As their conversation carried on, the administrative room slowly filled with warmth, laughter, and overlapping voices. The atmosphere grew light and familiar, the earlier formality fading as Joana remained seated among Elira, Jovana, Cassian, and Sylas. Their presence together felt almost like a quiet family gathering, softened by shared smiles and easy conversation.
"I heard the Empress has invited the Crowholt family to her birthday celebration, Sister," Jovana said at last, gently steering the topic elsewhere. Her tone was casual, though her eyes gleamed with interest as she leaned back slightly in her seat.
"Indeed," Joana replied fondly. She lifted both hands to her cheeks, cradling her face as a soft blush crept across her skin. "Sybil insisted on buying me a new dress. Such a lovely man." Her voice carried a tender affection that made her sound years younger.
Sylas and Cassian exchanged glances almost instantly, both wearing expressions of barely concealed embarrassment. Cassian clicked his tongue in amusement, while Sylas looked away, visibly cringing at his mother's open display of delight. Even Elira let out a small chuckle, unable to hide her smile at how endearing—and slightly amusing—Joana's love for her husband was.
"That's good to hear," Jovana said with a warm smile.
As the conversation grew lighter, Joana's attention slowly shifted. Her gaze softened as it settled on Elira beside her. She turned her body slightly, her posture open and inviting.
"I was planning to bring you as well, Elira," Joana said gently.
Elira's eyes widened in surprise. She blinked several times, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected invitation. Her fingers curled into her skirt as she straightened, clearly unsettled by the thought.
"B-but why, Mrs. Joana?" Elira said softly, lifting her hands in a small, instinctive gesture of refusal. "I'm not your biological daughter. It would be shameful for the High Commander's wife to bring a commoner like me."
"Oh, silly girl," Joana said at once. She reached out and took Elira's hands in both of hers, her grip firm yet comforting. "You are my daughter. Of course I cannot bear the thought of one of my daughters not experiencing the life we live."
Her smile was sincere, maternal, and full of affection. It struck Elira straight in the heart, making it flutter painfully in her chest. Even Sylas, watching from the side, allowed a faint smile to cross his face before he quickly masked it.
"Nanny is right, Elira," Cassian added, waving a hand casually as he spoke, his tone light but sincere. "You're part of the Crowholt family now—and Sylas's youngest sister."
Cassian nudged Sylas teasingly as he said it.
Sylas frowned immediately, his brows knitting together as irritation flickered across his face. He shot Cassian a sharp look, clearly displeased. Though he said nothing, his heart stirred uncomfortably. He did not like hearing Elira referred to as his sister. Not because he doesn't want to—but because he felt something far more complicated, something he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.
Elira turned her gaze back to Cassian, though uncertainty still lingered within her. Ever since childhood, she had dreamed of attending a noble's gathering, of witnessing such grandeur even once. Yet the Empress's birthday felt far beyond her place.
She was only a commoner—a girl adopted into a family far kinder and more generous than she ever deserved. Joana had become her mother in all but blood, and even that kindness already felt overwhelming. Elira worked as a maid in the palace, and she could already imagine the whispers that would follow if the other maids discovered her presence at such an event. None of them knew how close she was to Cassian, nor that she belonged to the Crowholt family.
The weight of those thoughts pressed heavily on her chest.
Slowly, Elira lifted her eyes to Joana's face and gently squeezed her hand.
"But I must refuse, Mrs Joana," Elira said, forcing a small smile.
"But why?" Joana blinked, genuine surprise crossing her features.
"I'm truly sorry," Elira said, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She lowered her gaze briefly before looking up again. "I don't feel comfortable attending such a grand celebration—especially the Empress's birthday. And I don't wish to expose myself in front of the other maids."
Her voice was soft, careful, chosen so as not to cause misunderstanding.
Jovana studied Elira quietly, her expression thoughtful. She was surprised—not by Elira's refusal, but by how wisely the girl spoke. The young woman adopted by her eldest sister was far more perceptive than most, clearly aware of her boundaries and place.
"But—" Joana began.
"Come now, Sister," Jovana interrupted gently. "You should respect the girl's decision."
Joana paused. In the end, she could do nothing but smile. She lifted her hand and patted Elira's head tenderly, her touch full of affection. Elira smiled back, meeting Joana's gaze—a look shared between mother and daughter, quiet and sincere.
"Very well," Joana said with a laugh. "I'm finally defeated."
Laughter filled the room once more, light and genuine, wrapping them all in a gentle warmth. Even the young gentlemen standing nearby could do nothing but smile at the scene unfolding before them—a moment of simple joy, rare and precious, lingering softly in the air.
Inside the administrative wing overseen by Head Maid Jovana, the household slowly returned to its orderly routine. Meanwhile, Bea—Elira's ever-loyal and overly expressive best friend—had politely asked for permission to step out and pray at the church. On weekends, the maids were granted a rare privilege: one whole day to go wherever they pleased, provided they returned in time for their duties.
Bea stepped outside proudly in her simple brown commoner's dress, which she had carefully brushed twice despite knowing no one would likely notice. Her black hair was neatly parted and braided into two loose plaits that bounced gently against her shoulders as she walked. Every now and then, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger, gazing dreamily at the mid-afternoon sky as the sun slowly leaned towards sunset.
With dramatic determination, Bea turned towards the road leading to the church. It was a fair walk from the Palace—far enough to make her legs complain, but close enough to convince herself she was doing something virtuous. With a sigh worthy of a tragic heroine, she decided to walk.
Upon arriving at the church, Bea slipped inside quietly and took a seat before kneeling down. She clasped her hands together tightly, closed her eyes, and bowed her head with intense seriousness—as though heaven itself was waiting for her exact wording.
"Dear God in heaven…" she murmured.
"Please watch over my mother in heaven… and keep my aunt safe at home…" She paused, inhaled deeply, then added with dramatic urgency, "and please—if You don't mind—send me a good, kind, and preferably rich husband so I may live comfortably and dramatically for the rest of my life."
Satisfied, Bea nodded to herself as if God had just agreed. She stood up, smoothing her dress with both hands, feeling oddly accomplished.
Then she looked up.
Her soul nearly left her body.
Standing nearby was a man she absolutely did not expect to see there—of all places, at this exact moment.
"What is an Imperial strategist doing here?" Bea whispered to herself, instinctively lowering her voice, though far too late.
She stiffened as the man who had been kneeling calmly stood up. With the grace and seriousness of someone who clearly did not embarrass himself in churches, he turned towards the exit.
Bea watched him walk, her eyes following his tall figure, her mind screaming.
Please leave!. Please leave faster!. Pretend I don't exist!.
But fate—cruel, dramatic fate—had other plans.
The man stopped.
Slowly, he turned around.
His cold blue eyes scanned Bea from head to toe, sharp and calculating. His maroon hair framed his face perfectly, and the look he gave her was not just intimidating—it was unmistakably amused. Mocking, even.
He wore a pristine white military uniform trimmed with gold: a structured double-breasted jacket, polished epaulettes, and a decorative chain that gleamed under the fading light. A long white cape embroidered with gold draped behind him, paired with white gloves, tailored trousers, and black boots adorned with gold accents.
In short—he looked expensive.
"Why?" he said coolly. "Do you think you're the only one who knows how to pray?"
Boom.
Bea felt her soul shatter into pieces.
Her cheeks burned as realization struck her like lightning—he heard everything. Every word. Including the husband part.
The man smirked, clearly entertained, then walked past her as though he hadn't just ruined her dignity for life.
Bea stood frozen.
The moment he disappeared, she slapped her own forehead—once, twice.
"You absolute idiot, Bea!" she hissed under her breath, smacking her head repeatedly. "Why would you pray out loud? Why? He heard you! He heard everything! Rich husband? Really?!"
She groaned, dragging her hands down her face in utter despair.
"I am never praying again," she muttered. "At least not out loud."
And with that, Bea stood there—alone, embarrassed, and traumatized—silently hoping the church floor would kindly open up and swallow her whole.
After Joana had been safely escorted to her carriage, Elira and Sylas began their quiet walk back through the palace hallway. Cassian had not accompanied them outside—he had pressing business matters to attend to—so it was just the two of them left to part ways with Joana at the palace gates.
"I had a really lovely time today," Elira said, her smile warm and light, the kind that made her whole face glow. "Being with Joana… it truly made my day. I… I do miss home, actually."
"You do?" Sylas asked, his deep, measured voice carrying it's usual calm, yet there was a softness in it that made Elira feel inexplicably at ease.
"Yes… of course," she replied, her eyes flicking toward him. "And you, Sylas? Don't you ever miss home?"
Sylas ran a hand along the back of his neck, a subtle sign of unease. "It's not that I don't miss it… I've often thought about living at my mother's house, choosing to work there instead. But… I couldn't."
Elira tilted her head slightly, curiosity knitting her brow. "But why?"
"There are matters here in the palace that require my attention," Sylas admitted, his voice softening with a hint of frustration. "Though… to be honest, I'm often exasperated by Cassian's stubbornness." He gave a quiet Haist, massaging the tension in his neck.
Elira laughed gently, the sound light and melodic, enjoying the way Sylas always spoke about Cassian's antics. It was a small moment of comfort between them, shared without pretense.
Soon, they reached the corridor that split into two paths: to the left, Elira's way; to the right, Sylas's chambers. They paused, lifting hands in a soft, almost shy wave of farewell.
Elira turned to leave, her hair swaying gently with the motion. Sylas began to step away as well, but something stopped him. His gaze lingered, and he blinked, recalling a sudden thought.
"Elira…" he called, his voice catching slightly, hesitant.
She paused mid-step, turning back to face him. "Yes?" she asked, a gentle curiosity in her tone.
Sylas looked down for a moment, then back up, his usual composure faltering ever so slightly. "I… I have something for you," he said, his fingers brushing nervously against the edge of his sleeve, avoiding her eyes. Even with his attempts to remain nonchalant, Elira could feel the faint tremor of shyness in him.
She smiled softly, her own heart fluttering a little. "Oh? And what might that be?" she asked, leaning forward slightly, her eyes warm and encouraging.