By the time Caelith left the embroidery house, dusk had already deepened toward night.
All that day, her mind had been in disarray. She had misstitched several patterns—errors she would never have made before. Word of Rhaegar's kneeling before the throne had reached her, too; she had wished to stop him, yet could not even pass beyond the palace gates.
With her head lowered, she walked on, lost in thought, failing to notice the figure standing ahead.
"Miss Emberlyn."
She looked up, startled.
Lucas stood before her, a lantern in hand, its soft glow casting warm light across his features.
"It is already dark," he said gently. "Allow me to escort you home."
Caelith hesitated. "There is no need—"
"Come," he said, already turning forward. "These are unsettled times. It is not safe for you to walk alone."
Caelith watched his back in silence for a few moments—then stepped forward to follow.
