Far away, within the ravaged mountain valley, the battle had raged for half an hour.
Rhaegar’s forces had suffered grievous losses, their numbers reduced by more than half—but the enemy, too, lay broken across the blood-soaked ground.
Then, from the distance ca the thunder of hooves.
Rhaegar’s heart tightened as he looked up.
A new force charged into view—and at its head rode a woman clad in crimson, her presence blazing like fire against the chaos of war.
Isabella Tanmin.
She led her n straight into the fray, cutting through the enemy ranks with fierce precision. In an instant, the tide of battle turned.
Rhaegar frowned, cutting down an opponent before calling out, "Why are you here?"
Isabella felled another with a single stroke, flashing him a quick, arrogant grin.
"Caelith sent word," she said. "She said you were in danger. I happened to be outside the city, so I ca. And it looks like I’ve made the right decision."
Rhaegar stilled for the briefest mont.
Caelith told her?
How had she known? And how had she known Isabella would be near?
As if reading his thoughts, Isabella laughed lightly.
"She is far more capable than you give her credit for. Do not just stand there—fight your way out first!"
With their forces joined, they broke through the encirclent at last, riding hard toward the capital.
Rhaegar cast one final glance back at the valley, now strewn with the fallen, his eyes cold with unspoken resolve.
***
That night, inside Valehart’s residence.
Caelith sat by the window, the dark iron hairpin held firmly in her grasp.
Suddenly, Dolly burst in, breathless with alarm.
"My lady! Sothing is wrong—there are Shadow Guard everywhere outside!"
Caelith rose at once and moved to the window.
Flas lit the night sky.
Ranks upon ranks of the Shadow Guard surged into the estate, sealing off every courtyard, every passage.
And there—standing amidst it all—she saw him.
Rhaegar Thorne.
Dorian stumbled out, his robes disheveled, his face draining of color at the sight before him.
"Lord Rhaegar! What is the aning of this?!"
Rhaegar stood in the courtyard, his dark cloak snapping in the night wind. His arm was bound in white cloth, faintly stained with blood—but he stood as though untouched by pain, his gaze cold and unyielding.
"The Earl of Valehart stands accused of collusion with foreign powers, embezzlent of military funds, and the murder of a court official," he declared. "By the sacred imperial decree, we take him into custody until further notice."
Dorian staggered. "Impossible! My father is innocent! On what grounds do you—"
Before he could finish, a figure stepped forward from behind Rhaegar.
An old man, hair and beard white as frost.
Dorian’s eyes fell upon him—and in that instant, all color fled his face.
He stumbled back, collapsing to the ground.
"Ilai... Ilai Palewood..."
From amidst the gathered guards, Caelith stepped forward, coming to stand at Rhaegar’s side.
Dorian looked at her, disbelief flooding his expression.
"You... it was you..."
Caelith t his gaze.
There was no hatred in her eyes. Only undescribable calm.
"Dorian," she said quietly, "the debt owed to my parents... is due to be repaid."
His lips parted, yet no words ca.
One by one, the Shadow Guard dragged the mbers of the household out into the open.
Dorian was seized and hauled forward. As he passed Caelith, he struggled suddenly, his voice breaking into a hoarse shout:
"Caelith! You venomous woman—you will not live well! Neither will you die in peace!"
Caelith did not answer.
Rhaegar lifted a hand.
At once, a guard silenced Dorian, covering his mouth and dragging him away into the darkness.
On the day the Earl of Valehart’s household was seized, Caelith and Yvaine were taken as well.
The charge was simple in wording, yet heavy in implication—family mbers implicated in the case, to be held pending investigation.
The n of the Shadow Guard spoke with outward courtesy, but their actions allowed no refusal.
As Caelith was escorted into the carriage, she turned once to look back at the gates of Dorian’s residence—the very gates she had once crossed as a newly wedded bride. Now, behind her, they closed with a final, echoing thud.
Yvaine was pushed toward another carriage, her voice raised in protest, insisting upon her innocence—but no one paid her any heed.
The prison was dark.
A single narrow window high above allowed only a few pallid strands of light to fall within. The ground was covered with a thin layer of straw, damp and sour with the scent of mold.
Caelith settled in the corner. Quietly, she took the dark iron hairpin Rhaegar had given her and concealed it beneath the straw.
Night fell, cold and rciless.
Curled against the wall, she listened to the distant sounds—the weeping, the low groans from neighboring cells. Sleep did not co.
By the following evening, footsteps echoed through the corridor.
Steady. asured. Commanding.
From afar ca the deferential voice of a jailer, "Your Grace, Lord Thorne, this way..."
Caelith’s heart gave a sudden, violent beat.
She sat upright at once, her gaze fixed upon the barred door.
Through the flickering torchlight, a familiar figure erged at the end of the passage.
Clad in the dark uniform of the Shadow Guard, his cloak still carrying the chill of night air—his expression colder than ever.
Rhaegar.
He stopped before the cell and looked at her.
For a fleeting mont, her eyes stung.
She wanted to rush forward—to let him take her away, to tell him of her fear, her exhaustion, the weight she had borne alone.
But she did not.
Instead, she rose and walked to the bars, stopping just short of them. Her face was composed, her voice even—almost distant.
"What brings Lord Rhaegar here?"
Rhaegar’s brow furrowed. "Caelith..."
"My lord," she cut in, her tone sharpening with deliberate coldness, "I am but a mber of the Earl of Valehart’s household. I have no prior acquaintance with you. For you to co here... is not proper."
He stared at her, stunned.
"What are you saying?"
User Comments
0 comments from readers