Back in her chamber, she sat for a long while in silence, the stillness pressing in around her.

Lucas Ostenton... what connection could he possibly have with that case?

The question lingered, heavy and unresolved, refusing to loosen its grip on her thoughts. Each time she turned it over in her mind, it yielded nothing. No clarity, no direction—only a growing sense of unease. She had no idea where to begin, nor how she might ever uncover the answers she sought.

That night, she recounted everything she had overheard between Lucas and Lady Lian to Rhaegar, sparing no detail.

When she finished, he did not respond at once. Instead, a long, contemplative silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.

"...Do you trust him?" Rhaegar finally asked.

Caelith did not answer immediately. She took a few moments to consider her response, weighing her words with care.

"I do," she said at last.

Rhaegar frowned, his expression tightening slightly. "Why?"

"Lord Ostenton is not a wicked man," she replied quietly. "He is merely... timid. Weak at heart, perhaps, but not cruel."

Rhaegar studied her, his gaze intent, searching for something beneath her words. "You speak in his defense?"

A faint smile touched her lips. "Not in his defense—only in honest judgment."

He fell silent again, drawing in a slow breath as if turning her answer over in his own mind. After a few moments, he gave a small nod.

"...Very well. I understand."

She leaned forward then, resting her face lightly against his chest, seeking a brief moment of quiet reassurance.

"You intend to see him tomorrow?" she asked softly.

"There is no need," he replied. "I already have a fair understanding of the matter."

She closed her eyes briefly, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Then be careful."

"I shall."

***

Drawing upon the threads uncovered through his recent investigation into the Ostenton Brocade Workshop, Rhaegar swiftly traced his way to another man—one who had, in years past, worked alongside Evren Viremont in transporting goods.

The man’s name was Holden Nandor.

He now made his living beyond the city walls, selling flatbread at a roadside stall.

When Rhaegar and his men arrived, Holden was busy tending his griddle. At the sight of the imperial guards, the color drained from his face; the bread slipped from his hand and fell to the ground, forgotten.

He knew right away that he would not be needing it for a long while.

***

Within the interrogation chamber, Holden at first dared not speak. Just like others, he knew the stakes of his loose tongue.

But Rhaegar, too, did not resort to torture. He merely watched him, trying to see through the calm of his features.

"Evren Viremont has already confessed," he said at length, his tone calm and unadorned. "What purpose is served by your bearing the burden in his stead?" 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Holden’s expression shifted, unease flickering across it. "I... I do not know what you mean..."

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened slightly. "As for those abducted girls—how much do you know?"

Holden lowered his head, pressing his lips together, refusing to speak.

Rhaegar rose to his feet and stepped before him.

"Evren Viremont has already been sentenced," he said, his voice even, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. "If you speak now, it may yet be counted as atonement for your crimes. But if you remain silent..."

He did not finish the sentence.

Holden’s shoulders trembled. "Fine! I will speak... I will speak..."

In broken fragments, he began to confess.

After the girls were abducted, a portion of them would first be taken to an estate beyond the city. That estate belonged to the maternal family of the Empress.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. "Where is this estate?"

"Fifteen miles east of the city... a place called Drias Family Hollow..."

Before the words had fully settled, Rhaegar had already turned away.

***

Hooves thundered against the earth, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake.

Fifteen miles to the east. Drias Family Hollow.

The estate lay just ahead.

They were close—no more than the time it takes for a single stick of incense to burn before they would arrive.

And then, the road ahead was suddenly blocked.

A contingent of riders stood across the path, barring the way.

At their head was a man of some forty years, clad in the attire of the Palace. His expression was cold as carved ice.

Rhaegar drew his reins tight, his horse rearing slightly before coming to a halt.

The man urged his mount forward a few paces and offered a perfunctory salute.

"Lord Thorne, Her Majesty the Empress requests your presence."

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened. "I am engaged in official duty."

"Her Majesty has instructed that Lord Thorne must come," the man replied, his tone measured and unhurried. "It will not delay you long."

Rhaegar did not move. Behind him, the imperial guards remained equally still.

Thus, the two parties faced one another upon the road, tension mounting like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

Travelers along the road slowed, then stopped at a distance, watching in hushed apprehension. Some recognized the imperial guards; others recognized the Palace retinue.

Fear took hold.

One by one, they hastened to detour around the scene, unwilling to linger where such forces stood in silent opposition.

Rhaegar kept his eyes upon the man before him.

He understood the meaning of this encounter all too clearly.

He had come too close to the truth—and the Empress had come to know it.

That was why her people had been sent to intercept him here.

"My lord," Sylric Blackmere murmured in a lowered voice, leaning nearer, "what are your orders?"

Rhaegar gave no reply.

He was thinking.

If the Empress’s men could halt him at this very point, then it could only mean that Drias Family Hollow had already been forewarned. By now, others would have arrived ahead of him. The evidence... the witnesses... all that might have spoken the truth—at this very moment, they were likely being silenced, erased without a trace.

His gaze swept the surroundings.

The road lay still, yet beneath that stillness ran an undercurrent of tension, like the hush before a storm breaks. Each passing breath seemed to weigh heavier than the last.

Time was slipping through his fingers.

And with it—justice.