FOR MORE CHAPTERS
patreon.com/Johnybairstow
Night fell across the stronghold as Louis, Sif, and several knights gathered for a humble dinner in the dining hall. Dim oil lamps cast a warm glow on a simple spread: smoked fish with a subtle woody aroma, steaming oat porridge, a few slices of coarse wheat bread, and pickled sauerkraut. The room's rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs, the yellowed oil lamps, even the cracks in the walls—all spoke of modesty rather than noble luxury.
Sif stirred uneasily. Nobility, she'd imagined, would dine on exquisite delicacies, silver goblets filled with sweet wine, and tables draped in gold-embroidered cloth. In contrast, Louis's meal, though better than common fare, was still far removed from opulence.
Louis caught her gaze. "Is it not to your taste?"
Sif immediately shook her head. "Not at all." Though once a tribal princess accustomed to abundance, she understood that resources in the Northern Lands were scarce. She sampled the oat porridge and found its warm, malty flavor comforting.
Mid-meal, she looked up. "What are you doing tonight?"
Louis chewed the smoked fish, thoughtful. "Wolf training."
Sif paused, intrigued. "Wolf training?"
Louis nodded. Each week, he dedicated several evenings to training Cold Fang, an Icefield Wolf, at the beast training grounds. After weeks of daily practice, Cold Fang began responding to commands, but full obedience was still a work in progress. Tonight's focus: refining hunting-whistle signals.
Louis brought the whistle to his lips and blew a long, high-pitched note. The wolf's body stiffened, crouching low, limbs tense, ready to spring. Next came two sharp blasts. Cold Fang leaped forward, sinking his fangs into a cloth dummy, tearing at it fiercely. Finally came a rapid trill. Cold Fang halted mid-pounce, surveyed his surroundings, then retreated back to Louis's side.
Louis nodded, gently stroking Cold Fang's neck. Then, from his belt, he produced a piece of raw meat. Cold Fang hesitated, waited for permission, then bit into it with a rumbling satisfaction.
"He's showing discipline already," Aige, the beast tamer, said with relief. "Your progress is faster than expected. But as an Icefield Wolf, Cold Fang needs patient, consistent training."
Louis nodded. "I'm ready."
Sif watched quietly. Memories swelled within her—a time when she, too, had raised an Icefield Wolf named Lonely Moon from a pup. They hunted together, sheltered one another in blizzards, and shared their warmth. But since her coma, those memories felt distant and tinged with loss. Lonely Moon was likely dead.
Her palm tightened reflexively. Louis noticed and asked softly, "What's wrong?"
Sif exhaled, her voice calm as if recalling a fact rather than revealing emotion. "I once had an Icefield Wolf. It's dead now."
Louis considered this, then gestured toward an enclosure where several wolf pups tumbled together. "Would you like to choose another?"
Sif blinked and then stepped forward hesitantly. Among the pups, she found one in the corner with silvery-gray fur and ice-blue eyes—just like Lonely Moon's. She extended her hand. The pup sniffed and licked her fingers. In that moment, Sif felt a jolt of hope. Eyes glistening, she whispered, "You'll be called Lonely Moon."
The pup whimpered in response. Tears filled Sif's eyes, and she stroked its fur, feeling the ache of memory and the warmth of a new bond.
Meanwhile, the training ground darkened. Louis, stretching at the edge, glanced toward Sif. "That's all for tonight. Don't forget to record my schedule."
Sif nodded and returned to her quarters. As one of only three literate people in the territory, she'd been granted a modest private room. Though she wanted to bring the pup inside, it would take time before it recognized her.
She lit her oil lamp and opened her notebook. In neat lines, she recorded Louis's day: in the morning, he personally trained the soldiers, earning their respect; he inspected farmlands and fisheries, offering development suggestions; he inquired after injured knights and promised better medicine; he spotted the potential in birch-sap sugar and pushed to develop a sugar industry.
Sif paused, reading over the notes. He was clearly a lord—but he carried himself without arrogance, commanding respect not by birth but by deed. Her pen tapped quietly against the paper as she scribbled an additional thought: "He is a good person."
She read the sentence again and muttered, "He's probably just playing the part." Yet even as she said it, she felt it wasn't true.
Reaching into a jar on her desk, she tasted a piece of birch-sap sugar. Its sweetness, tinged with a delicate woody fragrance, melted in her mouth. Leaning back, slightly amused, she murmured, "Mm, so sweet."
FOR MORE CHAPTERS
patreon.com/Johnybairstow