“I greet Your Grace,” Irish said respectfully as he entered the office, kneeling with one knee before Kennard, who had turned away from the window to face him. Irish’s head was bowed low, showing deference, while Serin stood nearby.
“Stand up,” commanded Kennard, prompting Irish to rise from his knee.
“Do you know why you were summoned?” Kennard inquired.
“Yes, Your Grace. Is it because of the report I delivered to the commander?” Irish responded, lifting his chin slightly but betraying tension in his demeanor, his body still tense with arms pressed tightly against his sides.
“Do you remember which village you visited then?” Kennard asked further.
“Yes, I remember. It was a northeastern outskirts village, just beyond the new border,” Irish recalled.
“I see,” Kennard remarked, settling onto the windowsill with crossed arms, observing Irish closely. “If you remember, you might be able to find that house.”
Irish hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “What? Oh, yes. If the house is still there, I could find it,” he affirmed, glancing briefly at Serin before clearing his throat.
It was imperative to swiftly ascertain the condition of the house, potentially linking it to the blood traces left by the White Fox Tribe in the Terra Demorte Forest. Most crucially, they sought confirmation of the dwelling where the woman, rumored to possess attributes akin to Elena’s fiery red hair and translucent gray eyes, had resided.
“Then let’s depart tonight,” proposed Kennard.
“Your Grace! You heard Irish, didn’t you? Crossing the border is necessary to reach that village,” Serin interjected, his astonishment evident as he stood beside Irish.
“I am well aware,” Kennard affirmed.
“But crossing the border?” Serin expressed his disbelief with a tilt of his head.
“What’s the issue? Those rascals breach the border like mice every day,” Kennard retorted.
“Still, it doesn’t sit right,” Serin persisted.
“Don’t be naive,” Kennard chided, narrowing his eyes at Serin.
Caught in the crossfire of their debate, Irish felt uncertain about what to do. The tension between the Grand Duke and his commander left no room for anyone to take sides. Beads of sweat formed on Irish’s forehead, his face flushing crimson from the neck up.
“Then Irish and I will venture alone, and you shall remain to guard the castle,” Kennard directed, pointing a finger at Serin, a faint smirk playing at his lips.
“No. Why should I stay behind? Where are you planning to go without me?” Serin objected.
Kennard chuckled disbelievingly. Serin’s insistence sometimes reminded him of a petulant child, especially when that insistence was directed at him. Despite moments of excessive loyalty bordering on annoyance, Serin remained someone he could unwaveringly trust.
“Shall we embark on a little adventure?” Kennard proposed with a hint of excitement.
“What do you mean ‘for a change’? Just a few days ago, you were out hunting alone…” Serin grumbled, clearly not keen on the idea.
Kennard chose to ignore Serin’s complaint. This was not the time for playful banter; they had more pressing matters at hand.
***
Racing northeastward, they swiftly traversed past the Terra Demorte Forest, a territory acquired through war.
Their journey northward seemed to reverse the seasons, transitioning from early spring to the depths of winter, the plains now blanketed in snow. As they sped through the snowy landscape, leaving trails akin to wisps of smoke, their breath billowed out in white clouds.
Kennard maintained his pace, stealing a quick glance behind him. Serin followed closely, with Irish trailing behind. The night was dark, the moonlight obscured by thick clouds, rendering the snowy plains a somber gray.
In this darkness, Kennard’s black wolf form blended seamlessly, while Serin and Irish, with their dark gray and fiery red fur respectively, were equally difficult to spot. Yet, despite their camouflage, they remained vigilant. Though unseen, they couldn’t disregard the keen sense of smell possessed by their adversaries—the foxes.
Both wolves and foxes possessed acute olfactory senses. Kennard’s pheromones were particularly potent, difficult to conceal, enabling their foes to discern whether to attack or evade.
“Irish, you’re in charge of guiding us from here,” Kennard commanded, assigning the task to him as they ventured deeper beyond the border.
It had been a while since they crossed into unfamiliar territory. Approaching the northeastern forest, as Irish had described, Kennard relinquished the lead to him, trusting in his guidance to locate the village and the specific house they sought.
“Understood,” Irish affirmed, his movements filled with determination as he surged ahead of Kennard.
Observing Irish take the lead, Kennard deliberately slowed his pace, mindful of the burden his presence might impose on the younger wolf.
As they penetrated the forest, navigating through its rocky, snow-covered terrain and dense oak growth, Irish gradually decelerated, scanning their surroundings with caution.
“Do we need to pass through the village?” Serin inquired, his voice carrying a hint of concern.
“No, if we continue in this direction, we can avoid it,” Irish responded, his focus split between leading the way and assessing the terrain.
“It seems we’re nearing our destination,” he added, as they cautiously pressed forward, their movements deliberate and their scents suppressed to minimize detection.
However, amidst their silent progress, Serin’s quiet voice pierced the stillness. “I can’t help but feel uneasy.”
