Breakfast forgotten, Elias rose from his chair, straightened the cuffs of his black linen shirt, and stretched. Then, ever so quietly, he made his way toward the library—barefoot, light-footed, far too pleased with himself for a man about to commit minor war crimes in the name of flirtation.
The halls of Blackwood Manor held a deep hush in the morning, cloaked in velvety shadows and glints of pale light. The grand doors to the library stood half-open, just enough to glimpse a flicker of movement beyond.
Inside, August sat beneath the tall arched windows, a shaft of soft light spilling like liquid silver across his shoulder. The book rested on his lap—the very same volume Elias had abandoned days ago in a panic, the one about medicinal folklore and recovery rituals.
He was reading it intently, unaware of the shadow creeping behind him.
Elias moved like a cat, careful and coiled with teasing intent.
But August… paused.
His gaze lifted just slightly from the page. The shift of air. The scent. The presence. Something told him he wasn't alone.
The shadow fell long behind him—too tall to be his own.
Then—
Just as Elias reached out to wrap his arms around that slender waist—
WHUMP.
August turned with unnatural grace and planted a clean, swift kick right into Elias's stomach.
Elias stumbled back with a grunt, catching himself against a bookcase, eyes wide in disbelief. "What the—?!"
August was already standing, poised like a blade drawn in silence. His robe fluttered slightly from the motion, hair still loosely braided and eyes like stormlight cutting through smoke.
"You really thought I wouldn't notice?" he said coolly, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You'd best be aware of my skills next time."
Elias, one hand pressed to his abdomen, wheezed out a crooked smile. "You're terrifying. Did I mention that?"
"No," August said, "but I already knew."
Elias straightened slowly, wincing, but his grin remained. "I wasn't going to do anything indecent. Just a little good-morning surprise."
August raised a brow. "You were about to grab me."
"Affectionately!"
"With a sneak attack?"
"Exactly. Sneak-affection. A rising trend."
August crossed his arms, unimpressed. "You'll end up in the infirmary."
Elias stepped forward, daring closer again, though now wisely staying out of kicking range. "It'll be worth it if you're the one tending my wounds."
August's lips parted, stunned for half a breath.
Then he turned sharply, retaking his seat on the couch like a prince reclaiming his throne.
"I'm reading," he said, cool as glass.
Elias limped forward with a dramatic sigh, flopping beside him on the velvet cushions.
"Would've been such a romantic moment," he sighed. "Books. Morning light. Assault."
August didn't look at him.
But the tips of his ears were red.
And Elias noticed.
The morning deepened into a hush of golden light filtering through Blackwood Manor's stained-glass windows. The library glowed with sunlit dust motes and the faint rustle of pages. The scent of old ink and lavender polish clung to the air, heady as memory. August sat like a still-life painting on the velvet-backed chaise, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, his white-gold braid trailing over one shoulder like spun moonlight.
He turned another page with a slender finger, but his mind was not entirely within the book. Across from him, Elias sprawled in lazy rebellion, his dark hair tousled from drying too fast, eyes bright with sleep and trouble.
August, sensing a stare, lowered the book slightly and narrowed his smoke-grey eyes.
"Stop looking at me like that."
Elias smirked. "Like what?"
"Like I'm not trying to focus."
"You're not. You haven't turned the page in five minutes."
August sniffed and deliberately turned the page. Elias leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced together, eyes glittering with amusement.
"So," he said, voice low, teasing. "Will you tell me what you're really thinking about, or should I guess again?"
August closed the book slowly, his gaze slipping past Elias to the window, where the ivy curled over the glass like secrets trying to claw their way in.
"The masquerade ball," he said at last.
Elias blinked, interest sharpening. "What about it?"
August's voice dropped into a hush, his tone distant, wrapped in something deeper than memory. "I believe the key to the Door of Secrets lies in Khyronia. Hidden beneath the mask of celebration, cloaked in riddles no one dares name."
Elias tilted his head. "The door again? You're still certain it exists?"
"I'm beyond certainty now." August stood, placing the book gently on the nearby table, fingers brushing the spine like a farewell. "I've seen too many pieces not to recognize the shape they form. Everything is pointing toward it—the symbols, the warnings in the journals, even the assassin's pendant. All of it leads to Khyronia."
Elias rose as well, but more slowly, his eyes not on the window or the book—but on August.
August was still speaking, his gaze caught on something only he could see. "It's buried beneath the city's foundations. I think the ball is a distraction. A curtain drawn. Behind it—"
But he never finished.
In one swift, calculated move, Elias crossed the distance and pressed August down into the long velvet chaise where he'd been sitting.
August let out a startled gasp, blinking up at the ceiling as Elias straddled him lightly, one hand braced beside August's head.
"Wha—Elias!" August struggled, color flooding into his cheeks. "Get off me!"
Elias leaned in, voice a murmur warm enough to burn. "You let your guard down."
"That doesn't mean you get to climb on top of me like a lunatic!" August hissed, squirming beneath him. But his struggles weren't entirely committed. Not yet.
Elias grinned, teeth white and wolfish. "I waited until you were done monologuing. Felt polite."
August turned his face to the side, glaring at the opposite wall, breath uneven. "You are insufferable."
Elias lowered his head, cheek almost touching August's. "And yet you haven't hexed me yet. Or kicked me."
"Yet," August spat.
Elias's voice softened, just enough to stir the hairs near August's ear. "Look at me."
August's breath caught.
But he didn't turn.
Elias waited. Stillness settled, golden and breathless. The only movement was the rise and fall of August's chest beneath him, and the subtle clench of the pale fists at his sides.
"August," Elias whispered again, lower now, closer.
But August remained resolutely turned away, lips pressed together in a line that trembled faintly.
His blush had deepened, painting his cheekbones like rose petals, soft and furious. "You shouldn't do this."
"And yet, I am."
Silence again. Then August, in a voice so low it barely rose above the breath between them:
"Why do you keep chasing me like this?"
Elias paused.
And then, softly, truthfully:
"Because no matter how fast I run, my heart always ends up where you are."
August flinched like the words had struck him physically.
Still, he did not look.
Elias didn't press further. Not yet.
Instead, he let the moment linger, hovering between them like smoke. When he finally shifted, it was slow, deliberate, and he allowed August space to breathe.
But not before he whispered, "Next time you get lost in your thoughts, just remember—I'm always close behind."
August's hands clenched tighter.
But he still said nothing.
His silence spoke loud enough.
And Elias smiled like a man who'd just set fire to his own restraint.
So, with a soft exhale—half surrender, half something else—he shifted his weight and stood.
The room felt colder the moment he moved away.
He smoothed a hand down the front of his waistcoat, turning just enough for the golden edge of sunlight to catch along his jaw. "I'll give you your silence then," he said quietly, more to the air than to August.
But as he began to step away—
Fingers caught his wrist.
He stilled.
Elias's breath hitched, chest rising with that invisible pause—the kind felt deep in the bones, before thunder splits the sky.
August hadn't said a word.
But his hand trembled ever so slightly as it held Elias's. Just at the edge of desperation. Not to stop him.
But to say: Wait.
Elias turned slowly, every motion drawn out by something fragile, ancient. And there—August.
Still seated, still wrapped in layers of silk and morning light, the book beside him long forgotten. His eyes refused to meet Elias's. They lingered on the floor, on the way the sunlight spilled over the rug, anywhere but his face.
But his cheeks were flushed a deep rose.
And his lips, just barely parted, seemed to struggle with words that didn't know how to form.
Elias dropped his gaze to where August's slender fingers still held his wrist, as if even he hadn't realized he was still holding on.
Something flickered in Elias's memory. Not just warmth—but recognition.
The feel of that same hand—smaller then, more fragile—gripping his sleeve all those years ago in a corridor dim with candlelight. The echo of a child's voice whispering, "Don't go."
He hadn't seen the face then.
He hadn't known who that hand belonged to.
But now…
His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. "August?"
August's hand dropped at once, as though burned. He shifted, as if to apologize, but couldn't seem to summon the words.
Still, he didn't look away completely.
He tilted his head—not defiant, not proud. Just… vulnerable.
Like a boy who didn't know how to stop the storm inside him.
"I…" he began, but the words dissolved before they reached his lips. His throat bobbed in a swallow. He glanced down at his own lap, fingers twisting together. "You're not allowed to keep doing that," he said finally, softly.
Elias arched a brow. "Which part?"
"That part," August said, eyes darting up just briefly to meet his, before sliding away again. "The part where you… take the air out of the room."
A smile ghosted over Elias's lips.
"I thought you were made of air."
August's lips twitched. The ghost of a smile tried to form—but he bit it back, cheeks darkening again.
There was a long pause.
In it, only the distant sound of the wind brushing against the high windows. The faint rustle of paper. The steady beat of two hearts, out of rhythm but dancing toward the same refrain.
August looked down again.
"I don't know what this is," he admitted.
Elias's smile faded into something softer.
"I don't either."
August's fingers tightened in his lap.
"But I think…" He hesitated. Then, in a voice barely audible, "…I don't want it to stop."
Silence.
Then—
Elias moved forward once more—not fast, not bold this time, but slow, careful, as if approaching a deer in the forest. He crouched beside August, gaze steady.
"I won't move unless you ask me to."
August didn't answer.
But he didn't look away either.
And Elias knew—that was answer enough.
He reached up, fingers brushing a loose curl from August's cheek, and though he didn't kiss him this time, the closeness alone felt like a promise.
A silence made not of absence—
—but of understanding.