A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Chapter 72: The Ledger

Rhaegar’s brow drew tight at once. "No."

"Rhaegar."

"I said no." His voice turned cold, a shadow of anger flickering in his eyes. "Have you forgotten what happened last time? You went out alone and nearly lost your life."

"That was an accident." Caelith met his gaze without flinching. "And yet, it was that very risk that led me to discover something. Had I not gone myself, I would never have uncovered the trail of Julian Milstrom."

Rhaegar stared at her in silence for a long moment before speaking again. "I will send men to investigate."

"That is not the same." She shook her head gently. "What your men can uncover... and what I can learn myself are different matters. When that old blacksmith looked at me, there was something in his eyes—something akin to recognition. He knows me... or rather, he knows this face. Only if I go will he speak."

Rhaegar said nothing.

Caelith stepped closer and lifted her hand, resting it lightly against his cheek. The faint stubble along his jaw brushed against her fingers—evidence of the days he had neglected himself in silent vigil. She traced it gently, her gaze steady upon his.

"Rhaegar, I know you worry for me. But I cannot spend my life sheltered beneath your wings. What happened to my parents... I must uncover it myself, even if only piece by piece." She paused, her voice softening. "And as for the Earl of Valehart... you must take care of him, too."

Rhaegar looked at her, emotions shifting and colliding beneath the surface of his eyes.

At last, he gave a single, reluctant nod. "I will have men follow you in secret."

Caelith smiled faintly. "Very well."

***

Three days later, Caelith once again stood before the blacksmith’s shop.

This time, she made no attempt at concealment. She stepped inside openly.

Inside, the old blacksmith stood at his forge, the fire roaring bright, sparks scattering like fleeting stars. At her entrance, his hammer stilled mid-strike. He set it aside and looked at her for a long moment before speaking.

"You have returned, miss."

"I have." Caelith stood before him, her voice calm but resolute. "Mr. Julian... I know it is you."

The old man did not deny it.

His gaze lingered on her face, tracing her features slowly before settling upon the faint mark upon her brow.

"The wound... it has healed?"

"It has."

He nodded once, then said quietly, "You resemble your mother very much."

A tremor passed through Caelith’s heart.

The old man turned and walked toward the inner room. "Come with me."

The chamber within was small and cluttered—filled with worn wooden cabinets, rusted tools, and in one corner, a narrow plank bed covered with patched bedding.

From an old, battered cabinet, the blacksmith retrieved something wrapped in oil paper. He brushed away the dust with his sleeve and handed it to her.

"This," he said, "was entrusted to me by your father, many years ago. He told me—should anything befall him, I was to give it to the one who bears half of a flower-shaped pendant..."

Caelith received the oil-paper parcel with trembling hands. When she opened it, she found a ledger and several letters.

The pages had long since yellowed with age, their edges frayed and worn by time. Yet the handwriting upon them... she knew it at once.

It was her father’s.

"Back then, the case your father was investigating entangled far too many people," the old blacksmith said, watching her closely. "He divided the evidence into several parts. This—this is the most crucial of them all."

His gaze deepened, heavy with meaning.

"Child, keep it well. But you must understand—once you take this into your hands, there will be no turning back."

Caelith pressed the parcel tightly against her chest. When she lifted her head, her eyes were steady, resolute beyond doubt.

"I crossed that line long ago."

The old man looked at her, something flickering faintly within his clouded eyes. At last, he nodded, saying no more.

Caelith secured the parcel, then asked, "Mr. Julian... have you ever heard of a man named Ilai Palewood?"

The old man paused, then shook his head. "I have not. As for your father’s affairs, I was entrusted only to keep these things safe. The rest—I never asked."

Caelith inclined her head and did not press further.

As she stepped out from the inner room, she glanced back once.

The old blacksmith stood amid the clutter, his back bent with age, like an ancient tree bowed beneath relentless winds. For a fleeting moment, a quiet ache stirred in her heart.

"Mr. Julian," she said softly, "thank you."

He waved a hand in dismissal, offering no reply.

Clutching the parcel, Caelith quickened her pace.

She knew—instinctively—that what she now carried was no ordinary discovery. The weight of that ledger was not measured in paper and ink, but in lives, in secrets, in truths long buried. Her heart pounded fiercely, each beat echoing loud as thunder in her chest.

When she reached the mouth of the lane, she halted.

Two men stood there.

They were dressed as ordinary townsfolk—coarse garments, unremarkable in every way. Yet their posture betrayed them at once: backs straight, eyes sharp, bodies poised with the quiet readiness of trained fighters.

Rhaegar’s men.

They had been following her all along.

A faint smile touched her lips. She said nothing, and simply continued on her way.

By the time she returned to Firefly Lane, Rhaegar was already waiting in the courtyard.

The moment he saw her, he stepped forward. His gaze swept over her swiftly, searching for any sign of harm. Only when he was certain she was uninjured did he speak.

"Well?"

Caelith handed him the parcel. Her eyes had reddened faintly, though whether from emotion or exhaustion, even she could not say.

Rhaegar took it and opened it.

As he read, his expression darkened.

The ledger recorded, in meticulous detail, the dealings of the Earl of Valehart’s household over many years—every sum of silver, every transaction, every name involved. There were payments to officials within the court, bribes exchanged for lives, and—

One entry.

Dated precisely one month before Aeron Emberlyn’s downfall.

The sum was enormous.

And in the margin, the words were written in bold ink:

"Affairs of the Kingdom of Miaelin."