"My prince, your guests are waiting in the room of silence," Edward told me as the slaves put on the last finishing touches to my clothing. The royal garb blazed with red and gold — radiant, but heavy, like armor bedazzled with expectation.
I had called over all the court officials on the opposing side of Father's political interests. There were a lot. He wanted me to pave my own way, so I'll do so the only way I know how. Leveraging what he has granted me and using it to annoy him. He wanted to sell me off for his own political interest; that's fine.
"Tell them I'll be there shortly. And remind them — Father will hear of this soon enough. On the surface, I seek to end the engagement. Beneath it… let him think what he wants." Edward nodded and left to explain to the slaves what should and shouldn't be said. The position of my personal servant had given Edward enough leverage to build his own faction amongst the slaves, as informants, spies, and political tools. This slave syndicate allowed me to gain information in exchange for keeping them fed and protected.
As I walked through the halls of the palace, the slaves bowed to me not out of habit but genuine respect and devotion. They wished to see me on the throne sooner rather than later. Father's stupidity had made him enemies of many, and this will allow me to get a foothold in this political landscape.
Entering the simple room, devoid of extravagant furniture except for the long table and chairs, the sound in the room ceased as the dignitaries all turned to me, bowing their heads, placing a fist over their hearts.
"Under fang and frost, I greet the blood of the crown. May your strength never dull, and your word never falter." The dignitaries said in unison.
"Interesting," I let the greeting wash over me. I had heard of it in my etiquette lessons, but hearing it like this gave it new meaning. I glanced at those from the Original families, and understanding dawned on me. "Rise, servants of Jotunheim, the frost of the crown hears you."
A beat of silence followed my greeting. That was heavy with understanding. I watched as these old fogeys glanced at each other, reevaluating me. Perfect, I wasn't the type to hide from scrutiny. Ignoring the subtle shifts in the room, I glided towards the seat at the head of the table and sat down, gesturing for them to join me.
"I have been watching the political landscape within the kingdom since I was 7. Mothers' increasing apathy to political power, fathers' greed, and your futile struggle to keep your own selfish interests." I paused, biting into a cookie that was placed on the table. "Before I go any further, I'll ask you this: Why do you suppose I summoned you all here?"
"Greetings, to the blood of the crown. The matter of your engagement has already been decided, and we humble servants cannot revoke the decision made by the crown." Ah, Father's spy. I'd have kept him longer, but he'd blundered too early for me to ignore.
I glanced at the Jotun. "Then your part is done, loyal servant of the crown. Edward, show him the way out before he forgets it."
The dignitary didn't move. Instead, he straightened, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but perhaps you misunderstand your place. The will of the crown—"
"—is the will of the kingdom," I interrupted, rising from my chair. "And I am its blood." The words came out quietly, but something in my voice made him falter. For the first time, his confidence wavered, his eyes flicking to the faint shimmer of my markings beneath my royal attire.
"You speak too freely for a man who calls himself a servant," I continued, stepping closer. "When next you speak to me, remember who you serve. Remind yourself to hold your tongue before I decide a loyal servant doesn't need one."
The man swallowed hard, bowing stiffly. "A-As you command, my prince," he muttered, and finally turned to leave.
"Edward," I said again, softer this time, "escort him out."
As the door shut, the air felt colder — and the silence heavier than before.
I sat down again, and this time the meanings behind my movements became more meaningful as the old dignitaries watched on, finding it hard to analyze me despite my age.
"You've all served in the court longer than the concept of my birth existed," I began, voice steady. "And still, you sit - uncertain whether to kneel or to listen."
I glanced around the table, separating them in my mind — the calculating from the careless, the thinkers from the fools.
"Stagnant water breeds disease," I began. "You've all sat in court for so long that you've forgotten how to wield your power — how to give it direction. You bicker among yourselves while Father chips away at the authority your families once held for centuries. You let it happen. Why? Because your bloodlines boast Skrym, and that power has made you arrogant — blind to everything but your own strength. You think political power is beneath you so long as your armies obey.
You're wrong.
What constitutes a noble family? Is it your ancestral history? The number of slaves under your name? The measure of Skrym you hoard? None of that matters anymore. You've become nothing more than a royally sanctioned mafia. You lost your nobility long ago."
I leaned forward slightly, voice lowering. "Only a few among you still hold land — collect taxes — rule in any meaningful way. That is authority. That is justification. Yet you delude yourselves, thinking that because you are exempt from royal taxes, you possess autonomy. In truth, you feed on scraps while the crown devours the feast.
Noble families whose names were once feared across the warring tribes — now nothing but ornaments on the king's crown. How pitiful. And your heirs?" I scoffed softly. "Arrogant children, rotting in privilege, heirs to nothing but their own graves."
Silence lingered for a moment. None of them dared move.
I let it stretch — let the weight of their unease fill the hall until even their breathing sounded like confession. Then I spoke again.
"It's not too late," I whispered. "Your mistakes can still be rectified. Engagements broken off, feuds over resources, assassinations — all of it has stained your names and turned allies into enemies."
I leaned forward, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
"I'm offering you a way out. Forget these petty wars and kneel to me. Gather under one banner — under me — and I'll return what you've lost. Your authority. Your positions. Your identities."
A ripple passed through them — not fear, but irritation.
Lord Varrin, eldest among them, gave a low, humorless chuckle. "You speak boldly for someone who hasn't seen a century, Your Grace. We have guided this realm since before your father learned to stand."
"And yet you knelt to him?" I said, mockingly. "You call this guiding? Bickering while your influence rots? Selling silence for favor? You've let him strip you of your legacy piece by piece, and now you bow out of habit."
Murmurs spread like frost crawling across stone. One noble leaned back, fingers steepled. Another — Lord Hrovald — tilted his head, voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
"Legacy," he said. "Curious word. And what legacy do you speak of, Your Grace? Surely not the one tied to the old gods?"
The air turned brittle.
A test — deliberate, veiled as mockery.
No one spoke of the gods anymore. Not after the burnings. Not after the shrines fell. Yet I could see it in their eyes — the question trembling behind their pride.
I let the silence coil tighter. Letting the noose of their dangerous words tighten around the necks of those present.
"Yes," I said softly. "The gods."
Varrin's smirk faltered.
"I speak of Odin, who still watches through the storms. Of Thor, whose tempests drown southern fleets. Of Ymir, whose blood still moves beneath our feet."
Their composure cracked — ever so slightly. Even the proudest averted their eyes.
"Father calls worship treason," I said, rising to my feet. "But I wonder if faith is obedience? No, it's memory. You still whisper their names when the torches burn low, don't you? You still pray before battle, before birth, before death. The gods are real — whether we bow to them or not."
Lord Hrovald rose halfway from his chair, his jaw tight. "You would speak their names openly? Before us? Before the blood of the crown?"
"I am the blood of the crown," I said, stepping forward. "And I will not condemn the frost that made it."
The words struck like steel meeting flint — not holy, but incendiary.
"Your king made you forget what you are," I said. "I am here to remind you. Kneel to me — not as prince, not as believer — but as the voice of what you buried to survive."
For a heartbeat, they held their breath.
The first to kneel was Varrin. Slow. Careful. The motion of a man dragging centuries of pride to the floor.
When his knee met the frost-veined stone, the air shuddered — and the markings across his neck and collarbone pulsed faintly beneath his skin, the color deepening from pale ash to dark blue.
One by one, the others followed.
Each kneel carried a different weight — some stiff with pride, others trembling with fear — yet the change came for all. Markings long dormant began to stir, like veins waking after centuries of frost, shifting toward something unseen.
The hall filled with the low hum of shifting seithr, the ancient resonance of oathcraft older than the kingdom itself.
I felt it before I saw it — a current beneath my skin, cold as deep water. The markings beneath my skin ignited — frostlines crawling, spiraling, converging until they formed a sigil vast enough to shudder the air itself.
A symbol took form there — something vast and ancient, its shape instinctive, as though the world itself had remembered it.
Their markings stabilized soon after — simpler reflections of my own, orbiting the shape that now marked me as center. The first to kneel gasped quietly as his pattern aligned to mine, not by force but by will.
I looked over them — all heads bowed, their old arrogance melted into something raw and uncertain.
"This is your oath," I said. "Not to crown nor blood, but to the bond you've just awakened. You will feel it when you stray. You will know when I call."
The faint hum of seithr dimmed, leaving only the sound of breathing. The room smelled of frost and old stone.
"Rise," I commanded.
They did — changed in ways that made whispers of their pride hesitate.
Their allegiance had been spoken not with words, but with marrow. The ritual of allegiance is an old ceremony that was simple yet effective. The resonance between a vassal's kneel will converge into a single being. It didn't restrict autonomy, but it tore down walls of distrust that tied allegiance with real consequence.
As the power of the ceremony diminished, the changed markings all coalesced into a dark marking on each of the vassals' wrists. Solid and unchanging, how allegiance should be.
"You will build a pavilion in the main city just out of reach of the commoners. And you will send your heirs, those practicing Seithr, and any talented commoner you deem worthy to swear into your family. Seithr flows best through doubt. Through those who dare to question the world rather than bow to it. Let them come — heirs, scholars, even commoners — and learn what pride and nobility once meant. Your heirs will go there to openly debate with me and learn what it truly means to be a noble and to have pride in that. The name will be Skaldheim, house to the philosophers." A word from my past life. I life, I hardly remember, but whose strength I still borrow from.
"As you command… Crown of the Living Frost." Their words fell like snow upon stone — soft, but heavy enough to reshape a kingdom.