Steam drifted through the bathing chamber, curling in soft ribbons against the marble walls. August sat motionless in the large tub, the water still and warm around him, glinting like amber in the morning light. His long white-blonde hair clung wetly to his back and shoulders, the tips drifting like silk beneath the surface. He stared at nothing.
Not out of distraction. Not even fatigue.
Just stillness. Quiet, measured, and heavy as glass.
After a long while, he rose, steam slipping from his skin like a second breath. He dried himself slowly, wrapped in silence. Not once did he flinch at the cold air or the faint ache in his joints. His movements were elegant, practiced, without the urgency of someone in a rush. He dressed in fresh clothes: a soft white shirt, high-collared and crisp, paired with pale grey trousers. No jewelry. No ornament. Just simplicity, as if that were his armor now.
He walked barefoot through the corridor, his steps soundless against the polished wood, and entered the study.
The door creaked faintly as it closed behind him.
Papers were scattered across the desk like fallen leaves coded letters, folded maps. Wax seals broken. Ink stains smudged. The room was golden in the morning light, but it felt colder than the bath had.
August moved to the chair, pulled it out, and sat down with a slow breath. His eyes lingered over the table, as if trying to find a thread among the chaos.
Then, without a word, he lowered his head onto the desk.
Face pressed against the sleeve of his shirt, he closed his eyes. Not to sleep. Not even to rest.
Just to stop.
Moments passed like drifting mist.
A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.
"My lord?" a gentle voice called.
August didn't lift his head, but he opened his eyes. "Yes."
The door cracked open and one of the manor maids stepped inside, hesitating as she saw him.
"Would you like anything for breakfast, sir?"
He paused before answering. His voice was quiet but certain.
"Something light. No meat. No cream. Just fruit and tea."
The maid nodded and stepped out with a soft curtsy.
Silence returned, but not for long.
An hour later, he stood in the west wing before a woman with white grey hair swept in an elegant knot and a long traveling cloak draped over her shoulders. Lady Katherine his aunt. Her gaze was sharp, filled with restrained protest, but he didn't waver.
"But my child how can I leave you alone like this," she said. "Not yet. You've barely recovered."
"I'm not a 4 years child anymore," August replied, his voice calm. "And you have your own estate to tend."
She searched his eyes for softness. For hesitation. There was none.
"If anything happens don't hesitate to wrote letter to your Aunt," she said finally, adjusting her gloves.
"I will," he said, though they both knew he wouldn't.
A final hug was offered. Brief. Formal. And then she and her husband left. With they're servent's Without any word's
' the manor was emptier.
Except for one other.
Elias remained in the upper hall, arms folded, face turned slightly toward the window but eyes clearly not seeing it. He hadn't spoken to August all morning. Hadn't acknowledged him. When their paths crossed briefly in the corridor, Elias walked past without a word, tension sharp in his jaw.
August felt it. Like a blade that had missed his skin, but cut the air around him.
He said nothing.
He returned to the study, now cleared of its earlier clutter. The breakfast tray remained untouched by the corner. The tea had long gone cold.
The wheels of the carriage rolled softly over the gravel, drawing the world outside into a gentle blur of trees, hedges, and scattered light. Katherine sat upright, hands folded in her lap, her grey hair gathered into a neat chignon beneath her modest traveling bonnet. Her expression remained composed—but inside, her thoughts moved like a storm.
She had left him.
Not in anger, nor in sorrow. Only because he had asked.
"He's changed," she murmured.
Across from her, Seraphin turned his pale, thoughtful eyes toward her. He was dressed as always—impeccable in a dark green coat, the silver trim on his cuffs glinting faintly in the early morning light. A man of few words and measured presence, he studied her face without interruption.
"He looked at me," Katherine continued softly, "and I didn't see my nephew anymore. I saw… someone colder. Older than he has any right to be."
Seraphin remained silent. He had learned, over the years, how to wait for her to reach the depth of her thoughts before speaking.
"I raised him, Seraphin," she said, her voice shaking slightly despite her best efforts. "Since he was four. I held him the night his parents were killed. I taught him to read again when he forgot how. I, never had a child's of my own—and I didn't need to. He was mine in every way that mattered. But today… he looked at me as if I was part of the past he wanted to forget."
Seraphin's voice was deep, quiet. "Because he's hurting."
Katherine turned toward the window, the passing hedgerows like knife-blades across the glass. "But why must pain turn love into silence?"
"Because silence feels safer than grief," Seraphin replied. "And I believe he's still grieving. Not just his parents. Something more recent. Something sharp."
Her brows furrowed. "Do you think it was Elias?"
Seraphin didn't answer right away. "Perhaps. Or perhaps Elias is only part of it. Sometimes, the truth doesn't rise all at once. It seeps up slowly, like fog after rain."
Katherine pressed her hand to her chest. "I feel as though I failed him. That I didn't see it coming. That while I was preparing tea and placing flowers in vases, he was fighting something I never even noticed."
"You didn't fail him." Seraphin's voice was firm now, without judgment. "You loved him fiercely. You stood between him and ruin more times than even he remembers. But there comes a time when even the most beloved child must leave the garden."
"And walk into the fire?" Katherine asked bitterly.
"Yes," Seraphin said simply. "Sometimes."
The carriage rocked gently over a ridge in the path. Sunlight poured in through the half-drawn curtains. Katherine closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the sound of August's voice as a child—soft, uncertain, always asking questions. Always clinging to her skirts when he was afraid of the wind or the dark or the memories he didn't yet understand.
Now he barely looked her in the eye.
"He asked me to go," she whispered. "Said he wasn't a child anymore. That he could manage the estate, his health, the servants, all of it."
"And perhaps he can," Seraphin said. "Or perhaps he'll stumble. But you gave him a memory. He'll remember that."
Katherine leaned her head slightly against the carriage wall. "He doesn't eat properly. He barely sleeps. I saw him trembling when he was working in his study. He says he's well, but it's a lie painted with polish."
"He is wounded," Seraphin said. "But wounds are strange things. They close over slowly, not when we demand it—but when the soul is ready."
She turned toward him, tiredness softening her features. "Do you really believe he'll heal?"
"I do."
"And what if he never returns to me?" she asked. "What if I've already lost him?"
"You haven't," Seraphin said. "He's just walking through a storm. And storms never last."
She was quiet for a while after that.
Then: "I left him a few books by his bedside."
Seraphin looked at her.
"The old ones," she said. "The ones he loved—The Princess and the Knight, Windswept Tales, The Garden Without Winter. He won't read them, not now. But maybe someday."
Seraphin gave a soft smile, rare and fleeting. "He'll know who left them. That's enough."
Katherine turned back toward the window, watching as the outline of the estate faded behind the curve of the trees.
"I won't write to him just yet," she said at last. "I'll wait until the leaves start to turn. If by then he's still quiet… then I'll send a letter with no questions. Just a line or two, to remind him that my door has never closed."
Seraphin reached for her hand and held it gently. "He will come back to you."
"I hope you're right."
"I am."
The trees swayed as the wind picked up, stirring a trail of golden leaves along the path. Behind them, the estate stood quiet. Inside, a boy turned man sat alone at his desk, weary and still, surrounded by memories and ghosts.
But the books were there.
And so was love.
Even in silence.