'Hey Jacob, I just had an idea. What if I changed the objective of your quest? Forget defeating Arthur, beat Dawson, in fact why not kill him instead?'

Jacob didn't bother replying to the voice echoing in his head. Whether or not it spoke, whether or not it tried to provoke or suggest or manipulate, the conclusion remained the same: he would face Dawson again, and when that moment came, whenever it came, he would not lose. Not like today. Not like this.

Whether he would go so far as to kill him... well, that was a decision still clouded in haze.

He heard approaching footsteps, and a moment later Arthur appeared beside him, crouching low and carefully easing an arm around Jacob's back before gently lifting him onto his shoulder.

Jacob didn't protest, he couldn't if he tried, and allowed himself to be half-carried away from the field, one unsteady foot dragging behind the other. They walked in silence for a while, the murmurs of the distant crowd fading with every step.

Eventually, Arthur fished through his pockets and pulled out a small vial filled with a pale, shimmery liquid. "This should help," he said quietly, pressing it into Jacob's trembling hand.

Jacob opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out, only a low, pained grunt, distorted and slurred by blood, broken teeth, and swelling that stretched his lips into something barely resembling speech. Frustrated, he tried again, only for the same guttural noise to escape. So instead, he simply handed the potion back to Arthur.

Arthur looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then pushed the vial back into his hand. "I know losing hurts," he said in a voice that was both honest and oddly calm, "but that doesn't mean you don't get back up. Recover. Rest. Fight him again when you're better. That's what you do."

Jacob wanted to scoff, to shake his head, to mutter something about how little Arthur understood. 'What is this idiot even talking about?' he thought.

The reason he hadn't taken the potion wasn't because he was giving up, far from it, it was because the potion would suppress the effects of Knight's Glory. He needed to endure this pain just a little longer, till he could use the potion.

As Arthur steadied him, Jacob took the moment to assess his condition, trying to think through the haze of agony. It wasn't good. That much was obvious. The pain crawled through his limbs like fire, pulsing from every joint, every tendon, every fibre of muscle, a level of suffering that made him want to cry out or collapse into unconsciousness, but something, perhaps adrenaline, perhaps sheer stubbornness, kept him upright.

Ironically, many of the worst injuries weren't even Dawson's doing. Torn ligaments, overextended joints, muscle fibres ripped apart from wild, clumsy swings and uncontrolled lunges, self-inflicted wounds born from desperation and rage. But his face... that had been Dawson's canvas. And Dawson hadn't held back.

Swollen shut, one eye barely able to squint open. His nose was certainly broken, maybe in more than one place. Blood had long since dried along his chin and neck. Several teeth, maybe four or five were either cracked, hanging loose, or completely gone. His skin was torn and discoloured in places, bruises blooming like ink under parchment. He must have looked horrific.

And he could tell as much from the faces of those who passed by, servants, guards who glanced at him only briefly before quickly averting their eyes, visibly uncomfortable, as if unsure whether to offer help or simply stay out of the way. No one said anything. No one dared to.

They stepped into the mansion with quiet urgency, the heavy wooden doors shutting behind them as Arthur guided Jacob up the staircase, one arm draped over his shoulder, the other bracing him with each careful step.

The halls were mostly empty, their polished floors reflecting the midday sun that poured in through tall windows, but as they made their way past a particular door on the upper floor, a voice rang out sharply from within, sharp, annoyed, and unmistakably familiar.

"Hey, you fucker, drop that idiot in here and wait outside for a bit."

Arthur blinked, pausing mid-step, his face caught between confusion and hesitation, while Jacob, barely holding onto consciousness, sighed inwardly. Of all people to be waiting for him, it had to be Isaac.

He was running out of time. He needed to drink the potion soon, needed just a few moments alone to recover before the pain overwhelmed him completely. Yet ignoring Isaac wasn't really an option.

With what little energy he could summon, Jacob tapped Arthur on the wrist and pointed, wordlessly, toward the door. Arthur gave a small nod, adjusted his grip, and helped him into the room.

Inside, Isaac stood leaning against the far wall, arms folded, expression unreadable, though the moment his gaze landed on Jacob, a smirk curled at the edges of his mouth.

"Well, you look even uglier than usual," he said, casually pushing off the wall and walking toward them. His eyes flicked to Arthur, and the look he gave him was one Jacob had seen many times before, dry, impatient, and barely hiding its disdain. It said everything without a single word: Why are you still here?

Arthur, clearly understanding the message, quickly helped Jacob until he was leaning against the wall and gave a short nod before stepping back toward the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Silence returned, broken only by Jacob's unsteady breathing.

Isaac tilted his head and studied him. "Can't talk, I'm guessing. And you're not healing, so you're planning to use Knight's Glory before taking the potion, huh?" His voice carried a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Figures."

Jacob didn't respond. He simply turned his face away and focused on staying conscious. The pain had dulled into a constant roar beneath his skin, but it was growing stronger with every second. His limbs were trembling. He could feel sweat dripping down his temples.

Across the room, Isa sat in one of the chairs, watching him with furrowed brows and a look that hovered between concern and irritation. When she caught him glancing her way, she clicked her tongue, muttered something under her breath, and tossed a small glass vial in his direction.

He barely caught it, fingers fumbling against the slick surface.

"You're trying to get stronger, your face doesn't matter," she muttered, her voice sharper than her expression. "So go ahead, apply it to your face only. That won't interfere with the rest."

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Jacob gave a small nod, grateful despite himself. He twisted the vial open and poured a few drops across his bruised and bloodied features, flinching slightly at the sharp, stinging sensation as the potion went to work.

The effects were almost immediate. The swelling in his eyes began to subside, the torn skin knit itself together, and the dull ache in his jaw and broken nose faded into nothingness as shattered bone reformed beneath smooth, new flesh. Even the gaps in his teeth closed, one by one, until his face was whole again, intact, though still pale from blood loss and exhaustion.

For the first time since the match had ended, he exhaled slowly, the air leaving his lungs like a wave of tension being bled from his body. The worst of it was gone. For now.

"Now that that's dealt with," Isa said, her voice suddenly colder than before, and as Jacob turned toward her, his body reacted instinctively, he shrank back, ever so slightly, not from pain this time, but from the dark expression that had taken over her face. Her gaze was like steel, and it held a very specific promise.

"Tell me," she continued, her voice low and unflinching, "who the bastard is that beat you this badly."

Scary didn't quite capture it, Jacob had always known, in the vague way younger siblings knew such things, that his sister had a certain reputation. Not from firsthand experience, of course, she was kind to him more often than not, affectionate in her way, but he had heard the stories, and none of them ended with anyone walking away whole.

Before Jacob could even think to answer, Isaac chimed in from where he leaned against the wall, his tone as casual as if they were discussing a game of cards. "Hey Isa, are you planning to fight all his battles for him?" he asked. "Let the idiot handle it himself."

Isa turned her glare on their brother, and for a second it looked like she might throw something sharp at his head. Her expression shifted, still cold, but now visibly irritated. "You don't even care," she said, clearly unimpressed.

Isaac didn't flinch. "No, I do care," he replied, unfazed. "I just think he should be the one to beat the guy to a pulp first. That's how this works, he gets his revenge, and then we get our turn. Trust me, once it's our turn, I'll make sure that bastard regrets laying a single finger on a Skydrid." His voice never once rose, his face remained calm, but somehow, he managed to sound even more dangerous than Isa.

Then, turning his attention to Jacob, he let out a sigh, as if disappointed in something obvious. "And you… challenging someone when you can't even fight properly. I've always said you were an idiot." He reached into his coat, pulled out a small cloth bag, and tossed it toward Jacob. It landed on the wooden floor with a metallic clatter that left no mystery as to what was inside.

Jacob didn't bother picking it up.

"I don't want your money," he muttered, his voice rough and quiet.

"Bastard," Isaac replied at once, his tone sharp. "I'm not asking you to take it I'm forcing you. If you've got a problem with that, then stand up and fight me. Otherwise shut up and listen."

He crossed his arms and continued without waiting for permission. "I've already paid off all your debts. That money's for a proper sword, one you can actually use without embarrassing yourself. I told Belemir where to find a decent blacksmith, he'll take you."

Still, Jacob didn't move.

Isaac let out a long, theatrical sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Stupid fucking pride. My brother's a goddamn idiot."

With that, he turned toward the shadow that stretched out along the floor behind Jacob, and without needing to say another word, a hand rose silently from it, a featureless black arm made of magic and will, and snatched the coin pouch from the ground.

"Ignore whatever he tells you," Isaac said, speaking now to the shadow. "If he says to give it away, or throw it in the river, ignore him. Just take it."

From within the darkness, Belemir's voice emerged, smooth and distant. "Thank you, Master Isaac."

"There," Isaac said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves with an air of exaggerated accomplishment. "Isa's worried about you, so I helped you out. That means you have to beat the bastard who laid you out like that."

At his words, Isa gave a small nod, her expression somewhere between murderous and encouraging. "Beat him to a pulp," she said, "but leave him alive for me afterward."

Jacob didn't answer. He was still standing there, unmoving, his mind heavy with pain and his body too sluggish to pretend at conversation.

"What are you still doing here?" Isaac asked, voice already rising with that familiar edge of irritation. "Get the fuck out of my room, you fucking retard."

Jacob didn't wait for more. He turned and made for the door before his brother could follow up with one of his extended tirades. Even without looking back, he could practically feel the insults lining up behind him, waiting to be fired.

Once he stepped into the hallway, he turned to the shadow that stretched from beneath his feet.

"Belemir," he said, voice quiet, "return the money to Isa."

"I cannot disobey Master Isaac, Young Master," came the soft reply from the darkness. It was gentle, but firm.

Jacob clicked his tongue in irritation and turned his head slightly, where Arthur still stood leaning by the banister, arms crossed, as if waiting for something.

"Thanks," Jacob muttered, the words coming out slightly hoarse.

Arthur gave a casual shrug. "Yeah… I'll be on the training field," he said, then walked off without waiting for a response.

Jacob continued down the hall, making his way toward his room, each step reminding him of how sore his body still was in spite of the earlier healing.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him and turned to see his desk. Sitting neatly on top of it was a cloth bag, overfilled with potion vials of various shapes and sizes. He nodded slightly, these were the pain suppressants he'd instructed Belemir to purchase earlier, and judging by their number and quality, the servant had gone above and beyond.

He walked over and studied the bottles for a moment, letting his mind wander.

"Since when has Isaac been paying my debts?" he asked without turning around.

There was a pause, long enough that Jacob thought Belemir might not respond. But then, as always, the man spoke, measured, honest, and somewhat apologetic.

"He never lets your debts last more than a day."

Jacob gave no reaction beyond a small nod. Of course. That sounded like Isaac. Controlling, aggressive, arrogant, but beneath all of that, always making sure Jacob didn't fall too far. It was annoying. Infuriating, even. But there wasn't much he could do about it.

Not only was Isaac family, but he was also a Rank One Knight, strong enough to knock Jacob into next week without breaking a sweat, and absolutely petty enough to do it over a simple argument.

Pushing the thought aside, Jacob grabbed one of the vials from the bag. The liquid inside was a translucent blue, clear and still, catching the candlelight like glass touched by water. He uncorked it without hesitation and drank it in one gulp, not bothering to savour the taste.

The effect was immediate. As the potion coursed through his system, the pain that had been gnawing at every corner of his body vanished, not gradually, but all at once, like a tightly wound cord being cut clean through.

Relief swept over him in a wave so complete it left him lightheaded, and without meaning to, a low sound escaped his throat, a quiet exhale that bordered on a moan. It was blissful. Too blissful, in fact.

This was high-quality stuff, far better than anything he usually allowed himself.

"How much did this cost?" Jacob asked, already knowing the answer wouldn't please him.

From the shadow at his feet came Belemir's steady voice. "Master Isaac instructed me not to tell you. He said only to assure you that the strength of the potion has been carefully measured, just enough to dull the pain, but not enough to completely soften the effects of Knight's Glory."

Jacob clicked his tongue in mild annoyance, though there wasn't much venom in it. Of course Isaac would do something like that, just generous enough to be helpful while still finding ways to make him suffer.

He walked over to one of the drawers at the side of the room and slid it open, revealing a neatly arranged row of small bottles, Knights' Glory, each one labelled and tightly sealed. He reached for one, his fingers hovering for a moment before he finally picked it up. The liquid inside was dense and dark, swirling faintly when disturbed, almost alive in its stillness.

Jacob stared at it for a long while. He didn't want to do this. Everything in him recoiled at the thought of what was to come. Even knowing the pain wouldn't be as sharp this time didn't make the idea of reliving it any more appealing.

But then the image came unbidden, Dawson, straddling him on the ground, fists rising and falling like hammers, blow after humiliating blow, and Jacob completely unable to stop it.

The hesitation vanished.

He uncorked the bottle, tipped it back, and swallowed the entire dose in a single motion. It burned going down, but he didn't flinch. Then, without a word, he walked back to his bed and sat down, letting his hands rest on his knees as he waited.

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