The snow never stopped. It simply slowed, then started again—like it was breathing. The sky was always gray, but it wasn't heavy. It felt like a hush stretched across the world.
After breakfast, I slipped away from the sunroom—not enough to cause trouble, just enough to wander.
I didn't go far. Just down the long eastern corridor, where the windows stretched nearly floor to ceiling and let in the soft, pale light. My fingers brushed the cold stone walls as I walked. My steps were small, but steady. I was getting better at balancing. I didn't fall as much anymore.
And when I did, I didn't cry.
The portraits that lined the corridor watched me with silent eyes—people with the same silver-blonde hair, the same sharp features, regal and proud. Ancestors, I assumed. Names I hadn't learned yet.
I paused in front of one of them. A tall man, hand resting on the hilt of a sword, cloak lined with fur, eyes cold and steady.
"Was he like my father?" I asked softly, though there was no one there to answer.
Something in the man's gaze reminded me of him—but also not. There was steel in this man's stance, the kind born from conquest. Father was different. Softer in his silence.
I moved on.
The palace was alive in small ways. A servant brushing dust from a windowsill. A gardener bringing in winter herbs. A guard adjusting his gloves by the entrance. All of them paused when they saw me—bowed slightly, murmured "Your Highness," with a kind of quiet respect.
I still wasn't used to that.
Back then, people barely looked at me. If they did, it was with caution—or indifference.
Here… they saw me. Even if they didn't know me.
I found a small bench tucked beneath one of the windows and climbed onto it carefully. From here, I could see the far edge of the gardens. The frozen fountain. The tall pine trees dusted in snow. Everything looked so still. So far away.
'What kind of world is this?' I wondered, watching the wind swirl a trail through the snowfall. 'Why was I brought here?'
There was no answer. Only the soft creak of the old bench and the faint sound of footsteps behind me.
I turned, expecting Thomas.
Instead, it was a maid I hadn't seen before. Young, with pale hair tied neatly beneath her cap and wide, nervous eyes. She carried a small tray in her hands—a pitcher of warm milk and a folded blanket.
"Pardon me, Your Highness," she said quietly, bowing her head. "Lady Seraphina thought you might be cold."
I blinked.
"…Thank you."
She set the tray beside me on a nearby stand, then draped the blanket gently over my shoulders.
"Do you want me to call for Thomas?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"I'm alright."
She smiled softly and gave another bow before stepping back, hands folded politely.
As she turned to leave, I watched her go—watched how carefully she moved, how quietly she disappeared down the corridor. Everyone here was so… proper. So composed.
But I could see the nerves beneath the surface. The way people held their breath when speaking to me. It wasn't fear, not quite. It was something else. Deference, maybe. Like they were waiting to see who I would become.
So was I.
I sipped the milk in silence, warm beneath the blanket, eyes on the snow outside.
And for a moment, the quiet felt like an answer.
The milk had cooled in my hands, but I didn't mind. The weight of the blanket across my shoulders, the hush of snowfall outside the window, the fading warmth of the sun behind the clouds—it all kept me still.
Then came the sound of familiar footsteps.
Measured. Steady. Not hurried, but purposeful.
I didn't turn around. I already knew who it was.
"Your Highness," Thomas said gently, just behind me.
I looked over my shoulder. He stood there in his usual dark uniform, snow dusting the edges of his boots, hands folded behind his back. His expression was unreadable, as always—but his eyes held a quiet concern.
"I'm not in trouble," I said quickly.
He gave a slight bow of his head. "Of course not."
I studied him a moment longer before glancing back out the window.
"I didn't go far."
"I know." He paused. "But Lady Seraphina grew worried when you weren't in your room. And His Grace asked me to check the east wing."
So they noticed.
Something inside me tightened for a second—an old instinct from a life where going unnoticed meant staying safe.
"…I just wanted to look," I said.
Thomas stepped forward, careful not to crowd me, and reached for the now-empty cup.
"You like the snow, Your Highness?"
"I don't know," I murmured. "It's quiet. The city was never quiet."
He paused in the act of setting the cup back on the tray. I didn't realize I'd said it out loud until the silence lingered.
I turned toward him quickly, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I mean… I think I heard someone say that. About the city."
Thomas said nothing. He didn't question it, didn't press.
Just nodded.
"I see."
I didn't know if he believed me or not. But if he suspected anything, he didn't show it.
"Your mother was hoping to read with you by the fire," he said calmly, stepping aside and gesturing back down the corridor. "Shall I walk you back?"
I hesitated, then nodded and slid off the bench, my small feet landing softly on the cold floor.
Thomas adjusted the blanket on my shoulders without a word, making sure it didn't drag behind me. Then he walked beside me, just close enough to catch me if I slipped—but not so close that it felt like a leash.
I appreciated that.
We walked in silence for a while, passing tall windows and flickering wall sconces. Every step echoed faintly through the stone hall, softened by the snow pressing against the windows.
"…Thomas," I said suddenly, glancing up at him.
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Do you think snow gets lonely?"
He looked at me, not with confusion, but with the kind of quiet patience I was beginning to associate with him.
"…I don't believe so," he said. "Snow doesn't come alone. It falls in thousands, all at once. Blanketing the world together."
I thought about that.
Then nodded, satisfied.
"I like that," I murmured.
Thomas gave the smallest smile.
As we walked through the corridor, something in me settled.
I had been so used to being alone—so used to the silence meaning absence, not peace. But here, the quiet was different. It didn't press down on me like it used to. It didn't isolate me.
I wasn't walking through an empty world anymore.
Thomas didn't speak, but his presence was enough. Solid. Reliable. No expectations, no judgment. Just someone who saw me without asking too much.
And it struck me—slowly, gently—that I didn't have to be lonely anymore.
Not in this life.
Not when there were people like this. A mother who sent warm milk and blankets. A father who smiled without needing words. A servant who looked after me with the same care he would offer a king.
I let out a small breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
It was time to move on.
Not forget. Not pretend my old life never happened. But let it rest. Let it sleep beneath the snow.
When we reached the sitting room, the fire was already crackling in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the floor. The moment I stepped inside, warmth wrapped around me like another blanket.
"Claude," my mother's voice called softly.
She sat in a large armchair, a book open on her lap, her hair braided over one shoulder. A second chair beside her had been piled with cushions and a smaller blanket folded neatly on top.
She always thought ahead like that. Always made space for me.
I walked toward her slowly, Thomas lingering by the doorway without saying a word.
My mother reached out as I approached, pulling me gently into her lap. The blanket came around me again, but this time it smelled like lavender and the soft perfume she always wore.
"You wandered again," she murmured, brushing a hand through my hair.
"I didn't go far," I mumbled.
"I know." Her fingers paused. "You're curious. Just like your father."
That made me look up.
She laughed softly. "He used to sneak out of his lessons and climb to the tallest tower just to watch the wind roll in from the mountains. Drove his tutors mad."
"…Did you yell at him?"
She smiled. "I still do."
I couldn't help it—I laughed, a real one, light and unguarded.
She kissed the top of my head and held me a little closer.
"We'll always be here, Claude," she whispered. "Even when you wander. Even when you ask strange questions or stay quiet for too long. You are our son. That will never change."
The fire cracked, and the snow whispered at the windows.
And I believed her.
Because in this moment, wrapped in her arms, surrounded by warmth and soft shadows, I didn't feel like someone who had been left behind by the world.
I felt like someone who had finally been found.
I leaned into her warmth, eyes growing heavier with each slow breath. The fire cracked again, sending little shadows dancing across the room, and the book in her lap remained untouched.
She didn't try to read.
She just held me.
I felt her heartbeat, steady and slow, like a lullaby only I could hear. Her hand moved through my hair in gentle strokes, and even though I didn't say anything, she didn't seem to mind. It was enough just to be here.
The kind of quiet I used to fear now felt safe.
I blinked slowly. Once. Twice.
The edges of the room blurred.
Just before sleep pulled me fully under, I heard footsteps—faint, careful. Not rushed, not loud. My mother didn't look up, but her hand paused for the briefest moment.
Then came the soft rustle of fabric as someone knelt nearby.
"…He's asleep?" came my father's voice, hushed.
"Almost," she whispered.
There was a pause. I could feel their eyes on me, even if I couldn't see them.
"He went wandering again," she murmured. "Found the window bench in the east wing. Sat there for nearly an hour."
A low chuckle answered her.
"Like I said. Just like me."
"You were worse."
"Adventurous."
"Reckless."
"Still alive, aren't I?"
She huffed softly, and the sound of my father rising from his crouch reached my ears.
Then, quieter: "He's changing, Alistair. Slowly. But it's there. He looks out at the snow like he's trying to understand it. He watches people, not just with curiosity—but with something older in his eyes."
"I've seen it too," he murmured. "Sometimes, I think… he's remembering something he hasn't lived yet."
Silence followed.
Then the brush of a kiss against my forehead—my mother's lips, warm and light.
A second touch, rougher, calloused fingers brushing against my cheek—my father's hand, lingering just long enough.
"I'm glad he's ours," he said softly.
"So am I."
The warmth pressed closer.
And this time, I didn't fight sleep when it came.
Because here, in this snow-bound palace with its long halls and quiet people, I didn't feel like a ghost of someone who had died in the rain.
I felt like a child—held, safe, and loved.