In the training area, the two men were sprawled lazily on the grass, doing absolutely nothing but talking — the kind of conversation that somehow ended up answering the Crown Prince Cassian's own question.
"So," Cassian began, staring up at the clouds drifting lazily across the blue sky, "how's Elira?"
"She's fine," Sylas replied, his voice calm, his hands folded behind his head. "Though she still feels guilty about what happened. She thought we'd be punished because of her, especially now that the rumors have spread."
Cassian turned his head slightly to look at his friend. The wind toyed with Sylas's hair, tossing the strands across his forehead — a quiet scene that made Cassian's chest tighten. Hearing that Elira blamed herself made him feel worse; if only he'd listened to Sylas that day, she wouldn't be burdened with guilt now.
"I feel guilty," Cassian murmured, his eyes low, sadness softening his features.
"About your actions? You should," Sylas said coolly, teasing him without looking away from the sky.
Cassian frowned at once. "Wow, seriously? Are you blaming me now?"
"Maybe," Sylas said flatly. "Because of your impulsive act, I almost got myself killed."
Cassian blinked, remembering that moment — the way Sylas shoved him aside just before an arrow would've struck his head. He let out a dramatic sigh and suddenly grabbed Sylas's shoulder, shaking him like a child begging for sweets.
"I said I'm sorry, all right?!" he blurted out.
Sylas shoved him away with an annoyed grunt. "Stop it, Cassian. You look like a child."
Cassian pouted but then shifted, sitting cross-legged with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. "I wonder when I can visit Elira. I want to apologize properly... maybe help her clear her thoughts."
Sylas's eyes flicked toward him, his expression suddenly serious. "You know," he began, his tone deep, "you should stop seeing Elira for a while."
Cassian's head snapped up. "What? Why? Are you her father now?" His eyebrows shot up, mocking, but there was a hint of genuine confusion in his tone.
Sylas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know that's not what I mean."
He sat up properly and looked Cassian straight in the eye. "If you go see her now, the Empress will start to suspect things. She already has eyes everywhere. You'll only drag Elira into more trouble — not just today, but in the future too. I'm saying this because I'm concerned about her, all right?" He waved a hand as though brushing away Cassian's stubbornness.
Cassian blinked, his expression softening. Deep down, he knew Sylas was right. If he forced a meeting now, the Empress's spies would surely report it, and the Empress — with her infamous temper — would take it out on Elira, believing she'd somehow ensnared the Crown Prince.
"Wow," Cassian said, crossing his arms with exaggerated offence. "So you're worried about her, but not about me?"
Sylas stood, brushing the imaginary dust off his trousers. "You're the Crown Prince, Cassian. You can take care of yourself, you hard-headed fool."
Cassian's head tilted up as he watched Sylas stand. "Where are you going?" he asked, standing too and patting his own trousers.
"Somewhere you're not," Sylas said dryly, turning away.
Cassian was about to follow him when Devito's voice echoed from a distance. "Your Highness! Your mother's calling!"
Cassian sighed and turned towards the voice. Before he could leave, Sylas spoke again without looking back.
"Don't worry, Cassian," he said, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smirk. "Elira's been wondering where you are. Seems she still cares. You're fine now, right?"
Cassian's eyes widened slightly, a grin breaking through his gloom. A warmth bloomed in his chest — Elira missed him too. Even though they hadn't said their proper goodbyes, she still thought of him.
And that, for Cassian, was enough to make the his entire day worth it.
Inside the chamber of Baron Rondel Hebreot Cochelia — the Royal Mansion's Chief Investigator — the room sat heavy with silence. Rondel reclined in his chair, a glass of wine in hand. The air felt colder than it should, thick with tension. Opposite him, his master lounged with casual authority: one leg crossed like a figure four lock position, the wine glass turning idly between his fingers as his gaze angled down at the man before him.
"So, how did the meeting go, Baron Cochelia?" the man asked. His hair was maroon, his eyes blue, his skin pale — an elegant, dangerous presence.
"Still discussing Mr. Morgan, who is already dead, Your Highness." Rondel answered, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He kept his tone measured, seeking to please the cold, fierce man across from him.
"Have you done your job properly, Rondel?" the man's voice was ice. He wore a sophisticated white blazer trimmed with gold over a black waistcoat and trousers; a ruffled shirt, layered gold-and-ruby necklaces, and bracelets completed his appearance. He carried the air of a fifty-year-old accustomed to command — older than Rondel by a decade, and far more relentless.
"Yes, Your Highness." Rondel rose, every movement precise. "I ensured the man we silenced couldn't speak. He kept insisting he was only acting on orders, but do not worry — I will make sure no one believes a man already caught in illegal dealings." Each word was chosen; the subtext was clear. Rondel felt the weight of the man's attention like a blade — the look he received was the sort that made you feel death could come at any moment.
"Good." The man's reply was simple and final. He rose, preparing to leave Rondel's office, and Rondel let out a quiet, controlled breath — relief passing over him like a shadow. He had avoided trouble this time.
Just as the man reached the door, he turned and glared back at Rondel one last time.
"Rondel."
"Yes, Your Highness?" Rondel answered promptly, bowing his head in a quick, respectful motion.
"Tell those fools that if they are ever caught by Sybil's knights, they already know what will happen to them. I will not have my business ruined." The words were a warning wrapped in command. With that final admonition, the man departed, his figure dissolving from the doorway like a shadow slipping away.
For Rondel, the message was more than an order — it was a clear threat to his negotiations and the fragile web of his dealings. He remained still for a long moment, tasting the bitter wine, the warning lingering in the air like smoke.