Afternoon light drifted softly through the corridor windows as Bea made her way toward the office, gently guiding the trolley before her. Upon it sat a pot of freshly brewed red tea, still steaming, alongside several unsweetened snacks—exactly as requested by the Imperial Strategist, Zevriel Caelan Vareen, the sole heir of Duke Vareen and the highest-ranking strategist in the Empire.
Bea moved at a careful pace, ensuring the delicate rattling of porcelain remained controlled. Her steps grew more cautious the moment she reached the Strategist's grand office door, the faint golden crest shining under the light.
She drew in a steady breath and lifted her knuckles.
Knock, knock.
"My lord, I'm here to bring the food and tea you asked for…" she called, her voice polite and steady as she waited. Silence answered her—no sound from inside the office.
She knocked once more—firm, polite, patient. Still nothing.
Bea bit her lower lip nervously. She didn't dare enter without permission. It was a strict rule, especially for the office of someone as crucial—and intimidating—as the Imperial Strategist. Stepping inside without leave was absolutely forbidden.
So she stood quietly, her hands lightly resting on the trolley handle, her posture straight and composed. The scene felt familiar; it reminded her of the long hours back when she worked in the tavern, waiting outside storerooms and kitchens for busy staff to answer.
Time stretched, and Bea remained still, the trolley at her side.
Then—A shadow fell over her.
Bea stiffened. A tall figure stood directly behind her, close enough that she felt the faint shift of air as he approached. Her heart dipped into her stomach. She turned her head instinctively—and froze.
A man's arm swept past the right side of her face, his hand reaching forward to the door. The movement was swift and silent, yet close enough that a few loose strands of her hair brushed lightly against her cheek from the passing breeze.
Her breath hitched.
He didn't step around her, nor did he brush against her; yet from behind, he pushed the door open, his presence towering and unmistakably authoritative.
Bea's eyes widened, shock washing through her as the door swung fully open.
Standing behind her, revealed by the soft afternoon glow, was none other than Zevriel Caelan Vareen, the Head of the Imperial Strategists.
His expression was icy and unreadable, framed by striking blue eyes that held not even a flicker of warmth. His maroon hair fell neatly into place, contrasting against his pale complexion. He wore a light blue vest paired with a black tie, a crisp white shirt beneath, grey trousers, and a long white coat trimmed with black and gold. A sword rested at his hip, the polished sheath gleaming faintly. The coat draped loosely over his shoulders, giving him a commanding, effortless presence.
Bea felt her breath catch again. She straightened instinctively, her fingers gripping the trolley a little too tightly.
"Tsk." His voice cut through the silence, low and cool as winter steel.
"How do you expect someone to answer from inside," he remarked coldly, "when there isn't anyone in there to begin with?"
He didn't spare her another glance. With a smooth, assured stride, Zevriel walked past her, entering his office as if nothing at all had occurred.
Bea remained frozen in place, utterly stunned, her heart thudding as the air he displaced slowly settled around her.
The hour was late, and night had long fallen, and Elira still hadn't eaten a single bite. Every maid in the mansion was working overtime, rushing back and forth like anxious little birds as they scrubbed, dusted, polished, and prepared every inch of the estate for the Empress's grand birthday celebration. The emperor himself had commanded that the mansion be spotless, and so the servants worked with aching backs and sore feet, leaving no room for rest—not even enough time for Elira to take her dinner.
She exhaled slowly, wiping the sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand as she made her way down the long hallway. Her steps were heavy, her stomach hollow. Just across from her, Sylas appeared—still dressed in his Highthorne uniform, the light fabric hugging his tall frame, his golden buttons catching what little light the corridor offered.
Elira lifted her head, and when her gaze met his, her eyes widened. Sylas's eyes widened slightly as well, a flicker of surprise passing between them.
"Oh? Sylas… heading to your chamber?" she asked with a bright smile—one of those smiles that made her eyes naturally close at the edges.
Sylas reached up to massage the back of his neck, his expression softening. "I suppose so. And you?" His voice carried that familiar coldness, yet beneath it was something gentle—something warm reserved only for certain moments… like this one.
"I was going to make my way—"
Grrrrr***
Elira froze mid-step as the sound echoed through the hall. Both she and Sylas stared at each other, eyes wide, stunned—because the rumbling came not from one stomach, but two.
"Ahaha…" Elira let out a small laugh, lifting one hand to her lips to stifle it, her cheeks warming. Sylas drew a faint, embarrassed smile as he looked away, his ears tinged with a subtle red. Even he couldn't hide it—he was hungry too.
"I'm guessing you didn't have your dinner?" Sylas asked, clearing his throat.
"And you as well—ahaha." Elira replied with a soft chuckle, answering his question with another. She assumed he had skipped his meal because of work. Meanwhile, she was in the exact same situation.
"Come with me to the kitchen. There might be some food left… something prepared for the servants," she suggested, reaching out without hesitation. Her hand lightly tugged at his shoulder, guiding him along.
Sylas blinked—slightly startled by her boldness. She was so carefree with him, so unreserved, and though he hid it well, something inside him warmed. He could have called a servant to bring him a meal. He was, after all, the son of the Supreme High Commander. But tonight… he didn't want to ruin her mood. Not when Elira was smiling at him like that. Just for tonight, he would follow her lead.
As they headed to the kitchen, Elira carefully pushed the door open and peeked inside first, checking if Mr. Rodel—the strict, ever-diligent chief of the Highthorne Palace kitchens—was still around. The kitchen was spotless, already cleaned for the night. Only a few servants remained, wiping down counters and finishing the last of the dishes.
When Elira and Sylas stepped fully inside, she spotted Mr. Rodel cleaning the tables and the cooking area.
"Oh—Elira. What brings you here at this hour?" Rodel asked, but his attention immediately shifted as soon as he noticed Sylas. His posture straightened sharply. "My lord. Is there anything I can assist you with?"
Rodel placed a hand over his chest and bowed to Sylas. The other servants followed, bowing with deep respect.
Elira's breath caught. She flushed—warm pink blooming across her cheeks. She had spoken to Sylas so casually in front of the staff. She had tugged at his shoulder like they were equals. She hadn't addressed him properly… completely forgetting her place as a maid in Highthorne.
Sylas noticed her reaction. Her lowered head, her stiff hands, the way her shoulders tensed. So, he gently reached out and patted her head—soft, reassuring. Then he turned to Rodel and answered calmly:
"No need for formalities. Is there anything I can get to eat? I'm rather late for dinner."
Rodel lifted his head. "Would you like us to cook something fresh for you, my lord?" he asked eagerly, waving his hand toward the cooking area.
Sylas shook his head immediately. He could see how exhausted the kitchen staff were. Their eyes were tired, their shoulders drooping. And the kitchen was already spotless—they had worked hard.
"No," Sylas replied quietly. "Just bring me something to eat. I'll take it to my chambers." His voice was deep, cold as always, yet smooth—softened by fatigue.
"Yes, my lord." Rodel bowed once more before gathering dishes that had been prepared earlier but never served. These weren't leftovers—they were untouched meals that simply hadn't reached the dining table. He arranged them neatly into a wooden box, choosing the ones he felt Sylas would prefer, even though Sylas had insisted anything would do.
Meanwhile, Elira grabbed a small portion of food meant for servants—simple but warm—and held it close, smiling gently as they both stepped out of the kitchen.
They walked down the corridor side by side, guided only by the pale moonlight spilling through the high windows.
"Are you heading to your room now?" Sylas asked, his cold voice dropping low as he cast a brief glance her way.
"Yes… and you?" she asked in return.
"Seems I'll be eating this supper alone." Sylas lifted the wooden box slightly to show her.
"As if." Elira rolled her eyes playfully, shrugging. "I know a place here in the mansion where we can eat together—like we always do."
A faint color touched Sylas's cheeks. He looked away, clearing his throat.
"I know a place.." he said, his voice cold but laced with quiet embarrassment.
Elira stopped walking in surprise, her hair's loose strands swaying gently as the evening air drifted through the corridor. Her bun was slightly messy from a long day's work, yet she still looked soft and warm under the dim lights.
Sylas's words echoed between them, carrying a promise of something familiar… something comfortable.
A place only the two of them would go.
*******
It was deep into the night when Elira and Sylas walked to the only garden within the Imperial Palace. The place rested several miles away from the maids' quarters and Sylas's chamber, yet both of them had chosen it—a quiet bench beneath the soft shimmer of moonlight—for their late dinner. When they finally sat, the silence around them felt peaceful and warm, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves. Each opened their wooden box of food, prepared and packed by Rodel, the palace's ever-reliable head chef.
"What did you get?" Elira asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, her smile bright and childlike.
Sylas lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug, his voice cool. "A small meat pie… cold roasted chicken slices, a loaf of brown bread, and dried berries." He finished opening his wooden box, revealing food clearly meant for someone of noble rank, not a lowly guard.
"And you?" he asked, glancing at her with mild interest.
"Well…" Elira lifted the lid of her own box and leaned closer to show him. "Brown bread, a smoked sausage, and a few dried fruits," she said with a delighted grin, her expression so genuinely pleased that Sylas quietly wondered, Is this what servants are given? Is this what she eats every day?
His gaze drifted to her simple meal. A faint ache settled in his chest—something close to pity, though he would never admit it. In all his years, he had never imagined Elira surviving on such modest food, especially after working so tirelessly in the palace. The divide between commoners and nobles, he realized, was far harsher than he allowed himself to see.
Sylas pierced a piece of chicken leg with his fork.
"Elira," he called.
"Hmm?" Elira hummed softly, already chewing her bread. She almost choked when Sylas suddenly extended the piece of chicken towards her. Her eyes widened in shock.
"No—no, you can't do that, Sylas… it's forbidden." Elira tried to push it back to him, panic tightening her voice, but Sylas stopped her gently. He caught her wrist, guiding her hand back towards her box with a firm but careful touch, placing the piece of chicken among her simple meal.
"It's for you," he said, his voice dropping lower. "And stop fussing about rules. I'm only a captain—I can do whatever I want." A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he turned his gaze toward the flower beds and began eating again.
"You can?" she asked, chewing thoughtfully. "I thought all soldiers had strict rules."
"We do," Sylas replied, taking another bite. "But not like the crown prince. He has stricter rules than all of us combined." His tone remained plain, though he lifted his head to the sky, admiring the bright moon and scattering of stars.
Elira found her eyes drawn to him—drawn to the way the moonlight softened the sharp lines of his face.
For her, their worlds had always felt impossibly far apart. Cassian was royalty, someone she was expected to respect from a careful distance. She was a commoner—a maid who needed to remain composed and obedient, no matter how heavy that boundary felt. And yet… sitting here under the quiet night sky, something inside her eased. Something simple. Something gentle.
A faint smile curved on her lips as she looked down, breathing in the night air. When she glanced back at Sylas—
Her breath caught.
Her hair shifted lightly with the breeze as time seemed to slow. Sylas was staring at her—not with his usual coldness, nor with the fierce silver glare that unsettled everyone else. No. His gaze held warmth… softness… something she could not name. Passion, even. The kind of stare that reached beyond words.
Elira felt her heartbeat slam against her chest.
Their conversation had been ordinary, almost casual, yet his eyes… nothing about that felt ordinary. She froze, unsure what to do, while Sylas remained unmoving, his attention fixed solely on her. The night grew impossibly quiet, as if holding its breath for them.
Then Sylas parted his lips, slowly, as though ready to speak—
"So, you're both here after all?"
A familiar voice sliced through the moment.
Both Sylas and Elira turned sharply. Not far behind them stood the ever-stubborn crown prince himself. Cassian wore his night clothes, his head lowered, his lips pushed into a pout like a child betrayed by his closest friends.