CHAPTER 1. THE LEGACY OF THE GRAY LION (Part 4)

  Cohen approached the window. The latch, pitted with rust, yielded with difficulty, responding with a nasty shriek. The Baron pushed the shutters outward with force.

  A dank autumn night burst into the room. A cold, wet wind smelling of wet clay and hopelessness struck his face, instantly chilling him to the bone through his thin shirt and doublet. But Cohen didn't recoil. He needed this cold. It blew the fog of doubt from his head, and the acrid, suffocating smoke of the fireplace from the room. Clouds of blue smoke, swirling under the ceiling, rushed into the night, leaving the air clean and icy.

  Cohen gripped the windowsill with white-knuckled fingers. A single tear rolled down his unshaven cheek. Hot, salty, heavy. It wasn't hysteria. It was the quintessence of powerless rage. He looked into the darkness but saw the past.

  He saw how three years ago, on the day of his father's funeral, the castle gates were thrown wide open—not for guests, but for those fleeing. He remembered the backs of servants leaving with bundles on their shoulders. Grooms, maids, gamekeepers... They left silently, hiding their eyes like rats fleeing a ship that hadn't even begun to sink but had sprung a leak. He remembered how the wheels of merchant caravans stopped creaking on the bridge. Before, traders fought for the right to supply wine to the Duke's table. Now they bypassed "Rotten Hill" by the tenth road, afraid the beggar baron would ask for a loan.

  He remembered the visit to the Nordcross Magistrate. The very people who swore loyalty to his house suddenly became "too busy." The Burgomaster didn't even come out to him, citing a migraine. And the Mages Guild... Cohen ground his teeth. He personally rode to the Chapter Head. Asked for a geomancer—just one earth mage to reinforce the foundation of the Eastern Tower, which had begun to sink. *“Your father died owing the Guild for artifacts, Baron. Until the debt is settled, magic is closed to you.”* And they slammed the door.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Everyone left. Betrayed. Forgot. Everyone except them. Cohen closed his eyes. Old Hans, who drank away his last coppers but locked the gates every night and slept in the guardhouse with a rusty spear, guarding his master's peace. Martha, who cooked nettle soup and pretended it was a delicacy so as not to offend the Baron. Karl... Faithful Karl, who darned his livery and maintained the dignity of a royal butler amidst the ruins.

  “They didn't abandon me,” Cohen whispered to the wind. “They stayed. They starve with me. Freeze with me. And I? I sit here feeling sorry for myself?”

  His gaze fell on the white fur on his shoulder. The Snow Lion skin. Legends said this beast, dwelling on the peaks of the Northern Mountains, never froze and never got sick. Its fur held the spark of life. Old nannies whispered that if you wrapped a wounded man in such a skin, the blood would stop, and if a sick one—death would retreat. It was a fairy tale. But it was an expensive fairy tale. The only treasure he had left.

  The thought was simple and clear as a sword strike. Toby is dying of cold and exhaustion. His lungs are burning. The skin provides warmth that no fireplace can give. It "breathes" magic. If he wrapped the boy in this fur... he would hold on. A week, maybe two. It would give time. Time to find a way without selling his soul to Hoof.

  Cohen straightened. The tear on his cheek dried, turning into a cold track. He slowly, with solemn determination, unfastened the golden fibula on his shoulder. The heavy, warm skin slid into his hands. In that same instant, the icy cold of the room bit into his body. Without the magical fur, the thin velvet of the doublet was nothing against the autumn chill. Cohen began to shake, his teeth nearly chattering a rhythm, but he only clenched his jaw.

  “I will endure,” he said to the darkness. “I am a Prust. I will handle it. But the boy needs it more.”

  He carefully folded the shining fur, pressing it to his chest. Now he held not a symbol of power, but a chance at life for a cook's son. The Baron turned resolutely, looking no more at the dying fireplace nor his grandfather's portrait. It seemed to him that the old man's stern gaze in the painting had become a little warmer.

  Cohen Prust stepped toward the door, leaving the drawing room for the dark corridor. He walked to save his little subject, ready to give the last warmth of his house to warm another.