Northern Preparations : Worries

Location: Shelb Estate Ballroom

The Shelb Estate Ballroom was alive with activity, its polished floors gleaming under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. The cheerful strains of a quartet filled the air, and Duchess Eleanor stood at the center, her chestnut hair elegantly styled and her hazel eyes sparkling with determination.

Today's event was her idea—a dance workshop to lift spirits and foster familial connections while the weight of the world pressed on their shoulders.

"Shoulders back, Adrian! You look like a collapsing tower," Eleanor called with a teasing lilt, her voice carrying above the music.

Adrian von Shelb, the golden-haired twin with a perpetual smirk, attempted to comply, his usually confident demeanor faltering as he fumbled through the intricate steps.

"This is torture, Mother," he muttered, earning a chuckle from Eleanor.

"It's discipline," she corrected with a smile. "The Shelb name deserves elegance as well as strength."

On the other side of the ballroom, Micheal von Shelb stood near the refreshment table, his sharp blue eyes darting toward the grand windows. His platinum blonde hair, tied into a neat half-ponytail, caught the light as he shifted uncomfortably.

Though he tried to focus on the cheerful atmosphere, his mind was elsewhere—on Magda.

He had been restless since her departure, his heart heavy with an unease he couldn't shake. The horseless carriages and well-trained recruits he had provided for her journey should have reassured him, but instead, they only amplified his anxiety.

The Shelb ballroom, with its laughter and lighthearted banter, felt incongruous with the storm of worry brewing within him.

"Micheal!" Eleanor's voice cut through his thoughts. She gestured for him to join the dance. "Your turn! Show your brother how it's done."

Micheal plastered on a polite smile and stepped onto the floor, taking his place opposite Eleanor. The music resumed, and they moved in time with the rhythm, Eleanor leading with practiced grace.

Micheal's steps were precise but mechanical, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Your thoughts are as clumsy as Adrian's feet," Eleanor said softly, her hazel eyes studying him.

Micheal sighed, offering her a faint smile. "Just… distracted, Mother."

Before Eleanor could press further, the ballroom doors creaked open, and a courier entered, his boots clicking against the marble floor. He approached Micheal with a deep bow, handing him a sealed letter marked with the Shelb crest.

Micheal's stomach sank as he recognized Ethan's handwriting. Breaking the seal, he scanned the contents, his sharp features tightening as he read. Without a word, he handed the letter back to the courier, excused himself abruptly, and left the ballroom, his coat billowing behind him.

Eleanor watched him go, concern etched into her expression. She turned her attention back to Adrian, who had stopped mid-step and now stood awkwardly near the windows. His golden hair caught the light, but his usual confidence seemed dimmed.

"Adrian," Eleanor called gently, crossing the room to stand beside him. "What's on your mind?"

Adrian glanced at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Nothing, Mother. Just… tired."

Eleanor raised a brow, folding her hands in front of her. "You've never been a good liar, my dear."

Adrian shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's nothing, really. Just thinking about… things."

Eleanor placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle but firm. "Adrian, you don't have to shoulder everything alone. Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know I'll never judge you."

Adrian's shoulders sagged slightly, his golden hair falling into his eyes. "I'm not sure I can, Mother. Not yet."

Eleanor's smile was warm and understanding. "That's all right. When you're ready, I'll be here."

Adrian nodded, his throat tightening as he met her kind gaze. "Thank you, Mother," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

As Eleanor turned to rejoin the group, Adrian lingered near the window, watching the flickering light of the chandeliers reflected on the polished floor. When he was sure no one was watching, he whispered a quiet, heartfelt "thank you" to the empty air, his words meant for her alone.

In the hallway, Micheal strode purposefully toward his study, Ethan's words echoing in his mind.

Magda is here in the North. She insists she's safe, but the situation is volatile. I thought you should know.

The unease that had plagued him since her departure now coalesced into a sharp, urgent fear. Micheal knew he needed to act, but first, he had to decide how.

Location: Imperial Training Grounds

The moon hung high over the Imperial Training Grounds, its pale light casting silver shadows over the wide, open expanse. The faint hum of mana crystals embedded in the walls provided a dim, steady glow, illuminating the figures sparring at the center.

Raphael moved with a predator's grace, his raven-black hair flowing like an ink-stained river over his broad shoulders. His crimson eyes gleamed, locked onto his opponent.

Each movement of his blade was precise, his strikes carrying the weight of centuries of perfected skill.

Opposite him stood a figure cloaked in shadows, their face obscured beneath the hood of a dark, flowing cloak. Their strikes were quick and deliberate, their form betraying rigorous training.

The clash of steel rang through the air, the sound sharp and resonant. Raphael parried with ease, his smirk faint but unmistakable. "You hesitate," he remarked, his voice smooth yet edged with amusement.

The shadow figure didn't reply immediately, their next strike carrying more force. Raphael deflected it effortlessly, his smirk deepening. "There is no room for doubt in battle. Perhaps you'd like to spar with Lysander instead?"

At the mention of the Emperor's trusted mage, the shadow figure let out a soft scoff. "I'd rather not," they said, their voice low and masked with an air of detached confidence.

The two continued their duel, their movements almost a dance—graceful, fluid, and deadly. Finally, as their blades locked, the shadow figure broke the silence. "You know, Your Majesty, it's impressive how the Imperial Princess managed to slip past you."

Raphael's smirk didn't falter, though the flicker of something deeper—something protective—crossed his crimson gaze. "Magda is no ordinary princess," he replied. "She carries Valorian blood. It's in her nature to act decisively, to take risks for the good of the Empire."

The shadow figure tilted their head, their posture easing slightly as their curiosity piqued. "So, you condone her sneaking into the North, endangering herself?"

"She has the strength of ten guardian mages," Raphael said, his tone lighter than expected. He stepped back, lowering his blade but keeping his eyes on his opponent.

"Imprisoning her would only stifle that strength. Besides," he added with a faint chuckle, "it's not as though she took a journey to chase frivolity. She has her vision. That's what makes her a Valoria—and potentially the future Empress."

The shadow figure stiffened, their grip tightening on the hilt of their blade. "You say 'potentially.' Do you not want her to take the throne?"

Raphael's smile was enigmatic, his crimson eyes reflecting the glow of the mana crystals. "The throne is hers to choose. True power comes not from inheritance but from the will to seize it."

The shadow figure's silence spoke volumes, the tension between them unspoken yet palpable.

Raphael turned away, sheathing his blade with a practiced motion. "Lysander is already tracking her," the shadow figure said after a pause. "Surely you don't need me to go as well."

"Lysander does his duty well," Raphael replied, his tone calm but edged with subtle amusement. "But there are things that only you can see. Your approach is… unconventional."

The shadow figure hesitated, their voice lowering into a muttered curse under their breath. "You're sending me because you don't trust him."

Raphael's smile widened ever so slightly, his crimson eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "I trust him as much as I trust you."

The shadow figure's jaw tightened beneath the hood. "I'll head to the Duchy of Altona," they said finally, their voice clipped. "Flora might be the reason for her sudden recklessness."

As they turned to leave, Raphael's voice stopped them. "Do as you please," he said, his tone light but carrying the weight of an order.

The shadow figure froze for a moment before striding out of the training grounds, their cloak billowing behind them. The faintest glow of mana shimmered at their fingertips as they disappeared into the night, leaving Raphael alone beneath the moonlight.

Raphael stood motionless, his thoughts heavy as he gazed at the stars. Despite his outward calm, worry gnawed at him, the weight of Magda's absence pressing on his chest. "Little dove," he murmured softly, his voice carrying only to the silent night. "Fly carefully."

The breeze stirred his raven-black hair, a quiet reminder of the burdens he bore. Though his expression remained composed, the spark of concern in his crimson eyes betrayed the depth of his love for his daughter—and the lengths he would go to protect her.