Chapter 35 The library of Duke's Manor. Quills scratched parchment, the fireplace hissed softly as slow-burning coals smoldered, and advisors gathered around the long oak table like crows circling a battlefield. Their voices wove through discussions of grain levies, land disputes, and troop rotations along the northern border. It was a normal day. Routine. Berith sat at the head of the table, gloved fingers curled around a stack of unsigned decrees. Yet beneath, his skin itched with a restless pulse. A pulse beat wrong in his veins as though something ancient had been disturbed and had begun to rattle the cage he'd built deep inside himself. His right hand twitched involuntarily as he reached to rub his chest. The muscles in his forearm coiled unnaturally, as if resisting some invisible force. Across the room, Silas stood watching. He never hovered but Berith could feel his gaze. "...and in regard to the port taxes," one aide said, sliding a document toward him. Berith's eyes tracked the words, but his mind was elsewhere. The pressure in his ribs tightened, a trembling crawling up his fingertips. He wiped sweat from his brow, searching his body for injury, for any explanation. He found none. He checked again-no cuts, no bruises, nothing that should cause this burning ache. Yet his entire body thrummed with a strange energy, as if something inside had shifted. Tightened. "Your Grace?" the aide's voice broke through his reverie. Berith blinked, the sharp pulse in his forearm flaring again. He stood abruptly. The aide stuttered to a stop. All eyes turned to him. "Leave it all," Berith ordered, his voice perfectly modulated. The aides scrambled to gather their documents, nodding and bowing as they fled the room one by one. Only Silas remained in the room. Berith flexed his fingers once. Then twice. The invisible chains tightening around his spine felt more real than ever. The Gate inside him is a dormant thing. Heavy, yes. Ominous, always. But predictable. Until today. Berith turned toward the fire, bracing one arm on the mantle. His breath had begun to come ragged now, though he still tried to suppress it. It wasn't pain, not really. Not yet. It was a growing pull from inside his very bones, like gravity had turned traitor and now tugged him toward something ancient. "You should sit, my lord. You don't seem well." Silas pleaded, concern etched in his voice. "I'm fine," Berith stated far too casually, ignoring the worry that had washed over him. Silas didn't argue, but the crease in his brow deepened. He studied Berith, searching for cracks in the mask. "My lord," he ventured, "if there is anything, should we inform His Majesty?" His hand flexed, almost involuntarily, as if something beneath the skin was trying to break free. "No," Berith looked back over his shoulder with dark eyes. "No one must know. Not yet." Silas bowed. "As you command." Then, without warning, Berith's hand jerked violently. He gripped his wrist with his other hand, knuckles white. "We have less time than I thought," he muttered, voice rough before leaving the room. Berith passed the stone corridors, ignoring the nods of servants, the sound of the clocktower striking the next hour. It wasn't until he turned the corner toward the eastern wing, where the old family portraits loomed-that he caught a glimpse of himself in the tall, gilded mirror at the hall's end. He stopped. Something-some instinct honed over too many years of surviving things far worse than men urged him to look. The reflection stared back. At first, it was only himself: The black, unruly hair falling across his brow. The cold, dark eyes that revealed nothing to the world. And then-it flickered. Just for a heartbeat. The pupils of his eyes- elongated. Twisted. Inhuman. Berith froze. The reflection steadied, normal once again. But the damage was done. He pressed his palm to the cold mirror glass, drawing a mouthful of breath. His fingers curled into a fist against the glass. He could feel the pulse of unnatural heat under his skin, his blood singing with a power he had fought his whole life to bury. The gate inside him stirred. Marcella. She was meant to remain untouched until the wedding night, when the ritual would seal them both. But if she has tampered with the flame... he didn't finish the thought. He couldn't. The realization settled like a stone in his gut. You reckless, infuriating girl, he thought grimly. What have you done? ******* His boots stroke down the stone stairs as he descended into the heart of the manor, to the crypts-built centuries ago by the first Montclair dukes. The deeper he went, the colder the air grew. When he finally reached the ancient doors, he pressed his palm against the iron sigil carved into the wood. It burned against his skin, recognizing the blood that ran through his veins. The doors creaked open, revealing a cavernous chamber lined with old weapons and relics untouched for generations. The scent of ash and charred earth filled the space. Berith walked to the center, where a ritual circle was etched into black stone. He drew his dagger in a wide arc, then pressed the edge against the flesh of his palm, dragging it across in a clean, brutal cut. Dark blood welled and dripped onto the floor. The old magic flared to life. Runes along the stone ignited with a sickly red glow, pulsing like a dying heart. Berith knelt, slamming the sword point-first into the circle's center. The darkness inside him roared against the binding spell, clawing to break free. He forced the words through clenched teeth, "I bind thee. I bind thee to earth, to blood, to silence. I bind thee to me." Each word tore something from him. Pain lanced through his body. The blood at his feet sizzled, hissing as it touched the glowing runes. Berith gasped, doubling over, one hand bracing against the cold stone floor. This wasn't like the rituals he'd endured as a boy. This was worse. Because this time, he was binding himself. Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...