Lennard was out in the field inspecting the border outposts when a messenger came riding a swift steed, bearing a message that he’d never heard.

His father, Baron Tielman, had collapsed.

From there, time felt it flowed at ten times the speed. He didn’t know when he had arrived back at the castle, but by the time he did, he was already looking at his father, who was breathing unsteadily in bed. Purple veins throbbed on his body, and his skin had grown pallid.

“…lord Lennard. Young lord Lennard?” said a voice, gradually growing louder as the ringing in his ears abated.

Lennard whipped his head over to the healer. “What happened to him?” he demanded.

The healer lowered his head. “…as I’ve been saying, there’s little doubt in my mind that he was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Lennard repeated in disbelief. “How could this happen? Have…” he looked around, and spotted some guards. “Have everyone who worked on his food today detained!” he shouted.

“It’s already done, young lord,” the knights confirmed. “They’re in the jail, awaiting your arrival.”

“It was an incredibly potent poison, young lord, that’s rather difficult to acquire,” the healer continued to explain. “It attacks aura users specifically. Clatgrass, it’s called; a purple flower that grows in marshes where basilisks sleep. I suspect it would have killed him instantly, if not for the fact that the baron had asked the chef to keep the food warm while he waited for the late young lord. The application of heat likely diluted its effect.”

Lennard exhaled loudly, then asked, “Will he live?”

“I cannot honestly say,” the healer confessed. “I’ve healed all that I can with my magic, and I’ll continue to do so. But the nature of this poison turns the user’s own strength against them. It is an insidious drug outlawed in all nations except Avaria to our north.”

Lennard tried to hide his trembling. Through dumb luck, his father had been spared an instant death, yet it still lingered by his bedside. Baron Tielman was a legend. To his allies, the Shield of the North; to his enemies in Avaria, the Scourge of the South. He was meant to die in battle, or better yet of old age in his bed. Not poisoned. Not… this. Yet here he was all the same.

“The young lord was late, you said?” Lennard remembered a detail the healer had mentioned. “I assume you don’t mean me. Who?”

“Ah—yes. Willem,” the healer elaborated.

***

Lennard stared down at his younger brother, Willem. His nonchalance in the face of their father’s poisoning was a strong indicator of his character, he felt. Was there any filial son that could remain so composed when death lingered near their father’s side? Apparently, all he’d done since the poisoning happened was return to his room, waiting patiently.

Lennard spared greetings, diving straight into the purpose of his visit. “Father was poisoned after a meal with you. Conveniently, you were late for said meal,” he outlined, all but accusing his younger brother directly.

Willem asked passively, “Is he dead?”

Lennard ground his teeth together. “No. He kept the meal heated as he waited for you, and that distorted the effect of the poison.”

“Really? He was bleeding from his eyes. I assumed he’d be a ghost by now.” He gave a smile. “Still, it’s good news.”

“Not good news for all,” Lennard implied. “While the meal was heating… it would’ve been the perfect time for a would-be assassin to slip something into his meal. While you were absent.”

“I saw half a dozen people scurrying away from me like rats in the hall as I wandered about.” Willem waved vaguely. “The maid that fetched me did so on the second floor. Plenty of witnesses.”

“Why do you make excuses for yourself when I talk about an assassin?” Lennard put his hand on the hip opposite his sword, looming closer over his brother.

“Oh, we’re playing it that way.” Willem pointed. “I thought you made these things called ‘allusions.’ It’s when you imply something by speaking indirectly. I thought you were alluding I had poisoned him, but it’s clear I thought too much of your intelligence. I won’t repeat that mistake.”

Lennard could only stare, a bit stung. His brother seldom said such bold words to his face—either it was a sign he was cracking under pressure, or he was letting the mask down now that their father was poisoned.

“There’s going to be a full investigation,” Lennard vowed, then pointed at the ground. “I’m calling our brothers back here. Upon my title as the Goldrain Knight, should the worst come to pass—”

“The Goldrain Knight?” Willem interrupted. “Who calls you that?”

Lennard shifted uneasily. “All those who call themselves my friend and ally.”

“Goldrain?” Willem studied him dubiously. “Are you sure they’re your friends? If someone called me the Knight of the Golden Shower, I’d be a little wary of them.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lennard continued heedlessly. “I’ll discover who did this. And when I do, that person will learn how I earned that title.”

“That’s actually quite frightening…” Willem mumbled as he rose to his feet. “Do you realize that he and I had the same meal? Why do you assume that it was intended for the baron? It’s perfectly reasonable that our identical fares could’ve been switched.” He took a step closer. “You’re worried and you’re young, so I’ll cut you some slack, but from all I hear, I was as close to dying as your father.”

Lennard ground his teeth together, feeling a swell of embarrassment. Before it could consume him, he left the room and mulled over those cutting words. Could his brother have been the target? Clatgrass was quite rare. Even if someone held a grudge against Willem, who could possibly obtain it? He didn’t have time to think on it long. When he left the room, his father’s steward was waiting outside.

“Baron regent,” the majordomo bowed. “The attendant that your father called for has arrived, and he’s looking for direction. He’s already been paid for, so… we ought to put him to use.”

Baron regent. It felt strange, hearing that title… yet not entirely unpleasant. He focused on the majordomo. “What attendant?”

“A talented young man named Dirk, sir. He was to accompany young lord Willem to the capital to begin reeducation. If you’d like, we could continue with that schedule,” the majordomo suggested.

“Not a chance. Willem isn’t leaving,” Lennard refused at once. “But… has this ‘Dirk’ already been paid?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lennard tapped his gauntleted fingers against the side of his leg. “If my father chose him, he must’ve expected him to monitor Willem’s progress, right? Write reports, that sort of thing?”

“Indeed,” the majordomo confirmed.

“It’s simple, then. Have Dirk attend to Willem, exactly as father intended.”

***

Family drama had always been trite. Willem avoided it wherever possible. It was a bit difficult to keep track of all the moving pieces, especially when all of the pieces were boring and all their concerns largely inconsequential. Now, he viewed an entirely new family’s drama all from first-person. He knew none of the backstory, and he hadn’t even learned the other fellow’s name. All that he had was this bizarre, inexplicable scenario.

Willem had come to another body—one that shared his name. He spoke the language, could read their words, yet he didn’t know any of the people around him. They had no answers for him, either. He didn’t quite know what to do with this information—have a mental breakdown, perhaps? Accept reincarnation as fact and convert to a new faith? Struggle to discover what had happened?

In the end, Willem hadn’t expected much in the way of more life. He’d lived the other to its fullest, and now there was a whole new road stretching ahead of him. He’d decided to keep walking, perhaps out of habit. Even here, only one thing called out to him. Whether it was in digital form, paper bills, or lumpy coin, the world of finance and its endless intricacies continued to draw him in. The idea of starting from the beginning, in an entirely different environment… it was certainly tantalizing.

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He sat on his bed a while, lost in thought. He stared at the bear rug for a long while, considering his troubled situation. If this fellow whose body he’d landed in had poisoned his father… what could be done about it? Willem didn’t know any of the evidence he was meant to hide. He couldn’t even remember the name of the old man who’d come to him in the morning, much less the brother he’d been saddled with.

A knock interrupted his musings.

“It’s open.”

The door parted, and in walked a plain-looking short lad. “Young lord Willem. I’ve been instructed to serve you.”

Willem narrowed his eyes. “I think can serve myself.”

“On that point, there’s no doubt.” He shook his head. “But I’m afraid it’s my orders, sir—both of the baron regent, and that of the baron. I’m to help and look after you. My name is Dirk, and I’ll be your personal attendant for the next six months.”

“Hmm. I’m about to sleep, anyway.” Willem shook his head, merely annoyed, until a thought came to him. “I hope that’s not what you meant by ‘serve.’”

Dirk looked greatly troubled. “Of course not. I’m merely here to carry out what menial tasks you need.”

“Alright then. I can think of a few things right away.” Willem sat up, deciding to take the opportunity to gather information.

***

A night had come and gone, and Willem had overcome the insurmountable—learning people’s names.

Willem set down the teacup upon a table in his room. He wanted a morning drink, and the attendant had one prepared. He didn’t like tea especially. He liked to drink something that tasted like battery acid smothered in sugar—energy drinks, sodas, or most often coffee for the mornings.

“Would you like more, young lord?” the male attendant asked carefully.

“Good lord, no.” Willem shook his head, and the attendant seemed uneasy. “All tea tastes like grass in a puddle. It’s like you took a single hard candy and dropped it into warm water.”

“I’ll strive to do better,” the man answered obsequiously.

“Don’t bother. It’s the tea’s fault, not yours.”

Willem studied the young man. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin; quite plain, all things considered. He was short—that was a good sign. From Willem’s experience, short people were generally angrier, but they tended to work harder in light of their shortcomings. Additionally, they made him seem taller than he actually was when they stood beside him. Willem only hired people shorter than himself as secretaries or attendants. Right now, he might need a hand. It wasn’t often that he was thrown off-balance, but waking up in another’s body threw quite the large wrench into his long-term plans.

Willem’s scrutiny made the man uncomfortable, and the attendant asked uncertainly, “Young lord…?”

“What’s your name again?” Willem asked.

The man closed his eyes like death had come to him. “Dirk, young lord.”

“Dirk?” Willem laughed. “That’s it? Dirk?”

“Yes.” The man lowered his head.

Willem pointed his finger. “You’re perfect, Dirk.”

Dirk lifted his head in surprise. “What? The tea, young lord? Or…?”

“You have a pitiful look about you.” Willem leaned in slightly. “Sad eyes, I’d say. You’re short, and you look malnourished. You were probably bullied as a child. I certainly would have bullied you if we were both children. Even your name, Dirk… it just exudes a certain sadness. It’s perfect for what I need.”

Dirk’s defensiveness redoubled, and he cast glances at the door as if contemplating escape. “I-I don’t follow.”

“Lennard seems to think I’ve attempted to kill Baron Tielman,” Willem stated plainly, and Dirk seemed surprised he even said it outright. “Why do people generally kill their parents, Dirk?”

“I have no idea,” he responded flatly.

“You can guess,” Willem pointed out, annoyed. “I hope that’s not expecting too much from you.”

Dirk wracked his brain. “Revenge? Inheritance? Possession? That’s what I’ve heard, at least. It’s never entered my mind.”

“Possession?” Willem leaned forth. “Elaborate.”

“Evil spirits, demons, or wights invade the mind and—”

“Does that actually happen, or is it just tales spread by the ignorant?” When Dirk shrugged, Willem asked, “What about people possessing people?”

Dirk’s eyes rolled as he thought. “Some black magic might be able to do that, but it’s certainly not common enough I’ve ever heard about it.”

He leaned back with a sigh. “What would I gain from the baron’s death?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

“No.”

“You could…” Dirk looked hesitant to say more. “…dispute the succession.”

“Is that what Lennard thinks I intend to do?”

“I don’t know the thoughts of the baron regent.” Dirk shook his head.

“Again—you can guess.” Willem tapped his temple rapidly. “A little initiative, a little forethought, goes a long way.”

“Then… succession would be the concern of most people, I would think,” Dirk said vaguely. “Especially an eldest son with an ambitious younger brother.”

“I couldn’t care less about who ends up in his seat… if the man even dies, that is. Seems everyone is pulling out his will and reading it while he’s still breathing. Hopefully it angers him enough he actually wakes up.” Willem sighed. “Do you think renouncing my right to inheritance could alleviate some of his concerns?”

“Disinheritance?” Dirk sputtered. “That’s not something done lightly.”

“It’s better than the oubliette, I’d hazard.” He crossed his arms. “Or worse, the guillotine.”

“It’s a legal process, and the young lord remains an exceptional aura user and a blessing to his house.” Dirk paused for a time, then continued with conviction, “I doubt proper justification could be found for stripping you of your birthright and obligations.”

“I keep hearing this term. What’s aura?”

Dirk looked at him uncertainly, like he was being toyed with. “Aura is a manifestation of a warrior’s will. With it, they can perform incredible feats far beyond what the body—”

“Alright, I get it.” Willem waved to silence Dirk. “It’s magic.”

“Not… not magic, young lord. A swordsman must—”

“It’s sword magic.” Willem nodded.

“It’s not magic,” Dirk insisted firmly, then added as a panicked afterthought, “…young lord. Having trained with the sword, you should know this.”

“Whatever.” Willem turned to the table. “This very non-magical magic power isn’t my problem, anyway. You said disinheritance was a legal process?”

Dirk nodded.

“Do you know these laws?”

Dirk furrowed his brows, then said, “Not well.”

He stood up. “Where would one need to go to learn the laws of succession?”

“I believe the library would have them, young lord,” Dirk supplied.

“Great. Dirk, go get me any and all books related to succession law.” He clasped his hands together. “There’s probably a civil way out of all this.”

Dirk processed the command, but stood in place. “The law… I’m quite certain that anything written down will dictate you have no legal claim to become baron.”

“That’s why I asked you to get it. Start walking.” Willem lifted a pastry off a plate, holding it out. “Take a tea cookie as a service fee.”

“What are you planning to do?” Dirk asked, taking the cookie without much enthusiasm.

“Are you writing a book? Spying on me?” he pressed. Dirk tensed at the last question, but Willem missed that fact. “I’m going to see if there isn’t a way I can’t ease the baron regent’s fears in a legal fashion. Of course, I’d need my share of the trust to be paid out, so to speak.”

Dirk looked stunned. “What… what would the young lord do without the Brugh family?”

Willem sighed. “Let me tell you something, Dirk. I seldom give lessons, so I suggest you pay close attention.” He leaned in, and Dirk came to attention. “Do you want to know who lives the best life?”

Dirk waited, but no answer came. He eventually answered, “The nobility? The dukes, the kings?”

“Of course not.” Willem scrunched up his face in disgust. “You’re overseeing this vast territory full of people who resent you for levying taxes, and you have all these people trying to take your place or your territory. You can’t just sit around eating grapes—this is how coups begin. Some prime minister sees some king living a bit too well, and then he decides to get a guillotine and start a revolution. Forget the king. I’d never do that job.”

Dirk didn’t look like he entirely agreed, but he only asked, “Who, then?”

“The financiers,” Willem said grandly. “The investors. The moneylenders. They give someone else a penny, and that man or woman uses it to work long and hard. When all is said and done, that penny comes back—with interest. Instead of collecting taxes, you avoid them.” Willem emphasized that point with a finger. “While the actual workers are breaking their back, the money men sit around reading books, eating grapes, chatting, gossiping… you can live like a rich child with absentee parents. Nothing’s better.”

Dirk frowned. “I had an absent parent. It wasn’t—"

“I said a rich child. It’s different for you, I imagine. You have my condolences. Being poor must be rough—not that I’d know,” Willem apologized. “But stay with me, Dirk, and you can have someone feed you grapes. If you work hard enough, it might even be someone attractive.”

Dirk looked at Willem peculiarly. “Have you ever even seen a grape this far north?”

“Get the books, Dirk.” Willem walked to his bed and sat down.

“At once, young lord.”

Dirk left the room hastily, and Willem spent some time examining the room. Whatever this was—dream, illusion, it wasn’t ending. If this unpleasant circumstance could be overcome, it seemed that sunny days awaited him. He wasn’t interested in playing make-believe with his alleged family. All he wanted was to dive into the market, as ever.