The Onyx Wolf of Géuvadan

Chapter 2

The first light of dawn crept through the small window of the farmhouse. Louis stirred under the thin blanket, groaning as a hand shook his shoulder.

  “Louis! Get up! Go give your father the fresh milk!” his foster mother snapped, her voice carrying the urgency of routine.

  He blinked, disoriented. “Ugh… oui, Mère,” he muttered, sitting up. The warmth of sleep still clung to him, but the morning had no patience for dawdling.

  Louis dressed quickly, grabbing the bread and fresh milk from the wooden table. His mother’s eyes narrowed as she followed him to the door.

  “Remember, don’t spill it this time. And mind yourself,” she warned.

  “I know, I know,” Louis muttered, more out of habit than respect.

  ---

  The village was waking. Farmers pushed carts, their mules straining under sacks of grain. Smoke curled from the chimneys of cottages, mingling with the scent of fresh bread from the baker’s oven. Children ran between legs and barrels, laughing and shouting as hens scattered clucking across the streets.

  Louis walked briskly, holding the milk and bread carefully. He noticed the subtle details of the village — the faded signs of the blacksmith, the flutter of laundry in the morning breeze, the distant bleating of sheep from the fields beyond. And yet, his mind was elsewhere, tangled with frustration.

  Why can’t my father teach me anything? he thought bitterly. Am I doomed to herd cows and sheep my entire life while he hunts alone?

  ---

  As he neared the hunters’ camp at the edge of the forest, he slowed. The air changed here: sharp with the tang of iron, leather, and smoke. Weapons gleamed under the rising sun — silver bullets, crossbows, and knives lined tables like a gallery of danger. Hunters moved about with precision, checking their gear and polishing blades, their faces set in focus and determination.

  Louis stepped forward, lost in thought. He didn’t notice the man moving in his path — a tall hunter with a chest full of silver bullets, presenting them to the others with pride.

  Louis collided with him suddenly.

  Pain lanced through his fingers — sharp, burning, unlike anything he had felt before. He had brushed against the silver bullets. His scream echoed through the clearing, cutting the quiet focus of the hunters.

  Heads turned. The man staggered back, eyes wide. Louis clutched his hand, trembling.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe ici?!” Jean Chastel’s voice rang out, commanding and fierce. He strode through the crowd with long, purposeful steps, reaching his son in seconds.

  “Louis! Are you hurt?” His eyes scanned the hand, then the silver bullets, then the hunter he had bumped.

  The hunter stammered apologies in French and English, bowing low. “I… I didn’t see — forgive me, Monsieur Chastel!”

  Jean Chastel’s glare silenced him instantly. Without a word, he guided Louis toward the tent, inspecting the wound and performing first aid with careful precision. Louis bit back his frustration, the pain fading only slightly as his father worked, indifferent to the incident that had nearly made him shout in anger.