A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Chapter 107: Blades Of Grass

By the time he arrived with his men, dawn was near at hand.

The courtyard lay shrouded in darkness, silent and still, without the faintest sign of life.

With a single motion of his hand, Rhaegar gave the signal. Like shadows loosed into the night, the imperial guards vaulted the walls and slipped silently into the courtyard.

The door was kicked open from within with a thunderous crash.

Inside, Shopkeeper Brameroth had only just scrambled up from his bed, his hand already reaching beneath his pillow for the dagger hidden there.

"Do not move."

A blade’s cold tip pressed against the back of his neck.

He froze instantly.

Rhaegar stepped forward, reached beneath the pillow, and drew out the weapon. He examined it briefly, then tossed it aside to one of his men.

"Take him to the prison ward."

***

Within the interrogation chamber, Shopkeeper Brameroth was bound fast to a wooden pillar.

At first, his resolve was iron—his lips sealed, no word passing them as if he was guarding a sacred truth.

Rhaegar sat before him, the confiscated dagger now in his hand, turning it slowly as though it were of idle curiosity rather than grim purpose.

"A fine blade this one," he remarked at length, his voice calm and unhurried. "Where did you come by it?"

Shopkeeper Brameroth turned his face away, refusing to answer.

Rhaegar rose to his feet. He stepped forward until he stood directly before him.

The tip of the dagger came to rest in the middle of his throat, the tiny pressure already suffocating.

"This place," Rhaegar said evenly, "is not only sensitive, but also brings unbearable suffering when pierced. Pain, obstruction to breathing, blood loss... You will go slowly, I’ll make sure of that."

He paused, his gaze cold as winter steel. "I don’t mind offering people like you pain. Pain so great that you may wish to bite through your own tongue to escape it. Yet I won’t let you."

The color drained from Shopkeeper Brameroth’s face. "I—I will speak..."

Rhaegar did not move the blade.

Gasping for breath, the man stammered, his words tumbling over one another.

"Those girls... I was told to take them in... by someone..."

"Who?"

"I—I do not know his name," Shopkeeper Brameroth said, his voice trembling. "Only that he serves within the Palace. Each time he came, he wore plain clothes—but I could tell... his voice was high and thin... and there is a scar on his left hand... My lord—please—do not say it was I who betrayed him..."

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed.

He cast a glance toward Sylric. The attendant’s expression shifted at once.

A man in his forties... a sharp, reedy voice... a scar upon the left hand... It matched precisely the chief eunuch serving within the Empress’s palace.

"Where were the girls taken?" Rhaegar asked.

"Some... were sold to the south," the shopkeeper replied haltingly. "And the others..."

He hesitated, fear creeping into his voice. "The others... were sent into the Palace."

For a fleeting moment, the chamber fell silent.

Rhaegar’s gaze remained fixed upon the man. "And for what purpose," he asked coldly, "were they sent into the Palace?"

"I—I do not know! I truly do not know!" Brameroth’s voice broke with panic. "I am but a middleman—paid to do as instructed. My lord, I beg you—spare me!"

Rhaegar withdrew the blade. A thin sheen of blood glistened along its edge.

Without a word, he tossed it aside to a guard, then accepted a cloth and began to wipe the blood from his hands with slow, deliberate care.

"Lock him away."

***

When he emerged from the interrogation chamber, Sylric followed closely behind.

"My lord... this matter..."

"Continue the investigation." The duke said flatly.

Sylric faltered, taken aback. "But if this truly leads... to the Empress—"

"Then it leads to the Empress," Rhaegar replied, his voice steady as iron. He turned his gaze upon him. "Those girls were human lives—not blades of grass to be trampled and forgotten."

Sylric lowered his head at once. "Understood, my lord."

***

In recent days, Princess Isabella had found no peace of mind.

The agents she had dispatched returned with troubling whispers: Rhaegar’s case had deepened with each inquiry, uncovering matters of grave consequence—threads that seemed to stretch toward the inner courts of the Palace itself.

A chill of unease crept steadily into her heart.

She recalled her aunt’s words from days past: "There are matters you would do best not to know."

At the time, she had dismissed them lightly. Now, the memory returned with unsettling weight.

Unable to quell her anxiety, she sent word requesting an audience at the Palace.

The Empress received her as ever—gentle, composed, and full of maternal warmth. Taking her niece’s hand, she inquired after her well-being with affectionate concern.

Isabella confessed that she had not been sleeping well of late. The Empress patted her hand soothingly.

"Child, do not burden yourself with needless worries," she said with a soft smile. "So long as your aunt is here, whatever troubles arise shall be settled for you."

Yet as Isabella looked upon that familiar, kindly face, a deeper chill settled in her chest.

Her aunt seemed... too composed. So composed that it felt unnatural and... somewhat terrifying.

After leaving the Palace, Isabella sat within her carriage for a long while, lost in troubled thought.

At last, she instructed the coachman. "To the old residence."

The man hesitated. "Your Highness... the old residence—"

"Go."

***

When Rhaegar was summoned back to the manor, he already knew the matter would not be a simple one.

Within the main hall, his father sat at the place of honor, his expression dark as a storm about to break.

Rhaegar entered and came to a halt. "Father."

Xarion fixed him with a hard stare. "That case of yours—how far has it progressed?"

Rhaegar did not answer.

"I am speaking to you," his father insisted.

"It is still under investigation." Rhaegar offered in a dry voice.

"Still under investigation?" Xarion rose abruptly and strode toward him. "Do you take me for a fool? It has already reached the Palace—it has reached the Empress herself!"

Rhaegar met his gaze, unflinching.

"You knew... and still you dare pursue it?" Xarion could no longer contain his anger.

"Four of those girls are already dead."

"That is the Empress herself!" Xarion’s voice dropped, yet grew colder still. "If you trace this matter to her, do you intend to drag the entire Thorne family to the grave with you?"