Chapter 43 There was a knock on the door. Berith sat on the edge of the bed, one boot half-laced, his fingers still at the laces. He didn't look up. "Enter." The oak door creaked open, and Cassar stepped inside, the scent of morning snow clinging to the hem of his cloak. He smelled of pine smoke and the sharp sting of morning frost. "You're up early," Cassar said, letting the door close behind him. His eyes scanned the room, landing on the untouched tray of breakfast. "Trouble sleeping? Or did the ghosts get loud again?" Berith didn't bother with the pleasantries. He tugged the leather tighter around his calf, fastening the second boot. "You didn't come just to check on my sleep." Cassar gave a dry, amused hum and wandered a few steps further in. "Still too clever for your age." he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You used to at least pretend to be surprised." "I used to pretend a lot of things." Cassar tilted his head, lips twitching like he almost appreciated the bite. "Don't lose the habit. Pretending's half the game in this house." Berith crossed the room, buckling the last clasp of his coat. "You came for something, Uncle. Say it." Cassar leaned back against the cold stone wall, arms folding over his chest in that easy, relaxed way. "Hunting," he said casually. "Just you and me like old times." Berith arched a brow. "You're dragging a duke out into the woods to chase rabbits?" Cassar snorted, "I'm reminding a boy how to breathe. The title came later, Berith. But the blood.. the blood came first." That landed heavier than it should have. The kind of truth settled. Berith didn't answer immediately. His gaze slid to the window, where pale light had begun to slip across the frostbitten stones outside. No frostbite in his tone, though. "I'll ride with you," he said at last. A ghost of a smile passed over Cassar's face. "Good." He pushed off the door, voice lighter now. "I'll have the horses readied. You still prefer Blackthorn?" Berith's nod was barely there. "He remembers the woods better than I do." "Then let's not keep her waiting," Cassar said, already disappearing down the corridor, leaving only the scent of snow and old secrets behind. They rode out before the bells of midmorning. No trumpets. No guards. Just two Montclairs slipping through the manor gates, one after the other - Cassar on his mottled grey gelding, and Berith atop Blackthorn, the dark stallion's hooves striking frost-laced stone like drumbeats. Across their saddles hung bows in waxed leather, a quiver of black-fletched arrows, hunting knives with worn hilts, and a single short spear. The air outside was clean and dry. The snow hadn't fallen again, but the frost had deepened overnight, turning branches into silver skeletons. Behind them, Ashenholt loomed like a half-frozen painting, chimneys exhaling thin plumes of smoke. "You remember these trails?" Cassar asked, shifting in his saddle as his horse picked its way down the trail. Berith didn't turn his head, but his gaze traced every bend of the trail. "Every bend. Every root." Cassar chuckled, sitting back in the saddle. "You were always the first to leap from the saddle," he said, tilting his head to glance sideways. "Didn't care for the shot half as much as the chase." Berith's lips tugged in the barest echo of a smile. "Because the hunt was never about the kill." Cassar gave a huff of amusement, reaching up to adjust the fur lining at his collar. "Ah," he drawled, the way a man might taste a wine he wasn't sure was aged well. "Spoken like someone who's been tamed by court dinners and velvet oaths." But Berith wasn't listening to him anymore. Not really. His eyes had gone to the trees, to the black bark and frost-laced undergrowth. To the trail ahead that forked through thorn and pine. He inhaled deeply like he was drinking something lost to time. Ashenholt hadn't changed. The scent struck him like a blow: pine resin, cold soil, the old sweetness of decay below the ice. He had missed it. Then Cassar spoke again, his voice more casual now, as if simply talking for the sound of it. "You remember the time you chased that stag for six miles on foot? You refused to mount again till it fell." Berith gave a snort through his nose. "I remember the blisters." "You bled like a martyr," Cassar laughed. "But you dragged it back with your bare hands. That was when I knew you weren't soft like your father." "I'm not like him," he retorted. The forest grew denser the deeper they rode. The horses picked their way through the narrow trail, their breaths steaming in the cold. Cassar finally drew his horse to a halt near a clearing wreathed by old oaks. "Here," he said, dismounting. His boots sank into frozen earth. "The same place you took down your first stag. You remember?" Berith also swung down from Blackthorn, his long coat brushing the saddle, boots hitting the ground. He walked forward, surveying the clearing before he unstrapped his bow. Cassar lingered beside his horse, hands resting lightly on the pommel, watching his nephew. "Still favor the bow?" he asked. Berith's eyes remained on the treeline. He nocked an arrow, string taut beneath his gloved fingers. "Until I don't," Cassar gave a crooked smile, teeth just visible beneath the salt-gray of his beard. He didn't press further. Then - a rustle. Quick. Sharp. Both turned their heads. A flash of brown fur darted through the underbrush, fast and thick-muscled. A young boar. Berith didn't hesitate. He shoot with an arrow. The twang of the string hit the boar in the side, a streak of red blooming against brown fur. It squealed and fled. Berith dropped the bow and ran after it. Branches blurred as he ran. The cold air screamed past his ears, but he didn't feel it. Only the scent of blood, of disturbed underbrush, flooded his senses and filled his lungs like wine. The darkness inside him stirred. It liked the chase. The animal bolted left, deeper into the dark ribs of the woods and Berith followed with unnatural speed. His breaths came ragged as if he was shifting inside his own skin. Behind him, Cassar stood motionless in the clearing. He didn't shout. Instead, he was smiling. A cold, malicious smile that never touched his eyes. "Yes, my boy," he muttered, watching Berith vanish into the trees. "Catch the largest prey. Let it know you. Let it fear you." Cassar mounted again and clicked his tongue once. His horse obeyed, and he followed Berith's trail deeper into the woods at a casual trot, savoring the destruction he knew he'd find. Because this was the real reason, Cassar brought his nephew here as this had never been about the hunt. His hand brushed over the hilt of the dagger at his belt, but Cassar didn't draw it. He had no intention of stopping what was unfolding. He was proud of it. Berith didn't know how long he ran. He was tempted by only one thing: his hunger. The boar had slowed now, its wound bleeding, its body clumsy with pain. Berith lunged. He didn't use a weapon. His hands hit the boar's back like a storm breaking. His fingers sank in, claws of bone tearing through glove and flesh. The creature screamed - high, guttural and Berith silenced it with a single strike to the throat. Berith's form shifted. Not grotesque. Not monstrous. Just... other. More muscle than man. Veins dark, pulsing with dark blood. His teeth lengthened into something meant for rending. He crouched low over the carcass, breathing heavy. And then he fed. Berith tore into the creature with hands and teeth, ripping into muscle and marrow. He fed like a beast starved too long. Tearing into raw flesh, the copper tang of blood spilling down his mouth, chin and his chest. The boar kicked once - then went quiet. Cassar reached the ridge. He drew his horse to a stop. There, Berith was devouring, drenched in blood, hunched over the carcass of the boar like a god of famine, his breath fogging in thick puffs. Dismounting from his horse, Cassar just watched. His expression? Pleased. Not disturbed, not afraid. Just proud and pleased. Cassar stepped closer, boots cracking the brittle frost, "The hunger never really fades, does it?" Berith didn't answer. His mouth was too full of blood. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. Each breath scraped like gravel in his throat. Cassar crouched near, his eyes gleaming maliciously, "They tried to drown it in you. Discipline, ceremony. That girl. But this..." he gestured at the carcass, at Berith, at the carnage, "this is who you are. This is what Ashenholt gave you." He smiled wider. "And this time, nephew... we won't let it die." Cassar studied him with that peculiar gleam that always made Berith feel like a specimen, not a nephew. "He feared this part of you," Cassar murmured, nodding toward the body and the gore. "Your father." "He tried to bury it," Cassar went on, stepping over a root, closing the space between them. "With rituals. With prayers. With guilt." The word cracked out like a snapped bone. "And look where it led him," Cassar said, now standing just at Berith's shoulder. His voice darkened. "Wasting away in his bed. Coughing blood into silk while this land rotted around him. While Ashenholt forgot how to bleed." Berith's eyes moments ago, wild, golden, almost feral had dulled. Human again, but hollow, tired like something had been burned out of him to make room for what came next. "I was never clean," he expressed. "Even before the Gate woke." Cassar knelt beside him and with ritualistic care, he dipped his gloved fingers into the warm blood pooled in the boar's ribs. He lifted his thumb, dark red and dripping, and reached for Berith's face. The blood was cold when Cassar drew it across his brow, a rough smear, from temple to temple like a crude coronation. A crown of crimson. "I want you to outlive them all," Cassar said, gesturing to the forest, to the corpse. His eyes burned with something ancient. "And this...this is who you are when you stop pretending." Berith's throat worked, swallowing the dryness there. He stared ahead for a moment, at the trees. "This... thing inside me," he murmured. Berith's eyes found his uncle's, "It's memory," he completed. "Of what I am when no one's watching. Of what they carved into us long before I was born." Cassar smiled, tilting his head, "And that scares you?" "It comforts me." Berith rose, still painted in blood, but standing like it was armor, not stain. The cold wind tugged at his coat, but he didn't feel it. There was no tremor of regret in his fingers now. Berith looked down at the boar once more. "There's no honor in pretending to be something we're not," he hissed, clicking his tongue. "You're ready. Soon, they'll see it too." Cassar stood beside him, hands behind his back, watching his nephew with a gleam of satisfaction. "If they want a Duke...they'll get one." Berith's voice was low, almost swallowed by the thickening air. He turned, leaving the bloodied boar behind. "But if they wake the wrong part of me..." Berith paused, shoulders drawn tight, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Then they'll meet something older than the Dukes." 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...