UNSEEN LOVE

Night had settled into its deepest blue. The kind of silence that wrapped around the world like velvet soaked in ink—soft, dark, and heavy with the weight of breathless things.

High above Blackwood Manor, beyond the veil of trees that clawed toward the stars, two shadows lingered upon the jagged cliffs.

Kellian Vesper stood unmoving, his cloak catching the moonlight like spilled obsidian threaded with silver. His eyes, sharp and gold-flecked, did not blink. He stood with his hands behind his back, posture imperial, chin slightly tilted—not out of arrogance, but the innate stillness of a man born for control.

Beside him stood Elysian Nevan.

Graceful. Unreadable. His white-blond hair shimmered faintly beneath the moon's reflection, his gaze sweeping across the manor like a painter memorizing every curve of architecture.

They watched.

And waited.

"There," Elysian said, voice as cool as lake water. "Third floor. North wing. He's alone."

Kellian followed the motion of his comrade's pale finger.

There, in the soft candlelight behind an arched window, was Elias.

Sprawled across a wide, dark velvet bed like a prince without a crown. His arms folded behind his head, one leg lazily crossed over the other, eyes closed, brows furrowed—not in sleep, but in deep, restless thought.

Kellian narrowed his gaze.

"Still whole," he murmured. "Still unaware."

They watched him in silence.

The wind shifted. The trees sighed.

Then—

A sound.

Faint, from the opposite wing.

Coughing.

Kellian's head turned, sharp and fluid. He raised a single gloved hand—signal.

"Go," he said quietly. "Keep your eyes on him."

Elysian vanished.

Not with a gust. Not with a sound.

He simply faded, like mist under sunlight.

And Kellian, alone now, returned his eyes to Elias—watching with a gaze honed like a blade, waiting for the first fracture in stillness. But Elias remained where he was, lost somewhere behind his own closed eyes.

Meanwhile—

Across the manor, unseen and silent, Elysian reappeared in the shadows just outside a grand window.

The library.

It stretched vast and opulent, wood-paneled and gold-dusted, a cathedral of books and secrets. A soft amber glow lit the massive room, casting long shadows across reading chairs and antique globes.

There—

At the heart of it—

August Everheart D'Rosaye.

Seated at his great desk. Wrapped in layers of grey and ivory. His long, pale hair tumbling over one shoulder like moonlight over parchment.

A glass of water trembled in his hand.

He sipped.

Slow.

Shaking.

He tried to lift a quill—but faltered. His fingers slipped. A soft cough burst from his lungs, sharp and involuntary. His shoulders curled inward.

The glass clinked faintly as he set it down again, barely avoiding a spill.

Elysian did not blink.

He merely watched.

A boy too tired to stand, and yet still working—still scribbling, still thinking, still breathing through the pain like a prince refused to wilt.

Elysian's gaze didn't soften.

But something in it flickered.

August pressed a hand to his chest, pausing—eyes closed for a moment longer than a breath. His lips parted, but no sound escaped.

A sigh.

A whisper of collapse.

Elysian took note of every detail.

And Kellian, from the opposite cliff, stood still.

Still watching Elias.

Still waiting.

The night curled deeper into its stillness, and Elias—still stretched upon the great bed of Blackwood Manor—drifted into uneasy sleep.

The kind where the air is thick with warmth, and the sky no longer exists.

In his dream, there was no bed, no manor, no memory of waking.

Only soft earth beneath his boots, and a horizon dipped in gold.

He stood in a meadow bathed in light that did not belong to sun or moon. It shimmered like something sacred, something remembered but not understood. The wind moved in waves, brushing through wildflowers that seemed to breathe in slow unison.

And then—he felt it.

A hand slipped into his.

Warm. Firm. Familiar.

He looked down.

A woman.

Her golden curls fell in shining ribbons across her back, her brown eyes sparkling like melted amber. She was shorter than him—though not short at all. It was he who was too tall, too large in a world this delicate. Her fingers curled around his wrist with ease, without hesitation.

"Come," she said with a smile that had history in it.

She tugged gently.

And Elias let her.

He didn't resist.

Through fields and ruins they walked, barefoot through time, her fingers never leaving his. Her laughter chimed like forgotten music, as though she knew him long before he ever woke in this life.

Then—

In the distance.

A figure.

Standing still.

Elias's steps slowed.

It was him.

August.

A slender silhouette of silver and shadow, his pale hair drifting like breathless snow. But he wasn't looking at Elias. Not once. Not even as Elias stepped nearer.

He stood apart.

His hands by his sides.

His eyes—lowered.

Elias felt something in his chest tighten, coil, threaten to rise.

Why isn't he looking at me?

And then—

The woman beside Elias stopped.

She turned her face to him, voice soft and strange in its clarity.

"Well?" she asked. "Why are you just standing here?"

Elias blinked.

"I…"

She tilted her head. Her curls bounced like liquid gold.

"You're not going after him."

Elias glanced back toward August.

But the woman beside him—wasn't.

She was gone.

Yet not gone.

She was there—beside August now, resting a hand gently on his shoulder, her expression full of something too layered to name. Her arm cradled the boy as if she had known him in another life.

And still—

She stood beside Elias too.

He turned.

Yes.

Still there.

Still smiling, still holding his hand, as though she had never moved at all.

"What…?" he whispered, heart stuttering. "What is going on? Why are there two of you?"

The woman beside him looked at him as though he were the mystery.

"I don't understand," Elias muttered. "How can you be… there and here?"

She let go of his hand—only to reach up and lean her head against his arm. Her golden curls brushed against his sleeve like sun-warmed silk.

And then, she said simply:

"I am me. And she is she."

Her eyes sparkled as she tilted her head up to meet his gaze.

"We are twins."

Elias went still.

Twins.

His breath caught. His eyes darted between the two women—the same face, the same warmth, the same knowing smile. The woman by August, still cradling him with quiet affection. The woman beside him, holding him with the same impossible grace.

And in both, a weight of memory he didn't yet have the language for.

The one beside August met his gaze now.

Her smile deepened.

Soft. Tragic.

Like someone who already knew what came next.

Elias tried to move, but he couldn't. His feet felt rooted in dream-soaked soil, his arms too heavy with questions, his mind humming with the impossible.

He opened his mouth to speak—

But the world shimmered.

And the meadow fractured like glass struck by light.

Elias opened his eyes.

Slowly. Uneasily.

The images from the dream still clung to his thoughts like wet silk—two women, identical, luminous, watching him with eyes that knew more than he did. One had called him little one. The other… had held August the way only a mother could.

But they were strangers.

He didn't know them.

And yet—his breath shuddered. His hands lifted to his temples, fingers pressing into the corners of his brow as though he could massage the confusion out of his skull.

"What the hell is going on…" he whispered.

No one answered.

The shadows in his chamber stretched long and silent across the stone floor. The moon hung pale and motionless beyond the high arched windows, draping the manor in quiet silver.

Sleep, he realized, would not return.

He rose from bed, begin his steps on cold marble, and shrugged on his coat.

The air in Blackwood Manor felt different tonight—like something watching from the corners, like memory pressing against glass. Elias stepped into the corridor, the door clicking softly shut behind him, and began to walk.

He drifted through the halls like a phantom, each footfall muffled, each breath quieter than the last. Candles guttered low in their sconces, and the wallpaper—dark floral with faded gold—seemed to ripple in the low light, like parchment near flame.

He didn't know where he was going.

He only knew something was wrong.

Then—

A sound.

Harsh. Human.

—coughing.

Violent.

It echoed down the corridor like a blade dragged along stone. Elias stopped. Head turned.

Another cough. Louder.

And then another, deeper—ripping through the silence.

It was coming from August's study.

Without thinking, Elias strode toward the door, boots whispering across the rugs. When he reached it, he didn't knock.

He pushed the door open.

Inside, the fire had burned low in the hearth. Books lay open and scattered. The scent of ink and old paper hung heavy in the air. But what gripped Elias wasn't the stillness of the room—

It was the figure slumped over the desk.

August.

Pale as winter, trembling, one hand gripping a handkerchief to his mouth.

His body jolted forward with each cough, sharp and ragged, as though something inside him was trying to tear its way out. His other hand clutched the desk like an anchor, and his long white hair fell around his face in a veil.

"August—!" Elias rushed in.

August barely raised his head.

Elias reached the desk in three long strides, voice tight. "What happened to you? Why are you coughing like that? Did you—did you eat something wrong?"

But August didn't answer.

He only coughed again—harder this time—and something warm splattered against the inside of his handkerchief.

Elias froze.

Blood.

A bloom of red had seeped through the cloth, vivid and terrible.

His breath hitched. "August… you coughed up blood?"

Still, August said nothing. He was trying—mouth open, throat working—but the words wouldn't come. His face had drained of all color, lips pale, eyes glistening with unshed tears from the force of it all. He reached weakly for the glass of water, his fingers shaking too badly to grasp it.

Elias didn't hesitate.

He took the glass, steadied it in his hand, and helped August drink. Their fingers brushed. The heat of August's fever burned against Elias's cool skin, and it felt like something electric passed between them—unspoken, unacknowledged, but heavy with meaning.

August swallowed the water, gasping softly after, the coughing subsiding just enough to breathe.

His voice, when it finally came, was a hoarse thread:

"…I'm fine."

"You're not," Elias said sharply. "You look like death."

August gave a weak smile at that—small, crooked, bitter. His voice rasped again:

"Then perhaps… I match the manor."

Elias's chest tightened. His fingers curled against the edge of the desk.

"Why didn't you call for someone?" he asked. "For Giles? Anyone?"

"I didn't… want to wake the house."

Elias exhaled harshly, raking a hand through his dark hair. His pulse was still hammering.

"You stubborn little—" He bit off the rest, jaw clenching.

And yet…

He looked at August again. Really looked.

That pale figure slumped over papers, surrounded by candlelight and ghosts. The loose grey shirt clinging to his narrow shoulders. The shadows beneath his eyes. The blood.

Elias didn't understand why it hurt.

But it did.

Something in his chest twisted the way a storm stirs the sea.

His mind didn't remember.

But his body—his heart—did.

"I'll stay," Elias said suddenly, voice low but firm.

August blinked, surprised.

"I'm not asking," Elias added. "You need rest."

"I need to work," August whispered.

"You need to breathe," Elias shot back, softer now. "You're coughing up blood, August. That's not something to ignore."

August looked away.

And Elias—torn between fury and tenderness—only stood there.

Watching.

Worried.

Wanting, and not knowing why.