It was evening when Cassian decided to go downstairs, for there was nothing left for him to do. Darkness had already fallen, and only the glow of candles lit Mrs Joana's house. As he descended, his eyes were drawn to the dining table, where Elira sat quietly making bracelets.
She wore a simple brown dress with a laced bodice, paired with a white square-necked blouse and puffy sleeves that matched the softness of her slightly curled brown hair. Cassian's gaze lingered on her as he noticed each strand of hair slipping gently from her shoulder. Her golden eyes shimmered in the candlelight, catching the flame as though it were meant only for her.
To Cassian, Elira's beauty was not that of noble ladies he had known, yet there was something pure and natural about her—her smile especially, which seemed to him the purest thing he had ever seen.
He straightened himself, drew in a steady breath, and walked towards her.
"Hi, Elira. What are you doing?" Cassian asked with a soft smile as he took a seat beside her.
"Oh? Your Majesty—you're here?" Elira startled, clearly not expecting him to sit so close, no more than ten inches away. Cassian frowned faintly, disliking the title she used.
"Please, stop with the formality. Just call me Cassian, all right?" His tone was gentle, almost pleading.
Elira nodded shyly, lowering her eyes as she returned to her work, the delicate beads slipping one by one onto the thread. Cassian, however, could not take his eyes off her.
"Are you making those to sell again?" he asked curiously, leaning his left arm against the corner of the table, his other hand bent so that it rested lazily on his shoulder.
"I just don't want to be a burden to Sylas and Mrs Joana," Elira answered simply, her faint smile softened by the flicker of candlelight. Her golden eyes glowed as she threaded the beads with quiet determination.
"Oh, really? I was just wondering… why did you end up living here? How long have you been staying? I never heard that Mrs. Joana had adopted another child," Cassian pressed on, his curiosity unhidden. After all, he regarded Mrs. Joana as a second mother, and Sylas as an elder brother.
Elira only smiled at his persistence. She understood—it was only natural for him to be curious.
"Mrs Joana saved me," she said softly, still working on her bracelet.
"Saved you? From what?" Cassian leaned closer, his brow furrowed.
Elira's hands trembled faintly. "Actually… my mother—the one who bore me—never treated me kindly. She would often beat me when her temper rose. Then one day, a drunken client of hers came to our home while she was away…"
Her voice broke off, strangled in her throat. The beads trembled between her fingers, the thread pulled taut as if it alone kept her from falling apart. Her head bowed lower, golden eyes locked to her work though her shoulders quivered, every line of her body betraying the storm clawing at her chest. The past pressed in—dark, suffocating—memories she had fought so long to bury clawing their way back into the light.
"Elira?" Cassian's voice softened, carrying both worry and hesitation. He leaned closer, his hand lifting, reaching to rest upon her shoulder—
But another hand slipped in, swift and firm, brushing his away.
Cassian's eyes snapped up, meeting the unflinching steel of Sylas's gaze. Cold, cutting, yet fiercely protective.
Startled, Cassian pulled back. Sylas had appeared without a sound, moving between them like a shadow. In a heartbeat, he was at Elira's side, kneeling low to see her face hidden behind the curtain of her hair.
As he feared—her eyes were screwed shut, lashes trembling, her face drawn tight with pain. Both hands clutched the beads and thread as though they were her last defence. Her body shook—frozen, yet trembling all at once.
"Elira," Sylas murmured, his voice a low anchor, steady and sure. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, firm but gentle. He bent close, his breath brushing her ear. "Breathe… it's me. Sylas. Breathe."
Her chest jolted with a shuddered breath, sharp at first, then uneven. Sylas's hand pressed slow circles into her back, coaxing her to follow his rhythm.
"Deeper," he whispered. "That's it. Again."
Her lungs obeyed, shaky but growing steadier with each inhale. The tremor in her hands softened.
"Now… open your eyes, Elira," he urged, his tone soft as silk, but carrying quiet command.
At last, her lashes lifted. Golden eyes met the sight of him—Sylas, close at her side, kneeling as if the world had stilled for her alone. The realisation startled her; she recoiled slightly, blinking as though waking from a dream.
"Oh! Sylas… you're here," she stammered, forcing a weak smile. Her gaze flickered instantly to Cassian, who had been watching all along, worry etched across his face.
Her heart twisted. She hated for him to see her like this, broken and trembling, when only moments ago their words had been easy.
"I'm sorry, Cassian. I—I didn't mean to—" Her voice cracked, words tumbling apart before they could find shape.
Cassian's lips curved into a small, reassuring smile, though the concern in his eyes lingered. He said nothing more, for Sylas was already rising, gathering Elira's scattered work into his arms.
"It's late," Sylas said, his tone leaving no room for protest. "You should rest. Mother will worry if you stay late like this."
Elira nodded faintly, her body still fragile, her eyes lowered. She rose, giving Cassian a shy wave, her faint smile meant to mend what her trembling had broken. Then Sylas led her away, his presence a shield as they ascended the stairs together.
The silence between them was not empty. For Elira, it was heavy with the echo of her past, but also with the fragile warmth that Sylas had wrapped around her like a cloak. He had drawn her back from the edge once more.
At her door, Sylas placed her things into her arms.
"Good night," he murmured.
"Thank you, Sylas," Elira whispered, her head still bowed, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. At that very moment, Elira smashed through the door of her room. She pressed herself against the frame, her heart hammering from the intensity of Sylas's actions. Anxiety clawed at her chest as she squeezed her eyes shut, and in her vision, darkness loomed—haunted by the murmurs of her abusive mother and the man who had once assaulted her. Fear gripped her completely.
Then, without warning, a soft, radiant light flooded her vision, gentle and soothing. Within it, she heard Sylas's voice—warm, unwavering, and tender. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, and for a heartbeat, Elira froze, uncertain of the emotions stirring within her. Their bond, fragile and tentative, was slowly growing into something resembling family, and the emotions churning inside her were as intricate as they were unfamiliar.
It was a moment when Sylas decided to return to where Cassian sat. He had been in his chamber, intending only to come downstairs for a cup of water. Yet as he reached the lower floor, he caught sight of Cassian and Elira together, speaking with ease, their voices softened by gentle laughter.
Sylas paused on the stair, not wishing to intrude upon them. But his attention sharpened when he heard Cassian ask a question that touched upon Elira's past. Sylas knew her well enough to understand—Elira would always answer truthfully, yet such questions carried a cruel weight. To bring her past into the open was to rouse the Nightveil within her: trembling, fear rising like a storm, and at times the return of her tormented dreams.
It was for this reason that Sylas stepped forward at once, his presence cutting firmly between Cassian and Elira.
He soon reached the table where Cassian waited.
"How is she?" Cassian asked, his concern for Elira clear upon his face as he sat at the wooden table.
"She's fine," Sylas replied, his tone steady. He busied himself with the kettle, preparing tea for them both. Once the pot was ready, he poured a cup, placed it before Cassian, and then settled opposite him.
"Is she always like this? I did not mean to offend her," Cassian said quietly, guilt flickering across his features, his expression shadowed with worry. He did not yet grasp the depth of the matter.
Sylas tore a small piece of bread left over from supper, his voice cool as he spoke. "Not always. But the Nightveil rises if her past is dragged before her. That is why my mother and I never speak of it, least of all in her presence." He sipped his tea with controlled calm, though his words carried a warning edge.
Cassian's unease deepened; he thought he had made a grave misstep, though it was understandable. He knew little of Elira's true history, and Sylas, though stern, chose to be patient with his dearest friend.
"What is the reason behind her suffering?" Cassian pressed gently.
Sylas's jaw set, his answer clipped and cold, though his eyes betrayed the anger burning within.
"Her mother abused her, blamed her for the ruin of her life. She was nearly violated by one of her mother's clients, for her mother was a whore." His voice remained level, yet the tremor of rage beneath it could not be hidden.
Cassian stared, stunned by the truth. His hand clenched faintly against the table as if he wished to strike at phantoms, a fierce desire for justice rising in him. Yet he knew he could not avenge her—it lay far beyond his reach.
"Oh… I am sorry to hear that," he murmured at last, his voice heavy with sorrow.
The two men fell silent then, drinking their tea beneath the weight of the night. Only the faint hiss of steam and the soft clink of porcelain filled the stillness, as shadows stretched long across the room.
In the serene quiet night of the palace, the crown prince's butler, Devito, stood respectfully before Empress Luwinacita Jane Highthorne, reporting every movement of her beloved son, Cassian.
"How is my son?" the Empress inquired, her eyes fixed upon the glowing hearth, the flames reflecting softly upon her composed yet contemplative face. She lifted her delicate porcelain cup, sipping her tea as if the warmth steadied the thoughts stirring in her mind.
"Your son is well, Your Majesty, at Mrs. Crowholt's house," Devito began, his voice careful and measured. "Yet there is an unfamiliar girl residing in the household. I am not certain whether Mrs. Crowholt bore another child; to my knowledge, she has only two." He paused briefly, allowing the weight of his observation to settle.
A flicker of unease passed over the Empress's features, a subtle tightening of her lips. The mention of the girl, residing under the roof of the wife of the Highthorne commander, pricked at her curiosity and, perhaps, her anxiety.
"Does the Commander know of this?" she asked, her tone sharp, the question cutting through the quiet like a glint of steel.
"I do not know, Your Majesty. The Commander and his son are not particularly close," Devito replied softly, bowing his head in deference as he explained what little he could ascertain.
"Then inquire of the Commander. Should he be unaware, I command him to visit their household without delay, to observe and gather information regarding this girl of whom you speak," the Empress decreed, her voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority. Devito inclined his head plainly, accepting the order, and withdrew from the chamber with quiet efficiency.
Left alone, the Empress's gaze lingered upon the hearth, where the logs blazed warmly, casting dancing shadows across the polished floor. Her mind wandered, tinged with curiosity and an unease she could not quite banish. Who was this girl living in Mrs. Crowholt's home, Sylas's mother's household? She feared, with the instinct of one well-versed in courtly history, that the girl might prove a danger to Cassian, drawing him toward the fate of his father, who had once succumbed to the allure of a commoner.
The Empress's eyes narrowed slightly, her thoughts heavy with the need to prevent history from repeating itself. The fire crackled, and the warmth of the hearth did little to soothe the apprehension curling in her chest. In that moment, she resolved to watch closely, for the quiet stirrings of the household could one day alter the course of her son's heart.