The carriage came to a slow halt, its wheels crunching over the frost-laced soil at the edge of the forest.
Mordrek stepped down first, adjusting his coat. "Wait here for when we return. Shouldn't take long," he told the butler.
"Yes, my lord," the man nodded, reins still in hand.
Near the clearing ahead, a squad of armored soldiers stood in tight formation—about twenty men, all clad in shining silver breastplates adorned with the sigil of House Morgain: two swords crossing beneath a wolf's eye.
As Mordrek approached, the soldiers immediately dropped to one knee, heads bowed.
"We greet Lord Mordrek du Morgain and Lady Sylis du Morgain!"
Mordrek gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Morning to you all. You might not know who this is—" He gestured behind him. "This is my nephew, Trafalgar du Morgain. Ninth heir of the main family."
A younger soldier at the end of the line whispered before he could stop himself: "The bastard?"
He instantly slapped a hand over his mouth.
