A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Chapter 78: I... Killed A Person

The jailer hesitated.

Dorian’s gaze turned venomous, dark as a coiled serpent.

"If she does not die, I will not rest in peace," he hissed. "I care not how you do it, nor whom you hire—just kill her. She can’t be left alive if I pass on."

The jailer faltered only a moment, then nodded and withdrew.

Leaning back against the cold stone wall, Dorian lifted his eyes to the narrow strip of darkness above and let out a twisted smile.

Caelith... you wish to walk out alive? I will see that you never leave me.

***

The following day, a madwoman was thrown into the cell beside Caelith.

Her hair hung wild and tangled, her clothes in tatters. She muttered endlessly under her breath, her words incoherent. When the guards shoved her inside, she clung to the bars and let out a strange, hollow laugh in Caelith’s direction.

Caelith paid her little mind.

In such a place, madness was nothing unusual.

Deep into the night, the prison fell into uneasy silence.

The madwoman’s muttering ceased.

Half-asleep, curled in the corner, Caelith stirred at a faint sound.

Her eyes opened.

By the pale light slipping through the high window, she saw it—the door of the neighboring cell stood ajar.

The woman slipped through the gap, moving with quiet precision, nothing of madness in her steps.

A chill shot through Caelith.

Her hand slid silently beneath the straw, fingers closing around the hidden iron hairpin.

The woman reached her cell.

From her sleeve, she drew a key.

A soft click—and the lock yielded.

The door creaked open.

Caelith sat up, watching her.

In the moonlight, the woman’s eyes were clear, sharp—utterly sane.

"Who are you?" Caelith asked.

No answer came.

The woman lunged.

Steel flashed.

Caelith rolled aside just in time—the blade grazed her arm, slicing through flesh. Blood welled at once.

Pain flared—sharp, searing. But there was no time for it.

She twisted to her feet, snapping open the hidden blade within the iron hairpin.

The woman came again—each strike aimed to kill.

Caelith dodged, once, twice—then again—yet step by step, she was driven back, until cold stone met her spine.

"Help!" she cried.

No answer.

Her eyes flicked toward the corridor—the guards who should have stood watch leaned idly against the wall, unmoving, as though deaf to all that passed.

Another strike—Caelith turned, evading, and thrust the hairpin blade toward the woman’s arm.

It hit the mark.

The woman hissed, retreating half a step, surprise flashing across her face.

"So, you have some skill in you," she sneered. "A pity. Someone has paid handsomely for your life."

They clashed again.

But Caelith’s strength and skill could not match hers. Slowly, inexorably, she was forced down.

The woman slammed her to the ground, pinning her beneath her weight, raising the blade high.

For a heartbeat, Caelith closed her eyes.

Then, a body crashed into the attacker, knocking her aside.

Caelith’s eyes flew open.

She froze.

Yvaine stood before her, her disheveled state a stark contrast to her usual self.

Her hair messy, her clothes in disarray, a rough wooden staff clutched in her hands.

She planted herself between Caelith and death, her voice sharp as steel:

"Get away from her!"

The woman paused for the briefest instant—then her lips twisted into a savage grin.

"Another one comes to die."

Caelith stared, words caught in her throat.

Yvaine turned her head slightly, glancing back at her. Her voice trembled—yet did not falter.

"Caelith... I—I know I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please forgive me!"

There was no time to answer.

The assassin lunged again.

Yvaine raised the wooden staff to block, managing a few desperate strikes—but she was no match. Within moments, she was knocked to the ground. The woman kicked her aside and turned once more toward Caelith.

Caelith forced herself upright, her hand trembling around the iron hairpin. She looked into the attacker’s twisted face—and focused.

Rhaegar’s voice echoed in her mind.

"Find the weakness. Turn their force against them. End it in a single strike."

The blade came forward.

Caelith moved.

She twisted aside at the final instant—and drove the hairpin deep into the woman’s neck.

Blood burst forth, hot and violent, splattering across her face.

The woman’s eyes widened. Her lips parted—but no sound came.

Then she fell.

Caelith stood frozen.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her whole body trembling uncontrollably.

In the corner, Yvaine shrank back, staring at her in horror.

From the far end of the corridor came hurried footsteps.

Rhaegar burst in.

What he saw was Caelith, drenched in blood, standing beside the lifeless body, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

He crossed the distance in an instant and pulled her into his arms.

"Caelith! Caelith! It’s alright."

At last, her strength gave way.

She collapsed against him, clutching at his uniform, her voice breaking. "Rhaegar... I... I killed someone..."

His arms tightened around her, his eyes burning red. "It’s alright. It’s alright. I am here."

He lifted her into his arms and strode out.

As they passed Yvaine, Caelith managed to whisper, "She... helped me..."

Rhaegar’s steps faltered briefly. He glanced down at Yvaine, who cowered silently, unable to meet his gaze.

He said nothing—and continued on.

The carriage waited outside.

Rhaegar carried Caelith within at once.

"To Firefly Lane," he ordered sharply. "Summon the imperial physician—immediately!"

The carriage surged forward.

Inside, it jolted violently—but he held her firmly, bracing her against himself.

Blood still seeped from her arm.

Rhaegar tore a strip from his own garment, binding the wound with hands that trembled despite his effort to steady them.

Caelith looked at him—and suddenly smiled.

"Rhaegar."

"Do not speak."

"I am alright," she whispered. "Truly."

He looked up at her.

Her face was pale as snow—yet her eyes still held light.

Something in his chest tightened painfully.

"Fool," he muttered hoarsely. "You foolish girl..."

She rested against him, smiling faintly.

By the time they reached Firefly Lane, the physician had already arrived.

The wound was cleaned, treated, and bound anew. A calming draught was prescribed.

"It is but a flesh wound," the physician said. "No grave harm. Only fright—she must rest."

Rhaegar nodded and saw him out.

When he returned, he sat beside her bed, taking her hand.

It lay cold and soft in his palm.

"Caelith."

"Yes?"

"Never again."

She blinked faintly. "Never again what?"

"Never pretend you do not know me." His gaze held hers. "Did you think you were protecting me from being involved in this investigation?"

She fell silent.

He sighed and drew her into his arms.

"I do not need your protection," he murmured. "I need only that you live—safe and whole."

She rested against him, answering softly:

"Mm."

That night, moonlight spilled through the window, silvering the room.

He held her close.

And did not sleep.

***

The physician’s medicine proved effective. Within two days, the wound on her arm had scabbed over, the pain nearly gone.

Yet each time he changed the dressing, Rhaegar would linger—his gaze fixed upon the mark, his brow drawn tight enough to crush an insect.

"If you stare any longer, you’ll bore a hole through it," Caelith teased.

He did not reply.

Carefully, more gently than any physician, he applied the salve. When he finished, his fingers brushed over the scar, his voice low.

"It nearly reached the bone."

She knew.

He was still shaken.

So was she.

Had she faltered even slightly that night... it would have been her lying cold upon the ground.

"It is over now," she said softly, covering his hand with hers. "Truly."

He clasped her hand in return, saying nothing.

Sunlight filled the room, warm and bright.

She looked at him—at that familiar, unyielding face—and felt something ache quietly within her chest.

She knew he did not wish for her to return.

Though he had not said it, she could see it—he would keep her by his side forever, if he could.

But she could not stay.

"Rhaegar."

"Yes?"

"...I must return to the prison."