Song vibe: Jimin – Lie

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  AUGUST

  The Astrarium, Firestone

  Night fell, and for the first time since the afternoon, Firestone’s gates creaked open. The sound echoed across the courtyard like a groan from the mountain itself. Wind swept through the torches, scattering sparks into the night.

  August stood in the Astrarium, surrounded by open tomes and the low hum of warding spells active in the air. The table was cluttered with papers, sketches of sigils, and half-empty inkwells. His hands were stiff from writing, aching from the life drained. Protection wards. Scrying spells. Endless questions about mountain magic... the old texts never say enough.

  Through the frost-glazed window, a Yule banner approached through the torchlight. Its shadows flickered long against the mist as they rode up the mountain path to the gate.

  The mountain wind followed August from the Astrarium to the apothecary, carrying the smell of ink and magic.

  Rell had long since taken Saphira back to her chambers. Marigold was stable now, breathing under Bako and Verity's care. August stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching her breathe steadily in her sleep. We’ve done all we can. She will heal—in time.

  “Felix, they’re here. Take Marigold to her room,” August said. “Verity and I will speak with Caelus first—then you and I will handle Selwyn.”

  Felix nodded, his expression drawn tight. The fresh shirt clung damply to his back, a half-hearted attempt at composure. August had known him since he was seventeen; he recognised that look—the heavy stillness of a man forcing himself to lead when all he wanted was to stay by his wife’s side.

  “I’m ready,” Verity breathed. The words were meant more for herself than for him. She pulled her cloak close and lifted her chin.

  They met the Chief of the Yule Clan in the Great Hall.

  Caelus Yule was wrapped in midnight blue. His composure was iron-forged, yet August saw the tremor in his gloved hands when his gaze met theirs—the look of a man braced for what he already knew. He said nothing as they led him down the corridor, past the scent of herbs and the muted whispers of servants.

  August kept his gloved hands folded behind his back, the leather stiff and dark. He did not dare remove them here—he did not dare show the corrupted skin beneath.

  The apothecary had been cleared for privacy. Astra’s body lay upon the table, kept cool with blocks of mountain ice that smoked faintly in the candlelight.

  Caelus reached for the sheet. His hand stalled halfway, shaking so badly the linen trembled. He peeled it back an inch, then more—slowly, his eyes closed.

  “Astra…” The name broke in his throat. He cupped her jaw with both hands, thumbs tracing the cold edge of her cheekbone. “My girl.”

  Her skin was pale as marble, the delicate slope of her cheekbone catching the flicker of flame. Silver threads still glimmered in her braids; her clothes were neatly arranged.

  His breath shuddered out. “Who,” he rasped, not looking up. “Who did this?”

  “Gorda Sunfire,” August said, voice low. “The poison was meant for Lady Saphira.”

  “Then why…?” Caelus swallowed hard, voice cracking. “Why her? She’s—she was—”

  “Revenge,” August said. “Escape. Gold. Maybe all three.”

  “No.” Caelus’s voice rose and failed in the same breath. “Why my Astra?” He pressed his forehead to her cold hand. “She never hurt anyone.”

  Verity stepped forward, tears glinting in her lashes. “We tried everything,” she whispered. “I swear it, my lord. I swear it. She was as good as dead the moment she drank that tea."

  Caelus stayed still. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. “The Sunfires will pay.”

  “Not all of them,” August said. “Just the guilty. Don’t start another war for her blood.”

  Caelus lifted his head. His teal eyes were raw, the colour leeched out of them. “You speak of restraint,” he said hoarsely. “But tell me, mage—if it were your kin lying here, would you hold your fire?”

  August did not answer.

  Caelus turned back to Astra, smoothing her hair. “Vandele once forged us in fear. Nocturne held us with strength. Now, not even that can keep us together.”

  Caelus reached for the sheet. His fingers trembled, but he drew it back with care, covering his wife.

  “You’ve seen what I am capable of, Caelus.” August’s voice dropped. Slowly, he removed his gloves, letting Caelus see the blackened flesh—a reminder of the power he wielded. He flexed his hand. “Don’t make me prove it again.”

  “You’d destroy yourself.” Caelus’s gaze lifted from August’s hand, hard and weary.

  “If we fracture now, the mountain falls—with or without an enemy’s help,” August replied. “Until Nocturne returns—truce?”

  Caelus looked past him to Verity. “If it were not for my clansmember here, witnessing for the truth, I would have drawn my sword tonight. The spirits have favoured you, mage.”

  Verity bowed her head, silent.

  “The mountains won’t keep us safe much longer,” August pulled his gloves back on. “If we’re to survive, it will be under Nocturne’s leadership—together.” He extended his hand.

  Caelus paused, his gaze lingering on the glove. Then, gripped his hand briefly, his palm ice-cold. “I’ve no mind for politics, mage. Let me be alone with my wife.”

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  August inclined his head. He opened the door for Verity. She stepped out first, her face composed, but her hands trembled as she clasped them together.

  In the silence of the corridor, they heard it—the broken sound of Caelus’s grief, muffled against stone. Verity’s emerald eyes brimmed with tears she refused to shed.

  August’s control wavered for a breath. Without a word, he reached out and placed an arm around her shoulders. The gesture was awkward, unplanned—but when she leaned into him, he did not pull away.

  Above: August comforts Verity.

  Her breath caught against his chest, a tremor more felt than heard. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. His hand tightened—barely—just enough for her to feel it, and enough for him to feel her warmth through his gloves. He almost lifted a hand to her face, then saw the blackened leather and stopped himself. Touch, even comfort, felt like trespass.

  “Verity…” he began, but the rest of the sentence never found its way out. She looked up at him then, her emerald eyes luminous in the torchlight—tired, unguarded, far too close. He cleared his throat and let his hand fall away. “Are you…steady now?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, though her voice betrayed the lie.

  “Good,” August breathed. He lingered a moment longer than he should have, studying her face—the faint smudge of charcoal at her temple, the exhaustion written in the set of her mouth. Something in him twisted; he masked it with a small nod. “I’ve got to go to Felix. Arest Selwyn.”

  “Best not delay,” Verity whispered, straightening out his shirt. Her hands lingered. “Thank you, August.”

  His fingers wrapped around hers, moving them back to her side. For a moment, he wished there were nothing between them—no gloves, no barriers, no pressures of time or duty. Then, he inclined his head, turned, and strode away. But as he reached the stairwell, he felt it—that pull behind him, quiet as gravity. He did not dare to look back.

  The war chamber was colder than usual. Candles guttered low, their wax pooling across the wooden map table. Shadows clung to the carved mountain reliefs along the walls—Firestone’s peaks thrown into sharp relief by the unsteady light.

  August stood beside the table, gloves on, posture perfect. Felix sat in the chair next to Nocturne’s, his exhaustion so deep it looked carved into his bones. His arms hung heavy at his sides, the colour drained from them after channelling his lifeforce into Saphira and Marigold.

  Across from them sat Selwyn Sunfire, his once-proud posture collapsing inch by inch; he had been at Firestone since the afternoon, under guard. The last of his pride faded with the candlelight.

  "I've heard the servants whisper." He slammed his fist against the table. “Return my daughter’s body to me!”

  August’s voice cut through the echo. “There is no body. Your daughter is alive.”

  “Lies!” Selwyn snapped. “You’re protecting that Renatii witch—she poisoned the clans and turned you all against your own!”

  “Watch your words,” August warned, quiet but lethal. “Gorda is wanted for treason. If you’ve aided her, you’ll hang beside her.”

  “You…” Selwyn faltered—rage slipping into something smaller, older. “You’d chain the Chief of Sunfire?”

  “Former Chief,” August corrected. “Felix leads now.”

  Felix rose from Nocturne’s chair, shoulders squared despite the tremor in his hands. The blackened flesh on his forearms had not yet faded; he steadied himself on the armrest, breath shallow. “Your time is over now, Uncle. I’ve been patient, given you time to let the power transition to me, but no more. Starting from tonight, I am the Chief of our clan."

  Selwyn blinked, disbelief flickering to bitter laughter. “So this was the plan all along. Kill your kin, take the Chair, and call it justice.”

  Felix did not flinch. “Gorda killed Astra Yule. Nearly killed Lady Saphira and my wife. You sheltered her. You hid the rot behind your title.”

  “You think you know my daughter? She's your cousin. She wouldn't do that." Selwyn’s mouth twisted. "You’d throw her to wolves to look righteous.”

  “Righteous?” Felix’s voice cracked, low and sharp. “I’d give anything not to be standing here. But she made her choice.”

  Silence stretched—thick, candlelight guttering. Selwyn leaned forward, voice fraying. “You’ll regret this, Felicius. Even grown, you are too soft. The Wardens will never kneel to a boy.”

  “They already have,” Felix murmured. “They remember my father. They remember honour. And when they learn your daughter practised forbidden magic—”

  “Don’t you dare—!”

  “—drawing corruption into Firestone itself.”

  “You have no proof,” Selwyn rasped. “The servants said they saw her body—her lifeless body—taken out of that room. You tarnish her name and won’t even grant her burial.” His bravado flickered. “You disgrace our blood—marrying a lowlander, serving a foreign Count—”

  August’s gloved hand struck the table. “Enough. Gorda’s guilt is clear.” Then he stepped closer, voice soft and precise. “What I see is a guilty man protecting his own blood. You want to walk out of this alive? Then help us find her. Because I will find her, Selwyn—and she’ll pay for her crimes.” He lowered his voice, almost a whisper. “I can break your mind getting that truth, or you can give it freely. Your choice.”

  “You mean to execute her.” Selwyn slumped back, all the fight gone.

  “If she’s innocent, she’ll walk free,” August said, though even Felix heard the lie beneath it.

  Selwyn’s eyes found his nephew again—bloodshot, wet. “You’ve damned your own clansmen, Felicius.”

  Felix hesitated, jaw tight. “No, Uncle. You did that the day you looked away. Every time you fed Gorda’s delusions. Nursed her hurts.”

  The old man turned aside, shoulders sinking under invisible weight. For the first time, he looked smaller than the chair he sat in. In that flicker of doubt, August saw not a proud Chief but a father—broken, bewildered, desperate to believe the lie he had been told.

  The fire crackled in the thick silence.

  Selwyn’s jaw trembled. “This would have never started—if she’d left when she was supposed to.”

  “What do you mean, uncle?” Felix murmured.

  Selwyn faltered, eyes darting between them. “Crassus’ people reached out. Offered gold for help persuading the Renatii girl to leave Firestone. Ask Caelus—he was approached, too. Everyone was. I refused." He let out a bitter laugh. "Taking Renatii gold is a worse betrayal.”

  “And it seems,” August said, “your daughter did not share that scruple.”

  “She was wise to run. You’ve condemned her before giving her a fair trial.” Selwyn slumped back. “If a mountain woman doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be.” He looked at Felix, a ghost of pride in his eyes. His voice grew brittle. “And what of me?”

  “You’ll stay here,” Felix murmured. “Under Firestone guard. Until Lord Nocturne returns.”

  “A prisoner,” Selwyn said, voice lowering to a rasp. “For the crime of being her father.” His eyes lifted—bloodshot, gleaming with the last ember of pride. “When she comes back, she’ll finish what she started. And you’ll wish I’d raised her weaker.”

  August’s jaw tightened. Together with Felix, they turned without replying, the door thudding shut behind them both.

  The corridor smelled faintly of ash and cold stone.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” Felix said hoarsely. “Whoever Gorda had helping her, it wasn’t my uncles. She’d want to be in control. She’d—”

  He stumbled; August caught his arm.

  “Rest,” August said, letting his friend lean on him for a moment. “You need strength for what comes next.”

  “Three weeks until Nox returns,” Felix murmured, putting his weight back onto his feet. “I thought it was Saphira who needed him—but we’re just as lost.”

  “We’ll manage,” August said. “Gorda can’t touch us now—not that I know her magic signature.”

  “Gorda will try—she was always a poor loser,” Felix echoed, “but whoever she’s working with—that assassin—is what makes me lose sleep.”

  “We’ll find them.” August flexed his blackened hand, the skin pulling tight. His eyes lingered on the candle beside him.

  “Aye, before we lose anyone else,” Felix said, gripping August’s forearm. He tucked his arms into his cloak and walked down the hall.

  August watched him leave, feeling a sense of loss. Firestone is changing. We’ve splintered—the seven are gone, even if no one says it yet. We’re all pulling apart, each facing our own demons.

  What we forged in the pits will either hold—or break.

  “Whatever you do next, Gorda—we’ll be waiting,” he whispered.

  Outside, the wind howled through the watchtowers—winter holding its breath. The flame guttered and went out.