The final note faded slowly into the still air, its lingering resonance winding through the quiet hall like the last ripple on a calm lake.
Caelith lowered her hands from the strings and glanced up, a trace of unease in her eyes as she looked toward Rhaegar. The piece she had played was not her finest performance; the turmoil of recent days had left its mark upon her music. She could not tell whether it had displeased him.
Yet Rhaegar offered no comment on her skill.
He simply watched her.
For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady and unreadable. At last, he spoke, his voice low.
"Did your mother teach you this?"
Caelith nodded softly. "Yes."
"She was a gifted woman."
His tone remained even, but the words struck Caelith like a sudden tremor. Did he know her mother?
"A pity," he then added quietly.
He said nothing more on the matter. Instead, after a pause, he asked, "Has Dorian ever heard you play this piece?"
Caelith shook her head.
Dorian had never shown the slightest patience for her music. Once, when she had practiced in the courtyard, he had even complained that the sound of her harp was "irritating."
The faintest curve touched Rhaegar's lips—a hint of something close to mockery.
"Good," he said. "From now on, play only for me."
The declaration was as imperious as ever, leaving no room for argument. Caelith felt her heart skip a beat.
"Why?" she asked despite herself. "Your Grace, what is it you truly intend? You summon me here merely to hear me play the harp? Is that supposed to amuse you?"
"Amuse me?"
Rhaegar leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
The cool scent of pinewood incense mingled with the subtle masculine warmth that clung to him, surrounding her once again.
"Caelith," he said quietly, "do you truly think I am seeking amusement?"
His gaze fixed upon hers, sharp enough to pierce through every defense.
"If I merely wished for diversion, the capital is full of courtesans and musicians eager to please—women far more accomplished in music than you. Why would I trouble myself with you?"
Caelith's composure faltered beneath that piercing stare. She turned her head aside.
"Then… what am I to you?"
"You?"
Rhaegar reached over the harp and caught a loose strand of her hair between his fingers, winding it slowly around them as though studying some delicate thread.
"You are someone I have chosen to be mine."
The warmth of his touch traveled faintly through the strand of hair. Caelith stiffened, barely daring to move.
"And what is it you have chosen?" she asked hoarsely. "This face of mine? Or… the fact that I am Dorian Valehart's wife?"
For the briefest instant, Rhaegar's fingers paused. A shadow flickered through his eyes before it disappeared again.
"Both," he said plainly.
He released the strand of hair and instead let his hand drift lightly to her cheek, his thumb brushing against the smooth skin.
"This face of yours," he continued calmly, "pleases me well enough. As for being Dorian Valehart's wife…"
A quiet laugh escaped him—one impossible to read.
"Let us call that an additional… amusement."
The fragile, unspoken hope that had begun to stir within Caelith shattered instantly at his blunt honesty.
Of course.
In the end, she was nothing more than a passing diversion to him—a tool to provoke, perhaps even to wound Dorian. A plaything born from a powerful man's fleeting interest.
Just like always.
Humiliation and anger surged through Caelith once more—stronger than before.
With a sharp motion, she knocked Rhaegar's hand aside and rose abruptly to her feet. The sudden movement sent the cushion beneath her tumbling to the floor.
"Rhaegar Thorne!"
In her agitation, she even forgot the formal title. Her voice trembled with fury.
"What do you take me for?!" she demanded. "A courtesan you can summon and dismiss at will? Or merely a convenient weapon to use against Dorian Valehart?"
Her eyes burned red with unshed tears, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Yes—I was foolish!" she continued bitterly. "Blind enough to marry Dorian Valehart! But no matter how pitiful I may be, I will not endure such humiliation from you!"
Rhaegar remained seated upon the chair, looking up at her as she raged.
Her cheeks were flushed with anger, her breath uneven, her eyes bright with tears that stubbornly refused to fall. In that moment, she resembled a small creature driven to the brink—every spine raised in defiance.
Strangely, he did not grow angry.
Instead, something faint—almost like appreciation—flickered in his gaze.
"Are you done?" he asked calmly.
His composure only fueled her anger further, though she also realized how far she had lost control. She bit her lip and turned her face aside, her eyes glistening.
Rhaegar slowly rose.
Circling the harp, he came to stand right before her. Instinctively, Caelith stepped back, but his hand shot out and closed around her wrist.
His palm was large and warm. The grip was firm—not painful, yet strong enough that she could not break free.
"Humiliation?" Rhaegar looked down at her from close range, so close she could see her own reflection in his dark eyes.
"Caelith Emberlyn—if humiliation were my purpose, you would not be standing here unharmed with the strength to shout at me."
His free hand lifted, and the pad of his thumb brushed gently across the moisture at the corner of her eye.
"If you were merely a tool to me," he continued quietly, "I would not waste my time here listening to you play the harp."
His fingers were calloused from the sword. The roughness grazed lightly across her skin, yet the gesture carried an unexpected hint of gentleness.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Almost without thinking, Caelith raised her gaze.
Her eyes collided with his.
The cold mockery she had come to expect was gone. In its place lay something deep and shadowed—an intensity she could not decipher.
"I want you because you are Caelith Emberlyn," he said slowly, each word deliberate and clear. "Not because of whose daughter you are. Not because you are another man's wife."
"As for Dorian Valehart…" A sharp, cold smile curved his lips. "Whatever he owes you, I will help you reclaim. But that has nothing to do with what exists between you and me."
"Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant," he added.
Releasing her wrist, he lifted his hand and lightly tipped her chin upward. The gesture was gentle, yet carried a quiet authority that could not be refused.
"Time will prove it."
With that, he stepped back, restoring the distance between them.
"Enough for today. You may go."
He turned and walked back to the window, clasping his hands behind his back once more. His tall figure stood rigid and solitary, as though the warmth in his earlier words and touch had been nothing more than a fleeting illusion.
"Three days from now," he said without turning, his voice calm and final. "The same place. The same hour."
He did not look at her again after that, leaving only those final words behind.
Caelith remained standing where she was, stunned and motionless. The warmth of his palm seemed to linger upon her wrist, and the corner of her eye—where his thumb had brushed away her tears—still felt faintly warm.
What had he meant by those words?
Because she was Caelith Emberlyn?
Not revenge. Not humiliation. Simply because… it was her?
Her heart felt as though an unseen hand had seized it, squeezing until it ached—tight, heavy, and stirred by a strange tremor she did not dare examine too closely.
She scarcely knew how she left Firefly Lane.
Nor how she climbed back into the waiting carriage.
Only when Dolly grasped her icy hand with worried concern did she gradually return to herself.
The carriage lurched forward over the uneven road. Caelith leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
She thought of Rhaegar's face.
His calm, measured words.
The warmth of his fingertips.
And the two kisses—so utterly different, the fierce one beneath the apple tree and the gentle one beside the harp.
They flashed again and again through her mind.
They brought chaos. A chaos she had never known before.
***
When she returned to the Valehart estate and stepped into her courtyard, she found one of Dorian's personal attendants already waiting by the gate.
"My Lady, the Young Lord asks that you come to the study."
Caelith's heart gave a sudden jolt.
"I understand," she replied, forcing calm into her voice.
Inside the study, Dorian sat at his desk examining account ledgers. When she entered, he set down the brush in his hand.
"You've returned?" His gaze swept over her face, as though searching for something. "Did the embroidery workshop have any new patterns?"
"Some were acceptable," Caelith answered quietly, lowering her eyes. "I selected a few. They will be delivered in a few days."
"Mm."
Dorian nodded and lifted his teacup for a sip. His tone sounded casual as he continued, "I've heard that you've been going out rather often lately. I thought you were not feeling entirely well?"
So it had come.
Caelith's back tensed instantly.
It was true she had gone out more frequently than usual in recent days. Her excuses had been simple enough—purchasing thread and cloth, selecting perfume, visiting temples for prayers.
In the past, Dorian had never concerned himself with such matters.
But now he had suddenly brought it up…