Location: Shelb Estate – Workshop
The Shelb estate's seamstress workshop was a flurry of organized chaos. The sound of scissors slicing through fabric, the hum of enchanted needles stitching leather reinforcements, and the faint clinking of tools filled the air. Bright lanterns illuminated rows of partially completed armor pieces—chest plates with fitted curves, reinforced shoulder guards, elbow braces, and knee pads. A faint trace of lavender perfume lingered in the workshop, courtesy of Duchess Eleanor, who moved through the room with graceful efficiency.
It had been days since the red-sky and red-fog descended on the Empire, and the Shelb estate, though distant from the Armond front lines, had been buzzing with purpose. The Duchess had personally seen to it that Micheal's fixes—or "man-bras," as he stubbornly insisted on calling them—were brought to life.
At the center of it all stood Barnaby Trent, towering like an unshakable sentinel, clipboard in hand. He barked gentle but firm instructions to the servants and tailors, all while overseeing the progress of what he privately called the Aura Fixer Operation.
"We need six more of the shoulder guards completed by sundown!" Barnaby commanded, pointing at a stack of leather plates. "And, Arthur—stop glaring at that potato!"
Arthur Gray, hunched over a small worktable, muttered bitterly to himself. "You'd glare too if you'd spent two days eating raw root vegetables. I still taste dirt."
The Duchess, perched regally at a nearby sewing station, chuckled softly. "I'm told the pantry was quite cozy."
Arthur groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "Cozy? Your Grace, the Chef locked me in there with nothing but turnips and parsnips. Turnips! I nearly perished!"
Barnaby smirked. "You're alive and clearly thriving. I'd say it did you some good, especially for someone who survived both the red-sky and red-fog attacks without so much as a scratch while being in the center of the battle."
Arthur scowled, returning to the task at hand—meticulously sketching reinforced designs for the knee and elbow protections. His ink-stained fingers moved quickly, though every so often he shot a resentful look at the basket of raw vegetables someone had so kindly left on his table.
"Focus, Arthur," Barnaby said, his voice tinged with amusement. "The Duchess's workshop doesn't tolerate distractions."
Duchess Eleanor looked up from a half-completed chest piece, her hazel eyes twinkling with both fondness and mischief. "Now, now, Barnaby. The poor boy has been through enough. Besides, we must acknowledge that Arthur's additions are quite clever."
Arthur blinked, startled. "You… think so, Your Grace?"
She held up the intricate design he had handed her earlier—curved lines that allowed for flexibility while protecting key areas of the body. "Indeed. Who knew my son's eccentricity would save lives?" Her lips quirked into a small, fond smile. "These reinforcements are practical and, dare I say, ahead of their time. I imagine Micheal's 'fixes' will become quite the necessity."
Barnaby cleared his throat, ever the professional. "Of course they will, Your Grace. Micheal always has a way of… surprising us." His tone softened ever so slightly. "It's only right that we return the favor."
Eleanor hummed in agreement, her hands deftly stitching along a seam. "He'll be insufferable once he sees all of this, you know."
Barnaby grinned. "I look forward to it, Your Grace."
Arthur snorted, earning a sharp look from Barnaby. "Sorry," Arthur muttered, holding his hands up. "Just picturing Master Micheal trying to act humble."
"Humility doesn't suit him," Barnaby replied dryly, "but brilliance does. Now stop daydreaming and finish the designs."
The afternoon wore on, the workshop buzzing with quiet determination. Fabric scraps piled up in corners, enchanted mannequins rotated finished pieces into neat rows, and Arthur's sketches slowly turned into tangible protections. Every piece was fitted, inspected, and reinforced with precision.
At one point, Arthur set down his tools with a triumphant sigh, turning to Barnaby. "I think the elbow and knee guards are perfect now. Flexible, sturdy, and—"
"Without looking like man-bras?" Barnaby interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
Arthur flushed. "They were never just man-bras!"
Barnaby only smiled, unbothered. "Of course not. We'll just call them what Count Drifter suggested—Aura Fixers."
Arthur visibly brightened, scribbling the new name at the top of his latest sketches. "Aura Fixers. That has a nice ring to it."
"It does," the Duchess agreed as she inspected a finished chest piece. She held it up to the light, nodding approvingly at the craftsmanship. "Practical and well-named. Perhaps Micheal's reputation for… eccentricity may shift after all."
Arthur smirked as he muttered, "Not if he insists on branding the next batch with his initials."
Barnaby gave him a warning look, but Duchess Eleanor merely laughed, the sound light and warm. "Let him have his moment, Arthur. He deserves it."
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the workshop had transformed into an assembly line of innovation. Rows of Aura Fixers stood ready for deployment—chest protections, elbow guards, knee reinforcements—all fitted to perfection. The faint hum of magic lingered in the air, evidence of the care and effort poured into each piece.
Barnaby surveyed the room one last time, hands on his hips. "Good work, everyone. Let's clean up before Master Micheal decides to hobble down here and ruin the surprise."
Arthur groaned, stretching out his sore shoulders. "He'll probably redesign half of it out of spite."
The Duchess smiled knowingly as she folded her embroidery kit. "Perhaps. But I have no doubt he'll be proud—whether he admits it or not."
Barnaby's expression softened as he glanced toward the door, as though expecting Micheal to appear any moment. "It's not just about pride. It's about giving him a win after everything."
For once, Arthur didn't quip back. Instead, he nodded quietly, his gaze lingering on the finished pieces. He thought of how the red-sky and red-fog had broken Micheal, and how these simple, practical designs were born from that grief. Somehow, creating them felt like giving Micheal—and all of them—a small victory.
As the last lanterns were dimmed, Duchess Eleanor paused at the door, casting one final look at the workshop.
"Well done, gentlemen," she said softly, her voice filled with quiet satisfaction. "Let's hope these Aura Fixers save as many lives as they were designed to."
With that, the workshop fell silent, a warm sense of accomplishment settling over the room like a blanket.
Location: Shelb Estate – Nighttime
The Shelb estate was silent, save for the occasional creak of timber and the faint rustle of wind outside. The great halls and corridors slumbered beneath the soft glow of moonlight, which spilled in through the tall, arched windows, casting silver shadows that danced across the walls.
In his room, Micheal von Shelb sat by the window, a lone figure surrounded by darkness. The once-vibrant chamber, full of sketches and unfinished prototypes, now felt more like a mausoleum than a haven. A faint chill seeped through the glass, but Micheal barely noticed. His long platinum hair fell messily around his face, cascading over his shoulders and framing his hollow eyes as they stared out at the moonlit estate grounds.
Sleep had eluded him for days.
He rested his elbows on the sill, his chin in his hand, as the events of the past days echoed endlessly in his mind. Each time he dared to close his eyes, the memories surged forward, vivid and merciless.
In his mind's eye, he was back in the Armond camp.
Laughter rang out as the Rowdy 25 lounged around the fire, their voices loud and teasing as they recounted ridiculous stories of home and shared dreams of survival.
Claude's grin flashed. "The Prince promised us armor that'll turn us into unstoppable legends! Isn't that right, Your Grace?"
"Oi, Micheal!" Garrick had boomed, his rough voice softened by camaraderie. "Make mine gold-plated so I look pretty when I'm stomping through beast guts."
The memory shifted suddenly. The campfire's light dimmed. Shadows crept over their faces, smiles twisting into hollow, accusing stares.
"You promised us armor," Claude said again, but his voice was cold now, empty.
Garrick's deep laughter turned to a guttural rasp. "You didn't deliver, Micheal. We died because of you."
One by one, the voices of his comrades rose around him, not with warmth, but with blame. Their faces blurred and melted into darkness, replaced by the battlefield.
And there, in the center of it all, was Magda.
Blood pooled around her small, still body. The red fog swirled ominously above, the sky itself bleeding like an open wound. Her pendant—a gift from her to him—glowed faintly against her pale skin, a cruel mockery of hope.
"M-Magda…" Micheal whispered aloud, his throat raw, his breath catching as he shook the image from his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the visions only replayed in more agonizing detail.
The wind outside howled faintly, rattling the windowpane, and Micheal sagged forward, his shoulders trembling. He brought a hand to his chest, clutching the pendant Magda had given him. The pendant's small stone felt warm in his palm, as if her presence still lingered there.
"I'll protect you next time, Magda," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely above a breath. "No matter what it takes."
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the pendant tighter, holding onto it like an anchor against the crushing weight of his guilt.
His mind whispered cruel truths:
You couldn't save them.
You couldn't save her.
But amidst the torment, a spark ignited—a faint, flickering light buried deep within the grief. The helplessness that had consumed him began to harden into something else entirely: resolve.
Micheal sat up straighter, his tired blue eyes steeling as they reflected the moonlight. The battlefield had broken him, but it had not destroyed him. He would not let it. At least Garrick, Claude, and Magda were saved, but he would not let her sacrifice be in vain.
"I'll fix this," he murmured. The words were soft, but they carried a weight far beyond their volume. "I'll fix everything."
The wind outside quieted as if listening, and the shadows that played across the walls seemed to pause. The pendant in his hand glowed faintly for a moment before fading.
With a deep breath, Micheal rose from the window, his body protesting the movement. He limped toward the edge of his bed, where a half-finished design sketch lay crumpled among scattered papers. His trembling hand smoothed it out, eyes narrowing in focus.
He could not bring back the dead, nor erase his failures, but he could create something new. Something that would prevent another battlefield like the one he'd survived.
For Magda.
For Claude, Garrick, and the Rowdy 22.
For himself.
Micheal picked up a pencil, its weight familiar in his hand. As the moonlight pooled over the desk, he began to draw.
Location: Shelb Estate – Foyer
The Shelb estate's grand foyer was unusually quiet, the faint glow of the lanterns casting a muted warmth over the polished floors. Adrian von Shelb lounged against the bannister with his arms crossed, his usually cheerful expression dimmed by concern. Across from him, Ethan stood near the tall windows, his broad frame silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in. Neither brother spoke at first, the silence between them heavy.
"You've noticed it too," Adrian said quietly, breaking the stillness. His voice lacked its usual humor.
Ethan nodded, his gaze fixed on the darkened grounds beyond the window. "How could I not? He barely sleeps. I hear him pacing at night, muttering to himself."
Adrian sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. "It's not just the pacing. He stares at nothing, Ethan—lost in his own head. Like he's still on that battlefield."
Ethan's jaw tightened, the lines of his face hardening. "Soldier's heart," he said finally, the term foreign on his tongue but no less true. "It's eating him alive. I've seen soldiers lose themselves to it, even ones who've had years of training. Micheal's been through more than most—thrust into battle after only two weeks. For someone who wasn't even military-trained, it's a wonder he didn't break sooner. It's just…" He paused, his voice softening. "It's just that we didn't want him to break at all."
Adrian pushed off the bannister, pacing slowly. "It's strange, isn't it? Seeing him like this. Micheal's always been… Micheal. Eccentric, brilliant, impossible—but not broken." His voice cracked faintly, though he quickly masked it. "And now it feels like we can't reach him."
"Because we can't," Ethan replied gruffly. "This isn't something we can fix for him. He has to overcome it himself."
Adrian stopped pacing, turning to look at his older brother. "You think he will?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. The quiet stretched on until the soft rustle of skirts made them both turn. Duchess Eleanor entered the foyer, her regal presence dimmed only slightly by the lateness of the hour. She glanced between her sons, her sharp gaze discerning as always.
"Talking about Micheal, I presume?" she said softly, joining them near the window.
Adrian nodded, his shoulders sagging a little. "We're worried, Mother. He's… not himself."
Eleanor's expression softened as she gazed toward the upper floors, where Micheal's room lay cloaked in shadows. "Grief has many forms, Adrian. And trauma leaves wounds that no one can see. I worry for him more than I care to admit, but…" she paused, glancing at Ethan, "he needs to confront it himself. No matter how much it pains me, we cannot fight this battle for him."
Ethan frowned, his arms folding more tightly across his chest. "You're right, Mother. Micheal needs to face his own grief. It's his fight to win."
And yet, despite his words, the quiet shadow of doubt lingered in his gaze, unseen by either his mother or Adrian.
Ethan frowned, his arms folding across his chest. "I don't doubt his strength, Mother. But I also don't think he needs to carry it alone."
The Duchess stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on Ethan's arm. "No, he doesn't. And neither do you. You're his brothers—you may not be able to fix him, but you can still be there for him. Sometimes, that is enough." She hesitated, her gaze softening as she looked at her elder sons. "And know this: if either of you ever find yourselves in his place—if the weight becomes too much to bear—then you can always come to me. I will be here for you, just as I am for him.""
Ethan looked away, his jaw working silently as he mulled over her words. Adrian, however, offered a wry smile. "He'll hate us fussing over him, though. You know how Micheal is."
Eleanor's lips curved faintly. "Yes. But he won't hate you for caring."
Later that night…
Ethan stood silently in the doorway of Micheal's room, the faint sound of ragged breathing reaching him. The moonlight spilling through the window revealed Micheal curled on his bed, his fists clenched in the sheets, his body trembling. Another nightmare.
Without a word, Ethan crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair beside the bed. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and resting a calloused hand over Micheal's trembling one. The effect was almost immediate—Micheal's breathing slowed, his muscles relaxing slightly as the nightmare lost its hold.
Ethan didn't move, his grip firm but gentle. "You're not alone, Micheal," he murmured quietly, though he knew his brother couldn't hear him. "Not while we're here."
The door creaked softly, and Ethan glanced up to see Adrian standing there, silhouetted against the dim hall light. For once, Adrian didn't wear his usual grin. He stepped inside, his voice a hushed murmur. "You're a good man, Ethan. But sometimes it feels like we've been raising Micheal more than growing up alongside him.""
Ethan huffed softly, his hand still steady over Micheal's. "He's only seven years younger, Adrian. Don't get sentimental."
Adrian smirked faintly but didn't argue. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, watching quietly as Ethan sat with their brother. For a long moment, the room was silent but peaceful—the steady rise and fall of Micheal's breath the only sound.
Finally, Adrian whispered, "We'll get him through this. One way or another."
Ethan didn't look up, but his quiet response carried all the weight of a promise. "Yeah. We will."
Location: The Shared Domain
The shared domain was bathed in a soft, golden light, untouched by the passage of time or the chaos of the outside world. Under the sprawling branches of the ancient willow tree, Raphael Valoria sat with his back against the trunk, his powerful frame softened by the sight before him.
Curled up in his lap, 4-year-old Magda slept soundly, her small hands tucked beneath her cheek. Her breathing was even, her face peaceful—trusting and innocent in a way that seemed almost fragile. For a long while, Raphael simply watched her, his crimson eyes tracing the delicate lines of her face, committing every detail to memory.
Slowly, he reached out and brushed a stray curl from her forehead. The gesture was uncharacteristically tender, the Emperor's calloused fingers gentle as they tucked the strand back into place. For a man who had commanded armies and conquered kingdoms, this small act of care seemed infinitely more profound.
"You'll grow strong again, my little dove," he whispered softly, his voice deep but carrying an unshakable promise. "And this time, you'll know nothing but love."
The words hung in the air, quiet and certain, as though spoken not just to Magda but to the world itself. For Raphael, it was not a hope—it was a vow.
He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze softening as he watched her chest rise and fall in perfect rhythm. The child she had become, stripped of the burdens she had once carried, deserved this peace. And he would see to it that nothing and no one could ever take it from her again.
Carefully, Raphael rose to his feet, cradling Magda for a brief moment before conjuring a bed of golden leaves beneath the willow tree. He laid her down gently, pulling a soft blanket of warmth over her small form. As he looked at her peaceful face, a rare sense of calm washed over him. Now that he had mended his relationship with her, he felt he could finally work on reclaiming all the time they had lost. Time itself was never an issue for him—for people like him, of the High Devil's bloodline, time meant nothing. Time was merely a wait, a pause, until someone finally took them down, or as his father had done, gave oneself away for the Empire. But Raphael had no intention of giving himself away—not yet. Not when Magda's future had only just begun.
He straightened, his expression hardening as he turned away. The golden light of the shared domain shimmered around him, parting as he stepped through the veil and into the cold, unforgiving reality of the palace.
The winds outside the Imperial Palace were sharp and biting, howling faintly as they whipped across the stone walls. But as Raphael emerged, the air seemed to shift. The cold eased, just slightly, as though bowing to the Emperor's renewed resolve.
Raphael's crimson eyes burned with quiet determination as he stared out at the sprawling empire beyond the palace grounds. The weight of what lay ahead was immense, but his will was unshakable.
He spoke to no one, but his thoughts echoed clear and unwavering.
Let the world come for us. Let the skies bleed and the fog descend. I will stand in their way. For her.
The winds fell silent, the palace standing tall against the night as though sharing its master's resolve.
And in the quiet that followed, the first stars appeared in the sky, gleaming faintly above the world Raphael would move mountains to protect.