Chapter 8: The Celestial Weavers Prowess
The Peacock's Judgment
The moment Selene stormed into the atelier, the air shifted.
The attendants shrank back, whispering anxiously among themselves, their gazes flickering between the two noblewomen now standing face to face.
Selene Vaelthyr, the esteemed main wife of Duke Zephiron Kael Vaelthyr, radiated entitlement with every measured step. Dressed in opulent violet and silver silks embroidered with celestial motifs, she was the very picture of noble arrogance. Her raven-black hair, swept into an elaborate updo, was adorned with priceless moonstone pins, and her sharp violet eyes gleamed with undisguised disdain.
Yet even in all her finery, she paled before Sylvara.
The former consort of the Duke did not require lavish jewels or embroidered silks to exude presence. She stood with effortless grace, her veil delicately draped over her face, obscuring all but the barest outline of her cold, unreadable features. Her pristine silver-white gown, though simple, carried an air of untouchable elegance.
And in this moment, she did not even need to speak.
Her silence alone was an insult.
Selene's lips curled in disdain. "So, it's true." Her voice was smooth, but laced with venom. "Like a ghost that refuses to be exorcized, you continue to linger where you do not belong."
Kitsaro, standing just beside his mother, watched silently. He could feel the underlying tension coil in the air, but Sylvara remained utterly composed.
Selene let out a breathy laugh, folding her arms as she regarded her with false pity. "I almost feel sorry for you. A woman set aside by the Duke, abandoned to obscurity, and yet, here you are—parading yourself in a place meant for true nobles. Do you not understand your place, Sylvara?"
Sylvara tilted her head slightly.
Kitsaro watched his mother closely. She had not spoken a word yet, and that—he knew—was the most dangerous thing of all.
Selene sneered, taking a slow step forward. "This is an atelier for the elite of Eryndor, for those of standing. Not for discarded women who refuse to accept their irrelevance."
A murmur passed through the attendants at Selene's sharp words.
But Sylvara did not flinch. Did not shift.
Instead, she simply let out a quiet hum, as though amused by some private thought.
Then, at last, she spoke.
"My, my," she murmured, her voice like silk laced with ice. "And here I was, thinking House Vaelthyr held itself to higher standards."
Selene's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
Sylvara exhaled, shaking her head lightly. "To walk into a place of refinement," she mused, "and yet behave with such… gracelessness. It is almost embarrassing."
A hush fell over the room.
Selene's face twisted in rage. "How dare you—"
Sylvara, however, continued as if she had not spoken.
"Shouting like a common merchant's wife over a minor inconvenience." She sighed. "Tell me, Lady Selene, how does it feel to be the one bringing disgrace to House Vaelthyr?"
Selene's entire frame stiffened. Her lips parted, but no immediate retort came.
The words cut deep, not because they were shouted, not because they were laced with any obvious malice—but because they were spoken with such cool indifference.
As if Selene was not worth true anger.
Kitsaro, watching intently, thought to himself, Does this woman truly not realize she is outmatched?
Selene, however, recovered quickly. Her eyes blazed as she took another step forward, her voice dropping into a hiss.
"I am the rightful wife of the Duke," she seethed. "The mother of the heir. You—" She lifted her chin. "—are nothing. You hold no title, no power. You are a woman the Duke has cast aside, and yet, you dare to stand before me with such arrogance?"
Sylvara let out a quiet laugh.
It was not loud. Not mocking.
But it was damning.
Selene's expression twisted further.
Sylvara tilted her head slightly. "How fascinating," she murmured. "You speak so much of power, of position… yet here you stand before me, flustered. Bothered."
She let the silence stretch between them before continuing, voice dropping into something almost pitying.
"…I wonder, Lady Selene. If you are so certain of my insignificance, why do I unsettle you so?"
Selene's breath hitched.
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then—
"How dare you," Selene snapped, stepping forward, her hands clenched into fists. "You insolent—"
"Ah, ah."
A smooth, amused voice cut in before she could finish.
Cassian.
The Celestial Weaver had been watching the entire exchange with a fascinated expression, but now he moved gracefully between them, pressing a hand to his chest as he let out a dramatic sigh.
"Lady Selene, Lady Sylvara," he drawled. "How utterly tragic it would be if my dear atelier was reduced to a mere dueling ground for noblewomen." He tutted, shaking his head.
Selene turned to him sharply. "Cassian, you—"
He held up a single hand, and Selene fell silent, her fury simmering just beneath the surface.
Cassian's prismatic eyes gleamed with mirth. "While I do appreciate passion, my dear Lady Selene, I would advise against making a scene in a place that values discretion."
He smiled, but there was a sharpness in it.
"And I must remind you," he continued, "that Lady Sylvara is one of my most esteemed VIP clients. Had you simply exercised a modicum of patience, you would have found that my services were yours soon after."
Selene stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Cassian tilted his head. "But alas—impulses do get the better of us, do they not?"
Selene inhaled sharply, turning away in frustration.
Cassian's amusement did not fade. "Well, now that Lady Sylvara has concluded her business, it is your turn, my dear Lady Selene."
There was no mistaking the fact that he was dismissing her earlier behavior entirely.
Selene clenched her fists, humiliation burning through her. She hated that Sylvara had witnessed her being put in place.
And so, in a moment of foolish pride, she turned to Cassian, her voice cold and firm.
"This woman—" she spat, "—should never be allowed in this establishment again. If you continue to cater to such disgrace, I will see to it that this shop closes."
A gasp rippled through the attendants.
Cassian stilled.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
Kitsaro caught it.
The way Cassian's easy smile faded.
The way his fingers, still idly resting on the edge of a table, went perfectly still.
Then—
The air shifted.
The light in the room dimmed.
The colors in the atelier—the deep blues, the shimmering golds, the soft lavenders—began to fade.
And the only thing that remained bright—
Were Cassian's eyes.
Like fractured opals, like cosmic storms held in a prism, they gleamed unnaturally in the dimmed space.
Kitsaro felt the weight of his presence shift, and even Selene instinctively stepped back, her breath catching.
Then, Cassian spoke.
And his voice was no longer amused.
"No one," he said softly, "not even your Duke, speaks to me in such a manner."
Selene's lips parted slightly, but the words did not come.
Cassian smiled—but this time, it was cold. "Your threat amuses me, truly. But I fear, dear Lady Selene…" His eyes glowed brighter. "You are the one who will never set foot in this atelier again."
Selene paled.
"Shall we see," Cassian murmured, "how much your Duke can do about my decision?"
Selene could not speak. Could not move.
Because for the first time—
She understood that she had overstepped.
Silence smothered the atelier.
Selene's breath hitched as the weight of Cassian's words settled upon her. The attendants dared not move, barely breathing as they watched the confrontation unfold. Even Kitsaro, ever the silent observer, felt something eerie stir in the air.
Cassian's prismatic eyes shimmered with cold amusement, but beneath that lay something far more dangerous—something that even Selene, in all her arrogance, had not expected.
Power.
Not the brute force of a warrior nor the refined magic of an aristocrat.
No.
Cassian's was the kind of power that came from knowing exactly how untouchable he was.
Selene's fingers clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She had thought to intimidate him, to leverage her husband's authority against him—but now, standing before Cassian's unreadable gaze, she felt the weight of her miscalculation.
She had overstepped.
And Cassian, the Celestial Weaver, would make her remember it.
Still, pride was a venomous thing. And Selene Vaelthyr had swallowed too much of it to back down so easily.
She straightened, lifting her chin. "You presume too much, Cassian," she bit out, though her voice was not as steady as she had intended. "Do you think yourself above House Vaelthyr? Above the Duke?"
Cassian tilted his head, a slow, deliberate movement.
His expression did not change.
But the lights within the atelier dimmed further.
The fine silks, the dazzling crystals, the embroidered gowns—all dulled under the shift in atmosphere, as if the atelier itself bowed to his will.
Cassian took a step forward.
Selene, despite herself, stepped back.
Cassian's lips curled, the movement slow, deliberate. "Above House Vaelthyr?" he echoed, voice laced with mockery. "My dear, dear Lady Selene."
The way he purred her name sent an involuntary chill down her spine.
Cassian leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper of silk against steel.
"You mistake me for someone who cares about noble posturing."
Selene's breath caught.
Cassian straightened, exhaling as if bored. "House Vaelthyr is powerful, yes. But you?" He arched a delicate brow. "You are not House Vaelthyr."
Selene stiffened.
Cassian continued before she could protest.
"You are not the Duke. You are not the patriarch. You are not the one who decides the fate of this city's elite." He smiled, and for the first time, it did not reach his eyes.
"You, Lady Selene, are merely a wife."
The words hit like a slap.
The attendants flinched.
Selene's face burned with fury, humiliation curling like poison in her veins.
Cassian turned slightly, tilting his head toward the veiled figure standing just beyond him.
Sylvara had remained silent all this time, watching the exchange with unreadable amusement.
Cassian let out a quiet chuckle. "Now she," he gestured toward Sylvara, "knows how to command presence."
Selene's jaw tightened.
Cassian sighed theatrically. "Perhaps you should learn from her."
Selene snapped.
"You—!" She surged forward, her fury barely restrained, but before she could get another word out—
A soft clap broke the tension.
Slow. Measured. Almost mocking.
All eyes turned to Sylvara.
Even Cassian seemed intrigued as she lifted her hands, finishing the last of her slow, deliberate applause.
Selene's face twisted in rage. "What—"
Sylvara lowered her hands gracefully, tilting her head. "How entertaining," she mused. "I had nearly forgotten what it was like to watch a woman pretend to hold power."
Selene bristled.
Sylvara took a single step forward. It was not much, not threatening in the slightest—but it commanded.
"You claim to be the rightful Lady of House Vaelthyr," Sylvara murmured, "yet you stand here, shouting like a desperate merchant's wife, hoping to buy respect with nothing but a title."
Selene's lips parted, but Sylvara did not give her the chance to respond.
"You think power comes from marriage," she continued, voice like a winter breeze. "That because you wear the title of Duchess, it means you are one."
She let the words sink in.
"But a true Duchess does not need to declare her status." Her voice dropped to something colder.
"She simply is."
Selene could not breathe.
Because for the first time, she understood something terrible.
Despite everything—despite being cast aside, despite having no official title, despite the world believing her insignificant—
Sylvara was the one who felt like the true noblewoman.
Selene was merely playing the part.
Sylvara exhaled softly, stepping back as if Selene no longer interested her. "If you must declare your importance so loudly, Lady Selene," she said coolly, "then you never had it to begin with."
Selene shook.
Fury, shame, humiliation burned through her veins, but she could not find a single retort.
Not when Cassian looked pleased.
Not when the attendants dared not meet her gaze.
And most of all—
Not when Kitsaro, the bastard child she had despised since birth, stood at Sylvara's side, watching her downfall unfold with sharp, knowing eyes.
Selene trembled.
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the atelier.
The attendants remained frozen.
Cassian, however, let out an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand over his heart. "Oh, dear," he drawled. "I do believe I shall miss her visits."
Sylvara simply inclined her head.
Cassian's gaze flickered to Kitsaro, a slow smirk curling his lips. "And you, young master Kitsaro." He chuckled. "I do hope you were taking notes."
Kitsaro met his gaze.
Then, ever so slightly, he smiled.
Sylvara's lips curved beneath her veil.
Cassian laughed. "Ah," he murmured. "A promising one, indeed."
The heavy silence left in Selene's wake lingered for only a moment before Cassian clapped his hands together, the sound crisp, almost cheerful. "Well, now that the storm has passed," he mused, turning toward Sylvara with a lazy smirk, "shall we return to more pleasant matters?"
Sylvara's posture remained poised, unfazed by the confrontation. She inclined her head slightly, her silver veil shifting with the movement. "Of course." Her voice was soft yet unyielding, like a blade hidden beneath silk.
Kitsaro, standing at her side, felt the weight of what had just transpired. It was a shift—subtle yet profound. This was no simple exchange of words. It was a battle. And Selene had lost.
He had seen his mother's wrath many times before, had felt the sharp sting of her contempt. But for the first time, he had seen her truly powerless.
Not before a man of higher status.
Not before the Duke.
But before Sylvara.
And Cassian.
It was… enlightening.
Cassian turned his gaze to Kitsaro, his prismatic eyes glimmering with amusement. "Tell me, young master," he drawled, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him. "What did you think of that little spectacle?"
Kitsaro knew he was being tested.
Cassian was not asking out of mere curiosity.
There was a lesson here.
So he tilted his head, feigning innocence, though his mind raced with calculations. "I think," he said carefully, "that words are sharper than swords when wielded correctly."
Cassian's lips curled. "A most astute observation."
Kitsaro lowered his gaze slightly, playing the part of a dutiful child, but he did not lower his guard. "But…" He paused, letting the silence stretch just enough to catch Cassian's attention. "Only if the wielder knows how to strike."
Cassian let out a soft chuckle, clearly pleased. "Indeed." His gaze flickered toward Sylvara, his expression unreadable. "You must be quite proud."
Sylvara did not react immediately. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out—her gloved hand resting lightly on Kitsaro's shoulder. It was not an overt display of affection, but to those who understood the subtleties of noble interaction, it spoke volumes.
"He observes well," she murmured, her voice carrying an undeniable warmth. "And in time, he will learn well."
Kitsaro felt the weight of those words.
It was not mere praise.
It was acknowledgment.
Cassian hummed, tapping a finger against his chin. "Well, then." His eyes gleamed. "Lady Sylvara, Young Master Kitsaro," he said, his voice regaining its usual airy cadence, "your garments will be delivered to your estate by tomorrow. I expect nothing but perfection, of course."
With that, she turned on her heel leaving, Kitsaro waved goodbye and followed beside her with quiet grace.