The Most Likely Future
Isaac's ultra-long-range spell had succeeded. The ice crystal had probably pierced Baris's left eye and reached his brain. He couldn't confirm it from this distance, but news of Baris's fate would arrive soon enough. Even if the man survived, he'd never function as a person again—and it would serve as warning enough to those coveting someone else's city.
"……."
Isaac staggered to his feet. His body felt utterly drained of strength. Descending the bell tower's spiral stairs, he nearly tripped several times, on the verge of tumbling down. Without railings, a fall could have sent him after Baris. Clutching the wall for support, Isaac made his way down, each step sending a dizzying vertigo through him as if he might plummet at any moment.
"Huu."
Finally planting his feet on solid ground, Isaac paused to exhale a sigh of relief. Then he headed for the chapel.
Bill lay sprawled on a pew in the exact position he'd been in before Isaac climbed the tower, deep in sleep.
"Hey, wake up."
Isaac nudged the slumbering Bill with his boot.
"Huh? Uh, wha—what is it?"
Bill jolted awake, wiping the crusty drool from his mouth.
"Let's go."
"Huh? What about Baris…?"
Bill caught himself mid-sentence, voice dropping to a whisper as if afraid someone might overhear.
"The assassination?"
"It's done."
Isaac turned and strolled out of the church without another word.
"Wh-what do you mean, done?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
Panting as he chased after Isaac, Bill noticed the street's atmosphere felt markedly different. As dawn's rooster crowed, the city guard moved with frantic urgency.
"No way…."
With his hood pulled low, Isaac walked ahead. Bill grabbed a familiar guard—one he'd tipped handsomely whenever spotted at the bridge.
"Jerome."
"Bill? You're alive? Thought the Baisman thugs got you."
"Me? Die that easy? Why's everyone rushing around at dawn?"
"Later."
The guard shoved Bill aside, trying to join the patrol line. But Bill yanked him back and slipped him three silver coins.
"Ah, I shouldn't say…."
The guard glanced around nervously. Bill added two more silvers. Satisfied, the guard pulled Bill into a nearby alley, checking repeatedly for onlookers.
"You're killing me with curiosity here. You gonna tell my great-grandkids? Spill it."
Bill nearly burst from impatience at the excessive caution.
"The mayor's dead. Left eye completely pierced clean through to the brain. Fourteen guards on rotation, servants tending him—and still he ends up like that."
"……."
Bill's jaw slowly dropped.
"The funny part? Nobody knows what killed him. Tons of blood and brains leaked out, but the only foreign object? A single strand of straw. We're joking it's the 'straw murder' among ourselves…."
The guard spilled everything for his five silvers. But Bill stopped hearing him partway through. A chill washed over him like ice water. It had to be Isaac's doing. Yet what exactly he'd done was beyond imagining. Had God truly answered Isaac's prayer?
Bill shook off wild delusions and hurried after Isaac from the alley.
Early dawn. Carlson packed his belongings in his room. He'd stayed longer than expected. He'd come to carry out Isaac's orders and check on Randolf's surviving family. In truth, though, the past few days had felt like a deep rest. Probably thanks to Mrs. Randolf's steadfast, kind-hearted nature. The children took after her. People really did gravitate toward their own kind. Randolf had been the same.
Mrs. Randolf had sold a portion of the land granted by the count and opened an inn in Bernsi. Brand new, pricier than others—yet it quickly gained popularity. Most inns crammed straw mattresses across entire second floors to pack in guests. Here, private rooms were offered, with clean linens. To Carlson, who'd only known flea-ridden dumps, the beds seemed excessively pristine—no rotten stench of old fluids and fibers, just the scent of wildflowers from the blankets and pillows. The food was excellent too: proper dishes from fresh ingredients, not eternal stew of scraps.
All thanks to ample funds and the wife's diligent spirit.
Though it was still dim outside, sounds of bustling activity came from downstairs. As always, the wife and servants were hard at work: sweeping floors, wiping tables and chairs, gathering used linens for the stream, preparing simple meals. Even the children, up before Carlson, pitched in. Randolf's kids were probably more industrious than Binvelt's garrison soldiers.
"You're up?"
"Yes."
Carlson gave a curt reply to the wife's greeting.
"Heading out?"
Randolf's eldest, Wolfgang, spotted the sword sheath and luggage.
"Stayed longer than planned. Time to go back."
Today might be a turning point in Carlson's life. Isaac had vowed to assassinate Mayor Baris before sunset—without the man ever realizing Isaac's presence. Was that even possible?
Carlson knew Isaac hid his magical prowess, far surpassing clumsy noble mages. But to what extent? He could only vaguely guess from the incident where Isaac turned the bishop to ash.
Isaac's success or failure didn't matter to Carlson. What did was the path forward for revenge if Isaac failed. That thought had kept him tossing last night.
"Leaving already, Uncle?"
The second son, Hermann, looked visibly disappointed. Wolfgang was ten, Hermann nine.
"You barely taught us any swordplay."
"As I said, you still have choices."
Carlson gripped their shoulders. Randolf had called himself "tethered." Drunk, he'd muse about a life unsworn to the count—roaming the continent freely, sailing seas. He'd said he'd be a merchant in his next life. Boarding a galley for diplomatic escort had shown him the kingdom's narrowness, the world's vastness. He didn't want his kids bound like him. A knight unfit for his rank, un-knightly indeed.
"I want to protect Goethe like Father."
"Wolfgang, Hermann! Stop bothering him and come help!"
The wife called out.
"Yes!"
Hermann scampered off, but Wolfgang stared at Carlson.
"I know, it's ridiculous. A kid like me can't be like Father. No talent."
During his stay, Carlson had taught the boys basic swordsmanship. Sadly, neither showed much aptitude. Becoming Randolf-level knights would demand bone-grinding effort, maybe impossible. At just ten, Wolfgang knew his place.
"Still, I want to live honorably like him."
Wolfgang's eyes mirrored Randolf's. Carlson suddenly thought: if Isaac's assassination failed and revenge grew murky, working here, teaching the boys swordplay—it wouldn't be bad. And if one became a merchant, trailing as a sellsword, wandering the world… might be fun. Dying that way, he'd have a bit of face to show Randolf.
Pointless hypotheticals, of course. Carlson spoke.
"Wolfgang. Your father wanted Hermann to see a wider world. The Goethe Count is worthy of service; being his knight is honorable. But your father yearned for freedom all through Winterband."
"Father did?"
"Whatever you choose, you'll succeed. But walking the path he couldn't—the one he wanted—isn't that honorable too?"
Wolfgang's eyes wavered.
"Wolfgang! What are you doing?"
The wife called.
"Thanks, Uncle."
Wolfgang nodded resolutely and ran to the kitchen. Carlson didn't leave immediately. His path wasn't set. He sat in a corner downstairs, sipping honeyed water. Time to wait.
If no word of Baris's death by sunset—or if Isaac's name surfaced as assassin—Carlson would head straight to Binvelt, gather his gear, cross the Black Forest to Oton's port. There, collect intel on his foe, Viscount Botmer, then storm his lands.
Carlson pondered his moves if Isaac failed. Success odds seemed low. Genius or not, Isaac was only twelve—not trained assassin, no innate talent for it. His gifts were magical; magic aided assassination, but didn't equate to it. Better plan for failure than improbable success.
"Hungover? More honey water?"
Mrs. Randolf mistook his deep thought for headache.
"No, fine. Just water, please."
"Yes. Coming right up. Welcome! Oh, business go well?"
She greeted a group of foreign merchants entering. They were leaving Bernsi today, back early from deals. Their faces were grim.
"Deal fell through."
"Not pleased with the fur trader?"
"Furs weren't the plan. Heard Bernsi's were quality, so we tested. Short on funds, asked the local magnate for surety. High fees, but he could back big sums—with status and repute."
"He refused?"
"No. Got the guarantee yesterday. Useless by dawn."
"Why?"
"Guarantor died."
"Died?!"
Her voice rose.
"Absurd. How does a big city's mayor die in his own mansion, guards everywhere?"
Scraaaape—!
Carlson rose unconsciously, chair scraping.
"Carlson?"
She eyed him puzzled.
"Any word on cause? Or killer?"
He pressed the merchant urgently.
"No, sadly. Eye socket pierced—don't even know by what."
"Hah."
"You too asking the mayor for guarantee?"
"……Something like that."
Carlson chuckled wryly. In a way, the mayor's death guaranteed it—endorsing Isaac. He stood.
"Must go."
"Carlson, breakfast?"
She followed.
"I'm good."
"Wait."
Outside was chaos. Baris's death had spread; pedestrians buzzed: divine punishment, what about losses, what now for the council? Gossip everywhere.
"Packed bread and cheese."
"No need."
"Our thanks. The kids can let go of Randolf a bit now. Thanks for sharing about him, remembering him kindly, as a man of faith…."
"No need. He was that kind of man."
Carlson avoided her reddening eyes.
Randolf could have lived. If Carlson had gone all-out. Chosen strategy over revenge. Not considered the enemy fleeing and spreading word of his power. Then, Randolf's family would thrive in their lands.
"Kids were a handful? Boys that age need idols. Randolf idolized the count as a boy, chose Winterband for it."
Her words recalled Gunther's request in Binvelt: tribal kids needed a back to follow. Could it be his? No need for those kids—he owed them nothing. Mercenary math from his father applied to them too. But Randolf's boys… he owed them a back.
"Here."
Carlson unbuckled his sheath and handed it over. Rusty and chipped from neglect since the wolf king fight. Planned to sell cheap for a new one. Worthless to him. But meaningful to the boys?
"Why…?"
"Wolfgang or Hermann. If they choose this path, take this sword and…."
He hesitated. By the time they grew… would revenge succeed? Would he live? If both, where? Back to Winterband? Guarding Goethe Manor?
Carlson envisioned the likeliest future.
"Tell them to come to Binvelt village."
"Binvelt… village? That's just barren wasteland."
"By the time they grow, it'll be a village. A good place to live."
He replied without doubt and walked away. He had work to do.