"My lord has left the city," the knight replied. "There is a case that requires investigation. He likely will not return until very late tonight."

Caelith’s heartbeat quickened.

So he had left the city and would not return until nightfall...

She lowered her gaze and nodded lightly, clearly upset. "I understand. Thank you."

Then, she turned and walked back toward the house.

Behind her, Yvaine called out brightly, "Sister, breakfast is ready!"

But Caelith did not turn around.

***

An hour later, Caelith stood before Lady Lian’s residence, twisting her hands as she struggled to summon the courage to knock.

One of the servants noticed her first, and when Florentine opened the door and saw her, too, she froze in surprise.

"Miss Emberlyn?"

Caelith met her gaze with a surprising reserve. "My lady... I wish to go there."

Lady Lian blinked in confusion. "There? Where?"

Caelith looked directly at her, a frown cutting straight between her brows. "The imperial prison."

At once, Lady Lian’s expression changed, twisting into a blend of fear and surprise.

"My lady," Caelith interrupted softly before she could speak, "he is my relative. The only family I have left in this world." Her voice faltered faintly. "No matter what... I must see him. At least once."

Florentine remained silent for a long while. Then, at last, she let out a weary sigh, pressing a hand against her chest.

"...Very well. I will help you."

. . .

The connections Lady Lian relied upon were relationships cultivated over many years supplying goods to the palace.

A servant responsible for procurement accepted silver and arranged for Caelith to enter under the guise of delivering food.

She changed into coarse linen garments, her hair was twisted into a plain knot, and a layer of ash was smeared across her face to dull her features.

Carrying a food box in her hands, head lowered, she followed silently behind the servant.

Straight into the imperial prison.

The moment the great doors shut behind her, a wave of cold, damp air crashed over her like icy water.

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead.

Iron bars lined both sides, and beyond them lay only darkness too deep to see clearly. Now and then, low groans echoed through the passageways—sounds that seemed to rise from beneath the earth itself.

The smell of blood hung thick in the air. It mingled with mildew and the stench of filth, enough to turn the stomach.

Caelith forced herself to endure it, walking forward one step at a time.

The deeper they went, the darker it became. Torches crackled upon the walls, throwing distorted shadows across the stone floor.

At last, the servant stopped before a prison cell near the very end of the corridor.

"Here," he muttered quietly. "You have one quarter of an hour."

He unlocked the door and turned away without another word.

Caelith stood motionless at the entrance, staring inside. A figure lay curled upon a heap of filthy straw in the corner. At first, she could see only a shadow. She drew in a trembling breath and stepped forward. Only when she neared him did she finally see clearly.

It was a man in his late forties.

His face was smeared with blood and dirt, his clothing torn nearly to rags. Heavy chains bound both his wrists and ankles. The flesh around his wrists had been rubbed raw, and in some places, bone showed faintly beneath the ruined skin.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, the man stirred slightly. Then, he slowly lifted his head.

His face was covered in bruises and dried blood, his eyes swollen until only narrow slits remained. Yet within those eyes, there still lingered the faintest spark of life.

He looked at Caelith. And Caelith looked at him.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, softly, she asked at last, "Are you... Osvald Grandien?"

The man froze. "Who are you?"

Caelith slowly crouched before him, her entire body trembling. "Do you remember a woman called Ayana?"

The man’s eyes widened for a second, then, just as quickly, they narrowed into a pair of swollen slits.

He struggled forward at once, the iron chains rattling harshly against the stone floor.

"How... how do you know her?"

Caelith’s eyes stung with the heat of sadness emerging once more. "That woman... was my mother."

The man went utterly still. He stared at her for what felt like an eternity, trying to catch as much resemblance in her face as possible.

Then suddenly, he laughed. It was a terrible sound—even more broken than crying.

"Little Ayana... had a child... A daughter..."

Slowly, he lifted a trembling hand, as though wanting to touch her, but the chains restrained him. He could not reach her at all.

Caelith reached out instead and clasped his hand in both of hers.

His skin was cold, rough as bark, covered in dried blood and cracked wounds. She had never touched anything this unpleasant before.

"You... what is your name?" His voice trembled uncontrollably.

"Caelith."

"Caelith..." he repeated softly, as though tasting the name. "Good... it is a beautiful name..."

Tears slipped down his face, but he went on, as if they did not belong to him.

"You’ve grown so much... I guess it truly... has been a while..."

Caelith’s own tears finally fell, too.

"Uncle..."

His entire body shook violently. Then he began to cry, finally accepting his feelings.

A grown man, curled upon the filthy prison straw, weeping like a lost child... That was the image of a truly broken man.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from outside the corridor.

Caelith’s heart seized. She released his hand at once and rose to her feet.

"I have to go."

Osvald looked at her desperately, kneeling before her in a pleading stance.

"You... will you come again?"

Caelith nodded without realising what she was doing. "I will find a way. I will."

She turned to leave.

"Caelith."

His voice made her stop again.

Osvald looked at her through swollen eyes, his voice suddenly turning steady and cold.

"Live," he whispered evenly. "Live well. Please."

Fresh tears blurred her vision. She nodded and hurried out of the cell.

She had barely rounded the corner when she heard the sound of locks opening behind her.

Then came Rhaegar’s voice.

"How did today’s interrogation go?"

Caelith’s heart nearly stopped, a chain of terror rooting her in one place.

He had returned early. And he nearly caught her.

Without daring to look back, she quickened her pace toward the exit.

At the outer gate, the servant was already waiting anxiously, hurrying her out.

"Faster, please."

She followed him swiftly out of the prison. The heavy doors slammed shut behind her back.

Blinding sunlight flooded her vision as she carelessly looked up.

Standing there, she drew in desperate breaths, her heart pounding so violently it felt ready to burst from her chest.

He was too close.

Only a moment more, and she would have been discovered.

She lowered her head and forced herself onward, walking away as quickly as she could. The walk home was long, yet it was still not enough to help her get back to her senses.

***

That evening, when Rhaegar returned, Caelith was helping Yvaine prepare supper in the kitchen.

The moment she heard the door open, her hands trembled, her breathing suddenly turning uneven, color draining from her cheeks.

Yvaine glanced at her immediately, her face twisted with worry.

"Caelith! Are you alright?"