Flames roared skyward, fierce and unrestrained. From the direction of the kitchen, tongues of fire lashed outward, devouring the wooden beams, climbing hungrily along the corridor pillars, driven forward by the night wind toward the main house.

Thick smoke billowed, rolling and choking, stinging the eyes until they could barely remain open.

"—Sister! Fire! Fire!"

Caelith burst from her room at the shout, and the instant she saw the inferno, the color drained from her face.

They fell into frantic motion, fetching water again and again, their hands trembling, their breaths ragged—yet the flames raged beyond control. Each bucket they flung upon the inferno vanished as though swallowed whole, leaving not the slightest change behind.

Then, over the courtyard wall, figures leapt.

But they had not come to save the fire... They had come to take lives.

Before them stood a masked man, a blade clenched in his hand. His gaze locked onto Caelith at once, as if recognizing her. In a heartbeat, he rushed forward, raising his knife high.

Caelith shoved Yvaine behind her, her instincts fast at work.

In her own hand, she gripped the dark iron hairpin—her hidden weapon—as her eyes fixed upon the descending blade.

At the very instant it fell, a shadow surged from the side and slammed into the attacker.

The two crashed to the ground, rolling hard across the courtyard stones.

It was Lance.

He pinned the man beneath him and struck—again and again—until the man’s face ran with blood.

"Sir Illian!" Yvaine cried out, her voice piercing the chaos.

The remaining masked men exchanged glances, then advanced, blades drawn, surrounding them.

Lance lifted his head and roared, his voice hoarse with fury, "Lord Thore will be here any moment! Not one of you will escape!"

Their steps faltered.

"Go!"

The leader scrambled up, and in an instant, they fled—vaulting the wall and vanishing into the night.

Lance moved to pursue, but Caelith seized his arm.

"Don’t chase them! Let others do it! Help us put out the fire first!"

It took them nearly half an hour to stop the flames from spreading. At last, the fire was subdued.

But Firefly Pavilion was no longer what it had been, as more than half of it lay in ruin.

The embroidered works, the silken threads, the carefully gathered fabrics she had amassed piece by piece—gone, all of it, consumed by fire. The plaque that bore the words "From Wondrous Hands, Blossoms Are Born" hung crooked upon the wall, blackened and broken, half reduced to ash.

Caelith stood before the wreckage, tired and heartbroken.

Beside her, Yvaine wept uncontrollably, her sobs breaking the stillness again and again.

Lance knelt upon the ground, gasping for breath. Several wounds marred his body, blood still seeping through his garments, staining them dark.

"This knight has failed... I have failed you, my lady..."

"It is not your fault." Caelith’s voice was calm—strangely calm, as though untouched by the peril just passed. "You saved our lives."

Then, the thunder of hooves drew near.

Rhaegar arrived with his men, urgency in every stride.

He dismounted in a single motion, leaping down like a shadow. The moment his eyes fell upon Caelith—her clothes smeared with ash, her hands streaked with blood—his own eyes flushed red.

He crossed the distance in a few swift steps and pulled her into his arms. The hug was tight and desperate, and she knew he was relieved, yet the tremble in his body betrayed his worry.

"Rhaegar..."

"Hush," he stopped her, his tone cold, but steady. "Don’t say anything. Sir Illian, take a few guards and get yourself treated."

The man nodded and turned to get to the rest of the guards. Yvaine made to follow, but Caelith caught her wrist.

"Where are you going?"

Yvaine’s face flushed; she lowered her head. "I... I want to see how Sir Illian is. He saved us. Maybe I can be of help."

Caelith paused for a moment, but then released her.

"Go. Get yourself treated too."

She did not even get to finish, but Yvaine was already running after them.

Caelith sighed and turned back toward the ruins, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

Rhaegar stood beside her, his expression dark—so dark it was almost frightening.

"For the next few days, I will have guards posted here at all times. The one who dared to attack you will not get away with this."

"...I know," Caelith smiled, but there was no mirth in that expression. "Thank you."

"The shop must remain closed for now," Rhaegar continued as if not hearing her at all.

"...Very well."

Then, he looked at her, the anguish in his gaze mingled with lingering fear.

"Caelith."

"Yes?"

"From now on—wherever you go, you will not go alone. Do you understand me?"

She nodded.

He reached out once more, drawing her into his warm embrace. He was holding her with such despair that it almost felt like the two of them would simply merge together. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

And they simply stood there, hugging and listening to each other’s drumming hearts.

***

At dawn, news came from Lance as he concluded the primary investigation.

The masked assailants had fled too swiftly—none had been captured. Whatever traces they left behind had largely been erased by the fire.

Rhaegar stood before the charred remains for a long time, silent, frantic thoughts swirming in his head.

Lance carefully approached, his body wrapped in bandages, his steps unsteady.

"My lord... Please forgive my incompetence..."

Rhaeagr did not turn. "This was not your fault."

Lance lowered his head in shame. "But those men—"

"They escaped," Rhaegar said flatly. "But they will not go far."

Lance looked up, his expression shifting. "My lord... do you know who they are?"

Rhaegar stood silent for a few moments before finally replying, "Those who once served in the Empress’s palace—where are they now?"

Lance faltered. "Some have been exiled. Some remain within the palace. Others..."

"Find them," Rhaegar cut in coldly. "Within three days, I want the whereabouts of every one of them."

"Yes, my lord!"

Lance turned to leave, but Rhaegar spoke once more.

"Wait."

He looked at him, his eyes devoid of warmth.

"Spread the word," he said. "Let it be known that I, Rhaegar Thorne, have spoken—whoever dares lay a hand on my woman, I will see their entire household wiped out."

Lance froze on the spot. "My lord... if such words spread—"

"Let them spread," Rhaegar frowned. "The more who hear, the better."

Lance looked at him with widened eyes, and for the first time, a numbing chill crept into his heart, for he knew that this was no idle threat.

***

In the three days that followed, the capital fell into a state of silent dread.

Rhaegar dispatched every man at his command, turning the old network of the Empress’s former attendants upside down. One by one, they were seized and dragged into the imperial prison for "questioning."

Rhaegar did not care about the evidence. In fact, he had no need of it.

What he required was that they all understand: To touch Caelith Emberlyn was to invite ruin.

And naturally, on the third night, someone finally broke.

A young eunuch, once a mere errand-runner in the Empress’s palace. Within less than two hours of being taken into the prison, he confessed to everything.