The dream bloomed around him like a garden sprung from longing.
Soft petals danced in the air, suspended by a wind that smelled of sugarplums and sun-warmed grass. The sky above was honey-pink, streaked with gold, and beneath Elias's feet, the earth felt feather-light — a trail of flowers blossoming wherever he stepped.
Somewhere ahead, laughter rang out. Familiar. Impossible.
"Catch me, Elias."
August.
He ran barefoot through the shimmering garden, a garland of wildflowers resting delicately atop his curls. Pale, untouchable. His long hair fluttered like silk, catching flecks of morning light. He looked nothing like the hardened boy Elias had grown to love — and everything like something out of a sacred fairy tale.
His cheeks were flushed the color of rose quartz.
Elias could hardly breathe.
He chased him — stumbling over vines, grass brushing his legs — faster, breathless, desperate not to lose sight of the boy just ahead. August looked back once, eyes shining like smoke-glass touched by starlight.
"Almost," August whispered.
And then — Elias reached him.
He caught August by the wrist, spinning him around gently. The air stilled. Petals fell like rain, slow and soft.
August didn't resist.
He looked up at him, breath trembling, flower crown tilted askew.
"You win," August murmured, voice barely a breath. "And now you get your reward."
His fingers rose, hesitant, to touch Elias's chest — right where the heart pounded like a drum of war. He stepped closer, uncertain but brave.
Elias blinked, hardly daring to believe what was happening.
A kiss?
The August he knew — proud, reserved, a fortress of silence — now leaned in gently, lips parted just enough to promise. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes long and trembling, pink cheeks burning with quiet shyness.
Elias could have wept.
Not even a crown forged in gold could rival this moment. No treasure, no empire, no power on this earth could compare to August offering himself like this — raw, delicate, true.
Their foreheads brushed. August whispered,
"This is only yours."
And as their lips were about to meet—
A knock shattered the dream
The dream broke like a mirror struck by a stone.
A scream—sharp, commanding, and unmistakably feminine—ripped through the air. Elias jolted awake with a gasp, his heart thudding wildly. The next moment, he rolled off the side of the luxury bed in a tangled mess of sheets, hitting the floor with a grunt.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Voices followed. Refined. Authoritative. And loud.
Elias scrambled to his feet just in time to hear the heavy doors to the guest wing burst open.
"I want to see him at once! Where is my darling nephew? My sweet, gentle August!" rang a voice like bell-metal dipped in silk.
Down the corridor strode a vision both fierce and stunning—August's father's sister. She moved like a sovereign, guarded by soldiers clad in polished ivory and gold. Her long smoke-grey hair was coiled into a perfect bun, not a strand out of place. Her eyes—bright, blazing tangerine—swept over the room with a fire that turned men to dust.
Giles was already bowing, lips thin with restrained exasperation. "My lady, Lord August is unwell and resting. If you could just—"
"Nonsense! He's still a baby," she declared, sweeping past him with the flourish of a queen who knew the palace was hers.
Elias stood half-hidden near the doorway, still shaken from the dream—August in flowers, August offering a kiss—and now this storm of a woman breaking into reality.
She didn't hesitate. She marched straight to August's chamber and threw open the doors.
Inside, August was sitting up, one hand pressed lightly to his temple, his hair tangled in moonlight curls. He blinked sleepily, dazed by the noise.
Before he could even speak, she was by his side. One gloved hand cupped his cheek tenderly.
"Is my little August feeling under the weather?" she asked, her voice honeyed now, full of maternal affection.
August blinked up at her, speechless for a moment.
And Elias, just outside the door, could only stare as the chaos unfolded—his heart still pounding from dreams and waking both.
While the room buzzed with aristocratic wrath, Elias slipped away to his own quarters. He drew a bath, the steam rising like fog over still waters, trying to wash away the remnants of both the dream and the storm that now roared through the manor. By the time he emerged, dressed in a fresh navy tunic with silver trim, the air was quieter—though only just.
Back in August's room, the scene had shifted from gentle concern to growing tension.
"I said I'm fine," August murmured, voice soft but firm. He sat straighter now, brushing a hand through his curls. But the color had yet to return to his face, and the heavy shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his condition.
"Nonsense," his aunt snapped. She was pacing now, elegant but furious, her heels clicking like judgment against marble. "What did you feed him?" she barked at the nearest maid. "You. And you. Did either of you serve something unfamiliar? Disgusting? Spiced like filth?"
The maids stammered, eyes wide. "We—we only followed the physician's instructions, my lady!"
"Aunt—" August tried, lifting a hand weakly.
She ignored him. "I will not have my nephew treated like some stable boy. I will burn this place to the ground before I see him suffer in silence again."
August gave Elias a helpless glance the moment he entered the doorway, fully dressed and clean once more.
It said everything: I tried.
And: Please stop her.
But what could even Elias do against a woman who could command storms?
Elias stepped into the room, freshly bathed and dressed in a dark navy tunic embroidered at the collar and cuffs with silver threading. The light caught along the sharp line of his jaw, the damp curls of his black hair still clinging faintly to his temples. His expression, however, was neutral—careful, as always—until the moment the woman turned to face him.
August's aunt froze mid-sentence, her tangerine eyes narrowing with sudden intrigue. She took in the towering figure in the doorway, her gaze sweeping up and down like a queen inspecting a knight at court.
"And who," she said, voice smooth as satin but carrying the edge of thunder, "is this creature of shadows and silk?"
Elias blinked once. "Elias, ma'am."
The woman, a vision of glacial elegance, stepped forward with grace that disguised her force. Her pale, pearlescent skin gleamed like a blade drawn under moonlight. Long silver-grey hair was tied in a noble bun, not a strand out of place, and every move she made was steeped in cultivated nobility.
"Lower yourself," she demanded.
He hesitated.
"I said lower," she repeated, flicking her fingers.
Elias knelt slightly, more out of respect for August than fear of her, and the woman promptly reached forward and grabbed him by the ear.
"Ah—!"
"What in the blessed name of royal incompetence are you doing?" she hissed, tugging his ear like a strict governess from hell. "Weren't you assigned to guard him? To keep him warm and happy and safe? To make sure no speck of discomfort so much as glanced in his direction?"
"I—what did I do wrong?" Elias asked, eyes wide, completely taken off guard. He hadn't been manhandled since he was about eight years old.
She glared at him like he'd personally failed a national duty. "We will have a conversation later, you and I. A proper one. Bring your spine to it."
With that, she turned from him with regal scorn and returned to August's side, leaving Elias bewildered behind her.
August was sitting on the edge of the bed now, his hair falling around his shoulders in soft, unruly strands. His pale fingers rested against the coverlet. But his expression, always composed, had shifted into something harder to name. He wasn't smiling. He couldn't. He never did. But something in his eyes tightened—caught between weariness and distant confusion.