By the ti Caelith arrived at the embroidery house, the sun had already risen high.
Yet throughout the morning, she found herself distracted, her thoughts unsettled, as though so unseen weight pressed upon her heart.
"Lady Emberlyn, is sothing troubling you today?" The voice of Lucas Ostenton ca from the doorway.
She looked up to see him standing there, a small plate of pastries in his hands.
"It’s nothing," she replied, lowering her gaze as she resud her stitching. "I simply did not sleep well."
Lucas stepped inside and set the plate upon the table.
"All the more reason to eat sothing," he said gently. "These are freshly made honey cakes from the kitchen. Do try them."
Caelith looked at the plate, her thoughts stirring with quiet complexity.
"Lord Ostenton, there is no need for you to bring these every day—"
"I have grown accustod to it," he interrupted lightly, a faint smile on his lips. "If you refuse them, the kitchen staff may begin to think their craft wanting—and that would grieve them greatly."
She blinked in surprise, then let out a soft laugh.
"And what sort of reasoning is that?"
"The reasoning of a rchant," he replied with mock solemnity. "Only when the custor is pleased can business endure."
His words drew a genuine smile from her lips. She picked up a piece of honey cake and took a bite.
It was sweet and comforting.
She lifted her head, about to speak—only to find Lucas watching her with sincere interest. That gaze... was not quite the sa as before.
She hesitated.
But in the next instant, he looked away, his usual composure restored.
"Is it to your liking?" he asked.
"It is."
"Good." He rose to his feet. "Take your ti. I shall attend to matters at the front."
With that, he turned and departed.
Caelith watched his retreating figure, a strange, indefinable feeling stirring within her.
After a mont, she set the remaining cake back upon the plate and returned to her embroidery.
At that very sa ti, on the second floor of the teahouse across from Ostenton Embroidery House, a lone figure stood by the window, observing the steady flow of people passing before the workshop.
He was dressed in plain cloth, his features unremarkable—so ordinary that he would vanish into any crowd without a trace.
Yet his gaze remained fixed in a single direction.
Toward the window where a young woman sat, bent over her embroidery.
He watched her for a long while.
Then, without a sound, he turned, descended the stairs, and disappeared into the tide of the street.
***
Before dawn had fully broken, Rhaegar was already standing before the palace gates.
The morning mist lay thick upon the air, veiling the distant palace walls in a haze of muted grey. Clad in robes of deep black, he stood unmoving—like a figure hewn from stone, austere and unyielding.
When Isabella arrived, he did not so much as turn his head.
She was dressed with unusual simplicity that day. No rouge adorned her face; beneath her eyes lingered faint shadows, as though sleep had eluded her. She ca to stand beside him, as if to speak—yet seeing his distant, unapproachable bearing, she held her tongue.
Together, they entered the palace grounds.
Isabella kept her gaze lowered, her steps slow and hesitant. Rhaegar walked half a pace ahead, each stride steady and resolute—like one treading the edge of a blade.
At the entrance to the Imperial Study, a eunuch went inside to announce them.
When he erged, his expression bore a trace of unease. He glanced once at Rhaegar, then at Isabella, before lowering his eyes.
"Lord Thorne, His Majesty has decreed that affairs of state are pressing today. He will not grant an audience."
Rhaegar said nothing. He stood before the tightly shut doors, his gaze fixed upon them for a long, unbroken mont.
Then, he knelt. "Then this subject shall wait here."
The eunuch, well aware of his temperant, let out a quiet sigh and stepped aside.
Isabella stood nearby, her heart uneasy. Rhaegar Thorne—so proud, so unbending by nature—now knelt here... for the sake of a single woman.
"Rhae..."
She had barely begun to speak when a palace maid approached in haste, bowing respectfully before her.
"Your Highness, the Empress requests your presence."
Isabella’s expression shifted. After a brief hesitation, she followed the maid.
Within the Empress’s palace, a censer burned with the finest aloeswood, its fragrant smoke curling languidly through the air.
Isabella knelt below, her head bowed. The Empress sat elevated above, holding a porcelain teacup, sipping with unhurried grace. Around her stood several palace maids, all with lowered eyes, scarcely daring to breathe.
The soft sound of porcelain eting wood—barely more than a whisper—sent a tremor through Isabella’s heart.
"I hear," the Empress said, her voice calm and unreadable, "that you intend to accompany Lord Thorne to dissolve this engagent."
Isabella kept her head lowered, offering no reply.
The Empress rose and stepped down before her, looking at her from above with quiet authority.
"Isabella," she said, "do you know who arranged this marriage?"
"...I do."
"And knowing that," the Empress continued, her tone cooling, "you still allow him to act so recklessly?"
Isabella lifted her head; her eyes were already rimd with red.
"Aunt Veliria... he does not care for . In his heart, there is only that damned Caelith Emberlyn. I... I do not wish to force what cannot be."
The Empress regarded her in silence for a long while.
Then she lowered herself slightly and reached out, lifting Isabella’s chin with a gentle hand.
The motion was light—yet it caused Isabella’s entire body to stiffen.
"Foolish child," the Empress said softly, her voice llowing with a trace of tenderness. "You are my own niece. How could I allow you to suffer such grievance?"
Tears slipped down Isabella’s cheeks.
The Empress helped her to her feet and guided her to sit beside her, raising a hand to wipe away the tears from her face.
"Rest assured," she said, her tone calm yet absolute, "this marriage... shall not be dissolved."
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