A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Chapter 105: Box Of Pastries

"Who are you?"

The man stepped closer. Moonlight fell upon his face, revealing features cold and sharp, carved as though from iron.

The garment in Yvaine’s hands slipped into the basin.

"L–Lord Thorne...?"

Rhaegar looked right at her. "Where is she?"

Yvaine froze for a heartbeat. "My sister? She... she should be in the embroidery room. She was on duty today..."

"She is not there."

The color drained from Yvaine’s face. "N–not there? Then... where could she have gone? I... I truly do not know..."

Rhaegar stepped forward. "You do not know?"

His voice turned cold—cold as steel quenched in ice.

Yvaine shuddered violently, her face paling.

"I truly do not know!" she cried, her voice trembling. "This afternoon I was learning from the master for a while, and then I came here to wash clothes. My lord—I truly know nothing!"

Rhaegar fixed his gaze upon her. It was a gaze so cold that her legs gave way beneath her, and she fell to her knees.

"My lord, I swear it—I have not harmed her. What I did before was wrong, but I have changed—I truly have. She is my sister..."

Tears streamed down her face as she spoke.

At that very moment, hurried footsteps sounded from outside. A guard of the imperial corps entered swiftly and dropped to one knee.

"My lord, we have found the trail. Lady Emberlyn... has been taken by men of Duke Thorne."

My father?

Rhaegar’s pupils contracted sharply. "When was this?"

"Half an hour ago. Men from the Duke’s household came to invite her to the residence."

Without another word, Rhaegar turned and strode away.

From behind, Yvaine called out anxiously, "My lord! My younger sister—she will come to no harm, will she?"

He did not so much as glance back.

Mounting his horse, Rhaegar urged it forward, galloping toward the Duchy of Northern Lands.

Along the way, countless thoughts surged through his mind like a restless tide. His grip tightened upon the reins until his knuckles blanched, the leather biting into his palms as unease gnawed at his heart.

As he neared the great gates of the manor, he suddenly reined in his horse.

There, before the entrance, stood a lone figure.

Beneath the pale wash of moonlight, the silhouette appeared slender and delicate, clad in a worn garment faded from many washings. In her hand, she carried a modest food box.

Rhaegar froze.

In a swift motion, he dismounted and strode toward her.

"Caelith?"

She turned at the sound of his voice. Upon seeing him, she smiled. That smile, bathed in silver moonlight, was of a rare and quiet beauty.

For a moment, Rhaegar could only look at her, words utterly failing him.

She lifted the food box lightly and gave it a small shake. "Your grandmother sent this. I was personally invited to pick this up."

Rhaegar lowered his gaze. It was the very box of pastries he had left upon the table.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet hers.

"They... did not trouble you?"

Caelith shook her head gently. "No. Your grandmother is most kind. I am very honored."

He continued to look at her, saying nothing.

The moonlight softened her features, casting her in a tranquil glow. She stood there, serene and unruffled, as though nothing untoward had ever transpired.

"Rhaegar."

"Yes?"

"Will you escort me home?"

He released her, his gaze dropping for a brief moment before he answered. "...Of course."

***

An hour earlier, when Caelith was invited into the Thorne Residence, she had already steeled her heart for whatever might await her within.

They had not come with kindly intentions.

Caelith followed the household servants through a series of winding corridors, their footsteps echoing softly beneath the carved beams. At last, they halted before the entrance to a grand hall. The doors stood open, and within, the chamber was ablaze with lamplight, bright as day.

"Miss Emberlyn, this way, if you please."

She drew in a slow, steady breath and stepped across the threshold.

Within the hall sat three figures.

At the place of honor was an elderly matriarch, her hair silver as frost, her dark velvet dress of solemn hue lending her an air of quiet authority. Her countenance was benevolent, yet when her gaze fell upon Caelith, it carried a gravity that could not be gainsaid.

Seated nearby was Rhaegar’s father, Xarion Thorne. He reclined slightly against the back of his chair, his expression unreadable, his demeanor composed to the point of indifference.

Below the old lady sat a younger noblewoman, Rhaegar’s mother, Paulina Thorne. Her eyes were gentle, though they lingered upon Caelith with a measured scrutiny, as though weighing her worth.

Caelith came to a halt, then bent gracefully in greeting.

"This humble woman, Caelith Emberlyn, pays her respects to the Old Madam, to the Duke of Thorne, and to Lady Thorne. Greetings."

The Old Madam did not immediately reply. She merely regarded the young woman before her with a long stare.

Her gaze was thorough—lingering upon Caelith’s face, traveling down to her garments, and then to her very footing—leaving nothing unexamined. Though Caelith felt a flicker of unease beneath such scrutiny, she neither flinched nor averted her eyes, standing composed and still.

Only after a long silence did the Old Madam speak. "So, you are the daughter of Aeron Emberlyn?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Be seated."

Caelith faltered for the briefest instant.

The Old Madam gestured toward a chair nearby. "Sit, and we shall speak."

Caelith cast a glance toward Xarion. His expression remained unchanged, offering neither approval nor objection.

Thus, she took her seat.

A maidservant approached to serve tea. Caelith accepted it with a word of thanks, yet set the cup aside untouched.

The Old Madam observed this small gesture, the corners of her lips lifting faintly.

"Do you fear we have laced it with poison, my dear?"

Caelith raised her eyes calmly. It was not truly the question itself that surprised her, but the way the woman addressed her––she held no respect for her former standing.

"The Old Madam jests. With the power and standing of the Thorne household, were you truly intent upon ending my life, would you resort to so cumbersome a method as poison?"

"I do not jest." The Old Madam lifted her own teacup and took a measured sip. "Your caution is only natural. After all, my grandson has nearly cast aside his very life for your sake."

Caelith offered no reply.

The Old Madam set her cup down and fixed her with a steady gaze. "Child, speak truthfully to me. What is it that you admire in Rhaegar?"

Caught off guard, Caelith stilled. She had not expected such a question.