The summons came just as Isaac was finishing the last of his clear broth. A footman entered the dining hall, his spine as rigid as a spear. "Young Master Isaac, the Master of the House requests your presence in the study. Immediately."
Isaac set his spoon down with a soft clink. His heart, already working overtime to move his heavy frame, gave a sharp, nervous thud against his ribs.
"I will come in a moment," Isaac said.
He pushed himself back from the table—a chore in itself. His legs felt like leaden pillars, and the simple act of standing sent a wave of heat through his body that made his collar feel like a noose. He signaled to Hans, who was watching with a mask of cold professionalism. "Lead the way, please."
The journey to the Count's study was another grueling marathon. The office was located in the West Wing, requiring Isaac to navigate yet another set of stairs and a long, drafty corridor lined with the blackened steel suits of armor of his ancestors. To Isaac, these metal statues felt like they were judging him, their empty visors watching the "Lazy Pig" shuffle past, gasping for air and leaving a trail of sweat on the polished stone.
Servants lingered in the shadows of the hallway, their whispers trailing after him like stinging insects.
"Look at him," one hissed. "He can barely walk. The Master will surely cast him aside this time."
"Or worse," another whispered. "With the border tensions rising, a useless heir is a liability. Perhaps he'll be sent to the front lines as 'discipline' for his behavior."
Isaac ignored them, focusing entirely on his breathing. *In for four, out for four.* He used the wall for support when the hallway blurred. By the time they reached the towering, iron-bound oak doors of the study, Isaac was drenched, his face flushed a deep, unhealthy crimson.
He reached out and knocked. The sound felt thin against the heavy wood. "Father... it is Isaac. I have arrived."
"Enter," a voice boomed from within. It was a voice like grinding tectonic plates—strict, resonant, and entirely devoid of warmth.
Hans opened the door, and Isaac stepped inside.
The study was a room built for a general, not a scholar. Maps of the monster-infested border were pinned to the stone walls with daggers. Shelves were packed not with poetry, but with ledgers of grain supplies, troop movements, and bestiaries of the creatures that prowled the dark woods outside. High windows let in the grey, unforgiving light of the North.
Sitting behind a massive desk cluttered with mountains of parchment was Count Alaric von Helmsgard.
The Count was a man who looked as though he had been carved out of the very cliffs he defended. He had iron-grey hair cut short and a beard that didn't hide the jagged scar running from his ear to his jawline—a souvenir from a Frost-Troll ambush years ago. He stopped his quill mid-sentence and looked up. His eyes were a piercing, flinty grey that seemed to weigh Isaac's soul and find it lacking.
"You are finally awake," the Count said, leaning back. The chair groaned under his muscular frame. "Perhaps the weight of your own body finally crashing down those stairs has made you understand something. You have spent years as a glutton, a bully, and a harasser of those beneath you."
He paused, his gaze narrowing with a clinical sort of disgust. "You lack talent. Your Earth magic is a stagnant pool. But... if you can learn to behave with the dignity of your name, and if you can finally make yourself fit for service, you might yet be useful to this family."
"Useful... in what way, Father?" Isaac asked. His voice was small and raspy from his labored breathing, but it lacked the usual whine of a spoiled child.
"It is not the time to discuss your future duties," the Count snapped. "First, you must change. If you promise me here, truly, that the boy who fell down those stairs is dead, I will withhold the punishment I had planned for your... lecherous behavior toward the staff."
Isaac bowed his head. It was a deep, respectful bow—difficult for a boy of his size, but he forced his spine to bend even as his joints protested. "My past behavior was unacceptable, Father. I am terribly sorry for the shame I have brought to this house. I will try my best to change. I give you my word."
The Count went silent. The scratch of a distant crow outside was the only sound. He seemed taken aback; he had expected a whimper, a lie, or a tantrum. Seeing his son stand there—sweating, struggling to breathe, but resolute—the Count gave a short, stiff nod.
"See that you do," the Count muttered, his gaze returning to his ledgers.
"Isaac!"
A woman stepped out from the shadows near the hearth. This was Marta, Isaac's mother. She was a fading beauty with the same chestnut hair as Isaac, her face marked by the "Helmsgard shadow"—a constant fatigue from living on the edge of a war zone. She moved toward him, her silk dress rustling, and placed a gentle hand on his damp shoulder.
"I am so relieved you are alive," she whispered, her voice trembling with genuine relief. "I will love you no matter what, Isaac. But your father is right. Please... use this second chance. If not for the family name, then at least so you never put yourself in such a dangerous situation again."
Isaac looked at her. In the game, she was a tragic figure who died of grief after Isaac was executed for treason. Seeing her now—warm, real, and terrified for him—Isaac felt a lump in his throat.
"I will be more careful, Mother," Isaac said softly. "I promise."
The Count cleared his throat without looking up. "You are free to leave. Go to your room and rest. You have been in bed for three days; do not think this one conversation means your penance is finished. It has not even begun."
"Thank you, Father," Isaac said.
He turned and left the study, his movements slow and heavy. But as the doors closed behind him, Isaac felt a tiny spark of hope. He hadn't been disowned. He hadn't been sent to the North Wing.
He had a foundation. Now, he just had to survive the "training" that was coming.