The silence after a nightmare is never truly silent.
It hums.
Like a harp string pulled too tight. Like a secret pressing against the bones of morning.
The dream still clung to him like ash.
Not just a memory. A message.
A trail.
The world was still.
No birdsong yet dared to stir the silence outside Blackwood Manor's heavy stone walls. The light was faint, not quite dawn—only a pale silver slipping through the velvet curtains, brushing against the edge of the carved bed like ghostlight. It softened the world, blurred its edges, as if the manor itself were not yet sure whether to wake or remain a dream.
In the middle of it all, August lay curled beneath a mountain of brocade and silk.
His breath was slow. Uneven.
The warmth of the blankets no longer comforted him, but clung instead like memory—like the shadow of a hand still resting at his waist.
For a long time, he did not move.
But the kiss lingered.
That cursed kiss, stolen without permission, yet impossible to forget. He could still feel it, like a flame pressed to his skin, a ghost brushing the curve of his lips. His fingers twitched beneath the covers.
Finally, as if stirred by some unseen hand, August exhaled.
And moved.
First, a hand emerged from beneath the blanket. Then the other. Slowly, he pushed the heavy coverlet aside, its embroidered edges sliding over his nightgown like silk whispering secrets.
He sat up.
Hair unbraided in the night now lay in pale, tangled waves around his shoulders. Moonlight caught on the silver in its strands, turning him into something between a prince and a ghost.
His bare feet touched the floor—cold. Grounding.
The dream clung to him like ash. His mind still flickered with firelight, whispers from the past, the sharp taste of truth half-revealed. His lips parted slightly as if some answer might spill from them.
But nothing came.
He stood.
The long nightgown shifted with him, falling around his frame in pale folds. He walked to the window and drew the curtains slightly open. The manor grounds lay silent below—mist curling around the trees, the fountain in the garden frozen mid-song.
August's gaze lingered on it.
Then lifted to the horizon.
Still no sun.
He turned away, moving across the room with the grace of a man trained never to rush, even when the world pressed close with memory.
At the vanity, he sat.
Picked up the ivory comb.
And began again.
Each stroke through his hair was steady, but his eyes betrayed him—glassy, distracted, watching not his reflection but something beyond it. The face in the mirror was his, yes… but shadowed. Haunted.
Changed.
He set the comb down and touched his lips—fingertips brushing the place Elias had kissed.
He closed his eyes.
The way Elias had looked at him... that half-smile, bold and maddening. The question whispered too close. What am I to you?
August had tried to answer. He had almost spoken it aloud.
Almost.
But that kiss had devoured the moment, left it trembling in silence.
He rose again, crossing the room slowly. The floor creaked beneath his steps, a low and familiar sound in the vastness of the manor. He passed the wardrobe—massive, ancient—and his hand hesitated near it.
Just for a breath.
A flicker of memory.
The fire.
The boy.
The blood.
But he did not stop.
Not yet.
He reached for his robe, draped carefully over a carved chair, and slipped it over his shoulders with delicate precision. The fabric settled like mist, ivory trimmed in grey, the color of storm clouds and secrets.
And then, finally, he stepped toward the door.
He would not run.
Not from the kiss.
Not from the dream.
And not from the truth, whatever shape it chose to wear.
The corridor greeted him with silence.
It was that strange, breathless hour just before morning, when even the shadows seemed unsure of their place. Candles flickered in tall sconces along the walls, their flames barely clinging to life—wavering, as if they too were caught between sleep and waking.
August walked barefoot.
The long hem of his robe whispered across the polished wood floors as he passed tapestries, ancestral portraits, and windows that looked out upon a world still wrapped in mist. He said nothing. Not even to himself.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
Soft. Measured.
Counting down to something unknown.
At last, he reached the bathing chamber.
The air inside was warm—humid with the faint scent of crushed lavender, chamomile, and orange blossom. It was a sanctuary tucked within the heart of Blackwood Manor, all marbled stillness and gilded trim. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting golden arcs across the white-veined floor.
Steam curled from the surface of the bath—deep and wide, carved of obsidian and lined with polished pearl. The water shimmered, inviting.
August stood still for a moment, watching it.
Then, slowly, he let his robe slip from his shoulders.
The fabric pooled at his feet in a soft sigh, leaving him bare to the flickering firelight—white skin traced with quiet strength and fragility alike. Shadows played across the curve of his back, the hollow of his collarbone, the pale stretch of his thighs.
He stepped into the water.
It embraced him.
Warmth lapped up his skin like liquid silk, drawing a long breath from his chest. He lowered himself completely, until only his shoulders and collarbone rose above the surface, glistening in the candlelight.
For the first time since waking, August closed his eyes.
And the world fell away.
The water carried silence.
But within that silence, his mind was far from still.
He saw the assassin again—cloaked in silver and gold, blade red in the firelight. His mother's scream echoed between her ribs, not in sound, but in memory. He saw the child hidden in the wardrobe . He knew it now. Somehow, deeply, he knew.
But even in that chaos, another memory burned brighter still.
Elias.
His hand.
That kiss.
August sank deeper into the water, until the heat touched his neck, his jaw. Droplets slid from the ends of his pale lashes, as if he were weeping—but he wasn't.
He was remembering.
"What am I to you?"
His breath hitched.
He lifted one hand from the water and let it hover for a moment—watching as droplets fell back into the bath. Then, slowly, his fingers rose to his lips again.
That place.
Where the kiss had landed.
He could still feel it.
Even in the water, even after dreams and nightmares, it clung to him like smoke.
He whispered, barely audible:
"Why now…"
The question went unanswered.
But the water stirred around him, curling in gentle spirals, as if the silence itself wished to soothe him.
He remained there a long while—body submerged, thoughts drifting, heart aching with questions too large for morning.
But eventually, he opened his eyes.
The air had cooled slightly. The candles had burned lower.
Time had passed.
And he would not run from it.
Not from Elias.
Not from the truth.
Not even from the blood that once stained Blackwood Manor's floors.
August reached for the towel resting on a nearby chair, rising with quiet grace, water sliding from his skin in rivulets that caught the light like falling stars. He dried himself slowly, carefully, wrapping the towel around his waist.
Then he turned to the mirror above the fireplace mantel.
And stared.
His reflection was not the same boy from the dream. Not the fragile child who hid beneath stairs or flinched from memory. Not anymore.
Something had changed.
Not broken.
Not yet.
But shifted.
The flame had been lit.
And he was no longer afraid to see where it might lead.
The firelight trembled in the mirror.
So did he, just slightly—though whether it was from the cool air now touching damp skin or the tremor of emotions unspoken, even August could not tell. He stood in the silence of the bathing chamber, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, pale shoulders exposed, glistening faintly under the flicker of candlelight.
He exhaled.
His breath fogged the glass.
He watched it fade.
Then, slowly, he turned from his reflection and stepped through the velvet-draped arch that led back into his private dressing chamber. The room welcomed him with quiet familiarity. Ivory walls. A darkened chandelier above. His garments laid out neatly on the fainting couch—folded with the kind of care only a housekeeper trained by nobility could manage.
But no servants came.
They had long since learned: when August wished to dress himself, no one was to enter.
A habit born of grief. Of control. Of scars no one could see.
The robe came first.
A deep grey silk, the color of morning mist before it lifts. He slipped into it without rush, every movement graceful, almost reverent. The fabric glided across his skin like breath. He fastened the front with a slender sash of silver embroidery, the design curling like ivy across his waist.
Then came the shirt—ivory with a high collar and pearl buttons, the cuffs flaring just slightly at the wrists. He buttoned them one by one, slender fingers moving without hesitation. The texture was cool, clean, untainted by the fever that once soaked his nights.
He moved to his wardrobe and retrieved a vest: shadow-blue velvet, soft and dense, embroidered faintly in white-gold thread. Crescent moons at the hem. Thorn branches along the chest.
A memory ghosted through him—Elias's voice calling him beautiful.
He paused.
Then finished dressing.
Next came the trousers—black, finely tailored—and boots of polished leather, tall and laced. They clicked softly as he walked back toward the mirror, the sound delicate, but sure.
He stood still before the glass once more.
And now, he looked like himself again.
Or rather—what the world believed him to be: refined, unshaken, a lord carved from moonlight and willpower.
But he saw it.
That quiet storm behind the eyes.
Something inside him no longer slept.
He sat briefly at his vanity, picked up his comb, and ran it through his damp hair again—those silken white-blonde curls gleaming like spun glass in the morning dim. He rebraided it with a steady hand, winding the loose plait over one shoulder and securing it with the pale ribbon once given to him by his mother.
Or perhaps… Annalise had given it.
He couldn't remember.
His fingers lingered at the bow.
So much he did not know.
So much he would learn.
And beneath it all—the faintest whisper of a kiss he hadn't asked for… but hadn't refused.
August rose at last.
He crossed the room slowly, picked up a small silver ring from the edge of his dresser—a quiet heirloom, engraved with the Blackwood crest—and slid it onto his finger.
Then he opened the door to the hall.
The manor greeted him with silence once more.
But it was no longer the silence of stillness.
It was the silence before revelation.
And August, now fully dressed, eyes clear as winter frost, stepped into it without fear.