The manor had begun to settle into its twilight hush.
Footsteps had grown softer, cloaked in the weight of a day half-drenched in whispers and decisions. The garden council had concluded just before sunset, its remnants still lingering like scattered petals across August's thoughts. He had spoken with clarity, held the room with his usual frost-bound composure, but even now—after the bowing courtiers and measured nods—his pulse beat slightly out of step.
A storm was building.
Not in the skies above, which were pink and unthreatening, but somewhere beneath his ribs.
The corridors were quiet as he walked. Candlelight spilled in golden lines across the polished floors, dancing along the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the unrushed rhythm of his stride. Every movement held deliberation, like a man measuring not distance, but consequence.
August paused outside Elias's door.
The scent of cooling fever tinctures still lingered faintly in the air—a mix of clove, basil, and something bittersweet. It tugged at memory. He didn't knock. Instead, he listened.
Inside, there was movement: the soft shuffle of cloth, a shallow breath being drawn and steadied.
Then Elias's voice, quiet but distinct. "You're hovering again."
August exhaled through his nose and let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. "You make it difficult not to."
He opened the door and stepped inside.
The room had changed since the morning. The shadows had shifted. The bed's rumpled linens bore the mark of a body that had wrestled both fever and its ghosts. Elias sat propped against the headboard, pale but unmistakably alive, his black hair mussed and his green eyes sharper than they had any right to be after three days of battling heat and hallucination.
"Your color's returning," August said as he closed the door behind him.
"And yours is draining," Elias countered softly. "When was the last time you slept?"
"I don't make a habit of recording such things." August crossed the room with quiet ease, choosing the chair near the bed and lowering himself into it.
There was a long silence between them, the kind that had weight but no pressure. Like something blooming slowly in the dark.
Elias's voice broke it at last. "I heard them say you led the council this evening."
"They made it easy."
"Did they?"
August's gaze flicked toward him. "Easier than some."
Elias gave a weak huff of a laugh, then winced slightly at the movement. "They should fear you more."
"They already do. But fear without direction breeds incompetence. I'd rather they serve from understanding, not superstition."
Elias tilted his head to study him. "And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"What do you serve from?"
August looked away, his gaze catching on the shifting firelight across the far wall. "Memory," he said at last. "And the stubborn refusal to let it rot."
There was something sharp in the silence that followed—something unsaid, but shared.
Elias adjusted the blanket draped over his lap, fingers lingering at the edges. "You've been walking. Thinking."
August gave a brief nod. "The west wing."
Elias looked at him then—not with suspicion, but with a sort of quiet, reverent knowing. "That's a long walk for someone who hates ghosts."
August's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've learned they linger whether I visit or not."
Neither spoke for a while.
The fire cracked in the hearth. Outside the tall windowpanes, twilight surrendered to a velvet night. Somewhere down the eastern wing, a distant bell chimed the eighth hour. Still, neither man rose.
Elias finally broke the stillness. "They'll ask more of us soon, won't they?"
"Yes."
"And we'll give it."
"Yes."
Elias closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were clear and resolute. "Then stay with me. For tonight. Just for a while."
August didn't answer. He simply rose, crossed the small space between chair and bed, and sat down on the edge beside him.
No more words. No confessions.
Only the quiet, steady hush of two men watching the firelight as night deepened around them, and a story—half-remembered, half-feared—waited in the darkness beyond.
August remained at Elias's side long after the fire began to dwindle. The soft rhythm of Elias's breathing had steadied, his features gentled by sleep. He looked younger like this. Innocent, even—though August knew better than to mistake softness for fragility.
His gaze lingered.
And somewhere in that silence, a memory stirred.
---
Once, long ago, he'd sat at a desk far too large for his frame, quill in hand, parchment clean and waiting. The study smelled of wax and lavender. The light poured in from high-arched windows, catching the golden threads of the rug beneath his feet.
He hadn't missed a single lesson.
His aunt had been there too—tall, regal, wrapped in violet silk that shimmered like a dusky sky. She'd stood near the hearth, watching him with something close to admiration as he bent over his copywork.
"So focused," she had whispered once, as though speaking any louder might break the spell. "My little prince of ink and silence."
August had not looked up.
Not until she left the room.
Only then did his hand still. The quill paused mid-curve, ink gathering like a storm at the tip. Slowly, he turned his head toward the window.
Outside, the garden was alive with shrieks of laughter and thundering feet. His aunt's husband's brothers and their spoiled offspring had taken over the grass. Boys with titles and polished boots, faces pink from sun and mischief. Among them, one figure stood apart—not for his finery, which was lacking, but for his solitude.
Elias.
Small, dark-haired, and armed with nothing more than a wooden stick he wielded like a sword. His movements were clumsy but determined, feet planted in the mud as though holding a line no one else could see.
"I'll be a hero one day!" Elias called, eyes bright. "I'll protect everyone! I won't let anyone cry!"
The words made August tilt his head.
He was watching when the older boy approached. Taller, smug. August recognized him—one of the cousins who always smelled like too much perfume and not enough discipline.
"Protect who?" the boy jeered. "With that twig?"
Before Elias could answer, the older boy shoved him hard. Elias fell. The wooden sword tumbled from his grasp and landed in the dirt.
Laughter erupted.
But Elias said nothing. He simply got up, brushed the soil from his knees, and walked away. Quiet. Proud. Alone.
August's fingers curled around the edge of his desk.
He stood, crossed the study, and slipped out the side door without a word.
---
The garden was still full of shrieking boys when he arrived—but the laughter died quickly when August stepped onto the lawn. He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. His expression was enough to cut through the heat like a blade.
"You," he said, eyes on the boy who'd pushed Elias. "Give me that sword."
"What? Why should I—"
The boy didn't finish the sentence. August moved so fast the others barely saw it—shoving the boy back and snatching the toy sword from his hand in one motion. The struggle was brief, but it ended with one boy on the ground and another staring wide-eyed, too stunned to speak.
August turned without ceremony and walked away.
Just in time for his aunt to appear.
She took in the scuffed knees, the flushed cheeks, the shocked silence of the noble brats. Her gaze softened the moment it landed on him.
"Oh, my angel," she murmured, gathering August's hand. "What did they do to you?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She simply whisked him away, scolding the others as they stammered excuses behind them.
Later, in the quiet hush of the study, she knelt beside him and dabbed ointment on the scrape at his knee. Her fingers were careful, almost reverent.
"Why did those naughty children hurt my angel?" she asked softly.
He opened his mouth. Then closed it.
Nothing came out.
His aunt smiled gently and tucked a lock of his white-blond hair behind his ear. "You don't have to say. I'll be watching you while you study."
He nodded.
"Hmmm."
And so he returned to his work, silence once again his armor.
That night, long after the halls had gone quiet, August crept through the corridor with bare feet and a blade in hand.
He opened Elias's door with slow precision. The boy was fast asleep, curled under a too-thin blanket. His pillow was damp with tears, though his face bore none.
August hesitated. Then he placed the wooden sword—cleaned, whole—beside Elias's head. Just so. A knight's gift. An oath, unspoken.
He lingered for only a moment, watching the rise and fall of Elias's chest.
Then he slipped away, unnoticed.
Back to his desk. Back to ink and silence.
Now, in the present, the memory faded like mist on glass.
August glanced down.
Elias was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. The fever had loosened its grip.
Carefully, August stood. His legs buzzed with numbness, and he had to grip the drawer beside the bed for balance.
He steadied himself. Exhaled.
Then, without another glance, he turned and left the room—steps soundless, shadows folding around him as he returned to his own chamber, alone.