The morning sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the Gothic mansion, but it offered no warmth.
Faust opened his eyes to a room bathed in a pale, crystalline light that felt distinctly, physically chilly. He pulled the heavy blankets tight for a brief moment, musing on the nature of his hosts. "Frost" was clearly an elemental truth of their bloodline, not just a grand noble surname. It was a fascinating riddle—how a legendary house of knights and traditional swordsmen managed to remain so heavily afloat and respected in an modern age dominated by gunpowder, cannons, and flintlocks.
That will be one of the riddles Faust is to discern. Is the Frost family so ordinary as it seemed?
He slid out of bed, his boots clicking softly on the cold floorboards as he immediately checked his suitcase. The Bohemian revolver rested securely in its velvet lining alongside bell-less Mephisto attire and Weyer's heavy iron tome.
Faust let out a long, heavy sigh, deliberately shifting his mind to drift the lingering, crazy whispers away. Thanks to the deep, undisturbed sleep, his psychological resilience had been partly replenished. The intrusive, chaotic impulses were subdued, locked behind the barriers of his conscious will. He realized he would have to systematically study and deepen his control over this mental fortress; while his supernatural body was functionally resilient to most physical threats, his mind was proving to be the least powerful part of his defenses.
He bitterly wished he could have parsed these changes through his sleep divinations. But ever since that fateful night when he had witnessed the grand, surging river and the hellish, weeping landscapes of iron chains, every subsequent attempt at dream-weaving had yielded nothing but an absolute, impregnable veil of total darkness.
Faust approached the porcelain basin, splashing his face with freezing water to shock his nerves awake. He stared into the glass mirror. His left eye was still throbbing with a low, rhythmic heat, the gold iris burning bright.
Before reaching for a fresh strip of linen, Faust paused. He decided to lean into the strange, penetrating sensation vibrating within the socket, focusing his consciousness entirely on the eye's altered anatomy.
The world instantly shattered.
His vision blurred violently before exploding outward. The physical boundaries of the room dissolved; his perspective tore away from his skull, passing effortlessly through the thick stone masonry and expanding into a dizzying, perfect 360-degree awareness of the entire estate.
He could see the servants gliding silently through the lower corridors with laundry.
He could see the intricate layout of the grand library three floors down.
He focused on the dining hall, tracing the exact lines of the room until his vision landed on Isbert, who was quietly sipping his morning tea.
Suddenly, Isbert paused. The old Patriarch tilted his head sharply, his icy blue eyes locking directly onto the invisible point in space from which Faust was observing him, as if sensing the exact trajectory of the phantom gaze.
Startled by the detection, Faust violently pulled his consciousness back. He snapped the white cloth bandage over the left side of his face, tying it tight and shifting his full concentration to suppressing the rising madness. His vision instantly collapsed back into its normal, dual-lens reality.
"This unique ability..." Faust thought, his heart racing against his ribs. "It will be... useful."
"...or deadly," a quiet, chilling afterthought echoed in the back of his mind. Faust shivered; that final conclusion did not belong to him.
Faust composed himself, straightened his civilian traveler's coat, and hurried down to the dining room. As expected, a familiar, subtle chill hung in the air of the grand hall. Isbert and his youngest grandson, Isfrid, were already seated at the long oak table.
"Oh, Faust, my friend!" Isbert greeted him warmly, gesturing to an empty chair laden with silver cutlery. "You are already awake. Please, come sit. No need for hollow courtesy here. Eat, eat!"
Isfrid stood up, offering a stiff but profoundly sincere bow. "Good morning, sir. I must formally apologize for the... extreme misunderstanding in the courtyard last night. I acted rashly."
"Think nothing of it, young man," Faust replied smoothly, taking his seat. "A guardian who does not test a midnight intruder is no guardian at all."
'Even if that guardian almost killed me.'
As they began their breakfast, navigating small talk about the traveling conditions of the Swabian caravans and the shifting politics of the German states, Faust casually buttered a piece of bread and dropped a name from his past.
"Isbert, tell me... where is Rita?"
Clatter.
Isfrid violently choked on his tea, his spoon clattering loudly against his porcelain saucer. The youth stared at Faust in absolute, unvarnished shock. The sheer, bizarre reality of the situation finally hit him: this ageless man, who looked no older than himself or a young university etiquette teacher, was casually asking about his mother as if they were childhood playmates.
Isbert's warm demeanor instantly clouded over with a profound, heavy melancholy. He set his cup down with a slow, deliberate finality.
"Rita is... gravely ill, Faust," Isbert admitted, his voice sounding older than it had the night before. "If she had only embraced the rigorous martial and sword training of our family, her lifeforce would have endured for centuries, just like her old father. But she chose a simple life, and her mortality is claiming her. That is the sole reason Isfrid rode to München to find me. I had planned to depart for her bedside today, but your sudden arrival..."
"Then there is no time to waste," Faust said cleanly, interrupting the Patriarch mid-sentence.
Isfrid's jaw practically dropped.
To interrupt the absolute Lord of the Frost line without facing an immediate, freezing backlash or a terrifying reprimand was a display of casual authority the young swordsman had never witnessed in his entire life. Yet Isbert merely blinked, listening intently.
"Faust, your own situation—" Isbert began.
"My situation can wait," Faust countered, his voice dropping into a firm, aristocratic register that brooked no argument. "I am an unexpected, unwelcomed guest, and your family matters are far more pressing. Time is a luxury a failing body does not possess. I suggest I depart with you and Isfrid immediately, this very morning."
A flash of the brilliant, proud confidence that defined the Duke's child returned to Faust's face. He pleasedly rubbed his clean-shaven chin, a sharp, knowing smile gracing his lips.
"Besides, old friend, you shouldn't forget who perhaps the greatest healer in the entire Holy Roman Empire is. My medical license from Leiden wasn't bought with theater coins. I might be able to diagnose and mend whatever ailment is consuming Rita's flesh. If I possess the unique opportunity to save my own godson's mother and choose to sit on my hands because of a few voices in my head, it would be my gravest sin. Let us pack the carriage."