Sylas and Cassian had already finished their meal together. Sylas carefully pulled out some egg sandwiches, thinking Elira must be hungry by now after waiting so long for him. He placed the food gently into Elira's basket — the same basket where one of her bracelets had been before it was sold. The day was already slipping past noon, and a flicker of worry crossed Sylas's face — perhaps Elira was starving while waiting. After all, they had agreed to return home together.
When the two friends stepped out of the fancy restaurant, Cassian's personal butler, Devito, was already waiting for him. But Cassian, like a spoiled child, refused to return home without Sylas. The thought of the empty mansion bored him to no end.
"Go, Cassian, and don't you dare sneak out again if you don't want the Empress to scold you," Sylas muttered, giving him a firm push toward the carriage. At last, Cassian climbed in, though he still whined like a sulky boy, leaning his head out of the window.
"Hey, Sylas… when can I visit Nanny Joana? I miss her… huhuhu," Cassian pouted, his voice breaking almost like a child's cry.
"Only if you obey the Empress, Cassian," Sylas answered coldly from outside the carriage.
Cassian huffed in defeat, folding his arms across his chest. With no choice, he sank back into his seat. Before stepping away, Sylas gave strict instructions to Devito to watch the crown prince closely and make sure he didn't slip out of the mansion again. Devito bowed in understanding before the carriage rolled off towards the main palace, leaving Sylas behind in the busy street. He turned back to where they had come from, to the park where he had been selling bracelets, hoping to find Elira.
Inside the carriage, Cassian shut his eyes, his brows knitted in irritation. He hated being dragged back to the palace, back to his endless duties as crown prince.
"I can tell you're not in the best of moods, my prince," Devito remarked, watching him from across the carriage.
"Do you think so?" Cassian snapped, opening his eyes with a sharp glare before turning his face towards the passing streets.
As the carriage rattled on, Cassian's gaze caught a glimpse on the right side — a fruit vendor, selling apples to a young woman. His eyes widened. Brown hair, golden eyes, fair skin — the very same woman he had accidentally bumped into earlier that day.
He leaned slightly against the carriage window, resting his chin on his hand, his lips curving into the faintest smile. His gaze lingered on her, following every small gesture as she carefully chose her apples, until at last the carriage rolled past and she disappeared from sight.
As Elira walked along the street, she counted the apples inside her paper bag — six in total. She had bought them for Mrs. Joana, Sylas's mother. With all her bracelets sold, she decided it was best to return home. Yet her thoughts lingered: had Sylas managed to sell every bracelet she had entrusted to him?
While checking the apples, her forehead suddenly bump a broad chest. Startled, she looked up — and there was Sylas, his cold gaze fixed upon her.
"Oh? Sylas, have you sold any of my bracelets?" Elira asked with a smile, hugging the apples tightly to her chest.
Sylas's eyes shifted to the fruit in her arms, puzzled. "What are those?"
"Oh, these?" Elira glanced down at the apples and smiled again. "I bought them for Mrs. Joana. I hope she'll like them."
She had no idea apples were Sylas's favorite fruit. At her words, he averted his eyes, hiding the faint stir of emotion.
"Have you eaten lunch?" he asked, his tone cool.
Elira shook her head. "Hmm… no. I was only planning to buy bread and milk." She spoke lightly, but it made Sylas wonder if this was all she ever allowed herself — a plain piece of bread and milk.
Without a word, he drew out the egg sandwich he had taken from the fancy restaurant earlier with Cassian and held it out to her.
Elira's eyes widened in shock, her breath catching. She never imagined Sylas would hand her such food — something she herself could never afford. "Wh-what is this?" she stammered, clutching the sandwich.
"Just eat it. I bought it for your lunch," Sylas said simply.
Elira looked at him in silence, her heart warming. She had never expected Sylas to think of her, even while he was busy selling her bracelets. And now, here he was, giving her food not from an ordinary stall but from a place far beyond her means.
The two of them walked together until they found a quiet spot by the river, far from the bustle of the capital. Settling beneath a tree, Sylas placed the apples aside and let Elira enjoy her sandwich in peace, while he sat watching her intently. Leaning against the trunk, he rested on the ground with one knee pulled close to his chest, his arm wrapped around it.
"So delicious," Elira murmured, chewing carefully as she brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. Joy lit her face; it was the first time she had ever tasted something so fine, and she knew at once it must have come from a fancy restaurant.
Sylas's voice broke the moment. "How do you know my mother, Elira?" His cold eyes met hers, curious and unyielding.
Elira's faint smile faltered as she turned her gaze to the river, watching the steady flow of water, the drifting leaves swaying with the breeze. "Your mother… Mrs. Joana saved me from a man who nearly…" her voice trembled but steadied, "who nearly forced himself upon me."
Her words were plain, yet the sorrow in her golden eyes carried a weight of trauma she wished never to relive.
"I didn't mean to offend you," Sylas said quietly, turning his face towards the wide, blurred sky. The afternoon light was dimming; it was almost mid-afternoon. Silence fell between them.
Elira continued eating until she realised she had nothing to drink. Sylas noticed at once. Without hesitation, he stood. "Wait here," he said, his voice cold but firm.
Startled, Elira looked up. "Where are you going?" she whispered, but Sylas had already walked away. She didn't follow. Instead, she lowered her gaze to the river, bent her knees, and crossed her arms over them, resting her chin on her hands. A soft smile touched her lips as her long lashes lowered, golden eyes shimmering.
'I wish this could last,' she thought, not only of this quiet moment with Sylas but also of the family she had found in him and Mrs Joana. Leaning back against the tree, she lifted her eyes to the sky, her lids growing heavy until they slowly drifted closed.
****
"Thank you, and have a nice day!" the merchant called after Sylas as he bought a bottle of orange juice from a nearby stall, not too far from where Elira had been waiting.
Sylas walked back in silence until he reached the spot where Elira sat. There she was, resting against the tree, fast asleep.
'Am I too long in buying her a drink?' Sylas wondered, uncertain. The sun was already sinking, and they needed to return home. Quietly, he packed the apples and the bottle of orange juice into the basket, then turned his gaze back to her.
He decided to lift the sleeping Elira into his arms, carrying her in a princess style. She wore a long-sleeved white blouse beneath a brown laced bodice drawn snug about her waist, a flowing green skirt, and a soft leather belt fastened at her middle. Sylas, with his silver-dark hair, piercing silver eyes, and a face as cold as stone, was dressed in a dark-blue long-sleeved shirt beneath a brown vest, black trousers, and brown boots trimmed with golden accents. In his free hand, he carried the basket holding the apples and orange juice.
As he held her, Sylas let Elira rest more closely against his chest, while she remained soundly asleep in his arms.
People glanced at them, whispering as though they were a couple. Yet Sylas felt a flicker of annoyance; it was his first time carrying such a small and fragile woman, peacefully asleep in his arms.
When they reached the house, the door was already open, and his mother, Mrs. Joana, was sweeping the floor. The moment she saw them, she chuckled softly at the sight of her gentle son carrying Elira, who slept peacefully in his arms, while Sylas wore his usual cold expression. Taking the basket of apples and orange juice from him, Mrs. Joana placed it on the table and guided her son upstairs to Elira's room.
As soon as Mrs. Joana opened the door, Sylas entered quietly. He laid Elira down carefully on the bed and pulled a blanket over her sleeping form. Then, with a last glance at her, he stepped back out, joining his mother as they left the room together.
Sylas had already gone to the bathroom. Inside was a bathtub fitted with a tap. He turned it on, letting the water flow until the tub was full, before stepping in and leaning back slightly against its edge.
He didn't understand why his thoughts kept circling back to Elira. The question he had asked her earlier—how she had come to know his mother—kept replaying in his mind. What Sylas had not expected was the truth: that his mother had saved Elira from a man who tried to assault her. The thought unsettled him. What kind of life had Elira been forced to live and endure before that day?
He glanced down at his hands, remembering how he had carried her all the way home. In his arms, her small frame had seemed almost swallowed by his own. Elira wasn't thin, but she was undeniably fragile—like a delicate flower that the world had battered too soon. Sylas rubbed a hand across his face, exhaling sharply. 'How old is she?' he wondered.
Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, he rose from the bath, dressed quickly, and returned to his room. He pulled on a white long-sleeved shirt, brown trousers, and a wide belt—his usual attire before bed. Hunger gnawed at him, so he left his room in search of dinner.
But as he stepped into the hallway, he saw his mother seated at Elira's bedside, gently holding the girl's hand. Elira's face was twisted with unease, her sleep restless. Concerned, Sylas approached quietly.
"Mother, what's wrong with her?" he whispered, careful not to wake Elira.
Mrs. Joana pressed Elira's palm to her own cheek, her eyes heavy with worry. "She's having a nightmare," she murmured. "She keeps whispering… 'Please, stop hitting me, Mother.' … 'Mother, I don't want to go to the bar.' … 'I don't want to be a prostitute.'"
A sharp pang clenched Sylas's chest. His fists tightened as he looked at Elira's pale, troubled face. He hadn't imagined her past was so cruel. Her brows furrowed even deeper, her lips moving with broken cries. Then, suddenly, tears spilled from her eyes, her body trembling.
"Mother, please! Don't lock me here—it's so dark! Mother! Mother!" Elira's voice rose in anguish, thrashing in her sleep.
Sylas didn't think. His body moved on its own, stepping quickly to her side. He placed a warm, steady hand on her forehead. Mrs. Joana's eyes widened in surprise at his action.
"Who are you? Don't touch me! Please, don't hurt me!" Elira cried out, her voice cracking with the terror of old memories.
Leaning closer, Sylas whispered into her ear, his voice softer than she had ever heard before. "Elira… it's me, Sylas."
The cold edge that usually clung to him was gone. His words carried a quiet warmth that slipped into the spaces of her restless sleep. Mrs. Joana noticed how Elira's body stilled, as though the sound of his voice had found her deep within the nightmare.
"Wha—what? Sylas, are you there? It's dark. I can't see…" she whimpered, her lashes damp with tears.
"I'm here," he breathed, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with surprising care.
"Hold on to me. I'll take you out of the dark. Let's go home—Mother is waiting." His thumb lingered at her temple, soothing the furrow of her brow.
Mrs. Joana's chest tightened at the sight. Her son, who was always cold and distant, now bent so close to the fragile girl, as though drawn by something he himself didn't understand.
"Thank you… Sylas, for saving me. I want Mrs. Joana to save me too…" Elira's voice trembled, but her words softened into small sobs. Then, slowly, her breathing grew even, her face relaxing against the pillow as peace finally claimed her.
Sylas exhaled, lowering his forehead near hers for a brief moment, as though assuring himself she was truly safe. Mrs. Joana quietly wiped the sweat from Elira's brow, though her gaze lingered on her son—seeing the gentleness in him she rarely saw.
"Sylas… please, be more kind to Elira," Mrs. Joana whispered.
He gave a small nod, rubbing the back of his neck, still stealing one last glance at the sleeping girl before following his mother out. In silence, they made their way down to the table for supper.