I could tell I was on very thin ice there. He truly did not wish to discuss, or even contemplate, the topic of his parents. And it was bothering me how he had essentially withheld all substantive information regarding his familial background. He seemed to expect my protection, without furnishing me with any genuine ammunition.

It was becoming an increasingly frustrating predicament for me. My every instinct screamed that I needed to understand him better, to unravel the intricate layers of his carefully constructed enigma. There was undoubtedly something profoundly dark, something inherently unsettling, orbiting him.

My resolve hardened. I made up my mind about him: I would unequivocally get to know him better, regardless of the discomfort it might inflict. He clearly desired to sever all ties with his mother, so I would leverage that vulnerability. I would expertly pry information from his mother by adopting the persona of a big-mouthed asshole. It was probably the only thing I excelled at, aside from my rather consistent penchant for self-deprecating behavior.

Our discussion drifted to the intricate history of his noble lineage. He meticulously detailed how his ancestral house, the very progenitors of his family, were widely acknowledged as the preeminent medical and pharmaceutical authorities of a bygone epoch, several centuries prior. Their ancestral line, he elucidated, had invariably maintained an intimate connection with the reigning monarchy, serving as the foremost purveyors of therapeutic compounds. They were instrumental in establishing the inaugural institution dedicated to the rigorous tutelage of physicians and chemists. Nevertheless, he noted, within the preceding century, their focus had undergone a significant reorientation, diverting from the direct patronage of medical practitioners towards an exclusive emphasis on the overarching discipline of medicine itself. I found myself wanting to blurt out. Why? Why would they make such a drastic, almost philosophical choice?

But I held back, gripping the cool glass of water in my hand. I wanted him to open up at his own pace, to reveal his truths when he felt compelled, not when coerced. He elaborated that a proportion of the extant nobility found themselves in rather precarious circumstances, actively seeking to reclaim their former power. Their decline, he articulated with chilling precision, did not originate from fiscal insolvency, but rather from a profound paucity of legitimate progeny to perpetuate their ancestral legacies. Furthermore, he reminded me, Ascaria, being a nation of limited geographical scope, possessed a commensurately modest populace. Consequently, the aristocratic class had dwindled to an even more diminutive membership.

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He was truly exceptional at explaining. His voice, far from monotone, was a symphony of precision; every vowel and consonant that issued from his lips was sculpted with deliberate care, as if he had spent years meticulously rehearsing this very discourse for some unseen, future audience. And I, perched on the bar stool opposite him, was inexplicably glad to be the one there to listen. Perhaps not as a life partner, not at this moment, but at the very least, as an object that had entered his orbit, an attentive, if increasingly bewildered, recipient of his carefully curated truths.

While my head remained momentarily adrift in the labyrinthine details of his family's history, a sudden, visceral lurch in my stomach jolted me back to the stark reality of the present. That insidious feeling of fear, cold and sharp, was with me again, coiling in my gut. I was seated on the bar stool, my legs dangling, but for a terrifying moment, I completely lost all sensation in them. The stupid, primal prey part of my brain, the one that screamed warnings even when I tried to rationalize them away, posed a horrifying question:

'Why do you think the nobility population declined so goddamn rapidly, you idiot? He owns every single fucking pharmacy in this country. That cold, calculating lion probably supplied them with placebos, ensuring they never really recovered from whatever plagues them!'

No, snap out of it. Snap out of it, Raphael! He is the Saint of Ascaria, the man heralded as a national hero. He couldn't possibly have orchestrated a partial genocide. Come on, my actor brain just wants its next juicy scoop, its next dramatic plot twist. No, no way. Shut up.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying desperately to calm the racing, paranoid thoughts in my mind. Despite the unsettling, terrifying questions that now lingered like specters, I still, perversely, wanted to connect with him somehow. There was so much more to uncover, so many dark corners to explore, but for now, I would continue to listen, to understand, and to offer the fragile support he seemed to need.