"No," August whispered, pulling slightly back from Elias's grasp.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't cruel. But it was firm.
His hand gripped the edge of the basin like it was marble carved from the earth. Slowly, he lifted himself upright—spine rigid, lips pale. His body swayed. But he held.
"I don't need—" His voice caught, a dry rasp in his throat. "I can stand."
Elias didn't argue.
He knew this pattern.
The sharp-edged pride. The refusal to show weakness, even when it gnawed at August like a parasite.
August's shoulder brushed Elias's arm as he straightened fully. He didn't apologize. He didn't explain. He just placed a trembling hand on the rim of the basin and inhaled, as if trying to convince the world—and himself—that he could move again.
But the world didn't care.
Because when August took one step forward, it twisted.
The floor tilted. The walls folded like shadows. His foot slipped—
And he fell.
Right into Elias's chest.
"August__!"
Elias caught him, arms circling instinctively around that too-light frame. August didn't speak, didn't protest this time—his head simply drooped, white curls spilling over Elias's shoulder like loose silk. His hand slid from the basin, limp now. His breath fanned shallowly against Elias's neck.
Elias's grip tightened.
"August—! Look at me!"
There was no answer.
Just the quiet sound of August's breath, thin and ragged.
The noise—Elias's voice raised in panic—carried through the corridor like a bell. Within seconds, footsteps pounded on stone. A door flew open.
"Master Elias—!" came a voice. "What happened—?!"
It was Giles.
The most trusted of August's servants. An older man with silver in his beard and wisdom carved into every wrinkle of his brow. But the moment he saw August collapsed in Elias's arms his expression shifted.
From alarm.
To guilt.
Deep, quiet guilt.
He stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowed, mouth tight.
"I told him last night," Giles said softly. That' my lord you must rest. You've done too much—' but Lord August refused."
Elias didn't waste breath on blame. He looked down at the young man in his arms, saw how pale his face had become chalk-white beneath that sheet of platinum curls. A faint line of sweat clung to his jaw.
He was done pretending.
Without a word, Elias bent low and lifted August into his arms.
Cradling him as though he weighed nothing.
"In Bridal style'
August's long lashes didn't flutter. His head lolled lightly against Elias's shoulder, breath still coming too fast, too thin.
"Open the door to his chambers," Elias ordered.
Giles moved at once.
The door was already being pulled wide as Elias strode down the corridor, every inch of him tense, controlled, but afraid. The golden light from the windows streamed over them August's hair catching it like glass. He felt weightless. Too light. As if he had been burning from the inside out and nothing was left but ash.
Elias entered the room and moved directly to the bed.
The luxury was obvious sheets like woven clouds, embroidered pillows, a headboard carved in swirling dark oak. And yet nothing felt soft enough for August now.
Elias lowered him carefully, gently, as though laying down something sacred. He adjusted the blanket with slow hands, brushing strands of hair from August's cheek.
He lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.
Even now, August's fingers twitched faintly against the covers still trying to move. Still trying to work.
Still refusing surrender.
The luxury of the mattress barely cradled August's weight before he stirred. His lashes fluttered once, twice, then opened fully.
Heavy-lidded, fever-bright.
He blinked against the light from the windows. Then, slowly, pushed himself up with one arm.
Elias saw it the instant before it happened.
"August," he warned, voice already clipped. "Don't."
But August ignored him.
His breath was short, temples visibly pulsing with a headache that carved behind his eyes. Still, he fought it. First an elbow, then a knee under him.
"I have work to do," August murmured, voice low, rasping. "There are documents. Reports from Khyronia. Letters I haven't—"
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Elias snapped, standing from the edge of the bed. "Calm down, sick boy. Lay down before you start vomiting again."
August's eyes narrowed. "Don't speak to me like I'm a child."
"I'm not," Elias said, tone half-mocking. "I'm speaking to you like someone whose brain is currently melting."
He crossed his arms and added dryly, "You've got enough dignity for three kings, I know. You don't need to prove it by collapsing face-first in your study."
August growled under his breath, dragging the blanket off himself and trying to sit up fully.
Elias didn't budge.
"Ohhh no. Look at you—hair like spun moonlight, lips paler than a ghost, body swaying like reeds in a storm—and you still want to go act like a damn war general."
August's glare sharpened.
"You should be rewarded," Elias continued, mouth twitching despite himself. "Seriously. Land. Gold. A title. 'Lord of Stubborn Illness.' Keep this up and I might just crown you myself."
August shoved the blanket off, now fully upright, face sharp with defiance.
"I am not—"
"You're not a woman, August," Elias cut in, voice suddenly lower. Not cruel—but firm. "So stop doing everything harder just to prove you're not weak. You're not weak. You're sick."
The words struck like a slap.
August froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
Then, with a glare burning like frost, he whispered, "Get out."
Elias stared.
But he didn't move.
And then August turned, trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
That was it.
Elias moved.
In two long strides, he was at the bedside, hands braced on August's shoulders—and he shoved him, gently but firmly, right back down into the pillows.
"If you move from this bed again," Elias said darkly, "I will seal the entire chamber shut. And if that's not enough—" he leaned in, breath brushing close, "—I'll tie you to it."
August's cheeks flushed—but not from shame. And certainly not from modesty.
It was fury. It was frustration. It was the quiet storm of a man used to mastering his world, now caged by a body that refused to obey.
And worst of all, Elias knew it.
August turned his face away, breath hard through his nose.
But he didn't move again.
Not an inch.
Elias slowly backed away and dropped into the carved luxury chair beside the bed. It creaked under his height, but he looked perfectly at ease.
Smirking.
"Oh, what's that?" Elias said, feigning surprise. "The great and noble Lord August staying in bed? Wonders never cease."
August didn't dignify that with a reply.
He merely stared at the ceiling, one hand clutching the silk edge of the blanket, knuckles white.
But he didn't try to rise again.
And that—Elias thought—was victory enough.
The chamber had gone still.
Outside, the golden light of midmorning slipped between the long velvet curtains, gilding the room in pale warmth. Not a sound stirred within the walls—no clatter of servants, no ticking clock. Just the slow, deliberate breath of one man sitting vigil beside another.
Elias hadn't moved in hours.
He remained in that carved, high-backed chair, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the form lying in bed. August had not said another word after Elias pinned him down with both hands and threats. But even in silence, his fury had been palpable.
He had turned his face to the other side of the bed, away from Elias, dragging the thick blanket halfway over his shoulder like a shield. One slender hand gripped the edge in a deathlock—knuckles pale, fingers trembling faintly with strain. His anger hadn't burned out. It had simply gone quiet. Cold.
And Elias had watched.
Watched as August's chest rose and fell with uneven rhythm. Watched as the curve of his back remained stiff, his shoulders tight with pride. Watched until the minute flickers of stubbornness faded into something heavier. Until the breathing softened. Slowed.
Two hours passed.
Elias barely blinked.
Then, at last, August's grip loosened. The hand fell limply onto the bedspread. His shoulders softened. His lashes fluttered once, then settled.
Only then did Elias stand.
Quietly.
He moved to the side of the bed, boots silent on the rugs. His height cast a shadow over August's fragile form, and for a moment, he only stood there—watching.
The pale light caught against August's long hair, spread in delicate silver curls across the pillows. His face, usually so composed, so proud, now lay soft in sleep. A breath escaped his lips, ghost-light and easy. The tension in his brow had vanished.