Micheal sat cross-legged on the plush carpet of his room, surrounded by an assortment of carefully chosen "essentials" for his upcoming enlistment. The golden hues of the setting sun filtered through the expansive windows, casting a warm glow on his meticulous packing.
Arrayed around him were three sets of silk pajamas, a rainbow of scented candles, his favorite leather-bound journal, and a stack of perfectly ironed handkerchiefs. Several pairs of impeccably polished shoes were lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection.
He picked up a lavender-scented candle, holding it close t his nose.
Micheal (muttering): "Lavender might help with the stress of drills… but eucalyptus could enhance clarity. Then again, vanilla might foster camaraderie."
The com-tab resting beside him buzzed, cutting through his indecisive reverie. Micheal glanced at it, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the incoming message. Maggie had replied.
Maggie: You're what?!
Micheal typed back, his movements precise and deliberate, as though reaffirming his commitment with each keystroke.
Micheal (typing): I'm joining the Armond military camp as a recruit. I've made my decision.
Far away at the Armond estate, Maggie reclined in her favorite armchair, a steaming cup of tea balanced delicately on the armrest. Her emerald-green eyes scanned Micheal's message, her lips curling into an amused smile.
Maggie (waving her com-tab toward her husband): "Guess who's decided to join our military camp as a recruit?"
Across the room, Drifter, the famed dragonslayer knight, sat polishing his ceremonial sword. The flickering firelight from the aesthetic fireplace cast sharp shadows across his broad shoulders and chiseled features. His piercing gaze lifted from the blade, fixing on Maggie with a mixture of exasperation and curiosity.
Drifter (gruffly): "If it's that Shelb pretty boy, the answer is no. The Duke will have my head, and I don't need more headaches."
Maggie tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Maggie: "You wouldn't refuse him if I told you Reuben likes him."
Drifter's expression shifted. The mention of their eldest son, Reuben—more mage than knight—struck a chord. Drifter had always struggled to connect with Reuben, whose magical expertise often clashed with his father's aura-based martial prowess.
Maggie (softly): "Reuben needs someone he can relate to. Someone like Micheal. Maybe Micheal can help you understand him better."
Drifter's jaw tightened, his calloused hands gripping the sword hilt. He sighed heavily, surrendering to his wife's logic.
Drifter (muttering): "Fine. But he'll be treated like any other recruit. No exceptions."
Maggie (grinning): "Of course, dear."
-----
Back in Shelb's estate, the door to Micheal's room suddenly burst open, and Barnaby stormed in, his imposing figure filling the room like a thundercloud. His athletic frame, broad shoulders, and perpetually tousled chestnut-brown hair gave him a commanding presence, even as his polished uniform clung impeccably to his form. His sharp green eyes sparkled with a mix of frustration and energy, almost electrifying the air around him.
Barnaby (half-yelling): "Master Micheal, what is this madness about joining the Armond military camp? Have you lost your porcelain mind?"
Micheal looked up from his neatly folded handkerchiefs, blinking innocently.
Micheal (calmly): "Ethan said it would build character."
Barnaby crossed his arms, his exasperation palpable.
Barnaby: "Ah, yes. Because when I think of building character, I think of scented candles and silk pajamas." He gestured at the items strewn across the carpet. "This isn't about the camp, is it? This is about a certain someone."
Micheal's face turned crimson, and he scrambled to deny the accusation.
Micheal (stammering): "It's not about Magda! It's about—discipline! Yes, discipline!"
Barnaby raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but before he could retort, the door swung open. Adrian entered, his usually composed demeanor overshadowed by visible distress.
Adrian (earnestly): "Are you serious, Micheal? Why not join the Shelb army? It's not as if we don't have the best training in the Empire."
Micheal, already frazzled, snapped.
Micheal: "I can't! Anywhere but the Shelb army!"
Adrian froze, his deep blue eyes wide with shock. The words hit him like a hammer, and he stepped back, his golden-blonde hair catching the light as he processed the statement.
Adrian (quietly): "So… you think our army isn't good enough."
Micheal opened his mouth to argue but stopped when he saw the hurt in Adrian's expression. Adrian nodded curtly and left, muttering under his breath.
-----
Adrian (muttering): "Lavender soap… seriously."
Adrian leaned against the corridor wall, his thoughts spiraling. His brother's words replayed in his mind, each one stinging like a blade.
Adrian thinks to himself, "If Micheal thinks our army isn't good enough, I'll prove him wrong. I'll make the Shelb army the envy of the Empire."
-----
Back in Micheal's room, the faint glow of sunset filtered through the ornate windows, casting a warm golden hue over the chaos that was his packing. Micheal was once again debating the merits of chamomile tea versus mint for his travel set when Barnaby, still as imposing as ever, sighed audibly. His green eyes, usually sharp and full of energy, softened as he observed his master's determination.
Barnaby leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, his polished uniform perfectly at odds with his perpetually tousled hair. His initial frustration seemed to dissipate, replaced by resigned affection.
Barnaby (grumbling): "You're truly set on this, aren't you?"
Micheal looked up from his deliberation over tea blends, his bright blue eyes sparkling with resolve. He nodded firmly, his expression more serious than Barnaby was used to seeing.
Micheal (simply): "I have to."
Barnaby pushed himself off the doorframe with a small shake of his head. Kneeling beside Micheal, he reached into the pile of neatly folded items. Pulling out a silk pajama set, he raised an incredulous eyebrow.
Barnaby (dryly): "And you think the Armond brutes are going to care about your bedtime elegance?"
Micheal gave a small chuckle, reaching for the pajamas and smoothing them back into place.
Micheal: "Just because one is a recruit doesn't mean one must sacrifice dignity."
Barnaby rolled his eyes but started unpacking some of Micheal's more questionable choices, replacing them with practical items—a durable water flask, extra socks, and a small first aid kit. His hands moved deftly, each motion betraying a lifetime of military precision.
Barnaby (muttering under his breath): "Porcelain in a battlefield. This will be a spectacle."
Micheal caught the words and frowned, his voice tinged with mock indignation.
Micheal: "Porcelain? I'll have you know I'm as durable as—"
Barnaby (cutting him off): "—a tea set in a hurricane. Yes, sir, I'm well aware."
Despite his grumbling, Barnaby's movements became gentler, his usual sharp remarks softened by genuine concern. He sneaked in a small, well-worn charm for good luck into Micheal's bag, tucking it beneath the layers of essentials.
As they packed, Barnaby's voice dropped into a softer tone.
Barnaby: "You'll need more than scented candles and charm to survive out there. If you ever feel like it's too much… just say the word. I'll come running."
Micheal paused, touched by the sincerity in his words. A small smile curved his lips.
Micheal: "I know, Barnaby. That's why I'll be fine."
-----
Downstairs in the grand hall, the atmosphere was anything but serene. Duchess Eleanor von Shelb, the epitome of noble grace, was pacing the length of the room. Her long chestnut-brown hair, usually styled with precision, swayed with every determined step, and her striking hazel eyes flashed with a mixture of worry and indignation.
Clara, her ever-faithful maid, stood nearby, her hands neatly folded and her expression calm despite the storm brewing before her.
Duchess Eleanor: "My poor Micheal! Bullied into enlisting by those brute sons of mine. It's all their father's fault, you know."
Clara tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful.
Clara (gently): "The young master seems quite determined, my lady."
Eleanor paused mid-step, turning sharply to face her maid.
Duchess Eleanor (exasperated): "Determined or not, he's still my baby. The Armond military camp! Of all places! They'll ruin his complexion, Clara."
Clara fought back a smile, her voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Clara: "Perhaps it will do him some good."
Eleanor blinked, as if the idea was entirely foreign to her. She resumed pacing, though her steps seemed slightly less frantic.
Duchess Eleanor (softly): "Good? Perhaps… but if anything happens to him…"
Her voice trailed off, but the fire in her hazel eyes burned brighter.
Duchess Eleanor: "…there will be hell to pay."
Clara gave a small nod, her smile softening.
Clara: "Of that, I have no doubt, my lady."
The duchess sighed dramatically, the hem of her elegant gown sweeping across the polished floor with each step. She stared out of the tall windows, her thoughts far away.
Duchess Eleanor (murmuring): "He's always been different, you know. So much like me in some ways, and yet so utterly his own person. Perhaps that's why he drives me mad."
Clara offered no response, knowing the duchess needed the space to voice her worries. After a long pause, Eleanor straightened, her regal demeanor firmly back in place.
Duchess Eleanor: "Still, I will not have my gentle son dragged into chaos by those military maniacs. If they so much as scuff his boots…"
Her words trailed off again, but the steel in her tone was unmistakable. Clara hid her amusement as she curtsied.
Clara: "I shall ensure his boots are polished to perfection before he leaves, my lady."
The duchess sighed again, this time with a mix of frustration and resignation. With one final sweep of her gown, she turned on her heel and marched out of the hall, muttering about how she would handle "those boys" later.
----
Location: Shelb Camp
As the first hints of dusk painted the Shelb barracks in warm, golden hues, Adrian von Shelb dismounted his horse with practiced elegance. His golden-blonde hair glinted in the fading sunlight, and his deep blue eyes scanned the grounds with a mix of determination and calculation.
Soldiers, mid-task in their evening routines, saluted him reflexively. Adrian responded with a polite wave.
Adrian: "No need for formalities today, gentlemen. Carry on."
His calm demeanor was a familiar sight, but it did little to foreshadow what was to come. With a purposeful stride, Adrian approached his assistant, Harry, who was balancing a com-tab precariously in one hand and an overstuffed satchel in the other.
Adrian: "Harry, I've decided to initiate a wellness survey for the soldiers. Morale drives efficiency, and efficiency ensures victory."
Harry blinked, visibly caught off guard by the sudden announcement. His wiry frame seemed to tremble under the weight of his perpetual dishevelment, but he quickly sprang into action, furiously scrolling through his com-tab.
Harry: "A survey... of course, sir. Let me find a template."
After a few frantic moments, Harry located a wellness survey and presented it with an air of triumph.
Unfortunately, his enthusiasm led him to overlook a critical detail: the source of the survey was a luxury hotel chain in the Shelb estate known for pampering its noble guests.
Harry: "Here you go, sir. I'll print it out right away."
Adrian nodded approvingly, entirely unaware of the template's origins.
Adrian: "Efficient as always, Harry. Print it, and I'll distribute it myself. Direct engagement will enhance its effectiveness."
Minutes later, armed with a neatly stacked pile of printed surveys and a clipboard, Adrian walked confidently into the barracks, catching the attention of soldiers stacking firewood. His polished boots clicked against the cobblestones, announcing his arrival.
Adrian: "Good evening, men! I'm here to ask a few questions that will improve your experience in the Shelb military."
The soldiers exchanged puzzled glances but stood to attention.
Adrian (enthusiastically): "Question one. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the current state of the barracks soap?"
Soldier #1 (hesitantly): "Soap, sir?"
Adrian: "Yes, soap. Specifically, do you prefer lavender or pine scents? This is vital for morale and hygiene."
The soldiers struggled to suppress their bewilderment. Adrian, however, was unfazed, jotting down answers with the fervor of a man uncovering military secrets.
Adrian: "Now, about the mess hall. Would embroidered banners featuring the Shelb crest inspire more loyalty during meals?"
Soldier #2 (murmuring to a comrade): "Is this a trick question?"
Officer (whispering, overhearing): "Just answer him. It's easier that way."
Adrian's clipboard filled rapidly as he worked his way through the barracks, his questions growing increasingly eccentric. Some soldiers scratched their heads over inquiries about breakfast pastries, while others tried not to laugh at questions regarding personalized armor engravings.
Location: Shelb-Armond Mage Tower
Meanwhile, in the silent depths of the Mage Tower, Magda von Valoria stood before an array of fir tree cross-sections, their glowing rings casting faint light onto the stone walls. Her crimson eyes were narrowed in concentration as she traced her finger along the grooves of a particularly bright ring.
Lysander Valmont, her steadfast assistant, stood nearby, gray eyes quietly assessing the patterns.
Magda: "This ring here—it's darker than the others. The mana disturbance matches the wasteland patterns from twenty years ago."
Lysander: "If we gather more samples, we might be able to confirm that theory. The patterns are consistent, but it's strange. It almost feels… deliberate."
Magda's thoughts swirled as she stared at the glowing rings. The implications were profound, touching on ancient myths that could reshape their understanding of magic. Yet the puzzle remained stubbornly incomplete.
Magda (to herself): "What are we missing?"
The faint hum of the magical orbs seemed to pulse in tandem with her rising apprehension. Somewhere within these patterns lay an answer—one that could change everything.
Her heart raced as the weight of discovery pressed down on her, and for the first time in a long while, Magda felt the sharp sting of unease.