The corridors of Blackwood Manor stood hushed beneath the gentle weight of night. Silver moonlight slid like spilled milk across the marble floor, catching on velvet curtains and glinting off brass sconces. The servants had long withdrawn, their footsteps absorbed by thick carpets and heavier silences.
Elias emerged from the grand dining hall, the scent of smoked venison and wine lingering faintly on his sleeves. The dinner had been quiet—too quiet—despite its decadence. He had barely touched his plate, his mind already drifting ahead to the one place he could not forget. Not tonight.
Not when the study lights had still been glowing as he passed by earlier.
His boots padded softly as he moved toward the familiar door. He did not knock. Instead, he curled his fingers around the cool brass handle and pushed gently.
A hush greeted him.
Inside, the air smelled of old books and milk, faint lavender, and the burnt wax of an exhausted candle. The only illumination came from the hearth, now dimmed to embers, and a single silver candelabrum whose flames barely flickered in the draft. Shadows moved like silent dancers upon the stone walls.
There, slumped over the desk, lay August.
His head rested sideways against an open ledger, strands of moonlit white hair cascading down one cheek. His lashes, so pale they looked almost silvery, lay like brushstrokes on porcelain skin. His lips were faintly parted, breath slow and steady. He was finally asleep.
A drained cup of warm milk sat beside his hand, still faintly steaming.
Elias lingered in the doorway, unwilling to shatter the stillness. The quiet was a thing alive between them, sacred in its fragility. After a moment, he stepped forward and came to stand by the desk, his eyes roving with solemn care over August's peaceful face.
A ribbon lay useless at the nape of his neck, having failed to keep the silken braid in place. Threads of platinum hair had fallen loose, spilling like silver embroidery across his back and over the scattered papers.
Elias smiled softly, kneeling down beside the desk.
With slow reverence, he reached out and took one loose lock between his fingers, rubbing it gently between his thumb and forefinger. It was softer than any fabric he had ever known. Softer than sin. Softer than the memory of a lullaby.
He leaned closer. Close enough to feel August's breath brush his knuckles.
He dared not wake him.
With a careful hand, Elias slid his arm beneath August's shoulders and the other beneath his legs. The moment he lifted him, August stirred but did not wake. Only a small, contented sigh escaped his lips as he nestled instinctively into Elias's chest.
Cradling him like a sacred thing, Elias turned toward the door.
The halls of Blackwood Manor seemed to hold their breath as he walked.
He passed gilded portraits of forgotten ancestors, their eyes watching with velvet silence. A grandfather clock ticked in the distance, solemn and slow, like the heartbeat of the manor itself. A single candle guided him, trembling as he walked.
At last, they reached August's bedchamber.
With one knee, Elias pushed open the heavy door. Inside, the bed was turned down, as though someone—perhaps a loyal servant—had known he might not sleep in the study all night.
The room welcomed them with its warmth.
Carefully, Elias set August down upon the feather-soft mattress. The smaller man murmured something beneath his breath, still caught in dreams, and turned his head to the side. His hair fell like a curtain over the pillow.
Elias crouched once more, pulling off August's heeled shoes with patient hands. Then he rose, drew the quilt over him, tucking it beneath his chin.
He lingered.
Something in his chest stirred—something fierce and fragile all at once.
Elias bent down again, brushing a loose lock of hair from August's forehead. He hesitated. Then, softly, barely a breath, he whispered:
"Good night, my starless sky."
He turned and left the room.
Behind him, the door clicked shut with a whisper, and the manor exhaled.
The door to August's chamber closed with a whisper like falling snow. Elias stood still for a moment in the corridor, letting the quiet surround him.
The warmth of August's body still lingered on his arms.
He took a slow breath and began to walk, each step unhurried. He did not rush down the halls of Blackwood Manor. Not tonight. Tonight, the house felt like a cathedral carved out of night and solitude, and Elias walked its nave like a quiet pilgrim.
At last, he reached his own chamber — a room set farther from the east wing, where August's study glowed like a candle in a library of shadows.
Elias opened the door and stepped inside.
His room was austere, masculine in its simplicity. A deep four-poster bed with dark sheets, the faint scent of cedarwood and ink, a tall armoire standing silent near the window. A desk littered with half-finished letters, a silver-handled dagger glinting faintly atop a folded map.
And yet—something softer had crept in.
A white rose, dried and pressed, rested in a small glass dome near his bedside.
It had been August's once.
Elias didn't bother lighting the lamp. He moved through the dark by memory, shoulders rolling back, muscles relaxing now that he was alone. The moonlight touched his features, kissed the edges of his black hair, and spilled gently across his collarbone as he pulled off his dinner coat and let it fall over the chair.
Then he turned to the mirror.
His green eyes were tired.
But beneath the weariness was something warmer. A calm, smoldering thing. Not joy — no, joy was too loud, too light. This was something deeper. Like a coal burning low and steady at the bottom of his ribs.
He remembered the way August had sighed in his arms.
Elias looked down at his hands. They still held the ghost of that fragile weight — like carrying a secret he could never speak aloud.
He stepped closer to the window and pulled the velvet curtain aside.
The moon hung high over Blackwood Manor, casting silver light across the courtyard below. A lone owl flew by, ghostly and soft, and somewhere far in the distance, waves kissed the shores of Blackthorn Lake.
He exhaled.
And as he stood there, he imagined—
August, awake now. Padding barefoot through the chamber, dazed with sleep, hair tumbling down his shoulders like starlight. He'd pause at the window, just behind Elias, arms slipping around his waist in the quiet. No words, just warmth. A moment held in amber.
But it was only a dream.
Elias closed his eyes.
He turned away from the window, and slowly, unceremoniously, collapsed into the armchair beside his bed. He didn't undress further, nor did he reach for the quilt. He only leaned his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, and listened to the sound of the night.
There were no clocks ticking in his room.
Only the thrum of something softer, something sweeter, moving quietly beneath his skin.
August was safe. That was enough.
Tomorrow, there would be more to face. Assassins. Secrets. Shadows from both of their pasts. But for now—for this one breathless night—there was peace. Just a quiet manor. A sleeping beauty. And a knight who did not know how to say "I love you," except in silence.
He smiled, eyes fluttering shut.
And somewhere down the corridor, a candle flickered out.
The chair sighed beneath him.
Elias leaned back farther, one leg stretched, the other bent loosely. His hands rested in his lap—hands that had held a sword, a dagger, a pistol, but most recently, had cradled something infinitely more fragile.
August.
A name that always echoed in his chest like a prayer.
Outside, the night whispered against the glass. Somewhere in the trees, a wind stirred the branches like secrets trading hands. The manor around him creaked—old bones shifting, wood groaning softly like it remembered too much.
But in his room, all was still.
Elias reached up to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one. Not out of need, but for the sensation—the soft scrape of fabric against his collarbone, the cool air licking at his skin as the linen parted. He let it hang open, revealing the faint slope of muscle, the quiet ridges of old scars.
He tilted his head to one side, letting it rest on the velvet wing of the armchair.
The image of August, asleep at his desk, returned again.
His eyelashes. So long, so delicate.
The ribbon that had slipped free from his braid.
Elias had been the one to ease it fully loose—slowly, reverently, like undoing the strings of a sacred instrument. The strands had tumbled like woven light, cool and silken between his fingers. He'd combed his hand through them without thought, marveling at the sheer softness, at how something could feel like spun silver.
And the way August leaned into it.
Not fully conscious. But not resisting either. That small gesture—that fragile trust—had nearly undone him.
Now, in the silence of his own room, Elias lifted one hand again and held it up before his eyes. A memory. A question.
Would August remember that he carried him?
Would he remember the way Elias bent to whisper "goodnight" beside his temple, so softly the word barely touched the air?
He wasn't sure he wanted him to.
He wasn't sure he could survive it if he did.
His hand dropped again.
The chair was warm now beneath him. His body, already heavy with fatigue, slouched deeper. The night tugged gently at the edges of his consciousness like a lullaby sung without words.
For a few long minutes, he did not sleep. Not quite.
Instead, his mind wandered down dim, twisting corridors. He saw August as a child—paler, thinner, hiding behind velvet curtains in some long-forgotten corridor of a burning manor. He saw shadows, cloaks, and silver blades. He saw blood.
He saw his own hands, trying to hold back fate.
But then—suddenly—the dream shifted.
They were in a field.
No war. No cloaks. No blood.
Just August, sitting in a meadow with flowers braided through his hair, wind tossing his curls, sunlight clinging to his shoulders like lace. Elias walked toward him in the dream, slowly. He reached out.
But just before he touched him—
A soft knock on the door.
Elias's eyes opened.
Only a second had passed. Or perhaps an hour.
No one entered.
No one repeated the knock.
He stared at the door a moment longer. Then slowly, he let out a breath. The dream was already fading.
He leaned back again.
This time, when his eyes shut, they did not open.
The rhythm of his breath evened. His chest rose and fell in the same gentle cadence as the lake outside the manor. And with each breath, his body drifted further from the waking world.
Thoughts dissolved. Images softened.
And at last—Elias fell asleep.
Alone in his room. Dreaming of fields he had never seen.
And a boy with silver hair who never truly left his arms.