The morning after the snowfall, the palace grounds sparkled like glass. The trees wore a delicate coat of frost, and the sky stretched clear and blue, unmarred by clouds.
I barely noticed.
I sat at the breakfast table, half-heartedly spooning porridge into my mouth as my thoughts drifted. Across from me, Father sipped his tea with that usual quiet ease, while Mother delicately buttered a slice of toasted bread.
I cleared my throat.
"Father… Mother."
They looked up in unison. I hesitated under the weight of their gaze, then pushed forward.
"I want to start magic training. Properly, I mean."
There was a pause. A flicker of surprise passed across Mother's face. Father raised a silver-blonde brow.
"You've already been learning the basics with the tutors, haven't you?" he asked.
I nodded quickly. "Yes, but… just theory. I've only practiced a little. I saw the knights training last night." I didn't mention sneaking out—no need to invite the lecture I knew would follow. "They used magic with their bodies, with their weapons. It was like… like it was part of them."
I met their eyes.
"I want that too. I want to understand it, not just read about it."
Mother set her knife down, her expression softening. "Magic like that takes years to master, Claude. Even among noble children, most don't begin formal channeling until they're older."
"But I'm not like most children," I said quietly. "I can feel it already. Sometimes it comes to me, and I don't know what to do with it. I don't want to waste that."
Father leaned back slightly, his gaze assessing. Not cold—never cold—but thoughtful. Measuring.
"I see," he murmured. "You've always been… a little ahead of your age."
"I'm seven," I reminded them, voice firm despite the nerves twisting in my chest. "That's old enough to start. Isn't it?"
For a moment, there was only the sound of the fire crackling nearby and the distant echo of boots in the hall.
Then Father chuckled. "Well, there's no stopping a boy once he decides something."
Mother smiled gently, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "Very well. But you will start under supervision, and you'll listen to your instructors without complaint. Magic is not something to toy with, Claude."
"I understand," I said quickly, the words rushing out like breath I'd been holding.
"And if you're going to train with magic," Father added, "then you'll need to train your body as well. The knights you saw—magic alone didn't make them strong."
"Yes, Father."
He reached forward, ruffled my hair, and grinned. "Then I'll arrange it. Consider it your next step, my son. Let's see what you can do."
My chest swelled with something warm and solid. Pride. Relief. Determination.
For the first time, it felt like I was beginning to move forward—not just existing in this world, but becoming part of it.
And somewhere deep inside, the echoes of my old life—the empty streets, the cold nights, the ache of loneliness—faded just a little more.
The training grounds looked different in the morning light.
Gone was the mystique of moonlit duels and glowing mana trails. Instead, there was frost clinging to the edges of the practice field, the snow trampled flat by booted feet.
A few knights moved through warm-ups nearby, their breath misting in the air. I stood near the edge, bundled in a winter cloak too big for me, the hem brushing my boots.
Thomas stood just behind me, hands clasped behind his back, watching quietly.
The man who stepped forward to meet me was tall and broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and a blade strapped across his back. His cloak bore the Vinterheim crest: a silver wolf against a field of ice-blue.
"His Highness, I presume," he said, giving a shallow bow.
I nodded, trying not to let the nerves show.
"My name is Ser Rowen. I was one of your father's personal knights during the border campaigns. His Grace has asked me to oversee your training—if you're willing."
"I am," I said.
"Then let's begin."
He gestured toward the center of the field, and I followed.
Rowen didn't start with magic.
He handed me a wooden practice sword, short and sturdy. I took it, the grip unfamiliar in my hands. It felt heavier than I expected.
"You'll learn to swing before you ever learn to channel," he said. "Magic amplifies the body. If the body's not ready, magic will only break it faster."
He showed me the first stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, sword angled down and away from my body. I mimicked it.
My arms trembled.
Rowen corrected my posture. Again. And again.
We didn't swing. Not for the first hour.
Just the stance. Holding it. Feeling the weight of the blade and the position of my balance.
By the end, my arms ached and my legs felt like wet paper.
"I thought we were learning magic," I muttered as I sank onto a bench for a break.
Rowen raised a brow. "You are. This is magic."
I looked up, frowning.
He tapped a hand to his chest. "You want your mana to flow? Then you need to understand your own center. Where you move from. Where you hold strength. Magic doesn't come from your fingertips, Your Highness. It starts deeper than that."
I sat quietly, catching my breath.
When the lesson ended, I could barely lift the wooden sword. My body screamed with effort. But inside—just beneath the fatigue—was a strange sort of pride.
I'd started.
Not just reading or dreaming, but doing. Training.
I returned to the palace sore, exhausted, and a little clumsy. Thomas didn't scold. He just offered a quiet nod and a towel for the sweat on my face.
That night, as I collapsed into bed, I stared at the ceiling and whispered,
"I can do this."
Because I had to.
Because I wanted to.
The training yard had long since quieted, the clang of steel and the echo of commands giving way to the soft whistle of the wind over snow. I sat on the edge of the platform, catching my breath, arms heavy and shoulders sore.
Ser Rowen approached with calm steps and offered me a flask. "Here, Your Highness. Rest a moment."
I took it and drank, letting the cool water ease the dryness in my throat. My gaze wandered to the practice field where knights had trained earlier—moving with a grace and strength that seemed beyond ordinary men. Some had shimmered with light—magic coursing visibly through their limbs and blades.
"Ser Rowen," I asked, keeping my voice steady, "what was that? That glow? When the knights fought—was that mana?"
The knight nodded slowly, folding his arms behind his back.
"Indeed, Your Highness. What you witnessed is a sign of those who walk the Path of Power. It is the foundation of all martial and magical strength in this world."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the empty yard. "Every knight, mage, and warrior—anyone who seeks true strength—follows that path. And like all things, there is order to it."
He lifted a hand, counting with precision.
"The journey begins at Awakened, the moment your mana core stirs for the first time. From there, one may ascend to Initiate, then Aspirant. These three stages form the mortal foundation—where talent is honed and purpose is shaped."
He looked to me, eyes thoughtful.
"Beyond that lies true distinction. Master. Grandmaster. And then Ascendant. To reach that level is to be recognized across kingdoms. Then Transcendent who carry strength that can shift the tide of battle alone."
I listened intently, but he hadn't stopped.
"Then comes the higher realms where the legends begin. Paragon, Celestial, Divine—these titles are whispered in reverence. They are the summit of mortal achievement, and most never even glimpse them."
I swallowed hard. "Are there still Divine beings today?"
"None that we know of," Ser Rowen said. "Perhaps they faded into myth… or chose to disappear. What we do know is this—your father, His Grace the Archduke, stands at the peak of Transcendent. One step shy of Paragon. Your mother, Her Grace, is a peak Ascendant, though there are rumors she once nearly crossed into Transcendence herself."
I blinked.
The idea that the two people I had breakfast with each morning could stand shoulder to shoulder with the greatest living legends—
"I had no idea," I murmured.
"It is not something they boast of, Your Highness," Ser Rowen said gently. "But their strength—like their names—carries weight across the empire and beyond. You carry that legacy."
He paused.
"Each level has five stages. From Stage V, the beginning… to Stage I, the peak. Advancement is never simple. Power demands discipline. Insight. Will."
I nodded slowly, the cold forgotten.
He knelt slightly, so we were eye level.
"Soon, your mana will stir. When it does, it will not be gentle. The blood of Valerius and Vinterheim both flows through you, and that power will not sleep quietly."
He rose again.
"Be ready, Your Highness. Your journey is only just beginning."
And as I looked out at the snow-covered field, a quiet spark lit in my chest. The world felt vast. The path ahead, daunting. But I was not afraid.
For the first time, I could feel it.
The weight of my blood and the promise of what I could become.
The sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the icy stone walls of the estate. I lingered alone in the practice yard, wooden sword resting in my lap. The cold bit at my fingertips, but I barely noticed.
Something was different.
It started as a faint warmth in my chest—subtle, almost like the feeling of holding a breath too long. But it didn't fade. It pulsed. Quiet. Steady. Growing.
My fingers trembled. Not from cold. From something… deeper. Energy. Not imagined. Real.
It stirred like a ripple beneath my skin, and for a brief moment, I felt it flow through my limbs. Weak, untrained, wild—but it was there. It was there.
I stood quickly, too quickly, and nearly stumbled. The wooden sword dropped from my hand, clattering against the stone. I stared at my fingers, wide-eyed.
That warmth—it hadn't gone. It had just… sunk deeper.
"Your Highness."
I turned to see Ser Rowen approaching from the side, his brows drawn slightly together, his eyes sharp. He must have sensed it, too.
"I… I felt something," I said, voice breathless. "Inside. Like fire, but not burning."
He studied me in silence for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.
"I see," he said at last. "So… it has begun."
"What is it?" I asked.
He stepped closer and placed a firm but gentle hand over my shoulder, his gaze steady.
"Your mana," he said. "It's waking."
My heartbeat quickened. "Already? But I haven't even started formal training—"
"And yet it stirs," he said, cutting gently through my panic. "I cannot say I'm surprised, Your Highness."
He looked off toward the distant mountains, where the northern winds howled through snow-covered peaks.
"With your lineage… this was only a matter of time. You carry the blood of Vinterheim—famed for elemental might and coldborn magic. And that of Valerius—the imperial line, whose roots lie deep in the ancient arcane."
He looked back to me.
"To awaken young, without guidance, is rare. But not for someone bearing both those names."
I stood quietly, the weight of what he said settling over me like fresh snow.
"It's weak," I said. "It flickers. Barely there."
"As it should be," Ser Rowen replied. "Power must be nurtured. Shaped. Controlled. That you can feel it already means your path has begun. But take caution—raw mana is like a wild river. Useful, yes, but dangerous if left unchanneled."
He knelt to pick up the wooden sword and handed it to me with a nod.
"I'll inform His Grace and Her Grace. But until then, I'll make arrangements. You'll begin proper channeling lessons at once."
I stared down at the blade in my hands.
It was still wood.
But now, it felt different.
Like the first step into something far greater.