The wager.

Cillian scrutinized Mordeu for a while. He wondered what could’ve changed, what could have spiked up his curiosity about the red wolves. What Cillian could remember was that Mordeu had chosen to walk with him with no desire whatsoever to learn about his predecessors, but suddenly, out of the blue, with a smile on his face and mirth in his eyes, he was asking for his history.

Somehow, along the way, Mordeu’s reluctance to learn about his history had contaminated Cillian’s zeal to tell him about it. He had lost his willpower and now Mordeu was suddenly demanding the story, one that Cillian had successfully tossed away to the back of his head.

Nevertheless, he had a duty to Mordeu, so whether he wished to tell him or not, he was obligated to.

“Well, where do I start from?” He circled around a spot.

Mordeu watched him with an inquisitive expression. He could see that Cillian was lost in the history books with no idea where to start from.

To say the truth, Mordeu still had no desire to learn about the ones who had come before him. He believed that those ones had lived their lives and it was his turn to live his own life. They had no connection whatsoever and they were entirely different people.

However, despite this mindset he had acquired, it was still in contrast to his rulers who wanted any connection he had to his predecessors severed. Although they didn’t use the exact words, Mordeu wasn’t born yesterday. He was smart enough to know what they thought of him now considering his identity had been revealed.

“Years ago, many, many years ago,” Cillian finally found where to start from.

Mordeu looked around, feeling like to listen to such a story, he needed to be sat somewhere comfortable, but they were in the middle of the forest; there was no comfortable place.

“You’re not listening to me,” Cillian pointed out.

Mordeu chuckled shyly, scratching the back of his head with his hand, “I am, I just want you to be comfortable as you tell me.”

“How so?”

Mordeu shrugged, “Maybe having a seat?”

Cillian looked like he thought about it for a while but then ended up shaking his head, “No, if I’m comfortable I might dally. It’s better to rush things up so we can return to our place of rest.”

Mordeu’s smile fell, but he nodded his head, “Of course.”

“Years ago, before the revolution of the humans, the first red wolf was born.” Cillian lifted his eyes to meet Mordeu’s own. He wanted to capture desperately any form of discomfort which would decide if he would continue or not. However, Mordeu was unfazed. He just listened intently, standing there like a statue, eyes fixed on Cillian unwaveringly.

“This was incongruous as there had never existed a wolf of such color before. There weren’t many thoughts about it. Then it was regarded as the birth of a new empire; they saw it as hope. Even though there were contrary ideas, they couldn’t be voiced out because the baby was born to a very powerful family.”

“Eventually, the child grew up and murdered his household, leaving not a heart beating. He dyed the grounds of his house with the blood of everyone he saw. It was a devastating sight.”

Mordeu had figured that the story would be heading in the direction of misfortune. However, he didn’t care about it. What he wanted to learn wasn’t about the first red wolf or how he had lived his life, but rather, he was more interested in what had resulted in his birth.

What was the great, mystifying piece of the puzzle that altered the life of the baby? What changed the color of the child’s fur to that of an obvious abomination?

However, as he listened to Cillian talk about the first red wolf, he realized that the answer to his question was something the history books had not written about. There was a high possibility that nobody even knew about the reason why the fur of the baby changed, why he was born a red wolf or why he woke up one morning and slaughtered his household.

Lost in his own questions, Mordeu had zoned out of listening to Cillian talk about the first red wolf. He didn’t catch how he had died or what other tragedy he had brought upon the world.

“Now, for the second red wolf,” Cillian continued, oblivious to the fact that the person he was telling the story to was more focused on many other things. “He was born in the time of monarchy.”

Mordeu chuckled unbelievably, “There was a time of monarchy?”

Cillian nodded his head, “It’s surprising, I know, but there did exist a time where the wolves thought it would be better to have someone rule over them.”

Mordeu laughed, “Wolves are feral in nature, stubborn to the bones and hard to control, and they decided monarchy was best for them? Were they willing to abide by the rules?”

Cillian nodded his head. He wasn’t surprised that Mordeu knew nothing about the past; it just proved his deduction that Mordeu was a lowborn. He had gotten the idea when Mordeu first walked into his courtyard. There was no highborn that smelled so different. It wasn’t a good different, nor was it a bad one—it was just different.

“Well, whether or not they were happy with the government, it did come to an end with the second red wolf. It actually happened over a hundred years ago. The red wolf was born into the royal family. The color of his fur was definitely not inconspicuous. From what the servants knew, the first wolf of that color had been a menace. They feared for their lives.”

Mordeu nodded his head, “As they should, if I were them, I’d have escaped immediately I saw the baby.”

“They tried to inform the King about it, that his first son was an abomination, but the King was stubborn. He believed that the first red wolf had had an improper upbringing and vowed to be different. However, he knew that he couldn’t convince the world of it and so he killed everyone who knew of that secret.”

“The baby grew to be just like the first. He was cruel, loved the stench of blood, and he loved taking lives. What was even more of a nightmare was that he was king and he abused his power. From what the books say, he was more ruthless than the first, more powerful and more deadly.”

Mordeu absorbed the information with a shimmering fear that he couldn’t allow Cillian to take note of. He cleared his throat, hoping to disperse that dread. He thought the best way that feeling would evaporate was by learning about how that life had come to an end.

“How did he die?” he asked.

Surprisingly, much to the antipathy of Mordeu, Cillian shook his head, “He’s not dead.”