Chapter 22: A Father’s Second Chance (i)
Location: Shelb Estate – Micheal's Room
The room, once filled with Micheal's vibrant presence—his books sprawled across the desks, half-finished sketches of horseless automated carriages pinned on walls—now felt eerily hollow. Dust motes drifted lazily in the pale shafts of light filtering through drawn curtains. Silence clung to the air, pressing down on everything like a thick, suffocating fog.
Micheal lay still in his bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows. His right leg was encased in a heavy cast, his arm bandaged and suspended in a sling. The faint scent of salves and herbs lingered around him—a bitter reminder of his fragility. His platinum hair, unkempt and falling haphazardly over his sharp blue eyes, mirrored his disheveled state of mind.
Eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling, Micheal stared blankly, unseeing. The events of the past days played in an endless loop behind his eyelids: the red sky, the fog rolling in like a predator, Magda's small form crumpled in the chaos, and the voices of the Rowdy 22—gone in a flash of teeth and claws.
Only three remained.
Claude's voice echoed in his memory, sharp and desperate. "Move, Prince! Don't just stand there!" Garrick's growl had followed, the grizzly half-beast hauling him back just in time.
Micheal could still feel the tremor in the ground as the red chimera bore down on them. Without thinking, he had thrown himself in front of Garrick, the sheer force of the creature's attack threatening to tear through both of them. The moment his trembling hand clutched the pendant Magda had given him, a blinding light erupted, activating its dormant magic.
And then—Raphael Valoria, the Emperor himself, had appeared.
Micheal's summoning had saved them, but at what cost?
"I promised to keep them safe. I promised to make better armor. I failed," Micheal whispered hoarsely, his chest tight.
His trembling hand clutched at the pendant hanging around his neck—the one Magda had given him. He thumbed the smooth surface of the enchanted stone, as though seeking comfort in its faint warmth.
"Magda," he whispered, her name like a fragile prayer escaping cracked lips. His mind drifted to a darker place, a question gnawing at the edges of his sanity—what if he hadn't activated the pendant? What if the Emperor hadn't arrived in time? Would Magda have simply let herself go? Would she have died there, alone, surrounded by the chaos? The image of her lifeless form on the battlefield sent a cold shiver through him.
Would I have been a widower now?
The thought stabbed at his chest, the weight of it unbearable. He gripped the pendant tighter, as though it might somehow erase the dreadful possibilities clawing at his mind.
The soft creak of the door shattered the oppressive stillness. Micheal didn't bother to look up as Barnaby entered, bustling with his usual, borderline frenetic efficiency. The butler balanced a heavy tray laden with steaming soup, slices of bread, and a selection of preserves—a feast Micheal couldn't stomach.
"Ah, good afternoon, Master Micheal!" Barnaby announced cheerfully, his booming voice cutting through the silence like sunlight through clouds. "It's a fine day outside—perfect for a bit of fresh air. Perhaps tomorrow we'll get you to the gardens, eh? Fresh roses, crisp breeze… That will have you back on your feet in no time."
Micheal gave no response. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, as though afraid that looking anywhere else might make the guilt swallow him whole.
Barnaby, undeterred, set the tray down on the bedside table with practiced care. The scent of rich broth wafted through the room, but it failed to stir Micheal.
"Come now, sir." Barnaby folded his arms, his voice softening, though it retained its cheerful lilt. "You've faced far worse. Broken bones and bruises are temporary inconveniences, nothing more. You'll be up inventing your next miracle contraption—probably another man-bra—before we know it, and the Rowdy Barracks will cheer your name even louder."
Still, Micheal said nothing. He gripped the pendant tighter, its edges biting into his palm. Barnaby's gaze lingered on him for a beat longer, and though his smile remained in place, the worry behind his emerald eyes betrayed him.
He cleared his throat, adopting a more resolute tone. "Lady Magda wouldn't want you brooding like this, you know. She'd storm in here herself if she could and drag you from that bed by the ear. She'd probably scold me for letting you stew this long!"
For the first time, Micheal's eyes flickered toward Barnaby, though they carried none of their usual sharpness.
Barnaby pressed on, his voice gentler now. "You're stronger than this, Master Micheal. You may not see it, but I do. And so do Claude and Garrick. You saved them, sir. If you hadn't called for His Majesty…"
"Not enough," Micheal said finally, his voice raw and low. "I wasn't enough. The others—" His throat tightened as he stared back up at the ceiling. "The others are gone because of me."
Barnaby paused, uncharacteristically quiet. He stepped closer, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the bed.
"Failures don't sit in bed and wallow," Barnaby said softly, yet firmly. "Failures give up. You haven't given up yet, sir. As long as you keep going, you haven't failed anyone."
The words hung in the air, heavy with truth. For a fleeting moment, something sparked in Micheal's dull eyes, only to fade just as quickly. He turned his face away, gripping the pendant even tighter.
Barnaby lingered by the bed for another moment, as though hoping for more. Finally, he let out a quiet sigh and straightened, his usual cheer slipping back into place like a mask.
"Well, when you're ready to eat, the soup won't bite," he said lightly, adjusting the tray with careful precision. "I'll check in again later, Master Micheal. Try not to disappear into the ceiling in the meantime."
The door creaked shut behind him, and the room was silent once more. Micheal remained still, the faint echo of Barnaby's words rattling around in his mind.
You haven't given up yet.
He closed his eyes, tears pricking at the edges as the weight of the pendant in his hand seemed heavier than ever.
"I'll do better," he whispered hoarsely into the quiet. "I have to."
Outside the window, the sunlight faded, and the shadows crept deeper into the corners of the room, leaving Micheal alone once more with his grief.
Imperial Capital—The Palace District
The sky above the Imperial Capital had returned to a pale, washed-out blue, yet its emptiness brought no relief. Where once the unnatural red had screamed of calamity, the soft hues now felt equally unsettling, as if mourning the events that had transpired. The faint chill of cold winds rippled across the gilded domes and marble towers, a whisper of the Emperor's lingering anger. Rumors still spread like fire across dry parchment, whispered behind silk curtains and shouted in crowded courtyards. The news of the Emperor's swift intervention quashed the worst of the panic, but in its place lingered uneasy murmurs—a new fear.
What transpired in the Armond army to bring the Emperor to personally handle a catastrophe? How dire had the situation become that it required His Majesty's hand to stabilize? No one dared question a ruler as powerful as Raphael Valoria, but the silence that followed his actions was almost as disconcerting as the crisis itself.
Cold winds rippled through the city—a reflection of the Emperor's wrath—sending chills through even the bravest hearts. The nobles, who once considered the Flower Festival a stage for alliances and posturing, now scattered to their estates, their fragile negotiations forgotten. The Flower Festival, meant to bring nobles together in frivolity and fragile diplomacy, had descended into chaos.
The wide boulevards that had been filled with laughter, musicians, and garlands now lay empty. Market stalls, once overflowing with petals and delicacies, stood abandoned, their wares scattered across the cobblestones as merchants fled. The streets, usually alive with commerce and chatter, grew unnaturally still, save for the distant echo of hurried footsteps.
In the Palace Council Chamber, tension simmered beneath the polished veneer of formality. Lords and advisors, draped in their finest but disheveled from their hasty return, gathered in tight clusters. The grand hall's golden sconces flickered uneasily, as if the red light from outside had bled into their flames. The cold winds howled faintly beyond the windows, tugging at the heavy silk drapes as though mocking the Empire's turmoil.
At the center of the chamber, a marble dais stood empty, the Emperor's absence a glaring void that no one dared acknowledge.
Lord Albrecht of House Thaesen, a wiry man with a hawkish nose and calculating gray eyes, finally broke the silence. "This phenomenon cannot be natural. The sky itself turning red? Fog creeping across the Empire? What else could it be but the herald of a calamity?"
Several lords murmured their agreement, their voices tinged with barely concealed panic. Across the room, Lady Mirelle of House Corwin, clad in mourning black with silver embroidery, raised an eyebrow.
"Dimensional calamity, you say? Convenient words to incite further chaos. Has no one considered that it might merely be a magical anomaly?" Her tone was sharp, though her carefully gloved hand trembled faintly against her fan.
"Magical anomaly?" Lord Edric, a rotund man whose jowls shook with indignation, scoffed loudly. "Lady Corwin, are we children to be fed bedtime tales? Dimensional calamities happen. You all remember the Wraithstorm of the Northern Isles, don't you? Entire towns swallowed in a night! And where is the Emperor?" He glanced nervously at the empty dais, then muttered, "His silence is telling."
"Lord Edric," a clipped voice interrupted, ringing with authority.
The room stilled as Minister Valen Arclight, the Emperor's senior advisor, stepped forward. Tall and austere, Valen's sharp black robes swept the marble floor as he moved, his cold amber gaze cutting through the gathered lords and ladies.
"His Majesty's absence is not cause for conjecture," Valen said, his voice smooth as polished steel. "His orders are clear. All institutions of the Empire shall function as per the norm. The courts, the guilds, the military—none shall falter." He paused, his gaze lingering on each noble in turn. "His Majesty trusts that we, as his loyal stewards, will not allow baseless panic to take root."
The room shuddered as the great doors swung open with an echoing groan.
Silence fell like a shroud as the Emperor entered.
Raphael Valoria strode into the chamber, his crimson eyes colder than winter frost. Clad in black and gold, his towering presence seemed to darken the very air around him. The silence of the nobles was no longer one of hesitation—it was of reverence and fear.
The Emperor ascended the dais in one fluid motion, every step a proclamation of power. His gaze swept across the assembly, and those who dared meet it immediately looked away, cowed.
"My orders were clear," Raphael began, his voice like thunder muffled by distance—low, rumbling, and absolute. "The Empire will continue as before. The courts will hold session. The guilds will maintain trade. The armies will stand ready."
A pause.
"The Empire does not falter. I do not falter."
The lords and ladies of the council shifted uneasily, afraid to speak.
Lord Albrecht, the closest to boldness, finally dared to murmur, "But, Your Majesty… what of the Armond army? What of the—"
Raphael's gaze turned on him, freezing him mid-sentence. "Do you presume to question me?"
The weight of the Emperor's displeasure fell like a blade. Lord Albrecht swallowed hard, his face pale as he bowed his head.
"I did not think so," Raphael continued, his tone softening, though the sharpness remained. "The red sky has passed. The fog has been contained. The Empire stands, as it always has. My presence in Armond was necessary—as it will be necessary wherever order must be restored."
He stepped down from the dais, his black cloak trailing like a shadow as he swept from the chamber.
No one dared move until the great doors closed behind him, the sound reverberating through the hall like the final toll of a bell.
Valen Arclight stepped forward once more, his voice calm but unyielding.
"You have heard His Majesty. Ensure the Empire does not falter."
The lords and ladies remained silent, but their faces reflected a single shared truth.
The Emperor had spoken—and no one would dare defy him.
Outside, the pale sky remained, but the oppressive chill lingered, as if the Emperor's fury still hung in the air.
Location: The Shared Domain (Spiritual Space)
The world inside the shared domain was quiet, suspended in a timeless serenity. Rolling fields stretched endlessly beneath an amber sky, and a faint breeze carried the scent of lavender and sun-warmed grass. It was a place untouched by chaos—a retreat carved from Raphael's will and mastery of magic. Yet even here, the Emperor walked with a shadow at his heels.
Raphael Valoria entered with an air of muted purpose, his black cloak sweeping softly over the golden grass. The cold fury he had carried in the council chamber lingered faintly in his crimson eyes, though it softened as he took in the sight before him.
Near the base of an ancient willow tree, a tiny figure played, utterly absorbed.
Magda.
But not the young woman he expected—not the composed, guarded child he had known in the palace. Instead, she had regressed, a slip of a girl no older than four.
Raphael halted, stunned.
She sat cross-legged on the grass, her black hair tumbling in a chaotic mess around her round, cherubic face. She held out her small hands, conjuring flickering mana wisps that danced like fireflies. A delighted giggle escaped her lips as she swatted one playfully, watching it rebound and float around her.
Raphael's throat tightened. "A prodigy," he murmured to himself, awe blending with pride. "Even at this age, your mana surpasses mine."
At the sound of his voice, Magda froze. The wisps blinked out of existence as quickly as they had appeared, and her wide crimson eyes turned toward him. For a moment, she simply stared, blinking in confusion.
"Who are you?" she asked softly, her voice high and innocent—but wary.
Raphael stilled, the question striking deeper than it should have.
"I am your father," he said gently, his usually commanding voice tempered into something quiet—something careful.
Magda shook her head, clutching her small hands together nervously. "No. My father's name is Steffan."
The name sent an invisible blade through Raphael's heart, a raw anguish bubbling to the surface. His child—his child—had been taken from him, her life shaped by the wrong hands. The thought of her small frame wandering a cruel, indifferent world without his protection burned like poison in his veins. He had lost her once, and now here she was, fragile and trembling before him, unable to recognize the truth.
He showed no outward reaction, though his chest tightened as though gripped by an iron fist. Instead, he sank to one knee, his tall form folding into something less imposing. Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small caramel toffee wrapped in gold foil—a conjuration born of careful calculation.
Magda's crimson eyes flickered between the toffee and him, suspicion battling curiosity.
"It's yours," Raphael said softly, holding it out. "And I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."
Her lips pursed as she hesitated. Finally, with the caution only a child who had learned too much too soon could possess, Magda shuffled forward and plucked the toffee from his palm. She retreated quickly, unraveling the foil with tiny, deliberate fingers before popping the candy into her mouth.
The silence stretched.
"What's your name?" Raphael ventured, though he knew the answer.
Magda sucked on the caramel and mumbled, "Magda. I'm four." She held up four chubby fingers for emphasis, her eyes darting to his face as though gauging his reaction.
Raphael's heart ached, but he masked it with a soft nod. "Four, is it? You must be very big, then."
At that, Magda straightened, her small shoulders squaring with pride. "I am! I can buy food now."
"Buy food?" Raphael echoed, his brow furrowing faintly.
"Mhm." Magda looked at him as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "My father… Steffan… he forgets sometimes. He drinks a lot, and I have to take care of him." Her voice softened as she stared at the ground. "He doesn't mean to forget. But when we don't have food, I go to the Featherfield cousins. They give me coins, and I buy bread and apples. Sometimes cheese, if I have enough."
Raphael's heart seized as the words sank in.
"And the Featherfield cousins… do they treat you well?" he asked carefully, though he already knew the answer.
Magda's face scrunched up, her little hands tugging at the hem of her dress. "No. They chase me away with dogs. I don't like dogs. They bark and bite and chase me. Cats are better. Cats are quiet, and they don't chase you."
The innocence of her words twisted like a dagger in Raphael's chest. The image of his daughter, tiny and trembling, running from snapping dogs and cruel laughter filled his mind with an unbearable weight. His hands trembled before he clenched them tightly at his sides, forcing himself to stay still.
"No child should have to endure that," he whispered, though Magda didn't seem to hear him.
When she finally looked up again, her eyes were searching—still wary. "Are you going to hit me?" she asked suddenly, her voice trembling.
Raphael froze. For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe. Then, slowly, he extended his hand—open and steady, hovering between them.
"No," he said, his voice low but resolute. "No one will ever hurt you again. I promise."
Magda hesitated, but something in his tone seemed to reach her. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, her tiny form sagging with unspoken relief.
Raphael shifted, reaching for the cloak draped over his shoulder.
"Magda," he said softly, "come here."
She hesitated for only a moment before shuffling forward. Raphael gently wrapped the cloak around her, its warmth swallowing her small frame.
"It's time to rest," he murmured.
Magda blinked up at him sleepily. "Will you stay?"
Raphael hesitated. His crimson eyes softened as he brushed a stray curl from her face. "I will be here when you wake."
Satisfied, Magda let her eyes flutter closed. Raphael held her for a long time, his arms cradling her as though shielding her from the weight of the world.
When she finally drifted to sleep, Raphael carried her to the base of the willow tree and laid her gently in a bed of conjured blankets. Straightening, he watched her peaceful face for a long moment.
"Never again," he whispered softly.
With a final glance, he turned and walked away, his figure dissolving into the golden light of the shared domain.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone