Ch31: Solace.

Isabella Vargas sat in the grand drawing room of the Vargas estate, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow through the tall windows. The room, filled with opulent furniture and family portraits, seemed almost too grand for the tense conversation taking place.

"Damian and Eliza need to be married into influential families," Isabella declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "It's essential for solidifying our standing."

Count Vargas, seated across from her, nodded thoughtfully. "I've been in talks with the Hove family regarding Eliza. Duke Edmond seems to think highly of her abilities."

Isabella smiled, pleased. "A match with the Hove family would be advantageous. As for Damian, the Vlamir family has shown interest. Their daughter is a bit... unconventional, but the alliance would be beneficial."

The Count leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window. "And what of Alaric?"

Isabella's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Alaric is a problem that needs a swift solution. His defiance and lack of magical talent have always been a thorn in our side. I've decided to marry him off to some Baron's family, preferably one far from here. It will be good to be done with him."

The Count sighed. "Do you think that will be enough to keep him in check? Alaric has a way of causing trouble wherever he goes."

Isabella's expression hardened. "It's the best option we have. He doesn't belong in our world, and it's time he understood that. Once he's married off, we can focus on Damian and Eliza without distraction."

Count Vargas nodded, though he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in his gut. "Very well. I'll start looking into suitable matches. But we must be careful. Alaric is unpredictable."

Isabella's eyes glinted with a mixture of determination and disdain. "Let him be someone else's problem. We've given him enough chances. It's time to secure our family's future."

Meanwhile, Alaric was in his room, blissfully unaware of his mother's schemes. He was engrossed in his latest project, tinkering with a small mechanical device. His mind was far from thoughts of marriage or family obligations.

As he adjusted a tiny gear, his thoughts drifted to the recent events. The hunting competition, the strange interactions with Cedric Hove, and the subtle yet persistent curiosity from his siblings. "They're all just waiting for me to slip up," he muttered to himself. "But I'll show them. I don't need their approval."

Little did he know, Isabella's plan was already in motion. The next few weeks would bring a whirlwind of changes, and Alaric's life was about to be upended in ways he couldn't yet imagine.

In the grand drawing room, Isabella and Count Vargas continued to plot, their voices low and conspiratorial. "We must proceed with caution," the Count warned. "Alaric won't take this lightly."

Isabella's smile returned, cold and calculating. "Let him try to resist. This is for the good of the family, and I won't let him ruin it."

As the sun set over the Vargas estate, the house was filled with a sense of foreboding. The wheels were set in motion, and the days of relative peace were numbered. Alaric's future, once his to shape, was now being decided in secret, and the consequences would ripple through the Vargas family for years to come.

Six months had passed, and Alaric Vargas found his patience wearing thin. His mother, Isabella, had taken to dragging him around to every conceivable social gathering, intent on marrying him off to some distant baron's family. Alaric could see through her thinly veiled attempts to rid herself of him, and the endless parade of stiff, formal events only served to deepen his frustration.

"Why must I suffer these fools?" he muttered to himself, adjusting the collar of his tailored suit for what felt like the hundredth time. Each gathering was a new form of torture, filled with shallow conversations and hollow smiles. The nobles' daughters, each vying for his attention, were nothing more than pawns in Isabella's grand scheme.

His only solace came from his passion—his weapons. The very thought of testing a new creation brought a glimmer of light to his otherwise dreary days. This particular morning, as dawn broke, he left a hastily scribbled note on his desk and slipped out of the Vargas estate, heading towards the Carmine forest.

The journey was familiar and comforting. The dense trees and the cool, crisp air of the forest welcomed him like an old friend. He had spent countless hours here, honing his skills and perfecting his inventions. Today, however, was different. Today, he was testing his most ambitious creation yet.

One week later, Alaric was deep within the Carmine forest, dragging a heavy wooden crate behind him. The crate was bulky and cumbersome, but the promise of what lay inside spurred him on. He finally reached a secluded clearing, the perfect spot for his test. The clearing was littered with the remnants of past experiments—scorched earth, shattered trees, and the occasional piece of twisted metal.

With a grunt, he set the crate down and pried it open, revealing his newest and most complex creation. He couldn't help but feel a swell of pride as he lifted the triple-barrel rotary cannon from its confines. It was a monstrous piece of engineering, designed for absolute rapid-fire destruction. The cannon's sleek, metallic body gleamed in the dappled sunlight, and the three barrels rotated with a smooth, mechanical precision.

"This is it," he whispered to himself, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and anticipation. "My finest work."

The cannon was a marvel of technology and magic, powered by thirty magic crystals embedded within its core. These crystals, each containing immense magical energy, would generate a storm of magic bullets with a simple pull of the trigger. The sheer destructive power of the cannon was staggering, and Alaric couldn't wait to see it in action.

He set up a series of targets at various distances—a line of wooden mannequins, a few large boulders, and even an old, abandoned carriage. As he adjusted the cannon, he thought back to the countless hours he had spent designing and refining it. Every component had been meticulously crafted, every mechanism tested and retested.

"Let's see what you can do," he said, a fierce determination in his eyes. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and aimed the cannon at the first target.

The roar of the cannon echoed through the forest as he pulled the trigger. The barrels spun rapidly, unleashing a relentless stream of magic bullets. The wooden mannequins were obliterated in an instant, reduced to splinters and dust. The boulders shattered, fragments flying in all directions. The carriage, once a sturdy relic, was torn apart, metal and wood scattering across the clearing.

Alaric's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the devastation unfold. The cannon exceeded his expectations, its power unmatched by any weapon he had ever seen. He felt a rush of exhilaration, a vindication of his efforts and ingenuity.

"Perfect," he breathed, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. "Absolutely perfect."

He continued to fire the cannon, testing its limits and marveling at its efficiency. Each pull of the trigger brought a new wave of destruction, and with each shot, Alaric's confidence grew. This was his masterpiece, a testament to his skill and determination.

But as the last of the targets disintegrated, a thought crossed his mind. This weapon, as incredible as it was, would undoubtedly attract attention—unwanted attention. The nobles, always hungry for power, would covet such a device. His family, especially his mother, would see it as another tool to further their ambitions.

Alaric sighed, lowering the cannon. He knew that keeping this weapon a secret would be nearly impossible. Its power was too great, its potential too vast. But for now, in this moment, he allowed himself to revel in his achievement. This was his creation, born from his genius, and nothing could take that away from him.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the clearing, Alaric packed up the cannon and the remnants of his targets. He would return to the Vargas estate, knowing that the days of peace and quiet were numbered. But he also knew that, with this weapon in his arsenal, he was ready for whatever challenges lay ahead.

"Let them come," he muttered, a steely resolve in his voice. "I'll be ready."

With that, he began the trek back home, the weight of his creation both a burden and a shield. The forest closed in around him, but Alaric felt a sense of clarity and purpose. The path ahead was fraught with danger, but he was prepared to face it head-on.