Gradually, the tension faded from her brow, the faint crease between her brows smoothing like ripples settling upon still water. Her breathing, once uneven and fragile, grew calm and steady once more.
At last, as dawn’s first pale light crept across the horizon, the fever that had consud her through the night finally broke.
The imperial physician returned to take her pulse and, after a careful examination, declared that she was no longer in danger. Only rest was now required for her recovery.
Only then did Rhaegar allow himself to breathe freely.
He remained seated at her bedside, his gaze lingering upon her beautiful, sleeping face. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted his hand and brushed it gently across her cheek, as though committing the mont to mory.
"Foolish girl..." he murmured, his voice low and threaded with sothing deeper than reproach. "To cast aside your very life, rely to bring word to ?"
She gave no answer.
Rhaegar lowered his head, and upon her brow he placed a kiss so light it was barely more than a breath—soft, fleeting, yet laden with unspoken devotion.
When Caelith at last awakened, it was the following evening.
As her eyes slowly opened, the first sight that greeted her was Rhaegar.
He sat beside her bed, her hand enclosed within his own, his head slightly bowed as though sleep had claid him at last. Yet his appearance was far from composed—his complexion ashen, dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes, and a rough shadow of stubble lined his jaw. Gone was the cold, unyielding commander of the Shadow Guard; in his place remained only a man worn thin by worry and sleepless vigil.
She blinked faintly, parting her lips to speak, only to find her throat parched as though scorched by fla.
Her fingers stirred, barely brushing against his hand.
At once, Rhaegar startled awake.
"Caelith!" He leaned over her in an instant, his voice tight with urgency, his eyes brimming with concern. "You’re awake—does anything pain you? Are you thirsty? Hungry?"
At the sight of him, so unlike himself, she felt an unexpected urge to laugh. Yet the mont her lips curved, the motion tugged cruelly at her wounds, and she drew in a sharp breath of pain.
"Do not move!" Rhaegar said quickly, pressing her gently but firmly back. "Your ribs are broken—you must not stir."
Caelith gazed at him, then spoke in a soft, fragile voice.
"Rhaegar..."
"Yes?"
"...Are you unhard?"
Rhaegar stilled.
Of all things, her first words upon waking were not of her own suffering, but of him.
A sudden sting rose behind his eyes. He turned his face away, drawing a slow breath to steady himself before looking back again.
"I am unhurt," he said hoarsely. "It is you who suffered."
A faint smile touched Caelith’s lips. "Then... all is well."
Rhaegar looked at her for a long mont—then, as though sothing within him gave way, he bent forward and gathered her carefully into his arms.
He held her with utmost caution, avoiding every wound, every fragile place—yet the force of his embrace spoke of sothing fierce and unrelenting, as though he wished to bind her into his very bones, never to be parted again.
"Caelith," he whispered at her ear, his voice trembling despite himself, "hear well. Never again. You are not to face danger alone, not to gamble your life for mine, not to leave behind."
Resting against him, she gave a soft murmur of assent.
"...Mm."
When Lance entered to deliver his report, the sight before him halted his steps at once.
He lowered his gaze without delay.
"My lord," he said respectfully, "we have discovered the truth."
Rhaegar released Caelith with great care, drawing the covers up about her as though she were sothing fragile and irreplaceable. Only once he was certain she was settled did he rise and step into the outer chamber.
"Speak."
Lance bowed his head and reported in a low voice, "Those n who struck tonight were sworn rcenaries hired by the Wellwicks’ household. The one who orchestrated it... was Earl Valehart himself—Dorian Valehart’s father."
Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened at once, cold as drawn steel.
Earl Eathan Valehart. So, he had indeed lost patience.
"They laid an ambush in the alley behind the Northern Command," Lance continued. "Had Lady Caelith not sent warning in advance... the consequences would have been beyond reckoning."
Rhaegar fell silent for a mont, his expression darkening like a gathering storm. Then he spoke, his voice low and edged with frost.
"Continue the investigation. Every account he has touched over the years, every clandestine contact—leave nothing unexamined."
"Yes, my lord."
When Rhaegar returned to the bedside, Caelith was watching him.
"Who was it?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated, if only for a breath, before answering, "Your father-in-law—the Earl Eathan."
For a mont, she was stunned. Then a faint, bitter smile curved her lips.
"So... it was him, after all."
"You must focus on your recovery," Rhaegar said, taking her hand once more. "I will take care of this myself."
Caelith looked at him, her gaze steady despite her weakness.
"Rhaegar... I discovered sothing."
She told him then, in careful detail, of the diary—and of the na Julian Milstrom, leaving nothing unsaid.
When she finished, Rhaegar remained silent for a long while.
Within the quiet of his heart, he made a vow—unspoken, yet absolute—that never again would harm befall her while he yet lived.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Without rising, Rhaegar said evenly, "Enter."
Lance stepped in, lowering his voice. "My lord, the Princess has arrived."
Rhaegar’s brows drew together faintly. He cast one last glance at Caelith, now resting once more, and adjusted the covers about her before turning to leave.
In the courtyard stood Isabella Tanmin, clad in crimson, her presence as vivid and restless as living fla.
At the sight of Rhaegar, she stepped forward swiftly. Her gaze swept over his face, then flicked past him toward the chamber behind.
"I hear you are hiding soone here," she said with a knowing smile. "Might I be granted a glimpse?"
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