Chapter : 90 "Soft Mornings, Strange Truths"

The corridors whispered around them, stitched in golds and deep browns, as August led the way with quiet precision. Elias walked at his side, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robe, the other itching with the desire to point again at the still-faint imprint of ink curling along August's cheek.

He bit his lip to stifle another laugh.

He really fell asleep on his own letter...

The thought sent another ripple of amusement through him. Even now, walking beside the pale-haired boy whose very presence seemed spun from stormclouds and moonlight, Elias couldn't help it. The image had branded itself in his mind like a mischievous mark.

He glanced sideways.

Still there.

Ink, like a poet's autograph, elegantly splotched on August's cheek.

Then—

Footsteps from ahead.

A figure emerged from the branching corridor, poised, and impossible to miss.

Lirael.

He walked with the grace of a chapel procession—his long silver-blond hair braided down the back in an intricate pattern that shimmered when the light kissed it. His coat, a rich shade of midnight, trailed the floor like a holy man's vestment, catching the echoes of every step he took.

Elias brightened.

"Hey," he said, smirking—and pointed directly at August's cheek. "Look."

He rolled his eyes dramatically in August's direction, lips twitching with restrained laughter.

Lirael's gaze drifted from Elias to August.

Then—

A single, elegant chuckle. Soft as silk. Amused as sin.

"Well," Lirael murmured, voice smooth as wine. "Good morning to you both."

August did not smile.

"Morning," he said flatly, his tone perfectly polite—and completely done with the day.

He turned on his heel.

Kept walking.

Elias blinked, then laughed softly and caught up, draping an arm around August's narrow shoulder with casual familiarity.

"Relax," he said, smiling. "I was only playing."

August stiffened under the touch, spine held like glass pulled too tightly in a flame.

He didn't answer.

Only turned his head slightly and leveled a glare at Elias—cool, unblinking, the kind of stare that could wither fire.

"I'm sorry," Elias said quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. " I Didn't mean to be rude."

August said nothing.

But his pace didn't change.

They turned another corner, quiet now but not uncomfortable. The house had grown warmer, touched by the light spilling through tall arched windows. Outside, birds stirred in the ivy, their songs distant and fleeting.

At last, they reached a carved wooden door—Elias's chamber.

He stepped forward and opened it, the hinges giving a soft creak.

But as he stepped inside, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.

August remained in the hall, still and unreadable.

"Oh—sorry," Elias said, half-turning. "Did you… wanna come in?"

August's voice came calm, low, without malice.

"I have work to do."

And with that, he turned and left, his coat trailing like a ghost behind him.

Elias watched him disappear down the corridor.

"Strange," he muttered. "Cold… and kind. And a little bit dorky too."

He smiled to himself, then stepped into the room.

The chamber welcomed him like a forgotten dream—soft light, polished floors, a wide bed dressed in pale linens, and the scent of lavender clinging to the drapes. He crossed to the bed, flopping down with a satisfied sigh.

Then—

A knock.

The door opened.

Two maids entered silently, wheeling in a tray so vast it might have fed a small garrison.

Elias sat up slowly, eyes wide.

The breakfast spread gleamed: eggs in herbed cream, soft rolls still steaming, golden butter, fruit sliced with ceremonial precision, a carafe of tea, and something that looked suspiciously like a custard tart trying to flirt with him.

He stared.

Then looked at the maids.

Then back at the food.

It was enough for three.

But his stomach, greedy and opinionated, had other thoughts.

This, Elias decided, belongs entirely to me.

The maids bowed, then departed without a word.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Elias rose and seated himself at the small round table, pulling the plate toward him with reverence. He picked up his fork, lifted a bite of eggs to his lips—

And sighed.

Heaven.

He ate slowly at first, savoring every flavor, every texture. But soon, appetite won out over elegance. He devoured it piece by piece, hunger peeling away the fog in his head, grounding him in something real.

He didn't know this manor.

He didn't know what August meant to him, or why the boy lingered in dreams and memories like a forgotten verse.

But for now—

He had warmth.

He had silence.

He had food.

And the quiet, baffling realization that, perhaps, in the strangest way possible

He didn't want to stop figuring August out.

Elias leaned back in the chair, stomach full and spirit finally quiet.

The last of the fruit glistened on the silver tray, a single slice of peach left untouched. The room around him glowed in the early light, soft shadows curling like cats across the floor. He stretched his arms, spine arching with a satisfying pop, and let out a slow, contented breath.

His thoughts were slower now, drifting like lazy clouds across a summer sky.

Today's beginning… it's not bad at all.

He turned his head, gaze falling on the bed—pillowed, pristine, almost too inviting.

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Why not."

He stood, crossed the room in a few long steps, and collapsed gently into the mattress. The covers rustled beneath him like sighing silk. He stretched once more, arms thrown wide, legs carelessly tangled, and let his body sink into the softness.

For a moment, there was nothing.

No confusion. No manor walls echoing secrets. No dreams of flower crowns or tear-streaked cheeks.

Just comfort.

And quiet.

---

Across the manor, the light shifted.

In another chamber, pale and tidy, August stood before a mirror. The room smelled faintly of parchment and tea leaves, his coat discarded over the back of a chair. In one hand, he held a small cloth towel; in the other, a bowl of warm water, steam rising in soft whorls.

He dabbed the towel into the bowl and raised it to his cheek.

The ink had smeared more than expected.

August frowned.

He rubbed.

Then rubbed harder.

The towel, soaked and determined, dragged across his delicate skin in sweeping strokes—methodical, focused, too forceful.

It must come off.

He did not stop until the stain faded to pink and the imprint was gone.

But now—

His cheek was flushed, tender from the friction, glowing with a hue that mirrored the embarrassment he refused to show.

He exhaled, slow and thin.

Then he set the towel aside, poured the used water into a basin, and moved toward the door. His hand hovered over the frame a moment before pulling it gently shut behind him with a click.

He crossed the hallway.

To his study.

The door opened into quiet warmth.

Morning had slipped into the room like a respectful guest. The light was golden now, richer, curling around the tall windows and the edges of the velvet drapes. The air smelled faintly of parchment and lavender wax.

And there—

Waiting like a loyal companion—

Was the glass of warm milk.

Placed neatly at the corner of his desk, where he always liked it.

August approached with slow, measured steps.

He lowered himself into the chair with practiced elegance, long fingers resting briefly on the desk's edge before curling around the glass.

No rush.

He brought it to his lips.

The milk was still warm—just right. Smooth, comforting, the kind of warmth that didn't ask questions, didn't speak, didn't press.

He sipped slowly.

Once.

Twice.

Eyes half-lowered. Shoulders slowly unwinding.

Sip by sip, the silence wrapped around him like a cloak.

By the time the glass was empty, he hadn't thought once about Elias, or the laughter, or the ink, or the strange stirring in his chest that never quite settled.

He set the glass down gently.

The room held its breath.

And August, alone in his sanctuary, let the moment pass without resistance. Not speaking. Not smiling.

Just… existing.

Delicately.

Like a pressed flower left in the pages of time.

A knock came—soft, courteous.

Elias opened one eye, still sprawled across the bed like a prince in exile. The sun had shifted since he'd last looked. Its light now stretched longer across the walls, casting a golden slant through the tall windowpanes.

The door opened slowly.

Hael Avenridge stepped in, dressed in his usual dark physician's coat, a small satchel slung over one shoulder. His hair, tied neatly at the nape, shone like riverstone in the light. He moved with the fluid quiet of someone who had entered many rooms, seen many wounds, and learned to speak only when needed.

Elias propped himself up on his elbows.

His gaze followed Hael for a moment, then—

"What is it?" he asked, voice half-lazy, half-curious.

Hael didn't smile, but there was something almost fond in his tone. "Your bandages," he said simply. "They need to be changed."

Elias let out a breath that might've been a sigh or a shrug. He sat up with more grace than expected and let the robe fall just enough to bare the wrappings across his waist and torso.

Hael set his bag down with precision and knelt beside the bed.

Silence unfolded between them.

Only the soft rustle of linen, the faint pull of gauze, the careful motion of skilled hands.

Hael worked gently.

The old bandages came away little by little, revealing tan skin marred by bruises, fading but not yet healed. He paused briefly at a particularly angry welt, but said nothing. Just reached for clean cloth and salve.

Elias watched him.

There was something oddly calming about Hael's presence—the steadiness, the silence, the way he moved like a clockmaker mending time.

Then—

"Is it true?" Hael asked quietly, his eyes focused on the wrappings in his hand. "That you've forgotten… everything?"

Elias blinked.

His voice came softer now, more thoughtful.

"I don't know if it's everything," he murmured. "But… I don't recognize this place."

He paused, then smiled faintly, almost to himself.

"But I like it here."

Hael's hands paused just briefly, then resumed.

"I like the view," Elias went on. "The quiet. The comfort. The food, especially. Everything feels like it should be strange, but… it's not. Not really. It's like I've been here before, even if I don't remember."

Hael glanced up once, eyes unreadable, then nodded slightly and tied the final knot in the new bandage.

"There," he said. "Finished."

He stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, and returned his tools to the bag—each item carefully placed, not one motion wasted.

Elias watched him, thoughtful.

"Do you think memories come back like dreams?" he asked idly. "Quiet. Uninvited. A little blurry at first."

Hael fastened the buckle on his satchel.

"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes they come back like fire."

Elias tilted his head. "I think I'd prefer the dream."

Hael allowed himself the smallest smile.

Then he straightened, gave a formal nod.

"If you need me again," he said, "just send word."

And with that, he turned and walked out, the door closing gently behind him with a click.

Elias remained on the bed, one hand resting on the fresh bandage across his ribs.

Outside, the sky began to deepen from gold into rose.

And somewhere not far, someone else sat in silence—

sipping the last of warm milk and trying, like Elias, to decide whether the world had forgotten them…

or if they had simply forgotten the world.