Moonlight streamed faintly through the tall windows, spilling silver across the stone floor and weaving shadows along the embroidered drapes. A hush had settled over the manor, deep and undisturbed. In the silence of the guest chamber, where August lay curled under the silken covers, sleep had finally claimed him fully. Yet within that sleep, a dream had unfolded—soft, vivid, and steeped in the gentle warmth of a memory long buried.
He was four years old again.
The dream unfurled in the gardens of their estate, painted in the golden blush of morning light. August, then a small child with luminous skin and long curls as pale as moonlight, ran barefoot over the dew-kissed grass. The courtyard was alive with birdsong, and the trees whispered gently in the breeze. In that moment, he looked less like a boy and more like a porcelain doll dressed by angels—his silk tunic of blush-pink shimmered faintly, the golden crown atop his head too large and yet perfectly right.
The crown had been a gift from his aunt at his birth—delicate, etched with roses and silver lilies. Everyone who saw him whispered that he was too beautiful to be a boy. Some even mistook him for a princess. But his mother only laughed and called him her angel.
She stood at the far end of the courtyard now, watching with warm, adoring eyes as he chased a fluttering butterfly.
"August, love, be careful," she called, her voice the gentlest melody.
He turned to grin at her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright—but his foot caught on the stone edge of the path. He stumbled forward, fell, and scraped his knee on the cobbles. The world did not end in that moment. He did not cry. But pain bloomed quietly in his chest.
Before he could move, she was already there.
His mother—tall, graceful, the very image of light in human form—knelt beside him, gathering his small form into her arms. He clung to her without a word, burying his face against her neck. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, but no sob escaped him.
She pressed her lips to his forehead.
"Oh, my brave little prince," she whispered, rocking him gently. "You don't need to be strong all the time. Not with me."
And then—the lullaby.
The same lullaby his aunt had just sung in the real world. Only now it was carried on his mother's voice—softer, lilting, threaded with warmth:
"The princess of the town, she's stronger than them all... Stronger... But sometimes she feels lonely, without him, the man of her dreams... The knight who vowed by moon and steel, to save the beauty of his life..."
She rocked him slowly. Her hand threaded through his pale curls. He exhaled.
He didn't even feel the pain in his knee anymore. Just warmth. Just peace.
Just her.
His eyelids grew heavier and heavier. The lullaby continued, soft as feathers.
"He'll ride the wind to find her still, no matter where she hides... For the beauty in his dreams remains, his promise, and his light..."
And with her arms cradling him, her voice humming through his bones, he fell asleep in the dream—one dream nested in another.
...
In the waking world, the candle on the nearby table flickered once.
Elias had not left.
He had stayed by the door, watching. In the stillness, something caught his eye—a glint, faint and trembling.
A tear.
A single tear rolled down August's pale cheek, tracing the delicate curve of his face. Then another followed, slower, heavier. Though his breathing was calm, the sorrow written across his sleeping features was deeper than anything Elias had seen before.
He crossed the room without a sound.
Kneeling beside the bed, Elias lifted a hand and gently brushed the tear from August's cheek with his thumb.
His skin was cold.
But his expression—fragile. Vulnerable. And yet, dignified, even in sorrow.
Elias let his hand linger a moment longer, caught in the silent ache.
August had always carried himself like a Man carved from marble. Composed. Cold. Yet now, Elias could see the shadow of the boy who had once wept silently into his mother's arms. A boy who had lost too much. Who had locked his pain in the deepest chambers of his heart, never letting anyone close enough to see it.
Until now.
Elias whispered, not daring to wake him:
"You're not alone. Not anymore."
And in the dim candlelight, he sat beside the bed, watching over the prince who dreamt of love long lost, and who, perhaps, would one day find it again.
In the west wing of the estate, where the light filtered in through tall arched windows and warmed the marble floor, Lady Katherine Virelle stood tall with her hands delicately folded. Her presence was unmistakable—pristine as porcelain, her grey hair swept elegantly into a chignon, her tangerine-colored eyes flickering with discernment. Every servant in the corridor stilled when she passed, for she exuded the same noble gravity as the old portraits lining the walls.
The grand doors of the physician's hall opened quietly at her approach. Inside, a young man stood with his back turned, reading from a thick leather-bound volume laid open on the counter. The moment he turned to face her, Katherine paused.
He was striking in his simplicity—no grand gestures, no pretense. Just calm, steady eyes the color of clear sky, and neatly groomed dark blond hair. His coat was modest but impeccably clean, his posture straight as a blade.
"You must be Doctor Hael Avenridge," Katherine said, her voice smooth like silk pulled taut.
Hael bowed with courteous precision. "I am, my lady. And you must be Lady Katherine Virelle. It is an honor to serve under your house."
She studied him a moment longer. "Your father was Master Darius Avenridge. He served this household with unswerving dedication."
Hael inclined his head. "He did, my lady. And he spoke often of your family—especially the young master, Lord August."
Katherine's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then you understand what you've inherited."
"I believe I do," he answered quietly. "And I intend to be worthy of that inheritance."
The lady gestured toward the corridor. "Walk with me."
Together, they made their way down the long hallway, the clack of Katherine's heels echoing faintly. Servants bowed as they passed. Katherine's expression remained composed, but a flicker of concern touched her features.
"He is frail," she said at last. "Not by constitution, but by weight of spirit. He will not say what burdens him, but I see it clearly. You are to be more than a physician, Master Avenridge—you are to be observant."
Hael nodded. "I've reviewed his previous treatments, but his condition is not entirely physical. I would request to observe him more closely before adjusting any prescriptions."
"Granted," Katherine replied. "But gently. My nephew has suffered much—and trusted few."
The study of the late Lord Everheart's still smelled faintly of ink and leather. Shelves stretched tall against paneled walls, lined with thick volumes whose spines bore the gold-stamped titles of histories, philosophies, and obscure sciences. Light filtered through the long velvet curtains, turning dust motes to golden threads that drifted silently above the great mahogany desk.
"Then let's not waste time with flourishes," she said, glancing toward the heavy desk as if it could still remember her brother's presence. "How bad is he?"
Hael leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "The fever has broken, but the aftereffects linger. There is weakness in his limbs, occasional tremors in his right hand, and a sensitivity to light and sound. These are consistent with exhaustion compounded by suppressed trauma. I believe the origin is psychological as much as physical."
Katherine's brow furrowed, ever so slightly.
"He suppresses everything," she said. "Always has. My brother—his father—was a man of iron restraint. I see too much of that same restraint in August. He doesn't bend. He simply absorbs."
"It's precisely that habit which makes him fragile now," Hael said softly. "No one—no matter how noble—can carry grief like that indefinitely."
Katherine turned away from him, her gaze fixed on an old oil portrait above the hearth: her brother and his wife, years before tragedy tore them from the world. She reached toward the mantle, tracing a line in the dust with one gloved finger.
"Do you know," she said suddenly, "when August was a child, my sister in law used to dress him in silks finer than any princess? That boy looked like a vision from a painting. But even then… he never liked to cry. Not even when he scraped his knees. Not even when his mother died."
Hael remained quiet, allowing the weight of her words to settle. It wasn't a physician's place to interrupt grief in disguise.
"I am not asking for miracles, Master Avenridge," Katherine said at last, her voice growing steadier. "But I want you to know: I would rather this house fall to ruin than let that boy suffer in silence again. If you have ideas—treatments, remedies, herbs, hell, even dreams—speak them."
"There are ways," Hael said. "But they'll take time, and your nephew's willingness. He's not someone I can heal with tonics alone. He'll need… a different kind of care. Gentle company. Consistency. And someone he can allow close enough to touch the wound beneath the surface."
Katherine arched a brow. "Do you mean Elias?"
Hael paused. "He's the only one August hasn't completely shut out."
Katherine's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing for a long moment.
Then she turned back to Hael, her voice quiet now—almost tired.
"I'll give you what you need," she said. "And I'll keep the rest of the world away while you work. Just bring him back to himself… or to whatever version of peace is still possible."
Hael stood, bowing with full sincerity. "I'll do everything I can, my lady."
"See that you do," she said, glancing once more at the portrait.
And in the old study of a house once brimming with laughter, silence returned except for the quiet hum of memory that lingered in the dust.