The morning light spilled softly through the small windows of Joana's home, washing everything in gold. Sylas had already packed his things; his cloak was neatly folded, his sword strapped by his side. After breakfast, he descended the stairs quietly, the wooden steps creaking beneath his boots.
In the living room, his mother sat reading, a calm smile softening her face. When she saw the brown satchel on his shoulder, she closed her book and rose to meet him.
"You're leaving already?" Joana asked gently.
"Yes, Mother. I'll see you soon." Sylas leaned forward and pressed a kiss upon her forehead — a fleeting gesture of warmth before duty would steal him away again.
From the kitchen, Lucien appeared, holding up a folded note. The words were brief but warm.
See you, Sylas.
Sylas smiled faintly, his eyes softening. "See you around, brother-in-law. Take care of my sister… and my nephew."
Lucien only smiled in reply, giving a small nod.
Just then, a familiar voice came from the stairs. "Uncle! I'll miss you!" Luke came running down, his little feet thudding against the wooden steps. Sylvia followed close behind, her eyes gentle but bright. Sylas bent to one knee and ruffled his nephew's hair, his lips curving in a fond smile.
"Me too, little one. Be good, alright?"
"I will, Uncle," Luke said cheerfully.
Sylvia stepped forward and hugged Sylas. "Take care, Sylas."
He returned her embrace with quiet warmth. "Goodbye."
As he stepped outside, sunlight embraced him — bright and sharp, yet somehow heavy. He drew a breath, the scent of the earth mixing with the faint sound of birds, and felt the familiar weight of duty settle on his shoulders once more.
At the gate stood Elira. Her hair was tied loosely in a bun, stray strands dancing around her face as the wind brushed past. She held a wooden broom, her brown dress simple but elegant in its own way. Her eyes lifted to him, catching the glint of his silver hair.
"Oh... Sylas, time to head back?" she asked, her voice soft, almost shy, as she swept aside the grass beneath her feet.
Sylas didn't answer at first. He simply walked past her toward the hostler, who was leading out his black warhorse. He paid the man, then adjusted his satchel and reins, his movements quiet and composed.
Elira looked down again, pretending to busy herself with the broom. She told herself not to disturb him — that a soldier like Sylas didn't need her chatter before a long ride. Yet, before she could turn away—
"Elira."
Her name. Spoken in that low, restrained voice that always seemed to steady her heart.
When she turned, she barely had time to breathe before Sylas stepped closer and drew her into his arms.
It wasn't a brief, polite embrace. It was deep — the kind of hug that steals the air from your chest, as though parting felt heavier than either would admit. Elira froze, her hands caught between them. She could feel the faint thud of his heart, the rough fabric of his cloak against her cheek, and the warmth that lingered even when he finally let her go.
"Take care," he said softly, eyes lowered, before mounting his horse once more.
Elira watched him ride away, her fingers still curled where his warmth had been. She smiled faintly, half amused, half bewildered. For all his coldness, Sylas could be unexpectedly gentle… even sweet. She told herself it was only a friendly gesture — a soldier's farewell to someone he saw as family.
But as Sylas rode down the sunlit road, he lifted a hand to cover his face, his cheeks flushed with quiet embarrassment.
What was that? he thought. Why did I do that?
He shook his head, almost laughing at himself. No… I must be losing my mind.
And yet, no matter how far he rode, he couldn't shake the memory of her scent, or the softness of her hair brushing against his cheek — the feeling that, somehow, he would miss that morning smile more than he cared to admit.
*****
Inside the Highthorne Palace, morning sunlight poured through the wide glass windows of the Empress's study, where laughter tinkled like silver bells. The air smelled faintly of jasmine tea and expensive perfume.
Seated gracefully beside the Empress was her son, Crown Prince Cassian, whose soft, layered blonde hair fell perfectly around his sharp yet youthful face. He wore a light beige suit embroidered with golden threads — elegant, noble… and, to him, utterly suffocating.
He had been dragged into this tea party of noblewomen — older ladies gossiping about politics, younger ones pretending not to stare at him like he was some mythical creature brought for show.
Across the table, Viscountess Marevic — a fine old lady in a royal blue gown, her old white hair shining like frost — raised her teacup and smiled.
"Your Majesty, did you like the jewellery I sent you last week?"
The Empress chuckled softly, her beauty unmistakably regal even in such ease. "Yes, I truly loved it," she said, setting her cup down with graceful poise. The scarlet of her gown shimmered in the sunlight, perfectly befitting her title, while her golden hair was neatly tied in a bun, adorned with delicate jewels that caught the light.
Cassian sat beside her, smiling stiffly as if carved from marble. His face said, I'd rather be ambushed by bandits than endure this, but his mother's expectant glance kept him in check.
From across the table sat Lady Anastasia Decuche, the Viscountess's daughter. Her short brown hair was pinned with a pink ribbon, her dress a cloud of lace and satin — and her gaze, unwaveringly fixed on Cassian.
She had been holding a small velvet box for the past few minutes, her fingers trembling, her cheeks pink with anticipation.
Finally, as the Empress and Viscountess became absorbed in cheerful chatter, Lady Anastasia gathered what remained of her courage. She cleared her throat softly.
"Your Highness," she began, voice trembling, "since my mother gave Her Majesty a gift last week, I thought I might offer you something as well… We bought it from Westeria."
She extended the tiny Velvet box toward him.
Cassian blinked. Of course, he thought dryly. A gift. From yet another admirer. How surprising.
Still, he maintained the smile that his mother had drilled into him before entering the room — the one that said I'm polite but internally screaming.
"Thank you," he said, forcing the corners of his mouth to behave.
As he reached for the box, his fingers brushed against hers — purely by accident — and that was when disaster struck.
The girl froze. Her breath hitched. Her entire face went crimson. She clutched the same hand to her chest as though she'd just been struck by Cupid himself.
"Oh, heavens…" she whispered, eyes wide, completely forgetting everyone else existed.
Cassian's expression, however, was that of a man suffering. His smile twitched. His soul left his body for a brief moment.
Mother's enjoying this, he realised bitterly, catching the glimmer of amusement in both the Empress's and the Viscountess's eyes.
The older ladies exchanged knowing smiles, sipping their tea with the delight of women watching a romance unfold.
Meanwhile, Cassian was dying inside.
He muttered under his breath, "Brilliant. Exactly what I needed. Another fainting noble."
Still, he bowed his head slightly, clutching the box of cufflinks — silver, inlaid with a single diamond shaped like the letter C.
The girl was practically glowing now, her heart fluttering as if she'd just been proposed to.
Cassian sighed silently, sipping his tea with all the grace he could muster. Inside, he was screaming:Please, someone — declare a war. I'd rather fight on the front lines than endure another tea party.
As the Empress's tea party finally came to an end, Cassian darted out of his mother's study room as though a pack of wild dogs were chasing him down the corridor. His elegant steps lost all royal grace the moment the doors shut behind him. Walking briskly through the palace hallway, he was followed closely by Devito, his ever-loyal servant.
"Devito… throw this away." Cassian's voice came out cold, clipped with irritation. Without looking back, he tossed a small velvet box towards his servant, who caught it swiftly before it hit the ground.
Devito blinked. "What is this, Your Majesty?" he asked curiously. He opened the box and found a pair of finely crafted cufflinks — silver, glimmering with diamonds shaped into the letter C.
"Get rid of it. I don't want it," Cassian muttered, rolling his eyes. "Sell it if you like. Add it to your salary, for all I care."
Devito looked as if he wanted to laugh but wisely kept quiet. Cassian, meanwhile, sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly. He had wanted to visit Mrs. Joanna — Sylas's mother — but his mother, the Empress, had forbidden him to leave the palace. He was still grounded, apparently.
As he walked, his gaze drifted to the marble floor beneath his boots, tracing patterns in the veins of the stone. How is she? he wondered silently, his lips curving into a faint smile. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, trying to hide the expression before anyone could notice.
Just as he turned the corner, a familiar figure appeared — walking in the opposite direction. Cassian froze, eyes widening slightly. "Sylas?" he muttered in surprise.
His old friend was back. Sylas had just returned from the Headquarters, where the knight captains were gathering for a crucial discussion. Cassian's face brightened as he quickened his steps. He hadn't seen Sylas for days — and truth be told, he was eager to ask about Elira. Since that chaotic night at the tavern, guilt had lingered in his chest. Everything had spiraled because of him, yet Elira had been spared, thanks to Sylas's father — the Commander of Highthorne himself.
Before The scene where Cassian could reach him, the meeting inside the knights' headquarters had already begun. The air was tense, filled with the heavy scent of iron and candle smoke. Every captain and division head was seated, their expressions grim.
"Sir," said Celindra, the sharp-eyed Scout Captain, her tone serious, "the man named Morgan — the one involved in the syndicate and the abduction of women for the illegal auction — has been found dead. He was assassinated… his tongue cut out."
A gasp rippled across the room. The officers exchanged uneasy looks. Sylas, seated quietly among them, stiffened but said nothing. Sybil, the Commander, remained calm, though his eyes darkened with thought. He had suspected this might happen — but there was still not enough evidence to accuse the one person he truly suspected.
"Before he died, did he say anything? Any clues?" asked the investigator, leaning forward.
Cleindra exhaled slowly, disappointment clouding her face. "Nothing useful. But before I captured him on the wagon, he said something odd… He wasn't the mastermind. He claimed someone else ordered him — a sponsor."
Sybil's sharp gaze flicked towards her. "And you believe that?" he asked quietly, his tone carrying more weight than volume.
Cleindra nodded firmly. "I do, sir. There's something about his tone — he seemed desperate. I think someone higher was pulling the strings."
"Do you have proof?" another voice interrupted, low and mocking.
It was Baron Rondel Cochella, the chief investigator — a man in his fifties, his orange hair thinning, yellow eyes gleaming with arrogance. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking faintly. "Because if you don't, then this is nothing more than a dying man's excuse. Every criminal says the same before they're caught."
Sybil's jaw tensed. He didn't lift his gaze, but a shadow crossed his expression. He knew exactly where Cochella was heading — and he didn't like it.
Celindra's lips parted in frustration. "But— before Morgan could reveal anything else, he was killed immediately. Whoever did it wanted to silence him."
Baron Cochella snorted. "Are you correcting me, Captain? Don't pretend to know more than you do. You're a scout, not a strategist. You gather crumbs; I interpret them."
Celindra fell silent, humiliation flickering in her eyes. It wasn't the first time Baron Cochella had belittled his peers — it was practically a hobby of his. Across the table, Sylas clenched his jaw, his hands tightening around the folder before him. He didn't speak, knowing that one wrong word could drag his own issue — the tavern incident — back into the open.
Cochella waved his hand dismissively. "Honestly, why are we wasting time? The fool's dead. Case closed."
Sybil's eyes snapped toward him, cold as steel. "And what of the people's safety? The royal palace's security? You think ignoring every case will make this kingdom safer?"
"Oh, please," Cochella replied with a smirk. "Security is my department, Commander. And last I checked, Highthorne is perfectly secure."
Beric, the Captain of Defense, slammed his palm on the table. "Secure? Every case is brushed aside because of you, Baron Cochella! You refuse to investigate properly!"
Cochella gave a sarcastic laugh, his tone dripping with contempt. "And yet here we are — still alive, aren't we? You lot are far too emotional." His voice dropped mockingly. "Speaking of emotions, shall we discuss something far more interesting?" His smirk widened. "The little 'incident' involving the Crown Prince and your son, Commander Sybil? What exactly were they doing in a tavern? Saving a woman, I heard?"
The entire room went silent. Sylas's eyes flashed, veins showing along his temple as he gritted his teeth.
"Baron Cochella," he said in a low, firm voice, "thanks to the prince, we've finally traced the syndicate's trail. And that 'woman' you so carelessly mock—she wasn't even part of the key."
"Oh really?" Cochella mocked, leaning forward. "So saving a random girl is now an official royal operation? Tell me, was it her beauty or her tears that helped the investigation?"
Sylas's fists curled at his sides. His patience was slipping fast, but he kept still — only his eyes betrayed the storm brewing inside.
Sybil rose from his seat at last, his expression sharp. "Baron Cochella," he said firmly, "I suggest you choose your words carefully. You are a hair's breadth away from insulting the royal family."
"I'm not insulting anyone," Cochella replied, his tone cold and proud. "I'm stating facts."
"Enough," Sybil said curtly. "This discussion is over. Dismissed."
Chairs scraped against the marble floor as the officers rose. One by one, they left the chamber, murmuring amongst themselves. Baron Cochella remained for a moment, his irritation visible, before storming out with a huff.
Sylas gathered his files quietly, his face calm but his knuckles white. He didn't bother saying goodbye to his father — Sybil was already speaking to another officer. As he stepped into the hallway, a strong hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder.
Sylas turned sharply — only to see Cassian grinning at him.
"What are you doing here?" Cassian asked, brows raised in surprise.
"I need to talk to you," Cassian said, his blue eyes glinting with a mix of worry and mischief. "It's important."
Sylas sighed softly but nodded, recognising that look all too well. Without another word, the two of them walked off together — heading towards the training grounds where, as always, their most serious conversations began.