A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Caelith shook her head. "No. I only ask on behalf of an elder."

The old woman fell silent for a moment. Then, lowering her voice, she said, "There was such a man. Kept a blacksmith shop here for over ten years. But then... for reasons no one knows, he suddenly moved away. Where he went—no one can say."

"And now...?"

"I do not know." The old woman sighed. "It has been more than a decade. He is likely long gone from this world."

Caelith thanked her softly and rose to leave.

At the mouth of the alley, she paused and glanced back. The old woman was still there, fanning away flies as though nothing at all had passed between them.

Uncle Julian had moved away.

Where to? Why? And what did it have to do with her father?

She had no answers.

But she knew this—she was definitely on the right path.

When she returned to the bookshop, Dolly was already growing anxious. Seeing her, she hurried forward.

"My lady, why were you gone so long? I feared something had happened."

"Everything is fine, don’t tremble," Caelith said gently, patting her hand. "The cosmetics shop was crowded. I had to wait."

Together, they boarded the carriage and made their way back to the Valehart estate.

Leaning against the carriage wall, Caelith watched the streets slip past, her thoughts already moving ahead.

This lead had gone cold—for now.

But she was not troubled. Her father’s journal still held more secrets. She would follow them—one by one.

What she did not know was that her movements had not gone unnoticed.

That very night, upon returning from the Pearldome Temple, Yvaine summoned Charlotte to her chamber.

"In the days I was away," she asked lazily, "what changes occurred in the estate?"

Charlotte leaned close, lowering her voice. "During your absence, the lady left the estate three times. Each time, she claimed to be visiting the bookshop or embroidery house—but each time, she slipped away alone for a while, not allowing Dolly to follow."

Yvaine’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh? And where did she go?"

"Our people followed her," Charlotte replied. "She went to a blacksmith’s shop in the West Market. And she also wandered through the old southern district." She paused. "That blacksmith... appears to be an old man surnamed Julian Milstrom."

Yvaine leaned back against her cushion, fingers tapping lightly along the edge of the bed.

A noblewoman of the inner quarters—what business did she have with a blacksmith?

Her thoughts flickered to that night.

To the look in Rhaegar’s eyes when he watched Caelith.

To Caelith’s recent strangeness—her seclusion, her late-night reading, her secretive excursions.

Could these things... be connected?

"Keep watching," she ordered softly. "Every step she takes—I want to know about it. Where she goes, whom she meets, what she says. Everything."

"Yes, my lady."

. . .

At the same time, in Dorian’s study, a spy was delivering the same report.

Dorian frowned deeply. "What business does she have in such places?"

The spy shook his head. "This subordinate does not know. The blacksmith keeps a tight tongue. But I have learned that he is surnamed Milstrom, and that he moved here from the southern district over ten years ago."

Milstrom.

Dorian’s gaze darkened.

He thought of the letter he had deliberately left in his study—the one bearing the name of Vice Minister Kieran. His old name was Milstrom.

Caelith had shown no reaction upon seeing it. He had assumed it meant nothing.

But now... it seemed she was indeed hiding something.

"Continue watching her," he ordered coldly.

"Yes, my lord."

***

Caelith, for her part, had begun to sense the change.

In recent days, whenever she walked in the garden, she felt eyes upon her—hidden, watching.

When Dolly went out to purchase supplies, she reported suspicious figures lingering in the back alleys.

Even Yvaine’s gaze, when they met, had gained a new sharpness—measuring, probing.

Seated by the window, Caelith watched the crabapple blossoms in the courtyard, her thoughts heavy.

The truth lay within reach. She could not bear to stop now.

Yet if she pressed forward—and was discovered...

She closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath.

Not yet.

Wait a little longer.

But before the storm could pass, something far more dangerous revealed itself.

At dusk one evening, she went to the rear kitchen to collect her prepared medicine. On her way back, passing near the woodshed, she caught sight of two figures slipping in through the back gate.

They wore rough, gray garments—not the attire of servants within the estate.

Caelith’s heart tightened. Silently, she slowed her steps and followed.

The woodshed door stood slightly ajar. She concealed herself behind a stack of firewood—and listened.

Voices, low and urgent, drifted out.

"Is everything prepared?"

"It is. Three days from now—behind the Shadow Guard compound. He will not leave alive."

A pause.

Then, colder, "Our master said it plainly—if Rhaegar does not die... none of us will live."

Caelith’s heart jolted violently in her chest—so fiercely she nearly cried out.

Rhaegar.

They were going to kill Rhaegar.

She did not know how she made it back to her chambers.

By the time she sat upon the edge of her bed, her hands were still trembling, cold and unsteady, as though all strength had been drained from them.

Dolly entered quietly, bearing a cup of calming tea. The moment she saw Caelith’s pallid face, she started in alarm.

"My lady—what has happened? Your complexion... it is frightfully pale."

"Nothing," Caelith said, taking the cup. Her voice was steady—too steady. She lowered her gaze and took a sip, forcing the warmth down her throat as though it might anchor her. "I am merely tired. I wish to retire early."

Dolly hesitated, suspicion flickering in her eyes, yet she did not press further. She arranged the bedding with care, then withdrew, gently closing the doors behind her.

Silence settled over the chamber.

Caelith lay upon the bed, eyes fixed on the embroidered canopy above.

Yet her mind—her mind would not rest.

The whispered words echoed again and again, each repetition sharper than the last:

Three days... the back alley of the Shadow Guard... he will not leave alive.