1441
It must be here somewhere! Claude thought, throwing handful after handful of dirt aside. Wiping the sweat away from his forehead with his sleeve, his eyes scanned around for anything of interest. He coughed roughly as dust entered his lungs, as a result of the house's poor ventilation and decrepit condition.
Today he sifted through the vacant cellar of Nicolas Flamel's old stone house on Rue de Montmorency, praying that the decades-old stone foundation would not give out and bury him alive. Much of the kitchen and cellar had caved in, leaving most of the ground floor to be reduced to dirt.
"Damn!" he cursed when he heard Notre Dame's bells chime the hour and knew that it was about time to head to his after-class training session, not the least bit pleased to give up his quest so soon.
Before he climbed back up the slippery ground, Claude stopped suddenly and examined the termite-eaten wooden beams. Various names and foreign symbols were carved extensively into the ancient structure. It seemed that alchemy enthusiasts had left their mark on the revered master's home, no doubt out of tribute.
Claude took the poniard sheathed at his belt, tilting his head and finding an empty space among the numerous inscriptions. Carefully, he began to etch away at the beam with a sly smirk on his thin lips. He leaned back, admiring his neat signature: Claudius de Tirechappe, MCDXLI.
Since discovering alchemy, Claude had immersed himself fully into the study: he flipped through the pages of his books eagerly and familiarized himself with the various metals and elements. Lurking around the corners of buildings, Claude had tailed and listened in on the city's alchemists' conversations, even following them into local taverns by concealing himself in the shadows. He eyed them with curiosity as they gathered at a usual table in the back and spoke of the mysterious subject. Through his eavesdropping, Claude had heard tell that the legendary alchemist Flamel had hidden the Philosopher's Stone somewhere in his estate, and possibly the recipe to the Elixir of Life.
While he devoted most of his time to his normal studies, with the University's school year starting soon, alchemy proved to be a pet topic as the idea seemed enchanting to him as he more or less conquered his other studies. Such a subject might have seemed far-fetched and impossible, but the young man was more than willing to believe that the science could somehow be achieved with the proper dedication.
At almost fourteen, Claude was excited to enter the University of Paris and absorb every ounce of knowledge it had to offer. Although, he was not one to shun a good education, he held a particular aversion to being forced in learning combat. Which was where he was expected to be at later that day—or rather, in a few minutes.
When he exited the house, Claude saw how dirty his hands were, dusting them off as he breathed in the fresh autumn air. Filthy and empty-handed, he thought, disappointed. The cool water he pulled from a well along the way helped him washed off the grime. Cleaning up, however, would prove meaningless considering he was to find himself coated in dirt after training.
"Ugh." He loathed combat training sessions, preferring to return to the solitude of quiet study. While he proved to be somewhat adequate with his sword work and possessed an adeptness for horsemanship, Claude despised hand to hand combat. His primary moves consisted mostly of dodging any attack his opponent threw at him. That, of course, was the source of his teacher's ire.
If blatantly avoiding such an activity were possible, he would gladly have done so. However, Claude discovered that doing so would only be brought to his father's attention, who was not above personally dragging his son to the combat ring, the boy unwillingly offering apologies. Claude only counted his blessings that at his age, the Minister could not beat him as he once did—only destroy him with acrid words of abuse.
Until the absolute last minute, the boy would settle himself against alleyways between townhouses and read. After a day of listening to lectures, he was in no hurry to duke it out with those same classmates.
"Hey Frollo! Aren't you coming?"
Claude looked up from his reading to see a couple of classmates in their combat clothes, beaming as they made their way to class. Scoffing, Claude sardonically answered, "It's not as though I have much of a choice, do I?"
"Well, you better pick up the pace," one remarked. "I think we could all use a good laugh, and watching you get pulverized might do the trick."
Claude grimaced at his peer's swipe, answering, "I suppose small things amuse small minds."
Another venomously spat, "I hope you're ready to get pummeled again!"
As much as he would enjoy exchanging insults with his classmates, Claude knew that this one arena that he did not hold the upper hand in.
X
"Frollo, dodging isn't the only component to combat!" the stony instructor reiterated, his plump faced turning bright red with impatience. "You need to consider your offense—not just your defense!"
Claude threw his hands up in frustration as he backed away from his opponent. "What good are fisticuffs if we're given swords?" He protested bitterly, brushing stray locks of hair from his eyes. He noticed how the bandages wrapped around his hands were coated in grime from hours of combat, as well as a few specks of blood.
The burly man pushed through the other students as he stomped towards the insolent boy. "'What good'?" he repeated scornfully, not liking the boy's tone one bit. Poking a large finger at his chest, the instructor heatedly snapped, "A man doesn't need a sword or a lance or a bow to fight—a real man knows how to hold his own with his bare hands. Maybe you could read about that in one your damn books! Now pay attention!"
The other boys watched in awe as Claude listened to this spit-addled rebuke by their instructor. It wasn't unusual for the boy to receive an earful from the old knight when it came to his technique, as well as his attitude.
Folding his beefy arms over his chest, the teacher huffed. "Alright, smart-ass," he grumbled, scratching his scraggly beard in thought. "I'll show you why this is so important. Square up!"
Wonderful, Claude bitterly thought as he stretched out his stiff neck, waiting for the next round of humiliation. What else could he possibly make me do that will help me get any better?
"Monsieur Allard!" the man bellowed as he beckoned another boy into the ring. "You can be Frollo's partner for this round."
"What?!" Claude shouted curses in his head as his opponent hopped into the ring. After a long day of practice, the last thing he wanted was to be pinned by the class's strongest student who was likened to Lancelot. A whole head taller and far more muscular, Claude knew instantly that his chances of lasting long in this round were dashed. His scrawnier build proved to be less than helpful compared to his more athletic classmates.
"Look alive!" The man clapped Claude on the back powerfully, nearly giving him whiplash.
While Claude tightened the bandages, his teacher leered at him ruthlessly. He warned, "If you think that this isn't worth learning, then I'm sure you'll find a way to defend yourself."
Their classmates whispered among themselves as they eagerly prepared to watch the fight. Given the fact that Claude wasn't the most popular among them, it didn't take much for the class to pick sides.
"Fists up!" the old man barked. The young man Allard's expression was flat, while Claude tried to suppress the quivering in his hands. "Remember: no bone-breaking, biting, or dirty moves, and you must make contact." He shot an accusatory glance at Claude. "And Allard: try not to kill him. On the count of three."
Dear God, help me, Claude prayed as he dug his heels into the dirt.
"One…two…three!" Quickly, their teacher slid away and the boys began to move, ready to fight.
Claude's opponent swiftly threw punches, which he just narrowly avoided. He ignored the vocal jabs and woops from his audience of classmates. Almost instantly, Claude found himself in a headlock. He used every bit of his strength to land a harsh blow from his elbow to his opponent's abdomen, freeing himself.
Allard lunged at Claude and tackled him to the ground. Claude gritted his teeth and fought to push him off, scrambling away and instinctively putting his fists back up.
"See, Frollo—that's how you fight back!" their teacher cheered, at last relieved to see the boy putting in some effort into his movement. "But you still need to hit him!"
All too quickly, Claude's arms were seized and he found himself flipped over. Landing hard on his back, his opponent pinned him with ease and prevented any chance of Claude getting back up.
Claude now heard the crude jeers that poured down on him like rain as his peers watched him try and squirm free. He groaned in pain as his opponent expressionlessly held him down, not taking any joy in defeating him.
"Come on, Birdface! Fly away!"
"Your wings clipped already?"
"His bones are gonna crack like his voice!"
"One, two, three—Allard!" Their teacher raised the victorious teen's hand as their classmates applauded. Claude balked at the proud pair of master and student as he raised himself to his elbows, ignoring the bruises now forming.
"Good match," Allard cordially noted, offering his hand to help Claude stand.
Claude brusquely batted it away and forced himself to stand. As he shook the dirt out of his hair and climbed out the ring, he paid little attention to the others' comments as he slunk past them.
"Frollo, come here!" their teacher ordered, the boys laughing under their breath as they waited to see him receive another tongue lashing.
What now? he thought as he removed the filthy wrapping on his hands. As much as he would love to grace the man with one of his signature sneers, he simply pouted and wordlessly approached him.
"I hope that you're learning that these are the necessary skills needed to be a man," he reminded the boy, cracking his knuckles.
"Outside the army, this hardly seems important," Claude retorted tiredly, crushing the dirty bandages in his hands. "Master Lucroy, isn't it a much different scenario fighting in a controlled environment than an everyday fight?"
The old man raised his eyebrows in surprise, as Claude's disrespect touched a nerve that caused the man's face to redden once more in irritation. The rest of the class fell silent as they watched in sadistic curiosity this little tête-à-tête unfold.
"Very well," the man said coolly. "Then picture this: what will you do when you find yourself in the presence of some gypsy thug holding a knife to your throat? No sword, no weapon—only you and your training. What then?"
The other boys found their voices as they added their own input.
"He'll be dead in an instant!"
"He'll hightail it like a coward!"
"He'll probably run away and join their troupe!"
"Alright—shut it, all of you!" their teacher ordered, awaiting Claude's answer, chin high and pompous.
Claude's lips curled at the idea, considering he barely saw gypsies as a threat. He still held that his greatest foes lay in the forms of his father and classmates rather than a few gypsies. To prevent any further rebuke from his instructor, Claude weaved an answer that might cut this discussion short. "I suppose then I'll be forced to hold my own."
"Precisely!" the man Lucroy said with a snap of his fingers. "You can't run forever, boy. You can become a skilled fighter, but you must practice. You know, the Minister was quite the contender when we were in the army. I'm sure even he would agree that a man needs to face his dilemmas head-on."
The boy nodded, brushing more dirt off his tunic. He's also a man who has a fleet of soldiers to do his dirty work, he thought caustically, noting the smirks and whispers exchanged by the other boys.
"But it might also help if you put some meat on those bones," the old master added, gripping Claude's twiggy arm. "A little string bean like you makes it far too easy to pin."
Sheepishly, Claude glanced at his scrawny limb, which reminded him of how he lagged behind his classmates' athleticism and ability. Such a notion never failed to embarrass him, especially when he looked over at the others. "Of course," Claude muttered awkwardly, scratching at his head.
The old man sighed solemnly. "We'll work on it. The rest of you, look sharp! Who wants to try their luck next?"
As he watched the other boys volunteer, all too thrilled to exchange blows, Claude settled down on a nearby tree stump and examined the scrapes adorning his frame. It was the daily mortification like this that made him resentful to his lanky build, and his father's derision certainly did not make him feel any better about his physique. The man constantly reminded Claude that his skin-and-bones form was barely acceptable of a man.
A man…Both his father and Claude's inner voice needled as it seemed that every shortcoming was preventative in his development, as if he never would be one.
X
"I hate to be the one to tell you this, my boy, but unfortunately all the books you've read can't help you," the Minister coldly stated as he poured more wine into his glass. "How is it that you've gone from nearly killing Dupreaux's boy to not being able to pin a single person in class?"
Claude endured his father's degradation, knowing that he was already in enough trouble. Every Sunday after Mass, Nicolas was never short of a biting criticism toward his son, especially regarding something as revered at combat. Jeanne-Marie demurely focused on her meal, allowing her husband to continuously chide their son.
"Honestly," he continued. "Do you want to be the laughingstock of my associates forever? You need to learn how to properly fight! You're nearly fourteen years old—that's the age of a man! And you are faltering behind everyone in your class. Every man needs to know how to defend himself."
"I am trying," Claude rebutted, his patience wearing as he bit back heated retorts. "But at least I'm better than the rest of them in a debate, and even horsemanship. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"Horses can only carry you so far," Nicolas deadpanned, digging into another piece of meat.
Barely poking at his own supper, Claude sullenly remarked, "I'm a scholar, not a soldier. It seems unnecessary."
His father cast him cold glare. "I thought so too, when I was your age. Then in the blink of an eye we were storming the countryside, waiting to lay waste to the English. And believe you me, I sure as hell wasn't thinking about the words of Ovid or Cicero then, or even about getting back to Paris—only about our country."
"The war is over though—I don't think I need to learn how to pin another person in a fight."
Nicolas glared back at the boy disapprovingly. "You may think that you are so clever, but remember that at this point, you are still only a boy. You've never seen war, you haven't enrolled in the University yet—you've never even seen a woman! And you have been dragging your feet when we've tried to find you a lucky young lady to promise to. It makes me wonder if you'll always remain a child. And God knows we can't do a thing about that voice of yours."
The boy was momentarily embarrassed thinking about how his voice cracked repeatedly, which attracted the laughs of a few classmates. "I don't want to find a wife right now," he solemnly replied, eyes glued to the food before him. Claude tried effortlessly to avoid the topic of betrothal. Since many of his peers' families were arranging their own future matches, Claude's own parents had pushed for their son to find his own mate. The very idea of finding a wife now irked him and made his cheeks redden.
Truth be told, he had not shown much enthusiasm for these shallow, spoiled noble girls—all daughters of respectable families. The majority of them either bored him or drove him mad in their sheltered, reserved natures. As an only child, Claude's parents were more determined than ever to find him a proper wife.
Jeanne-Marie interjected, concern present in her soft voice. "Why won't you let us help you, Claude? You act as though you don't want to be married."
Claude slouched in his seat as he listened to his parents' incessant prodding. Clearing his throat, he cautiously answered, "Betrothal is just not one of my priorities at the moment."
"Well, it should be," his father bit, leaning forward as his eyes burned into those of his son.
"We know many people with very lovely daughters that would adore having you for a husband," Jeanne-Marie pleadingly added, resting a hand on his as if asking the boy to reconsider. "Why won't you allow us to arrange these courtings for you?"
"You're at an age where you should be interested in women," Nicolas swiped, noting his son's discomfort with the subject. "Keeping up with your studies, but still admiring them from afar." Scrutinizing Claude's reddened glower as he tried to focus on his supper, the Minister accusingly asked, "You are still interested in girls, aren't you?"
Claude's teeth gritted as he pictured the potential girls his mother had tried in vain to steer him into courting. No matter how many times he reiterated his disinterest in the activity, she and his father were not quick to give up in their endeavor.
"Girls, in theory, I suppose," Claude bluntly answered with a small and unwitting sneer. "I just don't feel like wasting my time on courting now—not when I have the University to think about in a few weeks. It seems pointless when my career is more pressing. Besides, I'll have plenty of time to find a woman I loathe."
Nicolas pinched the broad bridge of his nose at the boy's frankness. "A wife is not to like—a wife is to marry and bare children. Do you honestly want your family name to perish if you refuse to get a jump on a betrothal? Most of the men I know have already made deals and arranged dowries for their children."
While Jeanne-Marie was hurt by her husband's icy words, she nevertheless agreed with him. "Claude," she gently addressed. "Marriage is a sacrament; would you really have such disregard for creating a holy union for yourself? Is there not a single young lady that you have the slightest bit of interest in courting?"
Claude thought back to all those proper noble girls…nothing, he reflected. However, picturing himself with Celeste throwing rocks at empty barrels in alleyways as they spoke openly made his heart flutter. Of course, he knew that he would never tell them that that was the girl on which he set his sights. He instantly lied, "I can't think of anyone."
"Listen here," Nicolas snapped. "This is our livelihood at stake. There are properties and tithes to consider, and we need someone to inherit it all. You need to think about your family's future."
While Claude contemplated it, somehow the notion of so many inheritances didn't seem to bother him as pressing. Reserved, he answered, "I will find a wife. I have plenty of time to marry somebody I can't stand. After all, girls are distracting and I don't need to pay them much attention anyway."
While his father looked visibly offended at his answer, Jeanne-Marie appeared a bit more understanding. She spoke up in Claude's defense. "At least we know that he doesn't intend to tarnish his virtue like some of these young men. Maybe we should allow him to postpone betrothal for another year or so, Nicolas."
"I still think it's not right to be focused solely on your studies," her husband sourly said, bearing an ominous frown. "Even someone as timid and mild-mannered as you should have some degree of interest in the opposite sex. The problem might be that you haven't found the right woman—it could put things in perspective. After all, I was about your age when I discovered women."
Claude and his mother hid their disgust at such a tasteless observation, both averting their eyes away from him. "I don't think so," Claude muttered, putting a few pieces of food into his mouth. He was sick of arguing on the matter and prayed that his father might just drop it for the day.
The Minister made a sound of disapproval. "Well, you're almost a man—your tune might just change soon enough."
X
"Didn't I already teach you how to fight?" Celeste quipped, drawing some ugly face on the side of a crooked townhouse.
Claude, sitting flat against the wall opposite her, answered, "This combat is an art that requires proper training, and finesse. And so far, I'm dead last behind everyone in my class." Lazily, he picked up and chucked a rock down the narrow alley. "I can't use the tricks that you've taught me—not unless I want a slap in the back of the head."
"Knowing you, it's only a matter of time before you go berserk." Celeste shot him a wry smirk before continuing her little charcoal sketch. "And I'd hate to be the one who gets knocked out because of it."
Claude smiled and rolled his eyes, admiring her sense of humor. "If that isn't enough, my parents are still pushing for me to choose a future wife already."
"I thought you would've turned down every noble girl in Paris by now!"
"I might as well. I've already told them that I need to focus on getting into the University. I'm sure I can find a wife after I've finished school. That's if I even want to get married."
Celeste shot him a look of near disbelief. "Don't be a dilo—you know you're going to have to eventually. It's not like you have any brothers or sisters for your parents to pressure either."
Claude scoffed at her slight, knowing well enough the gypsy word's translation. "I don't want to be saddled with somebody I don't care for, but that's how it's done in our class."
Adding another figure to her illustration, Celeste lightly added, "Well, that's no fun. We're allowed to have some say in who we marry. There needs to be some kind of bond—we don't just go around marrying strangers."
Rising and ambling towards her, Claude took another stray piece of charcoal and began scribbling next to her. "That's how my parents were married: my mother was seventeen, my father thirty—and they're as happy as the day they were wed," he disdainfully quipped. "My father believes that if I finally choose a girl to marry, I'm one step closer to becoming a man." The last part of statement was filled with annoyance.
"Your birthday is soon—maybe you can start choosing for yourself then."
"Maybe, but I doubt I'll change my mind within the next few days, Celeste."
"Then I wish you the best of the luck." Celeste chuckled, hazel eyes gleaming at him. Claude noticed that her sketch resembled a typical gypsy wagon (as she called a vardo). "We call an unmarried man a romoro, and they're not exactly the most respected in the tribe."
Claude gave her a half-shrug, adding more detail to his own drawing of a monstrous face. "There will be time for marriage later. I'm prioritizing my studies above everything else at the moment."
"And alchemy," she added.
"And alchemy."
Celeste jabbed, "But you should also think about how many people can crush you if your fighting technique is sloppy. You don't want to go back to being everyone's practice dummy, do you?"
Claude sighed, face pensive but not irked by his friend's words. "I think it's a little too late for that."
"Just go to practice and work on your fighting. After you master that, then you can go back to digging through that heap of a house and look for some stupid rock."
"The Philosopher's Stone," he corrected.
"Right," she said with a nudge to his ribcage, something he was quite accustomed to. "After you've done all of that, then it'll be time to look for a wife!"
Claude's thin lips twisted down. "Yes, then I can find a wife. Until then, my studies and my training. But that can't be the only thing that makes a man."
X
"Frollo, get in the ring!" Their teacher ordered, casting a stubbed finger towards the wooden ring.
Claude squared his jaw. "Why am I always the first to fight?" he inquired out of exasperation, but as well as some genuine curiosity. He had long held that his instructor forced him to fight solely out of pleasure of watching him get beaten. "Why don't you let somebody else go first?" he asked, trying to keep from sounding like begging.
"Because I said so," the man coarsely stated, thumbing toward the fighting ring. "And you might feel a little more inclined to do so today of all days."
Claude lowered his brows in confusion. "Why is that?" From behind him, he heard the excited whispers from the other boys, not bothering to hear what about.
The old man looked over past the mouthy teenager, cheerfully greeting, "Hello, Minister."
Claude's breathing hitched as he whipped around to see his father riding toward their training grounds, bringing his horse to a smooth halt. What?! No! Why? He mentally screamed as he automatically backed up.
The other boys parted in unison as the imposing Minister of Justice breezed past them towards his son and their instructor. "Master Lucroy," he replied evenly. Instantly shifting his eyes to his twitchy son, he only greeted, "Claude."
"Uh…F-Father," the young man stuttered, locking his arms to his sides and hanging his head.
As if the man could hear the boy's burning question, Lucroy answered, "I thought if your father could see your progress, he might be able to give you, well…a few tips. Isn't that right, Minister?"
Nicolas stepped closer to the boy. "Indeed. So why don't we dive right into it then?" With condescension, he forcefully patted his boy on the shoulder, making Claude shudder.
"Now, I'll say it one more time, Claude," the instructor taunted. "Get. In. The ring."
When Claude looked back up, he saw his classmates hiding their snickers and mocking gestures at him behind the Minister's back. His stomach twisted at the thought of having to be humiliated in front of his entire class and the very man who already held the lowest opinion of him. Reluctantly, Claude climbed into the training ring and prayed he might not embarrass himself once more.
The old man turned to Claude's father. "Minister, since you are our guest, who do you think should face your boy in this round?"
Nicolas scanned over the eager teens, determining who should be the one to fight Claude. He might have enjoyed seeing Claude learn humility, but not at the expense of causing him further shame in front of his associates' own sons. He pointed a boy just barely shorter than Claude, but stronger nonetheless, ordering, "You there!"
"Ah, Jacob "La Crapaud"!" Their teacher announced, beckoning him over to the ring. The boy happily sprinted to the ring and nearly jumped over the wooden fence into it.
The Minister and other boys gathered and watched attentively while Master Lucroy stood between Claude and his opponent. "Fists up!" he shouted.
Claude snuck at a peek at his stern father eyeing him intensely, as if reminding him that he would lose. Not knowing why but he muttered to his opponent, "Good luck."
"Won't need it!" The toad-like boy called La Crapaud bit with a hungry smile and malicious look in his beady eyes.
"Ready?" their master asked, causing Claude to clench his fists tighter. "On the count of three. One…two…"
Just keep fighting, Claude tried to reassure himself as he wrinkled his nose unsurely, gulping in anticipation. Do not let him pin you…
"Three!" Frenzied, Claude lunged at the other boy, the two locking each other in arms. His opponent quickly wrapped his arm around Claude's neck, bringing him to a headlock. Cheers and shouts filled the training grounds as the class watched with glee this duel.
Claude reached and hooked the boy by the back of his knee, bringing them both down. Not wasting any time, Claude jumped to his feet and raised his fists. The other boy regained his stature and bolted at Claude, wrapping his arms around his frame and tackling Claude to the ground. Claude found himself suddenly turned face down with one arm locked behind his back.
"One, two, three—the Toad does it again!" Lucroy called, raising the stocky boy's arm in victory. The announcement elicited a cry of congratulations by the class, as well as the bitter scowl from the Minister aside.
While his opponent went off to revel in triumph, Claude reluctantly accepted his instructor's hand in getting back up. "A word," the man muttered, leading Claude out of the ring back towards his father. "Well, Nick," he politely addressed, glancing at the battered teen next to him. "What do you think?"
Claude kept his head low, keeping his attention on fidgeting with the linen bandages on his shaking hands. He could still feel the critical look of disappointment in his father's slate eyes.
Nicolas spoke up, drawling, "He has a long way to go. Quite disheartening to say the least."
Claude's heart sunk, feeling as though he were still a child being scolded for the smallest mistakes. He dared not say anything, wishing the crushing mortification would flitter away.
"Would you give me a moment with my son?" Nicolas asked the instructor. "There are a few things we should discuss."
The man agreed and returned to his rowdy group of pupils, leaving a defeated Claude aside with his father. For once, the boy would have preferred getting knocked around by his classmates than face his father's reproach. Nicolas simply stared down at his crestfallen son, silent but always intimidating.
Claude defensively piped up, "I'm trying! I promise, I am!"
His father scratched at his beard, as if barely listening to the boy's words. "Every time you come up short," he lowly began. "It makes me truly wonder if there is something wrong with you."
The young man's entire frame began to shake, but not from the fall breeze picking up. Claude's expression hung downcast, his father's words piercing him like knives. To have him see how pitiful his skills were in the one subject the Minister respected filled Claude with a burning anguish. He wished that he could only hide away from the man's damning eyes, under a rock away from the world.
"You let yourself to be defeated by a smaller foe—that is not supposed to happen," Nicolas scolded. "Do you know what your problem is, my boy?" He locked his fingers before him, face stone-like.
Claude's voice was low and dismal. "No. What?"
"You are still lingering in some childish state of mind—you refuse to embrace adulthood, and that is what prevents you from becoming a man."
There it was yet again: everything Claude did seemed to supposedly stunt whatever progress he made in trying to mature. At this rate, he figured he would only remain a lowly creature, no better than an insect, in his father's eyes.
"It's a shame you can't use that alchemy of yours to help you grow up, instead of worrying about turning metal in gold," Nicolas swiped. "You refuse to let us find you a wife, you can barely hold your own in a bareknuckle duel, and all you do is bury your nose in books!"
Less out of shame and more out of resentment, Claude flatly clipped, "Maybe I don't know anything about being a man."
His father frowned, wishing he could strike the boy now in front of all his peers. "Perhaps you don't. If that is the case, then I promise you this: you will learn soon enough."
Claude's brows rose, unsure of the implication. Given every attempt his father tried in "helping" his son grow, Claude's inner voice quickly told him to disregard such a statement. He is the absolute last person who could possibly give you any help. He can't and won't…
X
*A/N: Stay tuned-next is one of the darkest and one of my favorite chapters I've written! Oh, and Grey Wolf Ghost, you're the best!