Elias had had enough.
Enough of pale cheeks and hollow silences.
Enough of watching August waste away beneath polished windows and distant stares.
Enough of the cold dignity August wrapped around himself like armor — brittle, bloodless, and breaking.
Without a word, Elias stepped forward.
August's body tensed as Elias bent and slipped an arm beneath his knees, the other behind his back.
"Don't you dare—" August began, but it was too late.
He was in the air again, weightless in Elias's arms.
"Put me down," August snapped, breath shallow, fingers curling against Elias's shoulder. "Put me down now."
"No."
"I said—"
"You always say," Elias muttered, walking out of the study with purpose. "You just don't listen."
August's limbs jerked—weak kicks, pitiful punches to Elias's chest—but the boy was made of reeds and fog at this point, all hiss and no steel. Elias didn't even flinch.
"This is humiliating," August seethed. "I'll hate you for this."
"You are already doing," Elias said flatly. "That Doesn't change a damn thing."
Through corridor after corridor, velvet rugs swallowed their footsteps. Sunlight danced across marble, and August's pale hair caught the light like spun frost. Servants turned their heads in surprise as Elias passed, carrying the lord of the manor like a prince borne to battle.
Then the grand dining hall loomed—high-ceilinged and golden, with carved lions at each corner and the long, obsidian table glowing beneath a chandelier of crystal fire.
Elias strode straight to the head of the table and gently lowered August into a throne-like chair. Velvet cushions caught his fall. He looked absurd there, white and seething, like a deposed king forced to dine with his captors.
"I swear to all gods old and new," August hissed, bracing himself against the armrest, "I will never forgive you—"
"Maidens," Elias snapped, his voice cutting like thunder.
From the shadows, half a dozen staff scurried into the room, their skirts whispering like secrets.
"You," he pointed to the eldest. "Make something light. Soft. Soup, bread—no spices, no oil. You, bring tea. Herbal, not bitter. The rest of you—prepare a fruit plate. No citrus. Do it now."
The maids exchanged looks and vanished like smoke.
August raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms (or trying to—his right one gave up halfway). "So now I'm a patient?"
"No," Elias said without looking at him. "You're a person. One who's barely eaten in three days. Someone has to fix that."
"Do anything you want," August said, voice sharp as broken glass, "but I won't touch a single bite."
Elias turned his head, green eyes glittering dangerously. "Then I'll feed you myself."
The silence after that was deafening.
August froze. Not from weakness—but dignity. Alarm twisted his features.
"You… you wouldn't," he said slowly, almost uncertain.
"Wouldn't I?" Elias moved closer, dragging a chair to sit directly beside him. "Try me."
August stared at him.
He meant it.
The worst part? Elias wasn't bluffing. Not for a moment. He had that look again—one that said he would throw himself into fire, sword, or shame without hesitation.
August shifted in his seat, jaw clenching. "You're unbearable."
"Good," Elias said. "So are you."
And they sat there, locked in quiet defiance, with the sound of distant clinking dishes echoing in the hallway like a storm preparing to land.
The hush in the grand dining hall fractured under the arrival of the maids, each one bearing a tray more artful than the last. Silver lids lifted to reveal bowls of delicate broth, hand-pressed bread still warm from the oven, and fruits cut into perfect moon-shaped slices, arranged on porcelain like offerings to a god. Steam rose in gentle tendrils, winding up into the gilded air like spirits released.
But August looked on as if they carried poison.
His pale lips curled, nostrils flared. The scent of the broth—gentle to most—hit him like a wave of rot. He turned his face to the side, away from the steam and honeyed warmth.
Elias watched him, elbow resting on the table, cheek pressed to his fist. "Choose one. Anything. Whatever you think you can stomach."
August did not even glance at the array. "The sight alone is making it worse."
The tension coiled tighter. Elias leaned forward, voice low and coaxing. "You need to eat. Even a bite. Even a spoon."
August didn't reply. His eyes were fixed on the far corner of the table, jaw clenched, lashes shadowing the bruised skin beneath his eyes. His fingers trembled in his lap. His body, already light and fragile as mist, seemed to be shrinking further into itself.
Then Elias moved. He reached for the ladle resting in a bowl of clear broth, steam still rising gently. He poured it carefully into a smaller dish, just enough to fill a spoon. The silver caught the light. The golden broth shimmered.
"This one," Elias said, rising to his feet and walking toward him. "You'll try this. Just one spoon. That's all."
He stood at August's side, spoon in hand.
August stirred. His fingers suddenly gripped his abdomen, and his body tensed as though stricken by a bolt of pain. He winced, and a cold sweat beaded on his brow.
"Stop," August whispered. "Don't bring it closer."
Elias paused. "It's just—"
But the words never landed.
August's body seized. A guttural sound escaped his throat. Before Elias could react, August turned sharply and retched. The sound echoed through the great golden hall, too real, too raw.
Elias dropped the spoon. It clattered to the ground and rolled, forgotten.
August lurched forward, doubling over, and vomited—right onto Elias's coat, his chest, the floor beneath them. Once, twice, three times until there was nothing left but the heave of dry breath. His arms trembled. His pale hair hung over his face like fallen silk.
He let his head fall forward, resting it on the gleaming table.
The entire world fell into stillness.
From somewhere beyond, a maid gasped. Someone whispered a curse. But Elias said nothing. He stood frozen, staring down at August with broth on the floor and bile soaking into his tunic.
August let out a soft, broken breath.
"It was your fault," he murmured, not lifting his head. His voice was strained, muffled against the table's polished surface. "Now don't blame me for this."
Elias blinked.
His heart had twisted into something tight and bitter, full of splinters.
Was it the wrong choice?
He had meant well. Hadn't he?
The image of August vomiting into his chest burned itself into his mind, looping over and over. That fragile, once-elegant figure slumped like a broken statue. A ghost prince dissolving.
Elias took a breath, slow and ragged, and stepped back. The maids didn't move. No one dared.
He looked down at his ruined shirt, at the once-beautiful spread now tainted by the cruelty of trying too hard.
For a moment, silence was the only truth in the room.
Then Elias pulled off his coat, gently, as if removing a memory, and laid it across a vacant chair. He knelt beside August, who had not moved. His breathing was shallow. His fingers still curled loosely against the table's edge.
"August," Elias said, quieter now. "I'm sorry."
No answer.
Elias watched him for a moment longer, then reached for a cloth a maid silently handed him. With careful movements, he wiped the corners of August's mouth. His touch was gentle, reverent almost, as though handling something sacred.
August didn't flinch. He didn't speak. He just kept his eyes shut, his lashes brushing against pale cheeks, the rest of him utterly still.
And Elias sat there, on the grand dining hall floor, a prince kneeling at the feet of a ruined king, wondering if the cure was doing more harm than the illness itself.
The bitter scent of broth still clung to the air, though August had long since collapsed against the dining table, pale and exhausted. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the cold shiver that rippled through him, nor did the concern flickering in Elias's eyes offer any comfort. His stomach heaved in weak protest, hollow and sore, but it had given all it could.
For a moment, there was silence—the kind that drapes heavy over shame. The kind that makes a man feel utterly and completely alone.
August's fingers curled against the wood of the table. His breath was shallow, his jaw tight. And in that heavy hush, the memory of a different time crawled unbidden into his mind.
His mother's hands—small, pale, warm—once held a spoon much like Elias had. She used to hum soft lullabies between each bite she coaxed into his mouth, laughter curling around the hearth as she scolded him gently for his fussiness.
"A prince must eat if he's to conquer dragons," she would say, pressing a kiss to his brow.
That world was gone.
No matter how many voices now hovered around him with worry and fuss, no matter how Elias stood crouched at his side, soaked in shame and broth, they could never be her. No one could. And that absence dug its claws in deeper every year.
Helplessness tasted worse than the bile still on his tongue.
He slowly lifted his head, lashes heavy. Elias was still there. Still kneeling beside him like a faithful hound, not a single trace of pride left in his posture. His black hair fell in messy strands, clinging to his cheeks, his eyes wide with guilt. He hadn't run.
August's gaze turned sharp.
He hated that Elias had stayed. Hated that he had witnessed him in that pitiful state. Hated more that everyone had. The maids. The staff. The silent eyes that had surely watched as Lord "August Everheart's D" rosaye"—the proud, cold heir—vomited like a seasick child.
Because of Elias.
His dignity was splintered.
August tried to stand. His limbs protested, muscles screaming beneath his porcelain skin. But he pushed again.
"Let me go," he hissed when Elias reached out instinctively. "I don't want your help."
"You can't even stand—"
"I said put me down."
But Elias didn't. His arms circled August gently, but firmly, lifting him with the same care one might give an injured bird. August kicked weakly, uselessly. He squirmed in Elias's hold, trying to wriggle free, but his strength was long since spent.
Something inside him trembled. Not from illness, not entirely. It was deeper. Uglier.
His fingers gripped Elias's shirt. His breath hitched.
He was shivering—from something he couldn't name.
His smoke-grey eyes, so often distant and clouded, locked with Elias's.
And for the first time, they glistened. Not with fever. But with pain.
And shame.
His teeth sank into his bottom lip as if trying to swallow the sob that almost clawed its way out.
Elias said nothing. He didn't flinch. He only carried him to his chambers, slow and quiet, as though afraid a single word would break the fragile thread keeping August composed.
Once inside the room, Elias gently laid him upon the bed.
Elias stepping back slowly and nearly parted his lips just to make sure if he was okay.
"I am sorry "I didn't mean to_ "Are you mad at me?" Elias asked quietly.
August didn't answer. He turned away, crawling to the far edge of the bed, dragging himself like a ghost trying to escape the weight of memory.
"get out of my sight," he whispered. "I don't want to see you your face."
Elias's breath caught.
He heard something in August's voice—not just fury, but pain. A kind of fractured ache, like a child who'd lost everything and had only silence left to offer.
But Elias didn't press. He didn't protest.
He stepped back.
"I don't want to see your face," August repeated, this time louder. "Get out."
Elias lingered for a second longer. Then turned.
The door closed softly behind him.
And the boy left alone beneath the velvet sheets said nothing more.
Outside, the manor was still. The storm that had begun in the dining hall had now moved inward, where no one could see it rage.
And August stared at the cold wall across from him, his back to the door, his throat tight, his chest rising with shallow breaths.
He had not cried. He would not.
But deep within, something cracked—another layer, another brick in the wall he had spent a lifetime building.
And he did not know how many more he had left.