Micheal leaned back in the plush seats, watching the scenery blur past as they sped toward the club. Despite the chaos of the morning, a small smile tugged at his lips.
With Barnaby's unrelenting support and the odd comfort of his friend's banter, Micheal felt ready to face whatever the day held—though he silently prayed the riding club meeting would be mercifully brief.
As the carriage rolled to a smooth stop outside the grand gates of the club, Micheal stepped out, his usual confident air returning. He adjusted his cravat, his mind already preparing witty retorts for whatever his friends had in store.
"Well, Barnaby," he said, glancing back at his butler with a smirk, "it seems your chaos paid off. Right on time, as usual."
"Of course, Master Micheal," Barnaby replied, his tone smug. "Punctuality isn't just a virtue—it's an art. Now, go dazzle them, sir."
With that, Micheal strode toward the club's entrance, his earlier reluctance fading under the warm glow of the morning sun.
The riding club was alive with activity, the crisp morning air carrying the sounds of laughter, neighing horses, and the rustle of fine fabrics. Nobles in their tailored riding attire mingled, exchanging pleasantries while their grooms prepared their mounts.
Micheal, however, approached their usual meeting spot with the energy of a man heading to his execution.
Erwin Calden spotted him first, leaning casually against the stable wall.
"Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!" he called out, his voice carrying a mischievous edge. "Did Barnaby finally drag you here by the collar? Or did he carry you like a damsel in distress again?"
Rupert Greystone chuckled, tipping an imaginary hat in Micheal's direction. "I'd wager Barnaby gave his usual 'punctuality is nobility' speech. Or perhaps he found a new line—did he quote scripture this time?"
Micheal sighed, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the weight of their teasing. "No scripture, just sheer brute force. I swear, that man could carry a horse if he wanted to."
"Given how he practically carries you," Erwin shot back, grinning, "that's not far off."
Lysander Valmont, ever the voice of calm among the chaos, raised an eyebrow. "I don't know why you're complaining, Micheal. Barnaby is the reason you're not perpetually late."
"I'd prefer to arrive late and intact," Micheal retorted, his tone wry.
Erwin tilted his head, scrutinizing Micheal. "Hmm. You seem… off today. You're usually sharper with your comebacks. Did you get cursed, or is Barnaby just that effective?"
Rupert leaned in conspiratorially. "Or—dare I say it—did you wake up early of your own volition? That would explain the tragic pallor."
Micheal hesitated, his usual wit faltering. He shuffled awkwardly, glancing at the horses grazing nearby as though they might offer a distraction. The others exchanged glances, their teasing easing into curiosity.
"What's wrong, Micheal?" Lysander asked, his tone quieter now, probing but not pushing.
Micheal sighed, running a hand through his platinum blonde hair. "You'll laugh."
"Oh, absolutely," Erwin said without missing a beat. "But only after we hear what's bothering you."
Micheal hesitated, his hand lingering at the back of his neck. Finally, he blurted, "I told my father I'd start a business."
Rupert blinked. "That's it? Micheal, that's hardly—"
"And," Micheal interrupted, his voice low, "I told him I'd make a man-bra."
The ensuing silence was broken only by a faint snort from Erwin, which quickly devolved into full-blown laughter. "A man-bra? Oh, Micheal, you've outdone yourself this time!"
Rupert, struggling to suppress a grin, added, "Of all the things you could invent—why that?"
Lysander, though maintaining his composure, couldn't hide the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I assume there's a story behind this… unique decision."
Micheal groaned. "It was supposed to be a clever response to his challenge. He said I couldn't start a business in a field the family hasn't already touched. And since the House of Shelb is involved in practically everything—"
"You went for the one thing no one else would dare," Rupert finished, his grin widening. "Classic Micheal."
"I didn't think it through," Micheal muttered, the tips of his ears reddening.
The conversation shifted as they began brainstorming, their initial laughter giving way to thoughtful discussion. "Let's be honest," Erwin said, gesturing to the group, "none of us would need this product. We're well-built, sure, but we're not… over-jacked."
Lysander nodded. "Exactly. The type of men who'd need something like this are aura users. Their bodies bulk up to contain their aura reserves, which makes normal clothes ill-fitting."
"Ah," Rupert said with mock gravity, "the walking sculptures our dear Micheal loves so much."
Micheal scowled. "Don't remind me. My father wanted me to be one of them, but thanks to my heart, I can't even use aura."
A brief silence followed, the weight of Micheal's words settling over the group.
It was Rupert who broke it, his tone lighter. "Well, if it's any consolation, I'd rather have your brains than their biceps any day. Not that it's a high bar."
Erwin snorted. "True. Besides, who needs aura when you've got friends like us to carry you through life?"
Micheal couldn't help but smile, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Thanks, I think."
Rupert leaned back against the stable, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "You know, Micheal, you've got something most aura users would envy."
Micheal raised an eyebrow, pretending disinterest. "What's that?"
"A prodigious mage for a wife," Rupert shot back, his grin widening. "Magda Valoria—pardon me, von Shelb—is practically a legend. Ten spells at once? Ridiculous."
Lysander, lounging by a wooden post, chuckled. "Don't forget, she's also the pride of the Mage department. You'd have to be blind not to notice how extraordinary she is."
"And here I thought this was about me," Micheal muttered, trying to deflect, though his ears tinged faintly red. "You're wasting your time on pointless praises."
Erwin, sitting cross-legged on a nearby haystack, leaned forward. "Pointless? Micheal, we just want you to stop overthinking. You're married to her now. Why not enjoy it?"
"Enjoy what exactly?" Micheal quipped, folding his arms. "It's not like we both chose this."
Rupert exchanged a glance with Lysander, the unspoken memory of their academy days passing between them.
"You used to drag us to the Mage department canteen," Rupert said casually, pretending to inspect his nails. "Terrible food, worse company."
Micheal narrowed his eyes. "Mage students had less free time. I was being considerate of Lysander."
Lysander snorted, shaking his head. "Sure, it was for my sake. Because clearly, I loved being called a sado-masochist by the other mages for constantly eating at the worst mess in the Academy. They thought I either had terrible taste or forced you all to suffer along with me."
"And don't forget your classmates in Military Engineering," Erwin added with a smirk. "They thought you either had a thing for Lysander or were under one of his spells."
Micheal rolled his eyes. "Ridiculous. I just knew Mage students had tighter schedules compared to Military Engineering, Warrior, or Business students."
Rupert leaned closer, his grin turning mischievous. "It had nothing to do with a certain black-haired prodigy who sat alone in the corner every afternoon, right?"
"So considerate," Lysander drawled, his silver eyes gleaming with mischief. "Except we all knew why. You weren't there for me or the food. You were there for her."
Micheal's gaze hardened, his voice low. "Drop it, you both."
Lysander smirked. "Come on, Micheal. You planned those trips. The Military Engineering department was on the opposite end of the campus from the Mage department. You even dragged Rupert from his cushy Business mess and Erwin from his healthy Warrior meals."
Erwin leaned back, arms crossed.
"And we pretended not to notice because you thought you were so clever. But let's be honest, Micheal."
Micheal crossed his arms, his expression tightening. "You're all overthinking it."
Rupert clapped him on the shoulder. "Sure, keep telling yourself that. But just so you know, you're terrible at hiding your motives."
Rupert leaned forward, his grin still firmly in place. "You know, Micheal, people didn't just randomly associate you with Magda back in the day."
Micheal raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Let me guess—you're about to remind me of something utterly pointless."
"Oh, it's far from pointless," Rupert replied, his grin widening. "You never denied it, not really. When the matchmakers—"
"Amateur matchmakers," Erwin corrected with a smirk.
Rupert waved a hand. "Fine, amateur matchmakers. When they paired you two, you just called it childish. But let someone suggest you with anyone else, and you acted like the sky was falling."
"I didn't," Micheal began, his frown deepening. "Lose my composure."
"You absolutely did," Erwin said, his laughter echoing. "Don't forget the time Barnaby had to step in and deal with those rumors about you and Lady Corwin."
"That was different," Micheal muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Those rumors were baseless."
"Baseless, were they?" Lysander teased, leaning casually against the post. "And the ones about you and Magda weren't? You didn't exactly try to steer them away, Micheal."
Micheal looked away, his jaw tightening. "You're reading into things."
"Oh, we're not," Rupert said, his voice light. "You froze when someone asked if you'd ever divorce her."
Micheal's head shot up, his expression sharp. "That's not something to joke about."
Erwin softened his tone. "We're not joking. We're just saying—stop avoiding her. Magda isn't trapped in this marriage, Micheal, and neither are you."
Lysander nodded, his teasing giving way to earnestness. "She's not the blunt, fragile girl from the canteen anymore, and you're not the guy hiding behind excuses. Be honest with yourself."
Micheal exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping. "You lot never let me off easy, do you?"
Rupert clapped him on the shoulder. "Never. That's what friends are for."
As their laughter echoed through the stable yard, Micheal couldn't help but feel the weight of their words. Maybe it was time to stop running from what was already his. With Magda, perhaps he could finally start moving forward.