The Duke's Reluctant Bride

Chapter 18: When the Shadow Lurks

"You're fast," Darvok's voice taunted, disembodied yet chilling. "What an admirable skill. And that gaze—so intimidating."

Before Lucien could respond, Darvok materialized behind him in a blur of darkness. Lucien reacted instantly, twisting out of the way, but the blade in Darvok's hand surged toward his throat, cutting through the air with deadly precision.

But just as Darvok's blade came within inches of his neck, a sudden flash of light erupted around Lucien, forming a barrier of sphere, halting the deadly blow in its tracks. The dark figure recoiled slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the shimmering shield.

"My, what a caring wife you have," Darvok mused with a dark chuckle, his tone dripping with mockery.

Lucien's jaw tightened, his grip unwavering on his sword. Without hesitation, their blades clashed again. "Do you really believe a mere daughter of House Wycliffe can protect your niece from them?" Darvok sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Steel met steel in a flurry of strikes, the clearing becoming a battlefield of ice and shadow. Each swing of Lucien's blade was met with Darvok's sinister precision, their battle was a deadly dance beneath the pale light.

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Quentin strode through the grand hallway of the duke's estate, his boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. Outside, the last vestiges of sunlight poured through the arched windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the blue carpet. The air was heavy—stifling, even—despite the absence of fires in the hearths. A faint, metallic tang hung in the air, the unmistakable scent of iron.

He paused mid-stride, frowning. Something was off. The estate had been bustling with servants when he arrived, yet now it was silent. A living, breathing silence, as though the very walls held their breath, waiting for his next step.

The guards, once stationed at regular intervals, were gone. A chill slithered up his spine. Quentin pressed on, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his rapier.

As he neared the grand staircase, the strange atmosphere thickened. A single candle flickered on the wall, its flame trembling in the still air. His eyes darted toward the bannister. At the base of the stairs, something dark glistened faintly in the dim light. Blood.

Quentin knelt, inspecting the trail. The faint copper scent confirmed his fears. The streaks were disturbingly precise, almost surgical, as though the act had been carried out with cold, calculated efficiency. His gaze followed the trail upward. Halfway up the staircase, a guard's corpse slumped lifelessly against the bannister, his throat slit in a razor thin line.

No sign of a struggle. No cry for help. Whoever had done this had been swift—methodical.

"An assassin," he muttered under his breath.

His pulse quickened, each breath shallow as he scanned the room. The grand chandeliers above barely swayed, yet something about the stillness felt wrong. From the far end of the hall came a faint creak, like a predator testing its surroundings. Quentin's grip on his rapier tightened as he rose, the echo of his boots now deafening in the silence.

"I must inform the duchess," he murmured. But the study was far away.

He pressed forward, the air growing colder as the shadows thickened around him. The paintings on the walls bore specks of blood, grotesque reminders of what had transpired.

In the dining room, he found another body—a maid sprawled across the polished floor. Her wide, lifeless eyes stared into nothingness, a silent scream frozen on her pale face. A shattered wine goblet lay beside her, its crimson contents pooling beneath her like blood.