Beneath the Morning Light

Elyon's delicate hands undid the ties of his elaborate red robes, the layers of silk slipping from his small frame and pooling at his feet like a crimson river. His breath was soft and steady as he moved with gentle care, folding the ceremonial garments and setting them aside. He slipped into a simple set of clothes—soft fabric, muted tones, and sleeves that hung just past his wrists. The simplicity wrapped around him like a comfort, a quiet refuge from the grandiosity of the mansion.

The room he shared with Zephriel remained steeped in shadows. Chains hung loosely from Zephriel's wrists, a reminder of his captivity, though his demeanor was as still as ever. His long white hair cascaded over his shoulders, strands tangled and lifeless, and the black fabric remained securely over his eyes. His breathing was the only sign of life, a slow and steady rhythm that filled the quiet.

Elyon lay down beside him, the soft blanket a barrier against the cold. His body curled naturally, a small form in the vastness of the room. His fingers clutched the edge of the blanket, pulling it up to his chin. The proximity to Zephriel, even in the silence, brought an odd sense of comfort. His husband's presence, though dark and restrained, felt like an anchor in the sea of unknowns.

The night passed with the quiet hum of wind brushing against the stone walls. Shadows danced under the faint moonlight that crept through the narrow window. Elyon's dreams were soft and fragmented—images of warm hands, laughter in the sun, and a garden filled with flowers he had never seen.

When morning broke, a soft gray light seeped into the room. Elyon stirred, his lashes fluttering as he opened his eyes. The air was cool, a fresh promise of a new day. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His gaze shifted to Zephriel, who remained motionless, his head bowed and the chains slack.

Elyon rose quietly, his bare feet touching the floor with a gentle patter. He slipped into the kitchen, the mansion still draped in silence. His hands moved skillfully as he gathered ingredients, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He mixed and stirred, the scent of freshly cooked bread and warm soup filling the air. The steam curled up from the pot, a gentle spiral of warmth that contrasted with the cold stone walls.

He prepared a simple breakfast, arranging the food on a tray with care. His movements were unhurried, each action a reflection of his soft nature. When he returned to the room, he nudged the window open, letting a cool breeze flutter through the space. Sunlight touched the floor, painting soft patterns over the stone.

Elyon sat on the edge of the bed, his feet tucked beneath him. "Zephriel, are you awake?"

The chains gave a soft clink as Zephriel shifted slightly. He nodded, a slow and deliberate movement. His head remained low, the black fabric over his eyes a stark contrast against his pale skin.

Elyon's lips curled into a small smile. "Good morning." His voice was gentle, a soft melody in the dim room.

Before he could continue, the door creaked open. Elyon turned, his smile fading into a polite expression as the man from before entered. His presence filled the room, the dark intent in his eyes a shadow that seemed to stretch across the floor. His lips twisted into a grin, one that did not reach his eyes.

"You didn't come to the family breakfast," the man said, his voice smooth but laced with mock disappointment. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. "We were waiting for you."

Elyon bowed his head, his posture demure and respectful. "I apologize. I prefer to eat with my husband."

The man's expression tightened, a flicker of something sharp behind his smile. His eyes drifted to Zephriel, still bound and silent, before returning to Elyon. "You are quite the devoted bride."

Elyon nodded, his hands resting on his lap. "Thank you."

The man pushed off the doorframe, his steps slow as he crossed the room. He loomed over Elyon, his shadow swallowing the soft light that had found its way inside. His fingers reached out, brushing against a lock of Elyon's hair. Elyon tensed, the movement so slight it was barely noticeable.

"You should come out more, mingle with the family. It would be a shame for such a beautiful bride to wither away in this dark room." His voice dropped to a whisper, the weight of his gaze heavy against Elyon's skin.

Elyon's lips pressed into a thin line. "My place is with my husband."

Zephriel's chains shifted, a quiet sound that seemed to echo louder than it should. The man's eyes snapped to him, a spark of annoyance flaring briefly. He withdrew his hand from Elyon's hair, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.

"Very well," he said, his tone sharp as glass. "But remember, little bride, this mansion holds many secrets. It is easy to get lost."

Elyon remained still, his expression calm despite the undercurrent of threat. The man turned and left, his footsteps fading into the corridor. When the door closed, Elyon exhaled softly, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He turned back to Zephriel, his soft eyes searching the demon's face. "I made breakfast." His voice was a balm, warm and inviting.

Zephriel did not respond, but his posture seemed less tense. Elyon lifted the spoon, the warm food fragrant and comforting. He leaned closer, the tray balanced on his lap. "Will you eat?"

Zephriel's lips parted slightly, a sign of acceptance. Elyon brought the spoon to his mouth, the gentle clink of metal against teeth a quiet reminder of the small steps they were taking.

Outside, the world moved on, the mansion breathing with its own rhythm. But in that room, time seemed to slow, the boundaries of fear and trust softening under Elyon's quiet persistence.

And as the morning sun inched higher, its light brushing the edges of the shadows, a fragile hope began to bloom between the chains and the silence.