As the weeks passed, Alaric's research bore fruit. He had uncovered significant evidence pointing to the Iron Dominion's involvement in the underworld, particularly in the smuggling of monster materials. The money trails he followed painted a vivid picture of the Dominion's expansive and illicit operations. Despite these breakthroughs, Alaric's relationship with his father, Count Vargas, continued to sour.
Count Vargas was growing increasingly frustrated with what he perceived as Alaric's aimless investigation. The noble circles were rife with rumors suggesting that the Count was grooming Alaric, a person with notoriously low magical talent, as his successor. This speculation was not only damaging the Count's reputation but also eroding the support of his fellow nobles. Even Geralt, the head steward who had supported Alaric to some extent, began to distance himself. This isolation forced Alaric back to his old habits of sneaking into the kitchen to steal food.
Count Vargas was at his wit's end. The tenuous relationship of respect he had begun to develop for Alaric was unraveling rapidly. However, he knew that simply ordering Alaric to stop his investigations would look like a desperate cover-up, potentially inciting further gossip and dissent. Thus, he devised a plan to protect his own standing among the nobles: he would sacrifice Alaric's reputation.
A few months later, the county held a grand celebration to commemorate their recovery after the rebellion. The atmosphere was festive, with nobles and commoners alike enjoying the revelry. In the midst of the festivities
As Count Vargas took the stage to deliver a speech his voice rang out over the assembled crowd, filled with pride and authority. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed nobles, we have faced great trials and have emerged stronger for it. Our region thrives once more, thanks to our collective efforts and unwavering resolve.". As he spoke, the crowd listened with rapt attention, unaware of the bombshell that was about to drop.
"And now," Count Vargas declared, his voice booming through the courtyard, "I would like to call forth my son, Alaric Vargas."
The crowd murmured in surprise. Alaric, standing at the edge of the gathering, felt a cold knot form in his stomach. This was unusual; his father had never publicly acknowledged him before. He made his way to the front, the eyes of the nobles and his family members boring into him.
"Happy fifteenth birthday, Alaric," Count Vargas said, presenting him with a small box.
The crowd gasped in shock, then quickly subdued their reactions. The Vargas family members were visibly stunned, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright amusement. Alaric opened the box and found a pistol inside. The significance was not lost on him, nor on anyone else present. The pistol was a relic, a symbol of failure in a world dominated by magic.
Whispers and chuckles spread through the hall. "A pistol? What a joke!" "He might as well have given him a stick!" "A fitting gift for someone with no magical talent."
The laughter was barely suppressed, rippling through the crowd as they watched Alaric accept the pistol. His father's gesture was a public humiliation, a clear message to the nobles that Alaric was nothing more than a joke. Count Vargas, satisfied with the reaction, smirked as the crowd applauded Alaric's embarrassment.
Alaric's blood boiled. His mind raced with the desire to lash out, to throw the pistol at his father's head and declare his independence from this farce. But he knew better. Instead, he forced a smile and bowed slightly, accepting the pistol with as much grace as he could muster.
"Thank you, Father," Alaric said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
The count nodded, pleased. "Enjoy your gift, Alaric. May it serve as a reminder of the importance of tradition and heritage."
The mockery didn't end there. The rest of the evening was filled with fake congratulations and thinly veiled insults from the guests and his family. Damian and Eliza were particularly cruel, their words dripping with condescension. Taking every opportunity to remind him of his supposed inadequacies. They paraded their magical talents, demonstrating spells and conjurations, all while making snide comments about Alaric's lack of ability.
"Nice pistol, brother," Damian sneered. "Maybe now you can finally be useful for something."
Eliza laughed. "Yes, perhaps you can scare away some rodents with it."
Alaric clenched his fists, resisting the urge to respond. He knew that any outburst would only give them more ammunition to use against him. Instead, he endured the mockery, seething silently. When the festivities finally ended, he retreated to his room, the pistol clutched tightly in his hand.
---
Two months after the party, the rumors finally died down. The nobles had gotten the message that Count Vargas had no intention of supporting Alaric as his successor. The Count's standing among his peers was restored, but Alaric's humiliation had left deep scars.
Determined to protect himself, Alaric decided not to reveal any of the information he had gathered on the Iron Dominion. He kept everything to himself, becoming more isolated and secretive. His relationship with Geralt had completely disintegrated. The steward, fearing scrutiny from the Count, avoided Alaric, and Alaric, in turn, saw no point in trying to mend their fractured relationship.
Alaric's days were spent in solitude, poring over the documents and maps he had collected. He knew that the Iron Dominion was still a threat, but without the support of his family or the nobles, he had little power to act. His isolation was complete, and his bitterness grew with each passing day.
---
One evening, as Alaric sat in his room, he heard a soft knock on the door. It was Geralt, looking more worn and haggard than usual.
"Master Alaric," Geralt said, his voice strained. "I've brought you some food."
Alaric glanced up, his eyes cold. "Leave it on the table, Geralt."
The steward hesitated. "Master Alaric, I... I know things have been difficult. I'm sorry for my distance. I hope you understand it was not personal."
Alaric's gaze hardened. "I understand perfectly, Geralt. You're looking out for yourself, as always."
Geralt winced at the accusation. "It's not like that, Master Alaric. I care about you, truly. But I have responsibilities, and—"
"Save it," Alaric snapped. "I don't need your pity or your excuses. Just leave the food and go."
Geralt sighed, placing the tray on the table. "Very well, Master Alaric. But know that I am always here if you need me."
After saying his piece, Geralt left the room.