The corridor lay in silence, dimly lit by the waning flame of a brass candelabra, its shadows stretching across the stone walls like long, accusing fingers. Elias walked with measured tread, the sound of his boots softened by the rough rug beneath, as though even the ground wished to muffle his unrest.
He was bound for the kitchen, for no greater task than to fetch a glass of water, yet every step carried the weight of thoughts too intricate and labyrinthine for a soldier's simple heart to untangle. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of extinguished wax, and with every breath Elias felt the stirrings of memory that was not memory — a flicker of recognition that refused to root itself, a voice that echoed in the chambers of his mind yet dissolved before it could speak its name.
He thought of August. Always of August. The pale figure lying beneath those heavy sheets, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the fragile tremor of his hands — each motion like a candle guttering against the wind, defiant but perilously frail. Elias had looked upon him not as one gazes upon the sick, but as one gazes upon a mirror cracked by time, for something within him stirred when his eyes lingered on August too long. It was not familiarity in the ordinary sense — no shared memory of childhood games nor recollection of kinship — but rather a haunting, a resonance, as though their very souls had once been tuned to the same pitch. And yet he did not know why.
When he had turned from August's chamber, the image that pursued him most vividly was not August himself, but the woman who had stood within — the one whose presence struck him like a blade pressed to the hollow of his throat. She had called him son. Not once, but with such unshaken conviction that her words clung to him like ivy upon stone. Her boy. Her voice had trembled with maternal fervor, with grief and recognition that Elias himself did not share. He remembered only her eyes, alight with the pale fire of desperation, as though by naming him she might claim him back from the abyss.
But he had no such recollection of her. Not a fragment. No hearth, no lullaby, no embrace. The woman was a stranger cloaked in the cruel costume of intimacy. Yet in her features, in the tilt of her head, there had been an echo — the shadow of another face. He thought of the dreams that plagued him in broken fragments: dreams of two women, twin-like, their visages so close in resemblance they seemed carved from the same divine mold, yet differing in their sorrow. He could not recall their names. He could not even recall if he had ever spoken to them. But he was certain — too certain — that they were two, not one, and that both had wandered into the cavernous theatre of his unconscious nights.
Now, alone in the corridor, he wrestled with the cruel paradox. Was it not absurd, he thought, that strangers should call him kin, yet he himself could not even summon the faintest ember of remembrance? Was it not mockery that his heart leapt when they named him boy, and yet his mind was vacant as a tomb? It was as though some grand hand had stolen away the ledger of his life, tearing out every page that bore record of who he had been before this present chapter.
He reached the stairwell and descended, the ancient boards groaning under his weight like the mutterings of ghosts long dead. The air grew cooler, tinged with the faint aroma of herbs left to dry, rosemary and thyme hanging from beams overhead. The kitchen awaited below — broad, stone-walled, illuminated by the gentle glow of the embers that lingered in the great hearth. Yet Elias paused at the threshold, his hand upon the iron latch, as though the act of stepping into that room, of filling a simple glass with water, were far less pressing than the storm raging within him.
He told himself he should not ask August. Not now. The man was weakened, frail as porcelain left too long in the cold. To burden him with questions — to press upon him the mystery of the woman's claim, of the twin visages, of dreams too cruelly vivid — would be nothing less than cruelty. And yet Elias longed to know. His heart burned with questions like parchments catching flame: Who am I to you? What is this bond that binds me to your side even when reason bids me turn away? Why does the word 'son' cling to my skin as though it were written in my very blood?
He thought of August's silence, the way he often looked through Elias rather than at him, as though gazing at some horizon only he could see. Was that silence a kindness — a shield to protect Elias from truths too bitter to taste? Or was it indifference? Elias did not know. But he knew this: if one of those twin women had called him her boy, then some thread must tie him to August. Blood or fate, memory or providence — whatever it was, it fastened him like an invisible chain, keeping him near, keeping him restless, keeping him yearning.
When he entered the kitchen, the air altered. A faint warmth rose from the hearth, where the maids busied themselves in their modest choreography of labor—spoons clinking, aprons brushing, the muted thrum of industry that kept the Manor alive. Their eyes rose at his arrival, for Elias did not often cross into their domain. He was not of their number; his bearing alone declared it. Yet tonight, he carried the trace of unrest in his shoulders, the look of a man half-burdened with riddles not his own.
One of the maids, a girl with hands reddened by soap, stilled her task. "Shall we fetch something, sir?" she asked, half-curtsy trembling into her words.
Elias inclined his head, voice low, steady, and not to be mistaken for command though it carried the weight of one. "A glass of water—for him."
At once they moved, as though even this simplest request was to be performed with a devotion owed to more than duty. A tray was brought forth, polished. Another maid, the taller one, with hair bound tight in a kerchief, poured from the pewter jug. The water caught the firelight as it streamed, a silver thread unraveling into the crystal's hollow. She set it upon the tray with care, as though the very vessel bore consequence.
When they offered it to Elias, it was done with both hands, as if they surrendered not merely water but a token of allegiance. His fingers closed around the rim, long and deliberate, his knuckles pale in the glow. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the simple surface of the glass, and he thought how even water—plain, unadorned—might carry the power to steady a man at the edge of collapse.
Elias departed the kitchen with a measured stride, the silver tray balanced firmly in his hands, its polished weight pressing cold and constant against his palms as though it wished to remind him of its burden. The murmurs of the maids dissolved behind him, their curtseys fading like shadows retreating before the dawn. He stepped into the long corridor, where every lantern flamed with a soft amber hue, bending its glow upon the dark wood and tapestries like the watchful eyes of old saints.
His mind was not his own, but a restless tide, tossing him from shore to shore. Questions prowled there, sharp as wolves yet caged by his discipline. They howled for release, but he barred them with silence, knowing the hour had not yet struck for truth. To ask now would be to fracture the delicate glass of what bound him to August. Patience—yes, patience must be his chosen weapon, though it burned within him like a blade kept too long in the fire.
The hush of the hall pressed closer the farther he walked. The rugs drank his footsteps, yet he swore he could hear the echo of his own pulse, loud as a drum in some forgotten procession. In each alcove, statues of long-dead lords kept their vigil, marble lips pressed thin, as if they too disapproved of his fevered thoughts. He lifted his chin nonetheless, defying even their cold judgment, though his heart carried storms within.
For August. Always, it returned to August. That pale figure laid upon linen, a flame too slender to warm the chamber yet fierce enough to burn Elias's soul. How was it that frailty could command so much power? It shamed Elias, the thought of that weakness wrapped in beauty, and yet it enthralled him all the more. He yearned to demand answers, to seize the truth with his own hands, but he knew: a question asked too early is a door broken down, and doors once broken cannot be made whole again.
So he pressed on, allowing the questions to circle him like ravens at twilight, patient hunters awaiting the fall of his guard. "Not yet," he whispered beneath his breath, though none were there to hear. "Not yet, but soon."
The corridor seemed endless, a river of silence drawing him toward the chamber where fate itself lay waiting. Outside August's door, the candle in its iron sconce sputtered, casting a wavering glow that shivered like the soul of a dying star. Elias's hand hovered upon the threshold, fingers tense, as if the door itself resisted his touch. He drew a breath, steadying the tumult within, and pressed onward.
Before Elias could set foot across the chamber's threshold, a sound arrested him—an unrestrained sob, swelling and breaking against the silence like waves against the hull of a ship. It was Everin. The sound curdled something within Elias's chest; there lingered in him a deep, unspoken distaste for that man, a distaste sharpened each time he beheld the borrowed halo of divinity with which Everin adorned himself. Divinity, indeed—yet here he was, dissolving into tears like a frail child denied his plaything.
Elias's hand, steady though unwilling, pressed to the door. He pushed it open, and the sight within struck him like theatre staged for cruelty's sake.
Lady Katherine, stately in her composure, bent over Everin with the patience of a weary governess. Her voice, low yet firm, coaxed him toward manhood, bidding him rise above such lamentations. But her entreaties fell like pebbles into a bottomless well. Everin clung to his misery, his hands wrung together, his mouth twisted in pitiful despair.
The reason for his weeping was plain—August, aloof and unyielding, had turned his face from him. That simple act of disregard had pierced Everin deeper than any blade. He sobbed not for holiness, nor for sorrow divine, but because his cousin, his idol, would not bend to him.
Through the veined light spilling from the tall windows, Elias saw the truth written in every tremor of Everin's shoulders. It was not sanctity that dwelled there, but petulance. His teeth clenched, his eyes red-rimmed, his figure shaking with a hunger that was not spiritual but human—aching, desperate, unbecoming.
And Elias, silent as the hush after a storm, stood at the threshold, tray in hand, with the unshakable sense that Everin's cries were not those of devotion, but of possession denied.
August's head remained turned aside, a pale crescent of profile against the dim chamber light, refusing even the ghost of a glance toward Everin or the aunt who soothed Everin sobs. His silence was not merely silence, but an iron gate fastened against intrusion, a shield forged from loathing. Everin's wailing clung to the air, a lament more fit for a forsaken child than a man adorned in borrowed divinity.
Elias entered, his stride tempered, the chamber door groaning as though it too despised to admit such grief. He bowed with composed reverence to Lady Katherine, her figure stately even while bent to coax a weeping nephew into manhood. Yet her efforts fell upon deaf soil, for Everin clutched at her like a drowning soul, his teeth clenched between sobs, and his eyes sharp with envy.
"It is his fault," Everin spat between gasps, clinging still. "Had he not wormed his way into my cousin's heart, August would have never chosen him over me!" His words crumbled into weeping, and his sobs rattled the chamber like a storm against fragile glass.
Elias's expression remained carved in marble, unyielding, unsoftened. He bestowed upon Everin not a word, only a fleeting glare that cut like cold steel—swift, merciless, and gone. That single look silenced nothing, yet marked its disdain in fireless severity.
At that soundless moment, August stirred. The recognition of Elias's presence drew him upright, his spine steeled though his body trembled. Elias approached with steady gravity, bearing a silver tray. He offered the glass, his hand unwavering. August received it with one hand alone—pale fingers quivering yet proud, every motion declaring defiance. Though his grasp trembled, the act itself sang of quiet sovereignty. a man bruised, but unbowed.