"You truly dragged the Crown Prince into your little act of heroism, Sylas?"
The commander's voice cut through the air—cold, sharp, and full of restrained fury. Cassian and Sylas both froze, their faces draining of colour, while Elira looked between them in confusion. The man standing before them was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence almost suffocating. Black hair framed his stern face, shadowed by a thick beard, and his silver eyes—so much like Sylas's—glinted with disappointment. He was older than both Sylas and Cassian, yet his aura carried the weight of command.
Sybil, Sylas's father, cast his gaze around the ruined hall. Bodies lay lifeless across the floor; others groaned in pain, blood staining their uniforms. His expression hardened further. Perhaps, in his mind, this chaos was the doing of his son and the Crown Prince.
Wait… is he the husband of Mrs Joana? Elira wondered silently, her golden eyes fixed on the imposing man before them.
"No, Sir… Sylas didn't drag me here," Cassian said quickly, standing straighter, his voice steady though his hands trembled slightly. "I was the one who suggested to help him to save someone."
Sybil's gaze flicked towards Elira, his piercing eyes studying her as though weighing her worth. She shifted uncomfortably under his stare.
"Oh? So this is the girl your mother mentioned, Sylas?" His voice was cold and cutting.
"Yes, Father," Sylas answered simply, though his tone was tight, and Elira could see the flicker of fear in his eyes. He knew the punishment awaiting him if the Empress ever discovered what had happened—especially now that rumors were already spreading that the Crown Prince himself had been seen in a pleasure bar, rescuing a girl.
"Even if the Crown Prince insisted," Sybil continued, his tone turning mocking, "you should have had the sense to stop him instead of playing the hero."
Elira noticed Sylas's fists clench tightly at his sides, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he bit back his anger. The sting of his father's words was visible in his eyes. Cassian, unable to stay silent, stepped forward to defend him.
"Isn't that a bit harsh, Sir? Like I said, it was my decision. Sylas had no idea I'd follow him here. He even tried to stop me." Cassian's voice carried a cold edge, but the commander didn't even flinch. His authority was absolute—he was, after all, under direct command of the King and the Empress to protect the Crown Prince, whether or not the prince's stubbornness got him into trouble.
"Well then, Your Majesty," Sybil said icily, "you must be aware that if anything had happened to you under my son's watch, my insolent boy would face severe consequences. Again."
His tone was so cold that Cassian took a small step back. Both Sylas and Elira stood frozen, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension.
Ever since they were children, Sylas had always been there for Cassian—guiding him, protecting him, even taking the blame whenever Cassian's mother, the Empress, scolded her son. Sylas had always been his shield.
"Lord Commander, we've captured the syndicate's mastermind," came a woman's voice. Captain Celindra of Highthorne approached, her tone firm and professional. Her eyes landed briefly on Sylas's bleeding shoulder, but she showed no concern. Behind her, two guards dragged a man in chains—Mr Morgan—now held captive in a prison wagon, thanks to the betrayal of Elira's mother.
Sybil gave no reply. He simply turned and began walking out of the ruined bar, his long cloak brushing against the bloodstained floor. Sylas, Cassian, and Elira followed in silence.
Outside, the cool night wind greeted them. Elira kept her eyes low, uncertain what to do, while the two young men walked beside her, their heads bowed.
When they reached the street, Cassian's eyes widened at the sight of the royal carriage waiting nearby. Devito stood by its side, his posture rigid. The sight made Elira's heart sink—Cassian was being taken back to the palace because of her.
"What's the meaning of this?" Cassian demanded, turning sharply towards Sybil.
"Your Majesty," Devito said, stepping forward and pressing a hand to his chest in a respectful bow, "the King and the Empress have already heard the news. We must return home at once before their anger worsens."
"But I—"
"Your Highness, please," Sybil interrupted, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.
Before Cassian could protest again, Elira moved closer. Her fingers gently tugged at his sleeve near his waist, her touch light but pleading.
"Please… just go," her eyes seemed to say. Her golden gaze shimmered beneath the moonlight, soft and full of worry. Cassian felt his defences melt away. He exhaled deeply and gave a faint, defeated smile.
"...Very well," he murmured, his shoulders sinking as he turned towards the carriage. Devito stepped forward and pulled the door open with a bow—but just as Cassian lifted his foot to climb in, Elira's trembling voice called out, freezing him where he stood.
"Your Highness… thank you for saving me," she said softly, her voice trembling but sincere.
Everyone turned at the sound of her voice. Even Sybil paused, studying the exchange carefully, noting the warmth in Cassian's eyes as he looked at her, while Sylas said nothing—he simply watched from a few paces away, his face unreadable.
"You're welcome," Cassian replied gently, his lips curving into a faint smile before stepping inside the carriage. The door closed, and the royal carriage rolled away into the night.
The street grew quieter, leaving only Elira, Sylas, and Sybil standing there under the dim glow of the moon.
"Lord Commander," Celindra said after a moment, breaking the silence, "it's time to return to the base."
Sybil stood still beside his black horse, his gaze cold and distant. "You go ahead," he ordered. "I'll head home first. There's a matter to discuss—with my son and my wife—about that girl."
His silver eyes darted sharply to Elira, making her shiver.
"Since we have no carriage, escort that girl on your horse," he added curtly. "Do not let her ride with Sylas. He's wounded."
Celindra immediately obeyed, leading her white horse forward.
It was nearing midnight now, the streets emptying as the crows scattered above. The soldiers had mounted their horses, ready to leave. Elira, still uncertain, hesitated on the spot.
"I'll escort you," Sylas said suddenly to Elira, stepping closer. His voice was calm but his eyes revealed exhaustion and pain.
"No," Celindra interjected, giving him a sharp look. "I'll take her. You can still ride with that wound, can't you?"
Elira glanced between them, feeling a little shy and unsure. Celindra, though strict, had been ordered by the commander himself to bring her safely to Mrs Joana's home.
"She'll ride my horse," Sylas insisted stubbornly.
Celindra let out an exasperated sigh. "You're as hard-headed as your father, aren't you? Look, the commander's in no mood tonight. If you truly care about this girl, then do as you're told."
Her words struck true. Sylas clenched his jaw, then stepped back, knowing she was right. He didn't want his father's wrath to fall upon Elira.
Celindra helped Elira climb onto the white horse, then mounted behind her, taking the reins. Sylas mounted his own black steed nearby. Under the pale moonlight, the two horses began to move, their hooves echoing softly against the cobblestones as they departed for Mrs Joana's house.
By the time Sybil, Sylas, and Elira arrived, they all dismounted their horses together. Standing by the doorway, Mrs Joana waited patiently with her eldest daughter, Silvia. A faint light from the oil lamp flickered across their anxious faces.
Captain Celindra bowed briefly before mounting her horse again. "I'll return to the base, Commander," she said, as Sybil had instructed her to lead the investigation concerning Mr Morgan. With that, she rode off into the misty night.
Mrs Joana hurried towards Elira the moment she saw her—Elira still cloaked, her hair tangled and her face pale.
"Elira, my daughter... are you all right?" Mrs Joana's voice trembled with relief as she pulled her into a tight embrace. "Thank the heavens they made it in time."
Elira clung to her, her body shaking. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, and Mrs Joana cupped her face gently, wiping them away with both palms.
"I'm all right," Elira whispered, her voice trembling, "but please... help Sylas. He's wounded."
At once, Mrs Joana turned sharply, her expression filling with worry. Her heart clenched at the sight of her youngest son—blood staining his shoulder, his breathing laboured.
"My son... what happened? Are you badly hurt?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly as she reached out to touch his arm.
"I'm fine, Mother," Sylas replied quietly, trying to steady himself. His tone was calm, but his eyes flicked nervously toward his father standing just behind them.
"Silvia, take Elira inside," Mrs Joana ordered hastily. "And fetch the salves—treat your brother's wound."
"Yes, Mother," Silvia answered, her voice quick and obedient. She gently guided Elira and Sylas towards the door. Elira cast one last glance at Sybil before stepping inside, while Sylas paused at the threshold when his father spoke.
"After Silvia tends to your wounds," Sybil said firmly, "we will talk."
Sylas bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement before stepping into the house.
Outside, silence settled over the courtyard. The moon glowed bright above them, bathing everything in soft silver light. A faint breeze stirred, brushing through Joana's loose strands of hair, while the rest was neatly tied in a bun. Her golden eyes, calm yet searching, met Sybil's cold silver gaze.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Sybil stepped closer, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel. He took Joana's right hand gently, lifting it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her skin.
"My wife... I've missed you," he murmured, his deep voice warm yet faintly burdened with fatigue.
Joana's lips curved into a small smile. "Shall we go inside, my husband? There are things we must discuss," she said softly.
Her voice was calm—gentle as always—and Sybil felt that familiar warmth stir inside him. Though he was stern and unyielding toward Sylas, he had always been tender with Joana. He missed her deeply; his duties often kept him away from home for long stretches of time.
Without another word, Sybil placed a hand at the small of her back and led her inside. The door closed behind them, leaving the quiet night and the faint sound of horses fading in the distance.
While the Crowholt family gathered under candlelight for a tense, private discussion, Cassian stepped quietly down from the carriage. He ignored the servants who rushed to greet him—too drained to care, too lost in thought to speak. His once-pristine white garments were now streaked and splattered with blood, the crimson stains glaring beneath the moonlight. Gasps rippled among the staff, whispers breaking out as they wondered in fear what had happened to the Crown Prince.
Cassian said nothing. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark with frustration. The weight in his chest grew heavier with each step he took towards the mansion. He had hoped—prayed, even—for a proper farewell with Elira before his departure. But fate, as always, had turned against him. And deep down, he feared the Empress would never allow him to see her again.
The grand doors of the estate loomed before him. He pushed them open, the sound of creaking hinges echoing through the empty hall. The mansion was shrouded in silence, the air cold and still. Cassian exhaled, ready to head upstairs—until a familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"So, you've finally returned… my beloved, stubborn son."
The Empress's voice was calm, yet laced with frost. Cassian froze. He didn't need to turn around to know her expression—he had seen it countless times before. That sharp gaze, that chilling composure… the same look she wore whenever she had heard something she did not like.
A chill ran down his spine.
She knew.