Within the imperial prison, the lamps blazed without rest, casting a harsh, unrelenting light upon stone and iron.

The two men were bound fast to wooden pillars. At first, their attitude was stubborn; their lips remained sealed, no matter what was asked.

Rhaegar sat opposite them, a slender blade resting lightly in his hand, its edge gleaming cold beneath the lamplight.

"Speak," he said at last, his voice quiet, almost indifferent. "Who sent you?"

The two exchanged a glance, yet neither uttered a word.

Rhaegar rose from his seat and approached them with measured steps. The tip of the blade came to rest just beneath one man’s collarbone.

Color drained from the man’s face.

Slowly, deliberately, the blade pressed in.

"Ah—!"

A scream tore through the prison halls, echoing against the walls like a dying echo of thunder.

"I’ll talk! I’ll talk!"

The blade stilled.

The man gasped, breath ragged and broken. "It... it was someone who paid us... told us to wait in the gambling house for word... said someone would come to make contact..."

"And who was that contact?"

"I don’t know—truly, I don’t! It was always someone different... we only passed along messages..."

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. "Was Lucas Ostenton the one who made contact?"

The man froze, confusion flickering across his face.

"Lord... Lord Ostenton? No... no, he wasn’t—he was there to discuss business..."

Silence lingered for several heartbeats. Then, Rhaegar withdrew the blade.

He tossed it aside to an attendant, took a cloth in its place, and began to wipe the blood from his hands with slow, unhurried care.

"Continue the interrogation," he said to his men.

The imperial guards were known for their ruthless efficiency, and under Rhaegar’s command, their methods were swifter still.

By the following day, those responsible for the arson had been captured.

However, they were not men of Lucas Ostenton. They were desperate outlaws, hired remnants of the Empress’s former faction.

They confessed readily: silver had been given, instructions delivered—to burn the Firefly Lane residence, to kill Caelith Emberlyn. As for who had provided the coin, they knew nothing. Only a middleman had ever appeared; the true master remained unseen.

When Rhaegar heard this, he couldn’t help but smile.

It was a smile that sent a chill through every man present, as though winter had suddenly settled in their bones.

"Execute them all," he commanded in a cold tone.

Lance hesitated. "My lord... these men—"

"Kill them all," Rhaegar repeated calmly, his gaze fixed and absolute. "Leave none alive."

Lance clenched his jaw, but could not protest again. "...Yes, my lord."

***

By the time Rhaegar returned to the residence, dawn was near.

Caelith stood before the ruins, her back to him, silhouetted against the paling sky. He walked toward her and drew her into his arms from behind.

She did not turn.

"It is finished?" she asked.

"Yes."

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then, softly, she called his name.

"Rhaegar."

"...Mm?"

"How many people have you killed?"

He fell silent for a moment, as if genuinely counting each kill.

"Those who commit murder and arson are guilty of the gravest crimes. Even if the blade is not mine, their deaths are deserved."

Caelith said nothing.

He lowered his head, resting his face against the hollow of her neck.

"Caelith, I gave you my word—I will not let anyone harm you."

At last, she turned. Her hands rose to cradle his face, gently brushing away the flecks of blood at his temple.

"I know."

He looked at her, searching her face for a hint of something hidden. "Are you afraid of me?"

Caelith pressed her lips together for a moment, but then nodded. "Yes."

A shadow passed through his gaze. But then, she continued, "I do not fear the killing, nor the flames... I fear losing you."

It took them three days to stop the advancing ruin of the residence.

Caelith stood by the window of the northern, her gaze resting upon the bare pear tree beyond. She had come to this place many times before—always in hiding, always to wait for him. Now that she resided here in truth, it was under such circumstances as these.

Yvaine entered from outside, carrying two bowls of porridge.

"Sister, you should eat something. You’ve not had a single bite all morning."

Caelith simply shook her head.

"I’m not hungry."

Yvaine set the bowls down and came to stand beside her, following her line of sight out into the courtyard.

"Still thinking about the shop?"

Caelith did not answer.

In truth, what lingered in her mind was not the shop, but that night. The flash of blades. The way those men had stormed in. The sight of Lance Illian, drenched in blood, standing before her with a face twisted in grim resolve.

And Rhaegar—holding her close, his body trembling ever so faintly with the aftershock of fear.

"Sister?" Yvaine called softly, cautious as one approaching a wounded heart. "Are you alright?"

Caelith stirred, returning from her thoughts. "Yes... I am."

She turned, lifted the bowl of porridge, and took a sip.

Yvaine sat beside her, speaking in a low, gentle stream of words—of these past days. Lance’s wounds had improved; he could now stand and walk. Lord Thorne had sent men to repair the shop; in half a month’s time, it would reopen. Neighbors had come by to inquire, all saying they would return to offer their patronage once the doors were open again...

Caelith listened, offering an occasional murmur in reply.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Yvaine hurried to open it.

Outside stood two figures—Lady Lian and Nareen. The moment Nareen saw her, her eyes reddened.

"Where is Miss Emberlyn? Is she unharmed?"

Yvaine quickly ushered them inside. "She’s here, she’s here—come in."

Caelith rose to her feet, surprise flickering across her features.

"Lady Lian? Lady Nareen? What brings you here?"

Nareen ran to her at once, grasping her hands as tears spilled freely.

"Miss Emberlyn, you frightened me so... I heard the residence burned, and that there were killers—I was so afraid something had happened to you!"

Warmth stirred in Caelith’s heart as she listened to the young lady’s words.

"I’m quite all right, am I not?" she said gently.

Nareen wiped her tears and nodded earnestly. "I am so happy!"

Lady Lian remained by the doorway, a large bundle in her hands. She set it upon the table and opened it, revealing several newly made garments, along with various nourishing tonics.

"Miss Emberlyn, these were sent by Lucas himself," she said. "He feared you might be lacking in necessities."

Caelith smiled, her manner courteous and composed. "Please thank Lord Ostenton for me—and thank you as well, for making the journey."

Lady Lian waved a hand dismissively. "It is only right. When you were at the embroidery workshop, you took such care of Nareen—we have not forgotten."

Nareen nodded vigorously beside her. "Yes, yes! Miss Emberlyn taught me embroidery and never once scolded me for being slow."

At that, Caelith could only smile. She hadn’t even realized how many friends she already had. It was comforting.