August placed the glass back onto the table with a quiet clink. He did not speak. His eyes did not lift to Elias, nor to the untouched food spread before him. His hands, pale and long-fingered, folded in his lap for a moment—then pushed against the table's edge as he rose.
It was not graceful this time.
He stood too quickly, and his knees buckled just enough to betray him. But he caught himself with a hand against the carved chair, steadying his frame before it could betray more. His braid shifted behind him, brushing against his shoulder like the ghost of a gesture unspoken.
Elias moved to rise.
"August—"
But August was already walking.
Not with the smooth, drifting steps he was known for, but with the stubborn rhythm of a man dragging a crumbling temple behind his ribcage. His boots clicked against the marble floor, deliberate but dull, as though the sound itself had been softened by exhaustion.
"Wait—don't—at least sit—"
Elias's voice was quiet, but August didn't turn.
Didn't pause.
Didn't acknowledge him at all.
He exited the dining room like a figure in a painting stepping out of the frame, and Elias sat there, food forgotten, watching the silhouette vanish down the corridor.
He's going back to the study, Elias thought. Of course he is.
---
The door to the study opened with a soft, familiar creak.
The scent of old parchment, ink, and dried roses met him like an embrace—one that no longer warmed. August crossed the threshold and let the door fall shut behind him with a tired sigh.
The desk was still as he had left it. Stacks of documents, a folded letter—that letter—and a silver-tipped quill resting in the inkpot. The chair waited like a throne he never asked for.
He reached it.
One hand touched the edge of the desk for balance. The other braced against the leather armrest. His body felt like glass, and every movement risked a crack, a shatter. But he forced himself to sit.
The chair creaked faintly as he sank into it.
And for a moment—just one—he did not move.
He sat there, hands slack on the desk, eyes not quite focused. Not on the words. Not even on the ink.
Only the shape of exhaustion, hollowing him out inch by inch.
Then, slowly, he placed both palms flat on the wood surface. The coolness grounded him.
His fingers curled. Not into fists, but into something tighter. Determination, perhaps. Or defiance.
A moment later, he picked up his pen.
And began to write.
The quill scratched quietly across the paper, a delicate hiss like breath drawn through teeth. Outside, birds were singing—mocking things, so full of light—but inside, August's world was narrowing to ink, memory, and weight.
He would work.
Even if the ground beneath him was shaking.
Even if the flames still flickered in his mind.
Even if sleep had turned its back on him completely.
He would work—because the moment he stopped, he would have to think. And he wasn't ready to do that yet.
The pen faltered mid-stroke.
August stared down at the ink-slick word, his mind elsewhere—lost again in that dream. That dream that wasn't a dream, not truly, not anymore. It lingered too vividly. The heat of the flames. The child who wasn't his, calling "Mama." And her—the way her eyes, so like carved wood, had looked through him as if she were already dead.
His hand gripped the quill too tightly. A droplet of ink bloomed darkly on the parchment.
He blinked.
No—he couldn't ignore this. Not this time.
That letter. That damned letter. Its edges frayed with time, its ink older than it should be. How could something so ancient find its way to him now?
He drew in a breath, quiet and tight, and reached for the small bell beside the inkpot.
A single chime.
It didn't take long.
The door opened quietly, as though it were trying not to be heard. Giles stepped in, his hands folded, his expression polite—but August saw it now. The flicker. The tell. That tension behind his eyes, as though his skin was stretched over too much knowledge.
"Your Grace," Giles said with a slight bow. "You called?"
August did not greet him.
He set the pen down with surgical precision and leaned back slowly, folding one leg over the other.
"I'll ask you once more," August said, his voice quiet, almost gentle—but there was no softness in it. "Did my mother… have any relatives?
Giles froze.
A half-step back. Barely perceptible. But August noticed. He always noticed.
"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," Giles said, lowering his gaze.
August tilted his head.
"Strange," he murmured, his grey eyes sharpening. "Because when I asked you last night, your expression told me something else entirely."
Silence.
"You looked like a man who knew something but couldn't say it." August's tone did not rise—it tightened, like silk pulling into a noose. "Do you think I'm a fool?"
"No—never—" Giles took a breath. "I only—"
"Then answer me." August's hand curled against the desk. "Don't hide behind manners. Tell me the truth."
Giles's mouth opened, then shut again.
Nothing.
Not a word.
The silence between them stretched like a blade, sharp and terrible.
August leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaustion bleeding from his voice now. "It's all right," he said, gently. "Go. I won't ask again."
"My lord, if you—if you wish, I could bring something to eat? Even a little?"
August shook his head faintly. "No."
He didn't even look at Giles.
The man lingered a moment longer, guilt blooming in his throat like rot. Then, with a bow—lower than usual—he stepped back and turned toward the door.
As it closed behind him, the sound clicked like a coffin lid.
---
Giles stepped out into the hall, his breath shakier than he liked.
He hadn't taken more than two steps when he stopped.
Elias was standing there.
Leaning slightly against the archway, arms crossed, green eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with a quiet readiness, the kind of intensity that said he'd been listening long enough to hear what mattered.
"What's the matter?" Elias asked softly.
Giles hesitated. The weight of the unanswered question pressed against his chest like a stone.
"He's…" Giles exhaled. "He's changing."
Elias didn't speak. He waited.
"He stayed up all night. Didn't sleep at all," Giles continued, voice low. "Didn't eat. Only a glass of milk." A pause. "He says he's fine, but—he's unraveling, master Elias. I can see it. And yet—he pushes forward as though if he stops, the whole world might burn."
Elias's jaw tightened slightly.
"And you?" he asked. "You looked like a man with a guilty conscience."
Giles flinched.
He didn't answer.
But the silence… was answer enough.
The study was cloaked in the low hush of morning, soft sunlight bleeding through the tall windows and pooling like honey across the floor. The desk was covered in letters and half-finished thoughts, ink staining the margins. But at the center of it all sat August—still as sculpture, one hand raised to pinch the bridge of his nose, the other resting on a closed book.
Elias pushed the door open with the barest creak.
August didn't lift his head. "Didn't I tell you to go?"
But when he opened his eyes, it wasn't Giles.
It was Elias.
And Elias was already shutting the door behind him.
He strolled in like royalty who owned the very air, dragging one of the velvet chairs near the fireplace with a single hand and turning it to face August's desk. He sat with graceful indifference, long legs crossed, and regarded August like he was a puzzle written in a dead language.
"You stayed up all night again," Elias said, not as a question.
August didn't answer.
He simply leaned back in his study chair, spine loose with exhaustion, and closed his eyes as though shutting them might banish the ache behind them. As though sleep could be summoned by sheer will—even if he knew it would never come.
The silence stretched.
When he opened his eyes again, Elias was still watching him.
Still there.
That same furrow between his brows, a question in his face that hadn't yet taken form. And August, for all his silence, couldn't pretend anymore.
"Yes," he said quietly. Just that. A single, tired syllable.
Elias stood again.
Came forward this time.
August didn't flinch, but he didn't meet his eyes either.
"You should go rest," Elias said, his voice softer now. "You look like a hell."
August managed a dry smile at that. "Did I?"
"You do," Elias said plainly. "Worse than hell, honestly."
But August only shook his head. "I have work."
Elias stepped closer, now at the side of the desk, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the clutter of maps and scrolls.
The sight before him twisted something low in his chest.
August—always meticulous, always composed—now looked barely held together by the threads of duty. His smoke-grey eyes were rimmed with red, the delicate skin beneath them bruised dark with sleeplessness. His paleness, once ethereal, was now ghostly. He looked like a boy who had wandered too far into a dream and forgotten how to come back.
He didn't look real anymore.
He looked haunted.
"August…" Elias said quietly. "You can't keep doing this."
August exhaled through his nose, faintly. "I'm not a fragile Glass."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
Elias didn't reply at first. Instead, he reached down, placing one hand lightly on the desk beside August's.
"You're burning yourself alive," he said finally.
August looked up.
And for a flicker of a second—just a second—something inside him trembled.
"Rest," Elias said again. "Even for an hour. Or let me stay and help. But don't keep pretending you're made of stone when you're clearly—" He stopped himself.
When you're clearly falling apart.
August looked away.
"I don't want to sleep," he said, too honestly.
Elias straightened slightly, brow furrowed. "Because of the dream?"
August didn't speak.
But he didn't need to.
The shadows under his eyes, the way his fingers curled too tightly around the edge of the desk—those answered everything.
Elias sighed.
He moved around behind August's chair, and without warning, placed both hands gently on his shoulders. He felt the tension there. Like iron. Like rope drawn taut past its limit.
"You're allowed to be human, you know," Elias murmured.
There was a pause.
Then Elias—reluctantly, carefully—released him.
"Then at least let me be the strong one today," Elias said, backing away toward the door. "Just once."
He didn't wait for permission.
He just left the room—quietly, but not before glancing over his shoulder one last time, taking in the image of August seated at his desk like a pale flame on the verge of going out.