Late morning sunlight streamed through the tall front windows of The Ministry of Merriment Toy Emporium, gilding the cheerful bustle inside with gold. Though the public grand opening had only occurred days ago, the shop already thrived with steady foot traffic, especially among families and curious nobles intrigued by the innovative toys that had become the subject of spirited conversations across the city.
Even better, a new fad seemed to be gaining traction among the nobility and working class alike. And that is, either using their ArchiBricks masterpieces as a decoration or paperweight, or keeping their Wobble-Tumble towers within easy reach for an instant game and stress-relief during breaktimes.
The air in the toy shop buzzed with the quiet hum of industry and cheerful murmurs from curious customers. Lady Whitman stood near the shop entrance, her keen gaze sweeping across the shopkeepers attending to noble patrons. The counter was spotless, the tills were balanced, and the smile of a shopgirl as she carefully demonstrated how the Archibricks locked together with a gentle click warmed her heart. It had only been a few days since the grand opening, yet the shop already ran like a well-oiled mechanism.
The children's laughter that floated through the shop was like music. It soothed the pressure in her chest and made her efforts feel worthwhile.
"Lady Whitman," murmured the assistant shopkeeper with a bow as he handed off a wrapped parcel to a young noblewoman, "the inventory from yesterday has been balanced and stored upstairs, just as you instructed."
She smiled, pleased. "Thank you, Merrick. You're doing well."
Moving past the shelves, she exited through the side door into the rear workshop, where Mage Henry's modified machineries—designed to speed up safe and accurate wood-carving—hummed with steady energy. And thanks to Mage Henry's nifty little spell by the door, the noisy activity of the woodworkers was muffled and unheard by the people working and buying in the toy store.
A few of the apprentice carpenters paused to bow as she entered, sawdust clinging to their sleeves.
The contraptions had become more efficient with each week of testing and finetuning. The smooth lines of carved blocks, toy wheels, and animal figurines lined the collection tables with uniform precision.
Her craftsmen, trained and supervised by a master woodworker, were working on a fresh batch of toy sets. Thanks to the simplified levers and press machines imbued with minor enchantments from Mage Henry, their output had doubled.
Once again, she reminded them of their scheduled breaks so they would not overwork themselves. To which, Garren, the new head of the toy-crafting division laughed and accused the men of going rusty if they were given more breaks and days off.
Lady Whitman noted each finished toy on her small slate ledger and adjusted the tally before climbing upstairs to inspect the storage inventory.
With the scent of cedar wood lingering in the air, she checked the shelf inventory one by one, quietly adjusting placement tags and noting materials to reorder. Boxes were neatly stacked and labeled, the top floor ventilated and free of dust. She smiled at the methodical progress—another small victory.
That evening, the shop received a small pile of newspapers delivered by a messenger boy. Most were local gazettes, and Lady Whitman chuckled softly as she skimmed the front pages. One headline read: "Innovation at Its Finest – Lady Whitman's Toy Shop Ushers in a New Age of Imaginative Play". Another noted how the Archibricks encouraged fine motor skills and creativity. There was even a small column discussing a noble child building a working miniature drawbridge.
She was mid-note on her ledger when a knock came at the office door.
"You've been busy," Mage Henry remarked, his voice carrying the faintest wry amusement.
Lady Whitman smiled. "And you've come empty-handed today? Where is my prototype?"
He stepped into the room and closed the door. "I haven't made it yet. I came to confirm some final design elements for the mobility chair that you mentioned. Your sketches were... surprisingly detailed."
Lady Whitman walked to her work table and unrolled the parchment containing her refined sketch. "This is what I envisioned—a folding frame, much lighter than the current monstrosities, with rubber wheels for smoother movement over cobblestones."
Inwardly, Lady Whitman, or rather Mary Jane, wanted to smile, secretly knowing why she was able to sketch such a detailed design.
Mage Henry nodded slowly, eyes flicking over the precise lines of the design. "Fascinating. The wheelchairs we currently produce use solid oak, carved handles, and weigh as much as a barrel full of wine. They're not designed for maneuverability."
"Lightweight metal and thinner wheels with rubberized tread reduce resistance and help with cornering and maneuverability. I believe gum tree sap could be hardened with your bonding spell to mimic the elasticity we need."
Henry tapped the side margin. "And these joints? They'd need to be reinforced to prevent collapse. I could embed a rune that locks and unlocks the frame with a keyword."
"Here, I tried drawing up a sigil that may work. Although, feel free to dismiss it if my sigil is trash," she laughed, already imagining how liberating this wheelchair could be for someone who had struggled to move freely.
"Hmm, your arcane sigil looks promising, my lady." Observed Mage Henry. "It seems your magical studies are paying off. It just needs a little tweaking. I'll send you some more books you might want to read on."
"Thank you, I'd love that. Haaah," she sighed. "If only I also have magical capabilities. I could have imbued these sigils with mana myself."
"Well," Mage Henry mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It is indeed quite rare for humans to acquire the ability to absorb mana and manipulate it at will. The dismal number of mages in our empire itself is proof of how difficult it is to gain this ability, unless one was born with innate skills. However, there are some mages who discovered their latent talents quite late in life. Just keep up the good work, my lady. You never know," he winked playfully at her.
I'll never know, huh? Oh well, she's not a female lead in a manga world where she's automatically given plot armor though. She had to accept this fact. "Anyway, let me show you my sketches… these small wheels in front needs to be able to smoothly turn around in circles—it will make the chair's mobility even easier. I'd like it to be able to shift magically on command."
"I see. And the enchantment glyphs?"
"We'll probably need four basic commands: 'go,' 'stop, 'left', and 'right'. All keyed to the touch or voice of the user. We could use something similar to the toy sigils you helped inscribe."
He studied her a moment longer, then nodded. "All right. We could use a trace-follow spell. It would be complex, but feasible. I'll set the rune to respond to commands spoken directly to the armrest—simple directional phrases. We'll need to test for voice or magical interference so that only the user or a designated individual could activate the rune."
Lady Whitman glanced up at him. "You don't think it's too advanced? Too... different?"
Henry leaned against the table with a soft grunt. "It's revolutionary. Most wheelchairs now are glorified thrones on wheels—cumbersome, heavy, impossible to store. Yours is elegant, practical... even a little beautiful."
Her lips curved. "I want it to be of help to people, especially to those who may need this the most."
Henry nodded slowly. "Then let's do this properly. I'll source some sky-iron fragments for the frame, it is the most lightweight metal we have in this world, and begin shaping the components. Give me a week or two."
They exchanged a look of quiet understanding, their shared goal binding them more than words.
"Agreed. Thank you so much, Mage Henry," she said softly.
He inclined his head with a faint grin and turned to leave.
As his cloaked figure passed through the doorway and down the stairs, Lady Whitman found herself staring after him.
His voice… it's oddly familiar, she thought, frowning slightly. There was a cadence in the way he spoke—measured, confident, slightly amused—that tickled a memory she couldn't quite place. And his back, the way his cloak draped over his shoulders, even the gait of his stride… I think I've seen that before.
She paused, the fine hairs at the back of her neck lifting.
Where have I seen him? Or… heard him?
The thought echoed in her chest like a quiet drumbeat. As she folded the parchment and tucked it away, she couldn't shake the strange feeling. Somewhere, long before she'd ever stepped foot in this body—before she'd woken in this world as Lady Whitman—she felt that she had heard that voice back then.
And she would hear it again. But next time, with the truth.
*****From time unbound, through realms unknown*****
As Lady Whitman busies herself with work, just like all the other workers in the empire, another group was also busy—in their darkened, untraceable location. The scent of old stone, musty straw, and candle wax filled the cramped underground chamber. Flickering torches lit the rough-hewn walls, casting long, jagged shadows over the hunched figures gathered at a wooden table stained with time and secrecy.
A ledger lay open in the center; its pages scrawled with coded entries and faint ink marks barely visible to the untrained eye. A balding man with narrow eyes and ink-stained fingers leaned forward, tapping one bony finger against a line.
"The port records have been revised. Bribes delivered through the bakers' account, just as we planned. No official saw a thing. And the crate logs now show only grain and pottery—no weapons, no coin."
A younger man with a scar across his chin nodded. "We had a close call last month. Someone nosing through the warehouse ruins. But they won't find anything. The fire destroyed the paper trail, and our team swept the site clean of what remained."
Another conspirator, draped in the robes of a merchant but with the gait of a soldier, leaned back with a grunt. "That warehouse blaze was sloppier than I liked. Still—what matters is they didn't find the manifest. The ledgers we did recover had enough time to be reworked."
Silence followed. The tension in the room throbbed like a bruise.
Then the door creaked open.
A figure entered—tall, cloaked in sable velvet, his presence quiet yet unignorable. The flickering light glinted off the subtle embroidery on his cuffs: an extinct royal sigil long thought forgotten.
The fallen prince.
He stepped forward with measured grace, the kind borne not just of noble blood but cultivated control. One of the conspirators straightened immediately.
"Your Highness," he said with a bow. "The tide's in our favor. Whitman's people may be watching the trade routes more closely, but our revised manifests and rotating contacts keep the trail clean. They're grasping at smoke."
"I told you not to call me that." His tone was light, but the warning was very clear.
"Forgive me, my lord."
"And the company ledgers?" the prince asked, his voice soft, almost bored.
"Nearly flawless. Any inconsistencies look like simple clerical errors. And thankfully, though unknowingly on her part, Lady Margella continues to distract them with internal politics."
The prince gave a single nod, his dark eyes unreadable.
"And what of their investigation?"
"Nothing of note have surfaced yet," replied another. "The Earl's team are still sniffing around, but have not found anything they could use."
"But what if they do?" someone asked from the back of the room. "If they do find something?"
Their leader looked up then, still and sharp as a blade just before it strikes.
"Let them chase shadows," he said, voice as calm as snowfall. "Let them believe they're unraveling the truth. When the real game begins, it will not be one they can win."
The room fell silent. A chill passed through the air.
"Good work, everyone. Remember our goals."
Then he turned toward the staircase again, his cloak trailing behind like ink spilling into water.
*****A soul untethered, lost and alone*****
A few days more have passed, and finally it was ready.
The village was quiet as the Whitman carriage rolled down the narrow path lined with budding trees and early spring flowers, followed by a few knights in their livery. The breeze carried the scent of wood smoke and tilled earth. Children peered from behind fences as the impressive dark horses drew to a stop before a modest cottage tucked just beyond a bend in the road.
Lady Whitman stepped out first, her gloved hands clutching a small, elegantly wrapped bundle—homemade sweets and herbal teas. Beside her, Jason hopped down with boyish excitement, holding tightly to Mage Henry's hand. The Earl followed last, his quiet presence casting a shadow of authority even in this humble setting.
The family was waiting. It was Sarah's family. Sarah, who was still in the convent serving her sentence, was the only one absent. Sarah's mother wrung her hands in her apron while her husband stood stiffly beside her, his face unreadable. And just behind them, barely visible through the cottage doorway, Sarah's sister, Becky, lay on a worn but tidy cot, the faded blanket pulled to her waist. Her eyes were wide and alert, her hair braided back neatly, and though her body was still, her spirit gleamed with curiosity and cautious hope.
"Good afternoon," Lady Whitman said softly, bowing her head in greeting. "I hope we're not intruding."
"You're always welcome here, my lady," Sarah's mother whispered, voice catching.
Mage Henry stepped forward, gently wheeling the folded device into view. It was sleek yet practical—crafted with a lightweight frame, padded seat and backrest, wide arcane wheels trimmed with sturdy rubber, and glowing runes etched along the sides that shimmered in gentle pulses of lavender light.
"We've come to deliver something that… I hope, could be of help," Lady Whitman said, voice steady despite the emotion rising in her chest. "But before anything else… I owe you an apology."
She turned to Sarah's sister. "What was done to you—what your family endured because of our household's negligence… especially because of me—it was unforgivable. I am truly sorry for what happened. I was not myself when I arrived, but I am myself now. If I could only go back in time and prevent this from happening, I would do so a thousand times over."
Tears filled the girl's eyes.
"I fervently hope that our little gift to you would at least give you some comfort. And I swear to you, I will never allow such suffering to happen nor go unacknowledged again." she added solemnly.
Becky's lips trembled, but she nodded.
Mage Henry stepped in, speaking gently. "We'd like you to try something. With your permission, of course."
Her father, a sturdy farmer, lifted her gently from the bed, cradling her as delicately as if she were still a toddler. When he finally lowered her into the waiting chair, there was a silence, thick with breathless anticipation.
Lady Whitman knelt beside her. "There are simple command words. 'Go' to move forward, 'Stop' to pause. 'Turn left' and 'Turn right.' If you touch this sigil here and whisper the command softly, the chair will obey you. None other but you."
The girl blinked away her tears and hesitated, carefully touched the indicated sigil, then whispered, "Go."
The wheels stirred to life, humming softly as they rolled forward across the packed earth. Sarah's sister gasped. Her mother clapped her hands over her mouth, sobbing outright.
"Stop," the girl whispered, and the chair obeyed. She looked around, stunned.
Then she laughed—a sound so pure and bubbling with disbelief that even the Earl smiled faintly. Mage Henry wiped his glasses behind the veil of his sleeve. Jason grinned and ran up beside her.
"Can you come to the market with me?" he asked excitedly.
She looked to her parents first, but her mother nodded through tears, wiping her face with her apron. "Go. See the sun."
Lady Whitman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We'll build a ramp for your cottage's entry. You'll be able to come and go as you wish soon. Perhaps outfit some handrails along the walls of your home as well so you can hold on to them while you move from bed to your mobility chair. No more needing to be carried."
With Jason trotting at her side and Lady Whitman walking just behind, Sarah's sister took her first journey beyond her threshold in what must have been years. Villagers along the path paused, mouths parting in disbelief. A merchant's wife wept. A grocer raised a hand in salute. An old man tipped his hat.
"Becky, it's so good to see you out again!"
"She's moving on her own," someone murmured in awe.
By the time they reached the market square, a small crowd had formed. People clapped. A few cried. One child pointed and said, "She's flying!"
And Sarah's sister—her cheeks pink with joy, her eyes glimmering with hope—smiled as if she truly were. With a beckoning motion from Becky, Lady Whitman bent closer to her.
"I already forgave you long ago, my lady," said Becky.
"R-really?" She looked bemusedly at Becky.
Looking at the horizon, though somehow seeing none of the view, the young girl explained. "What was done to me hurt something awful… not just me, but my kin too. I didn't want to sit and stew in bitterness, makin' it all the harder for them. So, for their sake—and mine—I've chosen to forgive you, my lady… else I'd never find peace."
It felt like there was a lump forming in Mary Jane's throat.
"And about that necklace I broke, my lady... I knew well it meant a great deal to you. You'd told me it was the last keepsake from your late parents. I saw with mine own eyes how lonely you were in the Earl's grand house... so I reckon I understand now, at least a little, why you punished me as you did."
Impulsively, she bent down and embraced the girl. Swallowing hard, she spoke. "Thank you, Becky, you have such a beautiful heart. You grant me more grace than I deserve. I wronged you deeply, and yet you speak with more nobility than many born to it. I shall carry the weight of what I've done, but I am truly grateful for your forgiveness… and I shall never forget your kindness. If there's anything at all that I could do for you or any of your loved ones, please send me a message."
"Yes, my lady."
Lady Whitman stood behind her, the sunlight catching in her dark hair. The weight of old guilt still lingered, but it was eased by the sight of healing.
The Earl stepped beside her silently, just close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.
"You've done something remarkable today," he said, voice low.
She turned to look at him, surprised by the softness in his expression.
"I didn't do it alone," she whispered. "And I did it to atone for my sin in the only way I knew how."
He inclined his head slightly. "You're doing wonderfully. Others would not do the same."
Together, they watched as the girl wheel in slow circles, laughter spilling into the market air like the first notes of spring.
And for a moment, all was light.
And inside Becky's home, the weight on their shoulders have gotten considerably lighter, as her mother excitedly gathered some papers to send a letter to her eldest daughter.
And then… A few days later…
The rain had stopped sometime in the early dawn, leaving the cobbled streets of the capital slick and gleaming beneath the midday sun. A few carriages splashed past outside the wide windows of the large toy shop, where Lady Whitman sat at her desk, up on the second floor, her hair pinned in a loose twist and sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she checked inventory receipts.
A soft knock came at the door. Her assistant poked her head in. "My lady, the newspapers arrived."
"Ah, thank you," Lady Whitman said, gesturing toward the desk. "Just leave them there, I'll get to them in a moment."
But before her assistant could even set them down, she caught a glimpse of bold black lettering across the front page of "The Capital Herald":
-----000-----
"Wheels of Mercy: The Countess of Whitman and her Invention Changing Lives"
-----000-----
Lady Whitman frowned slightly, blinking. "Wait—what?"
Her assistant grinned, setting the folded paper on the top of her documents. "You should read this one."
With cautious fingers, Lady Whitman unfolded the paper. The front-page article was accompanied by a pencil-sketched image of Sarah's sister, smiling through tears as she rolled herself through the village square in her new chair. Jason was beside her in the picture, hand on her armrest, a grin as wide as the sky on his face. Lady Whitman remembered that moment well.
The article read:
-----000------
"In a remarkable turn of magical engineering and practical design, the Countess of Whitman, in collaboration with the Mage Tower, unveiled what many are already calling the most humane innovation of the decade. The newly designed mechanized wheelchair has brought tears to the eyes of those once bound to their beds, providing them with mobility, dignity, and a second chance at life."
"Lady Whitman's prototype—first tested by a young woman in Whitman's village—features arcane command sigils, a lightweight frame, and a collapsible build fit for both the infirm and the aged. What sets this design apart is not just its magic, but the thoughtfulness of its engineering."
"Sources from both the Mage Tower and Whitman village report that the chair moves smoothly, requires no attendant to push, and even includes magical and practical safeguards against tipping on uneven terrain. The Mage Tower has reported that they are already in collaboration with the Countess who has, herself, pledged to begin producing them at reasonable cost for local healers and infirmaries, distributing them on a per need basis for now, suggesting that this is just the beginning."
-----000-----
Another paper, "The Artisan's Echo", ran a more editorial tone:
-----000-----
"One wonders why no one thought of this sooner. Perhaps because we lacked someone who saw those that other people have heretofore overlooked—not just as burdens to be borne, but as souls deserving freedom. The Countess of Whitman, long thought to be merely ornamental in court circles, is proving otherwise."
-----000-----
Lady Whitman set the article down with trembling hands, her throat tightening. Her vision blurred slightly.
Jason burst into the room without knocking, holding his own copy of the paper. "They drew me in the newspaper, Mother! Look! That's me next to the chair!"
She laughed through her tears and reached out to ruffle his hair. "Yes, I see you, brave explorer. Did they spell your name correctly this time?"
He puffed his chest. "Yes! And Mage Henry said they're asking to send one of the chairs to the medical academy in Eastgate. Even the Master Healers want to see it!"
Outside the door, Mage Henry passed by, casually poking his head in. "They're calling it the 'Whitman Chair' now. You might want to prepare for a few more letters both from the medical community as well as the royal family. Thank you, for allowing your invention to benefit more people."
Lady Whitman smiled softly and leaned back in her chair, her hand resting over her heart.
Mary Jane, she thought to herself, have you ever thought this would ever, ever happen in your life?
She didn't know. All she was thinking of was one girl in particular who needed it. But if, whatever she did could benefit more people, then it was worth it.
In that same moment, but in a quiet, marble-columned tea salon, a noblewoman folded her newspaper thoughtfully, then whispered across the table to her companion, "Have you heard of what the Countess of Whitman has done? The queen's mother has been bedridden for years—surely the royal family will be interested."
"If I hadn't seen her for myself inside that shop of hers, I would never have believed that that vicious woman is capable of this," replied that noblewoman's companion.
From across the city, murmurs spread in parlors, merchant guilds, and even in the Mage Tower itself. Some in disbelief, others in amazement and wonder.