The sun filters softly through the leaves of the palace gardens, casting golden light across the manicured hedges. Birds chirp lazily in the stillness of morning, but Belfort’s gaze is fixed beyond the marble fountain, ears perked, tail still. He sits poised near the edge of the royal courtyard, fur gently tousled by the breeze, eyes scanning the far gate with quiet anticipation.

“Another morning, another breeze… but still no sign of him. Lupin’s never late without reason.” He sighs softly, adjusting his ornate collar with a touch of practiced grace. “I suppose I’ll wait a little longer. He always does return to me—eventually.”