"All the records are set up. You may be dismissed," said the commander of all knights, Saybil Deniel Crowholt, his dark silver hair glinting, piercing silver eyes sharp, and pale skin flawless—the father of Sylas. One by one, the captains left the meeting room, as was customary after such gatherings. Sylas busied himself with arranging the papers, preparing to stand, his face cold, eyes as hard as his father's.
Just as Sylas was about to leave, his father spoke from behind him.
"How's your mother, Sylas?" The cold voice of Saybil cut through the room. He stood facing the large window, while Sylas remained near the doorway. His expression stayed unmoved and unbothered, though a flicker of anger stirred inside him. His father had chosen to ask about his wife rather than visiting her personally.
"Go see her for yourself," Sylas replied coldly, then turned and left the room, leaving his father behind, expressionless. Though Sylas and his father shared a somewhat strained relationship—his father often absent during important family occasions, leaving his mother hurt—Sylas had learned to remain composed. His mother had chosen to be strong, knowing that Sylas's father had heavy responsibilities to maintain Highthorne's security and strengthen the empire's military.
Later, Sylas left the mansion, planning to go to his mother's home. He wondered why Cassian was absent; usually, upon learning that Sylas was at the mansion, Cassian would come immediately to pester him. Shrugging, Sylas assumed his friend must be busy. He mounted his huge, sleek black Mount horse, dressed in his military uniform—primarily white with royal blue and gold accents. A high collar framed his neck, gold buttons lined in neat rows, gold trim along the shoulders and cuffs, a royal blue sash draped diagonally across his chest, cinched at the waist with a black belt and gold buckle. A sword rested at his side.
Minutes later, Sylas reached the capital. It was almost lunchtime, and hunger tugged at him. Riding peacefully through the streets, he spotted a familiar figure at the roadside. She carried only books, wearing a long flowing beige dress with a dark brown bodice laced with red strings and decorated with a floral pattern. Her hair was brown. He knew immediately who she was and rode toward her.
Elira lingered at the roadside as carriages thundered past, the clatter of hooves loud against the cobblestones. She clutched her basket of books, debating whether to return home before Mrs. Joana began to wonder why she had been gone so long. With a sigh, she took a step forward.
"Elira…"
Her name fell in a low, familiar tone—icy, yet distinct. She froze. Slowly, she turned, and there he was. Sylas sat tall upon his black horse, his presence commanding as ever. The sun caught the gold trim of his uniform, making it gleam. Her breath caught, and her eyes widened.
"Oh… Sylas—you're here?" she whispered, her voice uncertain, almost too soft against the noise of the street. Her gaze flickered over his military uniform, and at once she knew—he had come straight from the Palace. Mrs. Joana's words about the captains' meeting echoed in her mind.
Sylas's cold eyes drifted downward, settling on the books she clutched. Three nestled inside her basket, while two heavier volumes rested in her arms.
"What are those?" His voice was flat, unreadable. He swung down from the saddle, boots meeting the stone with quiet precision.
Elira glanced at her books, then back at him, managing a small, shy smile.
"Oh, just… something to read at home. And you, Sylas? Are you on your way back?" she asked gently.
He gave no answer. Instead, he adjusted the reins with one hand, his expression as sharp and distant as ever. Then, without warning, he extended his arm toward her—his gloved hand open, waiting.
Elira blinked, startled, her breath catching in her throat. "What…?" she whispered, eyes widening as her heart gave a confused flutter.
"Hop on," he said simply, voice low and firm. "You'll ride my horse."
The words sent a shiver through her. Her cheeks flushed as she stepped back nervously. "No, I—I'm fine walking. Truly. You should ride your horse." Her voice faltered with uncertainty as she waved her hand toward Sylas, trying to refuse his offer to let her ride.
He remained silent, unyielding. His gaze never left her, cool and unblinking, and the quiet between them grew heavy.
Before she could protest, Sylas's hands gripped her waist. Elira gasped, eyes widening, the books nearly slipping from her arms as her breath caught.
In one smooth motion, he lifted her with ease and set her sideways on the saddle. Her skirts brushed the leather, her body trembling at the sudden closeness.
Her heart pounded, heat rushing to her cheeks. She dared not meet his gaze, too aware of the ghost of his touch lingering on her waist. 'Why was he—so cold, yet so gentle?'
Sylas took the reins, his face plain yet cold, his silence unbroken. The horse moved forward steadily, the city fading around them, leaving Elira lost in the wild beat of her own heart.
The sun had climbed high, spilling its brilliance across the capital. Birds wheeled in unison over the rooftops, while the streets brimmed with voices, laughter, and the cries of merchants at their stalls. Yet amidst such cheer, Elira's spirit remained restless. Her heart still quivered from what had just passed between her and Sylas — the moment when their faces had drawn perilously close, lips almost brushing. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she quickly shook her head, as though to cast away the thought that teased her mind with forbidden sweetness.
Sylas walked at the horse's side, reins held firm in his grasp, his gaze fixed upon the road though his thoughts swirled with unrest. His home lay far beyond the city's heart, and so he had lifted Elira into the saddle himself. He had not foreseen how near her breath would come to his cheek, how sharply his pulse would beat when her eyes had met his at such closeness. With a roughened hand, he had half–covered his face, steadying his stride as if that might still the turmoil within. What folly is this? he scolded himself, forcing his attention back to the crowd before them.
"Do you need aught else before we return?" he asked at last, breaking the silence that lingered between them.
Elira started at the sound of his voice, lifting her gaze only to lower it again, her cheeks tinted with colour. "N–nothing more. I am content," she murmured softly, her eyes resting upon the saddle before her.
The street they followed grew lively with vendors. The scent of warm bread drifted on the air, spiced meats crackled on spits, and jars of honeyed fruit glistened in the light. Among them, Elira's eyes caught upon a merchant's tray lined with rich chocolate. Her heart stirred at the sight, for since her days in her mother's house she had yearned for such sweetness, though the price — two to five silver coins for a mere portion — had ever set it beyond her reach.
Sylas noticed. He had seen the way her gaze lingered. The instant she felt his eyes upon her, Elira turned swiftly aside, her face flushed with quiet shame, as though he had uncovered a secret longing. Without a word, Sylas slowed his pace and drew the horse to a halt.
Confusion furrowed her brow. She dared not glance at him, her lashes lowered, her breath quickened.
Then his voice came, low and steady. "Here."
Elira turned at once — and gasped. In his hand rested a small, ornate box filled with chocolate, each piece gleaming in the sun, some crowned with nuts, others smooth as polished glass. She stared in wonder, lips parted but voiceless. With trembling hands, she received the gift, slow and delicate, as though afraid it might vanish in her grasp. Never had she thought Sylas — so guarded and cold — would give her what she had long craved in silence.
"I knew it pleased you," he said evenly, his gaze fixed ahead as he led the horse once more along the path.
Her eyes dropped to the treasure in her hands, her voice barely a whisper. "How could you tell?"
"Each time we passed the stalls," he said, calm as stone, "I noticed your eyes always fixed on the chocolate—longer than you realized. I thought it meant it was dear to you."
Elira's chest warmed, and her lips curved into a smile soft as dawnlight. A rosy flush spread across her cheeks as she cradled the box of chocolate like a sacred treasure. In that moment, she dared to think Sylas might be thinking of her too.
"Thank you, Sylas…" she breathed, her voice trembling with both gratitude and a sweetness she could not hide.
For the briefest moment, he turned his head, stealing a glance at her. Her smile shone like a quiet flame, bright enough to touch the space between them. Though he walked on, keeping his expression calm as stone, a small, almost-hidden smile tugged at his lips, stirred by the warmth her reaction had awakened in him.
In the peaceful palace of Highthorne, Cassian was already feeling annoyed in the absence of his friend, Sylas. He lay sprawled on his bed, arms and legs stretched out, the bored Crown Prince. It had been nearly two weeks since Sylas left the palace, spending more time with his mother, yet Cassian was still not allowed by his own mother to leave the palace.
After a long moment of brooding in his room, Cassian was called once again by his maid—it was almost dinner time. He rose from his bed and made his way to the dining hall, where his parents were waiting.
Cassian arrived wearing a ruffled, long-sleeved off-white shirt and brown high-waisted pants with buttons. He sat beside the Emperor, while the Empress wore a red gown with gold detailing, a black headdress, and a ruby necklace. The Emperor patiently awaited Cassian's arrival, dressed simply in a dark blue tunic with gold trim, cinched at the waist with a brown belt—a casual evening attire.
The three of them ate in quiet harmony, though Cassian barely touched his food. He had no appetite, but forced himself to participate in dinner since he had nothing else to do.
"Cassian, sit up straight," his mother said coldly. Cassian obediently adjusted his posture, choosing to follow his mother rather than ruin his evening further.
"You're too hard on your son, my wife," the Emperor remarked, noticing how strict his wife could be with their only child. He then turned his attention to his moody son, who had been down ever since Sylas left for his vacation.
"It's been days that you've been feeling bored, my son. What's the problem?" the Emperor asked, trying to cheer him up. Whenever Cassian risked being scolded by his mother, his father was always there for him.
Cassian sighed deeply and idly rolled the meatballs on his plate with his fork.
"I just wanted to visit Nanny Joana, Dad… Is that too much to ask?" he said sadly. Whenever he felt bored in the mansion, the only place he could go with Sylas was Mrs. Joana's house.
"Fine, you can go," the King said with a smile. Cassian's heart lifted at his father's words.
"Really, Dad?" Cassian asked, giving his puppy eyes, grateful that his father had finally permitted him. But his mother's cold gaze told him otherwise, silently saying he was not allowed. The Emperor noticed this and gently convinced her.
"Come on, my dear wife… Cassian is already twenty-four. He can take care of himself. Don't be too hard on him—he is our only son."
The Empress took a deep breath, resigned.
"Fine. You can go," she said coldly, rolling her eyes.
The Empress was taken aback by her son's reaction. Cassian rose from his seat and hurried to his mother, embracing her tightly, relieved to feel that there was still some warmth left in her heart for him.
"Thank you, Mom and Dad!" he exclaimed, taking his leave and heading toward his room, excited to visit Mrs. Joana. The Empress's lips curved into a faint smile—she had thought she would never again feel the embrace of her son, but it seemed she could still experience it.
Cassian was overjoyed—not just because he was going to Sylas's house, but because he would finally see the girl he longed to see every day: Elira, the girl who lived in his best friend Sylas's house.