For the next two days, the inquiry pressed forward without pause.

Rhaegar scarcely closed his eyes.

From the few girls rescued at Drias Family Hollow, he drew out fragments of truth. They had been confined within the estate, awaiting transfer into the Palace. One among them recalled overhearing a guard remark:

"Those sent onward—only the strong and healthy are chosen."

The words lingered, heavy with implication.

Rhaegar then turned his attention to the Imperial Medical Bureau.

There, within its records, he uncovered a peculiar pattern.

Beginning three years prior, there had been a recurring requisition—month after month—of medicinal herbs meant to nourish the blood and strengthen vitality, all delivered to the Empress’s palace. The quantities were staggering, far exceeding what any single person could require.

When Rhaegar questioned the Chief Physician, he was given but a single, rehearsed answer:

"Her Majesty is of delicate constitution and requires careful restoration."

***

At last, on the afternoon of the second day, the scattered threads converged.

Sylric stood before him, head lowered, hesitant.

Rhaegar offered him an irritated glare. "Speak."

The man drew in a deep breath.

"It is said... that in past years, someone within the Palace obtained a certain prescription. It claims that by combining the blood of young women with rare medicines... one may preserve youth indefinitely."

For a moment, the room fell utterly still.

Rhaegar stood motionless, his mind reeling.

Eternal youth—bought with the lives of others?

His expression did not change, yet something within his eyes darkened irrevocably.

"Secure all evidence," he said at last. "We go to the Emperor."

*** 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

Within the Imperial Study, the Emperor examined the documents Rhaegar had submitted.

The young duke knelt below, unmoving as a carved figure.

After a long silence, the Emperor lifted his gaze. "How long did you investigate this matter?"

"Two days and two nights."

The Emperor fell silent for several breaths. "The eunuch has already confessed."

"He confessed as a scapegoat."

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded him. "And you—do you possess solid proof?"

"Your Majesty, this matter is grave beyond measure and entangles many. How could such deeds be accomplished by a mere eunuch alone? The one who stands behind him is... all too evident."

The Emperor said nothing.

Rhaegar remained kneeling, his gaze lifted—steady, unflinching.

The Imperial Study was steeped in a suffocating stillness. Candlelight flickered, casting their shadows upon the walls—now bright, now dim—like wavering truths struggling to take form.

At length, the Emperor spoke, his voice low and heavy. "Rhaegar. You have pursued this matter far enough."

Rhaegar’s breath stilled.

The Emperor rose and descended from his seat, coming to stand before him.

"You are an intelligent man," he said. "You should understand my meaning. More than that—you possess no conclusive proof that the Empress herself is responsible. And yet you would have me, on the strength of conjecture alone, place such a charge upon the Mother of the Nation?"

His tone sharpened, though it remained measured. "Do you believe the court officials would consent?"

Rhaegar lowered his eyes, his gaze resting upon the cold, gleaming tiles beneath him. He did not answer.

The Emperor continued, "As for those unfortunate girls... they are indeed pitiable. I shall have generous compensation sent to their families. Let that stand as solace for the living."

At that moment, Rhaegar suddenly understood.

The matter—here—would go no further. He was seen as nothing more than a fool.

"Your Majesty," he said at last, his voice composed, "this subject has one request."

The Emperor regarded him.

"You speak of your betrothal?"

"Yes."

A faint smile touched the Emperor’s lips. "Rhaegar... are you bargaining with me?"

Rhaegar raised his head. "This subject would not dare."

The Emperor was silent for a few breaths, then nodded.

"Very well. I grant it. Henceforth, your marriage shall be your own decision. I shall not interfere."

"Your subject offers eternal gratitude to Your Majesty."

***

At the Ostenton Brocade Workshop, the morning light was clear and gentle.

Caelith had arrived early. Sleep had eluded her through the night; remaining at home had brought no rest.

As she pushed open the doors to the embroidery room, sunlight streamed through the windows, falling warmly across the frames of silk stretched upon their stands.

She arranged the threads she had brought, settling herself just as a knock sounded.

"Miss Emberlyn!"

Several young embroiderers stood at the door, clutching their frames, their expressions earnest and hopeful.

"There are a few parts we cannot quite manage—could you guide us?"

Caelith tilted her head with a faint smile.

"Come in."

In those recent days, it had become a common occurrence for the younger embroiderers to seek Caelith’s guidance. Though she was not the most accomplished artisan within the Ostenton Brocade Workshop, among those of notable skill, she was the least given to temper—and thus the most approachable.

Before long, the embroidery chamber grew lively and full.

Several young women gathered closely about her, watching with rapt attention as she threaded her needle, selected her silks, and guided each stitch with quiet precision. Their eyes shone with admiration, bright as morning dew.

"Miss Emberlyn, how do you embroider this butterfly? Whenever I attempt it, it ends up looking like a clumsy moth!"

"Your hand is too tense," Caelith replied gently. "Relax it—let the thread follow your breath."

"Miss Emberlyn, your choice of colors is so beautiful—will you teach me how to combine them better?"

"Of course."

The room filled with soft chatter and laughter, as lively as a marketplace in spring.

As she instructed them, Caelith could not help but smile.

At the doorway, Nareen lingered, clutching her embroidery frame. She watched the bustling scene within, her lips pursed slightly.

She wished to step forward and yet hesitated.

Caelith happened to glance up and saw her.

For a moment, she stilled—then beckoned with a gentle motion.

"Lady Nareen, please, come in."

Nareen pressed her lips together, then shuffled in slowly.

The other embroiderers made space for her, and she squeezed in beside Caelith, placing her frame before her with a small, reluctant motion.

"This... I cannot do this properly."

Caelith lowered her gaze to examine it.

It was a half-finished orchid. The stitches were uneven, the pattern disordered, and the colors poorly matched.

Caelith took up the needle and thread, adjusting the work as she spoke in a calm, patient tone, "At this point, your stitching has gone astray. You should begin from here, and guide the thread toward this side—see?"

Nareen watched her hands closely.

The needle moved with effortless grace, each stitch falling into place as though guided by instinct. Slowly, understanding dawned in her eyes, and they brightened at once.

"So that’s how it’s done!"

She lifted her head and glanced at Caelith.

Her gaze was complex—there lingered a trace of unwillingness, a hint of stubborn pride... yet beneath it all, there was unmistakable admiration.

For of late, she had come to realize that Caelith had been deliberately keeping her distance from Lucas. Not only did she show no desire to contend, she had even, on several occasions, sought to bring the two of them closer together.

"...Thank you," Nareen murmured, smiling.

Caelith paused, momentarily surprised. "Since when have you grown so polite?"

Nareen’s cheeks flushed faintly. She lowered her head, staring at her embroidery frame, her voice soft and subdued.

"What you taught me... I have remembered it all."

Caelith looked at her for a while, then smiled gently. "I am glad to hear that."

At that very moment, the lively chatter within the embroidery room fell suddenly still.

Caelith lifted her gaze, surprised, and saw a man standing at the door.