"Long ago, this kingdom faced a great problem—war," the old storyteller said, his voice slow and dramatic. "But one day, they won the war, and the world turned bright again. The people and the soldiers shouted with joy—"
Before he could finish, a chorus of children's voices cut him off.
"Who were they fighting, Grandpa?"
"What do you mean, the world turned bright?"
The children crowded around the old man in the market square, all speaking over one another. The storyteller blinked, unsure which question to answer first. But before he could speak again, a loud voice echoed from down the street.
"Bow your heads for the Prince!"
The market fell silent in an instant.
From between the merchant stalls, Prince Edric appeared, mounted on his black horse, flanked by six palace guards. His royal navy cloak swept behind him as the wind picked up, revealing a sword at his side and the Caelthorn crest embroidered over his chest.
Everyone in the square bowed low—some with respect, others with fear.
Whispers quickly followed.
"That's Prince Edric..."
"He's so handsome in person..."
"But cold. I heard he never smiles."
"Did you know he once broke a noble's arm just for staring?"
Edric's eyes stared straight ahead, sharp yet lifeless. His expression was blank, cold. He acknowledged no one—not the waving children, not the whispering girls, not even the elderly who bowed deeply as he passed. The only sound was the rhythmic clop of his horse's hooves and the gentle creak of armored leather.
Behind him, his guards said nothing, their eyes scanning the crowd, hands near their weapons as if danger could come from any corner.
Edric's gaze flicked briefly to the snow falling in the distance. It was thin, slow, and eerily quiet.
---
The castle loomed ahead like a shadow carved from the mountains. As they passed the outer gates, servants and guards began to stir in preparation.
"He's returning! Make way!"
"Clear the path! Lay the red velvet!"
"Where is the steward? His Highness must be greeted!"
Inside the main hall, torches flickered along the high walls. The marble floor had been polished until it gleamed like ice. Stained glass cast colored lights over the tapestries, but the air inside remained strangely cold—colder than usual.
At the top of the grand stairs stood Queen Margot, tall and composed, wrapped in a gown of emerald silk and black fur. Her fingers were adorned with silver rings, and her lips curled into a faint, unreadable smile.
She watched as her son entered the hall.
"So silent again," she murmured to herself. "Even snow makes more noise than him."
From the throne room, King Magnus sat slouched in his stone seat, wearing a heavy crown carved with onyx and gold. His beard was grey, and his eyes were like steel—sharp, tired, and heavy with burden.
Edric entered without expression and bowed slightly.
"You've returned," Magnus said with a grunt. "The market didn't bore you to death, I hope."
"There was nothing of value there," Edric replied.
"There never is," the king said, waving a hand.
Queen Margot stepped closer. "You should smile more, Edric. The people already fear you. Do you enjoy that?"
"I don't enjoy anything," he answered softly.
---
That evening, during dinner, the royal family sat in silence around a long obsidian table.
King Magnus at the head. Queen Margot to his right. On the left sat Prince Silas, the younger brother—eighteen, lively, and full of stories. Edric sat beside him, silent as always, picking at his food.
"I saw you ride through the market," Silas said cheerfully. "You looked like a statue. Didn't even blink at the girls giggling over you."
"They weren't worth blinking for," Edric replied.
Queen Margot chuckled under her breath. "And yet, they talk about you endlessly. The cold prince, the cruel heir."
Silas grinned. "They say you've never smiled since birth."
"I had no reason to," Edric muttered, sipping his wine.
King Magnus suddenly set his cup down with a loud clack.
"This snow—" he began, "—has lasted too long."
The others looked up.
"I've ruled through twenty winters," he continued, "and never once has it snowed this much before winter even begins."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "You think it's magic?"
"I don't think," Magnus snapped. "I know."
Queen Margot's gaze darkened, but she said nothing.
---
Later that night, Edric stood in his private chamber, facing the tall glass windows. Snow continued to fall, silent and endless. The wind was beginning to howl like a beast, scraping against the stone walls.
A knock came at his door.
It was Lady Renna, their grandmother, wrapped in thick shawls and a crownless presence that still carried authority.
"You stand like your grandfather did," she said, stepping inside. "Always staring out, thinking too much."
"I wasn't thinking."
"That's what he used to say too," she smiled. "But he was always thinking. Of war. Of regret. Of love."
"I don't think of love," Edric said bluntly.
Renna sighed and stepped beside him. "You will. One day. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But when the world turns quiet like this... love is the only warmth left."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked out at the falling snow again. And for the first time, something in his chest stirred—a feeling he couldn't name.
---
Far from the palace, deep in the twisted woods, a crooked tent stood in the snow. Inside, an old crone whispered to the flames.
"The girl lives," she hissed. "The elf... she breathes still."
The fire cracked.
"The snow will not end... until her heart stops."