The grand dining hall of Blackwood Manor had not seen such preparation in months. Gleaming candelabras lined the length of the endless table, each flame dancing like a tiny ghost above porcelain plates rimmed with gold. Silver cutlery caught the firelight, and bowls of glazed meats, seasoned root vegetables, fresh orchard fruits, and wines aged beyond memory adorned the table like treasures from a forgotten realm.
The maids stood in perfect silence behind each noble-backed chair, their heads slightly bowed, their movements trained to vanish. At the far end of the table, Katherine sat, regal and composed, beside her husband whose face gleamed with the warmth of subtle joy. The physician Hael kept to himself, murmuring once to a footman, though his eyes flicked often toward the staircase, as if watching for something… or someone.
Elias stood by the second pillar, hands at his sides. He had changed into formal wear, but nothing extravagant—a dark buttoned coat and crisp linen shirt beneath, his black hair brushed back but still unruly at the crown. His green eyes were trained on the arched hallway beyond the stairs.
And then—
Footsteps.
Light. Even. Almost floating.
All heads turned.
August appeared at the head of the staircase.
His hair, now dry and loosely brushed, flowed behind him like a pale mist. He wore no royal coat, no ornamental waist sashes or brocade embellishments. Only a soft, finely tailored shirt of eggshell white, and charcoal trousers that clung to the sharp line of his legs. His boots echoed gently on the polished floor.
His face was unreadable. No smile. No warmth.
Just stillness.
"Ah!" Katherine's husband was the first to speak, rising halfway from his chair. "Our nephew graces us at last. What a joy to have you join the table, my boy."
August gave the man a single nod as he took his seat without a word.
The silence resumed almost instantly as the clatter of forks resumed, broken only by the faint rustle of sleeves and the quiet ladling of soup.
August reached for none of it.
Only the bread.
He broke it apart with a slow, practiced precision, dipped it lightly into his plate's edge where olive oil had been poured, and took small bites without any reaction at all. His posture was perfect, as though sculpted into the chair—but something about it felt... detached. Present only in form, not spirit.
Elias watched from three seats down.
Something had changed.
August's illness had passed. His body had recovered. But the boy sitting there now—his back so straight, his expression so void—was different. There was a finality in the way he held his silence. As though something inside him had closed.
Or worse—opened.
August finished eating before anyone else. He rose with grace but no pause, his voice low and firm.
"There is work I must attend to," he said, not to anyone in particular. "Please, don't wait on my account."
Katherine's knife slipped slightly against the porcelain. She blinked, lips parting. "August... you've only just returned to health. There is no urgency—"
But he was already stepping away from the table.
Her voice quieted.
His steps echoed again, not rushed, not hesitant, but resolute.
As he reached the threshold, he paused—just briefly enough that one might imagine he would turn back. But he didn't.
He continued on, vanishing beyond the golden arch.
Katherine's husband exhaled awkwardly and looked down at his plate.
Katherine lowered her gaze as well, her hands folding atop her lap with slow restraint. The air seemed to shift—warm with food, rich with celebration, yet stifled by something unspoken.
Elias stared at the empty chair.
There had been something sharp behind August's eyes, even if they showed no emotion. A cold clarity.
It was not pride. It was not bitterness.
It was armor.
Something in Elias's chest twisted—but he said nothing.
Not yet.
The candles were long extinguished in the grand dining hall. One by one, servants slipped away like shadows dismissed from duty. Plates were cleared, chairs tucked in with muffled grace, and the lingering scent of roasted spices faded into the heavy wood walls of Blackwood Manor.
Guests murmured their goodnights, voices like echoes folded into the long corridors. Katherine and her husband returned to their quarters at the eastern wing, the physician retiring next, then the maids, each vanishing like threads snipped clean. The manor slowly surrendered itself to silence.
Elias stood in the corridor beside his chamber door.
But he did not enter.
Instead, he waited. Quietly. Listening.
Not for footsteps.
But for stillness.
The moment the house stilled—when no board creaked, no latch turned, no fire cracked—he stepped away, walking as if the very walls could overhear him.
Down the corridor.
Past the sleeping wings.
Toward the western study.
The thick carpet softened his footsteps. The hallway lamps had been dimmed. Only the moonlight trickling in through the long vertical windows lit the way, silvering the edges of old paintings and ancient vases.
Elias reached the study door.
It wasn't locked.
Of course it wouldn't be.
August didn't lock things—not from Elias.
He pressed the door open an inch.
Inside, the boy sat at his desk.
Not boy.
Not anymore.
August looked almost too still, the faint golden light from the desk lamp wrapping him in a warm hush. His long, pale hair shimmered under it, half-pinned back, the rest falling freely over his shoulder. He wore the same light attire from dinner, sleeves slightly pushed up, revealing elegant forearms that moved with delicate certainty.
He was surrounded by paper.
Stacks. Letters. Sealed documents. Loose maps. A silver pen glided across one parchment, his fingers steady and precise.
Elias stayed by the door.
Unseen. Watching.
August turned a page, read another letter, and scribbled something quickly before tucking it into a folder.
No wasted motion.
His expression was cool, untouched by fatigue. Focused, but not tense.
Work. Letter after letter.
Missives bearing official seals. Names Elias didn't recognize. Some were local—matters of land or shipment or estate. Others... older. Stained edges. One with handwriting Elias found oddly familiar but couldn't place.
August paused once, reaching toward a crystal decanter beside the lamp. He poured water into a goblet, lifted it to his lips, drank, and returned it to the desk without looking up.
His movements were eerily calm. Like this room was a world unto itself and everything outside it no longer mattered.
Elias leaned his shoulder slightly against the doorframe, mouth twitching faintly.
This was the boy who had been bearing illness not long ago?
The same one who, days prior, could barely lift his head?
He should have looked weak. Still recovering.
But no.
He looked—Elias didn't know the word for it.
Composed. Controlled. But something else too.
Detached.
August turned again, opened another letter—this one thicker than the rest. His eyes lingered. Longer than before.
He didn't move.
The lamp flickered slightly as if sensing the change.
Still, August did not speak, did not sigh, did not react.
Then he simply folded the paper, set it aside, and picked up the next one.
Elias felt something gnawing in his chest.
This wasn't right.
August wasn't resting. Wasn't recovering.
He was burying himself.
Layer by layer, beneath duty, beneath paper, beneath silence.
The desk lamp illuminated half his face, leaving the other side in soft shadow. He looked like his portrait—no, like his father's portrait. So similar in bone and gaze it made Elias's stomach tighten.
He's doing this on purpose, Elias thought. Filling his time with responsibility so none of the grief has space to speak.
Elias took one step into the room.
Soft.
August didn't look up.
"I thought I was the one who couldn't sleep," Elias said, voice low, gentle.
August's hand paused mid-stroke.
But still, he didn't look up.
"There are more important things than sleep," he replied quietly.
Elias stepped closer.
"You're still healing."
"I'm fine."
"Is that your new favorite phrase?"
August looked at him then. Briefly. Not sharply—just... tired of being asked.
"If I don't handle these letters, who will?" he murmured. "Everything's been piling up."
"You could've waited until morning."
"I did wait until after dinner."
Elias folded his arms, watching him. "You're burning through them like they're weights you need to lift to feel alive again."
August gave no response to that.
Only silence.
The flicker of candlelight wavered across his pale hands as he closed one document and opened the next. Still elegant. Still distant.
Elias felt it again—that subtle wall August kept building between himself and the rest of the world.
This wasn't arrogance.
It was defense.
A shield made of ink and obligation.
He said nothing more, only watched from the edge of lamplight while August returned to his work as if his hands were the only parts of him still allowed to speak.