The Morning After
That night, Silas barely slept. His heart tugged in two directions—sorrow for his lord, as always, and quiet relief that perhaps, at last, someone truly cared for him. It was a strange blend of emotions, but he was glad, deeply glad, to have played a small part in it.
Everyone in the manor knew Lord Erion was ill. That was the reason he stayed isolated at night. But no one truly knew the extent of it.
Back then, when resentment toward House McQuaide was stronger, cruel rumors ran rampant. Gossip painted the young heir as a violent, dangerous man—or worse, a shameless womanizer kept locked away to avoid scandal.
Through all the accusations, Erion never flinched. He either smiled or said nothing, even when the words were cruel enough to wound. Silas, who had helped raise him—who had once taught that little boy how to tie his boots—wanted nothing more than to shout back at the world.
But his lord never let him.
Now, older and wiser, Silas had made a vow: he would be the composed one. He would carry what Erion couldn't show.
Dressed in his usual long sleeves and worn jeans, Silas returned to the East Wing. This was his second time that morning. Earlier, he'd quietly reinforced the rule that no one was to enter this wing—not even the senior staff. What was once an unspoken rule was now absolute.
He had peeked in only once.
They were still asleep—peacefully, silently. The Lady Evah held Erion's hand in both of hers, refusing to let go. And Erion—his face, always so guarded and tired—was finally at peace. As if the nightmares had left him alone, just this once.
Silas smiled without meaning to.
Now, he stood quietly outside the East Wing doors again. He had no intention of entering. He only wanted to check—just once more—to make sure they were safe.
Whatever the Lord's punishment, I'll accept it, he told himself.
Click.
The doorknob turned. The door opened—not from his hand, but from within.
And there stood Lord Erion.
Just awakened, his hair messy, lashes heavy with sleep. For a heartbeat, Silas saw not the man, but the boy he once knew. The child who used to wake up calling his name.
But Erion's eyes—sleepy as they were—held a quiet resolve.
In his arms, bridal style, lay Lady Evah, still fast asleep her face was still laced with deep anxiousness.
Without a word, Silas bowed low in apology. There was no need for spoken words between them. Lord Erion understood.
The expression on Erion's face didn't change. He gave only the slightest shake of his head—small, but unmistakable.
Mercy.
Gratitude swelled in Silas's chest. He bowed again, even lower this time.
Erion gave him a short nod in return.
With his forehead nearly touching the carpet, Silas only saw the Lord's bare feet passing in front of him, then the soft footsteps as Erion walked forward—carrying the sleeping Lady toward the West Wing.
Silas didn't move. He only watched.
There, under the morning sun, Erion's back was laid bare—no shirt to hide the countless scars that ran from his wrists to his spine. Marks the world never saw. Pain he never showed.
Now he walked through the halls unapologetically, carrying her like something sacred.
Silas felt his throat tighten. He wanted to cry—but he held it in, not until they disappeared down the corridor and turned into the West Wing.
Not until his lord was safe, and no longer alone.
YACHT — OFF THE COAST OF PHIL'PHAN — MORNING
"How was the operation in Zone 7?"
Her voice was calm—unbothered, almost lazy.
She stood at the edge of the yacht's deck, platinum-blonde hair shimmering in the golden morning light, the sea breeze barely stirring its perfect waves. A red strapless dress clung to her figure as the sun poured over her bare shoulders, illuminating her like a painting—one that didn't belong in this world.
Beyond the railing stretched Ar'sia—untouchable, forbidden, yet so close.
She smiled. Cold. Detached.
"Good job. At last, you're not entirely useless, Leon," she said flatly, though her tone didn't shift from its bored rhythm.
"And the Originator? Have you found her yet?"
Silence followed on the line.
All around her, dozens of guards stood watch—dressed in black, earpieces crackling, eyes scanning the horizon. On a nearby boat, even more waited—snipers and soldiers, all stationed for one thing: to protect her.
She tilted her head slightly, as if the pause had lasted a second too long. A visible expression of disinterest crossed her face.
"It sounds ridiculous," she muttered, eyes narrowing. "But if it entertains me, I'll allow it."
A burst of laughter echoed through the phone—male, fervent, disturbingly reverent.
"Just make sure that in the end, I get her. No rush."
She ended the call without waiting for a reply.
Turning slowly, she cast a glance at one of the men nearby. They all looked the same—black suits, slicked-back hair, faceless shadows molded to serve.
"Find the reporter," she ordered.
"Yes, Mother," the man replied with a bow.
She turned her back to them once more, her smile gone now. The light danced on the waves behind her—glittering, mocking.
The hunt had begun.