A man dressed plainly in black. Not part of the noble crowd. No insignia. No rank. Just gloved hands, a neutral mask of silver-lacquered leather, and wine he poured as if he belonged. But August had spent a lifetime reading shadows. This man moved too precisely, too rehearsed. He wasn't here to serve. He was watching.
August snatched a glass of wine, stepping into the crowd again. Pretending to sip.
He circled once. Twice. Then Elias's laugh rang behind him.
Turning, he saw him again—Elias reaching for another glass.
In one sharp breath, August moved forward and snatched the wine glass out of Elias's hand just before it touched his lips.
Elias blinked. "Seriously?"
"Do you know how many you've had?" August's voice was quiet, low, a thread of steel wrapped in velvet.
Elias raised his eyebrows. "Two. Maybe three. I think. I was—"
"Enough," August interrupted. "Go eat something. Before you collapse into a waltz with a statue."
And with that, he turned again.
He didn't see Elias's puzzled expression. He didn't hear the polite laughter fading behind him. He followed the masked man.
The servant moved fast, sliding between conversations and columns, cutting through a veil of dancers like a silent arrow. August trailed him, steps light as silk across the stone-tiled corridor that branched away from the ballroom's heart.
Deeper now.
The lights were fewer here, shadows pressed close to the walls, lanterns flickering like dying stars. August's breath caught in his chest. Each turn of the corridor brought only silence—rich, suffocating silence.
And then—gone.
The man had vanished.
He stopped, heart slowing into careful beats. He glanced behind him—empty. Ahead—nothing but the corridor's curve and the ghost of footsteps.
Then—a faint breeze. A click of heel. A whisper of movement down the corridor.
There.
August moved swiftly, turning down another hallway flanked by high stained glass and closed doors.
Stillness.
Then—a hand.
Clamped over his mouth.
Sweet. Sharp. Chemical.
A cloth pressed to his face—drenched in something that stung his lungs like fire. Chloroform.
He thrashed. Elbows jerked. He bit down—but the man's gloved hand held firm. Arms like iron. The hallway spun. His vision blurred at the edges like ink spreading across parchment.
"No—"
His voice never made it past his throat.
His legs buckled, crumpling beneath him like paper.
The man hoisted him up, throwing his limp body over one shoulder with practiced ease. August's silver-embroidered sleeve dangled, fingers twitching once—then stilled.
In the deep hush of the corridor, not a soul stirred.
The wind outside whispered through a high lattice window. Music echoed faintly from the ballroom beyond—still beautiful, still full of life.
And August D'Rosaye Blackwood was gone.
The ballroom gleamed on without mercy.
Laughter floated between chandeliers like feathers tossed in a golden storm. Couples danced in rotating elegance, masks flashing under candlelight, shadows twining like ghosts across the polished marble. Music swelled—first violins, then the gentle percussion of clapping heels and laughter.
Elias, with a half-eaten tart in one hand and a glint of mischief still lingering in his eyes, turned toward the place where August had last stood.
But the place was empty.
He blinked.
Still chewing, he turned again, eyes scanning lazily—at first—for the pale figure in ashen ivory, the silver netting that always caught light like starlight on snow. The soft threads of white-gold embroidery. The unmistakable silhouette that never quite blended in.
He should have stood out like a lone candle in fog.
But he wasn't there.
Elias lowered his tart.
He stepped away from the buffet table, gaze sweeping across the swirling dance floor. No August.
His pulse didn't jump immediately—August often slipped away to avoid crowds, or the noise, or simply because he couldn't stand people. Maybe he had returned to the carriage. Maybe he'd gone to the garden, or—
But no.
Elias turned again. Still no sign.
Now he moved—swiftly. Cutting between guests, a flash of dark silk against their glittering gowns and jeweled masks.
He checked the edge of the ballroom first, behind the columns. No flash of platinum curls. No pale hands skimming shelves or holding a wine glass. No August leaning against the wall with that quiet stare of his—the one that seemed to watch every secret like it already knew the ending.
Elias's brows pulled into a hard line.
He asked a nearby maid in hushed tones—had she seen the young master leave the room? She shook her head, eyes wide with concern. He thanked her and kept moving.
The garden.
Elias shoved open the tall doors to the rear courtyard. The air outside had grown colder, fog spilling across stone and hedges. Lanterns glowed softly like distant stars.
But August wasn't there either.
Now his breath caught.
Now his heart was hammering.
He turned back inside, his walk no longer calm—no longer elegant or slow. His boots clapped across the floor with purpose. People began to glance at him. His jaw was tight.
He found Everin near the corner of the dance floor, flushed from dancing, but alone. The woman who'd tried to steal his attention had long since slipped into the crowd.
Elias grabbed his arm. "Where is he?"
Everin's brow furrowed. "Who?"
"August."
Everin's eyes widened. "He left me during the dance—he said something was suspicious. I thought he went to you."
"He didn't." Elias's voice was sharp. "He didn't come back to me. And no one has seen him since."
Now Everin paled.
For a brief second, they both stood there—Everin's hand gripping Elias's sleeve, Elias scanning the entire room like a wolf poised to strike.
And then Elias's voice dropped, cold as steel. "He's not in the ballroom. Not in the garden. Not in the corridor. If he went to investigate something…"
"Then someone may have gotten to him first," Everin whispered.
The words struck deep.
Elias didn't speak.
He was already moving again.
The chandeliers still wept their golden light over silk and sequins, the ballroom thrumming with laughter, oblivious to the storm quietly forming beneath its polished surface.
But not everyone was blind.
Near the edge of the marble floor, where shadow and candlelight danced together like conspirators, she stood.
The woman who had moments ago spun so gracefully in Everin's arms, the one who sipped wine like it was nectar stolen from some forgotten god, now leaned against a stone column—smirking.
Her mask shimmered like shattered obsidian, delicate as lace, but her eyes—those strange, sharp, serpentine eyes—gleamed with quiet delight. She wasn't searching the crowd for her next partner. She was simply watching. Enjoying.
Watching Elias tear through the ballroom like a storm out of place, dark as vengeance and twice as focused.
Watching Everin pale and stiffen, confusion and worry battling inside his chest.
And she smirked deeper.
Her lips curled in a slow, knowing twist—not the flirtatious kind she'd offered Everin, but something darker, slick with secrets. Her gloved fingers tapped the rim of her empty wine glass once…twice…a slow rhythm, like the final chime before a coffin's lid shuts.
She turned to a servant at her side—one who hadn't been there before. He wore no house crest. His tray was empty. His posture too precise.
She handed him the glass, murmuring something beneath her breath in a language that did not belong to this kingdom.
He nodded once and vanished into the crowd like mist drawn through a crack in the wall.
She looked back.
Elias had stopped, speaking to Everin, tension woven through every line of his frame. They didn't see her. Not yet.
And she liked it that way.
Her gaze drifted lazily toward the grand staircase beyond the ballroom, where torches flickered and shadows ran long.
Where August no longer was.
She exhaled a slow, satisfied breath and whispered, as though to the night itself:
"Let the real masquerade begin."
Then she turned, her cloak rippling behind her like liquid shadow, and melted into the corridors—as if she'd never existed at all.
The masquerade's music still floated through the marble hall, but it was a hollow melody now, distant and thin—like the echo of something once joyful, now sick with dread.
Elias moved through the crowd like a blade through silk, his eyes storm-dark, scanning every face. He couldn't find him. Not a single glimpse of white-blonde hair. Not the glint of silver-threaded velvet. August was gone.
He turned away from the crowd, his smile gone. His breath caught in his throat.
The music kept playing.
But the moment their eyes met—Elias and Everin—there was no sound at all.
Elias's stride changed. He crossed the room in long, furious steps. People parted. Nobles and masked ladies moved aside instinctively, as if they felt something terrible approach.
Everin stood still, unmoving, as Elias came to him.
Elias grabbed him by the collar of his deep rosewood tunic and yanked him forward, nearly lifting him off the ground.
"What did you do? What the hell did you do to him?!"
There was a hush around them. Dancers slowed. The music faltered for just a beat, a sour note trembling through the strings.
Everin didn't fight. He didn't blink. Instead, he lifted his hands—and removed his mask.
It fell away like a lie unraveling.
The candlelight caught the truth.
Elias's breath left him.
It was him.
That face. Those soft, boyish features sharpened by guilt. The one from the shadows of August's past. The one who had stood by and watched as the tides of betrayal swept through Blackwood Manor.
"You," Elias breathed, in disbelief.
"Yes," Everin said. His voice was steady. "Me."
Elias's hand fisted tighter in Everin's collar.
"You have no right to stand here. You have no right to look for him."
"I didn't come to hurt him," Everin said. His voice cracked. "I came to see him again. Just once more."
"You bastard have you forgot what you did to him."
Everin closed his eyes for a second, like it physically hurt. Then opened them again, filled with something raw.
"Do you think I haven't suffered for it? Do you think I sleep at night? I adored him—I adored him since the moment I first saw him. But he never looked at me. Not the way he looks at you."
The words struck like blades.
Elias didn't loosen his grip.
"So you used your schemes. You manipulated him. You tried to cage him—"
"Because I didn't know any other way!" Everin shouted, voice cracking. "Because I was only child and desperate and full of fear. I made mistakes. But I never wanted him hurt. I just wanted him to see me."
Elias's voice dropped into a dangerous whisper.
"If anything happens to him tonight—anything—you will never see the light again. I swear it, Everin. I will burn this entire kingdom just to find him."
Everin's lips trembled.
"Then start with me. I deserve it. But I didn't do anything tonight. I didn't even get close. To any schemes All I did was dance with him and wish the world was different."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, Elias shoved him back.
Everin stumbled, but didn't fall. He stood straight again and stared at Elias, guilt and sorrow coiling in his throat like smoke.
"I'll help you find him," Everin said. "Whether you believe me or not. Because I'd rather die than let something happen to him."
Elias didn't respond right away.
But in his clenched jaw, in his trembling breath, there was something almost broken.
He turned away.
And the search for August began anew.