The afternoon light poured across the marble floor, gilding every corner of Caelum's private chambers in soft gold. He lay propped against a mound of pillows, one arm draped over his stomach as though to steady some great, invisible pain. In truth, he felt perfectly fine, more than fine, in fact, but he'd learned long ago that a little performance could achieve what brute force could not.

It was almost insulting, how easily the story of his sudden illness had circulated. Meranth had done his part as expected, ensuring word reached her family with just enough urgency to make ignoring it impossible. Even now, he could picture her reading the letter, how the mention of his supposed collapse would overshadow all better judgment. He found it darkly amusing that after everything, after months of being cold-shouldered and ignored, this was all it took to draw her back into his reach.

He let his gaze drift across the ceiling. He thought of the tearful accusations he hadn't even bothered to deny. All those little faces he could no longer recall, the parade of lovers who'd meant nothing to him, and yet somehow meant everything to her. It struck him as a kind of childish naivety, to expect fidelity from a man like him, to imagine that love alone could restrain appetite.

And still, some small, irksome part of him resented that she had pulled away so completely. He could tolerate contempt. He could tolerate anger. But absence? That was less acceptable.

His hand shifted across the fine linen sheet, arranging the folds as though to remind himself that this moment was his design. Soon enough, she would step through the door, see him laid out as if at death's threshold. The image alone would be enough to stir pity, and pity had always been a lever he knew how to pull.

The latch clicked, a delicate sound that cut through the hush of the chamber. He didn't look up at once, better to let the pause stretch, let the impression of frailty settle in. He exhaled a ragged, uneven breath and let his lashes flutter as though the effort of consciousness itself were a trial.

At last, he turned his head just enough to see her silhouette by the door. A faint, strained smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"...You came," he murmured, voice low and hoarse. "I wasn't sure you would."

He shifted slightly, making the movement look as though it cost him. His hand moved across the coverlet as if searching blindly for support or reassurance.

"I must look pathetic." A humorless laugh slipped out, shallow and dry. "And yet, I think this is the first time you've set foot here in...how long has it been? Weeks? Months?"

His eyes met hers fully now, steady despite the tremor he let into his tone.

"I suppose...if it takes the threat of death to make you look at me again, then perhaps it was worth the effort."

He sank back against the pillows, letting his lashes lower half-mast, as though the exertion had drained him. One pale hand rested over his chest, fingers curling weakly.

"...Forgive me," he whispered, voice trailing softer. "I didn't mean to...trap you here. But I thought...if I were to die without seeing you again..."

His gaze lifted, glassy with a perfect mimicry of remorse.

"...It would be a rather pitiful ending, wouldn't it?"