A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Since Yvaine had entered the Valehart estate, Old Lady Valehart had required her, without fail, to present herself each morning and evening in dutiful attendance.

On this particular day, dawn had barely broken when she rose to wash and dress. Though the Emberlyn family had not been a house of great renown, Yvaine herself had been cherished and delicately raised.

Now, reduced to the status of a mistress beneath another’s roof, her heart was already heavy with grievance—yet she was forced to tread carefully at every step, ever mindful of others’ moods and expressions.

By the time she arrived at the main hall, Caelith was already seated calmly to one side, while Lady Valehart presided at the front.

"Your daughter-in-law greets you, Mother," Yvaine said, bowing low.

Lady Alaina Valehart lifted her teacup, her gaze cool with disdain. "You may rise."

Yvaine straightened slowly. Taking a cautious step back, she moved as though to sit upon a nearby stool—yet Caelith gave a soft, deliberate cough, a subtle signal that she was not to take a seat.

Sensing the motion, Lady Valehart let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "A discarded thing like you dares to sit?"

Yvaine’s face paled. Never in her life had she suffered such humiliation, least of all before a hall full of servants and maids.

"Mother, I... I have done nothing improper..."

"Nothing?" Lady Valehart sneered. "If you were truly pure and unblemished, would you be nothing more than a concubine? Do you take this household for some roadside inn where any stray may enter?"

"Mother, I know my station is low and dare not ask for more," Yvaine said, forcing back her tears. "I seek only to serve you faithfully... and to serve the heir well in the days to come."

But Lady Valehart had no patience for such words. "Remember your place. You are but a concubine—do not dream of climbing higher. Should you dare disrupt the order of this household, I have more than enough means to discipline you."

Yvaine bowed deeply. "I will remember."

Throughout it all, Caelith remained seated in silence, her expression unreadable. She had no intention of speaking on Yvaine’s behalf.

"Begone," Lady Valehart said coldly, dismissing her with a careless wave of her hand.

Yvaine turned at once and withdrew, her steps unsteady, her spirit shaken as she returned to her small courtyard.

"My lady, what has happened?" Charlotte hurried forward, reaching out to support her—only to be shoved aside.

"Leave me! All of you—leave!" Yvaine cried, her composure shattering as her voice rose in hysteria.

The maids shrank back in fear, not daring to utter a word.

At that moment, Dorian stepped into the courtyard. Seeing her in such a state, irritation flashed across his face.

"Why are you weeping?" he said sharply. "You were merely reprimanded a few times, and already you fall into such disorder—have you no sense of propriety at all?"

Yvaine rushed forward, reaching for his arm as though it were her only anchor. "My lord—your mother... she humiliated me before everyone. My heart cannot bear it..."

But Dorian recoiled in open distaste, shaking her off without hesitation. "And was my mother wrong?" he said coldly. "Before you entered this house, you were already entangled in rumors. That you suffer a little upon entering the Valehart estate is only to be expected. Do not spend your days weeping and wailing, provoking my mother’s displeasure."

At those words, Yvaine understood with cruel clarity—she was nothing more than a trifling amusement to him. When he desired her, she was to present herself eagerly; when he did not, she was to withdraw without protest.

The realization struck deep.

She rose abruptly, her eyes burning with resentment as she glared at him. "I deserve this? If not for Caelith, how would I have fallen to such a fate?!"

In her mind, every misfortune she had endured traced back to Caelith.

"Enough!" Dorian snapped, impatience sharpening his voice. "Do not spout such nonsense. Caelith is the rightful wife of this house, wed with honor. It is your own crooked heart that has led you here. If you dare slander her again, do not blame me for showing you no mercy."

With that, he swept his sleeve and strode away, leaving her behind.

Yvaine stood frozen where she was, hatred gathering like a storm in her eyes.

Once, Dorian had never bothered to defend Caelith. And yet now—he had chosen her side.

"Caelith... just you wait," she whispered, her voice trembling with fury. "Today’s humiliation—I will repay it a hundredfold, a thousandfold. If I am denied peace, then neither shall you ever sit secure in your place as lady of this house."

A flicker of madness, sharp and merciless, gleamed in her gaze.

According to the rules of the Valehart estate, both Caelith and Yvaine were required to pay their respects to Lady Alaina each morning and evening. As a concubine, Yvaine was further bound to greet Caelith daily.

Yet on one such morning, she arrived deliberately late—forcing Caelith and an entire retinue of servants to wait upon her. When she finally entered, she affected a frail, delicate demeanor, as though barely able to stand.

Day after day, she repeated this performance.

Though the servants dared not speak openly, whispers began to circulate in hushed corners—that the lady of the house could not even discipline a mere concubine.

And yet, in the face of such calculated provocation, Caelith remained utterly unmoved.

Each time Yvaine arrived late, she would merely cast a brief, indifferent glance—neither rebuking nor reproaching her, as though such petty tricks were beneath notice.

This only deepened Yvaine’s unrest.

Unable to provoke a reaction, her frustration turned sharper, more insidious. Before Dorian, she began to speak in veiled tones, her words laced with suggestion—hinting that Caelith’s conduct was improper, that she maintained overly close ties with outsiders.

One day, when Dorian returned from beyond the estate, Yvaine approached him, assisting him in changing his robes. As if speaking idly, she remarked,

"Lately, I have often seen the lady of the house dressed most splendidly when she leaves... though for whom she prepares herself so, I cannot say..."

Her words were soft, ambiguous—yet every syllable carried implication, casting shadows upon Caelith’s virtue.

Dorian listened, a trace of suspicion stirring within him. Yet the men he had dispatched to observe Caelith had reported nothing amiss. In the end, he dismissed the matter.

Instead, he found himself increasingly displeased with Yvaine—seeing in her only a restless schemer, one who stirred trouble from nothing. His attitude toward her grew colder with each passing day.

And Yvaine, seeing all her efforts fail—not only failing to turn him against Caelith, but earning only his growing indifference—felt the hatred within her heart deepen all the more.