Discoveries (iii)

Location: Grand hall, Shelb Estate

The grand hall of the Shelb Estate was as imposing as ever, its high vaulted ceilings and stone walls adorned with tapestries depicting the long and storied history of the Shelb family. A roaring fire in the hearth bathed the room in flickering warmth, a sharp contrast to the stern expressions seated at the dining table.

Duke Louis von Shelb sat at the head, his sharp blue eyes fixed on his youngest son with the intensity of a seasoned commander dissecting an unconvincing strategy. His dark hair, streaked with silver, caught the firelight, lending him an air of both authority and exasperation. Beside him sat the Duchess, Eleanor von Shelb, her wavy chestnut-brown hair neatly styled, her hazel eyes observing the scene with quiet calculation. Across from them sat Micheal von Shelb, radiating an air of nonchalance that only seemed to fuel his father's frustration.

"I'm going to the North," Micheal repeated his announcement, his sharp blue eyes meeting his father's gaze with calm defiance.

The Duke set his silverware down with deliberate precision, the sound echoing through the hall. "Absolutely not," he said firmly. "There's strange phenomenon happening in the North—mana fluctuations, frenzied beasts. It's no place for a civilian like you."

Micheal leaned back in his chair, his platinum blonde hair catching the firelight as he crossed his arms. "Precisely why I need to go," he countered. "It's the perfect opportunity to market man-bras to your closest ally."

The room fell silent.

The Duke blinked, his sharp features contorting as he processed the words. "Man… what?"

"Man-bras," Micheal repeated cheerfully, leaning forward as though his idea were self-evident. "A revolutionary product. Support for the hardworking northern man who deserves the best in comfort and functionality."

For a moment, the Duke simply stared at his son, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then, slowly, his face turned a deep shade of crimson. "Man-bras," he repeated, his voice strained. "You're going to risk your life in a chaotic region to sell… undergarments?"

Micheal nodded, his expression entirely too earnest. "It's not just undergarments, Father. It's innovation. And, if I may remind you, you're the one who challenged me to start a business without the family's support and succeed."

The Duke's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I told you to start a business—not humiliate the family name with… this."

Micheal leaned forward, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "Ah, but Father, success speaks louder than dignity. The man-bra is more than a product; it's a testament to resilience and ingenuity. And," he added, his tone growing more serious, "I did what you asked. I built something without leaning on the Shelb name, and it works. So now, I'm taking it to the North, where the people need it most."

The Duke stared at him, torn between frustration and reluctant admiration. "You're insufferable," he muttered, rubbing his temples.

The Duchess, who had been silently observing, finally spoke. "Louis," she said softly, her hazel eyes glinting with amusement, "he has a point. And you did issue the challenge."

Louis groaned, shooting his wife an incredulous look. "You're taking his side?"

Eleanor tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I'm merely acknowledging his success. As unconventional as it may be, Micheal has clearly risen to your challenge."

Micheal shot his mother a grateful look, though he quickly masked it with his usual charm. "See, Father? Even Mother thinks this is a brilliant idea."

"Don't push your luck," Eleanor replied, though her tone was warm.

Turning her attention fully to Micheal, she continued, "You've been unusually quiet these past few days, and now you're suddenly full of energy. What's really going on, Micheal?"

Micheal hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing his sharp blue eyes before he shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary, Mother. I simply saw an opportunity and decided to seize it."

Eleanor studied him for a moment longer, her gaze piercing yet kind. "And this has nothing to do with a certain someone who may or may not currently be in the North?"

Micheal's shoulders stiffened imperceptibly, but he quickly covered it with a faint smile. "Mother, you wound me. Must everything I do be attributed to ulterior motives?"

The Duchess raised an elegant brow. "With you? Yes."

At that, Micheal's smile turned sheepish, though he offered no further protest.

Eleanor turned back to her husband, who still looked as though he might keel over at any moment. "Louis," she said gently, "let him go."

"What?" the Duke barked, his sharp blue eyes snapping to hers.

"You heard me," Eleanor replied calmly. "If Micheal is so determined, he'll find a way to leave regardless of what we say. It's better to give him our blessing and some ground rules than to let him go unsupervised."

The Duke sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "Fine. But if this turns into another disaster like the Armond camp—"

"It won't," Eleanor interrupted, her tone soft but resolute. She turned back to Micheal, her hazel eyes warm yet firm. "Micheal, listen to me. I'm granting you permission because I trust you to be careful. Don't make me regret that trust. And please, take care of yourself. This is not the time for reckless adventures."

Micheal's expression softened slightly, and he inclined his head. "I understand, Mother. Thank you."

Eleanor offered him a faint smile, though her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken. "Just remember," she added quietly, "you're not invincible. And there are people here who care about you—more than you realize."

As Micheal rose from the table, his sharp blue eyes met his mother's, a flicker of something vulnerable passing between them. Then, with his characteristic charm, he grinned.

"Don't worry, Mother. I'll make sure the man-bras are a smashing success."

The Duke groaned, his head falling into his hands as Eleanor shook her head with a soft laugh. Yet, as Micheal left the room, her hazel eyes lingered on the door, a quiet unease settling over her.

She didn't know what awaited him in the North, but she prayed it wouldn't break the lighthearted confidence he wore like armor.

Location: Northern Military Base

The crisp northern air bit sharply against the skin, carrying the faint tang of snow and steel. The military base was alive with the low hum of activity—soldiers sparring, the clang of weapons being inspected, and the distant neighing of horses. Fredrick von Altona stood tall amidst the ordered chaos, his jet-black hair pulled neatly back and his calm gray eyes surveying the scene with quiet authority. His presence alone seemed to bring a sense of order, his imposing figure and steady demeanor commanding respect without the need for raised voices.

Approaching him was Ethan von Shelb, his golden blonde hair catching the cold light of the winter sun. Though slightly shorter than Fredrick, his sharp blue eyes and military bearing exuded an intensity that few could match. His steps were deliberate, his movements elegant.

"Fredrick," Ethan said evenly, extending a hand.

Fredrick clasped it firmly, his gray eyes softening with genuine gratitude. "Ethan. I've been waiting for a moment to speak with you. Thank you for your aid these past weeks. Your Shelb troops have been indispensable, and your leadership has made all the difference."

Ethan inclined his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "It's the least we could do. Altona's borders are vital to the Empire's strength. I only did my duty."

Fredrick's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Duty or not, your efforts are appreciated." He paused, his gaze growing more introspective. "I wanted to tell you in person—Flora and I are to be married tomorrow. I'd be honored if you would attend."

For a fleeting moment, Ethan's sharp blue eyes flickered with something unreadable. But his composure remained intact, his expression as stoic as ever. "Congratulations, Fredrick," he said smoothly. "It's good to see Flora happy. She's like a sister to me."

Fredrick hesitated, the faintest crease appearing on his brow. "I know how you once felt about her. I can't deny that it's been… complicated, knowing that. I didn't want to hurt you, Ethan. I hope you know that."

Ethan's response was immediate, his tone calm but firm. "There's nothing to apologize for. Flora isn't the kind of woman I'd want for myself. I've already set my sights elsewhere."

Fredrick studied him for a moment, his gray eyes searching for any hint of bitterness. Finding none, he allowed himself to relax, though the nagging sense of guilt didn't entirely fade. "I'm glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "You deserve someone who suits you better."

Ethan nodded curtly. "Indeed. Now, if there's nothing else, I have preparations to oversee. I'll see you at the wedding."

Fredrick inclined his head, his calm demeanor intact, though a faint shadow of unease lingered as he turned to leave.

As Fredrick's figure disappeared into the distance, Ethan stood still, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the snow-dusted ground. In his hand, the crumpled parchment twisted tighter beneath his clenched fist, a silent testament to his frustration.

His jaw tightened as he grappled with a surge of resentment. His father had pushed him into Flora's orbit for years, telling him since he was 24 to find a woman like her—graceful, loyal, and accommodating. Ethan, the dutiful son and strategist, had played his role perfectly. He had dedicated accolades to her, danced with her at the ball that cemented their status as the court's ideal couple, and accepted his place as one of her suitors with measured grace. Yet deep down, she had always felt like a child to him, someone to be protected rather than courted.

Now, with Flora marrying Fredrick, Ethan found himself enraged—not because he loved her, but because it forced him back onto the marriage market. The thought of courting another woman, starting the same exhausting dance anew, filled him with bitter contempt. Flora had been convenient, someone he could tolerate and treat well without compromising his duty to the House of Shelb. Her departure left him mourning not a lost love, but the loss of a suitable partner and ally.

He exhaled sharply, his words to Fredrick earlier—a careful facade of indifference—echoing hollowly in his mind. Beneath the mask, the gnawing truth remained: Flora had been his solution, and now, he was left to find another. And the thought of starting over, driven by duty rather than desire, made his stomach churn.

Location: Ethan quarters

Ethan exhaled heavily, his breath clouding in the frigid air as he strode toward his quarters. Inside, the faint glow of the hearth cast dancing shadows, their flicker reflecting his turmoil. He poured a measure of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight, and swallowed it in one sharp motion.

The burn of the alcohol didn't soothe him; it stoked the storm within. Pouring another glass, his grip tightened on the bottle. His sharp blue eyes fell to the crumpled parchment in his hand, and with a bitter twist of his wrist, he tossed it into the flames.

The fire consumed it quickly, but the weight in his chest lingered. Ethan, the golden son of Shelb—disciplined, dutiful, untarnished—had always carried his family's expectations with precision. Flora had been a perfect match, the perfect shield for his unshaken reputation. Now, her marriage had shattered that arrangement, leaving him untethered.

Sinking into the chair, he stared into the fire, his expression shifting from bitterness to something darker. "Someone else in mind," he muttered, his voice laced with mockery. The sharp soldier, bound by duty, began to dissolve, replaced by a cunning shadow of himself. His lips curled into a wicked smile.

"Why stop them?" he whispered to the flickering flames. "They're giving me what I need… an escape."

The firelight danced across his face, casting jagged shadows over his sharp features. The stoic strategist was gone, replaced by a man consumed by a selfish, drunken clarity. The disciplined soldier had yielded to the devil of alcohol, leaving behind a cunning figure too weary to care for the world crumbling around him.