Elias exhaled slowly. "Thank God," he murmured under his breath. "He's asleep."
He knelt beside the bed, lowering himself enough to look at August's face more closely—closer than he dared when those smoke-grey eyes were open and staring daggers.
He tilted his head. And for a long moment, simply drank him in.
"He's such a beauty," Elias whispered. "Damn near hurts to look at him sometimes."
That elegant nose. That sculpted mouth. Those delicate white hands resting beside his cheek.
Everything about him looked carved from moonlight. So refined, so precise. Like a statue brought to life.
"And so," Elias added, voice dropping into a low mutter, "so damned stubborn."
His mouth twitched.
He tried to suppress the smirk, but it broke across his face anyway—half amused, half exasperated. Typical. Even near collapse, even after vomiting, even shaking from exhaustion—August had tried to stand. Had dared to argue. Had looked Elias in the eye like a noble facing a firing squad.
"You're unbelievable," Elias whispered, brushing a stray curl back from August's cheek. "You don't even know when to give up, do you?"
But August didn't stir.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Elias's smirk faded slowly as his eyes lingered.
"You should've eaten," he murmured. "You always do this… Carry the world until your body gives out."
There was no reply, no shift. Just the peace of sleep. The only peace August ever allowed himself anymore.
Elias sat again, this time on the edge of the bed. His hand hovered in the air—tempted to touch, to comfort—but he didn't.
Not yet.
August wasn't used to touch. Not unless he allowed it.
Elias could wait.
And so he stayed, silent beside him, watching the slow rise and fall of that too-fragile chest, the color returning slowly to his lips, the faintest softness stealing into his sleeping face.
It would be enough—for now.
Elias had never seen anything like him.
The man who slept before him on silk sheets was all ice and glass and pale moonlight. August's lashes lay like shadows against his cheek, long and delicate, a soft contrast to the sharp lines of his noble face. His pale lips were parted just slightly, drawing in shallow, even breaths. One hand—elegant, slender, almost too thin—rested near his mouth on the coverlet. The other lay limp across the pillow, knuckles turned outward.
Elias leaned in closer. Watched.
He had no right to. And yet—he couldn't help it.
So much of August had always been a wall, a locked door, a cold steel gate. But in sleep… something changed. His expression no longer held weight or pride or fury. His brow wasn't drawn in calculation. He didn't carry the mask of nobility. He simply was—bare, human, and terribly beautiful.
"I shouldn't stare," Elias murmured under his breath. "But hell, August…"
His gaze dropped to the curve of August's collarbone just visible beneath the blanket's fold. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm now, the illness no longer shaking his frame. The faintest flush had returned to his skin, less ghostly than before.
Still too pale. Still too tired.
But not fighting anymore.
Not resisting.
Elias's throat tightened.
A knock interrupted the silence.
It was light. Almost hesitant.
Elias turned sharply, his boots soundless on the thick carpet. He cast one last glance at the bed—and in that instant, he caught it.
A flicker.
August's hand twitched, fingers curling slightly into the fabric.
But his eyes remained shut.
Elias crossed the room quickly and quietly, swung open the grand carved doors just wide enough to peer into the hallway. A pair of young maids stood outside with folded linens and a tray of lemon water. Their faces were polite but strained with concern.
The taller of the two gave a bow. "Sir Giles asked us to wait outside in case anything is needed," she said softly. "We were told to make sure Master August had no disturbance."
Elias lowered his voice at once. "Slower. Keep your voice down—he's sleeping."
The girls both nodded, shrinking back with wide eyes.
"Anything else, send it through Giles directly," Elias added, his tone still low but commanding. "You've done enough. Thank you."
The maids curtsied and retreated down the corridor.
Elias shut the doors gently behind him and turned back to the room—his eyes immediately finding the bed again.
August hadn't moved further. His hand still rested against the coverlet, but the small tremor had stilled.
Elias exhaled slowly.
"He even sleeps like a prince," he murmured, half to himself, half to the quiet air.
He moved back to the side of the bed, crouching once more to August's level, and studied his face again.
There was something fragile in the stillness—something soft and sacred. Elias felt it like a chord pulled tight inside his chest. His fingers itched to reach out, to brush back another curl, to touch the side of that sleep-flushed cheek.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, he sat again and waited.
Guarding his sleeping prince. Watching over the only man who had ever stirred so much inside him without even trying.
The night deepened, casting silver-blue shadows through the tall windows of the chamber. Only the occasional flicker of candlelight moved across the high ceiling. The room was still, hushed, wrapped in the velvet silence of midnight.
Elias hadn't moved from the chair beside the bed.
He sat back now, fingers interlaced, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes never left August's face—peaceful still, lashes unmoving, a fragile picture of rest. The quiet rise and fall of his breath soothed something inside Elias's chest, even though worry continued to hum under his skin like a low, persistent drumbeat.
Then, without meaning to, his thoughts slipped backward.
Into a memory.
It had been a night like this—cold, quiet, lit by stars and grief. The manor had been eerily silent back then, its corners too large for two broken children. Elias remembered the marble underfoot, the scent of burning wood, and the faint scent of lilacs that always clung to the velvet curtains.
He had been nine. Small, scrawny, wild-eyed. And August, a year older, already carried a stillness that unsettled everyone.
Elias had heard whispers. About what happened. About blood in the drawing room. About a boy who didn't cry.
That night, Elias couldn't sleep. He padded barefoot through the halls, past stone pillars and oil lamps, and found himself outside August's chamber. The door had been cracked open. A faint breeze stirred the curtains, and beyond them, on the balcony, stood a boy in white.
August.
He was just ten, his hair already ghost-pale, his frame thinner than it should've been. He was staring up at the stars—staring too hard, like he wanted them to tell him something.
Elias remembered clutching something in his hands. A carved wooden knight, worn at the edges. One of the only toys he'd carved a toy he hardly remembered being given. But it had felt important.
He stepped onto the balcony.
August didn't turn.
So Elias, small and nervous, held out the wooden knight.
"You like stories about knights and princesses, right?" Elias said. "I heard the maids say that. You like the one where the knight never lets the princess cry."
August turned to him slowly, grey eyes wide—not with surprise, but with something deeper. He took the figure in his pale hand, stared down at it, silent.
Elias scratched his head, shifting from one bare foot to the other.
"How long have you been here?" August asked softly.
Elias blinked. "Since I was three, I think. I don't remember. Everything before that is just... blurry."
The wind blew gently between them.
"You don't have to be afraid," Elias said, puffing out his chest a little, even though he was shorter. "When I grow up, I'll protect you."
He hesitated—then added, "Like a real knight. You can be the princess. I don't care that you're a boy."
August stared at him.
Then, slowly, he looked back to the wooden knight.
And for the first time that night—he nodded.
He didn't smile. He didn't cry. But he accepted the gift. And that was enough.
---
Elias returned to the present with a blink.
His gaze drifted again to the sleeping figure curled beneath the blankets. That same pale hair. That same shadowed elegance. But no longer ten. And far more guarded now.
"You were always the same," Elias whispered under his breath, unable to help the curve of his lips. "So perfect. So stubborn. So damn quiet."
He leaned back in the chair with a quiet sigh, watching the faint movement of August's chest.
"How foolish I was back then," he murmured. "Thinking I could protect you with a toy knight."
And yet, here he was still. Watching. Guarding.
As if nothing had changed.