The morning sun rose gently over the Shelb estate, casting its warm, golden light across the sprawling gardens. Dew shimmered like tiny jewels on the roses, and the crisp air carried the faint scent of blooming jasmine. It was a day that seemed to promise renewal, a chance to leave behind the burdens of the past.
Micheal von Shelb stood before a tall mirror in his chambers, his reflection staring back at him with sharp blue eyes. His platinum blonde hair, now styled in a neat half-ponytail, caught the sunlight streaming through the open window. For the first time in weeks, he felt something shift within him—an unfamiliar but welcome lightness.
"It suits you," Barnaby said, stepping forward to adjust the lapels of Micheal's tailored coat. His butler's emerald eyes gleamed with approval, though his tone remained measured. "A new look for a new chapter, don't you think?"
Micheal raised a brow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Do you think it's enough to impress Magda?"
Barnaby smirked. "I believe it's a good start."
The past two weeks had been a whirlwind of emotions and healing. Micheal's cast had come off that morning, his doctor pronouncing him fit, though the memories of his injuries still lingered. The Duchess herself had insisted on overseeing his attire, declaring with conviction that he would "woo his girl" at the Flower Festival.
Eleanor von Shelb entered with her usual grace, her chestnut hair styled elegantly and her hazel eyes sparkling with determination.
"Barnaby, Arthur," she called, gesturing toward a selection of cravats and waistcoats draped over a nearby armchair. "Let's make sure my son is the most handsome man at the festival."
Arthur Gray, ever eager, hurried over, juggling an armful of fabrics. "Here, Duchess! I brought the silk cravat you requested. It matches perfectly!"
Micheal couldn't help but chuckle at his assistant's enthusiasm. "Arthur, you're enjoying this far too much."
"Of course, my lord," Arthur replied with a grin. "It's not every day one gets to dress a hero."
At the word "hero," Micheal's smile faltered. Though his leg had healed, the weight of what had transpired during the red sky and fog still pressed heavily on his heart. He should have felt triumphant—grateful, even—but instead, there was a hollow ache, a lingering sense of guilt for those who hadn't made it back.
Barnaby, ever perceptive, caught the shift in his expression. "Survivor's guilt," he said quietly, his voice steady. "It's a cruel companion, but it's one every soldier knows."
Micheal turned to him, his sharp blue eyes searching. "You've felt it?"
Barnaby nodded, his usually impassive demeanor softening. "When I was a soldier, I was the sole survivor of my battalion. I spent years resenting the one who saved me—your brother Ethan, as it happens. But in the end, it wasn't hatred or grief that helped me move forward. It was finding a purpose."
Micheal tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "And that purpose was…?"
"You," Barnaby replied simply, his emerald eyes meeting Micheal's. "A grumpy teenager with too much potential and too little direction. You gave me a reason to keep going, and for that, I'll always be grateful."
Eleanor stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Micheal's shoulder. "Barnaby's right," she said softly. "We all carry our burdens, Micheal. But what matters is how we choose to move forward."
Arthur, holding up a perfectly folded cravat, added with a grin, "And looking sharp while doing it doesn't hurt."
Despite himself, Micheal chuckled, the sound light and genuine. "I suppose you're all determined to see me through this."
Barnaby handed him a mirror, his voice tinged with a rare note of warmth. "Not just through it, my lord. Beyond it."
Micheal studied his reflection: the sleek half-ponytail, the finely tailored coat, and the faint smile that now softened his features. He didn't feel like a hero—not yet—but perhaps, he thought, he could start anew.
"Let's make it a day to remember," he said finally, the resolve in his voice clear.
Eleanor beamed, clapping her hands together. "That's my boy. Now, let's make sure Magda sees the man you're becoming."
As they stepped out into the morning light, the Shelb estate seemed brighter, the air fresher. For Micheal, it wasn't just the start of a festival—it was the promise of a new beginning.
Location: Shelb Estate, Duke's study
The morning light filtered through the grand windows of the Shelb estate, illuminating the polished floors of the Duke's study. Louis von Shelb, seated at his massive mahogany desk, ran his hand over the delicate letter in his grasp. The faint scent of fresh ink lingered in the air, a reminder of its urgency.
The Duke's sharp blue eyes scanned the words written in Flora's graceful script. The Flower Festival, an event that should have been her moment of triumph, had turned into a tangled web of broken alliances and uncertainty.
His chest tightened as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of years of calculated decisions pressing down on him. His gaze drifted to the portrait of his three sons hanging on the wall. Micheal's face—so full of youth and ambition—stared back at him, a reminder of sacrifices made in the name of political strategy.
The echoes of his conversation with Micheal earlier in the day lingered in his mind. Watching his son prepare for the festival with a mix of determination and weariness had stirred something deep within him. He had forced Micheal into the imperial marriage with the belief that it would strengthen the Shelb name. Instead, it had only exposed the cracks in his family's foundation.
Louis tapped the edge of Flora's letter thoughtfully. The Shelb family had weathered decades of shifting alliances and political games, but this time, he felt the weight of the human cost.
He picked up his quill, dipping it into the ink with a steady hand. Each word he wrote felt deliberate, heavy with meaning:
Live as you please, Flora. Do not bind yourself with obligations that bring you no joy.
He sealed the letter with the Shelb crest and handed it to his steward. "Deliver this to Princess Flora immediately," he instructed, his tone curt yet calm.
As the steward left the room, Louis remained seated, his eyes fixed on the window. The light of the morning had shifted, casting long shadows across his desk. For the first time in years, he felt the burden of his choices not as a ruler, but as a father.
Location: The Capital
Far from the Southwest Dukedom, the bustling salons of the imperial capital were alive with chatter. Word of Duke von Shelb's letter to Princess Flora had spread like wildfire, leaving nobles reeling with shock and speculation.
At Greystone Manor, a lavishly decorated room buzzed with tension. Crystal chandeliers cast dazzling light across the assembly of aristocrats, their conversations sharp and hurried.
"Neutrality? From the Duke of Southwest?" Lady Halvora's voice cut through the room like a blade. Her gray eyes glinted with barely concealed curiosity. "Have you ever heard of such madness?"
Lord Emric, a rotund noble with an air of perpetual indignation, sputtered as he clutched his goblet of wine. "Neutrality from a Shelb? It's unheard of. They either strike alliances or wage wars. What could this possibly mean?"
Count Roderic, standing near the window with an air of practiced elegance, gestured with his cane. "It means the Southwest is signaling its independence. The Duke is declaring that he no longer needs the capital's petty squabbles to maintain his power."
Lady Mirelle, ever composed, tilted her silver fan with an air of skepticism. "Or it means he's grown soft. First, his youngest son marries into the imperial family, and now this?" She smirked. "Perhaps the Shelb household is finally tiring of its own ambition."
The room erupted into murmurs. Some whispered of strategic brilliance, others of resignation. Every noble present knew that the Duke's neutrality would send ripples through the delicate balance of power.
Location: Imperial palace, Flora's chambers
In her private chambers at the palace, Flora read the Duke's response with trembling hands. The words were simple yet profound: Live as you please.
For years, Flora had endured the poisonous whispers of the court, the cutting remarks hidden behind polite smiles. Her golden blonde hair and green eyes—once her scourge—had become a magnet for envy and scorn. Yet through it all, Duke Louis von Shelb had stood by her, his unwavering support silencing her detractors.
Now, he had given her something she had scarcely dared to dream of—freedom. Freedom to choose, to live, to step away from the court's suffocating grasp.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled. For the first time in years, Flora allowed herself to imagine a future filled not with duty, but with love and peace.
Location: The Capital
Back in the salon, the discussions reached a fever pitch.
"What does this mean for the Emperor's court?" one baroness whispered urgently.
"Neutrality from the Southwest could shift alliances across the entire empire," Lord Emric said, his face flushed. "Mark my words, this changes everything."
Lady Halvora arched a brow, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Or perhaps the Duke is simply tired of our games. A rare man of honor among wolves."
The nobles fell silent as the implications sank in. The Shelb family's declaration of neutrality was more than a political stance—it was a challenge to the status quo.
As the Flower Festival approached, the ripples of the Duke's decision spread far and wide, leaving a mixture of shock, intrigue, and quiet admiration in its wake. For Flora, it marked the beginning of a long-overdue chapter of her life. For the nobility, it was a stark reminder that the Shelb family remained an enigma, unpredictable and unyielding.
Location: Shelb Estate, Micheal's chambers
A week before the Flower Festival
The Shelb estate buzzed with activity as preparations for the Flower Festival continued in earnest. Servants moved swiftly through the halls, carrying bundles of freshly pressed linens and floral arrangements, their movements mirroring the heightened anticipation in the air. Yet, in the midst of the commotion, Micheal von Shelb sat quietly in his study, his com-tab glowing faintly in his hand.
The message on the screen was simple, yet its words carried a weight that he couldn't ignore.
Magda Valoria von Shelb:
Micheal, I've been practicing, I swear! But I'm so bad at dancing that Father has decided to 'save the festival' by hijacking my first dance. It's going to be a disaster! I wish you were here…
Micheal frowned, running a hand through his platinum blonde hair, now loose from its usual half-ponytail. His sharp blue eyes lingered on the message, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. The thought of Magda dancing with the Emperor—a moment that should have been theirs—stung more than he cared to admit.
He set the com-tab down and leaned back in his chair, the memories of Magda's first formal debut surfacing unbidden. His father, Duke Louis, had orchestrated her failure with meticulous cruelty, ensuring that her entrance into court society was marked not by admiration, but by whispers and derision. Micheal's hands clenched into fists as he remembered the humiliation etched on Magda's face that night.
But then he exhaled, his tension easing. This was different. This wasn't sabotage—it was an opportunity. A second chance for Magda to shine, to reclaim the stage as the Emperor's daughter, a symbol of grace and strength.
Micheal picked up his com-tab and began typing his reply.
Micheal von Shelb:
Magda, don't worry about the first dance. Dancing with the Emperor guarantees the spotlight, and you deserve that. Everyone should see how amazing you are.
He hesitated before sending it, then added, I'll make sure our dance is unforgettable, even if it's not the first.
The message sent with a soft chime, and Micheal stood, determination hardening his resolve. If Magda was going to reclaim her place at the festival, he would do the same—for her and for himself.