Location: Raphael's Study
The opulence of Raphael's study was offset by its purposeful design. The high shelves, lined with ancient tomes, were complemented by the large desk adorned with stacks of neatly organized reports. The faint hum of mana crystals embedded in the walls provided a subtle, comforting glow.
An attendant entered, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty, I bring news that Lady Flora has left the capital."
Raphael, seated at his desk, looked up from a document he had been reviewing. His piercing crimson eyes fixed on the attendant, curiosity flashing across his otherwise calm expression. "Left? For the North, I presume?"
The attendant nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. She departed early this morning. Calista, Princess Magda's mage, accompanied her."
Raphael's brows lifted slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Calista went with her? That is... unexpected. Flora will be well-protected, then."
The attendant hesitated before adding, "Calista's presence raised some eyebrows, but it was clear that Princess Magda entrusted her to Lady Flora."
Raphael leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "Good. Flora has courage, but courage without wisdom is a dangerous thing. Calista will provide the latter."
As the attendant left, Raphael's faint smile faded, replaced by a shadow of concern. While Flora's safety was now assured, Magda remained exposed in ways that troubled him deeply.
He turned to the side and called out, "Lysander."
From a corner of the room, a figure emerged, his movements fluid and precise. Lysander's jet-black hair fell neatly to his shoulders, and his piercing silver-gray eyes locked onto the Emperor with quiet intensity.
"Your Majesty," Lysander said, inclining his head.
Raphael studied him for a moment. "Magda needs protection—unseen, unwavering. While she remains at the Shelb Estate or the Imperial Palace, she is safe. But outside those walls..."
Lysander nodded, understanding immediately. "You want me to shadow her."
"Precisely," Raphael replied. "You've been by her side as an assistant long enough that no one questions your presence. Let them continue underestimating you."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Lysander's lips. "You've hidden me in plain sight, Your Majesty. Even she doesn't know the full truth."
"That is by design," Raphael said, his tone unyielding. "Magda values independence, but she has enemies who would exploit that. You are not there to interfere—only to act if the need arises."
Lysander bowed deeply. "It will be done."
As Lysander left the study, Raphael allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. The battle mage had been hand-picked years ago, a dual-wielding master of both mana and aura. To the outside world, Lysander was a scholarly assistant and a friend of Micheal—a misconception that Raphael had fostered deliberately. In truth, Lysander was a shadow groomed for one purpose: to ensure Magda's safety.
Location: Imperial Training grounds
The open expanse of the mage's training ground was bathed in the bluish glow of mana lanterns, the vast space designed to accommodate the most advanced magical exercises. At its center stood Raphael, his long raven-black hair flowing like an ink-stained river. His crimson eyes burned with intensity as he observed the figure before him.
The shadow figure was mid-stride, attempting to split space for teleportation. The air around him shimmered faintly, evidence of his struggling efforts.
"Focus," Raphael commanded, his voice sharp but calm. "You're forcing the mana. It must flow naturally."
The shadow figure gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. The shimmering air wavered and snapped back into place, leaving him visibly frustrated.
"It's not working," he muttered, his voice tinged with self-doubt.
Raphael crossed his arms, his expression impassive. "Because you're overthinking. Mana responds to intent, not brute force. Magda could split space on her first attempt because she understood that."
The shadow figure shot him a sideways glance, his frustration bubbling over. "Magda, Magda, Magda. Everything I do is compared to her."
Raphael's lips quirked into a faint, amused smile. "Perhaps because she succeeded where you continue to struggle."
The shadow figure sighed, his hands clenching into fists. "What's the point if I'm just going to fail again?"
Raphael stepped closer, his crimson eyes locking onto the figure's. "The point is that failure is the foundation of mastery. You think Magda never failed? She did. She just never let it stop her."
The figure exhaled slowly, his frustration easing into determination. He squared his shoulders and prepared to try again.
Raphael watched him silently for a moment before adding, "I may need to bring in a battle mage to assist your training. Your approach is too rigid. You need someone who understands the fluidity of combat magic."
The shadow figure groaned, his tone slipping into exasperation. "Great. Another tutor to make me feel incompetent."
Raphael smirked, his amusement evident. "Perhaps. Or perhaps they'll help you reach your potential."
The figure nodded begrudgingly and returned his focus to the shimmering air before him. Raphael's gaze softened slightly as he observed the young man's efforts.
"Progress is slow," he murmured to himself, "but the pieces are falling into place."
The figure groaned, their voice tinged with frustration. "You're not giving up on me, are you?"
Raphael's smile widened slightly. "Of course not. You're mine to mold, and I never abandon what is mine."
Location: Halvora Estate
The grand parlor of the Halvora Estate was cloaked in an oppressive stillness, its richly adorned walls and heavy draperies failing to dispel the suffocating weight in the air. Lady Halvora sat by the window, her hazel eyes fixed on the gray horizon beyond. Her dark auburn hair, streaked with silver, was neatly styled in an intricate bun, but her elegant appearance betrayed none of the turmoil roiling within her.
In the quiet of her thoughts, she returned to the beginning—fourteen years old, her world collapsing, her future sold to pay her father's debts.
She could still hear her father's voice, trembling as he negotiated with the Marquess of Halvora, a man thirty years her senior. "She's strong and healthy," her father had said, his tone pleading. "She'll bear you many children."
She had stood there, her heart racing, her voice silenced by fear. The Marquess had looked at her as one appraises livestock, his cold blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "She'll do," he had said simply, sealing her fate.
Her life as the Marquess's third wife was a blur of humiliation and pain. The other wives had failed to bear him children, and young Ophelia—now Lady Halvora—was subjected to relentless experiments. The Marquess's physicians had poked and prodded her, forcing her into dehumanizing positions under the guise of "ensuring conception."
At sixteen, when she finally became pregnant, she thought the nightmare would end. But when she bore a daughter, the Marquess's fury descended upon her like a storm. "A girl?" he had spat, his face twisted with disdain. "Try again. And do not fail me."
She bore him three daughters in total before the Marquess finally succumbed to alcohol poisoning, his body as decayed as his soul. When his death was announced, Ophelia had locked herself in her room and wept—not for the man she had married, but for the years he had stolen from her.
Widowhood brought a cruel form of freedom. No longer bound to the Marquess, she was now a single mother of three, tasked with carving out a place for herself in a society that despised her.
The noblewomen whispered behind their fans, calling her a vixen who would seduce their husbands. Their disdain followed her to court, where her presence was tolerated but never accepted.
The men were worse. Beneath their courteous facades, they leered at her, their words dripping with innuendo. "A widow needs comfort," one had said once, his breath hot against her ear. "Let me ease your loneliness."
She had slapped him hard enough to leave a mark. The satisfaction was fleeting, the backlash lasting. She was labeled as cold, untouchable, a woman too proud for her station.
Her survival came through her daughters. She educated them fiercely, determined that they would never endure the humiliation she had faced. She clawed her way into the court's politics, seizing every opportunity to advance their futures.
It was during these tumultuous years that Empress Celeste's reforms changed everything. The lovestruck Raphael, under his wife's influence, decreed that noblewomen could represent their families in court.
For the first time, Ophelia found a glimmer of respect. She took her seat as the Marquess's widow and proved herself a capable advocate. She outmaneuvered those who sought to undermine her, her hazel eyes flashing with determination as she debated policies and proposed reforms.
But even as she rose in influence, the scars of her past lingered. She remembered the young girl she had been, trembling before the Marquess, and vowed never to let another girl face the same fate.
Now, as she stared at the horizon, Lady Halvora clenched her hands in her lap. Her daughters were grown, but her resolve had not wavered.
She thought of Greta, her fiery red hair and sharp wit, and Amelia, her quiet strength. They deserved a future free from the chains she had worn—a future she had fought so hard to build.
But the irony was bitter. To protect them, she had become the very thing she despised—a woman willing to barter her daughters for alliances.
Tears welled in her hazel eyes, blurring the view beyond the window. She let them fall, her perfectly composed facade cracking in the solitude of her home.
"I promised myself," she whispered, her voice trembling, "that no girl would suffer as I did. But... am I any better?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered and unforgiving. Yet as the tears fell, so did her doubt. Lady Halvora wiped her face with a trembling hand and rose from her seat.
"No," she said aloud, her voice firmer now. "I am better. And I will see this through—for them."
Her hazel eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, hardened with resolve. Lady Halvora was a survivor, and she would protect her daughters—even if it meant sacrificing her own soul in the process.