Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

The old count's words were like a bucket of cold water poured over the young lord of Borgo. He immediately released Ulrich and frantically straightened his disheveled clothes. His reverence for his father was ingrained in his very being—respect for his authority and cunning, and fear of his ruthlessness and decisiveness.

"Father..." he whispered, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly.

The old count slowly descended the spiral stone steps, each step firm and powerful. He glanced at Ulrich, who had scrambled to his feet in a disheveled state, and said indifferently, "Go and tend to your wounds. This is none of your business."

Ulrich felt as if he had been granted a pardon. He bowed and hurriedly withdrew. As he passed by the young master of Polgar, a barely perceptible resentment flashed in his lowered eyes.

The old count turned his gaze to his son, his eyes filled with complex emotions. This good-for-nothing only son was both his greatest weakness and the future hope of the Borgo family—if the family even had a future.

"Come with me to the study," the old count commanded briefly, then turned and headed towards the castle stairs.

Young Master Borgo followed closely behind his father, his heart filled with mixed emotions. On one hand, he was grateful to his father for raising the enormous ransom to save him; on the other hand, Richard's words on the return journey lingered in his mind like a venomous snake:

"The old count could have agreed to the conditions much earlier, but he deliberately dragged it out for so long..."

"I've heard that the Earl has dealt with quite a few of your illegitimate children; he's truly ruthless..."

"If we had assigned you more soldiers back then, things wouldn't be like this..."

These thoughts fermented in his mind, gradually brewing into resentment towards his father. He never reflected on his own incompetence, but instead blamed everything on others—why didn't his father give him more troops? Why didn't he ransom him sooner? Why did he get rid of so many illegitimate children when he was young, making him a laughing stock in aristocratic circles now?

The heavy oak door to the study closed behind me. The last rays of the setting sun shone through the stained glass windows, casting dappled shadows on the floor. The portrait of the old count hanging on the wall seemed to silently watch over this good-for-nothing descendant.

The old count sat down in the armchair by the fireplace and gestured for his son to sit opposite him. The firelight danced on his face, reflecting the weariness and disappointment in his eyes.

"Do you know the price your family paid to raise your ransom?" the old count's voice was deep. "We used the treasuries of three estates, the gifts prepared for the king, and even borrowed money from Yuda of Cüttenburg at exorbitant interest rates!"

Young Master Borgo lowered his head, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of his clothes. This scene reminded him of a childhood scolding from his father—when he was locked up for secretly having an affair with the cook. The stark contrast between the warmth of his memory and the coldness of reality made him feel even worse. Besides, could our family really be that poor? Did we have to borrow tens of thousands of Grossens?

"Our Borgo family has ruled central Bohemia for four generations," the old count continued, his voice tinged with rare melancholy. "Your great-grandfather started as a lowly knight's squire and, through military exploits and marriage alliances, gradually earned his title and lands. And now... you've made a fool of yourself in a new territory. Go back to Prague; perhaps the noble balls there are more suited to you."

He sighed heavily, his voice carrying the weight of the entire family's rise and fall.

"Father, I...I want to stay." The young lord of Polgar suddenly looked up, his eyes blazing with vengeance. "When the vassal troops arrive, I will personally command the army and raze that damned griffin camp to the ground! I will hang the head of the Red Griffin Peter on the castle gates!"

The old count almost sneered. With his son, who didn't even understand basic tactics, commanding more troops would only be handing Peter the credit. This reminded him of Aesop's fable—the mosquito challenging the lion, thinking it could win, unaware of the vast difference in strength. Now, his son was that arrogant mosquito.

"You must leave." The old count's tone left no room for argument. "You must leave first thing tomorrow morning."

"Why?!" The young master of the Borgo family stood up abruptly, his voice trembling with anger. "I am the heir of the Borgo family, I have the right..."

"You have absolutely no rights!" The old count also stood up, his voice suddenly rising. "Besides bringing shame upon the family, what else can you do? You lost the war, you were captured, and now you want to stay and die?"

These words struck the young lord of Borgo like a hammer blow. His face turned deathly pale, his lips trembled, but he couldn't utter a single word in rebuttal. His father was always like this, never showing any mercy, never considering his feelings...

Seeing his son in this state, the old count felt both anger at his son's lack of ambition and pity for his misfortune. This spoiled child had always had everything he wanted since childhood, but he had never received any real guidance or hardship. Now, with a formidable enemy at hand, the only thing he could do was to save his good-for-nothing son's life.

"Thomas!" the old count called out towards the door.

The study door opened with a click, and Captain Thomas strode in. The imposing man wore a gleaming breastplate and carried the standard longsword of the Borgo family at his waist. He saluted the old count with a gesture so perfect it seemed to have been copied directly from a knight's manual.

"Arrange for cavalry to escort the young master to Prague tomorrow," the old count ordered, then turned to his son, "You can take that jester Richard with you. I see you like him quite a bit, and he certainly knows how to get things done."

Young Master Borgo opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but under his father's stern gaze, he ultimately could only lower his head helplessly. His violent temper came and went quickly, leaving only cowardice and obedience at this moment.

"Yes, Father," he replied in a low voice, barely audible.

The old count walked up to his son and, for the first time, spoke in an almost gentle tone: "Remember, living is the most important thing. As long as you are alive, the Borgo family still has hope."

However, to the young lord of Borgo, these words were filled with irony. Hope? What hope did he still have? He had utterly lost face, was militarily incompetent, and now even the chance for revenge had been taken away...

"I'll go pack my things," he said softly, turning to leave the study. In the instant the door closed, he caught a glimpse of his father's back as he rubbed his temples, looking so old and lonely in that moment.

That night, young Master Borgo flew into a rage in his bedroom, smashing two precious oriental porcelain pieces and a silver candlestick. The servants trembled as they gathered the shards, none daring to utter a sound to stop him.

Richard, the quick-witted one, appeared at just the right moment. He was dressed unusually modestly today—a simple gray robe, a stark contrast to his ornate attire at the Griffin Camp.

"Young Master, please calm your anger," Richard said, bowing gently. "The old Earl's arrangements, though disappointing, are perhaps a form of protection for you."

"Protect?" Young Master Borgo sneered. "He thinks I've disgraced him and wants to get rid of me before his vassals arrive!"

A calculating glint flashed in Richard's eyes. He leaned closer and whispered, "Actually, looking at it from another angle, leaving here might be for the best. Trostjen is about to become a battlefield, and the outcome is uncertain. If the old count wins, you can naturally return in glory; if you lose... you are still the only remaining bloodline of the Polgao family."

These words struck a chord with the young master of Polgar. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands: "But I'm not reconciled... that red griffin, those peasants... what right do they have...?"

"There's plenty of time, young master," Richard said meaningfully. "Your departure now is both to avoid trouble and to gather strength. When the time is right, you'll have no shortage of opportunities for revenge."

After a long silence, the young master of Borgo finally sighed, "You're right. Go and prepare; we'll depart first thing tomorrow morning."

June 10, dawn.

As dawn broke, a small contingent had already gathered in the castle courtyard. Five cavalrymen, personally selected by Captain Thomas, were fully armed and ready to go, their armor gleaming coldly in the morning light.

The old count stood before the castle gates, personally seeing his son off. He handed the young Count of Borgo a heavy purse: "This should be enough for your expenses in Prague for a while. Remember, keep a low profile and don't cause any trouble."

Young Master Borgo silently accepted the purse, his fingers touching the cold outline of the silver coins inside. At that moment, he suddenly remembered how his father would give him a small bag full of candy before each campaign when he was a child. Those sweet memories intertwined with the bitterness of the present, making his throat tighten.

"Take care, Father." He bowed and then mounted his horse.

Richard rode a docile mare beside the young lord of Borgo. The old count glanced at him and said calmly, "Take good care of the young lord; the Borgo family will not mistreat you."

Then give me some reward, make me a knight!

Richard inwardly criticized the other man for being stingy, but outwardly bowed his head humbly: "It is my honor, Your Excellency."

With Thomas's command, the squad slowly drove out of the castle gates. Young Master Borgo turned back one last time and saw his father still standing there, his figure appearing particularly lonely in the morning light.