The scent of baked figs, honeyed tarts, and lemon-glazed duck filled the corridor like a song before a performance. Elias walked silently behind August's aunt as she made her way to the grand dining hall—her grey hair pinned into a faultless bun, her long Gowns swaying behind her with the practiced elegance of a woman who had grown up with the burden of being seen. She looked neither left nor right. Her presence commanded more than the gilded portraits and frescoed ceilings ever could.
The dining hall was already half-filled with the delicate noises of maids at work—setting silver knives, laying out snow-white napkins folded into roses, and arranging fine crystal jugs of fresh orange water and pomegranate nectar. Two servants carried in the final dish—a sculpted platter of trout stuffed with herbs, garnished in violets and pearls of cream sauce.
Elias tried not to react. But the spread was regal—absurdly so. He hadn't seen this much refinement since yesterday breakfast, and that one hadn't smelled nearly as inviting.
The woman took her seat at the long mahogany table as if it were a throne, and Elias, after a moment's hesitation, stepped forward to pull out her chair. She gave him the briefest glance, neither mocking nor impressed—just a flicker of assessment. Still, she inclined her head slightly as she sat, and that, for her, was a sign of approval.
Elias took the seat opposite her. The sunlight had just begun to rise high enough to catch in the crystal chandeliers, scattering fragments of gold across the table.
"It's rare to have company for breakfast," she said after a sip of rose petal tea. "But I find one sees a man's measure most truly when he's still shaking sleep from his bones."
Elias didn't answer immediately. He watched her stir honey into her cup with a hand so elegant it seemed made of marble. Finally, he said, "Then I hope I'm presentable enough to pass your measure."
A wry little smile lifted one corner of her mouth. "That remains to be seen."
A pause.
She placed her spoon down with precision. "I must ask—how long have you known my nephew?"
Elias looked her in the eye. "Not long. But long enough."
"Hmm." Her amber eyes narrowed slightly. "He is not easy to know. Not even as a child. He cried very little. Even when he ought to have."
Elias thought of August in the feverish haze of his sickness. Of how quietly he suffered, how rarely he asked for help. He said nothing.
She lifted a forkful of poached egg and caviar, then stopped halfway to her mouth. "You cared for him while he was ill."
"I did."
"You stayed by his side for two days."
"Yes."
Another long silence. The only sounds were the faint rustling of servants, the chiming of cutlery against fine porcelain, and the birdsong from the open windows.
She finally took the bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
Then, with sharp grace, she said, "And do you plan to stay beside him longer?"
The question was more than it seemed. Elias leaned forward slightly, his voice low and sure. "Yes."
A strange thing passed through her expression—neither warning nor warmth. Perhaps something like history.
She looked down at her plate and cut a sliver of trout. "My brother always said August would be a fragile thing. I disagreed. I said he would be beautiful, but not breakable. I thought—" She stopped herself with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. "Well. I see now I was only half-right."
Elias folded his hands on the table. "He's not fragile. Not really. Just tired."
Her gaze snapped back to his. "Tired of what?"
"Of being alone. Of being watched. Of carrying too many ghosts in his chest."
That silenced her. Not because it was incorrect—but because it was entirely too correct.
She sat back, one hand at her chin, as if studying Elias from a new angle.
"He does not laugh, you know. I cannot remember the last time. Even as a boy, he smiled only when he thought no one saw."
Elias nodded slowly. "But he will again."
The older woman blinked.
Elias's voice was quiet, but firm. "He's strong. But even the strongest deserve someone who will hold them when they can't keep standing."
Another silence. Then—
"You speak too poetically for a boy raised outside a noble court."
"I wasn't raised outside one."
She arched an eyebrow.
But Elias only sipped from his cup.
The sun rose higher. The meal continued. Neither of them touched the sugared grapes, but both glanced at them once or twice. A subtle truce, shaded in gold.
At last, she set her napkin down and stood.
"Well then," she said, voice lighter now. "Perhaps you're not as unqualified as I feared."
She turned to go, her silks sweeping the floor. "But I will still have my talk with you later. Don't think a pleasant breakfast gets you off the hook."
Elias watched her leave, then looked down at the feast that remained.
It was strange, he thought.
He hadn't touched the lemon-glazed duck.
The long table gleamed with polish, crowned in white lace and glinting crystal, and Elias sat beneath the glittering chandelier in the royal dining hall—alone, save for the handful of soldiers stationed nearby. The rich scent of breakfast lingered: buttered toast, roasted meats, sweet preserves, and warm cream—fit for a noble banquet.
August's aunt had swept through the hall earlier like a tempest wrapped in brocade, issuing sharp commands and leaving behind a trail of rattled maids and nervous glances. She had long since gone to her chambers for correspondence or perhaps to lecture some poor steward. But her soldiers remained—tall, broad-shouldered men in fine dark coats, standing stiffly along the periphery of the room.
Elias glanced up from his plate of soft poached eggs and peppered sausages, and his green eyes fell on the men.
Their expressions weren't hostile—just hungry.
One of them, the younger of the two, looked almost pained, lips tightly pressed as he stared (too long) at a platter of glistening glazed bread rolls. The other, older with a jagged scar down his hand, visibly swallowed as a maid passed with a golden tray of roasted figs and honey.
Elias set down his fork.
He knew that look. Not insolence. Not impatience. Just a soldier's restraint stretched a little too thin.
With a quiet breath, he turned to the maid arranging a silver teapot beside him.
"Please," he said gently, but firmly, "prepare two full settings for the guards. Serve them."
The maid blinked, startled, as if such kindness were an anomaly in this chamber of crystal and gold. Then she gave a small nod and curtsied.
"At once, sir."
Within minutes, steaming plates were set before the guards at a smaller table near the windows. The two men exchanged a wary glance, as if uncertain they were truly allowed to partake.
Elias stood and approached them.
"I insist," he said, his voice calm but not unkind. "Even steel needs oil to move. No use guarding anyone on an empty stomach."
The older soldier bowed low. "Thank you,
Master."
"No need for titles," Elias replied.
He returned to his seat, observing them discreetly. The younger one practically inhaled his bread roll, while the elder ate more cautiously, but with obvious gratitude. It was a small thing, Elias knew. But sometimes small things—like a warm meal—held the most meaning.
He resumed his own breakfast: smoked ham sliced thin, fresh berries soaking in chilled cream, and tea dark and fragrant. A quiet calm settled over the hall now. Outside, the sun had begun to stretch across the marble courtyard, and birdsong flitted faintly through the open windows.
For a moment, it almost felt like peace.
The soldiers sat straighter now, as if permission had lifted a long-held burden from their backs. The clinking of silver against porcelain resumed, but it was a different rhythm now—less formal, more human.
One of the younger soldiers, freckles dotted along his cheeks, kept glancing nervously at Elias. Elias noticed and offered a nod, subtle but enough to ease the boy's tension.
The older soldier beside him—broad shoulders, an old scar across his hand—passed the bread basket down the table and muttered something too low to hear. Whatever it was made the boy smile.