Chapter: 6
The docks of Varence rose through the morning haze like a mirage stone towers and gabled roofs, bright flags fluttering above slate-tiled spires. From a distance, the city glittered. Up close, it stank of smoke, sweat, and the faint, acrid tang of rusted chains.
The brig slid into Port Royal's harbor under patched sails, her hull blackened in places where fire had kissed too close for comfort. Dockhands paused in their work, eyes narrowing at the scars along her side. A gang of soldiers lined the quay too many for routine inspection, too stiff to be indifferent.
August stood at the prow, cloak draped over one shoulder, eyes sharp despite the pallor under his skin. His breath fogged slightly in the crisp morning air, though it was not cold enough for that. Sweat slicked the back of his neck.
He didn't sway, though the ship still rocked.
He didn't blink when Elias approached beside him.
"We're being watched," Elias muttered. "Half the dock is Crown Guard."
"I see them."
"You're burning up." It wasn't a question. Elias's eyes were on him, steady and unrelenting.
August didn't look away. "We have a delivery to make."
"You're sick."
"I'm standing."
The ship groaned as it nudged the pier. Dock lines were thrown. Shouts rang out.
Elias exhaled hard through his nose. "You need rest. A healer."
August turned his head slightly. "Later."
He stepped off the gangplank first.
The guards at the pier didn't salute, but they didn't stop them either. One recognized the seal on the courier crate the crescent and needle stitched into August's shoulder. That, and the blood-dried burn on his hand, were apparently proof enough.
They passed through the checkpoint without a word.
The streets were narrower than August remembered or perhaps the fever was distorting space around him, pulling buildings inward like teeth closing on a throat. The city bustled, but too cleanly. No children in the alleys, no drunken merchants staggering from taverns. Soldiers at every corner.
Something was wrong. But his mind couldn't hold onto it. Every sound scraped across his skull like metal.
By the time they reached the Silken Archive an unmarked stone hall behind the facade of a wine house August's vision had narrowed to a tunnel. His boots echoed too loudly on the polished floor.
He didn't stumble.
He didn't lean.
He walked straight to the receiving table and dropped the sealed bundle onto the marble.
"For Lady Rhéa. Eyes only," he said.
The attendant a woman in grey with a pinched mouth and ink-stained fingers opened the case, checked the threads under a magnifier, and nodded once.
"Confirmation received."
That was all.
August turned and walked out. He made it down the corridor, around the corner, past the courtyard fountain and then the world shifted.
A wave of nausea rolled through him. His knees buckled, just for a second.
Elias caught him.
He hadn't spoken the whole walk, hadn't pushed, hadn't even touched him but now his hand was firm around August's arm, steadying him.
"I'm fine," August muttered, pulling away.
"You're not."
August didn't argue. He just started walking again. Slower. Shoulders straighter than iron.
They made it to the safehouse a second-story apartment above a spice merchant's shop, secured weeks earlier by Elias's network. August crossed the threshold, stripped off his gloves, and went to the desk without sitting.
"We need to send word back. And I want the shipping manifests from the western bay by nightfall"
"Sit down," Elias said.
August didn't move.
Elias crossed the room, grabbed the papers out of his hand, and dropped them onto the desk.
"I said sit."
August opened his mouth, then blinked. The light tilted sideways. His legs folded under him.
He didn't fall hard Elias caught him before the chair tipped but he didn't get up either.
His breath came shallow. His skin was white as salt. And beneath his shirt, heat pulsed from him like a forge.
Elias touched his forehead. Swore.
"You stubborn, quiet, maddening fool."
August's eyes fluttered open. "I'm still conscious."
"Barely. You have a fever high enough to kill lesser men. You should be dead."
August gave a faint exhale the ghost of a laugh. "Tried that. Didn't take."
And then he was out.
Not a dramatic collapse. Not a gasp. Just... silence. As if he had willed himself to stay upright until there was no will left.
Elias eased him to the cot in the corner, stripped his outer layers, and laid a damp cloth on his forehead. August didn't stir. His hand, still half-bandaged from the fire, twitched once in his sleep.
Outside, the bells of the capital began to toll the hour. Inside, Elias sat beside the cot and stared at the man who had held the helm through fire and sabotage, had barked orders through smoke with blistered hands and now lay barely breathing in the dark.
It wasn't weakness that had brought him down.
Perfect. We'll stay in the room dim, quiet, filled with the soft sounds of cloth in water, shifting breath, and the muted world just outside the window. Elias, usually all sharp edges and action, now forced into stillness, confronted by something he can't fight or stab or threaten.
The fever didn't break by nightfall.
Elias sat in the chair beside him, sleeves rolled, hands idle for once. The bowl of cool water on the table steamed faintly from the heat radiating off August's body.
He wrung out the cloth, replaced it on August's forehead, careful not to touch more than necessary.
Silk-smooth skin, too cold and too hot at once. The body of someone unused to rest. Built for silence and strain, not collapse.
"You know," Elias said softly, "most people when they're about to fall over they ask for help."
No response.
He leaned back in the chair. It creaked under his weight.
"I've seen men scream from wounds smaller than yours. Seen grown officers cry when fever took them." He studied August's face pale and serene like carved alabaster. "But not you. You didn't say a word."
Wind pushed against the shutters, whispering.
Elias hesitated, then reached down, took August's burned hand in his own. Gently turned it over, thumb brushing the edge of the ruined cloth.
"You didn't flinch when it happened," he said. "Not even a grunt. I was close enough to see your jaw set, but you didn't make a sound."
He began to unwrap the bandage, slow and careful.
"You've been trained to hide everything, haven't you?"
The skin beneath was blistered raw in places, some torn open from friction, others scorched black-red. Elias muttered something under his breath a curse, a prayer, maybe both and dipped the cloth again, cleaned the edges with water and wine. August didn't stir.
"You're not brave because you don't feel," he murmured. "You're brave because you feel it all and never let anyone see."
He took the salve from his satchel. Spread it over the burns with a steady hand. August's brow twitched the first movement in hours.
"I get it now," Elias said. "You're not cold. You're just... tired of bleeding where anyone can see it."
His voice was quiet. Not soft, exactly but something close.
"I don't want to make you talk," he went on. "I won't ask you to open up. But I'm here. Even if all you ever give me is silence."
He rewrapped the hand. Tucked the covers higher. Sat back again and stared at the window, where moonlight trickled through broken slats of wood.
For a long time, there was only quiet.
Then, a sound so faint it might have been imagined.
A whisper of breath, a murmur barely above thought:
"…Thank you."
Elias turned. But August hadn't moved. His eyes remained closed. Face still, unreadable. Maybe it was a fever-dream. Maybe not.
Elias didn't answer. Just leaned forward again, elbows on knees, head bowed slightly a silent promise between warriors too proud to speak.
Outside, the city slept beneath the weight of its secrets.
Inside, Elias kept vigil.