Victor sat at the kitchen table, scrubbing dried mud out of Fenrir’s fur with a stiff-bristled brush.
The wolf was sulking. He had returned this morning, looking like he’d lost a fight with a swamp, tail tucked between his legs. He had spent the last two days hiding in the deep woods, spooked by the arrival of Isabelle’s Obsidian Golems. The smell of sulfur and corporate magma had sent his survival instincts into overdrive.
"You're a disgrace," Victor muttered, wrestling a particularly stubborn clump of dirt from behind the wolf's ear. "You're supposed to be a Hellhound. One whiff of an investor and you turn into a badger."
Fenrir whined, thumping his tail apologetically against the floorboards.
"And where did you even go?" Victor frowned, picking at the dried mud. It wasn't the grey,
