August lay back against the pillows, the weight of the lemon water settling in his stomach like something sacred. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing against fevered skin. The headache remained—a dull pressure behind his temples—but it wasn't sharp enough to keep him completely awake.
He shifted once beneath the blankets, then again, trying to find a place where his bones didn't ache.
Sleep did not come easily.
Not when the room was too quiet.
Not when Elias's presence loomed beside the bed like a shadow that would not move.
But eventually, the stillness softened. His breath evened. The pain ebbed just enough. And he drifted—slowly, reluctantly—into the edge of sleep.
Outside the chamber, the manor hushed under the weight of night.
Then came a knock. A soft one.
One of the maids—thin-voiced and careful—pushed the door open a crack. "Sir Elias? Supper has been prepared. Just for you."
Elias turned his head.
He hadn't even realized the sun had vanished.
His stomach answered before he could speak—loud and sudden, a deep growl in the silence. He blinked, expression unreadable, then slowly rose from his seat.
He cast one more glance at August.
The young noble was asleep now—if only barely. His breathing shallow, his brow still faintly furrowed, but calmer than before. The color had returned a little to his cheeks. It would hold for now.
Elias followed the maid.
Down stone corridors washed in candlelight. Past quiet portraits and empty rooms.
In the dining room, a small table had been set. Just one place.
The silverware was modest. The meal—simple roast meat, bread, and seasoned root vegetables—still steamed slightly, as if they'd kept it warm in waiting.
It was enough.
Elias sat, his large frame somehow too still for the chair, and picked up his fork.
He didn't rush.
But he didn't pause, either.
He hadn't eaten since breakfast.
And tomorrow, they'd move again.
Whether August was ready or not.
The roast meat had been glazed in dark wine and rosemary—tender and yielding beneath Elias's knife. Beside it, the root vegetables were crisp at the edges, soft in the center, and soaked in a warm blend of butter and herbs. The bread was dense, faintly sweet, still warm from the oven. A shallow dish of honey rested at his side, meant for dipping, though Elias didn't use it.
He ate slowly.
Each bite was careful, not out of etiquette, but because his mind was elsewhere—on pale skin against linen sheets, on smoke-grey eyes dulled with exhaustion.
By the time he finished, the food was cold and the candles had burned lower.
Elias rose without a word, returning his fork and knife to the edge of the plate. He left the empty dining room behind, footsteps silent on the stone floor as he made his way back.
The chamber was quiet when he entered.
The scent of lemon lingered faintly. The basin had been cleaned, and the candlelight painted soft gold against the bedposts.
August was still there—tucked beneath the covers, turned slightly toward the window, face half-hidden in shadow.
He was asleep.
For the first time in days, Elias saw no lines of pain on his brow. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, like a quiet tide. Even his hair, which usually lay in an unruly fall of pale curls, was pushed back slightly, revealing the gentler curve of his cheekbone.
Elias stood at the bedside for a moment.
Just watching.
Then he leaned down, close enough for his breath to stir a lock of that pale hair.
"Good night," he whispered.
The words hung in the stillness, almost fragile.
Elias lingered a second more—just one last look—then turned and left the room with the same quiet steps.
His own quarters were darker. Quieter. No fire lit, just a bowl of still-warm water prepared earlier. He undressed without urgency, folding each piece of his clothing carefully, then stepped into the small adjoining bath where steam still curled from the surface.
The water soothed the ache in his limbs, washing away the scent of candle smoke and iron from the long day.
And when he finally lay down in bed, his thoughts wandered—
—but not far.
Only to the next room.
Only to the sleeping boy with white hair, and the promise of whatever tomorrow might bring.
Then, for the first time in what felt like days, Elias slept too.
A candle burned low in Giles's study, casting amber light over papers and medical scrolls. The windows were drawn, the hour well past midnight, and the air was thick with clove-scented smoke from the herbal pipe on the tray.
Giles stood with his arms folded, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the hearth though no fire burned.
"I'm telling you," he muttered, "he hasn't been this bad since Port Royal. Whatever this is—it's not a simple stomach affliction."
Across from him, seated in the high-backed chair, was a man unfamiliar to the rest of the household.
The stranger had golden hair cropped short, combed neatly back. His cheekbones were sharp, his posture clean and precise. A pair of thin gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, catching the candlelight like small halos.
He looked too elegant for his profession—but the leather satchel at his side and the ink stains on his fingertips betrayed a practiced hand.
"Asthenia," the physician said softly, tapping a note with a gloved finger. "Fatigue, weakness, nausea. But intermittent. No fever. And you said it began two nights ago?"
Giles nodded. "After the skirmish with the Eclipse Elite.
The physician made a quiet sound in his throat, considering. "Trauma can manifest delayed symptoms. Especially if he's been pushing himself. Has he eaten anything?"
"Barely. Lemon water just for now." Giles's gaze darkened. "He's brittle, like if you touch him too hard, he'll snap."
A pause.
The physician leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Has he ever... shown signs of collapse before this?"
Giles hesitated. Then, in a low voice, "Only once. Years ago. After a fire."
The golden-eyed man nodded slowly.
"I'll examine him more thoroughly tomorrow. Let him rest. For now, he needs hydration. And calm." He glanced toward the window. "Someone like him doesn't allow himself to be cared for, does he?"
"No," Giles said grimly. "He doesn't."
The physician gave a half-smile, clinical but kind. "Then we'll have to do it quietly."
He stood, lifting his satchel, and tucked his glasses into a silver case. "Good night, "mr Giles."
Giles gave a nod, though he didn't move from the hearth.
And behind them, the candle flickered once before going out.
The night vanished slowly, melting into a pale hush.
Soft morning light spilled across the room like threads of spun gold, slipping between the embroidered curtains and casting faint glimmers on the carved bedposts. The shadows receded, one breath at a time, until only the gentle warmth of dawn remained.
A bird chirped once beyond the balcony. Then silence.
August stirred.
His lashes fluttered like moth wings, uncertain. The light brushed his cheek, delicate and real. Slowly, his grey eyes opened, hazed with sleep. For a moment, he didn't move—only blinked, as though unsure whether he was still dreaming.
His head throbbed dully, but not with the force of the night before. The ache sat behind his eyes, like a memory refusing to fade.
The covers had slipped down to his waist. The room smelled faintly of lemon and old stone, clean linens and something unfamiliar—an aftertaste of silence.
He inhaled slowly.
The air was cool.
He turned his head on the pillow. The space beside his bed was empty now. No Elias.
Only the outline of where a chair had been dragged close, and the folded cloth still resting in the basin across the room.
August blinked once more.
The world was still, and the morning had come.