Sylas – Flashback POV
If someone had asked me what I thought of her a year ago, I would've said:
"She's the noble's daughter. She's sharp. She'll either break or burn out."
And that would've been the truth.
Back then, she was all tight braids and bruised pride — quick to hide weakness, slower to see it in others. She tried to carry everything alone. Like a child pretending to be steel.
I knew what that looked like.
I'd done it for years.
---
The first few weeks, she didn't know how to meet my eyes without flinching. Not because she was afraid — but because she didn't know who I was. What I was.
To her, I was the shadow by the door. A servant. A boy sold.
Nothing more.
And I preferred it that way.
Distance made things simple.
But distance didn't last.
---
I don't know when it changed. Not exactly.
Maybe the tutoring day — when I spoke up for the first time.
Maybe the garden. When she said nothing, and I said even less, and somehow we both felt more seen than we ever had in full court.
Or maybe it wasn't one moment at all.
Maybe it was every moment in between.
---
I saw the way she started noticing things — slowly, clumsily, like a child learning to hold a knife by the blade.
She failed a lot, in the beginning.
Misread intentions.
Trusted smiles that didn't mean warmth.
Reacted to words instead of what sat behind them.
But she learned.
Gods, she learned.
---
Month two, she caught a lie without realizing it.
A maid claimed a dress had gone missing — Seraphina pointed out, calmly, that the hem on her own robe had the exact torn thread the dress was said to have.
She didn't even mean to accuse anyone.
Just observed aloud.
The maid's face turned white.
That was the first time I saw it click behind her eyes:
Knowing something gives you power. Even if you never use it.
---
By month four, she had started playing with silence. Letting it stretch. Letting people fill it with things they didn't mean to say.
That's when I knew she wasn't copying me anymore.
She was building her own way.
---
People began walking differently around her.
Not afraid.
But careful.
Like they finally understood she wasn't just a child with titles.
She was someone watching back.
---
But growth is never clean.
There were still nights she failed. Broke down behind locked doors.
She hated those nights.
Hated me seeing them.
She once said, "I don't want you to think I'm weak."
And I said, "Then don't think I'm stupid."
That shut her up.
But after that, she stopped trying to hide the cracks.
She let me sit nearby when she was too tired to pretend.
She trusted me with the pieces.
I never dropped them.
---
Somewhere along the way, the silence between us stopped being heavy.
It became normal.
Comfortable.
I could sit three feet away from her for an hour, not say a word, and still know we had said everything that mattered.
I didn't expect that.
I hadn't planned for that.
---
By month eight, she started catching my tells.
The way my left hand twitched when I lied.
The pause I took before changing a subject I didn't want her near.
One time she said, "You're doing that thing again — guarding your words."
I said nothing.
She nodded and said, "Okay. I'll wait till you're ready."
And she did.
That's when I realized something strange had happened:
I trusted her too.
---
Not in the way people say they trust nobles — out of duty, or fear, or favor.
I trusted her like I'd trust someone standing beside me on the edge of a cliff.
Not because I believed she'd save me.
But because I knew she wouldn't push me over.
---
She asked me once, during a storm:
"Do you think I've changed?"
I told her, "No."
She looked at me like I'd slapped her.
So I added:
"You've grown. But the root hasn't changed."
That seemed to matter to her.
---
Now, a year has passed.
She speaks less than she used to, but her words cut sharper.
She doesn't rush to defend herself anymore. She lets others reveal themselves, then replies when it matters.
She can lie now, cleanly. Not out of cruelty — but as defense.
And sometimes I watch her, and I don't see the girl from a year ago anymore.
But I do see the friend I never meant to have.
The one person in this place who knows who I am, and hasn't tried to use it.
The one person I can sit beside — tired, bitter, silent — and still feel understood.
---
If someone asked me now what I think of her, I'd say:
"She's the most dangerous person in the room.
Because she sees people.
And still chooses not to hurt them."
That's more terrifying than any sword.
And more worthy of loyalty than any throne.
---
I don't know where we go from here.
What she'll become.
What I'll become, standing in her shadow.
But I know one thing:
For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm alone in this world.
And that's worth something.
Even if no one else ever sees it.
Even if it's only her and me, against everything.
That would be enough.
---
End of Chapter