A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

At the sight of him, Lady Tanmin’s eyes lit instantly. She stepped forward with quick, eager strides, her voice bright with youthful warmth.

"Rhae!"

She caught hold of his sleeve, chattering animatedly about her days beyond the frontier—of galloping across endless plains, of drawing the bow beneath open skies, of the wild, boundless beauty of the grasslands. When her excitement rose, her gestures became lively, almost childlike in their enthusiasm.

Rhaegar listened with quiet patience, offering the occasional reply. There was a gentleness in his expression rarely seen—a warmth reserved for familiarity, for shared years long past.

Caelith’s fingers tightened slightly around her wine cup.

She had never seen him treat any other woman with such ease.

There was no trace of romance in his gaze toward Isabella—yet there was indulgence, closeness, the quiet fondness of one who had grown beside her. It was a past Caelith could not step into, a time she could never reach.

And from somewhere deep within, an unfamiliar ache began to rise.

It settled heavily in her chest, leaving her breath faintly uneven.

Throughout the banquet, Isabella spoke often with Rhaegar, at times even placing food before him with casual familiarity. Though he did not eat, neither did he refuse her.

At the same time, Dorian repeatedly attempted to join their exchange, eager to draw her attention. Yet time and again, he was overlooked, his expression darkening with each passing moment.

Caelith lowered her gaze.

One cup followed another.

She drank in silence.

She knew she should not feel this way.

What right had she to jealousy? What claim could she make?

Her bond with Rhaegar lived in shadow—unspoken, unseen. Isabella, by contrast, stood openly at his side, laughing with him beneath the gaze of all.

Reason whispered restraint.

But the heart... was another matter entirely.

And the wine in her cup seemed to grow more bitter with every sip.

By the time the banquet ended, night had fallen.

Dorian rose almost at once. "Lady Isabella, it grows late. Allow me to escort you back."

Isabella waved a hand, smiling as she turned instead to Rhaegar. "Rhae, will you take me?"

"Sorry, but I have matters to attend," he replied evenly.

She did not take offense, merely shrugging with easy grace. "Very well. Dorian, I shall trouble you instead."

At once, Dorian’s face lit with delight. Without so much as a glance toward Caelith, he followed after her.

Dolly flushed with anger as she helped the slightly inebriated Caelith into their carriage.

The wheels began to turn, rumbling softly over the stone-paved road.

She held her tongue for as long as she could—but at last, she could not help herself.

"The lord truly goes too far! My lady has been drinking and feels unwell, yet he does not even ask after you—only hurries to escort the lady! And that lady—her eyes were never on him at all. It was Lord Rhaegar she watched the entire time..."

Leaning against the carriage wall, Caelith’s cheeks were flushed, her gaze unfocused.

At the mention of his name, her eyes suddenly opened. Her voice, tinged with grievance and a trace of stubborn defiance, broke the quiet.

"Rhaegar... is a faithless man as well."

Dolly nearly lost her senses in fright, hastily covering Caelith’s mouth. "My lady! What are you saying? Walls have ears!"

Caelith pushed her hand away, her voice slurred with drink. "Did you not see? At the banquet... how well he treated Lady Isabella... listening to her, letting her serve him... when has he ever... ever treated me so..."

As she spoke, her voice softened—and her eyes reddened.

Dolly’s heart leapt in alarm. If such words were overheard, the consequences would be disastrous. She quickly urged the driver to hasten, and all along the way kept a firm hand over Caelith’s lips, not daring to let her utter another word.

Back in the courtyard, Dolly, still shaken, helped her into the inner chamber. With hurried care, she removed her ornaments, changed her into night garments, and settled her upon the bed. Only after ensuring that she had fallen quiet did she withdraw softly, closing the door behind her.

Deep into the night, Caelith stirred, thirst pulling her from sleep.

Her head was heavy, her thoughts muddled. "Dolly... water..." she murmured faintly.

No sooner had she spoken than a slender hand raised a teacup to her lips.

She drank without thought, swallowing several mouthfuls before lowering the cup, still half-lost in haze. "Dolly... you may go..."

She lifted her eyes—and froze.

The figure seated beside her bed was no servant.

It was Rhaegar.

Shock struck like lightning. The remnants of wine fled her mind at once. She bolted upright, clutching the covers tightly, her voice low but sharp with alarm.

"You! What are you doing here?!"

Rhaegar sat at ease, utterly untroubled, as though such a scene were the most natural thing in the world. Watching her flustered state, a faint amusement glimmered in his eyes.

"What is this?" he said lightly. "You call me faithless by day—and by night, you deny it?"

Color surged to her cheeks.

"I... I said no such thing!" she insisted, forcing composure though her gaze wandered. "You heard wrongly! You must leave—what if someone sees?"

Instead of retreating, he leaned closer.

One arm braced beside her, enclosing her between himself and the bed. The distance between them vanished; even their breaths could be felt.

His voice lowered, quiet yet unmistakably teasing.

"You called me faithless... did you not? At the banquet, I treated Isabella well. You were jealous."

She turned her face aside, unable to meet his gaze, her voice stubborn despite its tremor. "I was not... Whether you treat her well or not has nothing to do with me..."

A soft, low laugh escaped him—tinged with satisfaction, with indulgence, with something quietly triumphant.

He lifted his hand and gently caught her chin, turning her face back toward him, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Look at me," he murmured. "And say it again."