The morning sun broke through the tall Gothic windows, spilling pale gold across the bedsheets. Faust opened his eyes slowly, a heavy, bone-deep fatigue weighing down his limbs.
It was a feeling that rarely touched his supernatural body, and whenever it did, it never lasted long. But ever since his return from the New World, his life had fundamentally shifted. He had thrown himself into endless study—a desperate, consuming thirst for knowledge that felt as though it had been etched into his very blood. Now, after forging a blood-contract with the Holy Tarot, that inner fire burned with a terrifying, amplified intensity. Bonding with a 3rd Order Arma had claimed its toll, leaving his mind feeling like forged iron fresh from the anvil.
Before he could pull himself up, the heavy oak doors to his chamber clicked open. A young estate maid stepped inside, her face lit with a bright, strangely cheerful smile.
"Oh! Doctor, you are awake already!" she exclaimed, her tone brimming with uncharacteristic warmth. "I shall go inform the Herzog immediately and have breakfast prepared for you!"
Faust offered a tired nod, his gravelly voice soft in the quiet room.
"Thank you, child."
Fifteen minutes later, the maid returned carrying a heavy silver tray laden with a rich, traditional Bavarian breakfast—steaming white sausages, freshly baked pretzels, sweet mustard, and a pot of dark tea.
As she set the tray over his lap, she couldn't contain her joy.
"Mrs. Rita's condition has noticeably improved! She is still unconscious, of course, but the local physician inspected her this morning and swore that if her recovery continues at this rate, she will be fully cured in a matter of a week!"
Faust felt a genuine, quiet happiness bloom in his chest.
"A week, is it?" a raspy, familiar voice called out from the doorway. "Then my old friend here truly is a worker of miracles."
Faust turned his head. Standing in the entrance was Isbert.
The old Patriarch looked dreadful. The robust, towering posture he had maintained just yesterday was gone; he was pale, hollow-cheeked, and leaned heavily on an ornate wooden cane, his knuckles white around the handle.
Faust set his teacup down, an ironic, playful smirk tugging at his lips despite the gravity of what he knew.
"Isbert, my friend... you look as though you were run over by a runaway wagonway."
Isbert let out a weak, raspy chuckle, his icy eyes twinkling. "And you, Faust... look entirely no better."
Before Faust could reply, the heavy footsteps of a frantic youth echoed down the hallway. Isfrid stormed into the room, his face flushed with panic and anger as he grabbed his grandfather's elbow.
"Grandpa! What are you doing out of bed?!" Isfrid yelled, his voice cracking with exasperation. "The physician explicitly said you must rest! You can barely stand, and the doctor—"
"Isfrid."
The single word cut through the air like a falling blade. Isbert's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the absolute, freezing weight of the Frost line.
Isfrid froze, his jaw working. "But Grandpa—!"
Isbert slowly turned his head, shooting his grandson a sharp, commanding glare that brooked no further defiance. The young swordsman ground his teeth, lowered his eyes, and stiffly bowed before backing out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Faust shook his head, taking a slow bite of a warm pretzel.
"I swear... at his age, I wouldn't have even entertained the thought of speaking to my grandfather in such a manner. This generation severely lacks basic manners."
Isbert let out a long sigh, shuffling closer to sit in the armchair beside the bed.
"I couldn't agree more, my friend."
"I am genuinely terrified of what children will look like in two hundred years!" Faust added with a dramatic shudder, a sharp glint of humor in his visible eye. "Gosh forbid them even thinking about saying 'thank you' to their elders!"
The two old friends shared a quiet, warm laugh, the familiar banter cutting through the heavy chill of the mansion. For a fleeting minute or two fatigue seemed to melt away, leaving only two men reminiscing about the grand, bygone days of their youth.
Then, Isbert's laughter slowly faded. He stared down at the polished silver head of his cane, his expression turning solemn.
"Yes... the times are changing, Faust," Isbert murmured softly. "Yet, through all the centuries, the only things that remain entirely unchanged are money... and you, my friend."
Faust stopped chewing. His hand froze mid-air, the pretzel hovering inches from his mouth. He set the food down on the tray, his gaze locking onto the old Patriarch.
"I came here because I have very little time left," Isbert said, his voice dropping into a quiet, absolute register. "There will be no other chance. I want to fulfill the solemn favor my father owed to yours... and return it to you when the time has finally come."
Faust remained dead silent, his breathing shallow.
Isbert lingered for a moment, staring out the window at the falling orange leaves of the Bavarian autumn.
"Do you remember when you first came to our mansion, all those decades ago?" Isbert asked softly.
He didn't wait for Faust's reply.
He turned his head, his pale, aging eyes meeting Faust's bandaged face with an unblinking, heavy clarity.
"Our family relic, Frost, reacts exclusively to anything evil... anything demonic," Isbert whispered into the quiet room. "And on that very first day you crossed our threshold... it detected you."