When Rhaegar turned back from the gate, he walked straight to Caelith’s side.

"That Lady Lian..."

Caelith lifted her gaze. "What about her?"

Rhaegar looked at her with a worried expression. "She is somewhat suspicious."

Caelith blinked in surprise. "Suspicious? Though... now that you mention it, she has indeed been unusually kind to me lately."

He gave a slight nod. "My instincts tell me she is hiding something." His tone lowered. "Be careful around her these next few days."

Caelith pursed her lips and nodded.

***

As for Yvaine, these past days had left her in extraordinarily high spirits.

Lance Illian had begun appearing at the courtyard nearly every day, always claiming he had come to "protect Lady Caelith." Yet each time, he somehow ended up lingering beside her instead.

When she poured tea for him, he accepted it with trembling hands.

When she offered him pastries, he accepted those with an awkward smile.

Whenever she spoke to him, the tips of his ears turned red.

Yvaine’s heart secretly bloomed with delight.

That afternoon, Lance came again. But this time was different.

When he stepped through the gate, his face was pale, and he walked with a noticeable limp. A bandage wrapped around his left arm, already soaked through with fresh blood.

Yvaine had been hanging laundry in the courtyard, and the moment she saw him, the clothes slipped from her hands and fell to the ground.

"Sir Illian!" She rushed toward him, catching hold of him before he could stumble. "What happened? How were you injured?"

Lance forced out a grin. "It’s nothing. Just a small wound. I get those all the time."

"A small wound?" Yvaine stared at the blood seeping through the bandages, and at once her eyes reddened. "You call this small?"

Supporting him carefully, she led him inside and sat him down, then hurried about frantically searching for the medicine chest.

Watching her fuss over him like that, Lance suddenly felt an unfamiliar warmth stir within his chest.

"It truly isn’t that serious," he said. "I only took a knife cut while arresting someone."

Yvaine crouched before him and carefully unwound the bloodstained bandages.

The wound beneath was deep, still oozing fresh blood. Tears began falling from her eyes one after another.

"Does it hurt?"

Lance looked at her, momentarily stunned. "Why are you crying?"

She wiped hastily at her tears. "It hurts just looking at it."

For a moment, the man did not know what to say. It was the first time someone cried because he got hurt.

Head lowered, Yvaine reapplied the medicine and wrapped the wound again with painstaking gentleness, as though fearful of causing him even the slightest pain.

When she finished and looked up, she found him staring at her, flustered. The look in his eyes was different from before.

Yvaine’s cheeks immediately flushed red. "What are you looking at?"

Lance opened his mouth, but found it difficult to form a proper sentence.

"You..."

Before he could finish, Yvaine suddenly threw herself into his arms. "Sir Illian, you frightened me to death..."

Lance froze completely. His hands hovered awkwardly in midair, uncertain where to place them.

Yvaine buried her face against his shoulder and sobbed helplessly. "That wound looked really scary... What if you die..."

Lance sat there in stunned silence for a long moment. Then, slowly, his hands lowered to her back, patting her gently.

"I will not die."

That only made her cry harder.

"Then in the future... be more careful... don’t get hurt again..."

Lance nodded softly. "Alright... Yvaine."

Yvaine froze. It was the first time he had ever called her by name.

"You..."

Lance looked at her and drew in a deep breath. "I... have something I want to tell you."

Her heart immediately began pounding wildly. "What is it?"

Lance held her gaze and spoke each word slowly and clearly. "I like you... Yvaine"

The woman went utterly still. She stared at him for a long time without moving.

Lance’s face gradually turned red. "If you do not feel the same... then pretend you never heard it..."

"I do!" The words burst from Yvaine’s lips so suddenly that even she startled herself.

This time, it was Lance who froze.

Then, slowly, he smiled. Seeing him smile, Yvaine began smiling too.

The two of them simply sat there grinning foolishly at one another, like children... For a very long while.

Then, Yvaine suddenly remembered something, and her face reddened again.

"Then... in the future... will you still be careless and get hurt?"

Lance shook his head. "I won’t."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

And then Lance reached out and drew her gently into his arms.

When Caelith stepped out from the room, she happened to witness the scene before her.

She paused for a brief moment. Then, she smiled. Without a word, she quietly turned and went back inside.

Yvaine immediately lifted her head from Lance’s embrace.

"Did my sister just see that?"

Lance nodded honestly. At once, Yvaine’s face flushed scarlet.

"Oh no... this is terrible..."

Seeing her reaction, Lance could not help but laugh softly.

Yvaine shot him an indignant glare. "What are you laughing at?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. You are just... very cute."

Then he drew her a little closer into his arms once more.

Yvaine rested against his chest, listening to the rapid beating of his heart.

Steady. Fast. So real.

At last... she had something real.

***

Deep within the innermost torture chamber of the imperial prison, the stench of blood hung so thick in the air it seemed impossible to disperse.

Rhaegar stood beyond the iron bars, his gaze fixed upon the man shackled within.

The prisoner appeared to be in his forties. Blood and grime covered his face, and his garments had been torn nearly beyond recognition. Yet his eyes still burned bright—hard and vicious with the ruthless ferocity unique to desperate men with nothing left to lose.

Osvald Grandien, the second son of the Grandien family.

Twenty years ago, when the entire Grandien family had been executed, he alone had escaped by sheer fortune, vanishing into obscurity under a false name until now.

Rhaegar stepped inside.

Osvald raised his head. The moment he saw him, he bared his teeth in a grin stained red with blood.

The sight was terrifying.

"Lord Rhaegar," he drawled hoarsely, "you’re here again?"

Rhaegar seated himself across from him. "Who else remains?"

Osvald shook his head lazily. "No one. Only me."

Rhaegar watched him in silence.

"One hundred and thirty-seven members of the Grandien family were sentenced to death that year. Aside from you—who else survived?"

Osvald laughed. "Lord Rhaegar... do you truly think I would tell you the truth?"

Rhaegar did not answer.

Slowly, he drew the thin blade from his waist and placed it upon the table between them.

The knife gleamed coldly beneath the lantern light.

Osvald’s smile stiffened for the briefest instant as his eyes fell upon it.

"Lord Rhaegar," he said with a hoarse chuckle, "I have already experienced all your methods of torture. Another round will make no difference."

Rhaegar regarded him steadily.

"I did not come here to torture you."

For the first time, Osvald looked genuinely surprised.

Rhaegar rose to his feet and walked toward him.

"Lord Grandien," Rhaegar said quietly, "you have spent twenty years in hiding. Tell me—how have those years been?"