Wizard from The Modern

On the other side, within the merchant caravan's encampment, Miss Melissa cast a sidelong glance at Master Richard, who was scribbling upon a stone, a hint of suspicion coloring her approach toward Mular. "Uncle Mular," she inquired, "what words did that fellow Richard speak to you earlier?"

"Ah, well," Mular hesitated slightly, then chuckled, "it was naught but a simple matter of discussing our daily itinerary. Richard deemed our pace might be a tad slow, and I must concur; we could indeed hasten our journey. After all, we are the illustrious Bauhinia. Thus, I informed him that we shall cover eighteen miles henceforth each day."

"Eighteen miles?" Melissa frowned slightly. "Are we truly capable of such a distance each day?"

"Indeed! As long as we arise early and rest late, it can be achieved. In my youth, I once shepherded a caravan along twenty-seven miles in a single day—ah, those were the days… how nostalgic."

Melissa listened, skepticism lining her features. Her eyes darted back to Mular. "Uncle Mular, you aren't trying to deceive me, are you?"

"Hmm?"

"You are surely weaving a tale," she asserted confidently. "We have journeyed on land for nigh half a month, and you have insisted that our daily endeavor must not exceed thirteen miles, proclaiming this the utmost speed achievable by the caravan. Now, you suddenly wish to extend our march; I suspect it is that fellow Richard who presses you, is it not?"

"Ah, Miss Melissa, the truth is quite otherwise, it is merely that…" Mular began, eager to clarify.

"No need to explain further," she interjected dismissively, her voice firm with resolve. "Uncle Mular, fear not him! What is he but the son of some minor nobleman? Though he travels with a retinue, our numbers surpass his by twofold! What is there to fear? Tomorrow, we shall still only embark upon thirteen miles—no more one inch , and I shall see how he reacts!"

Mular's face turned bitter, yearning to impart a crucial reminder: "My lady, we broker trade, not engage in petty squabbles. Moreover, we are not in Myron but in Prue; such whims cannot simply be acted upon."

Yet, witnessing Melissa's furor, Mular swallowed his words, momentarily deciding to placate her, contemplating the situation further at a later time.

In the next moment, Mular conceded, "Very well, indeed, my lady. We shall heed your command and cover only thirteen miles on the morrow."

"Thus it should be, Uncle Mular! We Bauhinia must project such audacity!" she declared triumphantly.

"Then I…"

"Enough! I shall attend to matters yonder. Uncle Mular, you must busy yourself for now." With that, Melissa turned to summon aid in erecting her tent. Suddenly, a figure flitted into view—Amy jumped out.

Observing Melissa's content demeanor, Amy joined in her mirth, inquiring eagerly, "Miss Melissa, what delight brings such joy to your heart?"

"Can you guess?"

"I cannot."

"Then I shall tell you," Melissa huffed somewhat proudly. "That fellow Richard yet again sought to stealthily command Uncle Mular, pressing him to agree to trek eighteen miles on the morrow. Naturally, I would not acquiesce; who does he think he is to dictate our caravan's path? I informed Uncle Mular that we shall tread but thirteen miles tomorrow, ensuring Richard's disgrace!"

"Impressive, Miss Melissa, truly impressive," Amy chimed, seizing the opportunity to display his worth. "By the way, Miss Melissa, what shall you desire for supper tonight? It is not fully dark yet; I could venture into the nearby woods to procure some wild mushrooms…"

"Can you capture a hare?" Melissa suddenly inquired.

"Ah…" Amy hesitated, lacking confidence at first, yet under Melissa's scrutinizing gaze, he boldly thumped his chest and vowed, "Absolutely no problem!"

"Very well then, tonight's feast shall await your hare," Melissa responded joyfully, striding towards the area where her tent was being constructed.

Yet Amy wore a rueful smile and turned towards the woods.

Capture a hare? Such a whimsical task! But having spoken, failure would mean a notable embarrassment before Miss Melissa.

Several hours later.

As the night thickened, by the campfire's glow.

With a "whoosh," a dagger pierced the belly of a gray-backed wolf, then with a swift slice, the beast was slit open.

A hand swiftly plunged within, extracting the wolf's innards, then the dagger was thrust between its hide, as skin was expertly removed.

Before long, the butchered wolf was skewered and placed over the flames. The deep red flesh visibly crisped to a golden hue. Oils seeped from the fat, occasionally dripping into the fire, producing a series of sizzles while wafts of savory aroma filled the air.

This was the handiwork of the first guard team, preparing a dinner from a wolf that foolishly presented itself to them.

Carefully monitoring the flames, Tuku's patience grew thin as he waited several minutes. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he seized the nearly-cooked wolf from the rack, turning to gather a thirty-centimeter-long carving knife, slicing the meat as he shared with the first guard members.

"Hughes, this is for you," Tuku tossed a hefty piece of meat towards Hughes, casually adding, "You certainly need it, what with your injuries."

"My wounds have long since healed!" Hughes protested, yet did not dismiss the generous helping of wolf meat. He accepted it, accompanying the morsel with a piece of half-burnt bread, devouring it voraciously.

"Redeye, here's yours."

"And Old Mott, this is yours."

"Philip, this is yours…"

At last, only the most succulent leg remained. Tuku rose with it in hand, noticing his comrades' eager gazes fixed on the choice cut. Grinning, he shouted, "What are you ogling at? This meat is not for me to devour alone; it's meant for Master Richard, understand?"

With that, Tuku, clutching the dribbling leg, made his way away.

Not far off, Richard sat before a large stone, illuminated by bee wax, furiously penning on a papyrus scroll. Since halting their journey, he had persisted in this endeavor for over three hours, abstaining from food or drink.

Though Tuku understood that Richard was no man to neglect his meals or faint from hunger, an inkling of worry began to fester within him as he trudged along, pondering, "I hope this wolf leg suits Master Richard's taste…"

Yet, before Tuku could further muse, a small figure intercepted his path.

Peering down at the girl who barely reached his chest, Tuku paused, then lowed his voice purposefully. "Lucy, I observed Master Richard has not eaten…"

"Thus, you bring a wolf leg?" Before he could finish, Lucy's eyes had already fallen upon the leg he grasped.

"Indeed, but I wonder whether Master Richard would indulge…"

"I shall taste it first," said the maid Lucy, and before Tuku could comprehend, she stepped closer and bit into the leg fiercely.

After chewing and swallowing, maid Lucy wiped her greasy lips and quickly donned a dissatisfied expression, glaring at Tuku. "It is overcooked, tough, and unevenly salted—not to mention exceedingly greasy! Needless to say I don't like it; the Master won't even have a look at it!"

"This…"