From the quiet ache of Elias's room, where the perfume of medicine still lingered in the air, the world softened like parchment left beneath the morning sun. The whisper of the wind through the manor's corridors flowed like a memory, carrying August along as he walked through the west wing—toward a place he had not entered in years.
The door to his parents' chambers creaked open.
Dust greeted him first. Not as a sign of neglect, but reverence—no one had disturbed this room since the night tragedy fell upon it. The velvet drapes were drawn halfway, letting a muted gold light fall across the still, untouched furniture. A painting above the hearth—his mother reading by candlelight, his father nearby with a book—watched him like ghosts stitched in oil.
August stepped in, letting the door close behind him with a soft click.
The air was heavy with lavender, faded roses, and forgotten whispers. His fingers brushed along the carved bedpost, then trailed toward the mahogany bookcase tucked in the corner. Most volumes were aged classics, political treatises, and romances his mother adored. But tucked in the lowest shelf, wrapped in a faded blue cloth, sat a familiar relic.
A childhood book.
August knelt slowly, his knees protesting slightly. The cloth felt delicate in his gloved hands. He unwrapped it with care, and there it was—"The Tale of the Velvet Princess and the Silver Knight." The cover had been patched in one corner with golden thread, sewn by his mother's own hand.
He sat upon the soft rug, opening the book to the first page.
The inked illustrations swam back to him: a knight holding a silver-bladed sword, a princess with hair like moonlight hiding beneath a veil. He could still hear his mother's voice reading to him, her tone falling into rhythm with the flicker of firelight.
He turned each page slowly, careful not to damage the aged paper.
Then, midway through the book, something resisted.
A thin envelope, folded and flattened by time, rested between the pages. The edges had begun to curl; the ink was bleeding into parchment like veins. August stared at it for a long moment, a strange sense of stillness creeping into his chest. Gently, he lifted it.
There was no wax seal, no symbol—only a name written in trembling script: "Annalise D'Rosaye."
His mother.
But what caught his eye next was the sender.
A name he didn't recognize—but it, too, bore the surname "D'Rosaye." The ink was fading, and he could barely make out the first name. It began with an M. The rest had melted into ghost-like curves.
His breath slowed. He opened the envelope.
The letter crackled as he unfolded it. The paper had thinned from age, the words barely holding to their lines. But scattered between ink stains and creases were fragments of pain, fear, and warning.
"…he won't let… my children… live…"
August's eyes widened. The hand that gripped the paper tightened slightly.
"…I had to send them away… too dangerous now…"
His heartbeat grew louder in his ears.
"…you're the only one left I can trust…"
But then the rest faded—ink crumbled into the fibers, leaving only silences. It was as if the letter had tried to escape time but failed.
He stared at it, reading it again and again. The words bled together: "children," "danger," "trust."
His lips parted but no sound came.
There was no mention of names. No location. No event. Just fear stitched into every jagged word.
He carefully set the letter down on the rug beside the book, as if afraid to tear the past further.
Outside the window, birds sang faintly.
August looked down at the book still open on the rug, its painted princess staring back at him through decades of memory.
Then his eyes drifted to the letter once more.
"…he won't let my children live…"
He folded it gently and returned it to the envelope.
Some truths were buried not in secrets, but in the spaces between them.
And August was beginning to read between the lines.
The manor breathed around him like an old cathedral, solemn and drenched in memory. After the jarring stillness of the letter and the aching pulse in his chest left behind by Elias's sudden illness, August moved through the corridors like a shadow composed of silk and intention.
From the high arched halls, he made his way to the west wing, his steps nearly silent against the dark marble. Here lay his study—the only room untouched by estate's bloom of opulence. It bore no gold leaf or velvet hangings. It was a scholar's room, a war strategist's room, a sanctuary.
He reached for the brass handle, feeling the cold press of it against his gloved palm, and pushed the door open with the weight of necessity rather than desire.
Within, soft dust motes danced in the shafts of morning sunlight that trickled through the half-drawn drapes. Rows of books lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves—volumes on ancient politics, sea routes, forgotten codes of nobility, and Khyronia's fragmented laws. A massive oak desk stood at the center, covered in correspondence and half-sealed documents. The scent of wax, ink, and old parchment lingered like a ghost from the past.
August closed the door behind him with a click, letting the quiet wrap around his limbs. He removed his gloves first, then his overcoat, laying them on the coat stand beside the fireplace, before making his way to the desk. Each movement was deliberate. It had to be.
His mind still reeled—Elias was ill.
Though the maid had spoken the words gently, they struck him like a whip. It was the cold water. His own silence. Elias had been in pain and hadn't said a word. That very silence felt louder than anything else.
But now he needed to focus. One fracture at a time.
He sat, adjusting his seat with the kind of grace only years of restraint could teach. The first scroll he unfurled bore a wax seal from the northern provinces—a report of trading routes disrupted by whispers of sea raiders. Next came a letter from the estate's steward—grain shipments delayed, suspected tampering in the accounts.
He read, made corrections in his sharp, angular handwriting, sealed the responses with his signet ring, and placed them into the outbound box. This rhythm—read, respond, seal—was a balm. A temporary one, but it gave structure to the fog pressing behind his eyes.
Hours passed like breath in winter: visible, fading, forgotten.
A knock interrupted the silence.
"My lord?" Giles's voice, muffled through the door.
August blinked. "Enter."
Giles stepped in with a tray, but this time it carried only water and a single folded paper.
"A reply from the Eastern delegates. And a reminder, sir, that the garden council meets again at sundown."
August nodded without looking up. "Thank you. That will be all."
When the door clicked shut, he leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes for a long moment. The paper beneath his hands felt heavier than before.
He thought of Elias again. Of the trembling breath, the way his brow had furrowed as though determined to outlast the ache. He hadn't even complained. Just curled inward, like a flame protecting its last spark.
August rose.
He moved to the cabinet behind his desk and withdrew a narrow wooden box. From it, he took a fresh ink pot, a sandglass, and a delicate feather quill with a silver base. He returned to the desk and uncapped the ink.
He stared at the blank parchment for what felt like an hour.
His thoughts were not orderly. They were not the sharp, cold blades of diplomacy. They were thick with questions and muddled memories. The letter he'd found in the fairytale book hovered in his mind. He couldn't recall who the sender was—only that the name bore his mother's surname: D'Rosaye.
The ink touched paper. The quill moved.
He didn't know who he was writing to—not yet—but words formed anyway:
> *When a kingdom keeps secrets, it does not age—it withers.*
> *Today I found remnants of a whisper, half-decayed and threaded in fear. I do not yet know whose fear it was. But I will find it.*
> *If knowledge is a blade, then mine has been dull too long.*
He stopped, fingers tightening around the quill. The ink bled slightly into the fibers. He turned the page, continuing—not a letter now, but notes.
He drew a family tree. What he knew. What he didn't.
His mother: Annalise D'Rosaye.
No known siblings.
No cousins.
Yet someone had written to her with a surname nearly identical. A voice desperate. Someone speaking of children—plural. And danger.
Was it a cousin? A sister? The name had been nearly ruined by time. But it started with letter "M".
He leaned back again, staring at the tree he'd drawn.
Outside the study's tall windows, the sun had begun its descent into molten gold.
He returned to work, replying to letters, adding margins to maps, reviewing treaties for minor upcoming councils.
A knock came once more—this time more hesitant.
The same maid stood outside. "Master Elias. Fever's broken. He asked this maid to deliver the message."
August said nothing at first. The quill in his hand slowed.
Then, gently: "Thank you."
The door closed again.
And this time, August did not return to his desk. He simply sat, watching the golden light shift across the stone floor. Thinking. Remembering.
And bracing for what came next.