Meanwhile, Magda and Vivian worked quietly, their focus on the delicate embroidery before them. Magda's practiced movements caught Vivian's attention, and she tilted her head curiously.
"Your hand posture," Vivian observed, her emerald-green eyes narrowing. "It's precise—too precise for embroidery alone. Where did you learn that?"
Magda paused, glancing at her prospective sister-in-law, Micheal had already briefed Magda about his attempts at matchmaking Ethan and Vivian, and about the scandalous and misleading that followed. oi9oo/o99"Swordsmanship. The Imperial Guard's training includes lessons in hand control."
Vivian's eyebrows shot up. "You trained with the Imperial Guard?"
Magda nodded, her crimson eyes glinting. "Papa insisted. He believed it was essential for me to learn discipline and control."
Vivian's skepticism softened into admiration. "That's... impressive. Most mages wouldn't bother with physical training. But you're more than just a mage, aren't you?"
Magda smiled faintly. "And you're more than just a soldier. Your stitches are methodical—like battle formations."
Vivian let out a soft laugh, her auburn braid shifting over her shoulder. "You're not wrong. Strategy applies everywhere, even here."
The two began breaking down the embroidery process, discussing finger shifts and patterns with the same intensity one might use to plan a military operation.
Across the table, Commander Ethan von Shelb watched the exchange with quiet amusement. His sharp blue eyes followed Magda and Vivian's animated discussion, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"They've formed an alliance," he remarked dryly, his tone carrying a hint of humor.
Adrian, struggling under their mother's scrutiny, groaned. "Great. Now even embroidery is becoming political."
Ethan shook his head, his smile widening slightly. "It's not politics, Adrian. It's understanding."
As the lesson continued, Vivian glanced at Magda curiously. "You mentioned discipline earlier. Where did you learn tea etiquette? You're flawless with your hand movements."
Magda hesitated for a moment before answering. "Papa taught me. He insisted that I understand every detail of courtly manners. Tea etiquette was one of his favorite lessons."
Vivian's emerald-green eyes widened, her respect for Magda deepening. "The Emperor taught you tea etiquette? He's... he's practically a legend among the Imperial Guard. We all look up to him."
Magda smiled softly. "He's always been an excellent teacher. Strict, but thorough."
Vivian leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful. "You're more remarkable than I realized, Magda. I'm glad we're doing this."
Magda's smile widened just a fraction. "So am I."
Victor Whitestone sat at the long table, his back straight and his movements precise as he worked on his embroidery. His emerald-green eyes gleamed with focus, the golden light from the tall windows casting a soft glow on his auburn hair. Each stitch was deliberate, his hands steady and his concentration unwavering.
Duchess Eleanor watched him with a pleased expression, nodding approvingly. "Victor, you are an excellent example of refinement and effort. It's refreshing to see a young man approach this with such diligence."
Victor inclined his head modestly. "Thank you, Duchess Eleanor. I believe anything worth doing is worth doing well."
Adrian, seated a few spots away, rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yes, yes, let's all applaud Victor for being perfect at everything."
Eleanor's sharp gaze landed on Adrian, her tone crisp. "Adrian, you might do well to learn from Victor. He is twenty-four, four years younger than you, yet he is far more of a gentleman."
Adrian groaned, throwing his head back theatrically. "Mother, must you always compare us? He's been trained for this kind of thing since birth!"
Victor smirked but kept his eyes on his embroidery. "It's not a competition, Adrian."
"Everything's a competition," Adrian muttered under his breath, earning a warning glance from Eleanor.
Across the table, Ethan observed the scene with his usual stoic demeanor. His sharp blue eyes moved between the embroidery hoop in his hands and Victor's deliberate movements. For Ethan, who approached everything like a tactical operation, Victor's methodical approach was both admirable and intriguing.
"Victor," Ethan said, his voice calm but firm, "what's your strategy for keeping the stitches uniform?"
Victor glanced up, his emerald eyes meeting Ethan's sharp gaze. "It's all about maintaining tension in the thread and controlling your angles. Think of it like holding a formation—too loose, and the line falls apart; too tight, and it snaps."
Ethan nodded, his brow furrowing in thought. "That makes sense. Like ensuring the supply chain stays balanced during a campaign."
"Exactly," Victor replied, his tone warming. "It's all about precision and timing."
The two fell into a rhythm, discussing embroidery as though they were planning a military assault. Ethan adjusted his stitches based on Victor's advice, and Victor found himself unconsciously matching Ethan's deliberate pace.
By the end of the session, their combined efforts had produced a surprisingly intricate piece—a balanced pattern of flowers and geometric shapes.
Ethan examined the finished product with quiet satisfaction. "This turned out well," he remarked, his tone carrying a hint of surprise. "You're quite skilled, Victor."
Victor hesitated, his pride warring with his internal wariness. "Thank you, Commander Ethan. You're not so bad yourself."
Ethan offered a rare smile. "If I'd had you as a brother instead of Adrian, I might have been better at this sort of thing."
Victor blinked, his expression caught between disbelief and amusement. "You're serious?"
Ethan nodded. "You have a proficiency and focus that's... commendable."
Victor glanced at Adrian, who was scowling theatrically, then back at Ethan. "Well, I'm glad I could help."
Adrian, watching the unexpected camaraderie between Ethan and Victor, threw up his hands in mock despair. "Oh, wonderful. Now Victor is the golden child, too. This day just keeps getting better."
Eleanor arched an eyebrow. "Adrian, if you spent half as much time focusing on your work as you do complaining, you might surprise us all."
Adrian sighed dramatically. "For all his faults, Great-Grandfather Baron Edsel did one thing right—he split from the Whitestone family. I shudder to think how insufferable Victor would be if he were my cousin instead of an outsider."
Victor smirked, his tone light. "I'm sure you'd manage, Adrian."
Ethan, finishing his embroidery, gave Adrian a faintly amused look. "Adrian, focus. This isn't about competition—it's about improvement."
Adrian groaned, slumping in his chair. "Improvement? I'm beyond saving."
Victor and Ethan exchanged a glance, a shared understanding passing between them despite Victor's lingering wariness.
"Maybe he's right," Victor said dryly, earning a burst of laughter from the table.
Location: Halvora Estate
The Halvora Estate, known for its stately elegance and meticulously kept grounds, was eerily quiet that evening. The usual hum of servants moving briskly through the halls had stilled, replaced by whispers of unease. In the grand drawing room, Lady Halvora sat rigidly in her high-backed chair, her sharp features etched with tension. Her dark auburn hair, streaked with silver, was styled into an intricate bun, and her hazel eyes glinted with barely concealed fury.
Duke Olson, the elderly and imposing head of a prominent Loyalist family, stood across from her. His lined face was set in a grim expression, his dark blue eyes gleaming with displeasure.
"Lady Halvora," Olson began, his voice low but cutting, "this news—this scandal—threatens not just your family but the integrity of our alliance."
Lady Halvora's grip on the armrests tightened, her knuckles turning white. "Your Grace, I assure you, this situation is being dealt with."
Olson's gaze darkened. "Dealt with? Greta is with child. Do you understand the political ramifications of this? And to think I supported your marriage bill in honor of her future. This is how my loyalty is repaid?"
Halvora rose abruptly, the fabric of her silver-trimmed gown rustling as she moved toward Olson. "Your Grace, Greta made a mistake—one that will not be repeated. I can offer you my younger daughter, Amelia, as a replacement. She is more than capable of fulfilling the role intended for Greta."
Olson's expression turned icy, his tall frame looming over her. "Do you take me for a fool? I will not be placated with substitutions. Your family's name is now synonymous with disgrace."
Before Lady Halvora could respond, the door to the drawing room opened, and Greta stepped in. Her dark auburn hair, usually styled in elegant braids, fell loosely around her shoulders. Her brown eyes, so often sparkling with confidence, were downcast and rimmed with tears.
"Greta," Halvora said sharply, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "Do you realize what you've done?"
Greta flinched but said nothing, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
Greta's silence only deepened the tension in the room. Duke Olson, old enough to be her father, had been set to take her as his bride—a union meant to solidify a political alliance and bolster Lady Halvora's influence. But now, with Greta's condition revealed, the arrangement lay in ruins.
Olson's glare shifted to the young woman, his tone cutting. "Who is the father, girl? Speak."
Olson's glare shifted to the young woman, his tone cutting. "Who is the father, girl? Speak."
Greta's silence only deepened the tension in the room.
Lady Halvora turned to her daughter, her composure finally breaking. "Answer him!" she demanded, her voice rising. When Greta remained silent, Halvora's hand lashed out, striking her daughter's cheek with a sharp crack.
Greta gasped, her hand flying to her reddening face. Her brown eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and sorrow as she met her mother's furious gaze.
"I will not say," Greta said quietly but firmly.
Lady Halvora's chest heaved, her breath coming in short, angry bursts. "You will ruin us all. Do you understand that? The bill—our standing—everything depends on you doing your duty!"
Greta's lip trembled, but she stood her ground. "I will not name him. And I will not marry someone to hide this."
Olson stepped forward, his voice a cold, measured blade. "Then you leave me no choice. My support for your bill is rescinded. Good luck salvaging your reputation, Lady Halvora."
With that, he turned on his heel and left the room, his heavy footsteps echoing through the hall.
As the door slammed shut behind Olson, Lady Halvora slumped back into her chair, her anger giving way to exhaustion. Greta remained standing, her cheek still stinging from her mother's slap, her heart pounding in her chest.
Lady Halvora's sharp gaze pierced her daughter. "You've destroyed more than yourself, Greta. You've destroyed us."
Greta flinched but stood her ground, her brown eyes glistening with defiance. "I've made mistakes, Mother. But I won't destroy this child to save myself—or you."
Lady Halvora's lips thinned, her hazel eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Do you think carrying this scandal to term will save you? Do you think it will bring you anything but shame?"
Greta's voice trembled, but her resolve was clear. "I don't care. This is my child, and I won't let you take that from me."
Halvora rose from her chair, her movements deliberate and sharp. "You speak as though I haven't already tried to save you. Do you think I didn't know about your sister's betrayal? The pills she told you about were for your own good."
Greta's breath hitched, her eyes widening in shock and anger. "My own good? You tried to kill my child!"
Lady Halvora's expression remained cold, unrepentant. "You are too naive to understand the consequences of your actions. That child will ruin you—ruin us. I gave you an out, and you rejected it. What happens now is your burden to bear."
The silence that followed was deafening, but Greta's mind was a storm. Her sister's whispered warnings about the pills had saved her, yet the realization of her mother's lengths left her both shaken and conflicted.
Lady Halvora had always acted with precision and purpose, her every decision calculated to protect the family's reputation and position. Greta couldn't deny that, in her own way, her mother had been trying to protect her—just as Greta now wanted to protect her child.
"She thought she was saving me," Greta murmured to herself as she walked down the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps soft but deliberate. "The same way I want to save this child."
But the weight of her mother's methods still lingered, heavy and suffocating. The pills, the alliances, the cold pragmatism—it was all too much. Her paranoia deepened as she realized that her mother's protective instincts would not relent, even if it meant destroying the very thing Greta cherished most.
A trembling hand rested on her stomach as she paused by a window, the pale moonlight casting her face in a soft glow. "I understand why you did it, Mother," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "but I won't let you take this from me. Not this time."
The quiet resolve in her voice hardened into determination. She would fight for her child, even if it meant standing against her mother.