The first word came quietly.
Not forced. Not practiced.
It slipped out one morning as my mother brushed my hair, her fingers gentle, untangling soft strands of silver that had grown longer with each passing month. I sat still in her lap, half-listening to the birds outside the window and the low hum of a lullaby in her throat.
When her hands paused, I turned slightly, eyes lifting toward her.
"Ma…ma."
She froze.
I saw it—just for a heartbeat—the way her breath caught. Her arms pulled me close, hugging me against her chest.
"Say it again," she whispered.
I didn't. Not because I couldn't—but because I was busy listening. Her heartbeat was strong, steady, and I felt it in the way she held me—like the world could collapse around us and she would still protect me.
Later that day, I said another word.
"Da."
My father had just returned from overseeing drills beyond the manor grounds, his cloak still dusted with snow. When I waddled up to him and said it, he blinked down at me, stunned.
Then he crouched to my level and ruffled my hair, slow and careful.
"You're learning quickly, my son," he said, his tone softer than usual.
He didn't say much more, but the next morning, a collection of small wooden animals appeared in my room. Foxes, wolves, owls—even a clumsy little bear. All carved by the same hand. His.
I began to explore more after that. The halls of the estate were vast and cold, but I never felt alone. Servants bowed as I passed, their steps respectful, eyes warm. Some greeted me with small smiles. Others offered sweets or cloth toys. They all addressed me the same way.
"Good morning, Your Highness."
It still felt strange.
I wasn't sure I liked the weight those words carried.
But I was starting to understand what they meant.
My name—Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim—wasn't just something people spoke with reverence. It came with expectations. With legacy.
One afternoon, I found a long hallway lined with portraits. Old, weathered oil paintings of men and women with eyes like mine. I stared up at them, tiny hand pressed against the polished wood beneath one frame.
Snow-dusted warriors. Regal women wrapped in furs and silver. Eyes that glowed like glacier fire.
Vinterheim blood.
One day, I'd stand among them.
But not yet.
For now, I took slow steps down the hall, whispering the names aloud as a servant gently recited them behind me. My tongue stumbled, but I tried. Because every name I learned made me feel more rooted. More real.
More like I belonged.
That night, as the wind howled beyond the tower walls, I sat curled beside the hearth with the crooked-eared fox in my lap and whispered a word I hadn't used before.
"Home."
I didn't need to remember the streets, the storms, the hunger of my old life.
Not anymore.
This life was quiet. But it was mine.
And it had only just begun.
The palace was a world of its own—quiet, cold, and vast.
Most days, I stayed near the nursery or the family wing, always under the watchful eye of a nursemaid or the occasional passing servant. But as I grew steadier on my feet and sharper in thought, I began to wander.
No one stopped me.
They watched, yes—always at a respectful distance—but they let me go where I pleased.
One morning, I slipped away from my usual playroom and pushed open a tall door carved with northern runes. It creaked softly, revealing a corridor I hadn't seen before. The air was colder here, the walls lined with frosted windows and ice-blue banners bearing the crest of House Vinterheim: a silver wolf beneath a crown of snow.
My little hands touched the stone as I walked. Everything felt bigger here. Quieter.
I passed armor stands, their helmets dusted with frost, swords mounted above them like silent guardians. The cold didn't bother me. It never had. In fact, I found it comforting—like the silence between snowfall.
My steps led me into an open gallery where sunlight poured through high windows. Snowflakes drifted lazily down outside, casting dancing shadows on the marble floor. In the center stood a statue of a woman in battle garb, her eyes fierce, one hand outstretched.
There was a name engraved beneath it.
Lady Althea Vinterheim.
A hero of the north, I would later learn. A legend. My ancestor.
I stared up at her for a long time.
'I wonder if she was lonely, too.'
My thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind me.
"Your Highness, you've wandered far today."
I turned.
It was Thomas—the young man who tended to my sword, though I didn't carry one yet. He was older than most servants I'd seen, but not by much. Maybe seventeen. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind.
I didn't answer. I just looked at him, curious.
He took a few steps forward, his boots echoing softly on the floor.
"Did she catch your eye?" he asked, nodding to the statue.
I nodded.
"She fought in the Frost Wars," he said. "When she was not much older than me. They say her will was so strong, the blizzard itself bowed to her command."
I blinked up at the statue again. So much power. So much presence. And yet… she'd once been flesh and blood like me.
"Can I be like her?" I asked softly.
It was the first time I'd asked anyone something from the heart.
Thomas smiled—genuine, not the polite kind people used around my parents.
"I think you already are, Your Highness. You just haven't realized it yet."
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I just turned back to the statue and reached up to touch its frozen base.
Someday, I promised myself silently.
Someday, they'll carve my name into stone, too.
The gallery had fallen quiet again.
Only the sound of the wind brushing against the high windows and the soft creak of ancient stone remained. I stood there a little longer, staring up at Lady Althea's statue, fingers lightly brushing the frost that rimmed its base.
Then a hand rested gently on my shoulder.
"Come on, Your Highness," Thomas said, voice low. "Let's get you back before someone panics."
I glanced up at him, reluctant.
He didn't scold me. Didn't chide or tell me not to wander again. Instead, he offered his hand. I took it without a word, my small fingers wrapping around his gloved palm.
His grip was steady. Warm despite the cold halls.
As we walked, he spoke—not with the stiff caution most servants used, but with a relaxed ease I hadn't yet grown used to.
"I used to sneak into the gallery, too," he said. "Not supposed to, of course. But there's something about this place. Makes you feel like the statues might start talking if you listen long enough."
I looked up at him, half-expecting him to laugh.
But he didn't.
"Do you think she was lonely?" I asked again, quieter this time. "Lady Althea."
Thomas gave it some thought.
"Maybe," he said. "Great people often are. But she had family. People who believed in her. That makes the weight easier to carry."
We turned a corner and stepped back into more familiar corridors. The floors here were lined with thick rugs, and the torches burned with a soft, blue-tinged flame enchanted to match the Vinterheim aesthetic. The cold wasn't as sharp in these halls—more comfortable. Lived-in.
I heard distant footsteps before I saw them.
The doors to the family wing opened, and my mother appeared, wrapped in a pale fur cloak, her silver hair tied back in an elegant braid. Her expression shifted the moment she saw me—relief first, then a touch of exasperation, then a warm smile that made everything feel safe again.
"There you are," she said as she knelt. "You had me worried, little snowflake."
I ran to her without hesitation.
She lifted me into her arms, cradling me close. I didn't say anything, just pressed my head against her shoulder and listened to her steady breathing.
"Thank you, Thomas," she added with a glance over her shoulder.
He bowed. "Of course, My Lady. He didn't go far. Just to the gallery."
She nodded, her fingers brushing my hair.
"Next time," she whispered to me, "take someone with you. Even snowstorms can get lost, you know."
I didn't answer.
But in that moment, wrapped in her arms, I realized something important.
I wasn't just exploring the palace.
I was discovering what it meant to belong here.
Later that evening, the nursery was quiet again.
The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the soft blue walls. I sat near the edge of the thick rug, one of the carved wooden wolves clutched in my hand. Outside, snow continued falling—silent, steady.
My mother had just left after tucking me in, her gentle kiss still lingering on my forehead. The room smelled faintly of lavender and pine. Familiar, now. Safe.
But I didn't sleep.
Couldn't.
My eyes stayed open, tracing the lines of the ceiling beams above.
I tried to raise my hand, just to stretch it. My arm wobbled awkwardly in the air before falling back onto the blanket.
'Still this weak, huh.'
It was becoming more apparent with each passing day. My mind—sharp, alert, mature—belonged to someone who had lived another life entirely. A modern life.
One with streetlights and sirens. With cracked sidewalks and vending machines. A life where the cold came from concrete winters and empty subway tunnels, not frost-covered windows in a noble estate.
And yet here I was.
Reborn into the body of a toddler, barely able to walk straight. Fingers clumsy, speech limited to a few small words, and every step taken under the cautious eyes of adults who thought I was still learning to think.
It was suffocating.
'I used to cook for myself. Read entire books in one night. Handle paperwork, bills, job interviews—everything.'
Now?
Now I couldn't even pick up the wooden fox without dropping it twice.
A surge of irritation rose in my chest, but it died as quickly as it came. What good was anger? It wouldn't change anything. I was stuck in this fragile body, and it would take years—actual years—before I could even resemble who I once was.
'I've already gone through childhood once. I never wanted to do it again.'
But this time was different.
There was no loneliness here. No hunger gnawing at my ribs. No cold pavement under my back as I tried to sleep through storms. I had warmth. I had family.
Even if I hated being small… I wasn't alone anymore.
That was worth something.
With effort, I rolled onto my side and tucked the wooden figure under my chin. The firelight flickered softly against the wall.
'Take it slow.'
'You've got time now.'
I let my eyes drift shut.
'I won't waste it.'
The nursery was quiet. Still. But even wrapped in warmth, my sleep was anything but peaceful.
It started with rain.
Not the gentle kind that pattered against palace windows, but the heavy, merciless kind that hammered down on pavement already cracked and stained. I was back in the alley—just as it had been. Cold wind slicing through my soaked hoodie. The smell of wet trash. The broken rhythm of water falling from a rusted gutter above.
Everything felt too real.
I looked down.
I was small again—but not like now. Not in the safe warmth of my new body.
I was just me. Alone. Drenched. Bones aching.
I could barely move.
My limbs were heavy. My breath came out in mist. My fingers trembled as I reached out toward the street—toward the light.
It was all the same.
The emptiness. The ache. The cold that had burrowed deep beneath my skin and stayed there.
And then came the sound I could never forget.
That crack.
A deep, raw, unnatural split in the sky.
I turned my head just in time to see the silhouette of the old oak tree give way—its gnarled trunk groaning as it collapsed, split from rot and wind and time.
I didn't run.
I couldn't.
I was too tired. Too numb. Too ready for everything to stop.
I watched it fall.
And then—
"Claude!"
A voice called out. Not from the alley. From now.
A warm hand grasped my shoulder, and I jolted awake, gasping for breath, my chest tight.
I was back in the nursery. Safe. But drenched in sweat. My small hands gripped the blanket tightly, and my heart pounded as though it hadn't realized I wasn't dying anymore.
The carved wolf had fallen from the bed.
My father's voice came again, quiet and steady.
"I'm here."
Alistair knelt beside the bed, his silver-blonde hair slightly disheveled, blue eyes watching me with concern. He didn't ask questions. He didn't need to.
Without hesitation, he picked me up and held me close.
His arms were solid and warm, his breath calm against my cheek.
"You're safe, my son. No storms will reach you here."
I didn't answer.
I just held onto him, my tiny fingers curling into the fabric of his robe like it was the only thing anchoring me to the present.
In my past life, I had died without anyone even knowing my name.
But here… here, someone had come for me.
And this time, I lived.