Chapter 38 - Where We Cannot Be Seen

Voltaire's POV

"No—I don't want to touch it!" Aurein snapped.

"I refuse," Serena shot back. "That doorknob is filthy."

I shook my head as I lowered Serena's baggage from the carriage outside our lodgings, their argument carrying clearly through the thin air. Even without looking, I could picture it perfectly—the indignant pout, the dramatic recoil, the stubborn standoff over something utterly trivial.

If I wasn't here, the two of them would have driven each other mad within minutes. They were both far too picky in their own ways.

A faint smirk tugged at my lips as I set down the last bag.

"This mission will be a headache," I muttered to myself.

Only moments passed before the sound of pounding hooves cut through the quiet. I turned—and there was Rowan, riding hard toward me atop a white horse, his expression tight with unease. The horse galloped straight for me, fast enough that for a split second I thought he might crash into me.

"General Voltaire!" he called.

He reined in sharply, dismounted at once, and strode toward me.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, irritation clear in his voice. "I was waiting for you in the forest—our agreed meeting point."

I frowned. "What? Didn't you send someone to fetch us?"

"Us?" Rowan echoed.

"Aurein and Serena are with me on this mission. The one you sent led us here—to this barn. He told us to wait for you and Duke Kristoff, said you had matters to attend to."

Rowan's eyes widened. "What? I didn't send anyone." His brow furrowed deeply. "And this is not where I intended to lodge you."

The world seemed to tilt.

At the same time, the arguing voices inside the barn fell abruptly silent.

"Damn it," I breathed.

I turned and rushed inside.

"Wait! Where are you going, General Voltaire?" Rowan shouted as he followed.

Inside the house disguised as a barn, my gaze snapped toward a glow at the rear. Light spilled from the back, unnatural against the shadows. I ran.

The back door stood open.

On the ground lay Aurein's crown.

I snatched it up, my jaw tightening.

"Isn't that Aurein's crown?" Rowan asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

"Tch," I uttered, already moving. I burst through the back door and shouted into the open air, "Aurein! Serena! Are you there? Is this some kind of joke? This isn't funny!"

No answer.

My chest tightened.

"It's possible someone took them," Rowan said grimly. "This isn't the place I meant to bring you. Someone lured you here—and they knew you were coming. The question is... how did they know?"

"No time to think about that!" I snapped. Anger flared hot and sharp. "The mission hasn't even begun and something's already happened to them." I clenched the crown in my hand. "We have to find them—now. Do you know this area?"

Every second felt like a blade pressed to my throat.

I didn't know what they might do to the two of them.

Especially Aurein.

If even a single scratch marred him, I would never forgive myself. And I didn't know—truly didn't know—what I might do if I found him hurt.

"I—I do," Rowan replied, clearly shaken. "But the forest here is full of twists and false paths. It won't be easy."

"Then we don't have a choice," I said coldly. "We move. Now."

My grip tightened around Aurein's crown, the metal biting into my palm.

"Mm," Rowan answered.

And we ran.

* * *

Third Person POV

"So the rebellion group was right after all," one of the brigands muttered, tightening his hold on Aurein. "The prince and the princess really did slip into the southern region. And good thing we have tracked them."

A low chuckle followed.

"Our brigand leader will be pleased to hear this," he went on. "We weren't sent to fight their war—but catching Ardentia's golden heirs?"

His grip tightened, not with rage, but calculation.

"That's worth more than any banner or cause. There's a fortune waiting for us because of these two."

"I'm sure we'll be well rewarded," another man replied. Then he paused, his gaze sliding toward Serena, unconscious in his arms. A slow, ugly grin crept across his face. "But look at her. The princess is beautiful. Why shouldn't I take advantage of her while she's still out cold? If she bears my child, that child would carry royal blood."

"Wait," the man holding Aurein said sharply. "That doesn't sound right. If anyone is to touch the princess, it should be decided properly."

"Then take the prince instead," the other man said with a laugh. "Look at him—smooth-skinned, slender, pale as a woman. He won't get pregnant like the princess, but at least you'd have your fun."

Both men lowered the unconscious royals and dropped them onto the cold earth.

They stood over Aurein and Serena, studying them like spoils laid out for inspection.

"I'll take the princess," the man holding Serena said decisively. "It was my idea."

"Not so fast," the other argued. "We should discuss this properly. I want—"

Their voices overlapped, growing louder, uglier, as they argued over who would claim the princess.

Unseen by them, someone was watching from behind a wall of thick foliage.

A farm boy—no older than thirteen—watched everything, his breath shallow as he listened.

"This is wrong," he whispered, horror tightening his chest. "They said they captured the prince and princess of Ardentia. We have to help them, Zen."

He swallowed hard, doubt creeping in even as resolve flared.

"But how can we help them, Zen?" he murmured. "We don't even know how to fight and we are too small. They're brigands—and they have weapons. We could get killed."

His companion did not answer.

Because his companion was not human.

Beside him sat a male juvenile wolf—caught between puphood and adulthood. Zen's ears were alert, his body tense, eyes fixed on the clearing ahead.

"But we have to be brave," the boy said quietly. "I want to be a warrior when I grow up. I want to be like General Voltaire. He's the one I look up to."

He reached out and gently stroked Zen's head. The wolf leaned into the touch, calm and trusting.

"We can do this," the boy said, though uncertainty crept into his voice. He spotted a fallen piece of wood and picked it up. "This should work. Maybe."

He peeked out again, heart pounding, then whispered urgently, "Zen—when I hit one of them, bite the other one. Understood?"

Zen suddenly barked.

The sharp sound cut through the clearing like a blade.

The two brigands froze—then bolted.

They fled in a panic, abandoning the area in seconds.

The boy scratched his head, dismay flooding his face.

"Zen..." he said, his voice wavering, close to tears. "You scared them off."

He stepped out into the clearing, moving to where the brigands had been moments before. Zen followed closely, brushing against his leg, circling him protectively as the boy absentmindedly patted his fur.

"How are we supposed to help the prince and princess now?" the boy asked. "Can you smell them, Zen?"

The wolf only tilted his head, confused.

"Argh!" the boy groaned. "We really need more training. How are we supposed to be strong and ready like this?"

He sighed heavily and dropped down onto the ground.

"Elric? Zen? Where did you two run off to now?" a voice called. "You know that a lot of brigands lurk here in the forest."

"Grandfather! We're here!" the boy replied. His name—Elric—rang with relief.

Moments later, his grandfather emerged, slightly out of breath from calling and searching.

"You two wander everywhere," the old man said. "Come on. It's time for lunch."

"But Grandfather," Elric insisted, urgency lighting his eyes, "the prince and princess of Ardentia—they were captured by the brigands. We have to help them!"

"What are you talking about?" his grandfather said, frowning. "The prince and princess? That's impossible. Why would they be anywhere near here?"

"I heard them," Elric said quickly. "The brigands said they wanted to take advantage of them. I don't fully understand what they meant, but I know it was something bad. One of them said he wanted to have a child with the princess so his child would have royal blood."

"Shh," his grandfather hissed. "Don't say things like that. If anyone hears you—especially those in authority—you could be punished. Enough. Let's go home and eat."

"But Grandfather," Elric pleaded, "Zen and I really need to help them. Don't I want to become a warrior like General Voltaire someday? You told me yourself—he was still young when he became our hero, when he defended the farmlands from the brigands. I want to be like him."

His grandfather sighed. "It's good to admire his bravery and skill. But I don't want you inventing stories just so you can play at being a warrior. You're still young. You have much to learn." He coughed mid-sentence, the sound rough and deep.

"Grandfather!" Elric exclaimed, rushing to support him, worry overtaking his frustration.

"You see?" the old man said between coughs. "Come on. Let's go home. You'll only make my condition worse by arguing."

"...Alright," Elric said quietly, shoulders slumping. "Come on, Zen. Let's go home."

They began walking back together, Zen padding faithfully at Elric's side.

"You're the only one who can keep Zen in line," his grandfather remarked, still coughing lightly. "He must really love and trust you."

"That's because I never abandoned him," Elric said with a small smile. "When his wolf pack left him when he was weak, I stayed." He gently nudged his grandfather. "Enough talking now. You'll just start coughing again. Let's get you some water."

And with that, they returned to their home—a small hut beside the farmland—unaware that fate had already taken note of a farm boy, a juvenile wolf, and the courage quietly growing between them.

Meanwhile—deep within the forest.

The trees stood thick and close together, their towering trunks swallowing sound, their tangled roots clawing at the earth like hidden traps. Between them moved General Voltaire and Rowan, calling out into the wilderness, their voices slicing through the hush as they shouted the names of Prince Aurein and Princess Serena.

Their urgency pressed heavily into the air.

"This isn't working," Rowan said, frustration edging his voice as he scanned the shadows between the trees. "Searching like this will take forever, General Voltaire. It would be better if we split up."

"That would be wise," Voltaire replied.

The moment the words left his mouth, he drew his sword.

Steel flashed.

Rowan nearly leapt out of his skin. He stumbled back, hands flying up in surrender.

"I know we're not exactly on good terms, General Voltaire!" Rowan exclaimed, panic bursting free. "But I said we should split paths—not that you should end my path and send me straight to the heavens!"

Voltaire lifted the blade higher, its edge catching the filtered light.

"General Voltaire!" Rowan yelped. "Are you seriously going to kill me in a place where no one can witness it? Have you finally lost your mind?!"

Voltaire's lips curved into a slow, infuriating smirk.

Then—

Slash!

The blade came down, not toward Rowan, but into the bark of a nearby tree. The sound echoed sharply as a clean mark was carved into the trunk.

"We meet back here after ten minutes of searching," Voltaire said evenly.

Rowan blinked.

"I'm not one of your warriors, General Voltaire," he snapped. "You don't get to order me around."

Voltaire's eyes narrowed.

He didn't say a word.

That alone was enough.

Rowan immediately stepped back again. "Alright! Fine! You win!" he said quickly, throwing his hands up. "We'll meet here again after ten minutes. I'll take the left path—you take the right."

Voltaire gave a short nod.

Without another word, they separated. As Voltaire moved deeper into the forest, he scored deliberate marks into the trees along his route, ensuring he would not lose his way. His senses sharpened, every sound amplified—rustling leaves, distant snaps of twigs, even the subtle shift of the wind.

"Damn it," he thought, jaw tightening as his teeth ground together. "I was distracted for only a moment... and now both of you are gone."

Ten minutes passed.

Unease coiled tighter in his chest.

Voltaire turned back toward the marked tree where they were meant to reunite.

Before he reached it, Rowan's voice rang out through the forest.

"General! Look what I found!"

Rowan emerged from between the trees, waving his arm wildly as he ran closer.

"What did you find?" Voltaire asked, tension sharpening his tone.

"Look at this," Rowan said breathlessly, holding something up between his thumb and forefinger.

A single strand of white hair glinted in the light.

"If I'm not mistaken," Rowan continued, eyes wide, "this is Serena's hair."

Voltaire's gaze snapped to it. "Where did you find that?"

"Over there," Rowan said, pointing. "It was on the grass. It was so shiny it caught my attention right away. It looks like Serena was lying there."

"Well done," Voltaire said. "You did very well, Rowan."

He reached out and placed a hand on Rowan's head, giving it a firm, approving pat.

Rowan froze.

His breath hitched. Heat rushed to his face.

"D-Don't touch me!" Rowan snapped, swatting Voltaire's hand away as if burned. He immediately turned his back, flustered and stiff. "Just—follow me!"

They moved toward the spot Rowan indicated.

Voltaire crouched, examining the ground with a warrior's precision.

"You're right," he said. "They were here. The soil still holds the shape of their bodies. And there are footprints."

"A lot of them," Rowan added. "And I saw a paw print too. Probably a dog—or something similar."

"That confirms it," Voltaire said grimly. "Someone took them. But who?"

"Most likely brigands lurking around this forest," Rowan replied. "The ones who steal gold and farm resources."

"Not the rebels?" Voltaire asked.

Rowan shook his head. "Unlikely. What would they gain from abducting a prince and a princess? Hostages? They wouldn't dare. That would attract too much attention—and possibly start a war. The Rebels act quietly. This isn't their timing."

Voltaire studied him. "You seem to know quite a lot."

"I live here," Rowan said flatly. "I have my sources. It's most likely brigands."

"First rebels," Voltaire muttered, shaking his head, "and now them. The southern region is a nest for every vile creature imaginable. This place clearly needs stronger security. Has it been mismanaged?"

"Hey!" Rowan snapped. "Don't you dare judge us like that!"

"Enough," Voltaire said. "We don't have time. We move now."

He broke into a run.

Rowan followed.

As they ran, Rowan kept glancing at Voltaire's back, his brow furrowed. He slapped his own cheek lightly, as if trying to wake himself from a thought he didn't want.

"No... no...," he whispered under his breath. "It's Aurein. I like Aurein. I like Aurein. I hate General Voltaire. I hate General Voltaire."

"Did you say something?" Voltaire asked, glancing back.

"N-Nothing!" Rowan blurted out, eyes darting away.

"I thought you were muttering something suspicious," Voltaire said, already turning forward again. Then he pointed down. "There's a hole in your path. Watch your step—you might trip."

Rowan nodded distractedly.

Too distracted.

A strange weakness washed over him for reasons he could not explain.

And then—

Thud.

He went down hard.

"Tch. I warned you," Voltaire said irritably as he turned back. He extended a hand. "Are you alright?"

Rowan slapped the hand away.

"I don't need your help! I'm fine!" he snapped, scrambling up on his own and brushing dirt from his clothes.

"If you say so," Voltaire replied coolly. "Let's move. We can't waste any more time. We need to find them—both of them—as soon as possible."

Rowan nodded.

They broke into a run once more, boots pounding against damp earth as the forest swallowed them whole.

For Rowan, the confusion was maddening. He knew—he had always known—that his feelings for Aurein ran deep, far deeper than duty or admiration. And yet, lately, there was something else. Something unwelcome. Something dangerously inconvenient. A strange, fluttering awareness that sparked every time the General he so openly disliked moved too close, spoke too calmly, or glanced his way.

"Rowan," Voltaire called.

"Yes, General Voltaire?" Rowan answered at once.

Voltaire glanced back over his shoulder—and just like that, Rowan's breathing betrayed him. It hitched, sped up, his chest tightening as if he had been caught doing something terribly incriminating. Which, unfortunately, his own heart seemed to agree with.

"I have a feeling I've been through this part of the forest before," Voltaire said thoughtfully. "Is there any chance there's farmland nearby?"

"Actually... yes," Rowan replied, clearing his throat. "If we go further in."

Voltaire nodded, gaze sharpening as memory stirred. "I have a hunch I've been here long ago. It was during a mission—years back. I was still a warrior under my father's army. I went to that farm to, well..." He paused, lips curling faintly. "See if there were any women worth flirting with. Instead, I ended up fighting brigands who were terrorizing the farmers."

Rowan snorted. "Yes, I've heard of that incident. The farmland is safe now. There are assigned warriors guarding the area, but it's mostly the elderly who work and live there." He hesitated, then added, "They built a wooden statue of your younger image back then after you left. The people honored you for protecting their land."

Voltaire blinked. "They did?"

He smirked.

Rowan shot him a sideways glance. "Imagine that. You went looking for a girl to flirt with, and somehow became a hero instead. Truly fitting for General Voltaire."

"I can't help it," Voltaire said lightly. "I may have been a womanizer, but when it comes to responsibility—and people who need protection—I take that seriously."

Rowan's hand flew to his chest.

His heart was racing.

"I—I don't need protection, alright?" he blurted. "I can fight for myself."

Voltaire slowed and gave him a puzzled look. "I know. Why would I protect you?"

"Good," Rowan said quickly, far too quickly. "I'm a strong and skilled warrior, just like you. I don't need protecting."

"If you say so," Voltaire replied, shrugging. "But if you ever find yourself in danger, I'll still save you."

He lifted both eyebrows once, casually.

Rowan nearly combusted.

"Don't flirt with me!" he snapped, face blazing red. "I'm not who you think I am!"

Voltaire recoiled slightly, looking almost offended. "Flirting with you? Why would I?"

"Y–Yes! You shouldn't! I admit I like Aurein—romantically! So there is absolutely no way that I would ever—"

"So you're my rival, then," Voltaire said, grinning, "when it comes to Aurein?"

Rowan faltered.

Somewhere deep inside him, an inconvenient truth finally surfaced—cold, sudden, undeniable.

Voltaire was no longer his rival for Aurein.

Aurein might have had become his rival for Voltaire.

"There," Voltaire said suddenly, pointing ahead. "I see it. A farmland. Let's go. We can ask the people there if they have any clues about the brigands' base lurking around the forest."

They slowed as they entered the farmland, Voltaire stopping to scan the area. Small wooden huts dotted the land, smoke drifting lazily from chimneys.

"Ah. Yes," Voltaire said proudly, hands on his waist, chin lifted. "This is the very farmland I saved from brigands back then."

"Don't flatter yourself too much, General Voltaire," Rowan muttered.

"Where is everyone?" Voltaire asked. "All I see are huts."

"Probably eating inside," Rowan replied. "It's already lunchtime."

They walked toward the statue Rowan had mentioned.

"That's it," Rowan said as they stopped before it. "The statue they made for you. Carved by the people who live here."

Voltaire studied it, humming. "Hmm. I look younger here. Not as broad yet."

"Yeah, you looked more mischievous back then." Rowan teased.

"Lord Rowan?" a voice called.

Rowan turned. "Ah—Elder Henderson. It's you."

The elderly man smiled warmly. "It's good to see you visiting the farmland, Lord Rowan. Is there anything I can assist you with?"

Then his gaze shifted—to Voltaire.

His eyes narrowed.

They flickered between the man and the statue beside him.

Voltaire, completely unhelpfully, struck the same pose as the statue—hand on his waist, chin raised.

"You don't have to do that, General," Rowan muttered.

"Is... is what I'm seeing real?" Henderson gasped. "Are you by any chance...?"

"It's me, Elder Henderson," Voltaire said, extending a hand. "It's been a long time."

Henderson grasped both of Voltaire's hands, beaming. "You've grown into a fine man since the last time I saw you!" he laughed, coughing shortly after.

"Are you alright?" Rowan asked, steadying the elder by the shoulder.

"Don't mind me," Henderson said between coughs. "My grandson will be thrilled to see you, General Voltaire. He idolizes you! I'll go fetch him at once."

The old man turned and hurried away—slow, yet determined.

Voltaire sighed. "Rowan, I'm sorry, but we don't have time. I'll greet them properly after we find Aurein and Serena."

"I know," Rowan said. "Wait—I'll ask him."

He called out, "Elder Henderson—do you know where the brigands are hiding? We're searching for them. They've captured the prince and the princess."

Henderson froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide. "I may be old, but did I hear that correctly? The prince and princess were captured?"

"Yes," Voltaire said firmly. "But do not tell anyone. No one must know."

"Good heavens..." Henderson whispered. "My grandson wasn't lying. He said he saw two brigands carrying the prince and princess. He told me they intended to take advantage of them."

Something dark ignited behind Voltaire's eyes.

Outwardly, he remained calm—composed, controlled.

But inside, fury roared.

Once he found that hideout, there would be nothing left of it but ash.

"Can I please talk to your grandson?" Voltaire requested.

"Just a moment!" Henderson called out sharply. "Elric! Elric! Come here—now!"

The door swung open at once from their hut.

Elric hurried out, small boots thudding against the ground, with Zen trotting close behind him—alert, watchful, his juvenile frame tense with curiosity.

"A young wolf?" Rowan murmured, realization striking him. "Then the paw prints we saw earlier... they belonged to that one."

Beside him, General Voltaire released a slow breath, steadying himself, forcing his racing thoughts into order. Every second mattered. Aurein. Serena. Somewhere in this forest—lost, or worse.

Elric stopped before them, eyes wide with curiosity.

"Grandfather?" he asked, puzzled, before bowing respectfully toward Rowan. "Lord Rowan, it is an honor to see you again."

He straightened, then turned sharply to Zen.

"Zen," Elric scolded in a whisper, "what did I tell you? When I bow before our rulers, you bow too."

Zen merely stared back at him, head tilted, innocent and unmoved.

Elric groaned in frustration. "Ack—he really still needs more training!"

Henderson chuckled, clearly amused. Then he gestured toward the man standing beside Rowan.

"Elric," he said with a smile, "look closely at the man beside Lord Rowan. Take a good look at who he is."

Elric squinted, studying Voltaire with narrowed eyes—his height, his presence, the quiet strength that seemed to radiate from him.

Before Elric could speak, Zen suddenly padded forward and pressed his wet nose against Voltaire's boot—then began licking it enthusiastically.

Elric gasped.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, beaming up at Voltaire. "That means you are a good person. Zen only does that when he feels someone with a pure heart. He rarely ever does this. Usually, he growls at strangers."

Henderson laughed. "Elric, this is General Voltaire."

The name struck like lightning.

Elric's eyes widened impossibly as he slowly looked up—up—until his gaze met Voltaire's towering figure.

"Y-you..." Elric whispered. "You're our hero?"

Before anyone could stop him, Elric dropped to one knee before Voltaire, bowing deeply.

"I wanted to meet you in person!" he said breathlessly. "You're my idol—my hero! I want to be like you someday! A great, strong warrior who protects everyone in need!"

Voltaire blinked, startled.

Then he let out a soft laugh and scratched the back of his head, visibly flustered.

"Stand up, my boy," he said gently. "You don't need to kneel before me. I'm not royalty. I'm just a commoner—like you."

Elric rose slowly, eyes shining, still unable to believe that the man he had admired from stories and the wooden statue now stood before him in flesh and blood.

Voltaire studied him for a moment, then crouched slightly to meet his gaze.

"You want to be a warrior when you grow up," Voltaire said. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes!" Elric answered eagerly. "I do!"

He straightened, chest puffed with pride.

"With Zen by my side, we'll become strong—just like you! We'll protect each other, and protect everyone else too! We're still young now, but when we grow up, we'll be big and strong! And Zen—he'll be a huge wolf someday!"

Voltaire smiled—warm, genuine.

"That's a fine dream," he said. Then his expression sharpened, serious once more. "In that case... help me with this mission. It will be dangerous. Are you willing?"

"Yes! I am!" Elric exclaimed—then paused and turned anxiously toward Henderson. "Grandfather... may I? Please? Please? Will you allow me to go with General Voltaire?"

Henderson sighed, rubbing his temple.

"If I say no," he said dryly, "you'll cry nonstop and punish my ears until I regret it."

Voltaire chuckled softly.

"You sound like someone I know very well," he said. "Stubborn—but brave. Just like the prince."

"Really?" Elric asked, eyes lighting up.

"Yes," Voltaire replied. "And this mission is about him. We must find the prince—and the princess—and bring them here safely. Are you ready for that, young one? You and Zen?"

"Yes!" Elric shouted, nearly bouncing in place. "I'm ready for my first mission under General Voltaire!"

Zen let out a small, excited howl, tail wagging furiously.

Voltaire nodded, pleased.

Then he turned once more to Henderson.

"Are you certain?" Voltaire asked. "That it's all right to bring them?"

Henderson met his gaze calmly.

"Yes," he said. "I entrust him to you. They are young—but that is exactly why they should experience things like this. It makes them stronger. Makes them feel alive."

He smiled faintly.

"If I were still young... I would have joined you myself."

"Thank you, Elder Henderson," Voltaire said.

Then, his voice calm but firm as he spoke directly to Elric.

"This will be a dangerous mission," Voltaire said quietly. "If anything goes wrong, I want you and Zen to hide. Protect each other. Is that clear?"

"Yes, General!" Elric answered immediately, standing straighter.

Voltaire smiled faintly. "Good. You're starting to sound like one of my warriors."

Elric's chest swelled with pride. "I want to be part of your army when I grow up," he said boldly.

"Then consider this your initiation," Voltaire replied. "Your first step as my warrior." His gaze sharpened with purpose. "And you should know this—the prince serves under me as well. He underwent his own initiation and proved himself worthy. That is how he prepares to become a strong king."

Elric's eyes shone. He lifted his chin, standing rigid and proud, as though he were already a seasoned soldier.

"Yes!" he exclaimed.

From a short distance away, Rowan watched in silence.

For a fleeting moment, he saw something unmistakable in Voltaire—not the feared general, not the battlefield legend, but a man capable of inspiring loyalty and hope with nothing more than his presence.

That made him smile as he looked at Voltaire.

"I guess that's why the people adores you so much, especially your warriors and Aurein." Rowan murmured to himself.

"All right," Voltaire said, rising to his feet. "For our first mission together, we need to find the prince and the princess. They are being held captive." His eyes locked onto Elric. "Do you know where the brigands' hideout is?"

Elric hesitated. "I... don't," he admitted softly.

"But your grandfather said you saw them earlier," Voltaire said.

"I did," Elric replied. "I wanted to help the prince and princess, but I only had a piece of wood. I wanted to attack, but Zen growled and scared them away. They escaped."

Voltaire nodded. "That was the right decision. If you had confronted them, your life would have been in danger. Zen protected you." He rested a hand on Zen's head, and the wolf allowed it and even licked his fingers. "It's hard to tame a wolf. But you, my boy, you did it. I'm impressed."

Elric smiled. "Zen seems to like you, General Voltaire. He doesn't even let my grandfather touch him."

"Is that so?" Rowan said lightly. "May I try?"

He extended his hand.

Zen bared his teeth instantly.

Rowan withdrew at once. "I see," he muttered. "Clearly, I am not one of Zen's favorites."

Voltaire exhaled slowly, his mind racing. "If you don't know where their hideout is..." His gaze dropped to Zen, who was sniffing the fabric of his coat.

Then, realization struck.

Voltaire reached inside his clothing and withdrew an object wrapped in cloth.

Aurein's crown.

Rowan's eyes widened. "That's brilliant," he said. "We can track the prince's scent using Zen."

Voltaire knelt again and held the crown out to Zen.

They watched in tense silence as the wolf sniffed deeply. Zen lifted his head, turning slowly, searching the air. The forest seemed to hold its breath with them.

Then Zen snapped his head toward the northeast and let out a low growl.

Elric gasped. "He's found the prince's scent! Let's go!"

Voltaire's expression hardened with resolve.

"Then lead us," he said. "Zen. Elric."

Without another word, Zen bolted forward—straight into the darkening forest.

Voltaire and Rowan followed.

Unaware of what awaited them beyond the trees.

End of Chapter 38