Magda stirred, her breaths shallow, as faint rays of sunlight filtered through the high arched windows of the imperial infirmary.
The ornate chamber, designed to embody tranquility, was a sanctuary now carrying the heavy weight of anxious silence. The scent of fresh linen mingled with the faint traces of healing salves, creating an atmosphere both sterile and comforting.
At her bedside sat Raphael Valoria, Emperor of the Healian Empire, his stoic composure betrayed only by the faint tremor in his hand as he reached for hers. His piercing crimson eyes, usually a shield of unyielding authority, softened with a raw vulnerability. Nearby, Stella, a mid-aged nursemaid with streaks of silver in her auburn hair, stood at a respectful distance. Her hands clutched the edges of her apron, her gaze steady but filled with concern.
Raphael had spent countless hours in the shared domain preparing Magda's soul for this moment. As she grew in the shared space, he had spoken to her often about the physical world, explaining how her body and soul would merge once her soul reached the same age as her body.
Though the process had always frightened him, he wanted her to be as prepared as possible. Yet, now that the moment had arrived, he was terrified. What if her memories of her terrible childhood surfaced? What if she rejected him and chose to leave?
Magda's fingers twitched. Raphael leaned closer, his breath hitching.
"Magda," he called softly, his deep voice trembling. "Little dove, I'm here."
A faint groan escaped her lips as her crimson eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she stared uncomprehendingly at the intricate ceiling fresco, her vision swimming with overlapping images.
Her hand shot up to her head as memories surged forth—two lives colliding within her mind: the child who had played and laughed under the amber skies of their shared domain, and the young woman who had borne the weight of her imperial lineage.
"Papa…?" she murmured, her voice weak yet tinged with confusion. Her hands trembled as they gripped the blanket tightly, seeking grounding amidst the chaos within her.
Raphael's heart clenched. His calloused hands enveloped hers, his thumbs tracing soothing circles over her knuckles. "Little dove, it's all right. You're safe now."
To his surprise, as Magda's breathing steadied and her crimson eyes began to clear, it became evident that the personality she had cultivated as a child in the shared space was dominant. Her expression softened, and though a shadow of her past lingered in her gaze, it was overpowered by the warmth and trust they had rebuilt.
She blinked rapidly, her crimson eyes darting to his face. Slowly, recognition dawned, though her breathing remained uneven. Her gaze flickered to Stella, who took a tentative step forward, her warm smile brimming with reassurance.
"You've been sleeping for some time, Your Highness," Stella said gently. "We've been waiting for you to return to us."
Magda's lips parted, as if to speak, but her voice faltered. The flood of emotions tightened around her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. She clutched Raphael's hand, her fragile strength holding him with surprising intensity.
"Papa…" she whispered again, her tone softening with a hint of mischief. A small, shaky smile spread across her lips, and she looked at him with a childlike fondness.
Raphael's breath caught. The simple word pierced through his armor, shattering the doubts and fears that had gnawed at him during her slumber.
She had never called him "Papa" before. Not "Your Majesty" nor "Father," but something infinitely more intimate. Tears pricked at the edges of his vision, but he blinked them away, pulling her into a gentle embrace.
"My little dove," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You've come back to me."
Stella, her own eyes glistening, stepped closer. "Little dove, this is Stella. She served as your late mother's maid and has been caring for you since…" he hesitated, clearing his throat, "…since the incident."
Magda's gaze shifted to Stella, her smile softening. "Thank you," she whispered hoarsely.
Stella curtseyed, her expression warm. "It was my honor, Your Highness."
Raphael's composure returned as he gently laid Magda back against the pillows. His authoritative tone resurfaced, though it carried a gentleness seldom heard. "We'll take it one step at a time. Stella, coordinate with the royal healer for physiotherapy. Magda needs to rebuild her strength."
Stella nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."
Turning back to Magda, Raphael brushed a stray strand of black hair from her face. "You've been through much, my little dove. Rest now. I'll ensure you have everything you need."
Though exhaustion tugged at her, Magda's crimson eyes lingered on his. "You'll stay?" she asked softly, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.
Raphael's lips curved into a faint smile. "Always."
As Magda drifted back to sleep, the weight on Raphael's chest lifted ever so slightly. He glanced at Stella, who met his gaze with a knowing nod. Together, they began making preparations for the next stage of Magda's recovery, their resolve unwavering.
For Raphael, this moment was more than a reunion—it was the start of a renewed promise to his daughter, a vow to be the father she deserved. And for Magda, it was the first step toward reclaiming her strength and place in a world that had tried to break her.
Location : Imperial study
The stillness of the imperial study was broken only by the soft rustle of parchment as Raphael Valoria set aside the letter he had just finished reading. His crimson eyes narrowed, a spark of contemplation flickering in their depths.
The missive, written in the elegant hand of Duchess Eleanor von Shelb, bore troubling tidings.
Micheal's recent supposedly aura over-exertion had sent ripples of unease through the Shelb estate. The Duchess described his state—a volatile mix of sickness and a semi-frenzy that she likened to the episodes of aura users driven beyond their limits. Yet, her words hinted at something more—an anomaly. Was Micheal a mana user trapped in an aura user's body?
Raphael's brow furrowed as he reread the letter. Though he often found himself disappointed in Micheal, the boy's actions had always been an enigma—a blend of brilliance and recklessness.
What lingered most in his mind now was how Micheal had pinpointed and reached Magda's soul during her coma, a feat that defied logic and suggested a deeper connection between them. Raphael could not ignore the possibility that Micheal, despite his flaws, might one day become his daughter's second strongest supporter.
The Duchess, in her motherly concern, had decided to send Micheal to the capital, imploring Raphael to show leniency toward her youngest son.
The Emperor's fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair. The Duchess' plea was not unwarranted, but it did little to quell his skepticism. Micheal's antics had always been an enigma, and the notion of him being a prodigy born of some unique blend of mana and aura seemed… unlikely. Yet, there was something in the Duchess' words that gnawed at him—a lingering unease he couldn't dismiss.
He reached for the bell on his desk and rang it. Moments later, Dion, his ever-efficient aide, stepped into the room, his expression calm yet expectant.
"Draft a letter to the Duchess," Raphael ordered, his voice low but commanding. "Begin with a brief explanation of Magda's month-long coma and her subsequent recovery. Acknowledge her concern for Micheal, but make it clear that I have no definitive answers regarding his condition."
Dion's pen hovered over the parchment, ready to capture every word. Raphael leaned back, the faintest hint of a sardonic smile playing at his lips.
"Add this," he continued, his tone laced with a sharp edge. 'Though I find it curious that while the Duke attended court, he neither inquired about Magda nor spoke of Micheal. It leaves me to assume that I married my daughter to an orphan. Thankfully, Micheal at least has a mother who worries for him.'"
Dion hesitated, his gaze flickering to Raphael's face. The Emperor's expression was unreadable, save for the faint glint of irritation in his eyes. Without a word, Dion resumed writing.
Satisfied, Raphael waved him away. "Ensure the letter reaches the Duchess before the day's end. And contact the Eastern recluse, the time mage. I need their insight into Micheal's condition."
Dion bowed and left the study, his footsteps echoing softly in the corridor. Raphael turned his gaze to the window, where the setting sun cast long shadows across the imperial gardens. The boy was a contradiction—a puzzle he felt compelled to solve. If Micheal could become someone who genuinely cared for Magda, Raphael was willing to extend his aid.
The mystery of how Micheal had reached Magda's soul during her coma remained unanswered, but it hinted at potential that could not be ignored. With Magda's recovery still fragile, Raphael decided he would rather have Micheal as an ally than an uncertain variable threatening the stability of his carefully balanced world
Location : The Shelb Estate
At the Shelb estate, the Duchess received Raphael's letter that evening. Her heart sank as her eyes scanned the lines, the Emperor's sharp words cutting deeper than she expected.
The implication—that her husband's indifference toward their children had not gone unnoticed—left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Eleanor's lips pressed into a thin line as she folded the letter carefully. "The Duke and his obsessions," she muttered under her breath. His preference for their daughters, to the detriment of Micheal, had long been a source of quiet frustration. Yet, it was not her husband's failings that occupied her thoughts now. It was Magda.
The Duchess rose, her movements graceful yet deliberate. If Raphael's account was accurate, Magda's recovery was far from complete. And if Micheal was to face the Emperor—especially in his current state—he needed preparation.
Eleanor's gaze hardened as she summoned her steward. "Send word to Micheal. I will oversee his training personally until he departs for the capital. If he is to stand before Raphael Valoria, he will do so as a son of the Shelb family."
Her voice carried a steely resolve, underpinned by a quiet determination. Though the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, Eleanor vowed to see both her son and daughter-in-law through the trials to come.
Location: Imperial Court
The grand halls of the Imperial Court buzzed with renewed activity as preparations for the Flower Festival resumed. Sunlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, casting colorful reflections that danced across the marble floors. Courtiers moved in carefully choreographed chaos, their voices blending into a harmonious cacophony of excitement and intrigue.
Officially, the festival's earlier postponement had been a gesture of mourning for the victims of the Red Sky and Red Fog.
However, within the whispering circles of the nobility, the truth was an open secret: the Emperor's rage had cast a shadow so chilling that even the Empire's weather seemed to bow to his mood. Now, as the Emperor's disposition lightened and the chill faded into a gentle warmth, the courtiers murmured a new sentiment.
"The sun rises again in the Empire," they said, their words carrying both relief and reverence.
In a corner of the court, two elegantly dressed nobles whispered behind their fans, their expressions veiled with intrigue.
"Did you hear?" Lady Halvora said, leaning closer to her companion. "Not only has the Armond army become the pride of the south, but Magda Valoria herself has recovered miraculously. They say she passed the Guardian Mage test—unprecedented after such an ordeal."
Lord Roderic's eyebrows arched, his voice dripping with skepticism. "The Guardian Mage test? After being comatose for a month? Preposterous. I wager it's merely propaganda to calm the masses."
"Perhaps," Lady Halvora conceded, her fan fluttering nervously. "But the people are already enthralled. Bards are singing of her triumph, and some are even calling her the savior of the Empire. It seems the Emperor's little dove is soaring higher than we anticipated."
Nearby, a young courtier interrupted with a sly smile. "Don't be so quick to dismiss it, Lord Roderic. The Shelb estate has gone suspiciously quiet. Perhaps they're plotting something grand?"
Lord Roderic's gaze darkened. "Neutrality is their game, but neutrality can mask ambition. I wouldn't be surprised if the Shelb estate seeks to position Magda in a way that tilts the race for the throne."
Across the hall, another cluster of nobles discussed the Armond army's feats with animated fervor.
"Did you hear about their innovations?" one noblewoman asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. "The soldiers' armor had enhancements said to come from the young Micheal von Shelb himself. Incredible ingenuity for a mere recruit."
"Ingenuity or luck?" scoffed a seasoned general, swirling his wine. "Either way, it's undeniable that those inventions saved lives. The Armond Pass victory will be remembered as much for the soldiers' bravery as for the tools that carried them through."
The vibrant exchanges filled the grand hall, each conversation weaving a tapestry of intrigue, admiration, and speculation as the court prepared for the long-awaited festival.
In the Shelb estate, the Duke read the reports in silence, his expression unreadable. The words detailing Magda's miraculous recovery and the Armond army's valor lingered in his mind, filling the room with a quiet tension. For a fleeting moment, he considered the implications of such news—how it could bolster the claims of those vying for the throne. But the recent upheavals had shaken even his confidence, and he resolved to remain neutral in the Race to the Throne. The stakes were too high, and he was unwilling to gamble with the stability of his family, particularly with Micheal's condition so uncertain and Magda's name now whispered in every corner of the court.