The gates of Blackwood Manor loomed ahead, bathed in torchlight and rain, towering like the last bastion between life and loss. The carriage jolted to a stop, wheels carving grief into the earth. August flung the door open, still clutching Elias's hand as though it tethered the universe in place. His tears had not stopped—not once—and now they streaked down his face like the sky had taken residence in his soul.
"Open the gates!"
he shouted into the storm, voice hoarse and ragged. The ash-grey cloaked guards obeyed in stunned silence, but August didn't wait—he stepped out into the cold, trembling, soaked, uncaring. Pride was dead. Only Elias mattered.
The manor doors opened with a groan, and there—standing as if summoned by fate itself—were Giles and Lirael.
Giles paled, ever the composed butler undone by the sight of his master stained with blood and desperation. Lirael, with his long, moonlight hair tied loosely at the nape, pink-hued eyes wide and alert, stood rigid for a moment. Then his gaze dropped to the still figure beside August's arms, and the breath seemed to leave him.
But August, stripped of the mask he had worn all his life, cried out—loud and unyielding. "Fetch the physician! Now!" His voice cracked against the walls like thunder breaking bone.
Giles hesitated, concern flooding his expression. "My lord, what about—" "Lirael," August snapped, not out of cruelty but desperation, "take him. Take Elias. Treat his wound. Giles call for the royal physician" His command burned with fear disguised as fire.
Lirael moved instantly, stepping forward with grave focus. He slipped an arm beneath Elias, careful, steady. "Maidens—clean water, boiled. Fine linens. Salve, and needlework. Now." His voice was low, cool, calm—but beneath it was urgency wrapped in velvet steel.
August followed them into the manor, soaked to the bone, dragging pain behind him like a phantom. He did not release Elias's hand, not for a moment, not as they reached the chamber. The fire had already been lit, casting golden halos across the walls, but nothing could chase the cold from his chest. He sat beside the bed, his body taut and trembling, refusing even to blink. When the royal physician arrived—a man who was assigned to take care of August's childhood fevers—he stopped dead at the sight.
"My lord…
what—?" But August cut him short, his voice like a blade dulled by grief.
"Please…
" he said, eyes red, throat wrecked.
"Heal him."
The physician bowed wordlessly and began his work. Lirael assisted him with quiet intensity, slipping into motion like a shadow cast by resolve. Together, they cleaned the wound, stitched it, wrapped it in gauze softened by steam and worry. August held Elias's hand the entire time, his fingers ghosting over knuckles as if memorizing their every ridge, afraid they might vanish if he let go.
"You need rest," Lirael said gently, kneeling by his side. "You're also hurt. We'll take care of him. I swear it." August said nothing. Only tightened his grip. The physician tried again. "My lord, please. You are wounded. You must—" "No." August's voice cut through them both, not with rage, but something colder. Deeper. "Not until he wakes."
Time slowed. The scent of herbs and fire filled the room. The air was thick with tension, with prayers unspoken. When at last the bleeding stopped, when the bandages were wrapped, when the fire hissed low—Lirael stood, brushing hair from his face, and turned to August. "He's stable… but unconscious. In a coma. He will wake. Give him time." August's knees were numb, his limbs waterlogged with exhaustion, but he remained like stone—unmoving, unrelenting.
Lirael looked at him, not as a seer, but as a brother-in-arms. His voice dropped lower. "Let us treat your wounds now…
Please."
August didn't answer. He simply sat there, pale and broken, Elias's hand still cradled in his own like a relic he couldn't afford to lose.
And for a moment, Lirael's expression—usually cold, refined, unreadable—shattered. His pink eyes glistened faintly in the firelight. Then he turned and gave the physician a silent nod. The man obeyed.
The manor had long since quieted, but the storm inside August had not. The servants had been dismissed. Not one soul dared cross the threshold of Elias's chamber—not even Giles, whose loyalty ran deeper than blood. August had forbidden it. This room belonged to them now. To silence and breath and a love tethered by trembling fingers.
He sat at Elias's bedside in silence, the firelight throwing shadows across his face, gilding the pale of his skin and the red beneath his eyes. His hair had been combed. His wounds cleaned. His clothes changed to a soft linen nightgown of muted ivory. But nothing could mend the hollowness he carried now—how thin he looked, how his once-elegant frame seemed to collapse into itself. His skin was taut, drawn too tight over bones, and his lips trembled with weariness that had long since passed into something deeper.
His eyes… gods, his eyes.
Ringed with shadows, rimmed in red, glassy with the ache of tears that had never been permitted to fall—until Elias.
He didn't speak for hours. Just sat there, unmoving, Elias's hand pressed gently to his cheek like a prayer. The same hand he'd carried from the manor gates, the same hand that had bled to protect him. He held it now like it was spun from the threads of heaven itself.
"You're not allowed," August finally whispered, voice frayed and hoarse, barely more than breath. "You're not allowed to do anything so stupid ever again."
He closed his eyes, clutching that hand tighter to his cheek. "Do you hear me?
I won't forgive you twice."
And then he stood, slowly, legs weak from the stillness, but his spine unbowed. He leaned over the bed, hair falling like silver threads against Elias's brow, and kissed him softly on the forehead. The touch was feather-light, a tremor more than a kiss, but the words that followed carried the weight of a vow. "Good night," he breathed. "You'll wake."
He stepped back with quiet reverence, releasing Elias's hand with the reluctance of a soul letting go of half its light.
August moved like mist through the hall, each step aching. He returned to his chamber alone. The fire was low, his bed untouched, and still, the room felt far too large.
He eased down upon the mattress, not on his back—his spine still ached from whipped and the shackles, from the stone, from everything—but on his stomach, his arms tucked beneath the pillow, his hair spilling over his shoulder in tangled white waves.
Sleep did not come gently.
But eventually, under the soft hush of moonlight, beneath the echoes of a name whispered against warm skin, August's lashes lowered. And like a boy long chased by ghosts, he finally let himself drift—slowly, quietly—into uneasy slumber.
Still wearing Elias's scent against his skin.
Still dreaming of the moment those green eyes would open again.
Far from Blackwood, beneath the velvet canopy of night and the hiss of distant wind, the embers of another silence stirred—one not born of grief, but of bruised pride and aching flesh. A fire crackled in a low hearth, its glow throwing long shadows along the stone walls of the ruined hall where they had taken refuge. Blood had dried on Kellian's side, staining the silver trim of his cloak in crimson spirals. His shirt hung loose, torn from the battle, the wound along his ribs still raw, but half-cleaned. Elysian sat beside him, quiet and composed, but pale—his left shoulder bandaged hastily, a gash along his arm still weeping faintly through linen.
Kellian watched him in the flickering light, gaze sharp and searching even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under. His voice broke the silence first—low, rough, tinged with guilt. "Are you okay?"
Elysian didn't answer at once. His eyes darted to the hearth. Then to the shadows. Then away from Kellian altogether.
Kellian's chest rose slowly, pain making every breath a reminder. But still, he reached out, fingers brushing against Elysian's arm, just above the injury. "Hey," he murmured. "Look at me."
Elysian hesitated, but finally turned—just a fraction. Enough for Kellian to see the quiet in his eyes. That quiet wasn't anger. It was worry. Shyness. Maybe even shame.
"I'm sorry," Kellian whispered, his thumb brushing lightly over a speck of dried blood on Elysian's jaw. "You got hurt… because of me."
Elysian still didn't speak, but something in him softened. The hand that had been cleaning Kellian's wound trembled slightly, though it didn't pull away.
Kellian's voice lowered. "Won't you forgive me?"
He reached up, slow and deliberate, and slid two fingers beneath Elysian's chin. Tilted it upward.
And then, with no further plea, no apology dressed in poetry, he leaned in—his breath warm, his lips brushing against Elysian's with a tenderness too careful for someone who killed without blinking. It wasn't a kiss made of fire, but of ache. Of longing. Of something restrained and real.
Elysian didn't stop him.
His free hand was caught—held gently, fingers threaded by Kellian's own. The other hand still held cloth stained with salve and blood, paused in mid-motion as Kellian kissed him—slow, reverent, like he was afraid to be forgiven too easily.
For a heartbeat, time stilled.
And then the crackle of fire returned, and the pain in their bodies reminded them both they were still alive.
Elysian looked at him—finally, truly looked at him. And though he said nothing, his silence was no longer distant. It was full. Answer enough.
Kellian rested his forehead lightly against Elysian's, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"Thank you," he murmured, closing his eyes. "For staying."