Project Ethan

Location: Shelb Estate Parlor

The Shelb estate parlor basked in the gentle evening light filtering through lace curtains, its warmth mirrored by Duchess Eleanor von Shelb's soft laughter as she poured another cup of tea for Marchioness Martha Whitestone. Between them sat an elaborate tea set, the clinking of porcelain punctuating their animated conversation.

With Micheal finding his resolve, Eleanor's thoughts had turned toward her eldest son. Ethan's bachelorhood, long a thorn in her maternal heart, had finally become her next project.

"It's about time we cure Ethan's chronic bachelor status," Eleanor declared, her hazel eyes glinting with determination. "He and Vivian clearly care for each other. It's only their lack of opportunities holding them back."

Martha, practically glowing with excitement, clapped her hands together. "Oh, Eleanor, you've read my mind! To think my Vivian—my rambunctious, impossible Vivian—might marry someone as steadfast as Ethan? It's a dream come true."

Eleanor grinned. "Imagine it, Louis and I could finally relax at family gatherings knowing Ethan had someone at his side. And you and I? In-laws at last."

Martha gasped, her eyes sparkling. "In-laws! Oh, Eleanor, you spoil me. To think, Vivian always said she'd never marry. But Ethan? He's perfect for her."

Their laughter filled the room, a harmonious melody of motherly scheming, until the heavy tread of boots broke the spell. The door swung open, and Duke Louis strode in, his coat dusted from his recent visit to the military camp, his expression as stormy as the gray streaks in his dark hair.

"Louis, darling," Eleanor said sweetly, gesturing to a chair. "Come join us. We were just discussing Ethan's future."

Louis grunted, his sharp blue eyes narrowing at their conspiratorial expressions. He lowered himself into an armchair with a weighty sigh, the chaos of the Shelb camp still fresh in his mind. Soldiers sparring with wooden spoons, sock-repair competitions, Adrian's so-called Soldier Appreciation Week spiraling into a month-long circus—and Ethan! His most reliable son caught with a stack of books better suited for a scandalous tavern.

"Discussing Ethan's future?" Louis growled, his tone low. "This must be about your incessant matchmaking."

"Precisely," Eleanor replied smoothly. "Did you know, Louis, that Ethan recently praised Vivian's… feminine side? And he's even visited Whitestone Manor to personally deliver messages."

Louis froze, his brows furrowing. "Ethan? Praising someone's feminine side? Visiting Whitestone Manor?"

Eleanor nodded. "He has such respect for Vivian. Victor says Ethan is the most gracious man he's ever met, and Lord Leon adores him."

Louis leaned back, memories flooding in. Vivian Whitestone—the tomboy who once climbed his estate's walls to steal peaches, declaring them "subpar." The same girl who wrestled a boar at fourteen and won. The Whitestone family was distantly related to Baron Edsel, Louis's own maternal grandfather, tying their histories together through generations of shared aristocratic bloodlines. Yet, for all their lineage, the Whitestones had always been eccentric—refined in public, but lively and unrestrained behind closed doors.

"That… that's who you're considering for Ethan?" he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. "Vivian Whitestone? The girl who climbed my estate's walls? The one who wrestled a boar?"

"Yes," Eleanor said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "And why not? She's grown into an accomplished, capable, and utterly charming young woman."

Louis groaned internally, his mind replaying the whispers of soldiers from earlier: "Poor Commander Ethan, all work and no love." Now the tomboy of Whitestone Manor as Ethan's match? The universe truly delighted in irony. He rubbed his temples, muttering, "The universe truly delights in irony."

As much as he wanted to dismiss the idea, Louis's thoughts turned to Ethan. Among his children, Ethan was undoubtedly the best in terms of qualities—a natural leader, disciplined, steadfast, and loyal. He possessed a strength of character that had earned him the respect of even the most jaded soldiers. And, undeniably, Ethan was a more handsome version of himself. Louis's lips twitched at the thought.

He had once been called the "Romantic of the Century," after all. His grand public proposal to Eleanor at the Harvest Festival Ball had not only salvaged her dignity but solidified their bond in the eyes of the Empire. The memory brought a pang of pride—and a touch of jealousy. Why was it that his most eligible son, who carried all the traits that had once made Louis the center of attention, struggled so much in love? Perhaps Ethan had inherited his rigid sense of duty, too much focus on responsibility and too little on life's pleasures.

Eleanor's expression softened as she leaned forward. "Louis, they already care for each other. All they need is a little push. Can't you imagine them together? The best of the Shelb family united with the fire and determination of the Whitestones."

Louis stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Imagine it?" he thought bitterly. Imagine chaos descending on my estate like a storm. The thought of Vivian Whitestone—wild, unpredictable, and wholly unrefined—entering his family filled him with unease. He had seen enough havoc with Magda. One odd daughter-in-law was already straining his patience and carefully managed estate. A second might tip the balance entirely.

What Ethan needs is someone gentle, obedient, and refined, Louis mused, his mind drifting to Eleanor and Flora. Someone who understands duty, propriety, and the delicate balance required to maintain order. Vivian's rambunctious energy, her penchant for mischief, and her unpredictable nature were the antithesis of the qualities he desired in a match for Ethan.

No, he decided. For the sake of the Shelb estate, this pairing was one he could not endorse.

Before Louis could voice his growing objections, the parlor door opened, and Ethan entered with his usual precise steps. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the familiar figures of his parents before softening at the sight of the Marchioness. A rare, genuine smile graced his face, an expression so unfamiliar that both Eleanor and Louis exchanged startled glances.

"Marchioness Whitestone," Ethan greeted warmly, his tone lighter than either of his parents had ever heard. "It's a pleasure to see you."

The Marchioness chuckled, her smile radiating warmth. "And you, Ethan. I thought I'd drop by to drink tea with your mother. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Ethan replied, surprising everyone further by quipping, "What do you think of our tea? I trust it's to your liking?"

Eleanor froze mid-sip, her teacup trembling slightly in her hands. Ethan? Asking someone about tea? Her son, who once dismissed tea as "fancy boiled water," was now showing interest in its quality?

The Marchioness's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Your family's tea, Ethan? I see you've developed a taste for it. Have you finally joined us tea connoisseurs?"

Ethan smirked lightly. "Perhaps I have. Tea deserves respect, don't you think? You must try our summer fruit tea sometime—it's light and refreshing."

Eleanor nearly dropped her cup, barely catching it before it spilled. Her son, the man who often confused tea with broth, was now recommending seasonal blends? She glanced at Louis, whose expression mirrored her shock.

The Marchioness's laugh filled the room. "Summer fruit tea, you say? Ethan, I'm impressed. Your palate has certainly improved. I'll have to try it next time I visit."

Ethan nodded, his tone relaxed. "I wouldn't want the Shelb tea to fail the Marchioness's impeccable standards."

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, each word drawing more astonishment from his parents. Louis leaned back, his disbelief growing with every exchange. His usually stern and guarded son, who treated social niceties like tactical maneuvers, was now charming and witty, holding a conversation with ease.

Ethan's mind, meanwhile, drifted back to why he felt so at ease in the Marchioness's presence. The warmth with which she always welcomed him, the lighthearted way she treated aristocratic decorum, and the camaraderie he shared with her family had created a rare haven for him. The Marquiss and Victor, despite their fear-respect-admiration relationship with him, had become something close to friends—Victor especially, whose sarcasm he had once misinterpreted as genuine praise. And the Marchioness herself? She made it easy to relax, often joining in when he teased Vivian, his lifelong rival turned unwitting ally.

"Speaking of tea," Ethan continued, his voice light, "how are Victor and the Marquiss? I hope Victor hasn't been up to his usual mischief."

The Marchioness smiled warmly. "Victor is as spirited as ever. You know him—always with a quick comment. As for my husband, he's well, thank you. He still talks about how much he appreciates your advice during the last festival."

Eleanor and Louis watched in stunned silence as Ethan carried on, his usually stern demeanor replaced with an ease they had never witnessed before. Eleanor couldn't help but smile. Perhaps there's hope for him yet, she thought. Louis, meanwhile, frowned slightly, his thoughts veering back to Vivian Whitestone. This version of Ethan might charm the Whitestones, but can it withstand the whirlwind that is their daughter?

As the conversation continued, the Shelb parents were left wondering if this version of Ethan—the charming tea connoisseur—was a side of their son they could ever fully understand.

Before the Shelb parents could process the surreal transformation in Ethan's demeanor, the parlor door swung open again. Vivian Whitestone strode in, her auburn hair tied back, her confident steps filling the room with an air of authority. Her soldier's composure and sharp movements mirrored Ethan's own, as though they were synchronized opposites locked in perpetual competition.

Ethan glanced up from his conversation with the Marchioness, his easy smile vanishing like mist in the sun. His poker face cracked into a scowl, drawing a sharp intake of breath from his parents. They had never seen Ethan so visibly annoyed.

"Maelstrom approaches," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for Vivian to hear.

Vivian arched a brow, a playful glint in her green eyes as she folded her arms. "Ethan," she greeted smoothly. "Still as inflexible as ever? Or are you sitting on pins today?"

Ethan straightened, his tone steady but dripping with mock disgust. "And you," he retorted, "are still a walking maelstrom. No one will treat you as a lady if you keep charging around like a bull."

"Oh, you're one to talk," Vivian shot back, her voice laced with mock indignation. "Poker face, military obsession… Honestly, I'm amazed you even noticed I'm a woman."

Ethan's eyes narrowed. "I'm trained to observe the battlefield, not a storm pretending to be civilized."

Vivian smirked. "Perhaps you should visit the temple, Commander. You'd make a fine paladin—you'd never have to interact with women again."

The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by Louis's sudden clearing of his throat. His blue eyes flicked between his son and Vivian, his astonishment deepening with each barb traded. There was something here—an electric chemistry, humor, and perhaps even affection. Vivian's sharp wit had done what few could: broken Ethan's legendary poker face.

If she can crack his mask like this, Louis thought, then I cannot let this fall apart. Even if it means tolerating another whirlwind in my family.

"Ethan," Louis said, his tone sharper than usual, "show some respect. Lady Vivian is one of the finest Imperial Guards I've seen. She joined at eighteen—when you were still a student at the academy—by graduating early and passing one of the Empire's toughest exams."

Eleanor and Martha froze, their teacups trembling as they exchanged alarmed glances. The Duke's words were laced with pride, admiration, and… was that a hint of expectation?

Martha's thoughts spiraled. A Guardian Mage for one daughter-in-law and now he wants an Imperial Guard for another? She thought back to the rumors about Magda clearing the Guardian Mage test. No wonder his younger son still didn't have children after a year of marriage—his wife was clearly too busy bringing military honors to the family. She made a mental note to share this revelation with Leon later.

Vivian blinked, her posture softening slightly as she registered Louis's rare praise. "Thank you, Your Grace," she said, her voice genuine. "That means far more to me than flattery about my dress."

Eleanor seized the moment, her mind shifting gears from surprise to strategy. "The capital's flower festival is approaching," she said brightly. "Ethan, you and Vivian should attend together—represent your estates. It would be a wonderful opportunity."

Louis nodded, his voice unwavering. "A splendid idea. You're well-suited."

Ethan opened his mouth to protest but caught sight of both his parents' resolute expressions—and the subtle gleam in Vivian's eyes that promised she wouldn't let him off the hook easily.

"As you wish," he finally sighed, his tone tinged with resignation.

Vivian smirked, clearly victorious. "This should be fun," she said, her voice lilting with mischief, Ethan could see that she was clearly planning a prank.

Louis watched the exchange with a mixture of hope and trepidation. As much as he feared the chaos Vivian might bring, he couldn't deny the spark she ignited in Ethan—a spark that, for better or worse, might be exactly what his son needed.

Location: Magda's Chambers, Imperial Palace

The moon hung high over the Emperor's palace, casting playful silver beams across the polished marble floors of Magda's private chambers. The mana lamps glowed softly, their golden light flickering like mischievous fireflies. Curtains swayed gently in the evening breeze, bringing with it the faint scent of jasmine from the imperial gardens.

Magda sat by the window, her silk robe embroidered with imperial crests falling gracefully around her. But tonight, there was nothing somber or still about her. Her black hair, cascading freely over her shoulders, caught the moonlight in shimmering waves. Her crimson eyes sparkled—not with their usual intensity, but with a lightness that made her seem younger, freer.

Micheal's heart pounded as he followed the imperial attendant through the grand halls. His casted leg thudded awkwardly with each step, a stark reminder of the chaos that had brought him here. His thoughts raced, rehearsing words he wanted to say.

Is she alright? What do I even say to her? Will she forgive me?

As they stopped outside Magda's chambers, Micheal froze. The attendant opened the door, bowing slightly before gesturing for him to enter. Taking a deep breath, Micheal stepped forward.

The first thing Micheal noticed was the soft sound of humming. Magda was humming a tune as she toyed absentmindedly with the edge of her sleeve, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The melody was light and carefree, as though it belonged to a girl with no burdens at all.

Micheal blinked, his chest tightening as he took in the sight of her. She looked… different. Not in appearance—her black hair and crimson eyes were as striking as ever—but in spirit. There was a liveliness to her now, a brightness that he didn't recognize.

"Magda," he blurted, his voice breaking slightly.

She turned, and her lips curved into a teasing smile. "Micheal," she replied, her tone lilting. "You look terrible."

His mouth opened and closed, trying to form a coherent response. "Thanks?" he said finally, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Her smile widened, and she leaned back slightly, her posture relaxed and almost playful. "That cast isn't helping your charm, you know. I guess we'll have to work on that before the Flower Festival."

Micheal's heart skipped a beat. Work on my charm? Has she always been like this?

Gathering himself, he muttered, "Does your invitation to the Flower Festival still stand?"

Magda tilted her head, her eyes sparkling as she studied him. "Hmm. I don't know. Are you going to trip over your own feet on the dance floor?"

Micheal gawked, momentarily speechless. "I'll try not to," he said finally, feeling a strange heat rise to his cheeks.

"Good," Magda said, her voice softening slightly. "Because I'll hold you to that."

For a moment, their playful banter gave way to silence. Micheal shifted awkwardly, his hands twitching at his sides as his emotions churned—relief, guilt, and a peculiar sense of unfamiliarity.

Before he could say more, a shadow stirred at the far end of the room. Micheal stiffened as Raphael emerged from the dim light, his crimson gaze landing on him like a silent challenge.

Magda's teasing demeanor shifted as she turned back toward the window, though a hint of her smile lingered. "We'll see each other at the festival," she said, her tone still light but carrying a finality that dismissed him.

Micheal hesitated, bowing stiffly before turning to leave. As he stepped out of the room, he stole one last glance back at Magda. She had returned to her humming, her silhouette glowing in the moonlight.

The door clicked softly shut behind Micheal. As he walked down the hall, his mind raced. Had she always been like that? Or was this something new?

Inside the chambers, Raphael stepped fully into the light, his expression softening as he looked at his daughter. For a moment, a rare tenderness crossed his features, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet and grave.

"You've made your choice," he murmured to himself, "but I will see if he's worthy of it."