When Silvia and Lucien had gone upstairs with their son, Luke, to sort out their belongings, the rest of the house sank into a soft hum of clinking dishes and running water. Down in the kitchen, Sylas and Elira were left behind, sleeves rolled up and laughter still faintly echoing from the dinner they'd just shared.
Sylas stood by the sink, sleeves slightly damp, while Elira, graceful as ever, took charge of the drying. After Sylas rinsed the plates, Elira would take them one by one, her hands wrapped in a soft towel, wiping until each glass and dish gleamed like new. She moved lightly—almost dancing—as she placed them neatly back in the cupboard.
Across the table, Cassian sat like a bored royal forced into peasantry. Chin resting on his palm, lips pushed into a dramatic pout, he looked very much like a sulky cat denied its milk.
Honestly, if boredom were an Olympic sport, Cassian would've taken the gold.
His eyes, however, were fixed on Sylas and Elira—more precisely, on the narrow space between them that seemed to shrink every passing moment. Their knees brushed once, and that was enough for something sharp to stir inside him.
He didn't quite know why he felt that way—annoyed, unsettled, or… jealous? The word hung in his chest like an echo he refused to admit.
"Move aside! I'll do the washing, Sylas!" Cassian suddenly declared, standing so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor.
Sylas blinked, frowning, as Cassian elbowed his way to the sink. "What? Have you lost your mind?"
Elira nearly dropped the towel, eyes widening at Cassian's intrusion.
Sylas, baffled, could only stare. He knew Cassian—Crown Prince Cassian—who'd probably never touched a dish in his entire royal life. The only thing this man had ever held with confidence was a sword.
Cassian puffed his chest out proudly. "Are you deaf? I said I'll wash the dishes! The older one should sit down and relax," he said with a grin so bright it was almost suspicious.
Sylas gawked. "Are you joking? You don't even know how to wash dishes, Cassian!"
"Maybe! But let me prove I can," Cassian replied, chin raised high with princely arrogance.
Elira couldn't help but chuckle softly, shaking her head. "Sylas… let Cassian do the dishes. I think he's serious this time—maybe he just wants to help you."
Cassian's smile immediately stretched wider, clearly pleased by Elira's support. Sylas, on the other hand, rolled his eyes heavenward. With an exaggerated sigh of defeat, he wiped his hands and walked back to the table, muttering under his breath.
As Sylas sat watching, Cassian turned toward the sink, his mind screaming, Bloody hell, I don't even know how to wash a plate! He picked one up, pretending to look confident, and stared at it like it was some ancient artefact.
Elira, standing beside him, tried to hold back her laughter. Her smile was soft and amused, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"So… how's the dishwashing going?" Sylas teased from behind, arms crossed.
"Oh, shut up, you thirty-year-old grump!" Cassian shot back, irritation colouring his cheeks.
He turned back to the plate, completely lost. What did people do again? Soap first? Water first? Do dishes have an order of rank, too?
Elira couldn't take it anymore. With a laugh escaping her lips, she stepped closer and gently took the plate from his hands. "Here, let me show you."
She guided him step by step, her voice melodic, almost teasing. "First, you rinse it with clean water. Then, you use the sponge—see? Like this. Gentle, not a battle, Cassian. Then rinse it again until there's no soap left. And look—spotless!"
Her tone was bright, her smile radiant. Cassian found himself staring not at the plate, but at her.
I want her to smile like that forever, he thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He mimicked her motions clumsily, earning a soft laugh from Elira that warmed the air between them.
From the table, Sylas watched quietly. Something in Cassian's gaze made his chest tighten—a fleeting ache he didn't care to name. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he swore Cassian looked at Elira as though she were the only light in the room.
And as the laughter of the kitchen filled the silence of the night, neither man spoke of what they felt—one denying it, the other too afraid to admit it.
"Mommy, the room is so lovely… and breezy," Luke exclaimed, his small hands pushing open the windows, letting sunlight and a playful breeze sweep into the space.
"Unlike our house… so huge, yet lonely," he added thoughtfully. In Silvia's grand mansion, Luke often felt the weight of solitude. Despite the vastness of the home, he had no companions aside from the servants. Compared to Mrs. Joana's house, where he could wander and play freely, this place felt quiet—almost too quiet for a boy with sparkling silver eyes and endless curiosity.
Lucien's faint smile appeared as he watched his son, soft and tender. He stepped closer, gently patting Luke's head, and the warmth of his presence seemed to fill the room.
"Oh, Dad! Can we stay here forever?" Luke's eyes glittered as he looked up at him, full of hope and excitement.
Lucien signed carefully, his hands deliberate and precise: Yes, we can… as long as you don't give your mother a headache.
Luke understood perfectly, his smile widening. "Yes, Father, I will," he said with a lively sparkle.
It had been Mrs. Joana who had first taught Lucien sign language. Years ago, when Silvia was only ten, Mrs. Joana had accompanied the group to deliver food supplies and any medicines the orphanage might need. There, she met Lucien, a boy who could hear but could not speak, and his plight drew out her compassion. She adopted him that day. Under her gentle guidance, he learned to communicate through his hands, and now only Silvia, Luke, and Mrs. Joana truly understood him.
Lucien's legacy went far beyond sign language. He was the famed Silent Alchemist, a man who could concoct poisons and antidotes of every kind—even those potent enough to counter the venom of demons. Yet here, he was simply a father, a husband, a man silently brimming with love.
"Can I go play with Auntie Elira?" Luke asked, his small face alight with mischief and curiosity.
"You may, Luke," Silvia replied with a smile, "but don't give your Auntie Elira a headache, alright?"
With that, Luke's joy overflowed. He scampered downstairs, eager to properly greet Elira, leaving Silvia behind, smiling quietly as she arranged things in a small cabinet.
Suddenly, a warmth pressed against her back. Silvia stiffened for a heartbeat, startled, before feeling a familiar presence wrap around her. She allowed a faint, tender smile to bloom.
"Sch… Schilvia…" Lucien murmured, forcing the single word he could speak from his heart—her name, whispered with all the love he had carried silently all these years.
"Yes… I love you too," Silvia said, her voice soft, wrapping around him in return. She leaned slightly into his embrace, feeling the steady strength and quiet devotion of her husband. Lucien pressed closer, though he could not yet speak; the only word he could voice was the name of his beloved wife. And somehow, in that gentle hold, that one word said everything.
******
In the dim alleys of the Lust District, Elinor seethed with fury. The air around her reeked of cheap wine and perfume, and yet it was her anger that stung the most. Her encounter with her daughter—together with the Commander's wife of Highthorne—had left her blood boiling.
"Bloody hell! That bitch!" Elinor hissed, slamming her palm hard against the wooden table. Glasses trembled, and the bartender flinched from across the counter. Her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breath, but rage kept clawing its way up her throat. She had no one to call for help, no thug to snatch her daughter back and drag her here to the filthy bar where she worked.
"Elinor…" a low voice drawled behind her, sending a chill down her spine. "Your time is running out."
Her body stiffened. That voice — she knew it too well. Slowly, she turned her head and saw him emerge from the shadows. Mr. Morgand. His presence alone made her knees weak. The smirk curling on his lips was enough to make her blood turn cold.
"I'm working on it, boss," Elinor stammered, forcing a shaky smile. "It's just— I can't touch my daughter now. She's under the protection of the Commander's wife." She tried to sound convincing, but even she could hear the tremor in her own voice.
Mr. Morgand's grin widened. He leaned in, close enough for her to smell the faint trace of tobacco on his breath. "Hmm. I see. I believe you… this time."
Elinor blinked, uncertain. "You— you believe me, boss?" she asked, her tone softening with a flicker of relief. Maybe luck was finally on her side.
"Yes," he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I saw your little girl at the Market of Hearts. You, my dear, were causing quite the scene—screaming like a madwoman, weren't you?" His chuckle was cruel, mocking.
Elinor's pride faltered. That day, she had lunged at Elira in the plaza, causing a scandal in front of half the market — unaware that Morgan himself had been there on business. Her desperate outburst had only made her a fool in his eyes… yet it had also drawn his interest to the girl beside her.
Elira.
Mr. Morgand had noticed her instantly. Her beauty had stunned him — those striking golden eyes, rare and luminous, a trait unlike her mother's dark ones. For a moment, he had thought he was staring at a younger version of Elinor herself, back when she was still desirable, untamed, and dangerous.
"I only did that because my daughter's turning into a little witch," Elinor snapped, folding her arms across her chest. Her lips curled in contempt. "I don't even know how she ended up with two men — and the Commander's wife of all people!"
Mr. Morgand leaned back, tapping a finger against his glass. His grin grew slow, deliberate. "What if," he said smoothly, "I help you this time?"
Elinor's head jerked up. Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. "You'd help me?" she whispered, her voice trembling with both shock and greed.
"Yes," he purred. "I will."
The grin on his lips was sharp and glinting — the kind that promised nothing good. For Mr. Morgan, it was not an act of mercy but opportunity. If he could get his hands on Elira, he knew the girl would fetch a fortune among his wealthy clients.
And as Elinor's trembling lips stretched into a faint smile, she failed to see the danger glimmering in his eyes — the look of a man who had already decided her daughter's fate.