He's running out of time right now.
The black veins pulse, sending a spike of pain up his neck. August presses a hand to his throat, breathing through it the way he's taught himself to breathe through everything. The corruption is spreading faster than usual tonight. He's pushed too hard, helped too many spirits this week, spent too manyhours tracking the rifts and the rogue necromancer behind them. Every use of his power adds to the poison, and he is so close to the end now that he can feel it in every heartbeat, a clock ticking down in the spaces between his pulse.
A year. Maybe less. That's all he has left.
Which means he can't afford to waste what remains rotting in an Order prison cell while the real threat goes unchecked. If this stubborn, beautiful Templar refuses to listen, then August will have to continue his investigation alone. The Order clearly isn't on the right trail if they're trackinghiminstead, and he can't count on them to see this through. Not when they can't tell the difference between a man who comforts the dead and one who weaponizes them.
"I'm sorry," August says quietly, and he means it. The darkness gathers at his feet and surges upward through him to his hands, familiar and painful and necessary. "I can't let you arrest me. I have work to do."
The Templar raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't look surprised. He looks resigned. "You really want to do this? Fight a Templar? You'll lose."
There is no doubt in August's mind about that. Even as powerful as he is, even as long as he's been practicing, a Templar is still a Templar. They command holy magic and their very touch is agony to someone like him. The closer this man gets, the more August feels it, the blessings burning in his hand and on his blade, searing through the dark like acid eating through cloth. The sword is almost beside the point. All the man has to do is get close enough to lay a hand on him, and August is done.
He's never fought a Templar. But he knows how these fights go. Darkness is powerful, and death is eternal, but even death falters in the face of the holy and the blessed.
"I have no plans to fight you." August pulls on his power, feeling the shadows gather in his palms. It hurts worse thanspeaking to spirits, ice water in his veins, broken glass beneath his skin, but he endures it the way he always does. Quietly. Without ceremony. The shadows around him darken, thicken, answering his call. "All I need to do is slow you down."
He doesn't wait for a response. He throws his hands out and the shadows lunge forward like living things, grasping for the Templar's sword, his arms, seeking to bind him in place. The tendrils are thick and fast, snapping through the night air like black whips.
The blessed blade cuts through them like paper.
Well. He'd had to try.
August is already moving. He runs for the iron gates, pulling more shadow as he goes, flooding the cemetery with darkness to obscure the Templar's vision. The death magic screams through him and erupts outward, filling the air with the scent of ozone and decay. Every burst of power makes the corruption spread further, and he can feel it, new veins threading across his ribs like cracks spreading through ice.
His generous estimate of a year assumes he'll only be speaking to spirits for the rest of his life. These massive expenditures, pulling from his life force like this, are going to cut that timeline short. But what choice does he have? He can grieve the lost time later. Right now he needs to survive the next five minutes.
He can feel new veins forming as he runs, crawling across his chest and down his arms. His vision blurs at the edges. He pushes through.
It has to be worth it. It has to be.
The Templar is faster than August expects. Usually the powerful ones are cumbersome, weighed down by their own strength, but he's underestimated this one badly. He can hear boots striking stone behind him, feel the searing heat of holy light at his back as the Templar closes the gap with a speed that has no business belonging to a man that size. August throwsanother wall of shadow behind him, pouring more power into it despite the pain, despite knowing it's killing him faster, all he knows is that he has to get away.
The Templar crashes through it anyway. Like it's nothing. Like August's best effort is an inconvenience rather than a barrier.
August flings himself through the cemetery gates and out onto the narrow street beyond. The Old City is a maze, winding streets and leaning buildings, alleys that lead to hidden passageways, residents who are sympathetic to people the Order considers damned. He's lived here for eight years. He knows every shortcut, every side street, every place where the ley lines run strong enough to mask a magical signature. The Templar tracked him to the cemetery, but if August goes deeper into the district, he won't find him so easily a second time.
He doesn't stop. He runs as hard as his failing body will carry him, his jacket whipping behind him, lungs burning with cold air and exertion. The Templar curses and gives chase. If August were a betting man, he'd wager his stamina will outlast a fighter built for short, devastating bursts, but he's already been wrong about this man once tonight, and he'd rather not make a habit of it.
He sends tendrils of shadow back toward the Templar's feet, anything to slow him down, but the blessed blade cuts through those too. The weapon is a beacon that will draw every eye in a ten-block radius. Good. Let the neighborhood see. Let them watch a Templar hunting someone through the Old City at midnight, blade blazing, boots thundering across cobblestones. The locals will remember, and they'll be far less cooperative when the Order comes asking questions. The Old City protects its own, even when its own are death-touched and foolish and running out of time.
There's an alley ahead, barely wide enough for August's shoulders. He darts into it without thinking, squeezing betweenbuildings that lean toward each other like old friends sharing secrets. The Templar won't fit, too broad, too armored. August hears him skid to a halt at the entrance, swearing with a creativity that is almost impressive, and take off around the corner to cut him off.
It buys August thirty seconds. Maybe less.
It's enough.
By the time the Templar finds the alley's exit, August is gone, swallowed by the warren of streets and shadows he calls home. He keeps running anyway, pushing his body harder than he should, until he's six blocks away and the burning presence of the Templar's holy light has faded from his skin like a sunburn cooling in shade.
Only then does he let himself stop.
He leans against a brick wall in an alley that reeks of garbage. Presses both hands to his chest. Tries to breathe through the pain, the same way he breathes through everything, steady and deliberate and refusing to give in to the panic clawing at his ribs. The black veins have spread. He can see them creeping up his hands now, dark lines against pale skin like cracks in porcelain. They always start faint, a ghostly reminder of what he shouldn't be doing, and they darken the more magic he uses.
He's used too much tonight. Again. He always does. He always will. Because there is always one more spirit who needs help, one more ghost who is frightened and alone, and August has never been able to walk away from that. It's the thing that's killing him, and it's the thing that makes him who he is, and he stopped trying to separate the two a long time ago.
He closes his eyes and steadies his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth, the same technique he taught himself at twelve, when he was terrified of what he could do and had no one to tell him it would be okay. It helps, marginally. Thepain recedes to something bearable. He unclenches his fists and flexes his fingers until the edges of his vision sharpen.
He cannot afford to be fighting Templars when he's already on borrowed time.
