The snow fell like shattered glass—cold, sharp, and silent.
In the grand hall of Valrith Manor, where fireplaces roared and nobles whispered behind jeweled fans, no one spoke. Not out of respect. But out of fear.
At the center of it all stood a boy of six, his black hair damp from the storm outside, his crimson eyes dry—too dry for a child who had just lost his world.
His mother lay in a velvet-draped coffin, her face pale as moonlight, her hands folded over a silver locket shaped like a frostwolf—the sigil of her northern bloodline. She hadn't died of illness. Not truly. Her heart had simply… stopped believing.
And across the hall, standing like a statue carved from duty and regret, was Duke Valrith—his father.
The man who had brought another woman into their home.
The man who had two more children—twins, aged two—now clinging to that woman's skirts.
A noblewoman from the capital. Elegant. Smug. Safe.
The Duke stepped forward, his boots echoing on marble. He knelt before his son, eyes glistening.
"Kaelan… come home with me."
The boy didn't flinch. Didn't cry.
He looked past his father—to the window, where snow buried the garden his mother once loved.
Then, softly, with a voice that would one day command dragons:
"No."
A pause. A breath held by every noble in the room.
"I will not return… until I am stronger than you."
He turned. Took his mother's locket from her chest. Clasped it around his own neck.
And walked out—into the storm, into the north, into legend.
Behind him, the Duke did not follow.
But his tears finally fell.