The cold wind of twilight whispered through the open balcony, tugging at the edges of Caelan’s cloak as he stood beside her. Princess Serelith leaned against the marble railing, her silver-blonde hair pulled loosely into a delicate braid that shimmered like threads of moonlight. The ornate tiara resting on her head caught the last glow of the sun, refracting light across her pale skin like stars across a still lake. Her gown, pale blue and embroidered with frost-like patterns, brushed lightly against his arm as the silence between them deepened.

"You’ve been quiet lately," Caelan said, not unkindly. His voice was low, steady. Watching her, his closest friend, felt like trying to read a shifting tide—one moment calm, the next unknowable.

Serelith didn’t look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the courtyard below where banners swayed and torches were being lit. "Sometimes quiet is all that’s left when words are no longer safe."

He frowned. "You speak like someone expecting a storm."

A faint, unreadable smile touched her lips. "Caelan... the storm has always been here. We were just pretending not to feel the rain."

The words unsettled him. For weeks he had sensed something changing in her—her glances sharper, her questions more precise, her silences longer. He had thought it was the pressure from the King’s court, the expectations pressed on her shoulders like chains. Now, he wasn’t sure.

"You can trust me," he said quietly.

She finally turned to him. Her eyes—cool blue-gray with that glint of cold steel beneath—met his. "I do. More than anyone."

A knock thundered at the door before he could respond. Loud, sharp—deliberate.

Serelith didn’t flinch.

The doors burst open, crashing against the walls. Four royal guards stormed in, armored and grim, swords sheathed but hands ready. Caelan stepped forward instantly, his hand at the hilt of his blade, instinct taking hold.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

The lead guard ignored him, turning instead to Serelith. “By order of His Majesty, King Varric, you are under arrest for high treason against the crown.”

Caelan froze. “What?”

But Serelith didn’t move. She raised her chin, almost regally, her expression unreadable.

"Stand down," she said softly—to him.

"What are they talking about?" Caelan turned to her, his voice sharp now. "Serelith—treason?"

She gave him a long, measured look. "There are things I never told you. Not because I didn’t trust you—but because it would have put you in danger."

The guards advanced. One seized her left arm, the other her right. Caelan stepped forward again, rage flaring. "Don’t touch her!"

She turned her head just slightly toward him, her tone calm. "Let them take me."

"You can't ask me to—!"

"I already did what had to be done, Caelan," she said. "I leaked the troop movements to the resistance. I gave them the names of the warlords responsible for the southern massacres. I signed the death warrant of my father's ambitions."

The words struck him like a blade to the gut. His breath caught.

"You... you went that far?"

She gave a sad, serene smile. "Farther."

The guards began to drag her away, and Caelan moved, but she looked back at him over her shoulder, her voice a whisper that froze him in place.