When do you think we should strike next," the Guardian asked, and Sigurdr's smirk blossomed into a broad grin. He admired Carthage's ambition and eagerness to raid the islands. A thrill of excitement coursed through him at the prospect of setting foot on foreign soil and claiming what they desired. and where? The question hung in the humid air of Atlantis. The King's brow briefly furrowed as his thoughts raced through a series of islands. Tinuvel with its towering mountains and dark pine forests, Luthein with its lush woodlands and expansive prairies, and finally, he settled on Salem—a land characterized by its dunes and sparse, barren vegetation.

"I think Luthein, again," he declared, pausing to reflect. It seemed that Luthein made every effort to maintain its peace... and its dullness. "Rumor has it that they prefer to keep out of the island's drama. I would hate for them to miss out on the excitement," he chuckled, a mischievous glint sparkling in his icy gaze.

He shifted his weight, thoughtful eyes drifting toward the white-capped waves as they crashed onto the shore. They could leave for Luthein at dawn the next day, allowing ample time to come ashore and seek out any mares straying from the herd.

"Tomorrow," he stated, his gaze returning to Carthage, feeling the thrill pulse beneath his two-toned coat.