Among the beastkin races, trolls, ogres, and goblins were often not truly accepted by the others.

  Perhaps it was their appearance—too far removed from humanity. Their burly frames and savage, bestial features clashed starkly with the human ideal of elegance and grace.

  More "noble" races such as dragonkin, elves, and dwarves often refused to consider themselves part of the broader beastkin identity, believing themselves closer to some imagined notion of racial purity.

  This created a complex and subtle social hierarchy, an invisible chain of status between the various species.

  Yet no matter the prejudice, the combat prowess of trolls was an undeniable fact.

  The mere presence of the escorting unit was enough to create an oppressive atmosphere. All ten warriors were towering giants, each over two meters tall—some nearing three.

  Clad in uniform armor and wielding heavy weapons, they exuded a palpable aura of power and discipline. Just looking at them made Draven's chest tighten; these were no ordinary bodyguards.

  What's more, they bore the emblem of the lord—clear proof that they had been personally assigned to protect him.

  Had it not been for the slaves and supplies being direct gifts from the lord, Draven might have suspected a trap—an ambush planned for the road to murder him and seize the goods.

  The troll leading the group was especially memorable. His commanding presence was on par with Draven's, clearly a leader in his own right. The sheer authority he radiated demanded respect.

  Though shocked, Draven managed to keep his composure. He offered thanks again and again, his words full of gratitude.

  Lydia, the steward who had arranged everything, simply smiled at his appreciation. There was a warm, almost motherly kindness in her expression, as if this was no more than a trivial gesture—like a relative handing candy to a child.

  After thanking her several more times, Draven finally felt at ease. He called out to Bran and Rurik to organize the party. Then, he led the slaves toward the dwarven merchant Edric and the grain depot.

  Unlike the generosity and grandeur of the lord's estate, things here relied entirely on manual labor. The slaves themselves carried everything by hand or shoulder.

  None had expected the lord to provide beasts of burden, so many arrived empty-handed and now found themselves rotating loads, making the journey less burdensome.

  Meanwhile, back within Selene City, in the rear gardens of the lord's estate, a very different conversation was taking place.

  The garden was serene and elegant, with spirit butterflies flitting among the flowers. The dense foliage released a fragrance of alchemical herbs.

  Selene reclined lazily against the pavilion railing, her sheer robes fluttering lightly in the breeze. Her graceful silhouette shimmered with the sunlight that streamed through the treetops, casting her features in a soft, golden glow.

  As the lord of the realm, she rarely enjoyed such leisure. Today's peace was particularly precious.

  Guards stood watch outside the garden with strict vigilance. None dared interrupt—except one.

  A familiar figure strode into the garden, ignoring the objections of the maids. It was Lydia. She walked calmly, with the quiet force of someone not to be denied, and approached Selene without hesitation.

  "Selene, this is no time for resting," Lydia said, her voice not loud, but firm and filled with authority.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Selene turned at the sound, smiling faintly. Her tone was light, with a trace of teasing. "You've worked hard, Aunt. Handling matters for a newly promoted chieftain yourself—how rare."

  She didn't set down her wineglass. Instead, she swirled the blood-colored liquid gently, a mischievous gleam in her eye.

  "You didn't tell him, did you? That if he remains loyal to the territory for a full year… he can formally propose marriage to one of our kind?"

  Lydia stepped closer, plucked the glass from Selene's hand, and set it gently on the table. She reached out and tidied a few stray locks of Selene's hair with practiced care.

  Her voice, gentle but laced with concern, had the softness of a mother's scolding: "We're surrounded by threats, within and without. The fragile balance we've maintained must not be shattered by carelessness. You need to pay more attention."

  Selene's brows furrowed. Her brief moment of peace had been completely broken.

  Only Lydia, her aunt, dared speak to her like this. No one else would have had the nerve.

  Gone was the usual cold, aloof majesty. Selene, like a spoiled child, leaned in close and nestled into Lydia's arms.

  She sniffed gently, as if catching a familiar scent, and murmured, "In the end, he's just an inexperienced boy. What can we really expect of him?"

  Lydia chuckled softly, her face filled with indulgence and affection, just like many years ago when she used to cradle the not-yet-grown little girl in her arms.

  She reached out and gently tapped Selene's smooth forehead with a motherly tenderness. "Since you've decided to help him, you might as well go all the way. You've spent years building everything from scratch, yet none of those old fools could ever win your favor."

  She paused, her gaze turning serious. "Truthfully, our clan really could use a strong man to stand at the forefront…"

  Selene immediately understood Lydia's meaning. She was once again trying to persuade her to find a man to solidify their power base.

  Her mood soured at once. She broke free from the warm, soft embrace and straightened her back, her tone growing cold. "Those guys? They're nothing but complacent relics, clinging to outdated traditions!"

  Lydia rolled her eyes inwardly. If outsiders ever heard Selene talking like this, knowing those so-called 'relics' were actually fellow lords, who knows what they'd think.

  She looked at Selene's gradually receding figure, opened her mouth to say something, but ultimately swallowed her words.

  These past years had not been easy for Selene. She had led their people from nothing, carving out a place in the world—and all Lydia could do was quietly support her from behind.

  That young werewolf, on the other hand, was truly surprising. Not only had he awakened his power without guidance, he had also managed to defeat a magical wolf far beyond his own level. His strength was extraordinary.

  Yet Lydia still shook her head. Though Selene appeared to be in her thirties, she had already passed the prime of a succubus's lifespan.

  Over the years, she had encountered countless talented individuals—but few who ever became true powerhouses. For their people, there simply wasn't time to wait for rising stars to slowly mature.

  Selene had poured all her efforts into creating a territory strong enough to support two lords. The surrounding powers were all eyeing it greedily, especially the powerful enemy to the north.

  The truth was, Selene had risen too fast, moved too quickly. But who could blame her? Their clan lacked deep roots and traditions, and upholding this fragile structure came with immense pressure.

  Lydia's heart was heavy with worries for the succubus clan's uncertain future.

  Meanwhile, on Draven's side, he was fretting over the slow pace of the slave caravan. Although he had prepared himself for their poor physical condition, watching them shuffle forward like the walking dead was maddening.

  The slaves had lifeless eyes and expressionless faces. They didn't complain or cry out in exhaustion—they just moved unbearably slowly.

  Every step looked like they were dragging an iron ball behind them. And yet, no one dared to use real force to rush them along.

  Bran was the first to lose patience. He raised his spear, trying to use intimidation to speed them up.

  But the slaves acted like wooden dolls, unresponsive to beatings. They didn't flinch or dodge—at most, they raised an arm to shield their heads and let out a faint groan.

  Bran was furious. "This won't do! We can't afford to waste time like this!"

  Draven was equally anxious. He knew that if they kept lagging behind, their village-building plan would fall apart.

  The sun was high in the sky—it was nearly noon. They'd only covered a short distance, yet everyone was already panicking inside.

  Draven called Bran and Rurik over, decisively ordering the group to stop and rest. He had them start a fire and prepare food. He figured if they fed the slaves and restored some strength, they might move a bit faster.

  It was the turn of spring and summer, and the weather was already becoming hot. Bran and Rurik not only had to scout ahead but also monitor the caravan's progress, running themselves ragged.

  When they heard the order to stop, Bran finally breathed a sigh of relief and began shouting for the slaves to set up camp.

  Spear in hand, he directed the slaves to fetch water and light fires in an orderly fashion. Draven slumped down onto a large rock, and Rurik handed him a water flask. He took several large gulps, quenching his thirst.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the troll guards still maintaining their vigilance, trailing the group at a careful but constant distance.