August lay upon his vast bed, the white sheets clinging to his ivory frame like pale waves around a stranded shore. His lashes trembled against his fevered cheeks, quivering with every shallow breath. Elias sat beside the bed in chair, steadfast and silent, his emerald eyes fixed upon the fragile figure as though patience itself could weave August back to health.
Beyond the chamber doors, whispers stirred. Lirael, with a measured tone, murmured to Giles, "We should do something. The fever clings to him like a shadow."
Giles, let his gaze linger upon August's pallid face. "yes. Indeed.
And so August dreamed.
The veil of sleep unraveled, and he found himself standing in a chamber he had never known, a vast room washed in dim golden light. Tapestries cascaded down the high walls, yet they flickered and blurred as though refusing to be named. At the heart of the chamber stood a bed—broad, sumptuous, crowned with sheets of silken white. Upon it sat a man, narrow-shouldered, his body wrapped loosely in the flowing linen.
In his arms, he cradled a child.
The man's hair was golden, falling to his shoulders like liquid dawn, his eyes a piercing green—bright as a field in spring yet veined with sorrow. His cheeks were wet with tears, and still he rocked the infant close to his chest, as though his heartbeat alone could shield it from the cruelty of the world.
The child was remarkable—ivory locks gleaming faintly in the light, smoke-grey eyes wide and wet with grief. The same eyes August had seen in the mirror all his life.
The child cried, and the man cried with him. Together their weeping filled the chamber with an ache that tightened August's chest. He wished to step forward, to cry out, to demand the truth from this vision—but when he tried to move, his legs held fast as though bound by unseen chains. He was invisible, unseen, condemned only to witness.
And then, softly, the man began to sing.
The lullaby.
The very same tune his mother once whispered by firelight, her voice wrapping around him like a tender shroud. The melody pierced August's bones, a blade of memory cutting deeper than any steel. His smoke-grey eyes widened, and his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. He could not endure it—neither in life, nor in dream, nor in nightmare. The song was always the same.
The man's voice—rich, trembling, yet tender—wove the verses through the chamber, and August froze as if the notes themselves had shackled him.
The princess of the timeless town,
With silver crown and velvet gown.
She holds her sword, she bears her name—
Yet hearts grow tired all the same.
For though her hands are fierce and sure,
And though her heart is brave and pure,
She dreams at dusk, in secret sighs,
Of softer hands and emerald eyes.
A knight who swore to keep her near,
To guard her name and calm her fear.
A man of vows, of light, of flame,
Who whispers softly just her name.
She waits in towers built of dawn,
She waits when golden day is gone.
And in her dreams he takes her hand—
A promise made in shadowed land.
So hush, sweet rose, the night is deep,
And stars will guard the tears you keep.
For love shall come on faithful steed,
To kiss the wounds no crown can heed.
The lullaby ended in a sob, the man's voice breaking as he bent his golden head over the child. His tears fell freely, darkening the white sheets where they landed. The infant's cries softened, dwindling to whimpers as though lulled by sorrow itself.
August could hardly breathe. His chest constricted with a torment he could neither name nor banish. He turned his head away, as though by refusing to see he might silence the ache clawing within him. But the song lingered, echoing through his marrow, relentless as a curse.
"Why?" The word slipped unbidden from his lips, though no one heard it. His voice was thin, raw, almost swallowed by the dream's silence. "Who are you?"
The chamber flickered again, the walls rippling like a mirage. The man's image blurred, his features dissolving into mist even as the child's grey eyes burned brighter, fixing August with a gaze that seemed to pierce the boundaries of time.
August trembled, bound still, unable to reach, unable to flee. The lullaby rang again in his ears, every verse like a wound reopened. He closed his eyes, but the melody did not cease.
In the waking world, Elias leaned forward in the candlelight, watching August's face twist in silent torment. He could not hear the song that haunted the dreamer, nor see the golden-haired man with the child, but something stirred within him. The faintest flicker of recognition.
Emerald eyes lifted to the portrait above the mantelpiece—the painted faces of August's parents, and there, the faint outline of a woman whose gaze Elias had seen in his dreams. The woman who had called him son.
He tightened his jaw, breath shallow, and returned his watch to August. Answers lay somewhere between dream and waking, and he would endure this vigil until August opened his eyes.
For only then could he ask the question that burned through his silence: Who is she, and why does she call me hers?
And then The hush of midnight broke with violence.
A racking cough tore August from his slumber, wrenching him upright against the carved bedboard, his slender frame convulsing as though his body itself were rebelling against breath. His ivory hands clutched at his mouth, desperate to contain the storm, but the sound grew harsher, more jagged, until crimson flecked the white linen. The bed itself seemed to shudder beneath him.
Elias, who had kept his quiet vigil at the bedside, straightened at once, his eyes narrowing with alarm. The silence of patience fled him, replaced by the cold certainty that something was deeply wrong. He rose, his chair scraping back against the floor.
"Lirael!" His voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the stillness.
The door opened with haste, and Lirael crossed the threshold in a sweep of sober garments. His usually imperturbable composure cracked, his brow furrowing as he beheld August's trembling frame, the coughing that did not abate, the blood that stained his lips.
"Fetch the maids," Lirael commanded, his tone clipped yet quivering beneath its restraint. "The receipt is in my chamber. Bring the medicine. Quickly!"
The maids hurried in at his call—one with a basin of water, another with folded towels, another with the small wooden chest that held vials and herbs. Their faces were pale in the lamplight, yet their movements carried the swiftness of those long trained to crisis.
"Breathe, August," Lirael urged, kneeling near the bedside, his hand reaching to steady him. "Steady, now. You must draw breath, even through the pain."
But August could not. His chest heaved, his breaths ragged and shallow, and his smoke-grey eyes flared with frustration more fierce than fear. Each gasp seemed to fray him further, his pallid skin fever-bright, damp with sweat.
The basin filled swiftly with red as the cloth touched his lips. Yet when Lirael pressed the linen to wipe the stain, August's hand shot out—swift, stubborn—and seized it. His lips, stained with blood, curled in defiance.
"I can do it on my own," he rasped, his voice broken yet unyielding. He tore the cloth from Lirael's grasp and wiped his own mouth, the gesture trembling, imperfect, yet burning with pride.
Lirael froze, stunned for a heartbeat. His magenta eyes flickered with both admiration and dismay. At last he exhaled, shaking his head, his voice low. "August… you are in no state to defy. Pride will not mend your lungs."
But before he could finish, August's smoke-grey eyes flared with fire. His words, raw with both sickness and fury, lashed out like a whip.
"I can do this!"
The chamber fell into silence, the maids halting in their steps, their hands clutching towels and vials as though afraid to move. The air thickened with tension, the crackle of August's fury louder than the rasp of his breath.
Lirael's lips parted, but no retort came. What argument could he offer that would not break against August's iron will? He sighed instead, lowering his gaze, for he knew well the futility of such battles.
"Then at least hear me," he said, softer now, though his voice carried a thread of sorrow. "Your state worsens with each hour. I must—"
The words died as the door opened once more.
Giles entered, his bearing steady, his voice edged with paternal authority. "My lord, you must not weaken yourself further. To force strength where there is none will only—"
"Enough!" August barked, his voice thunderous despite its ragged timbre. He clench the bloodstained cloth, his ivory chest heaving with indignation. "Can you not see? I can still stand, still breathe, still act. I need no one's hand upon me. Leave me in peace! I can do anything on my own."
The words cracked like iron against stone, reverberating in the chamber. For a long moment, no one dared to answer.
The maids lowered their gazes, clutching their burdens as though silence itself might shield them. Lirael's shoulders sagged with resignation, his lips pressed thin against the tide of protest he would not voice. And Giles—faithful, unyielding Giles—opened his mouth only to close it again, his jaw set in quiet defeat.
Even Elias, who had watched from the periphery, felt his voice stilled. He had seen fury before, had borne witness to men who cloaked weakness with bravado. Yet August was something other, something strange—his pride was not a shield but a blade turned inward, cutting deeper each time he wielded it. Elias averted his gaze, unable to reconcile the frailty of the body with the fire of the spirit that raged within it.
And August glared at them all, his smoke-grey eyes burning beneath fever's sheen, daring them to contradict him. His chest rose and fell with labor, his hand still clenched upon the bloodied cloth, his defiance unbroken though his body trembled on the edge of collapse.
For a moment, he was both sovereign and captive: sovereign over his will, captive of his flesh.
Lirael at last released a long, weary sigh, bowing his head in surrender. "So be it, then," he murmured. "But remember this, August—you do not war against us. You war against yourself."
The words hung in the chamber, heavy, unanswered.
And August, his lips pressed into a thin line, said nothing.
The chamber had quieted. The last rustle of Lirael's robes and Giles's boots faded down the corridor, leaving only the steady crackle of the fire and the faint rasp of August's breathing. Though his pallor betrayed the venom's grip, he sat with his back against the carved headboard, his spine unyielding, his smoke-grey eyes narrowed with a cold fire that denied weakness. The silken sheets gathered about his slender frame like snow draped over stone—fragile in appearance, yet carrying an unspoken defiance.
Elias remained seated at his side, broad shoulders shadowed by the lamplight. His gaze lingered upon August, caught between admiration and unease. In silence, his hand curled against his knee as if steadying his courage. Twice he parted his lips, twice he let the words die in his throat. At last, he cleared it with a low sound, a ripple against the hush.
"August," Elias began, voice gentler than he intended, "may I… ask you something?"
For the first time since the fit of coughing, August shifted his gaze toward him. The weight of those eyes, weary yet sharp, fell upon Elias like the edge of a blade. Elias felt the question clawing at his tongue—the memory of the dream, the woman who had cradled him, her voice whispering son—but fear lodged the rest of it deep within his chest. What if the mention of her unraveled August's fragile composure, what if it summoned another storm of blood and fever?
August did not grant him long to decide. His lips thinned, his jaw tightened, and with an imperious tilt of his chin, he looked away. His stare fastened not upon Elias but into the distance, as though some invisible specter commanded his full attention. In truth, the fragments of his dream still clung to him like smoke: the chamber unfamiliar, the golden-haired man, the lullaby that had cleaved through him like a blade to the heart.
He would not—could not—acknowledge Elias's request.
The silence stretched, sharpened by the sound of August's shallow breath. Elias, left with his question unsaid, lowered his gaze. His hands tightened into fists against the pull of frustration, yet he forced patience