That night, Caelith sat within her chamber, her embroidery frame resting lightly in her hands.
The candle flame flickered, casting shifting shadows upon the walls—now bright, now dim—like restless thoughts given form.
An unease stirred within her heart.
She set aside the frame and walked to the doorway, peering out into the courtyard.
It lay in darkness, still and empty.
She returned to her seat.
Picking up the embroidery once more, she stitched a few lines—then stopped.
From the neighboring room, Yvaine entered. "Dear sister, why are you not yet asleep?"
"You go ahead first. I am not tired yet."
"Very well… but you should rest soon as well."
With that, she gently closed the doors and windows before departing.
Silence returned.
Caelith sat by the window and embroidered through the long night.
The soft sound of needle passing through silk—fine, continuous—echoed in the stillness, clear as falling dew.
Yet she stitched the same butterfly thrice—and each time, she erred.
