The stillness of the room was broken by a quiet shift beneath the covers.
Elias leaned forward in his chair.
August stirred.
His pale fingers moved first—grasping gently at the sheets, curling then unclenching as if uncertain of where he was. Then came a sharp inhale, and August's eyes blinked open. Smoke-grey, dulled from sleep and pain. They stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment before his brows knit tightly together, and he lifted a trembling hand to his head.
A soft, pained breath escaped him.
His slender fingers pressed against his temple, and he shut his eyes again as if the light itself pierced him. The ache was sharp, throbbing behind his forehead and across his temples like a storm rolling through his skull.
Elias rose immediately, voice low, cautious.
"August."
He came to the edge of the bed, kneeling beside him with careful hands.
"Is there any discomfort?" he asked gently.
August didn't answer at first.
He turned his face slowly—away from Elias.
His white-blonde curls spilled across the pillow like strands of moonlight, hiding half of his expression. The gesture was deliberate, quiet, but piercing. The pain in his head, the nausea still lingering in his gut—it was tolerable. But the ache in his chest, the one tied to memory and dignity, was harder to suppress.
He didn't want Elias to see him like this. Not again.
"August," Elias repeated, reaching out—but not yet touching him. His fingers hovered uncertainly in the air between them, inches from August's shoulder. "Say something. Don't just lie there in silence."
August's voice was thin when it came. "Don't speak to me like that."
It wasn't cold. Just quiet. Withdrawn.
Elias swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said, softer. "I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant."
Still, August refused to meet his gaze.
He lay there, barely moving, one hand still pressed to his head, eyes averted like a wounded animal refusing help from even the gentlest hand. Pride and exhaustion warred across his expression. The pillows cradled his fragile frame, and the covers, though warm, seemed too heavy over him.
Elias remained kneeling at his side.
"I just wanted to make sure you weren't in pain," he said quietly, almost to himself.
August didn't reply.
The silence was delicate—trembling on the edge of breaking.
Then, at last, Elias stood and stepped back, giving him space.
He watched him carefully. The lines under August's eyes hadn't faded. His skin was still too pale, the bones of his wrists too sharply defined under the folds of linen. He hadn't eaten. Not in nearly a full day.
Still, he refused to ask for help.
Elias sighed through his nose and turned his gaze to the flickering candlelight across the far wall. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.
"I'll stay here," he said. "Even if you hate me for it."
He did not expect a response.
And he received none.
August remained still, his breathing slow but tight—each breath carefully measured. His fingers twitched against the sheets again. Elias watched him from the corner of his eye, wondering if he should step out. Give him space. But his feet wouldn't move.
The room had become a quiet battlefield—of wills, of unspoken pain.
And Elias would not retreat from this one.
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering of a single taper on the far side, its golden light washing the carved stone walls in faint warmth. Time seemed to stretch within that hush—long and heavy, like a held breath.
Elias sat back down in the chair beside the bed, arms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on August.
Not a word passed between them.
August remained turned to the side, the delicate muscles of his neck tight with restraint. His long lashes cast shadows across the tops of his cheeks. Still pale. Still silent. But no longer asleep.
The weight of everything unspoken seemed to pulse in the room: guilt, tenderness, pain, and that familiar clash between closeness and distance. Elias's hands had curled into loose fists on his knees.
A wind stirred from the balcony, rustling the sheer curtains.
Minutes passed.
Then—barely above a whisper—
"…Elias."
Elias's head snapped up.
It was not a cry, nor a plea. It was spoken like a command, tight with the taste of swallowed pride. A note of restrained fury still laced his tone, as though even now, even at the edge of weakness, August would not yield so easily.
Elias didn't move.
August still had not looked at him.
"…Water," August said, eyes still turned toward the wall. "I want water."
It was all he could manage—nothing more. His voice was hoarse, a thread of sound laced with lingering nausea, and his fingers clenched tighter at the sheets. Elias stood immediately.
"Don't move," he said, firm and swift. "I'll be back in a moment."
August shifted slightly, as though about to argue—but Elias cut him off before he could speak.
"I'll bring water. And something small to eat. You haven't had a thing all day."
"I said—" August's voice sharpened, though faint "—I don't have an appetite."
"I don't care." Elias was already halfway to the door, but he turned his head, eyes narrowed in quiet defiance. "You'll eat something light. Fruit, or broth. Anything to stop that beautiful head of yours from spinning."
August's breath caught.
He didn't answer.
Only turned his gaze back to the wall, his cheeks tinged ever so faintly—not with shyness, but simmering exasperation.
Elias saw it. And yet he smiled faintly to himself, shaking his head.
He murmured under his breath as he stepped out of the room, "Stubborn even when he's half dead…"
Then the door shut quietly behind him.
And August—still curled on the bed, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other lying weakly against his chest—closed his eyes.
He hated this feeling.
This helplessness.
This strange pull between fury and need.
But for the first time since morning, his lips parted slightly, and a breath passed through them—not angry, not guarded, just… tired.
And though he would never say it aloud, he waited for Elias to return.
The room felt colder in Elias's absence.
August shifted beneath the weight of silence. His pulse thudded in his ears, and the shadows seemed to grow longer across the ceiling. He shut his eyes tight for a moment, pressing the heel of his palm to his temple—but that didn't stop it.
A flicker.
A shape in the corner of his vision.
Not real. Not real.
But it looked real.
The figure—black-cloaked, towering and faceless—stood just beside the wardrobe, like it had crawled from the recesses of his mind. The same silhouette that haunted his dreams since boyhood. The same that murdered his parents.
His eyes flew open.
He sat up suddenly, chest rising too fast, too tight. The edge of the bed creaked.
He stared.
The figure was gone.
But the memory lingered.
And his breath—ragged now—wouldn't slow. He clutched the blanket against his chest like armor, smoke-grey eyes wide and gleaming in the half-light. His throat worked in silence.
He could still see the blood.
His mother's outstretched hand.
His fingers trembled at the edge of the sheets, curling slowly, until his nails pressed white into his palm. Then he pressed his hand to his mouth. His stomach churned again, the nausea rolling back like a tide.
Just then—
The door opened gently.
Elias stepped in, balancing a silver tray with quiet precision. The scent of lemon and honey drifted with him, clean and sharp.
"I brought lemon water," he said, his voice soft but sure. "And something light—steamed sweet potatoes, soft bread, fruit slices. It's the best they could prepare in short time. Nothing heavy."
He stopped.
His gaze landed on August.
And his expression changed.
The silver tray crashed to the floor.
Sliced fruit, honeyed bread, lemon water—all scattered across the polished wood in a burst of sound and color. The fragrance of oranges and sugar clung briefly in the air before silence overtook the room.
August was weightless in Elias's arms.
His head rested against Elias's shoulder, his white hair damp against fairy skin. Breath shallow. Fingers curled weakly into Elias's shirt.
I've got you," Elias murmured, already moving. "Just hold on."
With quiet urgency, he carried August into the adjoining chamber, where the marble basin gleamed in the candlelight. The cool air brushed their skin, and the scent of lemon clung faintly to Elias's clothes.
He set August down beside the basin, steadying him carefully.
And then August bent forward and retched into it—his slender body bowing with the motion, pale hands gripping the edge, shaking.
Elias stayed behind him, silent and steady.
No words. Just presence.
When the worst passed, August slumped forward, breathless, the dampness of sweat clinging to his neck. Slowly, he reached for a cloth and wiped his mouth with trembling hands. His long lashes stayed low, refusing to meet Elias's eyes.
He wanted to stand. To say something cutting. To reclaim dignity.
But when he tried to rise, the world tilted violently.
He swayed.