Chapter 15
A Gentle Hunt

After sending the others ahead, Matthias reined in his horse in the middle of a wide path through the woods. Removing his hat, he let his tousled hair fall across his forehead. The forest, swept by the bloodied chaos of the hunt, felt even quieter than usual.

Today’s hunt had been satisfying. Every target he aimed for, he struck—each shot bringing its usual thrill. And yet, he still felt something lacking. Perhaps it was because of that one bird—fleeing desperately, eluding him.

Turning his gaze toward the direction of the cottage, Matthias slowly pivoted his horse. The little girl who lived in his hunting grounds used to weep after every hunt, venturing into the woods to bury the dead birds. He remembered it because it had been so absurd.

So then, what about the woman she had become?

Mulling over that peculiar curiosity, Matthias raised his gun toward a small bird perched on a branch.

Bang.

The shot rang out, crisp and bright. The bird fell with a soft thud.

Matthias left his prey where it dropped and nudged his horse forward.

Once. Then again.

Each time, aim, fire, move on—until the evening bled through the woods. And one by one, the bloodied birds lay strewn across his path.

Layla buried each bird, whispering the same truth in her heart every time her shovel cut the earth.

I hate him.

She hated the Duke of Herhardt, who could indulge in such cruel amusements. Hated him, truly.

Sweat dampened her brow, and she swallowed back the grief rising in her throat. She thought it was finished—only to spot another, a few meters away, its feathers soaked in blood. Taking a deep breath, Layla trudged over, shovel in hand.

She didn’t condemn all hunting. Uncle Bill hunted for food, and she herself had raised livestock. But this—this pointless killing for pleasure, discarding life so carelessly—how was she supposed to understand it?

When will this summer finally end?

Sighing, she prayed her favorite season would pass quickly. Then she buried another bird, a bullfinch with beautiful markings.

It was only after she had wandered deep into the woods that something struck her as wrong. The Duke always hunted every summer, and every summer she had buried the birds. But never before had the graves formed such a precise trail, one after another.

It was as if he were paving a path with the dead.

Should she turn back now?

A chill of dread made her stop. The sky above burned red with sunset. And there, beyond a thicket of shrubs, she saw him—sitting casually on a felled tree, watching her.

Her mind went white. She swayed on her feet. Then his voice came, unhurried.

“Hello, Layla.”

Matthias von Herhardt’s voice was soft—like the feathers of the birds he had shot down.

“Strange. Matthias is late. It seems the rest of the party has already returned.”

Elise von Herhardt laid down her cards, her eyes narrowing. She was growing bored of the game. They could begin supper early, but her son had yet to come back from the hunt.

“He said he would take a walk through the woods,” Claudine answered sweetly, her smile bright despite having just lost the round.

The other ladies, well aware her loss had been intentional, looked on with approving smiles. Grace, manners, poise—she embodied the very image of the next duchess. And Claudine knew it, too.

“In any case, Matthias is quite fond of that forest,” Elise remarked, ringing a bell lightly. The maids entered to clear the table.

The women gathered again, nibbling on small refreshments as they idly chatted. The conversation was trivial, predictable—but always framed with elegance.

“Claudine, what if you were to invite your friends and host a party here?” Elise suggested.

“My friends? Here in Arvis?” Claudine’s eyes widened.

“You must be bored, always entertaining us. A change of pace might do you good.”

“Oh, no, never. Truly, it’s not like that.”

Elise laughed softly. “I’m teasing, Claudine.”

Even with a son on the verge of engagement, Elise’s face was radiant and young, her beauty still remarkable—and so strikingly similar to Matthias’s own.

She had once been the celebrated beauty of the empire, showered with admiration. Yet even she had never held her husband’s undivided love. The former Duke of Herhardt, like most men of his station, had taken a mistress—but never fathered a bastard. He and Elise had lived not with love, but with respect and duty, free from the petty cruelty of false hopes and clinging desires.

Claudine, too, expected nothing more from Matthias.

“Don’t think of it as a burden. Treat it as practice,” Elise said kindly. “And if the house is lively with young people again, we’ll all enjoy it.”

Her smile brightened. “Don’t you all agree?”

The question was not really a question. Every lady at the table knew it.

“Truly, you are generous and kind,” Countess Brandt said first, quickly echoed by the others.

Claudine lowered her head modestly, smiling shyly as she considered which friends she might invite. Her gaze wandered to the window, toward the forest beyond the gardens—and there, in her mind, appeared that girl.

Layla. The poor orphan who lived in the woods.

So polite, so well-mannered, so careful of her place—and yet, strangely, arrogantly bold.

“Would it be all right to invite Layla?” Claudine asked brightly.

The ladies frowned.

“You mean that orphan the gardener is raising?”

“Yes. Layla Llewellyn.”

“Claudine!” Countess Brandt gave her daughter a sharp look.

But Claudine remained serene.

“She’s never attended a formal party in her life. I’d like to give her that memory, at least once.”

Even her boldness was delivered with the poise of a lady.

“You make a fair point,” said the Dowager Duchess, Katharina von Herhardt, smiling with quiet approval.

“Do as you wish, Claudine.”

Layla looked back at the trail of small graves she had made. Then she turned again, and there he was.

Only one conclusion fit.

Madman.

No other word could describe this.

Sweat dampened the gloves on her trembling hands. Her heart pounded, caught between fury and fear.

She had to run. Her mind finally cleared enough to form the thought. But before she could turn, his voice came again.

“Layla.”

He said her name slowly, calmly.

“Layla Llewellyn.”

The second time, it was almost like a song.

Clutching her shovel like a staff, Layla straightened her back, pressed her lips together, and braced her legs.

Running would be useless. If he wished, the Duke could catch her easily. The thought chilled her—and yet cleared her head, sharp and cold.

She bowed. Then, lifting her trembling eyes, she met his. The forest rustled louder in the wind.

“Go on,” Matthias broke the silence.

“Do your work.”

He gestured toward the brush, where another bird lay—his final prey.

Step by step, Layla approached. The bird’s legs were bound with a red thread. It was the very thread she had tied last year, along the Schulte River, to the chicks of a plover she had watched hatch.

The bird had flown south for winter, only to return and die here—at the whim of that man’s amusement.

Without a word, Layla dug, buried, and covered the small body. Her hands knew the task too well, thanks to the slayer of beautiful birds.

“You tied that string?” Matthias asked, watching as if idly musing.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So that when the birds returned, I would recognize them.”

She pressed down the earth and answered quietly.

“Not like this, though. Not this kind of reunion.”

Catching her breath, she looked up—only to meet his calm, detached gaze.

“Would you like to reproach me?” he asked.

She froze. His lips curved faintly with scorn, and her patience broke.

“I can’t deny it.”

“What’s the problem?” He tilted his head slightly.

“In my land, in my forest, I hunt my birds. That’s all.”

“But Your Grace, the birds don’t know that.”

Think of Uncle Bill. Think of Uncle Bill.

The voice in her head screamed, urging her to hold her tongue. But she couldn’t.

“To them, this is only the forest. Their home. Where they’re born, where they live, where they long to return to, even after flying so far away.”

“Am I supposed to know the mind of a bird?”

“Not exactly, but…”

She pulled off her blood-stained gloves, clutching them tight.

“Surely there’s no need for such cruelty.”

It took more courage than when she had boarded a train alone, address in hand, to say those words aloud. Regret hit her instantly. Yet Matthias showed no anger, no offense. His unsettling calm was worse than rage.

“Layla Llewellyn, who knows the hearts of birds,” Matthias said at last.

“Tell me—what do you think hunting is?”

“What…?”

“Would you prefer a gentle hunt?”

His mocking tone scraped against her pride. She clenched her skirt in her fists, swallowing her humiliation.

“…Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. Please excuse my impertinence.”

“Why do you love birds so much?”

“I doubt the answer would interest you, Your Grace.”

Layla lowered her gaze. She didn’t want to see him any longer. He said nothing.

“I’ve finished my work. I’ll take my leave now.”

She bowed deeply. Still, he gave no reply.

Relieved, she turned away. But just as she took her first step, a gunshot split the air.

Layla spun, pale as death. The Duke lowered his gun from the treetops and looked at her steadily.

Another bird, bleeding, lay between them.

“What will you do now, Layla?”

He sat back on the stump as if nothing had happened.

“It seems your work isn’t finished yet.”