Sophie's face was pale. Her eyes darted past him toward the road, toward the smell, toward the thin columns of grey smoke still rising from the far side of the hill.
"Can you ride?" Alphonse repeated.
She swallowed. Her nose wrinkled at the acrid stench of charred flesh. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.
"I can ride," she said through her fingers. "I just... don't like it."
"Today you'll like it," Alphonse said. "Because the alternative is walking for three hours through bandit territory."
That settled the argument.
He helped her down from the carriage. "Where are the soldiers?" she asked, looking around. "And Helmut?"
Alphonse had already prepared the lie.
"Dead or scattered," he said. "The bandits hit the escort first. Helmut bolted into the trees. The soldiers fought, but there were more attackers than I first saw. It was over fast."
Sophie's hand flew to her mouth. "They're all—"
"I dealt with the rest. They won't be bothering anyone again."
He didn't elaborate. Didn't describe how he'd dealt with them.
She looked at the carriage. At the arrows embedded in the wood. At the shattered axle, broken for the second time in twenty-four hours.
While Sophie steadied herself against the carriage door, Alphonse worked on the horses. His dagger — looted from one of the bandits, a serviceable blade with a leather-wrapped grip — made quick work of the harness straps.
Four horses. Two for riding, two tethered behind as spares.
He chose the two calmest animals. A grey mare for Sophie, broad-backed and placid. A darker one for himself, more skittish, but faster if speed became necessary.
"Up," he said, offering Sophie his hands as a step.
She placed her boot in his palms and hauled herself onto the mare's back.
Alphonse mounted the other.
"Stay close," he said over his shoulder. "Match my pace. If I speed up, you speed up. If I stop, you stop."
"Got it," Sophie said.
They left the carriage on the road. Left the smoking remains of three men on the hillside.
The horses picked their way along the forest road at a walk, then a trot. Sophie bounced awkwardly in the saddle, her body never quite finding the rhythm.
The forest thinned as they rode. The road widened. The terrain flattened into the familiar agricultural plains of the Hohenberg barony.
Sophie relaxed a bit. Her death grip on the mane loosened. The color returned to her face in slow, uneven patches.
Neither of them spoke. Soon the mansion appeared on the horizon. Its stone towers rose above the treeline. The Hohenberg banner hung from the highest parapet.
Sophie saw it first. The tension in her shoulders dissolved. She let out a long, shuddering exhale.
"Thank God," she murmured.
They rode through the estate gates. The stable hands rushed forward, confusion plain on their faces — two riders on unharnessed horses, no carriage, no escort.
"Take the horses," Alphonse said, dismounting with a wince he couldn't suppress. "Rub them down, feed them, keep them separate from the regular stock until they've been checked."
"Yes, young lord."
Sophie dismounted with considerably less grace. She half-slid, half-fell from the mare's back, catching herself on a stable hand's offered arm.
"I can't stand another second," she said, pressing both palms against the small of her back. "My entire body feels like it's been beaten with a plank."
"It'll pass." Alphonse walked to her side. Took her hand. "You should rest. Take a bath. Eat something. I'll report to Mother."
Sophie's eyes searched his face.
"Al..." she started.
"I'm fine. Go."
She bit her lip. Nodded once. Squeezed his hand and released it.
He watched her walk toward the main entrance.
She disappeared through the heavy doors.
He rolled his shoulders. Adjusted the torn doublet. Composed his face.
Then walked inside.
The staircase to the second floor was familiar now.
He heard the Baroness before he saw her.
"You have until tomorrow morning to find these bandits, or you will be relieved of your command. This is not a suggestion. This is not a warning. This is the last time I will have this conversation."
Her voice carried through the heavy oak of the meeting room door.
"If your men are incapable of securing the roads within our own borders, Captain, then I will issue a formal complaint through the Oracle's administrative office. An imperial inquiry into the military readiness of the Hohenberg barony. You understand what that means for you, personally, yes?"
Alphonse was on the final flight of stairs. He slowed. Listened.
"Yes, ma'am." Two words.
"Then go. And Captain—"
Alphonse pressed himself into an alcove as the door handle turned.
"—if I find out that the road patrols were reduced without my authorization again, the inquiry won't be your worst problem."
The door flew open.
The Captain of the Guard emerged like a man escaping a fire. His face was a mask of barely controlled fury, veins bulging at his temples, hands curled into fists that trembled at his sides.
He turned left and descended the stairs.
Just before he rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Alphonse heard him mutter.
"We'll see who loses their position."
Alphonse waited until the footsteps faded. Then he stepped out of the alcove and approached the meeting room door.
It was still ajar. He stepped through, pulling it closed behind him, and turned the iron lock with a quiet click.
The meeting room looked worse than it had the day before. The paper mountains on the table had grown. New correspondence was piled on top of old ledgers. A half-eaten plate of bread and cheese sat abandoned near Isabelle's elbow. Three empty cups of tea formed a line along the table's edge.
Isabelle stood behind her chair, both hands braced against the desk. Her head was bowed, her golden hair falling forward to curtain her face.
She heard the lock click. Her head came up.
"Who—"
She saw him.
The transformation was immediate. The Baroness evaporated. What replaced her was a mother.
"Oh, Alphonse." She moved from behind the desk, crossing the room in three strides. Her arms opened.
He met her halfway.
She pulled him against her with a force that made his ribs protest.
"Hi, Mom," he said. "We're back."
"I know. I saw you from the window." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. She pulled back just enough to study his face. Her eyes found the cut on his cheek immediately. Her fingers rose to touch it, hovering a millimeter from the crusted blood.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Let's sit," he said. "I'll tell you everything."
He guided her to the table. She sat in her usual chair. Alphonse took the chair beside her, angling it so they faced each other.
He leaned forward. Elbows on his knees.
"The ball was productive," he began. "Montefalco is small but impressive. Their port is expanding faster than anyone seems to realize. The harbor I saw could handle triple its current traffic with minimal infrastructure investment. Within five years, maybe less, they'll be the dominant commercial hub on the coast."
Isabelle's eyebrows rose. The administrative machinery behind her eyes engaged immediately.
"You're certain?"
"The warehouse district alone is twice the size of anything we have in Hohenberg. They've built new docking facilities on the northern side of the bay that can accommodate the larger merchant galleons from across the sea."
Isabelle absorbed this. Her fingers drummed the table in a slow, unconscious rhythm.
"That's consistent with the reports I've been receiving," she said, her brow furrowing. "If Montefalco captures the maritime trade route entirely, our position as the western trade hub weakens. The overland merchants who currently pass through our territory would have the option of shipping by sea instead."
"Which cuts our transit tax revenue."
"Substantially." She met his eyes. The respect in her gaze was new. Not the indulgent warmth of a mother praising a clever child, the genuine regard of an administrator recognizing a peer. "You paid attention."
"I had a good teacher," he said. "Even if she doesn't know she's been teaching me."
The compliment landed exactly where he intended. Isabelle's expression softened for a fraction of a second before she caught herself.
"And the ball itself?" she pressed. "Was there any trouble?"
"Vittorio's engagement was as distasteful as expected. The girl couldn't have been older than sixteen. From across the sea. Dark skin, enormous eyes, half his height and a quarter his age."
Isabelle's jaw tightened. "His previous wives' deaths have destroyed his reputation in the empire. No family with any influence would offer a daughter. He had to go abroad."
"We only had one real problem," he said, letting his tone shift. Heavier. "On the return trip."
Isabelle's posture changed.
"Bandits," Alphonse said. "An ambush. On the forest road, about an hour past Montefalco."
The color left her face.
"When the attack came, the soldiers and Helmut were killed in the initial volley. The bandits hit the escort first," He paused. "I managed to handle what was left. But by the time it was over, the carriage axle had shattered."
Isabelle was on her feet before he finished the sentence. The chair scraped backward across the stone floor with a shriek.
"Bandits?!" The word came out like a whip crack. "They attacked a carriage bearing the Hohenberg crest?!"
"When the fight was over," Alphonse continued, "I checked the bodies. Ordinary equipment. No house markings, no identifying insignia. They looked like common road thieves. But common road thieves don't coordinate with coachmen and wheelwrights."
The Baroness was quiet for ten seconds. Her eyes moved across the scattered papers on her desk without seeing them.
"I'll deal with this," she said. The steel in her voice could have cut glass. Alphonse leaned back in his chair. Let the conversation settle into the silence.
Then he redirected.
"Mom, I'd like to discuss something else."
She blinked. The shift in his tone caught her mid-thought, pulling her out of the strategic spiral.
"Of course," she said. "What is it?"
Alphonse stood. Walked around the table. Positioned himself behind her chair.
His hands settled on her shoulders.
Isabelle flinched. A small, involuntary spasm that she immediately tried to suppress. Through the contact, he could feel the tension stored in her muscles.
"You're wound tighter than a crossbow string," he said. "When was the last time you relaxed? Even for an hour?"
"I don't have time to—"
"That wasn't what I asked."
His thumbs found the ridges of muscle on either side of her spine, just below the base of her neck. He pressed. Firm, steady pressure, applied with the knowledge of a man who'd spent decades in a body that had learned, among other things, exactly how to use his hands.
Isabelle's protest died on her lips.
"Hmm..."
The sound escaped her before she could stop it.
"Sophie and I have been talking," Alphonse said, his thumbs working. "At the party, and on the ride back. About our future."
His hands moved outward along the ridge of her shoulders. The muscles there were worse.
"We want to take the admission test for the Imperial Academy."
Isabelle's body went still beneath his hands. For two full seconds, her breathing paused. Then it resumed.
[Mind Connection]
The thread spun out from behind his forehead and found its mark.
[ Mind Connection established ]
Target: Isabelle von Hohenberg
Status: Active
Mana drain: 2/sec
Her thoughts came through in a rush.
'The Academy. They want to leave.'
The first emotion was grief.
'I knew this would come. At some point, they would want to leave home and see the world. I just hoped...'
The thought trailed off. What she'd hoped was formless. A wish that time would slow, that the house would stay full, that the hallway wouldn't go quiet.
Beneath the grief, the administrator was already working. Running calculations. Assessing strategic value.
'The Academy protects them. Imperial jurisdiction. No marriage contracts, no familial authority. Alexander can't touch them while they're enrolled.'
"What made you think of this?" Isabelle asked.
"Several things," Alphonse said. He applied pressure to a knot and felt her shoulders drop half an inch. "I don't need a military briefing to know that war in the south is coming. If Kaiserstadt falls, the entire southern frontier collapses. Every barony between here and the capital becomes a battleground."
'Hmm. It's mature of him to think like that. It's exactly what the territory needs.'
Then, beneath that, darker:
'Unlike Alexander, who only cares about fighting on the front lines while his own lands rot behind him.'
"I believe that time at the Academy will help me build connections with other houses," Alphonse continued, working his thumbs along the tight cords of muscle flanking her spine. "Military alliances. Political relationships. Intelligence networks. The kind of infrastructure that a barony needs when war arrives, and that we don't currently have."
Isabelle tilted her head forward, giving him better access to her neck. The motion was unconscious, her body responding to his hands before her mind could intervene.
"And Sophie?" she asked.
"Sophie's [Water Magic] is exceptional. Master Gereon has said so himself. But the resources here are limited. The Academy has libraries, laboratories, training facilities, and instructors that don't exist anywhere outside the capital. In two years, she could advance further than in ten years under Gereon's twice-weekly lessons."
'He's right.'
Isabelle was quiet for a long moment. His hands continued their work — neck, shoulders, the muscles along the tops of her arms.
"Son." She straightened slightly. The Baroness surfacing through the mother. "I don't object to your reasoning. It's sound. More than sound. It's the most strategically coherent proposal anyone in this household has made in years." A pause. "But there's a condition."
"Name it."
"If the war breaks out while you're enrolled, I want your word that you'll return. Both of you. Immediately. No delay, no negotiation. The Academy can wait. The barony cannot."
"Of course, Mom. The entire point of going is to prepare for that moment. When it comes, we'll be here."
He felt the decision crystallize in her mind.
"Then you have my approval," Isabelle said. "I'll prepare letters of recommendation for both of you. Every house submits them for their applicants. The Hohenberg name still carries weight at the Academy, despite your father's... attitude."
She reached for a fresh sheet of paper. Drew the inkwell closer.
"The admission test for the spring semester is in three months," she continued, already composing in her head. "You'll need to prepare. The entrance examination isn't trivial. You'll need to demonstrate your [Fire Magic] at a level that justifies admission."
Her quill scratched against the paper. The penmanship immaculate even at speed.
"When you arrive in the capital, you'll stay with your grandmother." A note of warmth entered her voice, followed immediately by a current of sadness. "She lives in the Altstadt district. She rarely travels south anymore. But she'll be overjoyed to see you both."
Alphonse heard the loneliness threaded through the words.
"Thank you, Mom," he said.
His hands had never stopped moving.
While she wrote, he worked the muscles along her upper back.
[Mind Influence]
You should let him do this more often. When was the last time someone took care of you?
The suggestion landed in the soft, exhausted center of her mind and took root without resistance. She'd been running the barony alone for weeks. Managing the finances, the disputes, the military, the correspondence. By herself, with no support, no partner, no one to lean on.
His hands were the first kind thing anyone had done for her in longer than she could remember.
[Mind Influence]
He's so good with his hands. So steady. So sure.
"Hmm..." The sound slipped out of her. She caught it, pressed her lips together, but the damage was done. Her cheeks warmed.
The quill continued its work. Two letters. One for Alphonse, one for Sophie. Formal recommendations from the Baroness von Hohenberg, detailing each applicant's qualifications, magical classification, and lineage.
[Mind Influence]
I feel so relaxed. I haven't felt this relaxed in months. Maybe years.
More mana flowed through the connection.
Isabelle's writing slowed. Her posture, which had been rigid and upright, began to soften. Her shoulders dropped.
By the time she signed the second letter and pressed the Hohenberg seal into the hot wax, she was leaning back in her chair. The administrative mask had slipped. What remained was a tired, beautiful woman whose body was responding to touch with the desperate gratitude of someone who had been starving.
She set the quill down. Capped the inkwell. And let herself settle against Alphonse's chest.
His hands continued. Neck, shoulders, the ridges of muscle along her collar.
Isabelle's dress was one of her formal gowns, in the deep blue and silver of her birth house. It had a particularly beautiful neckline — a wide, elegant cut that exposed the full sweep of her collarbones and the beginning swell of her breasts.
Alphonse studied the neckline from above.
He shifted his angle. Moved his hands from her shoulders to the base of her neck, working the muscles there with his thumbs while his fingers curled forward over her collarbones.
Isabelle's breath caught.
His fingertips rested on the upper edge of her chest. Just above the neckline. Just above where the fabric began its desperate campaign to contain what lay beneath.
He slid his hands outward, following the line of her collarbones toward her shoulders. As he did, his palms brushed the fabric downward. Just enough that the neckline sagged an inch, then two.
The dress settled lower on her shoulders. The swell of her breasts, previously suggested by the neckline, was now plainly visible. Two creamy mounds rising from the loosened fabric.
Isabelle didn't fix the dress.
'He can see. The dress has slipped and he can... he's standing right behind me, looking down, and he can see my...'
A spike of alarm.
'Fix it. Pull it up. Right now. Before he—'
Then, quieter.
'But it's just the massage. His hands are on my shoulders. It slipped naturally. He probably didn't even notice. My son wouldn't... he's not looking at me like...'
'I'm being ridiculous. I have a dirty mind. My own son would never see me that way.'
She scolded herself internally. The flush on her cheeks deepened, but she attributed it to the warmth of the room.
[Mind Influence]
It would feel so good if he kept going. Lower.
'What am I thinking?' Isabelle scolded herself. Her face burned. 'This is my son. My baby. I need to stop this. I need to—'
But her body had already received the instruction. Her shoulders dropped another fraction of an inch. Her head tilted back against his chest. Her breathing deepened.
"Mom, you've been carrying this alone for too long," Alphonse said. His voice was low, close to her ear. "The barony. The soldiers. The accounts. All of it, by yourself. Your body is storing every ounce of that pressure."
"Hmm... partly," Isabelle murmured. Her voice was distant.
"But I don't think it's just the work," Alphonse said.
His hands descended from her shoulders. His palms followed the planes of her upper chest, spreading outward from the center of her collarbone toward the tops of her arms.
His fingertips grazed the upper swell of her breasts. Just the tops.
Isabelle's breath hitched.
"When was the last time you took care of yourself?" Alphonse asked. "Not the barony. Not the household. Yourself. Your body. You carry all this weight — physically, I mean. The posture, the corsets, the hours at the desk. It puts enormous strain on your back and your chest."
His hands moved lower.
They were on her breasts.
Both hands, settling over the heavy mounds through the loosened fabric. Not grabbing. Not squeezing. Cupping. Cradling the weight with his palms, lifting slightly.
"Hmmm..."
The moan escaped Isabelle's lips before she could stop it. Her eyes fluttered. Her hands, which had been resting on the arms of the chair, curled into loose fists.
Through the connection, her thoughts were a war zone.
'His hands are on my — he's touching my — I need to stop this right now, I need to stand up and—'
'But it feels...'
'No. NO. He is my SON.'
'But the weight — God, the relief—'
'STOP. Stop justifying it. Push his hands away. Now.'
[Mind Influence]
He's just worried about your health. That's all this is. A son caring for his mother. There's nothing wrong with this. Nothing at all.
The suggestion slid between the cracks in her resistance. It met the part of her that desperately wanted to believe it. The part that was exhausted, lonely, starved for touch.
Her fists unclenched.
"See?" Alphonse said, his voice smooth and steady. He lifted her breasts slightly, taking the strain off her back, and felt her spine decompress. "Now that you have more support, your back hurts less."
"Y-yes," Isabelle breathed. Her voice was barely there. "That must be it."
Through the connection, her thoughts had gone quiet. Her mind had simply stopped processing. The sensation of his hands on her breasts, even through the fabric, had overwhelmed every other input.
He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin dress. The weight in his palms was staggering — each breast heavy, full, dense. Her nipples were stiff.
He held her like that for ten seconds. Fifteen. His thumbs traced slow arcs across the upper curves, ostensibly working the muscles of her chest wall, practically mapping the topography of the most spectacular breasts he'd ever held.
[Mind Influence]
I want him to continue. I don't want this to stop. I feel safe. I feel cared for.
Isabelle's head fell back against his chest. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were parted. The flush had spread from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing beneath the loosened neckline.
Alphonse felt his cock stirring. He pressed his hips back, angling himself away from her. Not yet. The groundwork wasn't finished.
Control, he told himself. Patience. Every session plants another seed. Every seed grows into another crack in the wall. When the wall finally falls, it needs to fall completely.
He held the position for another thirty seconds. His palms warm against her breasts, his thumbs working in slow circles, her breathing deep and regular against his chest.
His hands withdrew. Rose to her shoulders. One final press, firm and professional, and then he stepped back.
Isabelle's eyes opened. The dazed, half-lidded look of someone surfacing from deep water.
Reality reassembled itself. Piece by piece, the Baroness rebuilt the mask. Her posture straightened. Her hands smoothed the fabric at her neckline, pulling it back into place with a casual gesture that almost succeeded in looking natural.
Her cheeks were crimson.
"I hope you enjoyed it, Mom," Alphonse said, already moving toward the door. His voice was light. "I think regular sessions would help. At least once a day. It would do wonders for your back and your posture. You'll work better."
Isabelle opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"Y-yes," she managed. "That... that does make sense."