The two departed the workshop, passing through winding lanes until they came at last before a familiar wooden gate.

Firefly Lane. The very same residence where everything began.

Rhaegar pushed the door open and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.

Caelith crossed the threshold—then paused. The courtyard was the same... and yet, not quite.

The stone path still ran beneath her feet; the osmanthus trees still stood in quiet grace; the bushes clustered in the corners as before. Yet the trees had been newly trimmed, the rose bushes grown fuller and more verdant, and fresh lace curtains now hung by the windows.

She turned to the man behind her. "You have had it restored?"

He nodded, stepping in to stand beside her. "Before, it was merely fit for shelter," he said. "But if it is to be a place for living... it must be made worthy of it."

Rhaegar had sole ownership of this place. It was quiet and hidden, offering calm and comfort one needed to live a peaceful life.

He knew that if he were to start a life with Caelith anew, they would never be happy in the Thorne family’s residence. This, however, once fully restored, would do perfectly for a cozy home.

Caelith stilled. He met her gaze.

"When we are wed, we shall live here," he said. "Your workshop is near, and my office as well. By day, you will attend to your craft... and in the evening—"

He paused, his voice softening. "In the evening, I shall wait for you here."

Rhaegar took her hand in his.

"When I first brought you here, it was so you might grow accustomed to it, little by little. But now..."

He looked at her, and there was light in his eyes. "There is nothing left to stand between us."

Her eyes grew faintly moist.

He led her further inside.

The main chamber was brighter still. Broad windows welcomed the sunlight, filling the room with warmth. The furnishings were simple—a table, a few chairs, a bed—yet all were newly made, their lacquer gleaming softly.

"Do you like it?" he asked, still somewhat nervous.

She turned, smiling at him with both her lips and eyes. "I do. I truly love it."

***

At the Ostenton Brocade Workshop

After Rhaegar and Caelith had departed, Lucas remained standing at the entrance, watching their figures disappear into the far end of the lane.

He stood there for a long while.

A cool breeze stirred, brushing lightly against his robes.

"Lord Ostenton?" a servant called from behind. "The shipment for this afternoon—"

"I know."

He turned and walked back inside. His steps were steady, his face adorned with that same gentle smile as ever.

Yet to anyone who looked closely—that smile had changed.

The change was faint. So faint... it seemed like something carefully laid upon his face, rather than truly felt within.

He walked across the courtyard.

As he passed by the embroiderers, he inclined his head with his usual courtesy.

"Lord Ostenton."

"My lord, what brings you to the rear courtyard today?"

"A matter to attend to," he replied gently. "Continue your work."

He pushed open the door to his chamber, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

At once, the room fell silent.

He remained standing by the door, unmoving.

After a long moment, he crossed to the table and took his seat.

The account book lay where he had left it.

He picked it up and opened it, brows furrowing.

Page after page turned beneath his fingers, the figures densely written, precise and orderly, yet not a single number truly entered his mind.

Only his grip tightened.

The joints of his fingers grew pale, as though all the quiet composure he had worn before the world was now gathered into that single, strained hold.

At that moment, a soft knock sounded from beyond the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Lucas did not move.

Again—

Knock, knock, knock.

A voice followed, light and familiar.

"Lucas?"

It was Nareen.

Lucas opened his eyes, drew in a quiet breath, and once more composed his features into that gentle, habitual smile.

"Come in."

The door creaked open, and Nareen leaned in, peeking halfway inside. "Lucas, dear, are you here alone?"

"Yes."

She stepped in and sat across from him, holding up a piece of embroidery like a treasured offering.

"Look—this is what I’ve just finished. Miss Emberlyn taught me!"

Lucas lowered his gaze and examined the piece.

It was an orchid.

The stitches were noticeably more even than before, the colors better harmonized, the form more refined.

"Not bad," he said at last.

Nareen’s eyes lit up with excitement. "Truly? Miss Emberlyn said I’ve improved so quickly—she even said that if I keep practicing for a few more months, I might catch up to her!"

Lucas did not respond.

Nareen, oblivious to the subtle shift in his mood, continued eagerly, "Lucas, isn’t Miss Emberlyn remarkable? When she teaches, she’s so patient—never once does she think me foolish. And last time, when I made a mistake, she spotted it at a glance and corrected it in just a few strokes..."

"Nareen."

He interrupted her suddenly, his voice cold and distant.

She blinked, startled. "...Yes?"

Lucas looked at her, his gaze darker like a clouded sky. "You seem to admire Miss Emberlyn greatly."

Nareen nodded without hesitation. "Of course I do. She is kind—and her skill is exceptional."

She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And besides... she and Lord Thorne seem very well matched. She clearly cares for him, and he for her—it suits them perfectly."

Lucas frowned, but no words seemed good enough to continue.

Nareen looked at him more closely then, a flicker of uncertainty rising within her.

For some reason, he seemed... very different today.

"Lucas... I am quite worried about you. What is the matter?"

"It is nothing," he replied dryly.

Nareen tilted her head, studying him more closely. "Are you unwell? Your complexion does not look right."

"I am quite fine."

She rose and stepped closer, reaching out as though to feel his forehead.

Lucas withdrew slightly as if feeling aversion to her touch.

Her hand lingered in midair, stilled. "Lucas?"

"I said I am fine," he replied, his tone a shade firmer than before. "You should return. Don’t linger idly."

Nareen froze.

She looked at his face—still bearing that familiar, gentle smile—yet suddenly, it felt... hollow.

"Lucas," she insisted carefully, "will you really not confide in me?"

"That will be enough."