Jolthar and Myron watched as the Count turned and walked back toward the castle, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Jolthar crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing as he watched Hamen disappear into the castle. He said,"The Count's not what I expected."
Myron nodded, his expression thoughtful. "He's not afraid of the Empire," he said. "Or the Chittera. Quite a man, he is."
Myron turned towards Jolthar, folded his arms, and studied Jolthar with a scrutinizing gaze. His piercing eyes gleamed with curiosity, laced with a hint of amusement.
Then, with a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, he spoke.
"Since when have you been obeying the empire's officials?" His voice carried a quiet challenge, his words sharp as a blade. "I didn't take you for the kind of man to follow another's orders."
Myron saw Jolthar remained silent when Wymar was questioning, and he was ordering Jolthar to report as he was some soldier of the empire. And he perceived Jolthar a someone who marched to his own drum.
Elara did mention that Jolthar seemed to have left the clan, and she didn't know where he went.
Seeing him here surprised him.
Jolthar turned to him, ready to retort, but before he could form the words, something strange washed over him—a sensation so sudden and foreign that it made his entire body tense.
He felt it—a call, not through words or sound, but something deeper, something primal. It resonated within him, a silent summons that thrummed in his very bones. He knew at once where it came from.
There was no pact, no spoken oath that bound them. Yet, between them, an unspoken bond had taken root, forged in the fires of battle and understanding. It was not magic, nor was it mere coincidence—something far older and more instinctive connected them. And now, it was reaching out to him, demanding his presence.
His gaze snapped toward the direction of the stables.
A shiver ran down his spine. Something was wrong.
His breath hitched, and before Myron could say anything else, Jolthar was already moving, his boots pounding against the stone pavement as he sprinted towards the stables.
He didn't pause to explain—he didn't have time.
Myron frowned, confused by the abrupt change in Jolthar's demeanour. But instead of standing idly by, he followed. His curiosity piqued, and something in Jolthar's reaction unsettled him. If someone like him—who rarely lost his composure—was in such a hurry, then the situation was serious.
They weaved through the castle grounds at breakneck speed, past startled soldiers who barely had time to register their presence.
Jolthar, who was ahead, moved like a blur, his strides impossibly long, as if he were gliding rather than running. He wasn't consciously trying to fly—he had never attempted such a feat before—but his telekinesis propelled him forward with unnatural speed. His only focus was reaching the stables at the city's edge.
Each time his foot touched the ground, the earth cracked beneath him, the sheer force of his movement leaving fissures in his wake. Behind him, Myron struggled to keep up, his breath ragged as he pushed himself harder. Yet no matter how much he tried, the gap between them only widened. Googlᴇ search novel✶fire.net
Jolthar was fast—far faster than Myron had ever imagined.
The stables came into view—a long, well-maintained building of solid oak and stone. The usual sounds of horses and stable hands had been replaced by an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of claws against the wood and a low, menacing growl.
What they found inside made both men freeze in their tracks. Two beasts, unlike anything they had ever seen, prowled the stable floor. They matched the drake in size, but where the drake was magnificent in its draconic glory, these creatures were nightmare fuel.
And then, he turned towards the drake, and the sight of the drake made Jolthar's blood boil.
Maelruth was being suppressed by an invisible force, and the drake was trying her best to hold her ground. There were two beasts standing in front of the drake, glaring and snarling at her.
Two massive beasts loomed in the stable yard, their sleek, black fur bodies shifting like liquid shadows under the evening light. They were feline in their agility, yet their limbs carried the powerful bulk of a lion's frame. There was something wolfish about them too—their fangs bared, snarling, muscles coiled like steel cords, ready to pounce.
Shadows seemed to cling to their dark fur, and their eyes gleamed with unnatural intelligence. Their presence had the horses pressing against the backs of their stalls, wild-eyed with terror.
Between the beasts stood a man whose very presence seemed to corrupt the air around him. He held what appeared to be a simple wooden staff, but its tip pulsed with a sickly green light that made Jolthar unsettled. The drake—usually so proud and strong—was pressed against the ground, its scales dulled with distress, each breath coming in laboured pants.
The man's laugh echoed through the stable, a sound devoid of warmth. "You are going to be mine," he announced, raising the sceptre. The magical artefact flared brighter, and the drake's shriek of pain cut through the air like a knife.
"Licaolfs," Myron muttered, seeing those two beasts.
That man's gaze locked onto Jolthar, a wicked smile spreading across his lips.
"Ah," the man chuckled.
"So, you finally came. I was wondering how long it would take."
Jolthar's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.
"It's you!" Jolthar could tell that he was the man from the tavern who approached him, asking him to sell his drake.
The man raised the sceptre slightly, and the glow at its tip intensified. "I will be taking the drake."
At those words, the drake let out a sharp shriek, its entire body convulsing under the invisible weight pressing upon it.
The green-coloured energy grew brighter as it was directed towards the drake, making the drake pressed against the ground, oppressing it.