The road narrowed into a winding lane choked by crooked trees and damp stone. Outside, the wind had begun to rattle softly against the windows, and the hooves of the horses struck uneven ground as the carriage tilted slightly to one side.
Elias had just leaned forward to speak when—
A sudden jolt.
The carriage hit a deep rut in the road.
The world tilted.
And Elias, caught off-balance, fell forward straight into August.
It was a brief moment.
But it felt like forever.
Elias's arms instinctively braced against the seat behind August, caging him in. His weight pressed lightly into him, close enough that he could feel the sharp rise of August's breath, the rapid beat beneath layers of fabric.
August's eyes had gone wide truly wide for the first time since they'd left Khyronia.
He didn't speak.
Didn't shove him away.
Didn't breathe, almost.
A flicker of pink rose up his cheeks, high and sudden, like spilled wine soaking into pale linen.
Then—he turned his head sharply, eyes on the window, expression composed once again. But the color remained, burning quietly beneath his fair skin.
Elias froze.
His own face flushed in seconds, a slow-building fire from his neck upward.
"Shit—sorry," he mumbled, scrambling upright, nearly hitting his head on the carriage's roof as he sat back with too much force.
The silence that followed was no longer cold. It was thick. Warm. Embarrassed.
And something else.
Elias clenched his jaw, trying not to look at August again. His heart pounded a little too fast. And despite himself despite every moral fiber screaming otherwise—he couldn't help but remember it.
The scent of August's hair.
Clean, cool, something like cedar and faint lavender.
He had always looked otherworldly, but that close…
Gods.
If August had been a woman, Elias would have thought he was gazing at a creature carved by a divine hand. No more than that. A goddess fallen from the old constellations. Pale, untouchable, wrapped in winter and quiet dignity.
But he wasn't.
He was August.
Still quiet. Still sharp. Still untouchable.
And yet, Elias couldn't stop the thought from curling like smoke behind his eyes:
I could fall to ruin for you.
He looked out the window instead, gripping the edge of the seat.
Meanwhile, August hadn't said a word.
But when Elias dared one glance back, he saw August touching his collar lightly perhaps to fix it, or perhaps just to feel where Elias had pressed into him.
The blush was gone. But the memory wasn't.
The carriage slowed.
They'd reached the crest of the last hill.
Below, at the end of the sloping path, State Blackwood Manor loomed—grand, solemn, and untouched by time. Built from pale stone and black iron, its pointed towers rose like forgotten spires from a fairy tale. Ivy crawled across its flanks, and tall windows caught the faintest shimmer of sunlight. A wrought-iron gate stretched open, flanked by two unlit lanterns.
The horses whinnied softly as the carriage came to a halt on gravel.
August stepped down first, his boots touching the earth like he was returning to a throne. The wind caught the edge of his cloak, lifting it just enough to show the sigil embroidered inside—a black rose pierced by a silver thorn.
Elias followed, blinking against the bright morning.
The great doors of State Blackwood Manor creaked open.
The interior swallowed them whole.
Marble floors stretched wide, polished to a soft glow. Tapestries hung on tall walls depicting ancient battles, faded houses, forgotten ancestors whose stern faces watched them from above.
Elias stepped in behind August, and for a moment, the air around him shifted. Memory curled like smoke through the grand foyer. He remembered these halls—not vividly, but enough. The scent of the old wood, the coolness of the stone walls, the hush that lived inside every room.
"Still the same," he muttered under his breath.
The butler, hearing him, turned slightly.
"You were… young the last time you came, Master Elias," the man said with careful warmth. "You used to follow Lord August like a shadow."
Elias rubbed the back of his neck. "Only three days each year. Not enough to remember much."
"But enough for us to remember you," came a dry, familiar voice.
'Giles"
He stepped beside August now, walking a little behind like a sentinel. "You were always climbing things. The west tower. The stables. The study shelves, once."
Elias chuckled awkwardly. "I didn't know anyone noticed."
"Everyone noticed," Giles said with a faint smirk. "But August told us not to say anything."
August didn't respond. He kept walking.
But Elias caught it.
The slight shift in his shoulders. The brief, almost invisible tension in his jaw. Like he remembered too—but chose silence as his companion, as always.
They moved through the corridor, passing a corridor of portraits that looked like ghosts of Blackwood past. One of the maids followed behind them quietly, carrying a basket of keys and linen.
"So you're staying longer this time?" Giles asked, directing the question toward Elias, though his eyes were on August.
"Looks like it," Elias replied.
"Then let's see if you last more than three days this time."
A bark of laughter rose in Elias's throat. "I might just surprise you."
But August said, barely audible, "You never do."
The words weren't cruel.
But they cut.
Because Elias understood what he meant.
Every year, Elias had left. Quickly. Suddenly. Like a storm passing through. He hadn't had a choice—not really. Military drills. Orders. His own damn stubbornness. But each departure left something cold behind, and August… he had grown used to the cold.
"I'm not leaving this time," Elias said under his breath.
August didn't answer.
They reached the base of the main staircase.
One path curved toward the old guest chambers. The other led to August's private wing.
"His room beside mine," August said firmly.
Giles blinked. "Beside yours, my lord?"
August's tone sharpened a fraction. "Yes."
Giles, bowed slightly. "As you wish."
The maid at his side dipped her head again, the soft jingle of keys in her hand echoing in the hush.
As they began to ascend the stairs, Elias looked over his shoulder one last time.
He could still feel the lingering weight of the house—of its history, of the space that existed between him and August. It wasn't just made of time. It was made of choices, of silences, of three-day visits that had never been enough.
But he was here now.
And August hadn't pushed him away.
That, at least, meant something.