A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Rhaegar stepped forward and came to a halt before him.

"Leonard Drias," he said, his voice calm—so calm it felt colder than anger. "Of the three you killed, one was a woman with child. Seven months along."

The man stirred.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

His face was smeared with blood and grime, barely recognizable. Yet his eyes—those eyes still burned, sharp and vicious, carrying the feral defiance of a man with nothing left to lose.

"Lord Rhaegar," the man grinned, baring teeth stained red with blood, "I’ve endured all the tricks your Shadow Guard can muster. If you have the skill, then kill me. I am of no use to you alive."

Rhaegar measured him with a cold stare.

He did not speak.

That gaze—too calm, too still—was more unsettling than fury. Slowly, the smile on Leonard’s face stiffened.

Rhaegar turned away.

He walked to the wall and selected a slender blade from the rack—a narrow weapon, its edge gleaming cold beneath the lamplight.

He returned and crouched before the prisoner.

"When you killed," he asked mildly, as though discussing some trivial matter, "what sort of blade did you use?"

Leonard remained silent.

Rhaegar lifted the knife. The tip came to rest just beneath the man’s collarbone.

"Here," he said evenly, "if the blade enters shallowly, it will not kill you. But the pain..." His voice softened, almost thoughtful. "The pain will make you wish to bite your own tongue in half."

The tip pressed in.

Slowly.

Leonard’s face twisted violently, his teeth grinding together—yet no sound escaped him.

Rhaegar watched his eyes... And pushed the blade deeper.

"The pregnant woman you killed," he continued, his tone unchanging, "when her husband found her... her abdomen had been split open."

The blade turned slightly within flesh.

"The child lay beside her—already gone cold."

Leonard’s face contorted further, his jaw trembling under the strain.

Rhaegar’s gaze never wavered.

"Tell me," he said quietly, "does this measure of pain... begin to repay what you owe?"

At last, Leonard broke.

"I... I’ll talk..." His voice rasped, broken like rusted iron.

Rhaegar stilled the blade.

The man gasped for breath, words spilling out in fragments.

"The contact... the contact meets at the Ostenton Brocade Atelier... I don’t know the name... only that every exchange... happens there..."

Ostenton Brocade Atelier.

At the name, Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He withdrew the blade and rose to his feet.

Blood clung to the edge, dripping steadily to the stone floor below.

He tossed the knife aside to an attendant, took the cloth offered to him, and slowly wiped the blood from his hands.

"Continue," he said coolly. "Everything he knows about the Ostenton Brocade Atelier—extract it to the last detail."

"Yes, my lord."

He turned and strode out.

As he stepped beyond the torture chamber, his gaze fell briefly to his hands.

The blood had been wiped clean.

And yet... it seemed the sickening scent of iron still lingered.

Ostenton Brocade.

The place she went to... every single day.

A shadow passed through his eyes.

"Prepare my horse," he ordered. "We ride to Ostenton Brocade."

Without another word, he strode toward the exit. But just as he emerged from the gates of the prison, a figure approached.

Isabella Tanmin.

She stood beside a waiting carriage, a delicately crafted food box in her hands. At the sight of him, a gentle smile appeared upon her lips.

"Lord Rhaegar."

He paused.

She stepped forward, stopping before him, lifting the box slightly as she spoke in a soft, coaxing tone.

"I had your favorite dishes brought from that restaurant you like. You have not eaten yet, have you?"

Rhaegar looked at her for a long moment and said nothing. He was struggling with the urge to strike her right there, in front of her servants.

For the briefest instant, Isabella’s smile faltered.

Yet she gathered herself swiftly, as one long accustomed to composure beneath scrutiny.

"I have already gone to see Caelith," she said gently. "I... I offered her my apology."

At this, Rhaegar’s gaze shifted ever so slightly.

"You went to see her?"

"I did." Isabella inclined her head. "I reflected upon it through the night, and I know now that I was in the wrong. Those rumors—I could have restrained them, yet I allowed them to spread unchecked. So... I went to ask her forgiveness."

As she spoke, her eyes glistened faintly with unshed tears.

"Has she... forgiven me?"

Rhaegar did not answer.

Instead, he reached for the cloth handed to him by one of his men and began, with slow deliberation, to wipe away the blood that stained his hands and the side of his face.

Stroke by stroke, the dark traces vanished beneath the fabric, revealing the pallor of his skin beneath.

Isabella watched him, holding her breath. And though her smile remained, it had grown faintly rigid.

When he finished, he cast the bloodstained cloth aside—letting it fall atop the food box she carried. The dark smear upon it stood out stark and jarring against its delicate surface.

"Isabella," he said at last.

She lifted her gaze.

"The day after tomorrow, I shall petition His Majesty to dissolve this betrothal."

The color drained from her face completely.

"You..."

"Will you come with me?" Rhaegar asked, his tone even, his eyes unreadable.

Isabella stood frozen, her fingers tightening until they blanched.

Rhaegar turned to leave.

"Rhaegar—" she called after him unexpectedly loudly.

But he did not stop.

"Tonight..." Her voice softened, almost pleading. "Let us meet once more."

Rhaegar gave no reply.

"We ought, at the very least, to discuss the matter," Isabella continued, her voice measured, gentle yet stern. "I know your resolve is firm. Yet I must understand how best to act when the time comes—how I may stand beside you, so that His Majesty’s displeasure is lessened."

She paused, searching his face for a flicker of a cue.

"This... is not too much to ask, is it?"

Rhaegar remained silent for a few moments. Then, at last, he inclined his head.

"Very well."

Isabella stood at the gates of the imperial prison, watching as his figure receded into the distance.

Step by step, he moved farther away, until the shadows of the evening seemed to swallow him whole—leaving behind only the echo of his presence, and a silence that pressed heavily upon her heart.