It was the third week, the seventh day, and the morning sun had only just begun to stretch its pale light across the backyard when Elira set about her sweeping. The air was cool with the faint scent of dew, and the soft scrape of her broom against stone and earth mingled with the distant clash of wooden swords, carried from the far end where two men practised.
"You're already old, Sylas!" Cassian called, his voice sharp yet teasing, as he twisted and lunged to evade the arcs of Sylas's wooden blade. Elira's ears caught every grunt and every clash, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the ground. She wore her usual peasant attire: a cream-coloured, three-quarter sleeve blouse, a brown wrap-around apron, a long grey skirt, and laced-up boots. The men, in contrast, were half-naked, their brown training trousers clinging to their hips, boots laced tight, their torsos glistening with the faint sheen of sweat. It was precisely this sight that made Elira avert her eyes, her heart racing despite her best effort to focus on the chore at hand.
She had arrived first, the backyard still hushed with the early hour, and set to work before the others appeared. Moments later, Sylas and Cassian had joined her, their boots sounding sharply on the stone, announcing their presence. For a fleeting moment, Elira considered pausing, not wishing to witness their training, yet Cassian's careless wave and assured words made it clear that it was perfectly acceptable for her to continue. She moved carefully around their training space, sweeping with precision, finishing the ground nearest to them, though she lingered slightly, mindful of Mrs. Joana's insistence that the backyard be tidied before breakfast was served inside.
The rhythm of their swords striking filled the air, punctuated by the occasional sharp thwack! as Sylas pressed the crown prince into swift, measured movements.
"Is this a prince? Very timid, Cassian… very timid," Sylas teased, his voice carrying amusement with a hint of challenge.
Elira had finished sweeping, brushing the last traces of dust from her brow and carefully resting the broom against the wall near the kitchen doorway. She dared not glance toward the two men, yet the faint sound of their movements—the clash of wooden swords, the grunt of exertion—made her pulse quicken. Just as she was about to step inside, Mrs. Joana appeared at the doorway, carrying a tray with two polished wooden cups of water.
"Mrs. Joana, what are those?" Elira asked softly, curiosity lacing her tone. She already had a sense of who the cups were intended for, and the thought made her stomach flutter. Mrs. Joana handed her the tray with a hurried, warm smile, the motion brisk but kind.
"Elira, give them their water. I know they must be weary. I shall see to the breakfast myself—I hope it has not burnt. Off you go now."
Elira's hands trembled slightly as she took the cups. Her cheeks flamed a deep crimson at the thought of delivering water to the two men she had been deliberately avoiding all morning. She faltered, unsure how to proceed, mind scattered, pulse hammering in her chest.
"Elira, what is it?" Cassian's voice called from her right, filled with genuine concern. She startled, heart leaping, and inadvertently met his gaze. Her eyes caught the contours of his bare chest, the defined lines of his abs, the taut curve of his biceps, honed from rigorous training. She shook her head quickly, forcing herself to look away, and stepped back—only to slip on a small stone.
"Ack!" she gasped, eyes squeezed shut, bracing herself, only to feel the warmth of something broad and solid pressing against her. Opening her eyes, she found Sylas there, towel in hand, dabbing at the sheen of sweat on his bare chest. Elira's face burned hotter. Why am I surrounded by them? she thought, trying in vain to steady her racing heart.
"Here, water. Mrs. Joana must have thought you might be thirsty," she murmured, holding out the cups. Both men accepted them without hesitation, lifting the wooden vessels to their lips in unison. Despite herself, Elira's gaze lingered, tracing the powerful muscles of their arms, the flex of their shoulders as they drank, the subtle rise and fall of their chests. Her breath caught involuntarily, a fluttering thrill she could not suppress. Even an ordinary woman, witnessing such strength and form, would have felt a tremor of admiration.
Sylas set down his cup, water dripping slightly onto the tray, and gave her a small, fleeting glance, as if acknowledging her presence beyond mere courtesy. Elira's pulse quickened, a shiver running down her spine, and she quickly averted her eyes to the ground, cheeks still flaming.
Cassian, meanwhile, adjusted the cup in his hand, and their gazes brushed for a moment too long. Elira felt her stomach tighten with an unfamiliar mix of embarrassment and fascination. Her thoughts became tangled, every heartbeat echoing the closeness, the warmth, the subtle power radiating from them.
As they returned the cups to her tray, her hands shook slightly as she steadied it. The sun, now higher in the sky, caught on the sheen of sweat on their skin, the perfect lines of their torsos, and she felt a flush of heat creeping over her. Her pulse raced, her thoughts scattered between wonder and flustered admiration, and she took a slow, steadying breath, trying to regain some measure of composure.
The clatter of practice swords had finally stilled, the echoes fading into the quiet hum of the morning. Cassian and Sylas, both glistening with sweat, had been called inside by Mrs. Joana. By the time they entered, they had pulled on their plain linen shirts, though the damp fabric still clung to their frames, betraying the training they had endured. Elira, already seated, kept her eyes politely lowered, though her ears caught every sound—the scrape of chairs, the creak of wood, the heavy breaths still lingering in the air.
The dining table was round, polished but worn by years of use, and placed near the window where morning light spilled gently across the room. Mrs. Joana had settled herself at her usual place, a small smile playing at her lips as she poured herself a cup of steaming tea. Elira, to her quiet dismay, had ended up seated between Sylas and Cassian—Sylas at her left, Cassian at her right. The arrangement felt like a carefully laid trap, though she had no grounds to protest.
Cassian, already helping himself to bread, seemed far too comfortable for a prince in exile, while Sylas sat with his usual unbothered calm, cutting his food into neat portions with a measured hand. Elira folded her hands in her lap and drew in a silent breath, preparing for whatever conversation might unfold.
"Cassian," Mrs. Joana began, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. She lifted her cup of tea, blowing lightly over the rim before taking a delicate sip. "You've been here for several days now. I'm rather surprised Devito hasn't come to drag you back yet."
Cassian froze mid-bite, a crust of bread hanging awkwardly from his mouth. He chewed slowly, shoulders slumping, before muttering in the sulky manner of a child refusing to go home after play. "No… he hasn't. Actually, I don't feel like returning just yet."
Sylas, who had been cutting his food with perfect precision, did not even glance up. His voice was cool, cutting through the air like the edge of his blade. "Devito was here yesterday."
The words landed like a stone thrown into calm waters. Cassian choked slightly on his bread, pounding his chest with a fist as though Sylas had just committed a crime by saying it aloud. He leaned forward, glaring across Elira as though Sylas had betrayed him. "You could have warned me!"
"I see no reason to warn you about something you already know," Sylas replied flatly, finally meeting Cassian's glare with a calm raise of his brow.
Mrs. Joana's eyes twinkled over her teacup. "Devito came here, truly?"
"Yes," Sylas replied without hesitation. "The empress is growing impatient to see her handsome son. The crown prince has duties waiting for him, and yet…" His gaze flicked to Cassian, his lips curving ever so slightly in a knowing smirk. "…he prefers to sulk in a little cottage, defying his summons like a stubborn child."
Cassian dropped his fork with a loud clatter. His lower lip jutted out in a pout so dramatic it could have belonged to a scolded boy of ten. Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his chair and huffed loudly, turning his face away from Sylas. "I don't want to. Your house, Nanny Joana, is far livelier than that dreadful palace. Ugh."
Sylas's knife paused mid-cut. He turned his head slowly, giving Cassian a look that could freeze a flame. "Really, Cassian? I thought you were bored to death under this roof with me." His tone was icy, but there was a wicked glint in his eyes, as though daring Cassian to stumble.
Cassian whipped his head back toward him, red-faced, his curls bouncing as he scowled. "Ha! That's not why I'm here. The reason I'm here is because—" He stopped abruptly, his words catching like a horse brought up short by its reins. Heat rushed into his cheeks, betraying him in an instant. His eyes darted sideways, landing for the briefest moment on Elira, who sat frozen between them, caught in the silent storm.
Elira blinked, startled by his sudden pause. Her golden eyes tilted toward him, curiosity alight as she leaned forward just slightly. "Because of what?" she asked softly, the lilt of her voice carrying across the table like a spark.
Cassian's mouth opened, but no words came. His eyes widened, his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and for once, the crown prince looked like a boy cornered. His fingers drummed nervously against the wooden table, and he let out a nervous laugh that convinced no one.
Sylas, of course, was not one to miss an opportunity. He arched a single dark brow, his smirk broadening as he set down his knife with deliberate slowness. "Don't tell me it is because of E—"
"GRANDMOTHEEEEEEER!"
The entire table jolted at the shrill cry that pierced the air. A blur of emerald hair and flailing limbs shot through the doorway like an arrow loosed from a bow. Before anyone could react, a small boy of about six hurled himself at Mrs. Joana, nearly knocking the tea from her hands as he latched onto her with all the ferocity of a child who had been waiting too long.
Mrs. Joana gasped, but her face split into a radiant smile as she set down her cup and embraced the boy. "Oh, Luke! Long time no see! Why are you here, my dear?"
Elira's eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise at the sudden intrusion. The boy's hair shone like polished emeralds, his wide silver eyes sparkling with mischief as he grinned up at his grandmother.
Before Elira could ask, another voice, calm yet warm, drifted into the room. "Good morning, Mother."
And there came a familiar voice—a woman with long, straight silver hair and eyes of the same striking hue. She was none other than Mrs. Joana's eldest daughter, Cassian's elder sister. Her gown was a deep purple, its V-neckline edged with threads of red and gold, the long, fitted sleeves drawn tight with delicate golden lacing. At her side stood her husband, and together they stepped through the doorway. The man, was dressed in the fashion of a bygone age: a crisp white shirt with ruffled cuffs, a black waistcoat fastened with gilded buttons, and high-waisted tan trousers that spoke of both grace and dignity. It was none other than Silvia and her husband, Lucien.