An hour had bled away into the quiet of the forest, and Ulrich still found himself sitting motionless before the crackling campfire.
For a man who abhorred wasting ti on matters he cared little about, he was displaying an uncharacteristic patience. But in truth, he had very few choices.
The old man, Mark, was still locked in a deep, fitful sleep, fighting off the lingering venom in his veins. Ulrich had him drink a healing concoction, a shockingly expensive one, but alchemical redies still demanded ti to knit torn flesh and purge poison. For an aging body like Mark’s, the process was slow, demanding far more ti than it would for a younger man.
Perhaps the slow recovery was a hidden rcy. Ulrich vividly rembered the cache of priceless healing vials he had been forced to gulp down, one after another, when he had plumted into the hidden temple below the Blue Scar to claim the Hollow Core. Those elixirs had been so efficient that they forced the body to heal in seconds. Still, the agonizing speed of flesh forcefully knitting itself back together had been a tornt all its own.
Regardless, Ulrich could do nothing but wait. He had no intention of carrying the unconscious old man through a hostile forest. First, he needed his hands free; as the only capable fighter left, he had to keep a vigilant watch over the shadowed treeline. And second, he simply did not wish to carry him. It was as simple as that.
Ceres, with her frail, delicate fra, certainly could not drag Mark’s towering bulk through the wilderness, so the campfire remained their anchor.
As he stared into the flickering flas, Ulrich found himself wondering, once again, how Ceres had managed to escape this dreadful place in the original narrative of the novel. It had been vaguely ntioned, of course, but she had found a way to survive the Den without his intervention. Maybe she took advantage of the Thornbreath, he thought.
"Cough!"
The sudden, wet sound shattered the quiet. Mark coughed up a splatter of dark, tainted blood, but it was a promising sign. The old man drew a rattling breath, and his eyes finally fluttered open.
"Grandpa!"
Ceres scrambled to his side, her brief mont of composure crumbling instantly as she started to cry once more. "Y—You’re awake! Are you okay? Grandpa! Please, speak to !" She pleaded, her small hands hovering over him as if afraid he might once again collapse.
Mark’s vision swam, the firelight blurring into a golden sar, but he forced his eyes to focus on the weeping girl beside him. A weak, exhausted smile spread across his lips, and he managed to lift a hand to pat her hair.
"I am fine, Ceres..." He said.
"I—I was so scared that I lost you!" She cried out, throwing her arms around his broad chest and burying her face in his tunic.
"I won’t leave you this easily, silly girl," he chuckled faintly, the sound turning into a grimace as he painfully forced his battered body upright.
He blinked against the lingering dizziness, taking in his surroundings. Hearing the steady sizzle and pop of the fire, he turned his head and locked his gaze on the figure of Ulrich seated across the flas.
Mark let out a weary breath. "I suppose I must thank you again for saving my life."
"You certainly must," Ulrich replied, his crimson eyes reflecting the firelight. "By my count, it is the fourth ti I have preserved your insignificant life today, and I was forced to waste a precious vial to do it."
Mark’s teeth clenched slightly. "Why did you save this insignificant life, then?" He asked, his tone tinged with wariness.
Ulrich sat in silence for a long mont. He did not look at the old man. Instead, his gaze drifted past Mark, settling on Ceres, who was kneeling timidly behind the old man, peeking her head out from behind his broad shoulders.
Catching the direction of the nobleman’s stare, Mark turned back to look at the girl. His heart dropped into his stomach. Her illusion necklace was gone. Her disguise was stripped away, leaving her true nature exposed.
"Ceres! God, no!" Mark grunted, adrenaline surging through his exhausted veins as he shifted his large body to fully shield her from view. He glared back at Ulrich, his face twisting into a snarl of protective anger. "You will not have her, you despicable noble!"
Ulrich’s crimson brows creased in a faint flicker of irritation. He did not reach for his weapon, nor did he raise his voice.
"If I wanted to take your elf," Ulrich said, his voice dropping to a stern, chilling calm, "I would have taken her already. And I would have left your rotting corpse to the wolves."
At his blunt words, Mark blinked, the fire in his chest faltering.
He realized, with a cold shiver of logic, that Ulrich was right. Anyone who truly intended to kidnap Ceres would have simply slit Mark’s throat while he lay paralyzed and walked away with the prize.
Instead, Ulrich had stayed. He had stood guard, kept the fire burning, and even sacrificed a rare redy to pull Mark back from the brink of death.
Mark wanted to feel a sense of gratitude, to believe they were safe. But looking into the cold and shrewd eyes of the young lord across the fire, he found himself feeling more suspicious of Ulrich’s true intentions.
"Then... why did you save ?" Mark asked;
"I have preserved your life, stood guard over your unconscious body, and made no attempt to lay a hand upon your elf," Ulrich replied, leaning back slightly. He did not sound annoyed; if anything, a faint glimr of amusent showed beneath his perfectly composed exterior. "And yet, you still look at as though I am holding a dagger to your throat."
"Unfortunately, I have to doubt any human noble who does not imdiately seize the opportunity to capture an unprotected elf," Mark answered.
Ulrich let out a quiet exhale, the breath pluming faintly in the cool air.
He could not argue the point. As ugly and cruel as the old man’s assessnt was, it was the truth of their era. Humanity’s greed knew no bounds, especially when it ca to the elven race.
He let his gaze drift back to Ceres. "She is, indeed, a precious specin. An auction house in the capital would empty its vaults for her. The youngest elves are the rarest of their kind, making them priceless in this world."
Despite the harsh, commodifying nature of his words, Ceres did not shrink away or look terrified. She remained safely tucked behind Mark’s broad shoulders, her heterochromatic eyes fixed unblinkingly on him, watching him with a quiet curiosity.
"However," Ulrich continued, picking up another stray branch to idly stoke the sizzling embers of the fire, "mindless wealth does not interest ."
It was the truth. His coffers were vast. While it was true that his finances had taken a sudden, sharp downturn following his sudden adoption of the three witch sisters, Ulrich possessed the intellect to rebuild his margins. He already had plans in motion to recover the lost coin. He did not need to sell children to line his pockets.
"Nor do I harbor any twisted, despicable intentions toward her," he added, not hiding his disdain. "Such behavior would be unbecoming of my station. It is pathetic, base, and inherently cowardly."
Mark’s broad shoulders relaxed by a fraction of an inch, though his eyes remained guarded. "I am relieved to hear you say that, My Lord. But n of your station do not deal in charity. I am certain you wish for sothing in return for the vial you spent."
"I do wish for sothing, indeed," Ulrich agreed, letting the branch drop into the flas. He lifted his gaze and locked it directly on the young elf again. "She is afflicted by the Thornbreath Curse."
Mark’s eyes widened in shock. He snapped his head around to look at Ceres, his expression silently demanding to know if she had confessed this terrible secret. But Ceres rely looked nervous, chewing on her lower lip. She did not return Mark’s silent question; instead, she kept her eyes glued to Ulrich, the mory of his earlier promise that he had a solution to her curse, burning in her mind.
Seeing the girl’s reaction, Mark slowly turned back to the noble, giving a stiff, reluctant nod. "She is..." he nodded, his brow furrowing deeply in confusion.
The situation was spiraling beyond the old man’s comprehension. The fact that Ulrich was still sitting calmly across the fire made no sense.
The Thornbreath was a waking nightmare. Any sane man, upon learning a companion was carrying such a volatile and explosive curse, would put as much distance between themselves and the host as humanly possible. A less rciful man, especially a pragmatist like Ulrich, would simply drive a blade through her heart while she slept to prevent a catastrophic magical disaster from destroying the lands around.
Yet Ulrich had done neither of those things. He knew the truth of what was buried inside her chest, and still, he sat by the fire, waiting.
"I told her that I may have a solution for the Thornbreath Curse," Ulrich said.
Mark’s jaw hung open. All the guarded tension in his weathered face gave way to pure shock. "W—What?" He sputtered, dumbfounded.
"I do not deal in falsehoods," Ulrich continued, his tone perfectly calm. "I may be able to find a thod, or at the very least, a treatnt, to prevent the curse from entirely consuming her. But such an endeavor requires cooperation."
"Cooperation?" Mark repeated, his brows knitting together in suspicion.
"I cannot find solutions against the Thornbreath if the host is far from ," Ulrich explained calmly. "If you truly wish for to find a cure, I must keep her close. I will need to observe and study her condition."
He fixed his crimson eyes on Ceres as he spoke. Hearing this, the young elf shrank back, burying her face into the rough fabric of Mark’s clothes, but she still kept her gaze on him, though she wasn’t exactly screaming in happiness.
The cold way he spoke of ’studying’ her made it sound as though she were a specin, sothing to be pinned to a table and pried open with silver tools to see how the rot worked inside.
Mark tightened his grip on Ceres’s arm, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. He simply did not trust the nobleman enough for this.
"And if we refuse?" Mark asked.
Ulrich did not blink. "You are free to refuse."
Mark released a relieved sigh, the tension leaving his shoulders. For a fleeting second, he believed they might actually be allowed to walk away into the trees, free and clear.
"However," Ulrich added, slicing through the old man’s brief relief, "should you choose that path, I will have you both placed under imdiate arrest. I will see your precious granddaughter locked away in the deepest, stone-lined dungeon available to ensure she cannot trigger a Stampede within my territory."
"W—What?!" Mark roared, his anger flaring instantly. He tried to push himself to his feet, but his battered body refused to obey. Then, the specific phrasing caught up to his racing mind, and the blood slowly drained from his face. "Your... your territory?"
Ulrich did not gloat. He did not even look at the old man. He simply turned his gaze back to the burning logs, watching the embers glow like pieces of molten iron in the dark.
"I am Ulrich Van Rubenhart."
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