Confronting the Dragon

Location: Camp Shelb

The scene at Camp Shelb was anything but orderly. Banners in mismatched colors fluttered across the training grounds, soldiers gathered in circles laughing and cheering, and an impromptu juggling competition was underway near the mess hall. The air buzzed with a peculiar energy—not the disciplined hum of a well-oiled military camp, but the raucous laughter of troops reveling in what could only be described as chaos.

Ethan von Shelb strode through the camp, his sharp blue eyes taking in the disarray. His strides were precise, his posture stiff with barely concealed irritation. An aide hurried alongside him, struggling to keep pace while flipping through a stack of reports.

"Morale has improved significantly, my lord," the aide reported, his voice tinged with disbelief. "The Soldier Appreciation Week… which turned into a month… has fostered camaraderie among the troops. Discipline, of course, has suffered, but the overall sentiment is overwhelmingly positive."

Ethan's jaw tightened. "Appreciation Week," he muttered under his breath. "It was supposed to be seven days, not a month-long circus. Adrian has no concept of limits."

As they approached the center of the camp, a particularly loud cheer erupted. Ethan's eyes narrowed as he spotted Adrian, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, standing atop a makeshift stage. He was performing an exaggerated reenactment of a duel, his movements theatrical to the point of absurdity. The soldiers roared with laughter as Adrian pretended to dramatically "die" and then spring back to life, bowing with a flourish.

"And that, my friends, is how you survive an ambush from three sword-wielding maniacs and a rabid goat!" Adrian proclaimed, his voice carrying across the camp.

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. "If Adrian were the firstborn, Shelb would be known for juggling clowns, not strategic armies."

The aide coughed to hide a chuckle. "To be fair, my lord, the troops adore him. His antics have brought a level of unity we haven't seen in years. Perhaps… with tighter controls… we could consider making Soldier Appreciation Week an annual tradition?"

Ethan shot the aide a sharp look but said nothing. His gaze shifted back to Adrian, who was now tossing an apple back and forth with a group of recruits, the lot of them laughing as though they hadn't a care in the world.

"I'll admit," Ethan said reluctantly, "the troops seem happier. But this? This can't happen again without strict oversight."

Adrian spotted Ethan from his perch and grinned widely. "Brother! Come join us! I'm about to demonstrate my legendary three-apple juggle… followed by my even more legendary three-apple fumble!"

"Don't you dare," Ethan warned, his tone icy.

Adrian winked at him and began tossing the apples, only for one to immediately tumble to the ground. The soldiers howled with laughter as Adrian shrugged theatrically. "As promised!"

The aide leaned toward Ethan, speaking in a low voice. "Perhaps there's a way to channel his… enthusiasm constructively, my lord. A more formalized event…?"

Ethan exhaled heavily. "Tighter controls," he muttered, his tone resigned. "If we're doing this, it'll be on my terms next time. No juggling clowns. No theatrical duels. Just… a dignified celebration."

The aide nodded eagerly. "I'll draft a proposal, my lord."

Later, as Ethan returned to his quarters, he noticed something odd: a stack of books left conspicuously near his desk. His brow furrowed as he read the titles.

"How to Please the Unhappy Dame?" "What Do Dames Really Like?" "Flexibility and Balance in Relationships?" and… he blushed furiously… some decidedly 18+ titles he refused to read aloud even in his mind. Ethan's jaw tightened as he realized the soldiers had likely left them as a joke, their morale evidently high enough to poke fun at their commander's supposed lack of romantic acumen.

A knock at the door interrupted his fuming. It was the aide, holding yet another report. Ethan quickly shoved the books aside, but not before the aide's eyes darted to the stack, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

"Work-life balance failure? That's their assumption?" Ethan muttered under his breath.

The aide coughed politely. "I'll… leave you to your reading, my lord."

Ethan glared at him. "Out."

As the door closed, Ethan's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Vivian. What would she think if she caught him reading one of these ridiculous books? His cheeks flushed deeper at the image, and he shook his head sharply, willing himself to focus on more pressing matters.

"You'll be the death of me, brother," Ethan murmured under his breath, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As much as Adrian frustrated him, he couldn't help but admire the charm that managed to turn chaos into something almost… useful.

Location: Shelb Military Camp

The Duke's carriage rolled into the Shelb military camp with a steady, deliberate pace, its polished exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. Inside, the Duke sat with his usual air of quiet authority, though a flicker of unease tugged at the corners of his mind. He had been away for a month, reporting the Red Sky and Red Fog incidents directly to the Emperor—an encounter that had left him disquieted. Raphael's uncharacteristic coldness still lingered like an unwelcome shadow.

As the carriage came to a stop, the Duke stepped out, his boots crunching against the gravel. He straightened his coat, took a deep breath, and turned toward the camp. His eyes landed on the entrance—and froze.

A lopsided banner bearing the words "Soldier Appreciation Week" swayed gently in the breeze. Streamers hung haphazardly from tent poles, and brightly colored flags flapped erratically. Soldiers laughed and sparred with wooden spoons. Someone was playing a flute—badly—while another soldier danced as though possessed.

The Duke blinked, unsure if exhaustion had finally caught up with him. Surely, this couldn't be his camp?

"What… is this?" His voice cracked, betraying the horror that clawed its way up his throat.

An aide appeared beside him, struggling valiantly to suppress a grin. "The camp celebrated Soldier Appreciation Week recently, Your Grace."

The Duke's eyebrows shot up. "Soldier appreciation what?"

"Soldier Appreciation Week, Your Grace," the aide clarified, his tone barely masking his amusement. "Commander Adrian called it a morale initiative. Commander Ethan… approved it."

The Duke turned his gaze back to the scene before him. Soldiers pranced around like children at a festival. One yelled, "Pie-eating contest at noon!" Another shouted, "Don't miss sock repair hour!"

The Duke's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before his knees gave out. He fainted in a heap, much to the soldiers' delight.

"His Grace is overwhelmed by our success!" one soldier cheered, prompting a round of applause and laughter.

The Duke came to a moment later, groaning as he sat up. The cheering had only grown louder. A soldier leaned in helpfully. "Shall we get you a pie, Your Grace?"

The Duke glared at him and got to his feet, brushing himself off with a mixture of dignity and fury. He marched directly toward Ethan's office, his every step radiating barely contained rage.

Inside Ethan's office, the scene was no less surreal. Ethan sat at his desk, his face a brilliant shade of red as he stared at a stack of books. The Duke didn't bother knocking, throwing the door open with enough force to make Ethan jump.

"Father," Ethan began, rising to his feet. "I can explain…"

The Duke's sharp blue eyes zeroed in on the books. He snatched the top one and read aloud, his voice dripping with incredulity: "'How to Please the Unhappy Dame?'"

Ethan winced. "It's… not what it looks like."

"'What Do Dames Really Like?'" the Duke continued, his tone climbing with indignation. "'Flexibility and Balance in Relationships?' Ethan, is this what you spend your time reading?"

"I didn't buy them!" Ethan snapped, his frustration boiling over. "The soldiers left them as a joke. They think I'm… romantically challenged."

The Duke's gaze narrowed. "And whose fault is that? A Shelb man should not be the subject of such ridicule!"

Outside the office, soldiers whispered to one another.

"It's the Duke's fault," one said. "He's always pushing Commander Ethan so hard. The poor man doesn't have time for anything else."

"Exactly," another agreed. "If he'd let Commander Ethan breathe, maybe he'd have a dame to balance with."

"If the Dame hadn't come all the way by herself, the Commander might've died of mental and physical frustration," a third soldier added with a genuine tone of concern, though it drew some amused chuckles from the group. Despite their laughter, the soldiers' respect for Ethan was evident; they genuinely felt bad for their commander having to leave his lady love behind and always work.

The Duke, standing near the door, could hear every word. His ears burned as the muffled voices reached him, but Ethan, thoroughly flustered by both the stack of books and the Duke's looming presence, remained oblivious.

The Duke's face darkened. "What are they saying?"

"Nothing you'd want to hear, Father," Ethan replied, rubbing his temples. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to restore order to this camp."

The Duke hesitated, clearly torn between lecturing Ethan further and fleeing the soldiers' not-so-subtle judgment. With a huff, he slammed the book down on the desk and turned on his heel.

"Get this place in order," he barked, "and for the love of the Empire, burn those books."

Ethan waited until the door slammed shut behind him before collapsing into his chair. He glanced at the offending stack of books and muttered, "You'll be the death of me, Adrian. You and Father both."

Location: Imperial Palace

The grand halls of the Imperial Palace loomed around Micheal as he walked forward, his heart pounding in his chest. His left leg encased in a heavy cast and his right arm secured in a sling, every step was a testament to his determination. The ornate columns, the towering arches, and the gilded murals depicting centuries of imperial history seemed to close in on him. Each step echoed against the polished marble floor, amplifying his doubts. Yet, despite the fear that gnawed at him, Micheal pressed on, his resolve hardening with every breath.

He was here for her. For Magda.

The escort led him to the throne room, its massive double doors swinging open with a groan of ancient wood and iron. Micheal stepped inside, his gaze immediately drawn to the imposing figure lounging on the imperial throne. Raphael Valoria, Emperor of the Healian Empire, exuded an effortless aura of sovereign authority, as though the weight of the Empire were but a feather on his shoulders. His posture, relaxed yet regal, dismissed the customs of the land as trivial. His crimson eyes, sharp as a blade, locked onto Micheal with an intensity that could have felled armies.

Micheal swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides to stop them from trembling. He forced himself to meet Raphael's gaze, though every instinct screamed at him to look away.

Raphael's voice was the first to break the silence, cold and cutting. "You came here for my daughter. You presume too much, Micheal von Shelb."

Micheal's throat tightened, but he refused to waver. "I've come to take her home."

Raphael's gaze hardened, his aura seeming to darken the very air. "Home? And what kind of home can you offer her? You, who almost let her die?"

Micheal flinched as though struck, his hands trembling before he forced them still. He drew a deep breath, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. "You're right. I couldn't protect her, and I may not deserve her. But I swear, I will give her the best life I can. I will protect her with everything I have."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Raphael studied him, his piercing eyes searching for cracks in Micheal's resolve. For a long moment, neither spoke. Memories of Micheal's grief-stricken cries and desperate search for Magda after the battle flashed through Raphael's mind. He remembered the reports of Micheal's near-madness, shouting her name until his voice gave out, collapsing from exhaustion when his body could no longer keep up with his will.

Raphael's voice, though still firm, softened slightly. "Words are cheap."

Micheal's heart sank, but he refused to back down. "Then let me prove them. I may not be the strongest, but I'll fight for her—for us. Always."

Behind a silk screen in the corner of the room, Magda watched silently, her crimson eyes glistening with unshed tears. She felt the weight of her father's love and Micheal's determination, their words weaving together into something stronger than mere promises. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn't alone. She was no longer the acting head of the failing Featherfield family, burdened by resentment and responsibilities. She had allies now—people who would fight for her, with her.

Raphael leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze still locked onto Micheal. "I will allow you to see her," he said at last, his tone measured. "But the decision will be hers to make."

Micheal's shoulders sagged with relief, though his resolve remained unshaken. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Raphael's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—respect, perhaps, or recognition of the sincerity in Micheal's words. "Prove it," he said simply, his voice low but commanding.

As Micheal bowed and turned to leave, his heart still pounding, he caught a glimpse of Magda's silhouette behind the screen. For a moment, their eyes met, and in that fleeting exchange, he felt her support, her belief in him. It was all he needed to keep moving forward.