A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

When morning light filtered through the lattice windows, Dolly entered the chamber, bearing a letter in both hands.

"My lady, this was sent by Lady Tanmin."

Caelith, seated before her mirror, paused mid-motion. She accepted the letter and unfolded it.

To Lady Emberlyn,

Three days hence, at the outskirts’ riding grounds—an invitation for the lady to accompany me.

Sincerely,

Lady Isabella Tanmin.

The very same woman who, at the banquet, had clung to Rhaegar’s sleeve, calling him Rhae with such effortless familiarity.

Dolly muttered softly from the side, "That lady grew up with Duke Thorne... if my lady goes, I fear it may be a little..."

She did not finish, yet the meaning was plain––the invitation was meant to put Caelith into an awkward position.

She folded the letter and slipped it back into its glossy envelope. "I will go. Why should I not? Lady Isabella will be offended otherwise."

She, too, wished to see for herself just what kind of person Isabella Tanmin truly was.

***

Three days later, Dorian personally escorted Caelith to the riding grounds.

Along the way, he spoke far more than usual—straightening his robes, asking repeatedly whether his attire was fitting. Caelith leaned quietly against the carriage wall, offering distracted replies, her thoughts elsewhere.

When the carriage arrived, Isabella was already waiting at the entrance.

Clad in crimson riding attire, her dark hair tied high, she stood beneath the sunlight like a living flame—vivid, untamed, impossible to ignore.

"Lady Caelith!" she called, striding forward with a radiant smile. "You’ve finally arrived."

Dorian stepped forward at once. "Isabella, it has been too long."

Her gaze swept over him briefly, her smile polite but distant. "Dorian—you are here as well." Then, without pause, she turned to Caelith, taking her arm with easy familiarity. "Come, come—I’ll show you my horse. She’s an absolute beauty."

Dorian remained where he stood, his smile stiffening for the briefest moment.

Caelith noticed that.

A faint curve touched her lips.

Fool.

The riding grounds stretched wide, the grassy fields rolling gently toward distant hills. Several fine horses wandered within the enclosures, their movements unhurried.

Isabella led out a chestnut mare, her coat gleaming like polished lacquer. The horse nuzzled her palm affectionately, puffing quietly in recognition.

"This is Chestnut," she said, patting its neck. "She has the gentlest temperament."

Turning to Caelith, she asked brightly, "Can you ride?"

Caelith shook her head. "Sadly, I’ve never had a chance to learn."

"Then I shall teach you!" Isabella’s eyes lit with delight. Without waiting for refusal, she guided Caelith toward the horse. "Come—mount first. I’ll steady you."

Before she quite knew it, Caelith found herself seated upon the saddle, her hands gripping the reins too tightly, her entire body rigid with tension.

Below, Lady Tanmin burst into laughter. "Relax! If you’re so stiff, even the horse will grow nervous."

Still laughing, she patiently instructed her—how to hold the reins, how to guide the horse, how to move with its rhythm. Her manner held none of the pride of nobility, only genuine ease and warmth.

Gradually, Caelith loosened, following her guidance as the mare carried her slowly across the field.

At some point, Dorian approached, offering praise from the side. "Isabella, your riding skills have always been exceptional. Even as a child, you surpassed us all."

"Is that so?" She replied absently, her attention never leaving Caelith.

Watching this, Caelith found herself unable to name the feeling that stirred within her.

By the time they rested in the pavilion, the sun had begun to dip westward.

The tea had been prepared at Isabella’s instruction, and even the selection of pastries had been chosen by her own hand. Caelith lifted her cup, lowering her gaze as she took a quiet sip, offering no words.

Then, without warning, Isabella spoke.

"Caelith... are you and Rhae... close?"

Caelith’s fingers trembled, the tea nearly spilling from her grasp. She steadied herself at once, her expression calm, composed.

"Why does Your Ladyship ask such a thing? Lord Rhaegar is an old acquaintance of my husband. I have met him only a handful of times."

Isabella smiled—yet there was something in that smile Caelith could not quite read.

"Is that so? And yet... the way he looks at you..."

She paused, leaving the thought unfinished, before shifting the topic as though nothing had passed.

"Rhae has always seemed cold to others," she said lightly, gazing out across the fields. "But in truth, his heart is the softest. When I was young and broke my leg beyond the frontier, he carried me for three days and three nights to bring me back to camp."

Caelith’s grip on her teacup tightened slightly.

Three days.

Three nights.

Isabella continued, her tone quieter now, almost reflective. "And once... to save someone very important to him, he took three arrows. He nearly did not survive. Ever since, his shoulder aches whenever the weather turns cold or damp."

At that, Caelith lifted her eyes.

Isabella’s gaze had drifted far away, as though lost in memory.

"The person he was willing to risk his life for... must have meant everything to him."

Silence fell between them.

Caelith said nothing.

Her lashes lowered, and in the trembling surface of her tea, her own reflection fractured into ripples.

***

On the journey back, she remained silent.

Dorian spoke on and on beside her, yet not a single word reached her ears. She leaned against the carriage wall, watching the passing streets blur beyond the window.

Her mind echoed only with Isabella’s words.

Three arrows.

The one he saved... must have been Isabella.

Why else would he treat her with such patience, such quiet warmth? Why would her voice, when she spoke of him, carry that unspoken depth?

Caelith closed her eyes.

Yet she could not silence her thoughts.

The memories returned, sharp as needles—Lady Tanmin tugging at his sleeve, chattering without restraint.

Rhaegar listening, patient, indulgent.

Her placing food before him—and him, not refusing.

The softness in his gaze when she spoke of the past.

And herself...

What place did she hold, in comparison?