Before the freezing edge of the ancestral steel could slice into the flesh of Faust's neck, a hand materialized out of the swirling crimson and azure smoke.
Bare, elegant fingers clamped directly onto the razor-sharp edge of the blade. Like the young swordsman's hands, these fingers were instantly coated in a delicate, crackling layer of hoarfrost—yet they didn't bleed. They held the monumental weight of the weapon with terrifying, effortless absolute control.
A low, resonant voice cut through the damp air, carrying an icy chill that seemed to make the falling rain freeze mid-drop.
"Isfrid Ernst Frost," the voice commanded, perfectly calm yet heavy with absolute authority. "What do you think you are doing?"
As the alchemical smoke rapidly settled into the natural mountain mist, Faust finally recognized the face of the man who had just saved his life. Standing before him was his oldest living friend, the current Patriarch of the Frost family: Isbert Elsa Frost. Though he was well into his nineties, Isbert possessed a remarkably dignified, robust build. Of course, he still bore the heavy winter of old age across his features—a stark contrast to Faust, who remained entirely frozen in time, looking exactly as he had a century ago.
Isbert turned his cold gaze toward the young swordsman, his tone dropping an octave. "I ask you again, boy. What do you think you are doing?"
The youth, Isfrid, momentarily startled, lowered his shoulders. His fierce composure cracked, and he stammered defensively, "But Grandpa...! Frost told me—"
Clink.
Isbert simply flicked one of his frost-covered fingers against the flat of the heavy blade. With a gentle tap, the massive ancestral sword instantly dissolved, scattering into a fine winter mist and a handful of glowing, enigmatic snowflakes that melted into the autumn rain.
"I do not wish to hear a single syllable," Isbert cut him off mid-sentence, his voice absolute. "Out of my eyes."
Isfrid bit his lip, turning a pair of desperate, pleading puppy eyes toward his grandfather.
"NOW!" Isbert barked.
The young swordsman let out a defeated, lazy sigh. He walked to the grand oak doors, opening them with a slow, dramatic reluctance, before turning to offer a stiff, formal bow of apology to the guest. He then vanished into the dark interior of the mansion.
The moment the boy disappeared, the freezing aura around Isbert melted away. A warm, brilliant smile broke across the old Patriarch's weathered face, and he eagerly stretched his hands out toward Faust.
"Forgive me, my friend," Isbert chuckled warmly, stepping forward to wrap Faust in a fierce, tight embrace that felt exactly like the reunions of old times. "A truly wretched reception for the Patriarch of the Saxe-Weimar Herzog family. Come inside, out of this miserable rain."
They stepped through the threshold, leaving the graveyard atmosphere of the courtyard behind. As they navigated the grand, dimly lit gothic corridors of the mansion—the walls adorned with ancient tapestries and frosted silver armor—the two old friends fell into an easy, idle banter.
"Faust, my legendary friend, you look entirely as fresh as the day we met," Isbert joked, glancing at Faust's ageless face. "God forbid me doubt you are over a hundred years old!"
"And you, Isbert, look entirely as old as always."
Faust let out a genuine, gravelly laugh, the heavy burden of the past week lifting slightly from his chest.
"I am sorry! I couldn't stop Isfrid, it was entirely my fault!" A young, heavily flustered maid came rushing down the grand spiral staircase, her cheeks flushed with concern as she bowed deeply before the Patriarch.
Isbert waved his hand dismissively, offering her a reassuring smile.
"Everything is perfectly fine, child." He turned back to Faust, gesturing to the girl. "Faust, this is Pruna, the personal maid of my troublesome youngest grandson."
Faust looked up the stairs where Isfrid had vanished, a nostalgic glint in his visible eye.
"He has grown up so much, Isbert. The last time I saw him, he was nothing more than a tiny, weeping infant in a cradle."
"Of course he was!" Isbert suddenly yelled back in a booming, theatrical tone, pointing an accusatory finger at Faust's chest. "If you actually bothered to visit us more than once an age, the boy would actually recognize his own godfather! Fu-fu! If not for the explicit wishes of your late father, I would have never chosen a wandering scholar like you to guide his spirit!"
Faust chuckled softly, crossing his arms. "I send him spectacular, expensive presents every single year, old man."
"Yes! Just like your letters!" Isbert countered with a dramatic sigh, though his eyes were full of warmth. "I am your friend, after all. The very last one you have left alive in this wretched world."
"And you are mine," Faust replied softly, his voice dropping into a sincere register. "How dare you write to me so rarely, then?"
Faust couldn't help but laugh out loud, a sudden wave of comfort washing over him.
"I swear, listening to you talk... it feels as though your own father has come back to life."
"Like father, like son, my friend," Isbert smiled. He turned back to the young maid. "Pruna, go and prepare the master guest room for our dearest traveler. Ensure the hearth is roaring."
As Pruna scurried away to fulfill the order, Isbert's smile slowly began to fade. He stepped closer to Faust, his eyes narrowing as he took in the profound, bone-deep exhaustion radiating from his frame.
"You have the absolute worst look I have ever seen on you in your one hundred years of existence," Isbert stated grimly. "What in God's name happened to you Faust?"
"Let us sit down first," Faust muttered, his muscles aching.
They walked slowly into the Patriarch's private office—a magnificent room lined with heavy oak bookshelves, a roaring fireplace, and cases of silver-hilted rapiers. Isbert poured two large glasses of dark Bavarian wine, handing one to Faust before settling behind his heavy desk.
Faust took a long, desperate swallow of the wine, letting the alcohol burn away the frost in his throat. Then, he began to speak.
For the next hour, Faust unburdened his soul. He explained everything that had transpired over the last six months. He spoke of the beautiful, lethal Lola de Alarcón, and the masterful, frantic anatomical surgery he had performed to cut the deathly corruption out of her brother Mateus.
Hearing this part of the tale, Isbert couldn't help but let out a sharp, dark chuckle, trying to lighten the mounting gravity.
"Gosh, Faust... your private romantic life remains utterly catastrophic. First, you marry your own beautiful sister Elena, and now you fall for a fanatical Inquisitor woman who practically tries to slaughter you on sight. It feels like the good old days."
Faust smiled faintly, deeply missing that specific, biting brand of humor. But the warmth in the room evaporated completely as he continued his narrative.
He detailed his violent interrogation by the terrifying Grandmaster of the Order, Azazel Weyer. And finally, his voice dropping into a shaky, gravelly whisper, he described the subterranean market of Saint-Eustache, the massacre, the blind Tarasque, and his horrific, reality-bending encounter with the goat-headed entity—Baphomet. He described the searing, phantom agony inside his abdomen and the glowing, demonic amber fire that had permanently consumed his left eye, lifting the eye bandage.
With every single word that left Faust's lips, Isbert made fewer and fewer remarks. The old Patriarch's playful demeanor vanished entirely, his face hardening into a stone mask of severe, calculated gravity.
"My father once told me," Faust concluded, his fingers tightening around his wine glass until the silver stems groaned, "that if I ever encountered something truly catastrophic... if a critical problem arose within my own altered, supernatural body... I was to seek out the Frost family immediately. That is why I am here, Isbert. I am losing control of my own mind. The malicious thoughts... voices, they are trying to take over."
Isbert sat in absolute silence for a long moment. He looked down at his empty glass, cleared his throat with a heavy, raspy sound, and poured another shot, downing the wine in one single, aggressive gulp.
"We will speak of this in the morning, Faust," Isbert said, his voice completely flat, devoid of its earlier warmth. "You are running on fumes. You need rest."
Faust instantly opened his mouth to protest, "But Isbert, the voices—"
A soft, polite knock interrupted him. Pruna quietly entered the office, bowing respectfully.
"The master room is ready, Patriarch."
Isbert nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Faust's bandaged face.
"Pruna, go to the apothecary cabinet. Prepare a heavy, specialized sleeping mixture for my friend. Ensure it is potent enough to dull the nerves."
"Right away, sir," she whispered, curtsying before exiting.
Isbert stood up, walking over to place a heavy, reassuring hand on Faust's broad shoulder.
"It is far too deep into the night for a conversation of this magnitude, old friend. Go to sleep. We will face the dark together when the sun rises. Good night, Faust."
Faust swallowed his arguments, offering a weary nod. He turned and quietly left the office, his boots clicking softly against the dark wood of the corridor.
But as the heavy mahogany door began to swing shut behind him, Faust glanced back through the narrowing gap. The roaring light of the fireplace cast long, flickering shadows across the room, illuminating Isbert's face.
The old Patriarch was staring blankly into his empty glass, his shoulders slumped, his expression carved into a look of profound, solemn... sadness.