The storm had passed. Not the fever that still gripped August like a curse but the dark weight in the air. Morning light slanted in through the cracked shutters, painting stripes across the wooden floor and the rumpled cot where August lay, pale and unmoving.
Elias had not slept.
He sat in the corner, elbows on his knees, shirt open at the throat, hair tangled from worry. He watched August breathe shallow, slow, but steady and tried not to imagine how close it had been.
Outside, the port stirred.
Ships groaned against their moorings. Vendors called in creole and clipped English. The scent of brine and spice drifted through the window. Port Royal had awakened. And so would danger.
Elias rose.
He checked the doorway, then the hidden panel beneath the floorboards the one August had insisted they use for the coded maps. Still there. Unmoved. But something had shifted. The safehouse no longer felt… safe.
Someone knew they were here.
He felt it like a shadow in his spine.
Behind him, a rasp.
August's voice hoarse, cracked. "Water."
Elias turned at once.
"Still alive then," he muttered, relief masked as sarcasm. He knelt, lifting August's head gently and pressing a cup to his lips. "Careful. Slowly."
August drank, and for the first time in two days, his eyes focused.
He looked at Elias.
Then beyond him toward the window.
"Something's coming," he said. Not a question. A certainty.
Elias didn't ask how he knew.
He just reached for the pack under the bed and began to load the pistols.
Port Royal glittered in the morning sun a patchwork of sails, coral roofs, and clamor. But beneath the brightness, something darker had begun to stir.
Elias didn't notice it at first.
He moved through the harbor like he always did cautious, efficient, head slightly lowered, attention split between his goal and his shadow. He passed the tavern at the corner of Falmouth Street, checked for the signal chalked under the rain barrel (none today, then cut down the alley near the tailor's. Same routine. Same faces.
Except one.
A man across the square who lit his pipe three times in quick succession, then disappeared.
A woman with market baskets who never made a single purchase.
Elias felt it the shift. Like being watched through a mirror.
But he didn't stop.
(The Safehouse – Hours Later)
August still hadn't stirred.
The fever curled around him like a second skin, but his expression had eased slightly the pain less sharp around the eyes, the grip on the blanket slackening.
He didn't know it yet, but a knife's edge had begun to draw closer.
Across the street from the safehouse, a pair of figures leaned in the shadow of a collapsed archway, half-shrouded in climbing ivy. One of them tapped the butt of his dagger against the stone three times sharp, deliberate.
"He's alone again," the shorter one murmured.
"Good," said the other. "We wait until nightfall."
Back in the City
By midday, Elias had gathered what he needed a sealed envelope, a vial of ink, and the name of a man who might still owe him a favor. He stopped only once, ducking into a shaded alcove when he heard footsteps echoing too close behind him.
No one appeared.
Still, something felt wrong. Not loud, not obvious but wrong.
He adjusted the collar of his coat. Ran a hand over the small blade strapped to his lower back. Then turned sharply and took a different route home, one no one had seen him use before.
If they were watching, let them follow him into a dead end.
But when he reached the turn, no one followed.
They were too smart for that.
(The Safehouse – Late Afternoon)
The sun dipped low over the bay, casting gold on the rooftops. But the safehouse remained in shadow.
Elias pushed open the door with his shoulder, one hand on his blade. He stepped in silently, listening.
No creaking floorboards. No disturbed chairs. No overturned glass.
But the air felt... shifted. Warmer. Muddier. Like someone had breathed the space too recently.
He set the envelope down on the desk, crossed to the cot.
August hadn't moved.
Still flushed. Still unconscious. But
Elias's eyes narrowed.
He reached for his pistol without a sound.
Then, footsteps. Light. A single scuff just outside the rear window.
Elias didn't hesitate.
He spun, crossed the room in two strides, and flung the shutters open just in time to catch a flicker of movement vanishing down the alley below. A shadow blurred between walls and was gone.
"Damn it," he hissed under his breath.
He didn't give chase. Not yet. He turned back toward August, and for a moment, just stood over him tense, breathing hard.
Whoever they were, they'd gotten inside. And they hadn't hurt him.
Which meant they were watching.
Marking their patience.
That was worse.
Elias took the rag, rewet it with shaking hands, and returned it gently to August's forehead.
"You're not safe anymore," he murmured.
Then, sharper: "But I won't let them touch you."
Nightfall – The Safehouse
The shutters were locked. The lamps burned low. Elias sat beside the cot, knife in one hand, pistol on the table within reach. He hadn't moved in over an hour.
He didn't trust silence anymore.
August hadn't stirred. Not since Elias had returned.
But the fever still clung to him. His skin, pale and damp, had cooled only slightly. His breath came shallow but steady.
Until
A flicker.
A twitch in the fingers. A low, near-silent exhale through parted lips.
And then
His eyes snapped open.
Not with a scream. Not even a sound.
Just sharp, sudden breath like something submerged for too long had clawed to the surface.
August's gaze was unfocused at first. Then it sharpened. Landed on Elias.
And stayed there.
Elias dropped the knife instantly. "August."
No answer.
August blinked once. Twice. Then rasped, barely audible: "They were here."
Elias froze.
So he remembered the dream. Or maybe more than that.
"Yeah," Elias said quietly. "I know."
August struggled to sit. Elias moved to help, but August raised a hand trembling, weak yet somehow still commanding.
"I'm fine."
"You're not," Elias said flatly.
But August was already pushing himself upright, teeth clenched. He winced but. The fever was still there, haunting his bones but something colder had taken root in him now.
Focus.
Resolve.
"They'll come tonight," August murmured.
Elias didn't ask how he knew. He just nodded once. "I've locked the doors. Set the tripwire. I have the pistol. You don't have to do anything."
"I do," August said.
His voice was rough, but firm.
"We do."
(Later That Night – Safehouse Interior)
The fire in the hearth had gone low, its embers casting long shadows against the stone walls.
Elias rolled back the rug and lifted the loose floorboard. Beneath it: two pistols, a small pouch of powder, spare flints, and a dagger with a blackened hilt. He passed one of the pistols to August without a word.
August didn't hesitate. His hands shook faintly, but his grip was steady. He checked the chamber, then loaded with practiced movements.
Elias watched, jaw tight.
"You should be in bed."
"I was," August muttered. "Didn't help much."
Elias huffed a bitter laugh. "You're pale as bone."
"I'm breathing, aren't I?"
A silence passed. Weighted. Intimate. Tense.
Elias sat beside him. His voice lowered. "I saw the fever take you. You looked like you were dying."
"I've looked worse."
"I haven't seen it."
August didn't answer right away. His fingers brushed over the pistol's smooth grip. The warmth of the fever still clung to him, but his mind was sharp now. Clear. Even if his body wasn't.
"They were in the room," he said after a moment. "I didn't see faces. Just shadows. Watching."
Elias's gaze sharpened. "Dream, or memory?"
"Both."
August met his eyes. "And I think they've been here before."
Elias didn't ask how he knew. He trusted it.
"I reinforced the back window," he said instead. "Shutters are barred. But if they're trained"
"They'll find a way in."
August rose slowly, fighting the tremor in his knees.
Elias was at his side in a heartbeat. "You can't fight like this."
"Then I'll die sitting upright with a pistol in hand."
"Don't joke."
"I'm not."
Another silence. This one heavier. But not cold.
They began moving together wordless, synchronized. August lit the second lamp. Elias gathered powder. They placed weapons at each corner of the room. Daggers under the table. A knife in the crack beside the bed.
They weren't just preparing a defense.
They were making a stand.
Outside, the wind picked up. Somewhere in the alley, a dog barked. Then silence.
August paused near the window.
"They're out there."
Elias stepped behind him. His hand brushed August's arm a grounding touch, not a comfort.
"I know."
And in the lamplight, pale but resolute, August lifted the pistol and stared into the night.
To Be Continued