A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

As for the fire, the eunuch knew nothing of who had started it.

But he knew this much: As of late, someone had been making contact with the old retainers, whispering of a plan to "teach Rhaegar Thorne a lesson."

That person’s name? Unknown.

His face? Never seen.

What was known was that each meeting had taken place at a gambling den in the eastern quarter of the city.

And that very night, the gambling house was surrounded.

It lay hidden deep within a narrow alley, its entrance marked only by two worn lanterns swaying faintly in the wind. From within drifted a chaotic mingling of sounds—shouted wagers, the rattle of dice, coarse laughter and curses blending into a restless din.

Rhaegar stood at the mouth of the alley, his dark gaze fixed upon those dim, flickering lights.

Behind him, Lance spoke in a hushed tone, "My lord, this is the place. The eunuch said each meeting was held in the rear courtyard—there is a private room set aside."

Rhaegar raised his hand in a silent command.

At once, the guards dispersed like flying shadows, silent and swift, sealing off every exit until not even a drop of water could slip through.

Then, he stepped forward, too, his hand already on his blade.

The moment the door was pushed open, silence fell. The noise within died abruptly, as though cut off by an unseen knife.

Every head turned.

At the threshold stood a man clad in black, his expression cold—cold as sharpened steel.

Someone then recognized him. The dice slipped from his hand and struck the table with a dull clatter.

"Thorne... Rhaegar Thorne..."

Rhaegar did not so much as glance at him.

His gaze swept once across the hall, then settled upon the staircase leading to the upper floor.

"Seal every exit," he said to his men.

The guards surged inward, subduing everyone in the hall with ruthless efficiency.

Rhaegar ascended.

The second floor was eerily quiet—a world apart from the chaos below. Along the corridor stood several private rooms, their doors shut tight, muted voices leaking faintly through the cracks in the wood.

He stopped before the second door and focused, listening to the voices inside.

"...that shipment cannot be delayed any longer. The people outside the city are already waiting..."

Rhaegar grinned––he already knew who this voice belonged to.

His dark, brooding eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

He pushed the door open.

Inside, three men were seated.

One of them... was Lucas Ostenton.

Clad in a suit of muted azure, he held a porcelain teacup between his fingers, speaking in low tones with the two men opposite him. At the sound of the door, he lifted his gaze, surprised.

The instant he saw Rhaegar, his smile froze—just for a fleeting heartbeat. Then he rose to his feet and offered a courteous greeting with a light bow of his head.

"Lord Thorne... what brings you to a place like this at such a late hour?"

Rhaegar slowly stepped inside, his presence steady and unhurried, and took a seat across from him.

The other two men made as if to flee, but were swiftly restrained by the Imperial guards stationed at the doorway.

Rhaegar’s eyes settled upon Lucas as he smirked. "Lord Ostenton, what a coincidence."

Lucas’ lips curved into a faint smile. "Indeed, a rare coincidence. I was merely discussing a bit of business with a few associates. I did not expect to encounter Your Lordship here."

"Business?" Rhaegar regarded him coolly. "What sort of business requires negotiation in a gambling house at midnight?"

Strangely, Lucas’ smile did not falter.

"A gambling den is crowded, noisy, and there are eyes everywhere. Paradoxically, that makes it safe. Surely, Lord Thorne understands what I mean."

Rhaegar offered no reply. Instead, he turned slightly and addressed the guards at the door.

"These two—take them away."

The men’s faces drained of color.

"My lord! My lord, we are innocent!"

"We have done nothing wrong!" 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Lucas’ expression stiffened, though just a trace. "Lord Thorne, those people are my guests..."

Rhaegar looked at him once more, his eyes burning with unconcealed disgust. "Lord Ostenton, your affairs in trade are none of my concern. But these two men... tonight, they will become my guests."

A brief silence followed. Then Lucas gave a small, measured smile. "Very well. When Lord Thorne conducts an investigation, I understand there is no room for interference."

Once the two men had been escorted away, Rhaegar turned his attention back to Lucas, fixing him with a stiff frown.

"Lord Ostenton, let us hope that what transpired tonight was merely a coincidence. It will bring me no pleasure to see you in the imperial prison as its captive."

Lucas inclined his head in agreement, not a word slipping past her tightly pursed lips.

Rhaegar studied him for a few lingering moments, his gaze sharp and unreadable, then turned without another word and departed, leaving a chill of winter behind.

Below, in the great hall, every soul had already been subdued.

As Rhaegar descended the stairs, Lance stepped forward to meet him.

"My lord, twenty-three in total have been apprehended. A few attempted to flee, but were swiftly restrained."

Rhaegar gave him a slight nod. "Take them back. Interrogate them—one by one."

Lance hesitated, momentarily taken aback. "All of them?"

"All of them."

With that, Rhaegar strode toward the exit, yet upon reaching the threshold, he suddenly paused.

Slowly, he turned his head and cast a glance toward the upper floor. There, upon the dimly lit corridor, stood Lucas, looking down from the shadows surrounding him.

Their eyes met across the veil of night.

Lucas smiled faintly and raised his hands in a formal salute.

Rhaegar paid him no heed. He turned away and left without a backward glance.

When the Imperial guards withdrew, the gambling house was left in utter disarray.

Lucas remained where he stood, motionless as stone. Only after a long while did he begin to descend the stairs.

The hall below lay empty and hollow, its silence heavy. Tables and chairs were overturned in chaos, and scattered across the floor lay fragments of shattered dice, ground beneath careless boots.

He took a seat at one of the chairs.

His fingers tapped lightly against the tabletop.

Once. Then again.

Slow, measured, unhurried.

And little by little, the smile upon his face faded—until nothing of it remained.