Resolving to act swiftly, the baron finally spoke. "I'll provide you with twenty soldiers. Go to your maternal family's lands and participate in the beast subjugation there."
Lincoln, the baron's eldest son, glared at his father.
This was nothing new. As the firstborn and heir to the barony, Lincoln had always resented the attention his father gave to that boy—Michael.
"Why must I leave the barony?" Lincoln demanded. "If that fool fell because of his own clumsiness, is that my fault?"
The baron's anger flared, his jaw tightening. "Do you hear yourself? Do you think anyone in this castle would believe such nonsense? If you're going to act, do it properly. Everyone saw what happened, and yet you claim he just lost his footing? Do you take the world for a gathering of fools like yourself?"
Lincoln clenched his jaw, his eyes burning with hatred. He refused to back down.
"You will leave for your maternal family's lands at once," the baron ordered. "Once the beast subjugation is complete, you'll proceed to the capital. Arrangements have been made for you to find a suitable match there. Your grandfather and I have already discussed it. Now, leave."
But Lincoln remained rooted to the spot. "If I had any talent for swordsmanship, would you still favor him over me? If that cursed brat hadn't awakened his aura—"
"Silence!" the baron roared, cutting Lincoln off. "How dare you say such a thing! Yes, Michael awakened his aura and became a knight. Even so, you are the heir to this barony and his elder brother. If you had shown a shred of generosity and accepted him, none of this would have happened. Do you even understand what it means to have another knight in the barony? He's not just your brother—he's one of only three knights in our entire domain. Do you realize what that represents?"
"I do! And that's exactly why I did it!" Lincoln snapped. "That brat never respected me as the heir. He always looked down on me. If he wanted to play executioner, he should have stayed in that role. Why did he have to claw his way back as a knight? If he'd chosen to become a wandering knight, I wouldn't have cared. But why, of all things, did he return here? Do you have any idea how I felt when you welcomed him? That damned bastard child—!"
A loud crack interrupted Lincoln's tirade as the baron's hand struck his cheek, whipping his head to the side. Lincoln touched his bleeding lip and gave a bitter laugh.
"Hah. It's always like this. Is it wrong to call a bastard a bastard?"
"...He is not a bastard," the baron said, his voice low and firm. "Margaret and I were wed under the light of the divine."
"She was already carrying Michael when you married her!" Lincoln spat.
The baron ran a hand over his face, weariness seeping into his features. His first marriage, an arrangement for political gain, had been a misery. His first wife had been stubborn, narrow-minded, and obsessed with vanity—traits she had passed on to their eldest son.
After her death, the baron had been captivated by Margaret, an angelic woman of beauty and kindness. Their passionate night together had resulted in Michael's conception, and under the sharp scrutiny of her father, Alfred, the baron had married her without hesitation. It was a responsibility he had been prepared to shoulder, and for a time, he was genuinely happy.
But Margaret's smile, her warmth, and the idyllic dream of their union faded with her death during childbirth. The baron could still recall holding Michael's blood-soaked body in his trembling hands. The details of her funeral were a blur; he had blocked it all out.
Perhaps that was why he had sent Michael to his maternal grandfather. Financial strains from recurring droughts had compelled him to marry a wealthy merchant's daughter as his third wife, and sending Michael away had seemed practical—a means of giving the boy a different future.
At the time, the baron had not realized the depth of Lincoln's hatred, nor could he have anticipated Michael's remarkable talents. Sometimes, exceptional gifts could be as much a curse as a blessing.
When Michael returned, having awakened his aura and become a knight, he spoke of his longing for the castle and his desire to claim what was rightfully his. He declared that he would not spend his life handling corpses as an executioner. His eyes had burned with ambition as he expressed his desire to protect the barony as one of its knights.
The baron had welcomed him back with open arms, perhaps driven by a lingering sense of inferiority toward Alfred, Michael's maternal grandfather—a knight of towering stature and formidable skill. Welcoming Michael had been a decision rooted in admiration and guilt, but it had led to disastrous consequences.
The baron sighed deeply, his voice heavy with fatigue. "Please, Lincoln. Do not make this more miserable than it already is. This is the best course of action for everyone. I promise you—your position will not be threatened. After the subjugation, go to the capital, marry, and return with a son."
Lincoln hesitated. For the first time, his father's once-imposing shoulders seemed small and frail. Though Lincoln's anger toward Michael burned hot, a sliver of guilt for his actions tempered his resolve. At length, he relented.
"Fine. I'll go. But Michael must stay in that house. If he sets foot in this castle again, I'll kill him."
The baron gave a weary nod. He knew that even if Michael fully recovered, Alfred would never allow him to return to the castle. Moreover, Michael's duties would keep him bound to the barony's five territories, far from the capital where Lincoln would reside. Lincoln would be safe in the capital, free to find a wife and secure his position as heir.
Whatever punishment Lincoln might face upon returning to the barony would come after his position as successor was firmly established. And by then, it would no longer matter.