Dorian shot to his feet in alarm. "Rhaegar! What is the meaning of this—?"
Caelith's heart jolted under the ribcage.
For the briefest instant, she nearly turned to look at him.
But she did not.
Her fingers dug fiercely into her palm, nails biting into pale flesh, forcing herself into stillness.
Rhaegar lowered his gaze to the blood welling in his hand, his voice calm—strangely too calm.
"A slip of the hand. The cup was too thin."
He took the cloth Lance offered and pressed it over the wound without another word.
Dorian hurriedly ordered the servants to clear the table and sent for a physician, but Rhaegar merely waved him off.
"No need. It is nothing."
Across the hall, behind a screen, someone had seen everything.
It was Yvaine.
Having heard of Rhaegar's visit, she had come in secret, hiding to watch. And what she saw—she did not miss a single detail.
Caelith's gentleness toward Dorian. Rhaegar crushing the cup in his hand.
