25. Caelric
CAELRIC
The guest registry requires my signature for the third time this morning. I stare at the parchment, pen hovering over the designated line, while my mind churns through seating arrangements that have nothing to do with politics and everything to do with avoiding her.
"The Melaniris delegation confirmed their arrival for tomorrow evening," Nikolai announces, entering my study without ceremony. "Their advance guard rode in an hour ago."
"Good." I sign the registry with deliberate strokes. "Ensure their quarters include the ceremonial wine. Melaniris appreciates proper protocol."
"Already handled." He settles into the chair by my desk, violet eyes sweeping my face with uncomfortable intensity. "You look terrible, brother."
"Thank you for the observation. Was there something else?"
"Actually, yes." Nikolai leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Rosalie asked me to deliver this."
He places a folded paper on my desk. My name appears across the front in her careful script, and seeing it makes my chest tighten like someone's wrapped chains around my ribs.
"I'm not accepting personal correspondence."
"It's about the investigation." Nikolai's tone carries no inflection, but his eyes narrow slightly. "She remembered something about Lord Ardyn's private meetings. Thought it might be relevant."
Of course. Even now, she's thinking about the investigation. About finding the man who protected her when no one else would. While I've been drowning in self-loathing and wedding preparations, she's continued working toward the truth.
I grab the letter, then stop. "Summarize it."
"Caelric—"
"Summarize. It."
Nikolai's jaw tightens, but he complies. "She recalls overhearing Aethan mention someone named Vorin or Varin during one of his private meetings. The conversation seemed... tense. She thought we should know."
It's not exactly uncommon. "When did she remember this?"
"Yesterday evening. She's been trying to reach you since then."
"Right." I set down my pen with deliberate care. "Thank her for the information. I'll investigate the connection."
"You could thank her yourself."
The suggestion hits like a painful physical blow. "That wouldn't be appropriate."
"Appropriate." Nikolai repeats the word like it tastes sour. "Since when do you care more about appearances than—"
"Since Father made the consequences clear." The words emerge sharper than intended. "This conversation is over."
Nikolai studies me for another long moment, then rises from his chair. "You're making a mistake, brother."
"I'm following orders."
"You're being a coward."
The accusation hangs between us long after he leaves. I stare at Rosalie's letter, her careful handwriting blurring as shame burns through my chest like acid. She's right to avoid me. She's right to communicate through intermediaries rather than suffer my pathetic attempts at professional distance.
Because that's what they are—pathetic. Every interaction feels like walking on broken glass, each word chosen to maintain barriers I don't want while avoiding the warmth I crave. I sound like a pompous ass even to myself.
A soft knock interrupts my brooding. "Enter."
The door opens to reveal Bridda, one of our human servants, carrying a tea service.
Behind her walks Rosalie, and the sight of her nearly stops my heart.
She wears a simple blue dress that brings out her hazel eyes, her chestnut hair braided in an elegant knot that exposes the graceful curve of her neck.
Beautiful. Devastating. Mine, if I had any courage at all.
"Lord Caelric," Bridda says with deference. "Lady Aurelia requests your review of tomorrow's timeline."
"Of course." I accept the offered scroll without looking at either woman. "Thank you, Bridda. You may go."
The young servant curtseys and departs, leaving Rosalie standing in my doorway like an accusation. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, just watches me with those expressive eyes that see entirely too much.
"Was there something you needed?" The question emerges with bureaucratic politeness that makes me want to punch something.
"Nikolai said you received my message. "
"Yes. The information will be investigated appropriately."
"Appropriately." She repeats the word with the same distaste Nikolai showed. "How wonderfully... thorough of you."
The sarcasm cuts deeper than anger would. I deserve it, of course. Deserve much worse for the way I've treated the woman I claimed to love with desperate sincerity just days ago.
"If there's nothing else—"
"There isn't." She steps backward toward the corridor. "I apologize for disturbing your important work, my lord."
The formal address hits like a slap. My lord. As if we're strangers. As if she never whispered my name against my skin while I promised her impossible futures I was too weak to fight for.
"Rosalie—"
She's already gone, footsteps fading down the corridor with quiet dignity that makes my cowardice even more glaring. I stare at the empty doorway, hating myself more with each passing second.
This is what I've become. A man who speaks of love in private moments, then retreats behind duty the instant real courage is required. A man who lets the woman he adores believe she means nothing rather than face his father's disapproval.
I am, as Nikolai so accurately observed, a complete coward.
The wedding timeline blurs before my eyes as shame and self-loathing war in my chest. Somewhere in this estate, Rosalie continues working to find the man who saved her, despite my cruelty. Continues believing in justice and truth while I hide behind protocol and propriety.
Father's ultimatum echoes in my memory, but it sounds less like wisdom and more like the coward's excuse it truly is.
The estate overflows with nobility, their carriages forming an endless procession through our gates. The Melaniris Quartet arrives with their traditional fanfare—horns and strings. Behind them comes House Thane, then House Korrath, each delegation more elaborate than the last.
I stand in the receiving hall, greeting guests with perfect courtesy while my mind catalogues every face, every conversation fragment, every potential source of information about Lord Ardyn's disappearance.
The irony isn't lost on me—celebrating my sister's sacrifice while hunting shadows that continue to elude us.
"Lord Caelric." Lady Thessa extends her jeweled hand with theatrical grace. "Such a magnificent celebration. Your sister must be beside herself with joy."
"Indeed." I brush my lips across her knuckles, tasting lies. "House Vaerith is honored by your presence."
She sweeps past in a cloud of expensive perfume and political calculation. Behind her, Darion Ardyn approaches with his perpetual scowl and suspicious eyes.
"Vaerith." His greeting carries the warmth of winter stone. "Interesting timing for such festivities, given recent... uncertainties."
"Uncertain times require certain celebrations." I meet his stare without flinching. "Stability through tradition, as my father always says."
"Quite." His smile resembles a blade.
He moves on before I can parse that particular threat, leaving me with the uncomfortable certainty that House Ardyn knows more than they're revealing. Another thread to investigate. Another dead end waiting to mock our efforts.
Across the hall, I catch sight of Rosalie directing the placement of floral arrangements, her movements efficient and graceful.
She wears the same blue dress she always wears to formal events—likely the only one she possesses—and watching her work sends familiar longing through my chest like poison.
"She's avoiding you quite expertly." Aurelia appears at my elbow, violet eyes following my gaze. "Professional distance at its finest."
"Good. It's appropriate."
"Appropriate." My sister tastes the word like spoiled wine. "How wonderfully diplomatic of you both."
I turn to face her fully, noting the careful cosmetics that can't quite hide the exhaustion around her eyes. Tomorrow she becomes Lady Ardyn, leaving behind everything familiar for political necessity.
"How are you managing?" The question emerges gentler than intended.
"Oh, splendidly. Nothing quite like sacrificing one's future for the greater good." Her smile carries bitter edges. "Though I suspect I'm not the only Vaerith struggling with duty versus desire."
The observation hits too close to comfort. "My situation is different."
"Is it?" She adjusts a wayward curl with deliberate precision. "I didn't understand it at first but… You're both choosing obligation over happiness. The circumstances vary, but the cowardice remains remarkably similar."
"Aurelia—"
"Relax, brother. I'm not here to lecture you about love.
" She smooths her sapphire gown with hands that tremble slightly.
"I'm here to inform you that Therovar Ardyn wishes to discuss 'mutual interests' regarding House Ardyn's future.
Apparently our investigation and this little arrangement haven't been as subtle as we hoped. "
My blood chills. "What did he say exactly?"
"Nothing specific. Just meaningful glances and carefully phrased questions about whether House Vaerith might benefit from... alternative arrangements." Her voice drops to a whisper. "We have vultures circling, Caelric. And we still have no idea who's been feeding them information."
The weight of failure presses against my heart like a stone.
Weeks of investigation, countless leads pursued, and we're no closer to identifying the architect behind this conspiracy than when we started.
Every financial trail ends with intermediaries.
Every suspicious conversation leads to more questions.
Meanwhile, the wedding proceeds as scheduled, political alliances shift like quicksand, and I've managed to destroy the one genuine relationship that brought me any peace.
"Keep smiling," Aurelia murmurs as another wave of guests approaches. "We can't afford to show weakness now."
I paste on the appropriate expression while internally cataloguing everything we've lost—Lord Ardyn, political stability, Aurelia's freedom, and the woman whose absence feels like missing a limb.
Perhaps this is what becoming Lord Vaerith truly costs. Perhaps leadership requires sacrificing everything that makes life worth living.
The thought tastes like nimiscu and sounds suspiciously like cowardice dressed in noble rhetoric.