The clash with Hugo and the knight's cold warning weighed on Elara's heart like a heavy stone. She silently returned to the stream bank, resuming the cleaning of the filthy saddle with numb hands, her spirit icy.
She knew her response earlier, though temporarily defusing the crisis, had undoubtedly cast a stone into the calm mud puddle, creating unnecessary ripples. She had drawn attention—not just Hugo's resentment, but possibly the scrutiny of others as well.
Just as Elara forced herself to concentrate, block out potential dangers, and focus only on the cold stream water and heavy tack before her, the noisy atmosphere of the camp suddenly underwent a subtle shift.
The clamor from the main path seemed to quiet down instantly. Even the nearby servants, who had been chatting or bickering, stopped in unison, their faces showing a mixture of tension, awe, and even fear. They quickly lowered their heads, standing stock-still.
Elara's heart tightened. A sense of foreboding made her instinctively pause her work too. Like the other servants, she lowered her head, but couldn't resist stealing a wary glance towards the source of the commotion.
A procession was approaching slowly, yet with an undeniable majesty, from the main path towards the area where the Baron's camp was situated.
At the head rode a magnificent black warhorse, exceptionally spirited, carrying a rider whose posture was ramrod straight. Even from a distance, the imposing aura was palpable. Following closely was a troop of knights. Few in number, but their armor was exquisite, their faces grim, their movements imbued with the disciplined, iron-blooded air of seasoned warriors—a stark contrast to the Baron's guards, who looked more ceremonial.
Wherever this procession passed, the very air seemed to still. Everyone held their breath. Nobles and servants lining the path bowed deeply, their postures conveying utmost humility.
Elara's heart began to pound uncontrollably. She didn't need anyone to tell her; she could guess the identity of this entourage. To command such deference, such awe, in this Royal Hunting Ground, only a few top-tier nobles with immense power could qualify.
And among them, the one most likely to possess such a cold, iron-blooded aura…
The name that even low-ranking servants whispered with a touch of taboo flashed through Elara's mind—Reinhardt!
As expected, as the procession drew nearer, she heard suppressed but respectful announcements from ahead: "His Grace, Duke Reinhardt, has arrived!"
It really was him! The legendary "Iron Duke" Reinhardt—reputed to be ruthless, commanding vast armies, a figure even the King treated with caution!
Elara almost instinctively ducked her head lower, wishing she could shrink into herself and disappear. She didn't know why this immensely powerful magnate would suddenly come to the Baron's relatively remote campsite, but she knew with certainty that even a casual glance from such a figure could bring utter disaster upon her!
Duke Reinhardt's horse stopped not far from where she stood. It seemed the Baron himself, accompanied by Gregor and other stewards, had rushed forward to greet him with fearful reverence. Elara could hear the Baron's fawning, almost groveling, words of welcome, and Gregor's even more nauseatingly obsequious tone.
But His Grace the Duke seemed little interested in responding.
Elara felt an immensely oppressive, cold gaze sweep across the campsite like a physical force—over the simple tents, over the Baron and his fawning attendants, over… the servants like herself, prostrated low, daring not to look up.
That gaze was like a hawk surveying its territory, carrying an absolute authority, the power of life and death.
Elara's heart leaped into her throat. She bit her lip hard, struggling to control the slight trembling that fear induced in her body. She prayed, prayed for that gaze to move on quickly, prayed that she, this insignificant speck of dust, wouldn't offend the great lord's eyes.
The air seemed to solidify. Time stretched infinitely long.
The entire world seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the Duke's next move, his next word, or… the next target of his attention.