Breaking the Multiverse for You

"I'm sorry," he said softly, the words catching her off guard.

Magda blinked, her crimson eyes wide with surprise. "For what?"

"For not trying," Micheal admitted. "For not being there when I should have."

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the letters. "We've both… been trying to find our way," she said quietly. "I can't blame you for that."

Micheal's jaw tightened. He wanted to tell her that she had been more graceful in navigating her struggles than he had ever been. That despite everything, she carried herself with a dignity he couldn't help but admire. But the words caught in his throat, and instead, he offered her a faint smile.

"I'll do better," he said simply.

Magda studied him for a moment before nodding. "I believe you," she said, her voice steady.

As the golden light of the setting sun gave way to twilight, Micheal felt a quiet determination take root within him. This wasn't just about rewriting the story—it was about taking responsibility for the part he had to play in it. And for the first time, he felt the weight of that responsibility as something he could bear.

Micheal's resolve had crystallized after leaving Magda's waiting room. The weight of his neglect, the revelations about Magda's fate, and the oppressive certainty of his dream pushed him to act. If he had any chance of rewriting the future, he needed to challenge the narrative that had trapped them all—and it began with confronting his father.

The grand mahogany doors to Duke von Shelb's study loomed ahead, a reminder of the authority Micheal was about to challenge. He clenched the yellowed letters tighter, the aged parchment almost crumpling under his grip. His boots clicked sharply against the polished marble floors as he marched through the opulent halls, each step a declaration of defiance.

Inside the study, the Duke sat behind his massive oak desk, its surface neatly arranged with ledgers and documents. Towering shelves of trade records and military treatises lined the walls, symbols of the power and wealth the House of Shelb had amassed under his leadership. Reginald, the ever-efficient secretary, stood at attention nearby, adjusting his spectacles and meticulously organizing papers.

"Micheal," the Duke began without looking up, his voice clipped and commanding. "Explain this interruption. Quickly."

Micheal strode forward and placed the bundle of letters on the desk with a deliberate thud. "We need to stop supporting Flora—or at the very least, go neutral."

The Duke raised his head slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing. "And why," he asked, his tone icy, "would we abandon the strongest political alliance this family has ever secured?"

"Because it's an insult to Magda," Micheal said, his voice steady but edged with emotion. "Supporting Flora while ignoring her makes a mockery of your daughter-in-law."

The Duke leaned back in his chair, his gaze hardening. "Magda is irrelevant," he said coldly. "Flora is engaged to the Duke of the North. That alliance alone makes her indispensable. And Magda? She has no allies, no influence, and no leverage. She's a ghost."

Micheal's breath hitched, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He couldn't tell his father about the dream, about the destruction of their family that lay ahead. But he could point to the cracks that were already forming.

"Flora is no saint," Micheal said, his voice rising. "Look at her actions. She hasn't visited Steffan or the Featherfield estate once, even though she sends lavish gifts. She plays to appearances, pleasing the court while neglecting the people who matter most."

"And what of it?" the Duke countered, his tone sharp. "Her actions win favor, which is more than I can say for you."

"She's selfish," Micheal snapped. "And when push comes to shove, she'll protect herself, not us."

The Duke's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. Micheal's words were starting to strike a nerve. "You speak as though you understand the weight of leadership. You, who've contributed nothing but your idle musings."

Micheal's heart raced, but he held his ground. "Idle musings? The wealth of this Dukedom doesn't come from your military might, as you like to believe. It's the businesses I've planned and strategized for that fund your armies. Without them, we'd be bankrupt."

The Duke rose from his chair, his imposing figure casting a shadow over Micheal. "You think merchants need strategy?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "You think traders care about your clever ideas? They come because of the power of this house—because of my name."

"That's where you're wrong," Micheal shot back. "Power doesn't keep supply chains running or secure the best deals. It doesn't time sales or manage suppliers. That's my work. You've ignored it because it doesn't involve swords or titles, but it's the backbone of everything this family stands on."

The Duke's eyes narrowed further, his disappointment evident. Micheal had always been the son who most resembled him, both in looks and potential. But the congenital heart condition that had plagued Micheal since childhood had prevented him from taking up the sword—a failure the Duke had silently mourned. Micheal's pursuit of business over politics, his disdain for social norms, and now his outright defiance were bitter blows to the Duke's expectations.

"You've failed me time and time again," the Duke said, his voice laden with scorn. "You ignore your responsibilities, care nothing for this family's reputation, and now you stand against me."

Micheal met his father's gaze, his expression unwavering. "If standing against you means saving this family, then so be it."

The Duke's lips curled into a sneer. "Prove it."

Micheal tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "Prove what?"

The Duke leaned forward, his tone cold and cutting. "Start a business—something new, untouched by this family."

"That's absurd," Micheal said, incredulous. "The House of Shelb has invested in every viable industry because of my planning. Finding something untouched would be like finding a needle in a haystack."

"Then find it," the Duke snapped. "Show me your brilliance. Prove that your so-called strategy is more than talk."

Reginald, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat delicately. "If I may, Your Grace, the young master does have a penchant for… unconventional ideas."

The Duke shot him a glare. "Stay out of this, Reginald."

"Of course," Reginald said, adjusting his spectacles with mock innocence. "But I do find it fascinating."

Micheal ignored them both, his mind racing. He thought of his dream—the heroines, their frustrations, and Flora's absurd adoration for the Duke of the North, who was always flaunting his bare chest. A sinister smirk crossed Micheal's face as the idea crystallized.

"The man-bra," he announced, his voice calm but firm.

Reginald froze mid-motion, his pen poised above a sheet of parchment. The Duke's eyes widened briefly before narrowing into a glare of disbelief.

"The… what?" the Duke asked, his tone dripping with incredulity.

"A chest garment for men," Micheal explained, unfazed. "Comfortable, stylish, and modest. There's a market for it."

Reginald coughed, clearly suppressing laughter. "Innovative," he said, his voice trembling with amusement. "Certainly… groundbreaking."

The Duke's lip curled into a bitter sneer. "You've truly lost your mind."

Reginald straightened, his face carefully neutral. "Or perhaps he's ahead of his time, Your Grace. History will decide."

The Duke waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. Assign him a shop, a modest fund, and an assistant. Let him embarrass himself. Perhaps then he'll finally learn his limits."

Micheal's smirk deepened, his resolve hardening. "You'll regret underestimating me."

The Duke's gaze bore into him, disappointment mingling with disdain. "We'll see."

As Micheal turned to leave, the weight of his father's scorn pressed against him. But a flicker of determination burned within. He would prove them all wrong—not just to protect Magda, but to rewrite the story itself.

Reginald, watching Micheal's retreating figure, couldn't resist a sly comment. "Your Grace, if nothing else, this promises to be… entertaining."

The Duke grunted, dismissing him with a wave. But even as he returned to his papers, a seed of unease lingered.

A New Beginning

As Micheal stepped into the cool evening air, he felt a sense of freedom and a sense of purpose he hadn't known before. Magda who had followed him and waited for him in the balcony outside the duke's office watched, her crimson eyes filled with questions.

Micheal met her gaze and offered a small smile. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, but let me warn you this is just the start," he said.

Magda hesitated before nodding. In that moment, something shifted between them—a fragile connection that held the promise of change. A smile flashed through Magda's eyes that Micheal didn't notice.

For the first time, Micheal felt like the protagonist of his own story. And he wasn't going to let anyone rewrite his ending.

As Micheal stepped out of the towering estate and into the cool embrace of the evening air, the weight on his chest began to lift. The sunset painted the horizon in fiery hues of orange and crimson, casting long shadows over the meticulously kept gardens of the Shelb estate. The crisp air carried a faint scent of lavender, calming his restless thoughts.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Micheal von Shelb felt a sense of purpose—a sense of freedom. It wasn't the kind of freedom that came from shirking duties or hiding behind the veil of nonchalance. It was the liberating clarity of knowing what needed to be done and having the resolve to do it.

From the balcony overlooking the estate grounds, Magda watched him. The soft glow of the setting sun kissed her pale face, and her black braid glistened like polished obsidian. Her crimson eyes, striking and solemn, held a question she didn't voice. Her presence was almost ethereal against the backdrop of the sprawling estate, a figure of quiet strength and unspoken sorrow.

Micheal paused as he noticed her, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. He climbed the steps leading to her perch, the tension from his confrontation with the Duke still crackling in the air between them.

"You were listening, weren't you?" he asked softly, a trace of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Magda hesitated, her hands tightening on the stone railing. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I… I was worried."

Micheal's smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of something far more sincere. He stepped closer, resting his hands on the same railing. Their fingers were mere inches apart, and for the first time, he allowed himself to look at her—really look at her. The crimson eyes that had once seemed unnerving now felt familiar, even comforting in their quiet intensity.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you," Micheal said, his tone earnest. "But I should warn you… this is just the start."

Magda tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher his meaning. "The start of what?" she asked, her voice steadier now.

Micheal's gaze drifted toward the horizon, his jaw tightening. "The start of taking back control. The start of making sure no one—not the Duke, not Flora, not anyone—decides our fate but us."

Magda's lips parted, her surprise evident. She searched his face, looking for a hint of mockery or insincerity, but found none. "Why do you care now?" she asked cautiously.

Micheal exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Because I've made mistakes," he admitted. "I've ignored you when I shouldn't have. I've let others dictate how we live, how we… survive. That ends now."

Magda's gaze softened, and for the first time in what felt like years, a faint smile reached her eyes. It wasn't a grand smile, but it was real, and it carried a glimmer of something Micheal hadn't seen in her before: hope.

"What will you do?" she asked, her voice laced with both curiosity and cautious optimism.

Micheal turned to her fully, his expression resolute. "I'll prove that this family doesn't need to cling to Flora or the Emperor's favor to survive. I'll create something new, something entirely my own. And when I do, they'll have no choice but to see us—to see you—for who we really are."

Magda's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression unreadable. But then she nodded, a small gesture that carried the weight of her cautious trust. "I hope you succeed," she said softly, her voice carrying a sincerity that struck Micheal to his core.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into twilight, Micheal straightened. The cool evening air felt charged with possibility, and for the first time, he felt like the protagonist of his own story.

"Goodnight, Magda," he said, his voice steady but warm.

"Goodnight, Micheal," she replied, watching as he turned and descended the steps, his silhouette disappearing into the encroaching darkness.

From her place on the balcony, Magda watched him go, her crimson eyes following his every step. A faint breeze rustled her braid, carrying with it a whispered promise of change. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to hope—not just for herself, but for the man who had finally begun to see her.

And as Micheal walked into the night, his resolve burned brighter than ever. This wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about rewriting the story that had been forced upon them. Together, they would carve a new path—one where neither of them would be overlooked or cast aside.

For Micheal von Shelb, this was not just a new beginning. It was the start of a rebellion against the unseen hands that had bound them, and he would stop at nothing to change their fate.