His aunt placed her long hands against his cheeks and whispered, "My darling boy… my beautiful little August. Look at you…"
August didn't look at her. His eyes were turned slightly toward the window.
"I should have died before seeing you like this," she exclaimed, dropping to her knees with a melodramatic sigh. "Pale as moonlight. Fevered. Untended. Who let this happen? Who let you sit up? Whose permission did you seek to move?"
"I'm alright," August said quietly, his voice barely above breath. "The fever's passed."
"You're not fine until I say so!" she snapped, fingers brushing his cheekbones as if testing for warmth. "You are fragile! You are the last son of the D'Rosaye line. And I swear on every name I carry—if any of these servants let something pass that you disliked, I'll throw them into the sea!"
"Aunt, that's unnecessary," August said. His tone was not pleading, just subdued.
Elias stood quietly near the window, observing.
The aunt turned toward the staff, her voice sharp. "Which of you dared serve him that abominable barley soup? Or leave the windows cracked last night? Hmm? Who let the linens wrinkle, the basin dry, the towels folded unevenly—?"
"Please," August interrupted, a hint of strain in his voice. "That's enough."
She turned back to him. "You've always been too gentle. You're too kind. That's your problem." Then she raised her hand dramatically to her forehead. "And me? What shame I bear. I, sister of your noble father. To think I failed my blood. To think I left my beautiful August in the hands of soldiers and strangers!"
August said nothing. His expression hadn't changed.
She turned slightly and glared over her shoulder at Elias. "And you! What were you doing? Twiddling your thumbs while my nephew wasted away?"
"I took care of him," Elias said simply. "I carried him to the basin. Stayed with him. Fed him."
Her eyes narrowed. "Fed him what? Nails and vinegar?"
"I made him lemon water."
She sniffed. "Well. At least you have a trace of sense in that tall, brooding frame."
August finally spoke again, low and clear: "He stayed. Even when I told him not to."
That earned a flicker of attention from her.
Elias didn't move, but he looked at August—subtle, just a glance. Their eyes didn't meet.
August turned his face away slightly, shadows beneath his lashes.
He wasn't used to kindness. He didn't know how to receive it without consequence.
And so he sat, silent and upright, as his aunt continued her verbal crusade, not laughing, not smiling—just enduring.
Elias remained silent too, watching the way the morning light touched August's hair. And though neither boy spoke aloud what passed between them in that still moment, something unspoken settled in the air: a growing weight that neither the aunt's dramatics nor Elias's silence could quite lift.
The aunt rose from her theatrical kneel in one elegant sweep, brushing invisible dust from her silk skirts as if the stone floor had dared soil her. Her tangerine eyes, glowing like molten topaz in the morning light, softened slightly as they returned to August's still figure.
"You were always delicate," she murmured, brushing a lock of hair from his temple with the same reverence one might handle a reliquary. "Even as a babe you would cry only once and never again. Your nursemaid feared you were mute. But I told her—no, not mute. Just... dignified."
August didn't flinch at her touch, though he didn't lean into it either. His gaze remained low, focused on the wrinkled embroidery of the coverlet.
"I remember," she continued, seating herself gently beside him on the bed, "when you were five, I brought you a wooden swan from the coast. Do you remember that? Carved by hand. It had little glass eyes and a ribbon around its neck. You looked at it once, nodded, and said, Thank you, auntie. As if you were a visiting prince forced into a diplomatic exchange."
She sighed and placed a hand over his. "But it's not your fault, darling. You've always borne too much. That house of yours was full of too many shadows."
August finally looked at her. The shift was small, but there. His smoke-grey eyes, dulled from illness, searched her tangerine ones—not with warmth, not even suspicion—just a brittle patience, as if he were waiting for her to finish a script she'd rehearsed many times before.
"I'm not five anymore," he said. Calm. Quiet.
"No. You're thinner. Paler. Worn down like a page too often turned," she muttered, clicking her tongue. "And who is to blame? Them. All of them. These soldiers, these servants, these ghost-chasing physicians who whisper and nod and forget you are made of silk, not steel."
From the corner of the room, Elias's brow twitched, but he remained silent.
August, with that same unwavering tone, replied, "You can't blame people for the things I chose."
His aunt blinked. "Chose? You chose to fall ill? To collapse in your own vomit while boys in boots watched? To suffer like this—unwashed, uncared for, wearing the same Dress for two days?"
"It's Okay," August said dryly.
She waved her hand as if that was irrelevant. "Semantics. Look at your hands—see? No color. And don't think I didn't notice the bruise near your beautiful slender Hand."
August instinctively shifted, the linen pulling as he adjusted his posture. "It's old. It 'was a accident"
"Why is my darling always bumping into shadows and sharp corners?" she lamented, turning toward the doorway. "Giles! Bring another blanket! The velvet one from my room. And send for the royal perfumer. This air is too stale!"
August tried to interject, but she continued without pause.
"And the pillows," she muttered. "Horrid things. Lumpy. How do they expect you to sleep? No wonder you look like a ghost pressed in parchment."
"I slept," August said, though the headache behind his eyes said otherwise.
"You closed your eyes, that's not the same." She rose again, moved to the window, and flung it open with a sharp sweep. The breeze stirred the drapes, catching Elias's attention.
"See that sun?" she said. "Do you know what that means?"
"That it's morning?" August offered flatly.
She turned with a grin, radiant. "It means healing, my dear. Revival. Restoration. And you, my soft-boned swan, will be restored if it kills everyone else in this house."
Elias exhaled through his nose. "That's a comforting threat."
The aunt ignored him entirely. She moved back toward August, brushing her hands along his arms, his shoulders, adjusting the collar of his linen with unnecessary precision.
"You were meant for grand things, my little August. For marble halls and embroidered carriages and poetry recited in your name. Not to be crawling toward a basin under the care of a boy with bruised knuckles and too much hair."
August looked at her with all the gravity of a cracked mirror. "He carried me when I was unable to stand."
She paused. Her lips parted. For the first time, something real passed across her face—not disdain, not fire, but a flicker of something near... guilt.
"I see," she murmured. "Then I shall revise my judgment."
She didn't apologize—he didn't expect her to. But she turned to Elias with a slightly less sharp gaze.
Still, she added under her breath, "We will still speak, you and I."
August sighed and pressed a hand to his temple, the headache blooming again.
"I think," he said softly, "I'll try to sleep now."
"Of course, darling," she whispered, smoothing the blankets over his lap. "Rest. Let no bad dreams near you. I'll be outside. Summoning order."
And she swept from the room, her fury trailing behind her like perfume.
Elias finally looked at August.
August said nothing. But as his aunt's heels echoed down the hallway, he shut his eyes and let the quiet fill the room again—not peace, but quiet.
And that, for August, was enough.