Caelan and Lucien rode at a steady pace, the morning sun casting long shadows on the road to the Baron’s estate. The town of Montrevelle was beginning to stir, merchants setting up their stalls, and workers heading to their tasks. It was a sight of normalcy that contrasted starkly with the underlying tension of their situation.

  Lucien adjusted his grip on the reins. “So, what exactly is the plan when we speak with the Baron? We both know he’s playing a game here, but we don’t have enough to move against him yet.”

  Caelan exhaled through his nose. “For now, we let him think we’re just noble guests playing our part. We present the construction efforts for the villagers as a reasonable precaution, something any rational leader would agree with. If he refuses, it gives us another reason to question his intentions.”

  Lucien smirked. “And if he does agree?”

  “Then we watch carefully how he reacts,” Caelan replied. “The Baron values self-preservation. If he sees an opportunity to gain favor with my father while still advancing his own goals, he’ll take it. But if he hesitates or tries to divert us, then we know he’s planning something more insidious.”

  Lucien nodded but frowned slightly. “You trust the garrison commander enough to work with us on this?”

  Caelan glanced at his friend. “Reynard Montclair is a soldier first. He cares about his men and the defense of Montrevelle. That makes him predictable in a way the Baron isn’t. If we appeal to his sense of duty, we can count on his support.”

  Before Lucien could respond, they heard the distant clamor of raised voices. The estate’s main gate was within sight, but something was wrong. A group of armed men—garrison soldiers and the Baron’s personal guards—stood in a standoff near the entrance.

  Lucien cursed under his breath. “Looks like trouble.”

  Caelan narrowed his eyes, already scanning the scene for details. “Let’s see what’s got them so worked up.” He spurred his horse forward, prepared for yet another complication in Montrevelle.

  As Caelan and Lucien approached the estate, the tension in the air became more palpable. The gathered soldiers were divided into two distinct groups—one clad in the standard armor of Montrevelle’s garrison, while the other bore the colors of the Baron’s personal retinue. The latter seemed to be blocking the entrance, their hands resting on their weapons in a clear show of authority.

  A grizzled garrison officer stood at the front of his men, his expression tight with restrained anger. “I’ll ask again—on whose authority are you barring entry to the estate?”

  One of the Baron’s guards, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek, smirked. “Orders from the Baron himself. No one enters without approval.”

  “That’s absurd,” the officer shot back. “We’ve never needed explicit permission before. What’s changed?”

  Caelan and Lucien pulled their horses to a stop just outside the confrontation, exchanging a quick glance. Lucien muttered, “Looks like the Baron’s tightening his grip.”

  Caelan dismounted, keeping his movements measured. “Let’s see just how far he’s willing to push.” He stepped forward, his presence drawing the attention of both sides.

  The garrison officer straightened. “Lord Caelan.”

  Caelan gave him a nod before turning his attention to the Baron’s guards. “What’s going on here?”

  Scar-cheek’s smirk faltered slightly, but he held his ground. “Apologies, my lord, but we have strict orders—no one enters without approval.”

  Caelan’s expression remained neutral, but his voice carried a quiet authority. “That’s odd. I don’t recall my father’s vassals ever needing permission to meet with me.”

  The guard hesitated, but before he could respond, another voice cut through the tension.

  “What’s the commotion?”

  A man strode out from the estate’s entrance—a middle-aged figure dressed in fine but practical clothing. His sharp eyes swept over the scene before settling on Caelan.

  “Lord Caelan, I wasn’t informed you’d be arriving this early.”

  Caelan recognized him immediately—Mathieu Gauthier, the Baron’s steward. A man of cunning and discretion, known for handling much of the estate’s internal affairs.

  Caelan offered a polite but pointed smile. “I didn’t think my visits required prior notice.”

  Mathieu’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Of course not, my lord. A simple misunderstanding, I’m sure.” He turned to the guards. “Stand down. Lord Caelan and his companion are to be allowed through.”

  Scar-cheek and his men immediately stepped aside, though their expressions were far from pleased.

  Lucien leaned in slightly to whisper, “We’re definitely asking the Baron about this.”

  Caelan didn’t respond, but his thoughts mirrored Lucien’s exactly.

  Whatever the Baron was up to, it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn’t making things easy for them.

  An hour ago at the Baron’s estate,

  Baron Hugo d’Montrevelle sat at his desk, fingers steepled as he stared down at the hastily delivered report in front of him. His steward, Mathieu Gauthier, stood beside him, waiting silently as the Baron processed the information.

  Caelan Forneaux was here.

  Not in the capital. Not with his father. But in Montrevelle, his small, insignificant border town. And for two whole days, no one had informed him.

  The Baron exhaled sharply through his nose, his irritation mounting. “How did this escape our notice?”

  Mathieu, ever the composed one, clasped his hands behind his back. “It seems the Duke’s son arrived under rather… unusual circumstances. He was gravely injured upon arrival. Most assumed he would be bedridden for some time, which is perhaps why the news traveled slowly.”

  The Baron’s jaw clenched. The young Forneaux heir—known for his meticulous nature—was alive and well enough to move. That was a problem.

  “This is the same boy who led the defense at Valmont two years ago,” he muttered, more to himself than to his steward. “The same one who outmaneuvered the remnants of the rebel forces last autumn. And now he’s in Montrevelle, sticking his nose into my town.”

  Mathieu nodded. “Lord Caelan has a reputation for noticing… inconvenient details.”

  “Inconvenient, indeed,” the Baron scoffed. He had spent months ensuring that Montrevelle functioned exactly the way he wanted. That meant diverting resources, making necessary adjustments, and ensuring the Duke’s oversight remained distant. The last thing he needed was a prying, sharp-eyed noble with a soldier’s mind.

  “Does he suspect anything?” the Baron asked.

  Mathieu’s expression remained unreadable. “It is difficult to say. However, his presence alone complicates matters. If he starts asking the wrong questions…”

  The Baron drummed his fingers against his desk, thinking. He could not afford to be reckless—Caelan wasn’t a fool, and outright hostility would only raise more suspicions. But there were ways to ensure that the young lord’s stay remained… unproductive.

  “Keep him contained,” the Baron finally said. “Make sure his attention is drawn elsewhere. If he starts prying into matters that don’t concern him, I want to know immediately.”

  Mathieu inclined his head. “Of course, my lord.”

  As his steward left the room, Baron Hugo d’Montrevelle exhaled slowly, already recalculating his next steps.

  The Duke’s son was a complication—but complications could be managed.

  Or removed.

  However, even the Baron thought that the second option was impractical and impossible, considering that the person in question is the son of the Duke.

  Present time at the Baron’s Office,

  Baron Hugo d’Montrevelle gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white as he processed the latest report. The ink on the first message had barely dried before another landed in his hands—this one far worse.

  Caelan Forneaux was at his gates.

  Not skulking about the barracks. Not bedridden. Not preoccupied with whatever distractions the Baron had intended to arrange.

  No, the Duke’s son was here. At his doorstep. Demanding an audience.

  Mathieu Gauthier, his steward, stood stiffly before him, his face unreadable but his hands betraying the slightest tremor. “It seems, my lord, that Lord Caelan was not as indisposed as we assumed.”

  “No,” Hugo bit out. “It seems not.”

  He inhaled deeply, pushing back the rising frustration. He had planned to delay the young noble, to ensure his presence in Montrevelle remained nothing more than a brief and unremarkable visit. But the opportunity to stall had vanished before it could even be put into motion.

  One hour. That was all the time he had been given before this turn of events.

  One hour to comprehend that his greatest threat in Montrevelle was not some distant envoy from the Duke, nor a message from the capital demanding reports—but the Duke’s own son, moving with purpose, scrutiny, and now, urgency.

  And he was already here.

  Hugo straightened, his mind shifting gears. Fine. If he could not delay Caelan Forneaux, then he would meet him head-on.

  “What of the reception?” he asked, voice measured. “Is he alone?”

  Mathieu shook his head. “He has his knight, Sir Lucien, with him. They arrived on horseback.” A pause. “They did not send a messenger ahead. They simply… came.”

  Hugo scoffed. “A soldier’s habit. No ceremony, no waiting. Straight to the matter.”

  Mathieu cleared his throat. “Shall I make him wait, my lord?”

  Hugo considered it. A power move, one to establish dominance in the conversation before it even began. But no—Caelan was already expecting resistance. If the Baron played the part too obviously, he would confirm whatever suspicions the young lord already held.

  “No,” he said after a moment. “Escort him inside immediately.”

  He stepped away from his desk, smoothing the fabric of his coat as he schooled his features into one of polite courtesy.

  He was not unprepared.

  The game was merely beginning.

  Baron Hugo’s fingers twitched slightly before he laced them together on his desk. He masked his surprise well, but the sharp glint in his eyes betrayed his intrigue.

  “You wish to discuss Montrevelle’s defenses?” he echoed, as if the words needed confirmation.

  Caelan met his gaze without hesitation. “Yes. As you’re well aware, the beast attack that devastated the village was not an isolated incident. We have reason to believe that more attacks could follow, and Montrevelle’s current defenses are… lacking.”

  Hugo let out a short chuckle, feigning amusement. “I assure you, Lord Caelan, my men are more than capable of handling any further threats.”

  Caelan tilted his head slightly, as if unimpressed by the response. “Your garrison is well-trained, Baron, but numbers alone won’t be enough if another attack comes. We need proper fortifications. Reinforced walls. Guard rotations. Defensive structures.”

  Hugo raised an eyebrow. “And I assume you have a plan for all of this?”

  “I do.” Caelan’s tone was firm, unwavering. “I intend to use the villagers currently taking refuge in the garrison to assist in the fortifications. It will give them purpose while also strengthening the town’s defenses. In return, they will be compensated for their labor.”

  Hugo blinked, caught off guard by the proposition.

  He had expected complaints. Demands. Perhaps even threats.

  But this?

  This was something else entirely.

  The young lord—rather than relying on noble authority or pressing the Duke’s influence—was proposing an initiative that directly involved the displaced villagers. He was giving them work, a means to survive, rather than waiting for a solution from above.

  It was unexpected.

  Clever.

  And concerning.

  The Baron leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger against the polished wood. “You wish to pay the refugees out of your own pocket?”

  Caelan nodded. “I have the funds for it.”

  Hugo studied him closely. “And you’re certain about this?”

  A lesser noble would have hesitated, at least for a second.

  But Caelan didn’t.

  His answer was immediate, his tone unwavering.

  “Yes.”

  That single word sent a ripple of unease through the Baron.

  This young lord—injured, fresh from battle—was willing to spend his own wealth, his own resources, to protect a town that wasn’t even his responsibility.

  That was dangerous.

  A noble who truly cared for the common folk was dangerous.

  But Hugo could not afford to show his hand. Not yet.

  So instead, he let out an exaggerated sigh and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Well, Lord Caelan, it seems you have put much thought into this.” He offered a practiced smile. “Very well. If you are willing to take such measures, then I shall not stand in your way.”

  Caelan’s expression remained unreadable, but Lucien—standing silently behind him—watched the Baron carefully, as if gauging his sincerity.

  Hugo forced another smile. “I will, of course, offer my own assistance where necessary. The safety of Montrevelle is my utmost priority, after all.”

  Lies.

  But the young lord didn’t need to know that.

  Not yet.

  The Baron’s carefully crafted smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

  “I see,” Hugo said, measuring his words carefully. “Your generosity is commendable, Lord Caelan. Few would willingly part with their own coin for the sake of commoners. But I assume there is… a catch?”

  Caelan didn’t hesitate. “Yes, there is.”

  Hugo’s fingers tensed against the desk, but he masked it with a thoughtful nod. “Go on.”

  “In exchange for my personal funding of the fortifications,” Caelan said, voice calm but firm, “I would like to reassign half of your men to the defense of the town wall—under my command.”

  Hugo stiffened.

  That was not what he expected.

  Lucien, ever silent but observant, watched the Baron’s reaction carefully.

  “Half of my men?” Hugo repeated, as if he had misheard.

  Caelan nodded. “Yes. Temporary reassignment, of course. Until the situation is stabilized. Naturally, I will be the one selecting which men will be stationed at the wall.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  There it was.

  Hugo exhaled slowly, forcing his expression into something neutral. This was more than just a request for additional defenses. It was a calculated move. By choosing which of his men would be stationed at the walls, Caelan was ensuring that only the most reliable and capable soldiers would be on guard.

  More importantly, it would remove men from his control and place them directly under Caelan’s.

  The young lord was not just thinking about defense.

  He was thinking about control.

  Clever.

  Too clever.

  Hugo couldn’t afford to outright refuse—not without raising suspicion. But neither could he accept without risk.

  “An interesting request,” Hugo said slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I assume you have reasoning beyond mere defense?”

  “I do.” Caelan met his gaze evenly. “If another attack happens, I will take full responsibility for the town’s security. That means I need men I can rely on. And to ensure that, I must be the one to select them.”

  The Baron had to fight back a grimace.

  This wasn’t a simple power play—it was a direct challenge to his authority.

  And yet, Caelan phrased it so diplomatically, so reasonably, that refusing outright would make him appear negligent.

  Hugo forced a chuckle. “You ask a lot of me, Lord Caelan. Half my men is no small request.”

  “And yet,” Caelan said smoothly, “it is a necessary one.”

  For a brief moment, silence hung between them.

  Lucien finally spoke up. “Your Lordship, this is in the best interest of Montrevelle. We all want the same thing—security.”

  Hugo nearly scoffed at that.

  No.

  They did not all want the same thing.

  But he could not refuse outright.

  Not without inviting scrutiny.

  With a deep breath, the Baron offered another carefully practiced smile. “Very well, Lord Caelan. I shall allow it. But only under one condition.”

  Caelan raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

  “The men you choose must still report to me at the end of each week. I am the ruling lord of Montrevelle, after all.”

  It was a weak compromise, and they both knew it.

  But Caelan simply nodded. “Fair enough.”

  The Baron clenched his jaw.

  He had no choice but to accept.

  But this young lord—this thorn in his plans—was proving to be far more dangerous than expected.

  And that was something he could not ignore.

  The Baron’s fingers tapped against the desk as he weighed his next words carefully. He had already agreed—he had no choice—but that did not mean he was comfortable with this arrangement. He needed time to think, to find a way to twist this in his favor.

  But before he could speak, Caelan reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded document.

  “I anticipated that we would come to an understanding,” Caelan said, placing the parchment onto the Baron’s desk with a soft thud. “This contract outlines everything we just discussed—including the condition you requested.”

  Hugo’s breath hitched.

  He already had a contract?

  That meant this entire conversation had been a formality.

  A game.

  A charade, where the young lord made it seem as though the Baron had a choice—when in reality, Caelan had orchestrated everything from the very beginning.

  His fingers clenched into a fist beneath the desk.

  Damn him.

  Forcing a calm expression, Hugo reached for the contract, unfolding it slowly as his eyes scanned the text. His condition—the weekly report—was there, worded in a way that made it seem like a fair compromise.

  But it didn’t matter.

  The essence of the deal had already been decided.

  His men would be hand-picked and reassigned. His authority, undermined.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  With a tight smile, Hugo reached for a quill. “You are a well-prepared man, Lord Caelan.”

  “I try to be,” Caelan replied smoothly.

  Grinding his teeth, the Baron dipped the quill into ink and signed his name at the bottom of the document. He barely handed the quill over before Caelan took it, adding his own signature with a steady hand.

  It was done.

  The pact was sealed.

  Caelan carefully folded the contract and slid it back into his tunic. “A pleasure doing business with you, Baron.”

  Hugo forced a stiff nod, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

  Lucien offered a polite bow. “Thank you for your time, Your Lordship.”

  Without waiting for a response, the two turned and exited the office.

  The moment the door clicked shut, the Baron exhaled sharply.

  Then, without warning, he slammed his fist against the desk.

  The ink bottle rattled. A paperweight tipped over.

  Damn that arrogant brat!

  He had been played.

  Outmaneuvered in his own domain.

  And the worst part? There had been no escape from it.

  A knock at the door.

  The Baron’s steward entered, his expression carefully neutral. “My lord?”

  Hugo’s glare snapped to him. “What?!”

  The steward hesitated. “…Is something the matter?”

  The Baron didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the nearest object—a solid brass inkwell—and hurled it across the room.

  The steward barely managed to duck in time. The inkwell shattered against the wall, splattering ink across the fine wood paneling.

  The room fell silent.

  The steward straightened, unblinking. “Shall I assume, then, that negotiations did not go as planned?”

  Hugo sucked in a sharp breath.

  Then, after a long pause, he let out a bitter chuckle.

  “No,” he said darkly. “They did not.”

  As Caelan and Lucien stepped out of the Baron’s estate, the morning sun had fully risen, casting long shadows across the cobbled courtyard. The air was crisp, but the tension still hung thick after the meeting. Caelan adjusted his cloak, exhaling through his nose as they descended the steps.

  “Well,” Lucien began, hands tucked behind his head, “that went about as well as it could have.”

  Caelan huffed a quiet laugh. “If you ignore the fact that the Baron probably wants to strangle me.”

  Lucien smirked. “Let him stew. He won’t dare make a move against you, not after signing that contract. Still… you played that well. Cunning, almost too cunning.”

  Caelan raised a brow. “Are you implying something?”

  Lucien shrugged. “Only that you’re starting to remind me of your father.”

  At that, Caelan chuckled. “High praise, I’m sure.”

  As they crossed the courtyard, they spotted a group of garrison soldiers waiting near the estate gates—men from the barracks who had been caught in an altercation with the Baron’s men earlier. They stood at ease now, but their expressions were wary, their gazes flickering between Caelan and Lucien as they approached.

  One of the soldiers, a burly man with a fresh bruise on his jaw, straightened at their arrival. “My lord, Sir Lucien,” he greeted, his voice careful.

  Caelan studied them for a moment. “Everything settled?”

  The soldier hesitated, then nodded. “For now.”

  Lucien sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn waste of energy, all this posturing. What exactly happened?”

  The soldier exchanged looks with his comrades before answering. “Baron’s men weren’t too pleased with us sticking around the estate’s perimeter. Words were exchanged. Then, well…” He gestured vaguely to his bruised face.

  Caelan shook his head. “And where are they now?”

  “Most of them scattered after the stewards came to break it up. A few stayed behind to keep an eye on things.”

  “Typical,” Lucien muttered. “The Baron’s men have no discipline. Give them a little authority, and they think they own the place.”

  Caelan turned his gaze toward the road leading back to the barracks. “No sense in lingering here. Let’s get moving.”

  The soldiers fell in line behind them, forming a loose escort as they departed the estate grounds.

  As they walked, Lucien cast Caelan a sideways glance. “You sure about this plan of yours?”

  Caelan’s expression was unreadable. “Which part?”

  “The part where you put your men inside his ranks. The Baron isn’t a fool—he’ll know you’re watching him.”

  Caelan’s lips curled into a small smile. “Good.”

  Lucien snorted. “You really are your father’s son.”

  Caelan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked ahead, watching as the barracks came into view in the distance.

  “We have one more thing to handle before the day ends,” he said finally.

  Lucien sighed. “And here I thought we’d finally get some rest.”

  Caelan smirked. “You should know by now, Lucien—there’s always more work to do.”

  Lucien groaned, but he didn’t argue.

  And with that, they marched forward, the barracks awaiting their return.

  As Caelan and Lucien arrived back at the barracks, they were greeted by the sight of villagers gathered in the open courtyard. Men, women, and even some older children stood in clusters, murmuring amongst themselves, their expressions ranging from uncertainty to quiet determination. Some still bore the weary look of those who had lost everything, while others simply seemed eager for direction—anything to keep their minds off their misfortune.

  At the center of it all was émeline, speaking with a group of elders who seemed to be acting as representatives for the displaced villagers. As Caelan and Lucien dismounted, she caught sight of them and immediately made her way over.

  “You’re back,” she said, relief evident in her tone. “I gathered as many people as I could. Some of the more injured or elderly stayed behind, of course, but everyone who can work is here.”

  Caelan nodded approvingly. “Good. That will do for now.”

  Lucien stretched his arms, letting out a small sigh. “Alright then, let’s get to it. Where do we start?”

  Caelan turned his gaze toward the villagers, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd. He had spent much of his life in structured military environments, where everyone had their role and knew their place. These people, however, were not soldiers—they were farmers, laborers, and craftsmen. Some likely had no experience in physical work beyond tending to their fields.

  “We divide them into groups,” he said after a moment of thought. “We’ll need builders, gatherers, and laborers to assist with fortifications. The barricades and defenses must be reinforced, and we need to start stockpiling resources for the days ahead.”

  He turned back to émeline. “You know these people better than I do. Can you help sort them based on their skills?”

  She nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

  With that, the organization began.

  émeline, with the help of a few village elders, went through the crowd, speaking to each person briefly before directing them to a group. Those with experience in construction or carpentry were sent to assist with reinforcing the walls and setting up additional barricades. The strongest laborers were assigned to digging trenches and moving supplies. Women and older children who couldn’t handle heavy work were tasked with gathering materials—wood, stones, and anything else that could be used for fortification.

  As the villagers settled into their assignments, Caelan took a step back, watching the scene unfold. It was far from perfect, but it was a start.

  Lucien crossed his arms, standing beside him. “Think this will be enough?”

  Caelan exhaled slowly. “It has to be.”

  Lucien hummed in thought before smirking slightly. “You know, you really have a way with people. Who would’ve thought the Duke’s son would be out here managing refugees like some kind of steward?”

  Caelan rolled his eyes. “Would you prefer I sit in a cushioned chair and twiddle my thumbs?”

  Lucien chuckled. “No, I rather like this version of you. Keeps things interesting.”

  Caelan shook his head but allowed himself a small smile before turning back to the work at hand. There was still much to do.

  As Caelan watched Commander Reynard leave to begin reinforcing the walls, a lingering doubt gnawed at the back of his mind. Fortifications were well and good against men—trained soldiers, raiders, or even bandits—but against a beast?

  That was a different challenge entirely.

  No amount of bracing or barricades would matter if the creature simply tore through them like parchment. A beast of Verdainne was not a predictable enemy that followed the same logic as human attackers. It didn’t seek weak points in formations or wait for the right opportunity to strike. It was pure, relentless instinct—powerful, fast, and driven by a hunger that made it all the more dangerous.

  Caelan exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.

  “We can reinforce these walls all we want, but what if it’s not enough?” he murmured, half to himself, half to Lucien, who stood at his side.

  Lucien crossed his arms, his sharp eyes studying Caelan. “You’re worried about how to counter something that doesn’t fight like a man.”

  Caelan gave a humorless chuckle. “That obvious?”

  Lucien smirked. “You’ve been frowning for the past five minutes.”

  Caelan shook his head. “This isn’t like preparing for an army. We can’t just rely on tactics meant for human adversaries. We need to know more about these creatures—how they think, how they hunt, how they can be stopped.”

  Lucien’s expression grew thoughtful. “The garrison has fought off smaller beasts before, but nothing like what attacked the village. If you’re looking for real insight, there’s only one place I can think of.”

  Caelan raised an eyebrow. “The Hunter’s Guild?”

  Lucien nodded. “If there’s anyone in town who knows how to track, capture, or kill a magical beast, it’s them. They’ve got seasoned hunters who specialize in creatures far deadlier than your average wolf or boar.”

  It was a solid idea. Hunters made their living understanding their prey, and some of them had likely encountered beasts similar to the one that attacked the village. If anyone had strategies for dealing with such threats, it would be them.

  Caelan clenched his fist in determination. “Then that’s our next stop. If we’re going to defend this town properly, we need to know exactly what we’re up against.”

  Lucien grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. The guild isn’t far from here. Let’s pay them a visit.”

  With that, the two turned from the walls, setting their course for the Hunter’s Guild—where, hopefully, they would find the knowledge they needed to turn the tide against the creatures of Verdainne.

  Halric motioned for one of his staff members—a younger man with sharp eyes and a long hunting knife strapped to his belt—to take over the front desk. Without another word, he gestured for Caelan and Lucien to follow him deeper into the guild. The three of them walked past rows of weapon racks, supply crates, and a few hunters inspecting their gear before reaching a heavy wooden door at the back.

  With a push, Halric opened it, revealing a private meeting room with a sturdy table in the center, a large map of Montrevelle and its surrounding wilderness pinned to the far wall. A single candle flickered on a metal stand, casting elongated shadows around the space.

  “Take a seat,” Halric said as he stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

  Caelan and Lucien settled into the wooden chairs, while Halric remained standing, arms crossed. “You’re asking about the Verdainne beast,” he said, his voice low. “You’re not the first to come sniffing around for information. But I get the feeling you have more to share than most.”

  Caelan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’d be right. But before we begin, I need to know what you’ve heard about it so far.”

  Halric sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Not much beyond rumors. Some say it’s a nightstalker—beasts that blend into the dark, striking with unnatural speed. Others claim it’s an elder warg, a monstrous wolf that’s been feeding off the corruption in Verdainne for years. But the strangest report I’ve heard?” He scoffed. “That it doesn’t hunt for food, but for sport. That it enjoys the kill.”

  Lucien let out a low whistle. “That... actually lines up with what we saw.”

  Halric raised a brow. “Explain.”

  Caelan exhaled, choosing his words carefully. “We encountered the beast firsthand when it attacked the village. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Large—easily larger than a man, built like a predator but with unnatural agility. Its eyes glowed in the dark, and its fur seemed to shift with the shadows, making it hard to track.”

  Lucien nodded. “And the worst part? It didn’t just kill. It toyed with its victims. It left some of them to bleed out rather than going for the kill immediately. As if it wanted to prolong their suffering.”

  Halric’s expression darkened. “That confirms one thing.”

  “What?” Caelan asked.

  “This isn’t a normal beast. It’s tainted.”

  A heavy silence fell over the room.

  “Tainted?” Lucien frowned. “You mean, corrupted by magic?”

  Halric nodded grimly. “That would explain its unnatural size, its intelligence, and the way it hunts. It’s rare, but some creatures that spend too long near places of magical disturbance—especially old battlegrounds or cursed forests—become... something else. Stronger. Smarter. More violent.”

  Caelan tapped a finger against the table. “Then that means we need to change our approach. We’re not just dealing with a rogue predator. This thing is something more.”

  Halric narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Lord Forneaux?”

  Caelan met his gaze without hesitation. “Whatever it takes.”

  ChatGPT said:

  Halric let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Whatever it takes, huh? Bold words, Lord Forneaux. But you’ll find that ‘whatever it takes’ often comes at a cost.”

  Caelan held his gaze. “I’m aware.”

  Amused but not dismissive, Halric leaned back against the table, arms still crossed. “Well, you’re not the only one trying to do something about this mess. Ever since your father arrived with the Beaucourt survivors, we’ve been working non-stop. The guild sent out messenger birds to the other branches in neighboring towns, coordinating an investigation of the Forest of Verdainne. The idea was to approach it from multiple angles without venturing too deep—observe movement patterns, track possible dens, find any sign of what’s stirring in there.”

  Lucien’s brow furrowed. “And? What did you find?”

  Halric’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not much. And that’s the problem.”

  He pushed off the table and walked over to the map, dragging a calloused finger over the marked regions. “We followed protocol. Every scouting team sent into the area consisted of at least five seasoned hunters, all armed with proper firepower—rune-inscribed arrows, blessed silver, even alchemical flares to signal distress. We set return time limits to ensure that no one lingered too long. And yet...” He turned back to them, his expression grim.

  Lucien finished for him. “You still lost people.”

  Halric nodded. “Every single time.”

  Caelan’s jaw tightened. “How?”

  “The ways vary,” Halric said, his voice lower now. “Some groups reported hunters getting separated from the main party, even when they were just a few steps away. One moment, they were walking together. The next, someone would look over their shoulder and realize they were gone. No sound, no struggle—just gone.”

  Lucien muttered a curse.

  Halric continued, his tone growing graver. “Then there are those who make it out, only to vanish later. Camps along the return routes have reported hunters disappearing during the night. No signs of a struggle, no tracks leading away—just an empty bedroll come morning.”

  Caelan exhaled sharply. “And what does that tell you?”

  Halric tapped a knuckle against the map. “That this isn’t just a matter of a powerful beast. There’s something else at play here. Something that doesn’t just hunt—it manipulates.”

  A chill settled over the room.

  Caelan’s mind raced. If even trained hunters were falling victim to whatever lurked in Verdainne, then the danger was greater than he initially thought. Fortifying the town was one thing, but against a foe that could seemingly pull people from existence itself? That was another matter entirely.

  Halric studied him carefully. “So, Lord Forneaux... now that you know the risks, do you still plan to go through with ‘whatever it takes’?”

  Caelan’s grip on the table tightened. He had already come this far. There was no turning back now.

  His answer was unwavering. “Yes.”

  Halric exhaled heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You really are your father's son," he muttered. He looked back up at Caelan, his sharp eyes assessing the young noble’s unwavering determination. "Fine. Since you’re so damn set on throwing yourself into this mess, tell me—what exactly is your plan?"

  Caelan crossed his arms. "For now, I’m working on reinforcing the town’s defenses. I’ve already secured additional manpower and funding to strengthen the walls and improve security at the main points of entry. But that’s just a temporary measure."

  Halric grunted. "Temporary, yeah. Fortifications won’t mean much if the thing can just snatch people without a sound. You need to think bigger."

  "I know." Caelan's gaze was sharp. "That’s why I came here. The Hunters’ Guild has more experience dealing with magical beasts than any of us. If we’re going to fight this thing, we need to understand it first. I need every single piece of information you have on creatures with abilities like this—things that can manipulate their surroundings, isolate their prey, and erase their presence."

  Halric stroked his beard, thinking. "You're talking about creatures that use spatial distortion, mind manipulation, or predatory stealth tactics. That narrows it down, but not by much. There are documented cases of beasts with some of these traits, but none that match everything you’re describing."

  Lucien leaned forward. "Then what do you suggest? If we don’t even know what we’re fighting, how do we prepare?"

  Halric sighed. "First, I’ll have my scribes compile every record we have on creatures that fit the profile, even loosely. Second, if you want real insight, you’ll need to talk to someone who’s encountered this kind of thing before."

  Caelan raised a brow. "And who would that be?"

  Halric hesitated, then shook his head. "If they’re still alive, they’d be deep in the wilderness, retired or drinking themselves into an early grave. But I might have an idea of where to start looking."

  Caelan nodded. "Good. Then let’s start there."

  Halric exhaled again. "You don’t stop, do you?"

  Caelan smirked. "No. And neither does the enemy."

  Halric leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and shook his head. "Fine. You want a lead? I’ve got a couple." He tapped his fingers on the table before speaking again. "There’s a retired hunter named Gregor Valtin who used to specialize in tracking and exterminating high-threat magical beasts. If anyone has encountered something like this before, it's him. Problem is, he vanished off the grid years ago—lives somewhere out in the farmlands, last I heard."

  Lucien frowned. "Not exactly a solid lead."

  Halric shrugged. "Better than nothing. Then there's an old scholar, Alric Vienne. He used to work for the royal archives before he got obsessed with the unnatural and lost his reputation. Now he’s holed up in a crumbling tower outside of town, surrounded by stacks of dusty manuscripts. If anyone has written records of something similar, it’s him."

  Caelan nodded, taking in the information. "A retired hunter and an obsessed scholar. Interesting mix."

  Halric smirked. "You nobles like balance, don’t you?" His expression then turned serious. "Look, I don’t know if either of these men will have what you’re looking for, but they’re your best bet. If this thing keeps taking people, we’re all running out of time."

  Caelan stood. "Then we’ll start with Vienne. Information first, action second."

  Lucien grunted. "I was hoping for action first."

  Halric chuckled. "Trust me, kid. With the way things are going, you’ll get your fight soon enough."

  ChatGPT said:

  Caelan inclined his head slightly in gratitude. "Appreciate the information, Halric. We’ll start with Vienne and see what he knows."

  Lucien gave a short nod. "Yeah. Hopefully, he’s not completely mad."

  Halric smirked. "He is, but that’s beside the point. You’ll find him just outside the southern edge of town, past the old mill. His place sticks out—looks like it’s about to collapse, but somehow still standing. You’ll smell the parchment and dust before you see it."

  Caelan chuckled. "Sounds promising."

  The two turned to leave, making their way toward the guild’s exit. As they stepped outside into the crisp morning air, Lucien exhaled. "An eccentric scholar in a crumbling tower. Why do I feel like this is going to be a waste of time?"

  Caelan adjusted his coat. "Because you're impatient. If we charge in blind, we’ll just be throwing men at something we don’t understand. We need information, no matter how tedious the process."

  Lucien grunted but didn't argue. Instead, he moved toward the horses they had left tied near the guild entrance. The town was already awake, with merchants setting up stalls and workers moving about. But their path took them toward the quieter outskirts, where Alric Vienne's home awaited.

  As they rode, Caelan’s mind churned with thoughts. Every new piece of information they gathered painted a clearer picture of the beast, yet gaps remained. If Vienne had even the smallest clue, it could mean the difference between fortifying the town properly—or making a fatal mistake.

  The road ahead stretched toward their next lead.

  End of the chapter