At the doorway stood a man clad in dark robes, travel-worn and weary.
Dust clung to him, as though he had ridden through night and wind without pause. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale to the point of alarm. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and his hair, usually composed, lay in slight disarray—clear signs of days and nights without rest.
And yet, those eyes of his still burned bright. So bright that they stirred the heart.
Rhaegar.
Caelith froze.
So did everyone else within the room.
After a few suspended breaths, someone stirred first—then another—and soon the young embroiderers hastily gathered themselves.
"Let us go, let us go—I suddenly remembered I have something to attend to…"
"So do I, so do I…"
"Miss Emberlyn, we shall take our leave first…"
In the blink of an eye, the room was empty. The door closed softly behind them.
Silence descended.
Caelith stepped forward—and embraced him so tightly, as if scared that he might disappear otherwise.
