Morning light spilled gently through the tall windows, filtered through layers of sheer curtains. The snow outside was still falling—soft, unhurried flakes drifting down like feathers, blanketing the stone terraces and frozen garden paths in pristine white.
I lay in bed longer than usual.
The warmth of the covers cocooned me, but it wasn't comfort that held me there—it was hesitation. The nightmare from last night still clung to me, like cold rain soaked into the bones.
I hadn't told him.
My father had held me until I stopped shaking, his arms a shield against the storm of memory. He didn't push, didn't ask what haunted me. Maybe he didn't need to. Or maybe he knew better than to demand answers I wasn't ready to give.
But I remembered it all.
The rain. The tree. The silence.
Death.
It had been real. Final. And if I hadn't been born here—into this strange, quiet life beneath snowy skies—I'd be nothing more than a forgotten name on the wind.
My fingers clutched the blanket tighter.
There was a knock at the door.
Soft. Familiar.
"Your Highness?" came a voice—Thomas. Steady and gentle, as always. "May I enter?"
I hesitated a moment before answering.
"Yes."
The door opened with a quiet click, and Thomas stepped inside. He carried himself with practiced grace, but his eyes softened the moment they landed on me. He didn't ask if I slept well. He didn't need to. The circles beneath my eyes told the truth.
"Breakfast has been prepared," he said. "Lady Seraphina asked if you would join them in the sunroom today."
I sat up slowly, the blanket pooling in my lap.
"...Alright."
Thomas helped me dress without a word, his hands careful, never rough. He didn't mention the restless sheets or the wolf figurine on the floor. I appreciated that more than I could say.
Once ready, I followed him through the halls—my steps small, uneven, but determined. The palace was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional crackle of a fireplace or the whisper of a servant's footfalls on polished stone.
As we walked, I caught sight of the snow-covered courtyard through the tall, arched windows. White stretched endlessly across the gardens and rooftops. It looked… untouched. Peaceful.
Nothing like the city.
Nothing like where I came from.
My breath fogged the glass slightly as I leaned closer.
'That life is over.'
The thought came with a strange weight. Not sadness, exactly. More like… finality. The kind I hadn't been allowed before.
But even so—
I wasn't sure I'd ever stop carrying that night with me.
"Your Highness?" Thomas asked gently, seeing I'd paused.
I blinked and nodded.
"Sorry. Let's go."
And so, we continued down the corridor—toward the warmth of breakfast, the presence of family, and whatever came next in this strange, quiet second life I'd been given.
The doors to the sunroom were already open when we arrived. Warm light streamed in through tall glass windows, casting soft golden reflections across the polished floor. The snow beyond the glass shimmered, untouched and quiet, like something from a painting.
Inside, a small round table had been set with silver trays and delicate porcelain. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and fresh bread.
"Claude!" my mother greeted, rising from her seat with a gentle smile. "Good morning, my darling."
Her arms opened for me before I even reached the table. I let her pull me into a hug, the familiar scent of lavender wrapping around me like a familiar dream. She was always so warm—her presence, her voice, even her touch.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked softly as she brushed a hand through my hair.
I paused.
Lied.
"…Yes."
She didn't push.
Instead, she kissed my forehead and led me to my chair. My father sat nearby, already halfway through his second cup of tea. He set it down as I climbed into my seat with some help from Thomas.
"Morning, my son," he said with a slow smile, voice still slightly rough with sleep. "You're up later than usual."
I looked at him—silver-blonde hair slightly tousled, his sharp features softened by the relaxed morning light. There was no sternness in him today, only the quiet attentiveness of a man who noticed everything and said just enough.
"Didn't want to get out of bed," I mumbled.
He let out a short, amused breath.
"Can't say I blame you. On mornings like this, I wouldn't mind staying in bed myself."
Mother gave him a glance over the rim of her teacup. "Says the man who was up before sunrise."
"Habit," he shrugged. "Old ones die hard."
Their banter was soft and familiar—easy. It felt… nice. Strange, in a way I wasn't used to.
In my past life, mornings had been a blur of sirens, alarms, footsteps of strangers in distant rooms. Nothing warm. Nothing consistent.
Here, even the silence was comforting.
I stared at the steam rising from the cup Thomas placed before me.
"Eat what you can, Claude," my mother said gently. "You don't have to finish everything."
I nodded and picked at the warm pastry on my plate, my appetite slow to wake. But I listened—to the sound of their voices, the rhythm of their laughter, the small, quiet way they loved each other.
I didn't speak much. But they didn't mind.
They let me be quiet.
They let me be still.
The snow kept falling. Outside the tall windows, the gardens were nearly invisible beneath a thick blanket of white. Only the dark tips of the hedges and the tops of the old statues still peeked through.
I took another bite of the pastry, then glanced up at my parents, both sipping tea in content silence. The moment felt soft. Safe.
It was the kind of morning where nothing needed to be said—so naturally, I decided to say something.
"Mother," I began, my voice quiet but clear.
She looked at me instantly, setting her cup down.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
I paused, watching the way her hands folded neatly in her lap.
"…What's beyond the snow?"
Her brows rose slightly—not in surprise, but in thought.
"Beyond the snow?" she echoed gently. "You mean outside the palace grounds?"
I nodded slowly.
She smiled, turning her gaze toward the window. "Well, beyond the gates are the mountain roads. And past those, more snow, of course—but also villages. Forests. Rivers that freeze over in the winter. All part of our land, all of Vinterheim."
I looked down at my hands, thinking about the way she said it. Our land.
"And… the people?" I asked next, pretending to fix my sleeve. "Do they live far?"
This time, it was Father who answered.
"Some do," he said, setting down his tea. "But many live near the base of the mountain, where the weather's a little kinder. Our stewards keep close watch over the region. If you're curious, perhaps one day we'll take a trip together. Let you see it for yourself."
I nodded again, slower this time.
One day.
That meant I had time. Time to learn. Time to understand the world I'd been born into—this place of snow and silence, so different from the grey city streets and bitter rain I remembered.
"Does everyone have palaces like this?" I asked, more quietly.
My mother chuckled softly.
"No, dear. Not everyone."
Father leaned back in his chair, one brow raised in amusement. "Planning on becoming a steward already?"
I blinked.
"I just want to know things."
His gaze lingered on me a moment longer—thoughtful, but warm.
"That's good," he said finally. "Curiosity is a fine thing, so long as it doesn't lead you into trouble."
I glanced out the window again.
The world felt large. Unknown. But it was no longer a place I was trying to survive—it was something I was beginning to belong to. Piece by piece.
And if I had to build a new life from nothing again… at least this time, I had time.
And a family.
The snow was still falling when breakfast ended.
I stayed seated a little longer, quietly watching the way the flakes danced outside the window. The fire crackled behind us, and Thomas had stepped away to let us enjoy the warmth as a family.
My parents spoke softly to one another, but their voices faded into the background as a thought pulled at me again.
"…Why do we live here?"
They both looked at me.
I shifted in my seat, trying to make the question sound less strange than it felt. "In the snow, I mean. Why not somewhere warm?"
My mother tilted her head slightly, her smile patient.
"Because this is our home," she said. "Our family has lived in the north for generations. It's where your father and I were born. Where our roots are."
Father gave a small nod. "The cold shapes us. It makes us strong—and it keeps us sharp."
I considered that for a moment, small fingers playing with the edge of the napkin in my lap.
"Does everyone like it here?"
"They do," Mother said gently. "But not always at first. It takes time to fall in love with the quiet. But once you do, it never leaves you."
That made sense, somehow.
I looked back out at the snow-covered world beyond the glass. It didn't feel empty anymore. Just… silent. Like it was waiting.
"…Do we know everyone who lives here?" I asked next.
Father leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Not by name. But we know our people. We protect them, and in return, they trust us. That's what it means to rule—not to sit above, but to stand with."
That answer lingered with me.
Back then, in my old life, no one stood with me.
I was invisible. Lost. Forgotten in the rain.
Here… I wasn't forgotten.
"Will I have to protect them too?" I asked, voice smaller than I intended.
Mother reached across the table and took my hand in hers, warm and soft.
"One day," she said. "But not today."
"Right now," Father added, "your only job is to grow. To learn. And maybe…" He gave me a playful look. "To listen when Thomas tells you not to sneak off."
I flushed slightly, but couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"...Okay," I muttered.
They both smiled.
In that moment, I realized I could ask anything. And even if they didn't give me all the answers… they would never push me away for asking.
And for a child like me—reborn from silence and storm—that was more than I ever thought I'd be allowed to have.