Chapter 7
The fever pulled him under like undertow slow, relentless, quiet.
There was no warning.
One moment, August lay in stillness, the weight of the blanket heavy on his chest, the scent of herbs and saltwater thick in his lungs. The next, the world tipped sideways and dissolved.
Light shifted. Sound warped. Time bled.
He was no longer in Port Royal. No longer in the safehouse. No longer in the present.
He was back.
Back where it began.
The room blurred around him: the ceiling beams softened, the crackle of street sounds faded. The scent of herbs and saltwater dissolved into something older. Smoke. Hearth. Wax-polished wood.
The world shifted.
He was no longer in Port Royal.
He was four.
He reached the double doors of their chamber. Raised his fist.
But he stopped.
Voices. Urgent.
His mother's, sharp but trembling. "In the wardrobe. Now. Don't argue hide, and don't come out until"
A crash. The clatter of something falling.
Then a man's voice low, cold, wrong. "She dies first."
August leaned closer, breath caught.
A scream. Cut short.
The door was ajar.
He didn't push it open. Not yet.
Inside the room, the fire was still burning but the warmth had gone.
His mother was on the floor, her white gown blooming red. Her hand outstretched, not toward her husband, but toward a tall armoire pushed open just a crack.
Her eyes were wide. Her lips still formed the word "go."
A figure stood over her cloaked, glinting steel in hand.
Then footsteps his father's.
"Annaliese!"
The assassin turned. A blur of movement.
Steel clashed.
August could hear it all but still could not see. The door was still mostly closed. His little hand hovered on the edge.
Another sound. A gasp. A wet cough.
A second body hit the floor.
Silence.
And then… a thud.
Something heavy fell.
The assassin?
More silence.
Then his father's voice low, choked. "It's done."
And then… nothing.
The fire crackled. A boy hidden in the wardrobe held his breath. He could not see the bodies. Only hear the blood.
That's when August pushed open the door.
And walked in.
The firelight caught everything the blood, the steel, the stillness.
His mother. His father. The stranger, dead now too.
And in the silence… August did not scream.
He just stared.
In the cot in Port Royal, August's brow tightened. His hand twitched once beneath the blanket.
Elias leaned in, instinct prickling
His breathing turned sharp.
Shallow.
Then ragged.
The dream deepened.
The fire crackled behind him. The blood smelled stronger now. Copper and smoke.
The assassin lay dead but his face… August had never seen it. Even in dreams, it stayed blurred. Like something his mind refused to let him recognize.
Then
A sound behind him.
A wet dragging noise.
He turned.
His mother. Her body. Moving.
No. Not moving.
Dragged.
By nothing.
In the real world, Elias saw it happening.
August's face contorted pain, horror, something wordless and raw.
His hands had curled into fists so tight the knuckles whitened. One gripped the blanket; the other the edge of the cot like it might splinter. His lips moved but no sound came.
Then a strangled whisper: "No"
Elias was on his feet in an instant.
"August."
No response.
"August wake up."
Still nothing.
The trembling grew worse. Sweat poured down his temples. His body arched slightly, like he was trying to escape some invisible grip.
"August!" Elias barked.
He grabbed his shoulders. Shook him gently, then harder.
"You're dreaming come on, wake up!"
August gasped, eyes still shut, lashes fluttering.
"Damn it August!"
Then he shouted.
"August, open your eyes!"
August woke with a violent start.
His breath tore in like a drowning man breaching the surface. His body jerked, and his eyes snapped open wide, unfocused, rimmed with fear.
He stared straight at Elias.
And for a moment, didn't know where he was.
August stared at Elias, but didn't speak.
His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. Sweat clung to his skin. His fists were still clenched in the sheets so tightly that the linen had torn under his nails.
But he said nothing.
Didn't cry.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't ask for comfort.
Only breathed. Barely.
Elias's face was flushed, jaw tight with restrained panic.
"You were burning alive in that dream," Elias said, voice low, furious. "I've seen dying men look calmer."
August didn't answer.
His gaze drifted toward the window. Distant. Groundless.
But his hands still curled in the sheets were trembling.
"I called your name ten times." Elias's voice cracked. "Ten times, and you didn't hear me."
Still, August didn't speak.
Didn't meet his eyes.
The only sign that he'd returned to the waking world at all was that he hadn't pulled away.
Elias exhaled harshly,
"Alright," he said finally. Quieter. Bitter, but soft. "You don't have to talk. I'm not asking you to bleed for me."
He got up and crossed the room. Poured fresh water. Took a cloth. He moved with the focus of someone who needed to do something because otherwise he'd unravel.
The fever hadn't broken. August's skin was hot as forge-iron. His jaw was locked like he was holding back another storm.
Elias sat beside him again, took his hand, and began to cool his palm and forehead.
Neither of them spoke.
But Elias didn't leave.
Not even for a moment.
Not even when August closed his eyes again not to sleep, not to rest, but simply to shut out the world.
A long silence passed.
Then August's fingers twitched once in Elias's grip not pulling away, just… acknowledging.
And it was enough. The fever had not eased. It clung to August like smoke, coiled tight in his chest and limbs. Still, after a long, breathless stretch of silence, he stirred.
First a shift of his shoulders.
Then his legs moved, one at a time, as he tried to push the blankets off.
"Don't," Elias said instantly, voice sharp.
But August didn't respond. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
He didn't groan.
Didn't sigh.
Didn't complain.
Just moved as if by sheer will alone, like he could outrun weakness if he didn't acknowledge it.
His feet touched the floor. He swayed.
Elias rose halfway from the chair, hands half-lifted.
"Don't be an idiot."
August's fingers curled around the edge of the table.
He pulled himself upright.
For exactly three seconds.
Then his knees buckled. He crumpled like cloth.
Elias was there in time caught him again before his head struck anything, arms bracing the full weight of him with practiced ease. But it was heavier this time. August's strength had bled out somewhere between stubbornness and fever.
"Damn it August" Elias lowered him carefully to the floor, crouched beside him, hand at his neck. The pulse was fast, but faint. His skin was boiling.
His eyes were closed again.
Another collapse.
No drama. No sound.
Just absence as if his body had finally claimed what his will had been denying for too long.
Elias scooped him up in both arms, jaw clenched hard.
"You don't get to do that again," he muttered under his breath, carrying him back to the cot. "Not like that. Not in front of me."
He laid August down again, gentler this time. Dampened the cloth. Replaced it on his brow. Checked the bandages. Rewrapped the burn.
"I'm still here, you stubborn bastard," Elias said softly.
"And you're going to stay here too."