Caelith all but stumbled and fled back to her bridal courtyard, half-running, half-falling in her haste.
The rear gate stood ajar. Dolly waited anxiously just inside, her face turning as pale as parchment the moment she saw her lady—robes disordered, hair undone, faint crimson marks blooming along her neck…
"M–My lady! What has happened to you…?"
"Do not ask. Help me wash and change at once." Caelith's voice trembled despite her effort to steady it, and she ushered Dolly quickly inside.
Fortunately, Dorian had gone in search of Rhaegar; he would not return immediately.
Dolly moved with the efficiency of long habit, bringing warm water and fresh linens. She gently wiped her mistress's skin, combed and re-coiled her loosened hair, and dressed her in a clean night robe. Yet the marks upon her throat and collarbone, though dulled beneath powder, remained faintly visible to any discerning eye.
"My lady… these…" Dolly's hands shook as she held the cosmetic box. As part of her dowry, her fate was bound to Caelith's; should scandal arise, she too would suffer.
"I scratched myself in my sleep," Caelith replied coolly, forcing composure into her tone. She studied her reflection in the dim bronze mirror, then tugged her collar higher to conceal what she could. "See that the garments I wore tonight are dealt with. Thoroughly. No trace must remain."
Dolly nodded at once, bundling the discarded bridal robes—still faintly scented with wine, night air, and something far more intimate—into her arms.
They had barely finished when footsteps echoed beyond the courtyard.
Dorian had returned.
Caelith drew a slow breath and walked to the round table in the outer chamber. She lifted the ceremonial wine vessel—its contents long gone cold—and poured herself a cup. Tilting her head back, she drank it in one swallow. The chill burned down her throat, steadying her racing pulse and dulling the secret ache lingering deep within her body.
The door opened.
Dorian entered, a trace of fatigue upon his features, though his gaze remained sharp as it swept across the room and settled upon her.
She set down the cup and looked up at him, her expression composed, unreadable.
"You have returned, my lord husband."
A faint crease appeared between his brows. He had expected tears—accusation, wounded complaint. Instead, she was calm. Too calm, actually.
"Earlier…" he began, his tone measured with cautious probing. "An urgent matter arose. I went to the study to attend to it and was delayed."
An urgent matter. The study.
Within her heart, Caelith gave a silent, brittle laugh. Indeed—an urgent matter in Yvaine's chamber, no doubt.
"I see," she answered lightly, her fingers tracing the rim of the cool wine cup. "You must have labored diligently, my lord."
Her detachment unsettled him more than reproach would have done. He crossed the room and seated himself opposite her, examining her closely.
In the candlelight, her beauty appeared as serene as painted porcelain. Yet faint shadows lay beneath her eyes; her complexion seemed paler than before. The high collar of her robe concealed her neck entirely.
"You appear unwell," Dorian observed. "Did you not rest?"
"A new bed does not easily welcome sleep," she replied smoothly. Then, after a brief pause, she lifted her gaze and met his directly.
"And you, my lord—did your affairs in the study conclude to your satisfaction?"
She laid deliberate emphasis upon the words the study.
Dorian's gaze flickered, evasive for the briefest instant, before he looked away. "It was managed," he replied. After a pause, as though to soften the slight, his voice gentled. "It was wrong of me to leave you alone on our first night. In a few days, I shall take you to the country estate beyond the city walls. The air is clear there—it will do you good. Consider it my apology."
An apology?
To offer such recompense after spending the night entwined with another woman—
Caelith felt her stomach twist violently, bile rising in her throat. She forced it down, schooling her features into the faintest semblance of a smile.
"You are too generous, my lord."
The air between them cooled, heavy with unspoken truths.
Dorian studied her in silence. There was something altered about her tonight. He could not name it precisely, yet it unsettled him. The careful admiration that had once lingered in her eyes when she looked at him—the timid warmth, the earnest devotion—seemed diminished. In its place lay something more distant… and faintly cold.
Was she angered by his absence the previous night? he wondered. Women were prone to such temperaments; a little coaxing would suffice.
"I have ordered the kitchens to prepare milk porridge for you," he said, rising from his seat. "It will be sent shortly. Eat something warm, then rest well."
As he spoke, he reached out, intending to lay a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.
But Caelith recoiled as though from flame, drawing back sharply to avoid his touch.
His hand froze midair. A shadow passed across his features.
"Caelith?"
She realized at once that she had betrayed too much. Composing herself, she lowered her gaze.
"I am merely tired," she said softly. "I would rest now. Should you not attend the guests in the general court, my lord?"
It was a dismissal—gracious in wording, hurtful in intent.
Never before had he been so coolly turned away by her. Irritation stirred within him, though he suppressed it. He had, after all, given cause. Seeing her pallor and the faint weariness upon her face, he swallowed his displeasure.
"Very well. Rest, then."
His tone cooled despite himself. With that, he withdrew, the door closing behind him.
Only once it had shut did Caelith's rigid spine slacken. She sank back into the chair, her palms slick with cold sweat.
Dolly approached, worry etched upon her face. "My lady… You and the young lord—"
"It is nothing," Caelith interrupted quietly. Her gaze drifted to the wavering candlelight, eyes hollow and contemplative. "Dolly, from this day forth, we must tread carefully within this Valehart household. Watch your every step."
"Yes, my lady," Dolly answered in a hushed voice.
In the days that followed, Dorian seemed intent upon mending appearances. He sent jewels and fine bolts of silk to her chambers, and each day he would sit for a time, speaking of trivial matters without depth or sincerity. Caelith received all with composed civility—neither warm nor resentful—playing her role to perfection: a bride slighted on her wedding night, nursing a quiet grievance, yet still dutiful and decorous.
At first, Dorian grew impatient with her cool reserve. Yet as she neither wept nor questioned him, his impatience softened into complacency—and, soon enough, into boredom.
Indeed, he thought, she remained as ever: compliant, unassuming, devoid of spark. How could she compare to Yvaine Emberlyn, who was so perceptive and charming?
Gradually, his visits became less frequent.
Caelith welcomed the quiet.
When Dorian came, she received him with measured courtesy; when he did not, she found solace in the stillness.
Beneath that composed exterior, however, her mind remained vigilant. She observed the household of the Valeharts with discreet care, noting the movements of servants, the whispers in corridors, and—most attentively of all—the comings and goings of Dorian and Yvaine.
It was soon said that Yvaine, under the tender pretext of "visiting her younger sister," had once more taken residence within the Valehart estate. Her chambers were arranged in the guest courtyard, not far from the main residence.
Impatient even for decency's sake, Caelith thought, a chill settling deep within her heart.
***
One afternoon, as pale sunlight filtered through the lattice window, Caelith reclined beside the sill, idly turning the pages of a miscellany. The world outside seemed deceptively tranquil.
Dolly entered in haste, her footsteps subdued yet urgent.
"My lady," she whispered, catching herself mid-sentence, "a card has arrived—from the residence of the Commander of the Shadow Guard."
Caelith's fingers tightened imperceptibly. The paper beneath them crumpled faintly.
"What does it say?" she asked, her voice dry despite her effort at calm.
Dolly approached and presented the gilded invitation with both hands. "It states that in three days' time, Duke Rhaegar Thorne will host a banquet at his manor, in gratitude for the congratulations offered by his colleagues and acquaintances in recent days. He requests that the young master—and you—honor the occasion with your presence."
Caelith accepted the card.
The letters upon it were bold, angular, and unyielding, each stroke carved with decisive strength, as though etched in steel rather than ink. At the bottom stood his name—Rhaegar Thorne—written with overbearing authority.
He had sent this openly.
Not in secrecy, nor by hidden means—but formally, publicly, inviting both her and Dorian to his hall.
What were his intentions?
Her thoughts unraveled in sudden disarray. The memory of that night surged unbidden: confusion and heat, the ache that had marked her irrevocably, the searing closeness of his breath, the fathomless darkness of his eyes.
And his final words…
Remember. You owe me.
Her pulse quickened. With abrupt urgency, she folded the invitation shut, the motion sharp in the quiet chamber.
"My lady… shall we attend?" Dolly ventured cautiously.
"Yes." Caelith lifted her gaze. The turmoil had already retreated from her features, replaced by composed serenity—yet beneath it flickered a glint of icy determination. "We shall attend. Why should we not?"
Flight was futile. A man such as Rhaegar Thorne did not extend his hand without purpose—and once he had chosen his quarry, he did not relinquish it lightly.
Moreover…
Why should she be the one to shrink in fear?
The burden of guilt did not rest upon her shoulders. Let those who had betrayed vows and conscience tremble in the light of day instead.