"Good evening, Lord Alphonse."
"Oh! Yes, good evening. Um… Elena… si—ster?"
The word sister slipped out as Alphonse hesitated, unsure of what title would be appropriate.
The moment it left his mouth, he stiffened and instinctively looked up at Elena's face, worried that he might have sounded rude or presumptuous.
Instead of displeasure, however, Elena's lips curved into a faint, amused smile.
"Sister… It's nice," she said gently. "I have an older brother, but no younger siblings."
Alphonse blinked, surprised by her response.
"Is it really okay if I call you sister?" he asked carefully, his voice uncertain, as if he were afraid the permission might vanish the moment he spoke.
"Of course," Elena replied without hesitation. "You're Damian's younger brother. I'm his fiancée—not officially yet, but still, Alphonse, that makes us family."
Family.
The word echoed in Alphonse's chest, warm and unfamiliar. A quiet delight spread through him, and for a brief moment, the weight he always carried felt lighter.
But that feeling did not last long.
His gaze drifted to the empty seat beside Elena, the space that should have been occupied by Damian.
Another vacant place lingered in his awareness as well, one meant for Count Kraus. Alphonse did not need to ask where they were. He already knew.
The joy in his expression slowly faded, replaced by a shadowed look.
Lowering his head, Alphonse spoke again, his voice soft and strained, almost crawling out of his throat.
"I'm sorry. Originally… my older brother and father would have been here."
Elena did not interrupt him.
Arthur Kraus—his father—was one of the finest prosecutors on the continent, a man whose name alone carried authority.
Damian, though still young, already embodied the perfect image of a successor: composed, brilliant, and unwavering.
Growing up under the shadows of those two, how could Alphonse ever feel truly confident?
And now, Damian had become the youngest sword master on the continent, standing shoulder to shoulder with Linehart of the Kromel family.
With each achievement Damian earned, the distance between them seemed to stretch wider, turning into a gap Alphonse could no longer imagine crossing.
It wasn't that Alphonse was incompetent.
The future Elena had lived through was proof of that.
Yet even so, surrounded by people whose abilities shone too brightly, it was difficult for him to believe in himself.
Their excellence did not inspire him—it overwhelmed him. Compared to them, his own talents felt small, dull, and insignificant.
Alphonse clenched his hands in his lap, shoulders tense, as though he were bracing himself against an invisible pressure.
Elena watched him quietly, her expression softening as the tension slowly drained from his shoulders.
Sometimes, the greatest burden was not failure, but standing beside those who never seemed to fail at all.
Alphonse had always been surrounded by people who shone too brightly. A gifted older brother. A distant yet capable father.
Servants and tutors who praised excellence as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Compared to them, his own hesitation felt like a flaw carved too deeply to hide.
Even though Elena knew that this inexperienced child would accomplish more in the future, not less, he needed someone's support at this very moment.
Strength did not grow in solitude alone. Sometimes, it required someone to stand close enough to notice the cracks.
Elena did not accept Alphonse's apology. Instead, she asked him a single question.
"Do you not feel sorry for Damian, Young Lord?"
Alphonse stiffened, clearly caught off guard.
"Yes? No! I feel sorry for him…"
His voice faltered midway, uncertainty tangling his words as if he were afraid of choosing the wrong one.
"Then why didn't you answer Damian today when you were in the Isilia Pavilion?"
"I…"
The sound died in his throat.
Elena spoke again before he could lose himself in that familiar silence.
"Alphonse, if you don't speak, people won't understand you."
Her tone was calm, but firm enough that he had no choice but to listen.
"Conversation is the easiest way to convey your feelings to others. If you keep waiting for the other person to understand first, you'll end up doing nothing at all."
Alphonse lowered his gaze. His fingers clenched lightly at his side, as though he were holding onto words that refused to come out.
If you don't speak, others will not know.
That was something Elena had learned painfully well in her previous life. Silence had never protected her. It had only allowed misunderstandings to grow unchecked.
Alphonse did not have the confidence she once possessed.
That was why, even when he wanted something—from his older brother, from his father—he could never bring himself to say it aloud.
Fear always came first.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of disappointing expectations that were never spoken, yet always present.
Elena looked at him for a long moment, not rushing him.
"You don't have to be eloquent," she added more gently. "You only have to be honest."
It was impossible to know how much influence Elena's words truly had on Alphonse. Whether they would change him immediately, or only linger in his thoughts for years to come.
But one thing was certain.
At this moment, Alphonse had made a decision.
Elena's warm voice reached Alphonse's ears, steady and gentle, as if it had been waiting for him to slow down enough to truly listen.
"Young Lord. If you have regrets, don't just keep them buried in your heart," she said softly. "You're still young. If you want to pamper yourself, then pamper yourself. Is Damian really the kind of person who can't accept a little indulgence from his younger brother? If that's the case… then I'd be disappointed."
Her tone was light at the end, almost teasing, but the concern beneath it was impossible to miss.
"Oh, no!" Alphonse blurted out immediately, lifting his head. "Big Brother isn't that kind of person. It's just… I didn't talk. So he didn't know."
The words spilled out faster than he intended, as if he were afraid that even a second of hesitation might make Elena misunderstand.
Basically, Alphonse Krauss was a good person.
He was young, but he thought too much for his age.
The reason he couldn't bring himself to speak to his brother wasn't simply a lack of confidence.
It was also because he didn't want to become another weight on Damian's shoulders. His brother was already grieving their mother in his own quiet way, already forcing himself to be strong.
Alphonse feared that adding his own feelings to that burden would only make things heavier.
Yet keeping everything locked inside wasn't good for anyone—neither for Alphonse, nor for Damian.
Elena watched him for a moment, then smiled. It was the kind of smile that suggested she had already known the answer long before he spoke.
"Of course, I know," she said. "Someone who claims he doesn't like sweets, yet still can't bring himself to throw away the caramel the attendants gave him, can't possibly be narrow‑minded."
She leaned forward slightly, her gaze warm and encouraging.
"So, Alphonse, trust your brother. And tell him."
Those simple words settled gently into his chest.
Alphonse lowered his eyes, staring at the surface of the soup in front of him.
The faint steam had almost disappeared, and the reflection staring back at him looked calmer than he felt just moments ago. After a short pause, he nodded.
"I'll try," he said quietly.
That was enough for Elena.
She didn't press him further. Instead, she picked up her spoon and scooped up a mouthful of soup, bringing it to her lips.
The soup had cooled slightly, just enough to be comfortable. Its warmth spread through her, easing the atmosphere at the table.
"Shall we eat before it gets too cold?" she asked.
Alphonse looked up at her again. This time, a small but genuine smile appeared on his face.
"Yes."
The tension that had lingered between them faded, replaced by a calm, familiar silence. The soft clink of utensils filled the room as the meal began again.
And for the first time in a while, Alphonse felt as though the weight in his heart had become just a little lighter.