The clash of steel echoed through the study chamber, a sharp, dissonant counterpoint to the deep, ragged breaths of the combatants.
August gritted his teeth, the unfamiliar weight of his father's sword almost pulling his stance off balance.
He felt a surge of humiliating heat when the assassin mocked him, a venomous whisper in the whirlwind of the duel.
"Have you ever pay attention to your body? I almost mistake you for a fragile girl."
The words struck deeper than any blade, spurring a raw, desperate ferocity. August drove his sword forward, the raw, untapped power of his rage fueling a harder, faster series of parries and strikes.
Across the room, Elias and Kelian were a blur of cold steel and lethal intent. Elias moved with the disciplined, brutal efficiency of a trained soldier; Kelian with the mocking, playful sadism of a high-ranking predator.
"Our master also wants your head," Kelian's voice was a chilling sneer, his blade dancing dangerously close to Elias's throat. "But removing that brat will be too much easy since that brat knows our forbidden kingdom."
"First, you figure out how you'll manage to get away from me," Elias barked, his eyes blazing with protective fury as he shoved Kelian back.
Kelian twisted his mouth, a gesture of pure, petty annoyance. "Quite the rubbish."
Elias, momentarily distracted by a surge of concern, caught sight of August struggling. "Didn't I want you to not get yourself into trouble?" he yelled, his voice strained.
"Shut your crap!" August shot back, his breathing heavy, sweat slicking his grip on the hilt.
"If anything happens to you, Lady Katherine will be disappointed in me," Elias pressed, the burden of his oath weighing heavily even mid-fight.
"I am not a child anymore!"
Kelian seized the moment, his voice laced with venomous amusement. "You can't beat me, you wild boar!"
Elias's teeth ground together. With a sudden, explosive burst of energy, he delivered a savage, powerful kick to Kelian's stomach. The force sent the assassin sailing backward, a crumpling figure who slammed into a towering mahogany bookshelf. Books rained down like an intellectual cascade, the sharp snap of breaking wood punctuating the silence.
Elias didn't wait. He sprinted, his body a missile of pure momentum, and with a swift, brutal slash, cut down the assassin who was pressing August. The man fell, a silent, bloody heap.
August leaned on his sword, chest heaving, utterly winded.
"You can't even finish those lower ranks," Elias said, his tone devoid of sympathy, thick with adrenaline-fueled frustration.
August's face flushed scarlet with fresh humiliation. "I never ask for your help! I was doing it myself!"
"If I wait two minutes more, perhaps you will be dinner right now," Elias retorted, a harsh, undeniable truth.
From the wreckage of the bookshelf, Kelian slowly rose, a thin line of blood trickling from his lip. "You will pay for this, you bastard!" he roared, his voice raw with a blend of pain and indignity.
"I am ready for it. It is you who is too weak," Elias's retort was a blade of ice, slicing through Kelian's bravado.
August felt a bitter twist of jealousy at Elias's effortless display of power, his unwavering presence. The humiliation was a knot in his gut.
Kelian, unable to bear the scorn, leapt. His speed was frightening, a sudden, blinding flash of movement that closed the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat.
Elias instinctively stepped in front of August, his shield against the world. Blades clashed once more.
Kelian smirked, a sliver of malice in his eyes. "You think you can stop me, from killing that brat, I'll kill him before your eyes."
Elias's jaw locked, his shock at the assassin's immense speed momentarily paralyzing him. He recovered instantly, a roar tearing from his throat. "As long as I am alive, you can't do anything!"
"We will see about that," Kelian hissed, and the lethal ballet of their duel resumed, a furious, blinding exchange of blows.
In the drawing room, Lady Katherine moved with the savoir-faire of a seasoned duelist. She was not merely a noblewoman fighting for survival; she was a woman whose every precise, graceful movement spoke of a hidden, rigorous education.
Everin, still amateur, felt the shameful weight of his inhibition under the heavy velvet table, the sounds of the conflict mocking his stillness. His aunt had expressly forbidden him to move, a command he dared not disobey.
Lady Katherine, agile despite her delicate clothing and heels, advanced with unnerving speed.
Elysian Nevan was forced into a series of hasty, almost desperate dodges. He, the ranking assassin, was being driven back by a mere lady. The audacity!
In a final, swift flourish, Katherine struck. Her silver hairpin, an ornate piece of jewelery, sank into Elysian's cheek. It was a shallow cut, but a clear victory of finesse.
Elysian merely smiled, a predatory curve of his lips, despite the blooming crimson mark. "Not bad."
"You dare to enter in my territory? You still dare to, after everything you took?" Lady Katherine's voice was low, yet resonant with a deep, personal grievance.
She fought with a power and agility that was no accident. The man who had trained Elias—a loyal, generous general and a trusted friend—was also her confidante. Caldris Rheyne, the one who had sent the anonymous letter, had known of the danger to Elias. Katherine had not hesitated, sending her charge to be honed into a weapon.
A sharp, precisely aimed kick from Katherine struck Elysian Nevan's stomach. The assassin, reeling, was forced to confront his catastrophic error: he had grossly underestimated her. His pride, his standing as the Number One ranked killer, was being stained by this woman.
She struck her hairpin again, a thousand times in a fraction of time, a blur of silver.
Elysian's playful demeanor vanished.
He would not, could not, treat her as an easy threat any longer. He retaliated with a brutal strike of his own, then attempted to spring away, towards the arch window, seeking momentary respite.
"Scared already?" Katherine taunted.
Elysian clenched his jaw, fury twisting his handsome features. He lunged back. Katherine, however, was faster. Those elegant heels did not hinder her; they seemed to propel her. She spun, and the hairpin found its mark again, sinking deep into his leg.
Wincing, Elysian retreated, abandoning his whip and drawing his heavy blade—a grim acknowledgement of her skill.
Meanwhile, outside the imposing walls of the Blackwood Manor, a new tension was brewing. Troops from the Valemont estate arrived. Everin's worried parents had sent an entire company for his retrieval, knowing his penchant for sneaking into the house again.
A carriage door opened, and butlers emerged, their faces etched with concern. They approached the wide, obsidian gates, sensing the eerie absence of guards.
As the massive doors creaked open, Giles was pottering in the kitchen, a quiet island in the gathering storm. He was finished with his chores, momentarily confused by the house's unnatural silence. Then, he saw it: a streak of crimson on the polished hallway floor.
He gasped, his attention drawn to a crumpled figure. A maid. Slaughtered.
Giles crouched, his hands shaking as he confirmed the horrific truth. She was dead.
Terror galvanized him. August. The thought alone propelled him into a frantic sprint towards the study chamber, his heart a frantic, violent drum against his ribs.
Down another long, shadowed hallway, Lirael struggled, his efforts muffled against the powerful, careless grasp of Samuel.
Samuel's disinterest was turning to a bored annoyance. The masked man, a silent, menacing force, was yet to engage him fully.
"How can he move," Samuel purred, licking his lips with grotesque relish, "when I got his beauty?"
The masked man's jaw was a granite mask, his hands clenched into trembling fists.
"You perverted bastard! Let go of him! You will regret everything, I swear!" his voice was a low, terrifying snarl, the threat absolute.
Samuel, revelling in the moment, spoke a casual horror. "Ah, wait, seriously, I didn't come here to be all lovey-dovey. I am here to slaughter a boy named August."
The masked man's control snapped. "You still daring to harming that boy?!"
Samuel smirked, dragging his gaze from Lirael's throat. "Well, my mission was like that, but since I met this beauty..." He dipped his head, a sickeningly deliberate gesture, and licked the blood from Lirael's throat.
Lirael struggled harder, a desperate, futile thrashing, but Samuel's grip was iron. "Ah, na na na, don't even try. I couldn't just stand and didn't taste this beauty. Well, our enemies do really have such beauties, and that is kind of unfair."
The masked man was a living furnace of incandescent rage. He cared not for kingdoms or consequences; if Lirael was harmed, he would burn the world to ash.
Samuel, blinded by his own casual cruelty, committed the ultimate transgression. He lifted Lirael's chin, and with a sickening force, he deliberately kissed him.
Lirael, who had known rejection and been used but never violated with such brazen malice, felt a profound, burning wave of humiliation. He reacted instinctively, biting Samuel's lip with all the desperation of a cornered animal.
The masked man lost all semblance of reason. He didn't walk; he teleported, a blur of devastating speed. He delivered a punch so brutally powerful to Samuel's stomach that the assassin felt the sudden, shocking taste of his own blood collecting in his mouth.
Samuel spat it out, his eyes wide with genuine shock at the masked man's unimaginable speed.
The masked man, his movements now infused with a possessive ferocity, seized Lirael by the waist and hauled him back, pulling the smaller man into the safe harbor of his own body.
He looked down, his terrifying mask obscuring a world of concern. "Does... does it hurt?"
Lirael, lost and confused, merely shook his head.
The masked man turned, his entire posture shifting into one of merciless execution.
"You dare to lay your filthy hands on my people?" he barked.
Lirael froze, his mind reeling. His people. A strange, overwhelming wave of warmth and shyness washed over him, even in this maelstrom of violence. He blushed, a deep, hot crimson spreading across his neck.
The masked man, focused solely on the punishment to come, moved with a devastating, ruthless efficiency. He was now perfectly strong, perfectly focused. Samuel, now truly afraid, struggled to dodge, but it was a futile effort. He had crossed a boundary, and the retribution was absolute.
The wide, imposing doors of the Blackwood Manor were flung open, admitting the Valemont troops. The soldiers, uniformed and disciplined, halted almost simultaneously. Their shock was immediate, visceral.
The grand hallway, usually a testament to quiet elegance, was a charnel house. Maids, footmen, and other servants lay in grotesque, silent disarray—victims of the initial, brutal sweep.
A wave of dread rippled through the ranks.
"Master Everin!"
The calls echoed, frantic and loud, the sound of too many hurried footsteps reverberating through the vast, cold chambers.
Under the drawing room table, Everin recognized the familiar, protective clamor. He felt a sudden, exhilarating surge of power.
"They are here," he whispered, a tremor of relief in his voice.
He moved too quickly in his eagerness, his head striking the underside of the heavy table.
He hissed, clutching the bump with both hands. "Ouch, it hurts!"
Lady Katherine, meanwhile, had driven Elysian Nevan to a point of forced stillness. He was cornered, bleeding, and profoundly surprised.
She crouched with an effortless grace that belied her station and attire.
"So, would you still not give up?" she asked, her voice an intimate, lethal purr.
Elysian couldn't fathom it—how this woman, clad in fragile silks, possessed such agility. The way she moved, the almost acrobatic precision of her feints, was unnerving.
"Are you surprised?" she continued, her eyes holding a glint of steel. "I've done that dance before."
Elysian smirked, trying to mask his chagrin with bravado. "Is that it?"
He attempted to stand, to find the necessary purchase for a quick escape. He was merely injured, not incapacitated; surrender was not in his lexicon.
But Katherine was faster. Her jeweled hairpin, the makeshift weapon, lifted his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. The pressure was a cold, sharp reminder of her immediate advantage.
"Now, since you are under my territory, tell me: What purpose you all had, and who is your master?"
Elysian spat a mouthful of blood onto the polished floor.
"Why should I tell you?"
Lady Katherine's mouth twitched, a minuscule expression of annoyance. "Quite the nerves you have here."
At that moment, the escalating shouts of the soldiers pierced the drawing room's relative quiet.
She turned her head just in time to see Everin scramble away from under the table.
"Everin!" she barked, a sharp reprimand.
"Aunt! The soldiers! They came!" Everin cried, already heading for the door.
Lady Katherine rolled her eyes, a gesture of weary familiarity. "As expected of Valemont."
Everin burst into the hallway, which was now thronged with the dark uniforms of the Valemont company. His butler, a man named tilemont, rushed forward, his face a mask of frantic relief.
Everin ran towards him, burying his face into the butler's familiar embrace, the tears finally starting to fall, breaking his earlier composure.
"My Lord! Thank God you're alright!" Tilemont wept.
"I am fine, but Aunt… the assassins!" Everin choked out, his voice thick with fear.
The Valemont soldiers instantly stiffened.
They had seen the bodies, but the identity of the perpetrators was a greater terror.
The word travelled through the ranks like an electric current, chilling the blood of every professional warrior present: "Eclipse Elite."