The crisp morning air bit at their cheeks as the heavy carriage rolled onto the open Bavarian highway.
Faust sat upright on the driver's bench, the leather reins resting easy in his calloused hands. The team pulling them were magnificent black stallions from the Herzog's private stables—sleek, tireless, and bred for swift travel across rough imperial roads.
Beside him, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, Isfrid stared silently at the passing trees. The youthful arrogance from the training courtyard had dimmed, replaced by a lingering gloom. The abrupt farewell to his recovering mother, the heavy bow from his father, and the fragile, dying silhouette of his grandfather weighed heavily on the young swordsman's shoulders.
Faust flicked the reins, letting the silence breathe before speaking.
"Are you going to enlighten me on what this 'accolade' ritual truly is? Isbert danced around the details as if it were a state secret."
Isfrid let out a soft sigh, his breath misting in the chill.
"It isn't that Grandfather didn't want to tell you. He simply couldn't. The traditions of the Adeptus families are bound by ancient oaths. We are strictly forbidden from speaking of certain rites to those outside the circle. If we breach the silence, the backlash is... severe."
Faust tilted his head, his visible eye glinting with analytical intrigue.
"And what, pray tell, are these Adeptus families?"
"I cannot tell you that either," Isfrid replied flatly, staring straight ahead.
Faust gave a dry, exasperated chuckle.
"Fascinating. A brotherhood of secrets wrapped in silences." He decided not to press the boy further; a scholar knew when a wall was made of stone and when it was made of spiritual iron.
Glancing down, Faust's gaze landed on the object resting across Isfrid's knees.
It was the intricate walking cane Isbert had used earlier—the weathered grey wood flecked with frost, topped by the frozen dragon head.
"Why are you carrying your grandfather's cane?" Faust asked. "A souvenir for the road?"
"This?" Isfrid looked down, his gloved fingers tracing the dragon's snout. "This is the true body of Frost."
Faust raised a brow.
"The cane is your familial Arma?"
"Its dormant vessel," Isfrid nodded. "By the way, the colossal greatsword you saw the night you arrived was merely its manifested, unsealed form. When it rests, it returns to this shape."
Faust scoffed, shaking his head.
"Which brings me back to your reckless welcoming committee. What if I had been an ordinary human traveler seeking shelter from the rain? You would have taken a mortal's head off with an ancestral relic!"
"Frost does not sound the alarm for ordinary mortals," Isfrid retorted, a sharp, defensive edge returning to his voice. "The moment you set foot on our grounds, the steel inside the wood began to shriek. It sensed something ancient, corrupt, and deeply evil."
Faust paused, the image of Baphomet's shadow claw flashing briefly behind his eyes.
"Ah. Right. I almost forgot about my charming scent."
Isfrid turned on the bench, his dark eyes locking onto Faust with intense curiosity.
"Grandfather also told me before we departed that you would be the one to explain everything. Why our relic treats you like an arch-demon... and what my accolade is truly meant to accomplish."
Faust pulled back slightly on the reins to steady the stallions' pace.
A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips as he looked out over the rolling autumn hills.
"Well, my dear godson," Faust said, his gravelly voice dropping into a rich, storytelling cadence, "then we are in for a very long ride. It all began when I was taken in by the Herzog of Saxe-Weimar, more than a hundred years ago..."