The journey north from the Bavarian heartland to Weimar spanned nearly four hundred kilometers. Over twelve grueling days, the carriage crawled along rutted imperial trade routes, slowing through dense Thuringian forests and stopping at remote roadside coaching inns to rest the Herzog's stallions.
By the time the carriage clattered over the familiar cobblestones of Saxe-Weimar's ducal capital, the autumn air had turned sharp and biting. Faust navigated the alleys with effortless precision, pulling the horses to a halt before a crooked, two-story timber-frame shop wedged between two brick buildings.
A faded wooden sign bearing a chipped carving of tailoring shears creaked in the wind.
Isfrid hopped down from the bench, brushing road dust from his cloak.
He frowned up at the dreary storefront.
"Why are we stopping at a tailor? If we need provisions, the grand market is three streets down."
"Because a proper hunt requires fresh identities," Faust said, adjusting the linen wrap concealing his left eye. "And every believable identity begins with the right cut of cloth."
A look of pure dread washed over Isfrid's face.
"Please don't tell me you were serious about that traveling magician and circus clown nonsense..."
Faust merely smiled at the boy's desperate, hopeful expression, offered no reassurance, and pushed the front door open.
The bell above the frame gave a pathetic, rusted jingle.
Inside, the shop was suffocating.
The air was a rancid stew of mildew, scorched pressing-irons, sour sweat, and the pungent reek of cheap distilled liquor.
Isfrid violently covered his nose with his sleeve, gagging on the threshold.
"Merciful God... did a horse die beneath the floorboards?"
"Breathe through your mouth, boy," Faust remarked dryly, stepping past rolls of moth-eaten wool and neglected silk. "Consider it your first lesson in survival. Young lords raised with golden spoons—or in your case, hoarfrost spoons—tend to perish the moment the world stops smelling of lavender."
Isfrid snorted, kicking aside a discarded sewing spool.
"Says who? There is a difference between survival and standing in an open sewer."
"Sometimes it just the same side of the coin."
Faust ignored his godson's exaggerated reaction and raised his voice, shouting into the gloom:
"Elias! Get down here!"
Silence answered. A minute passed, then another, save for the muffled creak of footsteps above.
"Faust," Isfrid called from the landing of the narrow wooden staircase, leaning over the handrail with a look of sheer disgust. "I found someone on the second floor. Though I genuinely pray for your sake that this isn't who you were looking for."
Faust bounded up the steps.
In the dim attic room, slumped across a cutting table amid spilled chalk, tangled threads, and three empty clay jugs of gin, lay a young man in filthy shirtsleeves, snoring loudly.
Faust didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward and delivered a sharp, echoing slap across the man's cheek.
Smack.
The man groaned, his eyes fluttering weakly.
His breath washed over them like fermented poison.
"Wha... leave the bottle..."
"Look at this place!" Faust barked. "What in God's name have you done to your father's workshop?!"
The drunken youth blearily blinked against the weak gray light from the dormer window.
He rubbed his stinging cheek, squinting up at the broad-shouldered man looming over him.
"Uncle... Faust?" the man slurred, his voice cracking. He reached a trembling hand out toward Faust's dark face. "No... no, it's the drink. You died... you left forty years ago... It's a phantom..."
Smack. Smack.
Faust delivered two more brisk, unforgiving slaps—perhaps a touch heavier than strictly necessary, but exceedingly effective.
The young tailor jerked upright, sputtering, the alcohol instantly fleeing his system under the shock of violence.
He scrambled backward against the bolts of cloth, clutching his burning jaw, his wide eyes fixed on Faust.
His own skin, a rich, dark umber nearly identical to Faust's complexion, caught the pale daylight.
"You're... you're real," the tailor gasped, tentatively reaching out to touch Faust's shoulder, confirming the solid muscle beneath the wool. "Uncle Faust... how? You haven't aged a single day."
Faust cut through the sentiment, his voice dropping into a quiet, hurried gravel.
"Where is your father, Elias?"
The young man's jaw tightened.
He slowly lowered his head, staring at the floorboards.
"Father passed away two winters ago. The chest-fever took him."
He looked back up, emotion warring across his features.
"He kept your measurements in the master ledger until the day he died. But Uncle... how are you here? What happened to you?"
"A conversation for another decade," Faust replied with an airy wave of his hand. He stepped to the side, pointing directly at Isfrid, who was still leaning against the doorframe looking thoroughly uncomfortable. "My godson here will provide you with every tedious detail of my journey. Meanwhile, we have an urgent commission, and I will pay double your father's old rates."
Isfrid's eyes bugged out.
His jaw fell open, looking between the weeping, hungover tailor and Faust with an expression of pure, unadulterated 'Are you out of your mind?'
"We need matching traveling attire," Faust continued smoothly, completely ignoring Isfrid's silent outrage. "Cut from durable wool and boiled leather. Keep the palette dark—charcoal and midnight hues. But ensure the sleeves and joints are tailored for absolute freedom of movement. Swordsmen and scoundrels have no use for stiff seams."