She accepted the letter and unfolded it right away.

It was brief—only a few lines, written with careful elegance:

Dear Miss Emberlyn,

I am to accompany my father to the frontier post. At the shortest, I shall be gone a year; at the longest, perhaps three. Before I depart, I wish to see you once more. There are words I would like to say.

Tomorrow at noon, at the Ten-Mile Pavilion beyond the city. If you do not come, I shall understand.

Signed—Isabella Tanmin.

Caelith read it in silence, her gaze lingering upon the ink long after the words had settled.

The maid remained where she stood, awaiting a reply.

Yvaine stepped closer. The moment she caught sight of the letter, her face drained of color.

"Sister! You must not go! She cannot mean well—after all she has done to you, and now suddenly she asks to meet? Who knows what scheme lies behind it?"

Caelith pursed her lips and said nothing.

She folded the letter and slipped it behind the wide belt of her dress.

"Tell your mistress," she addressed the maid at last, "that I will be there at noon tomorrow."

The maid inclined her head and withdrew at once.

Yvaine was beside herself with alarm.

"Sister! Have you lost your senses? What if she means to harm you?"

Caelith looked at her calmly. "If she intended harm, she would not write so plainly. No one with ill intent would make it so obvious."

"But what if—"

"I do not wish to live in paranoia," Caelith replied quietly. "I will go and see. I will take Rhaegar’s men with me, too."

***

The next day, at noon, beyond the city—at the Ten-Mile Pavilion.

When Caelith stepped down from her carriage, Lance Illian and his men stood watch some twenty paces away, their eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the pavilion.

Within it stood a single figure, waiting with patience.

Isabella wore plain garments, her hair neatly arranged at the crown of her head, her face unadorned. She seemed utterly unlike the proud princess she had once been.

When she saw Caelith, she suddenly smiled.

It was not the smile of before—no longer lofty, no longer edged with hauteur. There was something else within it now... something difficult to name. A quiet release, perhaps—or the faint bitterness of things left unsaid.

"Thank you... for coming, Miss Emberlyn."

Caelith gave no answer, only bowed her head in greeting. She stepped forward and took a seat opposite her.

For a long while, neither spoke a word.

The autumn wind stirred through the pavilion, carrying with it a trace of chill.

At last, Isabella broke the silence, drawing a brief breath first.

"I am leaving. To the frontier. It may be two or three years... perhaps longer."

Caelith looked at her, her gaze steady and unyielding. "Why tell me this?"

Isabella lowered her head, her fingers tightening faintly in her lap. "Because... I wished to apologize."

When she raised her face again, her eyes were already rimmed with red.

"What happened before—it was all my doing. The rumors... I was the one who set them in motion. As for William Laurel... I knew, and yet I did nothing to stop it. I even sought to drive a wedge between you and Rhaegar..."

She faltered, her voice trembling as though each word weighed heavily upon her.

"I believed... that if I could force you away, he would come to care for me instead."

A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. "But I was wrong."

Her eyes glistened. "He never once truly saw me the way I wanted him to see me."

Caelith listened in silence, her expression unreadable.

Isabella wiped the tears from her cheeks and continued, "I know... these words cannot undo anything. I only wished—before I leave—to finally speak them aloud."

She rose slowly and walked to the edge of the pavilion, her gaze drifting toward the distant mountains, faint beneath the pale autumn sky.

"When I first saw him, I was still a child," she said softly. "It was at a banquet in the palace. He stood there, doing nothing... yet I could not look away."

A fragile smile touched her lips, trembling through her tears.

"Later, I asked my aunt to arrange the marriage. I thought... if I could wed him, I would at least be able to see him every day."

Her voice grew quieter. "But he refused. For your sake, he knelt before the doors of the imperial study... until he coughed blood."

She turned, looking at Caelith with eyes full of sadness.

"Only then did I understand—there are some people in this world whom no amount of waiting can ever bring to your side."

Though tear-streaked, her eyes were clear now—stripped of pride, stripped of illusion.

"Caelith... you are more fortunate than I. And... undeniably better. I just wanted you to know that."

With that, she turned and began walking toward her carriage. After a few steps, she stopped, though she did not look back.

"There is one more thing you should know."

Caelith watched her quietly, clutching the skirt of her dress with her fingers.

"My aunt may have fallen, but her influence has not entirely vanished. There are those who bear resentment toward Rhaegar. Unable to act against him, they may turn their hands toward you."

A faint pause. "Be careful. Men like him have but one weakness––their women."

With that, she ascended into the carriage at last.

The wheels began to turn, carrying her away, leaving behind a trail of dust that lingered in the autumn air.

Lance came out of the shadows, his gaze drifting briefly to the disappearing vehicle.

"Lady Emberlyn, it is time to return."

Caelith nodded and entered her carriage. Inside, Yvaine was already waiting, her face drawn tight with worry.

"Sister, did she try to do anything to you?"

Caelith simply shook her head. "No."

Yvaine exhaled in relief. "That is good... that is good."

Caelith did not say anything else. She lifted the curtain slightly, her gaze falling upon the passing scenery—fields and roads slipping away into the distance.

The wind stirred the edge of the fabric.

And her thoughts, like the fading dust upon the road, refused to settle.

Isabella was gone. Yet in Caelith’s heart, no true ease followed her departure.

And...

On the third day after Isabella left, disaster struck.

That night, Caelith and Yvaine had retired early. The rear courtyard of Firefly Pavilion lay steeped in silence. Only the faint chirping of crickets lingered in the corners of the walls, thin and unbroken in the stillness of the night.

Yvaine slept soundly. Until... a sharp scent of smoke forced its way into her senses.

Her brows knit. She stirred, then coughed lightly as the acrid smell thickened, clawing at her throat.

Her eyes flew open.

The room was pitch-dark—so dark she could scarcely make out her own hands. Yet the smoke grew heavier by the moment, pressing in, suffocating.

She pushed herself upright, heart beginning to pound, and stumbled toward the door.

The moment she opened it, she froze in horror.

The courtyard was ablaze.