Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Mister Wolf and the little warrior 2

Looking for someone who did not want to be found was unsurpisingly difficult.

Looking for someone who did not want to be found, whilst juggling a Kingdom, mentoring young apprentices and attempting to keep a secret, was unsurprisingly even more difficult.

This might account to why it had taken Callan over five hell-sent years to make even a dent in his search for Minna. Emabarrassing for a man of his means, yes, but said means weren't exactly at his disposition. Time hadn't been on his side either.

As much as he wanted to claim to be capable of managing his Kingdom by himself, no aides needed, it wasn't the truth. He hadn't been the only one to suffer from Finnian's loss. The Kingdom had lost a leader, and he had lost not only a brother and a friend, but someone to rule beside him. In the subsequent years, Callan had learned the depth of the phrase, Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Amidst even more political instability, it had taken him longer than he cared to admit to have enough time to breath, let alone find his missing wife. A wife no one could know about, to make matters worse. Callan was not a well-liked man. He had more enemies than friends, a fact he was dully aware of. Never had he regretted it, until he thought of the dangers Minna might face for being tied to him.

Without many people he could trust, the lion's share of the job had been left for him alone. Never had a land seemed so large, until he combed Rhothomir for a glimpse of unruly ginger hair. Never had distance seemed to wide, until he waited days and days near Minna's old home, hoping to hear just a snippet of twinkling laughter.

Callan searched the coast of Covinsmire, the seaside home Minna had mentioned so many times in her stories. He waited outside the ancestral Hawthorne manor, anxious to see even a hint of her smile. He combed through every town and place she might have ever mentioned, he travelled far and wide, hoping to hear even a hint of a rumour.

The years passed but his longing for her never dimmed. His hope of finding her burned bright as ever. Was there a point in finding someone who did not wish to be found? he often asked himself. But he reasoned that even if he got to see her for a moment, it would have been worth it.

It was with that in mind that he persevered. He waited, and waited, and waited. Callan had time. He didn't mind, so long as he found her. And time truly did reap it's rewards. Eventually, he heard something that piqued his interest.

In a great manor on a hill, there lived a beautiful woman, they said. She was lovelier than spring after a long harsh winter, but as cold as the first fall of snow. For despite her beauty, she never so much as warmed anyone with a smile or even a hint of her voice.

She was a mysterious woman, the duchess. Quiet as the dead and just as elusive. Like a story-tale princess, she never left her hilltop castle, remaining there like a bird on a great big perch, watching them all with faraway eyes.

It was this description that drew Callan in, pulled him across the lands to a Duchy in the northeast of Rhothomir, to a village bordering the forest.

His Minna wasn't quiet. She was a force to be reckoned with. She was lively and bright and loud, like looking at the sun after being locked inside all day. She wasn't a cold, withdrawn woman. And yet...

Would Minna live here? He looked at the colossal building crowning a hill, surrounded by soldiers and thick walls. It looked so different from Gerrathea, with it's perfectly manicured laws and sprawling lap of wealth.

Hidden in the embrace of the trees surrounding the outskirts of the property, he watched the estate with a critical eye. As the rumours had said, it was a magnificent manor, one of the largest ones he'd seen in his search for Minna. It might even have been considered nice, had it not seemed so cold and impersonal.