Lady Lian hesitated. "To tell the truth... I cannot be completely certain. I only learned this through inquiries and silver. I have not seen him with my own eyes."

Caelith’s lashes trembled. Slowly, her eyes reddened, a faint sting burning her gaze.

"Lady Lian... you should not have investigated this yourself. If someone discovers you did—"

"I know." The woman cut her off. "But he is your family. In this world, aside from Yvaine, you have no one left. And now, after all these years, there may finally be one person..."

Her voice broke completely as she began to cry. "If your mother knew... she would surely want you to see him."

Caelith remained standing there, unmoving, utterly confused. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, one after another, emotions tangling painfully in her chest.

When Yvaine peeked out from inside, this was the scene she saw. She froze in alarm, uncertain whether she should step forward.

In the end, she quietly retreated once more.

Out in the courtyard, Lady Lian held Caelith gently and stroked her back.

"Good child... do not cry. If you wish to see him, I will find a way."

Caelith shook her head immediately, her eyes wide with concern. "No. He is a state criminal now! If I go, I will be discovered... and you will be implicated as well."

Florentine fell silent, unsure of what to say to that. The young woman was right, but she... she desperately wanted to help her.

Caelith slowly wiped away her tears and looked toward the old wooden box resting nearby.

"Lady Lian... thank you for telling me all this."

Lady Lian arched her brows at her. "You... will not go see him?"

Caelith was quiet for a very long time. At last, she whispered, "I need time to think."

The woman nodded. "Very well. Once you have decided... tell me. I will do all I can to assist."

And then, she left.

Caelith remained alone in the courtyard, holding the wooden box tightly in her arms.

The sunlight upon her skin was warm, yet her heart had never felt colder.

By the time Rhaegar returned that evening, night had fully fallen.

Caelith sat beside the window with an embroidery frame resting in her hands, though not a single stitch had been sewn. Her thoughts remained tangled in the words Lady Lian had spoken earlier that day.

A relative. She still had a relative alive somewhere in this world. Imprisoned within the imperial prison. Under torture. Perhaps with only days left to live.

The sound of the door opening drew her from her thoughts.

She lifted her head and saw Rhaegar step inside.

Moonlight streamed in from behind him, draping silver across his dark robes. Weariness lingered upon his face, yet his eyes remained as sharp and luminous as ever.

Caelith was just about to speak when she suddenly froze. At his temple, there was a dark crimson stain.

Blood. Already dried against his skin.

Her heartbeat skipped violently. "You’re injured?"

She immediately set aside the embroidery frame and hurried toward him, reaching out instinctively to touch the wound.

Rhaegar caught her hand midair. "It is not mine."

Caelith paused.

He guided her down to sit beside him before leaning back against the chair, closing his eyes briefly in exhaustion.

"It came from interrogating that man from the Grandien family today."

Caelith pressed her lips together, fearing that their tremble might betray her emotions.

A man of the Grandien family... Her uncle.

She drew in a slow breath, forcing her voice to remain steady. "How did the interrogation go?"

Rhaegar’s brows arched, confusion flashing across his features. "And why are you suddenly concerned about this?"

Her fingers stiffened around the cloth. "I was only asking casually. I am taking... interest in what you do."

Rhaegar looked at her for two silent seconds. Then he closed his eyes once more and leaned back against the chair.

"He is stubborn," he said flatly. "He refuses to speak."

Caelith lowered her gaze and said nothing. She rose quietly, fetched a basin of water, wrung out a cloth, and returned to kneel before him.

The damp fabric brushed gently against his temple, wiping away the dried streak of blood little by little.

Rhaegar opened his eyes again and watched her move.

Lamplight bathed her face in pale yellow, illuminating the brightness of her eyes. Her movements were light, careful, impossibly gentle, as though she were tending not to bloodstains, but to something infinitely precious.

Slowly, he lifted a hand and caught her wrist once more.

"Caelith."

She looked up that very instant.

"Yes?"

His gaze rested steadily upon her eyes. "What is wrong with you today?"

Her heartbeat stumbled violently. "What do you mean?"

"Your hands are shaking."

She froze. Looking down, she realized he was right––her fingers trembled faintly against the cloth.

Forcing a smile, she murmured, "It is nothing. Perhaps I embroidered for too long today."

Rhaegar continued watching her.

His gaze was far too deep—so deep it stirred unease in the pit of her chest.

Unable to bear it, she lowered her head and continued wiping the spot that had already long been cleaned.

"There," she whispered. "It’s done."

She tried to rise, but he still held her wrist.

"Caelith."

She did not look up this time.

"Yes?"

"Are you hiding something from me?"

At once, her heart began pounding so violently it felt as though it might leap right from her throat.

"No."

Silence followed, long and heavy.

At last, he released her hand. "Go rest."

She nodded softly and rose to her feet, turning toward the inner room. Yet when she reached the doorway, she paused and glanced back.

Rhaegar still sat alone in the chair, gazing out toward the moon beyond the window lattice.

The pale light fell across the sharp line of his profile, making him appear strangely solitary.

***

By the time Caelith awoke the next morning, the space beside her was already cold and empty.

She sat up slowly, momentarily dazed.

Outside, she could hear Yvaine speaking with Lance in the courtyard.

After dressing, she pushed open the door and stepped outside.

Lance stood beneath the morning light while Yvaine fussed beside him, pressing a cloth into his hands. A fresh wound marked his face—not deep, but alarming enough in appearance.

"Sir Illian, why are you injured again?"

"It’s nothing. Just a small cut."

"A small cut, a small cut—you say that every day!"

Yvaine puffed her cheeks in annoyance, yet her hands remained incomparably gentle as she tended to him.

Watching her, the corners of Lance’s mouth lifted faintly.

Caelith walked toward them and addressed the knight, "Sir Illian..."

He immediately straightened as if ready to receive an order. "Lady Caelith."

"Where is Rhaegar?"