That night, Caelith sat within her chamber, her embroidery frame resting lightly in her hands.

The candle flame flickered, casting shifting shadows upon the walls—now bright, now dim—like restless thoughts given form.

An unease stirred within her heart.

She set aside the frame and walked to the doorway, peering out into the courtyard.

It lay in darkness, still and empty.

She returned to her seat.

Picking up the embroidery once more, she stitched a few lines—then stopped.

From the neighboring room, Yvaine entered. "Dear sister, why are you not yet asleep?"

"You go ahead first. I am not tired yet."

"Very well... but you should rest soon as well."

With that, she gently closed the doors and windows before departing.

Silence returned.

Caelith sat by the window and embroidered through the long night.

The soft sound of needle passing through silk—fine, continuous—echoed in the stillness, clear as falling dew.

Yet she stitched the same butterfly thrice—and each time, she erred.

On the last attempt, the needle pricked her fingertip. A bead of blood welled forth and fell upon the half-finished wing, staining it like a wound.

She set the frame aside.

Rising, she went once more to the door.

The courtyard lay dark, the moon long since sunk beyond the horizon, and dawn not yet come. She stood there for a while, seeing nothing.

Then she returned inside and sat upon the edge of her bed.

She did not lie down.

She simply sat—waiting.

Something was not right.

***

In the middle of the night, Yvaine awoke and came over. Seeing her still seated, she started in alarm.

"Sister, why are you still awake?"

"I cannot sleep."

Yvaine sat beside her, placing a gentle hand over hers. "Lord Thorne... has he not yet returned?"

Caelith did not answer.

Seeing her thus, Yvaine patted her hand softly. "Do not worry. Lord Thorne is formidable—he will be well. No harm can ever reach him."

Caelith nodded faintly. She wanted to believe that, too.

After keeping her company for a while, Yvaine, overcome with drowsiness, returned to her room.

Silence fell once more.

Caelith fixed her gaze upon the door and did not look away.

She watched... until dawn broke.

***

With the first light of morning spilling into the courtyard, the sound of footsteps came from outside.

She rose at once and hurried to the door, pulling it open.

It was not Rhaegar.

It was Sylric Blackmere.

He stood there, his face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue. Seeing her, he bowed slightly.

"Lady Emberlyn."

Caelith looked at him, her voice steady—yet strained beneath its calm. "What about Rhaegar?"

Sylric hesitated, if only for a fleeting instant. "Lord Thorne is unharmed," he said at last. "He has sent this subordinate to inform you that you need not be anxious."

Caelith looked at him steadily. Her gaze did not waver.

"And where... is he?"

"Within the Palace," Sylric replied. "There are matters yet to be handled. My lady, be at ease—my lord is truly unharmed."

Caelith was silent for a few moments, then inclined her head. "Very well. I understand. Thank you."

Sylric turned to depart.

"Sir Blackmere."

He stopped at once.

Caelith stood at the threshold. The first light of dawn fell upon her, rendering her face pale and clear, almost translucent in its stillness. She looked at him, and spoke each word with quiet firmness:

"Tell him... I will wait for him. I will."

Sylric cupped his hands in salute. "This subordinate will deliver your words without fail."

After he left, Yvaine leaned out from within.

"Sister, Lord Thorne... he is safe, is he not?"

"He is safe."

With that, Caelith turned and went back inside.

She took up a fresh piece of silk. Threading the needle, she began once more to embroider.

Her hands were steady now, yet her heart was not.

***

Night fell deep and heavy.

Rhaegar stood before the side hall of the Cold Palace, gazing at the dim, wavering light that seeped from within.

He had only just departed from the Empress’s quarters and ought to have left the Palace altogether. Yet moments before, he had glimpsed a eunuch slipping furtively into this place—one whose left hand bore a scar, a man he had seen within the Empress’s service.

Sylric followed behind, speaking in a hushed tone, "My lord... at such an hour, why come to the Cold Palace?"

Rhaegar did not answer. Instead, he quickened his pace.

The door to the side hall stood slightly ajar. Within, the silence was unnatural—oppressive.

He pushed it open.

At once, the sharp scent of blood struck him.

Rhaegar halted.

Upon the ground lay a body.

It was the eunuch.

Clad in dull grey garments, he had collapsed where he fell. A dark, clotted pool of blood stained his lips and chin. His eyes remained half open, fixed upon the rafters above—long since emptied of life.

Rhaegar crouched beside him and reached out to feel for a pulse.

None.

He was dead.

Beside the corpse lay a letter.

Rhaegar picked it up and unfolded it.

"Your guilty servant, Adrian, kowtows in confession.

Taking advantage of my duties in procuring goods for the Palace, I conspired with traffickers beyond its walls—Evren Viremont, Gregor Brameroth, and others—to abduct and sell dozens of young women.

All these crimes were committed by me alone and bear no relation to Her Majesty the Empress.

I falsely invoked her name to carry out my deeds. My sins are worthy of death ten thousand times over.

Now that the matter has been exposed, I have no face left to live. I offer my life in atonement to the world."

Rhaegar held the letter in his hand for a long time. He simply stared at it, not really reading, not really seeing.

Then, he slowly smiled.

It was not a smile of mirth—but one so cold that it sent a chill creeping down Sylric’s spine.

"My lord..."

"A dead man tells no tales," Rhaegar said, setting the letter down. "What a convenient silence."

He rose slowly, his gaze falling upon the corpse with a frostbitten stillness.

"My lord."

"Investigate," Rhaegar said, his voice like steel quenched in ice. "Find out where those girls were truly taken."