It was already dawn, yet Elira still couldn't find comfort in sleep. The memories of last night clung to her like a restless shadow. Though her heart overflowed with gratitude for Sylas and Cassian—who had risked themselves to save her—this was never the ending she had imagined. She hadn't foreseen that their act of courage would lead to punishment.
If only she had known that her dearest friends would suffer for her sake, she might have chosen to bear the consequences alone. But she also knew that Mrs. Joana would never allow such thoughts to take root.
When Elira pushed open the front door, a cool mist hung in the morning air. She stepped onto the yard, broom in hand. The sky shimmered faintly in hues of silver and pale grey, while the scent of dew lay heavy upon the grass.
As she lifted her gaze, her breath caught—there stood Sybil, the great commander of Highthorne and father of Sylas, only a few paces away. He faced the sky as if searching for hidden answers in its dim light. For a moment, Elira froze. She thought of turning back inside, but before she could, his voice broke the stillness.
"You're up early," he said without looking at her. His tone was calm—neither warm nor cold—as he continued to gaze at the clouds, a wooden mug of coffee resting in his hand. He wore an open-necked cream shirt trimmed with golden cuffs, a patterned brown vest, dark trousers, and black boots brushed with brown accents. His silver hair fell freely, gleaming faintly under the morning light, while his silver eyes remained fixed on the heavens.
Elira bowed slightly. "I couldn't sleep, my lord. Sometimes… the weight of yesterday's mistakes does not let the heart rest." She gripped the broom handle tightly, guilt tugging at her chest.
Sybil did not glance her way. "And what do you know of mistakes, young lady?" His deep voice rolled like distant thunder. "Are you not grateful that those two men so recklessly risked themselves to save you?" He sipped his coffee, resting one hand on his hip, his gaze still distant.
Elira's voice trembled. "I am, my lord. More than words can tell."
"You are?" His tone sharpened faintly. "Then tell me—what do you truly know of mistakes?"
Her heart began to race. She hesitated, fearing that a single misplaced word might offend him. But then she spoke, her voice soft but steady.
"Only that some mistakes are born not from recklessness… but from kindness that wasn't thought through." Her eyes drifted toward the pale horizon. "Lord Sylas is like that, I think. He does not act for glory—but because he cannot bear to stand still when someone is in pain."
Sybil's brows drew together. "You speak as though you understand him."
"I don't," she whispered, a faint smile curving her lips as her gaze fell upon the grass swaying gently in the morning breeze. "But sometimes, you don't need to understand a person's silence to know their heart."
The old commander studied her quietly. There was something disarming in her tone—earnest, unguarded. For the first time, Sybil saw not a naïve village girl, but someone whose sincerity could both wound and heal.
"What do you know of my son, then?" Sybil asked at last. He glanced into his empty cup, as though realizing it was time to return inside. The sun was beginning to stir on the horizon.
"My lord," Elira said softly, her golden eyes dim with both warmth and sorrow, "your son is not as foolish as you believe."
Her words hung gently between them, carrying the weight of memory. She remembered that terrible night—the moment she cried out the name Sylas in terror, and how he had come rushing to her aid with Cassian beside him. That image would never fade.
Then she froze. A sudden warmth pressed against her head. When she lifted her gaze, she saw Sybil's hand resting upon her hair—a brief, almost fatherly gesture—before he withdrew it. Without another word, he walked past her with a small, unreadable smile.
"Continue what you were doing," he murmured as he stepped back inside.
Elira stood there, blinking in quiet confusion. She couldn't understand what had prompted such an unexpected act of gentleness from the stern commander. But a shy smile crept across her face nonetheless, and she resumed sweeping the yard, the broom whispering softly against the stones.
When Sybil entered the house, he found his wife waiting by the kitchen doorway, a tender smile playing on her lips. He didn't need to ask—he knew Joana had been listening.
"What is it now?" Sybil asked, raising a brow.
"Nothing," she said, stepping closer with a knowing grin. "I never thought you could be so gentle at times."
Sybil grunted, lowering himself into a chair. "You always did find strange people worth believing in. Lucien was one of them…"
Joana only laughed quietly as she turned to prepare breakfast. Sybil unfolded his newspaper at the dining table, the aroma of warm bread and freshly brewed coffee filling the quiet house, mingling with the faint sound of a broom brushing against the yard outside.
The sun had already risen, bathing the Joana household in soft gold. Sylas had been up early, quietly packing his things. He didn't know whether the king would summon him regarding the incident, but tomorrow he would leave again for the headquarters — returning to his post as captain.
He wore a black long-sleeved shirt trimmed with lace, dark trousers, and polished boots. As he made his way to the dining room, the faint scent of warm bread and butter greeted him. Around the table sat his family — Silvia, Lucien, young Luke, Joana, his father Sybil, and even Elira, who had been invited to join them that morning.
The table was laid simply but beautifully: freshly baked bread, warm milk, slices of brown loaf sprinkled with sugar, boiled eggs, and a small dish of fried root vegetables. For the elders, there was herbal tea steaming in porcelain cups.
"Good morning," Sylas said softly, sitting down and helping himself to a plate.
"Grandpa, I missed you so much!" Luke said, climbing into Sybil's lap with a giggle. "When did you come home?"
"Just last night, my little one," Sybil replied, smiling faintly as he brushed a hand over the boy's hair. "And look at you — you've grown taller again." His voice carried a warmth that softened even the rough edges of command.
Elira, sitting near Joana, quietly took the cup of hot chocolate that Mrs. Joana had set before her — her favourite drink. She sipped it with a shy smile, then reached for a slice of bread and a boiled egg.
"How is your wound, Sylas?" Silvia asked, watching her brother with concern.
"Much better now," he answered curtly, taking another bite of bread.
"Anyway," Sybil said, glancing at Silvia, "you and Lucien — are you both staying here for long?"
"Yes, Father," Silvia grinned. "Didn't you hear? We've been appointed as war medics. Looks like we'll all be together if war ever breaks again."
"Really?" Sybil raised a brow. "Even Lucien?"
Lucien smiled and nodded silently.
"Well, even Sylas here might join us if that happens," Silvia teased, twirling her fork through her salad. "The four of us together again — wouldn't that be something?"
Her cheerful words drew laughter, yet Joana's eyes softened with worry. The thought of her husband and both children returning to the battlefield filled her with quiet dread. Elira, noticing the faint sadness in Mrs. Joana's face, gently reached out and held her hand.
"Mrs. Joana," Elira said softly, "is something wrong?"
"Oh, I'm fine, dear," Joana replied quickly, though her smile wavered. Silvia noticed.
"Mother," Silvia said tenderly, "don't worry, alright? We can handle ourselves." She leaned closer with a grin. "Remember, you married the Great Commander himself!"
Her playful tone made Joana laugh at last. "You always know how to lift my spirits, my child," she said, shaking her head fondly.
Sybil looked at his wife — the warmth in her smile, the laughter returning to her eyes — and for a brief moment, the house felt filled with peace. It was the kind of simple happiness that even soldiers longed for.
When Sybil finished his meal, he stood, adjusting his coat. "It's time for me to return to the quarters," he said.
Sylas rose immediately. "I'll come with you, Father. We should report together about what happened at the tavern—"
But Sybil raised a hand. "No. Stay here, Sylas. Spend more time with your mother first."
Sylas blinked, surprised. "What?"
"I said stay," his father repeated, his tone calm yet firm. "I'll explain everything to the Emperor myself. I'll see to it that your name — and the Crown Prince's — are cleared."
The room fell silent. Everyone stared, astonished by the sudden gentleness in Sybil's words. Even Joana blinked twice in disbelief, while Sylas, standing nearby, looked stunned.
"Are you certain, Father? What about my punishment?" Sylas asked carefully.
"This time," Sybil said, his silver eyes steady, "I'll let it pass. But if such recklessness happens again, I'll be the one to deal the punishment myself. Do you understand, Sylas?"
"Yes, Father," Sylas replied, straightening at once.
Sybil gave a small nod and turned toward the staircase. Elira, still taken aback by his kindness, suddenly stood and called after him.
"My lord… thank you," she said, bowing deeply.
From halfway up the stairs, Sybil paused. He looked back at her, a faint smile softening his features, before continuing his ascent.
Elira slowly lifted her head, her heart light and full of quiet joy. For the first time, she had seen compassion in the eyes of the great commander — and it left her smiling all morning, as sunlight spilled gently through the windows of Mrs. Joana's home.
***
Within the peaceful palace of Highthorne, the grand hall shimmered with morning light. Upon the crimson throne sat Emperor Dwayne, his presence both regal and commanding — dressed in a white high-collared shirt beneath a deep blue and gold cape, its fabric edged with royal embroidery. His brown belt gleamed with a golden buckle, and his dark red hair caught the faint glow of the chandeliers above. Those piercing blue eyes now fixed sternly upon Commander Sybil, who stood bowed before him.
"Speak," the emperor commanded, his voice echoing through the marble hall.
Sybil inhaled deeply, steadying himself before he began."Regarding the matter of the Crown Prince and my son, Your Majesty… indeed, they acted recklessly in saving a woman from a tavern. However, it so happened that the tavern was harbouring a syndicate member we've long sought — the very ones abducting women for their illegal auctions."
The emperor merely grunted, urging him to continue with a faint flick of his hand.
"I beg forgiveness on behalf of my son," Sybil said, his voice firm yet respectful. "But, Your Majesty, in truth, they have done no wrong. They only saved an innocent young girl — my wife's adopted daughter. And because of the Crown Prince's help, justice has finally reached those vile ladies."
The emperor rose slowly from his throne, his long cape brushing the steps. His boots echoed with every stride as he approached Sybil, whose head remained lowered. When Dwayne finally stopped before him, his gaze was sharp and unreadable. Then, with dramatic seriousness, he placed both hands on the commander's shoulders.
"You idiot," he said in a grave tone — before suddenly bursting into laughter. "Stop being so bloody serious! You're making it sound dramatic — it's cringe!"
The emperor shook him by the shoulders so hard that Sybil's composure nearly fell apart; his eyes widened in disbelief as his long-time friend rocked him like a sack of grain.
"Your Majesty— stop it! This is embarrassing!" Sybil protested, gently pushing Dwayne away as he tried to fix his uniform and tighten his tie. He looked every bit the dignified commander in his black and navy uniform — or at least, he tried to.
"You silly man," Dwayne said, still chuckling as he straightened his cape. "Why so serious? You know I'd never punish someone for that kind of reason."
Sybil raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "I should've known. The boy clearly takes after you."
Dwayne smirked, pretending to be offended. "Oh, come off it, Commander." Then, slapping his friend lightly on the back, he added with warmth, "Come now, let's have tea in my garden — our old spot. It's been ages."
And so, with a familiar camaraderie only lifelong friends could share, the emperor and the commander left the great hall together — laughter echoing faintly through the marble corridors of Highthorne Palace.