Isaac fumed alone in his study, having had David and Niala housed in one of the guest houses, as far away from him as possible.

  He had come this close to strangling his older brother. What else was that maddening man going to spring on him? What other injustice would he revel in, for Isaac to look on and be reminded of how much less he was...

  He felt his ire return, threatening to wrest control away from his emotions once again.

  Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths and forced the thoughts to pass.

  Right, getting his father healed without Niala being requisitioned for the family...

  Isaac leaned back into his chair, slumping, leaving a hand on his desk and tapping with a finger.

  He could try to hide the girl's involvement, except his stupid brother had already paraded her in front of the guards and house staff.

  Maybe have her inspect his father, “attempt” to cure him and fail, only to secretly brew the cure and hand it to him? He'd then need to find some way for this miraculous potion to appear from a plausible source. He snorted. Too convoluted, too suspicious if done too quickly, and waiting was just as bad, a danger to his father's survival.

  All other manners of obfuscation had major flaws and too low a chance to succeed...

  What was it his father liked to say? When you can't risk failing, don't use subterfuge. Bash in the door and make your demands.

  Isaac knitted his brow. How do you demand something from one of the most powerful men?

  He exhaled sharply. You don't. You give them a better deal.

  The young noble got up to his feet, walked over to the window and leaned against its frame, letting his eyes wander the lands outside.

  Now, if he had to make a deal, what did his father want?

  “What do you think is going to happen?” Niala asked, lounging on top of the guest bed. “Oooh, this bed is so comfy...” she murmured.

  David took off his coat and unbuttoned the top half of his shirt, letting himself fall backward onto the bed, next to Niala.

  “I'm not sure. If it were me, I'd just walk in and make it clear to my father that trying to take you would be a very bad idea.”

  She rolled back and forth on her half of the bed, stopping mid-spin to look at him. “You think your father would listen? You made him sound like the kind of man who doesn't respect boundaries.”

  “Because he doesn't. That's exactly him. He doesn't believe in trust and loyalty or other nonsense like that. Too fickle! He used to say. A leash with just enough rope to give the illusion of freedom is the only way.” David said with a deep and scratchy voice, sighing as he did.

  Niala stared at him, blinking, the tip of her tail twitching. “My dad said something similar, but not as... harsh.”

  He looked at her and smirked. “I know. He would have said-”

  Her eyes widened, her smile turning south. “No! You can't!”

  But he was undeterred, his smile only growing bigger. “He would have said Let them have the mansion of their dream. You just need make certain you are the landlord.”

  She glowered at him, ears folded back. “I hate you.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged up even more. “Hate, love, fear, revere. As long as you occupy a space in their head when they leave your presence, you have won a battle.”

  His face was hit and buried by a few thrown pillows.

  He spoke from underneath them. “It would have been more effective if the pillows weren't so soft.”

  The pillows turned out to be a diversion, merely used to block his vision.

  His surprise was total when Niala elbow-dropped him.

  Isaac was allowed to see his father two days later, when the man had awoken with enough energy to have a light meal and not throw everything back up.

  The cavernous bedroom was dimly lit, most windows covered except for the balcony's door, which was partially opened, fresh air blowing in through the fluttering curtains.

  On the nightstand, a small lamp provided most of the light within the room, unable to reach its recesses, forming a small island of colour, where his mother sat next to her sick husband, silently reading a book. Jacob had his eyes closed, his breathing rough and uneven.

  Isaac closed the door behind him, its hinges whispering as he did. Agatha, his mother, turned her eyes up toward him, her lips twitching upward for but a moment as she returned her focus to her book.

  He stood at the door, one of his legs jittery, before going and picking up one of the chair lined against the wall, bringing it to his father's bedside and sitting on it, straight-backed.

  He waited. Idly, he noticed his mother's eyes weren't moving across the text. She just kept staring. The book was opened to its first page.

  Frowning, he opened his mouth to ask, but his father chose that moment to open his eyes.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The man turned his head in his direction before bringing them toward his wife. He motioned toward the door with his eyes. Silently, she closed her book, got up and glided out of the room.

  Once she was gone, Jacob let his gaze rest on his youngest son.

  “Speak.” He commanded, his voice cracking, that single word threatening to send him in a coughing fit.

  Isaac swallowed, putting order to his thoughts. “Father, I might have found a way to cure you of this disease, but there is a complication.”

  Jacob kept staring at his son, before closing his eyes. Isaac took that as a sign to keep going.

  “There is a person, of tremendous skills, who claims, with reason, to be able to cure you. They offer this freely-”

  Jacob scoffed, but said nothing.

  “...freely,” Isaac continued, “only asking that they be guaranteed their freedom from our family.”

  The patriarch cracked one eye open, looking at his son. “Are those their exact words?”

  Isaac's brows rose. “No. Their exact words were to make sure they stayed out of your reach.”

  The corner of Jacob's mouth curled upward. A suppressed cough rocked his body. “Better words, safer. You should learn from them.”

  Isaac balled his hands on top of his legs, unsure how to respond. Jacob saved him from his predicament as he spoke once more.

  “Too bad I am not diseased.”

  “What? But, father, the Royal physicians-”

  “Wisely played the game to save themselves.”

  Isaac was floundering. “Father, I don't understand. Are you saying you were poisoned?”

  Jacob grunted, coughing several times as a result. He held up a hand, stopping Isaac from getting up. “I was poisoned, and the poisoners doubtlessly used something rare, maybe unknown, or even novel. Good on them, finding a weapon they could wield against me.” He coughed once more into his hand.

  Isaac saw a few droplets of blood splatter on his father's skin. He retrieved a clean handkerchief from his coat and handed it to his father, who used it to wipe his hand and mouth.

  Silence stretched, his father's laboured breathing filling the space.

  “There is a chance this individual could cure you, still,” Isaac said.

  Jacob opened both eyes, turning his head toward his son, scouring his face, looking for something. Not finding it, his gaze softened. “You really believe that.”

  “I believe there is a chance, yes.”

  “Why?”

  Isaac looked at his hands, then back up at his father. “I've seen their creation do some... miraculous things.”

  “Hmm.” Jacob rested his head back on his pillow, looking up at the ceiling. “Then, let them try. I'll even swear before witness that I won't reach for them.”

  Isaac made to reply, but the wicked smile that drew on his father's face stopped him.

  Jacob coughed. “Not that it matters. The poisoners will make sure to find out who gave me the antidote, and snuff them out.”

  “But, why?” Isaac asked.

  Lord Wardenfel shrugged. “If it were me, to make sure the next time I use the poison, nobody is there to stop me.”

  The young noble let his gaze linger on his father.

  “What is it?” Jacob asked, annoyed.

  “I think I should tell you who would be making the antidote.”

  “Hrrm, then tell me.” His father grumbled.

  Isaac shook his head, looking straight at his father. “No. You must swear before witness, first.”

  Jacob's eyes snapped to his son, who stared back, defiant.

  His father's eyes softened, his mouth drawing into a flat smile. “Whoever it is, they mean a lot to you. I've never seen you defy me so openly. Fine, go get your mother and the seneschal.”

  Isaac jolted, as if coming out of a trance.

  Blank-eyed, he got up and left the room.

  Why did I react so strongly, just then?

  A quarter bell later, Agathe, Isaac, and their family's seneschal, Edvin, were at Jacob's bedside, with a sealed recording orb in Edvin's hands, waiting to record the oath.

  Jacob looked up at the old man, who nodded back and pressed some of his mana into the orb. It glowed a soft yellow, showing it was recording.

  Clearing his throat, which earned him a cough, Jacob spoke as cleanly as he could. “I, Jacob Wardenfel, sane and sound of mind, hereby declare upon mine and my family's honour, that I will not, through my own means or a third party, attempt to lay claim or direct the life of the one who may cure me of my current ill health.”

  The last few words were strained, and a coughing fit claimed his body. Agatha was by his side in an instant, applying a warm towel to his chest.

  Getting his breathing back under control, he looked up to his wife, thanking her with his eyes, before turning his attention to the seneschal, who nodded, turning off the recording orb, its recording mechanism self-destructing in the process, now only able to play whatever lay within.

  Jacob turned his head toward his son, quirking an eyebrow.

  Is this good enough? His face asked.

  Isaac nodded.

  “Father, Mother, the person is called Niala All Brew. She is the eldest daughter of Cornelius All Brew, of Majestic.”

  At the name, Jacob's brows rose, and his wife couldn't help but gasp. Edvin tried to stay stoic, but his face betrayed his interest.

  Lord Wardenfel brought his features back under control. “How did you find her, son?”

  Isaac shook his head. “I didn't find her. She came here on her own.”

  His father narrowed his eyes. “How? Knowledge of my condition is not widespread. How did she learn of it?”

  Isaac averted his gaze, his leg jittering. “It would have been through me.”

  Jacob's tone lowered. “Boy, stop playing games, and answer me.”

  The young noble returned his focus to his father and met his stare.

  He spoke after a few moments. “The girl came here with her boyfriend. His name is David Wayman, born David Wardenfel, your son. I met him during a fel extermination, and I let him know you were sick. I did not expect him to come running to save your life, but he did.”

  His revelation sucked all sounds out of the room. Even the wind blowing through the balcony door died down.

  Jacob and Edvin stared, eyes wide. The former with a mix of incredulity and mounting rage. The latter with surprise and uncertainty.

  As for his mother...

  Isaac's eyes went wide as he looked at his mother's face, beads of tears pearling down her cheeks.

  And then, she spoke, he voice trembling, midway between hope and fear.

  “David is back?”