The ride back to Ashenholt was quiet.
Cassar had said nothing since the woods and Berith's silence was thick enough to swallow the world whole.
The blood on his gloves had dried into stiffened patches. His coat was soaked, half with snow, half with sweat. His jaw remained clenched with the taste of iron still threading across his tongue. The cold had long stopped biting him.
The Gate stirred in his chest like a beast fed, now pacing behind ribs.
A predator in waiting.
They passed through the frost-bitten gates of the manor. Servants emerged at their arrival and one of them stepped forward, eyes flicking toward the blood smeared across Berith's collar and hands. He faltered. They bowed quickly and vanished just as fast.
No one asked. No one dared to comment on the blood.
Cassar dismounted with a grunt, shaking snow from his cloak as he led his horse toward the stables. He looked back once, "You'll want to change before supper or don't?
"I'm not here to perform."
