Location: Micheal's chambers
When exhaustion finally claimed him, he found his way to his chambers, Micheal collapsed onto his bed, his trembling hands burying his face. But rest wouldn't come.
Her image filled his mind—the way her ink-black hair had fallen over her shoulders, the softness of her crimson eyes as they searched his face for reassurance. He could still feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers as he brushed her hair aside to inspect her injury.
And then there was the blush—the faint pink that had bloomed on her cheeks as his hand lingered near her temple. It was an innocent moment, yet it unraveled him in ways he couldn't control.
He closed his eyes, hoping to escape the thoughts that tormented him, but her presence grew even stronger. He saw her in the carriage, sunlight framing her delicate features, her lips parting as she called his name in her sweet, lilting voice.
Micheal's breath hitched, and he turned onto his side, his fists clenching the sheets. What was wrong with him?
He had spent his life mastering discipline, earning respect for his logic and restraint. He chuckled to himself, "Barnaby would die of shame if he saw me now." Yet here he was, unraveled by the thought of his own wife.
It wasn't just her beauty, though that alone was enough to tempt him. It was the way she looked at him, with a mix of curiosity and admiration that made him feel both exposed and seen. It was the way her innocence contrasted so starkly with the fire she had shown during the red sky—the same fire that had nearly cost her life.
Micheal's chest tightened as he imagined holding her in his arms, his hands trailing through her hair, his lips brushing against hers. The thought of her soft skin beneath his fingertips sent a rush of heat through him, his body reacting to desires he had long kept suppressed.
"What is wrong with me?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His breath came uneven as he buried his face deeper into the pillow.
She wasn't just his wife. She was his sanctuary—his reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was something worth protecting. But she was also his undoing, the one person who could unravel his carefully constructed composure with a single glance.
Micheal exhaled shakily, his hands still trembling as he reached for the edge of the bed. The weight of his feelings—both tender and far from innocent—pressed heavily on him. He wanted her, not just in spirit but in flesh, her warmth a balm to the fear and desire that consumed him.
But more than anything, he wanted her safe.
As he stared at the faint moonlight spilling through the curtains, Micheal made a silent vow. Whatever it took, he would protect her. He would protect her from the dangers of the world, from the shadows of their past, and even from his own overwhelming need to hold her close.
Location: Imperial Palace, Magda's Chambers
The deep crimson hues of twilight spilled through the arched windows of Magda's chambers, painting the room in soft, flickering shades of gold and scarlet. The glow bathed the polished wood furniture, glinting off delicate trinkets that hinted at her dual identity as both a mage and a noblewoman. Yet, the tranquil beauty of the scene did little to soothe the unrest within her.
Magda stood by the desk, her delicate fingers tracing the embossed edges of a sealed missive. The wax seal bore the faint impression of Flora's insignia, its intricacy a silent testament to their shared caution. Correspondence between the sisters was always handled with the utmost secrecy, and this missive was no exception.
She exhaled softly, her crimson eyes narrowing as she broke the seal. The contents of the letter were written in the same cryptic manner they had agreed upon—innocuous on the surface, but laden with meaning for those who knew what to look for. A casual inquiry into health and well-being masked Flora's updates on her plans to marry Fredrick and secure their union before the marriage bill could threaten it.
Magda's lips curved into a small smile as she read. Flora's determination shone through her words, a strength that Magda admired deeply. Despite the storm raging around them, her sister had refused to yield.
Yet, as Magda set the missive aside, her expression dimmed. The secrecy of their correspondence weighed heavily on her. While she supported the marriage bill in principle, its unintended consequences for Flora were a bitter pill to swallow. Magda could not stand idly by and watch her sister lose the love of her life.
Their method of communication was meticulous—no com-tabs, no direct names or locations, nothing that could incriminate them if intercepted. The letters bore no sender or addressee, and every line was crafted to appear as innocent exchanges between two sisters concerned for each other's well-being. To the untrained eye, it was nothing more than idle chatter.
Magda's fingers lingered on the parchment, her mind flickering with worry. The risks were enormous, and the stakes higher than ever.
As she turned away from the letter, her thoughts drifted to Micheal. Her time at the Shelb Estate had been a blur of awkward silences and unfulfilled gestures. She recalled how she had tried—tentative touches, shy smiles—but Micheal had remained as composed as ever. His seemingly indifferent reactions gnawed at her, fueling doubts she couldn't quite silence.
Magda crossed the room and sank into the cushioned chair by the window, her gaze fixed on the amber sky. The memory of Micheal's hand brushing hers, his sharp blue eyes flicking to her with a fleeting softness before he withdrew—it left her both flustered and frustrated.
She sighed, twirling a strand of her ink-black hair between her fingers. For a fleeting moment, she considered writing to Flora for advice. Surely, her sister—who had captured Fredrick's heart so effortlessly—would know what to do.
But the idea was quickly dismissed. A letter about her private struggles could be far too revealing if intercepted, and Magda would never risk jeopardizing Flora's delicate plans for her own concerns.
Magda leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk as she clasped her hands tightly together. "Focus, Magda," she whispered, her voice firm yet tinged with uncertainty. "You have bigger concerns to deal with."
The letter on the desk seemed to glow faintly in the twilight, a reminder of Flora's strength and the bond they shared. Magda straightened, brushing her doubts aside.
There was a storm on the horizon, and she couldn't afford to falter now.
Location: Imperial War Room
The Imperial War Room was a cavernous space dominated by a grand circular table, its surface illuminated with glowing mana projections of the empire's territories. Faint glimmers of light pulsed across the map, marking regions of activity. The North, however, was alive with erratic flares of red and silver—a sign of unstable mana.
Raphael Valoria stood at the head of the table, his crimson eyes sharp as they scanned the projections. His ink-black hair flowed over his shoulders, lending him an imposing aura that even the most seasoned generals hesitated to challenge.
Magda entered quietly, her crimson eyes meeting her father's briefly before she took her place beside him. The room was filled with military commanders and mages, their expressions a mixture of concern and uncertainty.
"The fluctuations in the North have intensified," one of the senior mages began, gesturing toward the map. "The disturbances are spreading beyond the Wastelands, encroaching on settled territories. This is no longer a localized anomaly."
Magda leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the flickering patterns. "It's similar to what I observed during my fir tree stem cross-section experiment," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. "The mana distribution is uneven, creating pockets of intense instability. If left unchecked, it could result in catastrophic mana ruptures."
The room fell silent as the weight of her words settled over them.
One of the military commanders, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, spoke up. "Princess Magda has proven her expertise time and again. Perhaps her direct involvement—"
"No," Raphael interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut through the room.
All eyes turned to the Emperor, whose usually calm demeanor had been replaced with an intensity that sent a chill through the room.
"Magda will not be involved," Raphael continued, his crimson eyes locking onto the commander who had spoken. "I will not risk my daughter on this matter."
Magda's lips parted, surprise flickering across her face. "Papa, with respect, I'm the one who discovered this anomaly before it escalated. If anyone can find a solution—"
"You will stay out of it," Raphael said, his voice rising for the first time in years. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
The seasoned generals and mages exchanged uneasy glances. It was rare to see the Emperor lose his composure, and rarer still to hear him raise his voice.
"You don't understand," Raphael said, his tone quieter now but no less intense. His crimson eyes softened as they met Magda's. "I lost your mother to something like this twenty years ago. I won't lose you too."
Magda froze, the words sinking in with the weight of a long-buried pain. She had heard fragments of the story growing up but had never seen her father's grief laid so bare.
"Papa," she began, her voice faltering.
"No, Magda," Raphael said firmly, his expression hardening once more. "This discussion is over."
As the meeting adjourned, the room emptied one by one, leaving only Magda and Raphael. She stood in silence, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions.
Raphael finally turned to her, his crimson eyes weary but resolute. "You are my daughter, Magda. The Empire may need you, but I need you more. Please, understand that."
Magda nodded slowly, though the frustration still burned within her. She wanted to argue, to make him see that her involvement could make a difference, but the raw vulnerability in his voice stopped her.
"I understand," she said softly, though her resolve to investigate the anomaly in secret grew stronger with each passing moment.
Location: Shelb Estate Balcony
The Shelb estate's grand gathering hall buzzed with quiet tension, the Southwestern nobles exchanging pleasantries over the subdued clink of crystal goblets and the faint strains of a string quartet. The balcony, overlooking the sprawling gardens, offered a reprieve from the orchestrated chaos inside. Adrian von Shelb leaned casually against the balustrade, his golden hair catching the soft glow of the estate's lanterns.
The evening air carried murmurs from the adjacent corner of the balcony, and a particular snippet of conversation sliced through the ambient noise like a blade.
"... Greta's pregnancy," one whispered, their tone laced with mock concern. "A career suicide. And to think she was the pride of Halvora..."
Adrian's relaxed posture stiffened. He turned sharply toward the voices, his sharp blue eyes narrowing on a trio of nobles.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice cutting through the whispers with quiet authority. "Care to explain what you're talking about?"
The group froze, exchanging uneasy glances. One, braver than the others, stepped forward. "Lord Adrian," he began cautiously, "we were merely discussing what everyone already knows. Greta Halvora… well, the rumors—"
"Are not rumors," another interjected hastily. "Old Bachelor Duke Olson has already pulled his support for House Halvora. This isn't gossip; it's politics."
Adrian's jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the trio. "Politics," he repeated icily. "And who might I thank for your political insight? Are you all loyalists now?"
The bravest of the group faltered but managed a reply. "The Noble faction has nothing to gain from this, Lord Adrian. Olson's withdrawal is already public knowledge."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the faint sounds of laughter from the party inside. Adrian's mind raced. Duke Olson's withdrawal was a strategic death knell for Lady Halvora. Greta's mother, already navigating delicate waters as a Noble faction leader, could not afford such a blow.
"You've said enough," Adrian said, his tone sharp as a blade. "Leave."
The trio scattered, their whispered retreat blending with the night. Adrian turned back to the railing, gripping the cool marble as he stared out at the moonlit gardens.
The sound of measured footsteps behind him drew Adrian's attention. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"Adrian," Ethan von Shelb said, his elder twin's voice calm and steady. "Was that about Greta?"
Adrian let out a sharp exhale, his shoulders tense. "They say her career's done, Ethan. Olson's already withdrawn support from Lady Halvora."
Ethan joined him at the railing, his sharp blue eyes scanning the darkened estate grounds. "That doesn't mean you need to entertain gossip," he said, his tone neutral.
"It's not gossip if Olson's moved already," Adrian shot back, his voice low. "And it's not just about politics. Greta… she's not the type to—" He stopped himself, shaking his head.
Ethan glanced at him. "The type to what? Make mistakes?"
Adrian hesitated, his grip tightening on the railing. "She was always the boldest of us, you know? But not reckless. Smart, sharp. She was Greta, for Emperor's sake. The one who kept us all in line, even while she laughed at the world."
Ethan crossed his arms, his voice quiet but firm. "People make mistakes, Adrian. Even Greta."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Adrian's gaze drifted toward the distant treeline, his thoughts a whirl of memories and questions. Greta, the perfect aristocrat in public, the sharp-tongued cornerstone of their circle in private. She had never been careless—not with her words, not with her actions.
But now...
Adrian finally turned to Ethan, his blue eyes shadowed with unease. "Who's the father? Does anyone know?"
Ethan shook his head, his expression unreadable. "If they do, they're not saying. But I wouldn't put it past Olson's camp to twist this into something worse."
Adrian's lips pressed into a thin line. He felt the weight of the whispers, the judgment already circling Greta like vultures. He thought of her poised figure, her quick wit that had once charmed dukes and debutantes alike. How would she face this? How could she, when the court was already sharpening its claws?
Ethan placed a hand on Adrian's shoulder, his voice steady. "You care about her. That's clear. But don't let anger guide you. Think."
Adrian glanced at him, his expression conflicted. "And what if thinking isn't enough?"
Ethan didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head toward the distant treeline, his gaze sharp. "Then you'd better be ready for whatever comes next."
Adrian followed his brother's gaze, his heart sinking as the darkened estate grounds seemed to grow colder, heavier with the weight of unanswered questions. The faintest rustle of leaves caught his attention, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a shadow shift at the edge of the trees—a figure watching, waiting.
He blinked, and it was gone.
But the unease lingered.
Adrian's thoughts churned as he turned back toward the glowing lights of the party. Somewhere inside, the answer to Greta's predicament waited—or perhaps it lay in the shadowed figure at the treeline.