The days that followed the confrontation at the training grounds were tense. Alaric resumed his usual routine, but the atmosphere in the Vargas estate had shifted. His siblings kept their distance, whispering among themselves, and even the servants eyed him with a mixture of awe and fear. Alaric knew his display had made an impact, but it also painted a target on his back.
One evening, as Alaric was working on refining the mechanisms of his pistols, a soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
He opened the door to find Geralt standing there.
"Master, Alaric your father has summoned you."
Alaric got up from his table and headed towards his father's study.
He entered the room cautiously, noting the serious expression on Count Vargas's face.
"You wanted to see me?" Alaric asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.
"Sit down, Alaric," Count Vargas said, gesturing to a chair opposite his desk.
Alaric complied, though he kept his posture relaxed and nonchalant. "What's this about?"
Count Vargas folded his hands on the desk. "It's time we discussed your future."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what grand plans do you have for me this time?"
His father's eyes narrowed slightly. "I want you to take on family responsibilities and enter noble politics. It's time you stepped up and fulfilled your duties."
Alaric let out a dry laugh. "You can't be serious, Father. You saw what happened the last time you tried to mold me into something I'm not. You humiliated me in front of everyone."
Count Vargas's expression hardened. "That was a test of your resilience and capability. You've shown you have potential, Alaric. It's time you used it for the family."
Alaric shook his head, his voice firm. "I refuse. I'm not going to play your political games or become a pawn in your noble machinations. My path is my own, and it doesn't involve bowing to the whims of the nobility."
"You have a responsibility—" Count Vargas began, but Alaric cut him off.
"My only responsibility is to myself," he said, his tone icy. "I'm done being manipulated and controlled. If you think you can force me into this, you're mistaken."
Count Vargas's eyes flashed with anger. "You will obey me, Alaric. I am your father and the head of this family."
"And I'm the son you never wanted," Alaric shot back. "The son you've tried to break and mold into your image. But I won't be broken, and I won't be controlled. Not anymore."
The room fell silent, the tension between them palpable. Count Vargas clenched his fists, struggling to maintain his composure. "You're making a mistake, Alaric. You're turning your back on your family, your heritage."
"I'm carving my own path," Alaric replied, standing up. "And I'll do it without your approval or support."
With that, he turned and walked out of the study, leaving his father behind. As he made his way back to his room, he felt a mix of relief and defiance. He had stood up to his father and refused to be drawn into the world of noble politics. His path was his own, and he would walk it alone if necessary.
As Alaric left his father's study, the weight of his decision settled heavily on his shoulders. He had severed yet another tie with his family, but he felt a sense of liberation. His path was clear, untainted by the expectations and manipulations of the Vargas name.
However, his life didn't become any easier. The days that followed were filled with cold stares and whispered conversations that stopped abruptly whenever he entered a room. His siblings, Damian and Eliza, seemed to oscillate between curiosity and resentment, their previous attempts to pry into his activities now tinged with caution.
One afternoon, while Alaric was in the library poring over some old texts, Damian approached him.
"Alaric, a word?" Damian said, his voice unusually soft.
Alaric looked up, meeting his brother's gaze. "What is it, Damian?"
Damian hesitated for a moment before speaking. "What exactly are you planning to do? You've distanced yourself from the family, but you must have some goal."
Alaric closed the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair. "My goal is my own business, Damian. I'm not interested in playing the noble games you and Father enjoy so much."
"You think you're above us?" Damian's voice grew sharper. "You think you can just walk away from your responsibilities?"
Alaric sighed. "I don't think I'm above anyone. I just refuse to be part of a world that doesn't accept me for who I am. I'm carving my own path."
Before Damian could respond, Eliza entered the library. "Are you two at it again?" she asked, her tone exasperated.
"Just having a discussion," Alaric said, standing up. "If you'll excuse me, I have things to do."
As he walked past his siblings, Eliza grabbed his arm. "Alaric, wait. We're still your family. Even if you don't want to be part of the noble politics, you don't have to isolate yourself."
Alaric gently pulled his arm free. "I appreciate the sentiment, Eliza. But I've made my decision."
Eliza watched him go, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and frustration. "He's so stubborn," she muttered.
Damian nodded. "He thinks he can do everything on his own. One day he'll realize that he needs us."
Alaric heard their words as he left the library, but he didn't let them affect him. His path was set, and he was determined to see it through, no matter the challenges. The Vargas name might have defined his past, but it would not dictate his future.
The following days were a blur of practice and preparation. Alaric honed his skills, both with his pistols and in other forms of combat. He continued his covert activities, targeting bandits and smugglers, further refining his abilities and gaining valuable experience.
But every night, as he lay in bed, the weight of his decision pressed down on him. He had chosen a difficult path, one filled with danger and uncertainty. Yet, he felt more alive and more himself than he ever had before.
One evening, as Alaric was polishing his pistols in his room, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," he called, expecting one of the servants.
To his surprise, it was Geralt. "Master Alaric, a moment of your time?"
Alaric nodded. "Of course, Geralt. What's on your mind?"
Geralt stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "I've been observing you, young master. You've grown much in these past months. But I fear you're taking on too much alone."
Alaric smiled faintly. "You're not the first to say that. But this is my choice, Geralt. I need to prove to myself that I can do this."
Geralt nodded, his expression grave. "I understand, but remember, even the strongest need allies. Do not shut out those who care for you."
Alaric looked down at his pistols, their polished surfaces reflecting the light. "I'll keep that in mind, Geralt. Thank you."
As Geralt left, Alaric sat in silence, the old steward's words echoing in his mind. He had chosen a solitary path, but perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for others in his journey.
For now, though, he had to focus on the challenges ahead. There were still many battles to fight and many secrets to uncover. And he would face them all, armed with his wits, his determination, and his unwavering resolve.