Chapter : 89 "Lost In The Manor, Found In The Study"

Elias stirred.

His eyes blinked open to the ceiling—carved, ornate, unfamiliar. The morning light was soft, slipping through sheer curtains in long, patient strands. He lay still for a breath, then another, trying to recall what had just happened.

What the hell…

The dream clung to his skin like a fever not yet broken. That meadow—the boy with moonlight hair—the woman with golden strands and eyes like autumn. Her voice still echoed in his ears.

"My precious boy…"

He swallowed hard, turning his head slowly toward the window.

The name slipped from his thoughts before he could cage it.

August.

"Why was he in my dreams?" Elias whispered aloud.

His voice sounded strange in the hush of morning. Distant. Uncertain.

"And that woman… with golden hair—who was she?" He rubbed at his temple, the weight of it all pressing down like a memory half-born. "Why did they appear like that? What the hell was that supposed to mean?"

He closed his eyes for a moment longer, but nothing returned. No answer. Only the fading warmth of someone else's sorrow.

Then came the boy's voice—haunting, hoarse:

"You don't love me."

Elias's heart gave a weak, confused flutter.

"What was that supposed to mean?" he muttered. "He said I didn't love him… but why would he care?" He sat up slowly, hissing through his teeth as the ache in his torso caught him by surprise. The bandages, still tightly wound around his waist and chest, reminded him of his bruises—of the fight, the fall, the pain.

And of the boy who had been there, pale and quiet, always just slightly out of reach.

He pushed back his silky black hair with both hands, exhaling through clenched teeth. The dream gnawed at him like a question with too many teeth.

"Isn't he a male?" Elias said to the empty room. "Then why did he… ah—why did I…" His brow furrowed. "Wait. Are we siblings?"

The thought jolted him upright.

"No, no—that can't be," he muttered, shaking his head. "That doesn't make any sense. We don't even look alike… And—he's too…" He trailed off, mouth still open, searching for a word that wouldn't come.

Too what?

Too beautiful?

Too delicate?

Too much like something sacred?

He groaned and dropped his face into his hands.

"What are we, then?"

The silence offered no answers.

Elias let out a long breath, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool beneath his feet, grounding him in the only truth he could trust for now: he was alive, awake, and absolutely, maddeningly confused.

Slowly, gingerly, he pushed himself to standing. Pain tugged at his ribs like old wounds refusing to be forgotten. The linens of his sleep shirt clung slightly to the bandages that wrapped his middle, tight and neat.

Each movement reminded him he wasn't healed.

Not yet.

He stepped to the window.

And paused.

The garden stretched out beyond the glass like a dream made flesh. Roses curled against trellises, ivy kissed the stone paths, and morning dew shimmered over the leaves. It was beautiful—achingly so.

But to Elias, it felt wrong.

He didn't know this garden. Didn't know the scent of these flowers or the name of the trees. He didn't know the layout of the land or the stories the walls might tell. He didn't know the creak of the stairs or the feel of the cold stone beneath bare feet at night.

He didn't know this manor.

He didn't know this room.

He didn't even know the boy whose name still tasted like longing on his tongue.

August.

He shut his eyes.

Let the silence press against him like breath against glass.

Everything felt distant. Every answer was half a sentence. Every truth felt like a lie waiting to be untangled.

His hand rose, palm resting lightly against the windowpane.

The cold seeped into his skin.

He whispered it, once more—quieter now. Not to himself. Not to the room.

But to the boy who cried on the edge of a dream.

"August…"

He opened his eyes again.

And the garden waited.

Beautiful. Distant.

Unforgiving.

The wind traced slow circles along Elias's temple, cold but not unkind—like a breath exhaled by the house itself. It whispered past him as he stood unmoving before the tall window, eyes still clouded by fragments of dream. Morning light spilled across the garden beyond, gilding the edges of roses and leaves, as if the world were being painted anew.

He didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

Until—

A soft knock.

Not on the door.

But on his head.

He turned, startled.

A maid stood there—petite and straight-backed, her presence as unassuming as a shadow at noon. Her hair was drawn into a neat coil, her voice small and sure.

"The bath is ready, Master."

Elias regarded her for a moment, then nodded. "Would you… escort me?"

She did not answer—just turned and led the way, her steps light, her silence comforting in its simplicity. He followed, moving through halls draped in velvet stillness. Paintings passed like silent witnesses, eyes of oil and canvas watching without judgment.

They arrived before a door carved with ivy and lilies.

The maid opened it without flourish.

Steam unfurled like mist from an ancient forest.

Inside, the bath awaited—an alabaster basin filled to the brim, the surface rippling beneath a scatter of petals: crimson, violet, ivory. Light from a stained-glass window filtered through the steam, casting broken rainbows over the walls.

Elias stood at the threshold.

"You may leave now," he said.

With a graceful nod, she departed, the door closing behind her with a sigh.

He stepped out of his robe, baring wounds and bandages, and lowered himself into the bath.

The water embraced him.

It climbed his chest, kissed his shoulders, melted the ache that coiled around his spine. He exhaled, slow and long, and let his arms stretch along the rim of the tub, his head tilting back, eyes falling closed.

And in that stillness—

A flash.

August.

Smiling.

Wearing a crown of flowers, soft and delicate, like spring itself had woven it for him. His white curls framed his face like moonlight woven through silk, and his smile—rare and radiant—glowed with an innocence that struck Elias in the center of the chest.

Elias's eyes snapped open.

This was no dream.

This was something else.

A memory, buried deep, returned uninvited.

He brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose, pinching it with a groan.

"Ahh… What is happening to me?" he whispered. "Who is he? And why does he keep following me—in dreams, in thoughts… now in memories?"

But there was no answer.

Only the petals drifting across his chest.

He rose from the water with a reluctant sigh, steam slipping from his skin like silk torn from marble. He dried himself slowly, careful of the bandages, and slipped into the robe that awaited him—warm, thick, fragrant with lavender. He sat for a moment on the bench, letting his damp hair fall where it pleased.

Then, disheveled and wrapped in the scent of jasmine and rosemary, he opened the door—

And paused.

The manor stretched ahead like a riddle with too many answers.

Left or right? Forward or back? Every corridor was identical—hallways carved in opulence, crowned in silence. He wandered, footsteps soft, touching nothing. Time folded in on itself.

He was lost.

Truly.

Until, by fortune or fate, he saw it:

A single door, slightly ajar.

He approached.

Fingers curled around the brass handle.

It opened with a whisper.

And inside—

A study.

Bathed in the quiet gold of late morning. Dust floated like spirits in the shafts of light. Books towered like sleeping giants. And at the desk—

August.

Collapsed forward, his cheek pressed against parchment.

Ink pooled beneath him.

He hadn't stirred. Not even when the door creaked. His breath was shallow, soft. His white hair spilled across the desk like spun silver.

Elias stepped in slowly, as if afraid to wake a bird from sleep.

Is this how he sleeps?

Then—

Another creak.

The door opened wider.

The maid from earlier stepped in, carrying a silver tray. She paused, gave a small bow.

"My lord," she said gently, "would you like anything for breakfast?"

August stirred.

He shifted, lifting his head—

And Elias froze.

A perfect print of black ink decorated August's left cheek: words and curves and loops, now pressed into his skin like a signature from another world.

August blinked once, eyes heavy.

"One warm glass of milk," he murmured, voice rough from sleep. "Nothing else."

He turned his gaze toward the maid.

And then—

Toward Elias.

Who was already biting his lip.

A twitch of a grin.

Then a snort.

Then—

Laughter.

Uncontrolled, unfiltered.

Elias doubled slightly, one hand clutching his side, the other wiping tears from his eyes.

"Your face—" he gasped, between bursts of laughter. "You look like a tragic poem! A very dramatic one!"

August's brows drew together.

Not in embarrassment.

But in worry.

His gaze swept over Elias's ribs, where the laughter threatened to undo healing.

"Enough," he said, firm. "You'll tear the stitches."

But Elias couldn't stop.

"Forgive me," he wheezed. "But the ink—oh gods, it's everywhere! What did you do, fall asleep mid-sonnet?"

August turned away with a dramatic exhale. "How can you laugh in this state?"

Elias, still chuckling, slowly straightened, breathless. "Because—for the first time—I can. It hurts less. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"

August didn't answer.

Not at once.

Then—

Elias softened, wiping a final tear from the corner of his eye.

"I don't know this place," he said, quieter now. "I got lost. Completely. Then I found this door… and when I opened it, it was you."

August stood motionless.

Then—

A nod.

Silent. Small.

"I'll show you your room," he said.

His voice held no warmth.

But it held something steadier.

And so the two of them walked—one trailing slightly behind the other—through a house of ghosts and sunlit silence, their steps weaving a path between confusion and calm.

The ink still clung to August's cheek.

And Elias's smile lingered.

Long after the laughter had gone.