The autumn mist clung to the courtyard stones as the travel carriage was brought around. There was no grand procession, no fanfare of trumpets, and no courtly parade.
In the pale morning light, only three people had gathered in private to bid farewell to Faust and Isfrid.
Isfrid was locked in a fierce, trembling embrace with his mother.
Rita Wittelsbach sat bundled in blankets within a padded wooden wheelchair. Though still frail, her eyes were bright, lucid, and full of life—a stark, miraculous contrast to the corpse-like shell Faust had treated days earlier.
Beside her stood the Bavarian Herzog, his rigid, aristocratic posture softening completely as he placed a heavy, protective hand on his son's shoulder. For all their grand status as some of the highest nobility in the realm, in this quiet courtyard they were simply a mother and father holding their boy, praying for his safe return from the road.
A few paces away, Faust stood beside his oldest friend.
Isbert leaned heavily on an intricate walking cane crafted from weathered grey wood, flecked with permanent, shimmering patches of hoarfrost. Its handle was forged from a pale, freezing metal sculpted into the snarling head of a dragon.
The two exchanged a firm handshake and a round of their usual biting banter, but Faust's chest tightened with a quiet ache.
In his long, unnatural life, Faust had watched countless loved ones wither and slip into the earth.
Yet no matter how many centuries passed, he could never grow numb to the sight of mortality claiming those he cherished.
Isbert truly looked over a century old now, his vibrant dragon-aura reduced to an ember. Faust's silent medical prognosis was merciless: the old Patriarch had half a year left at best—perhaps even less.
"Have you begun to grasp the powers of your relic?" Isbert asked softly, leaning on his cane.
Faust gave a slow nod, though it lacked confidence.
"Somewhat. Though it is still deeply unsettling to treat a deck of cards as living, breathing entities."
Isbert let out a raspy chuckle, tapping his index finger against the space between his own eyebrows.
"You will get used to that, my friend. The mind adapts to the impossible."
"I should have simply stayed in the Americas," Faust muttered with a wry sigh. "Far away from this supernatural madness."
He adjusted the collar of his coat, lowering his voice.
"The cards can impose a localized authority over a given space—each Major Arcana exerting its own distinct domain and effect. I also cannot activate more than one card at a time, and whenever I reach into the silver case, the deck shifts. The card I draw seems entirely randomized. Worse still, only fifteen of the twenty-three are unlocked. The rest remain dormant, demanding conditions I have yet to comprehend."
Their conversation was cut short by hurried footsteps. Isfrid walked over from his parents, his eyes rimmed with red and his face twisted in frustrated defiance.
"Have you finished your goodbyes to your parents, grandson?" Isbert asked gently.
"Why do I have to go on this stupid accolade right now?!" Isfrid burst out, his voice cracking with angry grief. "Mother is finally awake! Why must I be exiled across Europe for some ancient ritual?!"
Isbert's face hardened instantly, the indulgent grandfather vanishing beneath the terrifying authority of the Patriarch. "Isfrid Ernst Frost! Have you forgotten what it means to be born into the Adeptus families? You will honor our traditions! If I die before you complete your trials, it will not be me passing down your mantle—it will be the vultures among the elders, or worse. You are the sole primary successor to the Frost seat, save for your mother, whom I deliberately struck from the family register to grant her a peaceful life!"
"Then strike me from the register too!" Isfrid shouted.
"Silence!" Isbert snapped, his voice carrying the biting chill of a mountain blizzard. "Nothing is simple when you carry the blood of the Frosts! You have duties and sacred responsibilities before the Emperors themselves. You will take up your steel and you will ride."
Seeing the family dispute escalate, Faust quietly stepped away to give the two men their privacy.
He walked over to Rita and the Herzog.
Faust offered a polite, shallow bow, which both the Duchess and the Duke returned with solemn respect.
"Uncle Faust..." Rita said softly, her voice filled with profound warmth. "Thank you. Our healer promised I will be on my feet and walking very soon."
The Herzog stepped forward, bowing deeply once more—casting aside every shred of his usual ducal pride.
"Doctor... I owe you a debt I cannot easily repay. Please, I beg of you, watch over my son on the road."
Faust looked at the stern ruler, a sudden, nostalgic memory of the boy's grandfather, Ludwich, flashing across his mind. A fond smirk pulled at the corner of Faust's lips.
"You are entirely your grandfather's blood," Faust murmured, the words slipping out with effortless warmth. "If there is one thing this family knows how to do, it is how to remember a debt and show genuine gratitude."
Before the Bavarian Herzog could process the statement, Faust reached out and playfully, affectionately patted the grand Duke right on top of his head—leaving the powerful nobleman standing frozen, utterly startled and wide-eyed in absolute disbelief.
Faust simply smiled, turned on his heel, and climbed into the carriage.
It was time to ride.