The morning light poured in through the arched windows of the breakfast conservatory, painting soft gold across the white linen tablecloth. The room, though smaller than the grand halls, was tastefully adorned with pale ivy trailing the window frames and a single vase of winter roses set between two place settings.
Elias arrived first.
He moved with careful precision, his cane soft against the tiled floor. The ache in his leg was bearable this morning, though he didn't trust it for long. The right side of his ribs still pulled when he breathed too deeply. He took his seat slowly—quietly.
The second chair remained empty for only a minute.
Ilya entered with the scent of parchment and rosemary in her wake. Her dress today was a shade of muted indigo, elegant in a way that felt unintentional. The sleeves were rolled at the forearms. She had the look of someone who'd been up for hours already, and made good use of them.
"Good morning," she said. Calm. Measured. A spark behind her eyes.
"Lady Ilya," he greeted, dipping his chin. "I'm glad you came."
"I was curious if breakfast with the Archduke included interrogation or just tea."
He allowed a soft sound—neither a laugh nor a scoff, but something almost amused.
"That depends," he said, "on whether you have anything to confess."
She sat across from him and arched a brow. "Plenty. But most of it is dull. Would you like to hear about my preference for unsalted butter? Or the fact that I reorganized the scullery's spice shelf yesterday?"
"I heard about the spices," he said dryly, "and that the cook now both adores and fears you."
"Only fair. She was hiding the cinnamon."
Their tea was poured in silence. Warm bread, soft pears, and northern cheese followed. The breakfast was simple, but good. He could feel something shifting- without realizing it, part of him recognized they were flirting again.
After a few quiet bites, Elias said, "You're adjusting quickly."
"I've lived in houses where stillness was a trap. This place hums. I'd rather learn to sing with it than sit in silence."
He studied her a moment, then nodded. "Spoken like someone who's been waiting to get out, and taught herself more than a few notes."
She met his gaze. "That sounds suspiciously like flattery."
"Perhaps it is."
A flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Be careful. If you keep this up, I might enjoy your company."
He looked down briefly. "And we can't have that."
"Certainly not."
They sipped their tea. The silence between them now felt easier—less like absence, more like a pause between thoughts.
After a moment, he asked, "What was your home like before this?"
Her expression shifted, softening at the edges. "The house was large, cold, and full of rules. My mother did her best to keep it kind, but… she learned early to bend, not break. She married Count Valenpor when I was still small."
"And the Count?"
"A man who prefers obedience over brilliance. I was neither, which made things… complicated."
Elias tilted his head. "I assume you pretended, for a time."
"For years," she admitted. "But pretending to be small becomes unbearable after a while. Eventually, I stopped."
"And what did he do?"
"He married me off."
Elias exhaled slowly. "Convenient."
"Very."
He hesitated before adding, "I suppose I should thank him."
Ilya's eyes sparkled faintly. "You suppose?"
"I'll decide once I know if you plan to stage a quiet coup of my household or simply terrify my staff into perfect order."
"Why not both?"
Another pause. A longer sip of tea.
He looked at her across the rim of his cup. "Your voice carries confidence."
She lifted her chin slightly. "I was told it would make me undesirable."
"I've found the opposite to be true."
Her gaze lingered on his face—not his scars, not his mask, but his eyes. "You say that like you mean it."
"I wouldn't waste pain on a lie," he said quietly. "It hurts to speak, most days. I've learned to choose my words carefully."
Her voice softened. "Does it hurt now?"
"Not terribly."
"And smiling?"
He allowed a small, crooked quirk of the mouth. Barely there—but real.
"Some things are worth the ache."
Ilya looked down at her plate, brushing a crumb aside with her fingertip. "I'm glad we're speaking, Elias."
He paused.
Then: "Say that again."
She looked up, confused.
"My name," he said. "Say it again."
She watched him for several seconds then spoke more softly.
"Elias."
There it was. Clear. Gentle. Free. It sounded like Alura's but…different too. Not in a bad way just…different.
He closed his eyes for a moment. "Thank you."
They didn't finish their tea. Not right away. They just… sat.
The fire between them was quiet—but it was there. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just warm.
Before she rose, she said, "I'll send the updated provisioning notes to your study by lunch."
"Or," he said, "you could deliver them yourself. I'd rather not wait another three days for a conversation."
She smiled as she stood. "You could just ask for my company."
"I'm asking now."
"Ah, I suppose you are…" she said. "Then I'll come."
She turned to leave, her steps quiet on the tile.
As the door shut behind her, Elias let the silence settle, heavier than before.
Something in him—something long sealed—felt the first flicker of anticipation.
And for the first time in many years he thought of something other than the pain.
"Ilya…" he murmured.