Before Morning "Everin's point of view"
A pale sliver of moonlight cut through the grand windows of Valemont Manor, brushing against the polished floor like a ghost that refused to leave. Inside the vast drawing room, the heavy tick of a grandfather clock echoed with theatrical finality, announcing the hour with twelve solemn chimes.
At the center of the room, beneath a gilded chandelier, Lord Caldre Everin stood with his back to the hearth. His posture was elegant—unflinching, like a statue carved for war, not worship. His eyes, sharp and unmarred by fatigue, reflected the flames that danced at his back.
The old man seated across from him did not share his tranquility.
"Where is August?" his father asked, his voice rough with age and faint disdain. "It is unlike him to leave before addressing the House."
There was a pause—just long enough to feel intentional.
Everin's smile bloomed like something poisonous.
He turned toward the fire, letting the heat lap against his knuckles before speaking with a studied air of indifference. "August received word of a political matter requiring his attention. A letter, from a diplomat in Port Royal, I believe. He left during the night."
His father's gaze narrowed. "He didn't mention it to me."
Everin turned fully, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was smooth, unshaken. "It was all quite sudden. He asked me to convey his apologies."
A flicker of doubt stirred in the old man's eyes, but Everin did not give it time to breathe.
"He looked rather pale, truth be told. I advised against the journey," he continued, voice silk-wrapped in concern. "But you know August. Once he's decided something, there's no swaying him."
The firelight flared as if on cue.
Caldre Everin gave a grunt and leaned back into the high-backed chair, aged fingers steepling beneath his chin. The silence grew heavier between them, stretching like a tightrope suspended over a pit of snakes.
But Everin welcomed the weight. He let it settle, let it smolder.
He turned slightly, gaze drifting toward the corridor beyond the archway, where a servant passed with hurried, muted steps. Not a trace of alarm. Not a murmur of truth.
Everything was still perfectly intact.
His father said nothing more. Not a single question. Not a challenge.
And just like that, the illusion held.
—
Minutes later, Everin returned to his private study, the very place that still pulsed faintly with the memory of August's shivering frame and half-lidded eyes.
He paused at the doorway.
A single wine glass sat abandoned on the table. The scent of aged cabernet clung faintly to the air, mingling with a whisper of something darker, something faintly bitter.
He stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
The fire in his study had dwindled, its flames more breath than blaze now, but the coals still smoldered, red and persistent.
Everin approached the velvet chair where August had once sat, drugged and drowsy, wrists twitching like the wings of a broken bird.
He traced a finger along the edge of the decanter, watching the ring of moisture form where August's lips had once touched.
"Beautiful even in resistance," he murmured.
He walked to the tall mirror near the window, the moonlight painting one half of his face in silver. The other half—dark, unreadable.
His reflection smirked back at him.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded handkerchief. In it, a single silver ring glinted.
August's.
Everin stared at it for a long time, then tucked it into a hidden drawer beneath the bookcase.
There was no need to rush. The game had only just begun.
He pulled the window open slightly and let the cold air in. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of hooves and wheels echoed into the night—departing. Far too late.
He smiled again, colder this time.
And returned to his desk.
"Present" " August point Of view "
August waited. For the silence to swallow everything. For the ache in his muscles to ease. For his pulse—wild and traitorous—to calm beneath his skin.
He slowly pushed himself up, his pale arms glistening under the remaining candlelight. His legs shook. He was exhausted, but there was no sleep waiting for him. Only the knowledge of what had happened. And worse—the knowledge of what could have happened had Elias not arrived in time.
Everin.
Even the thought of his name left a taste in his mouth like spoiled wine.
He rose out of the bath like a ghost torn from its grave, the towel falling into the water with a soft splash. Goosebumps bloomed over his skin as the chill clung to him, but he welcomed it. The cold reminded him that he was still here. That his body still obeyed him, even if barely.
He reached for the bell-cord and gave it a gentle tug.
Moments later, the door opened.
Giles appeared—stoic, measured, as always. But his eyes flicked quickly to August's frame, reading every tremor.
"Bring me something warm," August said quietly. "Extra layers."
Giles didn't ask. He vanished into the hallway like a shadow unhooked from the wall.
August sat on the cushioned bench beside the fire, wrapped in a heavy towel, waiting in stillness. The heat from the flames began to curl around him. But inside, he was ice. He had scrubbed his skin raw. It didn't matter. The feeling wouldn't leave. Everin's touch hadn't even lingered—and yet it haunted his flesh.
The door creaked once more.
Giles returned, silent, carrying layers of fine winter garments: a charcoal velvet shirt lined with silk, a high-collared overcoat in deep blue wool, and soft inner linens.
August dressed slowly. Layer by layer, he wrapped himself in distance. Silk over skin, velvet over silk, wool over all. Gloves over fingers that had trembled. Boots that held his weight, even if his soul wavered.
When Giles approached to assist, August waved him away gently.
"I'll do it."
It took longer than usual, but when he was done, he stood like a noble prince carved from snow and sorrow. Not a strand of his long white hair was out of place. Not a wrinkle dared to form in his coat. But his eyes—those eyes looked hollowed out by storm.
"Thank you, Giles," he said at last.
"Shall I prepare tea, my lord?"
"No. Just—just leave me."
Giles bowed and left, the soft click of the door behind him swallowing the air again.
August stood in the center of the room, clothed in layers that felt more like armor than comfort. Outside, morning had barely begun to paint the edges of the sky with color. A silver blue crept in, shy and distant.
He moved to the window, resting his gloved hand on the glass. His reflection stared back. A boy made of beauty and restraint. A man made of pain and silence. He didn't recognize himself.
Behind him, the fire burned low.
He whispered, not to anyone. Not even to himself. Just to the emptiness around him.
"Never again."
"Elias point of view"
The door shut behind him with a low, echoing finality.
Elias stood in the corridor, damp clothes clinging to his tall frame, steam still curling from his skin like the last remnants of a dream. The stone floor beneath his bare feet was cold, but not colder than the ache in his chest.
He had said nothing when August told him to leave.
Not because he had nothing to say, but because the look in August's eyes had said more than any words could allow. That brittle pride, that raw wound he wouldn't name. The layers Elias wasn't allowed to see—not now, not yet.
He ran a hand through his wet hair and sighed. Exhaustion dragged behind his ribs like a chain. He had not slept, not since the manor. Not since Everin.
His hands clenched at the thought, the heat returning, ready to rise and boil—but he forced it back. Now was not the time. Not when August was safe. Not when they were still alive.
A maid, young and quiet, rounded the corner and froze when she saw him standing in the dim hall like a ghost risen from battle. She bowed quickly.
"master Elias…"
"I need a bath drawn," Elias said, voice flat. "And clothes. Dry ones."
"Right away, master."
She disappeared, quick and wordless, and Elias turned into the guest chamber offered to him in the Blackwood Manor. It was vast, high-ceilinged, lined with books he had no strength to read and portraits that stared at him with hollow eyes.
He didn't bother sitting.
Instead, he stood at the tall window, watching the faint color of dawn begin to stretch across the sky. A cold blue blooming like spilled ink.
He thought of August—alone in his chamber, refusing help, building walls with silence and expensive fabric. He had looked so pale in the bathwater. So cold. And still, even drugged and disoriented, he had pushed Elias away.
He scolded me like I was the one who—
Elias exhaled, jaw tightening.
He's not himself, he reminded the flare in his gut. He was drugged. Hurt. He's trying to survive in the only way he knows.
Still. The words had stung.
The maid returned minutes later with steam trailing behind her and bowed low.
"It's ready, master."
He didn't answer—just passed her with a nod and walked toward the adjoining chamber where the bath waited.
The water was warm. Fragrant with cedarwood and clove. Mist laced the air, wrapping around the tiled room in gentle spirals.
Elias stripped out of the soaked remnants of his clothing, tossing them aside like old grief. The bruises on his arms earned from fighting Killian's forces and shielding August were beginning to turn the color of violets beneath his sun-kissed skin.
He stepped into the water, hissing softly at the contrast. Heat soaked into his bones. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to sink in fully submerging every limb until his ears filled with silence and the world vanished.
Only then did he allow the pain to flicker at the corners of his mind.
Not physical pain.
Something older.
Something heavier.
He didn't even look at me.
He surfaced slowly, water dripping from his lashes.
The truth was… Elias didn't mind the rejection. What he couldn't stand was the look August had given him—like Elias had become a mirror for all his shame.
He reached for the soap, scrubbing blood, ash, and smoke from his skin.
Once clean, he wrapped himself in a dark robe the maid had laid out, soft and lined with fur. It hung loose over his broad shoulders, the belt resting low on his hips.
He returned to the bedroom, and a fresh pair of clothes awaited him on the chaise: a crisp linen shirt, dark green breeches, and a black embroidered vest. Fine, but modest. He dressed quickly, fingers moving on instinct, thoughts drifting elsewhere.
August.
The bathwater.
The way his fingers had trembled before hiding his shoulder.
Whatever Everin did… I swear to God, I'll
He didn't finish the thought. Vengeance was a fire, and he could not afford to burn—not while August needed him whole.
With boots laced and collar fastened, Elias crossed to the table where a pot of untouched tea waited. He poured a cup, but didn't drink it.
Instead, he sat down heavily in the nearest chair, staring at the rising sun through the frost-laced windows.
It was going to be a long day.
And he would face it, like he always did.
With steel in his spine… and embers beneath his skin.