Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Mister Wolf and the little warrior 5

Warnings for mentions of violence. It's not a descriptive chapter but be wary of mentions of family violence!

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The Codshire manor looked like a scene carved out of an oil painting. Pastel parasols and plump roses, idle swans in artificial ponds and ornate topiaries. Not a thing out of place.

The hushed conversation of nobles was only broken by the rhythmic murmur of the staff tending to their duties, heads bowed low, gentle hum on their lips. Even the sky seemed to have fallen in line, not a cloud in sight obstructing the cheery rays that fell on the estate.

Perfect. A scene so tranquil, it was meant to be painted. It was perhaps what made Callan's shackles raise when he arrived.

The calmness of the estate only served to agitate him, like an animal crouched low, waiting for the slightest rustle in the grass to bolt. Beneath the perfect stillness of it all, he knew something was amiss.

As time ticked on, his agitation only grew. An eerie sensation that intensified as hours passed and he had yet to see Elowen. He waited for what felt like forever, and there was no sign of blonde curls and bubbly laughter. Not even a glimpse of her.

He left, with a knot in his stomach the size of Gerrathea. He couldn't explain how he knew something was amiss, but he did. He knew it to his bones.

Three days later, when he managed to return, that sense of dread proved to be correct.

Callan paced the estate like a caged lion to no avail. No sign of Elowen. No muddy dresses and peals of laughter, no bright eyes and defiant yells. Nothing. Elowen always played outside. Rain or sunshine, she could be found running around the estate. Climbing trees, chasing after skittish pets or simply picking flowers. She lived for it.

Another day had gone by without answers, after which he was forced to leave with an even bigger pit at the bottom of his stomach. All sorts of scenarios filled his head, each one worse than the last.

What if she was ill?

He remembered Minna's colds, which left her sniffling and drowsy. Callan had panicked every time it happened, much to her amusement. No matter how much she assured him it was simply a cold, in Callan's eyes, it was no small matter.

He'd plied her with tea and soup and all manner of tonics, staunchly refusing to allow her to leave bed until she made a full recovery. He'd been so overbearing, that Minna had often grown grumpy and scolded him for his behaviour. In her own words, his overbearing nature could put Katram to shame.

But what was Callan to do? He could go days without sleep or proper food, he could battle with bloody gashes and a torn wing. He couldn't, however, tolerate his loved ones in any sort of pain.

Humans were so delicate. They broke arms like twigs and the slightest chill made them sick. Even certain plants were poisonous to them. And still, somehow, despite being so frail, they walked around like they were immortal. They scaled mountains and travelled seas and battled as if they had a thousand lives. He could hardly wrap his head around it.

He knew Elowen wasn't human, but she didn't present as Faerie either. What if she'd inherited that horrible predisposition to breaking bones or growing sick? What if she had suffered some bout of disease and was laying in bed, suffering? Callan could hardly stand to think about it.

By the time he returned for the third time to Rhothomir, he was all but ready to march into that manor and demand to see his daughter, treaty be damned.

He didn't care who he had to fight or whatever the Council had to say--he was going to see his daughter. If she was sick, she had a better chance in Faerie, where he could provide magical assistance more suited for her needs. Whatever she needed, he would make sure she had it.