Threads of Crimson and Gold

Micheal found himself in a dimly lit room, far removed from the grandiosity of the Shelb castle. The air was thick with neglect, and the mangled wheelchair lying forgotten to the side told its own tale of despair. He saw himself sitting on a tattered bed, one leg hidden beneath a worn blanket while the other lay lifelessly exposed.

His disheveled appearance—unkempt, matted hair and sunken cheeks etched with exhaustion—was barely recognizable, save for the piercing clarity of his bright blue eyes, which seemed to hold an unspoken weight. It was as though he was observing himself from the outside, detached and bewildered, yet he could feel every ounce of his despair. Though he couldn't pinpoint what had brought him to this state, a deep, unsettling certainty told him this was his reality.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with an echo that filled the room. Raphael Valoria stormed in, his ink-black hair flowing like an angry river and his crimson eyes ablaze with grief and rage. His presence dominated the room, his gaze drilling into Micheal as if searching for something—an answer, an apology, or maybe just someone to blame.

"You all killed her," Raphael spat, his voice cracking under the weight of anguish. "You—you and your family took her, and for what? To let her die? You couldn't even protect her at her most vulnerable!" His words dripped with venom, each syllable a dagger aimed at Micheal's heart.

Micheal sat still, his numbness unbroken by the storm before him. He didn't flinch at Raphael's anger; instead, he welcomed it. In that moment, Micheal wanted nothing more than to disappear, to let Raphael's fury consume him entirely. But then, Raphael's gaze caught something. His crimson eyes flickered toward a small pile of handmade toys scattered on the floor—tokens of hope Micheal had crafted for the children he would never meet.

Raphael's anger faltered, replaced by a cold, quiet grief. His voice dropped to a trembling whisper. "I thought I had lost her once, and then I found her again—so full of life. Yet in this house, she was treated as a burden. If you didn't want her, you could have sent her back to me." His fists clenched, his voice breaking. "You should have sent her back."

His voice quivered. "Did you know, Micheal? Magda was happy in her last days. She wrote to me, asking me to prepare for her children, to learn to be a good grandfather. She believed in a future none of us could give her."

Micheal had hidden his banishment, knowing Raphael would have taken Magda back if he knew. Magda had avoided Raphael's spies, assuring everyone—including Calista—that Micheal could care for her. She followed him to a desolate house on the estate's edge, turning their exile into a fragile sanctuary. Her laughter, her plans for the future—they had felt like stolen treasures. Micheal clung to those moments, even as fear whispered they came at too high a cost.

Now, as her death's reality settled over him, guilt consumed Micheal. Had his selfishness doomed her? Raphael's words cut deep. "For three days, I worried about her silence. They didn't tell me. My only child, buried like a nobody. They didn't let me say goodbye."

Raphael's fury rose. "She even blocked my spies from informing me. My Magda, my strong, brilliant daughter… buried with her stillborn children, as if she were an orphan. They erased her from me."

The door creaked again, and Valen entered, carrying a small box of pill bottles. His somber expression mirrored the weight of the moment. Micheal's gaze flicked toward the bottles, recognition lighting in his otherwise lifeless eyes.

"These," Valen began, his voice low but firm, "are Her Highness's pre-natal pills. They contained mana-diffusing agents—poison disguised as medicine."

A group of guards dragged in an older man, trembling and pleading for mercy. Micheal recognized him as his mother's personal doctor. The man collapsed to his knees, sweat beading on his forehead as Raphael's fiery gaze bore into him.

Valen stepped forward, his voice cold and commanding. "Speak. Every moment you hesitate worsens your guilt."

The doctor's hands shook violently, his voice cracking as he began. "I-I swear, I never wanted to harm her... I was forced!" His panicked eyes darted between Raphael and Micheal. "After Lord Micheal was banished, their resources were stretched thin. When Lady Magda became pregnant, it was unexpected—Lord Micheal had been assumed to have difficulty conceiving. No one suspected anything until Lord Micheal sought the Duchess for help. Lady Magda's pregnancy showed complications early—she suspected she might be carrying more than one child. The fatigue, unusual symptoms, the movements—they worried her."

"Explain," Raphael demanded, his tone a sharp growl simmering with fury.

The doctor swallowed hard, continuing haltingly. "I examined Lady Magda. Despite the harsh living conditions, she was stable—her resilience was remarkable, considering her history of malnourishment. The Duchess was genuinely overjoyed at the news." His voice dropped to a whisper. "But then... the Duke got involved."

The words spilled out in a rush, as though fear propelled them. "The Duke summoned me. At first, he seemed pleased about the pregnancy, but then he said the timing was wrong. He lamented that the youngest was crippled, the eldest gone, and the family couldn't afford a scandal. He... he ordered me to alter her medication, to add agents to induce an abortion. He claimed it was for the family's good—that they could try again when the situation was better."

The doctor hesitated, tears streaming as his voice cracked. "I told him it was too late! Lady Magda had crossed the safe time limit. She was carrying twins, and the strain on her body—already weakened from childhood malnourishment—was immense. I begged him to reconsider, but he refused. Guards stood over me as I prepared the altered pills. I had no choice."

The doctor explained further, his voice faltering as he addressed the room. "The Duke never intended for Lady Magda to die. It was supposed to be a controlled termination, but things went horribly wrong. The poisoning accelerated the deterioration of her body, and we had to bury her sooner than expected." He swallowed hard, his eyes wide with fear. "Her body... it began decomposing rapidly, far beyond what is natural. We had no choice." 

Now trembling uncontrollably, the doctor broke down, sobbing. "The pills—they were only meant to terminate the pregnancy early! But her body couldn't handle it. The strain was too much. I didn't want this... I didn't want to hurt her. I swear, I didn't!"

Micheal's hollow expression finally cracked, tears streaming down his face as he clenched his fists. His voice, choked and trembling, whispered, "She trusted me… and I failed her. We were happy, even in exile.... we had each other. I failed her."

Raphael crossed the room, his presence overwhelming as he crouched before Micheal. Gripping Micheal's face with a hand that was both gentle and unyielding, he forced their eyes to meet. The crimson depths of Raphael's gaze were alight with pain and fury.

No one knew Micheal's pain better than Raphael himself. Twenty years ago, even he had been denied a loving home by the cruelty of fate. His wife was gone, and his child had been taken away. Yet, he still could not find it in him to forgive his son-in-law, who was also clearly suffering. Why would he? Micheal had brought this upon himself, whereas Raphael had done his best to protect his little family—only to watch them slip away from him.

"You think dying would free you from this?" Raphael said, his voice laced with bitterness. He gestured to the pendant Micheal wore, Magda's gift. "This… this will pardon your life and be your prison. Living with the knowledge of what you lost—of who caused it—that is your punishment."

Micheal's grief twisted into a desperate resolve as he lunged toward a shard of broken glass from what remained of a lamp near his bed. But before he could act, Raphael's crimson eyes glowed, freezing him in place. "You will not escape this, Micheal. Not by death." Raphael's voice softened into something even colder, almost a whisper. "If your family didn't want her, they could have sent her back to me. I would have welcomed her home. I would have cherished her."

As Raphael stood and turned to leave, he paused at the doorway. His voice, carrying a chilling calm, echoed through the room. "I remember hearing a tale about Harold, your grandfather. It seems like his bloodline bears the swan's curse—either to thrive with your better half or wilt into nothing without them. None of his descendants resemble him more than you, Micheal. Living without Magda will be worse than dying for you."

When Raphael was gone, the room plunged into silence. Micheal remained frozen in place, his tears falling unbidden. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, and the pendant around his neck burned with the memory of what he had lost. He thought of the days when he and Magda had lived in exile, impoverished yet happy. She had laughed with him in their modest home, her crimson eyes lighting up even in their struggles. They had dreamed of a brighter future. Now, that future was gone.

Two days after the red sky and red fog incident, Micheal awoke in his old room at the Shelb estate. His body was splinted, and the vibrant energy that once defined him was gone. Barnaby entered quietly, his face lined with concern, his steps cautious as if he feared shattering the fragile peace of the room.

"Good morning, young master," Barnaby said gently. "You've had us all worried."

Micheal turned away, seeming more lifeless now awake than when he was in a coma.

Moments later, the Duchess swept into the room, her motherly concern softening her sharp features. She adjusted his blankets and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. "Oh, my sweet boy," she said, her voice trembling. "What have they done to you?" Her voice cracked, tears welling in her hazel eyes as she smoothed back his hair. Micheal's gaze flicked to her, and the weight of the novel's prophecy loomed large. Would her death, mere days after Magda's in that timeline, be a result of her guilt—of knowing she had played a role in her daughter-in-law's and grandchildren's demise?

"I failed her, Mother," Micheal murmured. "I couldn't protect her."

Eleanor's heart ached as she gathered him into her arms. "You haven't lost her," she said firmly. "She's strong, Micheal. Stronger than you can imagine. She'll come back to you. I know she will."

Micheal allowed himself to return her embrace, though his grip was weak. "You didn't deserve this either," he whispered. "None of us did." The Duchess, though confused by his words, soothed him with a mother's touch.

But as the light of hope flickered in his mother's words, Micheal's doubts grew sharper. Even in the comfort of his old room, surrounded by the people who cared for him most, the gnawing absence of Magda and the unbearable weight of guilt threatened to consume him entirely. A knock at the door startled them both.

Barnaby opened it cautiously, revealing a messenger with a pale, ashen face. The man's trembling hands held a sealed letter bearing the imperial crest. Without a word, he handed it over and retreated.

Eleanor took the letter, her hands shaking as she broke the seal. Her face paled as she read, her lips forming a single, whispered word: "Raphael." She looked at Micheal, her hazel eyes wide with fear. "It's about Magda."

Micheal's breath hitched, his heart pounding as Eleanor handed him the letter. The words blurred before his eyes as his hands trembled. But his mother smiled at him reassuringly.

Micheal's voice, barely above a whisper: "She's alive?"

In the sanctuary, Raphael sat beside Magda's still form, his hand resting lightly on hers. Within their shared domain, he watched over her soul with unwavering devotion, determined to give her the peace she had always deserved.

Back at the Shelb estate, Micheal's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his heart heavy with longing and regret. Magda had survived, but Raphael had decreed that her condition was too frail for her to return to Shelb. She would remain in the Imperial palace under the care of her family. Micheal's mind churned with uncertainty—was this the reality of his vision? Raphael had promised to take her back, but what did that truly mean? The distance between them felt like an unbridgeable chasm, and the weight of his failure pressed on his chest like an iron chain.

 In the camp, Count Drifter led the rebuilding efforts, his thoughts lingering on the young man who had left an indelible mark on their survival.

The battle was over, but its scars remained. And as the threads of their fates continued to intertwine, the echoes of love, loss, and redemption reverberated through their lives.