate her.”

  Arrogant prick, he thought, the words landing in an echo of self-contempt. Outplayed by a self-taught mountain witch. They’re rare, yes—but creative. Their magic doesn’t follow proper structure. That’s what makes them dangerous—and undetectable.

  Saphira tried for levity—a faint, weary smile. “I suppose the Sowing Festival is cancelled,” she murmured. “I’ll never get to see you dance, August.”

  He shot her a glare for the jest—then, almost despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched. “No, m’lady. You’ll have to wait.”

  He flexed his fingers, feeling the tightness of corrupted flesh beneath his gloves. One more spell. I've enough lifeforce to spare. Without warning her, he placed a hand on Saphira’s shoulders. Magic surged between them, faint but searing, as he moved the last traces of poison—those hidden pockets clinging deep in her system, the ones which would take weeks to heal naturally. The spell demanded precision and knowledge; one wrong pull could rupture a vein.

  She winced, breath hitching. Rell tensed like he might draw his blade.

  She hasn’t cried once. Not a complaint. He pulled back, breath unsteady, sweat streaking his temple. She waited—calm under pressure—played the long game until Gorda slipped. Drew her out. Gave us enough evidence to satisfy the Clans.

  Maybe she’s built to survive Nocturne’s world… though what choice does she have now?

  August reached for his gloves and slid them on, covering the blackened skin that stretched tight across his hands and on his wrists.

  “Your strategy worked,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I failed you, Saphira. I never thought that all people, Gorda, could deceive me.” He paused. “Tell me—how did you know?”

  “She smells like you,” Saphira murmured.

  August froze for a heartbeat, then exchanged a look with Rell. Only two people can do that—Rell, Nox… now you. Interesting.

  “Good,” he said softly. “Then describe what she did. Spare no detail.”

  Saphira recounted everything—the subtle pull on her emotions, the soft coaxing of her thoughts, how Dusty calmed the storm within her.

  It’s not possession, August realised, touching the amulet hanging from his neck. It’s something older. Working not on actions, but on feelings. Almighty, it’s diabolically brilliant. I wonder if I could… No. Mountain magic. As ancient as their bloodline—not in mine.

  He shook the thought away, forcing focus back to the present.

  Gorda must have touched every mind in Firestone, bent every thought. What if Verity was never possessed—just manipulated? Anger, far more intense than normal, surged through August. She made Verity do a horrible thing, right under my nose. The anger redirected, cast back at himself in cold portion. So much for being the strongest mage in the West.

  August looked around to see that the apothecary had fallen still. The hiss of cooling water and the crackle of the hearth echoed. Someone sobbed once, softly, then silence held.

  Then, Verity stopped. She stood in the centre of the apothecary, hands braced on her hips, eyes sweeping over the room—the beds, the bandages, the bowls of blackened paste. Her breath trembled on the way out.

  For a heartbeat, August simply watched her. The hands that could handle poison and antidote with equal certainty. The sharp, brilliant mind that rarely wavered. The faint wrinkle that appeared at the bridge of her nose whenever he tried to advise her.

  She turned and walked toward the storage room. Something in her gait—the slight dip of her shoulders, the quiet in her step—made him pause.

  “You two, keep your distance,” he said over his shoulder to Rell and Saphira, tone clipped, “and try not to make my job harder.”

  Then he followed.

  The storage room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single lamp. Shelves towered with jars of dried leaves, vials, swirling liquids. Verity stood in the corner, forehead resting against the cool stone wall, her shoulders rising and falling with slow, careful breaths.

  “Verity?”

  “Coming,” she said, voice small, unsteady. “Just grabbing more charcoal.” She reached for her spectacles, sliding them back into place.

  When she turned, he saw the tears pooled at the rims of her emerald eyes. She faced away at once, searching blindly for a jar on the shelf.

  August stepped up behind her. Taller by over a head, he reached past her shoulder, took the jar down, and set it gently in her hands. Their fingers brushed.

  Above: August passes the jar to Verity.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, eyes low, turning as if to retreat.

  “Verity.”

  She froze. The sound of her name stopped her mid-stride.

  “Yes?”

  “No one else could’ve handled this better.”

  For a long moment, she stared at him. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked. “I lost a patient today, August. I could’ve done better. I should’ve—”

  “No.” His reply came sharper than he intended. He softened it, barely. “Don’t carry guilt that belongs to Gorda.”

  Verity’s lashes lowered. The hardness in her face melted. “She wasn’t just a patient. I looked up to Astra. Everyone on Yule did.” She drew a trembling breath. “Now I’ll have to face Caelus. Tell him I couldn’t save his wife. Tell him I chose to save others above her.”

  August stepped closer and took the jar from her hands, setting it back on the shelf beside them. His arm came around her shoulders—awkwardly at first, then fully. He felt the tremor in her as she leaned into him, her fists clutching the front of his shirt.

  The scent of her wrapped around him—charcoal, nettle, and smoke. Her heartbeat thudded against his ribs. For the first time that day, he let the silence stand, holding her with precision and care.

  “I’ll stand beside you,” he murmured against her hair. “You won’t face Caelus alone.”

  Verity drew back slightly, looking up at him. In her eyes—emerald and bright beneath the lamplight—there was a softness he could not quite meet. For a heartbeat, she looked as though she might say something, reach for something beyond words.

  He stepped back before the quiet did something reckless—before he reached for her again.

  “We’ve work to do.” August picked up the jar and handed it back to her.

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  When she left, the scent of herbs and warmth lingered in the air.

  He flexed his hand; pain bit deep. For once, he did not measure it—just let it hurt.

  Outside, Firestone’s torches still burned against the frost. The light trembled on the wind, gold against white, refusing to die. The night was only beginning.