Chapter 51: Lab Rat

"Seems your relationship with Bor really is strained," Dolph remarked, gliding past him into the cottage with an air of effortless authority—exactly as Glen had pegged her.

He motioned for Tia to resume her chores and followed Dolph into the kitchen. "The old man bullied me for years. Didn't he tell you?"

"He did," Dolph replied, settling into the same chair she'd occupied that morning. Her eyes sharpened with curiosity. "He mentioned you used to be… timid. A different person entirely. Yet now—"

Ah. Here for me. Glen understood. "What exactly did he share?"

Dolph rested her chin on a slender hand, elbow propped on the worn oak table. "He claims you're a werewolf. A rare kind—powerful, fully lucid when transformed… even capable of speech."

"So he told you everything." Glen placed two glasses of vivid orange liquid on the table, sliding one toward her. "Juice from the last of my fruit. Savor it."

"My thanks." She took a slow sip, eyes never leaving his. "Bor trusts me deeply. He holds nothing back."

"Wow. Still not lovers?" Glen's eyebrow arched.

"Say that again," Dolph's voice turned icy, her gaze hardening, "and I will take offense."

"Fine. Apologies."

Satisfied by his sincerity, Dolph gave a faint hmph. "My life is consumed by work. If I did seek companionship…" She paused, her eyes tracing his frame with deliberate slowness. "…It would be someone like you. Young. Vigorous. Alive."

"Should I be flattered… or terrified?" Glen wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.

"Flattered, naturally." A low laugh escaped her. "Countless mages dream of sharing my bed. And you'd have that honor. Isn't that… thrilling?" Confidence radiated from her like heat.

Men are such fools, she thought. A hint of promise, and they offer their souls. She awaited his stammered acceptance or eager grin.

Glen met her gaze unwaveringly for a dozen heartbeats. Then, he spoke, his voice flat. "What do you really want, offering yourself like bait? Don't mistake me for some starry-eyed boy. I see your game."

Dolph froze, the glass halfway to her lips. She recovered swiftly, taking a measured sip. "No games. The offer is genuine. Are you… unmoved?" Her eyes shimmered, a sudden intensity in them.

"Heh." Glen leaned back, unimpressed. "Still testing me? Save your energy. It won't work."

Attraction? Of course. She was stunning. But Glen refused to be ruled by it, reduced to a puppet.

The charged look vanished from Dolph's eyes. She studied him intently, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through. "Your composure… it defies your youth. That… intrigues me." There was no trace of embarrassment at being caught.

Glen waited, silent.

Finally, Dolph sighed, the mask slipping. "I am fascinated by your anomaly. Why can you achieve what no other werewolf can? Any mage encountering such a rarity would be… obsessed."

Fair point. I wonder too, Glen thought. Out loud, he said: "So you wish to study me? Then the answer is no. Absolutely not."

"Don't dismiss it yet! My terms could be… exceptionally generous." A note of urgency crept in.

"No." The word was steel. "I won't be anyone's lab rat." Exposing his vulnerabilities? Never.

"…Very well." Dolph read the finality in his eyes. She set her glass down. "Should you reconsider, my offer stands. The rewards would be… substantial."

"Let's hope that day never comes," Glen murmured.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Four minutes. Five.

Dolph took another sip of juice, her brow furrowing slightly. "You added sugar? It's… remarkably good."

"More than sugar," Glen replied vaguely.

"You could sell this. It would find a market."

"Really?!" Glen's eyes snapped to hers, suddenly alight.

Dolph blinked at his abrupt intensity. "Undoubtedly. I've traveled widely. Only a few elven brews rival it."

"I see…" Glen's mind raced. A tavern? An inn? Profits… possibilities…

Unaware of his scheming, Dolph drained her glass and stood. "My purpose here is concluded. I have pressing matters elsewhere. If Bor returns… inform him I called."

Glen escorted her to the door. As she stepped towards her carriage, his gaze snagged on the horse. It stood unnaturally still, its eyes holding a distinct, haughty intelligence. Its legs, from hoof to knee, were covered in pure white hair—like pristine stockings.

"Your horse… wears white silk stockings?" Glen blurted.

Dolph paused, one foot on the carriage step, and turned. Her expression was pure bewilderment. "White silk what?"

"Thin, white leg coverings. Like stockings," Glen clarified.

"That sounds… indecent." With a final, unreadable look, Dolph vanished into the gilded carriage.

Woman's intuition? Glen mused, watching the carriage roll away.

Back inside, he found Tia dusting a shelf. "Laval's gone to work?"

The maid straightened instantly, hands clasped. "Yes, sir. The young master seemed… unusually eager today." Though not bound to serve Glen, her deference remained. The man even Old Man Bor feared commanded respect.

Eagerness? Or desperation? Glen thought grimly. Time to check. Without a word, he headed out again.

———

"Just… just a little longer… food's coming…"

Laval slumped against the rough wood of the pigsty fence. Inside, fat black sows grunted and shoved, snouts buried deep in the slop-filled trough. The thick, porridgy smell of boiled grains and vegetable scraps hung heavy in the air.

Laval's stomach clenched violently. He'd lost count of how many times he'd eyed that murky stew, wondering if it tasted as good as the pigs made it seem. How rich was it? How filling?

Only the tattered remnants of his noble pride held him back. The idea of scooping that muck into his mouth… it was unthinkable. A final surrender.

But the hunger was a living thing, gnawing at his insides, shredding his resolve. He understood its power now, a raw, terrifying force.

Two days. Just two days. He shuddered. What must it be like for those refugees who spoke of three? Or more? The sheer agony of it was beyond his imagining. The fence post felt rough and unforgiving against his cheek. He watched a smaller pig get jostled away from the trough, squealing in protest. A wave of dizzy nausea washed over him. The slop in the trough shimmered, looking almost… appetizing.

He squeezed his eyes shut. No. Not yet. Not yet. But the grunts and slobbering sounds were a cruel symphony. His mouth flooded with saliva. The noble's pride was a thin, fraying thread. How much longer could it possibly hold?