A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Chapter 177: Fury

It did not take long for Marina to notice that both Rhaegar and Caelith had become unusually active.

Following her orders, her spies pursued every tangled thread they could uncover, eventually stumbling upon the ghosts of the past: the remnants of the Grandien faction. The former retainers had been hiding in plain sight within the capital’s dilapidated eastern quarter. More importantly, they had met secretly with Caelith.

Sensing blood in the water, Marina ordered the investigation to press deeper.

The further her agents dug, the more intriguing the pieces became. They discovered that Rhaegar had quietly begun retrieving records from decades past. Old case files, long buried beneath dust and official seals, were being systematically reopened under his direct authority.

The moment that intelligence reached her, a dangerous, intoxicating excitement lit her eyes. At once, she went to find her father.

Minister Walerick was seated in his private study, reviewing official memorials by the warm glow of a desk lamp. The room smelled faintly of ink and seasoned sandalwood. When he saw his daughter breeze past the threshold, his brows immediately drew together in sharp displeasure.

"What is it this time?"

Marina crossed the room, gliding to the chair opposite him. "Father, I have discovered something magnificent."

The man looked at her carefully, his political instincts putting him on guard. "What have you found?"

Meticulously, piece by piece, Marina recounted everything she had learned about the surviving followers of the Grandien family. She laid out each detail like a seasoned gambler revealing a winning hand, watching her father’s face.

The more he listened, the darker his expression became. When she finally finished, a heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. The candle flames flickered uneasily between them, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.

At last, he spoke, his voice dangerously low. "What exactly are you planning?"

A slow, vicious smile curved Marina’s lips. "Father, this is our ultimate opportunity." Her eyes gleamed with malice. "Caelith has been meeting with the remnants of the Grandien family. If she is accused of conspiring with treasonous rebels, it becomes a capital offense."

Minister Walerick stared at her. "Do you have proof?"

She shook her head, unbothered. "No." Then her smile widened. "But since when has an imperial investigation begun with proof? Proof is what we manufacture afterward."

For a long time, her father said nothing. Outside the study, a restless wind rustled through the bamboo grove—a soft, scraping sound, like something predatory crawling through the darkness.

He knew then that his daughter had crossed the point of reason. He also knew he could no longer stop her.

***

Three days later, an anonymous memorial was delivered directly to the Emperor’s desk.

Its accusations were explicit, carefully crafted to stoke imperial paranoia. It claimed that Caelith had been secretly associating with surviving members of the disgraced Grandien faction, conspiring to reopen the old case surrounding their downfall.

It further suggested that she intended to challenge the imperial judgment rendered decades earlier.

To question an imperial verdict was to question the infallible judgment of the throne itself. The Emperor was furious.

An imperial edict was issued immediately: the matter was to be investigated without a moment’s delay. Both the Imperial Guard and the Ministry of Justice were commanded to act.

That very afternoon, Caelith sat inside Firefly Pavilion. Her embroidery frame rested in her lap as golden sunlight streamed through the open windows, illuminating the delicate image beneath her needle, which was nearly complete.

The sudden, heavy thud of boots broke the quiet afternoon. A moment later, the front doors were thrown open, and several officials marched inside.

The man leading the contingent wore the formal robes of the Ministry of Justice. His expression was perfectly respectful, but the cold finality in his eyes left no room for refusal. He stepped forward and bowed his head in a perfunctory greeting.

"Miss Caelith, we must ask that you accompany us."

The entire pavilion fell deathly silent. The embroidery needle paused between her fingers. For a brief, suspended second, she looked at the officials. Then, with calm deliberation, she set aside her frame and rose to her feet.

"Very well."

Before anyone could move, a fierce shadow burst from the rear courtyard. Erian crossed the room in an instant, placing his towering frame directly between Caelith and the guards. His entire body radiated a lethal, suffocating hostility.

The officials instinctively stiffened, their hands dropping to their hilts. One glance at the raw fury in Erian’s eyes was enough to know that this was a man who cared nothing for the law or authority.

Caelith looked up at his rigid back. "It’s alright, Erian."

Erian did not move. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his broad shoulders hardening like stone. He looked entirely prepared to slaughter every person in the room to keep her safe.

Gently, Caelith reached out and touched his arm. The simple, familiar weight of her fingers brought a flicker of agonizing conflict to his face.

"Take care of the shop for me," she said. Her voice was calm and steady—the exact same tone she had always used with him.

Slowly, painfully, Erian lowered his gaze. At last, he stepped aside.

Caelith followed the officials out of the pavilion. Erian remained exactly where he stood, watching.

He watched until her slender figure disappeared into the narrow, winding alley beyond the gates. Only then did he realize he had been clenching his fists so tightly that his nails had driven deep into his palms. Blood stained his fingers, yet he felt none of the pain.

***

When Rhaegar arrived, she was already gone.

He dismounted before the towering gates of the Imperial Prison, his strides long and unyielding. The massive iron doors stood closed before him—cold, immovable, and unforgiving.

He stopped only a few paces from the threshold, his expression terrifyingly placid. It was the kind of unnatural calm that preceded a storm capable of shattering the heavens.

Lance stood a few paces behind him, barely daring to draw breath. Having followed Rhaegar through years of warfare and court intrigue, he understood exactly how lethal that specific silence was.

Time stretched. No one spoke. At length, Rhaegar finally broke the quiet.

"Go."

Lance blinked, caught off guard. "My lord?"

Rhaegar’s gaze remained fixed upon the iron gates. "Return to the Duke Manor."

Only then did he turn his head slightly, his profile sharp against the twilight. "Bring Grandmother here."

Lance froze as understanding dawned. This was no ordinary criminal case; it was a political trap. Brute force and legal authority alone would not solve it.

"Yes, my lord." He turned and hurried away into the gloom.

Left alone, Rhaegar remained standing before the prison. The evening sky had darkened overhead, and the first heavy drops of rain began to fall from the clouds gathering beyond the horizon. He knew one thing with absolute certainty: this time, strength alone would not be enough to save her.