A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Isabella did not trouble herself with subtlety. She set her teacup aside and spoke plainly, "Lady Caelith... did you and Rhae have a quarrel of some sort?"

Caelith’s heart skipped—but her expression remained composed.

"My lady jests. I share no private acquaintance with His Grace. How could there be any quarrel?"

Isabella studied her with a long stare.

"You need not hide it from me," she said quietly. "I can see it. I have known him for many years—yet I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

Caelith lowered her gaze. She did not answer.

They ended up finishing their tea in silence.

***

That night, long after the world had grown still, Caelith sat beneath the lamplight, turning page after page of her father’s journal.

She had read it countless times. The edges of each page had worn soft with use.

And yet—each careful reading seemed to reveal something new.

Tonight, her eyes lingered on several names she had circled again and again:

Old locust tree in the southern district.

West Market blacksmith shop. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

Uncle Julian.

These fragments appeared across different entries, always alongside the name—Julian Milstrom.

Slowly, she began to piece them together.

Uncle Julian... a blacksmith in the West Market... near an old locust tree... in the southern part of the city.

Which meant—the West Market blacksmith shop and the southern locust tree were one and the same place.

Her pulse quickened.

She took up a quill and wrote the names upon a sheet, drawing lines between them, tracing connections, seeking clarity.

The candle flickered, casting shifting shadows upon the wall.

Dolly entered quietly with tea, pausing when she saw the deep crease in Caelith’s brow.

"My lady... what have you been reading these past days? Those old books—you return to them again and again."

Caelith closed the journal at once, her tone light.

"It is nothing. I merely... miss my parents, and wished to look upon their things."

Dolly nodded, asking no further, only reminding her gently, "Take care of your eyes, my lady. Do not stay up too late."

Then she withdrew.

Left alone, Caelith leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed upon the dancing flame.

She would have to go there herself. To see with her own eyes.

Yet the estate was watched—inside and out.

Dorian’s spies. Yvaine’s eyes.

She would need the right moment—a reason to leave without drawing suspicion.

That moment came sooner than expected.

Three days later, the old lady of the household announced she would travel to the Pearldome Temple beyond the city to offer donations, remaining there for three days.

Dorian was summoned to a banquet by his colleagues.

Yvaine, as a mistress, was required to attend upon the matron and accompany her.

In an instant, the estate emptied.

Only Caelith—and a handful of servants—remained.

Using the pretext of visiting a bookshop to purchase old texts, Caelith left the estate with Dolly.

Their carriage wound through the busy streets before stopping at a modest bookshop.

Inside, Caelith browsed calmly, selecting a few travel journals and volumes of poetry, paying without haste.

Once outside, she turned to Dolly.

"Wait here for me. I shall step into the cosmetics shop next door."

Dolly hesitated. "Let me accompany you, my lady."

"No need," Caelith said with a gentle shake of her head. "Remain here. I will return shortly."

Dolly dared not press further and could only nod.

Caelith turned into the narrow alley beside the shop.

She wound her way through twisting lanes, turning again and again, until after nearly a quarter of an hour, she finally found it—the blacksmith’s shop.

It was small, its façade dull and weathered. Outside hung hoes and sickles, and half-forged iron pots lay stacked to one side. Within, a furnace burned fiercely, sparks flying as an old smith hammered glowing metal upon the anvil.

Caelith stood quietly at the threshold. Only when he finished a strike did she speak.

"May I ask... is this the shop of Mr. Julian Milstrom?"

The old blacksmith paused. Slowly, he lifted his head.

His face was lined with age, eyes sunken and clouded—yet the moment he saw her, something flickered within them. A brief, unmistakable change.

"Whom does the young lady seek?"

Without answering directly, Caelith drew a slip of paper from her sleeve and handed it to him.

There were only two words written on it:

Uncle Julian.

The old man glanced at it—and his expression shifted.

Subtly, but undeniably.

He set down his hammer, took the paper, and turned it over twice as though to confirm what he already knew.

Then he shook his head.

"I do not know such a person. You have come to the wrong place."

Caelith did not move.

She simply watched him.

The old man turned away too quickly—his steps faster than before. He lifted the cloth curtain at the back and disappeared inside.

He did not return.

She stood there for a long while until a burly man came to buy a tool, brushing past her impatiently, forcing her aside.

Only then did she stir.

As she walked away, her certainty grew.

That reaction was not ignorance. He knew something.

She turned next toward the southern district.

It had been over a decade since she last walked those streets.

As a child, her father had once brought her here to visit an old friend. She remembered a towering locust tree, its shade wide and cool. Beneath it, an old woman had sold sweet syrup—sticky and fragrant, staining one’s tongue red after drinking.

Now, the tree was gone.

In its place stood several newly built homes, their gray bricks and tiled roofs marking the residence of prosperous families.

Caelith wandered slowly through the area.

At last, near the mouth of a narrow lane, she saw an elderly woman selling sweet syrup.

Her hair was white, her back slightly bent, a palm fan in hand as she lazily shooed away flies.

Caelith approached and bought a bowl.

She sat upon a low bench nearby, sipping slowly.

The taste was the same.

Sweet, lingering. Just as she remembered.

When she finished, she set the bowl aside and looked up.

"Grandmother... how many years have you been selling here?"

The old woman narrowed her eyes, studying her for a long moment.

"Over thirty years," she said at last. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Caelith replied with a faint smile. "I came here as a child. I remember there used to be a large locust tree here. It is gone now, so I thought to ask."

The old woman sighed. "Cut down. New houses built. Some years ago now."

Caelith nodded, then asked, as though in passing, "Do you recall... a blacksmith nearby? Surnamed Milstrom. People called him Uncle Julian."

The old woman’s gaze flickered. She looked at Caelith for a long while.

Then, slowly, she spoke, "...Are you of the Milstrom family, child?"