The shared domain had transformed over time into a vibrant haven, shaped by both Raphael's magic and Magda's burgeoning imagination. Fields of golden grass swayed gently under a soft, sunlit sky, while sparkling brooks meandered through the landscape. The vast library Raphael had conjured stood at the heart of it all, its spires reaching toward the heavens like sentinels of knowledge. Every corner of the domain seemed to reflect the growing bond between father and daughter.
Under the shade of a grand willow tree, Magda—now eight years old—practiced a spell with focused determination. Her small hands weaved intricate patterns in the air, glowing runes following her gestures like obedient fireflies. With a triumphant flourish, she completed the sequence, and a shimmering orb of water rose from the brook, floating effortlessly between her palms.
Raphael watched from a distance, his arms crossed over his broad chest. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips as pride welled up within him. Even among prodigious mages, such control and precision at her age would have been extraordinary.
"You're remarkable, Magda," Raphael said, stepping closer. His deep voice carried a rare softness. "You remind me of your mother."
Magda's crimson eyes lit up as she turned toward him, the water orb dissolving into harmless droplets. "Really? Was she good at magic too?"
"She was," Raphael replied, his smile faint but genuine. "But more than that, she was clever and curious. Just like you."
Magda grinned, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "Do you think I'll be stronger than you one day?"
Raphael chuckled, the sound low and warm. "I hope so."
Her face lit up with delight, but the moment didn't last long. Curiosity soon replaced her joy as she tugged at Raphael's sleeve. "Papa, why is no one else here? It's always just us."
Raphael knelt to meet her gaze, his expression softening further. "Because this is your time," he said gently. "There's no one here to take it from you."
Magda tilted her head, considering his words. "But… what about when I go back? Will it still be just us?"
For a moment, Raphael hesitated. The question touched on a fear he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. Still, he reached out and brushed a stray curl from her face, his touch light and careful.
"Wherever you go, Magda, you'll always have me," Raphael promised, his voice steady. "This place is a part of you now. No one can take it away."
Magda's eyes softened, and she nodded solemnly. The trust in her gaze, once guarded and fragile, now shone freely. Raphael's heart swelled with a quiet joy, knowing that the shared domain—once a void of trauma—was slowly becoming a sanctuary of warmth and safety.
"Papa, do you think the outside world has trees as big as this?" she asked, pointing to the towering willow.
Raphael chuckled. "The outside world has many wonders, my little dove. But none are as enchanting as this place."
Magda tilted her head. "Do you think I'll like it there? Or will they be scary like the ones in the stories?"
He paused, crouching to meet her eyes. "The world can be frightening, yes, but it is also beautiful. And you'll never face it alone. I promise you that."
Her small hand tightened around his. "Okay, Papa. But for now, can we go eat pancakes? Practicing magic makes me really hungry."
Raphael laughed, the deep, warm sound filling the air. "Then pancakes it is. Let's see if I can cook up something in the shared domain that matches your appetite, my little dove." He couldn't help but notice how she no longer flinched when he reached out or showed the fear she once carried. Her giggles now were a melody of joy, a gentle reminder of how far they had come together, and a promise of the bond they were strengthening every day.
Magda giggled, skipping ahead as Raphael walked beside her. The air shimmered faintly, a testament to the bond they were rebuilding—one spell, one moment at a time.
Location: Shelb Estate – Garden Patio
The garden patio of the Shelb Estate was alive with activity. Servants bustled about, tending to flower beds and manicured hedges under Lady Eleanor's watchful eye. Bright splashes of color from blooming roses and peonies added a cheerful touch to the scene, but Micheal von Shelb sat motionless, a stark contrast to the lively surroundings.
Bound in casts that immobilized his leg and arm, Micheal reclined in a cushioned chair near the patio's edge. His gaze was distant, fixed on the horizon, where clouds lazily drifted past. Despite the sun warming the air, a chill seemed to cling to him, emanating from within.
Barnaby Trent, ever attentive, approached with a silver tray holding a tall glass of fresh lemonade. He set it down beside Micheal with a gentle smile. "The garden looks better than ever, don't you think? Lady Eleanor's been overseeing it herself. She says fresh flowers bring hope."
Micheal's response was flat, his voice devoid of its usual sharpness. "Flowers won't bring her back, Barnaby."
Barnaby's smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "No, they won't. But they remind us that life continues, even after the darkest winters."
Micheal didn't reply immediately. He traced the edge of the blanket draped over him, his fingers slow and thoughtful. Finally, he said, "Do you really think that? That life just… continues?"
Barnaby knelt slightly, his eyes meeting Micheal's. "I do. And it's not easy. I've seen men carry grief like this before, Master Micheal, when I was in the military. Some sank into it, let it consume them. But others…" He paused, his voice softening. "Others found their strength in it. Every moment you're still here, Micheal, means there's still something worth fighting for.""
Micheal's gaze shifted slightly, but the weight in his eyes remained.
The relative calm was broken by the sound of muffled footsteps and a hushed voice. Arthur Gray, a wide grin on his face, emerged from behind a stone pillar, his excitement barely contained. He held a rolled-up parchment in one hand and gestured animatedly with the other.
"Arthur," Micheal said, his brow furrowing faintly. "You're alive?"
Arthur stopped mid-stride, clutching his chest dramatically. "Oh, my lord, the horror I endured! Trapped in a pantry with nothing but raw turnips and parsnips for two days. TWO DAYS! Do you know how soul-crushing that is for a man like me?"
Micheal blinked, his lips twitching faintly. "Two days?"
"Yes!" Arthur continued, his arms flailing for emphasis. "The Chef locked me in for my 'own safety,' but the only danger I faced was malnutrition and boredom. I still taste dirt!"
A quiet chuckle escaped Micheal before he caught himself, his expression returning to its previous stillness. "At least you're still breathing, Arthur."
"Breathing and thriving!" Arthur declared, plopping himself unceremoniously into the seat opposite Micheal. "And more importantly, I've been busy. You'll never believe what Barnaby and I have been working on!"
Micheal didn't even glance his way. "I don't care."
Arthur's grin didn't waver. If anything, it grew wider. "You will soon. Just wait."
Barnaby sighed but couldn't hide his amusement. "Arthur, shouldn't you be, oh, I don't know, doing something productive?"
"Productive? This is productive!" Arthur retorted, unrolling the parchment to reveal a detailed schematic. The drawing depicted wooden gloves, reinforced with straps and carvings. "These designs are revolutionary!"
Micheal finally spared him a glance, though it was more out of annoyance than interest. "Revolutionary? Looks more like you tried to reinvent the wheel and ended up with a square."
Arthur winced but rallied quickly, pointing at the parchment with renewed enthusiasm. "That was a minor setback. This, my dear Lord Micheal, will change everything. You'll see."
Micheal couldn't hold back, even in his sour mood. "Arthur, this is absurd. Wooden gloves? They'll splinter the moment anyone tries to use them, and even if they don't, they'll weigh more than they're worth."
Barnaby chuckled, nodding in agreement. "He has a point, Arthur. Wood might not be the most practical choice for combat gear."
Arthur gasped dramatically, clutching the parchment to his chest. "How dare you both doubt my brilliance! You wound me!"
Micheal raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Consider it tough love."
Arthur pouted theatrically. "You'll eat those words when my invention revolutionizes warfare. Just wait!"
From a distance, Duchess Eleanor observed the exchange with a faint smile. Draped in a light shawl that billowed softly in the gentle breeze, she approached the patio with a teapot and a fresh set of cups. Her graceful movements commanded attention without effort, and both Barnaby and Arthur straightened instinctively as she joined them, their casual banter fading into respectful silence.
"Micheal," Eleanor began softly, setting a delicate porcelain cup on the table before him. The warmth in her tone was unmistakable, a mother's care woven into every word. "You're stronger than this. She'll come back, and when she does, you'll want her to see you at your best."
Micheal's hand, which had been idly tracing the edge of the blanket draped over him, paused over the teacup. For the first time that day, his eyes met hers. There was a flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or the faintest spark of determination—but it was fleeting. He looked away, his fingers tightening slightly around the cup as he took a slow sip.
Eleanor didn't push further, her approach always measured and understanding. Instead, she moved closer, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders with practiced ease. Her touch was light yet reassuring, an unspoken reminder of her unwavering presence. "Sometimes, healing takes time, Micheal. Be patient with yourself."
Barnaby watched quietly, his usual brisk demeanor softened in Eleanor's presence. He knew, just as she did, that Micheal's struggles weren't only about missing Magda. They stemmed from a deeper place, a guilt that gnawed at him for the comrades he couldn't save and the terrifying possibility of what could have happened to Magda. These days, they both understood that Micheal's time was spent either sulking, furiously sketching designs as if his life depended on it, or wrestling with his trauma in silence.
Arthur, still clutching his rejected parchment of glove designs, seemed ready to interject with a quip but thought better of it, letting the moment linger in quiet respect.
Eleanor glanced at the two men, her expression unreadable but kind. "Barnaby, Arthur," she said, her voice steady but warm, "thank you for keeping him company."
Arthur brightened immediately, his theatrical sorrow melting into a broad grin. "Of course, Duchess! Though I must say, I'm not sure Micheal appreciates the genius of my designs."
Eleanor chuckled softly, the sound light and soothing. "I'm sure he'll come around, Arthur. Persistence has its merits."
Micheal huffed softly, a sound that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. Eleanor caught it and smiled, placing a gentle hand on his uninjured arm before stepping back. "We'll get through this together, my dear. One step at a time."
The silence was interrupted again, this time by Adrian's arrival. He strode onto the patio, a large poster tucked under one arm, his usual mischievous grin firmly in place. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced grandly, "allow me to present the solution to all of our woes!"
Barnaby groaned, though there was a faint, almost imperceptible smile at the corners of his lips. "Oh no. What now?" he said, his tone carrying more amusement than genuine dismay. Anything that could coax even the faintest reaction from Micheal was worth the interruption, no matter how absurd Adrian's ideas might be.
Adrian unfurled the poster with a flourish, revealing bold letters that read: Horseless Carriage Driver Workshop – Sign Up Today!
Micheal raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of curiosity breaking through his dour expression. "A workshop?"
"Indeed," Adrian replied, leaning on the table with exaggerated flair. "For you, dear brother. What better way to lift your spirits than to teach others the art of horseless carriage driving?"
Arthur snickered. "More like an excuse for Lord Adrian to play with machines."
Eleanor suppressed a chuckle, instead fixing Adrian with a pointed look. "You're trying to cheer him up. I suppose I can't fault you for that."
Adrian winked. "Cheering people up is my specialty."
Micheal sighed, shaking his head. "You're insufferable." But this time, there was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.
Adrian's grin faltered for a moment as he realized Micheal wasn't quite biting. He straightened, his eyes lighting up with sudden inspiration. "Mother," he began dramatically, turning to Eleanor, "I've been thinking. We should reinstate your morning tea classes."
Eleanor's eyebrows arched. "My tea classes?"
"Yes," Adrian continued, pacing theatrically, waving an imaginary tea cup in one hand as though he were on stage. "This morning, in a moment of existential crisis, I realized something horrifying. I can't remember if I'm supposed to hold my pinky at 30 degrees or 45 degrees while drinking tea! How can I ever attract a proper romantic partner or find a suitable wife without mastering the proper tea etiquette?"
Arthur doubled over with laughter, though he quickly straightened and cleared his throat. "A crisis, he says! But of course, Lord Adrian, your priorities are unmatched in their nobility." He added a slight bow, his tone a mixture of mock seriousness and genuine respect.
"Quiet, Arthur," Adrian retorted, his voice carrying a theatrical gravitas. "I trust you'll save your jests for a less dire moment." "This is no laughing matter." He turned to Eleanor, his face the picture of exaggerated seriousness. "And, Mother, I regret to inform you that Ethan, your very own son, committed an unspeakable act in front of Lady Greystone yesterday. He drank tea like—brace yourself—a barbarian."
Eleanor's hand flew to her chest in mock horror. "Surely not!"
Adrian nodded solemnly. "I witnessed it myself. No pinky. No grace. He might as well have been guzzling ale from a flagon. I barely survived the embarrassment."
Eleanor gasped, her voice a mix of humor and exaggerated dismay. "This simply won't do! Adrian, how could you let it happen?"
"Mother, I was paralyzed with shock," Adrian lamented, placing a hand over his heart. "I tried to correct him, but it was too late. The damage was done."
Micheal, who had been quietly sipping his tea, suddenly became aware of the silence around him. He looked up to find everyone staring at him. "What?" he asked, frowning.
Eleanor's gaze sharpened as it fell on his cup. "You're holding that all wrong, Micheal."
"What?" Micheal repeated, his confusion growing. "It's just tea."
"It's never just tea," Eleanor corrected, her tone firm but teasing. "Do you want your brothers to remain single for eternity? Because that's where this is heading."
Barnaby, ever the quiet observer, let out a low chuckle. "She has a point, Micheal. The stakes are high."
Arthur clutched his sides, leaning back in his chair. "Not the tea classes! Anything but that!" He paused for dramatic effect, then leaned toward Micheal with a conspiratorial grin. "But truly, my lord, you should consider it. Imagine the Duchess' pride when all her sons can drink tea with unmatched elegance. You might even outshine Lord Adrian one day."
Adrian smirked triumphantly, leaning toward Micheal. "Consider it a necessary sacrifice, my dear brother. For the good of the family, of course."
Later that day, Ethan received a notification on his com-tab. The message was from Eleanor and read:
Dearest Ethan,
I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow for tea class. Your barbaric tea-drinking behavior in front of Lady Greystone has left me no choice. Please ensure this doesn't happen again. Tea is an art, not a battlefield.
Love, Mother.
Ethan stared at the message, his brows furrowed as he reread it twice. Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, he turned to his aide. "Add 'tea class' to my morning routine," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "And remind me to never, ever drink tea in front of Mother's friends again."
The aide, valiantly holding back a grin, replied with mock seriousness. "Shall I also order a tea etiquette handbook, sir? Or perhaps a crash course on pinky angles?"
Ethan shot him a look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Don't push your luck."