novelraw Chapter 68: You Must Not Die
Chapter 68: You Must Not Die
Her fingers clutched at his robes, weak yet desperate, as though that single grasp tethered her to the world.
With the last fragment of strength she possessed, Caelith forced the words past her failing breath, "Back alley... of the Shadow Guard... three days... they will kill you..."
The words broke apart between shallow breaths.
And then, her hand fell limp. Darkness claimed her entirely.
"Caelith—!" Rhaegar’s voice shattered into something wild.
He gathered her into his arms and ran.
He ran like a man pursued by fate itself.
Through narrow streets and silent alleys, past shuttered doors and sleeping houses—he did not slow, did not falter.
The night wind tore at his cloak, but the chill in his arms was far worse.
She was so cold.
Her breath was so faint it seemed it might vanish between one heartbeat and the next.
Blood stained her all over—her face, her hands, her garments—crimson against pallor. From her brow, a wound still wept, streaking her skin in dark rivulets.
"Caelith! Stay awake! Do not sleep—do you hear me? Do not sleep!"
She did not answer.
Behind him, Lance followed at a run, heart clenched in his chest.
Never—never in all his years—had he seen his lord like this.
Duke Rhaegar Thorne, whose composure never cracked, now pale as death, eyes rimmed red, his arms trembling as though they bore not a woman, but his very soul.
"My lord, I shall fetch a physician at once!"
No reply came.
Rhaegar did not even turn his head.
He only ran.
The gates of Firefly Lane were struck open with a violent crash.
He carried her inside, laid her upon the bed with a care that bordered on reverence.
"Fetch Doctor Alwin—now."
The command came low, cold—deadly.
"At once."
Lance vanished like a shadow.
Rhaegar remained.
He sat beside her, taking her hand in both of his, as though warmth alone might recall her spirit.
"Caelith... Caelith..."
Again and again, her name fell from his lips. Her hand lay in his grasp—soft, lifeless, unresponsive.
Nothing like the woman who once glared at him through tears, who argued, resisted, defied, who... lived.
"Caelith..." his voice broke, scarcely more than a whisper, "you must not die. Do you hear me? You must not."
The physician arrived swiftly. One look, and he drew in a sharp breath.
"My lord... these injuries—"
"Save her." Rhaegar did not raise his voice, yet the chill within it could freeze blood.
"If anything happens to her... none of you will live to answer for it."
The physician dared not speak again.
He began at once.
Hours passed.
Rhaegar stood outside the chamber, unmoving––a statue carved of iron and shadow.
Beside him, Lance spoke carefully, "My lord... your arm—"
Only then did it become visible––a deep gash, torn open during the fight. Blood had long since soaked through his sleeve, dark and heavy.
Yet he seemed unaware.
Or uncaring.
"Find them," he said at last, voice hoarse as broken stone. "Every man who laid a hand on her tonight—leave none alive."
A pause. "And the one who ordered it... I want a name."
"Yes, my lord."
At last, the doors opened. The physician emerged, drenched in sweat.
"My lord, the lady has been treated. The wound to her brow is severe... it may scar. One rib is broken and will require time to mend. The rest are lesser injuries. Her life... is no longer in danger."
Only then—only then—did Rhaegar breathe out in relief.
He entered.
Caelith lay upon the bed, pale as winter snow.
Bandages wrapped her brow, faintly stained with red. Her lips were dry, her face drawn, her body fragile—so fragile it seemed the world itself might shatter her.
He sat beside her.
Slowly—carefully—he took her hand once more.
Cold.
Still cold.
Memories rose, unbidden.
A girl of ten, in a soft yellow dress, hiding behind her father—then peeking out with shy curiosity.
"Rhae, here—have some honey cake."
A stolen sweetness, pressed into his hand.
A bride in white, eyes filled with desperation as she stumbled into his arms.
The tremble of her body beneath his touch.
The tears in her eyes—yet the way she clung.
The quiet gratitude she whispered: "Rhaegar... thank you."
The way she flushed when jealous, how her gaze burned despite herself.
The awkward, earnest kiss she once gave him—unpracticed, yet sincere.
He lifted her hand.
Pressed it against his cheek.
Closed his eyes.
"Caelith..." His voice trembled, stripped of all armor, all pride. "You must not die."
. . .
In the deep hush of the latter half of the night, Caelith was seized by a burning fever.
The imperial physician had spoken with calm assurance: such a fever was only to be expected, the natural consequence of her wounds. If she could endure until dawn, she would pass safely through the worst of it.
Yet Rhaegar did not leave her side for even a single step.
He tended to her with his own hands—changing the cooling cloth upon her brow, lifting water gently to her lips, and keeping silent vigil beside her bed as the hours crept by. Not once did he entrust her care to another.
Lance came more than once, offering to relieve him, but each time Rhaegar dismissed him without hesitation, his resolve unyielding.
When the fever surged fiercest, Caelith began to murmur in delirium, her voice faint and broken.
"Father... Mother..."
Rhaegar clasped her hand tightly within his own, his voice low, steady, and unshaken, as though anchoring her drifting soul to the mortal world.
"I am here," he murmured softly. "I am here."
"Rhae... Rhae, you must go..."
At those broken words, Rhaegar’s heart tightened sharply within his chest.
What specter had found her in her dreams? Was it the memory of that dreadful inferno from years long past—the flames that devoured all and left only ash and sorrow behind?
He leaned close, his voice lowered to a tender murmur beside her ear, as though he might guide her back from the shadows.
"Caelith," he said softly, "Rhae is here. He will not leave. He will stay with you."