The light broke softly across the tall windows of the manor, golden beams weaving through gauzy drapes like ribbons of silk. Birds sang somewhere in the garden beyond, their voices light and teasing, as though the world had already forgotten the weight of the night before.
Elias stirred.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, there was no pain pounding behind his eyes, no fever dragging his body beneath invisible waves. He blinked up at the ornate ceiling, then let out a long, quiet exhale.
"Well," he muttered to himself, voice gravel-rough but whole. "That's more like it."
The bedding rustled as he sat up—slowly at first, just in case his bones decided to betray him. But they didn't. His limbs, though slightly sore, obeyed. The lingering ache from illness had slipped off him sometime during the night like a shed skin.
He called out, voice firm now. "Could someone prepare a bath?"
The door creaked open, one of the manor maids giving a startled curtsy. "Yes, my lord—right away."
As she vanished, Elias ran a hand through his black hair, tousled and a little wild. It felt oddly good to be human again—to not burn from within like a dying star.
The fever had taken him, yes—but barely. Barely a scratch. He could still hear August's quiet scolding if he were here: "You should rest another day at least, you brute."
But Elias was no porcelain doll. Fever might lay August low for three days straight, but Elias treated it like a mild inconvenience. A child's prank. He smirked to himself as he rose from bed, stretching tall enough that his fingers brushed the canopy edge. He could already smell the steam drifting from the bath chamber. Good.
Minutes later, submerged in a luxurious tub of hot water, Elias sighed like a man reborn. The heat soothed his muscles, the scent of bergamot and cedar curling lazily in the air. He sank deeper, eyes half-lidded, letting it wash everything away—fever, blood, memory, and ash.
By the time he was dressed—his shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled slightly, black trousers neat and soft around his long legs—he felt entirely himself again. No, better.
He stepped into the corridor with easy steps, boots striking polished floors with the quiet confidence of someone who had faced death recently and found it unimpressive.
When he entered the dining hall, however, he stopped.
Paused.
Stared.
"…What in the world," Elias muttered.
Before him lay no mere breakfast. It was a feast—an opulent, gloriously mismatched spread that looked as though every cook in the estate had been given a different idea of what breakfast meant and challenged to outdo the others.
Crisp honeyed pastries sat beside platters of roasted meats. There were fruits stacked like a summer market's bounty, golden breads steaming in woven baskets, thick-cut cheeses, and delicate tea cakes that glistened like sugared jewels. The scent was overwhelming: butter, spice, lemon, roasted fig.
Elias blinked again just to be sure.
There was not a single bottle of bitter medicine in sight.
"…Maybe I am dreaming," he murmured, and sat down slowly, as though expecting the entire vision to vanish.
He picked up a fork and—without ceremony—took a generous bite of something flaky and rich with cinnamon. He made a quiet sound of delight.
"I didn't eat anything sweet for days," he told the empty chair across from him, "and now you do this to me?" Another bite. "Unforgivable. Temptation, in all its forms."
He reached for a thick slice of soft bread, smearing it with cream and jam. Sweetness bloomed on his tongue like sunlight. A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
"August would be horrified," he added cheerfully, and reached for another pastry.
The sun had risen.
August hadn't noticed.
His ink-stained fingers curled ever so slightly against the desk, where parchment lay scattered like fallen feathers. Words filled the pages—neatly penned, ruthlessly organized—but none of them meant anything anymore. The candle beside him had long since melted to a stub, its final flicker lost to daylight now pouring in through the tall windowpanes.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
His vision blurred at the edges, not from tears but from sheer fatigue—his lashes dry, crusted with the sleepless hours he'd silently endured. The room had shifted hues without his consent: night fading into bruised blue morning, and then into a pale gold. But the ache in his chest lingered like a shadow cast by something ancient.
August straightened slowly, every movement deliberate and heavy. His body protested with a trembling refusal; there was no strength in his legs, no ease in his breath. But pride—his ever-burning engine—forced him upright.
You are the heir of glass and frost. You do not collapse.
He rose from his writing desk, pale fingers ghosting across the back of the chair as he steadied himself. The mirror across the room caught his reflection—sharpened by exhaustion.
His smoke-grey eyes were rimmed red from lack of sleep. Shadows pooled beneath them like ink spilled across porcelain. On his already-pale skin, the contrast was startling. He looked haunted. Fragile. Almost translucent, like something not quite alive.
But there was still poise in the way he stood, spine straight, chin high.
He turned and walked—slowly, carefully—into his private chamber, where the marble bath had already been drawn.
Steam curled like soft ghosts above the water, perfumed with sandalwood and crushed violets. He let his robe fall from his shoulders, the silk whispering as it slid to the floor. He stepped into the bath and sank down, letting the water lap against his bare collarbones.
And for a moment, just one flicker of breath—he let himself unravel.
The dream still clung to his skin like smoke. That boy. Her. The fire. The voice that said "you should protect him first from the world."
It wasn't the first time his mother had appeared in dreams. But this one had been different. So vivid. The way her arms cradled the boy. The fire swallowing her like a living thing. And her eyes… they had not looked at him with fear, nor blame. Only sorrow. Sorrow so profound it cleaved through the veil between memory and illusion.
He closed his eyes, the hot water creeping up his neck like a gentle tide. It soaked through his bones, but not his mind. That remained blistered and cold.
After a long time, he rose from the water, moving as if through syrup. He dried and dressed himself—not in soft linen or casual house robes, but in finely tailored attire. Layer upon layer: dove-grey shirt, deep navy waistcoat, long tailored coat of ash-blue velvet. His cravat was knotted with care, pinned with a silver brooch his aunt had gifted him years ago.
He dressed not for comfort—but for command. For armor.
August sat once again before his vanity mirror, combing his long platinum curls until they gleamed like moonlight over water. He braided them with ritual grace, each twist of hair a quiet defiance against the ghosts in his mind.
When he was finished, he looked at himself for a long time. The boy in the mirror was regal, elegant, distant. But behind his eyes—those red-ringed smoke-grey depths—was the burn of sleepless torment.
And still, he stood.
Still, he endured.
Even after the fire.
Even after her.
Even after him.
The halls were silent as August descended the grand staircase, one hand trailing along the carved mahogany banister. Sunlight poured in through the tall arched windows, catching on the gold leaf trim and the flicker of morning dust in the air. His boots touched each step without sound, like a ghost in human skin.
Though dressed in layers of elegance, his gait was tired, measured. The braid down his back swayed gently with each step, the ribbon at its end fluttering like a tired sigh.
His fingers were cold.
The dream still lingered, threading itself around his ribs like smoke with no source. He hadn't slept. Not a single breath of rest had passed through his lungs since that vision. Fire. The boy. Her. The words that looped over and over in his mind like a curse carved in whispers.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the scent of roasted spices and freshly baked bread reached him. It would have been pleasant—comforting, even—were it not for the nausea curling in his stomach like a coiled ribbon.
He entered the dining hall.
"Good morning," he said softly.
That was all.
No flourish, no comment on the hour or the scent of the food. Just that—two words spoken in a low, dry voice, like a fragile note plucked from a cracked instrument.
He had not expected anyone to be there.
But across the long mahogany table, amid the feast of meats and jams and exotic fruits, was Elias.
Elias—with a plate piled scandalously high, a fork in one hand and what looked like half a pastry in the other. His black curls were still damp from his bath, his skin flushed warmly, and his eyes—those vivid green eyes—lifted at once when he heard the familiar voice.
"Mmf—mm—good morning," Elias managed, still chewing, his voice muffled by the enormous bite in his mouth.
August blinked.
He wasn't shocked Elias was there for breakfast.
He was shocked Elias was alive in that chair, functioning like nothing had happened. As if he hadn't been writhing in fever, unconscious, burning like a match just two days ago. As if his body hadn't nearly broken itself from the inside out.
How? How was he fine now?
Not merely walking, not merely upright—but eating like a beast. His chair even creaked beneath him as he leaned forward for another bite of something meat-filled and steaming.
August said nothing.
He moved toward the table in silence and sat down gracefully in his usual seat, back straight, hands in his lap. A plate was already set before him. Bread. Preserves. Stewed apples. A thin piece of herbed chicken. All of it untouched.
He didn't even glance at it.
Elias watched him from across the spread, his fork stalling mid-air.
Those eyes.
They were still beautiful—stormy, smoke-grey, edged in silver light—but today they looked… frayed.
Exhausted.
And beneath them, shadows. Deep. Violet-black, like bruises pressed into snow.
Elias swallowed his bite, his jaw slowing.
He didn't sleep, he thought, his brow creasing.
Not a second. He could tell. He knew. August wore his exhaustion like a crown, regal even in ruin. But Elias could read the cracks now. The subtle slant in his posture. The thin way his fingers curled around the cup of milk as he reached for it—delicate, trembling.
Elias didn't say anything. Not yet.
He watched quietly as August lifted the glass to his lips and drank—not in gulps, but in the slowest sips imaginable. As if he were unsure if his body would accept even that.
No bread. No fruit. No meat.
Just milk.
The same way he used to drink as a child when he couldn't speak after… after that night.
Elias's hand tightened around his fork.
August, for his part, stared down into the milk like it might whisper answers. He wasn't truly present at the table. His body was there—composed, elegant—but his soul was lost somewhere between fire and fog. Each slow sip was a tether keeping him grounded, barely.
The air between them was quiet. But not empty.
Elias studied him—his movements, his paleness, the brittle silence. He wanted to ask what happened? He wanted to say you look haunted.
But not yet.
Not until August had finished his milk.
Not until those lips—those cold, slow-moving lips—weren't pressed to the glass like he was trying to drink back time.
He stayed up again, Elias thought grimly. Whatever he saw last night… it didn't let him rest.
And Elias had a very bad feeling that it had something to do with her.