The initial light of morning, filtering through the thick curtains, turned the room's gloom to gray.

For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. The extinguished candle on the table, the quill fallen beside it, and the open ledger... Then, it all rushed back. Rebecca's voice, those three words, and the silence that followed.

I tucked the ledger into my jacket's inner pocket, as if I were afraid to even touch it. I wouldn't want anyone to see it. Perhaps worse, I wouldn't want the Duke to sense it. Demetrius didn't read a man's heart, but he lived by instinct, like a wolf sniffing out weakness.

Getting dressed took a long time. Every button, every belt, felt like armor. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it was Argenholt who stood there, a man who knew how to bury his emotions beneath stone. And to show any hint of suspicion in the Duke's presence would be to doom not only myself, but Rebecca as well.

The corridors were silent. The servants knew well to stay out of sight before the Duke's morning council. As I passed, I glanced out the window; the fog had not yet lifted from the courtyard. Demetrius's estate looked as grand as ever, but today it struck me as a cold kind of prison.

When I reached the door of the waiting hall, the guards bowed respectfully. The Duke was reviewing early morning reports. As the door slowly opened, the heavy scent of oak was mixed with ink and beeswax.

Demetrius stood by the window, silhouetted against the light. His neatly combed hair was, as always, immaculate. Pushing the sealed documents aside on his desk, he spoke without looking at me.

"I believe it is time for you to leave." It was neither a question nor a show of surprise. Merely a plain statement.

"Yes, my lord," I replied in a measured tone. "I intend to depart tomorrow morning."

"Where to?"

There was palpable anger in his voice as he asked the question. Clearly, his contacts in the capital had finally whispered things to him, and he had learned that I was personally going to receive the title of Eques Consiliarius from the Crown Prince himself.

He was likely furious that I had concealed it from him, but he didn't dare say anything contrary because he ultimately had no hold over me. After all, I am not a member of his family, and based on Leonardo's memories, I can say I never was.

"To the capital," I said curtly.

The corner of Demetrius's lip twitched almost imperceptibly. He was neither surprised nor approving. Only a silent dissatisfaction settled onto the lines of his face. He said nothing for a moment. He looked out the window, watching the riders vanish into the fog. Then his voice returned, with its usual calm.

"The Crown Prince has called you to his side." This time, it was not a question, but a clear judgment.

"That is correct," I said. "I am to be appointed Eques Consiliarius. The order came directly from the palace."

Demetrius inclined his head slightly, as if weighing not the truth of what I said, but its implications. For a while, only the crackle of the logs in the fireplace could be heard. That silence resembled the ominous calm before a storm.

"If you have been deemed worthy of such an important title and summoned to the capital... then why did you come here?"

What he meant was obvious. He clearly thought I had come here because I wanted to be under Duke Demetrius's wing. After all, I was his son, and where else could I go?

This was his thought process. And he wasn't entirely wrong. Ultimately, I had come here to increase my power and influence. I wouldn't go so far as to say I wanted to enter his fold. Because at some point, unless Demetrius is a dragon, his wings won't be enough to lift me, as I aim to grow even larger.

But either way, if I want to win Demetrius over, I shouldn't say this. In fact, I should start one of those classic father-son arguments right now to remind Demetrius of his position and the cards he holds. I hope I don't mess up; I can't say I'm a talented actor.

"Oh, now I understand..." I said, trying to put a realistic expression of disappointment on my face. "His Grace Duke Demetrius thought his finally grown son would come to him and be his dog. I couldn't possibly have come here simply because of Rebecca's insistence and a genuine desire to resolve our issues, because I am nothing more than a cunning savage, am I?"

Demetrius's eyes turned to me at that moment. That heavy, patient gaze that sharpened words like knives. For a moment, he said nothing. It was as if he were measuring my every movement, every breath.

"So, it was because of Rebecca's insistence," he said slowly, looking out the window.

Demetrius's voice was neither sarcastic nor angry; but there was something hidden beneath it. In that voice, there was a deep weariness, perhaps a patience nearing its breaking point. When he looked at me over his shoulder, the light in his eyes was hard, measured.

"Finally, you reveal the Leonardo I knew. Sharp-tongued, tactless, and disrespectful. But, my boy, however clever you are, you never saw one thing. I never saw you as lesser than my other children."

Demetrius's words seemed to weigh down the air in the room. Even the crackle of the fireplace stopped for a moment, or so it seemed to me. I took a silent breath; these types of conversations were the most dangerous. Not harshness, but calmness. Because Demetrius sharpened not when he was angry, but when he was calm.

"You didn't see me as lesser than the others, did you? Then why did you never declare me a Caelmont? Why did you prevent me from joining the army?"

Demetrius's expression didn't change. It was as if he had been expecting this question for years and was not surprised that it had now arrived. He slightly lowered his head, taking a deep breath.

"Because sometimes, the only way to protect someone is to withhold what they believe they deserve. If you had been one of my heirs, either Matilda or her family would have killed you. You wanted to be a Caelmont because you thought it would complete you. But bearing my surname would not have elevated you. You proved your worth without being a Caelmont."

"Then why didn't you prevent me from being sent to the front lines? Wait, let me guess, sometimes the best way to protect someone is to let them hit rock bottom, because it allows them to grow stronger."

Demetrius's eyebrows slightly rose; the hardness in his eyes softened, but he became attentive. For a moment, the air in the room was stretched taut, like a thread between two knives.

"I received information that you were insistent with your superiors about being on the front lines. Was that a lie?"

His question was not mocking. It was more like one belonging to a commanding officer making an inquiry. Demetrius looked not at people's clothes but at their intentions; for someone to choose death of their own accord was, for him, a normal sign of madness, but there was a turnaround in this case. He wondered who had relayed such news to him.

"Yes. I never made such a request. Most likely, the duchess had a hand in it. After all, she is the only one with the power to deceive even you and the reason to hate me."

Demetrius narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly. This movement was a sign that complex calculations were taking place in the depths of his mind. Matrona Matilda. He now realized that his wife's hatred for her stepson was not just court intrigue, but a dangerous act of sabotage.

"So, Matilda issued the orders to send you to the front lines, not you?" he said. His voice was now neither calm nor angry; it was merely that of a commander evaluating a critical act of treason on the battlefield.

"Most likely. She tried to destroy me," I replied.

Demetrius slowly turned, now looking directly at me, not the window. The morning sun highlighted the wrinkles on his face; these were the marks not of years, but of thousands of hard decisions.

"Then why did you not tell me about this until today?"

This was a question asked not by a father to a son, but by a lord to a subordinate. He was seeking logic, not emotion.

"Because I assumed you already knew," I added, injecting my voice with as much convincing disappointment as possible. "You are the Duke. Every whisper in the court reaches you. Not a single move of Matilda's goes unnoticed by you. If I were being sent to the front lines, I assumed it was with your silent approval."

This was a dangerous gamble. I was both accusing him and praising his intelligence and power. To suggest to Demetrius that something had happened without his knowledge was to play to his greatest weakness.

Demetrius's eyes flashed for a moment with a sharp mixture of surprise and anger. That momentary pause showed that I had touched a deeper wound than I had anticipated. The idea that something had happened without his knowing was unacceptable to his obsession with control.

"My... silent approval, you say?" he asked. His words were heavy, like a sword leaving its sheath. "Do you see me as a man who would cooperate with your stepmother and knowingly send his son to his death?"

"I do not know what I see you as, My Lord," I said, making sure not to avert my gaze from him. "But I know one thing: if I pose a threat to the interests of House Caelmont, you would do anything for Caelmont's survival. I tried to figure out what your logic was at the time, but I couldn't reach a conclusion. That's why I took care of myself."

Demetrius closed his eyes and slowly opened them. A cold had replaced the anger on his face, calculating expression. The issue between us was no longer a father-son conflict, but a threat to Demetrius's authority and the security of his house.

"Your 'taking care of yourself' earned you the title of Eques Consiliarius," he said. His voice was now completely under control. "That is an achievement, I must admit. But this move by Matilda... this is a hole in our very house."

He approached the desk again and lightly tapped the edge of the sealed document with his fingers.

"Do you have evidence that Matilda tried to destroy you?"

"I do not have a letter or a confession that directly implicates her," I replied. "But she is the only person with court connections who can send unauthorized orders to the Duke's lowest-ranking commanders and make those orders seem as if they came from the Duke. And she is the only one who hates me."

Demetrius nodded, like a lawyer weighing the presented evidence.

"That is not enough," he said.

"Wait, you mean you didn't even suspect that the Duchess might have killed my mother?"

These words instantly froze the air in the room. Even the crackle of the logs in the fireplace was muffled, replaced by a suffocating silence. This was not just an accusation; it was a dagger plunged into the heart of the deepest, dirtiest secret Demetrius had covered up for years.

Demetrius's expression completely dissolved for a moment. He was unable to control himself. His eyes turned into two deep wells holding years of bottled-up pain and fury. In that moment, the man standing before me was not Duke Demetrius Caelmont, but a grieving man.

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