"Do as you please," Elias said coldly, his voice a rough edge against the quiet of the study. "I won't stop you."
August didn't look up from his writing.
The quill moved smoothly, elegantly, like nothing had been said at all.
"But at least," Elias continued, jaw clenched, "think about the people who cared for you. Who still do. You're avoiding all of them."
A pause. The scratching of the quill slowed. Then, finally, August responded, his tone low, almost gentle—but unwavering.
"I do care for them."
His eyes remained fixed on the paper before him, refusing Elias even a glance.
"But I don't need anyone to take care of me," he added. "I'm not a four-year-old child anymore."
The words struck harder than they should have.
Not because of what was said.
But how calmly he said it.
Without fire. Without resentment.
Just… certainty.
Elias watched him.
Watched the boy he had seen ill' and delirious not even a week ago—shaking, half-conscious in bed, breath ragged, lips burning.
Now he sat beneath the golden light, pen steady in hand, voice cool as snow.
No warmth.
No gratitude.
No trace of the quiet moment they'd shared in Port Royal, or of the trembling dream August had woken from in Elias's arms.
"I'm not trying to treat you like a child," Elias said through gritted teeth. "But you were nearly dying days ago—"
"I wasn't dying," August said flatly.
That was the last thread.
Elias's mouth twisted with unspoken words, fury mixing with something else—something deeper, something bitter.
He turned sharply, storming toward the door without another word.
And August didn't stop him.
Didn't look up.
Didn't ask him to stay.
The door slammed shut behind Elias, echoing through the manor like the last word of an argument neither of them truly finished.
Silence returned.
But not peace.
August remained at the desk, his quill still poised above the page. For a moment, it trembled.
Then, with a quiet breath, he set it aside.
He reached beneath the drawer, sliding his fingers beneath the false bottom he had carefully carved weeks ago.
From the hollow space, he drew out the letter.
Folded twice. Sealed with an unfamiliar crest. The parchment had a faint scent—like aged wood and wind and smoke. He turned it in his hands before breaking the seal and opening it once more.
His eyes scanned the words he had read more than a dozen times by now.
It was from the master in Khyronia.
Written in that strange hand—precise, severe, and unmistakably guarded.
Its contents weren't an explanation.
Not exactly.
They were fragments. Clues. Inked like riddles across the page.
Mentions of an order cloaked in myth and fear.
The Eclipse Elite.
An organization built not just on secrecy, but on obedience. Deadly, flawless obedience.
They were assassins.
But more than that—they were bound.
To one master. One command.
And when that master lifted a finger, cities burned.
"They finish what they are told to finish," the master had written. "Even death does not loosen their leash."
August's fingers curled slightly at the edge of the letter.
He had never shown it to Elias.
Never told him.
He had received it days before they left Khyronia, slipped into his belongings like a ghost's whisper. The master hadn't even spoken of it in person. It was meant to be found in private.
And August obeyed.
Even now, he kept it from Elias.
Especially from Elias.
He had even written back.
His own letter was hidden carefully among diplomatic papers no one would dare inspect. Simple language, subtle inquiries, veiled beneath pleasantries—crafted in such a way that even if intercepted, it would say nothing.
But the question was real.
And the master would know how to read it.
He folded the letter carefully and returned it to its hiding place, sealing the drawer with a soft click.
Then, with practiced poise, August straightened the sleeves of his soft attire and returned to his work—his face, as always, unreadable.
The sound of Elias's boots echoed down the dim corridor, each step harder than the last. He didn't stop until he reached his room, slamming the door shut behind him with a muted thud. The silence afterward roared louder than the manor itself.
He stood still for a moment, staring at the dark walls. Then he tore his gloves off, threw them to the table, and pulled his tunic over his head. His body ached — but not from battle, not from bruises.
From something far heavier.
He dragged a hand through his hair and stepped into the washroom. Cool water filled the tub, steam curling faintly around the edges. He didn't wait for it to warm. Instead, he stepped in as he was, sinking into the water like someone trying to drown a storm.
Elias leaned his head back, letting the water lap at his collarbone. His jaw clenched.
"Stubborn little bastard," he muttered under his breath.
It wasn't even anger now. It was something deeper, something that tightened the chest and refused to name itself. That boy — no, that man — in the study, dressed in confidence and cool defiance, wasn't the same one Elias had held in illness. It wasn't the one who clutched at his coat in a dream and muttered his name like a tether.
It was like August had thrown a mask over everything — the pain, the softness, the ache — and replaced it with icy silence and stiff-spined pride.
Elias rubbed at his face and leaned forward, water dripping from his shoulders. In the reflection across the silvered tub wall, his expression was unfamiliar — weary, disappointed, and confused. He wasn't even sure what he'd expected. Gratitude? Openness? A crack in that damn composure?
And yet, what tore at him most wasn't August's coldness — it was the brief look in those smoke-grey eyes.
A flicker. Something hollow and tired underneath the façade.
"I just want to…" Elias began, but the rest never came out.
Instead, he rose from the tub, water sluicing off his tall frame. The cold bit at his skin, but he didn't flinch. He dressed in a loose linen shirt and dark pants, barefoot, damp hair falling over his brow. He crossed to the window, drawing it open to the night air. The breeze whispered in, gentle but sharp.
He leaned on the sill.
"If I had the power," he whispered, "I'd shatter that mask myself. Tear it off. Make him look at me. Not like a soldier. Not like a guest."
He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Just… like someone who cares."
Down the long corridor, the manor had gone quiet. But far in the east wing, a faint golden glow still pulsed behind the study doors. August hadn't left.
Elias imagined him there: one arm stretched out from hours of writing, pale fingers stained faintly with ink. That white-blonde hair, messily falling over his eyes. Spine straight, posture unbending, yet he was probably tired. Eyes red, lips pressed too tight to speak a word even if someone asked how he was.
Elias knew that silhouette better than he liked to admit.
August always looked composed — even when it was killing him inside.
He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched.
"That boy..." he murmured.
He didn't say the name aloud. He didn't have to.
August. Dignified. Distant. Infuriating.
Elias shut his eyes and tilted his head against the frame. It wasn't the rejection that stung. It wasn't even the stubborn way August insisted on handling everything alone, brushing off the people who waited—who worried. No. It was the mask. That unrelenting, polished mask of composure August wore like a second skin.
Elias sighed, running a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. His mind flicked back—unbidden—to the dream. That strange dream. August had leaned in close, soft hair brushing his cheek, those smoke-grey eyes never blinking. Their faces had been inches apart. And then—lips, just there, almost brushing his own—
His eyes flew open, breath catching. Heat flared in his cheeks.
"Damn it," he hissed and turned away from the window.
His hand gripped the sill, knuckles pale. The dream had felt too real. Too warm. And the August in it… not quite the same. That one had smiled. Had reached out. Had wanted him.
How would those lips taste?
The question struck like a whisper in the silence. Elias blinked, stunned by his own thought. The air felt suddenly thinner.
He scoffed under his breath and shook his head. "What's wrong with me?"
The answer hovered in the stillness, unsaid.
He leaned back against the headboard, arm draped over his eyes, heart beating out a steady rhythm he couldn't ignore.
From across the manor, he could almost feel the presence of the boy in the study, hunched over letters and sealed documents, chasing ghosts and riddles alone.
And Elias? He hated that he wasn't allowed behind that wall.
Not yet.
But gods, he wanted to be. Be the part of the
"Company "
"But August won't let him be"