August knew—he couldn't go to Elias like this. Not covered in dust. Not broken. Not like a painting crumbling at the edges.
He needed to bathe. Not just his body. But something deeper. He needed to feel like he hadn't been hollowed out entirely.
So he stood. Fragile but upright, and cradling the music box to his chest, he turned away from the hidden nursery, away from the ghosts, and walked slowly back to his chambers.
The door closed behind him with a soft sigh. The stillness of his room embraced him like a weary lover. He placed the music box gently upon his writing desk, as though it might sleep.
He walked into his bathroom. Moonlight streamed through the frosted windows, painting the marble in silver. The water in the tub shimmered softly, steam curling upward like a sigh of mercy.
Without a sound, August undid the sash of his robe.
The fabric slid from his sharp shoulders, pooling at his feet with a whisper.
He stepped into the water slowly—
As if it might refuse him.
As if it might burn.
But it welcomed him.
Warmth surrounded him, cradled him, kissed the bruises along his soul that no eye could see. He sank down until only his pale neck remained above the water. His long white curls, heavy with sorrow, floated like moonlight across the surface.
He leaned his head back against the smooth edge of the tub.
Eyes closed.
The water hushed his heart.
It didn't cure the ache—but it softened the agony. Just enough to breathe again.
Time passed.
How long—he didn't know. But when he rose from the water, his skin was flushed with heat and exhaustion.
He wrapped a new robe around his fragile frame, its fabric soft and scented with lavender. He returned to his bedchamber, the music box still waiting where he left it, like a silent guardian of his grief.
He crossed to his wardrobe and opened its tall doors.
His fingers traced down the rows of clothing until they landed on something simple, but elegant. An ivory shirt with delicate lace trailing the cuffs and collar. He paired it with high-waisted trousers that fastened just beneath his ribcage, then tugged on long leather boots polished to a subtle shine.
Finally, he reached for a long Victorian-style coat—deep charcoal, trimmed in silver threading, with wide lapels and a tailored waist. He slipped it on like armor.
At the dressing table, he picked up the brush.
His hair, still damp and glowing in the low light, was carefully combed through. He didn't braid it. He didn't tie it back. Instead, he let it fall—soft, silver, loose behind him like a mourning veil.
He looked up.
And met his own gaze in the mirror.
Smoke-grey eyes. Bone-pale skin. A prince carved from sorrow and moonlight.
And suddenly—
A memory.
Elias.
Elias placing a hand gently, almost reverently, against his stomach.
The shock of that touch.
The confused silence.
The way August had smacked his hand away with a gasp, cheeks ablaze.
He blinked.
And now—
Now that same heat crept back across his face.
A faint, reluctant rose stained his cheeks.
His hand lifted—hesitant, uncertain—and rested lightly on the front of his shirt.
Right there.
Over his stomach.
He didn't know what it meant.
But something inside him curled. A question without form. A breath that had yet to be exhaled.
He pulled his hand back quickly, as if afraid of what the touch might awaken.
"Stupid," he muttered under his breath.
But his reflection didn't laugh. It only looked back, tired and beautiful, a boy dressed like a noble, haunted like a ghost.
August turned from the mirror, coat swirling around his legs like mist.
It was time.
Time to see Elias.
Whatever came next—
He would face it clothed in quiet dignity.
Even if it broke him all over again.
Elias lay still, eyes fixed to the ceiling, its ornate carvings a blur above him. His mind felt like a hollowed-out book—pages missing, sentences half-formed, a silence too deep to fill. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know why the ache in his ribs felt less painful than the one echoing in his chest.
The door creaked open.
August stepped into the chamber.
His boots whispered against the floor, and his coat fluttered like the hush before a storm. Moonlight spilled behind him, painting the marble with silver fire.
Elias's gaze shifted to him. Something in his chest stirred—but he didn't know what.
August didn't return the softness in that look. His eyes were fierce, sharp as ever—steel beneath the pale.
Elias looked away.
August came to a stop a few paces from the bed. His posture was poised, regal, but his hands trembled faintly at his sides.
"How are your wounds?" he asked quietly.
Elias didn't answer.
Not because he was rude.
But because his mind was somewhere else. Tangled in a fog he couldn't clear. Flashes of light. The sound of a voice he might have once known. A boy with silver hair. A blade. Blood. A promise—
His gaze lifted again.
August was staring at him, guarded and waiting.
"I…" Elias blinked. "I'm a human, I think. And I want to eat something. Something special."
August didn't react, not immediately.
Then he turned toward the door. "Giles," he called firmly.
The old butler stepped in, waiting for orders.
"Tell the maids to bring food. All of them. Everything they have ready."
Giles bowed, understanding without asking further.
Elias watched, blinking in confusion.
The room returned to stillness after Giles left. The fire crackled softly. Shadows flickered across Elias's face.
He turned his head again. "What is your name?"
August's eyes narrowed faintly, not out of malice—but caution.
With measured grace, he spoke, each word etched with ice and pride:
"August Everheart D'Rosaye."
Elias blinked. "That's… a long name."
August turned his face away, giving no reply.
The door opened again.
Three maids entered, graceful and silent, their steps like the rustling of silk. They carried silver platters of roasted meats, delicate pastries, warm bread, steaming soup, and honey-drenched fruits. Each dish was laid gently upon the table near the window.
Then, with practiced bows, they vanished like whispers.
Elias sat upright slowly. His eyes widened at the sight. His stomach growled audibly.
August stood beside the table, expression unreadable.
He watched Elias.
The boy's eyes sparkled with the kind of hunger only a wounded soul knows. He moved toward the feast and sat, like a starved child finally given permission to eat.
August followed and took the chair opposite him. There were three chairs. The one between them remained empty.
But August did not touch a single dish.
He simply watched.
Elias was already devouring the food—soup first, then bread torn apart with both hands. The clatter of cutlery, the hum of delight, the soft sighs of pleasure—it should have annoyed August.
It didn't.
It hurt.
Because even without memory, Elias still behaved the same.
Messy. Reckless. Hungry. Alive.
August looked down at his hands, then back at the boy devouring his fifth spoonful of stew.
"Eat slowly," he said gently. "The food isn't going anywhere. Except your stomach."
Elias paused. Looked up.
"You haven't eaten," he said, noticing for the first time.
"I already did," August replied calmly.
It was a lie. But it was easier than explaining.
Elias nodded, then resumed eating like he hadn't tasted joy in years.
August sat in silence. Watching. Thinking.
Elias used to scold him every time he skipped a meal. He would steal August's fork, shove a spoon in his hand, threaten to feed him himself. He had done it more than once.
And now—
Elias ate alone.
And didn't notice.
August's chest ached, but he didn't show it.
He raised a hand lightly.
A maid appeared in the doorway.
"One glass of warm milk," August said softly. "Nothing else."
She nodded and left.
Elias, halfway through chewing a bite of roast, paused. The words echoed oddly in his mind.
Warm milk.
That sounded familiar.
He didn't know why.
He frowned for a moment, squinting into nothing.
> "Why does that feel like something…"
But the thought slipped away before it finished forming.
"Never mind," he mumbled, and dove back into the feast.
August watched him quietly, resting his chin on his folded hand.
He didn't speak again.
But in his heart, he wondered:
If memory could be lost, could love?
Or did it linger, like the taste of warm milk on a winter night?
Moments later, the door opened once again.
A silent maid entered the room, her steps light as breath. In her hands, she carried a silver tray, and upon it—a glass of milk, steam curling from the surface like ghostly ribbons. She approached August's side and gently placed the tray in front of him. Not a single word passed her lips.
She bowed once, then turned and exited, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of firelight and cutlery.
August looked down at the milk.
It was too hot.
He made no move to touch it, only stared. The glass shimmered faintly, catching the glow of the chandelier above. Minutes passed. The milk cooled.
Then, with slow precision, August reached for it.
He lifted the glass delicately, like it might break under the weight of his fingers.
And he drank.
One quiet sip.
Then another.
Warmth bloomed across his tongue. Familiar. Gentle. Almost kind.
And for a fleeting second—
The ache eased.