On a bright, sunlit morning, Sylas decided to mount his black steed and ride to the capital, choosing to stay at his mother's residence. The mansion where he usually resided felt overwhelmingly crowded, burdened with ceaseless obligations and duties. To Sylas, it was a relief to seize the rare opportunity to spend time under his mother's roof rather than remain hemmed in by the endless demands of the household. While he was away, his responsibilities would be attended to by a suitable substitute, though, unfortunately, Crown Prince Cassian could not share the same freedom—his royal duties tethered him firmly to the palace, a lamentable fate indeed for one so young.
Sylas had already passed through the grand gates of the mansion, guiding his horse at a measured, unhurried pace. He lifted his gaze to the heavens above, marveling at the clear, cerulean sky stretched across the morning. The day was tranquil, almost serene; a gentle breeze stirred his silver hair, lifting it in soft waves, while birds flitted gracefully in synchrony. Below, townsfolk passed by, attending to their daily tasks, yet the world seemed momentarily hushed in the brilliance of sunlight. Sylas breathed deeply, letting the calmness of the scene seep into him, an almost sacred serenity rare in his life of constant obligation.
Upon reaching the capital, Sylas made a modest detour, purchasing a pot of fine tea—his mother's favourite—along with a selection of sweetmeats he knew would delight her. Often, he alone found time to return home; his visits were infrequent, cherished, and taken with deliberate intention. Sylas was, in truth, a devoted son, quietly tender in his affections, a "mama's boy" in the gentlest sense. His father, the illustrious commander of Highthorne, rarely permitted lengthy stays at home, and while his siblings occasionally visited, they could not linger—his elder sister, the esteemed physician, bound by duty and family responsibilities, was seldom at leisure to remain. Sylas, however, took every chance afforded him, savouring the rare moments spent in his mother's presence.
At last, he arrived at his mother's residence within the capital—a modest house situated among neighbours, yet far removed from the clatter and chaos of the township where Elira lived. Here, the streets were calm, orderly, and imbued with a quiet dignity.
Sylas knocked twice upon the sturdy wooden door, a faint smile tugging at his lips. At long last, he was home, after the rigours of travel. Yet, as the door swung open, his eyes widened in surprise. It was not his mother who greeted him, but a young woman of striking appearance: her hair was a soft chestnut, eyes gleaming gold, and skin fair as milk. She wore a white long-sleeved blouse beneath a black pinafore-style bodice, paired with a long, gathered brown skirt over a darker underlayer. Her hair, tied loosely in a bun, seemed slightly dishevelled, as though she had been caught unawares by his arrival.
Sylas regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and caution. She too seemed startled, her hands frozen mid-motion, her expression one of uncertain surprise. For a fleeting moment, Sylas could not help but think of her as belonging to some family, her presence almost domestic and reassuring, though entirely unexpected.
Elira's heart raced. She had not anticipated a visitor, and certainly not one of such commanding presence. Her eyes widened at the sight of the man with silver hair and piercing silver eyes—handsome, dignified, and strikingly familiar. The very same man whose gaze had met hers during the parade last week. She had not expected him to appear here, in this safe haven she now occupied.
Sylas's deep, resonant voice cut through the silence.
"Who… who are you?" Elira froze, stammering in shock.
"I—" she began, only to be interrupted by a familiar voice behind her.
"My dear son! So you have arrived at last?"
Joana appeared, carrying a bundle of white linen, a warm smile upon her face. Elira's mind whirled. 'Son?' she thought. It became suddenly clear that this young man, the same who had held her gaze at the parade, was indeed Joana's son. She watched as Joana set aside a large basket and embraced her youngest child, Sylas, leaving Elira to retreat to the kitchen to tidy the dishes and prepare the modest meal Joana had cooked. She had not been aware that her adoptive mother had a son, nor that he would visit so unexpectedly.
Sylas and Joana seated themselves at the dining table, a comfortable familiarity settling between them, while Elira continued her work in the kitchen, listening to the gentle conversation and occasional laughter.
"You never told me you were coming," Joana said, a playful glint in her eye. "I should have prepared your belongings."
Sylas smiled, silver eyes glittering. "You know me, Mother. I never announce my visits. I take the chance when I can, and nothing more."
He handed her the tea, the steam curling gently into the warm morning air—a simple gesture, yet one that drew a genuine smile to Joana's face. She accepted her son's thoughtful offering with delight, and as Sylas's gaze wandered, he caught sight of Elira quietly arranging the dishes. His curiosity stirred—who was this young woman moving so silently about the kitchen.
"Mother, who is that girl?" he inquired.
Joana chuckled, teasing, "Ah, that is Elira, my new daughter!"
Sylas frowned, puzzled by the jest, unsure of the meaning behind his mother's words.
"She is twenty-four," Joana continued, her voice gentle yet firm.
"She is six years younger than you. Her mother neglected her, and she was nearly assaulted by one of her mother's clients. I found her in the street, badly injured, her body marked by the suffering she endured."
Sylas watched as a shadow of sorrow crossed his mother's face, and as they observed Elira tending to the kitchen, he knew the words were true. The depth of care in Joana's expression left no doubt.
"I hope you are not planning to establish an orphanage, Mother," he said lightly, jesting, though Joana's hand gently tapped his shoulder in mock reproach.
"You silly boy," she replied, smiling warmly. "I promise, only this one."
And so they continued, sharing a simple meal together, the sun streaming through the windows, warmth and quiet companionship filling the room.
"So, how is the Crown Prince Cassian Sylas?" Joana asked Sylas.
"He's fine. He wanted to visit, but the Empress doesn't allow it. The Crown Prince needs proper discipline," Sylas explained as he sipped his tea. Elira stood patiently in the kitchen, listening, until Joana suddenly called her closer to introduce her to her son.
"Elira, meet Sylas, my youngest son. And Sylas, this is Elira, the girl I wish to adopt," Joana said, smiling as she presented them.
"Greetings, I am Elira, sir," Elira greeted shyly, unable to look Sylas straight in the eye. He, however, only stared at her plainly.
"My daughter, you don't need to call him 'sir.' Just call him Sylas, alright? We are family now, ahaha," Joana said warmly, amused by the interaction.
"Uhmm~ o-ok," Elira stammered, still standing nervously before them.
"Don't be shy. Just feel at home. Call me Sylas, as you please," Sylas said coldly, making Elira's face turn red. She was too shy to face him, especially since he was the son of the woman who had taken her in. His gaze alone was enough to unsettle her.
After they finished eating, Sylas immediately went upstairs to place the belongings he had brought from the main mansion. On the second floor were five rooms: four stood opposite each other, and one, directly in front of the staircase, belonged to his parents. Sylas's own room was located at the far end, right beside his parents' chamber, while across from him would be Elira's new room.
He entered his room, taking a deep breath. The familiar scent of the place calmed him, making him feel more at ease than when he stayed in the Captain's quarters, where his friend Cassian often teased him endlessly.
Lying on his bed, he opened the pages of his book, reading quietly while leaving his mother and Elira to their conversation downstairs.
"Mrs. Joana, I never thought your son was such a dignified man," Elira said while eating at the table. Joana, sipping her tea and nibbling on sweets her son had bought, replied gently:
"I think so too… but forgive my son's manner, alright? He may seem cold, but he's kind at heart."
Joana said warmly.
Elira lowered her gaze, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I don't mind, Mrs. Joana… he looks respectable." and both of them are smiling to each other.
It was already midnight when Sylas woke from his bed, realizing he had overslept. He had only meant to read for a while, but he had drifted off, perhaps because the comfort of his own room relaxed him. Now, hunger gnawed at him. Slowly, he rose and left his chamber, carrying a small candle whose dim flame lit his path. The house was silent, and he thought everyone—including his mother—was already asleep. Deciding to find food, he headed downstairs.
His eyes widened slightly when he saw Elira sitting at the table. The room was dark except for a small candle that glowed beside her. She was threading beads onto a cord, quietly working on a bracelet. Sylas drew nearer, silently watching her. His gaze lingered—first on the curve of her neck, where a few strands of hair fell loose, then on the soft outline of her cheek. He did not know why he stared so long, and with a faint frown, he forced himself to look away, telling himself it was only hunger clouding his mind.
Elira, unaware of his eyes on her, continued her work. She wanted to sell the bracelet the next day. Mrs. Joana had told her she need not sell anything, that she would provide for her needs, but Elira was determined not to be a burden. She wished to contribute, even in small ways.
"What are you doing?" Sylas's voice broke the silence.
"Kyaa!" Elira gasped, startled by his sudden appearance. The beads slipped from her hands and scattered across the floor. She hurried to pick them up while Sylas only stood there, watching.
"I'm sorry, sir! I never thought you would appear out of nowhere," Elira stammered, returning to her seat and gathering her things nervously.
"There is no need to rush," Sylas said coldly.
"Continue what you were doing." He turned toward the kitchen, searching for food, while Elira hesitated, then quietly resumed her work at the table.
"Are you hungry, sir? Do you want me to accompany you?" she asked gently, noticing his struggle.
Sylas stiffened. He did not like showing weakness before anyone, least of all a woman, and he did not want to trouble her. "No need to worry. Just continue what you are doing. And as my mother said—do not call me 'sir.' Just my name."
He kept searching the shelves, unaware that food had already been prepared for him. Elira noticed, and after a moment's hesitation, she spoke again.
"Sir—ah, Sylas? I think this is what you're looking for." She lifted the cover from a dish on the table. Bread, eggs, and milk awaited him.
Sylas glanced at her, slightly embarrassed, then quietly took a plate and served himself. Hunger won over pride. Yet instead of eating at the table, he carried the food upstairs, too uncomfortable to share a meal with her. He was not like Cassian, who always had words to fill the silence. Sylas preferred quiet, and the thought of sitting across from Elira made him restless.
As he climbed the stairs, he cast one last glance at her—still seated by the candlelight, threading beads with patient hands. Then he slipped into his room with his meal, leaving her alone in the darkened hall.