A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Chapter 176: Help Us

Erian closed the distance between them until only a step remained. The faint, clean scent of soapberry lingered about him—a trace of the laundry he had washed earlier that morning.

"I’ll go with you."

Caelith shook her head. "They specifically said I must come alone."

Erian’s hand tightened into a fist, his knuckles bleaching white beneath the skin. He stood before her like a mountain—silent, imposing, and immovable—yet she could see what others would miss. The mountain was trembling.

"You going alone..." he said, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "I don’t like that."

Caelith looked into his eyes, finding them clouded with worry and restlessness. Beneath it lay something else she couldn’t quite name. It resembled fear, though not entirely. In all the months she had known him, this was the first time she had ever seen such naked emotion on his face.

Gently, she reached out and patted his arm. It was a light touch, barely more than the brush of her fingertips, yet his entire body went rigid.

"It’ll be alright," she urged softly. "If they intended to harm me, they wouldn’t have invited me this way."

Erian remained silent, but the tight, dark look in his eyes told her he didn’t believe that for a single second.

That night, Rhaegar returned long after darkness had swallowed the city. When he stepped across the threshold, he brought the cool night air in with him—along with the faint, metallic tang of blood.

Caelith handed him the letter. He read it without a flicker of expression, yet his fingers lingered upon the parchment a fraction of a second longer than necessary. It was only a momentary pause, but it was enough. She knew the gears of his mind were turning.

"You want to go?" he asked.

Caelith nodded. "I want to know what they really want."

Rhaegar fell silent. He rose and walked to the window, where the moonlight poured across his shoulders, tracing his silhouette in silver and shadow. For a long time, he simply stared out into the expansive blackness.

Finally, he spoke. "I’ll go with you."

"They said I have to come alone."

Rhaegar turned around. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the dim room, and the sheer intensity of his gaze tightened something painful in her chest.

"You know perfectly well that I can’t have that happen," he repeated, his jaw hardening. "I don’t like this idea."

Crossing the room, Caelith stopped right before him and reached for his hand. It was cold—much colder than usual.

"I know," she said, tightening her fingers around his. "But I have to go."

Rhaegar stared down at her. Concern, frustration, and something deeper and more desperate warred in his features. It reminded her of a powerful beast pacing endlessly within a cage, searching for an escape that did not exist.

At last, a quiet sigh escaped him. It was a soft sound, yet it carried the heavy weight of absolute helplessness.

"I’ll place men outside," he said, his voice regaining its firm, unyielding edge. "If anything happens, they’ll be inside before anyone can blink."

Caelith nodded. "Alright."

Rhaegar pulled her into his arms, gathering her into an embrace fierce enough to steal her breath. Resting his chin atop her head, his warm exhales brushed against her forehead.

"Don’t get hurt."

Caelith pressed her face against his chest, listening to the rapid, erratic echo of his heartbeat beneath her ear. It was beating much faster than usual.

"I won’t."

***

Three days later, Caelith made her way to the eastern district.

The sky hung low and swollen with heavy gray clouds, threatening rain. The alleyways were unusually desolate; only a few stray cats perched atop the crumbling brick walls, tracking her progress with unblinking eyes. She walked alone, negotiating an uneven stone path that still trapped puddles from the previous night’s storm.

Erian had wanted to follow. She had stopped him at the mouth of the alley, and now he stood there, watching her retreating figure. His fists were clenched so tightly that his joints had gone pale.

Though she never looked back, she felt his presence. She knew he would wait there, unmoving, until she emerged safely.

The abandoned residence lay hidden deep within the labyrinth of winding alleys. Its gates were weathered and cracked, the paint having long since peeled away to expose the dark, rotting wood beneath. Caelith pushed the gate open and stepped into the courtyard.

Master Felix was already waiting. This time, however, he was not alone.

Four or five others stood dissolved in the shadows. Their faces remained obscured by the gloom, but their eyes did not. They were cold, sharp, and as hard as drawn blades, sweeping across her without warmth, trust, or mercy.

Caelith walked forward and halted before them. "Master Felix," she said, keeping her voice perfectly calm. "I’ve come as requested."

The older man’s expression twisted into something complicated. There was scrutiny in his gaze, mixed with suspicion and confusion—and something else, a strangely possessive look. It was as though he were staring at a precious heirloom that had been lost for decades, only just recovered.

"Miss Caelith." He gestured toward a chair. "Please, sit."

She complied, the old wood groaning beneath her weight. She sat perfectly still, waiting.

Felix maintained a long, heavy silence before he finally rose from his seat. "Miss Caelith," he began, his voice solemn. "What happened the other day was disrespectful."

Lowering his heavy head, he bowed deeply. The gesture was deliberate, carried out with a reverence that suggested he had rehearsed it countless times. "I owe you an apology."

Caelith stared at him, caught off guard. "Master Felix..."

A ragged sigh escaped him, sounding as though twenty years of buried regret were being poured into a single breath. "Before Lord Osvald died, he left us strict instructions."

Caelith’s heart skipped a beat. "What instructions?"

Felix met her gaze squarely. "He ordered us never to disturb you."

The words struck her harder than a physical blow, and a sudden sting pricked the back of her eyes.

Images flashed through her mind—Osvald’s blood-soaked face, his final moments, and the trembling, sticky hand that had gripped hers, begging her to live well. At the time, she thought he was simply wishing for her survival. She had never realized how much further his protection had extended.

Felix continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He said you were innocent. The Grandien family’s burdens were never yours to carry."

His gaze drifted toward the men standing in the shadows. "He made us swear that no matter what the future held, none of us would ever lay a finger on you."

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. Then, Master Felix’s expression darkened.

"But we couldn’t accept it."

Caelith looked up. "Accept what?"

The man turned and walked toward a broken window. The paper screens had long since rotted away, leaving only a warped wooden frame. He stood with his back to her, his shoulders rigid with tension.

"Lord Osvald died. The Grandien family vanished. We spent twenty years running," he said, his voice growing rough and jagged. "Hiding. Surviving. In the end, we were left with absolutely nothing."

His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists behind his back. "But the people who destroyed the Grandien family are still living comfortably. Some became powerful officials. Others became wealthy merchants. They prospered while the innocent bled."

He whipped around, pain and fury burning openly in his eyes. "We cannot accept that."

The room fell dead silent. When he spoke again, the rage had subsided into something desperate.

"Miss Caelith, we did not invite you here to harm you." His features softened. "We came to ask for your help."

Caelith frowned, her guard returning. "What kind of help?"

Felix hesitated briefly, then delivered the blow. "Help us uncover the truth. The Grandien family was framed." His voice echoed off the ruined walls. "We want justice."

Caelith froze. Of all the terrifying possibilities she had imagined, this had never crossed her mind.

Felix watched her face, reading her shock. "We know you want no part of this. We understand. But you are Lord Osvald’s only remaining family."

His eyes lowered, heavy with the weight of decades. "If you won’t help us, no one will."

For a long time, Caelith could not find her voice. Outside, the wind stirred, making the dead leaves whisper against one another in the courtyard. The sound resembled distant voices speaking a language she could no longer understand.

Finally, she asked, "How can I help?"

A spark of hope flashed through Felix’s eyes. "You don’t need to investigate anything yourself. You only need to deliver a message."

"To whom?"

Felix stepped closer, his voice dropping to a sharp murmur. "Rhaegar Thorne."

Caelith stared at him, her breath catching.

"He commands the Imperial Guard," Master Felix pressed. "He has the authority. If he chooses to investigate, the truth buried twenty years ago can still be dragged into the light."

Silence filled the room once more.

Caelith thought of Rhaegar—of the phantom scent of blood that stained his clothes whenever he returned from the palace, of the exhaustion hidden behind his sharp eyes, and of the crushing burdens he already carried.

How could she ask him to shoulder another ghost?

Felix seemed to read her hesitation. He sighed, the urgency draining from his posture, and waved a hand dismissively.

"We know this puts you in a difficult position. We won’t force you. Go home. Think about it carefully. When you’ve decided, come find me again."

Caelith rose. She walked slowly toward the doorway, but just before stepping out, she stopped. Turning back, she looked one last time at the man standing by the shattered window.

His back was to her—motionless, isolated, and worn. He looked like a forgotten stone abandoned in a wilderness long ago. Something about the sight stirred an unexpected, aching sympathy in her chest.

Then, she stepped out into the gray afternoon.

Outside the ruined estate, Erian was still waiting exactly where she had left him. The moment her figure emerged from the alley, he strode forward—too quickly, as if he had been physically restraining himself for hours.

"Are you alright?"

Caelith nodded. "I’m fine."

His eyes swept over her face, searching, verifying, ensuring she wasn’t just shielding him from the truth. "What did they say?"

Caelith hesitated, looking down the damp street. "We’ll talk when we get home."

Erian nodded, but his gaze lingered on her a moment longer—thoughtful, uneasy, and heavy with the silent realization that a much larger storm had just begun to gather.

***

Meanwhile, across the city, Marina Walerick had spent days confined to her quarters. Her father’s strict punishment had left her seething with a wild, toxic resentment.

In her fury, she had smashed a treasured celadon vase against the floor, watching the priceless fragments scatter across the tiles. She had torn apart embroidered silk quilts until duck feathers filled the air like a mock winter snowfall. She had berated her servants until several were reduced to sobbing messes, and then shattered a teacup for good measure.

Yet, none of it extinguished the fire burning in her chest.

She could not comprehend it. Why did the Dowager Lady favor a nobody like Caelith? Why did Rhaegar look at her and see no one else? Why did everything desirable seem to fall effortlessly into that woman’s lap?

Marina possessed breathtaking beauty, high status, a flawless education, and immense prestige. What did Caelith have besides a meager embroidery workshop?

Unable to endure the suffocating frustration a moment longer, she had bypassed her father’s restrictions and secretly ordered her personal network to unearth Caelith’s past.

The search had been grueling, uncovering dozens of dead ends, forgotten records, and hushed whispers. But eventually, a single name emerged from the shadows of history.

Osvald Grandien.

And the moment Marina saw that name brushed upon the parchment before her, a dangerous, predatory light ignited in her eyes.