Sleetfall Echoes
The Sleetfall crew slept soundly at Randolph's inn, only stirring past noon. They ate downstairs, exchanging light chatter—mostly from Pallichi. He spun tales of his first time wielding an aura sword, anecdotes about his master, his debut monster hunt, his first kill, the schism between the old and new faiths, the mob storming prisons to reclaim weapons, the beheading of a nation's king. He was a natural-born storyteller. Or perhaps he simply suffered from an allergy to silence. No one even had to prompt him; the stories flowed endlessly, one tail chasing the next.
"The funny part is, the leather pouch that caught the blood from the king's body—and the executioner's sword from that day—both showed up at the country's biggest auction house. What do you reckon the winning bid went for, young master?"
"Hmm. Factoring in the historical value, maybe a few gold ingots?" Isaac replied offhandedly, sipping his ale.
Violet and Carlson merely held their seats, silent since earlier.
"Right? I figured at least a few ingots myself. But it went unsold."
"Unsold?"
"The reserve was three gold coins. Didn't even hit five silvers."
"That's surprising."
"Truth be told, there was some pressure from the radical revolutionaries. Right as the kingdom was flipping to a republic, they threatened to drag anyone clinging to such outdated, superstitious junk before a revolutionary tribunal on counter-revolutionary charges."
"Once you're up on that stand, dodging the noose is a tall order."
"Oh? So the young master knows his republic history too."
Isaac had just been guessing, but Pallichi looked increasingly intrigued with every response.
"Just something I picked up somewhere. So, you Baismen are the faction that dodged those tribunals and fled here?"
"Ho. 'Faction' might be a stretch for our little band, but spot on, young master. We escaped the radicals' reign of terror. Cowards, the lot of 'em. Paranoid about losing the power they clawed for, they won't let go of a single scrap. So they just kill everyone who might take it."
Pallichi admired Isaac's insight before scoffing at the radicals.
"And as I let slip before, we joined hands with the marquis to give shelter to our kin who nearly got sacrificed to those maniacs."
"I see."
"Kuh, this ale's top-notch. Barkeep, another round!"
Pallichi wiped the foam from his mustache and held up his empty mug. The idle banter rolled on. Still, only Pallichi spoke, but Isaac, Carlson, and Violet stayed put. A few foreign merchants stopped by for rooms, meals, or drinks. Even as they came and went repeatedly, the group kept draining their mugs without pause.
No one showed it, but the horrors at the House of Mercy had shaken them deeply.
"……"
Isaac was no exception. Before turning seventy, he'd assumed age dulled all pain and torment. That life's torments would fade. That he'd achieve a touch of detachment, a measure of enlightenment. Mental maturity.
But the passage of years didn't guarantee growth or maturity. Wisdom didn't come with age.
Isaac's heart still pounded fiercely. The fine ale offered no solace.
To think I'd be rattled by something like this.
The stench, the dampness, the stifled moans lurking in the House of Mercy's basement lingered vividly. The boys' corpses, forever preserved in those orbs of possibility, haunted his mind.
In truth, it was an opportunity for Isaac. Leverage to pressure the marquis.
But what was this rising bile, this fury?
He'd witnessed atrocities aplenty. Death, dismemberment, even cannibalism.
Staring blankly at a fixed point, Isaac traced the emotion back to its source.
And he understood. Beneath the anger lay fear.
Fear of loss.
The moment he saw those glass orbs, a delusion had flashed in his mind and lodged deep. The severed heads floating within had overlaid with Yonas's.
Even after meeting an elderly Yonas in his past life, no matter how many years his brother aged ahead... to Isaac, Yonas was Yonas. Forever the little brother he had to protect.
And the sacrificed boys were all around Yonas's age.
What if Yonas had been unlucky...
Isaac shook his head, dispelling the thought. It wouldn't happen. It hadn't in his past life.
But the mere possibility—even a speck—that it could, the fact that such things happened in this territory, enraged him.
The chance that precious things could crumble set his nerves on edge.
This was an era rife with prostitution, murder, drugs, abductions. Somewhere in some territory, some city, worse might be unfolding even now.
By that logic, his current feelings might seem cheap sentiment.
But it didn't ease the frustration or the rage.
Couldn't I have noticed sooner...? Stopped it sooner...?
The honed anger turned inward.
Plip, plip. Sleet pattered suddenly.
Mrs. Randolph bustled to stoke the hearth, warding off the chill and damp inside.
Isaac gazed blankly out the window. It wasn't snow or rain drumming the walls and panes.
That in-between malaise felt oddly personal. The boy let out a hollow chuckle.
The Randolph brothers slept on even as the group departed.
"When they wake, tell them they held on bravely. That they did well."
"I'll make sure to pass it on."
Mrs. Randolph smiled warmly at Carlson's words. In just one night, vitality had bloomed on her face—and spread to the inn.
As dusk fell, merchants and travelers filled the first floor with bustle; every second-floor room was taken.
"It's not much, but take this at least. You only drank—no one touched the food. You'll ruin your stomachs."
Mrs. Randolph offered a basket stuffed with bread, cheese, and jerked meat. The leather flask brimming with ale was at Isaac's request.
"Thanks. You're busy enough."
Isaac handed the basket to Carlson and took the flask with satisfaction.
"Without you, young master, those provisions would've rotted away forever. I don't know how to repay this kindness."
"Randolph's already covered that. For Goethe's sake."
"Then, with a light heart, one more small request?"
"The hidden third kid vanished?"
"No."
Mrs. Randolph chuckled softly.
"Carlson mentioned a village springing up in Binvelt someday. Sounds like a fine place to live."
"……."
Isaac shot Carlson a glance.
"I'll load it on the carriage."
Carlson averted his eyes slyly, snatched even Isaac's flask, and headed out.
"A village will come, sure. But I can't promise it's a good spot. Not yet."
"Then, when it does, take in my family too."
"Huh? What about the land Randolph got from Father?"
"I'll talk to the count for you."
"Binvelt borders the Black Forest. Monsters lurk there."
"At least no madwoman kidnapping kids, cutting their heads off, and calling it beautiful."
Mrs. Randolph lowered her voice.
"You heard all that, huh."
"Just that. Sorry. I have sharp ears; I overheard by accident."
"Doesn't matter if you heard. Pretend you didn't. It's dangerous."
"Yes."
"And if a village rises in Binvelt, your family's welcome anytime. Can't dream of ale this good there."
"You promise?"
"Yeah."
"The kids'll love it."
Mrs. Randolph beamed. It was the first time Isaac had seen her smile like that.
"Oh, and when Bill shows, read this to him. Guy can't read."
"Got it. I'll deliver it."
Isaac handed Mrs. Randolph a note and left the inn.
Three carriages awaited the group—Violet's arrangements. One for passengers, two for cargo stuffed with evidence swept from the House of Mercy.
"Meeting your father?"
"Yes."
Violet nodded firmly, resolved.
"He might not like it, but I want to see the count before deciding. For me, it's not just right or wrong—lives from my side hang in the balance."
"Mm. It's not displeasure on his end. Just... not sure it'll go well."
Isaac worried for Violet instead. Her alien mana, her ties to the marquis—how would the count take it? Especially glossing over the House of Mercy atrocities.
The count rarely betrayed emotion, leaving Isaac blind to his father's reaction.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Let's go."
Isaac boarded the carriage. Violet, Carlson, and Pallichi followed. Four filled it tight.
"Come back soon."
"We will."
With Mrs. Randolph's farewell, the three carriages rolled out.
Meanwhile, Bill—who'd prowled the sewers all night to no avail—arrived late at the inn.
"Uh, this Randolph's inn, right?"
He pleaded with passersby, but folks shunned the wanderer reeking of rot. Unlike the southern slums, the north housed decent folk, mostly merchants. By the time Bill realized he'd been left alone in town long after Isaac's departure, he swallowed his pointless frustration.
"Your breathing's off, my lord."
"Pay it no mind. More like, they're late."
The sleet had stopped, but heavy clouds lingered. A moonless night.
Yet the count and butler's sharpness hadn't dulled. The two veterans swung live steel without hesitation.
"Young master Isaac, sir?"
"Mm."
The count lowered his raised blade at Schrader's question.
From late evening routine's end into night, he'd swung for two hours straight, but the pent-up frustration lingered.
Hunting tempted him, but with Dietrich Marquis due any day as inspector—and already a week past schedule—he held back. The marquis's letters cited vague "circumstances," no more. Whatever his game, it boded ill for Goethe.
"Hoo."
Butler Schrader dabbed sweat beading on his brow. The count merely regulated his breath, dry as bone.
"Back in the day, I could match you from cockcrow to owl hoot. Now it's beyond me."
"Sorry. Just putting you through needless toil."
"Nonsense. It's joy enough to still cross blades with you."
"Spare the flattery. That's enough."
The count sheathed his blade.
"Young master Isaac will tell all when the time's right."
"He will. But I wonder. Is he holding back for reason, or does he doubt me?"
The count knew Isaac could wield magic—Schrader's full reports from Binvelt. The mercenary interrogation, the assassin capture and release. Mrs. Randolph's sudden manor visit and outing.
Yet Isaac had told his father nothing.
Rebuke the boy? Encourage him? The count couldn't say.
He should have when Isaac declared stepping down as heir.
—I'll show I'm unfit for heir, do something to wipe 'Goethe' from my name.
—Just petty villains squabbling. Seize the family name at the right moment.
Then, the count neither scolded nor refuted. Tacit approval.
Isaac's logic was rational; the count didn't question.
But he should have.
Not everything bends to pragmatism. Isaac was his son. Family.
Yet he'd nodded as the boy vowed to abandon heirship and the name.
He shouldn't have.
But what could he say? Isaac's will was iron; the count lacked cause to stop him.
"In these months, young master Isaac seems a wholly different person."
Schrader spoke as if reading the count's heart—the old butler who'd long filled his master's gaps.
"He's pondering things even I can't fathom. Prematurely mature compared to other noble youths. But, my lord... he's still the young master."
Schrader sheathed their blades.
"Your son. And still just twelve. Recall what your father expected of you at twelve."
"Mm."
The count dredged up his twelfth year. Memories fuzzy, but the burning desire for his father's approval burned clear.
"Young master feels the same. Clouds are thick. Knees ache—more sleet tomorrow. Inside, sir."
"Aye."
The count turned. Then paused.
"They're here."
Crossing the garden toward the manor, Schrader and the count halted.
Three carriages pulled up at the entrance. The lead coachman lit a lantern and opened the door.
A boy, a woman, and two men stepped out in turn.