Three days later, the banquet at the Thorne residence was held as announced.
When Dorian arrived with Caelith on his arm, the grand avenue before the gates was already crowded with carriages and horses. Lanterns swayed above the entrance, servants hurried to and fro, and the murmur of arriving guests filled the air.
Rhaegar Thorne—legitimate son of the Northern Duke and Commander of the Shadow Guard—stood at the height of imperial favor. His authority spread like an unseen net across the capital. When such a man extended an invitation, who in the court would dare refuse it?
That evening, Caelith wore a gown of pale azure silk. Its design was simple, elegant rather than ostentatious, the sleeves and hem embroidered only with delicate trailing vines. Against the cool hue, her skin seemed luminous as jade, and her bearing possessed a quiet, restrained grace.
Among the assembled ladies of the court—each adorned in brilliant gowns and glittering jewels—her understated beauty drew the eye all the more.
Dorian glanced at her as they stepped from the carriage. For a fleeting moment, a curious thought stirred within him.
The wife he had always considered dull and unremarkable… seemed, tonight, unexpectedly pleasing to behold.
They were led by attendants through the courtyard and into the main hall.
Inside, the chamber was already filled with distinguished guests. Music drifted through the air as court musicians played softly upon strings and flutes. Servants moved among the tables bearing trays of wine and delicacies.
At the head of the hall sat Rhaegar Thorne.
He wore his ceremonial black uniform, its surface threaded with subtle golden patterns of wolves—the emblem of the Shadow Guard. Leaning slightly to one side, he spoke in quiet tones with a broad-shouldered military officer seated nearby.
Even in the midst of hosting a feast, his expression remained cool and distant, an austere aura clinging to him like winter frost.
Then, as though sensing a curious gaze upon him, he lifted his eyes.
His glance fell unerringly toward the entrance.
For the briefest instant, his eyes met Caelith's across the crowded hall.
Just as swiftly, he looked away. His attention shifted to Dorian, and the faintest curve—formal, polite, devoid of warmth—touched his lips.
"Lord Valehart," he said evenly, "I'm glad you came."
Dorian stepped forward at once, guiding Caelith beside him.
"When His Grace Duke Thorne hosts a banquet," he replied with easy familiarity, "how could I dare not attend?"
He patted the back of Caelith's hand lightly, a signal for her to greet their host as well.
"Caelith," he murmured, "pay your respects to the Imperial Commander."
Caelith lowered her gaze and performed a graceful curtsey.
"Thank you for inviting us, Your Grace."
Her voice was steady, composed, betraying nothing.
Rhaegar's eyes rested upon her lowered lashes for the span of a single breath before he spoke again.
"Lady Valehart need not stand on ceremony."
His address—Lady Valehart—was impeccably proper, distant and courteous.
Yet for reasons she could not name, hearing those words from his lips sent a strange warmth climbing to the tips of Caelith's ears.
"Be seated," he added, gesturing casually toward the places arranged below the dais.
Dorian led her to their seats. Soon, the banquet commenced in earnest. Platters of delicacies and cups of fragrant wine appeared in unending procession, and the hall gradually filled with laughter and conversation.
As host, Rhaegar raised a single cup in welcome to the assembly. Beyond that, he barely drank at all. Most of the evening, he remained quietly observant, occasionally offering a brief remark when addressed.
Yet from time to time, his gaze drifted—almost absentmindedly—toward the place where Caelith sat.
Under that unseen scrutiny, she felt as though perched upon needles. She lowered her head, nibbling politely at the dishes before her, though each bite tasted of ash.
After several rounds of wine, the mood of the gathering grew even more lively. Someone proposed a drinking game of poetry and wordplay, prompting laughter and eager participation.
When the turn reached Caelith, she was distracted, her thoughts elsewhere. Without much consideration, she answered with a simple line of verse.
Before the echo of her words had faded, a young woman across the table covered her lips with a sleeve and gave a delicate laugh.
It was the daughter of a court minister, a lady long celebrated in the capital for her literary talents.
"Lady Valehart's couplet suits the occasion well," she said with gentle condescension, "though it is perhaps somewhat… plain. It lacks the subtle charm one expects from the refined poetry of the inner chambers."
Her words carried a hidden barb—an insinuation that Caelith Emberlyn's birth was humble and her literary education limited.
For a moment, the hall fell subtly still. Several guests turned their gazes toward Caelith, expecting a retort. Some watched with poorly concealed amusement, others with faint sympathy.
Dorian frowned slightly, feeling the sting to his pride, yet he made no move to defend his wife.
Caelith's fingers tightened around her wine cup. She was just about to respond when a low chuckle drifted down from the seat of honor.
All eyes turned toward the dais.
Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, slowly turning a white gold wine cup between his fingers. His gaze swept lazily toward the minister's daughter.
"The inner chambers?" he repeated lightly. "Lady Milian seems most accomplished in such matters."
He paused, as though recalling something distant.
"Yet if I remember correctly," he continued in an unhurried voice, "a certain case investigated by the Northern Office of the Shadow Guard last month—an affair of illicit correspondence—contained several rather… vivid verses. The signature upon those compositions, if memory serves, was also Inner Chambers."
The young lady's face drained of color in an instant. Her fork slipped from her grasp and clattered upon the table.
Not another word passed her lips.
A peculiar tension settled over the hall.
Everyone present knew what the Shadow Guard's Northern Office was—a place where secrets were stripped bare and recorded in merciless detail. And they knew the sort of man who commanded it.
His remark had been delivered casually, almost carelessly.
Yet it struck harder than any open rebuke—and far more terrifyingly.
Dorian hurried to smooth the moment over with a laugh.
"Ah, His Grace jests," he said hastily. "A drinking game is meant only for amusement." He turned to Caelith and tapped her sleeve. "Caelith, why not offer His Grace a toast in thanks for his… guidance."
Caelith's feelings tangled inside her chest, too complex to name.
Still, she rose gracefully, lifting her cup.
"I offer my thanks to His Grace Duke Thorne."
Across the distance between them, Rhaegar looked at her, his eyes shimmering with a dangerous glint.
The candlelight flickered in the depths of his eyes, making them appear darker still.
He grabbed his own cup but did not raise it. Instead, he inclined it slightly toward her in acknowledgment before draining it in a single swallow.
The motion was decisive, almost martial in its simplicity—yet in his hands it possessed a peculiar elegance, sharpened by the severe beauty of his features.
Caelith followed suit, tipping back her own cup.
The wine burned down her throat, sharp enough to bring moisture to the corners of her eyes.
When she sat again, she could not shake the feeling that his gaze still lingered upon her—like the point of a blade resting lightly against her back.
***
Midway through the banquet, the air in the hall began to feel stifling.
Claiming the need to refresh herself, Caelith excused her absence and quietly slipped from the chamber with Dolly at her side.
Outside, night had deepened into obsidian stillness.
Lanterns hung beneath the corridor ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze. Their warm glow rippled across the stone floor like liquid gold.
Caelith leaned against one of the stone pillars, tilting her head back as she closed her eyes for a moment's breath.
Then…
A presence approached.
It was unmistakable: strong, commanding, and impossible to ignore.
Her eyes flew open.
She turned.
Rhaegar stood barely two steps behind her.
At some point, he too had left the banquet hall. His dark ceremonial uniform blended almost seamlessly with the night itself. Only his eyes shone clearly beneath the lantern light—bright and intent as they rested upon her.
"Your Grace."
Caelith instinctively stepped back half a pace until her spine met the cold surface of the corridor pillar behind her.
Rhaegar advanced a single step.
The distance between them vanished at once—so close that she could clearly smell the crisp scent of wine upon him, mingled with that unmistakable masculine presence that always seemed to carry an air of danger.
"Are you avoiding me?" he asked quietly.
His voice, low and measured, sounded strikingly clear in the hushed corridor.
"No." Caelith turned her face aside.
"Then where is the courage you possessed that night?" Rhaegar lifted his hand. His cool fingertips brushed suddenly against the delicate curve of her ear, which had flushed crimson from both tension and wine.
"I–I beg your pardon?"
Her entire body shivered as though struck by a current.
"This is the Thorne estate! There are people everywhere outside!" she whispered urgently, anger and panic mingling in her voice.
"And?" His fingers drifted slowly downward, tracing the elegant line of her neck. They paused at the faint marks along her skin—half concealed beneath powder, yet still discernible to a knowing eye.
He rubbed the spot lightly.
"Are you afraid Dorian might see us?"
His touch carried a startling warmth and a quiet dominance that brooked no resistance. Caelith's heart hammered violently. She tried to push him away, yet her hands seemed to have lost their strength.
"Your Grace… what is it you truly want?" she demanded at last. Even she did not notice the tremor that crept into her voice.
Rhaegar's hand stilled.
He looked at her—long and searchingly.
The lanterns along the corridor flickered, casting shifting bands of light and shadow across his face. One side remained hidden in darkness; the other revealed sharp, striking features and eyes keen as drawn steel, as if determined to cut through every mask she wore.
"What do I want?" he repeated softly.
Then he lowered his head.
His lips came so close to her ear that his warm breath brushed the most sensitive edge of it. In a voice barely louder than a whisper—meant for her alone—he spoke each word slowly and distinctly:
"Caelith Emberlyn… that night was only the beginning."
A brief pause.
Then—
"From now on… You belong to me."