The marble floor beneath August's feet felt colder than usual, or perhaps it was his body that betrayed him. The light of morning spilled through the tall arched windows of Blackwood Manor's grand dining hall, casting a hazy gold against the polished silver and delicate porcelain. The breakfast had been lavish—as always—a feast of poached quail eggs, honeyed bread, ripe figs, smoked fish, and seasonal jams arranged like an edible still-life painting.
But August could not bear the sight of it.
He had taken one bite. One single, graceful, obligated bite of something soft and subtly sweet—he hadn't even registered what it was. His throat had worked to swallow it, and then the nausea had hit him like a wave crashing against fraying stone.
Elias had been kind. He had said only, "Thank you," with a gentleness so unlike his earlier insistence. Perhaps he knew that August's pride, like spun glass, could not endure another bruise.
"It's too hard for me to eat," August had murmured, his voice nearly lost beneath the silver clink of cutlery. Then he had risen, spine straight, chin poised, and exited the hall with the soft glide of silk and shadow.
The moment the door closed behind him, the composed mask began to slip.
His breath quickened. The fullness in his throat surged upward. He walked—no, drifted—down the hallway like a man lost in fog, one hand barely grazing the wainscoting for balance. The manor seemed unusually quiet, the muted bustle of servants drowned beneath the roaring pulse in his ears.
Around the corner, past the grand staircase, August reached the servants' washroom—a space rarely graced by a nobleman's presence. Inside, a white porcelain basin sat quietly on a carved oak stand, framed by a tall mirror that he did not dare look into.
He barely made it.
His hand clutched the rim of the basin just as his body folded in protest. The bite rebelled from within him, and he retched. Once. Twice. Again. The sound echoed off the tiles, a jarring contrast to the manor's usual grace.
His eyes were glistening when he straightened, his breath shallow. He took one of the soft cotton towels stacked beside the basin and gently wiped his mouth. His hands were trembling, so he folded the towel with deliberate care to hide the weakness in his fingers.
No one must see. No one must know.
When he finally dared glance at his reflection, he found a stranger. Pale, shadow-eyed, with strands of platinum hair loose around his collar from the morning's hurried braid. Yet even now, his lips held a semblance of composure.
He turned without a sound and left the room as if he had never been there.
Each step back to the study felt heavier than the last. The morning sunlight no longer warmed his path—it only illuminated how fragile he had become.
Then again.
And then he stilled.
Outside, Blackwood Manor stirred to life, unaware that within its heart, its porcelain prince was shattering slowly, quietly, with no one left to see.
The door to the study closed with a gentle click, muffled by the thick carpet and the hush of morning. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows in dusky beams, catching in the motes of dust that swirled with every breath of movement. The room was quiet—too quiet, perhaps. Books stood like sentinels on the shelves, untouched and unmoved, and the familiar scent of parchment, beeswax, and dried lavender lingered in the air.
August stood still for a moment, one hand still on the brass doorknob, his lashes low, the weight of the world pressing down on his slender frame. He had made it here on his own feet—but only just.
His knees trembled slightly beneath the fabric of his trousers, and the warmth of the milk sat uneasily in his stomach, mingling with the forced bite of bread he had taken under Elias's worried insistence. It had been just one bite. Yet even that felt like too much.
He drew a sharp breath through his nose and released it slowly, composing himself.
He crossed the study and sank down into the chair at his desk, the leather cool against the back of his neck. His fingers drifted across the surface of the desk almost absently, passing over a closed book, a crystal ink bottle, the small porcelain cup from the night before—cleaned now and quietly waiting, as if it hadn't known his fevered dreams and fevered skin.
He leaned forward, arms folded over the desk as his forehead came to rest against the crook of his elbow. His braid slipped over his shoulder like a silver ribbon unraveling, the dark navy ribbon tied tight this time—no chance of it coming loose without his say.
But even that small effort—the taut bow, the neat weave—had drained him more than he'd expected. There was a hollow throb in the base of his spine, in his thighs, his arms. As though he were filled with sand instead of blood. Heavy. Dry. Quietly eroding.
His eyes closed.
Time passed—ten minutes, maybe fifteen.
Outside, he heard the faint calls of maids greeting each other in the hall, the rhythmic beat of boots on polished stone. Someone was discussing linen deliveries in the west corridor. Distantly, somewhere in the manor, the chapel bell chimed the quarter hour.
Still, he did not move.
"Why does it feel worse today…" he whispered against the curve of his arm. His voice sounded foreign. Faint and breathy.
He hadn't eaten properly in days. He knew that. But it wasn't just the nausea.
It was the heat in his chest, the tightness in his throat, the strange ache behind his eyes—not one that made him cry. Never tears. No, it was something deeper. A pressure. An echo.
And now that he was alone in this room again… he couldn't shake the weight of Elias's eyes from earlier. The way he'd reached for him, gripped his wrist. The stubbornness in his voice, the softness in his fingertips when he helped August sit again. The way he had said thank you over a single bite.
It was too much.
And not enough.
August sat upright, forcing his spine straight. The room tilted slightly as he did, a soft grey ringing humming behind his ears. He blinked it away.
He reached for the paper on his desk, then paused. His fingers hovered over a quill, but his hands looked pale—too pale. The skin across his knuckles was translucent, almost glasslike. He lowered the quill.
Then, suddenly, he stood.
Or tried to.
The world swayed.
He staggered, catching the edge of the desk with both hands. His breath came shallow. His vision narrowed, the edges dimming with stars.
He waited, muscles locked, until the wave passed.
Then, with careful steps, he made his way toward the window. His fingers parted the curtain slightly. Outside, the Blackwood garden was in full bloom—the foxglove and white lilies nodding gently in the breeze. The sky was a watercolor of early golds and soft silvers.
And in that moment, he hated how far away it all felt. How distant the world seemed, even though it was right there.
Behind him, the door to the study remained closed. No footsteps came down the hall. Elias had said he'd be waiting—but had not returned.
August sank into the velvet chair by the window. The heaviness pressed on him again, a slow and invisible tide.
And this time, he did not resist it.
The chair by the window was his favorite, usually.
It was old, with oak legs and worn velvet the color of midnight. He used to sit here and read in the late afternoon, often with one leg slung over the armrest and a book cracked open across his stomach. Sometimes he'd just watch the rain bead along the panes, or the blackbirds darting across the hedges. He didn't mind solitude—never had.
But now, even sitting upright felt like a burden.
His hands trembled faintly where they rested in his lap, the braid over his shoulder slipping loose with every slow breath he took. The ribbon stayed tied, a stubborn knot against his chest—but the weight of his own body felt foreign. Uncooperative. Fragile.
He shifted slightly, and a soft sound escaped him—a quiet wince.
Every movement sent a thread of weakness unraveling through him. Not pain, exactly. But hollowness. As if something essential was leaking out of him—hour by hour, drop by drop.
His gaze drifted toward the corner of the study where the books stacked on the floor remained untouched. His journal lay open on the desk, quill still dipped in half-dried ink. A reminder that he had meant to do something—write something—before the ache in his limbs overtook the clarity of his thoughts.
Now, even thinking felt like dragging a net through thick water.
He closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
But even in darkness, he saw the look on Elias's face when he gripped his wrist. The stubbornness in his green eyes. The heat of his palm around his arm. The way he had dragged him back, seated him like a child—and thanked him for yielding.
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest at the memory—part shame, part… something else.
Something like safety.
He didn't know what to make of it. And now, his mind was too hazy to try.
Minutes passed. Or longer. Time had begun to loosen its grip, like the ribbon from his braid, falling thread by thread behind his back.
A cool breeze curled in through the open window. The air stirred the parchment on the desk and brushed against his skin. It should have revived him.
It only made him shiver.
With effort, he tried to rise.
His hands gripped the arms of the chair. He leaned forward slowly, anchoring his weight, one foot carefully pressing against the rug for leverage.
Then he stood.
And the world tipped.
His knees buckled. The walls stretched like shadows around him. A loud hum rang in his ears—then faded into a soft, underwater silence.
He staggered sideways, grabbing the curtain. The velvet yanked in his fist.
But the weakness won.
His body folded like paper.
He slumped to the floor, his back hitting the side of the velvet chair as he sank to his knees.
Everything in him—every muscle, every breath, every fragile thread of will—was worn thin. Used up.
His head bowed forward, forehead brushing the rug. Cold.
Too cold.
And still, he did not call out.
Even now, even in this silence, he would not call Elias's name.
Instead, his lashes lowered.
The ribbon finally slipped from his hair, undone by gravity and slow decline.
And in the golden hush of morning," August Everheart's D'Rosaye" surrendered to the weight of his body—and the silence of the study—with a grace that did not ask for rescue.
Only rest.