Caelith stood staring at the closed door for a long while, her gaze fixed upon it as though it might yet open again.

. . .

By the time her work was done, night had already fallen.

True to his word, Lucas was waiting at the entrance, a lantern held in his hand. Its warm glow flickered softly against the gathering dark.

"Come," he said simply.

This time, Caelith did not refuse.

The alleyways were dim and narrow.

Lucas walked ahead, carrying the lantern; its amber light swayed gently, casting rippling shadows across the worn stone path. Caelith followed behind him, her head lowered, her thoughts a tangled storm she could scarcely untangle.

Suddenly, her foot slipped.

She had stepped upon a loose stone. In an instant, her balance faltered, and she pitched forward.

"Careful!"

Lucas reacted at once, swift as instinct. He caught her by the arm, steadying her before she could fall. The lantern swung wildly, nearly slipping from his grasp, but he caught it with his other hand.

Caelith regained her footing, her heart still pounding high in her throat.

"Thank you, my lord..."

Yet he did not release her.

He looked down at her, his gaze warm, touched with concern. "Are you hurt? Did you twist your ankle?"

"I am well." She moved to withdraw her arm.

And then, a chill ran down her spine. It was sudden, sharp, and unmistakable—the instinctive dread of being watched.

She turned.

There, standing in the darkness, unmoving, was Rhaegar.

Moonlight spilled from behind him, tracing his figure in pale silver. Yet his eyes... his eyes were dark beyond measure.

His gaze fell upon the hand with which Lucas held her.

Caelith’s heart skipped.

Almost instinctively, she stepped back, slipping free from Lucas’s grasp.

The man followed her line of sight—and met Rhaegar’s eyes.

In the stillness of the night, the two men regarded one another. One, gentle as pearl. The other, cold as drawn steel.

The alley fell silent, save for the whisper of the wind.

Rhaegar approached.

He stopped right before them.

His gaze swept over Caelith’s face, pausing for the briefest instant upon her pallor—before shifting to Lucas.

"Lord Ostern," he said, his voice devoid of discernible emotion, "out so late... and personally escorting someone home?"

Lucas met his gaze without flinching, composed and courteous. "Lady Caelith is an artisan of my atelier. She finished late, seeing her home is only proper."

"Only proper?" Rhaegar repeated softly, his eyes narrowing.

There was a chill in that look—one that made even Caelith’s heart tremble.

She was about to speak, yet Rhaegar cut in first.

"Since we have crossed paths, why not share a meal?" he said. "My treat."

A sense of foreboding stirred within Caelith. She opened her mouth to refuse, but Lucas had already inclined his head.

"Very well," he said with an easy smile. "Lord Rhaegar’s generosity would be discourteous to decline."

. . .

At the mouth of the alley stood a small tavern. At this hour, it was sparsely occupied.

Rhaegar requested a private room.

The three of them entered.

The chamber was modest—a square table, a handful of chairs. Rhaegar took the seat of honor. Caelith sat to his right, while Lucas faced them across the table.

Wine was brought. A few simple dishes. The attendant withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Silence settled.

Rhaegar did not speak.

He leaned back slightly, a wine cup held loosely in his hand, his gaze fixed upon Lucas—unmoving, unreadable.

Lucas, for his part, seemed wholly unaffected by the pressure. He poured himself tea, then another cup, which he offered to Caelith.

"Lady Caelith—have something warm. The night air grows cold."

She accepted it. Their fingers brushed briefly—then parted.

Unconsciously, she glanced toward Rhaegar.

"What did you embroider today?" Lucas asked, his tone as natural as though they sat in the quiet comfort of the atelier.

Caelith hesitated, then answered quietly, "A butterfly."

"A fine choice." He smiled faintly. "The last one you made—my father praised it greatly. Said it seemed almost alive. He asked whether you might craft a larger one—he wishes to hang it in his chamber."

"That can be done," she said. "What colors does he prefer?"

"He favors shades of blue—he once saw a rare butterfly in the Kingdom of Miaelin, long ago..."

And so they started a conversation.

A question. An answer. Back and forth, as they had done in the atelier.

Yet all the while, Caelith could feel it—Rhaegar’s gaze was burrowing her very soul.

It burned. It cut. It rested upon her like a blade poised at her throat.

Her words grew shorter. Then fewer. At last, she fell silent altogether.

Lucas, as though oblivious, poured her another cup of tea. As he handed it to her, his fingers brushed hers once more.

A small thing.

A trivial thing.

No one remarked upon it.

Crack.

A sharp sound broke the stillness. The wine cup in Rhaegar’s hand had split.

Caelith froze.

Lucas glanced at him—then, unexpectedly, smiled.

"Lord Rhaegar," he said lightly, "has your hand slipped?"

Rhaegar set the fractured cup upon the table, his voice calm—too calm against the storm raging inside him.

"Lord Ostenton shows Lady Caelith... considerable attentiveness."

"It is only proper," Lucas replied, still mild of tone. "Lady Caelith has shown great kindness to my family. That I should treat her well is but natural."

"Kindness?" Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened. "What kindness?"

Lucas recounted the events of two years past—how his father had been struck by a carriage, how Caelith had stopped the bleeding, how she had remained until the physician arrived.

As he spoke, his eyes remained upon her—soft, unwavering.

"I searched for her for two years," he said quietly. "Never did I expect to find her again in the marketplace."

Rhaegar listened.

Silence followed.

"I see," he said at last, his tone indifferent. "So Lord Ostenton has come to repay a debt."

"Not merely to repay it." Lucas met his gaze directly, his voice steady, each word deliberate. "Lady Caelith is a woman of rare worth. She deserves sincerity—she deserves to be treated well."

The words fell too plainly.

Too directly.

Caelith’s heart tightened. She was about to interrupt, but Rhaegar had already risen.

He stepped forward, coming to stand before Lucas, looking down upon him.

"Lord Ostenton," he said, "do you know to whom she belongs?"

Lucas rose as well, meeting him eye to eye.

"To whom she belongs is hers to decide," he answered, neither deferential nor defiant. "Lord Rhaegar—if you truly care for her, then you should not allow her to be slandered as she is now."

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed.

"What did you say?"

"I said—Lady Caelith is now mocked in the streets, pelted with refuse, spoken of with scorn. And for whose sake?" Lucas did not yield an inch. "Lord Rhaegar, is this your affection? That she must bear all this in your stead?"

The air seemed to freeze. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

Caelith looked between them, her pulse racing wildly, as though it might burst from her chest. She hurried to her feet, stepping between them, trying to force distance where none remained.

Rhaegar’s expression shifted.

And at that very moment, the door was flung open.