Chapter 50 - Lost in the River of Time (ii)

The silence between them stretched for a moment before Micheal exhaled, slumping back in his chair. "You know," he said, his tone lighter now, "chatting with you isn't exactly fun. You're like an old man hiding in a young man's body."

Chronos chuckled softly, a sound that echoed faintly in the endless expanse of the library. "I take that as a compliment."

"So," Micheal continued, shifting the conversation, "where are we? What is this place?"

Chronos's expression grew thoughtful as he rested a hand on his staff. "The Realm of Time," he said simply. "A place where time mages meet and thrive, where the river of time flows uninterrupted."

Micheal frowned. "I'm no mage. I'm no warrior, either. I can't even use mana or aura. So why am I here?"

Chronos regarded him for a long moment before speaking. "That's where you're mistaken. You can use both mana and aura."

Micheal blinked, his mind racing. "What?"

Chronos gestured toward him. "Your heart is bound by mana circles, blocking the flow of aura. But you have both, Micheal. You always have."

Micheal's thoughts spiraled back to the ominous ending he'd read in Fake Rose Better Than the Real. "But that doesn't make sense," he muttered, mostly to himself. "In the book, I… I exploded. Took down half of Shelb's and Valenhart's armies. Am I just a ticking time bomb?"

Chronos shook his head, his tone dismissive. "No, a time mage has no use for superficial things like mana or aura. You're more than that. The river of time flows through you. Once you grasp it, you can choose to train with either mana or aura—or both."

Micheal leaned forward, skepticism clouding his expression. "I don't have a natural feel for these things. Not like Magda with mana or Ethan with aura. How am I supposed to—"

"You've already dipped into the river of time," Chronos interrupted. "You've adapted it to your own tastes without even realizing it. Look around you."

Micheal glanced at the shelves and endless rows of books.

"This library," Chronos explained, "is your interpretation of the river of time. You love books, don't you? So you've shaped time's remnants—the records of lives and histories—into something familiar. Something comfortable."

The revelation left Micheal speechless, his gaze darting between Chronos and the countless shelves around them.

Micheal leaned back in his chair, the weight of Chronos's words sinking in. The idea that he had unconsciously shaped the river of time into a library left him reeling. His gaze swept over the towering shelves, the endless rows of books, now knowing they weren't merely stories—they were fragments of lives preserved in time.

"You're telling me," Micheal began slowly, "that I did this? Without even realizing it?"

Chronos closed the book in his hands, its faint glow dimming as he placed it gently on the table. His silver eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "You didn't just create this place. You gave it purpose. You called on time itself and bent it to your will, turning its remnants into stories—novels, even—because that's how you make sense of the world. It is your way of understanding the flow of time."

Micheal slammed the book shut, his hands trembling. "So the visions were true?" His voice carried disbelief mixed with fury. "How could my father destroy everything? How could he destroy us?"

Chronos watched him, his silver gaze unflinching. "Your father's love was always real, but misguided. He was blinded by his ambitions and never understood the cost until it was too late."

Micheal's breath hitched, words caught in his throat. Chronos continued, his tone calm yet firm. "People make mistakes, Micheal. Terrible mistakes. But that doesn't always make them evil."

Before Micheal could respond, Chronos reached for another book, replacing the first. Its spine bore the title The Hunting Dog. Micheal hesitated, his heart heavy from the weight of the last story. He knew how these books burrowed into his mind, embedding truths he wasn't ready to face.

Opening the book cautiously, Micheal found Ethan as the protagonist. The story painted his brother as a brilliant commander, a perfect soldier, embodying loyalty and virtue. Yet, as the pages turned, Micheal uncovered a darker truth—Ethan's hidden side, one that was cunning, ruthless, and calculating. Micheal's hand stilled, unwilling to tarnish the memory of his brother further. Instead, he flipped to the final page, reading of Ethan's death. The last lines spoke of Ethan reconciling his two selves, lamenting his life as a hunting dog—loyal to the end but consumed by the demands of others.

Chronos placed two more books before Micheal, but he refused to touch them. "These," Chronos said softly, "will return to your vault when I leave."

"What vault?" Micheal asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chronos's expression softened. "You created this library, Micheal. Subconsciously, you locked away the stories that caused you pain. I've honored your wishes to keep them hidden."

Micheal's brows furrowed as he tried to process the revelation. "But I don't have a natural talent for any of this. Magda has an instinctive grasp of mana. Ethan commands aura effortlessly. Me? I can't even sense these things properly."

Chronos tilted his head, his silver hair cascading like a river of light over his shoulder. "Instinct is overrated," he said evenly. "What you lack in instinct, you make up for in perspective. This library is proof of that. The river of time flows for all, but you've already dipped into it and claimed it as your own, even if you don't realize how."

Micheal scoffed lightly, his fingers drumming against the table. "If that's true, why do I feel like I'm always five steps behind everyone else? I don't have a teacher or some natural prodigy moment waiting for me."

Chronos's expression remained calm, though his voice carried a note of finality. "You don't need a teacher when you've already begun. The river of time doesn't flow for those who wait for guidance—it moves for those who step forward, however uncertainly."

Micheal glanced back at the library's endless expanse. "And this? The books, the shelves… This is how I see the river of time?"

"Yes," Chronos replied simply. "These are the echoes of lives remembered by time itself, shaped into something familiar to you. You've turned the intangible into something you can grasp, read, and perhaps even rewrite."

Micheal blinked, his mind whirring. "Rewriting time? That sounds…"

"Dangerous," Chronos interrupted, his silver eyes narrowing slightly. "And yet, time bends to those who understand it. You've already taken the first step by calling upon it, shaping it into this library. The real question is, what will you do now?"

Micheal looked back at Chronos, his curiosity bubbling to the surface. "So who are you, exactly? Some kind of guide? A guardian of time?"

Chronos chuckled, a sound that echoed faintly in the vastness of the library. "I am but a passenger drifting along the river of time, much like you. Perhaps I am an ancestor you were never meant to meet, or perhaps I am here because Raphael hoped you would find me."

"Royal Father?" Micheal muttered, leaning forward. "He sent you?"

Chronos tilted his head, his smile enigmatic. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I am just a figment of your imagination, born from your own connection to the river of time."

Micheal frowned, frustration mounting. "So which is it?"

Chronos's gaze sharpened, his youthful face framed by silver hair that seemed to catch the light of the library's glow. Despite his ageless appearance, Micheal could feel the weight of countless years behind those eyes.

"That answer," Chronos said slowly, "still lies within the river of time. And only time will reveal it."

Before Micheal could question him further, Chronos rose from his chair, his staff in hand. Its clock-shaped head glimmered faintly as he turned to face Micheal fully.

"There is one thing I must do before I go," Chronos said, his voice quieter now but no less commanding.

Micheal tensed as Chronos stepped closer, the ancient aura surrounding him growing heavier. He could feel the air change, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

"You carry a knot within you," Chronos continued, gesturing toward Micheal's chest. "A binding that blocks the flow of mana and aura. It is not natural, but rather something formed from fear, doubt, and the burdens you carry."

Micheal's breath hitched. "And you can… remove it?"

Chronos nodded, his silver eyes gleaming. "I can. But once it is gone, the choice will be yours: to train with mana, aura, or both. Be warned, however, that the river of time is not kind to those who wander too far. Its currents will pull at you. Lose yourself, and you may never return."

"That's… comforting," Micheal muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm.

Chronos smirked faintly. "The path ahead is yours to forge. Choose wisely."

He reached out, his hand hovering over Micheal's chest. A warm, golden light began to emanate from Chronos's palm, enveloping Micheal in a sensation that was both soothing and overwhelming. He gasped as the light pulsed through him, the knot within his heart unraveling in an instant.

As the glow faded, Micheal opened his eyes to find the library eerily silent. Chronos was gone.

Micheal placed a hand over his chest, feeling an unfamiliar lightness, though his mind was heavier than ever. He stood slowly, glancing around the vast expanse of shelves. The knot was gone, but the question remained: What happens now?

Location: Royal Palace, Micheal's room

The sunlight spilling through the curtains felt like an ambush. Micheal groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. His dreams of libraries and enigmatic men had left his body feeling as if it had been wrung dry, and his mind was still clouded from the strange, otherworldly revelations.

He sat up groggily, blinking at the ornate clock on the wall. His blood ran cold. Afternoon?!

Micheal scrambled out of bed, muttering curses under his breath. "Why didn't I set an alarm? Damn it, Barnaby, you spoil me too much!" He grabbed at his clothes, pulling them on with the finesse of someone fighting off invisible attackers.

As he tripped over his boots and nearly collided with the dresser, he groaned. "One day without you, Barnaby, and I'm a disaster. You'd think I'd figure out how to function by now."

His hurried attempts at grooming left his hair half-tamed and his clothes slightly rumpled. It didn't help that one of his leg is still in cast and a hand was in sling, though he is not resting his hand as much as he should. By the time he dashed into the dining hall, he felt like a disheveled knight late to a duel—and facing a dragon.

Location: Royal Palace, Grand Hall

Raphael sat at the head of the table, his crimson eyes sharp and unyielding, exuding the kind of imperial authority that made even the bravest of men hesitate. Without even trying, the Emperor's presence radiated a suffocating weight, reminding Micheal of one undeniable fact: he wasn't just a father-in-law. He was the sovereign.

Magda sat to Raphael's right, her crimson eyes narrowing with barely concealed amusement as Micheal stumbled into the room. The servants, well-trained as ever, didn't so much as flinch at his late arrival, but Micheal felt the tension in the air.

"You're late," Raphael said, his tone even, yet heavy enough to make Micheal feel like he was shrinking in his seat.

"Apologies, Royal Father," Micheal said hastily, bowing his head as he sat. "Long night."

Raphael's gaze lingered on him, sharp and calculating, before he returned to his tea with the practiced precision of a man who had spent decades embodying perfection. Micheal exhaled quietly, though the weight of the Emperor's presence didn't ease in the slightest.

Lunch was a lavish affair, with dishes that looked like they belonged in a royal banquet rather than a casual meal. Micheal, stomach growling and etiquette forgotten, grabbed his spoon and dug into his soup with all the grace of a famished wolf.

"Stop."

Raphael's single-word command was as sharp as a blade. Micheal froze mid-scoop, his spoon hovering precariously above the bowl.

"You're holding it wrong," Raphael said, his crimson eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Micheal stared at the spoon in confusion. "I'm holding it like… a spoon?"

"Like a barbarian," Raphael corrected, his tone icy. "This is the imperial palace, not a village tavern. Hold it properly."

The weight of Raphael's words hit Micheal like a blow, and he quickly adjusted his grip. "Better?" he asked, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

Raphael's expression remained impassive, but the faintest crease in his brow suggested that Micheal had barely scraped by. "Barely."

Micheal surrendered to the spoonful of humility without a complain.

As Micheal resumed eating, the weight of Raphael's gaze bore down on him like a physical force. It wasn't just the usual father-in-law scrutiny—it was sharper, more relentless, and layered with unspoken judgment.

"Royal Father is acting like I'm one wrong move away from being grounded," Micheal thought grimly, his grip on his spoon tightening as he focused on not spilling soup.

For Raphael, years spent in the Shared Space raising Magda had refined his already exacting standards for etiquette into a near-militant sensitivity. Every gesture, every movement at the table had been drilled into Magda with the precision of a master sculptor shaping marble. Now, sitting across from Micheal, Raphael saw none of that refinement. Instead, he saw an unpolished boy fumbling his way through an imperial meal.

It grated on him—not because Micheal's lack of manners offended his sensibilities (though it certainly did), but because this boy was his son-in-law. The man who dared to marry his daughter.

To Raphael, this was the equivalent of a baby leading another baby—a comical and yet deeply frustrating dynamic that set his teeth on edge. If Magda required so much guidance, how much more did Micheal?

Raphael's thoughts wandered briefly to Duke von Shelb. Once, he had regarded the Duke with a mixture of admiration and envy. The Duke's elder sons had always been respectful, deferential even, and Flora—whom Raphael had ignored in his courtly preoccupations—had found in the Duke a father figure she trusted. Raphael had assumed that same shielding care would extend to Magda when he arranged her marriage to Micheal.

But now, watching Micheal struggle to properly hold a spoon, Raphael felt a pang of incredulous regret. What had I been jealous of? he wondered, his crimson eyes narrowing. This is the product of the Duke's parenting? I thought he would shield her from courtly politics, protect her like he did Flora and his youngest son. Instead, my daughter is married to someone who can't manage basic decorum.

The faintest flicker of irritation crossed Raphael's otherwise impassive face. He dabbed his lips with a napkin, the motion precise and practiced, and decided that Duke von Shelb's reputation as a father had been wildly exaggerated.

As Micheal glanced at Raphael again, his initial irritation gave way to reluctant observation. There was no denying it: the Emperor exuded an aura of effortless regality that could make even the most composed noble falter.

Raphael's long black hair cascaded over his shoulders in a manner that seemed almost deliberate, though Micheal doubted he spent a second thinking about it. His crimson eyes were piercing, commanding attention with every glance, and his movements were the very embodiment of precision. From the way he lifted his tea cup to the delicate yet exact manner in which he dabbed at his lips, every action screamed sophistication.

Suddenly, Micheal understood why half the empire's maidens—and his own mother—had once swooned over Raphael two decades ago.

"Damn it," Micheal thought, fighting the urge to groan aloud. "No wonder Mother had a crush on him. He's like some untouchable romance novel hero."

He faintly felt bad for his father. Imagine competing with this guy for your wife's attention back in the day. The thought lingered for a moment before Micheal dismissed it with a shake of his head. Eh, not my problem.

But as the thought of his mother's relentless etiquette lessons resurfaced, Micheal felt a pang of ironic realization. For years, she had declared that mastering etiquette was the key to romance. Micheal had scoffed, rolled his eyes, and ignored her tea lessons whenever possible.

And now, sitting across from Raphael—the living, breathing proof of her philosophy—Micheal couldn't deny it.

"Damn it, she was right," he thought bitterly, his grip on his spoon tightening.

He glanced down at his plate, vowing silently to endure every tea lesson his mother had ever dreamed up. If this was what it took to survive lunches with Raphael and avoid becoming a courtly laughingstock, he'd become the most polished noble in Shelb history.

Magda, who had been quietly observing the exchange, leaned closer to Micheal, her crimson eyes glinting with mischief.

"You know," she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear, "if you're going to imitate Father, at least try to look convincing. Right now, you look like a cadet on his first day at the academy."

Micheal shot her a glare. "Do you have any idea how terrifying your father is? He doesn't even have to try to scare me."

Magda smirked, her lips twitching as she fought back laughter. "Imagine growing up with him correcting your every move. You'd think holding a spoon wrong was grounds for exile."

"Honestly, exile sounds less painful," Micheal muttered under his breath, earning another quiet laugh from Magda.

By the time lunch ended, Micheal was a bundle of nerves and self-loathing. But as he watched Raphael's perfect exit—graceful and commanding—he made a quiet vow.

No more dodging his mother's tea lessons. If mastering etiquette could help him survive lunches with Raphael and win Magda's teasing approval, he'd become the most polished noble the empire had ever seen.

As Magda lingered behind, her teasing smile softening into something more genuine, Micheal felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could survive being the Emperor's son-in-law.

The grand halls of the imperial palace echoed faintly with Micheal's uneven footsteps as he made his way toward the exit. His casted leg made every step a challenge, and the sling on his arm didn't help either. Still, despite his awkward gait, Micheal's heart felt lighter after lunch—partly because he'd survived another meal with Raphael and partly because of Magda.

Though lunch had been a battlefield of manners and judgment, being near Magda again after what felt like an eternity gave Micheal a quiet joy he hadn't expected. Ever since the Red-sky and red-fog incident at Armond, when she'd teetered on the brink of death, every moment with her felt like a blessing he wasn't sure he deserved.

As Micheal reached the expansive corridor leading to the main entrance, a familiar voice called out behind him.

"Wait, Micheal!"

He turned abruptly, nearly losing his balance as Magda approached, her silk gown flowing gracefully around her. Her crimson eyes sparkled with a mix of warmth and mischief, and Micheal felt his heart skip a beat.

"What is it?" he asked, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

Magda held up a sleek, freshly crafted com-tab. "I lost my old one during… well, everything at Armond. Father insists I replace it immediately, so here's my new contact. You'll need it if you plan on keeping in touch."

Micheal blinked, taking the com-tab carefully with his good hand. "You mean, if I plan on bothering you with pointless messages?" he teased lightly.

Magda's lips curved into a grin. "Exactly. How else will I know if you're staying out of trouble?"

As Micheal keyed in her contact details, Magda leaned closer, her teasing demeanor softening. "Micheal," she began, her tone gentler, "you'll come back for the Flower Festival, right?"

There was something in her eyes—an unspoken worry she rarely allowed to show. Micheal felt his throat tighten. She wasn't just asking for his presence. She wanted reassurance that he'd take care of himself, that he'd recover.

He met her gaze, his voice quiet but firm. "Of course. I promise I'll be there."

Magda studied him for a moment, then smiled. But just as Micheal thought the moment might end on a serious note, she tilted her head, her playful expression returning. "But when you come back, I expect to see the handsome aristocrat I married—not the frazzled, spoon-challenged mess I saw at lunch."

Micheal's face turned crimson, and he stumbled over his words. "I-I wasn't that bad!"

Magda raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Mmm, maybe. But if you don't shape up, I'll just dance with Father instead. At least he knows how to hold a spoon properly."

Micheal groaned, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "That's not fair. How am I supposed to compete with him? He's the Emperor!"

Magda grinned, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. "Well, you could start by staying healthy. Stop tripping over your cast and make it to meals on time without looking like you've fought a battle just to get there."

Micheal sighed in mock defeat, but his heart swelled at her words. "Alright, alright. I'll do better. I'll be the picture of health and etiquette by the time I come back."

Magda smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. "We'll see. No promises from my side. Father might still win me over if you're late again."

From a balcony above the hall, Raphael stood silently, his piercing crimson eyes fixed on the pair below. Though his expression remained stoic, his thoughts churned with judgment and annoyance.

Their interaction wasn't inappropriate, but it grated on him nonetheless. He'd raised Magda for 15 years in the Shared Space, teaching her independence, strength, and resilience. Watching her now, engaging in playful banter with Micheal—a boy who seemed more fragile than formidable—made Raphael's chest tighten with regret.

That boy can't even tolerate a horse, Raphael thought, his gaze narrowing as Micheal struggled with his cast and sling. And he's supposed to take care of my daughter?

His lips pressed into a thin line as he observed Magda's easy laughter. She had endured so much, from court pressures to near-death experiences, yet here she was, smiling at a man who seemed to trip over his own feet.

If he falters, Raphael mused, it won't be her who falls. It will be him.

The carriage arrived, and Micheal climbed in with some difficulty, glancing back multiple times toward Magda, who stood at the entrance waving at him. Raphael's gaze followed the carriage as it disappeared into the distance.

"Let's hope," Raphael murmured to himself, "he learns to stand on his own two feet—both literally and figuratively."