Viktor ran.
Not away this time. Toward.
His body ached from the floor, from Leopold's shoves, from everything. But he pushed through it. He didn't slow at the turns, didn't care about the servants who pressed themselves against walls as he passed. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes burned. His palms stung where he'd caught himself on the stone, scraped raw and bleeding slightly.
He needed—
He just needed—
His mother's chambers were in the southern wing, past the formal receiving rooms and the cold administrative corridors. The door was carved wood, darker than the palace standard, with geometric patterns that reminded him of the books in his room—designs from her homeland in the Red Wide, the desert kingdoms across the eastern sea. Ancient and intricate.
He didn't knock. Just pushed through.
The warmth hit him first.
Not magic-warm. Real warmth. The kind that came from thick woven rugs in deep reds and golds, from tapestries that covered the cold stone walls, from braziers that burned low and steady in the corners. The air smelled different here—spices and incense, cedar and something floral he couldn't name. Everything had texture: carved wooden furniture with scrollwork detail, cushions in rich fabrics, lamps with colored glass that cast amber light across surfaces.
It felt like stepping into a different world.
Nadia sat near the window, her dark brown fingers working through her own hair. Long, coarse, black as ink, partially braided with the pale silver frost-beads woven through the sections she'd already completed. She wore a simple wrap in deep blue, practical for her quarters, and the afternoon light caught the lapis color of her eyes.
She looked up.
Her hands stilled.
The temperature in the room dropped.
Not gradually. Immediately. Viktor's breath fogged. Frost ghosted across the nearest window, delicate branching patterns spreading outward from nothing.
Nadia was on her feet before he could take another step.
"Viktor?" Her voice was low, controlled, but underneath it was something sharp. Dangerous. "Who did this?"
He tried to speak. Couldn't. The words were stuck somewhere behind the tears, behind the burning in his throat, behind everything that had happened today. He took one more step toward her and his legs just—gave out.
She caught him.
Her arms closed around him, solid and sure, and suddenly he wasn't a prince or a prodigy or a liability or a phantom. He was just ten years old and everything hurt and he couldn't hold it together anymore.
He sobbed.
Not quiet. Not controlled. The kind of crying that came from somewhere deep and wouldn't stop, that made his whole body shake, that sounded broken even to his own ears. His face pressed against her shoulder and the words came out in fragments, barely coherent.
"The evaluation—I failed—Orell said liability—then Leopold—he pushed me down—called me phantom—said I waste Father's attention—that he'd tell Father I was crying—"
"Shh." Her hand came up to the back of his head, fingers gentle against his white curls. "I have you. You're safe."
But her voice over his head was different. Cold. The kind of cold that came before storms.
"Breathe, Viktor. Just breathe."
He tried. Four counts in, but they kept breaking into gasps. His chest hurt. His hands hurt. Everything hurt.
She guided him to one of the chairs—carved wood with a deep cushion—and eased him down. He didn't want to let go. His fingers clutched at her wrap like a lifeline.
"Stay," she said quietly. "I'm right here."
She moved away just long enough to wet a cloth from the water basin near her dressing table. When she came back, she knelt in front of him, bringing herself to his eye level. Her movements were firm, practical—not frantic, not helpless. She cleaned the dust and tears from his face with careful strokes, then took his hands and wiped the blood from his scraped palms.
The cold aura around her had softened. Not gone, but gentler. Like a winter morning instead of a blizzard.
"Tell me," she said. Not a demand. An invitation.
Viktor's breath hitched. "Leopold—after the evaluation—he found me in the hall. He said I get Father's attention and waste it. That I fail at everything, he pushed me and—" His voice broke. "He's right. I did fail. Orell said I'm a liability. Master Aldwin couldn't even look at me. And Father's going to hear all of it."
Nadia's jaw tightened. She finished cleaning his hands and set the cloth aside, then took both his hands in hers. Her fingers were cool, steady.
"Of course, Leopold said that." Her voice was quiet but edged with something harder. Not quite anger. Something more complicated. "He's jealous, Viktor. But it's not just jealousy—it's fear. He's eighteen, and he's been training his whole life for Werner's approval. And Werner doesn't give it. He gives it to you instead, and Leopold doesn't understand why."
She paused, choosing her next words carefully.
"Simply put. You're special, and he isn't.
Viktor stared at her. "But I did fail. Orell saw it. Aldwin saw it. I couldn't—the lattice just—"
"Viktor." Nadia's hands tightened around his. "Look at me."
He did. Her lapis eyes were intense, focused entirely on him.
"Livia Orell." Nadia's voice was quiet, measured. "I knew her when she was still a junior evaluator. We trained together once. Before..." She paused, something flickering across her face. "Before my path changed. She measures everything, Viktor. People, potential, value. That's what she was taught to do."
Viktor's breath hitched. "She said I'm a liability. That I can't control—"
"She said what she believes your father needs to hear." Nadia chose each word carefully. "The IMF serves many purposes. One of them is telling emperors what their investments are worth."
The way she said investments made Viktor's stomach twist.
"But if I can just—if I can control it better—maybe Father will—"
"Viktorius."
The use of his full name stopped him cold. She only used it when something mattered.
Nadia's expression softened, but her voice remained steady. "Listen to me carefully. Your father... he has a way of looking at people. Of seeing what they can do rather than who they are. It's how he rules. It's how he's always ruled."
She glanced toward the door, then back to him. When she spoke again, her voice was even quieter.
"I was sixteen when my family sent me here. Do you know what I wanted to be?"
Viktor shook his head.
"An evaluator. Like Livia. I was scouted for the IMF. Tier 4 by fifteen. They said I had the discipline, the control." Her thumb brushed over his scraped knuckles. "And then my family decided I was worth more as a gift to an emperor than as a mage in my own right."
Viktor had never heard this before. "But you're still—you're still a mage. You're—"
"I'm a Tier 5 cryomancer who braids her hair in her quarters and teaches her son control exercises when no one's watching." There was no bitterness in her voice. Just fact. "That's what happens when you become someone's tool, Viktor. You stop being yourself."
The words settled heavy in the space between them.
"I don't want that for you," she said quietly. "I don't want you to wake up one day and realize you've spent your whole life trying to be useful to someone who only sees what you can do for him."
Viktor's throat was tight. "But what if—what if I can't be what you want either?"
"I want you to be you." Nadia's hand moved to the locket at his throat, her fingers covering his. "You carry a culture in your blood that this palace doesn't understand. A history. A way of seeing the world that isn't about being useful or controlled. That's yours, Viktor. Through me, through your heritage—it's yours."
Her thumb brushed the tiny frost-beads on the locket's surface.
"I gave you this to remember," she said. "When they measure you, when they test you, when they try to make you forget—you hold onto this. You remember that you are more than what they make you."
Viktor stared at the locket. "But I don't even know—I don't know what that means."
"I know." Her voice cracked slightly. "You're ten years old. You shouldn't have to."
For a moment, the room was quiet. Just the soft crackle of the braziers, the faint sound of wind against the windows. Viktor's breathing had finally steadied. The tears had stopped. He felt hollowed out, exhausted, but somehow lighter.
Nadia pulled him close again, and he let himself be small. Let himself be ten. Her hand stroked his hair, and the cold aura around her was barely there now—just a whisper of winter, protective rather than dangerous.
Then: a sharp knock at the door.
Nadia went still.
Viktor felt it—the way her body tensed, the way the temperature dropped again. The frost on the window spread a fraction further.
A servant's voice came through the carved wood. Formal. Careful.
"Prince Viktor. The Emperor will see you."
The words fell like stones into water.
Viktor's stomach dropped. The warmth he'd just found drained away, replaced by cold dread that had nothing to do with magic.
Werner. His father wanted to see him. Now. After everything.
He looked up at his mother. Her face had gone still. Careful. The look of someone who'd just heard exactly what she'd feared.
"Viktor—" she started.
"I have to go," he whispered.
"I know." Her hands framed his face, thumbs brushing away the last traces of tears. Her voice dropped lower, urgent. "Whatever he says, whatever he asks—remember what I told you. Remember who you are beyond what he needs you to be. Do you understand?"
Viktor nodded, even though he didn't. Not really.
Nadia held his gaze for one more breath, then let him go.
He stood on shaking legs. Walked to the door. His hand touched the carved wood, and he looked back.
She stood in the amber lamplight of her chambers—warm and alive and surrounded by the textures of a world that wasn't the Kirchner palace. A safe harbor he was about to leave.
"I love you," she said quietly.
Viktor's hand tightened on the locket.
Then he opened the door and stepped into the cold grey hallway where the servant waited.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final sound.