The sun had long risen, yet the air in the august chamber remained dim, as if reluctant to let the morning spill too brightly across truths not yet spoken.
Katherine" stood at the edge of the corridor, her gloved hands folded tightly before her, her expression composed—but not still. Something had been gnawing at the corners of her intuition, not loud enough to speak of before, but now… undeniable.
Elias had changed.
Gone was the sharp-eyed, sheepish boy who once trailed after August like a dog with too many questions and too little pride. There had always been a flicker of mischief in his eye, a crooked grin where reverence should have been, and a rough charm that made even his stumbles endearing.
But now?
He walked quieter. Thought deeper. Spoke less.
There was a wound stitched beneath his skin—not on the surface, but somewhere in the clockwork of the soul.
And she, who had seen so many break behind silks and titles, could sense it.
So when she called his name down the dim corridor—"Elias"—her voice was velvet, but not gentle.
He turned to her slowly, as if waking from something not sleep but memory.
She took several steps forward, skirts whispering across the stone like cautious breaths.
"What has happened to you?" she asked, voice precise, formal, yet softened at the edges by a hush of worry.
Elias did not look at her.
That in itself was answer enough.
But she asked again—this time firmer, closer.
"Elias. I am asking you something."
His shoulders tensed, a breath caught visibly in his throat. Then, as if a dam cracked somewhere unseen, he turned his head toward her—and with a voice strangely strained, he said:
"My lady… that was the thing."
The words struck her like frost.
Not what he said—but what he called her.
My lady.
Never before had he addressed her like that. Not Elias, who used to call her "Aunt Katherine" with the air of a mischievous footman pretending nobility.
She blinked.
And bowed her head slightly—not in submission, but in shock—as she looked up into his face.
"What is wrong with you?" she whispered, her voice a slow unraveling of silk.
There was no jest in his expression. No flicker of that boy who once claimed he could fence a tree if it looked at August the wrong way.
Then he said it.
Flatly.
Simply.
"It's nothing. I just… lost my memories."
She staggered inwardly, like a lace curtain caught in wind.
"What?" she breathed.
But the moment the word left her lips, she was already stepping forward, hands reaching for his shoulders—broad, warm beneath the fabric of his shirt.
"How?" she asked, too quickly. "When? Where? How did it happen—and why did no one tell me? Elias, did you strike your head, or was it—was it August's doing? Did he say anything strange, did he act—?"
Her voice cracked, then steadied. "When did this happen, Elias? Speak to me. I—I should have known. Why didn't I know?"
But Elias's brow furrowed.
Not in defensiveness—but in genuine confusion.
"I… don't know," he said slowly. "Truly. When I first woke up in this manor… I was bandaged. From the waist to the ribs. I couldn't breathe without pain. I don't even remember arriving. It's like… I was born in the dark and no one lit the candle."
He looked down at his palms then, as if they might offer answers.
"They said I've been here for years. That I came with August. That I've been by his side. But I… I don't remember the journey. I don't remember him… and yet—"
His voice cracked now, almost imperceptibly.
"—and yet, my chest aches when I see him lying there. I don't know why. I just know it does."
Katherine stared at him.
And slowly, her hands slipped from his shoulders, her expression unreadable.
Something ancient stirred behind her gaze. Not suspicion now, but… dread.
Not because she believed Elias was lying—
But because she believed he wasn't.
She took a step back, eyes searching the space between them like it might reveal the answer.
A boy stripped of memory.
A boy bound in bandages.
A boy who looks at her nephew like the name August was carved into his ribs.
And yet, does not remember why.
Outside the window, the sky was pale—fragile, almost breakable with light. But inside, the shadows thickened between them.
And in Katherine's chest, something quiet began to scream.
Katherine's eyes burned—not with wrath, but revelation. The flame behind them was not fury for Elias, but for herself. How had this happened? How had such an affliction—an amnesia carved so cruelly—escaped her gaze, her reach, her right to know?
She turned her gaze, slow and blistering, toward the boy before her.
Elias, standing still, jaw tight, eyes low.
Her voice, though steady, carried a tremor of steel.
"Giles."
His name cracked through the chamber like thunder muffled beneath velvet. Elias looked up, surprised—but Katherine was already turning toward the door, the weight of command in every movement of her skirts.
From the far end of the corridor, Giles appeared like a shadow summoned. He stepped into the doorway with the grace of a man who already knew his fate was stirring.
Katherine turned her gaze briefly back to Elias, her expression unreadable—half grief, half resolve.
"Keep your eyes on him," she said softly, but without softness. "I shall return in but a moment."
Elias nodded once, though his gaze remained locked on the faint dust motes drifting in the chamber's golden hush.
Then Katherine's gaze sharpened again, sweeping over Giles like a blade wrapped in frost.
"Follow me," she said.
Her voice, though quiet, held the cold finality of a tomb sealing shut.
The doors closed behind them with the hush of secrets being locked.
Down the grand staircase they moved, Katherine's steps echoing in staccato fury against the marble. Giles followed closely, hands clasped behind his back, each footfall slower than the last. The descent felt longer than ever—those steps carved of Carrara stone now seeming to crack beneath the weight of what was unsaid.
In the morning parlour, Lirael, looked up from the papers he was poring over beside Katherine's husband. His spine straightened at once when he saw the Katherine descend—not with her usual calm poise, but like a storm wound tightly in silk and bone.
Giles halted behind her.
Katherine did not sit. She stood, as if a throne could not contain the tempest in her chest.
Her eyes locked on Giles, and her voice unfurled with calculated venom.
"Did I not instruct you," she began, slow and slicing, "to inform me of every occurrence in this manor?"
Giles bowed his head.
"My lady…"
She cut the air with one lifted hand.
"What happened to Elias?" she asked, each word a needle pushed through veil and bone.
Giles flinched. Lirael held his breath.
Silence stretched like a gallows rope.
Katherine took one step closer. Her presence was suffocating now, not from volume, but precision.
"I asked you something."
And finally, Giles spoke.
"My lady… I—I apologize. It was…" His voice cracked. "It was Lord August. He instructed me not to speak of it."
Katherine's eyes widened, then narrowed. "He is still a child," she snapped, "a child poisoned and fevered, and you took his word over mine?"
She took another step. Her voice grew colder.
"Did I not say—every secret, every whisper—was to pass through me?"
Giles looked up, regret folded deep in his weathered features.
"It was the Khyronia masquerade, my lady."
The room held its breath.
Katherine's gaze turned to ice.
"…What do you mean?"
Lirael leaned forward slightly, as if the words themselves carried a stench of danger. Katherine's husband turned away, but his knuckles had whitened.
The hall remain silent again.
Not even the softest rustle of robe nor the settling of dust upon porcelain shelves.
Katherine did not sit—though a chaise beckoned behind her, draped in pale silk and flanked by candlesticks now weeping wax. Instead, she stood beneath the gilded dome where sunlight angled down like judgment.
Giles stood before her. Lirael remained by the hearth, head bowed, his long blond hair tumbling over one shoulder like golden remorse. He lingered farther back, his magenta eyes darting from face to face, uncertain if this storm was meant to be witnessed or endured.
Katherine's voice was not raised—but it reigned.
"Giles," she said, as though tasting the name for poison. "Did I not tell you, in no uncertain terms, that you were to report every shadow that moved in this house? Every whisper. Every anomaly. Every bruise."
Giles bowed deeper, his knees nearly touching the rug. "Yes, my lady."
"Then explain to me," she continued, the lace at her collar fluttering slightly with each breath, "how it came to pass that my nephew was abducted in Khyronia, and Elias nearly slain—and I, remained in blissful ignorance."
A silence like snowfall.
Giles' voice was hoarse. "Because, my lady… I was instructed not to tell you."
Katherine's brow twitched. Just slightly.
"By whom?"
He did not answer right away.
She took one slow step closer. Her boots made no sound on the rug, yet the weight of her presence crushed the room.
"Who, Giles?"
"…It was Lord August."
A thread snapped. Not aloud. But within her.
Katherine exhaled.
Not in rage. Not even in grief. But in the fragile surrender of one who has just realized how deeply she had been excluded.
"A child," she whispered, "told you to silence yourself—and you obeyed?"
Giles bowed his head again. "He said it would pass. He said Elias would recover… and that you already carried so much, my lady."
Katherine's gaze flickered—not toward Giles now, but to the carpet, the ceiling, the walls. As if seeking the exact corner where she had been made irrelevant.
"And he was right," she said faintly. "I carry too much."
She turned toward Seraphim and Lirael.
Lirael flinched. Though ever graceful in his priestlike robes of dusky pearl and ivory, the flush of guilt painted itself clearly across his high cheekbones. The soft pink of his irises—normally bright with wit—had dulled into the hue of wounded secrets.
Katherine did not ask if they knew.
She already knew they had.
Even Seraphim, ever the tactician with narrowed eyes and locked lips, looked away.
She returned to Giles. Her voice lost none of its poise.
"How long was August held?"
Giles's voice came low. "just days."
"And Elias?"
"He found him. Fought to free him. But he was struck down. A blade through the ribs. He was carried back unconscious."
"And when he woke?"
Giles hesitated.
Katherine waited.
"He remembered… nothing," Giles said finally. "Not the ball. Not the blade. Not even August."
Katherine stared ahead. Her hands trembled—but only slightly, and only once. She clasped them tighter.
No cries. No swoons. No melodrama.
Just the quiet agony of betrayal.
Not betrayal by hatred.
But by love.
By those who thought they were protecting her.
She stepped back. Not to flee. But to breathe.
"I see," she said softly.
The room did not dare to stir.
Not even Lirael, who now bowed his head with the posture of a man who had once offered sanctuary but denied honesty.
"I see," she repeated.
And she did.
She saw how easily truth could be buried beneath concern.
How grief could be postponed under the guise of mercy.
And how easily, in the world of nobility, even a heart as fierce as hers could be kept from its rightful shattering.
Her voice—when it came again—was steel beneath velvet.
"Go," she said. "All of you. Except Giles."
Seraphim bowed and departed without word.
Lirael lingered a moment—his eyes pleading—but Katherine did not return the glance. At last, he too turned and left, his robes trailing behind him like the hem of repentance.
Only Giles remained.
Still kneeling.
Still silent.
She finally sat. Just once.
Her hands rested upon her lap, fingers unfolding with ceremonial calm.
"Now," she said, "you will tell me everything. In order. No embellishment. No omission. If even one syllable is lost to cowardice—Giles—I will not forget it."
He looked up, slowly, guilt carved deep into every line of his face.
"Yes, my lady."
And so, the unraveling began.
Not with screams.
But with the slow, methodical peeling away of silence.
The truth had cost her something.
But she would wear that cost as armor.
As a woman who had been left behind…
…and had no intention of staying there.