August let the silence settle a moment longer, his gaze drifting toward the open window where golden morning spilled in, warming the pale wood floors. The air still tasted of herbs and something faintly metallic from the tonic, but his mind had shifted elsewhere—toward memories not of illness, but of elegance, of tradition, and of masks that glittered beneath chandeliers.
He turned his face toward Elias and, with a slow arch of his brow, said calmly, "What about the dresses?"
Elias blinked. "Dresses?"
August narrowed his eyes, a touch of royal irritation flickering to life in the curve of his mouth. "And the masks, Elias."
Elias tried—failed—not to smile. "Oh, those dresses."
"Don't tell me…" August leaned forward, eyes sharpening, "Don't tell me you forgot."
"I didn't," Elias replied quickly, a grin tugging at his lips. "I would never. Everything's been arranged. The tailors are already at work. In fact—" he added, sitting straighter, "I believe they're nearly finished."
"Hmph." August sat back with that familiar air of haughty grace, though his expression betrayed the slightest relief. "They better be. I will not appear in something stitched together at the last minute like a traveling minstrel."
Elias chuckled, the sound warm. "You'll have silk spun by candlelight, silver threading, and a mask worthy of royalty. I promise."
August merely gave a soft, noncommittal sound—a regal "hmmm"—before turning away, but Elias saw the faintest curve of satisfaction on his lips.
As August returned to his thoughts, Elias stood and quietly exited the chamber. The corridor greeted him with golden shafts of light through the high windows, and the hush of servants moving like clockwork below. He passed a few maids carrying linens, bowed politely, then quickened his pace.
The moment he reached his chamber, he summoned one of the footmen with a flick of his fingers.
"Bring the royal tailors to the east wing," Elias said firmly. "And fetch the fittings. I want everything reviewed before dusk."
"Yes, milord," the servant bowed and vanished down the staircase like a gust of purpose.
Elias exhaled and ran a hand through his dark hair. He had already sent for the tailors days ago, in the chaos of August's illness—an optimistic act, back when August was barely able to lift his head. He had clung to that hope like a charm, a spell that might summon back the light in August's eyes.
Now, the tailors were nearly done. Silks in midnight blue, gold filigree sewn in by the steadiest hands, matching masks sculpted in velvet and glass, etched with delicate constellations. August's ensemble, regal and elegant, reflected his presence: a prince not born but built in fire. And Elias's—sharp-lined, dark like a shadow at his side, meant to blend, to guard, to echo.
By evening, it would all be ready.
And maybe, just maybe, the masquerade would be more than glitter and masks—it might hold answers.
Or more danger.
But Elias didn't let himself dwell on that. Not now.
The dressing chamber was quiet but for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of pins and shears. Warm lamplight brushed over the ivory walls and spilled across the two mannequins at the center of the room—each clothed in the promise of another world.
August stood before his.
The ensemble waited like a memory not yet lived: a fitted tunic of ashen ivory velvet, layered with diaphanous silver netting that floated like breath. Embroidered thorns and crescent moons traced the sleeves in white-gold thread, subtle and precise. The mask—sculpted velvet in a soft, snowy hue—rested gently atop the mannequin's collarbone like a whispered secret.
August didn't touch it at first.
His gaze moved slowly over the stitching, the curve of the shoulders, the pale gleam of moonlight caught in silver thread. It was too beautiful. Too sharp.
Like it had been made for someone who no longer existed.
Elias stood beside him, arms folded, watching August's profile more than the garment. "Well?" he asked quietly.
August's voice, when it came, was soft but deliberate. "They did well."
"You approve?"
August didn't answer at once. He stepped forward, brushing two fingers down the edge of the sleeve—his fingers lingering on the embroidery. The netting shifted with the motion, catching a flicker of gold in the lamplight.
"…Yes."
Elias exhaled through a smile, some knot inside him loosening. "Then I won't have to bribe the seamstress with wine and apology letters."
August turned to him, one brow arched. "You were going to bribe her?"
"She's terrifying."
"And here I thought you weren't afraid of anything."
"I'm not," Elias replied, grinning, "except poorly sewn cuffs."
August shook his head and moved toward the second mannequin.
Elias's outfit was dark where August's was light—midnight blue silk fitted with brutal elegance, threaded with gold along the lapels and cuffs, the tailoring so precise it seemed alive. The matching mask—black velvet edged with silver—was designed to echo wings mid-flight, the inner curve traced with tiny stars.
August stopped in front of it, his expression unreadable.
He reached out, hesitated, then lifted the mask delicately with both hands, holding it up to the light. It was heavier than it looked. Regal, imposing.
"I suppose this will suit you," August said quietly.
"Only suppose?" Elias stepped closer. "Not 'perfect' or 'striking' or 'ravishing'?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" August said, but his lips quirked.
"I would," Elias said. "Especially from you."
August set the mask gently back into place, turning away just slightly—just enough to hide the faint, betraying tint of color in his cheeks.
"We're not wearing them tonight," he said, tone brisk again. "I won't have the tailors thinking I'm parading about like a debutante."
Elias held up both hands in mock surrender. "Of course. No parading. Just… admiring."
He let his eyes rest on August a second longer than necessary.
August didn't meet his gaze—but he didn't tell him to stop, either.
The silence lingered after they stepped back from the mannequins—faint golden light flickering between them, the rustle of silk still hanging in the air like perfume.
August adjusted the fall of his robe, his fingers brushing idly against the pale sash at his waist. Then, quite plainly, he said, "I'd like a glass of warm milk."
Elias blinked, turning his head toward him slowly. "Milk?"
August lifted his chin a fraction. "Yes. What is wrong with that?"
"You just spent twenty minutes inspecting silver-threaded couture, and now you're asking for warm milk like an old cat."
August narrowed his eyes. "I've been ill."
"I know," Elias said, stepping toward the bell cord, still grinning. "You just have a way of making even milk sound like a royal decree."
August crossed his arms. "If I had asked for wine and cake, you'd accuse me of scandal."
"Correct," Elias said, tugging the cord. "But at least cake would have matched the drama."
August huffed, turning slightly to face the window again. "It helps me sleep."
"Mm," Elias said over his shoulder. "That, and judging my wardrobe."
"I wasn't judging. I said it suits you."
"Oh, forgive me. You supposed it suited me. Truly glowing praise."
A knock came at the door. Elias strode to answer, giving the instructions for warm milk with just enough theatrical flair to make August roll his eyes from across the room.
When the door closed again, Elias returned to his side.
"I'll make sure they bring it in the royal goblet," he teased.
August glanced at him dryly. "One more word, Elias, and I'll ask for honey, cinnamon, and seven crushed almonds stirred counterclockwise."
Elias laughed, the sound rich and full. "Now that sounds like the August I know."
For a moment, they both stood there—between mannequins dressed for a masquerade, and the quiet comfort of ordinary things. Silk and milk. Masks and murmurs.
And behind it all, something else beginning to stir.
Something waiting in the wings of tomorrow.
A short while later, a soft knock stirred the air, and a maid entered with a porcelain cup balanced on a silver tray. The milk steamed faintly, its warmth curling with the faintest hint of nutmeg and honey. August took it without a word, the pale porcelain delicate in his hands, and the door clicked shut behind them once more.
He brought the cup to his lips and sipped slowly, as though each swallow carried away the remnants of illness still lingering in his bones. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the muted crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of silk as August shifted slightly in his seat.
Elias watched him from across the room—arms folded, his eyes not on the milk, but on the man holding it.
Then, softly, as though breaking the silence required reverence, he asked,
"What am I to you, August?"
The question fell like a single drop into still water.
August stilled. His cup lowered by a fraction, fingers tightening around the curve of the porcelain. He didn't look at Elias. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the fire, letting its orange light catch the faint flush rising to his cheek.
He didn't answer.
Elias stood slowly.
A step.
Then another.
Measured. Calm. Each footfall pressing deeper into something unspoken.
"I asked what I am to you," Elias repeated, his voice quiet but with a thread of mischief curling through it. "You heard me."
August's expression didn't change, but something in the angle of his face betrayed him. A tremor at the edge of composure. He turned further toward the window, chin lifted as though the very suggestion had offended him.
"Why are you asking such a foul question?" he asked coldly.
But his voice wasn't cold. Not really.
Elias gave a soft, knowing laugh. "Because I already know the answer. But I want to hear it from you."
August inhaled once—slow, measured.
Then, in a tone more delicate than defiant, he said,
"You're someone that I—"
He never finished.
Elias stepped closer, so close the air between them grew weighted, electric. The scent of August—clean linen, old parchment, something faintly herbal—rose between them, quiet and grounding.
Then Elias reached out, his hand settling at August's waist, fingers curling lightly against the silk of his robe.
And without a word, he leaned in.
The kiss was soft.
Unhurried.
A brush of lips that felt like a stolen prayer—whispered and unholy. Elias kissed him like he had every right to, like he had waited through storms for this moment. And August—
August went still.
Eyes wide. Hands hovering. Breath suspended.
The world seemed to halt. The fire faded, the silk gowns behind them disappeared. Time became a fragile thing, barely breathing, balanced on the space where their mouths met.
When Elias finally pulled away, it was only by inches.
August stood frozen, lashes trembling, breath shallow. His heart beat so loud it seemed to echo through his ribs.
Elias's voice came low, his breath brushing August's lips.
"You were saying?"
August swallowed. Tried to think. To speak.
His words came out quiet, frayed at the edges.
"You're someone that I… shouldn't want."
Elias's gaze softened—but he didn't move away.
"But you do."
August turned his face, just slightly, as if to hide from the truth that had finally slipped free.
A breath passed.
And then, in the barest whisper—
"…Yes."