Alastair watched the waves crash against the rocks.
The stone building towered over the highest cliff, while below, the sea broke, sending sprays meters high. That was how he felt inside—a stormy sea relentlessly crashing against stone walls.
He had just returned from the memorial service he had arranged in memory of Nereus. No official funeral. There was no body to bury. Only a few close friends attended. Patrick had already left to return to Oldgrove.
Nereus' death had left him restless—a feeling he hadn't experienced in decades, maybe ever.
He had lost other children before, both human and werewolves, but it had always been due to old age or war. Nereus' death, however, was caused by the battle his son had waged against the Barclay clan. So his passing was a predictable loss, yet somehow, it troubled him deeply.
Nereus had left Oldgrove immediately after the clash with the Barclays, leaving the surviving men under Patrick's command. His son was furious—he wanted revenge.
He… did not know what to feel.
He had never harbored rivalry against that family during the days of the clans—they were powerful, and he saw no reason to wage war against them. After relinquishing his position as laird, he had stepped away from politics altogether.
Still, Nereus' death weighed on him like unwanted baggage. Perhaps because decades ago, he had already sacrificed Nereus to the Barclays to save the clan and the pack. Or maybe because Nereus had taken the leadership he believed was rightfully his over a century ago when he led the MacGowans. Something gnawed at him, and Nereus' death had left a debt he could no longer repay.
He poured himself some whisky and settled into the armchair by the fireplace. His soft black trousers and matching turtleneck stood out against the red velvet, along with his long raven hair left loose. He took a sip while watching the flames flicker.
Memories began to surface. Nereus had always been stubborn. He never passively bowed to his will and had chosen to walk his own path.
As a young werewolf barely into adulthood, he would challenge wolves bigger than him to prove he feared nothing and to earn a better position within the pack.
His mother had often had to stitch him up, and he remembered the stoic expression he wore during those times. Even when he returned defeated after a fight, his gaze remained proud and his shoulders squared.
Despite their differences, he had been a good son, and it saddened him that life hadn't granted him what he desired and fought so hard for.
He raised a silent toast to Nereus and drained the last of his whisky.