When Elira opened her eyes, she was met with the sight of a wooden ceiling, the soft morning light filtering through a small window. She realised, with a slow pang of awareness, that she was lying on a modest bed in a compact room. The space was furnished sparingly: a small table tucked beside the window, a narrow bookshelf lined with worn volumes, and a towering wardrobe that seemed to swallow one entire wall.
Gingerly, Elira lifted herself, each movement accompanied by a throb of pain in her side from the blows dealt by the drunken man who had attacked her in her own home the previous night. Her body still ached from the violence she had endured.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Elira's eyes fell upon an elderly woman, her hair the colour of winter snow, her eyes a piercing yellow, and her expression softened with care. She wore a long-sleeved black blouse with a high collar, adorned at the neckline with a modest brooch. The blouse was tucked neatly into a full, brown skirt, cinched at the waist with a wide belt. In her hands, she carried a small satchel of remedies, evidently prepared to tend to Elira's bruised body and battered face.
"You're awake. How are you feeling?" The woman's voice was gentle, her gaze warm and relieved at seeing Elira rouse. She seated herself beside the bed and carefully opened her ointments, treating each wound with deliberate, tender motions. Afterwards, she handed a small cup of medicine to Elira, encouraging her to drink.
Elira obeyed, grimacing as the bitter liquid slid down her throat. Once the taste passed, she spoke, her voice tentative.
"I… I am terribly sorry for troubling you, ma'am. May I ask… where am I? Whose house is this?" she inquired, her eyes flicking to the floor, ashamed to meet the elder's gaze.
The woman smiled gently. "You are in my home, here in the capital of Highthorne. My name is Joana Laymeniya Crowholdt," she said, her tone carrying both authority and warmth.
Elira's eyes widened, and Joana's gaze softened. "And what is your name, my child? How old are you, to endure such cruelty?" she asked, inspecting the bruises that marred Elira's arms and face. A flush of shame rose to Elira's cheeks.
"I am Elira of Highthorne," she whispered, her voice quivering. "I am twenty-four years old. Last night… a client of my mother's seized me to satisfy his desires while my mother was away. I hesitated… and… and this…" Her voice broke, tears spilling down her cheeks as the memory of the assault gripped her anew.
"Sob… sob… I… I am grateful… truly, for saving my life. I shall repay you one day," she cried, wiping her tears with her palm. Her arms, wrapped in bandages, trembled as she clutched at the covers, her face partially concealed beneath a dressing. Joana's heart ached at the sight of the young woman, so fragile and yet so battered by life. She noted the tattered state of Elira's clothing, worn threadbare and marked by long neglect.
Without a word, Joana drew the girl into her arms, holding her close. The warmth of the embrace was a balm to Elira's soul, the kind of comfort she had longed for but never received—even from her own mother. Elira pressed her face against Joana's chest, weeping freely, and Joana stroked her hair gently, murmuring soothing words, allowing her to release the pain she had carried alone for so long.
Once Elira's tears had subsided, they descended to the kitchen for a modest lunch. Joana served a potage, fresh bread, and a drink sweetened with honey. Elira hesitated, shy to partake, for such food had been beyond her means—luxuries afforded only to those of wealth or living in the capital, unlike her usual fare of stale bread and thin milk, barely worth three copper coins.
"Do not be shy, my child," Joana encouraged, offering a plate to her. With careful hands, Elira accepted, taking a small portion of the potage and a piece of bread. She tasted it, and a blush crept across her cheeks at it's richness and warmth. Joana observed the girl's reaction and allowed herself a quiet chuckle, amused and heartened.
"Do you live here alone, Ma'am?" Elira asked, gazing around the two storey house that could easily accommodate five people. From what she had glimpsed earlier, there were five rooms on the second floor. The walls were painted a crisp white, complemented by a warm brown ceiling, with large candles set in every corner, illuminating the home with a gentle glow.
"Yes," Joana replied, smiling, as she tidied the dishes.
"You do not have a family? And you seem… noble, by the look of it—you possess a name, and the means to live as you do. It is unlike any commoner's dwelling," Elira ventured, eating shyly, while Joana chuckled and sat beside her to pour tea.
"Actually, I am not entirely alone. I have two children: my eldest daughter is a physician at the Infirmary Hall of Highthorne, and my youngest son serves as a captain among the front-line soldiers," Joana explained. Elira could scarcely believe it, but the modesty of the home hinted at a wealth used wisely, not ostentatiously.
"Do you have a husband?" Elira inquired, curiosity piqued.
"Yes, he commands the Imperial Highthorne Knights," Joana said, her tone calm. Elira's eyes widened in surprise; here was a family of distinction, yet they chose to live in simplicity, mirroring the humble comfort she now experienced.
"Wow… you are most fortunate, Ma'am," Elira chuckled, and for a moment, the heavy shadows of her own life seemed to lift. Joana, however, could not help but worry—where would this girl go once she had eaten? She remembered Elira's tender youth, and her maternal instincts stirred.
"If you do not mind me asking," Joana said gently, concern threading her voice, "after this… where will you live? Will you return to the house you were staying in? And your mother… does she know what has happened to you?"
Elira's smile faltered, sadness washing over her features as the reality of her life pressed in.
"I am the daughter of a man I never knew," she whispered, voice laced with sorrow. "My mother… she is a woman of the Lust District, and she has never acknowledged me as her own." Her words were heavy with grief.
"And how do you live?" Joana asked, curiosity softened by sympathy.
"I… I make and sell hand-crafted bracelets," Elira replied, forcing a faint smile despite the bruises on her face. Joana's heart swelled with pity, and without hesitation, she drew Elira to her once more, resting the girl's head against her chest. Elira stiffened at first, then allowed herself to be held, a mixture of relief and melancholy coursing through her. She had endured hardship and neglect for so long; Joana's touch was a rare comfort.
Joana cupped Elira's cheeks in her hands, smiling warmly.
"You shall stay here," she said firmly. "I will see to your well-being." Elira's eyes grew wide, disbelief and hope mingling in equal measure. Such kindness… it was something she had scarcely imagined possible.
*****
In one of the training halls of Highthorne Palace, the Crown Prince and his closest companion, Sylas, were engaged in their usual practice. Both were clad in training attire befitting their station and routine. Sylas wore a grey, long-sleeved tunic with a V-neck, paired with brown trousers and sturdy leather bracers encasing his forearms. Tall brown boots completed his ensemble, lending him an air of disciplined readiness. The Crown Prince, Cassian, on the other hand, wore a long-sleeved, off-white shirt with a lace-up front, secured at the waist by a broad, braided black belt adorned with a circular buckle. In their hands, they each wielded a wooden sword, practicing the art of swordsmanship with meticulous precision.
"You are utterly hopeless, Sylas," Cassian teased, smacking Sylas' wooden blade with his own in a playful yet challenging manner.
Sylas, unbothered, met his friend's jest with the cold indifference that had long earned him a reputation. Not one to be bested in a spar, Sylas retaliated, engaging Cassian in a series of swift, precise movements. Minutes passed in the rhythm of clashing wood, until their fencing bout reached its natural end.
Cassian took a swig from his water bottle, tilting his head back to catch the light from the high windows, while Sylas wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow. They sat upon the polished floor; Cassian rested his hands on his lower back, gaze lifted toward the ceiling as if measuring the distance to the heavens, while Sylas sat cross-legged, composed and unreadable.
"Hey, Sylas?" Cassian called, breaking the silence.
"What?" Sylas replied, his tone sharp, detached.
"Goodness, you are positively frosty! No wonder you have no girlfriend—your look could frighten a ghost," Cassian teased, nudging Sylas with a grin.
Sylas rolled his eyes and rose gracefully, brushing past Cassian.
"Hey! Where are you off to now?" Cassian asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, curiosity piqued.
"I will be returning to my chamber. Next week, I shall travel to the capital," Sylas said flatly.
Cassian froze. At the mention of the capital, his eyes lit with excitement. This was his chance to perhaps visit his favourite nanny—or, more precisely, Sylas' mother. Sylas often journeyed to the capital during soldiers' rest days, as those returning from the front were permitted a month to spend with loved ones before resuming their service. As a captain of the frontline soldiers, Sylas had no pressing duties at that moment; he could afford a brief visit home.
Cassian, however, was not content to let the matter go so easily. As they walked down the palace pathways toward the mansion, he persisted, his voice almost whimpering like a small puppy.
"Please! May I accompany you?"
"No," Sylas replied, his expression as cold as ever.
"PLEAAAASE! I am the Crown Prince! You ought to obey me!" Cassian exclaimed, stepping directly in front of Sylas, trying to block his path.
Sylas smirked faintly, a flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise composed visage.
"Your father pays me a salary, not you," Sylas replied, gently shifting Cassian aside. He sat momentarily to allow Cassian to fuss beside him, still attempting to coax his friend into accompanying him to the capital. Cassian, bored of the palace routine and restless from idleness, would not relent. Sylas, however, remained composed, the picture of calm authority amidst the prince's obstinate pleading.