The graveyard never moved.
From the high balcony of Everhart Hall, August stood like a shadow carved in porcelain—silent, unmoving, beautiful and distant. The willow tree at the edge of the estate bent gently in the morning wind, its long arms swaying over the stones below like a silent mourner. The names of his parents, etched in cold marble, remained untouched by time but deeply etched in him.
He stared, not in search of comfort, but because he could not look away.
Smoke-grey eyes, pale as fog, followed the tree's slow movements. The wind curled through his long platinum-blonde hair—thick, silken waves that brushed past his shoulders in unruly grace. His skin, nearly translucent in the pale dawn light, seemed carved from snow. His frame was slender, the kind that never fully grew into the world around it, yet carried an elegance that demanded silence, not attention.
He was nineteen now, but the boy who once clutched a wooden knight and wept without tears still lived beneath his stillness.
A gentle knock stirred the quiet.
"Master August," came the voice of Giles, his most trusted servant—aged, composed, always waiting for permission that never came. "The dining hall is ready."
August nodded once, never turning from the view. When he finally moved, it was with the slow grace of someone trained to move soundlessly. The hallway greeted him with familiar indifference—same brocade wallpaper, same tapestries stiff with age. Yet everything felt hollow, like a once-grand theater long abandoned by its actors.
He walked to the dining hall, where morning light filtered through tall, leaded windows onto an impossibly long table.
Only one seat was set.
As always.
He took it—not at the head, but two seats left of center. The place where his father once sat, reading the morning papers while his mother stirred sugar into her tea. There were no papers now. No laughter. Just gleaming silverware, still as a funeral offering.
Maidservants entered quietly, setting down warm bread, soft eggs, roasted tomatoes. None met his eyes. They never did.
But one figure stood out from the others taller, broader, a silhouette not belonging to this choreographed procession.
Elias"
He stood a few paces behind the maids, hands clasped behind his back, clothes still
August noticed everything, though he rarely let it show.
He looked up, gaze locking briefly with Elias's. A flicker passed between them—nothing overt, nothing loud. But August felt it all the same.
The room waited.
Then August spoke. "The knight," he said, his voice calm, low, the kind that had learned to command without effort. "Do you still carve?"
Elias blinked, caught off-guard—but only slightly. "Yes," he answered.
August gave a faint nod. "That's all."
The maids resumed their movements. Spoons clinked gently against porcelain. Elias remained still a moment longer, as if unsure whether to stay or go. His eyes lingered on August—not out of duty, but something quieter, something more protective.
Then he turned and walked away.
August picked up his fork but didn't eat. Instead, he traced the edge of his plate slowly, thinking of the little wooden knight now tucked in the drawer of his writing desk. The one he never spoke about. The one with worn edges from being held too tightly for too many years.
It wasn't just a memory—it was a tether. A reminder that someone had seen him, once, when the rest of the world turned away.
His stomach remained untouched.
But his pulse, just barely, remembered what it meant to stir.
To Be Continued ---