Evening fell like a held breath over Blackwood Manor, casting long shadows across the parquet floors. Golden light seeped through the tall windows, softening into dusk. The stillness was almost holy—fragile, as if one wrong word might shatter it.
Elias stood by the window in the west corridor, watching as twilight draped the gardens in violet. The air smelled of old wood, linen, and something faintly herbal drifting from the upper rooms.
Katherine stepped into the quiet like someone familiar with the silence.
"You always come here around this hour," she said gently.
"It's the only time the manor doesn't feel like it's listening," Elias replied, his voice low.
She smiled faintly. "And yet, you were the one who used to listen most carefully."
"I still do," he said. "Just not to the same things."
They stood together for a few moments, the quiet filling in around them. A clock ticked faintly from another room.
"Do you remember when the soldiers came for you?" Katherine asked after a pause.
Elias didn't look at her, but he nodded. "I was six. Maybe seven. I still remember the sound of their boots on the gravel."
"And how did you feel?"
A strange smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Happy."
Katherine blinked. "Happy?"
"I used to play like them," he said. "Stick swords, muddy boots, training drills I'd make up in my head. I thought I'd been chosen for some great adventure. I begged to go."
"You weren't frightened?"
"I was thrilled." Elias's eyes warmed a little. "It felt like I'd finally been noticed. Like someone had looked at me and thought—yes, this one. I didn't even ask why."
"They didn't tell you, did they?"
He shook his head. "Not until years later. I was trained in everything—swordwork, tracking, survival, endurance. When I was fourteen, they handed me a letter and said: You have a purpose now."
"And that purpose," Katherine murmured, "was my nephew."
Elias gave a small nod. "The letter was unsigned. Just a wax seal—an unfamiliar sun, half-covered by shadow. It simply read: You are now appointed as the personal guard of August Blackwood. Return to the manor at once."
Katherine's expression shifted. "I received one too. Around the same time. It said a soldier had been chosen for August. A boy with unmatched discipline. No name. No crest. Just the seal."
Elias finally looked at her. "Do you know who sent it?"
She hesitated. "I've asked every contact I trust. No one recognizes the seal. No family lays claim to it. The soldier who delivered it vanished before I could even thank him."
"Whoever it was," Elias said quietly, "they had power. They didn't ask. They commanded. And they knew exactly where I was... and exactly what I'd become."
Katherine's gaze darkened slightly. "I thought at first it was a noble family testing loyalty through secrecy. But now... I wonder."
Elias's voice dropped. "You think they're still watching."
"I know they are." She glanced toward the darkening corridor. "They knew what August would need. Not just a guard. Someone who would understand silence. Someone who could see him without being told."
"I didn't understand him at first," Elias admitted. "I was taught to be sharp, steady. I was prepared for battle, not... fragility."
"But you never left."
"No," he said. "Because in his silence, I saw something that reminded me of myself. He didn't ask anything of me. He just... looked at me. As if he knew I wasn't just a weapon."
Katherine stepped closer, her voice gentle. "You became more than we ever could have planned."
"He did that," Elias said. "He made me want to be more."
They stood in quiet, the old manor whispering around them.
Katherine turned slightly. "He never spoke of you like a servant. Never once."
"I never saw myself that way," Elias murmured. "He changed that too."
She studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. "Whoever sent you, they may have set things in motion. But what followed... that was yours."
He said nothing—but a flicker passed through his expression. A single breath, as if something fragile inside him stirred.
"I should check on him," he said softly.
Katherine touched his sleeve before he could leave. "He doesn't need answers right now. Just you."
Elias nodded and turned, his boots silent against the floor as he made his way back through the corridor, toward the west wing—toward the boy who, without ever asking, had carved a place into him deeper than orders or blood.
And behind him, Katherine remained in the hush of dusk, watching the candlelight tremble as if the manor itself remembered what had begun.
August stirred in bed, the linen cool against his skin. The room was familiar — Blackwood Manor, his aunt's wing. The fire had burned low, casting trembling shadows that danced along the carved walls. Somewhere, a clock ticked faintly beneath the hush of the evening hour.
His body felt still, but not fragile. The ache in his limbs had dulled to a whisper. His breath was even. Clear.
He was awake. Fully.
And not alone.
Hael stood at his side, a clipboard in hand and brows creased in professional focus. He had already drawn closer, fingertips angled toward August's wrist to check his pulse.
August's fingers shifted first.
Then his voice — quiet but blade-sharp — cut through the silence. "Don't touch me."
Hael froze, startled by the sudden lucidity in those smoke-grey eyes.
"My lord," Hael said gently, "I only mean to assess your recovery. You've been resting for some time—"
"I'm fine," August said flatly, his gaze never leaving Hael's face. "There's no need."
Hael hesitated, visibly trying to gauge the young man's condition from a distance. August sat up slowly, spine straight, the folds of the blanket falling around his waist. He moved with the precise stillness of someone raised among ghosts.
"but early this morning," Hael tried again. "Lady Katherine requested I—"
"I'll speak with her directly," August said.
That was final.
Hael straightened, uncertain. There was no anger in August's voice — just that quiet, impervious coldness that left no room for argument. His body language was relaxed, yet distant, like a boy carved from porcelain and habit.
"I... will wait outside," Hael murmured. "Please don't hesitate to call."
August said nothing. He watched the physician retreat with the same expression he'd worn upon waking — guarded, impassive, distant.
When the door clicked shut behind Hael, he let the silence gather again.
He tilted his head back slightly, exhaling. The fire was just a smolder now, casting dull orange light across the white of his hair.
He didn't feel weak. Just hollow.
Not ill. Just... waiting.
The silence inside the room was soft, near sacred.
August stood near the hearth, pale hands wrapped around a porcelain cup he hadn't yet drunk from. The warmth in his limbs had returned, the fever long since burned out. Yet something else lingered—something quieter, heavier.
His eyes drifted upward to the portrait above the fireplace.
It had always been there.
His mother sat at the center, dressed in pale lavender, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders like scattered sunlight. Her smile was soft and open, the kind only mothers gave, and in her lap she cradled a small baby in ivory lace—August.
Standing beside her, one hand resting lightly on the chair's carved back, was a tall, elegant man with a scholar's poise. He was striking in his restraint—straight-backed, silver-haired, with cool grey eyes that matched August's exactly. There was no flamboyance in the way he stood. No arrogance. Just calm intelligence and quiet pride.
August reached a hand out and traced the air beneath the frame, just shy of touching it.
He had his father's eyes. His pale complexion. The soft sweep of white hair. His father had been tall, dignified, and silent in the ways August now understood. He had loved books, and firelight, and long walks down empty halls. He had written with long fingers and preferred truth over flattery.
And his mother—August had not forgotten the way her voice sounded while telling him fairy tales.
With slow steps, he turned to the standing mirror.
He looked into it now, and for a moment he could hardly breathe.
He stood just as his father had stood—tall and pale and a little too composed. His hair fell long over his shoulders, the white of winter silk. His eyes, still shadowed by illness, were the very same grey that once stared from the portrait.
And for a heartbeat, in the mirror's reflection—he saw them behind him.
His mother in lavender. His father's tall silhouette beside her, resting one hand gently on her shoulder. Smiling. Whole. As if they had never been taken. As if they had only been waiting.
August didn't speak.
He only looked forward, unmoving.
And the room, for once, felt like home.