Seraphina ( pov)
The silence between us had settled gently, like early morning fog. Sylas remained still near the window, unmoving, barely breathing. His presence didn't fill the room—he allowed it to shrink around him.
I was just about to speak again—something small, something kind—when I smelled lavender.
Then the door opened.
And I straightened instinctively.
My mother had arrived.
Lady Virellia stepped into the sitting room with the grace of a queen and the silence of snowfall. Her dress trailed behind her like a whisper. Silver with midnight blue trim—subtle elegance. Her gaze swept the room, but I already knew what it would land on.
Sylas.
She saw him immediately.
Not just with her eyes, but with all of her attention. That quiet, sharp kind that never missed anything.
She said nothing for a moment.
Then, softly, "Is this him?"
I nodded. "Yes. Mother, this is Sylas."
Her expression didn't change, but her energy shifted subtly—like thorns hidden beneath silk.
She moved closer, slowly, calmly, like one might approach a caged animal.
"You're the one assigned to my daughter?"
"Yes, my lady," Sylas answered, voice even.
My mother tilted her head slightly, studying him. Not with curiosity—with suspicion. Her love for me didn't leave room for blind trust. Especially not in those she hadn't chosen herself.
"He's... thinner than expected," she said, folding her hands. "And very quiet."
Sylas didn't react.
She stepped even closer, and her tone sharpened—still soft, but with edges. "Why are you here, boy?"
He met her gaze. "The Duke assigned me."
"That wasn't my question."
There was no anger in her voice. Just control. Precision.
I opened my mouth, ready to speak for him, but Sylas answered first.
"I go where I'm placed. I serve where I'm told."
"Do you?" she murmured, circling just a step to the side. "You don't seem afraid. Or grateful. That's uncommon in your position."
"I've learned fear doesn't help," he replied calmly.
Her eyes narrowed just slightly. I saw it—the flicker of calculation behind her stillness. Not fear, not dislike. Just a noblewoman trying to solve a puzzle.
"You're a quiet one," she finally said. "But quiet does not mean safe."
I saw Sylas's posture shift ever so slightly, his chin lowering—but not out of submission. Out of control. Containment.
Lady Virellia turned her gaze to me, and instantly, her expression softened. Completely.
Like spring blooming after winter.
"My flower," she said, brushing a gentle hand across my hair. "You look tired. Are you well?"
I smiled faintly. "Just a little restless. I was speaking with Sylas."
Her eyes returned to him. The warmth vanished.
"If he ever causes you even a flicker of discomfort," she said calmly, "tell me."
I nodded. "He hasn't. He's been respectful."
"I believe you," she said, then to Sylas, "You'll understand if I watch closely. My daughter is not someone I leave unguarded."
Sylas simply nodded.
"I don't doubt your ability to serve," she continued. "But if your silence hides something dangerous… I will know."
She wasn't cruel. Not in the way many nobles were. But there was no mistaking it—she was a blade in a sheath of perfume and poise.
Sylas lowered his gaze slightly. "I would never harm her."
Her gaze lingered. Then, softly, she said, "I hope not."
And with that, she turned toward the door. But just before leaving, she paused.
Then, surprisingly, she looked over her shoulder and said, "Do not take her kindness as permission. You are here to serve. Nothing more."
Then she walked out, her footsteps as graceful as they were final.
---
The door closed.
The room fell silent again—but it wasn't the same as before.
Sylas didn't move. I watched him carefully.
"I'm sorry," I said after a moment. "She's always protective."
"She loves you," he said simply.
I blinked. "How did you know?"
"She looked at me like I was fire," he replied. "And she looked at you like you were glass."
I swallowed.
"That's accurate."
He nodded slightly. "It's not a bad thing."
"No," I agreed softly. "But it makes trusting anyone else… hard for her."
I paused. Then looked at him again. "You handled her well."
He didn't reply. But I noticed something: his hands, which had been clenched faintly, slowly relaxed.
"I've met worse," he said at last.
"You didn't look scared."
"I was."
That surprised me.
"Why didn't you show it?"
He looked out the window. "I learned early that fear invites cruelty."
My heart ached again.
"You won't find that here," I whispered.
"I hope not," he said quietly.
And for the first time, I saw something shift in his expression. Not warmth—not yet.
But… recognition.
A faint acknowledgment that perhaps, just perhaps, this place would not burn him like the others had.
End of chapter