The preparations for departure from Munich began before the morning frost could melt from the Gothic spires of the estate. Their destination was the ancestral seat of the ruling Herzog of Bavaria, deep within the heart of the region.
For Faust, the journey carried a deeply bitter, nostalgic sting.
Rita Frost had married into the ducal family of Bavaria—the very same family whose middle son, Ludwich, had been Faust's fierce rival a lifetime ago. In their youth, the two had clashed endlessly, their arrogance sparking a bitter feud over the heart of Elena, Faust's beloved foster sister and late wife. Faust had ultimately won Elena's love, but the memory of those tempestuous years left a bittersweet taste behind.
This memories forced Faust to rub his necklace with Elena's photo.
Ludwich had eventually succeeded his father as Herzog, only to be slowly consumed and killed by phthisis decades later. Now, the ducal house was led by Ludwich's youngest son, father of Isfrid, with Isbert's ailing daughter, Rita.
As they packed the heavy leather trunks onto the carriage, a sudden, blinding surge of malicious thoughts assaulted Faust's mind, painting his vision in a brief, violent flash of crimson.
"Why heal her? Let the mortal rot. Let them all rot."
Faust ground his teeth, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white, forcing the intrusive demonic whispers deep into the dark, silent corners of his mentality. He breathed out a cold puff of air. He had to save her. Rita was no older than his own brother Wilhelm's son; she was family by god's bond, and he refused to let the entity dictate his morality.
Turning to Isbert, Faust adjusted the fresh white bandage over his throbbing left eye.
"Isbert, have Pruna prepare a few more doses of that specialized sleeping mixture for the road."
Isbert let out a boisterous, rolling laugh, though his eyes remained sharp.
"A scholar who cannot sleep without his draft! Servants, secure the medicine and ready the horses! We ride for the Bavarian heartland."
After a full, exhausting day of traveling along the muddy, rutted roads of the region, the carriage pulled into a quiet tavern courtyard within a small, forgotten Bavarian village. The stop was a blessing. Faust was finally able to secure a few hours of deep, undisturbed sleep, awakening remarkably refreshed, his psychological defenses firmly back in place.
Later that evening, inside the dim, candle-lit private room of the village inn, Faust sat across from the old Patriarch. He reached into his coat, carefully placing the silver-encrusted Tarot cards he had received from the de Alarcón family onto the wooden table.
"Isbert," Faust murmured, tracing the silver filigree on the box. "What exactly are these? They can't obviously be just a simple deck of Tarot."
Isbert looked at the cards, his playful demeanor shifting into an expression of profound respect.
"Ah. You hold a true, legendary relic of the supernatural world, my friend. Those cards are no less valuable, and no less lethal, than our own ancestral sword, Frost."
Faust leaned forward, listening intently as Isbert uncorked a dusty bottle of local wine.
"You already know my family is one of swordsmen," Isbert began, pouring two dark red glasses. "But our roots run deeper than simple mortal chivalry. We have been connected to the hunters since the Medieval age of knights, though we always maintained our strict independence. Centuries ago, our ancestors were sovereign border guards. They protected the outer lands from a terrifying, unnatural phenomenon—the scorching ice of the Munich terrains."
"Scorching ice?" Faust questioned.
"A paradox of the old world," Isbert nodded. "The entire region was locked in a perpetual, deathly chill, generated entirely by the mystical aura of a Great Dragon that nested in the Bavarian peaks. Our first patriarch marched into the creature's lair alone. He wielded a legendary blade, and when he pierced the dragon's beating heart, the steel did something impossible—it completely absorbed the beast's soul and its freezing aura. That is the origin of our family's curse, and the reason the air turns to hoarfrost whenever our blood is spilled or our steel is drawn. The rest, of course, the modern world calls fairy tales."
Having witnessed the blind Tarasques and the terrifying shadow-hand of Baphomet first-hand, Faust doubted little of the truth behind the legend. The supernatural was no longer a myth in a textbook; it was a living, breathing reality currently burning behind his own eye patch.
Faust took a slow sip of his wine, his analytical mind parsing the information.
"If these monsters and relics are so profoundly real, why is the secret of the supernatural kept so thoroughly from the public? Why let the world forget?"
Isbert let out a soft, melancholic laugh, staring deeply into the swirling red liquid of his glass.
"Nothing is kept thoroughly, Faust. It is simply a matter of human nature. The world we are living in right now, in this grand eighteenth century, knows and prepares the least compared to the civilizations of the past. Because the danger has crawled deep into the dark, humanity has deemed it unnecessary to remember. Much knowledge has been lost to time... and what little remains is fading fast. But tell me, my friend, for how much longer can we pretend?"
Isbert leaned back, his eyes catching the flickering candlelight.
"Look around you. Don't you think that now, less and less people even know how to properly wield a sword? While just a century or two ago, nearly the entire population held steel at least once in their lives? The age of knights is dead. The age of the gun and the printing press is here. Times are changing... and our kind can only adapt to the shadows left behind."
The old Patriarch stood up, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips.
"Besides, through all the centuries of ash, dragons, and fallen empires, there is only one singular thing that remains absolutely the same..."
Faust stared at his old friend, his curiosity piqued. "And what is that?"
Isbert merely laughed, tossing a silver coin onto the table as he turned toward the door.
"It is getting entirely too late, Mephisto, and the candles are burning down to the wick. We must sleep if we are to reach Rita by tomorrow's dusk."
With a soft click of the door, Isbert vanished into the corridor, leaving Faust sitting alone in the quiet room, staring at the silver Tarot cards with yet another profound, unsolved question echoing in the silence of his mind.