The morning sun had barely begun to burn through the Thuringian mist when a small, insistent tugging at Friedrich's silk duvet broke the silence of the ducal bedchamber.
"Father? Mother?" the young boy whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of confusion and disappointment. "Great Uncle's room is cold. The bed is made, and the trunk is gone."
Friedrich bolted upright, the haze of sleep vanishing instantly.
Beside him, his wife sat up, her hand flying to her throat. They didn't need to check the room to know the truth. Faust was a man who lived in the gaps between seconds; he had never been one for long goodbyes. They hurried to the guest wing, finding the heavy oak door ajar. The room was immaculate, the hearth swept, and the silver-topped cane Faust had been gifted sat leaning against the nightstand—a silent "thank you" and a final farewell.
"He is a ghost we were lucky to host for a week," Friedrich sighed, resting a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Do not be sad, Peter. Men like him don't belong to houses. They belong to the road."
Miles away, in a bustling market town on the outskirts of the duchy, the "ghost" was very much alive and surrounded by a cacophony of human noise.
A traveling circus fair had descended upon the town square, turning the grey cobblestones into a kaleidoscope of chaos.
The air was a thick soup of smells: roasting sausages, damp hay, cheap ale, and the sharp tang of coal smoke from the fire-breathers' torches.
Clowns with painted, grotesque faces danced on stilts, their laughter lost in the roar of the crowd. Stalls lined the paths, offering games of chance that Faust knew, with his doctor's eyes, were rigged by the subtle tilt of a board or the weight of a die.
He navigated the crowd with a practiced, invisible grace, his black coat cutting through the colorful rags of the peasants.
He eventually found himself standing before a modest wooden stage draped in faded purple velvet, that looked similar to the curtains his mother in the mansion had personally chosen.
A magician was finishing a set.
He was a wiry man with a nervous twitch and a top hat that had seen better decades.
With a flourish that lacked Don-Fran's poetic flow, he pulled two struggling rabbits from a seemingly empty box. The crowd offered a polite, scattered applause.
"If you wish to see the impossible made flesh!" the magician shouted, mopping sweat from his brow. "Come tomorrow for the Grand Spectacle! The Main Show shall reveal the secrets of the Sphinx itself!"
As the crowd dispersed, Faust drifted toward the edge of the stage.
The magician was packing his props, muttering under his breath about the humidity.
"I wish to be your student," Faust said, his voice a low, commanding vibration that made the man jump.
The magician looked Faust up and down, noting the expensive cut of his clothes and the "big dignity" that radiated off him like heat.
He let out a cynical snort.
"You? A gentleman like you wants to smell like rabbit droppings and sleep in a wagon? No-no, find a hobby that doesn't involve blisters...whoever you are."
Faust didn't argue.
He simply reached into his pocket and produced a single gold coin.
He held it between his thumb and forefinger, letting it catch the orange glow of a nearby fire-lantern.
The magician's eyes lit up, the pupils dilating with a sudden, sharp hunger.
He reached for it, but Faust closed his hand.
"I... well," the magician stammered, his posture suddenly straightening. "I would have to ask the Boss. We don't usually take on... apprentices of your stature. But for a 'contribution' to the troupe..."
"Ask him," Faust said. He tossed the gold coin high into the air.
The magician's head snapped back, his hands cupping together to catch the falling fortune.
He watched the gold spin, sparkling against the twilight sky.
But as the coin reached the zenith of its arc, it seemed to simply... dissolve into the air. The magician's hands snapped shut on nothing but empty, cold wind.
He blinked, frantic, looking at the ground, then back at Faust.
"Where did—? How did you—?"
Faust stepped closer, his expression unreadable.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the magician's left ear. With a soft clink, he pulled the gold coin from the man's own head and held it up.
"The payment comes only after the lessons," Faust said, a dangerous, playful glint in his eyes. "And only if your 'Grand Spectacle' is half as impressive as your greed."
The magician swallowed hard, looking at the coin and then at the mysterious man who clearly already knew more than he was letting on.
"The Boss is in the red wagon," he whispered. "I'll tell him a... a master is looking for work."