A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the centuries-old oak tree, under which Micheal von Shelb sat, his striking blue eyes distant and unfocused. His broad shoulders slumped under an invisible weight as sunlight filtered through the branches, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow on the ground. To an onlooker, it might have appeared tranquil, but Micheal's mind was anything but peaceful.
His hands rested on the cool earth, fingers absently trailing through the grass as though searching for some tether to reality. Micheal was no stranger to being underestimated. The youngest son of Duke von Shelb, Micheal was often dismissed as eccentric and idle, his sharp intellect overshadowed by the military achievements of his renowned elder brothers. Yet Micheal had quietly built the family's financial empire in the shadows, content to let others bask in the glory. Today, that detachment lay shattered.
His thoughts drifted back to the same tree, mere hours earlier, when he had lain beneath it to steal a moment of rest. After a sleepless night spent preparing a workshop curriculum for the estate's horseless carriage project, he had sought solace in the shade, intending only to catch his breath.
What greeted him instead was no ordinary dream. As his eyes closed, his mind filled with a vivid, haunting tapestry of intertwined stories. It felt less like a dream and more like a violation of his very being. He saw his life rendered not as his own, but as that of a mere side character in a grand, multiverse-spanning narrative written by unseen authors.
One story stood out with cruel precision: Fake Rose Better Than the Real. Flora, the Emperor's adopted daughter, was its shining protagonist, destined to rise to greatness. Micheal? He was a footnote—a third-tier character, his wealth drained by his father to fund Flora's ascent. His efforts unnoticed, his sacrifices unacknowledged, Micheal's life ended in obscurity, a tragic afterthought to her success.
The revelation stung his pride, tearing at the foundations of the life he'd carefully crafted. As the dream sharpened into cruel clarity, it revealed Flora's origins—a tale of desperation and betrayal. Livya Featherfield, a country noblewoman once known for her beauty and wit, had sought refuge with her childhood friend, the Empress, after financial ruin. Compassion spiraled into calculated betrayal as Livya's fear for her unborn child's future grew.
The Empress, weakened by dwindling mana reserves and an arduous pregnancy, teetered on the edge of mortality. As the Empress's labor began and whispers of her dire condition filled the palace hallways—rumors of excessive bleeding even in the early stages—Livya made her decision. In this desperate moment, she drank a forbidden potion to induce childbirth, ensuring her daughter's arrival first. Under the cover of chaos, she bribed the chief midwife with a priceless magical heirloom to switch her blonde-haired, green-eyed daughter with the Empress's jet-black-haired, crimson-eyed daughter.
The midwife, enticed by the heirloom's power, complied. Livya's logic had been simple, albeit cruel: if the Empress died, her daughter would be raised as a princess under the Emperor's care. And if the Emperor truly intended to keep his word to support the Featherfield family as he had through the Empress, the Emperor's own daughter would also have a good life. But Livya had not accounted for the physical disparities between Flora and her supposed parents, nor for the absence of magical abilities in her daughter.
Flora's childhood was a bittersweet tale, far removed from the bright and carefree life her mother, Livya, had envisioned for her. She grew up in the grandeur of the imperial palace, surrounded by gilded opulence and perfumed halls, yet her existence was marked by profound loneliness. Though titled a princess, Flora was seen as an unwelcome addition to the imperial family—an emblem of possible betrayal in the Emperor's eyes. Her blonde hair and green eyes bore no resemblance to the Emperor's raven-black hair and crimson eyes or the late Empress's silver hair and golden gaze. To the court, she was a walking scandal, the supposed product of the Empress's infidelity.
What made it worse was her lack of magical abilities, a stark contrast to the Emperor's powerful mana as a Mage and the Empress's renowned healing abilities. Whispers plagued the palace. "She doesn't look like them," courtiers murmured behind their fans. "Perhaps the Empress wasn't as virtuous as we thought."
The Emperor, though convinced that she is not his own child, could not bring himself to harm Flora. She was his last connection to the late Empress—the woman he had loved with every fiber of his being. To destroy Flora would have severed his final tie to the woman who had made his world whole. Instead, he allowed Flora to live but treated her with cold indifference.
From an early age, Flora learned that her presence in the palace was tolerated, not celebrated. She grew up in an environment that demanded perfection while constantly reminding her of her inadequacy. Her days were dictated by a strict regimen of lessons designed to mold her into the perfect princess. From etiquette classes to political studies, Flora's schedule left little room for the joys of childhood.
"Keep your chin high, Princess," one tutor would instruct. "A true royal does not show emotion," another would say, their tone clipped. "Smile, Princess," her tutors would remind her incessantly. "A smile hides all weaknesses."
Flora obeyed, presenting a polished façade to the world, but beneath the surface, her heart ached for acceptance and understanding. Her peers either ignored her or mocked her subtly, cloaking their jabs in faux politeness. Other noble children avoided her, their parents warning them to stay away from the "illegitimate princess." Even palace servants treated her with caution, their smiles forced and their bows shallow.
Despite her struggles, Flora bore it all in silence. She desperately wanted to belong, to make the Emperor proud, but his emotional distance only deepened her sense of isolation. Her childhood was far from the warmth and joy Livya had imagined for her. Instead, it was a cold, unyielding landscape where every interaction felt like a battle for survival.
Flora's one escape from the suffocating expectations of court life was the palace gardens. Beyond the towering palace walls, the garden was a sanctuary of blooming roses, trickling fountains, and winding paths shaded by ancient trees. Here, she could shed the expectations of being a princess and simply exist.
At twelve, during one of her frequent escapes, Flora stumbled upon a young man tending to the roses. His hands were dirtied with soil, and he worked with quiet diligence. His simple clothing suggested he was a young gardener.
"You missed a weed," Flora said, pointing at a clump of grass near the rose bush, her tone playful but mock-serious.
The young man looked up, startled, his wide steel gray eyes meeting hers. "I—uh, sorry, Princess," he stammered, quickly brushing his hands on his trousers in an attempt to clean them.
Flora grinned for the first time in weeks. "You're forgiven," she said, her voice softening. "What's your name?"
"Fredrick," he replied hesitantly.
"Fredrick," she repeated, testing the name. "Well, Fredrick, you'd better be more thorough next time. The roses deserve only the best."
What Flora didn't know was that Fredrick wasn't a gardener. He was the only surviving child of the Duke of the North. His mother had been semi-paralyzed, and his elder brother had been killed by barbarians from beyond the northern wastelands during the previous winter, leaving him as the heir to the Northern Dukedom. His father, a strict and unyielding man hardened by years of battle, had sent Fredrick to the capital to learn courtly manners. Working in the gardens was his father's idea of teaching humility.
For Fredrick, the lonely girl who spoke to him with unexpected warmth became a curious mystery. She treated him with kindness, untainted by the politics of court life. Their chance meeting planted the seeds of a connection that would shape their futures.
Despite these fleeting moments of happiness, Flora's childhood remained a delicate balancing act of strength and vulnerability. Her interactions with Fredrick and the kindness of a few compassionate tutors gave her hope, but they could not erase the pervasive loneliness she felt.
Livya had dreamed of a life for Flora filled with love, joy, and endless possibilities. Instead, Flora navigated the treacherous waters of the imperial court, bearing the brunt of whispers, suspicion, and isolation. Her life was not the fairytale Livya had imagined but a harsh lesson in survival.
As Flora grew older, she developed a charm and resilience that disarmed even her harshest critics. Yet beneath the polished exterior was a girl who yearned for genuine connection, carrying the weight of secrets she did not yet understand. Her childhood shaped her into a complex figure—one who would later become the heart of Fake Rose Better Than the Real, the tragic story Micheal von Shelb now knew with painful clarity.
When Flora turned fifteen, an event shook the imperial court, one that would mark her as even more of an outsider. The Emperor, in a rare public declaration, announced a historic change to the royal succession process. Instead of following the time-honored custom of passing the throne to the next of kin, he introduced a competition—the Race for the Throne.
"All descendants of the royal bloodline under the age of twenty-five," the Emperor proclaimed, "shall have the opportunity to prove their worth. The one who demonstrates the most all-rounded excellence, wisdom, and strength shall ascend as the next crown prince or princess."
The declaration was revolutionary. For centuries, succession had been determined by birthright. While some hailed the Emperor's decision as a meritocratic step forward, others saw it as an unspoken condemnation of Flora. After all, why would the Emperor disregard his only child as the presumptive heir unless he doubted her legitimacy?
The court wasted no time in whispering their speculations. "Surely, this is because of the Princess's questionable lineage," murmured one noble. "He doesn't trust her to carry the legacy of the empire," said another, their fan hiding a smug grin.
Flora felt the weight of their stares, the judgment in their whispers. Though she had long grown accustomed to the court's disdain, this public slight from the Emperor—a father who had never acknowledged her as his own—was a wound deeper than any other. She was left to navigate a palace where every glance seemed to say what no one dared to speak aloud: "She is not the Emperor's daughter."
The Emperor had his reasons for this unprecedented decision. Though Flora's presence reminded him of the Empress he had lost, he could not fully see her as his own daughter. The whispers of her illegitimacy, her lack of resemblance to either him or the Empress, and her absence of magical abilities had long plagued his mind. In his heart, he harbored doubts he refused to confront. Yet, he could not bring himself to exile her or strip her of her title entirely. Flora remained a tie to the woman he had loved, and for that alone, he allowed her to stay.
The Race for the Throne was his way of ensuring the empire's future. He loved his Empire and it was more like his first child with the late Empress than Flora could ever be in his mind. The late Empress worked tirelessly for the Empire till she could no longer work in her late pregnancy. He believed that by allowing all eligible royal descendants to compete, the strongest and most capable candidate would emerge. The competition, he reasoned, would unite the empire under a worthy leader, free from the constraints of tradition.
For Flora, it was yet another blow to her already fragile identity. While other royal descendants saw the announcement as an opportunity, she viewed it as a dismissal of her very existence. Her place in the palace, already tenuous, became even more uncertain.