The opening ceremony unfolded in lively splendor, the narrow street abuzz with chatter and laughter. Neighbors and passersby gathered in curious delight, eager to witness the birth of this new establishment.

Yvaine moved tirelessly among them, her presence as bright and welcoming as spring sunlight. She greeted each guest with warmth, poured tea with graceful hands, and spoke with such sweetness that even the most exacting elderly matrons found themselves utterly charmed, praising her without reserve.

Meanwhile, Lance lent his strength where it was needed—hauling furnishings, mounting plaques, and seeing to every practical matter. Before long, his brow was slick with sweat from his labors.

From time to time, Yvaine would approach him with a cup in her hands. "Sir Illian, take a moment—have some water."

"No need. I am not thirsty."

"But your face is covered in sweat—here, a cloth to wipe it off."

He accepted it, wiped his brow in a single motion, and returned it to her. She took it back with quiet satisfaction, folding it carefully before slipping it into her sleeve, the smile on her lips impossible to conceal.

Their small exchanges, so natural and unguarded, did not escape the notice of the embroiderers nearby, who stole glances and suppressed knowing laughter.

Within the inner room, Caelith sat at her embroidery frame.

Now and then, she would lift her gaze toward the bustling scene outside. A faint smile lingered at the corner of her lips, as though the hum of life beyond the threshold warmed her heart.

Then—suddenly—the noise at the entrance stilled.

A hush fell, subtle yet unmistakable.

Caelith looked up.

Someone stood at the doorway.

It was Isabella Tanmin.

She wore plain garments, unadorned and modest. No ornaments graced her hair, no powder softened her features—she seemed almost a different person from the one they had known before. In her hands, she held a small box, her posture hesitant, as though uncertain whether she truly belonged there.

Caelith paused, taken aback.

Upon seeing her, Isabella’s cheeks flushed faintly. She stepped forward and placed the box gently upon the counter.

"Miss Emberlyn... congratulations on your opening."

Caelith regarded her in silence.

Isabella lowered her gaze, her voice soft, nearly fragile.

"I know I am not welcome here. I only... wished to bring a gift. What happened before—it was my fault. I will not trouble you again in the future."

For a few moments, Caelith said nothing.

Then, at last, she reached out and lifted the box. Opening it, she found within a length of fine silk—elegant in its simplicity, its texture smooth as flowing water.

She closed the lid and set it aside.

"Thank you," she said evenly. "A guest is a guest. Please, have a seat."

Nearby, Yvaine watched the exchange with growing unease.

She could not understand why her sister would treat Isabella with such courtesy—this was, after all, a woman who had not been sparing in her past malice.

Isabella took her seat and lifted a cup of tea.

After a sip, her gaze wandered across the shop, settling upon the embroidered pieces displayed within. A light kindled in her eyes, bright and unfeigned.

"These... were all made by you?"

Caelith nodded modestly, still holding the princess’s gaze.

Isabella picked up a handkerchief, examining it closely, turning it over as though reluctant to miss even the smallest detail.

"They are exquisite. You are very skillful."

She raised her head again, looking at Caelith with a hint of curiosity.

Her eyes were rimmed with red. "Miss Emberlyn... you are truly a remarkable woman."

Caelith only smiled faintly, offering no reply.

Isabella remained seated for a short while longer, exchanging a few polite words before rising to take her leave.

Caelith escorted her to the doorway and, in a calm, even tone, said only, "Take care on your way back, my lady."

After Isabella departed, Yvaine stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"Sister... why were you so courteous to her?"

Caelith looked at her, her eyebrows raised in surprise. "She is of royal blood."

Yvaine froze, momentarily at a loss.

Caelith turned and walked back inside. Her voice was soft—so soft that only Yvaine could hear it.

"She came to make peace. I accepted it. If word spreads, it will be said that she bowed her head first—not that I slighted a princess. And if she dares to stir trouble again, she will be the one in the wrong."

Yvaine stood rooted to the spot, as understanding slowly dawned upon her.

This was not forgiveness. It was restraint... and foresight.

Caelith had no desire to quarrel further, but neither would she leave herself without recourse.

Yet the past could not simply be erased.

Yvaine had heard everything—how Isabella had suddenly changed her words before the Emperor, declaring her intent to marry Rhaegar.

Had she stood with him then, and withdrawn together from that ill-fated betrothal, perhaps—given her status as the Empress’s niece—Rhaegar would not have been driven to kneel outside the palace gates until he coughed blood. Nor would Caelith have spent those nights in sleepless worry, her heart gnawed by fear.

Now, Caelith had but a single family member left.

And she would protect her.

All at once, Yvaine turned and hurried after the departing figure.

"Lady Isabella!"

Isabella turned back at the call.

Yvaine stepped forward, her expression no longer soft, her voice lowered yet edged with unmistakable steel.

"Your Highness, those words you spoke just now—say them to my sister, and that is enough. But there are a few things I must make clear to you."

She held Isabella’s gaze, unflinching. "The matters of the past—my sister may choose not to dwell on them. That is her generosity. But I remember them well."

A faint pause, then her tone sharpened. "The gift you brought—my sister accepted it. That was to give you face, and to give face to the Imperial House."

Her eyes cooled. "You are of noble blood, a golden branch and diamond leaf. In the future... it would be best if you visited humble places such as ours less often."

With that, Yvaine turned on her heel and walked away without another word.

Isabella remained where she stood.

Her complexion shifted, pale and flushed by turns, as though caught between indignation and shame. For a moment, she seemed unable to move. Only after a long pause did she gather herself and leave.

Yvaine turned back—only to find Caelith standing just behind her.

"...Sister," she said, suddenly uncertain, "did I do something wrong again? Then... why didn’t you stop me just now?"

Caelith narrowed her eyes slightly, a quiet glint passing through them.

"You did nothing wrong. There are certain words—it would not be suitable for me to speak them. But coming from you... they sounded just right."

Yvaine blinked, startled.

And then, all at once, understanding dawned.

A smile spread across her face.

"Then from now on, I’ll be the one to scold people for you."

Caelith’s lips curved in return, her expression softening. "Very well. The title suits you perfectly."