The snow had not stopped falling since dawn. Thick, heavy flakes drifted across the courtyard like feathers shaken loose from the sky, layering rooftops and trees in silence. I watched from the arched window of the study, arms crossed on the sill, breath misting the glass.
My name echoed faintly in my mind.
Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim.
A mouthful for a child, a legacy for a prince.
I wasn't sure I fully understood it yet. Not really. But I could feel it—the weight of it settling more with each passing day.
Behind me, the study door opened with a soft creak.
"Your Highness," Thomas said gently, stepping inside with a bundle of scrolls tucked beneath one arm. "Your tutors will arrive shortly."
I turned to face him, the loyal retainer who had tended to me since before I could walk. His dark uniform was dusted with snow at the shoulders. He moved like someone trained for silence, his footsteps barely audible over the crackling fire.
"Do you think names matter, Thomas?" I asked suddenly.
He blinked, caught off guard, then lowered the scrolls onto the polished desk.
"I believe they carry power," he said after a moment. "Especially when they come from old bloodlines. But power doesn't always mean worth."
I considered that. "Everyone talks about my name like it's supposed to mean something. Like I'm already supposed to be someone because of it."
"You are someone, Your Highness. But not because of your name."
He said it plainly, without flattery.
I looked down at my small hands, now steadier with age but still far from grown. I was seven. Old enough to ask questions. Old enough to remember. But still too young, maybe, to find the answers on my own.
"Then why do they always bow so low when they hear it?"
Thomas smiled faintly. "Because names carry history. Yours carries two."
Valerius. Vinterheim.
"One from fire and gold," he said, "and the other from ice and steel."
"And if they pull me in different directions?" I asked.
"Then you forge your own path between them."
His answer came without hesitation. Like he'd been saving it.
I didn't know if he truly understood what it felt like—this strange tug inside me. The pressure. The expectations I hadn't earned yet. But I was starting to see that I didn't have to walk the path alone.
I walked to the desk and sat, the fire casting long shadows over the ancient books stacked at the corners.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
And inside, I opened the first scroll of the day—not just as a student, but as someone who would one day carry both the cold silence of the north and the echoing voice of an empire.
Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim.
Not just a name.
A promise.
Thomas stood nearby, observing quietly as the door opened once more and a tall, thin man stepped inside. His hair was gray, eyes sharp behind circular lenses perched on a narrow nose. He carried a long wooden pointer and a stack of leather-bound tomes.
"Your Highness," the man greeted with a bow. "I am Albrecht, your new history tutor."
I nodded politely. "Good morning, Master Albrecht."
He raised a brow, perhaps surprised by my formality. "A fine start. Let us begin, then. We will be reviewing the formation of the Valerius Empire and its relationship with the great houses."
I sat straighter in the high-backed chair. Despite the cold, the fire made the study warm, almost too warm under my layered tunic. Still, I focused.
Albrecht unfurled a long scroll across the desk, revealing a timeline. Names, dates, and banners were carefully inked in gold and black.
"At the empire's founding," he began, "there were no emperors. Only lords. Clans of strength, vying for land and dominion. But it was the Valerius family who unified them—through war, yes, but also through diplomacy."
His pointer tapped the first golden crest: a phoenix rising above a crown.
"The Imperial House of Valerius."
I stared at it. The same crest Mother wore at formal gatherings. The same one etched into the old ring she never removed.
"And here," Albrecht continued, tapping farther north, "the Archduchy of Vinterheim. The only house that was never conquered. They pledged allegiance on their own terms, bound by blood through marriage—not by sword."
He glanced at me meaningfully. "You, Your Highness, are the first in generations to carry both names. You are Valerius and Vinterheim."
I already knew that, but hearing it from someone outside the family made it feel... different. Real.
"Do you know why that matters?" he asked.
I hesitated, then shook my head.
"Because the world watches lineage. Power follows bloodlines. You are not just an heir to the north—you are a thread between two legacies. That is why you must study harder than anyone else. Learn more. Speak wisely. One day, others may follow your words."
That weight settled again. But this time, I didn't shrink beneath it.
I met his gaze. "Then teach me."
He nodded, satisfied, and opened the first book.
We studied history. Then geography—learning the borders of each duchy, the paths of rivers that marked territories, and the hidden mountain passes that protected our home.
By midday, my head ached and my fingers cramped from note-taking. But I didn't stop. Not even when the ink smeared or my pen scratched against the parchment.
Thomas entered quietly with lunch, and I ate while still studying, eyes flicking between diagrams of ancient battle formations and trade routes from the eastern coast.
Albrecht looked pleased. "You may have noble blood, Your Highness. But it is diligence that will shape you into someone worthy of it."
And as the day faded into gray winter light, I pressed forward, tracing names I had never heard before—names of kings, generals, fallen houses, and heroes.
But mine—Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim—stood among them now.
And I intended to give it meaning.
The sun had dipped low by the time I was dismissed from the study. My legs ached from sitting still so long, and my fingers still had faint ink stains. But my mind was buzzing—names, maps, old alliances and battles all tangled together like threads in a vast, living tapestry.
I wandered through the halls, Thomas just behind me. The scent of roasted meat and warm bread drifted from the kitchens, mingling with the faint sweetness of spiced wine. The palace always grew cozier at dusk. Softer.
When I reached the drawing room, I saw them—Mother curled on the divan with embroidery in her lap, Father leaning near the fire, polishing the hilt of an old ceremonial sword.
"You're back, my son," Father said without looking up, though I could see the faint grin tugging at his mouth.
"I am," I said, walking closer. "We talked about the founding of the empire today. And about Vinterheim."
Mother looked up at that, eyes warm. "And what did you think?"
I took a seat between them, small hands resting in my lap. "Albrecht said our family was the only one that wasn't conquered. That Vinterheim chose to join the empire."
"That's right," Father said. He laid the sword down carefully, turning to face me. "We've always stood with the empire—but never beneath it."
"And the Valerius family became rulers because they united the others," I added. "But it was peace that kept it together."
Mother nodded approvingly. "You've remembered well."
I hesitated. "He also said I'm the first in a long time to carry both names. That people might expect things from me… because of that."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled, shadows flickering along the polished stone floor.
Then Father leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "People will expect many things, Claude. That doesn't mean you owe them all of it."
"You carry both names," Mother said gently, setting her embroidery aside. "But they do not define you. They are part of you, yes—but only part. What you choose to do with those names… that is yours alone."
I looked between them—his calm certainty, her quiet strength—and something eased in my chest. The tightness I hadn't noticed before began to loosen.
"So I don't have to be what they expect?" I asked.
"You only need to be who you choose to become," Father replied. Then he ruffled my hair with one large hand. "Though if you plan to become a general, I expect you to eat more than a bird."
I grinned, bumping against his arm.
Mother laughed, rising to her feet. "Come, dinner is nearly ready. And if you don't mind, I'd like to hear more about what you learned—perhaps over a warm plate."
We walked to the dining hall together, our footsteps echoing against the high ceilings. I spoke the whole way, telling them about ancient battles and the first treaties, about rivers used for trade and how the Archduke of old once settled a dispute without raising a single blade.
And though my words stumbled at times, and my thoughts sometimes tangled, they listened. They asked questions. They smiled.
For once, I didn't feel like I had to prove anything.
I was just Claude—learning, growing, and slowly beginning to understand that maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to carry everything alone.
That night, long after the lamps had been dimmed and the halls quieted, I slipped from my room.
Thomas would scold me if he knew. Mother would frown. Father might smirk before telling me not to do it again. But I couldn't help myself—not tonight.
The lessons had stirred something. Names and legacies, wars and choices. I wanted to see it—not just hear about it in dusty books.
The palace grounds were wide and winding, but I knew the path to the outer courtyard. The windows there overlooked the training grounds where the knights drilled. I'd seen them before in passing, but only from afar, and never when they trained with full force.
Tonight, the moon cast silver over the snow-dusted stones, and I crouched behind one of the pillars above, peering down.
They were like moving storms.
A group of knights circled beneath the pale light, blades flashing as they danced between one another in a practiced rhythm. Their armor shimmered faintly—not from polish, but from the flow of magic etched into the plates.
Each swing, each step, left a trail of glowing frost or crackling sparks. One knight drove his blade into the ground, and a pulse of earth rippled outward, throwing his opponent off-balance.
Another parried with a twist of his wrist, and wind coiled around him like a shield, redirecting the blow harmlessly to the side.
I leaned forward, barely breathing.
It was beautiful.
I'd seen little magic before—glimpses during formal events, the occasional warm flicker to light candles or cool drinks. But this—this was different. This was raw. Controlled. Alive.
I raised my hand, palm out. Concentrated.
A soft light flickered to life above my fingers—faint and pale blue, like frost forming on glass.
It wavered.
Then vanished.
I frowned. That was the most I could manage lately. Little tricks. Lights. A breeze. Once, I made a flower tremble.
I hadn't started formal training yet—Mother said there was still time. That I was young. But I couldn't help the twist of frustration in my chest as I watched the knights below conjure walls of wind and shards of ice with ease.
They're masters. I'm just a child, I thought, wrapping my arms around my knees.
But even as the doubt stirred, something else did too. Not envy. Not bitterness.
Longing.
I wanted to learn. I wanted to grow. I wanted to understand how to move like that—how to let magic dance along my skin, how to shape it into something powerful and real.
Snow began to fall again, soft flakes melting on my lashes.
I stayed until the knights finished their drills and the courtyard emptied, leaving only the memory of motion and the faint glow of mana slowly fading from the stones.
Then, quietly, I slipped back inside.
Back to my room. Back to my bed.
But not back to sleep.
Because now, more than ever, I knew—
I wanted to become strong. Not for anyone else.
But for me.