Amidst the heavy silence that filled the chamber, Astria's movements were as precise as a practiced artist. She slowly lifted the black and gold carved kettle from the table.
As the stream of hot tea hit the cups, its steam dissolved into the air like a lingering secret. With great elegance, she filled a cup and slid it toward the Grand Duke.
She picked up her own cup, but before bringing it to her lips, her gaze locked onto Ethos.
"You chose the responsibility of managing that corner yourself, Ethos," she said in a cold tone, "and I abandoned it of my own accord. You are questioning me about the happenings of a place where I care not even for the dust... Uncle?"
The word 'Uncle' resonated through the room like an invisible strike. Grand Duke Ethos, who until then had sat with the rigidity of a stern commander, saw his composure shatter like glass.
A fine bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, and a momentary turmoil was clearly visible in his eyes. Until Astria had addressed him as 'Uncle,' the atmosphere had been strictly between a Queen and her Duke, but this single word had unraveled years of buried layers.
"Forgive me... it was not appropriate for me to question you in this manner," Ethos said, lowering his eyes; his voice lacked its former resonance. He straightened his back, trying to compose himself. "I should leave now. Len must be waiting for me at the training ground."
Astria took a sip of her tea and, without raising her eyelids, spoke in an incredibly calm yet authoritative voice, "Uncle, at least finish your tea."
Ethos's departing thoughts faltered. He had no defense against this affectionate insistence. He noticed that Astria remained perfectly composed. "I don't think Len will be there so soon," Astria added, swirling the cup in her fingers. "He must still be with that other child. There is no need for such haste."
Ethos took a deep breath and settled back into his place. He took the cup on the table within the circle of his fingers, and the sound of tea sips began to pierce the silence of the room.
In the other corridors of the palace, time seemed to crawl with a certain lethargy. Len was lying on his stomach on the sofa, his entire face buried deep within the velvet cushions, as if he wanted to cut himself off entirely from the outside world. Both his legs were kicked up in the air, swinging in a carefree rhythm.
Suddenly, the heavy doors in a corner of the room opened with a soft groan. With lightning speed, Len pulled his head out from the depths of the sofa. His gaze locked instantly onto the opening door. "Is it right?" he cast a questioning look.
Eric stood there. There wasn't a trace of emotion on his face—perfectly calm and steady. "Yes, it's right," he replied briefly.
Eric had now discarded his old attire. He was dressed in royal garments exactly like the ones Len wore, though the cut and the intricacies of the embroidery were slightly different.
The white and black finely embroidered clothes Eric had worn previously shone like a precious gem, but this new outfit suited him even better.
Amidst the black fabric, Eric's eyes glowed red like burning embers.
Beneath the shadow of his black hair, those crimson pupils looked like mysterious jewels. In his new attire, he didn't just look handsome; there was an unspoken weight and charm to his persona that kept Len's gaze fixed upon him.
The water dripping from Eric's wet hair was leaving small, dark spots on the carpet. Len, who until now had been lost in the soft heights of the sofa, suddenly sat up straight, alert. His gaze was fixed on those damp locks. "Eric..." he called out, an unfamiliar worry dissolved in his voice.
There was no answer from Eric's side. He remained as wordless as a stone statue. His silent eyes were on the pile of precious garments spread across the bed, which the handmaid had arranged there moments ago. Eric's measured steps moved toward the bed, as if he intended to organize himself within that labyrinth of fabric.
Len could not stand this silence and disarray. He sprang from the sofa and stood directly behind Eric. Before Eric could touch any garment, Len gently caught his hand. "Leave it, Eric... let them be," Len said in a low but firm voice. "The servants will come and put everything in its proper place. You don't need to do this."
With a light pressure, Len steered Eric back toward the sofa. Eric offered no resistance; he simply followed Len like a shadow. Reaching the sofa, Len took Eric's shoulders in the grip of his hands and gently nudged him to sit.
As Eric sank into the depth of the sofa, Len turned and dashed toward the other end of the bed with lightning speed.
A white, fluffy towel kept in the corner was now in Len's hand. He returned to Eric and, without ceremony, draped the towel over Eric's head.
The whiteness of the towel embraced half of Eric's being. Len began to dry Eric's hair with great tenderness and care. The rustle between the towel and the wet hair gave the room's silence a domestic, comforting feel.
Len's fingers did not stop until he was certain that the moisture had left the roots. When he finally removed the towel, Eric's black hair now fell scattered across his forehead, and the trail of droplets falling onto his shoulders had ceased.
"Let's head downstairs now," Len said, peering into Eric's eyes. No trace of the old self remained in the room—the clothes on the bed were new, and so was the Eric standing before them, who had left behind his old garments just like his old identity.
Len's steady steps were now heading toward the corridor, with Eric following behind like a loyal shadow.
As they approached the ornate door of the chamber, a massive silver-framed mirror embedded in the wall crossed their path. As they passed the cold glass, Eric's pace slowed to a crawl.
Two reflections emerged in the mirror. Len's reflection, with his hair scattered haphazardly across his forehead, and Eric's reflection, whose black silken locks were still disheveled from the towel's friction.
Eric came to a dead halt. He raised his hands and began to meticulously smooth those tangled strands with his long fingers.
When Len realized that the constant rhythmic thud of footsteps behind him had suddenly ceased, he spun around. He saw Eric absorbed in arranging his image. A mischievous smirk flickered across Len's lips.
"You looked quite good even with that messy hair, Eric," Len said in a light tone, a playful glint in his eyes.
Eric's movements stopped. He slowly turned his neck and buried his crimson eyes directly into Len's golden gaze. The deep red of his eyes glowed like an ancient secret. "I do not like having scattered hair like you at all," Eric said in a flat voice, though the sharpness of his eyes made the words far more potent.
Len pouted, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his arms. "I... I just forgot to fix my hair today! Otherwise, I keep it neat every single day," he offered in defense.
A rare, mischievous spark surfaced on Eric's face. He arched a single eyebrow and whispered softly, "Really? Then what was so special about today that you forgot your own habit?"
Len's lips parted to deliver a sharp retort, but then—the entire sequence of the morning's events, the tug-of-war outside the bathroom, and Astria's piercing words flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning.
The words died in his throat. His enthusiasm vanished in an instant, and he stood frozen as a statue. His gaze dropped to the floor, and the secret he wished to hide grew even deeper within his silence.