The Witch's Cursed Daughter

77. To Hoiren

Having left the tent, Voster allowed the squishing mud beneath his feet to blare in his ears as the burning blush died slowly from his flesh. Julian pointing out how Voster addressed him was not a new topic; on many occasions, the prince would mock the Mage's courtesy.

Trudging through the cheery soldiers, coated in drab browns, greys, and blacks, not a spec of Waldemyre's green available to the eye, Voster kept his eyes away from the merriment. His tent was situated on the outskirts of the encampment. For privacy, yes, but the Mage also kept a distance since an unyielding sense of fear spread through the ranks like a mist. Voster was a well-known Imperial Mage; the reputation of a healer was often considered a cover story by those who knew of his affiliation with the concubine's disappearance.

Arriving at the blanket-like doors of his temporary home, Voster bid farewell to the symphony of odours that clashed in the evening breeze: sweat, dung, and meat melted together to form a harsh cloud that sat crudely, covering everything. Unable to stand the stench, Voster retreated into his tent and sighed heavily.

Voster's tent was blossoming with life in the solitude offered behind closed doors. Bottles teeming with glowing liquids, burners that never died and transformed in size and colour independently, while books with locks and plants hung from the ceiling. Manoeuvring his way through a narrow passageway of book piles and lab equipment, Voster reached his bed; the frame was engraved with markings, lines, and etches, counting the days at war. Leaning over, Voster held out his thumb above a vacant space on the headboard; using his bodyweight to deepen the dell left behind, the Mage used his nail to add another day to the years of tiny lines.

Not paying any mind to the sorry state his nails had become after repeating this habit, Voster reached for a large bag from the back of his bed, which was already packed and fully equipped for his journey. Casting his gaze around the room, Voster waved his hand. The usual pale glow emanated softly and spread as though it were sunlight, feeding the plants, reducing the fire, tickling the glass bottles. Pleased with his preparations in advance of a few days of absence, Voster lightly moved towards the exit. Closing the fabric door over, Voster ran his hand down the seal before walking back towards the centre of the encampment.

Unlike Julian or Romile, who had kept a single creature with them as a companion during the war, Voster remained alone. As the Mage stepped into the make-shift stables, which kept most of the horses designed for general use, his eyes drifted across the name tags expecting inspiration to find him. The sharp sounds of horseshoes against steel somewhere unseen, the munch of hay, and the lingering aroma of manure distracted Voster as he read his way along the line.

"This is why I suggested claiming a horse of your own," Voster's frame tightened as a familiar voice taunted him jokingly from afar.

Voster nodded as Julian strolled in from the fire-lit darkness, turning to face his intimidator. "Your Highness, you understand that I rarely require a beast," he replied curtly.

"A horse is not a beast, and it is a fine companion whenever you are in need of, say, a sudden departure," patting the nearest horse, Julian responded without making eye contact with the Mage.

"Indeed."

Unfazed by the lacking reply, Julian stepped wordlessly down the line of stalls, allowing the echo of each foot meeting the ground to catch the horses' attention. Pausing before a large tan frame with black embellishments, the prince cracked a big smile towards Voster, "What about this beauty? Sanders?"

"He is handsome, Your Highness, but the name does not speak to me," Voster answered monotonously, feeling his lips beginning to quiver as Julian's attempt to gloss things over between them became increasingly childish.

"Gioval? Annan? Luci?" Julian persisted. Hearing no response, he ruffled his fingers through his fringe, frustration building. Suddenly he stopped mid-ruffle; dropping his hands, he stared at Voster, his silver eyes seeming noctilucent, "Then I insist that you take Cielo."

"Your Peryton?" Voster gaped, uncertain of Julian's sincerity.

"Yes."

"No," Voster almost shouted. Aware of his surroundings and the prying eyes on the Commander and Imperial Mage, Voster stepped closer to Julian, lowering his voice. "Your Highness, your Peryton is, as you said, your companion on the field."

"I did. However, we are not currently at battle, and you will return before the next one begins, yes?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Voster began to reply, but Julian cut him off with a raise of his eyebrows which reminded the Mage of how they had aged during their time at war.

"Then I command that you take Cielo as your steed for this mission."

Unable to resist further, Voster agreed and was unsurprised to find Cielo ready for departure outside. His antlers were tipped with a luminous substance to alert others of his presence in the night. His saddle and reigns were dotted with a similar solution to aid Voster in his control.

Unlike Julian, who had appeared regal the first time he sat on the Peryton's back, Voster's fair features, flowing auburn hair, and worn yet worldly expression presented an entirely new atmosphere. With preparations complete, Voster grabbed the reigns as Julian handed him a note from Romile; assuming its 'good luck' contents correct, Voster grinned at his prince.

"I bid you farewell and safe returns. May the Myrde fly with you," Julian said.

With that, Voster tapped Cielo's stomach, and he propelled the Mage into the air with the aid of his sturdy eagle wings.