Caelith awoke with a violent start. The dream clung to her mind with terrifying clarity.
Why… had her father called out for Rhae? Had Rhae been there that day, too?
And her parents' deaths—could they somehow be connected to him?
Yet in her father's journal, the words had been written plainly:
"Rhae can be trusted."
What, then, was the truth?
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she forced herself upright, her chest rising and falling with barely contained panic.
Rhae… Rhaegar Thorne…
If anyone knew the truth, it would be him.
She had to get it from him.
She had to know—how her parents had truly died.
Driven by that single, burning resolve, Caelith did not pause.
She did not reach for her cloak.
She did not even put on her shoes.
Barefoot, her long hair unbound, she flung open the door and rushed headlong into the storm.
The rain struck her like a torrent of ice, soaking her through in an instant—but she did not feel it.
Not the cold.
Not the pain.
