Those words broke the last of her defenses.
Since her marriage into the Valehart household, she had endured Dorian's cold indifference, the stern oppression of the matriarch, and Yvaine's hidden malice—each day a quiet battle she fought alone.
She had never placed her hopes in that household, choosing instead to remain distant, composed, quiet.
But she was, in the end, only human.
She could fear. She could ache. She could long—if only for a single, fragile warmth… for the certainty of being chosen. Of being chosen by someone who truly wanted her.
At last, Caelith could endure no more.
Her composure shattered as she broke into sobs, clinging tightly to Rhaegar's robe. Through tear-blurred eyes, she looked up at him, her voice trembling with a single desperate plea:
"Rhaegar… save me… please… I don't want to die…"
Rhaegar looked down at her—at the flushed rims of her eyes, at the unguarded reliance and fragile hope reflected within them.
His throat tightened.
