Heavy velvet curtains shut out the howling blizzard. Inside the residence in Frost Glaive City, it was so quiet that the flames almost seemed to breathe.
A faint light flickered in the fireplace. The dim yellow magic lamp divided the room into light and shadow, leaving only the high-backed chair and the young lord sitting in the darkness clearly visible.
Louis wore a casual black silk shirt, its collar slightly open, as though he had just stepped away from the warmth of a family dinner.
A snow-white Tundra Wolf cub lay at his feet, dozing with its eyes half closed yet remaining keenly alert to everything around it.
Isaac stood quietly in the corner. The boy held his back straight like a newly enrolled apprentice, reverence and nervousness mingling in his eyes.
A jumble of footsteps sounded outside the door.
Then, with a creak, an attendant ushered Baron Morcan inside.
He looked nothing like the man who, two days earlier, had sat in the tearoom holding a teacup, chin raised, sneering that "Louis is nothing but a little brat."
Two sleepless nights, crushing terror, and endless waiting had completely broken him.
His velvet formal wear, expensive enough to buy a small plot of farmland, was a crumpled mess. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his hair looked wind-torn, and he practically had to be pushed into the room.
That caravan carried nearly a year's output from the Molkan Fief. It was his only hope of buying enough grain to survive the winter.
Worse still, when he had written to Graystone Fortress for answers, all he received was a cold reply: "You may consult the Red Tide Earl regarding this matter." That finally made him realize he had become a bargaining chip in a political struggle.
The moment Baron Morcan crossed the