Time seemed to have stopped inside Cyril von Eichberg's enormous, luxurious carriage.
The carriage was practically a traveling palace.
The interior was extraordinarily spacious, with thick, soft animal-skin carpets, smoothly polished wooden panels set into the walls, and even built-in bookcases and wine cabinets.
In one corner, an exquisite brass heater radiated drowsy warmth, completely shutting out the bitter cold outside.
At the very back, a comfortable bed covered in velvet bedding occupied a sizable portion of the space.
The air was thick with expensive perfume, alcohol, and a certain decadent scent.
Cyril was sprawled lazily against the cushions with his upper body bare, one arm around a beautiful woman.
He had just finished the lunch his servants had brought him and was planning to take a short nap.
Perhaps the monotonous journey of the past several days had finally begun to bore him. Or perhaps the crisp, cold daylight unique to the Northern Territory filtering in through the window had piqued his curiosity. Either way, this pampered young master had, for once, developed the urge to "take a look at the scenery outside."
He pushed the woman away, stretched lazily, and shouted toward the carriage door, "Hans! Steward Hans!"
The carriage door was pulled open a crack, and old Hans's humble voice came from outside. "Young master, what are your orders?"
"Where are we? What happened to Lorenzo and Jasper? Why is it so quiet outside?" Cyril asked with a yawn.
"To answer you, young master, we've entered the hilly region of the Southwest Peninsula. Icewater Creek is not far ahead. Young Master Visconti and Young Master Waters turned off toward their own territories two days ago." The steward answered respectfully.
"Oh? They're all gone?" Cyril raised an eyebrow, seeming somewhat bored. "Who's still traveling with us, then?"
"Only