Chapter 2: Count Bratz's Bastard

The Bratz family was often whispered to be unrefined, even for nobility. A common sentiment, and likely grounded in truth, considering their position as one of the many border counts adjacent to the lands of the barbarian tribes.

In ages past, the howl of war horns had been a constant, looming threat. But of late, a fragile truce had settled, and with it came frequent, if uneasy, exchanges.

"Lord Ian, your table manners are impeccable."

Ian, who'd been intent on devouring his meal, snapped to attention at the old man's remark. Sarcasm? Or had his hunger betrayed him, making him appear ravenous? A fleeting unease pricked at Ian, and he cleared his throat discreetly. Yet the old man's praise seemed sincere.

"Your son possesses a remarkable degree of refinement, Count Derga. A clear testament to your excellent guidance."

"You are most gracious, Sir Mollin."

Count Derga, patriarch of the Bratz family, was momentarily discomposed by the abrupt change in his son's bearing, but his practiced mask of formality remained unyielding. He cast a sidelong glance at Ian.

"The blood of Bratz flows strong in his veins, after all. It is only to be expected. I trust you will speak of him in a favorable light to the Emperor."

"Unquestionably, Count."

Ian stilled, his fork halfway to his mouth, his attention snared by the subtle implications of their exchange.

The Emperor? Me?

Wait. Bratz?

*That's right…*

The hand that gripped his fork and knife was small, slender – almost delicate. His line of sight, seated as he was, was remarkably low.

Caught in this vortex of disorientation, Ian swallowed and reached for his wine glass.

"Ah."

Not wine. Some other concoction. And the reflection staring back from the curved glass… it wasn't his own. It was the visage of a stranger. A jolt of shock nearly caused Ian to choke, to expel the liquid in a most undignified manner.

"Cough!"

He coughed, reaching blindly for a napkin. From across the table, a boy sneered.

"Tsk, tsk. And here I thought he was behaving so admirably."

"Chel. Control yourself. You should offer assistance to your brother, should he err."

Chel's lower lip protruded in a petulant pout. Countess Mary, her hand subtly but firmly gripping Chel's beneath the expanse of the tablecloth, silently quelled her son.

This was no mere family dinner.

Sir Mollin was an official, a representative dispatched from the Central Imperial Palace. He was present to evaluate whether Ian possessed the… *attributes* deemed necessary for formal acceptance into the Bratz lineage.

Mollin bestowed a benevolent smile upon Chel, then redirected his attention to Ian.

"Lord Ian, I am given to understand that you have been occupied with the study of philosophy."

Count Derga and his wife shared a look of thinly veiled apprehension. Mollin's query had struck a sensitive chord.

Ian couldn't even pen his own name. As the unacknowledged offspring of some commoner, he'd been deprived of any formal instruction. Why, mere moments ago, hadn't he been lapping up the water from the finger bowl like a thirsty animal?

"He has not yet attained a level of proficiency sufficient for learned discourse."

The Count interjected swiftly, a pretense of protectiveness cloaking his words. Yet his gaze, keen and calculating, remained fixed upon Ian.

Damn that boy. I instructed him to memorize it.

He'd relentlessly drilled Ian with information, foreseeing Mollin's inquiries. But the baseborn imbecile appeared to have retained nothing. The old man, however, remained undeterred, pressing his point with a knowing smile.

"That, my lord, is the very heart of scholarship. It is through the crucible of conflicting perspectives that we are strengthened. Lord Ian, what texts have you perused of late? You are sixteen years of age, and yet… you have not been privileged with formal tutelage…"

The old man, nearing his eightieth year, was both mild in manner and unyielding in his resolve. This was hardly remarkable, considering his extensive tenure in the ruthless realm of the central administration – a viper's nest where talent was a fleeting, expendable resource.

The Count could muster no further defense. All eyes were riveted upon Ian.

"Well…"

Ian cleared his throat, delicately dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. He was unsettled, precisely as the Bratz family had surmised.

But not by Mollin's interrogation. It was the sudden, shocking realization that he was ensconced in the rear garden of a frontier count's estate.

The Bratz estate?

Possessing the body of a boy he'd never laid eyes upon?

He suspected the involvement of Naum's space-time magic – but how? He couldn't be sure. Space-time magic… it was a conduit between two distinct points in time. Inherent limitations of location were unavoidable.

One had to physically be *there*.

But Ian's last conscious memory was of that accursed subterranean prison. And he'd never encountered a single instance of anyone inhabiting another's physical form. Never.

"Lord Ian?"

"Ah, my apologies."

Mollin's gentle prompting drew Ian back to the present. His response was imbued with an almost instinctive grace – a vestige of his years within the Imperial Palace. A subtle inclination of his head, conveying attentiveness, hinting at the complexities concealed beneath the surface. The frontier count and his family had never before witnessed such a demeanor from Ian.

"Philosophy. Yes, philosophy…" Ian murmured, deliberately prolonging the moment.

"Might I be permitted to answer on his behalf, Administrator Mollin?"

Chel, his patience exhausted, burst forth.

It was sufficiently galling that Ian, this intruder, should be the cynosure of this momentous dinner. But to have him formally integrated into the Bratz lineage? With his pedestrian blood? The mere notion was an abomination.

It was a transparent, almost pitiable endeavor to usurp the adults' attention, to redirect the spotlight onto himself. Mary's withering glare, however, swiftly curtailed his outburst.

"Chel. Sir Mollin's inquiry was directed at Ian."

Her unspoken entreaty hung heavy in the air.

*Son, for the love of all that is sacred, restrain yourself. This is all for your ultimate good. We must welcome this lowborn whelp into the family to safeguard your inheritance.*

"I hold Master Pherun in high regard."

"Pherun?"

Ian's voice was soft, yet it cut through the simmering tension. His appetite had seemingly vanished; his silverware lay meticulously arranged beside his untouched plate.

Count Derga blanched. The name was utterly foreign to him. It would have been infinitely preferable to confess his ignorance! What unmitigated *drivel* was this…?

"Indeed. While the Church, of course, casts a disapproving eye upon his tenets, the humanism championed by Master Pherun… it poses a fundamental question, does it not? By placing humanity at the very core of our inquiries, by contemplating the truths we ourselves have forged… we may begin to glimpse the essence of a truly enlightened sovereign."

It was a deliberate maneuver, rooted in personal conviction.

For Ian, the quotidian struggle for survival of the common populace held far greater significance than esoteric philosophical musings. His own forays into the realm of philosophy had been… cursory, at best. He'd simply invoked the name of a currently 'renowned' intellectual who sprang to mind.

Count Derga's eyes darted anxiously towards Mollin. The old man hesitated, a fleeting expression of astonishment flickering across his features, before leaning in, drawing closer to Ian.

"And how, may I ask, did you become acquainted with the works of Master Pherun?"

"I… beg your pardon?"

But the query had emanated from Count Derga, not Ian. Mollin emitted a soft chuckle, shaking his head with a measured slowness.

"I crave your indulgence. It appears I have succumbed to the presumptuous belief that news from the capital disseminates but slowly to these frontier reaches. I must offer my sincerest apologies, Count Derga, and Lord Ian."

"No, no. It is of no consequence."

Mollin had already discerned that the Count was entirely unacquainted with Pherun. Had he possessed even a passing familiarity, he would have reacted with indignant censure, rather than this expression of utter bewilderment.

"Master Pherun is the youngest scion of the Hawkmoon Viscountcy. He but recently attained his majority. Though of tender years, he is a prodigy of the highest order – having secured entry to Bariel University at the very pinnacle of his class. He recently precipitated a veritable tempest of discourse by advancing the principles of humanism at a learned symposium held within the Imperial Palace."

News did indeed traverse the distance to the frontier at a glacial pace. That much was an irrefutable truth.

A full fortnight was required for a carriage to traverse the leagues separating the capital from Derga's far-flung domain. Not a single soul within these confines, the Count included, possessed the slightest awareness of this recent development.

While the others gaped at Ian, their countenances etched with astonishment, Ian, too, experienced a surge of inner turmoil.

*Master Pherun just celebrated his majority? I was under the distinct impression he was well past a century in age!*

Not only was he confined within an alien physique, but he'd somehow been propelled backwards through time – by nearly a hundred years. It was a revelation of staggering, almost incomprehensible proportions. Yet, not a vestige of this inner upheaval manifested itself upon his exterior. Years of rigorous imperial conditioning had forged an impervious mask of composure, now an intrinsic facet of his being.

"I comprehend. You hold Master Pherun's philosophical constructs in esteem. However, you alluded to the Church's disapprobation. Pray, elucidate."

"...Humanism, you perceive, elevates humanity to a position of paramount importance. Consequently, the Church, with its unwavering fealty to the Divine, would naturally deem such a philosophy… reprehensible."

"Heh."

An impeccable articulation.

Mollin felt the accreted weariness of the preceding fortnight begin to ebb, supplanted by a burgeoning sense of quiet gratification.

"My sojourn has proven to be most efficacious. I had not the slightest premonition that the nascent son of the Bratz lineage was possessed of such extraordinary perspicacity. The Emperor shall be exceedingly gratified."

In verity, a nobleman's acknowledgment of a natural child was scarcely a matter of profound import. Nobles, after all, were not universally celebrated for their unblemished fidelity when it came to… indulging their carnal appetites. Whether the progeny were male or female, it was a commonplace occurrence – a morsel of scandal to enliven the otherwise stultifyingly monotonous social whirl.

Yet Mollin's subsequent utterance was… unanticipated.

"And the Cheonryeo tribe shall be similarly gladdened."

The Cheonryeo… tribe?

Ian probed the recesses of his memory, seeking the resonance of that nomenclature. The Cheonryeo… they were the untamed denizens dwelling beyond the eastern marches. They would rejoice in his intellectual prowess?

…Then…

I am a pawn. A hostage.

A natural child, to be consigned to the Cheonryeo tribe dwelling upon the border – a living surety to safeguard the tenuous truce.

All becomes clear.

The Count's smile was the epitome of predation, and his hand, as it descended upon Ian's, conveyed the cold, slithering menace of a viper. In that instant, the Count was transmogrified: no longer a solicitous father, but a malevolent fiend cloaked in a deceptive guise.

"Ian, I harbor unwavering conviction that you shall become the very embodiment of peace."

The truce was a covenant, formally consecrated.

Tradition prescribed the exchange of legitimate scions from the preeminent families. However, the barbarians dwelling beyond the pale were capricious, mercurial beings.

Count Derga's own second brother had met his demise years earlier, venturing across the border in the name of a purported truce. An unfortunate mishap, it had been proclaimed. Yet the veracity of that claim… remained shrouded in doubt.

Thus, how could he even entertain the notion of dispatching Chel, his sole legitimate offspring? He'd impetuously inducted Ian – a boy he'd hitherto scarcely deigned to notice – into the fold, and was now endeavoring to legitimize his existence.

The Imperial Palace must be cognizant of this subterfuge.

But they couldn't simply dispatch anyone. Mollin was here to assess Ian's intellectual capacity.

The greater the hostage's intellect, the more potent the diplomatic leverage. A mutually advantageous arrangement.

Of course, considering the Bratz family's considerable autonomy within this remote territory, it was, to a large extent, a ceremonial gesture. Yet, simultaneously, a subtle instrument of control wielded by the Imperial Palace over the regional nobility.

"Ah."

The puzzle pieces coalesced.

Even prior to his demise, the Bratz family had repeatedly engaged in these hostage exchanges to preserve the precarious peace.

Though, ultimately, they'd met with utter annihilation at the hands of the Cheonryeo.

It had been a calamity of epic proportions – the tidings requiring a full fortnight to reach the capital. By the time the other lords and the then-reigning Emperor had mobilized their forces, it was irrevocably too late.

My great-grandfather's era, was it not?

Indeed. That was the precise timeframe of the catastrophe.

The Emperor had vanquished the Cheonryeo, subsequently apportioning the ravaged lands amongst the nobles and knights who had fought by his side. Thus, the affair had been brought to its denouement.

"Ian?"

Lady Mary's voice – sharp, insistent – a goad.

A prompt. A stark reminder.

He was to respond to the Count. To avow his… destiny.

Ian offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, lifting his glass for another measured sip of water. He might not comprehend the mechanics of this bewildering turn of events, but one salient truth remained: Ian was alive. He had been, through some unfathomable means, resurrected within the body of this unfamiliar youth.

"Yes, Father."

Count Derga's smile broadened, a clear indication of his satisfaction with Ian's prompt and compliant response. All present, with the notable exception of the glowering Chel, erupted in boisterous laughter and effusive pronouncements regarding the era of peace Ian's very existence would undoubtedly inaugurate.

"Come, let us partake of the meal."

Derga, his anxieties finally allayed, redirected his attention to the repast before him.

Ian cast a swift, assessing glance around the chamber, striving to reconcile himself to this improbable reality. The insistent throb of his heart within his chest was the most compelling testament to his continued existence.

By what sorcery has this transpired?

If Naum's arcane arts were indeed the agency… there existed a solitary avenue of inquiry. He must gain access to the Imperial Palace annex. Scour it for lingering vestiges of Naum's magic. Conduct a thorough investigation.

But the Bratz demesne lay a fifteen-day sojourn from the capital – a distant, seemingly unattainable realm. An insurmountable obstacle for a boy teetering on the precipice of being bartered away to the vast, merciless expanse of the Great Desert.

Aye, it had been an insurmountable obstacle.