“Come in.”

At his command, the maids hurried into the room, their steps quick but measured, as if they had been waiting outside. Startled, Cyrene tried to sit up, but her body, completely drained of energy, sank back onto the damp, dishevelled bed.

The familiar faces of the maids moved with practiced composure, deliberately ignoring the telltale signs of what had happened. One handed her a cup of cold tea, while another carefully adjusted Areo’s clothes. Cradling the mug in her hands, Cyrene stared blankly, her mind foggy, until a short command shattered the heavy silence.

“Drink.”

“…What?”

A subtle twitch of his dark eyebrows was the only response he gave. Cyrene dropped her gaze to the tea in her hands, noting that it tasted slightly more bitter than usual. Without hesitation, she finished the cup, and only then did Areos’s sharp gaze shift away from her. By that time, he had already transformed into a refined, impeccably dressed figure.

As he approached the bed, he reached out and lightly stroked her hair, his touch unexpectedly tender. His hand moved under her chin, stroking it with a deliberate softness, almost as if he were petting a dog. The sensation was both ticklish and strangely intimate, leaving Cyrene with a conflicted feeling. She lowered her eyes to avoid his, unable to process the emotions swirling inside her.

“You can sleep a little longer.”

With that, he leisurely left the room. The maids quickly changed the sheets and began to clean her up. As they worked, Cyrene ran her tongue lightly over her lips, where the lingering bitterness of the tea remained.

Back in bed, she lay staring blankly out the window. It was the first time she had spent the morning with Areos. The first time he had come to her room.

She couldn’t decide if this change was for the better or for the worse. With a deep sigh, Cyrene closed her eyes, exhaustion quickly overwhelming her.

***

Even after a long rest, Areos had not returned.

She must be in a meeting.

It wasn’t something to question, nor did it *rouse any real curiosity in her. Cyrene watched absently as a passing servant glanced in her direction before hastily turning his attention elsewhere.

Another servant leaned over and whispered something to him, followed by a sharp slap on the back. As Cyrene moved through the corridors, around corners or past guards, she could feel their eyes following her, silently watching her every move.

The unsettling, almost clinging stares sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t hard to guess what thoughts were running through her mind. With each encounter, she had come to understand all too well the cold and commanding presence that Areo’s gaze conveyed.

Her pace quickened instinctively. As she wandered aimlessly through the castle, the memory of the man she had met so recently suddenly entered her mind, unbidden but lingering.

Ilion.

She silently repeated his name to herself, a name she hadn’t even dared to say out loud. Sunlit, deep golden hair. A face that was strangely familiar. Cyrene found herself back in the garden, standing by the same iron bars where she had first seen him. She leaned against them, holding her body close as she looked beyond them.

They hadn’t really ‘spoken’, but she had said his name. And nothing had happened after that. Her tongue hadn’t been cut off, nor had she been punished in any way. It was as if the moment had passed unnoticed by all but her.

Was it all just… nothing?

Of course, it made sense. He couldn’t possibly be someone who frequented this place – if he were, he would have known her by now. As Cyrene cast her eyes over the figures moving outside, she saw different looks meet hers.

Some were glaring, others distant and dazed, and a few sharp with hostility. But whatever their character, each pair of eyes seemed to linger on her face, scrutinising her as if searching for something.

Feeling a strange mixture of vulnerability and familiarity, Cyrene instinctively curled up into the same position she had taken when she first met Ilion.

There was no guarantee that such a coincidence would happen again. After all, it was only a “coincidence”.

And even if they did meet, what would she do?

She wouldn’t talk to him. She wouldn’t touch him. She just… wanted to see him again. That familiar, yet unfamiliar face. She was curious to see what kind of expression would be reflected in his pitch-black eyes if he showed up again.

Cyrene rested her cheek against her arm, her body still and thoughtful. Every time she moved her head, the sunlight caught her hair, its brilliance blinding her for a moment. As she frowned slightly, the light dimmed and another long shadow stretched across her, partially shading her.

“Your Highness!”

“I know.”

This time there were two. The man who had taken Ilion before, and Ilion himself. Cyrene looked up at him, staring intently.

He must be one of his closest associates.

Was he someone who always followed him, like the prince’s usual companion?

Cyrene stole a glance at the unknown man. He stared at her for a moment, then blushed deeply and shook his head roughly.

Cyrene slowly rose to her feet. Ilion was even larger than she had expected. Perhaps as tall as Areos. She leaned closer, gripping the iron bars tightly.

“Your Highness!”

“I’m glad you’re not crying after all.”

He smiled faintly. Cyrene watched her reflection in his dark eyes. There was no other emotion. No cold, no fear. It was different from the usual look she was used to.

“Your Highness. Have you gone mad? Please… stop.”

The man beside him gave his arm a sharp tug, but Ilion didn’t move. Instead, he glanced at Cyrene out of the corner of his eye before abruptly turning his head away.

For some reason, she felt reassured – a feeling she’d never experienced from simply meeting someone’s gaze. Cyrene remained rooted to the spot, her eyes locked with his for what seemed like an eternity, silently studying his dark, enigmatic expression.

Why did he look so familiar? Why didn’t his gaze carry the same cold, disturbing weight as everyone else’s? Questions flooded her mind, swirling on the tip of her tongue, but not a word escaped her lips.

To speak was to risk losing her tongue. The memory of lukewarm, metallic flesh in her hand lingered vividly in her mind, sending a shiver down her spine. Cyrene blinked, her thoughts interrupted by a soft breeze that brushed her eyelashes, carrying a faint trace of his scent. Startled, she drew back instinctively.

“Are you all right?”

His voice broke the silence, catching her off guard. Cyrene took a few more hesitant steps backwards, her breath catching in her throat.

“Your Highness.”

The man beside him clung to him desperately, almost pleading, his movements frantic and urgent. Ilion’s gaze met Cyrene’s, steady and unflinching. For a fleeting moment, she thought she wanted to go to him – that if she could fall into his embrace, nothing in the world would frighten her anymore. But even that thought frightened her more.

Overwhelmed, Cyrene turned and fled, her steps hurried and unsteady, as if she were running from something she couldn’t face. The weight of the stares behind her somehow gave her a strange sense of reassurance. In the distance, the faint sound of someone calling out “Your Highness” faded to nothing.

“Ha… ha…”

She had run all the way back to her room, her heart pounding, and hurried to the window. Looking out, she saw Ilion still standing in the same spot where she had left him. Even from a distance, his dark golden hair shimmered like sunlight, drawing her gaze.

Cyrene quickly retreated behind the curtain, but even hidden, she felt as if his piercing dark eyes were still fixed on her, etched in her mind. Every deep breath she took seemed to carry a faint trace of his scent, lingering at the edge of her consciousness, refusing to fade.

Why?

What was different about him? Why did he seem different? Was it because he had acknowledged her, because he had spoken to her? These questions swirled in Cyrene’s mind, refusing to settle.

She squeezed her eyes shut as if to escape her own thoughts, then slowly opened them again. When she looked out from behind the curtain, the two men were gone. The empty scene outside only deepened the strange emptiness within.

Cyrene sank to the floor, her trembling hand resting on her chest where her heart was beating wildly. The sensation was unfamiliar, overwhelming – a feeling she had never known before.

***

“Cyrene.”

At the sound of Areos’ voice, Cyrene blinked, startled. His fingertips brushed her chin, lifting it gently until her eyes met his.

What thoughts were behind those golden eyes?

Unease prickled through her, and she clenched her dress tightly in her fists.

“It seems you saw something interesting out there.”

Was he referring to Ilion?

Cyrene was silent, her lips pressed together. Areos mouth twisted into a faint grin, amusement flickering across his face. The sight sent a shiver down her spine.

“Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

She really didn’t know anything – except that his name was Ilion. Every time she looked into Areos golden eyes, they reminded her of Ilion. Despite the unsettling glow they held, a part of her longed to see that warm light again.

Areos remained silent, his gaze lingering on her face. Without a word, he slowly stroked her cheek, his touch unexpectedly tender as he brushed her hair aside. For a fleeting moment, his actions felt almost gentle, as if he were handling something fragile and precious.

Then, without warning, his grip tightened, gripping her hair. The sudden change left her breathless, her body tensing as the contrast between tenderness and control sent shivers down her spine.