Steam rose in soft curls from the copper basin as the chambermaids poured hot water over Elias's shoulders. He sat still, eyes half-lidded, allowing the warmth to sink into muscles still sore from travel and combat. The scents of lavender and rosemary lingered in the air, floating just above the surface of the water. For the first time in weeks, he wasn't wrapped in dust, sweat, or the smell of smoke and blood.
The hands that scrubbed and rinsed were practiced, gentle, but swift. No words were exchanged; there was only the sound of water sloshing, droplets pattering on the marble floor, and the faint creak of the manor waking with morning.
When the bath was done, he stepped into the linen robe offered to him, and minutes later, was dressed in a clean new set of noble attire—a dark forest green tunic with gold embroidery at the cuffs, fine black trousers, and boots that had never touched mud. His black hair was brushed smooth, and his skin, sun-warmed and glowing, contrasted starkly with the chill grandeur of Blackwood Manor.
The grand dining hall opened before him like the inside of a cathedral.
A long dining table stretched the length of fifteen feet, carved of deep mahogany and polished to a mirror finish. The chairs were tall-backed, gilded, each one bearing the sigil of the Blackwood line. Morning sunlight slanted through high arched windows, catching on crystal decanters and silverware so bright it was nearly blinding.
And the food—gods, the food.
Freshly baked bread lined one end, braided and steaming, beside platters of golden sweet potatoes glazed in honey and cinnamon. Bowls overflowed with ripe strawberries, green and red grapes, sliced peaches and figs. A roasted duck sat beside a tower of eggs scrambled with herbs, and three kinds of cheese fanned out on silver trays. Fresh orange juice shimmered in cut-glass carafes, and there was even wine—though it was still early morning.
Elias's stomach growled. The moment he sat down, he knew he'd eat like a man starved for centuries.
Elias" Good Morning '
Across the table sat August.
He was already seated when Elias arrived, dressed in high black with a silk cravat, his platinum-white hair braided neatly and tucked over one shoulder. With side long curly bangs. The pale of his skin looked almost translucent in the light, and dark shadows had bloomed beneath his smoke-grey eyes. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, unmoving, and though the feast stretched before him like a royal banquet, his plate remained empty.
Not even a single grape had been touched.
Elias took the seat closest to him, still chewing a bite of sweet potato, trying not to speak with his mouth full. "You should eat something. These grapes taste like sugar."
August didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on the orange juice.
Not seeing it—just looking through it.
Something flickered across his expression. Not grief. Not yet. But something tight, and sharp, pulling at the edge of his otherwise emotionless mask.
Elias slowed. "August?"
Still, no reply.
August's hands trembled faintly, barely enough to notice unless you knew him well. His breath hitched—once. His eyes widened in that familiar way, like some old wound had flared open beneath his ribs. He stood up suddenly, chair scraping faintly behind him.
No words. No excuses.
He simply turned and left the hall.
Gone, just like that.
Elias paused mid-chew, mouth still full of eggs and fig. He stared after the empty space August had left behind.
"What the hell…"
But the hunger still roared in his belly. He looked down at the food, felt the weight of the weeks of wandering, the cold nights, the endless running. His knife moved without grace, slicing through duck and bread, his fingers slick with jam, juice glistening on his lip.
"I guess I'll eat for the both of us."
And so he did like a starving creature, not yet ready to feel the weight of August's silence.
The silverware clinked gently, echoing in the vastness of the dining hall. By the time Elias leaned back in his chair, the table looked less like a royal feast and more like the aftermath of a siege.
Plates were scraped clean. The sweet potatoes gone. The strawberries, the grapes, even the orange juice, all vanished without hesitation. He'd eaten duck, cheese, bread, more fruit than he could name. The hunger that had guided his hands now gave way to something slower… heavier.
He glanced across the table.
August's plate sat untouched.
So did his glass.
And for the first time since he'd returned, Elias noticed the loneliness of that empty seat.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, setting down his fork.
He rose with a sudden unease, the weight of indulgence twisting in his chest like guilt. Why hadn't he noticed? Why didn't he stop? August's silence at breakfast wasn't new but the hollowness behind his eyes this morning… Elias should've seen it.
He crossed the marble halls barefoot, the soles of his boots swinging from his fingers. The quiet of the manor pressed around him like velvet. Cool. Clean. Still.
He found himself outside August's study.
The door was slightly ajar.
Elias hesitated.
He leaned just enough to peer through the gap.
August was alone, seated behind the dark oak desk that bore the Blackwood crest carved into its edge. His hair fell loose now, a silver curtain draped over one shoulder, and his back curved slightly not the rigid posture of nobility, but the shape of someone folding inward.
The morning sun slanted across the room, catching on the fine edges of glass and ink. Stacks of documents were arranged with precision, letters in thick envelopes bound with wax seals. His quill moved slowly over the parchment, his hand pale and slender.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
August's fingers hovered over the paper. He stared blankly at a letter one Elias couldn't see. And then
He brought his hand to his mouth.
Not to yawn. Not to think.
But to stifle something else.
A breath? A cry?
Elias watched as the color drained further from that already ghost-pale face. His shoulders drew in, his eyes glassy, and wide. He looked like he was about to be sick.
No words were spoken.
But the meaning was clear.
He's remembering something, Elias thought. Something awful.
And for the first time in a long time, Elias didn't step through the door. He didn't knock or call his name.
He simply stood there, in silence, watching the boy who fought ghosts with ink-stained hands.
And he wished, with everything in him, that he hadn't eaten that damned breakfast.
August pushed back his chair.
Not sharply. Not in anger.
Just enough that it made no sound at all.
He stood slowly, one hand still pressed against his mouth. The other braced against the desk as though the act of rising took more strength than he had. His movements were almost graceful—but too quiet, too light, like he was trying not to exist at all.
Elias's heart thudded. He stepped back from the door, giving space as August moved.
And then—he followed.
Down the hall.
Through a side corridor lit only by thin windows.
August walked like a man underwater, his boots soundless on the stone floor, his breath coming faster the closer he got to the end of the passage. He reached the small lavatory tucked behind the eastern wing, gripped the doorframe, and stumbled inside.
Elias caught up just in time to hear it:
A sharp, choking sound.
Followed by the unmistakable heave of someone being sick.
"August," Elias breathed, and stepped in after him.
The air in the room was cold. August had dropped to his knees, one hand gripping the porcelain basin, the other clenched so tightly it shook. His pale curls stuck to the edges of his face. His spine curved as he leaned forward again—another dry, wrenching sound left him.
Elias didn't hesitate.
He dropped beside him, steady hands catching August's shoulders as the next wave hit. His skin was icy. His breath stuttered like a flame in the wind. And even as the nausea passed, his fingers wouldn't stop trembling.
"It's alright," Elias murmured, voice low, firm. "I've got you."
August said nothing.
He didn't have to.
The shame on his face burned deeper than anything spoken. He turned slightly away, as if trying to hide—but Elias gently reached forward and took his wrist.
His other hand grabbed a linen cloth from the shelf above the basin. With quiet care, he dipped it into the wash bowl, wrung it out, and dabbed it against August's mouth. A smear of water, a trace of red. August didn't flinch. Didn't stop him.
Only let his eyes fall half-closed.
Elias pressed the cloth gently to August's hand next, wiping the pale fingers stained with illness and ink.
"You're shaking," Elias whispered.
August's voice came like the echo of frost. "I remember… the blood."
A beat.
Then Elias understood.
The past"
"I see it again," August said, eyes fixed on nothing. "The floor. Their bodies. My mother's hand was cold."
The words came like water through cracks.
Slow.
Painful.
Unstoppable.
Elias drew him close, ignoring the chill, the stiffness, the tremble still in those long limbs. He cradled August's head against his chest, one hand moving instinctively to stroke the back of his hair.
"You're not there anymore," Elias said softly, steadily. "You're here. With me. It's over."
But even as he said it, he knew the truth.
For August… it would never really be over.