Location: Shared Domain
The golden light of the shared domain bathed the ethereal landscape in a warm glow, its timeless beauty accentuated by lush meadows and shimmering streams. Under a canopy of majestic willow trees, Magda stood with her hands outstretched, her crimson eyes glowing faintly as she concentrated on the spell Raphael had just demonstrated. Her long black hair, now in a simple braid that cascaded down her back, swayed slightly as the mana currents responded to her call. Raphael had tried multiple hairstyles on her—braids, buns, and even leaving it loose—but he still thought this one was the cutest, perfectly framing her determined expression.
"Focus, Magda," Raphael instructed, his deep, measured voice steady and encouraging. His imposing figure stood a few paces away, his crimson gaze fixed on his daughter's movements. His black cloak shifted slightly as he folded his arms, a faint smile gracing his sharp features.
Magda exhaled, her brow furrowing in determination. With a flick of her wrist, a series of floating mana orbs formed, each glowing with a steady brilliance. She grinned triumphantly, her fangs just barely visible as she turned to face Raphael. "Did you see that, Papa?"
Raphael nodded, his expression softening. "Your control is improving. Well done."
Magda's grin widened. "Do you think I'll beat you soon?" she asked, her tone teasing yet filled with earnest hope.
Raphael chuckled, the sound rich and rare. "Perhaps, one day," he replied, a glimmer of pride evident in his eyes. "But for now, there is still much to learn."
Magda laughed, twirling slightly as the orbs followed her movements. "You're just scared, Papa. Admit it!"
Raphael raised an eyebrow, his amusement evident. "Scared? Of you? Little dove, the day you surpass me will be the day the stars fall from the sky."
Magda giggled, the sound light and free. "Then I'll make the stars fall, just to prove you wrong!"
Later – Practice Grounds
The grassy field shimmered faintly as the shared domain shifted to accommodate their training. A wooden dummy materialized before Magda, its surface reinforced with enchanted vines. She took a deep breath, her hands glowing as she conjured a stream of fire. The flames twisted and coiled with precision, striking the dummy in perfect succession.
"Excellent," Raphael said, stepping closer. "But remember, control is not just about precision—it's about timing. Strike too soon, and your mana reserves will wane. Strike too late, and the enemy will capitalize on your hesitation."
Magda nodded, her crimson eyes serious as she adjusted her stance. "Understood."
Raphael placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch firm yet reassuring. "Good. Again."
She repeated the exercise, her movements more deliberate this time. As the flames danced around her, Raphael observed silently, his thoughts drifting. Each precise strike she made felt like a small victory—not just for her growth, but for the bond they were rebuilding. Beyond magic, Raphael had also taught her the fundamentals of swordsmanship, believing that balance in both fields would make her a more formidable and versatile warrior. The shared domain, once a place of sorrow and guilt, now thrummed with renewed purpose.
Evening – Beneath the Willows
As the day waned, the shared domain shifted to mimic twilight, the golden hues fading into softer, cooler tones. Beneath the canopy of the willow trees, Raphael sat on the grass, his back against the trunk of one of the ancient trees. Magda lay beside him, her head resting on his lap as she traced patterns in the air with small bursts of mana.
"Papa," she began, her voice softer now, "do you think I'll ever be as strong as you?"
Raphael's expression softened further, and after a pause, he replied gently, "Magda, you don't need to be obsessed with being strong. Strength is important, yes, but it should never consume you."
Magda frowned slightly, turning her head to look up at him. "Why do you say that?"
Raphael hesitated for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I assumed it was because of your cousins in Featherfield… or Steffan."
Her brow furrowed. "Who's Steffan?"
Raphael's crimson gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable for a moment before he smiled faintly. "No one important," he said softly, his voice carrying an edge of finality. "What matters is that you know your worth is not defined by strength alone."
Magda tilted her head, curious. "Then what is it defined by?"
"You've endured more than most ever will, and yet you smile," Raphael said, his voice tinged with reverence. "That is a strength far greater than any spell or blade."
Magda blushed slightly, turning her face away. "You're just saying that because you're my Papa."
Raphael smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Perhaps. But that doesn't make it any less true."
The silence that followed was comfortable, the bond between them palpable. For Raphael, each moment spent here felt like a salve to wounds he had long thought irreparable. Magda's laughter, her determination, her trust—all of it reminded him of what he had regained.
As the stars began to dot the shared domain's artificial sky, Magda yawned, her mana flickers dimming as sleep claimed her. Raphael remained still, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
"You'll grow strong again, my little dove," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "And when you do, the world will bow before you."
Location: Shelb Estate – Evening
The evening air was filled with a gentle hum of anticipation as the Shelb Estate basked in the golden glow of a setting sun. Inside the workshop, Barnaby and Arthur stood amidst a row of neatly arranged Aura Fixers, their polished surfaces gleaming under the warm lantern light. Arthur was practically bouncing on his heels, his excitement barely contained, while Barnaby maintained his usual composed demeanor, though his eyes twinkled with quiet pride.
"It's done," Arthur declared, clapping his hands together. "The production line is complete! Custom designs for the troops—ready to go."
Barnaby nodded, adjusting his spectacles as he surveyed the workshop. "Indeed. Efficiently and with minimal waste, I might add." He paused, then added with a faint smile, "Though your enthusiasm might scare off the next round of workers."
Before Arthur could retort, the door to the workshop opened, and Duchess Eleanor stepped inside, her trusted maid Clara following close behind with a tray of refreshments. The Duchess's elegant presence seemed to brighten the already celebratory atmosphere.
"Barnaby, Arthur," Eleanor greeted warmly, her gaze sweeping over the completed Aura Fixers. "It looks marvelous. Truly, you've both outdone yourselves."
Arthur puffed up like a proud rooster, practically glowing under her praise. "Thank you, Your Grace! I told Barnaby it would turn out splendidly."
Barnaby raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "And I told Arthur to keep his hands away from the machinery."
Eleanor chuckled, the sound light and genuine. "Whatever your methods, the results speak for themselves." She turned to Clara, who was placing the tray on a nearby table. "Clara, don't you agree? This will make a difference."
Clara, a woman of sharp wit and calm demeanor, smiled as she poured tea into delicate cups. "Absolutely, Your Grace. These designs could save lives on the battlefield. It's no small feat."
Eleanor's gaze softened, her fingers brushing the edge of one of the Aura Fixers. "He'll be so proud when he sees this," she said quietly, her voice filled with maternal warmth. She straightened, her composure returning. "You've given him a reason to hope again."
Arthur, ever the optimist, grinned. "You think Master Micheal will like it? He's been in such a gloomy mood lately, but this—this will cheer him up for sure!"
Barnaby adjusted his spectacles again, his voice steady but encouraging. "I believe it will. Micheal's sharper than he appears. He'll recognize the effort and thought behind this."
Eleanor smiled at them both, a rare flicker of vulnerability crossing her features before she masked it with her usual poise. "Then let us ensure these are sent promptly to the Armond army. Clara, could you assist with arranging their transport?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Clara replied, already moving with practiced efficiency to oversee the packaging and logistics for the delivery.
As the group coordinated their efforts, the air buzzed with a renewed sense of purpose. For the first time in days, the Shelb Estate's embroidery workshop felt lighter, as if hope itself had settled among them, ready to be delivered to the battlefield.
Location: Shelb Estate – Evening
The quiet of the Shelb Estate was broken by the sound of Duke Louis von Shelb's boots echoing in the grand foyer. His return was typically unannounced, but this time, his arrival carried the weight of unspoken tensions. Duchess Eleanor stood waiting for him, her posture composed but her eyes sharp with a mixture of irritation and hurt.
"You're back," she said coolly, her arms crossed as she watched him remove his gloves. "Finally."
Louis glanced at her, his expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and confusion. "Eleanor, I didn't think you'd still be awake."
"Of course, I'm awake," she snapped. "Waiting to see if my husband would ever bother returning home instead of chasing after that adopted royal girl every time she so much as sighs."
The accusation hung in the air, and Louis sighed, running a hand through his hair. "This again?"
"Yes, this again!" Eleanor's voice wavered, her emotions threatening to spill over. "Do you even know how Magda is doing?"
Louis paused, his silence speaking volumes.
Eleanor's lips trembled, and she turned away briefly before facing him again, tears glistening in her eyes. "Am I not a good enough wife? Did I fail you somehow? I gave you three healthy sons, Louis. And yet, you seem to prefer any child but them. Am I so unworthy that you long for a daughter I couldn't give you?"
"Eleanor," Louis began, stepping toward her, but she held up a hand to stop him.
"Don't," she said, her voice breaking. "Why can't you show even half the love you give to that royal adoptee to your own youngest son and his wife? Micheal is a shadow of himself, and Magda—Magda is missing, her fate unknown! And yet, you run off like they don't even exist."
Her tears spilled over, and she buried her face in her hands. "I can't take it, Louis. It's like you hate me. Like you blame me for not giving you a daughter."
Louis stepped forward, pulling her hands gently away from her face. "Eleanor, stop this. Please."
She shook her head, but he cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. "I do not hate you. You've given me everything—three remarkable sons, a home worth coming back to, and a partner I couldn't imagine living without. I'm proud of all our sons, Eleanor. All of them."
Her sobs softened, though her eyes still brimmed with sadness. "Then why do you act like they don't matter?"
"I don't," Louis said earnestly. "I love them. Each of them. Micheal, despite his struggles, is one of the strongest people I know. Ethan, a soldier any father would be proud of. And Adrian—well, Adrian is a character, but he has his own way of making this family stronger."
Eleanor's shoulders sagged, the tension in her frame easing slightly. "And Magda?"
Louis hesitated, his expression pained. "I don't know how she's doing, but not a day goes by that I don't think of her. Or Micheal. I don't have the answers you want, but I do know this—our family is strong because of you."
Eleanor sniffled, brushing at her tears. "Then show it more, Louis. They need you. I need you."
He nodded, his own expression softening. "You're right. I'll do better. For them. For you."
She leaned into him, her earlier anger giving way to weary affection. "You'd better, or I'll remind you why they call me Duchess."
Louis chuckled softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I'd expect nothing less."