Song vibe: Burn It – Agust D ft. Max

  __________

  AUGUST

  The Halls, Firestone

  Hands ready on their weapons, August paced through the halls with Lysander, boots striking stone in a clipped, urgent rhythm.

  Two long-range, offensive specialists. Not ideal. August tapped his side, feeling his sword at the ready. My skills pair best with Rell—or Val. And always Nox. But Rell won’t leave Saphira’s side. And Felix—but he's the spine holding the festival upright.

  They rounded a corner and nearly collided with a knot of guards running hard in the opposite direction, armour clattering, breath sharp with urgency. The men stopped to hold a brief salute.

  “Stop!” Lysander snapped. “Where are you going?”

  “Intruder on the western wall!” one guard shouted back, already half-turned. His eyes flicked to August. “You ordered all hands to defend it, my lord!”

  A chill slid through August’s chest.

  So it used my voice. Bastard.

  “Plans have changed,” August barked, voice cutting clean through the din. “Two-thirds of the guard to the Great Hall. The remaining third to the Solar—let no one inside.” He took a step closer, pinning the man with his gaze. “After I gave those orders, what direction did I go?”

  “Toward the courtyard, my lord.” The guard swallowed nervously.

  “Then stay away from it,” August snapped.

  The guards hesitated only a heartbeat—then broke and ran.

  August exhaled once and kept moving.

  “The facestealer?” Lysander asked as they pushed forward.

  “No doubt,” August replied. “My syndicate confirmed Gorda’s signature near the courtyard. This was her final misdirection.” His jaw tightened. “I bet it’s meeting her. Switching faces. Ending the game.”

  “It won’t touch Saphira,” Lysander said, voice hardening. “We’ll get there first.”

  August flexed his hand, feeling the tight patches of blackened skin.

  As they ran, the air itself began to feel wrong—thick, charged, threaded with something sharp and invasive. He had felt it before, faintly, and always dismissed it as the low murmur of mountain magic, the half-wild practices of forest folk buried deep in the ranges.

  But all along, this was deliberate. Focused—undoubtedly Gorda.

  He shoved open the main doors. Rain slammed into them—cold, relentless, seeping through cloth and armour.

  “Just our luck,” Lysander muttered, already drawing his bow, eyes scanning the courtyard. “Where is she?”

  “The chapel,” he replied.

  Lysander followed his gaze.

  The stone was drenched by rain, and the lock was gone from the chain. Inside, the windows remained unlit.

  “Convenient,” August muttered. “And predictable.” His mind raced ahead, mapping angles, weighing the consequences. “It's unguarded. Close enough to bleed influence into the Great Hall—easy enough to make a quick escape.” He paused. “And if she had my face…” His mouth thinned. “She had access to anywhere in the keep she wanted.”

  They took the steps two at a time, boots splashing through pooled water, rain streaking down their faces.

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  Every instinct screamed the same warning: She knows we’re coming. And she’s waiting.

  “We’re being followed,” Lysander snapped, already turning.

  August pivoted with him.

  The figure halted several paces back—slender, poised, rain-slick stone at her feet. She wore a servant’s cut coat, tailored for movement rather than disguise, the hood pulled low. A wrap covered the lower half of her face, leaving only dark, alert eyes visible.

  Familiar—the new girl who follows Saphira around. What was her name again? That’s right, Maxine.

  “What’s your name?” Lysander asked, one hand loose near his blade, smirking as if he already knew the answer.

  “Lily,” she said. Her voice was steady, unhurried. “Lady Saphira sent me. You’re hunting a facestealer. My organisation has dealt with them before.” She paused. “I can help.”

  Above: 'Lily' offers her services.

  August’s gaze tracked the details automatically—balance centred, shoulders loose, weight already angled to move. A fighter. Trained. Not pretending.

  He glanced at Lysander. Similar fighting style. His reach is better. He's stronger.

  We need a shield—but two blades will serve better.

  Still—

  “Show me your face,” August said. “Then I’ll trust you.”

  “That won’t happen.” She shifted slightly—not retreating, not advancing. “If that’s a problem, I’ll step away.”

  “Stay,” Lysander said at once.

  August looked at him.

  Trust me. Lysander met his eyes—brief, intent.

  August weighed the decision for half a breath. “Alright, Lily,” he said finally. “But don’t get in the way.”

  The corners of her eyes wrinkled as she smiled under the wrap. She fell in beside them without being told, matching their pace easily.

  “Gorda’s in the chapel,” August said quietly as they moved. “We’ll need a distraction. She senses emotion—proximity. If we walk in clean, she’ll feel us before we strike. Let's surprise her."

  “How angry will Nox be if we damage sacred property?” Lysander murmured, thumb brushing the fletching of an arrow.

  “I’ll take that lecture later,” August said. "What’s your plan?"

  "Fire." Lysander grinned. “I can set it up fast—but I'll need your help. She won't expect it in this weather.” He glanced toward the courtyard ahead. “Lily. Clear any remaining guards. If Gorda gets hold of them, she’ll turn them into obstacles.”

  “Agreed,” August said. “I’ll give the signal.” He paused. “That thing wearing my face is fast.”

  “I'll be faster.” Maxine’s eyes flicked toward the chapel, then back to August.

  "You’re confident.” August’s gaze sharpened.

  “I’m prepared,” Maxine replied. “Just like you.”

  A spike of anger surged through August—hot and sudden. He cut his eyes left and saw Lysander’s face tighten, jaw clenched as if fighting the instinct to charge the chapel outright.

  Gorda’s pushing us, trying to get us to attack head-on. But we won’t bite.

  They prepared, and when they were in place, August lifted two fingers—sharp, precise.

  The signal. Go.

  Lysander moved instantly. His arrow sliced through the rain, its path blurred by the downpour. The first struck true, shattering a chapel window in a spray of glass.

  August reached outward, pulling at the surrounding water.

  The rain stopped mid-air.

  Each droplet hung suspended in the air, a glimmering field of beads caught between heartbeats. In that impossible stillness, Lysander loosed again—this time a blazing arrow, flame coiling tight around the shaft. It punched clean through the broken window.

  Another arrow followed. And another.

  Above: August holds the rain still while Lysander fires.

  August held the rain as long as he could—muscle burning, flesh blackening, breath locking in his chest—then released it all at once.

  The downpour crashed back into motion.

  They waited.

  A dull orange glow bloomed behind the chapel walls. Smoke seeped through the shattered window, thickening, curling, as the fire ate the old wood inside.

  Then, the chapel door burst open.

  Above: Gorda emerges.

  Smoke billowed out in a choking wave, and Gorda stumbled through it, coughing hard, one hand braced against the stone as rain drenched her cloak.

  Behind her, a second figure emerged.

  There’s the facestealer.

  Moonlight struck its face, and August’s stomach tightened. Pale. Slender. Every line was identical to the one he saw in the mirror each morning. But it moved wrong—too smoothly, too carefully.

  A cheap imitation—and its time is up.

  The creature sneered, its face shifting, the sheen of its hair changing as it dampened in the rain. Fresh blood dripped from its mouth.

  That's why she was there—that thing is stealing another face. We won't let it change again.