Adrian Vale didn't refuse.
He reached out and took the red velvet cloak from Brittany without hesitation.
At first, he intended to drape it behind him like a standard cape—
But the moment he lifted it, he paused.
"…Too small."
Brittany was petite.
The cloak fit her perfectly—but on Adrian, it barely covered his shoulders.
Wearing it like this would be more symbolic than practical.
"…A scarf, then?"
He considered it briefly.
Before he could decide, Brittany's grandmother stepped forward.
"Allow me."
She raised her wand.
Soft, controlled incantations slipped from her lips—low, rhythmic, carrying a subtle resonance that seemed to blend into the air itself.
Magic responded.
The velvet cloak shimmered faintly.
Its surface rippled—
Then expanded.
Thread stretched.
Fabric reshaped.
Structure adjusted as if guided by invisible hands.
Within seconds, the once petite cloak had transformed into a full-length cape—perfectly proportioned for Adrian's tall frame.
He lifted it slightly, testing the weight.
Light.
Flexible.
Yet layered with something deeper.
"…Convenient."
Magic.
Efficient.
Practical.
Far more refined than brute force solutions.
His gaze shifted.
Toward Brittany.
Without the red cloak—
Something felt off.
Like a piece of the image had been removed.
Incomplete.
Adrian didn't dwell on it.
He simply acted.
With one motion, he unclasped his own cape—
The deep crimson silk, embroidered with intricate gold patterns, gleaming faintly under the light.
Expensive.
Excessively so.
He had never been the type to save money on the things he liked.
Weapons.
Armor.
Equipment.
If it mattered—
He paid for the best.
And this cloak—
Was no exception.
He placed it over Brittany's shoulders.
The silk draped down, soft and smooth, its texture vastly superior to the velvet she had worn before.
The gold-thread embroidery caught the light, giving it an almost regal glow.
Brittany froze.
"Sir Vale, I… I can't accept this…"
Adrian didn't listen.
He adjusted the cloak around her, securing it properly, then stepped back.
"Stay here."
Simple.
Final.
No room for refusal.
Then he turned.
"Let's move."
Baren followed instinctively—
But after a few steps, he suddenly stopped.
"…Wait."
He turned back, rummaging through his pack.
Digging.
Searching.
Until—
He pulled something out.
A fox pelt.
Bright red.
Well-preserved.
Flawless.
Baren's face flushed slightly.
His movements turned awkward, uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Bona… this… I prepared it for you…"
He coughed lightly.
"…If you don't need it… Brittany can have it."
As if afraid of rejection, he didn't wait for a response.
He stepped forward—
Stuffed the pelt into her hands—
And immediately turned away.
"Let's go."
He followed Adrian out without looking back.
Behind them—
The old woman examined the pelt, a faint smile appearing on her face.
"…Too bright for me."
She muttered.
Then she turned toward Brittany.
"This color suits you better."
She held up both the silk cloak and the fox fur.
"I can remake this for you. Something even finer."
But Brittany barely heard her.
Her attention—
Was elsewhere.
On the silk cloak wrapped around her shoulders.
Her fingers lightly touched the fabric.
Soft.
Warm.
And then—
Without thinking—
She leaned forward slightly.
Inhaled.
A faint scent lingered.
Clean.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
Her face turned red instantly.
She froze—
Then quickly straightened, pretending nothing had happened.
Meanwhile—
The hunt had already begun.
Baren had brought six hounds.
Large.
Lean.
Disciplined.
One was left behind to guard the cottage.
The remaining five—
Moved as a unit.
When they reached the earlier battlefield—
Baren crouched down immediately.
The blackened blood had already dried.
Thick.
Dark.
Carrying a faint, foul stench.
He studied it carefully.
Then let out a low chuckle.
"…Looks like it suffered badly at your hands, Sir Vale."
Adrian didn't respond to the comment.
He only asked one question.
"Can you track it?"
Baren looked up.
Confidence returned instantly.
"Of course."
He signaled to the hounds.
They moved forward as one, lowering their noses to the ground, inhaling deeply.
Then—
They locked on.
The scent trail had been found.
Without hesitation, they surged forward into the forest.
Baren followed closely behind, drawing his hunting knife.
Branches.
Thorns.
Underbrush.
Everything in their path—
Was cut aside with practiced efficiency.
He cleared the way.
Adrian followed behind him.
At first—
Baren spoke.
"If you need to rest, Sir Vale, just say the word."
To him, this was common sense.
Armor like that—
Heavy.
Restricting.
Even seasoned fighters would struggle after prolonged movement.
But as time passed—
Something became wrong.
Adrian's breathing never changed.
His pace never slowed.
Step after step—
Steady.
Unbroken.
The forest thickened.
The terrain worsened.
Still—
No difference.
Baren, however—
Was beginning to feel it.
His breath grew heavier.
His movements slightly less sharp.
And yet—
Adrian remained exactly the same.
"…What kind of monster…"
Baren muttered under his breath.
This wasn't just training.
This level of endurance—
Was unnatural.
He began constructing explanations.
Resources.
Nutrition.
Elite training.
Medical support.
No—
Not enough.
This went beyond that.
"…A blessing."
That was the only answer that made sense.
From birth—
A body enhanced.
Strength beyond human limits.
And blessings—
Came at a price.
Only the highest nobility could afford such things.
Baren's gaze shifted subtly toward Adrian's back.
Respect deepened.
And so did caution.
They tracked for hours.
The sun dipped lower.
Shadows stretched.
Until—
They reached a narrow depression in the terrain.
A shallow valley.
The hounds slowed.
Then stopped.
They began circling.
Sniffing.
Restless.
Confused.
"The scent is too dense…"
Baren muttered.
The werewolf had stayed here.
For a long time.
The trail overlapped itself—
Layered.
Chaotic.
Even the hounds—
Couldn't immediately determine the direction.
And then—
Movement.
A sudden burst of wings.
Birds exploded upward from the trees in the distance.
A shadow—
Flashed past.
Fast.
Low.
Running.
"There!"
The hounds reacted instantly.
Barking erupted.
All five surged forward—
Charging toward the fleeing figure.
Baren moved at the same time.
No hesitation.
His body shot forward like an arrow released from a bow.
Branches snapped underfoot.
Leaves tore.
The forest blurred.
Ahead—
The terrain opened slightly.
A clear line of sight.
Baren didn't slow.
He drew his bow mid-stride.
Nocked.
Pulled.
Released.
The arrow screamed through the air.
Years of hunting—
Condensed into a single shot.
Precise.
Deadly.
The shadow reacted.
At the last possible moment—
It curled its body, collapsing into itself—
Rolling violently into the underbrush.
The arrow tore past—
Missing by inches.
It survived.
But—
Only just.
Before it could recover—
Something changed.
Its entire body froze.
Every strand of fur—
Stood on end.
A presence—
Locked onto it.
Heavy.
Crushing.
Inevitable.
Behind it—
The ground trembled.
Something was coming.
Not fast—
Relentless.
Like a siege engine unleashed.
The next second—
Adrian Vale burst through the forest.
Armor crashing through branches.
Shrubs exploding apart.
No evasion.
No hesitation.
Only—
Forward.
A living battering ram.
Carrying overwhelming force—
And absolute dominance—
He slammed directly into the undergrowth—
Where the creature had fallen.