Song vibe: The Last – Agust D

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  AUGUST

  The Lord's Solar, Firestone

  The night before the full moon, August waited alone in Nocturne’s solar. Lamps burned high to scour every corner of shadow, and the oak table was already crowded with maps and weighted parchment. Together, they would run through the final plans, triple-check every role, every signal, every failure point—and then retire early, if any of them managed sleep at all.

  As he waited, August flipped through the correspondence, seeing if there was anything for him.

  More complaints about missing livestock in Hart Village. Fye, we gotta train Dusty to hunt game.

  Then, he noticed a small slip of paper left on the table, pale against the dark oak. It smelled faintly of lilies.

  So this is Nocturne's shadow, he thought. The so-called cousin Lady Beaumont promised—quiet and precise. But what if they’re the traitor?

  As he reached for the paper, the blackened flesh of his fingers cracked. He swore under his breath.

  Healing magic always took its price from him. The bloodline of every mage determined the cost of the life they paid for power, and for August, restoration demanded lifeforce in brutal measure. Elemental magic came more easily—fire, stone, force. But the easiest of all—the gift the Blackspire family had cultivated for centuries—was the control of other humans.

  He withdrew his hand for a moment, running his fingers through his platinum hair.

  I’ll stick to drawing wards, he told himself coldly. Though I’d like to give Gorda Sunfire a taste of her own medicine.

  Slowly, he unfolded the note and read the name.

  ‘Sir Augustus.’

  His fingers brushed the elegant script, as if to scrub the name away.

  My name, he thought. Written down like a common traitor.

  I walked away from the Archmage's seat to stand by Nox's side. Because of me, Hyland fears the west.

  This can't be a coincidence. This is sabotage.

  Above: August rereads his name.

  The door handle turned.

  August folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. He leaned back into his chair, pale face smoothed into a cold and unreadable mask of necessity—one he had learned young, and worn often, to survive the worst of his childhood.

  Rell held the door open, his gaze sweeping the room out of habit rather than suspicion, before he allowed Saphira to enter.

  “Good evening, August." She set her leather gloves neatly on the table and looked up at him with sharp violet eyes. “Drink?”

  “Please.”

  She poured two glasses of Nocturne’s gin, measured and familiar, and a half-glass of wine for herself.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Bad manners, Gramps,” Rell said, intercepting the glass on its way across the table and sliding it toward August. “You’re meant to stand when a lady enters the room.”

  “Take it as a compliment.” August lifted his glass to the firelight, swirling the clear spirit. “It means she’s one of the crew now. Crew is crew. No titles. No posturing.”

  “Nothing like justifying sloth as egalitarianism,” Lysander said smoothly, closing the door behind himself and Felix. “Easy on my gin, darling. I’d like to stay conscious.”

  “Only you,” Rell snorted, “would survive calling the lady darling while demanding she pour gin.”

  The room broke into insults and laughter, easy and familiar. August withdrew into it without joining, the glass cooling in his hand.

  Ever since Horrocks—ever since he had learned Gregor had succeeded in possessing his flesh—sleep had become unreliable. His syndicate had checked him again and again. Even Coral had tried, once, and failed to win command. He was certain of his absolute control over his mind and body.

  And yet—

  I can’t help but shake this gut feeling—that something is not quite right. My memory is foggy in places—people tell me that they’ve had interactions with me I can’t recall. I’m not sleeping well. I’m drinking more than what I should…

  Quietly, he slid the glass away.

  “You’re unusually quiet,” Lysander murmured, the humour in his voice thinning just enough to show concern. “What are you not saying?”

  “Nothing,” August replied, already standing. He handed Saphira a small linen bag, heavy with seeds. “This is from Verity. When it’s time for the blessing, throw the seeds to the crowd. Whomever gets the golden seed may have a request granted by Firestone. If there's a time to strike, it's then."

  "If Gorda doesn't try to stop the blessing before it begins," Saphira said.

  "Don't worry," Felix reassured, "We've accounted for everything."

  They ran through their plans again. Plans layered over contingencies, contingencies over fail-safes, fail-safes with their own quiet endings. On the page, it was flawless.

  Yet, August felt the familiar itch between his shoulders—the warning that something had been overlooked.

  Same as every spawnpit, he thought. Nox plans and trusts the rest to instinct. Felix fills what breaks. Valentino steadies the ground. Rell and Lysander throw themselves forward and dare the world to miss.

  August’s gaze drifted to the space Lucian should have occupied.

  I need Lucian. His mind moves sideways. He notices the cracks no one else does.

  When the last map was folded away, the tension around the table loosened as Lysander poured himself another drink. Saphira yawned, the edge of exhaustion finally breaking through her composure.

  “Shall we call it a night, gentlemen?”

  I can’t tell Rell—he’ll turn this into a siege. Lysander will laugh it off. Felix is the only one who’ll hear what I mean.

  August finished his drink in one measured swallow. The burn steadied him. “Saphira…Felix—would you stay a moment?”

  Rell was already on his feet, chair scraping back. “Come on, Lightweight,” he muttered to Lysander, steering him toward the door. “If Gramps wants to brood, let him.”

  "Night, little lady." Lysander shot Saphira a half-drunk grin as he went. “Try not to doom us all before breakfast.”

  “Goodnight,” Saphira said lightly. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”

  The door closed behind them, their voices fading down the corridor. The solar settled into a quieter stillness, lamps humming softly over the table where only three chairs remained drawn close.

  August slid the folded paper across the table. “Before you all came in, I found this.”

  Saphira opened it—and exhaled. She glanced at Felix. He squeezed her shoulder, solid and protective. “See?” he said quietly. “I said that you could trust him.”

  “You both…knew?” August asked, the word barely more than breath.

  Saphira nodded. “I’m sorry to put you to the test. But now I know.”

  “Foolish,” August muttered. “I could be handing it to you, knowing it would make you trust me more.”

  “You could have." Saphira met his gaze without flinching. "People who seek to abuse trust perform. You chose restraint.”

  Smart girl, August thought, a slow, reluctant respect settling in his chest. I’d have done the same. Fye, I thought she might struggle beside Nocturne—but it might be the other way around.

  “Gorda's magic can't negate my trust in you.” Felix squeezed his shoulder once. "Soon, all of Firestone will see how dedicated you are."

  “I’ve checked myself repeatedly,” August said at last. “My mind isn’t compromised. I want to question Nox’s ‘shadow’—to know what they’ve seen, who they’ve spoken to... and why in seven hells they wrote my name.”

  “They were clear,” Saphira replied. “If we know their face, they’ll leave. For now, their protection is worth the uncertainty.” The purple in her eyes hardened, as if she were weighing more than she said. “Maybe they just got it wrong. You’re easy to misjudge, August. But beneath the frost—you care.”

  “You’re going to make us soft,” he said, though there was no real edge to it. “I’ll stay alert. Shield my mind from Gorda’s influence. Her magic doesn’t behave like anything I’ve studied—she may already be manipulating in ways I—”

  “August.” Felix cut in gently. “You’ve done enough. Rest. Tomorrow we’ll need you focused. Deadly.” His gaze dropped to the empty glass. “Sober.”

  “Naturally,” August murmured.

  As he drew his warded silver necklace tighter around his neck, the familiar ache bloomed behind his eyes—a quiet warning. Tomorrow would take more than what he had ever given.