Time passed in pieces.
Warm arms. Gentle voices. Soft cloth wrapped around me. A lullaby hummed in the quiet.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move much. The world was blurry, filtered through eyes too new to make sense of everything. But I could feel. And I remembered.
Not everything—some of the edges were already fading. My name. My old voice. Faces I once saw in dreams. But the pain, the loneliness, the rain—that stayed with me, tucked deep in the folds of my new mind like scars on a soul.
Still, this life… it was different.
The woman who held me—my mother now, I supposed—was always near. She smelled like cold lilies and snow, her presence calm and certain. When she spoke, the room felt quieter, the world gentler. Her voice had weight to it, like someone used to being listened to. But with me, she was soft. Every word she spoke brushed against me like sunlight over frost.
A man was there too. Tall. Broad. His arms felt like iron, but he held me like I was made of glass. I saw the way he looked at me—eyes sharp, cold… and yet filled with something I'd never known in my last life.
Pride.
Love.
He was my father.
I didn't know their names. Not yet. But I clung to the way they made me feel.
I wasn't just alive. I was wanted.
The world was strange. Too bright, too large, filled with sounds I couldn't name. But I learned. Slowly. Carefully. In silence, I watched.
There were servants—men and women in crisp uniforms who moved with practiced grace. They bowed whenever my parents entered the room. Even when they spoke to each other, they used formal titles. My father was His Grace. My mother, the Lady. I never heard them raise their voices.
But when they looked at me, their expressions softened.
I knew, instinctively, that this wasn't a normal household. There was a kind of elegance here, carved into the walls and folded into every gesture. I remembered enough of the world—of the way power and class worked—to recognize nobility when I saw it.
I had been reborn into privilege.
And magic.
I didn't realize it at first. But one evening, while resting in my mother's arms, I saw it—frost dancing across the tips of her fingers, trailing from her hand like a ribbon of silver mist. It faded as quickly as it came, like it had never been there at all.
But I saw it.
Magic.
And somehow, I knew it wasn't rare in this world.
It was me.
I don't know how long it took before I heard it—the name that would now belong to me.
"Claude," my mother whispered, brushing a kiss against my forehead. "Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim."
Each syllable felt deliberate, shaped with care. Regal, elegant—like a name that belonged to someone important.
That's me now, I thought, staring up at the chandelier above my crib. Claude.
Not the lost boy wandering alleyways. Not the forgotten orphan standing in the rain.
I was Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim.
Son of ice and nobility.
A child of warmth, in a world I had only just begun to understand.
The days blurred together after that. Gentle touches. The soft lull of voices I had begun to recognize without needing to understand. My mother's song, low and comforting, always came just before sleep. My father's quiet murmurs, firm but calm, rumbled like distant thunder when he carried me through long halls of stone and crystal.
I was still too small to do much, but my mind didn't feel like that of an infant. My thoughts were clear. Too clear, sometimes.
There was a strange kind of frustration that came with being aware and yet helpless—trapped in a body that couldn't yet stand, hands too weak to grasp more than fingers or silk blankets. I wanted to speak, to ask questions, to demand answers about the world I'd been thrown into.
But all I could do was watch. Listen. Learn.
And I did.
I learned that this place was vast. Not just a mansion, but a castle—no, a keep—tucked deep into a winter-bound landscape. Through the tall glass windows of the nursery, I could see snow-covered mountains rising far in the distance. The sky here was pale and cold, like it had forgotten what summer meant.
Servants came and went, always bowing as they passed. Many of them wore deep navy and silver—colors that seemed to mark them as part of this House. My House, now.
I caught fragments of names in whispered conversations. Vinterheim. Archduke. The North.
And then, one morning, a new word: heir.
"Has His Highness smiled today?" a maid asked, her voice soft as she leaned over my crib.
"Not yet," another replied, brushing her fingers gently along my blanket. "But he watches everything. Like he already knows who we are."
They both laughed, light and fond.
His Highness. That was me.
I didn't know how I felt about that. The title didn't carry weight yet, not the way it would one day. But the way they said it, with respect, with warmth... it felt like a beginning.
Weeks passed. Maybe months. I didn't have a way of measuring time except through routine. Feeding. Bathing. Laughter. The rhythm of my mother's breathing when she held me close.
But something inside me was changing.
It began one night, in the quiet.
I couldn't sleep. There was too much energy beneath my skin, humming in my veins. My breath fogged in the cold air of the nursery, despite the fire burning low in the hearth.
I reached out—just a little—with a hand that barely had strength.
Frost bloomed across the edge of my cradle.
Delicate. White. Shimmering.
It melted almost immediately, but I saw it. I felt it.
It didn't frighten me. It felt right. Like I had simply remembered something I was always meant to do.
So I tried again.
More frost. This time, it held for longer.
I smiled for the first time in this life.
The next morning, when my mother came in and saw the thin lace of ice curling over the wood, she didn't panic.
She smiled too.
"My little winter prince," she whispered, pressing her forehead to mine.
That was the day I understood something deeper.
This world didn't just have magic.
It had a place for me.
That morning, the servants whispered more than usual.
They tried to be discreet, but I noticed the glances toward my crib, the hurried steps, the way the older maid pressed a hand to her chest like she was holding back excitement—or fear. One of them left quickly, and it wasn't long before heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Then he arrived.
My father.
His presence always filled a room. Even as a child barely aware of the world, I felt the weight of him when he entered. Tall, with a gaze that could silence a man from across a hall, he moved like someone who commanded armies. But when he looked at me, his expression shifted—just enough for the cold edges to melt.
He said nothing at first.
Just stepped closer to the cradle, his gloved hand resting against the carved frame. His gaze fell to the edge of the wood where frost still clung, thin as lace but unmistakably unnatural.
His eyes narrowed.
Then, slowly, he reached down and lifted me into his arms.
There was strength in his grip, but not harshness. He held me securely, as if I belonged there. As if he'd been waiting for this moment.
"Already," he murmured, voice low and thoughtful. "So soon."
His breath formed mist in the air. Not from the cold—his body ran warm like any other—but from the magic that stirred beneath his skin. I could feel it. Ice, ancient and powerful, curled through his veins like it lived there.
So this was the source.
He didn't smile—not the way my mother did—but there was something in his eyes. A quiet fire. Recognition.
He turned slightly, angling me to face a nearby window.
Beyond the glass, snow drifted lazily across the mountains. The wind brushed against the glass panes, faint and distant.
"You are Vinterheim," he said. "And the blood remembers."
I didn't understand what he meant, not completely, but I knew it mattered.
Then he looked down at me again, and for the first time, I saw something I hadn't expected.
Pride.
"You will be great, Claude. Greater than I ever was."
I didn't cry. Didn't squirm. I just looked back, quiet, still.
Because somewhere deep inside, I believed him.
Later that night, I lay in my crib, staring up at the frost-laced canopy overhead. My fingers twitched, and I tried again. Not with effort, but with intent.
Frost gathered along the edge of my blanket.
It obeyed me.
Not perfectly. Not with control. But the spark was there.
I didn't know what my future held, not yet. But I knew this: I was no longer just a lost soul waiting to survive.
I had a name.
A home.
And now… I had power.
The seasons passed slowly in the north, but even through the frost and snow, time did not stop.
I grew.
My limbs strengthened. My voice, once soft cries and babbles, started to form sounds with meaning. And then, one morning, before the sun had fully risen, I stood.
It was unsteady, more instinct than skill. I pulled myself up using the edge of a velvet-cushioned bench, legs wobbling under my weight. The nursery was quiet, still shadowed in dawnlight. I took a breath, let go, and took a step forward.
Then another.
I didn't fall.
There was no one to see it. No nursemaid nearby, no doting parent hovering with wide eyes. Just me. My bare feet padded against the stone floor, and for the first time in this life, I moved forward by my own power.
A soft crunch beneath my step made me glance down. A thin trail of frost followed in my wake, harmless and fleeting, but unmistakably mine.
I smiled.
When the servants found me wandering across the nursery moments later, there was a minor commotion.
They rushed to alert the household, and within the hour, both of my parents were standing at the doorway, their faces caught between surprise and pride.
"My son walks already?" my father said, folding his arms across his chest. "Faster than expected."
"Of course he does," my mother replied, sweeping into the room with a soft laugh. "He's a Vinterheim."
She knelt down and opened her arms.
"Come here, Claude."
I didn't hesitate.
My steps were slow, but determined. Each one steady, deliberate. By the time I reached her, I was breathing hard, but my little chest swelled with something warm.
Accomplishment.
She scooped me into her arms and kissed the top of my head. Her heartbeat was steady against my cheek.
"Well done, my love," she whispered.
My father stepped closer and placed a hand on my back. That quiet strength in his touch again. A silent approval.
"No hesitation," he said. "Good. That is how you survive in this world."
He said it like a lesson. And maybe it was.
I didn't speak yet. Not aloud. But the thoughts in my head were no less clear than they had ever been.
Every step mattered now.
Every choice.
Because I wasn't just learning to walk.
I was learning to rise.
Snow fell quietly outside the tall nursery windows, blanketing the world in white. Inside, the hearth crackled softly, its warmth filling the room with a gentle glow. I sat on a plush rug, bundled in a navy tunic stitched with silver threads—House Vinterheim's colors, though I didn't yet know what they meant to the world.
To me, they simply meant I was home.
My mother sat nearby, reading from a leather-bound book, her voice smooth and melodic, rising and falling with the rhythm of the old tale. I didn't understand all the words yet, but the sound of her voice wrapped around me like a blanket.
"…and so the frostborn prince raised his hand, and the blizzard answered," she read with a soft smile. Her gaze flicked toward me, full of warmth. "I wonder who that reminds me of."
I reached out toward the edge of the rug. Frost bloomed beneath my fingers.
She laughed, bright and delighted.
Before I could do it again, the door creaked open.
My father entered—not in his formal attire or with the cold dignity others feared, but dressed plainly in a deep-blue tunic, his silver-blonde hair tousled from the wind. He carried something wrapped in fur.
"I brought something for my son," he announced as he knelt beside me and unwrapped the bundle.
Inside was a carved wooden animal—some kind of northern fox, painted pale blue and white. It looked like it had been made by hand. I stared at it, then looked up at him.
He looked a little uncertain.
"I tried," he muttered, brushing snow from his shoulder. "The ears are a bit uneven."
I reached for it without hesitation.
A faint smile touched his lips—genuine, if fleeting.
"He likes it," my mother said as she joined us on the floor. She leaned into his side, brushing her fingers over the fox's carved head. "It's perfect."
We sat there for a long while. My mother hummed a lullaby from her homeland, soft and low, as her fingers wove a loose braid into her pale hair. My father, seated on the floor beside us, told a story—not one of war or duty, but a clumsy tale from his youth, about slipping on a frozen lake while trying to impress her at a winter festival.
She laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.
And me?
I didn't need to understand every word. I felt it—the warmth, the closeness, the bond they shared. The way they looked at me—not as an heir, not as a title—but as their son.
That night, tucked beneath a quilt stitched with snowflakes, I stared at the wooden fox resting by my side.
Its ears were still crooked.
But it was perfect.
Because it reminded me of something I never truly had in my old life.
A family.
And this time, I wasn't going to lose it.