Stepping into the heart of the Capital District's primary commercial hub felt less like entering a building and more like discovering a hidden city.
The architecture was staggering—a masterful blend of soaring arches and intricate modern stonework that made "absurd" seem like an understatement. Above us, a massive glass dome filtered the sunlight, casting a shimmering glow over the multi-tiered streets of the interior. The amount of resources required to maintain a structure of this scale must have been astronomical.
"The buying limit today is limited only by your imagination," Arnold announced, his voice booming with infectious enthusiasm. He took a firm, grounding hold of both my and Sophia's hands, looking every bit the proud father.
"Dad! Ice cream! Over there!" Sophia practically vibrated with excitement, her finger outstretched toward a parlour across the plaza. The shop was a masterpiece of marketing, decorated with whimsical, swirling colours and magical illusions of floating sweets designed to ensnare the heart of any passerby.
Arnold chuckled, the sound deep and reassuring. "After we do a little shopping first, sweetheart," he promised, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before turning to me. "What do you think, Amon? Any particular destination in mind?"
"That sounds like a wise plan, Father," I replied, my eyes scanning the rows of high-end boutiques and various storefronts. "We should start exploring this place."
"That, we should," Arnold agreed, leading us forward into the throng of the capital's elite.
The mall was teeming with life—a sea of vibrant clothing that made sense given it was the weekend. Usually, both Arnold and Emilia were buried under the weight of their duties, but today, Arnold had carved out a rare sanctuary of time for us. He had invited Emilia, of course, but the "important ducal matters" of the Crown estate were relentless, keeping her tethered to the office while we ventured out.
In my past life, I'd always found shopping malls tedious—monotonous blocks of concrete and fluorescent lights that all blurred into one. But this? This was different. The craftsmanship, the fantasy-sci-fi ambience, and the sheer artistry of the architecture were winning me over.
We eventually came to a halt before a storefront that stood out from the surrounding modern glitter. The sign, swaying gently on its hinges, read: "Hera's Hanger."
The boutique looked like it had been plucked straight out of an 18th-century film—all dark wood, brass accents, and large glass panes showing off elegant mannequins. It was a piece of history preserved in the middle of a modern empire.
"This place is special to me," Arnold murmured, a soft, reminiscent light dancing in his eyes as he looked at the sign. "I spent a fair amount of my student days in and out of those doors. Even now, it's where I come when I want something meaningful for myself—or for all of you."
"Dad, it looks... old," Sophia noted, tilting her head as she scrutinised the vintage exterior.
Arnold chuckled, the sound warm and indulgent as he ruffled her hair. "That's the aesthetic, Sophia. Don't let the rustic look fool you. Hera's Hanger is a titan. They have six hundred and eighty-two branches across the Riversong Empire, including three back home in our own territory. They are world-renowned for a very simple reason: they provide elite-tier quality without the excessive pricing of other high-class boutiques."
"Father, were you perhaps working part-time here during your student days?" I asked, my curiosity fully apparent in my voice.
Arnold's face lit up, a genuine, youthful spark returning to his eyes. "That is correct, Amon. I did. It taught me more about people than any lecture ever could. Now, let's go inside, shall we?"
Stepping through the threshold was like crossing a chronological border. I was instantly blown away. The vintage aesthetic was a total immersion.
The interior smelled of aged cedar and high-grade linen, and the employees moved with a disciplined grace, dressed in uniforms that looked like they had stepped out of a classic period drama. As a fan of the vintage era back in my previous life, I felt a sense of genuine appreciation.
"Ah, Arnold! It has been far too long," an elderly woman called out, weaving through the racks of clothing with a bright, energetic smile.
"I've been doing fine, boss," Arnold replied, dipping his head in a respectful nod.
My internal gears shifted. So, this was the owner of the legendary Hera's Hanger—and the woman who had once managed a young Duke-in-training.
"Haha, you're the same as ever, always so formal," the woman chuckled, her sharp, perceptive gaze eventually landing on Sophia and me. "And these must be yours?"
"They are," Arnold affirmed, his voice thick with pride.
"Gosh, they're a carbon copy of your wife," the woman remarked, her eyes glinting with amusement as she looked at our features. Then, her gaze lingered on me, narrowing slightly. "But tell me... why does your son have a blindfold on?"
"Well," Arnold replied, his smile unwavering and smooth. "It's a condition."
I stood there in a brown t-shirt, black jeans, and grey sports shoes—a simple, modern silhouette capped by the stark crimson of my blindfold. I knew I stood out, but compared to the alternative of letting people see the unnatural shift in my eyes, this was the lesser of two evils.
Beside me, Sophia was a mirror image of my colour palette. She wore a brown dress paired with a black, ankle-length skirt and polished grey short-heels. She had even attempted to don a matching crimson blindfold in a fit of sibling solidarity, but the sudden darkness had forced her to abandon the idea with a disappointed gloom.
The secret was simple: I had woven a low-level sensory enchantment into the silk of my blindfold, allowing light and detail to filter through the fabric as if it were a thin veil. To me, the world was slightly tinted red; to everyone else, I was a mystery.
Arnold, meanwhile, looked every bit the effortless aristocrat. He wore a crisp blue shirt under a structured blue coat, paired with tailored black pants and polished brown shoes. It was a casual ensemble, yet on him, it looked like a high-fashion editorial. The Crown bloodline was notoriously blessed with striking features, and even without his ducal regalia, Arnold drew the gaze of everyone in the room.
"Boss, how has your health been lately?" Arnold asked, his voice softening with genuine concern. "The last few times I dropped by, I didn't get the chance to catch you for a proper conversation."
"Well, the years are finally catching up, Arnold," the old lady replied with a raspy but warm chuckle. "I'm getting old. I can't pour as much of my soul into this floor as I used to. The shop has to learn to breathe without me eventually."
A heavy, sudden silence settled over the small group. To Sophia and me, the quiet felt merely awkward, like a stumble in a dance. But for Arnold, it was a grim, hollow moment. He looked at the woman who had guided his younger self, perhaps realising for the first time that even the titans of his childhood were susceptible to the erosion of time.
"Ah, now look at me—I didn't mean to sour the mood or make you feel bad," the old lady spoke up, her voice regaining its warm, maternal resonance as she waved away the gloom.
Arnold forced a small, respectful smile back onto his face, though the shadows in his eyes didn't quite dissipate. "It's fine, Boss. I appreciate the honesty." He took a breath, shifting the momentum back to the present. "Could you show us the best you've got? I want my children to see why this place is legendary."
"Of course!" The old lady's entire demeanour shifted instantly. Her eyes sparked with professional fire, and the frailness seemed to vanish under a wave of genuine enthusiasm. "Stay right there. I have a few pieces in the back that have been waiting for someone with the proper grace to pull them off."
With a surprising burst of energy, she turned and disappeared into the depths of the boutique, her heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor.
. . .
We stepped out onto the bustling thoroughfare, the rustle of high-quality paper bags accompanying every step. I carried two, while Sophia and Arnold looked like walking storefronts with four bags each.
Arnold had practically pleaded with me to pick out more, but I couldn't justify the excess. My closet back at the mansion was already a cavernous hoard of silks and linens; adding more felt less like shopping and more like inventory management.
"Dad, where are we going next?" Sophia asked, her eyes darting around the plaza, her excitement practically radiating in physical waves.
"To a wand shop," Arnold replied, his smile widening at her reaction. "It's high time you both stopped practising with the standard-issue wands from the armoury. You've outgrown them. It's time you held a tool forged specifically for your magium."
A genuine spark of adrenaline shot through me. In this world, a custom wand might be a standard milestone for a young noble, but to someone who grew up with stories of a socially awkward boy with a magic stick trying to stop a noseless magical extremist, this was a legendary upgrade. It was the ultimate "flex"—a piece of specialised equipment tuned to my unique frequency of Magium.
"I knew that would get your attention, Amon," Arnold said, catching the subtle change in my posture. He looked at me with the knowing gaze of a man who had been exactly where I was once.
I looked at him for a moment, the weight of his perception making me feel like a transparent book, before I offered a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, Father. You got me," I admitted, feeling a rare moment of genuine, youthful anticipation.
It was a short, three-minute walk through the increasingly upscale district before the storefront of the wand shop came into view. But we weren't the only ones drawn to the forge of magical tools today.
"Heyyy, Arnold~"
A melodic, almost musical voice drifted toward us. Alexia Leone approached, her hand clasped firmly around Costoria's. A flirtatious, feline smile was plastered across the Grand Duchess's face, her eyes dancing with a playful mischief that seemed entirely at odds with her status. "I didn't expect to run into you here of all places~"
"The feeling is mutual, Alexia," Arnold replied. His smile remained calm—the practised, immovable expression of a man used to dealing with her brand of chaos. "I assume you're here to replace your daughter's wand?"
"Well, yes," Alexia replied, her tone turning sharp for a fleeting second. "Those Aimus trash-heaps broke her wand when she was held captive. She needs something new, something... sturdier."
She paused, her gaze drifting toward Sophia and me, landing on my sister with a curious tilt of her head. "I understand getting a wand for your son, but your daughter? Shouldn't a girl of her age already have her signature wand?"
"I tried," Arnold explained, a hint of fatherly exasperation colouring his voice as he gently caressed Sophia's head. "But she was convinced that training with the heavy, unrefined wands in our armoury would force her to grow stronger. She wanted the disadvantage, in her own words."
He shot me a quick, meaningful look. "Emilia and I spent months trying to convince her otherwise, but she didn't budge. Then Amon explained the inefficiency of her logic for five minutes, and she agreed immediately."
"Fascinating," Alexia murmured, her eyes dancing with a playful, knowing light. "It seems Emilia has birthed a miniature version of herself in her daughter~"
"You could certainly put it that way," Arnold chuckled, though his eyes remained sharp.
We moved as a group into the heart of the shop, and the moment we crossed the threshold, I felt a hum of raw power vibrate through the soles of my shoes. The interior of Owen's Wandwork was exactly what a legendary wand shop was supposed to be.
Towering shelves of dark, polished wood stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, every inch of wall space covered in thousands of slender, numbered drawers. It was a stylish, seamless blend of sleek modern lines and heavy medieval aesthetics. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and ancient wood—a magical atmosphere that sent a fresh jolt of excitement through my chest.
"You're quite excited, aren't you, Amon?"
Costoria's voice was soft as she drifted to my side, her eyes studying my reaction with a quiet intensity. Beside me, I felt the temperature drop ten degrees as Sophia levelled a frigid, intense glare at the Leone heiress.
"How could I not be?" I replied, my gaze lingering on the endless rows of drawers. Even with my blindfold on, the sheer density of magium signatures in this room was like looking at a galaxy of stars.
Costoria giggled—a small, refined sound that didn't quite hide her own enthusiasm. "A fair point. Even after visiting before, I find myself mesmerised by the craftsmanship here. From what I've read, Owen's Wandwork is an important magical infrastructure of the Empire. Their production quality is the standard by which all other wand crafters are measured.
As we ventured deeper into the maze of shelves, the air grew thick with the heavy, sweet scent of tobacco and old parchment. Behind a cluttered counter sat an old man, leaning back in a worn chair and reading a book with such intense laziness it felt like an art form. A thin trail of cigarette smoke curled around his head, obscuring his features.
He didn't jump to his feet. He didn't bow. He didn't even look up.
"What do you both want, Lord Crown, Lady Leone?" he asked, his voice a gravelly, indifferent drone that remained anchored to the page of his book.
The man was dressed in a white-checkered shirt beneath a simple grey coat, paired with three-quarter black pants and polished shoes. To a passing commoner, he might have looked like a retired clerk or a well-dressed vagrant. But the way the magium in the room seemed to circulate around him told a different story. This was Gustavo Owen—the legendary wand-crafter whose hands had shaped the history of the Empire's magical elite.
"I am here to commission wands for my son and daughter, Master Owen," Arnold said, his voice surprisingly polite—even deferential.
"And I require a replacement for my daughter," Alexia added, her usual flirtatious edge replaced by a calm, business-like sobriety. "Her previous focus was destroyed during an... unfortunate incident."
Gustavo offered no immediate reply. The only sound in the shop was the faint turning of a page and the crackle of his cigarette. He kept two of the most powerful nobles in the realm standing in silence for nearly a minute, testing the weight of the air. Finally, he exhaled a long cloud of smoke, snapped his book shut, and levelled a piercing, cloudy gaze at us.
"Wait here," he grunted, rising with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who moved at his own pace.
He disappeared into the dark recesses of the back room without another word
"I was about to say something back, but then I remembered Amon's lecture," Sophia muttered, her irritation directed at Owen's behaviour.
I let out a silent breath of relief. It was a good thing I'd sat her down after our duel to hammer home the necessity of a proper wand, while also warning her about Gustavo Owen's legendary—and prickly—eccentricities. In the original plot of the novel, Sophia didn't touch a proper wand until much later, only after Seraphina convinced her of their worth.
By intervening then, I had effectively dropkicked a major character arc. In the original timeline, that moment of realisation was what sparked Sophia's deep respect and eventual admiration for Seraphina. By "fixing" her mistake early, I had potentially erased the foundation of their future closeness.
"I really should have handled that conversation in private," I chided myself. "Doing it in front of Father and Mother made them get the idea that Sophia is very close to me, which is a problem in its own…"
In this world, magic was about more than just the manifestation of one's imagination and the manipulation of magium. Wands acted as a magical conductor—a bridge between the internal magium circuits and the external world. While casting wandless was possible, a wand provided a level of proficiency and stability that was the difference between a clumsy explosion and a surgical strike.