Snow still blanketed the world outside, but the sky was clearer now—soft light pushing through pale clouds, glinting off the frozen trees like glass.
I sat upright in bed, legs tucked beneath me, watching my breath mist faintly in the morning chill. The fire had burned low, and only a few embers glowed quietly in the hearth. But I didn't mind. The cold wasn't cruel here. Not like before.
Seven winters had passed since I first opened my eyes in this world.
And though my hands had grown steadier, and my steps more certain, some mornings still brought that old feeling back—the quiet wondering of who I had once been… and who I was meant to become.
A gentle knock came at the door.
"Your Highness? May I come in?"
It was Emma, her voice calm and familiar after all these years.
"Yes," I called out, already climbing from beneath the thick blankets.
She entered with practiced grace, balancing a silver tray in one hand and a neatly folded tunic in the other.
"Good morning," she greeted with a soft smile, setting the tray down on the table. "You're up early."
I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."
Her brow lifted slightly, but she didn't press. She never did when I didn't want to speak.
Breakfast was simple—fresh bread, soft cheese, and slices of crisp fruit chilled by the snow. Emma helped me dress, guiding my arms through the sleeves of a pale-blue tunic trimmed with white fur. Seven years old now, and I still needed a little help.
"There," she said, smoothing the collar and brushing a curl from my forehead. "Handsome as ever."
I gave a small nod, distracted. My mind was elsewhere.
Because today, something felt different.
Not in the way the halls looked, or how the winter light pooled against the windows, but in the way the staff moved. In the silence between footsteps. In the way Thomas had looked at me this morning when he brought my boots—not just respectful, but thoughtful. Like there was something they all knew.
Something I didn't.
I followed the scent of pine and smoke down the corridor, Emma beside me. My boots clicked softly against stone. Guards bowed their heads. Servants stepped aside with gentle nods.
It had always been this way—but now, I noticed.
They weren't bowing to a child.
They were bowing to a name.
We reached the main hall, and the doors opened ahead of us—wide and heavy, revealing the grand stairway that led to the great chamber. I'd seen it before, during formal gatherings and noble visits.
But today, it wasn't filled with guests.
Today, it was waiting.
At the top of the stairs stood my parents.
My mother's gown shimmered faintly with frostwork embroidery, her blonde hair twisted into a loose braid, elegant and light as drifting snow. Beside her, my father stood tall in a high-collared coat trimmed in white wolf fur, silver clasps catching the morning light.
They looked like rulers of the north.
They looked like my future.
"Good morning, my son," my father called, his voice deep and steady. "Come stand with us."
I stepped forward, my footsteps echoing through the chamber. My heart beat slower, but heavier.
Not fear. Not nerves.
Just something I didn't yet have words for.
A feeling settling behind the name they'd given me.
Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim.
My boots made soft sounds against the stone as I climbed the steps.
My father watched me with that quiet look he often wore when he was thinking of something more than what he said. My mother's smile was gentler—open, patient.
I stopped in front of them.
"Stand tall," my father said, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Not because you must—but because you can."
I looked up at him. "Is something happening today?"
He chuckled softly, exchanging a glance with my mother.
"Not quite," she said. "But soon, yes. You're growing, Claude. And we thought it was time you began to see the world the way we do."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
My mother knelt, bringing herself to my height. Her golden hair caught the morning light like threads of sunlight woven with snow.
"This palace," she said, "these halls, the people who serve here—they're part of you. And you are part of them. But that doesn't mean you're a ruler yet."
"Then what am I?"
"You're our son," she answered, brushing a hand gently down my cheek. "But also more than that. Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim… that name carries weight. One day, it will open doors. It may close others. But more than anything, it will shape how the world sees you."
I thought about the servants this morning. The bowed heads. The stillness in the air.
"I didn't ask for that," I said quietly.
My father knelt beside us then, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it.
"Neither did I, when I was your age. But the name was given, and I chose what to make of it."
He looked me in the eye, not as a child—but as someone who might someday understand.
"You don't have to decide now, Claude. But start looking. Start listening. The north speaks in silence. You'll come to hear it, if you're patient."
I nodded slowly, the weight of their words settling somewhere inside me.
My mother rose and took my hand.
"Come," she said. "There's no ceremony today. No duties or guests. We just wanted to show you… what's yours."
They led me out through one of the side balconies, where the light spilled across frost-covered stone and down into the valley.
And for a moment, I forgot the name. I forgot the weight.
All I felt was the wind in my hair, and the warmth of my parents' hands in mine.
We stood at the balcony's edge, where the mountain winds whispered through the valley below.
From here, the snow-covered world stretched out like a painting—rolling white hills, towering pine forests, and the distant shimmer of frozen lakes. The estate stood proud atop the cliffs, a bastion of ice and stone.
"This land is Vinterheim," my mother said, her voice soft beside me. "But our world is much larger than these mountains."
I turned toward her, curiosity stirring.
She smiled faintly. "It's time you knew a little more."
We returned inside. In the quiet of the high chamber, she led me to the grand tapestry that hung across the northern wall. I had passed it countless times—but now, she drew back the curtain that covered its lower half.
It wasn't just art. It was a map.
"The Valerius Empire," she said. "The heart of the continent. Five great territories, ruled by old blood and old power."
Her finger brushed across the center.
"Eidaleon. The imperial capital. Your uncle rules from there—Emperor Caelan de Valerius, my brother."
I blinked. "The Emperor is… my uncle?"
My father chuckled behind us. "Quite the surprise, I imagine."
My mother gave him a look, then turned back to me.
"I was born Seraphina de Valerius. First daughter of the imperial house. Before I became Vinterheim… I was a princess."
Her voice didn't carry pride, just truth. Calm and steady.
"You were royalty?" I asked, eyes wide. "Then why—"
"Why did I leave?"
She smiled—wistful, but warm.
"Because I fell in love."
I glanced back at my father, who gave me a lopsided grin.
"Hard not to, really."
She shook her head but didn't deny it.
"I left the palace of gold for a land of frost. And I never once looked back. Now I am Seraphina de Valerius Vinterheim, your mother, and Archduchess of the North."
The map beneath her hand shimmered slightly in the sunlight.
"Still, the Empire remains our home. And one day, you may have to walk its roads—not just as my son, but as the heir of Vinterheim."
I studied the markings: mountains to the north, the sea to the west, sun-washed lands to the south.
"And the others?" I asked.
My father stepped beside me, his hand resting lightly on the tapestry.
"To the east lies Hesperia—the Duchy of Winds. Swift and restless, they ride their skies with pride. To the west, Vallis March—quiet and unshaken, stewards of stone and soil. South, the Solara Duchy—where fire burns brightest, and tempers even brighter."
"And here," my mother added, touching the top of the map where silver threads formed jagged peaks, "Vinterheim—the North. Our bloodline. Our domain."
The names stirred something in me. A world larger than I could imagine… and yet, somehow, already tied to me.
"I'll learn about all of them," I whispered. "Even if it takes years."
"You will," my father said, ruffling my hair. "But not all at once. You've got time, son."
My mother bent down and kissed the top of my head.
"And we'll be here—every step of the way."
Later that evening, the fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting golden light across the high-vaulted chamber.
I sat curled into the corner of a wide armchair, legs tucked beneath me, listening as Father poured a dark amber drink into a glass and settled across from me. Mother joined us, draping a thick fur throw over my shoulders before sitting beside Father on the couch.
"Now that you've begun to understand the world beyond these walls," Father said, his tone quieter than usual, "you should know more about where you come from."
He gestured toward the northern crest stitched onto the tapestry—a silver stag beneath a crescent moon.
"This is the sigil of the Archduchy of Vinterheim. Our home. Our house."
His voice was steady, proud, but not heavy. It wasn't a lecture—it was a story.
"There are five ducal houses in the Empire," he continued. "But only one Archduchy—ours. Vinterheim has stood since before the Empire's borders were drawn. Our ancestors carved their place into the mountains and ruled with wisdom and strength when the southern lords still fought over muddy fields."
"The imperial family was once just one of many noble bloodlines," Mother added, her voice soft as snow. "But they united the lands, brought peace, and were crowned as emperors. Even so, Vinterheim never bowed. We allied, not submitted."
I stared at the silver stag, its antlers raised toward the stars.
"Then… we're as strong as the imperial house?"
My father's blue eyes met mine, amused. "Stronger, some might say. But titles don't always decide who holds true power. Influence, legacy, the loyalty of your people—those are harder to measure."
"And with your mother's marriage to me," he went on, "you now carry both legacies. You are of Vinterheim and of Valerius. Northern steel and imperial gold."
"Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim," Mother said, brushing her hand through my hair. "A name with two histories behind it. You carry the blood of the archdukes… and the blood of emperors."
I felt something stir in my chest. Not pride. Not yet. But weight. Meaning.
"In time, people will look to you not just because of your birthright," Father added, "but because of what you choose to do with it. That's what matters most."
I nodded slowly, still wrapping my head around it all.
"So… I'm not just a noble," I murmured. "I'm—"
"Something more," my mother said. "Something rare."
"And," Father added with a grin, "still very much a child who needs to finish his stew."
That broke the tension. I laughed, cheeks warm, and dug my spoon into the bowl that had gone ignored beside me.
Still, even as the room filled with soft conversation and firelight, the words stayed with me.
Valerius.
Vinterheim.
Two legacies. One future.
Mine.