Breaking the Multiverse for You

The first light of dawn bathed the Shelb estate in a golden glow, dew shimmering on the gardens below. Magda stretched as she awoke, her dark hair fanning out against the pillows. A soft knock at the door interrupted her moment of tranquility.

"Enter," she called, her voice still laced with sleep.

Calista stepped inside, her demeanor composed but with a sense of urgency. "A secret messenger from the palace has arrived," she said, holding an envelope sealed with the imperial crest.

Magda swung her legs over the side of the bed, fully alert now. "From Father?" she asked, reaching for the envelope.

"Yes," Calista confirmed, handing it over.

"Provide the messenger with refreshments as he waits" Magda said as she picked up the letter from Calista.

Breaking the seal, Magda unfolded the parchment, the faint warmth of her father's mana radiating from it. Raphael's elegant script brought an unbidden smile to her lips as she began to read.

Dearest Magda,

I hope this letter finds you well. Things here are as lively as ever. Flora has made waves again, this time gathering political allies under the guise of a charity flower arrangement event. She has the entire court debating which bloom represents which faction—a distraction I find both amusing and clever.

The flower festival is fast approaching, and it brings to mind fond memories of your mother and me. When we were crown prince and princess, we danced in the square during the festival, surrounded by the people's laughter and joy. I cannot tell you how radiant she looked under the glow of the festival lights. It was one of her favorite traditions.

I hope you and Micheal will consider attending. Life, after all, isn't just about spells and books. And speaking of Micheal—his horseless carriage patent has reached the court mages. While some are skeptical, I find the concept intriguing. That said, I've decided to withhold approval until he takes you out to enjoy yourselves. Humor me, my dear.

Write back soon and tell me how you are. You are always in my heart.

With love,

Your devoted Father, Raphael Valoria

Magda's eyes lingered on the words, her chest tightening slightly. This was the first time she'd heard of her parents' flower festival memories. Her father had always spoken sparingly of her mother, likely to shield her from the pain of what they had lost. But here, tucked into the lines of his letter, was a glimpse of their happiness—a happiness she was only now beginning to understand.

She folded the letter carefully and set it on the small desk near her window. "Father always knows how to pull at my heartstrings," she murmured.

"What does His Majesty say?" Calista asked, a note of curiosity in her voice.

Magda smiled faintly. "He mentioned Flora's latest political flower event. Apparently, she's turned flower arrangements into a court-wide strategy game." Her tone turned wry. "And he wants Micheal to take me to the flower festival before he'll approve the patent for the horseless carriage."

Calista chuckled. "The Emperor certainly knows how to balance affection with subtle demands."

Magda picked up a pen and parchment, her mind already forming a reply. "I'll write to him myself. Please ensure the messenger is ready to leave when I'm finished."

Settling at her desk, Magda let her thoughts flow onto the page.

Dearest Father,

Thank you for your kind letter. I am well and taking care of myself, though your concern is, as always, deeply appreciated. Flora's flower arrangements sound like quite the spectacle—I imagine she's thriving amidst the court's newfound fascination with floral politics.

As for the flower festival, I hadn't given it much thought. Micheal is... eccentric, but I believe he can be persuaded to attend. I will do my best to ensure he doesn't embarrass the Shelb name too badly.

Regarding the horseless carriage patent, rest assured Micheal's ideas are as innovative as they are peculiar. Please don't hold the festival attendance over his head for too long—I can only imagine his reaction when I tell him.

Your memory of Mother at the flower festival touched me deeply. I hadn't heard this story before, but it warms my heart to picture her so happy by your side.

With all my love,

Magda

As Magda finished the letter, she handed it to Calista, who quickly delivered it to the waiting messenger. Watching the messenger vanish into the estate's shadows without a trace, Magda frowned.

"How do they come and go so easily?" she muttered, half to herself.

"They're the Emperor's finest," Calista said, returning to Magda's side. "It's unlikely even the elites of the Duke's guards could detect them."

Magda tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the desk. "I wonder if my mage unit can learn to be as elusive. It would certainly make their presence here less conspicuous."

"I wouldn't put it past them," Calista replied with a smirk. "But it might take some time."

Magda's mind shifted back to the other pressing matter. "Calista," she said, rising from her seat, "arrange an appointment at the nearest mage tower."

"By nearest did you mean the one on the Shelb-Armond border." Calista enquired.

"Yes," Magda paused for a second and continued, "I want appointment at a Mage tower with a lab equipped enough to perform extensive experiments and tests."

Calista's expression turned serious. "Is this about the mana fluctuation?"

Magda nodded. "Yes. It's likely nothing, but I want to investigate before Father becomes aware. If he finds out, he'll forbid me from going."

"Understandable," Calista said softly. "After what happened to the Empress..."

"That's precisely why I need to act quickly," Magda interrupted, her tone firm but tinged with sadness. "The last time such a fluctuation occurred, it wasn't deemed a threat, and yet a devastating pandemic followed. The fluctuation itself may be harmless, but the ripples it creates—unstable mana in the air, weakened immune systems—can spiral out of control. Though it is just a theory, even after years of investigation, we still don't know why the pandemic occurred. And this time, there's no Celeste Valoria to concoct life-saving elixirs."

Her hands clenched tightly. "We've already lost too many to the last pandemic. I can't let history repeat itself."

Calista hesitated before replying, her voice soft with understanding. "I'll ensure the arrangements are made discreetly, my lady."

Magda nodded, her resolve unwavering. "Good. I'll be ready to leave as soon as the preparations are complete."

As the morning sunlight bathed the room, Magda stared out at the estate gardens, her father's words about the flower festival lingering in her mind. Perhaps attending wouldn't be so terrible—if only to reassure Father. But first, the wastelands. This time, I'll ensure we're prepared.

As things were getting heated at Magda's end of the estate, things were just getting started at Micheal's side. The first rays of morning light filtered through Micheal's window, casting a soft glow over the disarray of his room. He stretched luxuriously, savoring the rare feeling of waking up refreshed. The clarity of the morning was a welcome change, and for a fleeting moment, he felt that life might not be as chaotic as usual.

That illusion shattered with the shrill chiming of his com-tab.

Groaning, he rolled over and grabbed the device, squinting at the flood of messages. Lysander's name popped up repeatedly in the group chat. Micheal groaned louder. "Why do mornings have to involve Lysander's incessant enthusiasm?" he muttered, tapping the first unread message.

Lysander:

Micheal, she's interested! Maggie wants to meet you at the mage tower in Shelb near Count Armond's territory.

Oh, and surprise—she's your neighbor. Turns out her husband's lands border yours.

She wants to meet tomorrow morning. You should probably warn Barnaby before he launches into one of his 'you should've told me earlier' tirades.

Micheal rubbed his temples as he scrolled further.

Lysander:

Also, don't forget to look presentable. Maggie's husband might drop by. Count Armond has... opinions about everything.

The last message caught his attention. Micheal let out a loud snort. "Pitching man-bras to Count Armond and his army of aura-inflated hunks. This is going to be a sight to behold. Father's going to faint."

He stretched again, but this time with a wicked grin. "Whether or not I sell man-bras to Count Armond, I'll definitely pitch them to father's greatest ally, Fedrick next," he mused aloud, imagining the Duke of North's reaction as Micheal unveiled his groundbreaking invention. "Fedrick won't even have time to flex in the mirror."

Micheal's triumphant daydream was rudely interrupted by the door swinging open with a dramatic flourish. Enter Barnaby, Micheal's tireless and ever-efficient butler, carrying his usual air of authority.

"Master Micheal, the day awaits!" Barnaby announced with the enthusiasm of a man on a caffeine overdose.

Micheal sat up straight, alarmed. "Barnaby! How are you even this awake? Did you sleep on an enchanted mattress or something? And I've nothing on my schedule today."

"No time for banter!" Barnaby clapped his hands, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You have precisely twenty minutes to get ready, or we won't make it to the city library before they close for lunch."

"Wait—what library? Why do I even need to—"

Barnaby pointed to a precarious stack of books on the desk. "Those are overdue. Very overdue. The library staff may take your tardiness as a personal insult."

"Why do I have to care about the city librarian's feelings now?", Micheal groaned. "How do you even know these books are overdue? My com-tab is private!"

Barnaby smirked. "Private? Oh, Master Micheal, com-tabs are about as private as the estate gardens during a festival. Confidential matters are still delivered via messengers for good reason."

"That's... unsettling," Micheal muttered, mentally cataloging all the things he'd typed into his com-tab. "No wonder Father's still so obsessed with old-fashioned scrolls."

"Indeed," Barnaby replied, pulling open the wardrobe and laying out clothes with military precision. "Now, if you don't hurry, your noble honor will be tarnished by overdue fines."

"Why can't you just pay the fines for me?" Micheal protested as he rushed to the bathroom.

"Punctuality is a mark of nobility, Master Micheal," Barnaby called after him. "Besides, you've already been warned about library deadlines twice this month."

Micheal poked his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. "Barnaby, you're like a living conscience, and I hate it."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Barnaby said, hoisting the stack of books with ease. "Now finish up, or we'll have to wrestle you into the carriage again."

Micheal grimaced. The memory of yesterday's debacle—the thought of being carried to the library like a sack of rice by Barnaby—gave him a fright. "No wrestling. I'll be ready in five!"

Barnaby's expression softened just enough to show his approval. "Very well, Master Micheal. Five minutes. But not a second more."

As Micheal scrambled to get ready, thoughts of the day ahead filled his mind. Lysander's messages, the impending meeting with Maggie, and the ever-looming shadow of his father's expectations created a cocktail of anxiety and amusement.

"Let's see what chaos today brings," he murmured to himself as he dashed out the door, trailing behind the whirlwind that was Barnaby.

The council chamber of the Shelb estate was bathed in the soft glow of midmorning light. Duke Louis von Shelb sat at the head of the long table, his imposing figure commanding the room. Across from him, his eldest son and heir, Ethan, stood with his usual stoic demeanor. Beside Ethan was Adrian, the second son, who managed the army's finances. Reginald, the Duke's trusted assistant, stood slightly to the side, ready to provide his meticulous insights.

Adrian finished his report, his tone crisp. "The upgrades to the supply line carts have been completed, Father. The reinforcement enchantments will ensure their durability through rough terrain. These adjustments should streamline logistics across the northern battalions."

The Duke gave a curt nod but raised a questioning brow. "You mentioned surplus funds allowed for these upgrades. Where, precisely, did this surplus originate?"

Adrian's brows furrowed. "I assumed it was from estate revenues, but I wasn't informed of its source."

Reginald stepped forward smoothly, his expression calm and professional. "The surplus, Your Grace, comes from a deal orchestrated by the young master Micheal. He secured exclusive buying rights to the Central Plains' wheat for five years, offering in exchange the high-yield seeds recently developed by the Eastern Mage Tower."

Adrian blinked in surprise, leaning back slightly. "Micheal? He's barely left the Southwest. How did he even know about this opportunity?"

Reginald allowed himself a small, approving smile. "The young master has a remarkable ability to gather and piece together information. He understood the market's needs, aligned them with the mage tower's capabilities, and struck the deal. It's not his first success, either. Many of the funds supporting the army now originate from businesses Micheal began investing in when he was just sixteen."

Ethan, who had been listening with a frown, finally spoke, his tone sharp. "If Micheal is capable of achieving so much, then he is more than capable of fulfilling his duty in the army. Every Shelb man must serve, regardless of their other contributions."

The Duke's expression darkened. His gaze settled on Ethan, who met it with unwavering conviction. "Micheal is not like you," the Duke said evenly, though there was a distinct edge to his voice.

"Discipline can be taught," Ethan countered, his tone unwavering. "It's about honor and tradition. Service isn't optional—it's a rite of passage for every man in this family."

Reginald intervened diplomatically. "Micheal's contributions to the estate and army are significant, my lord. Perhaps his path simply differs from the traditional."

Ethan's frustration was evident as he turned to Reginald. "Significant or not, Reginald, tradition matters. How can we expect the men under us to respect the Shelb name if one of our own shirks his duties?"

The Duke raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. "Later," he said, his tone brooking no dissent. "For now, Micheal contributes where he is most suited. This discussion is closed."

Though Ethan clenched his jaw, he nodded, respecting his father's authority. Reginald wisely redirected the conversation. "Shall we review the logistical support for the northern battalions, Your Grace?"

The Duke nodded, but his thoughts lingered on Micheal. As Reginald and Adrian resumed their reports, he thought of his youngest son—a delicate balance of wit and eccentricity. The Duke pictured Micheal in the barracks, surrounded by the harsh discipline of military life, and felt an inexplicable pang.

To Louis von Shelb, Micheal was like a piece of costly porcelain—fragile, intricate, and irreplaceable. The thought of sending him to the army, exposing him to the grit and danger, felt almost cruel. Yet, the Duke despised this line of thinking. Was he fostering weakness? Shielding his youngest too much?

Adrian broke into his thoughts. "Father?"

The Duke shook his head. "Continue."

Reginald smoothly took over, shifting the discussion back to logistical priorities, but the Duke's inner turmoil remained. He resolved, at least for now, to keep Micheal safe—out of tradition's reach and far from Ethan's unrelenting expectations.

As the conversation moved forward, the Duke glanced toward the windows, where sunlight streamed in. Micheal was unconventional, yes, but in his own way, he was becoming invaluable to the Shelb legacy. Perhaps that was enough for now.