In the tranquil realm of the Highthorne Empire dwelt a delicate young woman, living humbly within the township's winding streets. She bore soft brown hair, eyes like molten gold, and a fair complexion touched by the sun. Her dress was plain—a rustic garment of coarse, timeworn cloth: a layered skirt in fading shades of brown and beige, a simple long-sleeved blouse, and a modest cap upon her head. Every stitch spoke of a life of labor, yet also of quiet grace.
On that bright summer's day, Elira of Hightorne, a commoner woman of four-and-twenty years, stood by the roadside where carriages and merchants passed. In her hands she offered bracelets of her own making, crafted from white thread and strung with colorful beads that glimmered faintly in the light.
"How much for this one—with the heart pendant?" asked a passing man, his gaze fixed upon her work.
"For this heart pendant, only six copper coins," Elira replied, smiling as she held it out.
"Six? Far too much! Surely you might offer less," the man protested.
"Very well," Elira laughed softly.
"Four copper coins, then. Or, if you wish something simpler, I have plain bracelets here." She lifted others from her basket, worn but neatly woven. At last, the man chose the pendant piece, muttering, yet paying, and left with his prize to gift his wife.
No sooner had he vanished than the sound of horns split the air.
"All hail Crown Prince Cassian Durelin of Highthorne—victorious in battle!" cried the herald.
The township erupted in cheers as the Prince rode forth upon a white destrier, his armor gleaming like polished silver beneath the sun. A mantle of crimson hung from his shoulders, and upon his breastplate shone the sigil of Highthorne—a griffin of white and gold, radiant in its glory. Cassian's golden hair caught the light like a crown of flame, his blue eyes bright and proud, his fair skin lending him an almost ethereal air. The veterans of war marched proudly behind him, their banners lifting high: a griffin with plumage as white as snow, wings gilded in gold, fierce and unyielding. The people rejoiced, for the rebellion had been crushed, and their prince had returned in triumph.
"Prince Cassian! Marry me!"
"We love you, Prince Cassian!"
Voices of young women shrieked with adoration. Flowers rained upon the procession like a storm of petals, each one a symbol of victory. The crowd swelled, pressing tight, and Elira stepped back, leaning against the side of a shop to escape the throng.
Yet as her eyes followed the parade, they fell upon another rider. A tall knight upon a black steed, his hair a dark shade of silver, his eyes like steel under moonlight. He rode two ranks behind the prince, his presence as striking as a blade drawn in silence.
For a heartbeat, his gaze met hers.
Elira's breath caught, her heart racing. Flustered, she quickly turned her gaze aside, shaken by the sudden jolt in her chest. It was only chance, she told herself, a passing glance in the crowd.
Forcing her composure, she clutched her basket once more and busied herself with her bracelets, eager to finish the day and return home.
After the parade ended, Crown Prince Cassian bowed his head before the Emperor, who sat upon the high throne beside the Empress within the grand hall.
"I, Cassian Durelin Highthorne, pledge this victory against the rebellion," declared the prince.
The Emperor rose from his seat, taking the royal sword in hand. With solemn grace, he touched the blade to Cassian's left shoulder, then his right, bestowing honor upon his son.
When Cassian stepped aside, another name was called. Sylas Draven Crowholt—twenty-eight years of age, with hair like darkened silver, eyes of steel, and skin pale as frost. Once a common knight, he now knelt before the throne to be appointed Captain.
The herald proclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall:
"Sylas Draven Crowholt, swear your oath—that you shall be steadfast, loyal, and trustworthy as Captain of the Stormthorne Knights. Swear to guide and protect the folk, and by your name remain faithful to His Majesty, the Emperor of Highthorne."
Sylas bowed his head low, his voice steady as he spoke:
"I, Sylas Draven Crowholt, swear to protect and guide the common folk, remaining steadfast and loyal to the Emperor himself."
The Emperor laid the sword upon Sylas's shoulders, declaring:
"I, sovereign of the Highthorne Empire, do grant and name Sylas Draven Crowholt as Captain of the Stormthorne Frontline Knights."
Sylas rose with firm resolve, his figure straight as he stepped to stand beside Crown Prince Cassian.
"Nice!," Cassian whispered with a grin, tossing him a playful wink as if the weight of ceremony meant nothing. But Sylas, ever the steadfast one, ignored him, standing tall and unbending, as if carved from stone itself.
The Emperor's voice carried over the hall:
"Behold, knights of Highthorne! I thank you for securing this victory. By your valor, the realm stands unbroken. Thus, tonight we shall hold a great feast of triumph!"
The court erupted in cheer once more. Soon after, the Emperor withdrew to his chambers, leaving the Empress to step forward.
She was radiant yet severe in her grandeur. Her gown of deep red velvet shimmered beneath the torchlight, every fold alive with gold embroidery and jeweled detail. The bodice gleamed with a golden panel set with gems, while her puffed sleeves were finished with white lace at the cuffs. A string of pearls graced her neck, with matching earrings that caught the light as she moved. In her hand rested a crimson fan, delicate yet commanding.
Her golden hair glowed like firelight, and her red eyes cut sharply toward her son—as though mocking his triumph even in the moment of his glory.
"Congratulations, my son," she said coolly.
Cassian smirked, knowing well that her praise was but a veil for scolding.
"Let's go, Sylas," he muttered, draping an arm around his friend's shoulder and pulling him away before Sylas could properly bow to the Empress.
"Is this how you dare behave before your own mother, Cassian?" The Empress's voice rang through the hall, sharp and commanding. All eyes turned to the prince, but Cassian did not flinch—he had grown weary of such scenes long ago.
His bond with his mother, Luwinacita Jane Highthorne, was fragile at best. She was strict, cold, and ever-demanding perfection. Cassian, at four-and-twenty, was her opposite: reckless, defiant, and unwilling to bow to her will. In contrast, Sylas—four years older—was everything she desired in a son: disciplined, loyal, and obedient to royal manners.
The two left the hall together, walking a passageway that opened to gardens washed in the late glow of the sun. Cassian clapped Sylas's shoulder with laughter.
"Congratulations, my brother! You are a Captain now—just a few more steps and you'll be Commander, ahaha!"
Sylas removed Cassian's hand with quiet firmness.
"I thank you. But a crown prince should not act so carelessly. You must carry yourself with dignity, Your Highness."
Cassian folded his arms and pouted like a sulking child.
"Not you too, Sylas! You're always so serious!"
They looked for all the world like siblings—Sylas, the elder, steady and strict; Cassian, the younger, mischievous and spoiled. Their bond, however, ran deep. For it was Sylas's mother, Joana, once a most trusted nurse of the royal household, who had raised the prince alongside her own son. Thus, from childhood, Cassian and Sylas had grown together, inseparable as brothers.
"How is Aunt Joana?" Cassian asked.
"She fares well," Sylas replied flatly. "Better without your mischief."
Cassian grinned. "At least I'm her favorite! Bleh!"
He stuck out his tongue in mockery as Sylas walked ahead toward the knightly quarters. Sylas merely raised a hand in dismissal, leaving Cassian to retreat toward his own chambers.
That evening, both would gather again in the great hall—ready for the Emperor's victory feast.
While the palace rang with laughter and music from the victory feast, a young woman trudged home with weary steps. Elira had sold every bracelet she carried that day, and though her body ached, there was a faint relief in her heart. Night had fallen; the hour was deep, and the streets were cloaked in shadow. In her basket lay her meager supper—bread and a bottle of milk—purchased with three of her hard-earned coins. From twenty bracelets sold, she had gathered forty-seven copper pieces, her only hope to buy new beads and threads for tomorrow's work.
As she neared her home, the flicker of a lone candle guided her steps. By the door stood her mother, Elenor, clad in a tavern maid's garb: a laced corset, a skirt of coarse brown cloth, her neckline shamelessly low, her hair unkempt.
"Hey, useless girl! Hand me your money!" Elenor barked, stepping forward, palm outstretched.
Elira clutched her basket tight against her chest, her knuckles whitening, panic flashing in her eyes.
"No, Mother—I… I have nothing!" she stammered, her voice breaking as she shifted the pouch behind her back, shielding it like a lifeline.
But Elenor's eyes glinted with greed. With a sudden lunge, she clawed at the basket, her nails scraping Elira's wrist.
"Give it to me!" she barked, yanking with brute force.
Elira twisted away, stumbling back against the doorframe. "Please! This is all I have—my beads, my thread—if you take it, I can't make more bracelets!" Her breath came quick, desperate, as tears welled in her eyes.
Yet Elenor was relentless. She wrenched at the basket again and again until the wicker began to crack beneath the strain. Elira fought to hold on, her small frame shaking with the effort, but her strength faltered under her mother's violent tugging.
With one vicious pull, Elenor ripped the pouch free. Copper coins clinked together as they slipped into her grasp.
"Ha! Liar!" she snarled, her face twisting with contempt. "I'll bring this back after the tavern. Remember this—if not for you, I'd still have men lining up for me!" Her words struck like daggers, each one heavier than the last.
Then, with a furious hiss, she hurled the splintered basket to the ground. The brittle wicker shattered, scattering beads and scraps across the floor. Without a backward glance, Elenor stormed out into the night, her steps echoing toward the Lust District, leaving Elira trembling in the wreckage.
Elira stood frozen, her fists trembling, tears stinging her eyes as she gazed at the shattered basket at her feet. Rage and sorrow tangled within her chest, but she forced them down—for Elenor was still her mother, cruel though she was. Born of an unknown man, Elira was the child her mother once wished to cast away, and for that, Elenor had never forgiven her.
Inside the dim kitchen, lit only by a dying candle, Elira sat at the table. The milk bottle had shattered, soaking the bread she had bought with her last coins. Her only meal was now a dirtied crust. With trembling hands she ate it anyway, tears streaking her face as hunger gnawed her belly. Some days she went without food at all.
Then—three sharp knocks broke the silence.
Startled, Elira jolted to her feet and hurried to the door, fumbling with the latch in her haste. Curiosity and dread gnawed at her as she yanked it open.
A man stood before her—hair streaked with gray, the stench of wine heavy on him, a bottle dangling from his grip. His glazed eyes locked on her with cruel intent.
"Your whore of a mother—she here?" he slurred.
Elira's throat tightened. "N-no… she's in the Lust District," she stammered.
The man's lips twisted into a foul smile, his gaze sinking to her chest. Elira noticed at once and crossed her arms tightly over herself, fear seeping through her veins like ice.
"Out of service, eh? Then you'll do." His voice dripped with malice.
Before she could react, he shoved her violently against the wall. The stench of liquor hit her like a punch as he leaned close, eyes dark with malice. Terror gripped her chest, freezing her in place. In a desperate reflex, she grabbed a heavy book from the nearby shelf and swung it with all her strength.
The impact cracked against his skull. He staggered, a roar of pain tearing from his throat. Elira scrambled toward the door, but his iron grip clamped around her arm, yanking her back like a ragdoll.
"You insolent little brat!" he snarled, smashing his fist into her stomach.
Elira's scream was choked off, pain shooting through her ribs as she doubled over. Blood stung her lips when his knuckles crashed against her face, again and again, each blow heavier than the last. She tasted iron, felt her vision blur, and was finally hurled across the table with brutal force.
Bruised, bleeding, and gasping for breath, Elira's body trembled as he loomed over her, a cruel grin twisting his features.
"Let's see how long you last now," he hissed.
Summoning the last shred of strength, Elira's foot lashed upward, hitting him square in the groin. He collapsed with a howl, clutching himself, giving her the opening she needed.
Elira stumbled out into the street, clutching her side, blood dripping from her split lips, every step a torment. She ran blindly until she crashed into a figure standing in the dim lamplight.
"Young lady?! What happened to you?" cried an elderly woman, eyes wide at the sight of Elira's battered face. The stranger, dressed in a long blue gown trimmed with lace, silver hair gleaming, steadied the trembling girl.
"Help me… please!" Elira sobbed, nearly collapsing. "A man—he tried to… to take me!"
The woman's heart clenched. Wordlessly, she wrapped an arm around Elira and guided her away, shielding her from the night's horrors and toward the safety of her home in the district.