Isabella froze, stunned.
Caelith rose slowly, brushing the dust from her hands as though nothing of significance had happened.
"He should marry soone of equal standing," she said quietly. "You two are well-suited. Truly." A pause—her voice softened, almost to a whisper. "You are a better woman than I."
***
After Isabella left, Caelith stood at the doorway for a long while, her eyes unfocused, her mind blank.
Then she turned back inside.
She swept away the broken shards, finished hanging the damp clothes beneath the fading light, and moved about the small courtyard as though nothing within her had shifted at all.
From inside, Yvaine’s voice—small, cautious––called out to her, "Caelith... who was that visiting?"
"The Princess."
"The Princess?" Yvaine stepped out a little, curiosity flickering in her widened eyes. "What did she co for? I heard before that Dorian admired her... she wasn’t here to mock us, was she?"
Caelith did not answer.
Yvaine’s gaze fell to her hand—the reddened mark from the scalding tea, the thin cut along her finger, now crusted faintly with dried blood.
"Sister, your hand—"
"It is nothing." Caelith placed a clean garnt upon the line and went inside.
That night, she did not co out to eat.
Yvaine glanced in several tis, but did not dare call her.
At midnight, Caelith lay awake, her thoughts tangled beyond order, until at last she simply stared upward at the cracked ceiling.
Then, a faint sound drew her attention to the tiny window.
Footsteps in the courtyard.
She sat up instantly, her hand already sliding beneath her pillow to grasp the iron hairpin.
The door opened as if held by a ghost. Moonlight spilled inward, outlining a tall figure.
Rhaegar Thorne.
He carried the chill of night with him, his eyes burning in the darkness—too bright, too intense, too... dangerous.
Caelith’s grip on the hairpin loosened. "...Why have you co?"
He did not reply.
Step by step, he crossed the room and stopped at her bedside, looking down at her.
Moonlight fell across his face and revealed the faint bruise at the corner of his mouth.
She froze.
Her hand lifted instinctively, reaching toward it, but he caught her wrist in the cold shackle of his hand.
"Did Isabella co here today?" he asked.
Caelith did not answer.
"Did she tell you about the marriage?" he pressed.
Still silence.
His fingers tightened—then loosened again, as though restraining sothing within himself––a faint animalistic urge to dominate.
"Don’t you have anything to ask at all?"
At last, she lifted her head and t his gaze, her lashes trembling under the pressure of unshed tears.
"What should I ask?" she said calmly—too calmly for the storm that kept dying inside her chest. "Whether you truly intend to marry her? Or what will that an for us once you actually do?"
Rhaegar stilled.
"Those words..." she went on, her voice softer now, "I have already heard them before. There is no need for explanation. You have to marry her. I know."
He watched her for a long ti. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, all the light disappearing from them at once.
"Caelith," he said, each word deliberate, "are you seriously pushing away?"
Rhaegar bent over her, bracing his hands on either side of her, enclosing her completely beneath the mighty cage of his body.
"Look at ," he said.
Caelith deliberately turned her face away, though at the sa ti, she truly wanted to see him.
He reached out, grasped her chin, and turned her back toward him—forcing her to et his eyes. Each word ca low, deliberate, as though ground from deep within his chest.
"You have long been mine. In this lifeti, do not even dream of casting aside. As for His Majesty, I will speak to him myself. With all the years I have given in service, I refuse to believe I cannot turn aside a single marriage decree."
"But you and she... are well matched—"
"To hell with being well matched!"
Before she could say another word, he claid her lips.
The kiss was fierce—unyielding—carrying a dangerous edge, as though daring her to speak of pushing him away again.
Her breath faltered beneath it. She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to push him back, but he did not move.
One hand slid behind her neck, holding her in place; the other caught her wrist, anchoring her firmly against him.
"Rhaegar..." she managed between breaths, her voice trembling.
He stilled—just for a heartbeat. Then deepened the kiss.
At so point, she found herself lowered onto the bed.
He hovered above her, one arm braced beside her head, his gaze fixed upon her face.
Then, he reached into his robe and drew out a length of dark leather cord.
She had seen it before—part of the fastening at his waist.
Her breath caught.
He took her wrist gently—but firmly—and wound the cord around it, fastening it to the bedpost above her head.
Her chest rose and fell unevenly, her eyes shimring with unspoken emotion as she looked up at him.
There was sothing in his gaze—sothing dark that made her heart race.
Rhaegar shifted closer, his presence overwhelming, his breath warm against her ear.
"Are you afraid?" he murmured.
She did not answer. She only looked at him, struggling to remain composed.
And then... He lowered his head.
The kiss he placed at the corner of her eye was light—almost reverent—yet burning with the flas of his desire.
"I made up my mind when I was fifteen," he said softly, his breath hot. "In this life, I will only marry you. Anyone who stands in my way will not see the light of day again. Even the Emperor."
Her eyes suddenly stung with tears.
"Are you crazy?"
"Crazy," he said, his lips tracing her skin. "I’ve been crazy for a very long ti."
His kisses traveled downwards.
Caelith tilted her head back, a soft sob finally escaping her throat. His lips pressed against her skin, sucking, leaving a burning mark.
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