The small procession.
Zirel leading, followed by Elisa, Dylan, and Julius—stopped in front of the entrance to the Count's great tent. No guard stood watch, yet an invisible presence, heavy with authority, emanated from within. They lingered there, tense and silent, until the Count's calm, clear voice drifted through the canvas.
"Enter."
They pushed aside the heavy flap and stepped inside.
The tent was spacious and austere. A simple campaign table, cluttered with maps and reports, dominated the center. The Count sat behind it, dressed in a dark tunic, his hands clasped atop the wood. His sharp hazel eyes welcomed them without surprise, as though he had been expecting them. His gaze swept over the group, lingering briefly on the new faces, then on Dylan's condition.
"Zirel. Elisa," he greeted with a curt nod. Then his eyes settled on Dylan. "Dylan, I presume. Your return is… unexpected. And your companion?"
