Chapter 2
The Slayer of Beautiful Birds

Relatives arriving in Arvis to spend the summer.
Social gatherings. Insurance issues for a trade ship due to set sail next month.

Seated deep in his chair, gazing out the carriage window, Matthias listened as Hessen calmly reported the family’s current affairs. Matthias replied only with short answers or slight nods to show he was paying attention. Matters of business were handled by the board of directors, and household affairs by the two mistresses of the family, but the final authority always rested with the Duke of Herhardt. And Matthias had held that position since the age of twelve.

By the time the carriage turned onto the plane-tree road that led to the estate, Hessen’s report had ended.

Matthias tilted his head slightly, letting his eyes wander over the familiar scenery. Tall trees lined both sides of the avenue, their branches arching together like clasped hands. Between their leaves, sunlight spilled down in broken pieces, painting the road with luminous patterns.

At the end of the lane, a white mansion crowned with a deep-blue roof came into view. On the front steps, his mother and grandmother stood tall and poised, waiting to welcome him home. Matthias adjusted his already-perfect tie as the carriage drew to a stop and its door opened.

“Welcome back, Matthias.”

The Dowager Duchess, Katharina von Herhardt, greeted her grandson with a radiant smile. Matthias bowed his head to receive her kiss. Behind her, Elise von Herhardt, his mother, welcomed him with a calmer composure.

“You’ve grown taller already.”

Smiling, she embraced her son lightly. Her dark hair, identical to his, gleamed beneath the early summer sun.

Matthias answered with a smile of equal measure. The greetings he exchanged with the line of servants were just as polished—seamless gestures of elegance and courtesy, flowing as naturally as breath. In moments like these, his age meant nothing. He was neither boy nor youth, but simply the Duke of Herhardt—the flawless master of the house.

Flanked by his grandmother and mother, Matthias led the way across the grand hall. Before ascending the stairs, he glanced up at the massive chandelier, its lights burning even at midday. Beyond it, the Herhardt crest adorned the lofty ceiling.

He was a Herhardt.

That name meant cold intellect, noble grace, and a detached, unshakable spirit.

As Duke of Herhardt, Matthias had never once harbored discontent or doubt about his life. He knew exactly the form it must take, and he embraced it willingly. For him, it was as natural as breathing—and just as effortless.

Lowering his gaze, Matthias climbed the stairs in long strides.

Once the family disappeared inside, the servants finally exhaled.

For days, all of Arvis had been in a stir preparing for the Duke’s return. On such a day, everything had to be perfect—including the servants themselves, right down to the lowest footman, whom Matthias would never even notice. The same went for Arvis’s most unexpected resident, Layla Llewellyn.

“Has the Duke already gone inside? So soon?”

Standing at the end of the line, Layla whispered in disappointment. The hem of her new white dress—bought for her by Bill—fluttered with her fidgeting.

“You’ll see the Duke plenty in the forest. Ask his leave then.”

Bill Remmer, speaking gruffly, started walking. Layla had to almost run to keep up.

“The Duke likes the forest too?”

“In a way. He likes hunting.”

“Hunting? In the forest?”

Her eyes widened. Bill smirked down at her.

“This forest is the family’s hunting ground. Of course he hunts here.”

“Then… does he hunt birds too?”

“Birds are probably his favorite prey.”

Bill tossed out the remark without thinking, but Layla froze in place. Realizing his blunder, he coughed awkwardly.

He considered a gentle lie, but it was pointless—the Duke would soon appear in the hunting grounds himself. Better to let her be upset now than face a worse shock later.

“You’ll be surprised when you see him shoot. He’s young, but already a dead shot.”

The words slipped out before Bill could stop himself. Layla’s face crumpled with distress.

“Why would he shoot birds? In a house like that, he must have more food than he could ever eat.”

“For nobles, hunting’s just a game. Birds are the most interesting targets and…”

Bill cut himself short too late. Layla blinked at him, her eyes wide with pain.

Why in hell does the Duke have to love birds so much?

Bill nearly snapped in frustration. Why was he even explaining this? Why did he have to watch every twitch of a little girl’s face? Still, he bit back his words. Another wrong move and she would burst into tears, and that—he couldn’t stand.

Awkward and tongue-tied, Bill avoided the moment by walking on. Shoulders drooping, Layla trudged after him. The bright, excited child who had once darted about in her new clothes was gone. He had to admit, her bubbly cheer had been a little endearing.

“I hope the Duke comes to hate hunting.”

After a long silence, Layla spoke softly.

“Maybe he will… don’t you think?”

She gazed up at him with desperate eyes. Bill only scratched the back of his neck. Words failed him again.

For a time, Layla thought perhaps her prayers had been answered.

A week passed after the Duke’s return, and still he hadn’t gone to the hunting grounds. With endless guests flooding the mansion, it made sense.

Every day was filled with raucous gatherings, while the forest stayed quiet. Summer deepened. Eggs long warmed by their mothers cracked open, releasing chicks. Wild roses burst into bloom. Layla roamed the woods, delighted by every little change.

“Don’t go too far, Layla!”

Bill shouted after her as she bounded out of the cabin again.

“Okay! I’ll just go to the river! See you later, Mr. Remmer!”

She waved both arms high, her old leather satchel bouncing at her side as she skipped away.

Her first stop was the tit nest she had discovered after the eggs hatched. Tiny featherless chicks chirped, waiting for their mother to return with food. Hastily climbing down, Layla opened her notebook and recorded what she had seen, adding a clumsy sketch.

Lately she had been filling the notebook with everything she found in the woods. Arvis was the most beautiful place she had ever lived, and she wanted to remember all of it. One day she would leave here too, and then she would open the notebook. That thought softened her sorrow.

She walked the narrow path toward the river, jotting down flowers, pressing petals between the pages, snacking on wild raspberries. By the time she reached the riverbank, the sun stood high overhead.

Layla climbed her favorite tree, whose sturdy branches made a natural seat at the edge of the woods. She had just opened her notebook when she heard faint hoofbeats in the distance.

Startled, she shoved the notebook deep into her bag. The hoofbeats grew louder. Clutching the trunk, she held her breath.

Soon a sleek brown horse appeared, carrying a rider. The man reined the animal to a halt directly beneath her tree. His dismount was smooth, fluid.

She thought she should climb down, but he was already leaning against the trunk below. Panicked, she didn’t know what to say. Then he removed his hat—at the same moment her bag bumped a branch.

The next instant blurred in her memory.

He turned, lifting his head. And Layla saw him.

Through the dark hair falling over his brow, his blue eyes shone like glass marbles. That thought had barely crossed her mind when she realized—he was aiming a gun at her. The gleam of the long barrel stabbed into her dazed gaze.

Frozen, she clung to the tree, trembling all over. The man studied her silently, then sighed and lowered the gun.

“What are you?”

His low voice slipped out between his lips.

“…Layla.”

Her voice shook, almost a sob. The breeze from the river lifted strands of her golden hair.

“What?”

His eyes narrowed. Layla clung tighter to the tree, her fingers aching.

“Layla. Layla Llewellyn.”

“Mr. Remmer! Bill! Mr. Remmer!”

Her desperate cry tore through the woods.

Bill, sharpening his tools by the shed, turned in confusion. Layla came rushing toward him, face flushed crimson.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s someone in the forest! A tall man!”

She poured out her words, panting.

“That would be the Duke out hunting.”

Bill answered casually, reaching for the next tool.

“He had black hair and the bluest eyes… and his voice sounded like… like the feathers of a water bird.”

“No doubt, then. That was the Duke of Herhardt.”

Bill laughed. Layla only stood there, gasping, unable to move.

For a long moment, the beautiful yet frightening man had stared at her without a word. Then he had turned away. As he mounted again, two more men appeared, and together they rode deeper into the woods.

Layla had scrambled down and fled to the cabin.

“Then… the Duke…”

She began to speak, but a sharp gunshot cracked through the forest.

Layla flinched and whipped her head toward the sound. Birds burst skyward, scattering in panic. One dropped limp between the trees, wings broken.

More shots rang out. Bill set aside his tools and rose. Layla stood frozen, staring blankly into the woods.

“Layla.”

Bill gently placed a hand on her trembling shoulder. She looked up at last. The sight made him hold his breath.

The child was crying.

The Slayer of Beautiful Birds.

That was the name Layla gave to the Duke of Herhardt. Of course, it was hers alone.

Everyone else, even Bill Remmer, praised him as the perfect noble. Matthias von Herhardt, with his fine breeding, flawless manners, and graceful restraint, was cherished and admired.

But not by Layla.

After his hunts, the mother tit never returned to her nest. Without her, the chicks soon died. Countless other birds vanished as well.

Why did the Duke hunt only small, beautiful birds, instead of larger game fit for the table?

After watching for weeks, Layla thought she understood.

To him, birds were nothing more than living targets. The smaller and swifter, the more challenging—and therefore the more amusing. Once he struck them down, he didn’t even look. He simply left them where they fell. On the days he hunted, Layla had to bury countless small bodies, torn and bloody, left to grow cold.

Bang—

Another shot echoed from afar.