The Boundless Prophecy

Chapter 1 (1.7 Council of Critical Matters)

Entering his home, he bypassed lighting the lamps, familiar enough to navigate even in darkness. Collapsing into a leather chair adjacent to the silent fireplace, his abode echoed the pervasive stillness. Overwhelmed by the whiskey's effects, the weight of pending work, and the haunting enigma of the massacre, he sank deeper into introspection.

With less than three hours of sleep, fatigue enveloped Wallace as he surrendered to slumber.

Upon awakening, the morning light streamed through the windows, casting a glow across the living room. Aware he'd achieved his three hours, Wallace eschewed checking the clock. Springing to his feet, he stretched, banishing all remnants of weariness.

Moving from the living room through the arch doorways connecting to the kitchen, he indulged in a brisk, cold shower to invigorate his senses. Post-shower, he felt as refreshed as if he'd slept a full ten hours. He dressed and enjoyed the sourdough from 'Knead to Know Bakery,' a daily ritual unaltered regardless of preceding events. Any disruption to his routine left him unsettled and distressed.

After washing down the last bite with goat milk, he departed for work.

As usual, he headed to the entrance of Emerald Vale just beyond the outer circle. The rickshaw, used daily for commuting to the sanatorium, stood parked in front of Thernon's house. The regular werewolf drivers, engaged in lively conversation while puffing on cigarettes, waited beside it.

"Morning," Wallace greeted as he settled into the rickshaw next to Xanthe.

Thernon acknowledged with a nod.

Xanthe slipped her hand into Wallace's, her expression tinged with concern. "Did you get enough sleep? I hope you didn't stay up too late last night."

He nodded apologetically. "I'm fine. No need to worry about me."

Thernon chuckled, shaking his head. "Xanthe, this guy could work five days straight without a break." He teased with a half-amused, half-mischievous grin.

Wallace cleared his throat, unsure how to respond. Thernon's peculiar humour often remained cryptic to everyone else. Meanwhile, Xanthe shot Thernon a stern glance.

As the werewolves began pulling the rickshaw, Wallace furrowed his brow. "Where's Caren?"

Leaning back, Thernon wore an enigmatic expression. "She left for the sanatorium earlier."

Xanthe shifted uncomfortably at Thernon's manner. "She left a note in my front yard, wanting to check on some patients and details before the meeting," she stated matter-of-factly, hinting at her displeasure with Thernon.

Xanthe and Caren were close neighbours and best friends.

Thernon shrugged, ignoring Xanthe's concern. "Well, she was eager to return for the meeting. Admirable, really. Our sanatorium needs people with drive and initiative."

"She's not like..." Xanthe struggled to defend her friend.

Wallace, sensing the rising tension, cleared his throat more forcefully, the discomfort evident from his persistent cough. The rickshaw descended into an uneasy silence. Thernon chose to gaze out the window, feigning indifference, while Xanthe drew in a deep breath to steady herself.

Xanthe refused to tolerate Thernon's disparaging tone toward Caren. She'd defend Thernon just as fervently if the tables were turned.

Thernon and Caren belonged to the Vitalia Department, fostering a friendship that grew complicated and competitive after the unexpected retirement of the department's former deputy head. Both were equally qualified and experienced, sparking an unintentional yet overt rivalry between them.