A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Isabella froze in astonishment.

The Empress patted her hand lightly, her gaze drifting toward the window, as though her thoughts had already moved far beyond the chamber.

"That boy Rhaegar," the Empress said slowly, "is proud to the bone—so certain that there is nothing in this world beyond his power. Yet he forgets... that this realm belongs to His Majesty."

She paused, her gaze distant.

"Let him kneel," she continued at length. "Let him kneel for a few days, and he will learn well enough whom he ought to marry."

She turned back to Isabella and, seeing her wan and shaken state, gave a soft sigh.

"Look at you—where now is that bold and gallant spirit you once carried?" she said, her tone gentler. "Remain here with me for the time being. When he comes to his senses, we shall speak of this again."

Isabella lowered her head obediently.

No one saw the fleeting glimmer that passed through her eyes.

Rhaegar knelt before the doors of the Imperial Study.

From morning until noon... from noon until the long stretch of afternoon.

The sun climbed high, its heat oppressive enough to daze the senses; then it sank low, and a chill crept upward from the cold stone beneath his knees. Yet he did not stir—neither feeling the burn of heat nor the bite of cold, as though he had shed all awareness of his own body.

Passing eunuchs and palace maids cast furtive glances his way, whispering among themselves in hushed tones.

As dusk approached, a young eunuch—one who had once received Rhaegar’s favor—crept quietly to his side. Crouching beside him, he spoke in a low, urgent whisper:

"Lord Thorne, His Majesty dines this evening in the Empress’s palace. You... you should not continue kneeling. It will avail you nothing."

Rhaegar did not so much as look at him. "Then I shall kneel until tomorrow."

The eunuch sighed softly and withdrew.

The light faded. Darkness gathered.

When word of this reached the Empress, she fell silent for a moment.

"This child..." she murmured at last, "is indeed one of deep devotion."

Her gaze turned toward Isabella. The lady kept her head lowered, offering no reply.

"Very well. You may return for now," the Empress said. "We shall speak again tomorrow."

Isabella rose, performed her courtesies, and withdrew. As she passed through the palace gates, she turned once more to look toward the Imperial Study.

There, in the depth of night, that solitary figure remained kneeling—motionless, like a statue carved of stone.

***

At that same hour, the gates of the imperial prison were thrust open.

One of the Shadow Guards hurried in, his expression grave. "Chief—something has happened."

Sylric looked up at once. "What is it?"

"Another young woman has gone missing in the eastern quarter of the city. She vanished last night; her family only reported it this morning."

Sylric rose to his feet, his expression pale. "How many now?"

"Four this month."

For a brief moment, the room fell utterly silent—so still that even the faint crackle of the lamp’s wick sounded harsh against the quiet.

"And Evren Viremont?"

"He went again this afternoon—to the general store."

Sylric clenched his jaw. "His Grace is still kneeling in the palace. Dispatch the men to search the area, interview everyone familiar with that woman. As for the last matter... keep watch for now. Do nothing rash."

"Yes, Chief."

***

By the following morning, the news had spread throughout the city.

Another young woman had gone missing in the eastern quarter—this time a flower seller, no more than sixteen years of age. It was said her mother had searched through the night, only to find, at the mouth of an alley, a single embroidered shoe—her daughter’s—its surface stained with blood.

Whispers filled the streets; unease took root in every heart.

"I’ve heard it’s traffickers—men who prey upon young girls."

"None of the others were ever found. This one... I fear the same fate awaits her."

"The authorities come and go, yet what good has it done? What are the Shadow Guard doing?"

On her way to the embroidery house, Caelith overheard fragments of these hushed conversations.

Her steps faltered. A tightening unease gripped her chest. It was the fourth woman this month.

A chill crept along her spine. Without thinking, she quickened her pace.

When she entered the embroidery house, she sensed at once that something was amiss.

Several embroiderers had gathered together, whispering in low voices. At the sight of her, they scattered hurriedly, their eyes evasive.

She paused, puzzled—but did not dwell on it, and continued toward her workroom.

Just as she reached the door, she heard voices within.

"...the new one—how is her skill?"

It was the voice of a woman she did not recognize—aged, measured, carrying a quiet authority that was difficult to name.

"Godmother, her skill is exceptional," came Licas’ reply, more respectful than usual. "You need only see for yourself."

Caelith stood at the threshold, uncertain whether to enter or withdraw.

Suddenly, the door was pulled open.

An elderly woman stood before her, her hair streaked with grey. She looked Caelith up and down.

That gaze was sharp—like a blade. It swept from her face to her form, then back again, leaving her with an acute sense of unease.

Caelith steadied herself at once and offered a polite bow. "Greetings, madam."

The old woman stepped aside. "Come in. Stitch a few lines for me to see."

Caelith cast a glance toward Lucas. He gave her a slight nod—there was apology in his eyes, yet also encouragement.

She entered. Seating herself before the embroidery frame, she took up needle and thread.

The design she chose was her finest—fluttering butterflies.

Her technique was assured, her color choices refined. Stitch by stitch, steady and precise, the needle passed through silk with a soft, rhythmic whisper that filled the quiet room.

The old woman stood beside her.

At first, she merely watched.

Then, her eyes began to brighten.

When Caelith completed the final stitch, the old woman reached out and took the embroidered piece into her hands, lifting it close for inspection.

Her movements were slow, elegant—like one verifying something of great importance.

At last, she turned to Caelith.

"This method of stitching," she asked, her voice low and intent, "who taught it to you?"