The morning sky stretched pale and wide over Vinterheim, its color like snow-touched steel, soft and distant. The frost hadn't yet melted from the courtyard stones, and a still hush lingered in the air—the kind that came before motion, before decisions.
I stood before the gates.
They loomed tall, carved from ancient wood and reinforced with bands of rune-inscribed iron, a quiet reminder of the realm they guarded. Beyond them lay the snow-veiled path that twisted down into the valley—toward the villages, the forests, the world I had yet to see for myself.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen years within the cold halls of the estate, wandering marble corridors and shadowed libraries, training in polished courtyards, learning the expectations woven into every breath I took. But never—never beyond the boundary.
Not alone.
Until now.
My cloak swirled softly behind me as the wind picked up. I wore the colors of Vinterheim, though subtly—midnight blue lined with silver thread, fur trimming the collar and cuffs. Nothing ostentatious, nothing imperial. Just enough to keep the cold from biting too deep, and the people from forgetting who I was.
Or who I was becoming.
This wasn't rebellion. It wasn't restlessness, either—not entirely. It was need.
I needed to see it for myself. The world my ancestors ruled. The people who bowed when I passed. The land I was meant to protect, shape, and someday command. Not from stories in the archives or polite reports during family dinners.
From my own eyes. My own steps.
I had left word with Thomas the night before—just enough to avoid panic. "I'll be gone for the day. No escort. Do not send anyone after me unless I'm not back by dusk."
I knew he would frown, but he would obey. Loyalty like his was forged in more than training.
Besides, Father would understand. He always did, even when he didn't say it aloud.
Still, I hesitated. One hand rested on the gate, fingers grazing the iron etchings of northern glyphs. A part of me half-expected someone to call out, to stop me. To remind me that heirs did not simply wander off unannounced.
But no voice came.
And so, with a final breath, I pushed the gate open.
The world outside met me with a sharp chill and a vast silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but of potential. The kind that whispered of things waiting to be discovered. Paths waiting to be walked.
I stepped through.
The snow crunched beneath my boots as I followed the winding trail that led down into the valley. The path wasn't steep, but it curved along cliffs and scattered pine groves, flanked by tall stones half-buried in frost. I'd seen this route many times from the manor's balconies—but never like this.
Not with my own steps carving it.
Not with the cold wind brushing past me without a guard at my side.
The morning passed quietly. I kept my hood low and my pace steady, pausing only once to take in the vastness of the north laid bare before me—rivers frozen into winding silver veins, trees dusted in frost, mountains distant but ever-present. This was Vinterheim. My domain, though I had barely touched its surface.
It was nearly midday when the village came into view.
Nestled against the edge of a forest ridge, the town of Aelderholt sat like an old memory—stone cottages with steep roofs, smoke curling gently from chimneys, townsfolk moving about wrapped in thick coats and gloves. It was no city, no shining capital, but it lived. It breathed. And that alone made it worth the walk.
I paused just before the main road and adjusted the pin on my cloak. It bore the Vinterheim crest, though smaller than usual. I wasn't hiding who I was—only softening the announcement.
Let them see the person before the title.
As I passed into the town proper, the sounds shifted—boots on packed snow, laughter from an open window, the low bark of a dog chasing a child through the square. People noticed me, of course. How could they not? But no one approached immediately. There was a pause in the air. A silent question.
They knew the blood I bore. But they didn't know me.
A baker's apprentice—barely older than I—glanced up from stacking firewood. His eyes widened slightly, then lowered in a respectful nod. A merchant polishing a lantern outside his shop gave a brief bow. Not theatrical. Not fearful. Just… acknowledgment.
It felt strange.
I was used to formality. To bows so deep they looked painful, to silence heavy with fear or expectation. But this—this was something else.
Recognition, maybe.
I made my way toward the market square. Small stalls lined the paths, their goods protected by tarps and layers of cloth. Dried herbs, preserved meats, wool gloves, fur-lined boots. Things the north needed to survive.
The woman tending one of the stalls blinked at me as I approached. Then she smiled.
"Cold morning, Your Highness," she said gently.
I returned her nod. "It is. But a quiet one."
She didn't stammer or drop to her knees. She didn't even look surprised. "We don't often see you down here, that's all."
"This is my first time," I admitted. "I wanted to see it for myself. What life is like beyond the manor."
She chuckled. "Well, it's not as elegant, but it's honest. If you're looking to understand your people, this is a good place to start."
I paused, then smiled faintly. "That's exactly what I intend."
She offered me a small leather pouch of sugared pineberries—still cool from the frost. "On the house, then. For the young lord who decided to walk among snow and smoke."
I took it with a nod of thanks and moved on, letting the voices and scents wash over me. The town was not large, but it felt real in a way the estate never did. Less polished. Less perfect. But it mattered. Every step through its streets felt like peeling back another layer of the world I was born to rule.
And I began to wonder—
Had Father done the same, once? Had he walked these roads as a boy before they all bowed at his name?
The thought lingered as I turned toward the chapel at the town's edge—an old stone structure with a bell tower that hadn't rung in years. There was no service that day, but the door stood open, and the warmth inside beckoned.
Not from fire. From quiet.
And I found myself drawn to it.
I stepped into the chapel, letting the silence settle around me like falling snow. The air inside was cool, untouched by hearth or flame, yet it carried a sense of peace that needed no warmth. Candles flickered dimly in sconces along the stone walls. A statue of the First Archduke stood at the far end, arms folded across his chest, eternal vigilance carved into frost-streaked marble.
I moved toward a pew near the front, resting for a moment—not out of exhaustion, but to think. To observe.
Until I heard the sharp clatter of boots.
The chapel door creaked open again, and I turned slightly to see a group of riders stepping in. Not townsfolk. Not even northern-born.
Their cloaks were trimmed with red, their leathers unfamiliar—travelers, perhaps, or merchants from the southern reaches. One of them, a tall man with dark curls and sharp eyes, paused the moment he saw me.
He stared.
Not in recognition, not at first. But his gaze dragged over my hair, my face, my eyes. And then it clicked.
He wasn't from here—but he knew what silver-blonde hair meant.
I shifted subtly, one hand resting on the bench as if casually. My mana stirred beneath my skin—not enough to show, just enough to remind myself it was there.
The man murmured something to his companions. One of them—young, barely older than me—went pale.
"Is that—?"
"Keep your voice down," the first man hissed.
I stood slowly. They weren't soldiers, I could tell that much. But they weren't common travelers either. Opportunists, maybe. Or worse—spies looking for threads to tug on.
I met the man's gaze evenly. "Is something the matter?"
He hesitated. Then he bowed, just barely. "No, Your Highness. Just surprised to see one of your blood walking without escort."
I said nothing.
The other man, the younger one, stared openly now. I could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes. What would it mean, if the Archduchy's heir was walking the streets alone? Vulnerable. Unprotected.
A message? A mistake?
I walked past them, slow and deliberate. I didn't flare my mana. Didn't need to. The chill that swept through the chapel as I passed was enough.
Let them wonder.
But once I was outside again, the pineberry pouch still in my hand, I pulled my hood up tighter.
'Foolish.'
It hit me then—just how loud my presence was. Even in silence. Even without a word. The color of my hair was a declaration. My eyes, a legacy written in sapphire ink. I couldn't walk among the people like this. Not truly. Not safely.
Not without giving others a reason to follow.
I made my way to a general goods stall and asked the merchant, an older man with a kind face, if he had any scarves. He handed me a long one of thick navy wool. I wrapped it over my hair and across the lower half of my face.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.
I looked into the small mirror hanging beside his display, just for a second. The stranger staring back no longer looked like a prince.
And that was exactly what I needed.