The morning bell had only just passed when Sylas rose from his bed. With a slow stretch, he crossed the room and unlatched the window, letting in the crisp breath of dawn. As he looked down, his gaze caught Elira walking along the lane, a basket balanced carefully on her arm.
Barron, leaning against the frame, narrowed his eyes in quiet wonder. 'Where might she be heading so early?'
Elira was clad in a long-sleeved white blouse, a brown laced bodice drawn snug about her waist, a flowing green skirt, and a belt of soft leather. Her brown hair, set in loose waves, caught the light of the rising sun.
Unable to still his curiosity, Sylas decided to go downstairs. Though he told himself he sought only breakfast, the truth pressed upon him—he wished to know where Elira was bound, and whether she had spoken of it to his mother, Mrs. Joana.
By the time he reached the table, a spread of warm bread, fruit, and tea awaited, neatly arranged by his mother's hand. Sylas took his seat, tore a piece of bread, and began his meal.
"How was your sleep, my son?" Mrs. Joana asked gently as she settled beside him, her voice warm with maternal affection.
"Much better. I feel at home, Mother," Sylas replied, his tone plain though his eyes flickered with the itch of curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, unable to resist his question. "Mother, where is Elira heading? I saw her leave the house."
Joana chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Elira has chosen to continue selling her bracelets. She insists she does not wish to be a burden to us. Look—this is one she made."
With pride, she held out a delicate piece: small pink flower-shaped beads strung together with tiny silver links, finished with a clasp of gold.
"It is beautiful," Sylas said at last, a faint smile curving his lips as he glanced at his mother. "And it suits you well, Mother."
Once his meal was finished, Sylas decided to walk about the capital under the guise of seeking fresh air. Yet his true intent was plain to himself: he wished to see how Elira fared with her bracelets. Knowing she often sold in the bustling park, he made his way there.
But upon arriving, he found no sign of her. The park was alive with the brightness of day—the sky clear, the sun warm, the chatter of merchants and laughter of children filling the air. Sylas strolled slowly, eyes scanning the crowd, when suddenly a voice called out.
"Sylas? Is that you?"
Startled, he turned, only to find Elira standing there, her basket still brimming with bracelets.
"What are you doing here? Did you need to buy something?" she asked, her tone light, though her brows lifted in curiosity.
Sylas shifted, one hand brushing against his leg as his gaze slipped away, embarrassment coloring his features. "I was merely strolling—for a breath of fresh air." His words came cool and clipped, yet his refusal to meet her eyes betrayed him.
Elira arched one brow, lips curling into a chuckle. "Really? In such a crowded place? Ha."
At her teasing, Sylas's face grew red. The truth, of course, was that he had followed her, eager to see if she truly sold her crafts. His gaze fell to her basket, where the bracelets still lay in neat rows.
"Have you sold any yet?" he asked, glancing sidelong.
"Oh, these?" Elira lifted the basket with a small, sheepish laugh. "I have managed to sell almost three."
Sylas blinked, astonishment flickering across his face. "Three? In all these hours?"
The thought weighed upon him—how hard she worked beneath the heat of the sun, roaming the capital with little to show.
"Yes… eheh," she admitted, scratching the back of her head with a smile that was both weary and proud.
"Let me help you." The words escaped Sylas before he could reconsider.
Elira's eyes widened, shock written upon her features. "Are you certain? Oh, but I'd feel ashamed—" She stopped, startled further as Sylas, without hesitation, took the basket from her hands.
"No need to be shy. I've nothing else to do, and Mother won't want you returning home late. Come—let us sell these bracelets." His voice was cool as ever, though his step was firm as he turned ahead.
Behind him, Elira's lips softened into a smile. She followed quietly, surprised by his kindness. 'Cold as he may be,' she thought, 'he is not unkind—at least, not to me.'
Together, they set about selling along the bustling street, the morning sun casting warm light over the throng of people. Women and girls quickly gathered around Sylas, drawn not by the bracelets but by the young man himself—the ease of his stance, the quiet authority in his gaze. Sylas's jaw tightened with irritation, and his shoulders stiffened as he tried to ignore the murmurs and sidelong glances. Every smile aimed at him seemed to press uncomfortably upon his composure, and he found himself clenching his fists beneath the folds of his coat.
Elira, noticing his discomfort, bit her lip to stifle a laugh, the corners of her mouth twitching into a small, amused smile. She stepped lightly to one side, moving toward a quieter patch of the street where her voice could carry above the chatter. Her hands fluttered nervously over the bracelets in her hands, arranging them just so, hoping to catch the eye of a passerby. Despite the heat of the morning, she felt a small thrill at the energy around them, the hum of the city lending a strange courage to her movements.
At last, she drifted a little apart from Sylas, finding a small clearing among the crowd, and began counting the bracelets that remained in her arms. "One… two… three… fou—ah!"
Her words were abruptly cut short as a man, hurrying along the path, bumped into her shoulder. The bracelets slipped from her grasp, tumbling in all directions across the cobbled stones. Elira gasped, hands flailing as she bent to gather what she could.
"Sorry!" the man exclaimed, dropping to his knees to help her gather the fallen bracelets, his voice gentle yet urgent.
"No, it's quite my fault—I wasn't looking where I walked," Elira replied, cheeks warming as she cast a polite, slightly embarrassed smile at him. Her hands brushed against his as she accepted the bracelets he returned, and for a fleeting moment, she noticed the steadiness of his gaze, calm and assured.
"Thank you, sir," she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful, as if touched by the unexpected courtesy.
The man wore a long black coat of exquisite cut, the fabric heavy and smooth, not something common folk would possess. He straightened after handing her the last bracelet, inclining his head with a quiet dignity.
"You're welcome," he said, his voice low, refined, carrying a weight that seemed to suggest a world beyond the ordinary.
Before she could speak again, he turned and walked on, his figure gradually blending into the flow of the morning crowd. Elira remained standing for a moment, her fingers brushing absent-mindedly. She frowned slightly, pondering the man's presence. There was something in the cut of his coat, the manner of his walk, the quiet strength in his posture—it spoke of noble birth, or at the very least, a life far removed from her own.
She shook her head gently, forcing a small, rueful smile upon her lips. 'No matter,' she told herself, regaining her composure. 'Best keep selling.' With renewed determination, she adjusted the bracelets in her hands, inhaled a deep breath of the morning air, and pressed on, weaving through the crowd with careful steps, her mind already returning to her task.
The man in the black coat was none other than Cassian, the crown prince of Highthorne. He had slipped away from the main mansion once again, defying every rule that bound him. As crown prince, he was forbidden to wander freely—too many duties awaited him, too many lessons left unfinished, beyond the art of wielding a sword. Yet Cassian's heart was restless. Day after day he was suffocated by endless obligations, until the very walls of the mansion felt like a cage. So he did what he always did when the weight of the crown grew heavy—he ran.
He strolled through the bustling capital, inhaling the air of freedom as if it were a rare treasure. And then, amid the chatter and laughter of the crowd, his gaze fell upon a familiar figure. At once, his lips curved into an incredulous grin.
There, surrounded by women drawn to him like moths to a flame, stood Sylas. Cassian nearly laughed aloud at the sight. Of all places, Sylas—the man who despised crowds above all else—was in the very heart of the central square, holding a basket no less. The absurdity of it was too much. Cassian wasted no time; he pushed through the crowd and seized his friend by the arm.
Sylas staggered in shock, his eyes flashing with both disbelief and exasperation. "What are you doing here?" he hissed the moment they found refuge in a quiet alley. His breath came heavy, his body bent forward as he rested his hands on his knees from the sudden sprint.
Cassian smirked, unbothered. "I could ask you the same. And what's this?" His eyes flicked toward the bracelets clutched in Sylas's hands.
Sylas straightened his back, forcing composure into his voice. I was helping Elira sell her bracelets."
"Elira?" Cassian's brow arched with curiosity.
"It's… complicated. Never mind that. Why are you here? Don't tell me you ran away again." Sylas folded his arms across his chest, suspicion written plainly on his face.
Caught red-handed, Cassian scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, flashing a peace sign. Sylas only glared at him in return.
"Go back to the mansion, Cassian," Sylas muttered, turning him by the shoulders and giving him a shove in that direction.
Cassian, of course, did not budge. He jutted out his lower lip like a child denied a sweet. "Don't you miss your little brother, Sylas?"
"No," came the curt reply.
"Fine, fine! I'll go back," Cassian said quickly, his grin returning. "But only if you come eat with me. I'm starving. My treat." He winked, already tugging Sylas along before he could protest.
With a sigh heavy enough to shake mountains, Sylas gave in. Together, they made their way to one of the city's finest restaurants, a place where only nobles dined. Here, at least, they could sit in peace without interruption. Yet even as he followed Cassian inside, Sylas's thoughts wandered—wondering if Elira had eaten anything at all, or if she was still out on the streets with nothing but her bracelets to keep her company.
They ordered an extravagant meal, and soon the dishes were laid before them, steaming and rich in aroma. A soft melody from a violinist drifted through the air, mingling with the low murmur of noble conversation.
"Have you heard the news?" Cassian asked between bites, his tone too casual.
Sylas raised a brow. "About what?"
"The south. Beast floods. Another headache for us to deal with." Cassian chuckled, though his words carried a trace of unease.
Sylas took a sip of tea, his face unflinching. "Then we'll deal with it—we always do."
"True enough." Cassian leaned back, watching his friend with quiet admiration. Despite his coldness, Sylas's resolve was a thing of iron.
They ate in silence for a while, the moment strangely calm, until Cassian broke it with a sudden grin. "You're thirty now, aren't you?"
Sylas shot him a sharp look. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"When are you planning to marry, hm? You're not getting any younger."
"I'd rather remain single," Sylas replied flatly. He set his cup down with finality. "I am a frontline captain. Any day, I could fall in battle. Why burden a woman with that fate? I will not be like my father, who was always absent, leaving my mother to cry alone. A family is not a gift to me—it is a chain."
Cassian studied him in silence, a faint sorrow flickering in his eyes. He knew the weight Sylas carried, the shadows of his past. But Sylas's resolve was unyielding, carved from pain and duty alike.
"And you?" Sylas asked suddenly. "You're twenty-four. What about you?"
Cassian smirked, raising his glass of wine. "Marriage? Like hell, no."
But his confident tone faltered when an image intruded upon his mind—the young woman he had bumped into earlier. Brown hair, golden eyes, fair skin glowing in the light. Her simple blouse and skirt could not hide the quiet grace she carried, nor the warmth of her smile. That smile lingered in his memory like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
His heart had stuttered then, an unfamiliar flutter that he could not name. Was it foolishness? Coincidence? Or something else entirely?
Cassian lowered his glass slowly, his smirk fading into thought. For the first time, the crown prince of Highthorne was unsettled… and it was all because of her.
The woman with the bracelets.
The woman called Elira.