The opulent halls of the imperial palace stretched endlessly, the soft glow of mana lamps casting long shadows along the intricate walls. Micheal, still processing his earlier meeting with Magda, trailed behind the silent palace attendant. His footsteps echoed faintly, each step drawing him farther from the warmth of Magda's presence and deeper into the maze of imperial grandeur.
The attendant stopped in front of an ornate door, bowing slightly. "Your room, Lord Shelb," they said, their tone formal yet indifferent. Micheal nodded absently, stepping into the assigned chamber.
The room was everything one would expect for the Emperor's son-in-law: grand, with crimson drapes cascading over tall windows, furniture polished to perfection, and a bed that looked as though it could swallow him whole. Yet, the space felt cold, distant—not from a lack of luxury but because of its location.
As Micheal gazed out of the window, he noted how far this wing was from Magda's chambers. The gap felt deliberate, and it gnawed at him. This has to be Royal Father's doing.
"Wouldn't be the first time he made things difficult for me," Micheal muttered, sinking into a plush chair near the bed. He rested his head against the chair, letting out a heavy sigh. His mind wandered to Magda's laughter earlier, her teasing smile that had lifted the weight he hadn't realized he was carrying. Yet, beneath his flustered fondness, an unease lingered. The Emperor's gaze during their meeting had been... different.
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a rueful chuckle. "Yeah, not winning Son-in-law of the Year anytime soon."
Location: Raphael's Study
Raphael sat in his study, the grand space dimly lit by the flickering light of mana lamps. His long black hair, tied loosely, framed his sharp features, which were softened by an unusual expression of uncertainty. Before him, a glass of wine remained untouched, the deep red liquid swirling faintly as if mirroring the turmoil in his mind.
For years, Raphael had regarded Magda as a young woman navigating the treacherous waters of court life—a figure of quiet strength, albeit burdened by the weight of expectations. But their shared time in the Shared Space had unraveled that perception.
Now, he saw her not as the struggling young noblewoman she had been, but as the child she once was. He recalled her tiny hands clutching at his robes, her innocent voice demanding another story before bed, her tears when the world seemed too harsh. The memory of raising her, of seeing her grow again, had shifted something deep within him.
"She's too young," Raphael murmured, his crimson eyes fixed on the swirling wine. "Too young for marriage. Too young for all of this."
The thought of Magda being married—his little dove—to someone as awkward and unpolished as Micheal gnawed at him. "What kind of fool marries off their baby girl at eighteen?" he muttered, his tone laced with self-reproach.
His fingers drummed against the armrest. "Old Raphael... What an idiot."
If he had the power of a time mage, he would have undone the wedding in an instant. He would have rewound the years to keep Magda safe, untouched by the chaos of adulthood. He sighed deeply, his hand tightening around the glass.
Earlier that day, Raphael had given explicit instructions to the palace attendants. Micheal, his son-in-law, would not stay anywhere near Magda's chambers. His room was deliberately placed in a distant wing, isolated enough to quell any... untoward ideas.
"Better safe than sorry," Raphael muttered to himself, leaning back in his chair. Yet, even as he justified the decision, an unsettling guilt lingered. He knew Micheal wasn't a threat to Magda—not intentionally—but the protective father in him had grown louder, more insistent.
His gaze drifted to the untouched wine again. "Perhaps I should've sent him back to the Shelb estate entirely."
Location: Micheal's Room
Micheal lay sprawled across the enormous bed, staring at the carved patterns on the canopy above. The luxury of the room did little to soothe his growing frustration.
"Far away from Magda," he muttered, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. Guess Royal Father really doesn't trust me.
Despite the physical distance, Micheal's thoughts lingered on Magda. Her voice, her teasing remarks, and the way her crimson eyes had sparkled earlier. His heart felt lighter remembering her joy, yet it weighed heavily with the awareness of Raphael's unyielding scrutiny.
"I've got a long way to go," Micheal admitted softly to himself, his gaze drifting to the moonlit window. "But I'm not giving up."
The quiet of the night settled around him, and despite his tumultuous thoughts, Micheal finally closed his eyes, determined to face whatever lay ahead.
Location: The Library of Time
The stillness of the royal guest room was shattered as Micheal stirred awake, his breath quick and shallow. The room he had fallen asleep in was gone, replaced by towering shelves that stretched endlessly into the dark expanse above. The faint glimmer of gold lettering on the book spines caught the dim, otherworldly light that illuminated the space.
"Where… am I?" Micheal whispered, his voice barely audible.
The air felt heavy, dense with an energy he couldn't place. The scent of aged parchment and ink filled his lungs, grounding him in the surreal vastness of the library.
As he wandered, the endless rows of shelves shifted and twisted, as though the space itself were alive. No matter where he turned, the scenery seemed to repeat—a labyrinth of knowledge with no escape.
Desperation clawed at his chest as the silence pressed against his ears. Then, faintly, he noticed a glow—warmer and brighter than the dim, omnipresent light of the library.
Driven by instinct, Micheal followed it, his boots echoing faintly against the cold floor. The glow led him to a secluded alcove where a single round table sat amidst the towering shelves.
Seated at the table was a man who, at first glance, seemed young. His silver hair fell well past his shoulders, catching the light with a sheen that gave it an almost ethereal quality. His face was smooth, unmarred by age, yet his silver eyes radiated a wisdom that seemed to pierce through time itself.
The man's presence was magnetic, his aura ancient and unyielding, like that of a primordial beast watching over its domain. Micheal's heart raced as he approached, an inexplicable certainty settling over him: This man is at least 150 years old—maybe even older.
The man, dressed in a flowing midnight-blue robe, didn't look up from the book he was reading. Around his neck hung a pendant shaped like an hourglass, the sands within shifting slowly in defiance of gravity. Beside him rested a staff, its head adorned with the intricate design of a clock frozen at twilight.
"You're here," the man said, his deep voice resonating in the air, though he hadn't yet raised his gaze.
"I… I think I'm lost," Micheal stammered, taking a cautious step forward.
The man finally looked up, his silver eyes locking onto Micheal's. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it carried no warmth, only a sense of knowing.
"If you are here, then you belong here," he said simply, gesturing to the seat across from him.
Hesitant, Micheal moved closer, lowering himself into the chair. The man returned his focus to the book before him, leaving Micheal to wrestle with the oppressive silence. His gaze drifted to the book the man was reading, but he couldn't see the title.
The Tale of Margaret and Drifter
Unable to resist his curiosity, Micheal reached for the book nearest to him. Its cover was a deep forest green, the title embossed in gold: The Elm Tree Awaits You.
The moment he opened it, the words seemed to pull him in, the story unfolding vividly in his mind.
It told the tale of Margaret, a noble mage born into a family of prodigies. Despite her lineage, Margaret was overlooked and despised, a failure in the eyes of her powerful relatives. Her mother, a princess from a vassal state of the empire, had died young. Her father, cold and calculating, remarried a woman of equal standing who bore him a second daughter—a prodigy who became the pride of the family.
Margaret's existence was one of quiet endurance. She was a shadow in her own home, a placeholder for a brighter, more promising future embodied by her younger sister.
When Emperor Raphael sought to elevate the status of a dragonslaying mercenary, he chose Margaret's family—a house of declining high noble mages—to be linked with the newly ennobled Count Armond. Margaret's father, eager to rid himself of her, offered her hand in marriage to Drifter, the rough and uncultured knight who was utterly incompatible with their refined lineage.
The marriage began as an awkward mismatch. Margaret, accustomed to courtly etiquette, struggled to find common ground with Drifter's boisterous and rugged demeanor. Yet, despite their differences, the two forged an unlikely bond. Together, they braved the harshness of the Armond Pass, building a camp that would become a beacon of resilience.
Under Drifter's unwavering support, Margaret, now called "Maggie," found her strength. She rose above the limitations imposed on her, becoming a high mage of unparalleled skill—stronger even than her father and sister combined.
The story ended with the words: "And they lived happily ever after."
A faint frown creasing his brow. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of the narrative settling over him.
"That's not true," he muttered to himself, the words cutting through the heavy silence.
The man—Chronos, Micheal realized—lifted his gaze, his silver eyes gleaming faintly.
Micheal let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Count and Countess Armond are strong, sure, but 'happily ever after'? That's a fairy tale. I know them. Their life isn't a perfectly wrapped-up story."
He tapped the book lightly against the table, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Drifter's poor aristocratic manners are still a nightmare for Maggie. And their kids? Chaos incarnate. Reuben, their eldest, barely speaks to Drifter without an argument."
Micheal's voice softened, a hint of fondness slipping through. "They're each other's strength, but life isn't a neat little story with a happily-ever-after ending."
Chronos tilted his head, his expression unreadable. The glow of the library seemed to dim slightly, as though the weight of Micheal's words had pressed against its very fabric.
Micheal's words lingered in the air, his soft chuckle fading into silence as the dim glow of the library pressed around them. He tapped the closed book idly, his thoughts swirling with both disbelief and a strange fondness for the chaotic reality of the Armond family's life.
Chronos's gaze shifted from the book to Micheal, the silver in his eyes glinting faintly as if reflecting the unspoken weight of his thoughts. The room seemed to grow colder under his piercing stare, and Micheal froze, feeling as though time itself had paused for this moment.
"You know," Chronos began, his tone calm but carrying an ancient resonance, "if Raphael weren't the Archmage of the Empire, he would've made an excellent matchmaker."
Micheal blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
Chronos leaned back, his hands folding over the closed book on the table. "The man has an unparalleled talent for weaving lives together—conveniently or inconveniently, depending on the perspective." He gestured vaguely toward the shelves around them. "But then again, perspectives are all that stories are, aren't they?"
Micheal frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Chronos's silver eyes bore into him, and Micheal felt the weight of his presence anew—youthful in appearance but undeniably ancient, as though he had lived centuries beyond the scope of any mortal.
"Everyone," Chronos said, his voice low, "cares only for their own point of view. Even now, you see the story of Margaret and Drifter through your knowledge, your bias, your truth. But is that the actual story?"
Micheal bristled slightly. "I don't just see a version of the truth. I see the truth. I know them—Count and Countess Armond. Their story didn't end with 'happily ever after.' Their life is messy, complicated, real."
Chronos arched a silver brow, a flicker of amusement passing over his otherwise unreadable expression. "Then tell me, Micheal von Shelb," he said, leaning forward slightly, "how do you see your story with Magda? Describe your relationship."
Micheal hesitated, thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. He cleared his throat, straightening in his chair. "Well, it's… layered. Complex. There's an evolving dynamic between us. I mean, there's mutual—"
"Stop." Chronos's interruption was gentle but firm, cutting through Micheal's spiraling attempt to articulate himself. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "In summary, your romance story so far is nothing more than a crush."
The words landed like a physical blow, leaving Micheal speechless. "A… a crush?" he repeated, incredulous.
Chronos nodded, his silver eyes glinting with something that resembled mischief. "Precisely. Infatuation, admiration, perhaps even a touch of longing. But layers? Depth? Those are the illusions you've built for yourself."
Micheal leaned forward, his cheeks flushing with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment. "That's not true. There are layers—there's history, there's understanding—"
"Layers," Chronos interjected, "get buried in the river of time, Micheal. Only the surface remains visible, and the rest? Forgotten or reimagined."
Micheal stared at him, his earlier frustration dissolving into quiet contemplation. The concept felt unsettlingly true, even if he didn't want to admit it.