The days that followed were a quiet war against his own body.
Alphonse counted time by the intervals between sleep. Two hours awake, four hours down. Then three and three. Then four and two. His muscles, atrophied from weeks in bed, burned at the slightest effort. Rolling onto his side winded him. Sitting upright made the room spin.
Still his mind was sharp. Sharper than it had any right to be.
He had a goal now. A clear one, polished to a fine point.
Freedom from his father. Freedom from weakness. The [Profession] that would give him the tools to secure both.
Everything else: The power, the pleasure, the life he intended to build. It came after that foundation was laid.
The problem was information. He needed to understand the political landscape of the barony, the state of his parents' marriage, the Baron's movements, the household's alliances and debts. The original Alphonse had been willfully ignorant of all of it, a boy who'd spent more time daydreaming than paying attention. The memories were there, but they were shallow. Surface impressions.
Useless.
He needed someone to fill in the gaps. The only person who visited him with any regularity was Sophie.
She came every afternoon.
Sometimes she brought books. Sometimes she brought embroidery, which she'd work on in the chair by the window while chatting at him about nothing in particular. Sometimes she just sat on the edge of his bed and talked.
Alphonse used every visit like an interrogation he had to disguise as small talk.
"Sophie," he said one afternoon, propped up against the headboard with a pillow wedged behind his lower back. His voice had recovered enough to carry across the room without cracking. "What's been happening outside? I feel like I've been asleep for a year."
Sophie was cross-legged on the foot of the bed, a leather-bound journal open in her lap. She'd been sketching something, a diagram of water flow patterns, by the look of it. She glanced up.
"Outside? Like, in the barony?"
"Anywhere. I've been staring at these walls for so long I'm starting to name the cracks."
She laughed. A bright, easy sound. "Nothing interesting. The harvest tax came in. Mother says it was lower than expected. Lord Bertram sent a letter complaining about the road conditions near the eastern bridge. Oh, and Cook got into a fight with the new scullery maid. Apparently she over-salted the soup and Cook threw a ladle at her."
"Thrilling."
"I told you. Nothing interesting."
Alphonse paused, measuring his next words. He let his expression soften, let a flicker of vulnerability cross his features.
"Sophie... do you know how father, the Baron, is doing?"
The change was immediate. Sophie's smile disappeared. Her pen stopped moving. She looked away, toward the window, and her fingers tightened around the edge of the journal.
The silence stretched.
"Don't worry about him, Al," she said quietly. Her voice had lost its lightness. "He's far away."
"Far away where?"
"He left on a task. Something from the Crown, I think. Mother didn't tell me the details." She met his eyes again, and the concern in her face was naked. "It might take a long time for him to return. Months. Maybe longer."
A task, Alphonse thought. A military campaign? A border dispute? Something dangerous enough to keep him gone for months?
The thought sparked a warmth in his gut that had nothing to do with familial love. The Baron, far away, possibly riding toward a battlefield where men died in large numbers.
Maybe he'll catch an arrow with his throat.
But I can't leave it to chance.
Sophie was watching him, her brow creased. She'd misread his silence as fear.
"Hey," she said, leaning forward. She placed her hand over his. "He can't hurt you anymore. Mother made sure of that before he left. I heard them arguing. The whole mansion heard them. She told him if he ever touched you again, she'd write to her family in the capital. Uncle Gerhard. You know what that means."
Alphonse did know. The borrowed memories supplied it. Isabelle's brother, Gerhard, held a position in the Imperial Ministry. Not the highest rung, but high enough to make a provincial baron's life extremely uncomfortable. A letter from Isabelle could trigger an inquiry. Inquiries led to audits. Audits led to stripped titles.
Mother has leverage, he noted. More than I realized.
He gave Sophie a small, careful smile. "I'm not scared," he said. "I just wanted to know."
She studied his face for a moment, unconvinced.
"Oh! I almost forgot. Have I shown you the new spell I learned?"
"Sophie ..."
"Watch, watch." She was already holding up her hand, fingers spread. "I've been working on this for two weeks. Master Gereon says I'm advancing faster than anyone he's ever taught. Watch."
A soft blue glow gathered at her palm. The air around her fingers shimmered, and then — a sphere of water, perfectly round, the size of an apple, lifted from her skin and hovered an inch above her hand. Inside it, tiny currents swirled. Miniature whirlpools chasing each other in a silent dance.
"It's a Controlled Orb," she said, beaming. "I can hold it for almost a minute now. And move it."
She flicked her wrist. The orb floated to the left, then the right, then rose toward the ceiling before drifting back down.
"Impressive," Alphonse said. He meant it.
Sophie was genuinely talented. The [Mage] profession, especially with a [Water Magic] specialization, was rare enough that most noble families would have celebrated for a month when their child received it. Sophie wasn't just classified, she was excelling.
But praise and admiration weren't what he needed from her right now.
He gave a few dry, rattling coughs. Theatrical. Just enough to draw concern without overdoing it.
Sophie's orb burst, water splashing harmlessly across the bedsheets. "Al! Are you okay?"
"Fine," he said, his voice deliberately thin. "Fine. Just tired."
He let the coughing subside. Let his breathing stay shallow for a moment longer than necessary.
Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him. As if it hadn't been the reason he'd steered the entire conversation.
"Sophie... do you think we could visit the Oracle?"
She blinked. "The Oracle?"
"I never received my [Profession]," he said. Quietly. With just enough ache in his voice to make it land. "Father forbade it. But he's gone now. And I..." He paused. Swallowed. Let his eyes drop to his hands in his lap. "I want to know what I am. What I'm supposed to be."
Sophie's expression shifted. The playfulness drained away. She understood what this meant. She'd received her [Profession] at twelve, like every other child in the empire. She knew the weight of it. The way it defined you, oriented your life, gave you a place in the world.
Her brother had been denied that. Kept classless and nameless by a father who would rather have no son than the wrong kind.
"Al..." she began.
"It's quick," he pressed, keeping his tone gentle. Almost fragile. "We go, I stand before the Oracle, and it's done. And... if I receive something useful, it might actually help my recovery. Some [Professions] come with passive benefits. Increased vitality. Faster healing. You know that."
Sophie bit her lip. He could see the calculations running behind her eyes. She wasn't stupid. Naïve in some ways, sheltered in others, but not stupid.
"I won't promise anything," she said finally. "But I'll talk to Mother."
Alphonse kept his face neutral. Calm. The picture of a grateful older brother.
Inside, he was already three steps ahead.
The Baroness would say yes. He was certain of it. Isabelle von Hohenberg was a woman forged by guilt and tempered by love for her children. She had watched her son lie unconscious for weeks, hovering at the edge of death, because she'd failed to draw the line that could have prevented it. Now the Baron was gone. The obstacle was removed. Her son was asking for the one thing he'd been unjustly denied his entire life.
She would say yes. She had to.
"What [Profession] would you like to receive?" Sophie asked. The worry in her face was already softening into curiosity.
Alphonse pretended to think about it. He tilted his head, furrowed his brow, gave it the appearance of a boy idly dreaming.
"Hmmm... maybe [Mage]," he said. Then he smiled at her. "Like you."
Sophie's face bloomed. A grin so wide and genuine that it erased every shadow the conversation about their father had cast.
"Really? That would be amazing! We could train together! Master Gereon could teach you the basics, and I could show you how to form your first flow ..."
She was already off, planning lessons, imagining scenarios, building a future where her brother stood beside her instead of behind her. Alphonse let her talk. Let the enthusiasm carry the moment.
But behind his smile, a colder thought circled.
The Baron would despise it. A [Mage] son in a family of [Sword Masters]. Another mark of failure in his eyes.
Good.
Sophie left shortly after, practically bouncing out of the room with the promise that she'd find their mother before dinner.
Alphonse watched the door close behind her.
Alone again, the mask fell. He stared at the vaulted ceiling above his bed, his mind working through permutations.
The Oracle could give him anything. [Mage] was likely, given the traits this body possessed — the keen mind, the instinct for reading patterns, the sensitivity to the currents of magic that Sophie's spells stirred in the air around him. He could feel them. Faint, like the ghost of a breeze against the back of his neck.
But anything was the key word. The Oracle didn't let you choose. It read your soul, your potential, and declared what you were meant to become.
What exactly will it see when it reads me? he wondered. A thirty-three-year-old failure wearing a dead boy's skin?
He pushed the thought down. It wasn't useful.
Whatever came, he would make it work.
"Hey! Hey! Hey! Wake up."
The voice hit him like a pebble thrown at a window.
Alphonse's eyes opened. The room was dim, almost theatrical in its half-darkness. The two tall windows were shuttered, heavy curtains drawn across them, but the morning sun was persistent.
"Mother said yes!"
Sophie was on his bed. Not sitting on it — on it. Kneeling beside him, bouncing slightly, her golden hair loose and wild around her face. She was still in her sleeping gown, a thin white shift that hung off one shoulder.
"We can go to the Oracle today," she said, grabbing his arm and shaking it. "Get up. Get up, get up, get up."
Alphonse blinked at her. His mind was already awake. It had snapped to full alertness the instant she'd spoken, but he let his body play the part. A slow groan. A hand rubbing his face. The performance of a boy dragged unwillingly from sleep.
"Today?" he mumbled.
"Today! Mother arranged it this morning. She sent a runner to the temple before dawn. We're expected by midday, so we need to move." She slapped his shoulder lightly. "Come on. If you take too long, the bathwater will get cold."
"What time is it?"
"Time for you to stop talking and start moving."
He let out a long sigh, playing reluctant. "Alright, alright. Give me a moment."
Getting out of bed was still a process. His legs had recovered enough to hold his weight, but the muscles trembled after a few steps, and the world had a tendency to tilt without warning. He swung his legs off the mattress and sat on the edge, steadying himself.
Sophie watched him with barely contained impatience, then relented. She slid off the bed and offered him her arm.
"Lean on me," she said.
He took it. Draped his arm across her shoulders, letting her brace his weight. She was shorter than him by a few inches, and as they made their first shuffling steps toward the door, the difference in their builds became apparent.
They moved through the hallway at a careful pace. The mansion was quiet at this hour. Servants moved in the periphery, silent and practiced, but none disturbed them. Alphonse let his eyes catalog the space as they walked. Stone corridors, tapestries depicting hunting scenes and battle formations, arched doorways, iron sconces with half-spent candles. The second floor held the family quarters, the bath, the offices. He stored the layout, matching it against the hazy blueprint the original Alphonse's memories provided.
The bathing room door was heavy oak, reinforced with iron bands. Sophie pushed it open with her hip and guided him through.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and steam. The room was larger than he'd expected — floored in dark stone, the walls lined with the same. In the center sat the bath itself: a broad, sunken basin carved directly into the floor, large enough for several people, filled with water that steamed gently. Stone benches ran along two walls, and a wooden shelf near the entrance held folded linens, clay jars of soap, and a few brushes.
"Mother already bathed," Sophie said, easing him onto one of the stone benches. "The water's still warm, but it won't be for long."
She began pulling towels from the shelf, arranging them with the absent efficiency of routine.
Alphonse watched her for a moment. Then he looked at the basin. Then back at her.
He let his expression fall. A wince, subtle but visible, as he tried to roll his shoulder. He reached for the lacing of his sleep shirt and fumbled with it. His fingers were still clumsy, the fine motor skills not yet fully recovered.
"Sophie," he said, his voice carrying just the right note of quiet frustration. "I can barely lift my arms over my head. I don't think I can manage this alone."
She turned. Looked at him. Assessed the situation with a practical eye.
He saw the moment the thought formed in her head. Her mother had spoken to her about decorum. About propriety. About the expectations placed on a young woman of noble birth, especially one with a [Mage] classification that made her valuable on the political marriage market.
But this was her brother. He was injured. He needed help.
Alphonse watched the internal debate play out across her features and added one final nudge.
"Besides," he said casually, "if we bathe separately, we waste the hot water. You know how long it takes them to heat a full basin."
That did it. Sophie's pragmatic side won the argument. She gave a small nod.
"Fine. But hurry. We can't be late."
She turned her back to him and, without ceremony, pulled her sleeping gown over her head.
Alphonse's breath caught.
His sister's body was slender. Narrower than their mother through the hips and shoulders. But there was nothing childish about her. The curve of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips, the dimples at the base of her spine. Her legs were long, toned from what he assumed were walks through the estate grounds.
She turned slightly to drape her gown over the bench, and he saw her in profile. Her breasts were modest. Smaller than Isabelle's, obviously, but full enough to hold their shape, round and firm with the particular tautness that came with youth. Her nipples were a soft pink, slightly puffy, prominent against the areola.
She's not her mother yet, he thought. But give her a few years.
He looked away before she caught him staring. Began pulling off his own clothes with deliberate slowness, playing up the difficulty.
When he stood, naked, the cool air hit him like a slap. He was thinner than he'd expected — ribs visible, hip bones protruding, the wasting effects of weeks without solid food etched into his frame. But between his legs, the contrast was almost absurd.
He glanced down. Not for the first time.
Even soft, the size was... notable. Heavy. Thick enough that it hung with a certain weight that seemed disproportionate to his lean frame.
At this age? He felt a flicker of genuine surprise. Jesus.
He buried the thought and turned toward the bath.
"We have to wash first," Sophie said, already standing by one of the stone benches where a large clay pitcher of heated water sat beside a dish of scented soap. "Otherwise the bathwater gets filthy. Mother's rule."
"I know the rule," Alphonse said, limping over.
"You never followed it before."
"New leaf."
She snorted. Then she picked up the pitcher and looked at him expectantly. "Sit."
He sat on the low bench. Sophie stood behind him and poured a stream of warm water over his head and shoulders. The heat soaked into his stiff muscles, and he let out a genuine groan of relief.
"Good?" she asked.
"You have no idea."
She worked the soap into a lather between her palms and began washing his hair. Her fingers were careful around the still-tender spots on his scalp.
"Your turn," he said when she'd rinsed him. "Turn around."
She did. Sat on the bench with her back to him, gathering her hair over one shoulder.
Alphonse filled the pitcher from a second reservoir of warm water and poured it slowly over her head. She tilted her face up, eyes closed, letting the water stream down her neck and shoulders.
He lathered the soap and began at her shoulders. Kneading gently. Working in small circles. His hands were larger than hers, and he could feel the knots of tension in her muscles, she'd been carrying stress of her own these past weeks. Worry for her brother. Fear of her father. The weight of being the family's prodigy in a house that was quietly fracturing.
"That feels nice," she murmured.
"You're tense."
"I've been tense since the day you got hurt."
He didn't respond to that. Just kept working, his thumbs tracing the lines of her shoulder blades, his palms moving down the smooth expanse of her back. He washed methodically. Arms first — one at a time, lifting each one gently, running soapy hands from shoulder to wrist, his fingers sliding between hers. Then her sides, palms coasting along her ribs, feeling the slight expansion with each breath.
She was relaxing. He could feel it. The stiffness leaving her posture, her breathing deepening, her weight settling more heavily onto the bench.
His hands moved to her front.
He reached around from behind, palms flat against her collarbone, and slid them slowly downward. Washing. Just washing. The soap made his hands glide effortlessly over her skin.
His palms reached the swell of her breasts and paused there — not gripping, not squeezing. Just resting. Cupping, barely, the soft weight of them. The soap made everything slick, frictionless.
Sophie's breath hitched. A tiny, almost imperceptible catch.
"Al..."
"Just washing," he said calmly. His voice was steady. Neutral. As if this were the most natural thing in the world.
He began to move again. Slow circles. His palms gliding over her breasts, spreading soap across every inch. He could feel her nipples under his palms — stiff, pressing into his skin. Each pass of his hands drew a slow, barely audible exhale from her.
She didn't stop him.
"Tickles," she whispered. But the word came out breathy. Not a complaint.
He shifted closer. His chest was nearly against her back now. He could smell the soap mixing with something warmer, something distinctly her.
His fingers found her nipples. He didn't pinch. Didn't twist. Just rolled them gently between his fingertips, as if they were another part to be cleaned.
Her eyes were half-closed. Her lips parted slightly.
Alphonse was hard. Painfully so. His cock pressed against the small of her back, impossible to ignore, but she didn't seem to register it — or if she did, she didn't understand what it meant.
He leaned forward. Pressed his lips against the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Not a kiss, exactly. Just contact. Warm mouth against warm skin, lingering for a beat too long.
"Al..." she said again, quieter this time. "That's..."
"Just relax."
His right hand continued its slow ministrations on her breast while his left began to travel. Down her stomach, following the smooth plane of her abdomen. He could feel the muscles there tense and release under his touch. The soap made everything easy.
His fingers reached between her thighs.
He paused. Gave her a moment.
"I'm going to give you something you'll love," he said into her ear. His voice was low, unhurried. "But you have to promise me something."
"What?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"You don't tell anyone. This is between us. Brother and sister. Our secret."
Sophie's chest was rising and falling rapidly. She could feel his hand there, resting just above where something strange and insistent was building. A slickness that had nothing to do with the bathwater.
She didn't understand it. But she knew she didn't want it to stop.
"I promise," she breathed. "I promise, brother."
His fingers slid lower.
She was warm. Slick with something that wasn't soap. His fingers parted her gently, exploring the soft folds of her pussy. She had a light dusting of golden hair, fine and sparse, barely there. Every brush of his fingertip made her twitch.
He found her clit.
Not immediately. He circled it first. Drew slow orbits around it, letting the anticipation build, letting her body tell him when she was ready. Her thighs trembled. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her hands gripped the edge of the stone bench so hard her knuckles went white.
Until he touched it directly.
A slow, firm circle. Pressing just hard enough.
"Ah — " Sophie's entire body jerked. Her back arched against his chest.
"Easy," he murmured against her neck. "Easy. Just feel it."
He kept the rhythm steady. Slow circles on her clit, two fingers working with a precision that came from thirty-three years of experience in a body. His other hand continued to palm her breast, thumb brushing back and forth across her nipple in counterpoint.
Sophie was unraveling.
Her head fell back against his shoulder. Her mouth was open, her breathing ragged, each exhale carrying a small, helpless sound. She'd never felt anything like this. Her body was acting on its own. Hips tilting forward, pressing into his hand, chasing a sensation she had no name for.
"Brother... something... something is..."
"I know," he said. "Let it come."
"I feel like... I'm going to — I don't know — "
Her thighs clamped together, trapping his hand. Her whole body went rigid. The pleasure was cresting, building to a peak that terrified her because she didn't understand what waited on the other side.
Alphonse didn't let up. He kept his rhythm exactly the same, fingers circling her clit with unwavering precision, and brought his mouth to hers.
She tasted like warm water and something sweeter.
The kiss swallowed her orgasm.
Sophie's body locked. Her spine bowed. A muffled cry pressed into his mouth. He felt her pussy clench around nothing, felt the gush of wetness coat his fingers.
He held her through it. Mouth on hers, hand between her legs, the other arm wrapped across her chest.
When it finally passed, she went limp against him.
Her eyes opened slowly. Dazed. The blue of her irises looked almost translucent in the steam-hazed light.
"This..." she tried. Her voice was wrecked. Hoarse and trembling. "What was that?"
Alphonse kissed her forehead. Brotherly, if you didn't look too closely.
"That," he said softly, "is something your body can do. It's natural. It's normal. It's ours."
She stared at him. Searched his face for something — deception, maybe. Or an explanation that went deeper than the one he'd offered.
"Does it... happen again?" she asked.
He smiled.
"Whenever you want."
Sophie let out a shaky breath. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, and her lips were still parted.
"We should..." She blinked. Tried to gather herself. "We should get in the bath. Before the water gets cold."
"Good idea."
He helped her stand. Her legs were unsteady, and she leaned into him without thinking about it, her body gravitating toward his on instinct. They stepped down into the basin together, and the warm water rose around them — thighs, waist, chest.
Sophie sank in up to her neck and let out a long, trembling sigh.
"Al?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." She paused. Bit her lip.
Something moved in Alphonse's chest. Something that might have been guilt, or affection, or the strange hybrid of both that seemed to define everything in this new life.
He reached under the water and squeezed her hand.
"Always."
They soaked in silence for a few minutes. Sophie's eyes drifted closed, her body relaxed and loose in the warm water. Alphonse watched her, cataloging the moment, storing it alongside his plans and calculations.
He had her trust. Completely and absolutely. That was the first step.