"I had begun to feel stifled within the estate and wished to step out for some air," Caelith replied, steadying her mind before she spoke. She raised her eyes to meet Dorian's, her tone calm yet touched with a carefully measured trace of quiet grievance.
"My lord husband is occupied with affairs of state, and I would not dare trouble you. As for my cousin… she too has her own engagements. Other than venturing out for a little relief, what else could I do?"
Her words were skillfully chosen. They explained her recent outings while subtly hinting at Dorian's neglect—and, at the same time, drawing Yvaine Emberlyn into the matter without speaking her name too openly.
Dorian paused, momentarily checked by her reply.
He studied Caelith with a thoughtful gaze. Her expression appeared natural enough, though a faint melancholy lingered between her brows. Compared to the pallid, listless woman of recent days, she now seemed touched by a new softness—one that stirred a faint sense of pity in him.
The suspicion in his heart eased somewhat, replaced instead by a flicker of guilt… and, unexpectedly, renewed interest.
"It is my fault for being inattentive," he said, his tone softening. "In a few days, I will have leave from my duties. I shall take you to the country villa outside the city and stay there for a couple of days. A change of scenery may lift your spirits."
The country villa again.
He had mentioned it once before, shortly after they returned from the Moon Temple.
Caelith suppressed a cold laugh within her chest. On the surface, however, she allowed a small, almost startled smile to appear.
"As my lord wishes. I shall follow your arrangements."
Seeing her smile, Dorian felt satisfied. Rising from his chair, he stepped toward her and reached out as if to draw her gently into his arms.
For the briefest instant, Caelith's body stiffened.
Yet this time she did not recoil as she had before. Instead, she lowered her head slightly and allowed him to place his arm around her shoulders.
Dorian caught a faint fragrance from her—subtle, unfamiliar, different from the perfumes she usually wore. The softness of her body in his arms, the pale curve of her neck, the demure way she stood with lowered eyes—together they stirred something restless in his mind.
"Caelith," he murmured, lowering his voice, "tonight—"
"My lord husband," she interrupted gently, her tone soft but touched with apology, "I fear I cannot attend to you tonight."
"I was caught in the wind while out today, and my head aches rather badly. I fear… I would not serve you well."
Dorian's movement halted at once.
A shadow crossed his face.
Again?
Ever since their wedding night, she had found reasons to refuse him time and again. Was she still angered by what had happened that night? Or…
His gaze sharpened as he scrutinized her carefully.
Caelith lifted her eyes, letting just the right mixture of weariness and regret show in them.
"I truly do feel unwell," she said quietly. "I hope my lord will understand."
Dorian watched her for a long moment. Seeing no sign of deception—and recalling her earlier mention of feeling "stifled"—his displeasure subsided somewhat. Perhaps he truly had neglected her too long, allowing resentment to grow in her heart.
"Very well," he said at last, releasing her. His tone cooled slightly. "Go and rest. Tomorrow I will have the kitchens prepare something nourishing for you."
"Thank you, my lord."
Caelith bowed and withdrew from the study.
Only after she had walked a considerable distance away did she allow her rigid shoulders to loosen. Beneath her robes, her back was damp with cold sweat.
She could tell that Dorian's suspicions had not entirely vanished.
And on the other side, Rhaegar Thorne's presence felt like a net tightening ever more closely around her.
Caught between two men, every step she took felt like walking upon thin ice.
And what frightened her most was this—
When Dorian had drawn near just now, the feeling that rose within her heart had not been the shy anticipation or nervous warmth she once knew.
Instead, it had been an instinctive aversion.
And—worse still—a comparison she could not suppress.
Rhaegar's embrace was scorching and commanding, charged with an aggression that brooked no refusal—yet, strangely, it brought her a warped sense of safety.
Dorian's touch, by contrast, filled her with nothing but a sense of falseness… and something almost filthy.
The realization chilled her to the bone.
It seemed she was slowly sliding toward an abyss far more unpredictable and dangerous than the life she had known before.
And at the end of that abyss waited Rhaegar Thorne—those fathomless eyes of his, deep enough to swallow everything whole.
***
Three days later.
Noon.
Caelith arrived alone at Firefly Lane.
She stopped before Courtyard Number Two and lifted her hand to knock gently on the wooden gate.
A long moment passed.
No one answered.
After glancing around to ensure the alley was empty, she pushed the door open herself.
Inside, the courtyard was quiet.
A pear tree stood in full bloom, its white blossoms trembling in the breeze. When the wind stirred, delicate petals drifted softly through the air like fragments of snow.
Beneath the tree stood a stone table. Upon it lay a simple chessboard, the black and white pieces resting on either side as though awaiting the next move.
Caelith looked around the courtyard.
Rhaegar was nowhere to be seen.
Strange.
He had summoned her here at noon—so where had he gone?
After a moment's thought, she decided it would be wiser to leave. If he had only meant to toy with her, she had no desire to remain and be drawn into another ambiguous confrontation.
She had just turned to go when suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist.
Before she could react, she was pulled backward into a broad chest. The sharp, unmistakable scent of ambergris filled the air around her.
She knew instantly who stood behind her.
Rhaegar Thorne.
"So eager to leave the moment you arrive?" His voice brushed her ear, low and teasing. "Were you planning to hurry back to the Valehart estate and wait for your devoted husband?"
Caelith struggled instinctively.
"Rhaegar—let me go!"
Instead, his arms tightened around her.
"I was only a little late," he murmured. "Why were you unwilling to wait?"
"Release me first. If you have something to say, say it properly." She turned her face aside, avoiding the warmth of his breath. "This is a courtyard. If someone sees—"
"And if they do?" Rhaegar replied coolly. "Then they die."
His tone was so matter-of-fact that it sent a shiver through her.
"Did you go to such trouble summoning me here only to mock me?" she asked, irritation rising.
Rhaegar lowered his head slightly, the tip of his nose brushing against the delicate curve of her ear.
"If I merely wished to toy with you," he murmured, "why would I go to such lengths?"
Caelith's voice tightened.
"Then why did you call me here?"
Rhaegar released his hold, and Caelith immediately stepped back, putting a careful distance between them.
"I wished for you to play a game of chess with me." Rhaegar gestured toward the stone table beneath the pear tree.
"You summoned me here merely for a game of chess?" Caelith asked, unconvinced.
"What else did you imagine?" Rhaegar arched a brow. "If you had something else in mind… that could also be arranged."
Caelith drew in a slow breath. Once her composure returned, she walked to the stone table and seated herself. Rhaegar lifted a hand, indicating that she should take the first move.
She picked up a white piece and set it gently in one corner of the board.
Her style of play was cautious and steady—never seeking swift victory, only avoiding mistakes. Much like her own life, she favored balance and quiet stability.
Rhaegar's play was entirely different.
His black pieces struck forward with ruthless precision, pressing her defenses step by step—bold, relentless, unmistakably like the man himself.
Black and white stones fell across the board in steady succession.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
Before long, most of the board had filled. Caelith's white pieces gradually found themselves encircled by Rhaegar's advancing black formation.
She knew the truth of the game well enough: one careless move could ruin the entire match.
Yet now, staring at the board, she found herself uncertain where to place the next piece.
Rhaegar smiled faintly.
Then he rose and walked around behind her.
Before she could react, his hand covered hers. His chin rested lightly upon her shoulder.
"Place it here," he murmured close to her ear. "And the situation will change."
The stone fell upon the board.
What had moments before seemed a desperate position for the white pieces shifted instantly. The encirclement broke; the balance of power reversed.
Caelith tried to withdraw her hand, but Rhaegar's grip tightened slightly.
His breath brushed warm against the side of her neck.
"Did Dorian ever teach you to play?" he asked.
Dorian had never taught her.
In truth, he had never even played a single game with her. He used to dismiss such pastimes as trivial amusements unworthy of serious attention.
Yet Caelith knew well that he had played often with Yvaine. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, it was because she herself had never seemed as clever as her cousin.
She pulled her hand free and turned slightly away.
"My husband is occupied with affairs of state," she replied coolly. "He is not as idle as Your Grace."
Rhaegar gave a low laugh.
Yet as he spoke, his finger traced deliberately across a lethal formation on the board—one capable of crushing the white pieces if left unchecked.
"Idle?" he said softly. "Caelith… do you know what I excel at most?"
His eyes lifted to meet hers. "Taking advantage of a weakness."