Louis sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Think we'll regret not blasting him when we had the chance?"
Jean-Philippe shrugged.
"Probably."
A moment of quiet passed between them, the only sound was the soft rustling of leaves.
Louis eventually broke the silence.
"So... beer?"
Jean-Philippe snorted.
"Whine."
As they turned toward the path back to town, Louis hesitated, glancing one last time at the water. He rolled his shoulders, still feeling the tension from the encounter.
"Bet you $20 that Gramps tries to recruit him."
He muttered, falling into step beside his brother.
Jean-Philippe smirked, flicking a stray leaf off his shoulder.
"Make it $40, and I'll bet he slaps him first."
Louis chuckled.
"Deal. You think they'll kill each other or get along?"
Jean-Philippe glanced at the moonlit lake behind them, where the Aboleth had been imprisoned moments ago.
"Both, probably. If they don't take each other's heads off first, they'll be drinking and scheming together by the end of the week."
They walked in companionable silence down the forest path, the night air cool against their skin. Somewhere far off, the distant hoot of an owl echoed. The tension from the battle faded into the background, but both brothers knew better than to fully relax. In their world, peace was always an intermission, never the finale.
"You know."
Louis said, tilting his head thoughtfully,
"The kid reminds me of Gramps when he was younger. That same 'do it my way or else' vibe."
Jean-Philippe gave a dry laugh.
"Yeah, like looking in a damn mirror. And you know how much Gramps loves mirrors."
The brothers shared a knowing grin. The Bourbon family—fallen royals, exiled from the thrones they once held—had a long tradition of producing control freaks, men and women who thrived on manipulation and power. And from what they had seen tonight, Liam would fit right in.
"He'll hate him."
Jean-Philippe said with finality.
"Too similar. Gramps doesn't trust anyone who thinks like him. He'll either break Liam or crown him, but either way, it's gonna be a show."
Louis let out a low whistle.
"And we get front-row seats."
"Yup."
Jean-Philippe agreed, stretching his arms.
"Should be fun—until it's not."
They reached the edge of the forest, the faint glow of the town visible through the trees. Louis clapped his brother on the shoulder.
"Still feel like whining about that drink?"
Jean-Philippe smirked.
"Nah. Let's grab some bourbon—family pride and all."
With that, the brothers stepped out of the shadows and into the night, knowing full well that the peace would be fleeting. But for now, at least, they had earned a brief reprieve—and some well-deserved liquor.
And as they disappeared into the town, the lake behind them shimmered quietly under the moonlight, holding its dark secrets beneath the surface.
As Louis and Jean-Philippe strolled deeper into the night, the air around them thickened with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Even with the tension gone, neither brother could fully shake the unsettling encounter with Liam—and the unnerving realization that the Bourbon family might have just met their match.
"Do you think he knows?"
Louis asked suddenly, breaking the lull.
"Knows what?"
Jean-Philippe replied, though he had a good idea what his brother meant.
"That he's just like Gramps. That he's stepping into something way over his head."
Jean-Philippe snorted softly, though there was no humor in it.
"Doubt it. If he did, he'd have mentioned it—or thrown it in our faces."
"True."
Louis muttered.
"He strikes me as the type to enjoy holding stuff over people."
"Fits the family, doesn't he?"
Jean-Philippe replied dryly, kicking a loose stone off the path.
They fell silent again, the only sounds accompanying them were their footsteps on the dirt road and the whisper of distant leaves swaying in the night breeze.
After a moment, Louis ventured.
"Do you think Gramps will tell him the truth? Or keep playing his games?"
Jean-Philippe gave a knowing smile.
"Gramps always plays his games. Even if he tells the kid everything, it'll only be on his terms, and there will be strings attached. There always are."
Louis groaned.
"So basically, we're about to watch a family reunion that doubles as a chess match."
"Pretty much."
Jean-Philippe agreed.
"And we both know there's only one rule in Gramps's games."
Louis rolled his eyes, finishing the thought:
"Never let the other guy think he's won."
They shared a grim chuckle, one born from too many years of witnessing their grandfather's manipulations firsthand.
Reaching the outskirts of town, the warm glow from tavern windows beckoned. They could already hear the faint murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses from the bar.
Louis nudged his brother.
"Come on. First round's on you."
Jean-Philippe arched an eyebrow.
"What happened to the bet?"
Louis grinned.
"You'll get your $40 when Gramps slaps him. For now, let's call this a gesture of sibling solidarity."
Jean-Philippe snorted, but his smirk softened.
"Fine. But we're ordering the good stuff. None of that watered-down beer."
"Deal."
The two brothers pushed open the tavern doors, the warmth of the room washing over them as they stepped inside. They exchanged a brief glance, silently agreeing to enjoy the fleeting peace for as long as it lasted. Because in their world, tranquility was never more than a brief prelude to the next storm.
And somewhere, beneath the shimmering surface of the lake they had left behind, the ripples of fate were already spreading outward, setting the stage for the next act.
Charles Bourbon shifted uncomfortably in his high-backed chair, the fine leather creaking under his weight. Pain gnawed at him from every corner of his ruined body, like a swarm of hungry rats he could never escape. The hernia throbbed relentlessly, a dull and constant ache that no healer, mage, or alchemist could soothe.
His regrown hip—twice replaced—had betrayed him with every step, each new attempt leaving his limp worse than before. A curse from the Great War had frozen half his face in a twisted grimace, as if he wore a permanent sneer, and it felt as though unseen hands were tugging his flesh backward, stretching it taut every waking hour.
The other curse—the one that stole a fist-sized chunk from his chest—left behind an ugly, aching wound that flared with every drop of rain, as though mocking his helplessness.
He exhaled slowly, each breath a laborious effort that only served to remind him how time and war had ravaged what once was an indomitable force. He'd been a titan once, a mage whose name struck fear into enemies and commanded respect from allies.
Now, he was just a broken old man trapped in a body that betrayed him at every turn, held together by stubbornness, curses, and spite.
His grandsons, Louis and Jean-Philippe, stood silently before him, their postures stiff and uneasy. They were powerful mages in their own right—S-Rank, some of the finest this cursed bloodline had ever produced. Yet they looked more like scolded children in the face of his disapproval.
"So."
Charles began, his voice rasping like gravel underfoot.
"You're telling me two of the most powerful mages alive couldn't capture a young man and needed his help to deal with a monster?"
He leaned forward slightly, the movement sending sharp pains through his hip, but he ignored them. Pain was an old friend by now—something to be endured, not acknowledged.
Louis cleared his throat.
"Technically... it wasn't just us needing help, Gramp's. The Aboleth was—"
"I didn't ask for technically."
Charles growled, slamming his cane against the floor with a crack that echoed through the room. Both brothers flinched.
"I asked how two of the finest mages in this bloodline managed to let a stranger waltz in, clean up your mess, and walk away like the king of the hill."
"He wasn't just some rogue mage."
Jean-Philippe interjected smoothly, hands clasped behind his back.
"He's different. He's got precision. Control. He reminds me a lot of—"
Charles shot him a sharp glare.
"Don't you dare say it!"
Jean-Philippe gave a small, knowing smile.
"You."
Charles scoffed, though the corner of his paralyzed lip twitched slightly—perhaps in annoyance, perhaps in acknowledgment.
"I doubt it. A little control and ambition don't make him one of us. Don't get soft on me, boy. There's only room for one king in this family, and that chair's still mine."
He jabbed his cane toward them with surprising force, making both brothers flinch.
"Tell me again—how the hell did he end up solving your problem?"
Jean-Philippe's lips twitched with frustration, but he didn't rise to the bait.
"The Aboleth wasn't a typical threat. We've fought beasts before, but this thing... it was a relic from another age. Psionics, ancient magic—more than just brute force would've done the job."
"That's right."
Louis added quickly, hoping to shift some of the heat off them.
"The kid—he's... something else. It wasn't just raw power; he knew exactly where to hit. And, well... we didn't exactly have time to argue."
"Convenient."
Charles muttered.
"You boys sound more like politicians than mages."
He leaned back, the cane tapping rhythmically against the floor, a slow metronome of judgment. The pain behind his eyes was constant, and it sharpened his anger into a weapon—one that he wielded just as ruthlessly as the curses etched into his ruined body.
"So you let him go?"
He asked, his voice low but dangerous.
"Just like that?"
"The ring I gave him... He wore our family ring."
Jean-Philippe said, folding his arms.
"Since it accepted him, he's shown that his closely related to us. If he steps out of line, we'll know."
The old man's bitter laughter rasped through the room like the rattling of bones.
"Do you really think that ring will hold him back? Rings can be lost, and magic can be circumvented. A man with ambition doesn't accept constraints—he merely pretends to. He's already planning two steps ahead, just like I am. He'll take advantage of you when it benefits him, and once you're no longer useful, he'll walk away without a second thought."
Louis bristled.
"We can handle him."
Charles's cane struck the floor hard, silencing him, his eyes narrowing with thought.
"No, you can't. Not unless you stop underestimating him. He's a danger. You both know that. And I don't trust anyone I didn't break myself."
The brothers exchanged a glance, uncertain whether to press further. Louis finally dared to speak again.
"What do you want us to do, then? Bring him in?"
"No."
Charles said softly, his voice laced with menace.
"He's coming to me. One way or another."
He adjusted his position in the chair, biting down against the wave of pain that shot through his side.
"Boys like him always come. Ambition pulls them in like a tide, and when he gets here..."
He trailed off, his grimace twisting into something almost like a smile.
"We'll see if he's worth killing—or keeping."
Jean-Philippe smirked.
"You're betting on both, aren't you?"
Charles chuckled, though it turned into a wheezing cough that rattled in his chest.
"If he's smart, we'll drink together by the week's end. If he's not..."
He tapped the cane again, a rhythmic beat like the ticking of a countdown.
"He won't live long enough to regret it."
Louis exhaled through his nose.
"So... what's the plan?"
The old man leaned back into his chair, the leather groaning under his weight.
"The plan is simple, boy. We see what he does when he thinks no one's watching. People show you who they are in the quiet moments. And if he shows me the wrong thing..."
Charles's grin was sharp and cruel.
"We'll clip his wings before he even realizes he was flying too close to the sun."
The brothers stood in silence for a moment longer, then gave their grandfather a nod. They knew the conversation was over. Charles Bourbon didn't waste time with unnecessary words—he said what needed to be said, and that was final.
As they turned to leave, the old man's voice followed them one last time.
"And boys—get it right this time. I'm too old to be cleaning up your messes."
With that, the door clicked shut behind them, leaving Charles alone in the dimly lit room. He exhaled slowly, leaning his weight on the cane as the familiar ache crept through his bones.
"Ambition."
He muttered under his breath, staring at the flickering flame of a nearby candle.
"That boy better be as smart as you think. Or he'll be just another ghost haunting this cursed family."