Upon stepping back into the hall after a moment on the balcony, everything returned to noise, to music, to masks.
But within him, Desmond remembered that night—that silent, solitary tree was more noble than any guest. No… it was the only truly living thing left in that dead, false house.
Desmond's return had been celebrated as a supposed "national" victory, two weeks ago.
Duke Fontclair had spared no expense.
Every few days there was a dinner, a ball, a hunt, or a meeting with diplomats and nobles who wanted to see with their own eyes the man who had tamed the frontier.
The general.
The ice monster.
The obedient son.
The loyal dog.
He wore the finest suits, sat at his father's right hand during banquets, replied in short and precise phrases in French, German, and Spanish whenever spoken to.
His voice was firm, his tone neutral. He made no jokes, never drank more than two glasses, and he did not dance. And yet, he was the center of every gaze.
The youngest ladies followed him with their eyes as though they were watching a tragic hero.
Some nobles looked at him with suspicion: a soldier with too much power. Others admired him in silence, as one admires a trained beast that could devour at will.
But he… did not answer.
He only existed.
Each night was a performance. A theater where his father was the leading actor, and he—the living proof of his greatness. Displayed as a trophy, but never listened to, understood, or given warmth.
—"Look at my son," —his father would say, a smile barely contained.
—"So strong, lethal, unstoppable. No scandals, no flaws, no unnecessary emotions like his mother."
—"She was… a sentimental useless woman. But Desmond… ahh, Desmond is pure Fontclair steel in this house. At last, he has become a great man—one I wish one day to grant this mansion, this castle!" — he continued.
And everyone laughed, feigning joy. Some out of discomfort, others out of courtesy.
Desmond did not blink. He remained at his father's side like a warhound in an opera hall during a duke's banquet.
But his father's words did not go unnoticed. He only grew restless with contempt as he heard how his mother was mentioned.
That… he would never forgive.
He had lived with her, suffered with her, laughed in her company, learned, cooked, danced—all he could. But the memories were not so clear anymore, not at his age...
Still, his father was utterly wrong. Did he ever know if Desmond had emotions? What if he locked them away? Repressed them? Drowned them?
And without flaws? To Desmond, that was nothing more than a poor joke. Strong? Barely managing to stay sane and on his feet—for his father had no idea what tore him apart inside. He only fixed his gaze directly on his father while he spoke, his face frozen, his eyes expressionless.
—"Desmond, greet the marchioness. Bow your head—lower." —his father ordered, as though it were a polite request.
—"That's it…" —he smiled broadly, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. —"Now, accompany the viscount's daughters. Let them see your bearing. Let them know the Fontclairs remain strong, and allow them to meet you." —his laugh was discreet.
Desmond obeyed without protest; like a perfectly crafted puppet. Gloves immaculate, clothes flawless, posture straight, words measured as always…
To everyone's eyes: an unbreakable gentleman, the ideal heir.
But the conversations were never sincere. The smiles… never born from the heart.
At every gathering, the duke made sure to remind all that his son was "the fruit of rigorous training," his loyal dog—never naming it outright, but always leaving the word in the air.
—"He does what he's told, always has since childhood. Even in the snow, he hunted whatever I commanded. Never once denying discipline. What a pride to have such an obedient gentleman… Isn't that right, son?" —the duke would say, glass of wine between his fingers.
—"Yes. That is correct, father." —Desmond would reply without hesitation, his hands behind his back, eyes glancing sideways.
A noblewoman let out a low giggle as she leaned slightly forward.
—"An obedient soldier… How dangerous such a man must be in other things."
Laughter followed, but Desmond did not smile. His eyes locked on the man who laughed with a glass in hand near the lady.
Some nobles, out of sheer morbid curiosity, tried to provoke him:
—"Did you never feel resentment toward the severity of your upbringing, Desmond?"
—"Do no war wounds weigh on your soul?"
—"Have you no opinion of your own? Or… do you wait for your father's permission to have one?"
The duke would always intervene, with dry humor.
—"Desmond needs no opinion. He is the result. Results do not question, results are plain. So I'd suggest you be more careful with your words, Miss Laura." —his father answered before Desmond could even think on the words.
More laughter followed, but amidst glass after glass, fake strolls, and hollow courtesies, Desmond began to realize they no longer feared him.
Sadly, they were using him.
The loyal dog was no longer a pup nor a soldier. He was his father's living title, some kind of trophy or crown upon that duke's head.
And yet… he did not respond, did not object… Because he had nothing left, nothing but himself.
His life was that: an elegant routine of humiliations veiled beneath gold, silk, and velvet. Feigned applause, eyes that desired and judged him, but never knew him—never would.
It mattered little if they did not; they were only people who came and went. Tomorrow they would be the same, on other days they would be different. It was all simple routine—yet it weighed on his shoulders...
—"Has he ever cried on campaign?" suddenly asked a fat marquis, nearly drunk.
—"Not once," his father replied. "He was raised precisely for our lineage."
—"(Raised?)" thought Desmond, lifting an eyebrow briefly. He then lowered his eyes for just a second, a millimetric gesture. But one of the nobles noticed.
—"Is it true, commander? You've never cried?"
Desmond raised his eyes and spoke, voice low, sharp:
—"Is that a luxury… or a curse?" —he answered, a hint of sarcastic mockery in his dim gaze. Then silence.
They looked at each other, murmuring. Seconds later, fake applause. Some laughed under their breath as their glasses clinked.
Desmond narrowed his eyes slightly, staring at them in deep confusion. Wondering—what great word had he uttered? It was only a simple comment.
Then he felt like a wolf trapped in a circus.
He could bite, tear, kill… but he had been taught to be silent, to nod, to obey… like a good dog.
Later at night, he would often walk the gardens in silence, after every emotional and psychological toll.
Sometimes… he looked at the peach tree whenever he had a chance to be alone. The only living thing that never asked anything in return, which he had secretly decided to protect.
• Weeks later — The Hunt
It was his father who gave the order: Desmond was to organize a hunt for guests of House Renval. Two robust deer were required, and if possible, a black boar from the eastern hills.
—"I want game meat for dinner. I don't trust the servants. You go and bring something worthy for the table, something large," —his father demanded with his usual serious face that had nothing to do with parties.
And without a word, Desmond bowed lightly and left for his room. He dressed accordingly: hunting boots, dark gray trousers, fitted linen shirt, war coat. Took knife, bow, crossbow—and left. Hours passed until the sun went down.
Desmond departed at nine that night.
It took him two full days in sub-zero temperatures, with the same hunting task, in thick fog among the pines and terrain broken by hidden stones. He took down one deer with a clean shot.
The second charged him—he slashed its throat before it collapsed, knife in hand. It suffered less that way.
The boar was another ordeal.
Chaos every time he faced one of those, almost worse than fighting some military comrades. He even let out a brief snort that sounded almost like a suppressed laugh.
He fought it hand to hand, plunging his spear between its ribs, pressing with all his body weight. Both fell into the mud. Desmond rose covered in blood—his own and the beast's.
His shirt was soaked in warm blood, coat torn. His right hand trembling—not out of fear, but sheer exhaustion. His face… invisible in the dark, hidden by shadow and blood.
Lost in the forest, panting as he looked around.
Dragging the boar's massive, mud- and blood-stained carcass with a rope tied to his back like a sack of grain, while one deer hung over his shoulder and the other atop the boar. His face smeared with blood, dry traces on sleeves, boots, and clothes. Impossible to tell where his ended and the prey's began, especially in the dark.
Wandering further than he should have—unknowingly, or perhaps willingly—he entered a region unfamiliar to him. A denser forest, much colder, trees so tall they nearly hid the sky.
But he did not return directly.
Instead of following the marked path back, he crossed farther, deeper—almost as if the forest swallowed him.
He felt the atmosphere grow heavier, stranger, as he advanced.
The sounds began to change; from branches and birds… to distant murmurs.
The air thickened, branches darkened, temperature dropped as he walked among trees that creaked like old bones. The moon vanished, replaced by a thick blanket of fog.
He walked two more hours until… there was light.
Faint at first, then stronger; distant, warm, flickering.
And the sound… metallic, constant, rhythmic—something he didn't recognize: vehicles.
Climbing a hill, curiosity consuming him, he pushed the branches aside with his forearm until before him was a strange sight. He stopped.
He dropped the prey to his side as though, for the first time in years, he needed to contemplate something. The forest ended at a slope.
And beyond, across kilometers of sea, through mist and glass, there was a city.
Modern, alive.
Towers, buildings, lighthouses, the sound of cars, and an immense bridge of warm curves embracing the ocean, glowing yellow at each arch reflected below.
Desmond stood there, shirt still damp with blood, watching.
He did not think of returning.
Not yet.
What he saw was an enormous curved bridge lit with golden and white lights, seeming to float in the air, arching across a frozen river. In the distance, constant horns echoed, every detail feeding his gaze.
And ahead… the city.
A vast metropolis, asleep under snow. Its high, colorful lights gleaming on the far shore.
Its buildings, lampposts, the vapor of engines—all floating like the smoke of a sleeping giant.
Until Desmond sheathed his weapon, and his heart… beated.
The forest lay behind. The city glowed ahead; and unknowingly, he was about to cross into the unknown—perhaps a new destiny, or so he thought in that moment.
He stood still, quietly astonished, in that silence.