"What? He's not here?"
Aithur's voice sliced through the air like a whip.
He stood tall beside the temple gates, his dark navy noble coat catching the morning light, matching the deep shade of his hair. His gloves, trimmed with sapphire gems, glowed faintly from the irritation pulsing through his veins. Behind him, his carriage waited — its blue crest of the grand duke glinting like a mockery of patience he didn't have.
The young temple apprentice standing before him swallowed hard. "N-no, my lord. The Saint left two days ago for a trip. He took one of the apprentices with him and… hasn't returned yet."
Aithur's jaw flexed. "A trip?"
"Yes, my lord."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. A trip. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
"And the old geezers let him leave? Without a word?"
The apprentice's hands trembled as he replied, "I—I don't know, my lord. We've been waiting for him as well."
